ArchivedLogs:Trading Lives

Trading Lives
Dramatis Personae Hive, Julie	2015-11-23 "Life is pain, new friend." (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Commonhaus - Lower East Side
Accessible to all residents of the Commons via electronic keycard, this three-story building holds a number of facilities freely available for the shared use of all Commons residents. The stone-floored foyer is high ceilinged -- balconies on the two upper floors look down into this entrance, leaving just the wide skylit ceiling three stories up to trickle light down through the whole of the house. Through wide wood-and-glass doors the spacious dining area is visible on the left; on the right, heavier doors beside the elevator lead to the similarly large kitchens. There are four single-user toilets on this floor, two apiece by the foyer and the dining room. Though a wide staircase runs all the way up, there is also an elevator tucked to one side. For the adventurous, though, there's another way up through the house -- through the center of the house where the balconies look down, an enormous climbing structure has been erected, solid wood platforms softened with carpeting, held together with strong spiderwebbed steel cables. Interlaced in an intricate maze that spirals up through the whole of the house and down to the basement, it provides a crazily winding path to duck and wriggle and worm through, with exits -- if you can /find/ them -- dispensed out onto each upper balcony and into the basement below. Julie is nothing if not... proactive. Though it would be hard to tell for the average person, a night to sleep on an actual bed... some cooked food... even a chance to wash the stink of trashpiles and outdoors off! It's done wonders for her attitude and focus. And indeed, the keen hum of her brain reveals a greater truth: To outsiders, she may look hyperactive. The truth? Her thoughts are keenly disciplined alright. They just move and process as fast as the rest of her. She zips from thing-to-thing because she has finished the thought. Still, underneath the whole thing is the soft, warm pulse of addiction. There's also a usual patina of irritation and impatience. Bizarrely, in a zombie apocalypse, with the nearly infinite variety of tasks that need accomplishing, she has for once found herself with enough things to do to keep her busy. Bonus? So far, she's felt pretty free to do things at her own speed instead of toning it down for 'flatscans'. So it is that Julie, vibrating and buzzing along, has begun to make her way through whatever tasks she can accomplish. Right now, her current preoccupation seems to be checking all the exits for dents and cleaning the place. Thoroughly. Not that it's dirty per say. With that soldier's obsession with cleanliness, though, things that are already clean MAY be getting a good rubdown anyway. She's even singing (albeit it in spanish),"Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores, porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo los corazones." It might or might not be lovely. It sounds sped-up, chipmunks style, and the words run together a bit. Though there's not, at first, much evidence of anyone else /in/ the space, someone joins in with the singing soon after. Not aloud, though; it's odd mental notes that don't really come from any direction at all, sounding in a strange chorus of many-voices-together that seem to sing in unison: << Pajaro que abandona, cielito lindo, su primer nido. >> Soft and low, murmuring together through Julie's mind. It's followed by a statement, spoken rather than sung though this, too, comes in the odd jangle of many-voices-speaking-as-one: << Do you like cleaning? >> The the babbling brook of thoughts that is Julie's brain slowly turns after a while. Why? Well, perhaps she doesn't quite recognize that the voice isn't coming from inside her. Still, rather than upset as some might be, her manner relaxes. Why? The thoughs move at a normal speed. It's relaxing, even if it is slow. In part because unlike normal conversation, there's no struggle to understand the words like with a more verbal method. Still, when she looks up from scrubbing, her expression is surprised. She recovers quickly enough. Straightening, she speaks out loud, having not yet seen anyone. "{Oh, hi. Yes. Well. No. Not exactly?}" As ever, her words verbally run together, but her intent is clear enough in her mind. "{Less enjoy. More... relaxing. There's a discipline and purposefulness to it that calms me. Sometimes, if I do enough of it, I sleep at night. I don't think about it as much.}" The 'it' is pretty obvious, telepathically. That same, soft warm pulse of addiction in the back of her mind. Always there. Methamphetamines. It also has an almost totemic status in her mind. Meth represents power. Even if it no longer works that way. << Sleep at night. >> This echo comes with a quiet thoughtfulness to it, turning this concept over with a sense of poking at it. Strange. Unfamiliar. << Win-win, I guess. You relax, our home gets shiny-bright. >> There's a vague hint of amusement in these words, suggested more than overt. Not so much laughter as the idea of laughter. << Should've invited you over sooner. Our usual compulsive stress cleaners have been. A little under the weather. >> "{I don't... normally sleep very much. Except when I get over-excited.