ArchivedLogs:Written Words

Written Words
Dramatis Personae Violet, Micah	13 July 2014 Chance meet-up at the library.
Location <NYC> NY Public Library - Midtown East
Guarded by two lions nicknamed Patience and Fortitude, the main branch of New York's public library system provides a space for New York residents to do more than just check out books. The reference library holds thousands of works, and the reading room is a majestic work of architecture in its own right. The computer lab and free internet access is available to all who need it. 11AM on a Sunday is not exactly a high traffic hour for New York's Public Library. There'll be a little rush this afternoon as the post-church, post-lunch crowd comes through, and there are the usual assortment of immigrants, retirees and homeless to round out the building's current numbers. But busy it is not, and that's just how Violet likes it. Fewer patrons means less chance of hissing or glaring in her direction. She has taken a table in the reading room--breathtaking, this chamber, full of the subliminal hum of cool marble and the smell of history layered between old paper--near one of the emergency exits. Not for her a center of the room place, here at least she has opportunity to dash if need be. And dashing is a possibility, as she is on full display as mutant. Denim short shorts and a simple white v-neck t-shirt do nothing to cover the fur, or the tail stuck out the back of her chair, or the ears that turn and flick at every little sound. But she is a quiet presence, herself. And hopefully that works in her favor? So far the only attention Violet has received was that of a pair of wandering college age kids who stopped, giggled and snapped a picture with their camera phone--possibly to show their friends later that cat girls /do/ exist. She ignored them. Her attention is on a moisture-warped spiral notebook, and the pen in her hand. There is an envelope also on the table above the notebook but it's turned face down, hiding whether or not it is pre-addressed. Maybe /that/ is why the kids snapped a picture, come to think of it. Who writes letters by /hand/ these days? It's that sweet spot on a weekend morning where the breakfast dishes are whir-sloshing away in /both/ of the common house dishwashers; tables, counters, and floors all tidied up and awaiting the next frenzy of food preparation for lunch. As such, Micah has sneaked out with a /backpack/ full of books on his back, olive newsboy cap perched atop his tousled auburn hair, sneakers on his feet, legs hidden away under faded bluejeans, and a T-shirt hanging from his shoulders bearing an Impressionist-inspired version of Serenity flying through a Starry Night sky. He stops off at the book drop, satisfying zipper ziiiips opening his bag to disgorge its papery contents through the slot. The now-flopsy bag finds itself back over his shoulder, not much of a load as he heads into the stacks to refill it with new selections for their lingering collection of refugees. His steps slow as he passes Violet's table, one hand lifted in a small wave but no greater effort put into stealing the catgirl's attention from her work. It's not Micah's tread--distinctive though it is--that snares Violet's attention, but his scent. Her first whiff is caught upon the young man's approach past her table. It prompts her to lift her head, nostrils all aquiver and ears turned sharply forward--but she looks /past/ him at first, a sharp glancing about before letting gaze settle upon familiar face. The smile that follows that moment's scrutiny of the area seems easy enough. "Hey...you're out and about," she remarks (quietly!) as if finding this a surprising fact. Her pen-bearing hand curls, edge resting against the sheet and ballpoint resting light against the page, writing interrupted. "How's your fella? They cut him loose?" That somewhat uncertain expression wipes away at Violet's greeting, smile drawing broad and bright across Micah's lips. He steps closer to the table so as to facilitate quiet conversation. "Hi, sugar. Yeah, I'm pickin' up more readin' material for our guests. S'a lot of us lost all our stuff 'fore we moved there, so we ain't got a great collection sittin' 'round. I've been slowly restockin' Spence's bookshelf, but /mine/ are all digital except for the few graphic novels I've picked up again... S'just hard t'share with a /group/ when y'only got the one e-reader." There is a faint twitch of muscle in his jaw, not quite to the point of tensing or clenching, at the mention of Jax's predicament. "Yes, they just kept 'im a few hours. Askin' questions. Didn't actually arrest 'im this time, which is an