ArchivedLogs:Triage

Triage
Dramatis Personae Ion, Micah, Dusk
In Absentia	9 September 2013 Dusk and Micah go to deliver supplies to the church. Ion reveals some additional needs. (Part of the Battle for Harlem TP.)
Location <NYC> St. Martin de Porres Catholic Church - Harlem
This church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the altar, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained glass, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. Harlem is deceptively quiet, Monday night. It /feels/ like there should be more tension -- the police barricades are still in place, the police still /searching/ those who venture onto the block where the church is located, but past a weapons-check they are largely letting people through unbothered. The banner reading SANCTUARY still hangs next door; past the police barricades the tension lifts into an odd sense of /community/. The church is more populated than it was before -- at the moment, there is a bible study class going on in the actual church room, a pair of young men in the basement kitchen putting together soup and sandwiches for dinner. The population seems to have /grown/; there are mattresses stacked against the church walls, people drifting in and out of the buildings next door. Ion /has/ been doing dishes; his sleeves are rolled up, his hands damp, but at the moment he's slipped outside to take a break, looking a little end-of-day rumpled. Wrinkled button-down shirt, damp splotches on his khakis. He is pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, but he isn't yet smoking them. His eyes scan the streets beyond, thoughtful. Micah looks enough like he is off work for the night, for all that he is clad in multicolour-patched jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the Reading Rainbow logo, altered to add a cloud-lounging Rainbow Dash reading a Derring Do novel. That is, except for the fact that he is, once again, hauling goods in the Gorilla AT's TARDIS-painted van. A few of the storage built-ins in the back have been unscrewed from the walls to make room for a spare mattress and boxes and bags of assorted goods: clothes, bedding, foodstuffs, toiletries, books, games, and other sundries. Jax and Micah have gotten to be rather expert at gathering materials for large groups of people who aren't able to get out much. The van pulls up as close to the church's service entrance as possible. "We gotta offload all the smaller containers before the mattress is gonna come out in a way that doesn't pile us under an avalanche of /stuff/, never t'be heard from again," Micah thinks out loud at Dusk as he sets the parking brake and unbuckles. He comes bouncing out of the driver's side door a few ticks later. Dusk is soon to follow Micah, hopping down out of the passenger seat in jeans, Vans sneakers, a green-edged black t-shirt. He flexes his wings once he is out, stretching them with a small wince and a roll of his shoulders. Cars, not the best place for giant wings. "Pfft, if there was a loud clattering the cops would be here in a heartbeat to break us out. Probably, uh, shoot us, but I don't think we'd be /forgotten/ at least." He moves around to the back, opening it up to survey the goods for a moment before piling one box of blankets on top of another box of food, arms flexing hard as he hoists them against his chest. Ion doesn't light his cigarette. His eyes follow the approach of the van, and he tucks it back into its box, slipping the pack into his pocket. His thumbs tuck through his beltloops as he ambles over, chin lifting in a sharp nod of greeting. "Hey-o. Need a hand?" The smile that accompanies this offer is quick and bright -- bright to Dusk, a little /sharper/ to Micah. "Woah. Man. Long time no see." His hand thumps against the side of the van, and he leans down and over to peer in, too, with a low whistle. "You guys are /way/ prettier than I ever imagined Santa Claus." “Hey, if we get /shot/ under a pile of stuff, it is still us, pile of stuff, never heard from again,” Micah jokes back, ticking off each of the items on his fingertips. He slides out a box of books and old board games, adding a bag of groceries on top of it, before hefting the lot. “As many hands as wanna grab stuff an' haul it inside, for sure!” His grin peeks out /just/ over the grocery bag as he walks it slowly toward the door. Micah watches Ion a /little/ bit longer than may be entirely polite, first to place his face and then to try to dig a name out of the memory banks. “Oh, right! It has been a minute.” Hold on, he's gonna find that name /somewhere/. "Heyyy." Dusk's fangs flash in a bright smile when Ion arrives. "Totally, yeah, man, we kinda need -- /all/ the hands." He flexes a wing outward, curling it around Ion's shoulders in a quick squeeze. "You remember Micah? Micah, Ion. He /actually/ goes to church