ArchivedLogs:Striking Back

Striking Back
Dramatis Personae Kay, Isak, Micah	14 April 2014 Moving along plans against the Perfectus Church.
Location Micah's TARDIS-Van - SoHo
The TARDIS-van is, unfortunately, not bigger on the inside. It is downright claustrophobic. The general feel is akin to the interior of an ambulance, minus the luxury of space for a stretcher. Instead, there is /stuff/. Like a mad combination of garage, clothier's shop, and storage facility, every inch of space is being put to its most efficient use. There is a single work station at the far side that resembles a workbench bred with a sewing table. Cabinets, bins, and drawers that all latch (or even lock) for secure transport are filled with a plethora of rolls of hook-and-loop materials, sheets of neoprene, sheets of thermoplastic, assorted padding and foam materials, thread of vastly varying thicknesses, collections of metal rods and other metallic trinkets, a large garage-style toolbox, moulds, containers of casting supplies, a heat gun, dozens of types of scissors and shears and razors... It would take /forever/ to catalogue everything. If one looks hard enough, they may also discover some personal effects neatly stowed: clothing, blankets, a gym bag, maybe half a box of cereal. The safehouse had been a tense place; the sound of controlled, tight screams from the rooftop, and then a long period of silence eventually lead to Kay descending the attic staircase from Dusk's forbidden belfry domain. Trotting loosely in his denim jacket with small Mutant Mongrels patch secreted on its breast pocket, skinny jeans and overly expensive knee-high boots sorely scuffed and /under/-cared for. Swinging wallet chain, swinging /bling/ necklace, swinging jacket around his hips it'd have been more casual if he wasn't brushing off what smells like cooked meat from his sizzling palms, eyes blazing-- And eyes LOCKING on Isak, for merit of being Right There. He grins, "Hey-ey." His fingers snap and point at him - like a set of stylish /pistols/, "Let's go for a ride. Business." And then the two are off, riding on the back of Kay's borrowed motorcycle - a sporty little insectile Japanese number with powerful shocks and a high windshield. He even has a spare helmet to loan. RMMMM. Seeking Micah's monstervehicle. Wrong place, wrong time, perhaps? Isak's been doing safehouse babysitting because it's the easiest thing to do, usually, but not always the safest. Part of him wanted to say no to Kay, but it's sort of hard to say no to a biker smelling of burnt flesh. So it's the skinny jeans patrol, off on a mission - as he's likewise attired, though with a designer collared shirt rather than anything even remotely badass. His calf length designer suede jacket flaps off the back of the motorcycle. If his family were poorer, he'd be worried about it getting damaged. "WHERE ARE WE GOING?" he shouts over the roar. The TARDIS-van isn't difficult to locate, big and bright blue and...well, rather looking like a police box in van form, with a giant gorilla in a racing wheelchair emblazoned on one side. Not to mention the fact that it has been moving a great deal less than usual of late, often returning back to SoHo to park near Hive's office. It seems relatively quiet, as Micah is in the back working on his laptop. Only the combined sounds of Jason Mraz's “Sunshine Song” on his stereo and his own voice accompanying softly can be heard from within, and that only if someone listens closely. Kay rides with a great deal of sharp precision; there's risk as much as measure, darting between an SUV and a furniture truck, cutting off a cab and responding to a honking horn by POUNDING fist on some poor bastard's hood. But it's hard to /call/ it entirely reckless - sitting on the back of his bike, the way his muscles move and shift to the machine's momentum, leaning slightly with this curve, leaning /against/ that one, it feels rather deliberate and measured if nothing else. "MEETIN' A FRIEND!" Kay shouts back, slowing down to ride the bike up a ramp and onto the curb, to straddle-walk it along to park next to the TARDIS-van before cutting the engine. He raises a hand and smacks it against the side of Micah's vehicle while dismounting, "HEYA, biped! You home?" If he hadn't ridden motorcycles before (stylish Italian ones - nothing quite so overtly manly as this one) Isak would probably have slipped off long before now. After a few blocks, he figures out how Kay drives, so he manages to not become a traffic accident. When the bike comes to a stop, he slides off it and tugs off the helmet. He takes a second to stylishly fluff up his hair, but he stays back to let Kay start the conversation with whoever they're here to see. The sound of the bike's engine followed by the thud at the side of the van (Micah /winces/ at the latter) clearly announce Kay's presence even before the man speaks. Just a moment is taken to close things out on the laptop and set it aside, to gather forearm crutches and open the rear doors. He pulls a pair of charcoal grey gloves in thin, breathable material from his pockets before threading his arms into the neon orange crutches and lower himself to the pavement. His clothing doesn't look much changed from last time Kay saw him, a very small selection of thrift store items to draw on presently leaving him in a hunter green henley and faded bluejeans. "Kay, hi. What's up?" Kay and Isak cut such a spectrum of attitude not entirely