ArchivedLogs:Use Your Words

Use Your Words
Augmentative Communication
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive, Dusk, Horus	19 April 2013 Micah drops by to check in on Hive. He has sugar! Hive has /grump/.
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. Raprap/rap/! There is a knocking at Hive’s door and it is /cheerful/! Even though it is only a knock. It /vibrates/ cheerfully. Micah is standing outside and /bouncing/ up on his toes. He is clad in a brown T-shirt with a stegosaurus shape cursing a T-rex shape for its ‘sudden but inevitable betrayal’, over rainbow-patched jeans. His smile is sparkly-happy and his hand is full of box…the type that promises baked goods. The door is opened by one skinny pale vampire, Dusk's fanged smile bright with the sight of Box. "Whoa, hey, /sweet/, you come bearing gifts, is that a Southern thing or is Jax rubbing off?" He is cheerful, too, as he gestures Micah into the apartment. It's a considerably /cleaner/ apartment than usual, it's been swept and wiped down and its usual clutter mostly tidied. "What's got you so peppy?" Micah manages to smile /wider/ when Dusk opens the door. "Hiiiiii, Dusk! I think it prob'ly is a Southern thing, yeah. If Jax were rubbin' off on me, I'd actually know how to bake things m'self. But! I found eclairs!" He presents the box like this is a praiseworthy accomplishment. "On sale. So many eclairs. And I need to feed 'em to non-vegan people so that I don't eat 'em all. Also, I haven't seen Hive in person-form in /donkeys/ and he hasn't been leavin' the apartment. I am hyper in /anticipation/ of sugar. I have been in sugar presence. I think I may just absorb it through my /skin/. Do you want eclairs?" "He bakes like a freaking /god/," Dusk agrees, snagging the box to open it and steal one of the eclairs already. "-- How have you not already built up some kind of sugar /tolerance/ being around Jax is basically a constant contact-high for sugar. And I've never /not/ seen sweets in his oh god eclairs I think I just came you're the best." These last words come as he fills his mouth with a large bite of eclair. Uh. Hive's --" He frowns towards Hive's closed bedroom door. "I dunno Horus is on Hive-sitting he /did/ go out the other day, though, think Jax kind of /dragged/ him." Reluctantly, he offers the box back. "Guess you should give him some eclairs have /you/ eaten any? Cuz I don't think you need 'em." “Ohgosh, I /know/!” Micah is bouncing again in agreement. “I…just don’t take much to get hyper!” He giggles at Dusk’s food-gratitude. “Hee…yay me, I win!” His nose and mouth scrunch up. “Poor Hive. We do kinda have to…reintroduce him to the World. Good on Jax.” Dusk gets /puppy eyes/. “I don’t need sugary chocolaty goodness? Surely you jest. But, yes, the plan was to shove sugar in Hive-face.” That smile is /persistent/. It is back again! "You bring me chocolate all the time you can win /all/ the points." Dusk is licking his fingertips clean although then he snags an extra eclair before returning the box to Micah. "You /don't/ need sugary chocolaty goodness are you kidding, you might bounce through the walls. I think you need to give /all/ extras to me once Hive is through." His head jerks towards Hive's door. "S'in there." “All the points for me!” Micah pirouettes on his way to Hive’s door…just because. “And I will leave the box here. So you can deathmatch your roomies for ‘em later.” He lets himself sort of fall into the door. /Thud/. That’s like a knock, right? He straightens up for the eventuality of door opening. "Flicker'd win," Dusk /sighs/ at this burdensome fact. "Have you /seen/ how fast he moves?" His head shakes, and he returns to sitting draped in an armchair, dragging his computer into his lap and munching eclair happily. The door opens -- eventually. Very eventually. There are noises, first, flapping noises, thudding noises, scratching noises. Clicking noises. More scratching. More flapping. But the door opens, just a crack at first and then nudged further by Horus's very large beak. The room inside has not undergone the same cleaning as the living room and kitchen, still messy-cluttered. Hive is /on/ bed if not in it, lying in jeans and a grungy white undershirt on the covers. With a pillow over his face. Micah bounce-hops into the room, leaning back into the door with a shoulder to close it behind him. His voice is lowered, but no less cheerful for the decreased volume. “Heeeey, Horus! Hive! I brought sugar!” The box is opened up next to the pillow, as if to offer it eclairs. He waggles the box temptingly. Have some sugar, Mr. Pillow! /Horus/ at least seems eager at the thought of eclairs. He watches the box with bright interest. His talons click against the floor as he skitters after Micah. << What. >> Hive's voice is even less pleasant than its usual, a dagger-sharp /stab/ into Micah's mind. << In the fuck. Are you on crack. >> Micah is in the process of handing Horus an eclair when Hive starts trying to pulverise his brainmeats. The handing-off process might turn into more of a /throwing/ as Micah winces. He has never been graced with Hive-voice sans Borgnet before. “WHOA. What