ArchivedLogs:We Exist

We Exist
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Hive, Parley, Flicker
In Absentia	2014-01-30 Part of the Prometheus and Morpheus TPs
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. A widescreen television stands against the wall opposite the couch, shelving beside it holding a host of video games from different consoles. More shelving beside the windows on the far wall carries stacks of board games, as well as sourcebooks from various RPGs. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here and one bathroom situated between them, split between the three people who live here. While outside, winter rages on, indoors the western front is quiet. Psionically, it may be a faintly eerie experience to get a knock on the door without a calling-card mind-signal to announce itself - Or maybe not, Parley has lived here for a long enough time for his peculiarities to be known. Especially with the offhand flutterping that he sends from outside the door to mitigate the camouflage. Like a BAT echolocating MINDS. ping-ping? Or maybe more a rosetted flank faintly rubbing along the outside of the mind, to accompany his 'knock knock?' Inside the apartment, Hive does /startle/, used enough to feeling minds well before the knock comes. Possibly startle moreso because he's been half-drowsing in front of his laptop on the couch, set up with dual monitors attached, its layout of the Commons growing more detailed still. He's casual-dressed, jeans and thick grey socks, blue Grumpy Bear bunnyhug keeping him warm, Thai takeout half-eaten scattered around the various apartment surfaces as the roommates rotate through dishes. Spicy smells fill the room. He's got a bowl of fish stew over rice, chopsticks stuck into it, barely touched yet. Beside him Flicker's reading. Geoff Ryman, /The Child Garden/. In corduroys and a long-sleeved v-neck black sweater, blue turtleneck beneath, mind quieted mostly as he focuses on Book and Dinner. At least till the knock comes and Hive startles and he glances up and over -- "Hm?" "Hmwha." Hive's dragging knuckles against his eyes, blinking against light and trying totally to pretend he wasn't nodding off mid-dinner. "Is open?" "No." But it's only a matter of instants before Flicker is at the door, opening it. Dusk is draped across his customary armchair, knees slung across one arm and wings draped across the other. Shirtless, jeans, no shoes -- though he /is/ wearing a startlingly /good/ -- batman mask? /Why/ is anyone's guess, or where it came from. At least it leaves the lower half of his face free for eating. Which he's doing, dipping dumplings into sauce, utilizing chopsticks to improperly just skewer them. CHOMP. His thoughts can probably be felt, /could/ probably be felt, far off. Have probably /been/ felt for a while now, more ravenous-hungry-red than they used to be, fierce and predatory-insatiable near-constantly lately, save brief lulls around feedings. And when he savours the sour-sweet tang of saucey dumpling in his mouth. In his ears, in his nostrils, in his /mind/, the pulses of the others hearts beat heavy. His thoughts beat in time with them. It doesn't stop the quick smile on his lips, roll of his head over to tip a nod up towards Parley in greeting. "Yo." His computer has been put to the side, laptop still open but on the floor beside him for the moment so that he can free up both hands for eating. "Want dumplings?" Standing in the doorway, Parley is likely fresh from work, in a dark grey wool coat, a black and blue striped scarf. A nice leather satchel slung across his chest - rosy nose and cheeks. Glasses sliding down his nose. He has a quick semi-startled blink when the door opens, head turned first to the location Flicker had occupied, then to the point he /does/ occupy, the side of his mouth twitching a moment later, "Has anyone told you it feels remarkably like a cat-toy when you do that? Hello, Hive-san. Dusk. Is that what that is? I could smell it from outside." The words embody a soft-kind-of-hungry 'yes' beneath the surface. He slips out of his shoes at the door, eyes lingering for a longer moment on Dusk in his chair. That deep blood will meet a second one, echoed quietly from Parley ruby-bright but with a faint... question-mark attached to it. "You should bat at him," Hive suggests. "Be like a laser pointer, though, you'd probably never catch." Obligingly, with a /warm/ bright grin, Flicker -- blips. To one side. The other. Twitch-twitch-jumpjumpjump. "There's -- well, Dusk's got the shumai. Some chive dumplings too somewhere. This is like --" Hive waves a hand towards a large plastic container just past his computer. "Choo chee." He doesn't actually bother to explain it, letting his mind