ArchivedLogs:Finding

Finding
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Hive, Jim, Micah
In Absentia	23 October 2013 Soup.
Location <NYC> The Unicomplex - Village Lofts - East Village
In contrast to the messy apartment outside, this room actually tends to be fairly neat. Clothes in the two laundry hampers, books and clutter relegated to the bookshelf or the desks. It's set up for two, Flicker's neat-made bed on the left wall and Hive's generally unmade one on the right; the shared closet is large, on Flicker's side of the room, the shared bookshelf on Hive's side packed full. The back wall holds a pair of desks side by side, both with their own desktops. The walls are eclectically decorated. A replica of Arya Stark's Needle, a few bright-colored but anachronistically somewhat morbid paintings of Jax's, a Mega Man X poster, a stained-glass suncatcher hung in the window and a collage of feathers framed on one wall. Jax's schedule has been erratic, lately, school and work and more work; in between this the crop of rescuees, while slowly starting to /thin/, still needs tending. Some moreso than others; Hive might not be a /recent/ rescuee, but this evening Jax is on Hive-duty anyway, while Flicker works and Dusk goes off on errands of his own. Hive has recently been bathed and Jax's touch is quite /evident/ in dressing him, cheerful bright 'Little Miss Sunshine' t-shirt and colourfully batik-printed sarong dyed with multicolour dragonflies. Soup has been cooked, at some point, and it is apparently dinnertime; at least Jax has brought a bowl of soup in here for Hive. Potato leek. Pureed. Not much chewing. Hive /looks/ like a font of sunshine, really. The shirt says so, you can /tell/. His expression is cheerfully -- well, vacant, really. It's mostly been vacant lately. With as many people as are in his mental harem his psionic senses are more acute than ever, but though there's likely not a thought on the block that he can't /hear/, if any of them are registering enough to warrant a /response/ it's hard to tell. He's been silent for quite some while, through bathing and tending and all the rest. He's on his bed at the moment, leaned up against the wall, gaze as vacantly glassy-fixed as it has been for days. Encroaching evening and its associate autumn chill has driven a few refugees indoors, to set about their quiet business of staking out nesting grounds to settle in and talk, read, stare at walls, snack on fingerfood from small bags and cans, play video games... On entering the apartment, Jim scatters them like cockroaches with his blundering LACK of inclination to move around. They've gotten pretty used to it by now, one girl pulling in her legs, another teen rolling aside, then rolling back again once he passes. WHUMP - Jim doesn't enter the bedroom so much as thrust his head and shoulders into the room, hands catching on the doorframe. He still wears that same ratty kilt that bizarrely serves as Jim-version BATTLEWEAR, while his Morlock habits have found no shame in raiding the same donation box as the other refugees for a t-shirt. A black NIN t-shirt. He will SOMETHING you, like an animal. "What's cooking." He could mean literally /or/ figuratively. Sniff-sniff. Being equipped with a vehicle puts Micah on fetching duty much of the time, and there never seems to be an end to the groceries that need to be purchased. After a quick stop-in to his own apartment from work to change into not-work clothes (a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt depicting a jubilant T-rex with an adaptive reaching aid in each hand, under the heading 'UNSTOPPABLE!'), he was right back out again to shove as many goods as would fit into the back of the van and then portion them out into the various apartments at the Lofts. Mostly to the kitchens. Geekhaus's refrigerator actually has /food/ items in it now, including the vast majority of the non-vegan-friendly items. He follows along behind the hurricane-wake of Jim to see what the commotion at Hive's door is about. "Everythin' okay?" "S'dinnertime," Jax carols back cheerfully, his answer perhaps to Jim and Micah both, "there's fresh zucchini bread an' potato leek soup an' green bean casserole down at our place an' Joshua's place upstairs got mac an' cheese an' roast chicken. Garlic an' rosemary. An' s'a couple pies in the oven down our way, too, Luci'll probably grab 'em out when they're ready." He climbs up onto the mattress beside Hive, kneeling alongside the other man with his bowl of soup. His spoon has only a tiny bit of soup when he first lifts it, touching the bowl to Hive's lips. "S'goin' on with /you/?" It takes a while before the touch of spoon to lips