Hux looks at the gaudily painted house and sighs disgustedly. Three years ago, when he'd moved to Detroit to work at Quicken Loans, he'd driven down Fireweed Street and seen the fall of Rome. Burned-out husks of houses with trees growing from holes in the roof, concrete roads cracking as the earth shifted underneath. Prime real estate, he'd thought at the time, so devastated that nobody would ever buy it.
Three years later, he'd finally gotten together the money, the demolition and building plan for the chic faux Art Deco high-density housing he'd planned to construct...and some fucking hippie commune seems to have taken it over. Hux parks his Acura in the street and strides over to the sad little clumps of humanity who are lounging around on a rickety front porch. "Excuse me." He gestures all around them, from the field of crooked furrows and compost to his right, to the dark green shack on his left which appears to have windows made entirely out of glass bottles. "What is...this?"
A young man with an Army jacket rolled up to his elbows picks himself up and strides over. "I'm Poe," he says, and holds up his fist. "What's good?"
Hux jams his hands into his pockets and stares at Poe for a count of five. "Mr. Poe," he says politely, "what's happened to this street?"
"The Resistance, man. We're a communal living organization livin' off the grid and just trying to, uh, create an oasis of self-sustainability out of a fragile and globalized economic environment."
Hux shakes his head. "What?"
"Squatters," Poe clarifies.
"Lovely."
"Yeah," Poe says, as though the idea had never occured to him. "Yeah, I think it is kind of lovely." He claps Hux on the arm. "Come with me, man, we got a rockin' compost heap I would just love to show you."
*
"Worms," Poe says reverently. He offers a handful of rotting vegetable scraps to Hux. "Worms, buddy, they do it all."
Hux stares at Poe's arm. It's muscular, but riddled with strange pockmarks. Hux peers closer. Tracks?
"You're lookin' at my war wounds, huh?" Poe drops the vegetable muck and smears his hand on his shirt. "Yeah. I used to get high. I'm not ashamed of my past." He beams radiantly at Hux. "See, Master Luke always tells me, the past is just how you got here. It doesn't matter what you've already done, just how you go forward. So you'd think, like, I wouldn't be banned from Canada anymore."
"Banned from Canada?" Hux repeats. He holds up his hands before Poe can elaborate. "Wait. Who's 'Master Luke'?"
"He turned my life around," Poe says. He places his hands on Hux's shoulders and looks deep into Hux's eyes, and somehow those soulful black eyes make it hard for Hux to care about getting mulch on his Michael Kors greatcoat. "If you let him, he can do the same thing for you."
Hux thinks about his brand-new, fully loaded Acura. He thinks about his spacious loft in Midtown and the nice bar in Ferndale where he gets locally made craft whiskey cocktails. He thinks about the free Slurpees in the employee break room at Quicken Loans. Then he wonders how much money it would cost to get a local brewery to name a red ale after him.
Fill: "There Are Birds Here" 1/? OT6 - RENT cross over AU.
*
Hux looks at the gaudily painted house and sighs disgustedly. Three years ago, when he'd moved to Detroit to work at Quicken Loans, he'd driven down Fireweed Street and seen the fall of Rome. Burned-out husks of houses with trees growing from holes in the roof, concrete roads cracking as the earth shifted underneath. Prime real estate, he'd thought at the time, so devastated that nobody would ever buy it.
Three years later, he'd finally gotten together the money, the demolition and building plan for the chic faux Art Deco high-density housing he'd planned to construct...and some fucking hippie commune seems to have taken it over. Hux parks his Acura in the street and strides over to the sad little clumps of humanity who are lounging around on a rickety front porch. "Excuse me." He gestures all around them, from the field of crooked furrows and compost to his right, to the dark green shack on his left which appears to have windows made entirely out of glass bottles. "What is...this?"
A young man with an Army jacket rolled up to his elbows picks himself up and strides over. "I'm Poe," he says, and holds up his fist. "What's good?"
Hux jams his hands into his pockets and stares at Poe for a count of five. "Mr. Poe," he says politely, "what's happened to this street?"
"The Resistance, man. We're a communal living organization livin' off the grid and just trying to, uh, create an oasis of self-sustainability out of a fragile and globalized economic environment."
Hux shakes his head. "What?"
"Squatters," Poe clarifies.
"Lovely."
"Yeah," Poe says, as though the idea had never occured to him. "Yeah, I think it is kind of lovely." He claps Hux on the arm. "Come with me, man, we got a rockin' compost heap I would just love to show you."
*
"Worms," Poe says reverently. He offers a handful of rotting vegetable scraps to Hux. "Worms, buddy, they do it all."
Hux stares at Poe's arm. It's muscular, but riddled with strange pockmarks. Hux peers closer. Tracks?
"You're lookin' at my war wounds, huh?" Poe drops the vegetable muck and smears his hand on his shirt. "Yeah. I used to get high. I'm not ashamed of my past." He beams radiantly at Hux. "See, Master Luke always tells me, the past is just how you got here. It doesn't matter what you've already done, just how you go forward. So you'd think, like, I wouldn't be banned from Canada anymore."
"Banned from Canada?" Hux repeats. He holds up his hands before Poe can elaborate. "Wait. Who's 'Master Luke'?"
"He turned my life around," Poe says. He places his hands on Hux's shoulders and looks deep into Hux's eyes, and somehow those soulful black eyes make it hard for Hux to care about getting mulch on his Michael Kors greatcoat. "If you let him, he can do the same thing for you."
Hux thinks about his brand-new, fully loaded Acura. He thinks about his spacious loft in Midtown and the nice bar in Ferndale where he gets locally made craft whiskey cocktails. He thinks about the free Slurpees in the employee break room at Quicken Loans. Then he wonders how much money it would cost to get a local brewery to name a red ale after him.
"I'd love to talk to him," he says.