ArchivedLogs:According to Plan
|According to Plan|
... nobody's evening quite goes as intended.
<NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival.
Dusk has fallen, but in New York that does not mean much by way of /darkness/. The park is brightly lit enough, between the streetlamps and the neighboring buildings, and brighter still where someone has hung colourful paper lanterns from the trees around its center. In the midst of this colour Jax is one more bright spot: electric blue hair, metallic blue nails, his jacket a rainbow patchwork of stitched-together fabrics. Despite the hour his large mirrored sunglasses as everpresent, as is his smile as he stands behind a table (the banner hung from it reads FOOD NOT BOMBS, with a logo of a raised fist clutching a carrot stenciled on beside the words) where at one point, likely, he was serving food. There are large pots, at least, and the /smells/ of food, and the other (largely also-punkish) youths around the table have been helping as well in dishing it out. But their line has trickled off, and now they are waiting. Chatting, some of them, with each other or with the milling crowd of mostly poor-or-homeless people who have come to eat. Around the park many people are eating (collard greens and lentil stew and rice.) Jax is absently drumming a rhythm out against his stew pot with his serving spoon as he waits. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Where there is free food, there is also sure to be a Shelby. She's doing her very best homeless teen impression in her cast off winter gear; the costume is only improved by the smudge of a fresh bruise forming on her left cheek, creeping up towards her eye and threatening a shiner. Uncharacteristically, the teenager--who has been passing afternoons by busking in this very same park--is missing her guitar. She's been hanging at the edges, waiting for the poor-or-homeless crowd to thin out and broadcasting a mental stream of invective that clashes very oddly with the small, sweet and helpless facade the girl is currently wearing. Much of it centered around "those fucking fucks" who took her instrument. When the crowd does finally thin, she makes her move. With some pathetic chihuahua shivering, she crunches her way over towards the table.
Hive is not here to be helpful. He has no serving implements and lacks the proper accoutrements of Punkdom to typify him one of the FoodNotBombs crowd, though he does wear a small pair of gold hoops in his ears. He is shabby enough today in jacket patched at its elbows and threadbare jeans to be coming /to/ eat, though, and he's beelining for the serving table -- but only to make himself a NUISANCE, judging by how he heads straight to clap hands on Jax's shoulders and SHAKE. "Business good tonight?" The kind of business where nobody pays you. "I want food." Even though he's cut the one-person line to go BEHIND the table.
In the demographical appearance of those making up the park, Jim is of the more shabbily dressed than punky. In that there is no punk to the shab, just a corduroy brown coat, a pair of scuffed shoes and fedora bearing a tatty numb of feather that's seen better days. With a small book on hand, its old pressed-cloth spine too worn to read its title, he sits at a distant park bench with an ankle propped on a knee, idly glancing up at the activity with the familiar interest of a long term people watcher. His thoughts are a jumble, aligning some metaphor connecting the ColorfulPunks with the old canary yellow uniforms of nursemaids, with the more prominent surface phrase 'ex opere operantis' passing philosophically by.
"Hi!" Jackson chirrups, bright and automatic as Shelby approaches the table, already reaching for a fresh plate (real dishes, not paper or plastic, with crates beneath the table to return them once through. Sometimes people even actually do!) "How're y-- /oh/, hi!" Recognition prompts a further squint, a little bit of worry creeping in under his cheer as he dishes out rice and stew. "Woah, y'aright? What -- /hey/." Less chipper this time, with a wrinkle of his nose at the sudden /jostling/, his head turning to grimace at Hive with, it might be noted, no actual ill temper. "Get in /line/ then."
Note the death glare being given to Hive by Shelby. The thoughts that go with it are not complimentary but she snaps her expression back into pathetic when Jackson focuses on her. "Just hungry," she mumbles, "and some assholes stole my guitar." Her hands go out to accept the dish, wiggling bare fingers a little in anticipation of the heat soaking through the bottom. "Yeah, get in line," she echoes, making a face at the line-cutter.
Melinda comes up from behind the serving table, apron stretching over her heavy knit black jacket, her hair pulled back in a doubled over ponytail. She is carrying a half picked over tray of rice, which she slides down on the table next to Jackson. She judges which tray is more empty then spoons the smaller tray into the bigger one. "Hey," she greets the blue haired young man as she comes close, keeping her words short with all the other speakers. Once her tray is emptied, she slides it out of the way and grabs a spoon to help serve. Shelby is also greeted with recognition, brows rising as she listens to the tale. "Oh no. I'm sorry!"
