ArchivedLogs:Intimidating

Intimidating
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Arturo, Micah, Sage
In Absentia	12 March 2014 Meet-ups in the park and discussions about...that thing that happened at the protest that one time.
Location <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. There are plenty of people out in the park today, enjoying the continued spurt of mostly-pleasant weather before it is predicted to dip back into the twenties and begin raining later tonight. Jackson is, at the moment, a cheery-bright splash of colour over at the fence ringing the dog park. Bright neon-blue streaks in his shaggy mop of jet-black hair, red-and-black sweatshirt with silver butterflies and flowers glittering down its sleeves, red t-shirt reading 'All my heroes have FBI files' underneath, brightly-patterned mismatched arm-warmers, black jeans embroidered up their seams with intricate flame-styled detailing in red. Tall knee-high silver boots. Bright chrome-red nailpolish, a splash of glimmer on his lips. In place of sunglasses he has an eyepatch, today, embroidered as well with a silver-and-blue dragonfly in its center. Somewhere in the mess of dogs cavorting in the dog run, presumably there is one belonging to him. At the moment it's hard to tell exactly which; there's a large ridgeback tussling with some sort of lab-mix nearby, a one-eyed beagle playfully-growl-wrestling with a much bigger pitbull, an Aussie shepherd apparently determined to do laps at TOP SPEED around the area, a small mottled-coloured dog of indeterminate breed attempting to climb onto a picnic table and steal from the half-eaten burger someone has left there. Jackson, for his part, is perched on /top/ of the fence, the toes of his boots hooked down through its wiring to keep his balance. There's a sketchpad on his lap, in which he is working -- it's more or /less/ an image of the dog-filled scene in front of him done in a clearly skilled hand, though in /his/ rendition the canines have transformed into strange surreal counterparts to themselves. Dashing pirate-beagle with a pitbull fiercely lion-maned like a manticore. Sneakthief mutt wispy and ghostlike in her stealthy-quest for foods. Pegasus-Aussie shepherd flitting speedy-winged around the arena. Dog parks. They're something that Arturo /wishes/ he didn't have such an affinity for. Sometimes, dogs are more comforting to be around than people - which only serves to make his inhumanity stand out in his own mind. He's standing in the middle of the romping dogs, a thoughtful look on his face. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his blue wool peacoat - the same one he was wearing when he got shot the other day. His face has a prominent purpling bruise along with a few small lacerations. One of the romping dogs - the Shepherd, has caught his scent. The dog runs around him and sniffs excitedly, then barks once. Come play, other dog! Micah is just walking back from where he's parked the TARDIS-van, on his way home from work. In the milder weather, he's wearing only a green-brown newsboy cap and olive green canvas jacket for warmth. Beneath is his usual work-day outfit of TARDIS-blue polo shirt and khakis, the right leg of which is a little dusty-smeared with white plaster cast material along the front of its thigh. A messenger bag is worn crosswise over his torso and bumps along at one hip as he walks. Coming up beside Jax, he tries not to be /too/ sneaky and startle his husband off the fence. But he's not /aiming/ to be acknowledged until he's close. "Hey, hon," he greets before slipping an arm around the other man's waist (a much /higher/ proposition than usual) and peering over the sketchbook. "Whatcha workin' on?" Sage doesn't actually like animals much. She's walking past the dog park, actually, until she spots Micah and Jackson, diverting her path rather smoothly to approach them. Unlike Micah, she doesn't even think of the potential of startling, speaking rather quickly, abruptly, and robotically. "Jackson. Micah. Lovely day, is it not?" Sage is dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and boots, wearing a pair of red glasses (aka ATHENA) on her face. Jackson leans back into the hug, bright smile slipping across his face. "Oh -- oh, I ain't. Workin' on nothin', really." A