ArchivedLogs:Making Plans

Making Plans
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jackson, Jim	2013-03-05 Raid briefing. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - 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 bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the 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. 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. Jackson's house still smells like cooking. Rich and savoury. There's a potato leek soup simmering on the stove, and a large pot of seitan and portobello -- perhaps stew of some sort. A casserole is baking in the oven. Jackson is not tending any of these; he's currently working his way through a large pile of dishes. Pots. Cutting boards. Knives. Bowls. He's clearly been cooking for a while. His apartment is bright, rather ridiculously so, a pair of large sunlamps, a pair of large pole-lamps, all the ceiling lights on as well. And a glow, strong and bright and coming from Jackson himself as he scrubs a pot fiercely. There's music playing, from his computer on the kitchen table through a pair of speakiers. /If I had a rocket launcher, I'd abolish slavery/, sings his computer. He sings along, quiet under his breath as he works, the sleeves of his sweatshirt ("LOVE LIFE, no matter whose." it reads, above and below an image of a pair of white rabbits) rolled up past his elbows and a faint spattering of water dampening the hem of his t-shirt (green, it reads "Cuddles keep me sane".) Hive doesn't knock. He just unlocks the door and lets himself in, a brief uncomfortable mental nudge announcing his presence a moment later. He's dressed boring. A dingy white shirt that is probably an undershirt. Socks riddled with holes. Threadbare jeans with hems tattered and frayed where they drag on the floor. He trudges across the bright-lit apartment towards the kitchen and bumps a hip up against Jax's. NUDGE. Out of the way of the sink, maybe. The door doesn't manage to close behind Hive before it clumps against the battered toe of a shoe; it's a beaten loafer type of shoe, cheap leather that once might have passed for office wear, now too scuffed to even hold a polish. Which is pretty much Jim all over; he shoulders in, making no secret of his heel clumping against the door and the door subsequently banging shut by way of his own entrance announcement. Unshaven and tatty, it's going to need to be up to Jax to keep up the color and style in the room, Jim doesn't have the arms left to bring any - maybe he left it in his other pants - he's too occupied carrying three rather large manilla envelopes, the edges dog-eared and bound shut with twine. He /eyeballs/ all the lights on through the far, far corner of his eye while dropping his papery payload on the unsuspecting coffee table. STEALTH-eyeball glance. "-- don't blame me if I'm smiling when it all comes crashing down," Jackson is singing, still, along with his computer. He lets himself be nudged out of the way when Hive arrives, scooting over to grab a dishtowel and start clearing the drying rack instead. "Food?" He offers. Maybe to Jim. Maybe to Hive. Probably to both of them. "If I had a rocket launcher, I would make each second count." Hive doesn't sing this. He just kind of /says/ it, grim and bland with a thin twist of a smile. "Seem like you've got enough here to feed a fucking army." His smile thins further. "Suits, I guess." He is slowly refilling the drying rack as Jackson empties it. Here. Have POT. "Jim brought presents." "Not the kind you'd like," Jim never wastes a moment to undercut Hive, wandering away from his dirty deposit of research to invade the kitchen. /Sniffing/. Suspiciously. Snffsnffsnffsnff... He claps a rough-textured hand on the back of either of Jax's shoulders to transfer him away from the drying rack. He can take the pot with him. "Is it cannibalism if I eat vegan?" Maybe he's MORAL when he eats bacon. Jackson seems startled by this commandeering of ALL his work, tensing under Jim's shoulderclaps. But, also, seems rather too tired to /resist/, just shifting away with a slow rubbing of dishtowel over pot to stash the pot back in a cabinet next to the stove. "Um. It might be. But the twins bite each other all the time so I think we're just kind of in a cannibalistic house." He moves to the stove, turning off one pot, getting out some very large tupperwares to transfer foods over. The soup, first, carefully pouring it. He stashes it in the freezer, not the fridge, which, at the moment, is rather /packed/ with neatly stacked tupperware