ArchivedLogs:Cheatery

Cheatery
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Flicker, Jerome	13 October 2014 '
Location <NYC> The Batcave - Greenwich Village
Nestled in a basement of the meatpacking district, a hybrid of arcade and cybercafe, The Batcave is far more sociable a place than its name would suggest. Filled at all hours of day with the beeps and music and explosions of a myriad of arcade games, as well as the laughter and conversation (and curses) to go with it, the dark theme in decor is broken up by the bright lights of their game machines. One corner of the establishment is a perpetual LAN party with a projector screen-equipped lounge area for spectators. Along the opposite wall, a counter serves soft drinks and greasy junk food, and off in the back a door leads to what is by far the larger part of the establishment: a fully-equipped laser tag arena. It's been a wet dreary sort of day and it's shuffled along into a wet dreary sort of night. It makes the arcade seem a bit stuffy, the air thick and heavy from too many bodies in too many damp-wet clothes in the closed space. Over by the air-hockey tables, Hive is -- not playing air hockey. He's just sitting, a little bit slumped, in his red motorized scooter; he's in a blue Grumpy Bear sweatshirt and dark jeans and heavy workboots, fleecy red Theta Tau cap pulled down around his ears. There's a cardboard tray of fries covered in melted cheese sitting in his lap, a cup of soda in the cupholder of his scooter. At the moment he's ignoring these both, narrowed eyes instead focused on the game going on at the table nearest him. Micah hasn't been gone for long, just off to the nearest restroom for a minute before returning to Hive's side to steal a french fry. Maybe it's a ploy to get Hive to pay attention to his food. Maybe it's just theft because /mmm/ fries. He munches slowly before brushing the leftover salt from his fingertips onto his jeans. The rest of the outfit fits well enough with the crowd here, green T-shirt with a T-rex bearing an adaptive reaching aid in each hand under the heading 'UNSTOPPABLE!', sneakers, messy auburn hair, jacket and hat stuffed into the olive messenger bag at his side. “Good game?” he asks once his mouth is clear. Clack. Clackclackclackclack. The puck is whizzing back and forth across the table at rather high speeds, volleyed back with improbable alacrity. At one end, Flicker holds his mallet in his good -- well, his /only/ -- hand, leaning slightly down to intercept his opponents' shots with motions almost too quick to track. His opponent, though, a skinny pale woman with a mess of freckles and red hair tied back into a ponytail, has been returning speed for speed, the score currently a tie. Clack/clack/ clack/clack/. There are a couple spectators, drawn by the sounds. Or perhaps it's the fact that Flicker's motions are kind of a blur, or perhaps its the fact that the woman opposite him isn't even touching her mallet, but simply flicking the puck back towards him with small gestures of her fingers in midair. Jerome heads down into the area dressed in a wet white NOFX hoodie and loose fitting jeans with a black bandana hanging out his back pocket. It only takes him a moment to head over and find himself near Hive and Micah and turn his attention towards the game. He's quiet for a few moments, just working the hoop in his lip. "Wish I could move that fast." he decides quietly, before looking over at the ginger and grumpy cat. "Hey again, been well?" he asks casually. "I feel like someone's cheating," Hive says, frowning at the game (or maybe at the FRY THEFT), "but I can't tell who." His hand lifts in a very halfhearted flick towards Micah's thieving hand, but in the end he both sits the tray of fries closer to the redhead /and/ plucks one for himself to eat. There's a noticeable tremor to his hand as it moves the fry to his mouth. He drops his bony arm back down to his armrest, head slooowly turning to level his scowl on Jerome instead of on his best friend. "I look like I've been well?" he grumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his scooter. "I know you?" His frown deepens as he looks Jerome over uncertainly. "Both of 'em? Just pretty sure I shouldn't ask t'play the winner. I know /I/ can't stand up t'this level of cheatery." Micah sidles closer not to steal more fries but to drape an arm lazily across Hive's shoulders. "You're lookin' /better/, sugar, t'be perfectly honest. This is Jerome. Can't say if y'met 'im by /name/. He was at that protest with the colour girl where we got arrested last?" Yes, it takes specifying /which/ protest and /which/ arrest with this particular group of people. "This's Hive, in case y'didn't know that yet. Hi. Things've actually been relatively