ArchivedLogs:Honeycomb

Honeycomb
Dramatis Personae Emma, Hive	2013-10-05 '
Location <NYC> Emma's Apartment - East Village
Hive receives an invitation to come by at a particular time, at which the security desk claims to be expecting him, showing him in to the building through wrought iron reinforced windowed doors. The elevator takes him up to the appropriate floor, where only only three doors wait for him to choose from. The one furthest from the elevator is Emma's. Inside, waiting casually, Emma is padding through her kitchen, wearing a basic cotton dress in white, hugging her form with more stretch than tailoring, something suitable for a rare day off. Her hair is pulled up in a pony tail and she's opting to wear her black rimmed glasses as opposed to the contacts which show off her blue eyes. She's reading her tablet as she absentmindedly pour coffee into a mug, adding plenty of milk from the refrigerator to whiten it, and sugar to sweeten it to her tastes. She is listening for her guests arrival - and eavesdropping on a conversation behing held downstairs. Some young couple is discussing settling down and getting married. The young woman involved is worried that her partner's conservative parents will ruin the nuptials themselves, and the way they raised him will rear its ugly head once they're wed. The young man - he's mostly worried about what this will cost and how his work will go, what with the hell the mutants have brought to the city. Hive's mind is audible before he knocks on the door -- just him, for perhaps the first time in Emma's acquaintance, no cacophony of other-voices blending in behind. Only his kind of cranky-acerbic mental grumble, managing to sound irritable over the idea of -- furniture-shopping. He's composing a mental checklist that he has already resigned himself to entirely ignoring once he gets to Ikea. Knock knock knock. Three sharp raps that /also/ manage to sound irritable, for no reason at all save for it apparently being his default state. Hive withdraws kind of /prickly/-ish from the voices of the couple below. Annoyed by them, too. His hands shove into his pockets, shoulders in a habitual slouch. He wears a his favorite brown blue-painted hedgehog t-shirt, faded tattered jeans, sneakers held together by duct tape, a shabby denim jacket over top. Emma makes her way to the door quickly, leaving the tablet on the half wall that separates the kitchen from the dining room. She pulls the door open and gives him a slow smile, leaning her forehead against the edge as she looks him over. "Whoever cut off all your heads, Hydra, left you pretty sore. Must have been the burning off process." She pulls the door the rest of the way open and gestures him inside, all the while noting where he can leave his shoes with a quiet thought. "It's been a while since we last spoke. I hope all that business was wrapped up nicely? You didn't seem to need my help again, at least." She closes and locks the door behind him. "Are you hungry?" "I cut them off myself. They grow back." << When they need to. >> It's just as irritable a thought. Hive steps inside, stepping out of his shoes with a reflexive habit that makes him think of Jax's house. "Business --" His mind flicks through options, the Hellfire's newly finished ballroom, the soldiers whose minds he let go, Tag skinny and washed-out with blindfold over his eyes, Melinda -- He frowns, settling on this one. "Thank you. For helping. It's been taken care of." He shakes his head at the hungry question, though some part of him /is/; the gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach doesn't even seem to register on his conscious senses, an odd dissociated feeling that he doesn't really notice. "Caffeine'd be good in some form." He's thinking shot straight into his veins, though coffee might be a nice second. "Oh, my poor Hydra." Emma reaches up to caress his cheek with one hand before turning away and heading toward the kitchen. "Coffee I can handle quite well. I already have some made. Would you prefer milk and sugar?" She moves to get a mug out of the cupboard and sets it down on the counter, fetching the carafe of coffee next. << Darling, you are still so raw. Are you sure there is nothing else I can do to help? >> Once there is hot steaming goodness in the cup, she puts the carafe down and moves back to her tablet, turning off what she was reading. "No, black's good." Hive follows Emma towards coffee, picking up the cup once it is full. "Thanks." He leans against the counter, curling his hands around the hot mug. << Raw -- I don't know. Just tired. People are -- >> Stupid. Hateful. Obnoxious. Bigoted. More trouble than they are worth. "Loud," he says out loud. "How've you been?" Emma puts the tablet down and leans against the counter, looking him over. "I've been well enough. Decorating, finalizing payments, wining, and dining - the usual." << To be honest, the opportunity to actually do something different something with my mind was a welcome change. >> She takes a sip from her mug and considers