ArchivedLogs:Keeping in Touch

Keeping in Touch
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Claire, Nox
In Absentia	2013-06-21 '
Location <MOR> Below New York
Buried beneath the bustle and noise of New York's busy streets, the world underneath the city is a quieter place. Quieter, but far from deserted. Occasional ladders, often rusting, ascend to the city above and are evidence that at /one/ point these tunnels had been in use, or had been planned for it; perhaps by way of maintenance, or access to subways or sewers. These stretches have been abandoned by civic infrastructure for some time now, though, but occasional scraps of evidence -- discarded food wrappers, piles of tatty blankets or moldering old mattresses, sometimes voices carrying echoes through the dank concrete -- give evidence that /someone/ still uses these tunnels. The rumbling of subway trains sounds frequently through the walls, many of the train routes accessible through various doors and openings. For once, Murphy's picking his way through the collected refuse, sludge, and garbage with actual /care/; like he's afraid of setting off God knows what in these tunnels. The brute's clad in thick, leather boots -- dress-slacks -- a white shirt and tie -- and a black wool coat. The only thing that's changed about his attire are those brown boots. In one hand, he holds a crowbar; in the other, a flashlight. Swinging it around in the darkness as he continues to just -- trudge forward. Claire is nearby. A hand held out to grip the brute's shoulder, /begrudgingly/. In her other hand, her cane, which she tap-tap-taps on the ground in front of her, as if to test it. The woman is dressed as if she were going out for a day of gardening -- blue denim overalls, work-gloves, boots, a pink-and-white striped shirt underneath that -- a bonnet for her hair, out of fear of things -- dripping on it. For a very long time, the two of them have been quiet; Murphy leading Claire, Claire following Murphy. It's only as they start to near the tunnels Murphy's familiar with -- the old entryway in which he first encountered that shadow creature -- that Claire deigns to speak: "You've changed." Murphy responds to this with a snort: "No I haven't." "You wouldn't be helping me with--" "I owe," Murphy cuts in, vicious and harsh, "somebody a /favor/. This ain't about /you/, Claire." That bit gets them to be quiet for a bit longer. Until, after a few more steps, Claire ventures: "Things have been getting better. Quieter." Murphy /laughs/ at this. Bitter and vicious. "Better," he says. "Yeah. Sure. We got kids living in the sewers and you say 'better'." "The streets have been more peaceful--" "You see /peace/. I see the quiet before the storm. Shit's caught a one-way train straight for Fan-Ville, Claire. You got some wits in that big brain of yours, you'll get the fuck out of this city. Fast." "I don't know," Claire replies, soft and a little strained, "what I /ever/ saw in you." "The truth," Murphy responds. "{Fuck you.}" It is indeed very drippy down here. Oddly so, given that upstairs all is sunny and bright. It is also much, much darker than on the occasion of Murphy's last visit. Someone has broken or removed the lightbulbs in their little cages to render the tunnels almost impossible to navigate. Without a flashlight, anyway. But even that does them no good when they round a bend and encounter a floor to ceiling assembly of /junk/. Rusty bicycle frames, milk crates, ragged tires with the tread worn through, a parking meter (its post ominously /twisted/ the way some people will twist the stick of a lollipop after it's softened with spit) and various other detritus. The message is clear: this is not just a random collection and they are not encouraged to go this way, no matter how much they may wish to. It's a message reiterated by the wall of shadow on the other side of the blockage, when it whispers: "I know your voices but you should not be here." When Murphy's flashlight swings up across that wall of junk -- assembled together into some form of barrier -- he stops, producing a low, harsh whistle. "I don't remember /that/," he mentions to Claire. When the walls of shadow whisper, though -- Claire's hand tightens on Murphy's shoulder. She steps forward, cane ticking as she does -- stepping forward to stand side-by-side with Murphy. "Nox," she responds, voice wavering against the dark -- even as Murphy shuts off the flashlight, suddenly leaving them both /swimming/ in darkness. "We wish to speak with you. May I use my power...?" "You should not be here," Nox repeats, "we are closed." As if the question wasn't heard, or recognized. But in the seconds that tick by after this stubborn refusal, and after a feather-soft brush of /something/ against Claire's face, the shadows add, "Basil. The