ArchivedLogs:Gumbo

Gumbo
Dramatis Personae Hive, Violet
In Absentia	2014-07-04 '
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side and <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a rock-lined koi pond, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. It's been off-and-on raining all night and most of the day as well -- at the moment it's sort of caught in between the two, a halfhearted misty drizzle that makes it hard to decide whether or not to even bother with an umbrella. Hive isn't bothering with anything, scooter whirring out the Common House door and onto the paved walkway. Even /in/ the rain the grounds are kind of more /busy/ than they have been in the past, people lurking around the yards of some of the houses, a pair of girls up on the treehaus balcony, a boy lying in the wet grass watching the sky completely heedless of the soaking his oversized clothes are picking up. Hive isn't paying these people much attention, eyes narrowed and posture a little slumped as his motorized scooter vrrrs over the walkway towards Geekhaus. Not, at least, outwardly; in mental space his senses are acute, sharply heightened by the swarm of minds added to his. He looks -- a good deal more exhausted than he has in the past, hunched and thin and deeply shadowed beneath his eyes. Into chaos comes Violet. She has her hood up against the rain but her tail and the legs left bare by cut off khaki shorts show the unfortunately spiky, soggy effect that the weather has had on fur. She probably smells /grand/, a condition made worse by the decidedly fishy aroma emanating from the cheap drawstring bag she's carrying along--WORLD CUP 2014! decorates its bulging sides, the various flags running in a square around that sign warped by fully laden dimensions. Her posture is as it usually is, flowing casual, until she slides through the gate and discovers that the quiet sanctuary she'd become accustomed to has become a bustling metropolis of people. People whose body language reads as "odd" to her senses. Her own thoughts, so softly ordered, wordless but clean and content, full of a silent purr of pleasure, shift to something more like alarm. Still wordless, but in the parlance of predator!prey, she is seeingsmellingsensing past!present threat and it leads to slinking. Around the edge of the lawn, avoiding paths...until the burr of the scooter brings her around to sight Hive--and then step into his path. "Mnh?" is all she vocalizes. Her features do more talking: the way her nose quivers, scenting him, the dilation of her pupils and her eyes' flicking quick over what she can make out of his face. << What the fuck. >> In contrast to the last time Hive's voice intruded in Violet's head, this time there's no pain. Still, likely, the usual /disconcerting/ feeling of a foreign voice unexpectedly in her mind, but instead of a hammer-heavy thump is a soft rustling echo, a whispering chorus of many voices twined together in unison. Hive's own voice is not readily discernable among them, but its clear enough who the voice is coming from with /his/ narrowing of eyes, tensing of shoulders as he brakes to a stop. << Whole fucking courtyard, you need to stop right /there/? >> In scent he smells largely of the antiseptic-sickly smell of hospitals, too much harsh cleaner over too much blood, sweat, misery. His clothes are rumpled, pale denim button-down unbuttoned over sleeveless white undershirt, fraying faded jeans, sneakers. His own nose twitches with physical senses far less acute than Violet's -- though regular human nose picks up /fish/ smell just fine. << ... you brought fish? >> It probably comes as no surprise that as footloose a creature as she is, Violet is no fan of the presence-in-brain phenomena. Beneath her hood, there is a shifting as ears are laid back (with an accompanying subaudible growl of <<(my space)(mine here)(in here)>>. But the sentiment keeps her from bristling--what the fuck indeed, this isn't /her/ outside turf. And he did just kindly not run her over. The bag, held by the drawstring, is gathered into arms for offering. To her mind, there are fish smell/s/, and her mind is supplying the names for each, a ghost impression of the same scents plucked from the air and sent via telepathy. Red snapper. Bluefish. Cod. Two lobsters. The last might even still be alive, the former are filleted. "...what happened?" It's the bluefish and the lobster that perk Hive's interest a little more, fluttering a hungry mental touch against those thought-smells with a brief pensive feel. << Not prying, >> he answers the mental prickling, gruff and a little uneasy himself. << You cook? >> There's a tiny nod towards the basket at the front of his scooter rather than any reaching to /take/ the offered bag. << Have a few guests. Kinda needed a place to crash. S'like a fucking halfway house for traumatized freaks. >> "Nah, I know you're not. Doesn't hurt either, this time." A small discrepency, one observation plucked from /many/ made as Violet casts a glance about the grounds. The nod brings her back