Logs:Friends in Low Places

Friends in Low Places
Dramatis Personae Skye, Murphy
In Absentia	2020-05-25 //"As if I'd ever trust a library enough to use my own card."//
Location <NYC> The Bazaar - Flushing
This was once a Flushing office building that rented to startups, rapid growth industries, and fly-by-night operations who don't want any questions asked. After a change of ownership and abandoned plans to convert it into luxury condos, it has lain largely empty, and as of late the local community has reclaimed the space to convert it into an immense indoor marketplace. The lobbies are packed with food vendors and the hallways lined with kiosks selling a dizzying variety of goods, flea-market fashion. Various offices are given over to groups of merchants selling similar wares: one dedicated to books, another to computer components, and a rather popular one selling (perfectly legal) weapons...at least during the day. Rumor has it that the Bazaar's night market is becoming the go-to place for trade in illicit goods. But night or day, the place is bustling with activity, noisy and raucous commerce in many languages (though predominantly Mandarin and Spanish). Chances are, you can find anything your heart desires here...if you're willing to pay the price. It's a gorgeous day, and plenty of New Yorkers are out enjoying spring. Skye is not out taking in the weather, though she is sitting in the largest food court in the Bazaar under a massive skylights, so that's pretty close, right? She's wearing a mini qipao of muted pink and purple lace on black satin, with brighter pink and purple piping, sheer black high-highs, and black knee-high platform boots. Her hair has grown out and hangs loose to mid-back, and every few minutes she reflexively pushes one side or another behind her ears to keep it out of the dumplings she's eating. Even on a day as gorgeous as this one, Murphy Law looks like he's getting rained on. There's just a perpetual *gloom* that surrounds him; he's got an expression of a man who's just taken his first bite into a foot-long shit-sandwich and realized there's no turning back. He's going to have to chew and *swallow* that turd. He's dressed for warm weather, at least. Dark indigo shirt (untucked), gray slacks (unironed), gray business jacket (unbuttoned). The clothes could have made him look sharp, but so little regard has been put into properly wearing them that they're more symbolic gesticulations at the *idea* of wearing clothes than clothes themselves. Both hands are in his pockets as he approaches Skye from behind; he keeps his distance for just a moment, checking that the coast is clear. And then... he drops down into the seat across from hers with all the grace and dignity of an anvil dropping into a pile of kittens. "First off, lemme say -- me finding you? Don't take it as a dig on yourself. Because you sure as hell didn't make it easy, lady. As far as I can tell, only mistake you made was buyin' that van from somebody you knew." Murphy's eyes drop to the dumplings -- like he's thinking about snatching one up. Probably tastes better than that turd. "Don't worry. Dunno who you're runnin' from, but I ain't with them. Here to talk to you about your dad." Skye starts at the sudden intrusion on her lunch, and levels her most unimpressed glare at Murphy across the table. She tries to keep it up, but the color drains from her face as he speaks. For all that it's actually "your dad" that finally makes her eyes go wide, and for a moment she looks like she might actually just take off. The moment passes, and her expression returns to a flat, flat stare. "If you don't know who I'm running from," she asks, "how do you know you're not one of them?" Whatever passes for amusement in that long-suffering mind of Murphy's bubbles up to the surface, flashing across his face. He snorts: "Because if I was one of *them*, you'd've been pulled in for some unrelated bullshit charge and this chat would be happenin' inside a cell. Who the fuck is 'them', anyway? Who're you hidin' from? Feds? Family? It ain't your dad, is it? He didn't strike me as the type, but he *did* get all squirrely when I asked about--" Murphy's expression tightens. Eyes briefly widen, then narrow in recognition. He's focused on Skye's face. "-- your mom." Then, just above a whisper: "Shit." Skye has managed to school her expression back to something like unimpressed. "Which 'dad' is this? I seem to have a lot of them!" She raises her eyebrows, though, when Murphy breaks off. "Dude, make up your mind. Is it my dad or my mom?" She glances around quickly, obviously unnerved but fighting hard not to show it. "Alright, who the entire fuck are you, and what's this actually about?" "Fuck." Murphy leans back in his seat. As much as Skye's trying to hide her anxiety, Murphy seems resigned to it; he glances from left to right, as if he expects the MIB and Jason Bourne to show up at any instant. "I'm just some private dick, lady. Calvin Johnson hired me. Told me you're his daughter, asked me to find you, give you his contact info. Told me to be discreet. That you might be in some trouble. Didn't say what kind of trouble." His eyes center on Skye's face. His jaw tightens into a grimace. "And lookin' at you, just now... I just realized I know that face -- and I know what kind of trouble we're talking about." "I'm sure you are," Skye mutters, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "Where do you know my face from?" She starts to reach for the purse in her lap, then freezes. "I'm just gonna get my phone, ok? It's secure as fuck and more important can crank out some white noise." Though she still does not move her hand again without hi say-so "Anyway, how'd some private dick get mixed up in...the kind of trouble you're talking about?" Murphy exhales hard through his nostrils. His movements are slow and deliberate; he places both his hands -- palms down -- atop of the table. Spread wide, so she can see them. "Do what you gotta do," he replies, as she reaches into