seems to register, and once it does it is only to make Hive flinch slightly away. His head turns in a small twitch of motion to one side, and there's reflexively a ripple of mental energy, feather-light and barely noticeable, that presses up against the minds of everyone in the apartment. Quiet. Searching. The small flinch relaxes at the feel of familiar minds; slowly Hive's lips part, though by now his head's turned away from the spoon entirely. Jim's mind is hard at its surface; older than his age and drawn thing, knotted deep in dark earth, fluttering leaves, default background suspicion of even the lounging refugees in the other room. The feather-light brush bruises it with a hungry grasping, an opening of roots - before kicking himself back in line, laying down a pushy-jostling resistance. << eat the fucking food, bastard. christ, jackie feeding him makes it precious why the fuck don't i have my camera >>. He looks over his shoulder to Micah and announces to /him/, "S'dinnertime." With his brows all hiked up like /who knew/. He makes his way into the bedroom, thumbs hooked off his kilt hem. He has sunglasses pushed up to serve as a headband to keep his overlong hair out of his face, a cigarette crammed behind one ear, a squint along the room parameters, heading for the bed. "Hows'a face." Is to Jax, leaning in to openly stare at the side of his jaw, his own mouth dropped open to mouth-breathe, "Man, that's not even gonna mess up any plans you might have for a beard down the line." "Oh, right. Sometimes things are done with food that /aren't/ buyin' it an' movin' it around an' cookin' it," Micah half-jokes at the listing of meal menus. Rather than going off in search of any dishes for himself, he slips into the bedroom behind Jim, moving over to Jax to kiss him on the top of his head. "Hi, hon." After which he offers a little wave to Jim and Hive. "How's things goin' with...?" He nods in Hive's direction. "Need me t'bring anythin' else in for either of you?" The fingertips of one hand trace along the illusionist's back idly. "You eaten?" Jax asks Jim, aloud, gaze skipping over the older man, deceptively casual in its quick-flick-glance, keenly attentive inwardly. The side of his face scrunches up in half a smile. "Oh, oh-gosh, y'know I've /tried/ growin' a beard a couple times? /Have/ one, now'n then. Every time I grow it back Bastian scissors claws at me an' tells me he'll take care'a it in my sleep." He sets the bowl on his lap, pinning it between his thighs and lifting a hand to press fingers to Hive's chin, gently turning Hive's face back towards himself. He tries again with the soup, pressing the bowl of the spoon to Hive's lips and carefully tipping it up only once he's ascertained that Hive's mouth is staying open. There's already a handtowel draped over his shoulder, though, one end slightly-damp; he's evidently preparing for this to not be the /neatest/ of ventures. "Things're --" << dangerous >> << losing himself >> "-- pretty much the same. /You/ should get dinner for yourself. Come keep us comp'ny." << precious, >> this word ripples back in soft echo of Jim's words, a quiet whisper of voices drifting into the minds of the others in the room. It's agreement, perhaps; it comes with mental image not of Jax as he currently is but of Jax in his own apartment, tucked into a beanbag, drawing, with Spencer and the twins puppy-piled in asleep at his sides. An image of Shelby, in a hammock draped from Jim's boughs planted down at the farm. Of a small excitable ex-labrat curl tucked up in the rooftop garden under shade from Jim's leaves. Micah, leaning in against Lucien's side in their bedroom downstairs. Flicker shadow-boxing one of Dusk's large wings. These images come in quick succession, Hive's expression still blank and unchanging. Pliable, moving where Jax guides his head; the only change comes when his lips part a little more to allow the soup to trickle into his mouth. And, some while after this: << No. >> At a glance, Jim has the look of a man with something stuck uncomfortably in his back teeth, big jaw pushed forward, mouth compressed sourly, pouches under his eyes. His drab gray hair is, for once, clean though - hanging around the apartments makes hot showers a commodity he'll take, and it hangs back under his sunglasses to showcase just how much bad attitude you can knit in a forehead. "Kinda," he answers Jax, watching the side of Hive's throat to time out whether he's successfully swallowing the damn soup or not. His laugh the mental image of Jackson with a BEARD is a little scoffy with disbelief. Followed by a -- slooooow delayed glance at the illustionist << oh shit he's not kidding. >> Even