ArchivedLogs:Run-In

Run-In
Literally.
Dramatis Personae Neve, Micah	19 July 2014 Neve tries to run Micah over with a bike. Then there's ice cream. Maybe also a lot of questions.
Location <NYC> Central Park North
Central Park North is slightly quieter than its southern counterpart, being further uptown and slightly out of the bustle of the City - insofar as one can escape the bustle of the City even here, in the acres of green and blue that make up Central Park. The reservoir is in the northern half, providing miles of jogging and biking trails along the clear water, as well as benches for people to sit and rest. It /would/ be the perfect evening if not for the clouds, whose heavy barrier throughout the day has left a humid tang in the air. It leaves a clammy feeling on the skin, not quite chilled, not quite warm. In spite of this, the fervent nature worshippers of the city still indulge in the park--there are several Saturday evening speed-walking cliques working their way through the paths, along with the usual assortment of dog-walkers, bicyclists, joggers and daters. Most native, though a few are tourists wandered off the tried and true beaten path of neon and concrete. Neve is one of the bicylists though that title is surely only a technicality. It is true, she has a bike. It is also true she is technically riding the thing. The front wheel has picked up an alarming wobble however, in no small part due to a mild panic at the fact that there are people on the path ahead. Since she is trying to steer and balance and panic /all at the same time/, she cannot refer to her little pamphlet of bicycle rules. What is she supposed to call? Does the hapless pedestrian yield or does she? This is why, on a course set for the slowest collision in the world, she yelps out, "...bike!" Micah has been enjoying the outdoors this evening, a bit of wanderlust striking him lately not to spend /quite/ so much time just on the Commons grounds as had been his wont previously. A little too warm and humid doesn't bother him much, being acclimated to the swampiness that can settle quite a bit further south on the Eastern seaboard. The clouds are, instead, serving as his present diversion, eyes fixed up to watch the darker lavender shapes moving along the slowly deepening indigo of the sky. He is maundering along the very edge of a path to avoid being in the way of faster travellers, nibbling on the last little triangle that remains of a mostly-consumed waffle cone. This doesn't help as much for faster travellers who aren't controlling their headings, however. It /does/ make him slower to look up at the warning call than he otherwise might be, since /surely/ he is safe off to the side as he is. That the girl-and-bike's speed is slow doesn't register so much as the collision course, and so Micah attempts to hop clear and off the path. /Hopping/ is a less than stellar plan when he lands prosthesis-first, knee unit not responding well enough to keep from buckling and sending him sinking into an awkward crouch with an eventual hard thump of a landing on his rear end. The last of the ice cream is sacrificed to the squirrels and pigeons, forgotten and flying from his hand as his arms extend behind him in attempt to catch himself. He sits there for a moment, just a pile of bluejeans, Reading Rainbow-dash T-shirt, mussed auburn hair, and slightly shocked-wide hazel eyes. This. This is exactly what she gets for stepping outside of her comfort zone and being /adventurous/. The bike's rolling is slow enough that Neve gets to watch it all unfolding before as if in slow motion. The hop. The crouch. The crash. She puts both feet down and brakes as a gradeschooler would, through the application of sneaker soles to asphalt, overcorrects and then almost falls right on top of Micah. All that saves him is a rough hop-hop-screech of the near foot, and she'll take bike frame to inner thigh to pay for it. Wincing but still far more concerned about him, the young woman tries to scramble free of the bike--it finally does topple over as she leaves it--and hurries forward to lend a hand. Only to come to a screeching halt while staring down at the poor guy. Her mouth works silently for a moment before she manages an unsteady, "I...oh. Oh, I am so sorry. You...are you all right? That was entirely my fault." “Ohgosh, honey, are you okay?” This from the fellow on the ground who hasn't managed to get himself back /up/ yet. Micah presses a hand into the grass and shoves to get himself back on his feet and better able to look over the girl. His hands idly brush some stuck-on grass from his jeans. “No, no, don't worry 'bout it. I've taken