"Maaaaan." Hive is grimacing right /back/ at Jackson, together with a totally mature sticking out of his tongue. "What's the point knowing the cook if I don't get /nepotism/ benefits?" He looks extremely Put Upon as he circles around to get behind Shelby. "-- Stole your guitar?" he echoes, curiosity in his quietly accented voice. "That does sound kind of spectacularly assholish. Where'd that happen?"
Across the park, one skinny young man in oversized raincoat (despite lack of rain) has finished his meal. He /isn't/ returning his plate. Like a douchebag. He just leaves it balanced precariously on a curb. Also like a douchebag, he is somewhat fidgetily sidling over to Jim on his bench, eyes darting around as he pokes -- something! -- pointedly beneath the fabric of his coat towards Jim. "Hey. Hey. /Hey/." It's a very urgent tone of voice. "Hey. Man. Gimme your wallet."
Jim raises his eyes, facing forward, as though he'd just remembered he's just remembered he left the gas on at home. With a thought process chugging along the lines of 'ah. /Now/ I know I'm really in New York.' he then /lowers/ his eyes back to his book and grunts, "I ain't got a wallet."
Jackson tips his chin up to Melinda when she arrives, nudging the tray of rice closer as the woman begins transferring the other rice into it. "Wow. Um. I'm sorry. That's pretty terrible. -- Cocoa?" There is a carafe on the table, and he raises his brows questioningly as he lifts it. "It's not a guitar. But it's warm." Also, he doesn't serve Hive. Maybe it's pointed. "Don't we have to be related to be nepotistic?" Conversation distracting, he's probably not noticed the fail!mugging taking place distant.
"Oh hi." Shelby musters a small smile for Melinda, recognition coming slower--she doesn't have blue hair, which makes it easier so far as memory goes. "It was..." She trails off to glance over her shoulder at Hive. Her antagonism fades just as the sympathy in the air rises. "It was assholery of the highest order," she says stoutly, warming to him. "Down by the Promenade. They just came up and shoved me down and took it." A trace of 'And I found it -first-' lilts through her thoughts as she sighs and looks down moodily at the rice and beans--even as she steers a cup under the carafe's lip. "But yeah, this is pretty sweet of y'all to do. So like, thanks and stuff." Mugging? What mugging?
"Sweet, I guess," Melinda admits. "Also, kind of necessary and right to do." She stirs the rice a bit, letting the dryer stuff on top spend some time under the moister bottom layers. "Have you played long?" Steering the conversation back to guitars in general, Mel glances sideways and smiles at Jax. Hive gets a nice looking over due to his familiarity with her fellow server, but no words are needed yet.
"That's pretty shitty," Hive's sympathy sounds genuine even if his language is coarse. He looks down at the table, drumming his fingers against it and peering into the stew pot. Hopefully. "I mean that's the worst, you didn't even get to hit them /back/." Unlike the others /his/ attention /does/ snap across the park, towards the would-be mugger. Would-be muggee. A frown etches itself against his features, his drumming stilling. He pokes a finger at Jax. Tips his head across the park.
The skinnykid looks a little /confused/ by this reaction. There's a quiet click of sound from beneath his coat and his eyes dart around a little more. "What? What, no. C'mon, man." It sounds almost wheedling. "Everyone's got a wallet. Shit. I could shoot you."
"Oh, I believe you, kid," Jim sighs, with a mental addition of 'and wouldn't that just make my day'. He scratches his whiskery jaw and squinting across the grassy (well, slushy, snowy, soiled and trampled) park towards the Color Brigade in the distance, "You see this shit? You wouldn't see something like this in freakin' Ohio." If the other's here, apparently they are getting /chatted/ at. He glances at the skinnykid, "You wanna smoke?"
"Wow. Uh. That's really terrible, I'm sorry." Jackson's frown deepens as he hands Shelby the mug of hot chocolate, but whether it's in response to her tale or Hive's nudging it's hard to say. His head turns, looking out across the park for a long moment in confusion, until something changes confusion to understanding and his mouth opens into an O. It shuts again just as soon. He bites down on his lip with a quiet click of teeth against metal. "Should we, er." He frowns deeper. "You got the table a bit, Mel, I'm gonna --" He is vague about what he is Going To Do. He pours a second mug of hot chocolate, starting with it across the park.
