ArchivedLogs:New York's Finest

New York's Finest
Dramatis Personae Eric, Mercy	2017-10-02 "You should keep a better handle on your demographic."
Location <NYC> Little Italy
Like the original but smaller and with a much greater density of flags and also mostly restaurants and in retrospect rather nothing like the original at all. The cool wind is starting to whip through the streets and narrow alleyways of Little Italy when a tall, broad-shouldered man steps out of the doors of the local pawn shop. Paper bag in hand, the man wraps the brown leather jacket around himself tighter as he steps beside the doorway, looking up and down the street. A frown narrows his lips and he tugs a cell phone out of a pocket, looking down at the screen and briefly losing himself in the content on it. Whatever is on the phone does nothing to ease the frown; lines etch into his forehead as he scrunches up his face, one lip curling upwards in disgust. "You've gotta be kiddin' me," he grumbles to himself. With a shake of his head, Eric leans his head back against the brick wall and briefly closes his eyes with a long, world-weary sigh. "Fuck." Mercy has all the appearance of an overly-concerned, too-friendly pedestrian as she grasps the shoulder of the unfortunate man she suddenly collided with on the sidewalk. Her words speak of sympathy and apology while a third hand reaches into the inside of the man's cold-weather coat, gently, silently, retracting his wallet from an inner pocket. Once the tall woman has been assured that the fellow New Yorker is more than okay, she bids him a farewell, moving along down the street towards the pawn shop. It seems, however, that there are a slight too many people inside the establishment to her liking and she scowls, leaning against the brick wall not far from Eric before retrieving a cigarette and a lighter from her pocket. Eric turns to glance over at the woman as she, too, leans against the brick building near him. His eyes take in her expression, then with a quick flick up and down, the rest of her as well. His frown weakens slightly and he turns against the wall slightly to face her. "One a' those fuckin' days, huh? -- Hey, can I bum a cigarette off'a ya?" Eric says, patting down his pockets and spreading his hands out in a little shrug. "I'm tryin'ta quit, but, sometimes...." The police officer trails off, a half-smile that practically begs for sympathy hanging easily on his lips. Having lit her cigarette and already taken her first inhalation, Mercy raises a brow at the pleading stranger. With an audible sigh, she rolls her eyes and withdraws a second cigarette to offer it and her lightly, held between the fingers of one hand, to him. "Knock yourself out," she mutters. "It's always one of those fucking days." She takes another drag of her smoke before gesturing idly with the cigarette. "People getting killed by people with guns. Useless cops. No one ever sees it coming, but they're ready to blame the first person they can. Makes them feel better. A mistaken truth is better than uncertainty. Just wait 'til the next one for it all to repeat. Few days, months, maybe a year." A shrug. "One those fucking days is /always/ coming." Eric reaches out and takes the cigarette from Mercy, his fingers briefly trailing along the ends of hers as he takes it. One hand withdraws a lighter from his pocket and lights the end of the cigarette. Eric takes a long drag on it and then lets a long exhale of smoke rise into the air. "I'll smoke to that," he says, lifting a hand as if making a toast. "If it ain't one thing, it's another." He takes another drag, letting the cigarette hang from one corner of his mouth like a colorized noir detective. "Eric," he says, extending a hand to Mercy with a smile and another brief flicker of eyes up and down. Eying the hand skeptically, Mercy shakes it limply and soon retracts her hand as if happy to do so. "My name is Mercy," she responds in kind. "So, Eric," the woman starts with an edge in her voice as she takes another drag. "What brings you to this part of town? It is not the safest, you know. I hear rumors of pickpockets on these streets. It's important to keep an eye out. In fact, I don't believe I have seen you in that store before. Maybe you keep an odd schedule?" The question is more musing than anything else. Eric's grip is firm, his hand slightly calloused. "Mercy. Oh, I ain't exactly worried 'bout gettin' held up. Nor pickpocketed. I'm pretty aware'a my surroundin's -- n' besides, I barely got anythin' worth stealing." His smile flashes on his face, tone light and joking. "Got an interestin' tip about this pawn shop," Eric says, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and gesturing at the building behind them with one easy hand. "Friend of'a friend told me ya could get some good deals on some interestin' stuff." The tall man shrugs his shoulders. "Seems a bit overpriced for what they have, but, eh. Ya