ArchivedLogs:What You Don't Know

What You Don't Know
Dramatis Personae Doug, Micah	29 July 2013 Doug gets to hear about all the fun and excitement. >_>
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. A bank of mailboxes near the sitting area collects mail for the building, a recycling bin right at hand for the unwanted spam. Beside the mailboxes, a large corkboard serves as informal meeting space for the announcements, perpetually flyered with notes and notices from the various apartment residents. As far as summer days go, today hasn't been that bad, around New York. Still humid, it failed to get up to anything torturous, and now with the day slipping into evening, the air is cooling to something actually tolerable. So there are people with actual pep in their step moving around the Village. One of them is Doug. Dressed in knee-length cutoffs and a yellow-and-blue athletic jersey with Batman Converse sneakers, the blonde has his laptop, a backpack, /and/ a very full bag of groceries weighing him down as he hits the door of the building. It also is making it difficult for the teenager to get to his keycard and get /inside/. "Oh, come on," he grumbles, bracing the bag against the glass and pressing it there with his chest while he gropes around for his wallet. Micah has wedged himself into a corner of the sitting area couch and is sorting an exceedingly large pile of mail--several days' worth that he hadn't thought to request be brought in while he and Jax were pretty much living at Xavier's medlab. People had far more things on their minds to worry about than that! He is wearing a pair of faded jeans and red-and-orange plaid button-down that drapes open over a plain white undershirt. Much of the mail finds its way into the recycling bin. A handful of items (mostly bills, yay!) are folded and tucked into the well-loved canvas backpack sitting in front of him on the floor. Micah's paper management is interrupted by the sound of a Doug fluttering moth-like at the door. He looks up for a moment, processing, before discarding the current mail item and moving over to haul the door open for his neighbour. On closer inspection, a variety of minor injuries are visible: a mostly-healed split in his lower lip, palms that are reddened and bearing signs of much-improved blisters, arms decked out in a series of small scrapes and bruises fading in sickly greens and yellows. “Evenin', Doug! Figured you could use an extra hand. Looks like you're pretty far along on the encumbrance table.” Doug's face is pure relief when Micah appears to open the door, and he exhales gratefully as he eases inside. "Oh, hey, thanks Micah," he says, moving to set down the grocery bag and rubbing at his arms. "I figured one bag wouldn't be as much trouble to get inside, with the other stuff." He grins, and turns to face the redhead with a sheepish expression. "That's what I get for thinking, righ -- what the hell happened to you?" Sheepishness shifts immediately to concern as he takes in the signs of injury. "Are those motherfuckers from the park still making trouble?" He asks, eyebrows lifting. "I've got a buddy who's a cop -- I'll give him a call if you want." Micah smiles brightly at the thanks. “No problem, hon. S'what neighbours are for. You need help gettin' this upstairs?” He chuckles at Doug's sheepish admissions. “It's less the number of bags'n more the number of /hands/ needed t'carry 'em that's the trouble.” He looks down at his arms as if to assess what Doug is talking about. “Oh. That. I guess no one told you about...?” His lips press into a thin line. “No cops. Definitely no cops. Wasn't nobody at the park or nothin' like that.” He draws a breath to sigh it out heavily. “Official cover story s'that I was in a car accident. I mean...that's what I've been sayin' at work. S'just. Y'know how some folks with visible mutations took t'livin' in the sewers 'cause they ain't got nowhere else t'go? Especially since things got insane around here?” Doug frowns as Micah begins his story, shaking his head. "No one tells me anything," he says with a small lift of his shoulders. "But then, I hardly see anyone, so it's not like they have the chance." He frowns MORE when Micah mentions an official cover story, and tucks his thumbs into his back pockets. His mouth opens once, as if to ask a question, but he closes it again at the question. "I -- didn't know that," he admits. "I mean, I'd heard stories like that, but I wrote it off as an urban legend. Like sewer gators, or rat kings." His brow furrows, and he moves towards the mailboxes, watching