ArchivedLogs:Breaking

Breaking
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah	16 April 2014 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 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 large cheerfully blue-and-silverygrey microsuede 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. Off to the side a small table has a little refreshment stand set up, a Keurig coffeemachine with a large selection of tea-coffee-cocoa choices and a minifridge beneath the table with juice and water and soda. Through the door in back of the lobby is an enormous workshop space, wide and airy. Spacious drafting tables take up much of the center of the room, a number of glass-topped desks edging the sides though only one of them against the back windows actually 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 office space at the side. One leads off to an office space that, though comfortably large, is dwarfed by the workshop beside it; currently unfurnished, it is just a bare empty sweep of potential uses. The other door, has been given -- no name plaque, yet. Just a tacked-up piece of paper reading "J.M. Investigations". Thud. Thud-/thud/. Thud-thud-/THUD/. It's a hammer-heavy pounding beating in at Micah's head in steadily increasing thump of headache that is both his and /not/-his at the same time. Kind of /irritatingly/ right in the middle of his work day, pulsing in at the base of his skull. THUD. Occasionally other things pulse through along with it. Bursts of irritability. Anger. /Pleasant/ things. /Sorry/ Micah are you trying to be productive? Pfft workday. Micah is, in fact, trying to work. Which is a difficult proposition when you're trying to /craft/ things and someone is acting like a bored toddler in your /brain/. << What? >> he finally asks, a slight edge of irritation sharpening his own tone. He abandons the project in his hands. It's about time for a lunch break, anyhow. There's a sluggish feeling of awakening, here, shifting alive in the back of Micah's mind before: << /What/-what? >> snaps back in /sharper/-edged annoyance, a bleary sort of feel to it with the vague background impression of being woken from a nap. << ... go back to work. >> ... Thud-thud. Thud-/thud/. << /What/ is you're pumpin' all kindsa things into m'head an' it's distractin'. At /best/. I assumed y'were tryin' t'get my attention. >> There is the impression of a heavy sigh from Micah's end of things. << This...isn't really necessary anymore. I should've had you drop me yesterday, but... >> Micah intends silence on the line, but instead there's Dusk, pinning a bleeding Jax to a mattress. << Then y'won't have t'worry 'bout me anymore. >> There's another throb-thud of heavy-pounding agony. In the back of Micah's mind something /feels/ kind of amused. << ... was asleep. Forgot to -- >> This trails off. There's a silence; a vague thought-feel of not-quite apology. << Was just. Leaking. Wasn't. /Things/. S'just. Me. I -- >> He stops as Micah continues. Something /clenches/, tight and hard -- it clamps down on the pulses of pain but doesn't quite clamp down /fast/ enough to mask the abrupt surge of anger that has started to flare up between them at that mental image that comes through. There's silence, for a time. << Right. >> The word is clipped and bare, shed of much inflection. << Because I'll totally stop worrying. >> Micah's mind latches on to that faint amusement, holding tight to /anything/ that isn't angry-hurt, that isn't fear-pain. << Okay. I wasn't...sure. It's just not usually that. Loud. Or poundy. >> He pulls away at the flare of anger. << Sorry. Sorry, I didn't... That was. Complicated. >> His head shakes...or at least the sense of negation that comes with the gesture is there. << I just meant y'wouldn't have t'worry 'bout /holdin' on/ t'me. T'watchin' me. Usin' energy up on it. >> His mental voice is a little tired, a little worn. << Complicated, >> Hive's words have that same flat non-tone, << yeah, isn't it fucking always. Suppose Jax would say the same. >> And more silence. << Won't be any /more/ productive if I let you go now. But I can. >> But there's a slow uncurling, a quiet mental tendril coiling around Micah's mind where it latches onto that amusement. Opening up a faint blossom of quiet warmth. To snake into his mind, almost curiously unfurling its petals warmer and /cheerier/ there. Like a small ray of psionic /cheer/ in contrast to the rest. << I'm not sure. Jax is still mostly... Hurt. Scared. Worried. I'm tryin' not t'push 'im about it. 