ArchivedLogs:Pleasant Company

Pleasant Company
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Emma, Lucien
In Absentia	2013-07-18 '
Location <NYC> Hellfire Clubhouse - 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, once vast and opulent, is currently shut down for renovations, a host of contractors in and out during the daytimes. The hallways that branch off from the ballroom staircase are still accessible, though; they run in opposing monochrome: the stark white court's quarters to one side, the dark black court's quarters to the other. Malthus' entrance into the grand lobby of the Hellfire Club is silent and brisk; a man clad in black with a horrible scar twisting across his face. In some sense, he has the look of an adversary you would expect to be pitted against a fictitious James Bond -- the sort of sinister multi-billionaire super-villain who many imagine frequent places like this. Malthus approaches the desk with his hands clasped behind his back; the secretary is briefly spoken to -- the words are soft, the exchange polite. When he is finished, Malthus signs into the book -- and pauses, stepping away from the desk. Surveying the lobby with his one functional eye. Malthus' thoughts are structured and ordered; his mental landscape is perhaps best compared to a serene ocean, with the rhythmatic rumble of dark waves obscuring anything beyond the immediate surface -- thoughts of one Elliott Carruthers and an itemized list of errands to run for today. Emma Frost exits her office, light white material gently caressing her curves in the form of a sundress with a light bolero jacket to keep the chill of the air condition off her bare shoulders. She wears strappy high heels and holds a silver and white brocade clutch under one elbow. She is running her fingers through her hair to pull it up and off her shoulders, slipping a couple combs into the bun, pulling down a couple tendrils to frame her face, well practiced fingers creating a coiffed look without a mirror. When she is done, she turns to the larger part of the lobby, looking for the meeting she has, brows rising as her gaze falls on Malthus' face, taking in his appearance and stepping forward. "I'm sorry if I am being forward, but I don't think I've seen you around here before. My name is Emma Frost and I'd love to make your acquaintance or show you around, if you like." She extends a hand as she steps forward, brows climbing her forehead in a friendly expression. Lucien's mind is a calm complement to Malthus's, as he enters quietly behind the man. Tranquil-calm as ever, a placid-still waters with nary a ripple to disturb their glassy surface. In dress he is just as crisply immaculate as in thoughts, white linen trousers and a light blue gingham checked dress shirt, darker blue tie, grey-blue jacket. He is rather /precisely/ on time for his meeting -- about thirty seconds early, really! -- or /would/ be if he did not stop, a short distance behind Malthus with his eyebrows raising slightly in brief consideration. Of Malthus. Of Emma. A small polite smile slips into easy place across his features, and -- at least at the /moment/, he hangs back, quietly observing. Malthus' expression is dominated by that scar; it has fundamentally altered the very landscape of his face -- a fact that is demonstrated by his reaction to Emma. Mild surprise -- an upward tug of those brows -- pulls the scar taut against his lip, causing the cleft where teeth are exposed to stretch wider -- giving him the appearance of a snarl. The snarl, however, does not come across in his manner of speech -- or the way he warmly receives Emma's hand as she extends it. "Malthus Rogers. I beg your pardon, ma'am; I did not mean to intrude. I'm here on a bit of business, though I must admit, I find your facilities quite impressive." A hint of suspicion stabs into that deep well of constant-calm; only a brief ripple across the ocean's waves. There is a faint, instinctive darkening of those waters, too -- a tiny-hint that he is well-practiced in the art of psionic defense. "You're not intruding at all. I'm the event coordinator here, so I am rather more forward than I might be normally. I hope it was not /too/ forward." Emma opens her clutch and pulls out a business card, presenting it to Malthus as she glances over his shoulder to shrug a bit at Lucien. She smiles as she looks his outfit over before tearing her gaze away and focusing on Malthus once more. "It is a lovely facility. I would still love to show you around some time. I do not want to keep you from your business though." "Is it business you require assistance with?" Lucien /insinuates/ himself, in conversation and in presence. Both are soft, rather unassuming from his gentle-quiet francophone-tinged syllables to his gentle-quiet reservation of presence, still hanging back a polite distance even when he approaches. His smile is easy, though, the tip of his head /just/ this side of a bow. "I am forward," he allows, brilliant green eyes warming, "I would beg apologies but it is is part of my job here." He extends a hand towards Malthus. "Lucien Tessier. I am in the business of making