ArchivedLogs:Guest Right

Guest Right
Dramatis Personae Hive, Lucien, Murphy
In Absentia	2013-07-13 (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. Lucien's house today smells like cooking. Chicken in red wine sauce. Warm fresh bread. There's music playing, light lively classical. What there /isn't/ is conversation, just now. Perhaps at one point there has been -- perhaps not. Lucien is not being paid to entertain. And so he is not entertaining. His fingers are laced through Hive's, at the kitchen table, his face rather pale, jaw clenched, and he is focused. Eyes closed. Head down on the table. For quite a while now he has been rather intimately exploring the other man's mind, working his way through its pathways; it's in nowhere near as bad a state of disrepair as it /was/ some months ago, but even so he is smoothing it back together, knitting it more neat and tidy than it was before. The detail work is in many ways more arduous a process than the broad strokes after the initial de-Hiving was. To Hive it -- perhaps does not feel like /much/. That much more /clarity/. That much more ease. Hive is working. One-handed, because his other is twined in Lucien's. What else is he going to do? He's got his mouse in hand, absently tweaking at schematics on the screen of his laptop. Occasionally nibbling at food. Very /tasty/ food. In the elegance of Lucien's home he looks very out of place -- faded jeans with holes wearing thin in the knees, sneakers held together with duct tape. Black T-shirt with Zelda's Link sitting in an Iron Throne fashioned out of various video game swords. Click click click. Intermittently he frowns at Lucien. Almost -- almost? concerned. Noooot quite. But /almost/. Mind -- /almost/ reaching towards the other man's and then pulling back at the last moment. Murphy's mind is a throbbing pulse of pain that extends out like sharp, jagged crystals emerging from an ominous stormcloud. The thunder approaches the front door of Lucien's house; Hive can /probably/ taste the hostility. There's an unusual undertone of fear, there, too; unusual, because there is very little in this world that frightens Murphy Law. Apparently, approaching Lucien's house qualifies. In anticipation of that fear, he hasn't come unarmed; one hand reaches to touch the reassuring hilt of a taser, ready to be drawn and fired in an instant. Murphy is hoping he's not going to need it. He's also cataloguing, very quickly, the series of actions he'll take if he /does/. Murphy knocks at the door; the man's dressed in his familiar black wool coat, white shirt, black tie, thick steel-toed work-boots. He steps back a moment later -- putting distance between himself and the door. His hand slips off the hilt of the taser as he watches; there is an obvious /tension/ in his frame, his body -- as he waits for a response. "Ksssh," Lucien's hiss is slow and sounds genuinely pained. /Arduous/ process. "Who," he asks Hive, his voice sounding strained, "is it." His fingers tighten in the other man's. Then slowly release -- or at least loosen, though they do not withdraw; it seems like it takes too much /effort/ to move them. For all the unhealthy pallor of his expression, the rest of him looks as immaculate as ever. Jeans, but pristinely /tailored/ black jeans, a slim-fit green button-down, black vest. He lifts his head. It thunks back down. "Can you. Answer that." Click. Click click. "Ungh." Hive pulls his hand back, frowning. "Pigfucker," is his answer. He takes his time about rising, about slouching towards the door. He answers it with a grimace, /glaring/ not at Murphy's face but down towards his hand at the hilt of that taser. "What the fuck," is his greeting. When the door opens, Murphy's perpetual scowl shifts into something akin to shock -- and at once, FZZZT. His thoughts are promptly replaced with a rousing game of SPORTSBALL Murphy caught five years ago on the television. TEAM A is beating TEAM B by winning more POINTS. "--th'fuck are--nevermind," Murphy says. Not moving any closer. He soon adds: "I'm here to piss Tessier off with stupid fucking questions." "He's not the kind of guy you want to piss off," Hive answers immediately. He says it sort of blandly, though. "I know," Murphy responds, and then, the rousing game of SPORTSBALL is replaced. With a memory. Vivid; well, /all/ of Murphy's are. This is one of him on the front steps, /almost/ smiling, a hand extended out to Lucien -- Lucien's hand on his. Followed by that familiar excruciating, indescribable Murphy-flavored pain -- extending through his entire body. Murphy's got no sense of pride; he even includes the bits where he's sobbing on the ground, begging for Lucien to kill him. Murphy bears through the memory with nothing more than a slight /clench/ of teeth. But when it finishes playing back -- fast-flashing through his own mind, broadcast at Hive -- he immediately tells him: "I'm showing you that because if you're letting him in your head, you should /know/. What he's capable of." Murphy's hand slips closer toward his jacket; SPORTSBALL starts back up, hiding his thoughts beneath the veneer of POINT ACQUISITIONS and PLAY-BY-PLAYS. "But yeah. Pissing the wrong people off," Murphy informs Hive, "is /something/ of a theme for me." Hive /hisses/, sharp, hard, his hand moving to the doorjam as his thin shoulders crumple abruptly inward. His fingers clench against the wood, his eyes narrowing on Murphy for the duration of that memory. "Fucking gorram cocksucking son of a cuntwaffle --" There's a reflexive /pressure/ against Murphy's mind; it doesn't hurt so much as it shoves back, a heavy /push/ back against that memory with a grit of Hive's teeth but the pressure withdraws with an apologetic dip of his head. "Fucking hell," he mutters. "Jegus fucking Christ." For a moment he is silent. /Grinding/ his knuckles against his eye. "Right," he mutters. "You hungry?" He's just /inviting/ Murphy to Lucien's food. "C'mon. Asshole fucking cooks as well as he does every other damn thing." He waves Murphy inside. "You got a deathwish or what?" "He must," Lucien is saying this quietly, from the kitchen table. He has not moved, head still far too pale, still resting down on one arm. "What," he wants to know, "are you doing here, Murphy." "Mmnh," is Murphy's only response. Beneath the pressure, Murphy's mind bends; it does not break. He takes it with very little reaction -- Hive surprised him /once/, but with Murphy -- well, he's not the sort of guy who gets surprised /twice/. "I got questions, Lucien." A hand reaches into Murphy's pocket. The SPORTSBALL continues, unabated; Murphy's /pretty/ damn good when it comes to hiding his thoughts beneath his memories; it's such an overwhelming influx of information that picking his actual thoughts out through them is -- well, tricky. It'd probably require a penetrative /push/, something to shove the memory aside. Soon, Murphy's fingers are pulling a cigarette out from his coat -- though there's a /way/ his other hand lingers, near one of the other pockets. Cradling it in his lips. "Did some snooping," Murphy informs Lucien. "Found out about your brother. I'm sorry. Wouldn't have just come knocking the other day if I had known that. Don't mean you ain't still fucked in the head," he adds, eyes /narrowing/, "but at least I know part-of what got you to show it. Anyway." The hand that retrieved the cigarette is now searching for a lighter. Very slowly. "Got some questions. About that." Hive steps back from the door, pulling it open wider; eventually, closing it again behind Murphy. Returning to the kitchen. To his /work/. "His brother," he says this tired, he says this /grudging/, "was a /good/ person." His hands drop back to rest on the back of his chair. He grips it heavily. One toe sneaks forward, nudging Lucien in the shin. "Yo. What d'you need, dude." "Questions. What questions." Lucien still does not look up. He tenses at the nudging, his jaw tightening. His head turns in against the crook of his arm, but eventually lifts. "Would you like food," he asks Murphy, in a level-flat tone. "He had cancer, I do not know what there is to ask. Do not," this is more clipped, "smoke in here. Hive, sit." "Good person," Murphy repeats, /peering/ at Hive. Like this is supposed to be some sort of joke. Even through the SPORTSGAME, he can feel the faint flutter of Murphy's /skepticism/. Ha ha, GOOD PERSON, right. But he's always keeping the corner of his eye focused on Lucien. At the mention of no smoking, the lighter -- slinks. Slooooowly. Back into his coat. "He was cremated," Murphy says, ignoring the question regarding food. Hovering just /outside/ the kitchen. Always a good 10 feet between him and Lucien. "Was that by your request?" Hive sinks back into his seat. His hand returns