ArchivedLogs:Fixing the Tree

Fixing the Tree
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Jennifer, Masque	2013-05-28 Murphy sees a man about a tree. Deals with Jennifer.
Location <NYC> Common Ground Clinic - Clinton
A dingy waiting room with a line of rickety chairs, a small glass table with a set of permanently out-of-date magazines, a set of plastic holding racks with a number of informational pamphlets about STIs and partner abuse. This place is not, to be sure, the most cheerful on earth, but for many of its clientele it is the best they have. The Common Ground Clinic's staff provides free and low-cost medical care on a sliding scale to many of Manhattan's poorest residents, without checking for insurance, immigration status or many other things that bar entry for many of them to traditional medical care. There is counselling available, too, and once a week social workers to help people find resources for getting on their feet. The wait times are long, but the volunteer staff here is dedicated (if always overworked.) It's been several days since a particularly strange-looking bunch of patients came into the clinic, and most, by now, have once more left. Among them was Masque, one of the fussier patients in that he refused to be /helped/ once he'd woken up. Intravenous therapy refused. Painkillers refused. Occasional help from someone with a healing ability refused. Even food was ignored at first, until they'd found offering packaged foods garnered them a slightly higher success rate. He hadn't spoken, save for when he felt it necessary to tell people NOT to do things. Needless to say, he hadn't been the most popular of guests. Today should be a happy day, then! Because Masque, he has decided, is /leaving/. He's hauled himself into some boots, old slacks and a shirt he was provided with, and is once more in possession of his heavy, red coat. Which obscures both his wiry frame and most of his injuries, except for scarred hands (one of which still in a cast) and a still warped side of his face. Though, to be fair, only bout /half/ of that is actual injuries, the rest is just what his face /looks like/. His hood is down, still, back hunched. As he attempts to take his leave, one of the staff members, a woman not far into her twenties, follows him dutifully. "You really shouldn't," She states, warily eyeing the man. His injuries may mostly be covered up, but he's still walking decidedly less than smoothly, /dragging/ one foot forward while the other elicits twitches of his facial features upon every other step. But pained though he may look, he is equal parts determined. "Fuck off." Sadlly, not equal parts eloquent. The timing of the rescue efforts coincided neatly with the timing of her suspension. Jennifer's schedule suddenly became a whole lot more flexible, and that meant not only more time could be dedicated to resume pursuing a lawyer's career, but also helping others. The redhead would visit the clinic at least once a day, making sure to help with matters both trivial and severe, although the former rarely escalated to the latter, fortunately. Today, the redhead has actually abandoned the attire in which she's been helping others out, which was a nurse's uniform. As the patients slowly trickle outdoors and more of them recover, Jennifer Walters has once again reverted to her casual outfit, which today is a pair of jeans, a pair of white running shoes and a plain white T-shirt. Upon hearing the gravel-bound cussing within sufficiently close proximity, Jennifer perks up and wrinkles her nose in disapproval. To her would-be colleague - one who is already sighing as she recognises Masque's voice - Jennifer murmurs softly with a headtilt, "Give me a moment." The rubber gloves are quickly discarded, and the volunteer marches towards the source of the conflict. Once Masque is in her view, she stops at a distance that is safe. Or, at least, safe /enough/. "What /now/," she huffs, crossing her arms. The two may be rather close to the reception and thus the exit, but there is now a Jennifer in the way. Somewhere around the front entrance, there is a ruckus. "Sir, if you'll just sign in on this--" WHUMP. Clatter. THWACK. "--this is a non-smoking area, SIR--" SHOVE. And now, with a harried clinic attendant in pursuit, there is a MURPHY LAW arriving on scene. Clad in his classic white shirt, black tie, black wool coat -- and arm-braced cane. Click, click, click. With a scowl that could wilt daffodils at thirty