though and she steps forward to deposit the bag in the basket. << Good timing for a housewarming present, I guess. That's a lot've guests (blood I smell blood), >> runs a private stream of thought, as follicles tighten, fur attempts to poof--and fails miserably thanks to its water load. Aloud, she gives a little sniff and says, "Sure, if you don't mind soul food. Guess you wouldn't though, with Micah 'n Jax around, yeah? You, ah...you folks okay? Probably th'dumbest question I ever asked anyone," and she explains why with a gesture from her newly freed hand, to indicate Hive's own appearance, "but I'll stop pryin' if you say you are." << Love soul food. Don't know how to cook it. Do pretty amazing things with seafood, though. >> Hive jerks his head now towards his house, backing up just a bit and then starting to move again towards Geekhaus once the bag is in the basket. << S'a lot of blood. >> He acknowledges this part freely enough; even without sharpened senses it's easy to see to the sprinkled bandaging around various bodies, the way some people limp or move stiffer. << We'd say we're fine but it'd be a huge fucking lie. World's a shitty fucking place sometimes. You watch much news? >> The cue is taken and Violet rolls herself forward to trail the scooter, then to match its pace. Her focus has become a restless thing. It flits from a survivor, to Hive, to the boy lying in the grass, to Geekhaus. "Nah." Last question, answered first, and it's technically true--but the mind behind those orange eyes is matching shellshocked expressions to the faces seen in documentaries soaked up on TV, or the occasional internet foray. Bosnia. North Korea. The Sudan. It's enough to keep her hackles raised, the skin across her neck and shoulders grown tight. "Not a lot. Don't much care for the tone they take, these days. I'll show you a few tricks, y'want. Not wearin' a hair net though, s'pointless." << (We) love a good gumbo. You know how to do that? >> In Hive's mind this first pronoun is /odd/, its sense of identity very clearly referring to /Flicker/ but intertwined inextricably with Hive's own sense of himself. << (North Korea), >> he turns this over with a wry sort of amusement. << Well, (they/we) are refugees. Bunch of freaks from a mad science lab. Some of (them/us) haven't been in the world a while. You ever get a mind to cook a bigger meal, sure as hell wouldn't say no to some extra hands in the kitchens. >> He stops outside his door, glaring at it like he's trying to decide whether or not to get /up/ or possibly just ram his way through. << You get the Southern gene for compulsorily feeding people? >> "Sure, you got any okra?" Such a normal question. Such a sharp glance at Hive, for this overlapping sense of self. Selves? Violet isn't /quite/ sure what to make of it, nor of the revelation of where the extra people have come from--but it doesn't prevent her from stepping right on up to open and hold the door for the guy. "Didn't catch that bug th'way your friends did though. Different roads, I guess, but don't mind lendin' a hand. You broke these folks out from..." <<(labs?)(rumors true that's just great)>> and with slightly more clarity, and a touch of oft-hidden wryness, << This place's gotta be a big ol' bullseye, what'm I doing here. >> "So, ah...guess you've pissed off a bunch've people, yeah?" << When the war starts, >> Not if, just blandly blunt in Hive's oddly echoing mind as he wheels into his house, << we're going to be the /first/ fucking place they bomb. We pissed them off a long time ago, though. And it made big news. Kind of too much of a fiasco for them to come at us openly -- /even/ this shithole of a society mustered up some outrage at the thought of kidnapping /children/ to torture. But. They still come at us. >> <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down the the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. Inside Geekhaus, Hive pulls his scooter off to one side, trading it for a cane as he very slowly pulls himself out of the seat. << Yeah. Rumors true, though. S'where half of us met. You're probably here, >> he decides for Violet, << because we keep putting milk out. Think there's okra in the common house, shit. >> Violet pushes back her hood and unzips the sweater while Hive gropes for his cane. She has a good look around too because that's what she /does/. But after that, exhibiting some of the Southern bug she'd referenced, she hastens forward to reclaim the bag o' seafood and offer the man her arm for extra stability. S'just habit, really, that courtesy. She's otherwise busy mulling over what he's had to say--and letting a trace of muted humor come through for the milk reference. << Thanks for that, pfft. >> "S'true though. I'm a victim've my own genetics...but if bombs're comin' your way maybe I'll start invitin' ya'll to my place instead, yeah? S'pretty cosy. Maybe a li'l cramped, dependin' on how many you bring. And hey, it's fine. Milk'n'butter will do th'trick too. Just tell me where I'm goin'." << Can't say we wouldn't mind somewhere /less/ of a bullseye to kick back in, now and then. >> Hive rests a hand on Violet's arm, leading the way off to the kitchen. He unclips a bundle of keys where they hang by a carabiner on his belt loop, tapping a finger against a small black keyfob on them. << If you do need okra. Common house door'll unlock with -- >> /He's/ definitely not going back across the courtyard again, anyway; he's sort of staggery-slumpy as he dumps himself down in a stool at the kitchen counter. << Where the fuck /do/ you stay, anyway. >> His mind is supplying an image of a sun-warmed rock down by the shore to /nap/ on. This might be his idea of Violet's House. << Ain't you the trustin' sort, >> is what Violet has to say at being offered /keys/. Rueful, wry and most certainly amused--but she sees Hive to that stool before reaching for the things. It's not the first time she's propped up someone bonyskinnyunsteady and there's an ease there that /would/ make her uncomfortable if she recognized it. Instead, she is fingering the key fob and running through a list of ingredients as she goes first to begin rummaging through cabinets for a pot to fill with water for pre-emptive heating. "Oh, y'know. I get around," is her distracted answer--though her mind is already supplying other images. Stacked shipping containers, the screech of gulls, lightningquick glimpses of dock workers seen on high before withdrawing into cool darkness. "Got a few places. Healthier, that way. You allergic to anythin'?" << No. Dusk's crazy allergic to dairy but we don't have any in the house on account of the thing where it kills him dead. >> Just vegan margarine, and blended hazelnut-almond milk. Hive's lips twitch, faintly amused at the mention of being trusting. << Sure. S'easier to trust people when we can hear every thought anyone on the block is having. Be hard to bolt with my keys. >> The cabinets are at least easy to find things in -- mostly owing to the fact that so far Geekhaus's kitchen is only minimally stocked on dishes, the bare essentials of cooking and eating. A handful of dinnerware and flatware. One big pot, one little pot, one wok, one skillet. A few knives and bigger spoons. There's at least some spices on a rotary in a cabinet and milk that hasn't spoiled in the fridge. Small blessings. Something in his overcrowded-hungry mind is /itching/ to pry further at that quiet familiarity with assisting him, but it flutters back /farther/ from Violet's mind before he can succumb to curiosity. << New York is pretty. Full of. Places. To escape to. Kind of love cities, for that. >> "No dairy?" Horror. Sympathy. And then a grim determination--there had better be okra over in that other house, because a roux surely won't work with /vegan/ stuff, ew. Violet gets the seafood bag slung into the sink, the big pot filled and onto the stove to aim for a boil, and then proceeds to a quick check of the rest of the kitchen's supplies--knives are pulled out, a few spices, the other pot. All neatly arrayed, tidy as the (well groomed) order of her thoughts in list-making. "S'been good for that, sho' nuff," she drawls out once this is all done, teeth briefly on display with a grin. "Check it out, I'm runnin' off with your keys." And she /is/. Right to the door and on outside, though if the snoop continues to snoop, it won't be hard to track her. On over to the common house she goes and her thoughts are distressingly mundane in spite of the current atmosphere--<< Okra...bet they've got fresh tomatoes too, 'n maybe some bacon. Won't have andouille, I bet, /vegan/, oh Lord if he's a veggie vampire that's gotta be th'funniest thing ever gonna have t'get him some bunny ears, mmm need some peppers oh hey look at //all this food, Jesus//...>> It's even /more/ boring on the way back; if Hive feels like it he should have ample time to write down the recipe she's sorting through in memory, before she reappears with a mesh shopping bag of supplies. << Ohshit. Stop, thief. >> Hive's answering words fail to sound very alarmed, just the same soft rush of whisper-voices as before. The twinned kitchens in the Common House are at least very clearly /labeled/, one side exclusively for preparing vegan and Kosher foods but the other side, unrestricted, does have bacon in its fridge. No andouille, though. Plenty of veggies, okra storebought but there's plump ripe tomatoes in plenty in the garden just outside the kitchen door. << Dusk like bloody juicy steaks, he eats more red meat than all the rest of us together, >> he assures Violet on her way back; he's evidently moved while she was gone, at least as far as the next room to pick up his laptop and then back to his perch on the stool. << Kitchens're kind of freshly stocked. Knew we were having an influx. And Micah was in charge of -- supply. Getting. So, you know. Southern. Probably got enough to feed a /few/ armies. >> << I know. One've the blue kids wanted him to bite me while I was on 'nip, but c'mon, the joke writes itself. You ever read that book? Fifth grade, I think. Bunnicula. Good stuff. >> And then there