ArchivedLogs:Need to Know

Need to Know
Dramatis Personae Doug, Jackson
In Absentia	2013-03-05 (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. It's afternoon, and Jax's apartment is filled with the smell of cooking. Lots of cooking. It's warm inside, all ranges of the stove on underneath various pots and pans, and the oven is on as well. It's bright, too; a pair of tall lamps, a pair of sunlamps, the ceiling lights, a smaller desk lamp on the counter all on brightly despite the sunlight still coming in brightly through the window. Jax is adding to the brightness; around him there's a warm yellow glow, though further out in the apartment other colours dance, a constantly shifting flicker of lights that, currently, is proving extraordinarily distracting to the cat. Sprite /pounces/ at a flicker of red, dashes off to bat at a little whorl of blue, tries to climb the wall when a tiny spot of purple dances its way up. There's music playing, too. Soft but upbeat, rock underlaid with violin, Ryan's strong voice coming from the speakers -- something political. Or maybe just something meant to cheer up activists. Hold the line, even if your voice shakes. Jackson is humming along, as he cooks. Doug is finally home, after being in class all day, although his destination is not his apartment upstairs, clearly, since he steps off the elevator on the third floor. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that reads 'Sunnydale Athletics Nighttime Track Team' across the front, he carries a denim jacket under one arm, shouldering a heavy-looking backpack as he makes his way to the Holland apartment. He leans, wearily, against the frame, inhaling the aroma of food deeply before lifting a fist and letting it fall heavily on the door, twice. "Jackson, you home?" "Yeeeap." This answer comes straightaway, chipper and bright, though it takes a short while longer before Jackson tears himself away from stove management to head for the door. Behind him, Sprite still is having some kind of frantic freakout, tearing around the living room after SO MANY LIGHTS. Jackson is dressed simply, for him. A green t-shirt reading "Cuddles Keep Me Sane". A grey sweatshirt with art of a pair of rabbits on the back; the back reads "LOVE LIFE (no matter whose.)" and the front, just, "Herbivore". Paint-splattered blue jeans. One green and one purple sock. His hair is green and purple, too, though today he is devoid of makeup. He pulls the door open, offering Doug a quick smile, a wave inside. "Hey! Sorry, I got like seventeen things on the stove, can you lock the door behind you?" He's already dashing back to the kitchen. There is a pot threatening to bubble over before he turns the heat down under it. Doug has a bright, albeit weary grin when the door swings open, probably facilitated by Jackson's affirmative response. He inhales again with an exaggerated sniff, and closes his eyes as he follows the older man into his apartment. "It smells good," he says as he swings the door shut and turns the locks. "I could smell it before I even got off the elevator." His backpack is swung from his shoulder and set gently down next to the door. "You having a dinner party or something?" He wanders in the direction of the kitchen, glancing at the frantic cat with a sideways pull of his mouth. "'Cause if not, I can /totally/ take some of that off your hands." He might be teasing; his eyes are crinkled at the corners, at least. "Oh, yeah, it's called hungry kids," Jackson says with a crooked grin. "No, I, um. Sometimes if I know I ain't gonna have time I just cook, like, a week of food in advance when I got a free afternoon and then stick it all in the freezer so --" He shrugs a shoulder, waving a sauce-covered spoon absently at all his pots and pans. "That way I know everything's all set for a while." Sprite tears over, not so much at Doug but kind of incidentally in his direction, following one of the wayward flickers of light. She skids around him, leaps onto the back of the couch, leaps back down again to hurtle towards a beanbag chair. "What's up?" Doug laughs. "I guess with two teenagers in the house, you probably do go through a lot of food." He wrinkles his nose, claiming a spot at the counter, neatly dodging Sprite's rampage as he goes. "I'm surprised you ever have time to cook, after learning all the stuff you do," he teases, and rests his weight on his elbows. The question quiets him, and his brow twitches. "Oh, um," he says, suddenly shy-seeming, and he ducks his head. "I was actually wondering if there was any more news of your friends," he confesses. "Did any of those addresses Pete came up with pan out?" "Two mutant teenagers. The twins eat about a fifth of their weight in protein every day. Thank goodness they don't hardly weigh nothing, mmm?" Jackson's tone is light, his smile still in place. Until the question, which makes him look abruptly down at the stove, the cheerful dance of lights through the apartment fading just as abruptly, much to Sprite's chagrin. She paws at the beanbag a while more, hopeful, but the light does not return. "Don't know," he says, moving one evidently finished pot over to a trivet and putting a new pan on the stove. He turns the flame on, oiling the pan and dumping