ArchivedLogs:Pray

Pray
(With Your Fists)
Dramatis Personae Ion, Micah, Regan, Rasputin
In Absentia	19 September 2013 The situation continues to heat up in Harlem. (Part of the Battle for Harlem TP.)
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
This church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. Evening mass is just letting out, at the church -- despite the influx of squatters camped out in the church and its surrounding buildings, /its/ business is still continuing as much as-usual as is possible. The number of people on /any/ given weekday who elect to go to weekday Mass is not particularly /high/; the number of people who elect to go with a church full of mutants (many of which are criminals) is slightly less high than on other days. It's a very /small/ crowd, then, who is currently trickling out of the church, most dressed in the remnants of work-clothes (whatever that may mean to people -- a Burger King uniform on one woman, a business suit on another, heavy workboots and paint-splattered jeans on the man behind them.) Ion is dressed in work-attire, as well; khaki pants and a pale blue button-down shirt, a leather jacket folded inside-out and draped over an arm. He's stopped on the way out of the pews to talk to the priest, a brief exchange in Spanish largely concerning where to /put/ new people coming in to stay and where to obtain cheap infant formula for a new mother who has just turned up. It's after this that he continues further back, not exiting the church but lingering by the door down to the basement as he pulls out his phone to send a text. Work clothes seem to be the fashion of the day. Micah follows the trend, having spared no time for a change of costume from his khakis and TARDIS-blue polo shirt. He stopped over just long enough for supply /collection/ into his van before supply /delivery/ to the church. Seeing his timing is a little off, with people streaming out of the doors as he arrives, he holds on offloading any goods until foot traffic settles down. Instead, he approaches a familiar figure in the form of Ion with a smile and a wave. "Hey, how are things goin'?" There is one young woman joining the trickle of others out of the church. Tall and willowy, with jet-black hair tied down in a long braid down her back, hazel-green eyes, a lightly tanned skin, she also looks like she's joined the after-work crowd in grey slacks, a tight-fitting three-quarter-sleeved cardigan in green and white, black ankle boots. She carries a large purse over her shoulder, head tilting slightly to shamelessly eavesdrop on the exchange between priest and churchgoer. It's Ion she approaches afterwards, with a small polite smile. "{How much formula? Is there just the one infant?}" Regan's eyes shift to Micah afterwards, the same polite smile on her face. "Hello," switches back into English, appraising gaze slipping down over the other man. Rasputin is also here today! The white cat slowly struts past the people into the church, wearing a fannypack on hir back as a backpack. Several people stop to glance at this strange sight, but instead, Rasputin just heads towards Regan. The cat meows softly, which turns itself into a quiet human voice. "Hello, Regan! I am here!" Rasputin smiles, purring, as ze notices Regan talking to Micah. Ze too turns to Micah, bowing hir head, as ze speaks. "Hello there!" Rasputin tilts hir head at the Spanish being spoken, and slowly sends a small sound whisper to Regan. "Is something going on?" "{Only one that needs formula. Month old. Guess we need --}" Ion's smile is quick and wry. "{However much month-old babies eat.}" His voice is heavily accented when he switches back into English, his smile brighter when he spies Micah. "Hey, vato, how's things?" He holds out one fist to Micah in greeting -- it /freezes/ in the air when the cat strolls in and starts speaking. "-- Are you seeing? What I'm -- hearing? I only had /one/ small sip of wine." Micah stands and blinks politely in that way of a person listening to a conversation in a language that he doesn't understand. “Evenin',” he returns Regan's greeting with a nod, smile still warming his boyish features. His fist comes up to meet Ion's--actually, it travels a little more than halfway to reach when Ion pauses, delivered along with a little giggle. “I'm good. Brought more stuff. Checkin' in on folks t'keep the docs' list runnin'. Same old.” The talking cat earns another few blinks. “Don't think you're hallucinatin', man,” he reassures, adding a pat to Ion's shoulder. "Rasputin. Good evening, dear." Regan's