Logs:Meek and the Bold

Meek and the Bold
Dramatis Personae Bryce, DJ
In Absentia	Christmas Eve "I don't think it's a should kind of question."
Location <NYC> DJ's House - The Refuge - Staten Island
The swath of destruction that the dimensional anomaly carved here in 2020 has been swept away and transformed into a large compound, practically a neighborhood in its own right. Much of the grounds are given over to meticulously landscaped parkland. Here are manicured gardens abutting half-wild groves, playgrounds and playing fields, a swimming pool as well as a fishing pond, and even a few acres of farmland. The residences, from the founder's house to the miniature arcologies and the slightly larger guesthouse, are styled like abstract beehives. So, for that matter, is the vertical hydroponic farm that produces far more food than the earthbound fields. In fact, there is a great deal of beehive imagery throughout, and even absent specific styling, hexagons are still more common than squares or rectangles in the construction of spaces and objects, all of which are thoughtfully designed with an eye toward community and comfort. At the heart of the Refuge is the meetinghouse that crowns the hill where the 121st Precinct once stood: architecturally distinct from most LDS houses of worship, this one looks from afar like an abstract sculpture of a conch shell in gleaming white quartzite. The floor plan is built on a Fibonacci spiral with a relatively gentle rise in elevation for the first four quarter-arcs before shooting up into a steep organic spire that can be seen for miles around. The Tabernacle Choir is singing ("Carol of the Bells", currently, several of their Christmas albums on rotation) -- quietly, now, it's getting late and the compound is packed with guests. Some of the guests might even be sleeping! Not so in DJ's study, which has been crammed full of presents to be laid out shortly under the huge tree once the younger children are all properly asleep. Older children, perhaps, can help assist with the magic. He's up late, still wrapping a last couple gifts before he turns in for the night. He's meticulously measuring the paper for his next (a photo album together with pastel-colored instant camera for a young mother who just recently delivered her firstborn -- all the more practical Baby Needs, the group took care of long before the Christmas festivities), then looking around with a small frown for the knife he's been using to cut the neatly creased giftwrap. Bryce has been several years into the stage of Old Enough that the magic of Santa has transformed from Surprise Presents to helping with creating that surprise. (Not that he does not still appreciate the Santa tags on his own gifts!) So like a good helper elf he's been here, quietly eying DJ's meticulous work to attempt to faithfully reproduce the same level of tidiness in his normally kiiind of sloppily wrapped presents. "Oh sorry!" He's been hoarding Knife, DJ's somehow migrated over beside his own, and he turns it conscientiously handle-first before sliding it back across the floor. The jigsaw puzzle he is wrapping is disappearing inside its gold-starred red wrapping paper as he hums quietly along with the music. "... this is one of Mom's favorites," is offered half-wistful, half-informative, all the little trivia that this extradimensional Family Addition is years behind on learning. DJ's eyes flick up brief from his work. "My mom's, too." This is decidedly just wistful. He's sticking double-sided tape carefully into the inside of his latest flap before pressing it down. "There's still time to get you out there, you know. If you -- wanted. We know people who cover ground pretty good." "I know. I just -- I don't --" Bryce's furry brow pulls inward. He absorbs himself very intently with the final folds of his giftwrap and taping them down carefully into place. "Do you think I should?" The emphasis on the you is subtle, but there. YYYY DJ has been picking through his copious assortment of ribbons, waffling between a velvety plain red one and a more ostentatious green-trimmed-in-gold. He ultimately opts for the plainer, measuring twice before cutting. It's only after this extensive deliberation (over the ribbons, of course) that he ventures neutrally, "I don't think it's a should kind of question." Bryce props his elbows on his knees, scrutinizing the wrapped box in front of him like he's inspecting it for flaws. "Isn't it?" This doesn't sound like a challenge, exactly; it's hesitant, uncertain. "I mean, we're supposed to honor our parents and -- it's not like they're -- so many kids at school have parents who won't even let them home or anything, it's horrible! I told them," he's adding kind of loyally, "that they were welcome here." "If any of them show up here," despite the very warm earnestness in DJ's tone there is something faintly amused about the curl of his smile that suggests his expectations here are Not High, "they certainly will be." He's meticulously tying the bow -- slower than he might with two good hands, his prosthetic fingers mostly just holding the ribbon in place while his more dexterous hand works around this. "You know, there's going to be people in life who'll try to make you believe that love -- or respect -- means putting up with people hurting you. It doesn't. I think that's going to be really important to keep in mind when you think about what you should be doing at times like these, okay?" He's setting his box aside with the stacks of finished ones, and bringing a bright gold ribbon over to Bryce. "Your parents love you. That doesn't mean they don't have a lot to learn about how to show that. And it doesn't mean you have to deal with all their mistakes while they figure it out. If you want to be here, you know you're always welcome. And if you want to go there, I'll make sure you get there. And if you want me to go with you, I'm pretty good at running interference. But it's your call." Bryce's brows stay scrunched. More scrunched. Deep and intent, like he's trying very hard to reconcile this perspective with some far more deeply ingrained teachings. It's at the end -- when DJ offers to come with him -- that he looks up, quick and startled. "But --" He doesn't elaborate on this protest, but he's looking towards the huge stacks of presents already laid out for DJ's ~~followers~~ community. Even just the offer, though, is easing something in his clenched shoulders. He lets out a slow breath, and smiles. He takes the ribbon from DJ, measuring (twice!) and cutting it with a neat slice of a newly-grown claw. "Welllllll... we should finish these first. I wouldn't want Santa to be late."