ArchivedLogs:Gameplan?

Gameplan?
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive, Jim	29 December 2013 Jax just got arrested for terrorism. WHAT DO? (Directly follows finding out about Malthus's video and Jim and Hive observing the arrest.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Micah is pacing in the living room, phone in hand, hitting redial for the third time. His auburn hair is beyond its usual tousled messiness and on into a wreck worthy of several days' hibernation. He has retrieved his Batsignal hoodie, which he has on and zipped up over a T-shirt and patched jeans. A pair of replacement socks has also found its way onto his feet. Micah's free hand tangles into his hair, pulling at it nervously, revealing just how the mess came to happen. The phone finishes ringing, hitting a wall of voice mail again. "Ms. Basil? This is Micah Holland-Zedner. Again. Apologies. I just wanted t'make sure you had my number. I couldn't remember if I said it clear enough in the last messages." He rattles off the digits for his cell phone. "Please. Please call me as soon as you get this. I don't care what time it is, just...it's urgent. Please. Thank you." He thumbs the End Call button and taps the phone against his forehead a few times as if this will help him think of what else to do before finally jamming the thing into his pocket. Five messages on the lawyer's voice mail were probably overkill already. Hive doesn't knock. His too-long hair is in a state of disarray, too, many flyaway clumps pulled out of its messy stubby ponytail. He's otherwise in Columbia sweatshirt, tatty old canvas jacket, threadbare jeans, ratty sneakers duct-taped together with shoelaces still untied. His mind is keenly alert as he enters, not bothering with removing his shoes for once but just sweeping the apartment with narrowed eyes. "... where're the kids." Entering lurksomely close behind Hive in the same swing of the door, Jim's hands are crammed in his pockets, in his familiar tattered kilt, brown corduroy jacket and worn out second-hand loafers. Though he scans the apartment as well with a back-and-forth switch of gaze, the notable clench twisting in the deep scarring down his face seems, for now, to be intent on frowning silence. At the sound of the door opening, Micah spins on his heel, expression hopeful and expectant. It's not that he's /disappointed/ to see Hive, just that he was kind of hoping he might be the twins returning with Spencer. There is an ache just to grab Hive into a hug that Micah doesn't act on, instead simply answering the question. "Left him alone for a few minutes just to...Daiki sent that video t'Shane an' we watched that an' I was callin' the lawyer an' Spence just...blipped out like he does in that little time he was in his room alone. The boys are checkin' the usual locations t'try an' bring 'im back. He's alone an' upset an'...Hive, the lawyer ain't answerin' her phone an' they took Jax an' they're accusin' 'im of bein' a terrorist an' I don't know...what t'do." His fingers clench and unclench in useless fists at his sides, his tone taking on a hopeless and slightly panicked edge. Hive slouches a few steps towards Micah at that ache, but stops with hands shoving into jacket pockets when Micah doesn't carry it out. "Video, what fucking video don't tell me they got that shit on /camera/, Micah." He /does/ sound disappointed at this thought. "Terrorist?" His half-lidded eyes open a little wider. "Fuck you on about." His shoulders hunch up tighter beneath his jacket. "Watched them take him," he says after this. "/Heard/ them take him." His teeth grind, slowly. "With a warrant for Malthus's fucking murder." Mean time to all of this, Jim has slipped to the side to lean back against a wall, arms crossed. His mind is braced down and evidence when he speaks, through yet-latched teeth, suggests the economy of his movements might be from a prolonged full-body stiffness beneath all the loose-shouldered contours. "--got /what/ shit on camera." "Malthus," Micah answers, the name coming out as if it is physically painful to say. "Had recorded a video to be released contingent upon his death. Accusin' Jax of havin' a terrorist cell that broke Vector out with the purpose of engineerin' a disease t'selectively exterminate all non-X-gene bearin' humans. An' that he used this terrorist cell an' mutant abilities t'kill 'im an' make it look like some kinda accident or suicide or..." He is unable to strangle the whimper that comes at the mention of the crime listed on the warrant, hangdog look suggesting how tempting creeping off into a dark corner with his tail between his legs would be at this point. "If it were just the murder accusation, I'd be down there gettin' 'im out already." The nagging need, even now, to go confess his guilt to the authorities is uncomfortably loud in his mind. "But...accusations of terrorism. That's so much worse." His eyes slide over Jim, acknowledging his presence silently, though he just shakes his head in response to the question. "Malthus /what/." Hive's