ArchivedLogs:Atonement

Atonement
Dramatis Personae Micah, Rasheed, Ion, Jane	Wednesday, 4 December 2019 Part of the Future Past TP.
Location <NYC> Abandoned Warehouse
It could certainly be a stealthier entrance. Coordinates delivered straight into his /brainmeats/ by the friendly neighbourhood telepath, Micah is wasting no time in getting to the abandoned whatever-the-hell it used to be warehouse. It's empty and isolated now and has a roof and no one /cares/ about it, is the important part. His approach is, perhaps, unfortunately mechanical-sounding in announcing his presence, robotic legs pushing-pumping-pistoning him forward in a run that is /impressive/ for a two-legged creature. Thump-thump-thump, /crash/ the door goes open and /slam/ back closed again. The reason for the bedraggled redhead's haste is immediately visible in the form of one electrokinetic slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. It's hard to say just who the blood on Micah's abused canvas jacket and tattered jeans belongs to. "I don't think we were followed!" If the legs /weren't/ robotic, Micah would be skidding to a stop. As it is, the movement ceases without any slowing in its lead-up. It's surprisingly gentle after all of that, the way he lowers Ion to the ground on a pile of soft and (mostly!) clean fabric-based items. Ion has company, there. A grey-haired (though, really, she doesn't look much older than Micah) woman lies on a similar pile of scraps nearby, much of her side and arms swathed in bandaging stuck out from under her clothing, and not far off some sheets are being hastily erected by a nurse and her daughter for makeshift privacy around a stick-thin youth with slate-grey skin who seems to be (recently?) missing a leg. He's sedated, anyway, his bandaging quite fresh. Rasheed is drying his hands off, Micah's voice summoning him from around a corner. The stoop in his shoulders is more pronounced, his hair gone grey entirely as well. He's in a thick grey sweater, boots, jeans; his path takes him first over to murmur something low to the nurse before he hastens over to Micah. "Is it just him? What happened?" Zzp. Zzpzzpzzp. A kind-of-broken Ion is always fun, in that there's a tiny skittering of sparks flitting over his skin, a thankfully /faint/ intermittent static-jolt to touching him. "Ey-o." He tries a smile. Comes out more a grimace, teeth clenching up on another zzp. "Had a. Bad day? Bad day. Not fast enough, huh. One-two-three-four-five tincan down. Sixth-one it-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t." His words stutter off into a sudden harsher convulsing. "Same thing always happens. Picked a fight with some toasters an' they never play fair." Shocks or no, Micah is /staying/ in contact with Ion, crouched on the floor next to him and brushing the other man's hair out of his eyes with his fingertips. Some of the blood is apparently Micah's, a hole torn through the grey henley under his jacket thick with clotted blood and...webbing. Which was handily supplied by the opposing force during the fight. "Was too many of 'em. I actually /ran out/ of ammo. Not much help other'n bein' quick after that. Still wasn't /quite/ quick enough gettin' 'im out. He got knocked 'round real good an'... S'just /him/ on top of it. S'always halfway t'short circuitin'." He rolls Ion over onto his side as best he can. "Which means seizures. I ain't got any fast-actin' meds. left in m'kit. Tell me y'got somethin' sublingual or close enough here?" Part of the down side of having to move camp so often is never knowing where things /are/, if they even exist anymore. Rasheed exhales heavily, looking somewhat unsurprised at the devolution. "Something. We take what we can get. Look --" He's disappearing again, reappearing this time with gloves on, and a small white bullet-shaped suppository held in blue nitrile-swathed fingers. "I don't suppose there's much hope in saying he needs to eat more?" He's tugging Ion's jeans down, quick about delivery. "I /can/ give you Topiramate for him to take regularly. But he'll stay in better condition if he's -- in better condition." Zzpzppzpp! Zzp zzp zpp zpp! Zzp. zzp? Not really much for conversation yet. Just zzping. Spasmy. At least a little less sparky! It's probably for the best. He'd probably have /words/ about this medicating. Or not. There's