ArchivedLogs:Teamwork, pt. 1

Teamwork, pt. 1
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jackson, Logan	2013-05-14 Ferreting out information does not go so well. >.>
Location <NYC> NYPD Station - Garment District
Despite the fashionable clothing of those outside, almost everyone inside the NYPD station is wearing the same dark blue uniform, gold badges flashing on their chest. A few, however, are in business clothing, and a rare one or two are in crisp white uniforms. The police station is several floors high, each dedicated to a different department, and a rare parking lot in the back where the cruisers and trucks sit. Eveningtime at NYPD's Central Park station tends to be a fairly quiet one, and this night is no exception. Most of the detectives have left for the evening, emptying the building of all but a skeleton crew. Police officers come in and out on their patrols, and a few straggling detectives hang about their desks or pouring over files. The cells in the basement are, of course, occupied, and every once in a while someone is lead in and escorted through the booking process. Just another day in the life of New York's finest. Logan isn't IN the cop-shop. He's leaning on the wall just by the door outside. Smoking a cigar. He has his favourite leather jacket on, shirt, jeans and boots, and occasionally he glances over his shoulder inside the building, his lip curling in profound dislike. The Wolverine doesn't like cops, apparently. "Let me know when yer done," he says to no one in particular, and goes back to enjoying his cigar. "Thanks," Jackson says, a little wryly. He is dressed still as he has been from school, paint-splattered capris once black but now faded nearer grey, an equally paint-splattered Rainbow Brite t-shirt. His hair and nails are bright in peacocky shades of green and blue and purple and he carries, still, a bulky black case still rattling with art supplies. "C'mon." He holds the door open for, if not Logan, at least Hive. On the surface he's as per usual: easy-warm, a kind of /exuberance/ to his overabundance of energy. The jittery-uncomfortable jangle of nerves beneath does not, at least, show through. He hates cops, and is kind of fervently hoping none of /them/ are telepaths to read the distasteful mire of distrust and hostility that flickers through his thoughts as they head inside. Hive just snorts. He's kind of bland-blah next to Jackson, heavy workboots, faded fraying jeans, a grey-black t-shirt that reads 'resistance is futile (if <1 ohm)'. He shoulders his way in when Jax opens the door, slicing a quick look to Logan but then just tromping inside. He doesn't speak. Probably because every other word out of his mouth tends to be fuck and they should /probably/ be polite here. But his telepathic senses are open wide and listening, for all his outward appearance is lazy tired-eyed disinterest. The look on the face of the police officer behind the desk is bored. So, so bored. Mind-numbingly bored, as her eyes scan over Jackson and Hive in turn. "Hello. What seems to be the problem, sirs?" she asks, in a flat voice, even as her attention turns back to the magazine beneath her. << Mmm. Gay. Too bad - I wonder if Bill will return my call, >> she muses to herself. Despite the building not having too many people in it, the telepathic noise is high. Downstairs from the cells, thoughts are sluggish from various people in different degrees of combinations of inebriation, intoxication, fear and stress. Annoyance, too, from many of the officers, combined with all of the other emotions you would expect in the office place. Logan enjoys about as much of his cigar as he can, when the door is meaningfully opened for him. Wincing slightly, he douses the cigar in the palm of his hand and puts it into his pocket as his hand heals. "Okay, okay, don't get yer knickers in a knot; I'm comin'." << Baby-sittin' the kids again, >> he grouches to himself mentally. << Shoulda done this on my own. >> The grizzled-featured man adjusts his jacket and stalks up the steps into the lobby, and makes a bee-line for the front desk. Jackson is less stalky as they head towards the front desk. There's a bounce to his step, a quick smile on his face. "Hi, miss," he greets, warmly. "We're here to talk to --" There's a slight beat of hesitation, a small flush in his cheeks. His head tips downwards, colourful hair spilling down over his single eye. "Actually, miss, I ain't quite sure who'd be the best person to talk to. It's about a missing persons case." Hive chuffs out a quiet snort, under his breath as he watches Logan. "Dude," is quiet, though probably more than clear enough to Logan's senses, "/we're/ here to babysit /you/. If we wanted someone to /slaughter/ the fucking cops you'd be sent on your own." His hands shove into his pockets. He