ArchivedLogs:Safe Places

Safe Places
Dramatis Personae Mirror, Parley, Trib
In Absentia	2013-06-20 mutual grooming. (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location <NYC> 603 {Greyhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a small living room. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom. The decor in this apartment is eclectic, an odd jumbled mishmash of found items that seem to bear little relation to each other. Here, a newspaper article is clipped and pinned to the wall with various lines highlighted in pink and orange highlighter, here an advertisement, here the label off a beer can. The furniture is eclectic, too. A milk crate for a table, a soft (orange!) suede ottoman (with no armchair to match), a very /bright/ magenta vinyl couch. Someone has helpfully affixed a sheet of paper to the wall over the couch, with the label 'COUCH' and an arrow pointing downward. A combination corkboard/whiteboard near the kitchen entryway more often bears odd scribbled drawings than helpful information. Too much free time and no immediate means of income are indicators that today is Parley's lucky day in that he gets Trib, who has both of these things to spare. Actually getting into the building wasn't too hard; just a matter of waiting for the door to open and catching it at the right time. The six-story walk up the stairwell turned out to be more of a chore than the boxer anticipated, not being dressed for working out dressed in jeans and a button-down short sleeve shirt in blue plaid that barely fits his massive torso and bicepss, so he's a little out of breath as he emerges on the sixth floor. He moves down the hall remarkably quietly, almost panther-like, giving the long fire extinguisher a glare as if it were responsible for the security elevator. An athletic bag hangs weightily from his right shoulder, and it's this that he uses to knock against the door of 603, something inside thumping heavily against the wood in a sharp, slow staccato. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Today is Parley's lucky day! You can tell by the look of ecstatic joy on his face when that knock comes -- although, admittedly, that may be more to do with the fact he is currently getting /groomed/ than with the fact that he has company. Curled up, shirtless and in a plain pair of black slacks, on the floor, his head is tipped forward to bare his back to his roommate's ministrations. But then, knock! knock! knock! It's hard, really, to spook a psionic and so it's likely he is not in fact particularly spooked. But he does look up, eyes slightly wider and focused on the door like it can tell him who is behind. Which it very possibly can. << (expecting company?) >> comes curious in sentiment to his roommate as he reluctantly detaches himeslf from grooming to go unlock the door. << (i'm not) >> A long pause answers the flutter of mental inquiry as it is also Parley that looks up from his kneeling position on the floor. << (are you?) >> Equally curious! Also shirtless in a pair of gray slacks, a ridge of hackles rises up then smoothes down again with no real alarm. This Parley remains on a knee, draping a hand and the plastic curry comb in it off the bend of a knee, equally wide, interested eyes watching the door. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Trib's not exactly /patient/, and his odd mental non-signature is probably familiar enough by now to Parley. << (probably not home) >> is the big man's annoyed thought, a bubble-burst of sudden emotion across his mind. << (should have called)(no goddamned payphones anymore) >> Then the bag is exchanged for his half-hand, offering a softer yet no less insistent thumping. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Exceeding patience is probably not a trait to be apllied to Retribution Jones. << (ah.) >> The kneeling!Parley tips up his chin, "Retribution Jones." << (know him.) >> << (know him,) >> echoes in the mind of the Parley by the door, hand tightening around the knob before he pulls the door open. His expression is -- polite! curiosity. His face slightly upturned towards the taller man. "Mr. Jones," says the Parley on the floor. "Jones-san," says the Parley by the door, although in translation it might well have been the same words each time. The door is opened just a crack wider -- enough to show a slice of apartment behind him, not enough to actually enter. There's a quiet expectation to his quiet words, inquisitive. Okay. Trib was not expecting Stereo Parley, and he blinks hard a couple of times, amber gaze switching between the two. << (little fucker)(gets slipperier every time) >> "Which one of you works for Mister Cage?" he grunts, eyebrows