The first thing some people notice when they step into this room is the noise: almost always there is some sort of noise, of music or conversation or the employees in the back, cooking. Others see the lights, harsh yellow-white over the counter and on into the kitchen in the back, a dimmer, indeed faint glow above each of the tables scattered around. No matter which sense is first engaged by the room, almost all soon are captured by the smell of pizza; the smell pervades the place, an aroma of melted cheese, cooked tomato sauces, various meats, vegetables, all subtle, yet all blended together into the overwhelming smell. The smell tells the customer that, despite the less-than-classy look of the restaurant, the product is, undeniably, almost guaranteed to be good.
In the corner near the door is a trio of video games and a soda machine. Scattered around the room are several tables; lining the back, the counter on which the pizzas are put before they are picked up.
No more than 13 or 14 years old, maybe five and a half feet tall and all skinny-wiry in that decidedly not-filled-out-yet way. Wavy coffee-coloured hair's been somewhat haphazardly cut, or perhaps allowed to grow out; it's barely above the collar in the back, and in the front a floppy fringe half-hides dark, solid eyebrows and constantly threatens to fall into a pair of wide hazel eyes. The kid's tawny complected, with a smattering of noticable freckles across the cheeks and the strong, straight nose, and seems thus far to be mostly winning the battle against teenage acne. A wide, somewhat full-lipped mouth contains clean but slightly crooked teeth, untamed by braces. One might also notice a certain alert balance to the stance -- not aggressive, but more like a coiled spring of potential energy restrained just beneath a placid surface.
Today's clothing seems to have been dictated mainly by comfort and the weather: old but presentable jeans, well-loved black high-top converse, and a open blue plaid flannel over a loose grey t-shirt that features a crash between the TARDIS and the DeLorean. The degree of cold means an ankle-length tan wool coat has been added to the outfit, and the whole thing is topped off with a multi-coloured striped knit scarf of truly remarkable length. An old brown leather satchel hanging off one shoulder completes the ensemble.
Beautiful, this woman isn't. Most people wouldn't even call her interesting, although there is a spark of something, deep down in there. Even so, most people would call her homely, if they bothered to call her anything at all. In her mid to late 30s, she's about 5'6" tall, and burly. Not fat; it's the kind of burly that's all muscle, just not well defined muscle.
Her hair is brown (with some encroaching white hairs she's not bothering to pluck), and quite short. All around. It might be a DA, were it less badly done. Her eyes are distinctly odd, although it's hard to tell, given how often she's not quite looking at anyone. They're yellow, and look almost cat-like. The rest of her face isn't offensive, just boring. The nose is a bit big -- maybe it's been broken, or maybe she was just born that way. Her chin is broad, as are her cheekbones. Classic features for a man that don't at all work on her. There's a wry, half-cynical smile sometimes playing about her lips that does very little to add to her general appearance. Makeup, it's clear, is of very little use to this person.
"Battered" would describe her choice of clothing quite well. Voluminous light trench coat, new jeans, and a polo shirt. Her sneakers are black, and a bit battered.
This thin, wiry, short (5'6"), and moderately attractive man is probably in his late twenties or early thirties. His (dyed?) black hair is of medium length and unkempt--in that intentionally unkempt way. His attire, appearance, and mannerisms communicate that he's well-to-do but certainly not wealthy.
Nicodemus is currently wearing a practical yet stylish pair of loose-fitting black khaki pants combined with a button-down, long sleeved, dark blue silk shirt. His braided black leather belt perfectly matches his black leather loafers and form-fitting black leather gloves. The loafers look a little worn, as if he gets around on foot a lot. An oversized brown greatcoat, worn open, engulfs his form and plays absently in passing breezes. The exceptionally perceptive might notice that his pants do not quite hang naturally over his right ankle.
