Logs:Bastard Search

Bastard Search
Dramatis Personae Hive, Isra
In Absentia	2019-08-06 "I suspect that, if they had killed him already, they might well want us to know."
Location Village Lofts 403 - 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. A widescreen television stands against the wall opposite the couch, shelving beside it holding a host of video games from different consoles. More shelving beside the windows on the far wall carries stacks of board games, as well as sourcebooks from various RPGs. 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 and one bathroom situated between them, split between the three people who live here. The apartment has actually remained more or less tidy these past two weeks, and is currently the process of swinging back toward "more" as Isra picks her way through the living room, gathering stray books as she goes. Much of her skin is a rich leaf green dusted with silver highlighting, though it strays toward a paler teal in some places, the vast leathery membranes of her wings are painted in a vivid blue pattern mimicking ropes of sunlight bent by clear water, and her horns and talons are bright, polished silver. She wears a white himation, the classic lines of the voluminous garment making her look even more like a living--if very, very colorful--statue. Her brief maintenance cleaning done, she begins unloading the canvas tote that she brought in with her, setting out tupperware containers of baba ghanoush, tablouleh, kibbeh, mussaka, and fresh pitas. After arranging the food in neat and artful fashion, she perches herself on an arm of the couch and says, quite conversationally--as though she hadn't been moving through the room without so much as attempting to engage with the man, "Hive." The display of Hive's computer has long since switched over to idling, a series of buildings -- so far the Bank of China Tower, the Suzhou Museum, Dallas City Hall, Mudam -- constructing themselves from their foundations to underlying structure through to full completion in slowly shifting 3-D imagery above the table. Hive is curled up in the corner of the couch, his somewhat glassy-eyed gaze focused nominally in the direction of the holographic display, though it's been quite some time since he made any outward acknowledgement of his surroundings. The sound of his name draws his eyes slowly up, though at first the look he gives Isra is just as blank. His gaze shifts to the food, refocuses. He runs his fingers against the side of his head, fingertips briefly kneading. "Thanks." "My pleasure." Isra inclines her head slightly. "Shall I make you some coffee?" She's reasonably sure the question is a mere formality, and indeed a moment later the kettle begins to whistle on the stove. She wants coffee, whether he does or not. << Have you found any leads? >> is only half-intentional--she'd wanted to ask, certainly, but hadn't meant to do it so soon. She rises, wings mantling slightly for balance; the lashing of her tail under the hem of her dress, though, has nothing to do with balance. "Please." Hive's voice is gruff. He's staring as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame slowly constructs itself in front of him. "So many fucking people work at that facility in Ohio. It's huge. And so far I haven't found one who knows what the fuck happened to him." He folds himself smaller, into the corner of the sofa. << Someone has to know. >> The voice that echoes in Isra's head is soft, layered with a multitude of overlapping tones. Isra reaches the kettle before it starts howling in earnest, but her ears are already pressed back hard, the high-pitched noise drawing real pain where it grates on her senses. It quiets once she switches off the range and lifts the kettle to fill a french pressed she had prepped and set aside. She drifts back to the sofa and sits sidewise on the back of it. Somehow even this casual perch looks dignified for her. "Have you even found anyone who remembers, even if only second hand, what happened the night he was captured?" << Nobody. >> Hive's shoulders tighten. He reaches down to pet Cat, dozing in a lump against his side. "And you'd think people would know, right? There'd be gossip or -- that had to have been big news around there. But I can't find anyone who's heard even --" He stops abruptly. His brows furrow, his fingers stroking lightly between Cat's shoulders. Isra lifts one bare, silver-dusted eyebrow ridge. She does not speak at once, and has some success shushing her own thoughts, preferring to let Hive think through whatever he just hit upon. Finally, though, even her stony patience yields to the urgent background thrum of her anxiety for Flicker. "Indeed, it seems rather improbable that no one should know anything of the incident." Her voice is calm and even, her expression placid, but her tail starts flicking back and forth again, rapid and agitated. << Has something occurred to you that might be of use? >> Hive has clearly begun to tune out again, his eyes going rather unfocused until Isra speaks. "Huh? Oh, I --" He scrubs his hand through his hair once more, fingers clenching for a moment at the side of his head. "I don't know." His bony shoulders sink, his voice smaller. "I don't know. I just. Thought. Maybe I'm looking at the wrong people. Digging through all the guards and staff and -- I should be poking at any telepaths they have there." His brows knit together. "If I can even reach them." Isra gives a thoughtful hum that lingers as a subvocal growl. << Is that likely to be dangerous for him? >> But aloud she says, "Ought we to ask someone to sit for you who can actually pull you out if things go awry? Matthieu, perhaps?" Hive's fingers curl in against Cat's long fur. << We'll be fine, >> whispers through Isra's mind. "I don't need to bother anyone with --" His teeth clench, and relax again before he actually starts grinding them. "I probably won't find anything. I'll be fine." Isra's ears flick and sink low. The growl lingers. But ultimately she only says, "If you insist." She gets up quite abruptly, goes to pour two cups of coffee and returns to place one within Hive's reach. Settling down on the other end of the couch, she wraps her long-fingered hands around her coffee cup and regards Hive with studied neutrality. << I will watch over you, all the same. >> Hive leaves off petting the cat and reaches to pick up the coffee. He doesn't drink it -- just stares down into it, the steam rippling with his quicker sharper breaths. "It's been three weeks. It's probably dumb to even -- I mean do we really think the labs just --" He clenches his hands tighter around the mug, teeth grinding slowly. Isra blows across the surface of her coffee, then takes a careful sip. Her green eyes fix unblinkingly on Hive. "I suspect that, if they had killed him already, they might well want us to know." Her voice does not betray the vague, creeping horror beneath it. "Because the last thing they want is a rescue attempt. I imagine they know you, and your relationship with him, well enough that they realize you will make every effort to locate him if there is a chance he still lives. So the thoroughness of their secrecy surrounding this bodes well." << At least it bodes well for their intentions at the outset. Now--especially if he's been as much a nuisance to them from within as he has been from without... >> << You're probably right. >> The whispering echo of Hive's minds feels hollow, a heavy sinking weight pulling down at Isra's thoughts. << But then -- if they feel us looking for him -- >> The wave of nausea that accompanies this is intense. Hive lowers his mug to his lap, grinding his teeth harder as his eyes close. Isra stretches out one leathery wing and drapes it gently around Hive. << They must know that we are looking for him, and it may well put him at risk if they think you are on the right path. But I expect he is also at greater risk the longer he's there. >> The last phalax of the wing curves around and squeezes down his shoulder. << Be cautious, then--you are skilled and you can be subtle. >> << I'm about as subtle as a sledgehammer. >> There's a thick coat of fear that trips off of Hive's words. << But for him -- >> He leans into the drape of Isra's wing, his bony shoulders trembling under her touch.