Troy Lawrence: He sits at a bench in the park, reading over the business section of the Times. The suit is perfectly in place, the hair immaculately coiffed...same old Troy. He takes a drag off of his Dunhill and exhales, turning the pages.

Mark Souma: *Standing at approximately five feet and six inches, the asian american boy does not make much of an impressive figure. He is not quite intimidating, but there is something about him, his dark brown, nearly onyx, narrowed eyes, perhaps, that make for a mystery, shrouded in fog. It seems to be counteracted, however, by the spiked black hair, striped with some color of dye. It is hard to tell, his hair is so dark. The constantly questioning, ever curious look on his face is only slightly overweighed by bitterness all of nineteen years can bring a kid who's seen too much. His left ear is pierced three times, his right twice. There is a hoop in his slightly smirk-twisted bottom lip. His Sex Pistols shirt is loose over his figure, and his jeans as well. His head is held up, watching, as if he simply knows better than the world.*

Mark Souma: *His tongue slides out, and he idly touches the bottom lip ring, as he looks around the park. He cants his head, and then rights it, only to look around, his swagger exuding confidence.*

Mark Souma: d10: per+alert: 2,7,6,6,5,4,

Troy Lawrence: d10: Per+Alertness: 4,9,6,4,

Troy Lawrence: He glances up, eyes passing over the young punk. A blond eyebrow arches, his expression and gaze severe as he spends a moment examining the young man appraisingly.

Mark Souma: *And he returns the favor. Slanted eyes watch the guy, as he crosses his arms. His left heel raises slightly, and then lowers. A shift causes his right heel to raise, and then lower again. Antsy, perhaps, but not afraid. He huffs, and uncrosses his arms, looking over his shoulder. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his pack of Marlboro's, raising it and pulling one out with his lips, before replacing the pack.*

Discard: A vagrant plods through the park, humming to herself and keeping an eye out for anything interesting.

Discard: d10: per+alert: 2,8,7,8,2,

Troy Lawrence: ((DD: Money and power...that’s what the man projects. He’s quite attractive, in the high-born, aristocratic way, somewhere in his mid-20’s, with well- formed cheekbones, a slightly hawkish nose, immaculate skin, and perfectly coiffed blonde hair, going down to his collar. His eyes, a dark green, hold a cynical, dismissive look in them, behind a pair of small glasses. His body is toned, the body of a man who has worked for his muscle-mass, rather then being blessed with it, and is contained within an tailored suit, sport coat open. An attache case is ever present nearby, as well as a cell phone at his hip. Everything about the man’s appearance is tailored to perfection, to present no weakness to an enemy, whether that be on the job or on the battlefield. ((PB 4))))

Troy Lawrence: He watches Mark for another good long moment, before he nods, his smile polite but cold. "Good afternoon."

Discard: (( Sorry about slowness. Work. ))

Discard: Her pace skips along until he notices Troy and Mark, and she slows her pace suddenly, her eyes staying on Troy and still a safe distance away.

Mark Souma: Yeah. Fucking gorgeous, *he says, cigarette bobbing with his words, and despite the harshness of the syllables, it seems to be mere sarcasm, not cruelty. He points up, to the rain, apparently, before moving his hand to his pocket to fumble for his lighter.*

Troy Lawrence: He turns his attention to the side, eying Discard for a moment. Another cold, polite nod is sent her way, and then he looks back to his paper. "Quite the wordsmith, aren't you?"

Discard: She's still too far away to hear what's being talked about, but she vaguely recognizes both of the men. Only vaguely. Her form, of course, is totally obscured by a shiny hooded coat, slick with rain.

Discard: She nods a brief, respectful return to Troy.

Meg Psiharis: (( ^_^ Mind if I drop Meg in? ))

Discard: (( YES GO AWAY ))

Discard: (( ... *is kidding of course* ))

Troy Lawrence: ((More, the merrier!))

Mark Souma: I try to be, *he quips back.* Especially when I'm pointing out that it's not really a good afternoon.

Meg Psiharis: (( Eek! Discard-p scared away my tag! ))

Troy Lawrence: "Mmm," comes the response, not looking away from the story he's perusing. "Matter of perspective, I suppose. Or perhaps one of manners."

Mark Souma: Bah. Manners only delay what you really wanna say. It's bullshit, *he says idly, still looking up into the rain. He takes a long drag in his cigarette, and exhales into the slightly chilly air.*

Troy Lawrence: "Manners," he says, finally looking away from his paper, in fact folding it and setting it aside, "is an art form. To be able to say what you mean and say it sincerely, without being inconsiderate and uncouth, is a skill indeed."

