ArchivedLogs:Old Times

Old Times
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive, Isra, Jax	Thursday, March 5, 2020 "This proposition has /complex/ ontological implications." (Part of the Future Past TP.)
Location <MOR> Below New York
Buried beneath the bustle and noise of New York's busy streets, the world underneath the city is a quieter place. Quieter, but far from deserted. Occasional ladders, often rusting, ascend to the city above and are evidence that at /one/ point these tunnels had been in use, or had been planned for it; perhaps by way of maintenance, or access to subways or sewers. These stretches have been abandoned by civic infrastructure for some time now, though, but occasional scraps of evidence -- discarded food wrappers, piles of tatty blankets or moldering old mattresses, sometimes voices carrying echoes through the dank concrete -- give evidence that /someone/ still uses these tunnels. The rumbling of subway trains sounds frequently through the walls, many of the train routes accessible through various doors and openings. There is a small workshop fitted into one of the lovely alcoves of this stretch of sewer. It has an actual /table/ and a /chair/ in it, both rusted-out folding numbers that probably had seen better days even before they ended up underground. It is one of the better-lit rooms down here, necessary for visualising the mechanical items being worked on. Piles of broken Sentinel pieces, broken electronics, mismatched tools...whatever mechanical things could be scavenged from above have found places here. Micah is hunched over the table working on repairing a broken headlamp just now. He looks just a little better off for the 'vacation' in Mexico: better fed, at least. His auburn hair is tugged back in a short ponytail, grey-streaked from the temples and about as dirty as the clothing covering the rest of him: a faded-grey jacket over a holey black henley, tattered jeans ending about at the knees with robotic legs extending beneath them. Was Micah expecting company? Probably not. Maybe not. But he's about to get some, expecting it or not. Hive -- looks older than when Micah last saw him, but who doesn't, these days. Longer hair, greyer hair, pulled back into a ponytail beneath a dirty beanie. Faded old brown hedgehog tee over a dirty grey long-sleeved tee, heavy jeans, heavy boots. Deep lines in his face. At first he is quiet -- quiet steps in a darkened tunnel, fingers tracing a scratchy-whisper against the wall as he makes his way closer. Still kind of half in shadow where he pauses just before the entry to the alcove, hand dropping to his side to just stand and look out at Micah, arm folding over his chest as he sucks in a slow breath. From the other direction, Isra approaches in near silence. She looks probably a lot healthier than Micah would have reason to expect, and certainly more glamorous with a faint metallic sheen to her pale blue skin and gleaming gold horns and talons on /both/ hands. She wear a long robe of dark gray, and the green jersey wrap dress beneath it looks improbably vivid even in the poor light. "Ah. I see," her voice rumbles soft and low as she looks down at her raiment. "Not a dream after all." From a mirror work satchel composed of corduroy patches she withdraws a purple shawl to drape over tightly folded wings. "Gentlemen." This last with a nod to Micah and Hive. "How may I help?" Micah certainly was not expecting company. Or so one might conclude by the way he abandons his tools to the table top, quickly coming to a stand with his hand at his side, gun half-drawn by the time Hive appears. His half-hiding does not encourage Micah's hand away from the weapon, though for the time being he only takes a few (somewhat clangy) steps toward the door, eyes narrowed at the dim light outside. "Hive?" Confusion, uncertainty, a tinge of hopefulness. The confusion wins out when Isra appears, as well, looking...not at all like he'd expect Isra to look. The clothes. The colours. The...matching set of arms. "Isra?" A few more steps carry him closer to the pair. Hive takes a step closer, out of the shadows and into the room. "You gonna shoot me?" Dry, faintly amused, eyes flicking down towards the gun at Micah's side and his arms opening out to present an easy target of the painted-blue hedgehog on his chest. His lips are moving, certainly enough; it sounds like his voice in all its odd mangled-mutt accent, but it /feels/ as though it is coming as much in mental space as in audible, a strange psionic echo of his words even