ArchivedLogs:Truce

Truce
Of a sort.
Dramatis Personae Parley, Trib	2013-07-21 '
Location <NYC> Midtown East
A dense, skyscraper packed neighborhood, Midtown is the busiest commercial district in the United States, and one of the busiest pieces of land in the world. Day and night, Midtown is filled with people going to and from work, enjoying the nightlife, and walking quickly through the streets. Very few live in Midtown proper - only the most wealthy and work-obsessed - but many who live in and around the City work here. In many ways, Midtown is the heart that beats in the city that never sleeps. It is still hot in New York and, as everyone knows, only madmen and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun. Which means that the streets here in Midtown are relatively pedestrian-free, save for those people finding cooler (and more entertaining) atmosphere in bars and restaurants. And the empty streets make it easy to pick out the odd individual. Especially when they are the size of Trib, who moves down the sidewalk with a definite spring in his normal predatory stalk. He even has a curl of lip that could be classified as a definite smile as he fiddles an enevelope in the fingers of his right hand. In shorts and a blue tank top, he's dressed for the heat like the few other pedestrians, although he passes by the bars and cafes with cool air wafting temptingly through their doors. Instead, he heads for the stoop to Heroes for Hire, skipping up the couple of steps to grab the door handle and give it an experimental jiggle. Which only serves to prove that the place is locked up tight. Behind Trib, a wild Parley has gradually manifested through the heat ripples rising off the pavement and some sad lonely newspaper cover blowing feebly across the street in lurches of useless hot breeze. He's -- not really dressed for the weather, in that he has a high-collared sports coat (lightweight, gray,) over some variety of white shirt underneath, knee-length cargo shorts. Gray and black Teva sandals. "The office is still closed," he calls up from the bottom of the steps. Swinging keeps off an index finger. "Could I help you with something?" Trib is just bending to slip the envelope into the mail slot when Parley speaks, and there's a flare of surprise in his mind that doesn't match the slowness with which he straightens. << (fuck)(be nice) >> When he turns, there's a small pop of his eyebrows in greeting. "Mister Parley," he grunts, and squints down at the smaller man. << (help)(big joke) >> The thoughts are lazy, surfacing idly as he looks down at Parley. "Just droppin' off some receipts for Cage," he says, holding up the envelope. The keys get a small narrowing of his eyes, and a working of his jaw before his gaze sweeps over Parley as a whole. << (Cage)(dumbass) >> "Ain't that uncomfortable?" "Not as uncomfortable as I would be without," Parley admits, mounting the steps with a hand out for the receipts, "Small sacrifices." He pauses at the door, fitting the key into the lock with a thoughtful moment of glancing at the much larger man beside him. "You seem to be in high spirits." Click, go the tumblers. "Oh?" Trib is genuinely curious as to the difference, but he falls back to give the smaller man room. " The evelope flicks back towards the boxer's chest when Parley extends his hand, and his eyes narrow just a bit. << (PR guys)(sneaky)(don't need receipts) >> "It's just some stuff for Janice," he offers in way of lame explanation, grinding the words out. "For my new laptop." He lets that lay there, or maybe the observation switches his thoughts, because there's definite warmth spreading across his mindscape. Outwardly, his lip curls into a broader sort of smile on one side of his face, and he lifts a shoulder. "It's been a good couple of weeks," he says. "Been gettin' a lot of workin' out in." He tips his head, and leans against the doorframe, watching the unlocking. "I always feel better when I'm workin' out. How have you been, Mister Parley?" "Janice is back, now?" Parley employs a thread trace of hope in asking, pushing open the door with a glance over his shoulder. "I've been doing some of the paperwork while she's away. Filing, sorting mail." Not officially but compulsively. Trib holding the envelop against himself as though Parley were going to snatch it from him earns a brief pause - then a thoughtful laugh to himself - hardly a bare