ArchivedLogs:Here and Now

Here and Now
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Hive, Strange
In Absentia	Saturday, December 14, 2019 Part of Future Past. Followed by waking up.
Location Sewers
The room is deeper in the sewers; somewhere unsettlingly moist -- a few pieces of furniture propped up against the moldy brick walls. The floor has been cleared, here; nothing metal remains along the ground, although pieces of paper and refuse have been carefully swept up against the edge of the walls, arranged in little piles. There are several high-end lights -- powered by a small, sleek-looking generator that hums in almost perfect silence -- along with several neatly rolled-out sleeping bags, and a small, portable, electric cooler. There are also two chairs, here. And in one of them, a haggard-looking man -- olive-skinned, with a scraggy, dark beard and unkempt hair in desperate need of a cut -- sits. He wears a tattered tan coat that looks like it was very expensive, once -- but now, covered in nicks, cuts, and tears, is largely functional rather than stylish. Underneath that, there is a pink-collared shirt covered in so many stains -- sweat, blood, and only the Gods know what else -- that it would likely see better service as a dishrag than an ornament of clothing. Stephen Vincent Strange -- 'Doctor' Strange, though his doctorate is, in his words, 'metaphysical' -- is currently leaning forward, clutching his head in his hands. He is attempting to work his way through a pastiche of memories -- some of them of things that *did* happen, and some of them of things that did *not*. Currently, there are two threads of memories he is struggling with. In one, the Prometheus labs have been discovered -- countless labrats have died -- and Hive and Flicker survived. In the other, Hive and Flicker are among the dead. Beside him, another man. Younger. No less haggard. Tanned skin, lank black hair pulled down into a messy ponytail. Hollow eyes in hollow sockets, dirty coat over dirty sweatshirt over dirty jeans. He is leaning back in counterpoint to Strange, glassy eyes slightly unfocused and staring straight ahead; his head gives only a very faint shake. Almost a tic. His fingertips twitch against the grubby denim of his knees, and a faint whisper of psionic touch picks delicately through Strange's mind. Flutter-light, reaching out -- thoughtful, comparing these memories -- then reaching out again, to touch lightly up against another mind. An anchor to compare them /to/. /Are/ we alive? Hm? Like this is simply a curiosity. Alive. Very much alive. Flicker's mind is all over certainty. He sits lotus-style on one of the sleeping bags, scarred chin propped on the bent curl of his tentacle-arm and his other hand rested loosely on his knee. His thoughts are solid and anchoring for Hive to search through. Clear memories offered up to match against Strange's failing ones, strong and sure. We are /here/ and /now/. And those other things -- He doesn't, exactly, flinch away from the secondhand echoes that flutter brief and light against his mind. His head just dips, his breath shivering out, slow. His mind firms all the stronger against them. Bolstering. << (that was) (then) >> << (we are) (now). >> Stephen's own mind is turned largely inward; a well-polished spyglass inverted upon itself. His fingers crawl up his skull as he thinks -- but as he feels the faint ebb of Hive's psychic touch -- bolstered by Flicker's own memories -- the tense, white-knuckled grip he clenches those 'false' memories with begins to slacken, silently marking them with the mental equivalent of a red flag. << ...in this universe. >> Strange thinks to himself, broadcasting the thought effortlessly outward. << So strange. Do you think, perhaps, we are not *changing* things, so much as -- searching -- for the key to a universe that already exists? A universe where most of us aren't dead. >> There is a grim, curious chuckle that sneaks out of him, as he adds: << And maybe that universe does *not* exist. >> There's an odd flickering shiver of humor ghosting through the psionic feel of Hive's many-faceted minds; it feels almost like laughter, though it doesn't show on the telepath's vacant expression. << So strange, >> whispers between their linked brains, echoing back and forth, << (so strange) (so strange) (so strange) >> until it fades into nothing. Pluck, pluck, pluck; he touches upon the strength of Flicker's surety, the memories of this world, this existence, /their/ existence. He doesn't exactly /change/ Strange's memories so much as quietly /place/ new ones, watching that loosening grip carefully and neatly lining up corresponding new ones. Strange's broadcast thought is batted lightly along the mental links, unthinking, automatic. << All universes exist. We need to find the right one. >> Flicker's mind skates back to a time when they were dead, unspoken but clear: we're changing things. There's a host of faces that rise up in his mind, when his eyes close for just a moment. Small and blue and sharky. Scruffy-bearded and