ArchivedLogs:Parley Pickup

Parley Pickup
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Claire, Parley, Mirror	2013-04-15 Parley is picked up after Goblin. Warning: Severe injuries described!
Location ???
Claire Basil emerges from her apartment in a huff, heading straight for Jackson Holland's car. She's clad in her usual green wool coat - floppy little flower hat - pink-and-white striped scarf - and black lacquered cane, the latter 'ticking' furiously as she moves to slip into the passenger seat beside him. No sooner is she in, then is she handing him an address - on her phone. "Mr. Holland," she greets him, huffing rather furiously - clearly in a bit of a twist. "...I'm sorry to ask all this of you. I will endeavour not to make it a habit." On the phone, she told him that Parley was hurt - he could not call upon the police - and, for whatever reason, he said he could not go to a hospital. She also asked him to drive her there, as she lacked both a car and a valid driver's license. "...I didn't know who else to call," she admits to him, then. "...actually, besides Parley and Mr. Law, you're the only person in this city I can trust both to drive a car and keep a secret." She admits this reluctantly - perhaps even a mite sadly! Jackson is waiting; his car is rather quiet in its idling, electric motor softer than most. A sleek red Tesla that he clashes conspicuously with in bright purple and silver. He glances at the address, tapping it into the car's console to let it navigate. "S'aright, ma'am. I'm glad to help. I just hope he's OK." His lips press together /thinly/ when she mentions trusting Parley, and his head tips down slightly. "-- Not sure how I feel about bein' lumped in /that/ company," he admits, pulling smoothly away from the curb once Googlemaps has told him where to go. "What happened?" "You don't trust him," she says as he starts driving; she pockets the phone. "I know he's been troublesome - does things he shouldn't. But, did he do something /particular/? I hope you don't mind me asking." As he drives, she shakes her head, shifting the large hand-bag she's brought with her to her lap - Jackson /might/ notice it's stuffed with towels. And a first-aid kit. Among other amenities. "I don't know. I just know he said an accident, and he'd need stitches, and a towel. He also mentioned there might be someone dangerous," and here her lips grow very thin, "although his phrasing leads me to believe the danger has passed. But if it /hasn't/, then I will deal with it." "He doesn't talk to you about things?" Jackson's eyebrows raise. "I don't trust most people, Ms. Basil. But I didn't feel comfortable with you dealing with my family issues if he works with you." He doesn't look at Claire while he speaks. He looks at the road! Because he is driving. "-- I should've brought Joshua," he mutters, and unlocks his phone before handing it to Claire. "Can you write a text for me?" "He keeps secrets from me," Claire responds, taking the phone. "I think he might have the silly notion in his head that he's 'protecting' me. Or maybe he's afraid that I'd be angry with him. If you're not comfortable - I am more than happy to respect that, Mr. Holland. I am also more than happy to /exclude/ him from my work on your family issues. Either scenario suits me well enough, I think." She shifts the phone down into her palms, thumbs at the ready. "Go ahead," she says. "I'd be angry with him. I gotta admit, I wasn't real /surprised/ to hear he'd got himself hurt, what he's been up to." Though Jax sounds distinctly /unhappy/ about it regardless. "Put 'Joshua' in the to -- I think he's my only Joshua, should pull his number up. And the message: 'Parley's been hurt. Needs assistance. Can you or your roommate jump, soon?' "Sending." And so Claire is, indeed, writing. Thumbs twiddling as she does so; a little frown on her face. "No, I suppose not. I just - ah. I do not want him to be hurt. I do not want /anyone/ to be hurt," she adds, sounding just a few shades shy of ill. "...'jump'?" she then asks, eyebrows clenching together in confusion. Then, a little softer: "I saw you at the clinic announcement. With your friends. All very colorful. It was all very lovely, right up until the part where it was not." "I don't want him hurt, neither," Jackson says, quietly. His face is calm, neutral and not very readable though the tightness in his voice is audible enough. "-- Thaaaat speech didn't go quite like planned I don't think. Josh an' -- Parley's roommates might be able to help. And they travel quick." His teeth wiggle at