ArchivedLogs:Music of the Night

Music of the Night
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Nox	2013-07-27 '
Location Undisclosed
Unlike the other two, Nox's confinement involves no telepathic-blocking technology; they're reasonably sure /she/ doesn't have psychic powers. That isn't to imply her confinement isn't very secure. She's placed in one of the standard storage rooms, but in her case, it's been heavily modified -- the lights have been stripped, casting it in near pitch-black; the narrow air-ducts are present, but a series of powerful LEDs lace the airways, keeping them aglow in a constant, brilliant light. All of them individually powered and double-checked /daily/. There are also a series of spotlights -- currently off! in front of the glass plate that separates her from the non-descript hall (which has only three things of note; a chair, a table, and a TV she can see from her glass cage -- the TV's control is inside of her cell). Her cell is, of course, kept near-dark at all times. Food is brought to her through steel-clad shelving -- and the hallway /outside/ her room is painfully bright. When Malthus arrives, it is with very little fanfare. Cast in black, the scarred man peers into her cell, trying to make out the vague outline of shadows within -- his hands clasped behind his back. The TV has been left off. The food they've placed in the room has gone uneaten. There's been no apparent activity in the room. To the unwary eye, it might seem merely empty. Nox, after all, doesn't need to move to study the things that are touched by her shadows. The air-ducts, for instance. The sliding shelf in the door. It took no time at all to make a note of these things, and the security precautions behind them, before she sank into a silence, a stillness, that is most comfortable for her. Perhaps less so for any meant to observe her. It's an /empty room/. And it seems to remain so, even after Malthus has arrived. For several minutes, he's treated to an unchanging landscape. Then gradually a figure begins to resolve, within the darkness. A woman, stepping forward--though she remains several feet behind the window, away from the ambient glow--with her hair and a dark shroud flowing back from her head and shoulders. Nox, who folds her hands before her and watches the man outside with pitch black eyes. After a time, she murmurs, "You are not a doctor. The doctors wear white coats. They carry clipboards." "...no," Malthus replies, his head tilting. "Do you not remember me, Audrey? I am the man responsible for bringing you here." There is a /simplicity/ to this statement; a brazen, bald-faced coldness. "I wanted to check in on you. Make sure there was nothing you required -- beyond, of course, your freedom. Dietary needs, accomodations... I prefer to keep my prisoners comfortable." Like a mirror, Nox tilts her head. Then, "Oh. Yes. The captain." Her eyes turn to the side and she leans forward slightly, as near to the glow of the window as she dares. Peeking into the hallway or what little of it that she can see from that vantage point. "The doctors will come soon, yes? That is the way of it." When she turns back to Malthus, she stands a little straighter. The sketchmarks of her eyebrows lift in mild curiosity. "I have very few needs, beyond what you have already given me." Though here she pauses, forehead rumplung. It takes her a moment before she essays a suggestion. "Perhaps some music. I am...very fond of music. Operas. Musicals. Why do you prefer comfort?" There is not much to see; the hallways seem to stretch out endlessly in either direction -- there are more glass plates, but the angle of refraction prevents their contents from being seen. Designed, it seems, to make it harder for the inmates to notice their contents. Nox /may/ also notice that her current room has microphones -- microphones that Captain Rogers has switched to on. "Not here," Malthus tells her. "My facility is exclusively for temporary storage; we do no research here. You will, however, likely be moved to a facility where there /will/ be doctors." There is a hint of -- is that a wisp of regret? It's hard to tell. "Music. Operas. Musicals. Yes, I can bring you that." The question prompts Malthus to silence for a long while; when he answers, there is something... very distant in his tone: "It's one way in which I remind myself that you are not animals." "Though you treat us as such?" Even with the amplifying microphone, Nox's voice is so very soft. "I remember. The guards who were kinder to us. Did so. Because it allowed them to continue. To think that they were better. Than the others. The ones who truly believed otherwise." She takes a step forward. The drapery of shadow she's gathered around herself trails after and as the lights of the hallway fall over her face, her dark skin is blanched to an unhealthy charcoal shade. "Do they think I am dead?" "I do not believe," Malthus says, "that the comforts I provide you with in any way validate my actions. The difference between what I do here and what the NYPD did to you is --" A pause, here. As if Malthus is searching for the right term. "--irrelevant. We are both putting you in a cage. The difference is only that I /know/ what you're capable of." He pauses as she steps forward, watching intently. "...I have also noted," Malthus adds, his words suddenly slow, "that on an occasions when you mistreat your prisoners, it can inspire a certain -- strength in them. To rise above adversity. Treat them well -- and many of them will accept their circumstances. Comfort," Malthus finishes, "is a very powerful sedative. Yes. Everyone believes you are dead." With his last sentence, she closes her eyes. Then, in spite of the rumple of discomfort that twists her expression, Nox reaches out to place her hand flat against the glass. The lights that glow so warmly around him immediately bleach her palm to a deathly white, like bones in a desert. "I do not accept this because you offer comforts, Captain. It is only because I deserve this. That I did not kill you. When Tatters was away and safe." As with him, her tone--softer though it is--is calm and level. A fact. "They will not be able to rescue me. At this new facility? It will be stronger, yes?" Her eyes slowly open again to rest on the man before her. Her hand remains against the glass, and slowly that white begins to creep around her palm, towards her wrist. "When