ArchivedLogs:Sisyphean

Sisyphean
Dramatis Personae Jax, Jim
In Absentia	2015-02-17 "There's no fucking point in a future if our 'now' falls apart around us." (Part of future past TP.)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Garden Plot - Lower East Side
The smell instantly changes here to something greener, herbally sharp and mulchy; paved walkway drifts at angles through raised multi-tiered garden beds, reaching varying elevations of a mere foot above the ground to three feet, each held up by retaining walls of leftover stone from the houses, riddled here and there with spiraling mosaic dragons. While companion flowers of red geranium, fuchsia bee balm, violet petunias, pastel-and-white sweet pea, are sprinkled throughout and alongside each box, it's primarily vegetables; between tall eerie trellis spires of fixed animal bones, clung over with curlicues of lush vine sheets and okra, delicate netting protects lower levels of melon and tomato, kale and tomatoes and a number of other edible foods, with a separate box of sand-loving root vegetables sending up frondy foliage for carrot and onion and garlic. To one side, a compost heap lets of faint shimmers of heat and steam, to the other, a strongly scented bed of myriad herbs, both medicinal and otherwise, flanked on one side by a large healthy swell of coneflower. With a shed nearby housing gardening tools, the whole of it is watered by a network of hidden hosing that gives off faint tickles of mist when in use, ribboned with rainbows, and there are structures in place to suggest the garden can be enclosed in winter months. The garden plots, now sheltered by closed-in glass walls, is starkly green with winter piling up banks of white just outside. The herby smell is clean and aggressive, a faint fog collects against the corners of the windows from the warmth inside. Jim is here; he's leaned a large red shovel to the side and is in the middle of jerk-pull-tug /stripping out/ of the heavy corduroy coat while making... noises. Semi-disgusted grumbly DAMN-IT'S-COLD noises like "uwaagh". Just outside, the sidewalks of the Commons have that crisp freshly-shoveled look. A blast of that cold is spilling in right now; Jax is coming into the garden-turned-greenhaus from outside rather than from the sunroom. The fact that he's not really wearing much of any Outside Clothes -- just a blue ombre sweater whose bulkiness suggests plenty of layers underneath, cloud-printed leggings under a silvery-grey skirt, tall thick scrunchy black-blue-silver legwarmers, talllll boots -- as well as the fact that he's shaking snow off his boots /despite/ the cleared sidewalks -- suggests he may have just kind of hurried over here straight across the lawns and through the snow rather than taking the paths. Kind of like a shortcut? Kinda? At any rate he's closing the door behind him now, leaning against it with a /wince/ and a deep breath of warm-herby air. Some of the bandaging has come off his face and hands though there's still a few white patches; the rest of his skin is just reddened, uneven. His sunglasses have a small twist of gauze against one of their temples just to cushion it from pressing against the burned side of his face. He looks a little bit sheepish as he gives Jim a small wave, the sleeve of his sweater long enough to cover most of his fingers. CRAP, BRR. When the door opens, Jim grips his jacket back to his body like a SLIPPED BATHROBE. His usual methods of cold resistance, tough bark-flesh and shiverless plant fiber, haven't been as useful in the prolonged freezing temperatures. Unless you want to freeze solid and sleep through the winter. He's probably grumbled about it already. God knows he's been around plenty, almost /defiantly/ carrying on with chores and groundskeeping against the Snowpocalypse like a firm bastion of go-fuck-yourself dependability. While removing the last of his coat (it requires him shaking out one hand like an old tom cat with a bit of tape on its paw), eyes jump rapidly over the newly collected bandages, faintly wincing. "We need," he is abruptly speaking, raising a thumb and forefinger to soft-flick some of the snow from Jax's shoulder, "A coffee maker in here. Or some - fucking stove to /boil/ water. Or fuck. Firepit. One of those god damn... chimay or chimin...ea. ...S. Not like we're keeping you not-on-fire by /not/ having one." "We could -- probably put a firepit?" Jax looks uncertain about this, looking uncertainly around the temporary-greenhouse before he leans slightly /in/ to bop his forehead against Jim's shoulder. "Maybe? I don't know how you would -- chimney-up the -- hmm." Now he rocks back on his heel, taking a longer look around the garden. He draws back to a wall, fingers tracing against one clear panel. "We /could/ probably modify just a couple of the panels to put in some ventilation, not too difficult." After this, though, his nose wrinkles up, shoulders sagging. His tone skews a little bit glum. "... but you know who'd know way better than me." "-Don't." Jim had /almost/ thumped one arm around the back of Jax's shoulders for the headbutting, before remembering that MAYBE a lot of his body has been recently BURNED. Uh - careful