ArchivedLogs:Housecall

Housecall
One hell of a working lunch.
Dramatis Personae Micah, Rasheed, Iolaus, Jane
In Absentia	11 September 2013 The medical-type Humanfriends come to provide aid to Harlem. (Part of the Battle for Harlem TP.)
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
This church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. It is just before the start of the city's lunch rush, and Micah is sitting outside the church's service entrance once again. More precisely, the TARDIS-van is sitting outside the church and Micah is sitting inside the van, quickly finishing off a cucumber, red pepper, and hummus sandwich to leave the rest of his lunch break (albeit one that has been widened significantly from its usual duration, just for the day) open for assisting at the church. After Monday's trip revealed a host of medical needs outside the scope of his skillset, Micah left rather vague messages for Drs. Toure and Saavedro about needing assistance with some pro bono work. In Harlem. (Ahem.) And requesting return calls to make further arrangements. Such arrangements have resulted in this: sitting in a van outside of a church, keeping a weather eye out for the good doctors. Micah does not have long to wait before a car pulls up behind his van, a black Lincoln with livery plates carrying not one but TWO doctors within it. Rasheed has a large black bag in one hand as he steps out of the car, not bothering to wait for the driver to open the door for them. He's in mid-conversation, as he emerges, holding the door open for Iolaus himself. "-- some terribly maudlin commemoration dinner -- you'd think after the first ten years they could restrict these to, I don't know, /five/ year anniversaries instead. I think," he confides with a twitch of amusement on his lips, "that I'm to be their token Muslim. Show that America isn't holding a /grudge/. You could go in my place." He sounds so very hopeful, waiting for Iolaus to emerge and then heading towards Micah's van to knock lightly on the driver's side window. "Just because I'm a bit of a brown person doesn't mean they're going to think I'm a Muslim, Rasheed." Iolaus says, bemusedly, stepping out of the car and taking a bright orange bag out after him. Jane follows, dressed in a pair of black pants and a dress shirt, looking distinctly unhappy about the large brown bag slung over her shoulder. "I suppose I could go in a niqab. Considering the general misunderstanding of Islam in America, I bet I could just about get away with it." Iolaus jokes, lightly, grinning at the other man. "At least they are counting the anniversaries only by years, now, instead of months. And it is dying down, a bit. Just a bit." He glances around him and looks towards the van. "I think I see our companion. His van is somewhat... easy to identify." Micah waves through the window, smiling a closed-lip smile (and quickly working to swallow his last bite of sandwich that made such a necessity). He opens the door just a crack, making sure those outside are out of smackin' range before letting it swing all the way open. He hops down, much less formally dressed in the universal rehabber uniform of khakis and a polo shirt, the latter a bright TARDIS blue that matches the van. "Hi!" His smile with that is brighter, broader. "Thanks for comin' out. Didn't bet on gettin' the both of you when I called, but so much the better! I'm not sure...how y'all wanna do this. I took a lot of notes a couple nights back, so y'could work as quickly as possible when y'got here. S'a little bit chaotic in there." "You are /a/ brown-ish person. You have a funny name. What more do you need? None of them will tell the difference. I don't know about dying down, though. /How/ many drone strikes did we send out last month? -- Hello, Mr. Zedner." A small thin smile flits across Rasheed's face, and he steps back to let the door swing open. He is overly dressed himself, dress shirt himself paired with a pair of grey slacks; he's unbuttoned the shirt /two/ whole buttons in concession to the day's sudden spike of heat. "Oh, I think we're getting pretty well used to chaos. And last time around it didn't come with half so much preparation. May I see your notes?" He holds a hand out, fingers beckoning. "Wrong kind of funny name. Not that most people would know the difference, I concede to you." Iolaus says, bowing his head once and giving a smile to Rasheed. His dress matches that of his guard's, at least in formality - a white dress shirt tucked neatly into dark dress pants and a pair of dress shoes in dire need of a waxing. "How do you want to split it up among us? Just each take a set of patients and go from there, or do you want to work together and switch off assisting, or something else entirely?" Iolaus gives Micah a warm