ArchivedLogs:Practical Considerations

Practical Considerations
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Mirror, Parley, Ryan
In Absentia	2013-03-20 some checking in, some checking out.
Location <NYC> 603 {Mirror & Parley} - Village Lofts - East Village
It is the /first day of spring/ and, well, it's not actually any warmer than the last day of winter was. REGARDLESS. Jackson has become /springlike/. pale yellow capri pants, bright knee-high socks (one covered with cheerful flowers, one covered with dragonflies), chunky pink sneakers, a pink t-shirt emblazoned with a large monarch butterfly. He's optimistic! Maybe if he dresses for spring spring will /arrive/ faster. He's also kind of bouncy as he makes his way the Long Trek from third floor to sixth, and even if there's still a heaping dose of stress-tired-worry-guilt beneath, the cheer in his chattery stream of talking is genuine. /Something/ has him in a good mood. "-- got some contacts at a couple nonprofits could use some help and, I mean, it ain't an /immediate/ fix but I bet Io's clinic's looking for all /sorts/ of positions so possibly we could get some people set up there. And a friend over at the /Bugle/ was mentioning some open -- hey, you think we're gonna have to cash in all these contacts for /you/ any time soon? Like when your life of crime brings your fame all crashin' down. You could come bodyguard with me at the Clinic, y'ever thought about getting into private security? Like if someone showed up wanting to Do Evil you could just screw 'em instead and they'd forget all about the assassination." He is making his way down to apartment 603 at a /bouncy/ pace. Despite Ryan being a CRIPPLE. Ryan, on the other hand, could care less about spring - he just enjoys his civilian freedom as a newly rejoined working-class member of society. The musician wears a dark green flannel buttoned up to his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tattoos bared with charcoal-faded jeans (ragged and stylistically torn about that knees) that feed into large Doc Martens. He hobbles alongside the more colorful Jackson with less of an injured presence, his limp /there/ but no longer such an impediment to his mobility. Forced to walk three flights of stairs, he has brought along a /single/ crutch, however, to aid him on occasion, probably used less than it should. "What? No way, I'm fine on my own. Show just showed out, ticket prices online tripled. Jail time did me a /good/ number. Besides, why would I want to be a bodyguard with you? I can't cover-up any blows dealt to my pretty face like you can. I gotta look out for the moneymaker." He points to his face, grinning as the come upon 603, knuckles reaching up to wrap on the door. One, two, three knocks. "I know the ticket prices online tripled," Jackson says with a bright note of amusement in his voice, "you should /see/ how much backstage /passes/ were going for. Oh, uh, /by/ the way, I'm gonna need new passes. And, uh, new tickets for me and Mel and the boys and Flicker and Dusk and -- I guess Hive might not be coming," he allows with a twinge of sadness. "-- Basically just a whole pack of new ones, okay, for, like, /all/ of us?" Probably a lot of 'us', Ryan needs to have fewer friends. Jax rocks up onto the toes of his platform sneakers as he waits, a quick smile on his face and his hand dropping to tap chrome-pink nails against the messenger bag at his hip. "Pff, it's your hands you gotta watch out for. Keep those and your voice and you'll be golden." The door is answered! By -- Liam? Maybe Ryan's roommate has /moved upstairs/. And neglected his traditional kippah for once. He glances over Jax and Ryan with a quick frown that morphs into a quick smile upon recognition. "Hey. Guys. You need something?" He's opening the door to let them in, if a bit uncertainly. The four-bedroom apartment here is pretty bare. A few boxes. No furniture yet, really. Some dishes in the kitchen, though, at least. A few of them. "Uhhhh. You might have to pose as part of the sound crew there to help to set-up, but of /course/ I'll get you in." No matter if he has to /kick/ other people out (and lose on money). Ryan is a reliable friend! His fingers grip around the handle of his crutch while they wait, an off-guarded blink of surprise registering across his face when /Liam/ answers the door. "Uh--Hey!" He says, collecting his senses and peeking in at the barren apartment. "Cool. Cuz we kinda all lost ours. At once. Hi!" Jackson is offering this bright greeting as the door is opening, then -- stops and blinks in mild confusion at Liam. "Oh, hi, Li -- /oh/, hi. Sorry. I -- sorry! Is this a good time to talk, we won't maybe take long. Just kinda wanted to check in with everyone." Jax has a /list/. He's going down it. But the people actually