in /opposition/. Kay's hips and shoulders swing loose at corresponding angles with his gait as he rounds the side of the vehicle, grinning ferociously with a hand thrust out to clasp wrists. "/Micah/. Yo. Still pullin' the lone soldier gig out here, I see. We'll fix that. Meet Isak." Like 'try the caviar'. /Sample/ him. Maybe that's what he's here for. "Izzy, this fine human specimen is Micah Holland-Zedner. Esteemed humie-husband of old Jackson Holland." "We've met," says Isak. He nods towards Micah. "In the safehouse. Groceries." In case he needs reminding. Though some part of his ego would be bruised if he was forgotten. He steps forward and has a look at the van, then reaches for his black metal cigarette case. "I feel like I've missed some goings-on." "You came with back-up. That's wise. Still not safe for folks runnin' 'bout alone, much less visitin' /me/ solo." Micah returns the sort-of-handshake, the thin layer of fabric over his skin preventing surface thoughts and emotions from leaking into his mind. "We'll fix it same as we'll fix the rest, once that crazy cult's put out of business for good." He nods at Isak's introduction, his own, "We've met," blending with the other man's. "S'good t'see you again." His eyebrows tick upward only slightly at the 'human specimen' description, then quite noticeably further at the...'humie-husband' bit. "Can't say I've heard that one before. Um. I got the list, if that's your primary reason for visitin'. Was gonna send it over with Flicker last night, but... Kinda pissed off the resident TP earlier in the day an' ain't thought it prudent t'go back up there yet." "Heh," Kay grins, looking delighted, "He ain't exactly my backup against you, dude. No offense but you're kinda low on the threat list when there's god-mutant power-stealing cultists and HAMMER shitbags with tanks on the loose." He's also peering up into the vehicle, "Uh. Primary reason, I guess? Not really all that cold-blooded. Was gonna ask also if you could swing by the clinic and uh... get some blood sent over to the house. Dusk's gonna need it -- you /okay/?" "I take it your shit plan is actually working?" Isak says this to Micah in a way that somehow manages to hold admiration, despite the phrasing. He lights the cigarette with a silver zippo and inhales slowly. If someone called him Eurotrash, they might not be wrong. He is however, polite enough to offer the case out towards Micah and Kay. Mostly he just listens to the exchange between the two men. He's the new guy. He's got to absorb. Micah shakes his head with a somewhat-bitter laugh. "Why's everyone seem t'think I mean I'm gonna /wrestle/ 'em m'self or somethin'? I know the lot of you could take me out with a...thought or a pinky finger, it ain't like I needed remindin'. I'm still figurin' out /walkin'/, for goodness sake. I'm more afraid of me /attractin'/ the god-mutant power-stealin' cultists who /rearranged m'brain/ to y'all than anythin'. It's a legitimate risk. Better t'travel in groups in general, but 'round me even more so. 'Cause of the same folks, with greater chance of 'em makin' an appearance. Make sense?" Oh, there's that laugh again at Isak's question. "Depends on your definition of 'workin' '. Did I get the information I was lookin' for? Yes, s'far as /that/ goes." He pulls a crisply-folded piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Kay on that note. Micah's head tilts at the request for blood. "I thought we was s'posed t'be keepin' Dusk as dry as he could handle so he doesn't heal too much t'get 'is stolen parts replaced? I can get it, I'm sure. He's been missin' appointments t'pick things up 'imself, an' I can just ask Io. I been okay goin' t'the Clinic. They put a guard on me while I'm there, so it's alright." "Dude. They're Sublime. They already know about that place," he jerks a thumb up the street towards Hive's office, then a his chest, "/And/ our safehouse. They knew about the Lofts and they know about your precious Commons t'come while they're at it. The chances of them swooping down their heavy hitters on a nomad human with borrowed passive touch-telepathy in broad daylight is /low/." Pluck! He grins down at the paper, unfolding it for a moment to glance at the names, and then tucks it back into a breast pocket. It's not actually mocking, when he clasps a hand on either of Micah's shoulders, looking into his face, "This is new to you, kiddo. I get it. But you gotta ease up and quit hitting all the levers at once or your gonna burn /out/. This is /long/-game time." As if to express /just/ how much time they all have, he takes his time to then select a cigarette from Isak's case and tucks it into the side of his mouth. Swoops an empty hand around it, inspiring a small snarl of flame to envelop the end. He explains to him with a jerk of chin, "He got what we needed. In exchange, Micah here's maybe-kinda got a mindbug for the trouble. We dunno what kind." Blowing smoke towards the sky he turns back to Micah, "Yeah - we're drying him out. But he'll need small doses that can be /portioned/. No more free-feeding on you bite-junkies. And he's gonna need a little soon. I burned the shit out of him to get him back to square one for healing." Yep. Just says it casually, with a wave of cigarette. "Well, if you think I'm that powerful, I'm not going to say you're wrong. Better to be feared than loved," deadpans Isak through a haze of smoke. There is however, a light of mischief