sudden deep flush colours his cheeks, head bowing guiltily. "I mean, I got -- homework an' -- some designs for the studio I /should/ be finishin'," he admits, "but I just was -- kinda -- sketchin'. Nonsense." His blush deepens; for a brief moment the page on his lap goes completely blank-white before the image reappears. His fingers twirl quickly at the pencil in his hand, and he leans down to drop a kiss atop Micah's head before looking back over the park and the dogs playing within. "-- Oh. Huh. Isn't that the guy who --" His guilty look is only /growing/ when he looks to Arturo, and then down to the pad on his knees. He glances up at the sound of his name, smile returning quickly. "Oh! Sage. Hey -- hiya. Uh." His eye /widens/ at the sight of Sage's t-shirt and -- apparently no warmer layer. "It -- it's sure nice but t'ain't quite /that/ lovely, honey-honey, you're gonna catch your /death/'a cold runnin' around out here with no jacket on, oh gosh. D'you have -- d'you need -- my house is only just there can I get you a sweatshirt?" Part of Arturo wants to go romping around the park with the dogs. Instead, he settles for picking up a stick and throwing it for the Shepherd. The dog looks a bit perplexed, but then ends up trotting after it. Dogs throwing for dogs! What's the world coming to? The fetch-retrieve game continues. There's a brief conversation with the pup's owner, but she doesn't seem to mind. She's got another three she's dealing with, so Arturo occupying one is something of a relief. He's in a bit of a daze and has yet to take in his surroundings and the people who share the park with him. Jax's lean widens Micah's smile, aimed up at the other man. "Y'can work on a sketch. I didn't mean t'imply y'needed t'be /work/-workin'. You're an artist. Puttin' whatever you're thinkin' or feelin' or envisionin' down on paper or...whatever medium s'kinda what y'/do/, ain't it? S'nothin' wrong with a little nonsense, neither." The smile pulls into more of a lopsided grin at the kiss to his head. Said head turns to regard the figure Jax references. "Oh, that's...Dr. Ridley. He just started over at Common Ground. Seems a touch skittish, but he /is/ new. Some folks is like that in a new environment. But...oh, yeah. I think he also got a little snagged up in that whole protest mess on Saturday. I was a little distracted at the time..." He chuckles at Jax's fussing over Sage's outfit. "Hi, Sage. How're y'doin'? It /is/ nice out. Cryin' shame that it's s'posed t'get cold again t'night. Y'know, Jax, some folks 'round here are just /used/ t'the weather in these parts an' can survive in short sleeves even when it ain't /rightly/ warm yet." "I am fine with the cold. I would have dressed warmer if I had needed it." Sage says this also emotionlessly, but means no ill will by it. "Speaking of the protest, how are you doing, Jackson?" Sage is eying who Micah discusses as Dr. Ridley. "But yes, it is quite tragic." "S'just, it's like /fifty/ that ain't -- short sleeve kinda --" Jackson shivers, but presses his lips firmly together to force back further /worrying/ that threatens to spill out. His eye turns back down to his page, deep blush still burning in his cheeks. "Is kinda nice." His bright smile returns, pencil-spinning ceasing so that he can return to his sketching. "Don't spend hardly no time no more jus' drawing things just /cuz/. S'always -- school an' work an' --" He shakes his head quickly, looking back up over towards Arturo. His teeth wiggle slowly at his lip ring, brows pulling deeply together. "I feel like I should go apologize, he still looks pretty banged-up," he says with a wrinkle of his nose. "Only but he was sure-as-heck avoidin' talkin' to me Saturday I doubt he'd /appreciate/ if I jus' barged in on his puppy-time /now/ after all -- that. That'd be rude -- would that be rude?" he frets uncertainly, looking down to Micah as though his husband is the arbiter of Proper Etiquette. His right hand lifts, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. His left stays resting against his sketchpad, starting to add Arturo into the picture. With a giant butterfly-net, to chase after and snag the flying-pegasus-Aussie-shepherd. "I'm doin' -- I'm doin' alright. Got m'self patched up real good. You enjoyin' break?" Arturo does something fairly