ArchivedLogs:Surveillance

Surveillance
Dramatis Personae Doug, Micah	16 March 2014 Cameras and expectations.
Location <NYC> Lobby - Village Lofts - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. A bank of mailboxes near the sitting area collects mail for the building, a recycling bin right at hand for the unwanted spam. Beside the mailboxes, a large corkboard serves as informal meeting space for the announcements, perpetually flyered with notes and notices from the various apartment residents. Sunday morning isn’t a busy time in the lobby of the Lofts. Most of the residents are out for church or brunch or merely sleeping off their Saturday. So, it’s pretty quiet, generally, which makes it a good time to Get Shit Done. Which is what Doug is currently doing. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt with the Tri-Force symbol on the chest, the blond perches at the top of a ladder near the elevators. He has a tool-belt strapped around his waist, and a screwdriver in his hand, which is helping with whatever he’s doing to the security camera just above the doorway. On the paint tray of the ladder, his laptop is open, offering him a screen filled with a seeming jumble of numbers and codes, as well as seven tiny thumbnails of the other cameras as they continue surveillance. It’s also providing music. Currently filling the lobby is Pavement’s album Brighten The Corners, David Malkmus’ off-key voice grinding odd lyrics against the empty air. Micah is one of those people who was recently absent from the building for brunch. Though one might honestly have called it breakfast today, moved up in schedule as it was from his typical Sunday brunch date. His auburn hair is peeking out messily from below his green-brown newsboy cap, his forest green fleece earwraps making another appearance as New York has decided winter is not over for it yet again. Likewise, his hands are hidden under green gradient-striped gloves again. He hasn't quite resorted to winter coat levels yet, still just layering his olive canvas jacket over his Batsignal hoodie, Totoro face T-shirt, and patchy bluejeans. In addition to his usual messenger bag, he has a cloth shopping bag slung over his opposite shoulder with that slight lingering pharmacy smell to it, stocking up the first aid supplies again. The music in the lobby brings a smile to Micah's cold-ruddy features as he steps inside, just because it's a new addition and music really /should/ be everywhere. He takes a few moments to greet Doug, even after recognising him there, out of deference to the idea that startling people up ladders is a /bad plan/. After a few ticks he offers a soft, “Hey, Doug! Whatcha up to with all the computer-camera stuff again?” Doug shivers as the cold from outside whirls in around Micah, and he glances in the direction of the door, not really /seeing/ who it is that’s inflicted the sudden and momentary /outside/ on him. When Micah speaks, though, he looks back, and a muscle jumps in his cheek before he offers a smile. “Hey.” He turns back to his work almost immediately, unscrewing a screw at the base of the camera. “I’m taking down all the interior cameras,” he says in answer to the question. “There’s a bug I can’t rectify, and they’re not really necessary.” He glances over his shoulder. “What are you up to?” Micah's weight shifts as he adjusts his bag on his shoulder and leans against a wall a bit. “Oh/gosh/, yeah, that might be for the best if management's been lookin' at you funny. I know the old management didn't mind, but they were kind of a mix of permissive an' negligent. These new folks are jerkfaces. S'prob'ly a good idea not t'put yourself on their radar.” He taps the bag at the question. “Just a quick supply run after brunch with Dusk. We go through first aid kit stocks like nobody's business. I used up most of my gauze'n all when that bizarro archer incident happened at the protest over the weekend. An' we got folks out that might be comin' in injured later today. So. There's that.” Micah's eyes track outside a little nervously. “There's still gonna be the outer cameras, though? I don't think management'd notice those so much. Since they're outside an' all.” “They didn’t say anything,” Doug says, gesturing at his laptop with the screwdriver. “Like I said, there’s a bug I can’t rectify. It confuses…” he presses his lips together, pauses thoughtfully. “It can’t distinguish physical affection from physical aggression.” He frowns, and continues unscrewing. “I’m tired of getting pings and then having to watch…” he closes his eyes. “Stuff.” He takes the screw and pockets it before moving on the next one. A certain tension runs through his shoulders when Dusk’s name is mentioned, and when he bobs his head in acknowledgment, it’s a stiff, puppet-like jerk. “I bet you guys do,” he says, his attention focused on his task. “But, I guess it’s a part