ArchivedLogs:Law and Cats

Law and Cats
Dramatis Personae Trib, Jennifer
In Absentia	2013-06-24 Retribution Jones meets Jennifer Walters.
Location <NYC> Sweat - Greenwich Village
An apropos name; it is hard to escape the smell, when visiting this fitness club. Open twenty-four hours, this facility comes equipped with all the bells and whistles for those who want to train hard. All the standard gym equipment can be found and then some. In addition to private personal trainers, there are group classes in all sorts of things, from bicycling to crossfit to yoga to martial arts to more esoteric fare such as pole dancing and dodgeball. An olympic-sized pool makes this a popular draw, and the sauna rooms by each locker room are nice spots to unwind after a heavy workout. Usually, Jennifer would opt for the gym at Xavier's. Be it the club's more varied and specialised equipment, or the desire to distance herself from the school, the redhead lawyer has decided to purchase a membership here. Right now, however, she is not using any of the varied equipment Sweat boasts, instead, she has chosen a sizeable mat to practice wrestling on. Having asked for a random attendee to spar with her, she is doing just that, at the moment. The fiery haired damsel is dressed in grey sweatpants and a dark purple sports top. It should come as no surprise that her normally disobedient curls are tied off into a ponytail. The man she is sparring against looks to be of Indian origin, with dark skin and short dark locks. His tracksuit pants are black, whereas his loose-fitting shirt is of a dark blue colour. This looks like a friendly sparring session, because both opponents are grinning at each other. The man charges the woman, who in turn assumes a defensive stance. When the two bodies clash, Jennifer is pushed back, but she's crouched to wrap her arms around his torso and his one leg, lifting him off the ground, spinning around and diverting his momentum into a fall onto the mat. He collapses noisily and with a grunt, before expertly rolling away and standing back on two feet, facing Jennifer in a defensive stance. The redhead herself seems deceptively relaxed. There are a couple of curious onlookers already. This is not Trib’s usual gym, either. But it’s a place he’s heard about, and a guest pass is amazingly easy to get. Also, he might have another reason for being here. Since it’s not in his neighborhood. Whatever his secondary reasons, he’s obviously here to work out as well, dressed in loose-fitting grey sweat shorts and a sleeveless black t-shirt that strains under the expanse of his chest. On one shoulder, a loose-hanging gym bag carries things he would otherwise need pockets for. After filling out the requisite paperwork at the front desk, the big man moves into the main area of the gym, golden gaze sweeping the available equipment and the selection of heavy bags that hang along one wall. He pauses to watch someone work one, lips pressing into a tight almost-smile before he moves on, in the direction of the mats and the gathering onlookers. His height is enough that he doesn’t have to stretch or twist to watch the match taking place, and he drops his bag at his feet, squatting momentarily to fish out some athletic tape. Standing, he begins to wrap his right hand and wrist with the tape. It’s clearly something he’s familiar with doing, as his attention is on the redhead and her partner, his amber eyes sharp and observant. Maybe he’s going to call ‘next.’ This time, Jennifer is the one to charge. Without so much as a sound - increasing pace of footsteps notwithstanding - she hops onto the front of her sparring partner, rotates her body sideways and then uses that same momentum to spin around the man, dragging him with her to the floor shortly afterwards. The resounding thud against the mat makes the charge look rather violent and painful, but in this controlled environment, no injuries are fortunately acquired - Jennifer immediately rolls away from him, and he follows right after, with a smug grin even. Without any sort of official attire, Jennifer certainly doesn't look the part of either teacher or lawyer. Her build may not necessarily imply an athletic career, but it's definitely been exposed to regular rigorous exercise, and it shows. Muscles tense and show prominently when the man charges again, and Jennifer pulls a fairly unconventional move - she leans forward, unceremoniously grips her opponent by the pants and pulls diagonally upwards, causing her sparring partner to fall flat on his back with a sharp exhalation, followed by an amused chortle. "That's /low/," he notes, looking up at her from the floor. Jennifer offers but a shrug and a lopsided smirk. "Fair's boring, Ravi," she replies. Her