hn-hn-hn... Once inside, he shrugs out of his coat. The shirt beneath his short sleeved, fur and spots visible where they ride his shoulders. Wandering to the side to let Trib pass through, he stretches out his arms, letting the fur bristle and adjust to the air, all clumped up into little sweaty spikes. "It sounds it," that it's been a good week. "If you've gotten a laptop. I've been," he is walking towards Janice's desk, his back facing the other man, "learning." "Nah, she ain't back," Trib rumbles. "I think Cage is takin' her the books, to work on at home." << (Good)(Safer there) >> He follows Parley into the office, rolling his neck appreciatively at the cooler air of the interior. His eyebrows pop at the revelation of fur and spots, and the big man's mouth pulls down briefly at the corners. << (Uncomfortable)(makes sense) >> "I've just had it a couple of days," he says about the laptop. "Cage just gave me the money for it the other night, when we talked." << (about you) >> He moves to Janice's desk, and parks one buttock on the corner, regarding the smaller man thoughtfully. "What have you been learnin', Mister Parley?" "It takes time getting used to, doesn't it?" Parley scoops the pile of papers up form the inbox to riffle through them, "Owning a new computer?" One hand is idly smoothing down the fur at his shoulder. With the two of them standing against the desk, it makes the sound of the rustling paper prominent in the room - his eyes raise up gradually to find the other's eyes, taking a slow thoughtful rout up Trib's body as he does, "I'm learning how to finalize my registration as a legal interpreter. It's interesting seeing the process behind it. Mh. How many years have you studied boxing, Mr. Jones?" "Yeah," Trib rumbles, his eyes tracking the scooping and rifling before flicking away. "It's one of them fancy ones, that's got the touch screen thing. It's cool, but tricky." << (really hard) >> He rolls a shoulder. "I got a friend who can help me figure it out, though." His gaze comes back in time to catch the slow up-look, and there's a small crinkle at the corner of his eyes. << (ah) >> "How many languages do you speak?" he wonders, tipping his head to let his own gaze rake over the smaller man. "I only speak Spanish, myself." The question gets a wrinkle of his nose. << (long time)(teenager) >> "Let's see...I'm almost 21, so for about six years?" He lifts a shoulder. "My granddad started me early, to keep me out of trouble." << (didn't/doesn't work) >> He shrugs again. "It didn't work that well, but it kept me out of jail." << (kind of) >> Dark eyes slip away, downwards, when /crinkles/ form around the boxer's eyes, a small smile answering. Parley begins slipping envelopes into folder slots on the side of Janice's desk. And, after a moment's pause, he also eases himself the side of his hip to take a half-seat as well, knee nearly bumping with Trib's. "Hm. That's a sort of," his brows twitch, "complicated question, for me. Language barriers aren't really," he holds an open hand over the side of his temple, "a barrier for me." He is looking at Trib's large hands, damaged and whole alike, gaze slipping back and forth. "...I'm also. Slowly. Learning some self defense." Trib smirks at that small smile, and his brow twitches as a momentary heated thought slips idly by. << (dumb idea)(too late) >> He has a lot of leg, and he doesn't seem to notice the almost-brush of knees. He furrows his brow at the explanation. "You're a fuckin' telepath of some kind," he says, his mouth pulling a bit tight. << (figures)(watch my thoughts) >> "I bet that's handy, in public relations." His thick fingers flex under scrutiny, as if showing off their oddly clean-and-tended nails. His eyes, however, are on Parley, narrowing at the revelation. "That seems smart," he says, offering a tilted smile. "Hope you found a good coach. What disciplines are you learnin'?" "A telepath?" Parley laughs, quietly, closing his eyes with a subtle shiver for the passage of heated thought in the other man, shaking his head, "No. Sentiment makes - hm." He tips his head, reaching towards Trib's damaged hand, though coming up short of touching it. Instead, he only traces the shape in the air above it, seeming almost to admire, "sense to me. How spoken word -- body language -- communicate. Where they could." One of his eyes closes slightly, "I'm not sure I can say I'm advanced enough