ArchivedLogs:Eyes Open

Eyes Open
Dramatis Personae Micah, Rasheed, Regan, Lucien	22 November 2013 Discussing the state of affairs with Dr. Toure and Regan. Suddenly, there is a Lucien! (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. Micah is on his daily trip to the Clinic for re-stocking supplies, making sure the researchers actually eat and drink a thing from time to time, testing, and visiting with the now /two/ friends in convalescence there. At least these visits are simplified by the fact that both Hive and Lucien, being in unconscious states, are housed in the same room. Micah has doffed his winter gear now that he is inside, olive green jacket and obnoxiously bright orange Jayne hat thrown over the back of the chair that he now occupies. He remains in a pair of faded, patchy jeans and a red and orange plaid button-down shirt over a white tee. There is a mug of tea on Lucien’s bedside table that is there primarily for its aroma, though Micah does drink from it occasionally so that it doesn’t go to waste. He is prattling on in a one-sided conversation, primarily updates on what the twins and Spencer have been up to and what he knows of the progress in the curative drug’s manufacturing and distribution. Rasheed is quiet as he enters the room, moving over to Lucien’s bed, first. Much as he has been throughout this crisis, he’s dressed -- casually, for him, slacks and a dress shirt. With no tie or jacket! He’s fairly routine as he checks Lucien’s arm where the IV goes into it, and then goes to stop the IV and change out the old nearly-empty bag for a fresh one. He’s probably about to move on to Hive’s bed, but stops at the sight or smell of the tea at Lucien’s bedside, his lips twitching briefly upwards. “Mmm. That is good of you; I suspect he might go into withdrawal otherwise.” Behind Rasheed there is a Regan, /actually/ doing casual right in faded bluejeans, a dark blue t-shirt beneath an unzipped Columbia hoodie. She’s been gone for a day or so to tend to her own business; she pauses in the doorway with brows raising at the sight of the second inert body in the room. She looks over Hive with mild curiosity, psionic senses reflexively reaching out to poke thoughtfully at his mind. It puts a deeper frown on her face when she finds little there to /poke/. “Who’s this one?” “Afternoon, Dr. Toure.” A hint of a grin plays across Micah’s lips at the attention drawn to the tea. “Yeah, I… Scents are s’posed t’be one of the better things for reachin’ people in this...state. So I try t’keep a cup by whenever I visit. I was gonna bring some of his music in from his house, but anythin’ resemblin’ electronics.” He just shakes his head to indicate how that went. “Did grab a pillow an’ blanket t’bring in from there for ‘im, though.” His hand lifts to wave at the second person’s arrival. “Hi, Regan. That’s Hive. He’s had...um. Kind of a psionic mishap, also. Not sure what t’do for ‘im. Keepin’ ‘im here just for stayin’ in decent /physical/ condition in the meantime. Usually Lucien helps with this kinda thing, but…” The hand gestures toward Lucien’s bed before retiring to Micah’s lap. Rasheed’s eyes shift to Hive, too, when he is indicated, lips compressing more thinly. “There is, unfortunately, a dearth of research into the effects of psionics on neurology. And unlike Lucien, his brain shows little exceptional capacity to repair itself.” This all seems largely more directed towards Regan than Micah, as Rasheed moves aside to check Hive’s IV as well. “--Lucien, however, has been more responsive than before. Actual withdrawal from pain and his eyes open -- though as yet not,” he nods to Micah, “in response to verbal stimulus. Do you know,” he muses, “what sort of music he /enjoys/?” “Psionic mishap. Is the Clinic open for business now, then?” Regan’s hands are tucked into the pockets of her sweatshirt; they stay there as she wanders in closer. “His Pandora station was all classical. I don’t know if that’s a general preference or whether it just helps him work.” She’s looking at Hive, though, not Lucien, scrutinizing his face thoughtfully. “Mishap? What type of mishap?” “It’s promisin’, that there’s been any change at all,” Micah asserts, still watching Lucien. “He’s pretty much always playin’ classical at home. I’m not good enough at pickin’ out composers an’ whatnots t’be more specific. Knows a