ArchivedLogs:Storms

Storms
Dramatis Personae Micah, Lucien, Desi	1 March 2015 "The storms you herald don't generally come quite so far /out/." (Part of Future Past TP.)
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. Early Sunday evening and it is already snowing, with a promised up to half-foot projected to fall within a few hours' time. Micah's ridiculous layers of outerwear (layered Jayne hat, orange wraparound earmuffs, coils of Fourth Doctor scarf, candy corn convertible mittens over black liner gloves, olive puffy coat, lined jeans, snow boots, and messenger bag visible at the time) have picked up an icy coating in the time it takes him to reach the door. He shifts his weight over to one crutch, the other hanging by its forearm cuff as he reaches up to rap on the door. The sound is a /little/ muffled for the layers of cloth over his hand. It takes a little while for the door to be opened; Desi pulls it open with a bright smile, a quick wave of hand. "Oh, oh /gosh/ it's cold out there the whole world's just iced up hasn't it? Come in come /in/ -- can I take your coat?" She's warmly dressed, a layered green-and-brown handkerchief skirt swishing over soft lined leaf-green leggings, soft rose cowl-necked sweater, thick socks. The house smells warm, too. Some rich winey scents coming from the kitchen. There's something else, though; a heavier feeling, sadder, somber, a thick empathic /cloud/ dragging the mood kind of -- downward. "Have you eaten? We're cooking. It's not ready." “Icin' an' only plannin' more,” Micah informs, darting inside as soon as he's invited and the door is open wide enough. “Evenin', Desi. How's things?” He stays standing on the mat, tying up crutches and uncoiling from his icy-wet outer layers before going any further. “Certainly wouldn't mind if y'wanted t'put a thing or two up. Got m'hands a little full.” This last is said with a self-deprecating half-smile at the sheer quantity of clothing he's in. Once quit of all the outerwear, he is left in a royal blue sweater layered over a robin's egg henley, fleece lined jeans, and grey socks with little blue TARDISes dotting them. “Ain't eaten just yet, no. I brought some cookies from Jax, though.” He pauses in putting things away to gesture at his messenger bag, from which the corner of a silver cookie tin can be seen peeking through the flap. His head tilts slightly. “S'everythin' okay?” "Sure thing." Desi takes Micah's outerwear to hang it stashed in the closet, dancing back a couple steps to let him in before locking the door behind him. "Oh, cookies, those are always welcome." Her head tilts right back at Micah. "Hm? Sure --" For a moment, a small furrow creases her brows. "Uh, I mean, we're just --" She shakes her head. "Matt's in the kitchen? Cooking. We're cooking -- oh, unless you wanted Luci. He's in his study." "Just...felt like I needed t'ask right then," Micah replies with the faintest hint of puzzlement in his tone. Once both Desi's and his arms are free, he gives the teen a more fitting greeting hug. "If you'n your brother're cookin', I'll visit with y'all later so's not t'interrupt. Do like catchin' up with /ev'rybody/. I'm officially here t'see Luci, though." He bends to collect the cookie tin from his bag, passing it off to the girl. "Seems the kitchen's a good destination for cookies, anyhow." "I can't promise any of these cookies will still /be/ here when dinner's done," Desi answers, snagging the tin with a small (/brief/) peck to Micah's cheek, "but thanks!" She tucks the tin beneath an arm, darting off towards the kitchen. The study is filled with music, Mozart playing softly inside with the door pushed half-closed. Lucien is at his desk; perhaps he has been typing though at the moment he is just somewhat slumped, forefinger and thumb rubbing at the bridge of his nose, a faintly haggard look to his face. He is in grey, a black-grey ombre sweatshirt and charcoal jeans, hair its usual state of very /carefully/ tousled. “Try t'make sure there's enough for each of your sibs t'get /one/, at least,” Micah returns with a chuckle as he watches the girl dart off before moving to the study. He lifts a hand to knock lightly on the doorframe by way of announcing his presence. “Luci?” His steps are a little slow and hesitant, carrying him closer to the other man's seat. There is no careful about the tousled nature of his own hair, sticking out spikily here and there as if to announce that it was, in fact, only recently under a hat. Lucien's hand drops to his keyboard, locking his screen as he looks up. A small smile touches his lips, his head inclining. "Micah. Welcome. Ah -- can I get you something to drink? Eat? It is terribly cold out, non?" He gestures to the futon in invitation as he rises from his desk chair. Lucien's smile clears the tentativeness from Micah's