as they are spoken. "Wouldn't be the worst I've had. Or any of us." He's definitely looking down at Micah's legs, with this. "Christ." His eyes skate back up to Isra, narrowing slightly. "You know, Tag still paints the fucking /Sentinels/ like that. Cheeriest fucking murderbots you ever did see." "In the flesh. Salutations from 2015." The firearm does not appear to alarm Isra much, although her tail sways just a touch faster beneath the flouncy hem of her skirt. "And, speaking of Tag..." So saying, she produces a plastic food container--rice cakes, preserved fruits, and less easily-identified Chinese desserts visible through the clear sides--from her bag and offers it to Micah. "Salutations from the Year of the Goat, as well. Probably not the most practical thing I could have brought, but no one gave me a wish list. Only an exhortation to readiness." She shrugs, bundled wings rising and settling beneath the shawl. "Consider me ready." There are more footsteps approaching from the same direction Isra had. Much like Isra, Jax -- stands out, down here. Too vivid, too bright. (Too /alive/, for that matter.) Brilliantly dyed red-purple-blue hair, iridescent green mermaid-scale leggings underneath a black velvet skirt, warm knit leggings and stompy boots, mismatched rainbow armwarmers and a silver and black asymmetrically-cut jacket, Funshine Bear symbol eyepatch and rainbow-oilslick makeup. Much like Hive, though, he kind of -- stops, in the entryway, tipping back onto his heels. Teeth sinking down against his lip. His cheeks puff out, arms curling across his chest. "... Oh." "You can't just let people sneak up on you 'round here," Micah explains without a lot of force behind it, the firearm settling back into its holster providing a clear enough answer. If additional clarity were needed, it comes in the form of a fierce /hug/ taking advantage of Hive's wide-flung arms. The closer proximity reveals rather a wealth of burn scars, over both hands and down one side of his neck, all disappearing into his clothing with the promise of more hidden beneath. "I can't even remember. When last it was... I never even know if people're /alive/ anymore. So Tag's still out there." Isra's curious proclamations do pull him back from Hive. "2015? Like, the year? Y'look...dif'rent. It's. Are you /time travellin'/, s'that what you're tellin' me? Y'been t'the past an'..." he gapes at the bag, "y'brought /food/?" From his tone, this might have been high up on any wish list provided. The onslaught of questions is interrupted by footsteps. Micah's hand twitches once more, but doesn't reach to the holster this time, perhaps assuming that the friendlies are coming in a group today by now. The gaping returns when Jax appears, a fishlike gasping-movement of the redhead's lips without sound. His eyes squeeze closed and he turns his head before looking back, opening them again, seeing the other man still there. "...Jax?" Hive's arms curl inward, his grip tight and fierce in return -- though even /this/ comes with -- an odd psionic echo. A mental /suggestion/ of being hugged that shadows Hive's outward grip. "Most people aren't. Tag, though --" His quiet laugh is just a little shaky. "Fucking dragonflies on every Sentinel he passes. Sometimes I feel --" He doesn't finish this thought. He disengages from the hug with some reluctance, taking a step back to drift towards Isra, instead. His lips press together; there's a brightness to his eyes. "Food. Good. So it's working like it --" Again he trails off, eyes moving towards Jax. Quieter: "Like it should." He looks between Jax and Micah (a shivering brush of /mind/ against the other men's thoughts), then away. Leaving those two for a moment as /he/ just steps in to curl an arm (wiry, bony, but strong, hard, fierce) around her. "I /come/ from the year 2015," Isra clarifies, "from the halcyon days before the Sentinels and the camps. My knowledge of the survivors in this time come strictly from the dreams. In the last one I can recall, we still traveled together, so I'd not likely know more than you." She offers Jax a nod, as though seeing nothing at all extraordinary about his appearance or mere presence. "I have some rather vile protein bars as well, the kind I always carry, if you have a great need for food." One of her wings shakes out from beneath the shawl and wraps around Hive, its membranes vivid blue shot through with gold veins suggestive of lapis lazuli. "I /have/ missed you." This in her lower register, quiet and obviously directed at Hive, though not so