ArchivedLogs:Pulling Back the Curtain

Pulling Back the Curtain
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Hive, Parley, Shelby	2013-06-21 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The concrete wall that rings the roof has been decorated, painted in vivid bright shades by some artistic hand to add colourful cheer to the rooftop. The mural shifts in terrain One wall sports a beach, flecked with grass and seashells and driftwood and shore birds. Beach transitions into meadow, colourful with wildflowers and butterflies and dragonflies; meadow shifts into snow-capped mountains, subsides into piedmont and sprouts into a verdant forest on the fourth, alive with animals. It's bright up here. Not just in the sunlight, though that's beating down hot as well. The dingy concrete wall that rings the roof has been redecorated, coloured by some enterprising artist in vivid-bright imagery. On the ledge by the garden it is painted like the beach, tawny gold with a clear blue sky overhead, grasses sprouting from the sand, shore birds walking among them. Seashells. Driftwood. Dusk is a drab dark spot against the warm colours, black shorts, no shirt but his enormous dark wings folded capelike behind him. He has a pack of cigarettes in his hand, sort of crumpled; he is frowning as he opens it. He's dragged the plastic table over by the wall, his laptop perched atop it; he closes the pack again without withdrawing a cigarette, turning his frown instead to the screen. In a loose, dire /slink/ like a world-weary feline, Parley situates himself at Dusk's table, not there one minute, suddenly /there/ as though he'd always been, draped over the table top behind Dusk's computer as though someone had come along and melted him with a hairdryer. He's all folded over, shirtless as well to coax a breath of wind through his fur, with his arms stretched across the whole surface of the table with chin placed indecorously on the tablesurface between them. He has on iPod earbuds. You might think he was rocking out if he didn't, at lengths, undertone-muttering, mechanically, in Russian, "{The potato.} Potato. {Butter. Butter.} Butter. {I would like butter on my potato.}" Sloooow, over-heated sigh. Heeeere's Shelby! The teenager is suffering a restless mood, her first shift at the tattoo studio over, sleep in short supply and the apartment's walls closing around her. It's hard to tell if she's bored, bummed or suffering from itchy feet, but whatever the cause, it's led her to the roof with her guitar. BAM, the door is kicked open and she emerges--breaking the trend by wearing a top, though a bikini top tied at neck and back isn't much of a step up from shirtless. Frayed denim shorts cover a little more down below. Freckly skin is already gleaming with an early coat of sunscreen. "...you know what we need up here?" she says as she ambles towards the table. "A sprinkler. One of those chick-chick-chick-whirr kinds." Hive also has a shirt. Even pants! Sturdy jeans, thick tough boots, a beige shirt with dotted outline of Zelda's protagonist reading '404 LINK NOT FOUND'. He will hold down Being Clothed for the group today. "-- what?" Emerging soon behind Shelby, he looks baffled at the mention of sprinkler. "If we had a sprinkler," he says, "some asshole would turn it /on/." He does not sit at the table. He examines the newly painted walls with a frown and then goes to sit on one, getting out his /own/ pack of cigarettes and actually taking one out to light it. "Jegus Christ," he is observing the shirtless and bikini-clad, the melting, the flopping, "you'd think it was fucking summer or something." Dusk glances up when the heavy roof door opens (and opens, and opens); its creaky hinges mean considerably less startlement when he is faced with a sudden!Parley. His chair drags back as other people seat themselves with a juddering loud scrape against the concrete. "It is," he says, "as of today. And there's a water tap around back from the access door. Could probably hook /up/ a sprinkler, if you had one. Are they expensive?" He gives Parley a nod, but given that the man is in the middle of practicing, no further greeting to interrupt him. He does stand; there's a restless note to his own pacing, fidgety-discomfort in the form of a dull persistent note of hunger as all the others arrive. He moves away from the table to the