ArchivedLogs:Mess

Mess
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Hive, Micah, Ryan, Anima	16 October 2013 Injuries and healings and revelations, oh my! (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> Candyland - Village Lofts - East Village
It is late, when the convoy coming back up from Virginia makes it back to New York, stopping off at their rendezvous point to do what situation-assessment is necessary. For once things have gone startlingly /well/ -- in some senses, at least. All of their rescuees are ambulatory, most of their crew as well; for almost everyone the most urgent needs are food and /rest/ and both of those can, at least for tonight, be gotten at the Lofts until morning can get people sorted out further. For almost everyone, that is. Jim's more critical-care truck for the patients in greater need of first aid isn't actually all that packed. A bullet torn through the muscle of Flicker's shoulder is actually the /least/ injured he's ever been after one of these things; the bandaging applied to Hive's arm has long since stopped seeping more red. Some grazes, some bruises -- And then Jax, tucked onto mattresses in the back of the truck, bandaged around arm and leg and most of his /face/; the stippling of red against the white is bright enough to suggest the bleeding here has not actually stopped, continually seeping through what fresh bandaging Liam has applied. Hive looks grouchy, when he gets out of the front of the van, its back doors still closed. He watches one new labrat in particular leaving the bus of doing-reasonably-alright folks, a young man who stays very quiet and keeps largely to himself; it's only after this man is on his way that he seeks out Micah, not physically but mentally. << Have a problem. >> It's not Hive's voice; amid the softly whispering chorus of other voices Hive's isn't even audible. If Jax is conscious it doesn't actually appear so outwardly. His mind has lost its usual vivid brightness, just a hazy fog of slick red blood and smokey dark shadow laced over a backdrop of burning pain. What thoughts do manage to take shape largely concern themselves with -- plagues. Smallpox. Zombie uprisings. Blood and frogs and swarms of locusts. Micah has been /everywhere/ and in the middle of everything once the rescue crew returned. He is dressed in a plain heather-grey long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up and a pair of particularly faded-old and multiply patched jeans. The bus, having arrived first, has already received his attention for splitting up the newcomers between the Lofts apartments, Isra's, and the fight club house. He is just getting ready to step back off of the bus when Hive's message comes through. << I imagine so. They told me y'all had the really injured folks in the van. Like as not we need t'get over t'the clinic with the GSW's. >> Someone has given Micah a vague idea of what is going on, apparently, but not a lot of details. << I'll hop in t'do what else I /can/ on the way. >> He clambers down off the bus and makes his way toward the now-parked van. << This might need more help than -- >> Even in his soft mental whisper Hive's thoughts are somewhat sluggish, as well, less pain and more exhaustion. He leans against the van, one hand on the handle of its back door and his eyes as vacantly unfocused as they have been for days. << You'll know better than we do. But Io might not have people to deal with this. Joshua's gone. Couldn't ask him. >> His fingers twitch against the door handle, not actually opening it. << We need a specialist? Is it someone we can pass off easily at an E.R.? >> Micah continues to speak mentally as he approaches, knowing this is easier for Hive in his...current condition. << Or are we right in the middle of Majorly Complicated Territory? >> He frowns at the last detail. << Gone? Is he... >> His mind fills in any number of endings for this sentence, ranging from lost to unconscious to dead. << Don't know. He vanished. We had to leave without him. >> There's not a lot of emotion to be read in Hive's whispering swarm of voices, but there's a slow tension that creeps through his frame, tightening his fingers against the door handle. << Complicated. Jax looks human enough but he's one of the most famous freaks /in/ this city. >> What, did he neglect to mention it was Jax before? Perhaps he overlooked that small detail. << Plus he's been intermittently trying to catch his bedding on fire. Think he ran out of juice now, though. But once we put him around light s'no telling what'll catch on fire. >> << That is...not good. >> Micah adds a furrowed brow to his frown at the announcement about Joshua. When Hive says 'Jax' there is a bottomless sinking feeling in Micah's stomach, followed by a few seconds of intense, terrible panic. Externally, his eyes close, then reopen...already calmed. Or...less calm and more steely-detached. << Open the door. Need t'see what the damage is. Fire's complicated, too. Can't be in an O.R. with even a /tiny/ fire, would burn the place down. >> << Well. He's not on fire right now. Just don't -- light him up. >> Though this puts a small frown on Hive's face as he pulls the door open to let Micah into the back of the van. << Though he won't last too long without much light, either. Going to kind of be a weird-ass balancing game. Can't exactly operate in the dark anyway. If we even find anyone who /would/. >> He steps back, swinging the door open wider. At Micah's panic there are no words, just a soft mental touch; a brief gentle weight resting against Micah like a hand on a shoulder that soon withdraws. << How do his abilities respond t'sedation? Would the fires stop if he was under deep enough? >> Micah pushes into the van as soon as it is open. << Need light t'operate. A /lot/ of light. >> His eyes scan the dim interior of the vehicle, looking only for Jax since no other individual had been identified for special attention. << We should head t'the clinic now, if everyone in the van is injured. That's where most everyone'll get their help, an' it's best t'get there quickly. Jax'll...take some figurin', but we'll do that on the way. >> << Sedate him and the fires