ArchivedLogs:Fwoosh

Fwoosh
Dramatis Personae Ion, Kay, Trib	2013-10-02 '
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. Things are Not Good, after the events of Harlem. Particularly for those associated with Heroes for Hire, which has been on the receiving ends of both spectrums of the issue. It's finally gotten bad enough that the office staff has been reduced to one person working in the early evenings, and that usually is Cage himself. Who probably shouldn't be answering the ever-ringing phone. In fact, it's probably a safe bet that /all/ the employees of Heroes for Hire have been instructed not to be terribly forthcoming. Which probably explains why Trib ignores the phone on Cage's desk as it warbles folornly for attention. Clearly having drawn tonight's watch, the boxer is sitting behind the boss' desk with his booted feet propped up on one corner. Dressed in jeans and utilitarian blue button-down shirt, he doesn't look so much professional as he does like he might be supposed to be cleaning up. Instead of reading the current boxing news on his phone, which is what he's /really/ doing. And still the phone rings. Ring, ring, ring. So sad and ignored. How about answering the door? Because whatever windows might serve for the entrance are filled with two peopleshapes backlit from behind. And KNOCKING? Unless there's a buzzer. The taller of the two figures is well into six feet tall and is crowned with a MASSIVE head of hair - blond, layered and huge like an 80's punk rocker. Red lipstick, blue eye shadow that spans the entire surface area between eyelash and eyeBROW. A black t-shirt with a (modified?) skull and crossbones sits across bony shoulders, sleeves torn off, a black bandana tied around one bicep and spikes encircling a black necklace and armbands. Red-painted fingernails, black leather pants with a /series/ of chains hung off one hip and steel toe boots - all on a kind of long horsey face, LONGER arms and even LONER legs. A tall glass of water, this one. And GRINNING. SILENTLY. The shorter of the pair rings in below average at an unimpressive 5'8", all ropey-hard muscles and a sharp fierce grin to match. Ion has his elbow offered /courteously/ to his companion though it's about there that the elegance ends. Faded bluejeans with a myriad of holes held loosely together by safety pins, a sleeveless but collared black shirt with a bright red tie, a leather jacket worn over top that shines silver with its /wealth/ of spikey studs. Big stompey boots. Ion is less silent; he's humming The Ramones' 'Blitzkrieg Bop'. Like it's /mood/ music. Noise of someone at the door manages to get Trib's attention -- mostly because it happens just as the phone clicks over to send the current call to voicemail. He looks through the office at the door, his brow furrowing lightly as he swings his legs down and pushes to his feet. Tossing his phone on the desk, he cracks his back once before he moves to the door. Swinging it open, he takes a long look at the pair on the doorstep, eyes traveling along both men (the smaller one gets a small and thoughtful narrowing) before raising to meet the grinning one's gaze with an even look. "Can I help you?" /Is/ it a man? If it is, he's gone full drag. It could also just be a horsey woman with squinted upturned eyes, a long narrow forearm looped through hir companion's arm. Though pushing into six feet tall hirself and happy to meet Trib's gaze head on, this individual is all wiry gristle and coathanger shoulders, those cut-off sleeves showing shoulders that have been so hard-tanned by sun they're leathery. "I'd hope so," this voice is pure low contralto, quirking a brow, "That's what Heroes for Hire does, isn't it?" Like a leggy MULE, this one just strides right in, hauling the smaller fellow right along plow-style. Or like a handbag. "/Can/you?" Ion sounds cheerful about this prospect, sauntering in along at his companion's side. "You --" He tilts his head back back back to look up at Trib, dark eyes sizing the man up thoughtfully. "-- Are not Luke Cage." There is no dimming of his smile in this /astute/ observation. "You know the one? Huge? Dark? Shirtless?" Trib grunts, stepping back to let the pair enter. "That's what the boss keeps sayin' at the meetings," he rumbles about helping, closing the door behind them and turning the lock back into place. "He ain't here," is an answer for the identification, and there's a small guffaw at the way /Cage/ is identified. "I think he does that