still in the building are /first/ on it, because, closest. "'kai come in?" "Liam is fine," the man answers, quiet, his lips curling in brief amusement. "For now." He steps back, gesturing them inside. "Check in? Is everything alright?" The feelings beneath his words are reserved. A bright curiosity and thoughtfulness that /feels/ distinctly Liam-y but a calm-cool reserve beneath it, clinical, assessing, that feels very not. He looks at Ryan's crutch, and then Ryan, and then Jackson. "There's no trouble again, is there?" Ryan's brows knit together in questioning suspicion at the mass loss of tickets, but any comments find themselves waylaid by Liam at the door. "Yeah, there is nothing the matter," he reassures, voice inflected with a empathic coolness, calming to the mind. "We are just doing a friendly check-up on everyone to make sure they are transitioning smoothly," he explains, smiling as he tucks his crutch further under his arm, trying to hide it against his body. "Yeahno," Jackson assures Liam, traipsing inside with an openly curious sweep of assessment for the bare apartment. "Just kinda everyone got scattered in an awful rush the other night, an' we want to make sure nobody kinda slips through the cracks. You gonna be set up here for good? Cuz we got some leads on apartments, um -- kinda also looking to see if folks need help finding jobs or gettin' paperwork in order or anything --" He stops his curious looking-over of apartment to look over not!Liam again. "-- but it ain't just the practical. Kinda found it's best after getting back out to make sure you just got some folks who touch base with you regular, make sure -- make sure there's always people what know what's up with you, y'know?" "Make sure nobody vanishes," Liam clarifies, leaning against a wall to cross his arms over his chest. "That /is/ practical. And I am -- good at disappearing." This is a little wry, as he looks between Jax and Ryan. "Not nearly as visible as your type. Thank you. For your concern. I will be living here, yes. The job front is a little more --" He shrugs a shoulder. "I have some ideas. They'll be hard to execute until I straighten paperwork out again. Do you want to /sit/?" The crutch is clearly not /adqeuately/ hidden. Liam looks around the bare apartment with a frown, and then gestures to -- a moving box. It's really as close as he currently has to furniture. Ryan limps through the doorway after Jackson, employing his crutch to add to his momentum as he gazes about at the unpacked room. "Those of us who are settled want to help those who are not. Readjusting can be difficult, and, we've all been through a lot, so it's important to continue looking out for each other," he contributes, shaking his head to decline the invitation to sit. It is an overt attempt to /ignore/ his walking aid. "Is there anything we can help with on the job front? Maybe putting you in connection with someone-- there are a lot of us. Who come from all over." "What kinda paperwork you need straightened? We gone some --" Jackson's brows pull together for a moment, his teeth worrying at his lip. "Got some people can help you get things in order. You looking to get into anything in particular or just kinda in the whatever-pays boat?" He nods towards Ryan. "I mean, we all kinda been here so it's -- there's things we can at least make a bit smoother." Liam glances at Ryan as he limps in, but doesn't make any further comments about the leg. "Readjusting can be a process," he agrees, quietly. His fingers taptaptap at the crook of his arm, and then he gets to his feet smoothly. There is a laptop on one of the boxes -- not his, Joshua's -- that he opens to pull up a text document. "I have some skill with words," he says, "and some skill with -- finding things out. I had a thought to pursue journalism, while I get back into school." He turns the laptop towards Ryan and Jax. There's an -- article, written up there. A piece on testing facilities that kidnap and experiment on mutants. It is, well, quite factual! And well written, crisp professional prose. "But," he says, evenly, "without documents proving my existence it'll be harder to convince a paper to employ me." "We know a few people who can help you procure papers," Ryan offers, unafraid to play up on some of their sketchier contacts. Freshly out of jail, he is /still/ the least at-risk, with his closeted mutant status. When not!Liam moves for his laptop, he reneges on his former decline, and, shoving his crutch out to Jax, winds up seating himself on the formerly proffered box. He scoots it closer to peer at the laptop, face paling when he starts to skim the content of the document. "Um. That /might/ be more harmful than productive in finding you gainful employment." "Ryan knows /all/ the people," Jackson sounds a little