ArchivedLogs:Fucked Up As Hell
| Fucked Up As Hell | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 13 June 2013 D:! (Part of Thunderdome.) |
| Location
<NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts - East Village | |
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building. A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan. In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generallly littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools. Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom. Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. Doug's apartment is a mess. Normally neat and tidy, this evening finds the teenager's apartment in nothing short of complete disarray. Dirty clothes mark a trail from bedroom to bathroom, a pair of discarded shorts serving as a snuggle-place for Alt, her calico fur /just/ visible under the waistband, Delete has claimed a pair of nearby jeans, a sock pulled to his face like a security blanket. In the living room, three laptops sit open on the low coffee table, two of them connected by a couple of cables, a process working but whatever it is is minimized, leaving a static desktop on both screens. The third seems to be open to a word document, a barely-started paper on the screen. Around the laptops are a variety of fast-food containers, and an equally impressive number of soda and Red Bull cans. The less said about the state of the kitchen, the better. Sitting upright on the couch, Doug himself looks no better than his apartment, really. His current attire -- a pair of loose sweat shorts and a white tank top that looks to be a two-day garment -- notwithstanding, the blonde's skin is pale and there's significant (if downy) stubble on his face. His eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused as he stares dully at the phone in his hand, and his brain rolls at caffeinated hyper-speed with dark and gloomy thoughts that are too fast to pick out. Except for the occasional whirr from the computers, it is very quiet. Very, very quiet. It's shortly thereafter that Doug's door gets a knock! Knockknock. You have VISITORS. Three of them, in fact. Despite the undoubted stress of the week, Jackson looks -- terrific, really! Bright. Awake! A little bouncy. Shiny metallic green makeup, purple nails, purple tank with a peacock feather. Black capris. He's bouncing on the toes of his chunky platform sneakers after knocking. "-- he say what he even found?" he's asking Hive. "Hopefully somethin' that can --" << bring these assholes down, >> finishes sharpertoned than his voice ever manages. Internally, well. The brightness is a clear /lie/, illusion layered over sleepless raccoon eyes, unhealthy pallor, worried-sick expression. Worried-sick thoughts, clouded still with grief. And rage. His hand is in Micah's, and his skin is fierce-hot to touch. Hive just shrugs. Silent. He's mostly just been silent. He lacks illusion to hide the bags under his eyes, the drawn expression. His hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders slouched in his dingy undershirt. << If he didn't find anything, >> sort of /bludgeons/ Micah and Jax's minds in his hardsharp crack of mindvoice, << I can just kill them all. Seems to be the thing to do. >> Micah's hand gives Jax's a little squeeze, practically a brainless reflex by this point, it has been so well rehearsed. He hasn't bothered to look anything, auburn hair a worse mess than usual, powder blue Totoro T-shirt tossed over a patched pair of jeans. Okay, so he doesn't look that much different from usual, except that his ensemble does not include any sort of grin, smirk, or smile. He barely even winces at Hive's Royal Canterlot brainvoice. << Because that wouldn't be suspicious at all, or make everything worse. >> Micah's reply is silent. His exhausted sigh is not. << I don't even want to think about what worse would look like. I'm just sure it could be. >> The knocking is slow to penetrate Doug's consciousness, and he turns his head to blink at the panel of wood a couple of times before he pushes himself to his feet. He shuffles to the door and looks through the peephole before he moves to unlock it and swing it open. He winces in the (not so) bright light of the hallway, and squints at the three on his doorstep. When it sinks in who exactly is standing there, there's a wash of cold...grief? Horror? Maybe a mix. It drains right down to his toes, and he swallows. "Hey," he says, voice croaking as if he hasn't used it in a few hours. "I was just considering calling you." At least, that's how it started out, anyway. Jackson jerks a thumb at Hive. "He knows." He has the eavesdroppiest of brains. "Can we come in?" His brow creases, worried. "-- You look terrible, has. I mean, this week has been. Are you OK, have you been -- well, as OK as anyone /can/ be in all." His shoulder twitches upwards. "This." "All-knowin' Hive," Micah attempts to joke, weakly. "Hey, Doug. How are--" On second thought, bad question. "Is there anythin' I can do? I been force-feedin' people sandwiches like I'm tryin' to fatten 'em up for winter." This time, the jest is pulled off with somewhat more art, a hint of a smile even joining it. "Everybody keeps forgettin' to...anythin' lately." Doug doesn't answer right away, merely walking away from the door and into the apartment. "It's pretty bad," he acknowledges for Hive without looking. << Pretty fucking horrifying. >> "Bad enough that I couldn't decide whether to call you or not." His voice