'Cause it /just/... An' it's hard. >> Micah leans into the warmth. << I didn't mean y'had to right now. Maybe t'night. S'always best t'get where I'm goin' 'fore y'cut me off. No drivin' after. Just in case. >> He wraps a hug-like feeling around Hive. << Can I just...come see you? Without y'tryin' t'beat me up or anythin'? >> The question is only half-joking. << Feel like you should go see Dusk. Let me Borg /him/ before he /actually/ fucking rapes someone. Dude needs a goddamn warden. >> The little blossom of cheer folds its petals back up; Hive's mind pulls back into a smaller tighter knot. There's a faint mental prickle, sharp and discomfited. << You seriously need, >> Hive's voice, here, sounds both exhausted and concerned, << a hug. But not from me. >> And then a pause. << ... possibly also therapy. Every fucking one of us needs some goddamn therapy. >> << Honey... D'you really think the two of you sharin' how much...even just /physical/ pain you're in right now is a good plan t'make /anyone/ do better? I wish I had been able t'see 'im before. So I understood more fully. He should have medical attention. Antibiotics. Pain meds. /Sedatives/, even. I wonder if Io would make a house call? The condition he's in... >> Micah tries not to share, but these thoughts are all /full/ of sick-ache. << I asked the folks at the safe house not t'let anybody see 'im unsupervised. He's still pretty far from bein' 'imself. At all. >> He nudges up against Hive's mind. << Why not you? I like your hugs. >> Another sigh seeps through here. << You know I didn't...the things y'thought I was sayin' the other day. Or implyin'. I /wasn't/. You're /in my head/. You /didn't/ get those ideas from me. Y'should...be able t'tell that. >> He backs away for a moment, thinking better...then barrelling forward. << I think maybe you got it from /you/, though. So I worry. About you. >> << He's just been getting worse, yeah. Kinda pain on top of pain. Flicker's been up there -- >> There's the mental equivalent of a shrug. << Think he's losing his goddamn mind. Think they /took/, >> carries a deeper snarl of anger in it, << his goddamn mind and yes, I'm pretty fucking sure headache or no I still wouldn't let him -- >> This snaps off short in a cold clamp of -- well, nothing, any feelings or thoughts from Hive abruptly going silent. Eventually, quiet and bland-calm: << You worry a lot. Got some good therapists at the Clinic, you know. Would they see you there now you're a freak? Would they have seen you there /before/? Huh. Never really thought about that. Do they discriminate? Suppose they must. >> << Honey. Honey. Please stop. I'm /not/ attackin' you. Please...stop thinkin' that I am 'cause I'm not. There's just other ways. Kate should be able t'see 'im...maybe even today? She finished helpin' Rasa yesterday. I think it'd be safe t'say Dusk's /priority/ on the injured list right now. Should at least...be able t'help with his eyes. I'll ask Io t'see 'im, if he can. For the pain meds. an' all that. >> Micah's mind nudges stubbornly against Hive's again. << I love you. I'm gonna worry no matter how many shrinks I see. An'...I'm pretty sure they'd've seen me before. I've had enough...bein' a test subject there an' bein' followed up after gunshot wound surgery an'... I don't think they'd send me off. Besides, I have /insurance/. >> Which is a rare enough thing in their particular underserved population. << I do need t'make an appointment. The leg thing is... Awkward. Now that Rasa said ze didn't want it. I kinda didn't bother even startin' t'wrap m'head 'round it 'til after that. An' I'm gonna need a PT who won't just freak out over...the colour changin' leg an' how it got there an' needin' t'wear gloves when they touch me or I might read their mind. So. That's...pretty much the Clinic or nowhere for options. >> << Probably would've seen you anyway, yeah. Don't expect they'd've just turned you away. Don't imagine they'd turn many people away, I suppose. Just figure most people with other options wouldn't /want/ to come. Hm. >> Hive's musing gets a little sidetracked, here. It's almost just reflexive, his absent /shift/ away from Micah's mental touch, prickly-poky as he withdraws a little bit farther. << ... Think someone to talk about shit wouldn't be a bad idea even /before/ a psychopath warped someone else's leg onto you. With all the shit heaped on you this past year -- never really /hurts/ to -- >> He trails off, something exhausted kind of /eating/ the rest of his words in a swirl of tired-confusion. << You started, yet? Trying to wrap your head around it? >> << Yeah, I don't guess they get /too/ many people linin' up. Though the promise of low-cost or free care with minimal questions asked /might/ be appealin' enough for some folks t'brave the protestors. >> Micah shrugs. The mental impression isn't that much different from the physical one, actually. << I haven't honestly had time t'think about it much. 