ArchivedLogs:Prisoners Of War

Prisoners Of War
Dramatis Personae Ion, Micah	2014-11-03 '
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Commonhaus - Lower East Side
Accessible to all residents of the Commons via electronic keycard, this three-story building holds a number of facilities freely available for the shared use of all Commons residents. The stone-floored foyer is high ceilinged -- balconies on the two upper floors look down into this entrance, leaving just the wide skylit ceiling three stories up to trickle light down through the whole of the house. Through wide wood-and-glass doors the spacious dining area is visible on the left; on the right, heavier doors beside the elevator lead to the similarly large kitchens. There are four single-user toilets on this floor, two apiece by the foyer and the dining room. Though a wide staircase runs all the way up, there is also an elevator tucked to one side. For the adventurous, though, there's another way up through the house -- through the center of the house where the balconies look down, an enormous climbing structure has been erected, solid wood platforms softened with carpeting, held together with strong spiderwebbed steel cables. Interlaced in an intricate maze that spirals up through the whole of the house and down to the basement, it provides a crazily winding path to duck and wriggle and worm through, with exits -- if you can /find/ them -- dispensed out onto each upper balcony and into the basement below. The middle of the day isn't the most bustling of times around the Commons, with most of the /kids/ away at school and most of the /adults/ off doing Responsible Adult Things. There /is/ one person in the lobby of the common house, though. Adult, nominally, though Responsible Adult would be a stretch. At the moment Ion (underdressed in jeans and stompy boots and a wifebeater -- it's mild out but not /that/ mild) is dangling largely upside-down about halfway up the giant climbing maze, legs disappeared into a tunnel but his torso protruding out of it. There's a bowl of leftover pea soup (stolen from the common fridge) in the tunnel alongside him that he's /eying/ like he's thinking of trying to eat it. Upside down. It would probably not end well. Speaking of Responsible Adult Things, enter one Micah, key-card in hand from opening the door, dressed in his usual TARDIS blue polo shirt and khakis from work. His messenger bag is over one shoulder, olive jacket slung over the other arm. Not expecting many people to be around, he moves over to deposit bag and jacket on hooks and remove his shoes without really surveying the surroundings. As he returns to standing from that last, he catches short of full upright stance, eyes a bit stuck on Ion. Maybe it's because the other man is upside down or maybe it's the state of dress. Could be a combination thereof. "You're gonna look like a scene from 'The Exorcist' if y'try that," he points out once he finally regains his voice, padding over in stocking feet (the socks are black with 'polkadots' shaped like sonic screwdrivers, fezzes, and bow ties). "Exorcist? I been call a demon before. Once or twice." Ion is probably not /helping/ matters, wriggle-twisting his way a little further out of the tunnel to peer at Micah -- the motion dislodges his shirt from where it was pinned against the lip of the tunnel and gravity does the rest, sliding fabric down to pool around his shoulders. "Rrrgh-pah." He pushes the shirt more or less (mostly less, though at least it's out of his face) back into place, squinting downward at the other man. "You want a lunch? I got a soup." A soup it's entirely possible Micah made to begin with, who knows. He offers this magnanimously all the same. "There's a scene in that movie where the possessed woman projectile vomits at the priest," Micah explains, perhaps not making the lunch seem any more appetising. "The props people used condensed pea soup. S'one of those images that kinda catch in the mind." Fortunately, he doesn't elaborate further, just watching the other man wriggling free from the tunnel. He should probably be offering assistance with the process, but instead he just settles his weight over one hip, chin tipped up for a better observation angle. When Ion finally asks him a question, the pause before his response is longer than typical. "Oh! Um. Right. I had a patient cancel so my lunch break today is a little longer'n usual. Thought I'd come home t'grab somethin' t'eat." "Bet that wasn't so tasty as this one," Ion opines, wriggling a little upright to sniff at his bowl. "Don't smell at all like a vomit. Though, really, vomit soup, probably not the /worst/ thing I ever eat." He flops back down, upside down again at least until he slithers his way out of the tunnel to perch right-way-up straddling a tunnel below his. "Aw, so you only here for a quickie, huh? Too bad. Is quiet here, daytimes. Strange. Feels strange." "Certainly not. S'all fresh cooked 'round here. Can't compare t'that with condensed mass-produced soup." Micah's nose crinkles. "Seriously, I think that'd be /high/ up on m'list of things not t'eat." His cheeks pick up a hint of red at the phrasing of that question. "S'posed t'be quiet when folks are at work an' school. S'a good thing. Means people are /out/ livin' their lives." He shifts a little on his feet, weight settling from one to the other. "Got over an hour t'day. Longer'n usual for lunch, like I said." Not that he's heading