ArchivedLogs:More Hours in the Day

More Hours in the Day
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Micah, Hive + Borg	25 March 2014 Emergency gaming supplies! Oh, and other supplies, too. (Part of the Future Past TP.)
Location <NYC> Pandemonium Games - Lower East Side
Two floors of geekery, Pandemonium Games in the Lower East Side is, at first blush, a bookstore rather than a gaming store, small and cozy with aisles dedicated to sci-fi and fantasy books. The glass counter opposite the bookshelves, admittedly, does hold a wealth of cards from various collectible card games, though binders of Magic cards predominate. Bins of dice in a wide variety of colours stand at one end of the counter. It is the lower level of the store that is usually the busy one, though. The stairs leading down to the basement head first into shelves and shelves of games; board games, RPG sourcebooks, Warhammer figurines, battle mats. Beyond the shelves of goods, a much larger room is mostly bare save its many wide tables, filled at all hours with people playing tabletop games of all kinds. After an explosion that blows up your entire life and all your material possessions, it can be kind of a long-hard slog of a road to get back on your feet. It's important to prioritize and get back to the necessities first so that life can run again smoothly -- and that is why Dusk, who has been wearing the same pair of jeans and same two shirts all week long -- is here today in Pandemonium, flutter-/bounding/ his way down the steps (okay, pretty much /skipping/ the steps) to the basement. It is full of the smells of gaming from the back, too many bodies crammed into too little space, some coffee, some junk food; the sounds of rolling dice against play mats and shuffling Magic cards mingle with the voices coming from there. A number of pairs of eyes look up as Dusk hops down the stairs, drawn by the wide and slightly mantled wings, though he's by /far/ a regular enough face here that it's really easy to tell the /other/ regulars by the vast majority who immediately just go back to their weekly scheduled gaming. One teenager playing Magic nearer the door actually lets his jaw fall open, a pair of Skittles he'd just popped into his mouth rattling wetly back down onto the table. Dusk just grins, straightening from the half-crouch he landed in to brush a wing almost lovingly out against the rows of games. His burns have healed up, by now, all save the very worst of them which -- some time last week had very /ugly/ blackened leathery-cracking skin along his arms and now only looks like a small case of sunburn. Thank god for mutant healing. He's in ill-fitting black jeans belted onto his narrow hips, cheap white sneakers, an oversized Columbia t-shirt neatly re-sewn up back to allow extra holes for his wings. He /also/ has a baggy black sweatshirt and shabby overlarge thrift-store trenchcoat, but these things are both currently draped over one arm. In the fading-light eveningtime he still has sunglasses on his face, not actually yet switched over from ahh-god-sunlight to oh-yay-nighttime, and here under the bright indoor lights he doesn't bother to remove them. He has, at least, taken turns each day hand-washing the shirts he owns while he wears the other ones. So his shirt is thankfully /clean/, even if it's gotten quite a lot of use. The rest of him looks surprisingly less scruffy than usual too -- a trim new haircut, freshly shaved. But burning off some of your hair messily kind of prompts a trip to the barber to even it all out. Micah hasn't made it all the way back out to Westchester from work yet, obviously, as he's making his way into a games store instead. He has a thrift store hoodie in dark green on over a new (someone visited a discount store over the weekend, apparently) TARDIS-blue polo shirt and khakis, and what also look to be thrift store work shoes. Lacking an appropriate hat for the weather, he's just been going hood-up while he's out. Shoving the hood back from his face catches his hair into stick-up angles while he is distracted by the shiny-shiny dice bins on his way to the stairs. Though, a certain swoopiness manages to pull his attention back in the appropriate direction. His trip down the stairs is far less exciting...even a little slower than the average person's given the rate at which even /good/ prosthetic knees handle lowering down steps. He comes up behind Dusk, ruffling his fingers into the other man's hair. "Y'tryin' t'see if y'could get somebody t'choke on your way down?" he teases. "You cut your hair. I'm tryin' t'remember the last time that happened." "I usually -- kind of -- sort of. Take a weedwhacker to it in the bathroom a little once it gets to ponytailable length." Dusk's answer comes with a pleased backwards tilt of head into the ruffling, his wing leaving its caress of board-game-shelf to curl around Micah in a slow wrap of hug that squeezes the other man close before folding back in against his back. "I've actually racked up at least