ArchivedLogs:Good To Remember

Good To Remember
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jackson, Micah, Nightmare
In Absentia	4 December 2013 Dinner and a Hive! (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. The Mendel Clinic is officially again open for business -- which means that even now as the evening winds down it's pretty /busy/, there's been no end of mutants lately needing medical care. There are guards in the lobby staffing the mantrap to let people in, actual receptionists at the reception desks on the various floors, medical staff bustling about while patients -- wait. Down in the very bottom of the basement, though, it's still quiet. Not a lot of need, as yet, for the isolation rooms, and so Hive's quiet bed is still just undisturbed. Hard /to/ disturb, really; with the clinic now open to the public once more you need security clearance just to get down here. And so: Quiet, or mostly-quiet, though there's music playing softly in Hive's room. Actually a recording of /Ryan's/ though it's soft, classical, violin, a far cry from the indie rock that has made him famous. Security clearance is, at least, a thing Jackson has no problems with. He's actually on duty at the moment, though with Iolaus /in/ the heavily protected confines of the clinic /and/ having patients to see it's neither necessary nor ethical to have eyes on him at all times. So while Iolaus works, Jackson has been entertaining himself, bringing his computer and drawing tablet over after school and starting to catch up on his backlog of commissions. At the moment he's at the front security desk, banana in his right hand and stylus in his left. He's in black jeans embroidered up the legs with red flames, a rainbow-striped hoodie on over a black t-shirt reading 'Let's switch gender roles!' in pink text. He's not /manning/ the desk, that position is taken by a slim young man with very pale skin and very dark hair and enormous solidly black eyes who is dressed in a black-and-red security guard uniform in contrast to Jax's casual attire. Jax is chattering freely as he works (an image of some sort of elf in battle armour), a constant cheerful stream of rather one-sided conversation. "-- actually have time to watch /much/ TV but it's been kind of nice actually having some kinda reference for the things they talk 'bout only ohgosh I couldn't watch much even if I /did/ have time because oh-boy does it kind of /yank/ at your heartstrings all the time --" His companion at the desk is not saying anything at all, actually. He's watching the door intermittently, watching Jax with huge eyes that seem almost kind of nervous, except for the hesitant half-smile that touches his lips at intervals. The guard's vigilance is rewarded by spying the arrival of a Micah, stopping in for a visit after work. Real work, of a sort, actually. After pulling an early morning shift at the shop, he had a few appointments to string together in the afternoon for equipment adjustments and replacements. So it is that he shows up in his work clothes for the first time in weeks, TARDIS blue polo shirt and khakis, with his hair looking like he actually paid some attention to it with a comb between one job and the next. He has both his usual messenger bag and a reusable grocery bag hanging from one shoulder, and the grocery bag smells of...Chinese food? Micah finally makes it over to the security desk, waving in an enthusiastic greeting to the two men there. "Hi, hon!" That part was probably more for Jax. He bounces over, one eyebrow raised at the stylus and banana. "Bananas are good," he observes with a bright, lopsided grin. The front desk guard doesn't say anything, though he watches Micah's approach with a small indicating nod. Jax looks up from his screen, bright smile lighting up his face. "Aren't they? You can finish it I ate like three. And, uh, a half," he allows, nose crinkling up as he looks at his banana. He slides down off the stool he's been sitting on, flitting around the desk to greet Micah with a one-armed but tight hug. "Hi! This is Micah I was jus' tellin' you about him. Micah, this is Nightmare he works here he -- ain't really scary so jus' ignore the name okay? It's like, /actually/ his name, his parents are -- anti-hippies? Wouldn't Dream have been better if you were gonna go that route?" The guard at the desk flushes deep red, managing another tentative smile. "I-i-it's not --" he starts, but then just nods to Micah in hello. "-- You /are/ pretty dreamy," Jax assures the other guard lightly, stepping back to peer at the bag. "That smells delicious oh my gosh is it dinner tell me there's bok choi in it in some form somewhere I've had this /craving/ all -- wait I already told you that earlier sorry I send a lot of texts." Micah giggles, waving away the offer of banana. "I don't need t'steal your banana; I brought food. S'just a reference to...nevermind." He shakes his head and wraps his arms around Jax in a tight hug. "Nice t'meet you, Nightmare," he says to the guard as he steps back, sounding a little uncertain on the name after all of that introduction. "Yes, it's dinner. /So much/ dinner. There was an actual tiny family restaurant an' it was /open/ an'...kinda half-deserted 'cause I think no one expects anybody t'be open yet? So I got pretty much everythin' vegan they /had/. An' I think there's bok choy in the mixed vegetables with garlic sauce thing. Also scallion pancakes an' vegetable dumplings an' mapo tofu an' eggplant in plum sauce so we are very much guaranteed leftovers." He pats Jax on the back, just smiling through the steady stream of words from the other man. "S'okay, I know y'get bored on the not-really guard duty. Textin' keeps y'doin' /somethin'/, so I get it." Micah quiets slightly, his head tilting just a little. "How's Hive doin' today?" "Oh! /Oh!