she is, bustling on through the door. "You moved," is how Violet greets him upon her physical return. It's choppin' time. She strips out of the hoodie, leaving her arms bare, and drapes the shed garment on one of the stools before getting to it. The keys are left beside his laptop as she goes by. "A few and a half armies from what I saw but I guess it goes fast," she says over the thump thump thump of knife wielded against veggies. "What d'you /do/ with all these folks? Can't just...toss 'em out once they're healed up. Guess y'could but y'don't strike me as that sort." << Bunnicula. >> Hive turns this over puzzled in his mind, and while Violet is bustling back in he is googling this strange word. Squinting at his screen. The image fluttered back to Violet's mind has Dusk, a good deal /fluffier/, with long black bunny ears pointing up from his thick dark hair, huge buckteeth in between his fangs. Twitchy-twitchy nose. << ... missed that one. Didn't do a lot of. English books as a kid. /Bunnicula/. >> His brows furrow at the question of what to do with folks, and he glances up from his screen to watch Violet at her chopping for a moment. << Know some mutant-friendly social workers from down at the Mendel Clinic and places. Some people have homes they can go back to. The others -- >> He doesn't actually move but there's a mental suggestion of shrugging. << Try to help people find jobs. Places to live. Fucking -- /therapy/. Lord fucking knows everyone coming out of there needs it. They've been through -- >> He breaks off, here, eyes a little glassier, a little more distant. There is a string of tiny sneezes over by the sink, where Violet is scooping out tomato seeds--the fluffy Dusk has done in her sense of humor, and left her reduced to a state of no words. Her hands stay busy and her mind's a smooth, soft hum of efficiency as she continues working. Her lone contribution is a black bow tie to the Dusk image...and then talk is moving on to more somber subjects. Her own fault and she shoulders the transition pretty well. "Think I met th'doctor from down out that way. Seemed th'decent sort. Lost've helpin' types around...nnf." That last is just an animal sound, a low huff of breath through her nose when she turns her head to see Hive's expression changed. The thump of the knife being placed on counter is followed a moment later by a touch of tomato-damp fingers against his shoulder. "Hey. Hey, fella." << Hive, his name was Hive, right? >> "Hive, you okay?" Hive's expression is still glazed over but his /mind/ is active, it seems -- though it's an odd confused jumble that touches briefly back to Violet's mind, memories that like his earlier pronoun oddness feel like /him/ and not like him at all. A child sitting in the boughs of a maple tree reading Bunnicula. A tiny run-down apartment, shabby and cockroach-infested though there's a keen sense of longing to return to the young woman and huge French lop that live inside. Flashes of cold operating rooms, a pair of sharp fangs yanked out and sitting in a tray nearby. << ... Hive -- >> He turns this name over with a faint hint of puzzlement, not actually responding to the /touch/ though he answers his name readily enough. << Oh. Fff -- fine. >> His expression hasn't changed, though, eyes unfocused. << Dr. Saavedro's good. Good people. We built that clinic -- >> Then quiet, for a moment, before the absent acknowledgment: << New York gets a shitty rep. People do. Take care of each other. Here. >> It starts as a prickling and becomes a ripple, the course of tightening follicles over her /entire/ body. Alien impressions, not entirely welcome even if curiosity leaves Violet studying them, leave her animal mind puffed up and leery. It takes an effort to switch back to the instincts that allow speech, a conscious effort of will--the same will that pushes sensory impulses that are not her own /away/. Her tail is lashing hard enough to smack the legs of his stool. Thump. Thump thump. Finally she drops hand from shoulder to /grab/ the damn thing; it squirms in her grip like a pissed off snake. "Fella," she tells him, "I think maybe you need some takin' care of, yourself. Like...right this minute, yeah? Somethin's goin' on in that head of yours. Maybe you should be in bed instead of watchin' me throw a gumbo together. I mean, yeah, sure, I'm that interestin' but..." << (our head) (very busy) >> comes Hive's quiet agreement, cluttered still with ghosts of foreign memories that are now starting to blur together. Slowly his head tilts downward, eyes vaguely gravitating towards where Violet's tail thumped at his stool. Vaguely, given that even once they've tracked this motion they don't really focus. Slowly he slides off the stool, wobbling unsteady on his feet. << Bed. Good. Can you. Wake us. When it's -- done. Want to bring -- >> Another jumbled mental sense, of Flicker, of himself, uncertain how to extricate the two. << Still in the. Clinic. Would like -- good food. >> The tail returns to its agitated stirring when Hive dismounts the stool, because Violet lets