Logs:Human Resources

Human Resources
Dramatis Personae Rasheed, Malthus
In Absentia	2022-02-15 "You can have your men. I pray they'll be put to good use."
Location <HFC> Bishop's Salon - HFC Second Floor
One of half dozen such rooms at the club, this is an intimate parlor where one might take luncheon, tea, or brandy and cigars after supper. Each is sumptuously appointed in the theme of a chess piece--the Bishop in this case. For all that, the decor is fairly light on actual Christian symbolism. Aside from the Paradise Lost triptych over the mantle, an illuminated manuscript on its own pedestal in one corner, and an ornate gold monstrance (absent the host) mounted above the door, the paraphernalia on the shelves and walls mostly relate to general Medieval scholarship and scrivening. Here among the lavish theatricality of the ultra-rich, it's hard to tell whether Malthus Rogers is out of place or in his element. The jagged notch of that scar -- crossing his left eye and curling down to his lip, where it tugs at the corner to create a specter of a gruesome smile -- certainly lends him a particular 'Phantom of the Opera' aesthetic which is entirely suitable for the atmosphere. But there is a degree of awkwardness to the way he carries himself amidst all this finery... as if he would much prefer to be picking through the remains of a battlefield. "Stay here," Malthus tells 'Gunny' -- a man dressed in a crisp black suit and blue collar shirt, sans tie. He looks similarly ill at ease. A Lichtenberg figure covers the left side of his face, extending across the back of his scalp in a geometric scrawl. He grunts in affirmation, stepping besides the entrance to the private salon -- keeping an eye out while fingering an old brass lighter with the Marine Corps insignia welded to the front. Clnk. Clnk. Clnk. Malthus, meanwhile, steps inside -- arms neatly folded behind his back. "Dr. Rasheed -- a pleasure." No doubt Rasheed, with all his inherited wealth, inherited club membership, is well used to such settings. Even in finely tailored grey suit, though, he manages to make any surroundings look ill-fitted to him. He's been sitting, a little hunched, in an armchair, long fingers curled around a crystal glass of sparkling water. His eyes tick to the door when it opens. His eyes linger -- slightly narrowing -- on Gunny before darting to Malthus. The small nod he gives is delayed, and he gestures toward an empty seat across from him with a flick of a hand. "Mr. Rogers." Like his clothing, like the room around him, the words are just the wrong side of too-awkward in his mouth. "I've seen more of you in the news this past week than the past several years, I think." "...hn. Yes. If I am being truthful, I find the attention... rather disconcerting," Malthus admits, pausing on his journey toward the empty seat to examine a suit of ornately decorated medieval armor. He is briefly distracted by the swirling patterns of gold spirals which adorn its surface. Soon enough, his attention returns to Rasheed -- his mouth shifting into a small, reflexive smile. He moves to the chair across from him, sinking into it... immediately shifting, stilted. Too soft, too comfortable; too luxuriant. "Public relations are not my precise forte. Heightened visibility... complicates... the execution of one's duties. A challenge I'm sure you're acquainted with." Just outside, almost entirely out of ear-shot, Gunny continues to flick the lighter's lid. Clnk. Clnk. Clnk. "We had gotten used to a certain level of obscurity." Rasheed's acknowledgment is mildly pinched, as is his exceedingly mild follow-up: "And were on our way to fading back into it before your little stunt with Holland." He swirls his water idly in his glass, watching the light refract through the crystal. When he looks up again its with a small lift of his brows. "Complicates. Yes. The swarm of reporters can't camp out at your offices forever." Though after this his mouth presses together, a tight displeased line: "Though someone in his camp is -- very adroit at PR." "Mhh... I had suspected as much." Malthus finally settles upon a position that leaves his hands draped across the armrests, as if his fingers seek to dig into them. "I readily admit -- and highly regret -- my error, along with the obstacles it will no doubt create for you and your people. The importance of the work you're doing..." He shifts his left shoulder up, then his right; shifting awkwardly, as if trying to burrow his way back into the seat. At last, he seems content. "...I am unaccustom to this manner of warfare, Doctor. But I am also a swift learner -- and not one to pass up an opportunity. One that, if properly acted