ArchivedLogs:Mindset

Mindset
Dramatis Personae Cage, Parley	2013-07-10 '
Location <NYC> Heroes for Hire - Midtown East
The front room of the Heroes for Hire office has the secretary's desk, a small filing cabinet, a computer, and a ceiling fan. Janice, the aforementioned secretary is a sixty-something woman who's accent clearly marks her as being from Eastern European descent, though probably one generation removed judging by how well she speaks English. Janice was almost certainly selected by some busy-body lawyer on Luke's behalf, probably to keep him free of any more accidental law suits. The paint is faded, but everything pretty much works. Off to one side is the bathroom, and the other door leads back to Luke's office. There's isn't much in Luke's actual office but a small desk and a swivel chair pushed into one corner, with a pair of straight backed chairs on the other side of it. A couch is by the window that looks out over the city, with Times Square in the distance. All things considered, its actually a pretty decent little spot. Evening time finds the street closing down for the night; shop fronts are dark in the windows save a blinking ATM sign in one convenient store window, a fish tank in the window of a Chinese restaurant, the front stoop of a barber shop where the store owner is just now locking the door. Parley is just now /heading/ to work; with Heroes for Hire closed down in respect for the times, his stops by the office have dropped to once a week for the minimal face-time to justify his existence, run down general PR maintenance and maybe a mail-check. He's dressed down for the day, his spiky hair a sweaty mess, cheeks red, damp jogging clothes probably a little heavy for the summer /heat/ but -- well, a high collar to cover the visible fur lining up the back of his neck is worth the grief. He unlocks the door with his key, locking it behind him and catching his breath. "Who'zat?" Cage is kicked back in his chair for once, not the couch in his office proper, feet up on his desk. He looks up, light dawning in his eyes. MAYBE he should move the /couch/ behind the desk, so he can do <<BOTH AT ONCE>>. The mental image of Cage able to both lounge on the couch AND rest his feet on the desk and completely absorbed his attention. Yes, someone just came in the front door, but maybe since they didn't break the door down, he's somewhat less concerned, especially considering the massive breakthrough he's made in relaxation Science. He stands, and is eyeing the couch. "If I said it was a terrorist?" Parley challenges Luke's challenge, RIGHT BACK at him as he ventures deeper into the office. Even walking through the center of the doorway, his psionically subdued presence gives the sense of something hugging the parameters. "I could a bomb strapped to me." He sounds almost charmed with this idea, flipping through a pile of envelopes he'd dragged along with him from Jan's desk in passing. He's circling around the side of Cage's desk. Tossing a few envelopes /onto/ it. Like a flowergirl. Here. And this one. This one is /also/ needing your attention, Mr. Cage. "Ug," He says. Literally, he says the word 'ug', at the sight of the mail. "I hate mail. I miss Janice." He steps around his desk, the side Parley isn't on, and crosses to the couch, eyeing it. He kneels, picks the thing up in the middle, and hoists it onto his shoulder. "Comin' through Parley << short-stuff >>, watch your head." He nudges his desk chair out of the way with the toe of his boot, and it rolls into the corner. Then he sets the couch down, facing the desk. Cage looks unreasonably pleased with himself. With the couch at maximum elevation, there's that one moment where Parley's eyes drop to Luke's enticingly exposed side, as though considering for one wild moment what might happen poke at a /kidney shot/. Or who knows, his default-neutral face could just be thoughful. He ducks clear either way. And /quickly/, because you don't mess around with a freaking couch. Once it's set down, he begins circling around of it arms loosely draped across his abdomen to cup hands around opposite elbows, "--is it really as easy as it looks, for you?" Cage is finally slightly less distracted, now that he's completed the prototype for his plan. "Wait, what? Is what easy?" "I... huh." Cage looks thoughtful, fully focused on the conversation. He shrugs and walks over to the coffee pod machine. He couldn't manage the regular