go to grab for the man's arm. Balance shared is sure balance, that's her working theory, and she's got a wiry strength in her arms. "Y'don't say," is her low, chuffed response to mention of busy heads. The efficiency is clicked in again. If he's not careful he might find his arm across her shoulders to bear up the slight burden of his weight--which might not be entirely pleasant, due to prickly, still-damp fur. "C'mon then. I'll poke at you when it's done, sure, but that's gonna be a couple've hours out for a /good/ gumbo. You'n...him both, I guess, ya'll can sleep 'til then. Where's your bed, now?" << Basement -- >> Though Hive sounds a little unsure of /this/, too, echoing background minds behind his also answering that /they've/ been crashing in the guest room or the office upstairs. He has to push away these thoughts -- /other/ bodies, no, /this/ one goes in the basement. He doesn't resist the assistance -- doesn't really seem to /notice/ the wet fur past an almost /puzzled/ shifting as damp seeps into his shirt. << That way. >> He doesn't actually give any physical indication of which way he means but the basement door is highlighted in his mind as he starts shuffling that direction. << Good gumbo. >> This thought is repeated in very pleased echo. << Good. >> Violet gets her other arm around his back, and with her fingers curled around his wrist, there's very little shuffling he /needs/ to do as she bears him along. Not briskly, mind. There's a low, absent-minded concern for his stomach--he might throw up no no this doesn't look the same--as she navigates towards the door shown to her. Handy, thank. But still... "Don't know how you live with all that muck in your head," she huffs along the way. "Basement it is. And when ya'll wake up there'll be gumbo, sure thing. Maybe even some cornbead on the side if you sleep long enough." << Not that he looks like he needs the bribe. Jesus wept, >> goes the undercurrent--but aloud, she keeps it bright and clear and clean, all the way down, save for those times (hello, stairs) when she /really/ needs to conserve breath. << You're good at this, >> comes a quiet distant observation as Violet escorts Hive down to the basment -- wide and open and largely set up to be kind of a nerd den of computers and shelves full of books and games, video game posters and a slim sword and some of Jax's art hanging on the wall, a huge frame stretching across the ceiling that contains a large netted -- hammock? that takes up mostof the ceiling-width. The actual /bedrooms/ here are tucked off in back; Hive's is a messy cluttered place with notebooks and half-finished sketches of building ideas and clothes strewn across the floor; his bed hangs about a foot off the floor from thick sturdy chains bolted into the ceiling. He sinks down onto it with his unfocused eyes still locked somewhere straight ahead. << Cornbread. Now /you're/ gonna start spoiling /us/. >> "Practice," she says, helpfully unhelpful--except when dealing with a telepath, evasion is hard, duh. The parallels are already there close to the surface, dark house, stumbling, weight and the stink of an unwashed body leaning hard on her shoulder and a bittersweet ache in her chest as she struggles to bear Mom up, just a few more steps and at least she's here and not out there. Old news, that. Violet's not surface-aware, she's lived with it long enough and besides, there's a nerd den to eyeball as she steers Hive through the clutter. Now, that bed? That bed she approves of. The clutter not so much. A shirt is kicked away, scuffed backwards as she lets his arm flop from her shoulder. "I got this suspicion you could have cornbread every day, if you just mentioned it t'Micah. Don't need /me/ makin' it for you t'be spoiled. There. You gonna be all right down here? I'd probably hear you if you fell out or somethin' but..." << Mmnh. >> This mental image finally gets a change out of Hive's expression, just a faint pinch around his eyes (together with an odd dissonant mind-feel of sunlight through leaves, barky-rough skin, sweet-tart cherries dropped down into a hammock, that seems to have no bearing at all on the current conversation.) << ... maybe we /will/. Is that like. Southern-baiting. A /trap/. >> Hive settles down into bed, flopping back onto the pillow with a very small twitch of something like a smile. << Yeah. Think for now. We're all. Pretty alright. >> Violet may or may not be getting accustomed to this weird brain stuff--the latest run of images get a flick of an ear, a thoughtful perusal, and then she is shaking her head. Yeah, no, it's still bizarre. "Could be. /I'm/ not dishin' out home secrets, Micah might start closin' th'windows. You rest now," she instructs. No nonsense, nor dawdling--there's water boiling upstairs now, a couple of lobsters to kill, and a whole host of ingredients to combine into tastiness. So she turns and picks her way smoothly through the geek debris for the stairs. Up she'll go...but the door is left wide open so she /can/ listen for anything that sounds like not-sleeping.