ArchivedLogs:Have You Seen This Kid?

Have You Seen This Kid?
Dramatis Personae Jim, Jennifer	2013-05-04 Jennifer is worried about Peter already. So much, in fact, that she hires a PI.
Location <NYC> IHOP - Bronx
Pancakes. Not the greatest pancakes, but it's two a.m., you're probably drunk, and they're available all night long. Over the course of a handful of conversation, Jim's form of address shifted progressively from "Ma'am" to "Ms. Walters" and down the tubes straight to "/Listen/, lady." It's difficult to get your finger on the pulse of his temper, where he seems to rather /enjoy/ being pissed off, and an exchange of tirades has proceeded with a level of gayety. No brook he's sought has been given, Jennifer firmly pushing, pushing, so 'Kid missing for less than twenty four hours? Maybe I'll pencil you in sometime next week' evolved to 'Maybe I can squeeze you in monday' until... It's Saturday afternoon and Jim is sitting in a daytime International House of Pancakes with a disgruntled frown, not entirely sure how he ended up here. Dressed in a pink and blue hawaiian shirt with his hair held off his face with a pair of sunglasses that serve as a headband, he's lounging against the corner of his seat, arm draped over the table top to loosely keep a handle of his coffee cup - glancing out the window idly at the great outdoors. Where you can smoke. The usual selection of urban bustling noises outside of IHOP are drowned out by the gradual introduction of a mighty roar of a bike engine. It is easy to determine that the rider is parking; the engine sputters a few lingering protests like a beast that's only half-tamed. Eventually, the everyday noises return to prominence, and the leather-clad rider of the motorbike dismounts the steel stallion. Even as she enters into the pancake place, Jennifer is still wearing her helmet. The motorcycle rider is wearing a black leather jacket, dark blue jeans and a pair of ankle-high boots hidden beneath the denim fabric, sporting a modestly high heel. The fancy jacket is unzipped, revealing a white T-shirt that mimics the British message of KEEP CALM, except beneath it says CALL YOUR LAWYER. After that, the helmet is taken off, revealing flowing locks of fiery hair and an ambivalent expression of relief. This might as well be played in slow motion. And what comes next might as well be playing at double the speed. It's a mere instant before Jennifer spots where Jim is seated and strides over. The helmet is carelessly thunk'd unto the table, likely shaking any items unfortunate enough to share the same surface. As the seat opposite of Jim Morgan is claimed, the redhead eyes the table with mild annoyance and some degree of cruel amusement. "You could have at least ordered me coffee, never mind some /food/." What happened to hellos these days? Jim is sitting there with his mouth hung open - just a /tiny/ bit when the motorcycle-riding /ginger/ invades the diner, his eyes fixed in a /squint/ that he defaults to instead of flat-out staring. Luckily, very little gets in the way of his snark-reflex, and he asks behind his coffee cup, "Why. You buying?" The woman snarks back almost immediately. "Very funny", she barks back with a grin, trying to make herself comfortable on the criminally uncomfortable chair. While one hand digs into one of the inside pockets of her jacket, another aims to attract the attention of a waitress. And yet her eyes are set on the middle-aged private investigator. "Am I going to have to listen your comments the entire meeting? Y'know, if you want to work weekdays only, you could always be serving pancakes /here/." The fingers digging inside the pocket catch something. But Jennifer delays actually drawing the item out, instead waiting an employee to approach her to make her order. Surprise washes over the waitress's face; Jen stifles most of hers, but she definitely looks pleasantly caught off guard. The hand slips free and empty from the pocket. "Mat", the redhead coos with a wide toothy grin. "Oh my /God/", the worker is positively beaming. "Scratch that, make that a /holy shit/. Where have you run off to, /Shulkie/?" "Europe. Court's not the place for me. I kind of miss it, /but/..." The vowel in that last word is drawn out as she trails off. Jim happens to be stuck in the middle of this overly sugary reunion. Just his luck. "I teach, now. Mutant kids. Some of them nice, most of them make me want to go on a rampage." For some reason, /that/ is extraordinarily funny to Matilda. Should Jim pay attention to the news, he might just understand why. Not that it would make the joke any funnier. "Anyway, Mat, since the gentleman here is a cheapskate-- Mind getting me strawberry pancakes and a cup of cappuccino?" "Sir would like you to have strawberry pancakes and cappuccino? Coming /up/." Before Jim can even say anything, the waitress zooms away. Jennifer looks to the man apologetically, a single brow raised, as if to say it's not her fault. Oh god, /women/. Jim's a two-time divorcee, he's well acquainted with the ways of reunion, and he bears out the process with his coffee and a shrewd back-and-forth flick of eyes between the two ladies, glad enough they're not squealing and embracing. Jim is indeed a news man, and it settles a longer look at the