wall, taking out his last cigarette from /his/ pack and holding out a hand to Hive kind of demandingly for a light. "I would like," Parley states, grimly, "butter on my potato." He's plucking out an earbud as he says this, the activity through the doors sends his back fur not bristling so much as absent-spasming in a localized two-square-inch area like a horse trying to dispel a /fly/. He doesn't lift his head, but his eyes grow /interested/ on Shelby and her burden. He says to her very solemnly, "You could sing us a rain song, Ms. Shelby." Sliiiight grin forms - or you can assume it does, by the rise of cheekflesh below his eyes. With his arms all a'sprawl it makes only half of his face visible. His eyes rotate to follow Dusk's path leading away from him, and slips to Hive's mind, like a raveling train of silk. << (--how long)(has it been for him?) >> It's laced with a thin ribbon of livid red; a sentiment rich, it's presentation clinical. "It'd be awesome. We should do it, I bet we could find one cheap at a junk store. Don't you wanna see me all wet and sparkly, Hive?" An innocent question. Honest it is. Shelby takes a seat on the wall, hooking her knee up over the edge to serve as a ledge for the guitar. "You're weird, dude, everyone knows sour cream's better on potatoes," she tells the Russian-speaking Parley as she goes through the ritual of string-tuning. "And I think all we'd get here is like, acid rain. That's a city thing, huh?" Fucking /depressing/, augh. One side of Hive's mouth hooks upwards at Shelby's question. It does not get answered! He lights his cigarette instead, and then holds the lighter out towards Dusk. "Even acid rain cools shit the hell down. Besides, we're soaking in pollution all the time, I doubt any of /us/ would even notice it from healthy rain." << Too long, >> Hive cuts back, eyes flicking over his roommate. << Week? >> "Sour cream /and/ cheese," he says aloud. "And some chives. Fuckit throw the butter on, too -- shit," he grumbles with a rather superficial irritation, "now I'm hungry." "Always count on you to be a barrel of sunshine," Dusk says in a stream of smoke after his first pull. And, "Gah." He narrows his eyes at the others. "You're just saying all this to /torture/ me. All /I/ could have of that is the chives." Dairy allergies make for less loaded potatoes. Cigarette lit, he scoots away from Hive as well, his splinted-and-bound wing shifting with a restless itchy discomfort in its taping. "What're you learning?" He flicks a wingtip towards Parley's iPod when the earbud comes out. "I don't know how to say 'sour cream', yet." Parley sounds... /fascinated/ by this obstacle, sitting up. "{Hive-san wants ...cream. And cheese. And --butter.}" He's saying it in Russian; you can essentially hear it, the words aren't masked. But it may as well just be English, perfectly understandable, even 'cream' manages to suggest 'sour cream' instead. This is clearly a sign he should /give up/ for now, turning, "/Can/ we get a sprinkler? I'd forgotten it got so - hot out." Outside of the sweet, sweet, cranked-up air-conditioning in the /labs/. Why is he asking BigBrotherHive this as though the telepath was in charge of these calls? His eyebrows are raised? Hopefully? "Gh. It's Russian. Or... meant to be. It's slow progress." << (is it)(rude?)(to mention it?) >> He inquires of Hive, quieter. << (my)(roommate|Mirror-but-not-hir-name)(was him.)(fed him.)(dangerous yet?) >> From the glance Shelby sends at Hive, complete with her own crooked smile, the question need not be answered! "Got some pizza from last night downstairs, if you want it. It...kinda has cheese though, sorry man." Her eyes flick towards Dusk and there she pauses, studying all of the twitchies. "I can go grab it, and the first aid kit, if you need to eat something too." Or /someone/. Her fingers pick out an ominous chord--dun dun dunnnnnnn. None of this private mind-talk with her--she is all about bringing it out into the open! ".../why/ are you learning Russian?" Because that sounds like a lot of work. "Your roof as much as mine, dude." Hive is taking NO PART in this apartment den mothering. << Always dangerous, >> he answers back, slanting a sidelong glance to Dusk over a long pull of smoke. "Can we /get/ baked potatoes will someone. Deliver us baked potatoes -- shit, I'll definitely take pizza though. I'm supposed to