'Bout as soon as Rasa was even part-healed there was... The cultists breakin' into the school. Jax bein' hurt. Then this thing with Dusk. I been tryin' t'get back t'work an' /everythin's/ slower while I'm waitin' for this leg t'work right. I just... I dunno. I'm not sure anythin' /but/ keepin' it's an option. Gettin' it taken off t'give back t'Rasa's one thing. Gettin' a doctor to agree t'take it 'cause I don't want it is somethin' /else/. Findin'...a surgeon an' an OR willin' t'deal with what sure /looks/ like a mutant situation makes that pretty much impossible. So. I guess it's there now. Hence the PT appointment I need t'make. >> There's a small swirl of confusion through Micah's thoughts. << Why're y'suddenly all worried 'bout my mental state, anyhow? I been seein' shrinks off an' on since I could speak in complete sentences. Ain't like I'm resistant to it like my /husband/. Goodness, was a trial an' a /half/ t'get /him/ t'go. >> << Pfft, /that's/ a crock of bullshit. You need to decide what you /want/ to do. /That's/ the hard part. You know enough freaks that taking care of the /rest/ of it -- well. You know people who can /grow/ a whole fucking limb back from scratch in a couple days, regrow /organs/, you sure as /hell/ know someone who can deal helping you through the aftermath of limb /removal/ in a freaking afternoon, OR or no OR, if you want to take it back /off/. But you need to figure out what /you/ want -- dealing with the details afterwards is, well, details. >> Hive quiets after this, again, prickly-uncomfortable once more. << -- That's, >> he finally answers, << another crock of bullshit. You're incredibly fucking resistant to anyone ever worrying about you at all. >> << I don't /know/, Hive. That's why I was...already plannin' t'make the appointment t'begin with. I mean, even beyond the issues of. Even gettin' it off t'begin with. I'd be goin' from congenital amputation to /traumatic/ amputation an' that's...months. Of rehab t'work out. I prob'ly wouldn't be able t'do m'job if I did. An' my /brain's/ apparently all rewired. So it really /would/ be like startin' from scratch. Don't think no kinda healer's fixin' that. >> There's a swirling soup of thoughts accompanying Micah tugging his fingers through his hair. << Not t'mention if it's even. Somethin' I should do. Even if it /weren't/ that complicated. Once this thing's workin' correctly. If it'll...work correctly. What right do I have goin' back to...not bein' able t'run when it's needed? With the family /I've/ got. It comes /up/. In life-threatenin' situations. All the time. An' Rasa went through all that...it's like ze went through all that for me t'have this an' what right do I have t'just throw that away? >> He curls up in the seat behind his work desk, squirrelled away in his van, pulling his /knees/ up under his chin. << I'm /not/. I was plannin' t'make the appointment as soon as I went t'make the PT one. As soon as I got a second t'breathe that wasn't full of murder squads an' creepy cults an' complicated sexual assaults. >> Through the mental connection an image of Lucien surfaces, when Micah protests no healer is fixing the brain rewiring. After this, though, Hive just listens, in quiet. << ... Did Rasa say ze wants you to have it? Or that you should decide? >> There's a building throb pulsing across the connection again. << 've you seen what Rasa wears every day. All. Covered up all the goddamn. I just. I've lived with this for so many fucking -- >> There's something creeping, tired, pained, back into Hive's voice. << You're the /touchiest/ motherfucker I know, man. >> This comes with the very recent mental memory of Micah's mind latching onto Hive's, curling in immediately to the blossom of warmth he provided. All the little hugs and cuddles and pets that come so naturally, the way his cheek rubs against Dusk's wing, the brush of his hands against the twins' gills, an arm squeezed around Flicker's shoulders in greeting. << You gonna trade running for remembering to keep covered the rest of your life or never accidentally touch anyone again? /That's/ why I think you're gonna want a shrink soon. It's not for dealing with the leg. It's for dealing with the fucking telepathy. Because trust me /I/ fucking know what hell it's like. And it's /goddamn hell/. >> << Ze said 'you keep it.' I'm not sure. If that meant /keep it/ or just 'I don't want it.' An' I didn't push 'cause ze was already so overwhelmed. >> Micah's teeth dig into his lower lip. << Just /lookin'/ at my noggin' the way it is gave 'im seizures, >> he admits grudgingly. << How's he s'posed t'put that /back/ without killin' 'imself? >> His hand reaches into his pocket, feeling the fabric of the thin glove stowed there. Breathable fabric, tight but not compressing, that he'd sewn himself shortly after the telepathy started. Remembering /wearing/ them getting him through handshakes, but not Kay's random /headbonking/. How the perception seems to be getting /stronger/, if anything, than the fuzzy-mess it started as. << I haven't even...really /let/ m'self think of that yet. 