ArchivedLogs:Weeding

Weeding
Dramatis Personae Elizabeth, Dusk, Micah, Hive	3 April 2014 Meeting in a garden, and de-hiving plans.
Location <NYC> Guerrilla Garden - Lower East Side
Situated on the lot directly adjacent to the distinctive sleek form of the Mendel Clinic, this space was once abandoned. The chainlink fence around it is still rusty, dilapidated, and the signs affixed to it still unwelcoming -- rusty as well, reading KEEP OUT, and PRIVATE PROPERTY. For those who venture into the slitted gap cut out of the fence, though, the yard within tells a different story. Neat and cleaned of any garbage and weeds, the once-abandoned lot has been rebuilt. Packing crates have been broken down for their wood to create raised beds full of rich soil, each bed neatly tilled and tended. Stakes label the different plants growing -- a wealth of vegetables growing three seasons of the year in the carefully tended soil. Around the edges of the lot, smaller beds have had brightly coloured flowers planted, lending even more cheer to the little hidden garden. Very eclectically mismatched seating has been brought in; old packing crates, chairs scavenged from curbs, though it's all been brightly painted. Elizabeth makes her arrival late of an evening, looking somewhat tired as she flits over the fence from the direction of the clinic, circling at essentially zero altitude, then flaring her wings wide as she arrests her velocity. Gulling her feathers as she swings her legs into position she then alights seemingly weightlessly neat some of the eclectic collection of seating before stretching and briefly closing her eyes. Elizabeth's arrival is very soon followed by another. Dusk, in contrast, looks /bright/-eyed awake, exuberantly energetic in his descent to the point where it /almost/ seems like he might crash-land; he backwings at the last moment with a powerful snap of wings, heavy gusts of air fanned up as he catches himself and lands in less elegant gargoyle-crouch on the ground. THUD. Heavy boots leave an impression in the soft earth between the raised vegetable beds, and Dusk's sharp long fangs are very much in evidence with the fierce wide grin he is directing to Elizabeth. His black bat-wings tuck in neatly against his back as he looks her over. "-- New around here?" He sounds enthusiastically curious. "That was a nice landing I haven't actually seen you around before." Outside of fangs and wings he looks almost aggressively normal, plain black corduroys, v-necked blue-and-green striped t-shirt, a plain black sweatshirt thrown on over top, both shirt and sweatshirt neatly modified in back to add extra wing-holes. After a brief trip to the back of his van to change out of work clothes and gather some gardening supplies, Micah makes his way to the Guerilla Garden to get prepping for planting done, now that the frosts seem to be over for Spring. He has changed into a thrift store outfit of olive newsboy cap, plain black hoodie over kelly green T-shirt with a cartoon panda on it, faded bluejeans, and hiking boots. His auburn hair sticks out messily from under the cap all at different angles. He has a /laden/ rolling duffel bag in dull army green following him as he makes his way...through the gate rather than just swooping in. It's a /little/ less exciting. Elizabeth, wing stretching complete, starts to furl them in with an audible rustle of feathers only to stop as she watches Dusk conducting his own landing. She blinks, straightens, a definite peer directed to those fangs before she inclines her head. "Thank you, I just came off shift and wanted to get away from that mob outside the front as fast as possible." Then she gestures to the clinic with a wing extending to emphasise the motion. "I just started work at the Mendel Clinic a few days ago and lived on the other side of the country before that. Out of curiosity do you know an architect who calls himself Hive? He mentioned having a roommate with bat wings." With her own wing still extended she utilises it for a wave as she spots Micah's more conventional arrival. "Once and future roommate." Dusk's fingers press in against the ground for a moment before he pushes himself up to his feet. "Building just burned down. There's less /room/ there for -- /mating/ in anymore. But yeah I'm Hive's roommate. Or will be again when we're no longer homeless." Not that he seems particularly bothered by current supposed-homelessness, light and amused in tone rather than distressed. He rocks forward a step to extend a hand together