already. He might have been at this cooking thing a long while. "From you. Everything is touching. I know it comes with so much love." Hive is scrubbing the dishes like this is an /attack/. Assaulting the streaks of food and oil. "That Peter kid came by earlier. Said he understood about not coming. Was weird, Mel told me the other day Shelby was concerned about not putting us /out/ asking for help, too. It's like the teenagers suddenly got hit with maturity sticks or some shit. It's not gonna last." "Those kids are the fucking /bitiest/--," Jim might have more to say, but the phone in his back pocket starts to ring. Which is SAD because his hands are full of steamy-clean plate and a damp towel, so he has to make a rush of shoving a few plates into the cabinet to fumble through a few pockets to get it out, fumbles, catches it, nearly drops it. Cursing and swearing at the marvel of modern technology, he squints at the unfamiliar number, and then glares at the side of Hive's /head/ when he jabs a thumb at it and props it against his ear. "--fuckshit - /yeah/?" "Just with each other, mostly. They have thick skin. Like puppies. Peter's backed down?" Jackson's computer has moved on. He sings along, half under his breath though the speakers are playing considerably louder, with the new song, turning back to the rest of his cooking food as Jim answers the phone. "And if they come for us by morning, with that knock-knock on the door --" Jim has a phone. He's not eavesdropping, totally! Okay he might be eavesdropping. He's singing /quietly/. Hive is still steadfastly Not Singing. But. Maybe he likes the theme of Jackson's current playlist, because he's once more kind of /grumbling/ along with the words: "-- And if I have to give my name, you know I won't be giving yours." There might even be a little bit of melody by the time he gets to the end of this. Littlebit. "Yeah. Um. I think he still /wants/ to come but he's not putting up a fight. He wants to stay home instead. Here with the kids. Think he's worried about someone --" He shrugs. Hums another few bars of the song. His eyes slant sideways to watch Jim and his PHONE. "What. Mel--?" Jim tucks his free arm against his chest, hand beneath opposite elbow while he drifts his eyes from Hive's STUPID FACE to Jax's. Jax does not get glared at, Jim's face slowly drifting pensive. "Uh. Yeah. --I mean /no/. Whatever. Hi. You uh... -- You okay?" He leans a hip against the side of the counter, compressing his lips. A slow tension builds through his shoulders, and he reaches into an inner coat pocket, pulling out a small notebook, "/No/. No, it's uh. Fine. This guy. He give you a name? A way to contact him? Any noticeable features?" Jackson's singing quiets down to soft humming. He's definitely eavesdropping, now, his eye shifts away from the stove to watch Jim with a curious frown. "Worried about someone -- yeah. Um. That's not a bad worry," he murmurs, under his breath. "Good, though. Safer here. I -- hope." "Yeah. I hope." Hive doesn't sound hopeful, OPTIMIST that he is. He sounds gruff, maybe he's angry at his dishes. He's sponging furiously. Also half watching Jim. "The fuck?" He doesn't bother to not pretend he is eavesdropping. "Something wrong with Mel?" << /Murphy Law/ >> is a name that enters Jim's mind with a great amount of amusement and annoyance, relaxing considerably. He waves at Jax's concerned look, the side of his mouth twitching tightly, "Oh. /That/ guy. No, I already got his contact info, we go back. He's an asshole, but he's solid. If he bothers you again, just tell him if he doesn't back off, Jim Morgan's gonna put his face through a car windshield. He'll like that. Watch out what you say to him, though, the man's a bulldog. He'll lock his jaw on something thill his teeth break if you give him half the chance." << And this one looks personal... >> He puts his notebook back into his inner jacket. Jackson looks away when Jim relaxes, turning back to his food. He switches off another burner, goes to retrieve another large tupperware from a cabinet. "Sounds familiar," he does comment, mild and amused. Once he has the tupperware in his hand he stops, staring at the stoves like he's forgotten quite what to do with them. << Personal? >> Hive's eyebrows raise, but he continues his dishes quietly. "Hahhh, doesn't it." It's dry. He frowns over at Jax, putting his sponge down with one last pan still in the sink. He moves away, taking the tupperware from Jax's hands and setting it down on the counter. "Go sit down," he orders. "Jim brought presents, remember." << ... >> Jim