kismet_loop_logs | because this guy has a GREAT track record with fire...

because this guy has a GREAT track record with fire...

Who: Sam and Hiro
Where: Their hip happening bachelor(ette) pad
When: post-April-Fool's-effects (April 20th-ish)
What: COOKIES also Hiro clarifying a few things
Warnings: Excessive amounts of cookies and sad attempts at baking

Years of watching sitcoms about people in wacky roommate situations had not adequately prepared Hiro for the reality of living with someone. All right, yes, granted, he'd never so much "watched" them as "begged Aunt Cass to stop watching them and let him change to channel to something with monsters or robots", but still -- this never happened to people on TV.

"This" being a sad, well-meant but poorly executed attempt at baking. The butter was a solid lump in the middle of the mixing bowl, the vanilla smelled amazing but tasted nasty, and most of the flour was spread over the counters and in Hiro's hair, and he was way too young to rock the grey-haired look. He may have been a certified genius, but when it came to baking, he was absolutely hopeless.

"Stupid space cookies," he muttered, glaring at the congealed mess in the mixing bowl. That was a good plan, blame Haven for his mishaps, rather than taking responsibility. That miiiight not work too well once Sam returned home, however, especially not when Hiro took into account what Dirge had said.

A witch. Sam was a witch. A witch who could apparently curse people (though Hiro wasn't too sure how much faith he should put into a conversation had between talking about robotic tongues) if she was mad enough. Would the total destruction of her (their?) kitchen be enough to make her that mad?

Hiro exhaled slowly, wiping baking soda off his face. Well, that was that. He was going to spend the rest of his life as a newt. At least until Sam needed his eyes for some secret deadly potion. A dismal end to a dismal day.

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Hiro didn't have the time to do much more ~~damage~~ before his roommate returned, announcing herself with a "Hiro, hey!" as the door opened. There were four or five seconds in which he could've tried to hide---seconds Sam spent kicking off her shoes and coming up alongside the Danger Zone doorway---but the flour trail he would've left behind would've inevitably betrayed him.

"I've good good news and bad news and---" She broke off as she realized the boy wasn't further into the apartment as she'd expected, and in spite of the sight she beheld (to her credit, as said sight was one hell of a mess) resumed speaking in the same tone, barely missing a beat. "I'd like to know, what the hell happened?"

Of course it's futile, but of course Hiro immediately scrambles to try and hide the mess he's made of the kitchen (which is earning it's name, seriously) -- by sprawling out on the edge of the counter and forcing an innocent smile.

"Happened? What happened? Nothing happened, nothing is happening. Nothing at all. H-How are you doing today? You look great, very benevolent and forgiving."

...yeah, he's totally ending this conversation as a newt.

"Oho, no, no, no. Give me some credit, Mr. Cellophane---I wouldn't buy that for a dollar." Caught somewhere between incredulous, amused, and jokingly offended, Sam strode to the center of her kitchenette to better survey the damage done. It wasn't difficult; Hiro was too small to obscure any of it effectively. "Something sure happened here. I am, admittedly, hoping to hear it was just Tropical Storm Hiro and not another appliance attacking."

What a world it was, that she had such a hope.

"That's not part of why you're seeming so skittish, is it?"

Edited 2015-04-21 00:06 (UTC)

Excuse you, Hiro isn't small, he's conveniently-sized for travel. Like a Snickers bar.

He's still sprawling when Sam strides over, but he skitters to one side like the twitchy bundle of teenage angst and overgrown limbs that he is. It's not that he's afraid now -- Hiro has enough experience with false kindness to be able to identify when it's real -- but what if witch powers are like mutant powers? What if they just go off suddenly when their bearer or user or whatever gets good and heated?

As previously mentioned: newt possibilities.

So Hiro will settle on the far side of the counter, absently wiping at a congealed blob of salt, water and shortening that's adhered itself to his shirt. "No, no, not this time. I know better than to cause another Blendergeddon."

...while inside, at least.

"Mm. Glad to hear it. Blenderbot was bad enough, even if it behaves now." At worst, the little robot would wander the counter, click-clacking, though it would sit and stay once anyone actually entered the kitchenette. That was alright, though the kitchenette wasn't. Sam crossed her arms and considered the streaks, spills, and splatters in silence a moment more before she cast a sidelong look at Hiro, one eyebrow up. "No newly-augmented appliances is the important thing. That established, I've got just two things to ask. You think I'm going to fly off the handle here, or...?"

