ArchivedLogs:A Few Tricks

A Few Tricks
Dramatis Personae Cage, Hive
In Absentia	2014-02-05 '
Location <NYC> Rang Phueng Design - SoHo
Located on the third floor of a narrow brick-faced office building in SoHo, the lobby of Rang Phueng Design/J.M. Investigations is a comfortable place to wait. There are a number of paintings hung on the walls, brightly colored though somewhat fantastical cityscapes. A large aquarium on one wall, clean and carefully tended, hosts brightly colored marine life swimming through a number of plants and coral. The table amid all the couches has a sampling of architectural magazines as well as popular ones, magazines and newspapers generally actually up to date. The receptionist desk is a large black wood one, though it is unmanned. Through the door in back of the lobby is a large workshop space, spacious drafting tables, a number of glass-topped desks though only one of them boasts a computer. Walls painted white and paneled in glass turn most of the wallspace into whiteboard, generally covered with notes and measurements. The back wall's large windows look out onto the streets. Two side doors lead to smaller offices; one stands open and unfurnished, the other, closed, has been given -- no name plaque, yet. Just a tacked-up piece of paper reading "J.M. Investigations". from: LC <loosecannon@gmail.com> to: Hive <sticksandbones@gmail.com> date: Wed, Feb 5, 2014 at 08:29 subject: (no subject) Everything is in place. We should meet up. Call me when you're free. -LC There isn't a phone call in return. Hive may not actually know how the voice parts of phones /work/. Instead, an answering email: from: Hive <sticksandbones@gmail.com> to: LC <loosecannon@gmail.com> date: Wed, Feb 5, 2014 at 13:35 subj: meeting up Sweet. Swing by the office. I'll be in any time after 14:30 or so. Hopefully with plenty of caffeine in me. Hive Sure enough, the afternoon finds Hive tucked away in his workshop, the door from waiting room to the workspace open, today. It's quiet, in here, just the soft clicking of his mouse. He's slouched into a desk chair, skinnynerd conglomeration of skin and bones and sweatshirt (deep-red and gold Theta Tau hoodie, today) and faded jeans heavily frayed (more towards their backs where they trail over the heels of his workboots) and heavy boots. A large mug of coffee, black, steams on the desk beside him. The plans for the Commons are spread out over a trio of widescreen monitors and look -- surprisingly in a state that seem nearly done, though /he's/ down to finicky nitpicking of tiny-adjustment measurements and smoothing over details. Clickclick. Clickclick. It's a lot of clicking that seems to be taking longer than it might otherwise, with the shaky tremor of his hand requiring going back to redo his work every third mis-click of his trembling mouse-hand. His teeth grit as he works. Slooow. His off-hand is fisted up tight in his choppy-shaggy mop of straight dark hair. Luke appears in the lobby wearing his Subterfuge Hoodie again, but is also carrying under his arm a case of 24 protein shakes in metal cans, chocolate flavored. His head and cheeks look freshly shaven, and his goatee is neatly trimmed. He slides his hood back with his free hand and calls out, "Yo, Hive!" He glances around and finally just ventures back into the workroom. He sets the case of drinks down with a thump on a table without any computers on it, and sits down in a chair as well. "I brought you a present," he says, patting the cans. "And also some good news." He tries to hide his smile, but he can't really. "What." Hive doesn't /look/ at the case of drinks but he knows they're there all the same. "In the flying fuck, dude." He rocks back in his chair, head tipping back to turn a slightly upside-down look at Luke. "The hell is that for. I do eat food, you know." He squints at Luke. Then at the protein shakes. "I think I ate food today." Abruptly, he doesn't really seem certain. "-- gghh. Fuckit." He stretches out a bony arm, making a grabby-hand motion for one of the shakes. /Gimme/. Though he's giving Luke a very /fuck you/ look even /while/ he reaches for this. "/Sup/." This question-statement is accompanied by an almost absent mental press. It's brief -- though uncomfortable while it's there, a /squeeze/ of pressure that disappears as soon as it presses in in silent questioning; it doesn't come with any /words/ but in psionic touch it transmits a question all the same in its fleeting discomfiting touch: << (news?) >> Luke grins at young man, and pokes a finger through the plastic holding the case together, and pries out a can to hand it over. His mind flits through a version of Hive all pumped up, lifting some serious weight at the gym, accompanied by a mental chuckle. "You're fuckin' skinny, that's what. These are what I get. They don't have milk in them, but they're not vegetarian. I didn't know what your deal is, so I'll get you different one if that doesn't work." He shrugs and leans back in the chair, stretching briefly, and then pushes his sweatshirt sleeves up to his elbows. From the middle-front pouch on the sweatshirt he produces