2012 04 11 Life Bites

Log Title:
Life bites.

Morbius, Phantasm

IC Date:
11 April 2012

Mike's Apartment

Brief Log Summary::
It's a dreary Wednesday, Mike's just coming back from a funeral service and his friend is still in the hospital. Can this day be any worse? What's that? Morbius is hiding in the apartment wanting to talk about his dad now? Oh, that's just peachy.


There is no TS in this log::

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-==[ Mike's Apt - Tate Apt Bldg - New York ]==-----—-

This studio apartment is quite simple. To the right of the entryway is the kitchen and bathroom, to the left a closet and a washer/dryer. Straight ahead, the Living/Dining Room combo. Walk to there and there's a sleeping alcove to the right. As far as furniture there are five notable pieces of furniture. Two futons in the alcove, two more futons in the living /dining room area, and a rather beaten, and likely salvaged from a street corner on trash day, coffee table. Resting on the table is an old TV and converter box.

It is unsure to what is sadder. The minimalism of the furniture, or that four guys pooled their money for this and this is all they did. But factoring the amount of sound proof paneling around the place along with the drumset, guitars, keyboard, recorder, and practice drum pads scattered about there's likely a good reason why the furniture count stopped where it did. With just two people sharing the apartment now, this quasi-two room, quasi-kitchen, one bathroom apartment seems quite spacious. Although, the occupants would prefer it much more if the other two former occupants were still there.

Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe,




How appropriate on such a chilly, overcast, rainy day that it would be Wednesday. The courtyard of the Tate is quite miserable looking with the absence of the sun which makes the ride up in the glass walled elevator viewing it just as dreary. As the elevator doors part ways, granting Mike Hannigan access to the very floor he lives on, he too is matched well with the mood of the day. Dress pants, black dress shirt, jacket, and tie. He looks like he just came from a funer- oh, funeral booklet in hand. Ah. Ok that explains that. Lips set to a thin line, Mike looks blankly ahead as he walks to his apartment, fishing out the keys that he needs to gain entry to the home he and Wade share.

As the strip of metal slides into the keyhole and starts to twist, he lets out a long sigh.

And pushes the door open.

There, lying on the coffee table, is a note. It says at the top, in a rather scraggly hand (doctors, go figure) is 'To Mike Drago: URGENT'. The last word underlined.

The door swings open granting Mike a view of the apartment but if he sees the note, he doesn't let on as he turns his back, closing and locking the door behind him. There's a hesitant pause before he opts to set the extra bolt in place. Doubly secure, he steps into the kitchen area of the apartment, dropping the book "Bleeding hell." He mutters, immediately turning to the fridge to retrieve a bottle of beer.

It seems incredible that an entire person can hide in the shadows in a studio apartment, but Morbius has become exceptionally good at such things over the years. Quietly, he stands in the shadows by a lamp which is currently off, sensitive eyes watching the heat trails Mike leaves as he moves about the small space.

The sound of the bottle opening can be heard in the studio apartment and then silence as Mike seems to linger in the kitchen as he downs the whole thing rather effectively. Likely not enjoying the beer all that much in the process. Upon it being emptied, the bottle is set down next to the booklet before the musician steps out of the kitchen area, already undoing his tie. He starts walking over, plopping himself on one of the futons in the living room area. Leaning forward, he runs his hands through his hair, looking to the floor, muttering.

Minutes pass before he finally glances up, eyes settling upon the note. A few more moments and his heartbeat notably starts to quicken.

. o O (Now…to see how well this goes.) the Living Vampire thinks. Unfortunately for him, he knows there will be panic, and fear, but frankly, he's getting used to the irksome task of such interactions.

Mike starts to get up from his seat, abandoning the note as he heads to the kitchen. The tie is removed and flung to the floor before there's the sound of the fridge opening and closing again. He enters back in to the room carrying a bottle which, does not appear to be all that cold if it's just been in the fridge. Nor does he seem to be holding it like one ready to drink from it. He moves over to a lightswitch, flicking it up. The lamp in the alcove cuts on, bathing the half of the apartment that wasn't lit earlier with light.

Morbius's eyes slit at the sudden burst of light, for a moment, his instincts to flee, to simply burst out of the nearest window and take to the sky war for dominance with his altruistic reason for coming here…for an eternity of instants they clash…and tonight, the Man wins out over the Monster.

He sighs, the sound soft and rasping, "Well…-that- could have gone better, it seems." he wryly states.

