ArchivedLogs:Bearer of Bad News

Bearer of Bad News
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Jackson, Flicker	6 April 2014 Debriefing directly after the church incident. (Part of the Perfectus TP.)
Location <NYC> Rang Phueng Design - SoHo
Located on the third floor of a narrow brick-faced office building in SoHo, the lobby of Rang Phueng Design/J.M. Investigations is a comfortable place to wait. There are a number of paintings hung on the walls, brightly colored though somewhat fantastical cityscapes. A large aquarium on one wall, clean and carefully tended, hosts brightly colored marine life swimming through a number of plants and coral. The table amid all the couches has a sampling of architectural magazines as well as popular ones, magazines and newspapers generally actually up to date. The receptionist desk is a large black wood one, though it is unmanned. Through the door in back of the lobby is a large workshop space, spacious drafting tables, a number of glass-topped desks though only one of them boasts a computer. Walls painted white and paneled in glass turn most of the wallspace into whiteboard, generally covered with notes and measurements. The back wall's large windows look out onto the streets. Two side doors lead to smaller offices; one stands open and unfurnished, the other, closed, has been given -- no name plaque, yet. Just a tacked-up piece of paper reading "J.M. Investigations". It's a gloriously sunny afternoon. Bright and warm and cheerful-sunny. Hive is not /looking/ particularly cheerful-sunny. He's tucked in the back of his workshop, glowering angrily at the screen of his computer. Not actually typing anything. His hands are folded in his lap, his Grumpy Bear sweatshirt hanging loose on his rather trembling shoulders. Off in the lobby, Flicker is sprawled out on the couch. He looks a /little/ bit like a junkie in need of a fix. Pale and sweating and shaky, sipping slowly at a bottle of cranberry juice and staring over at the colorful fish in the aquarium, one leg stretched out on the sofa and the other sneaker planted on the floor. Micah doesn't look a whole lot more cheerful than Hive or less pale and shaky than Flicker as he makes his way up to Hive's office, leaning on Jax. He is dressed nicely, or at least used to be, in serviceable dress shoes, charcoal slacks, and an emerald green button-down with subtle accent embroidery. The morning's neatly tended hair has descended into an utter mess, the product placed in it to keep it neat now serving to help spike it up more wildly. The clothes are mussed, his shirt half-untucked, and his eyes are red-rimmed. Those with sensitive noses might pick up a subtly sour smell about him from recent vomiting. Jax's arm is curled sure and strong around Micah, holding his husband close as he guides the other man in to the office. Leads him to a couch to sit. He takes a seat beside Micah, arm still curled around his husband's waist. He looks mostly just bland, Xavier's sweatshirt over a blue tee, jeans, sneakers, a red-and-black knit cap pulled down over his head. There's a messenger bag over his shoulder that he pulls off as he sits, setting it on the floor with a quiet clinking. His mind is oddly quieter than its usual -- rather /deliberately/ so, a good deal of his Xavier's-born training currently geared towards keeping its usual too-bright riot muted. Flicker sits up slowly when the others enter, giving them a bleary-eyed look. He leans forward to set the cranberry juice down on the table, and rubs his fingers through his hair. "Oh, man. You look horrible." He starts to get up, but sits back down when Jax helps Micah to the seat. "But you're alive." From his tone he sounds like he'd /been/ worrying. << Is Dusk. >> It's flat and heavy, thudding out into their minds with all of Hive's usual sledgehammer-finesse. "I'm fine," Micah insists, digging into his own messenger bag for a bottle of water and taking a swig that he swishes in his mouth before swallowing with a grimace. "No one...even /tried/ t'hurt me. Was a perfectly welcomin' creepy body-part stealin' faith healin' cult." He shudders and winces at Hive's question and refuses to look at anyone as he answers. "I don't know. He had to've been...alive recently. At least. I didn't get any information on...his whereabouts. Directly. Yet. Some of the cultists invited me t'dinner t'night, and t'some more...private creepiness with their cult leader on Wednesday. I'm gonna try t'find out more." Jax's fingers fidget restlessly at his jeans, nails scratching against the grain of the denim. His other hand rubs slowly against Micah's back, and there are a million questions half-formed swirling in his mind that he's pushing back down, not quite wanting to crowd Micah with them just yet. Except for: "-- Alive recently? How -- d'you know?" He can't help the quiet note of hope in his tone. Flicker turns on his couch to face theirs, pulling a leg up beneath