should be fine. -- Our people are mostly fine, actually. >> Hive is ignoring the spotty-red bandaging on his own arm, clearly. << Flicker'll go home and hit up Joshua's roommate. >> It takes a slow moment for him to reorient himself towards Jax, though /why/ he does so is unclear; he still doesn't look down at Jax so much as just stare blankly towards the front of the truck, now. << Hardly any other injuries at all. Nothing serious. But this -- don't think Mirror can even do anything about it without the bones set right. Don't think anyone else really /needs/ any -- We actually got out of this pretty light. >> Which causes a brief moment of quiet before he says, a soft note of guilty unhappiness in the words: << It was a good plan he had. He pulled it off so much cleaner than -- if that HAMMER motherfucker hadn't been there it would have been nearly perfect. >> << We'll get one of the docs at the clinic t'give 'im somethin', then. >> Micah shakes his head at Hive's protest that people are fine. << Anyone as had a bullet in 'em gets seen by the actual docs. No arguments. >> He turns at Hive's reorientation, kneeling beside Jax and just blinking a moment while his eyes continue to adjust. The amount of bandaging and blood draws a quick, hissing breath from Micah before he tamps down the panic again, as if pressed beneath a lid. << Don't think we need t'worry too much about anyone recognisin' 'im right now, >> he concludes after observing the swath of facial bandages, though the thought is accompanied by a sick feeling. "Hey!" << Hey! >> The dual greeting drifts along on a wave of empathic calm, washing up against a tide of tension to assuage the palpable anxiety and concern in the air. Soothing as this vocalization /feels/, the gravity of the tone conveying it strikes a chord of fear as Ryan sprints towards the van. Dressed from head-to-toe in an all black ensemble, he appears unscathed, the only signs of duress found in furrowed brow and shortness of breath as he joins the others at the back, having reassigned his duties to those veteran members of the raid teams to help situate the mostly intact rescuees towards the loft. Now, however, he arrives on best friend duty, checking in /physically/ with his comrades for the first time since they escaped the Prometheus compounds. His words: "You look like shit Hive," accompany a point at his gauze-wrapped arm. << Until they take those bandages off. >> Hive sinks down to sit on the back of the van, boots scuffing lightly against the pavement. << You look better than usual. >> His answer to Ryan is oddly devoid of snark -- devoid of /any/ real personality, Hive's own voice not even audible among the soft whispering chorus of voices that murmur into the others' minds. << Don't happen to know any trauma surgeons, do you? >> It's not a serious question, just bland and tired. << Jax might be eating out of a straw for a while. And Io's people don't need to bother with -- I mean, me and Flicker are -- Mirror can take care of -- >> This doesn't break off so much as trail off, a little bit more /presence/ briefly in Hive's vacant eyes. It's slower, reluctant when he grudgingly voices: << ... there might be other help. >> Micah doesn't really acknowledge Ryan's presence, busy surveying wounds. He avoids removing the bandages from the arm or leg. “People at the clinic should be able t'handle those if they handled both me'n Dusk before.” At least he's talking out loud now. He has to peel back the bandage from the facial wound to have the first idea what is going on there, however. He blinks a few moments, nods, and replaces the covering. He opens his first aid kit to pull out more materials. “Should have continuous pressure over these wounds, they're still bleedin'.” A hand gestures toward the limb injuries. “He's gonna need a trauma surgeon with an orthopaedic specialty just t'stabilise that. I actually do know... Afterward...prob'ly all kindsa reconstructions. For a long time. Y'got any folks t'lay on hands, y'should be callin' 'em for this. Still gonna need the stabilisation first if we want the healin' t'be any kinda functional after. Has his airway been okay? Never stopped breathin'?” He stops in his placement of materials over limb wounds to shoot a look at Hive. “Whatever you've got, Hive, don't hold out now.” "Managed to bust in and out without any major casualties - not many minor ones, either," Ryan boasts, on a swiftly sinking note as he psionically intuits the tepid emotional atmosphere. Without saying, without /pushing/ towards a lighter mood, his vocal traction ceases; instead, he lays a firm hand on Hive's shoulder (connected to his uninjured arm), meant to be an anchoring gesture, tethering him down amid the sea of /others/ swarming in his head. << No... just - Joshua. And Mirror? What- what are we dealing with. >>He provides Micah professional leeway, a space to work within undisturbed, though he does /lean/, lean /forward/ at that, trying to peer into the back where the wounded Jax rests. "A fuckin' orthopaedic surgeon? You've got to be shitting me, there's no way in hell w- I can't even lie good enough to get him through there without getting all /kinds/ of attention," is his strained protest. Hive's shoulder shifts, under Ryan's touch, just a slight upwards press into the contact. His mind presses softly against Ryan's, focusing here for a moment; it seems to collect him enough to actually nod, actually refocus his eyes briefly on his present company. << We're going to have trouble. >> This is a sudden remembrance, with Ryan's presence, unconnected to Jax's injury; it comes with a brief flash of the boyish face of one of the new rescuees, a young man who sat silently in the back of the bus the whole ride back to New York, staring out the window and talking to nobody. << Trouble he's going to need to be awake for. >> His eyes shift back, not to Jax but to Micah, the same soft press of mind reaching out to him. << Joshua's missing, >> he tells Ryan grimly. << But their roommate -- >> It comes with a brief flash of imagery, Sloan's furry face that is soon replaced by a new man's. << New host. New powers. Can heal this clean. Gave Jax back his