ArchivedLogs:Infighting

Infighting
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Jax	16 July 2014 Well, that went well. (Followed by more talking to Micah.)
Location <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down the the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. Geekhaus is quiet. They /had/ a number of rescuees staying over here but today they have all been cleared /out/, sent to scatter among the other houses and guest rooms around the Commons. Perhaps it's as much for their own peace of mind as for Hive's; he's still persona non grata among many of the labrats and it's possible their current guests didn't /want/ to be around him any more than he wanted to have to hear them thinking about it. And so, amid the bustle and clutter of the Commons, here, just -- quiet. Dusk is nowhere to be immediately seen and Flicker is back on shift at the Clinic overnight tonight, quietly finished his healing after a morning session with Joshua; following the meeting at Stark Tower tonight he dropped Hive home and headed straight to work. The first floor of the house is largely dark, lights shut off save for the flickering glow of the television over at the back of the house. Hive is curled up under a blanket on the ballpit-couch. Through the meeting he was rather quiet, listening a lot and offering very little by way of input. Now he has a mug of cocoa and has changed into pajamas, black cotton pants and a plain white sleeveless undershirt. Shed of the hat he'd been wearing all night before it's easier to see now that his head has been shaved again at some point in the past week, a fresh bandage on his scalp. His heavily half-lidded eyes are turned towards the TV, the /Penny Dreadful/ pilot playing onscreen. Micah is dressed as he has been most of the evening in faded bluejeans and a powder blue Totoro face T-shirt. He actually knocks, lightly, on the door between Geekhaus and Lighthaus before pushing it open. Having secured a pint container of coconut-milk ginger ice cream from the Lighthaus freezer, Micah is holding it in a rather /chilled/ hand as he moves into the living room. “Hey, hon. Haven't really talked t'you in a while. Meetin' didn't count; that weren't really talkin' /to/ you.” The ice cream is lofted in offering. “Brought ice cream. Stuff don't hardly last in the common house freezers but we keep some hidden in ours. When Jax hasn't already eaten it all, anyhow.” This last is lightly-teasing. “Y'want some?” Jax trails into Geekhaus in the wake of Micah's knock, slower than his husband and for once empty-handed. Much like Flicker he has also recently taken advantage of Joshua's work -- though his scars remain, the cast on his leg came off some time last night. It's possible he lasered it off /himself/ so as to be able to hit the gym that much sooner and spend a good while beating on a punching bag. Or possibly on Joshua himself. Now he's walking steadier, colourful today in purple dragonfly-embroidered capris and his green Cow Hugger tee and a black-and-purple eyepatch, dragonfly-embroidered as well. In lieu of treats /he/ just brings a mind that is simultaneously way-too-wired and also fogged with a haze of stress and exhaustion and worry. He makes his way towards the sitting room, arms crossed loosely against his chest. His eye skips between the TV and Hive, teeth sinking down against his lip and that worry strengthening with the sight of freshly-shaved head. One deep breath pushes thoughts back down below a controlled screen of shifting mental colours, too-harsh and too-bright as his mind ever is but cloudier than distinct thoughts. "S'any good?" He gestures towards the screen with a thumb. Hive's fingers tighten against his cup at the feel of approaching minds. His eyes lower from the screen to his cup, and his legs pull in tighter against his chest with a rolling shift of playpen balls rattling against each other. "Xbox, pause." Dutifully the screen freezes. Hive's head dips, mouth lowering towards his cup rather than him making any attempt to lift it, sucking at the cocoa through a straw. "No." He could be answering either of the others, though given that he doesn't look at the ice cream or make any move to take it, it's likely he means Micah. "S'been like. A. Fucking. Week. Not long -- Christ." His head shakes in sudden irritability, eyes finally lifting to narrow on Jax. "When the fuck did you last sleep?" At the 'no', Micah simply moves to the kitchen and deposits the ice cream in the freezer to keep it from melting. It takes some /doing/, but he manages to clamber over to the couch to sit near Hive. "I'm used t'livin' on the other side of a /door/ from you. Week's a long time not t'talk at all. An' y'know how hard it is t'shut me up." His lips thin at the question of Jax's sleep habits, though he says nothing aloud. << Entirely too long ago. S'too stubborn. >> "It's summer," is all Jax answers on the question of sleep, giving his head a small shake; this answer comes with its own quiet mental connotation. Too much