ArchivedLogs:Headaches

Headaches
Dramatis Personae Daniel Ketch, Hive, Trib
In Absentia	2014-10-28 '
Location <NYC> Clinton
Despite its rough and tumble reputation of old, Clinton has come far from the illegal gambling and shakedowns of Prohibition, and the gang warfare of West Side Story. Clinton has now become the industrial supply center for midtown Manhattan, with hospitals and the light industrial and commercial businesses required to support so many thousands of people. The neighborhood has become quite expensive, but many actors still cram together in small apartments due to its proximity to Broadway. It's pretty gorgeous today, really, warm and sunny and feeling more like a brief interlude of summer than like the middle of fall. Late in the afternoon the shadows stretch long between the tall buildings around here -- though the one Hive is emerging from right now is far more unassuming, a small grubby squat place that proclaims itself the Common Ground Clinic in a plain placard by the door. Despite the warmth he looks kind of bundled up, a deep red fleecy cap embroidered in gold with the Greek letters Theta Tau, a bright orange-and-white track jacket with the Aperture Science logo, heavy workboots, heavy jeans, a blue-and-grey striped Ravenclaw scarf wound around his neck, black handwarmers peeking out from beneath the jacket sleeves. He doesn't entirely look steady on his feet as he emerges onto the street, kind of slouchy, kind of wobbly. He stops by a bus shelter, leaning up against its side with a deeper slump of shoulders and glancing one way up the street and then the other. Perhaps it is no bus in evidence that prompts him to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his jeans pockets -- though he is rather unsuccessful at /lighting/ the one he slips between his lips, his fingers shaky-unsteady and not succeeding at actually flicking his lighter. Daniel is seated upon a 2015 Harley v-rod muscle outside of the clinic, cigarette between his lips. He's dressed a bit less warmly, a black wife beater and slim-fitting jeans. His gaze moves over to Hive as he exits, pushing to his feet when the cigarettes are produced, it only takes a moment for him to fish the lighter from his pocket and offer the flame to the other male. "No offense, but it looked like you could use a hand." his words aren't harsh, just quiet in a thoughtful sort of way. Hive glances up with a faint widening of his slanted almond eyes, a brief tension in his form that almost immediately relaxes at the offering of the flame. He leans in, one hand pressing to the bus shelter as though steadying himself when he lights his smoke. "Thanks." His voice is gruff, low and scratchy and flavored with an accent that, while definitively Not From New York, is too bastardized to really pinpoint /where/ it's from. "Nice ride." "Thanks." Daniel replies easily, tucking the lighter away and plucking the cigarette from his lips. It's obvious (from his accent at least) that he's a local. "Won it while I was down in Tennessee. Which is the only good thing I got from Tennessee." This draws a smile from Hive, brief and thin in a small flash of teeth. It's accompanied, though, by a faint return of the tightening, crow's feet stretching at the corners of his eyes and lines beside his pressed-together lips; the wrinkles seem out of place in his otherwise boyish-young face. "Was in Tennessee this spring," he muses, thunking his head back against the plastic of the bus shelter. "Was pretty shitty. Good barbecue, though. Liked that part. -- Won it. That's a pretty sweet haul." Daniel nods a few times, taking one last hit from his smoke before crushing it under the heel of his boot. "Yeah, probably the best luck I've had ever." the first few words are accompanied by smoke. "Not real friendly to mutants down there though. Not where I was at least.. Make sure you don't feel at home. If they know, anyway." The tightening in Hive's face increases. His eyes shift away from Daniel, turning up to the sky but then closing. He pushes his breath out in a sharp snort, turning his head away to exhale a stream of smoke. "S'pose you'd best not let anyone know, then, huh. Seems like the wiser course of action no matter where you are. I haven't heard of a place on earth that'd /welcome/ freaks in." "No point in it. You can't be ashamed of who you are. Figure it'd be a better place if we helped people learn to control what they can do instead of putting people down." Daniel says with a light roll of