entire finger, once, and that was years dead. >> Though the finger isn't there anymore. There's a distinct overtone of /but/ in Hive's tone, though. "He took a bullet t'the /face/, Ryan. Part of his jaw is essentially /gone/. He's incredibly lucky t'be alive. Still no guarantees on stayin' that way." Micah packs more bandaging over Jax's arm and leg, holding pressure to both, one hand clamped over each. There is not a great amount he can /do/ for the facial wound in its current state; it needs surgical attention quickly. "We need t'get t'the clinic now." Hive's information earns an immediate response--not the trouble part, Micah doesn't really seem to care about that, but the healing part. "Someone needs t'go get 'im /now/ an' meet us at the clinic." There's a small groan from Jackson, as Micah packs more bandaging in against him. Though groaning only makes him flinch again, with another searing jolt of pain. His thoughts are still foggy, red and black, blood and shadow, but they're struggling towards the present. Slowly. "Mmnngh." It's as much as he manages words, a touch of panic flaring up in him as he tries to speak and is met with only pain. His eye cracks open, and then immediately closes again, mental senses straining for what light he can reach for from streetlamps outside the van. There's some panicked sense that this is just comfort, just a desperate need to /recharge/ after draining, but also a bleary-confused thought that perhaps he needs to be ready in case of more shooting? The lights in his collar and cuffs have long since switched off, in need of recharging. The applied pressure of Ryan's grip only increases in strength, face contorted into a cringe of visceral pain. "What- a bull- ugh," his choked response through gritted teeth wraps a tendril of fury around them, briefly overwhelming. "Why are we wasting /time/ then," constricts them in another spike of animosity, abruptly switched off with a resurgence of cool, anesthetic tranquility breathed through, "Shhhh. Jax. It's okay, rest. Keep your eyes closed." To preserve this effect, he starts to hum, a low vibrating rhythm while he operates telepathically to conduct the more serious strain of conversation. << Then go get the fucking healer. Whoever it is. We can't have any more pressing /trouble/ than this. They can provide the same level of care as a surgeon, right? >> << It's more pressing trouble. >> But whatever it is, Hive doesn't explicate. He gets up with a teeth-clenched grimace, eyes slipping back into glassy unfocus as he simply turns to start off towards the Lofts. “Hey, hon,” Micah's voice comes softer again when Jax stirs. His attention focuses solely on the wounded man. “No. No talkin'. Just stay still'n rest, okay? We're gettin' you help. Your abilities've been actin' up, so we can't give you much light just yet. But help's comin'.” He maintains the pressure on the two less gruesome wounds, biting at his lip when he finds himself unable to so much as offer a calming touch to Jax with both hands occupied. “I'm sorry this hurts, but I gotta hold on t'keep you from bleedin' more 'til we get you help, okay?” Ryan watches Hive trudge off with a, << be careful, >> reluctantly releasing his hold on him. Edging closer behind Micah, he holds out his hands. "What can I do." Jax whimpers again, soft, a spasm of pain twisting his expression. Around him there's a brief very pale shimmer of light; it dies away as his whimpering does, emotions quieting as he slips back into unconsciousness. “Hold his hand,” Micah orders, chin tilting to indicate Jax's uninjured arm. His own eyes squeeze closed tightly, just for a moment. Ryan obeys, as instructed, reaching through the veil of flickering light to enmesh his fingers through Jax's, reassuring, gentle as his voice. It takes some while before Hive returns, having gone to the Lofts and returned -- this time with a young man in tow. Or at least apparently a young man, called out of the Lofts without a /whole/ lot of explanation past a somewhat brusque assertion that hir help is needed. Hive's expression is no more /present/ now than it was before, glassy and vacant as he trudges back towards the van. In emotional scape he is flat -- so very many presences in him that they end up just washing each other out into a static of white-noise. Mentally it is much the same, a background din that, while /crowded/, does not manage to be noticeable as any thoughts in particular. << He dead yet? >> precedes his face poking into the back of the van. “No,” Micah answers simply, though this is drowned out by a sort of wordless /growling/ in his thoughts. Sentiment not appreciated, apparently. “Did you bring 'im?” he cranes his neck around to observe the door, position fixed as it is by applying pressure with both hands. The man, Zachary, trudges along in tow, arms crossed and palms cupped around each opposing elbow to ward off the cold. Roused from an eccentric night-in the apartment, a suspicion construes his features in tight-drawn lines, contrary to the gooseflesh raised along his skin. Between the insistence he /follow/ Hive and the scant reason provided, he could little afford time to change, leaving him in a grey t-shirt and cotton flannel pajama bottoms, checked in blue and white and grey. He is tense - and wary, several paces behind Hive. Telepaths; don't trust them. Ryan, meanwhile, runs his thumb across the back of Jackson's hand, averting his gaze only briefly to track the return of Hive and note the aid he enlisted. Jackson is mostly just still lying there. Still wavering between conscious and un, his thoughts still not much past pain and blood and shadow and a strange fascination with plagues. Still not dead! Just bleeding out of a deep bullet-graze in his leg and a shallower one on his arm and the very large /hole/ shattered straight through his jaw. His fingers twitch beneath Ryan's hand. Almost turning to reach for it, then just -- going limp. << Sorry, >> comes Hive's whispering chorus of voices. << It's late and it's fucked up but there's not really hospitals that'll take him. And that jaw will fuck him for life even with good care. >> He's not looking at Zachary, not looking /anywhere/ with his eyes unfocused as they are. << Can you help him? >> comes with a quieter undertone: /Will/ you help him? When Zachary appears, Micah immediately assumes (or at least hopes) he is the person who is meant to help. His eyes track from the man to Jax's face and back. “We...don't have a lot of options here,” he tells the man, the admission finally breaking through his enforced calm. His expression crumples and hot tears start to run freely down his cheeks as he drags in a ragged, noisy breath to voice the single word, “Please.” Zachary shifts, inserting himself in the space where Micah and Ryan cluster around Jackson in the back of the van. Brows raised, an internal correspondence runs up against a static background, devoid of feedback for Hive. He squints, peering into the dark interior of the vehicle, assessing the situation. "Joshua showed up as a ferret in my home this evening," drops the casual answer, oblivious to the urgency surrounding him. "Did you find my body." << Joshua's /here/? >> Hive's voice doesn't really manage to rise to /excited/ at this but it's definitely a bit more interested. << Oh thank fuck. >> There's a touch of mind to Zachary's -- mind/s/, really, a guard here, a displaced orderly there. << Wasn't in that facility, >> he answers softly. << But their people are still here. >> 'Here' comes with its own connotations -- still /in/ Hive, still /part/ of Hive. << We're looking. We didn't forget. >> Whether Hive means we-the-rescue-team or we-the-amalgam-of-minds is unclear; it's possibly a little of both. Even the announcement about Joshua doesn't seem to filter all the way through. Micah seems largely to be trying to keep from devolving entirely into sobs, shoulders curled in and hands shaking slightly where they continue to hold against Jax's arm and leg. His bottom lip is pressed between his teeth so tightly that it looks white, his gaze lifting only to search for some response. Any response. "Are you going to fucking help or not." Ryan, on the other hand, insists on extracting an answer from Zachary!Anima with an adamance. The person under interrogation holds his stoic mask, immune to the carnage on Jackson. Ze remains trained on Hive and the intel he provides, clicking his tongue. "Joshua is here, yes. A bit, mmm, incapacitated right now." That core presence, the Anima buried beneath at the nucleus of this combined conscience resists most of the mental touch Hive extends toward hir. << stay-out-it-doesn't-convince-me-any-i-keep-distance-for-a-reason >> Thoughtful, considerate, at last hir gaze shifts. "I /can/ help. But how much. Last time I helped, he was not so keen on a finger or an eye. Are you sure he wants a jaw?" << Those are old. This is critical. He doesn't want to die. If it bothers him he can bitch at /us/ not you. >> Hive's voice stays soft, whispers devoid of emotion; little makes it through to his face, either, empty-eyed, blank-cast, apparently unmoved either by the uncertainty over Jax's condition or by Micah's sobs. But there's a /tremor/ in mental space, a hard tense ripple of energy that washes out and then quickly withdraws. << It's in your own best interest. There's nobody out there who knows more about breaking into those places than we do. Even if we find your body, we can't get it back without him. >> “What the fuck kind of question is that? He could /die/,” Micah spits the word forcefully at Zachary. He twists his neck in attempt to wipe some of the mess from his face on his shirt where it covers his shoulder. “All that he does for everyone an' don't nobody wanna help /him/.” Jackson provides little to this discussion. A small whimper, a small twitch of fingers. There's some part of him that's vaguely aware of the presences around him, though the actual /discussion/ doesn't register at all. Just an unhappy mental reaching /out/ that doesn't translate into more physical motion than a pained stiff tension in his arms. << Micah? Ryan? -- Hive? >> It's uncertain. A small shimmer of light starts to collect around him again, a streetlamp in the lot outside the van dimming. "I did try to help him once," Zachary asserts, facing Micah with the same disciplined glance that avoids landing on anyone for too long. << oh-i-know-what-is-in-my-interest >> Slowly, he unclasps his hands, propping a leg up on the rear bumper of the van to stretch inside, critically assessing the state of the man inside. "I'll do it. Step away." << keep-the-theatrics-in-check-it's-distracting >> << He'll thank you for it this time. >> Hive shifts back away from the van's door when Zachary enters. There's a small mental /tug/ at Micah, soft but insistent. << Get back, man. Let him work. >> His mind touches back to Jax's, a blanketing mental presence. << Hey. We're here. Just relax. >> There's a stretching-out, a twining connection looped between Jax's mind and Micah's and Ryan's, tying them in now to this mental communication since actually /speaking/ is currently beyond Jax's reach. << We're here, >> he assures the illusionist again. “Shh, hon, don't.” Micah's voice softens again as Jax moves and brightens. “Don't move, we got...somebody t'help.” Reluctantly, he releases the hold he had been keeping to staunch the flow of blood from Jax's wounds. He backs away, but not far, observing vigilantly. Ryan very, very grudgingly subsists, squeezing Jackson's hands, infusing each spoken utterance with a second wave of reassurance to wash warm and mellow over him. But Zachary!Anima has work to do, and sets about it immediately. Fingers spread wide, he lays his hands over Jackson, arms outstretched as a priest presiding over the sick. What follows poses nothing short of miraculous, either: while no trauma surgeon, a subtle vibration pulses through the air around him. A look of reverent concentration overcomes; this is consecration this is - reconstruction. A restitching of what once was, a stringing together of atoms to replace the burnt, torn flesh, to regrow the length of bone along the lower jaw. It's an electric sensation almost, one that passes through the whole body, replenishing, reconstituting what once was - only recently however. << Jesus. >> It's low and kind