more'n my fair share of spills an' that was just a littl'un. Anybody else prob'ly would've kept their feet an', honestly, if I'd been payin' any attention t'what was goin' on an' not head-in-the-clouds, I would've, too.” His smile is a mixture of slightly amused on top of a little shy-embarrassed, well coupled with the dusting of pink over his cheeks. “S'your bike alright?” Something he's said provokes a laugh. Just a little one, still shaky, but it's a laugh even if Neve does press her fingers to her lips to stifle it almost immediately. Her other hand is extended towards him as if she meant to help brush him off but that too is a interrupted. She draws it back a split second after the attempt. Shy-embarrased for two, coming right up! "No...I mean, yes, I'm fine. I'm so, so sorry. It's..." The bike? She looks over her shoulder. "Oh." It's fallen and it occurs to her that maybe it /isn't/ all right, so she turns from Micah to retreat back to the path. With a yank and a rattle, the bike's on its tires again. To her experienced eye, it seems unbroken but she dips to look it over anyway. "...no harm done. Are you sure you're all right?" The laughter proves contagious, drawing a soft ripple of a chuckle from Micah. He leaves off brushing at his pants fairly quickly; the faded-patchy things really aren't much worse for wear. "No worries s'long as you're both okay. I'm fine. S'a reason our rumps are padded the way they are." Additional amusement and a note of laughter are laced through this assertion. "Just looked like y'were havin' a bit of a wobble from what I could see. Thought maybe you'd hit a rock or somethin' an' were havin' wheel troubles." "No, I'm just terrible at this. I never learned how. Now I'm crashing and /causing/ crashes left and right." Neve handwalks herself around the bicycle. With it placed between herself and Micah, and her hands finally on the handlebars again, she gains some composure. Some. There's nothing she can do about the roses in her cheeks. A game smile is held, less certain as she looks him over again, but gaining strength as it seems he's not just exaggerating his wellness. Even smiling though, she hesitates before saying, "Ah...you lost your ice cream cone. When you fell. Can I buy you another? I promise just to walk this thing. No more threats to the public health and safety." “Yeah, it ain't really as easy as folks make it look. Y'shoulda seen me tryin' t'learn, even with the trainin' wheels an' m'left foot strapped in. Got a coupla good scars out of it.” A lopsided grin tugs at Micah's lips. If he's injured at all, it's clearly not hurting his mood. “Have y'tried trainin' wheels? There's a reason they make 'em. Or just pushin' yourself on it with your feet on the ground t'feel your balance out for awhile?” A little snort and wave dismiss the issue of the ice cream. “Oh, no, it was just the last bite or two of the end. Wouldn't do t'put a whole new one in me so soon.” "The end is the best part," Neve reasons but it isn't an offer she pushes--though she clearly speaks as someone who has perhaps enjoyed more than a few waffle cones. Embarrassed blush might well be a guilty blush now. Ah yes. The leg. Her eyes flicker downwards. "I didn't know they had training wheels for grown-ups. I'm...not sure my pride could take that. It almost seems better, falling down and humiliating myself /that/ way. And this way..." There, she has her smile back, broad enough to make crescents of her eyes. "This way, I meet the nicest people." "S'okay, sugar. I got t'most of it. An' now there'll be a /ridiculously/ happy squirrel or some such in the park, just for that little bite. Sound almost like y'should stop an' get one for yourself, though. There's a cart not too far back; he might not've closed up for the night yet." Micah nods at the observation of training wheels. "They've come a long way with makin' bikes more accessible t'folks. Can even get tricycles for adults now. Shouldn't be /embarrassed/ that you're learnin' somethin' new, or needin' some help t'get there. But I s'pose it could cramp your style a little." His eyes study Neve's face a little more closely at that broad smile. "Apologies, but have we met before?" Neve looks back the way he's indicated, sorely tempted. And in the end, she gives into that temptation and wheels the bike around so it's pointing the other way. "What little style I have," is what she has to say. Her head ducks, smile hidden away. What emerges after she has control over her expression again is more subdued. Polite. "No." Firm, that. "But you might have seen me...my name is Neve. Neve Leone. There've been...I work for Themis House, I