green eyes swerve to the side and to the small audience. Notably, she pays mind to the latest spectator, especially given how keenly he observes the friendly match. "Hey," the redhead exclaims, still wearing that grin of hers, "you want in the ring? We can free it up in a bit." Trib makes a noise of approval at the cheap tactic the redhead uses, and he bobs his head in agreement with her assessment of the dullness of fair play. When she speaks to him, he’s not entirely sure he’s the one being addressed, until a short blonde in yoga attire turns to look in his direction. Then there’s a hike of his eyebrows, and he shakes his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Naw,” he declines amiably, his Jersey accent thick when he elaborates. “I’m not keen on wrestlin’ these days. Got my fill of it. I’m just enjoyin’ the show.” He /does/ shift forward, then, kicking his bag along as he shoulders (not impolitely) past the yoga enthusiast to get closer. His right hand and wrist taped, he switches and begins on the left; a trickier proposition, with less fingers to help. “You got some good moves,” he notes to Jennifer, eyes on his taping, now. “Your friend’s kind of a mess, but you got some real talent goin’.” "/Hey/!" Looks like Ravi is not too happy with Trib's assessment. Jennifer, on the other hand, is merely amused. She offers a bit of a scoff at the compliment; a sort of friendly dismissal. "I'm just an amateur. A very persistent and avid amateur, but an amateur nonetheless," she argues lightheartedly. "It helps me focus and clear the mind. With all that's been happening on the streets lately, I really need it." A glance is sent to Ravi, who - despite not feeling annoyed that the match has been temporarily paused - /does/ look at his opponent somewhat impatiently. Jennifer looks back to her new Indian friend and motions for him to come at her again. "What do you mean by 'getting your fill of it', though? You a professional?" A hand signal is all Ravi needs. This time, rather than charging straight at the woman, he approaches her somewhat more slyly. The redhead does not wait for the serpent to strike, however, instead /bulldozing/ the man, tackling him like a charged spring. Considering her chest is the first thing that connects, that understandably confuses the man, and consequently he goes down like a sack of potatoes, with Jennifer on top. Pushing herself up with both hands, Jen climbs back up to her full weight, curious eyes on Trib again. Her sparring partner continues lying there, shaking his head with amusement and disbelief both. Trib snorts a laugh at the Indian guy’s defensiveness, and he raises his eyes to look at the man. “Prove me wrong, dude,” he says, and drops his eyes back to his taping, raising his arm to brace the tape with his chin as he transitions from palm to wrist. “That’s why I work the heavy bag,” he says to Jennifer. “Get in the zone with that, and it helps me get focused on shit.” His jaw tightens a bit at the mention of the current climate of the city, and he raises a shoulder. Whether it’s in agreement or dismissal is unclear. The question gets a sharp lifting of that golden gaze again, and Trib regards Jennifer for a long moment. Long enough for Ravi to mount his attack and get subsequently creamed. Which gets a deeper look of approval for Jennifer even as he’s quirking a half-grin at Ravi. “I won’t count that against you,” he says. “I haven’t figured out the best defense for that particular strategy, yet.” He lifts his arm again, and tears the tape with his teeth, watching the redhead thoughtfully as he does. “I’m a professional boxer,” he says, then, pushing the end of the tape against his wrist. There’s more tension in his jaw, and his teeth shift against each other audibly. “I did some wrestlin’ for a --” he glances at the other onlookers, a couple of whom have decided to move back to their own workouts, leaving the blonde in the yoga pants the only one standing near enough. “ -- private group. Didn’t care much for it. Boxing’s more my style.” When Ravi decides to stand, Jennifer is there to extend a hand and help him stand. "Boxing? I /love/ boxing," she tells Trib. "Never managed to get into it /properly/, but--" A slap on her opponent's shoulder is offered, although he still gives her a sceptical look, likely because of that last move. The man looks to Trib, then, addressing the need for a strategy. "Filing for divorce, usually." Before Jennifer can continue her sentence, she gets a friendly but firm reprimanding. "That was fun, but I'm gonna quit before I get a kick below the waist." Just as he moves past her and towards the edge of the ring, Jennifer fakes a gasp. "I would /never/." Because of that tone, it's hard to