ArchivedLogs:Just Keep Moving

Just Keep Moving
Dramatis Personae Micah, Peter, B
In Absentia	Thursday 19 December 2019 Part of the Future Past TP.
Location <MOR> We All Float Down Here
Accessible through what was once an office in a Brooklyn warehouse that has in recent years had a tunnel excavated right under its pried-loose floorboards, the way down into these tunnels is probably not the safest climb. The ladder is rusting through in many places and though the wall has handholds, they're often slippery. Many make the plunge, though, to find the tunnels beneath dank and cramped and labyrinthine. And none too pleasant smelling, sewage and mold and rot the primary aromas and many sections of tunnel steeped in what is hopefully mostly water, ankle-deep, knee-deep, waist-deep. Things float in it. Sometimes these things have teeth. It's rats all the way down. Small rat bones left in the rat traps to catch...more rats. One can't be too picky hiding underground, and if you cook the things well enough, /probably/ you won't catch any pesky diseases. As such, Micah has an old pillowcase which he is using to collect the dead rats in, a second bag full of old rat bones that he uses to re-bait the traps. Rats and more rats. With no dark-vision to speak of, Micah is performing this task with a forehead-mounted flashlight that somehow got into the hands of the sewer refugees. His robotic legs are unfortunately less than stealthy in their thudding and splashing steps, though his tattered-dark grey hoodie and jeans do at least blend in with the damp darkness underground. Peter says very little as he stalks the underground; he has been unusually taciturn this entire trip -- possibly with good reason. He stalks ahead of B, silently watching -- the chitin-clad man is a dark inky blue-black in coloration, clad in an armored vest that matches his skin-tone -- his skull is shaved of hair, exposing an old burn scar that winds around the left side of his cranium. He carries a few pieces of equipment -- a backpack on his back, a small belt with a few unusual objects, including a fist-sized canister -- and what appears to be a heavily (and clumsily) modified pistol holstered against the armor. "...careful," Peter tells B, as they move through the sewers -- one of the first things he's said to hir in what might be... hours. "There's traps, sometimes. Just follow in my footsteps--" He pauses at the sound of unstealthy footsteps; no doubt B's picked up the scent long before Peter /hears/ Micah. For a moment, Peter's grim expression flickers away into something more cheered -- but then, he seems to remember who he's standing in /front/ of, and the grimness returns...his hand dropping to his belt. "...Micah?" he calls out, quietly, to the dark. B answers the exhortation to follow in Peter's footsteps with a low-soft breath of laughter. Quietly lifting off to levitate off the ground. The soft hum of B's gauntlet and boots sounds -- rather /unfortunately/ -- rather similar to the hum of flying Sentinels when they're lifting off or landing. Quieter, smaller, but the tone is much the same. Ze would blend, in here; matte-dark metal and dark grey-black jacket, dark glasses on hir eyes and dull plating sheathing legs and arms; in the dark it /would/ be hard to see hir except for the rather more obvious glow, now, in hir palms and boots. There's a larger pack slung onto hir back, a small cooler held in one hand. Hir nose twitches restlessly, a soft rumbling of growl in hir throat. For a moment -- half a moment -- ze powers hirself backwards. Stuttering. "Yeah. S'him." Then forward again. Shooting past Peter to thunk down in front of Micah. Head tipping up -- up still up, ze hasn't grown much /taller/ -- to turn dark-glass-shielded gaze to Micah in silence. Despite the less-than-quiet his own movement provides, necessity has honed Micah's hearing sensitivity enough to pick up on the others talking. Swiftly, he crouches in a defensible corner with the bag of rats tucked behind him for safe keeping. He has a handgun drawn and aimed in the direction the noise came from before the pair appear, prepared to defend himself or his food stash, depending what the incoming people go for. Peter's voice has his head tilting slightly when it calls out. "Peter," he is in the process of answering when there is a sudden B in front of him, the gun quickly raised again. "B?" The question is caught somewhere between surprise and confusion. "--jesus," Peter whispers, his voice tiny and soft, as B proceeds to -- float right /over/ him. There's no eye-widening awe; just a quiet sort of tension that runs through his frame -- his body clenching, taking a step back -- watching as B slips past him, and moves toward Micah. When Peter's eyes catch the human, the tenseness intensifies -- particularly when B lands in front of him, and Micah confusedly raises the gun. Peter's own hand slips toward his holster, his voice soft -- and as somber as the grave: "Micah. Lower the gun." It's quick, and nearly silent. No more hum, no more growl; just a small hard /thud/ of metal against arm. B's metal-armored arm has /snapped/ up, hard and sharp and lightning-quick to crunch against Micah's, twisting the other man's arm around to yank it rather painfully up behind Micah's back. The muzzle of the gun presses up to the small of Micah's back, B standing behind Micah where a moment before ze was in front, hir other hand reached up to close cold metal fingers against the back of Micah's neck. The cooler ze /was/ holding