ArchivedLogs:Like Always

Like Always
Mocha And Crises!
Dramatis Personae Micah, Elliott
In Absentia	19 April 2014 Well, that was a long story... Part of the Perfectus TP.
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. It is a gorgeous spring afternoon in the city, not a cloud in the sky to obscure the warm, golden sun. It is far more what would be expected of an Easter weekend than the previous week's unseasonable cold. Micah has ventured back into the city after a few hours' sleep back at Xavier's, Mel's little one having decided to make its appearance in the wee-smalls of Saturday morning. He is still dressed in thrift shop clothes, a kelly green T-shirt with a wide-eyed cartoon red panda on the front, hunter green long-sleeved undershirt, faded bluejeans, and a worn pair of sneakers. His newsboy cap's brim is peeking out of the corner of his messenger bag, where he must have shoved it upon entering the building. Presently, he is browsing along the Young Adult literature section, searching for particular authors on the fantasy shelves. The delightful-warm springtime means delightful-warm springtime /clothes/, and Elliott is reveling in the chance to actually get to /not/ bundle up, for once. Dressed in khaki cargo shorts, a plain blue t-shirt; she's just removing a bike helmet from her head as she makes her way in -- stopping inside for a brief smile-handshake (kind of /sweaty/) picture; stopping /again/ not far past to answer a (rather /excited) small-child-question about the ROBOT LEG. And then continuing in, bike helmet dangling off her wrist, to eye the menu boards but head past them, towards the books first. She was -- probably heading /past/ the YA section but stops, smile lighting her face as she turns around to backtrack into that aisle. "Hey, you." Micah turns at the greeting in a familiar voice, smiling and offering a wave with a...strangely glove-clad hand. Though the charcoal grey stretch fabric looks thin and breathable, it's an odd enough choice for a warm spring day. For that matter, so is the long-sleeved tee under his panda shirt. “Elliott! How're y'doin', hon? Heard you're gettin' t'be even more of a big shot these days.” This last he says fondly, with just a hint of teasing. "They did give me a key to the city." There's an amused drawl to Elliott's voice as she glances over Micah, eyes lingering a moment on gloves before flitting up to his face. "Though I haven't quite unlocked it /just/ yet. I'm -- staying busy. How're /you/, how's the family? Recovering, I hope?" Her brows lift, eyes sweeping Micah's expression as though she might, still, discover lingering traces of the Lofts explosion written into it. "Well, that, of course. But also the bid for office. Best of luck t'you with that, by the way." Micah's grin has a bit of irony to it. "Keepin' busy, certainly. Yes, all injuries from the explosion've been healed. Physical ones, anyhow. Still folks workin' out livin' situations an' havin' all their stuff exploded an'...dealin' with the trauma of it. The people who /didn't/ make it. But life's been goin' on in the meantime. Another day, another crisis." Though his tone is light, perhaps deliberately so, there is something tired in his voice. "Thank you, it's been kind of a ride already." Elliott shifts her weight with a faint wince, a faint shake of her head. "Not too much other crisis, I hope? I mean, I hope you're all getting the support you need?" She reaches out, bapping a hand lightly against Micah's shoulder. "C'mon, let me get you a coffee. There's no crisis that's not worked out better over mocha." "I can only imagine." Micah's brows knit slightly, a small nod given to Elliott's leg. "S'your prosthesis givin' y'trouble?" He doesn't push, letting her answer or not as she pleases, seeing as /he/ isn't her care provider. "An'...ohgosh, mocha. Yes, please. Didn't get near enough sleep last night." He pauses to grab a book off of the shelf, the first in Tamora Pierce's /Song of the Lioness/ series. Apparently moving on to other things helps with making choices. "Oh, no, it's fine, really. Do you bike much?" Elliott wonders, swinging her helmet on her wrist and then twisting her backpack off her back to clip the helmet to the pack. "I've just been taking it up again, with the weather getting better. It's been --" She shakes her head, but whatever she was going to say is derailed, her eyes lighting at Micah's book choice. She turns aside to starts back towards the counter. "Oh /man/. That was one of my favourite series as a kid. Honestly," she confesses with a quick grin, "I