if his mental image of Jackson + Beard equals something like a rainbow Paul Bunyan. Or Rainbow Moses. Rainbow Gandalf. These are the surface thoughts; a firm relaxed exoskeleton while beneath he winces, grits, at Hive's dregs of precious moments. Half inclined to shove them away, it doesn't come before he thinks of a small hidden park, the smell of takeout and Hive telling him about Thailand. Little green Anole sitting on the Morlock couch with his glasses on like a miniature professor lost in an underground jungle. Dark eyes in the dark, as flowering vines climb up Nox's arms, to remind her to be solid, to support them, touching them like strange rare jewelry -- "Y'want me to take the next errand run?" Jim is asking Micah, lounging back and pulling a foot up on the bed. DIRTY FOOT. "I've never driven that beast of yours." "How much longer does he hafta keep holdin' onto folks?" Micah asks, though his expression doesn't really match the question, pale little roses of blush blooming in his cheeks at the series of images from Hive. "How d'you 'kinda' eat? Want me t'grab you somethin'?" he offers to Jim. He might look /slightly/ panicked at the idea of sending the man off alone with his van. "Lucille ain't no kinda beast. Needs t'be treated like a /lady/." He does say this with a hint of lopsided grin, though in all honesty he /is/ discussing his livelihood (and former home) in vehicle form. /Might/ be he's grown a little fond. "Don't know as Lucille's free for bein' drove though there's another vehicle kickin' around, if y'poke at Flicker," Jackson says lightly, waiting for the first mouthful of soup to go down before taking a second. "-- Or Luci though I don't know if anyone gets t'touch his neither." To the images his expression doesn't change, though he adds his quiet own, Hive exhausted but happy after a long climb, flopped out on sun-warmed rock atop a cliff. "Y'/kinda/ eat if you eat soil an' sunlight, I'd wager -- but you're in people-form now, I'm talkin' eatin' people-/food/." He holds the soup to Hive's lips, giving the other man some time before he tips it in, as well. His head shakes, light tone completely incongruous with the heavy clench of worry inside him. << Too long. >> "Only s'long as the chips are out. Shouldn't be but the end'a this week, maybe, he's already started in on 'em." << Too long. >> His brows furrow faintly. "No?" Hive does swallow. Slow, but he does, taking a long moment after before opening his mouth obediently again. A soft flutter of mental touch brushes against all these images, from both men in turn. Washing up against them in a gently lapping touch, flowing over these memories, receding again. He answers Jim's Rainbow Gandalf mental picture with a different one, glittery-bright and colorful and /smiling/, warm and genuine, a /tidy/ dark goatee trimmed neat on Jax's chin. Of /course/ it's neat. He swallows the second mouthful slowly, too. << No, >> comes again. << Longer. >> << Too long. >> Throbs in Jim as well. "Sun, water, dirt." Jim confirms, the deep scar gashed down the side of his face twists deeper when he lip-quirks quirks at Micah, "'Vivat, crescat, floreat', meatbag, you vegetarians are eating the flesh of my people." The panicked look that crosses Micah's face is eyerolled at, "Christ, take it easy, hotshot, I was kidding about driving. I need wheels, I rent." Jim tips back his head to massage at his face. Briefly yearning for a specific corroded brown station wagon that had once been home, in a different time, a different place. It's cluttered with the slow-moving plant-thoughts and latin verse to keep his feedback to Hive moderated. He puffs out his cheeks and exhales, finally ratcheting, "Yeah, alright. I could eat again, just lemme," his eye twists up, a soft wood-creaking sound deep inside him, "Put my stomach back. Ngh. Okay." << god i might have to get it dug out i can feel it. >> "Ohgosh, I'd be terrified drivin' anythin' of Lucien's. Prob'ly worth more'n...I don't even wanna venture t'guess." Micah sighs at the answer regarding Hive. "Any chance of talkin' 'im into givin' up the folks as /aren't/ chipped? 