with his warm-if-fangy smile. "Dusk. Is me. Or -- what I call myself, I suppose. You work there?" He flicks one wing behind himself towards the sleek tall Clinic building behind them. "Though I have actually met /two/ other people with bat -- wings in life. Still, three people out of however many billion, probably a fair bet I'm the one he mentioned. You just moved? Rad. S'a good place to work." He /doesn't/, actually, give Micah any greeting. Not verbally, at least. But his other wing streeetches out long and wide and flexible to curl /around/ Micah. Quietly hooking him /in/ for a hug. "Evenin', Dusk, Elizabeth. How are y'all tonight? S'it gonna bother y'all too much if I'm workin' hereabouts while you're hangin' 'round?" Micah sets the duffel down by a raised bed before leaning into Dusk's hug, petting at his new wing-cloak. "Finally stopped bein' entirely too cold-an'-wet, so s'time t'get on Spring things." His eyebrows raise at Dusk's answer to the roommate question. "So. Hive is the King Arthur of roomies?" He wisely remains quiet on the topic of room to be mating in, though he does chuckle to himself. Hive also is entering the garden in somewhat mundane fashion, through the /gate/ like the earthbound person that he is. He looks exhausted, but he /usually/ looks exhausted these days, bone-thin and raccoon-eyed and pale despite his naturally tanned-dark complexion. He's dressed like he's been on site, dirt-speckled heavy workboots, sturdy tough jeans, a black-and-white plaid flannel shirt thrown on unbuttoned over his grey tee; he has no hat on, today, and his short scruff of fuzzy dark hair is only /barely/ starting to obscure the thick knotty scars that wind their way down against the sides of his skull. He doesn't exactly /enter/ the garden so much as curl his fingers in against the mesh of the gate and lean his weight up onto it, half-lidded eyes surveying the occupants quietly -- as much with his /mind/ as with his eyes, psionic senses flickering over each of them in a quiet involuntary reading of surface thoughts and feelings. "Tsss," he hisses in denial of Micah's conjecturing, "can you imagine /me/ dragging any sword out of any freaking. Anywhere." Elizabeth lofts an eyebrow, her left one, at Dusk's reply or at least the emphasis on certain words, following the unconventional wave by fussily furling in her own wings each side of her back. "I am sorry to hear about your home burning down though I have heard talk that some new apartments are being built? Personally I am still locked into a lease but it does sound like a good way to have less obnoxious neighbours." Then a nod, the wing hug observed. "It is definitely different working in a more accepting sort of environment especially given the obviousness of my being a mutant. There is one of the nurses who has feathery wings for that matter, I had not met anyone else with them before." Then a nod of her head to Hive when he makes his arrival. "Good evening." More in general. "I just finished a shift though so I admit I am more than slightly tired." Dusk drops his hand back to his side with a very small dip of head; his wing squeezes in tight around Micah before uncurling to tuck in behind himself again. "Actually kind of /exploded/ is more accurate than burned down," he muses, "though the burning part came second. /Jesus/, dude, when did you last fucking eat." For some reason with this question he is turning his wrist over to look down at it as though /that/ would tell him when Hive last ate; beneath the sweatshirt sleeve there's a white edge of bandaging peeking out where some wound or other has been neatly patched up. "You did have Needle hanging on your wall. I could imagine you wielding Needle, it was /designed/ for a -- skinny little kid. -- You need help, Micah?" Beneath his easy-amiable tone there's an uncomfortable turning knot of worry as his dark eyes flick to Hive and then away. "Because we," yes, Hive is getting volunteered right along with him, "can totally help. -- I can't promise anything about less obnoxious neighbors." This last he adds cheerfully to Elizabeth. "I mean, you'd have to put up with /us/. -- Oh, sweet, you met Rachel? There's actually, uh, /couple/ people I know with feathery -- Horus is /all/ feathers and -- well. I've met way more feathery-wing-people than bat-wing-people. Just. In the course of -- apparently meeting every goddamn mutant this side of the Mississippi. We may -- know a few too many freaks." "Maybe y'wouldn't have t'drag it outta nowhere. Just have t'wait