ArchivedLogs:Terrorist Reserve

Terrorist Reserve
Dramatis Personae Eric, Hive	2014-04-06 Part of Perfectus TP
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side
It's quiet here on a Sunday -- there's heavy construction equipment strewn about the large lot, but the /sounds/ of heavy construction are not underway. Just quiet. The East River rushing by. /Birds/ chirruping like it's goddamn springtime or something. And Hive, sour-faced and scowling, perched atop a backhoe in Grumpy Bear sweatshirt, heavy workboots, jeans, smoke curling up from a cigarette held between shaking fingers. The gate to the lot is open today, and he's clearly ignoring the signs that say KEEP OUT, NO TRESPASSING, HARD HAT AREA because all that is on his head is a fleecey-soft red Theta Tau cap. His eyes are barely open, sunken and raccoon-shadowed in his gaunt face, but his mental senses are wide-awake, filtering through what intermittent thoughts wander by in the sporadic Sunday morning foot traffic. At least one of the minds that passes by has the taste of familiarity, if not particularly the most pleasant associations for Hive. Not the most complicated of minds, to be sure, but a friendly one nonetheless - and currently contemplating just what the fuck he is doing. Eric's path down the street is a winding one, navigating the rows of tourists and businesspeople as he departs from a coffee shop not far from the Mendel Clinic. << I suppose I could always just keep doing what I was doing with Dusk. Not much of a career, though; seems more the sort of thing you do on the side. Recreational terrorism, rather than professional. Or, like, the Terrorist Reserve. >> Eric shakes his head, a little smile tugging on his lips. << Never liked the military uniforms, so might as well try for those. Ah, fuck. >> Bumping into someone on the sidewalk outside the construction site, Eric's eyes sweep the man glaring him down. "Watch where the fuck you're going!" The other man growls, and Eric's eyes narrow. "Fuck off, man. Just keep walkin'." Eric grumbles, fixing the other man with a sharp look before pushing past him down the sidewalk. << The pay's shit. >> Hive's voice thuds hammer-heavy as ever into Eric's mind, slamming in strong and jarring though beneath it /Hive's/ tone is distinctive as ever with its odd mongrel-accent, so clearly Not New York and so /not/ clearly anything else. << Though I guess the pay's not much better to be a terrorist in uniform anyway so you're used to that. >> Eric doesn't fall down, but he certainly misses the ground somehow with his foot as he takes an odd little stumble as the other man's voice slams into his head unexpectedly. << Hive? >> Eric glances around, pace taking him out of the flow of traffic. << You've seen where I live; I'm definitely raking in the big bucks already. >> A mental flash of his apartment - bare bones, not much furniture, in a building that has been condemned more times than years Eric has been alive. << I ain't going to be in uniform for much longer. Any day now, I think. >> Hive leans back agains the windshield of the machine he perches on, shaking hand dropping to his side. << You want to put that uniform to good use before they strip you of it? >> slams into Eric's mind next. << Someone kidnapped Dusk. >> << /What/?! >> Eric's mental voice is sharp and concerned, an image of the last time he saw Dusk - at the Mutant Affairs headquarters, right before the building exploded - flitting through his head. << Where is he? Who took him? >> Eric growls at the back of his throat, glancing around. << Where the hell are ya, anyway? >> He chews on the inside of his lip of a second. << Feel like this one is better had face to face. >> Hive floats Eric an image of the gate to the construction lot, the backhoe he is seated on. << No fucking clue. Some motherfuckers just goddamn. Shoved him in a van. Half a mile from here. Him and Ion both. Think it's the same people who've -- all those mutilated bodies that have been turning up. >> He draws in another long breath of his cigarette, eyes turning up towards the sky. << The pups' friend. Lizardkid. >> This comes with an image of Anole, bright-eyed and smiling and clinging to the safehouse wall. << Caught him. Lopped his fucking arm off. Same people, maybe. >> Eric starts towards the gate, a pained, angry expression on his face as he shoves his way through the crowd which parts in front of him like the Red Sea. << Fucking hell. The cops haven't been pushing the murder cases as hard; figured it was just 'cause some of the victims were freaks. >> Eric only looks angrier as Anole's face flashes in front of him, shoving the door to the construction site open and kicking it closed behind him as he storms towards Hive. << What's the van look like? When I find those motherfuckers, they're gon' wish they ain't never born. >> << Grey. Vanlike. Fuck if I know, I wasn't there. Cargo van. Motherfuckers /shot/ Dusk. Brought -- >> Suddenly Hive /bristles/, an uncomfortable prickle-spike of mental energy rippling up against the surface of Eric's mind. << They were fucking /mutants/, Eric. Brought a fucking waterbender. To take out Ion. That was no fucking accident. Soaked him. Short-circuited him. >> His hand falls to his side, shaking badly where it lies. << There's a church. One of the guys who kidnapped Anole. Belongs to a church up in the Bronx. Fucking /Micah/ is going to goddamn -- check it out today. >> The irritation in Hive's tone suggests what he thinks of /this/ idea. << Gonna get himself goddamn killed. >> << Micah? >> Eric's anger fizzles in an instant and is replaced by confusion, like dueling with someone who pulls a salmon out of their jacket instead of