determine with certainty whether or not she's joking. Probably /is/. Hopefully is. Regardless, her full attention is now on Trib, and the redhead approaches the edge of the mat where he stands. "I didn't have enough time for it. I worked out, I did yoga, I attended self-defence, all while working part-time and trying to graduate. You only have so much time, y'know? But-- Now I have plenty of time. /Too/ much." "I got suspended at the school I work at, and not long after I started working for Heroes for Hire, it /closed down/. Just my luck, huh?" Jenn extends a hand to Trib, inviting a handshake. "Name's Jennifer, but you probably have me at a disadvantage, if you watch news. You a regular here?" Trib has a wide grin for Ravi, and he even offers a half-handed fist-bump as the man passes. “Good job, dude,” he says, and offers a small wave as he disappears. Then he can focus his attention on Jennifer, and he narrows his eyes thoughtfully at the woman. “If you love to box, you should check it out,” he says. “There’s a lot of good female amateur leagues around. They’ve got some good women in ‘em.” He wrinkles his nose. “There’s one that works out of a gym in Clinton. ‘Srun by a lady named Misty Knight. I can give you the address, if you’re interested.” “Retribution Jones,” the big man says as sweeping his hand forward to accept the handshake. Then Jennifer’s explanation of her free time sinks in, and there’s a sudden hitch of his eyebrows. “Wait, what?” he says, blinking a couple of times. “You work for Cage?” He frowns. “I don’t remember seein’ you around the office.” He furrows his brow as he attempts to do just that. Then, there’s a small dawning, and he nods in sudden comprehension. “Oh, wait. You’re the lawyer. Janice mentioned you.” He lifts a shoulder. “Don’t think the office is going to be closed /that/ long, though.” The handshake is as firm as Trib might have predicted. It looks like she's noted the man's build and spares very little gentleness when she squeezes the man's hand in the handshake. On the other hand, it's not /overly/ strong, at least not strong enough to suggest an attempt at a show of power. "Retribution Jones," she echoes before she addresses her connection to Cage. "Well, that explains /Trib/." A warm smile graces her lips as her hand lets go of his. "M'yeah, while Mister Cage is off wrecking public property, I'm the bookworm glued to paperwork and my phone to sort out the messes he leaves behind. That said, the boy's been behaving lately. Have to admit, I was surprised when he said he's closing down the office. I thought he would take up a flag and march onto the streets with it." There is a brief flash of discomfort on Jennifer's visage; she even averts her gaze. "Especially after last Friday. Subway /and/ City Hall? Looks like someone really wants that fuse lit." Her shoulders rise up as she inhales deeply, and then they drop back down when she sighs. "Well, I'm finally glad to meet you. Cage mentioned me to you." With a smirk returning, she eyes Trib appraisingly. "Why am I not surprised he hired someone who looks like they could take on an oncoming truck?" Tilting her head to the side, she adds, "Oh, and yes, I'd like the address to that place in Clinton. I'm always up for pushing myself further, mentally /and/ physically." “He wanted to,” Trib says with a chuff. “He was all set to organize a big march an’ everything. Me and Mister Parley convinced him to hold off a bit, though. ‘Till people ain’t still all...” he frowns, searching for the word. “.../polarized/ on things.” He doesn’t look much happier than Jennifer about the fact that this was a possibility. The big man rumbles a laugh at her assessment of the situation. “You ain’t wrong,” he says. “Cops are mad that they lost their money-maker, and that it came back to bite ‘em in the ass.” He doesn’t seem bothered about voicing his opinions in public. He even ignores the dirty look the blonde gives him as this statement finally spurs her to move on. “Mutants are mad at the cops -- everyone else is just scramblin’ to find a side.” He sounds resigned about this almost to the point of boredom, but it fades in the sudden crinkle of his eyes when she addresses his size. “Yeah, well,” he rumbles, reaching up to rub at the back of his head. “I think it was more his soft heart than my big size that got me the job. He fished me out of a bad spot, and the place I was gonna land wasn’t much better.” He lifts a shoulder. “I owe him a lot. Him an’ a bunch of other people I didn’t even get a look at.” He frowns thoughtfully for a moment, then motions for Jennifer to follow him to a quieter corner of the gym. There is a specific sort of glint in Jennifer's eyes that is the telltale sign of basic arithmetics