izaak walker. thirty-three. brotherhood boss. "atlas". when I was young and moving fast, nothin' slowed me down, oh, slowed me down, now i let the others pass, i've come around, 'cause i've found, livin' just to keep goin', goin' just to be sane, all the while not knowin', such a shame, i don't need to get steady, i know just how i feel, tellin' you to be ready
“We’re fine. Fuckin’ pissed off, but I’m not lettin’ anybody lose their heads. Don’t worry about us. We’re just workin’ on gettin’ you outta here ASAP– your fuckin’ Twitter groupies may actually beat us to it,” he teases with a grin. “You all good with your lawyer? Not a hack, is he?”
When he got the call from Izaak, there was no doubt or hesitation in his response, the same one he always gives to his boss: yes sir. Whatever moral qualms he may or may not have about serving as acting leader of one of New York’s largest gangs are neither here nor there. Emotions can come later, when the job is done, the danger is gone, and all their troops are home safe. It’s how he’s always operated, and likely, exactly why Izaak placed him in charge. Well aware of his own talents, Milo isn’t self-deprecating by any means. Still, with how much he admires Izaak, he can’t help but feel undeserving of the job.
What’s mainly keeping him going is, as always, anger. Milo was trained to be the best, trained to be a weapon for them, for a nation that makes him sick to his stomach. For a country that doesn’t care about him, or anyone like him, Navy fucking SEAL or not.
Ironically enough, Milo finds himself almost hoping that this is an average case of racial injustice, as opposed to what he’s been suspecting. His eyes flicker to the closed door behind Izaak before he shifts into serious mode, leaning in to shield his face between the metal dividers. “I think this was a setup, man.” His voice is nearly a whisper, relaying more silent information via the intensity of his gaze. “Actually, I’d bet the fuckin’ farm on it.”
–
Izaak hasn’t been doing a lot of smiling in the last few days, but the ‘Twitter groupies’ comment gets a smirk out of him. He’s always liked Milo, but they’ve never had the kind of buddy-buddy relationship that leaves room for too much playful banter - instead, their relationship has always been built on a foundation of loyalty, of efficiency, of trust. But who knows, maybe once this is all over he’ll take Milo out for drinks on the town.
He notices the shift in Milo’s demenor before he even hears the next sentence, and he leans in to catch every word. “A setup,” he repeats. His tone isn’t skeptical as he digests the idea. The activist in him wants to believe this was just another strike against police morality, but the leader in him... well, the leader in him knows better by now than to believe in coincidences. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised. What’s your theory?”
Izaak: No, I don't have anyone's number memorized, seeing as I'm not an eighty year-old with a landline and a shortbread recipe. I asked Ursula to slip it to me during her visit today. She says hello, by the way, and also fuck you very much. [Beat.] Do you have MY number memorized?
Monroe settled onto the cafeteria table to wait, watching as other visitors did the same. It was always a curious thing, watching how other people handled the discomfort of trying to support a loved one, and continue to live their lives while some else spent their days locked away. She wouldn’t say she had visitation down to a science, but she did have a routine. When Izaak was finally lead into the room she offered him a wide smile and a quick hug as greeting, the limited allowed physical contact, before sitting back down. “I have 20$ in coins for the vending machine so just let me know what you want.” The coins were already on the table in a clear bag, beside a few folded papers with printed lists on them.
Monroe hadn’t spent extensive time with Izaak, in fact she probably spent more time at protests and community events with him then she did in her limited connection to The Brotherhood since she was only technically an associate. And as such she didn’t really know how to go about talking to him as the incarcerated leader of what one of New York’s most notorious gangs. So instead she decided to focus on him simply as another activist for a minute, as the person locked away and charged brashly into conversation.
“I have a list of the approved magazines to get you set up with subscriptions, as well as a reading list I thought you might enjoy of books organized by genre. I made sure money was deposited in your commissary fund last night, so it should be available today and… oh I included some pictures in the letter I sent this morning before I got here. Mostly shots of the community garden and park, but a few of friends as well.” She cut herself off as she realized she wasn’t giving Izaak any opportunity to speak and grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, I overcompensate and I’m used to visiting other low level activists not… community leaders.” She finished lamely, hating the inability to speak plainly.
