ArchivedLogs:Running Out of Time

Running Out of Time
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive, Isak	4 June 2014 Coffeeshop discussions go in a Prometheus-ly direction.
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to plentiful artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. At night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits over the coffeehouse, accessible through a stairway in the back of the cafe. It is one of those days where all hell has broken loose on city traffic...more than usual. Instead of a brief stop for coffee and a snack, Micah has picked up some actual /food/ in his visit to the counter. He has a soy chai latte in one hand and a bowl of black bean soup in the other, army green messenger bag bumping at his hip as he invites himself to sit at Hive's table. He looks rather his usual for after work, mussed auburn hair and the familiar TARDIS-blue shirt with khakis. A smudge of dark green on the inside of his right wrist vaguely resembles a fingerprint. "Hey, hon. Movin' t'the middle of things today. Y'gettin' an' idea of what quadrant y'wanna claim your Permanent Table in eventually, yet?" "No fucking idea." Hive's greeting is as cheerful as ever, eyes narrowed into a scowl as he stares at his laptop screen. He's looking pretty regular, himself, jeans and workboots and plain black tee all of which sit kind of baggy on his near-emaciated frame. "They're all /loud/ as fuck. This whole -- goddamn -- fucking city is. Loud as --" His fingers curl through his short scruff of dark hair and he looks up with a small blink, shaking his head as Micah sits. "{Sorry,}" is muttered in quiet French as he reaches for his -- empty -- coffee mug. "I just. How was your day." This place is potentially controversial, which is why Isak likes it. He's the rebel in the thousand dollar suit - or at least, that's the way he'd like to think of himself. He's not wearing a suit right now. Instead, it's skinny jeans with a canary yellow top with the sleeves rolled up, boat shoes and a black leather messenger bag slung across his chest. He peeks in with the hesitation of someone who hasn't been here before. After a cursory look around, he deems it safe to enter entirely. “Well, it's /you/ were talkin' 'bout, here. S'gonna be loud no matter where y'go. Figured maybe one got better light or another was too close to the AC vent or such things.” Micah shakes his head as he reaches into his messenger bag to fetch a little brown paper packet of tortilla strips that came with his soup. “No need t'apologise. I know that can be annoyin', an' I only had it with touchin' an' for a little while. Complain when y'need to.” Carefully, he sips at his extremely hot tea. “Day was okay. Busy. Traffic's /ridiculous/ t'night, though. Waitin' it out with dinner.” He gestures at Hive's mug. “Want a refill? Or food?” "I like that corner," Hive points to a table up in the front right corner, "it's out of the way and it /doesn't/ have the comfy chairs like in the back so people aren't always crowding in to get the best seats." He closes his laptop, pressing his palms to his temples as if that can shut /out/ the mental clutter and block the chaotic soup of the surface-thoughts of people all around him in the shop. "Maybe a refill. I can't stomach food. I saw your husband this morning. I think he's mosaicing your whole house." After a cursory examination of the room proper, Isak happens to skim past two familiar faces - though the last time he saw one of them, he wasn't exactly at his best. He pauses to consider whether or not to go over. After a brief bout of consideration, he ambles over. "Hey. Should've figured I'd see familiar faces here." "Mmn, I'm make sure t'look for y'there first when I come in from now on," Micah offers with a grin. "Oh, did you? Was it over at the Commons? An'...not the whole house. One wall per room. Plus /small/ accents. There was an agreement. It involved a lot of puppy eyes an' pouty lips on his part, mostly." Isak's greeting turns his head to match the voice to a face. "Hello. Oh, of course. S'kinda a select clientele this place's caterin' to. Also m'son owns the place, so. There's that." He sets his own mug back on the table, reaching for Hive's instead. "I was 'bout t'go grab a refill of ridiculously caffeinated coffee for this'n." "He makes /good/ puppy-eye. How'd you resist? Anyway I think he's just doing like. The bathrooms and. Some tiling in the kitchen. Maybe something with the stairs? I don't fucking know he's goddamn." Hive's fingers scrunch into his hair again, eyes closing as he hunches forward over the table. He squints up again when Isak approaches, mind somewhat reflexively scanning the other man's at the mention of 'familiar faces' -- his /own/ blank expression suggests he is turning up exactly nothing by way of Isak-recognition. "-- Familiar? Huh?" "The safehouse," says Isak by way of attempting to jog Hive's memory. It wasn't exactly the best of introductions. He extends a hand towards the mug Micah reaches to. "Let me. I'm just about to go and get myself something. No reason everyone should stand on the line." Sometimes his syntax slips. "How did the suits work out, by the way?" "By imaginin' the headache that an entire house done in brilliantly multicolour shiny mosaics would cause later. I had