Michael
2/16/2008
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A small, comfortable little place, this: a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea; the atmosphere is thick with comfort, not desperate sophistication.
Reminiscent of a night not many days past, the city continues to be locked in the unrelenting grasp of winter in February. Sparse drifts of snow fall from a dark sky, the lights of the streets reflecting off the snowflakes carried by gusts of wind. Friday night sees a tightly packed crowd in the White Room, the low murmur of conversation creating a warm buzz that fills the casual cafe. A mug, presumably with chai in it, sits next to Michael's elbow at a small, two-seat table, the man looking a bit worn around the edges.
Ah, lovely. Into the familiar scene enters a woman, dark of hair and eyes, thin of frame and smile. She appears abruptly at Michael's side, mug cradled in her hands, and for a moment she simply hovers over him, looking downward. Hello.
As a testament to his condition, Michael is a moment before realizing that there is someone hovering over him, let alone someone he's seen before, if under less than pleasant circumstances. Blue-green eyes travel up to her face, catching briefly on the smile before meeting her eyes, "Oh... erm. Hello."
"Still here, I see," Elizabeth intones sweetly. "Managing New York all right these days, are you?" She slides, without invitation, into the seat opposite him and lifts her mug as she watches him with arched brows over the rim.
The imposition of her presence and the seemingly abrupt shift in the tone of conversation this time around has caught Michael off-guard. "No, not still..." He halts, aware that she was not, of course, implying that he'd been here these last three days. Taking momentary refuge behind a drink of his chai, he responds, "Well, you'd think this sort of thing might happen elsewhere too, but New York seems a definite focal point for it all, doesn't it?"
"This sort of thing?" The mug lowers a touch and Elizabeth considers him as it settles lightly on the table.
Michael waves his hand about vaguely, the gesture obviously meant to encompass New York, "The mutant thing." He's feeling talkative and, though his voice is kept at a conversational level, his words are less discreet, "I just got a new job and... did you know that same crazy bastards went around collecting mutants, kids, loners, anyone they could get their hands on and doing horrible things to them? What the hell? Children? Young men and women?" His voice carries the burden of knowledge not solely gained from calm, rational sources, though when he looks to Elizabeth, he just shakes his head, "Sorry, not exactly polite talk, is it?"
Elizabeth's expression darkens, and for a very long moment she is silent. Her coffee sits untouched before her. Eventually she answers tightly, "I am aware, yes."
Michael notices as Elizabeth clamps down, her tight response met with a sigh as he shakes his head once more, "Too much cruelty and stupidity in the world." He laughs then, mocking and rife with self-recrimination, "But the world goes on, people get shocked and then they forget." The entire conversation, despite having been brought up by him, is thrown out with a swat of his hand, "And do you come here to hide away from the world too or is the coffee just that good?"
"Generally, I come here to work," Elizabeth allows. Her dark gaze lingers tight on him, considering, and after a moment she notes, "Perceptive."
The smallest of smiles tugs at Michael's lips as he says, "That's usually the last thing people credit to scientists." He is quiet as he takes a sip or two from his chai, returning it to the table before him, "And what sort of law do you practice?"
"Criminal," Elizabeth answers briefly. "I'm a District Attorney. A prosecutor."
Michael almost returns to the previous topic, the consideration lingering clearly in his eyes before he speaks, "Ah. Noble enough, and hopefully you manage to shunt away the worst of the lot." The last reference is vague as to whom exactly it would be that should be locked away. "Can't imagine the job is any good at keeping your faith in the goodness of humanity, huh?"
"Not nearly. We rarely catch the worst of the lot. And when we do, they have the best lawyers," Elizabeth answers, optimistic in her cheer. She lifts her mug for another sip and does not answer his question.
Michael's smile this time is tinged with cynicism, "I suppose that's not surprising at all." He let's his other question go unanswered without challenge, though it prompts a new one, "So why do you do it, then? Only way to get at the really bad ones that won't set you in jail too?"
