ArchivedLogs:Two Cities

Two Cities
Dramatis Personae Hive, Isra, Melinda
In Absentia	2015-12-10 "{It is for the rich, for the powerful, for the privileged. Above all, for humans.}" (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Treehaus - Lower East Side
A spiral of sturdy slatted wooden stairs winds up the trunk of an enormous oak, leading the way up to this treehouse positioned between a pair of trees at one side of the Commons yard, abutting the river. It's clear enough upon ascending that this is no ordinary treehouse, built sturdy-strong and with a polished finish that would rival most /regular/ residences. Spanning the distance between the pair of oaks, the treehouse is a long one-story building, equipped with both plumbing and electricity. The stairs lead up onto a wraparound balcony that projects out at one side to overlook the East River rushing by below. The doorway inside leads to a furnished sitting room, long low futon-couches on the pale wood floors, walls painted in leafy shades of green, exposed-beam ceilings that seem to have worked some of the actual branches of the tree into the curvature of the roof. The front room is bright and airy, large windows looking out on the Commons grounds and the river outside. Recessed lanterns in the wall give the room a warm glow, come nighttimes, and in the center of the room amid a stone-tiled patch of flooring there is a squat glass-encased gas fireplace providing warmth in winter. Off to one side of the room there is an elevated loft up nearer the ceiling, accessible by ladder and furnished with pillows and plush futon mattress and lots of blankets. The adjoining room is decorated in watery river-blues instead of leaf-greens; in here there's a small kitchenette to one side with sink and stove and toaster oven and counter space, cabinets on the walls. A long dining table in this room seats eight; by the windows, plenty of cushioning sits in the wide window-seats. Off in the very back, a tiny half-bathroom holds a sink and toilet. No stove in here; the wintertime tends to find this room much chillier, but there's generally plenty of warm blankets lying around the house. It's mild today, pleasant enough even early in the morning. Off well beyond the treehaus, downstream, one lone zombie is splashing in the shallows of the river, bedraggled and wet where it slowly -- doesn't quite actually make its way any closer to the Commons. Doesn't really make its way anywhere, staring down into the water at passing fish with an openmouthed gape. Up above, in a corner of the treehaus balcony, Hive is slumped against its railing. Mild though it is he's not quite dressed for the morning chill, plain denim shirt unbuttoned over a sleeveless undershirt, jeans, no shoes. A cigarette held between his fingers is half-spent, though the long tail of ash on it suggests it's been a while since he's actually /moved/ it to his mouth. He's not looking at the zombie. Or at the Commons around him. Not looking anywhere so much as off into the distance over the glimmering surface of the water. Melinda has donned a sweater to ward off the chill that proceeds the rising of the sun. She's wearing jeans under that and thick bottomed boots that are knit and fake fluff on top. She's holding tight to a bat as she makes her way up the stairs to the upper levels of the tree house, a knot of worry bending her brows together. She keeps looking toward the noise of the nearby zombie, but doesn't move to engage, her hands white knuckled on the bat. She wets her lips repeatedly, searching. Once she spies Hive, she scurries over, frowning deeply as she looks him over. She finally releases one of her hands' grip on the handle section of the bat and reaches out for his shoulder, lightly touching him. She is... terrified. Not so much about him or his well being, but for being out on the ground floor. She's stuck to the upper walk ways and staying close to people who fight much better than her, but now she's trying ... a bit of independence. Yes, a little twinge of concern for his wellbeing is her main motivation for leaving, but mostly, she feels the need to prove to herself that she can do it, to walk one her own two feet and just cross the courtyard. To face her fears. "{I'm... putting coffee on. You want some?}" she asks quietly in Spanish. The shadow of Isra's wings on the ground looks enormous owing to the angle of the morning light, and it circles the treehouse in a slow spiral, expanding until the gargoyle herself comes into view, backwinging hard and hovering for a moment a few feet beyond the balcony. The sunlight glints off of the brilliant rainbow-crystal patterns of her wings, and her jewel beetle skin looks a different color from every angle. She wears a relatively plain black tunic dress with bell sleeves and handkerchief hems, and a soft, gauzy circle scarf in purple-pink-red ombre that matches her arm- and leg-warmers. Alighting on the porch at last, carefully, she folds in her wings. "{Good morning,}" she says, inclining her horned head. Her Spanish sounds not a little like Ion's. Vivid green eyes skip between Melinda and Hive, and her tail sways slowly, ears pressing back. "{/I/ would like some coffee, if you would not mind.