of what you guys do. Unfortunately.” His nod to Micah’s question is equally stiff. “The outside cameras will stay up,” he affirms. “No reason to take those down, since you guys haven’t moved out yet.” “Oh,” is all Micah returns for a time, shifting his bag again. “Yeah, that could be problematic if every little thing is settin' off alarms. I didn't even know they were detectin' all that stuff. Thought it was just...facial recognition that went off when strangers were hangin' about an' that weapon-detectin' thing y'were talkin' about puttin' into it. Though I can see where that'd go wrong, too, if it thought that a cell phone was a handgun or whatever.” He looks down, gloved fingers running over his shoulder strap fidgetingly. “Right. Guess...we'll be out of everyone's hair soon enough an' life can get back t'normal 'round here.” “I was trying something new,” Doug explains, taking the screw out and pocketing it. He takes the camera in his hand, and pulls it free. “Program-wise. But, when that bug came up, I got to thinking that it was really going to be a pain to have the cameras down while I addressed it, and then I thought the outer cameras were probably enough.” He lifts a shoulder, and slides the camera into a pocket on the tool belt. Then he grabs his laptop and begins descending the ladder one-handed. “It’ll sure be quiet around here when you’re gone,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll miss you guys.” Which is a sincere expression, although it’s a tiny slip in his business-like sort of manner. Moving to set his laptop on the sofa, he comes back a moment later to fold up the ladder. When he speaks again, his tone is markedly more conversational. “Dusk and I are the same age, you know.” “Ah. I thought maybe you'd told me about it an' the computery parts just went over m'head so's I didn't realise you'd told me. Wouldn't be the first time,” Micah admits with a slightly tense chuckle. “I'll just...let folks know that there's less of the visual security 'round. So they aren't thinkin' t'rely on it an' it's not there. Guess it's only a couple months 'til the firebrands are done bringin' as much negative attention on the place. Um.” His hand reaches up the back of his neck to fuss at his hair below his cap. Either he's still cold enough that the red isn't fading from his cheeks or it's been seamlessly replaced with a similar shade of blush. “Oh?” The last statement earns a little head-tilt. “I got the impression that he was older. Like, at least a year. Not always the best at rememberin' full birth dates an' all.” “Is it a year?” Doug seems honestly surprised by this fact, and he colors a bit as his mouth tightens. “I thought he was just a few months older than me. Huh.” He pokes his tongue into the corner of his mouth as he considers this, and he colors even further, closing the ladder with a *bang* “Never mind, then.” He sets the ladder down, and returns to the sofa, sinking onto it with a heavy exhalation. He rubs at his face, and shakes his head, muttering to himself in what sounds like Tolkien Elvish. “I mean, I think so. Based on when...birthday things've happened. I think.” Micah tugs at the fingers of his gloves, eventually just pulling them off and stuffing them into his jacket's pockets. His hat is soon to follow, though it gets tucked into his bag due to being too large for the pockets. “Um...are you okay?” he asks at the sigh and sinking and muttering coming all together. “No,” is the muffled reply from behind Doug’s hands, mercifully in English. “I’m beginning to think maybe I’m not.” “Is...there somethin' wrong? I mean, that maybe it would help t'talk about? 'Cause we could do that.” Micah adjusts his bags again to step closer to the sofa to facilitate conversation, particularly with Doug going muffle-y. “I can make tea or cocoa or somethin'. S'always nice when you're feelin'...less than a hundred percent. 'Specially when it's cold out.” Doug lowers his hands when Micah offers a friendly ear, his eyes a bit red-rimmed upon their reveal. He studies the older man for a long moment, narrowing one eye as he considers. “I’m not sure talking about it would make things any better,” he says. “I’ve talked it to /death/.” He scrubs at his upper lip with the back of his hand, and leans back against the sofa, tilting his head to rest on the back. “You know of any good sex clubs in New York? Gay ones?” “Oh. Oh, honey.” Micah's brow furrows deeply when Doug moves his hands, taking his bags off his shoulders to set them on the ground so that he can sit on the couch next to Doug. “Are...y'sure? 