He wears little in the way of accessories: a silver chain around his neck plunges beneath his shirt and a small metal owl pin resides on the left side of his greatcoat. There's also a whiff of wood-smoke and ozone lingering in the air about him, possibly from an expensive cologne.
When he moves, it is with a grace, fluidity, and sure-footedness. When idle, he seems alert and focused, yet somehow simultaneously introspective.
Standing at a height of five foot six, Sera is a woman in her early twenties, with mulatto skin and a varied genetic ancestry. Her slightly wide face and broad cheekbones speak of a fair of amount Mesoamerican blood, the most easily identifiable ethnicity in her background. The length of her arms and legs makes her look rather gangly, thin, and frail. Even her neck is overly long, adding to her scarecrow appearance. Her hands, if one takes the time to look at them, are a little unusual, as the pinkie and adjoining finger a little longer then the other two fingers.
Her hair is completely hidden under a large cowboy hat, well worn and filthy from regular wear. Round sunglasses, partially covering rather bushy brown eyebrows, are pressed firmly into place. The dark glasses have blinders on either side, completely hiding Sera's eyes from casual view. Her clothing consists of a simple pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt, and a pair of well battered shoes.
The lunch crowd has been gone for over an hour now, leaving the pizza parlor in the wasteland that exists between late lunch and early dinner. There's one table of college kids, bearing t-shirts from an SCCU fraternity, being obnoxious at one large table and trying to destroy the waitress' last remaining nerve. Loitering by the door near the entryway, Nicodemus waits--apart from the rabble--playing a dilapitated stand-up video game.
And through the door steps an Izzy, looking around the place -- probably for a man in a trenchcoat and fedora -- and breathing as though having perhaps run there, though the entrance itself was at a casual enough speed. Then again, it's not usually a good plan to run through a restaurant door. The college kids are immediately dismissed as possibilities, but the guy at the video game -- well, no hat, but that coat's close enough, right? The kid heads in that direction, stopping just to Nicodemus's side and waiting for what looks like a brief pause in the game action to ask, "...Mr. Dalton?"
Pac-Man meets an untimely death at the digital hands of the blue ghost. Pew pew pew Ba-Bak! GAME OVER. "Can you believe people used to think this was the best game ever?" he says, incredulously, as he steps away from the relic from the past and eyeballs the young girl. "You must be Izzy Sparks, yes? Brisk outside, isn't it?"
A tilt of the head, considering the game, and the cabinet that holds it. "Well. When did they think that?" Izzy asks, "People talk about stuff being the best thing since sliced bread, so at some point sliced bread must have been the best thing ever too. Probably before Pacman, though." Izzy stands still for the eyeballing, and the question gets a nod. "Yes. To both. It's not usually this cold in February, everyone I run into keeps talking about it." They're both stood by the Pacman machine, which Nicodemus is no longer playing.
Nicodemus motions towards the restaurant's tables--noticeably away from the one large table that's home to the rowdy college students. "Let's grab a table, order a pizza, and talk about your mom and her likely whereabouts, then. Any topping preferences or exclusions? I draw the line at sardines," he cautions.
Sera opens the door to the pizza parlor and over to the cash register. As she gets closer to the glass display case, she pulls out a fist full of very wrinkled bills and starts counting them out very carefully. She's not paying much attention to those around her and voices a bit of a squawk, as a pair of larger teen boys squeeze past her and one of them bumps in to her. The teen gives the Strider a dirty look for being in his way, before walking up to the cash and placing an order. Sera, meanwhile, has dropped some of her money and crouches down to retrieve it.
"How about anchovies? I like those, but they =are= kinda close to sardines," Izzy replies, following Nicodemus to the indicated table without protest. The seat chosen once they're there, though, is the one that allows a good view of the doors, and seems least easy to be snuck up on. "Otherwise I'll eat almost anything on pizza, except cottage cheese." The satchel is deshouldered and set on the adjoining seat, the scarf loosened to be less warm while inside. Sera's little mishap gets a curious glance, but there is important business to be done!
