ArchivedLogs:Public Relations

Public Relations
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Micah, Parley	8 December 2013 Discussions focused primarily on the current media frenzy. (Part of Infected TP and Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> 305 {Teahaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
Much changed from its days as a den of teenagers, this three-bedroom apartment is furnished sparse but elegantly. Done up in black and white, long leather couch, low coffeetable, large armchair, end tables with accent lamps. The small kitchen table only seats four, the cabinets currently holding minimal dinnerware and a sparse assortment of pots and pans but a decent collection of spices, teas, and liquor. Lazy Sunday afternoon. While reporters mob the building outside, in here it is quiet. There's classical music playing, a violin piece by Sarasate -- not through speakers but coming from Lucien's room, quietly audible in the hallway and likely in the apartment next door. Sera is lying on the living room floor, working with Gaetan on a large jigsaw puzzle with tiny pieces, too unfinished so far to tell what picture it might make by its end. Desiree lies sprawled along the couch, headphones on her head plugged into the laptop resting on her thighs. There's textbooks beside her that suggest she /might/ have been doing homework before; now she is watching Once Upon a Time. It is a frigid, lightly flurrying kind of day. The kind of day that demands warm beverages and spiced treats. As such, Micah comes bearing a tray of tea and gingersnaps to Lucien's door. He is dressed simply in bluejeans and a long-sleeved jade green button-down shirt decorated in a darker green leaf motif, thick socks also green and leaf-patterned. As it is still afternoon, his auburn hair is only in a mild state of disarray. He balances his tray for a moment with one hand and one knee as his free hand lifts to the door, loosely fisted, to deliver three sharp raps requesting admission. A faint touch presses to the side of Micah's load-bearing hand, the back of Parley's knuckles brushing there from where there had been no announcing approach, "Do you need help with that?" His voice is slightly breathy, as though from mild exertion - to look at him, you might see better evidence, a few spare snowflakes softening into droplets amongst his dry-bristled hair, cheeks and nose pink from a chill and his coat - a gray wool - opened at the front. An absurdly /bright/ red scarf hung about his neck with glittery snowflakes lining its tassled end. The newspaper pinned under his arm has a few darkened damp speckles. There's a scurrying of feet from behind the door, locks rattling although even /before/ the rattling Sera's presence can be felt in a quiet empathic echo of /excitement/, pressing her eagerness upon the minds around her. The violin music stops as the door is pulled open, Sera peering out around -- everyone's /hips/ really before she looks further up. "{Who is it?}" Lucien's voice calls in French from the bedroom; Sera's answer is a bright: "{It's cookies!}" She pulls the door open quickly, /cookies/ apparently earning an automatic invitation. The five-year-old is not even really looking at the visitors. Just the plate of gingersnaps which she is watching with /great/ intentness. Lucien emerges shortly thereafter from his bedroom, casually dressed in jeans and ribbed black sweater and thick socks. He appears around the hallway corner with a puzzled expression that eases upon seeing their company. "Ah. {Good afternoon.} Manners, Sera. Did you even say hello?" Sera shakes her head, unabashed. "Hello Mr. Micah hello Mister Parleycat," with each successive word she is stretching up onto her toes, leeeeaning in further to the cookies to sniff. "{Can I get a cookies?}" she stage-whispers to her brother. "I believe you should ask Micah that." Lucien is beckoning the others both inside. "You look as though you could /do/ with a warm drink, Parley." "Can I get a cookies?" Sera stage-whispers now to Micah. Micah startles slightly at the sudden touch to his hand, the contents of the tray quaking a bit, but with no danger of spilling. His other hand returns from its mission to the door, taking up its post on the opposite side of the tray. “Ohgosh! Parley, hi. Sorry, I just...didn't hear ya comin' an' there's been all kindsa media-folks about an' some of them got no sense of /boundaries/ so I'm a little edgy.” The tumble of words finally halts. “No, but thank you. Knockin' hand's done what it needs, so I should be good now.” As the door opens, Micah smiles down at Sera. “Hi, sugar.” He chuckles at the girl's antics. “Hello, Luci. How is everyone? Yes, the cookies're for everybody s'long as Luci's okay with it.” At the beckoning, he steps inside, carrying his tray straight to the table since he has no coat or shoes to deal with. “S'a blend. Assam an' Darjeeling. How many cups should I