ArchivedLogs:Fashion Emergency

Fashion Emergency
Dramatis Personae Morgan, Micah
In Absentia	23 August 2014 A series of unfortunate events.
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. Unaccustomed to dressing her best for any occasion unless that best means her uniform, Morgan fidgets uncomfortably as she click-clacks down the city's uneven sidewalk. Her straw-colored hair is pulled back in a tidy updo, ringlets of the secret clip-in hair extension she has in bouncing as she walks. Her breasts are pushed impossibly up and padded beneath a silk blouse and her muscular legs are all but bound into a charcoal pencil skirt - the woman who convinced her to buy it now living on borrowed time. Though weather has broken for a momentary respite, it's just past noon on a hot and otherwise rainy Saturday. Morgan is wandering aimlessly after a job interview gone wrong, swinging the only small, black purse that she even owns at her side. Puckering her pink-painted lips in thought, she peeks out from under the manila envelope she'd been using as an umbrella. The curbside is currently occupied by a large blue van painted up to look like the TARDIS, with the addition of a large logo splashed on one side of a gorilla propelling a racing wheelchair. Out of the driver's side door slips a slim young man in sneakers, faded jeans, a black T-shirt with a reproduction of a parchment page with sketches of Toothless and prosthetic designs on it, and an olive newsboy cap keeping the worst of the wet out of his eyes. Messy locks of auburn hair peek out from under the cap here and there, and a messenger bag hangs by one hip with a canvas shopping bag at the other. Micah pushes the door closed with a shoulder and beeps the locks from his keyfob. The backward step he takes onto the sidewalk carries him into Morgan's path. He pulls up short and side-steps as soon as he realises. "Oh, beg pardon." A faint blush brightens his cheeks and he reaches up to the brim of his hat in a gesture that implies a small tip. "Oh, excuse me," Morgan prances on her heels to side-step politely out of the way as well, bringing her closer to Micah and well, still in his way. She smiles broadly at the mistake and maybe the blush, "My fault! I'm not used to heels, they dull my senses! Please, after you," she explains jokingly, gesturing fantastically and dropping her envelope in the process, a few of her resumes spilling out onto the damp ground. "Ah, damn it." Bending down in this skirt is whole operation. "Oh, think nothin'... I was walkin' backwards an' not payin' enough mind." Micah's accent is decidedly Not From Around Here, flavoured heavily with rural South. "S'better not t'be used t'heels. They're kinda awful from an ergonomic standpoint." The observation comes with a lopsided grin, though that is soon eclipsed by widening eyes as Morgan loses her papers. "Oh/gosh/, apologies! Lemme get those for you. S'the least I could..." He's already scrambling around a little less than gracefully, trying to collect all of the papers quickly before the rain-damp soaks into them. Morgan bends her knees inward, reaching ground level considerably less easily than Micah, "You're a sweetheart!" She laughs, waggling her eyebrows and shaking her head, "They aren't that important, really." Holding up her hand for balance into the otherwise unoccupied space to the sidewalk, Morgan allows the thin strap of her purse to slide down to her wrist. The glittery black bag, no bigger than a balled fist, bounces there at roughly eye level with them as they collect the papers. Until she gets a bite and the straps grow taught, snapping almost instantly. Morgan falls onto her palms with the force as a teen in a hoodie hop-steps away from the pair. "Hey!" "Figure they'd be better in hand than turnin' into pulp on the sidewalk." Papers collected, Micah returns them to their slightly-soggy envelope. He is just on his way to handing them over to Morgan when the woman tumbles forward. His movement carries forward easily to more of a supportive position, hands on Morgan's shoulders to prevent the fall from becoming any worse. It takes him a moment to realise the cause of her forward momentum. "Hey...kid, seriously. I'll give you the cash if y'leave the lady's bag. Keep the legal trouble out of it." Neither of them are in a position to give chase, certainly. The offer sounds sincere enough. Moving gingerly, the thief turns to sneer over his shoulder. He hisses