ArchivedLogs:Calling Down the Lightning

Calling Down the Lightning
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Hive	2013-05-19 Immediately post Alleyway Rendezvous.
Location
(Murphy ---> Hive): It's real. I'm alive. Jax boys there. Will call in a minute. Hive's phone rings a minute later. "Fucking hell, you serious." That is how Hive answers his phone. At least when Murphy is calling. Murphy responds, in that gravelly, fuck-you sort of voice: "Gets worse. You might want to sit down. And get some pen and paper. Also, two questions. How good of a fucking nutcracker are you. And do you have any nutcracker friends." "Worse. Great." Hive's own voice is pretty much its gruff usual. There's another sound -- not very intelligible in the background, voice low and his hand over the phone, but then he speaks to Murphy again. "Depends on exactly how you like your nuts cracked. I'm shitty at it. Or excellent. I have all /kinds/ of freakbuddies, though." Murphy grunts. "I know a gal. Can turn nutcrackers up to eleven. Doesn't juice 'em, just gives 'em more control." Then, a long pause as he sucks in what might be a breath. "It's cops all the way down. Also? Just watched them put a freak down. These matches end with a lot of 'em dead. You don't have a lot of time." Another pause, very brief. "Your boys are alive. S'bout the only good news I got." The breath Hive exhales is slow. "New York's Finest," he mutters. "I could do with more control." And then more quiet. "... They must have a lot of 'em. If they can afford to kill them off. Tight security?" Murphy produces a choked, bitter laugh. "Just guns and thugs. Mickey Mouse operation. They got 'em wearing collars. Give 'em shocks, like dogs. That's it. You got that pen and paper?" Murphy gives Hive a phone number. "Tell her it's Holland's kids. Tell her she gets involved, might save some lives. The kids' /and/ the cops. She's a real heart bleeder. She'll come." "Great," Hive mutters, "another fucking hero." There's a beat of silence. "You didn't get yourself killed, that's a start. So. This place you were at tonight. Chinatown. They're holding them there, too?" Murphy snorts. "Yeah. Right underneath. In cages, apparently. Whole thing is just -- how fast can you move on this. They're doin' four nights a week. Couple of fights a night. Each one's got a pretty good chance of producin' a corpse." "Each one's cops all the way down." Hive says this with a faintly tired note to his voice. "Fuck. Shit. Ass. Damn. OK." He exhales slowly. "Collars and cages. Let me -- talk to some people. See who I can con into this fucking shitshow. Everybody loves getting on the NYPD's bad side." Murphy growls. But. "Alright. Just. These ain't like your labs. These boys. Are fucking /idiots/. You need finesse, but you also need..." Murphy's voice dwindles, then surges right back: "You need to get them out of there. ASAP. /Without/ killing the cops." "Gnnhk." Gruff and disgruntled. "Not even /one/ cop?" It's hard to tell if Hive is serious or not. He sounds like he's asking if he can just have /a/ cookie before dinner. Pleeease? "Any idea how many people we're looking at getting out? Need to arrange -- medical care for a bunch of -- mmngh. Fuck. My apartment is going to be a refugee camp again." Murphy pauses a second here. "Almost killed one /already/. Sutton. Found him here. Thought he might have just been pretending to be your pal, knew about it all long. Had a psychic French whore interrogate him. He's legit. As for numbers, can't help you there. Only saw topside, not what's underneath. A lot, I'm guessing." "Doesn't seem like Sutton's kind of -- maybe if they were running a fucking mutant /brothel/." Hive says this a little sharply. "Psychic French -- right. That guy. He's not French," Hive corrects with a small trace of prickle, "he's Quebecois. We're gonna need to find that out. A lot -- that's a fucking logistical -- need to get them out. Away. Cared for. Shit." "And fast," Murphy repeats, as if to remind Hive of this. "Really fucking fast. As in, I'd do this right fucking /now/ if pretty-boy here didn't keep telling me we need /finesse/." Pretty-boy might be Sutton. It might be Lucien. Murphy doesn't say. "You need me, call me. I'm gonna be staking this place out. Memorize some fucking faces. You got the address." "Yeah. OK. I'll call you." Probably there are a lot of phone calls he needs to make. So many in fact that Hive hangs right the fuck up without saying bye. He's very mannerly.