'Cause I'm pretty sure he's holdin' onto more'n that but a fair stretch." Hive's mental image might have something to do with Micah's stopping to give Jax chin-scritches as he heads for the door. "Well, with that veggie comment, I'm gonna assume y'want the chicken option. Fetch questin'. Back in a sec," he explains before he sets off to gather food. "It's a /pretty/ car." That is about as much as Jax knows about Car. Shiny. Sleek. "-- Where'd your stomach go?" It's kind of a light question but it kind of /isn't/, casual in tone even as his mind reflexively ticks over thoughts of Jim, thinking back to review how much he's seen him work lately, how much he's seen him /rest/ lately, what counts as normal for him. His head absently nuzzles into Micah's touch. "-- You're gettin' /you/ dinner too, right, honey-honey? -- An' he's holding onto --" << too many >> << too long >> It's a sick wrench of thoughts inside Jax, and then his eye narrows on Hive. "Longer? What, no. Not longer. You can't keep all these people for longer, s'too much already." << bullet sponge, >> comes Hive's answer to the question of Jim's stomach, and then, << -- know surgeons, now. >> He's forgetting to /swallow/, the more he tries to focus on conversation, mouth just slack-open and his eyes still blankly fixed on the opposite wall. << We're right here. >> In other situations this would likely be a /sharp/ reminder to Micah, at the third-person reference, but here now it's just distant, a whispering echo in the others' minds. << Keeping them. >> This doesn't really manage firm, his voice still only a soft sigh rippling like wind through leaves. But it's a little more /present/ than it had been. << Living vegetable. >> Jim shoots back at Hive. Already considering that they're evening out the odds with Hive having also been shot now. And Jim - well, a bit of a living vegetable himself. It doesn't strike him as funny. Oh, Jackson, tell Jim /more/ - for one sweet moment, he's thinking of sexy curvy vehicles with purring motors and new wheels that /grip/, "Didn't really go anywhere," he pats a hand against his abdomen, "Just haven't been real fond of keeping full-flesh these days, on the inside. Since--" He waves a negligent hand in... a general direction behind his shoulder. Inwardly, a fierce agreement leaps up with Jackson's own protest, but he -- bites it back. Like so many other things. And reaches up to poke the side of Hive's throat, a kind of vague rub, to remind it to swallow. And murmurs, "...who are they." << I know, hon, we just done this dance a couple of times before already, >> Micah answers Hive's reproach silently as he calls, "Yes, gettin' me food, too," back to Jax. Then he is off, disappearing for a few minutes to retrieve a plate of chicken and mac'n'cheese for Jim, a bowl of soup for himself. The upside to having so many people around is that there are plenty of folks to open doors for him as he knocks with a /foot/ to indicate that his hands are full. He hands the plate off to Jim as he returns to the room, taking a moment to catch up on the conversation. Jax frowns, slightly, maybe at Hive's answer or maybe at the dribble of soup trickling down Hive's mouth when he forgets to swallow. He sets the spoon in the bowl, pulling the towel off his shoulder to dab at Hive's chin before returning the next mouthful to him. "Swallow, honey-honey," he instructs, quiet but firm in this. His lips press together as he watches Hive for signs of swallowing. << -- how many bullets? >> is a silent question to Hive; to Jim: "Got doctors volunteerin' a whole heap'a time. Took bullets outta you afore, they'll do it again. Give you back a /choice/ 'bout how fleshy or not y'care t'be. -- Hive, y'can't keep 'em. They'll keep /you/." << One, >> Hive answers Jax alone, but then amends: << One /new/ one. Three old. He compensates. >> Though there's a distinct undertone ripple here: << shouldn't have to. >> He /has/ forgotten to swallow, again, letting Jax tip soup into him but then just holding it in his mouth; he obeys Jax's instruction when it comes, though, prompt like an order. Micah's ability to track the conversation is aided by Hive /relaying/ it to him as he moves; with as much mental power as he has diluting his usually painful touches down to faint whispers, it's actually hard to /tell/ whether he's just quietly tethered his mind to Micah's, whether his range just stretches far enough to reach the sixth floor, or whether there are just enough drones in his network right now to /relay/ his thoughts up to Micah as he moves. Either way, for Micah the spoken parts of the conversation continue in quiet mental /echoes/ until he returns. << People, >> he answers Jim almost dismissively. << Keeping them. Need to. We have a body to find. >> "Keep it up and all we're gonna have of you /here/ is a body," Jim interior clenches like teeth. It's not a direct math, but there are weeks, he's counting - weeks that add up to months of time Hive's been confined to bed under the weight of other minds. Months since he's known him. Added to years of stacks before that. << ...and if we got any more years coming? >> He nods thanks to Micah when he returns, accepting the bowl and moving over to make room if Micah