ArchivedLogs:Senses

Senses
Dramatis Personae Hive, Matt Murdock, Selene	2014-04-05 '
Location <NYC> Montagues - SoHo
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream but don't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. Montagues is fairly busy, of a Saturday night, bustling and noisy with a late-evening crowd. It's probably not an entirely /pleasant/ place to be an unshielded telepath which might account for Hive's unhappy grimace, where he sits at a corner armchair, red Vaio laptop in his lap and a large mug of coffee barely touched on the table in front of him. He's dressed in his typical shabby style -- dirt-speckled workboots, dirt-speckled jeans, a Grumpy Bear hoodie, fleecy Theta Tau cap pulled down over his hair. He may be working, perhaps -- at least, on his screen there are designs for an office building in progress -- but at the /moment/ he's not actually /doing/ anything with them, hands shaking far too badly to actually /accomplish/ anything. Instead he's just glaring at his screen like it's offended him, and gritting his teeth hard as his siphons through the chaotic soup of surface-thoughts swimming in the coffeeshop around him. Coffee shops can be veritable smorgasbords of sensory stimulants, from the rich aromas of the different blends of coffee and the wispier, airier scents of pastries beneath, to the chatter of patrons and all of their movements--footsteps, coat rustles, the scrape of a chair leg--and where some people find such an environment readily and warmly inviting, not everyone does. Matt Murdock isn't averse to the little cafes and coffee shops that dot the city, he's pretty fond of the genuine mom and pop places as opposed to the big chains, but he does have to take a moment to steel himself before stepping within in order to be able to handle the bombardment on his senses. He's never been to this place in particular before, but there is a first time for everything. As it is a Saturday, he wears a dark jacket and jeans instead of a suit as he makes his way in through the door, with a distinct red and white cane in one hand. He also sports a pair of sunglasses, which he does not take off when he comes in, although why would he if he's already wearing them at night. There's a Corey Hart song in here somewhere. He makes his slow, careful way through the people and tables, as he picks his way along to eventually reach the counter, only aligning with the register once the barista speaks up. He asks about the selection of teas, and listens as the list is prattled off. Selene's always been a night owl, entering the coffee shop which she has been frequenting for quite a while now. Her mental senses are acute, picking up thoughts all around the room and bringing them to her, Selene manually shutting down ones that bore her. And then she recognizes a familiar person, a mental greeting to replace going out of her way as she approaches the counter. << Mr. Hive. It's been a while. How are you? >>. Selene stands behind Matt, his thoughts curious but not curious enough to dig into right now. Selene is dressed in a black button shirt with a matching coat over it, a pair of black trousers, and long boots. Hive's default grimace doesn't clear up at all with the touch of a familiar mind to his. He slouches further in his chair, scowling more at his computer. << Your designs are ready, >> he offers to Selene in lieu of greeting, his mental voice its typical gruff /thud/ of hammer-heavy bludgeoning; it comes with a faint undertone of something tenser, coiling in a hard knot beneath his mental voice. He's slow to turn, heavily half-lidded eyes flicking over Selene in line, first. Matt in front of her, second, with a faint niggling sense of recognition. The unfortunate lawyer is the next to be treated to his speech -- there's nothing /delicate/ about the telepath's mental voice, a heavy /pound/ of psionic pressure that slams in loud and jarring: << You, >> comes to Matt almost like an accusation, << look familiar. >> Matt settles on a cup of decaf jasmine green tea, after having heard the entire selection of choices at hand. While the barista fixes his cup, he thumbs through his wallet for a specifically-folded bill, a five spot creased lengthwise. He hands it over, and his free hand goes searching for his tea when that voice practically bludgeons him mentally. He grimaces, turning his head slightly as if to get away from a sound that isn't even a sound, and then an iciness of paranoia crawls down the back of his neck and spine. There is a general questioning of who? in his mind, even as he tries to brick in even more self-control and focus. The barista, spying his expression, asks if there's anything wrong. "Ahhno, just a headache," he responds, and collects his change and tea before stepping aside to be out of the way. << Excellent. I can call you tomorrow, then? >>. Selene doesn't pay attention to the undertone, getting a cup of black coffee, like her soul, tipping generously. She tips her head to the paranoid Matt, curious but busy, as she parts, with one last mental note to Hive. << Take care, then. >> << Monday, >> Hive answers Selene, as lightly as his heavy-handed mindvoice will allow. << You have my number. >> His eyes turn back to his computer screen; it gives Matt some small respite from the mental