2012-09-13 Mob Mentality

New York again. Still awesome to be out in the daylight. Real daylight. And, yeah. The plebes are staring, but that's okay. It's hard not to stare at a guy who's a foot taller than everyone, twice as wide, and bright red. Hellboy doesn't mind staring.

Crying. Crying is annoying. Kids never cry. They see the tail and get all excited. Kids, man.

Only thing worse than crying is cops. Hellboy -likes- cops. He doesn't want... buddy, do not draw that thing. Oh, man. This is embarrassing. He bites back something about profiling and gets out his SHIELD ID for the guy.

"Yeah. That's Agent Hellboy. No, for real. SHIELD. Yes. Go ahead and call the number." Agent Hellboy. He sounds like a dick. Dad said it would wear off, it's not wearing off. He could just walk away. What's the cop going to do? Shoot him? But he's being good while a crowd gathers and stares.

Hi, folks. Hi. Yeah. I'm red. Thanks for noticing the horns. No. Not Satan. ...going out, already getting old.

Crowds. Rhodey avoids crowds as a general rule. Mostly because he tends to attract them. Even now, dressed in a football jersey and loose pants, it's obvious that he's some sort of Robocop; a man-machine with three-quarters of a face and an awful lot of dangerous-looking prosthetics. At first, he smiles. Because whatever the hell is going on has nothing to do with him. He can't help it, though. First one metallic lens flicks over his glowing red eye, then another as he zooms in for a closer view. Cops. People freaking out. And a large, red head sticking out a foot above anyone else's. "Well," Jim mutters to himself as the lenses retract and he makes his way closer. "This should be good. Hey. HEY. Move aside, people. Yeah. They're metal. Get out of the way." He's making progress, but as he's unwilling to squash anyone, he hasn't quite made it through the herd of bystanders yet.

Patience is a virtue not usually associated with Hellboy. He's leaning against a police car, both red hands where the police can see them, looking with exasperated patience at a shaky rookie holding a gun on him while the older cop calls in his ID. Hellboy has not yet chewed through his cigar out of frustration, but it's a close call right now.

"Seriously, kid, I'm harmless." The Samaritan is clutched in the hands of the older cop who bobbles it while turning it over to look for a serial number. Finally, Hellboy raises his voice. "Hey, butterfingers. Jesus died to make that thing. Watch it."

After what feels like an eternity, Rhodey parts the red sea of bystanders and makes his way to the front. Instinctively, he activates his optic camera and starts recording the bizarre scene in front of him. Big. Red. "Nice arm," he says, raising his eyebrows slightly. Then it's time for the officer. "Whoa. Calm down. I'm Lt. Colonel James Rhodes. Air Force." (Retired) "Everything okay? Has there been a crime? Or can we get these people out of here?" His hands are open and held low. Though his voice comes through an artificial modulator, it's considerably less harsh than usual. It's about as nice as Rhodey's capable of looking. Still, he has the presence of a man who's commanded hardened soldiers in heated battles.

"I'm bein' detained for bein' myself in public," Hellboy says without malice. He nods toward the officer who's got the gun and is probably waiting on an ID check. "Gave him my ID. I'm with SHIELD." Goddamnit. "Agent Hellboy."

And, yes, Hellboy is a real person. An honorary human being. Citzen of the world. Ratified by the United Nations. Top Secret. Until now. Though he's not going to admit it, the presence of the military--as opposed to the police--is kind of comforting. Familiar. He was, after all, raised by the US Army.

"We've had trouble with demon sightings, sir." The rookie's voice actually cracks and Hellboy has to try not to swallow his cigar while he fails not to laugh at the kid. "Ol' Hodgepodge is persistent. Sent the bastard back to Hell just yesterday."

"I, um..." The officer with the Samaritan has gotten some kind of answer and it doesn't make him look happy. When in doubt, defer to someone who looks like they have more to lose. "Central says his ID's, good, sir." He offers the ID badge and gun to Rhodey all without getting too close to Hellboy.

