ArchivedLogs:Warm Reunion

Warm Reunion
Dramatis Personae Shane, Trib	2013-06-18 '
Location <NYC> East Village
Historically a center of counterculture, the East Village has a character all its own. Home to artists and musicians of many colours, this neighborhood is known for its punk vibe and artistic sensibilities. The birthplace of many protests, literary movements, it is home to a rather diverse community and vibrant nightlife. Despite the level of tension in the city, it is a beautiful day in New York, weather-wise. The sun is bright and the sky is clear -- it doesn't look like the city is coming apart at the seams. But. You can feel it. Where the weather would normally engender bright smiles and nods in passing, today instead finds people walking with a certain amount of trepidation. Heads remain bowed, for the most part, and those that aren't seem to be keenly interested in anything that seems out of the ordinary. Which probably means that eyes are firmly on Trib, here in the East Village. He doesn't look like a normal resident of the area; his bulk and ruined face mark him for rougher neighborhoods. But, here he is, dressed in jeans and a button-down short sleeve shirt in blue plaid that barely fits his massive torso and arms. The boxer has an athletic bag dangling from his shoulder, and a piece of paper clutched in his half-hand that he peers at with a tight line for a mouth. His golden gaze lifts from the paper, briefly, to track addresses before he begins to move again, pivoting on his heel to avoid a near-collision with a man more interested in his newspaper than drawing attention to himself, given the hunch of his shoulders. What eyes /had/ been on Trib are probably soon to no longer be; there's a very /familiar/ face rounding the corner, tugged along in the wake of an exuberant-excitable one-eyed beagle. At the end of the beagle's leash is Shane, who, very blue, very gilled, very clawed, draws -- stares. Avoidance. /Some/ avoidance, anyway: one boy spits at the teenager's cheek in passing, muttering something too low for other ears though Shane's gills flare. A bottle is hurled out of a passing cab window. Shane kicks it off into the street where it clatter-thunks against the gutter. He's /been/ neatly-dressed, pale seafoam-green dress shirt and bow tie and dark slacks though these are currently rumpled. He is just wiping his cheek with the back of his hand as Obie starts pulling his way closer to Trib; the boy stops, stares, and /chuffs/ an irritable breath. "Jesus fucking Christ." The commotion might get lost on the average New Yorker -- or maybe they're ignoring it, for the sake of avoiding police involvement -- but it doesn't pass Trib's notice. He looks up at the clink of glass in the gutter, his gaze landing first on it, then on the wriggling Obie at the end of his leash. There's a small lift of one corner of the big man's mouth as he lifts his eyes to find the dog's owner, his expression already morphing into one seeking permission to pet the anxious animal. It all washes away in stark recognition, though, when he reaches first the hand holding the leash, then the teenager behind it. "Fuck me," he mutters, sounding no more happy about this chance meeting than Shane. "You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me." He jabs a finger at the boy accusingly, his brow furrowing. "What the fuck are you doin', kid?" Obie does not bother with such silly things as /permission/, dogs have little regard for consent or personal space as he bounds forward, tail wagging, to sniff excitedly at Trib's shoes. Shane looks down at his hand -- the leash in it, the dog at the end, and then shakes his head with a disgusted snort. "Baking a fucking cake, moron, the hell does it /look/ like I'm doing?" His tongue clicks in time with a gentle tug backwards on Obie's leash. Obie sniffsniffsniffs a moment longer but then is /just/ as eager to listen to this command, frisking back over to thrust his nose at the hem of Shane's slacks. "The fuck are /you/ doing?" Trib's eyes narrow a bit when the dog bounds forward, but he remains still while he's investigated, glancing down to ensure that he is not mistaken for a lamp post. Shane's response gets a chuffed exhalation, and the big man's amber gaze slides back to the teenager. "Looks like you're bein' fuckin' reckless," he rumbles, flipping the scrap of paper between his fingers like a moth's wings. "I'm guessin' that bottle didn't fall out of no window an' hit you." At the question, he lifts his half-hand to show the paper as if presenting his identification. "Guy I work with lives in this neighborhood." His mouth presses back into that line. "Didn't know you did." "Go fuck yourself, you stupid dipshit. I'm /walking/ my fucking /dog/. He doesn't stop having to shit because the world's gone stupid." Shane presses a button on the leash's handle, the leash retracting. Another press keeps Obie tethered much closer to heel. "Why the fuck /would/ you have known where I live?" He's backing up a step, taking Obie along with him, though he eyes the piece of paper with narrowed eyes. Trib barks a laugh. "That ain't very friendly, Sharky," he rumbles, his eyes narrowing. "I ain't called you a single name or nothin'. Just made an observation." Trib doesn't seem much phased by Shane's anger, and he lifts a shoulder at the question. "I wouldn't," he admits. "'swhy I said I /didn't/." The backing up gets a deeper furrow of his brow, and his own step forward is instinctive, more than anything else. "The fuck you backin' up for?" "Why the fuck would I be friendly to you, creep? You didn't want friends back there, I sure as /fuck/ don't want to be yours out here." Shane's teeth bare abruptly when Trib steps forward; a sharp hiss is expelled between them. He glances to the paper again, and then to Trib. "The fuck are you /following/ for?" His gills flare quick and sharp, and this time his pressure on Obie's leash is more commanding. "You might want to avoid the news for a bit," he offers, "shit's about to blow up." But he says this as he backs up /further/, eyes on Trib as he steps back towards the corner he came from. "Why the fuck would I want to be friends with people I might have to kill?" is Trib's immediate response, his eyebrows leaving their furrow to hitch up his forehead. "I tried that shit, and didn't like it. But there ain't no fuckin' collar around my neck now, kid. An' bein' friendly ain't the same as bein' friends." He gestures to his neck, in case Shane doesn't notice this change in his wardrobe. "Now all I'm doin' is fuckin' gettin' along." He gestures with the paper again, somewhere behind Shane. "The place I'm goin' is this way," he says, and pulls the paper back to peer at the handwriting. "The Krofts? Rafts?" He wrinkles his nose. "My boss' writing is shit. Got the numbers, so that's what I'm goin' by." The warning gets a frown, even as Trib continues to follow. "Avoid as in don't watch none?" he wonders. "Or gettin' myself on it?" Then he's stopping to narrow his eyes sharply at the teenager. "Blow up how?" "Don't know any fucking Rafts. And you don't exactly rank high on /friendly/ yours--" When Trib /continues/ to follow his backing up, Shane stops speaking entirely. His gills flare, his claws abruptly lengthening. His next breath isn't a hiss but a /snarl/, eyes /wide/ and sharp teeth bared. Just one sharp warning sound and then the teenager is taking /off/, down the cross street behind him (heading in the opposite direction, as it happens, from the Lofts building.) "Oh, you stupid fuckin' shit," Trib says, when Shane takes off, wincing a bit as Obie struggles at first to maintain the pace. There's a hardening of the big man's features, for a moment, it looks like he might continue to follow. Then he lifts his chin, and roars out after Shane. "COME /BACK/ HERE, YA DUMB ASS!" Obie is thankfully very used to running! Thanks to pretty much daily runs with Jax in the city or the twins at school. He is also too dumb to pick up on tension, only: YAY! Running now? Yay? SCAMPER. He zooms off along at Shane's side as the pair pick up speed a little with Trib's yelling, soon disappearing around another corner into the busy city streets.