ArchivedLogs:Uncryptic

Uncryptic
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jackson, Josiah	2014-03-30 '
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. It's early in the evening, and Montagues is reasonably crowded in the waning weekend hours. There's not a lot by way of spare seating, which perhaps makes it all the more strange that over in one corner where Hive has taken up residence there /is/ space on the big comfortable couch that sits adjacent to his armchair. Hive himself doesn't look like much -- skinny to the point of emaciated, blue hoodie (it has a cartoon picture on its belly of a stormcloud raining down fat blue raindrops and brighter red hearts) baggy on his thin frame, thick heavy workboots, thick heavy jeans; there's a fleecy red cap on his head with the Greek letters Theta and Tau embroidered in gold on the front. With a lightweight red Vaio laptop on his lap /he/ looks like just anyone come to enjoy coffee (his large mug of it is still steaming hot) and free WiFi. It /might/ be his companion tonight that people are giving a wide berth, leaving the comfortable chairs unoccupied despite the cafe's crowd. Hive, though, doesn't /seem/ to be paying Jackson any attention, eyes focused on his screen. But there's a bright alertness to the telepath's mind all the same and though his teeth are faintly clenched against the background /din/ of so many minds around him, his mental voice is soft and gentle when it whispers into Jackson's mind. << Dusk got a site up for the Commons. You help me set shit up right tomorrow, it can start taking donations. >> Jackson -- /may/ just be the reason people are giving their corner a wide berth, yes. Flamboyantly colourful in glittery peacock-blue makeup, purple skinny jeans, over-the-knee black boots with an abundance of shiny silver buckles, a lavender t-shirt covered with illustrations from /The Lorax/ worn over a silver fishnet shirt (the skin beneath is vividly coloured with a /wealth/ of tattoos as well), shaved head decorated with a bright tattooed image of a chimaera. It's probably not the ink and /over/abundance of piercings on his face that draw attention here in New York city but simply the notoriety of being one of the country's most famous (possibly-terrorist) (possibly-hero) mutants. /And/ so even in a crowd he manages to have a large couch all to himself. /Score/. For /his/ part, he at the moment seems content to sip at his mug (it's full of hot cocoa, no coffee for him) and draw, fingers dark-smudged with charcoal where he's been working on the sketchpad on his lap. The image on the page is a cityscape, kind of surrealist in style, a silhouetted dark figure staring down from the top of a highrise building at another figure, large bat-wings torn and shredded, falling towards the ground far below. Despite it being nighttime /and/ indoors, he has a very large pair of mirrored sunglasses on his face, aimed down towards the sketchpad as he draws. << Think we'll have a lot of /those/? >> There's quiet amusement buried in his thoughts, easily felt through shared mental connection. << But good. Every bit helps. >> "-- I tell you," he asks aloud, thick Southern drawl marking him immediately-clearly as Not Native, "that the Clinic's actually /payin'/ me on leave? That's a lifesaver /too/." Josiah stands at the counter, decked out in fitted denim of complementary hues, fingering furiously his cell phone's touch screen. Lips pursed, he appears intent on finishing whatever he's writing before acknowledging the barista when she calls out his order. "Double-shot skim latte," she announces, twice, before Josiah shuts the phone away in his pocket and looks up with a smile. "That's me, thanks." Armed with caffeine, he steps away from the counter to survey the shop. No free seat in sight, except over by the - oh, that guy. Josiah eyes Jackson, recognizing him from multiple news sources, and Hive. He teeters a moment before cracking a grin and making his way towards the duo in the corner. "Excuse me, seems like this place is a little too popular tonight. Mind if I snag some real estate?" He motions to the far end of the couch. If Hive is to pick up any mental activity from Josiah, he'll notice something different about the men. More thoughts than the average person, moving amongst each other, but not in a natural way. "What. You mean you save the CEO's life /one/ time and protect the whole fucking place for the zombiepocalypse and they actually don't want to lose you there? Color me surprised." Notably, Hive does not look at all surprised, tone dry and his expression unchanging from the sleepily half-lidded frown he is directing to his computer. His own accent /also/ places him easily enough as Non-Native, but past being distinctly non-New-York it is hard to place, a muddled-mutt accent