ArchivedLogs:Cyborg Solidarity

Cyborg Solidarity
Dramatis Personae Elliott, Deanna, Micah	4 January 2014 Micah is having a bad day. Elliott makes it a little better.
Location <NYC> Montagues – SoHo
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream but don't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. The heavy snows outside have reduced foot traffic to a mere trickle. It makes things inside Montagues quietly cozy; it's populated, but not with a /large/ crowd. A woman with two small children at one table, a pair of men tucked together on a couch, one laughing with his head on the other man's shoulder, a woman in a neat pants suit on a laptop in the corner. Elliott is in an armchair, heavy jeans and soft v-neck sweater with a wealth of winter gear draped over the back of her seat and a pair of forearm crutches resting up against the side of the chair. "-- not even that many decent candidates /out/ there, are there? I can't really imagine who," she's saying to her companion as she ties her hair back into a ponytail. Deanna sits at a chair opposite, her thick dreadlocks left loose, today, save for a blue and white bandanna tied up at her forehead. She's plainly dressed in boots, olive cargo pants, a Navy sweatshirt. She is splitting her attention between eying Elliott and eying the menu board at the front; the lack of food or drink at their table suggests a lack of /decision/, yet. Her lips twitch. Briefly. Up. "Luke Cage," her low voice suggests. Outside the cozy-warm coffee shop, there is bitter cold wind whipping through the sunny streets, and inches of piled snow growing ever-grimier where it has been pushed aside. There is also some yelling. Some running, some slipping, some snow and ice being thrown. What likely draws the most attention is a thud at the front door where an olive puffy-coat covered shoulder slams into it. Micah's long candy-corn striped scarf is coming unravelled from his neck, Jayne hat completely caked in snow-grit and shoved into one hand. His messy auburn hair isn't faring much better, with a fair amount of the cold stuff clinging to it in clumps. With exertion already reddening his face, the redder patch covering the area over his left eye is at least a little less jarring. Micah manages to collect his neon orange forearm crutches and keep their rather nasty-sharp snow/ice attachments from scratching up the door as he shoves himself through it, just standing on the mat for awhile, leaking snow and dripping snowmelt. No one follows him in, at least. He rubs a green-gloved hand over his eye, offering a sheepish look to one of the servers at the small mess he's making of the entryway. Elliott exhales a quick laugh at this suggestion, head shaking. "Not the /least/ popular choice you could make. You could have picked --" Cue the door opening; Elliott's eyes shift towards it and the laughter dies on her lips. She studies Micah in silence for a time after he enters, and then pushes to her feet. Her hands slip into her rear pockets as she approaches Micah. Studying his face, its redder patch, studying the door beyond. "You need someone punched?" she offers lightly. "We get lots of training on punching." Deanna's half-smile dies, too. Her black eyes follow Elliott's towards the door. Her eyebrows hike up, though, when the other woman goes to offer -- assistance. She gives her head one quick shake, standing as well. "That is one thing we're good at." She studies Micah's face, too, though it's with a growing frown. "Not sure you're making the offer to the right person, though." Micah shoves his hat into one pocket, despite the wet-mess it's likely to make there. Then he disentangles himself from the scarf to do much the same. His eyes are a little too-blinky, trying to get grit out of that left one and sore from where the hard clod of packed snow had hit. The lid starting to swell a little likely isn't /helping/ the situation. "Please don't," he starts before biting his lip, taking a few moments longer than typical to recognise the person in front of him. "I don't think they're followin'. It's...not gonna help nothin'. I don't want nobody hurt. An' if...the cops get into it, ain't gonna go well for me anyhow. S'just a lotta people with a lotta their /own/ hurt t'deal with, I think. All this snow bein' 'round's just too...temptin'. For people t'really stop an' think about what they're doin'. Maybe they'll even regret it later." His voice stays quiet throughout his reply, his shaking hands working to remove his wet gloves and stuff them into the pocket with his hat, to work the zipper of his dirt-streaked coat open. "New York has had more than its share of hurt lately," Elliott agrees rather carefully, looking away from Micah's face to the door. Then down to his shaking hands, with a deeper frown. "You wanna sit? We were just about to order, we can grab yours too." She waves a hand towards the comfortable armchairs clustered around