As a figure becomes visible, the bottle lifts up, a slight drizzle of liquid from the opening indicating it to be the bottle Mike downed from earlier now serving a new function as he holds it neck side down. Impromptu weapon. When the realization of just who it is that's in his apartment registers, the musician's posture shifts to one of conditioning. Defensive. Expecting some form of attack. The pale eyes fixate on the quasi-vampire as he's quiet, trying to determine the reason for the intrusion but the silence only lasts for so long before he clears his throat. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, obviously I'm not here to attack you, am I?" Morbius asks, stating the obvious, "Shall we dispense with any 'pleasantries' and get right to it, then?" he asks, crossing one arm at his waist and gesturing with the other, "Certain events have caught my attention of late, and I believe you to be involved in them. Or rather, your father, Mister Drago. And I believe you to be under some manner of threat because of it."

Never know." Mike murmurs, "Scorpia seemed to wait until after the concerts to try hers." Frowning as he himself brings up the unpleasantries of the past Saturday, he shakes his head, looking over towards Morbius, brow arching, "Never met the guy and never care to." Considering Morbius's general response and Mike's likelyhood of not winning any battles as he is right now, he lowers the bottle and moves over to the coffee table to set it down. He looks to the note, "So what's the point of leaving a note if you're just going to be hanging out in the apartment to be telling me what it is yourself?"

Morbius shakes his head slowly and points to the note with one long finger. His talon, even retracted, seems a long, sharp nail, "It was a warning for you not to panic, very basic…it seems that was unnecessary." He seems a bit disappointed, really, but shrugs it off. He steps away from the corner, eyes casting about the place almost randomly, "Regardless of your wishes, I believe 'The Dragon' has had his eyes and fingers in your life more than you might have been aware."

"I've run into a lot of weird shit living in this city." Mike offers in dismissal for his quite possibly atypical reaction before looking to the note once more, "And how is leaving a note addressing an old name in a locked apartment supposed to keep someone from panicking? That just screams 'distraction' for the real attack." Despite that response, Mike sits down, which is seemingly putting him in a more vulnerable positioning which is assisted by him looking down to the ground, eyes closing as he runs a hand through his hair again. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down a bit. "…how so?"

Morbius replies, a bit impatiently, "You'll forgive me if I am not an expert in -this- sort of thing." He steps toward the kitchen, no meaning to it really, he just seems unwilling to remain overly still, "Since you were a child, your father, a noted organized crime figure, has been apparently keeping tabs on you and exerting subtle influences for some purpose. Not altruism, but not for overt control, either." The scientist goes on to detail some of the the things he had learned. The club gigs Drago influenced, the medical records, his mother's death and the oddness of the circumstances and how it kept Mike 'in view'…he is no detective, but Morbius has a keen mind for detail, and he threads it together cohesively.

The kitchen area is not that far a walk with it being a studio apartment. Nor is it a very cluttered one. With the exception of the funeral booklet, the only thing on the countertop is a dish towel. How boring. Mike's not really monitoring Morbius's movements as he's instead digesting the information being presented to him. Which is quite a meal. Some of which seems to be reheated leftovers of something served up months ago. Yuck. "God damn it." he mutters, that semingly being the only thing he can come up with imediately after Morbius's accounts. "So all of the bullshit I've gotten is because he's fucking with my life? My mom'd still be around if it wasn't for his ass?!"

"It seems that way, yes." Morbius hesitates a moment before adding a surprisingly sincere, "I am sorry." He seems unsure how to proceed before an idea strikes him…bedside manner, he's been trained in -that- at any rate, "I understand this must be very difficult for you, but now that you know, you may want to consider what to do with this information. He is a dangerous man, but obviously doesn't mean to end your life."

"I'm sorry, I thought we're talking about the guy you think had people gang up on me every fucking day I left my aunt's apartment." Mike snaps, resting a hand upon the inside of an arm, indicative of a location mentioned in some medical records, "And that last one they sure as hell were trying to make things stick."

"I don't want a damn thing to do with that asshole." the musician mutters, lifting his head and settling his elbows upon his knee, teepeeing the lower halves of the arms towards each other so the hands can form a perch for his chin, "And I got other things to worry about than him. Like the jackass leaving the cards and who the fuck hired Scorpia."

Morbius turns and looks at you for a long moment, the implications should be fairly clear, "Oragnized crime, recall." he says quietly. "Peripherally related, potentially. If Drago has you on his radar, you are, de facto, -also- a target of his enemies."

"Yeah, GOT that. Doesn't help my stage name's Drago as well." Mike mutters, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, leaning back on the futon to better accomodate the expression, "But I'm guessing based from all the crap you said earlier he's not the one who is racking up the body count around me." He scowls, "Or sent my friend to the hospital. OR caused the explosion at a crowded club."