quietly that the others cannot hear. Beneath it runs a current of powerful affection and something like grief, dampened by the discipline of long practice. Jax slips further into the room, arms still folded tightly around his chest. He looks from Micah to Hive to Isra -- back to Micah, studying the older man's face with a growing frown. There's a small tremor of light around him, but it settles. In his mind there's uncertainty. Discomfort. Apprehension. When looking at /Hive/, at least, there's a similar hard /swell/ of -- love, grief, longing. At his /husband/, though, more hesitant. Sadness and fear. His fingers curl into the crooks of his arms. "2015," he confirms quietly. "Flicker brung me here once afore -- or, I guess, you did. I don't know who did. Y'all did. I – hi." "What's workin'? How're people...gettin' here? I don't understand." Micah's head shakes at the negative descriptors of the food items, dismissive of any perceived unpleasantness. "We spend a lotta time scroungin' garbage an' trappin' rats here, sugar. You got anythin' y'can spare, ain't nobody gonna say no." Micah's thoughts are desperately confused. No one is making a great deal of sense, but everyone /else/ seems to know what is going on. When Jax speaks, the /reality/ of him sets in. Despite the other man's apprehension, he can't help but move to pull him into a hug, as well. Grief and loss and love and...fear for the other man's safety /being/ here. A tightness in his throat prevents him from speaking for some time. "I don't...it's not safe here. Anywhere. So many are dead already..." A sharper pang and his words cut off again. "It's -- complicated," Hive answers, slightly muffled where his face presses against Isra's chest. His own mind shivers up against hers, against all of theirs. Somewhere in it there is affection, /love/, deep and strong -- but it is buried, lost low down under a sea of other minds drowning the feel of his out. Most dominantly there is only an ache, gaping-yawning. Lonely. It washes away as Hive straightens. The small tick of his smile is quick and sharp. "Doesn't make a lot of sense, does it. Sorry. Haven't had the most time to explain. Still not sure what I'm explaining. Feel like I'm working this puzzle out as much as anyone. But we're bringing them here. And I can feel --" He stops, shakes his head. "No. Not safe anywhere. But come on, when have our lives ever /been/ safe? Not since a long-ass fucking time before the Sentinels. -- Hey," he suddenly asks Micah, as if only just now thinking of it, "... what part of New York are we /under/?" "I do not truly know what is going on, I just have a lot of practice working with unknowns." Isra looks out along the length of the sewer tunnel, then back to her companions. "If it comforts you at all, I cannot muster any explanation for this despite spending most of my life studying a very time-travel heavy field of science." She digs a heavy duty plastic zip pouch full of thick meal bars from her satchel and sets it down on top of the box of snacks. "And if this is a puzzle that we're meant to put together, it would help to have the picture on the table. Intelligence-gathering, I understand, ranks chiefly among the tasks we must accomplish. Finding out the details of a few pivotal events in our future," this with a nod toward Jax before her eyes flick to Micah, "and your past." "Hive's bringin' us here from the pre -- from the past," Jax explains, his frown deepening at this. "On account of --" He stops here, though, words sucked inward with this sudden hug. He is slow to return it, arms lifting hesitantly, curling back around Micah slowly. His fingers press in against the other man's back, cheek pressing to his hair. "... on account of wantin' us to stop all this. Future. From happenin'." He pulls back from the hug, returns to curling his arms tight around his chest. "That's the /why/. The /how/ I'm still stuck on. An' I don't..." He glances to Micah with a pang of guilt, then looks away. "... know if I can." "Apologies. Apologies, honey, you just been...for me y'been gone for a long time. Lots of folks been gone for a long time. I just..." It takes some time for Micah to unwind himself from Jax. "Miss you," comes out barely above a whisper. "However...however ya'll got here, I don't guess it was as a reunion for me. Should. Should do what we can while we can do it, yeah?" He gives Isra a (deliberately briefer) hug, as well, collecting all the foodstuffs in their bag and depositing them on the table. "We're in the old Morlock tunnels. More'n