himself. "Dinner? Tonight? Are you going to be okay? Did they recognize you?" His eyes are wide, but his tone is quiet, despite the worry evident in his expression. From the next room there's only silence. But a tense /listening/ sort of silence. "I'm gonna be fine. One of their...I dunno. Enforcers. Recognised me. But the story I'd put t'gether ended up bein' more...exactly what was needed t'get in there than I'd known." Micah shakes his head, still not looking at anyone, eyes fixed down on his knees. "They're not takin' people's abilities. I mean...they /are/, but I think that might be...almost a side effect. They're takin' people's /parts/. An' puttin' 'em on other people. Anole's /arm/ is prob'ly attached t'one of these people out there somewhere." His fingers scrunch into the fabric of his pants where they cover his thighs. "They have all these...sick people. Hurt people. Blind people. People with cancer. In this congregation. An' they show up an' listen t'this guy talkin' on an' on 'bout the stuff that was in those journals. 'Bout perfectin' humanity an' Third Species an' all this. But then they take one of these...hurt people. Back into some back room t'see some guy they just call 'Him'. An' they come /back/. Too quick for surgery. With /other parts/ on 'em." Micah shakes his head, reaching for the bottle and taking another hard swallow of water. "I don't even think all the people know where these things're comin' from. Think they just...figure this 'Him' is some kinda faith healer. I met this...really sweet girl. Blind. She was the person they brought up this time. An' she just talked like...she was 'Ascended' and 'made better' when she came back with..." A shudder ripples through Jax at the mention of Anole's arm being attached to someone. "But -- but what? But /how/? You can't just -- /stick/ an arm on someone that's. Not how /arms/ work. That ain' how people work. An' that sure ain't gonna cure no --" He trails off, eye inadvertently skipping off towards the back room where Hive sits. He pales, swallowing harder and rubbing at Micah's back again. << What in the fuck. >> Hive finally appears, now, shuffling over to the doorway to lean up against it and glare out into the lobby. His head thuds up against the doorframe, eyes only barely open, though they're turned out towards Micah. "Sweet girl? Do these people have any fucking idea --" His teeth grind, audibly. Flicker is quiet, fingers tracing against the couch. "Came back with --?" he finally prompts, his voice very low and his eyes fixed on Micah. "My best guess? This 'Him' has...an ability. A healin' ability or somethin' like it. There's just no other way for 'em t'be doin'...what they're doin'." Micah shakes his head in answer to Hive. "I don't think they do. The average person in the congregation, like that girl an' her brother? They think they got themselves an honest-to-goodness faith healer. But there's others. The woman who recognised me an' called me out on it? I think she knows. She was talkin 'bout 'protectin' what they have' there. But she had cancer that they cured. Ain't a much better way t'buy someone's loyalty than with their /life/." His features crumple at Flicker's question, a little whimper coming from his mouth in place of words, at first. "I'm sorry. I couldn't /do/ anythin' about it. I just had t'watch an' I couldn't...I couldn't even react. They'd know. An' I still don't have the information we need yet. They can't suspect me or I won't be able t'help, I'm /sorry/." He takes a few deep breaths, forcing the words out with the last. "Eyes. His eyes. They put them in that girl an' I don't think she has the first idea what was /done/." "A /actual/ mutant doin' this to folks? I mean. OK first we thought it was mutants an' then it was people /stealin'/ mutant powers but if there's a /real/ actual mutant helpin' them --" Jackson shudders, pulling his knee up towards his chest and resting his chin down on it. "-- wait." Now he just looks /blank/, slow as he so often is. "Eyes? Whose eyes?" Flicker pales. The tiny choked noise that comes from him is something like a whimper and something like a moan. Hive says nothing at all. There's a sudden heavy /crush/ of mental pressure that ripples out, squeezing in at the others' minds in strong angry surge and then receding. /His/ eyes narrow on Jax, and the mental image that presses up against their minds next is a familiar reflective-shine, dark eyes crinkled up in very-typical bright-warm smiling. Hive sags further against the doorframe, hand reaching up to clutch at it. "I don't know. I don't know. I don't /understand/ why they're takin' mutants t'do it. Any of it. Maybe it's somethin' t'do with the X-gene. I don't /know/ yet, that's why I have t'go back." Micah buries his face in his hands at Jax's question, nodding without looking up when Hive passes that image of Dusk to them. Now it's Jackson's turn to whimper, tiny and sickened at that mental image. He presses his face