ArchivedLogs:Joyful Reunion

Joyful Reunion
Dramatis Personae Jim, Shane, Trib
In Absentia	2014-07-16 part of evilfightyclub
Location <NYC> Clinton
Despite its rough and tumble reputation of old, Clinton has come far from the illegal gambling and shakedowns of Prohibition, and the gang warfare of West Side Story. Clinton has now become the industrial supply center for midtown Manhattan, with hospitals and the light industrial and commercial businesses required to support so many thousands of people. The neighborhood has become quite expensive, but many actors still cram together in small apartments due to its proximity to Broadway. New York is on fire tonight. Not that it is having any great success -- it's just the burny kind, actual flames licking up the side of a long squat apartment building in the heart of Clinton. This section of the street is glowing not just with flames yet to be quenched but with a myriad of flashing lights, ambulance, police cars, three fire engines all come out to help control the blaze. Shane is not in any way assisting with the actual /fire/ part of things. The actual firefighters seem to have that -- more or /less/ under control, though in the milling crowd around the building there's more than a few teary faces, one hysterical woman sobbing about her dog, an oddly /calm/ teenager who's tumbled out of bed to evacuate in only boxer shorts and fluffy slippers asking why he didn't remember to bring the marshmallows. The crowd that's gathered is equal parts made up of those poor residents standing around watching their house go up in flames, rescuers out to help deal with the emergency, and plain-and-simple gawkers rubbernecking as all calamities tend to draw. Shane isn't exactly in any of /those/ groups, either. In neat pinstriped pants, vest, dress shirt, he's got a bright red vest with Red Cross insignia and shiny white reflective tape draped on (kind of oversized) over his more dapper attire, and a folder and clipboard in hand with a sheaf of forms. He's leaning up against the side of the actual large ambulance-shaped Red Cross /truck/ (also clearly delineated with red-on-white logo though unlike the genuine emergency workers it has no flashers on), a phone tucked against his ear. Though he's not speaking into it. There are quite a few other people in similar vests talking with some of the displaced residents of the building, but Shane is -- not so much doing that. There are times to be In Your Face about people's discomfort with mutants: right after their home has burned down is not the time. So he stays away from the actual face-to-face interaction with clients, instead -- waiting on hold on the phone. A very crucial part of disaster relief. Gawking is a by-God American tradition, and Trib is nothing if not a patriot. Roused, probably, from his own napping, the boxer comes padding down the stoop of the Sunrise dressed in a pair of loose-fitting grey sweat shorts and a white tank top that's cut low along the sides. His long hair is slightly unkempt, and there's a bit of sleepiness in his manner as he stalks up to the edges of the crowd. It fades in the face of flames, though, and his golden stare turns intent as he watches the flames dance in the windows above. The woman sobbing about her dog gets a flick of his gaze that might be sympathetic. It doesn't linger long enough to say; jumping to land on the blue and decidedly /familiar/ Red Cross worker. Which gets a worry-tinged scowl that's turned immediately back to the flames, where it turns thoughtful (albeit still worried around the edges). The old stomping grounds have gotten a lot /brighter/ tonight in the lashing fire light; Jim's features flickering with illuminated-bright orange glow and then instantly black with shadow as people pass in front of him. The heat even here at the parameters must be intense, sweaty faces and sweaty smells adding to the (rather pleasant!) smell of campfire and (less pleasant!) tar roofing and furniture and clothes and maybe /dog/. He recoils just a moment, the gnarl of scars down the side of his face pinching, and he turns his eyes /away/ from the fire to also mark Shane. Perhaps not noticing, or maybe not CARING at the moment, he moves right in front of Trib and then past him, flanking the crowd until he finds an opening and then ducks forward to stride right towards the ambulance like he /belongs/ here. Never mind the faded gray t-shirt and cargo shorts. "-Shane." At some point Shane has come off hold, clawed finger swiping down a list of hotels he holds in front of him. "-- No, we have a discount rate with you guys when we're booking for clients to -- right, okay. Yes. Thank you for your