Logs:In Which The City Gets An Out-Of-Season-Haunting

In Which The City Gets An Out-Of-Season-Haunting
Dramatis Personae DJ, Desi, Lucien, Marinov, Taylor, Dusk, Skye, Kitty, Hive	2020-11-18 "You've even got the wrong number of arms, dipshit."
Location around the city
<NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village The basement is built for privacy, and that keeps the first quiet sounds of surprise and dismay muffled beyond hearing. What is audible, soon after, is a knock-knock-KNOCK rapped sharp on the inside of the basement door. Beyond it is -- not Dawson, though at first glance it's a forgivable mistake. Neat-trimmed beard on a mostly unscarred face, soft blue-green flannel, jeans; DJ's jaw is set, fist clenched at his side and a wary alertness in his green eyes. Lucien has been tucked into the living room couch with laptop in his lap and a glass of Scotch on a coaster on the table in front of him. His eyes open swiftly wider at the knock, a ripple of tension cording his muscles tighter before he sets the laptop aside. The crease that has furrowed his brow has smoothed out by the time he goes to unlock the door, crack it open -- but returns, deeper than before, when his eyes light on DJ. His hand tightens around the door handle, and he shuts the door again without a word. That small crack is all it takes, really. Even before the door has fully closed again there's a flutter of motion -- too fast, likely, for Lucien to track, but by the time he turns around there is DJ again, looking around the living room with wider eyes. "-- I think I need your --" A tenser curl of fists as he flits over by the hearth. Stops, frowning, at the award on the mantel. "-- help." At the other end of the couch, Desi also has a laptop balanced on her folded legs, though her beverage is a pleasant cup of green tea. Her eyes slip aside with perplexity toward the basement stairs at the knock, eyebrows arching higher when she hears the door open and shut in short order. She is just sitting up straighter and opening her mouth to speak, but the words die on her lips when she sees DJ. Her face drains of blood and the teacup slips from her hand to shatter on the floor, the noise of it easily drowned out by her piercing scream. <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side Marinov is leaned up against the wall near to the order counter during a quiet moment when there are no customers demanding the barista's attention, a cup of tea gripped in both of their paw-like hands. Their gaze is directed down at their cup, look thoughtful. "... so I have been procrastinating on all that shit. Which, uh, might not work out for me in the long haul. So I was wondering if you might know if there is anyone looking for a roommate or anything and is also cool?" They glance down to their blazer and remark, "I would promise that I don't shed, but--" The flutter-blink of movement at the front of the cafe at first only draws a few glances, but the ripple of -- confusion? Shock? Dismay? that follows moves swiftly through the room. DJ moves swiftly through it, too, a displaced ripple that coalesces by the counter where his expression has settled itself into disbelief. His eyes have been darting around the room but settle on Taylor, his face very pale. "You're alive." "Shit, there's a couple ads on the board but I can not promise they're cool -- I do know a few other people, though, who'll be starting --" Taylor has been leaning against the conuter, idly twirling an unused stir-stick between his fingers, but he stands bolt upright as DJ stops near them. His eyes narrow, tentacles coiling a little tighter around himself. "What the fuck, man," sounds sharp and irritable, "I don't know what you're playing at but that's not funny. You gon' get the hell out here, come back when you got better things to do than play in people's grief." Marinov's eyes go wide and their ears fold backwards, their eyes intently focused on DJ. When they speak, it is with a growl behind their voice, hackles raised, "You come here and say that? What the fuck kind of joke is this? You don't even-- fuck, you've even got the wrong number of arms, dipshit." They lift their chin towards the door and fully growl. "Piss off." The confusion in DJ's mind is only growing. The two Taylors' anger slots itself in beside a chaos of other snippets already mingling there -- the bewilderment and grief at seeing Steve, << You're the -- other Flicker. >> << this is -- a parallel dimension >>, the wrongness of the Tessiers' house, the surreality of New York Streets free of patrolling Sentinels. It churns into a panicky tumult, his breath hitching faster. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't -- I just needed --" His head shakes. He doesn't finish the sentence. Just another blur of movement, and he's gone again. Taylor sinks slowly back down against the counter, many of his arms going slowly more slack. Where his eyes had been narrowed now they're growing slowly wider, one slender tendril lifting to rub against his head. His mouth works a few times slowly before he manages, aloud: "What the fuck?" <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side The November chill is growing more biting as the sun sinks lower. By this hour it probably isn't quite warm enough to only be wearing a light flannel and jeans -- maybe it's this that has DJ's arms wrapped tight around himself as he flits down the block, stopping at the drop-in center just next door to the