ArchivedLogs:Practical

Practical
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jim, Flicker	2014-07-06 Decisions. Part of Prometheus TP.
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. Flicker's room, like all the other recovering invalids lurking around the Clinic, was not actually ever intended to be used the way it's currently being used. A small office on the ninth floor, it's been repurposed with cot and monitoring equipment and it's /possible/ that being actual staff here at the Clinic has afforded him /special privileges/, in that he isn't sharing with anyone and the bathroom is conveniently right across the hall from him. He's dressed casually, in his /own/ clothes, thankfully; jean shorts and blue-on-blue ringer tee. In outward appearance it's hard to say entirely just how he's still doing, the worst of the surgery-scars hidden away beneath his clothes and only a faint peppering of scars still sprinkled down one side. His right sleeve hangs loose, limp and empty over where the arm should be. At the moment he's reading, propped up in bed with a Nook resting on his lap, green eyes moving sluggish and slow across the page. Maybe across the page. He hasn't actually changed his page in quite a while. Flp-flp-flp, this sound of heavy foot falls trailing the contradictory slappity-slappity noise of light weight flipflops is familiar enough in these halls, coming to a stop shortly enough in the doorway of Flicker's room whether it's open or closed to lay down a trio of raps on the doorframe, a tablet under one arm, along with a spiral notebook and a pen crapped behind an ear. All shaggy gray-haired and scruffily undershaved, he's come in usual Jim wear, in that it's an old Hawiian shirt over cargo shorts, but the sight of him /without/ leafy foliage or bark patches remains a lingering less-Jim like feature - as is the fact that he's currently /sweating/ and mopping at his brow. Plants do not sweat. He'd /forgotten/ about that. "Yo." Flicker's attention shifts slowly, a heavy dragging gaze lifted gradually up to Jim. His smile is soon to follow, blossoming gradually across his face. He settles back more heavily, lowering the Nook to his lap. "Guess that respite from the rain didn't last. You look kind of in need of a shower." "S'the face," Jim deadpans helpfully, kind of gesturing to the burn scars with his notebook but mostly just using it to FAN himself, "I look like I need a shower soon as I get /outta/ the shower. Need a god damn - haircut." He's heading in to make himself at home - whatever chair is probably already near Flicker's bed will be blusterily /foot/-nudged just how he likes it, "'Chu reading." "It's um -- it's called /Stiff/ it's -- about cadavers?" Flicker's cheeks flush a little pink with this information. "About what's been done with bodies. Through a lot of history. And now. /I/ need a shower." He laments this a little wearily, too bandage-ridden for anything more than a sponge bath. "Tomorrow, though. Get to go home. Are you still here?" His eyes sweep over Jim suspiciously. "You look good." << He looks like a fucking hobo, >> a rustling whisper-voice shiver in. "A /healthy/ hobo," Flicker agrees, amusement lighting his eyes. It's pretty true; outside of the arm left in its cast, Jim hasn't looked so healthy in a /long/ while. "Fucking Mary Roach," Jim sounds as though he were talking about a /personal/ thorn in his side, tucking into his the chair and promptly rocking back to put his feet up on the side of Flicker's bed and whipping loose the pen from behind his ear, "You get to the 'mellified man' shit, yet? About people eating honey they preserved a body in for its 'healing' qualities?" He scratches behind an ear, "Nah, I been released - last night. Supposed to be coming back for checkups but uh..." But there's a fuck ton of people still needing /immediate/ care as it is. And /adds/, "And you can tell /someone/ I'm gonna take a shit in his toilet to leave it steeping overnight for the hobo crack." Meanwhile, his mind leans out and hard towards the whisper-soft voice. Not a lot of words or forebrain intent to it, just- moosh. "Wonder if we could do that with Zombie. Dip him in honey. Cure all ills." Flicker tips his eyes up towards the ceiling as he considers this. "Not cool, s'my toilet too. I want it nice and /clean/ when I get home." << Not