quiet the past few days. Don't get t'say that often enough." "You could ask," Flicker answers Micah, a small smile flitting across his face though he doesn't look up from his game. "How bad could it be?" his opponent -- Naomi, a young woman from /last/ year's raid upstate and now a barista down at Evolve -- asks Micah. "You're playing a girl or a cripple, most people would like those odds." Flicker huffs out a small breath. "Most people." There's the briefest increase to his smile with the affirmation: "You /are/ looking better." Admittedly, given Hive's kind of skeletal state, this might say more about what he looked like /before/ than what he looks like /now/. Another clack-clack-clack and then he grimaces as the score ticks over -- in Naomi's favor -- just before the table shuts off. "Hey." This time he actually looks up at the others, his smile warmer. "You were helping at Evolve." "Yeah, the protest. We didn't get to talk for long. Last time you saw me this hoodie was black." Jerome reminds him with an easy enough smile. "Yeah, figured the first time I go out in a few days I run into you again though." he's clearly speaking to Micah this time, and when Flicker speaks he looks his way and nods once. "Yeah, still have an application to put in there. And at the clinic, I really need to get around to doing that." "The clinic. You want to work at that shithole, only crazy-ass motherfuckers work there." Hive's shoulders just twitch uncomfortably at the others' mentions of his improved health. His teeth grind together slowly. "/I'll/ play you," he tells Micah, though his smile at this is a little thin. "Shoot. What's bein' a girl got t'do with it? Y'know girls tend t'develop /faster'n/ boys on fine motor skills? At least in North America." Micah's nose crinkles at the 'cripple' word choice. "Nothin' doin'. Both fulla cheatery." He chuckles at Hive. "If you actually meant that, I /would/." He gestures at Flicker with a tilt of his chin. "Hm. Crazy...folks." None of those other words are going to fly for repetition's sake. "Like that'n there an' m'husband's all." Another bit of laughter melts his sentences together. "I get around. End up runnin' into folks all over." "I think that only counts until you're done developing." Flicker sets his mallet down, ambling around the table to offer Naomi a fistbump before the woman wanders off to get food. He leans back against the side of the table afterwards, a faint blush darkening his cheeks. "A little bit crazy, yeah. Some of us," this time he's looking straight at Micah, who works at the Clinic /too/, "more than others." His eyes shift back to Jerome. "Are you in medicine, too?" Jerome shakes his head at Flicker's question. "No, I didn't finish school. I kind of ran away," he admits with a roll of his wrist. "I'd be working security. Jax offered to take me to meet your boss lady, but I haven't gotten around to it just yet." He moves over a bit to lean against the table, careful not to knock it over. "I should soon if I don't want to be homeless." He clucks his tongue a bit before he begins drumming his fingers against the table. The drumming noise soon moves smoothly into a series of sharp *clicks* as sharp bone claws replace his nails. Hive snorts sharply at the mention of Jax and Flicker's boss. "Won't /that/ be a treat. Speaking of crazy-ass motherfuckers." He lifts his hand again, fingers sliding beneath the rim of his cap as he considers the air hockey table. His expression pulls slowly into a deeper frown when Micah says he'd take him up on the game, boots shifting like he's toying with the idea of getting up. In the end, though, he doesn't, just scowling down into his fries. "Where you living now, then?" "Just sayin'. Bein' a girl don't mean you're not good at playin'...anythin', really." Micah gestures to the table at which Naomi scored the last point like it makes his case for him. His lips twist into a smirk at Flicker's pointed look. Apparently him being one of the crazy people just goes without mentioning. "Whoo, Jane. Yeah, she's kinda intense. In an ex-military kinda way. Just as a heads up." Hazel eyes track Hive's to the table. "Y'can play sittin'. I'll drag a chair up the other side, keep us on the same level. If y'wanted t'play." "In a thinks-she's-still-in-the-military kind of way," Flicker further elucidates, amusement in his voice. He moves away from the table when Hive looks at it, sneaking in to swipe the fries off his friend's chair. "You /are/ allowed to have fun, you know." He flicks a brief gesture towards the Grumpy Bear symbol on Hive's tummy. "Clinic pays /well/," he adds, thoughtfully, to Jerome. "But it's just. Not for – everyone." "Clinton, but I'll probably be heading over to the area near Evolve or the clinic