Nicodemus settles into a chair that's slightly off to Izzy's side, which also affords him a decent view once he's finished angling the seat slighty askew with how it's intended to be with the table. Like Izzy, he's also displaying street smarts. "Sure, kid. We'll do anchovies if you want. The works, add anchovies?" he asks, as if that might be an acceptable combination of pizza toppings. With so few people in the restaurant, Nick spots Sera very quickly. He waves at her if she looks in their direction.
Sera gathers up her money and holding on to it firmly, looks around for any further oncoming teenagers. This is when she notices Nicodemus waving in her direction, a little slower then she should have. She seems to hesitate for a moment, then rather carefully picks her way towards Nicodemus and his tablemate. "Afternoon," she greets quietly and with a bob of her head. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Izzy grins at Nicodemus's offer, the first smile so far, and nods once. "That's good with me. You want me to pay for it? Like, an expenses thing?" The woman gets a little smile as well, and an also quiet, "Afternoon, ma'am," before sitting back a little to, apparently, let the adults talk.
"I got this one," Nick assures Izzy. He then says to Sera, "I was just waving hi. That bottle of rum? Excellent. Superb, even. Sneaks up on you, though." He motions towards Izzy with a hand. "Izzy Sparks. New in town. Her mom went missing a few months ago, and her last known location was Saint Claire. She's kind of a client as of, oh, a couple minutes ago." He considers Sera a moment. "Maybe you could be helpful in that department, actually. Care to join us? Pizza is on me."
Sera smiles faintly, then considers the rumpled bills in her hand. After a moment, she shoves the cash back in to her pocket. "I'm glad that you liked it. I could get you more, if you'd like?" She offers, helpfully. She turns her head to look directly at Izzy, leaning a little forward to get a better look at the young woman. "I might be able to," she says rather quietly.
Something about what Nicodemus says gets a sudden, somewhat stricken look from the kid, and after a couple silent moments, "Um. You're probably really good at that, being a PI and stuff, but. Um. What gave me away? I was doing pretty good with the boy thing 'til now, I think," Izzy asks quietly, glancing toward the table of teenagers to make sure they're not somehow listening.
Nicodemus ers. Wild guess? :)
Izzy grins.
Without missing a beat, Nicodemus corrects himself--even though he was right with his assumption. "Allow me to ammend. /He/ is looking for /his/ mother, Jennifer Sparks, who went missing a few months ago. She's a travel writer." He pulls his smartphone out to take notes as noteworthy information is provided. "Was she writing for one particular travel magazine or was she freelance?"
Sera slides in to a seat, turning her head to look from the 'boy' to Nicodemus. The woman rests her hands in front of her, overly-long fingers grasped together. "Would you happen to have anything that belonged to her?" She asks of Izzy.
Izzy hesitates a moment, but doesn't press the earlier question, instead turning to open the satchel on the seat and rummage a bit. "She's freelance. Sometimes magazines ask her to do articles, and sometimes she just does them on spec, and last year she said she was thinking about doing another book, this year, but she didn't know where about yet. So that's probably not a big help." The rummaging is successful, and Izzy comes back up with a brass, pocket watch-style compass to offer for Sera's perusal. "This was hers when she was in Scouts, but I dunno what kind of help it'll be. It doesn't have her fingerprints on it anymore or anything like that."
Nicodemus taps at his smartphone briefly, pausing to raise a single eyebrow as Sera asks for a personal effect. "You mentioned you came here because this was where she last sent you a postcard from. Do you have that postcard with you?"
Sera holds out a hand for the compass and takes it with a faint bobbing of her head. "No, no, this will do nicely. If you'll just excuse me for a moment, I left something in my van. I'll be right back." The gangly woman get up from her seat and makes for the exit, without waiting for much of a response.
Sera: She's stealing it! Get her! :) Pose around me for a few rounds. :)
Sera pages: Is Izzy's mom still alive IC?
