ArchivedLogs:Not Broken

Not Broken
Maybe.
Dramatis Personae Micah, Lucien	11 April 2014 Part of the Perfectus TP.
Location <NYC> Rang Phueng Design – SoHo
Located on the third floor of a narrow brick-faced office building in SoHo, the lobby of Rang Phueng Design is a comfortable place to wait. There are a number of paintings hung on the walls, brightly colored though somewhat fantastical cityscapes. A large aquarium on one wall, clean and carefully tended, hosts brightly colored marine life swimming through a number of plants and coral. The table amid all the large cheerfully blue-and-silverygrey microsuede couches has a sampling of architectural magazines as well as popular ones, magazines and newspapers generally actually up to date. The receptionist desk is a large black wood one, though it is unmanned. Off to the side a small table has a little refreshment stand set up, a Keurig coffeemachine with a large selection of tea-coffee-cocoa choices and a minifridge beneath the table with juice and water and soda. Through the door in back of the lobby is an enormous workshop space, wide and airy. Spacious drafting tables take up much of the center of the room, a number of glass-topped desks edging the sides though only one of them against the back windows actually boasts a computer. Walls painted white and paneled in glass turn most of the wallspace into whiteboard, generally covered with notes and measurements. The back wall's large windows look out onto the streets. Two side doors lead to office space at the side. One leads off to an office space that, though comfortably large, is dwarfed by the workshop beside it; currently unfurnished, it is just a bare empty sweep of potential uses. The other door, has been given -- no name plaque, yet. Just a tacked-up piece of paper reading "J.M. Investigations". It is about 9:45 in the morning when Micah returns to Hive's office, timed to ensure he is there when Lucien arrives and that his aqua vacuum-sealed thermos is full of still piping-hot Three Treasures Oolong as requested. He is dressed in an assortment of thrift shop items, the spare outfit he had in his van consisting primarily of a hunter green henley and faded jeans. His hair has seen minimal attention today, it seems, even more tousled than its usual slight-mess. Micah is using his neon orange forearm crutches for support, given the less-than-reliable control he has of that...new left leg. At least he seems reasonably able to place the foot correctly and operate the knee like a /knee/ after a full day's practice. His weight remains shifted over his right leg, however, not fully trusting the sore and foreign thing yet. He settles himself onto the couch in the lobby to wait, thermos in hand. Lucien arrives very precisely at ten, dressed casually but, as ever, in clothes that seem to have been tailored for him; slim black jeans, a deep green button down that makes his vivid green eyes look only moreso. Hair spiky-tousled in a way that suggests he may have spent quite a long /time/ on the rumpled bed-head. He does knock, before he enters, but this is an office (albeit one currently being used /as/ a home) and so after this brief formality he simply comes in, sweeping the room with a perfunctory gaze that lingers longer on the aquarium than it does on Micah. But, eventually, "Micah. Bonjour. I gathered there was some emergency?" He doesn't say, /again/. But there is perhaps /something/ in the very faint lift of his brows that just might imply it. “Luci,” Micah greets, with less of his usual warmth and more a tone of exhausted /relief/. “How much has anyone told you 'bout what's been goin' on? I'm sure Desi's talked 'bout Anole goin' missin' an' comin' back without an arm, then...Rasa...goin' missin' after. An' Dusk an' all the folks in the news an' /not/ in the news. Um. I got the tea.” He holds up the thermos in offering, should Lucien want to take it now. “There's a creepy cult stealin' mutants t'take their abilities. Hackin' 'em up an' puttin' the /parts/ onto folks. Mostly folks as are sick or have disabilities or somethin'. Replacin' parts. An' givin' over the abilities with 'em. S'called the Perfectus Church. They're bein' lead by a...creepy kinda faith healer. Who's John Sublime. Which explains how they know where so much of the mutant population lives an' works an' what they do.” He pauses, leaving off at this more...generic explanation for a moment. "Desi had mentioned." Lucien