ArchivedLogs:Slightly Derailed

Slightly Derailed
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Trib
In Absentia	2014-02-02 Part of Morpheus TP
Location <NYC> Central Park North
Central Park North is slightly quieter than its southern counterpart, being further uptown and slightly out of the bustle of the City - insofar as one can escape the bustle of the City even here, in the acres of green and blue that make up Central Park. The reservoir is in the northern half, providing miles of jogging and biking trails along the clear water, as well as benches for people to sit and rest. Trib woke up in Hell. That's the only explanation for it. The boxer went to sleep last night and sometime during the night, the world outside his window descended into some Disney-colored nightmare. Worse, it didn't stop at just /looking/ crazy. As soon as he stepped outside, his own clothes joined in this torture. Which explains the neon-pink hoodie he sports over an equally neon (and glittery) blue henley shirt. His jeans are a wicked tie-dye /mess/ of orange and cream, breaking nicely on his bright red hiking boots with sparkly rubber soles. Even the ten-gallon hat pushed back on his head sports a garish-looking pastel green, the hat band a Navajo pattern in robin-blue and yellow. The big man doesn't look terribly pleased about it as he nears the spot he'd agreed upon with Lucien over the phone a few days prior. He looks down right /annoyed/ at the whole idea of it; a grim sort of expression on his face as he watched technicolored pigeons scrabble for equally-confettied popcorn being thrown out by an elderly woman in her own day-glo nightmare that extends to the pink that's replaced the bluing in her hair. Which deserves to be documented, so Trib fishes out his phone and snaps a few pictures. Not all tourist-like. More like someone photographing a crime scene. At one point in time, Lucien's clothing was probably respectable. In style it looks respectable, crisp neat-tailored peacoat worn open over crisp neat-tailored button down, Ferragamo loafers, chinos. But the chinos have a distinctly metallic sheen to them that glitters pink in the sunlight, the loafers sparkly orange, his peacoat a vivid shade of aquamarine shot through with glittering strands of ruby. The shirt beneath it, at least, is just a deep deep purple. His expression is mostly resigned. His hands have folded behind his back. "Trib." Also resigned. He is looking very much at the man, and not at -- anything else /around/ them. Perhaps he's pretending the world does not /exist/. To say Trib sees Lucien coming along the walk is an easy joke to make. But the boxer does precisely that, spotting the other man as he's slipping his -argh- purple phone into his pocket. He doesn't look any /happier/ that Lucien has shared the fate of the rest of the city, but there's a tiny crinkle at the corner of one eye that's in tandem with the small twitch of the corner of his mouth. "Lucien," he says in response, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders slightly as he matches that focused attention. "So this fuckin' happened." "I know a boy who once graffitid my wall." Lucien says this with a good deal of distaste as he comes to stop in front of Trib. "In, strikingly, this /exact/ artistic style. I admit I took him to task somewhat severely over the wall mural. It seems not to have taken if now --" His hands tip up. Spread outward, gesturing around -- the entire city. His expression is /longsuffering/. Trib snorts at the story, and his eyes /do/ crinkle noticeably, albeit in a hard sort of humor. "Looks like you're gonna have to apply a more fuckin' forceful approach," he notes in a dry rumble. "'Cause this shit is ridiculous. Looks like Pixar took a fuckin' dump all over New York." He reaches up to pull off his hat, and glances up at it before he re-settles it. "I look like a fuckin' thrift store pimp," he grumbles, and looks at Lucien again with a deeper furrow of his brow. "How'd he even fuckin' manage taggin' the whole city an' us, too? He some kind of fuckin' super-mutant or somethin'?" "No. Well, /yes/, certainly his powers are quite strong. Just not -- in this way. I don't believe he actually did this. I mean to say -- this is most assuredly his style of art. But his mutation is not capable of this. He tagged my wall the normal way, with spray paint. But this --" Lucien shakes his head, exhaling heavily. "Strange things have been happening lately. Dreams that --" For a moment he sounds a little distant. Looks a little distant. "This seems like it could well be something out of his /mind/. But not something out of his /abilities/." His lips press together. "Forgive me. I came to talk work, didn't I? All this is somewhat derailing. It has been." There's something that crinkles slightly at the corners of Lucien's eyes, tugs faintly at the corners of his lips. "A week." Trib nods as Lucien explains, glancing back as the technicolor pigeons take flight to find another patsy tossing popcorn. When Lucien mentions strange things and dreams, he looks back with an intent expression. "Wait. What was you sayin' about dreams?" he says, tipping his head. "'Cause strange things have been happenin' to me, too. Well, maybe not /strange/," he amends, curling his upper lip a bit. "But they ain't fuckin' easily explained, neither." His mouth twitches as if he might offer more, but he presses his lips into a thin line, and nods at Lucien's apology. "It's been a week an' a /half/," he agrees, and fishes in his pocket. "I got details on a amateur card I fuckin' signed on for, though. 