ArchivedLogs:Maybes

Maybes
Dramatis Personae Micah, Ion
In Absentia	6 December 2014 '
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Game Room - Lower East Side
Together with the dining room, this is the largest room in the common building, a plentiful expanse of gathering space for people to come and socialize. There is typically a brightly-coloured array of whimsical artwork hanging on the walls, and its wide windows overlook the grounds. Tall cabinets along one wall hold a wide library of board and card games -- there's a sign-out sheet for the use of these clipped to the front of the cabinet doors. The room provides plenty of place to /play/ games in, as well, with several separate wide tables -- three ringed by straight-backed chairs, two nestled amid more casual clusters of couch-and-armchairs -- scattered throughout the room. In the back of the room there's a ping-pong table; over near the windows on the right, an air hockey table, while a pool table stands to the back of it. Doors to either side of the room lead off to the media room and the children's playroom. It is /still/ raining on into the night. The patter outside the windows is steady, just a soaking storm without any heavy windows or thunder-and-lightning shows to accompany it. It has even been surprisingly warmer today. Not that you'd know it from the way Micah dressed after his unexpected mid-afternoon shower and costume change. He is layered in a grey and blue plaid flannel over a turquoise T-shirt on which chibi Toothless is reading a book to a group of Terrible Terrors over a navy henley, lined jeans, and socks with little soot sprites bouncing about them. One of the room's collection of throw blankets is pulled up over his legs and he has a thermos of spiced cocoa on hand. There is a book open in his lap, the latest of Tamora Pierce's Beka Cooper series to come out in paperback. Thumpthumpthump! Ion is not actually a herd of elephants, he just somehow manages to sound like one all on his lonesome, rambleclumping his way up the climbing tree outside, swinging his way over the balcony, kind of /skidding/ on his landing to thud into the game room door. And then actually into the room with a semi-apologetic, "Oh-hey-lo siento I -- oh, ey, never-mind it's that's /you/ that's fine, huh." He must have been indoors because he's dry, a faint electric-burn singeing smell lingering on him but his clothing (plain black sweatshirt over a black-white-grey flannel over a plain white undershirt, jeans) is dry except for his brown workboots, still faintly damp. "What's this?" He's waving a hand -- maybe it's towards the cocoa or maybe the book. Maybe it's just towards /all/ of Micah. It's sort of a very vague gesture as he ambles in. Micah's ears perk at all the thumpiness, reaching for a bookmark to slide between the pages as he closes the book, eyeing the door uncertainly. And then there is an Ion crashing in! After an initial startle, Micah shoots him a warm smile, clearly pleased to see him. "You just gestured to all of me," he says with a chuckle before /actually/ answering. "Was just...cozyin' up with a book an' some cocoa. Didn't have the best of days, but...honestly it weren't that bad in the /scope/ of things." Sitting up a little further, he pats the cushion next to him. "Wanna seat? Or cocoa? Both, also an option." "Yeahyeah. All you. How's that doing." Ion shoves his thumbs through front beltloops as he meanders in, hopping over an arm of the couch to thunk himself down beside Micah. His hand beckons demandingly for the cocoa. /Both/, check. "Scope of what-thing? Day seems pretty-okay to me. Rain sucks. Real food here though. Nobody shooting on me. I'm in favor." He leans in closer, /scrutinizing/ Micah intently. "Nobody shooting on you, yeah? What's wrong?" "That's what I meant by it not bein' that bad in the scope of things. No shootin'. No starvin'. No jail." Micah hands over the thermos into Ion's waiting hand, scooting close to the other man when he settles on the couch. "Nothin' even that bad. I'm just bein' mopey. Spence accidentally teleported t'England. But he got back fine. S'just stressful when that happens." He sets the book aside on a table. "An' I fell. This woman was rushin' an' I didn't even run /into/ her, just...fell. It's not that big a deal. I kinda fall all the time, it's just... Out on the street right up on somebody else like that. Makes me feel vulnerable. Ain't pleasant but should be somethin' I'm used to by now, only...anymore. Seems like there's more actually /bein'/ vulnerable t'worry 'bout than there used to be." He summons the smile back, soft and small. "Like I said, just bein' mopey." "Shit, yeah, I remember those day, huh? Just the other week, suddenly, bam, in fucking /Kentucky/, you know who live in goddamn Kentucky? Nobody who love /me/, that's who." 