head tips to one side, with an innocent blink of her eyes. "-- Don't /your/ cats talk?" Though her smile curls wider, after this. "Forgive me. This is my friend Rasputin. I believe you're already acquainted with my friend Dusk? He told me you were a good man to talk to, if we stopped by here." And, more silent in Ion's mind alone, << Is he a friend? Is there somewhere safer /to/ talk? >> This comes with an indicative mental image of Micah. "Oh, uh, I-uh..sorry, didn't mean to startle!" Rasputin's voice becomes kind of panicky, as ze freaks out after startling them. "Yeah, I'm Rasputin, pleasure to meet you.” Ze bows hir head again. "And no, you're not hallucinating, I'm talking, don't worry. Wait, that's probably more reason to worry, sorry." Rasputin tries to paw open hir fanny pack, failing, and giving up. "Just trying to clear things up and all." He turns to Regan, tossing another whisper into her ear. "I have some information I picked up when you have the chance." There's a small sharp crackle of static electricity, zapping Micah briefly when he pats at Ion's shoulder. The young man drops his hand to his side, looking down at Rasputin and then up to Regan with a sheepish smile. "Wow. Um. Wow." For a moment that's all he says, turning his eyes down again to scrutinize the cat with some bemusement. "-- Sorry. Just. Never met a. Huh." He rubs at the back of his neck, other hand lifting to hold his leather jacket closer to his chest. "I'd guess people get startled a lot from that trick of yours, man, are you /always/ a cat? I guess that's -- inconspicuous /some/ times." He still seems a little tense, but his smile eases quickly as he glances back to Micah. << We can go downstairs. He can come, he's good people, >> he thinks in answer to Regan; aloud he straightens with a small bounce on the balls of his toes. "Oh! You're friends of Dusk? He and Micah --" He gestures towards Micah, "they've been such a help. You would not believe the food this man brings, turn this place into a /gourmet/ soup kitchen." Micah doesn't startle at the talking cat (considering his social group, it's actually not /that/ odd), but /does/ jump at the sudden zap from Ion. He shakes his hand a little as he withdraws it. “Nice t'meet you, Regan, Rasputin. I'm Micah.” The food description earns a laugh. “The real gourmet stuff y'can /mostly/ blame on Jax, though. I don't even try t'keep up with 'im on the cookin'.” "Often a cat," Regan answers lightly for Rasputin; she stoops to open the fanny pack for hir when the cat's paws prove to be inadequate for the task. "People startle at many things. You get used to it quickly, though." She turns her attention to Micah, looking him over curiously. "Did you need help with supplies? If we're going to go down anyway, might as well be useful en route." There's no overt external acknowledgment of Rasputin's quiet words, her answer given to the cat alone as she raises her eyebrows questioningly to Ion. << I'm listening. >> "Yes, Dusk is --" Her lips twitch upwards faintly, echoing Ion's unvoiced words, "-- good people. Pleased to meet you both. How /are/ your people here doing? I feel like whatever help we try and offer, there's always bound to be room for more." "Mmhm, othertimes I'm a bird or something.". Rasputin smiles again, but this smile goes away when ze turns to Regan, sending hir thoughts to her. << The local 'wildlife' has told me some good details, at least, how much they can. The 'people in blue' counts have been increasing, including ground patrols and snipers. If it keeps going this way, there's a chance the entire area will blow up in fighting soon. That's my own opinion, I don't think animals can formulate like that. >> After Regan opens hir fannypack, Rasputin pulls it off and looks inside. Inside is a small phone, some food, and a note. Rasputin squeezes the note out difficultly, pawing at it, as ze reads it, and then looks towards Regan. << Oh, and I did some scouting myself the other day, meant to tell you, had it written down for me. There's talks of National Guard, or even HAMMER coming. And when that happens, everything's definitely going to shit. >> Rasputin then turns to the conversation at hand. "Mmhm, Dusk is very nice.". "Well, whoever's responsible for it, this guy," Ion jerks a thumb to Micah, "and sometimes Dusk, they come like /angels/ descending with manna from heaven. It's been such a blessing. -- Oh, aye, do you need a hand? We have many hands." A brief glance downwards. "And some paws. There is /so/ always room for more, we have people coming