ArchivedLogs:Victorian Techno

Victorian Techno
Dramatis Personae Doug, Hive, Jim	2014-06-06 '
Location Some furniture store, Somewhere
In a quirky little shop in Chelsea, packed with miscellany more often quality origins than /questionable/, Jim is practicing his most lurksome slouch through a home furnishing area, TOUCHING things like he's DUBIOUS of them, opening drawers and squinting up into the corners of cabinets with his upper lip pulled back. Dressed in ratty beach bum gear and flipflops, half his face is darker and crackling away in curls of either treebark or... some terrible rashy skin condition. His hair is washed for once, though! He probably used Hive's shower. It sadly doesn't do much to lessen the amount of uncomfortable glances and shifting away of people he passes too close to. << Christ. Getting more and more Shane /snaps/ sometimes. >> His brain is -- doing better! Ish. He's probably been working on it with more fervor since having work to do around the Commons, especially with a new camera to mark the 'before' and 'after' work of his and Ash's contributions. Which is more what he's thinking of than ... /this/ crap. "Who the fuck pays fifty bucks for a footstool." He STATES. Thumping the side of his ankle against a velveteen ottoman. Thump. "It's a. /Cushy/-ass footstool though." Hive is prodding the footstool with the end of his cane, a little bit skeptically. He's dressed in jeans, heavy workboots, a black polo shirt with two and a half red hearts embroidered small where the chest logo goes. << Could punch them in the brain for you, >> he offers lightly. "What do you even need? For us it's fuckin' -- everything. S'not a goddamn -- /chair/ in the place." Doug seems relatively cheerful as he enters the shop, which is to say he's actually looking /up/ and not hiding behind his phone. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a faded blue baseball jersey tee-shirt with MISKATONIC UNIVERSITY ASTROPHYSICS DEPARMENT across the chest in gold and his laptop bag slung across his chest, he seems at home among the other shoppers as he heads for the furniture department. mind is a jumble of thoughts, some of them work-related, twined in with thoughts of his new apartment and its built-in roommate, and wrapped in the hazy frustration of a stalled investigation. And the serious lack of furniture he's now experiencing. Which is why he's here. Clearly. The teenager halts when he hears familiar voices, his cheer dimming a bit as guilt works its way back into the mix. He manages to wrestle it back down, though, and clears his throat. "People like my mom," he answers Jim's question with a small smile, and a wave for Hive. Hey. "She puts way too much stock in the price of things as indication of status." "It /is/ an indication of status," Jim doesn't even look UP. << You'd punch a man in the brain for /free/. >> Why Jim thinks this with a callous fondness is probably not the signs of a /charitable/ soul. "Ffff I don't fucking know, dude. I barely use furniture anymore. You know how long it's been since I slept in a--" he just found a canopy bed, all big ruffly frills and sized for a child, "...jesus, christ." He goes to sit on it, in HORROR. "Suits you," Hive grunts, leaning heavily against his cane and then heavier still against one of the posters of the canopy bed. "More frills, that's what your life's been missing." He looks /down/ rather than up, eyes narrowing on the bed as his grip on his cane tightens. "Yeah," he finally grunts, "we're having kind of a furniture shortage, too. Funny that. -- Fine, no bed," he adds to Jim. "Just dig a gorramn hole in your floor and curl up in /that/." "I guess," Doug says, lifting a shoulder. "To the people for which that stuff is important." He eyes a nearby bookshelf, leaning in to read the price tag. "Still, I guess price is also an indication of quality. So there's that." He doesn't have any comment about Jim on the bed, but there's a definite amused sort of wash over his thoughts as he looks at the older man. Hive's comments about his similar lack of furniture bring that guilt surging back up, and an almost /angry/ shove to quell it again. "The canopy's nice," he offers. "A bit small for you, though." << ... >> Okay, so Jim is actually thinking about how impossibly /awesome/ it'd be to have dirt he could step down into to sleep. Even basements have those high narrow windows. Be almost like the tunnels only with... "...nah." He answers Doug, presumably, though, glances up at Hive with his mouth compressed. "...too big. If anything." And now he wonders, almost painfully, about a second smaller hole, beside his own. Christ. "Maybe I'll just stick with my old couch." There are /memories/ on that couch. "Just set it," he gestures FIRMLY, "middle of the fucken room." << You mean like in your new place? /Built/ the damn thing for a gorramn earthbender and a /tree/. You have dirt. >> "... 