improvement. Seems like they come knockin' on our door whenever there's some big to-do they've connected t'people with special abilities, though." Some guests, apparently, /are/ unwelcome at their home. "I don't wanna interrupt if you're busy writin', though..." An open hand gestures at her paper and pen. The mention of only one e-reader tugs Violet's smile off center but she's quick enough to match gesture with gesture, waving him towards the opposite chair if he cares to take it. "You're not interruptin', was almost done." And she proves it by bending her head over the page again. A last sentence is added, a couple of hearts drawn near the bottom and her name signed. Tah dah! Finished! Then it's to trying to rip the pages free of the notebook's spiral binding with a minimum of noise. She goes slooooowly to try to achieve that, one hand pinning the edge and the other tearing downwards at a glacial pace. "S'good they let 'im go. Was worried maybe they were lookin' t'pin him with th'other stuff ya'll've been up to lately, yeah?" Here her voice dips past the level of whisper, more a murmur of breath than actual tone. If possible, Micah's smile tugs a little /wider/ at the invitation to sit, which he takes Violet up on without hesitation. It's an almost boneless flop that he makes into the chair, the bag going through similar motions as he rests it in the one beside him. A little nod indicates the pages the girl is tearing free. "Gettin' that letter t'your brother done? Or I s'pose y'could well be writin' anythin' else. Just clicked that bit of memory for me." The next nod is heartier, in agreement with Jax being released being the best possible outcome. "No, no. Weren't nothin' t'do with that. Or anythin' we've been remotely involved with, truth t'tell. There was a number of bombin's at Registration offices back in March. Unfortunately killed folks, too. They /said/ they wanted t'question Jax 'bout 'em on account of he was leadin' protests against Registration. He got /shot/ at one just a few weeks 'fore all the explosions... But protests an' /bombin's/ are two very dif'rent things." "Yeah...he can't write back but I figure maybe it puts a smile on his face, gettin' anythin'. Try t'send one a week, y'know? Somethin' t'hang onto 'til he's out." Violet finally succeeds in getting the pages free and slides the notebook aside. She flips a glance up at Micah, expression shading towards the curious. "Not always. Not so much. Th'cops say anythin' about all those folks bein' at your place? Three of 'em, just walkin' through like that, gives me th'heebie jeebies. Figured they'd need a warrant t'just walk in. 'Bout wet m'own pants when I saw 'em come in and I wasn't no lab rat," she remarks after a moment spent just studying him. As she talks, her hands stay busy, this time plucking free the loose tatters of paper from the edge of the papers. A small pile of confetti is accumulated. "I'm sure he appreciates it," Micah says of the writing. "They don't let 'im write t'you? Usually you're allowed correspondence." He shakes his head. "Nah, they didn't mention the refugees none. They /aren't/ s'posed t'just be able t'walk in, no. I'm figurin' one of our guests as don't know any better opened the door an' just let 'em in. An' the one that was in charge kinda...used t'date Shane some. Guess maybe that made 'im not think so much of marchin' through. /Still/ seems ridiculous they sent three men in body armour for a /summons/. Set my teeth on edge, I'll tell y'that." "S'more me not havin' an address. PO boxes cost and who knows how long I'll be 'round t'keep it even if I had th'cash. S'okay though." Violet doesn't say /why/ it's okay. She is too busy diligently triple-folding the paper, pressing in a sharp crease with the pads of her fingers. What Micah has to say gives her pause though. When she glances up again, her brows--poorly defined though they are, thanks to fuzz--have gone tiptilty with confusion or concern. "Shane, kid who owns Evolve Shane? They were datin'?" But before he can reply, she shakes her head--nope, nope, not even gonna pursue that. Better to move on. "That did kinda seem like overkill. Maybe I do got problems but they ain't nothin' t'what you folks got." "Just let me know if y'ever /do/ want an address t'give. I have a P.O. Box for work, since I ain't got an office. Sure I could pass a letter on t'you if one came in through there, easy enough. S'gotta be hard for 'im not bein' able t'talk back t'you." Micah doesn't press the issue any further; just a simple offer. The tightening of muscles around his eyes at the question of Shane might betray his personal thoughts on the matter. "Yeah, our