Logs:The Whole "Being a Mutant" Thing

The Whole "Being a Mutant" Thing
Dramatis Personae Bruce, Hive
In Absentia	2019-07-07 "Not that I'm trying to be nosy, but -- I'm fucking nosy." (CW: Oblique reference to child abuse.)
Location <NYC> Buddha Bodai Kosher Vegan - Chinatown
This small restaurant tucked into a snarl of shops on the southern end of Mulberry Street does not draw many tourists. Beneath a large red sign advertising the name of the establishment and its vegan fare in both English and Chinese, the glass storefront offers a very limited view inside, much obstructed by posters, menus, tall refrigerator, and a bizarre diorama that includes a fake white peacock. Inside, the surprisingly capacious and well-lit venue sports tastefully subtle decorations in red and gold. White tableware waits on red lacquered tables flanked with glossy black chairs, all arranged in neat, cozy clusters. The artwork on the walls depict stylized bodhi trees, lotuses, mudras, and dharma wheels. Equally pleasant, the scent of the dim sum in which the restaurant specializes. It's a bit after the suppertime rush on a Friday evening, and while the streets outside are bustling, the restaurant itself is reasonably quiet. There are a couple of local families here finishing up their meals, a pair of exhausted-looking young people gamely working through a huge amount of food, and one old man who's mostly there to chat with the servers. Bruce is mostly drinking tea at the moment. His navy blazer is draped over the back of his chair, his pale green dress shirt and camel slacks rumpled after a long day, tie long since disposed of if he'd worn one to begin with. "This is amazing," he's saying as he refills his teacup. Beneath the simple and sincere praise, there's a complicated stream of gratitude toward his companion, pleasure at the sheer variety of vegan dim sum on offer, and equal parts anxiety and incredulity that he appears to be making a friend who wasn't a colleague first. That stream of thought dips in and out of his conscious focus, weaving as usual with half a dozen others ranging from abstruse biochemical musings to low-grade irritation at a loose thread on the inside of his shirt collar. Across from Bruce, Hive is more casual in jeans, workboots, a chambray workshirt unbuttoned over a plain white undershirt. He's currently halfway through nibbling at a crisp flaky bird-nesty taro confection. There's been a kind of exhaustion hanging over him through the meal, clear in the set of his posture and evident in the occasional sluggish distraction of his conversation. His warmth seems genuine regardless of whatever other tired he might be feeling, Bruce's appreciation putting a smile on his face. "There's some other great vegan places I can show you, but this is one of my favorites. I haven't found bao like theirs anywhere else." He dabs a finger through some of the crisp crumbs collecting on his plate. "How long have you been in town? Oh, man, there's this veg burger joint just around the corner from my place that --" He pauses, brows knitting. "Well. New York is big. Could make you a long-ass list." Bruce has picked his chopsticks back up to transfer a curry dumpling from one of the bamboo steamers to his plate. "A few months now, but I've been working a lot, and..." The twisting strand of that thought snarls and ceases moving forward, but his mind shifts around it, pushing a different stream forward. He reaches up a hand to adjust his collar, smoothing the loose thread down so that it is less noticeable. << Welcome to a show about death! >> yet another stream sings cheerfully. Then the thought behind what he had been saying resolves itself as it weaves back to the front. << The whole being a mutant thing, >> is what tumbles out, slightly sing-song, and though he's not unaware that Hive must have heard, he continues aloud with, "...haven't gotten out, much. But I think this is...good, and while you don't have to make me a comprehensive list I'd surely appreciate a tip on your favorites." Hive's brows lift -- just a little, his eyes widening slightly even as his teeth grind. Brief. He shoves the rest of his taro nest into his face and chases it with a gulp of water. "I used to think this city bred workaholics but I'm starting to think that's just everywhere these days. Sort of -- capitalism curse. I'm glad you surfaced long enough for --" He waves a hand toward the containers of food on their table. "I'm not really vegan, so I guess you'll have to take my recommendations with a grain of salt. I just like good food." He tips his glass side to side, rattling the ice within it. "Did you see their Tonys number? I think they had more fun with it than anyone else there." "I imported my workaholism all the way from Ohio. It's a vintage curse." Bruce chuckles dryly. "Well, you're the closest thing to a vegan friend I've got at the moment, in the sense that you are..." He gestures vaguely in the air with his chopsticks. "...capable of eating a vegan meal without making skeptical or snarky remarks on its vegan-ness." << You’re gonna be fine, on the other side… >> his mind sings on in Beetlejuice's voice. "Oh, yes, it was wonderful. I found the performances unusually engaging this year, I think." He actually starts reviewing last year's Tony Award performances, then