of /awed/ from Hive; though he /knew/ this was possible seeing it in action is another thing entirely. << Fucking hell, you're good. >> He watches more through the /others'/ eyes than through his own, his still unfocused somewhere off towards a wall of the van. << Thank you, >> is slightly more grudging, and, << We'll let you know as soon as we find something. >> Micah just /watches/. Somewhere in this process, a (slightly bloodstained) hand reaches up to cover his mouth. It proves not to be an impediment, as the sight has also rendered him speechless. "Mmm." Another small whimper, from Jax. His thoughts are collecting a little bit more firmly, with this tingling, with this rebuilding; he twitches again beneath Anima's hands, and this time his eye cracks open though doesn't really seem to take in much around him. "Oh --" Just one tiny word; still soft, still pained; even with a jaw back he's lost a /lot/ of blood and the tears in his arm and leg still throb in his mind with pain. "You --" He's finally taking stock of Anima, blearily. He swallows, grimacing, and closes his eyes again. His thoughts are still foggy, but what rises up is a definite /sense/ of gratitude that he can't quite put words to. Ryan too, ceases his empathic background insulation, stopping to stare somewhat slack-jawed at the ongoing process. Zachanima ignores the witness act, hands traveling down along Jackson past the psychic sewing of his jaw back in place. Any limb not missing, any wound not yet bridged with a thick layer of scar tissue, ze reconstructs, sealing the lacerations along his arm, his leg, erasing the pain through reversion; even the blood seems to pump back through him again, steady and full. Suddenly, he stops, and steps back. "Well, it's fucking cold. I'm going to bed." Underneath, a mental strain indicates a breaking of walls, the duress of using its powers sending hairline fractures across the divide used to separate Anima from Zachary. Ze might use him, but he will tire. And he does. But Anima? Anima is smug, frothing up against Hive in a sudsy outpouring of simple talk, thrown together as a flood of bubbles bursting against his many presences. << yes-well-search-hard >> *pop, pop, pop* go hir thoughts, << because-i-can-always-unhelp >> Disgruntled, he treads away, wordless and without waiting to receive more thanks. Outside the van, Hive /bristles/. Stuck in non-verbal mode, he's probably not /actually/ biting his tongue after this threat, but he's no doubt doing the psionic equivalent. His mind /bristles/, hard poky edges prickling up against Ryan and Jax and Micah's minds. He holds this tension until Anima is gone, after which his mind /snaps/ into theirs: << Let's go. >> This comes with an image of Jax's apartment that refines itself into an image of just Jax and Micah's bedroom, since the rest of the apartment is -- likely given over to refugees at the moment. There's a hard edge to his thoughts when they continue: << Ryan, >> this comes with a soft /press/ of his mind into Ryan's; while hiving is usually somewhat painful and disorienting, this time it's just quiet, seamless, << take the van to the Clinic. We need to talk. >> With instructions dispensed and Ryan now connected, he just turns to start trudging his way back towards the Lofts. Micah darts forward as soon as Zachary has left, back on his knees by Jax's side. "Jax-honey? Are you...okay? D'you need anything?" He fidgets for a moment, clearly wanting to hug Jax or more, but settling for resting a hand gently on his shoulder. It is the first contact he's had with the man that wasn't first aid related since he returned. "I love you." He looks like he might cry again, but blinks this off as Hive starts issuing orders. "Can you walk all that way already? It seems...fast. T'do." Even with his body restored to what has passed for wholeness, Jackson seems -- largely /exhausted/. Drained emotionally, drained physically, drained of /light/, in desperate need of sugar after too many hours without a functional /mouth/, he is rather unsteady as he pushes himself upright. His arm snakes around Micah; it seems as much for support as out of affection, though the small bonk of his head down against Micah's shoulder is definitely the latter. It doesn't last. He makes a concerted effort to /focus/ the cloudy shadows in his mind, gathering them into something resembling focus. "Where is he?" is the first thing he manages to say, a little scratchy-rough after hours of not talking. His mind forms a picture to accompany this inquiry, Vector's somewhat startled-looking face after he was taken from his cage. Beneath this there's a second inquiry surfacing, one with lean muscles and sharp fangs and huge (fuzzy) (soft) wings, and this rises with a guilty-sick regret and a twist of anger. But this one doesn't make it to words, either vocally or mentally. He shakes his head at Micah's question. "Need help walking," he agrees. "Did everyone make it? Back?" It's only now that he seems to actually register Micah's /words/, turning to look at him with his arm slowly squeezing tighter around Micah. << love you, >> rises hard and /fierce/ in his mind, but it stops, choked, in his throat without making it to his lips. "S'isn't done. Next days -- might be. Rough." << In your apartment, >> Hive answers immediately; even before the question is /finished/ he seems to know who Jax is asking about. << They'll come for him. >> There's no uncertainty in his mind about /this/. And then, with a grim sense of foreboding: << Joshua's roommate fixed you. >> When Jax bonks his head into him, Micah finally accepts that he is no longer entirely fragile, reaching up to pet the other man's head and then returning the hug--albeit with entirely less force than his tight hugs typically carry. << Who? >> Micah thinks, even with the image of Vector provided. The other image is easier. “Dusk was in the bus with the less-injured folks,” he answers...very likely the incorrect question. Even without the request being voiced, Micah fishes into his first aid bag for a bottle of glucose tablets intended to balance diabetic blood sugar and another small bottle of water. He opens both before offering