ArchivedLogs:Wanting More

Wanting More
Dramatis Personae Doug, Hive, Flicker
In Absentia	2013-05-30 '
Location <NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building. A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan. In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generally littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools. Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom. Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. With the Spring semester over, and a little bit of time before the Summer semester begins, Doug has found himself with a buttload of free time. Take today. What should be a busy Thursday of going to classes and meeting up with the study group is instead...a busy Thursday of computer geekery. No less than three laptops are open on the coffee table in front of the couch, each powered up and focused on something different. In one, 3-D line schematics of what appears to be a spiky-haired robot. On the second screen, text scrolls by almost too fast to read. And on the third, a video featuring Shelby plays on YouTube with the sound muted, the video enlarged to full-screen. It is the third screen Doug is focused on, leaning in to study the videography and the various cuts. Dressed in a pair of loose grey sweat shorts and a white tank-top, the blonde has on a pair of thick-framed glasses that perch on the end of his nose as he squints at something. Nearby, Alt and Delete lounge in a tangled ball, lazily batting at each other's noses. Okay. Maybe it's not so busy. Knockknockknock! Hi Doug! You have COMPANY. One Flicker, brightgreeneyed and brightsmiled; the warmth in his expression returns it its boyish-pretty charm even through the wealth of scarring that has left pitted pockmarks all down his face and arms. He's /half/ dressed like work -- neat khakis, but whatever work shirt he had at one point has been shed in favour of a sleeveless undershirt. One Hive, less brighteyed. Less brightsmiled. Just -- Hive. Hands shoved in pockets, posture sort of slouched. There's a white lollipop-stick stuck out one corner of his mouth. The candy rattles against his teeth. He's /also/ dressed like work although in his case that means sturdy-heavy work boots, jeans, a t-shirt with an image of Zelda's Link in Eddard Stark pose on an Iron Throne constructed out of various video game and sci-fi/fantasy blades. He sucks on his lollipop, and waits. It takes a couple of minutes after the initial knock for Doug to pull himself away from the laptops, and if Hive brushes against his mind in that time, there'll be that electric white noise that accompanies his thoughts when he's mired in his computer. When he finally pushes away and stands, he takes another minute to stretch with a grunt before he moves to swing the door open. The smile he offers to his neighbors isn't as bright as Flicker's, but it's not as removed as Hive's. "Hey guys," he says, glancing between the two of them. "What's up?" He doesn't go so far as to actually invite the pair in, but he steps back and opens the door wide enough to indicate that's implied. << I have got to get that shirt. >> is offered to Hive. << That is too awesome. >> They don't come in. Flicker rocks back on his heels, glancing over to Hive. "Hi," he says, "do you have a --" "Have a job," Hive interrupts bluntly, "if you want it. Don't know what the going rate is for geeking though." The lollipop rattles more on his words. Rattlerattlerattle. His eyes drop to his shirt, and his quiet grunt is acknowledging, at least. << Flicker's the only person I've met who could name every single one of the swords. >> It might be why they're friends. Doug's eyebrows pop when Hive mentions the job, and there's a wash of surprise over his mindscape that he valiantly tries to sweep aside with more business-like thoughts as he schools his expression. "Depends on the geeking," he answers the question, and waves a hand towards the interior of the apartment. "Come on in, and you can tell me what you need." Then he's moving away from the door. << Don't know if /I/ could name all of those, so good on Flicker, >> he offers as he heads towards the kitchen. "You guys want water, or juice or something?" "I'd love some juice," Flicker answers, slipping in to the apartment. This is all he says, though, at first. He stops by the cats, crouching to offer a hand out for chin-scritching. "It's illegal," is Hive's STRONG SELLING POINT, right up front. "There was some shit went down recently." And -- that's all he offers at the moment, waiting to see how this /first/ bit of information is taken. "I'm good," he dismisses offer of refreshment with a shake of his head. "More or less illegal than busting into my dad's Federally-protected systems for information?" Doug's eyes crinkle as he pulls open the fridge. << And is 'illegal' even anything you're that concerned about? >> is an idle but earnest follow-up. He pulls out a couple of bottles and holds them up for Flicker's perusal. "I've got apple and grape-apple," he says with a flash of toothy smile. "Take your pick." Then, back to the matter at hand, he shifts his attention back to Hive. "What kind of shit?" He clearly hasn't heard anything, although