ArchivedLogs:Uprooting

Uprooting
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jim, Jackson, Flicker	2013-09-06 '
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. There is no phone call, no text warning the household that the local plantlife was going to be encroaching. No specific conscious mental announcement to, down the string tying the two tin cans that are Jim and Hive's brainparts together. But it's not - unknown. He doesn't seem even all that aware he's coming over anyway, even with shrewd-hard mind firmly rooted in itself as ever. Just - shows up, now, outside the apartment. And, AS EVER, forgoes the knock and just turns the knob. Half the time, it's locked and he just runs shoulder-first into it. That counts as knocking, right? There is no answer, from Hive. His brainspace has been something of a /mess/ since Thursday evening -- hard to notice, at first, with as many people as he has /amassed/ the past weeks. A few new (and /familiar/) minds here, a few missing strangers there. But here and there the uncomfortable tearing jolts are not as /contained/ as they could be, leaking shuddering sudden-emptiness into the shared mindspace. Eventually the door /is/ answered, though, not by any of the residents of Geekhaus but by a rather tired-eyed Jax, tugging the door open to offer Jim a quick smile. "He's in the bedroom -- d'you want coffee?" His hands are damp, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder; he's been in the kitchen cleaning, by the looks of the diminished pile-of-dishes there. Hive is in bed. Curled up there with Flicker tucked in at his side; Flicker looks like he is probably sleeping, head nestled against Hive's chest and his breathing slow. Hive is probably not sleeping, still and widely glassy-eyed; the arm draped around Flicker looks less like a hug and more like he's just /forgotten/ it there. "Yeah." Jim doesn't linger eyes long on poor Jackson specifically - but the look he does pass to him is grim and full of meaning before tracking to the bedroom door, "Can you make it two?" He pats a passing hand against the back of Jackson's shoulder absently on route for the deeper realms of the apartment. And stands in the doorway, looking in at - << Gay. >> It's sort of reflexive taunt, but it also flares up in that brief reflexive awkwardness the social mind is hardwired-prone to, when finding people curled up in BED together. << If you're having a seizure I'm calling a fucking ambulance. >> << You're just jealous. >> Hive doesn't move, no twitch of muscle or shift of eyes to react to Jim's sudden presence in the doorway. But then, uncomfortably guilty, << He passed out. >> His voice even in mental space is a little ragged around the edges. The chorus of other-voices that have accompanied it for weeks has faded down to a soft background sussuration of familiar minds. Flicker's, warm even in unconsciousness; Jax's too-bright technicolour, Dusk's quiet steady /hunger/, Micah's gentle care. Beneath them, Hive's sounds -- washed out, faded, stripped of personality to leave just a deadened exhaustion. << Doing /what/. >> "Ffffff." Jim has crammed his hands in his pockets, and doesn't bother to withdraw them as he locates the nearest milkcrate to lazy-soccer along the ground to position beside the bed. And then he drops down onto it, elbows draped off knees, "...s' happening, Hivey." It's - not entirely in the dark. But decades of experience have resolved hard against facevalue assumptions. << Choking on my -- >> Hive can't actually finish this, it fades off into a bland nothingness. His fingers twitch in against Flicker's back, a brief spasm that seems meaningless save for the accompanying flare of protectiveness that rises in his mind. << Micah -- >> This trails off, too. Jackson slips into the room, a mug of black coffee in either hand. His eyes skip over Flicker and Hive, then over Jim, but he's quiet. Sets the coffee down on the nightstand. Slips back out to return to his cleaning. << Trying to find our -- brain, >> Hive finishes vaguely. << Need to -- >> Inside Jim's mind, his own coils tighter. << -- s'been too long. >> Jim's mind has a way of staying hard that manages yet to not be closed off; deep roots, always, dark in the earth, like a deep underground cathedral. Hive coils here, and Jim doesn't try to stop him. Only adjusts to add a second hard layer of padding in greenery, armor in treebark. << -yeah. >> He glances up at Jax, gives him a look that says a wordless thanks, nods. And he... is concerned. For Flicker; good kid; suicidal; could learn to complain more. << Then again. So could you. >> This is returned once more to Hive. Or