being performed. Even before she follows Trib to a less populated corner of unoccupied equipment, there is a knowing gaze that fixates on the man. But before she addresses what's on her mind, she makes sure to note something else; something that's arguably as important to her, if not more so. "I owe /you/ one if you managed to convince Luke to lay off the marching idea, if at least for a little while. Right now, antagonizing either side is a ridiculous idea. Radicalism won't always succeed. Stark's conference /almost/ worked, but apparently it was just a matter of time until that pendulum swung back. Tipping it in either direction isn't going to accomplish anything but give it more momentum." When the two do finally get the much needed privacy from prying eyes and ears, Jennifer claims a seat in one of the weight-lifting machines, although she doesn't begin working out, at least not yet. Instead, she uses it as a chair. "Did some wrestling for a private group and Cage fished you out of a bad spot, huh? I'm sorry if I assume too much, but-- Fight club? Luke actually did that bit of heroism free of charge." It is at this point that she outs her disapproval of how Heroes for Hire earns its income. A grin quickly gains ground on her lips. A leisurely mocking tone paints her words, "Wonder if he still would have, if he weren't offered it by a certain redhead." Jenn reclines in the seat of the machine, looking up at Trib curiously, letting him speak his own mind on the rather private matter. “Stark may be a genius, but that was a dumb-ass move,” Trib agrees, bobbing his head. “Mutants were already gettin’ more than their fair share of shit before. I don’t know that releasing a bunch of mutie snuff films was exactly the best plan of action.” He lifts a shoulder. “‘Course, I ain’t got no team of PR people to keep the shit blowback at a minimum, neither.” The big man nods at Jennifer’s correct assumption, and his mouth presses into a line. “Yeah. I was in that. For nearly the run of the thing.” He winces a bit, and frowns. “I didn’t mean that I owed Cage no /money/,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “An’ if you were the one who talked him into doin’ that, I owe you exactly the same. So thanks.” His gaze is hard-edged, but there’s something warm in it. “You guys saved my life. A lot of lives. Includin’ kids.” He takes a deep breath, and holds it for a second, considering his next words. Maybe they’re on the tape on his wrists, as he studies it carefully. “But I kind of need to ask you some legal advice,” he says. “About all of that stuff.” Even though she might have guessed it right, the confirmation Trib provides regarding his unwilling involvement in the fighting ring warrants a softly spoken, "I'm sorry." What little amusement she harboured dissipates in an instant. Speaking with a somber tone still, she adds: "I didn't mean-- I was just joking. I may have alerted Cage to the thing, but /he/ is the one who saved you, /he/ is the one who employed you." For one thoughtful moment, Jennifer merely nibbles on her lower lip, until finally her voice chimes again. "What sort of advice were you lookin' for? I have to warn you, that whole thing's a mess. Even when the city calms down, it's left a bitter aftertaste, a stigma that the mutant community will have to carry for a long while. Not a lot... can be done here." A sigh, then. "But that ultimately depends on your question." Trib casts a look around at the soft apology, and his jaw tightens for a brief second. His eyes dull to amber for a moment, and then he’s looking back at Jennifer. “Even givin’ him the tip was more’n most would have done,” he notes. “I got about two months in a cage to back that up.” There’s a heavy exhalation at the question, and Trib moves to find his own seat on the neighboring bench, bracing his elbows on his knees. He rolls his hands as he considers his own question, and his brow lowers. “I know there ain’t no video of me out there -- at least none that I’ve seen,” he starts. “But I still...” he frowns, and shifts his weight. “If the cops wanted to...” That doesn’t seem to work, either, and he begins to rub his palms together briskly. “I didn’t come out of that thing clean,” he says finally, with another, exasperated-sounding sigh. “If the cops wanted to fuck with me, what kind of shit could they stir up with what they got on me?” There is a slow nod acknowledgement on Jennifer's part. "If the cops really wanted to /fuck/ with you, as you say," she begins, making sure to put emphasis on the echoed expletive, "they could find many ways to do that, and that's just counting the /legal/ options. Trust me, when a cop gets a hardon for you - if they're clever about it - you'll have a very hard