—
Izaak has a migraine. He can’t tell if that’s due to dehydration, disarray, his post-protest-assault concussion, or some winning combination between them. Still, his head won’t stop pounding – a harsh pulsing, darting around the different parts of his brain, like a painful gnat that gnaws to survive. He almost refuses to stand up and leave his cell (which, considering New York’s rent prices, is a fairly nice accommodation) when he’s told that there’s a visitor for him, but then he hears the name. Lennox Monroe, now there’s someone he didn’t expect to see.
He watches Monroe carefully as she rambles on. When she cuts herself off, he waits, trying to gauge if she’s going to say anything else. She doesn’t. “Hey, thanks, I appreciate that. If you’re still in the giving mood, can you grab me a pack of Welcher’s fruit snacks?” he asks, nodding to the bag of quarters on the table. It’s actually Welch’s, but Izaak’s younger brother always called it Welcher’s, and so he’s mispronounced it to this day – a little piece of home that he doesn’t even realize he carries with him.
Once Monroe sits back down, Izaak reaches for the fruit snacks and tears into them. He chews through two before he looks back up to the doctor. “I didn’t think you’d come visit me,” he says. It’s a packed day in the visiting center and he doesn’t want any of the tables nearby overhearing anything too incriminating, so he chooses his words carefully. “I usually see you on the streets, at protests and soup kitchens. Not so much in… community meetings.” He pauses, eats a few more gummies and furrows his eyerows. “Did Milo send you?”
[This is a prepaid call from IZAAK WALKER, an inmate at the City Correctional Facility. The inmate would like to relay the following message.]
Izaak: Hey, it's me. Just calling to try and pick up some tips and tricks about jail from the expert. I'm particularly concerned about dropping the soap - I know I'm not supposed to, but damn, this shit can get slippery. Answer the phone, I'm sure whatever friend you've got bleeding out of an artery will understand.
[To decline this call, press 9 now. To accept this call, press 1 now.]
There’s that saying about how artists only really gain appreciation after death, but as it stands, Izaak can say the same about going to jail. He’s always had his little bubble of influence as both an activist publicly and a gang leader privately, and yet his arrest has elevated him to a micro-celebrity. He feels like some hotshot CEO (gross), taking back-to-back meetings and treating the prison guards like a secretary. Izaak’s visitors range from strategic Brotherhood members to sympathetic freedom fighters, and overall it’s a relief, not just being left to rot with his thoughts behind a cell.
Nothing, however, can prepare him for the next face that walks towards the gray table Izaak is already seated at. Most would stand up and shake Governor Berkeley’s hand, but that would imply that Izaak respects the man and - well, he doesn’t. “I heard about this jail’s rat problem, but I didn’t realize they also had a snake infestation,” he says as greeting. It’s not personal, it’s just politics, and Izaak sure the fuck can’t stand a politician, no matter how good-willed Berkeley makes his intentions out to be. “Take a seat, make yourself at home. Can I get you some water, tea, toilet-made moonshine maybe?”
"Hm," he hums to himself, swirling his drink and taking another burning sip. "Christian used to call me Atlas. Condemned to hold up the weight of the world for eternity. Must be doing great things for my triceps." Another swirl of his drink, but this time Izaak just stares at it, eyebrows creased. "Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?" He keeps reciting the question in his head until they feel like fake words in a fake question from a fake enemy (and, well, isn't one of those things a little true?). "I'm a corpse, even though you haven't killed me yet. A dead man walking. A dead man, Walker." He grins at his own joke. "I think I've been a corpse for a while now. Four years, at least, but maybe closer to ten. There's a kind of death that never sees a funeral. There are ghosts that never get closure." He downs the rest of his drink, and it almost tastes stale. "You getting the next round?"
Unfortunately, this was a familiar part of Adam’s job. He’d been in out of city jails to see anyone and everyone who had asked for his help, and so going in and out was a process he well understood. This case felt different right from the get-go - in part because it was one that caught more public attention than most. Izaak Walker’s name and face had been splashed over most of the city’s papers, reporting on and decrying his arrest. At first, Adam had been reluctant to step into such an arena, but the more he thought about it, the easier it had been to convince himself it was the right thing. Whatever he felt about Izaak’s positions, standing up for people and their rights had always been some part of his reason for going into law in the first place.