"Well. Glad we got that cleared up. Now that we know he's one of the good guys, maybe you should spread the word. So there aren't any more misunderstandings." Though his words are polite, there's a hard edge to Rhodey's voice. One that turns it into a statement rather than a suggestion. "And would you be kind enough to take care of the crowd, officers?" The badge and the Samaritan are handed back to the giant red man without hesitation. "Hellboy, with SHIELD, you said? Sorry about all this. Been a lot of trouble in town lately. The local PD is a little twitchy. Jim Rhodes. You can call me Rhodey." He offers up a vibratanium hand for shaking.

"Trouble in town is why I'm here." Hellboy gives the Samaritan a kiss before putting her away to shake Rhodey's hand. "Little twitchy doesn't cover it. You'd think they'd have figured out that most demons don't show their-- seriously?" He gets a hand up in time to block a half-full can of soda aimed at his head.

"Demon!" Someone in the crowd shrieks, eliciting a few murmurs of the same. Now the police really do look alarmed.

Hellboy only rolls his eyes. "Aaand this is why I prefer the sewers," he mutters, tucking away his ID. "We'll be fine as long as no one says--"

"People, please don't panic!" The younger officer squeaks.

"Aw, crap." Hellboy gestures for Rhodey to follow him. "You better haul ass too, tin man, they'll go for you, too." He plants one hand on the roof of the police car, dents it in as he uses the leverage to vault the car into the street.

"Thinkin' the same thing," Rhodey replies. His frustration has grown, almost peaked and hit the point of disgust. He leaps over the dented car, hot on Hellboy's heels. "Damnit. Damnit! No matter how many times this happens, I never get used to it!" One thing Rhodey can do is move. With his football jersey on, he looks like a running back headed for the goal line. Only this time the goal is to not get caught by an angry mob. "Hey, look on the bright side," he calls. "I didn't see any torches or pitchforks."

"They never get that I'm running for -their- safety, not mine." Hellboy tucks the cigar away as he corners on a dime and takes off down an alley. He knows the back ways of this city in his sleep.

"You good to go up, tin man?" It takes forever to get the sewer smell out of his clothes--or so he's heard, it's not like he does his own laundry. He leaps lightly to the top of a dumpster, swings onto a nearly-stable fire escape, and scales the outside of it like a monkey instead of taking the steps up. The rooftops up here are flat for a good distance, making for great running room.

Rhodey actually laughs at loud at the sight of this big, stony-looking guy leaping around nimbly to and fro. "Well ain't that some shit," he mutters to himself. "Yeah, hold on! I'm coming!" He cheats, though. He triggers the magnetic locks within his limbs and *sucks* himself up to the fire escape. Once he's up, he throws one leg over the railing and clears each flight of stairs with a single powerful leap. When they reach the roof, Rhodey leans over to rest his hands on his knees. "That never stops sucking," he grumbles. "Think they'll pull the ladder and follow us up?"

Hellboy looks over the edge, then shakes his head. "Nah, they missed the turn off. You'd think they'd know their city better. Sorry about that." He pulls a horseshoe from his pocket, scowls, puts it back and tries again. Flask. Better. He offers it to Rhodey.

"I always feel like a punk running from crowds these days." He takes a perch on top of a metal box--part of the building vent system--that creaks under his weight. "I mean, what are they gonna do?" he asks as he lights his cigar again. "Hit me with their Starkphones?"

"Hey, mine has an app that shoots a laser. Just sayin'." Grinning, Rhodey accepts the flask. "Thanks. Just one, though." He takes a swig. And his eyes go wide. His cheeks bulge. He doesn't spit or sputter, but his face turns very, very red. When he's able to swallow, he immediately starts taking short breaths through his mouth to cool it. "Oh," he croaks. "Yeah... That's. Great stuff. So, so good." Abruptly, he realizes he's still holding the flask. It's passed back to Hellboy carefully, as if it were a dangerous weapon. "What's it called? Turpentine?"

"Aw, crap. Sorry, wrong flask." Hellboy takes it back and squints at the carvings on the flask. "It translates--like uisge, whiskey--to Water of Life. Demons have a twisted sense of humour. You'll be fine. They just pack a whole lot more alcohol into something than they should be able to do." He offers Rhodey a cigar, then double checks the band, then offers it again. "Yeah, that's Cuban. Just makin' sure. Don't want you... you know, let's not think about what would happen to you with the wrong weeds." Yeah. Best not to go there... unless it's on purpose. Then go all the way because it's funny.