lot of musical theatre an’ such, too.” His head shakes again at Regan’s queston. “No, there’s been no official openin’. We’ve been kind of...horribly takin’ advantage for a lack of other options.” He glances over at Hive, frowning. “I don’t know how much he would be okay with me tellin’ people he doesn’t really know. Ain’t like I can /ask/ ‘im, either. I would...ask Jax if maybe he has a better idea what Hive would want. I’m kinda used t’havin’ people already in the loop for these things.” Lacking a better answer, he just shrugs, his expression apologetic. “What Hive would want, I imagine, is his life back.” Rasheed says this in a quiet murmur, frowning at the redness around the IV site and going to get a cart so that he can change it out. “We have computers. There could be music. Though I know little of Hive’s preferences.” His tone here is a little drier. He disappears into the bathroom to wash his hands. “And no. The clinic is not open, though I suppose it would be a poor showing if it could not care for the man who built it.” “I don’t imagine he’s much different from the rest of New York in that respect. -- /Built/ it? He looks -- young.” Regan turns her gaze away from Hive, back towards Micah and Lucien instead. “Understandable,” she agrees, though even with this agreement she’s focusing in on Micah to listen curiously to whatever pertinent information might skate the surface of his thoughts. “It wasn’t related to this disease though, was it? We haven’t really had a lot of opportunity to explore whether or not it affects people with psionic abilities any differently.” “I s'pose that's true, but I'd...rather talk t'Jax or Flicker an' see what they think first. S'prob'ly a good idea, either way. He's gonna need...a lotta help. So it'd be good t'know goin' forward.” Micah's mind is occupied with fretting over a memory involving a library, shadows, an upset Hive. Another small smile pulls at his lips as he continues speaking. “Most of the time I've ever heard 'im listenin' t'music, s'been the kind playin' durin' video games. I don't think he'd object too strongly t'some quiet classical music goin' in the background, though. 'Specially if it's t'help someone. He's used t'havin' a lotta...noise around.” << With as much as he usually has t'filter through in his head, he likely wouldn't even notice. >> “He /is/ young,” he answers simply. “An' no, it's not related t'the disease at all. Thank goodness, he managed not t'catch it.” << Some benefit t'him not talkin' for so long. Who knows what would've happened t'all the people in his head if he'd've caught it. Prob'ly would've eaten every mind he came in contact with, too. >> Something about that makes him shiver slightly. “I don’t believe Iolaus had an enormous wealth of /options/ of those willing to take on --” Rasheed emerges from the bathroom to stand by Hive’s bed again, donning gloves and carefully peeling back the tegaderm to remove the catheter. “-- a project like this one. And much as I have been known to take some /risks/ in the name of science I think that experimenting with this disease and psionic powers is somewhat more risk than my curiosity is willing to put anyone through.” “Thank goodness,” Regan echoes Micah’s sentiment, dragging a chair over to sit on the other side of Lucien’s bed. Her mind withdraws, attention now focusing on Micah only outwardly, her hands withdrawing from her pockets to fold in her lap. “Ah, a friend of Flicker and Jax. Them I know. Though I’d imagine building this place would earn him care regardless of his other associations. Young or not, it’s an /impressive/ piece of architecture. He’s Flicker and Dusk’s last roommate, mm? I imagine he /would/ be used to some noise. -- There is,” she adds with a small note of amusement, “a few artists out there who do classical renditions of video game themes. Two birds, one stone.” “He did a good job.” Micah's tone is just the /slightest/ bit defensive. “An'...no. That sounds like the worst idea of a project. I'd stay as far away from that as possible.” << Experimentin' with this kinda thing is what /got/ us here in the first place. >> “Yeah, he's a friend. An'...roommate, yes.” A stain of red spills none-too-subtly across Micah's cheeks at Regan's noise comment. He latches quickly onto the safer discussion of music. “Somehow that seems like it might be outside what Luci's