ArchivedLogs:You'll See

You'll See
Dramatis Personae Micah, Grace, Richard, Anna, Ansel	6 April 2014 WARNING: Horrible. Well...horrible mostly off-screen, but still. (Part of the Perfectus TP.)
Location <NYC> Perfectus Church – Southwest Bronx
Located in the Southwest Bronx, this building is unassuming, dingy brickface that could house -- /does/ house -- offices along with the home of the Perfectus Church. It's just as unassuming inside -- a small front room where tables hold weekly bulletins, corkboards with announcements. A small pair of side rooms have been set up as meeting room with long tables and brightly coloured daycare for children during worship times. The main hall of the church isn't large. Rows of cushioned folding chairs set up facing the pulpit at the front. No altar, no religious iconography. Just a podium to speak at, and a small door leading off somewhere in back behind it. Sunday morning and all around the city there are trickles and drizzles and flocks of people in various states of well-dressed heading to and from church. This particular congregation is not /overly/ fancy, though the people trailing in to the church building are dressed up more than jeans and t-shirts. Dress shirts, khakis, skirts, a /few/ suit-and-tie ensembles here and there but not many. A /good/ number of hats. It's sunny and pleasant enough in the high fifties, and maybe it's the weather or maybe it's being among familiar faces in a familiar place but the mood is amiable. /Welcoming/. People greet each other with smiles and hugs and inquiries about the children as they filter in, lingering in the front room to chat or heading straight in to take seats in the meeting hall. Micah has put on his one 'nice outfit' that he scrounged up from the thrift shop: charcoal grey slacks, serviceable dress shoes, and an emerald green button-down shirt with faint forest green embroidery in vine-like patterns at the collar and breast pocket and between the buttons. His hair is combed into place and held there neatly today with the help of some small dose of product. Some effort has been taken to blend in, it would appear. He moves into the building with no more hesitation than a person attempting to join a new congregation, smiling warmly and greeting anyone whose eye he catches with simple and friendly 'hellos' and 'how are yous'. It takes approximately no time at all for Micah to be approached in earnest. A woman, perhaps in her early thirties, ash-brown hair and a neat blue skirt paired with grey sweater over a button-down blouse, a gauzy scarf wrapped around her neck. She doesn't seem to notice Micah immediately, first engaged in conversation with another young man; only after he murmurs something to her does she carefully pick her way towards Micah with a small smile, warm and pleasant. "Hello. I don't think we've seen you here before." She's offering a hand out; her eyes are covered with sunglasses, despite being indoors. "Grace. What brings you here with us today?" "Grace, hello," Micah responds to the woman warmly, taking her hand in both of his own for a firm greeting shake and gentle hold before releasing. "I'm Micah. An' y'prob'ly haven't seen me 'cause I'm new." He chuckles softly at the question. "Likely the same thing as brings anyone t'such an establishment? I'm seekin' somethin' I thought I could maybe find here." His head tilts very slightly, regarding the woman's sunglasses and her manner of moving. "An' I get the feelin' I'm in the right place." "We were all new, once." Grace's hand presses gently back into Micah's, her smile faintly warming. "Welcome. We're glad to have you, how did you hear about --" The young man who'd been with her is coming over, now; his smile is easy to match hers, though his eyes skim a little bit more intently over Micah. "The right place," he echoes, lightly. "We'd certainly like to hope so. I suppose that depends what it is you're looking for?" "That's true enough, ain't it? An' thank you. I'd done a little readin' on--" Micah's explanation cuts off as surely as the woman's question as the new fellow interrupts. "Like minds," he replies simply, at first. "With an eye t'/progress/ an' a will t'get there." He offers the young man his hand, as well. "Pleasure t'meet you. I'm Micah." "Progress." This makes Grace's tone brighten. She slips her hand into the crook of her brother's arm, nodding to Micah. "I have to admit, it was kind of a blessing, running into people who understood. Who wanted to /help/." "Richard." The man shakes Micah's hand, firm and strong in one quick pump. "Come on along. The meeting will be starting soon. This is your first time, right?" Absently familiar already, his hand moves to rest between Micah's shoulderblades, steering him into the room as he guides Grace along inside. "And so many people these days just don't get it. Hate progress, or actively fear it." Micah is earning more than a few looks, admittedly, as they enter the room. A couple of whispers, from inside the rows of seated people. Nobody /stops/ them, though, as Richard leads them to a trio of empty seats halfway down the room. "Exactly that. Findin' understandin', findin' help. Maybe even /offerin'/ some. S'what gets us all through, right?" Micah's smile broadens as he seems to have stumbed upon the magic word for this group. "Yessir, I'm new. I'll admit I was a little hesitant t'come, m'self, but... We shouldn't ever let fear hold us back, should we? 