light, too much energy. Too much /headache/, a persistent wrenching throb that has not left for weeks. His eye lowers to the ground at Micah's thinning of lips; this is accompanied with a faint unhappy /pang/ that he pushes down as well. He moves over quietly to offer Micah a hand with his clambering, though he himself stays out of the ballpit. He doesn't sit, though he does scoop up a pair of playpen balls to roll them around each other in one hand. "Did you just talk to your --" He's turned to eye the television with a /small/ measure of wonder; even living with B has not quite /shaken/ him of his ingrained feeling that technology is kind of just /magic/. "Saw Flicker's back on the roster at work." The paired answers that come from Jax and Micah press /Hive's/ lips together, his teeth creaking in a reflexive slow grind and a sharp snort huffed out through his nose. He pulls his blanket up further around himself, a twitch of tightened jaw shifting visibly at his temple. "You saw? S'that mean /you're/ back on it?" He settles back further in the couch, looking down still at his cup but not taking another drink. "You just walked out of fucking Stark Tower and you're going to be impressed by -- by my --" He fumbles and falls off, nodding instead towards his X-Box. His eyes cut sideways towards Micah, and then close. "Nobody ever fucking shuts up around me." "S'just voice control," Micah replies on Hive's behalf at Jax's technology amazement. He chuckles as /Hive/ responds with simple incredulity. "S'not impressive t'see fantasy creatures an' cauldrons full of potions an' crystal balls at the wizard's tower. But y'get a friend with a magic wand as works in 'is livin' room..." The chuckles are still rolling as he shrugs, leaving the comparison off there. "Cast's off. How long'd y'expect it'd take 'im t'sign back up for work?" There's a twinge of something complicated /there/. << I know. But y'always say I'm loud, even in here. >> "Wizardmagic," Jax insists. "An' yeah, I'm -- I mean, I ain't on /shift/ exactly? But with Jane still outta commission I'm sorta the second-in-command on -- on security there so. /Paperwork/ I been -- handling jus' fine." A faint discomfited guilt ripples across the surface of his mind, the colourful plastic balls still rolling in his palm as he turns his back. "/You/ been workin'?" He glances back over his shoulder, briefly, towards Hive. "You seen Rasheed again?" Hive runs a hand up over his head, fingers brushing across his stubbly scalp. "How could you tell." His voice is very dry. "I can get a fucking doctor note if you need me cleared for. Duty." Here his teeth grind again, eyes cutting between the other two once more. A faint press of mental energy butts up against each their minds in turn before pulling back. "Fucking hell, what is up with you two? Even for /you/ guys this is annoying." “Y'know that ain't why he asked. We wanna know how you're doin'. If y'learned anythin' new. If there's anythin' we can do t'help.” Micah pets a hand down along the back of Hive's arm, his head falling briefly to tap forehead to shoulder before lifting again. “Worry about you.” The hand pulls back to form into a fist and circle over his heart at the declaration of annoyance. "That ain't -- I wasn't --" One of the spinning playpen balls falls out of Jax's grip, much larger and much less well-balanced than the exercise balls that are /usually/ used for restless fidget-toys. There's a small hurt twinge in his mind, keen and sharp that only half has to do with Hive's implied accusation. The backs of his knuckles scrub against his cheek and he stoops to pick up the ball, turning back to actually face the others as he takes a seat on a nearby milk crate. "Things jus' been rough, honey-honey." He speaks more quietly, now; with his back to the television (and the room's only light source) his expression now is just in shadow. "For you more'n anyone. Want t'make sure you're doin' alright." Hive's teeth grind again. He finally lowers his head to take another long pull from his straw. His arm tenses, muscles tightening and then relaxing again at the touch. "Fff. I don't. Mean your. Constant fucking. /Fretting/. You two always -- goddamn. Fret. I mean -- /you/, you're." He shakes his head, screwing his eyes up in frustration. His hand gestures /between/ the two other man as if this can finish his sentence where he is having trouble grasping the words. "Ngh." "Oh, that." Micah chews on his lip, looking over to Jax for a moment before speaking. "It's B. Ze got an e-mail from Horus 'bout that Themis House place. 