there's a brief flash of memory of fighting a naked guy in the living room recently that's quickly pushed aside. "Do I need to be worried?" "Grape-apple," Flicker glances up from catscratching with a bright smile. "Thanks!" He is over in the kitchen in an instant, reappearing beside Doug almost as soon as he's even disappeared in the first place. "I don't know. Just breaking into people's personal stuff kind of illegal." "Might be important people's personal stuff, though." Hive slouches his way over towards the counter, leaning up against it. "Shit kind of shit. People were kidnapping mutants. Making them --" His jaw works, slowly. "Fight. To the death, sometimes. There /might/ be footage out there floating around but we can't find any." "/We/ can't find any," Flicker emphasizes. "Hoped you'd have more luck." Holy fuck. Doug's eyes widen, presumably at Flicker's sudden appearance in the kitchen. But it's what Hive just told him that hangs in his brain. "That's fucked up," is the best he can offer as he gets a glass out of the cabinet. "It's not still going on, is it?" Doug's thoughts drift for a moment. What kind of mutants? Was /he/ in any danger? Would anyone have even told him if he was? Outwardly, his expression remains one of stunned disbelief. "So, you want me to dig through the Internet?" He verifies, furrowing his brow. "That's a big order. Might take a couple of days. Maybe a week." "No. It's ended," Flicker says, with a glance to Hive. "But the people involved --" "Pfft," Hive answers drifting thoughts out loud. "It was a /fight/ ring they wanted mutants who did flashy interesting dangerous shit in cages, the fuck would they do with you, have you talk someone to death?" His hands are still in his pockets. He shifts to put his back to the counter. It puts his back to the others, too, but telepathy does not, thankfully, need facial expressions to tell how they are feeling. "Here's the thing. They livestreamed the fights. But they didn't keep any of the footage. And they did their damndest to make sure nobody /saved/ the streams but fuck, it's the internet, /someone/ had to. The catch is," Hive tips his gaze up towards the ceiling, "they made sure that everyone who bought access to the stream had /their/ copy of it burned with their real name and purchasing information. So -- each copy of the footage could be traced back to the person it came from. And /having/ that kinda thing is illegal cuz, shit, snuff film. So nobody's exactly coming /forward/ to say they have it or -- share it or anything. But /someone somewhere/ must have a copy sitting around on their computer." He does not add: we hope. But he hopes. "We have a list of everyone who paid these people money. It might have been for the streaming, it might have been for tickets to the fights live, who the fuck knows. But it is at least a list of everyone who potentially had access to the footage in the /first/ place. If I wanted the internet scoured I could do that my own damn self," he says with a tired exhalation, "-- I need all those people's computers scoured to see if any of them kept this shit." << Asshole. >> is a thought that slips out before Doug can lock it down. "So, you knew immediately that it was a mutant fight ring?" He abandons the question, though, preferring to focus on Flicker rather than the cute-but-almost-always-irritating Hive. "If you've got a list of names, I can track down their computers, their smartphones...anything that accesses the Internet." He sets the glass on the counter, pouring out the purple juice thoughtfully. There's a very teenager thinking going on in there. Where's the sting in this? Are they asking 'cause we're friends, or because im an easy resource? Will they blow me off after? Should just tell them to fuck off. But I need the extra cash.... "Okay," he says then, screwing the cap on the bottle. His tone is a little heavy, like this is something counter to his self-interests. "Get me the list, and I'll find your footage. If it exists." An eyebrow slides north slowly. "Anything else you want me to look for, while I'm in there?" "Didn't know much immediately," Flicker answers with a shrug of one shoulder. "We knew mutants wre disappearing. Some of them friends. It took a while before anyone had any idea where /to/. We only knew the full extent after getting them all out." "Nothing else in particular. If you stumble across anything we could use to put these motherfuckers in jail I wouldn't turn it down." The stray thought makes Hive's lips twitch upwards as he half-turns back to face the others. He makes no comment, though. "It might not exist," he agrees, with a shrug of one shoulder. "Maybe nobody cared to save it. But if it does --" His fingers lace together against the flat of his stomach. "You can tell us to fuck off," he adds, kind of offhand. "This is a pretty steaming pile of shit to get yourself involved in. I guess that's the /sting/, if there is one. The people who ran this shit and the people who paid to watch it -- well. It's a long list of people you do not want to be fucking with." Argh. Telepaths. Doug colors a bit when Hive jumps back in, and he presses his lips together briefly as he returns the juice to the