elbow-pat? ...Pat? "Can't bottleneck /every/ fucken project past 'is desk, sunshine. Let's--." He eyes the glass Jax touches, the smooth-cool surface fogging up from the head of his fingertip and leaving little finger-paint marks where he touches, "-- just. Try /muddling/ it ourselves." The faint creak-squeaking of strained wood whispers evidence of soft pale leaves unfurling around his crown, sipping at the rare sunlight, while he turns to pace the nearest garden beds. "We can muddle," Jax agrees, slowly turning -- not so much to pace as drift absently in Jim's wake. Around him there's not so much an unfurling as a /coiling/, slow golden-mist trails of sunlight /visibly/ drawing near to lazily lap at his skin as they get absorbed. "Flicker's good. At -- building. Things." His fingers flutter towards the roof. Maybe the walls. "Think he might enjoy a project, get his mind off --" His brows pull in. "Waiting to hear from med schools." "Ffff," Jim releases some air at Jax's last comment, "Yeah. Let's get'm on board." Though his back is mostly turned towards Jax, his leaves, sprouting from elbows and wrists as well beginning to delicately lean towards photokinetic's warming glow, "Guess we'd want something detachable. Not some fucking brick and mortar deal. Be a pain in the ass if we wanna take it down if the spring ever comes." If. Not when. His fingers bat absentmindedly at the leaves of an okra vine as he passes. Kind of lightly /slapping/ a brighter green into it. By the time Jax wanders past, it's perked up visibly. "Had a dream." He adds. Conversationally. "/If/, oh gosh, you're killin' me. Only so much more this to /take/." I'll put a heatlamp over the whole'a New York if I gotta." Though it's still plenty warm in here, Jax shivers, the ripples of light around him trembling as well. "Or jus'. Start migratin' on South. Oh /man/ oh gosh I want okra for dinner." He is stopping to contemplate the vine. With a murderous eye. His head tips at the last comment. "Mmm? Was it a dream 'bout endless snow cuz if I got you t'thank for this, we gonna have /words/." Now JIM is looking down at the helpless little plant like it's something that might need to be buried in the back yard. And reaches out to /flick/ another leaf into rush-growing leaves after his hand when it moves away. The whole of the plant endures softer shudders and tremors from the contact; a few leaves ripen, darken, then reach the end of their cycle and fall away as the top of the okra bush grows slightly taller. Whp-whp? In two places, tightly sealed buds strain open into trumpeted okra flowers. Creamy-yellow, red-centered, with dark crimson stamen spearing out from the center like a hibiscus and just... POINTING at Jax. All phallic like. Okra pods begin to ripen, sinking under their own weight. "I wish," Jim scoffs softly as he swipes at the plant, coaxing more form it. "...was different. Wasn't just /seeing/ it, Jax, I was fucking /there/. I was talking to..." The light around Jax brightens. Warmer, sunnier, in radiant glow. He reaches out a hand to brush lightly against the flowers, then the pods, pulling in a slow breath as he watches this life-cycle in fast-forward. He resists the urge to /pluck/ a flower, drawing his hand back to let the pods develop and ripen. "I'll make y'some good gumbo with this t'night." He sounds delighted -- at least for a moment before lapsing back into quiet. "Oh. Oh, one of..." He trails off again, shifting to half-turn away from the plant and a little more towards Jim. "There? I mean where? What happened?" "Bet your sparkly ass you are," Jim bluntly /agrees/ that there is gumbo in his future, talking down to the plant. He must hear or spatially sense Jax turning towards him, though he isn't looking up. "...'s Hivey." Just that, at first. It's enough, apparently, because he's just going to scrub a hand down his face, "/Future/ fucking Hivey, that's been doing all this. Fuck if I could tell you HOW, but he's made made himself a goddamn stick long enough to reach back and /prod us/ from five years in the future." A vein thuds gently at his temple, just above a faint twisting of muscles where his jaw clenches and unclenches until he breaks off from the okra for now to stalk along a different pathway. It's not like he'll be going far, considering there's walls. "Baked so much King Cake too so it'll /go/ good. Thematic..." Jax's hand drops to his side, words trailing off as dinner talk gives way to -- blank. His brows pull in, lowering behind his sunglasses. "... what." At first it's just slow and uncomprehending. He shifts uncomfortably, lifts his hand slowly again to stiff-uncomfortable pull (red and healing) fingers through his hair before he drops it again with a wince. "I mean, what? Wait. Hive -- Hive is --" His jaw clenches. "Is that why he -- why he went all -- s'he doin' this for the /dreams/? /Making/ the dreams?" "Something like that." Jim rotates on his heel with he reaches the nearest wall to slow-topple like a tree into /thudding/ his back against one of the supports. Arms already crossed, a deep frown directed downward. "Almost doesn't matter - if he's doin' this, only thing we got right now's to just." His teeth