to his plate of food, dragging it back in front of him. "A /good/ person," he repeats, more emphatically. "I don't know too fucking many of those." He /stabs/ at his chicken with his fork after this, like it has offended him. "By his own," Lucien answers curtly. He has been reaching for Hive's other hand again, but now he pulls his hand back. He looks towards Murphy with narrowed eyes. "/Why/ are you prying into my family business." "Because I want to know just how fucking insane you are." There's a surgical sharpness to Murphy's response; like a scalpel slipping in to remove an appendix. The hand that has returned the lighter curls close to his hip, now: "I'd just be content to snoop around without you ever being the wiser -- but a name popped up while I was working. And before I let it go, I want to make /sure/ of something. And I can't do it on my own, because -- medical records." Murphy's hand curls tighter; more tension creeps into his jaw, his posture: "Got two more questions, Tessier. Then I'll fuck off and turn into a ghost. Answer 'em straight and you don't ever have to see my ugly fucking mug again. Was your brother a mutant?" Hive's lips press together. Thin and hard. His eyes narrow, cutting between Murphy and Lucien. He pulls his hand back, and then -- stands. Goes to the counter to get another plate, fill it with noodles, ladle a new serving of chicken over it. Sauce. Bread on the side. Knife and fork. "Sit," he says to Murphy in an oddly clipped voice, setting the plate down at the table. "Eat." Lucien's fingers curl inward towards his palms. His eyes fix steadily on Murphy. "My brother is dead," he says, and his voice is not so much clipped as very calm. "And I do not think you want to know how insane I really am." Underneath the shield of memories, there is a pulse of hard, white ice in Murphy's mind; it spreads like crinkling frost. Outwardly, there is only the tightening of his jaw -- as if it were being slowly cranked. Hive's command is ignored. Murphy is just /staring/ at Lucien. Teeth clenched so hard they look ready to crack. "--fine," Murphy finally allows, the word not being spoken so much as hissed. The hand at his hip curls deeper; Hive may realize its proximity to the hilt of the taser he was thinking about before he stepped in through the door. "Skip it. Last question, then." "Sit." Hive's knuckles are digging into his eye again. << Don't. >> His mental voice is whipcrack-hard as ever, though in /tone/ it doesn't sound hard like his spoken voice. Tired, really. << Just fucking sit, dude. This doesn't /need/ to be ugly. >> "Eat the fucking /dinner/." << This motherfucker is not. Going to kill you while you're eating his goddamn food. >> Lucien's eyes stay steadily on Murphy. In contrast to Murphy's clenched teeth, Lucien's posture is slowly relaxing. Gaze fixed. Fingers slowly unclenching. Tension easing out of his muscles as his form angles towards the other man, bit by bit. Murphy /twitches/ in response to the crashing volume of Hive's psychic voice; otherwise, he does not externally respond. The tightness of his frame does not slacken. To Hive, he responds -- voice a low, gravelly growl: << Look at him. He's ready to kill me. Right /now/. >> A slow, controlled breath. << Take a peek. Is eating his food gonna stop him? >> Maybe surprisingly, the question isn't asked sarcastically. "I just," Murphy starts, moving around Lucien. Never within arm's length. Around the table. Toward the food Hive set out. Eyes never leaving Lucien. "--want to make /sure/ of something. Make sure it's just a coincidence. That's all." Everything in his posture -- in his mind -- in his /tenseness/ -- tells the story of a man locked in the cage with a rabid tiger. << Yes. >> Hive answers this simply, exhaling a heavy breath when Murphy starts towards the table. He slumps back down into his own seat, stabbing at his chicken again. << And yes. He is. But he won't. Motherfucker /does/ have a -- >> Something wry enters his tone. << Code. Fucked up as hell and calibrated all kinds of wrong but it's there. Just have to learn how to work within it. >> "The fuck are you trying to learn?" he asks out loud, around a mouthful of noodles. Lucien's gaze tracks Murphy's motions with keen interest, a faint twitch-tug of smile pulling at his lips as Murphy moves towards the food. He turns back in towards the table, drawing in