Productive Procrastination [ Mihai ]

[Deleted]

Nesia sorted through her closet, looking at each dresses and gowns thoroughly. One was missing from her closet, and it was her favorite too. But when she found a satin blue dress that she could not remember ever buying it, the woman remembered. She wore the missing dress to a party, and one accident had required her to leave the dress. Thankfully, the kind and gentle host provided her with the blue dress. Now that she was reminded of that event, she wanted her dress back. The question was, how?

She turned her back, facing the mess in her apartment room. Nesia was feeling too lazy to go to work today, so she opted to work on her designs from home. Yet the laziness was stronger than she expected and now she found herself tidying up her apartment. She had sorted her stuff - dresses, shoes and bags - into their respective shelf in her closet. But now her living room was full of empty shoe boxes, crumpled sales receipts and whatever else that she had already forgotten about.

Nesia found a large plastic bag and quickly throws everything inside it. Cluttered space was not good for working. She tied the full plastic bag and left it beside the door before grabbing a broom.

Now, how to contact Filipp Alexandrov? He was a well-known figure in Archadia, so getting his address shouldn't be that hard. But even imagining herself knocking his front door and asked about her dress felt awkward. Maybe she should bring a friend with her? That way she wouldn't feel too embarrassed. Oh, maybe she could go today? She had not much work today anyway. Or she could bring her sketchbook with her and go to a cafe afterwards. Good environment helped good ideas to grow.

Once she finished sweeping (or more like shoving all the recyclable stuff into another plastic bag), Nesia went to take a quick shower. A knocking on the door greeted her when she left the bathroom. "Wait a minute!" she announced, hurriedly slipped into her shirt and sweatpants. The woman ensured herself that she looked presentable enough before unlocking the door, peeking at the visitor.

"Yes?"

[Mihai C. Eliade]

That day, much too early, Mihai had found himself cornered by the secretary of a certain Filipp Alexandrov, and a package unceremoniously shoved into his arms. Given an address, he'd been asked—no, ordered—to take the packet to a certain Miss Nesia Notonegoro, along with the well-wishes of Mr. Alexandrov, tucked into the ribbon of the parcel in the form of a card. It was by this command that he found himself on the streets of Archadia at a time when its residents were just barely stirring, map in one hand and packet in another. He handled the charge with a near-semblance of disgust, as though he were carrying a dead animal rather than a parcel wrapped neatly in shiny blue paper.

Needless to say, he quite resented the task. I'm not your delivery boy, he'd wanted to snap at the work-shirking secretary, and yet, as far as humans were concerned, he was whatever they wanted him to be. So delivery boy it was, and what else could he do than to accept the task with a smile and nodded assent? Privately, he hoped that Alexandrov would discover the laziness of his secretary, and have the incompetent man fired. It was a wish that would be hard-pressed to be fulfilled, but here's to hoping.

The address, at least, was not difficult to find. It was located in a popular area for housing, and he had only to refer to his map for the specific numbering. He stopped in front of the door, pausing to double-check the number, then he took a deep breath and knocked. He dearly hoped that the lady living here would not be the overbearing sort (as he knew the government-types liked to associate with those kinds of people); he'd much rather get this task over with as quickly as possible. Regardless of what he used to be like, he was now very much not in the business of associating with too many people. Especially humans.

"Wait a minute!" He heard the muffled shout from inside the house, so he waited. He tucked his map into his pocket and proceeded to study the peeling paint of the door frame, shifting a bit awkwardly on his feet. Not only was he not quite used to paying people visits in houses (in Underground cells was a different story), but he felt conspicuous in this neighborhood. Conspicuous and out of place, and god forbid one of the cops spotted him here; they would surely find him suspicious.

Luckily, before that could happen, the door was opened to him. He glanced up briefly at the click of the lock, catching a glimpse of a young woman, pretty and dark-haired, by no means done a disservice even if she was clad only in simple attire. Yet, he lowered his eyes before taking too much detail—it would be rude of him to look a human in the eyes, and a lady no less. Again, he took a breath, before forcing a smile to his lips. "I apologize for disturbing you," he said tepidly, the apathetic tone of voice hardly matching his polite smile. "Are you Miss Nesia Notonegoro? I was sent to deliver something for you, from Mr. Filipp Alexandrov at the government bureau." He held out the package, keeping his eyes carefully lowered and repressing the nervous twist in his gut. He had checked that he'd come to the right place—hopefully there was no embarrassing himself there, as long as the lazyass of a secretary hadn't decided to trick him for his own amusement—but he couldn't help the bit of worry. There was always the chance that he would not be up to the... standard of the lady as a delivery boy, or another myriad of possibilities that could lead the situation astray.