something unintelligible but likely on the derogatory side as he builds up some distance. Morgan pushes up off of the cement, using Micah as leverage as she springs to her feet. There is an audible tear of fabric as she prances forward on her heels. "Freeze!" Morgan rumbles as she starts to give chase, likely in vain. Recognizing the sound of a cop when he hears it, the inexperienced purse-snatcher looks back in panic a half a block up. He stumbles into a few people, pushing them to the ground. Morgan uses this time to kick off her heels and gain on him. Well, it was worth a try. Micah looks vaguely disappointed as the kid keeps running. Morgan's push off of him is a bit more unsettling that it would be on average, considering balancing in a crouch with a prosthetic leg is a bit on the challenging side. The young man rather heroically topples and lands hard on his bottom. He just watches the pursuit with a wince. Now pitter-pattering on the balls of her feet with a slit in the side of her skirt up to her hip, Morgan majestically leaps over the other innocent bystanders on the ground. Up ahead, the purse-snatcher keeps checking back behind him. Panicking, he rushes out into the middle of the street. "I said FREEZE!" Morgan commands from the curb. And he does, mid-skip in the center of the lane with the purse hovering behind him on a frozen, broken strap. Both palms up, Morgan looks horrified. A fraction of a second later, a bicyclist slams into the teen and wipes out. The thief is unfrozen and roughly topples onto the pavement. Oh, lovely. Now there are more people down. And in the middle of the road. Micah scuttles back and up onto his feet, rushing toward the grounded cyclist and teen at an uneven lope-jog. It's the fastest he's getting without a running foot on. "Sir, are you okay?" he calls as he approaches, since, well...it's taking awhile. "Can we do somethin' 'bout traffic, please?" This last is aimed at Morgan. She had good authority-voice, after all. Morgan steps off of the curb, not the hint of an expression marring her pretty face. Palm out, she halts oncoming traffic, directing it to go around the scene. "Everybody alright?" She asks dryly, peeking guiltily over out of her peripheral. The biker grunts as she crawls back onto her feet, hands moving up to adjust her helmet. "I'm okay," the girl snaps, disengaging herself and her bike from the teen with a bit of a limp. The teen blinks up at Micah once he finally appears and groaning, holds up Morgan's purse to him. Micah /finally/ arrives on the scene, stepping out into the road when it is clear that Morgan has traffic under control. "I know first aid if y'need help," he offers the girl, though he is kneeling by the teen on the ground instead. "Are you okay?" he asks again, going over him for signs of injury. "I'm checkin' t'see if you're okay t'move. We shouldn't stay in the middle of the road." Bag? What bag? The thief winces, scrambling back away from Micah slowly at first and then, more hysterically, "Yo, get the fuck away from me!" The purse drags on the ground in his wake as he moves to scramble onto his feet. The cyclist lets out a little scared squeak at the boy's aggression. She lifts her bike up out of the way and onto the sidewalk. “Settle /down/,” Micah orders firmly. “I just want t'help you. Y'could be seriously injured, please.” He doesn't move away, watching how the teen moves for additional clues on physical status. The boy doesn't settle down, spitting out a few more obscenities in Micah's direction before making another getaway with the purse. Appearing beside Micah with a hand on the inward slope of her waist, Morgan seems inclined to call it at a loss. Her ample chest heaves once in a defeated sigh and she shakes her head at where the kid used to be. "What are you? A doc?" She motions for them to get out of the street with her thumb, making to. Micah certainly isn't going to restrain the boy. His lips thin as he watches him run off /again/, just hoping that his running means he's in good enough shape /to/ run. He moves out of the street, stopping next to the cyclist. "Did y'hurt your leg? Y'had a bit of a limp when y'first got up. I /can/ help." His head shakes slightly at Morgan's question. "Medical equipment guy. Prosthetics, orthotics, adaptive equipment. But I have first aid trainin', too. S'gotten more practice than...prob'ly I'd've /looked/ for." Morgan observes Micah's movements from afar, taking stock of