Armed only with the required paperwork, he waited to be let into the small, dim room where they would be able to speak, Adam quiet and almost stoic when the door was finally opened. “Mr. Walker,” he greeted the man who was alright sitting at the table in front of him. “Adam Starke. I’m with Shapiro, Stuart and Starke. I understand you’re in need of some representation.”
—
Izaak has no patience for the legal nuances involved in his arrest. Quite frankly, he has very little patience for legal nuances in general, knowing very well that it all ends the same way - the innocent Black man ends up behind bars, the white-collar white-man gets a slap on the wrist at worst. Whatever Izaak’s fate is at the end of this, he can recognize history repeating itself when he sees it.
He glances up at the lawyer across from him, and in addition to a lack of patience, Izaak also finds himself with a lack of understanding. This man should be modeling for the next Vineyeard Vines campaign, not championing civil liberties. “Sure,” he says. He doesn’t mean to sound unamused, but there’s a tone that’s hard to miss. “And what makes you ripe for the job?”
The circular metal stool supporting Milo’s weight is uncomfortable, but not at all unfamiliar. Stools just like this have taken up far too much of his life’s clock already. If he allowed himself to dwell, it’d be rather upsetting to reflect upon how many loved ones he’s had to speak to through a half-inch polycarbonate window just like the one he’s looking through now. Luckily, Milo doesn’t dwell.
They each hold a phone to their ear, but for a few seconds, the two communicate only through mutually intense stares. Years of following Izaak’s every step has hardly granted Milo the ability to read the leader; he can understand him, and will always obey him, but he can never quite read him.
His eyes shift to the left, then to the right, lingering with distaste on the nearest guard. Keeping his voice low, Milo leans in to take advantage of the minimal solace offered by the booth dividers. “They takin’ care of you in here?”
Izaak has fallen. Previously impenetrable, previous immortal, previously untouchable - now, fallen. It isn’t the end of the world. He’s seen enough men get sentenced to prison to know that those same men have a habit of getting out. It’s just a matter of inconvenience, and Izaak fucking hates to be inconvenienced. He makes plans for a reason, and it pisses him off to see them go awry, especially at the hands of the NYfuckingPD.
It’s fine. Izaak has fallen, but he’ll be back in power again soon. Jesus isn’t the only melanated martyr that knows how to rise from the dead.
In the meantime, he can’t survive knowing nothing. He trusts Milo and the other underbosses to make all the right decisions, but what keeps Izaak awake at night more than anything is the thought of what could be happening in his absence. Fuck knows that the other gangs will drool at any smell of blood, and Izaak’s been bleeding hard ever since his arrest. “Not in the slightest,” he says with a grin. His voice is low, his body language revealing nothing about this conversation. “Don’t worry about me, I won’t drop any soap. Talk to me about you, about them.” Despite how quietly he’s speaking, he’s still hesitant to say the Brotherhood’s name out loud, just in case it may draw extra attention, but he trusts Milo knows what he’s intimating.
One thing they don’t tell you about summer in New York is just how sticky it is. Humidity from the Hudson and the Atlantic form an unforgiving combination – rumor has it that even the strongest of subway rats can’t help but work up a sweat. Today especially, the summer swelter clings to the air like a duvet, suffocating and soothing its residents all at once. Check your local news channels and they’ll tell you it’s the hottest day of the year so far, avoid the streets if you can and crank your fans on high.
Izaak doesn’t mind. He’s always been a person who knows how to handle the heat.
Around him, hundreds of voices echo in unison, the sound of change that Izaak has come to know well. He stands close to the front of the crowd, which acts as a surreal reminder that this mass of people is following him in their protest. Izaak still has a tough time wrapping his head around the fact that he’s this public figurehead that others are willing to follow, that there is something in him worthy of being listened to.
The protest comes at the heel of the city’s recent budget announcement, which once again allocated gross amounts of money to cops and robbers (read: the rich) while leaving public parks and schools with pennies to toss around. It’s the same shit in a different font, and if Izaak weren’t so furious, he would be absolutely exhausted.
But exhaustion is what they want – exhaustion is what gets Izaak to move off the streets and give up, exhaustion is what would give these motherfuckers a break.
(“Why are you so angry all the time?” his little brother asked him last Christmas. Perhaps it was a fair question, considering Izaak had just stormed away from the dinner table.
Izaak furrowed his eyebrows, and Christian’s strong smile flashed across his mind. “Because,” he said, “it’s all I have left.”)