be on lunch break." His lunch is: cigarette. "-- /can/ you learn Russian?" he is suddenly curious. Dusk tucks his cigarette between his lips; there's a gesture of hands, one finger touched near his chin, then that hand dropping to swipe forward-backward across the other flat-palmed hand. {SOUR-CREAM}, in -- sign language, not overly helpful for learning Russian! BUT. All nonEnglish languages are basically the same right? "I ate," he answers Shelby vaguely, "Micah." A week ago, true. BUT. "I bet the hardware store down the street has sprinklers. They can't be /too/ expensive. We put a sprinkler up here you'd probably never /get/ the twins off the roof." "And - would you like to eat again?" Parley is doing some massive overhaul of his body weight, sinking deeeep into his seat and propping his legs up on the table instead. "It's one of those processes you actually have to -- keep doing. Again and again. Forever. It's." How exactly do you say this right? He twists in the side of his mouth, "-showing a little. I don't mind." He glances between Hive and Shelby, in question? "As it turns out, I /can/. I'm just limited in /how/. I've been getting a few assignments working in conjunction with Latveria, where Russian is the primary language." He is twirling an earbud on its wire /restlessly/, "/And/ as it turns out. Latveria is /rife/ with electronics. My ability is useless for translating AI, videos, recordings or written text. So." Smack! He thumps the earbud into a palm. "I'm trying to depend less on my mutation." "Shit, it's your lunch? You should've said, dude. I'm gettin' the pizza. /And/ the first aid kit, he's right, you're jonesing," Shelby swivels and hops off of the wall, leaving the guitar propped against it. << Should like, pack a lunch or something...>> /Hive/ should; /she/ ain't. As she pads off towards the door, she remarks, "I bet Micah tastes like sprinkles. Or...oh man, like that edible massage oil, you know the stuff? I'm gonna have to remember to mention that next time I see him." Solely for the purpose of making the poor guy blush--far, far more interesting stuff to the teen than Latveria or Russian, it turns out. Away she goes! Briefly! "Jax tried to make a schedule once," Hive says with a thin twitch that isn't quite a smile. "Who's been eaten when. Keep him /supplied/. Motherfucker gets all self-conscious. -- We could get him some," he decides. "Micah. Oil. S'Jax's birthday they'll probably put it to good /use/." He turns, elbows propped back against the wall to watch Parley sort of lazily through half-lidded eyes. "Latveria. Lucky you." His tone is dry. "Pretty sweet," Dusk agrees, on the subject of Micahblood, "not quite as much as Jax, I think he /lives/ on sugar." The hunger in his mind only grows when it's pointed out, like a niggling itch he'd been largely ignoring but -- now. On his mind. The urge to scratch is GROWING. He ducks his head a little sheepishly, one hand stretching out behind him to ash his cigarette over the edge of the roof. "Sorry," he apologizes with an awkward half-smile to Parley and Shelby both, "I think I get used to ignoring -- wait, Latveria? Like with the robo-king?" He puts his hand over his FACE, fingers spread out -- perhaps this is is DoomMask impression. "That dude is creepy as freaking hell. Like you can sort of picture him robostomping kittens in his spare time." "Mmmh... Like to make kitten-wine?" Parley isn't looking at Hive - he isn't really looking at anyone, staring off at the door Shelby had gone through blankly. His thumb is slowly tracing around the circular head of his earbud, and he blinks, turns back to Dusk, "Mh? So? Is it easier, eating from only one person, or from several? My -- roommate was you. For a bit. He got a little eager." Not-quite an apology. Sort of - not sure if it should be, or just openly /curious/. It doesn't take Shelby long to return, mostly because she took the stairs two at a time. The unfortunate side effect is that her heart's going at a good clip when she returns, pizza box wedged against one arm, first aid kit dangling from the other hand. "Fuck, I gotta quit smoking," she pants as she steers for the table. The kit is dropped first, thunk, before she turns the pizza box around and opens it for Hive. Cold pepperoni, /yum/. No napkins because Teenhaus probably doesn't own any. "What're we talkin' about?" "Talking