coffee maker without Janice, so we went out and bought himself the Kuerig style maker. "I dunno, actually. I've never tried to max out. You want a coffee? I can bend rebar into cute animal shapes." "Dare I even ask /what/ cute animals you've made. -- Mn. Do you have cream?" Parley is being /picky/, unzipping the front of his jogging suit and shrugging it off his shoulders. Nothing exciting underneath; just a wife beater and some sweat-damp fur that likes to breathe. He swings a leg up, rotating at the hips to perch atop the back of the couch. Watching Cage through his downward-tipped face. "... do you have a speed advantage as well?" "Do I have-" Cage looks incredulous at the cream question. "Have you ever seen me make coffee?" He leans down to the cabinet under the coffee maker and reveals a built in mini-fridge with a carton of half-n-half, and a box of sugar packets. /His/ coffee winds up about half half-n-half, and at least five sugar packets, but it would be easy to lose count. "Well, I made a weiner dog, and a giraffe. I had a book on balloon animals when I was a kid, but I can't remember how to do any others. Whadya mean 'speed advantage'? I ain't got no super speed, if thats what you're askin." Parley's wide fixed gaze is probably what you'd expect of a person mentally picturing a man bending rebar into a weiner dog. Kind of... horrified /fascination/. With a slowly curling side of his mouth that isn't /dis/-pleased either. "-you're not joking, are you." He's reaching forward, idly, to pick up some paper or another that Cage so foolishly left out in his presence for a brief speed-read browsing, "... and on top of all that you've formal combat knowledge as well." It's sort of a statement, sort of an inquiry. "Yeah well, the neighborhood boxing ring was probably the best way to stay outa trouble where I grew up. But even even with that, you know... It didn't work out so well." He shrugs. He may not have killed a guy, but he /was/ an accessory to armed robbery. Not exactly the poster child for... anything, really. "But yeah, I did ok at it before all this. Ranked up real well in the prison circuit too. That was how I knew when my mutation started." He gestures with his coffee cup at Parley's clothes. "But lookit you - you out joggin or somethin?" "Or something." Hff. Parley makes a slight face down at the paper he's reading, a vague passing wrinkle of the nose. Maybe it has some of Cage's bad /grammar/ writ upon it. And he tosses it down soon after, leaning on his knees with a steady stare settled on the coffee maker. "...how old were you, Mr. Cage. When you learned." Luke looks like he might be concerned about whatever Parley is frowning at on the desk, but then he's distracted by a question about his favorite topic: HIM. "Uh. Well, older than most, I guess. But I think it was just ramping up over time, you know? I mean, I was always a pretty tough kid, but I got hurt plenty before I went to prison. Just never... you know, not /that/ bad. And everyone knew I'd bounce back pretty quick, whatever it was. Busted nose, black eye, whatever." Cage shrugs, and sips at his coffee. "But I spent my 20's in prison, and I mostly just tried to keep my head down, do my time, that kinda stuff. But then I started getting better and better at boxing. Hits didn't hurt so bad, and I started hitting harder. Then a gang on the inside wanted me to throw a match. I said 'Fuck that' of course. You know me. But when they went to shiv me in the shower... the fuckin' shiv /bent/ on my skin." He raises his eyebrows to convey how /crazy/ that must have been for him. "I kind of wrote it off, you know, but then I got all into it during that riot, you know, the night I busted out. Got all kinds'a shot, and whatever. Just started punching walls, and got out. Think it's on youtube, if you never seen it." "...that must have been terrifying." Parley says it low and with a sort of frank sincerity. It has a breathiness, too, that might be a calloused kind of... /impressed/. If you look at it sideways and squint. He extends an arm to make a grabby-hand towards the coffee machine. He can't /reaaaach/ from where he's sitting, Cage. Be a hero. "Sss. I've seen the footage. You know. I don't think I've ever been in a proper fight." "Yeah man, it was pretty bad. I kind of hate when movies make prison into a- I dunno. They never show it right. But yeah," he chuckles. "I got solitary for a week for beating