time, I'm not gonna lie." A single digit is raised as the 'but' finally arrives. "/But/. You're not going to jail over anything you did in the fight club. First off, they will need evidence, evidence that would dig a deeper hole for /them/, too. Also, remember that unlawfully gained evidence is not admissible in court. Secondly, if what you were threatened by was equal to or greater than the crime committed, your actions would be defendable as the consequence of duress or coercion." Her hand returns to her lap. "You guys wore shock collars and were threatened by death. It would take a genius mastermind or corruption of an unprecedented level to let that shit fly in court, prejudice or not. And that's not even mentioning the knee-jerk reaction that would happen in the international community." Trib doesn’t look overly pleased by the first part of Jennifer’s answer, although he doesn’t seem surprised by it, either. “Been lucky, so far,” he says. “There was a lot of cops around during that thing in the Diamond District, but I got clear of that before they could get their shit straight.” He grimaces. “It’s just my policy to /avoid/ them, when I can. ‘Course, workin’ for Cage makes that a dicey situation.” The ‘but’ catches his attention, and his brow lowers as he listens to the woman. “So, you’re sayin’ that because they were threatenin’ to kill /me/ if I didn’t kill the other guys, it don’t hold no water?” His eyebrows hike up, and he rubs a finger along the ruined ridge of his nose. “What do you mean ‘knee-jerk reaction’ from the international community?” he asks, his expression confused and intrigued at the same time. “Like, other countries would lose their shit over it?” There is lengthy and heavy sigh that escalates to a bluster when there is mention of Cage in /that/ context. "Yes, following Cage around might be risky for your reputation, but you were probably already made aware of that. And Luke's been learning, and you have me and--" Her nose momentarily wrinkles before she admits with some reluctance, "--Parley on board." When she crosses her legs at her thighs and places her weaved fingers on her lap, she assumes a position that would no doubt look official with the respective suit and an office environment. Here, it looks a touch awkward. "Duress as a defense in court needs to fulfill a few conditions. I can state with full confidence even without knowing your position fully that you make the checklist. It's a defense that can still be worked /against/, but it's a solid stance. Think of it as having a fort instead of a shield." And then there is a pause. Clearly, there is a lot of information to present, and Jennifer tries her best to present it in an easily digestible manner. Although her gaze flits away during this thought process, an apologetic glance keeps coming back to Trib. Finally, she speaks up, her voice a /little/ shaky due to lacking a small fraction of confidence, "There is a city in the Netherlands, The Hague. It is home to the International Court of Justice. It is not a legal panacea, unfortunately-- It can't solve all the wrongly ruled cases in the world - no single court can do that." It seems Jennifer favours surprises involving the word 'but'. "But it's a /chance/. It's where the most public, weighty and contentious cases eventually end up in. I have to admit, my... legal knowledge is limited, in that aspect. Anyway, yes-- All the other countries are probably keeping a pulse on our own. The problem is... not all of them are pro-mutant. Russia bans informing others about homosexuality; their idea about solving problems is clearly sweeping them under the rug. Or take Latveria, for example. Barely a country for three months, and it has both mutant registration and labs where they perform tests on mutants." Jennifer scoffs at her unexpectedly prolonged speech, offering Trib a wry half-smile. "Now that I've said that out loud, I'm not really sure if the knee-jerk reaction would be in our favour as much as I thought. But it would be enough to give us a leg to stand on, Trib." Trib is a good listener, watching Jennifer’s face as she speaks in a silent absorption of the information. There’s a little grimace of his own when she mentions Parley, and a hard glint that rises briefly in his eyes. But he doesn’t offer any sort of verbal opinion on the man. He’s focused on the rest of the information being given to him. There’s a crinkle of amusement at the corners of his eyes as Jennifer realizes that the international court of opinion might not hold much sway. “I figured it wouldn’t be easy,” he grunts. “If it even becomes a problem. I just want to know what my options are, if it comes down to that.” He quirks a half-grin, and lifts a shoulder. “The odds