win some..." he shrugs again, tilting his head to one side and studying Mercy out of the corner of one eye. "An odd schedule? That I most certainly do, Miss Mercy. That I do." "It is a good place to sell what you no longer want and a good place to purchase what you do not have. Sometimes you can cut a deal with the store owner. I have a foot in the business of buying and selling, we make things work out agreeably." There's a smile on Mercy's face as she makes this comment before taking another smoke. "I make sure to win all and lose none. It is a tricky business, but it is profitable. Unfortunately for you, I see that your friend of a friend is not the owner of the shop. Or myself." Something shifts subtly under her coat. "And why would a man such as yourself -- " Here Mercy pauses to give Eric the once-over he had previously given her. "-- be keeping an odd schedule?" "If ya can swing it to win all n' lose none, that's certainly the way to do it." Eric says, chuckling and shaking his head once, twice. "I can't say I've had a whole lotta success doin' things that way, though I keep tryin'. Gotta keep tryin'." Eric takes another long inhale and blows a well-practiced ring of smoke into the evening air, watching it slowly drift up and dissipate. A slight smirk plays on his lips as he sees Mercy's eyes flick over him -- it'd be impossible to say whether he just happened to need to stretch slightly as she does so, unzipped jacket sides falling briefly wider to show off more of his black shirt clad frame. "S' part of the job. The city don't sleep, so neither do we." There may be a flicker of a curl at the corners of Mercy's mouth, having lost its previous grin awhile ago, at Eric's potential low-key exhibition. If her lips were ever intending to actually smile, it seems the man will never know as they purse into a hard line at his statement. "The city does sleep. In certain ways. A nice lull of false security. A blunted awareness, a lack of intended vigilance when things become ... routine; boring; droll. So, my fellow, who is 'we'?" There's an edge of crass digust in her voice, however well-veiled and faint. "Perhaps. Ain't all'a us that manage ta' toss off that vigilence, though. S' my job ta' be vigilent. N' the job of everyone on my team." Eric's smile widens slightly, head tilting to one side. "I'm a cop. Sometimes, even not an incompetent one." He winks playfully at Mercy, a teasing tone to his voice. "Only sometimes, though. Other times...." The police officer waves a hand in the air, leaving a trail of smoke from the glowing tip of his cigarette. "Depends on who ya ask, I suppose." There's more shifting beneath her coat as Mercy's body tenses in a very slight manner at Eric's disclosure and as she takes a long drag off her cigarette. The four-armed mutant takes a few more inhalations before replying, using her other hand to tuck the hair on the left side of her face behind her ear. "If you ask me, I would glady inform you that you are an utter buffon." Her eyes stare vacantly at the sidewalk across the street and the passing cars. "You clearly are quite incompetent at doing anything remotely similar to what your job is supposed to be." Another drag before she turns her gaze to Eric. "People out here get robbed all the time. Missing wallets, missing possessions. I've only seen it happen a few times, but that is enough to know there is a problem. I have seen mutants out on the streets getting beaten to death. Your robot guards are highly ineffective pieces of shit and cause much more trouble than they are worth. I cannot conceive how taxpayers' dollars go to such redundant machines. If the police /ever/ did their jobs /correctly/, there would be no need for these Sentinels. Alas, the poor contraptions attack the wrong people. What is quality control when it comes to law enforcement anyways, hmm? An obstacle to prevent you from committing the atrocities you plan out?" The woman sneers. "Disgusting, isn't it? Pigs on the street? Wallowing in their own filth?" She lets out a sigh, waving her own cigarette. "But, then, you didn't ask me, did you?" As Mercy speaks, Eric blinks, eyes widening in surprise as he listens to her pontificate. Blink, blink. Then, all at once, Eric bursts out laughing -- violent sounds that shake his entire body and make him have to lean against the wall for support. "Oh, oh my." Eric sniffs once, rubbing a knuckle against the corner of one tear-filled eye. "That hit the spot. Thank ya." He straightens up, grinning. "If ya had somethin' ta say about the crime in Central Park a couple'a years back, that I'd feel responsible for. But I ain't walkin' a beat anymore, not for a while now. I'm the head a' the Mutant Incident Division. The Freak Squad." Eric explains, taking another drag on the remains of his cigarette and dropping it to crush it into the sidewalk with the bottom of his shoe. "We only handle crimes by, for, n' against