==== February 19, 2014
==== Cha'el, Thierry
==== /Someone/ gets taught a lesson. Hint: it's not Cha'el.

Who Cha'el, Thierry
What /Someone/ gets taught a lesson. Hint: it's not Cha'el.
When It is sunrise of the fourth day of the second month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
Where Igen Bazaar Sidestreet

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Bazaar Sidestreet
No matter the time of day, the darkness here is almost absolute, adding a certain je ne sais quois that borders on the treacherous. Here and there, cobblestones have gone missing and leave holes that are perfect for snagging the feet of the unaware. The stench is also criminal, a mixture of urine, rotting meat, and other things best left unexamined in the heaps that pile up next to the back doors of certain of the bazaar establishments.


It's early still, and the bazaar is only just beginning to come to life. Those parts most central show the most movement, with folks setting up for the day, starting to go about their business - but the side streets? That's where it's /really/ happening. It may not be visible, of course; sharp eyes and ears are needed to pick up on the step-softened movements of those who prefer to swell in the shadows, which are abundant in these early sunrise moments. Not /quite/ abundant enough to hide a guard recruit who is lingering in the penumbral shade, where the cherry of his toke glows red-hot against the darkness, its extra glow lighting up his eyes whenever he pulls another lungful of smoke. He looks almost like he's waiting for something; given that he's in his uniform, he /could/ be standing there for work purposes.

Early morning with drills set for the afternoon once again finds Igen's Weyrsecond traversing the side streets of the Bazaaar, perhaps most notably, the one holding the newly opened Tea Room. Or perhaps not given that the tall 'rider swings out of that street down another, keen blue eyes sweeping surreptitiously this way and that for although Erikkhan's artistic impression of the two that had jumped Cha'el and Kyara was accurate, they had yet to be tracked down. Thus it is that the red cheery glow of a lit toke catches his eye.

One catches the eye of the other, as Thierry's not likely to mistake the Weyrsecond's figure twice. He whistles to make sure he's /really/ got Cha'el's attention, then takes a step out into the lighter shadows. "Bit early, Weyrsecond." He casually puffs out a smoke ring, off into the air beside the rider, while his dark eyes run the length of the older man - head to feet, then back up again. "You looking for something… /special/ this morning?" It's sleazy, the way he says it; something special is unlikely to be anything /savoury/.

Up goes one of those expressive brows when Thierry whistles and Cha'el's steps slow, his gaze narrowing onto the young guard recruit. "Do I look like a canine to you?" He asks, ignoring the acrid cloud of smoke sent skimming by. As for the question directed to his reasons for being in the Bazaar, the Weyrsecond's eyes tighten at the corners. "You wouldn't know special if it upped and smacked you in the face," the 'rider returns, dropping a pointed smirk on Thierry.

"Dunno. Whistling worked, didn't it?" Thierry's expression is typically cocky as he looks up to Cha'el, running his tongue over his bottom lip, then across his top teeth. He clicks his tongue, then cheekily bites at his lip, smirking. "Betcha I've got a girl back in that alley who's special enough for you." He jerks his head towards the alley behind him. "She'll get down on her knees for free if you tell her I sent you."

With that cocky comeback, Thierry is treading a fine, fine line with the Weyrsecond, apparent in the fact that those intent blue eyes stayed wholly narrowed onto him right up until the last comment spills from his lips. "Listen up and listen up good, kid. You're a part of the guard now," a hand lifts to flick a finger at the lapel of the recruit's uniform. "Last I looked, pimping wasn't part of a guard's duties. Your duty now, is to mind your manners and learn how to protect the people of the Bazaar, not exploit them."

The warning either slips Thierry by… or he just doesn't take it seriously. Whatever the reason, he rolls his eyes, puffs out a smoky breath, and barks a raspy laugh. "C'mon," he scoffs, shrugging his shoulders. "Guards' a fucking /joke/. Everyone knows it - just like everyone needs to get by." He holds up his hand, rubbing his thumb across the tips of his fore- and middle fingers. "We ain't got the cushty Weyr to look after us here, Weyrsecond."

Plink! That's another thread of Cha'el's patience snapping. How many more still left to go? That remains to be seen. Stepping closer to Thierry so that his brawny frame crowds the recruit's while not quite invading his personal space yet, the brownrider drops his chin and pins the cheeky little shit with a tight look. "Then be the fucking difference," he growls. "Be the one that stands up and acts like a fucking guard instead of some runty street rat whining like a little bitch as if the world owes him something. You gotta work for what you want! But something tells me you're too much of a pissant to have the balls to put in an honest day's work."

