Seward Park

[Joey] Seward Park. It's a nice enough little place. Quiet and out of the way. There are basketball courts, a little grassy circle, and places where one can swing a bat and not worry about breaking too many windows. It's peaceful.

Except, occasionally, when the still night air is interrupted by a gravelly throat clearing, or the low chuckle of a young woman.

Two figures are seated on one of the park's benches. One of them is Joey Oliver. Dressed in jeans and books and her dark purple hoody, a dark pageboy cap pulled low over her eyes, she could easily go unnoticed. Except for the rage. Except, when one looks closely, for the scars on her throat, the black medical patch that covers her left eye. It's a lot easier to go unnoticed with the patch than it is to walk around with a milky blank eye. That tends to creep people out. It makes them look at her face more closely, then her Nevada license. The patch, though. That gets a sweep of the eyes that are quickly averted.

So Joey could get whatever's in that bag. She drinks from it occasionally as she sits with the Fostern Godi.

[Bob] [Performance+Charisma: Because Sometimes You Just Gotta SING.]

[Bob] [Yeah, Kahseeno, that ain't gonna fly.]

[Bob] The young Rotagar's Alpha had made a cutting comment about her alcohol consumption earlier this week, had wondered if there would be a day this week that she didn't get shithoused. He's not here tonight. He likely knows that she's gone somewhere with the Godi, but he's not with them. They're unattended and content to swig from their bottles and watch the empty park in front of them.

If the way he smells is any indication, the creature who some people refer to as Bob not because it's his given name or because he prefers it but because they can't call him Blood Summons in public, he's been drinking for the better part of the evening.

Some mood catches hold of him, and after a lull in conversation, he starts singing. Given the way he sounds when he speaks, one would think that he can't carry a tune to save his life. Yet there's a strange melodiousness to his singing, an awareness of pitch and key that goes beyond practice merely singing in the shower when he's alone; it's as if he's reciting at first in that gravelly voice of his, as if he's just fucking around, and then he picks up a melody and goes with it.

The song he sings is about war; it's about being shot in the leg, coming to in a wagon full of ten other men and five of them dying before they reach a bloody tent.

"Give me some of that Soldier's Joy," he's warbling, "you know what I mean... I don't want to hurt no more my leg is turnin' green..."

And then he forgets what he was doing and takes a powerful belt from the bottle in his bag.

[Imogen] They are not alone in the park. Though it is dark, though it is not the best area of the city, certainly not her area of the city, Imogen crosses the park, not following the paths, but crossing the grassy lawn. Her shoes are unremarkable, and they do not sink into the damp earth, but she can smell it as she walks. The week has been wet and stormy in Chicago, with temperatures that border on cool.

Still: she chooses the shortest path. This is not an amble through a park, this is the park, in her way.

Still, she hears the sound of singing, and it turns her head, causing her steps to still. She does not recognize the voice, but perhaps, as she peers through the gloom, she recognizes a form, or feels the glint of rage.

One hopes that Imogen Slaughter does not merely approach unknown strangers in a park. For, after a moment, she starts their way.

[Bob] More than the female, this guy looks like he belongs out here, like he hasn't got anywhere else to go. He's got battered combat boots on his feet, tied as tight as though they're never going to come undone; he wears black slacks on long legs, held up around his hips by hideous red-and-green suspenders that provide a splash of color that his black t-shirt doesn't. He's wearing a gray windbreaker to keep out the chill of the evening, and a dark gray fedora to keep errant drops of water off of his hair.

All of his earthly possessions appear to be crammed in to a gym bag situated between his feet. It's near to bursting with fullness, and it sits there as though simply waiting for him to decide to move again.

It isn't until he hears footfalls coming out of the distance that he stirs on the bench, his nostrils flaring to pick up the scent of breeding on the wind. It turns his head, and he looks to the Fianna kinswoman he met last week coming towards them.

As he pulls his bottle away from his lips, the grizzled man--it's hard to tell how old he is: he looks as though he could easily be Imogen's age or older, has a heaviness on his features that speaks of life not being to kind to him or he to himself.

He has a fresh scar on his throat that was not there the last time he saw Imogen. It's the size of war formed claws, and tears from one side of his neck to the other, as though it had nearly taken his head clean off. Bob regards the approaching kinswoman, then lifts his bottle in a wordless salute.

