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.