pour?” "Really? It's /just/ the media that's put you on nerves?" Kind of a question? Or a suggestion? A tease? He's not helping to clarify. Sera's projection of excitement earns a sort of rapid blink, and a /huff/ though Parley's nostrils - he openly lets it land against his mind, balls it up with the sense of swatting-paws, and swats a bit back in a glimmering reflection. Like a ping-pong game. Catch? << (can you)(recognize)(who is visiting) through (the door?) >> He enters, slipping out of his coat and folding it over an arm, "I'd love something warm. I was on the roof, watching the snow. -- Have /you/ been troubled by the media yet?" His fingers open and fan up, one by one, and down, one by one, in Desiree's direction. Absent-greeting. Faint lean to the side to look at her screen to see what she's watching. His ever-present empathy isn't cranked up to intense observation, but there is no real controlling the absent blanket-tarp that lays out around the minds around him to catch what stray activity might fall off from the surface layer. "There has been brunch. Everyone can have cookies. But no more," Lucien cautions down to Sera, "than two." His lingering mental recovery is far more glaringly evident to psionic senses than it is outwardly. His mind has lost its usual /polish/, instead a throbbingly painful tangle of headache and confusion; he speaks with a soft care well /suited/ to his usual reserve but it's evident empathically that each word is not so much carefully chosen as painstakingly dredged /up/, struggled for through an uncomfortable jumble that fights just to concentrate on the conversation around him. He steps forward, quietly reaching to liberate Parley's coat and hang it in the enrty closet. "{Shoes, please}," is a soft-murmured request. Slushy-snowy day. Immaculate floors. Sera /rabbits/ off after Micah when cookie-permission is given, her excitement only growing as she snags a pair of cookies from the tray. Gaetan barely looks up from his puzzle, seemingly uninterested either in cookies /or/ in visitors save for giving them a brief scowl before his attention reverts. Sera crams a cookie in her mouth at the same time that she pokes a cheerful mental finger at the reflection Parley swats her, not very deft but certainly enthusiastic in her curiosity. "WOAH," she speaks, not projects, around a mouthful of cookie, "Woah, /that's/ a Parleycat. In," she's telling this to Desiree, not to Parley, "my /brain/. I could tell you /now/," she adds in explanation, "I didn't hear you before. I heard /him/." She waves a cookie at Micah. "/He's/ like --" Her cheeks puff outward, her hands spreading wide. Like an explosion. Also, dropping her second cookie in the process. "Mmm?" Desiree removes one ear of her headphones, looking up. "Huh?" Her green eyes flick between the others, puzzled, but after this a quick smile lights her expression. "Micah. Oh, thank you." Lost in her show before this, she only seems to really notice Parley when Sera addresses him. "Parley, hey." "Reporters have waylaid me," Lucien affirms mildly. "I spoke with two." "This buildin's actually been on the safer side so far as zombies're concerned, even when there were more of 'em. So...yeah, crazyface reporters are the immediate threat for the time bein'." Micah's cheeks redden slightly at the potential teasing in the question. He pulls cups from the stack on his tray and starts to pour, filling four of them. Three are delivered to Lucien, Parley, and Desiree, with the last remaining for himself. The red in his features climbs to a more impressive shade at Sera's mime. "Oh...ohgosh, I didn't mean t'be...explodey?" He tugs out a chair and settles himself into it, as if this might make him... Quieter? Smaller? Something less intrusive. "Are you apologizing for having a mind?" Parley is already slipped from his shoes, relinquishing his jacket to fold fingers around a warm cup, holding it beneath his nose so that only raised eyebrows and dark eyes peer at Micah, the corners faintly curled up. Though negligent in a brief back-and-forth study of Lucien's - eyes? His brow? "Hm. You would certainly /make/ an excellent spokesman. Tall. Handsome. Blond. Side by side with Jackson Holland, you'd be accessible to nearly all the city demographics." He is turning a statement towards Sera shortly after, tone no different than were he addressing an adult, "Mine is harder to hear - I have to... hm. - can you see now?" Faint roils of mist, contract faintly in the mental realm, like a muscle, colored faintly of the other minds in the room like a room of mirrors. "I try to stay more solid around other psionics." << (can you)(control) when (you project?) >> Not words, implications, suggestions that prompt the mind to call up its own equivalent words to suit the meaning, he absentmindedly lays down a few outer-layer groomings to Sera's mind. The kind that, from one cat to another, might smooth out in one direction