Micah as he goes. "So, you were attacked by mutant CHUDs?" he asks, completely serious about this fact. "What were you doing down there?" “It's been...kind of hectic, yeah,” Micah confirms with a shrug at Doug's mention of not seeing anyone. “They're just /people/, hon. Nothin' that excitin'. People as can't get around up here without folks tryin' t'hurt 'em.” His brows knit, a touch of colour coming to his cheeks. “Y'know Jax'n I've been workin' on those gardens around the city for folks without homes? Well...those are the folks. An'...once things got crazy, we started /deliverin'/ stuff, 'cause they couldn't get out t'get things themselves.” His teeth find his lower lip, worrying at a spot to the side of the lingering scab. “Weren't any /mutants/ as attacked us. It was folks /huntin'/ mutants. Shot at /kids/. Kidnapped folks. Had soldiers'n drones'n...grenades. Almost killed me'n Jax. Jax is still laid up at the twins' school recoverin', he drained himself so badly savin' us.” A hand fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “Didn't know if any real hospital would have him, even.” Doug stops in his trek to the mailboxes when Micah continues, and turns to stare at the older man with a bit of a dumbfounded expression. He blinks a couple of times, and his brow knits deeply. "Wait. So you were down there to deliver groceries and stuff? And there were mutant hunters down there?" His frown deepens at the news of Jax, and he glances at the door. "What the fuck is going on in this city?" he asks, and it might be rhetorical, save for the look he gives Micah. "Do you need anything?" he asks suddenly, turning to face Micah and rocking on his heels. "I mean, for me to do anything?" he amends, fidgeting with the hem of his own shirt. "To help?" Micah wanders away from the door, in the general direction of his abandoned bag and pile of envelopes. “That's pretty much the picture, yeah,” he confirms Doug's summary. “I...not really, I don't think. It's the first day I've been back here since it happened. There's been a small crowd o' people passin' Spence around for a few days an' keepin' an eye on Obie an' Sprite an' the fish. Jax is on the mend by now. I was just gatherin' stuff t'bring up t'him at the school. When I remembered, ohgosh, days' worth of mail.” He gestures to the pile of envelopes. “Just...be careful'n keep an eye out for folks around here? I think. Things are gettin' even... Those guys down there. They knew Jax. An' they wanted t'kill /him/. I don't know how much they know, or who. But they know things an' they aren't shy about their approach t'folks, it seems.” Doug nods, frowning mildly as he turns back to the mailboxes. "Well, if you do need anything -- even up there -- just give me a call." He looks over his shoulder. "You know, my folks' house is literally right across the road from the school, right?" He opens his mailbox and pulls out a mass of envelopes stacked on a small brown package. "And my mom would be happy to help out my friends." He nods at the request, tucking the envelopes in a back pocket and turning the package over thoughtfully in his hands. "Wait...these guys knew Jax?" he says, looking up. "Like, from the news, or something else?" There's a deeper furrow of his brows. "Micah, what kind of guys were /down/ there?" He sounds REALLY concerned, now, and his fingers are beginning to whiten where he grips the package. Micah gives Doug a small smile at the offer of assistance. "Thanks, hon, I'll keep you in mind." He bites at his lip again, wincing slightly when the pressure becomes uncomfortable. "Really knew him. As in, had standin' orders /specific/ t'kill him. So...just. Be careful, okay?" The follow-up question earns a moment of hesitation. "I'm not entirely sure. Just watchin' 'em, I got the feelin' of paramilitary forces? But. Intel so far has connected them with /actual/ military. An' prob'ly the labs. They /took/ folks again." The worry has crept back into Micah's voice. "I really...don't think I can say anythin' else about it." Doug exhales, a frustrated sort of noise, and shakes his head. "/Fuck/," he groans, and moves back to his grocery bag. "Actual military, huh?" He wrinkles his nose. "I can't even imagine Jax scoring high enough on anyone's watch list, even if he /is/ a mutant," he says, putting the package on top of his bag and staring at it thoughtfully. "But if they were working for the labs..." his tone grows distracted as his brain begins to roll. "You think they'll come here?" he asks suddenly, looking up. "To the Lofts? Looking for him?" Micah