four genuine spit-takes in here. No choking yet. One Cheeto spat out into someone's eye, though." He sounds so proud of these accomplishments, wings rolling in pleased ruffle-stretch behind him. One hand lingers toying through Dusk's hair while the other traces down his back, between his wings. "You been doin' okay with findin' ways t'get your shirts an' all adjusted? S'bad enough just havin' t'/buy/ all new stuff without alterin' it, too." Micah chuckles at the description of the room's reaction to Dusk's entrance. "Only four an' no chokin'? Must be y'hang around here too much. Folks is gettin' used t'you." On a slightly more serious note... "Hey, have you worked out a place t'stay 'til the Commons get built up? I figured Aly might crash at the school...Flicker could, too. Got an offer t'pass on t'Hive that was also extended t'Flicker. But I ain't been sure 'xactly what you're plannin'. S'tough keepin' track of everybody when most everybody's phones got destroyed." Dusk leans back into the hand tracing down against his back, an almost orgasmic sigh slipping out of him as he /presses/ permanently-overtaxed back muscles into Micah's fingers. "Huh? Oh, pfft. I sew like a motherfucker. But, uh, I kind of got through two shirts," he admits, "and then had worked my fingers raw so fuck that two shirts is all anyone needs, right?" His nose wrinkles, head shaking slightly. "Only four and no choking. -- Uh, I --" He shrugs a wing. "Just been kind of -- couch hopping right now I hadn't really thought about --" His words cut off with a very sudden hiss, teeth clenching hard and his muscles clenching hard beneath Micah's hand. "Oh/fuck/." This exclamation from Dusk comes with a searing mental ripple against Micah's mind. It's -- familiarly /colorful/, vivid-bright in an almost painful brilliance and it washes up against Micah's mind in a searing ripple of enveloping mental flame as though very abruptly the entire world was on /fire/. And then passes into just calm-quiet again. Dusk breathes in sharp through his teeth, muscles still tensed. Micah's lips pull into a smile, fingers pressing in more firmly as Dusk leans back. "Oh, man, y'been hand-sewin' this stuff? We gotta swing by someplace before things close, once we're done here. Borrow my machine, you'll have some spares done in no time." The smile falters a little at the couch hopping answer. "Hon, y'gotta get somethin' more long-term lined up. Would they mind you hangin' out at the Friday night house for a bit? I mean, they took a bunch of the folks as needed a place t'stay before." Then, there's a sudden wall of flame. Dusk /wanted/ a Micah attached to him, right? Because that's the end result, the redhead's face buried into the folds of a wing and both arms wrapping around the other man with fingers gripping...one into the fabric of Dusk's shirt and the other around his arm. "Cheese and /crackers/, the heck was that?" he near-gasps, as if the breath were knocked from him. The calm-quiet is grasping outward, mental fingers pushing. Much more /quietly/ than the usual sharply digging claws, but still a noticeable presence, pressure squeezing in as it bears down on Micah's mind. Down /into/ Micah's mind. Dusk's wing wraps tight around Micah, rubbing slow between the other man's shoulders, now. His breathing is quicker and it takes him a moment to recover it; even after he speaks a little bit through his teeth. "I -- /think/," he says, slow and rather uncertain, "that may have been your husband." He shakes his head with a small wince. "Hive's so quiet in here I forget he's here. I forget /who/ the fuck is -- Jesus. Ow." His head tips down, cheek pressing to the top of Micah's head. "Uh -- wait, shit, shit, you have a machine? I mean mine blew the fuck up you mean I /didn't/ have to hand-sew till my fingers bled?" Now that the mental fire has passed he is groaning. "I should go shopping more." The mental press is a bit more familiar. And certainly less /explodey/, at least. "Oh, Hive," Micah half-sighs, bunched muscles relaxing and fingers quitting their digging into Dusk's arm-flesh. He takes a half-step backward, expression sheepish and cheeks bright-flushed. "Ohgosh, has he still got everybody? That can't be...good for 'im. On top of...ugh. Guess maybe Jax tried t'take a nap or somethin'. His...dreams have been pretty /flamey/ lately. I've started sleepin' with one of those," he flicks his fingers in the direction of his eyes, "fancy rich-lady eye mask things on 'cause it's less distrubin' t'wake up t'/black/ than it is t'wake up t'the room lookin' on fire. Was easier t'assume all the...lab people an' blood an' stuff was fake. Brain takes in the fire an' b'lieves it too easy. Um...'specially considerin'." His teeth snag on his lower lip and worry it. "Well, since he's listenin'. Lucien offered 'im a place t'stay. An' Flicker, too, once he's outta the hospital." A small snort of laughter answers the sewing machine question. "Yes...apologies. Remember when I said I had a machine for work an' I helped