amused by this. "Y'get us what you need and as much info as you /got/ and we'll sort you out." He moves over to read the screen over Ryan's shoulder, eyebrows slowly hiking up as he looks over the laptop. "Thaaaat." Silence. "/Well/." He doesn't pale, but there is a definite new note of wariness in his tone. "You manage to successfully /pitch/ that to someone, I'd think you're as cut out for sales as journalism. But, uh. You /do/ manage to successfully pitch it to someone --" He whistles, quiet and low. "Could be a world'a troubles." There's a hesitation before admitting, "Could be a world'a good, too." This is less certain, though. "I doubt highly anyone will print it," Liam is unhesitant to admit. "It is a gamble. I'm good at selling myself, though." He studies the other men's faces, that same calm-critical appraisal washing through in his tone. "It would be a gamble if it did go to print, yes. But they can't hide forever. And given your recent troubles I think --" He looks at Jax, looks at Ryan, considers very seriously a moment before finishing, "-- that they have /already/ declared war." Ryan fumbles with his next response, put on /edge/ more so than Jackson. His lips press into a thin line, and his forehead collapses on the shelf of his brown in furrowed wrinkles. Hesitant, he eventually comes up with, "Yeah. I mean, maybe they have declared war. Maybe we instigated it, /but/, not all of us can afford to fight as... open a war as something like this article might create if it were published. Y'know?" He is trying to be diplomatic, but the personal implications... well, they take foremost concern. Somewhat reflexive, Jax's hand moves to Ryan's shoulder, squeezing lightly and then just resting there. "S'a whole /world/'a complicated to think about, taking this public. S'somethin' we thought about time and again, but the dangers -- to everyone out here an' to everyone still /inside/ --" He exhales slowly. "I mean, can't nobody tell you what to do and not do. S'just a lot of thinking to think on first, mebbe. But if it gets public without no names named --" His teeth drag over his lip, and he casts a faintly worried look down to Ryan. But a faintly curious one to Liam. "I didn't name any," Liam says with a slight shrug, "though who knows what /they'll/ do if it /does/ go to press. It would be a danger." He looks at Ryan, and then away towards the window. "But." There's another beat of silence. "What will you do? Go in one by one. Shut down a lab while two more crop up? Watch your team winnowing away more and more with each strike? Wait for them to come for /all/ your families? You are very brave people. But you can't save everyone on your own." Ryan leans into the press of a palm on his shoulder, muscles rippling with a faint tensing underneath the fabric of his shirt. "It's not like they don't know who we are," he murmurs, dropping his hands between his legs. "Right now, we probably stand as even with them. Not that it will stop us -- but. We don't have the resources to defend ourselves against whatever something like that," he dips his chin towards the computer screen, "Might unleash. We do what we can. And it's something." Jackson is quiet as Ryan speaks. He's quiet a while after, too, hand still resting warm (much warmer than most human body temperature) against Ryan's shoulder. "They took Hive," he says eventually, soft and slow. "They took my kids. They'd take you if they could. I think s'already being unleashed, Ryan. An' I think we already can't stand against it. We been defensive. Even breaking into these places is defensive. Just stemming the /flow/ of murders. But you can't win a war on the defensive. 'specially not if you look at our numbers and theirs. How many friends we lost already?" It's probably a rhetorical question given that the answer over the years is: /many/. "S'attrition we can't -- really afford." "Even." Liam says this -- evenly! But it's a little skeptical in the emotions carried underneath. "Right now you're pissing them off. But they're going to win. Because they know who you are. And have so many more resources than you could ever hope to gather, in secret." He shrugs a shoulder, stepping over to lean down and lightly push the laptop closed. "There's just many ways to fight. And I think you could do with employing them all." "Well what the hell else are we supposed to do? We're useless if they take our livelihoods. Going through the government was a /polite/ counter-strike. What's to keep them from showing up under the cover of night and us disappearing without anyone ever knowing? It's already happened before to some of us. And they would make sure we didn't escape this time." A vehemence rises in his tone, an undirected frustration as much vented at Jackson and not!Liam as the air between them. Ryan frowns. "It's just-- what we've been doing seems like the best we /can/ and /should/ do for now, is all I'm saying. I'm as much for taking down those bastards if we /could/." Jax's hand stays on Ryan's shoulder. With another squeeze, but then just with a continued gentle pressure of contact. "I don't know," he admits, with a slow-exhaled breath. "What else we're s'posed to do. 