think it's part of what started me on the path to the military. -- What was keeping you up?" "Not a ton. Used t'do more, but even then I was more into horses for m'ridin' activities. I ain't used t'city bikin', though. Seems a different ballgame than country trails. Kinda intimidatin'." Micah follows along just a step behind Elliott. "I liked 'em, too. Pretty much alla her books. This one's...for a sick friend. Thought maybe he'd like bein' read to. Gonna grab 'im somethin' t'eat 'fore I leave here, too." The last question earns a genuine smile. "Somethin' good, for once. Friend had a baby. Little one just decided that it'd prefer a Saturday debut 'stead of the Friday afternoon it started on." "Oh, /awesome/. Nice to have some /good/ news in the middle of all the -- upheaval. Though, shit, a baby's all /kinds/ of upheaval." Elliott shakes her head at this, exhaling a quick laugh. She swings her backpack back into place, hooking her thumbs through her beltloops. "/Horses/, man. Nah. I was a city kid all around. The trick is just, you have to intimidate them /back/. -- Sucks about your friend. I'm sorry," is in quick Spanish. "I'm sure they'll be glad you're going to see him, though. OK, so maybe coffee /and/ some good comfort food. You seem to do /crisis/ a lot." She pulls her wallet out as she approaches the counter, flashing the cashier a warm smile. Together with /her/ mocha she orders a blackened tilapia sandwich. "S'good news, but, yeah. Gonna be interestin'. Was an...unexpected surprise baby t'start with." Micah shifts his messenger bag on his hip. He tucks the book very visibly into an external pocket, giving a nearby employee a 'yes, I intend to pay for this' nod. It helps that they know him here. "Ohgosh, they got a fire roasted corn chowder with Sriracha. An' a non-dairy option. I gotta try that an' bring it for Dusk if it's good." He orders a cup of the chowder with a side of garlic cheddar biscuits to go with his mocha. "An'...yeah, there's a lotta crisis. S'kinda the state of things bein' 'round lots of people with special abilities. World won't just let 'em live their lives in peace." "Dusk -- Dusk." Elliott takes a number for their table, absently bumping her shoulder against Micah's before moving over to claim a table near the back, settling into a comfortable armchair and shedding her backpack with a happy sigh. She rolls her shoulders out with a pleased stretch, setting the table number down in the center. "/Right/, I remember. Wasn't he the one who was taken with your husband? Has something happened to him again?" Her brows furrow, slightly, pulling together as she tucks her legs in against the chair. "Not sure this city's /had/ a lot of peace lately. News has been pretty quiet, though. Something been up?" "Yeah, that's him," Micah confirms with a nod. He nudges lightly back against Elliott as she bumps into him, giving her a little smile. Upon reaching the table, he places the to-be-purchased novel on it before slinging his messenger bag over the chair back and seating himself. "News's been quiet 'cause don't nobody care when /mutants/'re bein' nabbed off the streets an' cut t'pieces, then discarded like garbage when their bodies ain't no use anymore." Elliott's brows lift, her eyes widening. The warmth drains from her tone, just replaced with flat horror. "-- /What/." "The news picked up a couple of 'em. When they didn't /know/ it was mutants. Bodies showin' up all hacked up? Y'prob'ly saw some of the news; s'been goin' on for months." Micah's head shakes, his gloved hands folding on the table. "There were crazy people stealin' mutants off the streets an' usin' 'em in experiments t'steal their abilities. Like /always/. Only this was private enterprise 'stead of the government. Had t'go rescue folks on our own, like always. Investigate on our own, like always. Get hurt an' killed on our own, like always. S'taken care of now. But there's a lotta folks been seriously hurt by it. People dead. Got kids missin' arms an' legs an' skin. Other folks missin' bones an' organs an' whole limbs. An' Dusk..." Elliott's fingers press down against the table, her eyes still fixed on Micah as he speaks. "I'd heard about the disappearances but I didn't -- oh my god. Taken /care/ of, Micah, are the people who /did/ this -- in /jail/? Being /dealt/ with?" Her jaw clenches. "Are the people who it /happened/ to taken care of? I mean, proper support, proper medical care, proper --" She lifts her hand, knuckles scrubbing against her cheek. "What happened to Dusk?" "They been found an' stopped. No, they're not in jail. Nobody /cares/, Elliott. If anythin', the government'd prob'ly wanna ask 'em t'/help/. Join up with Prometheus an' be a big, happy unethical mutant research family. They're still runnin' those places, y'know. Even after all that with Jax an' Dusk an' the videos..." Micah's fingers squeeze tighter into one another. "We stopped 'em. A lotta the folks were just...brainwashed by a cult leader. We got folks as can help with that. So they won't be a danger anymore. An'...the folks as got took are gettin' care. Don't know 'bout 'proper', same as any other people with special abilities. Through the Clinic, havin' t'get used as a hospital when it ain't one. 