Discard: (( again, the wait is because of work. Sudden influx of annoying calls. ))

Meg Psiharis: She scurries in to the park, hurrying while trying her best not to disturb the bundle she cradles protectively. She wears a long sleeved shirt, looking rumpled - and the black and white stripes aren't helping it there. Her jeans have earned their frays and holes, and water is steadily soaking up the ends. Real hell on the scuffed canvas shoes. Long hair is frizzy from the rain, matted down and black-brown plastered on her cheeks and forehead. She's maybe thirteen, and actually looks the part. Summer tan, broad-ish shoulders, maybe 5'2". The only thing of value about her seems to be the little bundle wrapped in what must be her over-shirt, and the bronze cuffs wrapped around her wrists.

Mark Souma: *He grins, showing off, perhaps, too white teeth.* Picking out the bullshit from the manners is more of a talent in my book.

Discard: The girl snuffs a bit, wipes her nose, and opts to take a wide circle around the two. Respectable people give her the heebie-jeebies, as do the people who confront them frequently.

Discard: (( does anybody need Discard's DD? ))

Meg Psiharis: (( Yes, please. *s* ))

Troy Lawrence: He chuckles, some amusement in there, though something quite below friendly there as well. "Picking out the...bullshit, as you put it, is simple to do when you understand manners, young man. Otherwise, you're simply guessing...grasping at straws and making assumptions based on your own biases and misconceptions. Acting as such is, to me, quite an impressive display of a complete lack of talent."

Discard: Viewed from the side or back, she is every inch a New York vagrant. A large green winter jacket covers her torso, and from it bunched-up, dirty jeans drape over a beat-up pair of sneakers. Little seems unusual about her initially; her build is slight but muscular, and perhaps that hood is a little bit large for somebody that size. Her face, however, is what draws attention. A number of different races mix together in her visage, forming an exotic and primal painting that immediately draws the eye. Large brown eyes look out from under her hood, her nose is flat and small, and full, expressive lips complete the unusual ensemble. Her skin is a rich coffee tone, but so little peeks out from under all the clothing that her unusual beauty is generally overlooked

Discard: The girl hits the invisible New York Bubble and starts veeeeeering around...

Meg Psiharis: A string of curses flows easily from the girl, rushing from one space of meager shelter from the light rain to another. And another. And oh look - now another. Manners. Right. She stops deeper in to the park, standing carefully and holding a hand over the wrapped shirt. Long look aside, left, right. "...What the -fuck-," she whines.

Mark Souma: And you think I care what you think of me... why? *he asks with a faint smirk.*

Mark Souma: *His head swivels at the surprising interruption of profanity. An eyebrow arches.*

Meg Psiharis: "Shh. Ee! No no no, stay!" goes the commotion of girl and shirt. She twists, spilling the shirt and mewling thing into one arm, and swaying to balance it again, fussing.

Mark Souma: *He seems fully distracted, a laugh escaping at the girl trying to balance the cat.*

Meg Psiharis: She perks. Somebody? Shifting again, she looses one arm and waves to the punk, and whomever else glances, raising her voice to be heard. "Hey! Where's the...the den of iniquity and donuts? Cop house? That way?" She points off to one side. Incidentally, the completely wrong one.

Discard: Discard pauses, watching the comical display unfold before her.

Troy Lawrence: "I had made no such assumptions, sir. Quite the contrary, I'm sure you do not. However, you are seeming to assume I am enraptured enough in this conversation to have implied I have formed any opinion of you at all. Do not speak before you think. It is not wise." Chilly green eyes flick over to Meg at her exclamation, eyes passing over her appraisingly.

Troy Lawrence: "The police startion is this way," he gestures in the proper direction. "You need their aid?"

Mark Souma: I thought this through enough. Kinda a waste, pal. *He takes another drag, and his appraising is a bit different.*

Meg Psiharis: She's young, anxious. Holding a kitten or two in her shirt, one she had worn over this long-sleeved one. She's damp from the rain, long hair a total mess as if she cared about it in the first place. She very obviously does not come from money, or especially prized breeding. She's not even old enough to have her own damned bank account. But apparently she's literally given the shirt off her back to struggling animals, is in search of The Law (yar), and wears wide, hand beaten bronze cuffs. She doesn't seem terribly ill at ease with the cold and rain, though, odd as it might be for a relatively slender girl. Slim girls? Not known for their warmth.

