ArchivedLogs:Garden Brawl
| Garden Brawl | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 7 July 2014 Some of the rescuees aren't so happy to be here. (Prometheus TP.) |
| Location
<NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side | |
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a rock-lined koi pond, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. What is /up/ with the /humidity/ today? With the humidex nudging triple digits, the only thing saving the Commons from baking is being positioned near moving water and the ample natural shade provided by the trees. Even in the shade though, even with the day moving into a sweet gold-and-rose sort of evening, the world is still a sticky, sticky place. Sticky enough to encourage tempers even amongst those who weren't recently sprung from murderlabs. Some have found a way to keep their minds off of the cranky though. In Violet's case, this means dragging back a kill to help feed the hordes--shut up she knows there's plenty of money--though also in this case, kill equals a huge clear plastic bag of bakery discards. Dinner rolls, baguettes, brodchen, marbled rye, and more fill the bag, all jumbled, much of it /crumbling/, but still edible. Hopefully. Provided the bag does not /rip/ as she pushes it over the wall that separates the Harbor Commons from the greater world and then jumps up to follow after it. Whumph goes the bag onto grass (and a bush, sorry Jim), and...well, she makes no sound as she lands in a tidy crouch. Bare feet, see. The rest of her is covered in hoodie, khaki cut offs and a great deal of heat-matted fur. Ugh. /UGH/. Pardon as she begins stripping out of the hoodie before proceeding to dragging her haul across the lawn towards the common house. With one last day off to help out around the Commons before returning to work, Micah is still dressed in weekend clothes: patched bluejeans and an olive shirt with a Darwin-inspired sketch of finches on it, only with technological upgrades instead of biological ones. His auburn hair is, predictably, messy to match, barefooted (with one notably prosthetic foot, there on the left) as he brings a bin of compostables out from the kitchens to the larger bin outside. He's a bit /squinty/ out in the sun with no hat, but didn't really intend on being out long from the look of things. Thump-thump, the bottom of the tub is tapped as it is shaken to do away with the last of the organic leavings. It's the whumph over there that catches his attention, despite Violet's quiet little cat feet. "Good t'see you again, Violet. How goes?" He trots over to meet the catgirl on her way to the building. On the Common House's front porch there is already one slumpy telepath -- cranky is kind of his default state, though, it's hard to tell how much of his scowl is weather and how much is just. Hive. He's poured himself into a wicker scoop-chair on the porch, dressed for the weather in grey-blue denim shorts and his favorite brown blue-painted-hedgehog tee. Barefoot. A bottle of water on the small table in front of him. He's currently /directing/ his scowl downwards at the table, a game of mancala set out that -- possibly he is losing kind of badly. At least, Flicker seems pretty pleased with himself as he drops his shiny little pebbles into their ditches. Drop drop drop scooooop, he nabs a large handful of stones for himself. He's also barefoot, khaki cargo shorts, light blue polo -- a little paler than he should be, a little droopier, but overall looking /pretty/ well Not Dead where he sits opposite Hive. << Well, fuck. >> Hive's quiet rustling voice is kind of directed at the world in /general/. << Hey. You brought. Treats. >> Which is, apparently, far preferable to his losing game, his eyes shifting -- slowly, they're kind of glassy and take a bit to focus -- towards Violet. Small speckle-shimmers of water drift in a lacy dream not far from this point, prismatic ribbons of rainbow winking in and out where the light hits them as Jim yank-drags a HOSE along the length of the wall, watering some of the plants already drying out again under the scorching sun. Wearing only flipflop sandals, swim shorts and a wife beater, Jim also wears a... cheap straw hat. And sun screen over his nose and shoulders. Even then, he's also acquired the beginning onset of sunburn. He doesn't exactly SPOOK when the wall is breached, but two portions of his person turn towards it - his face and the HOSE, coming up just short of SPRITZING DOWN the naughty kitty (her prey is also spared, by this mercy!) and instead comments, "There's a fucking /gate/." This sounds like he's possibly had this conversation BEFORE. POSSIBLY with kittyViolet, when he's caught her raiding (her) catnip patch like old Farmer McGregor. He must be environmentally aware of Micah's proximity because, without turning /towards/ the young man, he extends a fist in his direction. To tap. It's not ever really /quiet/ around here lately, people skittering in