ArchivedLogs:Life and Limb

Life and Limb
Dramatis Personae Elliott, Micah
In Absentia	14 April 2013 Elliott and Micah run into each other in a coffee shop and...have more in common than they thought.
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. Sunday evening is a quiet time. The cafe is not quite bustling, though it is occupied enough. The stacks of books less so, only a few people scattered throughout. The small crowd in the cafe is about to be augmented by one. Elliott's progress through the door is clunky-slow, wrangling the door awkwardly in her chair. Its clunking against her footrest draws some eyes from inside, though she is far too focused on her task -- perhaps deliberately -- to notice. In the cool evening weather she is sweatshirted, drab grey over a dark green t-shirt; her cargo pants are grey, too, one leg pinned up short above the knee. Micah has apparently been awarded the role of Johnny on the Spot for the evening. A slim young man with tousled auburn hair, he is dressed down in his typical patched jeans and an olive green canvas jacket worn open over faded black T-shirt (that proclaims, ‘I’m here because you broke something’ in white lettering). He has a magazine rolled up in one hand. Micah catches the door with the other, reaching up high and holding it open wide from where he has scurried over to stand behind Elliott. “Pardon, ma’am,” he says softly, apologising for the reach. “Shop doors still have a ways to go for adequate accessibility, on the average.” Elliott turns her head up quickly at the hand reaching over her, and there's a brief moment of tension before it melts into a warm smile. "Hey, thanks!" She drops her hands, pushing her way into the store. "Yeah, especially all these cutesy places, not really so big on modernizing." Only once she's inside does she turn her head properly, looking over Micah a long moment. Her smile skews a little lopsided as she wheels up closer to the counter to look at the menu. "I know you." “’Welcome,” comes the simple reply. Micah moseys along behind Elliott, less following her and more…happening to be going to the same place. Food and caffeine are calling. “Mmhmm. Likely as not this place is grandfathered in on the accessibility recs.” His head tilts like that of a curious bird inspecting something both interesting and confusing. Is she a client? His life /is/ rather full of acquaintances in wheelchairs…oh, wait! “There was that incident…with the bike and the van.” "Yeah! That -- /that/." There's a slight press to Elliott's lips after this, and she turns to study Micah for a moment before returning her attention forward. "I saw you after that, though. Kinda a bit too much chaos to talk." Her hand lifts, fingers brushing a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear. "Oscorp thing. You were getting dust all over your nice tux." Micah cannot help but quirk a brow slightly, studying that thinning of Elliott’s lips. “That,” he repeats by way of acknowledgement as he turns back to the menu to avoid the appearance of /staring/. “Oh, were you at that shindig, too? I’m beginnin’ to think /everyone/ was. What a mess…” "Feels like half this city's looking for a fight, sometimes." Elliott is shaking her head slightly at this, shifting slightly to get her wallet out of the side pocket of her pants, though she hasn't yet actually approached the counter. Her smile eases, widening. "Oh, yeah. That was a mess, wasn't it? I saw you there with the, uh." Her hand lifts, gesturing towards her /hair/ like this is perhaps the most notable identifying factor of: "Really colourful kid. Saved -- half this city by now, it seems like." “It’s kinda the natural outcome of puttin’ so many people in close proximity. Folks get confrontational.” Micah’s eyes continue to alternate between looking at Elliott and scanning the menu. Elliott’s description does spark recognition, which is made apparent by Micah’s face warming with a faint blush and a shy sort of smile. “Jackson. That’s kind of what he does. Just takes care of everybody around him.” "Man, isn't that the truth," Elliott says with a snort of laughter. "You should try living on a /ship/ for a year or two. Tempers get -- tempery." She glances sideways, catching that blush and then looking back towards the menu. "Right. Jackson. Guess that's a worthy enough aim." She wheels forward, finally ordering -- large coffee, black, and a blackened fish sandwich. "And what's it you do?" “Forget temper, I think I’d drive /myself/ batty bein’ cooped up that long. Prob’ly everyone else, too, ‘cause I’m not good at /not/ runnin’ my mouth all the time.” The little smile gives way to a self-deprecating grin. “Less superheroics,” he replies to the question with a chuckle. “I’m in medical adaptive equipment. Orthotics and prosthetics, primarily.” He waits a few ticks after her order is placed, for the fellow behind the counter to look his way, before ordering himself: avocado, tomato, and sprouts sandwich with a matching coffee (plus sugar!) of his own. "You get used to it, I guess. Plenty to keep you busy." Elliott pays with card, moves aside for Micah's order, taking a moment to put