ArchivedLogs:Confluence

Confluence
Dramatis Personae Hive + Borg, Micah, Flicker	28 March 2014 Micah discusses his dream with Hive and Flicker, around the same time as Jax talks to Doug. (Part of the Future Past TP and the Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> Mount Sinai Hospital – Harlem
On the cutting edge of many medical technologies, Mount Sinai Hospital is often ranked as one of the nation's best hospitals. The medical school attached is one of the best in the world, meaning that even your med students know what they are doing. Chin up, then -- when you come in here badly mutilated after the latest terrible catastrophe in Times Square, you're in good hands. It's late enough in the evening that the sun has been set for a little while, dark outside but actually not particularly cold. Hive is yet again tucked at Flicker's bedside, though there's plenty of evidence in here now to suggest that he actually /has/ done things like Showering and Leaving The Room. He's clean, for one -- or relatively clean in that there's only /today's/ worth of wear and sweat on him rather than a /week's/ worth. His clothes are new -- /sturdy/-heavy construction boots (dirt-flecked; apparently he's /been/ on the site a fair bit lately), sturdy-heavy jeans, an unbuttoned black denim shirt over a plain grey long-sleeved tee. No hat, at the moment; his dark soft fuzz of hair has grown out again long enough that it does not scream CancerPatient the way it had when he was pale and emaciated /and/ bald. He has a computer, too; a new exceedingly thin red Vaio Duo convertible, currently functioning as a laptop and not a tablet. It's perched on the edge of Flicker's bed where he evidently /has/ been computing but instead has -- dozed off to sleep. His email was open in one window and in a smaller one over top of it he's been looking at today's t-shirt on woot. Flicker is, for once, awake where Hive is asleep. It's hard to immediately tell, his head turned towards the window and not much movement coming from his bandaged form. Micah has yet to be home for the evening, having tacked a few hours at the shop on after work. He's dressed in a green-and-blue faded flannel button-down shirt over a white T-shirt, bluejeans, and hiking boots, the lot having a very thrift store feel to it. There is still a strong smell of metal and petroleum products clinging to his skin and hair, a bit of dark grease staining around his fingernails despite several hand-washings. His old messenger bag is slung crosswise over his torso, and one hand holds a take-out bag that any discerning nose could identify as Chinese. Seeing an apparently sleeping Hive and possibly sleeping Flicker, Micah enters the room quietly, moving closer to the bed and peeking around at Flicker's hidden face. Hive doesn't stir at Micah's entry, though Flicker does. His head shifts, turning towards the other man slowly; even here it may be hard to /tell/ that he's awake because there's still white patchy bandaging /covering/ his eyes. "Hm?" He draws in a slow breath, a quick smile lighting at least what can be /seen/ of his face. "Oh. Oh /man/. Please tell me you're not just here to /torture/ me with the thought of Real Food?" Flicker's turning earns a little greeting wave from Micah. He speaks in whispered tones to avoid waking Hive. "Hey, Flicker. How're you doin'? It's Micah. It's not a thought of real food, it's actual real food. Figured you'd be sick of bland hospital nutrition by now. An' hoped maybe t'tempt Hive t'nibble at a little somethin'." Micah moves to the bedside chair, pulling the rolling table over in front of Flicker to start unpacking food. "Brought spring rolls an' scallion pancakes an' eggplant in plum sauce an' fried rice--the kind with extra veggies mixed in. There's fortune cookies, but that never seems too much like dessert, so I sneaked some banana bread from breakfast at the school in a Ziploc baggie. All the major food groups." His eyes flick over to Hive. "Hive's kinda nappin' out on your bed with his laptop open. Should I try t'put the computer away so he doesn't knock it on the floor by accident, or will that just wake 'im up?" "Oh. Oh my /goodness/, Micah I could kiss you." Flicker's smile only grows at this explanation of /foods/. "I swear the oatmeal they had at breakfast was just this goopy mess of /rubber/. Living around you guys /spoiled/ me." He isn't trying to keep his voice down, and he