Logs:Callous

Callous
Dramatis Personae Fury, Lucien
In Absentia Jax, Malthus, Erik, Sera, Gaétan	2022-02-20 "If they wanted a scapegoat they certainly picked poorly."
Location <NYC> Fury's Safe House (1/??) - Crown Heights
From the outside, this house looks like just another historic brownstone. It is, in most of the ways that matter, just another historic brownstone, little different from the others in this "up and coming" neighborhood. And, like many others, there's a sign out front indicating it has been sold to a development company that hasn't actually bothered developing it yet. And so it has lain apparently empty in a traffic camera blind spot--incidentally, of course--another silent witness to the systematic dismantling of New York's Black neighborhoods. Despite the apparent neglect of the development company that theoretically owns it, the interior of the house is clean and well-maintained and tastefully appointed in mid-century modern style, straight edges softened with subtle curves in rich polished teak and upholstery in a warm palette of earthtones. For all the care that went into furnishing and decorating, the place feels a bit like a model home, too perfect to be a place people actually live. Fury cooked far more than is in any way reasonable feed two in the form of a four-course Italian dinner that has wound down in leisurely fashion to dessert. The cannolis are light and crisp and sweet, but Fury hasn't touched his, hasn't done much more than sip at his amaretto sour, though he's at least settled back down onto the couch now. "I know I was the one asked for a moratorium on talkin' shop, but..." Glass still in hand, he gestures vaguely at his companion. "Maybe that ain't so fair to you, given how some'a my shop is your personal life. Just been a helluva week." Lucien's appetite, at least, is a match for Fury's cooking; he's helped himself to generous portions of each course and is now savoring his first bites of cannoli. The delicate pastry melting on his tongue has pulled his eyes half-closed and he cracks one back open to regard Fury, the still-waters placidity of his expression betraying little but the simple enjoyment of his dessert. "Things have seemed -- more volatile than usual." His eyes lower to his plate as he carefully slices off another piece of cannoli, scooping it delicately onto the tines of the fork and then simply setting his fork down on his plate. "I suppose it a bit untoward to ask if your people have much influence over Jackson's current --" His lips compress, slightly. "Predicament." Fury takes another, longer pull of his drink. "I done toll them Capitol Hill motherfuckers way back registration was gon' blow up in they face, but does anyone listen to me? No." He picks up his dessert plate only to immediately set it back down. "It ain't untoward, but we don't, at least not at this juncture. I got some feelers out to see if I can crowbar ourselves into his case somehow, but it'll take a lot of schmoozing if it can be done at all. The thing is, all else aside -- and there a shitton of 'else' -- Malthus Rogers hates me with a passion that borders on comedic." He pauses, his brows furrowing unevenly. "I'll have to go over his head for sure, but I don't see how I'm gonna convince the DHS or the White House Mister Holland is an existential threat and therefore under my jurisdiction. They got to know he's a minor threat even just to the U.S. government, at least compared to the gotdamn Brotherhood." "They are happy enough to treat him as a serious threat if it means letting HAMMER throw him in a dark hole," Lucien replies, his lip curling faintly with distaste. "And then not one if someone takes an interest who might view this with a modicum of nuance. Schrodinger's terrorist." His fingers press their nailbeds white where he is holding his plate, the grip easing at the mention of the Brotherhood. "-- I always thought Registraton would be a catastrophe but I admit I had not expected the blowing up to be quite so literal. And if the Brotherhood can control the Guardians en masse like that -- well." His head shakes as he picks his fork back up; he takes his time chewing over his next bite of cannoli. The corner of his lip twitches very slightly upward. "It does seem like a good time to ask for more funding, at the least." "Well, he done made things real inconvenient for the administration," Fury says, throwing his empty hand up in exasperation, "and they'd really rather just put him away somewhere quiet, at least until they decide what to do about Prometheus." He drinks deep and finally sets his glass down. "Honestly, funding ain't never been the problem for us. It's access. Always access." This with a fatalistic shrug. "But there may be something I can work with here, seeing as the Brotherhood actually do scare Uncle Sam. You shoulda seen the handwringing they doin' down Washington this week. Mm!" His head shakes, bemused without surrendering his obvious frustration. "I heard tell DHS is convinced the Brotherhood got themselves a technopath. Now, I don't know 'bout all that, but I admit it ain't exactly reassuring. Could be worse." He leans forward to knock on the dark, polished surface of the coffee table. "They coulda busted Lensherr out while they was at it." Lucien lets out a sharp huff through his nose, reaching now for his