ArchivedLogs:Headache and Cilantro

Headache and Cilantro
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jim	2013-02-07 '
Location <NYC> 403 {Hive} - 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. It's morning. Sort of. It might be creeping on further towards afternoon. Hive hasn't been here all morning, though. He's trudging up from Jax's place, like a WALK OF SHAME with his yesterday-clothes, his bedhead. Except Jax has been gone loooong before him. And he slept on the couch. Waking up only to rather /forcefully/, ah, encourage away the trickle of reporters who had tracked down Jax's name and address and camped outside the building, so that Jax could get to church and then class unmolested. But then he returned to sleep, and only now is he returning /home/, starting a pot of coffee brewing before collapsing onto his couch and booting up his laptop. Except that his peace doesn't last long. Someone wants to be buzzed up from down stairs. A LOT. "Jesus fuck," crackles through the intercom, in time with the buzzer buzzing open. A lot. Bzzbzzbzz. Hive doesn't bother to check who it is. He curses at the speaker and presses the door button and collapses back onto his couch. Peace reigns for a length of time. And then: BAM BAM BAM BAM << I'm just gonna keep doing this until I'm let in or the door breaks. >> BAM BAM BAM BAM. It's not the hardest of banging. It's not /pounding/. But it's very. Very. Persistent. Jim's good at persistent. "S'fucking /open/, dickwad," Hive calls back towards the door. "Y'wanna maybe try the handle first, shit." He gets up to go pour a cup of coffee. Then, grudgingly, a second cup. "Y'know most place," Jim erupts into the apartment, ripping off his jacket before he's even breached the threshold, "it's /rude/ t'just walk in." << What d'you think I am, /you/? >> Jacket is draped over the back of a chair - there's possibly /other/ jackets here, it's as likely a place as any. He's scanning Hive over critically, and while on the outside he harbors a face some disgruntlement, concern percolates internally. "You guys get out alright?" "Yeah, fuck. There still reporters downstairs? I had to gorram sweep them away to get Jax to work this morning." Hive looks still kind of rumpled-bed-head-y. He emerges from the kitchen to shove a cup of creamed coffee at Jim. "Around here nobody gives a fuck, shit. Jax's kid doesn't even bother knocking he just /appears/. Flicker does the same. I think half the building's got a fucking key." He drops back down to the couch, slurping loudly at his coffee. "What'd we miss after we booked it? Anyone else die?" "There's a couple lurking around. Think they're gettin' bored - the cold'll flush 'em out soon enough." Jim also looks like he's rolled out of bed, but it's rare he doesn't, hair a trifle dirty, jaw a few days past a shave. He drops down onto the couch as well, scrubbing his face, "No other deaths. Though can't say I didn't /wish/ someone else'd take a potshot at Lovet. Though I guess what Jax pulled might bear a little more weight long-term." If anyone bothers to document it accurately. "Got a lot of pictures of police in riot gear shoving people around. A few more dust-ups of panic when the crowd realized some of them were wearing the dead guy's brains. It was a fucking mess." "Should've let the motherfucker die," Hive opines grumpily towards his computer screen. He's reading the news. It lends itself to grump. "But, yeah, for the -- fuck. This'll do more good than a fucking assassination. Except people are saying it was all staged. Dude was a plant to make us look like heroes. Shit. Be a pretty dedicated plant, the place was crawling with those riot cops. There was no way that was ending /well/ for him." Jim is thinking of the long standing tradition of suicide bombers and kamikaze missions mounted throughout history. << Tell me you're not surprised. >> He'd been reading the paper earlier, headlines lingering, but he leans over Hive's shoulder to catch updates, "Least we know there's a /few/ cops that might not agree with that. Man, are you serious that cop Shelby was hitting on is the /same/ that went after Shaney? Christ, I hate cops." I got some /friends/ that are cops and I hate cops. "Not surprised. Not pleased, either." Hive tilts his monitor slightly for better JimViewing. "Same fucking one. Was there yesterday," he says with an irritable grumble in his voice. "Skeezebag. I think he wants to nail Jax, too. Wish that castration had /took/. Don't imagine the Force looks too well on that regenerating trick of his." Jim is scanning whatever Hive is on the computer - it's sort of like they're watching TV while talking. "Yeah, I saw him. Fucking skeeze. You wanna go after him?" He just asks it bluntly, running through a pragmatic pro and con list. If it cost him his job, it'd remove the authority he hides behind. Could start a witch hunt in the police force if he got exposed, though. Also. Exposing mutants... the guy could sure make life hard if that shit started rolling down hill. But man, that kind of shit is what gives cops such a shit-tastic reputation. Not that exposing him for being a /slimeball/ would