ArchivedLogs:Free State

Free State
Dramatis Personae Cage, Kay, Mirror, Parley, J.C., Msgr. Flores
In Absentia	2013-08-20 (Part of the Battle for Harlem TP.)
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
This church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. For a situation with so much violence and tension to kick it off, there is a surprising amount of calm around the church this afternoon. At least on the surface. There are police in plenty -- though they're keeping their /distance/, a distance great enough to not run the risk of being /incinerated/ by the pyrokinetic living inside. Their perimeter is, therefore, kind of wide. Close enough to keep an /eye/ on the building -- through binoculars, through /sniper/ scopes, they're certainly not passing up an opportunity to just /shoot/ the mutants on sight if they leave -- but far enough that foot traffic around the block is largely unimpeded, save for the many security checkpoints at streets in and out that receive bag searches and pat-downs as they pass through. But the immediate vicinity of the church is quiet. Mass is even still continuing as normal! Business around the church are continuing as normal. Here and there people have been bringing those in the church food. Here and there, too, people have been showing their support -- or their distinct /lack/ of support -- for the situation; around the church there's a /wealth/ of flowers, and a wealth of signs: FREAKS GO HOME, say some, and JUSTICE FOR ALL, say others. With the standoff having continued for days, the newstrucks that had been parked in the area had started to peter off, but with the recent annoucement that Harlem's /very own/ local mutant celebrity had promised an appearance, more have returned! Though -- some of them are keeping their distance, too. But others, bolder, have come in close! One intrepid reporter has even made her way right up to the security checkpoint nearest the church. /Waiting/. Elegant, dark-skinned, dark-haired, if one had to pinpoint she might look middle-eastern in origin, long dark hair and a crisp neat summer-light skirt suit in pale yellow and spring green, sensible flats on her feet. Her press tag marks her from the Daily Bugle, a tablet computer in her hand that she is scrawling on with a stylus as she waits. Luke trudges up from the closest subway station, tromping along in his usual get up. Yellow t-shirt, dark jeans, and biker boots. He's got sunglasses on today, as well as a homemade sign slung over his shoulder. One side says, 'Americans get Fair Trials', and the other says, 'Then they came for me...'. It's big, two pieces of poster board stapled to a substantial plank of wood. He holds the sign aloft when he approaches the police lines, but doesn't slow his pace. He has no jacket on, and with the fit of his clothes, a security check would be almost pointless, but he just holds the sign up higher when they stop him. He waits patiently and without comment to be cleared to continue. At the sight of Luke Cage passing through the security checkpoint, the woman finishes writing on her tablet and taps at it a few more times, fixing a small smile onto her face. The stylus gets tucked behind her ear, and she straightens, waiting for the officers to finish their patdown before she approaches. "Mr. Cage." Her voice is a pleasantly smooth contralto as she fits herself in alongside him, introducing herself with an offered hand, "Nadya Tadros, with the Daily Bugle. I was rather pleased to hear that you'd be coming down here today. We could really use some local voices weighing in on the situation." She glances to the sign over Luke's shoulder, and then up to his face. "I gather you've come to show your support for the young woman inside?" Luke nods when Nadya introduces herself, but doesn't smile much. Just enough to be polite. "Nice ta meet ya Ms. Tadros. Sorry it couldn't a been on a better day." He shrugs, and resumes his walk toward the church, making sure to keep a pace the shorter legs can manage. "And good for you, bein out here. But to answer your question, I'm here for that reason exactly. I wanna know the truth about the deaths, same as everyone else. But the fact is, mutants are not getting fair trials in this city, or hardly anywhere else." Luke slows, and stops, turning to speak with the reporter now that they're a little away from the security checkpoint. "That prison break last month should be evidence enough. They were holding many, many people. American citizens. /New Yorkers/, without hearing or trial." From Luke's tone, being from New York is even better than being American. "I ain't sayin they shouldn't a been in prison. I'm saying we don't /know/ where people should be, if they can't get fair trials. And we need a justice system that can handle all types." "I feel it's vital to hear all sides of issues like these." Nadya walks alongside Luke, smile fading into a more solemn expression as they head towards the church. "A lot of people want to know the truth, I think. A lot of people /need/ to know the truth." Her hand sweeps outward, away from the church to the scorch marks on the pavement beyond it, to a shattered