kismet_loop_logs | "Home" is a shelter from storms

Entry tags:

"Home" is a shelter from storms

Who: Hiro, Sam, eventually Dirge, ETA: Breakdown
What: Since Hiro has to have somewhere to stay, Sam's helping him get situated.
When: Following this thread
Where: The Hub.
Warnings: Dirge, and predictably, profanity.

From the hall, there was little to distinguish Sam’s apartment. Its door was one among many in the human-scale section of the Hub’s habitation wing, and could’ve easily been exchanged for any of the others found on the third floor. Still, it was Sam’s, and even outside that showed. It was in her ‘here we are’ attitude, and the way she set a shoulder against the doorframe in pausing. Some introduction seemed appropriate, so…

She shrugged, smiling.

“It’s not my house, but all the same? ‘Enter freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring.’”

That said, she opened the door.

The room it opened onto wasn’t unusual in its design (a kitchenette with a partial wall, the principle living space, one wide window with a decent view, closet, corridor) but it was unusual in its décor---burnished copper covered the floor, the walls, the ceiling, in solid sheets. It wasn’t entirely unbroken, as darkly-varnished branches had been laid across the walls like latticework, and a couple of shaggy rag rugs covered a portion of the floor. A third (green, rust-red, and ochre, like the others) had been thrown over the couch, which was wicker (matching most of the furniture) and more of a stubby settee.

“It was weird enough I fell in love when I found it.”

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Hiro's got both arms crossed over his backpack, in an attempt to look calm and casual. It is not a successful attempt, rather making him look exactly what he is -- very small and unsure of himself. The general apartment thing is doable, though -- especially when he'd been expecting space pod homes -- so he keeps up the brave face.

The apartment itself is...different. Different isn't necessarily BAD, just...one more thing to get used to. Time for some awkward shuffling and an awkward joke: "Guess you don't have to worry about stuff catching fire, huh?"

The question prompted a small, amused snort. “As much stuff, anyway---though I’ve been cooking so little, I didn’t ever consider that. Mostly I’m glad I won’t have to worry about keeping carpets clean. After some of the places I’ve lived, that’s a strong selling point.” Sam quieted in bending to loosen her bootlaces, looking to Hiro as she straightened and slid off her shoes. She could sympathize with feeling uncertain---upon arriving, she’d managed mostly by focusing on each situation’s next step.

“You should know, though, that all of the places I’ve seen available here are nice, so; no worries. Y’wanna kick off your shoes, have a seat, and we’ll talk over your options?” Although her tone was warm, Sam didn’t wait for an answer before turning away to start for her fridge. (Like the apartment itself, the appliance was a little odd---its rust-red enamel wasn’t distressed the way an antique’s ought've to been, but it still looked like something from the thirties.) “Got water, orange juice, and root beer if you’d like something to drink. Interested?”

"Is there takeout in space?" Hiro's still ending all his questions about this place with "in space", ignoring the fact that technically Earth is also "in space". He manages to toe off his sneakers without falling flat on his face (no small feat) and lingers for a moment while Sam talks.

The opportunity to sit and escape direct scrutiny for a moment is a welcome one, and Hiro is actually surprised at how much better he feels once he's wedged into a corner of the couch, legs crossed, backpack tucked under his chin. He can manage all this if he doesn't focus too much on what's outside his own self -- something he used to do back in school, incidentally. Make your seat and your desk safe and you'll be fine. Don't try to make the whole room safe, just focus on the desk. The fact that Sam isn't hovering or staring helps with that, as there's little he hates more than being watched.

The fridge gets a curious look (Hiro's actually not totally certain what it is until it opens), then a hasty -- "Uh, root beer's fine. Please."

Sam leaned away from the fridge long enough to ask “Is there take-out which isn’t?” one eyebrow up. Following their first conversation, a little light teasing seemed not only ‘alright,’ but what should be expected. That was fine and well, since a conversation couched in half-cracks was frequently franker… and much more fun. Rattling through the fridge (which was fuller than it should’ve been, everything shoved in for safety’s sake since the miasma dropped mice) she continued to talk, sounding only slightly muffled.

