Logs:Inadequate Processing

Inadequate Processing
Dramatis Personae Ryan, Hive, Matt	2019-07-08 "But even if you don't trust how I think or feel, please trust my convictions." (Debriefing from the last raid.)
Location <NYC> 304 {Ryan} - Village Lofts - East Village
Similar in layout to many apartments in this building, the front door opens into a narrow entryway with a small coat closet. The living room beyond is wide and receives plenty of light from its high windows; floored in dark hardwood, it is separated from the adjoining kitchen by a half-wall counter, stools perched on the living room side and the sink and counterspace on the kitchen side. On the other side from the kitchen stands doors branching off to a pair of bedrooms and one bathroom; to the left of the entryway, a short hall wraps around past the kitchen to the second pair of bedrooms, a second bathroom at the far end of the hall. The apartment here stands often in a state of disarray, musical equipment or books or scattered notes spread among the pair of couches or coffeetable. The kitchen, at least, is usually kept neatly organized in contrast to the living room's clutter. At odd intervals from the walls, sturdy wooden poles branch out, somewhat akin to very large bird perches. Hive is seated cross-legged on one of the couches, looking a little wilted in his faded old jeans, his 'ceci n'est pas une lune' tee hanging noticeably looser than it used to on his bony shoulders. He has a bowl of tofu larb in one hand, a glass of limeade sitting on a coaster on the coffeetable nearby. For a while he's been sitting still, regarding his spoon blankly, but after a very long stretch he blinks, shakes his head, finally does actually take a bite. << -- Just a long fucking list of things we're going to have to rethink. I don't know where we fucking go from here. >> His voice is a quiet overlapping echo in Ryan's head, his shoulders hunching. Ryan is seated on his coffee table, one leg resting on an arm of the other couch. In grey t-shirt with WRATH printed across the chest in rainbow text, dark jeans neatly cuffed at their hems, he's balancing his -- nearly empty -- bowl on his knee, braced against his hand. His fingers curl very tightly around his spoon (although this seems to only accentuate rather than help with the tremor as he holds it.) << I don't know. Lots of prayers? A lot of fucking therapy? A goddamn vacation? We've always known we can't keep this up. Hasn't -- seemed to stop us. >> There's a weariness in his mental voice that doesn't come through when he actually *speaks*. "Just one of a lot of things we need to figure out before we do any of this again. They're learning." Matt lets himself in quietly, the light flutter of his powers preceding him in lieu of a knock. There's weariness in his movements and in his mind, a throbbing headache as well, but all as expected toward the end of his rounds at the Lofts these days. He's wearing a rumpled brown t-shirt with cartoon renditions the of Hogwarts house mascots, khaki shorts, and brown athletic sandals that he wiggles out of without actually unclasping. The smell of the food piques his interest, but also a low wave of nausea. He bypasses the food and sinks down onto the couch beside Hive. "I'm guessing you're not just asking me here for my brilliant strategic commentary?" His eyebrows raise up slightly. Hive tips his head back against the couch, his eyes closing. He rubs at his temple, shoulders tense but easing off as Matt enters. "I dunno, dude, if you've got ideas for dealing with their new squad of quislings --" He shakes his head, hand dropping back to his lap. "I made lunch." "I'm pretty sure you're allowed the lunch even if you don't have ideas." Ryan relaxes his grip on his spoon, setting the not-quite-finished bowl aside. "Not quite desperate enough to charge a toll." He pulls his leg inward, crossing one ankle over his knee instead. "I wanted to talk about the last raid. It's kind of overdue, but --" His eyes cut to Hive, for a moment. "It's smells /delicious,/" Matt allows with an entirely sincere smile. "Just not hungry right now. Maybe in a while." He drapes one arm along the back of the couch, stretching out luxuriantly. "I have ideas, but they mostly involve splitting the party even more than we already do, and developing more small group tactics to suit rapidly changing situations." << So Jax and Ryan don't have to improve those so much. >> One of his hands twists in the air elegantly, turning palm-up as the fingers splay out. "It'll take a lot of thinking and a lot of drilling get it right, but you know there's no easy fix. We have to re-think a lot of things." He settles his cheek in the palm of his hand and waits, calm and attentive. "It's not like. An appetizing conversation." Hive's eyes stay closed. "Just finally getting a chance to talk through some shit more thoroughly." "I wasn't there, but it seemed better for me to handle this conversation than Jax." Ryan's hands curl against his shin, and he looks from Hive back to Matt. "There was a guard you shot near the end of the mission. I understand that even for how things tend to be, there were some compromising circumstances, but -- can you tell me why you made that choice?" Matt reels himself back in from his stretch and studies Ryan for a brief moment. Beneath this there is a churn of rehearsed words mixing with a fresh review of the scenario in question. Then, finally, "I wanted to stop him from doing what he was doing--namely, imitating my dead sister. I know the way I did it was ill-considered and put my team in danger." He inclines his head. "It was a bad call, which I made largely because I was emotionally compromised by inadequately processed grief." Hive is -- quiet. Still rubbing at his temple. Eyes still closed. It's clear enough for Matt to feel the sharper focus