ArchivedLogs:All the Issues

All the Issues
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Masque, Jim, Nox
In Absentia	2013-07-16 Seriously these people have more issues than a comic book store.
Location <MOR> Welcome to the Freakshow
Wider and more spacious than many of the surrounding nooks and niches, this chill cavern is the central hub of the Morlock's underground network. With tunnels branching off in many directions, it takes a while to learn to /navigate/ from here to where you want to go, but there's generally plenty of more experienced people around to teach newcomers the ins and outs of the pathways. Here, though, is a safe place to come and relax, for what value of relaxation can be found among moss-covered walls and the occasional stagnant puddles on the floor. There's been furniture brought in, a mismatched assortment of crates, mattresses with busted springs, a few broken and subsequently repaired chairs, a folding table in a corner. Shelves along a wall hold entertainment; books, a smattering of board and card games, sometimes snacks. There's even electricity, wiring none too safe and visible in places where the wall has been broken open; the naked light bulbs flicker often and the lone outlet has had so many power strips attached it is undoubtedly a fire hazard. Grump, grump, grump. This is Murphy, grumpin' up the Morlock tunnels. Having a perfect memory means it's relatively easy for the Murph to navigate these tunnels without guide or sight; he just /knows/ where to set his feet. That doesn't mean there aren't going to be accidents -- an occasional whump of a knee or shin against a new piece of garbage, a rare pause where he flicks on the flashlight to sweep around the surrounding area, rememorizing the layout. But what's more interesting than his ability to navigate the tunnels is what he's /doing/ in them: He seems to be hiding... prizes? Small, metal-encased boxes; each no larger than five by three by two inches -- Murphy slips them behind bricks, shoves them roughly into alcoves, and pauses to /bolt/ them into ceilings -- anywhere where it would be hard to see them. As he does this, he's pausing to check something -- on his phone? -- pulling up an app, checking to make sure the process is taking. Murphy's clad in his usual black wool coat, white shirt, black tie -- and today, a heavy backpack stuffed with black boxes -- his phone -- and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, bulky enough to hold a laptop in it. Just wandering the Morlock tunnels. PLANTING SUSPICIOUS DEVICES. The thing about Morlock territory is that once you figure out where someone's going, it's fairly easy to plant yourself in their path. So... Masque doesn't really bother to approach Murphy, he has the man do the work for him, waiting around a bend in one of the adjoining tunnels for him to make his way there. Leaning with a shoulder against a moss-smattered wall is the familiar form of a man in a red coat, hood low enough to shield his face from the scarce light in these parts, but high enough to peer around for who, exactly, is coming this way. Making a RACKET. He waits for Murphy to come into view before promptly grating, displeased as a man can possibly sound on short notice, "What're you doing." Likewise, coming /behind/ Murphy and making nary a sound, is a slight thickening of darkness. Each of those devices? Marked and noted. But it's the man Nox is intent on. Creepering, for now, but who knows how long /that/ will last--or if she will even make her presence known. "Nngh," is Murphy's response to Masque -- the flashlight clicks on, a hot white beam of light sweeping up to briefly /flare/ into the mutant's eyes -- but then, in the next instant, CLICK. It's off. Letting the darkness settle over them both. "Aw, hell," Murphy responds to Masque, "it's /you/. You still got my crutch, gorgeous?" A hand blindly slips into his coat, depositing the flashlight and searching for a cigarette; he responds with a gruff growl: "Bringin' you sorry fucks a steady stream of porn and cute cat pictures." The beam of light narrows the eyes on Masque's mangled face to slits, but whereas some men might try to turn /away/ from such light, he leans towards it, shoulders twitching back. Like it was a bright, personal insult- whatcha WANT, LIGHT. "Thing's somewhere around here." Lost, or just... /somewhere you don't know/? He doesn't specify. His head lifts and dips as his eyes, once more adjusting to the dark, look Murphy over. "... Ain't seeing either of those on you. The fuck'd anyone want with those down here, anyway. Marrow put you up to this?" "He has left a trail of boxes, hidden away where no one can see." No one but Nox, that is. The murmur seems to come from a place near Masque but...once the flashlight is securely