ArchivedLogs:Drop of Water

Drop of Water
Dramatis Personae Dante, Hive	2013-03-16 Dante is idealistic. Hive is not.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The sun begins it's descent past the large buildings around the rooftop, cooling the slight breeze across the rooftop as it sets on this Saturday evening. The chairs and table have been pushed to the side, leaving a wide open space. In the middle stands Dante, clad in black shorts and a tank top, his long brown hair tied back into a ponytail. His skin glistened with beads of sweat as he moved seamlessly around the rooftop, throwing his arms and legs rythmically in a complicated martial arts kata. His body sways and thrusts to the beat of Japanese meditation music playing from a small portable boom box situated on the rooftop table...every so often, he grunts out in pain, an obviously different sound than his normal breathing, or occasional Kiai. Into this medley of sound comes another, a fist thumped against the roof door to /shove/ it open abruptly. Stompy footsteps trudging out. Hive is dressed in typically shabby form, weatherbeaten grey jacket, faded bluejeans on the threadbare verge of holes-in-knees, frayed and worn at the hems, sneakers whose flopping soles are currently being held on with duct tape, a grey t-shirt with an image of a hammer in a yellow circle on the chest. He is digging a pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket of his jacket, sticking one between his lips. He wears a slight frown as he looks over towards Dante -- or maybe /through/ Dante, his expression is kind of glassy-vacant, his eyes unfocused. His senses are anything but unfocused, though, mental awareness listening in quite keenly to the other man's thoughts. At the sound of the door opening, Dante shifts around, his fists raised and pointed directly at the door. Seeing the figure that stands in front of him -- a familiar face he'd seen around the apartment complex a number of times before -- he lowers his stance, and stands straight, walking over to the music to turn it off. "Sorry, didn't think anyone would be up here for a while," he says outloud, clutching his side as he reaches into a small duffel bag and grabbing his own pack of smokes. << Damn side...can't wait till I get these stitches out... >> The raised fists prompt a brief silent ripple of mental touch, subtle as it instinctively reaches out to slip its way into Dante's mind -- possibly the telepathic equivalent of a defensive posture, too. It withdraws as Dante lowers his hands. Hive roots around for a lighter, flicking it to light the end of his cigarette. << People up here all the time, >> he answers, and this speech comes not out loud but sliding straight into Dante's mind. It's an odd sort of mental voice (as though mental voices were not odd all on their own); it comes not as one voice but as a soft chiming chorus of /many/ voices in unison, layered beneath with a sussurating whisper that suggests there are more voices still waiting. << Right time to get the garden in order. Good place to smoke. Most people rest when they're injured. Stitches tear. >> Dante's eyebrow raises slightly, as he feels a strong twinge in his head. He brings his fingers up to his temple, but pauses in his tracks when he notices the man looking directly at him. Then he hears the voices, echoing through his thoughts...<< ...The Hell? Was that Him? >> the obvious runs through his mind...Though his eyes lock on the man in front of him, he mentally rolls his eyes at his own question. << Who else would it be...Come on, Dante. You don't have to watch Dragonball Z, you LIVE it...really that hard to believe there are more Xaviers out there? >> All this crosses his mind in an instant, before he breaks the concrete silence with a slight chuckle. "Not exactly shy about your gifts, are you?" he asks out loud, pulling his own lighter from the bag, and lighting a cigarette of his own. He takes a large breath in, and holds it for a moment, letting the smoke work its way around his lungs, before giving out a sigh, letting it escape his mouth and nostrils. "As for the stitches...What can I say...I'm stubborn and impatient. Havent trained for a few days..." << Shy. >> This is echoed quietly, thoughtfully, like turning this idea over. << Stubborn and stupid, >> sounds equally thoughtful, a hint of amusement in it. << Healing takes time. >> Hive draws a long deep drag of his cigarette, drifting slowly closer to Dante. His eyes still watch the other man, maybe, but then he angles to slip past Dante towards the railing that edges the roof. << World'll still be there to for you to nance around in a mask in if you take a week off. >> Dante's eyes do not shift away from the man, even as he walked past towards the rooftop's edge. << Mask...Shaolin...Hero-ing...how much does he know? >> All flow through Dante's mind, then just as quickly, another: << Well, no shit, Sherlock...Everything you think, he knows! Even the...SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!! >> Outside Dante's mind, however, a few moments of awkward silence pass uninturrupted. Finally, Dante steps forward, leaning against the edge of the rooftop, looking out into the depths of the city. "Not really just about that...I feel weird if I go a few days without training...Been my life...But you already knew that, didn't you?" << Seriously, why even talk, dude? He's probably listening right now...You're listening right now, aren't you? Not really used to this whole 'mind meld' thing, ok? Talking's a habit, I guess... >> << We're always listening, >> murmurs back amused to Dante. Hive props his elbows on the roof's railing, blowing a thick stream of smoke out towards the city. His thumb absently taps ash from the cigarette. << Everything you think, we know. How do you feel? >> It's a question that comes with some mental clarification, an image of the gash on Dante's side. Of Iolaus stitching it up. << Talk if you want. Habits die hard. >> Dante