ArchivedLogs:Only Human
| Only Human | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 5 June 2013 Shane comes home while Micah is watching Spencer. |
| Location
<NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village | |
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. There has been an epic space battle in the Holland apartment. K'nex space ships of every imaginable make and model lay all across the living room in various stages of destruction. A flying saucer that looks like a bite has been taken out of it here, a rocket split fully in half there, some sort of landing pod missing most of its legs knocked half under the couch. None of the vessels seems to have come out of this whole. The primary casualty, however, is one /knocked out/ little tousled-headed seven-year-old. He is sprawled out on the floor with one hand flopped against a mostly-intact TARDIS-like object. Micah is clad in a pair of jeans (that are faded, but not particularly patchy) and a white T-shirt (depicting a T-rex holding a pair of adaptive reachers, under the heading 'UNSTOPPABLE!'). He is, for some reason, half under the coffee table. His own tousled auburn head comes peeking up when the battle gets...suspiciously quiet. "Oops. Man down," he murmurs with a grin, scrambling to his feet. He scoops Spencer up to deliver him to his bedroom. Only kids can fall asleep that suddenly and that /thoroughly/ in the midst of battle! Shane is actually pretty quiet about his return to the house. Unlock the door, sneak in, slip shoes off. His nostrils flare upon entering, taking stock of the apartment's current occupants. He is dressed pretty blandly, for him. Dark jeans, dark vest over a light t-shirt. His bare feet are quiet against the floor as he slips across he living room, dropping his backpack on a beanbag and skirting around the ships strewn across their battlefield (though he snags one mostly-whole one off the floor to whooosh it through the air as he goes) to lean against Spencer's bedroom door and peer inside, quietly. Micah is just completing the process of tucking Spence into bed, in his mostly-dark room, the only light coming from a night light and what streams in from the hall. He smoothes the little one’s mousey brown hair with his fingertips, watching the peaceful sleeping form for a moment before turning to make a quiet exit. Where, surprise!, there is a Shane! Micah startles, jumping a bit, but manages not to make a sound. He holds a finger to his lips, as if to hush Shane…or maybe to help remind himself to stay quiet. A few steps carry him into the hallway, and he pulls the door closed softly behind him. “Cheese and /crackers/, Shane, but you are sneaky when you wanna be,” he whispers through a bright smile. “How are you?” "{Sorry,}" Shane's reflexive answer comes in quiet Vietnamese, a moment later a more understandable, "Sorry." He steps back to give Micah room to leave. "Seemed like an /epic/ battle up in here." He nudges a toe at a dismembered rocket. "I dunno. Hungry as shit." He speaks quietly, even as he starts to move away from Spencer's closed bedroom door. "Who won?" “Oh, no need to apologise. Just startled me a bit. Thought I was the only one here an’ awake,” Micah explains. A hand rests on Shane’s shoulder to guide him gently back to the living room, where they can speak without using hushed tones for fear of waking Spencer. “Um. There’s some leftovers in the fridge I could heat up, but it’s all vegany, so I’m not sure if that helps you any.” That lopsided grin takes over his features as he scans the room. “I’m votin’ for the Doctor. TARDIS is the only thing that came out of this not blown to smithereens.” He gestures at the mostly-intact TARDIS with a thumb. "Think you /are/ the only one here and awake." Shane lets himself be guided back to the living room; he drops down to sit in a beanbag once he's there, pushing his backpack aside to let it thump down onto the floor. "Nah, you don't have to be all /dad/ at me I'll feed myself. I'll wait for Bastian to get back. Go out and. Eat someone." He flops backwards to tuck one hand behind his head, looking up towards the ceiling. "I finished my exams." Micah finds a large plastic bin and starts collecting the fallen from the battlefield into it. He leaves the large pieces of ship intact in case they are wanted for later adventures. “Yikes. Well, I hope he gets back soon so your stomach doesn’t start tryin’ to digest itself. An’, y’know, can’t keep all those people out there waitin’ to be eaten waitin’ for /too/ long.” He pauses in his tidying for a second to look up at Shane. “Is that a congratulations-finished or a meh-finished?” "S'alright, he takes too long I'll just eat you instead." Shane rolls over onto his stomach to watch this clean-up process. He still holds the one ship, mostly intact, though now he rests it carefully down beside his beanbag. He makes no move to /help/, though. "Uhhh. Pretty sure I failed every single thing except Spanish so, um." He shrugs. "I was doing shitty at things /before/ murdercamp." He wriggles a little back in his large beanbag, arms curling in to gather a portion of it beneath his chin. "Your day alright?" "Bah. I'm kinda scrawny and also part synthetic. Could order somethin' in for you guys an' maybe it'll be here by the time 'Bastian gets back?" The collection of