shakes his head at the question. "I mean, you should maybe move his laptop but only so he can /eat/. I doubt he's eaten all day. We should wake him." Which he decides to do by /thwapping/ his hand lightly against the back of Hive's head -- /despite/ the bandaging over his eyes, he seems to find his way to /Hive/ unerringly. "Mnghngh," is Hive's prickly grumbled response to this, moving one arm to drape over his head like a shield. "Motherfucker." “Tease. I know y'don't mean that,” Micah replies with a giggle muffled behind his hand. “C'mon, though, how d'you mess up oatmeal? Y'pretty much have t'/try/ t'get it wrong.” He pauses in his food unpacking to fetch Hive's laptop to move it to another table. “Ohgosh, but he never /sleeps/, either, I hate t'wa--” Well, he's awake /now/. “Mmn. Evenin', Hive. I brought Chinese. An' banana bread. Flicker was the one who thwapped you upside the--huh.” Hive's laptop doesn't quite make it to the table, Micah staring at its screen with a pensive look instead. "What? You think I've never kissed anyone? I have kissed a /lot/ of people thanks." Flicker doesn't sound offended, just brightly amused. "I think they use the quick-cooking kind and then -- overcook them. And then let them sit." This comes with a very small shudder. "Mnghngh," Hive says again crankily. It's echoed mentally in a discomfited prickle-twitching, mind sluggishly dragging itself up out of sleep. << Micah? >> Now he sounds intensely puzzled, looking at Micah in sleepy confusion. "Oh. You're /here/. -- huh what?" He squints over towards his laptop. "Oh, that's new. Just -- got the damn thing two -- three days. I don't remember. It's very. Red." "It's very /fast/," Flicker says, more relevantly. "I don't think y'never kissed anyone, I just think y'don't mean t'be kissin' me. Silly." Micah sticks his tongue out at Flicker in playful little-kid fashion. He glances at the laptop screen once more before shutting it and /finally/ retiring the machine to the table. "Oh, it's nice. I just had a dream last night where somebody was wearin' today's shirt from the site y'had open. Yes, I'm here. With food," Micah reiterates as he moves back to the chair by Flicker and the food. "I brought chopsticks an' forks both 'cause I didn't know which would be easier. Y'been doin' okay feedin' yourself without bein' able t'see, or is it better if I help?" Hive gets a little more time to wake up more completely before Micah pesters him to eat. "Would you even want me kissing you?" Flicker brushes his fingers along his bedside controls, shifting to adjust the bed into a proper sitting position. "I -- might need help," he admits a little awkward-apologetic, "my hands are a little bandagey too." "Huh?" Hive turns a puzzled look towards his computer. "What? You had a dream last /night/ with -- but that shirt's just from /today/. It didn't /exist/ before --" "Are you on woot again?" Flicker's lips twitch upward. "Yes. I got you your turtle shirt back. Today's shirt is fucking awesome, too, I kind of thought Spence would get a kick out of it." Hive rubs at his eyes, stifling a small yawn and pulling himself closer to the bed to -- promptly set his head back down against Flicker's lap and close his eyes once more. "Who was wearing it dude that's weird as fuck how are your dreams predicting the internet." "Why wouldn't I?" One of Micah's eyebrows quirks upward at that question. "Not a problem, sugar. My hands might smell a little...engine greasy. I'll just use napkins t'pick up the spring rolls an' hopefully that'll keep it from rubbin' off on your food. What d'you want first?" His head tilts at Hive's comments. "Huh. Maybe they put the new one up the night before or somethin'? I might've walked by someone else's screen as had it up 'fore I went t'bed, maybe. S'a kid under a pile of books built up kinda TARDIS-shaped on a blue background, sayin' it's the best time machine ever. Matt...was wearin' it in the dream. They came over t'the Commons an' we had breakfast in the sunroom." "Why would you?" Flicker's eyebrows cannot be seen but his tone is genuinely puzzled at this question. "Oh /man/ scallion pancakes. /All/ the scallion pancakes." Hive gives his computer a puzzled look, now. "M -- aaaybe," he allows, to Micah's explanation of maybe putting it up the night before. But he sounds kind of /dubious/. "Matt would love it, wouldn't he? It's kinda fucking perfect --" He looks at his screen