bus station nearby, to the cracked and broken cement of a sidewalk block. "There are those who are saying that regardless of this one girl's situation -- three officers were killed on scene, another died in the hospital afterwards, two more are still in critical condition there. And all -- all New Yorkers, themselves, trying to do /their/ jobs to bring in a wanted murder suspect -- it's not possible to to give her a fair trial if the men and woman trying to bring her /to/ trial are slaughtered trying to get her there. Holding suspects pending trial is fairly /standard/ procedure, after all -- Do you have anything to say in response to that?" "Yeah," Luke says, in response to the final question, but nothing else comes out right away. The word is spoken with venom, and tension is visible in his face and neck. Instead of continuing though, he just takes a long moment, and a deep breath. The prison fighter has come a long way it seems, from just letting his temper run away with him. "There are limits to how long they can hold someone, Ms. Tadros, before they have to charge them with a crime. There were people in Sing Sing for weeks, with no charges brought. But even after that, and everything I been through personally, I /still/ believe bein a cop, and bein a cop in /New York/ is a noble, thankless thing. Are there dirty cops? Of course. But I really believe /most/ cops wanna do what's right." Luke takes another deep breath, and clears his throat. "My heart is with the families of those who fell here, tryin to do their jobs. But how can those people inside there come out? The city has to promise them an open, transparent trial. Mutants have been treated like this city's dirty little secret for too long. Apply the laws to mutants equally. Are they harder to enforce? Then hire mutants in the justice system. In the correctional facilities. As policy makers." Luke seems almost surprised by his last remark, but turns and looks at the church. "Would you be willing to accompany me inside, Ms. Tadros? If they'll have me, I'd like my conversation with them to be on record." Nadya is quiet as she listens to Luke, her expression just neutral. Her head gives a small nod, and for a moment her lips compress. Her eyes travel to the scorch marks on the sidewalk. "Mutants in the justice system," she echoes, "that /would/ be a radical change." She stops at the door of the church, and she tips her head in a nod again. "If they'll have me, I would be glad. I think it might help, perhaps. For people to hear their side of things -- and your input, as well." She doesn't enter the church, though she does hold its door open, for Luke. Inside, it's quiet. There's been a Mass recently finished; the scent of incense still lingers faintly in the air. There aren't many people around, churchgoers cleared out, though the pastor, Msgr. Marcelino, is lingering near the entryway in conversation with an elderly woman, hair tied back in a bun. He turns towards the door when it opens, holding one hand up in a typical wait gesture, his brows pulling into an uncertain frown as he looks towards the pair at the door. He beckons them inside only once his conversation has finished. "-- Ah. Luke Cage." His voice is warm, if reserved; it carries a tired note to it, as though he's gotten /far/ too little sleep, of late. "I had heard you would be coming down. I don't think I'm acquainted with your companion --?" His eyes flick towards Nadya, still lingering at the door. Luke dips his head in respect when the monsignor greets him, and then turns to gesture toward Nadya. "Thank you, Father. This is Nadya Tadros. We just met outside. She's a reporter for the Bugle, but we ain't affiliated in any official way. She just offered to document my visit. Uh, with your permission, sir." The priest gives Mirror a long considering look, but ultimately nods his head. "No pictures, please. But yes, this story could stand to be told. Please. Come." Nadya steps inside, closing the heavy church doors behind her. She checks something on the tablet she carries, and then nods, following after the others. "Jessica is downstairs," the monsignor tells Luke. "It has been -- a trying week. Thank you for your visit. We've been blessed by a good amount of support. It was so unfortunate how all this began, but -- times like this bring out such good in people." Luke nods his agreement about pictures, and seems relieved to see Nadya accept the terms as well. Luke leaves his sign leaning against the wall by the big front doors, and reaches to shake the priest's hand. Luke was /pretty/ sly about it, but before this, he also fished a piece of paper out of his pocket, and seems to be slipping it to the monsigor in secret. Though, a sharp-eyed reporter might catch a glimpse of something that looks an awful lot like a folded up check. "Thank for all your hard work, Father Marcelino. Our city needs more people like you." He shakes hands with the older man, surreptitiously pressing the piece of paper into his palm, and does his best to give the man a look which conveys something like, 'lets just keep this between us'. Luke then allows the monsignor to lead the way downstairs, doing