and out of their temporary housing, raiding the kitchens, loafing in the grass, reluctantly talking to the Mendel social workers who intermittently stop by (or furtively avoiding them as though they'll be FORCED into therapizing.) Today it's a little bit /more/ not-quiet; it probably registers along Hive's mental network as darting sparks of anger, a flare of temper, though /really/ these things are not so /uncommon/ among a group of scared displaced labrats chucked out into the world. This time it comes with a slam of door over from the direction of Ryan and Clarice and Horus's house, a stocky woman with pale-pale limp hair pulled back off her face in a messy bun storming out into the yard. Practically hissing, as she encounters a spritz-spray of hose water, shaking one leg off like the small droplets have /singed/ her. The slam-door is shoved open again just as readily, heavy footfalls bringing a stringy man out to follow her at a sprint. "-- /Watch/ your motherfucking --" He comes up short nearby her, though, words snapping off into silence and his narrowed eyes darting between Micah and Jim and the game on the porch with a sharp wariness like maybe-maybe this is not company to speak freely around. "-- fucking Christ," he finally settles on Violet and her bag in the end, "just like a constant fucking stream of charity around here isn't it?" "Hey Micah. Hive. Smiley guy. I found all th'bread. Ya'll want some pumpernickel? I got pumpernickel 'n rye 'n white 'n just all of it before they bleached th'dumpsters." Possibly it /is/ all of the bread in the /city/, or so Violet's smugtone implies. Look. Look, see how she provides for these poor hapless refugees who clearly cannot hunt for themselves? The bag is near as long as she is, but she /heaves/ it up onto her shoulder to prevent rippage as she reaches the path--and possibly also as a shield from potential hose-spritzing because no thank you, plant man, she's wearing clothes today and the smell when wetted would be horrendous. They have a certain aroma, as is. "Gates're for folks as can't /jump/," is her habitual rebuttal to the scolding. It's a /cheerful/ rebuttal but cheer goes the way of the dodo when temper makes its entrance. Up go fuzzy eyebrows at the skinny fella there. "...well, yeah, Christ was kinda all about th'charity. Y'like pumpernickel?" Micah's fist comes up kind of last-minute to bump against Jim's, requiring a brief application of /brakes/ to Micah's trot. "Hey, Jim!" He picks back up once he passes, ending up near Violet and the game on the porch. He spritzes some lemony hand sanitizer on his hands after setting his empty bin down against a wall. "Ohwow, yeah. Catchin' the bakeries 'fore they throw all the stuff is good. S'just criminal, people destroyin' good food when they /could/ donate it t'shelters an' such. Ain't gonna cut into their profits none, if the folks weren't gonna be able t'afford it t'begin with. Hanna an' Jayna haul home goodies sometimes, 'specially when we got hordes of hungry mouths around." A hand claps down on Flicker's uninjured shoulder. "You're lookin' just a little /too/ gleeful there, Fli--" And then there's yelling and cursing. Well. More upset cursing than the usual being bandied about by the residents. "Everythin' okay over there?" comes with a slowly lofting eyebrow. "It's Flicker," Flicker corrects his name -- /with/, notably, a cheerfully amused smile. "And there's no such thing as /too/ gleeful when stomping all over --" He breaks off, too, casting a faintly concerned glance out further into the yard. "... how much time we've /all/ spent kind of down on our luck, I don't know if it's /charity/ so much. Just kind of doing what needs doing and hoping someone else'll take over when we need it, too." << Fucking hippie, >> Hive grumbles, whisper-soft accusation directed at Flicker though it ripples out to everyone around. << S'that, fucking /karma/ acquisition? Doesn't seem to be paying off yet. Think we're doing it wrong. >> Aaand Jim is hosing down /labrats/. This is a /special/ kind of hell, yanking up the hose from a few feet down and folding it in half like breaking the neck of a SNAKE - it abruptly stops the water flow to keep from dousing anyone else down in the meantime. And he turns to the party at their game, "--Are we getting compared to The Fucking /Carpenter/?" His feet redistribute to put his sunburned ass sliiiightly more between the stringy man and the pale-haired woman, adding right back at Hive, "Hey, slanty, don't knock the karma thing. Got my lungs back, didn't I? For that time I put Jax through 'em?" That's /totally/ karma, right? There's no real break in momentum from this topic and the next, when he turns to the scrappy labrat, setting down the hose where it can just sog up the lawn. Mm, good for wetting down feet. "A'right, what's up." "Tssss." This comes out in a ragged hiss of laughter from the woman, Daphne, clapping one hand to her temple as Hive's words whisper in. "Charity, right. Is