ArchivedLogs:Speaking of...

Speaking of...
Dramatis Personae Hive, Steve
In Absentia	2015-11-10 "{Influenza, then? The doctors gave me a shot for that.}" (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Guest Room 1 - Lower East Side
Simple but comfortable, this guest room provides a quiet escape from the bustle of the rest of the Common house. In decoration it is spartan; plain pale hardwood floor, plain white walls with only a splash of light blue to break up the monotony on the trim. Large windows let in plentiful light; by one window, the queen-sized bed hangs on a wooden platform from the ceiling by thick sturdy ropes, able to be winched up against the wall if extra floor space is necessary. A small wooden desk with single desk chair and three drawers sits to the left of the bed; above it, several bookshelves have been installed on the wall. Against a different wall, a plain dresser provides storage space. Opposite the bed, a cushioned bench seat has been hung against the wall in similar fashion, sturdy ropes supporting it quite solidly. There is a heap of blue blankets sitting at the desk, sort of slumped over a spread of library books predominated by 20th century history, but with a few other eclectic titles thrown in: 'Slaughterhouse-Five', 'Manufacturing Consent' and 'Practical Spanish'. Judging by the big black duffle bag sitting at the foot of the bed, Steve must have gotten out of the room at /some/ point today and collected some belongings, but at the moment he is trying to read 'Battlefield America', sniffling often and sipping from a very large bowl of herbal soup. There's a knock, at the door. Or more of a thump, really, the toe of a boot thudding against the base of the door. Thump thump thump. Outside, Hive is holding two mugs of coffee, both rather full. He's looking a good deal more /drained/ than he was at dinner last night; shoulders slumped, a tired cast to his (ever-so-slightly-unfocused) eyes. He's in jeans, brown tee shirt upon which a pair of hedgehogs is staring at another one who has upended a tin of blue paint over itself, a bright orange and white Aperture Science sweatshirt. Steve's groan is mostly inward, and he rises with an effort to answer the door. << I should put on a proper shirt, >> he thinks this idly, but doesn't actually follow through with it as he drags himself to the door and pulls it open. He's still wearing the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, with a white ribbed A-shirt and blue jeans underneath. His nose is red and his face pale, though cleanly shaven. His short blond hair sticks up in pretty much every conceivable direction. "{Hello,}" he greets Hive in French, his voice hoarse and his eyes a bit bleary. Then he looks down and sees the mugs. "{Oh. Coffee!}" he says intelligently. Then, shaking his head rapidly. "{Please, come in. If you'd like. I'm not sure you want to be exposed to my sickness.}" Hive slips inside with a small nod of his head, eyes ticking only briefly over Steve and then sweeping past him. He moves in to set one of the mugs down on the desk, keeping the other for himself. "{You're sick.}" Very perceptively. "{Half of everyone important in my life is sick. I'm as exposed as I'm getting. You got enough -- shit up here? There's plenty of stuff in the kitchen. Juice. Soup. Whatever. Help yourself.}" Steve follows the coffee back to the desk and slumps down into the chair again, pulling the mug closer and taking a daring sip off the top. "{This is amazing, even through the head cold. Thank you.}" Through the haze of fever, the coffee (perhaps as much the fact that Hive thought to bring him some as the beverage itself) restores to him a vague sense that everything might not be overwhelming and confusing forever. "{All the coffee I have had in this time has been excellent. Here more so than at the SSR facility.}" He closes 'Battlefield America' and sets it atop a small stack of random books to one side of the desk. "{I haven't been this sick since...1941? But I used to fall ill a lot, it's not new to me. I'll be fine.}" Then, looking at the bowl. "{A young lady brought me some soup earlier. Everyone here is...}" << Generous? Kind? Not sure what word I even mean. >> "{Is this a commune, of sorts? I'm not sure if the word is still used in the same sense...}" "{Shane owns a coffee shop. And Isra just has good taste. And Mel -- you haven't met Mel.}" Hive shakes his head quickly, almost apologetic. "{I have very good coffee dealers.}" He's wandered over towards the window, one shoulder leaning up against it and his eyes focused outward at the grey day outside. "{SSR can revive a man from the dead and they can't get you decent fucking coffee? What kinda justice there.}" He gives his head a small shake, after this. "{No. Yes. Not really. It's -- something different. But there are a lot of strong community aspects to how we organize our neighborhood, here. I'm sure someone can give you the whole rundown on our place later, when you're not feeling like shit, if you want.}" His lips compress, shoulders just a little bit tenser. /Voice/ just a little bit tenser. "{And I'm afraid it's not just a head cold.}" "{SSR's coffee is still far and away better than the Ersatzkaffee I've been drinking these last two years.}" Though here Steve frowns lightly. << Seventy-two years? When will that stop sounding like madness? >> "{Influenza, then? The doctors gave me a shot for that.}" The change in Hive's posture is not lost on him, though. << But it cannot be that 'zombie plague'. I have not spoken English with anyone. >> "{When you get that plague your mind starts to change. It's subtle, at first, but.}" A very faint tremor runs through Hive's bony shoulders. "{I've felt it enough. Enough -- enough --}" His head gives one quick sharp shake, fingers tightening around the coffee mug. "{More than enough to recognize.}" His head bows, slow. "{Are you certain? That you haven't? Not even once?}" Steve sips at his coffee, more confident now that its temperature is tolerable. There's a distant, cold wash of dread in his mind, but it does not shake his calm (or, for that matter, his rather more present misery). "{I believe you, but I am also very sure. I spoke English to some of the medical personnel when they first woke me up...weeks ago.}" His inevitable recollection of that time is brief but packed with disorientation: sterile hospital smell and over-bright operatory lights and too many eager surgical-masked faces and indistinct voices and needles and needles and nitrile gloved hands moving his paralyzed limbs, every touch lighting up newly awakened nerves with agony. "{But unless the sickness can lie dormant for more than a week, I am absolutely certain. I have spoken French, occasionally Italian, and exhausted my very limited Spanish lexicon.}" He closes his eyes, checking his recollections again--conversations with his handlers, with Joshua and Jax, with a priest, with librarians, with Shane and Taylor, with his erstwhile employer, all the way to dinner last night at Lighthaus. "{I am confident I have only /written/ English.}" Hive's breath catches -- the wash of memory that flickers secondhand through his mind snaps his posture up straighter. Quick. Jerky. There's a quick hiss as coffee splashes down over his fingers, his half-lidded eyes opening wider. Then sinking half-closed again. "{... sorry.}" A mutter. He grabs a few tissues off the desk to sop up the spilled coffee off the floor, shoulders hunching in again as he crouches. "{Written English. Fucking hell. This city is -- fucked.}"