his best to move softly in this quiet place without knocking anything over. "Oh, our city needs a lot of things, right now. I am just trying to be one piece among many." Msgr. Marcelino tucks his hand into his black cassock, turning to lead the way into the back, down into the brighter-lit basement of the church. There is a meal underway; it's been clearly brought in rather than cooked there, being served out of a large set of tupperware containers. A young man with dark hair and tan skin is bringing used dishes to the kitchen. The priest leads them to where a girl is still eating, nibbling at a very brightly frosted cupcake. She is thin, young, with a spiky shock of dark hair, a yellow tinge to her eyes, slitted dark pupils. A trailing of yellow-green scales down her arms. She's gotten new clothes since being here, or at least /clean/ clothes -- old donated ones, they are faded and don't quite fit, denim shorts held on with a belt, an oversized Mets t-shirt. Luke glances at Marcelino and Tadros, and then takes a step forward and selects a metal chair from the hodge podge of donated seating options. Even then, he eases down very carefully into it, sitting across the table from Jessica. He gives her his best, gentle smile, trying to take some of the impact his size can have from time to time on other people. "Hola, Ms. Casillas," Cage says, in a mix of english and spanish. When he continues, his spanish is not /terrible/, but he's obviously not a native speaker. He speaks slowly, trying to get the spanish words right. "{My name is Luke Cage. I would like to talk to you about...}" Luke struggles for the words for a moment. "{...last week. Should I speak english, or spanish?}" Jessica blinks, as the man sits across from her, eyes widening as he takes his seat. She glances back over to Ion as he leaves, and then to the priest, relaxing when he nods to her. Only then does she peer at Cage, brows creasing faintly as she watches him speak, carefully focusing on his face. When she answers, she speaks slow, careful; her voice has a strangely slurred quality to it, and she speaks in a slow halting monotone. "{Spanish better. You not police?}" Cage's eyebrows go up a tiny notch when he recognizes her pattern of speech for what it means. Then his mouth cracks in the most genuine smile he's made in days when she asks her question. His brown eyes light up, and the little lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle up. "Hell no..." he says, openly, almost gratefully amused at her question. "Shit, sorry," he says in english again, and thinks for a second. "{Sorry,}" he says in spanish. "{I'm not police.}" Now Luke is extra careful to make sure he's enunciating as clearly as he can, apparently somewhat familiar with having a conversation with a lip reader. "{Definitely... not police.}" he adds with a smile. "{I am private investigator,}" he's careful with every syllable there. "{And I want to make sure police give you fair trial. If you tell us your story,}" Luke gestures to include Tadros, "{We will tell the world. Force a fair trial. Will you tell us?}" Jessica nods, a smile curling briefly across her face when Luke's speech pattern shifts. "{Not police. Good.}" She nibbles at her cupcake -- her teeth include a very sharp viper-like set of fangs -- and then reaches aside to pick up a second cupcake and offer it to Luke. "{I do not know if. They are interested. In fair trial. They were not interested in fair. When they arrest me first. They ask nothing. Only see --}" She gestures to the scales on her arms. "{And assume the rest.}" Cage has not arrived alone, though it may feel as though he has. Parley has been making use of the more pragmatic elements of his psionic camouflage for the journey into the depths of the church, bearing only a light touch on the social scale and hanging to the background to spare this precarious broth from too many chefs, allowing Cage to speak while making simple polite nods with Nadya and Marcelino as they meet -- and briefly more intimate, /wry/ (satisfied?) brush along the underbelly of Mirror's awareness << (ever in the thick of it)(aren't you.)(hmm.) >> He hangs back, as Cage takes his seat, watching the interaction between the girl and his employer. Inside, down here, he's rolled down his high collar to a more comfortable level, allowing some of his fur to show along the sides of his neck. With hands folded behind his back, he doesn't step in to overtly offer translations, letting the two interact directly… but? The inherent understanding between them is perhaps a few degrees more successful than it might be. It's like getting a +1 in Comprehension rolls. Kay is /not/ so discrete. When he fills the entrance of the downstair's room, he does it like he'd been vaulting through it and only come to a stop by catching his hands on the top of the doorway and just... hangs there, with long lanky arms and sharp elbows, head hanging low. He maybe clips his teeth at Ion when he passes to be fed a /tablescrap/, but his eyes are on the guests. He's shrugged out of his biker's kutte, wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing off a wiry-hard pair of