ArchivedLogs:Catchup

Catchup
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Hive	2014-05-21 Part of Future Past 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". Considering Hive's powers, he's likely to feel Murphy before he ever sees him; that perpetual psychic thunderstorm seems potent enough to cloak an entire city block in 'bad vibes'. The private-eye is even more haggard than he was seen last; his usually bulky, powerful frame slightly emaciated -- eyes sunken, head recently shaved -- clad in the dark wool coat he always wears despite the summer heat (because seriously, $@#% you, summer). There's something else, too, going on in Murphy's mind -- amidst the countless crystallized memories in his mind, there's something that Does Not Belong -- a memory that's less crystal and more cancer, extending out long, hungry tendrils that wind around those crystals, greedily claiming them. It's a throbbing presence -- like a second, ghostly mind -- both a memory and a thought. It gives the usually painful presence of Murphy's mind a particularly sickly pallor, adding nausea to the list of symptoms psychics tend to get from hanging around Murphy for too long. Not entirely sure of his own gait, Murphy grips the wall as he makes his way toward the two doors. His eyes linger, for a moment, on 'J.M. Investigations' -- there's a tangle of emotions that flare up inside of his brain-pan, and for a while, he seems paralyzed with something… but then he turns, slow but sure, and makes his way to the other door -- not even bothering to knock before just -- SHOVING it open. "Hngh." This is the greeting that Murphy is met with once he makes his way back into Hive's office. It's very bare, at the moment; Hive is seated not at any desk but on the floor, laptop in his lap and a phone tucked against his ear into which he is currently speaking in very rapid Thai. He holds up a hand absently to Murphy, continuing his conversation for a moment before hanging up. "You look like shit, dude." Though he's one to talk, fairly emaciated himself, too much skin hanging loosely off not-enough-flesh on his angular frame. His hair has grown back out to a short dark scruff, his eyes narrowed on his screen and then up at Murphy. He's dressed plainly, faded fraying jeans and a black-and-white plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned over a plain white tee. Murphy's response to the sight of Hive -- similarly emaciated, talking in Thai -- is nothing but a silent, perpetual grimace -- one that never seems to go away. He waits, at least, until Hive is done -- but when Hive comments on his appearance, all Murphy does is… grunt. And gesture, with his hands -- ASL. The rough translation is 'up yours'. But then, in Murphy's mind -- the constant, perpetual buzzing that comes with his thoughts increases, as he broadcasts in that crashing sound: << Ground control to Major Tom. Can you hear me, Major Tom? >> It's notable that it isn't Murphy's own voice, but the actual song -- playing in Murphy's head. Hive gestures back. With his middle finger. This /probably/ means 'up yours, too'. "Gghhh." He presses his palm to his temple, shoulders stiffening as his eyes narrow /further/ to just /squint/ at Murphy. "What the fuck yes. I could hear you a /mile/ off you're the noisiest motherfucker I know." "Nnhh." << Can't speak, >> Murphy informs Hive, this time with his own voice. He's attempting to ratchet the volume down, but it's like trying to dam up an incoming tsunami; all he can really do is splinter it off in different directions, directions that aren't pointed exactly at Hive. << Zombie plague. >> This is accompanied by a woeful little smile on Murphy's face; grim, thin, and vicious. "How the fuck did you manage that." Hive pales faintly at the mention of the zombie plague, his breath sucking in through his teeth. "-- Heard a whole family in Queens turned just last week. Who fucked /you/ up?" << Dunno. Doesn't matter. Once I say one of the words, it sticks in my memory. Had to go to a nutcracker to get it fixed. >> If Hive looks closely at Murphy's mind -- at those crystals -- which he probably doesn't want to do -- he might notice the network of holes, chips, cracks. Usually pristine, the memories are full of countless, tiny gaps -- places where his mind has sustained willful, intentional damage. << Only way to be safe is to never speak again. >> Murphy seems immensely amused at this, as he adds: << Half the people I know would have paid top dollar to make me shut the hell up. Took the zombie apocalypse to actually do it. >> Then, with a grimace: << You look like shit, too. >> "Jegus." Hive