ArchivedLogs:Cool Enough to Be a Cyborg

Cool Enough to Be a Cyborg
Dramatis Personae Anole, Micah
In Absentia	17 March 2014 Aftermath of the rescue. (Part of the Perfectus TP.)
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. Down in the basement of the Mendel Clinic, the isolation wards, once -- and still, really -- intended as an Extremely Durable place for mutants whose powers were too dangerous to deal with elsewhere have been increasingly repurposed as makeshift surgery and recovery wards for the large number of emergent /cases/ the Clinic finds itself pressed into dealing with. In one of those rooms, just now, a skinny green lizard is sitting up on his bed. Washed up and dressed in new clean scrubs, his old filthy attire gone who-knows-where, Anole is working his way ravenously through a tray of lasagna. One-handed, he needs to put his fork down in order to pick up his glass of cranberry juice, gulping at it as well. The other sleeve of his scrub shirt hangs down limply, his left arm missing. Yesterday there was only a snarl of ragged badly-healing scabbing and scars; it has at least been treated and tended, now, the small stump-end of what shoulder he has left neatly bandaged. Monday afternoon is work time for Micah. He is here on one of his typically-scheduled contract times at the Clinic, unfortunately come to visit Anole for reasons as much professional as friendly. His clothes are typical workplace attire for him: TARDIS-blue polo shirt and khakis, with his hair neater than is his usual. A black nylon rolling bag's wheels quietly tut-tut-tut along the ground as he makes his way to Anole's room, knocking on the open door before he enters. The smile he offers is genuinely happy to see the boy alive. “Hey, Anole. Y'mind if I sit with you while you're eatin'? I can come back if not.” Anole's immediate response to Micah's arrival is insta-SPOOK, green eyes widening huge, muscles tensing; he thunks his glass back down onto its wheeled table and scramble-skitters back up to perch in gargoyle crouch on the head of his bed; his skin and scrubs all reflexively fade into the plain white of the sheets he perches on, which really does exactly /nothing/ for camoflauge when he's perched up high and /not/ set against any backdrop. It's only a moment later that he calms, somewhat, looking from Micah to the food and then back. "Oh -- oh." His eyes are still wide, breathing a little rapid, and (still stark-white) he slowly edges back down to his previous seat. "Yes. I mean no. I mean -- you can. Come. Sit. Hi." "Ohgosh, I'm sor--" Micah cuts himself off to circle a fist over his chest in apology. "Apologies, honey, I didn't mean t'scare you. I know...y'been through an awful lot. Prob'ly I should've come in a little slower'n quieter, but the door was open..." Both his tone and expression are a little sheepish as he walks and wheels his way over to the bedside chair. He settles in it, placing himself slightly below Anole and out of immediate arm's reach. His hands fold in his lap, visible and nonthreatening. "Food any good here? It was...a bit more slap-dash when I was stayin' for the whole plague thing. Here's hopin' it got better in the meantime." "Oh --" Anole turns his eyes first down to Micah's hands and then down to his own food. "It's um." He shakes his head, a little bit numb-slow. "Lasagna." Timidly, he pushes the tray towards Micah, turning the fork towards the older man in offering. "It's pretty -- pretty good there's. Some kind of. Sausage and. Beef --" He pulls his juice closer, picking it up for another gulp. "You stayed here in the plague?" Micah is slow to reach out, placing his hand on the table before moving to touch the fork. Then picking up the utensil and simply holding it before breaking a tiny morsel off of the lasagna with it. He pauses again before bringing the tidbit to his mouth, and again before returning the fork to the plate. "Oh, yes, definitely better. Thanks for sharin'. Not scroungin' for abandoned canned goods an' havin' access t'spices does a world of good." Having established this connection, he very painstakingly-gently moves the tray back closer to Anole on the table. "Our whole family caught the plague. I wasn't as much use as the others out fightin' zombies, so I stayed here t'be experimented on for comin' up with the cure. Helps that I had no X-gene to take into account, an' my medical record is crazy-thorough from since I was a fetus on account of the prenatal injury." As his hand creepingly-slowly returns to his lap, he reaches to his knee, tapping it indicatively. "Don't know how up you are on the news. They /did/ cure it. S'a stray zombie here'n there sometimes. An' little pockets of the disease will crop up sometimes, but they're able t'take it out pretty quick now." Anole relaxes slowly as Micah takes a bite of food; there's still clear tension in his posture but his skin and clothes are shifting back into their default colours. He even manages a very tiny-brief smile when Micah pronounces the lasagna better, pleased as though he had made the food /himself/ rather than had it shipped down from the cafeteria. "I wasn't -- much use fighting. Zombies either," he admits, very softly. "But I watched -- I watched the tunnels and I /told/ people who /were/ useful if -- there were zombies and I -- I tried to find food and bring it --" There's a worried tone of defensiveness in his voice, fretting and nervous as he offers Micah these explanations of his contributions to Morlock Security during the