ArchivedLogs:No News Is...

No News Is...
actually, fairly nerve-wracking.
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive	26 July 2013 Hive visits Micah and Jax at the medlab.
Location <XS> Medical Lab – B1
Gleaming and sterile, the school's medical facility is all cool science in contrast to the mansion's old-world old-fashion. All stainless steel and antiseptic tinge, the room is filled with the quiet whir-click of the various implements that comprise its medical equipment -- all state-of the art. The hospital beds are curtained off for privacy when they have patients, and in one of the alcoves there is a small operating theatre visible. More heavy-duty equipment is visible in the lab in the back, where the securely locked cabinets keep sensitive equipment out of the reach of teenage fingers. Micah has set up camp in the medlab over the past couple of days. Someone seems to have fetched him a few items from home. He is, at least, wearing his own clothing that does /not/ appear to have gone through an attack. A blue and green plaid button-down drapes open over a white undershirt and faded blue jeans. A nearby table contains a laptop and a graphic novel, though neither of them is being paid any mind. Micah himself is curled up in a chair, eyes hidden behind a pair of Jackson's sunglasses. The likely cause for that is a series of sunlamps aimed at Jax's unconscious, sheet-draped form, making the immediate surroundings uncomfortably bright. There is a bag of fluid draining into Jax's arm through an IV. Micah's head rests on his arm, which in turn rests on the edge of the bed. Other than a few scrapes and bruises on his forearms and a healing split lip, he seems relatively undamaged. The doors of the medbay whoosh open, whoosh back closed, admitting one surly-looking telepath. Hive is always surly-looking, really, so not much change there. He has a paper bag in one hand -- it smells like Indian! -- and his other hand tucked into his pocket, the better to /slouch/ his way towards Micah. "He dead yet." It comes out sort of flat-bland. He /thrusts/ the bag forward when he approaches, not so much handing it over as depositing it on Micah's curled-up legs. Micah startles somewhere between the doors opening and Hive's approach, suddenly sitting up straight in his chair. He winces, a hand going reflexively to his ribcage. “Ow...I'm awake!” he insists softly. Totally awake! The bag in his lap receives a confused look for a moment, then Hive much the same, before Micah shakes his head. “No...there. There ain't been a lotta change, though." He pats at the bag. “Thanks. How are...things? Out...” the sentence concludes with a wave of his hand. Out there. In the rest of the world. Where things happen. "Incredibly shitty," Hive answers. "There's -- fuck, uh. Pakora and bhel puri and baingan bharta. And naan. I think. Do you /really/ want to know how things are." He steps away from Micah, towards the bedside. Extending a hand, he hovers fingers /over/ Jackson's forehead, gauging its current level of heat before reconsidering touch and dropping his hand away to his side. "Fuck." "That good, huh?" Micah replies with a slight crinkling of his nose. "An'...ohgosh, thanks. I keep losin' track of time. So I don't remember t'do anythin' about food when they have food." He unrolls the top of the bag, but doesn't really get any further than that. "I...mmn. Okay, maybe not /everything/ yet? Just. Anythin' crucial. An' if anythin' happens with Spencer." He watches Hive's hand, interrupting him with a, "You might not wanna...touch." He holds up his hands, revealing reddened skin and mild blistering across his palms and fingers in what looks like a rather severe, concentrated sunburn. "He gets pretty hot sometimes." "Spencer is keeping Alanna /so/ fucking entertained, she is pretty much in heaven. I think seven-year-olds aren't really much different from ferrets when you get down to it." Hive shoves both hands in his pockets, now, but he stays near Jax's bedside, looking down at him with a frown. "What's crucial?" “Yeah, just bigger. Somewhat less furry. Way more talkative,” Micah agrees with a twitch at the corner of his mouth suggestive of a tired almost-smile. “I can't even...mmn. I guess, just anythin' with people from the Lofts. I don't think I can really stretch my frettin' out too far right now. It's sorta extra concentrated.” His hands drop back into his lap, resting palms up. Hive pushes out a slow breath, giving this a long moment of consideration. Eventually he steps away from Jax's bedside, looking down at Micah's hands. His jaw clenches; his teeth can be heard grinding. "-- You two are the most fucked up from the Lofts," he finally answers. "I mean the twins aren't goddamn /sleeping/ but they didn't get shot or anything." He rests a hand on the back of Micah's chair, his teeth grinding slowly again. "S'anything you need?" “Yay, we win,” Micah replies with a sarcastic finger-twirl. “Yeah, the boys been by t'see him. We all have spectacularly bad timin'.” A shake of his head punctuates the statement. “I...no. I just been sittin' here, takin ' it easy like they told me t'do. Waitin' for,” his eyes track back to Jax's form, “somethin'.” He moves to press his teeth into his lower lip before remembering that is a /terrible/ idea and scrunching down his eyebrows instead. “/You/ don't sound so great, though. You okay?” Hive just grunts, in answer to this. His fingers tighten against the back of the chair. "No." It's quick and terse, but Hive doesn't elaborate further than that. His eyes squeeze shut; for a moment there's an uncomfortable mental squeeze against Micah's mind, but it soon withdraws. "He's dreaming." “Anythin' that can be helped?” Micah inquires further. He doesn't even work up an attempt to pull away from Hive's mental-touch. His mind reads in several flavours of exhaustion. “Hopefully it's somethin' not awful,” he comments on Jax's dreaming, eyes scanning over the unconscious man's face. Micah lifts the bag in his lap gingerly. “Sorry, I forgot. Did you want any of this? I could...” He stacks the items on the table next to him, clearing a place to set the bag. "Hhhah. Have you /seen/ Jax's dreams?" Hive's eyes stay squeezed closed. "You must've. They tend to come to life. It's probably not a good sign that -- if he's too drained to even --" He opens his eyes, now, to look at the room around them. Its lack of dream-illusions. His teeth grind again. "-- They're very bright. His mind is always too bright." He leans down, pressing a firm kiss to Micah's temple. "Nah. S'all yours. You gotta eat, dude. Think of the terrible if he finally wakes up to find you've starved to death beside him." "Yes," Micah replies simply, a frown betraying the /variety/ of dreams that tend to creep up with the strongest illusory images around the Holland household. "Ain't been too many good signs with nothin'. 