his wrist, attention turning towards the skyline. "I bet my sister would kill me if she knew I smoked like I do." he says after a moment, clearly not talking to anybody in particular. "Some people," Hive declares rather forcefully, "sure as fuck should be ashamed of who they are." In answer to the smoking he simply takes a looooonger drag of his cigarette. "Mmm, cancer." There's a drrrrry note in this. Daniel just nods once. "I won't argue with you there." His attention drifts back over to Hive. "Names Daniel, by the way. Sorry if I struck a nerve. Ramble sometimes." "You start spouting off about freaks to some random stranger in New York," Hive replies, dry again, "you're probably gonna hit a /lot/ of people's nerves. Not exactly a popular crowd. 'specially not these days." His hand is shaking again badly when he lowers it to ash his cigarette. "Hive." This is delivered in a bland tone that -- leaves it kind of ambiguous, it's not like it /sounds/ like a normal /name/. "Fair enough." Daniel's tone is fairly neutral. "Hopeful that sentiment changes though, at least for the ones that don't try to play the part of the super powered villain." There's a slight roll of his shoulders before he heads back over to check through the bags at the side of his bike, which is mostly clothes and what look to be chains. "Mutant raised the dead and slaughtered a tenth of this city." Hive lifts the cigarette back to his lips, though it takes a bit for him to actualy get it back /into/ his mouth, with how unsteady his hand is. "Gonna take a fuckton to get sentiment changed." His eyes have narrowed, slanting over towards Daniel's bike with open curiosity when the man rifles through them. He returns to just slumping against the bus shelter after this, though, tipping his gaze back up towards the sky. "And humans partake in genocide and acts of war on a daily basis. Because one mutant does something awful doesn't mean we all have to get colored the same as them." Daniel's argument is weak, and he ends up closing the bag and taking a seat on his bike, palm finding his forehead. "Uh... huh." Hive sounds eminently unconvinced, mouth pressed together in apparent distaste. "Good luck convincing everyone." His next attempt to ash his cigarette makes the thing drop to the ground, half-spent when it falls from his trembling hand to roll under the wall of the bus shelter and stop beneath the bench. "Mother/fucker/," he grouses. "-- s'human nature, anyway. Crapton of freaks out there hating all humans, too. Just how the world goes." The figure that comes around the corner is a familiar one, in this neighborhood. Trib would be hard to miss in any neighborhood, honestly. The big man seems a bit distracted in thought (boxing, for those looking in, and a match forthcoming) as he moves along the sidewalk. Dressed in jeans and a green flannel shirt open over a black tee, the boxer has a gym bag clasped in his half-hand, and a grocery bag dangling in his left. He doesn't seem to notice the duo by the bus stop at first, passing by with just a flick of his golden gaze in their direction. Then he stops, considering a moment before he comes back, and narrows his eyes at Daniel. "You look familiar." "Not saying they don't. Hate works both ways." Daniel turns just in time to see the cigarette roll away from Hive. "You smoke Marlboro reds?" he ass lightly, attention moving over to Trib as he speaks. "Don't remember running into you before. I have a bad memory, or just have one of those faces?" "Yeah, sure, I --" Hive's answer gets cut off as Trib turns back towards them. He hadn't paid the man much attention passing by -- perhaps /because/ he's not listening in, to Trib's mind or anyone elses. When Trib stops and reutrns, though, this time the disgust in his face is /glaringly/ evident. "Jesus fucking /Christ/ just what my day needed," he mutters, straightening -- or trying to straighten. He doesn't actually get anywhere, slumping heavily back against the bus station without managing to shift himself. One hand moves to his temple, rubbing it as though abruptly very headachey. "Maybe." Trib doesn't exactly sound like he believes that, but the roll of his shoulders speaks of his acceptance of that fact. Hive's reaction earns him a closer look, and then the big man's expression goes flat. "Motherfucker," he rumbles, his eyes narrowing sharply, When the smaller man slumps, there's a twitch of his features, and a deep inhalation through his nose. His teeth grind audibly for a moment before