}" A different addiction pulses hard and insistent in the back of her brain. Adrenaline. The feeling of god-like power that follows it. With, by now, familiar-discipline, she gently pushes the urge to go seek out something... exciting down. It's a methodical, almost practiced mental process. But with it comes a new surge of frustration. Domestic life doesn't suit her. "{In the military, when there was nothing else to do, you could always clean, especially in boot camp. I had more clarity in those days. When I can't put it off anymore-}" Again, she doesn't clarify what IT is. That call to adrenaline and excitement is obvious. "{-I'll go out, and make a supply run. What are we low on here?}" Make no mistake. It's less bravery, being willing to go out among the zombies, and more a need to feed that addiction. Supplies just make useful justification. "{Have we met? I'm Juliette.}" << Sleep, >> comes the wry answer to what they're low on; this time the chorus of voices is less unified, a dissonance to the way they scrape over each other. << Have we met? >> A long pause, after this. << You came for dinner. Last night. You met many of us. >> Though there's an uncertainty, here. << There are other things to do than chores. No end of biters, outside. >> "{There's no end of things to do, either. Besides. The brother and sister. Shane. B. They suggested food was low. And as much as I eat, I figured you need that more.}" A moment of genuine embarassment. "{I don't recognize you without a face, I'm afraid. I don't mind going outside to clear some... biters though if you think that's more necessary right now. How's your distance? Can you keep me company while I do it?}" A sudden lack of confidence in her thoughts. There's a faint shifting sound from somewhere high up. A thump of booted footsteps, a rustle of fabric. A rangy thin man is hoisting himself out of one of the tunnels of the climbing maze, knobbly fingers curling around the balcony railing one floor up to pull himself up to a standing position and lean against the rail. He's /not/ familiar, in fact; though there were a number of faces present at dinnertime last night, cooking, eating, cleaning up, he was definitely not among them. Nondescript, really, in plain black denim shirt unbuttoned over a white undershirt, blue jeans a size or so too big for him, shaggy mop of black hair hanging in a mop around his thin face. His arms cross over the railing as he looks downward. "Fucking quarantine. No matter how they try food's always low." Aloud, his voice is gruff, smoker's hoarse; it carries a hint of accent that is clearly Not From New York though too mangled and muddled to distinctly place /where/ it is from. << We are everywhere. You can have company. >> These words come -- almost in time with his spoken ones. There's a heavy mental /pressure/ squeezing up against Julie's mind. The woman looks up as the man rises to this feet. It's a soft, prolonged clicking sound as the woman makes her way up to where the man stands. She's finally got someone she can physically FACE while talking and that's /nice/. She is soon standing there next to him. Her face blurs as she tilts her head this way and that, taking in the man. "{Careful with the english, my friend. You people seem to be a lot more kind and forgiving than the world outside, but...}" The woman shrugs. "{There a place I can borrow a crowbar? My hands get sore punching the biters and the leverage really helps get that 'oomph'. By the way, that's kind of... uncomfortable, whatever you're doing. Is there anyway you could... stop... pushing so hard? If not, I'll just... deal with it.}" Julie is already pulling some fingerless gloves out of her pockets. This is followed by a balaclava and a pair of ski goggles. They're battered, but she's already starting to stretch, causing more of those blurs as she limbers up. "You're not sick." Hive says this with a simple confidence, one shoulder lifting. "/I'm/ not sick. Our words -- aren't. Sick." His eyes slide closed, his head lowering to rest his chin on his folded forearms. His head turns to the side, eyes opening again with a slightly furrowed brow as he looks at Julie. "... You're up here, now." He looks from her back down one floor to where she /had/ just been. His eyes close again. "Basement. Has storage. Tools there. Weapons." The touch of his mind to hers now comes with a flicker of mental mapping, highlighting the way down to the storage room. "You wanted company." He sounds /puzzled/ at her request not to push so hard. For a moment the squeezing gets /worse/, hard mental fingers digging in a firm clench against Julie's mind. But then it eases, all at once -- replaced instead by a brief disorientation, a jangle of voices, thoughts, feelings, rushing into her mind. Usually, perceiving things fast allows her to deal with all manner of input. This, however, is a bit beyond her. "{I'm fast. Very fast. So. We can talk with each other... no infection. That's how it works?}" Like so many people, she doesn't really GET it. "{You're not sick with the plague. You're in... pain, though? I...}" For a moment, she considers it. Offering to get the man one of the many drugs she knows helps with pain. With somnolence. Her drug of choice. And just as quickly, her mind dismisses it. She shouldn't be near the stuff. Certainly shouldn't be exposing others to it. Either way, at least the authority in Hive's words reassures her. Though in her mind, the words are so painfully stretched out. So slow. Even as her own continue to run together. So Julie says,"{What do I call you?