ArchivedLogs:You-Me-Us

You-Me-Us
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shelby, Flicker	2013-03-16 '
Location <NYC> 403 {Hive} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. It's a lazy Saturday. At least it's as lazy as things get, around here. In the kitchen Dusk and Ian are working with a young woman on preparing lunch for the people still milling around between the ex-Promethean apartments (four apartments rather than three, now that Joshua has rented himself a new place on the sixth floor.) The couch is occupied with a trio of people clustered around a computer searching through job ads. There's a game of Soul Calibur happening by the TV. Hive is in one of the bedrooms, drowsily half-asleep in Flicker's bed. There /was/ a game of Tsuro happening, laid out on the bed over Flicker's legs, but this has been abandoned in favour of sleep. At least, /Hive/ is sleeping, fully clothed atop the covers with his head tucked against Flicker's side. Flicker, though still sort of red and and pitted and mangled (but considerably /less/ so than he was a week ago), is actually awake, a Nook in one hand that he is reading slowly. His other hand curls loosely around Hive's shoulder. Whumph whumph whumph. That's the sound Shelby's toe makes against the door. Yes, she's kicking it to announce that she is desirous of entering. Yes, her arm is fixed. But she's also got two big plastic bags, one in each hand, and they appear to be weighted heavily. "Hey guys, it's Shelby! Lemme the fuck in!" she calls through the door, squinting as she gives a heave to dangle one of the bags up, over and back against her shoulder. Her thoughts are a bit of a roiling brew, dancing between worry for Hive, worry for Flicker, idle speculation on whether she has time enough to practice for the Bowery show and a dash of smug pleasure at being a provider--what she is bringing as a gift are bags of plenty, food scoured from the finest dumpsters the Village has to offer. It is Dusk who opens the door, slipping away from his food preparation. He has a shirt on for probably the first time ever at home -- all this /company/ making him actually self-conscious about being /proper/. And less than comfortable, judging by the constant shift and flex of his wings through the torn fabric. His smile is easy, though. "Hey, Shelby! Holy crap, your arm." This makes his smile a little wider, a little fangier. "Sweeeet. -- Hey, /food/. C'mon in just, uh, dump it anywhere." Their branch of RefugeeCamp is /slightly/ less organized than Jax's downstairs. Read: shit all over the place. Jumbled. People doing whatever. Haphazard piles. "Awww, you got dressed for me? That sucks," is Shelby's greeting for the vampire. She slips in by him, dragging the bags with her--and all too comfortable with the idea of just dropping them anywhere. Being tidy is not high on her list of priorities. "And yeah, got it fixed up the other night. Jim'n'Hive. Left one's bakery and cheese shop, right one's a grocery I got to before they whipped out the bleach," she advises. With her hands free, she zips out of her jacket--underneath it, she's in an oversized Marilyn Monroe-face print t-shirt over leggings, and those Ugg knock-offs--and tosses it to the side as she had with the bag. "Speaking of, Hive around? I wanna talk to him about...uh..." She pauses and squints up at Dusk. "He been kind've...weird, lately?" "I know, right?" Dusk's wings shift again. "I'm sorry to deprive you of my hot bod but apparently some of these people have, like, manners." He gestures one (skinny-scrawny) arm towards the bedroom. "Yeah, he's in there with Flicker," is light enough, but his brow furrows after. He nods, expression shifting into a slight frown. "Yeah, he's been --" He shrugs, more through his wings than his shoulders. There's a long pause where it almost seems like he's listening for something before he just continues, simply, "Stressed." "Stressed. Right." Shelby, distracted. She flicks a look left to scope out the apartment's current occupants, doing a rough headcount before wrinkling her nose and looking up at Dusk again. "Fuck manners, dude. If you got it, flaunt it," she says. Dropping to a crouch, she raids the bakery bag to pull out a plastic box of danishes--the box has been tumbled and the danishes tumbled, trying to become one with each other--before making for the bedroom. "If I'm not back in like twenty minutes, send more sugar!" This is called over her shoulder, loudly enough to give the bedroom ample warning