ArchivedLogs:Snowflakes and Bombs

Snowflakes and Bombs
Dramatis Personae Iolaus, Lucien, Matt, Jane
In Absentia	2015-04-24 "And eating before genocide? It certainly does not do much for my appetite." (Part of Future Past TP.)
Location <NYC> Iolaus's Apartment - East Harlem
Down a hallway and overlooking a open air market in El Barrio, Iolaus' apartment is not particularly a large one. It is three rooms - the main room shaped like an L with kitchen at one end, a small bedroom large enough for a full bed and a dresser, and a bathroom barely large enough to fit the bath inside it. The walls are a light yellow in the main room, with a large bookcase sitting against one wall and occupying much of the space, stuffed with books as it is. Two couches sit across from it, pressed up against the corner of the L shaped room. The kitchen is separated only by the transition from wood floor to grey tile and is sparsely filled with food and cookware both, and the bathroom is equally sparse of accouterments. In fact, were it not for the full bookcase and the clothing hanging in the closet, it would look almost as if the occupant had moved out and left some few things behind in a hurry. Though Iolaus' apartment has recently been cleaned -- and swept for bombs by the ever vigilent Jane - the smells in the air aren't the crisp smell of soap or floor cleaner. Instead, the tangy smell of wine and garlic hangs all around, coming from the still-sizzling pan of pasta on the stovetop. Iolaus looks almost relaxed as he flicks the pan to move the pasta around and catch it on the air. His attention turns to the green beans being saute'd in the next pan over more garlic and onion. Music is playing over the sounds of lunch being cooked - Penguin Cafe Orchestra's "Beanfields". A simple black apron protects his white dress shirt from the oil spatters. Jane, sitting on the couch, seems much more interested in the thick bound sheaf of papers in front of her than Iolaus' cooking skills; "Lessons Learned: Infantry Squad Tactics in Military Operations in Urban Terrain During Operation Phantom Fury in Fallujah, Iraq" is hardly a best-seller, but seems to capture her interest well enough. Bzzzzzzz. Lucien doesn't have an appointment with Iolaus today and yet! On the video intercom there he is, down on the street outside. Dressed casually in jeans and a light windbreaker, a small narrow brown bag -- wine? Liquor? tucked under an arm. He's humming quietly to himself -- "The Lady is a Tramp". Beside his brother, Matt has his face buried in a paperback. Beneath a thin green hoodie unzipped despite the chill outside, he wears a blue t-shirt with cartoon person reading beneath an arch of books, bracketed by the words 'Best Time Machine EVER!', brown corduroy pants, and black chucks with neon green and purple laces. A olive messenger bag with Blue Sun Corporation logo is slung across his chest. He looks up from his reading and waves brightly at the camera. Frowning, Jane looks up at Iolaus, eyebrows raised in question. Iolaus gives her a surprised look and a shrug, turning back to her cooking. Jane's movement over to the door is more of a prowl than a walk, a slinking, cautious thing as if expecting the door to blow off of its hinges at any moment. Because, totally, assassins use the doorbell. When she studies the image on the small video camera, though, her eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Two of them? Christ, no wonder he's too poor for delivery food," the ex-military officer mutters darkly to herself as she presses the button to let the two men upstairs. Jane doesn't unbolt the thick door until they are in sight of the small peephole and she has glared through it long enough to determine that they are alone. Jane does let them in, though, even as Iolaus peers around the corner from his kitchen. "Jane? Who is it?" Lucien trots up the stairs rather than taking the elevator; it is a minute or two before he reaches the fifth floor, pausing on the landing to cast a brief glance to one of the (many) (many) security cameras in the stairwell before he heads towards the door. "Good afternoon, Jane." His voice is polite. "Do you and the Mayor's security collaborate, I wonder?" He pauses in the entryway to toe off his shoes before continuing into the apartment. "I brought wine," he says to Iolaus, casual as if he had been invited. "As well as my brother." "Hi!" Matt's smile is no less ready for Jane's wonted indifference to it. He leaves his shoes beside Lucien's and heads straight for the kitchen. "I brought /my/ brother, and a book that rides the thin razor's edge between awful and entertaining." The cover of said book reads 'Howl of Justice' above a tableau of a large black wolf staring down at a ruggedly handsome man who has just tripped and fallen backwards, lying helpless. "Ooh, what's cooking?" "We provide certain redundancies," Jane says, cautiously. "But nothing official. Mr. Tessier. Mr. Tessier." Jane's nod is curt, gesturing the two men in with one arm even as she keeps a close watch on the hallway behind. It could /always/ be a trap. Iolaus