ArchivedLogs:Plotting

Plotting
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Micah	20 October 2013 Not your typical assassination plot.
Location <NYC> The Roost - Village Lofts - East Village
Dusk's bedroom is a messy place as might be expected, cluttered with books and clothing, forgotten dishes, boxes of Magic cards, other miscellany. His bed is not 'bed' so much as 'mattress on the floor'; though there /is/ a full bed against the opposite wall, it's neatly made and has been untouched for a while. His desk holds the desktop -- somewhat literally. /Far/ more elaborate of a setup than his lack-of-bed, the desk /itself/, with see-through glass body and softly glowing lights inside, has been configured to /be/ the computer case. Closer inspection of a pair of small decorative aquariums sitting to either side of its three monitors finds them to /also/ be computer cases, their inner workings submerged in a pale blue liquid on a bed of aquarium pebbles alongside plastic plants and little plastic castles or fake coral. Many of the Lofts apartments have been crowded, lately; Geekhaus is crowded and /loud/, the designated rec room for the refugees with its large entertainment center and plethora of gaming. With a constant influx of people in and out, with a constant stream of work that needs doing, there's been little space for /downtime/ for the team even with the raid over. Dusk's bedroom door is at the moment almost-but-not-quite closed in what little attempt at privacy he has bothered with -- more for the recent rescuees sake than his own, he's never been particularly /shy/. His usually lengthy showers have been somewhat curtailed owing to the extra people who need to /use/ the bathrooms, and as such he's faintly disgruntled, wings quivering to shed small droplets of water. He has a towel around his waist, and is getting no less disgruntled as he looks through his dresser. It's somewhat bare of clothes, at the moment, his hamper overflowing. It has taken some time for Micah to find an opportunity during which Dusk is both home and alone, and during which Hive is out of the building. He may have been making more frequent trips over to drop off deliveries and assist with chores at Geekhaus than were entirely warranted since Friday night. So it is that there comes a knock at Dusk's bedroom door, accompanied by a soft, “Hey, Dusk. S'Micah.” Since there are enough people around that knocks without identities might go unanswered. Micah stands at the door until he is invited in, dressed in a powder blue Totoro face T-shirt, patched-up faded jeans, and a pair of socks with red and blue fish swimming over them like polka-dots. His auburn hair is its typical mussed mess. Dusk doesn't move from his place by his dresser, at this greeting, but one damp wing unfurls, nudging his door open wider. "Hey. Sup. You eaten, because I am -- I mean OK there's tons of food around here but man. I think I need to get out and eat something we haven't cooked in bulk." Micah slips in through the wider opening, pushing the door all of the way closed behind him. “Maybe...maybe after,” he says, lips pressing thin. He picks up another towel from the back of Dusk's chair and sets about gently pat-rub-drying the wing nearest to him. “I need t'talk t'you about somethin'. D'you think food can wait for a little bit?” "Huh? Oh, uh --" Dusk watches as Micah pushes the door closed, a brief furrow between his brows. "Man I think someone took my underwear," he laments, "and there's so many clothes in my hamper that aren't even mine I've lost track." He gives up on his dresser, his wing relaxing under Micah's patting. "Yeah, sure, what's up?" “Oh, man. No underpants is bad times. We'll have t'have...another epic laundry day today, I guess.” Micah continues his wing-drying quietly for a moment, not actually wanting to start the conversation now that the time has come. “The...the twins ran into that Malthus guy again. The one who killed Nox an' keeps comin' after Jax? At Dr. Toure's clinic on Friday. 