speak for them and they've used my likeness in their advertisements. A couple of interviews. You probably saw one of those?" “I can walk you t'where it was. That way I can let y'know if it /isn't/ there that they closed up an' y'don't just keep on goin'.” Micah's stride falters, shoulders tensing slightly at that name. “Oh, yes, that's. That must be it.” He continues walking a moment later. “You're...the founder's your father, right?” "Thank you. That's kind of you." She rather expected that he might react at that name. Neve aims her eyes forward waiting for it, and suffers her own tension...until that moment passes. Walking, yes. That she can do, wheeling the bike between them. There is a definite peek aimed at Micah from the corner of her vision. "He is, yes. He started it to help others like me," she says quietly. "We don't have to talk about it though. You could tell me more about tricycles. And how adults can use them now without people pointing and laughing." Micah simply nods at the offer of thanks, expression thoughtful. “What got 'im started on it t'begin with? Was it his idea? Yours? Someone else?” His tone is even and a bit curious. “No, it's okay. I'm interested in...how that whole thing came t'be.” A touch of that grin returns at the talk of trikes. “Can't /promise/ people wouldn't decide t'be derisive but usually they just think they look cool. The adaptive trikes aren't set up t'look anythin' like little kids' Radio Flyers. Have t'redesign 'em for bigger-taller folks. An' I think most of the companies who put the things t'gether kinda went for more of a...dirt bike kinda image? They tend t'go over pretty well.” "It was me. What...what I went through, I suppose. He..." She trails off. Some spokesperson she's turning out to be. Neve's look at Micah shades with a silent apology. "He moved heaven and earth to help me. To be...the person I wanted to be. It would be selfish to keep that to ourselves, wouldn't it? If there are other people who felt the way I did. And there have been. So many of them. It's..." It's a far better topic, that of tricycles. That he can rattle off so /much/ about them puts a curve in her smile that looks almost fond. Or maybe amused. "It's something I'll have to look into, if I keep falling over. Or almost hitting people." "Did he invent the process 'imself? Were y'really...the first person he tried it on? That seems kinda scary." Micah nods at the mention of others feeling the same way, a brief clouding to his expression, come and gone as swiftly as the night's clouds in the sky. "I think you'll be able t'get the bike eventually. Just gotta...take a step back. Figure out the fundamentals, then keep practicin' 'til y'can move forward. Downside of the adaptive trikes is they're a /liiiittle/ on the expensive side. An' medical insurances rarely wanna cover 'em. Most folks end up lookin' into grants or gettin' whole bunches of people t'gether t'buy 'em." "It was scarier being me," Neve counters, still quiet. "But...it worked. His came through and it worked. So here we are." There, her smile is (again) reclaimed--only to be challenged by the mention of cost. Her brow furrows. "It seems counterproductive. Making it so difficult to get something that could help people. I'll give the bike a little longer, anyway. I /do/ want to get better at it. Do you have a...what did you call it? Adaptive trike?" "Was it...more the way people reacted t'you or...just somethin' y'felt like y'had t'do for /you/ t'be who y'wanted?" Micah's voice is gentle in the asking and certainly sounds like it is coming from a place of experience, a deep desire to know the answers and not simple nosiness. "Was he able t'get anyone t'help 'im with the research an' testin'? Even just /fundin'/-wise that kinda thing can be so hard t'get off the ground..." He nods right along with the parallel conversations as to /costs/. "Well, they /are/ expensive t'develop an' t'make varyin' degrees of /customized/ so that just about anybody can use one. I didn't have one m'self since I was able t'figure out a regular bike after awhile. But I got the benefit of an intact nervous system an' one intact leg, t'boot. S'folks with certain presentations...spinal cord injuries, brain injuries, cerebral palsy, strokes, multiple limb involvement...that somethin' more supportive an' easier t'propel's kinda the only option." The questions garner a whole lot of silence at first. Even the tricycle conversation isn't enough to pull Neve out of that space. She walks and she looks ahead--no doubt minding other pedestrians, just in case, even though she's being careful in her steering--and when she speaks again, an