off for the kitchen is search of that food just now. "We been talkin' more on what t'do for Dusk, too." Ion stretches up an arm, sliding the bowl of soup precariously down off of its ledge. Thus armed he begins sliding his way down the structure again, one-handed since his other one is occupied with Soup. "Out living lives, I don't know about all /that/, Dusk ain't exactly --" He trails off, here, when Micah brings Dusk up too. His head pokes back out of a tunnel -- one more at actual head /height/, this time. "-- I gone in the jail," he informs Micah, with a small frown. And an offering of the bowl of soup (only a little of which has dribbled out onto the backs of his fingers!). Micah's teeth meet with his lower lip as he watches this process, only a little concerned for Ion's safety with the one armed manoeuvring. “That would be...yeah. A major exception t'the statement.” His shoulders hunch a little at the reminder. “How...was he? Were his cellmates there? Did they seem like they'd be okay with people sneakin' in an' not alertin' the guards 'bout it?” He's perked up considerably, drawn up onto his toes as if moving closer to Ion will get the information to him that much faster. “We got a friend in MID. Were gonna see if he could maybe help us know what times were safest t'get in. But y'/been/ in an' ain't nobody heard anythin' bad happenin' from it.” There is a little /bounce/ in his posture, still up on tiptoe (as much as he can be, really more on the right side than anything). Ion props himself up on his elbows in the tunnel, now, hitching up a shoulder in a quick shrug. "Didn't find him. He gone. You think, huge-ass bat-man, hard to hide him yeah? I talk at many people, though. Whole ass-load of fucking Puerto Ricans they say their boy he got move? Move where, I don't know that, they don't know that. Someone they think is maybe because he eat all the other inmates." He doesn't sound all that concerned with this possibility. "You maybe talk at your friend, he give a heads-up on where they keep him at now. Me, I get in fast, out fast, but looking /around/, that's hard, you know? In the walls I can't see shit. Poke my head out every-damn-outlet in every-damn-jail in the city, that shit's tiring." The bouncing promptly stops as Micah rocks back on his heels. "Y'didn't see 'im. Did he /hurt/ someone? Or were they just worried he would? He didn't kill anybody, did he? Ohgosh, please..." His shoulders sag, face paling. "We'll talk to 'im. At least get that information. I'm sure he could do that much. Maybe...maybe they just put 'im in solitary. That'd actually be /easier/ t'sneak somebody into." It's not a very /hopeful/ 'maybe'. Ion's hands turn upwards, spreading in front of him. "Dead, I don't know nobody dead. They didn't say no dead. Everyone they talking about him like fucking Dracula, man. Seventeen parts a fucking myth to every one part truth I get from someone. You hear some these boys talk he single-handed wiped out all the cop in that station before they took him down. That's /eighteen/ parts bullshit, I hear they had to prop him up just to /get/ him out the damn courtoom, he ain't leading no /revolt/. But he gone-gone-gone. Solitary /where/, you tell me I get someone in no problem." “Oh...oh good. He'd be so devastated if he accidentally...” Micah shudders at that, arms crossing over his chest as if to hug himself. “I hope he didn't attack any cops. His sentencin' hasn't happened yet. They add /that/ to it? They'll give 'im the maximum.” He nods firmly. “We'll get the information. Soon as we know where he is? I'll go with you m'self. We can work out a long-term solution after that.” Ion's tongue clicks against his teeth, head shaking at this. "He all fangs and demon-wings, ese, you think they /ain't/ gonna slam that door hard as it slams? He don't got a, a, a face," though his fingers are wiggling at his /teeth/ here, "that make most human feel so lenient." It takes one final slither-hop to bring him down to the ground -- and he /almost/ lands the dismount, too. Almost; it's only in straightening back /up/ that the bowl of soup finally wobbles and tips from his hand to fall to the ground with a thud and a glooop of half-cooled pea soup spreading onto the ground. The bowl, at least, makes it through largely intact save for a chipped sliver at its edge. Ion scrunches up an eye in a wince. "... whoop. What was /you/ going to be lunching on?" “I don't know. I don't...feel like everythin's been exhausted yet. I'm gonna try meetin' with the mayor. I can ask...Luci usually helps us with PR issues. We hadn't gone that route at all 'cause it seemed dubious that we could drum up much support from anywhere, but...maybe a human rights group or...” Micah winces at that, considering the language surrounding it. The wince at the bowl falling is less pronounced. “I was gonna just scrounge the fridge. S'usually leftovers 'round here.” He offers Ion a sad little half-smile. “S'pose we should clean this up first, though.” "Tsss." This sharp hiss is Ion's only answer to the mention of human rights groups. "S'pose that we should. Last thing we need here it's /more/ mess, huh? Got plenty already." Micah's shoulders tense at the hiss. He collects the bowl and spoon, then disappears briefly, returning with paper towels and a mop. "'Least this is the kinda mess y'can solve on your own. Got too much relyin' on folks as ain't proved reliable these days." There /might/ be a little more force going