end on Jennifer's face. "/You're/ popular. What'sa story there?" He jerks a head after the departing waitress. Regardless of whether he keeps up with current events, he has a preference for from-the-/source/ information. Now that his company has /arrived/ he settles more leisurely into his seat, back against the wall and legs pulled up to drape over the length of his side of the booth seat, watching little mannerisms in mid-day eaters. Little old ladies with shaky hands and quick business lunchers frequently checking their phones for the time, mostly. While his eyes are occupied he's adding, "And you don't want me workin' in a place like this, I burn /water/ when I boil it." He's getting dangerously low on coffee. The depleted interior of his cup is /narrow-eyed/ at. "Matilda and I went to the same school together. She was one of the few friends who got over the fact I was-- Y'know." The implied ending to that story is told via a shrug and rolled eyes. "Even asked me to beat up her beau at one point. She has a good sense of humor. We tried our best to keep in touch over the years. Especially when she found out I was She-Hulk. Get it? She-Hulk, /Shulkie/? It's--" 'Stupid' is the word that comes to mind. That is why Jennifer just sighs dismissively. "Look, this isn't a date", she reminds Jim with a friendly sneer. That hand digs into that same pocket, this time summoning its target much quicker. It's a sizeable print of a blurry photograph of a known terrorist, the creatively named Spider-Dude, flinging himself through the air. "I hope you're following the news better than the impression you're giving me. Know who this is? Because it is who you will be looking for." Joining half the states, no doubt. This fits the bill of all those noir stories about long-legged dames and off-the-wall cases. The bright sunshine outside was ruining the mood, though. The far side of Jim's slanted mouth twitches up, "Shulkie." He'll buy that. The cornerwise grin falls off into a grim hyphen line when the picture is shown to him, his faded-blue eyes narrowed and bearing nothing visible. But the way he only passingly looks at the picture before looking away communicates easily enough he didn't /need/ to take a long look to recognize it. "I might." Know who it is, that is. There pleasantries of first face-meeting are gone, it's all castiron now and inward speculation. Possibly he's procrastinating, but at this point he flags down a waiter - /not/ their actual waitress but try telling him that, because he's already hammering out, "I get a coffee refill? And uh, a plate of bacon. Thanks." The waiter gives him a look over his shoulder as he wanders off. Finally, Jim rolls his head towards Jennifer, "...you already try the usual spots? Family. Friends." He glances at Jennifer's eyes, unblinking, "--school?" A polite smile is offered to the waiter. It's not until the two receive relative privacy that Jennifer answers his questions. Right after this message. "Okay, time out", she notes with furrowed brows. "Know why I don't like working with you types? It's all /mights/ and /maybes/. I am not paying you for that, understand? The cigarettes you're going to be shoving in your mouth to indulge in your juvenile noir detective fantasy will be paid for out of/ my/ pocket, so I expect a /little/ bit of professionalism." A determined huff follows. /There/, it seems to say. Her voice is then rendered quieter, a feat that, given her temper, might be considered colossal. "He's a student at the school I mentioned to the waitress. Family called us this morning, said he didn't come home last night. He's not a party-goer or a rebellious sort of teen. Reason why I showed you the picture first was so you could understand that any minute that goes by with him missing might as well mean he bit off more than he could chew. That boy has way too much idealism in his head." "Obviously, I can't approach the police with this", she admits with rife annoyance to be found in her otherwise soft voice. "Not only do I risk exposing him as a terrorist early on, I will be laughed out for trying to look for a kid that's been missing for less than twenty four hours. Besides, you probably know us lawyer types by now - we prefer hands-on men like you. Men who, after annoying the hell out of us with their smoke-puffing hard exterior, get the job done. Discreetly." Finally, the ordered strawberry cakes and cappuccino arrive. "There you go, sweetie." Matilda's words drip with honey. That is not so when she addresses Jim, "I'll add that to your bill, sir." With that bitterly announced, Mat wanders off. Jennifer looks away uncomfortably, pretending that didn't happen. Jim doesn't even seem to be paying attention - is he watching that woman over there's ass as she pulls her spring coat on and dons her purse for departure? Mayyybe. He doesn't look terribly impressed with it, though. And abruptly talks right over her initial tirade, "Lady, guys like me are good at our jobs 'cause we /work/ on maybe's. I don't know you from fucking Eve - consider this my /vetting/ process. I'm not coughing up what I know to every joker that flashes a grainy photo at me. And /that/ kid?" He turns abruptly in his seat, hunkering over the table to flick a hand at Jennifer's photograph, "Is