Rhodey's not only a gentleman, he was once a liaison officer. He's used to dealing with strange customs. Though he's not normally a smoker, he accepts the cigar and nods his head. Which is already starting to grow foggy. "No. That was... This is nice. Good to meet you." He bites the tip of his Cuban, clamps it between his teeth, and peers down at the tip with his prosthetic eye. Its glow intensifies briefly, then a narrow beam of red energy lances out of it and grazes the tip of the cigar. When it's burning properly and he's puffing away, he lets out a low sigh. "You know, I just left the house because I felt like having a milkshake."

"I was just goin' for a walk." Hellboy takes a drink from the flask like it's water. "Never really got to do it before. Been 'classified' most of my life." Yeah, he's bitter about that. "When I got moved over to SHIELD, I got told I didn't have to stick to the sewers and roofs and nighttime anymore. Guess it was only partly the program keeping me under cover." He waves a hand below. "Rest of it was just them." He takes another drink.

"So, yeah, I hear ya. You can't have it much better than me though you do look mostly human." Hellboy squints and looks Rhodey over. "I mean, not -great- but you got all the parts and proportions right. Nothin' extra." His tail creeps up over his shoulder to wiggle at Rhodey.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Rhodey pauses and glances meaningfully down at his groin. When he looks back up, he's somehow leering and grinning at the same time. When the silly expression fades from his face, he just looks tired. Tired and a lot older than he actually is. "Seriously, though. Y'right. It's new, is all. I just got blown up a few months ago, so I'm still getting used to this." He gives his arms a waggle, then shrugs. "How about you? You said most of your life. Were you always... You know... A big red guy? Or did something happen and you changed?"

"Always been me." Hellboy digs around for his wallet and pulls out a photo. It's old and sepia-toned, the date on the back says "Christmas, '44". It's a snapshot of a horned infant--more monkey than human--with one oversized red fist, in the arms of a skinny, curly-haired geek wearing glasses and a cheesy grin. A handful of battered soldiers in WWII-era uniforms are clustered around the pair, giving thumbs-up and smiling.

"Came over from the other side like this, got rescued by those mooks. One in the middle's my dad. Still kickin'." He seems rather proud of the picture. "UN made me an honorary human in '52."

Rhodey reaches out toward the photo, but he doesn't touch it. As quickly as he's feeling inebriated, he still recognizes a treasured memento when he sees one. "Wow. That's pretty cool. Must've been tough. That's a lot of time to spend..." He trails off, thinking it over. Being locked up. "You said just being able to take a walk was a new thing? Man. Well, welcome to the city."

"Thanks." Hellboy gives Rhodey a grin as he tucks the photo away. "I fought demons in the dark and sewers and everywhere you -can't- see fifty some years. Human agents around me all the time. Not the same as goin' for a walk in the day." The grin fades and he takes one more drink before tucking the flask away and rising.

"Had an idea it'd be better than this. Not that it was, when I got caught out. But I keep thinkin', -I'm normal. I work for the good guys. That's gotta count for something!- Guess you're in it now, too. Sorry 'bout that, tin man." Hellboy shakes his head so that his neck cracks as he walks to the edge of the roof to look over the city. "Where were you headed? I can get you anywhere you like in this town without people staring. Might as well share the wisdom, right?" His grin bounces right back. He wanted to meet people, Rhodey's people. A people who doesn't even work for SHIELD. Gotta start somewhere.

"Hell's Kitchen," Rhodey replies, rising and clapping Hellboy on the back. The butt of his cigar makes a glowing spiral as he flicks it off the roof and it winds its way toward the ground. "You'll like it there. They're starting to get used to me, that means they can handle just about anything." The slightly tipsy Robo-Man huffs out another long breath. "It's gonna get better for guys like us, man. We just gotta give it some time. Now let's go. If we don't get me home before that really hits my system, you'll end up carrying my metal ass."