a breath in time with the one Hive exhales, something tightening around his eyes. They drop to Murphy's plate, then lift to his face. His hands lift, rubbing briefly at the hollows of his eyes. "My brother is dead," he says again, only this time it sounds -- smaller, wearier. "What is it that you hope to learn, here?" His hand extends -- for Hive's, again, slow, a heavy exhaustion settling back into his features. << Jesus /fuck/, >> Murphy says, this mental exclamation occurring at the same time as a visible /rush/ of air out of his lips as he reaches his place at the table -- sitting. Nice and polite. Both occurring around the same time he catches that shift in Lucien's attention. << How the fuck did I end up in _Silence of the Lambs_? >> He takes the fork -- slowly -- he's still watching Lucien, but a good chunk of the tension has melted away. "--just a thing. Bugging me. A name," Murphy repeats, tone cautious and strained. "Blundered into it when I was poking around. Second time I've heard it in relation to -- it's probably just /nothing/, but when a coincidence pops up, I can't let it go. I gotta make sure. I'll do some incredibly stupid shit in pursuit of a thin-as-fuck hunch," he adds, before stabbing at the chicken. << Hannibal Lector. That's who this mother-fucker reminds me of. Are you sure this ain't his neighbor? >> << /Eat/, >> Hive stresses, kind of. /Insistently/. Watching Lucien veeeery closely. "A name?" He reaches to take Lucien's hand, fingers twining through the other man's with a grimace. "You sure you're OK for more of this? We can break a while." He slices off a piece of thigh, spearing it into his mouth. << Don't think he eats people. He's -- >> Hive quiets, a moment. << No. I don't know. I don't think he's -- no, OK, I think he's a sick-ass fuck. I don't think he always was. The rest of his family's -- >> Hive chews his food slowly, chews over his /words/ slowly. << I think he /made/ himself a sick-ass fuck. So they didn't have to be. >> "I am fine," Lucien insists, sharp and quick, tightening his fingers through Hive's. And then quiet, as his mind reaches out, picking up where it left off. His eyes still watch Murphy very steadily, though. "Coincidence? To do with my -- Matthieu?" There's a touch more strain in his voice, as he works, now. Words a little bit slower. "What is your hunch?" << I want to help him. >> There's something threadbare about this statement; it comes with very little of Murphy's usual grim, sardonic grumblings. It almost manages to sound weak and helpless. Murphy /does/ eat, spearing a chicken into his mouth; om nom nom DELICIOUS NEIGHBOR. Fuck if he cares. << He helped me. But it's not even gratitude. Fuck, it's just -- I /know/ what it's like. To have a head full of broken glass. I want-- >> "--when your boys were investigating the labs," Murphy says, nodding toward Hive after a swallow, "one of the things /I/ did was look into how they nabbed them. Figured I'd start with shelters -- places mutants nobody wanted would be. Find out if anyone /official/ looking ever showed up there, trying to help. Picked up two names when I did. Iolaus Saavedro," he pauses to spear another piece of chicken, along with some twirled noodles, "and Rasheed Toure." "I know them both," Hive answers this with a frown. "Work for Saavedro. Building his fucking clinic. Toure helped us out. Took out the fucking --" His fingers wiggle towards his head. "Brainchips. They chip people they think are dangerous. He dechipped them. Think they're friends." << -- he's. >> There's a silence, after this, like Hive's not sure what he wants to say next. << He's been a friend. When he's not. A freak. But I'm not sure he's not past fucking /help/. >> "I know them both," Lucien says this almost in tandem with Hive. "They are. Friends." His lips press thinly together. It seems for a moment like he might say something more, but he does not. His hand tightens in Hive's, a strong flicker of nausea fluttering through the telepath even as Lucien's mutation continues to repair his mind. "I didn't, and don't. So I looked them both up," Murphy responds. "Saavedro first. And hardest. Mutie clinic? Too good to be true. Great front for a kidnapping ring. Jim told me /you/ work with him, though," and here Murphy nods to Hive. "Regularly working side-by-side with a nut-cracker? Ain't what I'd expect from a fella with