'Cause nobody else'll take care of 'em." He takes a deep breath, in and out. "They tortured 'im. Cut out his eyes an' stole 'is wings. We're doin' everythin' we can t'help 'im. But there's /so many/ that were hurt. We only got so many resources an' it's takin'...too long. Any time is too long, though, really." Elliott's knuckles dig harder against her cheek. Her jaw clenches tighter, head just shaking. "I --" There's a silence, her tan skin paling a few shades. It's broken up by the server arriving, to deposit their food and drinks, a pair of water glasses; she composes herself enough to remember a quiet thanks as the young woman removes the table number, asks them if they need anything else. She shakes her head, still kind of /staring/ at Micah. She exhales, slowly. Both her hands come up, now, to run against her neck, curling around to lock her fingers behind it. "It's not true. That nobody cares. It's -- God. I can't even imagine. How badly -- /everything/ and everyone has failed you. Is there --" She presses her lips together, slowly. "-- Something I can do? To help. Because I can't pretend to know what you all are going through. Or your community or -- but resources? I have /those/." Micah gives the server a nod and a small 'thank you', but doesn't manage a smile for her. He pulls off his gloves so that he can pick pieces off his biscuits and dip them into the too-hot-to-eat-straight chowder without getting oils and crumbs all over them. "I don't know. Honestly. These people are taken care of, now. The folks who're hurt are bein' cared for by the Clinic an' what we can offer from folks with special abilities t'make 'em feel better. The Clinic's got psychiatric care t'/try/ an' help recovery from that angle as well, but. Gosh. I dunno. Either gettin' regular hospitals t'take an' treat people with abilities like anyone else...or makin' it so the Clinic can expand into a /real/ hospital with OR's an' an emergency department an' all /for real/. Makin' the police an' the legal system treat everyone the same. Gettin' the folks out of Prometheus facilities an' shuttin' 'em down for good. Gettin' /everyone/ t'stop kidnappin', torturin', an' experimentin' on people with special abilities." One of his biscuits is /decimated/ on its plate, torn all into tiny bits by the time Micah is done talking. "Y'got the kinda resources that can do any of that?" Elliott's fingers curl around her cup, her brows knitted very tightly together. She pulls in a slow breath, and eventually just: "Yes." And then, "-- Not all of that, I mean. Obviously. I can't /change/ society for you. I can't even do half of that, Micah. But I do have -- /some/ sway. In some places. And I can /use/ it. If that's even a thing you'd want me to /do/, I mean, God, I feel like --" Her fingers rake through her hair, mussing a few strands loose from its ponytail. "I don't want to /take/ your friends' -- your /family's/ crises and -- /politicize/ them but. I /have/ resources. There /are/ things I could change. Expand the Clinic's resources, probably. Help -- revamp law enforcement. Prometheus is -- beyond the scope of what I have /immediate/ influence over but we can start /in/ this city, at least, and work out from there." Slowly, Micah dunks little bits of biscuit into the soup and nibbles on them for awhile. Eventually he sighs, letting his eyes close for a moment before looking back to Elliott. "I know. I know, honey, I didn't mean to... Things've just been /insane/ an' it just seems...it's one crisis t'the next. An' they just keep gettin' /worse/. The things they keep doin' t'my /people/." He bites into his lip, then lets go to speak again, the skin briefly blanched. "I didn't mean t'say I expected you t'do the impossible. But...maybe expandin' the Clinic s'the best we can do for now. At least let us take better care of our own." Micah picks up his spoon, stirring the swirl of smoked paprika and