posture, replacing it with a warm smile of his own. He nods, moving to the futon when indicated. “Good t'see you, sugar. How's things?” The offer of food earns a little shake of his head. “Think your kitchen's right busy just now. Desi said she an' Matt were cookin'. An' /yes/ it's cold, gracious. S'already comin' down out there pretty serious.” "Dinner is underway, yes, but I'm certain Matt and Desi could handle me fetching you a tea or a snack." Lucien slides the chair back in towards the desk, moving over to settle down on the opposite end of the futon. "You should know that I'm not taking appointments regularly any longer. With my schedule these days it's -- somewhat difficult. But for you or your husband I could certainly work something in, with enough notice." "Oh, there's no need t'trouble, honest," Micah demurs, only to be caught in a sudden bright-red blush as Lucien continues. "Oh. Oh, no. I mean. I wasn't thinkin' t'ask for us. I mean, it is kinda for /me/, but not me. I have a friend who needed..." Somehow, this just keeps sounding like the opposite of what he is trying to say, the red rising cartoon-thermometer style up the back of his neck. He hadn't intended to jump right into business, but here it is. "It's um. Y'don't need t'feel obligated. But one of m'friends's gone missin' a good while back. An' I have /another/ friend whose ability is kinda...remote sight? He can draw what people're up to /now/ based on havin' a thing of theirs. He's helped us find folks b'fore. But this one's /complicated/. M'friend who's missin' was experimentin' with dream abilities. There's...time travel maybe an' realities or somethin' an'...s'just /oddness/ involved. So I dunno how that might interact with m'/other/ friend's ability. T'be safer 'bout it, he wanted someone who could either keep a telepathic link with 'im or help put 'is head back t'gether if somethin' goes wrong." "-- Ah." The smile fades from Lucien's face. His lips press together, eyes lowering to his lap. His posture shifts; he's been half-turned towards Micah but now he sits forward in the seat, hands folding in his lap. "Dreams. Time travel. What part of this exactly constitutes business?" Micah's shoulders roll in slightly, hesitancy returning as if he doesn't really /want/ to ask. “It's just...y'were able t'help me b'fore. After the thing with the...cult. An' Hive, when he's gotten too deep into his abilities. I thought maybe it'd be somethin' that...y'might be kinda uniquely qualified t'do. But if you're not takin' jobs. I understand. 'Specially this one.” "I was able to help you. And Hive," Lucien agrees. "It is not a courtesy I extend to complete strangers. However qualified I may be." His fingers twine together, then unlace. "Besides which, /time travel/? I thought you were the nerd. In what universe has it ever been a wise choice to meddle with time travel? What exactly have you gotten yourself mixed up in, this time?" "I understand. I just...had t'ask, t'be sure," Micah replies simply, nodding once. He scoots in a little closer to continue the discussion, considering the nature of its content. "It's... It ain't somethin' that we just /decided/ t'do. Y'know those future dreams folks've been havin'? The ones that told us 'bout Hive an' Flicker dyin' in that raid, where Matt was rescued?" Micah pauses, a hard-slow swallow rolling visibly down his throat. "I don't know if y'had any more of those. Since they started showin' even further in the future. But it's /bad/, Luci. Someone blows up Westchester. Apparently someone with special abilities assassinates the president. Somewhere 'long after that...they start puttin' ev'ryone with abilities in concentration camps. There's these horrible robots that just... People who /aren't/ dead or in camps are hidin' in sewers an' starvin' an' tryin' t'mount a resistance with nothin' t'mount it with, really. An'. That's. The dreams. An' the time travel." And he hasn't even /gotten/ to Hive or the other parts yet. "Ah -- yes. Those dreams." Lucien's fingers lace together once more, this time tightening inwards into a harder clench. "Things with that raid --" His eyes flick towards the door, briefly, head tilting to the faint sound of voices from the kitchen. "Gods know I am glad of what your husband's team did, but it is not as though those dreams helped things actually turn out /well/. And you are still listening to them? Still acting on them? To what end this time?" "It's hard /not/ t'listen. Ain't like they come an' knock at the door politely. They hijack your head an' put you in the middle of a /war/." Micah shudders, looking down at his hands in his lap...and perhaps the legs below them. "It ain't a pretty picture they're paintin'. Jax is dead. Shane is dead. Spence...I think, also died. B's...not good. It's messy. I think I been blown up more'n a few times. 