ArchivedLogs:Frankenfruity

Frankenfruity
Dramatis Personae Jim, Flicker, Hive, Jax
In Absentia	2015-03-30 "Never tried it sober."
Location <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down to the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; in a recessed pit near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. Though Jim's finally gotten out of the habit of trying to shoulder check his way through doors before ascertaining whether or not they're unlocked, he still has an audibly distinct way of sounding like he's attacking the lock with his key when letting himself in. You can practically hear him HUNCHED over it like he's mugging it. Boom. Unlocked. With zero flourish but a decent amount of leaf-rustling noise - the sun is out! free energy! - he bustles in with an armload of second-hand gardening magazines, a grubby utili-kilt, partly unbuttoned floral shirt and a grizzled beard that might soon be long enough to start freaking braiding. Whether anyone is in the living area or not, he tromples down into it, letting the /noise/ announce his presence, to start unloading the magazines onto the coffee table. After - well, he COULD throw away whatever trash and debris might already be on it, but he instead just kinda… stacks it aside. Good. Totally counts as neatening. "Hey, Jim." It's Flicker's voice sounding up from the basement. TROMPLING identified without really needing to check. There's a bit longer before he actually makes his way up. A blur of motion that resolves into settling a freshly-washed and dressed (and shaved! Though his hair -- too long, now -- hasn't yet been brushed) Hive down on the couch. Kind of awkwardly settling. First manhandling the skinny bony pile-of-telepath there one-armed and only second arranging him comfortably. Propping up with pillows. Flicker is less grubby. Unsurprisingly. Khaki cargos and a blue plaid button-down. His new arm is /on/, though through his Hive-arranging process he doesn't really use it. He squints at the magazines after. "Is this a suggestion? Are we supposed to be picking things? Can I pick persimmons?" "Doesn't that shit get you condemned to Hades or something," Jim doesn't even look up at the appearance. Maybe he didn't NOTICE… except that he falls into an organic cooperative effort to get Hive couch-bound, kicking aside a few pillows and then handing them back again to prop him properly. An absent ruffle of the telepath's messy hair breaks into THRUSTING one of the open magazines at Flicker. It's a two-page spread of a brick-work grill pit, surrounded with typical magazine-quality landscaping, all backgrounds in green grass and spattered with non-visually disruptive petunias and impatiens. A Generic White Family sits around it on beefy wrought iron chairs, looking REALLY enthusiastic about the steaks they are grilling. Those long periodic months of muteness have honed Jim's pointing finger. He jabs at the grill pit in the photo once, in some sort of question-demand. What he /says/, though, is, "How's the arm." While just… walking away. Towards the kitchen. To rummage around for coffee fixings. Maybe he'll take an empty pizza box with him, to try cramming in the trashcan. If it doesn't fit he'll just… tuck it behind it. "Pomegranate." Flicker plucks a comb out of his back pocket. "Can you grow those here?" He probably just assumes Jim can call forth anything. Climate-be-damned. He hops up to sit on the back of the couch, nudging Hive up against his knees so he can start pulling the comb through damp hair. Bone-straight damp hair. It's thankfully not a difficult task, long or not, Hive's hair resists tangling. His mouth skews to the side. "... can we grill pomegranate?" And then, "The gazebo has a barbecue pit. How many steaks do we need? Do we have a -- quota?" His eyes drop to the shiny damp top of Hive's head at the question. He draws the end of the comb against the other man's scalp. Neatening the part. A small ripple of motion runs up his side -- but doesn't actually resolve into a shrug. Just a small-twitch. "Heavy." "Do we have a steak /cap/?" Jim challenges back, sticking his nose into the coffee canister he's located to take in a deep whiff. Some part of his mind trying to will the smell, sharp, immediate, familiar, at Hive's silent mind on reflex. "I dunno, that one's /brick/. Let's build it. Get some fucking… mortar going." With coffee on its way towards preparation, he's heading back into the living area again, swiping open a different magazine at random, "S' other shit in here." There's been a fair number of day projects coming from Jim; mucking out gutters, digging out the dead husks of unwanted fruit trees, hauling in top soil some guy upstate had been giving away. FREE DIRT. Flicker's conscription into these tasks seems to coincide with the ebb and flow of his work load… or stress load. With fists on hips, Jim is looking the prosthesis up and down critically, "What kinda work was it, you're gettin' done on it?" "/I/ have a steak