wants to sit down. Looking hard across the room, he's rubbing a hand against the side of his neck, where faint indentations are compressed, four down one side, a single indent into the other. "I'm a little less human these days," he states, not exactly an argument, but it's a fact, hunkering over his food like a hyena. "Masque turned me right side out again but it's not exactly a science." -briefly, as slurry of sensations in his hindbrain; of movement inside his body, of long emaciated arms elbow-deep up his chest cavity, bending his rib cage and plumping up collapsed lungs. Bending like cold clay. "What's all this about bodies?" Micah asks as he settles into the offered sitting space. His hands curl around his bowl of soup to leach warmth through his fingertips, not eating just yet. "Can't be a good thing you're projectin' at me up there that easy, Hive." His brow furrows in concern. "How long are you thinkin' you're gonna keep this up, honestly?" Jackson continues his slow Hive-feeding process. Mouthful of soup. Wait. Instruct to swallow. Wait. Next mouthful. His orders switch from verbal to quiet mental prompts, << swallow, now, >> while he tracks the rest of the conversation. "Mmnh, yeah. I expect a lotta operatin' on folks with different abilities takes some creative figurin'. Done it once afore, though. Might could figure how to do it again. Don't imagine going fleshy's excellent for bullets, yeah?" His lips purse thoughtfully, gaze skimming over Jim for a moment and then returning to Hive. "'leastways if you talk to the docs about it they can look into it." When Jim moves on the mattress, Jax shifts, too, sliding to kneel a little bit closer at Hive's side, one hand dropping to brace the bowl in his lap so it doesn't tip over with the movement. "A body --" This takes a minute of puzzling over before comprehension dawns. "Hive, we can keep lookin'. We /will/ keep lookin', but y'don't need to kill yourself t'get there. S'other ways." << Little less meaty. >> Devoid of tone, it's hard to read much into this quiet comment. << Not a science. He's an artist. >> He follows Jax's silent instructions, dutifully swallowing whenever he's told. << Body, >> he clarifies this with mental imagery, Sloan's furry face and then Zachary's new one, hovering in concentration over Jax's ruined face. << /Need/ to find it. >> Jax's ruined face. This image comes and /stays/, shattered bone and sticky blood and mangled bloody /hole/ torn straight through his jaw; it comes in vivid freeze-frame, together with a sudden searing crush of the agony that came with it. << Can't go planty and fix /that/. >> The pain fades from the others' minds, but the very graphic image does not. The deep electric red /blow/ to the head awakens in Jim the whistle of an axe, constraining wires lashing together his split open face. But either he somehow knew to prepare himself or just doesn't care anymore. Beyond the facial spasm when the /sensation/ is shoved into him, the rest of him goes... dark. Deep. Flat. << Not on another guy. >> He agrees. << And not well. >> With a roll of attention that shifts to Jackson, to stare for a moment at his jaw, then his face, each movement of eyes dragging up a sickness and /confusion/, which in Jim's emotional metabolism produces a nasal annoyance in his tone, "What the fuck do we need with a body." The image and the pain associated with it smack into Micah /hard/, answered with an echo of the horrible sick-pained-panicked feelings that had accompanied it originally for him. He very nearly drops the bowl he was holding, the spoon inside clattering noisily against its side. A little wave of soup crests the edge and seeps hotly over his hand, coating fingers, just enough for a pair of drips to tumble to the denim covering his knee. Micah stares into the bowl for a long moment as if it is deeply mysterious, not reacting to the spill. Jax's expression doesn't change much through this, but his breath catches in a sharp gasp, the spoon dropping from his hand to fall to his lap, spilling Hive's next mouthful of soup over his peacock-green skirt (or at least it /was/ peacock green; for a moment it reverts to black before its colour is restored.) His hand moves to his jaw, and he sets the spoon back in the bowl, picking the bowl up from his lap as he moves over on the mattress, closer to Micah to reach out and take one of Micah's hands in his, squeezing gently. It takes a moment of shaky breathing before he speaks, but when he does his voice is calm. "The person who healed me come out of the labs our last time around. Ze ain't really a healer -- ze's a bodysnatcher. Possessing a healer, currently. We want to see if hir body