for the whole arm clad in purest shimmerin' samite t'hold it aloft from the bosom of the water deal. An' all that." Micah giggles at this. "I'm sure he ate yesterday; Jax an' I practically force-fed 'im. There were leftovers we sent y'home with. Please tell me you've eaten since then..." He pulls a pair of gardening gloves out of his bag and tugs them on his hands, then withdraws a roll of trash bags. "/Need/ is a strong word. Wouldn't say 'no' t'help, though. Pretty much just gonna clear trash an' weeds an' fix any of the containment on the beds as need it. Then soil preppin' a bit. S'prob'ly as far as I'm gettin' tonight 'fore it gets dark." << You come here t'meet Dusk, or just stalkin' us by brain? Speakin' of which... >> Micah doesn't /say/ anything about getting Hive to give up his brain-connections, but the general impression of it in his mind is fairly strong. "You tell me what needs weeding, I'll weed. So long as I can /sit/ while I do it." Hive relinquishes his hold on the fence, moving in further to the garden on noticeably unsteady legs to collapse heavily down onto the wood rim of one of the beds. "Haven't eaten since then, no. Haven't --" /He's/ looking to Dusk's wrist, too, only for a brief moment though through the other two men's minds his /thoughts/ can be felt lingering on it for longer. "-- been. Since Monday? I don't fucking --" Possibly this sentence had some other end to it, but his words just trail off to hang incomplete in the air as he digs knuckles against his eyes. "Rachel's good people. You'll be in good --" Again his words just trail off. "-- End-of-work tired is a /good/ kind of tired, though," he says instead, a very brief-thin smile flitting across his face as he glances up at Elizabeth. "S'like. The kind of tired where you /accomplished/ something." Micah's question is answered not in words but in /feeling/, the hungry-tugging-pull of minds drawing him nearer. /His/ minds-/their/ minds, there's little distinction between 'I' and 'we' in Hive's head anymore. Elizabeth stares a moment at the exploded and obviously considers asking more, before instead shaking her head, wings flicking outward a moment as she moves a step and adjusts them. Shifting slightly as she moves, they add a glassy smooth quality to her motions. "Well I am locked into a lease after paying out far too much on my deposit for my current place so I am not planning on moving right away." Then looking to Hive, she frowns. "Is there a reason why you are not eating? Quite honestly you look like you are seriously messing yourself up and that kind of thing can be dangerous long term." Dusk reaches for the roll of trash bags, pulling out one of them. He pulls his sweatshirt a little more firmly down over his wrist. "I'll feed you tonight, then," comes with a mental suggestion that he doesn't just mean food. He shakes open the trash bag and, having /absolutely/ no idea about anything like /weeds/, instead sets to picking up what trash has accumulated since the place was last cleaned up two weeks ago. In a city -- sadly probably a lot. "He gave up food for Lent," he tells Elizabeth in reflexively wry answer, though it's followed by an oddly /lighter/: "Motherfucker was messed up long before the not-eating." Pulling a hand-held weeding tool from the bag, Micah passes this to Hive. "Anythin' real simple an' short-rooted like grass I can just till in later. We need t'get out the big invasive stuff with serious root systems. Horsetails an' such. We ain't got nothin' planted /on purpose/ yet, so y'can pull /whatever/, really. S'just not necessary with little grasses. Take it easy, though, okay? An' we're gettin' you food after." << Seriously, Hive. You're sick /and/ you're not eatin' or sleepin' right. The last thing y'need is t'be exhaustin' your powers when it might be makin' the tumour /worse/. Y'need t'let go of us. >> The 'us' flicks through thoughts of Dusk and Flicker, Jax and himself. He sets about investigating a garden bed, checking the integrity of the salvaged wood sides and tugging any obvious weeds inside out with his gloved hands. "You an' Flicker still stayin' at your office?" "Is this some fucking doctor thing?" Hive grouses, digging the end of the tool down into the soil -- basically at random. Chunk. There is something greenish. He shoves irritably at its roots. "Like this fucking -- up in everyone's /business/ crap -- you don't see /me/ going around visiting people and then telling them what parts of their damn /houses/ need fixing. Like I said, /Doctor/, if