[Imogen] Imogen is dressed down, though neither know her well enough to truly be aware of the subtleties of her dress. Even so, in nondescript jeans, a simple corduroy jacket over a plain black sweater, she does not blend in as much as a denizen of the neighbourhood would. Not even close.

She crosses the park to the Garou pair, her steps slowing as she draws closer, then stopping altogether, her feet on the path, a distance between them. The kinwoman's skin is pale, her hair a vibrant and brilliant hue, pulled back and twisted up, held in place by a covered elastic band. She carries no purse, though she seems like the type to carry such a thing. The pockets of her coat are faintly weighed by the accoutrements of her life. Cigarettes, wallet, keys. Mobile phone.

She inclines her head in response to the wordless salute, her gaze touching both Garou in something like greeting before glancing away, down the path. She turns back.

"Not a bad park to get pissed in," she observes.

[Bob] "Not bad at all," he agrees, pleasantly enough, his bottle sloshing and the paper crinkling as he rests it against his thigh. He's got his feet planted wide, his knees akimbo, a completely unladylike posture that speaks of relaxation more than it speaks of a desire to be completely lewd. As it becomes apparent that he can't sit like this and carry on a conversation, he slides his knees together and hauls himself upright, scooting back on the bench until his spine connects with the back slats.

Once he's sat up, his attention is squarely focused on the kinswoman. His eyes are wild the way an animal's are: wild with the lack of civilization forcing them into compliance, wild with a lack of etiquette and a lack of airs. They're sharp, aware of what's going on around him without having to focus overmuch, and in the lack of light they appear almost silver. Imogen has seen his eyes in dim light before. No one would fault her if she failed to remember that his eyes are actually blue.

The weight of his gaze is enough to cause most humans to grow grossly nervous, to start fidgeting and looking for a way to remove themselves from his attention just as quickly as is humanly possible. Imogen is not most humans.

"It's quiet. You can almost hear yourself think. This city could use more parks." A beat, and he asks, "Want a drink?"

[Imogen] He watches her the way an animal watches something. The utterly absorbing focus, the winnowing of attention.

She stands it better than most. Certainly better than humans, and truly, better than most kinfolk.

There is strength in the way she looks at him, the way she does not flinch from his gaze, and even meets it, her own eyes dark in the lack of light. He has only seen her eyes in low lighting; no one would fault him if he did not realize that her eyes were blue, not like his, but darker, like twilight, like the moments before dawn.

He has spoken some, but her only reply has been the weight of her attention. At least, until he offers a drink.

"What's in it?" she asks, even as she reaches out to take the bottle.

[Bob] "In this bottle," he says, sloshing his own for emphasis but not handing it to her, "we have the wide-awake spirit of Grain prepared to fill you with the love of summer and your fellow man. In that bottle--" He jostles Joey's leg with his own, causing her own bottle to slosh. "--you have Grain quietly slumbering and not at all inclined to lead you towards the path of freedom and merriment quicker than you can say 'God damn Bob what did you give me?'"

[Joey] Joey grinned at Bob's strong, gravelly voice. She didn't recognize the song, or she would have joined in. Maybe. He looks like he's been drinking for a while, but the Rotagar watches Imogen's approach with one clear and alert dark eye. She doesn't call a hello to the woman who once offered her fine coat to clothe Joey when she woke up naked in an alley way. They are not friends, not even close. But they have seen each other, and the kinswoman was helpful to Joey in a time of need. She was greeted with a faint smile.

She watches as they converse about alcohol and an offer to join them. The Godi explains the differences between their brown paper bags, and Joey grins again.

"True story," she says, offering up her own bag. She doesn't mind sharing.

[Imogen] Her hand stills as Bob offers his explanation. Her eyebrow arches slightly, her fingers curling back in toward her palm.

"Unawakened grain it is," she says, turning slightly to take the bottle from Joey, her mouth twisting in a smirk which does not reach her eyes.

"Ta." She lifts the bagged bottle in salute, before tipping it back for a cautious swallow. She'll grade the booze before committing to a larger drink.

[Izzy Montoya] It's not a bad park to get pissed in. Any number of people do it on any number of days though Detective Montoya is not one of those people...currently. No, right now, there is a crime scene on one side of the park, and her car on the other, which has the direct result in one lean detective making her way through the park, in the dark.

Her features are lit by the backlight of her cellphone as she flips through messages, answering a couple, ignoring others. She is no great beauty, Izzy, but her features are strong in a way that can be appreciated, and over that, her breeding rings true and pure, singing the stories of her ancestors to any who have the capabilities to look.