is with the Royal Canterlot Voice there, Luna?” He shakes his head a bit. “Ohgosh, sorry Horus… And I’m not on drugs, just Potential Sugar! Want some?” Horus's head /snaps/ up quickly, his eyes startled and wide but his beak snapping the eclair out of midair. Which mostly just bites the thing into pieces, one portion ending in his mouth as its two ends are snapped off by the powerful clack of his beak. << What. >> This is flat again. << Royalwhatthefuck. /Potential/ sugar? I don't want to know what happens if you get real sugar. >> There's a pause. Hive's hand lifts to the pillow. He doesn't take it off; his fingers tighten into it and he mooshes it down /harder/. << Or crack. >> Blinkblink. “Wow, that was pretty impressive, Horus. Good catch.” Micah grins until Hive starts brain-yelling again. “Um…Ponies. You are, like…talkin’ extremely loud…in my head. Your mouth stop workin’?” There is another giggle. “Well, I haven’t had any sugar /yet/ is all.” He tugtugs at a corner of the pillow. “Come out and get chocolate, Grumpypants. Or I’ll let Horus eat them all.” The other pieces of Horus's eclair have fallen to the floor, and he pecks at them with quick stabs. It's probably an accident that with each nibble he's nudging the remainder closer to Micah. Just enough that by the time he is settling down to finish eating them properly, one large folded wing is resting up against Micah's leg. Surreptitiously. << This is how I always sound, >> Hive says, smooshing the pillow down harder when Micah starts tugging at it. << You /sure/ not crack, jegusfuck. Horus can have them. I'll puke on you. >> He says this not like a worry, exactly, but like a /threat/. Micah’s hand reaches out to pet at Horus’s head of its own accord. He sets the box down on the floor, open, to free up the other hand. For more pillow tugging. “Y’might be able to talk with your /face/ if y’took the pillow off of it. I get thrown up on kinda on the regular at work, so that’s not gettin’ rid of me. Come. Out.” Tugtug. Horus butts his head up into the petting, for a moment. And then returns to pecking at eclair. << He says thanks. And if I don't eat them he'll eat them all. And wants to know if Jax is contagious because you /are/ kind of on crack and he /always/ is on crack. >> Hive's tone is sharpening through all of this. His hand eventually drops off of the pillow. Beneath it his face is just scrunched up. << This is always how I sound, >> he says again. “’Welcome, Horus. I am workin’ on gettin’ m’hands on some donated communication equipment for you so y’don’t have to be attached to Mr. Grumpypants here to talk at folks. If y’don’t mind. That’ll actually be faster’n the other thing. More standard.” Once Hive pokes out, Micah has the pastry box up next to him again. Waggle. “I’ve heard y’talk out loud before. So that’s not true.” << It's how my head always sounds, >> Hive corrects crankily. << Fucking pedant. What's got you so cheerful? >> He cracks an eye open, to look at Micah and the waggling box, but almost immediately closes it again with a wince. Beside Micah, Horus is ducking his head, slightly, his feathers ruffling out. His beak grinds slowly together, posture shifting to lean a little bit more against Micah. Scraaapescrape grind. << -- Really? >> There's a note of curiosity in Hive's voice, one that is perhaps relayed from his bird-translation. << I mean, he wants to know -- really? How does that work? >> “Sugar. We established this. You can have sugar.” See? Box. “I’m usually cheerful, anyhow. You should be used to this.” Micah smirks at Hive, even if he can’t see it. “The exactness of it depends what I can get my hands on, what programs they’ll run. Honestly most likely to be an old iPad at this point in the life of technology. But we could adapt a stylus for ya to use a touch screen. Then y’have options between using predictive text or picture choice screens or whatever for input. And the machine will do the vocalisin’ part for you.” << Fine. You're usually cheerful. But not usually such a freaking /ferret/. Who ever decided you and Jax could date, how hasn't our building burned down yet. >> Hive is ignoring the sugar in favour of rolling onto his side and curling his legs up towards his chest. Horus's head tilts, slowly, from its dipped-down position. First one way and then another. Sort of hesitantly, he flutters up onto the bed. He walks over nearer Hive's head, though only to stretch out his neck and pluck a pen off of the nightstand. He doesn't do anything with it. Just holds it, taking a moment to adjust his grip. << I think you could manage it, >> Hive says to Horus's pen-experimentation, as reassuring as his cranky voice /can/ be. << You eat the sugar. I'm gonna puke. >> “Pssht, ain’t been askin’ anybody else’s permission, so that solves that quickly enough.” Micah puts the box down again, then sits next to Hive’s hips. He watches Horus’s pen trials. “I can do a custom build-up on the stylus to make it easier to grip for you. That part’s easy.” His look becomes more concerned, shifting back to Hive. “Seriously, though? Y’want some water or are you at ‘grab a trashcan’ stage now?” Horus stretches out his