the man. She shuts up, letting him get to what's important. While he checks on the cyclist, she reaches to retrieve her high heels. Using a nearby streetlamp for balance, she slides them on. The biker protests of being fine but gives in to a small medical exam, if not for the opportunity to flirt. In the background, this makes Morgan smirk and cross her arms. Micah requests direction to any areas of concern or pain, focusing in on the leg that the girl had limped on. Finding no evidence of sprains but a certain /wicked/ bruise in the making, he recommends ice and offers to assist the girl to the nearest shop that might offer as much, or retrieve it for her. Flirting /does/ earn the girl a fair amount of smiles and a bit of a blush. "Apologies...he still made off with your bag." This must be to Morgan. The cyclist almost takes Micah up on that offer, but for catching Morgan's eye. Shyly, she retreats, insisting that her bike is fine. "Is what it is. You had your task," Morgan answers, sucking in air through her teeth as she watches the biker go, "Not a purse kinda gal, anyway." She pushes off of the pole, turning to inspect her skirt - pinching the torn seam together with her fingers. After one last check to make sure the girl's certain she doesn't want any further help, Micah waves a quick farewell to her. "Oh...man, that's a pretty good tear. I've got sewing equipment back at m'van if y'want some help fixin' that up a bit so's y'can get home still in uniform." Morgan tilts her head, "In your van?" She raises her eyebrows skeptically. Of course, Micah doesn't exactly raise any red flags for her. He's so unassuming. "Beats flashing half of New York, I guess. As long as you don't fix it up too much. I'm really looking forward to throwing it out." Micah's eyes widen almost comically, cheeks flaming red at Morgan's tone. "Oh. I don't mean. Like. I work...from the van. It's got a lot of equipment in. An' a sewin' machine, even. Not that. Oh/gosh/." He covers his face with his hands as if that somehow will hide the fierce blushing. Morgan laughs, slapping Micah on the back. "Easy there, Ginger," she coos, sauntering forward, "Just fuckin' with yah. I've /seen/ your van. Not exactly white with no windows." The woman grins, deciding to take pity on the poor bloke by changing the subject, "Medical equipment, huh? How do you end up in that line of work?" With a sewing machine too, no less. Not that the blush is going away, but Micah does peer back out from behind his hands. He takes a step forward at the back-slap to maintain his balance. This does help in getting him moving forward, back to where he'd run into Morgan to begin with. "Hope y'didn't have too many cards in that bag or nothin'." He nods along with the question. "Um...folks'll get into it dif'rent ways. I came by through personal experience." "Joke's on him," Morgan says dryly, "They're all maxed out." She eyes the man's gait, "Were you in the service?" She asks, pitch rising only because...of how hard to believe for her that would be. "Ohgosh. Still might be a good idea t'cancel 'em as soon as y'get the chance." Micah continues leading the way until he reaches the van. "No, no, not me." The question earns a light chuckle. "Was born without the leg." He taps his knee, which has a much more solid sound than would be typical from a human knee. "Um. I could bring the thread'n all out here or. Whatever you're more comfortable with." This comes in time with his unlocking the back door of the van. Morgan nods along with Micah's idea to bring the sewing kit outside of the van, "That would be wonderful of you," she guides, smiling. She isn't threatened in the least by him, but it's still a stranger's van. "Born with no leg. What a way to start things out!" She watches the prosthetic leg after he points it out, "Can't say I haven't come close to losing a leg or two over the years. Now I know where to go for an opinion if I do-sorry, I don't think we exchanged names." "Of course." Micah disappears for a quick moment with some rustling and clanging noises as he goes through drawers looking for the appropriate shade of thread, scissors, and a needle. He holds the spool of thread up when he returns, a little sign of victory. "Honestly s'not that big a deal when you're an infant. Gets t'be more of an issue later. Had bigger concerns at the time." He leaves the door of the van open and indicates that Morgan is welcome to sit there. "Um. This may be a