'll fuckin' plant you myself," he mutters, arm tensing as he rocks his weight unsteadily against his cane. "I don't know if price is a /reliable/ indication of much except that you've suckered people into dishing out a fucking bundle. Slap a fucking designer label on any old crap and suddenly it's --" His teeth flash for a moment in thin smile. "-- Though actually that's working out well for me lately. My buildings are starting to come with. /Name/ recognition." His eyes slant over towards Doug, finally, still narrowed and resting on Doug only briefly before pulling away. "What're you hunting down?" Doug is a bit confused by Jim's answer, since clearly Jim /is/ too big for the bed. At least the one in question. But he doesn't pursue it, lifting his shoulders in a 'what can you do' shrug. He nods at Hive's comments, and smiles tightly. "Exactly. There's not /that/ much difference between the fifty dollar footstool and the twenty dollar knockoff. It's all about the name." He's impressed with Hive's success, the corners of his mouth tugging downward briefly. "They should," he says of name recognition. "They're worth every dime you get. You're a real artist." The question gets a flash of a (mostly) empty apartment, and a totally empty bedroom within. "Pretty much everything," he admits, looking around. "But I thought I would come and see if I could find something cool in the way of a desk. Like a roll-top, or a table or something." Here's a rare thing; Jim can't be reminded often enough about his new place without a crusty inner /sigh/. Like a thing to SINK into, inside, like roots in dark earth. << You always did know how to treat a girl. >> And then, without pause, << If you sit down, you gonna be able to get back up again? >> "Heh. Fucking /brand/ now, Hive. Keep it up, our property resale value's gonna go up." Bounce-bounce. "/Desk/," he grunts abruptly. RIGHT. He does need one of those. << Though I guess I could just use the office. Keep... forgetting that's there. >> << Like I said. Frills. >> "Your property resale value went up the second those things were built, dude, do you know how dirt-fucking-cheap I /got/ that land? Was full of corpses dead /and/ alive. One hell of a fixer-upper." Hive leans more against the bedpost, shoulders drooping. << ... without help? >> He doesn't sound particularly optimistic. "I'm making Dusk and Flicker build me a new desk. Dusk built his computer right the fuck into his." << Has desks. All ready for working at. >> Doug chuckles at the comments about resale, although he's more amused by the banter than what's being said. A part of him might miss hearing this kind of back-and-forth. A lot. Still he pushes his mind towards the conversation, and desks in general. "I'd love to have a desk like Dusk's," he says, twisting his mouth wryly and nodding somberly. "I'll need to make friends with a tech genius before that can happen, though." His grin is toothy, and doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Until then, funky chic is just going to have to suffice." << Sit down. >> Jim adjusts his lean to make a convenient wall to drop down against if Hive goes for it. He doesn't really need to say that there'd /be/ help. << It does got desks, doesn't it. >> Like he didn't /know/. It's like the warming weather and full spring opening up into summer is reminding him of all these... THINGS. << ...how's Sideorder anyway. >> He's kind of bracing himself for bad news, jerking a chin at Doug and saying aloud, "What's funky-chic in fucking... computer table terms." Hive turns to sink down in a sudden heavy /drop/ onto the mattress, though he doesn't so much prop himself up so much as /commit/ fully to his flopping, thwumping back in a boneless flop onto the mattress and staring up at the frilly canopy overhead. << Desks. /Chairs/. S'fucking /luxurious/. >> "Aren't /you/ a fucking tech genius, dude?" His eyes narrow on the canopy. "Dusk sure is. And B. And -- fff." He draws his hand upward, cane resting down along his chest. "You work at Stark shouldn't you know a million of 'em?" His lips twitch faintly. << Hors D'oeuvres is plump and juicy as ever. /Pining/ for you though. He overeats. >> "I'm not a tech /genius/," Doug says, wrinkling his nose -- partly at the way Hive flops down, and partly at the question. "I can build a laptop out of existing parts, and tinker with things to get more performance out of them, but it's programming that's my thing. You want kick-ass software, I'm your guy." He shrugs his nose at the follow-up question. "Knowing them as colleagues and knowing them well enough to ask them to help build a computer table aren't exactly the same thing," he notes, frowning. "Which is why I have to get to know them better." Like an older tech guy, with dark shaggy hair and glasses. Possibly. Jim gets a shrug. "I think that's just a style type. Like, 'post-modern' and 'art deco'. 'Funky chic.'" << Poor little bastard always did have separation anxiety. >> Jim blames Hive. "Man, just get a rollerdesk. With a computer in. Call it fucking... Victorian-techno." A frilly pillow is dragged over and SET on Hive's chest as well. ...then a second one. << --I got some pictures of the Commons that'd uh. Look alright on that south wall. >> "Isn't Victorian-techno steampunk? I think nerd subculture is ahead of you on /that/ one, dude." Hive's eyes close, fingers tightening around the cane; it shakes, slightly, in his hand, trembling against his chest and wobbling the pillows. "... guess it's been a while since I had normal coworkers. I'd ask 'em to help on nerdthings if I worked at a nerdfarm, though." << Pictures. That'll look good. Think you can get 'em up before next week? Have some. Reporter from /Architectural Record/ coming in to. Interview -- >> Finally he manages to lift his hand enough to topple the pillows off in Jim's direction. "Yeah, steampunk is kind of played out," Doug says, wrinkling his nose. "But it's not a bad idea." His mind is beginning to roll with plans for actually /making/ such a thing. Or at least the rough idea, which looks more like hidden tech than steampunk computer-ness. Outwardly, the teenager frowns at Hive's assessment on help. "Oh, I think I know a guy I can ask," he says. "It's a bit bigger than he's used to working with, but I bet I can get him interested." The shaggy-haired guy floats across his mind again as he twists his torso first this way, then that, looking around thoughtfully. "Probably help to find the desk, first, though." When