ArchivedLogs:Asylum

Asylum
Dramatis Personae Ion, Isra, Steve	2018-10-02 "/Some/ folks even get a reputation for it."
Location <NYC> {Workhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The wide entryway leads into a semicircular sitting area with plush modular chairs, sofas, and huge beanbags arranged around two low tables. The bright, open expanse of the house fans back and out from here, executed in stunning industrial style with extremely conservative usage of rough stone walls. Through a door on the right is a library boasting an eclectic but extensive collection of books, a cozy reading nook, as well as a state-of-the-art computer work station. Opposite this is a media room with a projector mounted overhead and a formidable sound system on all sides, the windows still admitting plenty of light when the blackout curtains are pulled back. Beyond the sitting area, toward the back of the house and separated from adjacent areas only by plentiful black granite counters, are a pair of kitchens, each stocked with their own appliances, cookware, servingware, and utensils. Adjoining the (vegan and kosher) kitchen on the right is a simple dining room with a long oval table and chairs designed to accommodate a range of body shapes. On the other side, tucked between the general-purpose kitchen and the media center, is a guest room and a full bath. At the center of the entire house is a cylindrical elevator shaft of steel and glass with two floating stairways coiled around it like an immense double helix. Both elevator and stairs lead down out of sight and up to a circular landing joined to the second storey wings by walkways that leave the space above the sitting area open. Above the kitchens is a sun-drenched split-level recess, the lower half a conservatory enclosed by glass and the upper half a rooftop garden. The whole is walled with glass and lets in copious quantities of natural light softened by lush greenery. Isra moves through the kitchen with the ease of long practice--an ease that may nevertheless seem impressive to a viewer unaware that said kitchen had been meticulously designed to accommodate even tall, winged gargoyles. She sets out a jar of sugar and a few spices on the counter before going back to tend the pot of coffee simmering on the stovetop, frothing and black like a storybook witch's brew. The woman herself is also dressed in black, an elegant, flouncy wrap dress with no sleeves and an asymmetrical hem. Her skin is painted a dazzling palette of autumnal ombres, red and orange and yellow with occasional forays to pink or purple. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some more?” she asks her guest without turning around, tail swishes in time to the strains of Bach's third Brandenburg Concerto. Seated at the counter, Steve's attention is focused on now mostly-empty plate in front of him. He's wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a cartoon skeletal T-rex dancing above the word 'FOSSIL' spelled out of bones. A light tan canvas jacket and his shield hang over the back of his chair. At Isra's question he looks up, gives a sheepish smile. "Tempting, but I wouldn't want to run you entirely out of leftovers. Supper isn't so far off." Outside, the low growl of a motorcycle engine -- even more common around the neighborhood these days than usual, for better and for much-much worse. Only one, this time, though, and it stops by the outside curb. The quick rap-rap-rap on the (back) door comes shortly afterward. On the smaller street-facing back patio, Ion is typically restless. Fidgeting from one foot to another, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He's in a plain white tee, much-abused Mongrels cut open over it and a soft cloth babywrap securing a snug-swaddled bundle to his back. "I think it might be a feat beyond even your appetite to finish off our leftovers, though I suppose we might attempt it together." Isra's ears twitch at the faintest hint of the motor, her body going skill for a moment. The tension eases away a moment later, though still well before the knock comes. She turns off the fire, moves the coffee to a different burner, and pulls open the back door for Ion. "Come in," she gestures expansively with one wing, eyes tracking to the child on his back though her expression registers no real change. "I have just made some coffee, would you care for a cup?" Steve chuckles. "Well, if you're also hungry, I could count myself rude for not keeping you company with seconds." He considers his plate. "Or would that be thirds?" He does not notice the motorcycle engine until several seconds after Isra does, and by then he can tell that her keener senses have