ArchivedLogs:Tilting At Windmills

Tilting At Windmills
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Sage, Craig
In Absentia	20 February 2014 Chance meetings in a bookstore.
Location <NYC> Strand Books - East Village
The Strand manages to pack a whole lot of character into one bookstore, but they have a lot of space to fit it in. They advertise themselves as having eighteen miles of books, and whether or not that is true, it certainly is true that they have an enormous number of shelves packed into their rows and rows and rows of books. A book-lover's haven, this East Village landmark boasts an enormous collection of volumes of all types among their stacks, crammed into the narrow aisles. Well-known for their rare and out-of-print collection, they have many hard to find volumes tucked away in their labyrinth of shelves as well. It's of an hour that it'll be nearing closing time here at the Strand soon enough, but for now there's still a decent pack of customers trickling through its aisles. Jackson is one of those people, ridiculous-bright as usual in silvery jacket, red skinny jeans tucked into knee-high black and silver boots, a red t-shirt reading 'All my heroes have FBI files' layered over a black long-sleeved shirt. Brightly-coloured mismatched armwarmers. Glittery nailpolish. Enormous sunglasses, despite being inside, mirror-lensed with chrome-red frames. His hair is bright, too, fading from black-purple-blue to bone-white at its fringes. Currently he has a pair of books in his arms already and -- /possibly/ he's been heading for the register with these. It's really hard to tell because at the moment he has been /waylaid/ by a rather agitated middle-aged man cornering him with very /emphatic/ gesticulations and a rather intense tone to his voice. "-- think it's /better/ this way," the man is saying to Jackson, punctuated with Very! Emphatic! pokes of his finger in the younger man's direction, "I mean, you, you of all people should /know/, right, it can be /dangerous/ not knowing who's out there. Not just for us, for /you/ too. I mean, I mean, do you think -- do you think people could just get /snatched up/ and /disappeared/ if you were all -- all properly /accounted/ for and. And things like this. This /Kinney/, this /Vector/, that -- look, I'm just /saying/ that --" Jackson, for his part, has the kind of very fixed-polite smile of someone who would very much like to extricate himself from the current conversation. "Sir," he interjects, quiet-polite in his molasses-thick Southern drawl, "I think what you're forgettin' is that it's the government who was doin' the disappearin'. I don't -- know if them havin' a neat /shoppin'/-list'a all of us is really --" He's sliiiding his weight back on a heel. Micah has had a way of showing up at this bookstore lately to find folks he knows already engaged there. Such it is when the young man enters, taking a moment to stow layers of winter gear (olive puffy coat, Jayne hat, candy corn striped scarf, and gloves folded into a pile in one arm) and lash his neon orange forearm crutches into their holster, strap crosswise around his torso. Beneath he wears a pale blue henley with his Reading Rainbow-dash T-shirt on top, a pair of faded rainbow-patched jeans, and hiking boots. His auburn hair is almost worthy of bed-head from being under his wool hat. The volume of Jax's conversation partner catches his attention first, and he ambles his way over to the pair. Sliding up close to Jax, he curls and arm around the other man's shoulders and pulls him into a hug. "Hey, hon." Sometimes the like is enough of an interruption to derail ranting... Sage has that too, just in general. It doesn't bug her, however, as she is stopping in the store, spotting Jackson and Micah on her very first glance, along with everyone else in the store. She approaches them with her overall robotic lack-of-emotion, nodding her head. "Hello Jackson, Micah. How are you doing today?". Behind her red tinted glasses, she's looking at a book list on the screen, wearing a lime hoodie, beige jeans, and black boots, not having changed today. She tips her head towards the ranting man, before changing back to them. "This is quite a coincidence. I met both your son and the man named Doug today, at the same time as well. Small world." Craig looks up from where he sat reading a magazine, his coat off but a soft, wool scarf still draped around his neck. He's been trying to ignore the harangue, largely because, as a closeted mutant himself, much less one with a significant public profile. Still, Jax is a rather well known figure and, however much he may wish to keep his status undercover, he nonetheless sympathizes with the garish man's situation. And, quite honestly, he's never going to finish this article in GQ at this rate. Rather than speaking to them, however he addresses the ranter directly, "You. Loudmouth. He's not interested in your crap. He's only being nice, presumably because he is. I, however, am not and have absolutely no compunctions about telling you to scurry off back to your hovel and