/" Jackson's face lights again, a small flutter of glowing light briefly blossoming around him. "/There/ see ohmygosh it's like I said some kinda reference and this time it was the Doctor and I /get/ it and -- wait now I want a banana daiq -- no wait working." He goes back to the desk, slipping his laptop and tablet away into is bag. "Y'should jus' count yourself thankful y'ain't stuck here with me, poor Night's been getting the worst'a it all evenin' he's a saint for putting up with me." This just continues the other guard's blush; Nightmare sits back down at the desk, opening his mouth but closing it again without saying anything. Jax inhales the last of his banana, tossing the peel into a nearby trash can. "I might be lyin', he might actually be terrifying -- were your folks precogs? -- but then a lotta us are terrifyin', ain't we?" He slings his bag over his shoulder, curling fingers in a wave to Nightmare and tugging Micah off towards the elevators so that he can badge them down to the basement. "Hive's -- you know. He's in bed." “Aw, he got one,” Micah observes playfully, patting Jax on the shoulder. “You're gonna make the poor guy blush t'death, y'know.” He waves to the poor reddening guard as he's propelled toward the elevators. Once the elevator arrives, he holds the door open for Jax to walk in front of him. “I didn't... I meant if there were any changes or if things are just status quo. But I guess that means the latter.” His lips quirk over to one side with a heavy sigh. “We should go sit with 'im, at least. Keep 'im updated on things goin' on an' all. I really don't know if his condition's anythin' like a regular kinda coma, but they say that's s'posed t'be a help.” "It's okay," Jackson says brightly, "he's like us, pretty much if you're talkin' to him he's /probably/ got some reason t'be blushin'. Only except not like us because he don't run his mouth 'round the clock he jus' kinda patiently puts up with it while /I/ do." He shrugs a shoulder, tapping his badge against the elevator console and hitting the button for the lowest basement. "He feels different," Jax admits more quietly, "but I don't know if that's jus' wishful thinkin' on my part. I -- really miss him, Micah." His fingers curl in tightly against the strap of his bag as they are dispensed into the basement. “So y'been spendin' all day makin' that unfortunate kid go through a whole paint sampler of reds, eh?” Micah shakes his head, a small smile returning to his lips. “Feels...how d'you mean? Don't dismiss it outta hand.” He rests his hand in the crook of Jax's arm formed when the other man grabs the bag strap, fingers curling against his forearm. “I know, hon. I do, too. An' Flicker...” The smile fades again. “All we can do is keep bein' there for 'im 'til we figure out somethin' better.” "He turns such /pretty/ reds! I mean he's pretty much pale as /Dusk/ gets pale when he's starvin' so it shows up /brilliant/ you know? But I don't do it on purpose, I just. Talk. 'bout you or work or -- Doctor Who. I don't think he's real used t'talkin' to people." Though Jax stops here with a small frown, leaning in closer to Micah. "An' I don't expect he would be, with his -- I prob'ly look horrifyin' to him. Though he seems to like me alright, most people he just kinda skitters off." He puts a smile back on his face, head tipping to one side to briefly bump his forehead up against Micah's temple. "Feels like -- feels, oh gosh, I don't know. Almost like I could touch him. I mean that's stupid, right, I /can/ touch him but. Almost like he's touchin' me back." He presses his badge against the lock outside Hive's room, slipping in to move to his friend's bedside and press a warm kiss to Hive's forehead. "I brought you down a Micah, honey-honey. Special delivery. Mail ain't reliably gettin' through yet but Micah-delivery-service is good as ever. -- hey there's music." And then after a small contemplative tip of his head. "-- I think this might be Ryan's." In bed Hive is as he has been for a while now, still and quiet and hooked up into a variety of tubes and leads. There's no outward shift when the others enter. There's a small mental press, though; it flutters briefly against their minds at Micah's name, and then again at Ryan's. Wordless, just now, but there's a questioning overtone to the psionic touch. “You're slightly horrible,” Micah teases at Jax's observations on Nightmare's blushing. “But far from horrifyin'. Too much adorable t'be horrifyin'.” A hand reaches up to pet at Jax's hair when he leans in. “That's not supid, hon. He's a telepath. He touches at people with his /mind/ all the time an'...that would be a good sign, if he was tryin' t'reach you that way. Would mean he's still /there/ t'reach.” Micah wanders over to Hive's bedside after Jax, waiting his turn to claim a sort of half-hug from the unconscious man. Or maybe not so unconscious. “No, Jax, I definitely... That felt like he was...pokin'. Like