'Cause...it's /telepathy/. Is that even...it's not like you /store/ telepathy in a /leg/. Sublime rewired my /head/ for that. What if I... What if I /were/ t'get rid of the leg an' /that/ don't go away? >> Hive is silent after all this -- at the last question, the mental connection goes eerily dead. Until, finally, just, << ... maybe you /should/ come over. >> But a half-minute later the addition: << -- But I swear to god if you bring food I am marching you right the fuck out. >> There may be a grumbling undertone here of: << fucking Southerners. >> << ...Hive? >> Micah sounds worried at the silence, the question the equivalent of /peeking in/ around a doorframe. << Okay. I'll be right there. >> He chuckles, the sound having very nearly an edge of tears to it. << Fine...no food. I'm sure y'made Flicker eat the last stuff I brought anyhow. >> He pauses again, the sound of shifting as he moves to the driver's seat of the van. << Bringin' m'tablet, though. With /equipment catalogues/ on it. That y'should look at. >> << Flicker eats like a fucking horse, he devoured it. >> Hive lapses back into silence, quiet as Micah heads off to begin the drive, except to say: << Door's unlocked. M'in back. >> Which he is, tucked off into the sparse back not-an-office adjacent to the /actual/ office, where he and Flicker have been living, empty except for the mattresses and backpacks and duffel bags and scattered personal items that Hive hasn't bothered to clean /up/. Sometimes Flicker tidies /for/ him. His laptop is lying on the mattress beside him though he's kind of just tucked onto his side. Maybe asleep, except that his mind is still awake and listening. Micah is predictably in work clothes when he arrives: TARDIS-blue polo shirt over thin long-sleeved tee and khakis. His hands are tucked away in the charcoal grey gloves that had been in his pockets before. His hair is working on a good level of /muss/ for so early in the afternoon. He has his crutches, but these are in hand more than in use, and he sets them on the floor by Hive's mattress before lowering himself to sit beside the telepath. Hive opens his eyes, lifting a hand towards Micah when the other man sits down -- in normal circumstances opening his eyes would be kind of /unnecessary/, shared mental connection giving him just as much sense of where Micah is as where /he/ is. Unfortunately in his current state that sense is -- not very /much/; current proprioception -- not high. His bony fingers lift slowly, curling in against Micah's neck, sliding around the back of the other man's head and pulling him in close. The touch comes with -- nothing, actually, which might possibly be some tiny bit of (somewhat false) relief. With mind already /shared/ there's nothing left to transmit past the (shaky-unsteady) warmth of Hive's skin. “Hey, honey.” Micah's forehead presses up against Hive's, since it seems that's /safe/ for now. He peels the gloves off and stuffs them back in his pockets before wrapping his arms around Hive. “How've you... Have y'been able t'get out of bed at all?” He holds a little tighter at the other man's shaking. Hive's eyes close again once Micah's forehead presses to his. His fingers knead against the back of the other man's neck, rubbing in slowly. "Flicker helps. When I need --" He swallows, hard, and where his mind is twined through Micah's there's a sick-unhappy wrench that tells that this -- doesn't quite cover how difficult it's been. How much he's /been/ stuck here /without/ Flicker's help. Had a friend from his fraternity overseeing the Commons because he can't make it down there. He pulls in a slow breath. "Just thought," he says slowly, "you might appreciate. Someone you could --" << touch. >> "I've been able to, some, it's just..." Kay's brief headbonk full of searing flesh. Jax nuzzling into his neck and sharing all the sick-hurt-tired-scared-pained feelings in the attic. His gloved finger petting over the back of Dusk's hand. So many sets of purple nitriles to get through even part of a work day. Micah presses into Hive's touch appreciatively. "Y'know it's /okay/ t'ask for help. Have y'tried...anti-nausea pills or meal supplements or somethin' t'try an' give you a little more strength an' energy? Would a power scooter be enough for you t'get back t'the site, or would sittin' an' navigatin' an' thinkin' that much be too tirin'? I wanna help, but y'gotta talk t'me, sugar." "It's just minds are loud," Hive murmurs quietly. "And they flood you and /flood/ you and sometimes you just want --" He quiets, fingers dropping down to rest between Micah's shoulders. His lips press to the other man's forehead, and then cheek, and then he just settles in close. "S'not the. Fucking. Eating, I. Eat sometimes. It's just." He shakes his head, swallowing unhappily. "Can't always. Fucking remember where my. Goddamn. Legs are. Or hands or. How to -- make them. Do. Shit. Not -- /tired/. They just. Don't. Work." Micah trembles faintly at the kisses, as if staving off the beginnings of tears. "It's hard for anythin' in your body t'work when you're...malnourished an' dehydrated an' your muscles are atrophyin' an'..." His arms squeeze a little tighter. "Have y'met Kate? I mean...once all this /missin' parts/ business is over. Maybe she could help...somethin'. An' just /sittin'/ with Corey can make things feel better. Somethin' t'replace the blood from Dusk..." "Once all this /missing parts/ business is over Corey and Kate probably have actual jobs to get back to. That don't include