been worse indignities lately. Micah just stays by Ion for now, petting at his hair, keeping on top of his status lest things devolve further. He only winces a little at a stronger shock received through his hands. He'd had worse in carrying the other man here, for sure. "Oh, thank goodness." /Relief/ is not the typical expression when doctors show up suppository-in-hand, but it is writ clear on Micah's features. "Can try that. He don't get t'go too long 'tween fryin' 'imself. Can try the lecture on how /he's/ more useful to us than a little bit of extra food he's not eatin'. Might help more comin' from someone more official-like." His teeth dig in and worry at his lower lip. "/I/ really can do with less than people insist I take. Maybe can foist off on 'im. Think they forget I ain't runnin' the majority of the power on most of m'movin' around anymore. An' I got less body mass t'support than it looks like." His eyes stay locked on Ion's face, waiting for a change. "All of 'em as can get away with alternative food sources been doin' it too much for the rest of us still gotta stay alive the old fashioned way." "It has been a while since I had any proper doctor-looking clothes." A ghost of humor drifts briefly across Rasheed's face as he peels his gloves off one into the other, tugs Ion's pants back into place, settles him back as comfortably as -- current convulsing will allow. "But I can still dust off my stern face when I need to get into patient-lecturing mode. We may have --" His lips thin, something tired crossing his expression. "... not much," he admits, heavily. "But something. For a few days, at least. To send you off with. If you can promise me some of it will get /into/ him." The sparks are dying down, the shaking tapering off. Ion's forehead lolls heavily in against Micah's palm, eyes shifting rapidly behind closed lids. His eyes tighten, body curling in against and around robotic legs. Though his lips move, for now it's just silent, wordless, his fingers opening and closing and grasping at nothing. "Don't think nobody's worried 'bout nobody /lookin'/ the part no more." Micah cradles Ion's head when it falls into his hand, the other hand slipping into one of Ion's to provide something to grasp at. He takes care about just how tightly the other man winds around his legs, the prostheses far less forgiving than flesh. "He'll take what he needs. I can be proper persuasive when the situation requires." Then he is curling in, too, enough to place a soft kiss to the top of Ion's head. "Might should get another emergency dose t'carry with me if we have it, though." "Hm?" Rasheed's brows lift, tone softly questioning as Ion's lips move. He passes his knuckles across his eyes, lips pressing together again, this time to stifle a yawn. "We did find that place last month, for a week or two. Actual couches. Red and black curtains. Even a /table/ or two. It was almost like being back at the Clinic again. There is something to be said for -- setting a -- mood. We lose fewer patients when they're." The corners of his mouth twitch, briefly. "When we /feel/ like a Clinic again." He shakes his head, looking up at Micah. "Of course. At least keeping them refrigerated won't be an issue." Ion nuzzles slowly against Micah's hand, sleepy-drowsy in his movements in a sluggish way very unlike the tense-wired energy that tends to characterize him so much of the time. His voice is a sleepy mumble, too, muffled half against Micah's palm: "Ese, you ain't been a proper doctor a long time." It takes a bit longer for him to uncurl, drop his head back against the makeshift pallet of cloths. His eyes blink open reluctantly. "{My head's fucking killing me.