Mark Souma: d10: per+alert: 4,8,9,9,10,2,

Mark Souma: *His head swivels, almost immediately, to the wandering vagrant. His focus, rather intense for the moment, as he smokes almost without thinking about it.* How about you? *he offers.* You lost too?

Meg Psiharis: "Thanks!" She smiles widely - really, she has the kind of strong features that look better at ease, but whatever. "Yeah," she calls, lowering her voice only a little when she scurries back on to the actual path. "I need to talk my uncle into giving me a ride home. -I- barely survive the subways!" And let alone bringing small, fragile animals.

Troy Lawrence: "If you insist." It's murmured, the young lawyer momentarily distracted by Meg and her predicament.

Discard: Tch. Let them compare dicks. She trots toward the girl. "Hey, you wanna borrow my jacket or somethin'? I'll walk ya there."

Meg Psiharis: "Thank you!" Energetic, youthful. And damned happy. Answers! Yay! She's beaming - she looks and acts very warm. Warm is a very good word for her. She bobs a nod to the guys, and more of an affirmation nod to Discard. "We can get you coffee - I don't need a jacket," she assures, "I'm fine." And oddly enough, that part is entirely honest.

Mark Souma: Be careful with the kitten, *he says idly, looking back to Meg.* Can't really take animals onto the subway. Might get you into trouble.

Discard: "'fyew say so," Discard responds with a little shrug. "I got a hat an' long sleeves so I'd be ok without it. But I'll walk you anyways."

Troy Lawrence: "Just make sure you have a carrier," he says to Meg, in response to Mark's comment. "And you will be fine."

Mark Souma: *He sighs, and shakes his head.* Y'want me to check the little guy out?

Meg Psiharis: "I don't," she grins. "I'm going to give my trash can kitty a ride home - he'll do it, no worries! Thanks, guys!" And, to Discard, "Cool! Let's go?" She's not bouncing in place, mostly for the kitty's sake. But she seems ready to follow this other girl's lead. She has the immediate, unrestrained joy of a puppy.

Meg Psiharis: A pause at that. A breath in, held, also paused, and let out with a nibble of her lip. "Well, he is kind've scratched.."

Discard: "Y'gonna hand that lil beast over to the authorities? It got a tag?" Discard says, shoving her hands into her pockets and leading the way.

Mark Souma: Lemme see, *he says, and steps forward, dropping his cigarette and crushing it with one boot.*

Mark Souma: Hell no, *he says with a snort.* I'm gonna check it out. See. Might have an upper respiratory infection. These kittens out there get it. Might have some antibiotics for the little... guy? Girl? Lemme see.

Meg Psiharis: "No no! She's mine!" she insists with a quickness, gently cradling it up to her chest. Not a lot of competition there. "I'll tell my -mom- if dad won't let me keep her, and he'll be sorry. I'm -keeping- her. And feeding her. With milk and everything. Through a freaking eye dropper if necessary!"

Mark Souma: Not milk, *he corrects.* Use some KMR. You can get it from any vet office.

Troy Lawrence: He watches the proceedings quietly, smoking his Dunhill, with a calm, even look, almost impassive.

Discard: Discard pauses for a little bit. "Interesting bracelets," she drawls.

Meg Psiharis: Meg wavers a little, and leans her head aside from it, pulling the edge of her wrapped shirt away from a squirming, mewling kitten. No special pedigree here, either. A short haired black cat, long and thin. Not all of it from malnourishment. The bones suggest it will be sleek if it survives, not detined to be the huge, fat house cat type. Perhaps unfortunately, the shirt bears the familiar white skull on black fabric. "Thanks. Er, and thanks." Once, and again, one for each. The kitten has a scratch over its left eye, and though it's an ugly, clotted red-brown, the eye is intact and more or less unharmed except for the pus leaking in to it from the scratch on the forehead. Just two marks, not a whole claw set.

Mark Souma: d10: Int+Medicine +WP: 4,3,8,9,5,8,

Mark Souma: *A girl to impress... doesn't matter if she's kinda normal, but her friend's cute. Now's his chance! He looks over the kitten, studying. His fingers tickle the whiskers, to draw back the kitten's lip, to check out it's teeth.* Looks to be about ... nine, ten weeks old. That's DEFINITELY infected. Get some neosporin on it, should be fine. Milkd upper respiratory infection. See the leakage around the kitten's eyes? And a little bit of a pot belly. Worms. You might see some diarrhea. I'd recommend a gentle diet for this baby, boiled chicken. Other than that... get some antibiotics in her, probably some clavamox, and you should be fine. Don't have any on me, otherwise I'd offer. Might... if y'come back in a few hours, I can probably get you some.

