ArchivedLogs:Recruitment

Recruitment
Dramatis Personae Ash, Flicker, Hive, Jim
In Absentia	Tuesday, January 28, 2020 Part of 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. Drip-drip-drip-drip. Down here it’s wet. Dark and ceaselessly white-noised with the /plink/ of water-into-puddles, water-on-pipes, water-splatting-onto-cement. /Wet/. Hive is adding to the wet-sound, a kind of hacky-racking /cough/ spluttering up from his lungs. Rattle-cough-/hack/. It sounds -- wet. At the moment he’s leaned up against a slimy-dank wall, one sleeve pulled over his eyes, shoulders shivering. His other hand is pressed hard against his temple, eyes squeezed shut tight against an unfortunately /referred/ pain that is, just at the moment, throbbing through every other person in his vicinity. Both those people who belong here and those who /don’t/: it’s kind of like waking /up/ to a splitting headache. Except for the part where they’re still asleep, somewhere else in another-world and another-time. /This/ world, though, /this/ time, with /this/ (older) (haggard) (greying-hair pulled back in lank-ponytail) Hive? This one is, right now, just headache. Flicker would be in that camp of belongs-here. You can see it in /his/ older-haggard. More deep-scars, tattered clothes layered and layered some more to make up for what they lack in sturdiness. Long tentacle-arm currently curling itself around Hive’s shoulders: these things don’t belong to a different-and-far-away Flicker. “... might want to sit?” Gritted teeth, with this question, eyes scrunched against his own echoed headache. Not that there’s an excess of furniture. A few crates. Probably also wet. Splish. Slop. The sound of wet bare legs dragging through ankle-deep water. The rough drag of fingerips along a wall. Wet, indeed. In matters of time and space, Jim does not belong here - but you might not initially guess it. Grubby button-up shirt, a kilt that no longer exists in these times, overlong gray hair partially come loose from its ratty ponytail and scruffy beard, he wears the sewers around him with absent haggard familiarity. Walks them as a dreamer, a few stray branches crept out from shoulders and elbows to feel from obstructions in the dark, stooped over a few degrees against the pain hammering through his slowly waking mind. Waking from trees and green things and dirt. Waking from the depths of sleeping mind to - well. Stare. At the two figures ahead of him. Staring with /both/ blue eyes present, no knotted scarred mess that would otherwise be there. Takes in a breath. And ratchets, "--/Hey/." Ash may not belong here, but he's at least in his element, surrounded by stone and concrete, underground and somewhat pleased with it. The smell, now that he could do without. The way his nose wrinkles gives him away as not be accustomed to it at all. He's dressed in a cleaner than normal tan Carthartt over-alls with the matching canvas jacket on top, his booted feet submerged in the water too far to notice. He blinks as he looks around, one hand reaching up to scrub at his hair, taking a step into the group as if they were statues that wouldn't mind him staring at them. "Ay, ay ay. Where are we?" He mutters quietly to himself as he continues, drawn in by the coughing. At the moment, he's ignoring Jim's appearance because the location is of more interest and the strangeness of Flicker and Hive's appearance. "This doesn't look like Mexico. Not warm enough, I think." He continues to speak, expecting no one to be listening to him as he looks over at Jim, not seeing anything abnormal about him. He turns his eyes on Flicker and Hive again. “Khhh.” A soft-sharp hiss as Hive leans into Flicker, shifts away from the wall, takes a seat (with a heavy /whump/) on one of the crates. His hand still rubs at his temple, heavy and slow, and as the others come into view there’s -- a mingled feeling of relief and regret that twinges in Flicker’s mind. /Almost/ something like joy, at seeing Jim here -- almost. It’s quickly smothered back down, lost to another fit of coughing. And then a sharply irritable: “Why the goddamn fuck would this be Mexico.” Flicker’s arm stays around Hive’s shoulder, guiding him down to the crate. In his mind the sudden skip-beat joy /doesn’t/ tamp itself back down. Despite the new scars, new lines, new /wear/ in him, the sudden bright smile that lights his face is familiar as ever. “/Well/.” Even after Hive is seated, his tentacle-arm stays draped across the other man’s shoulders. “What took you?” Accustomed to the busy progress of Ash's speaking habits, Jim's posture makes room for the smaller man without thought, one hand dropping against the back of Ash's neck like. Good. Yes. Pat? Stay with me. And his usual raw-flat tone