them over to Jax. “We /should/ get goin', though, so the van can get t'the clinic with the other injured folks.” He eyes Hive. “Y'gotta get checked out at some point, too.” "Is Dusk home now?" There's an uncomfortable clench that accompanies this. Jax pushes himself slowly towards the edge of the truck, but stops to collect the water and glucose tablets from Micah gratefully. He shakes a pair of the tablets out into his palm, popping both into his mouth straightaway. "OK. Yeah. Let's --" He is slow getting to his feet, resting one fist on Hive's shoulder as he swings his legs to the floor. Takes a gulp of water with his other hand. << You hurt? >> His eye sweeps over Hive quickly. He swallows uncomfortably, acknowledging this last with a dip of his head. "I guess I'll have to be careful never to get on hir bad side." The glimmer of light around him darkens to shadow. "I met the man who tried to kill us in the sewers," he informs Micah, quieter, steadily. And to Hive: "He said he'd be calling me soon." Hive's shoulder curls up more tensely beneath Jax's hand. He waits only long enough for Jax to get on his feet, and then continues his slouching pace towards the apartment. << We're fine. >> Short and snippy and disgruntled, his injured arm curls slightly in towards his chest as though to hide it. << Got more fucking important things than a little nick. Need to have a plan before he calls you. >> There's a short silence. And then, terse: << What are you going to do to Dusk? >> It's not protective, or angry, or -- anything but frank. “Depends how quickly he got everyone off t'their various houses. When they're done deliverin' people, he'll be home,” Micah answers to the best of his ability. He follows along behind Jax, helping to steady him as he climbs out of the van. “The man who tried to kill us, kidnapped our friends, an' threatened your kids? Was also there.” His brows knit. “An' he's gonna /call/ you? Why? I think you're not allowed t'have a phone anymore. Between Osborn an' now this guy.” He shakes his head, snaking his arm under Jax's and around his back with full intention of assisting him in this fashion for the full walk home. "Yes. Was there. Shot me." This is all the answer Jackson gives, for a while. He loops his arm around Micah, leaning heavily against him. He's quiet for the walk home, largely out of a persistent woozy exhaustion that weighs his thoughts down; much of his focus is taken simply with /walking/. He's quiet all the way up to the apartment, stopping in the entryway only for a brief surveying look around the gathered refugees before heading to his room. << There's a man we freed today, >> he finally answers Micah, << who could possibly kill most all the world. The government's going to want him back. I have a feeling if we don't comply, they'll do everything they can to /take/ him back. >> His thoughts here are heavy. Sick, angry, guilty -- that above all, a twisting wrench of it that he tries unsuccessfully to fight back as he sinks down to sit on the bed. << What are you going to do to Dusk? >> Hive presses again. He hasn't seemed to be bothered by silence. He doesn't seem to notice the other people crowding the other rooms of the apartment. Just goes into Jax's room, and leans against the wall, still roping Micah into the silent thoughts Jax projects. << We're sorry, >> is softer, heavier, a rare genuine apology from him as his arms cross loose over his chest. << Lost consciousness. Couldn't follow through. >> There's a pause, before he adds (unapologetically this time): << You should have killed him. >> “That man...is every kind of On Notice possible. What is his creepy, crazy obsession with you? I don't get it.” Micah flips on all of the lights in the room, then makes a pile of pillows at the head of the bed, against the wall, in case Jax wants to lie down but still be propped up enough to look at people while he is talking. “Kill...most everybody? Is this that...bloodmonster again?” Micah still doesn't have the clearest picture of events. “Is Dusk okay? Why are things being done to him?” He frowns again at the unclear pronoun. “Which him did y'mean t'be killin'?” Micah settles on the bed next to Jax. "I don't get it, either." Jax's voice is quiet and still a little hoarse. He takes another sip from his water bottle. << Not the bloodmonster. Not any kind of monster. Just a man. Just -- just a man, and I ordered Dusk to leave him behind. >> He shrinks back against the pillows, steady mission-calm cracking beneath a sudden crippling rush of uncertainty, of guilt, of regret. His knees pull up towards his chest, fingers tight against the water bottle. He tips his head back against the wall. << He could have killed me. >> This time the pronoun is explicated more clearly, with a mental image of Malthus -- albeit Malthus darkly grey-skinned, pitch-black eyed, wisps of smokey darkness curling around him. "I'm going to talk to him." Jax's voice cracks slightly on this. It has its own mental clarification to accompany it; Dusk in his vest and boots and sturdy cargo pants in the concrete halls of Prometheus. But this image is rapidly displaced by another; the warmth of soft wing wrapped against him, the feel of Dusk's muscles as he nestles up against the other man's side. His eye scrunches shut. << Ain't none of you never just disobeyed me before. >> << We get it. >> Hive's head rotates slowly, blank eyes shifting to at least point in the general direction of the men on the bed. << Jax might be the most dangerous mutant alive. He wants to destroy that. >> His jaw tightens. His arms tighten. He gives for Micah a quick more complete explanation: << Man stores pathogens. Mutates them. Produces them. Has been exposed to some of the deadliest diseases known. Has the power to make them deadlier. And now -- >> A quiet mental image, of Vector tucked into a beanbag chair by the window, slowly perusing a newspaper and sipping at a glass of juice. << Now he's drinking cranberry juice in your living room. >> He adds, more softly a moment later: << His name is Andrew but he's called Vector, now. He was studying at Columbia. Doesn't really want to be a bioweapon. Wants to get home to his