cap." This is probably not true. It's certainly not a /hard/ limit, anyway. Though Flicker follows this statement up with: "The pups and Isra make up for it, though. Sure. We can -- mortar." There's a red hair elastic wrapped around the wrist of his prosthetic hand. He plucks it off, though it takes a few slow tries for him to actually wrangle Hive's hair back into a low ponytail. He slides down after this to plop onto the couch. Grab the magazine from Jim. Leaf through it. "They, uh -- they moved my nerves around. So that -- nerves here --" His fingers lift to touch to his chest, "can control my arm. It takes some getting used to, though. I knew rehab would be sort of a -- process but it's. It's been slow." His /meatier/ arm shrugs. The other one still just sits. "It's alright, I mean, I have the mechanical arm still. That one still works." "The things they left out of Robocop, huh?" Jim grimaces. Maybe just dismayed at Hive's overgrown boyband hair. That's where his eyes are settled anyway. "Pff, maybe we'll put some big planters up in the treehouse. Grow your fucking pomegranate tree up /there/. Like some fucking… Russian nesting doll of trees in trees." He paces back towards the kitchen, asking only once his back is turned, "Pain?" "B kind of suspects that the limb just isn't built to /respond/ as fast as I -- think? I mean, I'm not exactly wired like most people, so the signals it's processing --" Flicker shrugs. "But it'd be hard to tell this early on anyway. Takes a lot of practice." He grins, crooked. Down at the magazine, even if it's at Jim's question. "Oh, /man/, rehab is like a new and inventive form of torture. I think they recruited my therapists straight out of the labs. What about a frankentree? Just /all/ the fruits on the same one? Can you do /that/ up there?" "They /make/ that shit!" Jim complains loudly from the kitchen, "Splice apple trees on cherry threes on fucking peach trees - you seen those? Plants are /fucked/ up." He returns into view with a cup of coffee in a mug he'd… well, he pulled it out of the sink and /rinsed/ it anyway. "I guess Ash spliced some branches on me after the fucking Lofts blew up. Guess people splice all kinds of shit on you if you get set on fire enough. Never tried it sober. Made Shane a fucking - pot cactus once. Like, a cactus. That threw fucking /weed/ buds. Just - Don't do drugs." Because clearly, Flicker is in Danger of Doing Drugs. Scrubbing at one side of his face, rather than sit down on the couch, Jim's just going to butt in and sit down on the coffee table, so that he faces Flicker and Hive in one. "Guess there's not a lotta shit that can keep up with your jumpy ass. They got you like - running through tires? Climbing hurdles? I'm kinda thinking gimpOlympics here." Cranky coffeeslurp. "That's it. We're splicing /every/ fruit we can find. We're making it the omnitree. It's going to be the king of fruit. Cornucopia. We're going to /win/ this game." Though now Flicker's sounding just a little cranky. "I've been set on fire /plenty/ nobody's ever spliced fruit on /me/." Clearly this is the /most/ injustice. "But you splice pot on me, we're throwing down." He rests a foot on the coffee table. Shakes his head. "Not so much Olympics. More like nursery school. I'm still working on how to bend my elbow and rotate my wrist and close my fingers. Olympics might have to wait." Though his grin has returned. "I mean, running through tires I could do no problem." "They spliced some fucking /robomecha/ on your ass, dude." Jim gestures with his coffee, "It's not their fault you didn't write down your prosthetic /genre/ preference. I had this shit done up custom." 'This shit' would be the flaky-barky surface layer of skin that encases Jim's forearms - he's flexing it. Front row seats to the gun show, here. The fibrous plant matter in them makes soft green-wood creaks with the strain, the leaves poking off his elbows and wrists rustling. Except his brows are furrowed like he's /aggravated/ into blurting out -- "Fuck, how many types of fruit trees you /could/ get going on the same plant. We don't have any fucking - figs yet." "Which is a serious failing of ours, honestly!" Flicker even throws up his hand on this. No figs. For /shame/. "Plum? Cherry? Apple? Nectarine?" His eyes tick over for a moment to Hive. "... Guava? Lychee? We could just go wild." He frowns down at his prosthetic hand, using his /other/ hand to turn it over. "That's what I need. Med-alert bracelet. Informing people what kind of fruit to splice onto me next explosion." "Mangos?" Jax doesn't know WHAT the conversation is but he's putting in an /enthusiastic/ vote for mangos anyway. And of /course/: "An' peaches! -- What're we makin'?" He's trotting over from Lighthaus, bright as ever in swirly blue galaxy-printed leggings under black skirt, pale blue tank, silvery-blue fishnet sleeves, brightly mismatched socks. Metallic blue-silver makeup. Dragonfly eyepatch. Peacock toned multicoloured hair. "Honey-honey," is