Logs:Lost But Found

Lost But Found
cn: Child endangerment, implied violence, suicidal ideation, implied csa/incest, depiction of murder made to look like suicide, sanist language, general depictions of kids in difficulty/distress/danger.
Dramatis Personae DJ, Hive
In Absentia Charles, Spencer, Gaétan	may & june, 2023 << (safe?) >>
Location a very large forest
4 May 2023 They've been Going Through It for a while, now, an evening of rage and horror by turns. DJ's been ignoring it -- what else can he do? -- a very well-practiced compartmentalization that shunts the anguish somewhere it doesn't disturb his patient consults. It stays boxed in there, quiet but seething, fiery-bright glints of light threatening to sear their way out through the knotty boughs he's woven this box out of. He doesn't rush. By the time he shows up in Hive's office he's picked up a box of mixed sushi and a pair of limeades. Strolled around the block twice trailing the meandering path of a sharp-shinned hawk before it flies out of view. Eventually he does wander up to the office, lets himself in and back to the workshop like he owns the place (which, maybe, right now, he does.) His Mendel employee badge is still hanging from a belt clip, his take-out bag dangling from his feather-painted hand. He unpacks, quietly, and with only the obliquest of thought shifts Hive away from the 3-D Holo model he's been working on to settle that body down with the food while he takes over the work. Only here, now, he's shifting aside their network of roots. Letting some of that bright-blinding sunlight flood back out, with a single silent << ? >> hanging in the space between them. Hive is staring at his work until he isn't, scowling instead down at his nigiri until he takes a bite and lets himself be mollified by the smoked salmon inside. With DJ's unvoiced question, though, he's scowling again. Shifting in slightly-worried agitation in his seat. "We're looking." Their mind is lighting up in entirely undefensive indication, here; roots spreading slowly through the city, stretching their psionic awareness wider. DJ's made several adjustments to Hive's blueprints in the span of One Bite of sushi, but he sets the stylus down now and frowns at the telepath through the glowing skeleton of a building. << (not looking fast enough) >> Even as the thought comes, a hundred more thoughts come, a thousand more, a thousand thousand more -- the web of them unfurling in rapid snowball that, where it before had crept through the buildings and tunnels, poked down subway stairs and up skyscraper elevators, now just pours out across the city in a tumblerush flood that sweeps up every mind they feel. The chopsticks fall from Hive's knobbly fingers as his hand drops to the table, bracing himself in a sudden sinking -- resignation? Panic? Maybe it is neither, but there's an inevitability, here, waiting for the sense of him to be washed away too, beneath this flood. << (too much) >> << (too fast) >> << (too big) >> is blaring through their head, too-many-minds and too-little-him, remembering stretches of weeks, past, spent wasting in bed, work forgotten and friends forgotten and life all but forgotten; remembering what it was like to not remember which body was his, and "-- I can't," is all that makes it past his lips as he's looking down to the floor in confusion for -- -- the chopsticks, which never clattered there. They're in DJ's hand, and holding the half-a-salmon-roll Hive had been eating, too. DJ pops it into his mouth, idly rotating the blueprint in front of them as he sorts neat and swift through the deluge of selves that have now joined them. The chopsticks vanish, reappear beside Hive's tray. In the growing ocean of noise Hive is changing, to be sure; but the sushi in front of him is still there, in front of Hive's eyes, and DJ's very small mental nudge prompts Hive's hands to resume eating it. The blueprint before them still looks familiar, and when DJ makes another notation (this time, deliberately wrong) it's Hive's own irritation that prickles up to reflexively correct it. Even through his worry, a small twitch of smile pulls at DJ's mouth. "Yeah. But we can." --- 8 May 2023 Sirens are dopplering past. High speed, urgent. It's for them it must be for them, right? Right? There's probably a trail of ruin in their wake there's a trail of death and destruction and misery and ruin -- well, okay, there's a trail of mess at least and that's pretty bad. Sand spilling all over their mom's immaculate floors, gritty underfoot and grinding into the cracks in the hardwood. Sand spilling across the counter at school and the shriek of the girl at the next desk. Sand scattering across the museum floor as the smooth marble statue beyond the ropes (DO NOT TOUCH the signs said DO NOT TOUCH) melts and collapses from priceless art into worthless ruin. How much was that sculpture worth the police probably know their PARENTS probably know, will they be in jail will their PARENTS be in jail, they're going to be ruin they're going to be grounded they can never go home they can nev -- "Yo." It's a little more gruff than DJ's usual. They've plopped themself down on the bench in Kissena Park beside where the young girl is rocking, wide eyed, panicked. Stands back up, just as quick, when the bench starts to disintegrate beneath them into a pile of sand, brushing grains off his jeans even as he brushes away the sharp voice in their mind << -- should've seen that coming. >> "-- maybe we should find your parents? I think I know a place that can help you out." --- 17 May 2023 floor's cold and gritty against their cheek here pressed hard on damp basement concrete mouth pressed tight breath whistling through thick snot (don't breathe) (don't move) (don't think) // and here it's slickstickywarm gunfire still ringing in their ears still pounding in their head, this should hurt does it hurt? don't breathe, don't move, don't LOOK towards the basement door // and here they're just bored, now, jingling motorcycle keys in a palm and waiting for this to be done // and here they're having fun, actually, show this bitch what happens if you parade your freak kid around their town, later they can find the creepy little shapeshifting monster but for now -- For now they're pulling, swift, out of several minds in this bloodstained house. There's not even time for the Purifiers to register horror or confusion before they've disappeared. The next trip takes longer, but soon enough DJ is, tentatively, switching on a basement light, projecting a careful psionic warmth before they head down the stairs. "Hey. I know your mom said to hide, but it's --" << (safe?) >> << (we can't promise)/don't lie) >> "-- those men are gone, okay? I got her to the hospital. She's gonna want to know you're not hurt." --- 23 May 2023 This is some straight-up fucking bullshit is what it is. Shitty garbage school shitty garbage town shitty garbage foster home it's all fucking bullshit and on TOP of it they're -- what. What is this what is this, okay the first time it was kinda funny Mrs. Savino sort of deserved it springing a test on them when she knew there'd been a track meet the night before and that kid who cut them in line at lunch -- but okay that lady on the bus was just sitting there, it was crowded, they hadn't meant to -- whatever that was. Last thing they needed just another way to be a freak another reason for people to throw them out like -- DJ is watching with a full lack of surprise as the tiny scrap of a child whirls on him, fists up and a reflexive hostility flaring. They don't back up, but they do heft the blue Superdawg carton in his hand. "Hey, if you want to make all my teeth fall out or whatever, s'cool, but why don't we have these hot dogs first and talk some better options, okay? S'been --" Hive's already been checking their memory with an aching protectiveness before his other half finishes, "-- couple days since you had a real meal, yeah?" --- 3 June 2023 Is it true what they say about dropping a penny from too high? that it'll kill someone? Mythbusters probably did a thing about it some time, right? hah. Should've paid better attention in science. Don't WANT to kill anyone (else) don't WANT to hurt anyone (else). The penny's tipped off their palm, falling-falling-falling, and now it's way too far to track, not in this faded evening light, way too far to see what happens when it hits the ground. Will it hurt? Will it leave a hole in the sidewalk? Will it leave a hole in someone's life? Probably not, they guess, it's just a penny. Probably nobody will notice at all. Someone is noticing -- though DJ is very unsure what to do about it as he plucks the penny out of the air and alights on the roof. He's starting to open their mouth; Hive closes it again with a sharp inward chiding. << crazyass motherfucker I'd've thought you'd be good at this shit by now. Just shut the fuck up and don't say anything about God, alright, that's not -- >> This cuts off as they amble -- nearer but not too near. Lean up against the short concrete safety wall that rings this high rooftop, the penny blinking out of their hand and landing, quiet, on the wall between them. They aren't looking at the teenager whose hands have suddenly clamped down on the concrete, whose train of thought has been derailed into a confused curiosity. Just plucking a phone from his pocket, not looking out-or-down at the city around them but back towards a little assembly of roof deck furniture. "I'm sure as fuck they tested that early on. Wanna find out how it went?" --- 9 June 2023 Their thoughts glint and shift in broken fragments, here. Reflected glittering-sharp like shards of glass, like facets of crystal sprouting up to slice at their hands and feet as they try to escape. Their mother's horrified screaming, their father's disgust. One of those mutie freaks -- call the cops -- a shame. Kind of a shame. They think it's pretty, really. Think it could be prettier in a house with a bed and their books and dog and favorite snacks. But pretty. DJ is picking his way through this forest of glittering colorful crystal that's sprouted up beneath the bridge under this