fiancee and his bearded dragon. >> And more softly still: << We're sorry. >> The explanation picks up again in a more direct tone than this gentleness: << Jax ordered us to leave him behind. Dusk didn't listen. Now he's here. The government is probably really going to want him back, before he starts an outbreak of something that'll kill everyone. Wouldn't be surprised if they kill all of us to get him back. We would. Malthus certainly would. >> “Damned near /did/ kill you,” Micah replies bitterly, in regards to Malthus. “An' talkin' it out with Dusk is definitely a better idea than...doin' things to 'im.” He wraps a reassuring arm around Jax's shoulders. “So if this guy is just...a guy. Maybe he's just as terrified of his powers as everyone else. For all we know, he /wants/ t'stay in containment t'avoid hurtin' anybody. Has anyone /asked/ him what he wants?” "Haven't really been in a position to talk t'anyone yet," Jax says quietly, leaning in to Micah's arm and lowering his water bottle to his lap. In contrast to his usual state his skin feels cool, hovering around or slightly below most regular human average. "Going to, though. But if what he wants is to stay out here --" His gaze lowers to his water bottle. << I can't talk to him right now, >> he admits softly. << I need to eat. I need -- >> There's a host of exhaustion that swamps his thoughts here, stress from the day's events, a lingering ache as he tries to replenish his drained stores of light this late at night, a hollow grief at the thought of Malthus with Nox-powers, at the news about Nox, a deep regret that his last encounter with her was one of anger. "Micah --" Now his arm snakes back around the other man, his head turning to press a small kiss to Micah's temple. << He is in us, >> Hive answers softly. << We don't need to ask. But you should talk. We are -- scared. >> The pronouns blend together here, a wash of identity-confusion when trying to switch between Vector and himself. << But rest, first. >> The connection to Jax's thoughts blurs, briefly, for Micah; there's still the sense of stress and grief and ache and tired but Hive dampens the details. << You all need rest. If Malthus said he would call you, they won't attack till after. You don't have to take /everything/ on yourself /all/ the time, Jax. You have a team for a reason. We'll handle things while you take care of yourself. >> “That’s why I said /anyone/ an’ not /you/, hon. You’ve had...other things t’deal with.” Micah’s fingers trace along Jax’s arm. “I could talk to ‘im. Ain’t like talkin’s complicated.” He gives the other man’s shoulders a gentle squeeze at the mental-request for food. “We have so many foods right now, it’s kind of ridiculous. There somethin’ specific you’re wantin’? I can grab somethin’ for you right quick. Maybe food an’ some sleep?” At that kiss, his other arm wraps around Jax, as well, in a loose hug. "Nobody else knew," Jax explains. "Me and Hive and Dusk, and Hive was also --" He frowns. "Are you okay? Your brain --" He closes his eye, resting his forehead briefly against the side of Micah's head. "It's okay, honey-honey. I'll get food in a bit. I just -- there's something I gotta tell you first. Just --" His hand lifts to twine his fingers through Micah's. "When I ran into Malthus down there -- the experiments they was doin'. When he attacked me, he -- had Nox's powers." << Nobody else knows, still. He didn't have contact with the other labrats. >> Hive's eyes shift away from Jax and Micah. << We'll get you food. You need anything, Micah? >> He's already leaving; presumably with the lingering mental touch he leaves behind he's still /listening/, though. Micah nods at the explanation. “It’s okay. We’ll get to it.” He looks over to Hive at the offer to fetch food. “I’m good. But thanks for grabbin’ somethin’ for him. More water or juice would be good, too, please.” His eyes track back to Jax’s hand in his own, though the additional information earns a look of confusion. “Had...her powers? What does that even mean? I didn’t think...that was a thing.” He chews at his lip. “Was Nox there?” "I didn't know it was a thing either. I ain't never seen anything like it. I don't know how they were --" Jax cuts off his beginnings of ramble, fingers gently squeezing at Micah's. He shakes his head, swallowing. "No. I'm sorry, honey-honey." Inside he bites down on his own heavy mess of feelings as to this, thoughts reorienting to just focus on Micah here. "He said -- she died 'fore we ever got there. Hive took stock'a everyone there. She -- we weren't in time. I'm so sorry." “I don’t...get it. Why would they take powers even if they could? Don’t they...they’re tryin’ t’kill all of you for havin’ abilities. Don’t make no sense t’ /get/ ‘em themselves. I mean, the conspiracy nuts are always accusin’ that you’re tryin’ t’breed out humanity or somethin’ like that, then…” Micah shakes his head, perplexed by the possible motivations. “He said,” he echoes. “Why would we believe them? They said she was dead before. What if they’re holdin’ her somewhere else an’ usin’ her for these ability...stealin’...experiments? They would sure lie about it t’keep y’all from lookin’ for her any more.” His expression is saddened that Nox was not found, but clearly not accepting of the reports of death. "Well -- I mean, s'always what they're tryin', ain't it? If they just wanted us dead they'd shoot us. These labs are /because/ they're tryin' to learn what we do. They don't want nobody havin' powers, they want folks they can control havin' 'em. Build better weapons. Build better soldiers." Jax shakes his head, quieting uncomfortably through Micah's denial. << If they were /lying/, >> Hive's voice cuts back in from elsewhere, bland and /blunt/ and inflectionless, << We would know. We're sorry. She's gone. >> There's something beneath these words, a soft ripple -- guilt? It stirs, uncomfortable, but then subsides before any true emotion manages to surface out of Hive's swirl of borrowed minds. "Because --" Jax starts to say quietly, but then Hive says it for him. "I'm sorry, Micah. He checked the minds'a the guards workin' there. She died a few weeks afore we --" He swallows, his