send your screed to whatever message board has low enough standards to have you." "The government is /investigating/ what happened -- and, really, that was unfortunate, I /sympathize/, but -- but things like that /plague/, you can't just expect everyone to let things --" The man is edging forward as Jax slides back, at least up until the point Micah slips in with a hug, his expression mostly /puzzled/ for a quick moment. "-- let things," he continues, with a little less steam, "-- like that just." "Oh /gosh/ honey-honey, hi!" Jackson chirrups with a /good/ deal more enthusiasm, curling an arm around Micah to squeeeeeze tight. His exhaled, "... thank goodness," is low enough under his breath that it probably just sounds like a sigh from any distance past hugging-range. His brows shoot up a moment later, though, head turning back to the other man with a slightly disbelieving, "-- /unfortunate/, yeah. Look, sir, apologies but my husband's here now an' --" And then he quiets for Craig's interjection; behind the enormous sunglasses, it's at first difficult to really read much change into his expression. His arm tightens around Micah, though, head tipping in almost birdlike curiosity to one side. Slowly, his mouth opens into a small O of surprise. The other man gapes, backing up, now. "-- Well, excuse you, /I/ certainly didn't come here to be --" "... neither did I," Jackson murmurs, far more quietly. The other man turns redder, though this time he actually looks apologetic about it. Not that he /gives/ an apology, just mutters something a little too flustered to make out before he turns to head off into the aisles at a rather quick pace. Jackson is kind of bright red, too, as he looks over the others. "Oh, gosh. Apologies, I didn't mean for that to interrupt your readin', sir. I just kinda -- have a tendency to attract -- mmph." He ducks his head sheepishly. "Apologies," he says again. He offers Craig a bright-warm smile, turning the same smile on Sage afterwards. "Oh! Gosh. Really? Which son -- oh, with Doug then probably B, huh. I'm doin' --" He turns his head slightly to glance after the man who just left. "... better'n I was two minutes ago. You?" Shamelessly, Micah continues to serve as a distraction, placing a kiss at the corner of Jax's lips. "Come t'save y'from awkward stranger conversations," he whispers near to the illusionist's ear before pulling back, grin tugging lopsided with amusement. His eyebrows lift slightly at the input from the young man with the magazine, grin not fading at it, notably. He gives the man a small wave and nod in acknowledgement, as well. "Y'tend t'attract a little of everythin', hon. Folks just can't help but wanna talk t'you. /At/ you in some cases." That addition comes with a little bunny-crinkle of his nose. He turns back to face the others better, once the loud man exits and Sage enters. /Her/ he isn't trying to ignore. "Evenin', Sage. I'm well enough. An', yeah, if y'ran into B an' Doug t'gether, that makes sense. They're coworkers. Good t'hear /both/ of 'em are gettin' their noses out of the tech from time t'time. Rememberin' t'do things like socialise or eat a little, maybe." Sage only briefly watches the man walk away, before turning to Craig. "Some speech. A lot of power, and it seemed to work." SUBJECT CHANGE, as she is swapping back to Jackson and Micah in a blink. "Yes, it was Sebastian. I could tell by the lack of snark. It was at Dogtown, however, and one of the cashiers tried to kick him out. And then his boss showed up, bought meals for everyone. They refused to let me pay for myself, as well." Sage says this calmly as usual, still reading through her glasses, as she swaps back to Craig. "Poor magazine choice, however, if I may add." Then again, she thinks magazines are a poor choice in general, as she swaps back to Micah and Jackson. "Sebastian ate, quite a bit. Largest order I have seen there, he could most likely top their record easily." Craig waves away Jax's apology, "No need. He's the one who started it. With his attitude, he might've just rambled it out even if no one came to hear it," he smiles, "Anyway, it seems to me that you've done enough that people should probably simply be grateful and keep their less friendly opinions to themselves," he says. He doesn't know the people they're talking about, but he goes to a lot of cocktail parties where he could care less about most of the topics, tuning it out with ease. At Sage's comment, he says, "I appreciate your appreciation. As for my reading habits, if you have a more quality tome that contains an article about the upcoming production of Don Quixote and pictures of the new Givenchy...please, direct me to it." "Well, I don't exactly make great efforts t'be subtle," Jax admits with a deeper blush, waving his arm towards -- well, himself in general, once he's disengaged from hugging Micah. His other arm stays curled tight against his chest, hugging his chosen books close to his jacket. His nose wrinkles up at the mention of Dogtown. "-- Yeah, they got great dogs but they're real hit or miss about, uh, not