'Parently Horus actually /went/ there an' is all excited 'bout their...treatment...plan...thing. An' B's interested in it. Jax wanted t'shut that down immediately. I wanted t'hear what B had t'say an' not completely close off any options 'til we investigated 'em thoroughly. Jax was more'n a little upset over it an' at me, think it's safe t'say." Hazel eyes slide back over to his husband again. "S'that a fair characterisation?" "More than a little," Jackson agrees softly, looking down at the balls in his hand. And then: "I went there today." His fingers start to squeeze in against the plastic; he lightly tosses the first of the balls back into the playpen before he can crumple it. "Didn't say nothin' 'bout how /you're/ doin', honey-honey. I mean, I'll stop pressin' if you don't -- want to --" He hesitates, teeth clicking against a lip ring. "What /do/ you want?" "Fuck is Themis House?" Hive chews at the end of his straw, crinkling up its plastic before taking another sip. His eyes close, breathing slowing. A little shakier. "Saw him last week. Got my results back yesterday. S'--" He pulls in another long mouthful of cocoa. "Worse." The question of what he wants just has him folding himself up tighter in the corner of the couch. "Want to get this fucking raid over with." "S'a treatment centre what claims t'help people with special abilities be more like people as /don't/ express an X-gene." Micah's lips twitch over to one side, brows lowered slightly, clearly not /enamoured/ of the idea as a whole. "Claimin' therapy an' suppression medication an' surgery. Could be snake oil. Could be dangerous an' experimental. Could be a front for somethin' even /shadier/. Could be the mutant equivalent of homosexual conversion therapy. I really don't know." His posture deflates slightly with a heavy sigh, expression looking suddenly more tired as he lets his shoulders sag. "I don't /like/ the idea. But I want B t'tell me what ze wants an' /why/ an' be able t'say all of it without feelin' /judged/ at. An' I wanna check the place out an' find out just what it /is/. For B, of course, but for Horus, too. An' anybody else as is gonna be drawn to it." Jax's revelation has him sitting up straighter, a little surprised. "Y'did? I didn't...know y'was plannin'... I'm still meanin' t'go m'self." His teeth dig right back into that much-abused bottom lip as Hive continues speaking, none of that news something to be glad over and certainly not helping the overall mental fret level (sorry, Hive). "It's the first step towards genocide," Jax answers, his tone oddly /bland/ for a reactionary statement like this, "I don't know exactly what you'd need for it to be /shadier/ if that ain't enough for you." He under-hands the second ball towards the pen, too, but even at his close distance he misses, sending it bouncing off the side of the wooden wall and back onto the floor towards him. He stops it with his toes, scooping it back up. "Gone this mornin', yeah. Talked t'a -- the woman who done wrote her book about it. She given me a copy. Was real sweet. Warm. I'm makin' an appointment for the both'a us t'talk to her dad. Runs the place I guess." He shrugs a shoulder, tossing the ball again and this time getting it in. The shifting colours layered over his mind brighten just a little further as he pulls one heel up onto the edge of his crate, hugging his knee to his chest. "How much worse." Hive's brows raise. There's another prickly ripple of mental energy, a little sharper this time when it pokes up against the others' minds. "Treatment." His breath huffs out sharp. "Didn't know we were a fucking disease. B /and/ Horus?" He doesn't sound overly surprised. His teeth do grind again, though. "Great. Wonder where they came up with suppression medication, huh?" Another dip of his head has him finishing the last of the lukewarm cocoa in his cup. Chip's still been collecting scars in there. Tumor's -- bigger. And they stepped it up a grade -- it has," he says with a small frown, "a different name now but it's uglier. I'm sticking with astrocytoma. I /like/ the fucking -- constellation in my --" He shakes his head. "Maybe /I/ should name it. Maurice. Nirmal. It feels like a -- like a --" But he trails off again, here, fingers tightening against the handle of his mug. "It ain't necessarily... I'm not sayin' it's /not/ all an evil plot but we don't /know/ that it is. Could just be...slightly questionable but people that /really/ wanna help folks. Or it could be a front like the Sublime Centres. I'm just sayin' we don't /know/. An' it /could/ help, like. People like Gabriel, from back at the Lofts? Or like kids whose abilities /kill/ 'em when they express early. Expressin' an X-gene ain't a disease but sometimes there are /parts/ of it that really could use treatin'." Micah nods along with Jax's description of his trip. "Good. It'll be good t'meet 'im. I should set up a longer talk with B 'fore then t'get a better idea of what ze's feelin' an' wantin'. It'll colour m'questions some, most like." His eyes close, squeezing tight as Hive relays the findings of his tests. The small smirk that comes to his lips at the suggested names is less mirthful than it otherwise might be. "Those are terrible names. I'm picturin' Krang's nerdy uncle or somethin' now." He reaches over yet again, a hand resting on Hive's knee, just lightly present. "It /is/ necessarily." Jax is tensing again, though the stiffness twining through him is more easily /felt/ in the shivering