familiar with. I'd just...find some /classic/ classical. S'more likely t'hit on somethin' he might know.” “He certainly did. I think this ordeal has proved that much. The world can fall apart around it and this building weathers it -- elegantly.” Rasheed puts a band-aid on the old catheter site, moving the cart around the bed to the other side to start a line on Hive’s other arm instead. “Nevertheless, he was unlikely to have /gotten/ the job if not for the unique nature of this venture. Hardship puts all sorts of challenges in front of people. It takes exceptional talents to turn those into opportunities.” Regan’s head tips slightly to the side, blue eyes watching Micah at that spill of red. “Roomfriend.” This word comes with a very small twitch of her lips. “He’s lucky to have such good friends.” Her eyes flick over to Rasheed, brows raising slightly. “I think we’ve been seeing a lot of that, lately. New York has seen a lot of very impressive acts through all this. I suppose most crises are similar.” “Think this is prob'ly the safest spot in the ci--New York in this kinda crisis,” Micah agrees with a fond nod, glancing Hive's direction once more, watching the line change. Regan's head tilt dials the red in his face and ears up a few shades. “Have been an awful lot of thrillin' heroics lately. S'a shame they've been so /necessary/ as t'be so frequent anymore. Things seem t'be...calmin' down a bit, though. Thanks t'you folks.” “And thanks to you.” Rasheed finishes getting Hive’s IV in place, starting the drip again once it is done. “Your family does seem to all have a penchant for heroics. But perhaps before long they won’t be quite so necessary anymore.” He pulls off his gloves, balling them together to throw them away before he heads towards the door. “Take care, Micah.” “There was plenty of need for heroics long before the dead started attacking. I am sure there will be plenty more afterwards.” Regan watches as Rasheed finishes up and starts to head out. “Mmm. Yes. Thanks to everyone here, New York will get back to normal.” Her tone is dry, here. “Instead of the dead killing everyone we will just have the police shooting mutant children in the streets. All will be right with the world once more.” “Yes, thanks t'the mighty pincushion,” Micah replies with a tone somewhere between playful and sarcastic. “You're too kind. Hopefully...heroics related t'/this/ crisis won't be needed so much 'fore long. 'Fraid we've got plenty enough more t'deal with down the pike, though.” He waves to the doctor as he takes his leave. “You, too, Doc. There's some veggie chilli in the fridge upstairs. And a new bag of coffee! Don't forget t'keep yourself fed an' watered.” He nods at Regan's assessment, his mind filling with thoughts of Ian, freeing the twins from the cops' fight club, a phantom-ache in his own side. “Ain't right. We just got...priority level on crises. Still got those others waitin' for us. We remember.” He reaches out to pet at Lucien's hand idly where it rests atop his blanket. “There would be little medical progress without subjects to undergo the trials.” Rasheed nods to Micah. “Chili. Excellent. Thank you.” He disappears, closing the door behind himself. Beneath Micah’s fingers, Lucien’s twitch, briefly. His head shifts just slightly, eyes still closed though his head angles towards Micah. “There’ll always be more. I think you just take your victories --” Regan’s eyes widen, shifting down to those small twitches of movement. “... as they come,” she finishes in a murmur. She gets up too, disappearing swiftly from the room, though only long enough to retrieve her laptop from one of the neighboring rooms. She returns with it, opening up YouTube to start playing a Mendelssohn violin concerto. Micah's lips are just parting to answer Rasheed when he feels the twitch beneath his fingers. “Lucien?” When the man's head turns, Micah picks up his hand between both of his, petting at it more firmly. “Hey, Lucien, hon. It's Micah. Regan's here, too, she's brought y'some music.” He nods to Regan as she starts up the song, mouthing a soft, “Thank you,” in her direction. There’s a very small flutter of Lucien’s eyelids. His fingers curl inward, wrapping against Micah’s. Something trickles out from his touch, uncomfortably headachey and disoriented, but at least the latter part of this starts to fade away at