lawyer? This is not your place. Basil needs sunlight." Murphy is...overlooked? Ignored? /Something/. "She's gone squirrely," Murphy replies, /maybe/ a little obnoxiously. Tact was never the man's strong-point. "Just do it, Cl--ow." Even in pitch black darkness, Claire's got enough spatial sense to know where Murphy's ribs are. She elbows them with considerable force -- lifting her head to that breif stroke of shadows. Her voice cracks, just a hint, as she continues: "We do not intend to step into your home, Nox. But -- we wish to speak with you. I want to help you -- think more clearly. So we can talk. May I...?" The private dick has forgotten one thing: Nox might be squirrely but in the darkness, she sees and hears all. And this is /her/ domain. Just half a second after Claire's elbow lands, something curls tightly around Murphy's ankle. It pulls forward, sharply, with the intention of toppling him onto his back--fortunately just that, rather than dangling him in the air. But after that attempt is made, Nox seems more inclined to conversation. "If you like," she murmurs in Claire's ear. "There is very little to discuss, however." "What, she /is/--" UNF. Murphy goes down with a solid whump; there's a series of curses -- for an instant, Claire's body tenses up with fear -- but when Murphy starts to grumble and drag himself to his feet, that tenseness melts away -- there /might/ be a trace of smile on the woman's face. "...thank you," Claire responds, and then -- her power narrows, /focuses/ on the shadows. Concentrating the full bulk of it on Nox. Sharpening the mind; lifting fogs -- making everything more obvious, more reasonable, more /clear/. "Murphy," Claire mentions as the man continues to rise to his feet, "get the radio." "Fuckin' /hell/ you see what she -- yeah, yeah, alright," Murphy growls, still brushing off the filth from his coat furiously in the darkness -- even as one hand reaches into his inner pocket, withdrawing -- what looks like a suped up walkie-talkie. The effect isn't immediately apparent. There is a great deal that needs to be cleared before Nox is capable of deep thinking. But when it happens, it happens all at once. The shadows pressing in around them with conscious weight withdraw and the gloom becomes...less. It's drawing into a woman-shape just in front of the barrier. "You can turn your flashlight on. If you would like to. I promise I won't hurt you." "We're fine, dear," Claire responds to Nox's offer -- both hands on her cane, now; her grip is a bit tighter -- her frame a bit tenser -- as she concentrates. "Mr. Law, if you would be so kind--" There /is/ a light, then. But it's no where near the power of a flashlight. No, this is the tiny glow of a small LCD screen -- along with a blinking red light. Followed by -- a chirrup, like a cricket. Murphy holds the device up, eyes narrowed, peering at the faint outline of the woman in the darkness. "This," he tells her, "is a two-way radio. S'got a range of about six miles. I set it to a frequency. Don't change it. If you fuck it up and /do/ change it, the frequency it needs to be set to is written on the back of it. It won't work in the deeper tunnels -- fuck, it won't work in pretty much /any/ tunnel. But there are places closer to the surface -- holes, grates, pipes -- places you could take it. With your shadows. Where you'll get enough reception to talk." "Mr. Law and I both have our own," Claire explains to her, her tone more gentle. "In case you need to get in contact with us. We'll turn them on and just -- listen. Between the hours of 9 and 10 pm, every day. If you need to contact someone -- deliver a message -- if you need help. If you are in danger. /Anything/. You can send us a message." "The other person with one of these," Murphy adds, "is gonna be Lucien." "Very little works in the tunnels." This is all Nox has to say at first. She takes the radio, turns it over in her hands, studies it for a time. The woman seems puzzled but as Claire explains, comprehension dawns: "Ahh," she breathes, "I will give it to James, then. He will..." No, wait! Another name is offered up and prompts a sharp look at the man beside Claire. "This is...for me, then?" There's the briefest of pauses. "But why? Lucien and I...we said our good-byes." And here is the worst aspect of Claire's ability--with a proper voice, the sorrow in Nox's tone can be clearly heard. Murphy grimaces in the shadows at the name 'James'. Claire's tone is tentative -- "...did you? I did not know. But... you are alone, here. I thought--" "Do you love him?" Murphy asks, with all the subtle nuance of a gunshot in the dark. "Does he love /you/?" "What I feel, Mister Law, is of no concern to you. We said our good-byes." Nox is looking at Murphy. Looking /hard/, in a way that implies that there might