deemed that particular bike Not A Threat, so he plows on gamely through the rest of his meal, setting down the fork and brightening when he sees who's at the door. "Ion! What brings you?" He also looks at the babywrap, though his expression is openly perplexed. "Did Dragonlord...shrink?" "Hell yeah --" Ion is reaching out a hand -- GIMME -- though his expression scrunches in disappointment when he sees that the coffee is Somewhere Else. Isra's empty hands are given a very disapproving look for a moment, which doesn't preclude the bearhug that follows. "Holy shit what? Did they?" His eyes widen in mild alarm. "I fucking hope not it's been /hell/ coming up with enough to feed 'em lately I swear they gonna drain half of the city dry they keep this up. Don't nobody write toddler books for baby vampires." He's starting to beeline toward the coffee -- stopping halfway across the room to drop down in the middle of the floor so that he can undo his tall boots and shuck them. Isra's hug is a soft drape of immense wings, applied with considerably more care than usual. "I imagine if they /did/ shrink, they'd be easier to feed again. But I think Steve was merely guessing at the identity of your current passenger." Leaving Ion to his boots, she returns to the stove and takes down three mugs, filling each in turn. The rich smell of coffee, already quite strong, blooms even bolder in the air. She picks up two mugs and distributes them to the men. "Do have a care, it's still quite hot." Steve rises and takes his plate to the dishwasher. He intercepts Ion once he is de-booted for a hug of his own -- less impressive but no less careful -- then intercepts Isra for his share of the coffee. "Merci." Then, sipping at the potent brew, he peers at the bundle Ion carries more closely. "Who /is/ this, then? Are you babysitting?" "{You don't know anyone who could shrink 'em, huh?}" Said through a quick and crooked grin, a loud slurp of hot coffee after he's returned Steve's hug. The smile flees quickly from Ion's face with the question. His head turns -- he casts a slight glance back over one shoulder. Nestled in the cloud of fleecey-soft meteor-shower printed blanket there is a tiny chubby face, rich golden-brown skin, a silken cap of black curls wispy and soft atop their head. One small fist is half-shoved into their mouth, eyes scrunched up in a fitful sleep. A line of drool has dripped its way down the infant's arm, leaving a growing damp splotch on the blanket. "Yeah." Ion gulps again at the tea. Hoists himself into a stool at the counter, lifting his mug to rub those same knuckles against his eyes. "No. I don't fucking know. Like permanent babysitting, I guess. {They kind of got dropped on me.}" Isra retrieves the last mug for herself and drinks deep, eyes closing momentarily and a low rumble sounding in her chest. "{I'll keep an eye out for any trustworthy persons with a gift for shrinking children.}" Her wings fold down across her shoulders and she settles into a lower stance, just about eye-to-eye with Steve, though with her horns she still looks taller. She considers the child, eyes unblinking. "You are certainly plenty experienced in the care of infants, but with aforementioned vampire toddler around the house..." "Mystery baby, huh. I suppose usually adoption agencies handle these sorts of things, but from what I've heard that entire system is profoundly awful." Steve's brows wrinkle faintly. "{Could you use some food, too?}" His eyes tick over Ion appraisingly. "{Or a /nap/?} I don't have the first clue how to take care of a baby, but I /do/ have the Internet so I'm sure I could manage it for a short while, if you need to rest." "No I /know/, I --" Ion is cutting in gruffly before Isra has not-quite-finished her sentence. "The gremlin they already tried to take some bite outta her." His knuckles dig harder. He returns the mug to the counter with a heavier than necessary thump. "They with Dusk for. For now but I can't..." He shakes his head, once, then again harder. "Nah man I fine. They just." There's a slow tension settling tighter, heavier, in his shoulders. "Not a /mystery/ baby. She's just, she's sick. And her mom ain't from here and she wanted -- even if mom's getting kicked the kid needs a doctor, right? Not proper hospitals for mutants where they from, I guess. Not proper hospitals for mutants most fucking /anywhere/." He picks the mug back up, gulps down another large swig. "So someone they bring her to me like hey you take care people, you know what to do with freak babies right? Maybe you keep her alive until she can her family again, huh? {Fuck, man, we have a fucking back alley clinic for overdose and keeping people from going zombie. Not -- not /this/.