ArchivedLogs:Crushed

Crushed
Dramatis Personae Parley, Trib, Cage	2013-06-17 Cage calls a meeting of the fellas.
Location
The front room of the Heroes for Hire office has the secretary's desk, a small filing cabinet, a computer, and a ceiling fan. Janice, the aforementioned secretary is a sixty-something woman who's accent clearly marks her as being from Eastern European descent, though probably one generation removed judging by how well she speaks English. Janice was almost certainly selected by some busy-body lawyer on Luke's behalf, probably to keep him free of any more accidental law suits. The paint is faded, but everything pretty much works. Off to one side is the bathroom, and the other door leads back to Luke's office. There's isn't much in Luke's actual office but a small desk and a swivel chair pushed into one corner, with a pair of straight backed chairs on the other side of it. A couch is by the window that looks out over the city, with Times Square in the distance. All things considered, its actually a pretty decent little spot. The graffiti had come on Wednesday, and Luke cleaned it off Thursday morning. And then more came on Sunday night. The worst kind of language imaginable. Most of it mutant related, but this seems to have opened the door again to racial slurs as well. Some truly charming remarks in spray paint, all over the entrance to the building. Other business tenants in the building are already uncomfortable with Heroes for Hire's presence, so Luke is quick to come down Monday morning and scrub the walls himself. A little elbow grease, and Luke had it off by 9 am. That was when he texted the fellas to come down to the office, if they're able. Janice is to work from home until further notice. He might have left Jennifer off the list on purpose. Luke is in the office now, looking pretty grubby. He's in old jeans, and paint-stained t-shirt. His hands are streaked with paint, but he's here setting out bags of fast-food breakfast items. It looks like he's prepared to feed at least 10 people. The coffee is full and steaming as well. "Is this for me?" Parley's ever spectral nega-presence doesn't render him invisible, but it does render him /unimportant/ to a distracted mind. Whether Luke was watching his presence or not, the empath has wound his way around to /behind/ Luke, hands folded behind his back, and only chooses to speak when he's peeking his head around the Great Bald Menace to /eye/ his food. Hi. Is he - lifting up his nose for a little /investigative sniffing/? Trib is, by nature of his training, a morning person. When he enters the office a few moments after Parley, he looks bright-eyed and alert, if not very /happy/. Dressed in jeans and a blue athletic jersey, his brown workboots clomping on floorboards the only herald to his appearance. He pauses at the door, his golden gaze landing first on Parley thoughtfully, then on Cage with even more measured study. At the sight of the paint-stained clothing, there's a shift of guilt in the softly annoyed churning of his mind, and he furrows his brow. "Anybody call here this mornin'?" Which is probably as good a greeting as any. Luke jumps slightly at Parley's surprise greeting, and then steadies himself with a sigh. He scoops up two breakfast sandwiches in one huge hand, and moves to pour himself coffee. "Eat up, fellas. We got tagged again last night." Luke pours his coffee and asks, "Either a' you know who's out saving muties at night?" "Are you expecting someone to?" Parley inquires back at Trib, mid stealth-ransack of the array of breakfast items. He doesn't bother to look up when he says it. He /does/ glance at Luke, a tatertot halfway to being tucked into a cheek, eyes slightly narrowing. "You're not going to say it's you, are you." He runs his eyes over the stained clothes, lips thinning, and reapplying himself to breakfast. /Someone's/ breakfast. Coffee has become a priority. "Don't know," Trib answers Parley, moving to the table and securing a couple of sandwiches for himself, biting through one wrapper and all. He grunts at Cage, and his brow falls a bit further as he chews. "I wish whoever it is had been around last night," he rumbles. "I /would/ have been here, but some fat fuck thought I was some drunk passed out, and called the fuckin' cops on me." He licks cheese from a thumb, and jerks it over his shoulder with an apologetic lift of his eyebrows. "So I had to beat feet. Lost a perfectly good bat, too." Which is only slight less troubling than the possibility of going to jail. "But the asshole was throwin' his weight around, threatenin' to make trouble for you on account I was chewin' his ass out over it." There's another apologetic wince. "So, sorry about that, too." "It's already happening, short-stack," Cage says, winking at Parley. "But it ain't me. And hey, Trib, don't sweat assholes like that. He was probably just lookin' to ruin someone's day. Got nothin' to do with us, and it ain't your fault we got tagged. It's the stupid fuckers who tagged us we should blame." He takes a big bite of something that looks like egg and bacon between biscuits, and washes it down with coffee. "So yeah, it ain't me out there, and I'm startin' to wonder /why/. The law is failing mutants here. It's failing /everyone/ with this bullshit. So I need to know how I can get away with helping people." Cage winces when he finally tastes the coffee and sets everything down so he can start adding sugar and creamer. Lots of both. "Can't I get a fuckin' mask or something?" "You didn't happen to get his name, did you?" On the battlefield, not so much the great warrior, but few are so /vicious/ in litigation than a lawyer's assistant. Parley is watching you eat, Trib. He's watching it with blank-eyed fascination. It only breaks when Mr. Cage elaborates, the