ArchivedLogs:Alternative Genomic Presentations

Alternative Genomic Presentations
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Micah	2013-02-10 Still no tickets.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. Somewhere downstairs, there is still, no doubt, celebration and cocoa and dinnering and conversation going on. Down there. Up here it's quiet. The soft whistle of breeze. A few cars intermittently passing on the mostly-barren snowy streets. And here the crackle of a lighter, the glowing end of a cigarette. Downstairs, the rest of the Tessier clan enjoys the warmth; the youngest two with Jax's youngest, the teenager with the twins, Matt still solidly crashed asleep on the couch despite the noise around him. Lucien leans against the railing on the rooftop, looking out at the city night, and the well-lit park not far away, his thumb tapping absently at the end of a cigarette before he puts it to his lips for a long drag. The door to the building swings open with a soft creak, emitting a column of light and a Micah. He hasn't quite let go of the door as he isn't certain if he's allowed to be up here. Or, you know, if the door might lock behind him when he lets go. He is re-shod and half-bundled-up again. His eyes scan over the garden and chairs, and he steps out, having assessed that people /do/ spend time up here. Cigarette smoke, another body... Oh, there is someone else here! "Hey... Lucien? Sorry. I can take off if I'm disturbing your calm up here." He gestures back at the door with a thumb. Lucien's head turns, at the creak, green eyes fixing on the shaft of light from the doorway. It's a moment yet before they refocus on Micah, and a moment past that before the bland and tired expression on his face is pushed back in favour of a small smile. "Micah. No. There were people on the fire escape. I did not want to irritate them." He waggles the cigarette indicatively. "Enjoy dinner? He is quite a good cook." That signature lopsided grin returns as Lucien addresses him. Micah ambles over to the railing next to the other man. "Everyone is a good cook to me, these days. And I'm all about a free meal. I've been on the 'hot plate Ramen' diet for a hot minute now. It's more 'college' than when I /was/ a student." A soft, self-deprecating chuckle punctuates the statement. "That sounds like a wonderfully balanced diet." Lucien shifts, against the rail, angling to face Micah a little bit more even as he keeps an elbow propped against it. He turns his head, though, away, when it comes time to blow out his stream of smoke. "You hardly look much older than I, you couldn't have your student days /much/ behind you." "Not far behind in time, but a good distance in the metaphorical sense..." Micah actually does air quotes around 'good distance'. "Been a lot of big changes lately. Well...and I'm also older than people usually think I am. One of those faces, I guess." "Funny," Lucien murmurs, "I have the opposite problem. A boon in some ways, I suppose, I stopped getting carded in high school." He draws in another slow drag of cigarette, eyes raking down over Micah's form and then drifting back out across the park. "Changes for the better, or for the worse?" Micah tugs on his hat a little, to cover his ears better. It is still cold out here! "See, whereas I /still/ get carded. Often." A little giggle. "I'd say better. Starting something. Moving forward. Got out of Virginia, which has been a goal since I was about knee-high to a grasshopper... Things have certainly been exciting, if nothing else!" "Virginia." There's a faint downward curl of Lucien's lips as he says this, a faint note of distaste in his softly accented voice, as if Micah had said 'crawled out of the sewer' rather than got out of Virginia. "I imagine most things would be an improvement. I suppose there are a few places you could backslide from there. Florida. Arizona. But it is a fairly low bar." His finger taps against his cigarette, spilling ash down over the side of the roof to dance away in the breeze. "And what do you plan to do with this whole exciting not-Virginian world you have discovered?" Lucien's expression earns an honest laugh from Micah. "A lot of it wasn't /that/ bad. Just...backwards. Not quite caught up with the rest of the Modern World-like." The ash catches his eye, and he follows its path through the air for a bit. "I started up my own business here. It's a whole two employees, if you count me. Prosthetics, orthotics, other adaptive equipment. But on the move. I have a mobile shop, set up out of a van. It's especially good for people with limited mobility. Not a lot of medical folk make house calls these days..." He realises he's rambling about work and switches gears. "As far as the excitement, I'm hoping that it doesn't /always/ involve cops and/or getting trampled by crowds every time I'm out in public. It's getting to be a trend." "A trend? This happens to you a lot? I must say, it is a first for me." With the subject of orthotics brought up, Lucien's gaze has dropped back downwards, openly glancing down at Micah's legs. "Do you make them? Or just -- vend them." Micah decides to answer Lucien's questions in reverse. "I make the less complex ones. I don't quite have the capacity for ones like mine." He pulls his left pantsleg up, showing the complex knee unit. "The microprocessors and all are expensive as hell. I did help with developing this guy, though. With ze Germans." 