ArchivedLogs:Dead Ends
| Dead Ends | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
10 December 2014 ' |
| Location
<NYC> Candyland - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side, <NYC> East Harlem | |
The stairs lead up into a landing hall, bright as well with a set of bay windows and a wide cushion-strewn ledge beneath them at its far end. To the right of the landing the first doorway opens into the bathroom, warmly coloured in yellows and reds and sandy tiles; its large bathtub-shower also holds a mosaic on one wall, strange fire-creatures and manticores echoed in the small fiery faeries sprinkled at sporadic intervals around the rest of the room. Past the bathroom on the right-hand side is a smaller door into a linen closet before the actual door into Spencer's bedroom. Spencer's sturdy furniture set has been designed with rambunctious children in mind, most of its structure climbable with a loft-bed connected by a short tunnel to an also-lofted reading nook with a sliding door to turn it into its own private cave; the desk and dresser sit beneath the bed and there is a shelving unit beneath the platform that serves also as steps up into it. A slide down off the bed falls down into large squishy beanbag and the whole of the structure has been designed and painted reminiscent of a spaceship, a theme echoed in the way the closet doors have been painted to look like the TARDIS. On the left-hand side the first door leads into the master bedroom, bright-lit not just from its huge windows and skylight but from a rather exorbitant overabundance of lamps. It's colourful in here, the hand-crafted wood furniture (king bed against the left-hand wall, pair of small nightstands to either side of it, a pair of dressers flanking the closet on the right, a large desk with a multitude of drawers and shelves along the back) cheerfully painted, the walls home to plentiful artwork, brightly coloured glass figurines scattered around the shelves and stained-glass suncatchers hanging in the windows. One set of windows leads out onto a balcony, stretching out to share with the guest bedroom adjacent; it's set up for /lounging/, a large hammock at one side, a pair of hanging net chairs flanking the table on the other. Next to the master bedroom is the smaller guest bedroom, sunny-yellow and furnished with queen bed, dresser, a small desk of its own; doors here lead out into the balcony as well. At the end of the hallway shortly before the window nook, a hatch in the ceiling drops down a rope-ladder that leads up into the tiny attic-space; not so much a proper /floor/ as it is a sloped-ceiling nook of space beneath the roof, it nevertheless has its own circular window and skylights and rather than left unfinished it's been furnished with beanbag and folded futon-mattress and a tiny low table with drawers tucked beneath it. It is still dark outside, though ostensibly morning. Micah never did get to bed. He is half in pajamas and half /back/ in clothing by this point, having slowly red-dressed himself during the long (/long/) phone call with Nightmare after Jax didn't come home on time. Or return texts. Or answer his phone. For several hours. The navy blue henley remains since changing shirts is a little awkward while on the phone, though they are now paired with flannel-lined jeans and green socks with koi swimming on them. A red and orange flannel and his Firefly sweatshirt are sitting on the bed, waiting for him to put them on after the phone clicks off. His hands are a little too busy rake-pulling at his fantastically messy hair to deal with that just yet, though. Bzzt. The texts that come from B are short.
The texts finally prompt Micah to tug on his shirt, button it, and zip the hoodie over top. He pauses in his rush to get out the door to swipe at the phone in return:
He is down the stairs, wrapped in winter gear, and out the door in record time. Probably his driving is a bit too far on the fast side, too. The next text from B comes a good while later, and just has a cross street in East Harlem. B is at the intersection, there -- not exactly waiting so much as raccooning through a trash can on the corner. The tiny sharkpup is up on the tips of her chunky platform sneakers, bundled in puffy silver-and-blue coat, black velvety skirt layered over warm silver leggings underneath thick blue leg warmers and thigh-high socks, scarf, hat. Gloves pulled off for the sake of going through the trash, her expression contorted into a little bit of disgust as her nose twitches. It's not the prettiest of parking jobs, but Lucille finds a spot curbside to rest and disgorge one Micah through the driver's door. His Jayne hat is askew and Fourth Doctor scarf half a tangle atop his olive puffy coat, boots and candy corn striped gloves added to his previous ensemble. He lope-jogs across the street to B, glaring at a few fat flakes of snow sneaking their way out of the night-dark clouds. The glare melts quickly back into /fret/. "Y'thinkin' the phone is in there?" Because B would be digging through the trash for another reason, maybe? This is answered only with a very small growl. B retrieves a phone, still on, intact, battery half-full, from the trash, checking its screen -- it has quite a number of missed calls and unread messages! -- and then tossing it to Micah. Her head shakes, arms crossing over her chest as she takes a step back from the trashcan, nose twitching again. "Well. That's. Not." "I talked t'Nightmare. 