ArchivedLogs:Stocks and Bonds

Stocks and Bonds
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Claire
In Absentia	2013-07-11 '
Location
The phone call from Jax came in the late evening. Kind of abrupt! Is Claire free to MEET? And then there is a Jax headed her way! He's dressed -- well, pretty /Jax/like, a silvery skirt with purple stars studded into it, a purple fishnet short-sleeved shirt over top of a black tank top. Glittery purple makeup, chunky silver-and-black platform sneakers. A black FreakAngels messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Bzzz! That is him. Buzzing up to Claire's apartment. Hello Claire! The door is unlocked after just a moment; then, up the stairs -- and to the door. Which is already clicking and rumbling as Jax approaches, the multitude of locks behind it rattling free. By the time he's in front of it, it's starting to peek open -- a black furry face poking her head out to peeeeeer up at Jax from the floor. Booger mews! Insistently /demanding/ to know if Jax has arrived to entertain her. The furry face is soon joined by a substantially less furry face; Claire's dressed for evening rest in what looks like a very large, very frumpish fuzzy-pink night-gown and matching slippers; her hair's slicked back and wet from a recent shower: "Mr. Holland," she says, and she sounds -- a bit cheerful! -- as she does. "--c'mon in. Would you like tea? Milk? Orange juice?" Her fuzzy-clad foot descends to nudge Booger back into the apartment as she opens the door wider; Booger mews indignantly, but eventually obeys. Jackson crouches, straightaway, to offer a hand to Booger. His fingers scritch at the cat's chin -- apparently he /has/ come to entertain her, because next there is a tiny dot of bright red light skittering its way across the floor. "Ms. Basil," he greets politely, "M'sorry about the hour, I just -- got a -- a strange phone call," his nose crinkles, "an' I don't -- wasn't really sure who to --" His other hand (not occupied by cat!) scuffs across his bald head as Booger is scootched back. "Oh, I'm -- maybe juice. Would be good." "I'll go fetch you some juice," Claire responds, trying not to grin as the tiny bead of red light flashes past Booger -- and Booger pauses, dropping down into a crouch, followed by a decisive hip-wiggle, and -- POUNCE POUNCE CHASE. She steps aside to give Jackson room to enter, reaching for the cane she keeps by the door, leaning a bit heavily on it as she walks: "--it's fine, I imagined it was important. A strange phone call?" she continues, stepping along toward her kitchen: "Oh, could you close the door for me on your way in? Make yourself at home," she adds, gesturing to her living room -- a large, comfortable chair! And similar couch! "--new hair-cut. And tattoo. Interesting." There's the sound of clanking glasses in the kitchen. "--do either have a story?" "Yes'm, although I'd appreciate if you -- didn't tell -- /anyone/," Jackson says cautiously. "What I'm -- or even that I --" His teeth sink down against his lip. "I just don't quite know what to make of it yet." He steps inside, the dot of light continuing its dance across the floor, darting partway up a wall before returning downwards. "The haircut's story is it's summer and summer's hot as blazes," he says with a laugh as he steps inside, closing and locking the door behind himself. Habitually, he slips his shoes off in the entryway (his socks are brightcoloured too! One is purple with a yellow grinny-face on it. The other bright green with pink toe and heel, and a black skull-and-crossbones.) "An' /all/ my ink's got stories." "Mmn. I find that pleasant -- that the tattoos have a story. A purpose. I don't know," Claire adds, as she pours the drinks -- and sets them upon a tray! Before carefully balancing said tray between one hand and her other, while simultaneously holding the cane. It's tricky! But she's gotten a lot of practice with it. "--is that petty? I always suspected so many tattoos served very little purpose. A pretty little butterfly here; a menacing skull there. Some kanji that the wearer doesn't understand." As she brings the tray out to Jax, Booger /charges/ after that beam of light, managing to /hurl/ herself up the wall after it for a good two or three feet; she's a spry little scrapper, and very intent on capturing her quarry. "So long as you are not informing me of your intent to commit a crime--" Claire begins, automatically -- as she sets the tray down -- but then her nose wrinkles, and: "{Fuck it.