movements of his hands slowing. Stopping. Maybe he's taking exception to being called /short-stack/. "What you're describing," he says low, smiling now, down into his coffee cup, "is called escalation, Mr. Cage." "Nah, I didn't get his name," Trib admits, his gaze tracking back to Parley and narrowing ever so slightly for a moment. Maybe he's aware of his audience. "But he seemed to be one of them big-wig people who makes them sort of threats." He nods at Luke. "It'll probably be nothin'. But I /had/ planned to keep an on the place, till he came along." He licks a bit of egg and paper from his upper lip, and pokes around the layout until he finds an orange juice carton, which he picks up and begins to shake. "I'm with Mister Parley on this one, boss," he says. "Goin' around beatin' up idiots sounds real nice, but it don't make us /smarter/ or /better/ than them." He lifts a shoulder. "If you turn it around, they'd say they're protecting /humans/, an' who's to say they're /wrong/?" Another shrug, and he sets down his sandwich to open the juice. "Besides, I ain't wearin' no short pants an' cape." "Goddamnit!" Cage shouts, clenching his fist dramatically. Unfortunately, he's mainly just accomplished obliterating his egg and bacon thing. Is there even a victor here? Cage takes a deep breath and holds up his free hand, while the other drops that mess into a trash can. "I'm sorry. Sorry, guys. I'm not pissed at you..." Cage wipes his hand off on a paper towel and adds, "But who knows, Trib, the ladies would be lined up to see you in that get-up. Hell, probably some fellas too." He shrugs and gives an 'it takes all types' kind of smile. Luke takes another big breath and lets it out slow, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. "Well shit - how about this: we organize a fucking /march/. A march for mutant rights. I know it's been done, but not with me in the front-and-fucking-center, waving some goddamn flag." <<THEN maybe they'll START something out in the open...>> Luke's master plan finally filters through his haze of frustration and genuosity. "Your temper is showing," Parley lightly sidesteps /egg/ drippings. Trib watches the destruction of the sandwich with a cool sort of expression, and a cant to his eyebrows that says 'are you done?' He tips the carton of juice to his lips, and takes a deep drink, choking a bit at Luke's comment. << (maybe)(in private) >> "Those ladies would be in the wrong fuckin' line," he says when he lowers the carton. He listens to the alternate plan with a slow narrowing of his eyes, one finally closing in a skeptical wink. "So, you want a bunch of mutants who eighty percent of the city and a hundred percent of the cops hate right now to march down Fifth Avenue, shoutin' down injustice?" he verifies, clearly not a fan of the plan. "With /you/ at the front? The Million Mutant March?" He frowns, looking in Parley's direction. << (big heart)(slow thinker) >> "Eighty percent of eight million is how many?" "Yeah man," Luke says, getting a far-away look in his eyes. He can picture the whole thing now. "I mean, it's not like I /want/ to be at the front of this thing," <<LIE>> But if it's any consolation, Parley can probably detect the fact that he's lying to himself just as much. "Hell, /most/ of this country wanted to lynch the people in that first Million Man, guys. But they /couldn't/. Because it was out in the open." He adds quietly, "And there ain't no sniper that can put me down." Luke swirls the coffee-flavored sugar solution in his cup. "I mean think about it guys - they /can't/ just fuckin' open up on us in the middle of the street. Not if we're peaceful. We'd actually get a /sympathy/ vote, man. We just need something to take the edge off after this cop-killer thing. But I need your help to set it up. Both of you. C'mon. Whadya say?" "It's not a terrible idea," Parley actually muses softly beneath Trib's more colorful projection. Excuse him, he's actually /stealing/ Luke's seat, hooking a foot onto it to draw it over beneath him. He crumples into it, pushing up his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. Grimacing, "But it's so soon after Sergeant Kyle Whelan's funeral procession it could also end up looking more like the Westboro Baptist Church than we would a brave downtrodden minority." He /uses/ the buzzwords. But he puts no /glee/ in them. He hisses softly through his teeth. "...I'll think about it." Trib doesn't look convinced, lifting his shoulders as he moves to find another chair, sprawling in it and facing Parley as he continues to eat. "It'd be tricky," he offers, licking his thumb before wiping it on his jeans. "But you're the boss," he says to Cage. "You tell me what you need me to do, an' I'll do it." He points with his half-hand at Parley. "But I think he's got a point. Could work, but you gotta give it a bit of time, first." "Shit, you're right," Luke says to Parley, though the admission clearly causes him discomfort. "But yeah, I mean, this'll take time to put together anyway. Maybe we try for a couple weeks from now. Either way, I appreciate you guys coming in. See - this is why I gotta not just run off and do shit without talking it out first." Luke goes to take a swig of his coffee, but apparently he finished it and didn't realize. "Ok, well, please eat this stuff. I gotta head home and get cleaned up. I'm gonna close the office for the next couple weeks until things calm down. It's too dangerous for Janice, or any of you to be hangin' around this place. We're kind of a lightning rod." Luke grabs one more sandwich, and heads for the door, pausing there. "Parley, I know you've got your own game. And Trib, you don't owe me nothin'. But both of you - I'm glad you're here. Thanks." And he's through the door, before hugfest 2013 breaks out.