“Actually answering, there is a place to get take-out. Pretty good, too. You can also eat in there, if you’re so inclined, but the main reason I haven’t bothered to cook a whole lot? Quality produce. I’ve very rarely had fresh stuff as good as what I get here. God, I’ve got off topic. Anyway.” She spread her arms in mock-exasperation as she came round the column serving as a kitchen corner, a bottle in each hand. One was Hiro’s rootbeer, handed over; the other was a lot larger, and held about an inch of orange juice. Sam sat at the other end of the couch, swishing her drink since the pulp had settled. “Since you’ve got to have some place to stay, we could probably find you a place with neighbours nearby to help if there’s some sort of trouble---which it would have to have, because please don’t be offended, but you’re too young to be all on your own. I’m too young to be all on my own. Some of the Cybertronians are maybe old enough, but those guys predate Plato and only maybe. I know some people need space, so I say it’s plausible, but… we’d have to haul ass.”

She shrugged, sipping at her orange juice.

“Other option? You could crash here.”

"Uhhhh, most take-out is pretty terrestrial...unless you're talking really great food, which is...out of this world." Aw yes, we've achieved puns! There would even be some finger-guns, if Sam wasn't currently halfway into the fridge, and Hiro wasn't the nervous jumpy little thing he is. But still, that's progress -- talking about food, sharing beverages...

...yeah, the Plato comment is baffling (and the logical part of Hiro is screaming robots don't last that long!) but logic took a hike the second a space pig tried to kill him, and at least this lady's cool enough to drink out of a bottle instead of a glass. So Hiro accepts his root beer and sips at it thoughtfully. As cool as having his own place would be (for about five minutes), Hiro has literally never lived alone. He's never even had his own room...well. Until recently.

And that obviously wasn't a fun experience.

So, swallowing and hiccuping some root beer bubbles through his nose (ahhhh, sweet familiar carbonation burn~) he does his best to shrug casually. "If...you're cool with that. I guess."

The punning earned a low snrking sound… but one which was not without a note of approval. Communication was key in any space-sharing situation, wasn’t it? Speaking very seriously was one thing, a thing unto itself---a bridge which would wait until whenever they came to crossing it---but just talking was no trouble.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. Even if the offer was a matter of manners.” She paused long enough to flash a grin over the bottle she held, before emptying it. "Courtesy is important---of course!---but I'm not much a one for motions."

Hiro is still wary -- of course he is, stranger danger and all -- but he's still partially convinced this whole thing is a very vivid dream, and if he's allowed to have this much control over his hallucinatory living quarters, he could do way worse than Canadian Lady. So he'll smile a little, for the first time, relaxing his defensive posture just a tad. "Okay. Okay, cool. Yeah. Here's good."

...and then, as it occurs to him, "Uhhhh, what was your name again?"

She tried not to laugh (really, she tried!) and for all of her effort, managed to suppress all but a single nasal noise. It wasn't a snort but some mirthful sound---one that there probably wasn't a word for. "Samantha Patchowski. Sam's fine, though, and I ain't even mad." The grin resurfaced as she leaned forward, setting her empty on the low table in front of the settee so that the carnival glass turkey there could stare through citrus-y streaks, as opposed to empty space.

"For one thing, that you ask only now is quite the vote of confidence. For another, you kind of had a lot to take in, including a near-death experience. That's a lot to process, even when the near-death experience is a big boar." Yeah, she went there, and the accompanying eyebrow-bob implied she wasn't at all sorry about it, either. "But, if as you get yourself settled, here is good and we're going to be sharing space, we've got to go over a few things."

What was that, Sam, a signal to your witchy familiars? Hiro startles a little -- mostly because he just noticed that turkey and wtf, that thing ain't normal -- but then gives a slightly more genuine grin. "Hiro. Hamada. Uh. "Hiro" is fine, though." The problems of not having a nickname that isn't completely lame.

Um, rude, that boar experience was very traumatic. Now Hiro's already grouching and moving from polite sipping to full-on chugging of his soda. "I can't pay rent, I'm fourteen."

Sam nodded acknowledgement but blinked at the complaint, caught between being amused (and on the edge of an actual laugh) and mildly or mock-affronted. "Nobody said boo about rent money, man, and even if it were an issue? It isn't one I would open with. I'm thinking 'ground rules, we'll get to,' but for first things first? I want to ask: what should I know about you, if my digs are going to be your digs too?"