to declare a discipline." Trib watches the tracing over his hand with a small chuff that carries no emotion. "So, your power is to get the gist of what people are saying?" he asks, furrowing his brow. "Whether you understand their language or not?" His smile fades, a bit, and there's a definite thead of concern that runs through his mind, small as that thread might be. << (Worse than telepath)(Dangerous) >> He lifts his gaze to regard the other man, and his eyes narrow. "That sounds like it can be troublesome," he rumbles. "I mean, even the best of us needs to hear a white lie every now an' then. I guess you don't get that...whatayacallit. Luxury." The deference /does/ get a laugh, and the boxer rolls his shoulders. "Fair enough," he grunts. "What are you learnin', then?" "Little white lies?" Parley's eyebrow seems to slowly arch entirely of its own accord, "Sorry, I think you're making it sound a little more exciting than it is." The leg bent to fit hip on desk folds to hook an ankle behind the opposite knee, and blossoms open a palm to draw his battle plan along the lifeline, "Well. I'm starting at learning how not to immediately die. And from there. I'm expanding into, potentially, how to discourage people from - trying?" There's no important indicators that suggest if he's being entirely sincere, or just wide-eyed sarcastic. On a whim, he slips off the desk and holds up a hand, beckoning, "Slowly. Show me what a punch aimed at me would look like?" “You know,” Trib grunts, waving a hand. “Someone tellin’ you a shirt you like looks good on you when it don’t, an’ shit like that. Little fibs that make you feel good for a little bit. I guess, since you can read body language an’ stuff, you don’t get a lot of them moments.” The boxer is fairly sympathetic to this, oddly, and there’s a small pull of his mouth. “Not dyin’ is pretty much the most important part to learn,” Trib says as he pushes to his feet, rolling his neck. He regards the smaller man for a long moment, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully before he nods, and raises his fist. “Now, in the ring, you’d get a punch like this,” he says, offering a cross-punch with his left hand in a shadowy feint that doesn’t come close. “But if I were kickin’ your ass in the street,” he continues << (someone)(will) >>, “I’d throw something like this.” And he offers a slow uppercut, moving like the Six Million Dollar Man as he steps forward with the swing. "Sadly, Mr. Jones," a delicate transference of weight, not polished grace but a primal version of it, and Parley's forward foot transitions towards the back back, stepping further out of Trib's swinging range. "Most of those sorts of lies," the rise of a forearm to redirect Trib's fist away isn't technically wrong, though even the benefit of slow movement can't wipe away the lack of familiarity, "could just as easily be inferred through observation." The raise of his brows invites another round? “Nice, but you need more sweep,” is Trib’s muttered advice as he steps back. “If I’d been really punchin’, I would have broken your forearm.” He demonstrates what he means in pantomime. “You’re too small to take hits like that. Use your forearm to knock it aside, an’ don’t pussyfoot about it.” << (good move though)(rough) >> He snorts a bit at the response to his thoughts, and shakes his head as he brings up his fists again. “I ain’t exactly sure what you mean, Mister Parley. How can you tell a lie someone plans to tell you through body language?” He’s genuinely curious, although his face is intent as he steps forward, offering a shadowy jab. “Like I said, it kind of robs you of them feel-good moments, don’t it?” "Practice," Parley twitches the edge of his mouth, eyes directed down at Trib's demonstration. He holds his forearm firm to the implied blow, following it through a second time with the modification. "Mostly. Breathing, the direction of eyes and body, movement of hands." His voice remains steady, vague and essentially modern, but his features, when focused, are eased, more open, eyes wide and curious, lower lip slack. "Our bodies perform their rituals every time we," he ducks with more speed under Trib's swing, tucking head down into shoulders with forearms still up to defend his face, "interact. We want them to. It's in our instinct. Some more consciously than others. I'm not sure what you're assuming, but I can't read