13 April 2015
"S'long as you're still rollin'."
It isn't huge in this workshop, but it's well-ventilated and well-equipped. Like the Common house, this building -- small and shedlike and tucked off to a side of the courtyard -- is accessible to Commons residents via their electronic keycards. Stocked with plentiful tools for all kinds of workmanship, it has a small number of workspaces along the side of the room with a fair amount of open floorspace that can be repurposed as needed. In different corners there are a couple more specialized sections -- one front corner has been walled off into its own darkroom, and farthest off in back, cordoned off and thankfully left empty when not in use, is a squat furnace with a tendency to look like a pot of glowing lava when it is filled with molten glass.
The Makerspace is looking just a /little/ bit like a hatters and a tailor's got themselves all mixed up with a touch of a mechanic's shop this afternoon. Synthetic materials, foam, and plastics are most in evidence at this stage of the game. The industrial sewing machine and electric knives whir away on and off. The parts that Micah is working on just now are in the earlier stages of development: shapes and forms waiting to turn into more recognizable /things/. Settled off to one side, however, is the completed “comfort layer” interior of what can be recognized as a helmet...or at least helmet guts.
"You loud as shit, dog, I could hear you clear across the damn city." Ion is leaning in the doorway, shoulder propped up against its jam. He wears his worn and beaten (and bleached) (and singed) (and /beadazzled/) (and chewed-on) (and clawed-up) kutte open over a plain white wifebeater, black jeans, tall boots. His hair has a few fading blue streaks in it, his knuckles some healing scabs, his eyes dark shadows underneath; he holds one arm loosely across his stomach. "What's that you building on?"
Micah doesn't look much better than the workspace, his Doctor Whooves Nouveau tee and patchy jeans covered in bits of foam and fuzz. Some of it has even made it into his mussed and slightly sweat-damp hair. He pauses in his work, looking up with a smile at Ion's voice. "'Pologies. Makin' things ain't usually a quiet an' gentle experience. I mean, 'cept maybe with somethin' like knittin'. That's why I do that one just wherever an' this out here." The lopsided grin accompanying the explanation falters a little as he surveys Ion's state. "Hey, hon...you okay? Look like y'had a few miles of rough road." He tugs out an empty chair for the other man to have a seat if he chooses. "Jax told me y'all brought the pups into your club. M'workin' on custom helmets for 'em. Ain't likely t'get somethin's gonna fit comfortable /or/ effectively for 'em. They got a more unique physiology than off-the-shelfs're takin' into account."
"Tch." Ion sucks air in between his cheek and teeth, head giving a small shake. "What fun the road is if it's only a smooth?" He doesn't move from the doorway, though a bright grin does stretch across his face. "/Ay/-oh, yeah, /hell/-fucking-yeah, those leetle-sharks, them pups they gonna be the /baddest/ fuckers on the whole damn road, huh? /All/ tooths. No /fear/. -- What's -- what's, their head? Is different? They look pretty headlike to me." His brow wrinkles in some confusion, knuckles lifting to rap against his own forehead thoughtfully.
The grin regains some of its brightness at that. "S'long as you're still rollin'. Y'all teachin' 'em t'ride so's they can get licensed? Jax an' I got the reg'lar drivin' covered, but don't neither of us know bikes." Micah chuckles a little. "They're def'nitely heads. Just smaller. Slightly dif'rent in shape. An' mostly made of cartilage, so less dense an' therefore less protection for their brains if they go smackin' into things. Gotta build up the protective layers with that in mind, an' the comfort layer t'meet the fit right."
"... licensed." The utterly blank look that Ion gives Micah in response to this probably answers the question /for/ him. He catches himself a moment later, though, ducking his head a little sheepishly and rubbing at the back of his neck. "/Shit/ yeah I mean of course, license, for sure s... /omeone/ was gonna. Get on that. License. Thing. We was gonna. Make sure. No problem. You need those. Obviously. They give those, right, uh, the -- the DMV, they'll hand them. Out. Si?"
Micah's expression can't help but dip into /concern/ for a moment, eyebrows scrunching toward one another. The tension eases a little once Ion at least plays along. "Good, good. Yeah, the DMV handles all the testin' an' licensin' stuff. It's just that there's already enough reasons for law enforcement t'have it out for our kids. Just wanna give 'em as few excuses as possible when we can avoid breakin' laws unnecessarily, yeah?" He finally turns away from his work, head tilting slightly as he regards the other man. "We love you guys. An' we love /them/. I got no problem with 'em joinin' up in this thing. Just...wanna make sure they do it as safe as they can. They're sure growin' up fast, but in a lotta ways they're still kids, y'know?"
"Safe." Ion's lips twitch, and he pushes out one sharp breath. "Ay, sure, ese. As safe as this world it ever is." He shrugs, slowly straightening up away from the doorframe. "Someone take them in the licensing. I make sure. Won't stop the damn pigs though. They give everybody all the shit."