shit on purpose. Losin' his shirt. He probably rips it off himself, half the time." He shrugs, and moves to park his rump on the corner of the orderly desk that serves as reception. Then he's looking again, tipping his head to the side as he studies the two with more leisure. "I'm Trib," he offers, then, jerking the fingers of his half-hand at his chest. "I'm like, his...whatayacallit. Junior detective or some shit." He shifts his weight, and looks like he might be trying to remember something. Something important. And then it hits him, and his eyebrows lift. "You want somethin' to drink?" The taller guest is kind of... awkwardly swaying tight-clad hips in an exaggerated /nance/, limp-wristing their free hand. "Son, you look like you left the days of being 'junior' anything well behind you." This probably was supposed to be said in a high falsetto, especially with the careful lift of hand to fluff at that massive David Bowie hair. But it isn't - it's just flatly with a run of eyes up and down Trib's monstrous form. Also flat and direct is: "You a freak, too?" "I was thinking shirt repellent, yeah?" Ion mimes a spritzing motion with his finger, like spraying perfume onto his -- nipple. Spritz spritz. "Squirt some on, shirts cannot help but they just fall off. I did notice in his last performance though the shirt, it stayed on a whole ten seconds too long. We came here with an offer. Much higher quality shirt repellent than what he's using right now. Shirt not just flying off but --" His fingers blossom open in companion's direction; he makes a small /whooshing/ noise to accompany this. "Totally incinerated. Or your moneys back." Trib's eyes crinkle at the simper, and he chuffs a laugh-like noise. "You ain't the first to notice," he says with a lift of one shoulder. He echoes the chuff at the idea of shirt repellent, and shakes his head. "It wouldn't surprise me none," he says. "I figure it happens often enough." The offer, and the question both get a narrowing of his eyes, and he chews on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Then his chin lowers to his chest. "I've been called worse," he says. "But yeah." Then his brow lowers. "It ain't goin' to be a problem, is it?" Wandering deeper into the office, punkladyRocker!Kay's back is facing Trib for a long drawn out moment. And then slowly turns. The shoulders stop turning before the head does, amber eyes beneath garish blue eye shadow alight on Cage with a steady flashing of teeth, "If I said it was?" "Fwoosh," Ion is contributing IMPORANT BACKDROP to this conversation by demonstratively making shirt-be-gone sounds again, complete with magic-hands towards Kay. Whose shirt is NOT vanishing. Ion looks so disappointed about it, too. Trib's golden gaze is half-lidded, but sharp as he returns the rocker's look evenly. "Well, that's what Heroes for Hire is here for, ain't it?" he says after a long moment, the words rolling like slow thunder deep in his chest. "Helpin' people solve their problems?" "WOOOSH," Kay SAYS, back at Ion. And - no flames claim the beat up shirt currently adorning those bony shoulders; just long arms thrown up to /pantomime/ what this might look like, crimson lips bared back from teeth. Then comes laughter; it's generally deep and flagrant, tossing an arm across the back of Ion's shoulders, "Whatever you say, bro. We'll try back later, see if the big man's around." The... other big man. Ion gets a thump of a fist to the front of his chest then a kind of rowdy 'go-go-go!' push to the back of his neck towards the door. As though the exit were made out of a WATER slide. "We'll be back." This is probably attempting to be in Terminator-voice but Ion's /extant/ Argentinian accent doesn't really lend itself /well/ to this mimicry; in the end it just sounds a little mangled both through accent and through short burst of laughter. "Ohshit, yo, I'm /going/." This assurance carries him out into the street again, one lingering 'FWOOSH' signing them both off. Trib nods at the answer, and shifts his weight off the desk. "Suit yourself. He'll be around in the mornin', most likely." He follows the pair to the door, offering a lift of hand as they disappear down the street. He watches for a long moment after they've rounded a corner, and then pulls back into the office, closing the door firmly and locking it before heading back into Cage's office. He pauses at the door, looking over his shoulder for a long moment. Then he checks the fire extinguishers. Twice.