'Parently someone /did/ try t'attack Io earlier. But nothin' came of it. Jax handed Io over t'Jane an' was s'posed t'be headin' home." Micah frowns, none of this information leading any closer to an answer. He very nearly fumbles the phone to the ground because catching in /mittens/ isn't the easiest thing ever. It slippery-soaps in his hands a few times before he really gets hold of it. Swipe, swipe, he goes looking through the most recent messages to see if there is any hint there. Checking the pictures and videos to see if anything new was captured on those. Hoping that it's not another dead end. There's nothing in the messages to be of any help. Just all the unchecked messages people have been sending /him/, the phone unused since shortly before Jax went off shift. Another growl rumbles up in B's throat. Her nose twitches again, head tilting back slightly. Her expression scrunches up once more, a displeased cough accompanying the sniffing. "And the Clinic never heard either? There's --" Her words cut off abruptly. Another sniff. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Another cough. She drops to all fours, loping a short way down the block to sniff again. Micah gives the phone a look like it has /disappointed/ him in not knowing where Jax is. Smartphone, indeed. He shuts the screen off and stuffs the thing into his pocket. “Nobody's done heard nothin'. S'just...never made it /anywhere/ after leavin' 'is shift, seems like.” His lope is far less efficient than B's, jogging along after hir. “Y'got a scent of somethin', sugar?” his tone is hopeful, again, another avenue to investigate, perhaps. Sniff, sniff, sniff. B's four-legged lope speeds up, the growl in her throat deepening as she darts across the street -- not waiting for the light, she very nearly is hit by a passing taxi in her haste. Nearly. Not quite. Halfway down the block she stops again, crouched low against the sidewalk to move towards the curb. "{/Ba/. Here.}" Her voice is sharp. Yeah, there isn't any speeding up to be had here. Micah continues his increasingly asymmetrical jog after B, taking more time /not/ to get hit by cars as he crosses the street, as well. “What? What is it?” He bounces over the curb to approach B once more. B only answers this in a rough growl, lifting Jax's -- somewhat stained, somewhat wet and crushed -- black messenger bag. It's been lying half in the street, tire tracks marked over the white FreakAngels logo. B passes it off to Micah, moving a short way down the block. There is, still, a dark splotch spread against the damp sidewalk. B's growling deepens. "{Have you checked --}" It takes a second to catch herself, switch back to English. "Have you checked. Police -- their. Twitter sometimes. Reports. Incidents." Micah shift-shuffles from one foot to the other, trying not to let his expression crumple or the hot fluid building up behind his eyes spill out as he takes the bag. "Was m'next step after findin' 'is phone. Then I was gonna start callin' hospitals an' givin' 'is description..." His mittened hands tense over the bag. "D'you smell 'im? Where he might've...gone? From here?" He frees one of his hands up enough to retrieve and swipe at his own phone, going through police feeds. "I -- smell blood." B's face is practically pressed up against the sidewalk, claws scraping down against it. She circles wider around the splotch on the sidewalk, dipping back into the street and then up onto the pavement again. Down the block. Back up. "... A lot of. Blood but I don't. I don't know. It's not -- it doesn't go anywhere. From here. There's too much -- I'm sorry," she says, smaller and a little miserable, "the city's -- it's not. Easy." “Mmmnn,” Micah's reply is half a whimper at the mention of blood, though his eyes are still locked on his phone. “There was. They found someone stabbed here roundabout the time he was gettin' out of work. Lookin' for information. They left a number.” Speaking of numbers, Micah has already put it into his phone and thumbed the send button. The number is a police tipline, for calling in information and tips to the police. B is just fidgeting, pacing back and forth along the bloodstained sidewalk. "... stabbed? Stabbed like. Not to /death/ stabbed, right? Not... but. Then. But where did they take him. He's /alive/, right, who stabbed him?" "It didn't say hardly nothin'. Just that they're lookin' for information on a stabbin'." The tension in Micah's jaw is echoed in his voice at this uncertainty. He waits for a person to answer. "Hello? I'm callin' 'bout that stabbin' they was lookin' for information for in East Harlem. M'husband might've been walkin' through there an' he didn't make it home an' his phone an' bag are right /here/. With the blood on the sidewalk. S'there any chance y'know where the victim..." He pauses, cringing at that word. "Where they might've taken 'im? A hospital?" "Sir, this hotline is for people who have information," the woman on the line says brusquely. "You could try Sinai." "Is he dead?" The fret hasn't left B's voice. She paces back nearer to Micah, rising back up onto her toes, a nervous bounce in her posture as she listens in on the phone. Teeth scraping against her lip, she's already pulling out her own phone, frowning as she looks up the number to dial. Pace. Tuck phone between shoulder and ear as she alternates between sniffing at the sidewalk and talking into the phone. Her gills are fluttering when she finally hangs up, on all fours once more to pace back over to Micah, forehead butting up against his knee. "{Okay. Sinai. We should go. It's not far.}" "Wouldn't the identity of the victim /be/ information? M'husband might be injured or dyin' or...y'could at least..." Micah is nearly sputtering with upset and frustration as the woman cuts him off. He shoves his phone into his pocket with entirely more force than is necessary, clinking it hard up against /Jax's/ phone also stuffed in there. "Not...I don't think so. If that was information an' not just a random thing t'say so she could hang up on me." A nod answers the suggestion and Micah is already moving back to his van to make the drive to Sinai. | |
