ArchivedLogs:Men of Resolve

Men of Resolve
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Dan	2013-10-12 '
Location <NYC> Molly's Pub - Lower East Side
This bar is literally a hole in the wall that is the Lower East Side. Grimy tables litter the small common room, nearly pushed up against the small bar in the corner. On the mirror behind the bar, a greasy menu has been taped, with a small offering of pub food to purchase. A jukebox, at least forty years old, sits in the corner, an 'out of order' sign on its cracked glass face. This is a bar to come to when you want to drink to forget, or maybe pick a fight. Certainly the crowd looks rough enough to oblige the latter, and the booze is cheap enough to indulge the former. Saturday night is not a very busy night for Molly's -- no night is, really, unless there's a holiday. Saturday is only marked as /busier/ than the others by the occasional new face that wanders in the doors. Otherwise, it's generally who's in here now -- Molly's four regulars, who are engaged in a game of dominoes on the pitted surface of their table, and Dan stationed behind the bar. Which is where he is, now. Dressed in a white wife beater under a short-sleeved plaid shirt left unbuttoned and a pair of jeans, the bartender/security guard is perched on his stool with a cigar jammed between his teeth that he puffs on idly (ironically, under the sign stating that smoking in public venues is strictly prohibited by New York Ordinance #numbersomething). In one hand, he has a paperback copy of A Wrinkle in Time which he reads with a small arc to his eyebrows. Occasionally, his gaze lifts to gauge the domino players, and to check the door for potential new customers. Or maybe industrious ordinance-enforcers. Malthus' arrival is quiet; little more than a rustle of cloth and the clatter of the door. The bald-headed man is cloaked in a long coat of charcoal black -- his single functioning eye swoops across the bar, scanning its occupants -- his face wears an expression of serene neutrality. When Malthus approaches the bar, it's with a slow, steady gait -- and just a hint of a limp from his left foot. When he settles down in front of Daniel -- very politely! -- he offers the man a slow, cautious smile. It's a tiny thing, born more of etiquette than joy, that lonely eye drifting down to the book's cover. And then, in what is an effortless inflection of French: "Qui plussait, plus se tait." Dan's eyes track up to the door when it opens, and he watches the newcomer as he approaches the bar, taking in every detail silently. His expression is largely unreadable, but what /is/ legible speaks to how clearly Malthus is /not/ like any of the regulars. Even the domino game pauses when Malthus passes, but the expressions there are simply naked curiosity. Dan puffs at his cigar for a moment as the man settles himself, and the sudden output of French has him narrowing his eyes sharply. "We don't serve wine," he says as he steps up to the bar, disengaging his cigar and setting it in an ashtray to smoulder. "And I don't speak French. At least, I'm guessing it's French." He considers that. "Sounds like it, anyway. You speak English?" he asks, suddenly but not terribly impolitely. "Parley-voo Englaze?" "The more a man knows, the less he speaks," Malthus states, rather flatly -- though there is a /hint/ of amusement hiding in that tone. "A quote from your book. Though originally, the words belonged to Voltaire." Malthus pauses, before adding: "I'm not here for drink, Mr. Rourke. My name is Malthus Rogers. I am an agent of the US government." Dan looks confused for a moment, then blinks at the book in his hand. "Oh. I must not have gotten to that part, yet. I'm not very far into it." He holds it up in demonstration, showing that he's not more than a chapter or two along. Then he sets it aside. "I'm not familiar with Voltaire." When Malthus identifies himself, the ex-soldier's body freezes, and his chin lifts ever so slightly. "Captain Rogers," he says after a long moment. "I've heard of you." Reclaiming his cigar, he tucks it in his teeth, and leans back against the beer cooler. "What brings you to my place?" "--an offer," Malthus finishes, his eyes lingering upon that cigar -- it's hard to tell if he finds it offensive or merely fascinating. One might get the feeling that for Malthus, the two sensations are so close that they may as well be interchangeable. "Something that may appeal more deeply to your sensibilities. Are you familiar with -- 'HAMMER', Mr. Rourke? With what I 'do'?" Dan's eyebrows furrow, at the unexpected answer, and he folds his arms across his chest as he studies Malthus for a long moment. The sudden, mild tension in his body is a subtle shift of muscle in his neck; something he attempts to cover by chewing on his cigar, rotating it slowly. "/You/ I know from scuttlebutt and the news. What is HAMMER?" he asks, finally, giving Malthus a longer appraisal. Then his eyes flick to the guys playing dominoes, and steps closer to rest his elbows on the bar. This allows him to speak in a lower pitch, head tilted conversationally. "Some kind of mutant special forces or something?" Ah. /That/ manages to coax a smile out of Malthus -- a twitch at the corner of his mouth. His eyelids drop low as Dan leans inward. "Essentially," he replies, his own tone not dipping lower; if anything, in contrast to Dan, he seems to get a little louder. "We handle the intersection between mutants and law enforcement. As you can imagine, in recent months, we've become /very/ busy." Then, his tone grows far more somber: "Have you ever heard the story of how I got my scar?" "Yeah, I watch the news," Dan says with a bit of a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes, which are laser-keen on Malthus' face. "I didn't think all of that could be LE." When the man mentions his scar, Dan's gaze snaps there, and his eyes narrow in recollection. After a moment, he shakes his head. "I've heard a couple of stories," he admits. "But I ain't in the habit of believing everything I hear. As a general rule." "A reasonable policy." Malthus' finger lifts, reaching for the scar; the tip of his index finger traces the length of that angry snarl over the eye itself -- down across his cheek -- following its passage through his lip, where it twists his mouth into a perpetually smug scowl. "A telepath took control of me. I struck out