plague. "But then there wasn't any more food and I --" His teeth click against the edge of his glass. "I didn't know for sure but I guessed. Everything /sounds/ different when there's -- zombies everywhere." "You did good, honey. Just got t'be such a mess out here weren't /nobody/ equipped for it. Only answer was t'stop the plague an' then run high-powered clean-up after," Micah reassures gently. "Was all kindsa folks lookin' for you after y'went missin', too. From Xavier's an' the Morlocks an' just out'n about. Was Ms. Al-Jazari from your school an' Jim as actually went in an' brought y'back. Don't know how much of that you remembered. Apologies it took us so long... We ended up needin' a person whose special ability was drawin' pictures of people where they are currently from touchin' an object of theirs t'finally find you. Then a team of folks had t'sort out from the drawin' just /where/. But the important part is that you're back now. The twins an' Peter are gonna wanna know when you're feelin' up for visitors. Take your time on it, but let us know, okay?" "I -- I remember. I saw --" There's a distinct tension that shivers through Anole, skin starting to pale again. "-- saw Jim. And -- an Ms. al-Jazari. They --" He clamps his mouth tightly shut, fixing his eyes on his food. His skin starts to shift back into green as he reaches for his fork to take another bite. "You found me /how/?" He gives Micah a confused look though the question is immediately followed by a worried one: "Peter and Shane and B, they're. OK?" He slices off another mouthful of lasagna, chasing it with another swallow of juice. His eyes have locked onto Micah's leg, fixed on the knee where Micah's finger had tapped. "You were -- that was. You were born like that?" "It's okay, honey. Y'don't have t'talk about it yet. It's still kinda...fresh for you." Micah shakes his head slightly, allowing the topic to be shifted away. "X-gene magic is the simple answer. Jax met an artist who draws things through kinda...remote scryin'. He touches an object an' gets a view of the place or person it's associated with. We had 'im use your tablet an' got an image of the room you were in from it. Then we had t'extrapolate where y'were usin' the things we could see out the window. It was complicated. Jim did a lot of searchin' 'round, then Ms. Al-Jazari did a lotta complicated math." He smiles a small, amused sort of smile at that. "So, I guess in the end y'were saved by /math/." The question of the boys earns a nod. "They're all fine. Still at the school. Just worried 'bout you is all." Another nod answers the question of Micah's leg. "Yep. Happened in the womb, so I ain't never known any dif'rent. Have you ever seen the actual prosthesis before? It's kinda cool." Movements still calculatedly-slow, he bends to untie his shoelaces, removing the shoe and sock from the prosthetic foot before rolling the left pantsleg up as high as it is able to go. "I like math," Anole answers this softly. "And magic." He picks slowly at his lasagna now, finishing up the last of it in smaller bites than his earlier hungry chomping. "I haven't -- seen -- Shane just says you're a cyborg." His cheeks flush after this, head bowing over his food. "Sorry maybe that's -- mean." His fork swirls through some of the tomato sauce left in his tray, but though his head stays bowed his eyes are intently fixed on Micah's leg. "It does look pretty roboty though. Does it -- is it hard to -- do you --" He stops, frowning deeply. "I guess it wouldn't be hard if you always -- always had it. How does it know when to move? I mean below the knee it would just have to /be/ there but a knee has to – move." "Seems they like you back," Micah returns with a light chuckle. "An' it's not mean. It's /awesome/. May I come sit with you? Y'can look at it closer that way." His eyes track over to the hospital bed. "The knee unit on this one is kinda like a computer. It's got a microprocessor, inclinometers, accelerometers, all kindsa goodness so that it knows where it is in space an' what part of the gait cycle it's in, so it'll act the way it's s'posed to. Most of the time, anyway. This one can connect either wired or wirelessly to a computer I use t'program the settings so it works correctly. S'all gotta be customised person t'person, 'cause we're all shaped dif'rent an' move dif'rent." He nods again at the question of knowing how to move. "This one is what's known as a robotic or computerised prosthesis. Ones that don't operate with all the fancy electronics are called mechanical prostheses. That's usually where folks start. I had all kindsa mechanical ones 'fore I got m'first robotic one. Typically they make y'wait 'til you're done growin' for those, 'cause they're too expensive t'replace just due t'growth. An' when you've had an injury, usually you learn on a trainin' prosthesis first, that's mechanical." "You like being a cyborg?" Anole sounds a little uncertain. Maybe a little skeptical. He still stares down at Micah's leg, and after a moment he nods, pushing the table a little more out of the way to make space on the bed beside him. "Your /knee/ is a computer?" His eyes open a little bit wider at that, and this time there's a definite /tone/ of awe to his words. The corner of his mouth twitches very slightly with a tiny bit of amusement. "Does that mean that someone could hack your leg? Take your knee over? Make it commit /evil/ without you like in Idle Hands?" "/I/ think it's pretty cool, but I might be biased," Micah answers with a