{{@derpinesia. Just changed Francis' name around; hopefully it's ok!

[Deleted]

Nesia had forgotten to unlock the chain, but she deemed it was better to leave it intact. Her unexpected guest was a young man in a neat clothes holding a parcel in his hands. Her first thought was that he's working for a delivery company, but Nesia knew their staffs would not looked so shy like this blond man. Professional code dictated them to look at their client directly, smiled politely and always be cheerful during their contact. And he did none of these things; his smile was too stiff, his gaze was elsewhere - overall, his body language indicated that he would rather be anywhere else but her front door. She shrugged her thoughts away. Maybe a delivery company lacked staff and sent this inexperienced man instead. What a joke. Her apartment was in one of the rich district of Archadia. What was his boss thinking by sending him here? Did he know that it would leave bad impression on her and her neighbors?

"I apologize for disturbing you."

The crease between her eyebrows disappeared as her usual polite smile returned. Nesia had no intention to make his day even worse after all. "It's fine, don't worry." Her attention went to the parcel, then back to him. He did not even wear a uniform.

"Are you Miss Nesia Notonegoro? I was sent to deliver something for you, from Mr. Filipp Alexandrov at the government bureau."

"Yes that would be me--oh!" she exclaimed right when he mentioned Filipp Alexandrov's name. "Ah, yes, I have been wondering when will it arrive... a moment," Nesia closed the door to open the chain. Yet at the same time a loud sound came from the kitchen, reminding her that she was reheating last night's dinner. Her mind was often not focused on the task at hand, but wandered and lost in her own little world. Perhaps she didn't insert the power cable tight enough into the socket?

Nesia cursed aloud in her native tongue and ran to save her food, leaving the door opened ajar. The sight that greeted her in the kitchen made her scream. Her oven socket was on fire. Red and orange flames were licking her kitchen cabinet, threatening to turn it into ashes too. "What do I do what do I do what do I do!?" She hurriedly ran to the bathroom, filling a bucket full with water, then dragged it as fast as she could to the kitchen.

[Mihai C. Eliade]

She seemed friendly enough, and he let out much of the tenseness he'd been feeling. He noticed that she didn't open the door all the way and still kept the chain locked, but that was fine. That sort of thing was pretty normal for anyone paranoid with suddenly finding an unexpected guest at their house, and at least she didn't seem to take offense that he wasn't human. Either that, or she hadn't noticed. He hoped if that was the case, he could just turn the parcel over and make his escape before she did.

As he waited for her to unlock the door—not quite patiently, but his irritation wasn't directed at her anyway—he ran over the multitude of courtesies he should be offering on behalf of Alexandrov. 'Mr. Alexandrov wanted to come by this way himself, but he is a very busy man;' bullshit, he'd dumped the task on his secretary and his secretary dumped it on me. 'Mr. Alexandrov again sends his condolences and his best regards;' well, if Mihai was supposed to wish her anything, then he certainly hadn't been told (he hadn't been told either what kind of "accident" had taken place to warrant a gift from the politician). In the end, he opted to say nothing; if the government wanted to kiss its citizens' asses, they could do it themselves.

He heard the click of the chain hitting the door, and then she was opening it again… But it didn't make it all the way before a loud boom sounded from inside the house. The sound made him jump, but once the surprise and momentary panic had died down, he considered briefly that maybe there was some sort of construction going on. It would've been plausible had she not immediately gone rushing back inside the house, leaving him standing on her doorstep. He stared after her, a bit perplexed (should he just wait out here?), until he heard her shriek.

It was a moment of split-second decision-making: either give her her privacy with whatever she was dealing with and stay out here, or… well, help. With whatever it was. It could be from robbers to a spider, and he wasn't even sure if his help would be appreciated, but, okay, he couldn't just hear someone scream and stand there, right? He half-set, half-dropped the parcel on the floor of the entryway and dashed inside, telling himself that if he didn't help and she ended up seriously hurt or something, he'd get in trouble for it. He tried not to think about how he'd get in trouble too, if he tried to help and fucked it up.

It was almost immediately clear what the issue was as soon as he was inside. He could smell smoke, so it wasn't unexpected when he followed the smell into the kitchen (with a couple false turns) and saw the wall by the cabinet going up in flames. It was coming from the tail end of the oven cable, maybe the socket was overloaded—electrical fire—and he realized just in time too, as the young woman came back, dragging a bucket of water after her.