'Bastian might've killed 'im if Shane hadn't stopped 'im. An' he said that he's still comin' after Jax. Plans t'kill Jax. Keeps gettin' closer t'doin' it, too.” He chews at his bottom lip, his patting becoming a little more forceful without him noticing. “He will. Kill Jax. Or one of the boys will finally snap an'...kill 'im or not, but end up dead either way.” "Did he kill Nox? I mean, I think the labs killed Nox, I don't think some military jarhead really has the knowhow it takes to -- I can't even /imagine/ how you'd /steal/ --" Dusk cuts off here with an apologetic dip of his head. "I'm sorry. That's not really the point is it." He scrounges a pair of jeans off of his floor, shedding the towel now that the door is closed to pull them on, not bothering with underwear. His other wing rustles again in a spattering shower of Old Spice-scented drops. He turns, slightly, to face Micah. "What was he doing at the clinic?" His brow furrows. He's silent for a moment before he acknowledges uncomfortably: "Yeah. He will. Kill Jax. He would've already if --" He shakes his head stiffly. "If he's got Nox's firepower he's pretty well equipped to /do/ it, too." “He did. He ripped it right out of her for himself, I don't care who helped--” Micah's voice rises slightly in pitch, his eyes shining a little brighter and...he stops himself. “No. It's not the point. All of that an' even that's not the point. He's out t'destroy my /family/, Dusk.” His head shakes slowly. “He was there gettin' /treated/ for his injuries. Burns. Dusk, Jax could've ended it. He could've killed 'im, but...he couldn't. He didn't. He won't. This man is evil an' obsessed with Jax t'the point of /madness/ t'hear the boys tell it.” He swallows hard, as if needing to clear his throat before he can keep talking. “Jax wants t'find a way t'discredit the man...t'make things more public an' maybe knock 'im from his position with that on top of his /mess/ in Harlem. But I don't think...even if that worked. Even if he lost all of his resources an' connections, I think he'd still keep comin'. I think we need a more...permanent solution t'the problem an' Jax won't. Can't.” "You know how many of these things we've been on, Jax hasn't killed a man yet." Dusk pulls a t-shirt out of his drawer, but then just drops it to crumple on the bed without bothering to put it on. He takes a seat at his desk, a stool there instead of a deskchair. "Madness?" He considers this for a moment, then shakes his head. "If I were on his side, Jax'd be up by the top of my most-wanted list, too. I'm not sure if that's madness or pragmatism." He scrubs knuckles against the short scruff of beard darkening his jaw. "Won't and can't are pretty different. He --" His jaw tightens, briefly. "Makes hard calls. There's just some that he --" Still damp, his wings fold in, tight against his back. His knuckles press harder to his face. He exhales, quiet and shuddery, but his voice is flat and calm when he continues. "So kill him." “I intend to,” Micah finally replies, quietly, almost off-hand, like announcing which tea he plans to start steeping. “I just...can't do it by myself. He's got...Nox. An' this can't come back at anyone. Can't be connected t'any mutants t'make things worse again. You're--” Now his expression is nearly apologetic. “You're the only person I know who's managed t'kill someone without it gettin' messy. I need you t'help me do this. Whatever...connections or...methods or... I can't do it by myself.” Dusk nods, at Micah's first reply; it doesn't seem to startle him, though it does draw another heavy breath from him. His hand lifts higher, knuckles digging now against his eye. "So I'm the murder expert." It's flat again, his eyes fixing on his desk and not on Micah. "Guess we all have our uses." His head drops to rest against his knuckles, elbow propped on his desk. "Are you asking me to do it?" “No,” Micah counters at first, at Dusk's...description of himself. Then again, “No,” at the question of asking him to perform the...task. “You're not. It's just. I don't know who else t'ask. Or what t'do. Or even how t'start...” His hands finally give up on their patting, twisting the fabric of the towel tightly between them. “Someone helped you, didn't they? The way that...story came out. Someone had t'help you? I need... God help me, I'll do it, but I need t'do it right. I can't let this ruin anybody else...please?” Dusk's wings ripple, when Micah stops his padding. Still damp but slightly less so, they uncurl, one of them folding around Micah slowly. "When did you decide on this?" He's still not actually /looking/ at Micah, eyes fixed down towards his desk. "Someone helped me." This is very soft, his fingers curling in tighter against his palm. "Don't fool yourself, though. You do this? It'll ruin /you/." "Friday night. After the boys got home," Micah says simply. He lets the wing hold him, but doesn't touch or pet or nuzzle. "Would they help me, too?" His voice is barely audible, rough, a