Logs:Agent Dolittle

Agent Dolittle
Dramatis Personae Bryce, Clint, Rocket
In Absentia	2024-05-24 "You're telling me you let this guy run naked around your place and you don't even know if he talks?!"
Location <NYC> Clint's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen
Though small, this studio has tall, stately windows that let out onto a fire escape with a commanding view of the streets below. The entryway is flanked with a closet on one side and a bathroom on the other, and is the only uncluttered space in the whole apartment. Brightly colored banners adorn the walls and all manner of puppets and stuffed animals line the shelves such that the entire place looks like a carnival in miniature. The floors are covered with busy Central Asian carpets and littered with plush cushions, except in the kitchenette, where the narrow counters are crowded with jars upon jars of custom seasoning blends and locally roasted coffees, all with ridiculous names. A tight spiral of floating stairs leads up to a loft half taken up by a big, fluffy bed and an armoire, the remainder of the space there given over to an L-shaped workbench below a pegboard laden with tools. Clint is sprawled on the couch in a purple tee shirt and comfortable old jeans, working through his second glass of whiskey and his third slice of pizza, though there are indications he may not finish this one. The brown mutt sitting on the floor beside him has been leaning harder and harder against his leg, setting his chin on Clint's knee and blinking his one eye soulfully in an effort to communicate his state of no doubt desperate starvation. On the big screen, there are way too many people crammed into the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, and Han Solo is not appreciating the back-seat piloting from either the old Jedi or the young one. "We'll be safe enough once we make the jump to hyperspace," he's reassuring his passengers, who granted have been given good reason to doubt him, "Besides, I know a few maneuvers. We'll lose em'!" Rocket's been seated on the couch, his legs not even making it to the end of the cushion, wearing his (singed, damaged) flight suit still, having neither had the foresight to either procure clothes for himself nor the humility to ask for the Avengers to provide. He, unfortunately, has also been offering plenty of backseat piloting advice for these oblivious on-screen characters, tipping his glass towards them. "You seeing this, this guy knows a few maneuvers?" He seems actually to be talking to the dog rather than Clint, and then to Han, with an almost genuine meanness and anger, "You better know a few, like getting your head out of your ass, Hand!" It's possible that the alcohol tolerance of a less than fifty pound raccoon might be less than the average grown man's. Somewhere just a little above Rocket's shoulder height, there's a beetle, bright and shiny, perched on the couch cushions. It's been kind of lurking around the apartment for the past little while, harmlessly enough. Until no... no, belay that, it's still looking pretty Normal-Beetle-y. The voice that rustles into Clint and Rocket's mind sounds a bit eerily at one and the same time like a strange echoing chorus of many-voices-together and, also, like an entirely normal and kind of chipper kid. << wait, okay, you mean like this? Am I doing it now? Yesssss. >> Nobody here is fist-pumping, externally, but there's a strong sense that fist-pumping is happening in the heart. << Do you know maneuvers? Can you teach me maneuvers? >> "He does not know that one." Clint succumbs to Arrow's sad puppy eye, feeding him the rest of the slice in his hand. He's just about to reach for a new one when the susurrating voice slips into their minds, and reaches up to tap the frame of his glasses instead. Then looks down in mild reproval at his glass. "Did you hear that?" he asks Rocket even as he turns very slowly to look at his dog. "Is the talking thing. Contagious." "Oh yeah, buddy, do I know maneuvers. I'll show you when I get my ship back," says Rocket to the dog, as if nothing unusual just happened. He seems more surprised by Clint, blearily looking between him and Arrow, and then starts to laugh riotously, "You're telling me you let this guy run naked around your place and you don't even know if he talks?!" << I can go in your spaceship, that's so cool. Where is it, I have a friend who -- >> Here the voice cuts off, though. The beetle is moving along the couch, creeping a little bit into the gap between the cushions. << I am so sorry I did not mean to be naked. I thought I was dead and Hive says I'm not dead and Joshua