that what you call /murdering/ us to save /their/ fucking asses?" Her hand swings out to indicate Jim and Flicker, eyes narrowed on the telepath. "Because your friends are so much more valuable than ours? Yeah. Real goddamn /Christ/-like. -- I don't /want/," that hand shoves out towards Violet, a kind of talk-to-the-hand gesture -- though it comes not with /sass/ but with a strange twitch-clench of Violet's muscles, tugging like for a moment they're not /hers/ but someone else's as Violet's hands are forced to open, tumbling the bag of goodies to the ground, "your fucking charity." Craig, the younger skinnier labrat, clenches hands at his sides, feet sliding over to rest on the paved stone of the walkway and not the damp grass. /Forward/ and over, closer to Jim, closer to Daphne. Earlier arguments -- over living quarters, over /staying/ here versus taking off -- are fading rapidly from his mind in favour of a healthy dose of annoyance at Micah and Jim's questioning, Jim's shift of position. "The fuck is it any of /your/ goddamn business, grandpa?" Ludicrously, it is Jim's name for Hive that gets an initial reaction from Violet. Mostly, she is shocked, with that emotion replacing the wary curiosity that she'd felt with the entrance of these two crankypusses. Was that /racism/? HERE? She's not appalled, just a little stunned--and that means she's totally not paying attention when Daphne there goes puppetmaster on her body. The effect is as one might expect of a street-cool alley cat with trust issues: she goes full poof as her body twitches and jerks in rejection of that alien sense of control. She grows three dress sizes in fur alone and bares diamond-tip teeth at the other female. The growling hiss that comes tearing out of her throat is not human. Neither are the thoughts that pour from her mind, focused as they are on calculating distance between herself and the threat source, already anticipating making /Daphne/ twitch as claws and teeth go in... "S'got a point, though. Alla us've been in need of help from pretty much all the /rest/ of us, one time or another. S'what the whole /community/ thing's about, right? S'enough trouble comin' from all the rest of the world. May's well take care of one another here." Micah's fingers massage gently at Flicker's shoulder before releasing. He /winces/ a little at Jim's mention of putting Jax through his lungs. "Ohgosh, Jim... I'd totally hug you now you're all...not /bark-covered/ an' pokey anymore but I get the feelin' you'd appreciate it more if I didn't." The wince turns into a chuckle, breezing right on past that. But not so much the vitriol coming from their guests. "Hey, now. We're all friends here. No need t'get nasty at folks." Perhaps rather /unwisely/, he steps in front of Violet to retrieve the bag, handily placed between people with hotter-running tempers. "Ain't no cause t'be puttin' hands on folks. Includin' abilities-wise. Please." Hive's mental touch goes silent, quiet ripples fading away. His eyes shift back downwards, somewhat directed towards the game he's been playing though there's a vacancy to them that suggests not much is /registering/ to his gaze. "Hey --" Flicker is instinctively starting to get up, but sinks back down into his chair with the sudden spikes of pain that remind him, oh yeah, still /healing/ -- and he doesn't have his teleportation /anyway/. There's a frustrated grimace when he /tries/ anyway, just before he sits heavily back down. "Nobody's -- life is any more valuable. And nobody /wanted/ --" But he stops, here, a little paler, lips a little thinner as he looks down at his hand and then back up to the labrats. "I'm sorry," is quieter. "Don't think you ever tried," Jim tosses to Micah vaguely, regarding... hugs? << Hey hey. >> His flat mind monotones dryly, for one removed moment, amidst the chaos, hands just kind of hanging LOOSE at his sides, << At least they're unified on /one/ front -whoa- >> "Whoa, whoa, /hey/." When Violet /poofs/, the tendons down Jim's arms and chest - well, arm, the one in the cast isn't really visible - jerk hard... and fail to stir even a blade of grass, nor shift any of his form to anything more sturdy. "/Christ/, 'grampa'? You kids are on my fucking /lawn/ is my business-" And then he goes heavily still. And turns slowly towards Daphne. And says low, "You weren't there." Daphne's hand closes, fisting up tight, and now it's /Micah's/ body that isn't, for a moment, under his control, arm lifting, shooting out rather than reaching for the bag, to thud a backhand fist towards Violet's chest instead. "We're not /friends/, you sanctimonious prick," Craig snaps back, eyes narrowing on Micah. "Friends don't fucking /murder/ each other just to --" His hands are shifting, heavy-solid, greyer, hardening stony as the rock beneath his bare feet, and he stops mid-sentence to turn his attention to Jim. "Of course we were fucking /there/. Your murderer-friend --" "-- treats people's minds like he