ain’t exactly always in my favor, y’know?” Thick features screw up in a thoughtful expression. “You seen that movie? With the kids killin’ each other? The -- whatsit -- Hunger Games?” His eyebrows tick up, and his gaze goes a bit distant. “I thought about that shit a lot, when they started haulin’ kids in to fight.” He shakes off /that/ train of thought visibly, though, and rubs at his face. “I appreciate you bein’ honest with me, Miss Walters,” he says sincerely, his voice muffled momentarily by his hand as it passes over his mouth. “You’d be amazed how few questions anyone’s actually /answered/ for me, lately.” There is a passing sneer in response to the comparison of the mutant ring to the film. Jennifer shifts uncomfortably, before finally rising and quickly moving behind the machine to adjust the weights to her liking. "I think it was a lot more brutal than the Hunger Games," she murmurs softly while tinkering with the machine. Once she sets it to fit her capabilities, she claims the seat again. Hands grip the two handles at her sides, and she begins pulling the weight to herself. "/Well/, Trib," she begins, her voice understandably tense as she begins to exercise, clearly restless and eager to make the most out of her membership here. "I can give you my private phone number, if you'd-- /like/. So long as you don't let that get to your-- /head/." There's a smirk accompanying the notion, her both hands at her head. Slowly, she lets go of the weight, letting the weights slide back down. "That way, you can forward any questions you have. I have to warn you again, though - I may not be able to answer them all, like-- Can you cry underwater? Why does a round pizza come in square box?" After that brief pause, she starts to exercise again. Trib’s expression is not exactly flat, but it’s a close cousin when Jennifer offers her thoughts. “I figure it was about the same,” he offers in a grunt. “All things considered.” He doesn’t offer anything beyond that, though, his jaw tightening as he moves to set his own machine in a shadow of the lawyer’s actions. His weight is probably a bit heavier than the redhead’s, but he sets the pins quickly enough. As he settles back onto the bench, Jennifer’s next comment makes him pause, and there’s a small crinkle around his eyes that could be amusement or possibly some sort of victory. “I’d appreciate that,” he says, sliding back into the appropriate spot to begin his own reps. He turns his head to regard Jennifer as she smirks, and he snorts. “You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about,” he rumbles, pushing into his own machine and bringing the weights up in a smooth movement. “You got fightin’ skills, and I’m guessin’ you’re a pretty savvy lawyer, but those two things are the only things that I care about.” He offers a meaningful look (albeit hard and spear-like) at the redhead, and lets the weights slide down gently. “You can cry underwater,” he smirks. “You can cry anywhere. And pizza boxes are square because it makes them easy to stack an’ store.” He grins, and lets his left hand free for a moment to hold it up. “An’ this is the sound of one hand clappin’,” he says, and brings his fingers down against his palm with a smacking sound. “I promise you, Miss Walters. The only things I’d be callin’ you for at home would be related to work-related things you can do for me and vice versa.” The wink he offers is quick and confident. “And not anythin’ else.” "A pretty savvy lawyer, huh?" Again, her voice strains as she exercises; indeed, the measure of weight she has chosen to exercise with is less than what Trib chose. "Do you mean, like, a pretty-savvy-lawyer, or a pretty /and/ savvy lawyer?" A teasing smirk may be enough to clarify the intention of the remark, and if that is insufficient, then the following remark would seal off any doubt: "I'm just teasing." The revelatory answers the man offers her, however, wipe that smirk off and even stop her from exercising. "Well, maybe I should be calling /you/, then," she offers, her smirk slowly creeping back into its rightful place. "Then again, maybe I shouldn't. I'm a bit like Luke, the words that come out of my mouth-- Listening to him come on me gives me a good, nice reality check. A good reminder I'm not sixteen anymore." That little bit of confession ends, and Jennifer begins to exercise again. As more and more of the equipment elsewhere is being claimed, people slowly begin to occupy this previously silent corner, as well. Jennifer eyes the oncomers, before her attention flits back to Trib. "Anyway, I'll try to have your back. Yours, Luke's... nh, even Parley's." Hard to say if it was just the weights or her distaste towards the name. "So long as you guys don't screw my