his lip ring as he drives, fingers drumming against the steering wheel when he stops for a red light. "How well do you know Parley, ma'am?" "As well as I can know a person who's been working for me for a month or two and likes to keep secrets," Claire responds. "He's ambitious, clever, very useful, and very dangerous. To himself, in particular. But he doesn't like to close doors. I value that about him. Even if, ironically, I wish he'd keep his /own/ door more open." She sounds wistful. "Everyone's so /secretive/ these days. I can understand why; some secrets are worth keeping. But so many aren't. We seem deadset on forgetting how /not/ to keep them." "He's dangerous to other people too. He was planning on taking a /teenager/ with him to break in to Oscorp. Which, I might imagine, is the insanity that led to getting him hurt now. I don't trust him around nobody and I don't trust him knowing nothing about me or my family." Jackson exhales, heavily. "I don't hardly think you're wrong 'bout him being dangerous to himself, though. There's plenty of secrets worth keeping but he don't seem to have much concept of who's important to keep them /from/. World we live in, trying to do everything on your /own/ just leads to -- well." "He /is/ a teenager, isn't he?" Claire asks, though she does so quietly - not so much a challenge as a detail to throw into the mix. She's finishing up with Jax's phone - delicately placing it back within the nearest niche which allows it to rest fitfully. "I can appreciate that. Your position, I mean. And I think you are right, Mr. Holland. And I'll speak to him about his - extracurricular activities, I think." She pauses a moment, staring out the car window, before asking - almost offhandedly: "He broke into Oscorp laboratories? /Why/ on earth...?" "Don't think so," Jackson muses, "though I ain't quite sure. Done high school, though. Shouldn't be /bringing/ high school kids into lethal situations and telling them not to tell the folks who care about them. That last turns it from bad judgment into classic predator behavior." His fingers still tap against the steering wheel. "Steal technology," he answers. "How extraordinarily silly," Claire says, at the mention of stealing technology. Then, she sighs: "I don't see a difference. Between the two, I mean - predation and bad judgment. To act as a predator is to judge poorly. But," and now she looks at Jackson's profile, her focus lingering on the eye-patch, "I have not been hounded by wolves for quite some time. ... I'm sorry." "Mmm. I don't know. I think there's a difference. Not in outcome but in intent. Though I don't know whether it's easier to cure imprudence or maliciousness. Important to know which is which, though," Jackson muses, "if you want to help someone past 'em." His mouth hooks upward, in a crooked curl of smile. "I been surrounded by predators most of my past years. Get used to spotting 'em. With most people I can tell. With him I can't. Makes it hard to know how to help, you know?" "Yes. I can see how that is an /extraordinary/ problem with him. It is hard," Claire agrees, "to know what side he is on. That is what makes me want to help him. Because I suspect he wants the same thing I do. To be on everyone's side. To help everyone /win/. But I suspect he does not yet understand /how/. It is a very dangerous thing, to 'play' on everyone's side. It becomes easy," Claire admits, reluctantly, "to forget that this is /not/ a game. That people are not pawns. That there is no such thing as a /disposeable/ life. Merely decisions; some of which are less terrible than others." She wrinkles her nose, as if in distaste. "I've met the sort who never learned that trick. I grew up under one." A vicious, vitriol-laced French cussword emerges. "May his plots rot in the soil he sowed them in." But then, a little softer: "I hope Parley might turn out differently." "With due respect, Ms. Basil, it ain't /possible/ for all sides to /win/ in a matter like this. You do know one'a those sides wants to see us all /dead/, don't you? That ain't an exaggeration, that's the cold truth. And there's some cases where a moderate approach literally means people dying." Jackson's tone is quiet-gentle, but his hands are gripping the steering wheel tight. "I want them to lose, Ms. Basil. I want them to lose /hard/. Because for them, living in the world I want to build -- a world where we're /all/ free and equal -- ain't winning." Another red light, more drumming of fingers against the steering wheel. "This ain't a game, but there's people what treats