'Sin two weeks." "This whole world feels rather dreamlike, non?" Lucien's brows raise, fingers fluttering out towards the colourful scenery around them. "Both myself and friends, though, have experienced dreams that seem to -- linger. Take shape. Items from them manifesting even after waking." He shakes his head. "It sounds bizarre but has happened again and again and judging by the Hug Bank or the current state of this world it is not just us. Or perhaps is just us, if the entirety of New York has been repainted according to Jackson Holland-Zedner's overdeveloped sense of whimsy." His lips thin at this idea, though it's with a small breath of laughter. He glances towards Trib's pocket at the fishing. "Mmm?" A curious hum of noise, hand tipping upward in silent request for more information. "Two weeks? The agent I spoke with -- I will contact him. Make sure he will be there. Fight well, then, I suppose." "It don' sound bizarre," Trib says, wrinkling his nose and reaching up to remove his hat. He holds it out with a disapproving look for the green felt. "That's how I fuckin' got this hat. I dreamed I was fightin' a guy wearin' one just like it, an' when I woke up it was hangin' on my bedroom door like I'd hung up before bed. It ain't the kind of thing I normally wear, but this kind of fuckin' reminds me of my pa, an'...." He trails off as the name pushes into his realization, and he blinks at Lucien. "That Holland guy," he echoes. "This is his fuckin'...whatayallit. Art style?" Now the colors and things get a longer, less grumpy and more studious sort of look. "Huh." The remarks about the agent gets him back on track, and he fishes back in his pocket, eventually coming up with a slightly crumpled business card with a date and address, along with a time. "Thanks," he grunts at the well-wishes, eyes crinkling. "Should go pretty good. My opponent's a fuckin' mook." Handing over the card, he nods at it. "If you let me know who-all's comin', I can get 'em to comp the seats," he promises with a confident nod. "They like to sit agents an' shit ringside, so they'll be fuckin' nice seats." His grin is a bit toothy and sly as he closes one eye. "You'll be all up close an' personal-like." "It is. In normal times," Lucien's lips twitch slightly, "whatever that word means around here anymore, if you keep your eyes peeled you can spot his graffiti sprinkled away throughout Manhattan here or there. But he was actually rather well-respected throughout the art world well before he made a name for himself with -- the rest of everything. Notably," he says, /dryly/, "for his energy and use of color." He takes the card, glancing over it and pulling out a phone (that glitters in orange, dotted with purple and green stars.) He swipes it on, adding the information to his calendar and sending an invite to the agent in question. Already opening up his email to send the requisite emails -- to /Trib/, to the other man. "Will do," he promises. As he is -- doing so. "Hopefully by then I will be able to dress in clothing that does not /glitter/." "I don't think there's ever gonna be 'normal' again," Trib notes with a squinch of his eyelids. "Just less fuckin' weird. An' I guess, as far as shit goes, I'd rather look like a fuckin' Disney film than have zombies beatin' down my goddamned door." He nods at the information on Jax, but he's clearly not an appreciator of art or its vocabulary. "I only met him once," he says. "I know his husband, though. An' his kids." There's a darkening of his expression as he admits that last, and he hunches his shoulders as he jams his hat back on his head. His expression lightens with the briefest wash of gratitude when Lucien promises to let him know, and he bounces lightly on the toes of his feet. Lucien's hope gets a huff of laughter, and the boxer shakes his head. "Yeah, it might not be the best fuckin' idea. Least not at that level. When I go high-dollar, you can come an' sparkle all you want." "Do you? Small world. His boys are quite close with my sister." Something shutters in Lucien's expression as he admits this. Softer: "Good boys. Been through -- too much." He shakes his head, quickly. "Good family." The tone he says this in sounds like he might well follow it up with the same addendum. But he doesn't. Just a small curl of smile. "These shoes are normally brown," he admits wistfully. "And this coat is charcoal. I have on most days quite an appreciation for art, but, mmm. All things in its /place/. I /intend/ to look like a human being when I come to your match. Not like a painting." "Deserve better'n most of what they've gotten, from what I've seen," Trib says, his mouth pulling tightly to one side. "This /town's/ pretty fuckin' small for havin' seven million people in it." He shoves his hands back in his pockets, and bobs his head at Lucien's comments on his clothing. "I don't know as I've ever seen you in street clothes," he rumbles, crinkling his eyes at the other man. "Though you do paint a pretty picture in your workout togs." He looks around, and tips his head down the path. "You want a cup of fuckin' technicolored coffee?" he says. "There's a cart just up the way. My treat." "Many people do. And New York is a small town all dressed up." Lucien's lips curl up into an amused smile. "My street clothes are not generally /quite/ this, ah. Flamboyant, I assure you." His head tilts slightly to one side. "I have not had a cup of coffee in years. But I could go for a hot dog or a soda, if that is on the table as well." Trib chuffs a soft laugh, and lifts a shoulder. "Maybe not /flamboyant/," he rumbles. "But they're obviously fuckin' nice. Not that cheap shit them trashy hustlers wear." Which /almost/ could be a compliment. "'Sall fitted, an' suits you." Okay, so maybe it /was/ a compliment. He nods, stepping to one side to allow Lucien to pull in alongside him as he begins heading down the path. "Hot dog an' a soda actually sound pretty good," he says. "I know a guy a bit further up who's got the best." He grins. "An' you can give me the skinny on your agent friend, so I can schmooze him proper when we meet." He waggles the fingers of his left hand in the air. "An' by 'schmooze', I mean suck up like no one's fuckin' business." This actually earns a laugh outright. "Schmooze. Oh, if there is one thing I am good at," now Lucien's tone is definitely wry, soft amusement buried in it as he brushes fingers down his trim and /excellently/ fitted peacoat. "-- well. The most important part of selling yourself is /selling/ yourself, after all." He falls into place alongside Trib, fingers resting absent-light against the small of the other man's back as he heads down the path.