will they move me?" "--I see. You blame yourself for the chaos that resulted from Officer Whelan's death," Malthus states, "and consider this your just punishment. Or penance, perhaps?" He watches as that palm's surface bleaches, fascinated -- like he is observing the patterns of frost upon glass. "--I highly suspect they will be unable to, yes," Malthus states, still watching the hand as the white creeps across it. "From what I've read, you will likely die there. I expect we will move you within the week." Nox tilts her head again. Surely, she must be in pain. But her regard remains a steady thing, fixed and unblinking upon Malthus. "I accept that I deserve this, for killing a man. For the harm and death that came afterward. For the pain I have caused. He had children." Her skin is now white past the wrist. There, small runners and trails of ivory flow up her arm, like ink in reverse. "Did you take others, Captain Rogers? To send to their deaths." "--he /killed/ children," Malthus responds, although his tone is less challenging -- and more... amused? "No one deserves this, Ms. Garrett. No one deserves death; no one deserves to suffer. Your determination to engage in this murderous self-flagellation -- while beneficial for my own ends -- is not necessary. You killed a man, yes; you acted foolishly, yes. But," and now, Malthus' hand lifts, pressing a finger to the glass -- against the whiteness that spreads across Nox's palm. "--do you think none have done as you have done? Do you think your sin is truly so unforgivable? That all who have murdered -- /must/ die?" Malthus' mouth twitches. On the scarred side, this time. "--yes. They too, will likely die. Alongside you," he adds. "I will attempt to make the process as comfortable as possible. But it will not be comfortable." Perhaps he's boring her. Perhaps her mind has simply wandered. But as Malthus reaches out and rebuts her opinion, Nox's gaze slips away. To the hallway again, though she doesn't appear to be looking at anything in particular. The creeping pale curls in a puddle inside of the delicate hollow of her elbow. Where his finger shadows her palm, the white fades, a darker grey sliding in. "Who are you to judge?" she murmurs, though possibly only to herself. Then her eyes are drawn back to him. Yes. Yes, to others? The pain sinks that little bit deeper. "Which?" "Oh, Ms. Garrett," Malthus informs her, a tranquil /wave/ of sympathy swooping through him; his eyes have a strange sort of serenity, his mouth carrying a sadness that travels in the melancholy of his voice. His finger becomes a palm, pressing outward against the shape of her hand. "I have reaped and ruined far more than you shall ever know. Men, women, children: I have murdered them all in ways too numerous to describe. And yet sleep comes to me with the effortless regularity of the ocean's tides. Were I so foolish as to believe in monsters -- /you/, my dear, would not qualify." A pause, at that last word. Before Malthus offers: "The man who controls plants and the man who molds flesh." "Such pride." Nox's hand withdraws before his palm can find the full shape of hers. Her arm lowers to her side, though the stain remains, like a woman's opera glove pulled above her elbow. Something in her eyes shifts when he names his other captives, as well. Something ominous, a /thing/ stirring in the abyss. "I might accept this, Captain Rogers. But should you ever give me the chance. I will show you monsters. You should have left them where you found them." And yet. On the heels of this, she inquires so very calmly, "May I see them?" "--pride?" Malthus asks, as if sampling the word, contemplating its flavor. His own hand does not retract. "Mmn. Perhaps. I have many weaknesses," he admits, "though never among them has been the inability to accept my weaknesses. But I do not believe in monsters, Ms. Garrett. Even if you tear me and all I hold dear asunder," and now his hand /does/ retract, slow but sure, from the glass. "I will never come to fear or hate you. That is /my/ strength." That last question gets Malthus to be quiet for... quite some time. Pondering its merits. Thinking. "--perhaps. If you answer a question for me, then absolutely. Were there any among your family with the power to control one's mind?" "If it makes you feel better. To believe so." Nox's eyes sweep over him, moving slowly, darkly, from crown to toes. Then, just as slowly, they return to his face. Her expression has smoothed, leaving her face as unmarked as a porcelain doll's. "I do not know, Captain. You. Will be familiar with my father's views. I think. If he feels as he did. As I believe he did. Why would they tell anyone? I was only a girl and I knew it was better to leave." A slight twist of Malthus' lips, comes -- twice. First, at the comment about his /beliefs/ -- and second, the response concerning Nox's family. "Not your birth family, Ms. Garrett. The family you found in the sewers. Among /those/ people." He pauses, before explaining: "Two of my soldiers reportedly fell under telepathic attack. We have not identified the source. I want to know if that was one of yours. In return, I'll allow you to see your... companions." "Yes." Nox's answer is immediate. She only blinks once, slowly, for having made that mistake. Or perhaps she is blinking at Malthus, for having to ask this question. "But she..." A pause. "She is not one of those that you took. I would think." Then her back is turned to him, the shadows trailing behind her as any cloak would as she begins pacing towards the back of the room, where it's darkest. "Mmn. We saw no woman present during the conflict," Malthus says. "And yet." And yet. "--only a man who resembled -- a fox, I believe? He had tails. I presumed he was the culprit, but perhaps..." He taps his teeth with his tongue. "...mmn. Something is amiss." Then, suddenly: "I will arrange a meeting. Is there anything else, Ms. Garrett?" "You saw," Nox murmurs, chin tucked low. If he were to listen carefully, he might hear a trace of amusement laced through those simple syllables. Or not, because what follows it is indubitably a sigh, made without breath. "No. No. I want you to go now, Captain Rogers." There is a narrowing of his eyes -- but then, Malthus is turning to go. In time, there will come music, swelling gently into the speakers of Nox's cell. It is, of course, a song from Phantom of the Opera; 'The Music of the Night'.