well be more tentacles creeping towards his ankles. But as she returns to studying Claire, something softens. Voice, expression, maybe even the gloom shrouding the tunnel itself. She sighs. "I am a murderer. I killed a man. I was...not in my right mind, at the time, but it was done and they'll be hunting for me. That prevents any sort of life above ground and certainly any sort of...relationship with a man as family-oriented as Mister Tessier. I've my own family here as well, people I've...people I mean to look after." Murphy is not a man best known for his ardent sense of reason. He bristles at Nox's words, /despite/ the tenseness in Nox's tone; Claire seems to sense it -- a hand reaching out to touch his shoulder -- but suddenly he's shifting, twisting, /shaking/ that arm off. "Are you for fucking /real/, woman?" Murphy asks. "There's always ways to--" THWACK. Claire's cane sweeps, sharp and sudden, for the length of Murphy's shin; there's a harsh, muffled yelp, followed by a deep-throated growl. But then Claire's voice is rising to the shadows: "...the situation may change, Nox. In time. For now... for now, you /need/ the things that make you happy. If he's one of those things -- I do not know Mr. Tessier well, but--" "Talking with Lucien," Murphy scowls-and-growls, "may help /him/ more than it helps /you/. You know," he adds, with just an /edge/ of harshness, "he was ready to kill everyone. Involved in this. If you didn't survive." Claire pointedly /stares/ at Murphy despite the darkness. As if to say, 'NOT HELPING'. It's probably fortunate that Claire is present, Clairifying Nox's brain. The level, unblinking way in which she stares at Murphy would be a little ominous, otherwise. But...no further attempt is made to return the walkie talkie. She simply passes it back to a tentacle which works on shuttling it through the makeshift wall o' junk behind her. "I've no doubt that if he had been placed in that position, he'd have been wise enough not to commit the murder in the public eye. Unfortunately, I was not. I allowed myself to become what they've made of me and I do not think that there is much to do about it." A small attempt is made to smile, however--for Claire. Not for Murphy. "Thank you. How...how is it? Above? I've had no news. And Lucien?" Claire tenses, a moment. Murphy -- scowls. Well, he's been scowling for a while, so, no change there. "Lucien's fine," Murphy responds, "at least, last time I saw the /fuck/." "Nox," Claire adds, stepping forward -- leaning her weight down atop of that cane as she extends a hand toward -- the silhouette? -- of a woman. "How much have you -- heard? There was a press conference, recently; everyone knows about the fights, now. There's an extraordinary amount of evidence coming forward, and..." She pauses. "...the video of your fight has been released. They're likely to know why you did what you did now. Things are quieting down, now, in the wake of it. But... there was violence, before that. A great deal of violence." And that is quite enough from Mister Law. Shadows leap from the wall to wrap around him, cocooning his body and holding him upright, with a final strap pinned over his mouth. His nose is left free, as are his eyes, so he may breathe and glare all he likes. But there will be no further interjections--and no escape until Nox chooses otherwise. Outwardly though, the golem she's made for her human guise appears focused on Claire. The extended hand is taken lightly, as a courtesy. "Very little," she confirms, "almost nothing. I had hoped they would...focus on me but..." A vain hope, her tone implies. She sighs, head lowering at mention of the video. "It is not an incriminating video for them. I was the monster in that as well." "Mrmrfph--!" Murphy commences, proceeding to -- indeed -- /angrily/ glare and wheeze and twist within his tight little cocoon of shadow; he seems intent on /struggling/ against it with all the muscle he can muster, as if that was going to make a difference. Claire, meanwhile, tenses a little at the mrmphing sound but -- otherwise seems to trust that whatever Nox is doing to Murphy, it isn't /dangerous/. She takes the woman's hand, squeezing tightly -- and then her cane is shifting, leaning it against her thigh to tentatively reach with the other hand. Squeezing with both. "I'm sorry, dear," Claire tells Nox, her voice suddenly very soft: "You're going to hear this eventually -- better now, when you are -- clear," she says. "A young gentleman was killed, by the police. They opened fire on him because they thought he was -- he turned into a shadow. They responded, shamefully, with panic and violence." Nox hesitates before taking that second hand, lest the older woman topple over. Barely visible, even in the softened gloom, is the slight confusion in her