laugh. "I'm not gonna lie, it does get in the way of some things. Quick manoeuvres an' crowds can be a little tough. I still use crutches if it's snowy or icy out, or if I'm gonna be on a beach or somethin'. It can get wet some, but ain't a great idea t'submerge it or get it /very/ wet, so I have t'take it off t'swim an' t'shower. I have to trade feet from this one for every-day to a runnin' blade for sports an' runnin' an' all." Still moving slowly, he stands, takes the few steps over, and sits on the edge of the bed at Anole's right side to place his left leg closer to the boy. "I'm gonna swing the leg up here so y'can see it, okay?" The question comes before he scoots back enough on the bed for his legs to extend in front of him on the mattress. "I mean, I /guess/ somebody could hack it. It only accepts close-range signals, so they'd pretty much have t'hack it in the same room with me. They'd have t'have the access codes. An'...honestly they could only really futz with m'knee settings." Anole tenses as Micah nears, but relaxes again once the other man is actually settled. He scoots up, as well, crouching on the mattress beside Micah's knee. His hand reaches for it slowly, but then pulls back to fall to his side. "Then do you have to just -- stand on one leg to shower --" He frowns, slightly. "/Can/ you swim?" He manages another small smile, dropping his chin to rest on his knee. "So okay nobody's going to commandeer your knee for the forces of evil? I mean unless evil really wants to make you stumble." His teeth dig in against his bottom lip, his eyes skating downwards towards the prosthetic foot. "... I guess they don't really make these for climbing on walls," he says, soft and regretful. Micah remains still for the teen to inspect the prosthesis as he wishes. “Yeah, at home. If I'm at the gym, I'll take m'crutches in with me. Those aren't so big a deal t'replace from time t'time if they finally start gettin' rusty or whatever.” He nods at the question of swimming. “I /can/ swim, but I'm not great at it since it was never a real preferred sport for me. They make prosthetic attachments for swimmin', too. The newest ones are like...high-tech flipper things, it's crazy.” Micah's hand tilts in a so-so kind of gesture. “They do make all /kindsa/ prosthetic attachments for sports. They've got hands an' feet made 'specially for rock climbin'. But...not the kinda wall-crawlin' you do. Not /yet/ anyhow. That's somethin' I can maybe try t'work with you on down the line, once we've worked out more basic functions. You're not the first unique case I've come across. If I can get some fundin' for R&D, I've got all /kindsa/ plans.” He finally takes the focus back to Anole more directly. “Did y'wanna go the prosthetic route for your arm? Not everyone does, but I find it t'be the best way for restorin' function more fully.” "It just seems like -- maybe with the twins you'd. Have more reason for -- turning into a water-cyborg." Anole's fingers scrunch down against the bedsheets, and he leans in to peer at the knee closer. "/Or/ rock climbing. They said when it got warm we could go --" He swallows, fisting the sheets up tighter. "You could?" His eyes open wider, and he tips a warily hopeful gaze to Micah. Slowly, he shrugs. "Maybe? Yes? I don't know if I'm cool enough to be a cyborg." "Ohgosh. I don't think modern prosthetics've caught up t'the twins at all. Jax trains /every day/ an' they still put 'im t'shame. I might...try one out eventually, but not with the goal of keepin' /up/ with those kids." Micah's tone on this is more impressed and fond than envious or regretful. "You are /so/ cool enough t'be a cyborg. An' from what the docs've told me so far, y'seem like a good candidate. If you're okay with it, I could look at your arm t'day, let y'know where things might go? I've brought supplies so y'can see examples of...the casting materials for the shapin' process an' all. If you're not ready t'talk about all that yet, it's okay. Just let me know when you are." "They're probably hard to catch. I can't --" Anole rocks back down to sit cross-legged on the mattress, looking a little bit less like he's on the verge of bolting. Slowly he reaches up for his left sleeve, rolling it back up to expose the small nub of bandaged stump. "I don't even know why they did it," he says unhappily. "At least the police were -- I don't know. Making /money/?" He pulls in a shaky breath, dropping his hand down into his lap. "OK. I guess -- I guess. You can. Poke at it or whatever you do." "I don't know either, honey. But I'm sure we're gonna find out if it's a thing that's possible t'be found. Jim'll be like a dog with a bone huntin' after those folks an' findin' out what happened, y'better bet." Micah slips back to his feet. "I'm just gonna come an' take some measurements, mostly just with a paper tape measure, okay? You stop me any time anythin' makes you uncomfortable." He moves slowly to fetch his bag and pull it to the bedside, then to approach Anole on his right side. "I'll just chat a bit at you 'bout the processes involved. S'usually a surgical procedure, then you'll see more of me than you'd like while we work on reshapin' with casts." While he works, he prattles on in a conversational tone about the processes, interrupting himself now and then to describe what he's doing at the time. By the time he leaves, he's got a spreadsheet full of measurements, a plan to discuss with the medical team...and the number for the bedside phone to provide to Peter and the twins.