ArchivedLogs:Still Waiting

Still Waiting
Dramatis Personae Micah, B	Friday, 11 September 2017 Part of the Future Past TP.
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a rock-lined koi pond, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. There's a quiet droning hum zeroing in on the Commons' courtyard, a slowly-growing-brighter overhead glow cutting down through the dark nighttime sky. When this finally descends to a more clearly visible level it resolves into the form of a sleek sporty blue-and-silver /motorcycle/, the chopper very heavily modified and sporting a very /toothy/ chomping-shark paintjob on its front. It also sports a very toothy /shark/ riding atop it, sleek and small and blue-and-silver as well, B's riding kutte in shiny silver leather and a glimmer of metallic makeup above hir eyes and on hir lips. Ze sets the hoverbike down gently in the front yard of the house ze shares with hir family, pulling off hir helmet to set it atop the seat once ze has vacated it. Micah is very firmly ensconced in the gazebo with multiple devices set up in front of him. He seems to be working primarily from a laptop, though his e-reader and tablet are both nearby with their displays on. His clothing is already weekend-casual: navy blue T-shirt with a comic about a penguin growing up from an egg and learning to fly via /jetpack/, bluejeans, sneakers, auburn hair tousled but his hat tossed down on the seat next to him since the gazebo's roof provides adequate shade from the sun. The /look/ he is giving the laptop screen is far less casual, however, clearly not pleased with something going on there. The unique humming sound of the hoverbike does rather steal his attention, however, perking up like a puppy minus the tail to wag and floppy ears to lift. He attempts to clear his lap of /stuff/ so that he can actually stand. Lured more by the /scent/ of hir father than the sight of him, B is trotting over towards the gazebo even as Micah tries to clear his lap, silver vest still on and matched with tight black jeans that have been embroidered with (sparkly! silver!) skulls on their thighs. Tall knee-high silver boots. A very lacy blue top beneath the kutte. "Missed me?" ze sounds cheerfully teasing with this inquiry as ze trots up into the gazebo; ze's only been /gone/ a week. Take /that/, stuff! There is now a slightly haphazard pile of technology on the table nearest to Micah's seat, which claims one less Micah as occupant suddenly. Just as suddenly, B will find hirself dragged into a tight-squeezy hug. “Always miss you when y'run off t'school.” Add to that a light kiss to the forehead. “How's school goin'? Was your trip back down okay? Any requests for dinner?” "School is -- challenging." B sounds very /pleased/ by this. Ze leans into the hug, wiry arms wrapping back around Micah to squeeze him just as tight -- maybe with a little bit of actually lifting hir father /off/ his feet before setting him carefully back down. "The trip is -- way more fun when you don't have to worry about traffic," ze answers with a giggle. "/Thai/ oh my gosh," promptly answers the dinner question, "there's good restaurants in Boston but I swear no Thai really matches up." Even after the hug is over ze leans in against Micah's side, voice dropping quieter and not /really/ keeping hir worry out of the question: "How's Spence?" "Good," is Micah's thought on school being challenging. "Means they're actually teachin' you somethin'." He chuckles at being lifted by his much /smaller/ kid. "Absolutely don't think nobody's gonna have complaints on that choice." The question about Spence furrows his brow, the brightness in his tone shifting down significantly. "Y'mind if we order in 'stead of findin' a place t'go out? Not sure he'd be able t'eat if there's transit involved. Stomach's been extra touchy lately." B lets out a shaky breath, turning hir face in against Micah's side as ze nods. "I don't mind. Kinda miss home anyway. From time to time." Ze sinks back to take a seat on the bench, drawing in a deep breath. "I met this guy up at Harvard specifically studying the health complications in mutant kids. There's a study he's doing --" Ze hesitates, shaking hir head. "Though he's been getting a whole lot of hassle lately. Do people heckle /you/?" Hir eyes flick briefly to Micah's laptop, then back to hir father. "About, like. Registering your patients behind their backs. They didn't even used to pester /kids/ at /all/." Micah gives B one last squeeze before letting hir go to have a seat. He settles back into his own. "Studies are promisin'. Could y'forward me the information?" He actually /smiles/ at the question. "Heckle about registerin' folks? Not s'much. People as care enough about people with special abilities t'worry 'bout those kindsa things can research me easily an'...I've kinda got some /cushion/ that most folks don't, given m'background an' how long I've been at this." The laptop screen displays an incomplete presentation slide on rather the topic at hand, specifically prosthetic related. "I get a fair amount of trouble from the /other/ side of things still. You'd think all the race traitor nonsense'd get old for folks eventually." His gaze draws skyward briefly, though returns quickly as his fingers tap at the top of his laptop's screen. "S'gettin' better, though. Doin' a guest lecture for the O&P program over University of Hartford next week. People're actually /invitin'/ me t'talk, which is a good enough sign." "Yeah, I can pass it along." B looks back at the computer with more interest when it displays a presentation rather than any personal medical information. Ze leans forward to examine the slide curiously. "Whoa. That's pretty exciting. /Professor/ Zedner. Sounds pretty serious." Once Micah sits ze leans in against him again. "You're /pretty/ traitory look at the kinda freaks you hang out with." "Thanks, sugar. I try t'stay on top of alla the things as are out there, but some folks don't really advertise outside their region." At B's interested look, Micah picks up the computer wholesale and slides it onto hir lap to flip through