I wanted your gorram /professional opinion/ I know where the fucking Clinic is and can make an appointment." His angry jerk of the plant in front of him sends him rocking almost off his perch on the bed, a shower of dirt scattered wide with the abrupt motion; there is, in time with this motion, an odd faint /press/ at Elizabeth's mind like a slow squeeze of bizarre mental pressure. Like an /impending/ headache but without the actual pain; it comes with a deeper assessment of /her/ current thoughts. "/Cancer/ is seriously messing me up. Constant-fucking-nausea is just part of the delightful brain tumor /package/, now, will you back the /fuck/ up out of /my/ goddamn business, I've known you /two fucking seconds/." He drops the unearthed weed down onto the side of the garden bed, stabilizing himself and reaching to tug at a second weed. "Yes," is still a little bit /snippy/-sharp in answer to Micah. "I mean, between work and school we're both barely there I guess." << I need -- >> answers Micah's thoughts in soft mental chorus-whisper, but past this there are no words. Just a growing /hunger/ that, /very/ reluctantly, pulls back. Elizabeth quirks her head at Dusk's Lent explanation, wings angling to mirror the shift of her head behind her, then to Micah. "I'm afraid I am not any help with gardening even if I was not wearing a suit." A frown at Hive's response, half wincing at the mental pressure, flaring feathers wider a moment before furling in her wings behind her and shifting her weight to adjust for the altered balance. "It is called being concerned and the people who do know you seem to share the same concern. The cancer though? Shit, all I can say is that I am sorry. I will leave the subject alone." A slump of shoulders is vastly exaggerated by the presence of additional feathery limbs with a pause before she then glances to Dusk with an obvious an abrupt change of subject. "So I am curious, how long have you been able to fly for?" Assessment of her thoughts would indicate a certain degree of frustration along with being genuinely upset about the cancer part. Dusk winces, one eye scrunching more shut at Hive's flare of irritation. He doesn't really answer it -- just extends one wing as he goes about trash-pickup, brushing an edge of it gently against Hive's back. Pat, pat. Then folding back in. "You know, you've /had/ offers of places to stay that aren't your damn office. Lucien's house would be /hella/ more comfortable, fuck, /I'd/ move into his crib if you didn't want to." The concern twining through his thoughts still jars up against his light outward tone. << You need your brain in /one fucking piece/. Which it barely already is and definitely /won't/ be if you keep this up. >> Behind him, his wings shift in slow flex as he stoops for a beer can. "Oh -- uh. Fuck. How old /am/ I?" For a bit he genuinely doesn't seem to actually remember. "The wings started growing in around when I started high school. Took a while to /learn/ to fly with them, though. Mostly at first they were just hella excruciating and then fucked up my ability to wear shirts. I -- didn't actually, um." There's a very faint furrow of his brows before he admits, "I didn't really /learn/ to fly with them very well until --" His mind echoes through both Hive's and Micah's with uncomfortable thoughts of a huge too-bright cube of a room, of doctors poking and prodding, of the grueling muscle-burn ache of exhaustion after hours of forced exercises. He blinks, shaking his head very quickly with a small lopsided curl of smile offered to Elizabeth. "Well, it took a little pushing. First couple years it was all I could do to just kind of /glide/ to a not-crashy-landing, I couldn't take off for the life of me. Other animals have it easier, I think. Instincts I was totally freaking -- lacking. How about you?" "Easy, hon. People're just worryin' at you 'cause y'give 'em a ton t'worry /about/. Y'know a /bunch/ of people've offered y'all better places t'stay? Safe houses, Lucien, even /Maya/ offered the other night. Pretty much anythin's better'n your office in your condition, sugar." Micah fetches a small red toolkit from his bag to set about repairing a separated corner on his garden bed after clearing the soil from against it so the wood meets flush once more. << I love you, honey, but y'/got/ to. I won't...argue 'bout Jim. Y'can hang onto him if y'have to. Don't know that anybody else can even /reach/ 'im in 'is current state. But all of us...s'too much. This thing's tryin' t'/kill/ you. Y'ain't gotta /help/ it along. >> Hive's teeth clench with an /audible/ grinding sound, his shoulders tensed up and his posture curling just a little bit inward on itself. The irritation in his features slowly clears, though, as the pressure at Elizabeth's mind recedes. "... just don't do well being fussed at," he mutters, though there's a note of apology mixed in with the grumble in his tone. His knuckles press to his eyes again, his breathing shaky. "/Lucien/." He bites out /this/ name, at least, with a /sharper/ note of annoyance back in his tone. "Dude seriously, I'd /take/ cancer at least cancer's /honest/ about the fact it's probably going to kill you one day." The mental images from Dusk make him shudder. << ... it'll be ugly, >> he tells Micah and Dusk with a tinge of resignation. << I mean, you won't even be fit to drive yourself home, man. >> "My wings started to grow in when I was fifteen and took about eighteen months before they were really done with it." Answers Elizabeth in answer to Dusk's explanation. "But by then? They pretty much seemed to come with instincts and I had tried gliding already. I did pick up bruises but was able to fly decently a couple of months later after I had fully molted the first 'batch' of flight feathers for full sized ones. I did go nearly a year unable to fly after my feathers took a lot of damage from assholes with scissors and it felt like... I do not know, being stuck in a wheelchair or something, crippled, it even felt weird when I tried to walk and move without proper purchase in the air." "Thirteen, for me," Dusk answers, "and -- yeah it took -- a bit over a year before everything was done. Spent -- a good portion of that year curled up in bed wishing for morphine," he admits with a small chuckle (that doesn't reflect the /memory/ of the months of debilitating pain as his skeleton and muscles re-organized themselves.) "And they were definitely unusable for me till it was done and it came with exactly zero by way of instincts. Just some /really/ ungainly extra limbs that I had to figure out to use --" He shakes his head, letting another bottle clang down into his trash bag. "Kinda eventually had some help learning, but it was slow. -- and /Christ/, yeah, couple times my wings have gotten -- shot or beaten or -- incapacitated it feels /pretty/ -- terrible. Jarring. Glad your feathers grew back alright." He snorts at Hive's irritation, chucking the next empty beer can /at/ his roommate to bonk Hive lightly in the back. "Paranoid motherfucker. He's not going to kill you." << ... not while Matt's still in Vermont, >> is added in almost /cheerful/ mental aside to drift across the hivemind-connection. << Micah can stay at the fighthouse if he needs a place to crash for the night. >> "I've been fussin' at y'since I met you. Think you'd be used to it by now," Micah jokes lightly, returning tools to his kit once the corner is fixed and shoving soil back into the empty space. "Why in the /world/ would Lucien be tryin' t'kill you?" His voice sounds...perplexed-concerned with this question, surprised at Hive's objection. He shudders at Elizabeth's recounting of the scissor story. << Maybe y'should wait 'til folks're in for the night. We can arrange it over the connection, so it's not like it'd be hard t'do that. That way we don't...catch Jax or Flicker by /surprise/. An' we can all just sleep it off. Prob'ly I should reschedule my first appointment or two of the mornin'... But we need t'do this. /Tonight/. >> Elizabeth really does pull a face now, wings flicking out again, partially extending each side of her and causing a tangible gust through the air. "It was not as bad as that when these grew in but... It was pretty horrible not to mention hideous to start with. Under the feathers they look more like weird gangly arms with things which are not quite hands on the end and the feathers hurt like hell when they all started to grow through at once. Now they moult and regrow in a kind of sequence though, I basically get through a whole set every year so they do grow back, it just takes time." Demonstrating, she reaches out and feels along the top for a few seconds before tugging out one of the smaller ones covering the roots of her flight feathers, still a foot long or so, twirling it between fingers. "This one was being shed anyway for example but the big four and a half foot ones toward the end of each wing? I only shed one each side a month or so and dread getting them damaged. The difference it makes to flying is like." A