odd for the late winter. He finds a bit of rock sticking up out of the ground and sits down. He's still going to get muddy and damp - just not as immediately as if he was sitting directly on the ground. The Shepherd has been called away by its owner, recalled with a sharp whistle. He breaks the stick up into pieces idly and lets them fall to the ground. Then he actually takes a moment to look around, happening to look the direction of the cluster of familiar faces. It takes him a moment. There's a slow blink, pursed lips, and then finally, a slowly raised hand. "I'll agree with you on that'n Jax. But your real New Englanders an' such are less likely to," Micah points out as he tugs at the hem of his jacket, indicating his own response to the not-quite-warm-enough-yet day. "Jus' lettin' yourself work on /whatever/ can be nice sometimes. Sparks new ideas if nothin' else." He hmms at the issue of Arturo. "Well, honey, I think it'd be polite of us t'check on his well-bein'. But I don't wanna /bother/ 'im, neither, if he was actively avoidin' you. We could..." And then Arturo is waving, ending the better part of that dilemma. Micah waves back and gestures toward their small group, putting the ball in the other man's court as to whether he wishes to engage with them or not. Jackson clicks his tongue against his cheek with a small shake of his head. "You /are/ Southern, boy, we ain't in New England yet you gotta go a smidge north-er for /that/. New York's just a mid-Atlantic state with /delusions/." There's light amusement in his voice, attention mostly still focused downwards on his sketchpad. "But either way it's /solid/ in the realm'a too-darn-cold, that much is sure." He tosses his head as he lifts it, shaking floppy dyed hair back from his eye as he glances up to Arturo. His smile, at least, is bright and warm; he curls shiny-nailed fingers in a cheery return wave to the other man. "-- I mean, I /was/ bein' all political. A /lotta/ people avoid me in activist-mode." His nose crinkles up as he adds: "OK, a lotta people avoid me /altogether/ but s'cuz out in public most people don't hardly /know/ me as nothin' but crazy-activist." And here the dog comparisons continue. Arturo looks a little wary at the gestures. One can almost imagine him sniffing the air and pacing back and forth. Fortunately, he's more human than that. He gets up off his rock-perch and lets the remnants of the wet stick fall to the ground. He brushes his hands together and cautiously ambles over. When he arrives, his sparkling, witty opening line? "Hello." "I know, s'just usin' a for-example. I mean, y'met folks from Maine? They're a little looney about when's okay not t'wear a coat or.../shoes/ even. Freeze their feet off, I'd think." Micah just /shivers/ visibly at the mere thought of it. "Well, y'can also be a little intimidatin' t'certain kindsa people as don't know you yet, too. 'Specially when you're in the middle of bein' political." He gives Jax another little squeeze before reclaiming his arm as Arturo makes his way over. "Evenin', Dr. Ridley," he returns the greeting with a welcoming smile. "How're y'holdin' up? Not too bruised an' shaken, I hope..." After a minute of pure silence and creepy staring, Sage speaks, her voice emotionless. She's examining Arturo for a split of a second, as she talks. "Head to Eastern Europe. It is rather cold over there." She's then speaking to the doctor. "Hello. A doctor? My name is Sage. I do not believe we have met." "/Me/? Intimidatin'?" Jax's eye opens slightly wider, a crooked grin on his lips. "Is it the hair? S'the hair, ain't it? Or maybe the eyepatch, maybe I should jus' /assure/ everyone I meet --" It's around here that Arturo makes his way over; in response to his 'hello', then, /Jackson's/ bright greeting is: "-- I promise I'm /totally/ not a pirate." He's still drawing as he speaks -- the lone human figure among all the pseudo-dogs on his page is looking very recognizably like Arturo, albeit a rather fantastical elven version of Arturo. His right hand drops to the fence when Micah pulls his arm away, fingers curling in there to help keep his balance. "-- how /are/ you doin', look, I -- apologize about Saturday, things weren't quite s'posed to /explode/ like that." "What about Maine? I'm from Maine," Arturo's tone is