hiking. "Or is this some mutant clone shit, an' /both/ of you do?" << (clone) >> sounds almost charmed in repetition, Parley1 looking back to Parley2 with what is not exactly a smile on his lips, though there is certainly one tinting the shade of his thoughts. "Would there be a problem if it was?" Parley2 inquires, rising to his feet to slip forward, arranging himself alongside the first. Parley1 turns when Parley2 approaches, presenting his back to the other. With a quick glance to currycomb and an /expectant/ look. Parley2 curls back the farmost corner of his mouth and, with dark eyes set on Trib's face, he extends the comb and runs it down the thickermost line of hackles of Parley1's spine. Trib shakes his head, shifting the bag on his shoulder by way of a thumb in the strap. "Not for me. Just like to know what I'm dealing with." He watches the grooming with a small narrowing of his eyes, and exhales in a low, rumbling hum. He jerks his chin upward, looking down the broken ridge of his nose at the grooming pair. "Whatever it is, you got a computer I can use?" << (computer) >> turns over affirmatively in Parley1's mind, but then: << (can use?) >> More hesitation, here. His brows pull together, an uncertain expression in contrast to the indulgent half-lean back into the currycomb. "You came all the way here for that?" Parley2 also wears a vague furrow between his brows, excising some restlessness with the downward rush of the comb in absent repetition. "The door is locked downstairs, Mr. Jones." << (how did he get in?) >> "Did you know," Parley1 offers with a slow squeeze of eyes; it makes for an oddly contented expression that jives well with his quiet tone, "the libraries have many computers free for public use." "What else am I gonna do, with the office shut down?" Trib grunts, waving a hand. "Thought I'd come an' see if I could use your computer, an' maybe take you to work out with me." It's a big admission, and though it's ground out of his chest, it's remarkably honest. The observation about the door gets a snort. "A security door ain't exactly Fort fucking Knox, Mister Parley." The other Parley gets a small knit of his eyebrows, and he lifts a shoulder. "The stuff I wanna look up you can't access on the public libraries," he says, then holds up a hand. "It ain't porn, but it ain't exactly family fare." << (more like)(sick bastards)(fights) >> "Work out?" Parley1 echoes with polite curiosity. His eyes open slowly from their squeeze; his turn back towards Trib carries a note of reluctance as fur moves farther from comb. Parley2 pauses grooming to press his palm flat against the small above Parley1's back and runs his fingers /up/ through the tawny ridge of punkyspikes, grabbing a light, experimental handful of roommate-scruff. Light-shake? "You know. Just because you are capable of climbing a privacy fence, does not mean you are welcome to." His grip tightens a little, eyes rising back to Tribs, "What do you want, Mr. Jones?" "Yeah, work out," Trib says, holding up his bag in demonstration. "You know -- lift some weights, run on the treadmill, work the heavy bag?" The other Parley gets a one-sided grin, and a lift of a shoulder. "Yeah, well, if this city had fuckin' pay phones any more, I would have called ahead." The question gets a lowering of his brow and a roil of annoyance across his mind that manifests in a small, audible grind of his teeth. "Am I speaking French, all of a sudden?" he asks, his tone mildly incredulous. "I just told you what I wanted. To borrow your computer and see if you wanted to come an' work out with me." He makes a show of considering that, screwing his golden eyes up into his furrowed eyebrows. << (why's this guy)(giving me shit) >> "Yep. Sounds pretty clear." << (is he) (speaking French)? >> The question surfaces in idle-distracted musing in Parley1's mind. His head tilts very slightly to one side, though aside from this small motion he is somewhat loose-boned limp in Parley2's scruffing. << (English.) >> Parley2 eases up his handhold, palm left were it is until Parley1's balance is secure. "You haven't said what you wanted my computer for," he doesn't sound suspicious. More subdued - or possibly distracted? It is a softer murmur, less certain to add, "--do you often trespass into coworker's apartment's to ask them to the gym?" << (--/do/ coworkers do that?) >> Parley1 has to consider this a moment, turning over what little he has gleaned from coworkers /outside/ Cage's office. The thinking is accompanied by a quiet hum of nose, and in the end the question is just echoed back uncertainly: << (/do/ coworkers do that?) >> He studies Trib's expression as though the answer might be found there. << (this