And so she strides across the park in a straight line, more or less, seemingly engrossed in the words flickering across the screen in her hand.

[Bob] Tonight is the last night of the Godi's moon. To say that he's somewhat somber and moody tonight is an understatement, but it's also a truism that anyone present right now wouldn't automatically assume of him. Then again, Imogen doesn't know what the two Fenrir were talking about before she wandered over to talk to them. He seems like he's in a good enough mood, although he also smells like a medicine cabinet. It's entirely possible that he's just drunk.

He starts humming as Imogen takes a quick sip of Joey's bottle, bobbing his head back and forth to some melody playing out in his head, and then he stiffly hoists himself to his feet to make room for the slight kinswoman on the bench. He doesn't vocally invite her to sit, but rather jerks his chin towards the horizontal slat of wood and steps back. His coordination hasn't completely left him, but his movements are broad and exaggerated, particularly his steps to keep himself from tripping over his grounded gym bag.

"You know," he calls over to Joey, as though picking up a thread of conversation that had previously been abandoned, "I saw snow last night. Great big flakes of it. Just fallin' like it had any business being in this season. I--" Hiccup. "Sat and watched it for a while, right, but it turned back into rain. I think it was a sign."

[Joey] When Imogen takes up Joey's brown paper bag, she can feel that the bottle inside has an odd shape. The liquor itself tastes like cherries. These two are a couple of big spenders tonight. The contents of Joey's bag is in fact a small bottle of Smirnoff +68. There's still quite a bit left in the glass. Joey's taking it slow tonight. Nearly every other time she's tried to drink with Blood Summons, she hasn't been able to keep up with the asshole. Except the other night, when they survived war wolves together, and Joey shared a bit of her precious stash of Colt 45. She never gets drunk on that. It would go against tradition.

She slides aside when the Godi rises to make room for Imogen to sit if she so desires. If the kinswoman looks her way, Joey has a ready smile for her, but otherwise keeps a respectful distance.

"You're fuckin' kidding me," she says to the Godi, and she tips her head up to look at the dark sky, as if she expects to see the snow of which he spoke. Reaching up a hand to keep her hat firmly in place, she says, "Sign for what? That winter's not done yet?"

[Izzy Montoya] She's not completely unaware, of course. No cop ever is. In fact, she's paying vivid attention to her surroundings, for all that her eyes are primarily on the screen on her phone, which she now thumbs off and tucks it into her pocket.

This brings her gaze up, proper, and unerringly searches out the voices - the singer, the girl, and.. ah. The Doc, too. Her path takes her their direction. She doesn't alter it.

[Bob] "No I ain't fuckin' kidding you."

He sounds briefly pugilistic, as though he'd be willing to throw down at the barest hint that the Cliath was doubting the veracity of his statement, as though either of them are in any state or condition to be brawling right now. The volume of their voices is rising in inverse correlation to the decrease of the volume of the liquor in their bottles. That sense that his back is up quickly dissipates, though his Rage still hovers near the surface.

He'd told Joey about their trip to the Battleground Realm, but not how he had worn himself out trying to find one specific battle of which he had very limited familiarity. Even though he doesn't seem as though he's completely crazed today, doesn't seem as though he's shot through with manic energy, his Rage is still high enough that it threatens to overtake his ability to control himself.

Sign for what, Joey wants to know, and the Godi glances skyward as though divination can be found there. All he sees is pale pink light and thick black clouds. He clears his throat, takes a swig of his whiskey, and says, "Ain't figured that one out yet. Used to snow up until summer back when I lived in Canada, though, and it never meant nothin' then. It's just weather. Weather does whatever the fuck it wants."

[Joey] It's hard not to notice this group. One looks like a gnarled old hobo, more likely to be found begging for the change needed to fill that brown bag than to be in the company of the young woman. She could be a college student, maybe. She looks about that age. And of course Dr. Slaughter, known by very nearly everyone.

What brings the two with the good doctor together may not be noticeable to the kinswomen. Or at least maybe not to the detective coming across the still-brown lawn in their direction. Imogen knows what they are, knows their tribe. That could be enough. It's certainly all that brings Joey together with anyone else of the Get of Fenris now that Daniel's gone. But looking at them, they don't know how many battles these two have fought together. They can't look at Joey and see the surprise on her face when she was informed of Truth in Frenzy's death. They can't look at Blood Summons and see the way Joey hurled a healing gourd at him when he rose up from death.

