ArchivedLogs:Hammer and Shield

Hammer and Shield
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Alice Lambton	2013-07-17 Malthus introduces himself to Alice.
Location
High atop a Manhattan skyscraper is a rooftop office. Three walls are made of floor-to-ceiling glass; the fourth is granite embedded with a single elevator door. The decor has a strong Japanese influence, all gleaming floors and low furniture. To the left, two steps lead up to a dais with a desk. To the right, a sideboard with a potted orchid and brandy decanters, with glasses. A sitting area claims the center of the office, made up of a set of soft green couches facing each other over a table decorated with an English silver tea service. A small indoor fountain burbles in the corner, and double-doors lead out onto a rooftop patio that has been turned into a sky garden. The view is exquisite. The man who arrives early in the evening is striking. Not because of his build -- which is notable -- nor because of his clothes -- which are stark black. It's because of his scar. The snarl of long-healed flesh begins above the ridge of his right brow and continues down through the eye, rendering it a functionless grey orb. It continues, penetrating his upper right lip -- splitting it open to expose a tiny sliver of white, straight teeth. It gives him the appearance of a perpetual sneer -- but the sneer is not carried through to the rest of his face. There's almost a gentle melancholy to the man's single remaining blue eye -- a softness of character that carries through to his gait and posture. Despite this softness, Alice Lambton would be aware that the man stepping into her office is capable of defying that softness. Malthus Rogers is many things: 'Incapable of violence' is not among them. "Miss Lambton." His voice is smooth, cool, soft; his smile gentle. "A pleasure to finally meet you. Your superiors have been kind enough to allow me to read your notes -- I hope you do not mind." He is soon offering her a hand -- warm, rough, calloused. Weathered with adversity. "My presence here is by no means indicative of a lack of faith in your abilities. Rather, I am here because it's abundantly clear no one else is more capable of advising me on the situation in New York." No one puts on a tea like the English. Malthus' arrival is greeted with a melange of the richest scents--tea, lemon, cream, butter. There is a silver tea service steaming on the table in the sitting area, beside a tray piled high with dainties--including scones, of course, with fresh fruit for her guest's enjoyment. The depth of this perfume is at odds with the sleek serenity of their surroundings, yet somehow creates an atmosphere that is both peaceful and cozy. Alice meets him just beyond the door to the office, a cool vision in spring green silk, her smile small but genuine. Surely she sees the scar. Surely she knows of his reputation. And yet there is no hesitation in taking his offered hand to complete the ritual of meeting and greeting. "Mr. Rogers, such a pleasure. Of course I don't mind. If you were allowed that access, then surely it was necessary. Do come in. Have a seat. Do you take tea?" "I would adore tea," Malthus informs Alice; this is accompanied by the smallest of smiles. His arms are clasped behind his back. There is an overwhelming abundance of /politeness/ about the man -- as if he were prepared to bend over backwards to avoid even the slightest breech of etiquette. Soon enough, Malthus is seated; his legs cross in a gesture that is almost feminine. His hands clasp atop of his lap. "--would it be rude of me to -- jump right to it? I have a great many questions for you, as well as a great deal of sensitive information to deliver -- but I know you are an extraordinarily busy woman." "If we were in Japan, perhaps. Fortunately for both of us, this is New York." Alice offers him a deeper smile as she settles on the opposite couch, close-lipped, but it turns her eyes into twinkling crescents. A small joke, of the sort appropriate for a strictly mannered guest. "I confess, when I received the call this afternoon, I was rather intrigued to find they were sending you here. Your reputation precedes you. How do you take your tea, sir?" Naturally she is preparing his cup first. A small, delicate pair of pincers threaten the cup with a square of sugar. There's a slight crinkling about Malthus' /good/ eye; the hint of humor well-received. "--oh, black. No sugar. I'm sweet enough." The crinkling deepens, as if Malthus has just made a delightful little jest himself: "--really? I have a reputation," he says, as if he finds this idea novel. "I've always tried to avoid -- mmn. I am getting distracted. I beg your indulgence." A breath, and then: "--you believe Norman Osborn is a mutant." There's an ebb of apology behind these words; as if Malthus was reluctant to bring up such a sensitive topic to such an otherwise pleasant discussion. "I've reviewed your files, along with what we know of the man. I strongly suspect you are correct. However," and now his face is marred by a disapproving frown as he reaches out for his cup of tea, "I fear we'll soon have to seek out a diplomatic solution with him." Indulgence granted. He wins another of those sparkling smiles, while Alice retracts the threat of sugar and lifts the pot instead. Once filled, the cup is placed within easy reach of his hand before she performs the same task with the second. A wedge of lemon is added, but no sugar. "Not so very sensitive a topic. It's somewhat of a relief to hear another person agree with my assessment." Alice's expression doesn't obviously change but perceptive eyes might see a less relaxed curve to her smile as she says this. She settles back, saucer in one hand and fingers looped through the handle of the teacup. "I don't know that diplomatic and Normon Osborn can peacefully coexist. The man /did/ threaten my life," she adds before taking a delicate sip. "Yes," Malthus agrees, and now there is a force to his frown; as if the mere existence of such a threat offended his deepest held sensibilities. "He did. And were the world fair and just, he would be paying dearly for such hubris." Malthus' head lowers; a rush of breath sweeps across the surface of the tea, sending the steam away. "And so he will. But not yet. We've been watching him. He is, at this very moment, demonstrating newfound technology to Dr. Doom and Oscorp stockholders. Technology capable of blocking telepathic signals." Alice's eyebrows raise. Just that, at first. She tilts her head, she considers. Then, slowly, she leans forward to replace the teacup on the table. When she settles back, the diplomat adopts the same posture Malthus had--legs crossed, hands folded together. Listening mode, it seems, has been activated. "Is he." It isn't a question. Her lips purse in a light frown. "How unlike him, not to rush to unveil this grand achievement. Is he gloating, to demonstrate it to Latveria, or is he brokering some sort of deal between them?" "--I had hoped to ask /you/ that very question, Miss Lambton." There's a wryness to the look Malthus gives Alice; a mixture of amusement and apology. "I fear you may currently be our foremost expert on the man." And then, with more solemnity -- only once he has taken a small, delicate sip of tea: "I could handle the negotiations, if you would like. Not to imply you are incapable; but the man did threaten you. If he's a mutant, who knows what he could do? I," and there's a darkness that, for just an instant, enters Malthus' expression, "have some... experience. With the more dangerous variants." "Mm...it's a difficult question, given that I haven't spoken with the man since..." Such a delicate way to reference that encounter--especially given how bluntly Alice approached it just seconds ago. But there's something about Malthus' reaction that inspires it. A feminine quirk, let's call it. She sighs. "I know that both Doom and Osborn have been dancing around each other for some time now. There's a third as well, a Sebastian Shaw, who's arranged mining rights within Latveria. I haven't been able to determine what he's receiving in return, nor what sort of relationship Doom and Osborn might have. I /can/ say that if I were to read a news report about one murdering the other, I would be not at all surprised. If I were to /guess/," and her tone makes it very clear she dislikes guesses, "I would say that Osborn covets Doom's technology. Perhaps the reverse is true." Ah! Laughter. It's somehow clear from the softness of it that it's a rare thing for Malthus -- he values the experience, holding on to it tightly. It is delicate and deft, twisting that scar into an unusually curled shape: "Oh, my. What a tangled web of political intrigue. Ah," and now the amusement quickly fades, replaced with solemn melancholy: "But I shouldn't laugh, should I? It's such a very serious matter -- dealing with these mad men -- bickering over technology that could very well save us from the looming challenges ahead. Treating it as if it were just another petty struggle for power." The frown deepens. On Malthus' face, it