himself. Or that middle ground between them. The smell of cheap Thai; of cheap cigarettes, of Jim's cheap apartment. All things worn out, grungy << - his fists against the - >> broken in, tired(comfortable) bitter. Bitter, like coffee. And that smell is here, real, present. Jim's hand is taking possession of one of Hive's. And reaching for one of the coffee cups, "Not /we/." He grunts. "/I/. Me." << So could we all. >> Hive's mind is brushing, here, up against the bright-vibrant spot of Jax's, against the quieter warmth of Micah's, touching against these in turn and then subsiding. His presence spreads, settling deeper, nestling entwined in those deep roots. << We -- >> he starts again, and corrects with an exhausted sort of /defeat/ to -- << I. Let them -- go. >> Something stirs here -- not guilt so much as the distant notion that at /some/ future point he will feel guilt. Right now he mostly feels -- nothing. A wrenching throb of constant /pain/ in his head that is in many ways preferable to actual emotion. << It'll be worse. For you. >> His fingers twitch in Jim's, faintly, though he ignores the coffee. "I'll deal." And to his core, Jim simply /isn't/ concerned. Where Hive comes fingers along these small, gentle touchstones, Jim reaches for none, not in concept, nor emotional centers, nor psionic echo. There are gunshots and the thunk of an axe sinking into wood, and they serve enough, unmoved, contained. Except? Except possibly, a knuckly clenching in on Hive's mind. Minutely. He watches Hive's hand twitch, and clamps fingers down harder on it, giving it a brief impatient /shake/ << stay with me here. >> "Y'probably needed to, man." << You'd give hell to anyone doin' the kind of shit you do t'yourself and you know it. >> He - had been MEANING to give Hive the coffee. But he drinks it himself, as though it were the same thing, sharing the experience. << Gonna be harder, now. Watching. Planning. Probably push the raid back a -- while. >> This, too, doesn't really manage guilt so much as just a dead consideration. Hive's voice fades off, for a while, into silence again. Slowly turning over the taste of coffee on (not)his tongue, his fingers going slack in Jim's hand. << They all do it. >> This surfaces eventually, soft and resigned. << In their own ways. And they'll all keep doing it until we're all dead. >> Another stretch of silence, undercut only by the soft murmurs of the few other minds remaining held in his own. << -- You're the last one. >> "Eh." Jim is /enforcing/ his 'eh' on his own mind as well. << Just deal, Jimmyboy. >> "Probably." Hive's hand going slack apparently strikes him as /annoying/ because he kind of toss-drops it like FORGET YOU, HAND, back down to the bed. And shifts to sit on the edge of it. A little careful, to not punish poor sleepingunconsciousDEAD Flicker. << Your damn arm is probably falling asleep like that anyway. C'mon, homo. >> He crams a hand in under Hive's back and just goes about muscling ragdollHive out of his entanglement and get him... well, if not sitting up then at least propped up against Jim's side. Like leaning a broomstick agains a tree trunk. << When. >> Asked while going about it. Hive's hand lies limply where it is tossed, flopped onto the mattress << Can't feel that arm, >> he admits, though there's a quiet uncertainty in his thoughts as to whether the arm is /asleep/ or if he's just -- forgotten it. He puts up no resistance to being manhandled -- it's unclear if he even /notices/ it, flopping against Jim's side with every bit as much thoughtlessness as his previous boneless drape on the mattress. There's reluctance in his mind, with the flat question. << Never >> is the instinctive response that surfaces in his mind, mental fingers /tightening/ around Jim's roots. They go slack, too, though, a moment later. << Have any plans today? >> Like a swarm, a black cloud of locust-thoughts well in in Jim half-formed. Most shaped like << but. >> What about the sewers. The distance. The communication. It clamps down hard on (hive? himself?) and instead of answering he goes about /harassing/ Hive's mortal coil, pinching his arm, smacking on his cheeks. "Not talking about this til we've got some coffee in us." He reaches over, takes the cup; fits it into Hive's hand and then wraps his own around it. Lifts it towards his face. << -christ just a little longer. >> Hive's hand is easily moved to curl around the coffee, but he does little to take the cup of his own volution. His fingers don't tighten, his mouth doesn't open; he seems barely cognizant of the drink at all. << Been since June. >> It's gruff, the reluctance growing. << Not sure /you'll/ have