effort has been made to adopt the calmest of tones. "The way I felt, the way I was, it scared /me/. Yes, other people were frightened too. But they had every reason to be frightened, Micah. I was frightening. I wasn't happy with who I was. It wasn't easy, it /still/ isn't easy but...I'm not scared meeting my own eyes in a mirror anymore." "Usually I wouldn't be gettin' so...personal. With questions I'm askin' a stranger, but. You /are/ kinda the spokesperson." The explanation has the air of an apology. "Y'can ask me t'stop if y'want, but it's... There are people lookin' for what y'say you're offerin'. An' they're people I love an' would do /anythin'/ t'protect. So...it's important. T'hear from someone who's been there." Micah chews at his lip before asking another question, even though several of his past ones have been left dangling still. "Does it...hurt? Have side effects? Take a long time t'work? I mean... I'm not even certain what your process /is/. Medicine? Surgery?" As they come around the next turn, the ice cream cart is visible. Its proprietor, a rather rotund middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair going thinner on the top and thicker about the beard, is /just/ starting the motions of closing up. "It's all right." Neve's smile tug up at one side. "I /am/ the spokesperson. I've already spoken to my father about you and Mister Holland--Jax--coming in to speak with him about all of this." So she /does/ know him, if her use of his name weren't clue enough. "I know he went away from his visit without...without being reassured at all. I described it to Jax like being treated for diabetes. Not on a daily basis, but every several weeks, you receive a cocktail that's been designed specifically for you. It's...usually I have to take the day off, it doesn't agree with me. Some need surgery too and we can help arrange that. But really, that's just one small part of what Themis offers. The group sessions, the counselling, the.../camaraderie/ of being around others who won't...judge you for not being happy with what you are. It's no small thing, to have somewhere you're accepted completely. Where people don't argue when you say you wish you hadn't been born a mutant." And having finished, she proceeds at a quicker pace towards the cart. Not only because he seems to be /closing/, oh no! But also because it is rather personal, and the additional breeze cools the heat that's risen into her cheeks again. "Are you sure you don't want one?" "So y'knew who /I/ was," Micah catches on with a small knowing smirk. "It's not all that reassurin', so many unknowns. If it's /safe/. Where this came from. Who made it. Who helped them. An' why? Do y'all think that people expressin' an' X-gene are inherently inferior? That they aren't human? D'you want t' 'convert' everyone? Or is this just a desire t'help the /specific people/ who legitimately aren't happy with the way things are for /themselves/ or whose abilities are a danger to 'em?" His head shakes slowly at Neve's description. "Most people think people with the X-gene /shouldn't/ be happy with the way they are. Seems harder for 'em t'find people who /do/ just accept 'em completely." The fellow manning the cart has a hearty laugh and a good dose of Greek in his accent. "Ah, little lady! Your timing, she is good. Hurry-quick almost closing up, but for you? We do one more, maybe." He eyes Micah with a look of mock-excessive appraisal as he catches up to Neve. "Maybe your boyfriend also can have one. Is too skinny. Wind blows too hard, knocks him down, maybe." Micah's blush deepens all over again, straight past pinks and on into brighter reds. "Ohgosh. No, thank you. I was just...here. Had a cone." "I did, and I'm glad I almost ran you over so I could say hello," Neve says. Just that for now, rather than an answer to all of those questions. All of those /many/ questions, some of which cause a crease of concern to pass over her brow, dimming her smile. But then there is a Greek accent and friendliness and oh, yes, all the blushing. She'll join Micah in that, and shoot him a quick laughing look. "It was so good," she says of the cone consumed, "he said I just had to come try some too. Could I get a scoop of strawberry? In a waffle cone?" She's presuming the answer is yes, because she applies the kickstand on the bike and reaches down to unzip the little case velcroed to its frame. Inside is a wallet, opened to sift for a bill or two. Micah manages a chuckle at that, through the fierce-bright blush. "S'easier ways t'get a body t'talk t'you than runnin' 'em down with a bike, y'know." It's just a gentle tease, not a recrimination. "Yes, a