sounds almost offhand about this, as he saunters in to the office to relieve Micah of the thermos. He doesn't open it, just takes it with him over by the aquarium, fingers tapping against the container as he leans just slightly inwards to examine the brightly colourful fish. "John Sublime?" From his place in front of the aquarium his expression can't really be seen, but his tone here lifts in surprise. "That is --" Here he has just a beat of hesitation. "Those people helped you with your eviction, non?" “Yes. The eviction, gettin' Jax an' Dusk out of prison, gettin' the false shopliftin' charges against Shane dropped. They're /everywhere/ in the mutant community, Luci. Just...gatherin' information for this psycho.” Micah shudders. “I went t'the church on Sunday when Dusk was missin' so long, t'try an' help find 'im. 'Cause we had no leads at the time. Told 'em...I was interested in what they could do t'help m'patients an'...t'help me. With my leg. They took a blind girl an' put Dusk's /eyes/ in her. In a back room. Then they invited me to a more private meetin' on Wednesday. Maybe t'meet their leader. We didn't have any clue who /he/ was or where t'find Dusk, so I went. I didn't think. I didn't think what they'd be... Um. Sublime. He thinks he can use me t'get to all the people with special abilities that I know. So he can kidnap 'em an' hack 'em up.” Eventually Micah just reaches for the left cuff of his jeans, tugging it upward slowly as he talks, showing...a leg. A /flesh/ leg, its skin in swirling-muddied colours. “He...made a leg out of thin air. Attached it t'me. I had...I couldn't say no or he'd've known I was...lyin' 'bout why I was there an'. It's. Rasa's.” A hard swallow rolls down Micah's throat, trying to mitigate nausea. “But when he put /this/ on me. I heard his mind. In my head. He's mad. Thinks he's a god. An' he was thinkin' how /now/ he would have. Flicker. An' Hive. An' the twins. An' it would be because he had /me/.” His head shakes slowly. “I'm worried he did somethin' t'me. That...he can spy on me t'get information 'bout everyone. Or if he can /control/ me t'kidnap 'em. Or t'let folks into places like...the safe houses an' the school. If there's...some kinda /trigger/ in m'brain or. Somethin' about the leg. I don't know. Hive said he couldn't find anythin' in m'brain, but. I feel like he /must/ have done somethin'. An' I can't go...anywhere. Where anyone is. Where I might hurt 'em.” At some point during all this Lucien finally turns aside from the fish. He opens the thermos, inhaling the scent of the tea inside. His gaze levels on Micah as the other man explains, brows very slowly, very steadily climbing throughout. "-- Ah." That's all he manages, at first, before going over to the coffee machine to get himself a cup and pour some of the tea into it. He walks over to Micah's couch, settling down slowly onto the opposite end of it to set the thermos on the table, hold the cup between both hands and stare down into it. He takes, eventually, a slow sip. There is a small approving upwards twitch of his lip that accompanies this first taste. "So you want a second opinion." His fingers tap against the side of the cup. "Couldn't you just cut it off?" “As t'whether this guy's still...usin' me? Yes. Please. Y'can...look at dif'rent things than Hive can. He's convinced I'm crazy. An' maybe that's true, but... I /especially/ can't go near that school 'til I feel like I've taken every precaution for the kids t'be safe from me.” Micah's head shakes at the inquiry. “Rasa's alive. Ze might...want it? We know healers. They could put it back, maybe. And ze /is/ a metamorph. Even if it ain't the right size right now, ze could...prob'ly fix that hirself once it's /part/ of hir again. I just...don't really know how any of this works so I'm keepin' it /alive/. For now. I feel like Rasa should have a say in what happens to it. Ze didn't get t'have any in it...comin' off. Ze should be able t'decide what happens with it.” His teeth dig /hard/ into his bottom lip. “And I'm not sure that I won't...need it. T'go back there again. We haven't /stopped/ these people yet. We only took back the folks they /had/ right then. S'nothin' keepin' 'em from nabbin' more people an' doin' this again.” His face has gone completely pale at the thought of going /back/ to that place, with that man. "Crazy," Lucien echoes. "I believe there is a saying about paranoia in these circumstances." He