a small box of 100 business cards with one taped to the outside. "You're gonna wanna get in touch with these guys, Elysium Investments. They're fired up, and ready to take orders. Just tell them what permits and shit you need, they'll make it happen. They look like a firm from Luxembourg, because that name always makes me laugh." And indeed, Luke seems hardly able to suppress another chuckle. He is however also putting a small amount of mental effort into directing his thoughts away from the string of contacts he used to make this happen. Hive could obviously jump in and strip out whatever information he has, but Luke is consciously keeping his thoughts on the here and now. He's also remembering the movie that taught him the technique, and isn't sure at all whether it's going to work. "/Keh/." That is a /derisive/ snort from Hive, at the mental image of him pumped up pumping /iron/. "Jegus fuck man then I'd be /you/. Not vegetarian what the fuck is in these a goddamn cow." He cracks open the can, nose wrinkling as he tips back a swallow of the shake. He reaches for the box of cards with his other hand, plucking one out to examine it. "Elysium. Sounds fucking hippie." Which earns another snort. "Appropriate." He flips the card over between his first two fingers. "So for fucking real, these guys are going to make this --" He waves the card towards his screens. The Commons design still pulled up on it. "Happen for us. Like we're legit and not a group of freaks." He pulls in a long slow breath through his teeth, tapping the rim of the can with a slow series of clicks against his teeth. "-- the fuck." His eyes squeeze abruptly shut. "Oh my goddamn fuck dude seriously I'm not going to poke around in your brain just tell me you did not learn about telepaths from watching Sesame Street." Luke smirks at the notion of 'cow' in the shakes and just shrugs. "Shit I dunno man, I just like the taste, and I get hungry every couple hours. And I hate milk. So whatever." He nods at the hippie corporation. "Yeah man, foreign investors who wanna make a killing in a... whatthefuckwasit... a /revitalization/ project." He rolls his eyes and jumps when Hive snaps at him. "{Sorry, sorry, man,}" he says in Spanish. "There's just... a bunch of people with their ass on the line here, and I figure it's best if we just know the little pieces we need to know, yeah?" "Pretty much have the opposite problem," Hive admits wryly. "'less someone reminds me, I don't -- remember food exists." He takes another swallow of the shake, only belatedly skimming over the ingredients with absent curiosity. "-- I could teach you," he suggests, as he looks over the ingredients. "There's only so much you can do, really, if you're not a telepath, but there's a few tricks here and there. Keep your brain quieter. If you want. I mean, it's probably not a /huge/ deal, there's only so many telepaths in the world. But it can be useful if you're going to be around us much." "Yeah well most of those things taste fucking burnt /chalk/, or worse, so it's hard to find any that are halfway decent." Luke rubs at his goatee for a moment considering Hive's offer and finally nods. "I um, that actually sounds like not a half-bad idea. You know, there's a lot of punishment I can take, but this..." he taps his temple with a forefinger. "It's only bullet proof on the outside, you know? Well hey," he says, mental images giving away the bright idea unrolling in his mind. "What if we traded training sessions? I mean, I /do/ know my way around a gym. And I was a ranked boxer back in the day. You probably don't need to punch people in the face that often, but it /can/ be fun from time to time." "Oh my god." Hive knocks back the last of the shake, shoving his chair away from his desk to wheel it a short distance away so he can drop the can in a recycling bin. "Do you know when the last time was a threw a punch?" His face screws up in a scowl at whatever memory this brings up. "Hurt my own fucking fist at it. I punch /brains/. All got our strengths, I guess." His hand lifts, knuckles grinding in hard against his temple with a slow pained wince. "But sure. I mean, you never know who you'll --" The wince deepends. "Run into. Doesn't hurt to know a few -- few." << Tricks. >> The last word almost /feels/ like a punch, a heavy /thud/ of mental hammering in against Luke's mind. Luke's eyes go wide and then he squeezes them shut with a half-grin, half-grimace, almost /amused/ at how much that hurts. "Holy shit, wow..." he says, impressed. He blinks a few times and then nods. "Yeah, that happens when most people try to throw a punch. It's actually pretty fucking tricky to keep your wrist straight." He shrugs and hauls his body to standing. "Let me know when you wanna start. My schedule's pretty flexible." He grins as if that's the understatement of the century and looks toward the exit. "I'll see you soon." Hive jerks his sharp chin upwards. Sharp/ly/. "Yeah. Soon," he agrees with a quick flick of a smile. "And hey, man --" He waves his hand -- towards the computer, towards the box of cards. "/Thank/ you. I mean. Holy /fuck/, dude."