before much longer." Jerome answers Hive, stopping his clicking to nod at Micah and Flicker's warning. "Work is work is work." he decides after a moment. "Honest work is even better. Security wouldn't be the first time I've been shot or harassed. First time I met Hive and Micah here a stray bullet hit me. Wouldn't have had to worry about finding a job if I wasn't armored up." A hand comes up to rub the back of his neck as he speaks. "Small miracles." "The Lower East? You moving? We live there. I'd say it's a good place, but it's a shitty-ass place. Chock full of freaks." Hive's lips curl upwards, thinly. "Which isn't the sanctuary people'd like to think it is. Minority floods in, it just means the people already there get /pissed/. Think we got the highest goddamn rate of anti-mutant /hate/ crimes in the fucking." His head shakes slightly. "Country, I wouldn't be surprised. Got its pluses, though." His eyes slowly move back to fix on the air hockey table with something almost like longing. Briefly, before they slide closed. He picks up his soda, slurps a quick sip, and opens his eyes again to set it carefully back down. It takes a bit for him to move, maneuvering his scooter over to the table and shifting in his seat so that he can reach his mallet. "True enough," Micah agrees with Flicker with a little bark of laughter. "Just 'bout everybody lives there, seems like." True to his word, he wends his way through the crowd to retrieve a chair from one of the side tables and slide it to the other end of the air hockey table. Once he's settled in, as well, he fishes the necessary coins out of his pocket to start the game up. "Y'want I should play left-handed or y'just gonna beat me as-is?" he checks, tone light, since that tremor was still apparent in Hive's hand. "It wasn't -- exactly the risk that I meant," Flicker says quietly, munching on Hive's fries. There's a sudden buzzing from his phone, muffled in his pocket but still recognizable enough as a klaxon, followed soon after by a voice: "Action stations, action stations. Set condition one throughout the ship." It brings a wince from the teleporter, and he puts the cheesy fries in Jerome's hands. "Pluses like the Commons. I happen to know my home was designed by a genius." He's tugging his phone out of his pocket, though, silencing its alarm as he glances at the map that the panic button call has pulled up on his screen. "-- That's me." He's heading for the door already, stopping only briefly by Hive's chair to squeeze the other man's shoulder. "Don't go too hard on him." And then he's vanishing, a shimmering blur of motion heading for the door. Jerome looks down at the fries for a moment before he sets them on the table. "Always fun." He's soon sitting atop a chair and watching the game that's starting up. "Shit." A brief shiver of tension coils through Hive's shoulders at the familiar notification. "-- Jax working?" There's a frown on his face as the puck clatters down into his side of the table. "Fuck you I'm going to --" OK, maybe that question is answered by the fact that he drops the puck into his lap twice before actually managing to place it on the able. /Grumble/. "... left," he allows grudgingly. There /may/ be a small hint of blush in /his/ cheeks at the mention of the Commons; it's enough, at least, to ease his frown some. "Fun?" "S'a pretty fantastic set a buildin's an' grounds, t'be sure," Micah agrees, grinning broadly at Flicker and Hive. "Ohgosh. Alarms. Good luck, sugar." His head shakes a little in answer to Hive's question. "Not at the Clinic specific, anyhow. He's on bodyguard duty with Io. Hope /that/ doesn't have t'do with him, anyhow. Man's got enough on 'is plate without another assassination attempt or some such." He frowns, brow furrowing, then /visibly/ shakes it off. Nothing that he can do here and now, anyhow. The mallet slides over to his left hand. "Goin' too hard on people's fun?" Maybe. The sentences did occur right next to one another. "I'll probably try to move in soon. Not positive what I'll do just yet," Jerome says lightly, clucking his tongue thoughtfully before his full attention turns to the table. "Uh --" Hive turns for a moment to look at Jerome, a little puzzled. His narrowed eyes turn back to the game; he hesitates before actually closing his fingers around the mallet. "Find two jobs and some roommates and pray for somewhere without too many bedbugs? Seems to be the way of things in Manhattan." He bites down on his lip, taking a deep breath before he finally moves to hit the puck over towards Micah's side; kind of /slow/ but at least it gets there. Finally a smile tugs up at one corner of his lip. "From the things I've heard from /your/ house? Too hard on people's how you guys like it." "Oh