paces. Just, /glaring/ at -- not Jennifer. Oh, no. His eyes are moving past her and toward Masque. Unlit cigarette between his lips. "You're up," Murphy says, talking past Jennifer and toward Masque. "Good. You got a date with a tree." If there has ever been anyone not impressed with there being a Jennifer in the way, it's Masque. He proceeds forward, painstakingly slow but without intention of stopping. The look he shoots her is one of boredom, slowly screwing into annoyance. He opens his mouth, sneering around both crooked, yellowed teeth and /gaping holes/ where there should be more, only to be interrupted by Murphy causing a similar ruckus. "Excuse me, sir-" The woman following Masque interjects, lifting a hand in protest, "he really shouldn't even be out of /bed/." NOW, the red-coated man speaks, his attention snapping towards her like a cobra preparing to strike. Just maybe a slightly /crippled/ cobra. But only to glare, apparently. His attention slips to Murphy, next, scowl still on his face. He grates, somewhat uncertainly, "... Tree ain't man enough to ask me to the prom in person?" An angry sigh leaves Jennifer's chest. Although she glares at Masque, her true annoyance has now been neatly divided between Masque and the bothersome stranger barging into the clinic behind her. The redhead lazily looks over her shoulder towards Murphy, eyeing him appraisingly. Eventually, her eyes settle on the unlit cigarette. "Light that thing and you're signing in here as a patient," she warns him. Masque is not spoken to, but rather spoken /of/, again at Murphy: "He's not going anywhere. He so much as puts on a hat and he'll get another conscussion. He's not in a state to move." The last word is exceptionally enunciated, and it is here that Jennifer turns to look to Masque again, attempting to stare him down like a lion. "Looks fine to me," Murphy announces, against Jennifer's complaint, eyeing those missing gaps in Masque's teeth. He /doesn't/ move to light his cigarette, but -- if her threat phased him, he doesn't seem to show it. "Tree got himself planted. You're gonna help me put it right," Murphy informs Masque. Currently, the only thing between these two people seems to be Jennifer. Murphy gives the woman a look-over -- just one -- as if assessing. Once he's done, he turns right back to Masque. "After we're done, I'll even drop you off wherever the fuck you want. You even know what part of the /city/ you're in, gorgeous?" Masque's posture plays a part in the fact that he has to look /up/ at Jennifer, but he does not angle his head to do so, staring dryly back at her from under half-lidded eyes (his left moreso than the right), brow low. A hat, you say. He reaches hands upward to his neck, then /flips/ his hood up and over his head with a less-than-smooth movement of aching hands. His eyes narrow from under the red rim. Where's my concussion, huh. "The part that's prone t'kidnapping." He answers, guttural voice helping relay little but the fact that he's /had it/ with this place. Though... a little pulse of uncertaintly manages to push through into his next few words, aimed at either of the individuals though his eyes fail to leave Jennifer's. "-- ... I'm assumin' by 'city', you mean New York." There is an irksome little tisk that escapes Jennifer, but this time she decides not to lose track of Masque, or perhaps she just consciously makes the decision to not acknowledge Murphy currently. Still, she addresses the man behind her, even as she looks ahead to the unwilling patient. "I'm going to take a wild guess and say you don't have a medical degree." When Masque decides to illustrate the point that a hat would not grant him a conscussion, Jennifer exchanges her 'don't you dare' face card to one that says 'good job'. A patronising sneer is the highlight of this reaction, soon followed by the rolling of eyes and a sigh. Her features soften further still when Masque voices his uncertainty in regards to which city he is in. "Yes, you're in New York," she tells the hooded man. Turning halfway to look to Murphy again, she inquires wearily, "What does he have to do with Jim?" "New York? You poor sonofabitch. You're in fuckin' /Albuquerque/," Murphy announces to Masque, never missing a beat. The scowl does not so much as /flicker/ when he makes this pronouncement. "Naw, I'm just fucking with you. Yeah, you're still in this fucking shithole." To Jennifer, Murphy's response is quick -- sharp -- and abrupt. Eyes never leaving