'Specially when it's just anxiety over unknowns. Go in an' make 'em /knowns/, then there ain't anythin' left t'be afraid of." He allows himself to be steered onward by Richard without hesitation, though he may play up the subtle asymmetry in his gait /just/ a hair. Enough to make it a thing that could be noticed by a very observant eye. He happens not to notice when his left pants cuff happens to ride a little higher upon sitting than it otherwise might, a fraction of gleaming metal from the shaft of his prosthesis barely visible where the cuff gaps above his sock. Some of the stares in the room linger on Micah's face. A /few/ do take in the glint of metal peeking out from beneath his pants cuff. Richard is among those, eyes dropping to the bottom of Micah's leg as he navigates Grace into a seat; there's a faint twitch of a smile, here, when he takes his own seat. "Fear. What's there to be afraid of? Limitations, Micah, those are a thing of the past. Here, we --" "Offer hope. And help," Grace acknowledges warmly, smoothing her skirt into place. "And I'd like to think we all bring a little bit more understanding to the table." There's another woman coming over, now, lean and wiry and redheaded with a narrow hawkish face. She doesn't wear the same welcoming expression as the others; she drops into a seat beside Micah with narrowed eyes, staring /past/ him at Richard. "What are you doing?" "He's new," Richard answers her pleasantly. "He's come for --" "I know what he's come for. Why don't /you/," the woman answers Richard, just a little testily. Micah's eyes close for just a moment at Richard's words, opening again to regard the pair brightly with an eager nod of agreement. He startles slightly at the new woman's tone. “Apologies, ma'am, I didn't mean t'cause no trouble. S'there somethin' I can help you with?” He doesn't move from his seat. "Shh, Anna, please," Grace answers the other woman with a small shake of her head. "This is Micah, he's --" "Micah /Zedner/," Anna answers crisply. "Micah /Holland/-Zedner. What," she's addressing Micah directly, now, eyes fixing in on him, "exactly are you playing at." "Anna, hello," Micah says softly, inclining his chin in greeting to the new woman. "That's my name, yes." His hazel eyes lock with hers, showing /disappointment/ rather than fear or surprise or anxiety. "D'you mean t'tell me that I'm not welcome here 'cause of m'name or who I'm married to? 'Cause I've had quite enough of such things in m'life." His tone is one of bitter reproach. "I'd rather hoped t'find /better/ here." Richard quiets at this name, a briefly troubled look crossing his expression, though it's hard to tell if this is directed at Anna or at Micah. "Micah, no. You're just as welcome here as anyone is," Grace assures Micah in a rather placating tone, brows creasing slightly as she angles a little bit more towards the others. "We've worked hard to build what we have here," Anna answers Micah, her voice still clipped-hard at its edges. "I'm telling you that I want to keep that safe. What do you want with us?" Nodding at Grace's reply, Micah rests a hand on her shoulder softly. "I want....what I think you're offerin'. I've read some...plans. Some initial research. If y'all have /found/ what I think you've found? You /can/ help so many people. Could do more'n I've been able t'do with...my /life/. My patients, my company. Everythin'." He looks away from Anna before continuing, cheeks picking up a tinge of red. "Could help /me/. Have things I'd all but given up on bein' possible." "You." This time, Anna's tone is a little softer. Her gaze drops down immediately to Micah's leg, expression easing into quiet contemplation. "We /do/ help people. We could make you so much better." Grace lifts her hand to rest it over Micah's, squeezing softly. "It's like a miracle, Micah," she says quietly. "What we can help with. We can change so many lives. Yours, too?" It's quietly questioning; her head tilts, a little bit quizzically. "I just...wanted t'see. Wanted t'know. What y'can /do/." Micah blinks a few times, expression torn between eagerness and almost-crying. "Better," he says simply, rolling the word across his tongue as if tasting it, tone also muddled somewhere in incongruously matched caution, bitterness, anticipation, and hope. His hand turns palm-up under Grace's, taking hold of the other woman's hand and bringing it down to his left knee, the too-narrow, too-hard prosthesis there having the feel of anything /but/ biology. "Mine, too." His voice is answering Grace, but his look /questioning/ Anna. "Oh -- oh." Grace's fingers curl in against the prosthesis, her quiet inhalation a little surprised and a little /understanding/, abruptly. "Micah, you're /so/ in the right place. You'll