bit of I-15 overpass. Tracing their fingertip gently against one long spear, touching ever-so-light at the tip of another to watch the pinprick of blood that wells up. They're careful not to get his clothing snagged as they find the tiny camping spot in the center, sleeping bag Definitely Not Meant for outdoors, backpack stuffed with a mix of completely-useless and actually-practical. "You know, I came to this same overpass once, when my folks kicked me out, after --" A casual-small hitch of their shoulder. "This is gorgeous. Could be your own kind of art, one day -- I know some people who could help you figure out how to get there." --- 12 June 2023 That one looks like a blackbird. Maybe, if you squint, if you stretch, but all constellations take a bit of imagining, don't they? They're good at imagining, and right now, right now the spike-swirl patterns in the aging popcorn ceiling, maybe they're like a blackbird. Maybe like a flock of blackbirds, maybe like the soft lyricism of their favourite song, maybe like a pair of wings that could get them away. They've gotten very good at imagining; very good at keeping their eyes on this ceiling; very good at dreaming themselves far away, and as heavy footsteps start up the stairs the gentle voice singing in their head grows stronger. Maybe he wrote this song just for them. They don't have wings, no, but somewhere not far beyond DJ is swerving sharp out of his way -- and then set just as quickly back to what he was doing. His indignance and outrage last only a heartbeat before reassurance comes -- in them stopping upstairs only long enough to grab car keys, wander back out with a new determined thought displacing the lust that had been there. They don't put shoes back on. Not a shirt, either. Just get in the car and drive, and drive, and drive -- They're unfurling swiftly from this mind just in time to watch from three other vantage points. There's no squeal of brakes, no attempt to slow before the car plummets off Route 1 into the Pacific Ocean. One of the drivers passing by does stop -- starts to call 911 -- puts that thought on hold until after they feel the panic beneath the water go silent. --- 19 June 2023 they've been drifting, in and out and in and out. For days, now? For months, now? Maybe this is all life has ever been. Are they in bed or staring blankly at a chessboard, trying to remember which direction the rook moves? Are they in bed or sitting irritated and irritable at the nurse's station wishing these lunatic kids would quiet DOWN this is not helping their hangover. Are they in bed or getting Way Too Into the dynamic between Sparky and Kara onscreen c'mon c'mon date already. Are they in bed or drifting, twisting, turning in the wind like a puff from a cattail, somewhere less noisy than this somewhere less CRAZY than this. << You're in bed. >> The voice doesn't help at first, probably, something out of a horror-movie-vision itself, the way the spirits of a thousand dead or maybe the Devil himself would sound in your head: low and eerie and susurrating, layered-echoes rippling in haunted dissonance. The feeling that comes with it, though, is at once wry and grumpy and oddly cranky for a coffee. Does the Devil drink coffee? << Reading minds is a fucking bitch and a half but you're not -- >> A hesitation, a deeper pause. << Eh well you might be crazy, I don't know you like that, but the mind reading is real. Helps a lot if someone can help you navigate. >> For a second, they start to think, I know a guy, start to think, there's somewhere you can get help, and then, thoughtful, instead: << Lemme know if you want a 101. >> --- 21 June 2023 It's been a long fucking night. Worth it, maybe, fuck knows Jax needs a break, every once in a while. Some joy, every once in a while. But now the clamor and tumult of Party is giving way to just. fucking. tumult. Hive's downed several advil, for all the good that it'll do. Behind his eyes there's a hammering and he's hoping that the cigarette (yet unlit) in his lips will take the edge off but for now he's just perched on the edge of a fountain, staring up blankly at a trail of bees painted bright on a mural illuminated from the sliver of light washing out from the apartment above. He flicks his lighter restlessly and bows his head, mind starting to stretch -- and stretch -- and stretch once more. And then stopping. Pulling back, pulling in, the vast root network of them receding into a relative quiet as DJ drops down beside him. DJ rests a hand at the back of Hive's head, rubbing slow and firm at his neck. "That can wait." Spencer's face in their mind. Gae's face in their mind. A host of potential fates ranging from baffling to gruesome, all turning over and around each other. "They're still missing. They're still in trouble, it --" "-- can wait," DJ repeats, firmer. He's pared them down fully, now -- not a forest but just this twinned tree, solid and strong where its roots entwine. DJ drops his hand to curl through Hive's. "I promise you, when we go searching for kids in trouble, we're always going to find them."