} I won't tell anyone." "Many don't," Jackson agrees, with a slight frown, though the beam of light continues its merry dance around the room. He takes a glass of juice with a bobbing nod of thanks. "I mean, so many people come in an' just pick some random drawin' off the wall they think looks pretty. I guess t'ain't up to me to tell people what to do with their bodies 'cept," his smile is a little crooked, "when they're under /my/ needle it is. I like to work with everyone who comes in, t'make sure their art's somethin' that means somethin' to /them/. Don't know if it always is, but s'always custom work, at least. Cuts down on the random kanji they don't understand." He draws in a slow breath, shaking his head. "I don't plan to commit no -- no, ma'am. That's not." His frown deepens. "Norman Osborn called me today. -- Every time he /do/ that I kinda want to change my number, but I expect it wouldn't matter a whole lot." "{Jesus shit-fucking Christ,}" Claire breathes out in a sort of smooth, whispery French; her grip on the glass of orange juice she's reaching for seems to, almost temporarily, falter! -- but she has soon regained her grip, lifting it up to cradle it to her chest as she settles down on her chair. "--Norman Osborn. Alright. What did he want? A tattoo?" Her face twitches into a quick, deft smile at this idea: "Oh, I bet he wanted a /butterfly/. Or the Chinese lettering for 'Honor'." "Man still refuses to dance with me," Jackson says this very /lightly/, "I don't think he's goin' under my needle no time soon." But even his light tone and careful veneer of calm-expression can't hide the /death-grip/ he has on his orange-juice glass; the juice quivers inside the glass in his kind of /shaking/ hands. "He wanted --" His brows crease, /puzzled/. He takes a slooooow sip of his juice. "He wanted to tell me," he says slowly. "That Oscorp's -- created some. Anti-telepathy defenses. -- Ms. Basil, are you still -- holdin' the money from -- the police's -- murder club?" Claire picks up on that tension pretty quickly; a frown settles over her face -- her hand extending outward -- despite the considerable gulf of distance! -- to Jackson. Not like she can /reach/ him, but still: "--anti-telepathy--wh--" Her eyes flicker; her expression grows sharper. A slight 'tssss' from between her teeth, and: "...what /sort/ of anti-telepathy defenses?" There's an edge of panic to /her/ tone, now, too. Her power flares -- perhaps not even consciously -- swelling out from her defensively, crystallizing her thoughs -- calming her. Splashing across the room kind of in steady, psychic pulses. Making things clearer, for a moment: "--the murder cl--yes," she says, "we haven't -- decided. How exactly to proceed with it. Why?" Eyebrows squeeze together. "Um --" Jackson's hands still shake, but the calm in his tone grows less /forced/. He draws in a deep breath before answering. "He says telepathy blockers. And also some sort of devices that send out a -- signal. Painful one. That only telepaths can pick up. I'd guess sorta like a /dog/-whistle for -- for psionics." His teeth drag against his lower lip with a click of metal against enamel. "I jus' -- I think this might be a good time," he says carefully, "t'invest some money in Oscorp stocks. Give those folks back more even than y'got right now." "--blockers. And painful signals. Alright," Claire says, and the deep /throb/ of her power pulls back, almost apologetically; when she uses it on herself, it has an unusual recursive effect -- the more she uses it, the more control she gains /over/ it, allowing her to narrow her focus until it becomes as sharp and precise as a surgeon's scalpel. Soon, it's /completely/ focused on her. "--I understand. Mmnh. That's -- potentially -- the ramifications could be..." At the mention of Oscorp stocks, though, her eyebrows /fly/ up. Staring at Jackson, mouth hanging a /little/ open. After a few more moments, Claire's expression shifts to a /slight/ smile: "--clever. /Very/ clever. But," and now that smile briefly flickers into something darker: "Do you know /why/ he told you this? Could it be -- are