ArchivedLogs:Unstoppable

Unstoppable
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Hive, Isra, Micah	2014-11-12 With cake!
Location <NYC> Creative Little Garden - Lower East Side
It's not a big park, really. A small secluded garden in the Lower East Side, quite close to Tompkins Square. The trees stretch overhead to both sides of the mulched paths, forming a leafy canopy through which New York's murky city-sky is visible. Between the paths the grounds spill over with an abundance of flowers, hedges, community-tended, in here. The paths all wind together into the small central clearing, a little circular retreat with fountain and benches. "If you squint juuust right --" Hive is /doing/ so, eyes narrowed up towards the canopy overhead. He's in jeans, workboots, Aperture Science track jacket over his 'ceci n'est pas un lune' Death Star tee. One arm is draped across his chest, the other tucked behind his head like a pillow where he lies on a stony bench beneath the trees. "It's almost like you're in." His eyes scrunch up further, brow creasing as he grasps for words. "... somewhere. Fucking. Else." "Unless you have ears. Or a nose." Flicker is perched just /above/ Hive, tucked onto a tree branch with legs dangling down towards the bench. "I mean, that wonderful exhaust-and-garbage smell you're just not going to get out in nature." Isra sits at the far end of the bench by Hive's feet, staring not up at the canopy but down at a tablet lying in her lap. Its screen is dark, and its stylus idle in her hand. She wears a very short black cropped top and a somewhat asymmetrical black skirt set off with a sash belt that matches the purple vine patterns running from her head down her sides to the very tip of her tail. A black mirror-work satchel hangs across one shoulder, and a black camera bag across the other. "We could relocate to somewhere that more closely resembles capital-N-nature if you would prefer." This quietly, without sarcasm or much inflection of any sort. "That sounds like effort." The grump in Hive's tone implies: fuck effort. "Also, movement." Which he seems very disinclined to do. "Anyway unlike this fucking /sourpuss/ up there I'm happy with these trees. Not my fault his damn glass is always half-empty." His head lifts just enough to level a narrow-eyed suspicious glare at Isra and her tablet, whose screen he can't much see from this angle. "... Are you doing /work/?" Flicker tips his head back to look up at the sky. His mind is cheerfully (obnoxiously) /loud/ at Hive. Singing. << I've got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine -- >> Externally, just a quietly neutral expression, a slow settling of his shoulders, slump of weight. "Bah," he tells Hive, solemnly, "humbug. -- If we're relocating anywhere it should be somewhere with." His mind flits over so many many options of Food that sound currently very delicious but settles finally on, "cake." "It's peaceful enough, fumes or no." Isra looks up from her tablet, ears pressing back. Fleeting glimpses of her students flash through her mind. "No. Just some casual reading. That I'm failing to read." She snaps the stylus onto the tablet case. "I second cake, though my options are rather limited. Evolve. Happy Cakes. Neither contains much in the way of pristine wilderness." "S'one of my favorite spots. Not -- the most beautiful of parks or anything but. Not many people come. I like the quiet." There's a faint ghosting press up against Isra's mind, ephemeral-quick like pawing towards those fleeting images. "Probably failing because you have no fucking cake. How do you expect to get. Anything done without." Hive closes his eyes, rubbing at them with his knuckles. "Haven't been to Happy Cakes in too long. Let's do it." His teeth grind, hand slipping from eyes to temples to rub there. "... in a few." "Happy Cakes does get kind of wild." Flicker's voice is only amused, only warm, a smile flitting across his face. His mind is more chaotic: bloodstains on a sidewalk, bloodstains on Hive's shirt, a cupcake box spattered in red, Dusk's haunted expression. Welcome to the Jungle. "Don't have cake, but." He jumps down from the tree, flick-flick-flick, reappearing lighlty beside the bench to scoop up a backpack he's abandoned there. "We could always start with presents." Not like you can really surprise a telepath, but he pulls a small box out of his backpack /anyway/, neatly wrapped in crimson paper with a gold bow. "Doubtful, given how much reading I have done sans cake. I suspect it is a merely function of my allergy to fun." Isra tugs absently at her skirt, smoothing it down. Her thoughts focus--literal, as images in a lens--and sharpen: a class raptly awaiting telemetry from Curiosity, Lyric helping her adjust the pattern for a