She shrugged; a piece of punctuation.

"Osti, I expect you'll do something about this disaster, but as long as you do---like, by the end of the evening and not only 'eventually'---we got no issue. The copper everything cleans up easy enough, and it's not like I'm out anything over this, though it's... still a shame to see foodstuff wasted. Second, what were you trying to do? I want to know about as bad."

Edited 2015-04-21 05:16 (UTC)

"Hey," Hiro grouched, ready to come to the defense of Blenderbot. "You got off to a rocky start, but you're both adults. You can move past it." From it's spot on the counter, the leggy blender made a soft "whirrr" of agreement. All is forgiven, Sam.

The question gets an awkward shrug. "I-I mean, I don't even know if you have a broom handle-- I-I mean. Handle. Regular handle. Not broom-related, who said broom, hey, speaking of broom--" And then Hiro took this opportunity to duck into the tiny space between fridge and wall, where the broom was kept. It's easier to talk when he doesn't have to make eye contact.

In fact, from behind his hiding spot, he'll even volunteer in a sheepish tone: "Cookies."

Sam held her hands up at the grouching, though she couldn't quite muster the grace to look grave. "I did say 'was,' not 'is,' though now I've got to ask: is it? An adult, I mean. I'll grant that it's come a long way since its rebellious youth, but what constitutes adulthood for a constructed entity seems like a tricky thing to pin down. But, I digress." The appliance got a mildly surprised glance with its whir, buying Hiro the time to tuck himself away.

"What kind of cookies?"

The 'broom' business, she'd leave unaddressed a little longer---long enough to see where Hiro's verbal flailing would carry their conversation.

"D'you have a recipe out in all of this...?"

"Uhh...experience? I guess? I mean, it's only been alive for like, two weeks, so I can't really say. Plus I'm not it's parent, really. It's pretty independent." These two are talking entirely too calmly for people discussing a possibly-sentient blender.

The problem with hiding behind the fridge is that it's not a good long-term solution. Eventually Hiro's going to have to come out and face the music. He's going to do his best to postpone that as long as possible, however, don't mind him, Sam, just trying to get comfortable here among the dust bunnies. Maybe she could turn him into a dust bunny instead? Less damp than a newt, close proximity to food...he can deal with that.

"...the edible kind?" This answer to the first question sort of answers the second, doesn't it.

Given the possibly-sentient blender had been behaving---not even interrupting anyone with its input and good god, it had input?---no-one had a real reason to be bent out of shape... besides catastrophe which was the kitchen. "You're its creator, so you come as close as anything. On account of that, and the fact that I've thrown sort of a lot of stuff at it, you cannot call upon Blenderbot to be a tie-breaking vote if we disagree strongly on something. As it stands, I think we might disagree a little bit on what you were actually making." Sam hmned to herself, and could be heard scraping the bowl.

"What do you have in here besides butter? Salt, anything? If we're going to salvage the enterprise, and we are, once this room is again rendered habitable, that's need-to-know."

Blenderbot just wants to make smoothies and see the world. It is a humble bot with small dreams.

Hiro, for his part, is reevaluating his options to maybe include just living here between the fridge and the wall. His growth spurt is clearly just a myth and never going to happen, so there's no danger of outgrowing the space, and there are some stale crackers back here. Those should last him about...three and a half seconds.

He sighs, softly, rolling to his knees and grabbing onto the broom as a precursory defense, then inching his way out of his hiding spot. "Okay, just so we're clear, I'm not sure if your tone has migrated to "I'm-not-mad-I'm-just-disappointed" territory or if you're still in the "don't-look-at-me-wrong-I-am-a-woman-on-the-edge" zone.

"Also there's totally vanilla and some powdery stuff in there too." This last comment is said with some offense. He's not a total lost cause.

"What?" Sam's tone alone said she was taken aback by the question, and the look she turned with was one of bewilderment. "What d'you mean, still? I haven't been a woman on the edge for a few months. This whole conversation I've been nothing but kinda disappointed---mostly with not having fresh-baked cookies as of yet---curious, and kind of impressed since whatever went spectacularly wrong here really did do so spectacularly. "

She shrugged, and snorted, amused, at the clarification. "'Some powdery stuff' sounds super sketchy, you should know. Baking powder, I'll assume? Give me measurements, man, and I'm going to try and figure how badly these cookies'll be bastardized." The adept turned away again, unshouldering her carry-all and stretching to drop it on the other side of the counter. The bag landed with a light flamp, safely beyond the boundaries of the Danger Zone.