quietly, << I've really been looking forward to the notion of training you and have already taken some steps toward a lesson plan - but I wanted to see if you were still interested or if it was just a spur of the moment feeling. >> << Does feel nice once in a while to stretch your legs, doesn't it? >> Metaphorical legs. Hive doesn't project his thoughts to Emma so much as just think them deliberately and trust her to pick up on it. "Will it make things quieter?" He sips at his coffee slowly, eyes closing. << I definitely like the idea of doing something different too, though. Be a welcome change. >> "You want it quieter?" Emma turns and makes her way into the living room where two chaise chairs rest, facing each other with a coffee table in between. She settles herself down on a cushion, with the window behind her. To her left, there is a large flat screened television, but it is off for now and doesn't look to get much use. She pulls her feet up to one side as she leans against the cushions in the corner, watching Hive quietly, grasping his thoughts, her shields low. << Now you're going to have to be more specific on what you mean by 'something different' for you. Tired of architecture or tired of helping people in need? >> "Architecture I love." Though there's a wry note to this thought, an irritable crankiness tied in to a bright new office space in SoHo, a company as yet unnamed. << Tired of hearing every fucking person who comes near. Tired of holding on to every goddamn person's secrets and remembering what to tell and not. Tired of losing my fucking mind every time my team needs my help. >> Hive doesn't move from his lean against the counter, sipping still at his coffee. << Then, our first goal shall be to make things quieter for you. >> Emma stays where she is, amused. The apartment isn't that big, so conversation is not difficult, verbal or otherwise. << It is the first part of control, after all, the ability to stop what you are able to do. It takes - a lot at first, but once you figure out how to do it, it becomes easier. >> "So, tell me about this office space? Sounds like an exciting venture. I'm so glad we were able to give you some work to get you more entrenched in the city." "I don't have a name for the company yet," Hive says with a shrug. "It's just an empty office right now. Already have a next client, though, now that the Mendel Clinic's done. I have like. Four different magazine interviews coming up, though," he admits with mild exasperation, "what with the clinic opening soon." Somewhere beneath this exasperation there is a sense of pride for /his/ rather distinctive contribution to New York's skyline. << Spent so long focused on power. Kinda sacrificed control for it. >> << Power's fine and all when you're backed up in a corner, but it seems like, right now, you have a little bit of time where you are actually still and quiet yourself. >> "Company names are difficult. I have named a few myself and always come away thinking it was either trite or bland." Emma rests one arm across the arm of the chaise, leaning forward to place her mug on a coaster. "Using your own name puts you forward as a figure head, which is good, but makes your personal life hell to keep out of the papers, should anyone go after you." << Which they seem to do. >> "But most other names seem gimmicky. Did you have any childhood pets?" As she talks about other things, her mind brushes up against Hive's, feeling for the shape of it. << Did you want to start now? >> "My name's not really the sort I can put on letterhead." Hive's lips twitch as he imagines this. Hive Architecture. Maybe a honeycomb logo. "-- Or maybe it's the perfect sort make a name for a company." << Though people do tend to come after me kind of a lot. >> His mind is a honeycomb in itself, intricately webbed but hollowed out in so many places from the minds continually joined to and then torn away from his. "I had --" This time he shoves down the memories that surface, rather deliberately; the salt-smell of sea, siblings laughing, brilliantly coloured blue and gold parrots squawkily echoing words in Thai. He pushes all of these thoughts away, shaking his head. "Birds. Yeah. Let's start." "What were the names of your birds?" Emma queries, her expression a pleasant smile. That pleasantness starts to fade away with the look of intensity in her eyes, not focused as much on Hive and his physical form, but more on her coffee cup and the less tangible parts of her mind. << You have to start resisting. Push me out entirely. Focus on hardening your mind to expel my presence. Think of your mind becoming a whole, solid shell. >> Her mind probes those honey combed recesses, pushing after those memories of the birds and his first home. "I'm not naming the company after the birds." Though the names surface anyway, two words somewhat unintelligibly in Thai. Hive initially pulls away, rather than resisting, spiky uncomfortable bristles of mental /prickle/ sprouting. << My mind is full of fucking holes. >> This time he /does/ project this, a painful /snap/ of voice whipping into Emma's mind. << So is chain mail, Hive. >> Emma's tone hardens as well, more forceful. If she felt the sting of Hive's words, it is not apparent. << If your mind is full of holes, you make layers and layers of your mind's surface, and you shift those layers until nothing can get through. >> "No one in the U.S. will care that they were once the name of your birds - one or both would be interesting on stationary." Her attention remains constant, that pressing seeking out more intimate details from his childhood pets, something she does let on that she hopes he won't mind her pillaging. "/I'll/ care." << And they're still the names of my -- >> Hive's mental spikes /grow/ sharper, his mind withdrawing even more sharply before he goes down this road. << Fuck off. >> Something does harden, if briefly, fueled more by /anger/ than any determined control though it does put a brief hard layer of covering beneath those hedgehog-prickles. "I'm not here to talk about my childhood." He takes a quick gulp of his coffee, focusing instead on its heat and the bitterness rolling over his tongue. << Tut tut, dearest. Cage your anger. I'm here as a friend. You can fight me emotionally, but you'd do much better calm and focused. >> Emma's presence is hard and impenetrable against Hive's, pressing against his spikes as if daring them to /try/ to scratch her shields. "Fine, fine, no more about your childhood. I just wanted o see if there was anything that meant something to you years ago that could also mean something to you today. Instead, let's talk, architecture." There's a tightness in her words now, a firm set to her teeth any time she doesn't need to open her jaw to speak. << We can stop if you need a break. Should we have come up with a safe word first? >> << Anger's kind of my default state, >> Hive admits wryly; there's a sudden /sharpening/, to the spikes in his mind, less hedgehog now and more jagged metal /claws/. It's reflexive, a contrariness at the daring that pushes upward with a sudden /surge/ of power behind it that very much implies not scratching shield so much as /smashing/ through them, but he pulls back almost immediately, scowling down at his coffee. << Control. Right. Not power. >> "Anything that meant something to me years ago," he answers instead, quieter though clipped, "is not something I'd be plastering on the public face of my business. The last thing I need is giving anyone reason to poke around my --" He draws in a slow breath. "Architecture. Right." He focuses on this, for a moment, the slow process of planning a building, building it elegant, building it /strong/ like a lightning-rod like the Clinic inevitably will need to be. Slowly the structure of his mind strengthens, hardens, building up outer layers over its gutted insides. << {Honeycomb}, >> he muses, the word rising in Thai but calling to mind the golden hexagonal latticework of cells composing the inside of hives. << There's a name. >> Emma winces physically, her expression growing quite cross, but whatever damage Hive attempts upon her shields, she rebuffs, pushing harder in, the layer beneath harder than the first. The first layer, however does retain some damages, thin grooves where those hooks tried to push through. She controls herself, for now, and does not lash back. Her posture on the couch is stiff, her fingers tense and her chin low, her gaze locked onto the other telepath. As Hive pulls back his attack, a knot unbinds between her shoulders and she exhales. Her gaze remains unfaltering, as does the pressure on his mind, now observing as he starts the process of building. << Yes, yes. Like that. Stick with what you know, visualize it, build upon it. The hole ridden mesh of your mind will hold the whole of you together if /you/ use it like a foot hold first. Dig in and build upon it. >> All the while he strengthens, the quieter her intrusion sounds. He can still feel her pressure against him, but less of what she's projecting at him gets through. Hive presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, struggling hard not to reflexively bristle up again with that harder pushing. Instead he continues building, slow but steady, latticework layers of sketelon filled in by harder solid walls. His fingers clench tightly around his coffee mug, hands trembling slightly with the effort. << I might need some of that food after all. >> It's a wry acknowledgment. He probably has a lot of exhausting work to go. Emma draws in a deep breath, lowers her head and closes her eyes, the pressure releasing from Hive immediately. << Of course >> is the wisp of a thought, but given Hive's shielding, she repeats it out loud. "Of course." << Rest is good too. Even buildings take time to erect. >> She moves slowly out of her seat, taking up her mug to drink down her now cold coffee. She smiles as she walks into the kitchen, resting a hand on Hive's arm as she passes. "Would it be absolutely terrible of me to admit that I am really craving some Thai now?"