}" Isra's ears press back against her skull. "Unfortunate." There's a low, angry rumble beneath this word. "She is still better off in your hands, then. God knows what immigration would do with her, but probably not get too fussed about finding proper care." She lifts her mug again but doesn't drink this time, just yet. "So what we need is someone to foster this child and see to it she receives the care she needs. Probably the legitimate foster system would not be ideal, though, given her provenance if not her mutation." "Poor tyke -- and her poor mother." Steve's lip compress into a thin line. "{Your clinic, they probably didn't know where else to go. At least it shows people know and trust your care.}" He considers for a moment, sipping his coffee. "But probably she's going to need to go to Mendel? Oh, but documentation is going to be an issue in any hospital, right?" The frown returns, but seems to indicate concentration moreso than disapproval. "You know, Lucien Tessier might be able to advise you there. Not -- not because of their little sister, necessarily, but he's..." Looks up as if searching for his words in the walkways stretching across the upper levels of Workhaus. "...good at bending bureaucracy to his will." "She'd be fucking dead," Ion replies flatly, "they barely take no care of the kids who /ain't/ sick." He turns the mug around in his hands. Gulps down the rest of the coffee. "{Not a lot of places to go. They been turning mutants over to ICE fast as they can fucking find 'em. Kids without guardians, people been here on legit papers for a decade and just didn't get them renewed in time, Columbia student fucking had unpaid /parking/ tickets, bam.}" Ion's fingers snap. "And the sick ones --" But he stops here, straightening, his eyes widening. There's a faint fluctuation, briefly, in the lights. "/Tessier/?" His brows have lifted, and he scrutinizes Steve with an odd amount of thought given his following: "You trust that slick-ass whore?" A long, low growl simmers in Isra's chest at this litany. It does not abate or pause when she takes another sip of her coffee, nor when she says, "Refugees who /still/ have legitimate papers, for that matter, if they should attract any legal attention for any reason." She cocks her head slightly at Steve. "He /is/ rather competent," she allows, though not without a touch of skepticism herself. Steve grits his teeth. Shakes his head. "And all in the name of /patriotism./" His eyes dart to the silver star on his shield but only briefly. He blinks at Ion, eyes wide, slightly taken aback. "I do. With my life. He's a good man -- meticulous, well-connected, and...yes, competent. Also, has experience dealing with immigration." "Whole-ass citizens, too, if their skin the wrong color. Been more than a /few/ Americans booted already. We working on ferrying some of 'em back home but --" Ion huffs out a sharp breath. There's a faint shiver of sparks that skips between his fingertips. Against his back, the infant stirs, fidgets, makes a few soft eh-eh-ehing noises before he loosens her sling to shift the wrap around to his chest and retie it. His arms curl around beneath her, and he bounces her gently until she starts to settle back down. His eyes return to Steve, study him carefully. "A good man," he repeats. "Well." He tips his head forward, resting his cheek gently against the top of the baby's head. "S'a fucking lot to dump on them family. {But. Guess they got the experience with it.}" Isra has gone mostly still, but for the swaying of her tail. "My parents keep pressing me to register for more or less that reason--as much for the name as anything else, nevermind that I was born in Ithaca." Though, to Steve she adds, "Upstate." She leans over and gazes down at the child settling against Ion's chest. "{They wouldn't necessarily have to take her in themselves, in any case. So long as Lucien can help sort out her paperwork, I'm sure there will be families in the community willing to look after her, sickness or no.}" Steve's eyes do indeed stray to Isra at the mention of skin color, though he does not comment on this. When Isra clarifies, he allows a slightly sheepish dip of his head. "I'd not think any different of you if it were some other Ithaca," he reassures her. "And even if it I did, it'd be no excuse for the treatment people have suffered at the hands of immigration control in this country." He's looking at the baby now, too. "{Whether they do or not, I have a feeling they'll want to help.} A lot of folks in the community will." He lays a solid hand on Ion's shoulder, heedless of minor electrocution. "/Some/ folks even get a reputation for it."