interpret these things /for/ him; an all-purpose spicy seafood stew, salmon and scallops and squid and shrimp and mussels in curry-sauce with lime and basil, one of his favorites. And there's vegetable panang and laab tofu and fried rice. Around." Generically Around. "And about a ton of pepper beef." He slumps back in his seat, dragging his seafood stew with him. "Flicker settlethefuckdown," slurs out all like one word. "Making my eyes blur." They are kind of -- blurring. Or maybe Flicker's blurring. Zipzipzip. "Sup, Parley." "We could attach lights to him," Dusk adds helpfully, tucking another bite of shumai into his mouth. His eyes skip over Parley, almost relieved for the presence of scarf. His tongue swipes out, wiping a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. "I ate today," he admits -- almost guiltily, given the continued caliber of his hunger. "The laab tofu is pretty much like an orgasm in -- minced -- salad form. I didn't even know orgasms could come in salad form before I tried that shit. It'll make your eyes water, though. Spicy like woah. Grab some milk first." Or almond milk, it's all they have right now. In his rabidly allergic mind it translates to the same thing. "Pull up a --" Well, milk crate. He nudges one with a bare toe. They may or may not have clean dishes. Probably not. But they do have clean chopsticks. "--!" Parley makes a bemused !sound when Flicker skips around, blinking up his eyes and kind of reflexi-swatting his hands up. Does that count as batting? One or two sharp-breaths resemble a laughapproximate, "If you want to lure home stray tabbies - Well, I wanted to ask you advice, for one." There's no indication that this is to any one person present, specifically, looking down to slip free of jacket. If there's no obvious place to deposit it out of the way, he may opt to set it neatly folded next to his shoes. Beneath is a dark green collared shirt shirt that's begun to untuck from black slacks, black loafers. His fingers curl around his scarf, partway through unwinding it - pause with a quick glance towards Dusk. His lips thin, and he /finishes/ removing it, setting it aside as well. "Don't you normally remove the mask when going about the more--," with eyes focused down on the food, he approaches Dusk's hemisphere, "Mild-mannered bits?" Between the potential blurring in Hive and - bloodiness in Dusk, the subtle softening give of his mind admits deeper, small fragments of atmospheric surface-colors. Psionically, it might be felt - the faint softening. A curious prod. "He doesn't normally anything, man, that mask just /appeared/. Out of fucking /nowhere/. Fucking seriously. Like overnight." Hive rubs at his eyes again, settling back with another yawn. Yaaawn. Yawn. As Flicker settles back down out of his twitch-jumping, Hive settles /in/ at his side, sleepily-nestling with head tucked against the younger man's shoulder and his bowl in his lap. Poking through his stew to locate a stray scallop and pluck it out with neat precision. Then promptly forget he has it, eyes closing as his hand lowers back to the bowl, scallop still in hand. "Already lure home so many strays, we don't need more." "You should've seen what Hive woke up in." Flicker is not grinning, outwardly, but /oh boy/ is his /mind/ grinning, calling to mind a barely-there scrap of spandexy Green Martian cosplay, liquid latex body paint and cape and all. It may have taken a while to get green out of Hive's scruffy hairline. Hive /snorts/. "-- Advice?" He's /so/ moving on past the bizarrely overnight-appearing comicbook cosplay. His scallop falls back to his rice. His phone buzzes, and he shifts to pick it up instead, cracking an eye open to peer at it. Sleepily, then brighter -- in mind if not in lazy-lidded expression. "-- Got the place." He says this also sleepily. Nonchalant like, s'no big. Despite the /huge-bright/ excitement waking up in his mind. His thoughts shift back to Parley as he pockets his phone again. "Advice?" "I do like luring home strays." Dusk's light warm amusement is really not talking about cats, though. He tips up the tray of shrimp-pork dumplings towards Parley, his own breath shivering more noticeably as the other man approaches. His eyes close. "This mask is fucking awesome. Dude I go to sleep I wake up /the goddamn Batman/. What in /the actual fuck/. The only /possible/ way it could've been more awesome is if it was Darkwing Duck." His tongue swipes against his teeth. "-- Wait shit /what/?" Hive might look sleepy but /his/ eyes shoot open huge, shining oddly in their sudden excitement. "Holy /shit/ that's -- holy shit. That's awesome, that's -- huge. That's huge right? That's. Holy /shit/." His teeth flash bright up to Parley. Eyes fixing on