the year before's, but then Beetlejuice interrupts him again with, << DIE! YOU’RE ALL GONNA DIE! >> He actually winces, puts a hand to his forehead. "Sorry. It kind of just--does its own thing. I'm sure you know better than I..." "Half my friends are hippies, I like to know where we can eat together." Hive's lips quirk briefly, and he clarifies: "Too many of my friends are *white* hippies, I like to make sure I got a roster of places where they'll have options and I'll have flavor. There are a lot of *shitty* vegan places, too, where they'll give you some bland-ass -- steamed tofu over boiled quinoa. Maybe salt it if they're feeling adventurous." He starts to lift his water glass again -- his fingers tighten hard around it, his teeth grinding once more momentarily before he takes another gulp. "No, don't..." Crrrrrk. Another slow grind. "You don't have to apologize. For what's in your head. It does its own thing. I kind of get used to." He's staring at the ripples in his glass as he sets it back down, knuckles white around it. "What comes to mind and what people say are two really different things. Even what comes to mind and what you choose to focus on are different things." Bruce's eyebrows rise up slightly. "That sounds...pretty awful." The quickly clarifies, "The tofu and quinoa, that is. Not your friends." << I'll be your guide, to the other side... >> " The enzyme he had been contemplating earlier fades into the background of his mind, that stream of thought smoothly replaced by the same equation he had been working on in vain the first time they met, each operation a dizzying dance of color, texture, and sound. "I know, it's just--it was loud. I don't know if that hurts your head." He removes his glasses as if to clean them, but then...doesn't. Looks up at Hive. "It's not that being a mutant bothers me. It's just...only really come up under extreme duress." A rapid-fire montage of wrecked apartments, offices, hotel rooms. << Oh, and full disclosure: it's a show about death! >> "It redefines suffering." Hive scoops some congee into a small bowl, adding some strips of spicy seitan on top before stirring it together. "The food," it is his turn to clarify, "not your --" He waggles fingers toward his temple. He takes a bite of his porridge and chews it over, slow, his fingers tight on the spoon and shoulders a little more hunched. "Duress is how a lot of people figure it out. It hopefully doesn't -- have to only be like that, though." Bruce gives an abrupt guffaw. "Sure were times I thought this redefined suffering." He taps the side of his head with an index finger. << Everybody gets on fine here... >> His anxious darting thoughts about losing time start spinning into a new stream in his consciousness. The process is not automatic, but he seems quite practiced at it. "I'm sure you've noticed by now I'm not exactly typical." << Like Rodgers, Hart, and Hammerstein here... >> "Some of that seems to interact with my uh...mutation." The equation looms loud and rough for a moment. "I'm working on it." << And just trying really hard not to switch. >> "I've noticed." Hive's mouth quirks up at its corner. "I'm sure sometimes it's chaos to you, but honestly I hear it more like poetry." He takes another large bite of congee and washes it down this time with tea, topping off his cup and Bruce's as well after. "I think for a lot of people it's not possible to separate easily. How you think and process the world from how your mutation -- does whatever it does. Some cases it just maybe more stark of a..." He waves his spoon, a vague circling gesture. "Interact like how, though? Not that I'm trying to be nosy, but -- I'm fucking nosy." "Poetry?" Bruce stares blankly. For a brief moment he genuinely suspects he's missed some abrupt turn in the conversation, thinking that Hive must have been comparing something /else/ to poetry. << This? >> The stream largely responsible for processing their conversation shifts its focus conceptually outward, an unschooled attempt at speaking to the telepath in thoughts, briefly interrupted by Beetlejuice again with << The whole being dead thing! >> << This is just to make all of /that/-- >> The streams of thought cycle forward in rapid-fire, an effect like someone strumming once on the strings of an instrument. << --into something even remotely manageable. Most days. >> Hive's question pulls his "loosing time" stream forward into abrupt, vivid, and terrible focus on a single memory: A very young Bruce draws a large, green monster in crayon, grimacing fiercely. He has no fear of it, though; the Hulk /protects/ him. All the while his father is yelling at his mother in the next room, "It's like he turns into a little demon sometimes, no fear and no pain. That boy's /possessed/." If it was going any further, the memory is cut short by Beetlejuice singing, << Nobody is bulletproof! >> When the memory /attempts/ to come back forward, something goes slightly awry. Something /pushes/ from the other side of Bruce's consciousness, reaching for awareness. The dance of Bruce's thoughts changes subtly, slower and calmer. A new stream starts up, the Heart Mantra a steady comforting drone around which the rest now orbit. The stirring beneath his consciousness subsides. << I work out, I eat clean! >> Beetlejuice