he does. Did you...?” "Can be adorable /an'/ horrifyin'. Like the pups when they're out for blood. An' no, I don't mean /I'm/ horrifyin' exactly only except it's just. Well I mean /all/ the guard staff here is mutants and Nightmare is, he can see -- things he shouldn't hafta be seein' if he wants to try an' ever have friends." Jax tips his head back, frowning briefly up at the ceiling. His fingers scuff through his hair, and he steps back to drag a chair over by Hive's bed; there's already /one/ chair sitting there. "I felt that, yeah. Felt like him. Did when I first come on shift, too, I jus' thought. I mean, every time I come down here I'm hopin' --" He draws in a slow breath, setting his bag down and seating himself in one of the chairs. He reaches out, curling his fingers gently around Hive's. "Hive? Honey-honey? We're here, aright? An' you kinda gotta get better because we missed your birthday /an'/ Micah's /an'/ Luci's all havin' terrible disaster so Flicker thinks we gotta make it all up with an enormous party /this/ month since /his/ birthday'll be comin' up /too/ but you can't miss your own party. Or his." That touch drifts out again, at Micah's hug, at Jax's hand. There's an edge to it, a sort of sharp /hooking/ that reflexively seeks to curl /into/ the other men's minds, pull them in towards his own. It comes with a wash of images. Flicker out in the city, blood-spattered and battling zombies; here in the quiet of the Mendel Clinic, cleaner but tear-streaked and trying to pretend not to be as Iolaus changes Hive's IV. There's still a questioning feel to his mind though it takes a strong push of effort before this resolves into not so much /words/ as a more coherent thought: << (still alive?) >> “Um...okay,” Micah says with that clear-as-mud sort of tone, shrugging slightly. There are more important things to worry about, like what is /obviously/ Hive this time. “Hey, Hive. It's Jax an' Micah.” He's a little afraid to break physical contact with Hive, seeing as that seemed to get more of a response from the telepath. Micah just scoots himself up into the bed next to Hive, leaving his still-shod feet hanging off the side. “Yeah, hon, Flicker's still alive. An' so are you an' me an' Jax...Lucien an' Dusk an' all three of the boys an' Tag...” He leaves off the list at people he's actually seen in the past few days. “Is there anything we can do?” Micah says the words aloud, but also /thinks/ them rather with a purpose, like when he's talking to Hive /without/ speaking words. "Oh, ohgosh, yes, honey-honey, Flicker's alive, he comes down here all the /time/ to see you we couldn't even keep him out if we wanted. Not that we do want but the teleportin' an' he -- really wants to see you." Jax's cheeks flush, his head bowing to rest his forehead at the back of Hive's knuckles. The relief and happiness flooding through him at feeling Hive speak is almost tangible. "You're talkin' at us, you're doin' good. Better. Guess they been takin' care'a you right, down here. S'there anything you – want." Jackson's relief is echoed, a sudden fierce wave of it at the assurances that Flicker is alive. << (here), >> Hive agrees when Jax says Flicker's been visiting. << But. Time -- is. >> An unfinished sentence, though it just comes with a disoriented sense of confusion. It takes a while for him to get around to the question of what they can do, and in the end this again isn't answered in words but in sensation. The feel of Micah at his side, Jax's warm hand in his own. << (yes) >> << (please) >> whispers beneath these echoed feelings. << They help, >> he finally agrees, though it sounds uncertain. << Over and over. They come and -- help. >> "Flicker's been here a lot. Just not /right/ now. We can send 'im a message when we have t'go later...maybe he'll be able t'switch out with us. Come down an' sit with you." Micah nestles himself in, tucked up against Hive's side. "Oh, hon...of course." He chews at his lip at the little 'please', caught somewhere between sweeping gratitude that Hive is communicating at all and heartbreak at how /hard/ it is for him. He reaches to take Hive's other hand. "S'there anythin' y'wanna know about what's goin' on or anythin'?" "We ain't goin' nowhere for a bit, love." Jax curls his other hand over top of Hive's, pressing a kiss to the other man's knuckles and then resting his cheek back against them. "The doctors? I think Io an' Dr. Toure both been lookin' after you. An' time's confusin' on the best'a days, I can only imagine it's kinda even more right now. S'December, though. Winter's creepin' on in. Flicker's tryin' to badger me into an /ice/-climbin' class next month or so, can you imagine? I'd melt the whole thing an' freeze myself t'death at the same time." Hive still doesn't move, but the others settling in around him comes with a quiet sense of gratitude. Warmth. << Wibbly-wobbly. >> There's even a small hint of amusement in the words; it carries through to his following comment: << Wimp. >> This, with a mental image of Jax bundled up in a million layers and shivering over in a corner while Flicker and Hive learn ice-climbing. The amusement fades after this into just uncertain confusion. << No. Not -- >> Iolaus's face and Rasheed's come each into focus for a moment. << Them. No. >> And after this a hard clench inside him, twisting up into a knot of sickness and fury and terror. << (New