arm tightening around his partner. "I'm sorry." “Oh. I thought...that they kept people just 'cause they wanted t'know how y'work. T'be able t'fight it better. Or somethin',” Micah adds weakly, still somewhat uncomprehending. “Oh.” The word is hollower when it comes this time, following Hive's explanation. “I guess...they couldn't. Lie t'Hive. Did he...? This Malthus, he...killed her stealin' her shadows?” There is an oversimplified sort of image in Micah's mind, of Nox in her shadow-woman form. Of her smile, when she formed it. Of her purr that was laughter. Of the velvet-soft touch of her, when she had substance. Of a man's hand ripping the shadow-dark-substance from her, leaving a pale corpse. His eyes squeeze closed as he leans into Jax. Another thought coaxes a very faint, strangled sound from his throat. “Someone has t'tell Anole. An' Lucien.” "Yes," Jax answers this simplified image with simplified answer. "Whatever process they used t'take her abilities wasn't survivable." His other arm joins the first, wrapping Micah close in a tight hug, one hand moving to the back of the other man's head. Stroking slowly at his hair. "Someone will. Not right this minute. I mean -- if gettin' up an' doin' things'll help you right now then do but it's okay to take whatever time you --" His fingers knead gently at the back of Micah's neck. And then he is just quiet, holding Micah close to himself. Micah's mind is suddenly a jumbled mess of desperately hauling Jax from a sewer grating, sitting on the couch with Shane and 'Bastian terrified and crying, fire and chaos destroying the church in Harlem, the manufactured image of Nox's substance being ripped away, Jax's face torn and shattered in the van. His breathing becomes panicky-rapid, some corner of his mind managing to worry that he might be sick, but not able to move to do anything about it. His fingers tangle into Jax's shirt as if this grip is required to keep him from falling. He presses his face into Jax's chest, damp splotches of hot tears warming the other man's strangely-cool skin. Jackson's hand strokes slowly against Micah's back. His breathing quiets, calming softly in contrast to the chaos in Micah's mind. He rests his cheek atop Micah's head, his grip tensing, not tight so much as firm, a steady-strong support to hold Micah up. His lips press to Micah's temple, soft and light, and his voice comes in a quiet murmur -- not any real conversation so much as just soft-soothing sounds against the older man's ear. Hive doesn't contribute anything, through this. He does return. Sets a bowl of stew and rice, a bar of chocolate, a tall glass of juice, on the nightstand. Silently moves a wastebin over near Jax's reach. Leaves again, as quiet as he came. After a few moments where he can manage nothing more than shaky sobs and broken breaths, Micah speaks into Jax's shirt. Almost too soft to hear, but firm. “He can't come here. That man. He is /evil/ an' he /cannot/ come here.” Jax doesn't release his hold on Micah, hand moving gently in soft circles at Micah's back. "No. I don't want him nowhere near our home. Our family --" The slow rocking of his hold is gradual, just cradling Micah against him. "I'm so sorry, love." Micah nods, accepting this as if Jax saying it will simply make it so. “Ohgosh, Lucien,” he says as he recalls this again, curling himself into Jax once more. But then, finally breathing steadily enough to smell the food, pries himself slowly away. “Oh...gosh, honey. Y'need t'eat an' rest an' /sleep/ an' I'm...” He shakes his head, reaching to grab a tissue from a box on the nightstand and mop at his face. “I'll be okay.” "Shh, shh, it's okay. It's okay, honey. I do need rest," Jax agrees quietly. "But /you/ need --" He shakes his head. "/Whatever/ you need from me you don't never got to feel bad for. This is all -- a lot. An' I /know/ you'll be here for me through it. I'll be here for you, too." He claims Micah's other hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss Micah's knuckles softly. "I love you. I love you so much." There is more nodding at this, as Micah reaches to the nightstand again, collecting the glass of juice. He steals a swallow from it before passing the glass to Jax. “I know, hon. I just...have been up here cookin' when the rest of you went an'...almost /died/ an'. Now I'm the one fallin' apart an' it ain't...” He sighs, his head sinking to rest on Jax's shoulder. “I love you.” "It ain't nothin'. You don't need to apologize for how y'feel. Especially not after news like that." Jax takes the juice, gulping down a large swallow and then picking up the actual bowl of food. "We should all get some rest." This thought goes more /strongly/ still to Hive. "An' tackle everything in the morning." Which by this hour is going to be on them all too soon. Micah bonks his head gently into Jax's shoulder again. “Ain't apologisin' for feelin'. Apologisin' for bein' a useless /mess/ when there's all kindsa people who need...everythin' an' who've done so much,” Micah corrects softly, though he manages a ghosting hint of a smile with the words. “Somebody should look at Hive's shoulder, too. An' if he's refusin' t'go to the clinic, I think that somebody is me.” He tilts his head up to place a light kiss below the hinge point of Jax's jaw. “No time for bein' a mess just now.” “Honey-honey, if there’s one thing I ain’t never see you be it’s useless.” Jax gives Micah another squeeze before withdrawing his arm so that he can hold the bowl with one hand and wield his spoon with the other. “But -- alright.” His smile is a little crooked, a little wry. He tips his head back to allow the kiss. “Work first. Then maybe mess.” “Work first for me. Food first for you. Then, maybe...really /short/ mess. And really long sleep?” Micah's voice and eyebrows both lilt upward, hopeful. He runs his fingers along Jax's back before standing, headed for the door in search of a first aid kit and a wayward injured telepath. “Really short mess,” Jax agrees, tipping his head up when Micah’s fingers run against him to press a kiss to the other man’s cheek. “Then rest.” And then it’s back to food for him, which he sets upon with a rather ravenous will.