'Ze Germans' comes with an obligatory fake German accent. "Which is why I have it at all. Expensive..." He releases his grip on the cuff of his faded jeans, letting it fall back over his leg. "Twice now. With the cops and the crowds. Although, this time was more fun. Last time I wandered into a mess of people when the Mayor was speechifyin' and people got shot at. And actually shot." He taps at the knee again. "This thing is fancy, but it doesn't do well with rapid-fire direction changes /or/ getting' slammed into walls. I wiped out pretty good." Lucien watches with a higher note of interest as Micah lifts up one leg, bending just slightly to peer down at the knee. "Your knee is far more high-tech than mine," is his ultimate comment, straightening for another drag of his cigarette. "I hear those efficient German-engineered models get pretty decent mileage, too." Perhaps he is joking. It is hard to tell, his tone is pretty dry and his expression blandly composed. His head tilts back, next stream of smoke blown out upwards towards the sky. "Ah. You were there. Half the city was there, it seems." His fingers flutter downwards, towards the apartment building below them. "Jackson made himself quite notorious." Perhaps not the word most people would use for foiling an assassination attempt, at yet. Whether Lucien was joking or not, he still gets a laugh from Micah. Come to think of it, /most things/ get a laugh from Micah. "Oh, yeah, /that's/ where I knew his face from! Forcefield guy. We actually shared a page in a newspaper..." He baps his forehead with the palm of his hand as if to indicate that he was an idiot not to figure this out earlier. "Though me bein' on there was the biggest load of bullhockey ever invented. Some 'journalist'," there go the air quotes again, "got hold of a picture of me all knocked over and made up a story about mutants getting out of control and attacking folk in the crowd." He fishes around in his pocket for a smartphone, ostensibly to pull up a copy of the article in question. "Was the man who tried to kill the mayor even a mutant? I do not believe they said. Though of course everyone assumed --" Lucien's head shakes. He takes a last long deep drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out against the railing before flicking it off the roof. Only once he has blown the smoke away from Micah does he lean in closer, to be able to see the phone screen. "Though anyone who could think such a thing of Jackson does not seem like they have very good perception. He seems as inclined to go knocking down people out of rage as he does to sprout wings and fly. Do they imagine it was mutants who took your legs, too?" Though this does put a sudden narrowing to his eyes -- even if it is timed with a slightly /thin/ twitch upwards of his lips. "-- /Did/ mutants take your legs?" The article comes up on the screen and Mica thumbs down to what would be the below-the-fold area where he features. There is a picture of him on the ground, with a big bag spilled open next to him, and a pair of children's ankle foot orthoses haphazardly toppled next to him. The caption reads, "Michael Zedner, above, was attacked by a gang of enraged mutants at the Mayor's speech Wednesday afternoon, as he was passing through the area to deliver medical supplies to disabled children." Micah sighs, "You almost can't blame them for how perfect the set-up on that picture is. You wanna give that kid a hug /and/ a cookie. And think of the 'disabled children!'" He brings the back of his hand to his forehead in a dramatic swoon. "I mean, you'd have to Photoshop Tiny Tim's crutch in there to make it any better...worse...whatever." The shorter man's grin returns. "I'm getting a retraction, though. I spent about a half an hour on the phone with this poor woman. Chewed her out oh-so-politely for everything from the /made-up story/ to getting my name wrong to not using 'people-first' language to being /Othering/ toward people with 'alternative genomic presentations'... There are supposed to be apologies, too. I near