'Bout half robotic m'self. Just tryin' t'keep more folks from dyin'. Lots of guns an' explosives an' scroungin' for supplies an' ill-fated jailbreaks." His head shakes slowly, eyes pressing closed for a time before he continues. "We're slowly figurin' out a little more where all this is comin' from. My friend who's missin'? She's very likely the one controllin' the /dream/ part. She thought so, anyhow. An' we found this psychic who's very likely the one whose ability's doin' the time-displacement parts. An' Hive..." Teeth digging into his lower lip, it takes Micah awhile to continue again. "He did /somethin'/. T'increase the reach of 'is ability. It seems like /he's/ the mental connection in all this. Jax said he'd had a dream where he thought he was /taken/ t'that future. 'Specially since Jax ain't /alive/ in that future t'be just havin' dreams. He came back with Flicker's jacket. An' Flicker havin' told 'im that Hive was the one tryin' t'get us t'change things." "Messy. That -- sounds," Lucien murmurs, slightly paler, "quite." His hands unclench, fingers spreading in a loose-boned grip against his kneecaps. "Are you sure I cannot get you that drink?" His head is dropping back against the back of the futon, eyes lifting to the ceiling. "So you are telling me that these dreams are now transporting people to the future? And -- you are meant, somehow, to -- change it? Avert it? Fix it?" His head tilts to the side to level a glance on Micah. "That is quite a lot to ask, non?" "If you're wantin' one for yourself an' not wantin' t'drink alone, I wouldn't mind," Micah relents this time with a slow-heavy sigh. "Seems likely I'm not gonna be drivin' outta here no time soon, way the snow's comin' down now, anyhow." The redhead's shoulders rise and fall in a helpless shrug. "S'what Jax's givin' me t'understand. Ain't had that last part happen t'me t'speak firsthand. The predictive dreams've been upsettin' enough from my end, though." There is a firmer nod to answer the last series of questions, though. "Yes, that seems the way of it. I think they'd foremost like us t'keep...whatever set the post-apocalyptic nightmare-scape into motion from happenin'. But Jax also made it sound like they'd just like us t'help /them/, too. Research. Information. They got no resources there t'fight with. Wanted us t'look into Oscorp an' the government. I'm guessin' the robots is comin' outta Oscorp. They're already leanin' that direction." His glance drags down to his hands again. "It's a lot t'ask, but... I've /been/ that person in the future. An' I'd be askin' it, too. If there were any way." "... Oscorp?" This has Lucien looking up, swift and sharp. His eyes narrow on Micah for a moment. "Mmm." He glances to the door, tipping his head in a small nod. "I'll be right back." When he slips out, he closes the door behind him. It takes a while for him to return. The music changes. Mozart gives way to a Borodin string quartet. The voices in the kitchen have lowered. The atmosphere of the house has shifted. Less heavy, but more /edged/, a nervous uncomfortable tension, kind of anxious, kind of /angry/. Taut. It lessens, muted but not entirely gone, when Lucien returns, two drinks in hand. The one he gives to Micah is a dark and stormy, its ginger beer quite spicy and a lime wedge on the rim of the glass. "Do you /have/ a plan for -- infiltrating the future, then?" "Ain't no good ever come outta those folks; certainly not from Osborn. All the drones an' the arms race with that Doom character... I'm fair certain /all/ of 'em was workin' for HAMMER an' Malthus." The name still catches in Micah's throat whenever he speaks it. "Y'should see these Sentinels. Some of 'em's just like...smaller, human-shaped robo-cops. But they keep gettin' bigger an' scarier. The huge /thing/ that killed Horus an' Ion durin' the prison camp raid... Looked like it was suckin' in mutant blood t'power it somehow." He gives a shudder, then nods as Lucien takes his leave. "Thanks," Micah offers, standing to take the drink and sipping at it. Repeatedly, in a way that's likely unwise for something both alcoholic and carbonated. "I...not yet. I'd like t'find out just what information they're lookin' for. An' /get/ whatever information they can give us as t'the timeline 'tween now an' then. Other'n that...I'm hopin' gettin' all the folks as're a part of makin' it happen'll help. We've...got Hive. Sort of. He's been in a comatose kinda state. Overpowered 'imself an' took on too many minds again...worse'n ever before. Gettin' 'im /back's/ gonna be a whole 'nother project. Gotta go back to Dr. Strange--I swear that's the man's name--an' see if he's any more help. Then, tryin' t'find Maya. Jim's s'posed t'be doin' what he can from a PI standpoint. But the cops got no leads on 'er, so I dunno. That's why I was gonna have Sean