"Stop, stop! Don't do that!" he yelled at her before he could stop himself, momentarily forgetting all courtesies. The physics lectures he'd been given wound like a mantra in his head: Water is a conductor, conductors allow the flow of electrical currents. Conductors allow the flow of electrical currents, and water is a conductor. Water is a conductor, that's why they pour water over people before—

He interrupted that line of thought with a shaky breath, clenching his hands into fists and focusing on the small pinpricks of pain to ground himself. He really didn't need a freak-out episode right now—there were plenty of things that were already happening that were worth freaking out about. Like the fire. He hadn't really been trained in this, but he had a vague idea what to do. I hope you're not too attached to your cushions, he thought to himself wryly before snatching one off the nearest stool. He hesitated a moment as he faced the fire, wondering if he should just tell her to call the fire department instead of trying to deal with the mess. He wasn't obsessed with saving people by any means, even less so their property. Even though the fire wasn't that big, it wasn't small enough that he could put it out painlessly. But it would only grow by the time it took for them to call the firemen.

He gritted his teeth, shoved up his sleeve, and reached into the red-orange flames. The pain wasn't immediate. There was a second of delay, like seeing lightning before thunder, then it flared up all at once as the fire licked at his bare skin. He tried to keep quiet as he wrapped his fingers around the cord of the oven, but the protective layer must have already melted off, because as soon as he brushed against it, the exposed wires sent a shock up his arm and through his body. A high-pitched noise escaped him and he almost pulled back, but the searing sensation was nowhere near foreign; he'd been through this before, been through much worse so he fought off that instinct. He bit down hard on his tongue instead and forced himself to pull the cord from the socket. It took longer than he would've liked—the burns were making his palm slick and he couldn't quite grasping it right, part of the plug had probably already melted inside the socket. But finally, he felt it give and he quickly pulled back, throwing the wire onto the ground before grabbing the cushion and pressing it over the flames. He hoped it would be enough to smother the fire.

[Deleted]

"Stop, stop! Don't do that!"

Nesia saw the blond man standing in her living room - definitely had been drawn in by her scream. Heart pounding hard against her rib cage, Nesia fretted, "huh!? Can't you see what is happening in my kitchen?" her hands were waving frantically as she spoke. But the man ignored her complain; instead, he rushed to one of her chairs - the one with amhurst upholstery - grabbed one of the cushion and ran into the next room. Nesia's yell of "hey what do you think you are doing" went unheeded, but perhaps he did not understand her because somehow what launched from her tongue was the sentence in her mother language. Not in English nor Russian.

"Hei! Elo mau ngapain!?" In her mind the only logical thing to do was dousing the fire with water. Why did he took a cushion instead? And from her favorite furniture nonetheless! The company did not produce anything like this anymore; Nesia liked the cockatoo patterns they used to make.

Oh right-- the fire. Shit.

The designer ran her hands through her hair, pulling loose some strands from her neatly tied hair. She never had to deal with anything like this, never. The mutants at home always knew what to do in emergency situations. Once her little sister tried to cook something but made her doll caught fire instead - she did not know that putting the doll so close to the stove was dangerous. All Nesia did back then was just watching the servants took care of the damage while her mother calmed the daughters. And that was what she did now too - except no one was there to calm her down.

The blond man was screaming. So did she. He just touched the burning cord with his bare hands. Yet the sight of him in deep agony pushed the gears in her brain to work. An image of large red tube surfaced atop of her countless thoughts, and without wasting any second to think, Nesia bolted out to the hallway. "Tunggu di sini!" she shouted at him, which was unnecessary seeing that he was still struggling with the cord and once more she forgot to switch her languages.

It did not take long to locate said object. The red box was quite striking against the cream painted wall. Nesia crashed the glass cover with a small hammer that was hung beside it, then removed the tube. By the time she arrived at the scene, her cushion was pinned against the burning socket - with a pair of charred hands.

"Move!" the woman commanded, aiming the fire extinguisher and pulled the safety pin. A gush of fluid flowed and hit the electric socket, covering it and her burned cushion as well. Then Nesia dropped the empty extinguisher, her hands waving to clear the smoke. "Ayo-- let's get out of here!" the Indonesian took the man's arm and pulled him along halfway through the living room, where she released him to open the windows.

And in that moment, realization hit her. The smoke alarm did not work. She made a mental note to call the building supervisor later. That was dangerous; next time someone might be dead from inhaling the smoke.