is still in the labs, get it back so ze can be hirself again. An' don't need to take anyone else. Kill anyone else." His brows crease, slowly. "But /you/ ain't killing yourself for it neither, Hive. If hir body is still in the labs, we'll find it an' get it. But you don't lose yourself for it." Hive should probably apologize for this mental assault, but he doesn't even seem to really notice the others' reactions. His mouth just opens again on schedule, mechanically, waiting for his next mouthful of soup. << Doctors will have plenty of free time once the chips are out, >> he's seamlessly back to the former topic, << can take a look at those bullets at least. >> His mouth closes for a few seconds, opens again. << And just how long do you think ze'll wait? >> << What is this, a fucking Mexican /healthcare/ standoff? >> Jim's leaning forward, more openly /listening/ now, looking hard at Jackson's face, stubbornly focused right /back/ on this /other/ issue, "So what's the fucking hurry. If you guys die off she- ze, fuck whatever - If you all /die/ there's not gonna be anyone around /to/ spring new bodies. His-ers… /hirs/ or other fucking wise." Outwardly, that's about all he has to offer on it. Inwardly… he's watching Micah ( << innocent >> ) folding over his food, Jackson ( << trying >> ) going to him, Hive ( << lost >> ) alongside him. And he's thinking of the gun strapped to his back. He reaches out to take the soup from Jackson. Or to offer to. He'll trade him for a kind of grubby handkerchief from his pocket. Micah's hands might need it. His attention is focused on the side of Hive's head like he's /mad/ at him. Jax will find Micah’s hand to be a little bit potato-leeky. Oops. He blinks an apology rather than actually remembering to /speak/ one. "Would--does this person have a name we can call hir by, that might be helpful--ze /really/ undo the healing if ze thinks that y’all don’t locate hir original body /fast/ enough? Knowin’ that y’all’ve been lookin’? That’s...exceedin’ly cold, considerin’ y’all are the ones that got hir out t’begin with. Even if only in part." Micah shakes his head at that thought, then /sighs/ at the medical care discussion. "How about everybody in this room as needs medical care promises t’make appointments at the clinic? It opens next month. For this very purpose. Make Io and his folks feel like they’re doin’ this for a reason an’ it’s workin’, maybe. Not fall apart if y’don’t have to." His eyes return to the bowl of soup still cradled in his other hand. Jax doesn't relinquish control of his soup bowl, at least not at first. He glances down to it with a somewhat puzzled tightening of fingers, not really registering /why/ Jim is trying to take Hive's dinner. "Yeah," he agrees with Hive and Micah both. "Clinic'll be open soon. I'll check in with you then about an appointment." This is to Jim, his gaze tracking up to the other man; he finally at least registers the /handkerchief/, relinquishing Micah's hand to take it and pass it on to his partner, pressing the cloth into soupy hand. "Even past caring about you, I got kinda a vested interest in making sure folks on my team are taking care of themselves." A point which brings him back to Hive, both physically and in terms of his thoughts. He shifts on the mattress, watching Hive's open-close of lips and picking up the spoon again. Carefully feeding another mouthful of soup to the telepath. "Don't know," he admits, "keep callin' hir by the name of the people ze's /stole/ but that ain't right." His silent mental commands to swallow restart, his other hand almost unthinkingly dropping to Hive's knee to squeeze gently. "I'll take my /chances/ with Zachery, Hive. The way you've been goin' it ain't even so much a gamble as a sure thing. I need you." << Anima, >> Hive answers Micah's request for a name. << And wouldn't be all of us. Just Jax. Anima's crazy /and/ amoral, staking Jax's /life/ on the whims of a sociopath isn't a good option. >> Swallow, when instructed; open his mouth again reflexively. << Standoff. Is that what it's called when people try to give a fuck about you? S'worse things than people caring. >> A faint outward ripple of prickly irritation accompanies Jim's silent mental reflection on each of them, but it's mild, and soon fades back into bland washed-out nothingness. << /Everyone/ needs you. >> There's a tick of delay before he asks, bland again, << are you going to order us to let them go? >> "I look like I'm falling apart?" Jim's head twitches towards Hive when that spike of irritation strikes him; his mouth compresses. The deep creep of vines grows thicker, slower. Dumber, in some ways, drawn out and rasping. << Then give