that she is On Her Way In. Even so, she uses her no longer mangled hand to rap on the doorframe to signal her arrival. "Hey guys, I come bearing pastry...who wants some?" "I want all the pastry." Flicker says this loud enough to be heard through the door, but not particularly /loud/. His fingers tighten briefly against Hive's shoulder, book lowering to his side as he glances down at the telepath. "I mean, come in!" Despite the acid-damage scars still pitting much of his face he still rearranges his features into a bright smile. The door opens slowly, with Shelby sticking the box through first to prove the validity of her claim. The top of her head appears next so she can peek inside--are they naked? No? Damn--before the rest of her follows. The teenager cannot help the wince that comes through strong at the sight of Flicker but she's quick to plaster a smile over it, one of those determined teeth-baring smiles that covers a LOT. Like. Worry. "You can't have /all/ the pastry, but you can have these," she says, knee-walking carefully onto the end of the bed to avoid jostlings. The lid of the box is pried up with a plastic pop so that danish can be offered. "Except not the chocolate ones 'cause zits, dude." "I'm totally having /all/ the pastry," Flicker says, except he reaches to only take one. /Chocolate/. "I don't think anyone'd even notice a couple zits here or there," he says, his smile just a little crooked. Unlike Dusk, he doesn't seem surprised by her newly healed arm. He glances at it with a brief smile but then sticks the danish between his teeth, reaching to tug at the whole /box/ afterwards. Hive stirs at this, cracking an eye open to kind of just look at Shelby blearily. Or through Shelby blearily. << chocolate >> echoes soft in her mind, a chorusing whisper. << Needs chocolate. S'like Mormon crack. >> "You gotta point, with a smile like yours, who'd notice anything?" That is Shelby's version of reassurance. With the box /stolen/, she plunks down on her ass and works on stripping the boots off of her feet. Shoes on bed are a no-no, nevermind what she told Dusk about manners. She swings around to sit cross-legged and facing the guys after that, leaning her elbows on her knees. Alas, her own smile fades when Hive is roused. She's left to give him the ol' sideeye, head and chest a jumble of the very best in teenage emotional muck--which spikes when the chorus is heard. "House rules, Hive, you gotta talk out loud if you want pastries. Better hurry, Flicker's goin' to town on 'em." << What's /up/ with you, man? >> "It is pretty distracting," Flicker says with a brightening of his smile. "Hey, you back to playing again? We've all got tickets to that show." He offers the box to Hive, but it takes a while before Hive actually lifts a hand to pluck one danish from the box -- cherry, though he isn't really looking at what flavor it is. << You can't hear us? >> This sounds a little confused, at Shelby's request. He doesn't eat the danish, though. He drops his hand to rest against Flicker's stomach, pastry held lazily like he's already forgotten about it. "Curls my toes, man," Shelby confirms, eyes flicking back and forth between the two. Her forehead rumples, bunching up her winter-faded freckles. "I was gonna go check out Ryan after this...dunno if I've got time to get myself practiced enough for a live show but maybe he can use a back-up singer or whatever. You seriously coming?" /That/ is pleasing to hear, though it's muted. Because. "/You/, Hive, Jesus." She pauses. "Sorry, Flicker." She will try not to take the Lord's name in vain but it's hard. A breath goes through her nose. "Were you, uh. With him, Flicker? When he was fixing my arm?" she asks, ripping her gaze away from droopyvague Hive. "Because shit got weird." "I bet Ryan'd be glad to see you," Flicker says warmly, even as Hive comments: << Gonna check Ryan out, better get in /line/. >> His hand has loosened, pastry dropping from it to fall against Flicker's torso. Flicker determinedly does not grimace; he picks it back up and tucks it into Hive's fingers. "Eat," he prompts, softly. "I -- yeah," he admits. "I've been with him -- I was with him. It's been --" Now he does grimace, if briefly, looking down at Hive (who is sleepily curling back in against his side.) "Rough." << Us? >> English doesn't distinguish between singular and plural /you/s. Hive's answer to Shelby is just kind of confused. << Weird why. Your arm's fixed, yeah? >> Shelby observes the attempt to get Hive to hang onto the