ArchivedLogs:Not Helping

Not Helping
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah	2 July 2014 Prometheus TP
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Kitchens - Lower East Side
Gleaming and polished and new, the common house here boasts an enormous industrial-sized kitchen for preparing communal meals. Set up as two mirror-image fully equipped kitchens, both left and right halves of the room contain a trio of enormous ovens, each topped with twelve gas-powered stove burners. There is a wealth of cabinet and drawer space ringing the walls, and separate side-by-side fridge and freezer to each side of the space as well. Both halves of the room contain their own large central islands, black granite countertops providing a large expanse of space for food prep; beneath the center islands are stored a well-stocked supply of pans and pots and cutting boards and kitchen gear. The pantry is shared, a large walk-in room along the back wall, its shelves all carefully labelled and organized. The opposite wall has sinks, deep three-compartment ones for each side of the room. There are very clearly labeled signs in the kitchen, denoting the left half of the room strictly for preparation only of foods both vegan and Kosher; there are no restrictions on the foods prepared in the right half. Equipment from each side is color-coded and should be kept separate. Instructions request that any prepared foods served or stored in communal space keep /strict/ lists of the ingredients used for those with dietary concerns and that leftovers are marked clearly with dates before being stored. It’s quiet around the Commons, at the moment. The team left around noon and between their absence and the workday stealing most of the remaining residents off to their places of business, as the afternoon drones on there’s a /stillness/ in the muggy hot world outside. In here -- probably less still. Blissfully air conditioned and /probably/ somewhat bustling with cooking for an incoming flock of refugees. Hive, though, is being an entirely unhelpful lump off in a corner where he’s pulled his scooter as out of the way as it will get, over by the sinks. From here he’s mostly also been quiet. Sort of slumped in his seat, dressed in jeans and Grumpy Bear tee -- for a while he was making intermittent conversation but for the past half-hour or so, just -- quiet. An /uncomfortable/ sort of quiet, nonconversant but not really silent for the occasional sharp breaths and pained grunts, small twitches of motion and occasional rippling presses of mental energy that come from him. His eyes have glazed over, a familiar glassy vacancy to them, restlessly moving but /blank/ and unfocused on anything in the room. The Commons kitchens are being used to /capacity/ today. Yes, both of them. Micah reserved both kitchens to be able to prepare vegan/restricted diet over /there/ and everything else over /here/ and seems to have perfected the art of having a dozen different mass meals cooking at once. There are pots on a number of the burners in each kitchen and multiple casserole dishes in each oven. Notes on the doors warn that anybody coming into the kitchens may be conscripted into meal preparation service. Micah's T-shirt and jeans are mostly hidden behind a full-length apron with a dozen little pockets and hanging straps on it, all of which are /also/ in use holding utensils and potholders and timers and... The bustle is handy to help with not thinking too much about what is going on elsewhere, where Hive's mind is finding /cause/ for sharp breaths and grunts and twitches. The small twitches and grunts eventually taper off into just a soft unhappy rasp of breath that shivers off into a quiet hitch. The press of Hive’s mind up against Micah’s, today, is not thudding-heavy like it usually is. Just a quiet fluttering brush, hungry and grasping, fingers curling in against Micah’s mind in a steadily tightening grip. << (please) >> -- Not words so much as just a feeling, shaky and tightly knotted. And, actually verbalized: << They’re almost -- >> But then this breaks off. Hive’s hands clench down hard against the arms of his chair with a sudden mirroring clench of teeth. Micah's mind offers Hive's no resistance, none of the little mental nudges or such that would typically come with too hard a press or sharp a claw. Whatever he needs just now is freely offered. That pleading feeling tightens the muscles in his back, spine going too-straight and gaze finally lifting from the cutting board in front of him to regard Hive more closely. He leaves his knife, rubbing his hands against the apron before walking closer to the telepath. When he wraps a supporting arm around the other man it /likely/ comes with some crumbs. Maybe a little bit of chili sauce. << What's wrong? What d'you need? >> Hive doesn’t much notice the crumbs -- nor the chili sauce, just leaning into the arm Micah offers with muscles tensed and eyes closing. What answers Micah’s questions is, again, not words but feeling; a searing burning flash of pain, a wrench of nausea, a penetrating stab that puts a shudder in Hive’s bony frame. And mental images, soon to follow; Jim’s barky armor slowly melting away into just flesh, bloodied and riddled with bullet holes, Flicker inert and half-buried in rubble, not entirely visible though what /can/ be seen of him is /charred/ and -- missing quite a few /pieces/. His mind sinks deeper into Micah’s, absorbing the other man with surprisingly little pain. At least, surprisingly little pain in the actual transition -- /inside/ the hivemind there is, at the moment, a world of hurting. << (need them, ) >> finally comes back, strained and pleading, << (need them need them need --) >> It’s a ceaseless chorus tucked somewhere beneath a more determinedly analytical mind still, currently, focused less on /panic/ and more on getting the remainder of the team /out/. A ragged breath sucks in through Micah's clenched teeth, eyes pressed closed against the sudden, unexpected pain. The images passed on help the matter not at all. The fingers of Micah's supporting arm dig a little too hard into Hive's shoulder before he becomes aware of them and forces them back open. << Ohgosh... >> Waves