To that question, Elizabeth responds with only a smile, very small. For the briefest moment, her eyes dim dangerously cold before they warm again and she wonders, "What do you do?"
Another question that falls into the void, Michael seems unsurprised, though he misses the harsh light that momentarily enters her eyes. "Ah, I'm a teacher now, but a physicist by trade. Optics, mostly."
"A teacher now?" Brows lift in silent query, invitation to expand.
Michael nods, "Yep, I just began my stint at Xavier's School, though I'm still permitted to continue independent studies in my field."
There is a clear flash of surprise in Elizabeth's eyes, followed by a twisted smile, wry. "Xavier's. I see. How kind of them to permit you to continue your studies." There is the faintest emphasis on the word 'permit', and her gaze steadies on him.
Michael shrugs, "Universities expect a lot; my alma mater wants basically seven years of indentured service to full faculty and many publications. While there is less prestige at a high school academy, they've got good benefits and allow me my studies on my own time. Their recent.. media attention, hasn't exactly been terrific for me, but kids need to learn without being feared."
"I see you've got it all worked out, then," Elizabeth answers serenely. "And how are you finding it there? At Xavier's?"
"Different, that's for sure." Michael's features collapse a little as he continues, "It's what put me in my mood. Saw a kid that got out after that torture. He was broken on the inside and couldn't have been more than twenty or so. You're a criminal lawyer in the D.A.'s office, and," here pauses, "this is how I do my own part. Life doesn't need to be perfect, it just shouldn't be terror, for those kids."
There is silence from Elizabeth, and her expression has gone rather blank. After a moment she stands, her chair sliding out behind her with a scrape. "If you'll excuse me," she says, and then she turns and weaves her way away through the crowd.
Perhaps he should be surprised, but he's not, Michael knows nothing about the woman, but he has come to learn that assumption about her would be meaningless. Instead, he watches her depart for a moment before returning to his chai and his thoughts.
Friendly conversation.
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
A small, comfortable little place, this: a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea; the atmosphere is thick with comfort, not desperate sophistication.
Reminiscent of a night not many days past, the city continues to be locked in the unrelenting grasp of winter in February. Sparse drifts of snow fall from a dark sky, the lights of the streets reflecting off the snowflakes carried by gusts of wind. Friday night sees a tightly packed crowd in the White Room, the low murmur of conversation creating a warm buzz that fills the casual cafe. A mug, presumably with chai in it, sits next to Michael's elbow at a small, two-seat table, the man looking a bit worn around the edges.
Ah, lovely. Into the familiar scene enters a woman, dark of hair and eyes, thin of frame and smile. She appears abruptly at Michael's side, mug cradled in her hands, and for a moment she simply hovers over him, looking downward. Hello.
As a testament to his condition, Michael is a moment before realizing that there is someone hovering over him, let alone someone he's seen before, if under less than pleasant circumstances. Blue-green eyes travel up to her face, catching briefly on the smile before meeting her eyes, "Oh... erm. Hello."
"Still here, I see," Elizabeth intones sweetly. "Managing New York all right these days, are you?" She slides, without invitation, into the seat opposite him and lifts her mug as she watches him with arched brows over the rim.
The imposition of her presence and the seemingly abrupt shift in the tone of conversation this time around has caught Michael off-guard. "No, not still..." He halts, aware that she was not, of course, implying that he'd been here these last three days. Taking momentary refuge behind a drink of his chai, he responds, "Well, you'd think this sort of thing might happen elsewhere too, but New York seems a definite focal point for it all, doesn't it?"
"This sort of thing?" The mug lowers a touch and Elizabeth considers him as it settles lightly on the table.