scarred and tattooed forearms, a black bandana tied around one upper bicep. He /had/ been up prowling around on the rooftop, out of the way of the church's service, trying not to make a fiery menace of himself amongst the church-goes… for the most part. He jumps right in at this point in Jessica's story, rapping his knuckles on the table to clue her in that she's about to have company, "-and unless they got some fucking evidence tying her /into/ all that shit, they got no more law on their side than we do." THWUMP. He drops down next to the girl sort of sideways, a tall long-torso'd grinning man somewhere in his 30's - what might have at one generous moment in his life been called baby-faced has been ravaged by sun and wind and there's a certain dry cloud of /heat/ radiating off of him. He puts forward a no-nonsense opened hand, "Luke-fucking-Cage. I've wanted to shake your hand for a while, bro." Mirror has been far more aware of Parley's presence than the others, though ze doesn't /show/ it -- though the reporter isn't showing /much/, a quiet background-lurking /non/presence at this point just as much as Parley is, though in her case it isn't by any dint of mutation. Just quietly slipping into the background as an observer, politely watching but making not much else of her presence. To the others, at least. To Parley, a quietly thoughtful mental /hum/. << These days, the entire city is the thick of it. >> Though this does have a follow-up acknowledgement as they are /invaded/ by a Kay: << … I suppose this /is/ a touch thicker than the rest. >> "{Yeah, I know,}" Cage says when Jessica explains. "{It's a scary day for people like you and me. It used to be because of color,}" Cage indicates his own skin tone, holding his hand out between them, turning it from palm down to palm up. "{Now because of this…}" Cage moves slowly, no sudden movements, and picks up a discarded metal fork from the table. He presses it against the skin of his palm, which indents slightly, but is otherwise unmarred, while as he increases pressure, the tines of the fork are slowly turned back on themselves. He sets the fork down, all bent out of shape. "{Is hard for them to hurt me. So I try to help. Help you.}" At this point, Cage stops pushing at the mental barrier he didn't realize he was fidgeting with, and when it comes down, his spanish vocabulary just /flows/. He breathes a sigh of relief, like he was only taking half breaths until now, and turns a knowing, if accusatory eye around the room until he spies Parley. He gives him half a grin, a nod, and turns back to the table. Cage shakes Kay's hand with a bemused grin, and sits back to regard the man. When he continues, the spanish flows naturally. Sure, he still has his accent, but the words and grammar come naturally. "{Well look, I know it's ugly out there. But I'm pretty sure I can negotiate on your behalf. And if you all surrender, I'll cover the legal fees, and keep the whole trial in the media. They won't be able to just /disappear/ your asses, like they've done before.}" J.C.'s smile is quick, when that rapping comes on the table. She scoots just a little sideways to make room for Kay, and breaks off a piece of cupcake -- chocolate, filled with orange pudding, undoubtedly baked by Jax and supplied by BATMOBILE -- to /deposit/ it into Kay's hand. The one not shaking Cage's. Her mouth opens into a small O when she watches the tines of the fork bend on Luke's skin, and what tension remained to her posture relaxes further in understanding. For a long moment, though, she is silent, considering; in her thoughts there is just -- uncertainty. It's tired, more than anything; tired of all of this. Not even angry, not hostile. "{Surrender.}" She echoes this slowly, not quite sure. Her eyes flick, from Luke to Kay; she inches a little big closer to the firebug, lurklurklurk towards his ambient heat. "{-- I could -- /I/ didn't even /do/ what they - but. /But/. But they /killed/.}" Her head shakes. "{They murdered. Their friend. We might not disappear but how do we know that -- there'll be a safe place? There are so few. Safe places. For us.}" << (he wouldn't get)(nearly as far as he does), >> Parley, settling more relaxed against a wall with arms loosely crossing, is remarking whisper-soft to Mirror as they observe, << (if he wasn't) so (utterly)(sincere.) >> He shares small snippets of the open, pure, unrefined sense of tarnished *honesty* that is so quintessentially /Cage/. << (it's)(almost aesthetic.)