ArchivedLogs:The Hammer

The Hammer
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Jim, Hive	2013-03-17 It comes down.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. A bank of mailboxes near the sitting area collects mail for the building, a recycling bin right at hand for the unwanted spam. Beside the mailboxes, a large corkboard serves as informal meeting space for the announecments, perpetually flyered with notes and notices from the various apartment residents. If anyone's been paying attention -- and considering the stakes, it's likely a lot of people have been paying attention -- there's been an ugly white 5th Avenue Chrysler parked outside the Village Lofts for... well, the better part of a /week/ now. And someone who is apparently hell-bent on living inside of it. He's savvy enough to move it now and then, but the car's always got a view of the front door -- and anyone who manuevers too close gets a quick glimpse of a pair of bleary, miserable eyes staring out from a choking /swarm/ of cigarette smoke. Occasionally, a child gets too close -- only to be snatched back by their parent and pulled to safety. Stay away from the dangerous stranger, dear. He /eats/ children. Murphy's working on his second pack today; he's got a sixpack of diet coke (never booze, not when he's working), some cold Kung Pao Chicken, and an intent to just /stare/ at the front door, watching every face that goes by -- every car that drives past -- reading license plates, memorizing faces, remembering /everything/. He's like a living surveillance camera except /way/ creepier. Eventually, somebody's probably going to wonder what the hell is up with that. << What the fuck. >> Hive is nowhere to be seen. But his /voice/ is here, an unfamiliar presence -- or presences? it sounds kind of like a /chorus/ of voices at once -- speaking in Murphy's brain. << You keep creeping. >>' 'Clnk-... SLAM.' This is the sound of Jim getting into Murphy's car. No other warning or announcement. He is already fishing out his own pack of cheap smokes, lipping one out while putting back the seat. "Dunno what you think you're gonna accomplish with all this." Murphy grimaces. Both at the sound of the door slamming and at the sudden /hammer/ of Hive's presence in his mind. There is a grunt, followed by a twitch of a cigarette -- his eyes do not leave his post. To Jim: "Lookin' for patterns. Always a pattern. Find a pattern." A little hoarse. Murphy gets like this, sometimes. Mentally calcified. "And tell your friends on the psychic hot-line -- no, fuck it, I'll tell him myself." << Don't dig too deep. Brain's poison. >> Murphy's thoughts are rough and twitchy and haven't had nearly enough sleep. But beneath those thoughts, there's a /sea/ of static. White noise. Like a goddamn /ocean/ of memory. Way more than any mind should be able to hold. << I'm hard to poison. What the fuck are you doing. >> These words come with a mental /groan/ at Jim's arrival into the car. << Oh, great. More fucking /snoops/. Tell me he didn't put you up to this, >> comes with a quieter /grumble/ of << fucking creepster watching me sleep. >> "Ksh, what friend." Jim puts his feet up on the dash, reaching for a scrap of chicken from Murphy's cold leftovers. He has to tip his head sideways to get the bite into his mouth, chewing like a conveyor belt to reel in the bit that is left hanging off hi slower lip. "And when you find it?" "Call it in. Let you know." Murphy's response to Jim is quick and barking. When he reaches for the chicken -- Murphy doesn't see it, but he grimaces. Like he just /knows/. Dude, never touch another man's Kung Pao. Either way -- it's extra spicy. When Murphy orders Kung Pao, he looks the chef dead in the eye and says 'Take your best shot, mother-fucker'. "Lotsa angles," he adds, eyeing the window. "Plus, now I know all the fuckers you brought back. Ain't gonna forget their faces." << Watching. Memorizing. You're part of the team, right. Tell your friends. Get your shit together. Uncle Sam's gonna pay all of you a visit. >> "Cop gave me a tip. Metric shit-ton of red tape heading your way." << Watching. Memorizing. Why? >> There's a /definite/ overtone of suspicion in Hive's voice. << What's it to you? >> To Jim he is no less suspicious, cranky chorus-voice whispering into Jim's mind: << Who the fuck is this and why does he keep creeping. >> Jim inwardly groans - oh. /That/ 'friend'. << Because he's Murphy. >> The stubborn bastard's name fits rather drearily into a slot in Jim's mind that defines itself as 'snapping turtle syndrome'. The only way to get him to ease up would involve taking his head off at the neck. << He's a bleeding fucking heart under all the asshole. What're you gonna do. --how's it, up there? You hearing this?