deadships continues steadily. "Hm...I think if anyone had a reason to not be havin' the best school term... Y'gonna try to make up some ground with summer courses?" Micah kneels to collect a bunch of pieces from the floor, where a ship had been utterly destroyed. "Good-busy. Had my orthopaedics clinic today, which is always an early mornin' seein' patients followed by a late-ish night gettin' rush orders done. Then came straight back here for Spence-watchin'. Mostly was food, shipcrafts, an' epic battles." "Make good soup," is Shane's judgment on Micah's scrawniness, but immediately after: "Oh my /god/ I'd kill for some --" He cuts this excitement short with a click of teeth, shaking his head. "-- neh I'll wait for Bastian." His expression scrunches up into a frown. "I think /he/'s getting A's even /with/ missing literally half the semester in foster care and murdercamp." His chin digs in against the beanbag. "Stuck in summer school, yeah, I have to retake /everything/." A thought which makes his arms clench harder against the beanbag. "Good-busy. OK. Good. Do, uh, do you ever sleep?" “Hm…they say if you turn the heat up slowly enough, you don’t even really notice. Or was that boiled frogs? Somethin’ like that.” Micah swipes under the couch to retrieve a few ship parts that had rolled under it. “Yeah, the schoolin’ stuff just comes naturally to some folks. On the plus side, y’missed most of it the first time, so it’ll still be kinda like new? Less borin’ that way.” He chuckles at the sleep question. “Sometimes. Not a whole lot. More’n Jax does.” Not that /that/ is saying much. "It's /all/ boring as fuck, I hate it there." Shane's eyes narrow on the pieces that Micah retrieves as if /they/ are the cause of school-tedium. "Dude, OK, robots probably sleep more than Jax does. I don't get it, do you just do a lot of meth? I fucking love sleep. I would sleep all the damn time if I could." “Ain’t nothin’ that keeps your interest at all?” Micah inquires with a lofted brow, dubious that /everything/ could be boring. “No drugs. Just…got too much to do. I just sleep when there’s nothin’ else goin’ on, I guess. /You/ wanna sleep all the time ‘cause you’re a teenager. S’what your brain is askin’ for on account of all the /development/ goin’ on.” He waggles his fingers at his head, as if this is explicative of the goings-on of the teenage brain. "Daiki and Peter do," Shane answers promptly. "Fuck the rest of school, though. I want to go live with Nox instead." His eyes slip closed, first one set of eyelids and then the other. Like /demonstrating/ his desire to Always Be Asleep. "I don't think I'm developing, I haven't /grown/ in forever. I think we're kind of just fucked up. When is there ever nothing else going on?" “Hrm,” is Micah’s eloquent reply, deciding not to push the issue of any /classes/ or even subjects being of interest. He scans the room to ensure no K’nex is left behind. “Just ‘cause y’ain’t gettin’ taller don’t mean y’aren’t developin’. It’s a lot of chemicals an’ frontal lobe adjustments an’ such.” He retrieves a stray triangle of wing hiding half under a chair, dropping it into the bin with an air of finality. Battlefield back to normal! “Usually real early in the mornin’. Or those times when, like, there’s a huge accident on the road an’ you’re better off just pullin’ over somewhere an’ /waitin’/ instead of pushin’ through.” "I don't think I can grow," Shane admits. "At least I don't -- know if it'd be -- good if we did." He cracks an eye open to look back at Micah. "There's plenty of shit going on early in the morning, that's good hunting time. -- Er. Or. I guess. Maybe not hunting time for everyone." He frowns. "I think Pa paints then. Or swims. Maybe it's good thinking-time." Micah tucks the filled bin against a wall and flops himself down on the couch. It might be the first time he’s really stopped moving all day. “Mmm…don’t need to set aside thinkin’ time. Brain runs too much while everythin’ else is goin’ on, as it is. Gym sometimes. But I mostly run.” "Pa's gym kicked him out." Shane wrinkles his nose, then looks over to Micah with a hint of surprise. "Run? Really?" His cheeks flush slightly even as he asks the question. "... running's probably good thinking time, too." “Yeah, I only manage to keep up with mine ‘cause the company I work with, that made the knee I use, covers my fees. They don’t get their data unless I have a controlled environment to walk an’ run in, so it’s worth it to ‘em.” Micah’s head falls back against the back of the couch, so it seems like his comments are being addressed to the ceiling. “Mmhmm, though, been into runnin’ since I got a prosthesis that was good enough for it. Have to switch to a different foot t’get the right mechanics, though. This one’s really just set for walkin’…handles a bit of a jog at best.” "How old were you then?" Shane turns his head to the side, resting his cheek against one arm as his arms squeeze in tighter. "-- Wait but what happens if someone attacks you?" His eyes open wider now, looking at Micah with apparently genuine concern. "I'd just wear my running leg, like, /all/ the fucking time." “Few years younger than you are. Things come along quickly in the field, though. Might’ve pulled it off a little earlier with modern tech.” Micah lifts his head upright in order to regard Shane while he’s