alter a bunch of stuff for you a long time ago? Well...have y'ever seen the machine in the apartment?" His brows loft questioningly. "Maybe," Dusk agrees uncertainly, at the suggestion of possible-napping. "I mean he's definitely okay. Just -- stray -- thoughts. No pain. Just panic." His wing slowly drags down against Micah's back, falling away reluctantly. "Holy shit. Holy shit. You still have a machine. Holy /shit/. -- No okay that's /way/ more logical thinking than I've been capable of this week, man. My thought processes were not that complex most of the week. /I/ don't know what the fuck's in your van it could be a portal to some kind of netherworld for all I know. Or apparently a /paradise/ full of sewing machines." His head turns back to the shelves of board games, breathing relaxing. "-- Christ, yeah, I can imagine. Waking up to -- yikes. That's kind of a recipe for panic. How've /you/ been doing since everything, man?" A slight turn of his head shifts his gaze at least partially back to Micah. Those mental fingers dig in deeper. Pushing. Pressing. Today the feelings leaking through are mostly just a /bone/-weary exhaustion. << -- Lucien -- >> This name is chorus-murmur-echoed to Micah as though Hive can't quite /place/ it. "That was pretty loud for just a stray thought," Micah replies with a wince and a roll of his neck, as if the motion will shake off the image. "Just the one machine, but it's an /industrial/ one. An' I got every kinda needle an' thread an' notion you'd be likely t'need an' then some. So all's y'need's the base materials an' we're golden." He moves to stand next to and slightly behind Dusk as the other man browses, the better to reach his hand around /wing/ for rubbing again. "I've been...remarkably okay. I mean...while everyone was still hurt an'...missin'. It was rough. An' Spence was...harder. A lot...harder. But everyone's okay now, so. The rest of it's just stuff an' money an' complications an' not enough time t'sort it all. Worst of it was Jax's artwork gettin' destroyed when he's on a deadline, y'know? Lotta folks got it a /whole/ lot worse off." << Lucien, honey, you know 'im. >> Micah supplies a mental image of Lucien sitting across the table from him with a cup of tea. Then another image of the facade of his house. << He said y'could stay. With Flicker. S'got plenty of space. >> "Someone was talking about Jim," Dusk clarifies with a very small frown. "And forest fires and -- I don't know. I don't think it was a dream. I don't think he's asleep. Guess it's not surprising he's been dreaming about fire. I've just been dreaming about --" His brow creases deeper, and he shakes his head, fingers trailing against the game titles. "Oh my god. I should pick up some actually decent new shit, then. I just did not want to spend the next month sewing and where the fuck am I going to keep a sewing /machine/ right now all my crap's in a backpack." His breath shivers out again and he leans slightly back, muscles knotted up in heavily carried tension between his wings. "What's the point of driving around in a TARDIS if you can't buy yourself enough time to do things?" His teeth flash in very small sliver-grin, here. "/I/ just need time to play all these damn games. What do you think is the /most/ essential to have for emergencies?" His wing is sort of absently pressing back up against the inside of Micah's arm, brushing there lightly. "Are you guys gonna be okay, though? I mean. With stuff and money and complications. And time." Hive's quiet grip finally sinks in and /tightens/, holds. Stays, with a soft /rush/ of conglomerated background-minds flooding into Micah's own, a myriad other thoughts and feelings and emotions that he soon shutters away behind a mental wall. << ... Lucien, >> echoes again, and the confusion, clearer now that his thoughts surface as easily as though they were Micah's own, is apparently not because of a /lack/ of information about this person but because of too /much/. Conflicting opinions warring in his mind(s). << Snarky bastard. >> // << /God/, I'd tap that. >> // A faint rustle of something that feels like a quiet-thrill of flutter-crush. // An uncomfortable twist of disgust: << ... the whore? /Hah/ not paying /that/ rent. >> // A /fierce/-warm-bright flood of chaotic-mingling colors that don't take form in /words/ but here in shared-mind-scape don't /need/ words to be deciphered as /love/, protectiveness, a cautious hope. // A small meek pulse, /intimidated/ but past that akin to admiration. // Somewhere among the jumbled-muddled opinions Hive is finding it difficult to sort through them and find one that is his /own/. "Oh. Yeah... Jim's been...I dunno. Looks not-good. I'm not sure what translates back to /people/ from /tree/. S'planted on the grounds at the school. I got a healer friend goin' t'sit with 'im an' maybe... I dunno. He helped make some almost-dead flowers a lot better one time." Micah shrugs, a sigh of helpless frustration given on that particular point. "Nah, s'cool. Y'got access