has some fucking right to them," Daphne finishes sharply. "We were /all goddamn there/. We /felt/ him kill Cam. And now we're supposed to act like we're thankful? Hold hands, get along? You're all fucking sick." Debate and accusations are all well and good. Violet's thoughts trend to the more immediate. The shock and pain of being struck right in the tit seal the deal for her--especially when that blow comes from /Micah/ of all people. Sweet, helpful, giving Micah. She might have just spit and hissed to be body-hijacked, but having /him/ be hijacked--to hurt /her/ no less--sends her into action mode. She rocks back a step with the thump of impact, hands briefly clapped to the hurty bit, but in a blink after that she's ducking beneath the cyborg's arm to launch herself at Daphne. Notably, her intention is neither to hurt nor kill. That's broadcast clearly, feline mind tickticking through options with frightening clarity and speed. Tackle, pin, subdue, and the full force of her sleek fluid body obediently propelling her on that course. "Ohgosh, Flicker, no, y'shouldn't be gettin' up yet..." Micah's brow furrows at the other man's pallor and soft-voice, attention drawn back over his shoulder to him. Until, you know, he's punching a girl. /And/ a guest. At the same time. "Ohgosh, oh/gosh/, Violet! Apologies, sugar, I didn't mean..." Then /she's/ off, pouncing rightly catlike on /other/ guests. There's a mess waiting to happen and /none/ of them really in shape to intervene physically. Once he has his (rather sore) arm back, he uses it for the all-important task of raking a hand through his hair. "Jim, could you..." The other hand gestures at the hose for lack of a better plan. Y'know, like when dogs are fighting in your yard and you don't want to get in between them or hurt them, actually... << (She/we) were there. >> There's a remoteness to the mental whisper, a little too detached, a little too quiet. << (She/we) felt us -- >> Then quiet, again. In his chair Hive is just still, expression blank, eyes glazed over. Flicker lifts a hand, scrubbing against his face as he -- kind of visibly /struggles/ against the impulse to get up again, not really in any condition to /help/. "Nobody's asking for /thanks/ but the violence -- /stop/. All of you." There is probably any number of useful, helpful things Jim could be doing right now. Instead, Craig gets no further than 'murderer-friend' before Jim's fist is colliding with his face. Craig's head is already turning as that blow is incoming, catching it against the hard edge of his jawbone though the way he's rolling back with it mitigates some of the force. His hands are swinging, with this, one slamming over in a hard snap of block to knock Jim's arm out of the way as the other palm smashes up towards the /other/ man's chin -- with rather more emphasis than Jim's blow, given the solid granite-hard /clubs/ that Craig's hands and forearms have currently turned into. Daphne hisses, backing up a step as she's faced with flyingcat! Her arms stretch out to her sides, /Violet's/ arms stretching out spread-eagle along with them, keeping the sharp claws, at the least, out of the way of doing any damage. Which doesn't actually stop the flying tackle, the woman thudding backwards to the grass with the force of it; one of Violet's arms twists around rather uncomfortably behind her as Daphne oofs to the ground with a heavy rush of air. It's harder to be graceful and coordinated and super!predator with one or both arms out of commission. Violet does not like. But it means that Daphne doesn't end up with the catgirl on top. She tucks head and shoulder down to perform a neat roll and comes up into a crouch, tail slashing at the air behind her--and teeth snapping at the air above the shoulder of the arm that's been twisted back. After that admittedly primal expression of discomfort and pissiness, she locks blazing eyes on Daphne and...tries to speak. First effort? Fails, ending up in a mangled cat's whinygrowl. Second effort still carries many of those whining notes but succeeds with words. "Not. Folks. T'fight. Not these...folksss." All right. That's enough. Punches have been thrown, powers are in play, and /Hive/ is still /connected/ to more than half of the people involved. Micah marches down to where Jim left the hose to do what he had /asked/ to begin with: attempting to be a distraction or at least make it a lot harder for people to continue brawling. He turns the hose up all the way before aiming it at the fighting group and thoroughly soaking the lot, starting primarily with Jim and Craig since /fists/. If that's not enough to get people off of their fighting game, he digs into his pocket for his keys and pulls out an honest-to-goodness 'I got lost in the mountains' safety whistle attached to the ring, then blows on /that/ shrill and long. If nothing else, it will call the attention of someone who can help better than he's doing. Maybe. Apologies to those with sensitive