to imagine it pretty hard, admittedly." Micah very nearly mentions the safehouse as a possible link-up, but cuts himself off when Isak does so instead. "Very well, thanks. An' the attempted shootin' was thwarted, so there's no bloody holes in 'em or anythin'," he says brightly, like this is an unexpected bonus feature. His eyes dart over to Hive before handing over the mug, as if asking permission first. "He was kind of brighter today. Maybe soon enough he'll be able to just -- /illusion/ that headache up for you so you can imagine it even better." Hive's eyes narrow further on Isak and then, abruptly, he snaps his fingers together. "I remember. You were an asshole." Seemingly satisfied with finally placing the man, he slumps back in his chair, waving his hand in acceptance as the mug is handed off. "There was a lot of -- dust. From the ceiling. Probably didn't cause the suits any permanent harm though." "Mhmm. Good...to hear?" says Isak, dubiously. "Perhaps I should make ones with kevlar sewn in? Bond-style?" He picks up Hive's mug and after the snap, he wobbles his head back and forth. "Sounds like me. Be right back." And he rocks back to go over to the counter to acquire beverages of the caffeinated variety. "Yeah, he's been gettin' glowier again. I'm sure he'll be back t'himself soon enough." Micah's nose crinkles up at the mention of better creating that headache, sticking his tongue out at Hive /just/ a little. "/Prob'ly/ y'could say that 'bout most people y'meet, I'd guess," he ventures at Hive's declaration that Isak was an asshole. "Thanks." This comes along with the passing off of the mug. "An', no, that dust wasn't bad. Weren't nothin' like all the plaster from that Osborn creepster party." A light snort of laughter answers the offer of kevlar. "Y'wouldn't be the first t'recommend it." "They say -- some. Shit. About -- what's that. If you meet an asshole in the morning, you met an asshole. If you meet assholes all day then you're. The asshole." Hive's lips curl up into a crookedly amused grin. "I meet assholes nonstop my whole fucking life maybe that's saying something about --" His head shakes, posture slumping further down in his seat. "Must be nice. Everyone seems to be getting back a little more to them -- Dusk's even been going out on his own." It's not busy, so it isn't long before Isak returns with a mug of his own and Hive's refilled. "Didn't know if you wanted cream or sugar or that stuff." And then, picking up the thread of the earlier conversation, "I wonder if there's a market for suits that look good but also protect from bullets?" "Hm," is all Micah offers on /that/ theory, though the corner of his lips twitches with amusement. "Yeah, we ran into 'im yesterday in the park while we were servin' up food. It was pretty okay except when Doug walked by. He almost accidentally flipped one of our tables with 'is wings." His head shakes at the mention of cream and sugar. "Nah, pretty much all the baristas know 'im here an' he always gets the same thing. I'm sure they got it right." His fingers crinkle open his bag of tortilla strips to add them to the top of his soup. "Prob'ly. S'always more need for security at fancy places, seems like. If nothin' else, would be a good idea for security /personnel/ as have t'look fancy for reasons." "Straight-up black's good by me. Thanks, man." Hive's tugged his wallet from his pocket by the time Isak returns, holding out a couple bills to cover the coffee in one shaking hand. "Did he eat? He's been skimping." He lets his coffee sit in front of him, waiting for it to cool; his other hand lifts to press to his temple again. "The Mendel -- body guards always have to go to. Fff. Bullshit, you know? Accompany the CEO to some fundraiser or another. I'm sure there's hella fucking bodyguards to rich people that could do with that kind of thing." Isak waves off Hive's money. "Call it the asshole tax." He sips his own coffee and grins. "Well. I'll put in a request to the design department. My mother is always looking for new markets to exploit." He says that with kind of a dark fondness. "Prob'ly not. We gotta get 'im back on a schedule again. S'he at least been gettin' 'is packets from the Clinic? I know they're not 'is favourite, but it keeps 'im on steadier'n people do." Micah nods along with the suit talk. "Actually, Jax could use one of those for /him/ an' also one for work." He stirs his soup a little before lifting a spoonful to his mouth. Hive's grin returns. It takes a little bit of fumbling before his shaking hands manage to get his money back in his wallet, but he finally gets the bills back inside. He leaves the wallet beside his laptop, not quite bothering yet with the hassle of returning it to his pocket. "Flicker's been picking his shit up from the Clinic. But. He barely touches it." Hive lifts his chin questioningly to Isak. "You think they'd really go for it? I bet ever since the Grammys Ryan wouldn't mind some /swank/-ass armor either." "Well, theoretically it's the same tailoring principles, just accommodating slips of kevlar rather than the latest phone or tablet." Isak shrugs. "Realistically? We'd have to contract someone who makes the body armour. It's a fairly speciality product for a company like Blomgren." But he's got some wheels turning. "Anyway. I've got to be on my way. I was