grows steadier, but there's not any life in it. He waves a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "There's drinks in the fridge," he says absently, his brain beginning to wander just a bit as the hyper-speed begins to roll again. Then there's a /stab/ of the sudden stop of the wheel, and the blonde turns to furrow his brow at Jackson. "I'm not...you might not want..." He exhales heavily, abandoning the subject and moving to drop onto the couch. << It'll freak him out bad enough as it is. >> "I found a bunch of stuff that is probably what you're looking for." << Like horrifying videos. Jesus, they just fucking /ate/ -- >> Lost in his thought for a moment, Doug shakes it off visibly. "You're not going to like some << (most) >> of it." "I don't think we come expectin' no entertainment." Jackson answers this quiet, with a scuff of his hand against his shaved head. "Just. This -- the guy who ran this -- they're toutin' him like some hero an' there ain't -- hardly no proof out there of what even /happened/, he --" His cheeks puff out, and he exhales sharply. "Should maybe just. Get this through with." "Pretty much omnipotent," Hive agrees. But he agrees it through his /teeth/, his scowl not any less scowly. "Don't know if this is the kind of movie you want with /snacks/," is muttered quieter, at the mention of sandwiches. Or drinks. "What'd you find?" "Kind of /expect/ bad. I mean...it would have t'be... Some of the folks who was in there told me about..." Micah shakes his head. << Y'know that ain't what I meant, >> he starts, completing the thought aloud. "Just makin' sure people are takin' care of themselves 'cause they /aren't/." He presses his palm into Jax's again, quickly, before darting off to the kitchen and returning with two bottles of water. One is placed on the table, unopened. The other he uncaps and pushes into Doug's hand. "Y'sound hoarse. Prob'ly dehydrated already." He pats the teen's shoulder once before returning to his station at Jax's side. His fingers lace through the other man's again, as if he hadn't left. Doug wrinkles his nose, scrubbing at his face with the heel of one hand in a furious sort of movement before he leans forward to skim his fingers over the keyboard of one of the connected laptops. There's a conscious lid being kept on his thoughts, although there's a bleak sort of atmosphere that's reflected in the grim set of his mouth. A window opens, with six folders, each titled with a four letter code followed by a string of numbers (14 digits, if anyone bothers to count). A flick of Doug's thumb, and the cursor hovers over the first folder. "I found three people who didn't have video, but /were/ each getting regular payments from the same bank account," he begins, poking his tongue into his cheek. He takes the bottle of water absently, and tips it to his lips before continuing. "Which turned out to be the account the cops were using." The first folder opens to a series of pages -- mostly bank records, but some business and personal records -- of one Nora Biala, Veterinarian. The second folder pops open to similar pages concering one Honorable Jay Assael, a New York city Justice. The third is connected to a Kafi Bakshi, a M.E. at OCME. Doug exhales, and takes another drink, sliding his gaze over the other three, tiredly gauging their reaction thus far. "I didn't find anything to say /why/ each them were getting paid, though I can guess pretty well." Jackson's reaction is hard to gauge. His expression doesn't much shift, just accepting this information with a nod. His hand tightens in Micah's when the other man returns, though. "-- Veterinarian?" This is all he says aloud; it sounds kind of puzzled. Internally, a quiet cataloguing of information. Quiet turning-over of what could be done with it. And what it would take to just quietly ruin their lives anyway if the answer is 'nothing'. Hive snorts, at the name of the justice. "This fucking city," he mutters, scuffing his hand through his hair. "What do we have against killing people, again?" His eyes slant to Jax and Micah. There's a thin twitch of his lips. << Oh, we could ruin so much life. >> It's hard and sharp, too, but layered beneath the angry /bludgeoning/ Jax and Micah get is something sicker, knotted-up, wrought in clenching-twisted sentiment more than words: << (like they've ruined ours) >>. Aloud, with a hardening of expression: "And any who did have video? We barely even have any proof this /happened/." "Vet...coulda been doin' anythin'. Somebody was stitchin' wounds...mighta been she was one of 'em." Micah sticks to analysing the data on as mechanical a level as possible. "Killin' people is likely to lead to even more killin' people," he reminds Hive. Oh boy...second time tonight already. << Easy enough t'give people with professional licenses all kinds of a hard time, if nothin' else. Just takes a few well-placed complaints. Even anonymous ones. >> It's hard to tell whether that was a /directed/ thought or just musing. His eyelids scrunch closed tightly with the knife-twist thoughts coming from Hive. "I've got proof," Doug says in a hollow voice, and his eyes threaten to slip back out of focus as the wheel spins in his head again. A bleak little wheel that only gains momentum. "I've got more than enough proof." He clears his throat with a harsh little coughing sound, and slides his hand over the keyboard, bringing up the fourth folder. When it is opened, it has a /slew/ of video files among the bank records and employment