minds, if someone is lying to me." He's taking another step back, giving Trib further ground. He considers the question, raised hands curling loosely into fists. And slowly, something becomes smoother in his eyes; harder, like dry ice. "But lying for a quick feel-good moment sounds a bit cheap, doesn't it?" He drives out a jab - it's not particularly quick, intending to be deflected. /Watching/ to see how it might be. And states, "I think I would rather a truth that hurt me." “Huh,” Trib is clearly impressed by Parley’s explanation, and his punches become lazy as he considers that. “That’s kind of what you do in the ring, or a fight. You gotta watch your opponent, an’ figure out what he’s gonna do before he does it.” His mouth pulls to one side. << (more dangerous?)(maybe just as) >> “Don’t cost you nothin’ to say somethin’ that makes someone feel good,” he says. “You don’t know what’ll make a person’s day.” He bats the jab aside in a lazy movement, and steps forward with a bit more haste. << (pretty good) >> “Who’s teachin’ you to fight? You got some raw talent.” "I didn't know," Parley's head yanks to the side, his overgrown hair yanked along behind it a split second after, avoiding Trib's punches. As he acclimates to the breadth and width of Trib's intention, allows the hard granite mind to wash through his channels, their movements fall into a gradual, impromptu synchronization, Trib's body to his. It doesn't spare him perfectly - a fair number of his dodges are amateur, unsure of /how/ to properly maneuver, just - going along as best he can. His eyes jump rapidly from Trib's body and hands, to Trib's /face/, for indication when he's erred. "That making people's day was a priority for Retribution Jones." His return assaults are more rare, they swing in light and cautious. The muted weight of his aura - washed more in the boxer's own heavy scent now, swallowing in more and more - simultaneously broadcasts precious little of his movement in turn. "I have many teachers." Losing ground with nearly every step, a slow, vague smile has started to form beneath his glassy eyes. He increases the speed of his attacks. Just - a few notches. The slow synchronization doesn’t escape Trib, and there’s a small surge of satisfaction that slides across his mind for Parley’s adjusting. “Just ‘cause I ain’t friendly don’t mean I’m an asshole,” he says with a lazy curl of one side of his mouth. “But there are a /few/ people whose day I actively hope is goin’ well.” There’s a surge of warmth, then, and his smile slips a bit wider. << (Bones) >> As he gains the advantage, Trib’s swings are the tiniest bit weighted, as if the boxer is trying to force a counter-attack. “Many teachers, huh?” He wrinkles his nose. “I guess for self-defense, that’s probably good. Gives you a larger...whatayacallit. Arsenal. To choose from.” He steps in, and tips his head. “They teachin’ you wrestlin’, too, Mister Parley?” << (arm) >> comes just a flash before the boxer reaches out to attempt to latch around one of Parley’s thin wrists. “You know how to break a hold, an’ all that?” "Do you often," Parley tries to withdraw his arm, but too late - when it's caught, all the long tendons beneath his skin are hard cables, expression locked on the boxer's face, his breath slightly labored, "lie to do it?" He gives his arm a pointed /yank/, which probably only ends up yanking himself /towards/ Trib. Probably answer enough to his question. “Since I got out of the cages, Mister Parley, I’ve made it my policy not to lie to anyone, if I can help it.” Trib’s rumble is gentle, with an amused cast to it. “I might not tell them somethin’ I think will cause ‘em worry, but as a rule, I ain’t in the habit of spinnin’ silk.” When Parley pulls himself towards Trib, the big man’s eyes narrow, and with a deft roll of his elbow, he spins the smaller man into his bulk, closing his other arm around the empath’s skinny chest like a lockbar. “Elbows, knees, and groin,” he grunts, his mouth close to Parley’s ear as his body curls to solidify the hold. << (needs to hit hard)(too skinny) >> “You need to hit ‘em hard, to break this kind of hold.” He chuffs a breath. “An’, if your opponent’s got a nose that ain’t been busted a hundred times, you can always smash it with the back of your head.” So helpful. Thmp. Well now. Conversation will have to wait. All bundled in, Parley's back is a narrow angry confederacy of lean