bein' jerks. An' yeah," the small grimace fades quickly into a brighter smile, and he bounces up onto his toes once, quickly, "I think the pups could top their records easy." He tilts his head towards the magazine when Sage mentions it, brightening again at the mention of Don Quixote. "-- Oh gosh! Is the new production s'posed to be good? I got a soft spot for, uh." He ducks his head a little sheepishly, weight dropping back down to his heels. "-- crazyface idealists full'a crazyface-lost causes." Micah chuckles at the descriptions of the teens' boss coming in and buying food for everyone. "Stark? Shoot, they're lucky he didn't just buy the restaurant right out," he jokes lightly. "Good he's eatin'. Even if the place was bein' bigoted at 'im. S'hard...y'don't wanna patronise places as act that way, but then, they /do/ still gotta eat somewhere, right?" His head shakes a little in exasperation. "Doubt they'd give any titles t'the boys, even just for eatin' bunches, if that's the way they react t'folks as look dif'rent." Reaching up, he brushes a hand along Jax's back when his head dips. "Somethin' t'be said for tiltin' at the occasional windmill." "And then, from the way I developed it, Stark himself accused me of being a bigot for something I said to Sebastian. Before you ask, I spoke the way I usually do and I meant no ill will at all." Sage glances back into her glasses, head down, though Jackson is /probably/ used to this by now. And by Sage's comments often sounding like they mean something different than they do. At Craig's response, she turns. "The internet." No snark, she's using the internet right now! And pulling up memories of Don Quixote. "It depends on the staff-members, I believe. Has Sebastian not been eating lately?" Craig smiles at Jax's enthusiasm, nodding, "Planning for the early summer, at this stages. I think it'll be spectacular. Or, at least I will if I get a good part. Otherwise, I'm sure it'll be rubbish," he says. It's odd for him to look at a group of friends like this, his only acquaintances largely being coworkers and colleagues or, worse, patrons. He's never made friends easily and family...it's better not to think about family. To Sage, he arches an eyebrow, "My magazine doesn't include a comments section where any neanderthal with a keyboard can shout obscenities in all caps. At least, not yet. I'm all for people having their say, I just don't necessarily want to be the one to listen to it." "Ohgosh? You're /in/ it -- or well," Jax's red flushes even deeper, cheeks darkening to crimson, "/hopefully/ in it, good luck that's /excitin'/! Y'dance, then?" He squeezes at Micah's elbow lightly. "You want to go to the ballet in summer? We don't do near enough theatre-y. I used to -- I guess that was back when I had uh. Free time." His nose crinkles up, back shivering slightly beneath the brush of Micah's hand. He reaches out a hand (in contrast to the neat glittery nailpolish it's otherwise calloused, scarred, missing its smallest finger) in offering of handshake to Craig. "-- s'your name, then, I'll hafta keep an eye out. So's I know whether it's gonna be rubbish or spectacular." He just gives a small shake of his head when Sage mentions Stark, colourful hair falling down over his dark glasses. "I ain't had /much/ to do with him but Mr. Stark seems t'sometimes be a -- /little/ on the abrupt side, I wouldn't take that none too serious. An' B eats, when he remembers. He jus' gets so caught-up in work sometimes. An' around other folks he can get /real/ self-conscious about his -- eating habits /oh/gosh," the topic of The Internet is derailing /this/ train of thought handily, "oh/gosh/ why would y'ever read comments sections I think they're jus' there to make you want to take one'a your eyes out." He says this last with a trace of laughter in his voice. "An' I wouldn't do that lightly but my /goodness/ some'a the things folks say it's like their mommas didn't teach them /no/ kinda manners at all." "Oh, goodness... I know Stark's got a bit of an odd sense of humour, too, t'hear tell. Might could be the two of you were just shootin' past one another in that conversation," Micah offers with a small mollifying shrug. "It can be nice t'have some things in hard copy, too. An' some folks just prefer it. /And/ there tends t'be some smaller likelihood of things y'find in reputable magazines havin' some journalistic integrity behind 'em compared to the internets. S'all got its pros an' cons." A smile blossoms brighter on his features at the squeeze to his arm from Jax. "We can /so/ do theatre-y things. Y'tell me when there's an honest-t'-goodness openin' in your schedule that works an' I'll work 'round it, for sure." "It is possible. Or he is a pretentious douchebag.". Sage says, looking up from her glasses again, before turning to Craig. "You are an actor. That confirms that hypothesis." Though, she has about 600 hypotheses at once on any given thing someone is doing. "Internet commenting is a way of discussion, but tends to bring out the most of cowards who do not like showing their