with a deep frown. "Maybe I'll get it," he decides. "Have it for him like a hey look you were in Prometheus and all /we/ got /you/ was this crappy t-shirt kind of present." "Except it sounds like an awesome t-shirt," Flicker objects, "so it wouldn't work." "M'getting it for him anyway," Hive decides. But then narrows his eyes at Micah. "-- You were dreaming about the Commons /too/? How'd the sunroom look?" "Because kissin' is awesome an' so are you?" Micah's tone is equally puzzled right /back/ at Flicker. "Comin' right up." He opens the container of scallion pancakes, breaking a bit off with a plastic fork before bringing it up to Flicker's mouth. "It was amazin'. Huge glass panels lettin' in the sun, plants hangin' everywhere, even raised beds all the way around full of herbs an' things. I was able t'step outta the kitchen to cut chives an' parsley for the omelettes, then go right back in an' cook with 'em." His teeth worry at his lower lip for a bit before speaking again. "D'you think that Prometheus could set their brain chips up t'explode remotely? If they thought t'do that? An'...if they /could/, how would we go about makin' sure they didn't explode?" "Well -- but you don't -- just kiss /everyone/ who's awesome, I mean, there's a lot of --" Flicker's thought is interrupted here, because there is scallion pancake by his mouth and he leans forward slightly to eat it with a decadently pleased moan. "Micah does," Hive says with a snort, picking his laptop back up and moving it into his lap so that he can set about purchasing the shirt. "I think that's actually his only criteria for kissing. Be awesome." "There's worse criteria than --" Flicker suddenly catches his breath in a small gasp as /something/ flares painful-bright in his -- well, in all their minds. His teeth clench, muscles tensing. << Jax? >> it's a soft question fluttered out to the others there. "Mnngh," Hive answers. His hand lifts, its heel pressing down against his eye. "Who needs fucking exploding brainchips when I got --" His teeth grind. "-- exploding -- what? That's creepy as fuck, dude." "Also, hot. Hot helps," Micah teases at Flicker's reaction to the food. "Though I prob'ly have a dif'rent an' wider definition on that than most folks, admittedly. Well, an' it's more like be awesome an' /wanna/ be kissed an' be of appropriate age an' all for kissin'." His expression looks apologetic at Hive's response. "Apologies, honey, it's just. Shane had a dream 'bout the chips bein' explosive. An' now /I've/ had a dream 'bout the chips bein' explosive. An' maybe it's just 'cause Shane told me 'bout his dream first, but. Now I'm worried that--" He winces in time with Flicker's gasp. "That's...Jax?" he echoes the thought aloud. << Is everyone okay? >> "Can't you tell?" Hive is rubbing at his temple slowly, his muscles tensed, too. "Everyone feels /so/ different. And nobody's as bright as your boy is." Flicker shifts uncomfortably, quiet, for a time, his own soft-warm calm-thoughts rather /determinedly/ projected across the shared mental connection. Eventually Hive just grunts an affirmation. "He's -- okay." It doesn't sound all /that/ confident. But. He's now too busy frowning at Micah anyway. "Worried that what? Your dreams are spying on Prometheus?" "It seems like 'im, but I'm never /really/ sure. I'm not...used t'being a telepath, really. An' there's a /lotta/ people in here. Which we should /discuss/, by the way, Hive. Ain't no reason for you t'be holdin' on t'half the East Village an' you're /sick/, honey." Micah tries to project calming warm-huggy thoughts, but mostly is full of /fret/, and so attempts to stop projecting altogether. He sighs out a puff of relieved breath at Hive's assurance. "Okay. I may need t'get home as soon as dinner's finished." Another bit of scallion pancake finds its way onto the fork and is directed to Flicker's lips. "I'm just worried that it's somethin' they /could/ think t'do an' might /actually/ do if they thought of it. Would be a whole lot easier on 'em than needin' t'take out their captives one by one durin' a raid. Just. What would we do if they had those?" Hive scowls down at his laptop at the mention of /discussing/ this. Something bristles prickly-uncomfortable in Micah's mind. He ignores this mention altogether to instead focus on the rest: "-- Do? Fuck." He exhales a short burst of laugh. "We'd be fucking /boned/, man. We lost our technopath." "If they -- if