ArchivedLogs:Fortress of Solitude

Fortress of Solitude
Dramatis Personae Hive, Steve
In Absentia	2016-01-25 << The future is just potential. >>
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a rock-lined koi pond, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. The grounds at the Commons are, at the moment, war. A flurry of missiles launched through the air, a spray of red dashed against the ground. Between teleportation and shielding, invisibility and catalysis, illusions and flight, robot drones ferrying snowballs from the sky, plain ordinary skill, the battle that has been raging here is rather more intense than those in many parts of the snowbound city. In the charred ruins of what was once Workhaus, a rather /impressive/ snowfort has been erected the past two days. By now it does have a ceiling through much of the fort, and several discrete rooms as well, sprawling wide through the bones of the erstwhile house. Windows. Two-story watchtowers, even, with stairways winding up into them. Hive may have had a hand in the construction of /this/ one. Overnight it's had water drizzled carefully over it, frozen hard, now, to solidify the snow castle into an ice one. Somewhere outside a brightly gleaming snowball misses its target (there was a target there, wasn't there? Whoever it was /meant/ to hit has just poofed away, vanishing entirely) and splatters in an improbable mess of pearlescent blue-green snow against one wall of the building. A few bright droplets skitter in through a window, landing nearby where Hive has been tucked into a corner of the room, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips as he finishes tightening one of the legs on a recently-constructed trebuchet. Though it's a bit of a free-for-all, at least some of the combatants claim temporary allegiance to one snow fort or another. It's not very clear which side Steve is on, but he's definitely gotten invested since getting recruited away from shoveling duty. Dressed in a navy peacoat, much-mended blue jeans, and snow-crusted combat boots, he's fighting /this/ particular battle shieldless, and for all his speed and athleticism he's definitely taken a few hits. A glittering purple snowball from the very colorful FunFort misses him by inches and scatters across the less-than-pristine snow. He doesn't see the aerial bombardment coming, though, and a (perfectly plain white) snowball explodes into the back of his head, mussing his already touseled blond hair and crumbling down between the rainbow-colored scarf and his neck. Fleeing for the nearest shelter, he dives in through a window of the ice palace standing where Workhaus once stood, rolling and coming up into a crouch opposite Hive. "{Pardon,}" this in French, a little breathless -- less from physical exertion than fighting his mind and body's attempt to take this fight /way/ more seriously than he knows he should. "{I just need a moment.}" Hive's eyes, typically sleepy-looking in their half-lidded state, slant over towards Steve. His cigarette bobs between his lips as he speaks. "{A moment.}" This is dry. "{You won't have that if Flicker catches you slacking in here. This is Workfort, man, no freeloaders in here.}" His finger curls, beckoning Steve over toward their newly built trebuchet -- which he is getting up off his knees to start dragging towards the open-roofed center of the fort."{We need ammo. Get to packing.}" Steve only blinks at Hive for a moment, briefly disoriented by being given an order from an unexpected quarter. But he goes with it all the same, grinning as he scoots over and helps Hive move the siege weapon. << Well, /Funfort's/ going down, at least. >> Once it's in position, he starts digging into the nearest non-load-bearing snowdrift for ammunition. "{Do you have an optimal missile diameter and weight calculated for this machine?}" His chin jerks at the trebuchet as he sets down a softball-sized snowball. Hive settles the trebuchet into the snow, angling it carefully -- though he can't actually see over the walls from here. "{What kind of amateurs do you think we are?}" He's packing his own ball, now, knobbly bare fingers digging into the snow to scoop it up and press it tight and hard. His eyes fix on Steve, though, drifting over the other man with a slow furrow of brow. Eventually he stops, hands his snowball not to Steve but to a hovering dragonfly, its spindly metal legs clamping around the hard-packed snow before it projects a readout in grams into the air in front of it. He sets his snowball down next to Steve. "{Aim about there.}" Wandering back to the front room, he returns shortly, finally lighting his cigarette though now he also holds a slim thermos in one hand. His brows lift in offer as he holds it out to the other man. Steve hefts Hive's demonstration round in one hand. Nods. Tosses it to the other, getting a feel for its weight before returning to work. He adds a little heft to his first effort before setting it down beside Hive's. By the time Hive returns, Steve has shed his (soaked) red knit gloves and almost completed a five-by-five base pyramid of snowballs. His mind is not much on his admittedly simple task, but vigilantly casting about for signs of danger -- the crunch of boots in snow, the whiff of cigarette smoke, the sudden displacement of air when human-sized objects suddenly appear or disappear. His eyes snap aside to Hive, then to the thermos. "{Thank you.