They look up at the cloud choked sky as one, as if an answer to some mystery is written there. "Wow," she says, which could be for the sky, or for Canada, or for weather. "I never saw snow 'til I came to Chicago. Never saw so much fuckin' weather, man."

[Izzy Montoya] The weather has warmed, but not so much that she has given up her coat just yet - and the hem of it flares about her knees as she walks with a purposeful stride. It's rare that she could be considered to 'amble' or 'stroll' and those of Chicago have certainly never seen it. She walks with a purpose in mind, though it is often that the purpose changes mid-stride.

As it does now. She recognizes all of them in one way or the other, though of the three she's had the least interaction with the Godi - and barely more than that with the Rotagar, who she knows primarily as Daniel's packmate. Not a shining recommendation, but that's neither here nor there.

So it is that Dr. Slaughter receives the first nod of hello, the others one a moment later, as she pauses close enough for conversation, far enough to be told to continue on without much fuss. She uses the time to dig the battered pack of cigarettes from her pocket, and go about the ritual of lighting one. Then, on exhale...

"Evening."

[Imogen] Imogen's mouth grimaced at the taste of cherry flavoured alcohol. She has passed it back to Joey without a second swallow.

By the time Izzy has approached, Imogen has retrieve her cigarettes from her coat pocket and lit one, turning her head to blow smoke away from the Garou.

"Detective Montoya," she says.

"Have you met everyone here?"

[Bob] There is absolutely no good reason, outside of tribal relations, why the two Garou ought to be spending time in each others' company the way that they do. Blood Summons seems so much older than Laughs in the Face of Death does, both physically and mentally, even on the days when he seems as though the wind is making speeches to him, as though the water running through the tap is telling him its life story, as though the ground is hollering up to him for his attention. She thinks 'gnarled old hobo' when she looks at him, never minding the fact that if he's Fostern that he's got to be somewhere in his twenties, and other people, normal people, human people, look at the attractive young woman with the sunny skin and the cornsilk blond hair and then they look at the gargoyle walking down the street next to her and they have to stop and think What's wrong with her?

Part of what makes this a nice park to get pissed in is the fact that nobody has happened along this path for the better part of an hour now. There's no one to ponder what a girl like Joey is doing hanging out with a guy like Bob. Imogen certainly isn't asking any questions as she shares the girl's flavored vodka and decides whether or not she's going to take a seat where one has been left for her.

"I was in Mississippi before I came to Chicago," he tells her, "and lemme tell you what, if it ever snowed down there the whole thing would just--"

The tip-tapping of the detective's shoes cuts him off, or has him cutting himself off. He turns to look at her, his gaze going suddenly suspicious as he takes in her dress and her badge and her breeding. There is hazy recollection in the way that he looks at her, as if he's seen her in a dream, or that crazy waking dreamscape that comes from carrying on through life on several days without sleep.

Evening, she says, after she lights a cigarette, and whether or not Imogen has decided to sit down on the bench, it's large enough for three people. He perches himself on the edge of the bench, crosses one leg over the other, and takes another large swallow of his whiskey as he watches the kinswomen.

[Joey] Joey tends to start her interactions with new people in Maelstrom sept with two strikes against her before she so much as opens her mouth or makes a move to introduce herself. The first is her totem. She follows a totem associated with dishonor, despite the fact that nearly every one of the Sentinels has proven that they're honorable in some way. The other always has to do with her packmates. They look at her and they know that she has to be crazy to follow Buried Hatchet, who himself is surely off his rocker. They look at her and remember that Daniel Broken Hammer was her brother, and what kind of Garou would be bound to that particular asshole?

Tonight she's not with her packmates, however, so she takes her cues from the drunken Fostern, creating space for Imogen, or perhaps Izzy now that she's here, when he did. She waits only a moment for Blood Summons to continue his train of thought. Then she turns to watch Izzy's approach. Though the women blow their smoke away from the wolves sitting on the bench, Joey can still smell it. It's acrid compared to what Blood Summons's smokes.

Evening. Joey returns the greeting with an upward nod, silent as she ever was the times she happened to find herself in Izzy's vicinity.

[Izzy Montoya] "Dr. Slaughter." It'd be shocking to consider that at times, she does indeed call the Doctor by her given name, and vice versa, as they so rarely do in mixed company. Professionalism, perhaps, or its simply - just the way it is. No more, no less.