made the poor girl cry." He looks like he nearly feels bad about it, too. He interrupts his own ramble again. "Naw, the leg is congenital. Born that way. Fault of an intrauterine death match." "That image does have quite a lot of pathos. Goodness. /I/ feel sorry for you. I'm about ready to go throw down with some mutants, myself." Lucien's eyes drop again, down to Micah's legs then back up to his face. "Death match. So I should see the other guy, is what you're saying." He turns, elbows propped behind him on the rail, his back to the city now. His eyes fix on the door back inwards. "Alternative genomic presentations. Goodness. /That/ is the most politically correct way to say freak if ever I heard it." "Yeah. The more PC you get around someone bein' a jerk, the more they either get completely confused or /actually realise/ they're bein' a jerk. It's pretty handy..." Micah tucks the phone away and leans back against the rail. "Ha! 'You should see the other guy' is actually one of my standard responses. But, yep, intrauterine death match. Started off as twins. Two fetuses enter, one man leaves. It's pretty common...some researchers reckon as many as 1 in 8 pregnancies starts off as multiples, but the twin gets reabsorbed. Called 'Vanishing Twin Syndrome'. Usually folks don't notice, but we were far enough along that there were some clotting factors involved and, bam, vascular event in the ol' limb bud." "Mmm, yes, I had a twin. In utero. He left me my legs. Considerate like that. He must have had all the conscientious half of our genes." Lucien's fingers lace together, folding against his belly. "Two fetuses enter, one man leaves, though. That must have been murder on your poor mother. Most women plan to give birth to infants." "Hey, twin-buddy! Well, sort of." He shakes his head. "Kid didn't make it very long, but they did a lot of ultrasounds early, 'cause my mom's family has a history of twinning. They'd already named him and everything. Tobias, it was. Freaked my parents out to /no end/ when I named my invisible friend Toby. Stupid kids don't know any better." A little shrug of Micah's shoulders is barely perceptible under his puffy coat. "Good/ness/, you've had me running my mouth about myself enough, though. What about you? You don't have a 'from around here' kinda vibe, either." "I like hearing about people," Lucien comments, with a small twitch of smile. His eyes slowly lower, to the snow-covered rooftop. Only for a moment, then raise to fix again on the door back to inside. "I never asked if mine had a name," he muses, light and absent, and then cuts a look sidelong to Micah. "What about me? Does my accent give me away? I have been in New York long enough to lose my manners, and not long enough to lose that." "The accent sure /helps/--and by the way, is terribly endearing--but it's not just that." Micah eyes the taller man appraisingly, having to tilt his chin up a bit to achieve even eye contact. "I think it's that you don't have that /rushed/ feeling about you. That's the biggest thing I get from your average New Yorker. They're always in a hurry. Physically, mentally, spiritually...ecumenically, grammatically..." There's that grin sneaking back again. Lucien makes eye contact, keeps it, holds it a good long while, a thoughtful expression on his face. It slips into a smile, small and tired, curling his lips but not touching the bright green of his eyes. "And I don't strike you as -- rushed." He says this soft, and curious. "You are at least right in that I am not a native here. And I suppose I pick my words carefully. Life is brutal enough without improper diction." There's a hesitation, his lips parting as though he might say more. He doesn't. He feels in the flap of his jacket for his pack of cigarettes, pulls one out. Doesn't light it. "Are you not in a hurry?" "'Improper diction', oy." Micah blushes a little...or a lot. He has the curse of the redhead, for all his hair is just barely red-tinted. "I'm going to have to apologise for my ongoing assaults on the letter 'g'. I have to put serious /effort/ into getting," see what he did there! "caps on my gerunds." He draws a deep breath, partly trying to erase the pinkish bloom from his cheeks. The cold isn't helping. "But, no, I'm not a big rusher either. On a schedule sometimes, sure...but I mostly answer to myself. And besides, I /am/ Southern." Surely no one had noticed! "I'm used to things going slow." "I often wish things would go slower," Lucien's quiet voice has dropped still quieter, his eyes slipping half closed and his unlit cigarette bobbing between his lips, "but as long as they continue apace I will hurry to keep up. The trick, I suppose, is /looking/ relaxed." His eyes turn, sidelong towards Micah. "You're