York) (died). >> << What more is there to know. >> "Oh/gosh/ ice-climbin'? That sounds like several kinds of terrible combined for easy delivery." Micah crinkles his nose at the thought. "Time-wimey," he finishes with a little laugh, his head tipping forward to rest forehead against Hive's shoulder. "The docs ain't been helpin'? What is it, then? Just time?" His hand squeezes at Hive's when that wave of sick feeling comes. "Ain't dead." His voice is low but insistent, accompanied by images of Tag back on his courier bike, people returned to the jogging trails in Central Park, 'Bastian catching a train back to school, the family working in the restaurant where he'd picked up dinner. "Hurt but still fightin'." "It sounds like awesome fun," Jackson protests, "'least when you jus' think 'bout climbin' but then I remember the /ice/ part an' it all falls apart. An' I /know/ you gotta be feelin' 'least a small-ways better on account'a you're insulting me again /already/ this is a good sign." His hand squeezes gently at Hive's as well, and he kisses the other man's knuckles once more. There's curiosity in his mind as to what it is that made Hive better if not the doctors, but with Micah already asking that question he just moves on quietly to the next. "Oh, honey-honey. New York is so alive. S'like you're wakin' up again even as it do. S'gonna take some rebuilding but that's what you're good at, ain't it?" << I'd go. >> In Hive's next mental picture of ice climbing, Jax is there too. Not huddling to the side but leading the way up a frozen cliffside. << Not doctors, >> he insists again, but this doesn't come with a lot of further explanation. Only another sense of puzzlement, and the remembered feeling of a hand in his, a head on his chest. Quiet classical music playing. << (waking up.) >> There is denial in his echo of this sentiment. << (We never slept) >> comes overlapping with other thoughts, half-formed and jumbled over top of each other. << (watched) >> << (fought) >> << (died) >> << (over and over and over) >> << (through) (so many) (eyes) >> And under these half-thoughts, memories more sharply vividly defined. Not his own but a wealth of them from around the city, a paramedic doggedly calm as she tries to resuscitate a young girl who revives and eats half the medic's face off; a man who can /feel/ himself losing control and attacking his children but can't fight the disease that makes him; a boy huddling in a closet while his family is torn apart just outside. Jax fighting through a swarm to get to a building with families still inside; a troop of soldiers leading a group to shelter, Dusk keeping clean the streets of the Village. And the mindless clawing hunger of the dead, staticky and flat save for its perpetual ravenousness. << Never slept, >> he whispers again. “I wouldn't,” Micah replies, chipper, as if there were any question on the matter. “Hm.” His expression is puzzled, as well, at the vague recollections from Hive. “Someone's been usin' an ability t'help bring you back?” The question is lost under the far less vague borrowed memories. “Oh. Oh, honey, I'm so so--” He cringes, just not bothering to finish the sentence once he stops the word. “There's been...a lotta horrible. It's far from a kindness seein' that much of it.” He gives up on just holding Hive's hand, wrapping an arm around his chest and hugging him gently instead. "Someone else's been through to help?" Jackson lifts his head to look at Hive curiously, brow furrowing. His eye tracks across the room, watching the speaker where Ryan's music is playing. "But --" This thought doesn't manage to fully form, swept aside by the deluge of memories that follow. His breath catches with a quiet whimper, and he squeezes Hive's hand close against his own chest. "Oh -- oh. Oh, sweetie. That ain't -- oh." He falls into silence, leaning back down to rest his cheek against Hive's stomach. "It's on the mend. They made a cure down here. Ain't no quarantine no more. Food comin' in an' people gettin' back to life." Again this question is answered with music, and with touch, a gentle hand and a head resting -- rather similarly to Jax's. A dizzying dark emptiness slowly being stitched back together, piece by tiny piece. << (he)-(you)-(they) made a cure. >> And then, << You motherfuckers. Always saving the world. >> “I don't know of nobody who's able t'do that kinda thing but--” Micah frowns, brows knitting with concern and just...thought. “Lucien's still recoverin' from burnin' 'imself out makin' that cure. Ain't quite got thinkin' an' movin' completely right yet. He couldn't've.” He sits for a moment, breathing slowly, head still cushioned against Hive's shoulder. “It is getting' better, though. Out there. We're not just sayin' that t'try an' make you feel better.” "The music seems like Luci's touch, too," Jackson agrees with a small frown. "But I been checkin' in on him, he don't seem like he's doin' so great." The frown deepens. "... he /did/ seem t'be gettin' better an' that kinda stalled um, does he come in here a /lot/?" He laughs outright at Hive's retort. "Oh, gosh, I didn't hardly do nothin' but get poked at a lot. You gotta thank Rasheed an' Luci, Regan an' Parley, they was -- world owes 'em a lot. Kinda the heroes'a this story, all's I did was --" He shakes his head slightly, though he can't suppress the reflexive memory that surfaces. Down in