fanged. Bright-smiling and bright-glowing. Tousled auburn hair and crooked grin. Spiraling backswept horns and wicked-sharp teeth. Slowly the faces begin to come faster, blend together. His mechanical arm drops, head lifts; his palm lifts to press against his eye. Pulsing across his mind, his thoughts are just blurring hazy and red. The sweeping scanning gaze of a Sentinel on the hunt. A droning hum whining through the background of his mind. He tries to force it back, focus on the others instead. "The key is there." His voice is a little gratey. Rough and crackly; like Hive, he doesn't /use/ it all that often, these days. Tick-tick-tick; one by one he's thinking through people again. << The key is there. The right world exits. We're going to /make/ it. >> The amusement that swells out from Hive's mind echoes across the halls of Strange's psyche; it crashes against the walls, bounding back with a hint of Strange's own amusement. He catches a ghostly flicker << (flicker?) >> of Flicker's own thoughts, a hint of the images stirring through his mind, and it seems to be enough to rally his optimism. Though it is a *cautious* optimism, weather-worn and grim. << It is hard to be sure. I have yet to find a universe where everything is made of ice-cream and sherry. >> More humor, a little dark, though quickly abolished -- retreating, briefly -- at the taste of that Sentinel. << ...but, yes. If we can find… >> Strange's mind drifts back to Xavier's; his fellow alumni -- students he met -- and then, suddenly, fire and heat, erasing it all. << ...this happened, in this universe -- didn't it? >> He lingers here for a moment, despite not really *wanting* to. << It seems… important. >> << Don't think we can wrangle an ice-cream 'verse. >> Wistful. Amused. A ghost of that same echoing laughter bounces through the others' minds again. Hive's expression, outwardly, is still just as blank as ever. His physical form has gone statue-still. The fire is reflected back through their minds. Searing, white-hot; it fills up the mental landscape, billowing out into an explosion that for a few moments eclipses everything. Blinding, burning, deafening; the cold dank sewers gone in a blast of light and pain and heat. The blackness that washes afterwards seems almost a relief. Empty-vacuum-nothing. Alright, maybe it's not /much/ better -- but then Hive lets them have their minds back, and the sewers are there, dank-cold-damp once more. << This happened. >> There's a very faint shiver of thoughts, distant, turning over in Hive's mind. Slightly discomfited. Training in the Danger Room and lounging on the school's front porch, the Professor's shiny bald head and a barrage of Sentinels descending on the city. A storm of fire. << You said it was important, once. >> He says this with a trace of humor, a mental image of a news clip -- "Should you find yourself in a place and time before all this, find me -- and tell me: 'The days of future past are upon us.' -- briefly playing in his mind. << Crackpot. >> he accuses Strange, deadpan. Then, a moment later: << Still think it's important? >> Flicker draws in breath. Slow gasp, ragged, rough, shoulder stiffening and his eyes rolling up as their minds fill with flame. His fingers curl into a fist, hard enough to draw thin lines of blood against his palm. The tentacle, at least, has no blood to draw when it coils up tight. When it passes he forces his breathing calmer. One breath, two, three. Fixes his eyes on the ceiling, first, then on Hive, mind focusing first inward while his muscles un-clench. << Definitely /more/ ice cream, >> he finally elects to say, << when we're all not dead. >> In his ears, his heart is still pounding. His fingers dig themselves out of his palm, curling back around his knee. << I think you're important. Maybe it's that. Maybe it's /everything/. Maybe it's not the really /glaringly/ obvious -- >> He can't help a shudder, mind starting to fill up again with a searing heat just behind his eyes; there's a /warmth/ in his mind, comforting, familiar, /home/, that the burning is starting to shatter away. << -- or maybe it is but. It doesn't matter. A key doesn't do anything if you don't have someone to turn it. >> This, here, puts a small smile on Flicker's face. He turns, now, lying down on the sleeping bag and tucking his hand behind his head. His tentacle drapes across his chest. << Maybe we're thinking about this wrong. Maybe you aren't looking for the key. Maybe you /are/ the key. You're just looking for a door. Anywhere we go has to be better than this. >> "Hng." Strange audibly grunts at the flash of flame; the fingers on his skull scrape as his head dips down, eyes squeezing tightly shut. When the fire has retreated, he draws in a ragged, slow breath -- and just listens. There's a mild, self-conscious twitch of his upper lip at the word 'crackpot' -- a vague amusement. << I'm a *professional* crackpot, >> he whispers, before his mental eye -- though not his *actual* ones -- turn to Flicker. << Everything is important, >> he agrees, only to hesitantly