Parley's /neck/ behind the eyeholes of his mask. "Oh man. Oh /man/ this is really happening. Holy crap. Uh. Advice from /us/, man, shit, I'm sitting here in a batman mask half naked. But shoot?" "Someone - painted you? In your sleep?" Like a good stray, Parley is enticed nearer by Dusk's extended tray of shrimp-pork, crouching down to easier cup a hand beneath what he swipes. Though his head turns rapidly for a moment to study both Hive and Flicker. Checking to see if anyone is /alarmed/ by this development - seeing none he comments with a chuff, "If we have it, we'll have to follow through now - I'm not sure I believed it would work. Are you excited?" His features are calm and even pleased, biting off a piece of dumpling - outwardly it doesn't show much that his heart rate has escalated, pounding harder as he sits on the floor near Dusk's chair, legs crossing. He's tossing Dusk a /wry/ glance, "/You're/ pleased. Would it be easier if you were fully naked?" Right, back to actual business, "- It's actually a follow up to," his fingers open, making a sideways gesture around his pouched-out cheek, "the media outpour we caused. I've been speaking with a few colleagues about organizing a memorial for those that have died in the Prometheus laboratories." It's kind of a boner-killer topic, but he's not saying it in a hugely mournful way. "No. I mean yeah. I mean fuck I don't know. Just woke up and -- ffff. Jax was Superman," Hive says, as though this explains /everything/. He settles back against Flicker's side once more, taking out his phone again to start running his thumb over it. "I like my work." This comes in answer to the question of excitement. The bright exuberance waking up in his mind comes /more/, though. He's sending out an email to their (newly created, /properly/ named, Dusk's put them together a proper website and everything) mailing list with this new development -- glancing up at Parley once it's fired off with his fierce-joy-buzz fading. "Labs -- uh." He picks up his scallop again. His chopsticks tap against the side of his bowl. "A -- what?" At first he just looks at Parley blankly. "You've been speaking with a who?" Next to Hive, Flicker's just quiet. Picking slowly at a small serving of fried rice he's scooped some tofu into, though he abruptly seems to have little appetite for it. A ripple-tinge of curiosity, bright eyes fixed on Parley, a polite-thoughtful, "Mmm?" Dusk tugs off his Batman mask to place it atop the back of his armchair, hair mussed underneath. "I don't actually know what the fuck is going on. Shit's just been /happening/. Jax and Micah got a vase of -- stone flowers and chocolate in their sleep. A fucking /hug bank/ appeared downtown. We weren't the only freaking superheroes, the kids out at school said they were all the hell over. Jax even had random shit appearing from his dreams when he was in /prison/. We have no damn --" He shakes his head, bemused. "I mean, for all I know next thing it's going to be hellhounds and face-sucking monsters but I'll take chocolate and superhero costumes while it lasts." His phone buzzes, a split second after Hive hits send. He wriggles sideways in his chair to pluck it from his pocket so he can check it, though he sets the phone down on the flat of his stomach, teeth clamping together and that hard surge of bloodlust spiking sharp and predatory-/angry/ at the mention of the labs. His brows raise. "... who even knows how many /that/ is." Bulk email is one of those things generations past would not understand. At the same time Dusk is digging for his own phone, Parley is fishing into a back pack pocket as well, checking his mail on reflex. "Maybe it's karma," he doesn't sound terribly into his own suggestion, "Zombies and superheroes and - chocolates. Does anyone else feel as though New York is one long hazing process?" He shifts to slide his phone back into a back pocket, a hand half-reaching out, pausing - then faintly touching the back of his knuckles against Dusk's leg when his mind spikes sharper. Very subtly, his own eyes are flashing feverish-brighter, a lively high color dusting his forehead and cheeks, the dull thud of his pulse finding a robust tempo. "That's actually exactly the point," he admits, licking sauce from his thumb, "The government isn't likely to release that level of information, well. Ever. But they aren't the only people that had access to that knowledge." He runs his eyes across each face present. "We remember." "I don't." Hive admits this very softly. "I remember the ones we saved. I the remember the ones we /didn't/ save. The ones that died while we were trying. But fuck, all the ones that died --" << in (me/us) >> << while (we/I) was there >> "-- in there, that's --" Flicker's