ArchivedLogs:Percolating

Percolating
Dramatis Personae Hive, Isra	Christmas Morning Set after waking up from raiding.
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 the the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; 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. Whatever chaos is plaguing the dreaming minds of the Commons, the ground floor of Geekhaus is, at the moment, externally a tranquil one. Dark, still, quiet. The only light comes from the windows -- where the /ridiculously/ excessive holiday display outside casts dazzling rainbow glow in to illuminate the otherwise darkened kitchen, twinkling across glass and steel. The smell of coffee is starting to fill the room. Hive sits, in black pajama pants and Grumpy Bear sweatshirt, on a stool at the counter, two empty mugs at his elbow. His bony chin is propped on folded forearms on the countertop, half-lidded eyes fixed on the drip coffeemaker in front of him as it brews. The growling and thrashing from Dusk's room subsides at last, and a few minutes later Isra emerges with an ancient green shayla wrapped around her waist like a sarong and a plush gray blanket thrown over her shoulders between hunched wings. Her skin is dark blue with lavender markings and silver highlights--Tag's handiwork--but beneath the brilliant colors she looks somewhat pale and drawn. Cat-green eyes almost swallowed by black pupils search the living room as though she expects to find enemies behind every piece of furniture, but she stalks at last to the kitchen, converging on both coffeemaker and Hive. One wing stretches out to him, trembling; the silver feathers painted upon it shimmer in the gay holiday lights. Hive does not move, nor look up from the percolating coffeemaker at Isra's stalking arrival. His teeth creak in a slow grind. The wing that stretches to him finds his shoulder tensed up hard. Where his fingers rest against his forearms they curl inwards, squeezing down in hard clench. The drip of the coffeemaker tapers off. The creaking off his teeth does not. When he pushes himself upright he looks away only briefly -- eyes flicking to Isra's arms, one-two, then back to the coffeemaker. He reaches to pour the cups full, steadying the pot with one hand while the other tips -- only a small trickle spills onto the counter. One of the cups he slides to Isra in silence. The other he curls into the fold of his arms as he returns to his position slumped against the counter, eyes fixed steadily forward. Isra accepts the cup and leans on the counter hard, though she does not sit. Her wings do not cease quivering, nor her tail its lashing. One long-fingered hand wrapping around the coffee cup, heedless of the heat, the other stays tucked against her chest, beneath the blanket. The rage she suppresses handily, with long practice, but grief floods her despite the quiet inwardly mantra that the dream was a dream and not only has not, but /need/ not come to pass. She closes her eyes and hunches over the coffee. Some of the tension bleeds from both body and mind--the tail, at least, sways a little slower, and her wing settles a little more heavily on Hive's frail shoulders. But, tucked away and muted, the fury remains.