'cept it's gotta be something. Li -- he -- Liam," this is still a /little/ awkward, referring to the not!Liam Liam in front of them, "he's /right/, though. We only been fighting this on one front. With one weapon. And they're fighting /back/ and they got themselves a lot more'n just that. We can keep up what we're doing forever but -- but we /can't/ keep up what we're doing forever, cuz they're coming for us and they're gonna keep coming for us and even if they /don't/, Rye? /One/ of these days s'gonna be our bodies the team's leaving behind there. And one'a these days ain't gonna be no team left at all." He leans over Ryan to the laptop again after Liam closes it, looking over the article again. "Gotta start somewhere." Though this comes with a wry smile to Liam: "-- though /somewhere's/ prob'ly with your papers, honey-honey." "Probably, that is true," Liam agrees. No smile, just a tip of his head in a nod. "I," he seems like he has to give this matter some /thought/, a quiet pause preceding the words, "would rather your bodies stay alive." For the moment that's all he says. His palm rubs at his cheek slowly. Ryan falls silent, his warm demeanor edging away as a look of quiet brooding overcomes him. He is seated on an unpacked box in the mostly empty apartment, his crutch beside him, and Jax on his other side, clutching his shoulder for comfort. Across from them, Mirror holds a laptop, with a just-closed screen, addressing the two visitors, there for check-up on their mutant refugees. "Yeah. I don't know. I have to think about it," he grunts out eventually, not answering any further questions. He's giving them his stiff, practiced no-more-interviews-today-please cold shoulder. Y'know, the kind he uses to fend of the paparazzi. 'Clk'. The door rolling on its tumblers. 'Dm'. The sound of a small take out box bumping on the doorknob. That's all, really. There's rarely much noise to mark Parley's coming and going, balancing a white styrofoam clamshell box in one hand and tucking is keys into a pocket. Compressed between his lips is a disposable fork. He's dressed neatly in black turtleneck shirt, charcoal coat, slacks. Nudging the door closed behind him with a heel and then stepping out of his shoes, he scans each occupant of the apartment. And, with presence habitually subdued, he sifts across the apartment to wordlessly dock beside... Liam. His shoulder thrums with a low quiver of energy. He plucks the fork from his mouth. "Mr. Black. Mr. Holland," said while thumbing open the box so that only Liam can see - like secret /treasure/. Exposed inside is Oreo cheesecake. Or HALF of an Oreo cheesecake. He offers over the fork, adding to their guests, "How is your leg?" "Jax," Jackson corrects habitually, reflexively, a quick-warm smile curling across his lips as he glances to Parley. "Afternoon, Parley. We was just stopping by to check in on folks. I know everyone got displaced kinda /quick/-like and we didn't want anyone to -- fall through the cracks." His shoulder hitches up in a quick shrug. "S'a lotta cracks out there. Liam said -- well, you gonna be living here too? Or need anything by way of --" His hand waves. "Help. Paperwork. Contacts. Want to make sure everyone's on their feet proper." Still his hand doesn't leave Ryan's shoulder, resting there in absent continuing of contact, though he doesn't particularly seem like /he/ needs the comfort right now. Squeeze. "S'a lot to hafta think about," he adds, quieter to Ryan. Not!Liam peeks into the box. He picks up the fork, slicing a small piece of cheesecake off almost daintily, and then /inspecting/ it. Sniff first. Peeeeer second. Touch the tip of his tongue to it third. After these exploratory gestures he pops it into his mouth quickly, like maybe all this delay will cause it to run /away/. "It's not just paperwork," he informs Parley. "They want to make sure nobody disappears. Harder to, with --" There's a hesitation; his eyes lower. To the cheesecake. "Friends," he says the word /delicately/, "who remember that you exist. But." This has a small smile. "I appreciate the paperwork, as well. They're going to make me a real girl again. Or," he allows, glancing down at his current form, "boy. How was your day?" Ryan lifts up his head when Parley greets him, a fib rolling off the tip of his tongue before he catches himself. "Mr. Negro, actually. After my prison stint, I figured it was time to embrace my Mexican