trudges after the others, shoulders hunched, expression never slipping its lazy-hooded gaze. The woman looks up at Jax for a few moments, then picks up the phone. "You want missing persons. Do you have a case number? Most of the detectives are off for the day, so if this is in regards to a current case, you may need to come back during normal business hours." << When I am not here. >> "Let me see if anyone is upstairs." She dials a number and leans backwards in her chair, putting the handset up to the side of her head. "Hey, this is Bennings, at the desk. Do you know if any of the missing persons detectives are still around?" A pause. "No, no, not the duty officer. Just one of the detectives." << Cool it, Honey-bee. >> Logan retorts, shooting the thought at Hive as if it were a poisoned dart. << I was trackin' stuff before yer grandpappy looked at yer grandmommy, and thought she looked hot after too many beers. >> The Wolverine snorts through his nostrils, and then sniffs the air. << Donuts. Cream filling. Ugh. I think I just put on 30lbs. All I need is the badge now. >> He glances at the lady cop and pushes his way toward the counter. "Parker, Peter - the missing kid. Act like you give a shit, at least in front o' the kids." << Hive will you shut him /up/ dear Lord has he never dealt with cops before in his life? >> There is distinct exasperation in Jax's thoughts. Inwardly. Outwardly, just a wince, an apologetic smile. "Logan," he says, with a note of /strain/ in his tone. His head shakes slightly, and there's still more apology in his voice as he turns to the officer; the thick Southern drawl to his voice grows heavier. "I'm /real/ sorry, miss," he says, his smile apologetic and kind of mitigated in its cheer by the slow worried frown creasing his brow. "He don't mean to me -- I mean, we've just been /real/ worried about our friend. His aunt and uncle've been beside themselves and I think the stress is getting to everyone a little. S'real hard when kids go missing, you know?" << You gorram moron, >> is Hive's snipped response, slamming painful and hard as the crack of a whip into Logan's mind. << Hold your fucking tongue before /I/ have to fucking muzzle you, are you /trying/ to get us to leave here with jackshit? >> His eyes turn up towards the ceiling, a tightening creeping into his expression. << You're here to help. Fucking act like it. >> To Jax, just as whipcrack-hard and irritable-sharp: << Jesus fuck, they sure didn't choose him for his fucking /brains/. >> << ... did he just tell me to -- >> The police officer interrupts the person on the other side. "You know what, don't worry about it, Izzy. It's after hours, and I'm sure they're busy. Thanks." The officer places the phone back on the hook and looks at Logan, straightening up. She, now, looks quite a bit less bored - and much more annoyed. "Uh-huh. Stress. I understand." She flicks her eyes back to Jackson and picks up a pen. "If you give me your name and phone number, I can make sure that someone from missing persons gets back to you." she says, in an apparently friendly manner. << If they happen to be riffling through the garbage for some reason and find the post-it note. >> For an instant, there's no Logan. Only the beast. But only an instant. It takes a while to get his temper marginally under control, and he ignores Hive entirely to do so. To the officer he says, "He's been missing for days - no history o' runnin' or hidin' out. No contact with his folks, friends, or teachers - that's me. We're outta options." << Not ta mention patience. Xavier outta tell certain someone's about stayin' outta my head. >> He pulls a Xavier's School business card from his pocket and puts it on the counter. Then he pulls out his cigar and lighter, scowls, and stalks out the door. "Should never've given up the search on my own," he mutters under his breath. "Fucking telepaths." Then he is out the door and down the street. There's an inward tightening, in Jax's mind, a hard spike of /anger/ that simmers down hard to a /determinedly/ calmer clench. "Thank you very much, miss," he says, quiet and very even. He doesn't leave the card on the counter. He takes it off the counter, pocketing it and tugging at Hive's sleeve as he leaves. << We'll come back tomorrow, >> he says to Hive, mental voice now as very /forcibly/ calm as his audible one. << On our /own/. >> Hive's voice is as sharp-bludgeony-hard as ever, but despite his kind of uncontrollably /painful/ mental slam the words he actually offers are quieter. He answers the anger rather than the calm: << We'll find them. You really should tell your school to fucking /muzzle/ the assholes they have working there, though. But we'll find them. >> And then he's out the door, too, pulling out a cigarette to light it up as he heads off the other direction.