Logs:(Re)connecting?

(Re)connecting?
Dramatis Personae Anahita, DJ	2023-01-04 "The ties that bind us to one another change when people die, but they don't always change the way we expect."
Location <NYC> Chimaera Arts - Dumbo
This is just one of the many abandoned warehouses in DUMBO, and like many of them it has recently changed hands. Unlike most of those, however, it does not have some corporate developer's sign out front promising a transformation into luxury condominiums or a boutique shopping center or the latest concept restaurant. Instead it's marked by a piece of weathered but wildly colorful plywood propped up on a stack of broken pallets, which reads "Chimaera Art Space!" above "chimaera.org" in smaller letters. The warehouse is moderately large and decorated with graffiti art in various styles--some of it recognizable as the work of renowned local street artists. A pair of monstrous scrap metal sculptures, perhaps still works in progress, flank the entrance. The building itself has undergone significant renovation recently, complete with wiring, plumbing, and a modular partitioning system. The grounds, too, have been cleaned up, ramshackle fences torn down and rusting detritus removed in favor of reclaimed (and brilliantly repainted) outdoor furniture ringing an impressively engineered firepit. The late night Chimaera crowd is -- not a crowd so much as a motley crew of stragglers. Around the fire pit a quartet of Greek anarchists fresh in town and in search of The Radicals are skirting the "no, this really, truly isn't a shelter please don't try to move in" rules by simply spending their second straight night on too many amphetamines to sleep. A pitbull -- probably not actually a stray but has its owner been seen anywhere around today? Not likely -- is at the kitchen door doing a hopeful, slow wag. The pair of legal observers fixing themselves coffee in there -- looking like they're on their way out, not in, some action in the city eventually running overtime -- are trying to assure the pup there is no food to be had here; ultimately an unconvincing effort given that one of them then rummages some dregs of lentil stew from the fridge to toss into a bowl for the dog. From behind the door of the woodshop, a steady whrrrrrrrrrr. DJ, in thick warm flannel, jeans, heavy workboots, is currently the lone occupant of the mostly disused space. His current work is an exercise in steady patience. In one hand (his right, prosaic and flesh-and-bone) he's holding a sander, going slowly over a plank of tabletop in an intricate geometric pattern of tessellated ebony and maple burl. His left arm (decorated in an elaborate wood-grained pattern that echoes but does not match the table he is working on) simply hangs a little heavy and awkward at his side. The several other sanding discs nearby in increasingly finer grits suggest he will be here for A While. Anahita slips into the rhythm of the space so naturally that few take much notice of her as she wanders through the warehouse. She is wearing a red and black check flannel, ancient but still sturdy denim overalls, and engineer boots. Her long hair is neatly braided and coiled up, and she carries a patch-covered sling bag across her back. She almost walks past the woodshop, then considers the sound of the machinery and enters. She stops just inside the door, her face lighting with recognition. Then her eyes skip over him and her smile goes just a little uncertain. "Flicker?" DJ looks up with a familiar smile, easy and warm. "Oh! No I -- Anahita? You're back?" There's a genuine pleasure that spreads across his face at this. It dims a second later, an uncertain furrow to his brow. "I mean I -- no, sorry." His cheeks are flooding with red. "I'm -- not him." "I'm back." Anahita's answer is quiet, not excited but not displeased, either. "What do you mean you're not him?" She studies DJ closely, eyes lingering on his beard and his shirt and his arm, then back up to his face. "I don't understand." She hasn't actually taken a step back, but she's shifted her weight as if getting ready to. The slow steady back-and-forth arc of DJ's arm stops, the sander grinding for a moment in place. "I --" Out of some ingrained muscle memory, DJ is starting to move the machine again, but then stops and instead switches it off a little helplessly. "I mean I'm not -- I -- oh." He does take a step back -- just a small one, his head bowing apologetically. "I guess nobody told you." Anahita rocks her weight forward but hesitates visibly before taking a step toward DJ. Her eyes flick from his left arm to his right, her brows furrowing deeper. "I haven't really been in contact with anyone here." Suddenly her frown eases. "You're upset. I didn't mean to show up out of nowhere