"It is likely not…on the other hand, this may draw him out into a confrontration with whoever -is- doing those things," Morbius replies, turning to face you fully, "And there will most assuredly more innocent lives caught in the crossfire. I cannot allow that." his tone is firm at that last.

Mike tilts his head to towards Morbius, "Hey, I'm not saying that that asshole gets a pass. I'm just saying that if anything should be focused on, right now, I'd say it'd be who the fuck's flat out attacking the crowded areas to start with." He shakes his head, "If you got a guy shooting up a crowded building, you don't first go looking for the person who set him off. You either get the hell out of the way if you can't do anything, or you deal with the guy with the gun."

Morbius seems somewhat amused as he asks, "You have some idea of how this should be handled?" evidently there's a bit more to this young man than it seems at first.

At the question, Mike pauses, "What?" He shakes his head, "It's just basic common sense." He glances to the table, "And I kind of interact a lot with hero types at charity events. So, I kind of pick up a few things here and there in conversation… May have rubbed off a little."

"Do tell?" the pseudo-vampire asks, still somewhat amused, his slight smile is…not pleasant to look upon, regardless of its intent. "Drago himself, or his organization, may know who is targeting you. See where they strike, and follow the trail back." Not so careless or ignorant, evidently. "And these 'hero types' you mention, have they not looking into this matter?" his tone is a touch dismissive of them, it seems.

"They do when they have time." Mike murmurs, glancing away from Morbius, shifting to his feet, "Til the attack at the festival, I had figured the most I had to do was keep an eye out for Orsini." He starts to move over to the kitchen, "Everytime someone jails him, he just gets right on out it seems. Enough to suspect him of it. But not enough to charge him it seems. Hell, he fucking stabbed me in the subway and apparently my statement on the incident is considered 'unreliable'."

Morbius turns his eyes toward the window for a moment, "That is a matter I could…handle, should it be necessary." He is aware of the implications, that's why he stated such a cold thing evasively. His keen ears wait for your reply.

Mike pauses in his approach towards the kitchen, "What?" He frowns, "What do you mean? Look into? Get evidence?"

Morbius turns to look at you over his shoulder, eyes shining red through his dark mane, "I think you know what I am saying." he intones softly in his sepulchal voice.

The apartment is quiet for a few moments as Mike's lips part but no sound comes out as he seems to have forgotten what he was about to say. Then, uncharacteristic for the career choice he has gone into, his voice cracks a bit as he starts to find sound to back up the words he's starting to form. "- don't think so." He shakes his head holding up his hands in mock surrender as he retreats into the kitchen area. Opening the fridge, the clink of glass indicating he's actually getting a fresh bottle this time instead of just faking the action, "Despite what I may be called on stage, I'm a Hannigan. Not a Drago." He opens up the bottle, tossing the cap onto the counter, "As tempting as it may be to take the easy route. No." He turns around, tilting the bottle towards Morbius in indication, "I can't tell you what to do. But, I can't condone THAT."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have asked you to." Morbius notes, still quiet, "My own moral compass is…of necessity…somewhat altered as to what is 'acceptable'." A pause, "I have yet to make true peace with that. Perhaps I never shall. But if this Orsini is indeed a killer, then it may come to that. Do not think you bear any culpability if it does."

"But if you kill him," Mike wonders, taking a sip of the beer before continuing, "how're you going to find out who's controlling him?"

"That would come…before." Morbius says, "I have methods to ensure accuracy." he adds, quickly, "-and I am not speaking of torture. How do you think I got in here?"

With that pointed out, Mike grimaces. "Well, I was wondering about that." Mike admits, shaking his head, starting to move back over to the futon he had sat on earlier. "So, was all of what you said earlier all you got on the card thing?"

Morbius nods, "Yes. Not my area, I'm afraid. I was fortunate to know the legend of Python because of my own background."

"So, you don't know of the other ones then." Mike surmises, plopping himself down with a sigh, "People seem to have a knack for picking up the cards before police have a chance to look over the place. Kind of sucks because it can't be used much for evidence after that."

Morbius's face goes a bit sour at that, he didn't even think…he shrugs it off after a moment, not that he puts much stock in the police, considering how very often he's been on the other side of their guns, "Tell me, then." is all he says.