safehouse. He uncurls his arms, hands planting on the railing of the neighboring stairs; his shoulders hunch, heaving with breaths that come too short and too sharp. Dusk has been relaxing on the safehouse railing with a hot coffee carefully cupped in his hands. He's a little more dressed for the weather, thick corduroys and a warm wool cloak draped over his huge wings. "-- not even gonna get into how many hours I sank into Pern RP in middle school and that was -- not a good --" He trails off, eyes shifting reflexively to follow an all-too-familiar fluttering. Then widening, when it resolves into a more solid shape. The coffee falls from his hands, travel lid popping off to spilling its steaming contents across the steps. Skye is in a soft red car coat, blue jeans, and black platform boots with heart-shaped buckles, but she's still huddled close to Dusk with a corner of his cloak wrapped around her. "Shit, I'm still on Harper's Tale," she admits with a laugh, "but there's way better text games than that out --" She follows Dusk's gaze belatedly, her own eyes widening, jumping up startled when the coffee spills. "What the..." Her eyes are fixed on DJ now, she takes a step toward him, then hesitates. "Flicker?" she whispers. Kitty, bundled in a puffy long black coat, is leaning against the opposite railing, sipping her hot chocolate and content to just follow this particular conversation. The flutter of movement catches her eyes, but she doesn’t catch on fast enough for her to not choke and splutter liquid when DJ solidifies. “Jesus Christ," then, disbelieving - "Dawson?” She leaps, nearly flying down the steps, free hand reaching to grab his arm. DJ's head snaps up at the movement. His eyes are wide, his breathing still hitching. "I'm sorry, I --" He shifts away from Kitty's outstretched in a jittery blink, stopping several feet closer to the safehouse stoop. Only then does he look between the others, head shaking. "Kate? Dusk? I..." He sinks back against the wall of the house, hand flying to his mouth. "I'm sorry," he manages again, stilted and unsure. "I'm -- not..." "Who the fuck -- what the fuck --" Dusk has recovered at least enough to get to his feet, jumping down from the railing to land on the pavement. The cloak falls away from him, wings still wrapped tight around his too-skinny shoulders. A growl thrums underneath his words, very low. "I don't understand." Skye wraps her arms around herself, biting her lower lip. There's a faint, fine rattling all around them, pebbles on the sidewalk dancing, glass rattling in windowframes. "I swear to God if this is some kinda weirdass telepath-illusionist-shapeshifter bullshit..." Her eyes dart to her companions as if to confirm they're seeing the same thing, then back to DJ. "Some -- someone brought you back!" Kitty stumbles when she hits pavement, takes a moment to turn around and face DJ again. “Kate?” Her eyes narrow, stuck on that name coming from the bearded Dawson-lookalike squirming away from the three of them. Her hand curls around her cup, fingers white as they press down on the insulated metal. “How are you - what are you- “ Kitty gives up. “Man, are you okay?” "No." A little sharper this time, a little panic-edged. "I'm not a -- shapeshifter, I don't --" DJ looks between the others -- now his eyes linger on Dusk the longest, skimming down the folded wings. Up to the sky above them. Out around the block. Back to Kate, with a tremulous exhale. "I'm sorry." His voice is steadier. "I'm not -- who you think I am." His shoulders settle heavily, hand dropping to his side. "But I am Dawson Allred, and I could use some help." <PRV> VL 403 {Geekhaus} - East Village The fluttering staccato presence that draws near the apartment is at once familiar and not at all. The grooves of a regular deep-rooted psionic network are well worn into DJ's mind, so habituated that the dormant bond now there is just taken for granted. Even so there's something keen and hungry that's lighted in him as he stops -- a floor up on the fire escape, glances in the window, shifts down one flight lower. Hovers indecisive on the metal stairs, turning over a rapid succession of thoughts in his mind about home, about their long fight, about the rift, about what it feels like to walk around free all day without a single metal spider coming after him. About Hive, the rich bitter taste of him, the stable shelter feel of their minds conjoined. The grief that has not faded. It's this last that draws him into the apartment, an uncertain questioning unfolding in his mind. The apartment is at first quiet, except for a large calico cat that thumps down off one well-crafted kitchen chair to wend his way around DJ's ankles. Not deserted, though; DJ's growing question is finding a sluggish answer. Stirring -- at first gradual, a careful unfurling of limbs, an unconscious turning that blossoms open in the other man's direction. Then less gradual. In a swift sharp stroke the rest of their network drops away, truncated in the frozen moment that precedes a crash of grief, of disbelief, of confusion, of joy. The boundaries between them tumble away for a dizzying moment -- -- then slam back into place. The skinny raccoon-eyed figure that drags himself to the bedroom door (at once familiar and not at all) grips the doorframe tight. Locks dark eyes on DJ with a soft-gasped breath that catches in the other man's chest. Hive's arm curls tight around his chest, and he swallows once, hard. "Well. Guess we should talk."