it like one. And the kinda folk who'll do whatever it takes to save their /own/ skin no matter the cost -- they're the ones I ain't sure I even want /on/ my side. Cuz they'll betray it and everything we stand for if it looks like it'll get them ahead." "Moderation in all things - even moderation itself." Is that a joke? Claire says it half-jestingly, half-seriously. "I don't want anyone to lose, Mr. Holland. I just want everyone to win. Failing that, I'll take whatever I can get. There is nothing I will not sacrifice in the pursuit of equality... save the pursuit of equality /itself/." Now she eyes Jackson; when his hands tighten on that wheel, she takes note. "You'd do well to remember that - those of us who fight hardest for what is right are at the greatest risk of losing sight of it." Then, almost immediately: "Bah - I apologize, Mr. Holland. This is not the time for me to feed you platitudes. You are doing me a kindness. You are doing a person you do not /trust/ a kindness. You've saved the lives of men who have done nothing but spit on you /and/ your values. You do not deserve a lecture - but, still, I give you one. Old habits. Again, thank you for this. You have... a good heart. For whatever it's worth." "Thank you, ma'am," Jackson says, in the same quiet-neutral tone. One hand lifts from the steering wheel, absently adjusting the strap of his eyepatch, his smile twitching up briefly. Albeit thinly. "I'm well aware of how this fight can make you lose sight'a things." He draws in a slow breath, glancing briefly down to the navigation screen as the calm computer-voice tells him to turn. "Like I said, ma'am, I don't trust most people. But I want to help all of them. Most of all the ones who need the most help." "...so do I," Claire says, albeit a bit more softly. "I suppose, really, that's all there is to it." After that, she quiets down quite a bit. It's not a one single mass of trees, nor it is a forest, but this small area is a rural pocket off the highway, connecting a loose string of copses, half-block masses of brush and tall trees, cut open by small cul-de-sacs and neat little suburban neighborhoods not far off in any given direction. The pouring rain has made a thin column of smoke in the distance difficult to see, all but gone now, the thunder equally muting what had once been an explosion. And it's silent now. The rushed spring storm has moved on, leaving just a light sprinkle and that puzzling little gleam of sunshine winking through it. Just beyond a wild blackberry bush, just beginning to bush up in green shoots, Parley's markings for once form a rather effective camouflage, breaking up his shape amongst the plants - soaked black slacks (or the shreds thereof) and wet dark hair are adequately gloomy. The rain has aided in rendering him less of a bloody mess, and his shirt was mostly in strips anyway - useful, to wrap unprofessionally - but /tightly/ around a number of the worst, uglier gashes on his arms. He has his head leaned against a tree trunk, like he's taking a sweet little nap. In the rain. Totally normal. The car is parked in one of those cul-de-sacs, an anachronistically cheerful red sportscar in the drizzling grey. Jax is anachronistically cheerful, too, bright purple and silver although the expression he wears is not so much. He has a bright orange bag slung over one shoulder, a blue EMS star of life on its front flap, and his expression isn't cheerful so much as somber as he trudges through the rain. Searching. Fingers drumming against his bag. "Did he say /exactly/ where --" He's peering ahead uncertainly, gaze cutting one direction and then the other. Claire Basil emerges behind him - dressed in a green wool coat, flower hat, and armed with a lacquered cane - and handbag. Stuffed full of towels, a first-aid kit, and various supplies. "He mentioned that he climbed a tree," she says, and she shifts the handbag aside - bringing up the phone - pulling up the picture he had sent her. Of the water towerl, and surrounding flora - trying to use it to locate the vantage point he had /taken/ it from. "Parley?" It takes a few pulses from the moment Claire calls to the time Parley's brain says 'oh, wait, that's a /name/.' Then he even realizes /whose/. One dark eye opens, slides towards the sound of voices. Hang on, he's got this. ... um. "--Claire." He knows /this/ word, and it comes out in a slow relieved sigh, raising a hand slowly to be seen beyond the plants just down the edge of a driveway. He licks his lips - which look /weird/, since they've lost all their color and sort