t'mine whenever it's not actively in use for work things. I'm a bit of a movin' target, but y'gotta way of gettin' around, too, so I figure it'll sort out." His head falls forward to rest against Dusk's shoulder, though his hand continues its rubbing at the other man's back. "Emergency games? I dunno, I'm usually not /playin'/ a whole lot durin' emergencies. Hm. S'usually good t'have a set of dice an' a deck of regular playin' cards 'round. Y'can do a whole lot with just that. Actually /had/ a thing of Dixit for Spence an' Jax. I dunno...Small World for when y'got a group. Forbidden Island for when y'want a strategy game without havin' t'keep track of /too/ many things...or Forbidden Desert if y'like dyin' of sun exposure better." "'Cause it's just a van with a nice paint job an' not a time machine," Micah replies with just a hint of bitterness before simply focusing on his hand's movement, eyes closed for few moments. "We'll be okay, yeah. Hardest part's gonna be gettin' Jax t'cut down his other work so he can catch back up all the ground he lost with school stuff. But we'll be okay, for sure." There is a flare of fierce-hot protectiveness in answer to some of the less-than-warm-fuzzy thoughts and feelings directed toward Lucien. << He offered, honey. Was his idea. S'grateful for what you're doin' t'help find his brother. >> "S'awful noisy in there," he observes softly to Dusk. "Gonna have t'do somethin' 'bout that real soon." Dusk exhales quietly, and now his concern is slightly easier to /feel/ in shared-connection; /his/ mind comes in very /lively/ hot pulses that thrum (hungry) (red) with a near-permanent undercurrent of vibrant exuberance beneath the surface of whatever other emotions temporarily gush up to the surface. "I can't exactly feed him either." A little disgruntled-unhappy. He brushes his wing against the games again, reaching up to pluck Forbidden Desert off the shelf. "I don't exactly /like/ dying in the desert but I do like putting the airship together." /Decisions/! "-- Be nice if it was a time machine," he mutters, meandering down farther to look at the Dixit boxes before just adding the original to his armload. "Why don't we know anyone with time powers? You know, I've met people with just about every other powers. I mean, okay, I guess I've seen enough movies to know what a bad idea meddling with the past is so maybe that's -- where all the mutants with time powers went," he says wryly. And then, almost offhand: "-- You spend much time thinking about the future?" His free hand lifts to press his palm against his temple. "Been spreading," he admits to Micah. << Matt. >> On this, at least, there's no confusion. Only a clarity of purpose that, for the briefest of moments, snaps Hive into clear focus out of the muddled mess of minds. << Yeah. Right, okay, yeah. We're getting Matt. And -- Lucien's -- house? Right. OK. I mean, I don't need that. I have an office. >> "Oh, honey, d'you need t'eat?" Micah's brow furrows at the concern and hunger coming from Dusk. "I mean...it's been. Not quite three weeks since we...went out the last time." Clever code, Micah. "But I think an exception can be made when everybody's been injured /but/ me." He manages a small smile at the mention of the airship, a strong impression of twirling a little plastic propeller associated with the thought. "It /is/ pretty much the best fidgety-thing t'ever come in a game. Outside of the Play-Doh in Grape Escape. Best little-kid-game ever." He chuckles a little over the idea of time powers. "'Cause messin' with the time stream ends poorly for everybody but the Doctor, pretty much? An' sometimes even then..." He nods along with Dusk's observations. "The future? Like, how far d'you mean? I got kids, I spend most of m'time worryin' 'bout what's gonna happen to 'em as they get older," Micah admits with a shrug. "An'...immediate future. Tryin' t'figure out how t'get through the latest emergency at the time. Been...playin' with the idea of writin' a book eventually? S'that the kinda thing y'mean?" The word 'spreading' draws a frown across his lips. "That's the opposite of what needs t'be happenin'." << Yes, we're gettin' Matt. An' t'do that, we need /you/ as healthy as possible. That means eatin'. An' showerin'. An' /sleepin'/. Y'need a place t'stay an' /people/ t'stay with you. >> This last has a memory-flash of Flicker helping Hive to eat tagged to it. "I don't know. I don't -- I've just been giving /away/ as much as I've been taking /in/ with everybody --" Dusk shrugs, turning over his arm and poking it out a little further from where sweatshirt and jacket have been draped over it to just indicate the bandaging wrapped at his wrist. "I'm not sure I'd say messing with the time stream turns out that great for the Doctor either, really. Nine hundred years of fighting and loneliness -- /I/ don't know, I'd take a decade of you guys over that." His fangs bare in sharp grin. "Though I'll still pray for /several/ decades." The smile fades, and he shrugs, holding the