takes another drink of his tea, long and deep, eyes closing in slow relish. Leaning forward, he sets the cup down beside the thermos. He turns on the couch to better face Micah, extending a hand, palm-up, toward the other man. "Come, then." “I know, that's kinda how I feel about it,” Micah agrees with a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging. “Better safe than sorry, anyhow.” His eyes close briefly, a relieved nod answering Lucien's agreement to help. He reaches his hand out to rest it in the other man's, trying not to think too many anxious-paranoid-horrified-sick thoughts at him while he works. Slowly counting In his head, backwards by sevens from a thousand, to give his mind something else to chew on instead. Lucien's fingers close gently around Micah's. Unlike most people's touches, lately, his doesn't come with a deluge of /thoughts/ -- to telepaths Lucien's mind is a placid blank, its surface just glassy-smooth, a tranquil calm devoid of stray surface thoughts to easily pick up on. His /expression/ shifts, though, lips pressing thinly together, jaw tightening, muscles tensing as his breath catches. There's a moment, almost, where his hand starts to pull away -- and then tightens as though /reminding/ himself to keep hold. His other hand reaches for his tea again. Sips at it, slowly. Lowers it to his lap, closes his eyes. For a time he is quiet, stillness punctuated only by the lift of his tea to take more sips. And more, until the cup is empty and one final sip nets him only a /frown/, a disgruntled stare into the empty cup. He sets it down in his lap, closes his eyes. Presumably focuses. There's nothing there for Micah to /feel/, no sensation of digging, no telltale tingling, no -- anything, really. Just Lucien's hand, warm against his own. There's plenty long enough for him to be getting bored. Or fidgety. Anxious. Paranoid. Any /number/ of things. It's a good long while before Lucien pulls back and for all there was exactly /nothing/ by way of interesting signs or feelings to /show/ for it he looks a few shades paler and a bit unsteadier when he pulls back, lifting his hand instead to his temple and huffing out a sharp breath through his nose. Unhelpfully, he proceeds to say -- exactly nothing. Just lean forward, and pour himself another cup of tea from the thermos. Micah...isn't bored with the quiet, actually. The smoothness of Lucien's mind is refreshingly calming to the mess of his own, and in comparison to what most touches have been bringing him lately. His breathing deepens and quiets. It might seem like he's sleeping except for subtle variances in the pressure of his hand holding Lucien's. But then the other man pulls away, looks unhappy, and says...nothing. Micah's brow furrows and he watches. Waits. Stares. Finally can't take it anymore. “Luci, you're gonna have t'say somethin' or I'm gonna explode. Seriously.” In response, Lucien sips quietly at his tea, and sinks back against the couch. His hand still rubs slowly at his temple, eyes closing. "I have nothing to say, exactly," he finally answers, lowering his tea to his lap but continuing to press at his temple. "Micah --" His eyes open again, though with a slow wince as the light in the room hits them. "You have a new biological limb where you had a mechanical one before. You have a new psionic /ability/ where you had /none/ before. Do you have even the faintest idea what that has done to the pathways in your brain? There is so /very/ much in your mind that is so radically different from when I last saw you that you may as well be --" He exhales sharply, closing his eyes tight again. "And you want me to look for what, exactly? Some small grain that is not /you/? Nothing in there was you. And /everything/ in there is you." “I just...while he was...in there. He /could/ have...put in a program? A trigger? Made me an inadvertent spy or a sleeper agent or put in a connection he can use to mind control me? If there were somethin' like that, how would I know? Could you /tell/?” Micah's anxiety seems eased not at all at this point. “He...very clearly thought that I'd /give/ him all of my friends and family with abilities over t'him t'be cut up an' put in other people. Why would he think I'd /do/ that if he hadn't...done somethin' t'me? He thought of /the twins/ specifically. Those are my /sons/. He knows that...” "Highly unlikely," Lucien demurs, head shaking. "Your brain is radically changed