ArchivedLogs:Non-classy Classified

Non-classy Classified
Just how Jim and Murphy like it.
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Jim	2013-03-02 Passing notes at a rest stop. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location
Three miles away from Jim's stakeout site. A rest-stop. It's one of those godforsaken places that has an automated coffee machine. Your choices are 'HOT COCOA', 'CARRIBEAN ROMANCE', and 'THE DARK STUFF'. Murphy picks option 'C'. When he gets back to his car -- that Fifth Avenue Chrysler he's so fond of -- he slams the door shut, paws the coffee off to Jim (without even asking if he wants it), and produces the manila envelope -- a bit thick -- from his coat. As he does so, he starts talking over the drone of the heater and the occasional rumble of a passing truck: "It's Oscorp tech. The drones're for survelliance and high-value target termination. They're fast as fuck, quiet, and nearly entirely autonomous -- once they've selected a target, they can operate without a pilot. They've got overrides to turn 'em off or just blow 'em up, but you ain't gonna be able to do that without the software -- and my contact wasn't able to scoop a copy. Also," and here, Murphy's brows crumple, clenching: "Norman's trying to kill the cop who saw the drone attack. Or, well, he _tried_. Which means Norman Osborn is in a lot of fucking trouble." You don't go after a shield in the middle of New York City unless your alternatives are Shit and Hell in a Hand-Basket. Jim takes the envelope and transfers it to the grip of his teeth, ignoring it for however long it takes to get his coffee situated, and then places the cup on the dashboard to pour the paper contents into his awaiting palm. He riffles through the photographs and paperwork like an accountant. "So what're you thinking - damage control for his own inventions, or fealty to an even bigger gun breathing down his neck?" It might almost be hypothetical; or maybe he's just taking a few shots in the dark to locate the right questions in a spray-and-pray search for answers. He takes a rich slurp of coffee and then hands it back to Murphy, staking a more direct inquiry, underpinned with a frank shot of eye contact, "What's the money trail say?" "I think Norman Osborn is dangerous as all fuck," Murphy says. "And I think that anything that interferes with Oscorp has a nasty habit of going away." He takes the coffee. Glares at it, as if its presence was somehow *offensive*. And then he gulps, long and hard -- more than he should drink at once. Burns his tongue a little. The sort of burn that'll be throbbing for the rest of the day. "Government knows. They must. Way this works, sometimes. They might be trying to control him. I read up a bit on Osborn -- his past, shit that happened. I think," and here, Murphy sounds a little unsure, "I think the man might be legitimately insane. If the data's accurate, he's... seriously fucked up. Few years ago, one of his competitors was found beaten to death in his corner office. Police identified teethmarks. *Canine* teethmarks. Middle of an office building, no witnesses, no explanation." Another sip -- then he passes it back to Jim. "Osborn's accounts with the government are _beyond_ classified. Man's the only name in mutant countermeasures right now; he's working on all sorts of creepy shit. Stuff to identify mutants -- stuff to slow mutants down -- I heard he's even working on anti-telepathy tech. Not sure how that's worked out for him, though. My contact says nothing -- yet." "Things don't get prettier above the glass ceiling," Jim allows absentmindedly, bitterly, reading each page and studying each photograph with individual dedication, "Just makes for a prettier backdrop to the /mess/." It does nothing to obstruct the coffee handoff, and he takes a liberal swig while reading. Sweet juice of the bean. "Well," he says almost cheerfully, whapping the papers against his opposite palm, "this is a shit sandwich. I'd bet his government buddies don't know about his little boner yet or that cop would be dogfood already. Not a long order to make from Washington to pull a beat cop in for questioning." Long pause. "Fuck." He begins tucking the papers back into an envelope, "I've been staking this place out for a week now. Security's tighter than a preacher's dick in a cat's ass." Murphy... *stares* at Jim. And then, rather slowly, he repeats those words: "Preacher's dick. Cat's a... Huh. I can take a few rounds if you want a break. Can compare notes after. Not like I'll need to write any of the scheduling down," Murphy adds. Then: "The murder attempt went down just yesterday. Before I came out here, in fact. Sent a mutant. Throws lightning. Weapon X freak by the name of 'Max Dillon'. He got away, but the cop gave him a chunk of lead for his troubles." "But yeah, as soon as the government realizes Norman's after the only witness -- aside from that Spider freak -- shit will meet fan. Huh," Murphy adds, thinking. "Wonder if you can _use_ that. Probably not. As far as I can find, Osborn's just dealing with these fuckers; he ain't _among_ them." Then: "You boys pick a day for your hot date, yet?" "It's a phrase from back home," not that Jim has ever mentioned where 'back home' is. He's not /that/ generous, "Honestly, Murph, I could use you more on the ground; stake outs in the city, I'd be all over that. But out here?" His body changes, shifts; he's already dirty, has been dropping bits of soil and leaf litter