a -" Shit, pancakes. Hunkered over like a junkyard dog, Jim /eyeballs/ Mat right back with his mouth loosely hanging open, dead-eyed slack-jawed mouth-breathing. They're getting along /swimmingly/. Once she's gone he resumes /right/ where he left off, in a raspy hiss-mutter in their private corner, "-that kid is a walking /security/ breach in more ways'n maybe even you know. We're not even talking about who he is or where he's /schooling/ here, right? Just..." Fffff, he scrubs a hand at the back of his head, his bacon arriving now. He doesn't seem to at first notice, save the blind hand that falls upon the plate to eat it with his bare hand. "A'right." That's all it really comes down to. Just that word. "I'll take the case." A crooked sneer is firmly planted on Jennifer's lips as her tirade is answered with Jim's own. If the interjection 'ugh' ever received an illustration in any sort of book, nothing could do it greater justice than a picture of Jennifer's current facial expression. And yet it slowly attains a certain level of acceptance and acknowledgement. As soon as those two traits sneak in, however, the woman quickly discards them and lowers her gaze to her meal, which is when a more neutral expression is painted across her visage. This morning was so busy that she's skipped breakfast. Hungry as she is, she digs right in. "Okay", she relents, as simply as that. After taking a bite of her scrumptious pancakes, she frees a single hand to point in the general direction of the photograph Jim has claimed for himself, all while the private eye complains about the teen being a security breach. That gesture of hers precedes nothing, as if that in itself somehow leads to further information. After she is free to speak again, her hands busy to cut another neat slice of lunch. "First off, you're the one picked this place. You do know it's typical for a man of your profession to have his own office, right? Secondly--" With a bit of pancake impaled on her fork, she lowers the utensil to the side of the plate. Her green eyes rise up to inspect Jim. She may not be in the same line of work, but hers similarly involves reading people. "You will take it? Just like that?" Ever so slightly inclining her head back in disbelief, she squints at Jim. "Explain." "Let's say we got some mutual friends, sweetheart," Jim answers grimly, his cheek pouched out around the current bacon hunk he's cyclically chewing like a cud - only /rapidly/. Chewchew/chew/. "Why would I wanna office? Just another god damn place I'd have to put my name on and /pay/ for. There's food here and," he gestures to the plates set out before them, "I don't gotta do /clean up/ this way. Fuck dishes." That pancake would probably be enjoyed to a greater extent if not for her company. Regardless, another two mouthfuls are devoured with great pleasure before she considers a reply. The fork rings as it hits the side of her plate. Dainty digits clasp around the cup's handle, lifting it off the saucer. "And every time you make an appointment, you risk exposure. But hey-- At least you don't have to do dishes, right?" A derogatory smirk is flashed at Jim. "How old are you?" Much needed coffee is delicately sipped before the cup returns to the saucer. Afterwards, that hand ruffles her loosely worn red hair before brushing it aside. The pancake meets the fork and knife once more. "I'm starting to regret this already." The next few words are preceded by a burdensome sigh. "I'm also starting to see how you came so highly recommended by Sarah. She always had a thing for the gruff, wrinkly, hard-boiled types." A piece of syrup-slathered pancake pauses in mid-air. Jennifer fixes her eyes on Jim again. "When can I expect any sort of update?" "Listen, ginger," Jim keeps this special put-upon voice for critical clients that pull the /why don't you get an office/ card, "you got a problem?" His hands fall open? "Find another guy. I don't beg for work. You don't feel comfortable, not one's twisting your arm making you. But if this kid's missing, I got a lotta guys to call around the city to get the word out." God dammit, he has a perfectly good rage simmering, tearing his bacon in half and then shoving both halves into his mouth when Jennifer has to mention a former client, dragging him abruptly back to -- "Rgh, Sarah? How's she been?" It's enough of a derailment to give him pause, pulling his sunglasses off the top of his head and running fingers through his hair. And answering as though already perfectly damn-well aware she's going to hire him, "I can update you often as you want but generally first few days're the most packed - you wanna what, 8am and an 8pm status call?" Jennifer is deceptively still and silent while Jim vents his frustrations. In lieu of a response, the fiery haired client is enjoying her lunch. This place might not be one of the fanciest, but she's always enjoyed the food here. Coffee could be better, though. Her appreciation of food is readily apparent, because by the time Jim's done, her plate's already half-empty. Jen's a quick eater. "Sarah's fine. She's still the typical lawyer that's the butt of every Sunday newspaper joke. A total bitch in court, but a valuable friend outside of it." It doesn't come across as an insult - both of them