here. Like a good boy." His arms tighten around his packages, wing folding back against his back. His eyes flick towards the banner, then towards the church door as he heads inside -- stopping to hold it open with one wing for Micah. "-- Anyone here talking secession yet?" "Few people," Ion admits, leaning in to snag a box of clothing himself, tucking a grocery bag on top. He grunts slightly as he lifts it, following after the others. "Yeah, it's been /kinda/ more busy than ever. More people actually going to Mass, though. A plus?" The grocery bag doesn't /quite/ conceal the sharp slice of his grin. "/I/ remember Micah." There is a definite note of laughter in his voice, though it eases into just warmth when he follows this with: "-- Things still good with you and Jax?" “Ion, right!” Micah would probably have snapped his fingers at that, if not for the armload of goods. “Shh, don't tell anybody. But I don't go to chur--” he starts to joke again, before cutting himself off with a particularly fierce and sudden apple-red blush that blends rather neatly right up into his hairline. It is several steps later when he finds his voice again. “Oh, yep. Pretty good. Actually moved in at the Lofts about three months back.” He breaks stride for a second to shift the weight of the box before continuing. “Where should we drop this stuff t'start, anyhow?” "Heathen," Dusk accuses amiably, "s'that mean this place is going to burn down when you step inside?" He keeps the door open for both of them, but then beckons Micah to follow as he bypasses the church part of church to head towards the basement. "There are so many cookies. But, uh, some useful shit too. Jax just --" His nose wrinkles. "Frets. About people staying /happy/. -- S'definitely growing." His eyes scan the signs of occupancy as they head down the stairs, a note of worry mingled with the thoughtfulness in his voice. "Oh, right in the basement, c'mon." Ion gestures after Dusk, his smile only growing at Micah's blush. "Moved in, huh? /With/ him? S'that like a serious thing now? It's okay," he adds lightly, "we don't hold that against anyone. Most people /at/ church here don't go to church. I just -- shit's been fucked up, you know? Kinda want some stability after that. You guys," he adds, "are angels. Every time I stop by here there's more people needing -- /everything/. Don't suppose you know a doctor who wouldn't mind, uh. Potentially eventually getting arrested for helping terrorists? Some of these people haven't really had any proper care in years." "Dunno. M'also /Jewish/," Micah replies to Dusk's fire question in a stage whisper, eyebrows raised as if this were a /scandal/. He giggles over the cookies. "I /promise/ I packed honest fruits an' veggies an' pasta an' rice an' such, too. Jax sometimes forgets that /sugar/ isn't the primary need for most people." Ion's smile somehow has him blushing a bit deeper. "Yeah, with." The angels comment earns a lopsided grin. "This'n is the only one with wings, though," he says with a wink at Dusk before returning to more serious matters. "There's only one doc I'd even think to /ask/, which is kinda a shame considerin' how many I /know/. Could...take care of any basic first aid m'self if y'got injured, though. There's basic bandages an' alcohol an' gauze an' painkillers an' whatnot in one of the boxes we brought. But if y'got any more specific supplies y'need, let me know." "Noooot really the kinda wings anyone thinks of when they think /angels/, though." Dusk's large bat-wings quiver against his back. He tromps down the basement stairs to the pantry, nudging some of the goods already there further back to make more room to set his armload down. "Wings or no wings, I think you qualify for the title a lot more than I do." He doesn't head back up immediately, peeking out towards the large room where the soup kitchen meals are held, dark eyes scanning its occupants. "/Could/ talk to Io. Or Dr. Toure and his clinic. Is anyone really badly off?" "-- Actually, got a couple people probably /could/ do." Ion nods towards Micah, setting down his own box as well. "With some looking-to, if you -- not mind so much. Mostly just -- the usual. Been out on the streets. A fight here. Bad fall there. There are some people, though, I think an actual doctor would -- there are many sicks. When you're out-of-doors too long, yeah?" He shrugs a shoulder, moving back into the hall but then just leaning against the wall by the pantry door. "Toure. He's the one who --" He waves fingers towards his head. "Yeah? Be good. -- You have any wheelchairs lying around?" He asks this of Micah with probably a measure more /hope/ than he would ask it of AnyRandomPerson. "S'one man wheeling himself around on a /skateboard/. Not ideal." "/Shoot/, speak for yourself. Yours are all fuzzy an' cuddlesome. No irritatin' /moultin'/. S'what I'd want