ArchivedLogs:Plenty Of Mess

Plenty Of Mess
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive, Trib, Flicker	9 September 2014 Post-search Commons is a mess. Its people...perhaps not faring much better.
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. Micah's rather distinctive TARDIS van is parked in its usual spot, curbside near to his house at the Commons. Less usual is the plastic covering the broken out driver's side window and the tarp held down by cinder blocks over a lumpy pile of hidden objects behind the back doors. At the very least, it hasn't been raining /much/ today, spitting on and off and never making it to real umbrella weather, the cloud cover and high winds bringing just a teasing taste of autumn crispness to the air. More than the state of the van attests to the fact that Micah didn't make it in to work today, though it is still early afternoon. His clothes are more typical of a weekend or late evening: sneakers, patchy bluejeans, Doctor Hooves Nouveau T-shirt, olive newsboy cap crammed on over messy and slightly sweat-damp auburn hair. During one of the dryer patches, he pops out from the back of the van once more to weasel his way into the pile of items under the tarp, sorting out more things that need to be returned to order in the van. Placing a number of things into a large Tupperware container awaiting repairs. Tossing an unfortunate quantity into a large trash bag as he takes notes on a tablet of items that need replacing wholesale. It's an unfamiliar car that pulls up behind Micah's van at the Commons -- not having one of his own, Flicker tends to use a succession of zipcars when wheels are necessary. Necessary like today, with Hive starting radiotherapy and in need of transport To and From hospital -- at the moment it's /from/; he looks a little tired but otherwise no worse for wear after his morning appointment. Not that 'no worse for wear' means /much/ these days; it's still pretty bad, with the (ex?) telepath leaning heavily on his roommate's arm as he drags his bony form out of the little Smartcar. "Jesus," he grumbles, narrowed eyes flicking over Micah's van. "They're really not very considerate, are they." Flicker winces, biting down on his lip. "Is there anything I can help with?" Hive does -- not offer to help. Trib doesn't know about the Commons. His presence in this neighborhood is likely completely happenstance. Nevertheless, here he is, dressed in jeans and a ribbed white tank that stretches against the muscles of his chest. His long hair is shoved behind his ears, held in place with a green fedora that is his only concession to the weather. His face is still battered-looking, only the butterfly bandage absent from above his eyebrow and the fading shiner below. The big man stalks up the street, wrinkling his nose as he checks his phone against the actual physical address he has. "Fuck," he growls as he realizes that he is, in fact, on the wrong street and jaywalks across the street in the direction of Micah and his van. It takes a moment, once he's across, for him to recognize the redhead and his vehicle (or maybe just to notice them -- it happens simultaneously, really), and he pauses, raking his hawk-like gaze over the shattered window and the subsequent piles of things. Which may or may not include Hive, who gets a cursory and distracted look. "The fuck happen to your ride?" he rumbles, forgetting in his sudden concern that he and Micah aren't necessarily on Speaking Terms. "Those fuckin' cops do that?" Micah pauses in his efforts as the car pulls up, at first a little on edge then...just shoulder-saggy once he can see it is Flicker and Hive. "Hey. Everythin' go okay with the appointment?" His head shakes at Flicker's comment, jaw setting. "No, apparently I was gonna hide fugitives from the law in drawers an' cabinets stuffed with equipment. They tossed everythin' that weren't bolted down out on the street. An' apparently the best way cops got of gettin' into a locked vehicle is t'bust out windows." He drags the tarp back down over the pile, sliding a cinderblock back over it, just needing a moment /not/ to be in the middle of it. "S'about an utter disaster for everythin' that was in progress or awaitin' delivery. Pretty sure my ridiculous insurance's gonna cover the financial losses, but this is seriously delayin' care for a lotta folks." Tugging off his hat, he rakes his fingers through his hair before stuffing it on his head again. "I mean, I /think/ it should be covered unless there's some kinda loophole for Act of Cop." The new voice and presence renew the tension in Micah's shoulders, a slight flinch in his posture. "Sort of," he answers Trib's question after a few beats. "Not what y'think. Didn't have nothin' t'do with me gettin' arrested. Dif'rent cops, though. I'm just keepin' local law enforcement real busy these days." His teeth meet with his lower lip when Flicker offers help. "I don't...everybody's kinda got a mess of their own in there t'deal with." The tilt of his chin toward the Commons seems to indicate it in its entirety. With New York foot traffic being what it is, Trib doesn't earn much of a glance from Flicker until he addresses Micah; after this it's a pleasant smile, a small lift of chin in greeting. It's in sharp contrast to Hive's slowly growing tension as he studies