cold." "The ever-wise 'They' claim it's 70% how you look, 20% how you sound, and 10% what you say." Micah bites his lip a minute. "No...well, yes. But I'm /always/ cold around here. This weather is for crazy people. Crazy people with /fur/ and layers of /blubber/ insulation." At least he seems to be amused by it. "I have neither," Lucien says, glancing down at his ungloved hand, un-furred leather jacket. "Well. Fur nor blubber. Perhaps I have a dose of crazy. Would you prefer to be inside?" He looks back up at Micah, brow faintly furrowing. "What did bring you out here?" Micah chuckles, a breathy sort of chuckle. "Eh, I don't mind really. Honest. And the 'crazy' part's the most important. And the most fun." He stops biting at his lip, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin again. "Oh, I felt a little bit like I was intruding on someone else's /family/ in there after a while. I just wanted to walk off for a spell..." "It was someone's family," Lucien points out. "That boy had children of his own --" Which evidently puzzles him, perhaps given Jax is barely younger than he is. "And, well, the rest -- perhaps not related, but blood unites them. That and this ridiculous new law. Do you have family?" "Of course, of course... Most of them live in the magical Land of Skype for now, since all my blood-relatives are back home." Micah waves his hand to the side, as if Virginia were somewhere stage-left. "I've got a couple of good friends up here that I've known forever...well 'known' as much as you do people from online games after years. One of them is my business partner...and kind of like the big sister I never had. I guess I'm still puttin' down roots hereabouts." "Online games?" Lucien echoes this, a little bit puzzled, his brow furrowing again. "I think everyone in this city is still putting down roots. It is hard for them to flourish in all this concrete, perhaps." "Mmhmm. Of a variety. Everquest back in the day. Warcraft. Some text-based stuff. A lot of violence to poor, innocent pixels." Micah pokes at the railing as if assaulting pixels there. "It's also an excuse to get a bunch of folk together who wouldn't otherwise cross paths. Haven't done much of the computer-based stuff since I graduated, though." "Everquest. Warcraft." Lucien echoes these like foreign words, but then, his accent makes most English he speaks sound like foreign words. "I have heard of that second one. I have never played a, ah." He doesn't finsih this thought. He lifts his lighter. Flicks it. Lets the flame die away, cigarette still unlit. "I imagine starting your own company keeps you rather busy for video games." Micah's eyes are /dancing/ at Lucien's grasping the unfamiliar words. It's a little adorable. "Oh, hon, not to worry. Not everybody tied themselves to a computer as a kid. And, yes, I've gotten a fair bit busier lately. Not to mention how /impossible/ it would be to fit a proper gaming rig in my van. Big power draw, too...keep it warmer in there, though." His tone sounds like he /almost/ thinks this could be a good idea...but. "Priorities, too. Gotta get steady enough income to afford /rent/ before the silly stuff." "You live in your van." Lucien echoes this, more musing than anything else. "I thought that was where you worked, but --" But. He untucks the cigarette from his lips, pulling the carton back out to put it away again. "I did not have a computer as a child. How is your business working out? Not, ah, to a rent level, I gather." "Yeah, both, actually. But it's a /really/ nice van!" He sounds like he may have had to reassure people about this before. "I'm still building a client base up here. And there's a /ton/ of overhead. Equipment, especially the tech...kit for my job is /insane/. Certifications, inspections, insurance, being able to deal with /other people's/ insurance... I'm pretty much just biding time until income catches up with the up-front out-of-pockets." "Biding time." For some reason this puts a smile on Lucien's lips. A thin one. Not particularly warm. "Yes, I suppose we all are. Would you care to go back inside?" He offers a hand towards Micah. The thin kid has been /shivering/ for a while...he's just stubborn. He finally relents at Lucien's offer. "Yeah, that probably is a good idea." He allows himself to be lead back toward the door. Lucien holds the roof door open for Micah. A blast of warmth and light spill out from inside. "I do not know what is more crazy," he says, lightly, "people who enjoy this weather or people who do not," His fingers flick towards Micah's shivering in indication, "and stay out in it anyway." "Well, I can't say I often get accused of /sanity/," Micah offers with a little snort of a laugh as he heads into the /blessed warmth/ of Inside.