ArchivedLogs:Bunny Suits

Bunny Suits
Dramatis Personae Hanna, Hive, Jim	2014-12-03 '
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Media Room - Lower East Side
Though this sound-proofed room comes equipped with the same complement of bright airy windows as most of the rest of the rooms around here, it /also/ comes with thick heavy blackout curtains for them, easily drawn to reduce the glare on the myriad screens around the place. The place of honor in the room goes to an enormous flatscreen television mounted on one wall; beneath there are a number of video game consoles hooked up to it and shelving to either side of the television holds an assortment of DVDs on the right and an assortment of video games on the left. There's plentiful seating with views of the television, in the form of wide microsuede couches and enormous squishy beanbags (plenty big enough to share) scattered around the floor. A mini-fridge up here stands beside one cabinet, both often kept stocked with snacks and (generally highly caffeinated) drinks. Across to the other side of the room there are comfortable armchairs and smaller tables, with plenty of outlets available for those who want to plug their computers in and work or play. Four common-use desktops sit on desks against the wall, accessible to any resident with a login. "What." Hive is staring glassy-eyed at the screen; insofar as it's possible for horror to register through the thick blanket of painkillers he's on, there's a look of horror on his face. "What what." He's nestled under a pile of blankets, a coffee in a lidded plastic cup long gone cold and tucked in his hands. "What... what." His eyes scrunch shut. He tucks himself further down in the blankets, lifts his other hand with its blue Grumpy Bear wristwarmer to scrub over his face. "... but." He's watching credits roll on the giant television screen, uncomprehending. His head flops down listlessly onto some pillows. Heavy and considerably more painful than usual, his mind thuds up against Jim's, a roiling surge of confusion churning muddled through it. Eventually it resolves into the most pressing of his questions: "... why did they gut Entree?" "That wasn't Entree." Jim's voice is /flat/. As is the depth of his gaze, staring at the credits as they pass over the screen. Seated alongside Hive, he's considerably less blanket-nestled, the telepath's nest built up against him as a bird might construct its home in the crotch of a tree. Which makes both the head-flop and the mind-thud land up against his not-terribly-giving body. Or mind! Though his mind is considerably more articulate than his STARING face, closing around, chewing on, strolling amongst the confusion like a pair of teeth trying to figure out how to chew. Chew? Gnaw? "That was--." Mental mastication continues, knead-knead-knead-gnaw? CHEW?? Kind of like a treebark rough mindmassage. "Wait, so if the whole point of all that was some fucked up /population/ control strategy, they were only ON the god damn train for like. Fifteen years. That's not enough time to even /need/ population control-..." The title of the movie chases up the rest of the credits: Snowpiercer. As the credits are rolling on the film, Hanna makes her way into the media room, initially heading towards the shared computers on the opposite side of the room. Dressed for the, in her opinion, disgustingly cold wet rainy weather, she is sports a thick wool day dress in a cheery emerald green, over thick white tights and topped with a heavy white sweater that loops around her thumbs for added coverage. Her long hair is swept up into a neat braided bun at the back of her head, pinned in place with several little shimmery white flower pins that seem to accent the streaks of gray beginning to prematurely mar her black hair. Her mind is a fairly glassy, serene, and blank place currently - maintained that way as has long been her habit. Though there is a slight ripple to the surface of her mind in time to the beat of "Holly Jolly Christmas," which she is doing her best /not/ to broadcast to anyone listening in. The confused sputtering from both people on the sofa causes her to pause in her quest for the computers and glance over at the screen for the first time out of curiosity. "That good of a movie, eh?" she asks with a chuckle, eyeing the title as it scrolls up. "Haven't seen it yet, though I suppose with that great of a response to the end of it, I'll move it a bit further down on the 'to watch' list," she muses quietly, heading for one of the computers again. "Why didn't they eat it," is Hive's next question. He falls silent after this, brow scrunching up as he evidently gives Jim's speculation Serious Consideration. He slouches loooower in his blanketnest. Lower, lower, lower. "Rabbits," he decides. "Rabbits in people suits." His frown remains, hand still scrubbing against the side of his face as he slowly turns to squint over towards Hanna. His head shakes, slowly. "No. No, no, watch it. I suggest while on," this suggestion comes ponderous-heavy, "a lot of drugs." He perks up a little bit. "I have some. Good ones." He starts to lift his head, but then just thunks it back down against Jim's shoulder. "... s'not the end. It's the. /Everything./" "Rabbits don't eat fish." Jim argues, like THIS is the important detail. Though once again, for all his flat external certainty, internally he's just /doubting everything/ now. Poor Hanna may have been trying to get to the computer station, but right about now she's got one grizzled, bewildered face /seeking her out/, shifting around in his seat in a way that keeps Hive in his approximate place. Maybe even trying to help the telepath prop his own