Hiro is from the future and money is important, okay? Even with a (likely) improved economy, it's foremost in his mind. "Does this place use money? Is it space money? Do I have to go back and kill that space pig and barter with it's tusks?"

Oh weird, okay, Hiro can do this. Roommates! Living spaces! Sharing a place with someone who isn't Tadashi!

...just kidding, maybe he can't do this, because that thought is somehow ten times worse on another planet. So, after a moment, he tucks back in on himself, shrugging. "I don't know. I'm allergic to peanuts? And, uh...that's it? I'm pretty low-maintenance, I guess."

In the future and in the past, money mattered---the present seemed to be a singular exception. As Sam had observed, the situation on Cybertron was a remarkably comfortable one for 'marooned in space'; being for the first time without financial woes was a seemingly-small but significant upside.

"Oh, osti." The adept looked disconcerted as she swore, though the expression was soon eclipsed by faint dismay, and then curious concern. "No sweet Elvises for us, then. Is it enough if you avoid eating anything with peanuts in, or are you the clear-the-classroom kind of allergic? I have half a jar of peanut butter in the cupboard right now, word of warning."

Once Hiro figures this out, he'll be both relieved -- because, as stated, he's fourteen and that doesn't lend itself to being monetarily comfortable -- and disappointed -- because that means he can't hustle people out of cash. Hustling is a surprisingly fun pastime, he's discovered.

Also, have a blank look, Sam. "...do you eat Elvis in Canada?" Then, shaking his head, "It's fine, I just can't eat any. I tried a Reeses peanut butter cup once when I was in high school, just to see what it tasted like. Not really worth the E.R. trip."

"I know he was supposed to be fairly heavy when he died, and our population is relatively low, but we'd've run out way before I came along if an elvis contained any actual Elvis. It's a peanut butter and banana sandwich. The 'sweet' version has honey on it also, and the 'fat' version has bacon on it. Easy comfort food." Sam shrugged, relaxing back against her corner of the couch. "Still, I should see if the Pantry stocks that soy spread stuff, be on the safe side. 'Pretty low-maintenance' makes two of us; I like to think I'm good at rolling with whatever. That's probably the first thing you should know---that, or that I've honestly never vaporized anybody and don't intend to start up on that soon or in the far future."

It's a ridiculous point to revisit, but it's better to address concerns of organ theft and/or murder early on in a roommate relationship.

"I'm also a sagittarius and moderately superstitious. You might've guessed." There was the rabbit's foot hanging from a clip at her pants pocket and a horseshoe above the door; small things, sure, but enough to suggest. "I might've guessed you'd be, what, starting high school? Second year? Skipped some? Good for you!"

Hiro narrows his eyes a little, unable to thoroughly believe this. Peanut butter and banana sandwiches are a thing, but...bacon? Bacon and honey? He's learning way more than he ever thought he would and he's only been in space for a couple days. Sam's relaxation prompts him to do likewise, scrunching his nose a little. "You know the vaporizing question was because of the "space" thing, and not the "Canada" thing, right? I mean, I'm pretty sure regular humans can't vaporize people without weapons." OH CHILD, how little you know.

That gets a shrug, because yeah, he'd noticed, but everyone has rituals. He's pretty sure his aunt's stress-eating counts as one, actually -- it's always chocolate donuts and it's always in quantities higher than five. "I'll try to avoid breaking any mirrors while I'm here."

Ahhhh, this conversation. Hiro's expression goes from open to resigned, because people always react to this part of his life with awkwardness or overenthusiasm. "I graduated last year, when I was thirteen. I just started college."

"Oh, good, then our secret is safe---I mean...!" The adept managed to look aghast at 'misspeaking' so for all of four seconds, a wiseass grin easily eclipsing her alarmed expression. "I kid, I kid. I couldn't vaporize someone if I tried, and as I said, I'm not one for that sort of stuff."

At most, she could make someone bleed profusely, from a handspan of pinprick punctures. It was painful, messy, and frightening, but not fatal... even if, she supposed, six or seven blasts could approach 'iffy.'

"Appreciated. I've only got the one, so it should be easy to avoid."

It was that shift in expression more than the accompanying admission which garnered a an uncertain glance, but Sam shrugged it off, only impressed. "I'll say again; good for you. Where're you at? From, for that matter? I can only assume stateside, given your attitude and Canada cracks."