mocks. Bruce picks up his tea with a murmured thanks and sips from it. << One of my alter egos...shapeshifts? Or, I suppose I shapeshift--into my alter ego. >> A shiver of fear run through him at this thought. << I have no memory of it, and no control, and...the shapeshifting is very noticeable. >> Through this, Hive just sips at his tea. His eyes half-close; he's quiet through the shifting stream of thoughts that surface for Bruce. "Huh," is what finally comes out, his brows pulling inward. He lowers his cup, cradling it in both hands. "Everyone's mind is painful," he finally says. "The city's noisy as fuck. It all hurts. But some things -- it doesn't hurt the way people think it might. It doesn't land to me the way it probably feels to you. You live with it, I only --" His head shakes. "You put all the time and work into figuring out what you need. To think through it, to manage it. Where I see it from, it's just. Intricate." His hand lifts, fingers skimming through his hair along the side of his head. "But I don't see all those times that it doesn't weave together so cleanly." His jaw works, slowly. "Do you know what they're like, at all?" "I'm sorry," Bruce replies, finally tucking his glasses into the breast pocket of his shirt. "That sounds incredibly stressful." << I'm glad all this isn't...well, as awful for you as I'd have imagined. >> He pops the curry dumpling into his mouth and considers. << He--they're...huge and green. Incredibly strong and tough. Apparently angry all the time? >> That shiver of fear again, stronger this time, and smoothed back down with alacrity. << I've never talked to him. Them? I'm not even sure they can talk. When they're here...I'm not. >> Hive's silence is a little bit longer, this time. His teeth slowly grind. He sounds quieter, less certain, when he does speak again. "Would you like to? Talk. To them. I don't -- know. That I could -- but probably. If they're in there." Bruce's first reflexive answer, which he doesn't speak aloud, is << Of course! >> Then he mentally takes a step back from that. << Might be dangerous. >> The equation, the mantra, the song, << Time to face the brutal truth... >> Then, the isolated recollection of someone else's words, << You could've hurt any of us but you didn't. >> He pulls his glasses out of his pocket and puts them back on. << 'Cause we’re all on a hitlist! >> "I would like to," his reply is calm when it finally comes. "But I've really no concept how much that would be asking of you." A quick grin slices crooked across Hive's face. "I have no fucking clue how much, either. I've never done anything like that. Reassuring, I know. But I do have -- a lot of experience with --" His brows knit deeply. "Navigating minds that are -- a lot of people. In one. Teasing out identities that are woven together. Helping people communicate when --" His jaw tightens, his teeth grinding once more. He takes another quick sip of his tea, sets his cup down again hard. "I don't know what it would take. But we could carve out some time, maybe." His eyes skim around the restaurant, a wry quirk in his tone. "If you got somewhere that doesn't mind big and green. There'd be no guarantee of -- you know." Bruce raises his thick black eyebrows as he picks a barbeque seitan bun from one of the steamers. "That's an unusual thing to have a lot of experience with." << /Is/ it? Maybe it's a telepath thing. >> He breaks open the bun and takes a bite, continuing in his head. << Would you prefer I speak out loud, by the way? You don't seem to /answer/ in here. >> Washes his food down with a gulp of tea. << That is the /best/ char-siu bao I have ever had. >> "My work has some large indoor spaces that are.../probably/ Hulk-proof." He refills both of their teacups. "I really appreciate it. Things have been..." He swallows and shakes his head, shunting the sudden swell of anxiety into another stream, though he seems to be nearing his capacity for managing those. "Thank you." "I've had an unusual life." Hive nods in thanks at the tea refill, picking up his chopsticks to nab a curry dumpling of his own. "You're fine. Listening's fine. It's just -- if people aren't used to it, the way I talk is --" His mouth twitches to one side. "It can be painful. I don't like to just. Punch people in the head like that without warning." He swirls the dumpling through some sauce that's lingering on his plate, his head shaking. "It took me a long-ass time to figure out what the hell was going on in my head, when I started --" Another small twitch of lips. "Hearing voices. And it was goddamn terrifying. If I can help it be a little less rocky for a friend --" He lifts a bony shoulder, popping the dumpling into his mouth. Bruce pulls his glasses off again to press a hand against his eyes. << You know, when I was younger I wished I'd hear voices? Figured it'd be easier if I could talk to them. >> He shakes his head. "I guess I would have just traded one kind of terrifying for another." << Thought you were one of them, when I met you. >> He picks up his tea, settles back into his chair a bit more easily. "Even if you can't...figure out a way to help me talk to him? Having a friend who understands this at all--that's more than I'd ever hoped for." << So, how about we all make a start on the whole being dead thing! >>