continues rubbing at his temple, still tense, frowning as Murphy continues. "-- you talked to Lucien at all? Wonder if he could come up with some fucking -- /inoculation/. Guy /made/ the fucking cure if anyone knows this disease it's him. Though not-speaking is probably an improvement. To everyone who doesn't have to listen to your goddamn /brain/." He just snorts after this, shaking his head. "Fuck you I'm gorgeous." << Lucien, >> Murphy responds, idly, as if testing the name on his psychic tongue. But then: << You know ASL? >> He makes a gesture with his hands: { Understand? }. Apparently, as an alternative to continuing to hammer Hive's mind with his telepathic missives. "Tessier," Hive clarifies, /just/ in case there was some other brain-tinkering Lucien rattling around in Murphy's copious memory banks. "Creepy motherfucker. Wizard with brains though. Yeah, I get you." His chin jerks upward in an affirmative nod at the signing. "S'my roommate's mother tongue -- shit, is it still a mother /tongue/ if you're using your hands?" { I know a sign that uses my tongue, } Murphy responds, immediately. His ASL is not particularly smooth; it's more what you would expect from someone with perfect mental recollection but little to no physical practice with the gestures -- he knows what the words look like, but he doesn't have any experience moving his hands in the right positions to transition from one word to the next. He's also not exactly perfect on the motions, considering he just memorized a bunch of still photographs. { And yes, I remember him. I don't know if I want him in my brain. } He pauses, looking at Hive a moment, before… { Been out of the loop for a while. } "S'he worse than never fucking talking again? Turning into a goddamn zombie? I think it might still count as saying the words if you say 'em to a telepath." Though Hive doesn't sound /sure/ on this. Just contemplative. "Is there a loop? Am I /in/ it? What do you need filled in?" { Maybe, } Murphy responds, to the mention of it counting if you say the words to a telepath -- he scowls at this possibility, not responding immediately to whether or not avoiding Lucien is worse than never talking again. { Everything. I don't know. Every time I turn around, there's a crisis going on. What's the crisis right now? They invent a pollution-free car that runs on mutant blood, yet? } "Pretty sure that's what they were /trying/ when they were cutting Jax open," Hive muses, at the mention of mutant-powered clean energy. "But nope. I'm fucking /crisisless/. Got a counter up and everything." His mind is always an unpleasant thing, mental image /thudding/ into Murphy's mind. A safety-tracker counter like at an industrial site. SAFETY FIRST! 21 days crisis FREE! It's probably the fact that Murphy essentially lives with psychic anguish 24/7 that leads him to hardly grimace beneath that massive *thump* on his mind; compared to the constant buzzing, the constant encroachment of memories, Hive's brutish telepathy is just another jagged piece of glass in a sea of sharp objects. The sight of the safety-tracker does prompt Murphy to grin, toothsome and vicious. More like a grimace that's trying to pass itself off as a grin. { Well, isn't that a surprise, } he says, before: { Well, alright. I'm around, at least. You know my number. } Then, after another pause: { For somebody who ain't got a crisis going on, you still look like shit. } Hive exhales sharply, closing his eyes and thudding his head back against the wall. "You should look Tessier back up." His hand lifts -- it's /noticeably/ unsteady, a distinct tremor to it as his knuckles scrub against his eyes. "Lofts blew the fuck up. Roommate got kidnapped by crazy gorram cultists and mutilated all to hell. Knocked over another fucking Prometheus --" His teeth grind. "And the cancer doesn't /help/ much either. But those are all /old/ crises. We're in a lull. Sure it won't be long till someone gets blown the fuck up again. Jax has a gallery opening tomorrow." { Heard about the Loft explosion, } Murphy signs, distractedly. { Was thinking about investigating, but figured you might have some people on it. Was sick when it happened; scent's probably cold, now, anyway. } His visage has returned to that constant, perpetual grimace. { Cancer, } Murphy repeats the word, with his fingers. And: { Gallery. Might stop by. Just look at faces. Get back into the step. I'm sure I'd fit right in. } Grim amusement. Finally: { Didn't hear about the cultists. You gonna die soon? } The latter isn't signed with any particular sadness, nor any humor; just a question. "Nobody's turned up much