know this mutual acquaintance takes pride in her roughness. Not much else is said on the matter. Instead, Jennifer rewinds to address an earlier issue, momentarily leaving her lunch aside to point an accusatory finger at the man lifting his sunglasses up. "You /are/ hired, but take that tone with me again, your arms and legs will switch places, understand? You bark when I /tell/ you to bark, and if you misbehave, I'm getting out the muzzle." Her tone is more whimsical than downright commanding or patronising; there is even a hint of a grin on those painted lips of hers. The combination of that expression and her tone make it evident she's not going to resort to violence. Her hands return to the utensils. "Shoot me an e-mail or a text message with your plans each morning - where you plan to go, who you plan to question, that sort of thing. Names, addresses. Then call me at 8 PM and inform me what you've got. Sound fair?" "Hot momma, you gonna take me for walks an' give me treats if I'm good, too?" Jim is kinda-sorta grinning back, if drolly from behind his raising coffee cup. "Mh. Some of my contacts aren't gonna be too keen on me tossing their names around. But I'll give you this - I'll tell you what /neighborhood/ I'm heading for, an' I'll tell you what places I've crossed /off/ the list, soon as I get them. Right?" Coffee-slurp. "/If/ you're good", the woman makes sure to stress. What could have escalated into a conflict is quickly disarmed by inappropriate jokes by the two. "Right." Jennifer acknowledges the unwillingness to cough up the names or the addresses. It was frankly predictable, which is why the redhead doesn't push further, instead respecting unspoken traditions. This isn't the first time she has hired a private eye, as unwilling as she would be to admit that. "Any chance you can add your /intent/, though? I mean, informing me what kind of angle are you exploring, or would /that/ be asking too much, too?" Jim's response would be interrupted the very second he'd begin to speak. Jennifer leans forward a mere inch or two, donning a look of sheer concern. "That kid's important, Jim", she notes, already resorting to first names. Her voice lowers to nearly a whisper. "I know you probably hear this from every single client, but this isn't just another case. He is a naive kid too young to play hero. We're adults, we know what it means to scrape up shit life throws at us. The least we can do for kids like him is delay acquiring that knowledge for another day, break it to them softly instead of letting Fate sucker punch them." Okay, /now/ she's playing the part of the worried damsel. Or worse, /camp MOM/. Jim is making an unhappy face, frowning professionally while drumming his thumb on the tabletop. His head is turned to the side, looking out the window, chin shoved forward as he measured Jennifer's requests against the Default NO he tends to carry around in his back pocket for just such (any) occasion. Like a hook slipping off a catch, you can set your watch by his moment of acquiescence, bouldered-up shoulders easing with a /force/ of air through his nose. "Yealright. Don't know the kid well myself. But I know his circles. I'ma guess you already got the ends covered at school? Dorm mates? Counselors? Uh - checked the woods, dragged the lake?" If there was any doubt up to now whether he knew what all Xavier's really is, he can draw a map next. He taps a fingertip along the tabletop in a steady path, "So next I'll look in with his non-school friends; I know where /some/ of hang out, maybe they'll have ideas for other. I'll see about getting them t'check in with places where a, uh - kid /like him/ might wash up if he got hurt. You say he went missing Friday night?" After Jennifer straightens in the chair, the pancake is stabbed with the fork more than once. "Look, I've told you", she starts half-angrily. "He's been missing for less than twenty four hours, I don't want to kick up a--" Hold it. The fork freezes inside the last bit of pancake. Jennifer looks up at Jim, utterly confused. "--storm." Woods? Lake? Not every school can boast those. In fact, Jen only knows of one. Her gem-like eyes watch that fingertip being tapped along the table. The woman falls silent, digesting the newly risen implications. "Yes, Friday night is when his guardians called the police", she finally speaks up. "They called us this morning. I'm keeping this to myself until Monday. As far as I can tell, he almost never misses classes unless it's for a very good reason." With that out of the way, Jennifer furrows her brows and curves a single corner of her lips upwards. "I'm starting to think I was wrong about you. But that mysterious maverick act is /still/ annoying." The next question is fired shortly afterwards, and her words once again approach the whispering range. "Do you think the news would say if he got snatched by the FBI?" "And that hardass city bitch act is /hot/." Is Jim trying to insult Jennifer or compliment her there? He claps his hands together and /rubs/ them, either in anticipation or to gain a little friction warmth in the overblown diner air conditioning. "I doubt it. The whole FBI bit's a farce. The kid's got information enough in him those desk jockeys wouldn't want him on trial any more than we