speaking. “It’s not a different leg, just a different foot. An’ they’re really no good for holdin’ still or walkin’ slow an’ they can be awkward on stairs. Really made for just /runnin’/.” He shrugs at the attack question. “Somethin’ you get used to knowin’. That you aren’t as good at gettin’ away if you need to. S’a little worse when you need other devices to walk. A little more so when you’re wheelchair-mobile. S’just the way it is.” "... didn't know they had running prostheses back in the Middle Ages," Shane answers first, but this teasing jab has less tease to it as he sits up, scoots closer to the couch, dragging his beanbag along with. The concern in his expression has only deepened. "-- but. No. But what if -- I mean don't you -- I mean how do you --" He fidgets on the beanbag, distinctly uncomfortable. "... are you any good at fighting?" "Oh, great, I've gotten /that much/ older since Friday? I really gotta be more careful about how much time I spend out in the TARDIS," Micah quips with a light snort of laughter. "Mostly got the tar kicked outta me as a kid. Don't really get into fights so much anymore...people are a little better in control of themselves on a day t'day basis when they ain't kids or teenagers. Uh...'side from that, got some basic self defense trainin' an' it hurts more'n usual if I kick somebody? Last thing as was even close to a fight I got into...Nox'n Tatters rescued me." Despite the subject matter, he /grins/ at that. "I generally talk m'way outta trouble when I can." This doesn't seem to reassure Shane even slightly. His knees curl up towards his chest, his arms wrapping around his shins, and his hairless ridged brows stay deeply furrowed. "But if someone -- I mean Nox and Tatters won't always --" The grin only makes his frown deepen. "Talking doesn't always work and people are --" His arms squeeze tighter against his legs. "-- there's a /lot/ of trouble." "Well, I figure, body type as I've got..." Micah lifts a wiry arm. "I can spend all my time worryin' an' bein' scared an' trainin' for possible trouble. Or. I can spend my life /livin'/ it an' what happens happens, yeah?" He shrugs. "Even bein' an excellent fighter don't stop somebody from bein' better armed or bein' able to melt your face or somethin'. Can't /always/ be a step ahead of everybody. Be surprised what the right kinda talk'll get you out of, though." "You /have/ to /always/ be a step ahead of everybody," Shane answers with a fierce emphatic /insistence/. "You can't -- just -- you have to --" His eyes scrunch shut tight, then open again, every bit as worried in their return to focus on Micah. "What /happens/ is that you /die/, there's /always/ trouble you can't just -- not be ready for it." “Alright then,” Micah nods, not arguing further. He’s not the argumentative sort. “I accept your premise that there’s trouble an’ the outcome of trouble can be death. Let’s take it one step further an’ posit that bein’ a step ahead of trouble, or bein’ ‘ready for it’, like y’say, is the way I should approach things. What would y’have me do about it?” It is a genuine question, without a hint of sarcasm, if a touch Socratic in nature. Shane is silent a long while. His arms squeeze tighter against his shins, his head tipping down to hide his face against his thighs. It takes quite a while before he speaks. And when he does, it is only to mumble: "... go away." Micah sighs, scruffing his hand through his hair. "Y'can't always stay away from everythin' that's scary in life. Y'end up missin' out on too much that makes it worth livin' in the first place." He slides himself off of the couch to crouch beside Shane's beanbag. "So I'm really not plannin' on goin' anywhere anytime soon. Unless what y'meant was that y'wanna be alone right now. In which case, I can do that." Shane shakes his head. "Didn't mean that. I don't -- want to be --" He hesitates, words muffled as his mouth presses against his jeans. "-- I just meant everything's /always/ trouble. People getting kidnapped and killed and tortured and. And you can't /defend/ yourself you can't even run away you --" He shakes his head again, and slowly flops to one side when Micah comes near. His head thunks heavily against Micah's thigh. Micah slips onto the beanbag next to Shane when the boy’s head hits his leg, pulling his small frame against his own and snugging an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “If it’s any consolation, my genetics make me less interestin’ to a lot of those folks than y’all are. So that’s one kinda trouble I’m less likely to find myself in. An’ it’s not like I’m /defenseless/. I told ya I got some trainin’ to fight back if I gotta. Just ain’t at the top of the skills list on my resume.” He gives Shane’s shoulders a little squeeze. “I been takin’ care of myself my whole life, an’ it’s not like I’m gonna stop now. Y’got enough to worry about without tryin’ t’be my keeper, too. You should just know…I’m aware of the trouble, but I’m not lettin’ it make me scared all the time. So you shouldn’t be, either. Least not on my behalf. Okay?” "I just don't want," Shane's words quiet as his gills flare, quick and rapid. He doesn't say anything more. He curls in closer to Micah's snugging, eye squeezing tight as his gills flutter rapidly. "... only fucking human," is what he mutters softly to himself. | |