"I know! It sucks." Never mind that Hive is now distracted--Shelby seizes on the worst part and she runs with it. She lets out a sigh before looking up at Melinda. "A couple years now. You know any good junk shops that maybe would have guitars? Or banjos? I can rock out on a banjo too," she says, oblivious to the sign language passing between the two fellas. She shuffles down the table by a step or three, then sets things down in order to gather up cutlery. "I got this guy I'm staying with, he'd be good for it, I--hey." She was having a pity party here! No one's allowed to leave!
"And you're not just mooching hotels off of Lucien anymore?" Melinda chuckles at her statement, smiling at Shelby, but her attention divided. "Yeah, sure, Jax." A small wrinkle appears on her forehead as she follows his progress away, her gaze shifting briefly here and there as she takes up his post, her fingers wrapping around the ladle. "I'll keep an eye out for guitars or banjos. I really haven't looked much for them before. Not very good with instruments myself."
"I dunno, there's a pawn shop a few blocks away that sometimes turns up good shit," Hive muses with a shrug. "Are you good?" His put upon look has vanished as Jax takes off, although he is still sans dinner. He's exchanged it for an idly fretting watchfulness as Jackson heads away. "You know that kid?" he wants to know, of Melinda, jerking a thumb across the park towards where the skinny tweaker is still failing at mugging. "He come here a lot?"
The kid frowns. Deep. His weight shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "/No/, I want your /wallet/," he stresses, and this time instead of urgent it's cajoling. Like trying to convince a dog to drop your shoe. "I don't want -- wait. A smoke?" Now he sounds uncertain. He chews on his lip. "/And/ your wallet?"
"How about," Jim taps out a cigarette, and /hands/ it to the skinnykid - because he's not handing him the pack, "instead? I give you this." He tucks a second into his own lips and fishes around for his lighter. His grin of greeting to the approaching Jackson is crooked and a little manic for his graying, scruffy exterior, "Heyheyhey, kid. Long time no see." (Thought: just what we need to flesh out the freak show. Internal tonality: Actually rather cheerful, and pondering you /get/ hair that blue.)
"Hey, sir." Jackson's smile is quick and easy, warm for Jim and warm for the kid Jim is with. "And hi!" he says, chipper-bright with a lift of his mug. "I noticed you finished your meal. S'getting kinda cold, you want some hot chocolate?" He is holding the mug out towards the young man even before waiting for answer. "There's cookies back by the table, if you wanted some dessert."
After setting her jaw in a momentary sulk, Shelby returns to the subject at hand--charming her audience. "I'm fucking -amazing-." Please to ignore all visual evidence to the contrary, such as her lack of rock star clothing and groupies; the kid believes it. She sniffs, gives the rice and beans a stir and adds (at length), "But I need to get a new one, 'cause you guys aren't here every night, huh? Girl's gotta eat and if dude makes me pay rent, I'm screwed. Lucien's helping me out a different way, no more hotel rooms." The thought with that? 'Two grand an hour and no more of -this- bullshit'. "You wanna learn? I bet I could teach you. A few chords, anyway. That's all you need."
Melinda watches the crowd, but also notices no one else really in line. She takes out a plate and begins to serve out a portion of food before holding it out toward Hive. "No, I don't know him -- but I'm not the best person to ask. I'm only out here once a month or so, when I have a free night. I'm mostly in Chelsea." She tilts her head as she gaze at the would be mugger. She frowns, turning back to Shelby. "Oh, wait. Me? Lessons? Not sure I really have the time.
"Oh, thanks." Hive grins bright at the offered plate, snagging it from Melinda with an appreciative nod. His eyebrows raise as he snags utensils, taking his first bite. "Uh --" For a moment he seems a little disconcerted, looking between Shelby and across the park at Jim & Co. with equal concern. "-- How old are you, kid?"
The kid reaches to take Jim's cigarette with a brief uncertain smile that quickly rearranges itself /determinedly/ into a scowl. "/Now/ your wallet," he says. Much firmer than before! But then he's confronted with hot chocolate, and in the face of the biting winter cold his firmness melts away. He looks at the cup with another growing smile, and reaches to take it -- with the hand under his coat. Which is currently holding a small black pistol, which clinks against the mug; he frowns down at his hand as if only just remembering the gun was /there/. "Shit, no, he won't give me his wallet." He complains this at Jax, with a slightly unsteady edge to his voice. Like Jax is the teacher here, and Jim has refused to share his toys.