swirl of colours in his mind than it is /seen/ in the barely-lit room. His tone, at least, stays quiet this time. "This ain't somewhere like the /Clinic/, comin' at it from a point of view of doin' what's genuine-best for their patients. It's folks who've already made up their /minds/ that what's best for alla us is becomin' human. You try puttin' in centers that turn people of colour all /white/ with talk about how they can reach their ideal potential an' be normal like proper folks, an' then tell me how okay it is. But oh, okay, /this/ might be an /okay/ sort of genocide because it's just freaks." His head shakes, chin dropping to rest on his knee and his voice /tired/ more than sharp. "The folks at the Clinic /been/ workin' on reverse-engineerin' that suppression drug so's they can help folks what want help controllin' their abilities. You ain't never seen me speak out on /that/. Because they /are/ workin' with people for what's best for /them/. Places like this -- places that come in from the start spoutin' off about how we all /could/ reach the proper ideal with proper treatment -- that ain't /help/, s'just. Eugenics dolled up pretty." After this he is quiet. His brow rumples, his eye turned down towards the ground rather than towards Hive. There are coils of shadow working up his arms, only making him darker in his already shadowy perch. "Maybe terrible's the point." His fingers dig in hard against his shin. "This, um -- if it's. If it's bigger, 'f it's a worse grade then that -- how's that change -- treatment an' all?" Hive outright snorts at Micah's first three words, sharp and disgusted. "Dude /fuck/ you." He's far more concise than Jax, or maybe just prefers to leave the actual salient points to the activist. His eyes just narrow down on his empty cup, his expression harder, tighter, in the off-color television glow. He shakes his head at the last question. In lieu of actual words his mind slams up hard against the other two men's with snippets of memory, notes filtered out of conversation with Rasheed. Most GBM tumors impossible to completely remove with surgery. Radiation to follow surgery. Usually doubles the median survival rate -- meaning about thirtysome weeks instead of about seventeen without any treatment at all. And other facts, gleaned more from Rasheed's /mind/ than his words; very few patients survive past three years; at the five-year mark that's under three percent. He lifts his cup, despite it being empty. His teeth click against its rim. "Terrible name," he agrees, quiet and kind of bland, "for a shitty terrible houseguest." Micah literally throws his hands up on the topic of Themis House, palms out and only vaguely apologetic, mostly just /surrendering/ that it's clearly no use trying to have a conversation about it. He stays quiet, through the mental fact dump, much of it unfortunately not unexpected. "Those numbers're all without...Dusk. Or any special ability healers, though. That's gotta tip your statistics more'n a little." Hive might not hear the other men's words at all. He /hisses/, sharp and annoyed when Micah throws his hands up. "/Fuck/ you," he says again, sharper, the sudden angry twitch of his own arm dropping his empty cup to disappear somewhere in the sea of balls that the couch is buried in. "Right, be fucking exasperated, throw your damn hands up, to /you/ it's all fucking academic. You /get/ to cop out of these fucking questions when --" His teeth grind again; there's a harder stabbing wrench of mental energy before his hand comes up to grind palm against eye. "Get the fuck out of my house." "I /don't/. It just wasn't the more important thing t'be discussin' just /now/, with /this/ group of people. An' that... I can't even b'lieve after all that we've...an' what I've..." Micah's head shakes, it takes him some /time/ to extricate himself, but he /does/ leave. Out the main door and toward his van. "Hive --" Jax's mouth just kind of opens and closes; reflexively he gets up when Micah does, taking a half-step after his husband. But then looking back, torn, at Hive, with another scrub of knuckles against cheek. "Don't -- he ain't -- this is all just. Nobody's –" "-- Xbox, play." Hive cuts in over Jax's words though with someone else in the room talking he has to repeat himself (a little snippily) before it listens. "Get out." This isn't angry, towards Jax, just heavy and tired. << Just can't fucking deal with -- >> hammers into Jax's mind, before it changes tack instead to a suggestion rather than a complaint: << Deal with your fucking husband. And leave me the fuck alone. >> "/Mnngh/." From Jax this /is/ strangled, and a little bit exasperated. He moves forward to lean down and fish Hive's cup out of the ball pit, dropping a kiss on the telepath's forehead that somehow manages to be /irritable/ in its firm press. He sets the cup down on the crate he just vacated, shadows clearing away from their twisting coil around his arms as he hurries after Micah, closing the front door behind him to leave Hive to his show.