from what it /was/, but not in ways I have not /seen/ before. It is different /for you/. But its functions are, more or less --" His hand leaves his head, reaching for Micah's again rather /reluctantly/, eyes slipping closed as his voice slips a touch more distant. "-- in line with what I would expect to see with making that limb work. Or a new psionic." His brow furrows, faintly. "Something as complex as /programming/ a series of instructions to be carried out at a later date or mind control -- those things are /complicated/. The connections they would require would be /noticeable/. It is," he hedges, "highly /unlikely/ he has any sort of /control/ or over you." Micah listens with an intent expression, eyes narrowed. “He /could/ do complicated. I mean...he put a leg on me and changed m'brain t'be able to operate it...sort of. And the touch-telepathy. What about just...somethin' t'spy? Somethin' simpler? Could y'find anythin' like that?” He sighs exasperatedly. “Apologies, honey, I just... I feel like somethin' is... An' there's a chance an' I can't. Go t'the school like that. I may have to find....somewhere else t'stay, I guess.” "I am not saying he could not /do/ complicated. I am saying I would /see/ complicated. I see /everything/ that your brain is doing, Micah. I see things your /brain/ barely knows it is doing. I would /certainly/ see something as ridiculously elaborate as programming --" Lucien shakes his head, taking another sip of tea, his fingers curling tighter against Micah's hand. There's a tremor developing in his grip, and he clenches his teeth hard -- then goes slack very abruptly, eyes staring rather vacantly off at the wall for a long half-minute or so. It takes a moment for him to re-orient onto Micah, pulling in a slow breath. Tipping his head down to stare at their joined hands. "Your brain is operating as a brain should. More or less. Sick and stressed and tired. But not hiding any -- malware. Stay wherever you'd like to stay, Micah, of course. But may I..." He trails off, eyes just fixed still somewhat blankly downwards. “Okay. Okay, I guess that's /somewhat/ reassurin', thank you.” Micah frowns slightly, clearly only /somewhat/ reassured. He watches Lucien's blank stare. “Honey, are you okay?” The half question distracts him, however. “May you what?” Lucien doesn't answer, just staring downwards a long while, vacant-unblinking. It takes a while before he shakes his head, pulls his hand from Micah's. "Was there something else you needed?" “That was...the urgent thing Hive was e-mailin' over,” Micah replies somewhat reluctantly. “Honey, you're doin' the not answerin' thing again. Are you okay? You're kinda...blankin' out. An' may you what?” "May I what?" Lucien sounds faintly puzzled at this question, slowly dragging his eyes upwards to meet Micah's. "Ah -- I am fine. Are there," he asks mildly, "any other answers I can give you, Micah? Are you still set on staying --" His hand tips upward. "Where /are/ you set on staying? Are you going to seek a /third/ opinion, perhaps?" “You said, 'may I' an' never finished the question,” Micah clarifies softly. “An' y'still seem a little /off/, honey. What's goin' on?” He looks around the room. “I don't know. Here, if Hive an' Flicker'll have me, I guess. M'van if not. I'll have t'get someone t'bring things from the school. Just...until we figure out what t'do 'bout Sublime. I can't go /there/. Maybe...I dunno, I guess maybe it's safe enough t'be other places with /both/ of y'sayin' it's okay. But not...there. 'Til he's dealt with.” His shoulders rise before sinking back into their exhausted-dejected position. “Maybe. Y'know anybody else who'd be good for checkin'? His hand reaches out, not for Lucien's hand where the skin is bared, but to his shoulder. Seeking contact. “Y'can tell me if somethin's wrong or y'need help. I’m in a bad place, but it don't mean that I can't still help. Or at least listen. I love you. And I'm not broken.” "Didn't you say he /wanted/ Hive and Flicker?" Lucien's voice is mild, like this is just an absent-passing comment. "Can you imagine. Hive's power in that group's hands. Wouldn't /that/ be a delight." He shakes his head, just once, rising only a moment after Micah's hand meets his shoulder. "Not broken?" His brows lift, a very faint twitch tugging at his lips. "After all the time I have just spent in your brain, I think I might judge that for myself." His hand passes across his eyes, and