ArchivedLogs:Last Leg

Last Leg
Dramatis Personae Micah, Grace, John Sublime	9 April 2014 Preeeeetty much horrorsauce. Warning. (Part of the Perfectus TP.)
Location <NYC> Perfectus Meeting House – East Harlem
This is not the Bronx church Micah has been to before. It's not a church at all, really, but a large townhouse, expansive and well-maintained, up in East Harlem. Inside it's rather well-appointed, its spacious rooms equipped with a tasteful expanse of antique furniture. There's a quiet crowd gathering already, some familiar faces from the church, some new. One young man with a perhaps familiar green arm poking out from beneath his neat polo shirt. A young woman with spiraling black horns protruding from her forehead. A man with blue scales rippling down over his face. This is a rather more eclectic crowd than the church itself, it seems. Though no less amiable-friendly in their mingling over potluck-food and sodas. Micah is in his alternate 'nice outfit', conveniently received in time not to wear the exact same clothes to this Perfectus meet-up as the last. Since that would be a little odd and even a /little/ odd is a bad idea when undercover. He wears a rich cobalt-blue button down in fancier fabric than he tends to purchase for himself, paired with soft grey slacks and dress shoes. Yet again, his hair is actually combed /neatly/ into place. He moves into the room full of folks trying to pass off his nervous-anxiety as nervous-anticipation, doing his damnedest not to look at the re-appropriated Anole arm on the man across the room. A pair of two litre bottles of ginger ale rest in a cloth shopping bag over his shoulder. "Micah." This voice is cheerful, called across the room where Grace has just left her brother's company. She's dressed in a pale green dress, a lightweight grey sweater thrown over top. She weaves her way through the crowd, smile bright and wide as she crosses towards him, reaching out to take Micah's hand, clasp it in warm shake; not!her dark eyes take a moment to fix up on Micah's face, though they look delighted once they settle there. "Oh -- here, let me take that." She reaches for the bag on his shoulder, next. "I'm /so/ glad you made it." "Grace, honey, good t'see you." Micah buries the sick feeling that comes with seeing /those/ eyes in the wrong face. "Thanks, sugar. Wasn't sure what t'bring, so I figured couldn't go wrong with more drinks. Who doesn't like ginger ale?" He glances around the room. "Apologies for bein' such a newbie, but... What exactly goes on at these things? S'it...like a meet'n greet?" Grace takes the bag, wandering back to a table to set the ginger ales down among the other drinks. "Oh -- more or less," she agrees lightly. "It's a little more casual than Sunday, you know? We share food, we share stories, and sometimes --" There's a faintly dreamy quality to her voice as she folds the bag in half, offers it back towards Micah, "-- sometimes /He/ comes to share with us, too." She leans in towards Micah like she's confiding a secret, soft and a little awed. "He's upstairs right now, you know. We told Him about you." "Sounds nice. I'm usually more one for...talkin' with folk than sermonisin', really," Micah replies with a chuckle. "Not that that don't have its place. Just tend t'ward the casual, m'self." He nods at Grace's news, channeling his anxiety now into a wide-eyed expression that should stand in well for awe. A subtle pink creeps into his cheeks. "Oh. Ohwow. That's... I don't even know what t'say." "You don't need to say anything. Just --" Grace shakes her head, waving a hand towards the food-laden table. "Just come on. I made the chicken cacciatore myself, you should try some. The blueberry pie, too, it's --" But then there are footsteps on the stairs, towards the back of the house; it's quiet, really, but audible because of the sudden /hush/ that is falling around the room as someone first notices them. One pair of eyes and then another and then a whole wave of them turns to look. The man who steps through the doorway is tall, mid-forties, neatly if not overly formally dressed in dark slacks and a pale green button-down; there's a quiet sort of handsome in his bearded jaw, neatly combed dark hair, soft grey-blue eyes. Unlike the preacher at the congregation on Sunday, to those involved in mutant politics he very likely /is/ a familiar face. John Sublime's foundation has been quite /helpful/, in the community, of late. Making contacts. Reaching out. The quiet in the room is broken as he walks back in, starting back up in soft murmurs as people greet him. He answers quiet and warm, touching this person here, smiling at that one there. Making his way slowly-steadily closer to Micah. "Gosh, that sounds wonderful. Blueberries are one of m'favourites. I mean, I got a fair number of favourites, but they're right up there." Smiling warmly, Micah rests a hand against Grace's back to escort her to the food table so that she can point him to the best of the goodies there. Hopefully really delicious things he'll be able to /swallow/ a few bites of without gagging, at least. But then there is silence, and people turning. Micah stops in his tracks and spins around slowly to see the person entering. His jaw goes a little slack as he stares at the man walking toward him. Hopefully the slightly shocked-face is not too uncommon a look for people gazing upon an admired figure. "That's Him," Grace whispers to Micah, as though it weren't clearly obvious. Her hand squeezes at his, tightly, her breath quickening with excitement as the man approaches. "Doctor --" The way she says it manages to make it sound like a term of worship; it doesn't help that she /averts/ her newly-given eyes as John Sublime approaches. "This is Micah, who