What's this? Is Hiro actually...grinning? Good job, Sam, you're winning him over fairly quickly! This can only work out for the best, considering they're pretty much stuck here permanently. Hiro even stretches out a foot, nudging at Sam's knee reproachfully. "Heyyy, cut it out, or I'll start believing you and you'll wake up surrounded by security procedure bots." ~~SECRET MOTIVATION FOR BLENDERBOT?~~

This comment gets a shrug, because Hiro's not one to really care about mirrors (which was probably obvious from his hair...). But then he relaxes considerably when Sam neither talks down to or attempts to get away from him. Genius is uncomfortable, he gets it, he has to live it. But this is right up here with his family's reaction as the most positive anyone's been about the whole "graduated as a tween" thing.

"California. San Fransokyo." Have a huffy face. "I'm just sayin', it was a big shock to me to realize that if you die in Canada, you die in real life. It's hard to get over that kinda thing, y'know."

"Oh, Christ, I'm cutting you off after one, and that one's gotta be on the small side." Sam ignored the nudging and threw up her hands, unaware that even these conditions would prove conducive to one (1) heavily modified toaster on fire slowly burning itself out as it butted (rather piteously) against the side of the kitchen sink, like a wind-up toy run up against a wall.

Fortunately for all---in the near future, and now---she wasn't one to be bent out of shape. Even now, though she'd meant to ask after the school Hiro had attended, she didn't mind moving on.

"San Fran---San Francisco, I know of, but San Fransokyo is new to me. Going to have to set out a map, sometime... and hey, hey, hey!" She huffed back without hesitation. "How do you think I felt when I first learned that if you die outside of Canada, you're dead in Canada too?!"

Edited 2015-04-06 16:49 (UTC)

These conditions are cruel and unusual, and Sam throwing up her arms is obviously an invitation for Hiro to poke her in the ribs with one socked foot, scowling. "Fine, fine, fun-sucker. No huge chore-doing robots for you."

Hiro can totally emote about how much high school sucked and the various drama's surrounding his entrance to college...later. Much later. Right now he has to confirm some theories that, despite sharing a Canada, maybe Sam and him aren't from the same world.

"...well, San Francisco burned down like, a hundred years ago. Bunch of immigrants from Japan rebuilt it, made it the major trans-Pacific trading route, eventual California seat of commerce and trade and stuff. San Fransokyo. Get it?" Then, rolling his eyes, "That can't possibly be true. Don't lie to me, you get an extra life once you return to Canada. It's a thing, like the moose and the poutine and the first cyborg prime minister."

Though Sam had never been fast on her feet---far from it, with an off leg---she had nothing to hamper her hands, and so could catch and hold the offending foot's ankle without undue difficulty. (Moreover, she could catch and hold the offending foot's ankle without undue difficult, and continue to converse sort-of straight-faced, as if she were entirely innocent.) Since she could, she did. "This is a good size apartment, but it's still an apartment and I don't want any huge robots in it. Also, you make it sound like a limit of one security bot for a few rooms is unreasonable. It really isn't." She shrugged, still holding that ankle. Securely. "It's not like I'm against other additions, so long as they are also on the small side." Much, much, later, she would identify that sentence as the one with which it all went wrong.

"That's cool, but the San Francisco I know of mostly burned down about a hundred years ago, too, and as of 2014 it's still San Francisco. And ohhhh," The groan she loosed was low and pained. "sweet summer child, it's sad, but it's true, too! There's a slim, slim chance you might manage a Sam McGee, but odds are awful and trust me, man; the first cyborg prime minister isn't as awesome as it sounds. I don't know if a compassion chip was accidentally omitted or what, but Harper is a cold and unfeeling ass."

Edited 2015-04-06 18:58 (UTC)

...whoops. Hiro clearly didn't think this far ahead, judging by his scowl and not-at-all subtle wiggles to get his foot free. Nope, he's stuck, she's gonna have a Hiro's foot to add to her rabbit one, to bring her technological wisdom and hyperactivity. "I can do a series of tiny robots. That's sort of my specialty." But he's quietly stowing away this thought and, lo, in the deep recesses of his mind, there begin the tiniest sparks of inspiration that will become blenderbot.

Oh dear, oops, have a triumphant grin because lol, Sam, you're officially from the olden days. "Alternate universe, must be. Cause it's 2030 and we're San Fransokyo and Harper was deposed in the North Montana uprisings of '17. Spoiler alert."