away her wallet. "-- You shitting me?" This is flatter, kind of /startled/ as she looks first down at her lap and then up at Micah. Skeptical and a little thin-lipped. Like perhaps he is mocking her. Micah is busy for a moment with exchanging payment for foodstuffs. His blush is a fiercer red at the accusation, incorrect though it may be. “Ohgosh, no, really.” He holds up the magazine he had been carrying. It bears the label ‘The O&P EDGE’ in big red letters over an image of a pair of rather photogenic siblings, the younger of which has elbow immobilizers strapped on both arms and specialized gloves on his hands. ‘Helping Kids Cope with Disability’ is the advertised feature article associated with this picture. “See?” As if the magazine served as /credentials/. Elliott eyes the magazine with the same skepticism. But after a moment she snorts, expression reverting to her former smile. "Sorry, since getting back here I get a lot of --" She shrugs. "Assholes. You /are/ serious, then?" Her eyebrows raise, and she studies Micah with more curiosity. "-- Man, they have magazines for freaking everything." Micah relaxes again when Elliott’s smile returns. “Yeah, people aren’t always…understandin’,” he rather understates. “Reallyreally.” His hand fishes around in a pocket, producing a business card which he holds out for Elliott. It has a blue background with white writing: ‘Gorilla AT. Micah Zedner, MSOP, CPO, ATP’. There is also listed a P.O. Box address and two phone numbers. “That’s only /one/ of the magazines, too. It’s just the only one I can’t convince to stop sendin’ me physical copies. I do most things digitally, where possible.” "Eh. I'd guess no matter who you are /someone/ finds a way to be an asshole about it." Elliott reaches up, snagging the business card to study it. "Well, that's quite a list of letters." She pockets the card, extending her fingerless-gloved hand to Micah for a handshake. "Elliott. Not so many acronyms tacked on to me. Why Gorilla?" Her coffee has arrived, placed on the high counter down beyond the cashier, but she kind of eyes it and doesn't yet bother attempting to claim it. Micah shrugs slightly at that statement. “I guess. There are folks who possess a contrariness by default out there.” A smirk toys at the corners of his mouth at the letter comment. “Y’know, that’s pretty much what everyone says? It’s the medical community. S’all about the credentials. Nice t’meet you, Elliott. Forgive me not introducin’ myself earlier. Utter failure of manners on my part.” He returns the handshake with a firm grip, then leans against the counter to wait for things to arrive. “I work out of a mobile unit. Contract work and home delivery. It was gonna be ‘Guerilla’ on first imaginin’…but. I work mostly with kids an’ vets, so I figured fewer warfare references and more adorable apes that make for cute cartoon logos was a good idea.” "Manners?" Elliott's smile widens. "This is New York." She snorts at his explanation, amused. "Guerilla. Now I'm just picturing you sneaking around the city /ninjaing/ limbs onto people like some kinda fucking limb fairy -- no offense," she tacks on, wryly, after that last word. "I didn't know you could get arms /delivered/, though. Guess this -- is New York. Can probably get anything delivered." Micah /giggles/. “Case the accent weren’t clue enough…I ain’t from ‘round here.” The mental image she shares induces additional giggles. “Ohgosh, that’s actually kinda what I was thinkin’. Most of the prostheses get delivered at medical campuses, though. The docs or therapists like to be there to fuss. But some of the big stuff’s /gotta/ get taken home for folks. Standers are huge an’ heavy. Power chairs are a pain in the behind to transport if y’haven’t got an accessible vehicle. I’ll do home delivery and repairs for smaller stuff, too, though. It’s just more convenient for folks with limited mobility.” "Yeah, alright, the accent does kind of give it away." Their food is set out, now, together with Micah's coffee, and Elliott leans down to brake her wheelchair in place before levering herself up out of it. She leans against the counter for balance, picking up her cup first. "You know, I never thought I'd /get/ a vehicle living in the city but --" For a moment she grimaces. "Never realized how much it'd beat public transportation, being stuck in this thing." Micah is very purposefully /not/ offering help unless it is requested, or blatantly needed for safety purposes. He is remaining close enough to be of quick assistance, however. Elliott seems to be doing well enough for herself. “True enough. Public transit’s /s’posed/ to be accessible, but… All y’need is a broken lift or an out of service elevator to wreck /that/.” His fingers rake through his already-mussed hair, a gesture of habit. “An’ then there’s the cabbies and bus drivers who’ll just wander on past like they didn’t see you.” He shakes his head, eyes rolling just a bit. Elliott does not particularly seem like she has a desire for help, carefully settling back to set her cup in her chair's cupholder before standing again to claim her plate. "Supposed to be but -- yeah." She