is a bit /strained/ in firing back at Hive, "The kid can /dream/." He's /rapidly/ chewing over Flicker's tentacular arm, Hive's slumpy shape, Hive's /hair/. And rapidly as the flora slowness recedes from his (wincing) mind, his outward reaction is cautiously slow. "This is a dream." Pause. Was it a question? Again, new emphasis, increased incredulity: "This is a /dream/." Which doesn't give him any noticeable /comfort/, save that he's slogging forward again faster, fixing eyes from Hive, back to Flicker's too familiar smile and - putting out a hand. It doesn't really HOLD STILL in extension, like he's mixed on whether he wants to formally shake hands or maybe GRAB someone. Maybe he's just hoping someone will hand him a cigarette. Or a dollar. "Well, because the last time I was dreaming that I was in Mexico after we escaped a internment camp." Ash replies readily. He doesn't realize his mistake until Jim starts speaking, blinking up at his roommate before turning his attention back to Hive and Flicker. "Oh, that's why you look different. You're old." He draws closer and really eyes the pair. "Shit, man. Guys." He gives Flicker a good side hug before letting his gaze wander around the tunnel again. "So. New York?" “I’m not. Goddamn old, you’re a fucking. Baby. You’re both -- fucking.” Hive grinds his knuckles up against his eye, leaning back into Flicker’s hard robo-arm. “New York. Under it, anyway. What’s left of it. Christ. /Fuck/. You’re really -- here.” His hand falls back down to his lap, dropping there heavily. “When is it? For you?” /He/ eyes Jim’s hand right /back/, eyes narrowing. “Tell me you brought a fucking smoke.” “Are you serious?” Flicker sounds incredulous -- and maaaybe just a bit amused, even as he leans into Ash’s hug with a thump of hand to back. “How would that even work, just happen to fall asleep holding a cigarette and -- I don’t know. Wait. /Do/ you have one?” Now he’s lifting curious brows at Jim. Until a /sudden/ sharp realization snaps him back to: “Wait okay hold on /not/ the point. Don’t even know how long this will /last/ you don’t have time for a smoke. -- Hive I can feel him.” His next poke at Ash’s back is more curious than affectionate. "Wh- this is /your/ fucking party, /son/," Just like that, Jim's brain has just gone 'FINE' and his hand reaches out, takes a not-particularly-rough handful of Hive's overly long hair like he is just restraining himself from SHAKING him, "If you're hosting, you may as well-". While he /does/ fish a hand into his kilt pocket searching for… and they're there, like they always are. His wrinkled pack of Marlboro's. Which he proceeds to just shove into Hive's hands and stoop to conk his head against the top of Hive's, muttering softer, "...Christ, Hivey, what've you done." And squeezes hard there briefly. Then he stands up, bright-eyed and filling his cheeks with air, one hand clapped against the back of Ash's back, the other clapping Flicker's one-good-arm, "January twenty-eighth. Or… ninth, fuck if I know when midnight was, pretty god damn sure I'm asleep right now. 2015. Happy-fucking-belated-New Year, what the fuck time is /this/." "Less of a baby than some. Less than when you met me. But... yeah, maybe, I comparison to you." Ash seems to be taking the poking in stride, looking at Flicker with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah. Solid. Had there been nonsolid before? Every time I've dreamed... I've felt things. Cold, pain... Leaves a person pretty knotted up when waking, but nothing like... You know I just kept staring at my teeth this one time, like I didn't believe they were there. Thought they'd been knocked out." He twist a little at the poking in the end and shakes his head. “Party, some fucking party.” Hive /snatches/ the cigarettes like they’re a lifeline, fumbling one out of the pack and slipping it between his lips with a small moan even /before/ it’s lit. Just the smell of the opening pack near his face -- “/Christ/ it’s been --” His eyes lift at the mention of the date. “Twenty-fifteen. Fuck. No, good. Shit -- good. Gimme a fucking light. When the fuck are we. It’s cold as hell.” His cigarette bobs between his lips as he talks. “S’been shit-all before. Memories. I don’t know. Not exactly my party. I’m just --” A shudder ripples through his shoulders. “Goddamn tired.” “Just the architect.” A ghost of a smile passes over Flicker’s face. Distant memory of curling up in a ballpit, watching movies in a house long-gone. “Though you’ve built us a terrible world -- five years,” he hedges, in answer. “A lot’s changed. In five years. -- 2015, /your/ 2015, are we --” He sounds almost awkward, in the asking. “Alive?” It speaks of old habit that Jim is already withdrawing a lighter, flicking