ArchivedLogs:Let's Dance

Let's Dance
This gala is all /Creepytown/.
Dramatis Personae Norman, Jackson, Micah, Hive, Mirror	28 March 2013 Micah is snippy. Hive is chipper. Jackson is scary. Norman is running away. Mirror is recording it all for posterity... The world may be ending. >_>
Location <NYC> Hellfire Club - Upper East Side
Monochrome elegance at its finest: the Hellfire Club plays home to New York's elite, and has spared no expense in making that clear. Black and white marble tiles the floor, the pattern distinctly that of a chessboard. Rich wood paneling lines the walls, and the alcoves of the entry hall hold statues reminiscent of chess pieces. Meeting and dining halls provide plentiful space for the club's members to congregate, whatever their needs. The Hellfire's library, while far smaller than its ballroom in size, is far more prized in content. Hundreds of volumes line the meticulously tended shelves, the rarest kept carefully in climate-controlled cases under the watchful eye of the mansion's librarian. High-backed leather chairs and plush couches provide quiet reading spaces beneath soft lighting, and tall windows look out to the mansion's gardens beyond. The main ballroom of the mansion is vast and opulent, its ceiling vaulted and the balconies above curving gracefully away from the grand staircase -- an ideal place from which to Make An Entrance. The hallways that branch off from the staircase run in opposing monochrome: the stark white court's quarters to one side, the dark black court's quarters to the other. Osborn's little soiree is quite the proper shindig; tables full of food -- many important guests in /very/ expensive party-clothes -- a few generals, a few political celebrities -- even the mayor, who is probably avoiding Jax like the plague. The partygoers are largely a conservative crowd, of course; this is politics -- more than that, it's /business/. So long with the constant buzz of mental speculation concerning just what Osborn is planning to talk about tonight (no one seems to know!), there's also a steady stormcloud of disapproval thrown Jax and Micah's way. It's not just the /mutant/ thing (well, there's a lot of that, mind you); it's /everything/. People are wondering what the heck he's *doing* here! He's got an eyepatch; is he actually missing that eye? Is he trying to make himself out to be some sort of pirate? What is with those /colors/? Is this some sort of joke? Did he get confused and figure this for the GRAMMIES or something? But not everyone here is a negative nancy; there are, in fact, people who seem quite happy to see Jax -- even people he doesn't know! A couple of strangers want to shake his hand -- a few offers to even dance! Micah might get one or two, too. But before they get too deep into it... Oh, now /there's/ a psychic stormcloud. Hive probably picks him up before Jax and Micah even see him coming in -- a mind like a machine, churning and rumbling and *pistoning*. Well-oiled, well-used, and /oh/ so powerful. But if you look close, you might catch the slightest hint of a pervasive rust that stretches across every corner. Slowly but surely /creeping/. "Mr. Holland. Mr. Zedner." Norman Osborn is dressed in a black tux with a dark-green bow-tie. He looks sharp, crisp, and very pleased. And he's offering them his hand -- first, Micah. Then, Jackson. Somewhere behind them, someone sneakily snaps a few pictures of the latter -- assuming Jackson doesn't stop Norman from taking his hand. "Glad you could make it." Instantly, two things are very clear about Norman Osborn's current state of mind: He is *very* happy with how this party is going... and he's got something planned. Something big. An announcement. Jackson has been handshaking like a FIEND. Firm and confident despite the missing finger, the glittery nailpolish, the myriad piercings and unconservative attire. His smile is warm and bright; perhaps all the warmer and brighter for the more disapproving minds (it's /possible/ that there are times when he is Just That Much More Obvious about snaking his arm through Micah's.) But for all he likely notes the disapproval it doesn't get in the way of his easy cheer -- although at times it's a bit /manic/ of cheer, eye about -.O THIS wide as he openly marvels -- at the club, at the decorations, at the Pretty Clothes. At the /dancing/ (which he has been taking up offers to with /glee/, and proving himself /quite/ a capable ballroom dancer to boot.) To Micah there has been /so much/ ohmygosh'ing. It's probably not just a quiet desire to be In Everyone's Face, though, that tightens his arm -- juuuuuuust slightly! -- through Micah's when Osborn approaches, though. He smiles. Warm and bright, and