ArchivedLogs:The Company We Keep

The Company We Keep
Dramatis Personae Billy, Trib
In Absentia	2014-07-04 '
Location <NYC> Midtown East
A dense, skyscraper packed neighborhood, Midtown is the busiest commercial district in the United States, and one of the busiest pieces of land in the world. Day and night, Midtown is filled with people going to and from work, enjoying the nightlife, and walking quickly through the streets. Very few live in Midtown proper - only the most wealthy and work-obsessed - but many who live in and around the City work here. In many ways, Midtown is the heart that beats in the city that never sleeps. It's a couple hours after the end of the work day, and while Midtown isn't /deserted/, the clench of rush-hour madness has relaxed to something less frenzied. The sidewalks are much more navigable for those working late or heading to the library. Or just going about their evening business. It's hard to tell which category Trib falls in to. He's dressed pretty much as he usually is, although he's shunned a t-shirt for a loose-fitting tank-top in a mustardy yellow over his jeans. The big man might be coming from work, since he's lingering at the base of the steps leading to the doors of Heroes for Hire, leaning lazily against the banister as he taps slowly at the screen of his phone. Every now and then, he glances at the door to the office, as if he's waiting for someone to come out. Is it the end of the work day? In Billy’s world, that concept is still something of an enigma. As thunder rumbles overhead and a light sprinkle begins, Billy drifts past. Clutching his umbrella higher over his head with his good hand, it might appear as though he was prepared but, in truth, he’d been carrying it all day to block the sun. He wears a pair of thin, linen pants and a high collared tunic - neither of which was made to get wet, going partially see-through where they’re hit by droplets of rain. Day-dreaming, he doesn’t notice Trib, or much at all. Trib seems unbothered by the rain, tipping his head back to let the water wash over his face. But it's no good for phones, so he tucks that away, glancing at the street as he shoves it into a back pocket. Spotting a familiar figure going past, he pauses, blinking a couple of times before he turns his head and raises his voice to drawl a greeting. "Billy-boy. Where you headin', dressed in them jammies?" Billy turns, blinking out of his mental fog. He looks down at himself and back over to Trib, trying to subdue a smile, "I don't wear jammies." He answers matter-of-factly, raising his eyebrows high over the frames of his glasses. Held close to his chest in a sling, of course, is his little broken wing. He tightens his grip on the umbrella as a gust of wind tries to force it away. White knuckled, he maintains his hold and almost gets blown away with it in the process. "Really?" Trib seems surprised by this information, although he has a lazy half-smile for Billy's subdued one. His expression falters a bit when his eyes slide down to the sling, and he wrinkles his nose lightly. "Shit. That from the other day?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrows. "They wouldn't tell me nothin' about how you was doin'." He steps forward when Billy struggles with the umbrella, reaching out to help stabilize it and bending a bit to peer under it at the smaller man. "I wasn't tryin' to get no one hurt," he says, and it almost sounds like an apology. "That fucker just started firin' away, an' I just reacted." His mouth twitches, and the next two words are ground out from somewhere deep in his chest. "I'm sorry." Billy’s eyes swell up, but he does his best to subdue that as well. Pressing his lips together, he half-shakes his head, half-nods, “I kindof just figured you took off.” He tries to sound casual, but there is a sting to his tone. “I-uh, thank you for bringing me to the clinic.” It’s just about all he can get out. Truth be told, a moment ago he hadn’t really been thinking of the events. Now, it all comes rushing back. Trib frowns, his brow furrowing deeply at this unexpected reaction from the smaller man. "Hey, you ain't got to cry about it," he says, shaking his head. "That Jackson guy at the Clinic made it real fuckin' plain that I wasn't fuckin' welcome, so I beat feet." He lifts a shoulder, and leans in a bit. "I didn't want to go. You looked fuckin' bad." He inhales through his nose, and pulls back. "I talked to the cops," he says, and it's clear from his tone that this is Something