Sriracha and cilantro garnish into the soup. When he speaks again, he does so without looking up. "May I ask you a really strange an' personal hypothetical question?" "I just mean -- we could do that." Elliott's voice is quiet, but firm. "I don't know if you -- or anyone involved in this latest -- horror. Would want to. Come forward. Talk about it. But we could /do/ that. There's a need for it. A sore /lack/ of resources. In a /lot/ of fields. Medical. Legal. Law enforcement. It's -- pretty horrible to think about bringing people who've been through so much through so much /more/ with media and lawyers and god-knows-what but I am serious. We could. Push for --" She exhales, tipping her gaze down towards her cup. Then back up to Micah, curious. "Mmm?" "I'd have t'ask the people involved. There's always...a risk. With these things. When people get horrible ideas of things t'do t'mutants. That...tellin' folks 'bout 'em will just give /others/ the idea t'do...the horrible things they were doin'. I can ask. It's not. Not /really/ m'story t'tell." Micah's spoon continues to trace little designs through his soup. "This is gonna sound crazy, an' y'don't have t'answer if y'don't want to. But. If y'woke up one mornin'. An' someone had put a new leg on you. A...biological one. An' it weren't yours. Y'knew they got it from someone else. Someone y'knew. An' even if y'asked the someone else an' they said they didn't want it /back/ or anythin'. What would y'do?" "That --" Elliott just /blinks/ at the question. "-- is an incredibly strange and --" She lifts her cup, eyes fixing on Micah with a slow and puzzled look. "Wasn't -- mine. If they didn't want it back, though, wouldn't it /be/ mine? Who else's would it be? How would they even have gotten it from -- that's not how. Bodies work." "Nevermind...how. It's a hypothetical. Thought experiment. Just." Micah lets the spoon fall against the side of his soup mug, his cheeks flaring bright red. He presses forward with the question nevertheless. "Would y'/want/ t'keep it? Or...would it be too...not you? Would y'want t'just go back t'how things were?" Elliott lifts her coffee, taking a long drink of the mocha. "You're right, this /is/ a really strange --" Her eyes linger on Micah's blushing face, dropping down to the table as she sets down her mug. "Thought experiment. Though I think you're /assuming/ the wrong things with me. You were born this way. I wasn't. This was never how things were for me. So -- I don't know. Getting a new leg put on would /be/ going back to how things were. For /me/. Might be the other way around if --" She shakes her head, lifting her sandwich, now, to take a bite, chew it carefully and wash it down with a gulp of water. "I guess it's all what you're used to, right? If the hypothetical-other-person didn't want it back I'd just be glad to get back to the body that's more like /mine/." "Yeah, I know. I just didn't... I don't have a lotta people in the /exact/ same situation t'ask. I /know/ you're comin' from a dif'rent place, hon. But...it'd still be a...thing. That wasn't...what it was exactly." Micah shrugs finally, a gesture of helpless resignation. "Sorry. It was a really bizarre thing t'ask. I prob'ly shouldn't've." "Right. But -- for you it might be the opposite thing, is all. /Having/ it be too -- not-you?" Elliott shrugs a shoulder, still looking across the table over at Micah. "You don't have to /apologize/. I mean," she admits with a crooked smile, "it's definitely up there with the /stranger/ things I've been asked this week. Maybe not the strangest. Are you -- doing alright? How hypothetical are we talking, here?" "Not the strangest..." Micah laughs an odd sort of laugh at that. "I'd hate t'think what people must be askin' you. Um. Hypothetical question t'be askin' you, anyhow." His cheeks pick up several darker shades of red. "Entirely not hypothetical enough, otherwise." Elliott pulls in a slow breath. And takes another bite of her sandwich. Another few bites of her sandwich, with a growing frown. "But /how/ -- that's not even -- how on earth." Her head shakes. "I'm sorry, that's -- probably hardly your biggest concern right --." She takes a quick gulp of water, the tip of her tongue darting against her lips. "Who /were/ these people. People -- really should /know/ about." Another slow exhale. And, quieter: "What are you going to do?" Micah's head shakes slowly at the how and who questions. "I...shouldn't. I shouldn't've even brought it up, but I /really/ shouldn't say who was... I mean. Like I said. People might want t'do it /again/. I..." He