"Yeah. As much as possible." Micah nods along with this, just a hint of a sigh at the rest. "I know s'always gonna be a problem. Just try t'minimise what we can. Hey, you got any recommendation on the outer shell design? I was thinkin' blue an' silver for Shane an' purple an' silver for B. Little bit of black from the carbon shell weave. Havin' some brighter colour's better for visibility, at least. What d'you think?" He grabs his tablet with a few variations on his described theme sketched out on it. "I don't really know what's the thing t'do s'far as appearance with helmets these days."
"What, for the twins?" Ion's eyes light. He springs further into the room -- sort of stiffly, teeth gritting up as he moves away from the doorway and his arm tightening around his stomach. "Yeah hell yeah they totally --" He lifts his hand, gesturing to the front part of the helmet, "they need them, like, big sharp tooth-/grin/ face in the front maybe, huge chomp-mouth there, and," his fingers flutter along the top, "probably up there some kind, spikes, real spikey-sharp like them right?" His fingers curl into CLAWS demonstratively. Face animated now. Eager. "And I think is maybe you could probably put on --" he's not /wearing/ a watch today, alas, but he gestures to his wrist anyway for /reference/, then to the beadazzled rhinestone lightning bolts glittering on the shoulders of his kutte, "some-bit shine, Jax he good at that shit yeah? He make it /light/ the fuck up?"
Micah’s concerned-face resurfaces at the tooth gritting and stomach gripping. “You sure you’re okay? Have y’seen someone medical t’get checked up on?” He doesn’t push too hard, even the concern able to be washed away by the infectiousness of Ion’s enthusiasm. Though he’s still watching the other man a little more closely, it’s with a broad grin. “Usually decreases the effectiveness of the helmet t’have a lotta protrusions. Round’s kinda the best shape. S’maybe not so much on the spikes. I /have/ seen some people do the animal-look in the paint around the face, though. They might like that… Be nice t’have a more sedate lookin’ one an’ maybe a slightly crazier one, both. I can check in what they want for a design for spares, bring that up as an option. Ain’t good not havin’ a backup. Won’t be tryin’ t’be any kinda surprise on those, though, so they can work with me developin’ out some of these ideas more.” Micah nods along with the recommendation of shininess. “Oh, absolutely, y’wanna get a good shine an’ polish goin’. Matte helmets’re harder t’see, so bright an’ shiny’re both goods. /Could/ rig up some lightin’ in the blue an’ purple. Option of havin’ it off or on at any point. Kinda’d look a little /Tron/ when it’s on. I like it. Wouldn’t even hafta have Jax standin’ next to ‘em t’keep it goin’.” He chuckles at that last, imagining Jax hovering around the twins to keep their lights on. "What sure. You should see some the spills I have took off my bike, huh? Make this look like a nothing." Ion's grin is a little crooked. "Maybe you make the teeth all sparkle. Shine." His fingers flutter in the air. JAZZhand teeth. "What's a Tron? That some kind of monster? You make them a monster. Tiny shark monster. Them pups, they /pretty/ fucking monstery, you know."
“Hm. Remind me why I'm buildin' helmets /while/ I'm buildin' 'em,” Micah answers that 'assurance' with a half-smirk. “I could see that workin', actually. Glitter-teeth.” He pulls up a fresh screen on his tablet to scribble some of the back-up designs on, toothy about the cheek guards and face. Filled in with a glitter-bright-white against a darker background. “Hee. If they do want somethin' like this for the second set, I may enlist Jax t'do any drawin' parts of the designs. Get 'em lookin' better'n what I'd draw. I was startin' t'think of maybe doin' an abstact kinda...galaxy-nebula lookin' thing for the coloured parts on these? I'm better at abstract. Add in the lights like y'were sayin'.” He holds back a snort (mostly) at the Tron question. “S'a movie. Or movies. They have these...uh. Kinda like motorcycles, but kinda /inside/ computers. An' there's a lotta these bands of lights in the design of the light cycles an' the costumes, both. Seemed kinda appropriate.”
"How you fit a motorcycle in a computer? Bigass computer, maybe." Ion's hand scruffs through his hair, his eye squinching up in confusion. "I'ono nothin' about doing the art thing I just, I only know what looks good. I gotta get other people to do the /making/ it good part see?" He points to his glitter-decked jacket. "All my shit it be done up proper. I sure you'll figure it out. -- Ey hey speak of computers you seen Dusk around? I gotta find that motherfucker." Right now, apparently. Maybe. At least, he's already vanishing back towards the door.
“Like in a computer...game. Sort of. It's a lotta explainin'.” Micah chuckles a bit at this, nodding again as Ion shows off his jacket. “True enough. Dusk's /prob'ly/ over his place. I mean, I could text 'im an' find out if y'want.” Though with Ion already backing out, he may just be wanting to look for himself. “Hey, thanks for the consult. Hope y'feel better, okay?”
"Consult, dog, hell yeah that sound so damn /official/." There's laughter in Ion's voice, bright and amused. The sound of it follows him out -- actually on /foot/, not zapping off as he often does -- back off into the Commons grounds.
“Officially helpful,” Micah returns, still a hint of laughter laced through his words. He gives a wave before returning to his work, his own soft humming lost under the sounds of the machines at work.