ArchivedLogs:Fear is the Mind-Killer

Fear is the Mind-Killer
Dramatis Personae Peter, Hive	2013-08-07 '
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 concrete wall that rings the roof has been decorated, painted in vivid bright shades by some artistic hand to add colourful cheer to the rooftop. The mural shifts in terrain One wall sports a beach, flecked with grass and seashells and driftwood and shore birds. Beach transitions into meadow, colourful with wildflowers and butterflies and dragonflies; meadow shifts into snow-capped mountains, subsides into piedmont and sprouts into a verdant forest on the fourth, alive with animals. There is a strange man in a mask on the rooftop. Peter's wearing his costume. /Again/. The mask/hood is something of a blend between a luchador and a fireman; it's got buggy white eyes with black rims and a face-fitting filter beneath it. Beneath the mask -- which looks, of course, completely /ridiculous/ -- he's wearing his red hoodie (slits in the shoulders for two black plates that pop up under it) and dark blue sweatpants. At this very /moment/, he is jumping -- from one rooftop down to this one -- and /charging/, crazy-fast, for the table. Where his laptop is currently sitting. In what is now an impromptu rainstorm -- not a /lot/ of rain, just a few dribbles, but probably enough. And flinging himself over it to protect it, as if he were taking a BULLET for the PRESIDENT. "The fuck." That's how you say hi, in Hivetalk. The telepath is shoving the door open (it's a pretty noticeable approach, the heavy door creaks on its hinges and scrapes loud against the concrete) to glare out at the roof. Or maybe at Peter. Or maybe at the rain. "-- are you wearing that ridiculous mask for," finishes this sentence, finally, but only after he's paused to retrieve a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He is dressed far less interestingly, in a t-shirt with a Death Star under it that reads, beneath, 'Ceci n'est pas une lune', and a pair of tatty old faded jeans, fraying badly at the bottoms where they drag down over the heels of his sneakers (held together by duct tape.) "Were you maybe a ferret in a past life?" Peter /squeaks/ beneath that mask. Still clutching his laptop to his chest; he goes one step /further/, and proceeds to shift and wriggle, sliding out of his hoodie and wrapping it around the laptop. Underneath, he's wearing a dark scarlet bodysuit of some type -- it has an unusual texture, with a hexacomb pattern to it. "--what? No I--" he starts, once the laptop is secure. His hand reaches up to the mask, and... << ohGod I'm wearing the--my /secret identity/--ohwait he already knows-- >> "--I'm, uh, testing... the cameras in my mask," Peter admits, a little weakly. "Also I'm trying to see if it's possible to add -- a HUD? I'm testing a little display thing inside the mask, to see if it's too distracting when I--" << don'tsaywebslingdon'tsaywebsling >> "--run." "Is it too distracting?" Hive glances upwards towards the sky, ignoring the few pattering droplets to tap a cigarette out of his pack. He slips it between his lips, and offers the pack towards Peter with raised eyebrows. "Dude, your secret identity stopped being secret a /long/-ass time ago. You know, you have to actually not tell people, for it to be a secret. The fuck are you wearing /now/?" The cigarette bobs between his lips with that last question, eyes skimming over Peter's suit. "It's--" << ohcraptelepathRIGHT >> "--um it regulates temperature but it's also kind of bodyarmor--" << and it WORKS blocks bullets ohman you can hear me thinking right now can't you >> "--that I'm working on at Stark Towers and--" << ohGOD don't think about anything bad >> "--I'm trying to make it kind of an all-terrain? Suit? I guess?" << don'tthinkabouttwinsdon'tthinkabouttwins >> Hive can't /see/ under that hood, but he can probably /feel/ the force of Peter's violet flush; it's accompanied by a quick motion of folding the hoodie around the laptop several more times -- ensuring that it's thoroughly well cushioned against the steady but slow drip-drip-drip of rainwater from above. "...but no, the display isn't -- too distracting, actually. I based it off of the kind they use in GPS ski helmets? It's right on your peripheral vision, doesn't block anything." Hive chuffs out a quick snort, though it's hard to tell exactly /what/ part of all this earned it. His head shakes, and he's quiet a moment, pulling out a lighter to light his cigarette. "The fuck bad would you even have to think about, dude, I -- hear a /lot/ of brains and you are up there with the squeaky-cleanest. I haven't even once had to figure out what to do about overhearing you plotting murder." He