mellow and a bit lazy. He's not being very careful about covering his teeth when he speaks. "I'm uh, I'm fine, thanks. Do you know how the girl who got shot is doing?" He turns to Jackson. "And you. That was...uh...fucking...arrows. Weird." He scratches his temple, then blinks at Sage. "Yeah, hi. I'm Arturo. I'm a doctor, yeah." He smiles, thin-lipped. Then he looks back to Jackson. "It wasn't your fault. It was the fault of the people who pulled out weapons and fired during an exercise of democratic rights." Funny. It looks like he got hit in the face. But after they got teleported away, he didn't have any facial injuries. “Somewhere 'tween the hair an' the ink an' the piercin's an'...maybe even just the /pretty/. Pretty's intimidatin' in its own right...” Micah leaves off teasing as Arturo comes closer. “Was talkin' 'bout how New Englanders got funny ideas of what 'warm' is,” he explains. “Had a classmate in undergrad. would wander 'round campus in the middle of winter, T-shirt, shorts, an' barefoot.” There's that visible shivering reaction again. “Glad t'hear you're doin' okay. But, yeah. S'kinda hard t'predict when things are suddenly gonna go all...evil /archer/ in the middle of New York. Don't make it any less upsettin' y'were caught in the mess that came of it.” "I have never been to a state other than New York, but I was born in Bulgaria. Eastern Europe can get quite cold during the darker parts of winter." Sage just glances from person to person. "The bow is a noble hunting weapon, and is much more honorable and useful than a gun. Whilst a gun has blunt force, a bow is much more silent and skilful." "Oh -- /gosh/ I spend so much time every week at the studio I forget that I don't. Look. Normal to most, uh --" Jax's nose crinkles up; he lifts a hand to trace fingertips lightly over the ridiculous /wealth/ of metal that studs his face, dropping it afterwards to push lightly up at one sleeve and examine the colourful-bright ink beneath. "-- Are tattoos intimidatin', sir?" It /sounds/ like there is genuine curiosity in his thick Southern drawl, brows lifting to Arturo. His smile pulls up crookedly as he admits: "Actually, I /know/ a friend who carries a bow an' arrow a lot -- dependin' what neighborhoods he's gonna be in. S'always in his car, at least. He's /amazin'/ with it an' used it all through the zombies to fight /them/. Don't attract the attention'a the whole horde if you're shootin' arrows an' not bullets, an' the ammo's reusable." His brows crease deeply as he adds: "... but I don't /hardly/ imagine Luci's goin' around shootin' me -- uh." His hand lifts again, rubbing at his forehead as he admits in a mutter beneath his breath, likely too soft for other ears than Micah's, "... not that it'd be the first time." Brighter, normal-volume once more: "M'glad you're doin' alright, now, though. My student's on the mend, too. I don't think it's /that/ hard to predict, though." He lifts his hand from the page, pencil starting to twirl in rapid-blur between his fingers again. "Pretty much standin' around me at no kinda /public/ event is enough to drastically increase your chances'a -- shootin'. One kind or other." "I, uh, will I get lynched if I say this is my dead of winter jacket?" says Arturo as he tugs at the sleeves of the medium-weight pea coat. And then by way of answering Jackson's question, "You're not intimidating. You're unapologetically obvious. And that threatens people. Because you're visible. And when people can see you, then they're confronted with the fact that you exist." He says all of this in a deadpan, rather resigned way. He looks between all of them. "Wow. Um. Didn't...didn't realize I was in a pro-archery crowd. Apologies." He can't help but grin just a little bit at that though. "Don't know how noble'n honourable it is t'be sneakin' up an' arrowin' folks in the back as are engaged in peaceful activities," Micah replies with a hint of a grumble to his tone. "An' I'm pretty sure weren't Luci shootin' at you, sugar. Y'know I never /have/ talked to 'im about the whole registration issue an' what he's...doin' about it." His nose crinkles at Arturo's question. "Ain't exactly the lynchin' types. Think you'll be fine. Might tut an' fret over you some if we run into you in the cold, but that's far less like t'be fatal." "I