of Hive's attention, though, coming to bear with a keener vigilance than his usual passive listening. << Ill-considered, >> echoes extremely dryly in Ryan's mind. "It did sound like an awful situation to be in, and I'm sorry that you all had to deal with that. We're probably going to run up against a lot more awful situations in future. Especially if they keep hiring these --" His lips compress, and he struggles to pull his thoughts away from Hive. "Goddamn traitors. From what I heard, at the time you did shoot him he wasn't posing an active threat. So what's going to happen the next time?" Matt does not sigh, but Hive can feel him gently quell the impulse to do so. For all that, his reply feels sincere, too. "I will take a step back and assess the situation to best ensure that I am acting from a place of necessity and not exposing my team or our rescuees to additional risk." He traces his fingertips along a seam in the couch's upholstery. Subsumed under that sensory input, a thought that Hive might not have normally picked up: << How certain can I be? How certain can /any/ of us be? But they'll need me all the more. So I must be. >> Hive's teeth grind slowly as Matt answers. He lowers his hand to his lap, fingers curling tight against his knee. The quiet undercurrent of thought is picked up, reflected back to Ryan. When he answers his voice is just its usual neutral-gruff. "You have an exaggerated sense of your own importance, man. There's --" His jaw tightens, the creak of his teeth ceasing momentarily. "-- almost nobody on this team that's indispensable. There should be nobody on this team that's indispensable." Ryan leans forward, his foot resting back on the ground and his elbows propped on his knees. His fingers link loosely together, his forehead coming briefly to rest against their tips. His thoughts are straying to Flicker, to Hive himself, with a heavier weight << (almost nobody) >> that he makes a conscious effort to reel back in. "I don't know. I don't know if we can ever be certain. When shit's getting intense in there we all make the wrong call sometimes. And I can't be certain it won't happen again. I can look at what you've done before and --" His words stutter briefly, his head dropping lower as his fingers curl through his hair. Some mental calculation is trying to run through doing a raid now without Matt -- pushing this calculus aside. He looks back up, chin resting on his palm. "-- There's a reason we're so careful about the way we do things. I need to know that our team is on the same page about that. I need to know that you can be on the same page about that." Matt raises an eyebrow. He doesn't try to hide his irritation from Hive, but it passes quickly enough. "I do think my particular skill set has become more relevant in this, and may become yet more so in the future; I do /not/ think that makes me indispensable." There's a shuffle of compartmentalized ideas in his mind -- the team's established tactics, all of them revolving around Flicker and Hive -- rapid and chaotic and difficult to follow. The worry that comes along with this feels intense yet abstract. << /That/ has to change, with or without me. >> He puts it all back away, his focus abrupt and sharp. "I can be. If this all sounds rehearsed, it's because--" << I'm trying to be open with you. >> "--I have been thinking about it. A /lot/. If I put my will to it, I know I can." He shoves himself slightly closer to upright, though still leaning on the arm of the couch. "This is important to me, and I will support the team in other ways if you think it best. Because if you cannot trust me, then my presence may be a liability no matter my efforts." He bows his head slightly. "But even if you don't trust how I think or feel, please trust my convictions." There's a faint twitch at the corner of Hive's mouth. He still doesn't open his eyes; the relay of thoughts continues in a quiet drift from Matt's mind to Ryan's. It concludes wordlessly, a gentle mental << (?) >> of questioning toward Ryan. << Do you trust him? >> is the question that forms in Ryan's mind in response to the questioning prompt -- though it's reflexive, an unintentional thought that Ryan presses back with an uncomfortable swat. "How do you adequately process grief?" is what he muses quietly. << Honestly, how do I trust fucking any of us with the baggage we're all carrying around? There's not a one of us more than an inch away from snapping. >> "It sounds incredibly rehearsed," he says then, slowly, "but sometimes that's just what it takes to make sure the words come out right." "Therapy." Matt rolls one of his shoulders in a slow stretch and subsides against the cushions again. "But if you mean the 'adequately' part, in this case I mostly mean 'able to function even when unexpectedly triggered.'" He holds Ryan's eyes steadily, here, directing a similar attention inwardly toward Hive. "That applies to things other than grief, also." << How could I even explain? >> It takes a great effort of will for him to say, "Yes. I don't want to /persuade/ you. This is--difficult for me, but I felt it vital to communicate clearly and truthfully." The constant background noise of his anxiety spikes into a terrible sense of exposure. He spreads his hands before him, palms up. "Whether or not it seemed like what you wanted to hear in the moment." Hive finally does open his eyes, though only to look down at his bowl. He slowly resumes eating, his motions somewhat mechanical. << Some of us more than others, though. >> The mental subtext of this thought has strayed far from Matt, a dose of worry here that has nothing to do with the men in the room with him. << You're not wrong about the vacation. >> His spoon clinks quietly against his bowl as he scrapes up shreds of tofu. He lifts his eyes to Matt, just a brief flick of gaze. "Thank you."