more of us've had t'retreat down here. An' there's /levels/ of not safe. Underground's one of the only places we can /be/, an' even that..." His head shakes slowly, cutting himself off. "Okay. Okay. So. Flicker'n Hive are somehow...bringin' people here? Givin' folks...dream messages? From back in 2015." One hazel eye scrunches down, slightly incredulous. "We could sure use any help here. Just...supplies. Food. Clothing. Technology. We don't got much t'work with here an' we're...pretty much fightin' a war with it. That's kinda a short-term plan, though." Micah's fingers rake through his hair. "No. No. We can't in good conscience drag people from your time here t'/fight/ this. That'd just be gettin' more folks killed faster. But we /could/...save people. Hive, we could tell 'em ev'rythin' we know 'bout what happens, an' when. Keep folks from bein' blind-sided. Maybe have an advantage. Y'brought...food here. Could y'all take information out? Paper? More?" "No. Me and Strange and Maya are bringing people here. Flicker and the old man are just making sure we don't fucking die while we're at it. We'd have all been dead a hundred times over if they hadn't --" Hive shakes his head, oving aside to lean against a wall. "And yeah, it's two way now. They can bring shit. They can /take/ shit. Paper. Things." His jaw tightens. "/People/, I suppose. If it came to that." Though this comes with a small crrrrrk of grinding teeth (or was that a mental suggestion of grinding teeth? It's hard to tell.) "What /do/ we know about what happens. We've told 'em the shit we know. It's the shit we /don't/ know that's going to fucking kill them. How the hell did they make those goddamn deathbots? Who the fuck blew up Westchester? How'd the mutant detection tech get so fucking spot-on in the first place? There's a lot of places this could've turned some other way. A lot of places it /didn't/. And we just need to get /one/ snippet of that back to them. Just -- fucking -- /one/." "This proposition has /complex/ ontological implications, and no matter how I go about it, it ends in paradox." Isra resettles the shawl across her shoulders. "I will take whatever ammunition you give me, or help you obtain it, I suppose, if the me in this timeline cannot." Her hairless brows furrow; she feels uneasy but does not pay the feeling too much heed. "Do any of the persons involved in creating and sustaining this time bridge know whether /this/ timeline has undergone any retroactive changes as a result of information sent back through the dreams to date?" "But -- but the you in this timeline, the --" Jax's fingers are working in at the crooks of his arms, his teeth pressing down at his lips. "If we do this, if we take whatever we find and run with this, you -- you basically want us t'help /your/ timeline stop. Happenin'. Not ever happen. Stop existin', right? I ain't sayin' I can't cuz it's /dangerous/ for me, Lord knows I done faced a heap'a danger. I'm sayin' -- what are we /doing/? Are we killing your whole world? Are we killin' /you/ guys? Is that what you done brought us here to fight for because that ain't a cause I'm about." "We could give 'em a timeline. So's they know what things happen when...and what we /do/ know 'bout 'em." Micah shuffles around for a scrap of newspaper and something to scribble with, to give a series of memorable dates labelled with major events. "But, yeah...it'd be nice if they could tell us the other stuff, but how're they t'know who blows up Westchester when it ain't happened yet?" Micah's teeth dig into the inside of his cheek, gnawing at it. "The tech's another question entire. Alla that stuff has t'get rollin'. Takes time t'develop. Could be happenin' even in 2015. Were it me? I'd be keepin' an eye on Osborn. The toasters're mostly their deal. An' he's got that institute...s'like a prettied up Prometheus, sold it as a 'school'. 