up the guys that tried to stab me." Cage sees the plight of his fellow mutant and steps in to rescue. He sets Parley's coffee cup on the desk, well within reach. "And bein in a fight ain't so great either. But at least that's something you can get ready for. Nothing gets you ready for prison. Nothin." "How do you? Get ready for fighting?" Parley pulls the cup into his personal space, taking a sip, and then sliding forward to land on his feet; it's not specifically a movement you would call graceful. But it's organic and balanced in that vague way so many physically altered mutants carry. He is wandering thoughtfully into an orbit around Cage, viewing him from all sides in rapid up-and-down sweeps of gaze. Muted, with a few rosettes on tawny fur visible at the shoulders, it's the sense of a creature prowling just beyond some invisible foliage, "...I don't think I've ever heard you talk about prison much before." Cage shrugs, maintaining a nonchalant exterior. "I don't like talkin about it much. << I'll die before I let them put me away again >>" Another sip from his coffee, and Cage finally takes in the prowling Parley. "Why do you ask man? You got a fight comin? Is there somebody I should maybe have a /talk/ with." One does not need to be a telepath to know Cage does not mean 'talk'. Ever /difficult/, any turn of head Luke Cage might make will only catch a brief glimpse of Parley before he's slipping a little too far from sight again. A mutation that allows the empath to sense intention even in body language makes this interaction as though they were part of a single unit of movement. "I try to avoid fighting, if I can." Not really an /answer/ at all, is it. Quiet as his existential blip on the mental radar is, it might be mildly alarming, the moment he lightly pokes a fingertip against the small of Cage's back. Stick 'em up. "Is it difficult? To get into a mindset for it?" "Not once the fight starts," Cage says, turning to and turning, until he finally gets caught. He puts his hands up, still holding the coffee, as if he's being held up. "Instinct takes over. Even in the ring, I mean. It's why you have to train so hard. You're not just training your body to be strong enough, you're training your mind to keep up with everything happening so fast, surfing the wave of adrenalin that makes you wanna do crazy shit." Then Cage twitches, not even enough to spill his coffee, but he makes a quick, jerky motion like he's gonna elbow Parley, but doesn't even come close to following through. Just checking to see if he can give Parley two for flinching is all. Subtly, Parley's breath can be heard pausing, the jerk of Cage's elbow felt transmitted through the muscle clusters in his back, just beneath the empath's fingertips - it's felt from Cage's mind as well. Parley doesn't exactly /flinch/ so much as flee from it... which means he's circling back around the other side of Cage, flushed out of his hiding place and into full sight again. "You train your mind for it," he repeats it, quietly, to himself. Still not making eye contact, his rangy shoulders are bunched up beneath fur and spots, his gaze is locked on the center of Cage's stomach. Very slowly, he curls a fist, bends his elbow, and rolls his torso at the hips in a slow-motion not-really-punch aimed for Cage's solar plexus. The way he's darting his eyes between his fist and the bigger man's chest only highlights just how unfamiliar and experimental it all is. "--is it difficult?" "It depends on the person, I guess. My old coach said I took to it cause I'm not so bright. But I know he was just trying to get me riled up. << I hope >>" Cage sets his coffee down and looks down at the slo-mo punch. "The physical training is the easy part. My coach talked to us like that, because you have to switch off the part of your brain that plans stuff out. Like... I bet chess players would be terrible fighters." He shrugs, obviously pulling that theory out of nowhere. "It's just, you have to let /instinct/ take over, and not think through everything you're gonna do. It /shows/. In your face, your body. You can't 'think then do'. It has to be all at once. Reacting, and just smooth, fluid motion. You got that part already." "But what you really need is a coach." Bmp. Slow-mo means Parley just kind of PLACES his fist against Cage's gut, minimal pressure behind it. "I can't see it being a lack of intelligence that would make a combatant capable." Either he's saying this to console Luke, or just to be contrary. It's generally hard to tell. "...but. Relaxing into instinct and muscle memory... Mn." He withdraws his first assault and initiates the equally gradual progression of a left cross to impact with roughly the same minimal force, again looking from his own arm to his target, then a sneak-glance up towards Cage's face with a brow marginally raised - is this right? "Are you volunteering?" Cage hems to himself, rubbing at his jaw, and inspecting the punch while he thinks. "Well, I never thought about coaching, but I guess it would work. I mean, I'm awesome." <<<...