ArchivedLogs:Blueprints

Blueprints
Dramatis Personae Hive, Spencer
In Absentia	2017-07-11 << We watch. Occasionally meddle. >>
Location <NYC> Construction Site - Woodside
It's going to be a scorching day, but it's early enough yet that it's still tolerable. More or less. Down on the ground, hemmed in by buildings and concrete, the city is baking a little bit more, but at the moment Hive is perched high above the street, tucked near the top of the forming skeleton of a building. There's scaffolding clinging to the structure's bare bones, heavy machinery standing idle down at the base waiting for the day's work crew to come and fill the area with noise and bustle. Right now, though, it's quiet. The whistle of wind through the metal, the occasional rustle and flap of birds passing by. Hive looks somewhat precarious in his seat up on a long strut, no safety railings around him, but there's a serenity in his expression that suggests he's plenty comfortable up here. In heavy jeans, heavy workboots, a grungy sleeveless undershirt, he looks like he rather belongs, too. His hard hat and neon vest have been left over on the actual /proper/ platform some feet to his left. Off to Hive's right, the empty air suddenly manifests into a smallish boy who, finding nothing beneath him, starts to fall. Spencer does not seem at all bothered this, however. He waves blythely at Hive as he tumbles past, turning gracefully in mid-air and vanishing -- -- to reappear neatly perched on the beam beside Hive. "Salut," he pipes. His brown hair is wind-touseled, and he wears a buff-colored t-shirt is decorated with a huge, elaborate compass rose, surrounded by sketches of fantastical creatures and dark brown cargo shorts. He kicks his feet where they dangle from the beam. "{Nice building! What's it gonna be when it's done?}" Hive's expression doesn't change, eyes still half-closed and fixed off into the distance. There's a gentle mental brush up against Spencer's mind, familiar and welcoming. << Less windy, >> whispers a sussurating dysphony of voices in Spencer's mind. << We hope. >> Spencer snorts and leans forward, craning his neck to look down at the cagelike structure below them. "Well, you /designed/ it." He braces his hands against the beam, hunching his shoulders. "Though I guess you can't do a /lot/ about how it goes from here huh?" He turns aside and studies Hive. "That must be strange." << We watch. >> Unfurling through Spencer's mind comes an array of imagery. The stone foundations of the Commons growing up into a complete development, the tall knifelike bones of the Mendel Clinic fleshed out in glass and steel, an apartment complex in the Bronx, a school building in Brooklyn, all observed from myriad viewpoints as they blossom into life. << We've grown good at watching. >> Spence's eyes widen. "Awesome!" One of his sneaker laces has started come untied, and he braces the heel of that foot against the top of the beam to tighten it. "It's like /magic/, except you know how it works." He tilts his head, considering. "I guess it can /still/ be magic, even if you do know how it works. But I think for me a lot of the magic is just.../making/ stuff?" In the boy's mind, a flitting series of scenes: working on a LEGO sukkah with his schoolmates, helping B assemble a motorcycle, building a pillowfort with Sera (a pang of sorrow there, alongside the warmth of the memory). "Well. Making it /with/ people. But, you have that, too, I mean it's not /just/ watching, right?" << Shit, man, your Hogwarts letter is way the fuck overdue, then. >> Reflected back in the wake of Spencer's memories are -- those same memories, really. Shifted, echoed from a different angle. The physical structures being worked on are somewhat faded now, dwindling into the background as other things are reified in their place. The delicate tendrils of Hive's minds curl around the feelings of community, companionship, of love and family worked through these memories, pulling them into bolder and brighter prominence. In that same soft many-voiced whisper: << You build a lot. >> The release of his hold on these memories comes gentle as a sigh, easing back into the natural flow of Spencer's thoughts. Hive's eyes shift downward. Just a tick. Glancing at the cage of structure beneath them. << We watch, >> comes reaffirmed. After a moment: << Occasionally meddle. >> Spence laughs, brief but genuinely amused. "I would get kicked out of Hogwarts /so/ fast. I guess," he ventures, after a moment's consideration, "Xavier's is /kinda/ like Hogwarts. Fewer owls, which /definitely/ loses it some points." He leans back until he is hanging upside down by his legs from the beam. << Is it really /meddling/>> the thought is casually curious, but definitely meant for Hive, if only because Spence's bodily position would render spoken words hard to hear, << if you /are/ the people you're meddling with? >> << So what'll that mean for the longevity of your Xavier's career? >> Hive's eyes are slow to track after Spencer, but eventually follow this shift in position. A gradual clarity returns to his gaze, an increased presence that comes with minute shifts of posture. Fingers tracing gently against the warm metal, shoulders settling faintly against a beam. There's a trace more amusement now, with: << We could find you an owl. >> Though the mental image that accompanies this is just: Horus with large spectacles. Dusk with feathers plastered over his wings. The amusement bleeds away into something steadier, weighted. << If it's not, that could be a quick road to -- >> There's quiet, for a stretch. << A lot. >> << /Xavier's/ doesn't have a rule against underage apparation, >> Spencer points out. << And I look human, so I should get by alright. >> In /his/ mind, owl!Horus and owl!Dusk both wear ridiculous fake cat ears to simulate an owl's ear tufts. He slowly works his way back up to sitting. Tilts his head at Hive. "A lot? Because then you might want to do more? But I mean if you /are/ them then shouldn't it stay the same?" His brows screw up tight. "Or is all /that/ what there's a lot...of...?" He sounds very uncertain about this. Hive's eyes slide closed, his fingers tightening against the metal and then slowly relaxing. When they open again he straightens -- head first, then his shoulders, then sliding a foot up onto the bar and pulling himself upright. "There's a lot of a lot of things." His voice is a little gruff, a little scratchy. "I'm them, but they're me, too. Figuring out how far is too far, sometimes might be helpful to have some kind of --" He glances down at the structure beneath him, but only briefly; catches himself readily with one hand against a pole when he starts to sway, tracks a deceptively casual path along the beam back to the railed-in safety of the scaffolding platform. "Blueprint."