and start interrogating you. I'm just glad to see you're safe." DJ curls an arm across his chest, his fingers curling tight just about his opposing elbow. "I'm -- I'm sorry. I told you, I'm not --" The breath he pushes out is slow, hissing through clenched teeth. "This probably sounds like some cruel joke, but I'm not Flicker. He -- died. Over two years ago. I'm -- I know I look like him," sound like him, am in his workshop finishing his projects, "but I -- I'm sorry." For the space of a few breaths Anahita only blinks at DJ, otherwise nearly motionless. "Died," she echoes, soft and uncertain. "That doesn't seem much like a joke at all. But you know who I am." This sounds quizzical, but not exactly like a question. Her eyes are taking in his posture now. "I'm sorry for your loss. Were you close? Before." "One of the cop-bots did it. Went on kind of a rampage, started shooting at a lot of bystanders. He saved a lot of people who were there but in the process --" DJ's shoulder hitches, quick and jerky. His eyes open a touch wider at the question, and this pulls his breath in, still sharp through his teeth. "Feel a little bit like I'm growing close to him after. Been a weird couple years." He steps back to his board, his fingers dropping to trace slowly over the surface of the wood in front of him. "What brought you back?" Anahita's brows furrow just a little, but in a way that makes her eyes darken ominously. "Oh. Oh, that was him." This is flat, and so quiet it's barely audible. "It does sound like him. The news didn't say..." She takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly. "The ties that bind us to one another change when people die, but they don't always change the way we expect. I hope you can make peace with him, however that's done in your faith." She circles around to where she can see the board DJ had been working on. "I wanted to reconnect with the lab -- Prometheans who stayed in the area. Like Flicker. I tried to go home, but..." She shakes her head. "I was in Prometheus a long time. It's hard to explain." "Golly but you aren't wrong there. I don't know what I expected, but not --" DJ shakes his head with a very small huff. "I'm sorry you had to find out like this. And I'm sorry home didn't work out for you." His jaw tightens, but only for a fraction of an instant. His fingers curl against the handle of the sander, though he doesn't turn it back on. "Polaris and Winona are still living down near Evolve. Maya went up to teach at the school. I think Jamie's been around Freaktown -- uh," DJ clarifies a moment later, "sort of -- mutant neighborhood that's growing in the Bronx. Leo's --." Another fleeting twitch in his cheek as his teeth clench, then relax. "Around. Do you -- need a place to stay, or anything?" Somewhere in the midst of DJ's rollcall of Blackburn escapees, Anahita's eyes have gone wide. "Mutant neighborhood." Her expression softens to something almost like a smile before it shutters. "I should visit there. Though I do need to find a place for the night, yes. I don't know the town, and would appreciate any recommendations..." She trails off, staring at the board beneath DJ's hand. Then suddenly looks back up at him. "Oh. What can I call you?" "Yeah. The Bronx. Head up Palisade Ave by the park, you -- probably won't miss it when we start to take over. They'll give any mutant a bed in Freaktown but the bed might be a mat on the floor depending on how crowded things are tonight. But it's far from here and -- if you want a bed-bed I could let you crash in my spare room for the night, if you --" A sudden flush fills his cheeks. "Sorry, that's forward, we just met. Just don't really like to see any of us out in the cold. If you're sticking around I bet Luci could help you find something suitable, unless Freaktown turns out to be your style." The smile that wisps across his face is fleeting. "Oh -- right. I'm DJ." Anahita lifts both brows. "Young man, I'm a revolutionary. I've spent half my life sleeping on the floors of people I just met." She does smile this time, faint and fond. "Sometimes forward is the way. I'll take you up on that bed and check out Evolve and Freaktown tomorrow." Her head dips in a small bow. "Thank you. DJ." There's a certain habitual deliberation to how she repeats the name, right down to copying his rhythm and inflection. "I'm Anahita. It's nice to meet you." DJ's smile is broader at this, warm and -- just a little wistful. "Yeah. Think most revolutions would fall apart without at least a little trust between strangers." He looks down at his board, looks back up at Anahita. "I can take off after I finish sanding this layer. If you don't mind hanging out a little bit -- maybe if you're up for it you can tell me some of your war stories."