muscle all locking up against Trib's chest like a sack of snakes. Small ones. Garter snakes. He remains in this arrested moment, ribcage expanding and contracting to breathe against the arm around him. He emits a short, sharp hiss of air - a 'heh' of laughter? A sigh? A shudder? And then... he /squirms/. Kind of small, tight wriggles, shoving his tailbone backwards against Trib's hips, striking back with elbow. He can be heard swallowing tightly. Trib grunts a laugh at the shift in Parley’s frame, and shakes his head slightly. “You ain’t bony enough for that to work,” he rumbles, ignoring the flare of heat that tailbone evokes and tightening his grip. “An’ it’s too late for tryin’ to distract me with /that/.” He smiles as he tightens his grip. “Elbows, knees, groin, face,” he repeats. “Go on an’ give it your all. You ain’t goin’ to hurt me.” The big man actually seems to be /enjoying/ this; a fact that is even surprising to him. As the warmth of Trib's enjoyment flows in through Parley's mind, his jaw abruptly sets and he lunges forward, straining at the arm locked around him, then slamming back his tailbone again, twisting his hips. Every breath in: rushed! Every breath out: rushed! Maybe he's already winded himself, it comes out in short huffs. He lifts up his foot and begins to stomp down against Trib's shin. His steady-rapid heartrate is suddenly a prominent, private thing shared between them. It thuds loud and fierce, mindless, against Trib's arm. It can be felt against Trib's chest as well, faintly through his back, like some strange nucleus of silent industry the boxer has captured. The boxer hhuffs a breath when Parley slams against his arm, and when his tailbone comes back, Trib’s hips move slightly ahead, cushioning the blow without avoiding it. “Better,” he grunts, when Parley’s foot begins to assail his shin. “But it ain’t gonna do nothin’ but smart, unless you’re wearing heavy boots.” He leans forward, adding the press of his weight to the challenge. “Go for my ankles, or my instep,” is his rumbled advice. “Take the fight away from the places you can’t win.” There’s a slow curl of his lips, and his voice lowers just a bit. “Surprise me.” << (if you can) >> Without hesitation, Parley twists his head to the side and wordlessly sinks his teeth hard into Trib's bicep. And /grinds/. The press of sharp teeth into his arm elicits a pained grunt from Trib, and he instinctively tightens the muscle there. << (Sneaky) >> His inhalation is little more than a hiss of air over teeth as he loosens his arm-lock across Parley’s chest, and there's a small surge of...satisfaction? Being impressed? Maybe a mix, as he takes a step back. “That works, too.” Parley spins away the instant he's loose, hind set of toes skidding a few inches to a stop once he's facing Trib again. His mouth is dropped open to catch his wind, "--is that how you were trained?" His brows a pulled slightly together, eyes /bright/, but otherwise his features remain tightly composed. Trib smirks, rubbing a hand over the bitten place on his arm. “Mister Parley, I may have been boxin’ for five years or so, but I’ve been scrappin’ since I was a little kid.” He waves a hand at the room at large. “This kind of fightin’ is what I cut my teeth on. It’s probably the only thing that kept me alive,” << (in the cages) >> “at some point in my life.” He drops his hand, and rolls his shoulder, looking down at the bruised flesh of his bicep. “Bitin’ was a good plan,” he notes, eyes crinkling. “You got good teeth for it.” Parley doesn't move for a moment more, weight distributed to back leg and eyes failing to return the smile - just watching Trib, watching the shape of Trib's mind, how the shift of his body reflects the shape of his thoughts - /mapping/ it out. Slowly, the forward foot pulls back to join the rear one. And he shifts his shoulders, shrugging under the loose skin of his back to try and ease up the punky little mohawk of guard hairs standing up down the line of his spine. And - whew. Okay. Lets out a swatch of air, admitting, "--most teeth are, probably." And he just... runs his hands through his hair, turning his back on the boxer to head towards his clothes. "In the right circumstances. I have to lock up behind you." Trib’s mind is easy to map; the few active thoughts and feelings he has stand out like landmarks in the stillness of his mind. << (Edgy)(Scared?) >> rolls by on