caroled more in amusement than reproach as he sliiiides on socked feet into the kitchen to start tackling mound-of-dishes, "y'all can't jus' steal /all/ my dishes when y'run out, I gotta -- eat food sometimes." Jim softly cough-chokes into his coffee guiltily - it probably is ONE OF Jax's cups. And answers back without hesitation, "We're throwing Flick's bullshit robo arm /away/. Gonna," he makes a… stabbing?... motion Flicker-wards, "Spike a tree in there instead. Make him fucking," WHY is he gesturing with one open hand in front of his chest like he's cupping some massive breast, leaning forward and really getting INTO the word… "/Fruitful/." Flicker puts his hand up. INNOCENT. "Tag was over here," he offers. Conciliatory. "Your dishes are probably a lot brighter now." Though they were probably already bright. Maybe differently-bright now. He puffs out his chest when Jim gestures at him, even though the /cupping/ motion puts a flush in his cheeks. "Going to plant me in the treehaus. Feed the Commons from my /bounty/." "Flicker-flavoured mangoes? Mango-flavoured Flicker?" Jax is lighting further with these declarations, a warm glow fluttering around him. "That sounds delicious, but maybe inefficient for -- arm. Purposes. Don't you need that? You should pick a fruit that grows on a vine instead. Vines are pretty much /like/ tentacles anyway. Dual-purpose." Where Flicker's arm had been instead now it is morphing into a ropey kiwi-vine, reaching out towards Jim's CUPPING hand to twine around it, coiling there without sensation. "Aaaa." Jim isn't yelling, just kind of making a low buzz vowel-noise and /eyeballing/ the vine creeping towards him. His fingers open and he rotates his arm to watch it interact. Coiling out from his arms, some of his leaves wither and retract, replaced with aggressive kudzu vines. Sadly, illusion-plants don't have any tasty /energy/ to nom, but the coiling-uncoiling-straining-outward blanket of green tries to envelop the illusion anyway. And… just kind of washes over Flicker and part of Hive instead. /Collateral envelopment/. The rapid plant growth goes speed motion through its life cycles; trumpeting flowers unfurling open, dead leaves dropping off to make room for new growth with soft whispery creaking-rustling noises. From beneath the leafy mass, Jim raises his coffee for a deep slurp, "Arms are overrated. You hear those stories, about some poor bastards shipwrecked and having to eat each other's /parts/. Be they wish they had mango-arms /then/." "I've been fine armless all this time, what do I need arm for now? Actually," Flicker turns to Jim, expression very serious -- until the sudden growth of KIWI ARM and then sprouting KUDZU derails whatever else he was going to say. Seriousness flies out the window; he topples backwards wide-eyed /onto/ inert!Hive's lap. In a bed of leaves. "We could just cycle the arms out," he suggests to Jim once he regains /words/. His finger is flicking idly at an unfurling flower. "Asparagus one day. Freaking -- /pomelo/ the next. I'd never be hungry." Over by the sink Jax is cracking up, laughter sounding over the running water and clink of dishes. "It'd end up like the Giving Tree, though, knowing you. /You'd/ go hungry, nobody'd go hungry /around/ you though and before you know it you'd just be -- stumpy." His nose crinkles up. "Stumpier'n you already are. You'd hafta come back t'Jim t'regrow you every darn time someone done ask you for a seed an' you given 'em half your arm off." "Thus spake the pot unto the kettle, sunshine," the tangling green mess of spade leaves and corkscrewing curlicues has begun to form a thicker mass in its center - Jim's arm, that folds into a fist and the vines begin to ruffle-ravel back inward, leaving dead leaves and dropped flowers and probably SEEDS all over Flicker and Hive. Once they're visible again from beneath the green carpet that had claimed them. "All you eye-sore self-sacrificing bastards make my coffee /taste/ bad." His… black, cheap, unsweetened. He makes an EXPANSIVE gesture at all and sundry to make sure they know he means ALL the eye-sore self-sacrificing bastards equally. "Have you tried getting good coffee?" Flicker's voice comes from the DEPTHS of SEEDblanket. "Isra keeps some quality stuff, it's your fault you drink the paint thinner." He wrestles himself out of his plant covering, struggling up off of Hive. Sliding off his lap. "I'm not an eye-sore. You're just jealous I make crip look good." He says as he dusts DETRITUS off himself, getting to his feet. "... can you feed him?" He jerks a thumb towards Hive. "I gotta -- class." He's already blipping away towards the living room to pick up his backpack. Grab SHOES. Snag a hug from Jax. "Mmmnh," Jax groans, "don't talk to me about good coffee till next week." He bonks his head up against Flicker in lieu of returning the hug with soapy-wet hands. "... but maple syrup. And cashew cream. If you want coffee of the /gods/." Jim can feed Hive. Jax will just dream.