a gun. << But... that's... >> Eric rubs a knuckle against the side of his head and shakes it, slowly. << Might as well sent Jax, or the fucking Mayor, for trying to go undercover. Jesus. >> The police officer drums his fingers on his leg, looking around the construction site for a moment. << Alright. Give me the address, and I'll go take a look myself. >> << Mayor's dead. That'd be a trip. Zombie spy. >> There's a sudden painful /pressure/ up against Eric's mind, heavy and squeezing, sharp mental claws pressing inward. They release a moment later, though; Hive's sigh comes with a cloud of smoke exhaled up towards the sky. << Micah's a shitty liar already. You show up there with him he'll freak and you'll get him killed. Besides. >> His hand drops again, to his chest, this time, shaking where it lies. << Shitty or not, he might be better for this. These assholes -- aren't normal. Freaks. Were human once. Think they might be -- /stealing/ powers from people. Are as like to try and lock you up as anything. >> Eric winces at the pressure in his head, but when Hive lets out a long sigh and releases him, the police officer's energy seems to seep out. He slides up onto the hood of the construction vehicle, looking Hive up and down. << Maybe. But it's just as likely that he's going to get himself killed on his own, and at least I ain't as easy to kill. >> Eric pauses in contemplation of this for several moments before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette as well, lighting it and taking a slow, long drag before he responds. "You look like shit, Hive." << Just as likely Dusk's dead already. >> Hive's tone is grim and tired. His eyes close, the trembling in his hand spreading out to the rest of him. "Cancer does that," he answers blandly, out loud. "How long you think before they axe you?" "I got my card last week. This one, or the week next, I'd say." Eric says, with a sigh. He reaches out with one arm and rests it on Hive's shoulder, a heavy, steadying arm. "Soon. I ain't sure what I'm going'ta do 'bout it, but it'll happen, if'm ready or not. Half'a the time, I try and think about what I'm going'ta do, the other half I try not ta think about it 'tall." He pauses, turning to study the other man's sunken face. "Ya know, Dusk said that I helped him heal quicker. Ya think I could do the same f'ya?" Eric's smile is a bit wry. "Way I see it, it's not like ya got much ta lose." "Dusk's a hematophage," Hive answers Eric with a snort, "/blood/ helps him heal quicker. Doesn't really work the same for me. -- You need a lawyer?" he wonders, very abruptly. "I know a --" His eyes close, slowly scrunching shut. There's a /scent/ that presses up against Eric's mind, oddly, the faint fragrance of jasmine tea. << If Micah does get himself killed -- >> This twists sharp and sickened through Eric's mind. << Well. This church isn't going anywhere, I'd guess. >> "Why not? I mean, I'm not suggestin' you go and get anyone's, but little old me?" Eric's arm squeezes gently around Hive's shoulders, once. "Yeah, I probably could use a good lawyer. I'd like'ta keep my job, if by some miracle I can, but..." He shakes his head, wryly. "I think it'd take a miracle indeed." Eric's smile fades as the other man continues, and he pulls Hive slightly closer to his side. "Nah, it ain't goin' nowhere." << Neither are you. >> "You think it'll do good? Keeping your job? I mean. For /you/ it will, paying rent and eating's nice. But -- just. Fuck. Overall --" Hive's teeth grind, and the slump of his trembling posture is slow, in against Eric; it's not exactly seeking /comfort/ so much as it is /shivering/ and unsteady. << Not so sure about /that/. >> It's wry and a little resigned. << Just gotta make sure /that/ motherfucker outlives me. >> It comes with a mental image of Dusk, /strong/ and fiercely sharp-toothed grinning, enormous wings spread and so much more vibrantly /alive/ than Hive in his emaciated-unsteady state. "Nah, I think it'll make my life worse, not better, if I manage ta stay." Eric says, looking out over the construction lot. "It'd be easier ta just give it up. Go, do somethin' else. Anythin' else." He takes a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke rise up out of his nostrils. "But I ain't never been one to give up just 'cause the road's a bit rocky. There ain't no justice in that." Eric stubs out the cigarette between his legs, smudging ash on the hood of the backhoe. "The docs said they ain't got nothin' else ta try?" << Not much just yet. >> This answers Eric's sweep of gaze out over the lot. << But it will be soon. >> This comes with a projected mental image of what the Commons is /planned/ to look like when finished, the neat-clean stone and glass and wood buildings, the common house in the center, the gardens and playground. Hive closes his eyes again, his cigarette falling from his hand to tumble down against the vehicle they sit on. "Justice. Where the fuck is there justice in this world anyway." The question of doctors just makes him snort. He doesn't answer it, just presses his lips together. Eric lets out a slow, low whistle, looking around the lot with a warm smile. "It'll be beautiful." The police officer says, quietly, tapping his hand against the hood. "I don't know, but I keep lookin'." A pause. << Don't sell yourself short, old man. You've got plenty'a time left, if ya actually do as you're told. >> It is - almost - affectionate in its chastisement. << Never really been good at that part. >> Hive's words are soft, this time, heavily laced with exhaustion. A slow smile creeps across is face, though. "Yeah." Just -- quiet, and simple, and maybe more than a little bit proud. "Yeah, it will be."