Long distance to Sera: Izzy doesn't know. Would like to think so, but she might not be. I'm leaving most of that up to whoever wants to GM/decide things -- the only thing I officially know that the character doesn't is that Jennifer's a Strider.
Sera pages: I'm asking because Sera is going to go and perform questing stone. She just got a mess of success, so should be able to tell if she is still alive at the very least. :P
You paged Sera with 'Well, let's say yes, it shouldn't end up meaning Izzy can't stay around.'.
Sera pages: Any idea what direction she'd likely to be in? Shall we say south east? :> Rite only gives a direction, not distance. So she could be in china for all she knows.
You paged Sera with 'Sure, that works!'.
No time to protest! Izzy's mouth had opened to do so, but is instead used to pose a question to Nick: "...that's okay, right? I mean, she's going to bring it back?" Once Sera's out the door, the postcard question registers, and gets a nod and another moment of rummaging before the card is offered over. It's a St. Claire postcard, postmarked from the post office here, with just a chatty note on the back, nothing to suggest any plan to cease contact -- in fact, it includes a line about looking forward to next week's call. The date is back in October.
Nicodemus glances after Sera, then looks back to Izzy. "She'll bring it back in a little bit. She's a little spacey sometimes: Now seems to be one of those times." The waitress comes over and takes the pizza and drink orders. He orders a Coca-Cola for Sera during her absence. Then he closely looks over the postcard. "Nothing unusual with the writing," he claims after he finishes. "Did you have a fight with her around then? Financial troubles? Father or boyfriend problems?" He seems to be fishing for reasons why Izzy's mother might have chose to have broken contact--rather than less pleasant alternatives.
Sera: Don't wait on me. Sera is busy IC.
That gets a shake of the head. "Dad was worried when we didn't hear from her for a couple weeks too. And they were really happy, when she was home. He missed her when she was gone and all, but he's the one who explained to me why she had to be away so much, in the first place," Izzy answers. "And it didn't seem like things were any worse than usual, for money and stuff. Or, y'know, anything really. It was all just normal, and then it wasn't."
Nicodemus carefully slides the postcard back to you, making sure it doesn't get wet, smudged, or otherwise besmirched. "So your dad is holding down the fort at home while you're out looking for your mom?" he inquires. He taps more notes into his smartphone as he speaks, pausing to glance at you during your response.
Sera eventually returns and offers Izzy the compass, after sliding back in to her seat. Once the compass has been reclaimed, the gangly woman pulls a folded piece of paper out of her rather ratty jacket and offers it to Nicodemus. It's about then that she notices the pop and drags it over. Yum. Liquid sugar. Okay, that was a little weird.
Izzy hesitates a moment, glancing at Nick and then the end of that ridiculously long scarf, toying with the fringe. "...he was. There was an accident, in November. Mom doesn't even know." The admission is quiet, and another glance flicks toward the adults, a bit worried as well as sad.
Nicodemus glances at Sera's note, then quickly puts it away as Izzy shares distressing news. "An accident?" He frowns, concerned. "Bad? Is he...?" Nick lets the unspoken question linger, allowing Izzy to fill in that particular blank.
Sera: Sorry. Have to scoot. Will pose out.
As Sera is sitting there drinking her pop, a buzzing comes from her jacket pocket. She pulls out one of those throw-away corner store phones and makes a face at it, before rising from her seat again. "My apologies, but I need to take this." The pizza counter gets a regretful look, before she heads out the door. Answering the phone as she heads outside. "Hi. Mom. Yes, I'm fine..."
Izzy sighs, shoulders slumping a bit, and nods. The scarf gets smoothed down, and the reclaimed compass slipped into a pocket of the coat. "They said a truck ran the light. And that it was prolly, you know. Instantaneous. So, yeah." A bit toneless, and it's a couple more seconds before the kid pushes fringe away from eyes and gives Sera a little nod and a, "Thanks, nice to meet you..."