has an unusual dimension; his scar makes it appear almost as if he is snarling -- though his eye is more sad than angry: "And you, left to try and navigate them to shore. Mmn. It's a shame," he says, with another sip of tea and the faintest sparkle of a tease in his eye, "that we can't just take them all out back and /shoot/ them." Alice's smile is once more small, perhaps mildly subdued. As described, it isn't a happy position to be in. "I've done a poor job of it, I'll admit. One man threatens my life. The other lectures me as if I were a schoolgirl. I've had to resort to less obvious means to maintain observation...though in some ways, that's been more helpful? All of their actions, with the ego filtered out." She lifts an elbow to the arm of the couch and tilts her head, temple resting against her fingertips. "Given the size of the egos involved, it's no great shock that they're incapable of seeing the larger picture. A bullet would solve that /so/ easily. But...one must make do. If you'd like for me to invite Mister Osborn here, I'm willing." "Miss Lambton." The teacup descends; its contact with the table is a delicate clink -- and suddenly, Malthus is leaning forward. Hands steepled behind the cup. That placid blue eye sharply focused on Alice's own jade. "I apologize for my boldness, but I cannot allow such a statement to go unchallenged. I've read your reports. Your performance under these circumstances has been nothing short of /exemplary/. As you yourself implied: You are dealing with megalomaniacs. I would like..." The brazen posture shifts; Malthus sinks back into his chair -- legs crossing again. Wearing a curious, thoughtful frown. "I would like you to do what you are comfortable with, Miss Lambton. I feel as if you have already given so much ground in this situation; it pains me to ask any more. As I said, I would be happy to handle the Osborn... 'situation'. Though, I fear, I would not necessarily bear it with your grace and poise." A slight, rueful little smile. "Oh, that reminds me. There's another matter, with Prometheus..." "You are too kind, sir. It's heartening to have your vote of confidence. Truly." Alice turns her hand, lets it slide through the air--self-criticism dismissed, at his urging. Her smile this time is an easier thing, touched with almost softness. "Would that grace and poise were enough to accomplish anything, in this day and age. But it would poorly done of me to simply wash my hands of it all at this stage, I think. I am at your service, sir." And here she actually laughs. "There is always another matter. Have the powers that be decided to take them public, with a call for volunteers?" "Oh, dear. I fear /you/ would hear about that long before I did, Miss Lambton." Again, a crinkle of pleasure at Malthus' eyes; the teacup rises. "--actually, you have considerably more clearance in that regard than I do. Another reason I'm here; to ask your permission to speak with one of the directors of the labs. I'm currently head of a small project; we're investigating the possibility of human augmentation. Thanks to some of the work from Prometheus, we've had several startling breakthroughs. I'm afraid, however, they've been -- perhaps quite rightly -- slow to share /all/ the data. We're interested in one of their subjects. We call him 'Patient Zero'. His blood," and now when Malthus takes this next sip, his gaze is lost amidst the pool of remaining tea, "imbues humans with regenerative abilities." This time, Alice raises a single eyebrow. "Oh? I'm sure Doctor Toure would be open to speaking to you about the subject. Especially if you can be of assistance with the situation here...it's been dreadfully disruptive to his work. But you hardly need my permission, Mr. Rogers. I'm afraid in regards to everything outside of the arena of maintaining efficient operations, I'm somewhat...clueless," she says, with a glint of self-deprecating humor. "Ah, well," and on this, Malthus seems both amused and somewhat anxious, as if he has blundered awkwardly into a den of vipers, "the issue is -- mmn. I am not good with diplomacy, Miss Lambton. I am a soldier at heart; my solutions are direct. I've been told to rely on your advise and approval for this situation, because -- I fear the issue may be a tangled one. Patient Zero," Malthus adds, "escaped Prometheus care. The concern is that in my zeal to recover him, I'll draw unwanted attention to the facilities under your management." "Ah. That /is/ a different situation, isn't it?" Alice returns to her former posture, fingertips