in here every day. Not really sure where we're going to /put/ them all." His smile quirks wider, eyes slanting to Regan, "Have to start stashing them underground before too long. -- Where you are parked, man?" He moves to the door to hold it open for the others. “Yeah, he's a hard fella /not/ t'like,” Micah concludes with a hint of a smirk after all the Dusk-praise. “Wouldn't mind a hand at haulin' things in. S'mostly just food an' clothes this time 'round. Left the stuff out in the van 'cause I didn't wanna be totin' large bags around while the churchfolks were still tryin' t'get home.” Ion's lofty praise coaxes a hint of a blush across Micah's cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Parked pretty much the same area as always, out by the service entrance in the back. Ain't far.” His head shakes at Ion's recommendation. “Oh, man, don't get me started on the complications of settin' folks up underground...” "Yes, I've heard even underground isn't quite the safest of places." Regan follows Ion towards the door, slipping a pair of sunglasses out of her purse to put them on once they're back out in the admittedly fading evening light. << Snipers, >> she echoes this word to Rasputin, head tipping just slightly back once they're outside. << This is going to be a lot less of a sanctuary soon, then? I suppose it's time to plan for the inevitable. >> "Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way," she says, aloud. "Though it sounds like setting folks up in a place like this isn't --" She tips a hand outwards, gesturing towards the police cars waiting down the block, "-- /much/ less complex." << I give it a week, personally. >>, Rasputin thinks, sending this message to Regan. Ze slowly trots out the door with the others. "I'd help you with the supplies, but...as you can see, I am not in the position for that." Rasputin laughs a tiny bit, before becoming more serious in gesture. "I don't quite get what would be wrong with setting them up underground? Wouldn't it be safer from the police down there? Unless it's unstable, I mean." Rasputin stops to ponder for a second, before continuing walking. "Well, maybe I'm just thinking about it differently." "Is many people, already living under the ground, yeah?" Ion follows the tilt of Regan's hand out towards the police cars with a distinct grimace. "They haven't had the easiest of times. Not a lot of protection from the police, exactly, no. You go underground, just means no eyes there to watch when they come after you." He heads around the building, off towards the back to find Micah's van. "What's stable, these days? You find what you can. Hold onto it while you can. Nothing – stays." "No. It has both the advantage an' disadvantage of bein' little-observed. Plus it's dark an' damp an' a logistical mess for deliverin' things." Micah leads the way to the vehicle, a converted cargo van painted TARDIS blue and suspiciously familiar in its design to a certain class of observer. There is a gorilla in a racing wheelchair emblazoned on its side. "I don't expect you t'be carryin', honey, not t'worry. Think we got plenty of hands about, an' we all got our own things we're well-enough suited to, yeah?" He offers Rasputin a little smile as he unlocks and opens the rear door of the van. It takes him a moment to climb up and gather grocery bags and reused delivery boxes full of supplies to pass along into waiting hands. "Why a gorilla in a wheelchair?" Regan scrutinizes the side of the van curiously before stepping up to the back of the van to accept a pair of boxes of supplies, taking a grocery bag to drape over her shoulder as well. She takes a moment to shift the boxes into a stable configuration, head craning back to see over the top of the boxes. "If you want something that stays, maybe you have to hold it a little harder. It takes some doing, certainly, but -- you just need to learn to push /back/ harder than they're pushing." "I don't know what's so useful about my condition, I mean, all I can do is lick myself and roll over and be adorable." Rasputin laughs again, before hir face turns serious again. "Well, that makes sense, but all of those issues are fixable? And I don't really see the problem of being little observed, seeing as that'd get rid of the police watch probably, but then again that makes supply drops hard." Rasputin scratches hir head with hir paw, reminiscent of a human. "If you have anything small, I could probably carry it around my waist, but it'd probably hit the ground unless I'm careful, which I can't guarantee." Rasputin