but leave a /cowlick/ in another. "Sometimes I believe he and his partner apologize simply for existing." Lucien drifts off towards the kitchen after Micah, not taking a seat yet but taking a cup and leaning against the wall with it. His lips twitch faintly, an upward tug at one corner. "I have an interview again in the morning. This time with the Bugle," he murmurs lightly, looking right back at Parley, "though the reporter in question already elicited a statement from me via email." "Oh, thanks!" Desiree takes the cup with a quick smile, but is soon replacing her headphones to turn back to her television show. "/Good/ explodey," Sera qualifies with another puffed-out explodey-face. "I can feel you from /here/." She points to the apartment wall that adjoins Micah's apartment. "You're like --" Explodey hands, again, "and Mister Jax is like --" This time her hands flash open and closed and open and closed. She picks her cookie back up off the floor, sitting down beside the puzzle to eat it and poking a finger at the crumbs it has shed to eat /them/, too. Her head shakes. "No I just feel. Everyone just feels." “No! No, I just...that didn't look like it was pleasant, maybe, an' I try not t'/unpleasant/ at people too much.” Continuing to be called out on it, the red creeps up the back of Micah's neck and into his ears. He slides his teacup closer, wrapping his fingers around it to leach warmth into them. “They certainly make for a pretty picture,” Micah opines, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “Reporters ain't been botherin' /me/ much, as of yet, but I think it's 'cause I don't look so interestin'. Jax an' Dusk an' the twins, though...” His eyes roll ceiling-ward, his head shaking slightly. Something about Sera's description of feeling people /through the apartment wall/ has him hiding the now bright-crimson of his face by holding his teacup up, his gaze down, blowing softly across the surface of the hot liquid. "People do tend to warm more quickly to the aesthetic," Parley agrees, roaming on feet that make no noise, transitioning weight from the balls of one foot to the balls of the other, to stroll along behind the younger children, eyes trailing over their puzzle. Though he glances up again, "Aa? Which reporter is it? I have a few that I've been following lately from the Bugle - they are /creative/ with their approaches to research aren't they?" "Are you going to attend school with your older sister when you're old enough?" he undertone inquired of Sera on the outer side of his orbit, angling back towards the kitchen as well to retrieve a cookie of his own. "Mmh, loud isn't always unpleasant," a side-slant semismile angles Micah's direction, "is it?" A thin trace of something else could /almost/ be felt in those words. What EVER do you mean, Parley. "Quite creative," Lucien agrees in soft murmur. "And they do love their controversies. Ah -- it was a Ms. Chaudhry. Charming young woman, really, from the brief telephone exchange we had." He sets his cup down on the counter, retrieving a brush and dustpan from beneath the sink to go and sweep /up/ the crumbs before Sera can continue eating them off the floor. "Oh, they'll bother you soon enough, once they catch on to who you are. -- Loud is not unpleasant, though --" Lucien's eyes track over to the wall adjoining Micah's apartment as well, his lips pressing faintly together, "In the company of a young untrained psionic who projects as much as she absorbs, it leads to -- interesting interruptions, when it is /loud/ next door." He returns to the kitchen to empty the dustpan into the waste bin and reclaim his own tea. His voice is light, quiet and /totally/ innocent in his following: "Did you two have an enjoyable wedding night, Micah?" "Yeah I'm going to school." Sera has made her cookies disappear rapidly, now licking crumbs off her palm and eying the cookie tray with regret. "My cookie's gone," she tells Lucien plaintively, and then, "I like loud music. Desi plays it and we dance. Did you get /married/?" Her eyes open wider as she swivels to look at Micah. "Did you wear a /tuxedo/? Did you have a party?" Micah is listening to all of the talk of reporters and news stories, honestly, he's just splitting his attention in the attempt not to /combust/ from sheer ferocity of blushing. Attack from all sides and no real ability to defend with young ears in the room that have...probably already had more than their fill of /more/ reasons for Micah to blush. He brings the teacup to his lips, because putting tea in his face seems safer. Seems. He nearly spits the whole of it back out into his cup at Lucien's question, succeeding instead in just swallowing hard. "Yes," he squeaks just a little in his answer to Sera, clearing his throat before continuing. "Yes...um. It was more that we did the paperwork t'be married. Weren't the fancy party part of it. We may well do somethin' like that later, though. Just went t'the