expression. She listens intently--and then freezes, fingers clamping hard against Claire's. Her lips work but at first no sound emerges, not even a whisper. It takes time before she's able to croak, "When?" For all of Murphy's bluster, he's stopped squirming and mumbling within that cocoon, apparently having overhead what they're talking about; now, there's just an angry-slow wheeziness through that nose. As he /listens/. "Over a week ago," Claire responds, tone still gentle-soft -- the clamp is responded to with another firm-squeeze. "Wednesday, I think. The one before last. It was all over the news -- I don't recall -- the gentleman's name." She pauses, before adding: "I would have told you myself, dear, but. I didn't even realize... I'm sorry, Nox." Now it's /Claire's/ voice that has become whisper-soft, no more than a murmur in the shadows. "Wednesday before last." The repetition is just as soft. "Of course. That is what he meant. He wouldn't have...oh. Oh." Nox extricates her hands--carefully, giving Claire plenty of time to take up her cane again. "And you say it has been somewhat quieter, since the footage was released? Since this press conference? Is that true of the police as well?" Claire seems very /reluctant/ to let Nox's hands go; not much for her sake, but -- as Nox draws back, Claire seems to want to reach out to her, grab hold of a shoulder, an arm, /something/ to pull her close -- but when she continues back, Claire sinks her grip to that cane, leaning upon it. Frowning at the darkness. "Most of the officers involved," she explains, "have been shunted off to desk duty. The violence is -- yes. The police have been... much more quiet. In the past few days." Murphy, still held hostage by the shadows, says something. It sounds muffled, but -- vaguely resembles 'For now'. Nox says simply, "Then it will be a suitable time for me to turn myself in, yes?" "/No/," both Claire -- and Murphy, muffled -- respond. Claire glances back in the darkness toward Murphy -- but then, to Nox, more carefully. More /tentatively/: "...maybe. That is -- /perhaps/, Nox. But, we should... gauge more things. The video of you -- is more or less a confession. It proves your involvement, it gives motive, it demonstrates the nature of your mutation... you might have to turn yourself in. But if you do," Claire adds, "it should be... something we negotiate. Very carefully." She draws in another breath. "There may be a chance that -- in light of evidence soon to surface -- you won't even be charged with Whelan's death." Murphy /growls/ at this, as if to voice his stern disagreement. But otherwise, he is silent. "I did not kill either of the men they made me fight but I did kill Whelan. It was not self-defense. He didn't know I was there until I showed myself," Nox says, both calm and reasonable in tone of voice. "I murdered a man. Turning myself in is the correct thing to do." She pauses again, frowning. "I...remember something. The young man that they killed in the ring. In my last fight. His name...he called himself Straylight? I'm not certain if that's enough but his family should be notified." "If that's what you wish to do," Claire says, "then, I can -- help you with that." Claire shifts at the mention of the name -- she tentatively nods, adding: "We're -- in the process. Of notifying as many families as we can. Straylight. I'll make a note of it. Some of the others may recognize the name. As to... it was wrong of you to kill him, Nox," she agrees, "but we're so deep into wrongness here -- /all/ of this -- that --" She sighs. "Depending on how the next week goes, I'm not sure how this is going to turn out." Claire adds, a /little/ smugly, as if letting Nox in on a terrible secret: "We have Officer Whelan's confession. Of everything. On tape. Do /not/ tell anyone that." Behind her, Murphy makes a surprised, muffled sound at this statement. It /is/ a terrible secret. A bombshell of sorts that leaves Nox paling and fading at the edges, in spite of Claire helping her hold things together. "He...confessed?" she asks weakly, a minor break in her calm facade. "He confessed. To everything? All that he'd done? I...wish I had known." "N--no, dear," Claire responds, her own eyes widening -- as if in realization! Of what the implications of what she just said are. "...not of his own -- violition." Another glance, toward Murphy. Who has suddenly gone /very/ quiet. Staring at the back of Claire's head. Silently. Something about his expression, in the darkness -- is not kind. Moreso than usual. "...he did not--one of the things we have done," Claire explains, "is have a -- friend -- gather each of the officers involved. Control them, mentally. So we could -- interview them, one by one. To discover the names of those who had died, and the scope of the