connections at the club. If there is any way I could help you make yours --?" The offer is left to trail in the air, light and warm. "Not at all." The card is accepted; Malthus' fingers are deft and quick. That single eye catches the shrug Emma aims toward Lucien; he slips his attention, briefly, to the other man -- assessing. Even as he speaks: "My business is concluded. I..." The tenseness that passes through Malthus is near imperceptible on the physical plane; on the mental plane, however, the surface of that ocean grows suddenly calm -- as placid as a glass of water -- at Lucien's approach. Malthus accepts the hand; at once, the waves begin rolling again -- though much more softly, now. He manages a smile, polite and small: "--goodness. Such an extraordinarily attractive, eager-to-please staff," he says, and as his grip tightens on Lucien's, the young man can see a flash of that powerful, razor-sharp mind -- that deep tranquility. And something else, lingering within the folds of that neurochemistry -- an unusual contradiction. Though Malthus stands with what appears to be ease -- though he carries himself with what appears to be effortless strength -- his underlying nervous system is a warzone. He is suffering from a degenerative disorder; one that leads to seizures and convulsions. "I see," Malthus continues, "why this place is so remarkably popular." A flash of teeth, coupled with that scarred lip. It gives him the appearance of a knowing grin. "I would be lying if I said physical attractiveness is a requirement to working here, but there are certain things that money and power can provide, I suppose." Emma takes a half step in Lucien's direction, casting her gaze in his directly briefly as she starts speaking about him. "Lucien and I work together. His ability to match members with those who can benefit them the best is second to none. If your business here is concluded, may we help you find some more? There's a lounge with a fully stocked bar, if you care for refreshment, or perhaps a little something to nibble on?" She gestures with her clutch. Lucien's handshake is firm, as warm as his smile. His eyes linger on Malthus's, his expression unchanging as his senses reach out, taking quick but careful /stock/ of that tortuous nervous system. The flutter-brush of calm that comes with his handshake is so reflexive, so practiced as to be a subtle-unnoticeable thing, a quiet touch of /easing/, relaxing-comforting that comes timed with the also barely-perceptible warming of his smile. "Oh," he says lightly, rocking back a step closer to Emma, "you flatter me," this might be to either of the others, with the soft touch of amusement in his tone. "But we do aim to make sure that people's needs are adequately /met/, here. Insofar as we are capable. Still. If your business is concluded, I wouldn't want to delay you." "Mmn. I should warn you," and now, at last! Malthus smiles. Perhaps it is prompted by that faint flutter of calm Lucien brushes across his mind? There is a sense of jagged rocks beneath that ocean; the water rising above them. "That I am not a person of particular importance. Though I do not wish to imply your interest is purely -- /mercantile/." The smile extends, warping the scar more deeply: "Only, I find it very unpleasant to waste people's time. That being said, I am extraordinarily fond of tea." The words are largely addressed to Emma, but as he speaks them, his eye is drifting back to Lucien. Continuing to assess. "A person humble about their importance in this place?" Emma teases lightly. "Now we really should spend some time together." She takes one step forward and reaches out a hand for Malthus' elbow, bowing her head a little. "I enjoy tea myself, but - and I say this without an attempt at flattery - Lucien knows a fair bit more about it than I. Do you mind if I presume upon both of you and get a table for three in the lounge?" The telepath continues listening for whatever spare bits of information she can glean from Malthus without engaging him, but offers a gentle mental caress to Lucien's mind to see if he is amenable to silent discussion. "/I/ certainly do not mind but. Well. I rarely mind an opportunity for tea," Lucien answers easily, "tea on the /clock/ is basically like a small piece of heaven." His mind reacts much as it always does to telepathic contact; a reflexive /tightening/, hardening, the calm-still surface frosting over before ever so gradually deliberately thawing out again to its previous calm surface. << What /was/ his business, do you know? >> His hand extends in silent invitation towards the lounge. "We have just gotten in the most delightful first flush Darjeeling." "'Humble' can imply a certain failure to recognize one's own worth," Malthus observes, though with very little ire -- indeed! -- he seems mildly amused. "Though, of course, you spoke in jest. Nevertheless, I misspoke; I am not important /socially/. My importance is a function of my abilities as an administrator and military advisor; I fear I am ill-suited for your club. I admit," he soon adds, "to feeling out of place amidst such -- splendid luxury." The placid