goodie. It makes her frown and lean forward to poke at the man's leg. "Eat," she echoes Flicker, "I went to all the trouble to jump in a dumpster to say thank you, show a little gratitude, man." As scoldings go, this one is mild. No profanity even! She settles back after and scrubs a hand against her mouth--the good hand, without even thinking about it. How quickly the young recover. "Too many people in there, huh? How many is he up to? Did he...did you let the psycho go, Hive? Or he still in there pissed off at me for blinding him? I have this /thing/ about not being friends with psychos and you went all..." Her hands flap around, oh so descriptively. "Kumbaya with him." Hive eats, a slow bite once Flicker nudges again at his hand. The first bite seems to be the hardest, though; after this he holds the pastry properly, wolfing down half of it quickly and licking crumbs off the side of his mouth. << thanks >> is expressed less in words and more in a sense of gratitude that brushes up against Shelby's mind. << Psycho? >> This takes a little work, but then Hive chuffs quietly. << No. Not us anymore. Fucking asshole. >> "He's had too many people for too long," Flicker says, and he looks a little guilty at this, head bowing slightly. "Hopefully not for much longer, though." "Can't he just...shit, can't /you/ just drop them?" Conversing is hard. Shelby scoots forward, just shy of their legs, to reach for the box. Another pastry is pulled out--lemon--and poked at Hive's hand. She's not hungry, herself. There was a six-pack of glazed donuts that mysteriously vanished on her way over here; she's still sticky. "He can come back from this, right?" she asides to Flicker. "Like, once they get them all out he'll be himself again?" << (miss him so worried this isn't right) >> << Want to, >> Hive answers, though beneath this there is something else, something reluctant and /hungry/ that says quite the opposite of his words, << Can't. >> Flicker is more forthcoming with explanation: "These people who -- they do things to us. Um. Like, these chips? They put in people's heads. Some of the chips can -- control people. Back there they use 'em for all kinds of reasons, but sometimes to turn us into, like, security guards. Until we get them out, we never know who might, uh -- attack. So he keeps an eye on everyone to make sure nobody goes all rogue-killer-sleeperagent on us." Hive is working his way through the second half of the cherry danish and then taking the lemon one. His brow furrows at the question, his answer: << always ourself, >> probably not particularly reassuring. Here, too, Flicker is more straightforward, if reluctantly so: "Don't know. We had a friend -- technopath. He used to deactivate the chips over the first day or two. They took him, though. We've never -- he's never had to do it this long before." His smile has faded. He just looks worried. His fingers are squishing into his pastry. She slips her fingers under Flicker's hand and urges it upwards, while she digests this less than sweet news. Those donuts she downed do a slow somersault in her stomach at the description of brain chips. That's fucking scary. Terrifying. Crazy luck she never ran into these assholes and got snatched... "Could you like, get Doug to try to talk to them? The chip things?" She's grasping at straws here but she's feeling that hunger, and the repeated use of the plural, and they are making her antsy. << Doug -- polyglot. Not a technopath, >> Hive answers, though this is a little fuzzy-uncertain. << Can speak computer languages. Still need an interface to speak to them /with/. No way to signal the chips without actually -- >> He frowns, here, trailing off into more uncertainty. Flicker finishes the thought /for/ him, though -- he's not hived anymore but they've been friends long enough he doesn't need to be. His fingers trace along the side of Hive's head, brushing hair back to expose the thick surgical scars curling around the side of Hive's skull. "Iolaus found a doctor. Brain surgeon. He's been looking at them. But this kinda thing, it's -- technology nobody's really /seen/ before. They're studying a couple of them. Working on taking them out. Brain surgery's risky, though. It'll be a bit before he can let them all go." Flicker eats his pastry, sort of mechanically slow. Hive's speeding his way through the lemon, though. "Sorry," Flicker says, with a crooked twitch of lips that doesn't quite resolve into a smile. "Kinda just dumped a lot on you. But it's -- he's --" This