stowed, an oh so casual tendril of shadow creeps up over Murphy's shoulder. It curls over his collarbones, towards his other shoulder. Just...there. Resting. Coincidentally in a position where it can be used as a garrote if required. Oh look, and there's another, slinking beneath his coat in search of something. Probably not the cigarettes. Probably more of those boxes. "Jesusfuck, you don't even /know/ what the internet is, do you?" Murphy asks Masque, in kind of a direct, suddenly-revelatory way. "/Fuck/. I don't even know if I can explain--" and now Murphy's rubbing at the bridge of his nose, trying to think of how he's going to handle this, /just as/ he hears Nox's voice somewhere next to Masque and -- Murphy /tenses/ beneath the presence of that shadow tentacle. Particularly its proximity to his neck. When he feels the tentacle slipping through his clothes, the tenseness slips a little -- and Murphy reaches, sloooowly, to produce one of those metal boxes. And offer it. "They're computers," Murphy tells Nox, voice more muted, more cautious. "Open it up. Clasps on the side. Each one's wi-fi enabled. Powered by a lithium charger. Dunno how much you know about tech, but -- basically, think of 'em like little walkie-talkies. Each playin' whisper-down-the-lane with each other, each sendin' the internet a little /deeper/ into the tunnels. Forming a chain, until we get -- here. Internet for morlocks. Way to keep in touch. More reliable than the radio." "I know what the internet is." Masque snaps back through missing and broken teeth alike, with the defensiveness of a man with a mind long made up. "It's information, news and /trash/. Same thing we get in the papers, books and in our own heads, but for lazy assholes who don't want to leave their cozy living rooms or remember shit." He leans forward again, this time to snatch up the metal box that had been offered to Nox, with one surprisingly smooth movement considering the fact he does it with his right, three-fingered hand. Mine. He /fidgets/ as he glares down at it, manages to open the thing up, glares some more, and ultimately offers it to Nox anyway. That is to say, he tosses it, opened latch and all, toward a dark corner to his side. "Nothin' else in there, little spy?" "Such a strange fixation on the world having a line to us, Mr. Law. We know of the internet. It has yet to serve any useful purpose. For us." As Nox whispers, she's divesting Murphy of his accoutrements--all of those useful knickknacks he has squirreled away in his pockets, the backpack he wears opened and explored as well. The items she removes--the tools, the nuts and bolts, the batteries--these are held up in front of Masque for his inspection. The crowbar as well, in the same offshoot of tentacles that had sprung up to catch the box the other Morlock had tossed away. And then there is the taser, which she slides almost delicately into Masque's hand--because ugh, snappy sparky light is still /light/. "Aw, /fuck/, don't take the -- goddammit woman don't give him the /tazer/," Murphy complains, as he catches its vague outline being offered out to Masque. Eyebrows /squeezing/ together as this transfer of property occurs. "He already has my crutch, Christ -- look, you need --" His head swivels, as if trying to get a bead on the shadows that surround him, before swinging his gaze back to Masque -- focusing THERE. On the guy. Who now has the TASER. "--it might. In the days to come. You got kids, maybe they wanna be online. Read some books, whatever. Stay connected to the surface. But," he soon adds, "it ain't just for /your/ sake I'm doing it. Time's comin' when some of us might have to run down here and hide. The ones who can't hide in plain sight, anyway. When -- /if/ -- that happens. Best to be ready. And have an open line to the rest of us." Snappy sparkly light. A sort of light that even Masque is not a fan of, by the way he lifts the taser to his face and scoffs at it. He's all too content to watch as Nox presents items to him, watching on as he scans them with both bad and good eye to look for anything he might disagree with. As Murphy talks, the permanent scowl behind greasy grey strands of hair almost, /almost/ manages to narrow into something that looks less eager to maim and more eager to just /go away/ until that one, little word. 'Us'. It's then that his lips pull further along his horrid face again, tight around formerly broken jaw, a hiss of a noise escaping him. "Tchyeah. 'Us'." Dismissive at best. He pulls away from his wall, moving slowly- circling Murphy? Perhaps to stop the way be came, to block off the way he came. But he's not even looking-- oh no, his hand tightens around the taser that he doesn't quite know what to do with, thumb searching for where one might press down on these things. You know. Just in case. The complaint from Murphy gets him a hard prod in the center of his chest from one tentacle. Like 'hey, who makes the rules around here? Not you!'