Shane. Were for a while there." He chuckles a mirthless sort of chuckle at that last comment. "Price of bein' in the public eye. An' Jax sure do make 'imself public often enough." Violet's hands stop in their neat smoothing of the letter but she doesn't glance up. An ear turns briefly towards someone else passing by. Then she shakes her head and reaches for the envelope. "Thank you, Micah, but better not." That also goes without an explanation as to why. Instead she shows the same diligence in fitting paper inside envelope, everything neat and tidy and pressed down crisp before she runs her tongue along the glue strip to seal it closed. Blech, glue. A few lipsmacks later though and it's closed, ready for addressing. She reaches for the pen again. "Maybe ya'll are due for a turn of quiet, here. Now that they let him go. Sounds like y'could use a peaceful stretch, yeah? I hear they happen sometimes." Micah simply nods at her reply; everyone's got their reasons and their business and certainly not all of it's any of /his/. “No problem, sugar. Just say the word if y'change your mind.” A hint of a grin at Violet's reaction to the glue sneaks out, then is snuffed out as quickly as it came. “No, I don't think that's likely anytime soon. Just...in general an'...there's more folks as need our help, still. Been waitin' for it long enough an' then some.” "I 'ppreciate it but don't think I'll be changin' m'mind. Ya'll got enough on your plate as is." There! Letter completed, envelope addressed, Violet tucks it away inside of the notebook and slides the pen into the spiral to keep it safe. Or, more accurately, /wedges/ it in because those things never fit quite right. This one's a little too big. "It's a little like unicorns, yeah? Findin' peace these days. Guess I see reason for bein' th'squeaky wheel but can't do much for...what's it called. Domestic tranquility, yeah," she says, smile reappearing, faint but true. "Still, ya'll do a decent job of it. Keepin' up th'surface. I hope y'catch a break." There is another nod here--heard and understood--with no questions asked. Micah's eyes follow the pen and its process of being jammed into the spiral. "Yeah, mostly just gotta take it in snatches an' snippets, 'cause it don't hang 'round long." A little laugh answers Violet's word choice. "No, I don't guess tranquil is how folks would describe much of anythin' round us. An'...I hope so, too. For us an' for all the folks we're aimin' t'help. Could use a lot less excitement." "I'm sure they're grateful for th'lack of quiet in your lives," Violet observes, smile going briefly lopsided. Then her eyes flick up past him again, marking the ornate clock hung at one end of the room. "I should probably let y'get back t'diggin' up readin' material for your houseguests. 'N I told Ion I'd meet up with him t'watch some of that soccer stuff, guess it's a big game today," she says with the air of one who does not often follow sports. "Found him this blue'n'white shirt, he about fell out've his chair when he saw it. But it was good seein' ya, Micah." Micah answers the smile with his own hint of lopsided grin. “Maybe. An' yeah, I should get the books gathered an' get back home. Sure there's plenty as needs doin'. It'll be middle of lunch rush when I get back in, most like.” The smile stretches wider at the mention of Ion. “Ah, y'all've met? Send 'im m'best. I need t'check up on 'im soon. He took 'is knocks right along with everybody else lately. Glad y'found somethin' t'brighten 'is day.” The chair complains just a little as he slides it back to let himself up. “Have a good one, sugar.” "Yeah, ran into him at th'church. I'll let him know y'said hi. Maybe nudge him ya'll's way if his team loses, since I hear ya'll have all th'hugs." Violet sounds more amused at the prospect of a loss but then, she does not have national pride wrapped up in these matches. She too stands, collecting her notebook and tucking it babylike in one arm. Stepping aside--and pulling her tail back through the chair--she steps 'round the table to knuckle-tap the young man on the shoulder. Rather than, say, offer up a parting wave. Then she's off, sashaying down the aisle without much care for the heads that turn to follow her progress out. "If there's one thing we ain't never short on, s'hugs," Micah assures. He doesn't offer her one just /now/ since she's busy clutching her notebook, but he does pet a hand down her forearm at the shoulder tapping. It's kind of somewhere between hugs and handshakes on the scale of farewells. Then he hefts his backpack (no amazing feat when the thing is /empty/) and strides off into the stacks to select some reading material.