he is slightly unsteady on his feet as he circles the table towards the door. "If you've no more need of me, then -- thank you for the tea." “He does. He wants.../everyone/. He knows about /everyone/ from the Lofts, at least.” Micah's tone is clearly not encouraged by this admission. “But this place ain't exactly a secret. It's...publicly known an' not hard t'get into. If they were just gonna come an' take people, they could get in here without needin' me t'do... Ohgosh, they can't stay here anymore, can they?” He falls back into the couch, hands moving to his temples. “They need t'go somewhere for protection.” Slowly, his hands drop to watch Lucien leaving. “I'm /not/. I'm the /only/ one who gets t'decide that.” The hard set of his jaw quickly softens, however. “I always need you. An' you're welcome t'stay while y'get your feet. You're shaky still, honey.” "By that rationale, Micah," Lucien says wearily, "there is no more reason for you to avoid the school than there is for you to avoid here. His foundation has worked intimately with your family's legal issues. It is just as likely they know where your children attend school and where your husband teaches as that they know this place. If it is /you yourself/ you are concerned about, what are you doing here? Either /you/ are putting Hive and Flicker in danger, or you are not and you can just -- go home." His hand rubs, exhausted, across his eyes again. "Your husband likely needs you. And you /certainly/ need him." “It's one thing t'know it's a school an' a couple people who work or learn there. S'another t'know...all the rest of it. An' how it's set up an' what its defences are an' who /else/ is there.” Micah shakes his head again. “No. It's /too risky/ for all those kids. I'll just... Tell Hive an' Flicker they should think about goin' t' one of the safe houses. Considerin' their /own/ risk an'...the risk of Hive's ability if it gets stolen. An' I'll move back t'the van. That way there's no...question.” He takes another slow breath, lets it out equally slowly. For a moment it looks like he means to get up, but then doesn't seem to find the momentum. “Thank you. For lookin', at least.” "If /they/ were not here /why/ would /you/ go live in your van instead." Lucien's hand lifts to pinch forefinger and thumb at the bridge of his nose. "Your husband I understand, he is Catholic. /You/ have no excuse for the martyr act." “I'm not... It's.” Micah sighs again. “I'm not. Martyrin' nothin'. I don't /mind/. I got good reason t'think they're gonna...use me for /somethin'/, so I should stay away from places people are congregatin' for safety, is all. No safe houses, no school. Just /happens/ that those were kind of my major options of places t'stay. So it's best if I just stay out by m'self.” "By yourself. Where -- you would be. If Hive and Flicker left /here/ to go stay in a safehouse as you just -- said they should. You say you aren't broken, Micah, but I think your /logic/, at least, very clearly is." Lucien drops his hand, rocking -- weaving, really, back on his heels, his hand shifting back towards the door handle though this seems as much for balance as it doors for the later purpose of opening the door. His eyes scrunch tightly closed, opening again slowly. For a moment he seems like he might say something more, but he just shakes his head, wincing as he turns to fumble the door open. “Said they /should/. Didn't say I thought...they'll listen t'me. At least...not Hive. An' Hive might need his office t'/office/ is all. Just...ain't a whole lot dif'rent t'me where I am if I'm stayin' by m'self, anyhow.” This last Micah half-mumbles. “Lucien, y'look like you're gonna /fall over/. What's /wrong/.” He does get up this time, snagging his crutches to move him over to the door. “If y'can't get the door open, prob'ly y'shouldn't be wanderin' out on your own. Can I at least call someone?” "You can throw a stone and hit twenty cabs outside this office. I assure you, I will be," Lucien answers mildly, "fine. After some sleep." He turns in the doorway; the smile he gives Micah is very brief and very faint. "Good day, Micah." With another small incline of head, he turns, sticking close to the wall and trailing fingers against it as he heads down the hall to the elevator. “Okay. Just. Be careful. An' do take the cab.” Micah returns the nod with a bob of his head, starts to reach a hand out, then...doesn't. “Thank you, honey. Hope y'sleep well.”