ArchivedLogs:Whole Lotta Nothing

Whole Lotta Nothing
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Murphy	2013-05-22 Melinda and Murphy wait during mutant fight club rescue.
Location <NYC> Chinatown
It is a local no-name brand moving van of the variety typically used for moving... furniture. Except instead of conscripting friends with the promise of pizza and beer there is, instead, the promise of getting /other/ friends out of cages. Oh my. The back of the van is sort of furniture-laden. The floor is padded with a hodgepodge of old mats and mattresses left over from keeping the Prometheus refugees, in hopes of making things a shade more comfortable for the... fight club refugees. Oh. Among the various drivers is Melinda Chylds; sitting behind the wheel, she is no doubt waiting for the signal to go. /Not/ among those various drivers is one Murphy Law - he has, in fact, been scarcely more than a ghost on the ‘field of battle’. Not even on the Borgnet. Apparently, the incessant buzzing would have just been a distraction -- that, and something about him and Claire not being allowed to exist in the same room, nevermind in the same goddamn fucking /thoughtspace/. So maybe it might surprise Melinda when the van door suddenly opens -- and -- WHUMP -- she gets +1 Murphy. Black coat, dress-slacks, white shirt, cane. Unlit cigarette between his mouth. Scowl. Just, bamf. No one probably even /told/ her that Murphy would be here; and yet, here he is. Staring out the windshield. First thing he says: “Fuckin’ /Chinatown/.” Melinda is sitting in the driver's seat practically white knuckling the steering wheel ever since she drove up here and backed the van in for maximum loading ease. She keeps a vigilant watch out the windows and down the side view mirrors to make sure she's ready when someone gives her the signal to go. When Murphy pops in and whumps down on the seat beside her, she jumps a little and stares at him, then shake her head and lets out a sigh. "You lot are always cursing this place. I am beginning to see why." She releases her hold on the steering wheel, only one hand at a time, trying to force the digits on her hands to relax. "How's it going out there. Are we moving out?" “In a little bit,” Murphy responds, kind of with a low, heavy /whuff/. More like an exhalation than a statement. “Jim’s alive. So are the twins.” He pats himself down for his Marine Corps lighter; *FLNKT, FLNKT*. “You mind?” He’s half-way through lighting up /already/ before he asks. “Jim’s, mmm. Situation’s complicated.” Melinda glances at him periodically, up until the point that he brings up Jim. Then her gaze is locked forward, staring at the escape route, chin tucking in low for a few minutes, as if preparing to swallow hard or stare someone down, but never quite getting there. "Go ahead." The words are quiet, perhaps a little hollow, not expressly clear as to whether she's allowing him to smoke or to encourage him to talk more about Jim's situation. Eventually, when there is continued silence, she turns to stare at him, expression deadpan. "Complicated?" “He’s gone back to his roots.” *FWPT* -- there goes the cigarette, now. Briefly casting Murphy in that orange glow. He cracks open a window, then starts puffing, angling the cigarette to let the majority of the smoke creep its way out the exit. “Gone all fuckin’... woody on us. S’gonna be a hell of a job, pulling him back. Think they’re gonna plant him somewhere, let him soak up some sunshine and soil, get himself up and running. Then... mmph. Slow steps. Might be leafy for a bit.” Melinda doesn't seem to mind the smoke that does start to collect in the cab, glancing around briefly for a 'no smoking' sign. The place they rent from doesn't seem reputable enough to care. "But he's alive... and will recover?" She pauses and considers, then states, "Physically?" She turns her eyes back to the side view mirrors, looking for the signal to go again, hands gripping and curling against the wheel so hard the friction causes a small squeak. “Think so. Don’t know so. Depends --” Murphy says, leaning his head back to peer at the ceiling, “-- on how his power works. They got some folks, can pull some nifty tricks, I think. If he can’t do it