ArchivedLogs:Start at the Beginning

Start at the Beginning
Dramatis Personae Claire, Jackson	Late Sunday night. 18 March, 2013. Jax reaches out for helps. (Set immediately following this scene.)
Location Telephone, Claire's Apartment
Ringringring. Someone is calling Claire! From an NYC number. Not one that has ever called her before though. But they are calling now, rather /inconsiderately/ late on a Sunday night. Definitely after Polite Calling Hours. Someone picks up. A little tired, but still polite and bright: "Hello?" *clatter* "{Booger, I am on the phone oh my /God/ how can you be this terrible.}" That last bit is spoken in French, and away from the phone. "Hello, miss." The voice on the other end is polite, too! Almost approaching bright but not quite making it. /Trying/ for bright, dragged down somewhere into Tired instead. Also, the voice on the other end has a ridiculously thick Southern drawl that does not match the YANKEE area code. "Is this Ms. Basil? I'm sorry to call you so late." "Yes, this is -- it's fine, dear, don't worry, I'm not asleep yet -- {BOOGER GET DOWN} -- who is this? What can I do for you?" "My name's Jackson Holland, miss," comes the answer, quieter and a little hesitant, "and someone told me that you -- well, I -- I think I need a lawyer." "Jack -- oh! Oh, Mr. Holland, yes, I... Mmn. I was told there was a matter with a ticket, and I also wanted to speak with you concerning your children. I'm glad you've contacted me -- we should probably meet," the other voice goes on, blithely cheerful. "I don't mean to /alarm/ you, but... I was told you might be getting yourself into a bit of a boondoggle in the near future, and..." "I think I already found myself one, miss," Jackson answers, and the soft breath of laughter that comes with these words is admittedly not particularly amused or cheerful. "Kinda a big one. S'okay, I'm moving past alarmed into, you know, what to do now. And I think what to do now is call a lawyer so --" He draws in a deep breath. "I know you're probably real busy and all, but s'there any way I could -- maybe meet with you sometime soon?" "And... oh? Oh..." And there's a shuffle on the other line, and the distant 'ding!' of a cellphone being activated, and then another 'ding!' of text messages -- and, for a bit after Jackson speaks -- a long, tense silence. And then: "...oh. Oh my. Would now be alright? Is your apartment safe?" "Now? I --" For a moment the line is muted. Just a moment, and then Jackson returns. "I mean, safe, I don't even know what that means no more," he admits. "I don't know. Our apartments over here kinda just got swarmed. Could be bugged now, for all I know," he says kind of like he is warily just /coming/ to this realization. And then: "Um, also, I don't know how much -- I mean, I got some money but I -- I ain't never had a lawyer before, miss," he says apologetically. "I ain't so sure how this works. Paying-you-wise." "Let's not talk about money right now," Claire says. "Until I say otherwise, I'm doing this free of charge. I'll tell you before that changes." Then: "Alright. Let's meet at /my/ apartment, then. Can you come here?" Then, a mutter: "Oh, goodness, I'm due to... mmn. No, no, we should have enough time for this -- do you have a paper and a pen?" "Oh -- oh," Jackson says, startled, and is quiet for a moment. "I -- oh -- thank you, miss," is quieter. "Yes'm, I do. Are you sure you've got the time for -- I don't want to get in the way of nothin'." "It's fine, it's fine," the other voice on the line immediately says -- Jackson can probably /imagine/ her waving her hand. "I've got plenty of time -- I'm due to meet another nice young woman in a coffee shop, give her a bit of advice -- but that's not till the evening. And if this takes too long, we can always pick up tomorrow. Alright, meet me..." she gives an address! "Okay -- okay. Thank you, miss," Jax says. "I'll be there soon as I can be. Thank you. Um. See you -- soon." He hangs up the phone. And some indeterminate time later is knocking at Claire's door! Or maybe buzzing at her building. Either way he is /seeking entry/. Still dressed as he has been all night, in flowing purple skirt, black fishnet top layered over a pink tank. Dark mirrored glasses, despite it being Late At Night. A silvery jacket over top. A lot of restless shifting from foot to foot as he waits. Claire, meanwhile, is dressed in a comfortable white blouse with red-purple polka-dots, a dark green swishy skirt -- hair done up in a bun -- and a very pretty silver necklace with locket. She lets Jackson in, and up into her apartment -- oh my! It's actually pretty large, considering the sole occupant is apparently this mid-40s woman -- a bit on the lean side, a bit on the tall side, with a black lacquered cane