ArchivedLogs:Living In Triage

Living In Triage
Dramatis Personae Jim, Melinda	2013-11-14 (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The concrete wall that rings the roof has been decorated, painted in vivid bright shades by some artistic hand to add colourful cheer to the rooftop. The mural shifts in terrain One wall sports a beach, flecked with grass and seashells and driftwood and shore birds. Beach transitions into meadow, colourful with wildflowers and butterflies and dragonflies; meadow shifts into snow-capped mountains, subsides into piedmont and sprouts into a verdant forest on the fourth, alive with animals. As evening rolls in, Melinda finds herself up on the roof, taking a breather from a hectic first day. She's bundled up in a large knit wrap, with sweat pants and a jacket underneath, smelling like dinner. Her hair is tied up in a poof at the back of her neck, with messy tendrils framing her face. She wanders in from the downstairs door quietly and heads for one of the nearest walls that separate the safe part of the roof from the edge of the building and hoists herself up to sit on it. She folds her arms over her chest and tries to stay warm. The only thing that separates this Mel from any other time she's taken a quiet moment on the roof while visiting is a white bandage at her neck, fresh and clean and probably applied that afternoon. The wind blows, and down below the off smell of the city marinates. Eventually... WHUMP. Probably not a reassuring time to hear a shoulderweight thumping heavily against the rooftop door, rocketing it open, but when has Jim ever been a /reassuring/ man. He's in his street clothes, which, for the time being, pretty much means his usual attire except at a sleeve, and the lower hem in blood. The kilt may have other stains but plaid is forgiving. Whether he earned these spatters with the crowbar laid nonchalantly over a shoulder or the spines of hardwood /less/ nonchalantly spearing out of his elbows wrists and knees is hard to say. Melinda jumps at the noise and looks around furiously for something, anything to use as a weapon. She moves herself quickly to the planters, grabbing a terra cotta pot and lifting it over her head. She pauses to stare at Jim when she recognizes his face and pauses, letting it lower a little bit -- but her features harden as she lifts her pot again. "Jim. You still alive, or do I have to smash this into your head?" "You do what you gotta do," Jim answers /unhelpfully/, fitting a cigarette into his mouth. And then, perhaps /slyly/ suggesting a Plan B for Melinda, while his eyes rove out across the city, towards the sound of tortured tires laying down a few feet of rubber over the roar of a car engine, "-y'got a light?" "No. Unfortunately, I don't." Mel turns and puts the terra cotta down, wandering back toward to Jim's side, eyeing his arm before taking over a stretch of concrete wall and leaning against it. "Did you get sick from this thing?" She turns to look at him, unable to focus on the city just at that moment. "Nope." Jim wipes off his hand on his stained shirt, fishing around in pockets until he locates his own lighter. Watching the city like he doesn't /trust/ it, his whole posture vaguely annexes Melinda into his personal space with barely the shift of one foot. Inward, spiraling away and absorbed, the spears and spines of wood jutting out of his body pull inward to make the proximity feel less punishing. From here, he moves his gaze to /eyeing/ Melinda's bandage. He doesn't have to ask - the silence rather demands. Melinda is quiet at first, not minding the closeness at all. She is annexed easily, something about her needing it, her form tight and small in the light of the city gone insane. She wets her lips and closes her eyes for a moment, opening them to find Jim's questioning stare. She shakes her head slightly, fingers moving to lightly touch the bandage. "Dusk was hungry. He asked. It's okay." Melinda's shoulder will find the texture of hard bark, pitted and grooved and rough, as solid and unresponsive as a thing deeply rooted. "Oh good." He possibly isn't even meaning to sound sarcastic and dismissive - that might be the apocalypse talking. He reaches over to pick up the terra cotta pot, destined maybe to house a tiny brethren, puffing and exhaling smoke without needing to touch his cigarette with one hand - a true professional, he. Not looking up, he asks, "--how's he?" "He's been sick. Has problems with the words, but otherwise, he seems to be behaving normally." Melinda isn't nearly as jaded, and sounds it, but doesn't nearly have the blood splattering inoculate her to what is going on around them. "But I just got here. I don't know how bad it got." She doesn't mind the hardness of Jim's exterior, leaning a little more against him. "How's Hive?" Jim's mouth twists harder, like a bad taste is growing in his mouth. Knowing Dusk was sick doesn't mean he enjoys the news. An arm drops around the back of Melinda's shoulders, just kind of draped there without looking at her. "He's bad." Just flat statement. "Not sick. Just..." His head shakes. "This whole fucking mess could have never happened, and it wouldn't have mattered. He'd still be bad." "Too many people again? Just laying there, many places at once?" Mel shakes her head slowly, exhaling a note of sorrow quietly. "Damn." She reaches up and takes the cigarette from Jim's fingers and takes a single draw before handing it back to him. "There might have been an intervention by now, if the world didn't seem to be turning to absolute hell. We're living in triage." "Dunno if an intervention would even fucking matter at this point - you talk to him, he doesn't seem to even /understand/." Jim frowns at his empty hand until the cigarette magically reappears in his fingers. He crams it back in his mouth, the exhale through his nose sending the thin ribbon of smoke thrashing. "...triage. Ffff. Hell of a lot harder to prioritize when you know the dead'll come /back/ and make a few new worlds of trouble." "Oh." Melinda lets out a long breath and allows her chin to drift down to her chest, her eyes sliding closed. Silence follows as she just lets it all sink in. "You have a point." She leans forward to rest her arms on the half wall, falling silent. At length, she scrubs her hands over her face, points of her elbows digging into the concrete. Jim isn't /looking/ at any of that - at least beyond a brief glance to Melinda and then away again. Back out at the city, much darker than it used to be. Much quieter. After a while, Jim thumps Melinda's shoulder with an elbow, and idly hands her his cigarette. Melinda takes the cigarette for a moment and brings it to her lips to smoke, but the initial drag makes her shoulders hitch upwards and her neck twitch. Soon, she is blowing out the smoke uninhaled and looking a little green for it. "Thanks," she says regretfully, and hands the cigarette back. "Haven't done that in a while." She straightens up and gives him a quick hug. "Hey." Jim isn't using the word like he actually wants anything. More for lack of anything else on god's green earth to say. And soon enough he awkwardly sets one arm around the back of Melinda's shoulders - his other hand is holding his cigarette off to the side to not accidentally light her hair on fire or anything else his piss poor luck might manage. "Hey, c'mon." Pat-pat… scrub. He runs his fingers up and down her back while… smoking. "Heh. Just… one of those moments." Mel exhales, releases him, chokes on a small cough and turns away again. "Asshole world brings them out too much lately." Another few deep breathes of clean, pure, city night air and Melinda is ready to stand on her own two feet again. "And hiding isn't an option." She licks her lips and gives him a small nudge in the side with her elbow. "I should probably head in. Still not used having an entire building of space to wander in." She doesn't take off just yet. Instead, she leans against the wall again and stays close. "Yeah." What exactly Jim is agreeing with doesn't seem to matter much. His flicks his cigarette off the roof, and leans forwards to watch it slowly pinwheel in the chilly breeze towards the street below. He gives Melinda a vaguely unladylike /pat/ on the back. And turns to head in, himself.