little shaky. He looks like he could cry...or like he wants to and actually couldn't. "I know." Dusk considers this quietly, his eyes closing and his head still resting heavy in his hand. "I don't know if they'd help you," he answers plainly, "you're human. They'd help me. They /might/, if they understood what this man aims to do to us." His wing hooks in closer, pulling Micah closer to him as his voice drops. "That man needs to die, sure enough. Why do you need to be the one to do it? You're a good person, Micah." “I don't want to,” the admission comes small, frightened, almost childlike. “But that's it, exactly. If...if somethin' went wrong. If someone found out. It can't be one of you. They'd kill you. An' it would boil over again an' it would just...make this all worse again. An' there'd be more...an' worse...” Micah bites down on his lip, hard, the skin whitening under the pressure. “I'd have a chance. After. I'd be just me. Not a representative. Just a person.” "That's true enough." Dusk doesn't sound happy to admit it. "But people might not find out." Slowly he turns, pulling his heels up onto a rung of his stool, his arms dropping to his knees as he faces Micah. "You wouldn't be you after. Not --" He draws in a breath, his wing still draped against Micah's shoulders. "Okay." It sounds tired. "What do we even know about this man? Only see him when he's working. Worst possible time to go after him." “Someone comes up with a better plan, I'll hear it,” Micah concedes, obviously not optimistic that other options /exist/. “Not...much. They call him Malthus. I don't even know if that's a first or a last name. The group he works for is called HAMMER. He was arrested after Harlem, with Luke Cage. He...” Micah pauses, his tongue darting out over his lips as a new thought comes. “He went to Dr. Toure's clinic. They must have information on him there. Paperwork. Illegal t'get into any of it, but I think we're well past...well past those kinds of concerns now.” "You get caught at this, dude, I think invasion of privacy's gonna be the least of your worries." Slowly, Dusk drops his wing to fold against his back once more. "HAMMER. Hive might -- still have a couple of his people. It might be one way to find out more about him." Micah nods at that assertion. “Can we...can we not get our people involved, as much as possible? I don't want... I don't want 'em messed up in this. I'm sorry I pulled you in, as it is. I just didn't know...what else t'do.” He looks a little faint or a little sick. Either way, he lowers himself to sit on the floor beside Dusk's stool. "You think you can stop Hive knowing? Micah, he's got people in his head from here down to Virginia. I don't think there's anyone in the East Village who has a thought he doesn't know about." Dusk lowers his gaze as Micah sits, wing drooping downwards to rest against Micah's back once more. "We'll do it how you want it, though. Doubt he'll say anything if you don't bring it up with him first." His wing rubs in slow circles against Micah's shoulders. "I'll talk to my people, then." His jaw tightens. "My other people." His fingers lace together, eyes focusing down on them. "When we were in the lab I left him down there. With Malthus. And he nearly died for it. I won't fuck it up this time." “No. Prob'ly not. I just...as much as we can, I don't want. I don't want anyone else gettin' hurt.” A single tear finally spills over and traces down Micah's cheek. He doesn't acknowledge it beyond squeezing his eyes closed for a breath. “Thank you,” he says at the offer to bring in outside help. “I'm sure y'did what y'had t'do.” Dusk's wing continues to rub against Micah's back slowly. "No," he says with a shaky breath, "I did everything I wasn't supposed to. Disobeyed him. Left him to die. Probably fucked us all over, too, just kind of waiting for it to crop up and bite us." He rubs at his eyes, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know if I even /am/ -- his people. Anymore." He swallows, fingers squeezing tighter together. "But he'll always be -- he's the best man I know. I gotta make up for that somehow." The first step of the plan finally placed, Micah falls forward in a boneless, exhausted sort of collapse, his head resting against Dusk's leg. “Would it help...t'talk about what happened? Why...things went like they did down there?” Dusk's wing stays curled around Micah, and his hand drops when Micah slumps forward, fingers resting against the top of Micah's head. He's silent, for