'Those days' might be relative. "But my zapping show up, and bam." Ion's hands clap together. "Can't even imagine. Still this day I don't-know. What my mama, my pa, what they think. Spence, he not no hurt, right?" Frown. There's a little protective bristling at this thought that -- doesn't actually subside at the rest of it. "... /you/ not no hurt, right? This woman, she don't hurt you?" Micah nods along with Ion's reminiscence, even chuckling a little at the part about Kentucky. "No, Spence's just fine. He ran into some kids at a skate park an' didn't even wanna come back right away. But it was so /late/ over there an' we insisted." His head shakes, hands patting at the air in a calming manner. "I'm fine, too. A couple bruises an' some wet an' dirty clothes was the worst of it. She just ran off. S'a woman with...fishlike features. Think she's antsy bein' out an' about at all, so she spooked. Nobody hurt me or Spence." "Oh, man. {I don't blame him}, that little bug he got some move. You see him on his fly-y board? He could show them skate kid a thing-or-two I think, damn." Ion's protective bristling settles down into amusement. He takes a gulp of cocoa, forgetting entirely that it was Micah's thermos he stole and tucking it between his legs to hold it. "Maybe what you need is, legs-upgrade. I dreamed, I dreamed --" A frown crosses his face, and he shakes it off with a /sharp/ huff. "-- Dreamed you some kinda badass. Could really get around, huh?" "Hm, he didn't even have his board with 'im when he jumped," Micah replies with a hint of amusement, as well. There is no complaint at the drink theft. He shivers a little at the dream talk, burrowing in closer at Ion's side. "Yeah, I know. I had that dream, too. S'these...future dreams. They're kinda prophetic. You ever had 'em b'fore these two?" His chin tilts to allow him a better angle for regarding the other man's face. "Kinda pathetic? I don't know that, you was. Pretty boss, I think you save /my/ life there, huh?" Ion's crooked grin is fading, though, something darker and troubled crossing his expression. He shifts, uncomfortable, fingers drumming against the side of the thermos. Instead of actually answering: "How you know? How you know is the future?" "/Prophetic/," Micah clarifies. "Predictin' the future. Some of us 'round here's been havin' 'em almost a year now. At first they were only showin' things a year out. But it was things that kept...settin' up t'happen. An' /did/ happen. Lucien gettin' a part in a play. That raid with the...explosives." His fingertips brush against the side of his head. "We used 'em t'try an' prevent that. Didn't have enough...time. Only managed t'save Hive an' Flicker." There is a curling in of his shoulders. "Then they were 'bout three-four years out for awhile. Things actually seemed /better/? For a little while. And then /these/. Maybe five-six years, I've been guessin'. Based on Tola." "Oh. Oh, right, okay. Like psychic, right." Ion's eyes skim upward, tracing a path against the side of Micah's head with that brush of fingertips. A shiver passes through him. "... fucked that one up but good." His leg bobs, restless, jittery. His fingers drum harder against the thermos. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, I -- I done have. A few. A few these dreams. This the future? You think? The future, man, it's fucking shitty." "Yeah, that's the thing," Micah confirms with a little nod. "I think it is, if we don't do nothin' 'bout it. Talked with someone who thinks her ability might be helpin' t'send these dreams awhile back. She told me there was some kinda...psychic guy. She thought was usin' her ability t'warn people of somethin'. An' in the three-four years ago dreams there was talk of a psychic guy prophesyin' war in New York. An' then /these/ dreams. I been tryin' t'get in contact with that guy. S'a Doctor Strange, if you'll b'lieve that. S'a real guy." Micah's expression crumples suddenly at Ion's simple analysis, one ragged intake of breath shaking through his chest. "New York been at war." Ion