ArchivedLogs:Dinner Break

Dinner Break
Dramatis Personae Parley, Trib
In Absentia	2013-06-12 Sandwiches.
Location <NYC> Heroes for Hire - Midtown East
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. Early evening, and New York is still firmly in the grip of the anti-mutant hysteria occurring in the wake of Sergeant Whelan's death. Trib, finding himself turned /away/ from his current gym (aka the Y, stating reasons of suspected mutancy due to his malformed right hand), has been at the office since Janice came to unlock the door. He's been a /little/ help, moving files from the cabinets into boxes under the matronly secretary's stern (and keen) eye, and then stacking said boxes neatly near the door. Some have been carried out to a waiting station wagon, possibly Janice's, or borrowed for just this purpose. Currently, Trib is /not/ moving files into boxes. Dressed in jeans and a baseball jersey that strains across his chest, now he is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall with his bare feet slapped down flat on the floor, facing the door as he works his way through the second of two foot-long hoagies with everything. In defiance of city ordinance, he has a two-liter bottle of soda sitting next to him that is clearly for him alone, tucked close as it is. None of this seems to meet with Janice's approval, judging from the dissatisfied sniffing coming from her desk. Being spotted and furred is no way to go through life these days in the city; fortunately, Parley employs both a weak psychic camouflage and a large helping of common sense in his attire on any given day, a high thin gray turtleneck and black slacks, black belt, a few healing /scrapes/ across one cheek from the Evolve debacle. Still -- he skulks, slipping into the office with a low exhale. Aaand, there's a guy on the floor. Somehow, this just /wilts/ Parley's shoulders some, and he walks right past Trib to inspect the boxed, smiling (a small, actually nice smile) a silent greeting to Janice. It's probably Trib he's speaking to, though when he murmurs, "You're one of Mr. Cage's new hires?" Whether Luke told him or not, Parley practically reads his mail, and anything else that passes over the man's desk. "Unfortunate timing. I'm..." flip-flip, he's scanning, "-Parley. His PR representative." When the door opens, Trib's gaze narrows, and his lowers his sandwich to track Parley as he comes into the office. No immediate concern from Janice means that the big man stays seated. Of course, no immediate concern from Janice is pretty much status quo, so he keeps his attention on the smaller man, going back to his sandwich with slow, careful bites. He may not be overly concerned with the paper wrapped around it, biting through that absently. When the man speaks to him, Trib's head tilts slightly so that he can view the man more carefully. There's a slow rake of his golden gaze up along Parley's form, and he nods. "Retribution Jones," he grunts, and wipes his half-hand on his pants before jabbing it forward, probably for shaking. "You can call me Trib." At the man's title, Trib snorts a laugh, and pokes his tongue into his lower lip. "He fuckin' needs one," he says in an amused rumble, his eyes crinkling slightly. "He's a" << (Cocky fucker)(good guy)(tough) >> "fuckin' PR nightmare." This gets an actual laugh from Janice, although her expression seems unchanged when anyone looks in her direction. "Are you going to be better, then?" Mild challenge? Absent hopefulness? Nimble taunt? Gentle /defense/ of Luke Cage? Parley stands with his back mostly to Trib, weight positioned to one hip to allow his free foot to idly hook around the back of an ankle - he's turned at the waist enough, though, and at the shoulders more, to appraise Trib over a shoulder with a long look down his form. Him. AND his sandwich. Trib snorts a laugh, and drops his hand. "Naw. I'm a different kind of nightmare." Which, surprisingly, is a well-held truth for the big man. A stark appraisal of himself that comes with barely a ripple of emotion across the relative stillness of his mind. His gaze lingers on Parley's odd way of standing before it slides up to catch the smaller man's eyes. "What about you?" he asks, eyebrows lifting. "You gonna make /him/ better? With well-placed stories in the news?" "I think keeping out of the news will hurt him less, for the moment," Parley admits, his eyes moving to Janice as she rises from her seat, pulling her purse across her shoulders. She gives either young man a brisk, stiff-lipped nod, opens