that has picked up too many flavors to be readily identifiable. "But yeah, I know. I heard. I saw your whole fucking -- appointment with. Psycho boss. If you even make /Jane/ smile you /know/ you're doing well." He glances up from his computer when Josiah approaches, eyes narrowing further and his reflexive /scowl/ not particularly welcoming. There's an automatic bristling in his mind that Jackson, at least, can feel, prickly-protective upon the approach of a stranger; it subsides into just a jerky lift of chin when he realizes Josiah is coming to /sit down/ and not to give Jax any of the flak he so often gets in public. "Oh. Right. /Sit/. Uh. His couch, I guess." He lifts a -- rather /shaky/-trembling -- hand from his laptop to wave it towards Jackson and turn the question over to him instead. There is a niggling perk of curiosity in his mind for the unusual caliber of Josiah's thoughts, his mental senses tuning /in/ a little bit more attentively. Jackson looks surprised to be addressed, but he doesn't share Hive's reflexive scowl. The smile that spreads across his face is warm and open, and he gestures with his cocoa mug towards the empty couch space. "Oh, gosh, 'course, sir, I ain't hardly usin' this whole big -- everything. Please, sure, sit." For a moment his gaze lingers on Josiah, the other man reflected in the large mirrored lenses of his glasses, and then he turns his face back down towards his sketchpad. "Think a little warm-cosy refreshment on terrible-wet days is bound t'make /lotsa/ places like this popular. But they /do/ have good coffee here." His nose crinkles at the mention of his meeting with Jane. "She -- smiles. Sometimes." And then a sheepish acknowledgment: "Usually terrifyin' when she does. I ain't done nothin' special for them, though. Only jus' my job. So it was -- surprisin'. Nice. A /relief/." And, in quieter silent aside there is a rising note of /worry/ in his thoughts: << An' you shouldn't'a seen that. Hive, honey-honey, you /need/ to let everyone go, this ain't no good for you. >> His brows crease, faintly. "-- Where are /you/ even goin' to be stayin'? Y'won't be able t'live at the hospital past tomorrow." Josiah's gaze ping-pongs between the scowl and the smile, his own cheerful grin remaining where it is. "Thank you," he says, his own accent marking him as a native, likely stemming from Jewish immigrants. He sits, making sure to give enough room so it doesn't look like he's simply wedging his way into the situation, and blows gently over the top of his latte. "Really no need to call me 'Sir,' though." As he tests the temperature of his drink, he settles back against the furniture. Hive will notice his train of thought (or thoughts) as being a mixture of mild nervousness, exhaustian, and calm. He'll probably also notice that individual thoughts are coming through in both English and Russian, often overlapping. "He's fucking Southern," Hive answers this with an amused snort. "If there's even a /tiny/ chance that you're at least five minutes older than him you're gonna get 'sir'ed at. It's some kind of sick compulsion with his people." Inwardly he bristles again, this time a surly automatic crankiness at Jax's concern. << Jim's still -- fucking. Half dead, we'll let people /go/ when -- when he's -- >> Instead of words this finishes in unhappy-worried mental images of Jim alive and healthy and definitely Not A Tree. His scowl fixes back down on his computer screen. "Fuck if I know. I've got an office. We'll be alright." The curiosity at the odd shape of Josiah's mind doesn't fade. His eyes lift briefly back towards the man, then return to his computer. He reaches a shaky hand towards his coffee, but changes his mind halfway and just lets his fingers drop back to his keyboard. The soft-murmuring voice that intrudes, very suddenly and without warning, into Josiah's mind, doesn't sound particularly identifiable as Hive's own -- instead of one voice it sounds like /many/, an echoing chorus of disparate voices all speaking in eerie unison: << -- Your mind feels off. >> "/Manners/ is totally a sick compulsion," Jackson agrees, a lilting note of laughter wrapped up in his thick-drawling tone. "You could stand a bit'a /that/ disease, honey-honey. An' /gosh/ but y'don't need to thank me, si --" He cuts himself off with a deep /blush/ flooding his cheeks with crimson. "-- Don't need t'thank me, it'd be cruel t'send a body back out into the cold-wet when there's so much warm-cosy to share /right/ here. -- /Oh/ my gosh you /ain't/ sleepin' in your office an office is not a place to /live/ -- Tell him," Jackson is turning suddenly to Josiah, eyebrows lifting above the rims of his glasses in very /earnest/ entreaty, "-- that an office ain't a place to /live/ -- there ain't even a shower there. The mention of Jim puts a sudden /sick/ wash of guilt-stress-unhappiness in his mind; it comes with a ripple of pain, a sense-memory of /fire/ and smoke and the whole world roaring as it burns. << -- M'sorry, >> surfaces in Jax's mind with the distinct background impression: << (my fault.) >> His fingers fidget restlessly, rapidly twirling his drawing pencil in a blur between them. << -- But it won't do him no good if you've killed yourself while he's healin'. >> Josiah coughs and lowers his drink. It's hot, evident by the steam lifting off its surface, but that's not why he reacts that way. << Shit! Who's there? >> Pause << Selene? >> His other thoughts take to the backburner as this one nearly screams out, comparatively. He looks around the coffee shop, playing cool. "What?" he says to Jackson, before letting out a chuckle. "Um, sure. Don't live in your office unless you have a good reason. If you have kids, not even then." He drinks a bit more coffe, then sets his cup down on a nearby table. "And, I appreciate the manners. You can call me Josiah, though, if you don't mind." << Jesus, that crazy-ass woman gets /around/ doesn't she. >> These words come with a ripple of amusement ghosting across the surface of Josiah's mind. << Not Selene, no. >> "Kids? Holy fuck no. I've /definitely/ never spawned," Hive answers Josiah with a snort, though inwardly across the mental connection he shares with Jax there's a confused twist of /uncertainty/ at this assertion that makes it sound not-quite-true. "My apartment just burned the fuck down, is that a good reason?" His chin tips upward when Josiah introduces himself, and /he/ offers in return: "Hive." The odd name may not sound very /much/ like an introduction, but it's all he gives. His eyes cut over to Jackson, a deeper frown rumpling his brow. << /Not/ your fault. >> Though /here/ there's uncertainty too that once again makes it ring just slightly less-than-true. He has a discomfited mental /squirm/ at the chastising. << ... M'not dead. >> Which comes with a heavy undertone of: << (yet.) >> "See? /He/ agrees with me an' we all know," Jackson says brightly, "that pretty men in coffeeshops are the best source of life advice." Drawing pencil held in his left hand, he needs to lean forward to set his cocoa mug down on the table so that he can offer Josiah his right hand (with its scarred stump of missing-pinky-finger) for a handshake. "Jackson," he introduces himself cheerfully. "I'll try t'remember. Josiah. Not /sir/." It's /his/ turn for an uncomfortable mental squirm, shaking off the assertion that Jim's state is not-his-fault with a /heavier/ spike of guilt. << Wouldn't have been there if not -- >> Surfaces about the same time as << Only that bad off because of saving /me/. >> And, stronger than these other thoughts is the grim echo: << /Yet/. >> A little fiercely: << Don't /hurry/ it /up/. >> << OK, then who? I don't do cryptic. >> Josiah smiles to the other men, though it does seem a bit forced now. "Did you live in the lofts?" he asks Hive, wincing at the thought. "A friend of mine lost his place, there, too." He sighs and reaches out against for his coffee, just to give his hands something to do, though he does drink a bit more, finding the heat more to his liking. "And it's nice to meet you both," he says, reaching out to shake Jackson's hand. << Cryptic? Not cryptic, >> the chorusing mental voice sounds puzzled, now, << We're /right/ here. -- Yes, we lived -- >> "-- in the Lofts," Hive is finishing this thought aloud, now, with a deeper frown at his computer. "Which friend, we probably knew them. -- Dude, you need a higher bar for getting life advice. There's fuckton of pretty men around New York." His inward discomfort at Jackson's thoughts doesn't fade. His very firm attempts /not/ to lay any fault on Jax's shoulders just end up feeling -- kind of all the more like he is doing so. << Saved other people enough, >> he finally tells Jax. << It was your /turn/. >> After a small delay the prickly-cranky discomfort in Hive -- well, really hasn't /gone/ anywhere. But despite it there's a mental shiver, a feeling like something /tearing/ loose in Jax's mind, and the quiet background din of other-people's-voices has gotten a /tiny/ bit quieter as one mind and then a second are cut loose from the conglomeration. "Guess a lot of people lost their places, though. Big fucking building. Very much rubble now. Guess we figured it'd be bombed /some/ day." Hive is definitely looking right at Jackson with this statement. Jax's hand is intensely warm to the touch, an uncomfortably feverish heat to his skin for the brief firm handshake. "Oh, oh gosh, you knowed someone there? S'such a shame what -- done happened, we --" He frowns with a small /twitch/ of fidget where he sits, tensing slightly under Hive's gaze. His own gaze turnd back down to his