mutants. As for the rest'a it, you've gotta take it up with 1-P-P." He grins and winks at her once. "Though for what s' worth, I agree -- the Sentinel's are a pile'a shit not worth a fuckin' dime." "Mmm," comes Mercy's even response without so much as a single word to indicate how she feels about Eric's convulsing laughter and his role at the MID. However, despite herself, it seems that she is soon smirking. "Don't mention it. I'm good for it any time. You still need to step up your game, though." While she flicks her lighter idly in one hand and takes a final drag with the other, a third weasels its way out of her jacket to tap at Eric's side and offer another cigarette. "One for later, officer." It's not a question. As she flicks her own cigarette out into the street, Mercy gratuitously informs Eric, "I would suggest you keep an eye on me." The now free hand scratches gently at the back of her neck. "I've been known to stick my hands where they don't belong." Whether this is a flat-out innuendo or an honest revelation of her crimes, it is hard to say. "You should keep a better handle on your demographic." "Stick your hands where they don't belong?" Eric glances at the hand to take the cigarette -- and then glances to the other two. He blinks once, and then a smile spreads wider on his face. "That sounds interestin'," he says, voice dropping slightly in pitch. "N' where might that be?" he says, taking the cigarette with perhaps a few seconds longer finger contact than is strictly necessary, fingerpads dragging back along her fingers. "I do enjoy keepin' a handle on members'a my demographic." he says, innocence positively dripping from his words. "Here and there." The prolonged contact is not discouraged. In fact, just as Eric's hand withdraws, she taps her index finger on the back of his hand. "Sometimes I help to --" her upper left hand gestures, palm facing upwards "-- lighten the load." The smirk on Mercy's face has grown a bit from earlier. "However, surely such a discerning officer of the law such as yourself would likely have no need of my ..." Here her voice draws out to an inviting tone as she gives Eric a very obvious once-over, eying him up and down and pursing her lips. "Services. Such as they are." Eric tilts his head to one side, eyes raking over Mercy and his smile spreading wider with an almost predatory look. “Lighten the load. S’ a rather choice turn a’ phrase, don’t ya think?” Eric says, placing the cigarette between his lips and leaning towards her --- so she can light his cigarette, of course. The fact that doing so gives him an opportunity to look down her shirt… is merely a fringe benefit. One hand flicks the lighter below Eric's cigarette, lighting it in good time. Another gingerly pushes the off-duty sergeant's chin upwards and away from her chest. There's not much to be seen anyways - truth be told, the size of Mercy's 'assets' does not reflect her tall height. The fingers of a third hand, one on the opposite side, snap. "Choice," the four-armed mutant echoes. The word is followed by a light laugh. "Such an interesting word to use. It seems you have a choice as well, officer." The hand beneath his chin taps lightly at his cheek. "I have business to attend to. Whether here with you or some place else. Your choice, officer." A mischievous smirk is upon the thief's lips. The smirk on Eric’s lips does nothing to apologize for the blatant staring he had been taking part in. He takes in a deep breath and lets the smoke out through his nose. “What about with me, somewhere else?” Eric asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge and leaning in closer to Mercy. “Say, my place?” There’s very little shyness in the forward look of Eric’s gaze. “Not that I’m necessarily disposed a’ attendin’ to business here, normally, but it is a bit chilly.” The police officer teases, a wink capping off the joke. Mercy laughs again. "Well, aren't /you/ a dirty cop? Mmm..." A hand reaches up to tap at her own chin. "Hmm. Why not?" The rhetorical question is asked as the tapping fingers splay out, palm up. "And, dear, no. We would not attend to business, as you put it, out here." Apparently the Morlock wasn't put off by staring nor the direct, somewhat forward language. Or, perhaps, she believes there is some gain to made. "Off to your place, then?" An upper arm slings over Eric's shoulder, while the lower pair conceal themselves in her jacket once again. "Why don't you take me into custody, officer?" She winks, her low, playful tone teasing. Eric wraps an arm securely around Mercy’s waist, pulling her slightly against his side. “Take ya, I’m plannin’ on. Custody, I ain’t sure about.” The police officer says in a low murmur into her ear. “Though if you’re real naughty, I’m sure I can find some a’ my spare handcuffs around,” he drawls, pulling her towards the curb and sticking two fingers out to hail a cab. “I am New York’s finest, after all.”