Without a doubt, Izaak’s least favorite part about leading any protest is having to come up with the chants. Poetry was never his strong suit, and his rhyme schemes would probably disgrace both Dr. Dre and Dr. Seuss. But conducting the chants does mean he gets to talk into his beloved megaphone, so he really can’t complain.
“Shame on you, shame on them!” Izaak yells into the megaphone. The crowd repeats the words, shouting in tempo. “Fuck these greedy rich white men!” Hundreds of people parrot the words back to him, and the pattern continues, on and on as they march down the Financial District. Sweat trickles down his forehead, and he has to keep wiping at it with his free hand.
As always, once the protest accrued enough attention, police got on the scene. And though Izaak’s blood boils at the mere sight of them, holding a peaceful protest means he can do nothing but continue to shout and occasionally glare in their direction. In these settings, cops were often nothing more than an intimidation tactic, one that Izaak learned not to fall for years ago. He brushes them off as all bark and no bite, until –
Screams echo from the other side of the crowd, not of passion but of pain. Izaak whips his head around to see smoke floating in the air as dozens of protestors fall to the ground, all at the hands of policemen wearing masks.
He doesn’t think, he just acts. Izaak sprints over, and he realizes as he enters the scene that the clouds in the air are from tear gas. He coughs heavily and blinks away the sharp string in his eyes, then kneels down to one of the protestors. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?” The protestor just shakes her head, groaning in agony as she covers her face with her hands. That’s all it takes for the anger in Izaak to turn into a righteous fury, and all at once, he’s standing up and walking over to the line of cops.
“Hey!” he shouts. “What the FUCK! What are you doing!”
None of the cops respond or meet his gaze, so Izaak raises the megaphone to his mouth.
“HEY! I ASKED WHAT! THE! FUCK! DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING! THIS IS A PEACEFUL PROTEST! THEY WERE UNARMED! WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”
“Shut up and stand down,” one of the cops says. “They were vandalizing those buildings, we had every right to step in.”
“Of course you did,” Izaak spits. “You think you have a right to every thing you do. Fucking pigs in a blanket, I’ll fry you like bacon.”
“Careful, Walker.” Izaak’s head snaps at the mention of his name. He almost forgot that these cops must know him, that they must all be foaming at the mouth to lay a hand on the untouchable Izaak Walker. “Those are fighting words.”
“Fighting words?” he sneers. He raises the megaphone back to his lips. “WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT FIGHTING WORDS? WHAT HAVE YOU EVER HAD TO FIGHT FOR? I’LL BURN YOUR CITY TO A CRISP, MOTHERFUCKER. I WON’T STOP UNTIL YOU FEEL THE SAME PAIN WE’VE FELT FOR DECADES. WHY DON’T YOU COME HERE AND I’LL –”
The rest of Izaak’s words stay lodged in his throat as he feels a stinging pain in his stomach. He looks down to see a rubber bullet by his shoe, but before he can comprehend what that means, he feels two more hit him – one against his collarbone, and another against his head. The second bullet is excrutiating, and he falls to the ground, his ears ringing and his reality suddenly augmented.
The rest happens in fragments, like frames he’s clicking through on a slide projector. Click: the crowd around him explodes as he collapses, and he can feel the noise against the pavement. Click: two cops keep him held to the ground as though he’s a rabid animal that needs to be contained. Click: he’s picked up and dragged away from the crowd, mobs chasing after him, then thrown into the back of a policecar.
The air conditioning from the car acts as a kind of splash of cold water, regaining his attention for just long enough to hear someone say the words, “Under arrest for making statements that incite imminent violence”.
He blinks once, twice, three times, but his vision doesn’t get any less blurry. There’s a warm tickle on the side of his head, and Izaak touches a finger to it, only for it to emerge dark red.
“Fuck,” he slurs to himself, mind reeling in every direction. What he needs is a doctor, what he needs is a lawyer, what he needs is a decent criminal justice system, what he needs is a – “Phonecall,” he says, loud enough that the cops in the front seats can hear him. “I need my phonecall.” And with that, he gives into the heaviness that fogs his brain, closing his eyes and passing out on the headrest.
Izaak Walker had sporadically left and entered his thoughts since All Hallows Eve. A time when Izaak’s business wasn’t his business, and Lee’s mind wasn’t his mind. He’d pierced his hand with his boyfriend’s knife, the same one Lee’d been stepping towards when stopped. Not by a vision, but by him.