stares at the van for a second. "Is that..a TARDIS van..?" "Adorable." Ion grins, though his tone is a /little/ skeptical. "I don't know, man, maybe in a /dog/." He steps up to the van after Regan, accepting an armload of supplies as well. "Though a bird, even a cat, I guess that might be useful for going some places unnoticed." The small smile on his face presses thinner and harder. "Unnoticed, ese, means nobody notices when they come to kill you. Harder to disappear people with eyes on them." Though his smile brightens again at Regan. "That's the truth, yeah? Just gets hard without enough people standing behind you. We don't quite have the numbers for this tug-of-war." "I didn't so much mean t'say that your /condition/ is useful as that all people have their own ways of bein' so. Like...if I needed somebody t'fly or t'sneak into someplace quiet-like or...t'be fuzzy an' adorable. I'd keep you in mind. So /haulin'/ of stuff doesn't need t'be the way in which you're useful. An' that's fine." Once Micah has portioned out the majority of the goods, he slings a bag crosswise over each shoulder and picks up a box to carry himself. "Oh, it's...for my company," Micah explains about the van with a slightly sheepish expression. "It takes some explainin' t'hop along with m'brain, sorry. I do medical assistive technology, primarily orthotics and prosthetics, but also adaptive equipment an' such. An' I work out of the van as a mobile unit. Contract work and home delivery, mostly." He pauses to clamber back down onto the street, shutting and locking the door behind him before joining the group in walking back toward the building. "It was gonna be 'Guerilla' on first imaginin'...but. I work mostly with kids an' military vets, so I figured fewer warfare references and more adorable apes that make for cute cartoon logos was a better plan. Therefore, 'Gorilla'." Micah chuckles at Rasputin's staring. "Yeah, I'm also /kind of/ an enormous geek, so. There's that." "Guerrilla. Cute. You work with prosthetics?" This seems to perk Regan's interest for a moment, eyes flitting to the inside of the van before she turns away to head into the church through its nearer back entrance. She nods at Ion's explanation of the downsides of being unnoticed, though her smile curls wider as his hardens. "I suppose you just need to make sure the right people are standing with you, then, hmm? Numbers don't always mean as much as --" For a moment before she heads back inside, she glances again to the gorilla on Micah's van. "Careful /application/ of the resources you have." "Oh oh, yeah, stealth. I'm good at that too. But adorable is still my forte." Rasputin's face shows that ze is being absolutely serious, as ze sneers at Ion's dog comment. "Oh uh, yeah, didn't..think that way. Makes sense." Micah's information about his company makes Rasputin's eyes widen. "Wow, that's pretty neat." Rasputin's laughs a bit, as ze also replies to Micah's nerd comment. "I could tell. Don't worry, I used to think of myself as one too." Rasputin looks over to Regan, before following her. "Also, I like the logo, by the way! It's cute!" "See? Like I said, homeboy's a fucking angel. Flit around, bring food to the hungry. Legs to the -- OK, maybe you don't usually think of angels carrying legs." Ion's grin is quick and crooked; he slips into the church, too, holding the door open for the others behind them with one heel against the door and then moving to head further in down to the basement. The crowd has -- definitely been multiplying, and the pantry for the supplies is a good deal emptier than usual. "Comes to resources," he says, "we don't have much. -- We can talk here. What you come to say?" “That's my real wheelhouse, yeah,” Micah replies with a nod to Regan's prosthetics question. “Though lately I've been branchin' out into general adaptive gear for people with more...unique anatomical presentations. They don't exactly teach y'what t'do with beaks'n gills'n wings in /school/. Keeps things interestin', though.” His chin tilts upward in thanks to Ion for holding the door, face reddening again at this return to angel talk. “I dunno, man, have you /read/ some of the Biblical descriptions of angels? Just eyes an' limbs an' wings /everywhere/. On fire half the time. Swords where they got no business bein'. S'no wonder they always had t'tell people not t'be afraid when they showed up.” Ion's pronouncement that they can talk here has Micah looking back and forth between the others for a moment. "No, they don't, do they?" Regan shakes her head at this, following