a fuck that I might need more than five god damn minutes of mom-guilting before I'm leaping for joy at the idea of experimental mutie-surgery on my major fucking organs. Christ. >> "Wait," Jim smacks a hand down on his knee, "Why the fuck is this person just roaming around if they're that dangerous?" It can't be helped; he's thinking of the children, of little Spencer and his spider toy, in the slow moving river of his thoughts. And the gun again. "How exactly's Jackie's life really resting on this psycho's whim? It's done, isn't it? He's healed. You can't fucking… unheal something." The disgruntled fold between his crumpled brows is demanding '...RIGHT?' Micah accepts the handkerchief with a quiet thanks, mopping soup off of his hand. He just...hangs onto it after, figuring it will need laundering before it is useful again and not wanting to saddle Jim with soupy cloth in the meantime. Oh hey, soup! Maybe he should actually eat some of that stuff. He finally picks up his spoon, eating slowly. "I didn't mean t'say /you/ were actively fallin' apart, Jim. Just that nobody 'round here seems t'take care of themselves 'til somebody else strongarm's 'em into it. An' that takes a toll on a body. All gonna fall apart eventually if people /don't/ start takin' care. That's all." Micah's brow furrows, thoughts tracking much the same place as Jim's, but only in the /worry/ factor. "Is this Anima really that dangerous? An' livin' in the buildin'? 'Cause that's problematic." << Yes. Look like he's been falling apart a while, >> comes Jax's silent answer to Jim's initial question, blunt and heavy. He raises one pierced eyebrow, after this. There's a sudden shadowy cloud that darkens his thoughts, partly angry, partly twisting up with a sick clench of guilt and regret. Externally, just that brief quirk of brow, and a slow exhaled breath as he feeds Hive the next mouthful of soup. "Jim," he asks, his thick drawl gentle-calm, "are /you/ really askin' us why we don't just straight-up /execute/ people who go through hell an' turn out unstable an' dangerous after?" /He's/ thinking of his children, too; Spencer teleporting /half/ of a woman, Sebastian sinking teeth hungrily into a thick tentacle, Shane lunging at him with claws out and aimed to kill. Of dark eyes on dark shadow-stalks peeking out of one of the pups' backpacks. "Ze's been in the world a couple months after /years/ of torture. A lot of folk come out dangerous. Ze's barely ever had a chance not to be. Ain't sure turning hir out on the streets'll be much help neither." His lips compress as he admits quietly: "And yeah. Ze can undo any fixin' ze does just as quick as fixin' it." His other hand tightens on Hive's knee. The question stops him, his hand lowering to put the spoon back in its half-empty bowl, the bowl clenched tighter now between his legs. He tips forward, slowly, resting his forehead against Hive's temple with a fierce protective /surge/ of love that forces its way through a tangled knot of feeling. Around the room, light shimmers, brighter for a moment in an unstable flicker that soon levels back out. << I love you. I'm /asking/ you. Stay with us. >> << Yes. >> Hive answers Jim's question actually /audibly/ (at least on mental channels), just one soft whisper that flutters away into nothing. A soft mental touch creeps out, wrapping in thin tendrils to twine around the minds of the other men. Like a very tentacly (viney) /hug/. But after this, after Jim's rasping response, there is nothing from him but silence. His head rests back against Jax's, his vacant eyes staring and his jaw slightly slack; save for that soft mental touch he has lapsed back into blank-eyed silence. << Bite me. >> Jim grinds down his teeth and rubs his face, moaning out out /words/, "No, Jax. I'm not asking why you don't execute he-ir. For crying out loud, who /executes/ people. What /do/ you do with the dangerous ones? Does this freak have to what, get close enough to touch you? Can they do their shit from a distance?" Forward momentum and deep roots; it focuses on details, questions, facts, works /around/ the chilling of ice crystals in his blood thinking of Jax going about his daily life, cooking dinner in the kitchen, only to have his face spontaneously rupture open at a thought from someone in another apartment. It fits well amongst other dark thoughts, murky and formless reserved behind a thick layer of ragged bark. It weakens, ugly, under the tentacular hug. The world beneath churning; he cannot hear Jackson's thoughts to Hive, but it's a mirror of them. If blacker. << -if i lose him too… >> It's not there on his vague and cranky face, lounging back. "Ohgosh, no. No, honey. No