draws in a long puff from his cigarette, turning his head away from Peter to exhale the smoke. "How's that Stark gig going, anyway? You and B have a robot army yet?" His eyes lift skyward as he adds, almost offhand, "-- think about them or don't think about them, it won't be anything I haven't seen before. You know I can hear their apartment from mine, right?" "--murder?" Peter /squeaks/, taking Hive's statement -- maybe a bit too literally! "Have I been thinking about -- murder?" And then, as if he has just realized he's wearing it -- Peter reaches for the mask! Tugging it up. It's actually connected to the outfit he's wearing; a USB port in the back has to be carefully unsnapped and unplugged once he's yanked it off his head; the mask gets tucked on top of the hoodie, exposing Peter's face. A dark, rich shade of violet that only /intensifies/ at that last comment. "We -- Bastian's working on robots, I'm mostly doing... costume stuff. Uh. Hear?" he asks, before, maybe a bit more squeakily: "You mean like /hear/ hear, or..." Eyes widen: "...brain/ hear?" "No. You haven't. Which is kind of pleasant. Other people do, sometimes." Hive shrugs a shoulder, watching curiously as Peter detaches his mask. He taps one forefinger at his temple indicatively. "Hear," he clarifies. "Feel. See. Whatever." Another shrug. "Costume stuff? Is Stark gonna start making /everyone/ into crazyass vigilantes?" "Oh, no, I think -- Mr. Stark is /probably/ just interested in the thermoregulating? They'd be great for work in inhospitable environments, the costume stuff I'm just kind of doing on the side, and... and. Feel? /See/?" Peter repeats these words as if Hive has just informed him that he knows about Peter's secret desire to DEVOUR NEWBORN INFANTS. His cheeks turn deep indigo; his eyes are as wide as saucers. "OhGod," he says, "/OhGod/. You didn't -- I mean. You, uh --" He pauses here; instead of responding, he just proceeds to stare. At his feet. "Ah. Yeah. That'd be useful," Hive agrees. He looks away as Peter darkens, drawing in another slow drag of cigarette. "Yeap." Just that, blunt and quiet, until he follows it up with: "Jax know?" "N-no, I don't /think/ he... I mean. Is he--" Peter stops; his eyes sling back up from his feet, giving Hive a suddenly panicked look. "--is he--/supposed/ to?" Then: "It's... uh. He's -- ohGod. Would he be /angry/?" Peter asks, the panic inching its way up. Hive shrugs a shoulder. "/Supposed/ to, I dunno. Twins tell him a lot, but -- wasn't sure about that." He stretches his arm to the side, tapping ash off the butt end of his cigarette. "Angry." This earns a quiet huff. "Oh, there's plenty that gets Jax angry, but I don't think you guys are going to be it. I think he'd --" Finally he rolls his head over to look at Peter, thoughtful. "I think he'd be worried." "They, uh..." The indigo shows no sign of flagging; Peter proceeds to genuinely /toescuff/. A piece of gravel on the roof gets launched forward, clattering across the slowly moistening ground. "--Shane didn't even /realize/ it's a thing people would get -- worried about. Bastian knows. I don't think--" Peter almost /squirms/ in his spot, as if struggling with this very concept: "I don't think -- he has to know. It's not --" Peter looks up; he opens his mouth again, then closes it. Before, finally: "--/is/ it--worrying?" "I mean, /I'm/ not going to tell him. I just -- figured Shane or Bastian would, eventually. And then it might --" Hive drops his hand to his side, cigarette still held between his fingers. "I think it's worrying like being gay is worrying. You ever seen the shit people give Bastian at school for wearing skirts? Picture what kids would say if they heard /this/. So yeah. It's worrying that way. Any other way --" He hesitates. Shakes his head. "It's weird as fucking hell," he eventually grunts. "-- You happy?" "Oh," Peter says, in response to the mention of Sebastian with skirts at school; his tone is much more quiet, much more subdued. His eyes linger on Hive's shoes, now, the tenseness lifting from his eyebrows. "--yeah, I can see how that would be..." The last question throws Peter off; his head snaps up, eyebrows darting high as he looks at Hive. "--huh? Oh, I mean, uh. Y-yeah," he says, once /more/ plunging into deep violet. "I mean, yeah, I -- yes," he says, a bit more firmly, now. "Well. Then." Hive shrugs again, lifting his cigarette for a loooong pull. "I guess I won't worry." Though his teeth grind, slowly. His eyes shift away, slow, somewhat unfocused as they drift off towards the neighboring park. "Your school's got telepaths, too, though, you know." The breath he exhales comes on a grey stream of smoke. "Jegus. I don't even fucking know anymore," he