'Tween that an' whatever shady stuff the government's up to..." Micah's brow furrows at Isra's questions, at Jax's. "I don't... I mean, I /wouldn't/ know. This's the first I'd heard of any of it. But it ain't like /our/ Isra's been tellin' us how she remembers havin' all these dreams years ago t'warn her 'bout this. I don't... I don't know if y'all can actually help /us/ by preventin' things from happenin'. We might be too far gone for that, off in some other timeline or somethin'. But y'could get us information so we can have some glimmer of a chance in this fight. An' you can help /you/ from meetin' the same fate, at the very least. Y'don't all gotta die. Your world don't need t'turn into this twisted, sick, dyin' thing that ours is." His head shakes slowly, looking at his paper scrap. "Though if this /were/ never t'exist? It'd be a mercy." Hive turns his eyes towards Jax, studies him for a long quiet while. "No." When he finally answers it's to Isra, eyes turning towards her. "This timeline hasn't had any retroactive changes. Not exactly. Things have changed. We've definitely been changing them. Several times. And when they change that world is gone and we make a new one. It's happened already. A few times. I -- don't remember the changes," he admits, rubbing a hand against his face. "I can't remember them. But Strange, he has a connection, one world to the next to the next. Think it might be killing him a little. It's certainly driving him crazy. We kind of have to remind him every time. Which world he's in. What our truth is this time. Who's alive and who isn't." His eyes fix back on Jax, his shoulder lifting. "If you were anyone else I'd probably lie to you. But yeah. That's what we're asking. This fucking shithole of a world isn't worth keeping. If you can help us burn it to fucking ashes and start over? From where there's still a chance to build it into something /worth/ something? Fuck it. Fuck all of this. I'll damn-fucking-well light that match." Isra does not speak for a long moment. She looks down at her right hand, flexing it slowly, and her mind goes unerringly to the disastrous end of the raid on the detention camp. "History that will have never been," she says softly. "I do not think we can apply any conventional ethical code to this one-to-one with how we would actions in a singular timeline. I do not know how to measure the one timeline's right to exist against another's, but if any given action can nullify a potential future--such as this one--then that question is effectively moot. This reality will be replaced, from the perspective of the bridge to our time, by yet another no matter what we do. If this is a runaway train, I'd at least want to know where it goes and how; and if we can change the tracks and never come to be here, I would gladly pull that lever." "But it isn't --" Jax sounds slightly frustrated. "A history that will never have been. It already /is/. We're /standin'/ here talkin' to you an' you're askin' me to /kill/ you? To kill /him/?" The edge in his voice is rising. "What's going to happen back home," he demands of Hive, hard and snapping, the air around him flickering with an unsteady glow. "What's gonna happen to him? To /you/? If you jus' done opened up this /window/ to the future, if you /poured/ a whole /world/ into his head, what's gonna /happen/ to him when we pull that plug? When we kill you all an' rip you straight outta his brain?" The light flares a little brighter around him still, his eye faintly glowing as his gaze levels on Micah. "Will that be a mercy, too?" "This's already happened b'fore?" Micah is taken completely by surprise on this, the nub of pencil he was using to write falling from his fingers to the table. "How...how long y'all been at this? It does change? It does make it stop?" There is a rough-desperate edge to his voice daring to border on hope. "That...I don't even know who Strange /is/," he realises, hand moving up to rake through his hair instead. "From the way Hive's makin' it sound, these things're /already/ collapsin' an' remakin' themselves over'n over, honey. Maybe this is just...the way things work? Little alternate realities bubblin' up t'the top of the pot, but only one gets t'continue on t'the next series of bubbles." He nods agreement with Isra. "If this is happenin' one way or another, I'd sure like t'push one of the /other/ bubbles t'keep on goin'." Jax's questions about Hive pull his attention to the telepath. "Hive? I don't... What's he talkin' about? Why would this do anythin' t'you in the past? It goes one way, right? Past changes the future." "Because I'm the link," Hive answers, quietly. "Maya makes the dreams and Strange bends time but I'm the one who keeps the connection open. Past, future. There's not really a difference -- seems stupid to think of it on some kind of /line/. I'm stretched between them like --" His lips twist; there's another ripple against their minds, hungry, aching, and then it fades. << ... can feel him, you know. >> This is a whisper, and then fades as well. "It wouldn't have happened. If we hadn't made it happen. But we did. It did. And one of these days that link will break. Someone will change something really big. Or one