upon, could benefit both of our interests." Rasheed rests his glass on the arm of his chair. He's sitting tipped forward toward the edge of the seat, his other hand -- perhaps out of some kind of sympathy -- digging into the opposite arm of the chair. There's a small sideways twitch at the corner of his mouth at warfare, though his expression doesn't otherwise change. "We have had to be very adaptable in order to keep our project productive." His fingers peel up one by one from the leather of the armrest, hand turning upward once he has loosened his grip. "Opportunity? Tell me this doesn't have to do with Holland." Malthus's hands drift up from the arm-rests at the mention of Holland's name, only his elbows remaining stationary -- fingers curling together into a single unit, hovering directly in front and below his chin. "Keeping Holland in custody is critical -- the public is fickle. The longer he remains in our custody, the longer he will -- how did you put it? 'Fade into obscurity'." "...but eventually, I suspect, he will be free. He has many passionate, vocal allies -- allies with extraordinary reach. And once he is free, I suspect you will find yourself beneath the hot-white glow of that spotlight once more. Holland doesn't strike me as the sort of man to give up on this... Quixotic quest of his." "I do hope you are correct -- on the fading away front." Rasheed drops his hand back to the armrest. His fingers drum in one slow roll, and then another. "I can hardly fault the man for his persistence. But we have our own cause to further." His dark eyes fix on Malthus, steady and curious. "What, then, have you come to propose?" Outside, the flicking of the lighter continues. Clnk. Clnk. "Holland's narrative relies upon the perception of his moral sanctity. But such perceptions are fragile things; easily broken in the heat of battle." Malthus's index fingers curl up from the fist; their tips press against his upper lip, his single eye focused on the door leading out of the salon -- on 'Gunny', waiting outside. "I want to drastically expand Mr. Holland's security detail." Clnk. Clnk. Clnk. His eye flicks toward Rasheed: "Sergeant Poindexter has proven highly versatile. With your permission, I would like access to other similarly... suitable candidates. Not for anything illegal, I assure you -- just for added security. To protect the facility, and -- on the off-chance that an opportunity presents itself. An opportunity to... shall we say, 'change the narrative'." "Hnh." Rasheed's eyes have gotten just a bit wider, a flicker of surprise across his face. He doesn't quite stop himself from darting a glance back toward the door. "Really." He does, at least, keep most of the surprise out of his voice. "I'm glad that -- has worked out for you both. We do have the personnel. They are -- volatile, still, but have been making good progress." He lifts a hand, elbow propped on the armrest and his palm rubbing against his cheek. "But he man has broken into seventeen of our facilities without a single fatality, do you think prison is going to -- give him a greater appetite for violence?" His brows have lifted higher. "Not," he adds, "that I would not be grateful if you managed to tarnish his halo." Malthus's mouth twists upwards -- a hint of amusement at Rasheed's brief flash of surprise. "Let's just say that I have a certain way with Sergeant Poindexter's... type." Clnk. "Regarding his record -- no disrespect intended to your facilities, nor your security forces. But you are a research operation, Dr. Rasheed. Your work concerns the preservation of life -- mine, only its cessation. We are the US military -- we have been killing mutants for decades. I assure you -- should my facility suffer an attack, there will be blood." His eye drifts back to Gunny, at the door. "...particularly with such uniquely gifted personnel at our disposal." Rasheed's lips twists, too, thin and down for a brief moment. "We owe a great debt of gratitude to the military for allowing us to continue our work freely." He lifts his glass, taking a swallow of his water as if to wash a bad taste from his mouth. It sounds wearier when he speaks again: "You can have your men. I pray they'll be put to good use." Once the details have been worked out, Malthus emerges from the salon. Gunny snaps his lighter shut, swiftly following behind. Clnk. "...sir?" Malthus doesn't look back. "Put the transfer paperwork through for our 'special guest' -- make sure Holland gets to meet him. Your strike-team will be arriving shortly, Sergeant." Sergeant Poindexter's scarred face splits into a menacing, joyful grin. "Oh, man, Captain... you're gonna fuckin' love these guys."