She doesn't say that Joey was there the night Daniel brought her in beaten [...but not broken, never broken...] and helped built the bunk that the Detective could barely bring herself to climb into. She doesn't say that Joey never mentioned whether she agreed with Daniel's treatment of the Detective, and she doesn't insinuate her reaction to it, or any of the rest of it. In fact, for all anyone can tell? Izzy didn't learn a fucking thing. It's certain that Daniel never did. He never took the time to learn a single thing about her.

People rarely ever do.

She tucks her free hand into the pocket of her slacks, her coat sliding behind her arm, caught in the action. only then does she answer the question. "In passing, yes, though I never caught the gentleman's name."

[Bob] A low chortle leaves the rattily-dressed creature. It scratches past his bottle, which he pulls away from his mouth in order to glance over at Joey as though to confirm what's just been said.

"'Gentleman'?" he echoes.

[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow arches slightly, her mouth half hidden by her fingers, her cigarette held between her fingers. The edges of her mouth curl, a twist of a mirthless smirk.

"Meet 'Bob'," she says to the Detective, before her gaze flicks to Bob, finishing the appropriate introductions almost by rote. "Meet Detective Izzy Montoya."

No, she does not use Izzy's given name frequently at all.

[Izzy Montoya] Bob's echo results in a brow arching slightly, and she smirks. "I could have chosen another moniker..." and here, her gaze flicks toward the silent Joey, and back again, and she switches tracks slightly - or at least doesn't continue that thought. Out loud. "...it's a pleasure, Bob."

Though she's not quite sure it's anything of the sort. Time will tell.

[Joey] Izzy calls Blood Summons "gentleman." He responds with incredulity. Joey's own dark brows raise, the expression mostly hidden by shadow, but she flicks her good eye in the Godi's direction. The corners of her mouth quirk just a touch. If they were packed, that wordless glance might not be so wordless.

But they're not packed. So Joey just gives the Fostern that mildly amused expression. It's more subdued than if she herself had been called a lady.

Introductions are made between the two who haven't met. Joey takes a swallow of her cherry flavored vodka. Izzy tells Bob it's a pleasure, and Joey's mouth quirks a little more. She doesn't quite hide it behind a cough, forcing the lines of her face back into sometime almost expressionless.

[Bob] The man-thing is just drunk enough that the edge is taken off of his Rage, that he isn't bristling at the slightest provocation. Some things still slip past his defenses and have him snapping, but for the most part he's in a mellow sort of daze right now.

He's a happy drunk, always has been, but for the fact that his sense of humor is somewhat acerbic and he doesn't have that seemingly innate sense of what is and is not considered polite behavior in front of other human beings. This isn't a human being sitting in front of them. It's the product of two warriors' sin, and it's been treated as such for its entire life.

The Get of Fenris are one of the few tribes that allow their metis to rise above their station in life to become something truly great, to become heroes, to become legends. Not encourage, necessarily, but permit. That's neither here nor there.

Izzy says it's a pleasure, as though she's not entirely sure that it is, and the metis cants his head at her.

"Is it?" he asks, raising his bottle for another swig. "Is that like saying 'It's nice to meet you'? Something you have to say when you meet someone you've never met before and have no desire to interact with in the first place because otherwise you're being rude?"

[John Thornton] ((Room for 1 more?))

[Joey] [sure!]

[Izzy Montoya] (absolutely)

[Izzy Montoya] She snorts, slightly. "Trust me, I'll be rude enough soon enough. It's a habit of mine." she takes another drag from her cigarette, and exhales off to the side. "But, to answer your question, yes - sort of. We have met before, and I've yet to decide if I'll enjoy any interactions with you. The jury on that is still out."

And here, the smirk twists slightly, amused. "Especially while the two of you are bogarting the bottles."

[Bob] "It's for your own good," he informs her, his sandpaper voice slurring slightly as he waves his paper-enclosed bottle for emphasis. "Miss Thing over here's drinking vodka that smells like bath soaps, and in Bottle Number Two you're looking at the frolicking, smiling, drooling-on-yourself-and-singing-folk-songs mien of Grain. She is awake, Detective, and she will fuck you up."

[Joey] Izzy snorts, and Joey just watches. She doesn't offer up an opinion on the kinswoman, or whether she'll enjoy interactions with the Godi. She could say the same of any of their kind. Joey is something of an oddity. She doesn't strike kinfolk, at most has yelled at one, ordered him to sleep on a couch for a night.

