ArchivedLogs:Indignation

Indignation
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Josiah, Trib	2014-03-21 '
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. Late at Busboys and Poets, and most of the crowd from the earlier readings and book club have wandered into the night somewhere. Still, there are some stragglers. A group of twenty-somethings, Columbia students in blue and white, discuss a thin paperback over cups of lukewarm coffee near the entrance. An older man browses the shelves, clearing his throat. Still others lounge or prowl, most with soething literary on the brain. Josiah has a comfortable post on a couch against a wall. A small table in front of him, flanked by plush chairs, is where he's sat a still-steaming cup of tea. He's reading something thin, as well, novella-sized. Friday night, and Dusk kind of /looks/ like he's yet again been through the Fight Club wringer as he makes his way into B&P. As he shrugs out of his oversized trenchcoat, his enormous wings bear a plethora of bandages on them; there's more bandaging up the side of his neck, protruding out from beneath the collar of his baggy black sweatshirt. He's dressed plainly otherwise, a pair of ill-fitting baggy black jeans, plain white sneakers. He looks exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes like he's not slept in a while, and though he starts at first towards the counter he changes direction to turn towards Josiah's couch with a quick sharp smile. "-- Woah, hey. S'you. What's up, man?" Trib sticks out like a sore thumb among the patrons of B&P. With his rough coutnenance and lack of any fashion sense evident in his jeans-blue sweatshirt combo, he could easily be in the bookstore to use the restroom. Which he probably /was/, given that's the direction he's coming from, drying his hands on a crumpled-looking paper towel. He looks around as he stalks through the aisles, perhaps looking for a spot to land. When he spots Josiah, he alters his course in that direction, slowing as Dusk appears, and eventually coming to a stop a few feet away. Then he's studying Dusk, his golden gaze raking over the man in silent assessment. If Josiah should catch his eyes, his chin dips towards his chest in equally silent greeting. Josiah is pretty into his book - "The Body Artist," if anyone looks close enough - so he doesn't really make note of Dusk until he's spoken to. The familiar voice rouses him from the read and he looks up, grinning. "What the hell happened to you?" His gaze plays up the younger man's neck and across the expanse of his wings. This arc eventually also brings Trib into his line of sight. "And you?" Josiah says, closing his book, setting it on the table next to his tea, and straightening up. "This is quite the night." He motions to the seating around him, in case either man wants to joing him. "Still kind of looking into that." Dusk reaches for one of the plush chairs, fingers closing around its top to turn it around backwards with a heavy scrape of legs against floor; he climbs into it to kneel-sit in it backwards, folding his arms against its soft top, wings draping behind himself. "You hear about the explosion down by Tompkins Square on Tuesday?" He turns his head, tipping his chin up in a quick nod to Trib, dark eyes flicking over the other man in quick appraisal, a small smile hanging off his lips. Trib also takes Josiah up on his invitation, dropping into the other plush chair and kicking his legs out in front of him. "Thought I'd check out the fuckin' poetry," he rumbles, squinting at a spot just above Josiah's head. "Since everyone was all fuckin' wet-pantied about it Monday." He inhales through his nose as Dusk speaks, his brow lowering darkly at the mention of the latest news. He doesn't speak, though, tilting his head curiously at the other man and regarding him curiously. Josiah snags his tea from the table and nods to Dusk. "Yeah, who hasn't?" He sips some and sets it back down on its saucer. "Wait," he says, running a finger through the air to indicate all the bandages on Dusk. "Is that what this all about? Shit." He says the last word softly, eyes flicking over to Trib, then back to the wounded bat. No time for talk on poetry with news like this. "Yeah. Far as we can tell they were trying to blow up my friend Ryan's place. Uh -- bigshot mutant musician?" One of Dusk's wings hitches up in a quick shrug. His teeth bare in a grimace. "Fucking assholes can't handle a successful freak." For a second his eyes flick to Josiah, but then dip down to the table. His wings ripple behind himself, then fold in tight against his back. "Hurt a whole lot of people trying to get at him, too. A /whole/ lot. Killed a lot, too. Tore right the hell through my apartment. Killed my friend's --" His teeth bare, and he doesn't finish this sentence, just locks his eyes on the table. "Ngh. I need a coffee." Though he doesn't get up. Trib looks like he might actually bite someone when Dusk explains, and there's a shift of his jaws that comes with the sound of granite sliding against granite. The boxer's hands flex, closing into fists that bounce on his knees with no target to land on. There's a slow inhalation and exhalation at the mention of dead, and Trib's eyes narrow in a small wince of sympathy. Without warning, he stands, and moves away without speaking. A couple of minutes later, he returns. In his hands, he holds two cups of coffee. One gets set in front of Dusk without explanation, and then the boxer is reclaiming his own chair, sipping at his coffee. "Fuckin' humans suck." Josiah notes Trib's reaction to what Dusk says, turning a downward glance in his direction, tensing. When Trib gets up to buy some coffee, Josiah says, "Do you have any idea of who did it? I haven't heard anything on the