ArchivedLogs:My (censored) Hero

My (censored) Hero
Dramatis Personae Daken, Trib
In Absentia	2015-04-17 '
Location <NYC> Foswell's Gym -- Hell's Kitchen
Foswell's Gym is not the /fanciest/ of gyms, catering more to the boxing crowd than the Zumba dancers and their ilk, although there's plenty of signage encouraging non-boxing people to take advantage of their amenities. Located on the edge of Midtown and Clinton, it's almost a Hell's Kitchen landmark. Particularly since the owner, former boxer 'Foggy' Nelson, is one of the very few in the area who doesn't do business with Wilson Fisk. As a result, many of the locals come here to train alongside the boxers. The layout is relatively simple; a large room with a boxing ring in the middle. To the right of the entrance, a pair of doors lead to modest locker rooms and shower facilities. On one side of the gym are a line of punching bags, both heavy and speed, as well as a row of butterfly weight machines. On the other, weight benches line up in front of a rack containing weights from 5 to 100 pounds as well as dumbells with similar range. Towards the back, a glass wall looks onto a room padded with heavy canvas where often self-defense classes can be seen taking place. Next to that room, a door with the words OWNER/MANAGER marks the office beyond. It's probably too early to be ending training for the day, but such is Trib's decision. Maybe he's got plans, or just wants to enjoy a Friday night by himself. Either way, he's coming out the back door of Foswell's Gym, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches tightly across his massive chest. His hair look damp, pushed back and tucked behind his ears, where it curls against his neck. In one hand, he carries a limp-looking gym bag, and in his half-hand, he holds his phone, checking the screen and huffing an amused sound as he lets the metal door clang shut behind him and steps out into the alley. With the casual reflex of a true New Yorker, he kicks a rat away from him without looking as he heads towards the street. There isn't any telling how long the three men have been waiting outside, but it doesn't take a genius to realize they aren't up to good. The most important looking takes a step forward, fishing a lighter from the jacket of his pinstriped suit to light up a rather large cigar. "Mr. Jones." he calls out, flashing a predatory grin. "If we could have a moment of your time?" Trib pauses when his name is called out, and he keeps his back to the men for a long moment, continuing to look at his phone. He uses his thumb to clumsily type a response to whoever he's texting, then slips the phone into his front pocket. It's another moment or two as he digs in his pocket, looking for something. When he /does/ turn around, he looks over the assorted trio lazily, probing the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "Answer's still no." There's an annoyed huff from the man with the cigar. "Mr. Fisk is a patient man. But that only extends so far. The sooner you take a ride with us, the sooner we'll stop visiting." The man at the back of the group shifts a bit, his gaze moving to the fire escape. After a moment of squinting he finally looks back at Trib. "Yeah, and when his patience wears out he sends us guys for a house call, and yo-" his words are cut short with a glare from the man in the suit. “Mister Fisk can go piss up a rope," Trib grunts, shifting his weight ever so slightly, and fishing something out of his pocket that he pops into his mouth. It's crunchy, based on the noise he's making while chewing it. "So, you guys can go take a ride with yourselves." He lifts his chin at the man with the cigar, and swallows noisily. "I ain't interested." Whatever the man in the suit was going to say gets gut off by a loud crunching noise as Daken leaps from the fire escape, both feet planting firmly into the back of the third man's head. But he's already in motion, rolling away from the downed man and wrapping his arm around the one that threatened Trib's throat, pulling the gun he had hidden in his waistband out and aiming at mister suit. "Hi. If I could have a moment of your time. Mister Fisk has felt the need to ignore my dinner invitations. If you wouldn't mind telling him Daken wishes to see him, and also advises that you cease and desist in visiting mister Trib here. I'm not a patient man, not at all. And I'll fuck up his system harder than any 'devil' ever dreamed if he doesn't entertain me." Trib actually takes a step back when Daken drops from above, his skin shifting and taking on the color of unpolished metal as he drops into a defensive stance. Which seems largely unnecessary, as brief as the assault is. He tips his head to peer at the other man, moving up to a safe distance behind him. "My fuckin' hero," he rumbles, and peers around Daken at the collapsed third man. "You didn't kill him, did you? I like this gym." The man in the suit's hands go up and the cigar falls from his mouth. "Fuck you." he growls. Though one can't be certain if it's