himself, maybe one of them can pull him back together. He’ll live, at least. Pretty sure of that.” Smoke plumes swell out of his nostrils, sweeping with long tendrils - down, up, past his ears. He turns to blow a thick cloud of it out the window. Doesn’t seem to be paying attention to the way Melinda’s hands are gripping that steering wheel. "Okay." Melinda replies quietly, but as the cab of the moving van isn't that loud, it's easily to make out. She moistens her lips and exhales. "I... appreciate the information. Is it... bad out there? I mean, I'm kind of waiting for someone to start shooting or blowing the place up. I know Hive has this under control, but that doesn't always placate the nerves. Probably need them anyway. We're supposed to be transporting people who don't need immediate attention, but have you seen the back? Is it - are there people bleeding out back there?" “They ported the ones that were really rough out,” Murphy says, plucking his cigarette out of his mouth - tap-tap-tapping it against the window’s edge, letting ashes settle down outside. “Dunno how many. The rest, loadin’ ‘em up in the trucks, driving out. By the looks of it, it’s going down like - just a friggin’ funeral procession. The nutcracker just walked all the guards out. All neat and tidy, like. Quietest fuckin’ raid /I’ve/ ever seen.” Murphy brings the cigarette back to his mouth, eyebrows pinching together. “Still wonderin’ about the /after/, really. Th’fuck is this gonna go down as. Probably a whole lotta /nothing/.” "It'll be a shitty pain in the ass, because what can you do? Have a bunch of survivors sue the city? That'll be the weirdest day in court. We're going to be lucky if this doesn't start some sort of street war against cops." Melinda's jaw is tight, loosening when it needs to, but a lot of her words are muted by her tension. "What are you going to do? Look into this, get a bunch of names from Hive and figure out how high it goes and then … what?" “No evidence,” Murphy responds, before correcting himself: “Maybe Claire’ll dig something up. Doubt it. Even if she did, fuck if anybody’ll listen. Nope, all that’s gonna come out of this is a whole lotta nothin’.” Puff, puff. At Melinda’s question, Murphy thinks for a moment - unusually, he /doesn’t/ seem tense. Hell, this is probably his element. He looks up toward the ceiling of the van, and then: “Kill ‘em.” Kind of... boredly. "Oh." That kills Melinda's desire to speak. There's no recrimination, no moral fiber speaking up to protest this notion, just the hollow acceptance of, 'oh. this is where we're at.' "Can I bum one?" Murphy reaches into his coat, fishing. A pack of cigarettes are produced; a no-name generic brand. Pretty much the cheapest smokes you can find. He holds out a fresh one for Melinda’s fingers, not looking at her -- just quiet-peering at the ceiling. Like he’s trying to seek out patterns through the smoke that curls over it. “It’ll be real quiet like,” Murphy tells her. “Nothin’ fancy. Hell, this right here? Probably be the only time you hear about it,” he adds. “Might take a couple of years to pull it off right -- can’t make ‘em /nervous/, see. Gotta make it look like -- just a whole lotta bad luck. Just a whole lotta /nothin’/,” he repeats, glaring at that smoke. As if whatever patterns he’s finding don’t quite please him. "Please, I don't need to know more. I'm not involved. I'm not going to be involved as I can't do anything. You don't want to put details out there that will make them nervous, so..." Melinda takes the cigarette and perches it between her lips, holding a hand out for the lighter. Finally, she adds, "I'm not one of the ones who need justice." And there it is. It's justice. She's just not involved. Murphy /snorts/. It’s a sharp, harsh sound. It comes pretty much at the exact moment Melinda says the word ‘justice’. “Justice? Fuck justice,” Murphy responds, reaching into his coat, pulling out his lighter -- offering it to Melinda. Brass, with a Marine Corps logo. “I’m not talkin’ about justice. I’m talkin’ about /vengeance/, lady. Justice is,” and here Murphy just kind of lazily /throws/ a hand out toward the windshield, toward the warehouse, “not bleeding in some fuckin’ cage while a rich fuckface