head up so they can BOTH peer up at her colorful-warm vision of worldly sanity, "So it's like - on a /train/, right? Only there's all these slackjawed goobers just. Grabassing around in a few train cars and. Just like. Going /ax-crazy/." Is he trying to convince Hanna she /should/ watch it or /shouldn't/?? Excuse his wayward hands, he kind of goes Hive-frisking in search of his cold coffee. "Uh huh," Hanna responds with a skeptical drawl, eyeing the TV and finished movie with a heavy dose of skepticism, "I think there are some movies that even a batch of /really/ special brownies are not going to make tolerable." Crossing her arms over her chest, Hanna listens to Jim's description of what they had just watched, confusion telegraphed on her features - the vague mental ripple of holiday music has completely stopped in her mind, replaced by an unabashed confusion. Her eyes fade from the cheery brown-gold they had been into a sort of off-colored teal, as though her mutation can't even figure out how she is supposed to react to this. "The entire movie is on a train? In the snow? With serial killers in bunny suits?" the confused woman puzzles out from the combined descriptions. "I can see how drugs would come in handy for making sense of that," she adds with a slow nod, her path to the computer stopped again as she is addressed directly. Hive doesn't offer much resistance to being propped up, turned against Jim so that his glassy eyes are focused up at Hanna now. His head bobs slowly, a vague ceaseless nod that offers agreement with -- anything. Nothing. All of this. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, no. No, bunnies in killer suits. It's all on a -- train, I think, the world ended in snow." He's not, evidently, going to be much /help/ in clearing up the confusion. "And everyone's on a train. Killing each other. Eating -- babies. But not the /fish/. Fish was /right there/. You'll need a lot of drugs." His eyes close as his head lolls back briefly against Jim's shoulder. "World doesn't end in snow. Just -- in a subway." This is a sleepier mumble. Abruptly his head jerks back up. "S'it Christmas season already?" His eyes have snapped open again, locking on Hanna. "-- I want nog. Do you /have/ special brownies?" This is very hopeful. "I mean," Jim's brows hike up in Hanna's favor, "Think you're talking to the lady that can /custom/-special her own brownies." This said behind the raised grown-man sippy cup, taking a swig himself and hovering it near Hive's mouth to absently seeking indication whether or not he wants IN on this. "You don't /see/ the rabbits, they're just--," he tries to clarify, and ends up very /sincerely/ gesturing towards the front of his kilt, "Rabbit-/loined/. In the /loins/. Though uh-" to try and look at Hive, he has to kind of just look down at the top of the telepath's hatted head, "Don't remember the subway. You mean the tunnel? Fuck and then it was New Years -- DO we have nog?" We COLLECTIVELY as a commons, he apparently means, because he's asking Hanna this. Hanna blinks repeatedly as more of the plot is "explained," though thus far very little comprehension is dawning on her about this film. "Y'know, I'm half tempted to watch it now," she admits, shaking her head, trying to piece together all the details into one somewhat cohesive statement, "For the hyper-fertile baby-eating-bunnies in skin suits, apparently. On a train. In the snow. At the end of the world." She nods slowly and chuckles, her eyes settling back to their somewhat default gold-ringed brown. Initially she seems like she might gloss over the question about special brownies, the comment about custom ones raising a blush to her cheeks. "Presently I don't have any that are any more special than normal well done brownies. Supplies to make a batch or two? Yes," she looks a bit guilty at that admission, her mental cover fluttering nervously, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "I don't usually like mixing "Special" with custom-special, though," she says, finger quotes and all, before crossing her arms over her chest again, "Makes overdosing far too easy." "December the third already, so we're pretty solidly in the Christmas season in my mind. Though the retailers started pushing the ambiguous dangling ornamentation the week before Halloween this year, and the catalog for holiday baking things came in far too early for my taste," Hanna says with disdain, snorting, "That said - yes. Pretty sure there is a variety of nog to be had around the Commons. If not, I can bring home one of the crates of non-dairy nog I have at the bakery to share around." The smile that curls across Hive's face is almost proud, at Hanna's description of the movie. His shoulders give a small shake of silent laughter. He tips his head forward, lips closing against the spout of his coffee cup so that he can take a small sip. "Tunnel..." The laughter fades, his shoulders freezing and then tightening up slowly. "Oh. Right -- yeah. It --" His knuckles scrub against his forehead again, and he drops his hand to his lap. /His/ hazy drug-addled mind flutters, a knot of discomfort rippling over its previous pleasant movie-confusion to leave it in disquiet. "December." It's slow, but his smile returns. The flutter of discomfort pulls back -- at least to non-empathic senses, though it's still /there/, churning, knotted and unsettled beneath the smile. "December, right. We should. Decorate. Light that fucking. Climbing. Thing. Up. Fill the Treehaus with..." The mental image he broadcasts is full of stars. Though what he /says/ is, "... nog." Presumably he doesn't actually want to fill the /treehouse/ with it, though. "Too much 