be what got him fired... "Nah. I mean, fuck, I'd want his head on a platter if it wouldn't freaking grow /back/. But outing mutants isn't a road I want to go down." Hive slumps back on the couch, resting one socked foot, his toe poking through a hole in the fabric, on the table. He slurps his coffee again. "Jax'd totally turn him in for screwing Shane if he thought it'd go anywhere. Last cop that did, though, they tried booking /Shane/ for assault when he reported it." The disgust in his tone is thick. "Fucking cops, man." "That kid's gotta slow down." Living in New York with a self-destructive teenager is like leaving an open bottle of pills in a toddler's playpen. Jim is frowning down into his coffee. "Wasn't consenting to the last one." Even said aloud and not mentally, this comes with a sharp spike of anger pressing to Jim's mind, and then subsiding. Hive's jaw is tight as he looks down at the floor. "How 'bout those people we /are/ going after?" It doesn't really manage casual, but it at least doesn't come with any further mental discomfort. "/Hah/," forget 'assault' then, how'd he manage not to /kill/ the guy. That kid could overpower /me/. "Yeah," Jim switches gears, his gritted teeth either from anger or -- well, Hive's anger, "Those guys. I got some good stuff cobbled up on our guy, Robert Wakefield. Embezzlement and tax fraud; not even counting a mistress. Guy's a prime ambitious New Yorker." Synonymous with dirtbag. "Our lady's gonna be a little more tricky; she's been quick to duck her head when shit flies and wipe her feet. But - what doesn't stick, you can always change the camera angle on. She's been /in proximity/ with a few messy deals; partying in front when shit went south in the /back/. Way I'm figuring it, a little spinning and that coincidence starts to look like a lil' more than a coincidence." How dirty you wanna hit people here? "Yeah, he could. Not really the murderous type, though, generally. Imagine if someone'd pulled it on Bastian, though, Shane'd have his heart. Or vice versa, if Bastian'd /been/ there." Hive gulps down the rest of his coffee quickly, lowering the mug to his lap. "Sweet. Kinda figured it'd be hard to get far in those government jobs /without/ having some dirt under his nails. Uh." His smile quirks a little sheepishly as he admits, "-- I don't really know how, uh, people usually go about this. I just want my freaking permits signed so we can start building. I kinda though maybe you'd know a little about making dirt -- stick." "Hey, plants like dirt," Jim grunts, grimacing so as to /not/ give away his pleasure. He likes his job. Anger doesn't just magically fade from his mind but it compartmentalizes; the clinic is something he /can/ do something about. "I mean, if we do this /right/, there's a real good chance we can come outta this without anyone too bruised up for it. Our suckers here'll be unhappy, but inconvenience is part of anyone's fucking job." He's finished off his coffee already and stands up, glancing down to see if Hive needs a refill while he's on his way. "But it's gonna be on /us/ to keep /them/ from getting any bright ideas that'll make all our lives hard. Push too soft, they think they can get one over on you. Push too /hard/, they're gonna think it don't matter what they do, you're probably gonna slam them anyway." Which comes around to Step One: "We're gonna need a lotta throw away phones." "This is New York, nobody's happy. Price you pay for living here." Hive sounds happy enough, though, at this new thought of Getting Shit Done. "Phones. Check. Can we have codenames? I'mm'a call you Cilantro." "Then I'm callin' you /Headache/." Jim rails back from the kitchen, returning with coffee. Possibly for /both/ of them. "We'll send 'em a copy of what we got first, line up the information in front of them and the logical direction it could go. The tighter the timeframe we got between them getting them receiving it and us /calling/, the less time they'll have to try and find someone to /fix/ it." He remains standing, looking down speculatively at Hive. Damn. This asshole hired me and I still feel bad draggin' him deeper into it. "I got an idea." It could be tricky. "I've already /got/ a codename. Flicker gave it to me. Dusk wanted it to be Borg." Hive shrugs, reclaiming his coffee to continue down his path of slurpdom. Sluuuurp. Fastest way to drink it hot. "Fast is good. Better. I'd like to break ground /yesterday/. I did meet a time manipulator once," he muses, quiet. Maybe serious? Maybe not serious. "Hey, didn't I technically drag you? Tricky. Sure. Shoot." His brow creases. "Not literally shoot, I get enough of /that/ everydamnwhere else." "You're too much of a smartass to do Borg right," Jim is still hovering over his coffee. "But /that/ kinda shit, that freaky mindreading shit? That's what I'm thinking. How close you gotta be to people before they start getting loud t'you?" If you were the guy that had these people on the phone, you'd know exactly how they were planning to fix it the moment they did. It'd sure cut down on the time I'd have to spend trying to cover all my bases. Man, nothing shoots down a