Coughing a little, she approached her rescuer. She winced at the sight of his hands, eyes brimming with tears. "You shouldn't have done that! It's risky! I'm calling an ambulance!"

[Mihai C. Eliade]

Well, he'd never thought that training from Weeds would have been useful to him. Perhaps the humans knew what they were doing after all–though, no, he'd never doubted that. They knew very well what they were doing, they just didn't care. That was why his hands were whitened and red to the bone while the woman stood there with the fire extinguisher in her hand. Couldn't you have found that earlier? he wanted to bite out, but years and years of living here like this had made him good at biting his tongue. Yet, he couldn't help but flinch when she suddenly strode over and grabbed him. She'd been yelling incomprehensible things to him before (was she not born here? Was that her mother tongue? She did speak Russian with a bit of an accent…). He wondered if she was angry at him for something. Using her furniture piece, maybe, even though he'd only done that because she hadn't said anything about a fire extinguisher and had been about to pour water on her socket. But it wasn't like reasoning mattered; mutants could be punished over anything their masters pleased.

That was why it was unexpected when she announced she was going to call for an ambulance. Mutants were rarely provided with the urgency of care that required ambulances, unless their owner was truly some rich madman who loved his slaves that much. Most of them usually cared for their wounds on their own, unless it was really bad enough for them to get to the hospital–usually on nothing fancier than regular transportation–though that also depended on the mercy of their masters. Another dead mutant didn't count for much.

He turned his gaze towards her, surprised and cautious. He was even more taken aback by the expression on her face. There was a glimmer in her eyes that made it almost seem like… she was tearing up. He followed her stare down to his hands–realizing, with a start, that they were plainly in view–then hastily tucked them behind his back again. He hadn't meant to upset her with that particular sight. He could swallow seeing blood and guts, but of course most humans have never been witness to anything like that, which was why he'd wanted to keep his injuries from her in the first place. He'd forgotten about it when she'd dragged him out of the kitchen, he supposed.

"I-I don't need anything like that," he quickly assured. "They'll heal." The burns were bad, but he could already feel the prickling pain of his cells repairing themselves. Give it an hour or two, and there should be no more grisly sight for her to concern herself over. That didn't mean the raw patches didn't hurt, and he had to fight to keep the strained element out of his voice–something he had also gotten good at. "If you're all right, I suppose I should go… If you wish," he added eventually. He wasn't sure what was expected of him now that he'd accomplished his primary objective (give her the parcel) and also managed to put out the fire. Unless she wanted to hold him accountable somehow, he assumed she'd be eager to get him out of her house, especially since it seemed like he was troubling her.

---

@derpinesia

[Deleted]

Nesia struggled to find a word fitting to describe the situation-- describing him, to be exact. He was calm, but calm didn't fit, calm was so wrong to be associated with the blond man; because who could stay calm when your hands were seared and burned? And how come he looked like as if his wounds weren't terrible?

"I-I don't need anything like that."

No you need an urgent aid and I can't do first aid what am I supposed to do with those hands when they are missing their skin oh no oh no. Despite the myriads of emotions within her, Nesia was incapable to produce anything comprehensible except a weak whimper. It tasted salty; her tears must be dripping past her lips.

"They'll heal."

She couldn't bring herself to see his hands again, no. They wouldn't heal on their own, they would get infected and scarred and became more horrible as more time passed-- wait...

What?

"Y-you can't possibly go outside with hands like that!" Nesia interjected harshly. "Stay here at least until your hands are better looking. I can't let you go like that; what would people say?" She wiped her eyes. The designer had myriads of questions running in her mind, but first she had to calm herself down. "Just... sit down."

Ignoring the mess in her kitchen, Nesia opened her fridge and took out a box full of ice cubes. Then she brought it to the living room. "I... really don't know how to treat that..." she gestured at his hands, placing a small towel next to the box. "I'm sorry, I'm a mess... don't worry about my kitchen, I'll take care of it later." Nesia sat down, her fingers began twirling some loose strands. "And... and don't worry about Mr. Alexandrov, I'll tell him you had to stay here because I insisted it."

Her panic began to dwindle down after she moved and talked. The woman leaned, eyes fixed at her own lap where her hands were resting atop it. There was only one logical explanation on why the man before her remained composed and confidently saying his hands would be alright. So she raised her chin a little, looking for a telltale sign at his wrists and neck.

"So... I assume..." Nesia cleared her throat, using a more formal tone to speak, "I assume you're a mutant?"