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HUB 360
This merry little haunt wasn't familiar to Nick, but the address was correct, for what it was worth. There weren't many buildings with penthouses intact, but Hancock had told him to show up here, so here he was. Honestly, as he came up the stairs, Nick wasn't entirely certain what to expect.
Was it a stash house? No, Hancock and he had a tentative understanding about chems. Nick didn't comment and Hancock didn't do them right in front of him if he could help it. It was about the best the synth could hope for, and a fair improvement on their previous arrangement of: nothing.
Was it a new settlement? Bit of a stretch but Evaris did have ecclectic moods.
Maybe he...Nick came up blank. He didn't have a clue or a chance in hell of divining one, so he shouldn't waste the breath (figurative) trying to hash it out. He just stuffed his hands in his pockets, kept his revolver at the ready in case this locale wasn't secure yet, and trudged up more flights of stairs than he cared to count.
At the top he stepped out of the stairwell and through time. One second he was in the Commonwealth and the next he was standing on fine plush carpet in Boston, MA. This place was an absolute time warp, like walking into a photograph, and Nick was entirely thrown as he let the door behind him close and cautiously wandered in.
No turrets...so that was a start.
Cameras? Didn't spot one, didn't see any mics either but he was sure there were a few. This place had electricity and...was that hum an airconditioner?
"Where the hell am I?"
no subject
Ah-ah-ah. You already signed the lease. No Take backs. [ He's already got the stats back for ribbing, it seems, lazy as his demeanor still is. ] You're stuck with me now, Slick. Sorry to tell ya.
[ Mmph... where is his hat. Hancock's eyes are tired of neon underlighting. He can't actually be assed to move around too much though, just settling for slinging a bare forearm across his eyes and laying slack like the odd arm-bend is perfectly comfortable and natural. ]
Uh-huh. Looks like your new Landlord's thought'a everything. How the hell'd you get so lucky?
no subject
[Nick answers without missing a beat. The terminal is kicking him back with written passwords and, since he already plans on uploading to it regardless, Nick just cuts out the middleman. He disconnects a wire in his skeletal arm and it goes slack. Casual as anything he plugs that wire right into the side of the terminal and lets it run. His background processing is more than enough to crack low end tech like a personal computer. The screen blanks and all his code is printed to it as he flies through the registry and reorganizes things to his liking.
The fact that this method hacking also lets him turn in his new office chair and leer at Hancock is not lost on him.]
Turns out he likes dancing and rust martinis, wild right?
no subject
[ He hears that Nick is doing... things. Clicking, clocking, fussing. He's curious, but he doesn't quite peel his arm off of face for a peek. The inclination to do so just gets gently set aside; has any bed in his entire life ever been this comfortable? ]
Sounds like a sucker. Take 'im for all he's worth.
[ He still smiles, beneath the awkward sling of his arm, oblivious to Nick's leering. A subconscious stretch has him unfurl his toes and absently rub his foot against the duvet.]
'Specially if it means ya take me dancing again, heh.
no subject
[Nick watches him stretch out, just like the large cat Nick always compares him to, toes spread against the soft blanket. Behind him, the terminal clicks away, hard drives clicking as they spin up and record the data Nick's dumping into them. In the background of it all, the sounds of a washing machine cycle going underscores the moment making the synth feel like he must be hallucinating.
This place went, in one afternoon, from a staggering novelty to feeling so domestic, so homey that if he were capable of it, he'd be choking up. He's not sure what the hell he did to deserve this, but he's not about to start complaining now.
Behind him the terminal beeps as the files finish copying over. He logs out without looking and retrieves his cable from the small computer. It's a bit of a bitch to put this particular cable back in, but it's the only one with slack so he doesn't have a lot of options unless he wasn't to fish one out of his leg. (He does not.) He gets it on the second try, as usual, and goes back to watching Hancock.]
You know that's the cover blanket right? The sheets are probably nicer.
no subject
[ It's... undeniably comfortable, listening to the chatter of oddly domestic white noise. Hancock doesn't even have a frame of reference for that, for this-- but he likes it, this easy-breezy chill. This coupled, affectionate safety. He doesn't care much to figure out the schematics of it-- is it Nick, this place, the satisfaction of two orgasms in less than an hour?
Doesn't matter. Hancock usually doesn't feel this kind of chill unless it's chemically induced. He's doing the stubborn thing-- not wanting to sleep because it feels so good being here, awake, trading friendly banter and soaking in the insane thread count. ]
Eh? But it's so soft just layin' on it like this...?
[ Since he's employing one of his arms as a sleeping mask, it's the free hand that goes blindly groping about the duvet for an edge to catch and grab. Blanket size doesn't often square up with bed size in his rough experiences; you just can't match blankets to bed-size post-apocalypse. Except when you apparently can.
Hancock finds the edge of the blanket at the edge of the bed-- pulling it on means getting off of it though, and that's a pretty tall order. Instead, after a bit of lazy pulling and rolling, he's become a Ghoul Blanket Burrito. ]
... Yeah this works.
Do we call it for interrogation?
The synth turns back after that and tap a few keys on the keyboard. The white lights go out and the blue fade down. He feels like he's in another world.
It's going to take him ages to get used to this place.
But, while Hancock is curled up, presumably sleeping, Nick goes wandering through the rooms of his new home. Taking a tour in the dark while trying not to wake someone was, frankly, more Nick's speed than an open house.]