the basement of the lab, with Malthus in front of him and Dusk behind. << ... start all this. >> He nuzzles down against Hive's stomach. "Even havin' Game Night again," he says with more cheer. "School's started back up an' -- things is gettin' back to a real life. Be nice t'--" << (miss you) >> << (miss you) >> << (miss you) >>, this echoes inside him strongly enough to ache. "-- have you 'round again though 'tween you an' me y'might want to enjoy this place while you can, /you/ lot don't got no heat in your place s'pretty miserable." Lucien's name prompts a stir of recognition, a cautious uncertain agreement. << A lot, >> he affirms, and then, more sharply: << Fuck you and Dusk both. >> There's a brief irritable prickle that pokes up at both the other men's minds, but it subsides at the thoughts coming from Jax. There's a fierce strong pull of need and want that doesn't ever become tangible enough to be requesting anything in particular. His mind curls, though, wrapping strong tendrils /around/ the other two men with a sudden disorienting /pull/ that starts to draw them in to himself. “It does,” Micah agrees with a huff of breath that is almost irritated. “He doesn't seem t'know when t'stop sometimes.” He winces, succeeding in quashing /most/ of a memory down to just an echoing gunshot. “All's y'did was save half of everybody from bein' taken over by zombies. You'n your team pretty much cleared Westchester on your own.” His shoulders shudder a little, shaking off a lot of unpleasantness. “Did start Game Night back up yesterday. Had it at our place 'cause of the heat issue. An' Flicker'n Dusk've been stayin' with us. Not t'worry, we ain't left 'em huddled up'n shiverin' over there.” Micah doesn't /resist/ that drawing from Hive, exactly, but he does /hesitate/. “Jax, honey, I'm still not sure how this works. Would.../that/ help 'im or make it worse?” He trusts that Jax should know which /that/ he's referring to in this case. "Maybe that's why his brain's stalled out on fixin' /itself/, if he's --" Jax shakes his head quickly, sitting up straighter and lacing his fingers through Hive's. His mind does struggle, against Hive's pull, clenching up and doing his level best to shake off Hive's grip. "Tss -- Hive. Sweetie. You need to be fixed up better 'fore you start at that again, 'kay. You start takin' in folks again right now you might not be able to shed 'em. How 'bout you jus' let us sit with you out here, mmm? We ain't leavin', not for a while." The echo of that gunshot continues, amplified and bounced back through the mental connection as Hive drags them in closer. His grip tightens hard and painful -- and then releases, when Jackson struggles against it, without words but with a reflexive sense of apology. The gunshot fades away. << (miss you) >> is the answer he echoes back. Then a long stretch of silence, from which eventually he manages to dredge up more words; they sound distant, and strained. << Tell me -- >> It takes him a while to finish this. << Something. Happy. >> Micah does resist at that cue from Jax, about the mental equivalent of putting hands up in front of one's face to avoid getting hit. Physically, he nuzzles closer to Hive. “Not goin' anywhere, hon.” His breath draws sharp at the intensifying of that particular remembered gunshot, and he eases it back out slowly between his lips before speaking again. “'Bastian got a promotion,” is the first happy occurrence he recalls. “Crazyface genius boss of his put 'im in charge of a whole robotics development team. In other news, B wants t'teach me Vietnamese. I think I'm doomed.” From the way he says it, it's a cheerful sort of doom. Jax relaxes when Hive withdraws, leaning back down again to rest his head on Hive's stomach once more. "His boss is nuts. But B /is/ pretty much brilliant." He sounds totally proud when he says this, too, as though he contributed in some way. His eyes close when Hive asks for happy news. Rather than speak, he just thinks. Quiet memories that push away earlier worries to replace them with happy warmth. Bastian and Spencer in the workshop eagerly collaborating on a whole swarm of colourful dragonfly robots. The simple peaceful happiness on Shane's face as he plays the violin. Quiet time alone in the stables, feeding Sugar and grooming Ramiel. Isra's wing curled around Dusk at Game Night. Sharing a hot cup of cocoa with Micah at the end of a long day. Not so much news as so many tiny star-bright spots of happiness pushing back the rest of the dark. << What. >> This sounds both incredulous and amused. << B's like. Five. >> Though there's soft unvoiced agreement with the assessment that he is brilliant -- it comes with quiet thoughts of /both/ twins, an underlying sentiment beneath the images that Shane is just as much so. Though he doesn't smile, there's a feeling like he is trying to. << Doomed, >> he agrees. Then silence again -- but a warmer silence, a happier one, drinking in all these memories hungrily and echoing them to Micah as well. He doesn't answer. He just absorbs, letting the small snippets of happiness sink in deep. “Sixteen, an' kinda a genius 'imself, with less of the crazyface. I get the feelin' he got picked t'be the ideas-guy. Don't take a lot of age or formal trainin' t'have /vision/. Kid's got it in spades.” Micah's hand drifts up to pet at Hive's hair, straightening it out where it has gotten