"I am torn, really and truly, between asking you to tell me all about 'em, or going on to address that issue of ground rules." Sam drummed the fingers of her free hand against the sole of the foot she still held---thoughtfully, as if drumming them against a tabletop---before relenting and releasing her captive. "Ground rules seem like they might take less time. I'm not a hardass."

~~Between blenderbot, the robo-roaster, and whatever else came to be, The Danger Zone was destiny---if such a thing existed.~~

"I am, however, curious---and North Montana? I've never been, but bully for them! Anyway, tell me and tell me true; are flying cars a thing yet? I ask, cause if they aren't, you're not from the future... just further on. If they are, though, alright! If I exist in your universe, it's something I'll get to see... even if I'm in my forties, which is a weird thought." She wondered momentarily, how anyone could simultaneously feel so young and so old, (though that was easily answered, with Breakdown and Hiro to be blamed) shook her head, and moved on. "Guess I oughta get used to it, and act like a real adult for a few. To that end... I've had a few roommates, and so I'd like to reuse the rules which work. First up, I think, is most important. If I'm doing something that bugs you, whatever it is---reading over your shoulder, just as an example---say so. Please. I'll do the same. Nobody gets mad, we just talk it out so that nothing continues until someone starts to really resent it. How's that sound?"

"We've got ti-- nnnng!" That sound right there is one that Sam would be wise to store away in her tactical brain, because that sound is a pretty strong indicator that one Hiro Hamada has the most ticklish feet in the history of ever. He'll squirm away and tuck his feet underneath himself again, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out, because that's juvenile and he's an adult.

"Montana splits in 2010 in my timeline. Votership make-up reasons, mostly. They try to invade, it's pretty hilarious." Hiro pauses for a moment, because tragically, flying cars are not a thing. He'll evade, offering: "We run totally on renewable wind energy?" That's cool, right?

Then, teasing now, but genuinely curious: "Now I wanna know how many roommates hid their inner rage and then challenged you to a duel in the Miasma. Were there a lot? Tell me there were some epic battles." Translation: yes, that sounds fine, he won't be dueling anyone because he is several toothpicks held together with cotton fluff and plucky determination.

That noise was duly noted, unfortunately for Hiro, and as unfortunately? Sam shared a number of his weaknesses on account of being the same species, but ticklish feet weren't one of them. The soles of her feet---twice-tattooed and anything but thin-skinned---were roughly as sensitive as the heels of her hands.

"Really? That does sound... entertaining. You realize I've a cultural obligation to mention 1812 about now? It's what passes for patriotism." Token effort acknowledged (and evasion observed!) Sam tilted her head. "Further on is sounding sweeter and sweeter, I must say... though I'm sorry to say, none, cause you're the first roommate I've had here. The others were all in Alberta, and I never really fought with any them, save for one fairly epic out-screaming. I like to think I'm good at getting along; every real fight I've had has been with some stranger what started it. But that's not beside the point so much as far left field."

So much for acting like a real adult? So much for sounding like one.

"The other rules I'd let to set out are largely common-sense convenience things. Like, before you invite anybody over, talk to me, just so I know who's coming into my home, here. And if someone comes knocking, never answer 'come in,' but ask who it is and then just tell them the door's unlocked instead. And about doors, leave the bathroom's open when it's not in use or unbearable, okay? I bring that up because, as a policy, it makes accidental intrusions a lot less likely." She stopped, considering. "The last big point of contention is probably kitchen stuff. I think it's fair if we do dishes together at the end of each day, manage the mess without arguing."

Hopefully Sam knows to be wise and bids her time, waiting until such a time as there's no other option to utilize this information regarding Hiro's massive ticklishness. Great power and great responsibility and all. But never fear; Hiro will discover a weakness Of Sam's sooner or later.

For now, though, he'll roll his eyes. "Right, right, 1812, maple leaves, Mounties, patriotism. Got it. Great. Moving right along -- do you normally get in head-to-head battles with strangers? Because if so: awesome. Vigilante-level awesome."

These rules get one of those genuine, lopsided grins. "Who am I gonna invite over? Some giant robots? The evil space pig? I think we're good on that front, dude." The dishes rule, predictably, gets a teenagerish eyeroll. "UGH, fine, if you insist."

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