stiffens when he hears the familiar tones of Lucien's voice coming from around the corner. His eyes widen and he turns to face the pan, staring down with similarly sized eyes for a moment. "Shit." Iolaus murmurs under his breath in Greek. "Fucking shit." A pause, and Iolaus rounds the corner with a seemingly warm smile, extending a hand to the other man. "Lucien, Matt. I didn't know you were coming, or I would have set the table for more." His smile, already a bit fixed around the edges, freezes his whole body for a moment when his eyes land down on the cover of the book. "U-uh, linguini al vino rosso with green beans and onion." Iolaus stammers. "Ah, no, I wouldn't dream of imposing upon your meal. Though this syrah should hopefully go well with it." Lucien slides the bottle from its bag, slipping past Iolaus (and his extended hand) to set it down on the counter. "I dislike eating before a show." His eyes flick to Iolaus's face, a very faint twitch at the corner of his lips. "And eating before genocide? It certainly does not do much for my appetite." Matt set the book down beside the wine. "It's about a Mountie who gets turned into a werewolf and has to fight the pack alpha for dominance...or something. It might actually be porn, eventually." He affects a faint moue at Lucien. "Really, though, that's.../future/-Io." Vivid green eyes track over to their host. "I don't know all of what happened in the meantime, but clearly he was not of sound mind." Iolaus' face goes dark and he glances at Jane, gritting his teeth for a second before he turns to Matt. "How about you, Matt? Can I get you a plate?" He asks, even as his eyes return to Lucien. "Well, if anyone would know about a future genocide, it would be you, Lucien. Engineering concentration camps is quite a ways off from Broadway, is it not? Hardly an Equity production." Iolaus grumbles, looking a bit green around the gills. He turns back to the pan, sighing, as he stirs the green beans in the pot. "I do admit, Lucien," Iolaus says, quieter now. "I did wonder why you hadn't come to me until now." "Are you really going to try to some ridiculous game of moral equivalency here?" Lucien's expression is composed in contrast to Iolaus's pallor, his brows hitching just slightly up. "I sat at a table and suffered through your drivel about how exterminating my entire race was for the greater good and you genuinely wonder why I was hesitant to put myself in a room with you?" His tone has not changed, quiet and level, though where his hands have dropped to fold behind his back one is gripped white-knuckled around the opposite wrist. "The thing about these dreams, Matt --" His head gives a very small shake. "It may be /the future/, but /we/ are still us. The /events/ change. The people -- well. Circumstances only show us what we will be capable of, non?" "Ah, no thank you." Matt hugs himself, looking just a little miserable. "I ate," he adds belatedly, not meeting anyone's eyes this time. "That may be, but we can't exactly hold people accountable for something they haven't done and may never do. We can't control who we've become in those dreams. Seems to me we should focus on what we /can/ change, /now./" Iolaus turns his face towards Lucien, even as he shuts the burners on the stove. "If it is true. But you have known me for some time, Lucien, and I think you a good judge of character. With what I have done with my life -- with what we have worked on, and what you have /sensed/ from me -- do you really think me capable of that?" Iolaus' frown deepens, glancing towards Matt with a pleading expression. "If Jane thought it likely, I suspect she would kill me where I stand. But here I stand." "Capable of it? Most assuredly." The slice of Lucien's smile is thin. "Without a doubt in my mind. I consider myself an excellent judge of character, certainly -- and you..." He hesitates, eyes slipping to Matt and then lowering. "Have the potential to be a very dangerous man, Dr. Saavedro. You have a cause, and you believe in it. But if you could be convinced that a different cause were just as worth fighting for --" His hands unfold, one lifting to tip outward. "I certainly would not want to stand against you in that world." His hands drop back to his sides. He leans back against the counter, one elbow resting on it as he looks back to his older brother. "Accountable -- no. Certainly not." Though his lips are still pressed thin. "What /can/ we change?" "I don't think /this/ you would do anything of the sort," Matt says, as much to the floor as to Io. "Can you you try to /not/ go all Captain Ahab between now and then?" He shuffles closer to Lucien, though his carriage doesn't suggest this has anything to do with fearing Iolaus. "Ourselves, first and foremost? Our communities. Organize, demonstrate, communicate...show them, peacefully, that we're not going to lie down and let them take our rights." His hand scrubs the faint brown stubble long his chin. "I guess I don't really know." Though Iolaus does not say anything - and his expression is well controlled - hurt flashes briefly in his