add: << ...maybe. If -- you or Hive. Find me. The *other* me. Not this one. And try to… >> Now, his mental eye closes, too; an exhausted, exasperated sigh. << ...try to convince me (him) to attempt and make contact. With your help, or... I don't know if it would work. But… >> The sentiment drifts away, replaced with images, thoughts, scenarios. The younger Strange refusing; the younger Strange agreeing, and going mad from the experience. And then, with a slump, this older Strange settles into quiet. << Professionals get paid. >> But after this Hive shifts into a restless discomfort, his myriad-mind roiling and unsettled at Flicker's implication. It takes a while for him to answer it, and when he does it is only with a sussurating: << You sound calm. >> << Was the other you a dick? >> Flicker's smile is tipped up towards the ceiling, but the amusement has fully blossomed in his mind now. It doesn't last. The thought of Strange refusing to help -- the thought of Strange /agreeing/ to help. His eyes close, breath shivering out and his body settling heavily down against the sleeping bag, heedless of the cold damp just underneath it. << I'm terrified. >> He answers this -- calmly. His knees crook up towards the ceiling, cheeks sucked inward to close teeth against flesh, chew slowly at skin that's already been much-bitten. << But if I had to trust /someone/ with saving the world, I'd -- >> he stops, rolling over onto his stomach to prop himself up on his mechanical arm. His eyes focus off down the tunnel, suddenly more alert than before. "They're late," is aloud, voice rough as before with an accompanying mental image -- pale-skinned white-haired older man, short round-faced dark-skinned woman. Neither of which is magically /appearing/ in the tunnel just because he wills it so. He is on his feet again a moment later, mind rather more split, now, his awareness shifting to pay more /conscious/ attention to the tunnels around them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, now, there's a fire flaring up again, familiar dorms and treehouse and lakeside engulfed in searing white. Then nothing at all. << (or trust someone) (with ending one.) >> << Yes. >> Strange answers Flicker directly, and with a surge of laughter that does not show on his strained, exhausted face -- still clutched in his hands. << You did not know? I was expelled from Xavier's for sneaking into Cerebro and attempting to use it to augment my powers. For *profit*. >> Rather than feeling shame, Strange seems more bemused at this memory: << I've always used my powers for profit. I've helped others -- mutants -- only when it did not inconvenience me to do so. But I was never an activist, never a martyr. Even now… >> *Here*, there is a flare of shame. << ...even now, this profits me. >> A deep, pulsing guilt. Not just over what it took to bring him here, but over something else. What using his power in this way *means*. << That is why… >> A flash back to himself, younger -- his clothes, smooth and polished; his nails, neatly filed. His facial hair, well-trimmed and maintained. The older Strange feels ashamed of this younger, more arrogant man: << I may refuse. Out of arrogance, or defiance, or simply because I fear becoming a version of myself who ceases to exist. You may have to… >> The thought drifts away. << ...hopefully, the dreams -- if I (he) have (has) them -- they speak to me (us). I have always been a selfish creature, but there is only so much horrible that a selfish man can face, before he is forced to… do -- something. >> << Didn't even know people /could/ get expelled from Xavier's. >> Hive sounds more /impressed/ than anything else. It's Flicker's last thought that quiets him, though, mind /shuddering/ outward in an almost nauseated ripple. Churning, horrified -- then pulling back in. << (Ending.) (Yes.) (All of it.) >> << And beginning another. Is it worth it? Do we get to make that call? >> His expression stays just as blank, as his mind goes silent, eyes fixed vacantly straight ahead as they ever are. The quiet hum of the generator is joined by another hum somewhere down the tunnel. Hive's fingers twitch once and then go still again. << I didn't know. That's -- /man/. >> Kiiind of impressed. Kiiind of appalled. Flicker glances over to Strange, curiosity stirring in his mind -- what /does/ using his power in this way mean. His head dips at the wash of nausea that comes from Hive. Not quite /guilty/. Heavy. << We're making that call. And /we're/ going to be dead along with -- >> His head snaps up, at the hum. He's at Hive's side in a heartbeat, tentacle extending out long to snatch a backpack up off the ground and toss it to Strange; he drapes a second one over Hive's shoulders. This time the lights and humming aren't in his mind, pairs of glowing scanners filing down the tunnel toward them. Rather unceremoniously, Flicker's hand clamps against both the other men's collar's, expression a little pained as he shiver-vanishes from sight, blipping away down the tunnels ahead of the oncoming line of drones.