manages a mental ellipses more through the static noise of steady latin, tapping his fingers on the counter, his eyes following Jax. He's still speaking into the phone, steadily. "--Yeah. Keep me updated. I'll ask him what the fuck. Get back to you." *click* Jim never had the best bedside manner on the phone. He's abruptly hung up, cramming the phone back into a pocket. The latin begins to soften, slough off a very cautious allowance. << Murph was part of a program called Weapon X when he was in the military. One more fucking attempt to weaponize freaks, only /he/ was a good soldier and volunteered. Guess getting out wasn't all that easy. >> His eyes have slid to the side, to grimly consider Hive for a moment. << ... I'm trusting you with this. >> (Not that we have a choice.) "Get your skinny washerwoman arms outta the sink. Let's open presents." "Presents." Jackson still doesn't move. He eyes the empty tupperware, slowly moving to transfer one more dish to it, careful not to spill. The pot goes in the sink. The tupperware goes in the freezer with the rest. There's a moment when he just eyes the shelves of prepared food, with a deep frown and deeper contemplation -- << S'it enough? How long will this last them? Rent's at least good for the next two months but the bills -- >> He shuts the fridge, straightening with his shoulders squaring. "Right," does not carry any of the exhaustion or nervousness that drags down his mental thoughts, at least. "Yeah. C'mon." He heads over to the living room, dropping down onto the floor beside the table, dragging a beanbag over to perch on. "Man, fuck you, you do a thing, you do it /right/." Which apparently means returning to the sink to finish the last couple dishes. Scrubscrubscrub. Hive frowns down at the pan. << It's the military. Of course getting out wasn't easy. >> Hive does not sound like he has a great deal of sympathy for this predicament. But then it's hard to tell, really, he's just kind of still scowling, his mental voice no harsher than it usually is. No softer, either. He rinses the pan, dropping it to the drying rack. << It's enough, >> he adds just as grating-harsh to Jax, << because you'll be back here soon. >> The nervousness doesn't have to carry through into Jackson's voice. Jim is looking at the freezer's interior, and there's a flat oldness and understanding in his mind that leaves very little room for a bleeding heart. << Well that's the saddest thing I've seen in a while. >> Not mocking. Not specifically anything beyond blunt internally directed sentiment. He doesn't seem to be /looking/ for sympathy from Hive anyway, so the lack doesn't seem to register, offering the gruff mental equivalent of a shrug -<< Yeah. Pretty much. So like I said... -- personal. >> With the brief concern of the phone call resolved, he appears rather slouchy-casual against the feverish /industry/ in the kitchen, and he meanders out towards the living room, "I'll set us up, then!" He says it with /gusto/! "You got coffee?" "Uh -- no," Jackson says, apologetically, "Wait, I mean, yeah," he changes his mind, bouncing up out of the beanbag chair to head back towards the kitchen, "I mean I could make some!" He opens a cabinet, taking a tin of coffee beans out and scooping some into the grinder. For a brief moment the whirring of the grinder drowns out his music. << Maybe, >> he says, although there's other images quietly underneath this; Dusk and Ryan taking care of the kids, instead, or the twins off joining the dark of the Morlocks' home. << -- Though even if I am back soon, >> at least has some wry amusement to it, << I'm /probably/ not gonna want to be cooking for a while. >> He puts the grounds into the coffee machine, refilling its water and switching it on to let the coffee brew. "Hhah, true enough," Hive says, though it's ambiguous as to who this comment is directed. He finishes up the last of the dishes, dries his hands on a towel, and heads out to the living room. He drops down onto the couch, stifling a yawn against his shoulder. "Coffee, shit. I could drink the whole pot. -- So. On a scale of one to ten," he's asking Jim. /Cheerily/. "We dead, or /really/ dead?" Jim sits in the center of the couch, pulling out a stack of glossy pictures. The angles are strange, photographed through foliage, but as he begins to lay them out, it begins to form a collage of a cement-walled structure at different angles. In some, there are armed men in helmets moving through the foreground underbrush, speaking into cell phones and carrying machine guns, others catch