efforts over. Work as a team, right?" Trib rolls his gaze around at the teasing remark, and his mouth presses into a line. “Strong women shouldn’t fish for compliments,” he grunts, but there’s a lift of one corner of his mouth and a crinkle at his eyes when he delivers his pronouncement. “Callin’ /me/ would be a trick,” he says with a snort of laughter. “I ain’t got no phone, an’ the office is closed. Unless you got the mutant ability to create phones out of thin air.” His gaze slides over to the redhead, and his brow furrows as he studies her carefully. “Uh -- you get that I’m queer, right?” It’s not exactly a soft-spoken question, but Trib isn’t speaking at full volume, either. “I mean, I’m flattered an’ all, but I wasn’t just bein’ gentlemanly when I said I wasn’t gonna call you for nothin’ but work.” He smirks again. “‘Less you want to get lunch or somethin’, sometime. I can do that. If you’re buyin’.” He pushes back into his own exercises when that’s cleared up and people start filling in the empty machines, listening to Jennifer’s reassurance. This time, the mention of Parley’s name gets a snort that is /not/ laughter-based. “Yeah, I wouldn’t fuckin’ worry about Mister Parley too much,” he says. “Weasely little fucker wouldn’t afford you the same consideration, so there ain’t much point in offerin’ it to him in the first place.” His expression darkens, and the machine barks metallically as he puts some of his irritation into stronger reps. “If there’s anyone that’ll screw you over, it’s gonna be that little useless snitch.” There is a brief pause on Jennifer's part - the weights slide back down into their rightful position, and she lowers her hands onto her thighs with a content little sigh. "Queer, huh?" The confession doesn't warrant a strong reaction from Jennifer. It invites a playful smile that is accompanied with a thoughtful, considerate look in her green eyes. "I /almost/ feel like that's an X-Gene thing," she jests. "I don't know about Parley. He may have issues answering questions straight and his every suggestion comes off as a cat nuzzling its cheek against a chair leg, but he /did/ help me nudge Luke's reputation in the right direction. We also agree on some things, such as the risks of Stark's conference." Still resting from her exercise, she sinks further into the seat as though it were a comfortable armchair. "And he looks no older than his early twenties, but he doesn't act his age. /Something/ pushed him." A light shrug is given, then. "I outright asked him if he's someone I should be protecting, or someone I should be protecting /from/. He weaseled his way out of answering that." The recalled event has every right to come off negatively, but instead Jennifer merely sounds curious. "He said I should make that decision for myself. Which either means he's better than I am willing to give him credit for, or he himself is not sure whether he's someone worth protecting. Either way, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for now." Electrified by a new thought, Jennifer springs up from the machine. "For now, I think I'm going to go check out the pool they have here, if you don't mind?" A moment's worth of silence is followed by an amused smirk. "I suppose the obvious joke here is that talking about Parley makes me want to shower." Trib’s brow furrows, but he continues pushing at his weights. “X-Gene thing? Bein’ gay? Christ, don’t tell /that/ to the religious nutbags, or we’re all fucked.” He sounds mildly amused by the jest, though. He pauses when Jennifer begins to speak on the subject of Parley, and his eyes narrow slightly. “He’s slithery like a cat,” Trib says, wrinkling the ruined ridge of his nose sharply. “He don’t answer /no/ questions, outside of givin’ his name. It’s like he’s waitin’ to see what you’ll say, to see what /he/ should say.” The weights are lowered gently, and Trib leans forward. “He might have his uses, but I’ll bet my sleepin’ bag that he ain’t useful for nothin’ that can’t be used to his advantage somehow.” There’s a roll of massive shoulders before Trib pushes back into the exercise again. “Maybe somethin’ pushed him into bein’ like that, or maybe he’s just weird like that, but I’ve known guys like him before.” He smirks. “So you can give him the benefit of the doubt. Me, I’m gonna watch out an’ make sure none of us gets a needle in the neck.” He pauses when the redhead springs up, and nods, barking a laugh. “I told you,” he rumbles. “He’s slithery. You feel oily just /talkin’/ about how slithery he is.” He lifts his chin in a farewell. “Find me before you skip out, so I can give you that number,” he says, offering a small, lop-sided smile. “It was good meetin’ you, Miss Walters. Hope we can do it again, sometime.”