in his eyes. He leans against a lamppost and squints at Micah through the smoke that is more plentiful than one cigarette should be giving off. "You know. I may think what you're doing is foolish, but it's brave. And not something I ever thought a human would do for mutants." He flicks ash off from the end of his cigarette and looks to Kay. "A mind bug? Do I want to know what that sort of thing is?" His English is impeccable, but sometimes his non-American status is revealed in word choice. "Knowin' they /exist/ an' knowin' who's there, when, what their defences are like, when folks are sleepin', when they're alone... That's a dif'rent story, honey. I'll sleep in a van for a bit if it means they're less likely t'/get/ that information. An' I don't think for a second they're comin' for /me/. They'd be comin' for /you/, Sparky." This last Micah says with almost...amusement, certainly with a fond grin for Kay. He looks to Isak, breath coming out in a sigh before going through the summary again. "I went undercover at that cult-church. It /worked/, but they also called m'bluff. So now I've got a kid's leg an' hir psionic ability on top of it. But the first thing I heard with it was John Sublime's psycho-brain thinkin' how he /had/ all of you now 'cause he /has/ me. He /grew/ a leg on me an' rewired m'brain t'work it an' t'do the whole touch telepathy thing. Who knows what else he mighta done? So I'm bein'. Careful. S'bad enough Rasa got hurt over me; I'll be singin' the praises of the healer gettin' hir a new leg forever. I can't have none of you gettin' /took/ 'cause of me." Micah chuckles at Isak's summary. "Didn't say's I thought you were powerful. Or that I /fear/ you. Just said you'd win in a fight, an' it wouldn't be /hard/ for you. Ain't never said I didn't love any of y'all either." He shakes his head, a grin tugging his lips lopsided. "Foolish an' brave. Colour me the paladin with the worst plan for appropriation of stats ever, considerin'..." His head shakes again, even as he says this, /fully/ expecting blank looks. "Fear is easy," Kay grins over at Isak from behind his cigarette's narrow column of rising smoke - to compliment the other mutant's smoky prevalence, a tongue of flame licks up from the end of his own. He huffs towards Micah, "Being careful's good, man. Being paranoid and acting like we /don't/ know how t'defend ourselves is gonna get you in a few snarls. I /have/ lost guys out from under me." The side of his mouth twitches, "And I've /been/ lost before. Difference is," he leans forward to bonk his forehead against Micah's - he's so much taller that it's almost paternal. The age difference helps. "I've been a walking danger to my people most my life." One long wiry arm is extending towards Isak. Expecting KNUCKLE-tap. "Just so many different colors of shit that's gotta /burn/." "Oh, and you trample on my dreams, just like that," Isak places a hand against his chest, then leans back and takes a deep inhale from his cigarette. "I suppose I'll have to work my way up to feared." To Kay, "Hey, I'm not too big a man to not enjoy a little instant gratification." Cue a shit-eating grin and an artful exhale of a billow of smoke. The rest of what Micah says, he absorbs with a thoughtful look. That's...messy. "Well. That's sort of a misstep, isn't it? Giving psionic abilities to a double agent?" He eyes Kay's extended arm and the fist. He looks /perplexed/ for a moment, but then he figures it out and does the knuckle-tap thing. He's so white he's...well, he's Swedish. "So. What is your next move? I hope it involves getting away from these people sooner rather than later. Being so near to such a person seems like it would be ill-advised." "I do what I can, man... S'all any of us do." Micah winces just slightly at Kay's forehead touching his, against whatever thoughts and emotions travel through the contact of skin to skin. The impressions have only been seeming /stronger/ as his recovery progresses. "I don't know that they know I was double-agentin' or not. But I'm not goin' back there, either way. S'dangerous. Could be they're fillin' m'brain with information an' he's gotta get me back in person t'pluck it outta there, who knows? Ain't much /reason/ for me t'go back, an' a /lotta/ risk. As for the rest of gettin' away from 'em, an' the next move? S'gonna be strikin' /back/." His chin tilts to sort-of point, indicating the note he passed to Kay. "I met a lotta folks. Got t'figure who might know things. If...just havin' first names an' descriptions is of any use, more power to y'all on that front." The inner workings of Kay's mind do not fully match his outside; smiling and hearth-side warm, flashing eyes and loose shoulders, his mind is full of only Dusk screaming. Of empty eye sockets burning and sizzling, seared red hand prints against pale skin. And a cold cement holding it all together: "Strikin' back." He agrees brightly, all scratchy smoker's tenor and stained teeth. "A'ight. Let's move 'em out, sweet prince. We got work to do." This is to Isak, giving him a light bump of the knee to Isak's dear left /asscheek/ to get him on his way. Like the most polished of /cattle/. "Micah. Hang in there, huh? I'm not kiddin' about burning out, bro. You gotta trust /us/ with our own safety, too." If Isak doesn't come along quietly, he might get /bundled/ off. Because hell if Kay's ever bothered with PERSONAL SPACE. Maybe it's /hazing/ time for the new kid. "Catch ya later."