board games close to his chest with his coat-wrapped arm. "I guess. I don't know. Maybe I just mean the world. Had a /strange/ fucking dream last night and it just left me wondering what the shape of -- everything --" His eyes widen slightly. "Wait, you're going to write a book? Seriously? What kind of book?" Micah's thoughts meet with a disgruntled mental /fidget/, something shift-stirring uncomfortably in his mind. << Sleep at the office, >> he protests. << Shower -- at the -- fight house. >> "So, that would be a 'yes'," Micah concludes with a nod as he eyes the bandages. "Gotta take you t'the van after we buy y'some shirts anyhow. "Um...a medical textbook. General principles an' case studies on managin' the medical equipment an' technology needs of people with an active X-gene. 'Cause I been doin'...an awful lot of it without even leavin' the state. S'obviously a /need/. A ridiculously underfunded need, but... I gotta think there's /somebody/ else out there who wants t'help. Or /would/ want to, if they knew more." His fingers knead deeper into the muscles between Dusk's shoulderblades. "Strange dream? A shape-of-the-future dream? Somethin' y'wanna talk about? We can...go sit somewhere. Or I can buy you dinner before other-food. Also we should get you clothes. See what I mean about not enough time for anythin'?" << An' what happens when y'need help? You need t'stay with people. Luci's offerin' for you /and/ Flicker. Stop bein' stubborn. >> "Whoa. Oh wow. That's /neat/. Really? Because shit, yeah, that sounds like something that's /mad/ needed. Uh -- I guess you've had a crapton of people to look at but if you ever want a pair of wings to poke at for your -- whatever. Case studies. Diagrams. Who knows." Dusk's wings gives just the tiniest of flex, muscles shifting beneath Micah's fingers, though in these close quarters the wings can't stretch far before he has to pull them back in for fear of knocking into Micah or board games or both. "Strange -- yeah, I don't know. That Carruthers woman was mayor," he recalls with a small laugh. "And I guess the cops were after me. And someone was trying to kill Ash. Because of registering? Did mention you guys, though. Guess you were living at the Commons and your life was going pretty great." He shrugs, kind of a little /twitchy/-uncomfortable like he's trying to shake this off and /be/ more nonchalant about it than he actually is. "Just sort of led to a lot of wondering what /is/ going to happen to everyone who's registering. Or the world in general who the hell knows. -- Oh, clothes. I need clothes. We could just stop the clocks." The mental fidget subsides in Micah's mind into just a grumble. And then quiet. /Sulky/ quiet. "Elliott? We could do worse. An' have done, certainly. She's a good person...honestly wouldn't mind seein' it." Micah gives a thoughtful little 'huh' at that. "Cops bein' after you ain't a stretch. Ain't like they've been givin' y'flowers in the past. But...yeah. That's part of why there's been the whole fight against registration. They've already /had/ similar things go horribly wrong in other countries. Releasin' addresses, gettin' people /lynched/." He taps one of the boxes in Dusk's hands. "Well, could go get in line t'buy these, for a start." Micah just offers a sort of mental...headpet. In answer to the grumbling and the sulking. "Yeah, her," Dusk agrees, "I'm assuming anyway. Mentioned Mayor Carruthers -- wasn't she just at that dinner-thing of yours? But she's like. Working on being a lawyer or something, right?" He glances down to the boxes in his hands, brows raising like he's only just remembered them. "-- Shit right. Games. Then clothes. Then time-travel. That was the agenda, right?" His wing drapes around Micah's shoulders as he starts towards the stairs. "And definitely no lynching, /that'd/ be a shitty end to the evening." "Yeah, she was there. An' is in law school. We've run into each other a few times. She even helped me out one time when people were...throwin' things an' threatenin' at me back while you an' Jax were in jail." Micah snuggles into Dusk's draping wing, falling into step along with him. Games. Clothes. Food. Sewin'. Time travel somewhere in there...don't really matter where. S'time travel, after all." A grin pulls his lips lopsided. "/Definitely/ can come up with better ends t'the evenin'." "Huh." Dusk sounds genuinely surprised by this information, perhaps even a little pleased. His wing curls tighter around Micah, and he leans in to nip very lightly at the other man's neck just before he ushers Micah up the stairs. "Mmm. This list is getting longer." Not that he sounds like he is complaining one bit. Micah leans further into the cradling wing, a soft purr rumbling from his throat at the nip. “Time travel!” he reminds at the report of the list growing longer, chuckling. “Puttin' more hours in the day.” "Mmm. Good. Then I won't have to feel bad about monopolizing so much of your evening," Dusk answers with a low chuckle, leading the way towards check-out.