she uses to move, her left leg having a pronounced limp to it. The place is a bit untidy; there are over six bookshelves in her living room /alone/ and they are /overflowing/ with volumes (although great care has been taken so as not to put any of the poor dears at risk). There are also cats. Six of them in all; several are shy, but the moment Jackson steps into the room, there is 'Booger' -- dark black, with a white fluff at her throat. Narrow face. Piercing, suspicious yellow-green eyes. She instantly 'meows' at him as he steps in, as if to ask him what does /HE/ think he's doing here. Claire moves toward a big, fluffy chair; she gestures at her couch. "Alright," she tells him. "We're going to have to start at the beginning." Jackson answers the meow with an absent head-scritch, reflexive before he moves to take a seat gingerly on the couch. His posture is /very/ upright. His hands smooth at his skirt as he sits, and then fold neatly in his lap. Even inside he doesn't remove the sunglasses. "Thank you for meeting with me, miss," he says, politely. "I know s'late and short notice." His voice is quiet, his hands restless, fidgeting constantly with the folds of his skirt. "The beginning is -- well. There's -- a lot," he says, almost apologetically, "and I don't really even know --" He draws a deep breath, looking up from his hands to Claire. "Well, you, miss. I mean I -- m'not sure how this lawyer thing, um, works? And I don't know if you're mine. Yet. But there's a lot of things I don't quite just want to /say/ to someone who's just a, well, stranger, and not -- not in confidence." "Right." She snatches a kitten -- well, a juvenile, anyway -- who happens to be straying by at this particular moment. Yellow-and-brown striped. The feline meows; Claire deposits said cat on her lap and proceeds to /cheek/-scritch, her other hand compressing the cat's back down until he settles and behaves. Eventually, the feline surrenders. "So, for the purposes of this conversation, I am -- and will be -- your lawyer. You've heard of lawyer-client privilege, yes? Like on TV?" 'TV' is spoken with just a hint of contempt; there isn't one in this room. "The important distinction is this: While you are free to tell me of your past crimes without fear, informing me of /future/ crimes is not in your best interest. Because," she adds, and with it comes the /slightest/ hint of narrowing eyes: "Those are crimes which I am legally obligated to immediately /report/." "I haven't decided to take your case, however. I need to know details. But," she adds, "nothing you tell me about what you've /done/ can be used against you." Claire's power is subtle, its effect hard to describe. She is not using it right now -- but it acts passively upon her surroundings. Including Jax. Crystallizing thoughts. Organizing narratives. Clearing heads. Making the obvious moreso; making the irrelevant vanish; making brains think cleaner and faster. "I ain't committed no crimes," Jackson protests, but then frowns. "'least nothing that should be. I ain't planning none, either." He looks back downwards at his hands. Still fidgeting. And nods, tentatively. "Yes'm. I know what that is. I just weren't sure if it applied if you wasn't -- actually my lawyer." His fidgeting grows less fidgety, but his restless /energy/ does not subside; before long he is on his feet again, pacing. "Some of my friends and I made the wrong people angry," is what he says here. "If we'd done any crimes they could arrest us for, they'd've arrested us for that. But that ain't what's going on here. Miss," he asks, turning in his pacing to look back at Claire, "Do you got any problems with mutants?" Claire seems genuinely surprised at the question; the feline beneath her purrs -- then produces a series of confused 'mrowrl?' sounds as Claire's constant, steady scritching suddenly stops. Eyebrows shoot up. "Prob--no," she says, before adding: "No, I do /not/ have problems with mutants. Well, I have a problem with a /few/," she adds, "but it has precious little to do with their /being/ mutants." Jackson's head tips down, gaze vaguely angled towards the cat for a moment. It lifts back up to Claire afterwards; he is quiet, considering this answer, and then nods. "There's people who got all kindsa problems. The ones we've pissed off are -- well, I think they're government. But they ain't openly so." He resumes his pacing. Back and forth. Forth and back. His long skirt swishes as he walks. "There's these labs, all over the country. They catch mutants -- trick 'em, kidnap 'em, whatever. Put 'em in cages, do all kinds of terrible experiments. Kill 'em when they're through, lots of times. Or kill 'em in the process, s'only so much being cut on people can take." His tone through all this is quiet, calm. Around