glance to Micah and his hand. "Losing a finger when it comes to manual dexterity though they do replace." The talk of killing seems to disquiet her though and flicking the feather to one side she then spreads her wings wider. "I really should get home though. It was nice to meet you all." "You're fucking Southern you fuss over /every/-goddamn-body," Hive answers Micah crankily. "And Lucien has no reason to try and kill me." << Yet, >> finishes his mind with a wry mental note of amusement. << You've met the motherfucker, dude, don't tell me you think he'd even /hesitate/ if he /did/ ever think he had a reason. And he fucking hates telepaths. >> He reaches out a hand curiously for he feather Elizabeth pulls out. "-- Huh." He gives his head a quick shake, looking up at Elizabeth. "See you. Be careful out there." He's maybe looking back over towards the clinic and its usual assembly of protestors. His hand lifts to scrub against his face again. << ... okay. >> It sounds smaller. More exhausted. "Mine actually /are/ hands. But thankfully I've never seen what they look like without -- well, no, that's not true, I did get most of their skin torched off one time," Dusk admits, thoughtful and /absent/ as if this recollection is No Big Deal. He stretches a wing out slightly to wave. "See you around, I hope." << You want me to fly you -- home. Fuck. Your shitty office. Wherever the hell you're sleeping tonight. It's going to be rough for /you/ too. >> "Have a good night, doctor," Micah offers with a wave directed toward Elizabeth, actually looking up and smiling before returning to weeding. "Truth. I... Luci's a lot...dif'rent than people give 'im credit for, usually, I think." He shrugs, leaving it at that. "Hive, honey. If y'don't wanna stay with Luci, y'all could go to a safe house or take Maya up on her spare room offer. Seriously, y'need somethin' better'n your office. S'gonna be two months still." After tugging out several more stubborn weeds, he moves to the next bed. "Got a little more work I gotta do here...not sure how late Jax'll be in. But we'll let y'know when we're safe t'disconnect t'night, okay?" "The ends of my wings have... Well a thing that is basically a thumb and lets me shift these." Elizabeth demonstrates, flicking up and forward the alula feathers at the joint. "Which is useful when moving slowly, then two 'fingers' that anchor the main flight feathers but do not really move that much themselves. Each of the biggest feathers has its own tendon anchored to the base though so I can shift them to alter the air flow even so." She demonstrates this as well with her now flared pinions before wincing at the burning comment from Dusk, handing the feather to Hive with a slight grin. "Anyway." With this she steps clear, crouches, then jumps upward as her wings come down, propelling herself into the air and skimming the fence as she departs. Hive ducks his head downward, eyes squinching up against the draft stirred up by Elizabeth's wings. The sole feather still in his hand, he twirls slowly, looking down at it. "Different? Different how. I think Lucien is really excellent at letting most people see what he /wants/ them to see." He looks back up at Dusk, and the unhappy (hungry) (/lonely/) reluctance in his mind is easily /felt/ through the connection that ties them all together. He stands, slow and shaky -- apparently /two whole weeds/ is his contribution to Helping tonight. "Yeah, okay. SoHo's not. Too far." Dusk ducks his head, a small cringe in his posture at the feelings coming from Hive. "Make sure Flicker's with you first, okay?" His arms wrap around Hive, strong and sure. "Gonna feed him," he tells Micah, "but I'll come back and help with your -- garden." Though he doesn't /immediately/ take off, one wing extending to brush against Micah's back. Micah pauses in his work again to rub at Dusk's wing with his /cheek/, since his hands are all dirty. “Okay, honey. Make sure he actually /eats/ whatever y'get 'im. An' that he an' Flicker an' /you/ are all tucked in safe for the night. Apparently we're gonna be in for a ride. Love you both.” Hive quiets, after this. His arm curls around Dusk's neck, his eyes closing. The quiet does nothing to calm the unhappily twisting knot inside him. "/I'll/ be fine. I recover fast." Dusk's wing presses back up against Micah's cheek, but then pulls back. The downward draft stirred up as his wings start to beat is heavy, fanning chill and strong down against Micah as he pulls upward, vanishing into the darkening night.