it for Hive to draw off of. The hard-watchful flatness in his gaze doesn't betray the inner clench for Ash's descriptions of futurebound memories. Nor the deeper gut-wrench when he bares his teeth in joyless half-smile, "Alive and kickin'. That's twice skipping the grave for this asshole." He almost hesitates, like maybe Hive /will/ dematerialize, but then drops a hand casually around the so-familiar yet not-quite-familiar-to-touch shape of Hive's shoulders. Almost hungrily absorbing the changes in Flicker's face, wondering what memories count as real between the four of them. A memory (<< '-i'm so sorry, Hivey-' >>), so much frustration, a clenching-- "So. I really was -- … you guys." He needs that pack of cigarettes BACK, Hive. He needs one now more than he needs Jesus. "Great." And, more to the point, "So what the FUCK." If Ash wants a cigarette, Jim WILL be offering him one. "Five years, wow." Ash considers as he reaches out a hand and touches the wall of the sewer, frowning at it. "Yeah. Just had a snow storm. It shut down the city for a while. Everyone in the Commons got along okay. Think you're out at the school for right now. Maybe you're back. Didn't check." He steps back and shakes his head at the cigarettes, considering quietly. "You want my coat?" Ash is already slipping out of the construction worker gear and holding it out for Hive to put on, since he was the one observing the temperature. Hive pulls in a long deep drag of the cigarette. His next moan is deeper, low and exhaled smokily as his eyes slide closed. “God. Almost tastes real.” He waves away Ash’s offered coat, though, just pulling in another lungful of smoke. Imagined-smoke. Dream-smoke. “Twice. Planning on making it to nine -- right. Fuck. Right. 2015. Who the fuck is alive in 2015. You gotta tell them. That we need --” But here he stops, hesitates, /frowns/. Taps at his cigarette. Stands, abruptly, to /pace/, restless (splish) across the sewer floor. “A fucking army.” This doesn’t sound like what he’d originally planned to say, muttered uncomfortably down at the floor. “Only twice. Come on, catch up, I’d died that many times before I graduated high school.” Flicker’s tone is oddly light for such a pronouncement. He moves away from the crate when Hive stands, a little restless himself. The tip of his arm trails against the wall. “He’s dreaming, too.” He says this offhand, over his shoulder to Ash. “I mean, I don’t know if you need a coat. I think he should just dream himself up some. Warm.” He turns around, folds his arm across his chest. “An army would get stomped. A highly specialized raiding party, maybe --” But, okay, let’s face it, in his mind he’s picturing /spellcasters/ and dungeons. “What we /need/ is answers. There’s not exactly enough of us left alive here to find them.” "Who's alive - the fuck should I know, we haven't been dropping like," Jim counterbalances the physical restlessness in the tunnel by planting himself against a wall to light his own cigarette, exhaling smoke when he continues, "/flies/ recently. Could put it this way - Common cupboard's not /bare/ for the time being." And while the question of who has died SINCE rises its ugly head in the swampy mires of his too-curious mind, it's shunted to the side. And instead, fingers curling around the cigarette in his mouth, he gazes out at them evenly, solemnly, "What d'you need." "Not a lot of people have died lately. Not since that cult. But I'm mostly talking about people I know. Did you have a list of people you want? Because that might be easier." Ash wets his lips and glances over at Flicker. "Hive's dreaming? Oh." He still seems confused. "As far as a specialized raiding party, it'd probably be the usual group. Jax, Flicker," he glances over in the other man's direction when he says his name. "I could help, but I ain't exactly trained with the group lately. We still bring in people like Kay and Ion when the situation calls for it and they don't train together much, no?" He looks over at Jim for this. “Fff. The Commons. Still there.” This sounds soft and sort of wondering, when Hive says it. His thumb taps quickly against the butt of his cigarette before he takes another drag. “What, like /I’m/ a fucking. Superhero… they’re all goddamn dead anyway.” He stops his pacing, exhales a long stream of smoke. “Right now I’ve got exactly jack and shit. Our whole world goddamn exploded. -- You’re a fucking. P.I.” His eyes narrow on Jim. “Need to find out -- why. Preferably without getting stomped to death by the goddamn fucking Sentinels. … wonder if they /can/ stomp you to death like this.” Possibly that is a thing he should have figured out before teleporting people into the future BUT OH WELL. “This was kind of a test. To see