the pillows fall, they're tugged aside. One of them Jim crams under an arm without thinking, "The fuck, steampunks not a real god damn thing." In his mind: a corner of the office run through a fast stop-motion flicker of the different types of daylight that hit the office at different times, shadows slowly melting across the wall from one direction to the other. In the center, a shot of the Commons; the large central house in the foreground only taking up a corner with a portion of its roofing blurred and out of focus, one of the houses behind it rising up, stark modern angles at odds with the natural sky. << Fff. Needa go in anyway. Think I forgot to empty the trash in my office before I went into a plantcoma anyway. >> Underneath it. << Architectural Record... they uh. They a big deal? >> "Mmnh. Dusk built the desk /and/ the computer. Think the Southern boys are building most of their own furniture, too. Get it just the way you /want/ it if you do --" Hive shrugs a shoulder, bapping the head of his cane against the pillow after Jim reclaims it. "-- though I guess that requires. Knowing how to fucking -- carpent. S'pose that's less of a geek thing. Probably best for you and your friend to stick to the computer-parts, yeah." His mind presses lightly up against Jim, drinking in that imagery. "Kind of a big deal, yeah," he mumbles aloud. << Got them and another paper coming through next week. Be down by the Commons shooting pictures, too. Shouldn't be in anyone's personal space though. >> "Dude do you even know how to use the internet? Steampunk is a --" He waves his cane towards Doug as though Jim might be able to see the plans formulating in the other man's mind. "/Thing/." "Yeah, I'm not so big on the carpenting," Doug admits, ducking his head. "I can solder like a motherfucker, but I'm hopeless with a hammer." He quirks a grin, and squints across the small area, where a desk that /almost/ matches what he's constructing in his mind sits just WAITING. "Pfft," he says in good-natured response to Jim, nodding at Hive. "It's totally a thing. Maybe not as big a thing as two years ago, but it still clings to existence." That desk is /really/ interesting, and so he begins to move in that direction. "I should continue my hunt," he says, waving a hand vaguely in his intended direction. "See you guys later. Congratulations again on the new place." "Bullshit, it's a fucking urban myth thing. Why the hell would I use the internet to look up... fucking. Punksteam bullshit, sounds like the kind of porn you'd watch against the sound of heavy machinery being operated - See ya, kid. Good luck with that." Jim follows Doug off with his eyes, chuffing dry amusement at the pressure from Hive's hungry mind, withstanding while (after a moments of squirming) showing a few other photographs that turned out well in that rush closet photographers MIGHT be prone to. And places they might go, in the office. << Hhah, dude, I know my photography law, I'm not worried. >> Actually he's excited. Or... Jim-variety. Kind of - proud? It's all raggety and jangled and /dug in deep/. << Y'gettin /big/ man. >> "I don't really know what kind of porn he's into." Hive is /frowning/ after Doug as the other man leaves and there's a faint shudder that /might/ actually give lie to that fact. He knows what porn /everyone/ in the Lofts was into. "Furniture porn's kind of a niche market though. I know /you're/ into wood but that's not the kind that gets most people going, dude." His chin tips in what might be a farewell nod to Doug, his cane settling back against his chest as the pressure against Jim's mind increases. Watching those photographs with interest. << S'good, because I needed a fucking break for my goddamn visa paperwork. >> There's a grumble in Hive's mental voice that doesn't reeeally cover up the pride nestled beneath. Jim doesn't shudder. He's a professional at not shuddering. He just slowly. Closes. His. Eyes. "Man, don't diss the appeal of a slender lady-trunk. I met some nice girls in the Xavier woods. They were just starting to bloom. I should introduce you." The slow blossoming of photographs, buildings, some of the plant arrangements (in his mind; the arrangement of the plants is more Jax's credit, the photography some aesthetic documentation) has a few more that he's more awkward about. A tiny green hand curled around a gnarled barky brown one. Almost a question in it. A cane, leaning against a wall. The grounds of the Commons still under just a dirt ground, packed with tire tracks and tape still on the windows. << ...visa. Ffff. How far along the process you at? >> "Had some nubile saplings you helped along here. You make any connections?" Hive's lips twitch, eyes still closed. "Speaking of, I'm gonna need your help with those two oaks by the river. This weekend, maybe. Next week." Hive's eyes crack open again, thin mental fingers twining through to touch lightly from one photo to the next. It lingers longer on the small green hand, slow and thoughtful. "... putting a darkroom in the workshop that's going up on the grounds, you know." Kind of offhand. << Ghh. Have an application in. Have to prove to them just /how/ fucking awesome I am. >> "No complaints about the local ladies," Jim concedes with eyes on the ceiling, scratching his chin. Just trying his damnest not to fit together the bookend symmetry that his camera would come from the same person also giving him a darkroom. Instead: "Yeah." He nods, easy, about the oaks. And adds simply, "But you're gonna let me get some pictures of you." And Mel. And the little fucking - sprout. He doesn't say. He doesn't need to. And he drops back onto the bed as well. Still RUBBING. HIS. FACE.