ArchivedLogs:PR People

PR People
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Tony Stark
In Absentia	2013-06-14 (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location <NYC> Inkline Studios - Lower East Side
The front room of Inkline Studio is small, and does not, particularly, look like a tattoo parlor at all. Framed surrealist oil paintings line the walls instead of the typical flash ink, although interspersed are a handful of tasteful, artistic photographs of various people displaying their tattoos that might give away the nature of this business. Black leather armchairs cluster around a low glass coffee table; large black binders that sit on the table contain portfolios of the past work done in the studio. A glass counter stretches along the length of one wall, a plethora of various body jewelry on display; the 'front desk' sits at the far end of the counter, computer and cash register and large file cabinet making up the work space. The piercing and tattoo rooms are in the back, brightly lit and sterile, with doors closeable for privacy. It's late once more, although not quite so much so. Evening, on Friday, and at this hour things in here are busier! All but one of the back rooms (most are labeled with people's names in whatever style they CHOOSE; Jax's has a glittering bright dragonfly in place of name plaque on /his/) are in use, and the front room is busy enough as well; a pair of young women mulling over the big portfolio folders on the tables, a man probably in his thirties with plenty of ink already and wide-gauged ears thoughfully eying the selection of plugs. A woman still older (very pierced) than that laughing with a teenager (very not) who bears enough resemblance he is probably her son. And at the counter, Jax, bright easy smile, bright colourful clothing, bright zigzaggy patterned eyepatch, cashing a man out out for -- presumably a fresh tattoo, there is bandaging all down one bicep in a half-sleeve. The tip they give him is large; it was a large /piece/, and he slips it into a drawer in a folder with his name on it. This time, when the door opens, it's less of a harsh jingle. There's also less /stagger/ to Tony's walk. He looks about the same, though, otherwise, jeans and a dress shirt. This time /he/ has sunglasses. And a sort of casual /air/ to him, pushing his way in and heading for the counter. Sans flash, sans handlers, sans paparazzi, in sunglasses and casual clothes he could be pretty much anybody! He's even /waiting in line/. Like a pleb. Until he gets up to the counter as Jax is putting away his tip and drops both palms on the edge of the countertop. "You know, they told me to cancel this appointment. Not because of the tattoo, just when they saw your name there." Jackson turns -- there's a look of surprise stark in his expression but it doesn't take long for him to school it into a polite smile. The polite only lasts as long as his amused, "You know, sir," very earnestly, "it's nighttime." He glances around the room, glances up at Tony, and -- there's slight changes. Nothing overtly noticeable, certainly not from Tony's immediate vantage point; a shift of hair tone, a smattering more stubble, subtle padding around his jaw there, wider sweep of forehead here, and then the sunglasses have an added coat of illusion to help that veil of anonymity extend further. His jaw tightens at the comment, his head dipping in acknowledgment. "Not surprised," he admits. And then, curious: "But you're here." "Yeah. It is. Mine's not --" Tony gestures towards Jackson's eyepatch, "is that real? I can't tell, you have a lot of --" "-- Bling?" Jackson offers this suggestion, amusement in his warm drawl. "Bling," Tony echoes this with a slight crease of brow, a slight shake of head: "Who says that? Is that really a thing people say?" He doesn't wait for answer on this. His hand drops back to the edge of the counter. "I took a few minutes. Looked into your work. Really it's pretty impressive." Jackson lifts a hand, palm pressing briefly against his lips. Hiding the amused smile behind, though it still crinkles up at the corner of his eye. A faint hint of colour flushes his cheeks and his hand shifts from mouth to the back of his neck, rubbing there for a moment. "Thank you, sir. You know, I wasn't even sure if you'd /show/ but I brought some examples of --" "-- You're a hero," Tony cuts this off impatiently; he doesn't say 'hero' like it's a compliment. "You're on camera saving the mayor, saving Osborn, saving some of New York's finest, you really couldn't have done better without saving Jesus Christ and -- have you saved Jesus Christ?" he cuts /himself/ off, now, looking over Jackson with a measure of suspicion. "Not -- yet, sir," Jackson just -- sounds bemused. Now /he's/ looking around the room again, a little bit concerned for the waiting patrons. "Sir, can we --" He gestures to the back, slipping around from behind the desk to edge towards a back room. "All of that, you know," Tony doesn't go anywhere! Still planted, hands on the counter, "you're probably one of the only mutants in the city right now who people could be convinced not to hate. What are you doing here? Your PR people --" "-- I don't have PR people." Bemusement: Not lessening. Jackson drops his hand to his side. This draws Tony away from the counter, finally; above the sunglasses his brows crease as he follows Jackson towards the back. "Well. There's -- there's your problem. One of your problems," in the back room he immediately starts drifting. Poking at the cabinets. Touching things. "I imagine right now you actually have more than just --" "-- Ninety-nine," Jackson supplies in answer. Here Tony actually does smile. One forefinger tips towards Jackson. He does /not/ actually make a chk-chk sound but one can imagine it is THERE on the tip of his tongue. "And this entire city's one. Or, a lot, I guess. Or one big one. However you want to look at it. And you're, what, decorating people's arms while everything just burns." Jackson curls his arms against his chest, a slow creep of stiffness taking over his posture. "I didn't ask for --" "-- that's a cop-out," Tony is fond of interrupting today. Or maybe every day. "And it's boring, I don't want to hear it. I want to hear how we're going to ah -- come on, you're good at the hero thing --" "-- save New York?" This time, Jackson is the one who sounds dry. Chk-chk! This time Tony actually does make the /noise/. "I'll get you better PR people." Jackson's expression shifts back towards bemused. He scuffs a hand against the top of his head, backwards first, then forwards. He drags his hand down to press it against his eye. "Things started burning a long time ago," he eventually says, bemusement draining into something more tired. But then his head tilts to one side. His eye focuses on Tony thoughtfully, his fingers drumming against the side of his thigh. "-- Good," he decides. "We're going to need them. Cuz all of this --" His hand waves towards -- well, the door. Somewhere past it though, the /city/. "-- didn't start with this past Sunday." His hand falls to his side again, and he asks: "Mr. Stark, are you a fan of boxing?"