eyes lower to his plate. Faces flash through his mind -- many. Fewer names. A touch of color to his cheeks. "Who is it you've been talking to?" he wonders softly, down to his plate. Hive's scallop falls back to his rice yet again. He swallows as Dusk's bloodlust crashes in against his mind. Stares down at the various seacreatures in his bowl "S'a lot of fucking people," he acknowledges, at last. "Just -- what if we've." << Forgotten. More than we remember. >> Faces flash in Dusk's mind, too. Wide-eyed faces, terrified ones. Angry ones, determined ones, furious violent ones. The taste of blood filling his mouth in thick hot spurts, the feel of flesh tearing beneath his teeth. The thudding pulse-beat pounding in his ears, in his /mind/. "I remember," his words rumble out on a low roll of growl, wing shifting slow and almost thoughtless to curl around Parley, pull the young man closer, "every one that I --" The tip of his tongue presses up against a fang. He /stabs/ at one of his remaining dumplings with a chopstick. The breath he draws in pulls in deep, the smell of ricewine and soysauce, seasoned pork, fur. "How do you memorialize /that/." In the fold of Dusk's wing, Parley's body feels wired and coiled, a subaudible shiver in his respiration. Between this crouching up and the fur and pelt-smell, it makes his allowance, to be pulled closer, feel almost like a smaller predator circling nearer. His neck tips, stern-faced, to touch his cheek into the soft wing membrane, "Not lightly." His head shake burrows a little, "We won't remember all of them. But we would remember better, together. I used to try, to tell myself lyrics of names. Of events and people. How they - mnh. In case..." He rolls up his eyes towards the ceiling, towards a window, the door, fingers curling slowly into into fists. "Well. - I've been writing down what I can. Names, memorable abilities. Identifying features." He's watching Hive and Flicker, when his back rests against the base of Dusk's seat. "...I want to start up a database. I've been talking with some of the people I've coordinated with from Heroes for Hire, and from Claire's office. How to set up a non-profit. It's strange, isn't it? Now that it's public we can do that." "Better man than me," Hive tells Dusk gruffly. "I used to /try/ to forget the ones I killed." His mind feels fuzzier. Distant memories of other minds in it -- or are they his own mind? Pieces of his own mind, parts of it that used to be there, now gone dark. "There's a lot of us, though." Flicker is still pushing food around on his plate. "I mean -- together," he agrees, with a nod towards Parley. "There's a lot of us on the outside here. And between all of us. Especially with people like -- Rilla." Since transplanted to the West Coast, but with her computer-brain memory -- capable of holding quite a lot of remembrance. "Between the lot of us we'll remember a lot." Ripping-tearing-shredding. Blood pooling on concrete floors. Strangled-gurgling screams echoing in his ears. << (i remember. >> "I could --" It's growing harder, for Dusk to push his words out through the thickening cloying press of hunger, wing rubbing soft back against Parley's cheek but one hard claw bending inward to press in contrasting sharpness at the soft side of Parley's throat. Dusk takes one breath, and then another. Leans forward past Parley to set aside the last two dumplings. "-- database. I could. Handle the. Tech side at least, s'kind of. What I." << (please) >> beat his thoughts beneath this, in time with the rhythm of Parley's heart. There's a barely-restrained ferocity to it that asks permission with teeth already bared, with a deep rumbling growl already in the sentiment. But it does /ask/, for all Dusk's muscles are tensing /up/, corded hard and firm, fingers clenched down against the armchair and his eyes closing. Breathing slower, deeper, a heavy swallow pushed down his throat. "Man." There's a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. "You know." His wing gives a twitch, too, the supple-soft muscle of it deceptively /strong/ in its curl around Parley. "I couldn't even /begin/ to fucking imagine how many we'd end up with." It's more organic than a door opening; Parley's mind is porous, and when he flexes it open it's more like a muscle loosening - hovering just to the outer atmosphere of Hive's shielding, over the torn-out chasms where something else used to exist. Like an open palm hovering over the center of the chest. Slowly coming to understand - or /try/ to understand - the full meaning of these missing parts. The cool care of the touch is only a thin membrane, though. The heavy-thudding glittering-red tension coiling in Dusk courses beneath like melted lead, focused stark-bright