smile. "Micah." he says, with a bow of his head. "Glad to help any way that we can. How many patients are there, do you think, in total?" "Wait...what are we collecting people with funny names for?" Micah asks with the confusion of one stepping into the end of a conversation. "Please, just Micah," he corrects gently, laudably managing not to make /faces/ at the honorific at least. "Admittedly, this is easier to handle than a couple of apartments stuffed almost entirely with severely injured people." At the request for the notes, he begins to reach into his pocket for his phone. Thinking better of it, he climbs back into the van to retrieve a tablet. Quickly, he turns it on and swipes at the screen a few times to find the appropriate document before hopping back out of the van and depositing the tablet in Io's waiting hands. "Would be most efficient t'split up, but...maybe we should see one or two of the worst off as a group, first? These folks are a little hesitant about new faces, and most of 'em won't know you. It'll help that I'm there, since they've gotten used t'me a bit. Then I can kinda hop between the two of you after that?" One of his hands scrubs idly at his already messy auburn hair. "About 15 as really need t'see you guys. Another handful as probably would /appreciate/ it, but should be okay regardless. I tried to prioritize the list top-down." "For demonstrating inclusiveness," Rasheed explains, voice dropping a touch with distraction as he claims the tablet, tilting its screen towards Iolaus as he starts to look through Micah's notes. "At a 9/11 memorial dinner. It's important to have a Muslim there," he explains with a small smile, a touch of amusement in his voice, "so that the politicians can gloss over the past decade and change of hating us. You have kind of a funny name," he adds, lighter. "Though you are unfortunately way too fair to pretend to be me. -- I /would/ appreciate the buffer." This admission comes with a glance upwards, towards the church. "Though at /least/ here we aren't dealing with the /direct/ aftermath of mistreatment at the hands of doctors. General stranger-wariness is probably easier to navigate than active trauma. -- My goodness." His forehead wrinkles in a deep frown, finger tapping indicatively at one patient. "I -- don't suppose we could convince them to /leave/ here, ah, I somehow doubt this church comes equipped with a proper operating theater." "Ah, thank you, Micah. And it could be worse - he could have called you sir." Iolaus' eyes twinkle, mischeviously, as he looks down at the tablet and sliding his finger up and down to look over the complete list. "Certainly could use it. But where would we take them, Rasheed? Somehow I doubt I still have attending privileges at Mount Sinai, and I know what will happen to your clinic if you tried to admit them through there." The doctor sighs, once, looking down at the name thoughtfully. "If it is that bad, one of us can always escort them to the emergency room at Sinai and see if we can threaten them with EMTALA enough to let /us/ do work on them. They haven't called security on me, yet, though God knows they've wanted to." Iolaus' lips slide into a twisted smile, glancing up at Rasheed. "Will still be better than last time. We did without, for most of the people. Maybe we will get lucky and he can pass." "Ah, right, demographic stagin'. Always fun t'feel statistically worth panderin' to," Micah replies with a slight eye roll. "I have a funny name, but I think there's a few too many people good at spottin' the Jewry. That's a whole 'nother statistic t'massage. Don't guess it'd trade out well." He shakes his head firmly. "No, leavin's about the /last/ thing you're gonna convince anybody here t'do. /Not/ leavin' is pretty much the bulk of their statement. Don't think they'd take kindly even t'the suggestion. 'Specially considerin' where it'd be /comin'/ from." He gestures vaguely at the three gathered men, as if their /non-mutant/ status were clearly visible. "Ain't got anythin' like an OR. But...might be able t'claim one of the apartments temporarily? At least minimize the effects of the press of people that's around here." "S'only certain people as get away with callin' me 'Sir'," Micah shoots back to Iolaus without missing a beat, eyebrows ticking upward teasingly just for a second before he returns to the issue at hand. "You also make a good point. Even if we /could/ get 'em t'leave...couldn't guarantee that'd /get/ them anywhere. Wouldn't make any friends gettin' 'em t'buy in an' then havin' the outside world leave 'em out t'dry. Again." "/You/ might not, but Mount Sinai has yet to disown /me/," Rasheed points out with a small smile. "My clinic still operates under their auspices. At least on paper. Though I suppose those ties might