little interestin' t'fix while you're wearin' it. But if y'really don't wanna wear it again, doin' all the repairs on the /outside/ s'less of an issue. Won't /look/ amazin' is all." Oh, there's that wide-eyed look again! "Apologies! I'm Micah." He shifts all the sewing materials over to his left hand in order to offer the right for shaking. Morgan follows orders, having a seat. She spreads the fabric of the skirt out, eyeing Micah at the mention of not wearing it, "Just get me home, doc." "Well,it is just so nice to meet you, Micah. I'm Morgan," She widens her own eyes happily, taking Micah's hand firmly in her own, "No need to apologize. I really do appreciate all of the assistance." She laughs, mostly at his bashfulness. "Nice t'meet you, too." Micah's handshake is firm, hand a little rough and callused in a way that implies familiarity with manual work. "S'polite t'be introducin' yourself, s'all I was apologisin' for. Guess we ended up a little...distracted, though." He settles next to Morgan to snip off an appropriate length of thread and thread the needle. "Beggin' pardon for bein' a little hands-on," he warns before moving to start a sturdy if not entirely /lovely/ repair of the tear top-down. "We can leave this open further down, honestly. If the designer had any sense they'd've put a slit in here for you t'walk in the first place." "Distracted is a little understatement," Morgan admits, at first watching Micah work but soon getting bored with that. Instead, she turns to watch people pass. "I just can't wait to be in a pair of jeans. The older, the better." Her thigh tightens, shying away from Micah a bit while he works, "Didn't even get the job. And from what I can tell, this skirt isn't exactly lucky." She looks down, winking. "Yeah, I'm with y'on that one." The faded, patchy pair covering Micah's legs attests to the truth of that statement. "S'too bad. Guess it went /that/ well if y'knew right from the interview that it wasn't gonna work out." There may be some assumptions made here, based on the clothing and the papers he'd collected earlier. "Even interview clothes can come a little more practical than this'n, I'd think. Somethin' t'be said for bein' comfortable in stressful situations, too." He continues working steadily, closing up the tear but leaving enough of it open at the bottom to give Morgan more freedom of movement. "So, are you gonna let me buy you a drink for all your trouble? Or you got somewhere to be?" Morgan asks, smiling down at him and sounding something like she might already know the answer. There's a strong possibility she only asked to see him blush, again. She stretches out on heeled foot, pivoting it around and around on her ankle. "Oh...oh, I'm not much of a drinker, really. Was glad just t'be able t'help /somehow/." It doesn't take long for the blush to surface again. "An' I was...bringin' things home. Prob'ly. I should get back t'that eventually." Micah tidies the repair materials away, sticking the needle through the thread to keep it from getting lost or accidentally sticking someone. "S'that seem t'be workin'?" "Yeah, you didn't strike me as much of one," Morgan agrees, standing and smoothing out the skirt with both hands - testing it. "Should hold." The woman collects her own things, which now consist of ...one manila envelope, "Thanks, again." She motions a finger into the air, using the same hand to wave flatly goodbye, "Better hurry before the rain kicks up, again." "Have a good rest of your day." "More'n welcome, hon." Micah reaches into his back pocket, withdrawing a TARDIS-blue business card with white text on it: 'Gorilla AT. Micah Zedner, MSOP, CPO, ATP'. A P.O. Box address. Two phone numbers. An e-mail. "In case you need to get hold of me for any reason. Hopefully...things go okay. An' y'got keys for gettin' in your place an' all." He returns the wave with a small one of his own. "Nice meetin' you." Morgan takes the card, quick on the draw to slide Micah her resume of all things. It's not like she has a card, anymore. "Yeah, I'll be sure to hold onto this. You know, in case I have any more fashion emergencies," she slides the card into her cleavage, winking again before turning to walk onward, disappearing as she crosses the street. “Thanks,” Micah says, taking the...resume? It does have contact information on it! “Fashion, hm. Last thing I'd usually be expectin' t'get called in on.” He laughs at this, giving a last wave as Morgan heads off.