he exhales in a rush, growling his next words. "You ain't about to fuckin' die or some shit, are you?" "Unless I met you before I left Cypress Hills a few years ago, or bumped into you outside of New York.. Afraid I can't remember." Daniel's words are quieter once more, and he brings one hand up to rub at his temple like he has a headache, other rummaging in his pocket before he produces and offers a pack of cigarettes (with two left) to Hive. "I can get some more next time I run to the store. Won't hurt me any to miss a smoke break later." Hive's expression is still tense, his eyes shifting to Trib and then away. "Suppose that depends on your definition of /about/ to," he answers, his voice gone gruffer than usual and his posture still very visibly uncomfortable. "Got another month or so at least." He looks up again at the offer of cigarettes, taking it gratefully. "Fuck, man, you're a goddamn angel. Kinda -- unconventional chariot and robes, admittedly." He's eying the leather jacket and motorcycle, here. Trib nods, once. "Long as you can make it back to your place before you do," he says, and shifts his weight to look at Daniel again, shaking his head. "I must have got you confused with someone else," he grunts, the grocery bag rustling as he spreads his fingers in an apologetic sort of gesture. "My mistake." He jerks a thumb in Hive's direction without looking. "If he's really cashing in his ticket, you ought to get him some high-dollar cigars. Might as well go out in style." "Call me Raquel." Daniel replies a bit drly. "Names Daniel." he says aside to Trib. "Got confused for the mutant that took over the Church in Harlem before. That might be who you're thinking of? Though I don't think we look similar enough for that to be it." he moves back over to his bike where he takes a seat, forehead finding his palms. "Head's fuckin' killing me." "Pretty much planning on nicotine being my palliative care," Hive acknowledges thinly. He's already lighting up another cigarette, though it takes him quite a /bit/ to work it out of the pack and then get it lit. Daniel's last statement draws a ragged /huff/ of laughter out of him. "... funny that. So's mine." He pats at his jacket, eventually retrieving a small prescription bottle from somewhere inside it. The name on the label is not 'Hive' but the much longer and less-pronouncable-to-Americans 'Jetsadayut Suphamongkhon' -- which maaay explain why he uses Hive for introductions. 'Hydromorphone' and 'Dilaudid' below it is much more pronouncable than Hive's name. "If you need a salve -- though maybe not the best thing for biking," he admits with a crooked hook of a grin. "Guess there are worse things, if you're already on the exit list," Trib says rolling his shoulder. His mouth pulls downward at Daniel's explanation, and nods. "Maybe that's it," he agrees, and begins to move off again. "Nice meetin' you, Raquel. Don't die on my block," he says helpfully as he goes, lifting a hand in semi-farewell. "Fucks up traffic, and makes the...whatayacallit. Yuppies. Nervous." Daniel doesn't actually respond, he simply makes a grunting noise. Theres a subtle motion to his skin at that point, then it's obvious his skin is starting to bubble. It's a very short period of time, seconds maybe, before the bubbles give way to flames that soon engulf his form. When the fire dies down (another couple of seconds), Daniel's skin is gone, leaving him a flaming skeleton. The Rider reaches behind himself to retrieve the jacket on the seat which he promptly tugs on, before his empty eyes take in Hive and Trib. Finding nothing that interests him here he starts up the bike and quickly heads off (probably back Cypress Hills). Hive mostly ignores Trib's exit, save for a faint relaxation in his shoulders as the man heads off. The relaxation vanishes with Daniel's -- whatever the fuck just happened; it makes him startle backwards quick enough that (given his general level of unsteadiness) he stumbles right /over/ and falls to the sidewalk. Splutter-coughing on his lungful of smoke, eyes watering. The /second/ cigarette (only one puff in, too!) has met its demise, crushed beneath Hive's palm when his hand hits the sidewalk. Hive /stares/ down the street, eyes locked on the bike long enough that he totally misses when his bus pulls up (and then continues on.) When he finally drags himself back up to reluctantly get to his unsteady legs and hail a cab he's still kind of splutter-coughing his muttered words. "... this fucking city."