blue eye regards the space Emma indicates as the lounge; a slow nod of his head follows -- with a crinkling of his eyes. "Certainly, ma'am. Thank you. Darjeeling," Malthus repeats, and now his eyebrows lift, regarding Lucien with an expression of mild surprise. "How lovely. It seems I have found a brief shelter from barbarism." A joke, the effort tugging at the side of Malthus' mouth. << If I heard right, 'Elliott Carruthers,' which makes sense, given the military background. >> Emma continues to lead the way toward the lounge, signaling the host as they enter, and receiving a similar subtle signal as to which table would be best for them to occupy. "I would not discount your value socially based upon your occupational worth. I've had many delightful conversations with other strategists and advisors here. I also believe there are a fair number of members that might take an interest in your military contacts socially before reaching out officially as well. Gauge interest and all of that." She lays her purse down on the table near the chair that she's chosen, glancing to Lucien and then to Malthus. "Are you peckish? Some small sandwiches to go with your tea? Or were you in the mood for something sweet?" "Failure. Mmm." Lucien considers this quietly as he drifts along in the others' wake, his head shaking once. "Does humility necessitate a lack of self-/worth/, or merely a lack of self-/importance/? The two concepts are often conflated where they really should no be." His hands fold behind his back, and when Emma lays her purse down, he moves to pull out the chair she chooses, head inclining just slightly. << Carruthers. The Human First woman. I see her, now and then. Charming young lady. >> It doesn't even sound sarcastic, though there is little love in Lucien's mental tone for the mention of the campaign. "/Have/ you?" There's amusement in Lucien's own tone, as well. "Genghis Khan was apocryphally quite fond of tea. Perhaps," he admits, "Not Darjeeling." "My social military contacts," Malthus repeats, as if he found this notion intriguing; he seems content to roll it around his mind as he waits for the others to sit. "--no, nothing to eat. Thank you for the offer." He also descends for the chair Emma has selected for him; at Lucien's words, there is a sharpness of focus with which he regards him. "--I would further distinguish," he hums, "between one's self-worth and one's worth to /others/. It is the latter of which I spoke. I am worth a great deal to many people." His smile sharpens at this assessment. The mention of Genghis Khan causes that smile to deepen -- and something darkly amused creeps both into his mind and his expression. "No doubt," Malthus agrees, before adding: "Even barbarians need respite from barbarism, now and then." Emma sits in the seat that Lucien holds for her and lifts her weight lightly to enable him to push the chair in with ease. She folds her hands lightly on the edge of the table and looks to her two companions as they get settled. << Yes, the one and the same. I quite enjoyed meeting her myself. >> There's an air of intention, a path she wishes to pursue intermingled in her thoughts. << He's practiced though. I only get small tidbits from time to time. Not sure it's a good time to push though. Your thoughts? >> She grins a little brighter as the banter continues before breaking in. "Shall we order then? Lucien, I leave it to you." << I wouldn't push. His mind has /edges/. >> Lucien slides into a seat between the other two, turning aside for a moment to order a pot of Darjeeling for the table. "Very true," he concedes, with a small tip of his head. "There is often some overlap, there. Though perhaps there need not be. But we are social creatures, humans. It's hard, sometimes, to /extricate/ --" His hand tips upwards. "A man who holds /no/ worth to others might well have a harder time finding it in himself. Whether that is warranted or otherwise. These distinctions are not always as distinct as we might think." "No," Malthus agrees, although there seems to be a certain reluctance to do so, "I suppose not. We /are/ social creatures, aren't we? My sister's oldest daughter," Malthus relates, a rare smile emerging on his face, "describes us as cats crossed with bees. Deeply independent, but with an overwhelming need for -- mnn. The validation of others." When the Darjeeling is ordered, Malthus' smile rapidly dwindles, replaced with a thoughtful twist of his lips. "--I've rarely felt that need, myself, however. I've discovered some people find that hard to believe -- that I do not particularly care what they think of me, beyond the practical uses a positive reputation holds." "Well, we are speaking of averages, are we not? People are not uniformly the same. You are, perhaps on the far end of the bell curve than those who cannot get by without constantly being told that they are desired and needed in life." Emma folds her hands in her lap, looking down at the table as she speaks, a thoughtful expression on her face. << Yes. I had that feeling, but I couldn't put my finger on why. Thank you for 'validation.' >> "Cats crossed with bees." Lucien echoes