"Sera," Nicodemus fills in for the departing woman. His attention turns back fully to Izzy. "Shit." The pizza arrives, but now it doesn't look as if Nick wants any. "Okay, I'll bump this case further up on my priorities list. You've got a safe place to stay tonight? Youth hostel? There's also a shelter just around the corner where you can get a hot meal and a cot if they're not packed to capacity from this cold weather."
Sera: Again, sorry about the long idle followed by the pose out. Husband is dragging me out for a drink. Shall return later - likely smashed!
Izzy: Smash well!
Nicodemus: Have fun!
Another nod. "The hostel's pretty nice, and I figure for now at least it's good," Izzy assures, shoulders straightening back into a more determined, I-can-handle-things kind of posture, chin lifting slightly to go along with it. The briefly present smile hasn't yet made a reappearance, though. "If things take a while then I might check out that shelter, too, but yeah it's prolly packed in weather like this. =I= wouldn't wanna be out in it." Another pause, and then just the ghost of a smile does show up, to accompany a remarkably sincere, "...thanks."
"You got moxie, kid," the private investigator says, adding in a nod of approval. "I've got a missing person questionnaire form here. Let's fill it out, as best you can, and that will give me something to work with. If it's okay, and you can spare one, could I have a postcard from her as well? I'll need it to pull a handwriting sample off of. A matter of scanning it in, really, and then you'll get it back later."
Nicodemus is not going to last much longer. Want to fade through the data collection phase and move to meeting conclusion?
Izzy: Sure!
Izzy looks a bit pleased at the approval -- or the word 'moxie' (from a PI, no less!), or quite probably both. A postcard (though not that final one) is lent for scanning, and the questionnaire is filled in with all the info the kid can provide -- social security number is, alas, out, but date and place of birth, middle name, maiden name, and most similar data are handed over. There's even a computer print out from some online people-finding site, with the correct one circled; it doesn't give much info that wasn't already known, but it might help differentiate her from a couple other Jennifer Sparks-es who exist around the country.
Nicodemus finishes gathering the information he needs and prepares to head out. But before doing so, he offers his business card to you. "Call if you need anything or if things start going south with your living situation. I know a couple people in the police department that can hook you in to some government programs so you don't end up on the streets." He opens his wallet and takes out five twenties. "I'm not giving this to you: it's going on your bill as an expense to pay back later. After I find your mom. So don't blow it on Pac Man, you hooligan. Pizza's yours. You were right: the anchovies are too similar to sardines." He's managed to eat only one slice, having picked off the dead, salty fish.
Izzy takes the card, of course, but hesitates a moment over the cash. The explanation seems to help, however, and it disappears into the pocket with the card. "Thank you. But I =am= going to pay you back. And I promise not to blow more than half of it on either PacMan or sliced bread. ...sorry about the anchovies, though."
Nicodemus gets up from the table, taking one last sip from his water. "Learning experience: never to late to teach an old dog a new trick. Even if the trick is to not put fish on pizza." He gives a nod of his head as he heads for the door. "See you around, buddy." The masculine term was very likely intentional.
That gets another fleeting grin, and a chin-lift of acknowledgement along with a brighter-sounding, "Later!" Clearly there's still a long road to go in this, but as far as Izzy's concerned, things are definitely looking up.
Kaz has arrived.
From afar, Kaz observes the lack of gender markers. That's gonna be fun. How's the posing been?
You paged Kaz with 'You are observant! :D It's been... tricky, but not impossible.'.
Kaz pages: The one time a friend of mine tried it, she got frustrated, but mostly by her own miscues. Anyway! You want to pose?
Long distance to Kaz: Izzy will do so!
Izzy: Oh, we were playing a bit earlier in the day -- do you mind if it's still afternoon? If you do, I'll fudge it.
Kaz is good with that, I haven't done anything that'd make it complicated.
