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Wesley has finished a series of negotiations with a nearby biker gang, regarding remuneration in exchange for their services providing security at a meeting between rival businessmen later in the week. The bikers were theoretically neutral in the conflict, and Wesley had negotiated both sides to pay a nominal fee so that neither held allegiance.
Of course, both sides would try to bribe the bikers and whoever bribed the most on top of their 'fee' would gain an unfair advantage. Regardless, Wesley would make his cut.
He pauses in a dark alley, going to light a cigarette with an embossed lighter when he hears a voice from the shadows, "Rich man, I'll take that lighter. And your wallet," along with the telltale click of a switchblade.
*
"Y'ain't gonna do neither." Another voice calls from behind the looming, threatening figures. It's youthful, serious, and the accent is heavy, and by no means local. Tiny hands rest by her sides, turning into tiny fists as she takes another step into the darkness of the alley. "G'on now. Leave 'm alone." She then suggests, thumbing toward the exit that feeds back onto the street.
She's an odd character, this one. A dark skinned girl with massive curls topping her head. Her attire is simple, but second hand; from her bohemian shirt with flaring sleeves, to her vivid cyan capri pants and high cuff sneakers. She's small, too, short, and rather unassuming. Yet, here she stands, ordering the thug to beat it.
*
Wesley turns slowly towards both the thug and his would-be savior. Well. Isn't this an interesting predicament. He takes a drag and lets the smoke trail lazily from the corner of his mouth, cocking his head.
"The young lady exudes conidence. Indicates she likely knows her business. I don't see any signs of intoxication," he says. "If I were you, young man, I'd take her advice."
The mugger, a young guy in his early twenties in a leather jacket, snorts, "Shit, I rob you AND yo bitch, ain't nothin' to me."
*
Lynette glares and takes another step forward. Her shoes crunch on flecks of gravel and discarded paper. The more she strides, the darker the space around her becomes until it sinks around the goon with his switch blade. Thick, heavy shadows hug around the pair, creating a void of light, not even allowing the glow of street lamps, or the exit out to invade.
She's quick, silent, and once the shadows reside, she's now standing between the thug and his prey. Her fingers clutch around the brim of the man's hat, and she stares out from under her brows, her eyes flickering until they shift. Once normal, black as pitch, they warm to a solid hunk of jade, her pupils turning into slits. "I said, run 'long. Last warnin'."
*
The punk backs away with a jerk, losing his hat in the grip of the arcane woman, "What the shit…witch! I ain't messin' wit' no witch or no mutie!" he says, stumbling backwards like he's afraid to look away.
"Well," Wesley says from behind her, "Any fears I had of being bored with the rest of my night seem to have vanished."
*
"Git!" She barks out, tossing his hat back with some force so it fumps against his chest. "N't'ink twice 'bout tryin' t'hit people up." Blinking, her eyes settle back to normal and her demeanor softens. The man behind her? He could see it; she was trembling. Turning, she offers Wesley a soft, almost apologetic smile. "M'sorry 'bout dat. Y'ok, sir? He didn' hurt y'none, did he?"
*
Wesley shakes his head, "Not a thread, not a hair," he says. "You arrived just in time. Quite fortuitously for me. Although I thought superheroes and the like were supposed to wear masks and capes?" he says. "Your face is memorable enough that it could be a liability. Some very dangerous folk in this neighborhood, if you get on the wrong side."
*
"I ain't no hero. Jus'…saw y'bout t'get into s'me trouble, so, t'ought I'd help." She explains, rubbing nervously at the nape of her neck. "My face? Nah. Most people don' really look. I ain't…I ain't 'fraid." She lies, straightening her back and posture to try and convence both Wesley, and herself, of her conviction. "Well, if y'ok, I let y'get back t'y'smoke. B'careful now, sir. Y'right. Dis neighborhood ain't so nice."
*
Wesley smiles, "Any chance I could thank you? A cup of coffee, perhaps? A bit of breakfast? I daren't wonder why a young lady such as yourself might be out and about this time of night. But, then, I don't have much good reason to be out myself. I believe there's a decent diner around the corner, though, if you'd care to partake?"
*
Lynette pauses. Watching Wesley, she cants her head to the side and considers him for a moment. Then, she smiles and nods. "Sure. Dat sounds nice." To his comment, she bobs her slender shoulders and moves with him to said diner whenever he starts to move. "I don' sleep well s'metimes. Jus' gettin' use t'bein' outta de streets. Guess wanderin' is outta habit." Giving him a rueful smirk, she glances toward the man and then forward once more. "I ain't gonna ask y'business, sir. Don' worry 'bout dat."
*
Wesley leads her along towards the diner, calmly finishing his smoke as he walks. "I'd rather leave it to your imagination, because it will surely be more exciting than the reality," he says. Probably not sure, but it's a good way to cover bases.
"I've been trying to watch my diet, of late - one of my clients is extremely fastidious about his health - but a little bacon and eggs on an occasion should be indulged, I feel," he says.
*
"Clients?" She quirks her brow and waits for him to enter before following after. She's quick to look around, see if there are any signs that would tell her to 'get out' or if she had a side to sit on in particular. Assuming there are none, she goes and slips into a booth. "Ain't nothin' wrong wit eatin' good, sir. S'me times, y'jus' gotta." She offers a kind grin to the waitress, placing her own order of milk and a short stack. Once alone again, she looks over to the well suited figure, the two of them rather different to each other in a number of ways. "M'Lynette, by de way. T'anks f'breakfast."