eyes open wider here. His teeth grind together, and through the rest of Micah's words he is extracting his phone from his pocket, flicking it on to search this out rapidly. "Fff. The fuck bowl of crazysauce is -- his /terrorist cell/ wants to. Make a disease to. Kill /you/." He's tense, though, tenser still once he's pulled up the video on his phone. "... terrorism is. Worse than fucking murder, once they -- shit. Shit. They could keep him for -- fuck." His hand shakes, holding the phone. "Jesus Christ, Micah." He sidles a little closer to Jim, slouching against the wall as well as he hits play on the video. Though it strains his pulse into two visible veins to either side of Jim's temples, Micah's headshake clenches Jim in harder into silence, to contain the maelstrom of other questions churning up like gas in a tarpit. Questions or -- well, other less helpful things; sweeping items off counter tops, table flipping, pitching chairs out windows. << nots yours, jimmy PI. >> A few repeats of it to himself and he grows harder and more stable; the rough shielding of treebark growing firming in fixture of his mind. He leans nearer Hive, to watch the video as well. And near the end... raises up a hand to close around Hive's, steadying the phone. "-...pff." It's - low. "--that fuck." "I know. I know. The good thing is that he sounds kind of like a conspiracy theory lunatic with the plans he's ascribin' t'Jax. Bad thing is...all y'have t'do is /sneeze/ somethin' that sounds like 'terrorism' 'round /this/ government an'...suddenly you an' everyone you ever talked to got no rights anymore. Holdin' people indefinitely without trial, all above-board." Micah's face starts to crumple, a deep breath and deliberate force of will stopping the panic and tears that threaten to tumble out again. The sound of Malthus's voice on the video turns his stomach, mind full of images of a plethora of dead Malthuses with a whole assortment of different holes in their skulls. The last one lingering, most of the back of his head missing, a zombie trying to chew on his face as his eyes go dead. Micah moves closer to the back of the couch to brace himself against it, suddenly afraid of collapsing to the floor. "I don't...know what t'do, Hive. I wanted the lawyer t'tell me what t'do an' she won't answer the phone an' I don't know...what t'do. They could be doin' anythin' t'him an' this is all my fault." "Yeah, kinda is," Hive agrees with this last before anything else. He's been silent through the video, except for the slow grinding of his teeth. He stares down at Malthus's unmoving face even after the video has ended, finally just tucking his phone back into his pocket. "Jesus Christ," he says again, shuddering at the images coming from Micah's mind. "He ran into Jax," Hive tells Jim. "Last week or so. Practically /dared/ Jax to kill him. What kind of sick motherfucker punishes someone for /not murdering them/." His knuckles run hard against his eyes. "... Yeah, no, get accused of /terrorism/ and they're pretty much golden to hold you forever." If his tone sounds oddly calm at this it's only because it's suddenly run /dead/ with a blank numb nothingness. << the kind that wants to die. >> What Jim opts to say out loud is only a flat, "Think you're giving this guy a little more credit than he deserves. This is the man that drove a fucking tank through a church in broad daylight. You guys ever go back and listen to any of his public statements before he came to New York?" Tone remains frank, sloven-professional, but it's grim as well. Bracing his mind yet against Hive's, "--not saying this isn't bad. I'm saying it'd be a lot worse if it'd been someone actually fucking credible. The fuck is that, Youtube? Did a fucking /military captain/ seriously have a message sent to the media on the event of his death like some downtrodden reporter making some final exposee?" Legal terms and procedures are already welling up, in the back of his mind, behind his shields. As are small -- details. Rearranging themselves into slots. << all my fault, he says. >> Jim speculates, ignoring his own disbelief. << 'don't tell me they got that shit on /camera/, Micah' ... can't be. >> Hive's blunt agreement to assign him guilt weighs heavy, heavy enough that the muscles of Micah's leg prove inadequate to holding him upright any longer, leaning against the couch or not. His breath catches in his throat before he slides down to the floor, disappearing from view behind the back of the large sofa. "-- Was at the church when he died," Hive says this with a bitter sense of irony. "Community service. Helping fix it back up. And /Jax/ was, uh, actually /at Mass/ with St. Martin's pastor while he was supposedly doing this murdering. That's gotta be some sort of -- some sort of fucking --" He breathes out sharp through his teeth, leaning back into the mental bracing. "YouTube," he agrees. "And looks like he fucking did. He really had it out for -- he'd threatened the /kids/, he'd threatened Jax, he'd -- fuck." His eyes slip sidelong to Jim at the final