laughs and fetches himself another piss-warm beer. Justice is /expensive/. But that rich fuckface? He can afford it. The poor fucks in the cages -- /they/ can’t. All they can afford is vengeance. S’cold and tastes like shit, but that’s just how it is. So, drink up, you poor fucks. Next round’s on us.” Murphy’s scowl intensifies. Glaring at the windshield. “Fuck,” he says, “I’m fuckin’ ranting, aren’t I. /Fuck/.” Melinda breathes out as she takes the lighter from Murphy's hand, flicks it open and lights her cigarette in several rooky puffs. When lit, she returns the lighter and takes a better draw, rolling down her window. "Justice... is just what polite people call revenge when it seems the only legitimate course of action to punish and ensure that it doesn't happen again. When the hate and pain is supposedly removed." She has relaxed her grip on the steering wheel by necessity in the process of lighting her cigarette. When she has a hand free, she rests it on the wheel and does her best to keep it still. Not tense. "I'm sorry. Ranting is ... fuck, it should be encouraged. I'm the one who is... I don't know if I should say 'wrong' but it's definitely too soon. I... I am sorry." Still sorting out her thoughts, still trying to grasp this entire situation, Melinda is quiet and wound up, dragging quickly and heavily on her cigarette. "What happened was wrong in all senses of the word. They need to be punished." “Naw,” Murphy says, in response -- not to the last part of what Melinda said, but the first part. About it being too soon. About her being /sorry/. He’s not looking at her when she says it, but. “Don’t say you’re fuckin’ sorry, you ain’t got nothin’ to be -- Jesus, woman, don’t let people push you the fuck around,” and now he /is/ looking at her. “Don’t let /me/ push you the fuck around. I’m a fucking--nngh. Nothin’ here is right,” he just finishes, turning to glare back at the warehouse. “What happened here ain’t right. What’s /gonna/ happen /afterward/ -- ain’t gonna be right. Just a whole lotta fuckin’ wrong.” "I was apologizing for perhaps being insensitive. I don't think I'm wrong. I don't think acting out of anger is going to do anything but keep these people in a terribly angry state which doesn't help them out, but at the same time, no one else is going to do jack for these people and they should be angry about that." Melinda exhales moodily and rubs her thumb knuckle against the part of her brow between the eyes and the top of the nose. "Being sensitive to someone's emotional state is not backing down. I don't think you're actually pushing me around. So, stop worrying about me. There's a whole van or two worth of people that you can worry about, okay?" Murphy /snorts/ again, but it’s more -- an attempt to suffocate something akin to laughter. Because Murphy Law does not laugh. Murphy Law only has two settings, and the other one scowls HARDER. “You’re apologizin’ for being insensitive to -- /m/--mmf. I see why Jim is into you,” Murphy says, then. Before long, he also adds: “And why you two prolly can’t fuckin’ /stand/ each other. Jesus.” He flicks the cigarette out the window, then. Still lit. Let’s face it; Murphy and litter? Go hand-in-hand. “Think they’re gettin’ ready to go,” he tells her. “Might wanna start her up.” "Oh, he already dumped me." Melinda admits, turning the key in the ignition and starting the vehicle. The cab becomes noisy with engine whining and revving, but then settles into a purr. She at least looks a little more displeased when she finishes her cigarette and has nowhere to dispose of it nicely... and ends up doing the same thing as Murphy. "Okay, let's get these people out of here. You clear on your side?" “He--/what/,” Murphy says, but then his eyes are swooping out to check Mel’s right, eyebrows crumpling together into a knot. “He--aw, shit,” he just decides, leaving it at that. “You’re clear.” "And then he went and got himself kidnapped. It's been a crappy month." And now Mel's trying to play it off, like a tough guy. Her eyes are on the road, her hands on the wheel. She shifts into drive and starts the crazy train of vehicles to the clinic. Good thing this is actually what movers look like, otherwise, it would attract attention.