one)(does). >> It's as much certainty as he is willing to offer in answer. Trib shifts his weight. "I want to see them videos Tony Stark released," he says, his brow lowering. "With the mutant fights. I want to see if -- " << (I'm)(in them)(killing) >> "-- just how bad it is," he amends, pressing his mouth into a line. "I want to know what supposedly started the world goin' to hell." << (did start)(cop was a fucker) >> The question gets another roll of his shoulders. "Since my job before Cage was bein' a boxer, technically the answer's yes. But since I didn't have no actual co-workers other than my manager, I'm gonna say no. You're the first." There's a small crinkling of his eyes, and the twitch of his lips might be a smirk. "Congratu-fucking-lations." "I'm flattered, Mr. Jones," Parley1 responds, carefully even tenor murmured quiet with a small dip of head. And then, slower and more thoughtful: "The videos have been hard to /avoid/, this week. Every news station has picked up the story." << (let him?) >> Parley2's gaze remains steady on Trib and deeply silent for this, bare feet pivoting slightly in inquiry - it's the body language that communicates this sentiment. << (no) >> comes prompt but not overly /firm/. Uncomfortable-uncertain: << (didn't give)(our address)? >> "How did you find me?" Parley2 inquires, brows constricting. "Mister Parley, you and I both know the videos on the news ain't all of them, and somewhere out there, there's unedited footage that someone -- maybe Mister Stark -- put up." Trib says with a slow sigh. "I don't got a computer, or a television, and I sure as fuck can't afford to sit in no bar to watch, so I thought I'd come to you an' see if you'd help me out." He lifts a shoulder and wrinkles his nose at the question. << (moving files)(looked through a few) >> "I work for a private detective, Mister Parley," he rumbles, his eyes crinkling. "Thought I'd start my trainin' with somethin' safe." The slow-blink of Parley(1!)'s eyes this time does not have quite the same contented squeeze to it. His head stays tilted, just a very slight angle at which he regards Trib with the faintest air of inquiry. "Safe," he echoes mildly, "Mmh. I suppose, yes, there is little harm to /you/ in violating a coworker's privacy." Parley2, in turn, is forming the very slowest of lean-hard smiles, "Do you feel safe here, Mr. Jones?" Trib frowns at Parley1, and tips his head. "In most places, it ain't unusual for folks to drop in on each other once in a while," he says, his jaw setting a bit. << (fucking hell) >> "I ain't here to cause any trouble." Parley2 gets a tip of his head to the opposite side, and the big man reaches up to rub at the ridge of his nose. "Mister Parley, I don't feel safe anywhere," he says honestly. << (fighting in cages)(will do that) >> "But, I figure bein' as we're workin' together, it wouldn't hurt to get to know each other a bit." "I had been feeling safe enough," Parley1 muses -- to himself? to otherParley? Perhaps just up to the ceiling, that's where his eyes are turning. "What you may learn first," Parley2 is pressing in against Parley1's back, the doorway all just /cluttered up/ with tawnyspotty shoulders and spikey dark hair. "Is that I am very private. I --." << (...sorry.)(can get computer.)(go with him.) >> << (no) >> is, this time, firmer: << (you'll only)(encourage it.) >> "We're not," Parley1 ventures, shifting weight back just slightly to press /back/ against Parley2, "in most places. The city's current atmosphere does /inspire/ a certain --" "--carefulness." Trib might have telepathy, but he's not /stupid/, either. The big man's jaw sets, and his amber gaze goes flat copper as his brow falls. << (fuck this) >> "Fine," he says. "Just thought I'd give it a shot." His irritation rolls off of him as he watches the two Parleys shift against each other. "Sorry to have bothered you." Then he's turning, and lifting his half-hand in a wave. "Thanks for your help, Mister Parley. Good to know I can count on you for a small thing. It'll make countin' on you for the big things that much easier." He offers a smile that does /not/ reach his eyes. << (useless fucking weasels) >> "You two have a nice, safe day, now." "There's a library," Parley1 offers lightly, "directly bordering the northeast side of the park." Parley2 only lowers his eyes and withdraws into the apartment again. "Sorry." Parley1's head dips, some gesture trapped between nod and bow. "Be safe, Mr. Jones." He is reaching for the currycomb even as he nudges the door closed again. "Yeah, fuck you," Trib mutters, and the slamming of the stairwell door behind him (and bouncing back open) is probably loud enough to reach back to the apartment.