ArchivedLogs:For a Cause

For a Cause
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Rasheed	2013-10-16 '
Location <NYC> 806 {Rasheed} - One Sixty-Seven - Upper West Side
Spacious and elegant and impeccably kept, this apartment is pristine enough that it looks barely lived-in. The living room is just a short hallway down from the entrance, set down a couple stairs in a wide sweep of pale hardwood floors. Dark leather couches and armchairs and pale wooden furniture sits on a plush rug of soft grey. A large balcony runs along the side of the living room, accessible through wide French doors and shaded by an overhang; below, there is a clear view of Central Park. The kitchen adjacent sits a little bit higher, a few stairs leading up to its dark tiled floor. It is roomy as well, granite countertops and sleek new appliances and a wealth of elegant dinnerware. There are two bedrooms, here, both set opposite each other down a short hallway and both with their own bathroom. The end of the hallway holds a large study, with book-lined walls. Another half-bath sits off the living room, underneath a carpeted lofted area accessible by ladder and big enough to be a room itself, though it lacks walls; instead, a short balcony looks down on the living room beneath. Malthus' arrival is brisk -- quick -- and as quiet as an oncoming storm. The man is dressed as sharply as ever; a charcoal coat that nearly brushes across the ground -- his head shaved as smooth as glass -- that angry, vicious snarl of a scar twisting its way past one eye and down to his upper lip. Otherwise, he carries himself with Zen-like serenity. "Dr. Toure," Malthus begins, lips pursed -- a hint of a frown in his tone. "I presume you did not call upon me merely for the pleasure of my company." A joke. The best Malthus can do, under the circumstances. Despite the troubles he's faced recently, he looks... surprisingly untarried. As if not an ounce of that burden weighs upon his shoulders. At home, Rasheed looks comfortable, for him, which means slacks and a dress shirt but no jacket and no tie. He answers his buzzer promptly and his door still moreso. "Mr. Rogers. Thank you for coming on short notice." His lips curl into a very small thin smile. "I have been furloughed, Mr. Rogers, I have little else to do with my time save seek what pleasures I can find." He looks much as he ever does; thin, stoop-shouldered, a little shadowed under the eyes. "Can I get you something to drink?" "Ah. Yes. As have I, Doctor," Malthus responds, a thin smile of his own emerging upon his face. "Several of my men -- good men -- have already been forced to step out of service. Quite a regrettable situation. Our vulnerabilities have never been so... apparent." He pauses, at the offer, stepping inside; a slow shake of his head. "No, thank you." "It is those vulnerabilities that I called you here to discuss." Rasheed gestures Malthus inside, moving down into the living room to take a seat on an armchair. "It is a shame about your men, I imagine we could sorely use them in upcoming days. I just had a call from a colleague. The good doctor who is founding the Mendel Clinic. He was reaching out to medical workers he knew would be amenable to providing aid. He said in the upcoming days there would be need of considerable medical services for an undisclosed number of people who might have difficulty finding aid elsewhere." Malthus follows, like a shadow doggedly chasing at Rasheed's heels -- always quiet, always calm, always so disquietingly quiet. A moment after Rasheed sits, Malthus makes himself comfortable across from him -- still standing, hands folded behind his back, that lonely eye regarding the man. Once the announcement is made, Malthus is silent; not so much as a flicker of motion shows across his face. The silence continues to stretch out -- extending toward the corners of the room... until, at last, the corner of his remaining eye crinkles. And he exhales, softly. "Do you know where they're going to strike?" "No. Soon. I've been asked to be prepared over the next few days." Rasheed settles back in his chair, long thin fingers rubbing for a moment at the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next day or the next. All the information I have is to be ready, but." He lowers his eyes, hand turning upwards. "Given their history, I imagine they would not ask for aid until it is imminently necessary. My guess would be in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. We have no way of knowing where, although --" His eyes tick back up towards Malthus. "Their last strike did come en /route/ to a facility down South. I believe your men were involved, then." "Virginia," Malthus agrees. "Somehow, they discovered the route. It would be reasonable to presume they also discovered the /destination/." He goes silent, then -- his eyes staring at the space directly above Rasheed's head. Thinking. Brooding. "...I fear that officially, I have very little to offer you, Doctor," Malthus states. "Most of my men are not fanatics; they work for a paycheck, not a cause." His left lip twitches, then, before he adds -- perhaps with a hint more quiet: "/Most/ of them." Rasheed's fingertips press together, beneath his chin. "And are there many of the rest?" "Four. Perhaps five." A ragged sound escapes Malthus; something displaced between a sigh and a laugh. "Scarcely the army you've deployed before. But," he adds, "they are /my/ men. They will fight for a cause." Then, something darker intrudes in Malthus' tone -- that lonely eye focused sharply upon Rasheed. "Holland. Will he be there?" Rasheed's hands spread apart from each other, turning palm-up, fingers tipped out towards Malthus. "I have no way of knowing. I have not actually been told they are /going/; for all I know, Dr. Saavedro has /many/ friends who find themselves needing medical care for large groups of mutants frequently. That said --" Rasheed drops his fingers to rest lightly on his knees. "If they do hit one of our facilities, I cannot imagine he will /not/ be there. Since his own escape, he has been /present/ at every attack save one, and that one only because his men hit two facilities simultaneously. Thankfully, splitting himself into two places at once is not among his skills." "Mmhh. Fascinating," Malthus says, and his words carry a sense of -- almost distant reverence. Now, no longer looking at Rasheed -- once again, looking at a point past him. "I shall accompany my men to your facility at once." Already, he's producing his phone, thumbing through the contact list. "I'll need immediate access to your sensitive areas, of course." "I'll make sure of it." Rasheed lifts his hand, a somewhat weary look on his face as he rubs it against one cheek. "Ah -- all sensitive areas save one. The Virginia facility --" His lips press together, thinly. "Has been the host of some rather ill-advised experiments, in their time. There is one subject --" He exhales a slow breath. "Even I do not have clearance to grant anyone access too. I'll see what I can do, but there may not be time to -- even so," his tone shifts quieter, gravely serious, "if Holland's men do breach the facility, they must not under /any/ circumstances release this individual." "Kill them. Immediately," Malthus fires back to Rasheed, never missing a beat. But then: "If that is not possible, I will keep this in mind, and set security appropriately." The thumb is slipping through the contacts; Malthus is already on his way out the door. "Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing what dangers killing him might create. No. It is unfortunately best if he stays just where he is. Kill anyone who comes near." Rasheed gets up to let Malthus back out, hand resting heavy on the doorknob after he's pulled the front door open. "Keep me posted." "...understood," is all Malthus responds, stepping out of the door -- his pace brisk and swift. Toward the airport.