ArchivedLogs:Roommate Woes
| Roommate Woes | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2015-11-10 Yoink. (Part of Flu Season TP.) |
| Location
<NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down to the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; in a recessed pit near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. Early morning in Geekhaus; it's quiet. The strong smell of coffee percolating. The sizzle of potato pancakes frying on the stove. Hive is sleepy-eyed, barefoot, pajama'd, slumped drowsily against the counter where he's tending breakfast. Thump-bump. Whump. Flicker's jittery path up from the basement carries him into the walls a couple times before landing him squarely on the floor. He is also in pajamas, still -- green plaid flannel pants and a t-shirt with a green 8-bit mushroom on it. Right sleeve hanging empty where he hasn't bothered yet strapping on any arm. He heads into the kitchen as well, every few steps shimmering out of place and reappearing a couple skips ahead. He skirts around Hive, nabbing a very multicolor-swirled glass from the cabinet to pour himself some orange juice, leaving the carton out on the counter as he settles onto a stool. Dusk can be felt before he can be seen, a churning seething pulse of hunger beating loudly upstairs. /Trying/ to get to sleep, now that the sun is up, but that throb of hunger is making it distractingly difficult. The thumping and clumping from downstairs provides additional distraction; there's a flare of irritation that precedes his door ALSO thumping open. There's a snap of wings, another WHUMP; he has simply launched straight over the balcony to land in a crouch on the ground floor. His snowdrift-patterned wings wrap back in around him like a cloak, the only pajamas /he/ bothers with. There's a growl surging up in his throat as he stomps over to Flicker (there's a definite /spike/ in that hunger, when he nears the other man; eyes lingering on his housemate's neck, on the side of Flicker's face.) Grumpily snatches up the carton of orange juice to return it to the fridge (as if /he/ himself is always the PINNACLE of prompt tidiness, around this house.) Hive scrubs at the side of his face with his knuckles. He slumps further where he stands, sleepily half-lidded eyes only half-lifting to track his roommates' progress through the room. He pokes at his pancakes, pokes at a smaller pan where spinach is sauteeing with shallots. His head shakes, slightly. He waves the spoon towards Flicker, then towards the still-being-prepared breakfast in silent offering before he starts getting a pan of water to poach eggs. Flicker nods to Hive -- yesplease /all/ the breakfast, /starving/ over here! He has just about drained his first glass of orange juice when Dusk snatches his carton away. He flings his hand out in exasperation, mind clouding over with annoyance. His right side twitches just slightly; there's a vague sense of regret in his mind at /not/ having strapped his other arm on that quickly just turns to irritation at Dusk -- wouldn't /need/ it it if Dusk wasn't all in his /business/. His fingers clench, then extend. Flex again. A moment later he is /at/ the fridge, the orange juice back in his hand juuust the second /before/ Dusk lets it go. Yoink. Was /using/ that, thanks. There's a snarl, here, from Dusk. His eyes have opened a little wider, the sheen of red that coats his mind growing a little thicker. His wing slams the fridge door shut -- on the juice, on Flicker's /hand/, whatever. Hive doesn't look up from his cooking, at all this. His thin shoulders tighten, and there's a heavy strong /squeeze/ of his mind against theirs. A press, firm, blanketing, warning. /Guys/. There's a moment of hesitation at that mental warning -- just long enough to delay him so that the heavy slam of the fridge door actually /catches/ his arm. The orange juice drops, tumbling to the floor, its only-loosely-screwed cap rattling off and a pool of juice collecting at the base of the fridge. Flicker draws in a sharp breath at the heavy slam of the fridge door; the ensuing pain overpowers whatever caution Hive's warning had instilled in him. Another shimmer puts him behind Dusk instead of in front -- no wait, at the side, no wait, now he's in front again, a series of sharp rapid blows accompanying the rapid shifts in position. Dusk's growl is deeper, this time, rougher and sharper when strikes he can barely see slam in against him. His wings spread, eyes closing against the disorienting blur to /feel/ the rush that moves around him -- then abruptly /snap/ inward, hand whipping out even as he does so to snatch one slippery teleporter out of the air and slam him bodily up against the fridge. The subsequent sink of teeth into vein is not gentle but tearing; even the empathogen-rush that accompanies his bite can do little to mask /this/ pain. Hive's breath comes out in a sudden rush, a jerky convulsing of his shoulders. The squeezing presses in harder, but then withdraws altogether as his eyes grow somewhat fixed and glassy, staring through his unfinished eggs florentine rather than at it. The next touch of his mind is both gentler and far heavier, not a bludgeon but a very deft coil that wraps around Dusk's thoughts, tamping down the anger, cordoning it off. It's hard to read much emotion into the vacancy in Hive's expression, now, as he grabs towels to start compressing the blood oozing from Flicker's neck. Through the pain, now, there's muddled confusion in Flicker's mind. << ... was going to put the juice away... >> A hazily puzzled uncertainty as cold juice soaks into the back of his shirt. Mingles sticky and wet on the floor with the warm dark red of blood. | |