time he trails off. << Friend, >> Hive volunteers, quietly. Shelby sees the scars. She doesn't want to see the scars but she does, her hand creeping up to the side of her own head as if imagining how they'd feel there. "Holy fuck," she breathes, with an expression to match. "That's..." No, wait, nevermind, she's got street cool and that's how she decides to front over that, flipping her hand dismissively and looking off to the side. "No, s'okay. I get it. If anyone's gonna figure out a way to help, it's the Doc. Until then, what're you gonna do though? I mean...is there. Anything? I could do?" The offer of help takes her mind on an interesting detour, nausea and a healthy dose of pissed off leading to fantasies of heading /right/ to the internet to set up a blog and blow all of this wide open. She can type again! Maybe not well, but... "Until then --" Flicker finishes his pastry. He licks his fingers clean, his other hand still resting against Hive's head, slowly brushing hair back into place. He shrugs a shoulder. "Take care of everyone." He nods towards the abandoned board game. "Kick Hive's butt in Tsuro. He gets all cranky, s'a good reminder he's still him." Hive grimaces, and SHOVES the last bite of his lemon danish into Flicker's mouth irritably. << Certainly not gonna say no to all the food, >> he answers, a little lighter. But not for long, with the thoughts going through Shelby's mind. He lapses back into quiet, and when his words come again they sound like a struggle, dredged up slow with the background chorus a little more muted, /Hive's/ voice a little more present. << We've thought about it. Want to. Tell the world. Get them shut the fuck down. Worried, though. What they'll do to the people still in, if it goes public. Or what would happen if -- >> His brow creases. "If it goes the other way," Flicker says. "You listen to some of the stuff that gets proposed in Congress, it gets shot down but it's terrifying people'd even bring it up. Forced registration, camps for those who're too dangerous. What if we take this to the news and people just think, man, what a great idea, why haven't we been doing this /more/?" That Hive /can/ dredge himself up out of the chorus in his head is a huge relief--and a distraction from petty thoughts of vengeance. Shelby perks at that, rewarding him with her very first grin since arriving. Sure, it's a little forced thanks to what is /said/ after, but it's a start. "You just gotta know your audience," she claims, "but if you spin it right, and don't go all PETA crazy, folks'll think what you want 'em to think, right?" She pauses for a beat. "Don't tell Ryan or Jax I said that." Damn hippies. More scootching follows, while she reaches out for the board game. "What the hell is Tsuro, anyway?" Studying the board does not illuminate. "What's this, like Chutes'n'Ladders for grownups?" "Jax hates PETA," Flicker confides with a laugh, "thinks they give vegans a bad name." He shifts slightly, sitting up a little straighter, tucking one leg towards himself to make more room on the bed. "I never played Chutes and Ladders," he admits, sheepish. << Spin it right, >> Hive echoes. << Yeah. We need a good publicist. >> This is a little wry. His gaze is a little more focused, a little less vacant, as Shelby reaches for the game. << Mmm, kind of? You're basically building your own path, though. You get tiles with pieces of the path on it and you can lay them down to make the path longer. You try to force your opponent's piece off the board and stay on yourself. It's -- really pretty simple once you actually start playing. >> "Yeah, I heard once they...wait, you never played Chutes and Ladders? Oh man, we gotta get that. Maybe Candyland too. You've played that, right?" This is where Shelby shines--providing the mindless, shiny chatter needed to /distract/. It's practically a secondary mutation, because as Hive begins to outline the rules, /she/ is busily setting the board out and riffling her fingers through the pieces. Her enthusiasm is sudden, strong and unfeigned because it is something she can do. << No cheating, >> she warns silently, while saying, "My favorite when I was little was Life. Y'get those little cars to drive around and you gotta fill it with your family," aloud. And their faces are there, remembered, competitive stepdad scowling and mom stepping in to make peace and Shelby giving up and staging stock car races with dramatic crashes which send family-pegs flying. Sometimes it's more fun to make your own rules.