ArchivedLogs:Just Cyborgs

Just Cyborgs
Dramatis Personae Elliott, Micah	9 October 2013 Random meetings with promises of less-random meetings.
Location <NYC> East Harlem
With the highest violent crime rate in Manhattan and a failing educational system, it is easy to overlook the charms of El Barrio. Amidst its problems, East Harlem is a place thriving with culture. Salsa dancing has a rich history in the neighborhood, and in the open-air markets a wide assortment of goods can be bought from the West African community there. Wednesday is just spilling over into Thursday when Elliott returns to her apartment -- or her apartment /building/, at least, coming up on the front step of her building dressed still in workout clothes. Black and blue stretchy capri pants that do not hide, a blue tank top with black sports bra underneath, a warm Navy sweatshirt over top. Gym bag slung over her shoulder, hair tied back in a ponytail from which strands are loosening; sweaty and disheveled, she doesn't much resemble the polished elegance she carries on most of her advertisements or TV interviews, not much to identify her /past/ the Navy sweatshirt and the prosthetic leg visible where her capris cut off. She pats at a pocket of her gym bag, then a second, then grimaces as she pulls the bag around to her chest to search it more thoroughly. Micah is just /leaving/ Elliott's building as she is getting in. The auburn-haired young man is dressed still in his typical after-work attire, rainbow-patched jeans and a T-shirt bearing a Darwin-inspired sketch of finches with adaptive upgrades of a technological nature (laser eyes and jetpacks among them). He notices the young woman digging through her bag and holds the door open, though he stands slightly in the way for a moment. Micah recognises the prosthesis before the person, head down as she is digging in her bag. That his gaze takes a few moments to slide up from the lady's legs is from a purely professional interest. Honest. “Y'gotta /swear/ y'actually live here or I'm sure I'll be in all kindsa trouble for lettin' random folks into other people's buildin's,” he instructs playfully in a tone that is much too bright for most people this time of a weeknight, wearing a lopsided grin. "I live here. 5C. I just hope I didn't leave my keys at my gym locker, that'll be --" Elliott shakes her head with a faint note of frustration in her voice, but it melts into a warm smile when she looks up. "Oh!" Her tone brightens, warm and pleasantly surprised. "It's you. Cyborg. /You/ don't live here," she counters, with a touch of amusement. "Just visiting?" “--really tough for gettin' into your actual apartment, unless you leave a key in a secret compartment somewhere in the hallway,” Micah completes the sentence for her. “Elliott, right?” The recognition clicks when the woman raises her face. “Yes, it's me. No, I don't live here. Just...droppin' someone off. Not even visitin' really.” He shifts out of the doorway, arm reaching out to hold the door open even further so that she can enter instead of having to tear apart her gym bag out on the steps. "Small world." Elliott bobs her head in a nod of thanks, stepping in to the lobby and hitching her bag further up onto her shoulder. Her eyes skim down over Micah, lifting back to his face. "Elliott, yeah." The smile warms further at this. "And you were Micah. Not just Cyborg. It's good to run into you again. We should do it some time on purpose." “Seems that way sometimes.” Micah chuckles at Elliott's method of declaring his name. “/Just/ Cyborg? That word...I do not think it means what you think it means.” His grin remains very well intact. “Nice t'see you up'n about. I have given you a card...?” A hand is reaching toward his back pocket already, just in case. "Yeah, it's been -- kind of a trip." Elliott's weight shifts, almost unconsciously, at this. "Good to be back on my feet though. -- And I think it means what I think it means, but I think it'd be doing you a disservice to assume that amazing technological advancement is /all/ you have to offer." She shakes her head at the offer of the card, pulling out her phone out of her sweatshirt pocket instead. "Do you have a last name to go with that?" She offers the phone out towards Micah, new entry already pulled up with his first name typed in. "You did give me a card, but I don't know what I did with it. I definitely won't lose it in /here/ though." "Always is, an' sometimes /too/ literally, I know." Micah smiles that 'been-there' kind of smile, letting the door close and stepping further out of the main thoroughfare since they are talking for a moment. "You mean there are things that /aren't/ amazin' technological advancement?" he teases as his hand aborts the card-seeking mission, instead...removing his newsboy cap to fuss at his hair before perching the hat back on his head. Because it had been all primed up to do /something/, dammit. "Zedner, Z-E-D-N-E-R. I much prefer things digitally, myself. They make programs that'll pull information off of cards if y'take pictures of them, y'know." A little laugh comes at this when he realises the timing of his comments. "See? Amazin' technological advancement. It's everywhere!" "Oh, I knew I was in the future once I could just /tell/ my phone, 'Take me to the best taco place near me' and it would find me the best-rated place on Yelp within ten blocks and navigate me there, to boot." Elliott's head shakes in mild amazement, and she leans back against a wall as she enters in Micah's name. "Number?" Her thumb waits, poised over the screen. "I just don't like clutter. Digitally makes everything so much tidier. Though it also kind of means there aren't many people /in/ the more developed world that aren't cyborgs already. I relied on technology to live /long/ before I relied on it to walk." "I know, the little people that live in phones are so helpful. They just don't have the best hearing ever, it seems sometimes." Micah gives out the requested digits, slowly enough to be easy to enter. "Yeah, that's a part of it for me, too. Spent the better part--well, the /longer/ part, at least--of the past year livin' in the back of my work van. Works much easier when nearly all of your possessions are on hard drives." His grin broadens at the continued cyborg talk. "Most people rely on it. Few are so elegantly integrated. We're still a special class, for now." Elliott's brows raise slightly, curious. "Living in your van? By choice or by necessity?" She saves his number, shooting him a text immediately after: 'Elliott Carruthers', is the body of the text, and nothing else. "Either way I can see why you wouldn't want a lot of clutter. I got used to trimming things down being out on a boat for months at a time. Maybe not so much different, except for being packed into the bunks /with/ other people." “Little of both...choices that precipitated necessity.” Micah pulls his phone from his pocket at its little chiming sound, looking at the text and saving the information to his contacts list. “Two L's, two T's. I approve.” The phone returns to its carrying spot. “Yeah, this was...mostly only ever me there. With a crazy-ton of equipment.” "Huh. But not anymore?" Elliott looks over Micah for a moment. "Sounds like an interesting story. Maybe you can tell it to me sometime over a drink." She slips the phone back into her pocket, a mild grimace briefly replacing her smile. "The Navy is not short on mounds of equipment, that's for sure." Her head shakes, and she hitches her bag further up onto her shoulder. "I should go attempt to let myself into my apartment. Early morning tomorrow. See you soon, maybe?" “It is a harrowing tale of fully witting and yet unwise entrepreneurial decision making, concluding in eventual business solvency and an apartment with six occupants,” Micah summarises for now. “But that sounds like a good plan. Ex-military stories are usually fairly entertaining yarns, themselves. I've been developin' a collection of 'em for some time. Never mind addin' some more.” He nods, offering a hand in farewell. “Best of luck with gettin' inside. Hopefully your buildin' has a lock-out service or y'have a friend you're willin' t'stay with otherwise. Have a good night!” "Still military, actually," Elliott corrects cheerfully, "and I'll be a military /lawyer/ some day. A leg isn't so necessary there." She reaches for the offered hand, shaking it firmly. "Hope it's a decent-sized apartment. Look forward to hearing about it, at any rate. Goodnight!" Her smile is bright, for a moment, and then she turns away to start slowly up the stairs to her floor.