}" The zombie in the water looks up, at the sounds overhead. Its mouth opens and closes, gaping as the shadow passes overhead. Hive doesn't look up, staying slouched against the railing, eyes still locked ahead. << They say it'll be over soon. >> The jangle of voices that ripples through the others' minds are more dissonant than usual. Grating, rattling -- kind of groaning. The figure in the river has locked its eyes on the Treehaus, staring towards the balcony, though it still doesn't move. << Clean up. Take the city back. >> Melinda looks up when Isra comes winging in, watching her descent in the glow of dawn. She forgets her worries for a moment, enjoying the sight before inhaling and looking back to Hive as his words start filtering into her thoughts. She bows her head and closes her eyes for a moment, considering. << Over... they've said that before. >> She smiles a little and glances toward Isra. "{Yes, definitely. Just need a moment or two to be ready. Then... Coffee.}" Isra's ears press flat against her head. << Take it back for whom? >> The thought was not necessarily intended for Hive, but neither does she have any interest in keeping it from him. "{Thank you,}" to Melinda, with a slight smile, tips of fangs flashing. She settles one wing across his shoulders, as much for affection as a vague notion that he looks cold. "{There are people preparing already. It looks reasonably organized right now, but I do not expect it to last. Probably not a good day to venture out on foot.}" Her eyes flick to Melinda's baseball bat. Hive exhales, quick and sharp and hissed through his teeth. In time with this, the zombie in the water lets out a slow cry, creaky and rasping. << Who the fuck -- >> This thought doesn't complete itself. "Who has this city ever been for?" "Huh?" Melinda is confused when Hive makes an outburst, her lips pursing. She glances between the two, glancing down toward the zombie afterward. She shakes her head and turns back, her mind wondering if this is the prelude to a rousing speech about saving the city for someone in particular. She purses hir lips. "{City is for... everyone?}" "{I imagine,}" Isra replies levelly, "{that the mayor meant taking the city back for the /living/.} She turns to Melinda now, easily meeting the woman's eyes over Hive's head, her own still and unblinking. "{The city is different things to different people. But, like so much that human societies create, it is for the rich, for the powerful, for the privileged. Above all, for humans.}" /This/ statement of Melinda's actually rouses Hive from his slack position, choking out a rough laugh as his fingers twitch inwards. The long butt of ash is dislodged from his cigarette, flaking off to scatter on the breeze. "For /everyone/. {Fucking hell.}" His knuckles press against the railing, pushing him upright and further into the drape of Isra's wings. "You gonna feed Tola that lie? /She'll/ unlearn it pretty fucking quick." There's another rasping moan down below, the zombie finally pushing back into motion now to slosh its way nearer the treehaus. "{Oh. Shit. No. I...}" Melinda stutters, her cheeks turning red, her gaze lowering again. She struggles to find anything Spanish to dig herself out of this mess, but can only find words that fail her and the realization that even in English, she could not excuse those hastily, thoughtless words. "{I'm sorry.}" She circles a fist over her chest when she apologizes. Isra shakes her head. The index phalanx of her wing extends out to press against Melinda's arm. "{You know it, even if you forgot for a moment.}" Then she lapses back into English, "But consider this: the number of humans who even think about the existence of that privilege are vanishingly small, {So humans will take the city back, with our help if we give it, and never imagine that we might dare to want more than just surviving.}" << Than just being permitted to survive. >> Hive dips his head, lifting his cigarette to his lips. The puff he takes is slow. The small shake of his head would maybe seem like dismissal, but the press of his mind up against Mel's is quiet and accepting: << (we know.) >> "People will give it. Can you imagine Jax sitting /out/? The pups were gearing up already last night. Flicker..." This trails off. "The humans will /have/ our help. And we'll have --" His eyes, slightly more focused, now, have dipped downward. At the base of the tree, the zombie is pulling itself out of the water, clambering up along the roots. Just standing. Head tipped upward towards them. "We'll have --" But here he just shakes his head again. Finishes off his cigarette in a long drag. He glances to Melinda's baseball bat. Then back down. Mel doesn't cheer up much when Isra's wing touches her arm or when Hive's mind connects once more with hers. The words about raising her daughter are roiling an ache in her heart. As the subject changes, her mind wants to say something optimistic, like 'a few more allies' or 'better access to food supplies' but can only imagine how these things cannot actually be counted on. Eventually, she offers the only optimism she has at the moment, "Fewer people actively wanting to literally eat you." She swallows against that lump in her throat and tightens her grip on her bat. "I think I need coffee. I'll... go get started on it."