roots from down south," he fictionalizes, with a sudden revival of a friendly smile as he seats himself beside not!Liam. Nodding along to Jackson's reason for being there, "Yep. So if there is anything we can do to... help you get back on your feet, let us know. We are /trying/ to stick out for each other." "...It's useful to have friends," Parley says, face not visible behind the lid of his takeout box, reaching out to accept back the fork when Liam(ish) is done to have a bite. "And contacts. That's very attentive of you, thank you." It's not insincere, just said quietly with his eyes down at the cheesecake - though they rise to Not!Liam, a trace wider. "-really?" He smiles softly, "That's wonderful. My day's been..." He scuffs the heel of one dress shoe against the other. Letting out an odd moment of shaky breath. "Busy. I'm taking on further work projects. At this rate I'll be able to cover half the rest. -- are you really Mexican?" Hang on, he got dragged back to this with a sudden PEER at Ryan. "Useful, sure," Jackson says, lightly. "Some people just disappear. Makes it easier to -- well, just disappear 'em. Notsomuch a Good Thing." He shrugs a shoulder, glancing over Parley with a faint trickle of curiosity. "Busy-good? I mean, that answers the question 'bout work, 'least. You planning to stay in this place, too? We got a couple leads on apartments for folks --" Another shrug of a shoulder. His eye sweeps Parley, and then drops as his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks his texts, frowns, opens up a browser. His eyebrows raise abruptly, in time with a decided ripple of unease. "/Is/ there anything y'need, Parley?" He looks up from his phone to the other man, unease pushed back down into neutrality. "An' Liam --" His nose crinkles, expression a little sheepish. "Gosh, /should/ I call you Liam? I don't actually know," he says apologetically. "Call me -- well. I -- don't actually know, either," not!Liam admits, with another brief rub of palm against hand. "Everything alright?" He looks towards the phone, too. "I do kind of want to ask. It's kind you're looking out for us. Who's looking out for you?" He relinquishes cheesecake /reluctantly/, and shoots a thoughtful-curious glance to Parley at his shaky breath. "Everyone has needs." "Claro que si," Ryan confirms for Parley in a hispanic accent, (but then, as an audiokinetic, this is not difficult to affect). He plasters a grin wider, leaning over to brush up against Jackson with his colorful wardrobe. When he frowns, he peers over his shoulder to try and scan the page pulled up on his phone-- not!Liam distracts him. "Plenty of people. It's not just us who are looking out for you. We're all kind of doing the same for each other. S'kinda just how it works." Glancing back at Jackson, his mouth moves quickly, but no words are heard. At least, not to Parley and not!Liam. Perfectly audible to the illusionist, however, is: "Youokay?" Agreement comes with cautious exploration, "...everyone has needs. Though being one-way solicitous-," But anything further is cut short - Parley's brows pull slightly together at the pulse of unease from Jackson, other conversation foregone to begin to lean forward to try and see - communicational empathy can't /read/, dammit - and then catches himself, returning back to his place. He glances briefly at Ryan when he silent-speaks, and then lowers attention back to his cake. Which he takes one more bite of before handing it to semiLiam to finish. "...you probably will need a name. Not everyone can just call you... << you >>." Pulsed: a concept, so subtle, summarizing more than a single name could. -- abruptly his own phone (a cheap disposable cell) begins to ring. He reaches into his back pocket. "Guess everyone's looking out for me," Jackson says, with a quiet laugh. "Everyone who wants to, nohow. My apartment's been flooded with more help'n I know what to do with. S'only one way with the people who don't want to help nothing, and I sure ain't gonna push. Everyone's got full plates, time like this." He wrinkles his nose at his phone, tipping it over to Ryan. It holds a new AP news story, covering Norman Osborn's just-delivered press conference. Which, apparently, had a heavy focus on Jax. Even as he shows Ryan the browser, more buzzes are coming in -- a pair of emails. He clears the notifications. "Yeah," he says, a little weary underneath but mostly just kind of bland-/patient/ with this, "just gearing up for a whole ton more hassle. Be nice to stay outta the news for /one/ week," he says, wry amusement in his tone. "-- You don't know? Do you /want/ a name, or are you good without? You'll need something to put in documents, we get you an identity." His brows crease slightly as Parley's phone begins to ring. "Sorry, we're interruptin' now. Guess