about the fucking /Doomking/ of Latveria, Parley's doing some --" Hive doesn't actually know what Parley is doing! So he waves a hand vaguely towards Parley like this is explanation, though there's a distinct curiousity in his /mind/: << some what? >> He finishes off his cigarette and stubs it out against the concrete wall, meandering a little closer to nab a slice of pizza. "Seriously you can't make up a name like that. Who the fuck wanders around in a giant armorsuit?" His first few bites of pizza are eaten with a good deal of /relish/. Mmmhungry. "Shit thanks we are seriously due a grocery run at my place. -- Kittenwine. I'm sure /someone/ would like that shit. I mean apparently they make wine infused with /bugs/. How'd you end up with that gig?" There's a distinct inner /twinge/ at the mention of bugwine -- or maybe at the memory this mention stirs /up/, Ian's cheerful tones telling them about wasp-wine while he bustled around the apartment. Dusk pulls more heavily at his cigarette. "Don't," he says a little distractedly to Parley, "let anyone make kittenwine out of you." Though even here there is curiosity, an absent mental /savouring/ at the idea. MMM, KITTENS. "-- Did he think you tasted good?" He shrugs a bare shoulder at Parley's question. "Easier -- I don't know. Variety is nice. People can only give blood so often, though. I like to. Spread it around. Plus, um." Another shrug. "It's dangerous? With people I don't know? I mean, drinking blood is a quick route to a lot of disease so I like to -- y'know. Stick with people who I know aren't going to give me hepatitis." /This/ comes with a sort of wry /thanking/ of the labs mentally. So many labrats. Tested so very frequently for everything under the sun. "I keep saying I'm going to quit, too." He says this. With another drag of cigarette. "We're also talking about seeing that Dusk eats," Parley doesn't need to say it firmly. Just - absent, rolling his head towards Shelby when she reappears, reaching out to take the first aid kit. To /rummage/ through it. "Mh, I was recommended. The service I offer is hit or miss; language flexibility is useful for international business. But." But, y'know. Mutant. "I started working with the Latverian Embassy from a recommendation from... Oscorp. I guess it was. For whatever else they may say about it," his smile is vague, distracted, considering he is digging through first aid supplies, "Latveria is, from time to time, willing to hire mutants with useful skills." << (...) >> Parley's mind curls and unravels, a tasteless, scentless sensation of a mind that quietly answers, << (some)(research.) >> "Oh man, that guy's a /freak/. Y'know he's all "boo mutants" out loud but I bet you anything he's one of us under that stupid armor stuff. Someone with something to /hide/ wears armorsuits." Shelby knows she's right and she's comfortable with this fact. Then she too suffers mood dimming--the self same memory as Dusk has--which leads her to give him a sharper than intended look. "You can snack off me, if you want. I ate already and anyway it was months ago, the last time you did. And Hive's gotta go back to work," she assumes, dragging up a chair and making grabbyhands at the Hive in question. Cigarettes. Where did they go. "Jesus, you really pick some seriously fucked up people to work for, Parley. I mean...Doomkings, and creepy Osborn...you know he /maybe/ tried to have Peter killed? You should become like, a plumber or something." "Willing to -- yeah, I don't doubt they are," Hive says this a little absently, too, around his mouthfuls of pizza. 'Research' turns over not quite /pleasantly/ in his mind. He tucks the crust between his teeth, shoving a hand in his pocket to extricate his cigarettes again and toss the back towards Shelby. "Maybe Parley just likes to live dangerously." He finds the lighter next; this he doesn't toss but sets down on the table. Though coming closer proves to have the ulterior motive of snagging a second slice of cold pizza. "-- Oh, fucksticks, I /do/ have to go back to work. Shit. Parley. You want to get your roommate to go to work for me?" He sounds SO HOPEFUL. "Hot as fucking balls on the site today." "S'more things to hide than just being a freak," Dusk says, but then grins, quick and fierce and not reflected at all in his thoughts. "-- Different kinds of being a freak, too. But, yeah, I'm