shrugs, balancing her plate in her hand as she sits again. She rests the plate in her lap, leaning down to lift the chair's brakes. Her smile is returning, quick and easy as she admits, "I shouldn't complain too much, though, I don't have it half so tough as people who -- I mean, I can /afford/ to get myself a car." She shrugs a shoulder, looking over Micah, curious, puzzled. "You sound like you know." Micah's plate arrives moments after Elliott's. His retrieval process is somewhat less complicated. Just...yoink. "I ain't been on team Wheelchair Mobile m'self since m'last limb revision as a teenager. And not full-time since I was real little. But, yeah. Between that an' friends of mine an' patients... I do know." He uses his coffee to gesture at a table, for lack of an empty hand. "Wanna share a table?" Elliott looks over Micah for a moment, then nods. She pushes her chair over to an empty spot at the table, nudging one of the chairs already there out of the way to make more room. Setting her plate on the table, she looks Micah over again, eyes fixing on his legs a long while before turning to her food. "Huh. You don't look like a cripple." She picks up her coffee, blowing at its surface. "So when /did/ you get to this city?" Micah pulls out a chair for himself and plunks down into it. Coffee and plate find themselves on the table’s surface. “S’cause I started learnin’ to walk with a prosthesis when I started learnin’ to walk at all. An’ I got the high tech roboleg now. Makes for a pretty even gait at walkin’ speeds. Gets more obvious there’s a hitch in m’giddy-up if I go faster or backwards or up or down hills an’ such.” He takes a bite from his sandwich, since that doesn’t need to wait to cool down like the coffee. And he does remember to wait until his mouth is empty to start talking. This time. “Been ‘bout…eight-ish months now? Still new enough to be new.” "You were born like this?" Elliott's eyebrows hike up. She slurps at her coffee, wincing at the heat and then setting it down on the table. "Hasn't been all that long for me. Couple months, just about." She shrugs. "Guess I'm more of a newcomer to team Wheelchair Mobile than you are to team New York. How you liking it here? Get attacked by terrorists a lot? I hear it's kinda become quite the hazard around here." “Mmhmm. I was s’posed to be a twin, but there was an intrauterine death match an’ it was early along enough that m’brother was just…reabsorbed. Happens more often than people think. Just…bit back as he went. Clotting factors, vascular event, inadequate development of the limb bud. Recipe for missin’ leg.” Micah says all of this with a playful sort of grin, clearly used to giving the explanation by now. “It’s actually harder, workin’ from your side. Gotta relearn all your movement patterns. Get to have all the fun of test drivin’ new parts, though, if that’s the route you’re goin’. ‘Bout the right timin’ for it.” He pauses for an exploratory sip of his coffee and finds it less-than-lava, which is acceptable. “Well enough, well enough. It’s busier an’ louder an’ there’s more an’ different people. Lots t’do an’ see. The…no, I’d have to say the terrorist thing was a unique event. An’ likely just t’do with proximity to Mr. Osborn. Which I ain’t plannin’ to have much of in the future, given m’druthers.” "Intrauterine -- huh. So you were kicking ass /pre-natally/?" Elliott says this with easy amusement, studying Micah's face. She picks up her sandwich, taking a large bite. Her tongue runs over her teeth to clean them once she's swallowed. "Guess it is the route I'm going." She doesn't sound greatly /enthused/ about this. "Be honest, dealing with a bunch of asshole doctors has been less fun than the fucking chair, ah, pardon my French." She bites at her sandwich again. "Give it time," is her cheerfully optimistic prediction, "this city /sprouts/ trouble, I'm sure you'll run into some sooner or later. Company you keep --" She shrugs a shoulder. "Maybe sooner." Micah provides a little bark of laughter in reply. “Yup, that’s me. Troublemaker from…before day one.” He does seem legitimately amused. “An’ yeah…the docs never quite go away. The therapists an’ all tend to be less stuffy, though, so that’s nice. Spend more time with them anyhow.” He waves a dismissive hand at her apology. “Not t’worry. I’m not gonna have m’delicate sensibilities all befuddled by salty talk.” Another bite of sandwich disappears, followed by a swig of coffee. “Trouble does tend to dog some folks more’n others. Suspect y’may be correct in your assessment, unfortunately.” And /yet/. There’s that lopsided grin. “Guarantees a certain amount of /interestin’/, to say the least!” "'least your friend seems equipped to /handle/ it," Elliott says, and her smile is crooked, too. "Interesting's --" She exhales heavily, head shaking. "I haven't yet stumbled across a patch of life that wasn't." She lifts her coffee again, chasing her mouthful of sandwich with a gulp. "You're in the field, and you don't seem stuffy at all. Maybe it /is/ just a doctor thing. You don't /look/ like a troublemaker," she adds, a little warmer, "but then, that's pretty much the best kind."