Michael waves his hand about vaguely, the gesture obviously meant to encompass New York, "The mutant thing." He's feeling talkative and, though his voice is kept at a conversational level, his words are less discreet, "I just got a new job and... did you know that same crazy bastards went around collecting mutants, kids, loners, anyone they could get their hands on and doing horrible things to them? What the hell? Children? Young men and women?" His voice carries the burden of knowledge not solely gained from calm, rational sources, though when he looks to Elizabeth, he just shakes his head, "Sorry, not exactly polite talk, is it?"
Elizabeth's expression darkens, and for a very long moment she is silent. Her coffee sits untouched before her. Eventually she answers tightly, "I am aware, yes."
Michael notices as Elizabeth clamps down, her tight response met with a sigh as he shakes his head once more, "Too much cruelty and stupidity in the world." He laughs then, mocking and rife with self-recrimination, "But the world goes on, people get shocked and then they forget." The entire conversation, despite having been brought up by him, is thrown out with a swat of his hand, "And do you come here to hide away from the world too or is the coffee just that good?"
"Generally, I come here to work," Elizabeth allows. Her dark gaze lingers tight on him, considering, and after a moment she notes, "Perceptive."
The smallest of smiles tugs at Michael's lips as he says, "That's usually the last thing people credit to scientists." He is quiet as he takes a sip or two from his chai, returning it to the table before him, "And what sort of law do you practice?"
"Criminal," Elizabeth answers briefly. "I'm a District Attorney. A prosecutor."
Michael almost returns to the previous topic, the consideration lingering clearly in his eyes before he speaks, "Ah. Noble enough, and hopefully you manage to shunt away the worst of the lot." The last reference is vague as to whom exactly it would be that should be locked away. "Can't imagine the job is any good at keeping your faith in the goodness of humanity, huh?"
"Not nearly. We rarely catch the worst of the lot. And when we do, they have the best lawyers," Elizabeth answers, optimistic in her cheer. She lifts her mug for another sip and does not answer his question.
Michael's smile this time is tinged with cynicism, "I suppose that's not surprising at all." He let's his other question go unanswered without challenge, though it prompts a new one, "So why do you do it, then? Only way to get at the really bad ones that won't set you in jail too?"
To that question, Elizabeth responds with only a smile, very small. For the briefest moment, her eyes dim dangerously cold before they warm again and she wonders, "What do you do?"
Another question that falls into the void, Michael seems unsurprised, though he misses the harsh light that momentarily enters her eyes. "Ah, I'm a teacher now, but a physicist by trade. Optics, mostly."
"A teacher now?" Brows lift in silent query, invitation to expand.
Michael nods, "Yep, I just began my stint at Xavier's School, though I'm still permitted to continue independent studies in my field."
There is a clear flash of surprise in Elizabeth's eyes, followed by a twisted smile, wry. "Xavier's. I see. How kind of them to permit you to continue your studies." There is the faintest emphasis on the word 'permit', and her gaze steadies on him.
Michael shrugs, "Universities expect a lot; my alma mater wants basically seven years of indentured service to full faculty and many publications. While there is less prestige at a high school academy, they've got good benefits and allow me my studies on my own time. Their recent.. media attention, hasn't exactly been terrific for me, but kids need to learn without being feared."
"I see you've got it all worked out, then," Elizabeth answers serenely. "And how are you finding it there? At Xavier's?"
"Different, that's for sure." Michael's features collapse a little as he continues, "It's what put me in my mood. Saw a kid that got out after that torture. He was broken on the inside and couldn't have been more than twenty or so. You're a criminal lawyer in the D.A.'s office, and," here pauses, "this is how I do my own part. Life doesn't need to be perfect, it just shouldn't be terror, for those kids."
There is silence from Elizabeth, and her expression has gone rather blank. After a moment she stands, her chair sliding out behind her with a scrape. "If you'll excuse me," she says, and then she turns and weaves her way away through the crowd.
Perhaps he should be surprised, but he's not, Michael knows nothing about the woman, but he has come to learn that assumption about her would be meaningless. Instead, he watches her depart for a moment before returning to his chai and his thoughts.
Friendly conversation.