ArchivedLogs:One Bullet

One Bullet
OOC NOTE: Joe is not actually infected
Dramatis Personae Toru, Trib, Joe
In Absentia	2013-11-12 Joe goes to Trib for help
Location <NYC> 311 {Trib} - Sunrise Apartments
For a room in the Sunrise building, this apartment is pretty well-furnished. There isn't much in the way of art - though on one wall, there are the beginnings of what appears to be a collage of articles; most boxing, although there are a few news stories and glossy physique images from muscle magazines. Against one wall is a plush brown couch is wedged between matching end tables, with a matching ottoman seated in front of it, and a blue throw blanket draped over the back. Set diagonally from that, next to a brass floor lamp, is a matching brown recliner - clearly, the three are part of a set. Decidedly /not/ matching that furniture is another couch on an opposing wall with stripes in varying widths in shades of blue, green, teal and brown; this one is a bit cheaper looking, with canvas upholstery and bare wood arms. Under it all, a mottled brown-and-ivory rug covers the hardwood floor. The only other wall with only space has a set of hooks screwed into it, which usually has a blue street bicycle hanging from it, and a skateboard leaning against the wall on the floor beneath it. The whole living room feels a bit cramped, though the relative lack of clutter keeps it from feeling too over-crowded. Through the small, dingy kitchen is the entrance to the bedroom, where a new-looking platform holds an oversized bed; the only piece of furniture in there. The door to the bathroom is closed, but it's likely stocked with bathroom-appropriate accoutrements. "You think I don't know that shit? How the hell you think I feel?" Toru's reply is a bit unnecessarily snappish - like a /puppy/ - and he pushes himself to his feet abruptly, pacing back and forth and running a hand over his hair with no small amount of agitation. Messin' it up but good. "At least you have to /eat/ stuff, I mean bein' a zombie ain't gonna make you go eatin' rocks necessarily you need goddamn fuel, if I lose controlla my thing you know what happens?" He pauses a moment, looking down at the boxer, then just starts gesturing wildly with his hands. "Either I touch dudes and turn them all funky or I do it to /myself/ until I hit my brain or my heart and then I'm /dead/, Trib, then I'm fucking literal-ass /dead/!" Soft footsteps in the hall, and then there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door. "Pst, hey," comes a hoarse whisper. "311, you in there?" Trib reaches up to grab one of those gesticulating hands, closing his fingers around Toru's wrist like a handcuff. "Settle down," he says, and there's nothing but /command/ in his voice. "First of all, if you're at the bitin' stage, you're /already/ fuckin' dead. I've seen these fuckers, an' they ain't nothin' /but/ dead." He tugs on the bony appendage, as if to haul Toru in. "Second --" His head snaps up at the rapping on the door, and he /does/ tug Toru, then, standing even as he tosses the teenager on the couch. He holds a finger to his lips as he moves towards the door, picking up a couple of nails from a bowl on the counter as he goes. The boxer moves to the door, placing a nail betwen his teeth before he answers, growling through the wood. "The fuck you want?" If nothing else, Toru does seem more /angry/ than distraught over the point he just made; and while he does fight against Trib's grip for a minute, it doesn't take long for him to calm down. "You know what I fuckin' /mean/," is all he mumbles before that knock at the door, which has him jerking his head up to look thattaway. Landing on the couch with a grunt, he is /mostly/ quiet when hushed, but he does mumble an even quieter, "We really gotta talk about this," through a half-smirk. He then proceeds to pull the throw over himself, /just in case/, getting nice and cozy underneath it as Trib /accosts/ the /intruder/. "I need your help, man," the reedy voice has a plaintive, frightened note which is unmistakeable. "You're Heroes for Hire, right? I need your help. Can I just come in? I think someone's /coming/..." Trib glares at Toru when he pops off from the couch, holding a hand to his throat and then pointing at the radiator. Then he's tipping his head to the door, listening to the reedy voice on the other side. I.D.'ed as one of Cage's employees, the big man closes his eyes and grinds his teeth, effectively demolishing the nail caught there. He glances at Toru thoughtfully for a moment, and presses his lips together as he turns back to the door. "I'm openin' the door," he says ominously. "An' I swear to fuckin' God, if you come at me or mine, you'll fuckin' wish whatever's comin' down the hall got to you fuckin' first." He thumps his palm against the wood with enough force to make a sound. "Hear me?" Toru makes nary a peep, just curling up a bit to make sure the throw covers him completely. Joe blurts, "Yeahyeahyeah, man, /come on/." As soon as the door is opened for him, he darts inside, and immediately presses up against the wall so Trib can shut the door right away. He's in a full parka, jeans, and hiking boots, probably because the halls aren't heated and it's been below freezing lately. He holds his hands up as if Trib had a gun in his face and flicks his gaze to the couch before looking Trib in the eyes. He doesn't manage to hold the stare for long. His eyes slowly slide off the big man's face to lock onto his shoulder instead. "You can pat me down, if you want. I got a nine millimeter in my right jacket pocket... " He pants, out of breath from fear, or just walking the stairs is not clear. Trib barely allows the man entering time to clear the door before he's closing it and shooting the locks. He turns back to study the man for a long moment, folding his arms across his chest and pulling himself up to his full height. He chews his nail a bit more, and swallows when the man admits to having a weapon. He purses his lips, his expression darkening as he holds out his left hand silently, palm