. "So you are thinking of a time. When our home. Might be invaded. By the surface. Stretching our resources. Increasing our visibility." That Nox doesn't /like/ this plan might show in the clipped manner of her speech, though her tone remains soft and whisper-gentle. Notably, Murphy does not get his stuff back after Masque has looked his fill. She's far too busy...twitching. Wrestling with...something, that makes the shadows in the tunnel press closer to its occupants. "Nngh," Murphy responds to that brief, hard prod. Yielding to it; stepping back. "Maybe. I don't know. Things've been gettin' chaotic. Up there." The lighter he was reaching for is produced; he pauses, long enough to glance at the way the shadows are writhing, tightening. "--look. Lot of good reasons for you to have internet. S'basically eyes and ears on the surface. And a mouth -- if you /need/ things, quick. You can contact somebody. Get something to you. Somebody gets hurt, lost, attacked -- you got people you can talk to. People who will help. I know some of you just want to be left the fuck alone," and Murphy's eyes are /locked/ on Masque when he says this, "but you got kids down here." It's just a soft... ssssslithering sound low to the ground. Bare rustling, a faint creeping vines extending in doubling curlicues of green, extending their reach, first in sweet little shoots of green that explore the dark. Then /warp/, pulls tight under a sudden crackle of hardness that thrusts out small thorns. Exploring the walls in the dark. In the sewers are all things that lumber and shamble, slow steps carrying over distance - further out in a tunnel, thick briar patches curl inward to permit Jim to pass between, then blossom back into place once he's through. He parks up behind Masque; in a worn out kilt, hawaiian shirt, blue eyes set on Murphy's back, hearing the tail end of Nox's words. And a makes a joyless not-laugh through partially wooden vocals, a silhouette mostly of inhuman shape. branches and leaves around a solid center mass. "You guys caught a kingfish, this time around." And, after a pause. "-How you doin', Murph." "Would'ya listen to 'm." Masque replies, half slinking, half dragging himself behind Murphy, moving through that pressing darkness as though it's nothing but home. "Little spy, doesn't that sound a little like /begging/ to you?" FZcckkrlzhk goes the taser in his hand, and what can be seen of his face contracts unpleasantly as the snappy light briefly catches on the walls. He slides the thing into a pocket of his coat just as Jim makes his approach, though his hand stays in with it. Only then does he look up at Murphy again, his hood sliding slightly further back as he lifts his face toward the light, expression somewhere between vacant and and disgust. "Kids?" Masque-- laughs? Scoffs? One of those, it's hard to tell. "Kids?!" It's not often he raises his voice, and down here it's even less of a good thing than it is where there isn't quite so much for the hollow, verbal sandpaper grit to echo through and back. "The fuck do you think /they're/ down here for? Wantin' to be found? They ain't no different from the rest of us, and they ain't your excuse to use." His eyes SNAP to Jim's form. As though to say, JIMMY. Morlock to flatscan translation, please. If Murphy were to look around, he might see himself flanked by a host of gently waving fronds. Tentacles. /Lurking/. Ready to /pounce/, should Masque give the word. They turn towards the scarred man as he loops around, eager little hounds ready for their master's word. But then Jim's voice drifts through the tunnel and what counts as Nox's mind reels itself back into safer territory. After a brief pause, she begins to construct herself a golem to inhabit. Blocky and featureless, it takes up a stance opposite of Masque. Cutting off the /other/ avenue of escape. "...he has, without permission, been installing computers. Here. For /them/. Should they come down." More tension enters Murphy's posture -- not so much from the approach of Nox's EMERGING LENGTHS OF TENTACLES (let's be honest, he's gotten /used/ to that, by now) but at the silhouette of another figure -- though when he hears that voice... his posture shifts. Something tired sweeping through him; shoulders just kind of -- slumping. A hand immediately moving back into his coat. Rustling. /SEARCHING/. "--still alive," Murphy responds to Jim, his tone rough and low. More of a grunt than a statement. Masque's circling gets a wary glance, but not much more; Murphy's /used/ to swimming in a pool filled with murdersharks. "Not just your kids. Everybody. You need medicine, food, transport -- you get attacked by the cops -- need a way of calling in the cavalry. We got people. Can even /teleport/ shit in. If it comes to that." One hand continues to search; the other starts to flick that lighter -- FLINK! FLINK! FLINK! -- *fwpt*. A brief flash of metallic orange; Murphy begins to puff. Puffpuff. Tinypuffs. "For you," Murphy corrects Nox, though there's little /force/ to it. "And for anyone else who joins up with you. Jimmy, for example. You're all gettin' a lil' city down here. Might need some more amenities." The hand that's searching keeps at it, apparently not yet finding what he was looking for. Jim's body is making a subtle crunching, creaking sound, soft sounds of woodstrain as he pulls in his branches, becomes whole - or at least, more whole. The scar dragging down his face, the parallel dents dragging past his eye, they fit /well/ here in the tunnels. Sadly, Masque, there is no translation that comes. One of his arms is rising at his side, to pat a hand absently against Nox's back. Or to try to, he'll over it over an approximate point if she remains intangible, his eyes never leaving Murphy's. "We been gettin' a lot of people up top coming down to tell us what we need lately, Murph." He's sticking a cigarette in the side of his own mouth. And jerks a chin at Murphy's light. "You really thinking that if we get raided, we're gonna stop and send emails? Instead of /smashing/ computers before anyone can get at what's on 'em?" Masque's brow lowers, like he's not quite understanding something when Murphy speaks. And then- like he's understanding it just fine, but something in his face makes it fiercely obvious that he does the very opposite of agree. He stays silent while Jim talks, but steps forward and toward Murphy again, calmly, yet... perhaps a bit like the aforementioned murdershark, a sneer pulling his mouth back across yellowed teeth, hinting at thoughts and possible ill-willed intentions rolling around in his head. His right hand lifts, sans taser this time, held up in all of its bony, pinky- and ringfingerless glory. On its way to Murphy's face? Not quite yet, it seems, left to hang somewhere nearby. Maybe a little like a threat. "I can count on my BAD hand how many people've died down here while I was around to hear about it, which has been a long. Fucking. Time. We got ways of gettin' what we need, and we always have. Put that shit down for your own good, suits us fine. But you ain't in the right tunnels if you think we're gonna risk our hides to harbour a bunch'a topsiders we don't know shit about." Nox is neither gas nor solid today; she is something in between. Flickering in and out will provide an odd surface for Jim's hand to connect with, and the touch does little to steady her. From the shadow lady, one simple observation: "It is customary. To /ask/. Before installing new things. In someone's home." She pauses. "For their own good. It is not your choice. Your...judgment." Murphy, surrounded by morlocks, exposed to their numerous objections, says /nothing/. He just keeps searching in his coat. Even when Masque extends that three fingered hand upward -- a bit closer to Murphy's face than he'd /like/ -- he doesn't flinch. Until finally -- ah. HERE we go. Exactly what Murphy was looking for. A radish -- worn, a little weathered, covered in dried, dead vegetable skin -- gets yanked out of Murphy's coat. And lobbed at Jim. Kind of lazily. Like, /here/. I got you a present. "Alright," Murphy says, and now he's shoving his /other/ hand out -- following the offer of the radish with an offer of that brass-fitted lighter. To Jim. For -- *FLNKT, FLNKT, FLNKT*. "--maybe we oughta talk. Before I hook y'all up with AOL and start live-streamin' videos of me and Jim's dad down here. But you /need/ a goddamn communication pipeline. If nothing else, to find your own when shit meets fan and some of you start disappearing." Jim claps a hand against the radish, pinning it to his chest like an old cowboy throwing a hand over a gunshot wound. In the disorganized cooperation of the tunnels, he now takes his turn being silent as the others speak, looking down in affronted /bafflement/ at the wrinkly THING he finds in his hand. What the fuck is this shit. Brows twist deeper and deeper together, making a deep line between them, even /while/ leaning forward to draw fiery life into his cigarette - it creates a faint red glow against the planes of his face. "Masque." It's not a command. It's just a statement, lowgrim and with a hand reaching out to distractedly push Masque's hand away of Murphy's face. He's /saying/, to Murphy, "Nox ain't turning herself in." It just comes out. Hard. It should be enough that the subject's been changed, or that some sort of consensus has been reached, but the disgust does not