'special' for one brownie…" Jim's gaze looks /hollow/ trying to fathom this, sunken deeper in his seat and bleakly eyeing the remainder of the credits like they're only the first of his coming trials. Inwardly, that uneasy flutter from Hive's mind finds Jim's responding reflexively - not like he has any telepathic talents, but it firms and grows more watchful-protective, offering firm grounded roots to moor to, should he need it, welling up a watchful '?' at the telepath for the shift. He adds outwardly, "Shit, we should start a kitty, pool some money together to get some -- holiday. Winter. Festivus decorations. -- /Garland/ or something. Lights." Stars. "I'll put 'em up." It does kind of fall under the 'groundskeeping' category. "Or nog. Not really sure how to fill the treehouse with it. Kiddy pool or something. Fucking bonafide holiday /baptism/. Shit." Now he's standing, packing in pillows around the telepath to keep him supported for the vacancy. "I'm checking for nog. Nog?" This is asked at Hive? Then he jerks a chin a Hanna? "Nog?" Because… nog. A look of concern crosses Hanna's features, rising to the surface of her mind as well, when Hive seems to struggle with some discomfort. She opens her mouth as though she were about to say something, but hesitates for a moment, instead asking, "Do you need anything?" though the mental question that was scrubbed was << Are you okay? >> - squashed back down because that is always a ridiculous question to ask. She glances between Jim and Hive, but rather than continue possibly intruding, she nods in agreement to Jim's assessment, "Too much 'special' can be a very, very bad thing if I'm involved. Especially if I'm having a bad day." Hanna does not really elaborate further on just how, letting talk of special brownies or power application fall away in exchange for talking about decorations. "Oh! I have some absolutely amazing vintage decorations that are just perfect…" she says excitedly, starting to bounce, though she stops, trailing off, as she remembers that they were lost with many things in her old apartment, "Or, well, I did. Right. Scratch that. Group pool for decorations sounds like a grand plan." "Nog? Kiddy pool of nog would be odd. Rather have a jacuzzi full of mulled cider. That would be awesome," Hanna says with a laugh, shaking her head at the odd train of thought, "Keeps it warm, anyway." She does shrug, nodding, "Nog sounds good. 'Tis the season." The unease isn't really leaving Hive's mind, even though he's /trying/ to push it back. Hollow and heavy and -- guilty? There's definitely a guilt there, faint and shifty under the rest. His eyes close again, the corner of his mouth twitching and his brows pulling in. "Hngh," is all he says aloud, with a small negating shake of his head that may be the only answer given to Jim's offered mental support -- in mindspace there's only radio silence. "Just a -- headache. I don't know. Uh --" He's a little mumbly, head shaking a little sleepily. "Need -- get. Back. Home. Maybe. Kinda. Sleepy -- mm." His mouth hooks up, a crooked curl of smile. "Bet you could grow us the biggest fucking. Tree. Oh. Man. We could have a. Party. Decorating. Party. Some time." He's kind of half struggling to push himself up. Only marginally successfully. Yawn. "Soon. Soon." The silence from Hive's mind doesn't put Jim much at ease, filing it in mental folders while his heavyset arm hooks beneath the telepath's stringy elbow to help him the rest of the way up. "Jacuzzi. Kiddy pool. Whatever. We could /stand/ for a damn party. You know Jax gets a whiff of the idea and our not-significantly-'special' brownies are gonna get joined by a few hundred holiday cookies." ALL the delicious treats. It's like the Commons has its own built-in catering staff. If Hive has brought with him any particular mobility aids, that's probably Jim's more immediate goal. Otherwise, he'll just be trying to guide the poor bastard towards the door. "We're not careful, this whole goddamn place is gonna get /scintillating/ on us." He jerks a chin towards Hanna, "Be back with your nog." Said because he is heading out-ish. The concern does not entirely clear from Hanna's features at the response, but she refrains from worrying further, out loud, anyway. She offers a grin at the idea of a decorating party, already starting to churn through ideas for decoration ideas in her mind, "I think a party would be an excellent idea - get everyone all involved." A hearty laugh escapes her lips at the mention of the holiday cookies, "You say that like it is a bad thing. I can't say I'd object to a few hundred of Jax's cookies." Glancing towards the computer she had been aiming for originally, she nods, finally at least moving the mouse to get it to wake up, "I'll have to check around for some interest in this. Should be fun, community building and all that jazz." Another concerned glance towards Hive, she nods, "See you 'round. Take it easy, eh?" Offering a grin to Jim, she shrugs, "If you feel like swinging back through with nog, sure, if not, eh. I've got to be heading back to the bakery soon. No worries, but thanks." "Big as we're getting, a giant-ass stack of your brownies and his cookies would disappear before we were done decorating." Hive's scooter is over by the door, and Hive leans heavily into Jim as they navigate towards it. "Hard not to. Scintillate. Some of the... people. Here." He hooks a smile over towards Hanna. "I'll talk to the fucking. Social -- butterflies." That might not be the /official/ name of the Event Organizing chore but who's counting. "Get it on the -- schedule." His chin lifts in farewell. He takes his Grumpy Bear blanket /with/ him as he heads out.