of match the rest of him, kind of pale and purple around the eye sockets - and hoists his elbow against a tree, begins to hike himself to his feet. Until his eyes lock on Jackson - by /far/ the most colorful point on the landscape. His mouth closes. Jackson is still searching the trees as Claire calls this name, and he zeroes in on the movement. He turns his path to angle towards Parley, shaking his head as Parley begins to stand. "You might could want to sit, still," he says, quiet. He reaches into the bag at his side as he walks, not for any first aid supplies but for his phone. "Look like you lost yourself a fair bit'a blood, don't want to pass out or nothin'." His brow is furrowed, eyes flicking over Parley as he nears with a distinct overtone of worry leaking from him. "M'calling one'a your roommates in, aright? They'll be able to do more for you than any of this." He pats the bag at his side, gestures to Claire's handbag. "{Oh, fuck.}" Claire immediately moves toward Parley, shifting her weight heavily to her cane as she approaches - and at once, her power bares down on the mutant. Focus may not be comfortable for someone who is probably in a great deal of pain, but keeping him conscious and aware is an immediate priority. As she saddles closer, she shrugs off her handbag, dropping it to the ground near Parley - crouching down besides him. Eyes crinkling with worry. "What happened? What on /earth/ happened?" She's shifting through the bag already, producing numerous towels, examining Parley's wounds - trying to find a place just to /start/. "Cl-nnngh," Parley's eyes try to squeeze shut as /crystal clarity/ washes through the ravages of his mind, and he /seizes/ on it. Opens up, swallows that light /deep/ into the shadows - it can subtly be felt, the /pull/ of him inviting her mind to his. << (harder.) >> He /doesn't/ sit down, though is leaning drunkenly hard against the tree in a near-crouch. His fingers curl into numb fists - eyes have never left Jackson, snapping raspily, "-what's /he/ doing here." "She needed a ride," Jackson is saying, as he taps at his phone -- it has sprouted a small glowing shield above it to protect its screen from the drizzle. Wet touchscreens, hard to navigate. "Someone she could trust who could drive." It's quiet-even, carrying nothing much past the lingering weight of worry colouring his mind. "Joshua's on shift. Your other roommate's coming." He has slipped the phone back into the bag, and his hand lingers on its flap -- but at Parley's snapping he takes a half-step back with an accepting dip of his head. "I don't drive, Parley." Claire's power bares down upon him - as hard as she can bring it, like a crystalizing /vice/. It spills out around the corners; leaking into the minds of Claire herself, and Jackson as she crouches beside him. "You need medical attention. How long until he's--" Claire's mouth thins, remembering what Jax said in the car. She eyeballs Parley. "Parley, tell us what happened. Please." Parley wilts under the hard pressing inward of Claire's power, pressing a hand over his eyes, breathing rapidly. And then easing. Sorting. Dragging together broken edges like fitted shards of a broken mirror. His hand drops from his face, which slowly through the pain he seems to be... marveling. Shifting wary sights from Claire, then up to Jackson, his mouth slipping open... and then closed. And, against Claire, his mind begins thoughtfully to grow harder. "How long until he's-- what?" He's asking Jackson this, for some reason. And belatedly, obediently, he eases back down to sitting. And reaches for a towel to press against a bloody flap of skin torn up, lowering his eyes, "I was in an accident." "How long till who -- what?" Jackson blinks, his mind holding mild confusion at the disjointed question that Claire's power cannot clear up. He takes his phone out of his pocket as it buzzes again, and frowns at the screen, then puts it away. He stands back slightly, watching Parley and then looking away. "Until he's here," Claire finishes. "Whoever you're bringing here to give him medical attention." This is said back to Jackson, but she's focusing on Parley as she asks it. The grip of her power still clenching down on his mind; keeping every thought sharp, every sensation a harsh, brutish edge. "Yes, you said an accident on the phone, Parley - but - Parley this is not a time to be cagey. Please. Tell me what happened. I need to understand. At the /very/ least, we need to know if we are in danger, and if so, of what /nature/." When he moves to press that flap down