in the car, with greasy hair days beyond a good washing, his flaky-psoriasis skin curling away in shreds of treebark and his five o' clock shadow transitioning more into scrubby near-beard, but now it extends shoots and leaves and small forking branches, "I'm pretty much /made/ for this commando guerrilla shit. I don't gotta eat or sleep when I've gone to ground; lil' dirt, lil' sun? Vivat, crescat, floreat." Live, grow and flourish. A plants ideal. Less ideal is the rest of his pony show and he scrubs at his face. "Yesterday is fucking /recent/. If the government gets wind of this, they might close in tighter. We haven't got a datenight yet, but we might need to rush right into bed to beat this." He drums his fingertips together until finally sunk in: "So tell me about this Spider freak." He's been out of town. They don't have newspapers delivered to trees in the middle of nowhere. Yet. The sight of that change... it throws Murphy off. He's seen Jim do it before, but not like /this/ -- not so sudden and forceful. He grunts, a moment, giving Jim more room -- watching as those branches begin to sprout -- as the man starts going all *Treebeard* on him. "Alright, Jesus --! I get it. Just don't drop any fuckin' Jimcones in here, huh? I ain't got the money to feed a bunch of little mutant sprouts." Then, another grunt: "Not much to tell. He's a kid. Dumb one. Looked up his online videos; stupid shit, just him jumping and climbing over jungle gyms. That free running shit? 'Cept, all that promptly stopped after the 'incident'. Eric -- the cop -- tells me the kid was being chased by these things. They were out to kill him. And he was /dodging/ them," Murphy says, reaching forward to tap that envelope. "And if you read the specs, that should tell you -- right there -- that the kid's a mutant. Because dodging these things is next to fucking /impossible/. The incident happened about five blocks from the Oscorp labs -- which means he dodged them for /five blocks/. They blew up when the cop called the police. Mentioned that the kid said something about them probably keeping track of phone signals." He reaches for a cigarette -- one eye on Jim, just to make sure he's not going to go all tree on him. "After that, kid stopped posting shit online. Next -- and last -- time he shows up in the news, he saves two kids from a tenement fire in Queens. Used some sort of 'zip-line' -- some sort of web thing. Police say it just up and dissolved about an hour or so after they arrived." Leaves and thin branches take up enough space to be nice and obnoxious; anyone passing by behind the car would think Murphy had seatbelted in a shrub in the front seat. Jim withdraws them soon enough, greenery curling in on themselves to be reabsorbed. "Hope that doesn't mean they /caught/ the kid. Eric," Jim's speaking voice is scratchier, growing progressively less so the more he conforms to normalcy, "That's not Eric Sutton is it?" He gives up a badge number while he's at it. Perfect recall, he does not have. But professional habit marks these things compulsively. "No. Still at large. I can find him, if it's important," Murphy says. "He /did/ dodge these things. Dunno what that's worth. Witnesses at the fire said the kid could basically fly. Uses the zip-lines to, like, swing. From buildings." He reaches for the lighter, then adds: "Yeah, that's him. His badge number, too. Same fucker who gave Jackson a ticket." Murphy doesn't know Jax, but he met him once. And he heard his name. And, well, that's all he needs to connect *those* dots. "Pretty sure he's a mutant, too. Regenerator. Knows how to keep his mouth shut." "Oh, he's a mutant alright. He's also fucking Jackson's fifteen year old son," Jim adds dryly, "He's got a thing for teenage ass, not a lot of qualms if he can get his dick in it. Jax /castrated/ him and I guess he hardly batted an eye. Didn't do anything to discourage him in the least." There's a long moment of silence, where Jim goes for his own smoke - it's been maybe a whole twenty minutes and Murhy's smells like a little bit of dirty Heaven. He blows a stream of smoke at the windsheild, "/Zip/ lines. That fucking city, man, it's a small wonder someone hasn't gone full super-fucking-hero by now. Maybe we should have these datenights more often. Get outta the city, got the rest stop, a deathlab just a few miles away, murderdrones just waiting to sniff us out and blow us outta the water. This is nice." And coffee. Don't forget that. He hits it hard and says abruptly, "Lemme show you around my camp. This surveillance dog and pony show goes tits up, might be good to have a guy likely to remember my last known location." He doesn't say it in any dire manner; more annoyed. And even that might be directed at his seatbelt, which he's buckling at the same time. "Let's ride." There is an audible 'snkt' from Murphy when Jim brings up that first bit about Jackson's son. He pretty much *chokes* on his cigarette; in the next instant, he's coughing and hacking for a solid five seconds. COUGH. COUGH. HACK. COUGH. "He--what." Murphy recovers a moment later, shaking it off -- but it's a line of inquiry he doesn't pursue. That's something he'll look into /himself/. "Nngh. Yeah, yeah. /Fine/." He reaches, turns the key -- the car rumbles to life. He shifts the car into reverse, pulling out -- graveling popping and cracking under the tires. "If you end up dead, everyone'll have a case of 'mourning wood'." Yeah, he's been saving that one. He drives.