}" He takes the thermos -- doesn't even ask what's in it, suspects he'll like it no matter what so long as it's warm -- and drinks. The thermos is full of cocoa, its contents still quite hot despite the outside of the canister being icy cold. Cinnamony and a little bit almondy. Hive settles down cross-legged beside Steve's square of ammunition, nodding in approval. "{Goddamn slackers over in Funfort better start saying their prayers.}" He plucks his cigarette from between his lips, eying Steve thoughtfully. "{Don't worry.} This fort's safe as houses." Though here his smile crooks thinner, wider. "{Safer, really, ice doesn't /burn/. You can drink your cocoa in peace. Not an order, just a --}" His eyes tip up, head tilting back. << S'good cocoa. >> "{I'm not worried.}" There's no defensiveness in Steve's tone or thought -- if anything he's a little perplexed as to /why/ Hive would think he was worried. His vigilance seems perfectly natural and automatic to him. Though, /somewhere/ in the back of his mind he's aware that his elevated heart rate and the strange sense of distance in his vision are reactions learned in live-fire combat and /probably/ unnecessary for a snowball fight, not matter how elaborate it is. The warmth and sweetness and spice of the cocoa soothes him a little. "{Yeah, it's delicious.}" This comes with a reflexive flash of amazement at how delicious everything is in the future. << /Present./ It's the present now. >> This thought is firm and insistent. Hive's brows just quirk up at this answer. Skeptical. Quietly, there's an echo reflected back to Steve's mind; his own perception of /Steve's/ heightened awareness of the snippets of movement around him, the footsteps, the potential for danger. "{It's just a snowball fight.}" This is quiet, too, no weight of judgment in his tone. He pulls another long drag from his cigarette, eyes still fixed upward. << It's the present. >> Also firm. Very much so. << The future is -- something different. >> Steve stops short at the glimpse of his own mind from the outside. When he raises his head to look at Hive again he feels kind of /lost/. "{Of course it's just a snowball fight,}" he mutters. A memory surfaces, fleeting, then gone: Jim Morita sitting in the sunroom, saying "{You might find you brought the war home with you, Captain.}" He sips the cocoa again. << The future is just potential. >> Though there's a brief, bright flash of terror, helplessness, Dusk explaining the future-that-wasn't. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. "{Well, okay, not /just/, I don't know how much /just/ there is about any damn fight once you toss Flicker or Jax or any of them into the mix, but what can you do. Watch out for Joshua, though, that motherfucker's not playing for any damn team.}" Hive shifts over closer to Steve, switching his cigarette to his other hand, reaching out to squeeze slowly at Steve's shoulder. << The future /could/ be a lot of things. Kind of just depends how we shape it right now. >> "{Funfort might not be as doomed as all that, then.}" There's little mirth in Steve's musing. "{I kind of like it, honestly, all lopsided and colorful.}" << Not sure which team /I'm/ on, either. But I'm here now. >> His shoulder is rock hard to Hive's touch. << I don't really know /how/, except by fighting. And there's only so much fighting I can do in this war. >> "{Pretty sure it just means we're all doomed, in the end.}" Hive, at least, sounds rather /cheerfully/ fatalistic about this. His fingers grip down harder, a quick sharp huff of laughter exhaled. It likely has little to do with the ongoing battle outside, though his eyes are pulled towards a window at the sound of a string of Vietnamese that is /probably/ profanity, judging by tone. << Which team would you be more useful on, might be the question? I heard you talking to Dusk yesterday. >> There's only a brief pause before he admits easily, << Heard you talking to Peggy, too, for that matter. >> "{It is the way of all snow forts,}" Steve agrees philosophically, taking another sip of cocoa before offering it back to Hive. << /Useful?/ >> His shoulders aren't really relaxing, but he breathes out softly, eyes fluttering shut. << You're not talking about the snowball fight, are you? >> He flinches at the thought of Peggy, at the recollection of her words -- all true, in retrospect -- at the ache in his chest over the thought that she really might not be on his side this time. << I'm not really sure what it says about SSR that they know what they know and haven't come after Jax. Wisdom? Overconfidence? Underfunding? >> "{It's a dangerous business we're in here we don't fuck around.}" Hive plucks his cigarette from his lips so that he can take the cocoa back, take a long swig. << I don't know what it says about them, either. And that honestly fucking terrifies me. >> He plants the thermos back in the snow in front of Steve. << I mean, we know the government's been spying on us since for ever, but the scope of -- half of the shit that people knew about the future they knew in /dreams/. And some of the rest -- the /only/ fucking people who knew /Jax/ triggered that bomb were -- >> He grits his teeth, shakes his head. << If they know that and they haven't come down on him -- I don't know. I don't know. But I damn well want to know. >> Steve has gone back to making snowballs, more slowly than before but no less precisely. "{As it should be. Really, this kind of escalation,}" he spares a hand to indicate the trebuchet, "{seems kind of /low-key/.