they put exploding /brainchips/ --" Flicker hesitates. "That -- I mean, we'd lose the whole facility, I guess, I don't know how we'd possibly disable that before even getting inside. And -- Hive tends to just --" His jaw works, slowly. "-- just preemptively hive anyone who's /been/ chipped so if --" For a moment he shudders, lips twisting down into a nauseated expression before he takes his next bite. "Well, yeah. We don't know whose chip does what -- /they/ don't even always know what their own chips do. So I have to take them all or any one of them could turn on us." Hive shrugs, setting aside his laptop again now that t-shirt purchasing is finished. He lowers his hands to the bed, fingers trembling faintly against the sheets. "I mean, what the fuck could we do? Do we even know /how/ these hypothetical chips are detonated? Security system in-building? Trigger from a remote location? Someone at some fucking headquarters in DC getting a call that says do it? How the fuck could we stop /that/?" "I guess we -- pray Prometheus's dreams aren't as creepy as Micah's," Flicker says with a very small very /wan/ smile. Micah frowns, brow furrowing at Hive's reply to the brain chip question, at his /lack/ of reply to the matter of him un-hiving people, at the bristling in his mind. "There's gotta be somethin'. They can't just...have an unstoppable move. There's /always/ a way around, just need t'have the right /tactics/ t'do it. It's an unacceptable risk t'lose /all/ the refugees an' you two, it's just..." He shakes his head firmly, blinking several times. "I dunno. It could be any of those. Need a way t'stop /all/ of 'em, I guess. Cut the phone lines? An' the power. Harder t'handle wireless devices. I dunno. Got any friends with access to EMP devices?" He sighs heavily at this. "I know. I know, I'm bein' ridiculous, it just. Felt really real. An' worried me." Instead of speculating further, he stabs another bite of food for Flicker. "Micah, they don't have an unstoppable move," Hive says, puzzled. "You /dreamed/ they did. We're not dead, dude. Not dying -- wait us two? Why the fuck would we --" "-- Hive you know what it felt like losing Ian. Or through the zombies. Or -- what do you /think/ would happen if you lost a whole /lot/ of drones at /once/?" Flicker isn't as dismissive; his voice is soft, here, heavy concern threaded through it. "And I'm always tethered to you, if you --" He swallows. "I mean, thank /God/ we don't /know/ what happens if /you/ die while hiving anyone but -- I can't -- imagine it would be fun." "-- Oh." Hive's mouth closes. His head tips forward to rest his forehead against his shaking hands. "Fuck." Flicker eats his food in silence. But there's a growing /sickened/ clench coiling through the mental link, twining itself into a hard knot in his stomach. Sickened and /worried/ and scared and protective and his hand moves to rest on the back of Hive's head, thumb brushing down against fuzzy hair. "We /know/ people who /are/ EMP devices, Micah," he says finally, but the words are slow and forced through a very clear mental fuzz of stress and worry and -- beneath the fretting over Hive just a sick-stark-/terror/ that -- doesn't make it through to his voice. But it's thinking of flames and explosion, of the searing agony of acid-melting skin, of the feel of invisible biting slices of wind cutting through his chest, of twisting stabs of psionic pain -- of /all/ the times on one raid or another or another that he's been in the heaviest line of fire. All the times he's come out just that much more scarred and battered and bloody (and one time in particular that he didn't make it out at all and is only still /here/ by Karrie's good graces.) And thinking of a whole lab full of detonating chips; thinking of the other voices that had been angry and concerned and protective just now in their minds. Thinking of them all exploding in pain and dying. Thinking that maybe he /can't/ take it anymore -- -- Somewhere in the back of his mind he starts praying, here. His thumb keeps rubbing against Hive's scalp. His tongue swipes gently against his lip. "-- but if we don't know. If someone /outside/ the facility could detonate them -- it wouldn't --" The mental litany of prayer grows stronger even as his hard clench of fear does. "It's not even something they /have/ it's something you /dreamed/ they --" But here Hive stops. His lips press thinly together, and he tips his head to turn his eyes towards his laptop. Still open to the little reading-kid Best Time Machine EVER! shirt. His eyes fix on it for a very long while. <Borg> Someone is growing a sudden sick-clench knot of fear and panic and stress and fear and << -- can't I can't I can't -- >> that is /determinedly/ clamped down beneath a steady repetitive drone of prayer. <Borg> Someone /bristles/. /Again/. << {Is just /everyone/ having a shitty night?