thumps down to the floor with a splash. "... thought you'd be happier to see me, Ba." Hir tone is very flat. As soon as Micah is able to process the identity of the form in front of him, the arm holding the gun is dropping to his side. This doesn't stop B from snatching it, however, a pained cry answering the crush of soft tissues in the abused limb. The numbed and weakened fingers release their grip on the weapon, little resistance to offer to the wrenching hold. He muffles another yell through a clenched jaw. Loud noises tend to draw unwanted visitors, and that's the last thing this situation needs. He breathes raggedly for a moment before finding enough controlled voice to answer, still nearly panting between words. "Hey, sugar. Good t'see you're still alive. Y'hardly ever visit." Peter's fingers twitch near the holster of his gun as B moves in a flash of speed -- when he hears the muffled yelp from Micah, Peter's hand has darted away from the gun, and toward the canister, instead -- already pulling it free from his belt with a tiny /tkt/. A moment later, and Micah's voice has risen up to speak -- rather than add anything, Peter just remains silent, canister in one hand, his other hand hovering over the pistol. "Here I am." B releases Micah towards Peter with a very small shove, handgun still held in hir gauntleted hand. "You're still alive, too." This is flat, also. Hir gills flutter, once. "Of all the fucking people..." Ze turns aside, scooping the cooler back up from where it fell. Ze /presses/ it to Micah's chest moreso than handing it over, not so much making eye contact as taking the time now to look around the sewer tunnel. "Maybe better than rat. -- Are you fucking serious." This is over hir shoulder, to Peter. Hir head tips slightly. Looking at the pistol. Then back at Peter's face. Then back to examining the tunnel. Micah barely rocks with the shove, robotic legs adapting to the motion and holding fast to the ground. "Mmn. So far they just keep blowin' up parts I've been able t'replace. Ain't for no lack of tryin' on their part." He grips onto the cooler with his left arm, the right one a little limp about the hand and forearm just now. Even so, he still collects his bag of rat-meat, holding the top of the bag between his arm and his ribcage. "Better'n just rat, for sure. Ain't never enough food 'round here." He shifts the loads for easier carrying as he rights himself again. "Not that I don't like seein' y'just t'see you. But I get the feelin' you're here for more'n food delivery service." "No," comes Peter's automatic response to B; his fingers drift away from the modified pistol -- and the canister snaps back onto his belt with another /tkt/. His face is neutral. He watches the passing of the cooler to Micah with a calm, quiet detachment -- though his fingers are still twitching, still /itchy/. He just watches the two, keeping his distance. "Lucky for you." For a moment B's voice is a low rasp, arm curling slow across hir chest. "-- New parts." Hir head tips down, glasses fixing on Micah's robotic legs. "Peter said you're breaking down. I had a few things. Lying around. Been – busy." "Prob'ly less luck an' more bein' 'round lots of healers what with bein' on first aid detail most of the time," Micah allows with a small shrug. He nods at B's assessment of the situation. "Been runnin' 'em hard near-constantly. Makin' a lotta quick evacuations, often enough carryin' other folks. Gettin' into scrapes with the toasters often enough, too. Don't help the situation of not bein' able t'maintain nothin' appropriately t'begin with." He hefts the bags again. "We should get someplace with light an' maybe even a /table/. Deliver the food." A rough chuff of laughter answers B's last comment. "Busy. Yeah. We're all that, at least." "..." Still nothing from Peter; he just watches the exchange, as if waiting for something to explode. When nothing seems ready to do so, he relaxes -- a little bit. Walking forward, though careful not to get too close to B! Give hir lots and lots of personal space. Abide the bubble. "--B's been capturing and reworking Sentinels. Taking control of some of them -- I'm going to work with hir for a while. Help -- and maybe, when we've got extra parts, or spare machines--" He glances back at B, however briefly, in those hoverboots and cyber-gauntlets. "--can bring some of them to you." "{Lucky,}" B's low-growled answer comes back, "{that the parts /you/ lose /can/ be replaced.} -- Peter's going to help." For the first time B sounds almost cheerful here, a lighter nearly sing-song note to hir tone. Pleased-hum. "And we're going to make him better -- and make you better." The boots power back up, lifting up into the air. "Yeah. Sure you've been doing loads of good -- Light and a table will be useful. I'll need it. Brought you a thing. Come on." "Well, that's right handy. Hafta say I've borrowed a few toaster-limbs m'self. We got a lotta folks end up...missin' parts 'round here. Hafta get creative findin' 'em anythin' t'put back on so's they're not laid up or easy pickin's." Micah's shoulders scrunch in at B's growling, a brief pause in his movements. "I know it ain't the same. But I miss them, too." His eyes briefly track to his chest, the lump of the corduroy bag under his shirt, lacking a free hand to grasp at it with. "There's a couple entry rooms this way. Can pass the food along t'whoever they got keepin' watch." He gestures with a jerk of his chin down a particular corridor, leading the way along it. "Better?" he inquires as they walk, lofted brow mostly lost in the darkness. "{Nothing lost can be replaced.