bludgeoning. There's a faint mental /pressure/ that leans up against the lawyer's mind, though; it comes with a /feeling/ of apology. Though the sense of apology doesn't /stop/ the continued heavy-thud of Hive's mind. << You've worked with friends of mine, maybe. >> There's a couple of flickering mental voices here. A warm-cheerful molasses-thick Southern drawl, a quiet more sedate young man with a ready laugh. X-Men, both of them. Matt lingers at the counter. Does he want honey? Does he need it? Considering his choice of jasmine green tea, the honey is probably unnecessary, but the debate gives his mind something steady to focus on besides the... voice. That comes again. Though now that it is not such a blindsiding surprise, a certain curiosity pricks, if cautious in nature. He is not exactly used to a telepathic presence such as this, and so it is a new sensory experience of sorts. And it is not very often that Matt gets to experience a new sensory anything. Wait, is sensory the right term? His senses aren't really involved. Hmm. << I know quite a lot of people >> is a clear thought, even as he becomes instinctively protective about it. He is a lawyer, after all, and privy to many sensitive things. That is totally why he was paranoid to start, right? The secrets of other people, of course. Definitely. << /Is/ it sensory? >> Now the voice is, perhaps, getting sidetracked itself. There's a curious note in Hive's tone here, too. << Think it might be. Just not a sense most people think of. Just not a sense most people /have/. But, I mean, just because most people aren't psionic doesn't make it not a sense, does it? You're sensing me right now. >> And, very wryly, he adds: << Kiiind of unfortunately for you. >> Although he convincingly portrays it as accidental, when Matt turns to the room proper, he knocks his cane against the edge of the counter to create a clean, hard, rap of a sound that cuts through all of the other noise of the room. To everyone else, it's just a loud, brief knock, forgotten about as soon as it silences. To him, though, that clean sound wave ripples out over the rest of the noise of the room and gives him a short, sweet moment of clarity. With it, he spots an empty table, and gets a better understanding of the layout of the coffee shop. With tea in one hand, cane in the other, he then makes his way to said empty table, his thoughts divided between careful navigation and this interesting idea of a new sense. Were it not uncomfortable, he would probably be a little delighted about it, as he was as a teenager discovering his new sense of balance and agility, but... Well. << There are plenty of scientific debates about how many senses humans possess >> he concedes, rolling that thought around in his mind like as you might roll a hard candy around in your mouth. << That, >> Hive acknowledges with some fascination, << is a neat trick. My roommate echolocates. >> But mental communication carries a great deal more nuance to it than simple words and in here there's a /suggestion/ of the past tense even though he's /said/ it in the present: << (my roommate echolocated) >>, it implies, with no small undertone of regret coloring his words thick and heavy. << But he's, >> carries that same implication of (he was) << a bat. >> Quiet follows this, in which Hive follows Matt's progress through the coffeeshop less with his eyes and more with his mind; there's a very faint flutter of mental touch up against Matt's mind, less heavy than the former. It's just as sledgehammer-heavy when he actually /speaks/ again, though. << I imagine there are. >> Which is followed almost immediately by the addition: << And I'm not even human. /We/ get a whole fucking /other/ set. >> He hesitates in sitting down at the little table when called out for his echolocation tactics. Truth be told, of course, it's an always-on thing for Matt. He can visualize bits of the room as conversations ebb and flow around him, but it is a messy way of seeing things compared to that strong knock he had made against the counter. Too much chatter, too much movement. Flurries of visibility here and there, pooling out, spilling away. He sits and collapses his cane down to a short club, and sets it on the table. And then, easing back into his chair, takes a sip of his tea. << You live with a bat? >> There is a tiny whiff of incredulous humor to that questioning thought. << What are you, if you're not human? >> << Lived with a bat, >> Hive corrects, more than a little regretfully. << Huge wings. Real fuzzy. >> The question of what he is just earns a mental /ripple/ of humor that probably equates to laughter. << A freak. Don't think humans spend a lot of time talking in anyone's head. Or listening to it. Your mind, >> he allows, << kind of stands out in the crowd. >> When a new entry into the cafe wanders by Matt with some serious perfume overload, he winces away from it and brings his tea up as if to sip it, though he doesn't drink. Instead, the subtle floral scent helps to keep him from being so slammed by cheap knock-off Chanel. He keeps his head in that slight turned away tilt as the conversation in his mind continues. Still, he's not quite used to the feeling. Still, he tries to wrap his brain around the idea that it is, in fact, a feeling. His thoughts take a while to coalesce enough for