would. I got a guy that can look into it, maybe." He wields his 'maybe' this time with deliberate intention, his grin going from 'crooked New York smirk' to 'Shit-Eater-Grin' while he reaches across the table to /nab/ a piece of food off Jennifer's plate. Or attempt to. "I'm asking when he went missing 'cause the next place I'll be looking's gonna be disaster hotspots. Kid's got a hardon for heroism. He could be stuck under some collapsed building as we speak. This satisfying you yet, lady? I can foreplay investigating all day." Be it a compliment or insult, Jennifer does not seem to agree with Jim's assessment whatsoever. At least she react to it in a peculiar way, in a manner that actually disagrees with act the investigator's pegged. Those eyelashes are a-flutter and her chin droops a little bit. "I'm... not a hardass", she protests. "/Or/ a bitch." Well, at least the city part is correct, seeing as she does not rush to disprove that, too. The last yet fairly sizeable piece of pancake is still impaled by the fork, enjoying its last moments of life. "Y-yeah. Do look into it", she murmurs as the suggestion is extended to her. The hand that snakes towards her plate is observed casually although with a growing sneer. Once it is close enough, her right hand - that which is flanking the plate - darts forward, grabbing Jim's hand by all four fingers. The grip is firm and uncomfortable, but it's not really painful. Yet. Jennifer isn't keen on letting go, though. Jim will see his own shit-eating grin on the woman's own lips. Unfortunately, it doesn't last long. The mention of debris and Peter being stuck beneath is a woeful mistake. That is when the grip would tighten like a vice with just enough regard to prevent breaking anything. "If that is the case, /you/ are going to be the one digging him out of there." The human hand is a curious construction of powerful long-stretched sinew, muscle, delicate blood vessels, veins and graceful narrow bones fitted artfully beneath a sleeve of skin. When compressed, this confederation of networked anatomy can fold over, fold up, bundle together underneath the sheath of flesh in rather liquid shiftings. This is not so with Jim's hand. Or it isn't, after a moment. Once pressure goes beyond /casual/, his skin can be felt growing hard and firm, yet more /limber/, as a sapling tree trunk, green and bending, it withstands Jennifer's grip without protest - even tenderly tapping his thumb on top of Jennifer's fingers as though they were a couple holding hands over the table. It only gets worse when he laps his free hand on top of hers. His own makes no pressure. It just goes pat-pat! Like he's reassuring her. "Sweetheart, you wanna hold my hand, you just gotta say. But if you're tryin' to do anything else, we gotta problem." Pat. "I'll look for your boy. A'right? No promises." He then /tugs/ to get his hand back, shifting in his seat to make it /snooty/, too. The tugging won't be necessary, because that hand is tossed back the moment it hardens up, like it was some unwanted rubbish. The patronising pat hardly motivates her to keep it, too. Before she throws it back to Jim, however, Jennifer actually takes a moment to double-take and try to understand why the knuckles aren't cracking under pressure. Great, a mutant. Well, at least it means this PI comes with a built-in bulletproof vest. The final pancake is angrily shoved past her lips, where it is chewed with spite to match her scowl. The fork jangles as it hits the plate noisily when she is done. "I'll be waiting for your first call /tonight/", she informs the guy. Next, she digs into another pocket of her jacket, drawing out a thin leather wallet. The amount of bills that flies onto the table should cover the cost of the pancakes, the cappuccino and then some; it's not clear whether the extra is meant for Jim or for the waitress as a tip. She clarifies only what the bulk of the cash is for, murmuring, "This is for my lunch." Having announced that, she grabs her helmet by its scalp. The black helmet is flipped and then swiftly caught by its bottom brim. "Anything else, tree-man? Or are you ready to start working like every other honest citizen?" Jim's hand is already back to normal - or as normal as his flaky dry flesh will go, cracked along the knuckles - by the time he gets it back. And, leaning over the table as he is, he's in perfect position to knit his fingers together beneath his chin and rest his head atop them like a shy schoolboy. "Just as soon I finish my coffee, babe." The one that's just been refilled. That he's in no rush to start knocking back. Smile. He smiles so broad it turns his eyes into twin crescents flanked by twin tangles of crow's feet. Jennifer shakes her head with a bit of a chortle. "You are an asshole." That is very important information. The redhead doesn't appear to be too bitter while voicing that particular opinion. She flicks her hair around to be caught by her vacant hand, twirling and twisting it into a bun. At the same time, she spins on her heels and heads for the door. The helmet is swung upward. Matilda walks by. "Later, Shulkster!" "See you when I see you, Mat!" With that, Jennifer dons her helmet and strides out the door, back to her beloved Sam and away from mean terrible men.