this, lips curling up into a small twist of smile. "That seems reasonably apt. But --" His hand tips back over, resting palm-down with fingertips spidered lightly against the tablecloth. "I am not entirely sure you contradict me. You might well not seek emotional validation from others. It yet becomes hard to live -- to do your job, to perform your responsibilities -- without their professional validation on some level. Society nets everyone that way, whether they are disposed to it or no." A slightly wider twitch of smile, though it has a faintly /weary/ edge to it. "And for those /overly/ disposed to needing the affirmation, well. Then the club hires people like me," it has a wry touch of self-consciousness in the tone, though it's /amused/ more than depricating. << Admittedly, the 'why' eludes me, as well. But men do not /hone/ their minds without a reason. You do not sharpen a knife you have no intention of using. >> "Mmh," Malthus responds to Emma's words, reaching for a teacup as the Darjeeling arrives. "Though I do not wish to imply such a desire for validation makes one 'weak'; wanting the approval of others allows you to acquire a certain skillset -- a skillset I have left woefully undeveloped. I am not," he adds, with just a crinkle of amusement in his tone, "good with 'people'." The pot of Darjeeling is lifted; Malthus offers it first to Emma, then, to Lucien, then, to himself. "Oh, yes," Malthus says, nodding his head toward Lucien's words, "I think I know precisely of what you speak -- it is a difficult thing to remember, in my profession. In a vacuum, nearly every problem has a very simple -- 'solution'." A faint uptick on the left side of his lip. He squeezes a slice of lemon at this last word; a certain miniscule /violence/ to the gesture. Letting it drip. "--but we do not operate in a vacuum. We must act in accordance to the wishes of the society in which we live; we must acquire the validation of those to whom we answer to, and rely upon for our support. And so, men such as I must learn some measure of restraint. It has been... challenging, for me. But very /interesting/." Emma waits for Malthus to fill her tea cup, then slides it back toward herself, lifting it for a moment, just to inhale to delicate aroma. << His mind radiates... the taste of violence but it has no substance to it. It's like he'd have us believe that he is a chained lion, with society holding his restraints, but I fear he may have found an outlet for his misanthropy, even if he continues to play the good little soldier to his superiors. >> She speculates quietly and setting her tea down to allow it to cool, adding a spoonful of sugar, then stirring it to dissolve it. "So, my dear Mr. Rogers, what is it that you do look for in your work? If it is not promotion and appreciation, then what really drives you?" "Some men just love their work," Lucien answers lightly, "it makes it rather its own reward. -- What," he asks politely, sliding his own cup forward for filling, "was it exactly that you do?" "I kill mutants." There's a quiet abruptness to this statement; it's the sort of announcement that causes dinner parties to end in red-faced shouts. And yet Malthus makes this announcement with all the serenity of a man announcing that he works in accounting. There is also a certain, sudden /sharpness/ to Malthus' one eye -- watching both Lucien and Emma for the slightest shift in expressions. "I apologize," Malthus continues, lifting his own tea cup -- a soft breath to brush aside the rising steam, "if that is a crude way of putting it. Publically, my superiors prefer terms such as 'containment', 'pacification', or 'nullification'. Privately, their language is far more -- 'indelicate' -- than my own. I work in the intersection between mutants and law enforcement -- they sometimes pose an extraordinary challenge. In cases where containment of a violent, dangerous mutant is considered impossible, I am called upon to find a way to eliminate the threat as quickly and with as little collateral damage as possible." Emma's expression does not change much, her eyes lifting from her cup of tea with a curious quirk of her eyebrows. "Interesting," she remarks casually. "You said military, but that makes it sound more civilian. Do you do both?" She removes her spoon from her cup and sets it lightly on the saucer, turning the cup once more to present the handle to her left hand. "Do you mind if I order something sweet? The tea has whet my appetite, and I know they have some delightful petite fours today." Lucien's expression /does/ change, if only in a mild quirk of surprise, eyebrows lifting and his expression thoughtfully /inquisitive/ as he looks Malthus over. His smile fades into a pensive look, a thoughtful hum in his throat. "I imagine," he says after a moment, "that is a field that sees quite a bit of need, these days. With tensions as they are --" His hand turns upwards. "This city alone has seen many such incidents that could benefit from such a specialist." << Carruthers, >> comes thoughtfully in his mind again, << no wonder. >> There's a faint hitch at the corner of his mouth, though it fails