With how suddenly it happens, for a moment all Lee sees is the red off the fabric of his clothes, the twist of tunnel vision to how he’d left him last. In those times when he did think of him, it was to the injury his mind went to. Does it hurt? If so, does he know it’s Lee who’s making him hurt, who made his mark not only on his body, but his psyche too? When people touch you, the feeling is gone as soon as you part — is there acknowledgement, fear, appreciation, disgust, that Lee exists outside of such rule?
But perhaps by now, it is gone. Perhaps he would just have to do it again. How often can you maim someone until there’s nothing left to see?
“I should have known you’d be here.” Only one of them is an activist, while the other, a bored creature. Lee doesn’t resist his claim of the drink; he’d just get Jack another. “We’ve got our differences darling, but one thing we have in common, is that we both love balls.”
As he’s no longer headed to where he was previously, Lee twists on his heel to face the bar once more. Something feels different, credit not only due to the sharper clothes, but also the setting. This Izaak isn’t, and can’t be, the one from dirt bars and dark alleys — the messiah with blood on one hand and a dagger in the other. Albeit with no wish for it himself, Lee did always wonder what it’s like, living two lives. It takes a particular vessel of vitality to pass for human, and they just don’t make it in his size.
“Have you been thinking of me? Well,” — a glance down at where a wound should be — “I reckon you’ve got to, now.” Curiosity peaks — and he takes Izaak’s hand to study its palm. “And they say I’m not Picasso.” Only a man of his caliber would look at sliced flesh and see art. “Just think what I could do to the rest of you.”
—
Lee may be a sadist, a murderer, a hedonist, a sociopath, and a cold-blooded criminal - but the worst thing about him is just how fucking funny he can be. Izaak has to look away and clear his throat to disguise the fact that Lee’s balls comment got a chuckle on him, because Izaak would rather stab his other hand before letting Lee know he got a laugh out of him. There needs to be some sanctity in sworn enemies, dammit.
“Not all of our day jobs can be so similar to our after-hours,” he says. “Not to downplay your line of work. You know I consider crime scene photographers to be the backbone of this country. It can’t be easy to take a picture of something that literally can’t move.”
And on cue, before Izaak can reply to Lee’s next comment, his day job makes a guest appearance as someone unknown to Izaak slides next to him, and pipes up briefly with, ‘Sorry to bother you, Mr. Walker, but do you have a second? I’d love to pick your brain about pirson reform.’ Izaak looks over, yanks his hand away from Lee and smiles, adjusts his tone to stranger-friendly. “Not a bother at all. I’m always happy to chat, I’ll track you down in ten?” The intruder meets Izaak’s grin and nods, and privacy is theirs again. Or perhaps semi-privacy is the term here - Izaak’s always been good at having eyes and ears trained on him in public, waiting for him to say something they can indict on. He’s yet to slip up so far.
Back to Lee. “Most days I forget that you exist,” he says, lying. “Except - well, I have been meaning to talk to you about one thing.” Beat. “Do you remember we agreed a little while back that I’d save myself for you? For my death, that is.” He takes another sip of his drink as he watches Lee’s face. “I was all-aboard that train, totally ready to give you that dagger once I tied up some loose ends in a few more good years, but then we had this little accident.” He flashes his scarred-up palm. “And now I’m not so sure. I mean, what’s the point of a civil contract if you’re just going to mar me along the way? I’m trying to look good in my casket, Malkovich. I want to throw the necrophiliacs a bone.” Someone across the room waves at him from the corner of Izaak’s and he smiles bright, waves back, but keeps talking as he looks away from Lee. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is that the deal is off. My corpse is back on the market, ready to go for the highest bidder. And if I’m no longer counting on you to kill me I guess that means... Well, I guess that means I could just as well get to you first, huh?” He looks back to Lee, and that golden-boy smile hasn’t quite left his features. “Do you understand what I’m saying here, Malkovich? I can try speaking slower, I know the Syndicate isn’t quite so fond of big ideas.”
it wasn’t long until derek had made his way to the group where various of his brotherhood familial were talking, it really made him see how different him and his sister were and how their paths had taken different routes. though he didn’t regret nothing, even going to jail. he had a purpose and that was the brotherhood to him, he walks outside and sees izaak.
