1964-11-28 - Hey, Kitty, Kitty
Summary: Danny and T'Challa fend off a racist businessman.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
danny tchalla 


The world might be going to hell in a handbasket. Russians in the sky, Americans in the sea. UN rebellions against US leadership. All laid out on a frantic copy of a newspaper, the Times, which T'Challa carries under his arm. He goes without an entourage, though that's quite foolish give or take. No need to have a pretty shield maiden chasing him around. He wears a longer overcoat, and receives his fair share of looks as a dapper, dressed coloured man in a city which doesn't prize such innovative social ideas. Not everyone is sure to realize who he is, and he might like it that way. Especially as someone shouts after him, "Hey! Boy! Aren't you supposed to be fetching my car?"

It might be smarter to walk on rather than malign valets everywhere. But he's got to consider the national mood.

Danny Rand very rarely comes to this part of town, which might be strange all things considered, but it's rare that the Upper East Siders have any need for his aid unless it's for some manner of charity event. His focus is usually on the Kitchen and Harlem, the areas nearest his own neighborhood. But today, today he had a meeting at the Hotel Elysium and steps out of it in time to see not only T'Challa coming up the street, but to hear the calling out of the person coming after him asking about his car. There's a glance from T'Challa to the man and back again before Danny holds up a hand and says, "I think you might be mistaken. This gentleman isn't wearing the Hotel's valet uniform."

The man in his suit doesn't think much of a blond fellow any more than he does T'Challa. "I have places to be. I don't care if you work for the hotel or not. I have to get out of here before rush hour."

He holds his hand out importantly. A sweeping gesture with his fingers may just be the height of rudeness. Hurry it up, that says.

T'Challa has the paper in one hand, the look of vague consternation evaporating away. His dark eyes narrow ever so slightly. This might be as close to a native stomping ground as he gets in New York. "Clearly so. I do not drive." Not entirely the truth, but good enough. He shrugs a shoulder and keeps moving past the Elysium, his pace slow. Tamed. "Thank you, though doubtful there is much helping him."

"Then perhaps you ought to head over to the lot and meet your valet instead of wasting time accosting strangers on the street," Danny suggests helpfully, nodding toward the lot where a man in a valet's uniform is getting into a sleek looking sedan, and beginning to pull out — likely the man's valet. He can't help it. People being assholes just seem to get him going. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't stop smiling politely, but he doesn't back down, either.

The huffy response from the businessman shoots daggers. Swathed in his self-importance, he sails off like a barge in search of a riverboat accident. The string of unfriendly slurs on the way says much about the higher breeding of some parasites.

T'Challa briefly consults his watch, an unnecessary fixture. He gains suitable coverage by averting his gaze from the irritation. A few moments later, he gives a quiet sigh. "Pardon that."

One brow creeps up, just slightly, but it doesn't break Danny's smile. He then turns toward T'Challa and says, "Pardon me, for putting my nose in it but.. I can't listen to stuff like that without feeling the need to say something, do something." He smiles a little apologetically. "I'm sure you didn't need my help." At least he has some self-awareness of his own meddling, even if he does it anyway.

"You are a rarity in that regard." For all that his English is excellent, T'Challa has a definite accent that wanders high and low over an octave in ways flatter American dialects do not. He dispenses of the newspaper by folding it neatly over and depositing it on the lid of the nearest trash can. Someone else may need it for a hat against the rain, or an escape from all the good things in life. The news is singularly miserable. "Many would not feel comfortable speaking out. Why are you untroubled by reprisals?"

"Unfortunately," Danny says with a slight frown. "We'd be better off if more people spoke and less stood idly by. It's worse to do nothing. It just validates the behaviour, allows it to perpetuate because that behaviour has no reprisals." He glances after the businessman who had gotten into his car and drove away. The actual valet, on his way back, is met by Danny stepping away to say a few quiet words to him and slip a sizeable tip into his hand, the two exchanging a few words before the valet heads back into the hotel. Danny then turns back toward T'Challa and says, "Because I don't take kindly to bullies. And I can take care of myself if they decide to take umbrage." He then offers a hand, "Danny Rand, by the way, nice to meet you."

T'Challa remains quietly observant over the flow of well-heeled traffic. Their vehicles, their bodies, the ones who cross the street or hasten past rather than stay put. He extends his hand for a handshake in turn, firm and capable. Only the one ring, right hand, placed just so. "T'Challa," he replies. "No surname, much like Indonesians. It is good to hear such refreshing, forward-thinking opinions from you, Mr. Rand."

Danny nods his head and repeats, "T'Challa," making sure that he pronounces it correctly. "A pleasure to meet you, T'Challa. Just Danny, no need for Mr. Rand." His smile is warm, friendly. "I'd like to see the world be a better place for everyone. The only way to do that is to break down the things that make it a worse one." He glances at his watch then and says, "Unfortunately.. I do have another meeting I have to go to today. They expect me to work every so often." He smiles again and takes out a card, handing it over. "Oh, and if you want to meet some other folks interested in doing just that, stop by The Cigar Factory in Harlem. Ask for Luke. Tell him Danny sent you. The man makes some amazing ribs."

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