}" And then she's gone. At least, to physical sight. A soft rush of air, and she's mentally inventorying the basement for something likely-looking a few seconds later. Looking for something sturdy. Long-hafted. It is at this point that the rush staggers her, even as her hands close on a likely object, her mind suddenly enaged in desperately trying to process the rush of information. Perhaps... bizarrely, it's a little seductive. She's been lonely for a while. THIS though? This is the furthest thing from being ALONE. Easy to get lost in, even. "You can't get sick from a healthy person. Of course..." Hive's brows crease deeper. "It isn't always clear who's sick and who isn't, is it? Not until they're trying to eat your face." The small shake of his head displaces some of his unruly mop of hair, tumbling it down over his eyes; he doesn't bother trying to straighten it again. "But you're not sick. And I'm not sick." His shoulders shake, briefly. A small breath of laughter, quiet, quick. "The /city/ is sick. Everyone's in pain. Every -- every person. New York" << is screaming. >> His words shift smoothly from audible to mental as Julie vanishes from sight, no real pause in the transition. Only this time it isn't that strange jangling chorus of voices -- just his, quiet, speaking in her mind. Or is that her thoughts, finishing his sentence? For a moment it's hard to tell, the thought as seamless as if it /had/ been her own. The rush of other-minds in hers quiets down -- but doesn't really /vanish/, a soft background murmur mixing together into mental white-noise of which it is only possible to catch a fragment here and there. The taste of soda on someone else's tongue. Quick snatches of an argument in Mandarin (that is oddly intelligible for the brief moment it can be felt.) The sharp sting of wind against her cheek. A stab of fear as a window shatters. The sound of rattling moans. A wrench of pain as teeth sink into an arm. There-and-gone -- ignorable, really, muted in the back of her mind if she /wants/ to ignore them but clear enough if she's paying attention. << Hive. >> Though his voice is speaking again -- isn't it? -- for a moment this name feels familiar, almost as though she could be introducing herself. Clarification comes shortly. << (I'm/we're) called Hive. >> It's not entirely clear what pronoun he /actually/ used. A sense of /self/, certainly, that much was unmistakeable. Thankfully, none of this communication feels... awful. Feels... painful like most does. The intent can't be mistaken, even if the speeds are mismatched. She doesn't entirely tune out the minds, but neither is she listening so closely. The constant background hum brings a sense of comfort to her. "{Nice to meet you Hive.}" Of course, it's not the same as being 'Hived', but moving and thinking as part of a unit... She misses that. Of being a part of a greater whole. "{I don't need to get sick. On top of everything else. I've seen them get aggro. That would be... bad. Either way, life is pain, new friend. The best we can do is bear what we can, and help ease the cares and suffering of those who CAN'T bear it, and hope somewhere that the balance sheet evens out.}" There's a building sense of excitement as she rises to her feet. It's a very large crowbar indeed, and her body is tingling with anticipation of what's to come as she heads for the exit. "{Hive. Appropriate. I -wait. What was that last one. The pain. The teeth. Can you show me where?}" Not quite enough to get her adrenaline going right now. But... She's no superheroine, but when you briefly share thoughts and sensations with someone, it's harder to ignore that they may be dying. She has to pause to shut things behind her as she steps outdoors, and then she's also moving to put in earplugs. She has no idea if she can block infection by not HEARING things, but she's not willing to let chance swearing infect her. << And what does (your/our) balance sheet look like, then? >> Somewhat muddled on the pronouns, yet again. You-me-us. Her. Hive's eyes shift to track Julie's rapid motion towards the door. << A lot of suffering, lately. A lot of chance to help. >> The mess of noise in the back of Julie's mind shifts, clarifies into that one sharp feeling. For a moment it feels like /Julie's/ arm, like blood dripping down her skin from fresh wounds, like panic rising in her mind as she tries to scramble up a dumpster away from grabbing hands. Perspective shifts back momentarily, though, returning her more solidly to her own thoughts -- though this time with a sense of orientation. An alley several blocks away, a teenage boy trying to get back to his siblings, his way out cut off by a number of dead. His surroundings, the buildings, the streets around him, the path he took to get there, these things now are clear in /her/ mind. It's perfect. She finds herself thinking she wishes she had this kind of recon when she was overseas. Memories of bullets firing. A sharp pain when something digs a spoonful of flesh out of her shoulder. The terror of gunfire raining down around her. The exhilaration of being alive when so many have failed to do so... It gets her blood pumping a litle. Just a little. She doesn't even need the boost to get a few blocks in such a short time... Even so, the anticipation of violence combined with the clear, first-hand knowledge of how to get there makes GETTING