ArchivedLogs:No Reasons
| No Reasons | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-07-27 ' |
| Location
<NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village | |
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. It's morning. Not /early/ morning but from Hive's sour-faced grouching you might well think it is. Dragged out of the house by his roommates, he has breakfasted (grumpily) and is now in the process of meandering home. Vaguely. Very vaguely, in that they've stopped in the park across the street to watch a trio of teenagers perfoming some actually rather impressive acrobatics. Hive lingers past the outskirts of the small crowd that's gathered for the street performance, slouched up against the fence that rings one of the park's playgrounds. He has a coffee in hand, iced, black, which he's not so much drinking from as gnawing on its straw, eyes half-lidded as he watches the show. He's dressed like -- lazy-summer-day, which today is cargo shorts that are fraying badly at the bottom, and a brown t-shirt with a pair of hedgehogs staring at a third (who has upended a tin of blue paint over himself.) Beside him, one of his roommates -- tall, slim, darkdark hair and bright green eyes and a face that would be boy-next-door pretty if not for the wealth of fading but pitted scars that travel down one side -- watches with a lot more bright excitement than Hive. Flicker even actually cheers for the more impressive of the stunts! He looks /slightly/ better dressed, in that -- his clothes aren't fraying and his sneakers aren't held together by /duct/ tape. But only slightly. Stripey black-and-white shorts, green t-shirt, sneakers. It's still summer. He's still a college student. Dusk rounds out the trio of roommates. He also has a coffee, also iced, milky-paler than Hive's, though. He's watching with brighter interest, too. He continues the theme of not-really-overly-invested-in-fashion: faded old jean shorts, a stripey blue-and-white v-neck t-shirt. The shirt has been modified, restitched to allow for the /massive/ pair of wings that sprout from the young man's back -- it's pretty impossible not to notice them, even folded in against his shoulders as they are. Bat-wings, not bird-wings, they're clawed at both the bottom points and the top thumb-digit, which rise spikily up around his head. It -- earns a few stares, to be sure, perhaps less so in /this/ park than it would in many others given the large mutant population in the neighborhood, but still: stares. Aside from the wings he's fairly nondescriped, dark hair, dark eyes, dark stubble shadowing his jaw, a rather unhealthy current pallor. "-- Woah, sweet." This is commentary on one of the performers doing a backflip off of another. Remy is for his park, enjoying a long jog in the sunshine. Dressed in jeans cut off at the knees, a black sleaveless t-shirt, and dark sunglasses agienst even this early nmorning's gentle sunshine, he weaves through the slowly crowding park, seemingly lost in his own world. Oh he makes note of the acrobats, as well as the three males watching them, but for now his focus is on pushing past his record speed for a circut of the park.. << The move, or them? >> comes in Hive's typically painful whipcrack of a mental voice to his two roommates; he's lazily watching /them/, too, just as much as the performers, cataloguing Dusk's pallor /critically/. Half-lidded though his gaze may be, his /mind/ is keenly alert, taking quiet stock of the other thoughts floating around the park with them. "I always get so impressed!" Flicker offers cheerfully, "I mean, /wow/, how much practice do you think it takes? I get so used to --" His cheeks flush, a wave of hand given to Dusk. "Like, OK, if the /twins/ did this -- not as impressive, you know? But when it takes all that /work/ --" "And what do you have to show for it," Hive interrupts dryly, "except a few scattered bills in an upturned hat." "Well, /okay/, if /money/ is your only reason for doing /anything/ but --" Flicker's nose crinkles. "If money was /his/ only reason for doing anything," Dusk says dryly, "we'd live in a /lot/ nicer of a building. Mooching off of his ill-gotten gains." He chuffs out a /snort/ at the mental question, but -- the hunger underlying the humour is undeniable. Pushing into the place where, yes, all the people around them have started to look /really tasty/. He takes a long sucking pull from his coffee. << Didn't even fight last night, >> he admits uncomfortably. << Just watched. >> There's a shift of imagery that comes with this, a stirring of memory of bodies glistening in yellow lighting, the heavy smacking sounds of flesh pounding flesh. The sharp scent of blood. Remy oblivious to this mental conversation, and paying very little attention to the verbal one, keeps running. His eyes focused behind his glasses as he takes the curve in the path that leads dirrectly behind the three room mates and heads further out. Having very little reason to /accost/ a man so intent on his jogging, after another brief sweep of mental attention to accompany his lazy sweep of gaze around the park, Hive reverts his focus to the performers putting on the show. "So they're in it for the -- glory," he says, with a small twitch of lips. "Or for the satisfaction of being really good at what they do?" Flicker suggests. Then grins, brighter, wider, "-- or for the killer abs, really, I can't imagine being in shape like that /hurts/ them at all." Hive snorts. He sucks down another gulp of coffee, absently rattling the ice in the clear plastic cup. << S'gotta be /someone/ in the building you're clear to take from again. I swear to god, man, if you get your scrawny ass /beat/ to death because you didnt bother to eat -- >> This trails off, disgruntled. << -- Besides. We need you in shape. Likely going to have to suit up again soon and -- those fucking places are getting tougher every time. >> "You don't need a body like that," Dusk informs Flicker, "fucking celibacy, it'd go to /waste/." He drains the rest of his coffee, glancing around for a trashcan. He shifts forward a few steps to allow Remy to pass when he swings around behind, wings pulling in tighter against his back, and then continues forward more to toss the cup in the nearest trashcan. << Ghh, >> he answers, a disgruntled mental chuff that /bristles/ at the thought of putting his life on the line to rescue /Nox/. But there's a resignation there all the same, because: Jim. /Masque/, even. And who knows how many others imprisoned. << I know some people, >> he admits, a distinct tinge of discomfort (guilt) (unhappiness) (/blood/) to the thought. << Who could probably help. If we don't have the numbers. >> And with that, having no reason to stop or delay, Remy keeps running, dipping arround Dusk with just a casual nod, thanking him for stepping aside. His focus completely on the jog ahead of him. Flicker just rolls his eyes at Dusk. "Right. Cuz there's /no/ reason to be in shape aside from other people." He claps Hive on the shoulder when Dusk moves aside, jostling him lightly back in the direction of their building. Hive's mental touch has the same vague bristling, but in lieu of resignation a firm /determination/. Because /Jim/. << Gonna need all the people we can get. >> Aloud: "Gah," for the jostling, but he falls into place beside Flicker, fingers flicking chill condensation droplets off his fingertips towards Dusk's wings in passing. "S'go home." | |