"Let's see…" Mike murmurs, setting the bottle on the coffee table before he sinks back into the cushion, "Probably won't have the order completely right but, the card that got found where I got stabbed was of St. George killing a Dragon… There was a double stabbing and someone picked up a card there, Cadmus something or other. The club explosion card did end up going to police. But, I think that was a…hmm. It had a woman bursting out of a dragon. But the name… Saint something…"

"Margaret." Morbius replies to the confusion, "She was tortured and jailed because she would not renounce her faith. she prayed to God to show her the enemy who was fighting her, and a great dragon appeared and swallowed her whole. While inside the beast, Margaret made the sign of the cross, at which point the dragon's belly burst open and she emerged unscathed."

Mike looks up at the passage of information spit out by Morbius in response to him not remembering the name. "Yes. That's who." He sets down, "So, I probably don't know everything that others have gotten on the topic, but, one of the times Orsini got picked up they were able to get from him mentions of an Order that St. George leads."

"Ranting? Or a garbled truth?" Morbius muses, "'Dragon slayers', how appropriate, don't you agree?"

"Considering what you've mentioned and Drago does mean Dragon?" Mike sighs, leaning over to pick up his bottle, "Should probably look into a new stage name." He glances over to the other unconverted futon. The bottle lifts up slightly in mock toast to it murmuring something along the lines of "Sorry Rod." Or is it Sorry Tod? Reading lips is a pain.

Morbius does not comment on that, "I felt you should know. This is much larger than I had at first thought, and considering the attempts on you and yours…" he trails off for a moment. The impulse is one very familiar to him, but it is awkward to frame it so, "It drew my concern for some reason." He doesn't say it was sympathy for a difficult upbringing, for a 'normal' life disrupted. His own loss of such, the sting of his recent loss, it compelled him to 'play hero'.

The response is delayed as Mike is working on his second beer now. The levels of which drop quite a bit in the short time he's had the bottle. There's just no way he could be enjoying the drink that much so quickly. The bottle tilts upright. "Yeah, well, thanks for the warning." Mike replies, looking to the bottle before opting not to set it back down on the table just yet, "I think. And if you feel the need to pop in my apartment again for something. Please, knock."

Morbius 'hmmphs' softly, an amused sound, really, "I'm afraid my…'condition' forces me to take certain liberties. I apologize." that sounded fairly sincere anyway. Mostly. "Be careful." he warns, "Forces have apparently been moving about you for much of you life, and you have been unaware of them. Forewarned is forearmed."

With the indirect response of 'probably not'. Mike sighs, "Can't blame a guy for asking…" The warning's not much help on his mood either. "And I'll try to keep an eye out for any extra weird shit," he offers up, almost as an after thought as he leans forward, setting the beer on the table before clasping his hands over his face, rubbing it.

Morbius pauses again, his better nature rising to the fore again. He is not 'built' for comfort like this, nor for sympathy, yet here it is, "I am sorry your life has come to this. You must not let it…" he stops, shakes his head, "Such words are little comfort, aren't they?" he asks, "I cannot promise 'it will all be alright', I have learned over the years such words are often not true, and are worse to promise." He turns slightly, looking to the floor for a moment, "I will do what I can, try to hold what you can together in the face of this. Not an easy thing I know." Oh, how he does know.

Mike is quiet a bit longer, his pulse not all that much raised in comparison to when he first saw the note. The face remains covered which causes for his eventual response to be a bit muffled, "It's New York. Shit like this happens every day…" The last word lingers, dying away rather than having a normal cut off. The hands press inwards, causing for where the pinkeys meet to rise a bit before the hands shift the other way as the musician's still rubbing his face.

"That in no way makes it fair or just." Morbius notes, "I should leave you, I think." he pauses again, "Perhaps I should set up some way for you to contact me if need be. I shall also see if some of my contacts can learn more."

"If life was a fair thing, this apartment would either be full of band members or I'd still be living in Jersey." Mike dismisses, giving a muffled, bitter sounding, chuckle and then sigh from behind the hands, "Yeah, probably a good idea for you to head out. Schedule's fucked up enough as is."

Morbius hesitates, then adds, "Pre-paid cel-phone. I think. I'll slip the number under the door sometime." a soft chuckle, "Don't worry, I will be subtle about it."

"Sounds fine." Mike murmurs again from behind the hands. Despite the presence of a 'vampire' in his apartment, Mike's pulse seems to be approaching more of a resting heart rate than a 'zomg! monsters and mob connections oh my!' heart rate.

"If you have some means of protecting yourself, I suggest you avail yourself of it." Morbius adds, beginning to walk to the door, "And do not concern yourself with Orsini…one way or the other."

There's no glance toward Morbius as he moves towards the door but his hands lower, allowing him a bit of an unfocused glance towards the table. "Noted," he replies, not really confirming nor refusing the advice given. Considering the lack of protest to the unspoken statement mentioning Orsini, it's possible his mind's elsewhere.

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