speculation, and he doesn't confirm it. But the tighter clench of his jaw doesn't exactly /deny/ it, either. Slowly he pushes himself away from the wall, hands still (curled up in /fists/) in his pockets. He moves around the couch to go drop down onto the floor beside Micah. "Look. We're going to get him a lawyer and we're going to get /through/ this. And just -- in the middle of /all this fucking shit/, at least -- at /least/ that bastard isn't going to come kill your family. God-fucking-damnit, any other circumstance and I'd be throwing a fucking /party/." "Might soon enough yet." Jim's mind remains steady and clinical, and on some level he curses himself for it. "Making this public? Dragging in the local police to sniff around? /Confirming/ that the facilities were holding -- what was his phrasing, 'containing dangerous mutants'? Facilities the public didn't know about til /you/ all brought broke the news first? Ffh, the bigwigs aren't gonna /want/ this getting traction, bless old Captain Gobblecock, he's practically confirming Jax's story. /Invite/ authorities to investigate the charges. They got nothing but baseless testimony of a dead man and /jack/-all evidence." When Hive settles next to him, Micah finally gives in to the need to hold him, grabbing fistfuls of the other man's shirt and burying his face against his shoulder. "He was. He was gonna...keep comin' 'til he killed /all/ of you. I couldn't...let 'im kill you. I love you. Y'all already been...through hell an' don't none of you deserve any of this an' the rest of the damn /world/ s'just content t'let it /happen/." His fingers dig in tighter, pulling him closer. "D'you think we can get 'im out? No matter how...ridiculous the accusations are. They've held people for less. They've tortured people for less. I don't know what t'do other than t'keep this so /loud/ an' /public/ that it's more of a fiasco for 'em than it's worth. I gotta...talk to Lucien. 'Bout what t'do with the media." He trembles again. "But what happens t'Jax in the meantime? Even if we get 'im out. It could take...so long. An'...oh. I wanted t'keep all of you out of prison. None of you was s'posed t'get taken. This is exactly. What I was tryin' t'stop." He's shaking where he leans against Hive, the effects adding up from days of no sleep and severe emotional distress and who knows the last time he ate, though he probably threw most of that up /anyhow/. "I wasn't." Hive says this through his /teeth/; he curls his arms around Micah but there's a ferocity in his bony-armed hold that is as much tense anger as it is anything else. "Wasn't. Content to --" His teeth grind again. "He'd've kept coming," he agrees, though, reluctantly. "Forever -- fuck you want to talk to Luci fo -- oh. That." His chin presses down against the top of Micah's head. "Guess he's good at swinging PR." His fingers clench into Micah's shirt, head tipping back against the couch to look up towards the ceiling. "-- Jax is," he says this slowly, distantly, an odd faraway vacancy to his expression, "really good at resisting torture." This is probably not reassuring. A slow swallow rolls down his throat. "Don't think they've got shit-all for evidence," he agrees with Jim. "Malthus's crazy fucking video. Unless Prometheus gives up something and -- fuck, don't know if they'd want that any more than we do. In the meantime --" He shakes his head, somewhat at a loss. "In the meantime he's held as a terrorist, I guess. Don't know if there's jackshit we can do about that except throw a lawyer at him and -- make it as politically shitty as possible for them to /keep/ holding him on /bullshit/. It's already /pretty/ fucking bad. Jesus. Never thought I'd be /thanking/ Lucien for being -- a weasel but he is good at playing the cameras." << Christ, I may as well be talking to myself. >> Standing blandly against the wall, Jim plays a drastic contrast to the rest of the room, rubbing at a temple - but his teeth are grinding. "Kid. If you wanna stop your fucking histrionics for a few minutes, pull on your god damn big-boy boots and LISTEN, I'm trying to fucking /tell/ you what where you can sure as shit /start/. And it's not gonna be sitting on the floor like a fucking /toddler/." Micah pulls back a bit to give Hive a puzzled look. "Why...of /course/ y'wouldn't be content with gettin' /killed/, that's ridiculous. It's everybody...out there...that just couldn't care less." He releases one hand from its grip on the other man's shirt to gesture vaguely toward the window. The mention of Jax resisting torture well...really /isn't/ reassuring. His jaw clenches and his forehead falls against Hive's shoulder again, fighting back a parade of images from Jax's dream projections. He latches onto the next thought that doesn't involve Jax, jail, or torture. "S'not a weasel, s'just good at readin' people an' knowin' how t'work a room. For whatever value of 'room'." After that tirade, Micah glares back at Jim, snapping at his tone. "I heard you. Y'think they aren't investigatin' the charges already? The hell else would they be