to resolve into a smile. "-- I can see why," he muses, "you say men like you must needs learn some restraint. Though I imagine learning when /not/ to be restrained is as crucial." His hand turns upwards in allowance of Emma's query, a smile only now slipping -- brief, small -- back across his expression. "When do I ever," he offers light-easy-warm, "deny you indulgence." "America has a tradition," Malthus agrees with Emma, "of maintaining a distance between military and law enforcement. The advent of terrorism in general -- and mutant terrorism in particular -- has eroded that division. I'm afraid that I'm not at liberty to disclose too much about the intersection between the two, however." A polite, apologetic smile. "Strange, isn't it? The fact that we kill mutants isn't classified; only the infrastructure we use to accomplish it is." Emma's question is received with a subdued bow of the head: "Of course not." "I sincerely hope not," Malthus responds to Lucien, his tone growing softer. "That is, I hope the city would /not/ benefit from my specialty. I am the last link along a long chain of decisions -- decisions which represent numerous attempts to find a non-violent solution. Men such as I are final resorts; those who are called upon when the only solution that remains is the most terrible one: To treat a person as an enemy combatant. To wage war." A slight stiffness enters Malthus' expression; a half-smile that seems /almost/ forced: "At times, I feel a certain kinship with General Sherman. Though perhaps that is arrogant of me -- my kind have yet to be unleashed." << It explains so much, >> Emma adds quietly, a bit of bitterness in her thoughts. She lifts a hand and gives a smile to a waiter when ordering her dessert, nodding gratefully to the individuals at the table. "You never do, Lucien, darling. You never do." She settles back in her chair and gives Malthus more of her attention, her smile remaining. "Ah, Yes. The song and dance of specifics. I will not press. It would be considered uncouth to do so. Very few of our members really care about the how tos these days, aside from one or two who adore gory action stories over brandy in the evening. I don't think they really even know how any of the systems work, other than whether or not their person and their loved ones are safe." "Well. We might hope all manner of things," Lucien murmurs, curling long fingers around his tea, "but a brief glance at the news of late --" He draws in a slow breath. "We seem to be getting to those final resorts with alarming frequency. Perhaps," he allows, "I will just hope --" His lips curl upwards, his smile slow to return, small and /neat/ when it fits itself into place, "-- for the world to let you see an early retirement." There is a slight grimace of displeasure from Malthus at Emma's mention of 'gory action stories'. It may, in fact, be the first expression of distaste Malthus has made since beginning the interaction. Even in that steady-cool tranquil sea of a mind, Emma can detect the sudden ripple; a faint /edge/ of rock exposed by the underswell of a wave. "Mmnh. I will make a note to avoid them," Malthus replies, the displeasure fading beneath the coolness of his neutral, serene expression. "But, yes. If I were to have an ambition," he says, "it would be for a world where men such as myself are no longer necessary." "Yes," Malthus agrees with Lucien, and now there is a hint of melancholy both in his expression and across his psyche; a certain dogged sadness, both at what has been happening and what he believes is sure to come. "--an early retirement would be a blessing. But until then, I will take what respite from violence I can find." The tea lifts; he sips, slowly. "--but I strongly suspect we will soon be finding such respites to be far and few between." << It's interesting what gets a rise out of him, >> Emma notes quietly, bowing her head in apology for causing Malthus such distaste, but does not go so far as to utter excuses for the individuals she referred to. She brings her cup to her lips and sips as well, her plate of small cakes arriving a moment later. She nods to the individual brings them and smiles a little brighter on recognition, then moves the plate in front of herself. "That is a horrible thought. I am not so idealistic to think that things will simply just improve, but I haven't exactly been focused on how bad it could get." Lucien lifts his tea, finally, quieting for his first sip. His eyes slip half-closed; the soft smile on his face now is /distinctly/ content at that first taste of tea. For a moment, he just relishes his tea in quiet. Takes another small slow sip, and lowers the glass with a soft exhale. "-- Then," he murmurs, "it is best to savour those respites where you do find them, non?" One forefinger describes a slow circle around the rim of his teacup. "Oh, I am sure your kind will be obsolete," he says this with a quiet pensiveness in his tone, "/some/ day. It will just take rather a climb to /reach/ it." "Things are escalating," Malthus tells Emma. "It's to be expected. Mutants are feared, reviled, hated. The ordinance against public