we -- told you about. He's come for your help, too." John stops, offering Micah a smile, warm and easy, and his hand along with it. "Micah." His eyes stop on the younger man's face thoughtfully. "I've heard so much about you. You are a remarkable young man." "I figured," Micah whispers back so-helpfully. At least speaking reminds him to close his mouth again. "Nice t'meet you, sir. Never imagined...folks'd be takin' such an interest in me. Havin' just showed up an' all." His blush deepens at the compliment, /his/ eyes rather locked on the man's face. "Ohgosh, thanks, sir. I ain't...done nothin' like what you been doin' here." Nothing /at all/ like it, thank goodness. "No?" John's brows raise, and for just a moment his eyes dip downwards, towards Micah's left leg. "On the contrary, from the sounds of it you spend most of your time doing very much the same. Working to help people rise above the limitations they were born with. You just do it with your gifts, and I do it with mine." There's a small trace of amusement in his voice, warming it slightly. "And why wouldn't we be interested in you, when our interests /are/ so aligned? And as I said. You are -- such a remarkable man. From such a remarkable family, too. It's small wonder you'd /take/ an interest in our gifts, here." "Ohgosh, no, it's just that what you're doin' here is so--" Crazy? Horrible? Psychotically terrifying? "--special. It's...amazin' t'see what y'done for people here's all, sir." Micah's cheeks redden further, the colour creeping now up into his ears. "I have been blessed with a particularly remarkable family. That much's true. Just...thank you all for havin' me an' bein' so welcomin'. I didn't know...what to expect when I showed up last Sunday, t'be honest." "Blessed." John echoes this word as though he likes the feel of it, rolling it over quiet and low on his tongue. "We have many blessings to offer here, Micah." His hand falls, to the small of Micah's back, quietly urging Micah back through the crowd towards a side room, quieter, a large couch and a dearth of guests. "They tell me you've come to be elevated, too. To see for yourself the blessings we have to offer." Micah's mouth forgets to close again for a moment. "I just...heard. An' /seen/ now. I just thought." His pulse quickens and he swallows before speaking again. "I just thought, maybe, eventually. There might be somethin' for me here, too?" Here he does look away from the other man, toward the floor, as if suddenly shy and fearful of presumption. "Come." There are some stares, around the room, as John is leading Micah off -- some of them might be /jealous/ though an equal number are just wide-eyed, awed and expectant, hopeful. "Sit with me. You've spent so much of your time giving to others." He indicates the couch, though he doesn't sit on it himself. "Tell me about yourself." "Oh." Micah joins the ranks of the wide-eyed, taking a moment to command his feet over to the couch before settling himself on it. "Gosh, um. I guess it kinda depends what y'wanna know about? I...mostly. Been workin' t'help people with special needs t'have better access t'their physical an' social environments. Through technology. Started my own company up this way...it'll be two years ago soon enough. In just a few months, really. Doesn't feel like that long ago. S'the way with time, ain't it?" Work seems to be the safe ramble-topic he's chosen for now, at least. John doesn't settle himself on the couch; he kneels at the foot of it, folding his hands neatly in his lap and listening to Micah with all evidence of rapt attention. "I could learn that well enough from the news," he answers with a small chuckle. "I want to know about /you/. Why are you /here/, Micah? Everyone -- who comes here, comes here seeking. /Something/." That chuckle refreshes the colour in Micah's cheeks. "Oh," he says again, apparently the word of the evening. "You mean..." His hand slips down to his left thigh, coming to rest on his knee. "I don't mean t'sound ungrateful. I've got /so/ much. Been given...so much. In my life. I'm nothin' if not constantly grateful for it. I just--" His fingers fidget at the fabric of his slacks, teeth catching on his lower lip briefly. "I'm around people every day that're /incredible/. Just...unbelievable with what they do. How they can help people. The way they handle situations. An' then there's me... I /try/. I really do, but... There's been times when someone's been in trouble. Just me'n my husband alone it's happened enough. An' I'm watchin' someone try t'hurt 'im an' can't even...get to 'im. Or where we've been in danger t'gether an' I'm /sure/ he could've saved 'imself, but for needin' t'protect /me/. I just. Still...feel so helpless sometimes." This last he says looking down at his hand, voice gone whisper-soft. "I can't even protect myself, much less my family, the world we live in. Ain't that what I'm s'posed t'be doin' 'fore anythin' else?" At the door to the room there's a small /crowd/ gathering, though John doesn't -- notice, or purports not to. "It isn't your fault. These human bodies -- they're limited. Flawed. But I can make them more. So much more -- you won't have to be helpless anymore. Or sit and watch other people achieving the incredible." John's hands unfold from his lap, and one turns outward, towards Micah's leg where his hands fidget at his slacks. "May I see?" he asks, quietly. Usually Micah doesn't hesitate to show his prosthesis (which is pretty awesome) to anyone. But somehow, in the context of the story he's just presented and the /aims/ of the man sitting in front of him...he's halting in his compliance with the request. Finally, he takes a deep breath, leaning down to pull up from the cuff of his slacks, tugging