leave Masque's face. In fact, it grows - nay, doubles - when his hand is reached for and then subsequently pushed away. What-- just happened? His hand just sort of lingers in confusion, to where it was led. Masque's /stunned/, before he promptly spins around and, with absolutely no warning, reaches with his /other/ hand to wrap his fingers around what passes for Jim's throat, his eyes locking onto the eyes above as what's left of his functioning facial features screw into something that looks suspiciously much like he might be feeling a slight bit murderous at the moment, teeth bared and breaths drawn deep. Please hold, Murphy, something more important's just come up. "No one. Has told me to turn myself in." This is from Nox. Presumably, at least. As soon as people start moving /quickly/, that shadow golem vanishes and her voice once again rises from all around them. "Recently," she adds, as if in afterthought. As if Masque hadn't just lunged for Jim. As if things hadn't just become tense in a way that /doesn't/ involve the upstairs citizen. But perhaps that's because a different coil of shadow is settling across Masque's shoulder--twin to the one that settles across Jim's--with a snake-like head at its end. Raised, with apparent interest, to observe the twitch and flex of his gnarled hand. Ever so softly, that snake whispers, "Masque." "Good," Murphy says, in response to Jim and Nox. "Because she /shouldn't/. I don't care what Claire thinks, they'll just string you up and--" Murphy's words are instantly cut off when Masque goes for Jim's throat. It's hard to tell in the darkness -- well, for /some/ of the people here. Nox, maybe, can tell. Murphy's posture has changed -- from loose, semi-tense boredom to something hard and ready and /edged/. Hands clenched. Body suddenly pointed, notably, toward the space between Masque and Jim. Every inch of him ready to /charge/. Like a bull. But Murphy doesn't. Instead, he just speaks, like nothing's wrong at all: "I also wanted to talk to you, Nox. About Lucien." Just a slight edge to his words; teeth pressed together. Bend of elbow, a /squeal/ of straining plant fiber rushing forward - Jim moves when Masque does. His throat is a hard, rough surface, an unpleasant too-firm and bizarrely /warm/ where mammalian heat lingers in it. And below- A very sharp edge of a branch is pressed against the soft center of Masque's abdomen, where his hand has twisted into the spiraling shape of a very crude spear. The silence and stillness from him is resounding, in a form that does not breath. The faded-blue eyes set in the middle of ragged mutilated plant surface are fixed on Masque's. Screw surface relations, if Masque wants to go, Jim's apparently ready to /go/. "/Nox/." Masque replies in a guttural drag of his vocal cords to his own, chosen name being whispered. Not impressed or unaware of others' willingness to involve themselves in the matter he is currenty tending to. He stares right the hell back, with eyes almost the same colour as his hair, one even more lifeless than the other. "Were you planning on doing something, Jimmy." Throats shouldn't quite /give/ this way. Tendons pull back and Masque's fingers - more bone than anything else - presses tighter against that warm mass of once-flesh, the tips starting to push /inward/. His voice lowers, as his head dips ever so slightly. "'Cause... /if/ it is something, if I were you -- I'd do it real fucking quick." Oh, what was that? Nox the two-headed serpent is pulled, nay, /summoned/ from her observation of the men's violence by Murphy. Both heads lift, both heads turn towards him. The effect is...eerie. Particularly when she leaves Masque and Jim to their nonsense, slithering down to approach the private detective. "Lucien? Is Lucien well? What happened?" Let it not be said that she is oblivious to subtleties of voice--that gritted teeth enunciation has snared her with a quickness! "For fuck's sake." Murphy elbows his way forward in the dark, not between Masque and Jim, but closer: "Can you two /chucklefucks/ pause your race to out-mutilate each other long enough for me to have a nice lil' civil chat with the lady? Or what, you want some privacy while you both try to finish your Frankenstein's Monster and Treebeard Slash fan-fiction? Cut it the /fuck/ out or I swear to God I will drop my trousers right now and /beat you both unconscious with my mother-fucking cock/." Murphy cocks his head to Nox's serpents, after this -- considerable -- litany of curses: "...pardon the language. Ma'am. He's -- fine." The word 'fine' is spoken with a certain degree of teeth hissing. Murphy's tensed up; it isn't /just/ because Jim and Masque are seconds away from playing a rousing game of 'I Bet I Can Make You More Ugly'. "--just. Some things. You should maybe know, about