courthouse an' had a nice dinner after. Nothin' too...excitin'." His nose bunny-crinkles at that, now reaching for a cookie to put a bite of it in his mouth and make the talking stop. "It's not necessarily an unpleasant thing to witness, psionically," Parley opines to his cookie, prior to nibbling, "It can be quite lovely. If distracting. Congratulations are in order. Probably wise to wait on a party until the Human Interest stories fade off some. -- Mn, Ms. Chaudhry, is it? I'd love to hear your impression of her, after your interview. I'm curious if her writing style matches her personality." With his dark eyes settled thoughtfully on Sera, his question could be to Lucien /or/ the girl, "-- would you /like/ training?" "You ate both your cookies, is why they are gone. If you ate them slower, you would still have cookies." Lucien moves away from the wall to take a seat at the kitchen table, sinking into it with a faintly tired wince. His eyes close, his thoughts focusing in on the smell and taste of his slow sip of tea, a tangible concrete grounding to help collect his mind. "It seemed exciting. You needn't worry," is more softly murmured, "Her abilities are quite unfocused. She felt a lot of happy. Excitement. She'll likely only think it uncomfortable if you treat it as though it should be." With no more cookie and no apparent chance of /cajoling/ more cookie from her brother, Sera flops back down onto her belly to pick at the puzzle pieces. She isn't actually very /successful/ at the tiny complicated design, kind of mashing pieces together hopefully though intermittently this results in a match. Intermittently it results in not-quite matches that Gaetan has to then take apart. "Training? Like what training?" "Like for your mind," Lucien explains, opening his eyes to watch Parley pensively. "I will let you know. I will let you all know. While I am on the subject," this is murmured over his tea to Parley and Micah both, "is there anything I should say or /not/ say about all your involvements? The Bugle seems to already have all your names. Has she spoken to either of you?" "Um...thanks," Micah says in reply to the offer of congratulations. The ongoing talk is not /helping/ the plague of blushing, unfortunately. He chews at his gingersnap and sips at his tea in attempt to stop /focusing/ on it. In the end, it is Lucien's wince that truly draws his attention away. "Honey, are you okay?" he lowers his voice to ask. "Anythin' I can do for you?" His head shakes at Lucien's question of reporting, the worst edge of scarlet to his features starting to dull. "I'd think you're like t'know better'n I am what would be good things t'say t'the press an' what wouldn't, given the picture we're tryin' t'paint is your brainchild t'start with. Just...we ain't really come up with a party line on Vector? Seems like it may be a thin line t'walk between callin' out the government on what /they/ done an' incriminatin' ourselves. Think we might oughtta have a sit-down with Jax, if not his whole /team/, on what t'do on that one." "I'm good at keeping my head down," Parley murmurs distantly, watching Sera head across the room. "They used my given name - I can't imagine where they even got it from. I don't tend to go by it. And even then," he transitions gaze to Lucien when Micah asks about his health, looking him up and down, "I'm easy to miss. I was able to walk past them and into the building today without bother - I'm sorry, this is your brainchild, then?" He glances to Micah, "If you want to go public, you would probably need as many testimonies as possible. I'd almost suggest leading the news on for a while - make /them/ dig up and work through a series of exposes. A number of independent investigations might ring with more truth than one big break." "I am fine. The tea is good." Lucien's fingers have curled around it tightly, and he continues to sip at it slowly. He tips his head in acknowledgment of Parley's suggestion. "Tell them the truth about Vector. They clearly already have the story, there is no gain from withholding your side of it. If they had wanted to come after Jackson and his team, whoever leaked the story to begin with would have mentioned them. They couldn't. They wanted to spin it -- the facilities were trying to help, they were protecting people from disasters such as this. Find enough people to tell the whole story and perhaps someone will listen." He does not, admittedly, sound overly hopeful of this. Nor does he /feel/ overly hopeful of it, just level and a little bit tired. "Leave off the names of the raiding party, if you like. I suspect anyone who knows Vector's name already knows all of theirs anyway." His mouth gives a small twitch, eyes slipping half-closed as they lower back towards his tea. "I merely thought that with the news of Vector breaking it might somewhat mitigate the damage to have positive mutant images portrayed as well. And, frankly," his tone