sure he's not -- entirely on the level." He finishes his smoke, too, flicking the butt over the edge of the roof after it is stubbed out. He drifts back to the table, sitting sideways on his chair. "Seriously powerful people to work for," he remarks with a faint grimace. "I think fucked up just goes with that /territory/. -- Though. I think half the city's tried to kill Peter by now, it's like -- this year's fad? Does your school have a counter? How many days since he got himself into trouble?" "The streets of this city have been more dangerous lately," click, Parley gently closes the first aid kid, sets it on the table. His eyes are lowered, "I work in -- offices. Air conditioning. Paperwork." He looks off the side of the building, out at the bark, the sweeping distant expanse of building towers beyond. "I don't really think anyone in power is on the level, no." He /does/ come back a little more to the present to /slant/ Hive a look, dry-lifting the corner of his mouth, "My roommate is on a strict plan to /not/ be you, Hive-san." Even in /joking/. Rather than contend further he reaches out towards Dusk with a hand, to touch his arm, and says urging, "...please eat." "We don't, but we /should/," Shelby says on the subject of a Peter-counter. The smokes are caught and she leans forward to retrieve the lighter, blowing mental kisses at the source while she settles back in the chair to fish one out. After a snap and a flare of flame, she's breathing smoke skywards. "Pretty sweet if you could work your way up though. Turn all of the assholery to good stuff, huh? Get your /own/ Doomking suit." This remark is accompanied with a grin at Parley. "Make flatscans register, instead of us. Get on that, 'kay?" Another drag is taken from the cigarette, at the same time as she lifts her wrist and waggles it at Dusk, in time with Parley's request. "Or you could snack on Hive and he can call in sick." "Still go to work after donating blood. -- Besides," Hive says reclaiming his pack of cigarettes and lighter once Shelby has gotten hers lit, "who the fuck would I call in sick /to/, everyone on site is working for /me/ right now. /I/ gotta make sure nobody fucks shit /up/. -- Been quiet /now/," he adds, and it's wry with a distinct undercurrent of: << /for/ now >> to the thought. He slips the cigarettes back into his pocket, claps a hand on Dusk's shoulder, and turns, still munching his second slice of pizza, to head off back to work. "For now," Dusk voices the unheard thought even without being privy to it; there's not much change to his pale-tired expression but his thoughts slip further towards an angry tense /expectation/ that things are just going to get worse again. "Would ParleyDoom still have --" he lifts his good wing when his arm is touched, curling it around to brush lightly against the fur at Parley's back. "Because, shit, I think Doomcat might even manage /cute/." He considers this for a moment. "... no wait still creepy as fuck. Parley, you could just replace him, who'd /know/. Maybe there's nobody even in there maybe one day someone'll pull off the armor and it'll just be. A dead rat." He scoots his chair a little closer to the table, reaching for Shelby's wrist. "-- Maybe I should start using Jax's schedule again." "-you mean like. A Doompelt?" The soft, soft brush across Parley's bare fur gets a few little tickly twitch-spasms. He squirm-smile's, a tension easing in his shoulders a rushed-feeble, '-heh!' Aaa, /crumple/, he drops facedown on the table and folds his hands over his head like they're about to be /bombed/. His laugh doesn't really know what it's supposed to sound like, a ragged rush over which he says weakly, "I'll get right on that. << (for now) >> He agrees to Hive, but it's with something more detached. Less bothered. A short grateful window of now-thought, that tightens once, briefly, against the departing telepath's mind like a squeeze of hand. "See ya," Shelby calls after the departing Hive, following it up with the imagined picture of herself goosing him on the way out. Sadly, he's too far away to make this a reality, so she goes back to smoking. "Doompelt is /totally/ an awesome name for a metal band. You can be the bassist, Dusk, you've got the vampire thing happening. Parley's the lead singer. I can be manager and embezzle all the money you guys'll make," she says as she