strawberry. Pretty pink for a pretty girl." The man produces a cone and a scoop, which he uses to pack a truly impressive amount into the cone for a /single/ scoop before handing it over to Neve. His eyes shift to the woman with her wallet, then back over to Micah, something clearly a little /judgmental/ going on there. It takes a few ticks for Micah to register that with the breezed-by boyfriend comment earlier. "Oh! Oh. I didn't. I'm not. We just. Met a minute ago." The full brunt of the redhead curse makes itself known, brilliant candy apple red overtaking his face and neck, right up to the very tips of his ears. "I'm not very good with people. Knowing what to do or say, outside of work," she is forced to admit on the heels of teasing. "It's easier in interviews, you go in and you know they have a list of approved questions and..." The young woman pauses there, as business trumps conversation. She blinks once, twice, at the ice cream man. "Oh...oh! No, no, we're not...we /did/. Just meet a moment ago. Please, thank you." Neve is nothing if not persistent in her bill-waggling at the vendor, though she's ended up with her wallet clamped against her ribs with an elbow and the cone filling one hand. "And keep the change," she says, as if she can /bribe/ the gentleman away from making any other assumptions. It wouldn't do to give Micah there a stroke, would it? So wag wag wag she will keep the money extended until he /takes/ it. Provided he does, she will make with putting the wallet away with a quickness. Because there is ice cream...and there are a host of unanswered questions still hanging in the air above her head, like Damocles' sword. Thus the softest aside of, "We aren't Prometheus," before she takes a lick from her cone. The vendor purses his lips with a little hum, not exactly /buying/ what the pair are selling. He is a businessman, however, and as such accepts the money and the tip. "You all are having a good night. Don't be staying out too late in the park, yes? Is when the crazies come out, not so nice always." He seems to be taking his own advice, resuming the cleaning and packing up necessary to get himself closed and back home. "Um. Thank you, sir. Have a good night." That blush? Not going anywhere anytime soon. Micah, however, seems thankful for Neve's quickness and joins her in making a break for it, slowing his pace again (once they are a ways out of immediate ear and eye shot of the ice cream cart) to make it easier for her to eat. "Apologies for all the questions, again, it's just... Bein' protective still, y'know? It can be hard t'tell who your friends are, smooth-talkin' as your enemies can sometimes be. I just wanna know what m'folks are gettin' /into/." It's no simple task to both wheel and eat, but Neve is inspired--the ice cream /is/ delicious--and makes a good effort. The color is fading from her own face, thank goodness, and Micah himself sends the last of it away with something he's said. Which? Well... "I'm not your enemy, Micah." Both face and voice echo a pang of /all the sads/ when she says this and glances sidelong at him. It's a look that goes unbroken until she rolls her lips together and ruins it. She breathes in through her nose, breathes out, and looks down at the cone in her hand. "But...but I know why you feel that way. I understand. Mutants /aren't/ inferior. Some are happy with themselves, and that's /wonderful/, if they can carve happiness out of...out of all of this. But some /aren't/, and telling them they shouldn't feel that way doesn't help. But you know, even if they do come to us, it isn't like we throw them into this treatment right away. There's a process and not everyone qualifies...this is new for us too, we're learning as we go along but the desire to help is genuine." Micah's eyes widen at that statement, a quick breath drawn in. "Oh, no. No, sugar, I didn't mean t'say y'were. Apologies if it sounded that way. I'm just...tryin' t'get the lay of the land here without a map, y'know? Gotta rely on the locals t'show me what's what." Something about her further explanation relaxes his tension a bit, though his blush is still long in working its way out. "How d'you determine who qualifies?" She's watching him for that easing of tension. When it does finally appear, Neve allows herself to smile again. A subdued smile but still an effort. And...more ice cream helps. "It's a process," she says between little tastes and samples, catching the drips trying to form in the humid evening. "A long process. There's an intake interview, an assessment. A physical. We help the client build an action plan to move forward, which is individualized, but