"Yeah, I was tellin' him," Jim says down to a flare of lighter flame, pulling in a nice deep drag and closing his eyes like it HURTS so good, exhaling the rest of the words with smoke drifting lethargically through mouth and nose, "I'm fresh outta wallet." ('That I'm willing to part with.') His eyes dart down to the gun and then drift /wide/ in a casual scan of... park. Man. Look at all that park. "Here, kid," he holds up the lighter - a cheap gas station grateful dead affair, with dancing jester bears in tye dye, making it by far the most colorful thing about Jim - and naturally a gust of wind instantly snuffs it out. The second one manages a steady, if stunted little flame. His jaw? No, no, it's totally not tight or anything. Casual-grubby, that's our boy. ('Just take the cocoa, man.')
"Can't give you a wallet he don't have, hon," Jackson says with a sympathetic wince and sympathetic tone to his thick drawl. "C'mon. Take the chocolate, it'll warm y'up." << Please. >> is considerably less even-keel than the voice he speaks with, wary-worried at the sight of the gun. << Hive, he gonna shoot? >> "Chocolate in the cookies. C'mon." He gestures back towards the table.
"You sure? You're not just pissed at me for scoring free hotel rooms off of your boyfriend, are you?" Shelby -will- have her way and her attention, though now that everyone is glancing off in the direction of Jim & Co., she does so as well. "I'm," 'Seventeen,' "Twenty. Hey, does that guy have a gun? Shit, he's got a gun pointed at that dude!" Her voice cracks midway through, sharp with sudden and fierce excitement--or maybe residual pissiness over her own recent mugging. And that will be that for Jackson's attempt to keep things low-key.
"Hush, girl," Melinda utters quietly, her eyes widening on the firearm as her face drains of color, "Don't get excited now. Gotta keep things calm." Her lips purse as she glances around the area, brows knitting. "And Lucien is still not my boyfriend. We're just friends."
"/Tch/," Hive hisses with a sharp frown at Shelby, "/Chill/, kid." << No, >> comes the answer from Hive to Jax, whip-crack-sharp in his typically grating mental voice. << Just give him the fucking cocoa. >>
The kid has put the cigarette in his mouth, leaned in to light it, his demeanor a lot more calm after the first drag and even moreso as he reaches frigid-cold hands with a mumbled thanks for the chocolate. Until he hears Shelby's sharp voice, and looks away from cocoa with a hint of panic, eyes wide and his hand tightening on his gun. "Hey -- hey make her /quiet/," he is saying -- demanding, really, as he waves his gun at the men with him. His eyes lock on Jim. "Why did you /tell/ her," he is matching sharp for sharp, hand squeezing down on the trigger.
<< -- Shiiit, /yes/, >> comes Hive's abrupt change of mind, a sparse second before the man's finger squeezes down all the way, the barrel of the gun pointed straight at Jim. The habitually sharp tones of his voice are far outmatched by the cracking report of the gun.
Jim's lighter stays for a moment right where it is! The /rest/ of Jim, less so, though his extended arm seems intent to /try/, stuck out from his body, which otherwise slams up against a tree. His expression is one of extreme incredulity. "G-hk?" Internal commentary is considerably more articulate, in that it stridently is informing itself << -- you're fucking kidding me -- >>. Both of his hands are hugged against his abdomen, curling over. His hat glides merrily to the ground, freeing scruffy salt and peppered hair. "Kuh." Red wells between his fingers.
Jax is gritting his teeth even before the gunshot, an instinctive reaction to Hive's mental intrusion. The abrupt change of mind comes with an abrupt flicker of /something/ shimmering faintly around the gun. A moment too /late/, though, the bullet already gone and, heedless of the gun (encased in its shimmering bubble) Jax /shoves/ the mug towards the other kid with a blunt, "Hold this," and yanks off his jacket and sweatshirt, as the first available bit of cloth. << /Hive/! >> is not the most helpful call, but the frantic undertones to it suggest flashing lights. Paramedics. Hospitals. He is crouching down in front of Jim, reaching for one of the man's hands to try and replace it with his sweatshirt. And firm pressure. "Stop. Hands. We're getting you help."
'Why are they yelling at -me-? He's got a gun a gun oh my god oh my god shooting!' Self-preservation and guilt kick in, timed to the popping of that lone gunshot. Without another word--out loud, at least--Shelby drops the plate of rice and beans, and bolts.