something-to-hide. So I crossed him off my list. That left Toure." << Yeah. Some things can't be fixed. Some things can't even be /helped/. But I want to try to -- help him. Because, >> and there's an edge under Murphy's tone, slipping in like a shiv between the ribs, << --if he breaks people like that. Like he did to me? If he /hurts/ people like that. I can't -- /won't/ -- let him keep doing it. World's got enough poison in it. >> "Toure's even /cleaner/, man's a fucking /saint/. He ain't runnin' a mutie clinic, but he's doin' just about everything else. So I stopped there, figured it wasn't worth digging any deeper. Probably just showed up like Saavedro did; to help some people who needed it." Murphy takes a breath here. Pausing just long enough to eat another scoop of chicken. Before: "When I snooped around up in your business, Tessier, I found out about your brother. And Rasheed's name popped up again, just incidentally. Wouldn't have thought anything of it, except -- then I found out your brother got cremated. Really fast." << He /knows/ people, >> Hive says. << Not even a fucking telepath and he knows people better than I do. Knows where to push. To make everything real good. Or /real/ fucking bad. >> Hive's eyes are slipping closed, with this, his lips curling downwards; there's a distinctly queasy expression in his face, his tan skin paling. He sets his fork down. "Ngh." "He's running a clinic. Not for mutants. Just for -- shit. Whatever. Broke-ass motherfuckers. Brought people there after the cops' shitshow. I was there. I didn't hear jackshit from him or anyone working there," Hive says this with a /deep/ frown. "Why, you think he's -- what? There's nothing wrong with Saavedro except he's a suicidal goddamn /hippie/." The nausea pulls back, cuts off sharply. Lucien's grip loosens, slightly. "He was due to be cremated," Lucien answers tersely. And then, less tersely, more quiet: "I should have been there." His lips press thin together. "I told him that I would --" He stops, quiet, and shakes his head. "He was sick a very long time, Murphy. Rasheed was a friend. /Matt/," this is slightly stressed: /Matt's/ friends, not Lucien's, "had many." "--maybe," Murphy responds, to Hive, dipping the fork down again. Clink, scrape. "Back in the military. When I worked for some scary mother-fuckers. One of the things they taught us was how to hide our surface thoughts from nut-crackers." The sound of that game of SPORTSBALL playing in Murphy's mind gets just a little louder, as if to illustrate. "Not an exact science; if a nut-cracker wants in, not much you can do to stop them. But you can make yourself out to be unsuspicious. S'was pretty standard training where I worked." << Yeah. I know. So do I, >> Murphy counters, though there's not a lot of /pride/ behind it. << Just how to push. To make people -- >> "S'thin as my fucking taint," Murphy agrees, offering them up such a /lovely/ image, "and stinks twice as bad. S'just. What was the rush? But like I said. S'easy enough to put to rest. Just two questions." Another bite of chicken. Murphy's almost done the food; the man looks like he might not have eaten for days. "Was Matthieu Tessier a mutant," Murphy tries again, more softly. Before: "And -- did you /see/ his body?" Hive's brows furrow, at this. "But why would Toure have --" he starts. And clamps his mouth shut, as if he's just /answered/ his own unfinished question. He frowns even deeper, and slowly picks up his fork to start eating again. Small robotic bites. Pensive. Lucien's jaw tenses. He answers the second question first, reluctantly; there's something uncharacteristic in his voice when he does: guilt, soft but audible. "-- I was not with him when he died, no. They cremated him before I reached the hospital." A silent stretch. There's one last burst of tethering in Hive's mind, neatly tying loose ends before he drops Hive's hand to slump back in his chair with clear exhaustion. His own hands shake. "My brother was a mutant, though few enough but us would tell." The next bite pauses; chicken wrapped in noodles hovering in the air before it reaches Murphy's mouth. Now /he/ looks relaxed; eyelids drooping low over his face, a sort of unusual calmness swooping down across him: "Did /Toure/ know?" "Yeah," Hive answers this question, gruff and with a frown. "After the police shit went down, Luci and his brother were at Toure's