fridge. "I'm not going to tell you to fuck off," he says as he closes the door. "But." It's a big but, that comes with a sudden roll of names and faces of people that he's helped (or had sex with -- although that's just Eric and Parley) who only seem to show up when they need or want something. There's a ball of frustration knotted around that, one that Doug is clearly trying to ignore. "But," the blonde continues, trying to crystallize the thought that pushes against his brain. "I need to know..." How stupid I am? No. What's in it for me? No. Nothing seems to fit, and he shakes his head. "Um. A general time these might have happened," sounds as lame and false as it is. "It'll make it easier to search." Yeah. That's the ticket. Doug offers a small smile. "The more information, the better, you know?" "Very stupid, but so are we all," Hive answers unspoken questions, "and the satisfaction of knowing you've helped make sure these really shitty people do not get away free with their really shitty actions. Plus a stack of cash. These fights ended a week ago and far as we can tell were happening for a couple months. What is it you really want to know?" Caught out, Doug presses his lips together, flicking an apologetic look at Flicker. He's such a nice guy, and Doug worries that his words will cut the teleporter unnecessarily. "What I want to know," he says slowly, forcing his thoughts back to his words, "is if this is one of those times that, once I help you and find what you're looking for -- and I'm going to help, just to be clear. But I'm afraid once that's done, I go back to being the sad guy upstairs that no one remembers is here until they need something." Sex, help, food, video editing, /laptops/...all these things swirl with one final eddy. << Like a brain to eat. >> Flicker has been reaching for the glass of juice Doug poured. But now he stops, dropping his hand almost sheepishly to his side, green eyes slicing over to Hive. Hive tips his gaze up to the ceiling. "Are you asking me," he muses, slowly, "if once this business is over, we're going to still --" He stops, fingers unlacing and then re-lacing against his stomach. "-- hang out?" "No." Doug is very matter of fact as he answers, his jaw tightening. "'Still' implies that we make a habit of it. Which is not the case." His eyebrows lift meaningfully. "I just want to know that I'm more than a /resource/ or cheap fuck to the people that are around me. Not get treated like some asshole just because I have different life experiences." Now he offers a smile, tight and thin. "I don't think that's too much to ask, is it?" Considering the laundry list of instances that roll through his head at this sentiment, Doug very much believes this to be a reasonable request. "More," Hive echoes this word slow and thoughtful. "-- What more do you think you should be?" Doug blinks. "/More/," he stresses, as if this answers the question. "I want to feel like I" << matter to someone. Am missed when I'm not around for a while. Stupid shit but important to me. >> Outwardly, he colors. "Like I've got friends in this building." Now he's really blushing, and berating himself. << just gonna make fun of you. >> Flicker curls his arms against his chest, a sort of self-hug as he withdraws a step. "I don't -- think you're -- an asshole because you --" His brows knit together slowly. "Lots of people have different life experiences. That doesn't mean they still can't be friends." Hive's cheeks puff out; he expels a sharp breath. "Do you have friends in this building?" He sounds genuinely curious. "I didn't come ‘cause we're friends. I came to see if you wanted the job, because you're fucking good at what you do. If you wanted me to design you a building, I wouldn't feel hurt if you didn't want to go out for coffee afterwards." His hand lifts, scuff through his hair. As he slumps back with elbows against the counter, his back is to Flicker and Doug once more. "-- Did you want to go out for coffee afterwards?" "I don't know if I have friends here," Doug answers honestly. "I'd like to think that, but something tells me that's a little generous on my end." There's no bitterness in his voice; the sea beneath roils with its lonely salt. Flicker gets a small, apologetic look. "I didn't mean -- " << /Fuck/. I never do this right. Maybe Shane's right. Maybe I /am/ a fucking robot. >> Hive's second question is a complete surprise, and Doug blinks as the sea rolls out to an extremely low tide, leaving only stunned sand behind. "Um. I don't know. Maybe." He tilts his head and frowns. "Do you realize that's the first invitation I've ever gotten from you to do anything other than get the fuck over myself?" His tight smile is back, but his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Because it is." "Oh -- oh." Flicker bites down on his lip, his brows creasing. He lifts a hand, pressing knuckles to his lips. "Doug, I --" He slants a glance to Hive, and /he/ sounds sort of deeply apologetic on his best friend's behalf. "-- I don't think that was. So much an invitation as. Making a point." Hive flicks his fingers towards Flicker in affirming indication. "I don't think," he says slowly, "that it's wrong to want -- all