Ion down to the pantry to unload her boxes with a soft relieved sigh. "Even some of us whose anatomy looks outwardly similar, I've found such distinctive neural patterns I may as well scrap everything I've learned and start writing a new textbook. I haven't met a lot of people, I admit, who've taken the time to -- branch out. It'd be nice, perhaps, to sit down some time. See what you'd come up with." Her smile fades after this, head shaking as she leans back against a shelf, sliding the grocery bag down off her shoulder to set it on the ground beside herself. She tips her hand outward, fingers unfurling in indication of Rasputin. "Being inconspicuous does help for hearing things. Rasputin says the police outside have been -- multiplying. There's talk now of bringing in the National Guard. Or HAMMER." Her hand falls back to her side. "It means your push is probably coming all too soon. You'll all have a decision to make. Hold this ground, or leave it. I don't think it'll be pretty either way." Rasputin mostly just listens, until Regan brings up what ze said. "Mmhm. They got more snipers and foot patrols coming through. And if one of those two agencies come, well, then you're screwed. Sorry, a bit harsh." Rasputin thinks for a second, before looking towards them. "Wait, what time is it? I have a thing I have to...do. I need to go. Nice to meet you two, and Regan, I'll catch you..later." Rasputin waits for someone to grab the door for hir, before leaving. Ion sets down his own boxes, though after this he just slumps back against a shelf. His hand rubs against his jaw with a soft rasp of skin against stubble, and his cheeks puff out with the sudden breath he exhales. "{Well, fuck.}" The bleak tone probably does not need much by way of translation. "I mean, we knew this was all coming, yeah? Is why your people have built for us an out. The question of whether we want to use it --" He shakes his head, jaw clenching for a moment. "That one I cannot answer alone. Angel," this is to Micah, the soft sound of the g shifting this word from English to Spanish, "you might maybe want to steer clear of the delivering, soon. Delicious cooking -- not so worth dying over." "Neural patterns--you in medicine? Or research?" Micah hazards a guess as he unloads his boxes and bags. "Ain't so much 'not a lot' as 'hardly anybody', far as I can tell. At least, not anybody lookin' t'be a /help/, anyhow." He digs into his pocket to produce a business card that he holds out to Regan. It is a deep blue card bearing white writing that reads, 'Gorilla AT. Micah Zedner, MSOP, CPO, ATP'. It also reports a P.O. Box address, an unexciting professional e-mail address, and two phone numbers (the second of which is circled in ink). Micah's expression falls, lips pressing thin with the ongoing descriptions of the woes to come and Ion's warnings to stay away. "Already tried that once over deliverin' things. 'Fraid I'm not of much use in a fight." He chews on his lip, trying to decide exactly what information to share. "Those folks as I was talkin' about, underground? Got attacked while me'n Jax were bringin' 'em supplies. The people as did it claimed t'be government. An' they weren't foolin' around. Meant t'kill all of us an' kidnapped a few folks for their research labs in the meantime. Military types with automatic weapons an' grenades. Those drones that Osborn's been cookin' up. An' they been /researchin'/ mutants t'know how t'work against 'em. If they need dark, put 'em in light. They need light, put 'em in dark. They throw sticky stuff at you, mist 'em with solvents... It's gettin' harder'n harder t'even have the element of surprise an' bein' underestimated on our side, here." "Not yet," Regan says with a somewhat weary smile as she takes the business card, "but I will be after about ten years more of school. Or -- that's what it feels like, at least. My focus is neuroprosthetics. A lot of -- turning people into cyborgs. -- Research labs? Like what Dusk came from?" She glances at the card, then pockets it. Her arms cross over her chest, fingers tapping against a bicep as she looks Micah over. "You've been up against them before?" This has a quiet note of curiosity, too. To Ion, she shakes her head. "It's why we built you an out, yes. But we'll be here if you decide to take it, or if you decide to stay and fight. Everyone deserves to have a home. If not here --" Her fingers tap faster. "We'll help you make one, wherever you choose for it to be." "Dusk, me -- a lot of people. They take many of us to their cages." For a moment