eyes. He does not move, or speak, for several seconds as he leans against the stovetop. After a pregnant pause, Iolaus turns to the cabinets and begins taking out plates - two - and wine glasses - four, lining them neatly up on the counter without a word. His movements are exacting, precise, as if Jane had psychically reached out and possessed him. He fills the two plates with pasta and with the stir-fry, one atop the other, and finishing it them off with a hand crumbled garnish of thyme. "How did it start? Before all the escalation - before the brinksmanship. What snowflake started the avalanche?" "{I wish I had your faith,}" Lucien murmurs softly, his posture shifting minutely towards his brother as Matt edges closer. "That we /have/ such thing as a /community/. That peaceful organization will grant us any thing. After all --" The twist of his smile is pained and bitter, his hand moving to rest at the small of Matt's back. It would be simply an affectionate gesture, perhaps, if not for how instinctively his fingertips find the healed dimple of scarring left by Prometheus's repeated spinal assault. "-- that has worked so well until now, hasn't it?" "What, do you mean the Liberty Island attack? Hardly a snowflake." Matt flinches at the touch, though the wound beneath his brother's fingers has long since healed. "I wish you did, too. It'd probably work a lot better, if more people did." Though he's looking at Iolaus as he says this, not Lucien. "Yes, I suppose that /started/ it, but. It's still a long way to go from there to concentration camps; there must have been /something/that happened since. The Liberty Island attack was a failure. I find it hard to believe that it is enough to let the public stomach wholesale slaughter." Iolaus objects, passing one of the bowls to Jane. The guard takes it with a nod, sitting back down and listens the men's conversation silently, watchfully. "What would you propose then, Lucien? Armed rebellion? Perhaps /that/ is what sets the powder keg alight." "No. Not Liberty Island. A bomb --" Lucien's head shakes, lips pressing together. "More like an avalanche." His fingers spread, hand resting flat-palmed against Matt's back now, his head slightly bowed. "Yes, can't you just see me taking up arms?" There's just a touch of dry amusement in his tone. "Still. It is highly unlikely humans are just going to wake up one day and /hand/ us rights because we asked so politely this time." "Peaceful isn't necessarily polite," Matt insists, "or vice versa. Gods know I heard plenty of polite 'requests' in those labs." He leans on Lucien, his shoulders slumping so that he looks that much smaller by comparison. "But neither is going to stop a bomb, probably." "A bomb?" Iolaus sighs and swirls his fork in the spaghetti, moodily tracing shapes in the strands. "That's not quite in my area of expertise." He picks up a forkfull and eats it, eyes closing as he savors the flavors. Jane, on the other hand, has perked up. "What kind of bomb?" She asks, voice low and eyes fixed, unblinking, on Lucien. "Nor stop the fervor in response to it." Lucien just turns his hand up and out again. "That is, I believe, what Jackson's team is endeavouring to figure out. -- I suppose he can /dream/ just as well in jail as out, so I imagine that mission is likely to continue." "His dream team...goes there /physically/ now, though?" Matt straightens up. "That'll be hard to explain if the night watch finds his cell empty. Also, whatever...future-Io is planning? Could hurt them, too." Iolaus pales slightly. "Wait, they /go/ there? If they're exposed to that disease, the results would be cataclysmic." There's a frantic tone to his voice. "It is virulent, and there's no treatment. No cure. I'm not even sure one could be developed, in any time frame." Iolaus runs a hand through his hair, staring down wide-eyed at his place. "The research that I saw... it's...." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Technically impressive. I don't see any faults with the science - only the ethics." "Go there, yes. I am not quite certain of the mechanics of it. They did visit my -- future self, though." There's a slight distance to Lucien's expression with this. "Clearly, we will just have to resolve things before you get a chance to unleash your nightmare." "Technically impressive," Matt echoes, staring at Iolaus. "I..." His hand goes to his mouth, then drops again. "Nobody ever doubted the ingenuity of any weapon of mass destruction, you don't have to rub it in." He turns to look out a window, the corner of his mouth twitching. "He said 'in the next month or so.' We had better get to resolving things." "You have to understand, Matt... my graduate work was in infectious diseases." Iolaus says, voice serious and face pale. "That plague terrifies me with what it signifies. Even if we contained it, even if it never got out..." Iolaus shudders. "There is some information too dangerous for this world. That disease is one of them." He looks down into his food, frowns, and puts it down on the table in front of him. "Somehow, I've lost my appetite."