'Cause that's really the best way I know of workin' through...whatever's goin' on. Help sort your mind out an'...get things out there as need t'be or whatever.” He is /just/ moving to rest a comforting hand on Doug's back when that unexpected question comes. Then the ruddiness of his cheeks lights brighter, creeping into neck and ears. “Oh. I wouldn't even. Know where t'start with. Um. I guess maybe ask Lucien. Would be. A start.” Doug’s expression is pained when Micah sits next to him, and he cranes his head back upright to stare at the older man. “I’m pretty sure you’d say the same things as Dusk,” he says. “Ultimately. But I’ve really noticed lately that although I can connect with people /physically/, whenever I feel like I’ve made any kind of /real/ connection, it’s always someone who’s not available. Or interested. And it’s kind of driving me batshit. Like, my ability is broken or something.” He lifts a shoulder, and his smile turns a bit bitter. “So, if that’s the only connection I can make, why not make the most of it, yeah?” He nods at the suggestion. “Yeah, I bet Lucien knows some good ones.” Micah pulls his hand back, resting it uncertainly in his lap at that pained expression, not really knowing what would be best for him to do at this point. “Dusk is good t'talk to. I'm glad...y'talked it out, then.” His shoulders roll in a touch. “Honey. It's... I know it's hard t'wait around for connections t'happen. But sometimes it /is/...a matter of waitin'. An' makin' friends. An' just...bein' around people an' interested in 'em as /people/ an' makin' relationships independent of the other stuff, then the other stuff just...comes when it comes, yeah? I'm not gonna say you're still young, 'cause /that/ seems t'be the thing not t'say lately.” He looks down at his hands, drumming his fingers a little. “I'd be afraid you're settin' yourself up for...a lotta hurt goin' into it like that, Doug. Unless what you're /honestly/ lookin' for is just a physical encounter. It's not a good idea t'go into somethin' where that's what the other person is lookin' for an' tell 'em that y'want the same unless y'actually /do/. Y'know? Gotta kinda...try t'be on the same...page. S'much as y'can. So if that's /not/ what y'want... Apologies, I'm ramblin'. Just. A little flustered.” He moves a fisted hand up to his chest to circle it there in signed apology. “I’m /tired/ of waiting,” Doug says, exhaling sharply. “I’ve been waiting for five years.” He wrinkles his nose. “Which, I’m now aware is probably just as silly as it sounds out loud. But /still/.” He waves a hand in the air. “I’d like to have my first boyfriend while I’m still a /teenager/. It seems sort of cliche if I can’t say it until I’m, say, twenty-four. Like, the ultimate sad nerd.” He laughs a bit hollowishly, shaking his head and looking down at his knees. “Which is what this sounds like, yeah?” He seems confused by Micah’s reaction to the sex clubs, and frowns. “I’m not sure I follow you,” he says. “Same page?” “{I'm sorry}, sugar. Other than...bein' involved in things you enjoy with other people who enjoy 'em, too. An'...bein' social an' open with what y'want from people. I'm not sure what else t'tell you.” Micah shakes his head at the 'sad nerd' comment. “Honey, you're not...sad. The right person just hasn't come along at the right time for you yet. An' you've had a lotta bein' real busy with school an' work an' your projects where you'd tell me that you didn't really sleep or leave your apartment for long periods of time. It's...not /sad/, it's where your priorities were at the time. If your priority is your work it's no fault that social priorities aren't advancin' as quickly. People have but so much time an' energy in their lives, right? I mean...I was so tied up in work the first six months or so I moved up here, I didn't hardly make any new /friends/ outside of the folks I knew 'fore I moved. Weren't that there was nothin' /wrong/ with me. Just that work was where I was focusin' my energy at the time. Does that make sense?” Micah shifts a little to lean back in his seat more comfortably. “What I'm sayin' is that...if what y'really want is a relationship, then that's what y'should tell people. If you're tired of lookin' for that right now an' what y'really want is sex that doesn't lead t'anythin' else, that's fine. There's nothin' wrong with that. I'd honestly say it's healthy sometimes, an' good when you're honest with yourself about it. But if that's /not/ what y'want right now, you're lookin' t'get yourself hurt tellin' people that it is. 'Cause they're gonna take you at your word an' respond appropriately.” Doug nods at that, his expression not any /lighter/ for the explanation. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says, wrinkling his nose. Then he lifts a hand to scrub at his face. “Ugh. Maybe Shane is right. Maybe I /am/ a robot, because feelings are hard.” He might be joking; he has a tilted, tight grin on his face when he lowers his hand. “And I /do/ seem to get along better with computers than people.” “Did Shane really call you a robot?” Micah sounds a little disappointed at that. “You're not a robot, Doug. The fact that this is upsettin' you so much should prove that. You're definitely feelin', an' feelin' a lot.” He does finally reach over to place his hand on Doug's back, rubbing a gentle little circle. “D'you really think y'don't get along with people? Or is it more that...people aren't meetin' the expectations you're settin' for 'em? 