ArchivedLogs:Angels with Dirty Faces

Angels with Dirty Faces
Dramatis Personae Ash, Murphy
In Absentia	2013-05-05 Noir meets dirt.
Location <NYC> Sunrise Apartments - Rooftop
A concrete wall rising up to about midwaist high rims the edge of this apartment building roof, the tarred surface underneath leading to cut outs and drainage, with small gravel covering that. Concrete slabs lines the walkable portions of the roof, with one door leading to an enclosure around a stairwell leading back into the apartment buildings. An enterprising tenant has left a pair of lawn chairs on the roof for enjoyment of the sunshine in the city - or the sunset at night. There are perhaps a few beer bottles left over from a previous late night hang out as well. Murphy's been hanging out on rooftops, recently. Maybe it's getting to be a thing for him. Today, he's standing on the ledge, /glaring/ at the nearby building; clad in his thick wool coat - white shirt - and black tie - he cuts the classic figure of a private Dick - and yes, that's with a /capital D/. The bandages around his throat are gone, now - leaving pink, scaley flesh - along with the bandages around his right hand. His left hand, though, has a fresh patch on the palm, taped on firmly, a little pink seeping through. He's smoking like a tenement blaze, eyebrows knotted together, just /thinking/ about something. Probably trying to figure out a way to burn the city down. Ash arrives on the roof from the stair well, carrying a small cooler and a stack of sandwiches on a paper plate. He pauses and takes in the striking figure for a moment, eyes searching him from the top of his head to the soles of his shoes before he takes a half step back. Consideration is still on his face as he turns away and takes the longer route to the folding chairs, pursing his lips and starting to whistle. The theme of 'Peter and the Wolf' trips off his pursed lips as he goes, brightening up the rooftop atmosphere. He is of course, wearing clothing. He's wearing jeans and a plain brown tee shirt. He is barefoot, and looking a little grimy. Murphy turns. Clenching and unclenching the hand with the bloody bandage a little; as if trying to /squeeze/ out some more drops of blood. His other hand moves to scratch at the scaley skin on his neck. Scratch, scratch. The skin-flaked blisters start sliding off. He /peers/ at Ash as he starts whistling, puffing away at his cigarette. Gaze narrowing; scowl creeping on up. "You're one of the labrats," he tells him. "Ash." Hey, lookatthat. Murphy remembers his name. "Bunkin' with the tree." Puff, puff. Smoke out of his nostrils. "Jim tell you about me yet." Like Murphy is Jim's dirty little /secret/. That sweet little piece he's got on the side. "Nah, I'm not exactly sure Jim likes you all that much. He also tends to not talk when he's home." Ash admits, then lifts the plate of sandwiches in Murphy's direction. "Hungry? I've got extra. Well, I mean, I'll eat them all if given a chance, but I can share. See, being stuck in a cage for a number of years, eating shitty food and just trying to stay a live makes a kid really bad at saying no, especially when the pastrami is thinly sliced and layered high, with good swiss and mustard." He sets the cooler down beside his chair and settles back onto the seat, resting the plate on top of the cooler next. "Did you want to tell me about yourself, or do you just like people telling you have a secret?" "Jim fuckin' loves me. If he could get pregnant, he'd want my babies." Murphy states this like it's a mother-fucking /fact/, like the sky is blue, or the ocean is wet, or Jim's a goddamn /tree/. "Wouldn't give it to him, though. World's got enough of me." He eyes the sandwiches a moment, and... back to Ash. And then with a low, growly grunt, he stomps on over toward him, reaching for... just one. Snatching it off the plate like its presence /offends/ him. "Ain't much to tell. I'm an asshole. Private investigator. Like Jim. S'how we met." CHOMP. Om. Nom. Nom. He's kind enough to swallow before continuing: "Lookin' for missing mutie kids." "So, what you're saying is that you have a soft spot for kids and I should totally make friends with you so that if I ever go missing again, you'll use your super awesome skills of private investigating to find my ass and take down the conspiracy that stole me away?" Ash asks hopefully, taking a sandwich for himself and holds it over his lap. "I appreciate the idea of it at least. Hey, also, if you were in some way involved in the lab raid that got me out of there, thanks. I really appreciate it. I can't thank people enough for busting me out of there - and dechipping me - and well, everything." He finally stops his mouth by taking a bite. "All I did was keep an eye on Jim's shit in case he got himself killed. So I could pick up where he left off. Wasn't involved otherwise. Jim did the legwork." The sandwich is half gone. Murphy knows how to /eat/. He's doing /violence/ to that poor sandwich. Somebody call 911; it's getting /murdered/. "They did..." Murphy's nose wrinkles as he scratches at his scaly throat. "...good work," he finally spits it out, like the words got a foul taste to them. Another bite, another swallow. Nothin' left but a morsel. "You a kid? And I ain't got awesome--look, just be fuckin' /careful/, alright? Ain't your fault you got