there the work of a moment. A few seconds, no more, and then that crowbar is flailing. As the first tendrils of adrenaline hit her, there's that god-like feeling. The sense of invincibility as things begin to slow around her. Not quite crawling buy, just yet. But second by second, the world begins to slow around her. And her limbs... She can barely feel the road beneath her, so light do they feel. Her arms feel strong and sure. Watching these normally slow, shambling creatures... It seems laughable to her to be threatened by them at all. Laughter bubbles up from her throat as the crowbar goes up and comes down agin and again on dead skulls. They don't so much cave in as nearly detonated, showering her with blood and gore. Every movement is exhilarating. Movement feels GOOD. "{My balance sheet? All I've ever done is trade Iraqi lives for American ones. What do you think? Maybe New York is my chance to tilt it in my favor. Do you feel it? Hah! HAH!}" The number of dead surrounding the boy? It's unlikely to hold up very long against such an assault, at least for the moment. Still, it's a hell of a thing for a teenager to see. << We feel -- >> This thought does not finish, trailing off into -- not quite nothingness, really. Instead it's a thoughtful buzz of feelings, a sensation of grief, loss. Sensation/s/ of grief, really: not a nebulous concept but many many many people's discordant different feelings jangling up against each other. << -- uncertain. How to weigh the value of a life. If you figure it out, let us know. >> This last sounds just a little bit wry. << If you can make it here you'll make it -- anywhere. >> A faint trace of melody hums along under these words. << Maybe this is your chance. One person's apocalypse is another's redemption. Mad Max taught me that. >> The boy on the dumpster has pressed back against the wall -- his sense of panic has not really /lessened/ at the shower of gore, just been joined by a twist of nausea. Uncertainty if he's supposed to be getting /down/ now or not. The woman is really just gearing up now at this point. Dead, discarded corpses, she stops just briefly enough to point down at the ground and then down the street with the crowbar. One word. English. "Go." It's practically a croak in her jittery voice. Barely understandable even this deep in the adrenaline soup, but JUST enough. Then the woman is practically demanding,"{Then help me help them. Give me more.}" Lest she waste this feeling, she's already beginning to circle the commons in a wide arch around the streets, stopping to slay random zombies and small groups of them. Her heart practically exults. "{It's a siege. The enemy's everywhere. But I can tell you how you weigh the value of a human life. Each time, you ask yourself, is it worth more to the world for you to leave them alone, to take theirs, or to risk yours. You like movies. Here's one. It's not your job to die for your country, it's your job to make them die for their country. It all feels so much clearer the first time you cower behind a wall and think, I don't want to die.}" Of course, high on her own super-charged adrenaline right now, she is perhaps not currently possessed of the best sense of morality. Now the world practically seems to stand still. And underneath all that is the bubbling paranoia. Shadows and movement clawing at the edge of her vision. Even when there is nothing there. The boy is frozen a moment longer, but at the croak from Julie he doesn't even pause to nod. He scrambles down off the bloodied dumpster, squishing his way through the gore to half-stumble, half-run out of the alley. << More. >> Another mental shift: an townhouse half a mile away. Thumping coming where a door is shuddering and threatening to cave in, an elderly couple holed up terrified in their bathroom as their erstwhile neighbors chomp and pound their way in. And halfway down their block, a group of five biters cornering a man at a bus shelter, his arm bleeding and the weapon he'd /been/ holding out of reach under a nearby car. << Does it? >> Hive's voice is soft and thoughtful. << I don't know what's clear. You can risk and risk and risk -- I don't think the world ever cares. But you -- >> The rattle of the hungry zombies rises in Julie's mind. << Sometimes you'll just have to care enough for all of them. >> "{It's people, Hive. We're contradictory. I never felt like any of the people I killed were cheap and worthless. I just felt mine, in that moment, was worth more to me. And I would still have given it for my people. Now they're gone. I have no unit to sacrifice for. Or is everyone my unit? I have to survive since there's nothing worth giving my life for. But here I am, with you, saving these people. I don't even know if they're worth it. Contradictions.}" She's already running. When you're traveling 100+ miles an hour, a half a mile takes roughly ten seconds. Her body is cold now, slick with blood as she sprays herself and her clothes with yet more gore. The faster she moves, the worse the shape the bodies end up in. Her last strike as she winds up the undead outside the couple's bathroom requires a foot on the last zombie's back as she drags the crowbar out of the creature's body cavity. Apparently it went down THROUGH the head. Three sharp knocks on the door, and she's off again. "{Care enough for all of them. Sometimes, some people... can't stop giving, even when it's... bleeding them out. You would've made a good marine.