the sound of the music. “Lucien. We did it.” Regan’s voice is quiet, against the strains of the music. She looks back to the laptop screen, queueing up several more classical songs. “Distribution of the cure is underway. I think we may actually beat this thing.” She sets the laptop beside his bed, studying his face. “Your siblings have been worried about you.” And quieter, to Micah: “I’ll tell Dr. Toure. Just keep talking to him.” She stands, flicking one more glance to the other two, and then heads out as well. “That's good. That's good, hon. Hold onto my hand.” Micah squeezes Lucien's hand, having to remind himself not to overdo it in his excitement. The discomfort from Lucien is completely overwhelmed by his own grateful-relieved-ecstatic-hopeful rush of feeling at seeing the other man respond, his eyes /almost/ opening. “She's right. Y'all defeated this disease. All of us y'were testin' on are better already. Me'n Jax'n Dusk'n Flicker'n everybody. Cured. This thing is finally bein' /defeated/ for real.” He nods to Regan again as she leaves, his eyes not moving from where they've locked on Lucien's face. Lucien’s lips part at the rush of grateful-relieved-ecstatic-hopeful from Micah, a slow breath pulled in as his hand squeezes tighter. This time when his eyes flutter they do open, slow and wincing against the light once they do. It takes them a while to focus, squinting up at Micah’s face. His tongue slips out to wet his lips, but at first whatever he is attempting to say only comes out as a dry croak. His eyes close again, and a paler echo of Micah’s wash of feeling is echoed back to him. Quieter, more reserved, flavoured more with Lucien’s feeling now than Micah’s own. “Hey, hon.” Micah smiles down at Lucien as his eyes open. “Ain't seen those pretty green eyes in too long.” He pats at Lucien's hand when he attempts to speak. “Shh, though, y'don't have t'try t'talk yet. Y'want some ice chips? I think the pitcher we been keepin' by the bed ain't completely melted off just yet.” He frees up one hand to shake the pitcher, checking for the indicative clink of ice instead of just watery sloshing. From the sound of it there is still a little ice hiding in the meltwater. Lucien’s eyes squeeze closed tighter, the throb of headache leaking from him increasing. He nods, at the offer of ice; his fingers shift to curl through Micah’s. His head tilts, just listening to the music coming from the laptop, now. Micah pushes past the headache feeling, though his smile does falter briefly in sympathy. He takes up the pitcher, pouring a small amount of its contents into the little plastic cup beside it to facilitate the retrieval of a single large ice chip between his fingers. “S'gonna be cold, hon,” he warns softly before pressing the ice just against Lucien's lips, sliding it slowly to moisten them. Lucien shivers at the touch of the ice cube, head reflexively turning from it despite having asked for it. He turns back, though, lips parting so that he can suck at the ice cube, swallowing greedily once enough of it has melted to do so. After this he tries speaking again, still soft and creaky. “Sera? Gae -- are they.” His eyes open again to look up at Micah. Squint up at Micah, the relentless throbbing in his head all too apparent as it continues to spill over to the other man. Micah holds the ice still until Lucien's mouth opens, then presses it gently between the other man's lips. “They're fine. Safe. Healthy,” he reassures in equally gentle tones. “We'll make sure t'get y'some analgesics when Dr. Toure returns, hon.” Though he's not letting go of the other man's hand any time soon. Instead he nods his head forward, brushing a light kiss to his knuckles. “Is there anythin' else y'need? More ice?” Lucien nods, relaxing at the assurance that his family is alright. His free hand slowly shifts, resting against the back of Micah’s head after that small kiss. He gives one small shake of his head, fingers dropping downwards to press gently against the back of Micah’s neck. “Stay,” he whispers, as his eyes slip back closed. “{Please.}” With that touch to his neck, Micah keeps his head bowed forward, leaving the skin bared to Lucien's fingers. His forehead presses lightly against the back of the other man's hand, where it is held in his own. “Of course, hon. I got absolutely no place more important t'be just now.”