14317/Money for nothin'

Money for nothin'
Date of Scene:	04 March 2023
Location:	Canelo's Auto and Body
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Phoebe Beacon, Robbie Reyes

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Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    What do you know. It's raining. Really Hard. And it's wintery slop. Dirty snow is melting away from the piles of dirt and salt that had hardened it around fire hydrants and the bases of utility poles.

    He hated working in bad weather, but you know what? The pay was good, and he was working with a to-be elected official, if the polls favoring his early announcement were right.

    So in swept a guy in a trench coat and a slouched hat, muttering about the weather. He's got a scraggly five-o-clock shadow, and his eyes are a bit sunken, like he'd been staying up late. The bell at the door of Canelo's rings as he shakes off the rain a bit at the entrance to the shop.

    "How many little stupid shops are out here?" he mutters crossly .

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"There's a few," mumbles the kid in grungy black coveralls manning the front counter.

Well, 'manning' is maybe pushing it a bit. He's sitting atop the counter itself, facing *away* from where customers would be coming in from outside, and looks to be finishing up some paperwork for his boss. His dark, loose curls look a little less than artfully mussed, and that accent could be East L.A. with a touch of Texas, or as easily the other way around.

"But Bucky's on Coney Island'll stiff you, and JJ's on Atlantic-- enh, I wouldn't trust that guy with your brakes."

He finally gets around to twisting about and glancing over at the guy who's walked in. Only to inform him flatly, "We're closed."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Good thing I only take my car to big-name chain shops. They'll charge me out the nose, but I can sue them without feeling too bad about it." he gives a tough grin, and he takes out a folder.

    "Well, I'm not here for a car issue. I'm looking for someone by the name of Roberto Reyes?" he asks, drawing his eyes up to the coveralls to see if there's a nametag there.

    "Don't suppose you know where he's at?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie smirks slightly, and bends his head to finish scrawling his autograph at the bottom of the waybill he'd been filling out. The sheet's torn off, tucked into an envelope, and liiiiicked with a swipe of his tongue before it's set aside atop the pile on the counter.

And there is, as a matter of fact, a nametag. Except he's still got his back to the guy.

"Who's askin'?" he fires back, thumbing through papers in the pile on his lap.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "An interested party. Know there's a souped up antique charger that belongs to him that's seen in the area. Know he works in one of the mechanic shops in the block. But mostly," he taps some papers down, and then slides an actual picture over of a picture taken outside the Curio in Gotham City, of Phoebe and Robbie going up the front stoop.

    "I'm here about the Wayne girl. Let's just say I don't want anyone to get hurt." he states grimly. "Only so much a normal guy can do with a girl like that, isn't there?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
*scribble, scribble, scribble* while the suit keeps talking. He acts disinterested when his car's mentioned, despite the prickle that goes up his spine, and the way Eli goes quiet. Curious? Suspicious. Then dismissive. *The guy's some cheap slimeball. Hired help.*

But it's the picture of he and Phoebe on the front steps of the Curio that has Robbie's blood running cold. He stares at the photo, and the angle he's sitting, the other guy can spot the muscle in his jaw that twitches like a plucked string.

After a long, long moment, he's settled his frayed nerves, the heat in him enough to manage, "You done anythin' to her. You're gonna wish you never met me." His fingertips rest on the picture, then flick it back across the counter. "But you know what you look like to me?"

He swings around finally, booted feet over the counter and *thump* on the floor on the other side so he can square up to the suit. 'bout six feet of him, looks decently built for all his street punk leannes, and the oddest eyes you ever did see. "You look like a chump. Thinkin' a spook, maybe. The fuck you actually want, chump?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "She's not my concern." the investigator states, though he'd guessed he'd hit the right guy when he caught the tensing in Robbie's jaw.

    But when Robbie stands up, swinging over the counter with a surprising amount of grace, he's smart enough to take a step back. He's been hit with a tire iron before; no desire to repeat that particular ER visit.

    He holds his hands up, and sets the manilla envelope on the counter.