because of the threat, or because his Cuban fell into a puddle. "We'll be paying you a visit soon. Even if you kill us here." Trib snorts, rolling his eyes. "Fuckin' moron. That don't even make no sense." He jerks his head sideways at Daken. "Wasn't you even fuckin' hearin' the man? He /wants/ a fuckin' visit." He shakes his head as he steps back, his hair making a metallic sound as he looks at Daken. "Fisk's always been big on bein' loyal over fuckin' bein' smart." "He just won't have as many teeth as he did before." Daken comforts Trib, the gun in his hand flipping over to smash firmly into the side of his hostage's head, who drops like a sack of potatoes. Then he's advancing on mister suit, pressing the barrel firmly under his chin. "I /really/ don't like being threatened. Now I suggest you run. You go tell your boss what I said. Be sure to tell him Daken suggests talking soon. Oh, and I've got your scent. Go ahead and try smething funny." A glare is shot Trib's way before the goon breaks free and moves to wake his companions. Apparently the gun trained on them is all it takes to stop any funny business. It doesn't take them long to disappear around the corner once everyone's senses have been regained. Daken waits a moment before disposing of the gun in a nearby dumpster. "Idiots." he says more to himself with a slight shake of his head. "And people think I'm all talk and dick waving." This is directed towards Trib, as well as the grin he flashes. Trib frowns at the two unconscious bodies, ignoring Daken as he threatens Suit Guy. When the trio flees, he narrows his eyes, and huffs a breath. "Fisk's goin' to lose his shit," he predicts. "Sayin' no is one thing, but roughin' his boys...." he lifts a shoulder. "That don't tend to end well." He rolls his head on his neck, and lets the metal drain from his skin -- it literally looks like it flows up into the sleeves of his shirt and disappears. Daken's grin gets a lift of one side of the boxer's mouth, and he moves forward slowly -- as if his feet were leaden. "How'd you even know they was waitin' for me?" "I tailed them here. Figured this is where they were going a block from here, so I made my way to the fire escape. And let him raise hell, I'll cut his fingers off. I just want the money him and the Syndicate cheated me out of." Daken grunts, rolling his shoulders. "That way I can open a vape shop out in the lower east side, and go ahead and get an apartment. Less traveling to visit Anette that way." "He's got some fat fingers," Trib rumbles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "An' good lawyers. You ain't goin' to see a dime of no money." He doesn't sound particularly gloomy about that fact; he's just telling it like it is. Daken's plan gets a small huff of breath, and a roll of massive shoulders. "Sounds like a good plan," he says. "If boxin' don't work out, I might do somethin' like that. Who's Anette? Your girl?" "Just a casual thing now. Though apparently we have a kid five years from now, hope that shit changes. Don't want a kid in that kind of future. Lives out in Clinton, apartment building smells like shit, and most of the stuff is run down. But they don't ask questions." Daken tugs a vaporizer from his pocket and clicks the button five times, causing a small screen at the bottom to light up and read 'Kanger', apparently the box mod he always carries with him his dead. "Though I'll likely have to get a new identity made up for that. All the paperwork and bullshit to wade through. Probably be easier to find a place that's hiring." He brings the thing up and takes a long drag from it, exhaling a literal cloud of vapor. "If it's casual, how do you have a kid in the future?" Trib wonders, looking around the alley. "How do you even know that kind of shit? Healin' is your bag, ain't it?" The boxer's brow lowers into a furrow as he considers that, and the information about Anette's housing. "Sounds like my buildin'," he rumbles. "Even in the same neighborhood." Which is all he offers on that, and he wrinkles his nose at Daken's predicament. "More likely to get hired as a bouncer," he proclaims. "Money's good doin' that, though, in the right place." "Probably is, thought I smelled you when I went in." Daken clicks the device five more times before slipping it back into the pocket of his jeans. "Thinking of applying at that clinic. And, a lot of us have been having future dreams. Thought it might have just been me, but I've heard the same story from a lot of other people. And Anette punched me in the mouth when I went to see her, she was mad that we hadn't kept things casual." "Smelled me." Trib says this flatly, one eye narrowing as he tries to assess what that means. His lips purse, and there's a question that hangs between the two men for a long moment. Then Trib blinks. "Okay." The mention of the clinic gets a snort, and the boxer begins to move down the alley. "Man, /fuck/ that clinic an' its security. Go get you a fuckin' /real/ job, away from judgemental fucks." The mention of the dreams pauses