>> "And you're already pretty quick on your feet." Luke nods, coming to a quick decision. "Sure! Why not? Just for starters, this isn't bad - you've got a straight wrist, but make your fist like this, thumb on the outside." Luke holds up his own huge hand to demonstrate rolling all the digits together in a tight ball. "We should start with your strength training, anyway." Luke grins, a gleam in his eye. He's going to enjoy this! Imparted correction is taken solemnly, Parley's dark eyes sharp and present-focused on Luke's hard-packed fist. Either of his own fold in with a ginger care, before a /rather/ waspish frown is aimed up at Cage's /grin/. Too late to back out now. He nods, sharply, falling into the tender mercies of Luke Cage, though for now his hands fall back to his sides. "--there's something else." Luke raises an eyebrow and says, “Oh? What’s on your mind?” Luke relaxes, and leans back against the wall, which manages to reduce his height somewhat, compared to the smaller man. No one likes being towered over, after all. Parley is meandering back around Cage's desk to reclaim his coffee. He crosses a forearm over his abdomen, bracing an elbow on it to keep his drink held idly aloft, "Your Retribution Jones stopped by my apartment a while back." Coffee-sip. "Actually. He bypassed the locked door downstairs, came up to my private door and demanded I let him use my computer." He's watching Cage's face closely. "Do you have any idea how he found out where I lived?" "Huh," Cage muses. "Really? I don't know how, but I mean, he has access to the office." Cage runs a hand over his bald head, thinking. "Did he say why he was there? I haven't seen him in a little while. This is the first I've heard about it." "Just that he wanted to use my computer." Parley is creeping a hip back up onto the back of the couch, hunkering over his cup like a jackal. "I'm an incredibly /private/ person, Mr. Cage. As are my roommates. Large strange men trespassing into the building looking for me is the sort of thing that could cost me my living arrangements." Delicate lashing of a monotone. "Yeah, that's not ok." Cage says, shaking his head. "I'll talk to him about it, ok? I don't expect everyone here to be all buddy-buddy, but we have to maintain some standards at least." "I'm sorry to put this on you," Parley twitches the side of his mouth. "But people like you and I can't exactly call the police." He grows silent for a long moment, watching steam slowly uncoil from his coffee. "--he's from the underground fighting rings, isn't he." It's not asked dramatically. Just frank inquiry. Cage looks at Parley for a long moment. It's probably a testament to how well he plays the Big Dumb Oaf part that only now does his scrutiny betray the brightness behind his eyes. "You're right - we can't call the cops." Cage considers the man for another moment and adds, "It ain't my place to talk about someone else's business. But I'll talk to him about following you home. I didn't ask him to do that, and I want to know why he did it. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again." Cage's demeanor shifts again, sipping his coffee and grinning. "So! How about that workout?" Parley sits under the sharp gaze of Luke Cage, letting it skim over him with full force - patient to it. Understanding of it? It's difficult to say, beyond a compression of lips and a slight lowering of head, his features alone aren't fixed in a conventional communication. To much of it, he only nods once. Agreement, acceptance, it doesn't matter. He abruptly tips back his coffee to drink it all down in a few rapid swallows and plunks the cup down on the desk top. Sliding to his feet. "Why do I get the feeling I'll be doing your paperwork for you in repayment." He kids. Because he'd do Cage's paperwork for FREE.