    "Never even spoke to her." he admits, the picture falling on the floor. "Never got near enough to. Look. Girls like that? Rich girls? They see workin' people -- like you and me" he waves his fingers between Robbie and himself "-- we're entertainment value. I got an offer to make you." he states, and withdraws a crumpled paper bag, and then throws it on the counter as well. "Ten thousand dollars, cash. Break it off with the girl, an' forget about her."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"Yeah, bull*shit* she ain't your concern," rumbles the kid with the strange, mismatched eyes. He doesn't step an inch closer to his 'customer', but the air in the shop's becoming strangely oppressive. Like the temperature's begun to creep up, or the air pressure's inexplicably climbing. As if it's an afternoon in late August after a month of no rain.

"There ain't no you an' me, chump. Y'know why?" He flickers a mirthless smile, and cocks his head at the guy. "'cause you're a chump. And I don't need your fuckin' chump change. Now, I gotta question for you, and there's only one right answer. So you better listen real careful."

And now he does drift closer, locking eyes with the investigator, a lightning-fast movement of his hand to try to grab a fistful of his suit jacket. "Who paid you to come find me?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    No, it was the truth, at just this moment, Dillon Boone, private investigator, was not at all concerned about the Wayne girl. She wasn't the one in front of him, glaring, and Dillion takes another step back, holding his hands up in front of him as Robbie talks, and the air gets suspiciously hot. Sweat drips down Dill's face from beneath his hat, and he was about to reply with something, trying to calm the situation before the kid moves too fast to be human and grabs at his cheap suit jacket, and the gumshoe gives a yelp in fear.

    "Look, I just got paid to deliver the message and offer the cash!" he cries out. "Some rich guy in Gotham wants her single!"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
His hand twists, knuckles digging into the guy's collarbones. Hard enough to pop those tiny capillaries and bruise the skin underneath. And when did the punk's eyes get so bright? Limned in a filament-fine ring of hot sparks that start to chew up and hollow out his irises -- and then the whites -- to pits.

"Give me the name." His voice distorts slightly on the last word-- a shriek like metal tearing and igniting. "And you keep your lyin' tongue."

Does it need to be said what the alternative is?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Ordinarily Dillion thought himself a bit of a tough guy.

    He wasn't told the boyfriend was superpowered and easily pissed. THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE TO KNOW.

    Boone grunts, feeling the knuckles dig in, feeling the collarbone creak and threaten deeper bruising, and his eyes open, and then he sees the eyes.

    And now they change, from mismatched orange and green to hot sparks to match the growing heat in the room, nd then as the eyes burn away. The distortion fo the word 'name', the heated shreak of metal sheering, and the offer to keep his tongue.

    "CUPP. PHILLIP CUP. He wanted you to dump the Wayne girl!"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Some would say Robbie's got a short and particularly nasty little temper. Others.. well, they'd probably say the same, if they weren't smoking piles of ash, or fragmented minds trapped in useless bodies, or whatever else the Rider decides he's in the mood to do to his poor, unfortunate victims.

Most of them, though, deserved it. In some fashion or another.

Phillip Cupp. The name rings a bell. Cupp. Phillip Cu-- oh, *that* fucker.

Robbie shoves the guy away from him with enough force to send him sprawling to the floor. Then takes the paper bag filled with cash, and tosses it atop him without bothering to check inside. "Fuckin' waste my time with this bullshit. She'd rather spend the rest of her life cleanin' hairballs out of the bathtub drain than touch that guy."

He backs up two steps, trying to steady his breathing and regain some semblance of control before grabbing his paperwork and heading quickly for the garage proper. You know, before he really loses his head.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "YAAAUGH!" the guy cries out as he's shoved away, falling backwards and cracking his balding head on the floor. He's dazed as the paper bag filled with more cash than most people make in four months is tossed ontop of him, and he breathes out in a surprised squeak of a sound from the floor, and he doesn't even bother to grab his folder. He just grabs his hat, the cash, and decides that it is an excellent time to retire from the private investigation business and perhaps pursue the priesthood. Right after drinking away everything in that paper bag.

    Phillip Cupp. That Fucker. Who called Robbie *the Help* and tried to isolate Phoebe at the Reindeer Gala, only to turn tail and run at the first time of danger. Asshole.