head. He carefully deposits the pen atop Micah's head, grabbing it when it starts to roll off and replacing it with better balance. His feathers fluff up again after he accomplishes this. Hive snorts. << Don't want either. Less pukey if there's nothing /to/ puke. Did you really come over here to give me sugar? >> The hard stab of his voice does not get any gentler, but there is a quieter curious note in his words. << Stop trying to take care of me, >> is also kind of cranky again. << Just sit. Talk. How've /you/ been? >> Micah /hees/ at the placement of the pen on his head. “When is the last time you ate a thing? Or drank? Y’could just be feelin’ nauseous because your stomach’s tryin’ to /eat/ itself.” Micah is /eyeing/ Hive’s midsection like he could see into his stomach and determine its contents. “I really came over here to give you sugar. And see how you were doin’. It’s been a /minute/ since I saw you last.” He snorts softly, finally picking up an eclair for himself. Munchmunch. “I’ll talk if you /talk/. I been pretty standard, for me.” He’s watching Hive again. Your turn… << I ate, >> Hive gives in nonanswer, and at this Horus who has been very carefully watching the pen in case it decides to try and flee chitters something quiet. << ... when Jax took me to eat, >> Hive makes the grudging correction. << Wednesday. I had juice though. And water. What's standard for you? I don't even know what the fuck standard means anymore. >> “Uuugh, /Hive/. We should put some soup in you. Water, salt. It’ll actually make your stomach feel better if you eat it slow.” Micah is paying no attention to orders not to play caretaker. Hive is paying no attention to his requests to speak out loud, so…it’s even. “Busy. Work things. Gardening. Parks. Stayin’ up too late.” He scrunches his nose up for a moment. “Recordin’ police to make sure they don’t beat up mutant kids who steal people’s wallets. Like I said. Standard /for me/.” Micah pauses to chew at more sugary goodness. Then he hums thoughtfully. “I should make you soup things. Dusk can point me to what you guys have. Or I can make a store run if it’s way too /bachelor-y/ in your kitchen.” << Stop trying to take care of me, >> Hive reflexively grumbles. And then /irritably/ adds, << Horus says he'll show you where soup-things are, >> because being he's apparently not /enough/ of a cranky asshole to stop translating for his friend just because Horus is a traitor. Also soup-things will probably end up being cheap ramen, because it /is/ pretty much a bachelor-y house. If he's lucky there might be some frozen vegetables to add. Probably peas that someone has been using for an icepack. << Any mutant kids we know? >> This earns a frown from Hive. From Horus, a brief twitchy fanning of his tailfeathers. He reaches forward to snatch the pen off the top of Micah's head and instead start /preening/ hair, beak gently stroking Micah's tousled mop into place. << Work going alright? When're you gonna move out of your van? We have -- >> Hive frowns. << -- a couch, >> he finishes this offer. But at least it turns into a bed! "Stop talkin' in my head and use your /mouth/ and maybe I'll /think/ about not nursemaidin' you. You're just convincin' me that y'need it more." Micah attempts to grumble back. It's...not very grumbly. "See? Horus knows the score." Horus earns a bright smile; Hive gets a headshake. "Not any that /I/ know, anyhow. Fortunately and unfortunately. Good that kids I know aren't gettin' in trouble. Bad that I have no way of followin' up to see if this kid's okay." He shrugs. Ohgosh, preenings! Micah sort of burble-giggles at this. "I'm...gettin' a bit better at havin' enough income to afford rent eventually. And...been kinda stayin' at Jax's sometimes." Wow, he has made it this far into the conversation without blushing! But no farther. "So, soup now, Horus?" Hey, look, a distraction! << Should talk to Ryan and Jax. They know fucking /everybody/. >> Hive grimaces. << -- everybody who's like us, anyway, >> he makes this clarification. His frown remains. Horus continues his preening. Beakbeakbeak. It's like brushing hair but beakier. << Horus says you can crash at his place, too. When you're not busy boning Jax. He doesn't really use his /bed/ at all. Their apartment has perches. >> The preening stops, and Horus hops down to the floor, heading for the door (which this time he has not closed /all/ the way) to nudge it open with his beak and look back at Micah expectantly. Hive doesn't bother translating /this/. He does groan, though. “Good point. With the video, anybody as has seen him before should recognise him. I’ll have to ask after him….” Horus’s preenings continue to distract Micah with pure /adorableness/ until Hive’s last translation. Then he’s busy shifting to a more vibrant shade of red. “Umm…right! Soup. Thanks, Horus.” He hops up to follow to the door, but glances back at Hive over his shoulder on the way out. “Hey! That was /almost/ like talkin’! Just try that with mouth-shapes an’ you’ll have it!” Then he is off to create soup! Hive /snorts/. Look, almost like talking again! And then pulls his pillow back over his head, to await soups.