admits wryly, "where the fuck 'okay' and 'not okay' fall. God fucking knows everyone around here could use a little happy wherever you can find it." "Telepaths," Peter says, chewing this word over a moment. And then, predictably, violet turns indigo. "Oh, /God/, telepaths. You don't think -- that -- the /professor/? /He/ wouldn't have -- Oh, God," and now Peter's just /rubbing/ at his face, steady and long. "Ohman ohman I hope he doesn't poke around oh /man/ that would be, uh, pretty high on my list of conversations I do /not/ want to have." At that last comment, Peter's flush flicks back a few notches; something like a smile settles over his face. But then, he asks: "Hive? Did anyone figure out about -- the people that came after the Morlocks? Why they went after Jax -- who /were/ they?" "Don't know about him," Hive answers with a snort. "But Taylor rooms with Daiki just across the hall from the twins." His head tips back, eyes closing as he catches the few desultory drops of water against his face. His jaw works slowly, a steady hard /grind/ before he relaxes so that he can take another puff of cigarette. When he looks back at Peter there's something a little more distant in his eyes, a little blanker. "If you wanted to grind all mutants into the fucking ground," he answers, blandly, "wouldn't /you/ go after Jax?" "...Taylor. Oh, jeez," Peter mutters, but then: "--wait. Maybe he -- already /knew/ maybe he's totally... uh, cool. With it." There's an edge of hopefulness, there. "He /seems/ kind of cool, with, uh, stuff, and..." That question makes Peter's mouth quirk. He frowns, as if he was trying to work it out himself. "If /I/ were trying to grind all mutants into the ground...? I..." His brows pinch together. Thinking. "I guess, yeah. I'd go after... mutants who are publically known. But -- who would do that? /Why/?" "Kssh." Hive shakes his head, taking one last puff of smoke and then leaning forward to grind the butt against the roof's railing. "You don't go after mutants who are publicly known. You go after mutants who are publicly /admired/." He lifts a hand, his knuckles dragging against his cheek. "There's -- probably a list ten miles long of who wants to do that, man. The /government/ wants to do it. Mostly -- because they're scared of us." "...admired," Peter says, and now his eyebrows are scrunching together again, much more firmly -- he hops, up on top of the very railing that Hive is grinding the cigarette butt against. Clinging to it with hands, ankles and feet pressed tight against it. It'd be a pretty precarious position under normal circumstances, but... "They had solvent grenades, down there. For my thwippy things. Micah mentioned they were probably for misfires on the Osbot drones; they use the same technology. But..." Peter's mouth twitches, again. "Man I don't even /know/ any scary mutants. Except the blood monster. And the green monster. And--" He frowns. "--okay yeah I've met... some scary mutants." "But you're kind of wondering if they were preparing for /you/, too?" Hive finishes Peter's trailing off with a lift of eyebrows. "Peter, dude, you've met a crapton of scary mutants. You just forget they're /gorram terrifying/ because they're nice to /you/." "--maybe. I left... a lot of webbing around when I stopped the train. They'd probably be able to figure out what it was, figure out..." Peter trails off. Hive's comment about scary mutants earns a 'pfft': "The twins aren't scary they're just--" And then, suddenly, Peter stops. LOOKING at Hive. "--wait, you aren't talking about the--" << YOU can be kind of-- >> Peter's face goes violet again, hands lifting -- leaving him balanced on the rail with nothing but his feet! -- as if to ward off Hive's response: "--I mean, uh, you don't -- you don't scare me but, uh..." "I think," Hive says, a little tiredly, "they're preparing for all of us. Just, you guys out in public make it /easier/ for them." His eyebrows raise at Peter's protest about the twins. "Wasn't talking about them, no." He rests his weight more heavily against the railing. "Dude, hold on to something, you're making /me/ fucking jittery. Dusk does the same goddamn thing but he has wings. And," tacked on as an afterthought, "I should scare you." "--huh? Oh, it's fine, my feet..." And suddenly, Peter just slides backward -- back tilting in what appears to be, in every respect, a backward roll toward the streets below. Until, suddenly, he stops -- standing /sideways/, his feet still gripping the rail. His knees are bent in; his body crouched toward the railing to minimize the weight his feet are forced to carry -- but though the position looks downright impossible, he doesn't even seem to be straining himself. "--stick to things. I could just, like, walk up a building sideways if I wanted. Well, no, it hurts my legs cuz of all the weight? But I can basically fly /anyway/," he adds, with a slight grin. The grin gets a bit bigger at Hive's comment about being scared. Peter's hair is currently dangling out behind him, pulled back by the force of gravity; his neck tilts forward to /peer/ at Hive: "Really, dude? 