just /sitting/ around with me. These people have -- /lives/. Lives that probably don't revolve around healing every damn one of us. Besides which it probably wouldn't --" Hive's face tips in against Micah's shoulder, burying there, briefly. But tips back up, after this gruff answer, lips pressing to Micah's cheek again. And again. "Everything doesn't work," he admits. "Today's -- today's a better day. Some days I barely remember how to make goddamn words. Can't. Fucking. Feed myself. Definitely can't stand the fuck /up/ without the world just --" He shudders against Micah, pressing a little closer. "... s'all just kind of. Unravelling." "I know, honey, but you're...worth helpin', /too/. I mean, y'been lettin' this go. Y'been puttin' off treatment so's y'could help on the raids, but honey. It's gonna be /months/ gettin' through those." Micah's hands pet at Hive's back as he presses closer. "We're startin' t'run outta options here, sugar. Gotta do somethin' one way or another." He leans in to place a kiss to the tip of Hive's nose. "If not them, then...maybe back t'your original treatment plan? It may be the first step in any of /those/ fights is fightin' /this/ thing, hon." "Not -- really sure I want to think about what a healer rebuilding my brainmeats would do to me when I have an extensive piece of foreign-body still spiderwebbed all up /in/ it fucking with me," Hive admits, finally finishing the thought he'd let slide before. "S'kind of just a crapshoot with that chip stuck in there. Anything that messes with my brain much s'as likely to hurt as help till it's gone." He shakes his head, tipping his forehead back in against Micah's heavily. His mind squeezes, tired, in against the other man's. << Just want to get these raids done with. >> Though underneath it it has a heavy undertone of, << (just want to get this all done with.) >> "I don't know, honey. That's why we'd...need t'ask the people who know more. What might be the most help." Micah's fingers press gently into the too-thin muscles of Hive's back. "And it might be there's nothin' t'be /done/ but gettin' the surgery /first/. Ain't even done the first raid yet, with two more t'come. An' need enough time in between t'regroup an' get the refugees out. Time just...ain't a luxury we got, it seems like. << It's a miserable bad hand, hon. Best y'can do with it is try t'play it as well as y'can. Not...pushin' for a decision right now. Just think about it. I can order the wheels for you. At least make it more likely y'can get around on any given day. >> "The recovery time on brain surgery is like --" Hive shivers. << ... possibly a lifetime. >> His head bows, face burying in against Micah's neck. His back shifts, spine moving bony-knobbly beneath Micah's fingers, sharp shoulderblades flexing outward. "Yeah." It's muffled, against Micah's collarbone. "Right. Yeah. Wheels." His shoulders shudder in another quick exhale. "... do they have any that look cool?" "But the recovery time on doin' nothin'--" Micah shudders in response. << Might be /never/, honey. We can't...risk that. >> He grips Hive closer, then lets up slightly to answer his question. "Power scooters ain't usually /cool/ lookin'. 'Specially not on a budget. But between Jax an' Tag? I'm sure they can make whatever y'buy...at least 20% cooler." Hive breathes in sharply, his eyes closing tight. << Maybe. >> There's a mental image, here. Blood dripping down Dusk's mouth, his burned form crouched over Jax. << If he's even still -- all this shit's going to break him some day. >> He presses a kiss, harder, to Micah's collarbone, and then rolls aside onto his back. His arm drapes across his eyes. "Probably shouldn't keep you from work /forever/. Especially if I'm not letting you have lunch here." << No maybes. Jax ain't stopped bein' an artist or helpin' people over that. >> Micah's mind puzzles briefly over the pronoun. Break...which him? Jax. Dusk. All of them. There's certainly been enough worthy of it going around to a lot of 'hims' lately. His eyes press closed briefly at that last kiss, his arms squeezing tighter before letting Hive go. "Okay. But. Look through the pages I've got highlighted on the tablet. S'a few scooters t'pick from. Let me know what y'think an' I'll stop by on my way home t'night." << Love you. Please call me whenever y'need somethin'. Just...love you. >> "Hhhah." Hive's laugh is slow and shaky, and though their shared mind clarifies in a dose of glitter and warm-bright sunlight and colorful dragonflies, aloud what he says is: "Break fucking all of us, maybe. /Jesus/." << ... You call me, too, >> he replies, and here he's thinking of Jax's mind -- Micah's /husband's/ mind, almost cripplingly headache-inducingly /bright/, to psionic senses. /Painful/-loud. A mind /he's/ gotten (achingly) used to living around, to be sure. But possibly one that requires some /adjustment/ period to -- touch. << -- If you need to talk. I'll still have my /phone/. Even after tonight once I've. >> He exhales, heavy. << Love you. >>