to temple. This time, she looks past Malthus, over his shoulder, as she adopts a most thoughtful expression. "One supposes it depends," she finally says, "on where Patient Zero is located. We...unfortunately have a rather /large/ population of escapees in the city at the moment. Currently they're something of a PR nightmare for their own kind. One's even killed a local police officer. But to try to retrieve any of them...I'm afraid that boat might have already sailed, without some pretense. Do you know where they are?" "Mmn. No, I've been," Malthus is forced to smile! Tiny but grim -- "denied any information on the identity of Patient Zero beyond that he had escaped, and that I was to speak to you to find an equitable solution that did not -- disrupt? Your current operations. In this regard," and there is a slow, respectful bow of his head, "I am at your mercy. You'll have to speak with your Dr. Toure to even find out who I'm talking about, I'm afraid." Alice's lips curl in the most wry of smiles. "Doctor Toure isn't in the habit of disclosing information to me, in that regard. I can, however, facilitate an introduction. And perhaps urge him to share the information you need. Would that be acceptable? Once I /have/ the information, I can do a great deal more than just provide an introduction. But without even a name to begin with...and with no precedent of file sharing, now that the New York facility has been closed..." "Yes," Malthus agrees, a flare of his nostrils; the only sign of frustration he shows, but on a face as serene as his, it stands out sharply. "--that would be quite helpful. I apologize -- I would not push on this issue if it was not of -- /critical/ importance. The serum we've produced just from the initial samples alone... the results are -- marvelous, really." His hand drifts, moving into his coat; a card is produced. Delicate. Bone-white. Neatly printed; 'HAMMER', 'MALTHUS ROGERS', a number, an email, a fax. "In addition to relying on your approval for a plan to recapture Patient Zero," Malthus tells her, "I am to formally offer you any and all assistance in dealing with the situation here in New York -- Osborn. Doom. Shaw. Or your escapees." The edge of his mouth quirks upward. "At your disposal are several squadrons of the most elite soldiers to be found in our military -- along with our not-unconsiderable tools for containing, capturing, observing, and investigating mutants." Malthus' mouth /threatens/ to smile just a little more: "Unofficially, I just want you to know: I'm quite happy my superiors have instructed me to make this offer to you. It brings me nothing but pleasure to provide you with the resources you need to continue -- and elevate -- your work. If you do not think it brazen of me, I would like you to consider me -- the hammer to your shield." The card is accepted and studied, before Alice rises in one smooth, graceful movement to approach her desk. It's set there and her own card taken from the holder to be carried back. This one is equally utilitarian, though the script is softer. "Ahh, how satisfying it would be to simply unleash you," she teases. "And yet. The current situation requires restraint. One glorious day, perhaps. I would /love/ to see you at work, Mr. Rogers. I've no doubt I'd find it cathartic." Her arm is offered; it would seem the interview is at an end. "You might do well to set your sights on the Village Loft. The ringleaders of our local activist group live there. It's a veritable hot bed of mutant activity. One wonders at the owners." Ah, laughter -- twice in one day! Malthus seems to have struck gold: "Oh, goodness. I think my superiors have /specifically/ placed my powers under your disposal to avoid that very situation. When given carte blanche," and here he is taking Lambton's hand, firm and tight, squeezing in tandem with the smile that finally blooms, fully formed, across his scarred face, "I am not known for my /restraint/. But I do respect etiquette. I am a guest in your city, and shall abide by your rules. The Lofts," and now, for the second time, Malthus' expression darkens. "I will look into it. Thank you, Miss Lambton. A true pleasure." The card is taken, and deposited in his coat. "Do, please. But quietly. It's rather convenient having them all in one place, you understand." Alice returns that grip with a gentler squeeze before turning to see him to the door. "I'm sure we'll make this a most productive association, Mr. Rogers. Let me know if you need anything at all, and I'll see to extending those invitations we spoke of."