Izzy salutes!
The place isn't too busy this afternoon -- a pair of kids playing Pacman, an elderly couple chatting over a pie, a handful of rowdy college boys at a large table already covered in the remains of multiple pizzas, and in a corner, in the seat with the best view of the door and the least room to come up behind it, is Izzy, scrawling in a notebook, brow furrowed. On the table is just under half of a fairly large pizza -- the works, with anchovies -- and three soda glasses, two of which are empty and placed in a way that suggests companions may have been there earlier, but taken their leave.
When people push through the door, the wind and the cold also push through. And so does Kaz, coat buttoned, scarf over her mouth. "Man," she tells the counter-boy. "This fu--fershluggin' weather's gonna be the death of me." Mama Louisa takes the opportunity to take a moment out of her busy schedule of being busy to tell Kaz, volubly, that she hasn't been in in far too long, which leads to Kaz explaining something vague about family in Portland, and then being given a half price appetizer, all of which, for some reason, seems to embarrass her. She finally slinks over to the table down from Izzy, glass of Coke in hand, and plunks down in the one chair at the table (the rest are being used elsewhere). Unbuttoning her coat, but not taking it off, she heaves a sigh.
When the door opens, Izzy looks up, cued by the sound and the breeze, and then back down to the notebook. However, "fershluggin'" rekindles the interest, and Kaz gets watched with some interest throughout the rest of that interaction, though not enough focus to prevent another slice of the pizza from getting devoured. When Kaz sits, the kid hesitates, then ventures, "...'scuse me, ma'am. I didn't mean to eavesdrop or anything, but did you say you were just in Portland recently?"
"Believe you me," Kaz says, taking her scarf off but keeping her gloves on, "I ain't got no issue with eavesdroppin'. Yeah. I was livin' there for a few months. Why, is it y'hometown're somethin'?" As she talks, she rummages in her coat and eventually finds the book she was looking for (after frowning and trying the wrong pocket first).
A shake of the head, and Izzy reaches into the satchel occupying the nearest chair, coming up with a piece of paper to offer to Kaz. This probably requires standing up and carrying it there, but sacrifices must be made. There's a picture of a woman in her 30s on it, with a request that if anyone's seen her, they call the attached number. "I just wondered if you thought you might've seen this lady around anywhere? I mean, she was here last I knew, but she might've gone there, so... I thought I should ask."
From afar, Kaz looks skeptical as to probabilties, but /is/ it at all likely?
You paged Kaz with 'Not super likely. I'm not sure where she IS, but Sera secretly did questing stone and we OOCly determined 'alive' and 'somewhere to the southeast'. She might've gone through there on the way to wherever she is now, but I wouldn't call running into her likely. Though if she =were= over there, she might well have dropped by the local caern at least briefly. Which is all to say, there is background, decide as you prefer. :)'.
Kaz puts her book down (a rather battered Heinlein juvenile), and takes the sheet. She does focus on it, carefully. "Nope," she says, almost immediately. "Not so's I recall. How'd you know she was here? Or I mean. Did she start here, or was here a destination?" As she asks that, she rummages in her other pocket, brings out an address book, and tears off one of the tab/strips. She pats her other pocket and looks irked. "Someone stole m'damn pen," she mutters. "You got one I can use?"
Izzy sighs; it wasn't =much= of a hope, but it was a hope nonetheless. "Well, this's where her last postcard came from. It was kind of-- on the way? I just don't know where to. You know how people always say it's about the journey, not the destination?" That last question lifts the kid's mood back up a bit, despite the disappointment and the cruel thievery to which Kaz has apparently been subjected. "Sure, one sec..." The pen was left with the notebook on the other table; this is swiftly remedied, and the pen offered over.
"Thankee," Kaz says, and writes (in very small handwriting) on the back of the strip, which she paperclips onto one of the back pages. Then she hands the pen back over. "Yeah, so OK, you're following the clues. This a recent postcard, or just the first opportunity you've had to followup on it?"