the table they just vacated. "Guess it's better snow than some things it could be." Deanna's mouth twitches at this invitation. Pressing thin, pressing /down/. "Hurt that his family wrought." Her voice is quiet, but there's a hardness to it all the same. "How else would people respond? They've lost friends, they've lost family, some people have lost everything. All they'll regret is that it was /only/ snow." "Don't think there was even any rocks in it /this/ time," Micah agrees with a sad sort of almost-smile, gathering all of his winter gear into his arms, along with both crutches. He shakes his head at the offer to share a table as Deanna's comments continue. "/You/ wanna punch me?" he finally asks, the question not rhetorical but rather just /tired/ as he looks up to regard the other woman. "Just...let me put all this stuff down first. An' step outside. I'd prefer not t'bleed all over these nice people's floor." He shifts uncomfortably, adjusting his bundle to avoid dropping it. "My family ain't done /nothin'/ t'hurt nobody. Don't make no dif'rence what I say if people wanna trust the words of a mentally ill dead man over any other evidence, though." He chooses a booth to set his things in, then rights himself again. "So, can I go order my lunch or should I go back outside first?" "Allegedly wrought," Elliott corrects reflexively, "you might want to let the man have a /trial/ before you condemn him." Her head turns, eyes narrowing on Deanna. "Back off, Dee. Whatever his --" Her lips press together. "Whatever Jackson did or didn't do I'm sure /his/ family's been through a lot of hurt themselves. And nobody," her eyes stay fixed on Deanna steadily, "is starting a /fight/ here." "Kinda do," Deanna agrees, with the offer to punch Micah. She /doesn't/, though; instead she takes a step back with a sharp huff of breath when Elliott says to back off. "Got enough evidence to hold him on. Haven't seen anyone deny he let that man out." But she presses her lips together, head shaking in some disgust. "Fine. Enjoy your damn lunch." She turns, returning to her own table to grab her outdoor things for heading off. “What trial?” Micah asks, a little exhausted, a little bitter. “Don't need no...real evidence. Somebody says the word 'terrorist' loud enough in this country anymore, y'get put in detention for s'long as the government /pleases/ without due process.” The muscles in his jaw tense as Deanna stalks off. “Apologies, Elliott. Didn't mean t'interrupt your meetin'. An' wasn't gonna start any fight, was just gonna get hit. Again.” His hand moves reflexively into a loose fist, circling over his heart in signed apology, as well. “I need...t'go. Order food. Promised my boys that I'd eat.” He doesn't sound particularly sanguine about the prospect as he heads for the counter. Elliott's eyes track Deanna out towards the door, but she makes no move to stop the other woman leaving. "Not a meeting. Just lunch. And I knew /you/ weren't going to start a fight." Her lips twitch briefly up again, at this. She shakes her head, trailing Micah towards the counter. "-- So he didn't?" There's quiet curiosity in her voice. "Free the man who started this." But she turns away from Micah to look towards the menu, slipping a wallet from her rear pocket and thwapping it absently into the palm of the opposite hand. "Your boys. The both of you /still/ look way too young for kids." Micah catches up with the end of the line, wrapping his arms around himself as he waits, still a bit blinky-eyed. “Pretty sure the people who started this have been free the whole time.” His head shakes. “An' prob'ly will /continue/ t'be. Though who knows if an' when I'll get my husband an' friends back.” His chuckle at the comment of age and children is mirthless. “I'll be thirty in a few years. Old enough for kid, if not kids...prob'ly not the ones we /have/, given their ages. Jax is...still pretty young for kids at all. They're adopted, just no less ours.” "Then who did start it?" Elliott doesn't sound accusatory, just quietly thoughtful. Her eyes widen slightly at the mention of Micah's age, though. "No. You? I'd still /card/ you if you tried to buy a drink off me. And he barely looks out of high school -- in all the footage, anyway." A small blush darkens her cheeks, and she turns her attention back to the menu. "You see the video I had put out? S'all true. Vector was a college student with a mildly dangerous mutation 'til the Prometheus program took 'im, experimented on 'im, an' tried t'turn 'im into a weapon. If people need somebody t'blame...it's sittin' right there for 'em." Micah runs his hand through his hair, fingers coming back cold, damp, and a little dirty. He looks down at it with a slight blush developing across his cheeks. "He /is/ barely out of high school. Just a few years, anyhow." He steps forward when he's next in line, ordering a toasted turkey and avocado sandwich with a hot chai. "I