in some already-chopped onions from a nearby bowl -- his counters are covered with pre-chopped vegetables, cans of beans, already-measured bowls of mixed spices. He is, apparently, rather efficient about his cooking. "We found a place. No idea if they're there or nothing." "Is it one of those places upstate?" Doug doesn't bother with small talk about kids, instead leaning forward with a rise of his eyebrows. "'We found a place' is the most I've heard since I sifted through all of that, and it's not much different than I already knew." He scrubs at his face. "I'd kind of like to know what's going on." "Why?" Jackson asks, not challenging but simply quiet. "Because I put time and effort into helping." Doug answers honestly, lifting a shoulder. "And I'd like to know that it wasn't a complete waste of time, and if it actually /helps/ anything." His eyebrows remained aloft, and he rubs a finger under his chin. "I don't expect anyone to fall at my feet thanking me or acting like I'm hot shit, but I'd still like to know what that effort leads to, y'know?" "I do appreciate your help. We do appreciate your help," Jackson answers, just as honestly, stirring at his pan of onions without much thought. "But you have to understand that this kind of thing -- the fewer people who know any details, the better. Even people on my team who've come with me to these things before don't know the details this time. It's --" His brows pull together, head dipping downwards as his shoulders sink in a slight slump. "I mean, if it does lead anywhere, we'll tell you for sure. But if it don't, it ain't /just/ that we've opened up more risk of information getting to the wrong people. S'also that we done put more people in /very/ serious danger who don't need to be." Doug absorbs that, his smile deepening into a frown as Jackson explains. "I understand that," he says after a moment. "But I think I'm already in pretty deep, with the areas I've been poking around in." He wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. "I guess I can wait to hear, though," he says, clearly dissatisfied with this option as he pushes back from the counter to stand upright. "I hope it turns out the way you want." "Maybe," Jackson says, his frown remaining. He adds garlic to his pan, too. Adds a can of beans to a different pot. "But with any luck you still ain't on their radar. Kinda be good to keep it that way. These people --" The glow around him is rapidly fading, something dark and shadowy leaking out instead to surround him with a kind of murky haze. "-- I've just seen what happens when --" He trails off with a shake of his head. "If we find them or -- find anyone, you'll know it." The last comment pulls his mouth upwards, crookedly. "I'm just hoping I bring my team home in one piece." "My dad works with these people, or with their associates. I think I'm already firmly /on/ their radar, if as nothing more than a bargaining chip." Doug says this plainly, lifing his shoulders. "Look," he says, scrubbing at his face. "I'm not going to beg to be kept in the loop -- clearly, my familial associations put some doubt on my trustworthiness, or they /should/. I just -- " he wrinkles his nose, and shuffles his feet. "It's hard to explain. I feel like I should do /something/, but I don't know what that /is/. I thought maybe I might do something with the murderdrones, but Pete doesn't want to go poking around /those/, either." He wrinkles his nose, and this time the lift of shoulders is limp. "I just want to help." "Does he know you're a mutant? Have you been getting any kind of heat from them?" Jackson's frown deepens. "I wasn't even thinking 'bout your family, really. But there's lots of ways information can leak where it shouldn't. And lots of ways people can wind up dead." He turns one burner up, another burner down, dumps spices in with his onions to let them toast. "I think poking around the murder drones is a pretty sure way to get /lots/ of heat pretty fast, though. Doug, you've already done a lot. Right now there /ain't/ much to do out here." Doug nods, and his mouth pulls tight. "No, I haven't told him -- precisely because of who he works with. I don't know that he'd be able to keep that from them, and he'd probably lose his contract, at the very least." He grimaces as realization of how that sounds hits him, and color creeps into his ears. "Uh, by that, I mean that he...his reputation in the field, as a scientist..." he colors even more deeply, and clamps his mouth shut. "I should go," he says, his tone suddenly brusque with conflict and chagrin. "I've got homework and junk, and some calls to make. Good luck on your raid." He steams towards the door, the heat from his ears almost visible as he collects his backpack. "Don't get killed," is his only farewell before he's gone, the door closing firmly behind him. Jackson's lips press together as Doug speaks, and his answer to this is only a slight nod that sends colourful hair spilling down over his eyes. The darkness around him is creeping out further as he turns back to his cooking, though Doug's exit is timed with an /abrupt/ flare of light behind him, shadows suddenly pushed back to fill the room with colour again as Doug heads out. Fiercer and brighter than before.