the bigger man, jaw setting and then creaking in a slow grind as he sags back against the rented car. "What the fuck." His tone is just flat. "Jesus, this must be our lucky /week/." His head shakes, eyes closing as one hand lifts to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "That's fucked up, man," he finally says to Micah, looking down at the sidewalk as though not quite ready to acknowledge Trib's /existence/. "Heard they did a number on Jax's studio. Trashed half of Flicker's shit." "Including my laptop, just at the start of term," the teleporter laments. He looks faintly puzzled at Hive's growing tension, his arm curling a little bit more snug around the other man's waist. "You alright?" he murmurs, before, in normal speaking voice again to Trib: "I don't think we've met, are you a friend of --" But this trails off as he studies Trib a little bit longer, with a faintly puzzled crease of brow like trying to place a niggling familiarity. Trib's brow lowers a bit at Micah's explanation, and he wrinkles his nose. "That sucks." Which may be for the entirety of the damage wrought, once Hive lists it. He sniffs, and grunts unintelligibly. "Dirty fuckers." Sure. He's all bravado away from the LLE. He even squares his shoulders, narrowing his eyes as he looks down the street. "You're gonna fuckin' own the fuckin' city." He lifts his eyebrows. "If you want it." He seems a bit confused by Hive's reaction, and then things begin to click into place, even as he's answer Flicker with a distracted shake of his head. "Not exactly." Then, to Micah, with a wave of his hand at the building. "This is /your/ fuckin' house?" An uncomfortable shift of his feet accompanies an uneasy glance at the Commons. "And theirs, too?" "I think well organised sets of small an' complicated things offended their sensibilities somehow. They seemed t'have a particular relish for chuckin' 'em about. Did no favours t'Jax's art supplies, for sure." Micah winces at the news of Flicker's laptop. "Fortunately I was able t'grab m'bag with most of my computin' devices in an' stand over it while they was lookin' through it. 'Cause I'm gonna hide fugitives from the law in a messenger bag, too... Saved that, at least. Y'got a warranty on the laptop by any chance? Or some luck that it's somethin' Dusk can repair?" He leans back against his van. "This is Trib. Um, Flicker. An' Hive." Micah can't really be troubled to remember who might have /met/ at this point. Or really to explain complicated social situations. His eyes fall closed a moment. "Yeah, we all live here." Not as if it's a big secret, after all. Flicker's mouth opens into an O of understanding when the name is finally given, his face flooding with a deep blush. "Right, right. We, um. We met. At the Clinic, you came in with Billy and. Jax --" He shakes his head, cheeks still red. "Hi." Hive is more abrupt, more surly: "I know who the fuck this is. I see /all/ their goddamn nightmares." Trib doesn't look particularly /pleased/ when Micah confirms that this is, in fact, his home. There's a surge of something like guilt for having stumbled on this place, and the boxer lowers his brow. "Fuck. I didn't know." He frowns deeply at the idea of /staying/ right here, but Flicker is speaking to him again, and he rolls his shoulders. "Yeah," he confirms for Flicker. "That was me. I ain't his favorite person." Which is matter-of-fact in its delivery, but comes with a deep frown and more of that guilt. He really /should/ be going. Those kids might be around, after all. When Hive speaks, color comes up into Trib's ears, and there's a flare of respondent anger before the boxer clamps it back down and lifts his chin in tight greeting for the telepath. "Wanna see mine?" is delivered with the tiniest of edge to his voice. Maybe he didn't get it all clamped down. Micah just leans more heavily against the vehicle as everyone has their happy reunion. "All well an' good an' established we don't like each other all over again." His head shakes slightly, really not looking to deal with anything else right now. His eyes finally reopen with that edged question, flashing over at Trib. "I will /not/ be havin' anythin' that even /resembles/ a threat happenin' this close t'our home. The /cops/ just marched all over it an' turned everythin' upside down. That is /enough/ for now." "I live in New York City, dude. I've seen the inside of enough perverts' brains to last me a goddamn lifetime." Hive's prickly tension is growing, shoulders tightening and his jaw clenching hard -- though his eyes stay focused downward, his fingertips moving to rub at his temple and the unhappy edge to his tone maaaybe more over the state of his crippled telepathy than over anything to do with Trib. "No, I can't imagine you are." The red in Flicker's cheeks doesn't fade. He drops his arm slowly from around Hive, settling back to lean against the front of the car beside where his roommate is slouching. His eyes scrunch shut a little tighter. "I don't think /more/ nightmares is really what. Anyone here needs." The boxer inhales deeply, and cuts his eyes towards Micah. "Probably more correct to say /you/ don't like /me/ no more," he rumbles, his expression a bit sad. "I ain't threatenin' nobody," he adds, looking back at Hive. His gaze turns sharp again, and there's another