*
Wesley hadn't considered that she might be excluded, but luckily this is a relatively mixed neighborhood, where shunning Latin or black business might actually cost the bottom line. He waves down a waitress, "James," he says, by way of introduction. "Yes, I'm a business consultant. I provide advice and management for a variety of tasks. Whatever my client happens to need," he says.
He gets himself bacon, eggs, buttered toast. "Lynette, you saved me my wallet, at the very least, perhaps even my life. A few pancakes is the least I could do."
*
"Ah, don' know not'ing 'bout businesses." She explains easily enough. Nodding at his name, she smiles and slouches forward, her hands reaching up to fiddle and toy with a gold coin that dangles from her neck. "James. Nice t'meet y'." Her brows move, sloping as she goes through questions, words, all it churning through her mind. "So…I know what I said, outside? But…why y'in a place like dis? Y'look too well t'do. Y'know y'd be a mark, don' y'?"
*
Wesley shrugs slightly, "Even not well to do people sometimes need someone like me to help them with things. A few gentlemen were involved in a negotiation. Negotiations are something of a specialty of mine. I made sure everyone got what they wanted," he says. And if they betray each other later, that's no matter to him. "I help people make deals, keep things calm and straightforward. Some people aren't…temperamentally suited to finding solutions. I am," he says, nodding as the waitress pours him a fresh cup of coffee.
*
"So, y'keep de peace?" She smiles softly at that idea, offering a grin up once her milk arrives. Sipping from her glass, she sets it back down, and licks away any residue. Even if brief in exposure, the girl perks up a bit during that clean swipe, and she eyes the kitchen. "Wow, somet'ing smells nice in dere. Fresh, n'buttermilk." She all but swoons at what's the come to their table. Turning her head, she reaches for a napkin and then drags it over her lips. "De peace is nice, y'know? 'Specially durin' dese times."
*
Wesley considers, "Sometimes," he says. He just as often negotiates the terms of war, but, again, not something he's like to expound upon. "Yes, the world at large is a turbulent place these days. Bad enough out there, but to have it be dangerous here at home. Especially because of prejudice or short-sightedness. Just a shame," he says..
*
Lynette nods, keeping her smile even as her fingers keep pushing and toying with the Norse printed item. Finally, she slips it away, tucking it under her collar. She looks away from him, watching the people pass up and down the sidewalk as they start to go about their business for the day. Each breath catches on the chilling air, welcoming fall and what was to come in just a few short months. "Y'live here, James? Dis y'home?"
*
Wesley shakes his head, "I actually live uptown, in Manhattan. But I don't go home a great deal. I've never been one for sleep much," he says. "I like to stay active and engaged. I did grow up not far from here, though. My parents owned a small business, made enough to send me to school. The usual American tale."
*
"Y'let work tie y'up?" She questions then, turning her attention squarely on Wesley now. One elbow on the table, she cradles her cheek in her palm, and studies his face. "Y'still talk wit dem? Y'parents? Dey…proud of what y'doin' now? Looks like y'got a good name f'y'self."
*
Wesley shakes his head, "They died years ago. Natural causes," he says, "Nothing to be done, sadly. But I believe they would be proud, yes," he says. In part because he never would've told them the whole truth and in part because he doesn't particularly care. His parents were fine, James just isn't prone to being terribly affectionate in his heart.
"Work doesn't tie me up. I like my work. And it's my life. No wife, no children, no real family left. My clients are my family now."
*
Her eyes give away some glimmer of sorrow after his last words, but she doesn't give her thoughts voice. Even if she was, her lips part just in time their food arrives. Sitting up, she gives another 'thanks' to the waitress, and then starts fixing up her hotcakes with an amazing amount of butter, but light on the syrup. "Well, if y'happy, y'happy, right?"
*
Wesley considers for a moment and shrugs, "I'm not sure how much I believe in happy. I'm satisfied. I'm fulfilled. Happiness…I've been reading some of the Eastern philosophers lately. Buddhism's starting to come into this country in a major way. To them, even the pursuit of happiness leads only to misery. The trick is learning not to want. To accept what you have and find joy in it," he says. "I do not always find joy, but I am good at acceptance."
*
"Ah, well…I ain't a Buddist. N'I dunno. I t'ink deys a diff'rence b'tween joy n'happiness. T'each dere own, dough. I like happy. Don' get it 'nough." Cutting into her cakes, she starts eating like the street rat she use to be. The food stuffs away, arounding her cheeks, but at least her lips are shut when she chews. "Y'know," she pauses, swallowing some of her meal away. "I guess whatever works, works."
*
Wesley considers, "I don't know that I'm one either. But they have interesting ideas. I don't think I'm anything. I'm not much prone to believing in the outlandish. Although, of course, the modern world reminds us that the outlandish is becoming the everyday," he says. He finishes his meal efficiently, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "But yes. Whatever works, works. Something I have to remind people regularly. Find what's successful, stick to it."
*
Lynette giggles and keeps stuffing her face, turning herself into a mocha chipmunk. She drags the napkins over her own mouth and crumbles it up. "I, yeah. Been runnin' int' gods n'de like lately. Grew up t'inkin', knowin' de spirits be out dere? Y'feel dem, but don' see dem. Here, dough?" She shakes her head and glances down, seeming to be awash with the unbelieveable herself. "M'glad y'didn' get hurt t'night, James. Y'a good man. World needs more."
*