Cha'el may loom over him, but Thierry stands his ground, upper lip curled into a sneer in response to the words. "I /am/ a fucking streetrat," he snarls back. "No-one owes me /shit/, and I do pretty fucking well for myself." The talk's touched a nerve, and he sets himself defensively - pulling up straighter, chest out, hands by his sides; muscles taut and ready to retaliate. "You weren't spouting shit like this when you bought a night's fucking in the whorehouse, but you bitch me out cos I try sending you to some slut who's gagging for a cock in her mouth?"

Plink, plink, plink! That's the last three strands snapping in quick succession and without warning, Thierry will find himself slapped hard upside the head. Much like an older brother or a father might do to haul an errant youngster into line. "I did that because I thought getting you laid might swipe some of the cockiness out of your," Cha'el growls getting right up in the recruit's face. "Turns out, its had the opposite effect." But he's not done yet. "You have potential that goes beyond slithering along the side streets of the Bazaar trying to play pimp. Potential that could do this uniform proud and yet you piss on the opportunities being given to you to better yourself. What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

"The fuck, man!" Thierry's not quick enough to duck that slap, and he's surprised enough by it as he rubs the sore spot through his dark hair that he looks dumbly up at Cha'el as he continues speaking, /right/ there. /So/ close that he's undoubtedly getting a faceful of Thierry's smoke-scented breath. "Fucking potential," Thi inches back just enough to spit, hocking up to the /side/ of them, /not/ at Cha'el - though the dissgusted look on his face as he eyes the Weyrsecond might suggest he would /like/ to do that. "Fuck opportunities. The only fucking opportunities we get here are the ones we make for our shardin' /selves/. I'll sell my fucking best friend for a profit - /that's/ an opportunity. So fuck," he shoves at Cha'el, hands to chest, "/you/."

With over two hundred pounds of hard packed muscle to his frame, Cha'el isn't so easily shoved around. He does however take a half step, large hands coming up to wrap about Thierry's wrists but instead of tossing him away like a hackey sack, he holds the recruit in place, a cold smile curved within the neat groom of beard. "Bull.Shit!! That uniform you're wearing is an opportunity that was given to you whether for the wrong reasons or not. Its up to you to make it work for you. Keep your head down, your smart-arse mouth shut and work hard and you could end up Captain of the Guard at a fucking Hold but keep going the way you're going and you're just going to be another body left with his throat slit in a side street when you cross the wrong man." Then and only then, does he release the teen and shove him away. "Get your act together, my friend. Because the ice you're dancing around on is getting thinner by the day."

The natural reaction to having his wrists grabbed is for Thierry to tug against the hold - though there's an obvious weight disparity there, and let's face it, the scrappy streetrat isn't going to overpower the burlier rider. He /tries/, though, resisting the urge to kick as well as tug - though the sense that he /could/ kick may be felt by Cha'el as he shifts his stance as if in preparation to. Breathing so hard now that his nostrils flare widely with each huffed exhalation and practically trembling with adrenaline and ire, Thierry glowers up at the Weyrsecond, eyes thunderously dark behind the floppy curtain of his dark hair. Being pushed away causes him to stumble back, only just managing to keep his footing. "If someone's gonna come after my throat, they'd best fucking mean," he snaps back, rubbing his fist under his nose as he snorts and puffs. "Igen's /got/ no ice to get thin. And what the /fuck/ am I meant to /do/?" That's an angsty, teenage complaint - a wheezy tantrum that sees his fists clench by his sides, white-knuckle tight.

While some expect to see a smug line of an Alpha male beating down an Omega, there is nothing but a grim line of focus etched across Cha'el's expression. Having been delivered a cheap shot to the nuts not all that long ago, he's especially wary of where the kid's knees might go. Once Thierry has gathered himself, more or less after being shoved backward, the brownrider calmly reaches toward him and…plucks the toke from behind his ear. Slipping it between his own lips, he waggles fingers at the recruit for lighting gear. The Weyrsecond smokes? He used to. Back in his days as a Seacrafter. "Hope you got a blade and quick reflexes to put your knife where your mouth is," Cha'el drawls sardonically, the unlit toke flipping up and down between his lips as he speaks. "No, Igen doesn't," he goes on to return on ice, "but Fort and Reaches do." A hint at a threat of being dropped in the middle of a frosty pond perhaps? "What are you supposed to do?" Dark brows flick upward. "Tell me what most pisses you off about life in the Bazaar."

