ArchivedLogs:High Risk Help

High Risk Help
Dramatis Personae Hive, Iolaus, Jane
In Absentia	2013-03-12 Set immediately following Ryan's stitching.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Fourth Floor - East Village
Hive has his keys out already, as he leaves Ryan's apartment, jingling on one forefinger. He's not apparently in any hurry to lead Iolaus and Jane up to his apartment, though, sauntering slow down the hall towards the stairwell. << We know we don't need to say this to you, >> whispers in his oddly echoing chorus of mental voices, sounding both rather more /earnest/ than his usual glib snark and rather more apologetic than his usual brash, << but please -- >> There's a mental image here of Ryan, not lying injured on the couch but on stage, with microphone and violin and spotlight, << he's really a good -- please be careful with -- don't -- >> He doesn't even finish any of these sentences, and there's a vague mental impression that this is out of apology, as well: Iolaus is a doctor. He already /knows/ these things. But Hive is a friend. And he's worrying. Iolaus gives Hive a concerned look, and his mind has only a trace of offence at the suggestion. << "Of course, Hive. My oaths are more important to me than anything else. His secret is safe with me. >> Jane gives Hive a /look/. "You think I care about some fuckin' musician?" she growls. "I know secrets." << Can't put lipstick on a pig, >> Iolaus mutters in his mind in indignation at her tone. << We were talking to Io, >> Hive(&co.) murmurs back, seeming almost surprised that Jane thought he was talking to her. Like broadcasting mentally to everyone is just normal! Honest. There's another quiet sense of apology, at bringing it up, but it's clouded over by worry. About Ryan. About /all/ their team. (... Jane included.) About the refugees. About the entire situation. Hive shoves the stairwell door open, starting to trudge slowly up the stairs. Iolaus follows Hive up the stairs, concerned as well. His concern is more focused on Hive, though. << Why are you... chorus-y? What's going on, Hive? >> he asks, hand reaching out to clasp at Hive's shoulder. He doesn't end up touching the other man, though, hand being grabbed out of the air with a stiff, strong grip by Jane. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you." she says, voice is low and harsh. Even the brief approach brings with it a feeling of mental pressure, touching at Iolaus's mind and slipping away when his hand is stopped. << Chorusy, >> Hive echoes (echoes, echoes, echoes), the word rippled with amusement but heavy and tired as well. << We are -- many. >> He stops, on the landing of the fourth floor, leaning against the stairwell railing and looking down at the other two. << There was something else. To ask you. More help. >> "How can I help?" Iolaus asks, leaning against the railing and looking up at the telepath. Jane takes a step forward, grabbing Iolaus by the shirt at the back of his neck and tugging him down one step. << Just in case you get hungry. >> Jane is guarded, cautious, but it is not a mean fact. Her arms cross back over her chest, watching. Iolaus is slightly bemused more than anything else. << What is going on? >> Hive's eyes close, his posture slumping against the railing, and Jane's cautious is met not with offence but with quiet appreciation. << always hungry, >> surfaces, less conscious speech and more reflexive admission. << These people we -- rescued. We have them, >> there's clarifying sentiment to accompany these words: /have/ them, joined with them, /leashed/ their minds together. Hived them. << Some were too traumatized to function alone. >> Hive them so they remember to eat. Remember to run /away/ from the complex. Remember to keep living. << Some wanted -- >> Companionship through recovery. Flicker is here, in this group, slowly-slowly working his way back from acid-ravaged near-death with Joshua's vigilant care. Too pained to want to recuperate alone. << Some are too dangerous to go unmonitored. >> There's an image of Thor, unleashing lightning down the corridor of a cement-walled hall. << They're -- there are some being controlled already. They put chips. In their brains. To track them, monitor them. Or control them. We can't let them go as long as they're chipped. They might attack again. >> Underneath this, though, there's another whisper, quieter. Hungrier. Aching. << don't want to let them go >> << want more >> It's shoved back to say, more determinedly: << We used to have a technopath who could monitor the chips. But he's gone. >> Iolaus digests this all, giving a sad look to the ground. An ache happens deep inside him, the desire to help, to make it all better. It is, to be sure, a futile feeling, and Iolaus clearly knows it. Nausea. Eventually, he 'speaks' back up, cautiously. << Chips inside their brains? That's... technology way more advanced than anything that we know about in the public. I mean... we have the very, very most basic of that technology in the lab, but nothing in practice, and certainly nothing in the same world of power as what you describe. >> The doctor leans his head