slips a little wry, "options for available candidates were slim." “Sor--um, it's just that...once people start t'askin' me things,” Micah pauses, slowly turning his cup in his hands, “I'm not good at not talkin'. So /I/ kinda need people t'tell me what not t'say in advance or I'm like t'say too much about somethin' without thinkin'. Not worried at all 'bout that with /you/.” His eyes settle on Lucien again, the look somewhat pointed at his ongoing dismissal of any inquiries into his own status. “There's just /a lot/ of story t'tell. Lotta people in it. Lotta lives already messed up more'n anybody had a right. I don't wanna drag nobody back /into/ this as we don't gotta, but. S'all connected. Hard not t'unravel the whole thing once y'get t'tuggin' on all the loose threads, yeah?” His teeth start to worry at his lower lip. When he notices, he takes another bite of cookie instead. “I just feel like I gotta be more careful on what I say, in a way, then the rest of the folks as was closely involved. It's...less /my/ story'n it is yours. An' yet...this is gonna sound...y'know /I/ don't mean it like this, but... I think there might be more weight t'anythin' I'm tellin' people? The way in which people listen based on who's talkin'.” He nods at Lucien's explanation to Parley. “Was the best plan we had. S'why we ended up goin' with it, though Jax wanted /nothin'/ t'do with it as a gut reaction.” "Mm?" Parley, intermittently, makes a few acknowledging noises behind his cookie and tea, listening to either men speak, trailing gaze over the pain that visits Micah's features, the faint white that filters through Lucien's knuckles when they tighten. Glancing to the children as well. "I'm sure he didn't. I suppose it's no real comfort to him that he's more a representational construct, at this point, than a person. After exposing the underground fighting rings, it'd be more easily believed, coming from him." He swirls his tea, watching it idly, "Hm. If you started a collection of photographic evidence, it would attract the sensationalists. There is, I understand," he glances up, towards the ceiling, "extensive scarring among the majority of the escapees. And if it's collected anonymously, with testimonies, it would be difficult to color positively." Sip. "Guantanamo Bay may have not been closed down for its exposure, but no one /doesn't/ equate it with torture all the same. What is the lyric..." He slides his palm through the steam rising up from his cup, sending it recoiling. "'8x10 color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one'? You could make a mess for them." "Mmm." Lucien gives Micah a small acknowledging nod. "A woman who speaks out about sexism is uppity and hysterical. A man who does the same is a champion of equality. The stories will be theirs. But a human voice affirming them is more likely to pave the way to have them heard." He takes another sip, exhaling slowly though now it sounds content. Mmm. Tea. "I would advise against yet saying anything that would incriminate individuals in the /rescues/. Highlighting what those individuals," his eyes slip to Parley, briefly, and then back down, "experienced /in/ the facilities, however --" He tips his hand upward. "For better or worse, those gates have been opened. You all may as well shape the road that lies beyond them." “Not only that he's bein' turned into a Face Of, but all the /attention/.” Micah gestures vaguely in the direction of /outside/, where the media has been hounding their doorstep. “Not just for him, but...the boys. Everyone here.” He nods at Parley's thoughts. “I think a lotta the folks as've been /in/ the facilities, those as aren't still too traumatized t'deal with it at all, might be up for that. Photos without faces. Stories without names. Maybe.” He nods again, briefly looking into his tea. “I know I've heard /so many/ of those stories, but every time I hear another one it's still like...brand new kinds of awful. Some of those kids as were there a long time ain't nothin' but scars from one end t'the other.” His fingers grip a little too tightly on the handle of the cup, the contents sloshing dangerously close to spilling. He places it down on the table. Micah nods yet again at Lucien's more concise summary, starting to feel a little bit like an animated bobble-head. “Okay, yeah, that's where I'm fuzzy on the situation? 