him. You heard about -- his brother, right?" There's an unspoken prayer behind that last sentence. For one electric moment, where his rough-textured skin isn't compressing under Masque's grip, the feeling of plant-fiber muscles can be felt bulging, the spear of wood pressing harder into Masque's abdomen. Murphy's words don't seem to be heard - or maybe he's just used to the man's salty language, Nox, the tunnels, the world below and the lands above are pretty immaterial to other immediate business. The sharp wooden point creaks. And slowly lowers. Then, rapidly, Jim raises up a foot, plants it against Masque's stomach and /shoves/ him away. The flat-grim preparation in his face is braced. Today's a day for learning. Again, Masque is taken by surprise, the foot pressed against his stomach coinciding with a loosening of his grip of fingers around throat. He is sent back in a stumble, uneven and almost /weakly/, before regaining his balance, hood down low over his face. And he just... chuckles? It's something. It's almost amusement, but not quite. It's followed by a few rapid shakes of his head, before he starts to move again. Away, this time, without even looking. "Jimmy, Jimmy. How I've underestimated you." He sounds almost /pleased/, his tone of voice carrying along with it something... eager. Anticipation. But right now, he's off. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait, and peace, for a bit, is restored. Jim: Ignored. Masque: Ignored. Murphy? Oh god, poor Murphy. He's well and truly won Nox's /full/ attention. This translates to the snake reaching his feet and coiling around his legs. She doesn't wind up around his body so much as grooooow until she's looking him in the face. And, coincidentally, preventing him from making any silly moves towards the Morlock males and their all testosterone on deck contest over there. For a long, silent moment, utterly black eyes stare directly into Murphy's. And then the tunnel itself seems to shake with an unnatural keen of grief. "No. No. Matt did not die," Nox whispers, "he could not. He did not. Did he? Oh, Matthieu. Oh, Lucien." "Ohjesusfuck," Murphy whispers, eyes /bolting/ open wide; for a guy who never seems to be surprised, Nox has managed to throw him one hell of a curveball. Coiled up around his egs, /swelling/ up in front of him -- locking eyes with hers -- for a moment, she might see the /slightest/ spark of fear. But it's soon replaced by -- something else. Something /almost/ soft. "Nox," Murphy says, breathless and hesitant. And then a hand reaches, slow but sure, out toward her -- for whatever might qualify as a shoulder. Reaching to grip it -- as much as Nox /can/ be gripped. And then -- with a creeping caution -- his other hand. Trying to manuever into the space where he presumes the center of her back /might/ be. To, hesitantly -- clumsily -- squeeze. In some vague approximation of a hug. "I'm sorry," Murphy tells her. Jim watches Masque hobble off with the same stillness of a looming, displeased tree, with that queer inanimate sense of a thing that doesn't breath. Then, listening to Murphy, to Nox, with slowly tightening teeth, he assesses the damage to his throat, the indentation marks of fingertips. Slowly, he walks himself through a few stages deeper into the realm of flesh and bone, pulling air into reformed lungs and then exhales through his teeth. All systems go. He makes a last tactile-trace of the shallow chokeprint that remains. He watches Murphy and Nox through the corner of his eye. And shakes his head, teeth still gritted. "-christ, Murph. Couldn't even fucking let /him/ break the news." His voice retains a raggedness, scratchy-wool undertone, and he reaches out to catch Murphy's shoulder, shoving him back, shoving him towards a wall. "Just go home, man. I'm not gonna bail you out again if Masque changes his god damn mind." The trouble with hugging snakes is that they escape so easily. Nox has no concept of what effort Murphy has gone to, to make that gesture--particularly after she induced a few grey hairs. For one brief and glimmering moment, the detective is allowed to offer that comfort. Then the shadows ghost away from his arms and sink to the floor, joining with their fellows until she's in her woman shape. Murphy is left to Jim's gentle treatment. She sinks down, huddled against the wall, hands sunk into her "hair"; she rocks; she keens. "Oh, Matthieu. Matthieu. He will need me. He has...oh, oh no. Lucien. It will be all right. I promise. No, no, no," she whispers to herself. "Not alone. Not alone. No one need be alone in the dark. James..." It takes her some time to look up and around, to refocus on those still here. When she spies the two--Jim once more tangled with a man--those immense black eyes blink once, slowly. "No. No, he...said