Mark Souma: ((Milkd - Mild))

Troy Lawrence: He raises an eyebrow at Mark's assessment, perhaps a bit of mild surprise passing quickly in and out of his eyes. Interesting.

Discard: Discard listens to the explanations, trying to relate some of the stuff to what folk medicine she knows. She stuffs a hand into her pocket and pulls out a few M&Ms, shaking them around in her hand. After a few moments of being there, they somehow vanish mysteriously.

Meg Psiharis: "Hear that?" she murmurs to the kitten, rubbing fingers down its back to calm its struggles. Not to much avail. Her nails are already bitten down to stubs anyway. "Chicken, neosporin, and thingie-mox." She flinches a little for the sake of this kitten's eye - fuckin' ew - but nods to the punk. "Thanks. For -serious-."

Mark Souma: No problem. The neosporin should hold you over. Mmh. Maybe I can get you some antibiotics soon as tonight if y'give me a meeting place.

Meg Psiharis: "Yeah?" Perking. She chews her lip and gently covers the kitten again, hugging it to keep it warm, Really, Meg -is- warm. "How about Battery? Is that okay?"

Mark Souma: That should be fine, *he says with a nod.* see if I can get you some worming medicine too. You think you can pill this cat, or would you prefer a liquid?

Troy Lawrence: He picks up his newspaper and folds it up. The breifcase at his side is picked up and opened, with the paper being set inside before the case is closed once more with a click.

Meg Psiharis: "Dude. Pills and cats equal up to emergency room visits." She grins again - apparently not uncommon. "Thanks - liquids. Whatever it is, liquids, and I'll make sure my garbage pail kid here is going to be okay."

Meg Psiharis: And finally, once again to Discard, with a little bounce in place. "To the speedy way home!"

Mark Souma: *He looks up at the click. Attentive, at least, before he gives Meg a shrug.* No problem. Gimme about an hour. Should get it mixed up. I'll bring it on ice. No car.

Meg Psiharis: "No car. Gotcha. I'll be there!" A promise as she hurries again, managing not to jumble the kitten up on her way. The guys are left back to whatever argument they'll pick for now, and she's eagerly going onward, looking back to Discard all but constantly. She's bound to ram her shin into something at this rate.

Discard: She smiles and starts walking in the right direction. "Yer gonna call your uncle, right?"

Troy Lawrence: He looks up at Mark, meeting his eyes for just a moment, then he rises to his feet, pulling the cell phone off of his hip and hitting a speed dial. The phone is placed to his ear, and he waits for it to pick up.

Meg Psiharis: "Nope. I'm gonna barge in to see him." Beams! And follows on her heels all speedy like.

Mark Souma: *He watches them walk away. Of course he watches. Yay hormones!*

Mark Souma: *A small smirk touches his lips at the look from the suit.*

Discard: "Ohh, yer uncle's a cop," she says. "I didn't get it."

Discard: The cat does not seem to like Discard; whenever Meg gets close to the vagrant it gets very antsy, trying to squirm away. It seems to get the idea that the other girl is just Bad News.

Meg Psiharis: She nods again at that. "Yep. He'll sigh, shake his head, and go," and here her voice changes to a mimic, drawing herself up to stand at her full 5'2" and imitate a deeper voice, " 'Megaera, how many times does your father have to tell you not to adopt every stray you see?'" Her voice drops back to its casual pitch again, and she slouches back to usual with a grin, "And obviously, it hasn't been enough times. Heh."

Meg Psiharis: She keeps a few paces away from Discard, to avoid the nasty scratches that will surely ensue. Following, but less closely now, and petting all the while.

Mark Souma: *He smiles faintly at that, and only stops looking once they're out of sight. He stops, and leans down to pick up the cigarette butt, and toss it. The suit gets a raised hand, as he struts confidently out of the park.*

Discard: Discard turns back to look at the girl, a little smirk on her face. "Megaera?" She says. "Was your parents hippies?"

Troy Lawrence: "Melissa." He speaks into the phone, with a brief nod to Mark. Farewell, perhaps, or just acknowledgment of their mutual glance. "Yes...reschedule the hearing for Louis Reynolds. I won't be able to make it in time. Speak with Judge Graham, and convey my apologies. I have personal business to attend to." He starts to move, slowly, toward the center of the park.

Meg Psiharis: "Greek. And sort of literature fans, too." She smiles and shrugs obliviously. "Meg, Alex, and Andy - we all get easy cover-up names."

Discard: "Okay, cool," she responds, turning back to the path as they walk it.

Troy Lawrence: And he's off, out of sight.