just in the neighbourhood and was feeling nosy. Have a good evening." “S'good that he's gettin' it...less good that he isn't eatin'. I can go bother 'im on m'way home since it's gonna take me forever anyhow.” Lifting his mug, Micah takes another sip of chai. “S'a coffee shop. S'kinda here for people t'run in an' snag coffee. Have a good night, hon.” "Thanks for the coffee. See you 'round." Hive curls his arms atop his computer, dropping his chin forward to rest on his forearm. "You go bother him and he'll probably eat /you/. But he could use it. The fridge stuff's just unappealing I guess. S'gonna start wasting the fuck away again." "Mmn. S'been 'bout three weeks," Micah observes, eyes moving slightly ceiling-ward as he runs the mental calculations. "S'early but wouldn't be the /worst/ thing. S'gotta keep 'imself healthy so he can get back to...everythin'." His gaze turns back to his soup, twirling the spoon through it. "Mmn." Hive tips his head down further, eyes closing as he buries his face against his arm. "Everything. Yeah. Especially if -- well. Now that everyone's starting to feel better I think there might be. /Another/ raid some time in -- though. I guess /he/ isn't supposed to leave the state. But --" His teeth grind slowly. "-- can't keep waiting. We gotta --" Against his arm, his head shakes. "S'June." “Yeah, he can't go anywhere 'til the trial's done with,” Micah confirms between bites of soup. “An' I do think as soon as folks get their abilities back in line an' have a little trainin' time t'make /sure/ they're back in line, you'll all be at it again. It'd be /nice/ if they figured out what that stuff was an' how t'prevent it from happenin' again first, though.” "Better body armor. Fucking -- helmets," Hive suggests, turning his head to the side to rest his cheek on his forearm so that he can look over at Micah. "S'the goddamn chips that worry me. I'm supposed to die this -- month." His eyes close, fingers twitching against the lid of the laptop. "But, you know, if they shut down Prometheus afterwards maybe –" "Hopefully that'll be enough." Micah nods at the mention of the chips, looking down at his bowl. His spoon clatters against the side at Hive's implied thought. "No. It's not worth it. Not losin' you an' Flicker an' a whole facility full of people. We've gotta...figure somethin' out. 'Bout how t'turn the things off remotely. Or somethin' like that." "But if we do turn them off, right. And we live through that and that -- catastrophe never makes the national news and. And then what. We just keep worrying at them forever? They keep locking people up and killing them forever? They kill -- fucking -- hundreds of -- thousands of. I just." Hive shakes his head, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his eye. "Just when does it goddamn /end/. At least in that future there's an end." “Maybe it gets attention another way? Somethin'...not /that/. Just not.../that/.” Micah shakes his head emphatically. “Maybe just havin' someone record what it is that y'all are doin'. Or what's goin' on in there. Somethin'. Somethin' /else/.” Hive closes his eyes, sitting up slightly so that he can pick his coffee mug up. In his unsteady hands some of the coffee sloshes down his fingers onto the top of his thankfully-closed laptop before the cup makes it to his mouth; dropping his hand reflexively at the spill of hot liquid only tips the cup /further/ to splash onto his jeans. "Fuck," he mutters, taking a gulp of coffee /anyway/ before setting the mug back down. "It's just. I just want --" He shakes his head, sucking at the back of his fingers. "... something else." Micah scoot-scoots his chair closer to Hive with a somewhat squeaky protest of the legs against the floor. He nabs a handful of napkins and wipes first the laptop (priorities) and then attempts to pat dry the telepath's lap. Once things are about as dry as they're going to get, he leans in and drapes his arm across Hive's shoulders for a squeeze-hug. “We'll come up with somethin'. Gotta at least meet about it. There's somethin' t'be done, I'm sure.” Hive just unhelpfully slumps through the cleanup, twitching slightly at the patting but making no move to help. His shoulders tremble in the other man's embrace. "{Sorry,}" he mutters in Thai, "I just -- have been --" His mind presses in against Micah's, finishing not in words but in a jumble of overlapping mental impressions. << (tired) >> << (frustrated) >> << (running out of time). >> He drops his head in against Micah's shoulder heavily, the mental hammer of his mind a little heavier than usual. << Can you take me home? >> Micah presses a kiss to Hive's temple, arm giving the other man's shoulders a squeeze again. “Sure, hon. I was goin' there anyhow so it's not even out of the way. I'll get some carry-out cups for the drinks an' food. Grab somethin' for Dusk to-go. An' then we can get out of here.” "He likes the Reuben. No cheese." Hive stays leaning up against Micah a bit longer, taking a moment before he struggles back to slump back in his chair. "And thanks. Kind of a -- nice end to my. Work. Day. When your noisy-ass brain shows up." "Thanks," Micah replies in a tone that falls into some odd mix of sardonic and sincere. His head nods to bonk against Hive's shoulder before he stands and heads to the counter. << Love you, too. >>