lift-scootches her chair, scootch lift scootch, closer to Dusk's. A last puff is pulled on the cigarette before she butts it out and gives her wrist over for supping. "...you gotta admit, it'd be pretty awesome if we ran the world. I mean, maybe not /Peter/, dude'd have us all dead in a week, but like..." Wait for it. "Me." "Yessss. Like a Doompelt. All world leaders need a proper pelt anyway, I think." Dusk is leaning down towards Shelby's wrist, thumb brushing against the vein. His fingers curl through hers, holding her arm in place as he -- suddenly MOOSHES his mouth against her skin, a sudden hacking coughing in his throat that, thanks to the sudden smoosh, does not make it /all/ the way into a bark of laughter. His mind might be horror or might be amusement. It's probably both. It takes a moment longer before he peels back his lips to sink fangs into vein with a quick-sharp stab of motion. Drinking occupies his mouth, cutting it off from whatever snark he /might/ have been tempted to make here. "I wouldn't be a very good singer," Parley undertone warns, sitting up now in a discrete little composition, opening up the first aid kit in more pragmatic fashion this time, preparing gauze pads that he is careful not to touch much surface area of, where they can be taken rapidly from him. "I'm not very -- useful in front of a crowd. They'd leave." He suggests, "I could pull the curtain. What would you do if you ran the world?" "Then you can be the drummer. Everyone forgets about the drummer anyway," Shelby theorizes--before she's twitching with ticklish first, while Dusk uses /her arm/ to smother his giggles, and then with an odd mix of ouch and oooh at the fang-strike. An eye is kept on the process--not /entirely/ innocent, given the tenor of her half-smile--but some attempt is made to remember what they were talking about oh yeah. "Legalize pot'n'hooking, then tax the ever living /fuck/ out've it so I was rich. Then I'd pick an island for me and everyone who was cool, it'd be where we'd chill out and kick back. Maybe get the geeks to build the biggest catapult, and shoot the haters into the sun." If it isn't clear by now, she adds, "I'm /mostly/ joking." << Hive with a sun-catapult, >> Dusk is thinking /this/ with that same horrimused cast to his tone. << Entire freaking world would be lobbed up there. >> His mouth is still too occupied for speaking, pressed up against Shelby's wrist. Not spilling. He is a very /neat/ vampire. << Drummer's the most important thing in the band, >> he adds. Faintly, colour is returning to his corpse-pale face, though even past this the cast of his thoughts is changing. Hunger ebbing, certainly, but with it a fierce /rush/, euphoric-warm. His feelings are /brighter/, too, mind less muted-sluggish, far clearer to feel than its more subdued previous state. It's a high that's echoed mildly back to Shelby; past the initial stab the pain dulls as a warm buzz trickles through instead. "-is the most important thing in the band." Parley is voicing Dusk's thoughts for him while he's occupied, his own voice as ever low and uninflected - but in channeling, it's /rich/ with all the small inflections and character, color, scent that would earmark it as Duck's own message. There's no need to actually guess who is speaking. His eyes are closed, face softer and relaxed, a trace empty, letting both Shelby and Dusk's experience flow across his canvas. Better than drugs! And Shelby is /quite/ comfortable with drugs. She sinks into that feeling, curling her fingers and letting them skate against Dusk's cheek as he drinks. /Her/ thoughts have less to do with words and more to do with images--guess who's a touchy-feely drunk? Hive, Dusk, Bastian, even Parley are dancing through those dirty, dirty, /happy/ thoughts. "Not the /whole/ world," she says, not entirely paying attention to which of them she's hearing the prompting statements from. "He'd keep some of us around. Probably. Hey, what do I taste like?" << Is this better? Than the hunger? >> Dusk sounds genuinely uncertain in this absent query to Parley; it certainly feels better to /him/ than he had five minutes ago but psionic powers work so many different ways. << -- most of the world, >> comes in agreement, << and then the rest of us would just wait. Till we pissed him off. >> He says this like /inevitability/ rather than like possibility, but