}" << I guess the fact that they found out at all probably rules out underfunding...and they certainly didn't look underfunded while I was there. >> His recollection of SSR's Times Square offices, though limited to where the agents would shepherd him, is filled with glossy high-tech terminals and highly-trained, no-nonsense personnel of many specializations. << You can take from me everything I know of them, but it honestly isn't much. >> Then he stops, looks up at Hive, heedless of the snowball burning cold against his hands. << They would take me back if I offered, even now. I'm sure of it. >> "{Dude, even in war we're not /uncivilized/. Come /on/. There's etiquette to follow.}" Hive waves a knobbly calloused hand around the ice fort they sit in. "{Powers are for using out there on the field. Sure, Jax /could/ roll up in here and melt the whole damn castle or Joshua could teleport in here and obliterate all our stash but shit, there's no respect in that.}" His hand drops from Steve's shoulder, carefully plucking the snowball from the other man's hand. << If their job is monitoring mutants who pose a threat to the world I -- >> His smile is a little thinner here as he sets the snowball carefully atop the growing pyramid. << Have a /vested/ interest in knowing what they're planning on doing to us. >> Now his shoulders are tight, his head bowing again. << Going back there, though. That's a lot to ask of you. >> "{This game challenges me in new ways.}" Steve's smile is rueful, but he does smile all the same. "{Jax wouldn't /have/ to roll up in here, he could melt it just fine from over /there/. So could Tian-shin -- I think.}" He looks down at his hands as Hive takes the snowball from it. He's acutely aware that his fingers hurt from the cold, but the information feels very abstract, and only relevant to him insofar as he needs to know whether it's safe for him to continue what he was doing (yes). With a will, he picks up the cocoa again instead and takes a long drink. << I think we all do -- I'm not a mutant, but... >> Just for a moment, he remembers Jax slumped against him in the blacked out jail cell, weak and shivering despite layers of blankets. Less concretely, though, he intuits that /Hive's/ 'vested interest' isn't only referring to Jax. << You didn't ask me. >> He rises and settles a large (cold!) hand on Hive's shoulder now. << I volunteered. >> "{Tian-shin, Joshua, Matt, there's a lot of firepower out there. Be a dick move, though. It's just now how this game is played.}" Hive lifts his hand, settling it over Steve's although, cold as his own fingers are from packing snowballs, this probably doesn't help much with the hurt. << That's a bad habit of yours, isn't it? Gonna get you in trouble some day. >> There's a very dry note to his words as his fingers curl in against Steve's. Beneath his next words something else curls. Tighter, tauter, a thin shivering note of fear strung tense through his mental voice. << I just -- the kind of intelligence agency that's /this/ much on top of their intelligence -- I really don't want to know what they'd do with something like me. >> His hand drops back down, resting on his knee. << Don't want to. But need to. >> "Matt -- Matt Tessier?" Steve asks, his eyebrows upraised. "{I didn't even know he /was/ a mutant, though I guess...}" His memory is less of Sera herself than the palpable aura of her simple, powerful joy. He shakes his head as if to clear it, but the recollection lingers on even through his confusion at Hive's explanation << You're certainly right to be concerned, but you're not a /thing./ >> His hand squeezes at the smaller man's shoulder and pulls him closer with tremendous care, certainly lightly enough Hive could pull away if he wanted to. << You think they would force you.../use/ you? Your powers. >> A deep, abiding anger that was already in him starts roiling more fiercely at this thought. "{Yeah, don't let his innocent smile fool you, when it comes to the snowmaggedon he's the one you want on your side. Hands fucking down.}" Hive's bony shoulders are tense, but he doesn't pull away, eyes closing as he leans in against Steve. << With what you've seen of the world -- you /don't/? If they could do what I could do -- >> Beneath Steve's hand, he just shudders. This time the ripple of fear that rolls up from him is deeper, palpable in a cold wash that flutters though the other man's mind and then fades away. "{I'll keep him in mind when I'm assembling my crack team of snow fighters.}" Steve curls his arm around Hive's shoulders -- his hand is already warm again, just by dint of /not/ actively handling snow. << I don't know what you're capable of doing, but I do believe there are organizations, public or private, who would. >> The anger in him rises abruptly, then subsides again under a wordless, vague desire to keep it from overwhelming Hive. << I don't know if SSR is one of them. I'd like to think they're better than that -- the Peggy /I/ knew would never condone it -- but she's... >> The thought looses cohesion when Hive's fear rolls through him, but he weathers it with remarkable calm. He shakes his head. << I'll try to find out. My...skillset is not very suited to /espionage/, but I'm good enough with people. I'll manage. >> Hive tips his head back, his eyes opening again. Wider, this time, turning a slow and somewhat nonplussed look up to Steve; for a long few moments he says nothing. Blinks once. Eventually drops his head inward, forehead thunking down against the other man, his shoulders curling inward, still tense. Something twines, coiling in a strange snug mental /grip/ around Steve's mind, an odd presence that squeezes inward before relaxing. << ... you /don't/ know what I do, do you? >> Pushed out in a breezy