(isn't it?) >> With head tipped down, his dark eyes are tracing the girl - then Kay. They move past towards the door Ion had passed through. << (mmh.) so (the electrokinetic)(joined up with)(the pyrokinetic...) >> Kay's grip isn't specifically aggressive, sort of laidback the way it swings casually down to make a loud 'clap!' when it hits Cage's hand. But it's definitely confident - and confident Cage's hand can take a hard /gripping/. He's not too hot to touch, but is rather warm. Like something left out to slow-bake in the sun. Like a /heating rock/. He doesn't interrupt J.C. as she speaks, tucking his cupcake chunk into a cheek and negligently shifts to let the exothermic girl tuck in against his side, draping a long negligent arm across her shoulders. Lightly /jostling/ before it settles. His smile is close-lipped by the end, head shaking slowly. "You don't get it, man. There /is/ no safe place out there. There's only one way things go, once cops start dying. Right now," he curls his fingers around a hunk of cupcake to free up a middle finger, tapping it on the table between them. "I'm a free man. But the instant I turn myself, thaaaat's it. J.C. might get by, but for us, it's /over/. And you don't know what they /do/ with freaks that got power like mine. Or christ - Munch's. Or what they /would've/ done to you, brother, if they'd known." He reaches up, shoves back his lank dirty blond hair where a twisted line of scarring traces the side of his skull. "/I/ do." His eyes travel past Cage, only gradually focusing on Parley. And slow smiling. "So does your friend." The smile drops to a sort of immediate neutral when his eyes move to Nadya. Not hard or closed off from her, just studying. "Who's this." "Look, I won't bullshit you guys," Cage says, falling right back into english without thinking about it. His cupcake is forgotten on the table. He clasps his hands on the table in front of him and leans in earnestly. "I did thirteen years inside, and I /know/ you got worse than me. Don't think I underestimate. And if you walk outta here with me, it's straight to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 fuckin' bucks." Cage pauses, looks each person in the eye in turn, and continues. "But this is what has to happen for anything to /change/. And I'm gonna be /right fucking there/, watching your incarceration like a hawk. Every camera in America will be on you, and they'll have to do everything by the letter, or they risk a mistrial." Somebody has been brushing up on his own court case, it seems. Cage taps the table softly, making his point. "But we, you and me, /need/ this case to /be/ a case. It needs to hit the courts, and set fucking precedent, or this shit is just gonna keep happening." Cage hasn't made any effort to filter his language before now, but for some reason he takes this moment to turn and apologize to the Monsignor. "Uh, sorry Father." He shrugs. "Here's the deal - you guys broke the law," Cage continues. "But there's precedent for defending yourself from the cops, even. Black people had to do it, the gays had to do it. Now mutants have to do it every damn day. Sweet Christmas... You think I don't see that? Man, there's laws up and down the books for this shit. But you're probably gonna have to do some time for what happened out there. Like I had to, for bein party to armed robbery." Luke sighs and sits back again. "But we'll turn that courthouse inside out if they don't do it right. And if they try to stash you somewhere…" <<brace yourself>> "I'll knock down those fuckin walls /myself/." His fists clench on the table as his gaze looks past the young people for moment, perhaps imagining his own prison break. << This is, >> Mirror relays in quiet information to Parley, her eyes flicking only briefly along with his towards Ion, << actually his church. These are actually his people. The media -- >> This comes with a quietly wry flicker of amusement, self-directed, << has yet to connect him to the others. >> Hir attention reverts to Luke, even as hir weight shifts /just/ a touch closer to Parley. Not much. Just a slight shift on hir feet, a rebalancing of posture. << Do you think he /remembers/ he is being recorded? >> Hir finger traces so-so lightly against the rim of hir sleek white tablet. << I must say, I don't envy your position as his PR. You do seem -- >> And here, in Mirror's /actual/ day job wearing no face but hir own, there's hir default calm-cool-neutral layered in steady blanketing over hir thoughts -- but beneath the clinical quiet a niggling sense of /concern/ flickers, tiny but /present/ at the root of it, << -- to find yourself rather in the /thick/ of things, quite often. Perhaps for your next job you should find someone -- saner. >> "Nadya Tadros," she introduces herself to Kay, with a nod but without stepping forward. "The Daily Bugle. The Monsignor said I could accompany Mr. Cage, provided I took no pictures. The coverage of all this has, until now, been remarkably one-sided; nobody has had yet a chance to hear --" Her hand sweeps out, to Kay, to J.C., to Ion in the kitchen. "Your side of things." J.C. nestles herself contentedly closer to Kay's warmth, with more /relief/, really, than affection, a sort of /pragmatic/ shift of posture that leans up against her living heatrock. Her eyes flick between the two men, and her brow furrows when Kay pushes his hair back. "{More than one way. For things to change. The cops --}" Her head shakes, a quick nervous twitch. "{You have seen? The news? Seen what the cops do. Put us in cages. Kill. Have any of them gone to jail for that? I did not -- break. Any laws. They charged me with murder because I /look/ to them like a murderer.