cloak, the Astronomy Club throwing her a surprise party (cake!), the twins snuggling one in each of her wings as they huddle around a new telescope. "Maybe also of missing work." She smiles, sudden and bright, when Flicker suggests presents. "Good man." Her hand drops to the satchel, only to put away the tablet. There is a faint hint of sheepishness in her mind, gone as quickly as it came. "Flicker's got Benadryl," Hive offers helpfully. His jaw tightens momentarily, eyes closing as though they can shut out Flicker's mental images. "You'll get back to them soon enough." Maybe it's Isra's images that have him smiling again when he opens his eyes -- /widens/ his eyes, quick and surprised! Like WOAH. "Shit, y'all got /presents/ for me? I'd never have guessed." He takes the box, shaking it gently. Or maybe that's just the usual tremor of hands. "Is it a pony?" "Fun's serious. Might need an epi-pen." Flicker climbs up over Hive to perch on the back of the bench, resting his elbow on one upper bone of Isra's wings. Mental imagery of leathery bat-winged horses, dark and skeletal, gallop through his mind. "Totally a pony. Can't hide anything from you. It's not entirely from me," he admits, shrugging his shoulder lazily. What the box /does/ contain is a small spherical device nestled into a carefully-carved wooden base -- the holder for the projector has been engraved with stars. The holographic projector itself is extremely similar to one B takes home from work a lot, Stark technology that is not yet on the market. "I can /feel/ you coveting it every time B's working." Isra turns toward the other two, curling her legs up onto the bench, though they are so long that her clawed feet still hang off of the edge. "Well, it /is/ your birthday. Not that one needs excuses for presents--or cake." She might be fixating on the food part of this equation. Her tail swishes rhythmically, not in a way that registers and agitation. "So then. What manner of pony do you want?" This last with a fangy grin, Dusk-like. There is a random Micah in the park. He is on a break between appointments, still dressed in his work TARDIS polo and khakis, though with an olive jacket thrown on over the top. Not that anyone could tell, because right now he is mostly a walking unfurled knit blanket in blues and reds and whites: Grumpy Bear pattern. He creepy-sneaks up behind Hive (maybe, maybe not depending how telepath-y the telepath is feeling that day) and fwumps the blanket down over his...all of him. Head first, like a suddenly descending Care Bears themed snow. “Happy birthday.” Hugs. There are hugs through the blanket now. Birthday surprise deliveries might be going a little heavy on the surprise today. "Rocketpony," Hive answers promptly, fumble-tearing the paper off his present (he drapes the ribbon around his neck though doesn't manage to actually tie it.) He doesn't get a chance to /look/ at the contents of the box when he's confronted with sudden BLANKET ON FACE. Which makes him /jump/, a good deal more twitchy-startled than most people would have been. His breath comes in in a sharp gasp, a sudden ripple of stabbing-crippling /agony/ spiking into the others' heads, a /good/ deal more painful than his usual touches. It, thankfully, passes as swiftly as it came. Hive (still blanket-draped) leans back into the hug, bopping his head sideways against Micah's. "Jegus /fuck/, dude." There's (shaky) laughter in his voice. "You better have brought us some damn cake. There's an emergency. Isra might eat someone's face if not." ALSO laughter there. Less shaky. "We live next door to Jax. /Every/ day is an excuse for --" Doubling over in pain. Evidently. That's what Flicker's doing instead of finishing the sentence anyway, hand moved from Isra's wing to clap to his forehead. Even loooong habituation to Hivepowers can't stop his gritted teeth, his ragged inhale. His face is a little paler when he sits back up, blinking a couple times before finding his voice again. "...Micah's in charge of the robo-upgrades. He's supposed to bring the rocket pony." Flicker gives Micah a very critical look. Eyebrows raised pointedly. /Did/ you bring the rocketponies? /Hmm/? Casually as though he hadn't just been hunched over in agony, his elbow is seeking Isra's wing out again for leaning on. Micah's hug /constricts/ at the sudden pain, but other than that and a sudden working of his jaw in oblongs as if someone had punched him in it, he doesn't react overmuch. “Totally worth it t'be able t'surprise you on your birthday. Haven't been able to b'fore. Stay warm.” Apparently the point behind the blanket. “Yep, I made poison cake. Poison was accidental. But if you insist.” He backs up a few steps to retrieve a cupcake carrier that he'd had to set down in order to