"'s true," she says, perhaps the first words Izzy's ever heard from her before. "I wanted to try somethin' new, but I'm thinkin' I'll stick to stouts. You don't want his unless you're lookin' to get fucked up in a hurry."

[John Thornton] At some point during the evening, the rumble of an engine growing louder. After awhile, the engine stops... And a short time later, a figure wearing a black trench coat strolls non-chalantly into the park. His hair was an unruly mop furrowed with the frequent passage of weary fingers. In the darkness, hazel eyes shaded gray moved voraciously about the landscape.

Wordlessly, he walks toward where the group are gathered, near the park bench...

A thin trail of cigarette smoke rising as the red, lit tip of a Marlboro illuminated the dark socketted eyes set in an untelling deadpan facade.

"Don't tempt her."

He smiles a wan not-a-smile as he voices the sentiment.

[Imogen] The red-haired doctor has gone silent, merely smoking, relieved of the need for conversation.

She taps ashes when the sheaf grows. Lifts the cigarette to her mouth when her lungs are empty. Inhales air when she needs it.

Her attention turns briefly away, catching sight of John as he approaches. She lifts her cigarette by way of greeting, before sucking on the filter again.

[Izzy Montoya] It's for her own good, it's true. "I see."

And perhaps she's about to say something else, but that's about the time that a certain Vice Detective walks up and joins them, and cautions them about temptation. Something happens then, that Joey's never seen, that Imogen has not either, and that Bob - well, he wouldn't know any different. But the thing is...

Izzy smiles.

It's brief, but it's certainly not a smirk, and there's something in her dark eyes that suggests that this expression belongs to the other Detective alone - giving the feeling it's an accident that they even see a hint of it, let alone the full flash of the expression across her face...

"You're just jealous I can still drink you and the boys under the table." The smirk returns, unrepentant.

[Joey] Even with just one good eye, Joey notices the approach of John Thornton. It could be the familiarity of his figure, of his gait, of that deadpan facade. It could just be the breeding caught on the breeze. Whatever the reason, when the other detective comes into range of those loitering on or near the bench, Izzy isn't the only one that smiles.

Joey looks as bright and cheerful as she had been somber and serious the last time she and John Thornton saw each other, when they sat across from each other after closing in a diner. Except there are changes, as there are always changes between their meetings. For one thing, though Joey is dressed more warmly than most of those gathered, she's not buried beneath layers of winter clothing. A dark pageboy cap keeps her light hair from catching the light, and when she looks up at the kinsman, where her left eye should be, there is a black patch.

She doesn't see the smile on Izzy's face when John approaches, probably wouldn't recognize the significance of it if she did. Her one-eyed gaze is focused on the one-eyed kinsman.

"Oh, I guarantee she won't be drinkin' anyone under a table if she has what he's got," Joey says, grinning. "But she's more'n welcome to try."

[Bob] The scent of so many processed cigarettes mingling together has to be an affront to Joey's sinuses. The tobacco that Blood Summons chooses to put into paper and set alight smells earthy, fresh, as though it comes from a place that still remembers what the Wyld actually is rather than attempting to commemorate it with little parks and patches of greenery scattered slipshod throughout the Weaver's domain. He's not smoking right now. He's drinking, and quite heavily. That fifth of whiskey in his hand will be gone by the time he gets back to Lila's place tonight, if he gets back to Lila's place tonight.

Another purebred kinsman wanders up out of the darkness, and if the smile that the hard-faced detective grants him is any indication, she's pleased to see him. 'Bob' doesn't make too much of it, or if he does he has the good graces to keep it to himself. He slowly slides to the side until his head is by Joey's shoulder and then he looks up, props his weight on his forearm, and clears his rusty throat.

"It would be exceedingly unwise," he informs her, "to give awakened spirits--hah!--to Kinfolk."

[John Thornton] "Keep dreaming, Iz... We both know I'm in better practice of late."

With that, John withdraws the cigarette from his lips, and flicks the ash from the tip.

"It's good to see you again, Joey. Doctor."

He nods to each of them in turn, the hazel gaze resting perhaps a beat longer than it should on Joey's eye patch. The question in that gaze was easily read, but unvoiced for now...

Instead, the hazel eyed gaze settles on the other werewolf (Bob).

"I don't believe we've been introduced..."