her purse. "I'm not packing." He waits for the phone to emerge, and for whatever adjustments she needs to make with it to be done. Then: "Got a thing for faces. Names. Memories, that sort of stuff. Met your mother, once, twelve years back. Saw your picture, too. Somethin' to do with -- ah, y'know. Experiments. Mutants." Skye is quick to pluck out her phone, which is a bit on the bulky side in a faintly glittery pink plastic case, and triggers an app shortcut right on her lock screen. White noise pours from its speakers, and she sets it down on the table between them. "Shit..." That's all she says, for a moment. She tries to pick up a dumpling, but then just puts it back down. "You -- you investigating them? How do I know you're not with them?" "Lady, you live out of a van and work part-time as a hooker. If they knew where you were and wanted you gone? They wouldn't send me. They'd just send the police." Murphy's left hand starts to rise from the table: "Don't freak or anything, I'm just goin' for gum. Had to quit smoking." The foil wrapper is plucked carefully out of his front pocket and meticulously unwrapped; it is then crumpled into a tightly wound ball. The stick of gum is jammed into his mouth. Chomp, chomp, chomp. "I ain't investigating them. Like I said, this was just one of those 'estranged-kid' jobs. At least, that's what I thought it was. You know this guy? Calvin Johnson." Skye's mouth pulls to one side. "Alright, point." She does tense when his hand moves, but at the explanation just gives a single jerky nod. "Isn't smoking kind of like a class feature, or something?" Makes a slightly exasperated noise. "Sorry, like -- a professional requirement." She pulls a deep breath. "Yeah, I know him. Motherfucker sold my mom to Prometheus, so you can imagine how much his opinion would be worth to me even if --" She breaks off, her teeth grinding. "Well, I'm not gonna be mending any fences with him is all." Suddenly her eyes widen a touch. "Actually, you know what? Maybe I should." "Yeah, for Private Eyes. We get 'Cigarettes' as a Class Feature at Level 3. At Level 10, lung-cancer with a side of emphysema," Murphy responds. The side of his mouth twitches at the mention of her mother being sold off to Prometheus: "Any chance this ain't legit? Maybe he and his Prometheus pals are usin' me to try and find you." Then, at the mention of 'mending fences'... Murphy's eyebrows lift. "You thinkin' of squeezing him for intel?" Despite the circumstances, Skye almost guffaws. She seems to relax a fraction, as if the ability to make a self-deprecating D&D joke somehow made Murphy just a tiny bit more trustworthy. "I have no idea, honestly. Haven't seen the guy in over a decade, and if he's been with them all this time...that doesn't bode well for his ethics improving." She bites her lower lip, studies Murphy for a beat. "Can't hurt, right? I know how to secure my shit." "That's a big risk, lady. You do know who you're fucking with, here, right?" Murphy finishes crumpling that foil into a tight little ball. He proceeds to flick it toward the nearest trashcan -- just missing it. Clink. "I mean, you contact him, I get paid, so there's that. But if you try pumpin' him for intel...? That's presuming he still works for these fucks. And he finds out -- they find out?" Murphy shrugs. "I mean, you ain't perfect. I found you, and I'm just some fuckhead with a library card and way too much time." Skye eyes the bail of foil as it falls to the floor, and twitching slightly in that direction but finally does not move. "I guess, but --" She doesn't finish the excuse, perhaps having thought better of it. "Well, shit." Her glittery purple fingernails drum restlessly on the lockscreen of her phone, which generates blooms of shifting color in response to the taps. "Just boils my blood he gets to -- fucking torture people for a decade and then expect me to forgive and forget." "Well, I didn't say you shouldn't do it," Murphy continues, apparently completely at ease with the piece of litter that now lies on the food-court floor. "Just, y'know. It'd be dangerous. You gotta think it through a little. Maybe workshop it. Do some research, first." Murphy leans back into the cheap plastic chair. "This ain't the sort of thing you do alone. You need some friends to help -- friends in high and low places." "Shit, I didn't say I'd do it without backup," Skye counters. "Although, I mean...it does feel like poking a hornet's nest. Or a sleeping dog. Or whatever" She rolls her eyes. "Anyway I got friends, but -- I dunno, mostly in kinda medium places. Moderately low places? Definitely no high places, though I guess maybe some who can fake it, when it counts." Her shoulder hitch up, a quick, jerky shrug. "I'll figure it out." Murphy reaches into that front pocket again, fishing something out. It's a business card -- some piece cheap of shit he got printed at Kinko's, probably. He flips it to the backside and produces a pen, scribbling information on the back. Phone number, email, more. "Here's your dad's contact info. Do with it what you want," he tells her, sliding the card toward her. "The other side's got *my* contact info." MURPHY LAW, the card announces. PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. It's even got its own little motto: 'The Guy You Call When Everything That Could Go Wrong... Did.' "In case you need a friend in the *lowest* places." Skye watches him write, tilts her head slightly as he writes. "Alright, thanks." When she picks up the card and reads it her eyes narrow, then flick past it to narrow even further on Murphy. "The kind of circles I run in, I should really know better than to ask, but like..." She waggles the card in the air. "...is that the name on your library card?" "Psh." Murphy's stands up to go -- adjusting his suit. It's a fruitless, futile affair; no amount of straightening in the world is going to reverse the damage this man has done to his own fashion aesthetic. "As if I'd ever trust a library enough to use my own card."