up. After a moment, he hikes his eyebrows meaningfully and twitches his fingers in a 'gimme' gesture. Slowly, slowly, Joe nods, and begins to lower his hand to his jacket pocket. He retrieves the gun by the barrel and holds it out between thumb and forefinger. "Can I- Please, just when I go? Can I have it back?" He swallows hard, doing his best to go along as asked. Trib takes the gun, shoving it in the back of his jeans. "Depends on how you go," he answers the question. "On your feet or on your ass." "Yeah man, ok," Joe says, nodding. His hand goes right back up to join the other, making every effort to look non-threatening. "So look uh... Your with Luke Cage, right? Like, in the 'biz', or whatever?" Joe tries on a little of the lingo for size. He could not sound /more/ square. "Well, I need ta hire a bodyguard, you know?" His accent could also not be more /Jersey/. He should be on a reality show or something. "NOOOOPE." Rising from the depths of-- the couch, Toru sits straight up, pushing the throw to his waist and pulling himself up to look over the cushions. "He's got enough on his plate without worryin' about some fuckin'--" and here, he apparently finally gets a good look at Joe, because abruptly he shifts gears mid-sentence and continues, "--what the hell happened to you, dude? If you're comin' in here sayin' you ain't sick then you ain't looked in a mirror lately." Trib makes a face, and glances over his shoulder at the lump on the couch. "'The biz'?" he echoes in his own Jersey accent, furrowing his brow. "The fuck is 'the biz'?" He points in the direction of the living room, just as Toru comes up with his objection. His nostrils flare, just a bit, but he remains silent about it, moving towards the living room with a 'what can you do' sort of expression for the newcomer. "He ain't goin' nowhere just yet," he assures Toru, speaking as if the guy can't hear him as he moves to drop back on the couch. "An' Cage'd fuckin' shit a brick if I didn't fuckin' hear his sob story." He points at the armchair, looking at the guy in the parka with a flat expression. "So come an' fuckin' tell it." Joe's normally bug eyes go /wide/ when Toru pops up out of /no/where. But then he just sighs at Toru's reaction, and Trib's lack of concern about the surprise-man. Experimentally, Joe lowers his hands slowly, and when he doesn't get any flak for it, finally relaxes all the way. He moves toward the chair, looks like he won't sit at first, and finally gives up, collapsing down like someone just cut his strings. "You're boy's not wrong," he says to Trib, gesturing at Toru. "It's a short story. I'm sick, and I gotta get to a distribution point. But there's no way... I can handle myself. Out there." He glances at Toru briefly, then over to the window, and then back to Trib's shoulder. "I've only got about five hundred bucks cash, but if you can get me to an ATM with power on the way, I can get another five hundred. I know that ain't enough for Heroes for Hire. But I mean, if you want," Joe fidgets, glancing around the room again. Nervous, this one is. "We don't have to tell Heroes, you know? Just uh... private hire. So you don't have to give them a cut. Or declare it. When business picks up again, I can pay even more later. I do ok driving cab..." Joe peters off, arresting a babble before it can get out of control. "Dude, I ain't his fuckin' /boy/," Toru answers with a glare, and while for a moment it looks like he's going to continue... he finally just slumps back onto the couch, pulling a pillow over to rest his head on. "Whatever, get fuckin' comfortable, maybe switch to fuckin' Spanish or somethin' if you're actually sick, yeah? Fuckin' transmittin' through language, what the hell is that shit anyway." Grumbling, he rolls onto his side, pulling that throw back over his head. Trib just sits there for a moment, staring at the other man once he's finished explaining. For a long, long moment, it looks like he might not say anything at all. Then he reaches up to /grind/ the heel of his palm into his eyesocket. "God /damn/ it," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fucking /Cage/." He inhales deeply, and opens his eyes to drop his hawkish gaze on the man in front of him. "You want to hire me to ride fuckin' shotgun on the fuckin' zombie horde to go three blocks." Like he's verifying that fact. Then he's rubbing at his eye socket again. "/Fuck/," he grinds out, the word barely comprehensible. "God damn it." It goes on like that for a good while. Clearly, this is a dilemma of the first order. Finally, Trib exhales sharply, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Not until the morning," he says, not sounding happy about reaching this decision. "An' if you're fuckin' shinin' me on, I'm throwin' your ass at the first zombie that comes along." Joe's eyebrows shoot up at Toru's outburst, and his mouth just works for a moment when the teenager flops over under the blanket. "No," he mutters. "Like bro. Or homey. You know?" He's just flummoxed until Trib starts debating out loud. He looks at the floor by Trib's feet while the big man considers his options and looks up when he lays out the terms. "Yeah, morning. Of course. And no way man. I'm good for it. I'll show you the cash in the morning, before we go, ok? Thanks, man, seriously. Thanks." He stands and offers an awkwardly angled fistbump. "Jersey boys, am I right?" "Save your fuckin' money," Trib says, lifting his half-hand to offer an equally-awkward return fistbump. "Ain't you seen Cage's big speech, about how we ain't chargin' to help folks?" Another thing he doesn't sound keen on. He pushes to his feet, taking out the gun and releasing the magazine to shove it in his pocket before he hands the gun back. "You got one bullet," he says with a tight smile, leading the way to the door. "An' you got two floors. I'd be quick an' quiet, if I was you." He unlocks the door, then, and pokes his head out, taking a good look before he draws his head back in. "Looks okay," he says with a nod. "The hall's clear. Better go while the goin's good."