[Izzy Montoya] She snorts at that, clearly not believing it, but she doesn't demand a rematch just yet. That can wait until later. "So you say. I've had to tuck you into bed far more often than the other way around..."

Even now, with the first smile back behind the more natural, more neutral expressions, there's very little doubt of the chemistry between the Detectives. They've known each other a very long time, and it's evident in even the most basic of conversations.

And, an introduction - of sorts. "That's Bob."

[Joey] Bob stretches across the bench until his head is near Joey's shoulder. She doesn't lean over to offer the Fostern a place to rest, just cants her head at him. Shrugs.

"She's one of ours, man." And that one-eyed gaze returns to Izzy, appraising. She doesn't offer more on the subject of awakened spirits and kinfolk, however, merely shrugs.

John looks at her, lingering on the patch, and Joey lifts her chin at his unanswered question. Challenge, maybe. Anticipation, perhaps. Unlike queries and glances directed at the scars on her throat, this is a question she might be willing to talk about, if that look is any indication. She's looked over, though, set aside for the moment in favor of the stranger. Joey turns her head to look at Imogen. Then again to Izzy. Then back to John.

The kinfolk are smoking, don't they know what that shit does to their lungs? But Joey isn't about to lecture them. For some reason, smoking is a viable alternative to drinking oneself into oblivion. At least with cigarettes, Joey knows John isn't likely to wind up face down in a ditch somewhere, or lying at the bottom of a twenty story drop.

She watches the interaction between the kinfolk of Fenris, listens to the way they talk to each other. And she remembers things she heard when Daniel first brought Izzy to The Brotherhood. Whatever she thinks, she keeps to herself.

"Well," she says, hauling herself up from the bench. Joey stretches her legs, groans a little with the effort. Clearly these two have been sitting on this bench for some time. "I gotta get back. You need a ride, Rhya?"

[Imogen] Joey and Bob start to make plans for their departure - perhaps.

John has begun to banter with Izzy. Imogen takes a step back from the four, tapping cigarette ash as she begins to turn away. "If you'll excuse me," she says, simply, to any and no one.

"Ha' a good night."

[Bob] That's Bob, Izzy says, and the metis's nostrils briefly flare, his eyes briefly harden. He slides himself into a fully upright position as though preparing himself to speak, and then--

You need a ride, Rhya?

"A ride would be splendid," he says. He wraps his fingers around the base of the fifth of whiskey, reaches down to tug his gym bag from its space between his combat boots, and gives the pair of purebred Kinfolk a look. Parting words: "I'm a Fostern spirit-talker of your tribe. If you ever nee... y'all ain't allowed in the Caern, are you. Huh." A pause to puzzle this out, and then he gives his head a quick shake and says, "Anyway, I'm at the Brotherhood a lot. You can find me there if you need anything."

That's the last he says to any of the Kinfolk as he hauls himself to his feet and starts to walk away with Joey.

"Bitch Face said something about awakening her 'laptop,'" Blood Summons is saying as they stroll towards her car. "The fuck is a laptop?"

[Bob] [Thanks for the scene, y'all! Morning's gonna come fast!]

[Joey] [ditto! thanks for the scene!]

[Callie] (( you all done here?))
to Bob, cricket, Imogen, Izzy Montoya, Joey, John Thornton

[Joey] [i'm too tired to post it out, but joey would say goodbye to everyone. and i'm out!]

[John Thornton] "Goodnight."

John watches the garou walk away, and after flicking the ash off the tip of his cigarette, the hazel eyed gaze turns to Imogen.

"What brings you out tonight, doctor?"

Hazel eyes flash to Izzy for a mere moment... before returning to Imogen to await her reply.

[Imogen] (ack! sorry! *points down* I am posting out. Mei needs to get to bed pretty soon)

[John Thornton] ((Looks like this scene's out then. Sorry.))

[Izzy Montoya] A brow arches, as suddenly they are alone. She takes a final drag off her cigarette and then flicks the butt to the ground, putting it out with a grind of her toe. She snorts, slightly. "Bitch face. And they think I'm fuckin' rude."

John talks to Imogen, who's already on her way out, but before that - there's a look. A look she knows all too well. She nods, slightly. And when Imogen finishes her exit, she looks up at John and arches a brow, slightly.

"What's wrong?"

[Imogen] Imogen glances toward John and his question, her mouth stretching into a smirk, "Quite a few things. Ha' a good night."

And with that, she heads toward the park edge, leaving the two to themselves.