a brain, either, keep this up much longer. >> Something inside him is knotting up, tight and hard under Jim's clamping down. << You'll -- probably forget. Some of -- maybe a lot of. >> Another silence. << We can try to remember. For you. >> << Not the first time I've lost time. >> Murmurs from within Jim's greenwood. Still, his cynical mind reaches out for no comfort, nor warm thoughts. They just sit, and grow. And put out their shoots and ache like old bones. << Maybe I'll go green for it. Not a lot of brain to lose, as a houseplant. >> The cup comes to rest against Hive's mouth, and this is where Jim is fixating now. /Stubbornly/. "Earth to asshole. I'm going to pour this shit on your face if you don't open up for it." His out lips part at the same time; the muscle memory of it, that human sympatico. And his tongue constricts as though preparing to swallow. For a long moment it seems like Hive might just /let/ Jim pour the hot coffee onto him; he stays unmoving and unmoved by it, paying very little attention to the cup pressed to his lips. << -- stay here, >> he says to Jim, << If you do. Or -- Lucien's -- >> The tense knot inside him is not unknotting. << Somewhere I can /find/ your sorry wooden ass. >> He's still rather inattentive even when his mouth /does/ move; he doesn't even seem to notice it moving, lips parting in thoughtless echo of Jim's. << ... >> Outwardly, Jim times his swallow in time with Hive, trusting him to follow the cue. Inwardly, privately, he squirms, a mental aversion of eyes at the brief thought of dark deep earth; the crystal clear simplicity of upward, outward, sunlight, soil. Expansion. Inhuman, un/animal/, it's hard not to lurk in that moody realm of << you wouldn't understand >>. Except if anyone did, it probably /was/ Hive, wasn't it. More than one way to lose yourself. << Yeah. Real funny. Last I heard of Lucien he was fucking torturing Murphy, dude. >> It's thought of bluntly; the visceral mental image of the younger PI sobbing in pain; all from the thick folder on his mental desk labeled 'My Shit to Deal With'. << Maybe that's alright with the rest of you. Lot of people've taken it out on Murph in his life. I don't think he even knows how to care anymore. But I do. Call it a thing. >> << Fuck you, asshole. >> It's said without any actual heat to it, just a flat and tired bluntness that can't even manage irritability; it lands instead somewhere among the fields of exhausted resignation. << You are the /last/ fucking person who has a leg to stand on with people's shitty fucking associations and don't you even /try/ to pull this /bullshit/ like /we/ just don't care -- >> There's a tense twitch of withdrawing back into himself -- or whatever of 'himself' there /is/ to withdraw into, too washed-out and diffuse to make a proper shell for turtling inside. It's enough, though, that his mouth doesn't move with Jim's; nothing of his moves, coffee just trickling down his face to drip down his neck into his shirt. It's probably hot. He doesn't flinch. Some part of him is trying to move, gathering himself to attempt a shift of posture. Sitting up more. Lying back down. But it doesn't coalesce into anything concrete enough to actually translate /into/ movement, ragdoll-flop remaining. << Still need you somewhere we can fucking /find/ you again. >> And, flat again, << -- Need Lucien, too. At least if anyone's going to find -- >> But this ends in more silence. << God, that's pathetic. >> Jim is maybe /trying/ to be mean about it, when coffee pours down Hive's throat, maybe even trying to be /derisive/ - to just be annoyed at the inconvenience of it all. But it's only the suck of a dry socket, a brittle worry and a desire to to -- He reflexively uses his sleeve to try and absorb it before it /burns/ the poor bastard. Thinking of solitude; of deep earth; of being found. Of how much he /cares/, too, /agh/. << I'm not putting down roots at his place. >> If Hive is slightly tightening to try and move, Jim is only encouraging it, trying to prop him up to sit. << --going to find what? >> << Me. >> It's a /struggle/ for Hive to say it, it comes with a soft undercurrent mental correction of 'us' that he /fights/ back. << It's not going to be -- >> The closest he gets to actual movement is a small twitch of his shoulders, struggling upright more but then sinking back down against Jim's side. << One of the fucking -- gardens then. That Jax and Micah -- they have. Soil. Drink. >> This last is almost pleading; he is /thinking/ of coffee, at least. Wants coffee. His mouth is not really listening. He'll just borrow /Jim's/ instead. While he still can. << We're going to need the -- energy. >> Deep inside, Jim's inner working clench like a stomach cramp; his mental 'My Shit to Deal With' folder rumbles like its hungry, knowing it's not likely to be taken well but unable to stop the inner cringing at the thought of being fussily tended to like a god damn garden box. Preemptively he's already yearning for a nice deep hole to slink off to. It's all on only a single shelf, however - one that's slowly lowering deeper and deeper into a pit at the thought of Hive being alone as well. << - god help me, if I've been making things /worse/ all this time- >> "Fuck it." He tips up half his cup, grimly DRINKS ALL OF IT and clumps the glass down again. "Let's just do it here." << Bring a fucking /axe/ to tend you with if you try to disappear on us, so fucking help me. >> Hive focuses through this on the taste of the coffee. Its heat, its bitterness, rolling across his senses as clearly as though it were his mouth drinking. << Jim, >> there's a strained wry note to his tone, << don't think things can /get/ worse. >> Though a twinging note in the back of his mind mentally reprimands himself for tempting fate, here. The effort it takes to move his hand to Jim's once the coffee cup is set down is jarring, a disconcerting wrench as Hive /finds/ his hand, first, and then moves it. Fingers settling down somewhat shakily over Jim's hand. << Don't forget to -- >> This caution, though, is somewhat more pointless for the fact that he does not /finish/ it, words dropping off into silence. Silence, but not peace. Externally, Hive is as ragdoll-limp as ever. On the bed beside them, /Flicker/ twitches, quick and jittery. Instead, a deep gut-level /tearing/, something sharp and heavy stabbing down into earth to /dig/ roots out whole, yank them up to tear them from the soil they've settled into. << I won't. >> Jim thinks back at Hive almost before he's even abandoned his reminder, making it sound more cut-off than left hanging. As though /he/ knows. As though he knows very well. And then, the earth splits open, inside. And the landscape begins to change. As things are torn - /familiar/ things, things he grips tight to. Things he cherishes. He reflexively fights it, thrushes while sucking in air through his teeth and clenching down an arm around Hive's back. Crushing him close. << i won't i /won't/ i won't-- >> There's a moment or two when Hive's breathing stops, catching and pausing as Jim sucks in air. His fingers slowly tighten, clenching in a gradually harder grip against Jim's. Jim's mental chorus is undercut by Hive's own, a softer whisper that only intermittently manages to form actual /words/: << can't i can't we can't -- >> The earth is swelling up, rising to clench back /down/ over the loosened roots, suck them back /in/ to their previous familiar moorings. But it doesn't last. Even with his own soft mental protest, Hive is prying his grip loose. Yanking, tearing -- at some point in this he remembers to breathe again, but it's harsh and ragged. It feels longer than it /is/, really, a relentless process of uprooting and ripping free that no doubt leaves some /damage/ on the mental grounding it is dislodging. A root torn and left listless-dangling here, a gashed hole in the earth there that yawns open and empty there; it's a process that /rends/ and leaves in its wake only a raw stabbing pain painted over a backdrop of /nothing/. Flicker twitches again, but then goes still. Where once there was a river of connection letting information flow there is now -- nothing. Torn-off ends of connection that lead nowhere, large gaps where once there were memories. Hive's fingers go slack against Jim's hand, his weight slumped against Jim's. His eyes remain unfocused, blank and glazed in their frozen stare. Where holes are torn, loose earth topples in, disfigures what remains, scarring and pits and an /animal/ sense of loss and pain, in the part of the brain that howls at the sky and sinks claws at the ground. Inwardly, it fights and screams as the world burns down, like a small death. Outwardly, it's both more complicated and less - earthquakes have a way of grabbing onto the core of gravity and yanking it loose, bucking and jerking until the world turns sideways. And tips you off the end. Jim initially seize, hunkers up grips Hive with gritted teeth, flesh washing out green then rough bark-brown, body growing harder. And eventually this stops and he's simply crumpled forward, over his knees. With fingers thrust through gray hair, formed into fists - and all over it overgrown with a fine layer of moss. With an inner screen that's gone static gray, alive but offline, by the end he isn't moving at all.