should...prob'ly go try an' wash up a little while they make it," he informs Elliott, the flush of his cheeks only deepening as he calls attention to how grubby he is at the moment. "It's all kind of a lot for someone so young." Elliott orders a hot ham and cheese panini for herself, together with a large mocha, double shot of espresso. Her frown stays rumpled into place as Micah speaks. "I saw the video," she acknowledges reluctantly. "It's just kind of your word against theirs at the moment, it's -- a mess of a situation. But if /they/ did it, they should be the ones getting arrested." She speaks slowly, not particularly certainly; it's with a touch of distraction that she nods in acknowledgement. "Wash up. Right. It's ugly out there." Micah passes over a few crumpled bills, trying his best not to pass over grit along with it. "I'd be happy with 'em dismissin' the charges an' /ecstatic/ with 'em shuttin' down the torture labs. Not holdin' m'breath for the people responsible t'ever be held accountable." He sighs heavily, looking at his hands again. "I'll be...just a few minutes." Micah is true to his word, returning some five minutes later from the bathroom with his TARDIS blue polo shirt neatly tucked and straightened, a damp spot on one knee of his khakis where he's cleaned off some snow mess. His face looks freshly washed, eyes no longer blinking as uncomfortably (perhaps having rinsed the grit from /there/, as well). His hair, too, is a little more wet in the back where he tried to wash away some of the road grime that had gotten into the snow that clung there. At least his hands are decidedly clean when he steps back up to the counter to claim his drink and sandwich. "Honestly, I could just use a /shower/. But I got a few more appointments scheduled after this." Elliott is just quiet, as Micah heads off. By the time he returns her drink and sandwich are coming up as well, though she's lingered without moving back to her seat. She leans up against the counter, looking over Micah again for a moment. "Appointments in what part of town?" Her fingers curl around her cup, and she looks back to /her/ table with a questioning lift of brows. "... I had heard," she admits, slowly. "About programs -- working with mutants. With mutant abilities. But nobody ever said anything about --" She exhales quick and sharp. "Torturing people. Torturing children." With soft thanks given to the server, Micah collects his sandwich and his drink, along with a couple of napkins. "Here an' there. Next one's over Harlem. I do home visits for medical equipment. Go wherever the patients are." He glances sidewise at Elliott's table, as well. "I'll sit with you...if y'really wanna be seen with me. People usually aren't kind t'anybody associatin' with me anymore. S'one thing t'talk t'me when we're next t'each other in line. S'another t'have me at your table." His look at this is apologetic. "But...yeah. Children...can be easier t'get hold of. They take a lot of 'em from their families with false promises of 'treatment'. Or just promises t'take 'em /away/, which is enough for some who're overwhelmed an' horrified by their own /kids/. Not t'mention the homeless kids they can snatch off the streets an' don't nobody even go lookin' for 'em. So /many/ children. S'how we got our boys. All three of 'em. Taken an' tortured. Our twins are...makin' videos t'tell their stories, too. They're teenagers now. The youngest wanted to, too, but...I couldn't. Let 'im put his face out there. He's only eight an' it just makes me sick thinkin' of people tryin' t'hurt 'im /again/." "Harlem? I live up by Harlem. Could pack this all to go, swing by and get you a shower before you have to get back to work. You look," Elliott says with a wry smile, "like you could /use/ a little warmth." She just shrugs at the question of being seen with him. "People know who you are. But they know who I am too," she says with a small shrug that renders her words less bragging and more just stating a fact. "I'd have to fraternize with a lot of terrorists before people think /I'm/ one. Who knows, maybe it'll be good for /your/ image." She's already turning back to the counter, politely apologetic (and with a few extra bills dropped in the tip cup) as she asks for her sandwich to be wrapped up. And Micah's, too, /presumptively/. A thread of tension works through her shoulders at the talk of kidnapped children. "Eight. Who would --" She draws in a slow breath through her teeth. "I can't imagine it's easy to find homes for mutant kids. Let alone ones who've been -- through trauma. You and your husband adopted /three/ of them?" "Oh, I couldn't...ask y'to do that," Micah demurs with downcast eyes and a return of pale pink flush to his cheeks. "Would that more people got that benefit of the doubt. They just been assumin' everyone Jax an' I know are terrorists. Surveillance everywhere. Bugged a couple of the apartments in my buildin'. Everybody's...antsy. As