>> Gruff business-neutral concern here. Totally not worried. << -christ, he does know everyone's face now. >> "Remind me to never get on your bad side." It figures that even Murphy's food would be booby trapped; Jim seems to expect the theft to /hurt/ him in one way or another. He dabs at the corner of his watering eye while looking at the front of the apartment complex, "He tell you coming down from where?" << Muties in trouble's the only thing that gets me hard anymore. Been fapping in here the whole week. Nothin' left but hamburger. >> If Hive is worried about Murphy being a creepster, he's not going to help abolish that notion. But, then: << If somebody remembers everybody, makes it harder for shit to disappear. Also, the fuck are you pissants even /thinking/, putting this much mutie in one place. All they gotta do is drop a drone on this shit and they've already reduced the Manhattan mutant population by a /third/. >> "Everywhere," Murphy says. "He don't know where it's gonna hit, but he knows the basics. Drugs. Immigration. Child services." That last one is spoken with a grim little grunt, like he had been expecting it. "Basically, if there's a way to legally fuck you over, they are probably gonna try it. Cop didn't say a major raid, at least. You got /that/ playing in your favor." The way Murphy says it, it doesn't sound like this was much of a favor at all. << Wouldn't drone it. Make so much fucking trouble for them to clean up. One thing we learned since getting the fuck out, the best protection from getting kidnapped or flat-out /murdered/ is being visible. >> But there's another inward mental groan here as he admits: << Doesn't fucking do shit against getting /lawyered/ to death. >> To Jim he is -- okay, pretty much exactly the same. Irritable-gruff. Whispery chorus. << We hear. What friend? >> The echoed sentiment, /cop/, whispers underneath this. << ... child services. >> This comes with faces, not sentiment. Blue faces with sharp teeth and gills. Tiny freckled face with bright smile and a terrible habit of /appearing/ in Hive's apartment unannounced. Jim has a rather drear mental image of Eric in his mind, served up on a plate for Hive to read. << Sutton. Funny how he's always involved at just the right moment. >> The small young faces make something in his stomach cramp, and then rend down into a low, hard burn: << Dream on, Hivey, we're not gonna get rid of them that easy. They can hide out at my place if they have to. >> His sweet bachelor pad! "They've done their homework," Jim murmurs through his teeth and ashes his cigarette into whatever open disposable receptacle might be convenient. Murphy's probably got one already half-filled. He abruptly slams a fist down on the dash, "/Fuck/." "Don't hit the lady." A pulse of sentiment and irritability swells up at the sound of Jim's fist hammering down on Murphy's dashboard. And yes, he's got a bucket and everything. But Jim don't need to light up to get his nicotine fix; the car's soaking in it. Another cigarette and they'll practically be swimming. "Relax," Murphy says, bleary eyes narrowing, a fist digging deep into an eyesocket. "No bullets. Just papercuts. That's /good/ news. Bad news is that you're gonna need lawyers. And money. And more lawyers. And more money." << Maybe I just ain't as optimistic as you. Fuckers I rolled with never gave a fuck about visibility. Then again, we didn't pull shit like this in Uncle Sam's backyard. >> "You got some time. Ain't much, but it's a little. So, first things first: Clean house. Turn this shit-hole into a mother-fucking steeple. Make Ghandi look like a meat-eating crack-snorting meth-dealer. Get the 'undocumented' ones out. Kids, too. Called a lawyer who'll do a little pro bono for you, shoulda made contact by now. Claire Basil. Hates my fucking guts, but she eats up this mutant shit." Eyes flick to Jim. "You know a little law, right." << -- when did you say this was happening. >> This is a sudden departure from the rest of conversation, issued to Jim and Murphy both. Hive's tone has gone flat-blank, abruptly, the chorus of voices all flattened out to something stark and hollow. A moment later there are lights. Flashing. And then more lights. And then more lights. Not one cop car but many. ESU, New York's SWAT. They are all zeroing in on the Lofts. Hive does not say, fuck. But a strong /sense/ of /fuck/ pushes into both their minds regardless. "She likes it rough," Jim assures Murphy through a grit, sliding a nice rough palm over the dash he'd just struck. "S'how you get her to /purr/. Law, yeah. Enough to get my feet wet, not enough to