with the towel, Claire frowns, reaching up to hold it in place with her own hand. Her eyes drift around the surrounding landscape, looking for any sign of houses - anyone who might have called the police. Or have noticed a bleeding Parley wandering about. Parley does not need to cast his eyes around to search to the extent of his mind's reach; if anything, it serves as well with them closed. And he pulls in Claire's abilities with a more pragmatic handle, now, using the clarity to extend his sensitivity. To pull in every nuance of the minds around him, and beyond, gulped forcefully into the quagmire. "You're not in danger," he says evenly at the very uppermost back of his throat, where it's able to retain some less raspy edge - almost modern-civilized under the wet mop of hair. And lays a light - almost, grudgingly... comforting hand over Claire's. Still watching Jackson, both when he looks over -- and when he looks away. "For all you know, I could just be /acting/. You look fabulous, Mr. Holland. Very jovial. Always dressed for an occasion." There is little noise to herald the new arrival. There was just no person and then there is a person, just behind Jax's left side with a hand laid on the photokinetic's shoulder to announce his sudden presence. Joshua in form, toned and coppery-tan and shaggy-haired, Joshua in mind as well, a reflexive /calm/ in Bad Situations -- layered over a cool tick-tick-tick of carefully analytic Mirrormind. "Catty," is his greeting comment, though which of them this is /to/ is not clear. He slips past Jax to crouch beside Mirror, glancing down over his roommate in a slow sweep of gaze. One hand braces on damp grass. He glances only secondarily to Claire, appraising but not greeting. "Alright, Parley," Claire submits to this much; the words have the flavor of surrender to them, along with the deep, rumbling pulse of worry and confusion. She feels a bit out of her depth, here. The hand remains on his shoulder... up until Mirror/Joshua arrives. The grip of her power still remains firmly upon Parley - but as she steps back to make room for him, she looks to Jackson - then back to Joshua/Mirror - and then finally to Parley. "...will it help to --" Back to Joshua/Mirror. "...will being more /focused/ help you help him?" She's learned the importance of asking before using her power. Particularly after the Gala. "Aah?" This slurs, weary-sneering, "I'm sorry for making you late. This is not," Parley remains leaning with a shoulder braced against a tree, long parallel claw marks dragged over his shoulders, back and chest - and through his hairline, though it's harder to see except where it gels at the top of his ear, "/ideal/ for me, either." The snippiness means he's vaguely trying to avoid having to look at Claire's kind face, a very subtle concession of appreciation poking weakly at the side of her mind, from behind the reinforced hardness. A hardness that thumps cool and more /firmly/ against the side of Mirror's mind; familiar and less concerned, for the ragged missing holes, it's ugly and careless and flat. No words. It's difficult to tell if it's even 'affection' so much as a practical bracing. Muttering, << (...sorry)(you got dragged into this.)(should have lied.) >> Jackson flinches away from the sudden touch, instinctively tensing, instinctively /turning/ so that his one eye can see the person on his blind side. He relaxes at the sight of Joshua!Mirror, though, opening his pack to dig inside it. He doesn't take out any first aid supplies, exactly, though the bright orange pack is full of them. He takes out a water bottle, and a chocolate chip granola bar. He answers snippiness with a continued quiet calm, stepping closer though not too close to Parley. Just close to Mirror, setting the bottle down by the man's leg and holding the granola bar. "Shut up." This is not irritable; almost even amused save for the worry buried beneath it. Mirror reaches a hand to rest at the side of Parley's jaw. "Seriously. If I have to work through rain /and/ pissiness --" He doesn't finish this thought, quieting into focus -- and looking over at Claire again. "Yes. A lot." And then turning his attention back. Exploring the extent of injuries, finding and assessing before he starts anything further. << -- why? >> is an absent question. His free hand reaches for the water to take a gulp. << So you could die alone in the rain? >> The focus of Claire's power shifts from Parley to Mirror; she leaves Parley a /bit/ of that focus, but places the bulk of it on the person helping him. The effect