}" Her heartbeat pounds like thunder in her ears, the air burning and ripping at her skin, reddening it slightly. Muscles writhe beneath her flesh, over-wrought with energy and the changes they have to make to adept with the dangerous compounds flooding her. It's a twitchy feeling, like worms under the skin. The first real trouble comes when she tries to stop too soon at the bus stop, her feet slick with blood. She slams into a zombie's legs as she trips to her back. At the speeds she's going, she breaks the zombie's legs even as she drags it with her across the ground. She slams into a wall, stunning her for a moment. For her, moments may not be long, but even a second is dangerous with a zombie, immune to pain or superficial injury atop her. Her crowbar is away, and a brief surge of panic, the survival urge grips her as she tries to clear her stunned head. She's got TEETH latch onto her arm. It's not gotten through her leathery skin, but it HURTS. She punches it twice. Once on the arm, wild, causing the snap of bone. Then again in the head. Again the crack of bone as her fist sinks a little too far in. She shoves it off of her, and then is on the other four. There's a sharp sting every time she punches one of them, but she ends up no less covered in gore. By now, her heartbeat sounds like CANONS going off in her ears as she retrieves the weapon for the man. Just a handful of minutes in, and the world is beginning to seem so distant. "{It's the starfish story all over again. It means something to this one. I've got two minutes. Maybe three before I should think about coming back. You've been saving people from themselves for a while, haven't you?}" << Is it a contradiction, to care for your own? >> The soft buzz of thoughts in Julie's mind swells slightly louder. << We are not made to be alone. >> A whisper of amusement curls through Hive's thoughts at the mention of people who can't stop giving. Making a good marine. Aside from the amusement, though, there's just a long quiet. Then: << We could tell you. If they're worth it. Tell you their lives, at least. The good they've done. The bad. But does it matter? I think the point -- I think the point -- I think the point -- >> But here, another silence. A small mental shudder at the biting. The pound of heartbeat in Julie's ears. Hive's own pulse, his own breathing, is calm and steady -- /he's/ focusing on these things, one breath and then another, and across the distance that separates them she can feel this. Slow and deep and even. << How much can you give in two minutes? >> This, rather than an answer. A scattered series of mental impressions have popped up in her mind, a number of others in the vicinity also in need of aid. It's a delicate balance there. She can feel the pain. As if from behind a wall. The dull throbbing. Skin wasn't broken, but muscle, blood vessels? They've been compressed. It hurts. The adrenaline makes it feel almost second hand as more and more of it floods her body. It's toxic substance, her adrenaline. One her body is uniquely adapted to. But still toxic. "{We're not made to be alone. That's how I have to be. I've found... safe harbor at the end of the world-}" Distant amusement at the pun, but secondary to the train of thought. "{-but if the world doesn't end, that's what I'll be back to. They threw me out, and now they're looking for me again? There's no safety there, whatever they want. I'm... okay with that. In a foxhole, anyone not shooting at you is your brother.}" Somehow, Hive's focus on breathing directs her in focusing. She doesn't slip again. Each picture in her mind gets is the beneficiary of greater and greater speed. The crowbar bends and warps someonewhere around one minute in with a screech of metal. Zombie heads get slammed into walls. Kicks pulp brains still in their skulls. One even ends up spiked on a broken parking meter. She never stops to SPEAK to the people she saves. She'd be incomprehensible now, anyway, her voice a high-pitched yammer. She doesn't really answer the man, at least not then, on the answer of how much she can give. Instead, she keeps going, until she begins to feel that first creeping tendril of quaveriness. The adrenaline could keep her going a while longer. But there's a price for everything. She's out there using energy, putting her muscles and bones through hell. Burning through calories. It's biology, not magic. Person after person is given little more than a blur to explain the sudden lack of threatening biters. Still, even at the speeds she moves at, there's so much city and only one of her. Two and a half minutes later, there's a loud slamming sound as as entrances are opened and locked down in the blink of an eye... She stumbles in, covered in gore, hair caked and filthy with it. The goggles and balaclava make sense, given that. She's barely upright though. The sudden drop of adrenaline from her system leaves her as it might any other person, but intensely so. Sudden deep despair and depression, and the kind of bone-aching weariness that signals a struggle to stay upright rather than collapse married to a certain determination NOT to collapse until she is in her room away from eyes that can see it. This, as she claws her way upstairs and into her assigned room is when Hive gets an answer from her, to his question. Just before she slips into sweet, mindless oblivion. "{With your help, everything. I can give everything.}"