a while. "Do you really know what Jax is capable of? I mean, his powers. What he could do, if something went wrong?" “I was in the stairwell the last time he exploded...literally. An' that was with 'im tryin' /not/ to. I'm guessin' it'd be...more impressive if he went to it with a will.” Micah just lets his weight fall on Dusk, his posture loose and arms hanging limp. “Why?” "If he had a bad day --" Dusk's wing, for all its softness, is strong and firm, cradling Micah against his leg when the other man droops inward. "He could take out the neighborhood without hardly trying. If he had a /good/ one, this whole city would be gone." There's another stretch of quiet after this, Dusk's fingers clenching and unclenching. "We know some pretty dangerous people. S'a lot of people out there who'd argue power like that shouldn't be out on the streets. We always -- talked. About what would happen if we actually found someone who could end the world. If it's worth it to --" He shrugs uncomfortably. "I didn't know how it would feel when we actually found one." "But we know he can control it... He has been for years, an' only gets better with controllin' it over time." Micah extrapolates from the information presented. "Vector. Jax told me he'd ordered y'all t'leave 'im there. He prob'ly /does/ need t'be in some sort of containment. Don't know how I feel about that containment bein' /these/ lunatics. They're as likely t'turn 'im /into/ a weapon as t'keep 'im from accidentally goin' off." He chews at his lip again. "Malthus is s'posed t'contact Jax about 'im. Jax said. That man is gonna /call/. Or come here. /Here/." Micah shudders at the thought. Dusk shakes his head again. "We don't know much of anything. He's been in that lab for a while and -- presumably when he was out in the world he'd never run into /smallpox/ or anything before. Before /they/ infected him. But --" His wing presses harder at Micah's back. "Jax knows. What it's like. To spend every minute of your life thinking about what would happen if you /ever/ lost control. Except if he loses control it's not a fire in the stairwell or -- anything anyone could come back from. Jax ordered me to leave him and I -- left Jax instead." His arms lift from his knees, wrapping tightly around his chest. "Do you know when Malthus is supposed to get in touch with him?" “Honey, y'didn't even really know all the facts then. An' even if y'did. Makin' that kinda choice, in that kinda situation, that fast? It's hard. Nobody's thinkin' y'/wanted/ what happened t'Jax t'happen. It...just...did. This whole situation is just...horrible.” Micah finally manages to engage muscles again, enough to sling his arms in a loose hug around Dusk's legs. “I don't think he said. Prob'ly soon. I'm surprised it ain't happened /already/. They want that guy back pretty bad.” "Jax made the choice," Dusk says softly. "And it was the /right/ one. As much of a right one as there can be. Sometimes I think there are no right choices." One of his hands slowly uncurls from around his chest to fall back to Micah's head. "Think he's beating himself up for it, though. I think he would no matter what he'd decided back there. You know, after he told me, after I left --" His fingers curl inward, slowly rubbing at Micah's scalp. "... like I said, he could take out New York. /If/ he wanted. Even with Nox's powers, do you think one man with a gun could have taken him down like that, if Jax had really wanted to stand up to him?" "No. Sometimes there aren't," Micah agrees, his tone a little bitter. "An' yes, I think he'd feel guilty either way. /Does/. Head's been all full of plague an' horribleness ever since." He melts further under Dusk's touch, though his arms squeeze in tighter at the same time. "I think he could've killed that man an' it wouldn't've even been /hard/. Not physically. /Especially/ with Nox's powers, she...had so much trouble with the light." He cringes at this, at the name and the memories and the assessment and...just everything. "That's how I knew he wouldn't. He wouldn't ever be able. Despite this man almost killin' 'im. Ready t'kill 'im again. Almost killin' me. Actually killin' Nox an' who knows how many others. Threatenin' the boys. He just couldn't do it." "I don't think it's just that." Dusk's fingers continue to rub at Micah's head, nails curling in to scritch lightly at his scalp. "He would've died down there. At first we thought he had. If Ash hadn't gone back down to /carry/ him out --" He shakes his head. "He