that shit. I'm pretty sure that's kind of normal-human. I just don't know if --" His hands scrub through his hair. "If you really go about looking for it in the right ways." "Genuine or not, it's about the best I've gotten, lately," Doug says, and then there's a roll of memories that flash by. It's literally every failed social attempt since Doug moved into the building. It's a roll the burns, and color creeps into his ears, even as Hive is talking. Then there's only the words 'broken robot' hanging there. "I guess I don't know how to go about it, then," he says with a shake of his head. "I just try to be friendly. I thought that's how you gained friends -- by being one." He's completely serious. Poor little broken robot. "Yeah, but, dude," Hive is kind of scrubbing his face with his palm, now, "You're not. Being friendly. You're being -- /needy/ that's sort of different. And, yeah, shit, everyone fucking needs people around, we're not built for being alone /all/ the damn time. But --" The slow breath he pushes out is a harsh one, a strained exhale between his teeth. "But if you're just /so/ desperate for someone to spend time with you that you -- /fuck/, dude, we come in here telling you about people kidnapping children to kill them and the critical thing on your mind is that we're not treating you enough like a friend. Except we're not friends. And that's some seriously fucked-up priorities, you know, kinda makes me think you need to take a step back and learn to just be /happy/ because when people say it's nice to be needed that is nooooot what they mean." Flicker winces, rubbing his palms against his eyes, too. "I think," he says slowly, "that this is all getting --" He bites down on his lip, eyes dancing between Hive and Doug. "Way off topic." "You know," Doug says, his face crimson and almost radiating heat by the time Hive's done talking. "It is /staggering/ to me the number people who are hip-deep in people in their lives who tell me I have to learn how to be happy alone. Maybe it's not working for me, after eighteen years of it." And it's not. Oh, it is so not. His jaw tightens, a bit, and he GLARES at Hive. "You never said it was /kids/ being taken. Not once." Then he falls silent, his lips pressing together as color continues to deepen in his face. << Figures. If theres a way to make a person feel like an asshole, Hive will find it. >> And under that thought (although not that secret, really), the ocean churns with anger, humiliation, shame, and a desperate need to maybe cry. He might actually burst into flames. "Get me the list," he say finally, his voice hoarse-sounding. "I'll get your information, and you can make these fuckers pay." "Is it better, then, if it's just adults? S'it OK if they'd kidnapped," Hive's fingers uncurl towards Flicker, "Flicker or, I don't know, that skinny homeless tweaker who hangs out in the park, that'd be fine then." His head tips back, his eyes closing as he curls his fingers through his hair, expression kind of exhausted. "You know, you /get/ hip-deep in people in your life by being the kind of person they want to be around. But if you're not even the kind of person /you/ want to be around how's that going to happen?" Flicker vanishes from the kitchen, reappearing by Hive's elbow. His hand reaches to touch it, lightly -- tap! -- and then he looks towards the door. "We'll get you the list," he says quietly, and tugs Hive towards the door. He stops by the door, though, looking back towards Doug. "Hey," he says, "-- What are you doing on Tuesday? We're having some people over for games. It's, uh, it's pretty um. We're all kind of nerds it's /sort of/ geeky." "Don't." Doug's jaw tightens in spite of his red face. "Put words in my mouth. Especially when you know they're not true. I busted my ass and risked my dad's /career/ and federal /prison/ to find your friends. So you /know/ it's not a matter of kids or adults." He levels a shaking finger in Hive's direction. "So stop talking to me like an asshole." Maybe there's a limit to what he'll put up with in his own house. Whatever it is, he looks relieved when Flicker indicates that they should go. And he is relieved, unacknowledged tension draining from his brain in a cool rush. So much so that it takes him a minute to parse the question. Doug blinks slowly, and despite the nagging sting of doubt in his brain, he offers a watery smile. "Classes are done, so I'm free," he says. "It sounds like fun." And always has, coming up through the floor. There's probably a Dolly Parton song that fits here. An old one. "You want me to bring anything?" Hive opens his mouth, but a sharp /clench/ of Flicker's fingers around his elbow closes it again. "Mngh," is all he says. "See you, then." "Just yourself," Flicker chirrups. "Tuesday night, seven." He tips his head up in a jerk of a nod, and then drags Hive out of the apartment. Doug nods as the two take their leave, lifting a hand in farewell. "Tuesday," he promises. "I'll definitely be there." And he will, too. But as the door closes, there's a surge -- a sudden need to kick something. Hard. But all that's around are computers and cats. Figures. Looks like it's gym time for one mad, sad little mutant robot.