'Ceptin' that he's still breathin'. He burned out everythin' he had on all of the... Shields for all the bullets an' drone-glue. Movin' 'em t'deal with the damned /grenade/. Keepin' up the stairs long enough t'get us out." This last comes with a sharp twinge of guilt. Fortunately, there is that kiss from Hive, drawing forth a watered-down half-smile. "Ain't gonna starve, hon. Just. Kinda forget." Micah finally pulls out the first container and sets it on the table, popping it open to reveal pakora. He even moves to grab a piece with his fingers before deciding better of it and fishing a plastic fork out of the bag. The tines spear one of the golden-brown battered morsels for him to bite a tiny bit off of. See? Eating. "He's going to kill himself, some day." Hive just sounds flat, there, dull. "-- He could have fried them. All of them. Gotten you all out so much easier. If he weren't so --" His breath hisses out through his teeth. "But he got you out," he reminds himself. "You -- got you both out." His hand returns to the back of the chair. "You regret moving here, yet?" "No," comes another simple reply, quickly, as if not requiring much thought. Micah's eyes slide over to Jax yet again. "I don't. I didn't think I was goin' to. For awhile. Be able t'get him out in time." He looks down at his hands. "He...doesn't wanna kill anybody. I think he did actually hurt 'em, eventually." Micah /finally/ looks back up at Hive. "Can you /imagine/ what the news would've spun if he had killed someone?" Something in that statement sparks a memory, causing him to laugh, a sudden sharp snort of laughter. "Oh...ohgosh. Lucien has the /worst/ ideas..." "But you did." Though Hive's brows pull into a frown as he looks over at Jax's face. "Yeah. Stupid motherfucker'd hold back until they killed him. Do you have any idea what he's capable of? And a pair of goddamn flatscans with guns manages --" He exhales sharper, irritated, his fingers clenching down against the chair. His irritation is derailed into a puzzled look. "-- Lucien? What?" Micah moves to fuss at his hair before reminding himself yet /again/ that this is probably not the best thing to be doing with his hands. He takes another small bite from his fork instead before answering. "Oh, sorry. I just remembered this conversation we had a few days before...all of this. Where he kind of joked that I should find some anti-mutant bigots to get attacked by. For PR." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "I should prob'ly call an' check in on him later." "Never take any damn thing Lucien says seriously," Hive grumbles, "that motherfucker's --" His jaw tightens, expression briefly tightening. Brows furrowing, jaw clenching faintly. "You should call him," he agrees, "I don't think he's -- doing well." His hand moves from the back of Micah's chair to his shoulder, squeezing gently. "But not for a bit, maybe. You've got shit to deal with already." "Oh, no... No, like I said. He was jokin', just. Suddenly it was kinda horrible-ironic-funny." Micah sets his fork down, eyebrows knitting at the declaration that Lucien is not doing well. "Are his siblings okay? We...hrm. We had kind of promised t'help with them, but then. Boom. I don't think he's got a lotta help otherwise." He leans just slightly into Hive's touch. Not too much! Leaning too far in any direction brings back the rib aches. "Would be good PR, though," Hive says, wryly. "Firing on unarmed men in the --" He frowns. "Guess it'd be hard to explain what you were doing down there, though." His hand squeezes at Micah's shoulder again. "Eh -- siblings are fine, I think. I'm sure he'll understand you're not really in a great place for fucking /babysitting/ right now." Micah nods solemnly. "It is temptingly pathetic, I'll admit. Just. Yeah. Risks tellin' too much about someone /else's/ home. Not sure it'd be worth it t'endanger them more. Again." A third small bite finally clears the fritter from his fork. "I know. It's just...sometimes good t'have someone to talk to an' plan with, when you aren't used t'kids. An' he's so not. They've been through a lot lately." He puts the fork down with a sigh. "Everyone's been through a lot lately, seems like." "Whole fucking city's been through a lot lately." Hive moves aside, dragging over a second chair to pull it up alongside Jax's bed. "I'm really fucking ready for the world to stop being so goddamn crazy." He leans forward, curling his arms folded on the edge of the mattress and his head resting down against them. "Imagine it's good to have someone to talk to /any/ time. Not just with kids. Just with -- your entire fucking life getting an overhaul." Micah uses the back of his hand to pat at Hive's shoulder, necessarily coming without the little comforting squeeze that would usually accompany it. “Yeah, every part of that's about right. Gotta get the whole city t'take a vacation at once, let folks recover for a minute.” He slides over a little to rest his forehead lightly on Hive's shoulder, even if the leaning is a bit achey. “Thanks again, for everythin'.” Hive just grunts. Low and noncommittal. His head tips to the side, resting against Micah's hair. "Ngh," he answers, "I haven't done shit." He lapses back into silence, eyes closing.