nods in affirmation, the sort of nod that says, 'Yes, but I really don't want to have to /say/ yes.' “I really... I can't say that I do or ever will grasp their intentions? So far as I know, they haven't tried that /yet/. But I don't really know how long they've been out for him. Or if they're willin' to /get/ him, or just be opportunistic when they see him? I...I don't really know, I guess, is what I'm sayin'.” His shoulders slump slightly at the admission. Doug's expression is a bit bleak as Micah answers, and his lips press together into a line. "That's a lot of variables," he says, chewing on his top lip. "And if they're taking /visible/ mutants..." he looks up at the ceiling, perhaps trying to see the residents of the third and fourth (and sixth) floor. He doesn't look any better when he lowers his chin to furrow his brow at Micah. "I'll be careful," he promises, then moves forward suddenly, arms coming out in attempt to grab the older man. And, if he's successful, pull him in for HUGS. “I really... I mean, I don't know how blatant they're willin' t'be? This was /somewhat/ covert, bein' where they were. With people mostly nobody cares about. I think Jax /surprised/ them by bein' there,” Micah explains further, though perhaps not answering the question any better. “I'm hopin' it's not like those cops, just snatchin' kids off the /street/.” His eyes widen, muscles tensing as Doug comes at him with abrupt, unexpected movements. But then hugs become apparent and he relaxes, wrapping his arms loosely around the teen. “That's really the best I can ask,” he comments softly on Doug's promise to take care. "Something like that sounds pretty organized," Doug admits, in a tone that says he's not getting any happier about things. "So maybe they were just taking advantage of an opportunity." Which isn't really comforting, and Doug attempts to take the sting out of it with a quick squeeze of his arms. "Still. I think I'll poke around, and make sure we've got good surveillance around the building." Releasing the hug, the teenager steps back. "You need to take care of yourself, too," he says with a small lift of his eyebrows. "I mean, I guess they know what /you/ look like, now." He grimaces. "So, be careful," he urges, frowning a bit. "Please. All of you." Micah nods again. “I got that feelin', unfortunately. These folks are funded an' /connected/. If we mess up with them, it's gonna be a /big/ mess.” He looks thoughtful at Doug's plans. “Y'know surveillance mightn't be a horrible thing.” A hint of a smirk plays across Micah's lips at the reminder to take care, and the suggestion that he might be known. “I'm doin' my best. I haven't provoked any grenades into bein' lobbed at me in...it'll be a whole /week/ soon!” He even chuckles a bit at the joke. “It's not like anybody researchin' Jax would have a hard time findin' me. I do /live/ with him. An' I went with him to that Osborn creepygala. I'm not exactly a secret.” "All the more reason to be careful," Doug says, wrinkling his nose as he bends to grab his bag. "I guess this place has been in the news enough and watched enough that none of us are probably all that secret, but if they were after him..." Doug shakes his head, killing that thought before it can crystallize. "I'll get some stuff," he says, shifting the bag to rest it against his hip. "Set up some cameras and start keeping an eye on things." He shrugs. "It probably won't help much, but even a few minutes' warning is better than none." He frowns down into his sack, then, and begins to move towards the elevator. "I need to get these upstairs and into the fridge," he says apologetically. "You got time for a cold drink before you head back upstate?" Micah lets Doug's unfinished statement remain so, not thinking on it further himself. “Warnin' is good. Bein' able t'recognise patterns of strangers lurkin' or some such is also good. Just...bein' /aware/. Is a good plan.” He eyes the grocery bag. “Oh right, groceries. Yes, you should do that. I should...prob'ly be goin'. I was just waitin' out the worst of the traffic, with the mail. It should be better now. It's still a hike, so. I should go.” His feet carry him the remaining steps to the chair, where he retrieves the envelope pile and stuffs it wholesale into the main compartment of the backpack. “Thank you for the offer, though. Sorry t'dump loads of scary at you an' run. Try to...have a good night, okay?” Doug's smile is wan, but sincere. "You try and have a good night, too," he says as he pushes for the elevator. "Sounds like you and yours could use one."