is instant - a 'crystallization' of thoughts, of ability, of /focus/ - Claire doesn't fundamentally increase a mutant's mutation, but she grants them an extraordinary degree of clarity and control /over/ their mutation. "Parley," Claire mumbles, tone still heavy with worry, her eyes drifting over the wounds yet again, now - thoughts beginning to churn in her head. Noticing the manner in which the wounds run parallel - thinking as she steps back, out of Mirror's way. Clutching her cane in one hand, leaving the handbag besides Parley. "...those are claw-marks," she comments, only now. The damage, under the shreds of clothing Parley has wrapped, is gory and wet; the parallel tears sink in deep at places, in punctures that fit almost as taloned handgrips. Other points are not parallel; his bicep, a part of his upper shoulder and far worse at a wrist that he is deliberately /not/ looking at, the flesh is torn, puncture-ripped -- /chewed/ and torn away. The hardness is settled fully now, in his mind. Shrugged into like an old, forgotten jacket. Out loud, he does not answer Claire. His features are neutral washed-out, bloodloss and bruisey. And politely silent. His eyes close, like he didn't hear her. Like he intends to sleep. Like he's unconcerned. And to Mirror alone: << (i'm not afraid of dying.) >> Jackson just hangs back. Quiet. Watching. Maybe watching Mirror. Maybe Parley. Maybe the grey sky overhead. << I'm not /afraid/ of piles of dogshit, doesn't mean I go looking to step in them. >> Mirror's explorations continue a bit more intently, with this boost in focus, and it is not long before he stops exploring and starts /poking/. At one tear and then another, not /healing/ any but /stemming/ all of them. Little touches of knitting-together, working slow and careful to begin repairing damaged flesh. "What happened." Claire Basil's hands both descend upon her cane as she watches Mirror begin to work. Her focus shifts deeper - now entirely upon Mirror. The crystallization crashing down upon the mutant; leaking a little out of the edges - but she's pouring all the power she had on Parley into Mirror, now. When Mirror asks - Claire doesn't say anything. She /does/, however, listen. << (honestly.)(i'd rather avoid)(death and dogshit)(equally.) >> In Parley's mind, they are almost expressed as the same concept, one eye loosely open and trained vacantly on Jackson. His mind is slowing down, blanching softer, thicker. << (but somehow i always seem to be)(stuck somewhere in between.) >> With the clarification from Claire's mind focused to Mirror's necessity, the sharpness in his pupils is hazing like a cataract, eyelids sticking when he blinks. He shakes his head blearily, wincing when his wounds are prodded, but then falling almost viciously back to a sort of -- /pliancy/ to touch. Issuing no complaint nor sound. "Just." He sighs, letting the darkness in his mind begin to rise. "...'n accident." << (i hate heroes.) >> His head droops to his chest, body going slack. << And /yet/. >> It's all Mirror says; it's wry and this time it /is/ kind of irritable, lacking his earlier amusement. And then he focuses. It's probably all he will be doing for a while. There is a lot to knit. He will shortly be Very Glad of Jax's refreshments. Claire Basil /glares/ daggers at Parley when he responds to this with 'accident'. But beneath the glare is a huffed sigh, and beneath the sigh is still that ebbing flow of concern. Concern that is shifting into irritability at Parley's simple refusal to /elaborate/. "Alright. Let's just --" She looks to the car, then, frowning. "...we should probably get you back." Her brow still knitted, her power still focused on Mirror. "...I'm not going to be able to keep it up for more than another minute or so, just so you're aware." To Mirror. Sadly, Parley doesn't have much witty repartee for Mirror besides a dry curling away from the irritation blooming there, like sleeper turning away from bright light, the weight of his mental lean easing and pulling ever further when it's joined by Claire's. His breathing rough, arms vaguely shaking, he's for the most part just checking /out/. There might be some lingering motorskills that can be coaxed from him to get him into the car, but conversation will continue to get approximate equivalents. Mutters of an accident. Possibly a few chunks of breath that sound either like a choke or a laugh, eyes semi-open and dehydrated, a single delirious whisper of "they'll know." Hopefully, they won't get pulled over on the way into the city. Though this /is/ New York.