of us here will die. And this world will get ripped out of his head /anyway/." His lips press together, his eyes fixing on the floor, on his shoes, on anywhere that is not Jax. "And he knew that going in. Think he might prefer maybe some good comes of it -- going /out/?" Isra's ears press back against her scalp, then droop visibly. "Ah." Hive's information does not come as enough of a revelation to actually surprise her, but she shuts down a little all the same. Her concern, her desire to help, her fears, and even her frank scientific curiosity, all go a little pale within her. When a flash of fury penetrates that numbness, she swats it down handily and remains more blank than composed as such. "Go out in a blaze of glory, martyred for a better future?" Her voice holds no contempt, nor even skepticism, only weariness. She looks Hive full in the eyes, her own gleaming bright in the dim light. Turns of phrase flit through her mind, considered, then discarded one by one, until she only shakes her head. << I will give whatever you ask, if it is within my power to give. >> Jax's hands come up, clenching into his hair, gripping hard into the brightly coloured mess as the light around him flares and /flares/, fierce and burning, an uncomfortable sear of heat. << -- No no /no/ -- >> is mostly the only refrain screaming through his mind. Teeth clenched, fists clenched, eye clenched tight shut. It makes the lighted room seem practically dark when he dips his head, sucks in a hard breath, lets the light wink out. "No. T'ain't no mercy in any of this." His voice is hollow -- behind it the thoughts there have gone kind of hollow as well. He pulls in a slow breath. "Then I guess we start plannin'. Oscorp seems like a good first target. Homeland security, maybe. Should get Dusk in here. B," he adds with a reluctant sickness, "They're the tech wiz --" His mind is just -- rote, now, ticking quietly over options. "An' we gotta coordinate. These. Rippin' folks outta dreams without no warnin', this ain't ideal." "It's not gonna be...it's gonna be bad for you an' Strange no matter what we do, isn't it?" Micah asks quietly...almost rhetorically, having come to the conclusion in his head already. He doesn't speak while the others continue, just looking down at the paper in his hand. His eyes squeeze closed tight against the bright light. Every fibre of him just wants to go to Jax and hold him, all but the voice that tells him that it isn't a good or useful thing just now. The voice wins out, though his hands shake a bit for it. He clears his throat before he can speak again. "It'd be...if we /can/ coordinate. That'd be best. If we're gonna accomplish anythin'. If we /can/. Get the right people, the right supplies. If all this is...if it's goin' down. We need t'make the best of it." When he does finally move, it is to pass the paper to Isra. Perhaps in trade for the food. There isn't much else for him to offer. "I don't know if any of this is helpful. But in case it is." << Come on. Nobody becomes an architect because they want the world to /forget/ them. >> Hive's hand lifts, his fingers running along the side of his head, pulling a few strands of hair loose from his ponytail in the gesture. "Coordinate. Yeah. We can work out a schedule. How long do you think it'd take you to put together a team?" The corner of his lips give a very small twitch. "Man. Feels just like old times, doesn't it?" "Thank you." Isra accepts the slip of paper from Micah and unfurls one wing briefly to drape across his shoulders. << As if we could forget you. >> There's no argument in the thought, no real sense of anything except a bleak exhaustion. "I'll compose a briefing document, including the timeline information here." She indicates the paper and tucks it into her bag. For the moment, though, she only wants to get back to being unconscious in the crook of Dusk's wing. "Ain't old times for me, honey-honey. My team -- our team -- back home, they ain't gone nowhere. Jus' gotta catch everyone up to speed. You --" Jax still isn't looking up, head bowed, mind just focused on this task. What steps to take, who to reach out to. "Y'all. Stay safe." Micah's shoulders quiver at the mention of old times. The wing around him is welcome and answered with a hug. He doesn't fall into Isra as he'd like, knowing he'll fall apart just as surely if he gives in. “Thank you,” he says instead, a little hoarsely. “We do what we can.” Hive's smile spreads. A little thin. It's accompanied by a short-sharp breath of laughter. "... don't we /just/."