if it worked at all. But we do need -- to figure out what happened here. So you guys can --” Flicker’s eyes narrow briefly on Hive. Kiiind of alarmed at the thought of Sentinels stomping the past!Ash&Jim to death. “... that won’t happen. We, uh, hope. Well -- not now. It might -- later, there’s kind of a lot of Sentin…” << … not selling this very well, >> is his awkward thought as his hand rubs at the back of his neck. “Someone bombed Westchester. They used that as an excuse? To just -- stomp. Everyone. Where do you even start investigating -- that?” "I'm pretty hard to /stomp/ to death," Jim says behind a lazy veil of rising smoke. And just ignores the speculative wooden /crunching/ such a process might involve. "Fffh yeah. We got the lightning rod and that fucking /firebug/, long as Jax is around t' keep em on fucking /task/. Though this doesn't exactly sound like…" He flicks his own ash in an almost disgusted manner, "How much of fucking Westchester we even--." << Ease up, Jimmy. If you don't know how long this little /powwow/ is gonna last, you better ask the right questions. >> He's watching Flicker's face, "... who /benefited/ from the bombing? Wasn't it fucking - Oscorp that put those machines out? Where're /they/ standing these days? Gotta remember, I'm working with god damn /piecemeal/ we been cobbling together of all our sweet dreams…" "Well, we can also talk amongst ourselves about dream stuff. I mean, maybe people have already pieced more together -- Hey, I'm not that easy to squish either. I mean, I've already seen how these robots fight. Kind of assholes that keep talking while they shoot a person. I really wonder if the drugs will follow us back when we wake." Ash speculates for a moment before quieting down once more and listening to the other discuss the topic at hand. "What. Westchester blew up?" “They got /bigass/ feet.” Another long drag. Hive holds this breath in a moment before speaking, words coming out in a cloud of grey. “Oscorp. Yeah. Fff. Guess they’re making bank. They say the bombing was Brotherhood but the Brotherhood denies it. And shit, they had plenty of incentive to start /some/ shit, right? Get /enough/ people attacking us that there was always a steady flux of pissed-the-fuck-off mutants signing the hell up, but this? They had no reason for /this/ shit, this has just been. A slaughter.” He scrubs a hand against his face, the cigarette tucked between two fingers. “Good. Talk among yourselves. Spread the word. Tell people. Tell people -- to be ready. Because if they’re willing to fucking. Come. Here. Maybe we can learn…” "Westchester blew up." The scars creased into Flicker's face crease deeper here. Tighter jaw. Thinner lips. "I don't want to give you guys the wrong idea like we have a plan, here. Our plan got as far as change the past. We're still -- a little light on the details of exactly /how/ we're --" He cuts off sharply. Head turning, eyes fixing -- out. Something unheard, unseen. His shoulders tense, though. "Bring you people here and -- sss." A sharp sucking-in breath. "... You'll be gone soon. But we'll bring you back. Keep bringing people until /someone/ -- sets it straight again." "'Course, that's assuming it wasn't the good old U-S-of-A," Jim has the kind of non-laugh that sounds like a mud pat hitting a brick wall. "/They/ got plenty of bombs. Keh. Though. Guess that goes for a shitton of other countries." << ...this whole conversation should be harder. >> "Well. You got us. We're on it. Start fuckin /canvasing/ back home-time if we gotta." You don't need to read minds to notice the pulse thudding in the side of his temple, looking from Hive's graying hair, Flicker's creased features. Are there words of reassurance he should be saying? Because /instead/ he's twisting his mouth and gesturing AT Hive and Flicker with the glowing ember of his cigarette, "This is some fucked up shit." "I don't suppose they still have libraries or newspaper archives? How much of the city has been messed up?" Ash's attention drifts upward, studying the ceiling quietly. "So, investigating. Okay. I think we can do that. Don't worry." He stuffs his hands into his pockets and frowns at the ground now. “They’ve /got/ plenty. The /city’s/ fine -- if you’re not being hunted the fuck down by --” Hive stops short when Flicker tenses. His eyes don’t dart to the other man -- just fall closed, tired, scrunching tight. << This conversation, >> whispers soft and shivery across the others’ minds, << is plenty hard. >> “Canvassing. Good. Door-to-fucking door, have you heard the good… goddamn…” but the end of this sentence doesn’t make it out of his mouth. Just another splitting-migraine-stab of headache, the world around them /rupturing/ -- and vanishing away.