offers that scarred hand out to Osborn to shake, firmly. "Mr. Osborn," he says, brightly, "I gotta say, sir, this is the fanciest party I ever been to. I should thank you for the invite, it ain't an opportunity I get much." He has not toned down the molasses-thick Southern drawl at all tonight. Micah has been doing his best not to look entirely like a fish out of water. Because his element: this is not it. He is dressed in about the simplest of black tuxes that Jax would let him get away with. He holds his own quite well, actually, while Jax is nearby, but may be betraying himself with a back-toward-the-wall posture whenever Jax is whisked away. And then ohgosh, /Osborn/. Micah fortunately defaults to extremes of politeness when flustered. “Mr. Osborn. Pleasure to meet you.” Also fortunately, all the /polite/ hides the /lying/. “Thank you for havin’ us.” Hey, look at that! Micah even manages to hide his temptation to /count his fingers/ after that handshake. "Think nothing of it, gentlemen. As much as this party is for the benefit of Oscorp, it's also -- at least in part -- an opportunity to celebrate the heroicism of Mr. Holland and others," Osborn explains, withdrawing his hand with that warm, comforting smile. "You know," he soon adds, his tone softer -- as if sharing a secret with Micah and Jackson. "I'm going to be making a bit of an announcement here today -- I imagine it's going to make me very unpopular among certain circles. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to deflect any bullets you notice coming /my/ way." A wink, to Holland. Beneath that suave veneer, something dark and terrible stirs. The machine growls at its presence; Norman applies pressure to his /own/ mind. As if keeping a caged beast at bay. Oh no. Not /tonight/, you don't. Tonight you are on your best behavior. "Heroicism," Jackson repeats, with a faint blush, "Oh, gosh, sir, I ain't no kinda hero. Think I was just in the right place at the right time." His smile is just as warm, though he shifts to lean a tiny bit closer to Micah with his quiet laugh. "You think that's a worry tonight, sir? I just come to dance. But I'll keep my eye open. 'sides, it ain't all about being popular, is it? Sometimes you just gotta do what's right." Micah has decided that his best tack here is to speak mostly to Jax. Because that comes so much more naturally. “Hopefully no one will be requiring Jackson’s services tonight…aside from dancin’ or bein’ charmin’, that is.” He tosses a playful grin in Jax’s direction, partly in gratitude for his proximity. “It would be a shame for anythin’ to tarnish such a fine event.” "Of course. I tease," Norman explains, producing that effortless, magnanimous smile. "I don't think anyone will be taking any shots at me. Not /gun/ shots, at least -- I'm sure there will be quite a few /verbal/ ones." Poor Micah. It's as if Norman can /smell/ the man's apprehension. At once, all of Osborn's attention is on him -- along with that smile of his. "Mr. Zedner? I've suddenly realized -- I know very little about you! Beyond, of course, that you cleared multiple background checks." His mouth slips away to bare a few straight, white teeth. "I presume you are Mr. Holland's friend...?" Osborn's mind stirs, centering on Micah. Though he outwardly appears quite friendly, his mind is neatly filing Micah's face and name under 'Friend-of-Jackson, Keep-An-Eye-On'. He's also wondering if Micah is a mutant. "Well. Verbal ones, I don't hardly imagine you'll need /my/ help to defend against, sir," Jackson answers lightly. His blush has deepened quite a lot, at Micah's words, the shy downward tilt of his head spilling bright hair over his forehead. "Though I'd guess in company like this even you might find a couple sparrin' partners." Norman's question does not /help/ his blush, and his hand slips almost unconsciously to curl into Micah's. “Oh, yessir,” Micah nods, a hint of pink creeping into his cheeks at the request to define his relationship with Jax. “I’d imagine I’m good for clearin’ background checks since I just don’t get up to much of interest.” He tries for a self-deprecating smile, giving Jax’s hand an appreciative squeeze. “Just your run of the mill small businessman. Medical equipment.” Keep It Simple seems to be the other half of Micah’s plan for the evening. "Small businessman...?" Norman mouths over the words with near-silence, as if testing them. "Oh, my -- you are a business owner?" And oh how Norman's eyes /light/ up. "How delightful!" Something about the way Norman says that; something about the way he /thinks/ it. 