ArchivedLogs:Pramantha

Pramantha
Dramatis Personae Kay, Rasheed
In Absentia	Sunday, March 29, 2020 "S'up, doc." (Part of Future Past TP.)
Location <NYC> Bronx
Above the skeletal ruins of the evening city, the early evening sky hangs heavy with dark cloud cover. Silent white-blue lightning paints the sides of rubbled buildings in flashes, followed by gradual, unfurling waves of luxurious thunder. And then silence. Briefly, in this eerie quiet, there's the sound of a bicyclist amongst the buildings, pedaling fast to seek out whatever shelter might be found. Then silence again. A few fat droplets of rain patter against roof tops. Somewhere tucked into the desolate ruins of the outskirts of the bronx, one of these skeletal buildings -- maybe it was a grocery store, once. Maybe a deli. Remnants of fluorescent lighting in its ceiling-bones, storage in its basement, aisles of freezers that have no power running through them -- has a little more by way of signs of life than the rest. Its door has been put back /on/, at least, its blown-out windows patched over with bits of plastic and board. Around its side, the hatchway that leads to its basement-storage entrance has a plywood board propped against it, a red cross spray-painted on the cracked thin wood. Not that the inside is /much/ of a clinic, really. As much as it moves from place to place, kind of touch and go. Not cots so much as just blankets laid out on the floor, sheets hung up to partition some measure of privacy between them. A skinny preteen girl -- the daughter of the sole nurse working with one of the quietly groaning patients bleeding behind one of the partitions -- is measuring out doses of medications at the side of the room. In back, Rasheed, in shabby jeans and threadbare sweater, grey-haired, sits by a table. Laptop, microscope, a few /newer/ pieces of equipment that don't match the rest of the tumbledown surroundings. His spindly fingers work quickly at a holographic display, eyes fixed on it before his hands collapse it down into nothing. In a movie, the door above might be opened at a well-timed flare of lightning, or an ominous rumble of thunder. Kay gets no such fanfare, pushing his way in sideways and closing it behind him with only a brief echo of rain grown louder briefly while the door was open. His lank hair looks greasier for the humidity, his leather jacket scraped and damaged down one arm from some biking wipeout, with the double butts of handguns in shoulder harness visible through the open front. Pretty standard fare for the usual New York resident these days. Fingerless gloves. Heavy boots. Lined face. Black bandana tied around one bicep. His body language towards the skinny kid in the corner is casual, hands crammed in pockets opening absently outwards like a FLASHER… except it's more just showing that he's not injured or in need of help. And while he does dart eyes around and kind of meander with some curiosity to peer at details here or there, he's clearly looking for - well. Most visitors the arrive at this place probably come looking for the doctor of the house. His heavy boots clump two final times, to stand wide-legged in the back doorway. Looking inwards. His scratchy voice is harsh in the quiet, lilting up in tone brightly, "S'up, doc." The girl has tensed, automatically drawing a gun of her own to aim towards the door when it opens. Rasheed looks up with a lift of brows, slight widening of eyes, a cast to his expression more expectant than alarmed though he's far from /relaxed/ himself. Likely around here nobody ever is /that/. His brows furrow, a moment later. "-- Kay." It's still far from alarmed, though the lingering frown and caution in his voice put a frown on the child's face, too. Her gun lowers, though. Her nose twitches. "Do you need help?" She looks back towards the curtained partitions, though her mother is still quite busy. Back towards Rasheed, next. He taps at his computer, saving his work. Turns back to face Kay, rising slowly and stiffly from his seat to take a few steps towards the door. Only a few, slow and stiff, too. "What can we do for you." Remaining where he stands, hands still in pockets, shoulders loose and slouched, Kay's livid eyes follow Rasheed's movements closely. Not leaving him, even when his head turns slightly towards the girl, "Nah. Been meaning t'stop by for a while. Knew the doctor here back before shit got," the corner of his mouth twists, "real fuckin' simple." And after a moment of standing very still, "Kinda surprised you're still alive." "Oh." From the girl. That's all. She tucks the gun back into its holster at her side and returns to her task. "I'd say the same of you," Rasheed says, a small pinch deepening the creases beside his eyes, "but I heard -- about the raid, Dusk was through here not long back." His hand lifts, knuckles pressing against his eyes briefly. "Do you need food? We have a little. I don't believe it's radioactive, even." "I'm hard to kill," Kay doesn't really say it as a boast. Just a statement. And then, "Nah," that same answer again. Then quiet. When Rasheed's knuckles lower from his face, they'll find Kay has finally moved - one empty hand withdrawn from its pocket, and raised outward, towards the doctor. His palm faces outwards, like a police officer gesturing to stop traffic, long fingers splayed open and taut, so that he can still watch Rasheed's face between them. His smile has vanished, relaxed into the heavy lines of his face. "Very well." Rasheed's head tips slightly to one side, his brows lifting at Kay's outstretched hand. "What, exactly, /can/ we do for you? If you don't need our help --" His eyes flick, first towards the rows of makeshift sheet-cubicles and then towards his computer. "There are quite a lot of people who do." For a moment longer, Kay remains silent. The tendons in his palm visibly pull tighter beneath the pads, straining into nearly a claw at Rasheed, lips pulling tighter. The fingers relax, and the hand drops with a huff of air through his nose. His eyes close, to allow him to scrub at some crusty caught in one of their corners, and his tongue unsticks from the roof of his mouth with a quiet click, "I'm depowered." The corners of his mouth are twisting their way upwards again, almost against his will. "It's kinda funny, isn't it." "Possibly I have lost my sense of humor, these past years." Rasheed's hand rubs across his grey curls, and he sinks back down into his seat. "But, yes, I imagined you might be. I hear it's standard for the Mark IV -- at least, I remember when Shane --" His jaw tightens, eyes turning back to his computer. A wave of his hand brings his holographic display back up. His fingers drag against his cheek. "I take it you mean permanently, then? The treatments they administer in the camps will wear off in a matter of a month or -- two, sometimes." "Who knows. Been a lot more than a few months." Kay continues watching the side of Rasheed's face after he looks away. Though his blank-active animal eyes don't seem to be looking /at/ much. "... you tried treating Shane?" "Tried. Failed. It went through him so fast --" Rasheed shakes his head. "I have been working since then. On developing an agent that may -- be able to counteract the effects of the nullification serum. It's still only in development, though, I haven't -- had," he says, a little grim, a little /pinched/ around his mouth, "a large enough sample of individuals to test it on to quite work it out yet." "Where's a good /fetch/ staff when you need one, huh?" Kay forms a brief /wide/ baring of teeth, a manic shape that twists deep grooves into either side of his nose. It doesn't last long, easing back to neutral. Then harder. Just shy of forty years old now, the lines in his face are gaunt and sharp, and his reedy voice evens to just tired, "... what do you need." Rasheed's fifty years have looked well more than that for a while now, lined and grey and stooped. He answers Kay slowly, and without any more relish. "For now, your blood. But if you are serious, I will need time to run some more tests -- and then I'll need you back here to see how you react to the treatment. I don't imagine it will be pleasant. But I do believe I will be able to get you your fire back." As Rasheed speaks, Kay has one forearm looped loosely across his abdomen. It's used to prop up the elbow of his opposite arm, that he might look down at his empty palm. With weight leaning to one hip, one long leg resting with folded knee, he's quiet. And then slowly nodding. "Heh." "Alright." His hand locks into a fist, and he bares his teeth, eyes - alive-bright and fierce - snap back to Rasheed's face. He begins shrugging out of his jacket, "Bring it on, Prometheus. Let's get us some fire."