grunts slightly, a slight twinge in his head, just behind his temple as the images flash through his head. The pain of his side throbs slightly, but less intense than his ever growing headache. He rolls his shoulders back in discomfort, yet a slight grin crosses his lips as he looks over to the man. He finally takes a second drag of his own cigarette, letting the smoke filter through his nose, the winds pulling the swirling fog high above them. "You're in my head. Pretty obvious you've been there before. You're really asking for an answer that you already know?" Dante scoffs slightly, grabbing the cigarette with his lips, using his now free hands to untie his hair out of it's confines, letting it fall around his face haphazardly... << We don't know everything. We hear things. >> Another drag of his cigarette, long and slow. Hive's head turns, watching Dante untie his hair; his eyes linger for quite some while on the man after his hair falls down around his face. << Asking makes you think of the answer. We don't dig. Just -- listen. >> Dante glances over for a moment, both his expression and his mind seemingly still, hesitant, as if he's about to say/think something...but the slate is otherwise blank. With a sigh, he turns back to the city, looking down at Thompkin's Square Park in the distance. His mind calms slightly at the sight, his thoughts slow down and relax along with his muscles. He grabs the cigarette from his lips, inhales, and taps out the ash over the building. << Boy, I hope that doesn't hit anyone down there...that'd be embarrassing... >> He glances back over to Hive, then again towards the park. "It's still pretty sore. I've been through worse though...It's not so much pain, more so...helplessness. I know the world will be there in a week. I know the city's not gonna fall apart in a few days...I just...I dunno..." he sighs again, searching for the right words, but no way to express them accurately...He smiles once more. "Then again, I probably don't have to explain myself...now that I'm thinking about it, you probably get it better than I do..." << The world's never gonna have an end to pain, >> Hive answers. He pulls at his cigarette, long. His elbows rest against the railing, hand dropping to just hold the cigarette loosely, dangling over the edge of the roof. << And you're just one tiny drop of fresh water in a whole fucking ocean of sewage. Out of commission a week, out a year, out forever, it's mostly all the same to the world. >> He is a veritable font of idealism. << We get many things. Especially futility. >> Dante smiles slightly, his thoughts diverting for a moment to his father. An image of a strickingly handsome man with firm, chiseled features. Piercing blue eyes, a thick, square jaw, slight wrinkles and age marks around his cheeks and forehead. Despite his receeding hair, it's still very well groomed. The well built man is clad in a police uniform, badges adorning the chest lapel and the right sleeve. In Dante's mind, the man seems to radiate an almost golden aura, shimmering around the portait. Dante smiles wider, turning his body towards hive. "Gotta keep training, even if it means breaking a stitch here or there..." he replies, a slight glint in his eye. He takes a final puff of his cigarette, before pressing it against the side railing, smoldering the ashes and dropping the butt down the gutter. He looks back at the man "So, you keep saying 'we...' We, as in plural?" << To what end. Do you really think you're doing any good, in the world. >> The image in Dante's head is taken, turned over thoughtfully, silent mental fingers examining this image. Hive snorts. << Fucking cops, >> he says, << definitely not doing shit good for the world. >> The cigarette in his hand is burning down slowly towards his fingers, but he seems to have forgotten about it. << We, >> he echoes. << We is a plural. >> A slight twinge tears through Dante's mind, at the man's comment about police. << Cop or no cop, my father was a hero...If I could be HALF the man he was... >> Yet, his thoughts fall silent momentarily. He composes himself, completely disregarding the curiosity he held for the man and his manner of addressing himself, and looks Hive dead in the eye. "The world doesn't interest me. I'm only one man, I understand that. There's only so much one man can do...But if even one child can sit down to the dinner table, and NOT have to wonder why their mother or father hasn't come home that night...I dunno about you, but I think that's as worthy a payoff as anything..." It's an odd pair of eyes to try to look in, blank-vacant and unfocused. Hive does not meet Dante's gaze so much as thousand-yard-stare right through it. << Jesus, spare us. You sound like a fucking made-for-TV movie. >> The cigarette burns down further -- now with a slight sizzlesmoke tinge of burning flesh as the stub burns down to Hive's fingers. He still doesn't seem to notice, holding it just as lazy-loose as he had before. << Cops'd fucking can your ass for what you do. Hero. >> Hive doesn't say 'hero' like a compliment. A slight smile curls across Dante's lips, even though his mind convolutes with emotions...anger, disdain...slight pity, perhaps? His mind at unease, he manages to blurt out a small chuckle. "Exactly why i wear a mask..." he sits there in silence for a moment, before walking towards the table and picking up his belongings and heading for the door...Before he exits, however, he turns back to the man, and shrugs slightly. "Who knows...maybe someday /you'll/ need a hero. You know...when the cops are too busy trying to can /my/ ass to save yours..." with that, he sends a slight smirk Hive's way, before opening the door and disappearing down the apartment steps... << Everyone wears masks, >> is all Hive says in response to this. He might have noticed the smirk. He might not. It's hard to say, eyes still as vacant as ever, cigarette forgotten in his hand as he turns back to direct that blank stare out towards the city.