'Delightful' might as well be 'quaint'. He seems to look upon Micah with renewed interest, now -- although it's all just a carefully maintained sham. Knowing about Jackson's friends is among Norman Osborn's many priorities, after all. "I'm a bit of a business owner myself, you know," he says with that practiced, well-oiled grin. "Again, I'm teasing. Although -- actually, I seem to remember... medical supplies -- yes, I think -- something about prosthetics? Fascinating subject. I've actually got a member of my team -- absolutely /brilliant/ man. Deep into neuroprosthetics. Keeps talking about it being the future. I imagine you'd get along smashingly with him." 'Smashing' is accompanied by the psychic sound of a loud, frightful, metallic *CLANG*. Like something being physically /smashed/. But just in Norman's brain. "Micah's kinda a wizard when it comes to helpin' folks. If you're looking for /hero/, sir, well, ain't /me/ you should be eyin'." At the sound in Norman's mind, Jackson's hand tightens in Micah's; it's quite apparent from the /feel/ of the squeeze, although not at all from the look of him. Cheery-easy, maybe a little /wide/-eyed -- especially as one of the waiter-drones (that sounds so much better than murder-drones!) goes by with a tray of drinks. "Gosh -- oh gosh. Those're -- are your waiters /robots/?" He sounds a little awed. “Yessir,” Micah answers with another nod. “Nothin’ nearly so extensive as what you’ve built up, certainly. Can’t say as I’m even equipped for workin’ with all but the simplest robotic systems at present—and even those are crafted by folks with more o’ the engineerin’ know-how than I’ve got.” He gives Jax’s shoulder a good-natured nudge. “Jackson likes to exaggerate a bit about me, I’m afraid.” Oh, good! /Robowaiters/! That’ll give everyone something to talk about that isn’t /Micah/. "Mmn...? Oh -- yes," Norman says, and for a moment, he is indeed distracted from Micah -- eyes turning to one of the machines that buzz past. "They're quite -- adroit. Very agile. We've been making so many improvements from the initial models. They'll even..." As if to demonstrate, Norman reaches -- for the fourth time this evening! -- for one of the glasses on a tray the drone's carrying. At once, the machine comes to a hovering pause, waiting patiently until Norman has plucked the glass from it. Then... off it goes, to make its circuit around the party. "I'm quite proud of what our engineers have done with them," Norman explains, almost absently. There's something else, there. A notion of something -- pleased, but bitter. He's getting the credit, but the improvements aren't /all/ his. A faint impression of someone -- someone he wants. Someone who was responsible for making /extraordinary/ improvements to their manueverability. Someone very good with technology. "As to heroes -- typically, I believe one of their qualifications includes the continued insistence that there's nothing heroic about what they do," Norman states, dryly amused. He doesn't drink from the glass. He hasn't touched the bubbly all night. He's already drunk on something else. "But I shouldn't keep you... you both have so many new people to meet...!" Jackson's hand tightens further. Probably kind of painfully hard, for a moment, until he remembers to release it so that his grip is /actually/ as relaxed as it currently looks like it is. "They're somethin', alright, sir," he says with a quick smile, watching one of the drones pass by. "Don't know as they're proper /dolled up/ for a shindig like this, though, I mean everyone all in fancy --" He flutters glittery-nailed fingers at Norman's tuxedo. And then, well, the next drone to go by has a /bowtie/. And a cummerbund. Gradually all of them start to wear the same. "Oh, but. Sir," he adds, to Norman, "you /did/ promise me a dance. -- If I may?" He's asking permission of Micah, not Norman, with a questioning upward sweep of eyebrows as he lets go of Micah's hand. To offer his to Osborn instead. << mother/fucker/, >> sounds in Jax and Micah's heads. It's a whisper. But it's a /cranky/ one. Hive is watching the drones. Micah’s eyes likely divulge more worry than he means to be visible, with that hard squeeze from Jax in combination with Hive’s crankywhisper. <<Ohgosh, I think he’s /tweakin’ Osborn’s nose/ with this… What is he /doin’/?