blindly; in my desperation to break the link, I took a knife to my own eye. The pain proved sufficient to severe the connection. In retrospect," Malthus adds, with a weary smile, "stabbing myself in my thigh would likely have been sufficient. But I am not a man known for..." Pause. "Half measures." Dan unconsciously reaches up to rub a thumb along the scar below his left eye as he listens to Malthus' story and watches the trail of the other man's finger. His eyes snap back up to Malthus' when he mentions being taken over by a telepath, and there's a flash of sincere empathy that's immediately replaced by a more doubtful expression, and his jaw tightens just a bit around the cigar. He straightens, taking his elbows off the bar to lean on his palms, furrowing his brow. "That's some story," he says, rolling the cigar around in the corner of his mouth. "Sounds familiar, only the story I know like that doesn't include eye-stabbing. Just a lot of dead soldiers." His smirk is a bit more grim, now. "Is that why you joined HAMMER?" "No." Malthus' tone grows colder, now; the somberness disappears beneath a certain flatness -- and his finger draws away from the scar. "I was already aware of the threat mutant terrorism posed at that time; the event did nothing but increase my resolve. But," and now the fingertip drifts back to the bar -- that one functional eye locking upon Dan. "--I thought you might perhaps relate. It is often... easy, for some, to see mutants only as victims; to be incapable of understanding the danger they can pose. Less easy, perhaps, for myself. Less easy, perhaps, for you." Another pause. Before: "Mr. Rourke, do you hate mutants?" "Oh, I relate," Dan says, scratching along his ribcage. "I can relate to that story pretty fuckin' well. Which -- no disrespect intended -- puts me on my guard. Because it seems a little /too/ relatable." He lifts a shoulder, and his eyebrows, as if to say 'well, that's government for you', and plucks the cigar from his lips to tap it in the ashtray. He rolls it in his fingers, considering the question. "I don't know that I do," he says. "There's at least one I love, so I probably could never /hate/ them. There's a lot I ain't fond of, though." "Yes. The details of your incident are unknown to me, but I have been informed that the background surrounding it bears a striking resemblance to my own," Malthus admits, and now -- only now -- his gaze slips past Dan, lingering a moment on the bar behind him. A certain tenseness -- one so subtle Dan may not have noticed it until it passes, only now -- melts away at the mention of love. "Good," Malthus tells him. "There is enough hatred in this world, Mr. Rourke. And not nearly enough resolve." His gaze slings back to Dan, now. "The furlough has placed my organization in a nebulous state. I've lost several men -- good men -- over the past week. They intend to return when the furlough ends, but..." Those lips purse. "When it /does/, I will be in the market for men who possess... a certain tenacity." Dan grimaces as he rubs the back of his head, considering. "So, HAMMER goes after /dangerous/ mutants?" he queries, wrinkling his nose. "Like, the ones who are genuinely criminals? Like that Brotherhood and those types?" He moves his hand around to scratch first at his eyebrow, and then at his scar with a thoughtful expression. "I mean, this ain't some off-the-books revenge squad or nothin', right? 'Cause I aint about to re-up for that kind of shit. I got a ki -- I got /people/ to think about." A slight smile. /Very/ slight. "I am not in the market for vengeance," Malthus replies. "But yes. We pursue those mutants who are criminals -- terrorists. Those," he continues, "who make the world a dangerous place to live in. Cain Marko, for example. Erik Lansherr, as another." His lips twist -- as if about to add another name to that list -- but suddenly settle into an uneasy line. "Anarchists, Mr. Rourke." "Anarchists." It's a dull echo from the barman as Dan considers that, rubbing a hand over his face a couple of times in almost a scrubbing kind of motion. "Can I...have a couple of days to think about it?" he asks, finally, reaching for his cigar with his brow still furrowed. "Maybe discuss it with Doc Samson?" His brow relaxes to something nearly apologetic. "It's a big decision." "Of course. Contact me if you want more information. I'll have the relevant packet forwarded to you," Malthus responds -- two fingers slipping into his coat. Retracting a slim, white card. This is followed by a pen, /clicking/ sharply in his palm -- and the scribbling of his phone number. Passing it to Dan. "It /is/ a big decision. And it is a dangerous job. But it's work, Mr. Rourke. Work that needs doing." Dan nods once as he watches Malthus extract the card and scribble his number on it. He still seems thoughtful as he reaches for the card, reading the information there before he tucks it into his back pocket. "I ain't scared of dangerous," he says with a lift of one shoulder. "But, like I said. I got people it'll affect, so I need to think it over." His mouth tightens, and he inhales through his nose as he moves to the cooler. "I wouldn't mind looking at that packet, though." It's casual enough to be an idle comment, delivered over his shoulder as he fishes a bottle of water out and brings it back to the bar. "Can't hurt to look at it, right?" Malthus is already rising as Dan takes the card; he slips effortlessly to his feet -- but something seems to suddenly give him pause. There is a faint flicker of thought -- a lift of an eyebrow, however subtle -- at Dan's last comment. And then, as Dan returns to the bar, he might find Malthus... staring at him. "Of course not." Malthus replies, his tone effortlessly casual; his hand lifts to shake Daniel's. "I'll have it sent over. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Rourke." Dan frowns at Malthus' stare, and he sets the bottle on the bar. "On the house," he says, taking the extended hand and shaking it firmly. "And call me Dan. It was good to meet you, Captain Rogers," he says, offering a bit of tooth in his smile. "You'll hear from me soon." "I'm certain of it. Thank you, Dan." The handshake is firm, solid; a sort of controlled roughness to it. Malthus accepts the bottle with a polite smile -- and a flash of that dark, impenetrable eye. And then he turns, leaving with all the silent calm with which he came.