some of it's standard. You have to speak with our counsellors, and attend group sessions. We build up support around the client /first/ and make sure...well, we want to make sure they're in a good place for it. And sometimes we can't offer suppression therapy...sometimes it just won't work, which we have to prepare people for. So we try to get them what they need, what we /can/ provide. It's all so /individual/." "There's usually selection criteria, an' pathways of treatment. Do y'all ever decide that this treatment /isn't/ what's best for someone who comes for it? Or that maybe counsellin' or somethin' is what's warranted 'stead of the /whole/ suppression deal? Are there tiers t'the treatment, dif'rent levels for what people need or want?" Micah's thumbs hook into his pockets as he walks, eyes fixed on Neve intently. "Are folks able t'try things temporarily? Or use it just sometimes when they need for a few days?" "Of course. The suppression...it's just a fraction of what we try to do for people. A /small/ fraction. Maybe it's the biggest hook, the thing that the PR people knew would draw the most attention. I think the group sessions are the most valuable, myself. But that's not backed up with any actual science." For this fact, she allows a deeper smile, self-deprecating--and soothed away with ice cream. Mm, strawberry. "I'm not sure it's something that could...this is...it has to be adjusted individually. The cost to determine a personalized dose for a few days, or just try it out..." Neve is shaking her head. "I don't know that would be practical. Or...appropriate? Clients are monitored afterward to make sure they don't react poorly, and you don't have to stay /on/ it, of course, if you decide to stop taking it you revert. But...mm, this isn't the sort of thing someone who wants to be normal for a weekend should do." There is a firm nod that comes at the mention of the PR people, some suspicions confirmed there. "Is any of this backed up? Actual research, trials, publications? FDA approval for these treatments t'be used on humans?" Micah listens quietly to the rest. "But that means y'could /stop/ if it turned out not t'be right for you. Or not what y'thought. Y'aren't /stuck/ after y'start, is what I'm gettin' at." His fingers fidget at the fabric of his pockets. "Temporary suppression /could/ be terrible useful, though. Say if someone's ability hurt 'em over time, but havin' a few days off from it would dial that down. Or if in certain situations their ability would be dangerous to 'em, but if they could turn it off in just that situation, wouldn't be so much a danger." There is a wince at the use of 'normal'. "Ain't about normal or not. People with the X-gene /are/ normal, no matter how they present. They're normal for someone with an X-gene. Just like somebody with enough recessive hair colour alleles havin' red hair is /normal/ for that genetic variation. An' I don't think everybody comin' t'you is /lookin'/ for 'normal'. They might just be lookin' for...safe." "This is a clinical trial. I'm sure the team has all of the paperwork. But..." Neve purses her lips, studying the ice cream cone as if it /troubles/ her. "You have to understand, Micah. I'm not in this to argue the meaning of the word normal. I'm not an activist. I'm not trying to push an agenda, and neither is Themis." The furrow between her eyebrows is growing deeper, pained to the point that she closes her eyes a moment and turns her chin towards her shoulder. The twinge passes a moment later. She's lost interest in the cone but carries it along. A drip begins to work its way over her fingers. "I should be heading back. Dad will be wondering what's kept me." "Whether or not y'all think y'have an agenda? Y'do. An' you're public. An' people are lookin' t'you. Y'gotta be careful with your language an' presentation 'cause it /matters/. The definition of 'normal' matters an' how you /use/ it matters. Ain't gonna make no progress if we can't even get that part down ourselves." Micah nods again, hand working its way out of his pocket to offer a little wave. "Don't let me hold you up, then. Was nice meetin' you. Sure we'll be seein' each other again real soon." "I'll take that under advisement," Neve says softly, just shy of a murmur. But she's looking away from him, taking some of the sincerity from that return. Her cone is lifted in a return of the wave, while she tilts the handlebars of the bike to steer towards a fork in the path. "It was a pleasure. Watch for the crazies, I hear they come out when it's late here." Alas, she doesn't even /try/ a fake Greek accent to mimic the vendor whose advice she's parroting.