>> Micah gives a little bow of his head over Jax’s hand before releasing it. “By all means,” he provides courteous dispensation…yet not approval, in his tone. Does Norman notice the bowtie on one of his drones? For a moment, he catches something unusual from the corner of his eye -- he is turning to focus. But then Jackson is speaking, and Norman is looking to him -- to his hand -- to Micah -- back to Jackson. Very slowly. Jackson gets to see a rare sight: Norman Osborn, genuinely puzzled. His thoughts are, for a moment, like glass. Is this a trick? A ploy? What is Holland's game, here? Osborn's mind narrows in on Holland; gears grind inside that immense machine, attempting to solve the mutant for X. But try as he might, he doesn't quite see the angle. "...are you... serious?" Norman asks, and as he asks it... something stirs deep in the back of Norman's mind. Something that he has taken great pains to contain, to cage, to /smother/ into obedience for this one night. But as Jackson reaches for Osborn's hand -- and as he allows it to be taken -- those carefully erected walls buckle. And something that /isn't/ Norman growls. << THEY'RE MOCKING YOU. >> Jackson flashes Micah a quick smile, small. "Well, it is a party, I thought dancing's what you do." For once he isn't blushing. He does take Norman's hand, glancing towards the dance floor, but then he dips his head apologetically. "M'sorry, sir, I -- is this not appropriate, I ain't really been to many of these things before and I know your guests can be kinda conservative. I wouldn't want to make you look bad or nothin', you know --" His nose crinkles, his free hand flicking between him and Micah. "Fraternizing." The growl, admittedly, brings -- well, it's not a /sudden/ stab of fear. Fear has basically been stabbing this whole conversation. But it tightens, crystallizes, a sharp tang of it that doesn't dim his easy smile. Sometimes being an illusionist is useful. << -- dancing, >> Hive grumbles, in answer to Micah. << Perhaps you're both going to die. >> He doesn't sound entirely serious with this suggestion. But he doesn't sound really /not/ serious, either. Micah is /watching/ Jax taking Norman's hand and attempting to lead him to the dance floor. He's just hoping that the anxious-protectiveness that cannot remain hidden comes across instead as 'jealous lover', or something of the kind. <<Thanks...that's so very helpful. I can see why it's handy to have telepaths around now,>> Micah answers Hive with dripping mental sarcasm. It might be another attempt to mask the insane amounts of /worry/ plaguing him. << Welcome! >> Hive says this /chipperly/. Buuut he's maybe watching this interaction like an INVISIBLE HAWK. Something inside of Norman Osborn /boils/. Jackson's apology does not subdue it. The apology is taken as another ploy; another whisper in his head. Shrill, child-like, taunting: They're mocking you, Normie. They're mocking you at your very own /party/. And for a moment -- there is a flash of something surging up in Norman's mind. Something with... teeth. And yellow, blazing eyes. Something... /hungry/. Shut. /UP/. Norman Osborn's brain clamps down. His facial muscles twitch. And his smile returns -- even as whatever the hell is surging in his head gets jettisoned into some deep, dark corner of his mind -- thrust down into a pit, the door slammed, padlocked, and /cauterized/ behind it. For now. Norman squeezes Jackson's hand, then. Firm. A bit stronger than you'd expect, but not uncomfortably so. "Mr. Holland --" he begins, and it seems as if he's about to say something else -- his eyes baring down on Jackson, his smile forced, his eyes still briefly baffled. "-- I'm sorry. It would be bad for business. For Oscorp. On top of everything else -- my apologies, Mr. Holland. I have to go." And then he is. /Very/ quickly. His hand moving into his pocket, clutching a device -- pressing a button. Summoning Mr. Shaw. To quarantine the nearest bathroom -- to give Norman time /alone/. To regain control, out of the guests' eyes. Jackson's grip in return is strong, somewhat belied by the stereotype glittery makeup and boyfriend might imply. He holds it through the squeeze, and then holds it a brief moment longer. His head tips, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "Of course, sir. M'sorry. I should've known this weren't the right environment for -- well, I mean, New York's progressive, but your guests here --" The blush deepens. He steps back by Micah, reaching for the other man's hand -- and then pulling his back immediately, as though embarrassed about it. << -- Hive, >> he murmurs, quiet, << find me a reporter. >> But, aloud, to Micah: "Probably be inappropriate then to ask /you/ to dance now?" Micah manages not to give voice to his sigh of relief, but Hive gets an earful of it. He takes Jax’s hand like a /lifeline/ and tugs him closer. “Entirely inappropriate, I’m sure,” he responds with a wicked smile. “But entirely my kind of inappropriate, besides.” << Reporter. What are you up to. >> Probably Hive could FIGURE THIS OUT for himself. But he's thoughtful. And no /end/ of relieved, himself, with Osborn's departure. And then, lighter and almost like amused, << You think he was worried about the mutant rubbing off, or the gay? >> Jackson slips in closer to Micah, but only for a moment. To peck Micah on the cheek, light, inappropriate be damned, and then he's tugtug/tug/ing Micah towards the dancefloor. << I'm up to dancing, >> he says, light and amused and probably, given the connection, audible to Micah as well. "C'mon, honey-honey, everyone /else/ here can be stodgy but we don't gotta. 