could've killed that man easily. But if he'd /wanted/ to live, I think he would've walked out of there himself without any holes in him. If his shields were faltering -- he'd just turned on his collar and his cuffs, I don't think he was running /low/ on --" He leans down, pressing his lips to Micah's head and falling quiet. "... maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he just rolled badly and Malthus got lucky." Micah's muscles suddenly stiffen, his jaw clenching to a point that the words are hard to force out after. “You think he /wants/ Malthus t'kill 'im?” Dusk's fingers press harder against Micah's head, a small tremble in his hand. "I think --" He is quiet a long while. "-- that with all the weight he tends to carry, I can see how in that moment it might have been a really strong temptation not to fight." Micah's head shakes in denial, a tiny tremulous movement that ends abruptly in Micah pushing his forehead into Dusk's leg /hard/, arms squeezing tighter where they're wrapped. A strangled sound from his throat precedes the quivering moving into the rest of his body in sobs that somehow remain quiet after that point. Dusk slides down off the stool, untucking his legs from Micah's arms so that he can give the other man a proper hug instead. Both wings and arms employed, for once, arms wrapping tight around Micah first before his enormous wings enfold the other man in a soft cocoon. Micah buries his face in the other man's shoulder, tears coming silently for some time. “What are we doin', Dusk? What are any of us doin'? I'm here plannin' t'kill a man t'save his life an' he might not...even...want t'be... What are we doin'?” "I killed a man for less reason than that." Dusk doesn't sound happy about this, heavy and hollow, his wings staying wrapped snug around Micah. "I don't think it's that he doesn't /want/ to -- I don't know." His fingers lift, rubbing at the back of Micah's head. "I don't know. I just think I know what it's like in there. And what it's like living every day with -- sometimes it can just seem like a lot. But he /loves/ you and the boys, I don't think he --" This falters. His cheek rests against Micah's head. "We're surviving. What else can we do?" “Not...y'can't say /less/.” Micah pauses to drag his shirtsleeve across his damp face. “There's no...y'can't /grade/ somethin' like this. Different. What y'did was just different.” He swallows hard, still trembling slightly as he manages to pull away just a little. “I think I need t'go talk to 'im. But...let me know what your other people say, please?” Dusk nods, the grip of his wings gently relaxing when Micah starts to pull away. He leans forward, lips pressing softly to Micah's forehead. "I love you." He squeezes Micah again briefly, with his wings as his arms drop to his sides. He rises slowly, arms crossing against his chest. "I'll let you know." Micah pulls himself ponderously to his feet. Once standing, he leans over to Dusk, a hand brushing back the other man's still-damp hair. “I love you, too,” Micah replies softly before pulling him close once more, pressing a kiss to his lips out of sheer /need/ for the contact. “Thank you.” Dusk leans in to the contact, wing curling briefly back in as his mouth presses back to Micah's. He folds his wings against his back afterwards, nodding and dropping down to take a heavy seat on the stool. "Love you," he murmurs again, soft as his elbows prop on his desk and his head drops down into his hands. Seeing Dusk's dejected posture, Micah rests a hand on the other man's shoulder. “Are...you gonna be okay? I'm sorry. I know I just...threw a lot at you.” His brow furrows in concern. “D'you want me t'stay for a little while?” Dusk curls his wing up again, automatic affection at the touch of Micah's hand, sliding slowly up Micah's arm to is shoulder. "Nah," he shakes his head in contradiction to this closer touch. He reaches up to squeeze Micah's hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the other man's fingers before releasing. "Go talk to your boy." “Love you, hon,” Micah repeats as he places one last kiss to the top of Dusk's head. “I'll be back later t'check in an'...help haul laundry. Ohgosh, there is so much laundry /everywhere/.” He manages a very small smile at this, though it seems a little forced. “Thank you,” he adds one last time as he slips from the room. A very small smile touches Dusk's lips. He just nods, resting his head in his hands a moment longer before reaching in to boot up his desktop.