through him like a lens. He releases a short bit of shaky air, some relief at Dusk's offer, "I'd lie if I said I wasn't hoping you would be inter-hhh-ested." The softness of wing and /sharp/ edge of claw combine in coaxing his head back, to the side - this comes delicately, punctuated with small electric << ! >> punctuations each increment allowed. The rest makes Dusk's wing /work/ for it, though. His fingers trace through the fur to locate the tendon-joints. Massaging at them. The angle makes his own voice sound edged in weak growl. "...it would be the. First attempt to," he swallows. "Compile this kind of. Data. We would need to be able to offer anonymity to anyone with information. Just to start." << (please) >> echoes back, crimson ripples as his eyes close. With a random spike of << (/distracting/)-(bastard.) >> The missing parts are -- fuzzy. A shaky void that's hard to pick through because right now they're fuzzy to /Hive/, an uncertainty that /he's/ having trouble reaching for. Parts of him /crushed/ out and -- and he prods at his stew with his chopsticks, frowning as his phone buzzes, a distant vibration that for a moment he /forgets/ what he's supposed to be doing with. << (/distracting/) >> echoes in agreement with Parley; he focuses on the brightness of Dusk's mind, hunger, bloodthirst. Rests his head against Flicker's shoulder. "You got an appointment at the Clinic tomorrow, don't you?" He might be reminding Dusk or he might be reminding himself; he's struggling to remember. His jaw works slowly, eyes closing, head throbbing with an ache that's become near constant, these days. "He does." Flicker remembers, at least. << (getting worse.) >> He doesn't need to be a telepath to notice the struggle since Dusk left prison and the increased rations he'd been on there. "Compile the data and -- then. What." He finally takes a slow mouthful of food and lifts his hand, curling it around Hive's head to rub at the telepath's temple. "Make a facebook page," Hive says, deadpan. "It'd get a fuckton of likes." Dusk snorts. << Tomorrow morning, >> he confirms for Hive, with an overwhelming rush of relief accompanying this answer. Hopeful. Maybe increased /rations/ again, even if this thought comes with /distaste/. Cold blood packs (/blech/) the /nauseating/ stomach-turning feel of having to choke down blood treated with anticoagulants -- really intended for transfusing and not /drinking/, eating them straight just makes his gorge rise after too long and he has to take them /slowly/ or he'll vomit them right back up. But they'll also stop /this/, fierce-predatory bloodthirst; certainly after long enough time removed from being on a healthy diet it'd go away, he'd wean himself back /down/ to his previous levels of near-starvation and learn to live with it again. But it would be /nicer/ to -- not-be-starving always. Through these thoughts a low growl is rumbling in Dusk's throat, his wing curling tight and strong to flex around Parley. Around and /under/, scooping the smaller man /up/ and inward, his lips actually parting now to bare sharp teeth. Quietly, Flicker sets his plate aside, blipping out of view and returning in short order with a first-aid kit. "-- Anonymity I can also handle. I mean, digitally," Dusk is managing to add. But his growling voice is getting huskier. His skin is flushing. The << (please) >> in his voice is turning into just a steady underchorus that is gradually morphing from request to just a fierce hungry << (mine) >>. "A -- faceBook of the Dead?" Parley asks wryly, shakily, as he vanishes into the scoop of wing to be - well he /tries/ not to topple too many bony knees or elbows into Dusk's body. "-It's not far off from some of the p-hh-ossibilities." Blood runs high in his cheeks, thudding in each pulse point - it's a healthy look. Especially with his fur up in a ridge at his nape. He pushes his fingers through the hair at either of Dusk's temples to take a /handful/ at either side. Speaking down into his face in a low steady rumble, "Gathering the names together and releasing them to the public. Probably be better to notify them privately. But did you know, that was often how families had to find out what became of their loved ones during the Civil War? The names were just listed haphazardly in the newspapers. The government originally had no legal responsibility to contact to notify next of kin - hundreds of thousands of soldiers were never," << (...want.) >> this isn't an echo. Parley's own mental voice is a scrappy quieter hiss behind the red, "...found." He turns his face back to Hive and Flicker, and in spite of the flush and his position, he's absurdly conversational, like Dusk isn't RIGHT THERE. Almost