Melinda lets out a bit of a cry when the gun goes off, the ladle dropping from her right to clatter in the stew pot. She is shaken for a moment before dropping to her knees behind the table and pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and begins to dial 911. She holds the phone to her ear and stares wildly up and around her. She waits for someone to pick up to begin gasping out details of the location and incident to the operator on the other end.
"Nngh --" Hive scrunches his eyes shut as Shelby takes off and Melinda gets out her phone, his hands both going to his temples as the gunshot attracts lots of /attention/ from the milling crowds in the park. The gasps and yells and /myriad/ 911 calls are for a moment ignored, Hive pressing his fingertips to his skull for a long moment before taking out a phone of his own. He doesn't call 911. Melinda is taking care of that! As well as a half-dozen other people in the park. He just quickly taps out a text message. "S'okay," he is telling Melinda, voice a little strained, "he won't shoot anyone -- else."
Not that the kid doesn't /try/. He pulls the trigger at Jim /again/ after the first time, seemingly more out of panic than anything else as the clamor starts up around the park. The bullet, though, goes nowhere, ricocheting around the faint shimmering shield encasing the gun; with a /yelp/ the gun is dropped as his hand jerks back. "No no no no no," the young man is saying, "No that wasn't me it was the /gun/ I didn't -- oh god. Oh god here." He tries giving Jim the cocoa. He tries giving Jim back the cigarette.
"Glnk-," Jim informs Jackson rather /thickly/ through gritted teeth, locking a hand around the young man's wrist and trying to /furiously/ eyeball him into understanding. "No -- gnhahspital. /Dammit mother of fucking christ on a cracker/." Really, the last part is most important. Amidst the pressing animal feedback of << - i need damn bleeding need need i need i'm bleeding - >> is a pressing surface voice considerably more stony. << They'll send me to a hospital. >> He has slapped one hand down against the tree supporting him, and the region of tree bark around his fingers has gone from faint mossy-green to a dry black, matching a similar shift of texture to his fingers. "Get off." He shoves himself to his feet and /takes/ the cigarette from the skinny kid, cramming it into his mouth and turning to shoulder past Jackson, hand crammed inside his coat and eyes set grimly forward.
Jackson is a little /more/ tense at the second gunshot, even if it misses its already-bleeding target. The gun stays hovered in midair right where it was abandoned, bullet furiously dinging off its small enclosing case for a time. Jackson looks up as Jim grabs him, frowning at Jim and then frowning at -- the tree. "Sir --" Frown. He falls into step alongside the bleeding man, worry tensing the lines of his face. "You need help. We can get you help."
Melinda is released from the phone call due to the sheer numbers of callers reporting the same incident. She hangs up and clutches the phone, eyes locking on Hive as he is trying to reassure her. She gives another choked cry at the second shot and stays down, hands slipping over her head, phone white knuckled.
Hive still has one hand pressed to his temple, his other gripping his phone. He drops his hand, phone still clutched, to rest against the table. "It's okay." This is still through gritted teeth and probably should be an attempt at reassurance, but is more an irritable growl. "Fucking -- /shitcock/." << /Stop/. >> This should probably also be an attempt at reassurance. Hive's mental voice is not very /conducive/ to reassuring, thudding blunt and heavy as a cudgel into Jim's mental scape. << The fuck. You're bleeding. No hospitals? What do you need? >> His words telepathically are as clipped as his words audibly, eyes darting restlessly around the increasingly panicked park.
The kid is increasingly panicked, too. He swallows, watching with huge wide eyes as Jim starts away. And then bolts, sneakers sending small chunks of ice skittering as he barrels his way right through a would-be vigilante trying to stop him until the police arrive and rabbiting towards the street, leaving his gun behind.
Jim doesn't seem to notice the hovering gun, or the fretting Jackson once he's rasped to him peripherally, "Get bent, jackoff." His eyes are fixed on a far off lamppost that he teeters for with determined rapid steps that try to be nonchalant and /not/ look, in fact, like he's bleeding under his clothes. And then his eyes clamp shut and he claps a hand over his temple, hissing. "-fFCK." If Jackson is there, he's getting a buck-sixty pounds of middle aged man leaning against him. The inner monologue is, rather, simplifying, drifting earthier, forested, heavy. Calm. Distant. << I need. >> I says. And lists, in no fantastic or sensical order, like items caught on a breeze. << Dirt. Water. Air. Sunlight. Away. >> It also, emphatically remembers, anxiously. << No Hospitals. >> And with a very sudden and self aware humor: << Vivat crescat floreat! Shit! >>
Jackson /is/ there, and his muscles cord up, tenser against the sudden weight on them. Behind them, the shield vanishes abruptly from the gun, letting it fall to the ground. In the distance there are sirens, and his head turns to dart a glance back towards the tree and then to Jim. << Where are we going? >> he wants to know of Hive, suddenly more emphatic with the approaching sirens, and of Jim a similar question, his arm looping beneath the other man's shoulders, "-- Where are you trying to go?"
