ArchivedLogs:Plan A

Plan A
Dramatis Personae Regan, Dusk, Micah	28 December 2013 Takes place shortly after Hive's plan is proposed.
Location <NYC> BoM Shooting Range
It's not, really, an official shooting range so much as a secluded Brotherhood property a good bit north of the city, isolated on its own large parcel of land. Out back there is land set /up/ for shooting, though, a long wide stretch of clear space with the targets ringed by land, space dug out from surrounding hills to ensure the bullets go no further than these solid berms. Regan is out back, waiting; she's leaned up against a wall of the cabin, ear and eye protection set out on benches up against the cabin's wall. It's not terribly cold and she's dressed accordingly, leather jacket and jeans, no hat or scarf or gloves. Tall suede boots. At the moment she is composing an email on the tablet held in her hands, blonde hair ponytailed behind her head. It's not terribly cold today and so Dusk is taking gleeful advantage of the rare winter opportunity to stretch his wings. The shadow he casts on his descent is large, a brisk breeze stirred up by the powerful beats as he backwings his way to a landing, thumping down in a heavy crouch a short distance from Regan. He looks much as usual. Denim jacket, jeans, Vans sneakers, beard grown out to a decent amount of dark scruff shadowing his otherwise corpse-pale face. His wings stretch outward, to their wide full expanse; he luxuriates in a few rolling stretches of wing-joints before slowly pulling them back in to fold at his back. Whatever exhilaration he's /had/ from flying mellows out into a weightier pensiveness as he looks from Regan to the distant targets and back. Largely the prominent thought in his mind is just, /almost done/, a wired tense anticipation that looks forward to putting this /behind/ them. Micah's arrival is announced by the crunch of wheels rolling up and coming to a stop, the set of a parking brake, a door opening and thudding closed, the chirp of a key fob locking electronic doors. With the weather less wintry, he only has on his newsboy cap and olive canvas jacket over his patchy jeans and powder blue Totoro T-shirt/navy blue henley shirt combination. His hair is spiky where it sticks out under his cap, from air drying out of the shower and having no other attention paid to it. It still smells faintly of citrusy shampoo. The puffy redness around his eyes is still painfully obvious despite many cold water face-washings administered before leaving the Lofts. No verbal greeting is offered initially, Micah just stepping up close to Dusk and throwing arms around him, latching on in a fiercely tight hug. Regan glances up as the shadow passes overhead. She watches Dusk's landing with a small curl of smile playing on her lips, turning off her tablet and setting it aside in her overlarge purse, also set aside on the bench. "That," she says in quiet greeting, "never stops being stunning." Her eyes turn to follow Micah's approach, narrowing just faintly in scrutiny as she takes in his expression. "Good afternoon, Micah. Do you need a moment?" Dusk's teeth briefly flash in a quick sharp smile. "View's pretty great from where I was, too. So -- I guess we're --" He stops here, though, distracted by approaching Micah. And incoming /hugs/; his wing curls reflexively back around the other man, holding Micah in close. "Whoa. Hey. I mean, hi. I mean, fuck, you al -- no, you're not alright." At the others' greetings, Micah manages to push himself back away from Dusk, his expression a little sheepish, but pale where it might typically be flushed on another day. “No. I mean yes. I mean...I think. I think maybe the plan might be...changed.” His fingers fuss with the zipper on his jacket, tugging at the pull. Finally, he looks over to address Dusk. “Our...mutual telepath friend. He stopped by this mornin'. He had a better plan, I think. For takin' out Malthus quiet-like. Just...makin' 'im kill 'imself. I told 'im maybe. I had t'talk t'some folks an' make sure we weren't forgettin' anythin' important that would make that...not a better plan. But it sounds like there's less risk. Fewer variables. Less chance of bystanders gettin' hurt.” Hazel eyes search the others' faces for reactions. "Mmm." That's all Regan offers at first, her smile warming just a little at Dusk's reply. She tucks her hands into her rear pockets, turning on a heel to face Micah more fully. "He's powerful enough to do that?" It's Dusk she looks at after this, brows raised. "Do you trust him?" Dusk's wing pulls back behind his back again. "What? I mean, yeah, I trust -- with my fucking life but." His teeth sink down against his lower lip, leaving two reddened pinpricks against his pale skin when they release. The red soon fades, though his frown does not. "That'd be neater. It'd be --" He studies Micah's face for a long moment, his wings fluttering. His head shakes quickly, though. "It almost killed him. Micah, last time he -- he almost fucking /died/ taxing his brain, he can't just dive back into that. Not yet, Lucien's only just set him right." “By far,” Micah answers Regan's question of Hive's ability. He nods agreement to Dusk's reply regarding trust. His stomach twists in that way that comes with a sudden fall, a little sick, a little weightless, when Dusk shakes his head. “Oh. I didn't...know that it was...that bad with just one. On account of how he's done so many at once an'. It wouldn't be safe for 'im anytime soon, would it?” His voice is quiet, his tone an odd mixture of disappointment and hope and worry. "Almost died." Regan echoes this with a faint lift of eyebrows. "That -- does not sound like /exactly/ a vote of confidence. Are you worried?" She folds her hands behind her back, her tone not judgmental, just thoughtful. "If you're having second thoughts, there are other people who could do this, you know." "It's not that one is that bad it's just. It's like -- giving just one shot to an alcoholic, you know?" Dusk frowns, clearly not /entirely/ happy with this simile, though he just shrugs and continues: "His brain's /always/ hungry. Even on good days it's a struggle for him /not/ to start with all that. It's not that one would be a problem so much as that if he starts it can be harder to stop. I mean, maybe he could do it but maybe he'll just --" He shivers, curling his wings in tight against him. "Until he's really back at a hundred percent I don't think it's safe. I want Malthus dead, I don't want any of my /family/ dead too." Micah just nods though Dusk's explanation, chewing at his lower lip. "No, no, I don't want that either. That's the whole reason that I've been...doin' this. That...nobody else can do this. 'Cause if any of /you/ get caught then. Someone else is gonna end up dead an'... No. Okay. So that won't work." He smiles a terrible wan and sickly, joyless smile. "Guess it's back to Plan A, then? We should...get back t'practicin'. Murder dress rehearsal. Last shot before the real thing, kids." His hands have started to tremble, the skin of his face tingeing a little green as he speaks. "I just. Need a minute before we start. If y'all will kindly excuse..." Biting down hard on his lip, Micah hurries off a ways to where a bucket has been kept and grown entirely too familiar to him over the past few days. He rather perfunctorily gives up the contents of his stomach, rinsing his mouth out thoroughly with water from a bottle brought along with him and drinking a few swallows after. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a ginger candy, unwraps this, and shoves it into his mouth before returning to the waiting pair. "Let's just get this over with."