he was going to tell me. Of Lucien. He has a message, James. I need to go to him." "Sssss," is the sound of Murphy hissing, both in response to Nox melting within his very arms -- and at Jim gripping his shoulder, /shoving/ him against a wall. WHUMPF. Murphy doesn't resist; he seems more slouched than anything, like a bag of potatoes ready to be slung around the room. "--should have told her," Murphy mutters, more gritted and angry, directed at Jim. But then Murphy catches Nox's keening -- he hears what she's saying -- and his teeth clench, whatever words he was going to say next swallowed back. And: "--not a message." Murphy sucks in a breath: "Just. He didn't tell you, did he. S'been a while. Since--" Another swallow. Brows jamming together. Just kind of leaning back up against the wall Jim's shoved him against. "--you once told me," Murphy focuses on Nox, each word chosen with extraordinary care, "that you're dangerous. You need to know. So is he. I'm starting to gather," his eyes drift to Jim, now, as if searching them -- with a determined, hard stare -- for confirmation, "that Matthieu kept Lucien -- safe. He doesn't have that anymore. He's... I think he's... unraveling. Maybe Matthieu helped him hold it together. I don't know. But he needs..." Murphy stops here. Despite having an encyclopedic knowledge of everything, when it comes to knowing what Lucien /needs/, Murphy's drawing one big fat blank. Jim's face is stone-carved and /hard/, staring right back as he breathes through his dented throat. And, with the soft keening of Nox in the background, Jim drags back a fist and deals Murphy a cross to the chops. And without taking his eyes /off/ the man, he points behind him, towards Nox, and snarls, "And what the FUCK is wrong with you, Law? You think Tessier's unraveling? You think the /pretty rich boy/ is UNRAVELING? This woman right here is /UNRAVELING/. Matt was a fucking /sweet/ kid and you're using him to /torture/ a broken woman. D'you even hear yourself? Jesus /christ/ get over yourself. You ever think maybe Luci didn't tell her because he knew it'd /do this/ to her?" The rage suddenly drops again. And he points at the exit. "Out. Fucking out of my tunnels. Or I swear to god, Murphy, I'll throw you out." "Not...a message? He. Did not tell me. It would have...he forgot. Yes. And if he is...he needs me. If he is. Without Matthieu. He will need me. I should. I have to..." But before Nox's fragmented plan--or whatever passed for it, in her mind--can come together, Jim is intervening. The MAN way. Though she's incapable of breathing, she presses both hands over her mouth as if to catch a breath and stares at the violence before her in a way she hadn't, when it came to Jim and Masque. "...James. No." WHUMP. The fist hits Murphy hard; it's probably not the first time he's suffered a punch. He takes it with all the grace of a cinder block -- a low, throatish 'unf', an exhaled hiss, a grit of teeth -- head bobbing back to the wall with a meaty SMACK. And then... Murphy's hands lift up. Where before, he had been ready to DROP TROUSERS and SLING DICK, now he seems to almost fall over himself to back down beneath Jim's sudden rage. Spitting out a wad of blood on the floor. "--I'm done. S'fine. Jim. /Listen/ to me. Radio. Tomorrow. 9 pm. Need to talk to you. Fuckin' /important/." Eyes sling over toward Nox as he steps back, sliding along the wall, toward the exit: "--if you go. If you talk to him. Don't mention my name," Murphy tells her. "Not right now. I'm sorry. About all of this -- shit. You shouldn't--" The next step back is almost a stumble; Murphy catches himself in the darkness -- a hand snatching a pipe. As if by instinct. Pulling himself up. "--it's too much. For /anyone/. But. If you need help. Claire will -- talk to her. She can help you. Support you. Jim," Murphy adds, as he -- shuffles off! Down into the tunnels. "--nice /skirt/, you look like shit, you're a tree, etc, so on, etc." And with that, Murphy is stalking out of the tunnels. Rubbing his jaw. /Growling/. "-rrgh!" a vein BULGES in Jim's freaking /neck/, as though Murphy has actually managed to give him an apoplexy RIGHT HERE in the god damn tunnels. He claps a hand against his face and drags it downwards snarls, undertone, "--nnnngh 9pm. /Yeah/. GO." Like he doesn't know /why/ he's agreeing to this. "And /she's not/ going above ground! Do you /want/ her to get caught?" This is shouted /after/ Murphy. Then he's alone and has no one else to PUNCH, so he tantrum-throws a /rock/ in the general direction Murphy had exited in. And, breathing hard, touching the dents on his neck again where he'd nearly managed to get his throat torn out, today... and just. Topple. He sits down beside Nox. And drapes is arms over his knees. And glowers out at the dark.