'sides, I danced with like four other people so far and not with /you/. S'a /huge/ failing, I kinda been /melting/ every time I look at you in that tux." Underneath the cheery flirtation, though, there is -- something colder. Not quite panic but certainly not /comfortable/, and in Micah's hand, though it isn't visible, his is /shaking/. He pointedly has not watched Osborn leaving. He's /dancing/. Kisses and compliments…result in blushing, regardless of what else might be going on. “Don’t melt /too/ much. We gotta get this thing back to the rental place in one piece,” Micah teases as he lets himself be led out onto the floor. <<You gonna clue us in? Last I checked, you didn’t need a reporter to /dance/.>> He turns Jax to him, so that he can watch the other man’s expression. <<And while I have a healthy enough ego, I can’t assume you /shakin’/ has to do with bein’ /that/ excited to dance with me, either.>> Mirror is not on the guest list. It'd be hard to put Mirror on the guest list, sans identity. Ravneet Kamothi, however, /is/ legitimately meant to be here, armed with press pass and recorder to add one small drop to the storm of media surrounding this event. At the moment, the dark-haired woman is listening politely to -- nothing that is worth a /story/. It's a slightly tipsy cameraman clumsily flirting, and she is bearing it with a patient smile and no real interest, dark eyes flitting around the party thoughtfully. /She/ has noticed the bow-tie'd drones, with a flicker of amusement. She's also noticed Osborn's quick departure, with less of one. Her fingers tap at the crook of her arm. Her deep crimson-and-gold sari swishes as she extricates herself in search of hors d'oeuvres. Hive is poking -- poke, poke, poke, at another partyguest. One that wasn't on the list -- or, well, the /face/ they wear was on the guest list, for sure, but Mirror was certainly /not/. It's hard to keep cover from a telepath residing in your head, though. And so Hive is tugging, quiet, gentle. << You, >> murmurs in Mirror's mind. << What's /your/ angle? >> The poke turns into a /nudge/, not forcing but /urging/ the metamorph towards the edge of the dance floor, steering her attention towards Jax and Micah. "I'll try to keep it together. /You/ gotta stop bein' so charming, though, s'hard to dance when I'm all weak at the knees." This might be a lie. Something about the rhythm, the familiar movements, is calming; Jackson does not seem to be having any problems waltzing. Even if his hand /is/ still trembling, now, in Micah's, at Micah's shoulder. << Just kinda realized folks are right. More than one way to fight a thing. S'the point in the world /handing/ me a soapbox if I don't up and use it? >> Micah’s gone from pink to red in the meantime. “I will have to try harder. Perhaps if I make a funny face?” This is just a suggestion…for now, Micah’s face is occupied with lopsided-grinning. His hand squeezes Jax’s firmly in an attempt to allay its trembling. <<Well, I suppose I did make suggestions about you bein’ louder. Your choice, hon. I’m here either way.>> Mirror stops, for a brief moment. A ripple of tension passes up her spine, but only briefly before she relaxes back into her path. << I had forgotten you were here. >> It's quiet, a cool-soft murmur that comes from some place (colder, calculating) deeper than the warm-bright interest that characterizes her current form. Her eyes focus on Jax and Micah, with a twinge of -- something. Sharp. Wary. Too detached to be protective, but it's not uncaring. << -- Him? >> Jax's image in her head comes with a mingled sense of care and obligation -- and /caution/. But she takes up a position at the edge of the dancefloor, and waits. With a champagne flute in her hand. << Him. >> That's all, to Mirror. To Jax and Micah: << Found you one. >> It comes with a flicker of Mirror's current face. And then, << Enjoy your dance. >> Hive settles back into quiet. There's no response to this, for a while; Jackson is focused on /dancing/. "I dunno, you'd have to try and see," he tells Micah, amused, "I can't imagine you makin' no face that /weren't/ still melty. But I guess I could get /distracted/ from melting by laughing --?" The trembling is, at least, subsiding, partially with Micah's squeezing and