Important. "They try an' talk to you after? They said they was gonna." There is a tick of Billy's eyes, as if registering some clue at Trib's mention of Jackson's behavoir. It distracts him from getting hysterical, "Yes. I lied to them and said I didn't remember much." He draws his teeth over his bottom lip, "It was scary. I've uh, I've never had to talk to a police officer before." Trib misses that tick of Billy's eyes, grunting an approving noise at Billy's confession. "You don't got to lie for me," he assures the other man. "I mean, I fuckin' appreciate it an' all, but lyin' to the cops is a bad plan from the get-go. Them dirty fuckers are mean as shit, if you get 'em riled." His mouth tightens at the thought of police being scary, and he snorts. "You ain't got no idea how scary they can be. Believe me." He gives Billy an appraising look. "They didn't talk no shit to you, did they? Sometimes, they get real mouthy with mutants." Billy blinks innocently, almost seeming surprised. "No. They were very respectful." Had they gotten mouthy with Trib? He doesn't ask, suddenly finding himself appraising Trib. He gulps, faltering only when another gust of wind comes and he finds himself struggling with the umbrella again. "Good," Trib rumbles, his eyes narrowing. When the wind picks up again, he reaches out to grab the cane of the umbrella and steady it. This required him to duck his shaggy head under the umbrella, and he stares at Billy with his intense amber gaze. "Scary enough, without cops hasslin' you about shit you wasn't responsible for." He exhales in a chuff of air, and glances down the street. "You headin' somewhere important?" Billy's eyes are a too pale blue-green, showing every bit of nervousness at the close proximity. In the umbrella's pocket of air, the city smells of trash and grime are gone. "Just home," he answers, "I do all my work at coffeeshops but I'm uhm, done." His own awkward grip on the umbrella loosens. "Where were you going?" The blonde asks, after a moment of coping silence. "I was goin' to get some dinner," Trib says, his eyes flicking over Billy's face for a moment before he's withdrawing from the shelter of the umbrella. "I was just hangin' around until Janice locked up." He motions at the door to Heroes for Hire, which opens at that exact moment to emit a matronly woman with a very no-nonsense air about her. Trib lifts a hand in her direction, and she nods as she turns to lock the door behind her. A moment later, she's coming down the steps, tying a scarf over her hair and offering a small lift of her eyebrows at the sight of BIlly. "Good night, Retribution," she says as she heads off down the street. Trib lifts a hand after her, and actually has a /smile/ for the older woman. "Night, Janice. Be fuckin' careful, yeah?" He grunts a laugh at the tsking noise that gets from her, and turns back to Billy, lifting his eyebrows. "She's a good old broad. She don't put up with none of Cage's shit." "I uhm-" Billy panics at Trib's retreat, afraid of having offended him. He still wears a worried expression, even if the tough guy's interaction with the old crone is pretty sweet. "What is uhm, Retribution?" Billy tilts his head, lifting up onto the balls of his feet to hold the umbrella up for Trib, "Is that like, your code name?" Trib doesn't seem terribly offended, even shoving his hands into his pockets and watching the smaller man. "Retribution is my full name," he says, wrinkling his nose a bit. "Retribution Jones. If you follow the amateur boxin' cards, you might recognize the name." He gives Billy a brief, frank sort of look. "Which I'm guessin' you don't." He furrows his brow a bit, and thinks. "Don't know as I have a /code/ name," he says. "In the cages, they called me The Matter Master, but that was some stupid showmanship bullshit." He purses his lips, and hunches his shoulders. "So, you wanna come an' get dinner with me?" Billy looks terrified of the very idea, "Oh! Sure!" He forces up a timid smile, composing himself, "Actually, I've been told I have a really good punching form. .../Matter Master/." "Where uhm, were you thinking of going?" Because Billy isn't the most finicky eater on Earth, or anything. Trib frowns at Billy's expression, and his lower jaw shift forward just the tiniest bit. "You ain't got to go, if you don't want to." The reminder of his cage name causes the boxer's expression to darken, and he inhales deeply. "Make you a deal," he grunts. "You can call me whatever you want, as long as it ain't /that/." He shakes his head, falling silent for a long, thoughtful moment. The question brings him around, and he rolls a massive shoulder. "I was thinkin' Indian," he says. "There's this great place that's mutant-friendly. But I ain't goin' to force you, if you don't want to go." "No, I'll- I want to go," Billy nods to himself, if not Trib. The fighter's reaction doesn't really help with his anxiety, but at least he knows he can eat most Indian food. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up bad memories," he offers sincerely, pausing, "Does 'Rocky' hold any particularly bad sentiment?" Billy's confirmation that he does, indeed, want to go does a remarkable job of lightening the boxer's expression, and Trib's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Good," he rumbles, and waves off the apologies. "Don't sweat it," he says, taking hold of the umbrella so Billy can take some of the pressure off his feet. "It was a fuckin' year ago, an' it's all fuckin' over now. I just...that name fuckin' /sucks/, y'know?" He makes a face, and reaches up with his half-hand to push his hair out of his eyes. Eyes that light up when Billy mentions the alternate nickname. "Oh, /fuck/ no," he says, showing actual teeth in his grin. "That movie is my fuckin' jam, dude. I watch it at least once a fuckin' week." Billy giggles, "I've never even seen it," he mumbles. He can't help but catch Trib's grin, and smile brightly, himself. Walking slightly off-kilter as he adjusts his sling, the blond bumps his shoulder into Trib under the umbrella, "Wait. You don't box, anymore at all?" Trib puts a hand against his chest at Billy's admission, and he grunts a pained noise. "/That/ is fuckin' /wrong/, dude," he grunts, and narrows one eye at the blonde. "We're goin' to have to fix that ASAP." Shoulder-bumping him is sort of like bumping into a warm, solid wall. He doesn't move, although there's a soft exhalation that /might/ have been driven from his lungs. Probably not, though. "I still box," he says. "I've got an actual manager an' cut man an' everything. You should come an' see me in the ring sometime." He dances a bit, swinging his left hand lightly. "I'm fuckin' poetry." "I do like poetry," Billy sage nods, eyes twinkling at Trib's enthusiasm. He brings up his arm to shield himself from rain that gets in under the umbrella as a result. "What's a cut man? What is uh, 'Heroes for Hire'?" He thumbs back behind them. Trib grunts a laugh at Billy's response, and rolls his shoulders before adjusting the umbrella to shield Billy better. "A cut man is the guy that patches you up durin' a fight," he says. "Sometimes, your face gets cut up, or you need to have a bruise cut so the swellin' will come down...you got to have a guy for that. They don't let managers do it no more, so I found a doc who'll do it." He sounds proud of this fact. Like he's accomplished a big feat. He glances over his shoulder back at the office, and wrinkles his nose. "It's kind of a 'whatever the fuck' business," he admits. "My boss is a detective, but now he's all fuckin' non-profit, an' we do bodyguardin' an' shit, so I don't know." He considers that for a long moment as he veers them towards the subway station. "I guess you could say we're in Mutant Services or some shit. 'Cause that's who we help most." He snorts, and looks down at Billy. "Why? You lookin' for a job?" Billy wrinkles his nose, smirking, "Nope! Trust me, you wouldn't want me anywhere near an open cut. ...You're telling me that you have a doctor that goes with you to boxing matches and patches you up? A /legitimate/ doctor?" He sounds skeptical, either of Trib or actual doctor, "Does he patch up like, everyone there or?" Trib grins, and shakes his head. "Yeah, you chewed up my shirt an' jeans pretty good the other day," he rumbles, crinkling his eyes. "You'd probably be hell on an open wound." He puffs out his chest at Billy's skepticism, and nods vigorously. "Fuck yeah, I do,' he says. "He needed the work, so I snapped him up." He rolls his shoulder at the second question, frowning mildly. "I guess he's got to, if they need it," he says with a small, troubled pop of his eyebrows. "Ain't that in the Hippopotamus oath or some shit? 