doin'? What I /need/ is the damned /lawyer/ t'tell me what it's safe for me t'bring up without makin' this whole ludicrous situation worse than it already is because my husband's /life/ is on the line here. His whole team...our whole family could be implicated if we slip up. Don't...just don't even /start/..." He lets out a heavy breath, slumping back against Hive with a disgusted look. "I don't have the energy t'put up with this right now." Hive closes his eyes, fingers pressing to his temples. "Luci bolted," he says after a pause, likely to /scan/ the neighboring apartment for just that. "Whole family's gone. Probably Sera --" His jaw clenches down, setting into a hard line. "... this building isn't a good place to be psionic right now. You get in touch with Claire, I'll call him and --" His head shakes. "Call him. -- /Jim/." His tone sharpens abruptly. "Not fucking helping." His teeth grind again. "When did you last fucking eat I think. This whole day has just been --" His eyes roll towards the ceiling. "Oh, fuck." Whatever thought from upstairs has distracted him, though, he just shakes it off. "Look. /You/ -- goddamn eat. Step one is probably not passing the hell out." "How the fuck am I supposed to help when I don't even --." Jim's jaw is still working. Maybe he's chewing on a peanut. Something else non-peanut related twinges in his mind like a cramp. << ...'his /whole/ team'... christ, Jimmy. >> He chuffs, hands raising up and away, palms out. "Ffff. yeah. Not my business, right?" He looks ceilingwards as well, as though some great message could be sussed out if he stares at it hard enough. Why can't it EVER be that easy. He's abruptly patting at his pockets like he remembered there was something he /needed/ amongst them. "Good. Good, it's prob'ly better they're not here," Micah concludes of Lucien's leaving with a nod, though his brows knit at the mention of psionics. "Ohgosh. Oh honey, I'm so sor--" Dropping a hand back to his own chest, he concludes the broken word in sign instead. "Just puttin' up with /me/ s'prob'ly been hell lately, much less...everythin' else." He tugs Hive in close to /give/ him a hug this time. "I'll keep tryin' but I left half a dozen messages on her voice mail already. If I leave too many more she may not call back just out of fear that I'm a crazyperson. Gonna have t'look into somebody else if I don't hear from her quick-like. Don't guess y'all know any amazin'...what d'we need? Criminal lawyer? Civil rights specialist? I don't even know... I'll try t'eat somethin'. Think it's been...prob'ly over a day by now. I just ain't wanted--" He trails off as his gaze tracks upward, as well, with Hive's voiced concern. "Oh...no. What's wrong now? Of course somethin's wrong. This day..." "You're not," Hive answers tersely. "You're just also supposed to not make it /worse/. Right now there's not a /whole/ fucking lot any of us can do to help just --" His shoulders tense, his breathing slow through his teeth. "... fucking. Goddamn. Watch." His eyes slip closed; he leans into the hug with a shaky exhale. "You are a crazy person but if she's seen the news she'll /probably/ figure it out. I don't -- shit. I don't know fucking anyone. We had some people by the other day. Offering legal help with -- the /evictions/ maybe they know someone who can do legal help with -- all this bullshit." He pulls away from Micah reluctantly, getting slowly to his feet. "It's hell all the fucking time, Micah," he says with a wry twitch of smile. It fades soon, heavy and tired again. "Nothing. I'm gonna go check on Dusk and -- fuck. Flicker. Won't be long." There's a number of things that rise up in Jim to respond with, some fevered pitch of frustration - and they meet a hard mental wall, instead buttoning down to, "--you got it." He spends the rest of the exchange... well it looks vaguely like he's scratching his ass until he withdraws his own semi-crumpled box of cigarette from a back pocket to give a brief maraca shake. "Okay. Okay. I'm gonna stay here in case Spencer comes back. An' keep callin' Ms. Basil. An'...maybe call Luci in between if it takes her a long time t'get back t'me. I'll...stop by t'see Flicker for a minute maybe. Hug 'im for me in case I can't? Birthdays have been...horrible lately." Micah pulls Hive in for another hug, kissing him on top of his messy-mop head before moving to stand back up and get on with the plan. << Can send Dusk down if he needs t'talk. I'm responsible for 'im bein' involved t'start with. I can't imagine he's doin' too well after all this, either. >> "Well, time for some more...pushin' the green button on the phone. I'll find somethin' in the fridge t'shove in m'face, too. Promise." Hive just acknowledges -- all of it, perhaps, with a quiet inflectionless grunt. His posture stiffens further at the silent mention of Dusk, but he gives nobody any further answer. His head sinks down, eyes fixing on the floor. He slouches past Jim to the door, opening it and then shoving his hands into his pockets and disappearing into the hall. Jim follows. Slouchily.