cleaning for you, >> Hive grouches back, that shiver of mind rippling soft and quiet /around/ Jim's hard lean, rustling like leaves around him. << There's five extra people living in here, nothing's clean. >> "I bet Lighthaus is clean." Flicker sounds almost accusatory about this. "Did you and Ash get people? Who's with you?" He sound almost excited like maybe they're talking about shiny new exchange students come for a visit. "You'd eat man-honey?" Jim shivers internally at the leaf-rustle of Hive's mind voice; thinking 'leaves' and 'roots' and 'clean dirt' yet pulling up none of the usual built-in serenity and separation - now just objective concepts. Augh. It's only a brief inner stumble, flipping open his notebook, "Ffff, we got a couple roamers, ended up squatting at our place - haven't actually counted yet; just started leaving the back door unlocked for 'em. Looks like it's getting to be the spot the kids go when they want a little more of a fucking -- cave-feel. Dirt 'n darkness. Quiet." Probably a number more huddled there when noisy /fireworks/ were going off. "Someone's been building /dirt/ castles. And fucking - dirt highways between 'em." "/You/ make it sound dirty instead of just creepy." There's a small twitch of smile at Flicker's lips, his eyes closing and head sinking back against the pillow. "Good. Someone will need to take over the earthbending till Ash is okay again." The soft rustle of mind continues, low and just /present/ as it curls around Jim. << There's one. Dirtbender. Leaving soon as (our) head's fixed, though, to go back -- Louisiana. >> It comes with quiet ripple-feels of /home/ and /family/, Hive's and yet not his at the same time. << Jax is already thinking on planning the next one. >> Flicker's expression pales slightly, at this. His eyes fix down on the page of his book, his breath pushed out slowly. "Yeah. It makes sense. We've been waiting on it a -- a while." "Hell. S' welcome to our dirt for now," the corners of Jim's mouth twitch tighter, watching Flicker's face, "We're sure as fuck not using it. S'all weird as hell." Even the confusing mishmash of Hive-not-Hive mind adds a more familiar territory in his inner tapestry than the whole new and far more limited nerve signals and information his brain wants to process, and for once he's just /letting/ himself find a center in it. The sound of paper turning over on his notebook is loud in the room, Jim's gaze settling down on it, "...you know if you're gonna go?" << (She/we) like it. The dirt. Peaceful there. >> Hive-not-Hive's mind is drifting back into also-peaceful thoughts of a swampy backwoods, pesky younger brother, muddy dog rolling in the dirt. Flicker's eyes stay locked down on his ereader. His shoulder -- with its missing arm -- twitches up uncertainly. "I --" His voice trails off. He taps at his screen to turn the page. "-- have to." Ballpoint pen make sit's zazzy noises on paper, as Jim inflicts edits on a draft even Flicker's probably heard out loud enough to know the current terms by heart. "Y'believe that?" His voice drifts up low. "They'll get slaughtered," Flicker answers with another small shrug. Perhaps it's the long lengths of time he's spent being accustomed to /not/ being able to speak freely - or maybe Jim just feels Flicker isn't done. But his pen slowly stops, and his blue eyes raise, watching the side of Flicker's face, the scrunch up of his mismatched shoulders, and for a moment waits. Something has tightened, in Hive's mental presence -- at least for the brief moment it can still be felt. And then he fades into silence, the whisper-rustle withdrawing from Jim's mind to leave only Jim and Flicker and the slow ceasing of the scratching noises of the pen. Flicker just flips the page of his book again. His finger taps against the side of his reader. "...you ever missed one?" Jim taps his thumb on his pen for a moment -- then reaches for the darkened tablet at his side and flips the screen back to life to open a few bookmarks of New York tenant laws, "A raid? Since they got you out?" "/Missed/ one -- no. Not exactly." Flicker shakes his head, still looking down. "Two years ago we hit two facilities at the same time, though. Ryan and Jax each led a team. I went with Ryan. Half of Jax's team died. Too many of the prisoners. And that was /with/ Hive, without --" He stops here -- aloud, anyway, though a faint clench to his expression suggests he can't stop his train of thought quite so readily. The hard lines around Jim's face make it difficult to tell much from his expression, focused as it is on copying the text of a footnote in a side margin. But the writing has further moments, where they slow. Where they pause. Where they resume again. "Hivey told you he's sitting out?" Flicker nods, finally shutting the cover that holds his Nook. His head thunks back against the pillows again. "Yeah." Just yeah, heavy and dull. "It's fucking hard." Jim the zzp-zzzp of pen on paper sounds slightly more forceful, slightly faster. Maybe he feels really strongly about maximum occupancy laws, "--staying back. Any fucking thing that goes wrong," THREE fucking people to a bedroom is too many; general acceptance is two, but what about children? What about maximum length a guest is allowed to stay? "you keep telling yourself, you coulda been there to /stop/." "It's not that, Jim." Flicker still sounds kind of heavy, though the bland note is giving way to the faintest trace of irritation. "I don't spend time kicking myself over that. I was where I was supposed to be. This isn't /guilt/. It's just practical. We each have our roles to fill. And so far, we haven't /found/ a good way to fill mine." "I'm not saying it's that." Jim just sounds tired. "I'm saying it's--" He realizes he's just /written/ the last few words he was saying, and takes in a slow breath. Lets it out. "I'm saying it was practical for /me/ to not go. Much as I fucked hated it, I wasn't any good like I was." At this, Flicker is back to quiet again. His lips are slowly compressing, eyes lifting to Jim with his brows ticking upward in silent questioning. "Without Hivey, man," Jim's eyes move towards Flicker at this time, making contact. "D'you got this?" Something twitches, hard and tight in Flicker's cheek. "It'd be hard. But --" Here something coils and ripples, tighter, tense, spiking in prickly sharp waves against the others' minds. Flicker hisses out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. "Great." This is probably not actually to Jim, muttered soft beneath his breath. << (We) got this. >> Hive's barely-there echoing whisper comes with a sharper feel to it, terse and almost snapping before his mental presence ebbs away again. Jim's eyes close. Loosely at first, and then tighter. Breathing in slowly. Flicker's jaw tightens, creaking in a slow grind that /may/ not be entirely his tension. His eyes narrow, motions abrupt as he flips his Nook back open to turn its screen on again and just /glare/ at it. Fingers apply themselves liberally to the scrubbing of Jim's indelicate nose bridge, "Fffhhhh the fuck just happened?" Flicker doesn't answer this, at first. He doesn't look at Jim at all, teeth creaking again and his breathing slow and heavy. When he does eventually speak it's through his teeth, eyes still focused down on his book and his voice soft. "You're very persuasive." Jim's hand falls away from his still-scrunched eyes, "What." "Hive thinks you're right," Flicker answers, still softly, "so he's coming." His teeth grind again, his eyes squeezing shut and then opening again. He sets the book aside, slumping back down in bed. "I'm going to sleep. I'll be home tomorrow. I'll see you then." "Dude," Jim doesn't even flinch from it; only continues to look tired, "Even if I didn't say it, I'd be thinking it. And if I wasn't thinking it, someone fucking /smarter/ than me sure as fuck would. If you go, he /will/." And here, he stands closes his notebook and just - tries to find someplace to toss it down where it wouldn't be a pain in the ass to pick back up. FINDING NONE, it goes back down on the middle of his lap, "I'm trying to say /don't go/, asshole." "Please," Flicker's voice never raises, though it has a kind of /strain/ to it, here, "go. I just. Can't. Right now." Jim stands right where he is, unmoving. Breathing slowly. And then, there's a sharp /bam/ where he throws down the tablet and notebook sharply on a counter. Luckily the notebook lands first, cushioning the /poor tablet/. On his way out the door, the second thump is Jim's fist on the wall, and a short breath somewhere between a gasp and something - wetter. A hiss, maybe. And then quiet. From Flicker's room, there's only quiet as well.