he approaches him and leans on the pillar ❛ I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of me on the inside. I know some people go in and they can’t make it but ——- ❜he had never had to thank anyone for anything in his life, so this wasn’t exactly his comfort zone. ❛ I guess, just thanks, man. ❜
correspondance : @izaakwalker
—
Izaak reads a lot of autobiographies. He’s not that avid of a reader - no time for it between everything else, honestly - but he’ll devour a book or five on subway rides or on especially sleepless nights, and when that happens, autobiographies are the go-to. He likes learning about the people that came before him, that paved the way for Izaak’s own aspirations for revolution, and it’s important to him that they come from that person’s own mouth. It scares him, sometimes, the thought that he may die before he can tell his own story the way he wants to.
All of which is to say that in MLK’s autobiography, he writes that he made it a point to send his best men to prison to give the action honor. And though Izaak has his fair share of issues with MLK and his idealizations, he’s always liked that - taking a system that’s meant to ostracize and demonize the Black community and redefining it, turning it into a rite of passage. Still, he feels for every Brotherhood member that has to serve time, and more importantly, he makes sure they’re all taken care of. “I look after my own,” he says in reply. He stepped out for a second to get some air, which was code for ‘smoke some weed’, but he never quite got to it before Derek found him. Maybe if he’s feeling philanthropic enough he’ll share. “There’s a reason I call all of you brothers. You’re family to me, and nobody fucks with my family.” He nods to Derek then. “How was it, honestly? You survived, sure, but how are you holdin’ up?”
Izaak may be fully dressed, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling naked without a single weapon on his body. He’s still got a pretty decent roundhouse (cardio kickboxing with Úrsula on Tuesday nights works wonders) and he certainly knows the ole sprint/jump combo, but his punch isn’t what it used to be after a certain somebody decided to drive a knife through his palm. Which isn’t to say it isn’t healing nicely; almost four months later, all that remains now is some tender flesh and the outline of what will soon become a scar. Somehow, that’s what makes Izaak the angriest, the fact that Lee managed to hurt him in a way that Izaak can never fully recover from. Bruises heal, broken bones can be reset, blood loss eventually gets replenished - but cut deep enough, cut cruel enough, and that scar tissue will never see peace again.
(But Lee knew that, of course.)
Again though, it’s been months, and Izaak is tired of playing the role of the wronged mistress, giving Lee the silent treatment as if he’ll learn some lesson. Now, all he wants is revenge - his 190 pounds of flesh, red and hot and burning. And to get to Lee’s tendrils, he first needs to get to Lee.
So he gives no warning before saddling up to Lee at the bar. Lee has two drinks in his hands, but Izaak never lets the second one reach its target as he grabs at it, taking a slow sip. It’s strong. “And what worthy cause will you be donating to tonight?” he asks. “Killers for Kleptomaniacs? Murderers for Mesothelioma? Psychopaths for Pseudoscorpions?” He grins to himself, swirls the drink around. “You should’ve mentioned you were such a philanthropist.”
For a man that prided himself in being professional and well put together, odd circumstances certainly had its way with interfering. Both hands were braced against his hips as Chan-yoo peered upwards. There, barely seen between the dulling leaves, sat his cellphone. How the device managed to stay put in such a precarious position was unknown to him. What mattered was a way to get it back down.
“Please don’t laugh.” Yet even he had a hard time keeping his voice even. The situation was just too, well, funny to be anything other than bewildered and amused. “I don’t do well with loud noises.” Sudden, loud noises that came from a disgusting looking bug to be precise. “So when I was sent some cheap jump scare, well, I jumped.” Rather, his hands had done all the moving. “And now my phone’s stuck in a tree and ideally.. I’d like to get it down without breaking the screen.”
—
It’s a cardinal rule of New York City, from how Izaak has experienced it, that you never totally know what you’re going to get out of your day. It’s why Izaak has become more forgiving with his schedule, less of a control freak with specific plans for each day and more accomodating to the random shit that gets thrown at him in the middle. Exhibit A -
“Too late, bro. This shit is mad funny,” he says in between light laughter. It’s suspicious enough that Izaak’s half-tempted to call it out as a scam, something like ‘Oh, you look up at this tree while I knock you out and take your wallet’, but this situation is ridiculous enough (and this man looks well-dressed and helpless enough) that Izaak’s willing to offer the benefit of the doubt. “Without your screen breaking? You’re in a bit of a rough position to be making demands there, champ.” Still, Izaak sizes up the branch, then decides on a course of action. “I’ve jumped over enough fences to probably scale this tree and make a grab for it. Assuming I do all that, bruise up my knees and scratch up my palms and freeze my ass off in the process - what are you giving me in exchange?”