'Cause if I start talkin' about Vector, folks are gonna wanna know how I know 'im. An' if I start talkin' about the facilities, they're gonna wanna know how I know about /that/. Guess I could just say I met folks as got out an' be hazy on the details?” Parley is listening to Micah, watching his face over his cup. "Truly," his expression remains solemn, "That sounds awful." He lowers his cup, a slow neat movement, and chases a few crumbs off the table area, eliminating them with the tip of his tongue, "I don't see that the story is terribly complicated - your work and training lends easily into finding yourself helping a group that periodically finds themselves shot and bleeding - missing limbs and requiring life-saving attention. You're not only human, Micah-san. In paperwork, you're also a saint - play it up. Talk about /your/ work, the things you've been trying to accomplish." He raises a hand wearily like he /expects/ a protest here, "It doesn't matter how /you/ see it, I'm afraid. It's how we need the majority population to see it." His tipped open fingers in Lucien's benefit agree with the man's earlier words. He places a fingertip down, on the table top - eyes for a moment still /on/ Lucien - like there's a question here? Though he's clearly speaking to Micah, "You know a group of downtrodden mutants that risk their lives to help other mutants being held against their will." His finger raises, moves left an inch, touches down again. Like the next step in a timeline. "You do not feel comfortable giving their names - are there medical laws that could turn this into a legal confidentiality?" This is with a sudden aside to Micah. Lucien exhales a sharp breath through his nose, a thin almost-smile ghosting across his face as he looks to Parley. He finishes his tea, setting the cup back down and lifting his hand to rub fingers slowly against his temple. It does little to cure the headache throbbing there. "Yes," he just murmurs in simple affirmation of -- perhaps everything Parley is saying to Micah. "Will you speak, Parley. To your experiences. It is unlikely the topic /won't/ arise. I am largely uninvolved. Never a prisoner, never a rescuer, for all the media currently knows as human as Micah is. But you --" His fingers unfurl towards the back of Parley's neck. "One thing will no doubt lead to another." "S'pose I could frame it that way, yeah. That'd be helpful closin' the loop on the questions without gettin' too specific or soundin' too dodgy." Micah retrieves his teacup once more, sipping from it now that it's steadier in his hands. He breezes right past that whole implication of sainthood with just a crinkling of his nose. "I'll...frame things however's best for gettin' this story told right an' believed right without outright lyin'. I'm a terrible liar; y'don't want me tryin' it anyway. But...I don't really matter all that much in alla this. Whatever y'all need." Micah's tongue passes over his lips to moisten them. "Only thing that falls under confidentiality with me is actual Protected Health Information. Me doin' first aid is just like any other Joe on the street doin' it; not helpful. But, say, if they wanted the name or date of birth on one of the kids I helped through limb loss an' gettin' prostheses? They'd have t'get written permission from the patient or submit a legally valid subpoena for the information. So...eh. Might be helpful in some ways, but mostly not. 'Specially since it's the rescue /teams/ we're mostly lookin' t'keep quiet about, not the rescuees. Might be more helpful for somethin' like...the church in Harlem. Where I was workin' with docs on people. But I just generally don't bring /that/ up with most folks 'cause it's a testy topic, too. Risk outing folks from there as've been called terrorists." For one moment, Parley is looking at Lucien, his brows set - then he chuffs quietly, the side of his mouth twitching up as well in papercut grin before he lowers his head to scratch behind an ear, "Hmm. If it serves a purpose. We'll need as many corroborators as possible to avoid - well." His hands open, elbows on the table to lean forward over it, "Looking uppity and hysterical. Alien abductionists. Government cover-ups. This could all go horribly wrong, you know. I think lying is the opposite," his eyes tip towards Micah, "of what we should do. We will need to be frank. Textbook. And visceral. The ugly and the beautiful. The media will love it. The masses will be riveted. Children with their limbs burnt off, bleeding from bullet holes, mourning those that had been systematically executed in front of them. Crying into the arms of Jackson Holland. Bullet holes bleeding out into the floor of a moving van. Piles of bloody scrubs -Hm," he looks to Lucien suddenly, "--That sounds terribly /Holocaust/, doesn't it?" And he sits, looking a Lucien for a long appraising moment. "--You have managed to remain uninvolved. We could use that. I'm beyond it - I'm more likely to pass for a housepet than a spokesman. But imagine." He taps a finger against his lips, rotating his eyes towards Micah, "Such a /sharp/ and reasonable devil's advocate he'd make, wouldn't he?" "There are no small number of parallels to be drawn," Lucien acknowledges with a thin smile. "Not, ah, that I should draw any aloud. Holocaust comparisons are terribly gauche. And the weight of this stands as enough of a tragedy in its own right. -- You'll be speaking primarily to reporters, Micah, not to the police. Not yet, at least. But, really you -- are