with the Lofts shit. Wasn't much to turn up. Motherfucker took down the security cameras a couple days before it happened." Hive's voice has a harder bite to it with that. His eyes close, head faced back up towards the ceiling where he slouches against the wall. "You want to get back in the game we need some help hunting down a lab in Vermont." His hand drops to his lap, fingers curling and uncurling. "-- Was the fucking dude who runs the /Sublime/ foundation. Kidnapping mutants. /Stealing/ their fucking powers. Body parts. Grafting them on to --" His teeth grit again. Crrrrk. "Yeah," is his last flat answer. "Probably." Murphy absorbs the information like a sponge; that's pretty much what Murphys do, after all. He doesn't so much as flinch at the mention of the Sublime corporation being run by a mutant-kidnapping power-stealing body-part-grafting psychopath; sure, it's a surprise, but Murphy's long-since ceased to find surprises very surprising. Regarding the lab in Vermount, he signs -- slowly: { I'll see what I can do. Send me whatever you've got. If you've got anything. } Then, regarding the cancer… nothing. Just staring at Hive, quietly -- thoughtfully. His expression locked into that blank-faced scowl. { I'll look into the Lofts, too. Just a glance, } Murphy tells him. { Probably won't turn up anything. But not like I've got anything better to do -- besides die. And Tessier. Maybe, } Murphy adds, grimacing at the possibility. "I'll get Jax to pass along what we know on Vermont. It's not -- a /lot/." Hive frowns, adding, "-- s'where they're keeping Tessier's brother." He sounds distinctly uncomfortable about this, muttering quietly under his breath, "... and where I'm supposed to fucking die." His hand lifts, shaky still as it scrubs through his hair. That comment -- the bit about dying -- gets something out of Murphy, at least; a narrowing of his eyes… { Dreams, } he signs, suddenly. Hive opens his eyes somewhat wider, looking over at Murphy. "... you been having them too?" { Yeah, } Murphy signs. { You're dead. And I'm in an asylum. } "I haven't had any. Everyone around me does." Hive's lips press together, thin. "I'm dead in all of them. Flicker, too. And the other shit -- everyone's having the /same/ fucking dreams, dude. I mean, not the /same/ dreams but -- dreams that. Share the same goddamn story. And shit from them's coming true. Shane dreamed about playing a fucking violin that Lucien ended up giving him /after/ he dreamed about it. Weird-ass shit like that." His mouth hooks up in a crooked smile. "You've been due for the gorram asylum a long-ass time anyway." Murphy doesn't respond for a while, listening to Hive; even when Hive finishes, there's a long stretch of silence -- the mention of being due for an asylum for quite a while gets not even a flicker of grim humor out of Murphy. Instead, after what might be a very awkward silence, he signs: { I seem to be convinced that I've got you in my mind. I think that -- whatever happened, when it went down, I was Hive'd. It broke my brain. Whatever was left of it. } Hive's teeth grind once more. Slow. Creaky. "Vermont raid," he answers Murphy at length. "I hive all the labrats who were brainchipped. Habit. Stops them from turning on us if that's what they're programmed to do. But their chips were fucking mined. Exploded in all their brains at once. Being hived to that many people dying at once --" He shudders. "Guess /me/ dying doesn't go so well for my drones, either. Dreams say it kills Flicker. Guess your brain is hard to fucking crack completely." { I'm pretty much useless, there, } Murphy tells him, his scowl softening into something more neutral. { Babbling. I think sometimes I think I'm other people, too. Maybe some of the labrats you had Hive'd. Couldn't make sense of it, until you mentioned dying, just now. } Then: { I'm presuming you got a plan for this place. One that doesn't involve killing everybody and turning me into a drooling invalid. Or, at least, I'm presuming you're going to have a plan. } "Right now our plan is stay far the fuck away from Vermont till we have enough information to /make/ a plan." Hive closes his eyes again, knuckles pressing in at his temples. "Fucking hell." { Relax, } Murphy signs. { We'll figure something out. Or, we won't, and we'll all die. Or go insane. } At this, Murphy's grim, bitter smile does make a return. { Free applesauce for life. } His eyes drift from Hive to the door, then back to Hive: { Take it easy, eh? I'll look into it. } Hive snorts. "I do like applesauce. The cinnamon kind." He jerks his chin upwards in a curt nod. "Take care of yourself, dude."