am not in the habit of lynching people due to their mutation." Sage says this rather firmly. "Whilst hunting with bows is honorable and noble, hunting mutants with them is not. That I detest." "I'd hope you ain't in the habit of lynching /anyone/," Jackson answers with a small shudder. "/I/ don't lynch nobody," he assures Arturo after this, "I jus' /fret/ a lot. So, um, y'might get /fretted/ at because oh boy that jacket ain't a New-York-Winter jacket. I mean maybe with enough layers under it but oh gosh honey-honey it gets so /cold/ -- oh no, look, fretting." He blushes deep, dipping his head over his drawing. He catches his pencil mid-spin, returning to absent dog-sketching. "I /am/ pretty obvious. An' pretty -- existy. But I'm /Southern/ I don't know 'bout the unapologetic part," he adds, laughing. "I pretty much apologize for /everything/, it was fair inevitable I got the zombie-sick after sayin' the s-word became outta the question. -- I don't know as I'm pro-archery, exactly." His teeth drag against his lip. "But it sure was /practical/ with the biters runnin' around. I'm pro-/pretty/, though. Archery's got a elegance to it." "It's my tough jacket. My badass jacket. Look, it has a bullet hole in it and everything." Arturo sticks his hand inside his jacket and pops a finger through the hole. Wiggle. "Not everyone has a bullet hole jacket like this. Uh. Thankfully." Throat-clear. "So...uh, are you...planning another protest, or are you going to let things die down a little?" “I should hope not,” is all Micah says in reply to Sage's comments. Jax's working himself up has him chuckling soon enough. “Honey, it ain't even /cold/ right now. Save your frettin' for somethin' more worthy.” He nods along with Jax's zombie word explanation. “S'done terrible things t'polite folks, havin' that word taken off the table,” he laments with a small sigh. “Still catch m'self with it several times a day, havin' t'change words up.” His head tilts slightly at Arturo's question, interested in the answer himself. "I can attend the next protest, if you'd like, Jackson. Just incase." Sage nods, before continuing. "I do not lynch anyone." "M'/sor/ --" Even when on the subject Jackson has to catch himself; instead of saying the word his hand lifts to rub fist over heart and /sign/ 'sorry' instead of saying it out loud. "-- I jus' have a /real/ sensitive fret-switch it flips at basically /no/ provocation." Further into the dog park there is a sudden spate of louder growling; his gaze flicks up quickly, watching only long enough to assure himself /his/ dog is not engaging in any fights before returning to the more human company. "Oh, goodness, I'd /hope/ everyone ain't collectin' bullet-holes there's so many nicer things t'collect. I liked catchin' stars, that was proper fun. His teeth drag against his lip; his left shoulder twitches, stiff and uncomfortable, before he admits: "-- we're still workin' hard at the drive, yeah, there's, um." His cheeks flush faintly darker. "Actually gonna be a fair few more spots where we're havin' a targeted push now that we're up against the last couple days 'fore deadline. Hopefully, um, with less gettin' shot at over the next two days. It's been fair successful, though -- insofar as it's possible to /tell/; least we've got a /whole/ crazy-ton'a people /pledging/ not t'register an' from the enormous /pro/-registration push that's been kinda frenzied I think their numbers ain't near so high as they'd hoped." There's a flush of...something on Arturo's face. Embarrassment? Shame, perhaps? Either way, he seems to be rather uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, despite the fact that he was the one who asked the question. "Well, uh, I wish you luck. And I hope everyone, yourself included, recovers from their injuries quickly. I should be off," he ducks his head, then does his jacket up another button. He turns to start to leave. "That ain't no kinda exaggeration," Micah assures of Jax's ease of fretting with a lopsided grin. He, too, glances up at the growling, turning back as soon as he notes nothing serious going on. His hand moves to his flank of its own accord at the mention of collecting bullet holes. "I certainly hope it ain't a collection, for sure." He leans back against the fence that Jax is perched