grind. "Take what he's doing and /use/ it. Shit's gonna get worse - we already fuckin' knew that. But he's got a string and two cans fixed b'tween this time with a /worse/ one to maybe help us head it /off/. -- S'kinda your thing, right?" It's not reaaaally humor, whatever depreciated sentiment is twisting his mouth. "Fightin' for a better tomorrow?" Jax turns aside, head tipping back towards the roof and his arms folding over his chest. He exhales, slow and hissed between his teeth. "Not like /this/." Though his back is turned it's easy to see the tightening set of his shoulders under his sweater, the faint tremor of light around him. "Kinda lost my taste for trying to mess with the future after Vermont. What if all this -- what if we're /making/ it?" Where Jim tips back he tips forward, head coming to rest against the wall and his breath fogging against the pane he leans on. "Besides, I don't -- what do we /do/? What do I -- I mean, I haven't even been having these dreams -- anymore. Micah an' B -- m'pretty sure I'm jus' dead by then." He doesn't sound particularly /moved/ by this fact one way or another, just kind of rote information. "How're we supposed t'change the whole path of the country?" "Fuck if I know," soft scoff, "But if he's in, I'm in. Can't say Vermont," Jim head tips lower, eyes closing. More treacherous leaves open wide and strain towards Jax to bask deeper in the warm glow. "Turns out /entirely/ worse for it." When his eyes open again, they're steady, hard, turning towards the other man, "We're gonna do this by /not/ putting it all on one guy. I'm on it. I'm lettin you on it. And for right now, all I been asked to pass on is to start getting the word out to get /more/ people on it. Most precious fucking thing /we/ got that they don't is /time/ - some handful of years in the future, something /bad/'s gonna happen in Westchester. There'll already be god damn fire-eating switchblade-monster /deathbots/ by earth and sky, shredding mutants down to a fine pink /mist/ as they go. Not like you can make it much /worse/." "Uagh, so…" He scratches the side of his jaw, "Uh. Guess keep the school up to date on /bombing/ drills, t'start. Don't even fucking know if it was - missiles or… fucking. Freak abilities or just a big-ass home-made device. Fuck. And uh-. Oscorp. They got their /feet/ wet in all this, very least. You ever know anyone, got an ear to /that/ door, just…" Slowly, Jim is giving way to head shaking. "Just everyone - every god damn man, woman and child, be ready. Keep an ear out. Not tomorrow, not a few months from now, but years got a way of stacking up, and we gotta use 'em to get enough information cobbled together to head it /off/." The light shivers -- hotter, brighter, for a moment, around Jax. He sucks in another slow breath, arms wrapping tight against his chest. It takes a long moment before he turns away from the glass to look at Jim again. "Westchester -- the school? Do we know..." He trails off, his jaw tightening with a hard jump of muscle in his cheek at the suggestion of mutant abilities. The glow around him vanishes all at once. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a few months from now. I mean, the future has a way of snowballing, too. Wait too long and we might miss whatever turning point --" He cuts off, pressing his teeth hard into his lip. "Get the word out. Right. I can do that." And then a slow dip of head, a deep furrow of brow. "In the future. Hive. Is he -- still..." His weight shifts uncomfortably. "/Him/?" "Surly. Demanded a cigarette off me. In /dire/ fucking need of a haircut." Jim regards Jax's shifting, mouth compressing. "--Jax. Lookit me." Jax's cheeks puff out, shoulders tightening further through the short breath he expels. "... sounds like him." Low and kind of tired. It takes a moment before he tips his gaze up, Jim reflected in the lenses of his glasses. They, at least, make his gaze look steady. "I don't actually know if any of this'll make a thin smear of difference." Jim admits, low; looking to Jax at an angle, over the bridge of his nose with the further eye, over the slope of his cheekbone the nearer. "We don't even know what we're trying to /stop/. There's just no way around that." He takes in another slow breath, lets it out. "What I do know is, it'd be real easy to let it ruin our lives /right now/ if we try taking this all at once. I almost didn't even want to--" He waves a mangled hand, 'bah!' Returns to, "We just gotta focus on not /letting/ it. There's no fucking point in a future if our 'now' falls apart around us. For us or him. Them. Whatever." "So." He extends a fist bump-wait-maybe-awkward-phantom-hug. "Let's just. Get some fucking dinner made right now. And I'll get the rest of the damn walkways ADA /compliant/ before it snows again. Yeah?" "Yeah -- yeah," Jax agrees, quiet. "Yeah. Whatever's happening we -- still got a whole lot of present to take care of." He nods, tentative then firmer like he is working himself /up/ to it. Leans in past the fist bump for a small half-hug. "/Right/. Gumbo. I'm gettin' the better end of the deal, that snow's a Sisyphean task." /Now/ a small knuckletap, before he trots off to harvest his OKRA.