slides if ze wants. "Not nearly professor. Just givin' a talk for one day. S'the hard part. Tryin' t'figure out what's most important t'get said in that little time." He leans in to thud his forehead softly against B's shoulder. "Ain't nothin' traitor-y, 'bout it. It'd be in /everyone's/ best interests t'stop actin' like everyone's whole difr'ent species. So I'm actin' on behalf of everyone /without/ special abilities, too." "/Professor/ Zedner," B insists. "Makes you sound --" Though after a moment of contemplation ze wrinkles hir nose and admits, "... kinda old." Hir finger taps lightly against the keys, slowly paging through the slides to study them. "Horus would say it's most important to use the time recruiting more people to your cyborg army." Ze turns hir head slowly when Micah's forehead thunks against hir, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Hir response after this, though, is slow and hesitant. "... but we kind of a little bit. /Are/. Maybe not taxonomically. But socially, for sure, it's. We're. Not the /same/." “Gee, thanks,” Micah replies dryly to accusations of old age. “Horus'd say that 'cause it's /his/ army. I'm mostly talkin' t'practitioners an' students. Don't know how many cyborgs's likely t'be there.” His lips curl upward at the kiss, only to pull flat again at B's insistence. “Don't make no dif'rent species. I mean, socially it's not the same t'be Korean or autistic or Amish or... But that don't make nobody dif'rent /species/.” He pulls back a little, head tilting, the better to regard B. “You feel like a race traitor dealin' with /me/? Or Mel?” "/Everyone's/ a cyborg these days, some people just less -- visibly. I mean, I can barely /function/ without my external brains." B waggles the phone worn around hir wrist indicatively. Hir lips press together at Micah's question, head shaking -- albeit slowly. "It's not like you or Mel is working to /hurt/ us. A lot of humans, though, they see our /existence/ as a threat. So you, yeah, kind of just. Traitor by association." Hir gills flutter, quick and restless. "Maybe species is the wrong word. Maybe there isn't a word yet. I don't know what we are, but I know it's /not/ -- human." “Well, yeah, if we get fuzzy on our standards,” Micah says with an air of pretension and a small flip of his hand. “It's not like /you/ are workin' t'hurt /us/,” he repeats back, his head shaking as well. “Sure, you're dif'rent. Maybe y'need t'come up with your own name for it... But you're /not/ not human. It's too... The word's entirely too meaningful. Even just /legally/. You don't want t'/semantics/ your way out of things like human rights. Can be the same an' /really/ dif'rent all at the same time. It's allowed.” A briefly guilty look flicks across B's face when Micah says ze isn't working to hurt them. Ze ducks hir head, frowning down at Micah's keyboard. "It's not like they're going to just let us /have/ equal rights either /way/. So if anyway we're just going to have to /take/ any freedom we get, what does it matter?" Hir gills flutter again. "... Maybe I don't /want/ to be human anyway." The guilty look earns a questioning one in return from Micah, brows dipping down toward one another. “S'always easier t'fight for somethin' that's /already/ in the law. Precedent's on your side that way.” He reaches up to pet fingertips down along those fluttering gills. “It's... I wish y'didn't feel that way, but it's your right t'do so. If y'don't /want/ that label it isn't one y'have t'keep. But that's a personal decision, right? Not somethin' that necessarily applies t'everyone else. They mightn't agree.” "I think we might be talking different kinds of fight," B murmurs with a small flare of nostrils. Hir head tilts, neck baring to the touch. Slowly hir eyes close, one leg shifting up to pull hir heel onto the bench, knee tucked up against hir chest. "Nobody's exactly taken a poll. The ones who don't agree can call themselves whatever they like. But it's the ones of us who --" Ze hesitates, opening hir eyes again to stare up at the roof of the gazebo. "They're not generally the ones fighting any kind of fight at all." Micah's eyebrows aren't unbunching anytime soon, though his fingertips continue the slow stroking along B's gills. “Sugar, I'm not sure what you're gettin' at. Either you're bein' cryptic or I'm bein' thick. Might be you’re gonna hafta lead me through it.” One hand slides to B's chin, a motion gently encouraging hir to look back down. “Y'do know y'can talk t'me, right?” B's head tips back down gradually, huge black eyes fixing on Micah steadily. "It's -- nothing," ze replies heavily, head shaking and hir claws picking at the seam of hir jeans. "I just don't think the government is really exactly heading /towards/ any kind of equality. And it's not like the kind of people preaching that --" Hir lips compress, shoulders tightening. "Assimilationist mindset are the ones /actually/ working to fix things." “It's not. This is...at least very present on your mind, if not t'the point of upsettin' you. That's not nothin'.” Both of Micah's hands return to soothing at B's gills. “They're slow. S'always slow workin' t'ward things t'/help/ people. But we're workin' an' tryin' an'... It's hard. Bein' the one stuck /waitin'/ through the slowness. 'Cause y'have t'/live/ that meanwhile, I know.” His nose crinkles just slightly at the wording. “Assimilatin'...that sounds a lot like folks as think y'all are still human are askin' y'not t'be yourselves. Maybe that's true of some? But not everybody. I think everyone should be able t'/be/ themselves an' accepted as more of the wonderful variations there are in humanity an' just...life in general. An' I try t'work t'fix what I'm able to... S'a lotta people workin' t'do what they can.” He chews at his lip thoughtfully, studying B again. “Am I totally on the wrong track 'bout what y'mean?” B leans against hir father's side, gills slowly pressing flat. "Maybe I don't know what I mean. All I know is I'm tired of /waiting/." Ze lifts hir head, glancing across the courtyard towards their house. "C'mon. Let's -- dinner. I had a long drive."