not stay so friendly if I /did/ start to bring in too many undesirable patients." His jaw clenches for a brief moment with this, lips thinning. "Some space is better than no space. We should see if we can claim somewhere -- /relatively/ clean and quiet." He turns the tablet over to Iolaus properly, and lifts a hand to rub knuckles against his jaw. "No, I imagine they'd notice the switch. I guess I'll be stuck dinnering myself, then." His eyes shift to the church, and then back to Micah curiously. "-- Do I want to know how you got involved here, yourself? I've been following the coverage, off and on -- one of those young men who instigated all of this did sound pretty familiar." Iolaus glances at Micah and raises an eyebrow at his comment. "Is that so?" he asks, curiously, his eyes twinkling. A smirk plays at his lips and he nudges Rasheed. "Better leave the undesirables to me. You can take the politic ones, and I, the impolitic." He folds the tablet down under his arm, shutting the screen off with a quick press of a button along the edge. "I'm sure the Church will have somewhere that we can use that is clean. The kitchen, perhaps, might be one of the better places. Large tables at convenient heights, and certainly cleaned enough. Hopefully. Maybe the altar? Though, perhaps, with unintended connotations to be doing surgery on." Iolaus heads towards the church, taking the lead with Jane just a few steps behind him. "The first patient is inside here, right? Or are they in one of the apartments?" He doesn't get far before he turns around and looks to Micah; people who know where they are going are better for leading groups, it turns out. "Yes, please. For the sake of all of us with more obvious associations, keep your connections intact. Ain't nobody gonna find blame for y'doin' it, as often as we need t'call on the benefit of 'em," Micah reassures Rasheed quite earnestly. He smiles at the return to dinner talk. "At least y'may get a nice meal out of it?" He rakes his fingers through his hair again, his grin a little sheepish. "Oh, what /don't/ I get m'self involved in anymore? You'll prob'ly see more'n a few familiar faces here from our adventure that ended in the series of brain surgeries, would be how I was connected personally." Iolaus's smirk has Micah grinning, too. "Yeah, there's no hope for this one. Regular public /menace/, he is." His nose scrunches as he thinks of places out of which to operate. "We'll see if somebody's willin' t'give up a dinin' room, maybe? The church proper's just too /full/ of shared space. Clearin' any of it's gonna be next to impossible. Kitchen's /particularly/ busy with all these faces t'feed. An' oh/gosh/, sure Io. Bring a Muslim and a Jew into a Catholic church an' start cuttin' on people on the altar." He drops his forehead into his palm in mock exasperation before turning back to Rasheed. "See why we need you t'keep your nose clean? No hope!" He shakes his head, putting his serious face back on. "First fella's actually claimed a bed in an apartment, which'll tell you just how well everybody else thinks he's doin'. We wanna go through the church as our entry point, though, just t'introduce y'all around? S'kinda...protocol." He steps to the head of the pack, waving for the physicians to follow. "The altar. /Really/, Io." The hand that Rasheed presses to his cheek looks exasperated, though there's a touch of fondness in his smile. "Your clinic might not be politic but /you're/ going to have to learn how to be, if you want it to last." Rasheed tucks his bag higher up onto his shoulder, following after Micah. "It's a small community. I suppose I should expect to run into some of the same faces, here and there." Following the others into the church, he wears a look of relief for trading the heat of the outdoors for the air-conditioned interior. "Certainly. -- I don't suppose," he adds, lightly, "that if you ever found yourself with free time you would be interested in volunteering? The clinic could always use -- then again," he stops, as he surveys the church's interior, "-- I don't imagine free time is something you have all that /much/ of these days." Iolaus winks playfully at the other two men as he follows them into the church. "It might be uncouth for the two of you, but my family would be just home near the altar of the Church." A brief pause as the doctor shrugs his shoulders and lets out a happy sigh as the air conditioned air washes over them. There is a brief pause, and his smile turns into a grin. "If you believe in transubstantiation, the altar is even used to the amounts of blood." That is, thankfully, the last joke out of Iolaus as the conversation turns towards more serious matters, and introductions start between the three medical staff and the skittish inhabitants of the church.