'Bout helpin' people who're hurt?" Billy giggles even more, grinning ear-to-ear, "Yeah. The Hippopotamus oath." He bites down to stop from laughing *too* much. "Hippocratic." "...Hippopotamuses are actually historically too violent and aggressive to go into the medical field. Hippopotami?" "Hippcratic," Trib repeats, sounding the word out carefully. "That's it. The one that says they have to help people who need it?" He nods, and wrinkles his nose. "I bet hippos would be terrible at medicine," he says. "I bet they couldn't even get into the right fuckin' medical schools." "When I was a kid, I did this whole huge report on hippos," Billy muses, "I was obsessed. I did a whole presentation to-well, to my mom." He laughs, hunching in more against the rain as it picks up a bit, "I know way too much about those things, now." "I don't know that I was obsessed with anything 'cept beatin' up other kids," Trib rumbles, smirking a bit. "'Course, it was somethin' I was good at." He lifts his shoulders mildly, and adjusts the umbrella when Billy hunches closer. "My granddad is the one that decided I should do it in the ring." Luckily, the subway station will take them out of the rain, and he leads them down the stairs to the platforms waiting below. "I don't know if you can know too much about somethin'," he says, pursing his lips. "Maybe about stuff like what goes into hot dogs an' sausage, but other stuff not so much." Billy considers Trib thoughtfully as he clops down the subway entrance's stairs, "That was kind of profound." Underground, he breaks off to walk ahead a few strides, his footsteps echoing through the desolate tunnel. It's disgusting, but at least cooler and drier than it is up above. "That's me," Trib calls after Billy, reaching into his shirt to scratch at his chest idly. "I'm a regular fuckin' philosophizer." He seems amused by this admission, even as he digs in his pocket for some tokens. "People call me fucking Sock Monkey, on account I'm always philosophizin'," Billy reaches into his own pocket for his metrocard, but he's not left handed so it's an awkward, impossible process. He laughs, either thinking the miss-speech is on purpose or cute enough not to correct like he does with everything else. Suddenly, Trib is at Billy's elbow, watching him with a mild expression as he struggles. "Need a hand?" "I," Billy falters, not expecting him there, "I'm not left-handed." And by the looks of it, not even a little ambidextrous. Or even just dextrous. Flustered, he seems to grow a little more pale. Trib grunts, nodding sharply. "Which pocket is your wallet in?" he asks, tipping his head and looking frankly at Billy's pants. "I don't have one," Billy's eyes widen, "I just have my metrocard and debit in-" He clears his throat, mouth suddenly going very dry, "-m-my front pocket." He hesitates a smile, shaking his head. He reaches around his injured arm, having put everyone on his right side like he normally would without thinking. He tries again and enters into the struggle, perhaps dreading the humiliation of having Trib do it. Trib nods, ignoring the sudden trembliness from Billy and pursing his lips as if weighing his options. "Okay," he grunts finally. "Brace yourself, Billy-boy," And, with that, he's reaching INTO Billy's pocket in a business-like fashion, thick fingers swooping in and closing around the plastic cards there, extracting them quickly. "Don't worry," he rumbles as he holds them up for the other man. "Even though I got to third base, I'll still buy you dinner." “Thanks,” Billy snorts, smirking as he snatches the cards. He forces up some confidence, but not enough to hide his bashfulness at the entire thing. “I didn’t realize you were buying.” He moves forward swiping through before carefully tucking his cards away in the /left/ pocket. “Oh, the train’s here!” He turns back, “Hurry up!” "'Course I'm fuckin' buyin'," Trib snorts, fishing out his tokens and dropping them in the coin box as he pushes through the turnstile. "I'm the one that invited you, ain't I?" He wrinkles his nose as Billy urges him to hurry, and lengthens his stride without increasing his speed. "Yeah, yeah," he rumbles, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Hold your water; I'm comin'." And he is. By the time the train's stopped, he's at Billy's side again. "I hope you like it hot an' spicy." Billy lets Trib take the lead as they enter the subway car, eyes cast away from even the slightest eye contact he could make with anyone on the train. "I do," he turns up his chin proudly, as if that makes up for the lot of his general cowardice, "Hmf." Trib grins at Billy's reaction, and shakes his head. He /does/ stare at their reflection for a long moment before snorting softly and bumping Billy gently with his elbow. "You're okay, Billy-boy."