hearing. "Jim what are you /doing/, you idiot, stop that --" Flicker's voice is sharper than it usually is, and he stands very /abruptly/ when Jim goes to throw that punch, casting a rather horrified look between Craig and Hive. For a second, anyway, before his body catches up to what a terrible idea abrupt motion /is/ and he stumble-collapses down onto his knees, curling a hand against his midsection with a wince. Hive, meanwhile, twitches and jerks, slumping back a little more heavily in his seat with a sudden hissing rush of breath as that punch collides, as Daphne falls. His eyes stay glassily unfocused, staring blankly into space ahead of him. As it turns out, a stone-slab fists sound kind of like spanking a meaty side of beef when it impacts human face. Jim might swear someday far in the future that he could actually feel his skull shoved back in inside its flesh casing a fraction of a second /before/ the skin opts to join it, not just snapping his head to the side but right on through with the motion until the /ground/ stops him. About which time, he's getting hosed down. Thx. Mind-wise there's mostly just - red haze. Which is great because that's what's on the /outside/ of his head too, making a 'kuh!' sound through bloody teeth under the water. Daphne doesn't get up from where she's thumped down in the wet ground, fingers pressing into the grass behind her, now, and her eyes narrowed on Violet; in her mind there's a blank non-comprehension battling her anger, brows pulling in together. She starts to lift a hand, dropping it to the ground again with a sharp: "/What/?" Craig looks like he's about to follow Jim to the ground to just /keep/ beating when that hose is turned on him. It serves, at least, the purpose of jerking his attention away from Jim -- and /onto/ Micah, instead. His rocky hand lifts to block the stream of water, but his other hand is already curling into a fist as he takes a lunging-closer step to Micah. The shrill whistle-blowing draws /many/ pairs of eyes, peering out windows, off balconies -- though for the most part, the /labrats/ look some kind of mix between wary and frozen-in-fear and maybe a little /excited/ (ooh fight?) though none of them seem particularly keen on getting /involved/. It does draw one actual Commoner sprinting out of the Common House -- though Daiki hardly looks intimidating, tall but beanpole-skinny, in prim neatly-tailored linen trousers and short sleeved knee-length tunic, pushing black-rimmed glasses up on his nose as he approaches, there's not much about him to seem like stepping in the middle of fights would end /well/ for him. Except, perhaps, the very /fiercely strong/ tug of warmth, friendliness, /respect/, perhaps not for each other but certainly for /him/, that he carries with him -- it has a way of redirecting attention even through red hazes and high emotions, and though his voice is soft, when he speaks it comes with a kind of powerful urge to listen to him. "Stop. /All/ of you." If it were a cartoon there'd probably be screeching of breaks as Craig stops to drop his hand to his side. He even looks a little /chagrined/ as he ducks his head, turning his gaze away from Micah. The water is bad enough. The smell is every bit as terrible as Violet had known it would be, soaking into those rarely washed clothes, the fur beneath--and the shock of it, the cold! Her yowl is high and not in the least feigned as she tries to smack the stream away with her good hand before it moves on to someone else. The whistle is /worse/ though. /That/ leaves her pawing at one ear and then the other, the fight going out of her and leaving a sodden lump of tortie on the grass. It's all very anticlimactic by the time Daiki arrives, she is in no fit state to kick up a fuss. Instead very wide almost /grateful/ eyes turn towards the young man she has only a passing acquaintance with. Big watery kitty eyes. Sosad. Sonotmurderous. "...sstopped." "Oh, thank /goodness/," Micah sighs out, whistle and keys returning to his pocket and hose turned off. So /very/ stopped. He would have been grateful to see Dai /without/ the influence of his ability switched on high. His feet carry him several steps toward the boy before a realisation tickles in through the back of his mind. "Flicker. Hive." Hazel eyes manage to tug away from Dai just long enough to glance at the pair on the porch, then back to the teen as if seeking /permission/ to do something about it. Hive still isn't responding. A small twitch again at the spray of cold water, and then just blank staring. His /mind/ is more responsive than his body, though, shivering out greedy-hungry mental fingers towards Daiki's to curl down into the teen with a touch that's barely even felt, stretched-out as his network currently is. Just a faint flutter of mind to mind and then a small /rush/ of background noise as the rest of the Borgnet trickles into the back of Daiki's consciousness. Flicker leans back against the porch railing, breathing