if there weren't enough t'be upset an' uncomfortable over already." His eyes scrunch closed at the mention of traumatised children. "Jax had already taken the boys in before I met 'im. They were still just fosters then, though. Didn't get the official adoption papers 'til after I'd been around a good while. Married him an' adopted them the same day." This memory affords a slip of a smile, though it is soon extinguished. "Would that we could keep 'em /all/. They're...it's like lettin' abused /puppies/ back out into the world after he gets 'em out of these places. Some of 'em don't really remember the outside world so much. Or how t'be /people/ by the time they get out. So...abused puppies that nobody else /wants/." His head shakes a little at this. "Can't hoard kids, though. 'Specially on the kinda limited resources we have. Wouldn't be fair to 'em, neither." "You didn't ask," Elliott points out easily, quietly sneeeeeaking Micah's sandwich right out of his hand to deliver it for Packing Up. "I mean -- it makes sense. /If/ he did what he's accused of doing, that's -- I can't even wrap my head around that scale of --" The breath she draws in is slow. "So the surveillance makes sense. But I've got nothing to -- surveil anyway. They can listen to me doing my law homework all they want." Her fingers tap against the side of her cup quickly. "... isn't that dangerous?" Micah doesn't resist or even argue the sandwich theft, just blushing brighter. "Ain't no 'if'. Ain't no 'if' about it. Man /literally/ wouldn't hurt a fly. S'a vegan an' an animal rights activist an' ain't never even...hurt people as were tryin' t'kill 'im. Tryin' t'kill /me/. Let 'imself be tortured in one of those labs 'imself rather than be forced t'hurt people. They took 'is eye an' one of 'is fingers for it...for bein' a good man. Now Captain Rogers is tryin' t'take 'is /life/ for it." His voice tightens some by the end of this. He covers by bringing his travel cup up to his lips, sipping at the liquid, eyes going wide when (surprise!) the recently-made drink proves still-too-hot. At least the wince looks like it's just over the /drink/ now. "S'what dangerous? Feels like everythin' I do's dangerous anymore. Gettin' /lunch/ is dangerous." "I did hear he was kind of a hippie." There's a quick curl of smile that accompanies this, though it's short-lived. Elliott leaves her drink on the counter, heading back to her seat to start putting her layers of clothing back on. "-- Is that how he lost his eye?" Her own eyes widen. "This all sounds so much -- {I'm sorry}," slips briefly into Spanish, "I realize this must be a nightmare for your family it's just. This all sounds like something out of a -- who /does/ that?" She buttons up her jacket, tucking her crutches beneath an arm. "Traumatized teenagers with superpowers. It sounds – volatile." Micah collects Elliott's cup, carrying them both to stand close to her while she gets into her layers, keeping an eye on the counter for when their sandwiches return. "It is," he confirms of the eye. "It...sounds like some ridiculous horror story, I know. Would be hard t'believe if it weren't all /true/. Stranger'n fiction, they say." He sighs down at the cups in his hands. "It /can/ be...the kids. We get 'em back t'their families or set up with schools that know their backgrounds an' how t'handle 'em. But it's also part of why the Mendel Clinic was so very needed. Their mental health department's one of the busiest. A lotta these folks recognise they need help. Just ain't able t'get it. But more of 'em do now. We make sure they ain't just...out on their own anymore." Another twitch of smile comes with this. "/Still/ kinda wanna keep 'em all." "Mmm. It's kind of -- I mean, I can see how studying mutant powers /could/ be immensely useful, if not for the whole --" Elliott waves fingers towards her eye as she finishes dressing. She grimaces as she looks from the cups to her crutches and back. "-- OK, so, this is my first winter as a cyborg, maybe you can tell me how you deal with carrying drinks. I need extra hands -- hey!" A quick smile curls across her face briefly. "/You/ can totally make me extra hands, right?" “Oh, of course. If ev'rybody just went about it in a voluntary an' helpful way. Like Doctor Saavedro's doin'. It'd be a dif'rent story altogether.” Micah smiles at Elliott's question of carrying. “No need for extra hands. Just get good travel cups an' those...little trays that they sit in? Then put the tray in the bottom of a bag with handles. Can hang it off your wrist that way. I mean...I don't promise nothin'll spill at all. So it's usually safer to drink things down a /little/ so's they aren't as likely t'slosh.” Elliott considers this, then takes her cup to take a few sips, bring the level of mocha down inside it. "But you could make me extra hands /too/, right?" Her smile is warm, and a little crooked. She returns to the counter when their