displays of power -- the relentless campaign of violence carried out by the NYPD -- that recent 'Fight Club' incident. In many ways, this city has already declared war on them; is it really so surprising that they are fighting back? The government is murdering them in the streets," he says, with a peculiar softness, "and now there is talk of registration. What are they to think? Were I in their position?" The teacup lifts; another delicate sip. "I would presume the point of registration is to better organize their wholesale slaughter." "One way or another," Malthus agrees with Lucien, "I suspect you are right." There is an edge of self-depreciating humor to this idea that does not reach Malthus' face or tone -- it reaches his mind, however. Coloring the waves with a sense of tired, dogged acceptance; /one way or another/, there will be an end. "Ahh, I suppose I just don't have your eye for strategy. I mean, registration is billed as a means to develop peace, to banish irrational fears, and allow people to begin again with knowledge. Additionally, mutants who are registered could be prosecuted because of the information on file, so why would they go about perpertrating violence with such an obvious fingerprint on the scene of the crime?" Emma lifts a small fork and divides one of her cakes in half on the diagonal. "Ivory tower wishfulness, I suppose," she comments, lifting the light morsel to her lips. Lucien exhales a laugh, quiet. "-- Isn't it? I had always presumed that was rather the end goal. It's just so much more palatable to some people if they coat it in pleasantries." He takes another sip of tea, his expression easing further. "/Talk/ of registration, though, that is -- mild. I am fair sure it is a foregone conclusion already. At least from talking to the legislators who stop through here." The twitch at the corner of his mouth is faint; though a smile it /lessens/ the sense of contentment washed through his expression from the tea. "Many people wish for peace. I cannot imagine registration will achieve it. I suppose," he turns his gaze up to the ceiling, "these things need come in steps." "An eye for strategy. Mmh. I think," Malthus says, considering slowly, "I would describe it more as acknowledging the reality of the proposal. Ideally, a registration of mutant abilities -- kept secure, disclosing only as little information as necessary to protect the interests of all involved parties -- would be of some benefit to mutants and humans alike. There is merit to such an idea, regardless of your particular -- genetic disposition." Teeth tap together at this last turn-of-phrase. "But what is being discussed is -- well." The slight shift in his expression tugs at the scar tissue at his lip, giving him the appearance of a sneer that is not worn in his eyes: "--/not/. To the benefit of mutants." To Lucien, Malthus says: "In truth, I suspect many legislators would be horrified at the prospect, laid bare before them; and yet their decisions seem to carry them unceasingly toward that conclusion. I find it strange how their feet can move relentlessly toward one end, even as their mouths -- mmn." He favors them both with yet another self-depreciating smile. "But this is likely why I am not a politician." Emma hmms quietly as she chews, eyeing Malthus evenly and pursing her lips. She carefully pushes the second half of her cake onto her fork as she turns her head to sip her tea. "Ideally," Lucien echoes this word with a very small smile, a brief thin sliver of teeth before it fanishes again. "I hear that word from so many people. The world we have to live in is not ideal. We do with it what we can." He exhales, slow and quiet, and it's a laugh but there's something not really /humoured/ in it. "Many legislators --" His lips press together. "Yes. True enough. Some would balk. But many -- do you /hear/ them, behind closed --" His smile twitches up, again, "-- goodness, yes, I imagine you do. Their words are hardly so delicate in private. I think just as many of them know exactly the inevitable conclusion of --" His lips press together, expression shifting briefly into distaste. "This. War." "Mmmh." There is an unusual sense of relief that flows through Malthus -- a tension so subtle that it had likely gone on undetected by those at the table -- at Lucien's use of that last word. "War," he repeats, as if tasting the word and finding its flavor pleasant. "Yes. In private, their language is often without restraint. But among them, there is often a common fault -- an inability to understand what certain words mean. The word 'War', for example." Malthus lifts the teacup. "Long ago, when I still struggled with the nature of politics, I spoke to a congressman who privately described this as war. I asked him -- quite foolishly, though sincerely -- if, upon discovering his own child had possessed a latent X-gene, he would prefer her dead or sterilized. He took deep offense." Malthus sips; his eyes close a moment, savoring the flavor. The cup is nearly empty. "I no longer ask that question." "Of course not. War is something very far away, or best imagined with pieces upon a map, with