pillow-mussed. “Was talkin' random stuff with B an' think I may talk t'Shane about what he thinks of bein' a translator. Since that seems t'be where /his/ most obvious 'brilliant' is. Would be...good for 'im t'maybe have some goals t'work toward, y'know? An' this bein' New York, there'll be a demand. Even here.” He glances around the room by way of indicating the Clinic as 'here'. "Sixteen," Jackson affirms, "though sometimes four if you ask him. A translator? I think he'd like that. An' places like here -- well. Medical places need the work a fair bit." Though this comes with a flush of worry over how Shane would /fare/ working in a medical setting all the time. "Been worried about the twins, too," he admits softly, "this has all been --" He doesn't finish here, though, just sits up with a quick smile. "Oh my gosh, Micah, you brung food and we're sittin' lettin' it go cold -- is it gonna bother you if we eat cuz I can go to a different room but I'm pretty much starving I might pass out if I don't put more calories in me soon." << Four, >> comes in puzzled echo. And then: << Would. Be hard. >> There's a flutter of memories; the bland sterile labs of Prometheus, doctors in lab coats. Shane strapped down while all his teeth and claws get pliered out. << (but) (so few) (options). >> The question of food just gets a soft feeling of negation. << No bother. >> << What food. >> << (share) >> brings connotations more mental than physical; the feeding tube going into his stomach takes care of his /body's/ need for sustenance but actually /enjoying/ food he will have to currently experience secondhand. “Doesn't have t'be medical, s'just...the first thing that comes t'mind on account of where m'brain has lived forever. Could be any ol' thing. They have phone services where folks call in for translation assistance, even.” Micah hides his face back against Hive's arm at the images that come through. He flashes in a series of memories as if to wash the /taste/ of those away: Horus excitedly spouting half-nonsense with the aid of his new adapted tablet, a set of young parents going misty-eyed at their young daughter taking her first step with the aid of a transtibial prosthesis. “It helps when you're /helpin'/, though.” He sits up, finally, smacking his palm lightly against his forehead. “I completely forgot. Got Chinese at a little family place that had opened back up. Prob'ly ain't /cold/ yet, but I'll take cold food an' talkin' t'Hive over hot food an' sittin' here watchin' 'im an' frettin' any day.” Hive's hand gets a last squeeze before Micah slides off the bed entirely to fetch the food containers and move them to one of the tables-on-wheels in the room. “Can't have Jax starvin', though. Would be an utter failure as a fiance.” Jax pales, a flicker of darkness around him at the memories that come from Hive. For a moment there's nothing in his mind past a blank black protective rage, bubbling up to the surface and then popping to melt back away into nothing. "Talkin' is nice. We done a lot of fretting lately." Jax leans down, kissing Hive gently on the cheek; as Micah moves away he just stays close, though, hand still in Hive's. "Ohmygosh food. An' yeah you can steal all the delicious right out my head. An', honey-honey, you're pretty much -- what's the opposite of a failure? Um. You pretty much win at fiance-ing. It's pretty much just my metabolism that fails at life. Kinda literally if I don't keep a good eye on it." There's another flush of happiness at the memories Micah shares, these echoed back to Jax as well. Though this shifts into concern: << Horus? >> He's rifling through memories of his own, now, largely cold and dark and horrible, the various snippets of zombie-war gleaned from the minds of his friends and Horus conspicuously absent through all of them. << (not a failure), >> he chimes in his agreement with Jax. And this comes with stolen demonstrative memories, too, sharp flares of fiercely /warm/ joy, desire, comfort, safety, colored in Jax's vivid-bright tones and overheard from Hive's room when Jax and Micah are together in Lighthaus below. The last feeling is the one Hive lingers on longest, relaxed and /secure/. << (Rare) (in him.) >> “Do a lotta frettin' just about always,” Micah admits with a grin that is half-playful, half-sheepish. Once he has the food set up on the table, he rolls it to Hive's bedside so that they can sit close and eat at the same time. “I was jokin', but thanks for the reassurance.” Jax gets a little kiss to his temple as Micah settles in beside him. Hive's reflected Jax-memories bring a brightening flush, slowly climbing up Micah's features. “Ohgosh,” he says softly, eyes focused down on the container of rice he's opening. All of this is derailed by the concerned mention of Horus. And the fact that Micah also hasn't seen him in some time. “Jax...hon, d'you know if Horus high-tailed it out of the ci--area when things got bad? Maybe he just hasn't had access to a charger, 'cause I ain't been gettin' texted constantly no more, either.” He sets the container back on the table, fingers moving to cover his lips. “I honestly don't know. That's horrible, isn't it? How many friends I just...don't even know if they're even alive right now.” Jax flushes, too, at the echoed memories; his gaze lowers and when Micah sits down beside him, he reaches his free hand to gently squeeze the other