clinic helping calm the -- people were panicked. Matt was -- /uniquely/ good for calming panicked mutants." "My brother's mutation only worked on other mutants," Lucien explains mildly, guilt easing out of his voice to leave it just bland-calm. Quiet. His hands still shake, a tired slump in his posture. "He augmented powers. Heightened them. Dampened them. Neutralized them entire. It was rather useful in a room full of traumatized evacuees." "It's probably just a coincidence," Murphy says, voice /razor/-calm, the chicken moving back to his mouth. He bites. Chews. Swallows: "Someone jumped the gun on the cremation schedule, maybe. A mix up. Like I said: Toure's a fucking /saint/. But," and his eyes drift back to Lucien, now, at the mention of those powers. "--there's a market for mutant cadavers. A dead one in a clinic slated for cremation? And one with /those/ kind of powers? I can see how the men in labcoats might /salivate/ over that opportunity." << Mutant /cadavers/? >> Hive shoots back to Murphy, sharp and questioning, << there's fucking men in labcoats out there would /cream/ themselves to get their hands on a mutant like Matt. >> He eats quietly, eyes focused on Lucien. Leans forward, nudging Lucien's water closer to him. << -- Jesus fuck, >> he says abruptly, << I would kill every fucking one of them if they touched him. >> Lucien's eyes are slightly unfocused, as Murphy speaks, staring somewhere just past his ear, the shaking in his hands worsening. "I --" And then the shaking stops, all at once. He reaches for the glass, takes a slow sip. "I see." His fingers stay curled around the glass, his face still exceedingly pale and his voice still exceedingly /calm/. "You have come here because you think that Doctor Toure has a mutant necrophiliac fetish." << If there's even one shred of truth to this half-cocked bullshit theory of mine, >> Murphy fires back, << then it's better to tell him Matthieu Tessier was a corpse when they took him. Because if he wasn't /then/, he sure as fuck is /now/. Unless somebody developed a cure for cancer when I wasn't looking. This man does /not/ need to imagine his brother's last hours were spent in one of those fucking labs. >> "Man's a neurologist. Studying mutant brains -- particularly the brains of telepaths and power-augmenters -- is cutting edge. A lot of researchers might kill to get ahold of them," Murphy responds. "Fuck, maybe Toure ain't got nothing to do with it. Maybe he's just a red herring. Point is only this: I want to know what went on with your brother's body." << While I was in those cages I met, >> Hive answers, very calmly, very pensively, << three separate mutants, who could -- remove cancer in different ways. I wouldn't necessarily call it all cures. >> And then, after a pause: << -- I hope he's dead. >> "You look like fucking shit, man. You need to lie down, maybe?" He's frowning, looking at Lucien's expression. "Eat something?" His knuckles scuff against his cheek. He eats the last of his /own/ food. Frowns over at Murphy. "... should /I/ be looking into this guy?" he ventures, not quite comfortably. "I need --" The carefully glassy-tranquil calm that makes up Lucien's carefully cultivated mindscape goes /blank/. Not glassy, not /dead/, just a static /nothing/, his eyes abruptly vacant, fingers faintly twitching in repeated tiny clenching motions against his glass. For a stretch of perhaps half a minute there is nothing. Twitch-twitch-nothing, before he looks down at his glass again with a bemused frown and a sudden /acute/ pulse of splitting migraine where once there was smooth-still-calm. He exhales slowly, eyes tightening at their corners. "My brother's body is nothing but ashes. How do you propose to prove otherwise?" << Don't tell him, >> is Murphy's only response to Hive's comment. "No," he says, concerning Toure. "I don't -- /if/ he's involved, and that's a mighty goddamn big if -- he's one /dangerous/ mother-fucker. You said he helped remove the neuro-chips. I assume none of the mutants he helped recognized him? Or did they even /see/ him? He'd have to have monumental balls," Murphy adds, "to help take out the chips he had a hand in putting /in/." Murphy's eyes center on Lucien: "Well, to start. His ashes. Do you have them?" Hive's eyes narrow on Lucien for that sudden blankness. "Did you just," he asks flatly, "have a /seizure/, Christ, do you