movements regulated by the push of a very long stick." Emma speaks up, amused, fork set gently down next to her three remaining pastries. "I am surprised you continue to have dealings with those congresspeople," She raises her gaze to take in Malthus' visage. "Most do not like dealing with those who bring up uncomfortable truths. Though, I suppose that you are a necessary evil to them - like the nursery maid who changes diapers or the garbage man and pest exterminator." "Do you have children, Mr. Rogers?" A flicker of amusement ghosts its deliberate way over the surface of Lucien's mind; the two thoughts -- << Not very politic of you, >> and, << -- I cannot imagine he would /care/, >> rise almost concurrently. "People would like to think war is something very far away," he offers in very mild correction. "All their actions serve to -- I would say bring it nearer daily but really," he contemplates his own teacup thoughtfully, "perhaps just bring it more /open/ daily. War is, I believe, already upon us. At the very least --" His hand tips upwards. "Opening shots have long since been fired. The only question left is who will respond more /deftly/." "I do not have dealings with that particular congressman," Malthus admits, with an air of reluctance, his eye opening, "though not because I find him disagreeable. He took my query as an insult. It is not my intent," he tells Emma with a tiny, little smile -- one that twists that scar up into an unpleasant snarl, "to make others uncomfortable. But sometimes, my curiosity leads me to committing a social faux pas. I have learned to control my inquisitiveness for the sake of others." "No, but I have several nieces and nephews," Malthus responds, to Lucien. "I visit them regularly. My sister's children. Quite lovely." He pauses, then, as if digesting Lucien's next words for some time. Before: "--how strange," he says, to Lucien. "I am not accustom to meeting people who understand this so -- readily. Not, at least, among the human population. I have," a hint of a smile, "met several /mutants/ who understand this. But that is to be expected; their immediate survival often relies on such revelations." << And yet, you bring up the possibility of his children, >> Emma chides quietly. << I may be poking to see if I can stir a reaction with a mild insult, but asking about a person's offspring could be a veiled threat. >> She lifts her cup to sip, watching as Malthus explains his faux pas. "I apologize if I in anyway inferred that you strove to make people uncomfortable. You've been nothing but pleasant during this conversation, if a little alarming at times. I cannot fault you for bringing up current events though." She turns her gaze toward Lucien when Malthus brings up mutants and an understanding of the times, her brows raised and her eyes wide. She looks back to Malthus, still curious. "I suppose it must." << Threat? Hardly, Emma. Not in this context. >> There's a mild dismissal to Lucien's thoughts. << Only an academic curiosity -- >> "And if they were mutants?" he continues, briefly curious; his eyes lower to his cup with a small dip of his head. "-- Though I suppose that question is the same faux pas, n'est-ce pas?" He lifts his tea, sips again slowly. "We live in alarming times," he says with a small twitch of not-quite-smile. "And it is somewhat of my job to keep abreast of them. Perhaps," he muses with a light tap of fingers against the side of his cup, "you spend time with too many -- ah. Who are /politic/. In the past months I have heard /war/ bandied about the /streets/ with a fair bit of frequency. These sentiments take a deal longer to trickle -- /upward/." His eyes drift around their rather opulent /current/ surroundings, not without a small measure of amusement. "Oh, no apology is necessary, ma'am," Malthus replies to Emma, quickly offering her a polite, delicate smile: "I only wished to clarify; many of my colleagues find some pleasure in being the 'bearer of uncomfortable truths'. But I myself find the role unpalatable. I would prefer," an edge of sadness enters his expression -- and his mind -- "that the truth be as comfortable as possible. So long as it remains the truth." At Lucien's question, Malthus' face splits into the rarest of all features for him -- a grin. The scar pulls his face into a perverse expression, exposing far too many teeth. "In this context, I think it is permissible. Mmn," he says, and the grin quickly fades; replaced with something more solemn and distant. "I am a soldier first. If this /is/ war -- if co-existence is genuinely impossible? -- if it comes down to a simple question -- mutants or humans -- I will act accordingly. I would much prefer sterilization. They /are/ lovely children." The tea is finished with another sip; as Malthus sets it down, he nods his head to Lucien. "A weakness of being high in power; you lose touch with what is being spoken on the ground. Perhaps I merely do not speak with enough interesting people." A flash of teeth. "As pleasant as I find this, I fear I cannot stay. The tea -- as well as the conversation -- has been lovely, however." He rises. "Thank you for both."