get it in my /mouth/. I was already telling him he can put the kids at my place, it ain't big but it's off the radar far as I can tell. It's a little optimistic to say for sure, but I don't think up to this point these creeps know I'm a part of this." He side-eyes Murphy with a frown that shoes his chin forward, holding his cigarette in front of his mouth by a thumb and forefinger. And abruptly /snarls/, "And they /didn't/ know about you being mixed up either. Y'got any idea how conspicuous you are sitting over here? If they're watching this place, how long you think it'll take them to figure that asshole at the curb might be a Person of Interest --" Jim's dialogue slows, slows, slows as the flashing cherry-lights rake through the thick smoke in the car in eerie beams. "--fuck." Said matter of face. While he reaches down to put out his cigarette. "Some tip-off your pedo cop buddy gave you, huh?" He reaches up to pull his hat lower over his eyes. "We should get outta here before they knock on the window and ask us politely to step outta the car. They're gonna need somebody on the outside if this goes bad." For a moment, Murphy's stare is blank. His mind is blank. Everything is just a big, sudden blank. Staring at the flash of lights in the distance. It's hard to tell if he even hears what Jim is saying. And then thoughts surface, swelling to the forefront of his mind. About how wide the entrance to the apartment is. About how much time he could buy if he just slammed straight into it -- headlights, tires screeching, concrete crumbling. Is there a second entrance? Would the cops call the raid off in case of a-- Jim shakes him out of it. "Jesus /fuck/," he says, and he's turning the car on, the engine kicking over with a loud, angry growl. "Jesus /fuck/ fuck fuck--" << is it drugs is it the kids who are they after is this a full-on raid FUCK stop panicking but there are too many angles >> "--FUCK. I /told/ you they'd drop the fucking hammer, fuck fuck FUCK," and then he's pulling out of his parking space, slinging Kung Pao messily over Jim's lap. << -don't do anything crazy, Murph, c'mon, man, just drive away. >> While Murphy's mind roars in a thousand directions, Jim's has gone harder and more simple, aged and... well, rather tree-like in its methodical finger-walk across the scenario. << --/hammer/, yeah. But that's a fucking /nuke/ strike. Hive ain't wrong, staying visible is the /way/ to keep them off you. This is bigger. Don't know how many labs they've hit now, the message is loud and clear: They're stepping up. This means war. >> "Easy, easy, easy..." he's saying in litany over Murphy's "fuck fuck fuck", grabbing for the carton of Chinese food and probably whatever else might to flying in the suddenly departure from the lot. His head remains turned, in all times, to keep the apartment within his sights. Thinking about the gun at the small of his back. Thinking about four apartment-fulls of people. Thinking about fire escapes and windows and rooftops and -- << Just keep it together, Hivey. >> He thinks it as hard as he can. Grim, determined words. << You're not gonna disappear again. We're out here. And we'll be back. >> "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon..." If they can just get away... Murphy is not 'taking it easy'. It is clear that Murphy is two centimeters away from doing something /crazy/. It may occur to Jim that he is currently in a car driven by a man who has slept approximately 5 hours in the past 5 days. A man who has, during this period, subsisted off a diet of cheap over-spiced Kung Pao, cigarettes, and diet cokes. But he manages to keep it together. For now. "Got everybody's face," Murphy tells Jim, /glaring/ at the street ahead of him -- as if /willing/ it to be clear. /Willing/ the cops not to follow. "Ain't forgettin' nothing." Then: "Tired of playing fair, Jim." These words are all spoken very quietly. Like they're some manner of dark ritual to prevent Murphy from /flipping/ the fuck out. After Jim's last 'c'mon' -- just as the last flash of coplights flicker in his rearview mirror -- Murphy growls, guttural and low: "Ain't you supposed to say somethin' like 'this fucking city'." Jim's bared teeth and squinted eyes are clenched forward, towards the city reeling by to either side of the car. For a long moment, he doesn't seem to have heard Murphy at all, save for a tight /nod/ at each dark word Murphy murmurs. The flashing lights grow smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror and he watches them fade. He slowly reaches into his coat pocket. With draws his pack of smokes. "I'm gonna make someone's life hard for this, Murph." He hands the other man a cigarette.