problem. We video taped this -- Whelan was one of the earliest ones we did." Murphy's glare at the back of Claire's head /deepens/. Claire is pointedly stiffening, now, as if she can /feel/ the force of that stare. The shadow woman joins Murphy in staring at Claire. What she's just shared does nothing to help the odd flickering occurring at her borders. Slowly--very slowly--the shadows begin to pull away from Murphy to leave him free. "You...telepathically coerced confessions," she reasons out softly. This is also perhaps a downside to clarity--she seizes upon that almost immediately, proving that sometimes brilliance /does/ lurk behind madness. "You taped false confessions. That isn't...you can't use those in court, can you?" "...no. It was never my intent to," Claire begins, her voice a little weaker, a hint of trembling. "--but I wanted to. Ensure that there was a record. It is so very /easy/ for these things to be -- forgotten. Lost. I had hoped, one day, we would be able to release them, but--" "You hypocritical bitch," Murphy snarls, only an instant after being release from those shadows. "You're going to fix the trials. Aren't you." "And /you/ would just kill them," Claire snaps back, head swinging to stare at Murphy. Before, a little softer: "Murphy -- we're so far... deep into wrongness, here. I can't -- the system isn't /designed/ to handle things like this. Poison this deep..." Her eyes move back to Nox, fingers curled so /tightly/ around her cane. "...we're going to use the confession. To make people /believe/ it's real. That it happened. That it's the truth." "You're going to tell a lie," Murphy translates, cold and hard, "to get people to do what's right." "Please mind your language," Nox warns Murphy--though she doesn't gag him again. Or even threaten to. Yet. Then she returns to studying Claire. "If anyone were to find out, it would be held up as an example of why people like us should be kept apart. Studied. Controlled. All it will take is for one of those men who were taped to speak loudly enough about how it was forced, and false. That it was a mutant speaking /through/ him. And people will want to believe. If...if they did not speak freely, these aren't confessions. They're a record but..." "...yes," Claire agrees, hesitantly -- with Murphy? With Nox? She doesn't clarify. "The men and women we interrogated -- have no memory of the event. The videos -- we aren't going to use them. Only Whelan's. Because --" "--because he's /dead/," Murphy snaps right back, voice grating and harsh. "Because he ain't around to bitch and moan that you brain-f--" Pause, /glare/ at Nox's silhouette, and: "--brain-/screwed/ him into spilling his guts." "...yes," Claire agrees, again. "And one day, if the other videos come out. People will realize. The confession was coerced. That they were /tricked/ into doing what's right. But -- that will be in the future. The far future. For now, we -- lie." Nox, cold-blooded murderer of officers of the law, passes a hand across her face and murmurs, "I don't like this at all. This is...I don't know. I don't know. Will the others suspect? It's still an accusation that can come forward with. Those who knew him. Those who /helped/ him. Even a whisper of it being a false confession would be enough. I...this is beyond me." "Where's it gonna stop, Claire," Murphy throws this in, his tone still angry and tense. "You gonna have some nutcrackers make up some evidence? Have 'em mind-control the jury for a guilty verdict? Mind-control legislators to make registration go away? Hey, I got an idea," he /growls/, "why don't you just mind-control the President?" "/Murphy/," Claire snaps, and for an instant her focus -- fades. A shudder-convulsion of her power, shrinking inward; the focus slips, that crystallization blurring -- but then it's back, hard and present, throbbing back outward through the room. And she's turning to Nox, frowning, trying to -- slowly move toward her silhouette. Step by step, leaning on the cane. "Nox," she says, reaching a hand out toward her shoulder -- but her hand hesitates, as if afraid it wouldn't be taken. "Nox," Claire asserts, a bit more firmly. "Don't worry about this. We'll -- find a way." This time, Nox doesn't withdraw from the touch. Her shoulder gradually solidifies--a possible invitation? Maybe. Maybe not. She's looking at the detective rather than the lawyer. Though...there can be no doubting which of them her next question is directed to. "Is that what you meant by needing me to plan turning myself in? Needing time to prepare?" When that shoulder solidifies -- Claire reaches for it, taking it in her hand. /Squeezing/. As if thankful just for -- something to hold onto. "Yes," she responds, a little breathlessly. "When Whelan's testimony comes out -- right now, the man is