ArchivedLogs:Solid

Solid
Dramatis Personae Hive, Scramble
In Absentia	2016-03-15 "Where's left to plant a flag?"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Rooftop - Lower East Side
An open-air escape especially popular with smokers and fliers, the Common House rooftop makes good use of its limited space. The railing that circles it has child-resistant gates where walkways can be extended to connect to the other buildings in the development. A colorful and ever-changing table with sometimes-matching benches provides an ideal spot for an urban picnic. There are two garden boxes on the south-facing side, one for vegetables and the other for herbs and flowers, a tool shed and small patio table with chairs between them. There's still gaming going on downstairs, still food, still drinking; through the open third-floor windows music can still be heard (currently the Cruxshadows' "Valkyrie".) Up here it's quieter, though, just a light flutter of breeze and the crackle of a lit match, the rustle of corduroy against concrete as Hive leans down against the guard wall. His elbows prop against it, eyes fixed outward on the empty lot where his house once stood. He's blandly dressed, jeans and a black corduroy button-down worn open over a plain white undershirt, hair falling in a loose shaggy mop down to partially obscure his eyes. The cigarette between his fingers is freshly lit, lifted slowly to his lips for a long puff. There's a quiet uproar of mock disgust from the game room that indicates someone has just brought the most recent Settlers of Catan game to an abrupt end. The trudge of Scramble's boots on the steps can be heard a few moments later, just before she herself emerges onto the rooftop, pulling an asymmetrical black jacket on over a purple cropped top and black jeans that lace up the sides from cuffs to waistband. The boots which annouced her approach so readily are ancient and impressively stompy, and the gold bangles on her wrist jangle as she moves, matching the gold hoops in her ears and the not-/quite/ closed circle of the pendant she wears on a black cord. She comes to rest beside Hive, bracing elbows against the railing much like him -- they are similiarly shaped. Her mind is unsettled, though not much with the dissonance that her mutation so often brings. Her hand makes a sort of indifferent grabbing motion for his cigarette. Hive's eyes stay fixed outward on the bones of his old home, thin shoulders hunched in where he leans heavily on the wall. One of his boots -- not particularly stompy, just old scuffed workboots -- trails back, slightly, toe tapping against the ground by his opposite heel. Knee crooked in against the guardrail. He pulls his hand away from his mouth, extending the cigarette sideways towards Scramble. Scramble relieves Hive of his cigarette and takes a long drag before returning it. Straightens slightly. Breathes a stream of smoke up and out into the night air. Slumps back down against the railing again. "Matt won," she reports, though it could not have come as any particular surprise, telepathy or no. Her mental image of the game board's final configuration is dominated by little green wooden settlements and cities and roads. "How you holding up?" << I'm wearing my surprised face. >> Still kind of sleepily half-lidded, gaze lazily unshifting, brows level, the only shift of his mouth comes to slip the cigarette back between his lips and take another long pull. "So he's colonized Catan and Flicker's King of New York. Where's left to plant a flag?" "Your /face./" Scramble doesn't miss a beat, her reply as deadpan as his question. "Your /surprised/ face." She turns to regard him, dark brown eyes steady and appraising. "Someone was talking 'bout starting up a game of Battlestar. Without the Big White Expansion." Noncommittal, faintly interested, offering without expectation. "If you got some interest in /settling/ my /face/ you're welcome to fucking try. Should be warned there's a /host/ of prior residents who aren't going to make your job easy." Hive's thumb flicks against the filter of his cigarette, his eyes still just steadily focused outward. "B's a Cylon. -- I'm shit when it comes to /intrigue/ anyway. Probably," he surmises, still deadpan as well, "because I have the worst poker face. Wear it all on my fucking --" His hand waves vaguely in the air before offering Scramble the cigarette back. "Well, I'm not really into planting flags." Scramble shrugs. "Your face belongs to...hell, like I even know." She doesn't sound quite as exasperated as her words might suggest. "Anyway, who gives a shit if you're any good at it as long as you --" Her mouth twists to the side, and she takes the cigarette. "Was about to say as long as you enjoy it, but I don't know about that anymore, either." It's only here that Hive finally does turn -- a very small shift of his head sideways towards Scramble. A very small inward dip of his brows, a very small narrowing of his eyes. << Do you think I -- >> There's something kind of distant about his mental voice as it knifes sharp and quick through Scramble's mind -- though his psionic voice is overlapping with his spoken one, one thought aborted early though the other completes properly: "Do /you/ enjoy all this?" Scramble takes a drag from the cigarette, flicks the ashes from it, hands it back. She flinches at sharp touch of his mental voice, though not with surprise or dismay. If anything she feels distinctly /relieved/. "Me? Yeah. I mean BSG specifically?" She holds out a hand and wobbles it. "I can take it or leave it. Like with most games, though, it's fun with the right folks." Hive folds his arms loosely over each other, perhaps not noticing the cigarette or perhaps ignoring it as his fingers tuck into the crooks of his opposite arms. "Got a pretty solid group here. Never been short on /fun/ before." Scramble nods and just continues smoking Hive's cigarette. "It's a solid group," she agrees easily, quietly. Her thoughts are not straying to board games, though, but to locked cells and chaos and death. Clenches her jaw. "Fuck," she mutters. Hive shakes his head, a harder clench to his shoulders. << Solid... >> echoes in a distinctly unsteady quavering ripple through Scramble's mind. There's quiet slow grind to his teeth that follows. "Sure Dusk would, if you asked," he finally helpfully volunteers (still through clenched teeth.) "Bonus, if your spine glows it'll save us the trouble of playing the whole game out." Scramble shivers at the...very unsolid echoing thought. Lifts a hand to knead at Hive's shoulder. /She/ is by degrees relaxing as the nicotine kicks in. Also, very deliberately thinking about the game that they haven't yet started playing. "C'mon, nobody /ever/ notices the spine thing." Shakes her head, offers the cigarette back to Hive once more. "'Sides, won't catch me if I'm the Cylon /sympathizer./" Hive closes his eyes, teeth still grinding as he leans into the touch. "Pretty sure by this point we're all real damn clear on where everyone's sympathies lie." His fingers clench against his arms, curling tighter. "You staying here tonight or. Going. Back to your hippie... fucking... commune." "Pfft. With the Cylons, obviously." Scramble curls a long, spindly arm around Hive and hugs him tight. "Depends how late the gaming goes." << Right now I just don't ever wanna go to sleep. >> She lets him go, a little reluctantly. Smokes the cigarette down to the filter and stubs it out in a cheerfully painted sunflower ashtray someone had left on the ground. "So. You down for Battlestar?" Hive's eyes close -- tight, too. His head tips in, face buried against Scramble's shoulder. His bony arms lift from the railing, slowly unclench so that one can wrap around Scramble and squeeze back. Tight. << Fuck sleep. Let's play. >>