against the wall, looking up at the winding stairs. << Still. Removal has to be easier than insertion. I know a neurosurgeon that might be able to take a look. >> There is a flash of Rasheed's face in front of the construction site, and Iolaus smiles, almost affectionately. << I can give him a call. >> << Yes. Our control on them is stronger than the chip's. But we can't let them go. >> Hive's hand runs through his hair, fingers skimming along the side of his skull -- tracing the path, there, of knotted old scar that runs along the side of his head, down by his ear. << Sometimes the chips fail. That's almost worse. >> There's a memory, here. Being in Iolaus's house -- the crippling pain in his head. The intermittent pulses of lost control before taking Iolaus's mind into his. << But there's always a chance they'll start working again. And then they can't be trusted. >> It's quiet -- very quiet, but /there/ in the mental communication: some part of Hive lumps himself into this can't-be-trusted group, because of the faulty chip intermittently frying his /own/ brain, still. << If you know someone who could help, that would -- we would appreciate it. >> "Alright." Iolaus says, with a nod. "You understand... the risks will be high." he says, seriously. "Neurosurgery is never an easy task, even in the best of circumstances, nevertheless when we don't fully understand what the chips are doing or how they work." << You are not going first. >> This last is said firmly, a memory floating briefly into his head of a younger Iolaus, watching as surgeons desperately tried to bring a patient's heart back to beating as the patient's chest was open on the table. A shiver runs through the oldest man, and he glances backwards at Jane, once. "I will call Rasheed, and see if he would be willing." << Who do we sacrifice first, then. >> There are faces coming to mind, some of new rescuees who Iolaus has met, a few of other unfamiliar faces, long-since liberated people who /might/ or might not just be Promethean time-bombs if their chips ever reactivate. With a grimace Hive scrubs his hand against his head once again, and starts towards the door. << Don't think anyone outside these fucking labs understands how you control someone's fucking brain with these things. Shit. Maybe we should just go back and ask them nicely. >> It's -- not a serious suggestion, clearly. Just a cranky gripe. << We understand, >> is what he says, finally. Iolaus shrugs his shoulders, non-committal. << It's their choice to have the surgery. Not my call what the alternative is. >> A vision of an execution floats briefly to his mind and he grimaces. "I hope Rasheed is feeling rather flexible with his ethics," he murmurs under his breath as he begins winding up the stairs. "Maybe there's a technical solution. Hack into them and deactivate them permanently." << But our choice, too, >> Hive says, in echoed-back answer to Iolaus's proscription on him going first. It's thoughtful, really. Not decisive. He is not exactly eager to risk dying, himself. But not particularly eager to subject anyone else to it, so it mostly comes out as an irritable wash of indecision. He /thumps/ the fourth-floor stairwell door open. << They can be deactivated, but even Halim had trouble /keeping/ them off, and we don't think it's possible to get much better with tech than him. He'd just check in every month or so to make sure they were still okay. >> "Then we have to have them out. Or destroy them in place." Iolaus muses, curiously. "I wonder if we could break them all at once without having to cut them out." he says, rubbing his nose with one finger as he slips through the door. Jane follows quickly, glancing both ways around the hallway before she relaxes at finding it empty. As much as Jane ever relaxes. Iolaus continues talking, seemingly unconcerned or unnoticing of his coworker's tension. "Maybe just cut some of the wires remotely. I suppose that's somewhat dangerous unless we know how they work." << I don't suppose we have any of these chips in someone dead. >> << Long dead. >> Hive says, with a frown. << We going graverobbing? Brains are probably mush by now anyway. >> He doesn't say this very /comfortably/, a pang of discomfort that implies the deceased in question was a friend. He reaches to unlock his apartment door, but doesn't follow Iolaus in. << Got shit to do. You good here? >> << Long dead doesn't help. >> Iolaus says, giving the other man a sympathetic look. << Go. Thanks, Hive. I'll... I'll let you know. >> he hesitates for a second, giving the man a warm smile where he would have liked to squeeze his shoulder. Then he turns and heads into the apartment to tend to his patients. Jane looks Hive up and down before she heads in as well. << Be safe. >> << Thanks. >> This might be to either of them, but Hive's eyes fix on Jane with it; there's something a little distant, a little glazed, in his look, but it /focuses/ -- for a moment, at least, on the woman. There's a moment when he stands straighter, taller. And then he tears his eyes away, and his habitual slouch returns, hands shoved into pockets as he trudges back towards the stairs.