}" Micah shudders at the mention of the Clinic, eyes skating over his burned fingers where they peek out of his cut-off gloves and resting on the pair of prostheses making up most of his lower half. "Don't know's I ever wanna feel like bein' there again. Tables or no tables." He gives a quick chuff at the refrigeration concern, brushing past the darkness that had settled over his features. "Sure won't be. Live in a damn ice box anymore." Then Ion is speaking...regardless of what he's saying, it softens Micah's expression. His hand gives the other man's a squeeze. "Hey, sugar, welcome back. Nothin' killin' t'day." Apparently his understanding of Spanish has improved. "'Least not for you. Ain't givin' you up that easy." The darkness that settles into Rasheed's features stays there, heavy and tired. "Yes, hypoglycemia will do that to you. I understand you've been going without food for quite some while. I recognize that your nutritional requirements are quite different than the average, but only up to a point, Ion. Such severe malnourishment does have a drastic impact on your cognition -- as well as increasing your risk of --" His hand tips out towards the electrokinetic. "Seizures. Which, you must be aware, doesn't just put you at risk but all the people around you. I'd strongly advise you to increase your food intake." He's standing, heading off again to return shortly -- this time with a sandwich. Roast beef with actual cheddar cheese. Slices of real tomato in it, real lettuce, mustard. Actual bread. A little bit stale, but it's food that actually has food in it. "Maribeth picked us up some -- leftovers from a deli two days back." He offers the sandwich out to Ion. This makes Ion sit up a good deal faster than he probably /should/ in his still-disoriented-woozy state. Wide-eyed and actually /whimpering/. He /snatches/ the sandwich from Rasheed lightning-quick but, after this, doesn't actually eat it. Grab... /stare/. Beneath his filthy jacket his sunken chest is just heaving. His hands are trembling against the sandwich, but at length he finally rips it in half. He presses one half of it into Micah's hand. "Micah. That a fucking /tomato/. Like a /fresh/ one. Not-a-can. /Fuck/ man. You not a proper-doctor you a proper-fucking-God {Sorry Jesus}." Micah mouths a "thank you" at Rasheed from behind Ion's head at the stern-doctor lecturing. "Easy, sugar." He scoots up behind Ion as the other man bolts upright too quickly, providing his torso to act like a chairback for him to lean against. "Some kinda magician, at least. Didn't think there was places still had food t'/be/...leftover." Taking the other half of the sandwich from Ion, he fully doesn't intend to eat all of it. Ion will find another quarter sandwich pressed back into his hand soon enough. He /does/ take a long breath in over the bread. Stale or not it smells like /bread/. "Much less fresh veg'tables." For now, he does take a /slow/ bite out of the sandwich to encourage Ion to eat /his/ half. Never too far from Rasheed, the sandwich is enough to gain Jane's attention. The ex-soldier steps over towards the little cluster and eyeing the food with a vaguely suspicious look. Then again, these days a vaguely suspicious look is practically a grin on her face, and it is a fleeting look besides. Carefully readjusting the heavy canvas bag on her shoulder, Jane steps away towards one of the support pillars for the warehouse and begins carefully taping up a set of grey-brown blocks with wires stringing between them. "There are still people up top -- /attempting/ to carry on more or less some semblance of lives," Rasheed answers with a hint of rue. "They have day jobs and obey the curfew and regard the Sentinels as -- a fact of life, but not a terror. As it has always been in war time, I suppose. Life becomes more difficult, but it does not stop. It becomes hard to see here. But /New York/ is not gone. And -- most -- humans. Still are at liberty to access it. Such as it is." Ion's quiet, now, tearing hungrily into the sandwich with soft moans that sound almost pornographic. He leans back against Micah, eyes closing as he starts to devour the food. "I never really. Given much thought to. How the rest of the world still running. The rest of New York still running. They still got, like, movies playing up there? I liked to go. To the movies. I seen, shit. Long-time-gone. Last one I gone to see, once. I see this good thing, this good one. Space pirates. Lots of pretty ships, huh? I seen that one with Kay and a leetlesha --" He cuts himself off sharp without finishing 'shark', an almost guilty look tossed up to Micah. "... was a years ago. Woulda watch it /three/ time, I know that's the last theater we allowed in. Woulda watch it /five/ time, I know they gonna snatch Kay the fuck --" He hisses, sharp, and takes a quick bite of sandwich. Softer: "-- Out there, those humans, they still watching movies?" Hazel eyes track Jane's movements for a small while, until the