partially with the dancing. He -- dances follow, it is not really good protocol to /steer/ Micah in Mirror's direction, but he does /think/ for a moment about the woman by the dancefloor. << You seen what I wear every day, I'm good at bein' loud. An' it seems like the world's kinda /forcing/ attention on me, might as well be loud on m'own terms for once. >> “I’m not gonna start you laughin’, because then /I’ll// start laughin’ and I won’t concentrate on the dancin’ and then we’ll just start a whole pile o’ blunder in the middle of the dance floor.” Micah’s actually better at leading. It’s more predictable and less likely to result in legfail. He takes the cue from Jax to direct them toward the woman he’s indicated. Subtly. <<Nothin’ but support here. So long as you’re sure.>> Mirror is waiting. Politely! She has her champagne flute in hand, but is not sipping at it. Just holding it, and watching the pair. Her face lights with an easy smile as they come near, but she waits until the end of the number to step in. "Mr. Holland?" She is extending a hand, whether they want to dance a second number or not! "I hope you'll forgive my interruption," this is directed to /Micah/, not Jax, though the second part is. "I'm sure I couldn't be the first to want to shake your hand. Ravneet Kamothi." Her press pass says that she is with the Washington Post. Her smile is warm and easy, and despite saying she wants to shake Jax's hand, it's Micah she extends it to, first. "Don't listen to what everyone is saying," she says, lower, glancing off in the direction Norman hastily departed, "/I/ think you two look charming together. Do you mind if I steal a minute of your time?" Jackson probably /would/ take a second dance if he were not Otherwise Focused. Alas. He does enjoy the one he /gets/ while it lasts, though, and if his hand is squeezing just a bit tighter at Micah's as the number ends and they approach Mirror, well, it's not /as/ noticeable as before. << Oh, I ain't sure of much of anything, >> comes a little amused, a little wry. One hand stays in Micah's even after the dance ends and Mirror!Ravneet is there. Talking. His cheeks flush deeply. " -- what everyone --" His head ducks, and he glances between the woman -- and her press pass -- and Micah. "Oh, I think we got all night," he says, lightly. "You don't mind, do you, honey-honey?" "You're a little bit show-stealin', hon. You'll have to expect people are gonna talk." Micah is back to blushing faintly, despite his own words. He does take the lady's hand when offered. His own is notably callused from manual work, with a firm grip, adding to his 'doesn't really belong here' aura. <<You want I should stay, or y'need to talk private with the pretty lady-in-red?>> "Micah Zedner. Pleasure to meet you. And of course I don't mind. Parties are /for/ diversions, aren't they?" He offers a warm smile with this. "Thank you." Ravneet's hand is not callused, her handshake more a brief gentle press of fingers than proper shake. "Your -- friend?" This comes with a questioning lift of eyebrows, "-- isn't wrong, you do rather merit a bit of notice. After everything you've done for the city --" Her head shakes, slightly. "There are /plenty/ of diversions, here, for sure. Though I'm afraid I had intended to take you away from the fun for a moment. It's just, given everything that's been in the news I was hoping for a word. I did a bit of digging myself --" This comes with an /apologetic/ look, but she presses on, "and it looks like your activism stretched much earlier than just your recent stint in the spotlight. A man so dedicated to mutant rights, well, I can see why Mr. Osborn asked you here but I am curious, Mr. Holland. What prompted /you/ to come?" Jackson's grip is firm, too, somewhat less callused than Micah's but not much less. << Stay? >> comes with distinct 'please' overtones, and he blushes again at the lift of eyebrows; the fierce warm /flush/ this question draws in his mind is unspoken, inadvertent; as is the rapid flitting through << friend-boyfriend-lover-partner >> before discarding all these with a deeper blush to just settle into a feeling of << <3 >>. And, quieter, << oh gosh we should probably talk about -- >> BUT NO. This is not the time to panic this is the time to smile! If a little sheepish-awkward with the admission, "Oh, well, I mean. I been involved in activism a long time, miss. It didn't start out 'bout mutant rights at all, really. I did a lot of work in environmental justice an' queer rights but I didn't never /hide/ who I was so -- pretty much every time someone found out they'd /make/ the conversation about mutant issues. Might could say the same thing about here. I didn't intend to be no hero, I was just in the right place at the right time and --" His hand waves, vaguely, around at the partying. "I honestly almost said no, when I got the invite. But thinkin' on it a bit further, my reluctance seemed kinda short-sighted. I want to be where I can do the most good." <<Of course. I just wasn’t sure… I’m not certain exactly where this is goin’. But I’m here as long as you want/need,>> Micah replies in reassuring tones. The flood of thoughts from Jax coaxes a more intense shade of red to his cheeks. <<Later is fine, hon. Ohgosh, I look like I’m turnin’ red over more nothin’ than usual. She’s gonna think I’m nuts.