chipper! "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Stroke-smooth-smooth, he's PETTING Dusk's hair to the tempo of his pulse. And his side-slanting smile is hard, "I want to build a monument." "The government back then," Flicker breathes out a little shakily, "didn't have a lot of responsibility at /all/ --" But then he hesitates, leaning forward to push things back, clear a space on the table. Set the first aid kit down in easy reach. "Guess not much has /changed/. Hive is just counting /down/. A quiet tick, to the pulse of Dusk's /mind/, which just happens to be along time to to Parley's own pulse. Three -- two -- any second now. His fingers tighten against his chopsticks. Dusk's tongue swipes in slow trace up along the pulse of vein in Parley's neck. << (want) >> is an echo. An affirmation. As is, << (found) >>. His teeth plunge in sharp and quick and, without knowing it, directly in time with Hive's silent countdown. His muscles ripple and shudder as blood wells up to fill his mouth, a keening hungry whine of sound humming up through his throat. His wing holds Parley close against him. Past this, Flicker is -- back to conversational, some tension easing from him like a held breath easing out as Dusk starts to feed. "A monument. But who'd. Where would you even --" He stops, puzzled. "Why?" Parley also rides the countdown in Hive's mind; there's a short gasp, a tightening of fingers in Dusk's hair that clenches up down his body. Then he breathes out in a sigh, and it all relaxes. The sharp punctuation of psionic adrenaline that spikes at first bite soon floods WARM and electric. << (for us.) >> The typical monotone-voice is star-spangled and /glittering/ with a rush of ruby sparks. The words knead and flex - not unlike his actual fingers, now only softly running along Dusk's hair idly. << (for them.) >> And beneath it, << (memorials)(aren't only) for the (dead.) -- (harder) for (them) >> the laboratories; the government; the military << (to pretend) they(/we/) (never existed.) >> A sudden fierce-/alive/ swell. Hive breathes out, too. A note of tension, some very /slight/ edge of the constant throb in his head quieting at this feeding as well. And when Dusk starts to eat, so too does he. That bite of scallop finally lifts to make it into his mouth, chewed and slowly savored as blood fills his roommate's senses. He closes his eyes. Lets it fill his own. << (did we) (ever) (exist) >> It's whisper-soft, fades soon into the fuzzy-background. Into the headache-throb. Hive fades, too, maybe; breathing slowing, /mind/ slowing, sinking darker and sluggish as the others swell glittering-bright-alive. He smiles. Chews his scallop. "Yeahsure. Why /not/." Offhand-casual. He's slumping back against the couch, eyes drooping half-closed into their usual lazy-sleepy state. "I always did like cemeteries." A shiver passes through Dusk's muscles at the tightening fingers in his hair. His teeth sink in deeper, just slightly, opening up the twinned punctures a little wider with a tiny moan of pleasure echoed in his mind. Echoed in the slow burning /swell/ of pleasure flooding through Parley, brought by the -- drug? /venom/? -- that his bites bring with them, a shivering heady euphoric rush echoed in Dusk's mind as he drinks deep and hungry. A sudden fierce-/alive/ swell. His second wing curls in, holding Parley firm and steady. << /(We) exist/. >> Dusk's affirmation is sudden and fierce and alive, too. It's a breath of laughter, a breath of /joy/. It speaks on behalf of the Prometheans as a whole, but it speaks more intimate-personal: << (/you/) exist. >> << (I) exist. >> << (Here) >> << (now) >> And also beneath that: << (fuck you hive.) >> For even asking that question. Though this has it's own laughter to it. Its own implication that Dusk will answer every time. His tongue swipes against Parley's neck again. << Though if even you need to ask. Maybe all the more reason we all need to answer. >> It's hard to pinpoint specifically Parley's own mind - the grays and mist are gone, welled to brimming and spilling over with Dusk's colors, reflecting back crisp-clear. Not that camouflage means much - enveloped by wings, his body is warm and steady, fur and flesh and pounding heart. His fingers grip harder into hair, pulling Dusk /harder/ to himself with a quietly aggressive 'hhhuh' throatsound. << (...exist.) >> It's barely a whisper; echoing hollow. It haunts a dull non-laugh that shimmers towards Hive's mind. << (does it)(matter?) >> He couldn't force another mind even if he wanted - but he can offer. And he does, opening a channel in his blood-heated mind. By nature, it's filtered down; cleaned and sorted; and lacks the categorical pain of volume minds might otherwise project. Instead is only soft give. << this(he/us/we/nnnh) is (here.) >> << (it's)(not all)(cemeteries.) >> Distant-thoughtful, he traces feather-light flutters along the void patches that no longer 'are', in Hive's mind. They filter into orderly holes in a green pasture. Each numb hole, filled with fresh soil, has a marble head stone. Some fresh and clean-cut in marble; stone angels stooped in prayer; some ancient, their names worn away, corroded and overgrown with moss. << (...though) >> Whispered. << (there are many.) >> Flicker's hand slowly returns to Hive's temple, a slow steady massaging pressure. His other starts to work his way back into his food, eyes slipping back down to his plate, averting politely from Dusk and Parley. "Many." Quiet agreement. "It's kind of --" His lips twitch. Trying to find their way into one of his customary smiles -- not quite making it. Not the first time, at least. He takes a bite of his food. The second time he manages. "Kind of like a /quest/." "Weird-ass fucking scavenger hunt," Hive allows. "Can we form teams?" Flicker asks hopefully. "Not if we have to pick names," Hive grumps back at him. "Of /course/ we get names." Flicker turns his head, wide-big puppy-eyes tipping down to the telepath. Who promptly jabs him with a (saucy stew-damp) chopstick. He scoops up a mouthful of salmon and rice. Shivering and nestling back into Flicker's side, relaxing at the headrubs. Focusing on that to ease away the throb of headache. "Not much prize at the end of the scavenger hunt either." Just rows of headstones lining up in his mind. Chipped stone. Concrete angels. "Hhhh." Dusk's wings don't relax, but he starts to, body easing in a slow melt against Parley's. Rolling in and against it so that he can reach /past/ to nab the first-aid kit. Not -- exactly /sated/, but with a quiet reluctant pinging in the back of his mind keeping /tabs/ on the other man's pulse before it starts to weaken /too/ much. Before drinking deep turns to drinking /too/ deep. He is well-practiced at this; it's /almost/ seamless, when the warm-wet of his mouth shifts to the soft-dry of gauze in a firm pressure that he just holds, for a time. "Team names?" His wing is shifting slowly, holding Parley up in a snug-comfortable cradling as he unpacks more gauze to just hold in to staunch the bloodflow. "/Nerds/." "Mmmmn'notta nerd." Parley mutters against Dusk's shoulder, opening /one/ eye slightly blearily to cyclops-/squint/... in the slightly wrong direction. He has to hunt around, sluggishly blinking back to reality, all the electric tingling in his toes and fingers shimmers gradually fading, until he finds Dusk's face. There it is. /Glare./ Prr. He eventually finds his hand, and raises it up to place over Dusk's, holding the gauze in place himself. Not particularly in a rush to /move/ he does turn his head to gaze out wistfully at whatever dumplings might be left. Mentally... the gorgeous crimson tide washes from him as well, leaving little beyond but gray veiled halls and a landscape careworn and packed down from a tide of traffic. If ever two lands fit, his is the chute that pours its grim cargo into still-waiting holes still open in Hive's mind. And he observes, looking over these fields of unkind real estate, << (it's good) we (never)(had to meet.) in (the labs.) >> Flicker's teeth sinks down against his lip. A little torn now. He hesitates, but eventually reluctantly sets his plate aside and gently moves Hive's head from his shoulder, moves his hand from Hive's temple, so that he can shiver-blur his way to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water, a glass of juice, and set them both down within reach of Dusk and Parley's chair for post-blood-donation reconstitution. He tucks in at Hive's side again. Returns to slow head rubs. "/Hah/." Hive's laugh is just tired. "I don't even know if my teeth would have been able to tear you." << But if they /had/ -- >> There's a quiet mental /shudder/ across the disjointed planes of his mind, imagining just how completely his shredding might have dissipated Parley's misty grey fogbanks into nothing at all. "Tch. Shh." Flicker stretches out a leg to rest a sneakered foot against the edge of the table. "/Eat/. Dinner'll get cold." Once Parley takes over holding the gauze, Dusk reaches for the dumplings, setting them in Parley's lap. He drags the table a little closer so the juice is close at hand, too, and then sets about pulling on gloves so that he can start to tend the fresh wound appropriately and bandage it. His head tips in lightly to rest his forehead against the side of Parley's head. << (thank you.) >> And, quietly, over the pleased-warm-buzz in his mind << (mmm) >> all he's going to offer is: "There's plenty." Plenty of food. Plenty of time. "You should eat."