thought maybe I went invisible and maybe it's okay to be naked if you're invisible but -- um I'll put clothes on if, >> kind of sheepish here, << you can help me find. Some that fit. >> Clint side-eyes Rocket without much of a change in expression, though he sounds a bit defensive with, "He's never asked for clothes before. Anyway, you're not dead, buddy." His hand drops to pet Arrow's head, but then he hesitates, pursing his lips. "Well, you almost died. But you're definitely not invisible." He downs the rest of his whiskey, pushes himself up off the couch, and goes to pull open one of the closet's double doors. Within there's a row of colorful...costumes? They don't really look like the sort of thing Clint would wear, even to a costume party. But beside those is a tiered rack of dog clothes, which he picks up entire and brings back, draping them over the couch and incidentally covering the little beetle between the cushions with a rainbow of fabrics. Some of Arrow's clothes are utilitarian--a purple plaid winter coat here, a rubber-ducky patterned rain jacket there--but quite a few others are costumes as well. Most of them look like they would fit Rocket. "Some of these might be a bit of a squeeze," Clint muses. "Might want to cut back on the pizza. You want...boring black hoodie? Whatever the hell this is?" Arrow is nosing through his clothes, tail flagging slow. "Captain America?" He pulls out the dog-sized Cap costume with a sigh. "Figures." At being asked where his spaceship is, Rocket calms down and also downs the remainder of his drink. "It's in space," he says, pointing his finger presumably in the direction of space. He hops up to his feet and off the couch to get a better look at these costumes and outfits, "He never asked for clothes and you got all this just waiting for this moment? Yeesh, and I get told that I overpack." He starts to poke through the collection, feeling the fabrics and comparing them to his own flight suit. "Hive? You been talking to the Brood? They're usually, 'yap yap meat yap yap consume yap egg', not worth talking to." << Oh -- oh, um, Mister, these are really cool clothes -- uh, I think -- but they definitely are a little big? I'm kind of lost. >> The shiny beetle is making his way up a colorful doggy cape to climb onto the top of the clothes rack. << -- oh okay phew I'm found again. And that's so cool but if it's all the way up there how'd you get here? I think I went to space yesterday, it's pretty. Is the brood those horrible Bugs? Hive isn't a Brood. He tells me lots of cool stuff like how to talk with my brain. >> Clint mouths the word "mister" without voicing it. "Too. Big." He's eyeing Arrow with obvious befuddlement. "No, Hive is more of a home-grown sort of deal. The Brood are those horrible--" He does an actual double take. "You went to space. I know you get up to shenanigans while I'm gone, you leave the damned window open. But I imagined it was more on the level of finding lost puppies or leading animal control on a zany chase." He drags his hand down the side of his face. "I can try to find smaller clothes. Do you mind donating some of these to Rocket?" He looks at his house guest. "Not getting the impression you overpacked this time. You can understand the Brood?" "I'm a good talker," Rocket informs Clint, "What, you think Quillish is the only language they talk in space? I understand lots of stuff." He shakes his head and puts his head on his forehead mournfully, "I got here in an escape pod, and it crashed into the ground and exploded, so my luggage situation is light. If I had all my stuff I wouldn't've got stuck in a damn box." He pauses a tick and says, "Hey, how'd you get to space? This backwater doesn't seem to have any tow ships or good communicators or anything." << Oh-h-h. That sounds really scary but I'm glad you're not hurt, it sounds like Heavenly Father was really looking out for you, too. >> This sounds very sincere. << I kind of just whooshed up into space on a -- >> There's a hesitation, uncertain, here, which is filled in in a moment by an idea rather than words, climbing up the gleaming gold-and-crimson Thing, the breathtaking array of stars all around, the unfathomably, impossibly huge sight of the Acanti drifting in space. << There's tow trucks, >> he's musing uncertainly, << but they probably don't go as far as -- oh have you asked any teleporters. I have some friends who know how to travel all kinds of places. >> "Quillish," Clint echoes, without inflection. It sounds very much like he was going to pursue that further, but the sense-memory brings him up short. "That's--Stark?" He refills his glass only to immediately toss it back. "Granted, I was still trying to get up off the floor when he went up that rabbit hole but--" He snaps his fingers. "Wait, this is more telepathic fuckery, isn't it. Is there telepathic fuckery where you come from?" He asks Rocket in all apparent sincerity. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has access to a lot of communication satellites if you just need to get a signal out. As far as physically bringing you there, I assume sci-tech is working on it, but literally not my department. We don't have teleportation, but Arrow can hook you up, apparently." Arrow does not look like he is going to hook anyone up with teleportation, but he is snuffling hopefully toward the pizza again. "Of course there's telepathic fuckery where I come from, I come from freakin' space!" says Rocket, seeming offended at the very idea that he'd not have something these Earthlings do. He grimaces and adds to Arrow, "I never had anyone's giant dad looking after me in any kind of way I liked. If I died every time I fell from the sky and got blown up, then I'd be long dead already." He does concede, "If you can get me there, then I can assess the damage, get it up and running again." << I come from Utah, >> Bryce says -- maybe this should sound disappointed in comparison to freakin' space, but mostly he sounds excited to be sharing and just as excited when he says, << I'd love to see space you're really cool. Who's Arrow. My brother's roommates teleport all over the place I totally bet they would help you, >> though now he does sound just a touch mournful, for the first time, << if you can help me figure out how to get home. >> Clint nods grimly, as if he were very prepared to accept that the rest of the universe is also full of telepathic fuckery. "I would take a giant space dad who did absolutely nothing over the father I actually got, so my bar is pretty low there." He starts to refill his glass again, but this time he's so startled he actually puts the alcohol down and sits bolt upright, scanning the room in what looks like a very random fashion. "Oh my fff--flipping gosh, you're that kid Salinas was looking for. And you're Mormon, and also tele--" He scrubs his face with both hands. "You're an Allred, aren't you?" Rocket takes the bottle to pour himself another drink. "I feel you, buddy," says Rocket at Clint's comment on the subject of fathers, raising his glass slightly. He looks between Arrow and Clint and says, "Seems like someone's living a double life, huh? Who you calling a Mormon?" Though seeing Clint looking around he starts to scan about as well, "Nobody here but you, me, Arrow and my shiny beetle..." He juts his finger towards said beetle, "And if you're calling me names, I got way more names in my little finger than you got in your whole head. That's a fight you can't win." << I'm a Mormon, >> the voice is saying brightly, << but you can be too if you want, we love to have new people. >>The tiny beetle is, for the first time, flexing its wings, a small buzzing shift that lifts it only a tiny bit off the clothes rack before it lands again, nearly falls off, scrabbles to right itself again. << Yes!!! I'm Bryce, Bryce Allred, do you know my family? >> The relief in the mental voice here is palpable. << I was in the park when the bugs came and I thought I died but I didn't, I'm glad I found you though because I like pizza and I like Mr. Rocket. What names do you have? >> "Shiny beetle." Clint stares at Bryce. "Salinas--Joshua kind of left that part out. Why are you a beetle?" He's shaking his head immediately. "Wait. Why am I asking. Weird mutant fuckery, obviously. Anyway 'Mormon' isn't an insult. It's a religion, one of the giant space dad kinds. This is Arrow." He ruffles Arrow's floppy ears, finishes topping off his glass, then tips his hand at the beetle, "That's who's been telepathying us. I'm Clint." He studies Bryce again, lips compressing. "I knew your big brother. He was a good man." He frowns at the pizza box. "So, uh. Bryce, Bryce Allred, did you want a whole slice, or..." "The beetle's a guy?" Rocket sounds disappointed. More quietly to himself, "This stuff keeps happening to me..." He takes another drink, though his proportions do not allow him to down it at the speed that Clint has. "You're just gonna ask a beetle why it's a beetle? C'mon, man, you ever hear of tact?" The glass is carefully placed on the couch cushion before Rocket scrambles back up to his previous seated position. "Give him the slice, I'll finish whatever's left, and rewind this thing so I can tell you exactly what this motley crew of incompetents did wrong."