'Cause sometimes that just means that expectations need a little adjustment.” “It was a while back,” Doug admits, a bit of a chuckle in his voice. “I’m not sure he still feels that way.” He leans forward when Micah’s hand lands on his back, and rests his face in his hands. “I don’t know,” he says honestly to the question. “I mean, I don’t /think/ my expectations are too high, but maybe they are.” He sniffs experimentally (and a little exaggeratedly). “Maybe I stink of desperation. I’ve heard that’s a thing.” He shrugs. “Whatever it is, it’s pretty fucking lonely at the end of the day.” He holds up a hand. “And I’ve /got/ ads up looking for roommates, so that suggestion has been made and heeded.” Micah chuckles a little at the sniff. “Y'smell fine, honey, don't worry 'bout that. But...yeah, maybe it might be a better plan t'just sprinkle time with people in regularly. 'Stead of holin' up by yourself an' not comin' out 'til you're goin' batty from bein' in an empty apartment? Maybe you'll feel a little less like you're presentin' a desperate front that way. A lotta things is in how y'feel an' perceive 'em /yourself/, y'know.” His fingers curl in to scratch lightly against the fabric of Doug's shirt. “An' it's not...a matter of expectations bein' /high/. Just not bein' met. S'where most disappointment in the world comes from. S'a mismatch of expectations between two parties. That's why I keep makin' a big deal about bein' up front 'bout where you are emotionally an' what you're lookin' for.” He nods at the mention of roommate ads. “That's a great idea! Some folks is made for livin' alone an' some aren't. Think it'll do y'good t'have some folks about just...casually. With roommate expectations.” “I’ve been trying to do that,” Doug says, nodding into his hands before lifting his face up. “I mean, as much as I /can/ -- I’ve got a lot of tap-dancing to do to make sure I don’t lose any college money for registering. Which my mom is /really/ after me to come up to Westchester to do, because of the shit here in New York.” He shakes his head. “Which is off the point. But I have been trying to do things around actual people. And when the weather warms back up, I’ll do more.” He sighs as scratches starts, and closes his eyes as he rests his chin in his palms. “Maybe I should just start...not expecting /anything/ from people, and let myself be pleasantly surprised.” He snorts a laugh at the comment about roommate expectations. “Okay, one exception to the no expectations rule. Based on the responses so far, I should at least expect to be able to surround myself with /not creepy/. Hopefully.” “Honestly, it's a one-time trip. She might...kinda have a point. Things've been a little shooty an' explosive down this way. If it's calmer up there, that's a good plan.” Micah cringes a little as he mentions shooting. “Open-minded is a good way t'go into things. Sometimes things happen best when you're /not/ focused in on 'em so hard. But, yeah,” he chuckles at Doug's laugh. “I think 'not creepy' is more'n fair for folks you're plannin' on livin' with. Wish y'good luck with it.” “Yeah,” Doug says. “She has a /point/. It’s just finding a time that’s convenient.” He wrinkles his nose. “So, that’s the plan. I’m going to stop expecting things from people, and see what happens.” He inhales deeply, and pushes to his feet. “And hopefully find a not-creepy roommate who will make my life less...solo. At least for now.” He grins -- an actual grin, and ducks his head. “Thanks for listening. And the advice. I really appreciate it.” He plucks up his laptop, then, and tucks it under his arm. “I should probably get the rest of the cameras down,” he says. “Before I get any more distracted. I don’t need any more video feed of that guy on seven and his dates that seem to start before they get to his apartment.” He shudders. “Talk about creepy.” “You're more'n welcome, honey. Not about t'leave a friend sittin' 'round cryin' in the lobby; that's not okay. Wouldn't be livin' up t'my /own/ expectations.” The back-scratching ends in a pat as Doug moves to stand. Micah follows not long behind. “Really hope things start lookin' up for you, hon. An' you're right. Spring's on the way. I think /everybody's/ been goin' a little cooped-up crazy with this winter bein' what it's been.” He stoops to collect his bags, slinging one strap over each shoulder again. “I'll leave y'to that. No good distractin' people up ladders, neither. Have a good afternoon, honey.” He gives a little wave before retreating to the stairs, and presumably back up to his own apartment.