identity. It's highly unneeded." Craig takes Jax's hand as he rises, shaking it firmly and politely, "Craig Hollis, yes, I'm a featured performer this year and next...hopefully beyond, if the contract gods are kind," he smiles, "Oh, please, absolutely, do come. Colorful is never a problem at the ballet...although, I warn you, more than a few members of the troupe are peacocks. They might be jealous of your spotlight," he smiles and nods to Micah's comments as well, "I suppose I'm a bit of an elitist. I still believe in editors. And no, ma'am, I'm afraid I'm not an actor by profession, although acting is a part of my repertoire of skills, just as condescension is one of yours," he says, although with a slight smile. He doesn't mind condescension as a personality trait, just doesn't want it directed at him. Jax returns the handshake, brief and firm; his hand is, to the touch, quite intensely warmer than the average person's should be, a severely feverish heat to his skin. "Craig Hollis. I'll hafta remember that. So if I see your name in the listin' I know s'worth goin'." Behind the large sunglasses, his gaze is hard to read as it turns towards Craig, but the sudden blush before he dips his head to look away is very much obvious enough. "Oh gosh. I'll try t'tone down the peacockin' a bit, then. I do have a tendency to, uh, glitter." He sounds apologetic and amused all at once. His weight rocks with a restless sort of energy, bounce-bounce-bounce from heel to toe and back again. "Oh /goodness/ I think maybe-possibly stayin' polite could be on everyone's repertoire for tonight?" Now he just sounds hopeful. "I totally checked off my snarky one-upping spot on my random encounters bingo card for the day /before/ I hit overzealous political debate. I was pretty much hopin' t'just fill the make-new-friends spot an' collect my prize." "He does also have a bit of a reputation, I suppose," Micah concedes with a noncommittal shrug, leaving off conversation on Stark with that. "Nice t'meet you, Craig." He extends a hand after the others shake. "I'm Micah. Fortunately not /quite/ so many folks know m'name from the news as they do this one's." His shoulder nudges up against Jax's playfully. "Y'don't need no kinda tonin' down. Any performer as feels threatened just by the glow of his audience's doin' it wrong." He looks a little uncomfortable with what seems to be a ramping up less-than-completely-pleasant strain of conversation between Craig and Sage, falling quiet at Jax's side. Whatever Craig could start, Sage isn't continuing, instead looking at her list before looking at Jackson and Micah. "I take it you fill that spot a lot. How many times do you get BINGO?" A /tiny/ grin, which for people who know Sage at all means GOOD. "Well then, I have my book list. It is nice seeing the both of you. I will see you tomorrow, Jackson." She nods her head, also a nod towards Craig, as she begins scanning the aisles before departing. Craig isn't particularly interested in getting into a fight with Sage, either, simply likes to make clear that he doesn't take such remarks with a turned cheek. He shakes Micah's hand and nods to Jax's response, "So I've noticed. Nothing to be ashamed of, just means you have to watch for the less burnished who wish to steal your shine," he smiles. "And to meet you as well, Micah and..." he trails off as Sage start to walk away, "Even you..." he says to her back with a wry smile. "I hope you'll forgive my sharp tongue. Repartee is just part of being a performer, I think. So much clawing for the top, we often don't mind tearing into one another. Simple...habit," he says. He's not repentant in the least, of course, but he at least knows when to sheathe his sword. "Oh I hit the political-zealout spot a lot. Also the angry-bigot spot those two are kinda my biggest repeat hits. But there's enough friendly faces mixed into the lot that I get bingo often enough still." Jackson returns Sage's tiny smile with a warm bright one of his own. "G'night, hon. I'll see you." His weight rocks in bouncy-energetic shift again. "Most audiences don't take glowin' enthusiasm t'quite the same level I do, though. An' ohgosh this is New York. I feel like people are walkin' around with sharp tongues just about as much as they're walkin' around /armed/, ever since zombies happened. /I/ sure don't mind, I'm just. Y'know." He shrugs a shoulder with a sheepish dip of his head. "... Southern. Think my blade's kinda blunted when it comes t'verbal fencin'." Micah has taken on the faintest dusting of a blush, though he mostly looks relieved when the tension seems to abate. "Have a pleasant evenin', Sage," he offers the departing woman along with a small wave. "He's been a mite bit recognisable for some time, an' only more so in the past few months. So folks take it as permission t'jump on 'im with all kindsa political or just plain hateful...let's be generous an' call it 'discourse'." His hand lifts to touch fingertips to his lips at the mention of Southerners being less sharp at verbal swordplay, covering a giggle. "Don't know as they're