news, but..." he trails off, one hand reaching up to rub the side of his head. He settles back into the couch and soon Trib gets back with coffee. Good on him. "Humans don't suck. Whoever was responsible sucks. Hard." He pauses, then adds, "By the way, I don't know if you know each other?" He makes introductions and forces a smile. "Hey, thanks, man." Dusk manages a small fanged smile when Trib returns with the coffee; he closes a hand around it, tipping his head down to inhale the warm steam. He unlaces his hand from it after, though, offering the hand towards Trib instead. "Nah, never met. I'm Dusk." He shakes his head at Josiah. "No fucking clue," he says with irritation. "But there were plenty enough humans hurt and killed that they're actually looking into it in a serious way. Maybe they'll figure it out." He shakes his head with no small measure of disgust. "No clues yet, though. Don't even really know what -- I don't know. If it was just some fucking home-brew thing they cooked up -- might not even /be/ a lot to trace back to anyone." For a moment something pulls at his lips, a little wry. "Got my neighbor's eight year old kid, man. This whole thing's just a -- I /hope/ they find who did this." "Even money says it was fuckin' humans," Trib says in reply to Josiah's correction. "If it was some famous mutant's place." His gaze looks a little troubled, and his eyebrow pulls down as he considers. Then Dusk is introducing himself, and he reaches out to close his half-hand around the other man's. "I'm Trib," he grunts. "Nice to meet you." He falls silent again, listening as Dusk continues. When the last bit is uttered, his hand tightens on his coffee cup, and there's a cracking sound at the handle. "Mother /fuckers/," he growls, and his eyes flash with sudden heat. "Who the fuck...mother /fuckers/." Josiah is feeling the same indignation Trib is exhibiting, but bites his tongue on the cursing. A deep and momentary redenning of his cheeks betrays some of his rage, though. "Dusk, I'm real sorry to hear that." He frowns, reaches for his tea, and drinks most of it. "You're right, Trib. It probably was a human, or more than one. I guess I'm just trying not to generalize." He sighs and, back to Dusk, asks, "Where are you staying now? Do you have a place?" "Trib?" This name raises Dusk's brows, briefly; it gives him a moment of pause, hand freezing in its brief squeeze in the other man's. "That's --not a name you hear every day." He drops his hand back to his coffee, other arm hooking back over the back of his armchair. He shakes his head, brows furrowing back into a deep crease. "Not -- really, no. Roommates and I -- sorta got a place down at, uh. The Red Cross opened up a shelter but, uh. All of us have mostly been so fucking banged up, uh. I only just got out of the Clinic today anyway. Rest of my roommates are still there. So we haven't even really been by the shelter they crammed us all into in the first place." His wings hitch upwards again, and he finally lifts his coffee for a good long swig, relaxing once he finally takes a gulp. "Jesus," he exhales gratefully, "I've needed this. -- I mean, I dunno. There's been no end of violence since this registration bullshit picked up. /I've/ been shot at. Just, /Ryan/, what the fuck. Dude's harmless. He's a hippie. He sings hippie songs." Trib chuffs a noise at Dusk's pause, and rolls a shoulder. "I'm the only one I ever fuckin' heard of," he says, and while his wording indicates he might be joking, his expression is still pretty grim-slash-irritated. He nods slowly at the mention of the shelter, his expression lightening. "Them shelters is good," he says. "They helped me get back on my feet last year. They'll do right by you." He seems fairly confident about this, and sips his coffee with a thoughtful look. "Registration is fuckin' trap," he opines, ignoring the looks this pronouncement earns from those nearby. "What the fuck business is it of anyone's what the fuck anyone is, if they're obeyin' the fuckin' law?" Josiah snorts at Trib and his talk about registration, but doesn't take it anywhere. He finishes up is tea, instead and nods. "Well, I'm glad you at least have that. If it gets too crowded, though, give me a call. I have a couch, a nice couch. For now, at least." He places his empty cup on the table and rubs again at his temple. "It's the least I can do." Dusk flashes his teeth towards Trib in a sharp grin. "I didn't register. Sure isn't anyone's business but mine. Though people take one look at the wings and sure as hell want to /make/ it their business." He rolls one wing in a slow shrug, though his brows hitch upwards, eyes widening in a brighter perk that leaves the dark shadows beneath them anachronistically still-exhausted looking. "You, uh, serious about that, man. Cuz, uh, s'been kinda days since I've gotten a proper -- sleep. I'm pretty tempted to take you up on that right the hell /now/." Trib lifts one side of his mouth at Dusk in an expression that borders on sympathetic. "They're fuckin' jealous," he says confidently, tipping his head to look at said appendages. "Them wings is fuckin' awesome." He looks around with a hard look for anyone who might be eavesdropping before he drains his coffee and sets his cup down on the table. "You /should/ fuckin' take him up," he says as he pushes to his feet. "Shelters are fuckin' nice, but a good couch...that's fuckin' ten times better'n a cot." He digs in his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. Then there is a business card(!) he pulls out, and he sets it on the table next to Dusk's cup. "I work for Heroes for Hire," he says. "You know, Luke Cage? You need any fuckin' help, I know he'd want you to fuckin' call us." He inhales sharply, and his brow furrows. "So, you should."