own glass to take a long pull. "Far be it from me to underestimate the incompetence of the United States government, but surely someone must see that trying to disappear him is also bound to backfire on them. His community was riled enough as it was before they saw fit to turn him into a martyr. If they wanted a scapegoat they certainly picked poorly." He's turning his glass around in his fingers, eyes fixed steadily on the pale liquid within. They've gone a little wider with the mention of Magneto. "My goodness. Do you suppose he gets much news, wherever they have entombed him? I can only imagine what he's spent his years at planning." Fury scoffs and runs a hand over his smooth pate. "You ask me, they'd'a been better off just ignoring Holland and his little operation altogether and wait for the news to die down like it was doin' anyhow. That, or make a grand show of pardoning him after they sack the one bad apple at Prometheus." He picks his drink back up but just swirls it around for a moment. "Now, Malthus don't care about PR more than he absolutely has to, but whoever's holding his leash sure screwed the pooch this time." He downs half of his remaining cocktail and finally takes up his dessert in earnest, though here he pauses and raises one eyebrow -- the good one. "Oh, he gets the news, after DHS gone through it with a fine-tooth comb, I assume. Ionno how exactly they go about making sure the Brotherhood ain't communicating with him through it but, well." He blows out a long breath. "They sure as hell communicated on Monday, though I don't think Uncle Sam's come away with the message they wanted to send." Lucien's eyes have narrowed on his glass, his hand tight around it. "I won't go so far as to thank Malthus Rogers for throwing my friend into some dark hole somewhere, but you are not wrong. Torturing an entire community they can sweep under the rug but one beloved figure -- surprisingly harder to recover from." Here he looks up from his drink, his head tilting very slightly to one side. "Uncle Sam. Do you really suppose that's who they were trying to speak to with that stunt? I rather suspect their intended audience got their message clear enough." "I shouldn't be so callous," Fury allows, gruffly if not quite reluctantly. "I got a lot respect for Holland, and anyhow that kind of detention -- well, it ain't right, it ain't productive, and it sure ain't necessary like Malthus argues." He rubs the scar on his forehead, an unconscious gesture he rarely allows himself despite the neuropathy left by the injury. "Hell, even for someone actually dangerous, like say, a certain Master of Magnetism? I may not be sanguine about him walking free, but if he were to die in custody now -- don't matter how, even if he died peacefully in his sleep of old age -- it might bode worse." He drops his hand and picks up his fork. "Regardless who they intended the message for, the U.S. heard it, and I fear we on a fast-track to open war now." "I expect they are already going to be recruiting off of this for some time. I can only imagine the fervor if there were some change in Lensherr's status." Lucien picks up his drink again, this time to drain it. The empty glass gets a disappointed look as if by not refilling itself it somehow is not living up to its full potential. His thumb traces slow circles against the side of the glass, hand dropping slow and heavy to rest on his knee. When he speaks again his voice has slipped softer than his habitual neutral cadence. "I spend so much time studying history or talking to those," his empty glass tips briefly in Fury's direction, "in the loop of these things. I suppose I had some vain and Panglossian hope that when the world fell into chaos I would have even the slightest notion what direction to..." This trails off into a hard swallow, his fingers curling tight against the glass again to still the repetitive motion of his finger. "Do you have family, Director Fury?" "I reckon at this point there's plenty that will make the situation more unstable, and not a lot that's like to do the opposite." Fury slumps back against the couch cushions, shifting to face Lucien more fully. "However lost you feel, knowing history could at least give you a map. 'Fraid our leaders mostly ain't too keen on learning from the past, though." Fury does not immediately answer Lucien's question. He takes another bite of his cannoli and drains his drink, first. "It'd be a cop-out to say 'course I do' or 'not anymore', but both is true. I done dropped the ball once too many and tried to apologize a decade too late. Hardly any of my kin even talk to me these days, but it don't stop my losing sleep what kind of world my great nieces and nephews are growing up in." He starts to lift his glass and scowls when he finds it empty. "I don't think amaretto is cuttin' it. Care to join me for whiskey, Mister Tessier?" "My sister fled a world at war to come to -- this. My brother still loses sleep over what he saw there." There's a slight, thin curl to Lucien's lips. "At least you are working to build -- some semblance of a safer world for their generation. I," the wry twist of amusement in his voice does not exactly lighten it, "pretend to be Captain America. For a select few who can afford it." He sets his plate aside and lifts his glass decisively. "I believe I would."