Ilad, Isabel
Isabel's phone call is perhaps a bit curt. Sorry, Ilad. The coffee shop she's picked out isn't far from the prison - an easy enough detour on his way to visit his fellow pyrokinetic. She's already there, minus her books and plus an untouched mug of coffee that's been sitting long enough that it is no longer steaming.
Ilad arrives in a long sweep of dark wool and does not bother with attempting to claim his own cup of coffee. On entry to the shop, his dark gaze flicks the room and finds her. His eyebrows bob up, and then down, as he strides over on the approach, reaching to claim the back of the chair opposite her at her table.
Isabel doesn't waste time with pleasantries. She waits about as long as it takes Ilad to sit before she fixes her eyes on him and says, "It's about what it says on the box. They're serious about the Brotherhood thing and they're pissed as hell at a government that wants to control us. I don't know how many she has, but she knows how many /we/ are and she's not worried in the least." She pauses briefly, gaze flicking to her mug, and adds, "And she suspects what we are. Her lack of worry worries me."
"I see," Ilad says quietly. Sitting at the table, he laces his fingers loosely together against its edge, his feet planted on the floor beneath. He studies Isabel's features for an extended moment, turning over her words thoughtfully in his head. "And the boy?" he asks at length.
Isabel is silent, breath held tight in her chest, for several seconds. If she considers lying, it's fairly certain that she wouldn't be very /good/ at it, anyway. "He gave them his information," she finally says lowly. "I don't know if she's got him wrapped in lies or if he's just-- angry. I don't know if it goes any deeper than the box and his name."
Ilad nods. He sits quite still for a long moment afterwards, dark gaze falling to a contemplation of his hands where they lace together against the table's surface. "I imagine he has plenty of room for wrath," he says. Then he looks up. "Did she ask you to help them?"
"Yes," Isabel says without elaboration.
Ilad sits quiet for a long moment afterwards, slant of his gaze sliding away from her to glance past the coffee cup at some indeterminate point beyond them. He says, "Rage and arrogance frequently walk hand in hand. I have been underestimated before."
"They are underestimating us," Isabel confirms quietly. Her hands curl around her still-full mug, and she watches them. "But I worry that we are underestimating them, too. She spoke of crossfire. They're not going to play nice. They hate the government and we are the government and /they/ don't have to pretend not to be what they are." After a pause she adds, haltingly, "She will probably recognize-- Northstar."
"{If I have to choose between breaking my cover and allowing a terrorist to walk free,}" Ilad tells Isabel with absolute firmness in his low, dark voice, Hebraic syllables stripped of all traces of the lightness and humor that so frequently colors his English. "{I know my choice.}" His dark eyes are hard and sharp for a moment, and then the look fades to one of consideration. "Mm," he says, and inclines his head toward her slightly, gaze flicking away again. "He is distinctive, is he not."
Isabel lifts her eyes to Ilad for a moment, fixing there in response to the firmness of his Hebrew. It is the last she responds to, though, her voice dropped low. "It was a memorable occasion."
"So I imagined." Ilad slowly shifts back, setting his shoulders against the chair's back behind him, and blows a long, low breath past his nostrils. He focuses back on Isabel with a faint narrowing of his gaze. "There are some secrets we simply cannot keep."
Isabel says nothing for some time. Her teeth pick at her lower lip. Eventually she says, "I thought I might stop by Montana on my way Home."
Ilad's eyebrows twitch up as his gaze returns to her. "Not exactly en route," he points out, though his neutral tone is hardly forbidding.
"Who else are you going to send?" Isabel wonders, and her voice twists automatically derisive. "Morpheus?" She clears her throat, gaze skipping away, and draws her composure back around her like a cloak. "He's fifteen. If there are things he knows-- someone ought to give him the chance to get out of whatever he's gotten himself into."
"Yes," Ilad agrees, a weight of breath extending the syllable. "Someone ought to. Do you think he will take the chance?"
The stretch of silence before Isabel's answer is likely unsurprising. It is coming to be habit in these conversations. Eventually she says, "I don't know. But I think he's more likely to take it from me than anyone else."
Ilad turns out a hand, fingers wiggling and curling inward in a vague gesture of acknowledgment. Drawing a long breath through his nose, he says, "Very well."
Isabel nods, and the exhalation of her breath holds a quiet note of relief. "Okay," she says. "Thank you. And be careful around Elizabeth." She lifts a finger to tap lightly at her ear. "Anger-- is a powerful motivator. I planted what doubts I could, but--" She breaks off a moment before finishing, "-- they aren't many, when she's right."
"Right, is she?" Ilad rises from his seat, tall and straight as he nudges aside the chair. "Hm."
"Even in our ranks," Isabel answers quietly, remaining seated as he stands.
Ilad looks down and across at her with eyebrows swept up.
To that eloquent lift of his eyebrows, Isabel says nothing. She finally lifts her mug for a small sip, then wrinkles her nose on finding it lukewarm.
"Try not to do any accidental recruiting for the Brotherhood while you're up north," Ilad tells Isabel dryly.
"I'm not the one who does the accidental recruiting," Isabel answers, her voice edged with bitterness. "There are more than enough in this country who do their recruiting for them."
"Mind yourself," Ilad says, and turns on his heel without another word, striding for the door on long, loping steps.
Isabel remains seated, staring after Ilad for a long moment before she looks away. He's long gone by the time she rises to return to the B&B.
Reports.