you sure you can trust him, Mr. Holland? Oscorp stock is -- not a good investment, right now." "Not right now," Jackson says, "so you can buy it cheap. Ain't nobody else out there yet makin' stuff that'll give people peace'a mind 'gainst psionics. Think it's like to /become/ a good investment once it comes out." The question of why, though, earns a press of his lips, a furrow of brow. He takes a slow sip. Long. Focusing on the sweetness of the juice. "That's -- complicated. I mean, no, of course I can't trust him. But I don't think he's lyin', here." There's a looooong stretch of pause, here. Claire's previous agitation is all but gone; replacing it is instead a cold, quiet sort of /calculation/ -- an intensity to her expression that indicates she is thinking of. MULTIPLE angles: "--this is a risk, Mr. Holland. I realize you and your friends secured these funds -- I am merely handling the paperwork. That being said, I feel as if -- I have a responsibility to at least ask for something more than that. If this money were to be lost -- it represents," she adds, "a chance to at least /address/ some of the terrible that came out of all of --" She stops, here, her lips tightening just a bit: "--are you positive? That he's telling you the truth? As positive as you reasonably can be?" "It's a risk, ma'am, yes. But -- with the world's /only/ source of telepathy blocking -- Oscorp stock's gonna soar, soon. And with everything that's happened recently, it's /crashed/ right /now/. It's a risk that'll earn those folks a whole lot /more/ money in the long run." His hand scuffs across the top of his head, cheeks puffing out on a sharp exhale, and something darkens in /his/ expression, now. "For all money can pay back what was done, anyhow." "He's insane, you know. Osborn," Claire tells Jax, before adding -- perhaps wryly: "You /do/ realize that this money will be funding the very technology that's going to be used to hunt you. Just a drop in the bucket, I suppose, but still." A slight hitch in her posture, as if she finds this prospect /amusing/: "--you're right, though. If he's already patented it -- and I can't assume he hasn't -- he'll be filthy rich. Rich-er. We should," she adds, "sell it quickly, though. Mr. Osborn has a special knack for running his good fortune into the ground." "I realize. But the tech's gonna be out there anyhow. I don't doubt he'll fund it with or without our tiny contribution. May s'well use it to pay /back/ some'a the people who keep gettin' /stomped/ on by all this. Keep it just long enough to let it blossom. Then --" Jax hitches a shoulder upwards. His eyes lower to his glass. "Things ain't gonna be getting no easier, though. Better, I think, if we -- at least -- get something back /outta/ it." "Mmn," Claire responds, and then there is a long, /heavy/ gulp of orange juice! "--I can start the arrangements tonight, probably purchase it by tomorrow morning. We'll hold it until -- well. I'll keep you updated on how it's going, on a daily basis. And I'll leave the decision to you," she says. "You realize, once this technology is out there -- signals that bring pain to telepaths? -- it will likely become a common feature of public buildings. Police stations. Court rooms. Anywhere," she says, "where it's believed a telepath could do /damage/." Then: "The blocker. Might be able to help. If you can acquire one... science is not my strong suit, but." She sighs. "It's not going to be a good time to be a telepath." "If we could acquire one --" Jackson looks wistful. "No," he says, "no, it ain't. And it's just gonna --" He looks aside, brow furrowing and his fingers tightening hard on his glass again. Shaking. He knocks the rest of the juice back in a long swallow. "Yeah. I imagine this'll -- be poppin' up all over the place soon. Need to --" His head shakes. "Get hands on some'a that blocking. Reverse-engineer it mebbe. You know what the worst part is?" His head shakes. "Alla this. Telepathy blocking. /Registration/. I see the /good/ in it all. /Potentially/. I just -- don't trust anyone who's puttin' it into /place/ one single inch." "They don't make it /easy/ to see the good in it, do they...?" Claire responds. "Maybe, if they could just. You know," she adds, "have you ever listened -- to Osborn's rhetoric? The nonsense he spouts when the cameras