records. "This, is Elise Gechtoff. She's the chief physician at Sloan-Kettering Memorial Hospital here in the city." Doug's face twists as nausea sweeps across his brain. "She /really/ like animals. Like, 'get out the peanut butter' likes them. I...saw too much, before I found these two videos." He pauses, a surge of doubt going through him that he quashes quickly. << They're going to see them soon enough. Just get it over with. >> A flick of his thumb, and the first video starts. It has a woman made of shadows (recognizable to those who know her as Nox) fighting a young man with skin like brightly-glowing lava. In a cage with bright spotlights beating down in the hollowed-out concrete pit. It is a quick, brutal fight, and the ending of it is like something out of a horror movie as Nox-spider SWALLOWS the young man in shadow, smothering his flame. Doug glances around the group, and flicks his thumb again, and there is the second video, which is of a woman with very canine-like attributes in battle with a young man with very vulpine features. It is more feral than the previous video, the two combatants using those attributes to best advantage. This one ends badly for the fox-guy. Very badly. He likely needed that veterinarian, judging from the blood loss. Doug is silent a long moment after the video ends. "I've got two other people with videos," he says bleakly. "They just get worse, after this." Jackson shifts closer to Micah as the video starts. Whatever reaction he might have had is for a moment distracted by the buzzing of his phone; he /frowns/ at his text messages, but answers them somewhat distractedly as he turns his eye to the video. The hand squeezing Micah's is abruptly waaaay too tight to be fun. His jaw clenches; the anger in his mind is just growing. Possibly directed as much /at/ Nox as /for/ Nox. His eyes fix on Nox-spider but in his mind there are flickers of another shadowperson, sitting around the table in Geekhaus upstairs playing games.
Hive slants a glance towards Jax, a quiet mental nudge pressing curiously in inquiry: texts? Good news? Bad news? No news? He's defaulting to assuming, at the moment, that all communications are bad news unless otherwise indicated. His arms tighten against his chest. He leans down, resting slightly against the back of the couch. "These motherfuckers. You know, they're burying one of the assholes today who ran all this. City's gonna give him a /hero's/ gorram turnout." Micah doesn't find room for something as defined as anger in the /sick/ feeling that takes over...even organs that don't typically feel 'sick' in the traditional sense. It is simply pervasive. He just lets Jax keep his vise-grip on his hand, using the pain as a focus. It is easier to process physical pain. His teeth do grit together more tightly. Nox... His head shakes slowly, unconsciously, unable to make sense of the muddle of thoughts and feelings and worries and... Ohgosh, Nox. "No one knows any better," his voice slips from his lips as little more than a whisper. "They...people get up in arms over folks fightin' /dogs/, I mean, they'd /have/ to..." Doug snorts something. "I don't think it'll be that easy. Mutants aren't exactly /lovable/-looking," he says to Micah with a shake of his head. Hive's comments get no response, but there's another roll of that wheel, most of the memories of his mother talking on and on about 'that poor man', and replays of various news reports over the last few days. "But there's a couple on here...they'd be pretty effective, but -- " He grimaces, and punches at his keyboard, opening the next folder. "This is Oscar Valentino. He's an investment banker, and he had some of the stranger fights." He twitches his thumb, opening one video after another. The first has a man who takes a knife and cuts into his flesh, the blood running over his body and forming into an armor that does some serious damage to his opponent. Another has a young man with mouths that grow all over his body that give him no advantage over the bruiser they pair him against. Two feature a skinny, melted-looking sort of man whose movements are jerky and ill-defined. His first opponent is a young man who...does not fare well. The second video has him fighting with a leafy-looking fellow. It's at that point Doug taps the screen. "I know that guy. His name is Jim Morgan. I didn't know he was a mutant, though." He lapses back into silence as the fight progresses, a gross melting of wood and flesh that ends in thorns through the melted man (Masque, for those who'd recognize him) and with Jim's hands being pulled from his forearms like warm taffy. Doug takes another drink of his water, and leans back, closing his eyes, briefly. << Fuck. Who the fuck /does/ this stuff? To /people/? >> Jackson shudders. The sick horror inside him is sort of muted, though. Numbed. It might be shock that is dampening it or maybe just overload, too much to process at once and not enough brain to process it with. His eyes slowly turn back down to the phone still buzzing in his hand; it's mechanical as he answers. Hive's poking gets a response, an image of Eric clouded by uncertainty. << asking for help >> << looking for someone >> It's with a measure of reluctance that he looks back to the screen. "Yeah," he finally manages, a little hoarse as he watches Masque and Jim fight. << Hive don't look don't look don't look. >> Not that it would /help/, the fight is playing in his /mind/ clear enough as he watches. "This isn't exactly. Lovable. Pups."