man's with a strong accompanying burst of affection. "-- I don't know," he admits afterwards, with a sick sense of guilt. "Dusk's been keepin' an eye out but we ain't -- ain't nobody heard nothin' from him in -- in 'bout a month. An' the last thing on his Twitter --" The sick feeling grows inside him. "An' yeah. There's so many folks I just -- don't. Know. Ain't heard from them, ain't -- been a lotta uncertainty for a while, now." He releases Micah's hand so that he can reach for the veggies and eggplant both, opening the containers one after the other. At first though, he just stares at them, his appetite seemingly drained. Though as he finally reaches for a pair of chopsticks there's a very abrupt: "Oh. Oh /gosh/. /Is/ it Luci who -- how often does he come -- I guess you wouldn't really know that." << I know, >> Hive answers when Micah says he was joking. He plucks another memory out of the ones Jax shared earlier, just simple and happy, cocoa and companionship. Simple and happy and /bright/ against a backdrop of so much darkness. << Still good. Sometimes. To remember. >> The brightness winks out abruptly. Hive is silent through the talk of Horus. << Oh. >> Just that. It takes a while before he answers the rest of the question. << I don't know. A lot. >> Eventually Micah just picks up a scallion pancake slice to nibble on without paying excessive amounts of attention to it. He sighs heavily between little bites. “S--apologies, Hive. We was...s'posed t'be sharin' happy things an' now I'm bein' all mopey an' not even payin' attention t'the food so's y'can enjoy it any.” A larger portion of the pancake finds its way into his mouth and he chews slowly, concentrating just on the flavours and textures of the food and not...any of that fruitless and aforementioned /fretting/. This works well enough that he jumps at Jax's abrupt 'ohs', nearly dropping the last bit of pancake pinched between his fingers. “Oh! Honey, what...what made that come up again so sudden?” 'Sorry,' Jackson signs, flushing red. "No it was just, I just. Chinese food. An' one time when Luci was visitin' Io he disinfected his whole kitchen 'fore --" His head shakes quickly. "Says he can't even step into Chinese restaurants an' if we don't know what kinda schedule he's gonna /be/ here on I don't -- even know how long allergens stick around long enough t'be dangerous." His nose crinkles up, the red deepening. "I didn't mean t'be all startlesome it just occurred to me on the sudden." He taps his chopsticks restlessly against the side of the table without actually eating anything. "I wouldn't even know how t'start findin' Horus," he admits very softly. "Anole's gone missin' too. An' Scramble an' -- only barely didn't lose Liam on one'a my last runs out, I -- wow okay this is a bad road to be goin' down I --" He signs 'sorry' again, thinking it loudly. "Those happy memories. Those were good, we should stick to that." This stirs up a very disgruntled mental image of Lucien asphyxiating by Hive's bedside. In his mind, Lucien manages to go into anaphylactic shock /elegantly/. He shakes the mental picture away kind of /irritably/. << No. >> There's another long silence; it takes Hive a while to /collect/ his thoughts enough to convey them. << Good or bad. Want to know. >> “Ohright. I just...assumed there weren't any reason for 'im t'be comin' /here/ anymore when I brought the things. So I didn't even think. We can put a note on the door with a time stamp of when last there was potential sesame oil, an' not leave any napkins in the trash or anythin'. They make pretty serious cleansers for medical facilities that we can use on the table.” Micah just stuffs the remaining bit of food in his hand into his mouth. “That's it. Puttin' trackin' devices in /everyone/ from now on,” he half-grumbles once he's swallowed the pancake. “'Bastian can help make us several...dozen of those, right?” He reaches out for a pair of chopsticks, sliding them out of their paper sheath and just rolling them in his hands. “We should get an Epipen put in the room, just in case. Though I'm sure Lucien /carries/ one, too, he's got that much sense at least.” He nods in answer to Hive. “I know, hon. I wanna know, too. It's just...hard t'even know /how/ t'look for people anymore. An' if it's just a matter of somethin' happenin' t'someone's phone, like when B disappeared the last time.” "'kay. Good. Cuz if he's doin' all this for Hive I don't want -- well, not that I would want that happenin' t'him /any/ time." Jax reaches for the rice, scooping some out into the lid of a container and adding garlicky vegetables on one side of the rice-mound and eggplant on the other. "Bastian -- prob'ly could, actually. S'jus' gettin' folks t'agree t'them that's the problem. Well also makin' 'em safe for sticking /in/ people." He starts to eat, quick and hungry. "Think he's got one on him always. But we'll make sure t'clean it down good when we go." << Always carries one, >> Hive agrees, << If he's good at anything it's staying alive. >> He slips back into quiet, focusing in on the tastes of food in the other men's mouth. << Always paid. Before. Think he'll bill me? >> He sounds actually amused by this thought, although he also sounds like he would genuinely not be surprised if Lucien /did/. << In a crisis, >> he muses next. << Good time to disappear people. >> “Yeah, that would be pretty...awful.” Micah