her mouth at the door... then just turns, no nonsense, and heads out for the car. Not likely to be back until this storm is over. "...and anyway. I don't think I have it in me to make anyone into a better man." Parley resumes steadily, slipping behind Janice's desk to flip through a drawer he seems to have more than a passing familiarity with. "What variety of nightmare will you be for me then, Mr. Jones?" Trib lifts a hand at Janice's back, smirking a bit at the woman's lack of good-bye but otherwise taking it in stride. There's an odd fondness he has for her method of dealing with Cage and the business that surges through him in a gentle swell. When she's gone, he shifts his attention back to Parley, watching him go through the desk with a twinge of suspicion. "You just make 'em /look/ better, huh?" Another bite of sandwich that's chewed thoughtfully, the smirk returning at the question. "Cops hate me," he says, swallowing and reaching for his soda. "Like that's anything new, these days." He takes a long pull from his bottle, and sets it back down with a belch. "But I ain't any /particular/ nightmare, unless you're boxing promoter." His eyes crinkle at the edges. "Which you ain't," he notes. "You seem a little quiet for a PR guy, too." Then he's lifting his chin in a jerk. << (Who is this guy?) >> "So what kind of nightmare are you bringin' to the party, Mister Parley?" "I don't deal in nightmares," Parley says blankly, reading one of the paper's he's withdrawn, brows pulling together. He turns the paper over to look at the hand-written note on the back. "Nor illusions, for that matter. Public relations is the art of knowing what to draw attention to, Mr. Jones." He glances up, "And when. Are most PR representatives you've met loud?" "Not loud, necessarily," Trib says, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, searching for stray bits of sandwich that need dislodging. "But they ain't as quiet as you seem to be. The ones I've met have all been glad-handing back-slappers." His disdain for sycophancy is enough to churn the stillness of his mind, a bit. His tongue proves a less than effective tool, so he wedges a finger in his mouth, loosening whatever it is before pulling it out and wiping it on his pants. "Usually, though, they're just tryin' to determine where to put the knife." Then his attention is back on Parley, eyes narrowing speculatively as that suspicion bubbles up a bit. "You good at avoidin' attention, Mister Parley?" "I don't often seek it out," Parley sets the paper down, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. He cups his chin, negligently subjecting Trib to further study, "That -- sounds like the opposite of what an effective PR approach would be, then. What is it that you do here? You're a boxer?" Trib barks a laugh. "Well, maybe. I don't know much about it, other than to keep my mouth shut around reporters." He rolls his shoulders, his own study of Parley less laconic. The question gets a nod. "Was. Getting back into it." He waves a hand at the door to Luke's office. "Cage took me on as a bodyguard and general muscle, though." Which seems appropriate, to him. Then, a sudden pop of ripples on the pond as a thought surfaces; a bold spear of odd loyalty that is startling to Trib. "He's a good guy. His heart's a bit soft, but he's one of the good ones." "There's more to it than that," Parley admits, sighing and rising to his feet. "It's a fair start, though." The ripple washing through Trib regarding their employer earns a tip of head, as he tucks a few papers into an envelope, "But. I need to make some copies before Staples burns down." See, he /can/ make a joke. Or. Employ sarcasm, in the mildest of voices. "It was good to meet you, Mr. Jones." He heads for the door. The side of Trib's mouth lifts in a small grin. "Hey, I'm just the muscle. I let the talent do the talking." He watches the smaller man get to his feet, and follows suit, pushing to his full height and rolling his shoulders. The joke gets a snort that might be amused, but the set of the man's face is anything but. "It was good meetin' you, too, Mister Parley," he says, jerking his chin towards his chest. "You be careful out there," he rumbles as he leans against Janice's desk. scratching at his chin. "I'd tell you to keep your head down, but I'm guessin' you're pretty good at that." It might be a tease; he certainly seems amused as he lifts his half-hand in good-bye before he stands back up and moves towards the filing cabinets. Looks like his dinner break is over.