nabbed, but--these shitfuckers--/kid/," he says, now, as if it has been officially decided - Ash is, indeed, a kid - "you realize just how /fucked/ we are?" He swings his arm out at the city at large, as if to implicate it in the fuckery. "Well, I was a kid when I got grabbed. I guess I'm not so much one anymore." Ash ammends his statement and exhales moodily, looking around the city when Murphy shows it off. He's quiet for a moment and gives a little bit of a shrug. "It's kind of like a candy store to me, right now. I mean, this place is amazing. I can move around and eat what I want and walk inthe sunshine and roll in the dirt and oh man, you want a root beer? They are pretty damn amazing. They have hand crafted root beer where you can taste the musky deep flavors and the way the sugar has been blended with the sassafras -- Anyway. There's some in the cooler." "...I don't want a fuckin' root beer," Murphy says, /glaring/ at the cooler. He probably does want one. He probably wants one /so/ bad. But now he can't have it, because Ash asked him if he wanted one, and Murphy's nothing if not dogmatically /assholish/. Even if it means no delicious rootbeer. "...roll in the--th'fuck you want to--egh. Nevermind, kid. Just," and his shoulders slump as he /glares/ back out at the city. "...you ain't wearin' /shoes/." Murphy says. "Why ain't you wearin' shoes." "Nope." Ash wiggles his toes and looks down at them. "I prefer it. I mean, I'll wear them to work and out on the streets and boy do shops get weirded out if you don't wear shoes in their aisle - I learned that the hard way." He pulls the plate off of the top of the cooler and selects one very cool, almost frosty bottle out of the depths and then puts the plate back down on top. His sandwich rests on his knee while grabs a sharpish piece of gravel from the ground and uses it to lever the lid off. The cap is slipped into his pocket as he offers the glass bottle once more to Murphy before bringing it slowly to his lips to drink. He pauses once again. "I like the feel of the concrete under my feet and the dirt in the apartment. It's just wonderful." "..." Murphy eyes the bottle; he waves his hand, as if to dismiss it. There's only so much /asshole/ that he can throw at someone without getting any back, though. At some point, Murphy's just got no vitriol left. "...izzat why Jim's apartment looks like a pigsty? Figured the asshole was just finally puttin' down some /roots/. Hey," he then, quite /suddenly/, adds -- turning to face Ash. "You box?" "A box?" Ash looks utterly confused at Murphy, still unable to sip his drink until he's asked, "What do you mean, a box?" Finally, he just hands the bottle to Murphy, close enough that he practically /has/ to take it, before he begins the process of fetching and opening another. "I don't really look like a box. I look like a scrawny brown kid, right?" Murphy snorts. For a moment, it might seem like the man's undergoing some sort of physical transformation; his entire body goes rigid - he looks like he's about to hock up a /lung/. He turns from Ash, and for several seconds, just makes... gurgling wheezy noises. Face rigid as stone. Before finally... turning back to face him. Having successfully subdued, throttled, and /murdered/ his desire to actually /laugh/ before it risked breaking that perpetual scowl. "No, box, like, in a /ring/," Murphy explains, scowl maintained. "I'm askin' you if you know how to throw punches, kid. Can be useful, sometimes. Teaches you to keep your head straight when everything goes to shit. Was figurin', if you're interested, could show you how to break a glass jaw or two. Sometime." "Oh! That kind of boxing!" Ash smiles brightly and takes a swig of root beer before setting down his bottle. Then he starts munching on his sandwich again. When his mouth is clear and Murphy has completed his conniption fit and explanation, he nods enthusiastically. "Oh, Hey, that might be a great idea. Sure. Boxing. I could go for that. I could repay you with handiman stuff, if you had anything around your apartment that needed fixing. I gotta replace the window in my place this week, which has to wait until tomorrow so I can pick up the custom cut glass, but after that, I should be free - you know, after work hours." He considers. "I could stand to learn to throw a punch or twenty." The last morsel of that sandwich vanishes; the cigarette follows shortly after - tossed down into asphalt, /grinded/ into a shallow grave. *SKRT*. "Maybe you could help me with some handiwork somewhere else," Murphy says. "Got a place I'm fixin' up, down in the city. Kind of an off-and-on hobby. Could use an extra set of hands. Fists. Whatever." Murphy turns, moving toward the door. Hands deep in his pockets. "If you want, bug Jim for my number. Throw me a call on Tuesday or Wednesday, we'll figure out a time. Bring Jim. If he /wants/." Murphy adds this last bit not like he wants to, but like he's /required/ to; like the older sibling /forced/ to ask if his younger, scrappy brother wants to come along. "Maybe. I'll get back to you on that bit," Murphy says, pausing next to the door -- before grumping at the last question. "Murphy," he tells him, before adding - "Just Murphy." "Okay, Murphy. I'll see you in a couple days." Ash raises his root beer to salute the man as he leaves. "Have a good night!"