Izzy hesitates, slipping the pen into a pocket as an excuse to pause, then answers, "It's the first opportunity I've had to follow up, really. The postcard was in October, and usually she sends one and calls home every week, so..." A glance to the remaining pizza on the other table, then back to Kaz. "Would it be okay if I moved over here to talk to you? Or you could come sit at my table if you wanted. I'm just still kinda hungry."
Kaz's order gets called. "Oh, sure. Plonk it all down." The metis, meanwhile, goes to fetch her pizza. And jalapeno poppers. Plonking them down on the table, she offers, "Have a popper. Or two. So yeah, OK, sends one every week. From diff'rent places, I take it, given the journey schtick? And you ain't had reason or opportunity to book it outta home 'til now?" (This is said as a guess, but also a non-judgmental one.) She takes her own popper, and takes care not to get the gooey not-cheese on her.
By the time Kaz gets back, Izzy, the satchel, the not-quite-half pizza, and the least empty of the glasses have all moved over to her table, across from where she was sitting. Presumably for ease of conversation, though a mouthful of everything-including-anchovies means that has to wait a few moments before it can be picked back up. "Thanks! And... yeah, more or less. I mean, she missed weeks before, when she was in really remote places, but before this time the record was two in a row." A popper is tried and found... spicy. But apparently, after the ensuing gulp of Coke, also delicious, since the offer of 'two' is taken up. "She's a travel writer."
Kaz says, "Man. Nice job if you can get it," as she slides her own pizza closer to her. "I travel, but mostly I'm a courier, so I don't have to have like. Actual skills of that kind." She considers another popper, but evidently decides to let it become less hot, as she focuses on her Coke, instead, quite happily.
Izzy nods, the second popper waiting on the edge of the pizza plate for when spicey cheese is next required. "She likes it. The only problem is she isn't around much. Well, was; I guess there's another one now. But you know what I mean." The popper gets a small, considering poke. "What kind of things do you... coury?"
"Yeah. I do. It's kind've a large problem t'have, but as long as you /could/ see it as a problem and not a pain in the ass..." Kaz trails off. At the question, she shrugs. "A lotta stupid bu--bolshoya-- that people don't want to trust to the US Mail. There's a surprising amount of it. Mostly it's letters and stuff. Sometimes it's packages, but I ain't never peeked. Part'a why they get me t'do stuff is they know I ain't gonna poke into stuff."
"Well. Sometimes it's a pain in the butt, too. But--" Izzy breaks off, giving the popper another light poke, then picking it up, but pausing again before eating it. "What if they had you carry something illegal, or dangerous? How do you know they aren't gonna get you in trouble? Do you just hafta trust them?" And pop goes the popper! This time the Coke doesn't follow it quite so swiftly, either.
"Adaptation," Kaz grins, and starts in on her own popper. She doesn't really even seem to notice the heat, though. "Yeah, trust, basically. Or, well, if they mess with me, I can mess with them and they know it, so it's sort of a really small scale Mutually Assured Destruction thing. But mostly, what I cart around don't have much t'do with illegalities." After finishing another of the poppers, she looks over at Izzy. "But what, by the way?"
Izzy nods again, looking thoughtful about the Mutually Assured Destruction thing over a sip of soda. And not at all putting off or wavering over answering that last question or anything. Certainly not. But maybe Kaz just has the kind of face that gets answers. "...But dad was there, so mostly he just took over the stuff where her being away was a pain."
Kaz has a popper left; she pushes the container over Izzy-wards. "Well, except for the hugs from her and stuff. But yeah, I got you." Kaz starts in on her (pepperoni and mushroom) pizza, taking a few bites and then putting it down on her plate. Not quite looking at Izzy. "I'd ask what all happened, but you got your own forms of confidentiality, so... suffice t'say, I sympathise on it sucking."
