ArchivedLogs:Fleeting Concern
| Fleeting Concern | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2014-03-31 ' |
| Location
<NYC> Lower East Side | |
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. Some time today the temperatures are supposed to climb up near sixty and the sun is supposed to show -- but currently neither of these things are the case. Overcast and chill, the city hangs under a cold slate-grey sky that doesn't yet show any signs of aiming for sunny. It is, at least, not raining, though the wet pavement and deep gutter-puddles and soggy-muddy patches of earth imply that until rather recently it /was/ raining. Here in this one particular stretch of road by the East River, there's the heavy sounds of construction coming from a very large fenced-in lot, signs posted around it: CONSTRUCTION ZONE, HARD HAT AREA, KEEP OUT, NO TRESPASSING. Hive's probably just come from there; at least in dress he /looks/ fit to be a construction worker. Heavy jeans, heavy-sturdy steeltoed workboots, denim shirt worn over a plain grey tee with a canvas jacket thrown on over top. There's a hard hat still perched atop his head, even, over the softer layer of a fleecy red cap beneath it. Past the attire though he doesn't look fit to be much of anything involving manual labor -- thin to the point of emaciation, he seems barely even able to stand /up/ unassisted much less get involved in heavy construction. He is, at the moment, /not/ standing up unassisted -- he's leaning in a heavy slump against the fence, shaking-unsteady hands tapping a cigarette out from a pack. There's a pained tightness to his expression, pinched around the eyes and mouth, that lends his face a kind of cranky-Monday air. Around him the mental noises of the city ebb and flow, psionic senses picking up the surface-thought chatter of everyone passing by. The Lupeis are currently walking down the street, idle chitchat about really nothing in Romanian, movies, financial issues, Homestuck, comic books, etc. Toma's more or less putting up with Nicoleta's ranting about something in a comic book she read, mostly thinking about what to have for dinner. Nicoleta, meanwhile, is thinking about how stupid women in refrigerators is, and has been talking about it for about five minutes now. As Nicoleta passes Hive, she takes a glance at him, before slowly continuing to walk, keeping a slow pace to communicate with her twin, but her thoughts are alive. << {Dude looks like a crackhead. Wonder how he's still alive.} >>. A slow mental chuckle, as she pauses to speak to her twin in their native tongue. So, this is why Ron Marz should be banned from writing. For, like ever.. At this point, Toma's rolling his eyes, glancing at Hive, his thoughts more about worry and wondering if Hive's alright. Twins are in matching garb, gray jackets, a black tanktop for Nicoleta, and a gray t-shirt for Toma, both wearing blue jeans, Toma wearing tennis shoes and Nicoleta wearing combat boots. "Fucking -- /goddamn/ --" Hive's cigarette falls from his shaking hands before making it to his mouth, splashing down useless now in a puddle at his feet. "{Motherfucking shit cock --}" His irritable cursing is in Thai, sharp and angry. On the /second/ try he manages to get a /fresh/ cigarette to his lips, putting the pack away but now having no small difficulty coaxing a flame out of his lighter with his hands trembling-unsteady. "-- His Witchblade shit wasn't bad." He sounds /cranky/ about this statement though. Possibly because he's still futilely flicking his lighter without managing to /light/ his cigarette. "Haven't read it. Tend not to get out of DC. Sometimes the rare Dark Horse. New 52's fucked shit up though, probably not buying new comics anytime soon.". Nico shrugs, looking over at Hive, as her thoughts are still alive as she watches him. << Crap he might be dying /right now/. Dude should go to a hospital or some shit. >>. Meanwhile, Toma's looking over to him, with a bit more worry, and is actually speaking. "You alright?". There's a slow scuff of Toma's lip, as he stares over to Hive, waiting for an answer. "Yeah, New 52 is a pile of crap. -- I'll be dying right now if I don't get this fucking cancerstick lit," Hive answers Nicoleta's unspoken thoughts in an irritable grumble. He drops his hand, lighter held loosely in his palm and a very noticeable tremor in his posture. He thunks his head back against the fence with a heavy thump of hard-hat against wood boards. "Gorram /Mondays/," he answers Toma with a small twitch of smile. "The fuck can you do, huh." Behind them there's the louder noise of a jackhammer starting up, and he flinches at the sudden pounding noise. "Holy fuck, what are you talking about?". Nicoleta's confused, a glance at Hive. << That was like, weird. Like he was reading my thoughts or some shit. >>. Nicoleta shrugs, before beginning to make a move on. Toma glances at Hive. "I'm..sorry you just look in bad shape. I don't know if you have, and I'm just a stranger, but maybe you should get a checkup. Doesn't look healthy.". Toma nods slowly, before following after Nicoleta. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks," Hive answers Toma dryly. His eyes lower to the wet concrete in front of him, attention focusing back on getting his lighter lit as the twins walk off. | |