executin'," Micah assures, though something twists deep in the pit of his stomach at the word. A hint of colour creeps into his cheeks as he sets a spoonful of soup back into the bowl untouched. His follow-up comment has somewhat of a too-long pause preceding it, taking a moment to squirrel thoughts deep away. "Just...need t'have a plan t'handle...an' t'keep others safe. Maybe t'help, even." He frowns in Hive's direction. "S'gotta be a better way t'search without turnin' you into a /husk/, Hive. D'we have any leads?" Jax's head stays still rested against Hive's, his eyes closing with a slow breath. His temperature rises as the flicker of light settles, feverish-hot against Hive's temple. It doesn't climb all that /high/, his expression outwardly settled into calm, but inwardly -- timed about with Jim's 'freak' -- there's a hard uncomfortable rise of anger, irritation, /frustration/, a deep exhausted desire to just get /away/ from people. Thoroughly angrily fed /up/, his thoughts churn with annoyance at Jim's /determinedly/ grouchy hypocrisy, at Hive's stubborn stupid insistence on throwing himself away, an irrational irritation even at Micah's perpetual level-headed positivity regardless of how little it's deserved. His fingers knead gently at Hive's knee, temperature levelling off as he tips his head, places a small kiss to Hive's temple. "Please," he whispers, thoughts wrested away from negativity to /steer/ himself back towards calm with a wry inward reflection that he is due for sleep again before he has any stones to throw at other people not caring for themselves. "We don't even have an inkling 'bout where any other labs /are/, let alone which might have Anima's body," Jax admits, settling back where he kneels to sit on his heels. His thoughts compose themselves carefully. One deep breath, another, forcing down anger to focus instead on Hive's fierce selflessness, Jim's stolid steady /strength/, Micah's endless passion. "-- I'm sorry," he admits then, head dropping kind of tiredly. "I ran out of plans. Get everyone out, get them here, help settle them in their lives. After that I don't --" he looks down at the bowl in his lap. "Don't always know --" When Jim asks who executes people, there’s a reflected thought that drifts out to the others; Jim’s thoughts straying back to the gun strapped to his back. Just this; Hive contributes nothing further to the ongoing discussion. "-y'know what?" Jim doesn't exactly interrupt, but he projects into the quiet before - all of it. Any of it. More words happen. << good gravy there is no part of this I don't hate. >> He pushes himself into standing, kilt settling back around his messy knees. "We don't need a fucking plan right now. Outside of /you/," at Jackson, "doing what you already been. And you," at Micah, "being what you've always been." He doesn't flinch when his straying thoughts are thrown back at him - only grimly confirms them. << Hah. Not a lot of difference, is there. >> "If this Animu person or whoever they are is dangerous at close range they sound about on par with any other god damn mouth-breather on the planet. Mean time," he turns to head for the door, voice lowering, "you can let 'em know someone's looking." The black inner churning has only gone blacker; some shapeless sense of confirmation. Somehow, it takes the form of determination. Micah finally just reaches out and places his bowl on a bedside table. He snakes his arm around Jax's back, squeezing gently. "Honey. You ain't /always/ gotta be the one with the plan, y'know," he assures, his voice soft though there's another sharp-dissonant /twinge/ in his mind at that. "You done so much, sugar, we'll find a way t'figure somethin'. Okay? /Without/ zombifyin' Hive." He shoots a sidelong glance at the now-quiet telepath, then nods firmly at Jim's offer to look. "See? Got a real, certified PI on the job now. Professional finder. Should let Anima know that an' get hir t'back /off/ makin' stupid threats that ain't helpin' nobody, much less hir." Jax studies Hive’s face for a long moment, his hand lingering on the spoon resting in the half-finished bowl of soup. When the silence from the telepath continues, he slumps back slightly, leaning into Micah’s touch. In his thoughts now there is just exhaustion, somewhere far deeper rooted than lack of sleep; in him this /sharpens/ the typically vivid-bright colours of his mindscape into something searing and painful that aggravates the ever-present ache in his head. He closes his eyes, shutting out the /world’s/ brightness for a moment. Then just settling in beside Micah to eat the rest of Hive’s soup /himself/. "Thank you," he says, softly. And drinks his soup.