regarded as a saint. Were you to turn yourself in now, it would be... dangerous for you. After the confession is released... opinion on him will be... different." "Maybe," Murphy agrees. /Begrudgingly/. "Maybe you'll get off easy. Press hates a cop killer. But they're even /less/ fond of child-killers." "Or perhaps his friends, and those in high places, will make certain that the media reports on how..." But Nox stops herself there. It takes an effort, felt in the deep quivering of...muscle? Flesh? Neither of those things, but still easily felt beneath Claire's hand. In the end, she chooses to change the subject. "...does Lucien know you were coming here?" Claire squeezes again at the change in subject; in the darkness, she smiles. Tentatively. Maybe a bit sadly. "No," she says. "Not yet. We haven't told him." "S'gonna be a surprise," Murphy adds. Then: "You ain't gotta talk to him. If you don't want to. But I'll just give him one of these things. And tell him. From 9 pm to 10 pm, to -- maybe, if he wants. Listen. Maybe he'll hear something. Maybe he won't." Pause. Murphy adds: "S'up to you." "I want to speak with him," Nox admits, so very softly. "I miss him. Very much. But I can say, now, that I don't believe it would do him any favors, to continue his association with me. I /am/ broken." Her eyes shift towards Claire's as she repeats this line, firmly, her tone allowing no argument. "I am a danger. To those around me. Whatever else you might think of me, Ms. Basil, you would do well to remember that. It isn't that I want to hurt anyone. But even so. Mister Law probably has a better grasp on that...perhaps even better than me." Claire's grip slackens when Nox explains this; something hesitant shimmers over her face. Murphy, however, is just scowling hard-as-ever. Nonplus at Nox's admission. "I knew," Murphy agrees, "that if any of you were gonna kill some cops over this, you'd be one of them. And I know you're dangerous as hell. But woman," Murphy says, swinging his arm out to implicate everyone here, "welcome to the goddamn club. The lady in front of you just admitted to using telepaths to fix trials. I've directly killed a hundred and six people in my lifetime. And I ain't done yet." "We're dangerous. /Most/ of us are broken," Murphy says. "So, yeah. You fucked up. People are dead because of it. You're gonna carry that. And the worst part? You might do it again. But when you find something that makes you feel a little /less/ broken, you don't /ever/ throw it away. I can tell you," Murphy adds, "I don't know what that man's problem is, but /he's/ pretty broken too. So, fix yourselves. Or not. Th'fuck I care, I'm in a fucking sewer tryin' to help a shadow monster mend her relationship with a psychic French whore." "/Murphy/." "/What/?" "Language." But it's the weakest of reprimands. Nox simply doesn't have it in her to refute what he's said. "It's his choice. I know that. When you see him, if he wishes it, I will speak to him. But perhaps he will not understand as well as I do. And when you go, Ms. Basil, I will not be able to better explain it. If you could try...and if you could look into the matter of my turning myself in. As a gesture of good faith to soften some of the wrong I've done." "...alright," Murphy says, as if -- that was enough. To cover the whole situation. Claire nods her head, slowly. "...I -- yes. I will look into it, Nox. When we do -- would you be comfortable with retaining me as your council? Your -- defense lawyer," she adds, hesitantly, before glancing back at Murphy. "/He'll/ make sure Lucien knows. That you're dangerous. He's good," Claire adds, a little bitterly, as she looks back at Nox, "at making things painfully /obvious/." "Of course, Ms. Basil. I know of no one else I would use." She is the lady again, Nox is. Though...Murphy is given a sort of look, long and assessing, when Claire points him out as the one who'll be speaking with Lucien. A look without comment, in the end! "Thank you for being honest with me. I understand why I wasn't told but I would rather know." The power is ebbing, now. Claire's concentration has been pushed to its limits; her smile is a little weaker as the field of -- clarity -- begins to ebb, drawing back in, inch by inch -- losing ground to the chaos and confusion from before. Murphy reaches for his flashlight. "...yes. I would rather you know too, Nox," Claire agrees, before adding: "...be safe, dear." "M'gonna turn on the light now," Murphy warns. Then, a second later -- *Clkt*. A second is enough. Nox dips her head to both of them but is gone when the flashlight's beam washes over the tunnel. There's a soft clatter on the other side of the barrier--the walkie talkie, perhaps, being dragged off to god knows where--but otherwise she seems to have well and truly vanished.