blunted generally so much as...subtler. Or at least less /direct/. Y'got enough Southern folk as seem to've taken master courses in back-handed compliments an' exactly how t'make a 'bless her heart' statement go terribly wrong. Y'do have rather pleasant heaps of polite, though, hon." Craig smiles, "I admit, I've never been to the South, although I've heard good things about the food, in particular," he smiles. "I'm a Midwest boy, myself, but there aren't a great many fantastic ballet opportunities in Milwaukee, although my old teacher, Madame Helen, does try," he says. "Yes, the zombies..." he says. When rising from the dead is pretty much your signature, it's a good idea to lay low during zombie plagues and that's exactly what Craig did, "I do hope the guns, at least, go away in time. Just creates a bad atmosphere. The tongues I can fend off." "Y'do still hear about an attack every once in a while." Jax's nose crinkles up with this thought, a faint shudder rippling up his spine. "But /I/ ain't packin', no more. Feels right nice to just get back to life-as-usual. Or -- kind of usual I guess. /Better/ than usual there weren't never chocolate rain or nothin' before. An' /I/ ain't never been to the Midwest," he says with a small laugh that comes with a slight dip of his head, a faint hesitation and crease of his brow before he continues, "-- well not exactly nohow so I guess we're even. The food back home's /delicious/, though. You should come over some time, I'll show you. But I warn you I got a tendency to cook like I'm feedin' an army so I'm like to send you home with a barrel'a leftovers if you ever take me up on the invite." “Can't say as I've been about the Midwest, either, m'self,” Micah replies. “Ohgosh, yeah. Get t'wonderin' if they'll /ever/ be rid of the zombie plague completely. Don't guess so unless they develop some kinda inoculation eventually. Bless the person as comes up with /that/, if they do.” He smiles at Jax's extended invitation. “Leave it t'you t'be threatenin' t'overstuff folks as you've only just met with leftovers.” Craig isn't entirely sure how his body would react to a zombie plague. It's one of the few things that makes him think about ever being open, the chance to maybe actually understand his power. On the other hand, mutants inspired enough jealousy from humans as it was. How much more for one who's defeated death itself? "I'd be honored, of course. And lots of food is fine. At worst, I might press upon you for some doggy bags. I admit, I'm not much of a cook myself. Usually just order in a bit of Chinese, although I can't get too much delivery. Damn carbs," he chuckles. About the zombies, he adds, "Well, you never know. Just have to hope. But we have to at least try to get back to normal, I think." "Terrible threat, I am," Jackson agrees with Micah in cheerful amusement. "Worst terrorist New York's got. Threatenin' the populace with solid Southern cookin' an' fresh-baked cookies." He pats at his pockets, scrounging around until he comes up with a business card -- black with silver text on one side. Inkline Studios, it reads, and beneath that, Jackson Holland. Phone number, email address, an address somewhere in the Lower East Side. Where a title should be beneath his name it says instead, 'Ink & Glitter'. The reverse side of the business card is a colourfully stylized tattoo-like image of a chimaera. "I don't honestly know what's normal anymore," Jax admits lightly, "But gettin' back to happy's a good place, I think. Even if it's with a splash'a crazy tossed in." “Uh-oh, not sure how well you'd do at our place tryin' t'avoid carbs. Jax is one heck of a baker, an' not shy about sugar.” Micah's tone is bright, not really the least bit concerned about the danger of carbohydrates. “Oh, are we doin' cards? I got some of those.” He fishes around in a back pocket to come up with a dark blue card covered in white writing reporting the company name 'Gorilla AT' over his own, 'Micah Zedner, MSOP, CPO, ATP'. Beneath is the expected series of e-mails, phone numbers, and a P.O. Box address. He hands the card over to Craig. “On that note, I should really go grab that book I had an eye on last time I was in here an'...got distracted away from buyin'. Before they close up. Gotta keep up with good books for Spence 'fore he goes thinkin' he's too old for bedtime stories.” A warm smile and small wave are sent Craig's direction. “Nice t'meet you. Have a good night, an' best of luck with the castin' process. Ha...not the kind of castin' I'm usually talkin' t'folks about,” he mutters to himself in amusement as he moves off into the stacks. Craig takes the cards and smiles, "I'm afraid I don't have any cards, but I'm usually at the Metropolitan ballet and, even if I'm not there, they know how to find me," he says, also providing his phone number, “As for the carbs...well, I suppose that's what the gym is for..." If he ever gets too fat, he can always just kill himself. Thankfully he was at optimum weight and condition at his first death. Instant diet. "It was nice meeting you, too! Enjoy your day!"