silhouettes of turrets against the blue sky. There is a lot of chainlink and barbed wire. "Well." Jim says in a short, sharp flatness, a roughed hand scrubbing slowly across his mouth, his eyes scanning his own photographs. "Much as you two love birds are fonts of optimism..." His hand drops, and he taps one of the pictures, "...I think we can do it." The rush of planning, sequential-order words ‘if we... then we... after which... before we...' is almost too fast to make a coherent picture out of; never has his mind /felt/ its age so starkly, complicated and seasoned. He's handing pages of a typed report to either men - /typewriter/ typed. Old school. Jax lingers in the kitchen. Long enough to pull his casserole out of the oven. With the stove and all the burners off, now, he relaxes a little more as he heads back out. He drops back down into the beanbag, drawing it over to the table to watch as Jim sets out the pictures. He's very quiet, throughout this, looking at the pictures, reading over the report with a pensive expression. Very quiet outwardly, at least; internally there's a streamed rush of thought about as fast as Jim's words. Slowly starting to piece things together, from all these components into something more coherent, with a rapid rush of mental imagery that is both more and less chaotic than his usual BRIGHT oversugared mental stream. Rapid. Flitting from one thought to the next hastily. But for once ruthless in what thoughts he discards and what he sets neatly in order. "It's bigger than I thought," is what he says first. "Though smaller than some. We'll need a truck." "We'll need an in. I mean, exploding the door works but it's not very subtle." Hive's studying the men with the guns more than the pictures of the compound. "Doesn't look as bad as Nevada. Man, were you really chiling out here naked through all this? Any of those dudes decide they need to take a leak on patrol? Maybe your roots looked like they could use watering?" This is all sort of offhand as he reads the report. "I can get you a truck," Jim murmurs offhand, standing with a push down on his knees like he's OLD to, "I can drive it, too, don't worry about that." << Holy shit I shouldn't be excited by that, this is going to be a shit sandwich. >> "You sound a little too eager asking, Hivey. You into watersports?" He heads into the kitchen to begin making up coffees, getting out dishes like he owns the place. He knows how they take theirs by now, opting for BLACK himself tonight. He's still wary of this non-dairy MILK product that Jax supplies. << Though holy shit, a long-range patrolman walked right past me, if I had a bladder at the time /I'd/ have pissed myself. >> "That's not all I got for you guys, either. Tell me what you already know about these fucking murderdrones." "Don't know how many people we're gonna be dragging out of there. Might do best to just rent a freaking U-haul van. Cover the back in padding." It's probably a testament to how absorbed he is in this mental planning that Jax /doesn't/ blush at the mention of watersports, ignoring this lewdness as he continues to studdy the reports. "Heard they're trying to train them to hunt and kill mutants. Don't know how good that targeting is just get. Past that I don't know much. They're drones. They fly. They explode. Don't sound like much fun." "Padding and some /tarps/," Hive says, "if we want the fucking security deposit back. This is going to be a goddamn shitshow. We'll need a driver. Fucking Eli --" He winces, scrubbing at his cheek. "Yeah, that's about what I heard, too. Mngh." He's sort of filtering through Jax's mental planning even as he looks the reports over. "If I could get in these guards when this afternoon shift is changing out --" "We gonna do a Uhaul, we'll need some fake ID's and a credit card," Jim returns to the couch with all three coffees precariously held against his chest. He distributes them like a flaky caffeine fairy. Jackson's is pretty much straight sugar. "It'll make it a little harder to /not/ leave a breadcrumb trail back to us. I'll look around, Uhaul's not the only place that supplies big moving vans, though - I'll look around. See if I can't pull a few favors." Though he mentally replaces ‘favor' with ‘blackmail'. "The drones," he says, dropping down onto the couch, "are outta /Oscorp/. Guess he had a security breach recently, involving some... spider-guy...." Jim's /frown/ is the direct result of having had to spend a few hours on YouTube doing research. "The spider-kid got away clear, but it got seen by a -- /your cop/ actually. Eric Sutton. And chances are, Osborn's been trying to fix the oversight before Big Brother finds out he's let something slip. Whatever we're gonna do," he slurps his coffee, "we gotta do it soon. A leak like that puts a little /fear/ into people. And then this'll be all but worthless." ‘This', being the drone specs he's pulling out of a third envelope, handing them around as well. Jackson just /grimaces/ at the mention of Eric's name, but Oscorp pulls his browns into a deeper frown. "-- I just got an invite from Norman Osborn to a fancy shindig of his," he says, slowly. "S'trying to woo some governent defense contract and /wants/ mutants there. To help him win this thing for making anti-mutant tech." He frowns at his coffee, but then remembers to nod a thanks to Jim. He takes a careful sip of hot liquid coffeesyrup. "We'll do it now, then. Or. Two days to get people together. We've pulled it off in less." And he at least has clearly already been preparing. The drone specs earn a /deeper/ frown. A deeper pull of coffee. "Shit, I'd half forgotten that thing. Hey," Hive says brightly, "if you die you won't have to figure out what to do about Osborn's bullshit." SO BRIGHTLY. He slurps at his coffee. "Yeah. Everyone's been on alert anyway. They know it's coming. We were figuring soon. What're you doing Thursday?" He asks this of Jim casually. "You want to leave your evening free for me?" "You know just how to ask, sweetheart," Jim picks at a bit of debris at the corner of his mouth. "You got yourself a date, then. Thursday, we're doing this. Leave the wheels to me. I got a bead in with the Iron Pipeline to get some decent big guns in as well." He's eyeing either man, not with /skepticism/, but not with a lot of optimism either, "Either of you got a gun preference?" Pause. Then. "Wait. -- Osborn's inviting mutants to a formal endorsing anti-mutant tech? Is this about that ticket Sutton gave you?" "A gun preference." Jackson just looks kind of /blank/ at this, and then a briefly amused, << Well, I think I'd know which end to hold, >> bubbles up in his mind. "Honestly," he says, with a sheepish wrinkle of his nose, "I think I'd be just as likely to hit my own team as I would anyone I should be hitting." His hand rubs at the back of his neck, and he sips at his coffee again. "I don't know what it's about. He wants /respectable/ mutants around. To make it seem like he's all warm and fuzzy, I guess. But the woman who extended his invite, she, I mean, it's pretty obvious /already/ this guy isn't /actually/ the kind of person I want to trust but she warned me he was --" His head shakes. "I don't even know. He seems to be really keen on having people there, though. She said they'd make my ticket disappear if I went along." << And implied some kinda horrible if I didn't. >> "Jax is our big guns," Hive says, wryly. "Ryan. Liam. Jane. Peace. I think Jane's the only one out of them who'd know what the fuck to do with the damn thing if you stuck it in her hand." His eye is squinting up as Jackson talks. He slurps long at his mug. "Warm and fuzzy mutant killer. Sweet. You giving him your endorsement?" "Right," of guns, this is all Jim follows up with, in a low grumble. << /I'll/ be armed anyway. It's short notice but maybe I could score a few riot vests. The lab sure as shit will have bullets... >> "That Jane-Jane? Iolaus's Jane? Funny how conveniently they can wipe your ticket out like that. That fucking cop bastard, it's a shame Osborn didn't manage to fry him. Guess he sent a mutie /after/ him, some lightning slinger going by the name Max Dillon." "I told her I didn't want it wiped. Iolaus's Jane, yeah. Real military type. Don't doubt /she'll/ come armed. She was maybe gonna get some body armor for --" Jax gestures to Hive. "But hers is like. More the military type. Hive won't move real great in it." << But doesn't need to. Just needs not to die. >> "-- Osborn sent a guy after a /cop/? That doesn't sound, um, real prudent." << Even if he deserves it, >> is an angrier unvoiced snip. "No more than castrating one," Hive says with a thin smile. "Bastard kinda earns it. Can't say I'm /surprised/ someone wants to off him. Place is gonna have bullets up to the fucking gills. Flicker can't do shit against them and he's gotta go /in/. Ryan, too." << Make that I /will/ find some extra body armor for the others to wear. Hopefully between the two of us, then... >> Jim is relieved so slightly thinking Jane will be accompanying. "Welp," he sniffs. "Let's talk shop, then." There is much to be pored over. So, they pore.