blanket-attack Hive. Stealing a little space at the end of Hive's bench, he cracks them open. “Lemoncake. Blueberry an' raspberry fillin'. Jax made 'em, so /prob'ly/ not poison.” /Then/ Micah is digging into his messenger bag, producing a large (well padded inside for as light as it is, one assumes) cardboard box wrapped in shinyshiny silvery holographic paper and liberally sprinkled with an equally shiny rainbow of bows stuck along its top. “Jax made you a thing. I can haul it back t'the Commons if you're afraid of it gettin' broken otherwise.” His brows loft right /back/ at Flicker. “Man, y'all are demandin' t'day. Nobody gave me the pony memo. Sure B could trick out a hoverboard with pony mods. Ain't exactly a /rocket/ but y'get the benefit of not scorchin' everythin' with fire. An' bein' able t'ride on it.” His watch beeps then, prompting him to deliver hugs all around and collect his messenger bag. “Well, duty calls. Back to work. See y'all t'night!” Though Micah's arrival almost assuredly came as no surprise to her, Isra winces, wings pulling in suddenly. The smile returns to her face quickly, though, and she tucks the blanket around Hive, tsking. "No rocket pony? At least the cake is not a lie." Her wings relax, and one of them shifts out for Flicker to lean on. "This might be a /little/ superfluous, but while we're piling things on you..." She pulls a box from her satchel, broad and flat and wrapped in rainbows and clouds. "Happy birthday." A brief stab of horror and sorrow through her mind, otherwise calm--an indistinct memory of Hive's blood on her gleaming talons. "Also, sorry I tried to eat you." "Assholes. Taking fucking /advantage/ of my infirm state." Hive settles back more comfortably once the blanket is tucked around him (and /not/ covering his head), finally looking down at the Things he is collecting. His fingers press against the soft knit blanket, smile growing stronger -- even through the memory flashing through Isra's mind. He takes her box, too. And Jax's. Tearing them both messily open. "Shit, who here /hasn't/ tried to eat someone some time or other? I've eaten half of all your fucking brains. If I lost friends over almost killing each other..." He trails off, wry. "None of us would get goddamn birthday presents anymore." He musses lazily at Micah's hair in farewell. "Yes. Taking terrible advantage, to shower you with gifts." Flicker's voice is greatly amused. He reaches out -- with his new-built arm, too! -- to carefully help tuck the blanket down around Hive's neck. "See you!" he chirps brightly to Micah. Then (with his /other/ arm, since he doesn't want a squashy mess of cake) to snag a cupcake. "Oh, /sweet/. You know what this means." He is regarding Isra very earnestly. "This means /anywhere/ we decide to go could contain cake." "It was rather awful of us, really, not to have brought more bags along." Isra does not look actually look all that concerned or even contrite anymore, now that Cupcakes are at hand. "When I eat people, I do it for keeps," she points out, delicately lifting a cupcake from the carrier through the mess of torn gift wrap. The contents of the flat box match the blanket now wrapped around Hive--a Grumpy Bear sweatshirt. Beneath it, however, is a pre-order slip for Dragon Age: Inquisition (special edition!). "It'll arrive on Tuesday," she adds, pushing back some other incipient thought relating to calendars. "Indeed," this to Flicker, more brightly, "we are now unstoppable." Hive's eyes light. And don't seem likely to /un/light for a while. He is already tugging off his track jacket to pull the sweatshirt on instead. "/Sweet/ you fucking owed me." Though this sounds amused, too, he does look greatly more comforted once he is in the familiar sweatshirt. The other things in the boxes -- the Dragon Age slip, Jax's package (bearing one beautifully-crafted glass lotus flower), the holo-projector, he cradles all these close. For a second. Then shoves them off on Flicker to repackage for transit. "Fff I know what /I'm/ doing all Tuesday." Flicker's mind is filling up with images, here. Hive strong and healthy and pulling himself up a cliffside. Thinner, paler, but /proud/, perched on the fresh new balcony of the Treehaus at the Commons and looking out over his creation. Tucked way at the top of the skeleton of the Mendel Clinic, eating his lunch among its beams. Focused intently on his EVE: Online screen. /Trying/ to focus intently on his EVE: Online screen while Tola tugs at his face. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Hive's head before hopping down off the bench to pack up the gifts into his backpack. The flutter of loss that these images are threatening to stir up are soon pushed back by a warm (warmly amused): "Being unstoppable. Let's go."