man, bedbugs. I've seen some /wheelchairs/ since I've been up here, man. Not pretty. Good luck, though." The /slow/ is fortunate because Micah sputters a little at Hive's jibe. A speedier bit of scarlet seeps into his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose as he taps the puck back, not really pushing for it to move terribly quickly. Jerome leans back a bit and closes his eyes, hand moving up to drum his nails against the tabletop. "You take what you can get. You always have it better than somebody else." Hive shudders, probably at the mention of bedbugs in wheelchairs; it puts a fidget in his posture as though /he's/ now itching. The slow return is good because his first attempt to hit the puck misses it entirely. It's only on the second swipe that he just barely manages to save it from going into his goal and it takes /another/ tap to actually return it to Micah. "Dude do you have some kinda book of platitudes you're reading from? You sound like a gorram fortune cookie." Micah nods at Hive's fidgeting. “I know...” He gives a little shiver, too, before sliding his mallet out to tap the puck back over in the general direction of Hive's goal. “Could add 'in bed' after everythin' for fun.” Not that this is helping his blush any. "Once beat a man with a baseball bat for calling me a freak." Jerome says to Hive now, not opening his eyes. His drawl is even and cold, and more than a little believable. "Broke his jaw so he couldn't say it again." The clacking produced by his bone nails stops and after a moment he leans his head forward and cracks an eye. "I didn't really. Thought about it, just knocked a few of his teeth out with a punch." "You take what you can get, in bed," Hive tests this out with a smirk. "You always have it better than so--" But Jerome's words pause him -- kind of /unfortunately/, this allows Micah's return to slide into his goal without resistance. Hive is just kind of staring at Jerome, eyebrows quirked up. "You're a goddamn freak," is what he answers this with. "Is there something wrong in your fucking brain?" “Yeah, the...bat thing would be more'n a little extreme a response for name-callin'. Punchin's pushin' it a bit.” Micah eyes the puck as it slides into the goal more from /distraction/ than anything else and just shrugs at it. “Most of us 'round here kinda reclaimed the whole 'freak' thing.” Jerome sits up and flashes a grin. "I was younger, was right after my powers manifested and just before I ran away." His attention drifts over to Hive and he lifts his shoulders in a faint shrug. "Been told I was a high functioning sociopath a few times." he admits. "I don't like to hurt people though. Doesn't mean I won't if it's necessary, but I don't like it." "I think they were wrong on the high-functioning part," Hive mutters, dropping his hand to grab the puck and drop it with a clatter back on the table. "Do you even understand how conversation works? Why the fuck are you spewing this bullshit at me? Like out of fucking nowhere?" For all the profanity his tone isn't particularly vehement, just bland and a little bored. "If you're going for shock value you're in the /wrong/ motherfucking city." This time when he hits the puck it actually connects fairly solidly, ricocheting against the wall but shooting off towards Micah's side. Micah winces at the direction the conversation seems to be taking, paying one distraction goal back with another as it takes him a moment too long to realise that he actually needs to move quickly on this one. His reaction time is slower enough left-handed to tip the puck but not prevent it from continuing on back into the goal. "This would be why everyone found it so entertainin' when that colour splash had 'im offerin' hugs to cops," Micah says simply, gesturing to the Grumpy Bear sweatshirt indicatively. "I feel like you thought I was just another one of those goody-goody assholes." Jerome admits with a wave of his hand before he settles back in the chair, more listening to the game than watching it. "Never been a fan of that archetype, you know? Sure, I tend to side with the broken and underdogs, but it doesn't mean I have to be a goody-goody asshole to do it." He's quiet for another moment. "But now I feel like I made an even worse impression. Or you don't know me and you don't care to know. Haven't figured it out yet." When Micah offers an explanation he cracks an eye back open and nods. "I wish the cops got that splash. Then they wouldn't have hugged me with a shotgun." "What I think? Is that you're an immature fucking moron. And I don't care to know most people." Hive's tone has gotten a little /sharper/ here, a harder tension curling into his shoulders. He lifts his hand, rubbing knuckles against his temple with his eyes