a wave of disappointed approval. << (Excited?) >> follows on a collision course with a discomfortingly heated wave that crashes flat as soon as they brush against each other. << (Bones.) >> “True,” Trib says, with a tight pull of his mouth as he steps back to check the envelope remains where he set it. “But your teeth feel pretty sharp. Not everyone’s got that kind of advantage.” He leans against the desk as Parley retrieves his clothes, watching him carefully before he nods and pushes up from the desk. “If you ever want to spar again, Mister Parley, you should give me a call,” he rumbles, already heading towards the door. “I meant it when I made that offer before.” << (with)(your twin) >> He glances back. “Only this time, /you/ can come to /me/.” The farthest edge of Parley's mouth curls up, shrugging his spotted shoulders into his jacket. His eyes sweep up Trib's tall form as he slips in behind him to follow for the exit, "Mm. Would you like that?" “Heard me offer, didn’t you?” Trib says, looking over his shoulder. << (Closer is better)(Safer) >> “I figure, if we gotta work together, we should at least /try/ to work out some sort of rhythm, yeah?” He quirks a half-smile, and lifts a shoulder. “An’ how else can I figure you out? Way a man fights says a lot about him.” "You do read body language, then," Parley so lightly points out, grinning just slightly as they file out onto the stoop. He turns to lock the door, just a light flick! of the key for apparently his own entertainment entirely. And then tucks it in his pocket and says, spontaneously, "Let's go now, then." One brow raises, "If you're up for it?" Trib looks up from his lower (sort of) vantage point on the stairs, and it’s a long moment before he jerks his chin towards his chest. << (Why not.) >> “Sure,” he says. “I ain’t got nothin’ else to do for a while.” << (might be)(fun) >> He tips his head, and gestures for the smaller man to precede him. “You’ll find, Mister Parley, that there ain’t much I ain’t up for.” He snorts. “Within’ fuckin’ reason, of course.” "Of course," Parley says it under his breath, slipping down the steps and, after a brief upward glance of eyes, a compression of lips, he steps down where Trip indicates. To walk ahead of Trib where he can be visible, hands folded loosely over the base of his spine. His hips swing loose and easy, his light-weight balanced loose as fog on water. << (Not bad) >> is an unexpected signpost in the undetailed map of Trib’s mind as he watches that graceful sway. There’s a pang of guilt that stabs through the boxer, and he hastens his steps to catch up to Parley, falling in alongside him and shoving his own hands in his pockets. “You got a gym?” he asks, his tone conversational. “I generally use the place by your building, but it ain’t good for sparrin’.” He wrinkles his nose. << (Cage)(might know) >> “Or I can call Cage. He might know of a place.” "Somewhere private," is Parley's only preference, eyes still directed intently forward as Trib falls in alongside him. A sharp smile lingers, seeming for purely his own benefit. It's not particularly happy, and he tugs meaningfully at the lapels of his jacket. He'd /like/ to be able to take it off before starting up anything rigorous. “Private, huh?” Trib doesn’t seem bothered by this stipulation, and he jerks his chin towards his chest. << (Train yard)(Empty)(Warehouses) >> “I might know of a place. It won’t be fancy, though.” His lips curl into a tight little smile, and there’s a flare of naughty amusement that accompanies his next words. “If you don’t mind gettin’ a little dirty, that is.” "Ahh?" Parley makes this noise speculatively, partly through his nose. "Really?" He raises wide, guileless eyes to Trib's. "You'll have to show me." Trib smirks a bit, his eyes sliding sideways to regard that guileless look with a small narrowing. << (Game?)(Looks honest) >> His lips curl thinly, and he lifts a shoulder as he indicates the subway entrance, veering that direction. “Mister Parley,” he rumbles. “I got a feelin’ there’s all kinds of things you’d like me to show you.” He closes one eye in a solemn wink. “But let’s stick to sparrin’, yeah?” Then he’s heading down the stairs, not looking back as he calls over his shoulder. “Better shake a fuckin’ leg. Our train is here in two minutes.” And then he’s gone into the sparse weekend crowd, confident that Parley will follow him. To be shown Things.