reaches for his mocha, taking several sips and steadying himself before answering. "I don't know. It's odd. It's /there/ now. It still feels like...someone else's. It'd be simpler if it were never there. I wouldn't...do it on purpose. But makin' it...go away now? Seems. Irresponsible? Or...ungrateful, after what the person...went through. Who it actually belonged to, I mean. It /is/ more /functional/ than mine...was. Or it /will be/ once m'body can get used to it. I'm just. Not sure /I/ can get used to it." "Ungrateful? No offense, Micah, but that's probably the stupidest thing you've ever said to me. They didn't /give/ you a leg, they were -- what, kidnapped and tortured so that someone could stick a leg on you against your will? That's not a /gift/. It's just a piece of horror, for both of you." Elliott's head shakes, and she leans back in her chair, looking down with a small frown at her own mechanical leg. "I mean, keep it, if you /want/ a more functional leg. But keeping it because you feel /ungrateful/ getting rid of it sounds like a Richard Mourdock level pile of shit." "No...not. T'the people who /did/ this, no. It's...just I feel sort of...I guess stupidly responsible for what happened t'the other...person." Micah takes several more swallows of his coffee. "I don't know. This whole thing. I just. Feel guilty 'bout /everythin'/ anymore. I guess it is just stupid. I shouldn't've said anythin'." "The people who /did/ this are responsible. Not -- you." Elliott frowns down at the table. "That's -- /really/ not a weight you should be carrying around with you. I think you /should/ have said something, if you're --" Her hand waves towards him. "This is kind of an enormous /everything/ to process. It's just -- not all /your/ responsibility." "I know...I know. But...Elliott, I /went into/ that place on purpose. T'get information. When our people kept goin' missin'. 'Cause I'm the only one. I'm the only one who's not. Who /doesn't/ have an X-gene, y'know? I was the only one they /wouldn't/ hurt. An' I pretended. When I went that I was one of /them/ an' I /asked/ for this. I just. I don't know if this would've /happened/ t'the person if I hadn't. I didn't think they'd /do/ it in just a couple days of me /meetin'/ these people. But I /asked/ for it. Even if I didn't...mean it." Micah blinks rapidly, staring down at his soup again. "I'm... Apologies, I... I'm gettin' help. Counselling. I just. They can't really /understand/, y'know? But this isn't your... I shouldn't." Elliott's eyes widen slightly. Her cheeks puff out; she blows out a heavy breath. "Micah, if they hadn't hurt them with you they'd have done it with someone else. I read about the mutilations, there were a lot. Of dead people. I don't think -- it would have just been something else. It's /not your fault/. You were doing what you had to do to help." Her lips compress, her eyes lowering to the table. "And sometimes in the course of that you see people get hurt and that -- never gets /easier/. And please stop apologising. You've been through a lot. And trust me, if there /is/ something I understand it's --" Her hand turns up, lips compressing. "That. The innocent lives that get hurt when you're -- it's funny, in my world there's a term for it. Like we try to /distance/ ourselves. Grow calluses. Because it tears you /apart/, thinking about all the -- collateral damage." Her hand passes over her eyes before falling back to the table. "-- What would've happened if you /didn't/ go get information, though? How much longer would it have taken them to collect it? How many more people would've gone missing?" "That's what I keep...thinkin'. I mean. That they might've moved onto someone else that night. Taken somethin' more /integral/. Like an organ. Killed the person 'stead of just... But. It's hard in your own head. T'know when you're rationalisin' things away or when you're blamin' yourself too much or... What's /reasonable/ when a whole situation is so far from reason." Micah's head shakes again, expression somewhat blank, tinged only with confusion. "I have no idea. The information I got didn't lead directly t'findin' our folks. That came from other people /after/ I'd already gone in. But...it did tell us what was goin' on. An' it did give us a good /time/ t'go in an' rescue folks. The day I was...when this happened. 