try t'draw her out. But I'll need t'find him a teep so's he'll feel safe tryin'. I don't /want/ 'im tryin' otherwise." "Yes, I've seen them," Lucien murmurs, settling back into the chair. "But the Sentinels are /medical/ drones. That was what they -- were built for, to assist EMS in dangerous situations." His own drink is squat, caramel-coloured; he sips at it slowly, leaning back into the futon. "I don't blame him for not feeling safe. I can't say any of this sounds /safe/. If you get drawn in to the future -- do you leave the present? Can you die there? Will you die here? I suppose potentially-suicidal missions are not really anything new for your family." "Maybe that's how they /started/. Or what they're /sayin'/ they're startin' as." Micah takes a few more sips of his drink before returning to his seat. "But that sure ain't what was gettin' in fire-fights with me in the future. They're military, plain an' simple." He nods agreement over the assessment of Sean. "No, I get it. When I first said I'd ask 'im...things weren't quite this complicated yet. I almost /didn't/ ask once it got this bad, but I had to. At least ask. Like I said, though, I don't want 'im doin' it if we can't get the back-up he's asked for. S'pose I can ask Jax who...he knows people's abilities much better'n I do." The last series of questions meets silence, several more sips taken from his glass and a long look given down into it. "I have no idea. I ain't...been. Or had nobody ask. If I get pulled in, I'll sure ask. But...Jax don't want no part of it. So's I can't say how much of it /will/ be m'family this time. /This/ version of me ain't nearly so well equipped for...what the other version's handlin'." "If you do have a connection. To whoever is making these dreams, sending these dreams." Lucien swirls his drink slowly in his glass, looking down at it. "Are you in contact? Will they be in contact? Do they," his smile is brief, and thin, "take /requests/? I am -- somewhat curious. About this future. Though I've no idea how their targeting process even works." "I'm not entirely certain... I mean, I'm pretty sure it's Maya an' Hive an' Strange. But if they're makin' it happen from here or if they're makin' it happen from in the future or /both/? I dunno. Hive ain't really in a talkin' place. Maya's missin'. An' Strange's...difficult at best." Micah shrugs, again a little helplessly. "I'm not sure how they pick who t'send to. I think mostly folks that run into trouble in the future? I mean...you had a few dreams there for a bit, but mostly related to Matt in some way, right? I know Jax an' the twins an' I've had 'em. Jax stopped after...future him died. But then got the manifestin' one after. An' Dusk an' Flicker an' Isra. Some of the kids at the school, even. Ducky, Faelan, Peter. But they've all been pretty directly involved in things happenin'. I'm guessin' the who of it's Hive. He's the link. I think." He pauses for another series of sips from his draining glass. "Why...did y'/wanna/ have these dreams, too?" At the /want/ Lucien only exhales, sharp. "If something this big is coming, I /want/ to be prepared." "I can keep you informed," Micah offers with an apologetic little shrug. "But that's 'bout all I can promise. I'll keep workin' on findin' Maya an' hopin she knows more. If I get more of these dreams--transportin' or just the regular kind--I can tell you. I'm tryin' t'get ev'ryone who has 'em t'let me know what they learn so I can compile a database. If we're gonna change anythin', we need ev'ry lick of information we can get." "Every lick of information." Lucien echoes this half to himself. "Yes, I suppose you do." He takes a gulp from his drink, fingers tightening around it. "Thank you. Dinner was just about ready. We should go eat." Micah nods again at this repetition. “Dinner...thanks. For havin' me. I think it may be awhile 'fore I'm out of your hair in this mess. Forecasters keep predictin' it'll let up 'fore midnight, though.” Straightening, he takes to his feet, leaning in for a little (no skin contact) half hug from his free arm around Lucien's shoulders. “An' thank you for hearin' me out, at least.” Beneath Micah's arm, Lucien's shoulders are tense. His eyes close; he pulls back from the hug in very short order, draining the rest of his glass and turning to open the door. "Certainly." The curl of his smile is small. "You've broadened your scope, at least. The storms you herald don't generally come quite so far /out/." “'Least there's more warnin' than usual on this particular crisis,” Micah admits with a shrug, having withdrawn the hug as soon as Luci started to pull away. “One of these days, I hope t'just be able t'visit folks with no terrible worries on the horizon, no requests t'make. One of these days.” Lucien's lips just twitch, at their corners. "One of these days."