there's a faint ozone tinge in the air, though it fades soon. Ion shakes his head, his other arm crossing over his chest to rest fingers in the crook of the opposite. That hand keeps rubbing against his jaw, his eyes tipping up towards the ceiling. "We. Yeah? Who's -- I mean, you have enough people on your side to pull this off? Because no offense but I don't think Batman and a talking cat are going to get far against assault rifles. How'd your friends underground fare?" "Wet wirin', awesome! Keepin' yourself right on the bleedin' edge." Micah nods in approval as he allows himself to be distracted, albeit too briefly, by shop talk. "I cheated an' just went the Master's route. Much faster but not nearly so intimately integrated with the outcomes." He sighs, looking down at his empty hands. "Up against...kind of. I ran away with moderate success? Given a great deal of assistance." He perks at the mention of an /out/ being provided, but decides to keep any opinions on the matter silent. "They fared...not well. But could've been worse. I think the soldier-types accomplished their objective an' just...left. Otherwise I think it could've been a complete massacre." "M.D.-Ph.D.," Regan replies, "and oh boy do some days I wish I'd gone your route." Her fingers continue to tap through the answer about the Morlocks, her jaw clenching tighter, briefly. "A massacre. We'll just have to prepare for the worst, then. Talk to your people," she advises Ion. "Tell Dusk what you decide. But I'd suggest deciding soon." Ion's arm tightens at the mention of massacre. "There's so many here -- we can't." He puffs out another heavy breath. "I'll ask them. But your people, you really think you could pull this off? Fighting this /or/ relocating everyone, it's going to -- not be easy." His fingers rub against his jaw again. "Guess not much ever /is/, though. I'll talk to them." He unfolds his arms, reaching to clap Micah on the shoulder -- this time without the accompanying burst of static shock. "Thanks, man. Everything's been -- such a help." "Better you than me," Micah answers Regan back with a teasing smirk, though again it is a short-lived thing. "I can only hope they won't be quite so.../that/, out here in the open. Down there it was. No one ever even /heard/ about it. Y'know? They could be as explosive as they wanted to, with no real consequences. Up here, /maybe/ there can be some shred of sanity. With everybody watchin' the way they are." Micah chews at his lip in concern, moving into that clap on the shoulder from Ion to make it more of a one-armed hug from his end. "Wish there were more I could do. /Always/ wish there were more I could do." His shoulders sag at this. "There at least a plan for those who can't fight? Elderly, sick, kids? They shouldn't be here when...either way. S'there anywhere they could go, at least?" "I have some pretty impressive people who stand with me. It won't be easy. And if you stay here, people will die." Regan straightens away from the shelves she leans on, hands spreading in front of herself. "But if you leave they may well, too. Some of the people here -- they're not just going to be /let go/ to live their lives in peace. It's your decision. Anyone who can't fight -- we have places. Not perfect. But better than in front of HAMMER's guns." She shrugs, moving towards the door. "Stay in touch." Ion rakes one hand through his hair, his other still squeezing at Micah's shoulder. "We haven't had much a plan through any of this," he admits to Micah wryly. "Time to make one, looks like." He gives Regan a smile, quick and a little brittle around its edges. "Will, for sure." His hand falls away from Micah's shoulder afterwards, and /he/ slumps back against the shelves. "You noticed an abundance of sanity in the world lately, angel? Guess we can --" He glances upwards, to the ceiling. "Pray." Micah nods in agreement with Regan as she speaks, then waves somewhat feebly as she heads out. "Thanks for the help. Stay safe as y'can out there. Y'gotta lot of years of school t'get through yet so I can work with you later." Ion's question prompts only a slow, heavy sigh at first. "Not much, no. A guy can always hope, though, right?" He lets his arm drop from the half-hug with a weary, watered-down smile. "Would that the hopin' an' prayin' were enough. But at least they can't hurt." "Never enough. Not on its own. In here I pray with words. But sometimes," Ion admits, straightening to drop a kiss at one of Micah's temples when he smiles that tired smile, "sometimes, man, you need to pray with your fists."