sketchpad, and slowly he resumes his drawing. "-- 'tween me livin' there an' Ryan jus' next door, yeah, there was -- a /fair/ few threats." His nose wrinkles up, pencil pressing just a bit harder than it needs to at his sketch. For an instant at that mental tearing, his breath catches, muscles clenching up, and then he relaxes. << Good. Good. That's a start. Y'can keep /going/ till your mind's /yours/ again. >> A quick-warm smile that does not in any way reflect the churning unhappy-guilt inside him lights his expression, and he corrects Hive lightly: "Pretty men /in coffeeshops/. See? We narrowed it down some." << Oh. >> "Oh," Josiah says, glancing down into his coffee for a moment. When he looks back up at the two, his smile is much more natural, though only meant to shake off the telepathic encounter. It quickly fades when he says, "Name's Dusk. Winged. If you don't know him you've probably seen him." His left brow rises at Jackson, who he turns to and asks, "Do you guys have any idea who might have done it. Something more specific?" He taps a finger against his cup, laughing quietly at Jackson's nuance. "Shiiit, no kidding? You know Dusk? It comes with a flickering mental image of the winged mutant, bright fang-toothed smile and all. "S'my roommate. /Was/ my roommate. Fuck." Hive scowls downard, lifting a shaking hand to rub at his eye. "Yeah, he's hard to /miss/ -- << /Figures/ you know Dusk. >> These last words are warmer, brightened with amusement that fades at the question of who did it. "Some assholes." He lifts his hand further, palm rubbing hard against his temple. "Some /sick/ assholes." Jax's smile brightens at Dusk's name; his /thoughts/ brighten, too, with a fierce surge of love-friendship-desire rolling in at the thought of Dusk. He lifts his mug, draining the rest of his cocoa in a long pull. He twirls his pencil again, looking down at his sketchpad and the bat-winged figure plummetting to the ground on it. "Gosh, /that's/ a long list. M'neighbor an' I each got a whole /truckload/'a hate mail most days. Lotsa fair plausible death threats in 'em. An' some terrible person goin' around the city shootin' folks full of /arrows/. Who even /does/ that?" << C'mon, >> he quietly urges Hive. << 'least a /couple/ more tonight? >> Josiah holds the warm cup off coffee in both hands, a comforti feeling. "Yeah, I know Dusk. Let him stay at my place when I found out the alternative. Seems that whole situation hasn't resolved itself, yet." He frowns and lets out a soft sigh. To Jackson, he says, "Yeah? Well I really hope they find the fuckers. I wouldn't be surprised if the cops are just sitting on this. He shrugs, drinks a bit more. The mention of Dusk staying at Josiah's place earns a small chuff of laughter from Hive. "Glad he had the help," he says out loud. "Think we've all been pretty much glad for whatever help comes our way." He closes his laptop, leaning down to tuck it away into a backpack by his chair. << Get us back to Flicker, >> he bargains with Jax, << and we'll we do a couple more. >> "There were a crapton of /humans/ hurt too," Hive points out, aloud. "Figure maybe that means they'll at least /pretend/ to look into it. But who the fuck knows. Maybe have to do it our /own/ goddamn selves if we want anything --" He shrugs a shoulder, and hus mind flickers up against Josiah's again in a last parting curiosity. << Still sound strange, >> he says to the other man. "Humans and /kids/ and --" Jackson shudders, and for a brief moment there's a faint tremble-shiver of light around him. It fades quickly. "But after the kind of stuff the cops around here get up to, you're prob'ly right. Wouldn't bank on them doin' much'a anything at all." He folds his sketchpad closed as Hive tucks away his computer, and gives Josiah another warm smile as he stands. "-- I gotta get this'n back where he belongs 'fore he turns into a pumpkin." He jerks his thumb towards Hive. "It was real nice meetin' you, Josiah. Maybe if you're friends with Dusk I'll see you 'round? S'a /good/ friend. S'a good -- /guy/." Josiah shakes his head, glancing to the ground at the mention of the dead, wounded, and displaced. A bummer, to say the least. "Yeah, it was nice meeting you both, too. I'm sure we'll run into each other again soon." He glances to Hive and thinks, << Find me sometime. We can talk about it. >> "You guys have a good night. Say hi to that good guy for me." "Probably will. For a big-ass city this place feels like a /tiny/ fucking town some days." Hive pushes himself very slow and unsteady out of his chair, stooping to pick up the backpack and shoulder it. << Yeah? Just /might/. >> Outwardly, he manages a smile, small and thin. He leaves his untouched coffee where it is. "-- Night," is all he says, moving over to lean heavily against Jackson as he heads out.