against his knee, shaking his head in hard denial, a pained litany of << no no no no no >> screaming through his mind. He lifts his hand, pressing his palm against his eyepatch, briefly. When he drops it again he curls his arm around Micah, pulling his husband in against his side. Flicker presses his knuckles to his lips, looking more than a little queasy. And then with a shimmer and a brief ghostly afterimage, he's vanished. Hive steps forward from the doorway, crossing the room to drop heavily onto the couch that Flicker just vacated. His breathing is shaky, as he leans forward, head buried in his hands. "So. Tonight, then." And, alongside these words, thudding into their minds: << Fuck. >> "Yes. The girl and her brother. They invited me to...I have an address. They said that a lotta people'd be there. At seven." Micah grabs for his water bottle again, taking another pull from it. "I have t'go. Maybe I can find out more. Other than that all I know is they have these other...smaller meetin's. On Wednesdays. Where their...Him. The guy responsible for all this. Sometimes he's there. I'll try t'angle for somethin' /sooner/, 'cause that's /so many/ days t'wait. An' we gotta. Find somethin' of Dusk's. Maybe he left...some clothes somewhere? Somethin'? Nobody's been able t'tell me if he had his bag with 'im when he got took. 'Cause we could maybe. Sean. Like with Anole. We need t'find 'im /fast/. I don't know...how often they /do/ this. Take...parts." "Should -- should check the safehouse." Jax lifts his head, his tone calming into something more steady-even now that there are Concrete Steps to discuss. "If his stuff's anywhere it'll likely be there. Or someone there'll know where it's at. An' -- an' they can't, um. If they're takin' parts to put /on/ people an' not jus' to /study/ or somethin' that's -- actually better, right? Because parts don't last long. To be viable. To put on nobody. So that means they don't likely take parts without havin' someone to put them /on/. Could mean -- could mean they won't jus' /take/ things. Till it's near time t'put them somewhere." "You gonna be safe?" A squeeze of mental pressure pushes up against Micah's mind. "I could ride along with." Hive grinds the heels of his hand into his eyes. "Ran into Eric today. Thought about sending /him/ down, what the fuck could they possibly do to hurt that motherfucker? Didn't think there was time, though. Didn't want to jam you up -- fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." "Yeah, maybe they'll have somethin'." Micah bites down on his lip hard, head shaking at Jax. "I don't know. If they're pickin' their victims 'fore they take 'em? That congregation ain't /small/. They could have...so many people lined up...just /waitin'/. We can't. We can't wait; we have t'do somethin' /fast/." He pales at the mention of Eric. "No...good. It's good y'didn't send 'im. The people that know things there...they'd smell a cop. It would've gone bad. I don't know if they got folks who can /tell/ 'bout X-genes or not. Any number of 'em could have stolen powers. It's...ohgosh, if they took 'im? They'd keep 'im forever regrowin' parts an' puttin' 'em on other people just over'n over..." The pallor starts to take on more of a green undertone. "I'll be fine. They think they're gonna give me somebody's /leg/," he finally says in a strangled-small voice. Jax turns a little bit more towards Micah, wrapping both arms around his husband, now. He presses a kiss to Micah's temple, resting his forehead in against the side of Micah's head. "But they /ain't/. They ain't gonna do nothin' to you an' -- an' we're gonna /find/ Dusk an' /get/ him back an' you'll get to stay far far away from creepy cults forever after." Hive just exhales heavily, slumping back against the couch. "You should -- take a fucking walk. Or a nap. Or /something/. Clear your head. So you can go back there looking like a person and not like you're about to hurl, still." Micah nods and just...keeps nodding as if he's forgotten to stop the motion. “Okay. Okay, but somebody's gotta get. Dusk's things an' take 'em t'Sean. I think I want t'go home. We've got a few hours maybe if I...take a shower an'...somethin'. I can't. Sleep...like this. I keep seein'...that /girl/ with his /eyes/ an' I have t'go spend a whole night lookin' at... We've /got/ t'get him out of there /fast/.” He finally stops nodding, pressing his eyes closed. “I'll bring...so much ginger ale. Maybe. To the dinner,” he finally suggests, though feeling somewhat /ridiculous/ discussing beverages and his family being maimed practically in the same breath. Jackson stoops, here, lifting his messenger bag back up to sling it over his shoulder. He stands, afterwards, offering Micah a hand back up as well. "Let's get you home, honey-honey. I can drive, if y'like. Get you -- a little bit of." His lips press together, and he dots a small kiss to Micah's temple. "Ginger ale. Ginger ale first. An' then we'll plan."