others speak again. Micah's jaw works slowly at the sandwich, deliberately trying not to tear into it and swallow it in half-chewed bites the way his stomach would seem to prefer. "Just don't seem like a thing that could be happenin' so close to... The rest of it." /Their/ rest of it, anyhow. Micah's head shakes slowly as Ion keeps cutting himself off. His free hand has moved to clutch at a small bag made from clawed-up corduroy peeking out from under his jacket, fingers moving over the lumpy objects inside it through the fabric. "You're allowed t'talk about 'em. S'all we /can/ do now. So we should." "Movies, yes. I imagine so. Fewer /tourists/ in Times Square, but people still go to movies, and still shop, and still --" Rasheed frowns, glancing over towards a wall as if he might see past the ruined concrete towards what once /was/. "-- I imagine there are Christmas decorations, about now. Holiday music. I can't say I miss hearing 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer' two dozen times every day this time of year. Perhaps there are up sides." His tone is very dry. But the dryness leaves as he looks at Ion. "... electricity travels so fast. The majority of the real distance teleporters have so long since left. You could see so many movies." Ion's chuckle is a little raspy; it rattles in a chest that has very little flesh remaining to it. "Eya, ese. /Me/ huh? /You/ coulda bought and sell this whole fucking city, even I know that. You give up how many /billions/ for --" His fingers flick around the broken-down warehouse. "Where you even keep your Nobels now? We all we /coulda/ nope the fuck outta here, maybe-maybe, maybe before shit hit the fan maybe after. We all got our reasons for staying." "Hm." It's a small sound, sad, not quite a laugh. Perhaps agreeing with Rasheed's thoughts on the holiday music. Micah takes a few more bites of the sandwich, slow and measured. When only half of it remains, he takes Ion's hand and presses that into it. "All got reasons." His hand wraps around the little bag again, tighter, enough to dig the shapes of some of the harder items inside into his palm (the distorted-roundish shape of a ring that no longer fits his scarred finger, one of Jax's earrings). "Y'should eat that, hon. I can't just now." It may or may not be true. "Perhaps. But I have a good deal more than some to --" Rasheed's eyes drift towards Micah's hand, watching the shapes that are pressed into his palm. He pushes to his feet, exhaling slowly. "I'll pack your bag," he says, a little more quietly once more. "Food for a few days. A few more doses of the Lorazepam suppository if this happens again. Topiramate for the next month. One in the morning, one at night. I'll try to stock more by the time you'll run out. Try to keep him eating." The small twitch of smile he offers Ion is a little bit wan. "-- Keep them safe." "We all got sins, dog." Ion hesitates, but takes the last bit of sandwich from Micah. His slump back against Micah once more is exhausted. He actually takes the time to chew through this bit of sandwich. "-- /some/ us just got fucking /enormous/ ones, eh?" He nestles back against the other man, relishing the last few bites of honest-to-goodness /foodstuff/. "You pick yourself a hell-of atonement. Me? I'm just saving /up/. Next life I'm goddamn /coasting/." There is a flare of hurt and anger at Rasheed's unfinished statement that Micah chokes back, just nodding instead. The arm not attached to the hand death-gripping the little bag wraps around Ion's chest. "Maybe we can stay long enough for you t'catch a little sleep, sugar? Make sure you're in workin' order 'fore we go." His chin lifts to indicate the woman on the next pallet. "An' we'll see what I can do for your roommate there on short supply. Try t'work out...crutches at least. Can't even do nothin' but help the limb heal right for now s'far as leg's concerned. Maybe get our hands on more supplies 'fore that comes up. S'always hope for that meanwhile." Rasheed's list earns a nod of agreement. "S'much as we can." "Jane is keeping watch. You'll be safe enough, resting here." Rasheed tips his head, eyes flicking over the others. "As much as you can." His breath comes out in another short puff, before he starts off to collect the medication. "That is," he says, a little wry, "all we ever ask."