opens the container of dumplings, pulling one out with his chopsticks and chewing on one end of it. “Usually he gets someone t'agree t'payment up front. Which has either been you or...well, me, last time. An' he obviously didn't ask any of /us/ this time, anyhow. Should see if maybe he ran it by Flicker or Dusk instead.” His shoulders rise and fall in a quick shrug. “Typically it's poor form t'throw services at people an' then surprise 'em with bills later, but there ain't no real /typical/ about any of this.” He stops nibbling at the dumpling at that last comment from Hive. “D'you think anyone had the resources t'be doin' that here or in Westchester lately? Seems like everythin' was bein' dedicated t'not /dyin'/ out of simple necessity.” "Ain't exactly his usual /services/ though neither, is it? An' it's -- /kinda/ typical, actually, ain't it? In concept if not in -- treatment. I'm pretty sure throwin' services at unexpected /coma/ patients and surprisin' 'em with bills later is the only way to fix 'em. When it comes to medical care for people what /can't/ consent but might die without, s'pretty much just treat 'em first and work out the details after. Though I don't expect no insurance'd cover Luci." Jax makes his eggplant disappear in short order. The vegetables he picks at more slowly, saving the bok choy for last. His lips press thinly together at Hive's comment, and he shakes his head fiercely. "They wouldn't. They /couldn't/. But also they wouldn't, everyone was jus' doin' everything they could to pull /together/ and get the town outta this mess, they -- that would be -- sick even if they could manage it." << Not getting me off. Getting me /alive/, >> Hive offers in more concise agreement with Jax's sentiment. A mental image here, too; EMTs pulling someone unconscious out of a car crash and then stopping CPR because they haven't asked about payment yet. He nudges up against the latter thoughts with a bit of uncertainty. << They're normally. So ethical. >> Though this comes with another mitigating: << ... guess though. Even if they could. They don't want Horus anyway. Were done with him already when you got us. No more experimenting. Only target practice. >> “I was only talkin' about the...him fixin' Hive kinda services,” Micah clarifies with a triumphant return of the rapid-onset blushing. “/Brain/ fixin'. I mean...argh. Y'know what I mean. An'...immediate emergencies is one thing. This was a...bad but /stable/ state. Just sayin' that he'd worked it out with someone on your behalf before.” He shrugs again before finishing off the last of his dumpling. “I wish I had a better idea of ways t'look for people, but... Horus was actually our best eyes before. Dusk gets a decent view of things, but he's also busy with other stuff an' ends up /freezin'/ when he flies this time of year.” He breaks into the spicy tofu, repeating Jax's rice-and-food-on-lid procedure with it and a serving of eggplant. “How automated has 'Bastian gotten his dragonflies? Could he get them patrollin' independently the way his robocarp does? Would cover us a little more ground, at least.” "Could be he's jus' doin' it because he wants to help." Jax flushes dark too, at Hive's first statement. He lingers over his bok choi, savouring it as he crunches it down. "Horus's eyes're keener'n Dusk's by far whether Dusk's otherwise occupied or not. 'least durin' daylight. Dusk's got the advantage once it's dark out." Jax's head tilts slightly to one side, glancing over at Micah thoughtfully. A few bright-coloured dragonflies appear briefly to flit around the room as he considers this. "His robots see pretty decent day or night. An' he can send them out pretty well on their own. They been watchin' school-grounds lately but I think most'a the threat there's passed. It'd be good t'know. Even without kidnappin' nobody -- I saw a lot of terrible out there," he admits softly. "/Mostly/ people'd just be tryin' to stay alive. Stop an' fight /with/ us, powers or no, when they seen what we was doin'. But -- but there was some folks out there with a lotta ugly in their hearts. Take all the death all 'round as just so much convenient excuse, nobody'd notice if they beat on some /people/ together with the zombies." He shudders briefly. "I'll ask Bastian 'bout his swarm. S'a lotta city to comb, be glad for all the eyes we can /get/." << Could be. >> Hive's agreement is softer. It sounds distant, again. A stir of feelings follows this, tired and worried and unhappy, but no further words. Soon even the feelings are fading off into nothingness. “S'what I'm sayin'. Shouldn't eliminate that as a possibility.” Micah just tucks into the food in front of him, not commenting further on the state of affairs because they are what they're going to be for now. “Good, that may...at least make us /feel/ like we're doin' somethin',” he finally concludes about the dragonflies. He glances over at Hive at that fading. “I think he fell asleep.” He adjusts a blanket over Hive to make sure he stays warm. “S'good t'be able t'think that's all it is again, though.” Jackson closes his eye briefly when the psionic touch fades. He sets his chopsticks down on his plastic lid, leaning forward to cup the side of Hive's face in one hand, kissing him gently on the opposite temple. His forehead rests against Hive's for a few seconds, before he takes his seat again and returns to his dinner.