sandwiches are returned to them, to get a travel tray as well. And a bag. She relieves Micah of the cups to arrange this all carefully in the bag. It's only once all of this is finished that she admits to Micah, a little reluctantly: "I met him. Not -- /long/ ago. The man your husband k-- well. The man who /claimed/ your husband killed him." Micah also takes a few more sips of his chai. "Sure could. S'harder t'work out where t'put 'em when you're not just replacin' factory-standard parts, but, can be done." He assists with getting the lunch materials settled, then collects his own crutches and coat. He doesn't bother with anything but the coat, the other winter gear far too wet to be of any use in the cold. "Jax was nowhere near it. In church the whole time, got over a dozen people who'll say. That video would've gone out if the captain had been hit by a /bus/, y'know. Jax wouldn't ever. Not even when his soldiers were tryin' t'kill me, he wouldn't. Not when Captain Rogers practically /begged/ 'im to, threatened our /children/ if he didn't." Micah takes the bag with the drinks, leaving the sandwiches for Elliott to handle. "In church. You're shitting me, right? That's like. You can't /make up/ that alibi. Was he preaching the sermon, too?" Elliott takes the sandwiches and tucks them into an oversized coat pocket. She heads for the door, pushing it open with a shoulder and then holding it for Micah as she settles her crutches onto her arms. "Why would he want to kill /you/? Out of all this horror story that part's just /baffling/." Until he gets out the door, Micah carries his crutches along with the bag of drinks. He switches over to a four-point gait once he hits pavement. “Reading. From the Bible.” Another little smile finds its way onto his lips, though this is somewhat subsumed in the wincing against the wind in his face and the shivering at the cold. The Southerner clearly doesn't do so /well/ without all of his ridiculous outdoor gear on. “At the time? I was a witness t'the attempt t'kill Jax. After that...t'get t'him. T'hurt 'im. Just like all the threats at the kids. At our friends. At the.../dog/. It...was all t'hurt Jax.” "Oh, Jesus, let's get you inside before you turn into an icicle, boy. Freaking Southerners." Elliott is heading for the curb, eyes habitually scanning the street with a keen New Yorker TAXI sense, but then she remembers to turn to Micah: "... Right, work, did you drive?" This interlude has given her time to collect her thoughts enough that she only wears a small frown for the rest of it. "That all seems," she says apologetically, "a little bit insane." “S--apologies. Bad enough in the cold, but now I'm half-uncovered an' m'hair's wet.” And his lips are a little blue. Micah pauses to gesture Elliott toward his van, parked in one of the few spaces behind Montagues. “Not a little bit insane. A whole...great-big pile of insane. S'why...I said I wished that the military had gotten Captain Rogers help 'stead of puttin' 'im in charge of a whole...division-thing. He wasn't okay, Elliott.” He continues walking to the van, using a keyfob to unlock the doors once they're next to it. Elliott shakes her head as she opens the door, tapping snow off of crutches and boots both as she climbs carefully into the van. "Well. We can pray that someone more balanced takes over HAMMER from him." She takes out her cellphone to open up her map, turning on navigation to bring them to her building. "Thankfully," she adds, more lightly, "I have /plenty/ of hot water." Micah very nearly makes his way to the door to open it /for/ Elliott, but as she reaches for it he decides she's probably not the type to necessarily appreciate that particular gesture. He gives a sheepish smile instead, getting himself and the hot drinks in the driver's side and turning the heat on as soon as the vehicle is started. "Hopefully's more'n /prayer/ guidin' their staffin' decisions," he murmurs as he pulls out onto the road, following the guidance of Elliott's phone. "Thanks again...this is kinda far above an' beyond reasonable expectations for...acquaintances, really." "Well. Prayer and sanity, but the prayer doesn't hurt." Elliott buckles up her seatbelt, relaxing back into the seat as they get on the road. "Pfft," she dismisses the thanks with a wave of her hand. "I watch the news. Figure you need all the kindness you can /get/ right about now. Besides." Her teeth flash, though her smile's a little lopsided. Her finger taps down against her knee. "Figure cyborgs gotta stick together." That answer earns a simple nod, Micah's eyes staying on the road where they belong. He does smile at her plans of kindness and cyborg unity, however. “Thank you,” he says again, despite this coming on the very heels of her dismissing the /last/ thanks. “Kindness...s'kinda been in short supply lately.” He even laughs at the last comment, flicking the turn signal. “Now /that's/ a plan I can get behind.”