on. "Can't give people all of a month t'do a paperwork thing. I mean, folks get all kindsa warnin' on doin' taxes an' still don't get 'em done by the deadline. One month on registration? I bet there's a bunch of folks, genetically enhanced /and/ not, who ain't registered, for completely non-political reasons." His cheeks flush a faint pink. "Have t'admit I feel a little funny showin' up for the registration boycotts m'self, seein' as I /did/ register, an' pretty quickly. Don't guess nobody's complainin' 'bout havin' a hand at first aid 'round, though." This thought cuts off as Arturo makes to leave, rather quickly. "Oh...well. You, too, honey. Be well." Sage tosses up a nod in a farewell..and just leaves. "I think we was /well/ pleased t'have first aid around. Whatever support we can get is -- pretty excellent, 'specially when we're gettin' /shot/ at over it. But I think it's kinda important enough to /be/ shot at over, considerin' the kinda things the government's been doin' to us /already/ I don't think there's any kinda guarantee --" Jackson cuts himself off with a sudden apologetic dip of head, a deep blush. "Apologies, I -- oh. Oh gosh. OK. Um. Take care, yeah? -- Both'a you." His cheeks still burn bright red as he pushes himself up to hop back down off the fence. "... I think I scare people away a lot," he tells Micah with a crinkle of his nose, "maybe," his right shoulder bumps lightly up against Micah's, "from now on y'should jus' /gag/ me, keep me from -- sayin' nothin' political. Or frettin'. Or, well, mostly jus' keep me shutted up -- Obie!" His voice has lifted, now, to call back to their dog; he extracts a small packet of treats from his sweatshirt pocket, digging one bacon-smelling piece out of the bag as a /bribe/. Even so it takes a couple more calls before the beagle returns, chomping his treat eagerly as Jackson picks up his leash off the fence where it had been hooked, clipping it back to his collar. "Still...feels a little like I'm bein' hypocritical or disingenuous or one of those kinda things." Micah's nose crinkles at this, lips scrunching over to one side. "Honey, I don't think y'scared nobody away. Y'know how Sage is sometimes an'...I told you the doc was a little nervous-seemin' even before." The corner of his lips soon pulls back up into a grin. "Though that could /still/ be arranged." He gives Jax some time to handle the dog before stepping nearer to him, two fingers sliding under his husband's collar and pulling him even closer. "Could think of a thing or two that might keep y'from talkin' as much," he suggests in a low tone before pressing Jax into a lingering kiss. "I'd still rather have y'/around/ when folks start to get /perforated/. Though the next couple'a days," Jackson says apologetically, "the demonstrations is gonna be while you have /work/ so, um." His nose crinkles up. "I'll jus' -- try not to -- get any new holes an' -- an' ohh." He stops speaking, breath catching in a tiny gasp at the fingers sliding beneath his collar. His hand tightens its grip on Obie's leash, arm pinning his sketchbook against his side. He leans into the kiss, soft at first but then with a deeper hunger. "Oh -- oh. We should. Get. Inside, it's gettin' -- dark an'. Oh." He tips his head downward, nuzzling in against Micah's neck happily. "... I'm bad at shuttin' up I think you should show me the thing or two you're thinkin' of." "Don't got nobody else who might be able t'be around? I don't like the idea of y'all bein' in these protests without someone t'take care of you if somethin' happens." Micah returns the kiss more fiercely, fingers still clenching tight at the collar. "Should get inside. Find somethin' more compellin' t'occupy your mouth away from all the chatter." This last is said playfully, not really /minding/ Jax talking. He backs away a step, giving the collar another tug. "Come, then." A shiver passes up Jax's spine at the tug to his collar, and he gives a soft-pleased hum in response to the tugging. "M'feelin' pretty compelled already." He lifts his head, following in the direction of the tug a good deal /more/ obediently than the beagle at the end of his leash -- /Obie/ is trying to stay and sniff eagerly at a newly arrived terrier. Jackson tugs the beagle gently along with him, following after Micah. "-- Yes/sir/."