flutter of thought that feels -- amused? Relieved? Lighter, at any rate. << Whatever she is, she isn't wrong. >> The lightness, now, is gone. << Pretty sure this qualifies as hurling yourself headfirst into mortal peril. >> Steve flinches at the tightness in his mind. Frowns. He recalls the sensation from the very first night he met Hive, though it hurt considerably more, then. << What was that? >> There's remarkably little fear behind the question. << I don't know the /scale/ for telepathic powers, but if you think it likely the government might be specifically interested in yours, then you are probably very strong. >> His hand kneads the other man's shoulder steadily. << I guess I've got more than one bad habit. >> Hive's head turns as another paf of snow splatters against a wall outside. Only slightly, though; for the most part he just sits, staying leaned against Steve. In his hand his cigarette has burned down to a stub; he doesn't seem, really, to notice its smoldering ember singing his calloused fingers any more than Steve had paid attention to the snowball numbing /his/. << If they /did/ grade psionics on a curve, >> he answers, wryly amused, << I'd break the damn thing. >> A memory surfaces, reflected into Steve's mind. Not Steve's memory, exactly, though it's almost a familiar one. Perhaps not Hive's memory, exactly, either. A bedroom in an abandoned house in the Bronx. Steve standing near the door, knife in hand. A candle in a glass jar thudding harmlessly off his shield; the vague sick-panicky sense of fear, worry, a determined sort of protectiveness forcing these not to take over regardless. << I was here working. You were way the hell across the city. How did you think I did that? >> Steve reaches over and gently dislodges the cigarette butt from Hive's hand. He freezes at the memory, examines it uncomprehendingly, though he certainly recognizes the content. His /own/ memory of that scene comes welling up, too, right along with his own thoughts in that moment and a host of attending emotions: confusion, revulsion, guilt, grief, a kind of understanding. << I didn't know where you were. >> This thought is kind of wispy, insubstantial; he's still kind of buried in the memory. << I guess you did it...by being a really, really strong telepath? >> He's rather uncertain, though. The very fact that Hive is asking suggests there's some other factor at play, but he can't even understand how /any/ telepathy works to begin with, much less how this might be different. << In a way. The telepaths on this planet who are strong enough to reach that distance are -- few and far between. Most telepaths couldn't hear you from the other side of the block let alone the other side of the city. >> Hive relinquishes the cigarette without any fuss, fingers slack around the spent nub. << I -- can't, exactly, either. Not on my own. >> There's another press, squeezing in at Steve's mind. Harder, this time, mental fingers wrapping in and sinking tight. This time, past the discomfort, it comes with a sudden rushing flood of -- /being/, of thoughts and understanding, of /self/ that for an instant overwhelms Steve's before settling in to subsume it without eclipsing the other man entirely. It's a strange and muddled mix of identity, at once distinct and not at all; Steve can feel the various minds -- thousands and thousands of them, from Jax's fierce angry love to Flicker's patient steady brilliance to the less immediate familiar tastes of strangers scattered far and wide through the city -- to the ravening insatiable feel of the thousands of undead, hungry, scared, angry -- but thinking -- hiding out somewhere across the city. The snowfight outside is both immensely louder and immensely /not/; the thoughts and feelings of the Commoners clearly audible but at the same time insignificant, lost in a morass of the thoughts and feelings of the city as a whole, pressing in against his mind. Their mind, now. He can tell Hive is about to stand before he even does, a sort of proprioception lingering even while the rest of the din -- doesn't /vanish/ so much as it fades out to a background kind of awareness. Hive's bony arms have curled loose and casual around Steve's shoulders, now, and when he continues, his thoughts -- their thoughts -- << We're not like other telepaths, >> come with the weight of his experience and context to lend understanding. Steve had only begun to think of asking how Hive managed to do what he just said he couldn't do, but he never gets a chance to fully consider how he intends to phrase it. He gasps and brings one hand to his forehead, fingers digging in as if he could physically /stop/ the deluge of minds. Then he's drowning in it and the flash of memory that it conjures -- icy water exploding through the glass and slamming into him, knocking the air from his lungs. He stops breathing. Probably would have fallen over if he hadn't been leaning on Hive. Inside, he's desperately trying to retreat from the implacable tide but can't even fathom how. The panic only subsides at the awareness of his friends, though only a handful amidst the thousands. He's still holding his breath, curling into his own being as tightly as completely untrained psychic defenses will allow. But then, without concrete words, without any kind of linear reasoning, he knows. /This/ is Hive, whom he loves and trusts and would die to defend. So he lets go. And he's still there. And they're not alone anymore. And they can't tell if Hive is holding Steve up or the other way around. And it doesn't matter. << No, we're not. >>