exhales, a quick sharp snort in counterpoint to Micah's inhale. "But that, ese, that were something /else/. Something -- that weren't right. How things get /so/ --" His arm snakes around Micah's shoulders, pulling him a little closer. "Maybe is just how things have to go, huh?" Oddly, now he sounds kind of -- optimistic! About this future! "Things they just keep getting ugly-ugly-uglier. Maybe that, it's how to fix-it. Burn it all down. Build-it-up better." Micah's head shakes, just...continuously, mutely as Ion continues to speak, a slight quiver to his body. His fingers curl tight into Ion's shirt, tugging him closer for a sudden-fierce kiss, holding onto him with a sense of desperation. Ion's eyes widen. The sudden kiss comes with a sudden jolt, a sharp shock that seizes up at Micah's muscles before it fades. Ion returns the kiss, hard and deep, before pulling back. "This got you that scared, Cyborg? For serious? The future, man, that's /years/ away." The shock just tightens Micah's grasp on Ion that much more. "I just...in that place, it was... Y'didn't hafta stay there but y'were an' it felt like. Like /ev'rythin'/ was gone. But not you. Still had you even though y'didn't have to. An' I know it didn't even. Happen yet, but. Thank you." The words are more than a little breathless as they tumble out. He finally meets the other man's eyes, nodding replacing the headshaking from before. "Terrified. S'a /war/, Ion. Takes a lot t'stop a war. An' I gotta...I can't not. Don't care 'bout any...New York Phoenix risin' from no ashes of... Not when the ashes is m'/family/, Ion. I can't. Jax an' the pups an' Spence an' who even /knows/ how many others. I can't. Not try." "Fff." Ion scoffs at this, head bonking down lightly against Micah's. "'Course I fucking had to, you family. What I gonna do." His shoulder rolls, slow and lazy. "Anyway who-fucking-know where Jax and the leetlesharks be, they strong fuckers, maybe they out wrecking their own damn havoc. These dreams they dreams. What they not showing, we don't know." His tongue runs up over his teeth, slow, accompanied by a small sucking noise. "You can't stop this fucking war, dog. It's been long-time-coming. It's half here. All we do, we hit them /first/ and we hit them harder. There ain't no stopping." Micah pulls Ion into another tight hug at that answer. He was wanting the stuffing squeezed out of him tonight, right? "I don't think so, sugar. I had this bag I was wearin'." He doesn't let go, the arm wrapping around Ion far enough to deliver a hand to finger at his own shirt. "Was made out of a piece of /couch/ the twins clawed on. Had things inside. Could feel...felt like m'ring. One of Jax's earrings. Other stuff weren't so easy t'get the shape of. Way it was...I don't think. Seemed like things y'keep when someone's /gone/." He bites back another shuddery breath. "Peter had another one of these dreams. Shane was dead." In-out, he forces a calmer, deeper breath. "It /can't/ go like that. Not like that. Not so... There's gotta be a way for it not t'be like /that/." Ion's breath rushes out at this tighter squeeze, pulled back in with a small wheeze-gasp and a faint static-shock burst. "Maybe. Maybe-no. Maybe there a way, huh, but what's it --" He slumps back against the couch with one hand falling to thump against his leg. "The raid, right. Try to change that, save Hive and Flicker, sure, what's the price on /that/? Still everyone-else-dead. /Them/ head's just /full/ the fuck of ghosts. Is that a happy ending? Maybe this future it won't be like that. Maybe you save your pups, your husband, maybe the rest of everything still fucking burn, maybe everyone just live with that guilt for-ev-er. Whose life you gonna trade for all them?" He shakes his head again. "World it is what it is. You want to stop a war coming you build us a whole new fucking /world/, ese." "We didn't have enough time with that raid. If we'd had dreams /years/ in advance? Maybe could've come up with a better answer. But it weren't that. An' we didn't...even know the dreams were real for so long. Didn't /listen/ to 'em hard enough. That...that." Micah's head shakes again, another steadying breath at the mention of Hive and how /that/ ended. Is ending. "Maybe it don't gotta be. Not so bad as all that. Maybe this doctor knows somethin'. Maybe folks havin' these /dreams/'ll change their minds, what they're doin' t'drive things that direction." His fists clench and unclench