see. You'll /see/." There's an eager tone in her voice, now, too. Anna is just a little bit more grudging, but the hard edge has left her tone. Her lips press together, and then relax. Her fingers tap rapidly against her knees, and it's a long delay before she acknowledges: "I was dying, when I came here. There was a tumor that I --" She shakes her head, her hand lifting to touch fingers to the back of her head. "I'm not just healthy now. I'm something so much --" But her words cut off, here; there's a quiet hush falling around the room. Her eyes turn towards the front. The door in back is opening -- there's a man coming out, well-dressed in a neat suit, salt-and-pepper hair, a neat-trimmed beard, who takes his place at the podium. "-- We're going to begin," Anna tells Micah, quietly. "Thank you, I...I had only hoped." Micah's hand squeezes Grace's gently before releasing it once more. "You...had a brain tumour. You all figured out how t'cure /cancer/?" There is nothing of acting in the sudden widening of his hazel eyes, the shock and excitement and hope /there/ coming on its own, freely. He looks a little sheepish at the volume his voice had taken on with that question, blush deepening as he settles further into his chair. "Ohgosh. Ohgosh, I wanna know /everything/." He quiets and nods as...something seems about to start. "Good morning," starts the man at the podium, voice deep and warm; it's answered from around the room with a chorus of good mornings, in reply. "As always, friends, I want to begin by welcoming you all home once more. It is as ever a blessing to see all your faces here -- those new to our family as well as those of you returning to join us again. As we gather to celebrate the future we are creating I would invite you to take a moment to remember those who have sacrificed so that we may be here today. Our brothers and sisters who gave of themselves to that we can carry their light into the future. This week Sister Martha and Brother Grant are no longer with us. But we can remember all that they have taught us." Beside Micah, Grace is pulling her hands back into her lap, clasping them together and slowly nodding along. Her brows crease just very slightly at the names given, though she says nothing. In the other seat, Anna bristles -- just slightly. Her fingers curl into fists, and then relax. Micah watches the speaker with rapt attention, trying to glean any information about...anything that these people might say. About their methods, about their research, about their implementation...about their people, about /his/ missing people. So many things to watch for and things to learn all at once. He studies the speaker's face, trying to place it, if he has seen it before. The mention of those that have passed causes him to fidget slightly in his seat. "And, we take what we have been taught and with it. We ascend. We shed the mere trappings of mediocrity and become perfected. For those bold enough and strong enough to undertake this journey with us, the doors that will be open to them are endless. And today I am so very, very, very happy to tell you all that we have with us another candidate chosen to make this ascent. To rise above her limitations and join the ranks of the perfected. The sublime. Brothers, sisters, today is a glorious day. Today, Sister Grace is chosen." The man on the podium sweeps out his hand towards Micah's row. His face -- may or may not be familiar. Likely not. He has written some books. Not very popular ones. They're /kind of/ crackpotty. Grace has caught her breath again, hands pressed together, face practically glowing. Her brother is nudging at her -- it's clearly time to get /up/, everyone is looking very /expectant/. It takes her a moment to remember to stand -- pick her way to the end of the row where an usher is waiting to lead her, first onstage and then /off/ it, through the door in back. There's a kind of tense-anticipation in the room, now, quiet murmurs that quickly die down. The man on the podium is speaking again. More talk of being chosen, of rising above the limitations of the human form, of transcending to something purer, something sublime. Talk of needing greater numbers to spread their blessings, to help /more/ people see the truth. Through this many people are watching the speaker but some, excited, are casting glances back towards the door as though waiting for – something. At Grace's name being called, Micah makes room for the woman to get by and go up to the stage. His fingertips trail against her arm as she passes, a silent sort of 'good luck'. His nervousness, perhaps, doesn't seem so out of place with the anticipation growing in the room. Following the others' glances, he also watches the door now and then, pulse quickened with the sheer alien uncertainty of this whole situation. The murmuring anticipation in the room grows as the speaker continues, much in the same vein. A few catchphrases seem to recur -- Third Species. Homo Perfectus. Genetic immortality. It -- takes some while, the fervent 'sermon' continuing, before the door opens again. Grace is a little shaky, as