help," is quick and polite; the muttered, "-- Motherfucking prick," after he's hung the phone /up/ is less so. His nose twitches, marking Jim by scent before by sight. "Don't suppose /you/ brought marshmallows? Graham crackers? There's a --" But his nose twitches again, marking /another/ familiar scent in the air with a small rumble of growl low in his chest. Trib notes the person moving in front of him with a small twitch of his eyebrows. The cat looks familiar, somehow, clearly, but the big man isn't putting it together. His gaze goes sidelong as Jim approaches Shane, gauging that pairing before sliding forward again. There's a small tension that's creeped into his massive frame, though, and the set of his legs is definitely not one of someone who's prepared to stand around for large amounts of time. Although, the fire /is/ sort of gawk-worthy. So he's not moving just yet. "No 'mallows. Got some pocket lint. Piece of chewing gum," Jim supplies, unhelpfully. "These guys." These being... a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Whether he's allowed to /smoke/ on the job or not doesn't stop him from offering the kid one on reflex while looking up the length of the burning building with a faint twitch beside his eye. He looks back just as soon, at the quiet growl. And then turns his head to look around - the bright lights and fire make studying a crowd chaotic, feet and shoulders shifting faintly to put himself at an angle with Shane that places the ambulance at either of their backs. Shane shakes his head quickly, waving away the cigarettes though he eyes them a little wistfully. "Nah, I'm not. Can't. Fff." He jerks his chin towards Trib when Jim looks around, the growl in his chest fading away to leave simple disgust behind in his voice. "S'the fucking. Wannabe rapist from fight club. Like a bad goddamn penny." He glances back to his list of hotels, teeth gritting together. "Or maybe a carrion bird." Trib doesn't necessarily hear Shane or Jim as they talk, but there's a definite shift of his shoulders when the subject shifts to him. As if he can sense that small tension. He glances over in that direction, eyes narrowing at Shane thoughtfully for a brief, weighing moment. There's an unhappy, thoughtful sort of cant to his mouth as he slides his gaze to Jim and offers him a hard sort of stare that reflects his attempts to place the older man. Still coming up with nothing, though, so the big man turns his attention back to the fire, shifting his weight and stalking just a /hair/ closer to the ambulances. Casual-like. It's a tense environment all around - hardly out of place, the clenched solidity rolled down Jim's shoulders. In another person, his reaction to a clatter of something falling over inside and the lusty 'FWOOM' of fire taking its place might be called a startle, but it's more a deeper /rooting down/ if anything. He watches Trib with eyes narrowed against the smoke and dry air, and murmurs -- presumably to Shane! "What d'you need." "Need a fucking cigarette," Shane answers, /wry/, as Trib steps closer. His claws are slooowly extending. Then pulling back in, when they prickle against the sheaf of forms in his hands. "Need one of these hotels to stop being /dickbags/ so I have a place to put our clients tonight. Need --" His gills flutter, his breath hitching unsteadily. "Need a better goddamn world, man. Fff. Hey there's /plenty/ of traumatized kids around tonight that's a /perfect/ place for --" His head shakes. Teeth creak again. "S'pose it's not wise to just /deck/ a motherfucker with all these cops swarming around, huh." If Trib cares about his proximity to danger, he doesn't seem to show it. He's also not as interested in the crowd so much as he is the fire and attempting to hear the conversation -- which is hard, admittedly, over the noise of the fire and collapsing interiors. There's a few bits he catches -- his brow knits in confusion at the idea of traumatized kids, for instance -- but most of it goes unheard, at his current distance. Which decreases ever so slightly once more as the boxer shifts his chin to study Jim a bit closer, one eye narrowing assessingly. "This fucking world," Jim says it kind of undertone, with a dry-flat non-laugh, almost nostalgic. "As one man that's decked my share of motherfuckers, s'not gonna be worth it." With his cast newly removed from his arm, it frees up a hand to give Shane's red vest a very tiny-faint tug to perhaps remind him he's currently wearing it. And to extend a hand partly in the nature of CONSUMMATE CURIOSITY to see the clipboard. But also to add, "Who you called so far." Shane turns over the clipboard; it's quite packed with all /sorts/ of forms and checklists and standards for exactly what services to provide in what situations; the Red Cross is full of nothing if not bureaucracy. He runs his finger down the list, stopping near the bottom of the first (of about eight) page of hotel names and addresses and phone numbers (and pet policies and notes about what discount Red Cross rate they've worked out and notes about how many people to a room and -- so on.) "They're supposed to give us the rates they've agreed on but a lot of them refuse if they're /too/ booked because in summer they can do much better than helping charity. But I'm not authorized for more than ninety bucks per room per night so. Fuck. This many people we should just open a damn shelter --" Despite his irritable cursing with /Jim/, given his current shiny-bright vest he cuts out the swearing when he raises his voice (and his brows) towards Trib. "You got something to say, or you just going to stalk around looking predatory?" Skin ripples across Trib's shoulders when Shane's voice raises, but when he turns to face the teenager, his expression is bland. "You talkin' to me?" he asks, hiking his eyebrows slightly. When it appears that he /is/, the boxer's shoulders roll. "I ain't got nothin' to say," he says. "You ain't interested in listenin' anyway." He purses his lips, giving Jim another long look. Then he lifts his half-hand to point a finger-gun at the older man in recognition. "Woody." It's an identification, and possibly a greeting. "Ffh; guess charity publicity is cheap," Jim mutters, rapid-reading the papers, flipping deeper to see what else they contain. "Shame no one famous is ever around to get caught in a fucking /tenant/ fire when you need 'em." The papers are flipped /back/ when Trib speaks, snapping his head back up and barking /almost/ brightly, "Doesn't gotta listen, meathead! Case you didn't notice, slightly bigger situation on." Sadly, there isn't a lot of /joy/ to this reunion. Maybe they're running towards one another across a grassy meadow in an alternate universe. In this one... Jim's mostly just shifting a hip and part of his body between Shane and the approaching Trib, while giving the clipboard a shake, "Wanna split the call list? That a thing civvies can do? Hit rock bottom of disappointment quicker with two shovels." "Mmmn. Is what you're about to say 'I'm sorry I was a sicko who tried preying on an underage kid?' 'I'm sorry I left him in therapy for months?' 'I'm sorry I threatened to rape him at the most vulnerable time in his entire life?' 'I'm sorry I /used/ the torture you were going through as leverage for that?' 'cause yeah otherwise, no, noooot really interested in listening." The nickname for Jim earns a /snort/ from Shane, head shaking. "Woo -- you've got to be fucking kidding me." That's back to an irritable grumble. "Oh, man. Yeah. Help on this would be rad. We're going to be needing six rooms for two nights each. Half of everywhere's goddamn. Booked solid." Trib's snort is gentle, and resigned-sounding for the response he receives. As if he didn't really expect anything else. Which he probably didn't. "Yeah, no. I ain't goin' to be sayin' any of that," he rumbles, squinting briefly. "I /will/ say I'm sorry you kids got that idea worked up so neatly in your head when none of that shit actually fuckin' /happened/." He inhales through his nose, and narrows his eyes as he begins to move off. "You should try the Y three blocks over," he says helpfully over his shoulder. "Showers are shit, but they generally have fuckin' rooms available." And then he's off down the street, the glow of the fire playing over his rigid shoulders as he heads off and into the Sunrise. "What the /fuck/ is your-," augh, with a grimace Jim dials down the volume, leaning back slightly against the side of Shane without seeming to entirely realize it. It's a kind of sweaty touch, his own construction full of twitchy muscles clenching up with restraint. "Ffff... six." Six rooms. He works one of the under-pages of hotel rooms loose, teeth tight but voice still just - harsh dry and generally... angry-Jimish. "I'll call these bastards. Let y'know if I get a bite." There is /definite/ tension in Shane's form, a hard tight coil to muscles, gills fluttering rapidly, claws lengthening in time with a low rumble awakening once more in his throat. But he doesn't answer Trib. Just drops his gaze very heavily back down to the list, taking his clipboard back once Jim has selected his page. "Yeah," he agrees, his much less significant weight leaning back up against Jim's. "If you get a --" His teeth click together. And he pulls his phone back out, hissing in a breath. And dials.