the fabric up as far as it will allow until it is taut against his thigh. "Had this one for a couple years," he explains, mostly to put some words into the silence. "Been through...dozens. Uh...since I was about a year old." "Dozens," John's fingers trace lightly against the shaft of the prosthesis, lingering up against the knee before dropping off. "Take it off," he says, quietly, "and it will be your last." Micah winces at the touch, likely for very different reasons than those observing might think. His eyes suddenly shoot open in surprise, regarding the other man's face at those last words. "N-now? But I just...I'm. New. There's so many who've been with you so much longer..." His heart starts to race again, uncomfortable in his chest. "Blessings can come at any time," Grace says from the doorway, her hands clasped together in front of her. "You just have to accept them when they choose you. Micah, this is your time." Glancing over at Grace, Micah nods slowly. Tears well up in his eyes before he manages to look away, hands moving mechanically to disengage the socket of the prosthesis, moving it aside and peeling away the liners from his limb. Grace's hands stay clasped. There are tears in her eyes -- Dusk's eyes -- too. Though hers are probably joy. John's hands are /swirling/, oddly coloured, now, at their palms, the skin shifting mottled with -- text? There are words written there, maybe, letters though they're blending together and hard to read. Blessings, maybe says one. Though another might say GOD. Once the liners have come off of Micah's limb he reaches out -- his hands are very warm when he places them on Micah's skin. There's an odd /warping/ sensation, something strangely disorienting, and then Micah's skin is -- shifting, and /stretching/ -- there's something /building/ on top of it, flesh adding on top of flesh like his hands are /molding/ Micah a new limb out of -- thin air? His eyes have closed in concentration, his fingers shaping as he goes. The skin that he molds doesn't really match Micah's, though; it's got a strange clammy-yellow colour to it. And /words/ also printing on it, still. 'I found Dusk. I found him. He's not so okay, but I found him.' 'go, go, go give your pa a hug for me, okay? Tell B I'm okay.' 'Can't say much. Can't say it out loud.' Eventually the letters swirl and blend together as John finishes molding downwards. Leg into ankle into foot. Micah-sized to match his other, but Rasa-coloured; it's tingling at first and then it's /itching/, burning; not so much in his leg but in his /brain/, an unhappy jumble of -- thoughts? Not his thoughts, they feel foreign, a chaotic swirl of oddly /pleased/ oddly /hungry/ insatiable-mind. Micah stares fixedly at the man's hands on him, vision starting to swim with the moisture built up in his eyes. He gasps at the extremely unpleasant sensations of the flesh-crafting, conveniently covering the horrified strangled-moan from his throat as the forming limb proves familiar. The tears spill over at the words on it, somehow that much /worse/, not able to hold them in any longer. His fingers clench white-knuckled into the cushions of the couch. John's hands run down in last final molding touches against Micah's new foot, his thoughts becoming clearer as Rasa's telepathy takes deeper root. It's a strange mind, oddly orderly but with an odd /ravenousness/ beneath it -- and something in it is hungry, that much is clear, for /Micah/. Or -- perhaps not for Micah. For something Micah /has/, perhaps; there's a lingering sense that this choosing isn't, entirely, by accident. John Sublime is very /pleased/ Micah is here. It shows through in his thoughts and in his wide smile just in the moment before his hands break contact and his thoughts become his own again. He stands, offering a hand to the other man. In invitation to do the same. Beyond the door, many eyes are watching, wide-eyed, hushed. Awed. Hopefully it's normal for there to be some significant discomfort with this process, because Micah is just going to /sit/ for a time. /Dragging/ air in through his nose, out through his mouth. Trying to still the urge...practically /need/ to vomit by this point, his insides protesting the entire experience. His fingers grip the couch as if someone turned off gravity and he needs them to hold on. He doesn't even bother with the tears streaming down his cheeks; those are the easiest to explain away. Swallowing hard, he forces himself to be present and /solid/ and not the roiling mass that is in his mind. A niggling thought catches up with him, and he grabs hold of the other man's hand. Just...holding it. And not simply out of hesitation to stand, though there is /that/ in spades. Listening. Micah remains this way as long as he feels he can get away with it, with the entire room expecting him on his feet. Then he pulls up, still clinging tight. Nobody, at least, seems particularly surprised by Micah's discomfort, or the time he takes in composing himself. Miracles are overwhelming, after all. John reaches out to take Micah's hand, his smile still lingering. That same hunger still there. It burns in an undercurrent of greed -- for the eyes that are on them, for the praise they give. For the power that /he/ gives. And takes. (And takes, and takes, and takes.) Always more to take. Thoughts swirl beneath the surface, here. Of bright green eyes and a rapid-blinking-teleportation, of the sheer-raw-thudding power of a very familiar brainvoice, of fluttering gills and toothy-wide smiles. Of taking. And taking and taking and a place where he might find /so much more to/ -- His hand leaves Micah's, resting lightly at the small of the other man's back. "Micah." His voice is warm. Welcoming. "Welcome to the Third Species."