Monroe was enjoying a day off with her pups, happy to be out of scrubs for once and not even on call. She had decided to spend the afternoon in one of the parks your dogs could be off leash in, and was letting Karou and Sarai run and play and be carefree pups. She had recently started the two in a new training program that would allow them to be therapy dogs in the hospital, something a coworker had suggested. They had the temperament, and both adored children so the thought was to bring them to work and send them over to the pediatric ward. The first few days had gone well, so Monroe decided they deserved the treat. Besides, she didn’t mind spending some time out in nature.
All was calm and fine until Sarai found the perfect stick, and Karou decided she wanted it for herself. Korou snatched the stick from her sister and then took off running, Sarai not far behind. Karou zigged and zagged, a blurry bundle of blue grey fur as she tried to shake her sister but Sarai was determined. The two pups were so focused on their play that theu had no care for their surroundings and Monroe noticed they were careening towards another visitor in the park. Placing two fingers in her mouth she let out a loud whistle to reclaim her dogs, and Karou stopped immediately dead in her tracks. Sarai unfortunately was just a few seconds slower in her reaction and came barreling into her sister, creating a mess of blue and red fur at the feet of the figure, who quickly became the new object of fascination.
Apologetically Monroe jogged over, calling to her dogs, glad that they were well trained enough to not jump on strangers. “Sorry about that, they’re still growing into their limbs and don’t always have the best motor control” she provided as explanation, reaching down to scritch the twins heads. “Hey, at least they’re cute right? At least that’s what I tell myself after they chewed up my couch legs.”
—
Izaak’s not a monster (though lately that, too, has become a disputed statement around the right people), so he has no problem with the sight of two dogs running straight to him. He grew up with two dogs himself, part of his parents’ vision of coming off as the American Dream personified, and as much as he distances himself from the rest of the Walker clan, a part of Izaak still holds some nostalgia for those two pups. He would consider filling the void by getting a new animal or two if it wasn’t for the sleuth of Brotherhood members (pets in their own right) already populating his filled-up carriage house.
Izaak’s delight only grows when he sees who the two dogs are attached to. As a too-loyal boss, Izaak’s got a love for every Brotherhood member, but he’s always kept a certain fondness for Monroe. Maybe it’s the knowledge of her unfortunate backstory, or the gentleness she poses put side-by-side with other bloodthirsty Brotherhood members, or the soft spot he holds for every doctor, seeing an alternate version of Izaak (one that finished college, never got angry, never got vengeful) in each of them - in any case, he’s smiling when Monroe comes up to apologize. “Nah. no worries, I remember what it was like to have growth spurts. I think I went from four feet to six feet overnight at some point in puberty,” he says as he crouches down to rub at one of the dogs’ backs. “I had no idea you got dogs. Planning on switching to a vet practice next?”
“You’re lucky I even showed my ass up,” Milo said over his shoulder, having just grabbed another beer for himself. As was well established, he wasn’t a fan of holidays. On top of that, parties were something he tried to leave in the past. “It’s impossible to have fun on New Years. Seriously. The pressure’s too immense.”
—
“You talking shit about my party, bro?” he says as he slides up next to Milo. He squints at the box of Trader Joe’s Blueberry Ale that someone brought, both wary of and disgusted by the gentrification taking place on his very own dining room table. “Damn straight there’s immense pressure. I spent two hours doing that champagne balloon wall, this better be the best fucking night of your life from the sight of that alone.” He grins, swirling the beer around that’s in his hand and taking a sip.
Izaak’s evening wear is an all-white ensemble, a tongue-in-cheek reference to the clean slate he definitely doesn’t have to kick off 2022. It’s also a nod towards mutual trust for the company he’s amongst tonight, since Izaak never wears white when he anticipates blood stains.
For those who stayed past midnight, they’re met with a rare sight — after a sleepless year, the Brotherhood’s restless leader passes out on the couch.