on Ion's shirt. "Ohgosh. Doctor Toure. He must've had that last dream, too." "Maybe maybe maybe all this fucking maybe. I ain't living no five year in the future, Micah, I living right the hell now. I don't got no time for /maybe/. /Maybe/ if we every one of us just play nice and sweet and follow the rules you think they won't go build fuckoff big robot? Drive us in the wastelands and kill us all? /Maybe/ we all be good boys and girls and it not gonna drive things in this war." Ion's tongue presses to the back of his teeth, his next breath closer to spitting. "Fuck that shit, yo. I tell you one thing, huh? Here or after the world gone to hell, I won't never stop fighting for my family, you done see that. But I won't /never/ stop /fighting/. You think a fucking handful of us is gonna -- gonna wage goddamn /peace/? On the /whole fucking world/? This world wants us dead. /That/ ain't gonna stop no matter what pretty fantasies you got about saving your family with pathetic-dreams." His arm lifts away from Micah's shoulder, fingers scruffing through his hair. "-- Braindoctor. Right. Yeah. Stayed solid, huh.” "I didn't say I thought playin' nice was gonna be the answer. Don't know what the answer /is/. S'a lotta maybe. Maybe's somebody needs killin'. Maybe's information needs stealin'. Maybe's factories need destroyed. Maybe it /is/ just somebody's mind needs changin', or talkin', or keepin' some violence from happenin'. I'm not sayin' either way. Might be fantasies but I'm not foolin' nobody that they're /pretty/." Micah's jaw tenses /hard/, muscles bunching at his temples and in front of his ears. "Think I done /proved/ already there's things I'm willin' t'do an' lives I'm willin' t'trade t'keep m'family alive. I /hate/ it. But that's how it is." The tension melts and then some, a ragdoll-tired flop against Ion as he pets at his hair. "Not sure 'bout /stayed/. Not the way we was talkin'. But /got/ there. Maybe. We convince 'im those dreams're comin'. Could influence what he's doin' now." Ion sags back, too. His arm snakes out around Micah's shoulders once more. He lifts Micah's thermos, taking another gulp of cocoa. "Yeah. Think you prove that, for sure. This world, it --" He huffs out a slow breath. "... what /is/ he doing now? I only see him when there new labrats. Dechip." Micah tucks himself up against Ion's side, head resting on the other man's shoulder. Like they're just sitting and watching a movie, not talking about war and death. "He'd been workin' with Matt t'come up with treatments that could suppress abilities. For folks whose health is adversely affected. Like his little sister an' other kids who express early. 'Least that's what /Matt/ thought. What the rest of us thought. They've made a lotta headway an' then...the doc's in /negotiations/ with /Themis/ an' the /police/ for usin' what they've found. Can't no good come of... Peter was talkin' 'bout bein' depowered in his dream. /Peter/. What evil thing was /he/ doin' that deserved involuntary depowerin'? S'just no good can come of lettin' certain people have things like that." "But ain't he still working at..." Ion quiets, at this, a slow furrow in his brow. His fingers knead in against the side of the thermos. "Peter fucking crazy," he mutters, and though there's a fondness to it his tone is distant, distracted. He stands abruptly, Micah's thermos still in hand. "Ey, look, I need to. Get. No offense, Cyborg, but I hope I ain't seeing you tonight in my dreams. /Way/ less nice than the ones you usually in, huh." "Yes. No. He wasn't. Now he is again. I'm not entirely clear on just what's...up with that. S'above m'pay grade an' I haven't gotten an opportunity for inappropriately questionin' authority again just yet." Micah stands, as well, moving in close to wrap a parting hug and place a parting kiss. "I'll take whatever I can get. Even these horrible ones, they ain't...dreams anymore. S'information gatherin' /missions/ now." For all the heavy conversation, he somehow finds it in him to blush at the flirting, still. "Hopefully you get some of the nicer ones, though." And there is one last kiss, perhaps to help those along. "Yeah. Well. You keep me -- keep. Let me know. What information. You gather." The hug and kiss Ion gives Micah in return are just as distracted as his words were. His leaving is a lot quieter than his arrival had been, slipping off towards a wall and absconding with the remainder of Micah's cocoa.