have." His knuckles rub at his temples. "Medication for that -- fuck. Are /you/ medication for that -- ungh. No. Nobody recognized him. I mean. People are /sedated/ for brain surgery. But." This thought makes him frown. "It happens sometimes," Lucien answers, a touch crisply, his fingertips touching lightly to his temples. They rub there gently, which does exactly nothing to assauge the still-splitting migraine drilling through his skull. "Our," his lips purse much as though he has just bitten into a lemon, "mother has them. Perhaps. I never," he murmurs, a touch more wryly, "attached overmuch /importance/ to funerary rituals." If the fact that Lucien has apparently just experienced a /seizure/ bothers Murphy, he doesn't show it. His expression does not so much as twitch. Eyes still on Lucien as he speaks, listening. Absorbing. "We'll need them." His head tilts, at the tone Lucien takes concerning his mother: "She gonna make it hard?" There's an edge to this question; like Murphy's offering to go fetch them himself. "Ghh." /Hive/ sounds exasperated with this. And, "Yes," he answers the question. And, "Can't we. Like. Kill her." He -- maybe sounds kind of serious! "She does not," Lucien says rather /mildly/, "make most things /easy/." Slowly, he lowers his hands to the table, folding his arms there; slowly, he lowers his head to his arms, cheek resting against the crisp fabric of his dress shirt. His eyes close, a faint tremor returning to his posture. "Some day," he murmurs, sounding slightly wistful. "She has custody of my siblings. I have been fighting for them for some time. It would hardly be subtle." Not that he's bitter or anything. "Fine. Then /I'll/ get them." Just kind of bored. Like Murphy's /used/ to dealing with 'hard'. But then: "Is she a mutant too? Anything I gotta look out for?" He's finished his food; the plate is pushed, slowly, forward. He delicately adds: "Once we have the ashes. Can't test them for DNA, regrettably; cremation makes that all but impossible. But we can maybe find a way. There's a lot of mutants in this city -- with a lot of powers. I'm willing to bet -- if we ask the right people, in the right circles -- we can find somebody with psychometry." "I'm sure we could find a way," Hive muses. Possibly he's talking about the ashes. Possibly about offing Lucien's mother. He stands, moving over to tentatively rest a hand on Lucien's shoulder. "Hey. I think maybe you should get to bed, dude. I mean, thanks. For -- today. But you're kind of wiped. -- Was there anything else you needed?" he asks Murphy. He frowns down at Lucien, biting down on his lip. "No. Not a mutant. Just --" Lucien's voice is softer. For a moment, the exhausted tremble is more like a shudder. It calms under Hive's touch, but then hardens into something tense. "The children are. Two of the children. It may or may not be trouble." Slowly, he starts to push himself up, but ultimately just drops his head back down tiredly. "Not a mutant," is all he says again. "{I am sure you will manage.}" Murphy rises. Studying Lucien as he does. Ever since the comment about Rasheed Toure, he's been -- dead calm. As steady as stone. Now, as he peers down at Lucien, he speaks -- in that stilted, mangled French: "{Will go when kids aren't there.}" He looks to Hive, and: "No. Nothing. Just -- don't go talking to anyone about this. Not yet. S'probably bullshit. We check the ashes, we'll know. One way or another." << Take -- care of him. >> He's turning to go. Notably, he hasn't even /asked/ Lucien where his mother lives. Probably because he already knows. Murphy Law knows where /everybody's/ mother lives. "{Sad. I bet you're /wonderful/ with kids.}" Hive's French is not stilted at all! It's as dry as his English. He slips an arm beneath Lucien's shoulders to /lever/ him up, help guide him towards the stairs. << I don't fix people, >> is terse. Lucien doesn't say anything else. He accepts the offered arm up, tips his head in a nod to Murphy, and leans against Hive, heading off to get some /sleep/. He /does/ fix people. It is exhausting work. << Neither do I, >> comes Murphy's level, glum response. << I just break 'em. >> In Murphy's mind, Team A is ahead of Team B by several points. It looks like they're going to win this year's Sports Trophy. Meanwhile, Murphy Law shows himself out of Lucien Tessier's home -- to see about breaking Ms. Tessier's jaw.