Masque. This shit right here, it's like a goddamn STAND-OFF of ASSHOLES. None of them willing to budge. "He fucked 'em up," is his reply. "He can help me un-fuck 'em." Then: "By the way, pretty sure your green ass could leave me eatin' food through a tube here for a few months -- but I'm also pretty goddamn sure it'd cost you a fuckin' eyeball," Murphy announces, wiggling his thumb, as if to demonstrate. "Just to be /clear/." Though Masque's initial outward response to apparently being in Albuquerque is one of questionable existence, he /does/ see fit to glower at Murphy for admitting he isn't, actually, telling the truth. Good job, /whoever you are/. Good job. "You both fuckin' chairmen'a little Jimmy's fanclub? 'Cause I've been meaning to find the walking shrub." He mutters skeptically, the very personification of ill-groomed displeasure, from under the hood and between broken teeth. But it's becoming clearer that he's increasingly unsteady on his feet, and he shifts his weight onto his other leg with a brief contraction of the muscles in the good side of his face. Ngh. Somewhat more stable again. "How's about I wait outside while you ladies fight over which one'a ya gets to keep me." He takes one step toward Jennifer, quite likely right into a personal bubble. He dishes out exactly zero damns. "Did he?" Jennifer mostly keeps her attention on Masque, although she cranes her neck in Murphy's direction. There is a brief pause, and then the redhead stands so that one side faces the intruder, and the other faces the patient. Battle stance, go. "Okay, then. First off, before anyone's going anywhere, I would like to have your full name," she tells Murphy. Despite the firm demand, the woman sounds more weary and annoyed that outright mad. Her demeanour slips further into the depths of dented nonchalance when Murphy makes his idle threat. At that, she merely half-sneers, half-smirks, tilting her head sideways. "I don't... think you can reach that high, unless you brought stilts." Masque's approach is noted, although Jennifer refuses to budge just yet. "Brought a cane," Murphy fires back, waving -- well, a /cane/. "That count?" GLARE. Just in case. "Murphy Law. And yes, I /know/. And you ain't going -- Jesus fuck," Murphy says to Masque, just -- /swinging/ that cane in his vague direction. "You can't even fucking walk. Th'fuck is wrong with you? You look at yourself in a mirror? You look like shit." He swings that glare back over to Jennifer, then. "If you got /that/ big of a hard-on for the tree, why don't you come, too? We can all go and have hard-ons for the tree. Together." This plan. It's a perfect plan. So says Murphy. "I'm walkin' it off." Masque replies dryly, words a slow trickle past scratchy throat. That swinging cane is eyed like it's the /enemy/, and the castless one of his bony hands promptly reaches to GRAB and pull at it, like a teacher might pull the scissors out from a running toddler's hands. Can't responsibly handle a cane? Then you don't get one AT ALL. Gimme that. "Wh-- I-- /What/?" Error, error, system malfunction. Jennifer is left hopelessly confused when Murphy implies she has a 'hard-on' for the 'tree'. Slowly shaking her head, her face goes through surprise, confusion, discovery, confusion, frustration and then straight back to confusion again. In the end, she just stares at the cane. Maybe it has the answer. Masque's further advancement is thus largely ignored. It looks like she's completely forgot all the warnings she's been given regarding the man's ability. It's not until one of the nurse's calls out her name that she stirs back to life. "Right. Murphy Law." Rebooting systems. "Sure, I'll come." Furrowing her brows, she eyes Masque with renewed appraisal. "That way if he collapses, you don't have to be the one carrying him around, and I'll be there to remind him he could be in a warm bed. Where is Jim?" "In a garden. In the city. Planted his ass," Murphy informs Jennifer, JUST as Masque has succeeded in wresting that cane away from the detective. He puts up a bit of a fight; it's a /damn/ good cane. But in the end, Masque looks like he needs it a lot more than Murphy. Also, maybe if he's got a cane, he'll hit people with /that/ rather than with -- well, his bare palms. Then, to Masque, as Murphy's weight shifts over to his good foot. "C'mon, pretty-boy. You patch him up, I'll even treat you to Denny's. You like Denny's, right. 'Course you do." He limps on after Masque, toward the exit.