Lightning gear? He's got it. Thierry grudgingly digs in his pocket to fling it at the Weyrsecond, intending to hit rather than merely pass it. Not that it would do much damage, but it's the principle of the action! The teenager looks grumpily over at him, glowering with brows low over dark eyes, lips curved into a surly pout. He sniffs again, rubbing his hand once more under his nose as he begins prowling back and forth across the alley like a caged feline. "Fuck Fort. Fuck 'Reaches. I'm /Igen/. We don't have fucking /ice/ here." It's a petulant argument now, one that even leads him to kick at the wall in angry frustration. "What pisses me off most? /You/." He spits as he comes back around towards the other wall, risking a glare at the brownrider. "Dad. /Shit/. Marks. Bullshit. Fucking /girls/. /Bitches/. Fucking… /everything/. All of it. Fuck it." That same spot he kicked earlier? It gets another solid whack with the sole of his boot, ending his rant with a grunt of pain.

Plucking the lighting gear from the air, (firestone sack tossing FTW!) Cha'el lights up with the ease of one that's well acquainted with doing so. Flipping the equipment back at the recruit, he takes a drag, exhaling smoke from his nostrils in two plumes and listens in silence as Thierry spouts off acid diatribe. From out of that hard mask he's wearing a smirk curls when the kid kicks the wall and labels the Weyrsecond on his Pissed Off list. Silence spools out and another drag is inhaled, finally broken in a smoky baritone. "You ever learn how to fight? I don't mean street brawling. I mean, fighting to rules and standards. Sparring and training and all the rest." There is little to give away what might be going on in the brownrider's head, features settled back into an impassive mask.

Thierry catches the lightning gear with a fumble; he just manages to keep it from falling to the ground. Which, of course, is all /Cha'el's/ fault from the dirty look the teen gives him. He drags his toke packet from his pocket, yanks one out roughly… and breaks it. "/Fuck/." He drop-kicks it away, tugging out another from his packet. It stays whole, so he lights it, taking a long drag and pausing to shudderingly exhale. With a second lungful of smoke, he begins his stalking again… though slower this time. That last kick's given him a bit of a limp, which he's trying very hard to hide. "No." That's his simply, snapped response to the brownrider's question.

Does Cha'el notice the fumble? Or the broken toke or even the limp? Oh yeah, he gets it all from under lowered lashes while he makes pretence at staring at the tip of one of his boots, affording the teen the opportunity to gather his tattered shreds of pride. Only once Thierry pace-limping and puffing, puffing and pace-limping, does the brownrider take a last drag from his purloined toke and flicking it away from himself pockets his hands and nods at the curt reply given. "Report to me every day at lunchtime up at the Standing Stones," he says, "I'll clear it with your captain."

"What?" The Standing Stones? That's /Weyr/ territory. Thierry stops in his pacing, turning full-on to stare daggers at Cha'el. If looks could kill, W'rin would need a new right-hand man! "No." Even now, he'll push his luck - though he doesn't sound /quite/ as certain about his position as he did when the Weyrsecond first stepped into his line of sight earlier in the morning. "I don't fucking fly. I can't get up there."

"Standing Stones not Star Stones, dipshit," Cha'el drawls rocking back on his heels and fitting Thierry with a look that suggests he's going to stay right where he is until he gets what he wants. Compliance. "You either show up at lunch time or I'll come down here and in front of all your boys, drag your scrawny ass up there. Your choice."

"Still a fucking climb up to them," Thierry grumbles, though from the slump of his shoulders he's accepted his fate. Defeated by the thought of losing face in front of his gang! Which would be /awful/. He blows an angry smoke ring towards Cha'el; the brownrider's not forgiven yet! And Thierry's not lost /all/ of his cheek, either, as he looks up and, while still glaring, dares to venture: "You oughta buy me a drink."

There's an exaggerated roll of eyes for Thierry's whine, the smoke ring ignored. The glare was expected and so is tossed aside. As for a drink? Cha'el's features crack about a smirk, one that perhaps the teen should be worried about. Or if he isn't, he'll soon learn to be. "Sure thing, kid." The Weyrsecond agrees easily and starts to turn in the direction he'd been heading in earlier. "Oh, and do yourself a favor. Bring lightweight clothes." That said, he dips his head in a parting gesture, completes the turn and heads off on his way.

That leaves Thierry to sulk on his own, kicking and scowling and smoking and limping and muttering his way along the alley in the opposite direction to Cha'el.

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