When there are no more shots fired, Melinda peeks around the cart under the table at the scene, brows furrow, glancing at Hive periodically. When the shooter runs off, she slowly gets to her feet and moves around the table, cautiously going to catch up with the wounded man and his blue haired helper. "Shouldn't he be laying down?" She looks back at Hive for support, pausing when she sees the expression on his face. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," Hive grits through his teeth, still very much tensed, his arm pressing hard to the table and his jaw clamped down tight. "People don't. Usually. Start shooting. At dinner." His plate of food has been abandoned on the table. Though at least not smashed over the ground like Shelby's. << -- In Manhattan? >> This sounds more frustratedly bewildered than snarking, really, and this time is broadcast to Jim and Jackson both. "Fuck," he mutters, at the sound of the sirens. << No hospitals, >> once again to both of them, though probably more for Jax's benefit. << He needs -- Sunlight? Fffuck take him home. Go with him. Don't fucking die, >> is a little /testy/. Like it's Jim's fault he got shot. Hive is tapping at his phone again. "You okay?" he manages, to Melinda, as an afterthought. "Yes. He should be lying down. Fucker."
<< Oh, fuck me, I can't /shake/ this damn kid. >> Is Jim's semi-delirious /rant/, rolling disbelieving eyes at Jackson's /sunglasses/ and colorful hair following along beside him (never mind supporting his weight, helping him stand, ect). "I just gotta get out of here. S' - ngh - /fine/. Kid. Look. Piss off. I got this." He also has got Jackson's sweatshirt. He doesn't seem to intend to give it back; it's found a new home pressed /hard/ inside his coat.
"Uh-huh," Jackson says, a little distractedly. "You can barely stand. Come on. We're getting -- out." It might not be overly reassuring that he doesn't sound entirely sure /himself/ of where they are going. He is going, though, with slow steady steps and his arm curled firm around Jim. Out of the park. Ignoring the louder wail of sirens.
"Then why..." Melinda purses her lips and clams up, watching Jackson lead Jim away. "I'm fine. Fuck." She grumbles and scrubs her hands on her thighs, putting her cell phone away as soon as she remembers she has it.
<< No. You can't, >> Hive clips back irritably. << Just fucking go with him before the ambulance gets here. He lives a block away. Sort out your bullshit /there/. >> For Melinda he is not much /more/ gracious, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes, but he at least targets his irritation downwards and not at her. "I don't fucking know," he mutters, "Shit, I just wanted some dinner. Some night, huh?"
With teeth gritted, breath hissing shallowly, Jim isn't really in much condition to argue. Even if it causes one of his eyes to squint up unwelcomingly, the Voice in his mind seems to have, if not convinced him of security, compelled him to see /potential/ in following the Sunglasses into the mysterious beyond. "Anyone tell you," he converses vaguely to Jackson as he falls into something that looks almost friendly, what with the arm across his back and all, "You look like a douchbag in those sunglasses?" And he snickers. /Miserably/.
"Every day, sir," Jackson answers. Soft, and almost polite. Except he says it through gritted teeth. The blood gleaming red on hands and shirt vanishes and, to all outside appearances, it almost /does/ look companionable, as they head out of the park. Hopefully not to die.
"Hey, I'll get you dinner. Don't worry about that. I'll probably be stuck here being questioned for a while, but if you can wait, I'll get you anything you like." Melinda frowns and turns back to the food tables and the scattering crowds. "Guess I might as well get started cleaning up..."
"Yeah?" Hive has been watching Jim and Jackson head out of the park, but now he turns his attention back to the tables. "Jax said something about cookies." He sounds so hopeful, now. Jim gets a whipcrack-harsh farewell of << /Asshole/, >> at his comment to Jackson, and then Hive is turning his attention to more pressing concerns. Like dinner.