"....yeah. Except for that." Izzy accepts the proffered popper with a 'thanks', and gives the works-and-anchovy pizza a small, return-offering push; it's an hour or so less fresh and hot than the pepperoni and mushroom, however, so one could certainly be excused for passing that option up. "...and thanks. Last year kind of... sucked, yeah. So were you courying something in Portland, or do you mostly live there and this is more the destination place?" The kid seems to have been brought up to be fairly well-mannered, and doesn't stare, but the perceptive (like, say, Kaz) might notice a brief glance or three that implies the eyes may by now have been noticed, and either not quite believed, or just deemed interesting.
Kaz has had almost 40 years of steadfastly ignoring people noticing things about her, so it's not even obvious she's doing it anymore. "Sounds like," she acknowledges, and drinks some Coke. "Uhm. F'awhile I was based outta here, doin' jobs, and then I stuck around in Portland, f'a few months, after I did a delivery there. But I'm back here f'awhile." She shrugs. "I always seem to end up back here."
"Do you want to? Keep ending up back here, I mean?" Izzy pauses, pizza slice only a moment from being bitten, and lowers it slightly. "Um, and tell me if I'm being rude or something, I'll talk about the weather or something instead. But, like... I don't think Mom particularly liked ending up in Forks a lot, except for the fact that that's where Dad and I were." A tiny pause and then, brow suddenly knitted, "=Likes=."
Briefly, with a silent, sympathetic look, Kaz acknowledges the past/present tense dilemma. And then she's diverted by something. "Forks? Uh." Kaz stops, and eats a few bites of pizza, perhaps possibly to stop her smile from becoming annoying. It's faded by the time she's talking again. "I assume you guys have a lot of annoying tourists, past few years? But no," she says, the humor in her voice fading, "I don't mind comin' back here alla time at all. It welcomes me, every damn time. It's got locations I really enjoy, and it's had people I really do love, over like. 14 years of leavin' and comin' back. It ain't the same, superficially, when I come back, but it's still home anyways."
Kaz: That was not quite full Kaz-rhythm. Anyway, I'm gonna have to start wrapping because I did a lllot today and I am Tired and so on. But you exist! On-grid even.
Izzy totally does exist! And thank you! So pleased to play with you again.
Izzy sighs at the 'uh', and nods, confirming, "Yeah, that Forks. And yeah, a bunch of them, and some of the ones that are squealiest about it are older than my Mom, which is creepy. I mean, I guess if they're hoping for vampires they're still prolly on the young side of the relationship, but still. Also far's I know we don't have any vampires, sparkly or not. Werewolves, either." A bit of pizza, listening to the answer, and a half-smile. "I like that, a place being home even if you leave a lot. As an idea, kinda thing. An ideal? That kind of thing."
Kaz grins. "Y'never know what all exists, but yeah, vampires do sound a tad improbable." She finishes her current pizza slice, grin fading into a smile. "Yeah. It's something that's come to be a useful...perspective for me, past few years." She's silent a moment, then shrugs. "Anyway. I should git. You want th' rest of my pizza?" (There's about half left.)
"If you don't want it, sure, thank you," Izzy replies, "and it was nice meeting you. Oh, um." Right hand gets extended across the table, in a notably shakeable kind of way, "Also hi, I'm Izzy. It's nice to meet you."
Kaz says, mock-mournfully, "It's never as good in the morning." At the hand, she laughs, briefly, and shakes. It's firm but not competitive. "I'm Kaz. Good t'meet you." Before putting her address book back in her coat, she removes a card and sticks it under Izzy's pizza box. "'Case you need somewhere t'crash," she explains, and busses her own drink and popper-tray remains. This gives her the chance to wave goodbye to Mama Garcia, who waves back at her distractedly from her arguing with Wesley. Contentment slides off her like waves, as she envelops herself in her scarf and pushes out again.