>> He lingers quietly by the pair, just listening to the exchange. "And you that's here?" Ravneet's eyebrows lift, curious. "Where you can do the most good?" << Ohgosh you wasn't supposed to hear -- I mean we ain't talked about -- I mean I ain't expecting you to -- ohgosh I'm sorry -- >> Jackson's smile is /slightly/ fixed. << You're here with me. You /been/ here with me for weeks now. You /are/ nuts. >> This, at least, is less fretty-panicky, more teasing. To Ravneet, he nods, slow. "For tonight? Yes, miss. S'a lot of different ways to do good in the world. An', well, I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me a mite nervous, the things what might come out -- what might be developed as mutant countermeasures. But folks like Mr. Osborn, they ain't /wrong/. We ain't going away, and mutants are just like all the rest of the world. Most of us don't want to harm nobody, but some people do. And society needs a way to handle that, past just /hoping/ people's in the right place at the right time. Unfortunately, though --" His head tips downwards, his smile shy, now. "Well, m'sure you done heard Mr. Osborn's press conference last week -- this ain't the first time I've found myself in a spot of trouble over who I /am/ 'stead'a what I do. And knowing that makes me realize that, much as society needs a way to /deal/ with /any/ threat to people's safety, it also needs accountability. I'm sure that folks like Mr. Osborn only got folks' best interest at heart but it's awful easy for any bit'a power to get kinda skewed if nobody's keeping an eye on who's holding it." <<Kinda hearin’ most everythin’ these days. S’okay, though. It’s relevant. Just…once we’re not in the middle of creepytown richpeopleparty.>> All of Micah’s talking is mental-type for now. It may be the longest he’s gone without running his mouth in /weeks/. "Accountability." Ravneet's finger taps against the slim flute of her champagne glass, and her smile is /just/ a touch wider. "Yes, I can see how that would be a concern. Well. I /did/ hear the press conference, yes. Mr. Osborn spoke so highly of you, I can't imagine he wouldn't want to hear your suggestions on this matter, too. These things, as you say, need oversight. Before you end up with -- well." Her fingers uncurl towards Jackson. "How /are/ your children doing, Mr. Holland?" << Yeah but I keep /forgetting/ and then I think terrible things and then once I /start/ remembering I can't /stop/ thinkin' all these things I shouldn't be thinkin' like you /do/ make me melty and not just cuz of how good you look in the tux or maybe out of the tux and oh gosh /right/ reporter, answering now, this is the worst why did I ever agree to -- also is it just me or /is/ this basically the creepiest party /ever/ -- >> Jackson's hand finds Micah's again. Squeeeeezes it at the question about his kinds. "Not home yet," is what he answers, smile thinning a little. It warms again as he looks up. "Oh, well, he did invite us here, he's seemed more'n open to input from the community. He's shown himself so willing to work /with/ us rather than against us, to make sure everyone's safe. I can't see how he'd be opposed to some transparency in the measures he's puttin' forth. Some accountability to make sure this is all used to help and not to harass. There's folks out there who've already been working for years to make sure mutants and humans both get along peaceably; I got no doubt there'll be a fair number of us willing to step up and work /with/ folks like Mr. Osborn to make sure these measures are used responsibly." Inwardly he is -- kind of /focusing/ on the feel of Micah's hand in his. Steady. Warm. Not Creepy At All. <<Haven't been hearin' /terrible/ so far. So maybe you are keepin' some things quiet and I just don't know it,>> Micah half-teases. <<And it's not you. It's definitely creepytown. I...I'm gonna talk and hope my foot don't go in my mouth here.