}" Peter's voice is quiet in the dark. It has been quite some time since he has spoken Vietnamese aloud; his accent is crooked, but he still remembers the basics. "Only found again." He quietly follows, keeping a slow, quiet pace behind B, trudging forward through the shadows as Micah leads them. This elicits a harsher growl from B. Sharp. Angry. "What the fuck do you know about missing them. And where the /fuck/ am I going to find --" Hir gills ripple fast and quick; the brief pulse-blast shot back towards Peter doesn't even really seem like a particularly targeted attack. /Irritable/ more than anything, a small singeing beam aimed to glance off the side of his ear, perhaps. Perhaps his already-burned skull. "{... maybe remade.}" Lower, thoughtful. "Better. Harder, faster -- stronger." Sung, once more. A small smile tipping back across hir expression. "How could you even ask me that?" Micah doesn't stop, doesn't even turn around, muscles just tensing visibly as he proceeds. "They were everythin'. /You/ were everythin'. How could you--" The /blast/ certainly gets him to turn, headlamp light swinging about with the movement. He crouches down again, hand reaching for an...empty holster. "Shootin'. Why shootin'," he demands, eyes searching the darkness. There was a time, maybe, when Peter could have dodged that. Not anymore, though -- the pulse-blast manages to hit him, jerking his head back. His hand snaps up to slap at his own skull, grimacing in pain, briefly crumpling against the side of the wall. After a moment, however, he composes himself -- retracting his hand, examining the glittering specks of red that adorn it, and wiping it off nonchalantly on his vest. As if this was entirely ordinary; as if he'd simply been stung by a bee, or tripped on a rock. "--s'okay," he tells Micah, briefly, before: "{Sorry.} Let's just keep moving." "{He was /me/,}" B snaps back sharply. "And then his stupid fucking ideas of saving the world -- ran in the fffff --" Ze stutters on this word, though, just hissing out a breath between hir teeth. /Prodding/ Micah forward -- with the barrel of the handgun still in hir hand -- when he turns around. "Let's /go/. I don't /have/ all day. Just want to get back to -- let's. Just. Go." "Are you okay?" Micah asks Peter, legitimately not having a clear idea of what just happened in the darkness. "You need to /stop/ with the weapons. We're on the same side. Also, /that/ one is mine," he insists, not yet moving with the prodding. He looks like he wants to go to Peter, instead, but isn't quite sure how B would respond to motion in the /opposite/ of the intended direction. "I'm okay," Peter says, his voice still soft. His hand wants to move back to the injury to check and see if it's still bleeding -- but he forces it down, his pace slowing as he catches up to B and Micah. His tone becomes a little sharper as Micah doesn't move: "Micah. /Please/. Just -- keep moving." The growl that snarls up in B's throat is deeper. Harsher. The gun presses harder to Micah's side. The light on Micah's headlamp gleams off of sharp bared teeth. "/Same/ fucking /side/, flatscan?" In hir other gauntlet, the light in hir palm starts glowing again. Hir head turns slightly, ear tipped when Peter speaks. The growl lessens -- the gun pulls back, but doesn't lower. "Fff." Hir hiss is sharp, teeth clicking together. Hand lifting to curl around the shoulder strap of hir backpack. "This was a mistake." Hir head shakes, gaze shifting to Peter. "You can find your own damn parts. My 'bots are better anyway. This one's goddamn useless." Micah winces more at the words than the snarling or the gun in his ribs. "B...don't. Don't. We're almost there. Y'ain't gotta...take Peter back with you if y'don't want. But please don't go. Not yet." He wants to turn. Wants to turn, wants to help Peter, wants to just...hug B if that wouldn't result in someone getting killed. Instead he moves forward again, gesturing at an opening mere yards ahead. "It's just there. Please don't go." At the very least, he's unable to stop the words any longer. "I love you." Peter doesn't respond as B hisses at Micah; he doesn't say anything when B addresses him -- tells him this is was a mistake. His expression is guarded, though there's a sort of exhausted acceptance, there -- as if this was the best he had expected. But when Micah turns, starts moving again -- Peter ever-so-slowly takes a careful step forward... "--he's been trying to destroy Sentinels, B. It wouldn't be a /complete/ waste of your time -- to make him better. Maybe he'll destroy a few more." Peter's voice is cold, chilly and soft; like a dagger made of frost. But when Micah says those last few words, Peter's breath hitches, and his body instinctively tenses -- fingers drifting once more down to the canister at his hip. B's gills flutter. Quick, through this. The glow in hir gauntlet flickers; hir boots hum to lift just a bit off the ground. Set hir back down, at the mention of destroying more Sentinels, with a calmer quieting of gills, pressing flat at hir neck. It's those last words that push hir into motion again, though. A sharp baring of teeth, an angrl snarl torn out of hir throat. It's not the gun that prods Micah forward this time but both hands, sharp-tipped gauntlets jabbing in a hard shove against Micah's back, forward towards that opening. "Just don't waste my goddamn time. You'd better put them to good use."