} >> It's in Vietnamese, but with minds tethered together language is less – relevant. <Borg> Someone is abruptly, muzzily awake; vagues a clumsy mental pat-pat-pat of assurance back – out. <Borg> Someone's fretting mostly comes across as a swirl of uneasy yellow-green glow. It warms into something more concrete, a fierce /squeeze/ of mental embrace. "I didn't mean that they necessarily /have/ 'em, just that it's possible for 'em to. So, there /is/ this move in the bag of tricks. But they /can't/ have an impossible move, so /we/ gotta have a way 'round it," Micah replies, the sick-worry in his voice entirely more present than it should be for talking of dreams and hypotheticals. "Would...your EMP people be willin' t'go on your raids with you? 'Specially...the one t'get Matt? I mean, if y'kill all the electronic devices 'fore they even know you're there, they won't be /able/ t'activate the chips themselves /or/ call out t'get someone else t'do it." His fingers drop the fork into the scallion pancake container limply before moving to rake-pull at his messy hair. "Sor--apologies, I just. It felt real. An' if I could come up with it an' Shane could come up with it, then /they/ could come up with it. An'...there should be a way t'stop it. Just in case. Just in case, we need t'be able t'stop it." <Borg> Someone's thoughts are washed over in guilt and apology that doesn't help to dilute the sick worry. The stupid sick worry that is being spread to others who don't need to be full of sick worry. "Lotta landlines work even in blackouts." Flicker sounds a little robotic-numb, now. Hive is still just staring at the computer screen. "-- why are all your fucking dreams sharing a /story/." There's a bristling harder edge to his voice that sounds almost accusatory. "Nobody's fucking -- answered --" He draws in a breath through his teeth. "Who else was in your dream? What else /happened/ in it?" <Borg> Someone sends more sleepy shush-shushes of reassurance, broad and vague. "Landlines can be cut. Those are easier," Micah replies. He picks up a spring roll with a napkin, bringing it to Flicker's mouth a little mechanically. He may just...hold it there awhile whether the other man bites it or not. "I don't /know/. This ain't the first time it happened, but this is the first /part/ that has /really/ worried me. An' it's /deeply/ worryin'." He swallows hard and closes his eyes, as if searching his memory for the answer. "I was cookin' an' workin' in the garden in the sunroom. Lucien an' Matt came over. Matt had on that time machine shirt from your website. Luci was talkin' 'bout bein' in Pippin again. An' said Sera liked the costumes so much she was takin' aerial acrobatics an' gymnastics just so she could be in a show like that with costumes like 'em. Matt was sayin' how...long it was takin' 'im t'get back t'doin' /anythin'/ since he was rescued. That Luci had t'repair his /brain/ 'cause he was hived when...all the captives had their chips exploded /except/ him an' Hive died. An' that Flicker died right after. I'd said that Flicker was in such bad shape there was no way even Luci tryin' t'fix 'im would've helped. We were talkin' 'bout how Matt was /the only one/ who came outta that raid. Um... But also I said that Prometheus was shut down after? That somehow the public got footage of 'em blowin' up all those people an' they finally shut the whole thing down." He takes a deep breath. "Matt mentioned wantin' t'go t'school t'be a social worker. I was talkin' 'bout expandin' my business an' needin' office space. Luci an' Matt had taken over...your buildin' after... An'. They thought I might be able t'move into it so that it wouldn't...go t'some stranger instead. With...your things in it an' all." "Lucien was in Pippin again." In all of this, /this/ tidbit of information seems to be what Hive is seizing upon. His eyes stay fixed on the screen. Flicker ignores the spring roll, the roiling-sick turbulence in his stomach possibly -- a little bit of