it's amused too. << (like blood) >> comes in sharptoned senses; it may not be an /appealing/ answer in words but in sense it is, hot and sharp-tang-sweet, a flood of something that sates hunger and more-than-hunger at once. A slight... warm color has begun to rise in Parley's cheeks, his eyes remaining closed, his breath growing even, slower. Shelby's intimate thoughts of flesh-pressure soaks in, meets Dusk's rich satiation, his own drifting gray mind filling up vibrantly with their colors and allowing them to mix; to view one another, in crystal clarity like a house of mirrors /erupting/ to life; a pour of blood-ruby shimmers that is Dusk, a deep dark purple-night sky staining Shelby - the only part that is his own is a subaudible throb of heart-pulse. It's a /living/ thing, where they meet. << (better)(for you.) >> He whispers, very close now, against Dusk's mind. << neither (harm me.)(comfort)(or discomfort) it is all... >> There's an abrupt, /swell/ of adrenal, endorphin heat, baking hot and alive in the center of the mind. << (the same to me.) >> Poor Shelby. One of these days, she'll get around to building up some sort of psychic defense. It'll come in handy. But today is not that day. /Today/ she gets treated to a better rush than any of those loser Twilight-junkies are treated to. "Holy shit," she says, barely moving her lips. And with that abrupt peak, up goes her pulse, /speeding/ the entire practice in a blissful, spiralling hum that erases everything--even the eventual need to, like, y'know, not bleed to death. <<(better)(than fucking?)(could be)>> Dusk lifts a hand, fingers out, beckoning for the gauze Parley has thoughtfully prepared. << Useful, >> he muses. Thinking of Hive's bludgeoning mindvoice, thinking of the past week and the pain and anger it has come with. Both of which are still very /present/ in him, layed hot and fierce underneath the current waking-up surge. << You feel more alive, >> he remarks at Parley's mental touch. << -- maybe everything feels more alive. >> << (...useful.) >> There's no emotion attached to the word. Parley merely places it atop this glittering amalgamate /mind/ the three of them create, as though giving it this word as a mere label. << (it can be.) >> The gauze is slipped into Dusk's hand without opening his eyes; shared intentions have a way of being seamless, and he treats the rawness and anger still so lividly gashed across Dusk's mind with great care to /not/... warm to it. Stepping around it the long way to chuckle amongst Shelby's thoughts, so deeply rooted in the flesh. << (could be.) >> His eyes slide open, if only partway, letting the connection between them fade. << (...alive...) >> It's only thoughtful. Reserved. Considered at a negligent distance. Shelby's lone strength may well be being able to set aside the raw and hurting, and focus on the flesh. When she soaks in--feels?--Dusk's intention to stop soon, she complains, even as the color leeches from her face. Inside, with a junkie's full-body whine, and aloud with a sigh: "No, don't do that. It's fucking /amazing/. What you do." Dusk. Parley. Both. That stream of imagined flesh hasn't stopped either--flesh and fur and freckles. All of the F's. Dusk's tongue flicks against the twin punctures, but he pulls back, then, replacing mouth with gauze in one practiced-quick motion. His other hand lifts, the back of of one finger sweeping a stray drop of blood from his lips to lick it clean. "Everyone's gotta eat," he says quietly, fingers pressing the gauze pads firmly against the punctures. There's colour in his face now, not just ridding him of pallor but leaving him somewhat flushed, too. "-- Thanks." Behind him, one wing spreads out wide, a slow luxurious stretch. The other presses to its tape with a sudden sharp spike of frustration. "-- Alive," he says aloud this time, "more and more an accomplishment these days. Should savour it." With the connection faded, the three return to themselves, red dots drying in the fibers of white gauze and the young summer sun baking the rooftop into faint heat ripples around the table. Parley himself offers further words, handing over tape to secure down the gauze to Shelby's sweet little wrist and then curling up his legs into the chair again, head turning to gaze out across the rooftops. Outward and beyond, the city roils, and waits. Quiet. For now.