'Cause we knew most of the people'd be /there/ then. I don't know if things would've gone any dif'rent if I had or hadn't gone in there, quite honestly. There's too many variables." Micah spoons some of his soup into his mouth, just to stop if from /running/ for awhile. This only works but for so long. "We're tryin' t'figure out if we can reverse any of what was done t'me. M'brain...got rewired, too. T'operate the leg. I didn't have...that never wired that way in m'brain before, 'cause I didn't ever have one, y'know?" His voice lowers a great deal now. "But it's more'n just the leg. I got...the person's ability, too. When I touch people. I can...um. Feel their thoughts an' their emotions. An' I can't /not/ whenever I. Touch. Skin t'skin." He holds up his left hand, still gloved as it is. "We're tryin' t'see if I can make that...go away. I don't know if the two things're even connected. The leg an' the...other thing." "I'm pretty sure almost any part of blaming yourself for psychotic murderous kidnappers is too much." Elliott starts to lift her sandwich again, but sets it back down with a heavy exhalation. "How do you even go about rewiring --" She breaks off, into faintly stunned quiet at this last. "... you -- got. What? How --" She reaches for her water, quietly taking a few long swallows. "... how. Would you. Even make that. Go /away/, that." Another slow exhale. "{I'm -- sorry.} Wow. God, Micah, when you said crisis, you -- weren't. Kidding. I should've gotten you some whiskey to go with that coffee." "It's...powers. Both the cause--at least I /think/, we ain't confirmed that yet--an' the solution, if there /is/ one. It's all a little...uncertain for now, but. We might be able t'make it go away again." Micah drags his coffee closer again, drinking more, the cup nearly empty by this point. "The guy who was doin' this. He'd take things from people. Then just /lay hands/ on another person an'...the part would form up on 'em. An' they'd have powers after. Don't know how t'explain that /outside/ of X-gene craziness." He half-chuckles at Elliott's assessment, a half-smile attached to match. "Well, we /do/ know how t'do crisis right, don't we? S'okay, honey, I'm not much of a drinker. Chocolate an' caffeine'll do me." Elliott sinks back in her chair, lifting her sandwich for another bite that she works through slowly. "Fine. Then I'll load you the hell /up/ on chocolate and caffeine. Like a /lifetime's/ worth, I think you need it." The tip of her tongue pokes out to swipe at the corner of her mouth. "And talk to your people. All this -- /someone/ should know it. There might /be/ some good we can make out of all this horror." "Thanks, hon. It's...you're good t'sit through all... I really hadn't intended t'just spill all that out at y'right then." Micah's blush still hasn't faded. He finishes his coffee and resumes working on his soup and remaining biscuit. "I'll talk t'folks 'bout what they wanna do on a...gettin' other people involved front. It's all just so complicated. An' we're all even /more/ wary 'bout folks promisin' t'help than before. These folks got their information on who t'target an' how an' when by...pretendin'. T'be helpin' people with special abilities with like...legal issues an' so forth. But it was a front for this. So. Sometimes 'help' ends up...not what it seemed like it was gonna be." "Understood." Elliott just nods at this, polishing off the last of her sandwich and wiping her fingers on her napkin. She picks up her coffee mug, cradling it near her chin. "Just feels like the Clinic could use -- feels like a /lot/ of places could use --" She shakes her head. "Right. OK. Well. Caffeine, then. Like I said. Mocha and crises. I'll get you another when you're done with that one, even. For the /road/." "Let me give you Dr. Saavedro's contact information. Maybe the two of you should talk 'bout the Clinic stuff. That place is kinda his baby." Micah pulls out one of his business cards, writing Iolaus's contacts on the back before sliding it to Elliott with his /gloved/ hand. "On the rest of it...I'll just have t'get back t'you. Just. Thank you. For listenin'. For offerin' help. For coffee. All of it. I'll shake your hand or...hugs or whatever. Once I got m'other glove back on." This last he adds with a sheepish little grin. Elliott's lips just crook up in a small smile as she takes the card. "Oh," she says lightly. "I've gotten to be an /expert/ by now in shaking hands. Your hand will be /so/ well-shook." Her hand drops to rest over his gloved one after she slides the card towards herself, squeezing gently. "Really, though. Any time. I can, at least, /always/ use the caffeine." "Lookin' forward to it," Micah replies with a wide, lopsided grin. "An' who /can't/ use caffeine, ohgosh. The world would be /so/ much sadder without it."