deep and forcibly calm. He can't really get much more stopped, kind of useless as he's been from the beginning, so just tips his eyes up to the boy gratefully. "We," he also makes this sound almost like a request, "-- should go." On the ground is pretty effectively stopped already, so Jim's job has been done /for/ him! Blood trickling loose from his noose and mouth, Jim breathes slowly into the grass, faded eyes open and staring lividly into the green blades. Through the red, his fury isn't reckless; it's self-aware, it's hard, and it's -- well, prone as any, to Daiki's influence. And the fist he'd pressed against the ground to rise ceases, instead hovering over his face like in the spirit of morbid curiosity, he kinda wants to touch it, but also kinda DOESN'T. "You should help us -- /them/ home," Daiki agrees with Micah; the fierce intensity of his ability is slackening down to just its usual gentle-warm tug, now that it looks like no more violence is /imminently/ forthcoming. "And you should get your face taken care of --" His eyes are slanting to Jim with a small wrinkle of concern furrowing his brows. His hand rubs against his face, eyes sweeping between Craig and Daphne and Violet. "Is everyone alright? Daphne, why don't we get you moved into Joshua's house instead. At least for tonight." Daphne's shoulders just sink, her glare softened to just an unhappy stare up at Daiki. "Was too noisy in that place anyway." It takes her a moment to push to her feet, shoulders tensed and a brief -- almost (/almost/) apologetic glance tossed to Violet before she looks /quickly/ away. Craig shifts off the walkway back into the grass; his arms shift, too, as his feet move from the stone, starting to turn a muddy brown before they fade back into just flesh. "Sorry," he mutters into the grass. The slackening effect from Daiki leaves Violet a little more aware of peripherals. Jim bleeding over there. Hive and Flicker on the porch. The itch and crawl of water working its way through pelt to skin. Her /reeking/. She scrapes a hand roughly over her face--creating a sort of spiky mohawk effect along the bridge of her nose, ha--and rises tensely. /Not/ happy. "Just wanted t'bring some...some /damn bread/ by." Ooh a swear! Prickly and uncomfortable, the catgirl turns but it is not the haughty and sweeping effort she would pull off while dry. There's nothing dignified about a wet cat trying to stalk off. "Yes, I'll take them home. Check to make sure Flicker didn't injure anythin'. Put Hive in bed with /all/ the pain meds." Micah nods, quite pleased to follow Dai's instructions. "Can you get someone to take care of Jim?" He looks down at the sodden bunch on the ground. "Violet, honey, y'can use our shower. An' there's plenty of spare clothes in the common house so's y'can get somethin' dry on. 'pologies 'bout the hittin'. An' the hosin'. S'ice cream in the freezers if people need t'just...cool down. Later." His cheeks redden rapidly, colour climbing up into his neck and ears like a cartoon thermometer on a hot day, as he retreats to assess Flicker and Hive for any medical needs before helping them home. Hive is harder to assist than Flicker; he doesn't actually move, doesn't shift his gaze, doesn't respond at all to attempts to get him home. At least not until some serious mental nudging from Flicker; even then it's only slow, a little uncoordinated like he can't quite remember which legs are /his/ to move. Flicker at least seems fine, aside from a residual throb of pain. His eyes rake over the group briefly, then look away. /Slow/ walking he can handle on his own, anyway; he rests a hand at Hive's elbow, letting Micah handle actual physical /support/ as he just helps keep the telepath's mind on track to steer him home. "Yeah? /Thanks/," Jim snarks reflexively for Daiki's advice, and with the swell of guilt that comes with it also comes the treacherous inward distrust whether it's his own remorse or a byproduct of the boy's mutation. And then swells guilt for /that/ unworthy thought as well. Which - yeah, he'll probably question /that/ too. With all parties walking away, he's slower in pushing himself to his feet, hovering a hand by the side of his face in a kind of dapper 'GOSH!' position, still not quiiiite up for tactile-exploration of what granite does to a skull just yet. Give him time. He remains watching Hive and Flicker's backs as they take their leave. Swallows thick. Aaand then -- well, probably heads home. To put some fucking ice on his face while he waits for whoever it is that ends up coming to assist. Daiki doesn't answer Jim's snark. Doesn't answer much of anything just at the moment; instead he gives Micah a small acknowledging bow and turns to lead Daphne back off towards Joshua's place. Probably also to wake /up/ the paramedic and send him over to Jim's. Craig just sinks down right where he is, dropping to sit on his heels in the muddy grass, face buried in hands that are starting to turn faintly green. | |