a response to the freak comment. << I don't think that makes you a freak. Definitely not the average Joe, maybe, but not a freak. Stands out? >> << Stands -- >> Hive trails off with a vague sense of confusion, as though he's lost track of /words/. In lieu of words he clarifies with a succession of /feelings/. Or, rather, a succession of /feeling/ -- the scent of the cheap perfume, from the viewpoints of several /other/ coffeeshop patrons. Many of them barely notice. A few register it only in passing. One man notices it more only because it reminds him of an ex. And then the near-sensory overload that the perfume had triggered in Matt. << (sharper) >>, this comes across not so much in /words/ but in quiet mental concept, a fragment of a thought still tied up in those snippets of borrowed-sensory image and a struggling feeling of grasping for language. << You can feel everything I feel >> comes as a slow realization, rather than a statement, with a questioning aspect that blinks on and off like an old neon light, bzzing and then not, bzzing and then not. Matt isn't entirely sure what to do with the thought. Should it bother him? Yes, maybe. Is it interesting? Yes, maybe. Are these two things incompatible? Maybe not. Just as his silent conversational partner struggled with words to convey the senses, so does Matt now in the thinking of it. Experiencing what smelling a thing is like for himself through another person is just a little too meta for his mind to properly deal with at the moment, maybe, though he is crystal clearly aware of the fact that it is, in a way, kind of funny. Just a little. He sips his tea, allowing the lightness of the jasmine to wash over him like a cleansing steam. << Where are you? >> is an afterthought of a question, mild curiousity for curiosity's sake. << I feel, >> Hive answers wryly, << way too gorram much. >> And after this answer he trails off again in puzzlement at the question, briefly /floundering/ for how to answer it. Reflexively there's a few false-start answers, fluttered in habitual mental /visual/ that is /his/ default thought-pattern -- his corner of the coffeeshop, his skinny-gaunt face; these are followed with a sheepish awkward sense of apology before he finally settles on: << Bigass armchair, right front corner table. You know, >> now there's a light trace of humor in his voice, tied up with the scent of the jasmine steam, << it's not so different. I find calmer minds. Use them to level out the city-chaos. >> Just as Matt commiserates on feeling too much, even if his is a totally different version of it, he has to pause again at the sensation of something somewhat new. Only, it isn't new. It is old and new together. Like a smell from childhood that hasn't been experienced in years, but you catch a whiff of and are suddenly taken back. He wasn't always blind, Matt. No, he might be unfamiliar to colors, facial features, all of these things now, but he is not quite a stranger. His mind is rusty about handling true visuals, but it clanks and turns over, like an old wound car engine. Oh. That. That's what it was like. He's adrift in a sea of memories there for a moment, of what things had looked like when he was a boy. But then, before he can float too far from the shore, he gives a small shake of his head and refocuses on the now. The colorless now. << Why do you come here? >> is a strong question after that. After all, if the place is noisy for Matt, it must be noisy for someone who feels what others feel, he assumes. There's another brief feeling of apology, pressed quiet up against Matt's mind for stirring up that sea of memories. In answer to the question, though, there is a very long stretch of silence. Before, just: << Got good coffee. >> The answer thunks blunt and bland into Matt's mind, despite the fact that the coffee in front of Hive is pretty much untouched and long since gone cold. << Should get home, >> he adds, as he stands to start gathering his things, putting away his computer, though this last word -- /home/ -- rings false in mental connotation. << You think you'll come back? >> The apology is appreciated and then waved off. Humans have become very visual, and someone inadvertently uses some sort of visual reference or cue every day with Matt. Just not usually in such a vivid, real manner for Matt. Although comfortable isn't the right word for it, as the mental bluntness is too much for such a thing, he has started to grow used to the feeling of it. There is now an expectation for it, rather than a subtle averseness. << It is late >> he agrees, even though the lateness wasn't mentioned. Truth be told, he had originally not planned on staying in the coffee shop. This new sensation, and the conversation, had proved too interesting for him to shy away from. << I might >> he thinks about it, mulling it over. << Got good tea. >> is added, with a humor that manages to even surface in Matt's expression with a very subtle quirk of his mouth. This time the feeling that pushes heavy up against the other man's mind is a definite one of humor, a quiet ripple-chuckle that crests there like a wave and then recedes. << Sure do. >> This, perhaps, suffices as a farewell; at least it's the last mental contact from Hive before the door opens, a brief gust of cool air from outside signaling Hive's departure.