of sick panic worry pour from his mind before he clamps down on those, as well. << I know. I know, honey, I know. What can I do? Who do we send where? Get Dusk in here, we'll need his /wings/ t'get hold of folks quick-like, more'n likely. >> << Do -- >> Through Hive's mind flits stressed imagery, Mirror shifting into Joshua, Spencer /appearing/ at inopportune moments in the old Geekhaus, Aloke becoming a beam of light. There's a moment of grasping for whatever assistance he can think of before he settles into something number, more detached. << Three hours, it's a three hour ride back, they can't. >> Then silence, fingers grasping mindlessly into Micah's shirt as a flurry of noise passes through the mental link. Jax's too-bright (too-pained, here; in what brief flashes can be seen of him he's also missing a significant amount of /face/, body armor a mangled ruin that hides whatever other damage there might be) mind still pushing orders across the network, ordering Ion to take over from Flicker on evac (and desperately hoping that the electrokinetic, severely injured himself and with powers weakening, doesn't just /die/ carrying some passenger through the wiring in the walls), rounding up the last shreds of their team to drag themselves back to the vans. Past him there is a jangling soup of pain and worry and fear and panic, confused labrats with misfiring abilities, injured teammates struggling to get out. Joshua's mind, somewhere in here, is nothing but grim as he works with Rachel. Arranging people in the vans by how badly they'll need care, already starting to evaluate how many he can help and how many will just need a lot of prayer. << Okay, transport, >> Micah summarises the first thoughts. << But not Spence, he don't got the control. S'more likely t'kill folks /faster/. >> His mind reels quickly through plans, eventually spilling them in word form in attempt to reassure Hive. << I'll call the school. Hank is usually quick to answer in case of emergencies. Have him grab everyone who teleports there that he can get...Aloke, Kurt. Think Kurt can't get /there/, but if someone else takes 'im he can get /back/. Have Hank an' Eloise ready t'help at the school. I can call Io an' give 'im an update of what to expect at the Clinic. An' Corey, see if he can help an' if he can get into contact with Kate. Does /anyone/ know how t'track down /Mirror/? I haven't seen hir since the /last/ raid. >> His brow rumples, lips pressing thin and white at the thoughts from Joshua. << Also maybe Karrie, if she's willin'. An' people who can handle her takin' energy from 'em, if they're willin'. >> << Whoever. Whoever you can find. Mirror -- has like six different phone numbers I know and possibly all are defunct by now. >> After a faint pause Hive agrees, << Maybe Karrie. >> His mental links are more muted, now, as he regains some semblance of calm -- it makes whatever exchange happens on the other side harder to hear. It's blaringly easy to pick up, though, the moment that calm shatters again, a fierce blaze of fury that lances out sharply in time with a clamping mental grip that, for a very brief instant, locks everyone in his control into a tense frozen state. << -- Don't you fucking dare, you goddamn well /fix him/ I swear to -- >> It's Jax's bright energy that cuts this off again; Hive is trembling against Micah as he settles back into his job. << Call them. Call everyone, just. They need. More. >> << Okay. Okay. On it. I'll get Dusk t'help...call. It's a lot of people t'track down. >> Micah's thoughts are already organising into mental checklists of priorities and how any delegation can happen...and...blank. His expression dulls to match, arm still wrapped tight around Hive's shoulders until that mental grasp releases. The arm wraps tighter for a moment, until Hive gets back to business. Then he finds the presence of mind to stir his pots, turn the heat /way/ down, remove one or two from heat entirely. Starting fires wouldn’t help the situation any. Then his phone appears from his pocket for /furious/ speed texting. There is a faint mental tug that grows into a shuddering pull as Hive's mind breaks free of Micah's, leaving a sudden quiet in its wake. << They're leaving -- maybe. Maybe trying to. To find a hospital. >> In Hive's mind this idea is heavily colored with images of cops, of Prometheus guards coming to reclaim the team, lock them all back up again. << Joshua's not even fucking /trying/ -- >> His fingers tighten against his armrests again. << -- but Jax might try -- >> Here his mind locks down again tightly, less faltering and more biting off the end of this sentence. << No hospitals for gunshot wounds! They'll call the cops immediately, >> Micah informs, head shaking. << We're gettin'...teleporters. Get the ones out as can't make it through the drive. Healers. >> His head shakes again at Hive saying Joshua isn't trying. << He's one man. Too many hurt too bad. Teleporters an' healers. An' Karrie. We'll do /something/. >> His thumbs continue to trace rapid-fire patterns across the phone's screen. << Jax is doin' what? Y'can't.../do/ that. Don't start sayin' an' stop sayin'. I only got so much brain t'/split/ an' that's too wide a door of frettin'. >> << Yeah, but we're going to be driving home with a van full of corpses if they don't -- >> Hive's mental voice is back to quiet, a soft toneless murmur in Micah's mind. << Okay. No splitting your -- brain, I'll just -- >> And he falls back into silence; evidently his answer to half-finished sentences is no more sentences at all. << /Not/ helpin'. Y'still...started sayin' an' never finished. >> This ends in a small, frustrated growl as Micah continues to dedicate the better part of his concentration to lining up help. << Mirror's numbers are all disconnected. I /e-mailed/, but goodness knows how long /that'll/ take. Got Hank. He's lookin' for Eloise an' Karrie. Can't reach Aloke. Kurt can go but he's not long-range like... They'll send the jet. An’ Hank an’ Kurt. It'll be faster. Kate an' Corey both want to help wherever they can. If that changes the landscape where they're willin' t'throw more resources at Flicker'n the others in the immediate-bad shape, /please/ let 'em know. >>