on /my/ angels." Micah nudges against Dusk, grinning, once his goods are unloaded. His own load is soon to follow, leaving him shaking out his hands after the pressure against his fingers is relieved. "Yeah, if you've got legit /illnesses/ as aren't respondin' t'rest an' tea an' soup, you prob'ly want a friend with a license an' a prescription pad. I can see if Dr. Saavedro's up for it. Fights'n falls I can prob'ly be more help with in the meantime." He nods again at the wheelchair question. "Got easy access to your basic horrible sling-seat foldin' rental numbers. Somethin' more custom'd take some finaglin', but I could sure arrange it given some time." "Oh, /man/, have you ever seen Horus in moult, it does /not/ look fun. All itchy and sad and he gets so cranky through it." Dusk shakes his head with a small wince. One of those (fuzzy! Cuddlesome!) wings unfurls, brushing softly against Micah's arm. "Might be here a bit longer than expected, if you're going to get to doctoring. Should maybe text Jax and let him know what's up. -- Ion, has it been --" He shrugs a shoulder uncertainly. "Quiet, here? I mean. Should we be expecting /more/ injuries?" "Basic's better than nothing. Think he'd be glad for it. We can -- pay." Ion slumps more heavily back down against the wall, one scarred hand lifting to brush through his hair. "Eventually? I don't doubt it. But when it gets unquiet you're not gonna be able to bring no doctor in here. Not without getting 'em shot." His hands drop back down, arms curling against his chest. "But I think we should be expecting more all the same. People --" His voice drops a little lower. "They keep comin', man. All the apartments next door -- and it's just spreading. S'a lot of people out there with nowhere to go. Don't know how long they're gonna let it continue, though." "Oh! No, I haven't. Would just wanna...give 'im scritchins forever. Or...whatever it is y'do t'make feather-itchies go away. I've still gotta chase that kid down an' see if the rig I've put together t'adapt the text-to-speech idea for him works out. S'even a little more anatomically unique than I'm used t'handlin'." Micah just rakes his fingers roughly through his hair at this, slightly frustrated with the slow progress of a few of his side-projects for the Genetically Enhanced. Micah waves dismissively at Ion's offer of payment. "Yeah, I'll let Jax know. He won't mind, if there's injured t'tend." His phone slides out of his pocket, his thumb slipping around on the screen almost without looking at it, quite rapidly, before shutting the screen off and returning it to the pocket. "S'a lotta people. Been...helpin' people like this, in kinda similar situations, for awhile. Pretty sure their space ain't safe, either. Wish there were somewhere safer for folks t'go, but... I got no ideas short of settin' up in areas as are real /sparsely/ populated t'begin with. Ain't exactly /feasible/ for a lotta folks." "Think he'd like that. He's been going a little crazy since Ian --" Dusk shrugs, quick and twitchy. "He didn't have a whole lot of people he could talk to." His wing squeezes lightly around Micah, and then drops. "Well. If they decide to put an end to it you'll have people." He straightens, shoulders rolling in a brief stretch. "To help everyone get out of here, or to hold the ground. Either way. Won't be alone. I'm going to grab the rest of the stuff." He claps Micah lightly on the shoulder as he starts for the stairs. "Maybe Ion can introduce you to -- whoever you're going to need to be helping out." Ion winces, sympathetic, at the mention of Ian. He reaches out, squeezing at one wingbone. "Yeah. Sounds good. C'mon," he flashes a quick smile to Micah, "s'even food on. I'll get you dinner. We, ah. We might be a while." He glances briefly after Dusk. "{Thanks, man.}" Just a brief lapse into Spanish before, "Don't got much. Gotta hold on to what we /do/ have, for now. Enough time, maybe, we can find something better. But for now --" Shrug. His smile brightens. "For now, thanks. Got some work for you." His head tilts in invitation, gesturing Micah along to get down to business. "You shouldn't haul all that stuff in by your--" Micah starts to protest, then shakes it off. "You're owed such a back rub later." He tries just to smile at this, and not look /exceedingly/ worried at the rest of the conversation, but probably succeeds only in convincing everyone that he would be a /great/ person to play poker against. "However long it needs is how long it'll take," he replies to Ion, that smile finally coming out more honestly. "I'll do what I can with what we've got an' keep a list of the things we need. Triage for whatever doc we can get hands on t'make his time as well-spent as we can." His hand taps at his pocket, indicating his phone. Where /lists/ will shortly start growing. "Let's meet some folks."