into his scrubbing than necessary. Ion's brows hike up. He leans in to snag the paper towels, dropping to his knees to trail in Micah's wake and dry the wet the mop leaves behind. "Who you rely on lately? You surrounded by so many people got your back." “That's the problem with these things, ain't it? We got plenty of people, good people, but we aren't the ones really set up t'/do/ anythin' 'bout anythin'. Gotta sit an' wait an' sneak an' plead just tryin' t'keep good people from dyin' over /nothing/.” Micah pulls the mop close once the floor is cleaned, fingers curled tight around the handle. “It's just all so unnecessary. It'd be ridiculous if not for what it's /doin'/ t'people.” Ion's wearing a /grin/ when he looks up from the floor, bright and wide and a little crooked. "Ay, querido, maybe-problem is too much sit-and-waiting, huh? My whole life, always, only way you get any-shit-done it's, ah, it's in the /doing/. You sneak and you /take/ and you -- who else you think gonna look after your people, huh? 'course you can't rely on them. Family, what we're for is sneaking-around-doing. Everyone else, they /never/ gonna care. Not in the pinch." Micah isn't quite able to summon up a grin in answer to Ion's; a wistful half-smile will have to do. "Entirely too much sittin' an' waitin'. Just wish there was more we /could/ do. That's all." He gathers up the cleaning materials, taking them away and returning moments later with his hands smelling like the lavender hand soap in the kitchen. "Everyone else's /gotta/ care eventually. At least enough of everyone else. Otherwise it's always gonna be...like this." "How many years you live in this world, you still think /that's/ a true?" Ion, by the time Micah returns, has returned to the climbing maze -- though only an entry-level ramp, here, perched atop a low-down platform with one leg stretched out along the ground and the other knee crooked towards his chest. "History of the whole entire world, it's always this. Everyone they only care about who /they/ care about. S'why family the most important thing we /got/. Who else is gonna give two shits when they lock you up, chuck the key. Won't nobody. Won't nobody ever. Dusk, he one of the /lucky/ ones." Here his smile is sharper. There's a small electric-burny tinge in the air, a zapping crackle-pop, sparks skitter-skating up along the steel cables that secure the hanging maze in place. "Because his family got some /teeth/." "It does change, though. Not completely. Not perfect. But the amount of empathy folks in general have with other folks...generally speakin'. It does get better. S'how things evolve, historically. It's a slow trend, but more acceptin' over time." Micah sighs heavily, settling down next to Ion since he isn't up too high this time. "Lots of time. An' too much sittin' an' waitin'." His eyes follow the sparks up along the cables. "Hopefully it don't need t'come t'that. First, we'll get 'im fed. The rest'll be...the rest, I guess." There's a bob of his shoulders, an uncertain shrug. "Come to that? Cyborg, it /been/ at that for long-long time now. This world been at /war/ for --" Ion sucks his tongue against his teeth, leaning in against Micah's side when the other man settles beside him. "Ever. But first we get him fed, si. Can't fight no war on empty stomach, I heard that said." Micah's eyes scrunch closed at that assertion. His arm moves to wrap around Ion's shoulders, squeezing tight, as Micah leans right back against the other man. “S'a sayin'. But it's usually 'bout /armies/. Soldiers. Not just...” He fails to find the appropriate word or phrase to finish the sentence, shaking his head instead. "Huh?" Ion sounds a little confused -- or a little distracted? It's hard to tell exactly which; his face is busy nuzzling in against Micah's neck in the moment before he looks up. "... what you think Dusk /is/?" It's an odd battle between the upset tension in Micah's muscles and the want to just let go, melt into Ion's nuzzling. “S'just...my friend. M'falsely convicted, wrongly imprisoned, starvin' t'death for no reason friend. Ain't like he's bein' held as a prisoner of war. He was just tryin' t'live his life an' somebody /shot/ 'im.” "Your government," Ion declares (against Micah's neck, through a kiss he is pressing there), "bunch of fucking terrorists, you think they listen to the -- the Geneva. Shit? But he a soldier all the same. We all are. You too. How many times someone shoot at /you/ huh? We could start a damn collection, all the bullets this family gather." "No. I s'pose not. 'Specially not when it comes to...us." Micah's grip on Ion doesn't loosen. "S'been a lotta shootin', yeah. An' not near so much shootin' back. Though they sure act like there has been." His teeth dig into his lower lip, a small sound almost like a whimper from deep in his throat at the kiss. "Eyah, well." There's a /jolt/ when Ion turns his face up to press his lips to Micah's, a sudden twitch-seize of muscles like a static shock turned up /high/. "Maybe is time we start." Micah startles at the jolt, but only pulls Ion to him tighter, returning the kiss eagerly. “You're a dangerous one,” he informs the other man, though it is with a hint of a grin. And a second kiss. "That, querido," With his next deeper kiss, Ion's arms curl around Micah. He pulls the other man /in/, both closer against himself and also to lie /down/, sheltered in the sturdy carpeted tunnel that leads into the maze, "is the whole point."