"I know him." This is lifeless and flat in tone, when Jim comes up; Hive's been watching in silence for the rest. He does, actually, heed Jax's mental entreaty, eyes dropping to the floor. Lifting to the ceiling. Restlessly searching the apartment for anything that is not Jim being mangled on screen. But the scene /is/ there playing out as the others watch and Hive's hands are shaking as they shove into his pockets. Something presses out hard against the others' minds. Squeeeeze. A heavy weight that starts to clamp. Hive steps forward to swipe the second water bottle from the table and take a long gulp. << do so much worse than kill them. >> This time it's to all three of the rest, knife-sharp in its viciousquick stab. "Is that all?" "But--" Micah bites his lip to stop the rest of the sentence from forming in protest of Doug's comment. It finishes in his head, regardless. << ...yes, they are, sometimes. >> Ugh, telepaths! His mind is full of images of Nox: Nox-kitten in his lap bonking his chin with her head, Nox in her person-shape leaning against him with her purr-laugh buzzing at his shoulder. "No one's gonna look lovable fightin' for their /life/." He is even imagining the dog-woman, stranger though she is, happier, tail a-wag. He nods at the screen of Jim and Masque, to indicate his own recognition of them both. There are thoughts of an endearingly-gruff Jim, trading barbs with Hive and Shelby. Micah can't manage to /look/ at anyone after all of this. "No," is Doug's bleak answer, the mental stab earning a grimace. "There was one more guy who saved video." He glances at Jax, and there's a stab of guilt and worry on the wheel, spinning by slowly on a gritty axle. "They were the worst." He chews at his lip, finally jamming his thumb into his teeth to chew at a nail. Trepidation washes over him as he leans forward, and he bites his nail hard enough that the pain flares briefly in his mind. Then he reaches forward to skim his hand over the keyboard, opening the last file. "Kenzo Iwata," Doug says, nodding at the screen as he fishes around in the folder. "He's a fashion designer out of L.A. He's got very specific tastes." Which is all the introduction he offers before he opens the first video. It is of a young teenage girl, with crab-like claws instead of hands and a crab-like armor on her skin. It might be her first fight; it is most definitely her last. There are four more videos featuring a large man with octopus tentacles who fights very well and appears very strong. The first three fights he wins. The fourth features the large man fighting against Shane and Sebastian, both showing signs of hunger and dehydration. It is a /bloody/, savage fight, and is the last one Davy Jones will ever see, as about ten percent of him appears to wind up as a solution to the twins' hunger situation. The last video features the twins fighting Peter. They are similarly hungered, and it looks like it will go very badly for Peter. It even sounds like Shane is hurling insults as the fight begins. Doug taps the screen. "I don't know who the beetle kid is, but he seems familiar." He falls silent as the fight progresses, Sebastian eventually leaping on Peter, with Shane right behind him. And ends shortly after Shane bites into his twin's neck, and all three teens give in to unconsciousness. Doug is very, very quiet, now. There are so many emotions on the wheel it's hard to keep track of any one for very long. Anger, nausea, horror, fear, tension...step right up and spin the wheel one more time.