an appallingly open person." There's a quiet amusement to his tone here. "That will be to your favour. We don't need to put a spin on those labs. The facts are damning enough. They will ask you much about Jax, though. There's frankly no coaching we could give you on that subject either. You love him. That much is glaringly obvious whenever you speak of him. So -- speak of him. Be the loving husband who stands by his side through one tragedy after another. There's an uncomfortable prickle, an echoed ripple of pain picked up on and shared back outward; Sera glances up from her puzzle towards Lucien with a frown. His fingers press to his temple again. "There are worse things to pass as. People like pets. Comforting. Harmless. They get quite riled when they are abused. -- My apologies." This seems directed more to /Sera/ than the others, at the growing press of pain in his mind. "I will remember to stock up on ibuprofen before any media appearances." “Good, no, I can do that. Just...bein' realistic with y'all about...me, I guess.” Micah shrugs, his expression a little sheepish for just a moment. “Yeah, I know, I've had that thought m'self. Hearin' stories from these folks. Reminds me of stories m'grandparents would tell. Had a fair amount of family live that. German Jews. But Lucien's right. People start invokin' the Holocaust over their pizza gettin' delivered late anymore. Just makes y'sound hysterical.” He looks over Lucien appraisingly at Parley's question. “Think he's like t'seem a sharp-an'-reasonable whatever he's passin' 'imself off as at the time, t'be honest.” A hint of a smile struggles its way through at this, but is quashed again under concern-heavy brows at the pain from Lucien. “D'you need some now? We got plenty if y'don't have here. An'...I can fetch even if y'/do/ have here. Honey, y'push yourself too hard all the time.” "Oh, it's a role," Parley agrees tipping up his cup to Lucien appreciably, cupping his chin with one hand, fingers loosely curled against the side of his cheek, "One that -." He seems perfectly content to continue until Micah's concern becomes more prominent, during which he licks a crumb from the side of his mouth, and turns his eyes towards Sera. << (do) you (know?) >> It's light, whispering to the far outside edge of the mind in wisps, coaxing her attention here, to him, instead of her brother. << (there are) sometimes (ways) to (brace yourself) when (things get)(loud?) >> 'Loud', in this case, is a very complicated network of implied psychic noises. "One that --?" Lucien prompts mildly, tipping his gaze over to focus on Parley inquisitively. His mind reacts reflexively to swelling pain, instinctively /trying/ to numb it, though in its current disjointed state this does nothing but make him headachey /and/ tired. Sera frowns uncertainly. Her first thought is, "How?" and her second: "but I like knowing." She abandons her puzzle, heading over to the table to climb up into Lucien's lap. He curls his arm loosely around her, though this also elicits a frown. "You needn't --" he starts to protest, but then just shakes his head. "No. Perhaps just a nap. Are you both --" This also trails off unfinished, a thought akin to << (ready) >> completing this in his mind though it never quite resolves into certainty as to /how/ he actually does wish to finish this question. Micah nods in reply to the little that Parley says /aloud/, not clued in to the rest of it. He continues watching Lucien with his lips compressed, still in full-on Concern Face despite the man's protests. When he mentions a nap, Micah nods again. “We can be out of your hair in a tick, hon. Y'need somebody t'watch the little ones for a bit? Can even take 'em next door if y'need more quiet.” He is already starting to gather his tray up for transport. Sadly, poor Micah isn't nodding at much! "-One that," Parley is looking thoughtfully at Micah, "...suits me fine." Though head is tipped down, his eyes are tipped up, so that he's gazing out through the feral spikes of his bristly hair. He branches off to dampen a dishcloth, or paper towel, napkin whatever might serve to wipe the crumbs from the counter once it's been cleared. And he says to Sera, aloud, with a bit of air pushed out his nose, "Bracing yourself doesn't mean numbing. - We can talk about it later." The inclusive lift of eyes to find Lucien's possibly means he should probably be included in this. Lucien gives a soft hum of acknowledgment to this answer, studying Parley a quiet moment longer and then nodding. "No, I'll be --" he starts to say, but then looks down at Sera's uncomfortable fidgeting in his lap. "Mmm. Yes, please. Sera, why don't you go and play with Spencer for a while." He nudges her down to her feet, standing to move his mug to the sink. "Later," he agrees quietly. "I --" But that's all, apparently. He gives Parley and Micah a small nod, and slips off to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.