paranoiac's confidence like talking to someone that knows more about their own life than they do. "Thaaat's -- a complicated question. In this building I hear all the apartments around mine loud and clear. Gets quieter out a floor. I /can/ hear the whole building from here if I stretch. Don't like to for long though. Loud enough already." Hive's fingers tap against his mug, and he adds, "But /I/ don't gotta be all that close. Just a -- part of me does." "A part of you?" Jim isn't even entertaining an attempt to guess at understanding on these topics. "What's that mean, exactly?" Hive draws in a breath, looking up at the ceiling. He lifts his mug, swilling down another gulp. "If I Borg someone. Wherever they are. S'as good as me being there. I can hear things -- /through/ someone I'm -- connected to." That'd sure cut out the /middle/ man, "Alright." Jim doesn't recoil from it. He doesn't leap on it, either, watching Hive's study of the ceiling critically. "So what's it take to Borg a guy? Is it hard on you?" Hive shrugs. "Hard to do one. Not so pleasant for them, either. Easy to do a lot. Easier for them, too." His smile, still turned up ceiling-wards, is not particularly cheerful. "Had a lot of practice, anyway." "Fffffff," Jim exhales through his teeth. How much is a lot. << -- You don't gotta answer that. >> Though now I'm wondering - /dammit/. "So what happens when you've Borg'd some people. How noticeable is it once you've got 'em?" Of course, he's /thinking/ Borg - people standing around zoned out and expressionless. Are they wiped clean? Do they know? Shit, don't blame the guy for not looking too happy, that's some freaky shit. "If I've only got a couple it's noticeable. Hurts them. A lot. Think like when I'm talking to you, except that's filling up everything in your mind." Hive says this in a bland monotone, though against his coffee cup his fingers are twitching tighter. He lifts the cup, sipping slowly. "If I take enough to gentle it out, they won't know. Won't even remember, really. They don't zone out, anyway. They're still /them/. They're just them with me at the controls." Jim's eyes flick to Hive's tightening fingers, and then head out towards the window; he's fallen into inner Latin recital for a few moments. It calms a lot of the frustration and protectiveness boiling internally, and he says finally, "Y'know, that might not even be a thing we'd have to do. Lemme scope out their homes and worksites; get an idea of their schedules. Who's to say we couldn't just slip into an upper level of an apartment or business, tap in directly." Though man, it'd be easier if I was the one on the phone /while/ he was listening in... I'd know what to say... "Certainly be better," Hive's agreeing, quieter around a sip of coffee. "S'not something I /like/ to --" He shrugs. "At least," there's a beat of pause before, "not without permission." He sits up straighter, leaning forward to set his cup down on a newspaper. Which is just /like/ a coaster. "My roomates are pretty good at --" He's starting, but shuts /that/ line of thought down almost as soon as he's started thinking it, with a quick shake of head. "No, wait, they're, uh, really /nice/." "Eh," Jim waves an impatient hand, "Friends'll put up with one another. I knew a guy in Ohio that a /gland/ problem. He stank like shit, but he was solid. Wife and I had him over a lot." My freakin' ex-brother-in-law. I'd have been better off marrying /him/. "Listen," he turns back from the window, locking eye contact, "We're gonna get this. It'll take what it takes, right?" His jaw tightens; so do his stomach muscles. I'll put up with a headache if you will, asshole. "Yeah." Hive's smile comes a little quicker, a lot more genuine. "We'll get this. Cuz, uh, way things are going, I think we're gonna need all the friendly places we can /get/. You know that dude last night, the one who bit it, wasn't even a mutant? Don't know if anyone's picked up on /that/ yet. Wonder if they'll test the -- remains." "I'm sure they will." Jim wanders back to drop back onto the couch, still thinking about work - but it's all inane phrasing of emails and arrangement of pictures. Reminding himself to pick up some nice anonymous manilla envelopes and to check the phonebook about what UPS store is far enough away from anyone without /looking/ like it's clearly trying to get far away from anyone. "And I'm sure people are gonna ignore the findings and think whatever they wanna think." Conservative bigoted twats aren't the only ones having a field day, the liberals are foaming at the mouth for the injustice as well. Jesus, this city. "Mutant Crimes cops popped his kid. Though I already've seen folks online saying he was probably /mind controlled/." Hive exhales heavily, a little pinched around the eyes at this idea. "This city." "This fucking city." Jim agrees grimly. He puts his feet up and settles back, folding his hands behind his head. "Okay. First things first, throw away phones..." There's plenty enough work to come up with already. They get down to business... in as casual of a manner as you could expect. There's a lot of coffee involved. Maybe they order a pizza.