Jackson's jaw tightens as the new fights start to roll. His eye drops back down to the screen of his phone. Then back up. He takes one step closer to the side of the couch, hand still tight in Micah's, so that he can reach for Hive's shoulder, squeeze it gently. There is not much left to read in his mind anymore past something glazing-over, blank, edged past horror into just a steady current of nothingness. At least until the twins show up back on the screen. The heat in his hand starts to climb; even from a distance it can be felt radiating off of him. He's seemed to have forgotten Micah's hand in his. Hopefully Micah will remember it and pull /away/; though the spike in his temperature is gradual, it's climbing high enough to be dangerous. High enough to burn skin, by the time the octopus man is being eaten. When Peter shows up, too, his fingers clench in against his phone; the plastic is /melting/ in his hand, squishing inwards where he holds it. << So much worse than fucking kill them, >> this sentiment is reflected back to Hive somewhere nestled into a storm of black angry rage. Jax's clothes are singeing, too, and he turns in haste to head for the door in kind of a /hurry/. << -- don't look -- >> It's Hive's turn for that, this time, for all the good it does. /He's/ looking, his expression clamped down into blankness, his eyes fixed on the screen. He starts to move towards Jax and Micah -- and then /doesn't/ at the feel of heat from the photokinetic. He makes no move to stop him when he hurries out, either. "That's. The last." His voice is very flat. "Thank you. This was. Thank you. I -- have a." A check! For a nice chunk of moneys for this work. Which he is pulling out of his pocket to lay down on the table somewhat robotically. "Can. Put all this on a." Presumably, some sort of portable storage, but instead of speaking all he does is take another gulp of water. Micah manages to bite back what might have been a gasp or a whimper at the boys' appearance in the video. This turns into a yelp that he does not even have the processing power left to /think/ to muffle, however, as his hand is burned. Reflexively, he pulls the hand away and up to his mouth. The skin is reddened, as if it had brushed the element on an active stovetop. A moment later, the meaning behind all of the heat and Jax rushing away finally clicks in his brain. "Ohgosh, I better go get a fire extinguisher!" Micah is more aware of the placement of said emergency gear than is typical, and he dashes off to the nearest one without having to apply much thought to the matter. Doug winces at the heat that comes from Jax, and his expression draws tight with concern as the older man flees. Not that he's going to stop him. Or Micah. He nods dully when Hive speaks, turning his head in his direction without looking at him. "That's it," he says, and his voice sounds kind of faraway. Probably because his brain is attempting to retreat into shutdown mode. The check is noted with a small tic of his eyebrows, and he nods again. "I'm doing some background comparison and verification stuff, so that there'll be no question that it's all in the same place." He waves a hand at the computer, which is to say he /lifts/ it. "'Salmost finished. I'll slap it on a thumb drive and bring it down in about an hour. That okay?" Then he /is/ looking at Hive. With focus and everything. << God. This is completely fucked up. I'm so sorry. >> The extinguisher is PROBABLY a good thing. Jax makes it as far as the third floor stairwell before -- well, not much. At least not much /visible/ from the apartment. There's a sudden searing /flash/ of pain well more than loud enough for Hive's senses to pick up; a sudden searing flash of light, too, that bursts outwards (... hopefully Micah is not following /too/ closely with that extinguisher) to sear -- most anything it touches. Which, thankfully, in the fire escape is less than it might otherwise have been. Even so, there are somewhat abruptly flames licking up from the walls from a sudden line of cracked-crumbling-black that they have sprouted in a halo around Jax. The railing near the landing where Jax crouches just /crumples/ as the top half of many of the bars topple off to fall four floors down. The fire alarms start blaring through the building a few seconds later. << Give him a minute, he won't be happy if he incinerates you, >> Hive at least offers in warning to Micah, some short while /before/ this explosion. Juuust in case. His shoulders tighten inwards even before the fire alarm starts going off. His palm rubs against his eyes. "This," he agrees tiredly, "is all fucked up as hell." His hands slowly lift to press fingers to his ears, because, /loud/. "Thank you," he says again. Very much not actually evacuating. "Look, the city's fucked up as hell right now. If you run into trouble just. We're one floor down." He looks at the computer again. Just for a moment. Then turns to trudge towards the door, too. Hands still pressed to his ears against the continuing klaxon sound. Fortunately, the time it takes for Micah to register the problem, get the fire extinguisher, and chase after Jax gives him enough time to formulate a game plan (even before helpful tips from Hive, but thanks anyhow). He continues to give chase, keeping fully one level behind Jax at all times, as he watches and listens for...precisely what just happened. He winces, despite this waiting and expectation. Once the flash of light is dimmed and replaced with flames, he approaches slowly and sets about dousing those with the fire extinguisher. Perfunctorily. Oh, explosions and fire. It must be Thursday. There just isn't enough emotional energy left to panic or even fret. Doug winces when the alarm goes off, but he seems likewise disinclined to react to it; instead staring at Hive with a small knit in his brow. "I was glad to help," is sincere, and comes with a surge of warmth and sympathy for the telepath. "Same goes for you," he says in response to the offer. "If you need anything, you just ask." He stands as Hive heads for the door, following him with a continued wincing at the alarms. "Tell Jax I'm really sorry." It's the last thing he offers before he's closing the door behind Hive, and turning the locks. Which is probably counter-intuitive, with fire alarms going off, but he does it anyway. All the locks. Because the city /is/ fucked up as hell. | |