"Honey-oatmeal-chocolate chip. It sounds a little strange, but you can't knock it till you've tried it---got it from my good friend Felix, whose whole family constitutes a catering company. You clean, and I'll start setting up."

Hiro relaxed minutely, starting to sweep up the numerous amounts of baking ingredients that have landed on the ground. The fact that he lost a good couple tablespoons from his hair and shirt whenever he moved made this sort of counterproductive, but he's trying, right? "I'm just...making sure. I can never tell with women. ...or guys. Or anyone, really."

There was an awkward pause as Hiro tried to remember what, if anything, he used to measure the ingredients. "...I sort of...eyeballed it," he admitted finally.

"Is Felix a friend from, uh...back home?"

As Hiro swept, Sam set the oven to pre-heat, and started to collect ingredients. It was quick work; her cupboards hadn't accumulated any clutter. With a teenager in the apartment, it seemed unlikely that they ever would. "Fair. I won't fault you for asking, and I promise now I'll never answer with the forsake-all-hope 'fine,' if things aren't okay. When we were first talking about our arrangment, that whole bit about 'something bothers you, say something, and I'll do the same,' that still applies. Did you eat all ou--oh, nevermind. I shoulda known 'no.'" Pulling a container of raisins from the corner it had been hidden in, Sam paused long enough to help herself to a handful.

"Yeah. One of my former roommates. Fortunately for you, he's not around to start scolding, being one of those people who will measure by weight, and I? I can't be assed, though I also won't be to blame if our salvage operation ends badly. It shouldn't, though," A moment more, so the sentence concluded around a second handful of fruit, "so I wouldn't worry."

If there's anything even remotely chip-like in those cupboards, Hiro will make sure they aren't lonesome for long. He's still a little twitchy, scuttling around and sweeping things up (he attempts to sweep off the counter with the broom too, please stop him immediately). "I'm not bothered, really. Not by anything you're doing."

Have a scrunched-up face of disgust, because raisins definitely don't count as a snack and shouldn't be considered something he would ever eat. Gross. "If we -- uh, you -- can save them...are you gonna put raisins in them?" he asks with some trepidation, because he was promised chocolate.

That attempt would prove the first action Sam interrupted, snagging the end of the broomstick before its bristles can do more than just touch the counter. "Whoa, whoa, no. Not after that's been brushing the floor where our gross feet go. Grab a cloth." Admonishment over, she smiled a little before letting the broom go, and going back to her task.

"Good that you're not bothered. If you were, I'd be wondering 'but, by what?' But it's a standing thing, just in case anything ever comes up."

Anything, even apparently-objectionable raisins. Sam snorted at the unadulterated disgust, unable to stop herself.

"Some? Though I'm thinking I could do cranberries. Just as a substitute for what would be nuts in the original recipe, so don't worry, I'm not going to cut any of the chocolate in favour of alternatives. Even if it's last in the honey-oatmeal-chocolate list, it's essential."

Hiro makes a face at Sam, but noticeably doesn't argue with her, even though the broom is totally fine and clean and his feet aren't gross, they're just normal feet. He may still be thinking about newts and dust bunnies. But he obediently goes and grabs a cloth, running it aimlessly over the mess on the counter.

"You're way less high-maintenance than some people I've lived with," he offers vaguely. Nevermind the fact that he's lived with a grand total of his parents, his aunt and his brother in his short life. The sentiment is what counts.

The raisins get a meditative stink-eye while Hiro contemplates this. Then, in a very reasonable tone: "Why not substitute more chocolate for the nuts?" See? No need to put anything even remotely fruit-related into decadent delicious cookies.

"Pure pragmatism." It was an offhand explanation, but she was still pleased, and sounded it. "Same reason I'm seldom bent out of shape, though part of that is probably inclination, also. So while I'll warn you that I am, at times, marginally high-maintenance? Those times are the times that have me healing up. New tattoos need TLC."

At Hiro's suggestion, Sam turned to face him, her expression thoughtful. "Because I like oatmeal-raisin oatmeal-craisin cookies? But, I'd also like you to level with me; what about walnuts? Almonds? Pecans? Any of the above okay for you?"