she's led back out onto the stage. She looks like she's in quite a bit of pain, actually, unsteady on her feet and leaning heavily on the usher who'd taken her off. Her sunglasses are gone, though; the skin around her eyes is puffy-red, glistening like she's been crying heavily. Or like it's been recently /scrubbed/. The lights in the room dim, faintly, as she takes her place to lean up against the pulpit; when she opens her eyes, they're oddly out of /place/ in her head. Too large, night-dark and faintly reflective-gleaming in the lowered light. Not very focused, just yet; perhaps she's yet to learn how to use them, but as she turns her head towards Micah they -- might just be very /familiar/ eyes that look out of her face. "I have been waiting for this," she says in a shaky voice, thick with either tears or pain, still. "For so long. To be chosen for this, now. It's -- truly a gift." Micah stays in his seat, looking...terribly confused, really. The woman had barely been gone and comes back with new eyes? How does /that/ work? He doesn't do much other than /stare/ at Grace's face, a sudden, overwhelming urge to run out the back door...swallowed. Just forced away. He sits and waits, hopefully to gather more information. As much as possible. As quickly as possible. Before it's too late. Hopefully his blank stare can be mistaken for awe. Micah's confusion is not, likely, immediately assuaged. Grace returns to her seat. The sermon continues, for a time. The man thanks the congregation. It's only once he's left the stage that she turns back to Micah -- Dusk's eyes are still not exactly /focusing/ properly in her face, watery and slow to shift, and everything about her posture suggests she has one /heck/ of a headache, but her hands clasp together, her tone brightly eager. "I told you. I told you it was the right place for you. I'm so glad you picked /today/ of all days to come." Desperate to find an outwardly reasonable cause to let his sick-worry feelings show, Micah turns them on Grace. He places a hand on her shoulder when she sits beside him, his voice a mere /whisper/, yet dripping with concern as if he's afraid she's /dying/. "Oh...oh, honey, are you okay? Y'look like you're in pain. How did.../how/ did they...? Is it safe? Was it...surgical? How did it happen so fast? Are you alright?" "I'm -- I'm fine. The pain will pass. I'm /fine/, it's -- you'll see. You'll see," Grace assures Micah, resting a hand over his, her smile warm again. "I've never been better. I /am/ better. Than I was. It isn't -- exactly surgery, it's," she says with an almost awed sigh, "/ascension/. You'll meet him, I'm sure. If you stay. He's a /miracle/, Micah. He can help you, too. Like he does with all of us." "You could come on Wednesdays." Anna speaks up abruptly, from Micah's other side. "Sometimes you can meet him then." "Ohgood. Good." Micah pats at her shoulder, glad that the woman is far too caught up in her miracle to notice that he doesn't seem /relieved/ by her reassurance. "Wednesday's a long way away. Ain't he here today?" He lets his impatience come through untempered, knowing it will be taken as eagerness for miracles as opposed to fear that more days passing will mean more /death/. "He was here. I met him. I /met/ him." There's a dreamy-disbelieving quality to Grace's voice as she tells Micah this, squeezing at his hand a little tighter. "He put his hands on me and he made me stronger." Anna is standing, now; around them people are starting to filter out, though some are lingering to come peer at Grace, offer her words of congratulations. "You should celebrate," she tells Grace. "But I need to get back." "Of course you do," says Richard. "But come have dinner with us tonight. -- You should, too," he offers to Micah. "That...thank you, that's very neighbourly of you. I'd like that. If y'don't mind me pesterin' y'all with a few thousand questions." Micah laughs a bit of a nervous laugh at that. "I just ain't never seen anythin' like it before." Richard stands, with a warm smile. "It's the future." He digs into his pocket, pulling a slip of paper -- a stub of movie ticket for /Muppets Most Wanted/ -- out and scrawling an address and a phone number on the back and handing it to Micah. "Say, seven? Grace is a good cook. A lot of us will be there." "Sure. Sure, thanks." Micah takes the paper and slips it into his back pocket. "Wouldn't miss it. Anythin' I can bring along?" Something in the back of Micah's brain is /screaming/ against the mundane nature of this conversation after what just happened. He strangles it with a smile. "Just yourself." Grace squeezes at Micah's arm, standing, now, to take her brother's arm. Her fingers curl in a wave, smile warm and rather blissfully happy before she turns away, starting to make her way towards the door though she's waylaid by yet more congratulations before she can get there. Micah nods simply, still /sitting/ because he's not sure he can stand without bolting. "See you then." He takes in a deep breath and lets it go. Himself. That's the one thing he definitely /won't/ be bringing. Not really.