are on him -- except, it /isn't/ nonsense. The things he says -- about needing to work /with/ mutants -- to address these problems. To not make an enemy of them. If he believed a word of it -- if he wasn't a fucking /lunatic/," she says, with maybe just a hint of ire, "I'd actually want to /help/ him." "Yeah." Jackson /sounds/ wistful, now, to match his look. "I think Stark -- when he called his conference -- I think he actually wanted to help. Or at least -- I don't know, maybe he just wanted to look /good/ for the -- 'cept, being on the side'a mutants don't win you much of no points." His nostrils flare, his breath exhaled sharply. "'bout now I'll take allies wherever we can get 'em, nohow. But -- but yeah. All the stuff he says /sounds/ good. He's just --" He frowns. "I have a friend. A telepath. The things he's seen in -- in that man's brain --" He shudders. "Stark? The man with," and here, Claire waves a hand, as if trying to remember -- "oh, yes. The handsome fellow from the press conference -- he seems -- sincere. If a little impulsive. I certainly wouldn't /rely/ on his support, but." At the mention of telepathic peeking, Claire's jaw tenses, just a /smidge/. "...Parley's told me. Some things. Mentioned that he's... there's something wrong with him. /Physically/. Neurologically. I don't know what to make of that; it's hard for me to find pity for a man who has done so much -- /wrongness/. But..." Something thoughtful flickers over her features: "...he's trusting you, isn't he? With this information." And then she's leaning forward, more closely: "Mr. Holland. /Does/ he trust you? Because if he does..." She hesitates. Frowns. As if she does not like the taste of the next words she speaks: "...there might come a day. When you need to use that trust. /Against/ him." "Something wrong with him," Jackson echoes, with a small dip of his head. But then a deep furrow of his brow. "N-- no, I don't think. I don't think he /trusts/ me, exactly, so much as I --" He bites down on his lip again. "I don't. Honestly know why he reached out to me," he's forced to admit. "I mean I ain't screwed him over yet. But then I don't know how I /would/ even if I --" He shakes his head rapidly. "Ms. Basil, you know /why/ people /do/ trust me, when they do?" "I don't," Claire admits, a little softly: "If I had to guess, I think it would be because people think of you as a hero. It is very hard /not/ to. You've saved the lives of people who want to put you in a cage; you've fought monsters, rescued children, and are very /handsome/ to boot." She stops at that last admission, setting the glass down. And: "--one of my professors told me something, before I graduated. When I was studying the justice system -- he described it as the most important lesson to understanding the /nature/ of justice. It -- reminds me of you." "I don't think it's quite so complicated, ma'am. I think s'just cuz -- I /don't/. Use that trust /against/ them." Jackson's teeth click against the rim of his glass, studying Claire over its edge. With a slight /flush/, for that last comment, a self-conscious, scuff of hand over head that traces briefly against the strap of his eyepatch. "What -- did he tell you?" "Oh," she says, with a little apologetic smile: "I misunderstood. I -- yes, I can see why you wouldn't want to..." She closes her eyes a moment, as if -- tugging at a memory. When she opens her eyes again, she is speaking much more softly, much more /slowly/: "He told me that there /is/ no justice; just a trick of the light we use to keep the pain and suffering at bay. We do a little dance, spin a little tale -- convince the world that it is possible to find peace and happiness. Convince enough people that the illusion is real, and it may /become/ real. That," she adds, "was at least what he /hoped/." Jackson exhales again; it's slow, and it's almost like a laugh. Almost. Around him, the air shimmers, briefly glowing before it winks out; it adds to the kind-of-sort-of impression of mirth. His head tips down, eyes dropping. "I gotta say," he says lightly, "I ain't real sure, exactly, how to take that." "He was," Claire admits with maybe a tang of fondness, "a /bit/ of an old coot. But--" Her eyes drift to the glow that briefly surrounds him, and she smiles: "--he could always convince us to smile."