if you're right upstairs staying in touch'll be easy. You want to come by tomorrow evenin', check in 'bout paperwork?" He's saying this to Liam, and to Parley: "We're right downstairs, if you need anything." It's a genuine offer, warm and more than a little concerned, but there's that same current of quiet patience underneath that suggests despite the genuine desire to help he's already not-expecting Parley to take it /up/. "Everyone does," Liam agrees, glancing towards Parley with these words. And then to Parley's phone, in open curiosity as it rings. "You weren't interrupting," he assures. "Not me, at least. A name, I --" His brows crease, and slowly he shrugs a shoulder. "Will have to find one. For identification." This carries thoughts of on-paper identification; the concept of identifying /himself/ in Personal Life has never apparently struck him as an important one. His smile slices thin for a moment. "After all, if we're going to war, I'll need something on my dogtags." With this he slices another bite of CAKE into his mouth, omnom cake. He's not so polite about Jax's phone. He leeeeans in (with a mouth full of cake!) to peer at it, personal space be damned. "-- What now?" There's a ripple of worry with this, a slight frown. "I can come tomorrow," is at least affirmed with a nod, but this doesn't stop his worried SNOOPING. Ryan tilts the screen of the phone to better read, skimming enough to carry along with his general frustration. "Oh, /man/. That's bigger coverage than I have received," is his attempt to mask it with a joke, though to the empathic there is an undercurrent of agitation over this. Feelings pushed aside, "We'll work on contacting you someone who can find you a name. Hell, it'd probably the same person who might be able to find Hive a name." He glances up from the phone to see another one being extracted from Parley's pocket, and he frowns again; just then, his own vibrates with a notification on an e-mail. "Just downstairs. Which, I'm guessing is where we might need to be soon. In case of company." Crutch remembered he picks it up from the ground, bracing himself to stand. "You're allowed to be in my apartment when my phone rings," Parley makes a dry exhale through his nose while looking at the screen, murmuring over the ringing, quietly enough it's either to himself or intended mostly just for Liam, "--but not all needs are equal." The rest of the conversation is absorbed with a sweep of his eyes, before he silently withdraws, offering just a pulse of << (once you get a name)(i can put you in my cellphone). >> If there's just the briefest flutters of excitement echoing in << cellphone! >> ... well. He's never had one before. He slips off to the side to answer it -- "This is Parley..." Jax tenses, at the LiamIntrusion, but allows it with a tilt of his phone outwards towards the others instead. His other hand absently moves to Ryan's elbow, offering support in a distracted sort of way. "Clearly you gotta piss off more people," he says to Ryan with a hint of amusement. "Well! You'll need a name for papers but /you/ only need one if you want. The dogtags only matter if you're dead." His lips quirk; it's a dry sort of gallows humour, "and, c'/mon/, you think these people are gonna be respecting your last wishes?" Parley's words wash over him with the same patient-quiet as before; he offers the pair a warm smile, a bright, "Tomorrow, then!" and heads for the door. "I do love company," he's saying to Ryan as he goes. "You got more experience than me, tell me, do paparazzi like cupcakes?" "I'll be there. Thank you." Liam's smile is reserved, more out of habit than any lack of appreciation. His expression has shifted into something a little tighter drawn at the news column. "I think," he says, more to the phone than to Jackson, "that these people don't respect very much." He nods to Jax and Ryan, and moves to sit down on -- a box! So that he can take his laptop again, opening it back to the document he was working on before. And no internet. Until they get the cable in. Alas. Ryan balances on his one leg, crutch used as a fulcrum to put him into motion as he step-swings himself forward, clutching Jackson. "We'll see you tomorrow anyway. You drop by too, if you need something," he offers Parley, although, as he answers his phone they are leaving regardless. Heading towards the door he smirks at Jackson, "No, but you might want to have some cupcakes on hand anyway, to throw at them when you get tired of answering questions." No one ever said he treated the paparazzi well. Over his shoulder, before turning down the hallway, "Just think about it Liam, before you do anything. It /would/ be nice to stay out of the press for a week... over certain things." With that, he starts the hobble down three flights of stairs.