flare of red in his ears when the telepath speaks. "I ain't no fuckin' /pervert/." He waves fingers in the direction of the Commons, his expression clearly unhappy about being labeled such by a complete stranger. That comes with a chuff of breath that's almost resigned, and he reaches up to jam his fedora down a bit tighter before dropping his hand to rub at his neck. "I wasn't /never/ a pervert, nightmares or not." His lips press together into a flat line, and he ducks his head at Flicker's input. "I ain't tryin' to give none," he affirms. "I ain't stayin'." Hive's posture and temple rub soon drag Micah from his defeated lean against the van, moving over to the other man instead. “You okay, hon? Flicker can get you inside an' layin' down, quick as y'can think it.” His tone is softer, words quieter to match as he addresses the telepath, an arm wrapped around his shoulders supportingly. “It's just funny how much of what y'say comes across that way, then,” is all he offers back to Trib. "Tired," Hive answers, gruff. "Guess cancer'll do that." His eyes drag slowly back up to Trib, more than a little skeptical. One finger taps at his temple. "/Telepath/. Can't really /lie/ about what happened when I've seen it all." He doesn't exactly sound accusatory so much as bland and a little tired. Flicker shifts uncomfortably against the hood of the car. "Okay," he says with a very small frown. "It's just. I didn't mean to interrupt your --" His head tips back towards the sky, then down to look at Micah's broken van. "Been a crazy year, huh." "What the fuck do you /want/ me to say?" Trib asks, sliding his gaze back to Micah. "'Gee, Micah, it's sure great that you an' your family keep calling me a rapist, especially in front of people you don't know my fuckin' relationship with?'" He narrows one eye. "Is that friendly enough for you? I ain't entirely sure what to say when someone you genuinely fuckin' /liked/ starts treatin' you like a piece of fuckin' shit." He inhales deeply, and draws up his shoulders. He's not really used to orating, but he's got his wind, now. "I get that I scared them kids, an' you gotta protect 'em an' shit. An' I feel fuckin' /sorry/ about that, if you'd check your voice mail." He flicks his gaze over all three men, his jaw tightening a bit as he presses on. "But I ain't no rapist, I wasn't never no rapist, an' I ain't goin' to stand around an' take it like some bitch when that kind of shit can fuck up a man's life beyond fuckin' /repair/." Hive's input gets a hard grind of Trib's teeth, and he leans forward, tapping his own temple with the fingers of his half-hand. "Help yourself, then," he says. "I ain't got nothin' to hide. I didn't do /shit/ but scare them kids. Maybe more'n I meant to, but I don't. Fuck. Kids." He exhales, then, and shakes his head. "Why am I even fuckin' botherin'?" he mutters, beginning to move away. "Bunch of judgemental asshole fuckers. No fuckin' other side of shit -- just what /they/ think is the fuckin' story." He glances at Micah as he begins to move off, his shoulders hunching as he jams his fists in his pockets. "Ain't nobody wantin' to /listen/." "I really don't know what you want from me. They're my kids an' they're traumatised an' scared an' it seems like most of the /world/ wants t'work t'make 'em that way. An' it's /my/ job t'protect 'em from all this insanity as best I can. Don't hardly serve 'em well spendin' my time with one of the people what traumatised 'em t'begin with." Micah pales and then blushes faintly at the mention of the voice mail, still tucked away indecisively in his saved messages. "They just got enough t'deal with without me invitin' more on 'em." His arm squeezes a little tighter-protective-supporting around Hive. "Prob'ly should get you inside, sugar." "So you didn't rape anyone, you just scared /kids/ with the /threat/ of rape and then threatened them with physical violence when they brought it up later? No reason to be judgmental about /that/." Hive's brows hitch up, mouth pressing tightly together at the invitation to help himself. "Yeah. If I could I --" He leans heavily against Micah, curling his arm back around the other man. "Sleep sounds good. You'd better be off, dude, you'll be late for class." Flicker casts a worried glance between the other men, but doesn't seem inclined to get involved further. He slips back around to the driver's side to open the car back up. "See you at dinner," he murmurs, slipping in and turning the car back on though -- not actually leaving with the others against its hood. "I don't want nothin' from you, Micah," Trib says over his shoulder without looking, the heat in his voice fading to something more weary-sounding, "I ain't askin' you to hang out with me. I just don't want you an' your family fuckin' up my life. I ain't interested in fuckin' up yours. No matter /what/ you an' them think." Hive's assertions apparently deserve no response -- or maybe Trib's just heard that argument before. And then, he's gone, cutting back across the street to disappear into the subway without looking back. “C'mon, hon. Let's get you inside an' off Flicker's car.” Micah's slight attempt at levity here falls utterly flat. His arm snakes into a more supportive position around Hive's ribs to assist him inside. There will be plenty of mess left to deal with later.