>> He squeezes Jax's hand before jumping on the bandwagon. "I think it's important to remember that these people we've been calling 'mutants' /are/ Human. They've still got Human rights, and rights as citizens. Whatever 'measures' end up bein' created... People still have to ask, 'Is this somethin' that is /right/ to have? Is it somethin' that is /right/ to use?’ Rememberin' that these things are intended for our fellow human beings and our fellow citizens." Ravneet is mostly just listening, quiet as Jax speaks, quiet and attentive, too, through Micah's words. Only after this does she take a small sip of her champagne, and the wider curl of her smile looks appreciative. Surely Norman Osborn is serving /good/ champagne. "Rights as citizens, yes, for now," she says quiet and almost to herself. Less quiet: "Refreshing. To hear moderate voices. I read your Wikipedia article," she admits to Jackson with a hint of apology, "Anarchist, it said, I half expected to find you more -- well, radical." Her recorder clicks off, slipped back into a pocket. "I shouldn't keep you. It's been a delight. Mr. Holland. Mr. Zedner. I should let you get back to -- dancing." << You missed the terrible oh goodness you must've overlooked all the -- >> Jackson tends to /think/ more in images than pictures, and while he has done a great deal of, well, melting, over Micah in his tuxedo, the mental pictures now are deeefinitely Micah /not/ in his tuxedo. The 'for now' kills the Terrible Thoughts, though. It brings with it the faintest /ripple/, around Jackson, a quick flutter of lighting that dims the air around him and then settles it back. It's brief. "Y'know, people confuse /radical/ a lot with extremist. At its base it's kinda the opposite. Getting down to the /roots/ of issues. And I think the root here is --" His fingers flick towards Micah. "Remembering that we're /all/ of us human." Though inwardly this comes with a slightly guilty /twinge/, a sour taste like lying; the distinct impression that Jackson does /not/ think of himself as human. "Thank you, miss. Y'have a good night." << creepytowncreepytowncreepytown >> is kind of chiming in the background of Jax's thoughts. Micah coughs a little, suddenly. Must have gotten something…caught in the back of the throat or… Ahem. And the blushing could easily be written off as stemming from passion for the subject matter at hand? Oh dear. <<Sorry, honey. Not meanin’ to steal /identity/ words from anybody. Just…it’s important not to let folks put y’all in a category that ain’t ‘People’ anymore. S’dangerous. All the good in folks’ minds seems easier to quiet once they ain’t dealin’ with ‘People’.>> “Yes, thank you for your time. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evenin’.” Hopefully that sounded more pleasant and even than Micah’s racing thoughts. "No, thank /you/." Just that, and a smile, and Ravneet is on her way, the silk of her sari swishing quietly behind her as she sweeps off. Jackson flushes, as Ravneet heads away. << sorry sorry sorry, >> echoes in his mind as Micah coughs. Not particularly helpfully probably because those images resurface again before Jax /pushes/ them away, silently chiding his brain for this. << No, >> he agrees, << You ain't wrong, things is definitely easier to -- I mean when folks don't think'a us as people it gets -- >> His hand shifts slightly in Micah's, just at one side; the scarred stump that should be his little finger briefly twitching. << Bad. >> "S'been a long time," he says, aloud, squeezing Micah's hand gently, "since I had a good dancin' partner. Think this party'd be so much less smooth without you here with me." <<Hm…no. Just, later. For that, too. What a lot of ‘later’ we’re racking up this way…>> Micah traces a hand along Jax’s arm. << I just know…these words get all loaded. The ways that you’re different are a part of who you are. I don’t mean to say… I just mean to make it clear, there’s a huge difference between ‘Superhuman’ and ‘Inhuman’. All ‘Mutant’ says to people is ‘NOThuman’. I certainly don’t think of you as another /species/.>> A rapid flood of closenessthoughts rides along with that sentiment. <<Don’t fit most biological definitions, either.>> That hand finishes its route along Jax’s arm by taking his hand. “Then let’s dance.” << /Might/ be a different species, >> Jackson muses, and mental speech means he cannot hide the teasing amusement that comes with this thought, << I mean for all we been tryin' I ain't getting pregnant. >> Underneath the teasing he's just -- pensive. There's a muddled conflicting jumble, there, uncertain thoughts about identity that aren't quite sure what terminology to resolve themselves into. He satisfies himself with taking Micah's hand, and the warm-happy-/right/ feeling that accompanies /this/ is at least not conflicted at all. "Yeah," he agrees, "Let's dance."