an appetite killer at the moment. << can't I can't I can't -- >> is screaming through his head together with the crisping-meat smell of burning flesh. Outwardly, he is quiet. It takes a while before he speaks, soft and calm in contrast to the nausea-panic tearing through his mind. "Okay. We'll talk to Jax. Come up with some kind of -- contingency plan for." His teeth dig in against his lip. "But how would we even know? Whether or not we -- needed to use it?" "Lucien was in Pippin again," Hive says again. "Micah your dreams are all telling the /same fucking story/." And beneath this, a little /edged/, a little sick-scared: << And we're dead in it every fucking time. >> Flicker's loud-thinking finally clues Micah in that he isn't eating the food in front of him. His hand returns the spring roll to its package. "Would it be a bad thing t'have a plan an' use it whether or not y'think they got this thing? An'...certainly on the mission t'get Matt. The way we were talkin' it sounded like the first raids went /well/. An' the only one with the...explosions...was the one in Vermont." He puffs out a breath, shaking his head. "Apologies, I don't mean t'keep talkin' 'bout this like it's some kinda...clairvoyant /vision/. It just...felt so.../so/ real." Hive's thought draws the smallest little whimper from Micah's throat, barely audible. "I'm sor-- {I'm sorry. I'm /sorry/,}" he repeats in Vietnamese, tone intensely guilty and apologetic as if somehow /his/ mind were killing Hive and Flicker. "I don't know," Flicker says, voice still rather determined-calm over the backdrop of terror in his mind. "We'll talk to Jax." "Would it be a bad thing to send Jax into a fucking /blackout/ if we don't /have/ to? Yeah, it'd be a bad thing." Hive lifts his head, lifts his hands, digs knuckles hard against his eyes. "Fuck." "It's not just your dreams. Shane. Dusk. Jax. You're /all/ --" Flicker shifts, uncomfortable, tipping his head back against his pillow. "It's just a little bit unsettling." Hive pushes himself to his feet, shaky-unsteady, thumping back down into his chair a moment later and taking a /second/ try to struggle upright. "I need a fucking cigarette." "We can...put lights on Jax. Make more of the collars an' cuffs an'...have 'im wear /several/. It's less of a risk than /this/...would be. If it...is a thing." Micah nods at Flicker's list of people having similar dreams. "Luci, too. An' Jax. They both had the same dream I had. The first one about goin' t'see Lucien in Pippin. I'll have t'ask Luci if he had /this/ one, too. But...I wonder. Maybe /Matt/ also had it? That'd be. I don't even know. I just. {I'm sorry}." Micah moves to help Hive out of his seat. "Will you be okay if I take Hive out? I'll come right back up after an'...y'should eat. An' /you/ should eat, too, Hive. Then...I oughtta get home an' check on Jax. Everythin's just a mess. {I'm sorry}." "But this is like Maya shit only /her/ dreams were always /happy/ and not creepy as fucking -- fucking --" Hive's breath is shaky, uneven; his palm scrubs angrily against his eyes. "I'll be fine," Flicker assures Micah with a small smile that fades very quickly from his face. The nauseated-sick knot roiling in his mind has not lessened. His hand lifts, though, stretching out towards Micah almost imploringly. "-- Micah --" "Don't -- apologize. Just have to figure out -- why the fuck -- everyone keeps --" Hive's teeth grind hard, and he leans heavily against Micah for a moment before pulling away to shuffle towards the door. "I don't think this is her. It don't work right. There's no /things/ goin' missin' or appearin' or nothin'. I mean. I could ask her. Or have Dusk ask her." Micah shakes his head. When Flicker reaches out, he moves in to hug him /gently/. "I'll be /right/ back, honey. Hive's shufflin' on outta the room an' I don't want him t'collapse outside by himself. Just 'til he's done an' I'll be /right/ back with you, okay? I promise." He kisses Flicker's forehead--again, gently--before moving to take Hive's arm and support him on his way outside. Flicker's arm curls slow and stiff around Micah, a light hug that he holds a long shaky moment before dropping his hand. The turmoil of his thoughts does not get /much/ quieter with physical distance, but it gets a little quieter. Hive is just silent. He leans heavily into the support of Micah's arm, his own thoughts kept a good deal quieter than Flicker's as they head out.