'Cuz I jump off skyscrapers for fun and have sex with a shark." "No," Hive answers, "you can't. You swing around and, dude, you won't fucking /heal/ if you splat to the ground. I know you /think/ you're invincible but you're really not." His eyes close, his teeth grinding slowly again. "Sure. And if I told you to jump off this roof, you'd do it and your webshit wouldn't help you at all. You haven't seen me having a bad day. You haven't seen /Jax/ having a bad day. Or Ryan or -- fucking /Daiki/. There's a reason these people are scared of us, and pretending that doesn't exist isn't going to get anyone anywhere." The grin slips away a bit at the mention of splatting on the ground; it vanishes at the mention of Hive commanding Peter to jump. By the time Hive's mentioned Jax, Ryan, and Daiki, the grin is gone, replaced by a frown. "--you wouldn't," he says. Although now he /is/ climbing back up the rail, hands gripping it to pull himself into a more careful crouched position -- right-side-up. "...and even if you /would/, I--" His mouth crinkles into an uncomfortable expression; something is surging up into Peter's mind -- something hot and unfamiliar: "--I /have/ seen the twins on a bad day. And they don't scare me. I've seen--" There are flashes of thought, then. Norman Osborn; teeth perfect, small, and white, extending his hand as Peter's danger sense SCREAMS bloody murder. A soldier with his gun leveled on Sebastian's chest -- Sebastian's throat bubbling with blood. "--scary things. You guys aren't..." Oh, there we are. An image of Sebastian, grinning toothily -- suddenly springing for Peter's throat; Shane interrupting at the last second, coaxing him back to calm. /That/ memory prompts Peter to go silent, head turning to stare at the door back to the Lofts, mouth drawn thin. "I wouldn't," Hive agrees quietly. "But if I did there'd be shit-all you could do about it. Could do it to the entire East fucking Village and there'd be shit-all they could do about it. And /that/ doesn't terrify them half so much as the thought that I could do it to --" Hive hitches his shoulder up in a shrug. "The mayor. The governor. The entire fucking Senate." His eyes clench shut at that mental image. "Fff --" It's a slow hiss of breath, his teeth pressed down against his lip. "They love you." His voice is back to gruff; he says this like it's an /accusation/. "A whole fucking lot. Trust me, I can /hear/ it. And even with that, it's --" There's another slow grind of his teeth. "I'm not saying," he says instead, "that you should be afraid of your friends. I'm saying you shouldn't be so gorram dismissive that other people /are/." "...would you?" Peter asks, his head swinging back to /peer/ at Hive. "Do that to -- the mayor. You wouldn't do that. Right?" There's a nervous apprehension there that can be picked up /without/ telepathy. At Hive's response to the images, Peter frowns, a flutter of concern: "--oh jeez, sorry, I..." At the words, though, he grows quiet, eyes slinking back to the railing he's perched on. "...it's just, if they /knew/ them..." Peter starts. "--but, yeah. I get that -- Ivan was afraid of Sebastian. Worried he might be dangerous. And -- I couldn't tell him he /isn't/. Because he /is/. A lot of us are. But I don't think being /afraid/ helps. I think..." Peter's mouth pulls back into that thin, narrow line, looking up at Hive. And with an extraordinarily /serious/ face -- look how scrunched his eyebrows are! -- he says: << Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration... >> << -- Only I will remain. >> Hive only echoes this last line; his mental voice is not its usual harsh-hard stab of pain. Just a voice -- or voice/s/, really; in lieu of pain his words come in an echoing sussuration of manyvoices chiming in unison. Hive's lips twitch, faintly, with this repetition. "Fear doesn't help shit," he agrees. "But understanding where people are coming from with it might." His jaw clenches for a moment. "Maybe. Though we might be past the point where rational discussion helps shit, too." "...maybe," Peter agrees, much more softly, seemingly /cowed/ by that unusual, gentle choir that rings in his mind. But then he is slinging his way down off the rail -- and moving toward his laptop. His hoodie has started to get a bit wet; his hands curl around it protectively.