him briefly, and he huhs softly. "I had a couple of dreams a while back," he says. "But I ain't had any like 'em since." The statement about Anette's reaction gets a bark of laughter. "Oh! /Anette/. You fuckin' mean Hooty." He grins. "She's good folks." "That'd be her. Fun as fuck, she was with me in the Bronx. Tried to mug us, got shot twice. Me, not her. Kidneys and through the heart." Daken flashes an easy grin, before reaching up to tap his nose. "Got a hell of a nose, know your scent. Must have been in the elevator not too long before I headed up to her room. And the clinic's an easy paycheck. Where else are they going to find somebody that can get shot, blown up, burnt, or beat with a bat that can get right back up and run the fuckers that did it off? Oh, and speaking of work, you decide on if you want those self defense lessons? Now that you've really seen me in action and all." Trib listens to all of this with little to no expression on his face. There's a small twitch of his eyebrows when Daken states he knows his scent, but he doesn't interrupt the man's flow. When Daken finally pauses for breath, the boxer shakes his head slowly. "Damn, you're chatty," he grunts, annd motions for the other man to follow him to the street. "I got an idea in mind for you," he says. "I got a casual thing of my own who needs to learn how to fuckin' defend himself. He's a scrawny little thing, but he can't work out with no one, usually. But you could probably handle it." He turns his head to speak over his shoulder. "Don't mess him up, though. I like his face." "Yeah, I've been told that once or twice. I personally like the sound of my own voice." Daken chuckles a bit, following Trib out. "Casual thing got a name? And why can't he work out with others, personal issue, or a downside to a mutation?" "It ain't bad," Trib allows, of Daken's voice. "There's just a lot of it." He presses his lips together smugly in an almost smile. "He's got a name, but he can tell it to you when I introduce you," he answers the question, and waves a hand at his body. "He sweats bleach or somethin'...it fuckin' burns when you touch it, anyway, an' turns shit white. But he can't learn to fight, on account no one can stand gettin' their sweat on 'em." "Anette calls him Clorox, and he hates the shit out of her." Daken supplies. "I heal fast enough that shouldn't be an issue, haven't actually met him yet though. I'll teach him to use that mutation to his advantage, and how to not get hit in the face. Figure it should only take a month or two for his first reaction when somebody pulls a gun on him is to spit in their face and take it from them, rather than piss his pants." Trib chuffs a laugh. "That's him," he agrees. "An' good luck with teachin' him. He's got this weird thing about violence. Won't even watch good movies 'cause of it." He lifts a corner of his mouth, showing a bit of teeth in his grin. "You cure him of that, an' I'll fuckin' owe you big time." "That's either a good sign, or a really bad one." Daken replies with a slight shrug. "Hopefully he's willing to give it a shot." Trib rolls his shoulders. "Hopefully," he says, bobbing his head. Out on the street, he looks up and down, eyes tracking any movement that might be vengeful goons making their move. Finding nothing to worry about, he jerks a thumb at the entrance to the subway station. "You headin't to Hooty's? I know a great take-out place on the way." "I should go that way, yeah. Hopefully she's there and not out in the Lower East Side tonight." Daken dips his head slightly. "Haven't showed up to her door with food yet." Trib rolls his eyes. "Jesus," he grunts, leading the way. "You gotta spring for dinner once in a while. Otherwise, you're just an asshole." "I took her to the zoo and out for drinks before we got mugged." Daken replies, raising his hands defensively. "Charmer." Trib doesn't sound all that impressed. "Nothin' like booze an' the smell of elephant shit to set the mood." "She's not my girlfriend. I'd have taken her to a much nicer place if she hadn't of punched me in the face for getting her pregnant in a future that might not have even happened." Daken points out. "What place are we stopping by?" "Not your girlfriend, but you're going to have a kid," Trib points out mildly as he drops tokens into the turnstile and pushes through. "Personally, I'd have decked you for takin' me to the fuckin' zoo." He snorts, and lifts his eyebrows in answer to the question. "You don't fuckin' trust me?" "We weren't in a relationship when it happened, the casual thing was broken when she found me in Canada after it happened and we both use the 'L' word." Daken drops his tokens in and moves through. "I just like to know what I'm getting into is all." Trib snorts. "You're safe enough," he assures the other man, leaning against a pillar. "I ain't takin' you no place you won't fit in." "I fit in everywhere, except for meetings with the Friends of Humanity." Daken assures Trib. Trib smirks, standing up as the train pulls in. "I just bet."