scrunching into a rather pained expression. "But anyone with two fucking braincells to rub together would guess that maybe talking about how you smash people's teeth in because they shittalk you and are a sociopath isn't /likely/ to make a /good/ impression. /Or/ have anyone want to get to know you better. All it's making me want to do is get the hell out of here." He exhales sharply, pressing his knuckles harder against his temple before dropping his hand back to its armrest. His eyes have flicked to Micah briefly, though they soon drop back to his lap. "I'll take those goody-goody assholes any day." “Think he might be a little be overrun with us good-goody...types.” We're just sliding right past the vulgarity again. Micah collects the puck and serves it back again...slowly, since Hive isn't really looking. It's mostly an attempt to draw the other man's attention back. See? Fun? Jerome pushes to his feet and dips a bow. "Don't anymore. Y'all take care." Those last three words are uttered in the sickly sweet fashion of a southerner who doesn't mean a word of it. And with that he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd. "Goddamn freak." Hive's fingers have gripped /tight/ around his mallet, an uncomfortable clench to his jaw and a hard tension in his shoulders. His eyes squeeze shut, opening again just in time to swipe an awkwardly un-aimed tap at the puck. "If he /does/ apply at the Clinic -- or wait, did he say /Evolve/? Christ. Just what they need. If Shane's --" But he breaks off here, something distinctly discomfited in his expression. "G'night, hon," Micah returns, a fair sight more sincerely, as Jerome heads out. "I dunno. If...he actually /does/ think he's a sociopath an' prone t'violence as a first solution? Guard duties mightn't be the best plan for /safety/ reasons." He shifts his mallet idly around the table waiting for the puck to make it his way. "You okay, honey?" "And if he /doesn't/ think that, he's a fucking moron with no sense of judgment and /definitely/ no sense of /dealing/ with people. Guard duty's more than just goddamn /punching/ shit." Hive's teeth grind again, his head shaking once, hard. "I -- I don't know. I don't /know/ what he was fucking thinking," he answers Micah, a little ragged through still-clenched teeth. “Honey, it's...” Micah leaves his mallet at his end of the table and moves back to Hive's. “That your ability still hasn't come back. That's really worryin' you?” He crouches a bit to be closer to Hive's seated level, a hand moving to rub at his shoulder. "They cut out part of my /brain/. What if it. What if it's not -- what if it's just." The slow grind of Hive's teeth continues in a low scrape of sound. "Everything's so goddamn quiet." Which may not be most people's first choice of term to define the arcade with its digitized music and the sounds effects from myriad games and the shouting and laughing and stomping from the DDR machines, it's all kind of cacophony in here. Hive's head thumps forward against Micah's shoulder. "This is my last week of radio. What if it's just. Like this. Now." "We could have people check? Ones that sense abilities. Like Joshua. Or that effect 'em, like Matt. An' could always get some less traditional healin' work done. I'm sure Kate wouldn't mind somethin' this low-key after all the insanity we've brought her in the past." Micah's hand slides further down as Hive leans and provides greater access, rubbing circles between his shoulderblades. "We should at least be able t'get you some /answers/." Hive's face presses against Micah's collarbone, his shoulders trembling beneath the other man's touch. "I just..." His voice has dropped smaller, kind of shakier. His teeth grind again, and he pushes himself back upright. "... need to finish kicking your goddamn ass in this game," he finishes in a -- still through clenched teeth – mutter. Hive's not getting out of this without a hug, so here it is. Micah leans in and squeezes him across the shoulders. “Okay. If that's what y'really want for now. But...y'can talk t'me, okay? Or Flicker or somebody. Maybe...at home'll be a little more comfortable, though.” "I don't know what I want," Hive admits, voice soft enough that it's a strain to /hear/ over the arcade's background noise. "Most days I'm not even sure what I'm hoping to /hear/ when treatment is done. 'Cuz if I'm stuck like /this/, I don't -- want..." His eyes narrow, and he shifts slowly again to pick up his mallet. Then drop it again, with a sharp huff. "Yeah. Let's go home." Micah nods, standing up fully to help lead the way out of the arcade. “Okay, hon. It'll be...easier t'talk not here. We'll...figure things out as much as we can for you.” He gives Hive's hand one last squeeze before preceding him out the door.