}" Her finger pokes through the colourful icing on her cupcake. She looks a little bit guilty, /feels/ a little bit guilty, the tired continuing when she says: "{Things need to change. But. I do not know if I can be the one to change -- them. It is a bigger fight than -- me. To leave here. I will be in jail many -- a long time. For a thing I did not do. And we tell them again that their way is -- right.}" It isn't necessarily nearer; but Parley moves in tandem when Mirror does, the weight of one hip adjusting to the other, head lowering an increment more. << (a little late) >> his mind, a flat gray wisp that constricts like a muscle when Kay references him, then relaxes again in a delicate semi-prop against Mirror, has some tenuous rue << (to turn away)(now.)(it will get no less--)(.../thick/.) >> "Mr. Cage," he exhales evenly, not in a /rush/ but certainly without hesitation, "is of course speaking metaphorically." << (hm.)(the pyrokinetic)(isn't wrong.) if (the government)(knew) about (Luke Cage's ability)(he would likely) be (brainchipped)(in a lab)(right now.) >> Just a passing observation. Kay is shaking his head again, slowly, while rubbing at one eye. "I'm not your cause, brother." He doesn't say it angrily - not /apologetic/, either. Just breaking the news with a tired rasp, while his unlikely young charge soaks in heat at his side. "I can't answer for the rest of my crew. But I'm telling you - the system's broke. And I'm not playing anymore. I get what you wanna do, and I wish you luck. But I'm not your guy." He drops his hand flat against the table and turns his squinted, hard stare - dry, sober bloodshot eyes with perma-bags built in beneath - to Nadya. "You want my side, you can have it. This ain't about revenge. Or /money/, or terror. It ain't about /punishing/ the human race or the /church/ or the law makers. I'm just fucking tired of humans deciding /for/ us what should be done /with/ us. So, far as I'm concerned," he sweeps a long whipish arm to indicate… the room. "this land," All… however many thousand square feet the church may be, "is a /free/ state. And anyone /in it/," his teeth bare, too grim to be a smile, too /open/ to be a snarl, "is under my protection. For just as long as they wanna be here. And just as long as I'm /breathing/." Luke sighs, and nods, his expression softening. "I know you didn't do anything wrong, Jessica. I know. But when you get caught up in something, sometimes you have to go to court to prove it." His lips tighten into a thin line when he listens to Jessica describe the fighting ring. He takes a deep breath and says, "I know about that too. And that's what happens when they're allowed to /hide/. When nothing comes to light. Going to court isn't about legitimizing (!) /their way/. The rule of law should be /everyone's/ way. It should be /our/ way. Or nothing is gonna get better. And we have to /take/ that back, because they sure as hell ain't gonna hand it to us." He holds up his hands, palms out, and leans back in his chair. "Trust me, guys, I /get/ where you're coming from. And I ain't gonna make you do anything. Doubt I could anyway." He grins and shrugs. "But just… think this through. Are you /really/ gonna stay down here forever? I mean, I get that it's under your protection, but does this church really /belong/ to you, to just claim it like that? Is the monsignor cool with it? All I'm saying is that this isn't a long term plan." "And I'll walk anyone out who wants to come. You can think it over too. No need to go right fuckin /now/, right?" Cage laughs. "Could just be one of you, or everyone who wants a fair trial. You've already got so much publicity out there. We can keep it public. No one goes to a lab. No one gets locked up unfairly. Or I can head out, and mind my own business. I don't mean to just walk into your house and go 'here's what happenin'." Cage reaches into his back pocket and produces a few business card. "But you got my number… so I hope to hear from you. I just don't want this to turn into some fuckin shoot out. I hope you'll let me help you. I'm here for you. You don't have to do this alone." Cage scoots his chair back a notch, but sits, waiting for Jessica and Kay to have their say before he goes. "{Not claiming. Asking -- }" J.C.'s hands turn upwards, too, a smaller mirror of Cage's. "{This church doesn't belong --}" But here, the priest steps in; he's been largely quiet till now, but he steps forward. "This church," he says, quiet but firm, "belongs to any who need it. They are not claiming it. It has already been claimed for them. This isn't about violence; it never should be. But this church is my home -- and it will always /be/ a home to any who need a safe space." Kay doesn't just take the card handed him - he catches Luke's wrist to position their hands where they can clasp palms a final time. "S' a place here for you, too, man. This isn't a fucking business deal - I get it. And I appreciate it." He stands up as well, after making sure J.C. isn't toppled to the ground for the shifting, stepping to the side to fall in alongside Luke, clapping a hand against the big guy's back to walk with him and the others on the way out. In /height/ Cage's physique has only a few inches advantage on Kay. In width, it's a bullwhip against a broadsword. "Don't be a stranger, huh?"