"Pragma-- oh. Okay." That gets a curious look at the tattoos, almost for the first time since Hiro moved in. On the one hand, he's polite enough to not be nosy and ask a bunch of questions, but on the other...there are a lot of them. So he'll inch a little closer, still holding his broom, to get a better look.

"Do...they hurt for a long time?" he ventures finally, and it's such a kidlike thing to ask. If Hiro was five years younger, he'd be asking to touch the tattoos, so unused to the sight of them. He's used to a very clean-cut set.

Then, absently shifting from one foot to the other, Hiro gives this question the thought it deserves. "...okay physically, or okay emotionally?"

Sam held her right arm out obligingly, used to this sort of inspection. While there were a fair few people with more and more obvious ink (the tiger guy, the lizard guy, and Enigma, for example) she'd come to rival them eventually; already, she was close to tying Katzen for quantity.

"Nah. They really only hurt while they're being done, and about as much as a solid skinned knee, or a bad cat-scratch." She bent her arm a little, contemplating the bars which ended just at her elbow. "After that, nearly nothing... until they start itching. And you can't scratch a healing tattoo."

At the countering question, Sam crossed her arms, Nick Cave against Greensleeves, and an assortment against blank skin. "Both."

Hiro accepts the invitation, stepping closer and even lowering his broom slightly, in favor of leaning in to examine the tattoos. They're less colorful than the ones the botfighters used to favor, but much more intricate. And they're...orderly, in that way music notes are. Something about that is comforting.

"Why not?" he asks, curious, glancing up to blink wide, innocently curious eyes at Sam. And then, like it's an afterthought: "Are they magic?"

Don't do the crossed arms, he knows what those mean. Have a wrinkled nose. "Neither."

Bar by bar, a whole bodysuit could come together; from the beginning, 'bar by bar' seemed best. If nothing else, it would ensure Sam had a visually coherent whole when she ran out of room.

"Because there's only a very thin scab on a healing tattoo. If scratching pulls a piece of scab off, a person could end up with a spot of scar, which would probably be discolored in addition to its different texture. The skin under that scab is extra-vulnerable, too, kind of already compromised and easier to break. If it is broken, that can create a hole in the tattoo design." All matter-of-fact, as she didn't mind explaining---even if the second question caught her off-guard. "Typically, no."

But it was a good guess.

"Why do you ask?"

Hiro is curious about that too, how many more tattoos Sam wants, if she wants them to cover her completely -- and why. But that's a little too personal, especially for an awkward teenager. So he keeps a respectful distance, absently spinning the broom between his palms.

"Oh. I didn't know that was possible, to make a hole in a tattoo." He says it in an almost reverent way, like that's the coolest thing he's ever heard of.

Aaaand then the question comes and Hiro's shifting from one foot to the other, looking somewhere between nervous and embarrassed. "You know," he mumbles. "Cause of the whole...witch thing."

Hiro's interest in asking what he had was enough to appreciate, but his attitude was to be appreciated, too. With so many aspects of body art overlooked when they oughtn't've been---it's all important, all interesting---to have someone's unwavering attention was... gratifying.

"You might also be interested to know you can wash one out, to an extent, if gets when when it hasn't healed." Trivia, tossed out, before Sam turned her attention to the matter than mattered, arms sliding to her sides as she settled against the counter, seeming speculative. "I sort of suspected."

Hiro's no artist, but he can appreciate something that's orderly and neat and makes sense but still looks awesome. That's what robotics is all about, after all -- science and math that fits together to make something that can punch in faces~

He'd ask more (tattoos washing out? For real??) but the metaphorical cat's out of the bag and Sam has a look on her face that's...not mad. It's thoughtful, it's a little pensive, but it's definitely not the reaction he'd expected. Shifting from one foot to the other, he ventures, "You...did?"

"Yeah." Hands now on her hips, Sam shrugged. "From your mention of magic---I mean, man, why else would you ask?---and the way you were trippin' over talking about the broom. Which is just a broom, and not a back-up if the stree'doo breaks down."

She looked to Hiro (to and at, appraising,) and offered him a small smile. "It's funny. Before coming here and having the whole thing slowly grow into one of the city's worst-kept secrets, I never really thought of myself as anything so specific, aside of 'me.' But I guess 'witch' is as good a word as any."

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