the room, though, the lights are fluttering unstably, dimming, brightening, in restless shivers. Another feline -- this one black-and-brown, a bit plumper than the others -- is somewhere following Jackson, now, moving after him as he paces -- pawing her way toward the brightly colored mutant. INVESTIGATING. Apparently, someone told her this person is a source of head-scrrtches. Was this a lie? Detective Mittens is on the case. She butts her head against Jackson's ankle, looking for answers. Sometimes you gotta be a bit rough; that's just part of the job. But Mittens ain't scared of being rough. She wants the truth, and she means to /get/ it. Claire, meanwhile, listens to Jackson. Her scritching has once again resumed. The kitten mrrrrrs, and begins purring -- all is right and well with the world. Claire, though, currently has one /heck/ of a poker face. Total blank. Watching Jackson move. Swish, swish. Soaking up each and every word. "Did you escape yourself? Or facilitate the escape of others?" A very soft, yet somehow very /piercing/ question. Mittens' sources have not lied to her. Jackson in fact ceases his pacing, lured into a crouch by anklerubbing. He offers /twice/ the scritching. Scritches from both hands, one scratching at her head, the other at her chin. Even missing one finger his other nine manage to deliver. "Both," he tells Claire. The lights flicker more. His tone is exceedingly calm. "Got out myself. Got others out." A hesitation. "A lot of others." Claire missed the first flicker. She catches this one, though -- eyes straying around the room. A slight frown breaks the tranquility of that blank face. Meanwhile, Mittens is purring up a storm, eyes closed, head twisting beneath Jackson's hands. ANOTHER CASE SOLVED. "What do they have on you? On the others," she adds, her eyes settling back on Jackson. "All kinds of things," Jackson says, fingers still scritching at Mittens. So much scritching. He presses her up against his leg, a slight smile breaking onto his face at the purring. "I mean, they can't exactly say we broke into their torture labs to get out the people they'd trapped so they -- I guess just seem to be going after whatever they /can/. Busted my neighbor for some petty drug possession. Getting my other friend deported cuz his student visa expired -- /while/ they had him in cage for years. I -- I got kids. Foster kids, right now, but I'm working to adopt. They -- took them." His voice is still calm, at this last, but it drops quieter. The lights settle back down rather abruptly. He focuses intensely on kittyscritching. "Mm. Drug possession, immigration, child services." The mention of kids -- that gets a bit of a raised eyebrow out of Claire. Mittens, of course, is completely trusting of Jackson. Because oh my god SCRRTCHES this person is totally legit. "You're... how old are -- ah. Adoption. Of course." Then, finally, a sigh -- her knobby fingers winding their way between her /own/ kitten's ears. Both Jackson and Claire scrrtching SO FURIOUSLY. "I'm afraid I don't have much good news, Mr. Holland. To begin with, you are talking about multiple cases. And I am only /one/ lawyer. You would be better off with an entire firm. Though I presume that you do not possess the money or resources to hire one. Hm." She looks distant for a moment. "Your children. How many? I met one, I believe. In the park. Sharp dresser. Curses like a sailor. Very angry. I like angry," she soon adds, "though I find it often hinders more than helps." "Twenty-one, miss," Jackson answers. Still scritching. "I got three. Twins. You must've met Shane. His brother blushes if you even think'a cursing. Then Spence is younger. Seven." Mittens is getting so much attention. Admittedly intensely distracted attention, offering scritches mostly to keep his hands busy but -- /scritches/. So many of them. "I don't got a lot of money," he admits quietly. "Some, but not." His lips quirk slightly. "I mean, three kids. New York." He shrugs. His head tilts down, looking at Mittens. "Yes'm," he agrees, softly. "S'a lot of cases. An' you're one lawyer. But I had to start somewhere." Long silence. /Long/ silence. Almost around the 10 second mark, in fact. But then: "We'll take it one at a time," she tells him. "Your friends -- do any of them... can any of /them/ afford lawyers? Despite this being a campaign against you all, it might be better for you to treat it as if it isn't -- treat each charge on its own." The feline in her lap stretches, before leaping off and darting for the kitchen; Mittens is as pleased as she possibly can be. PRRPRRPRR can we keep him Aunty Basil. "We're going to need... quite a bit of resources. Not just money," she tells him. "But money will be useful. Also, that ticket --" She /peers/ at Jackson, now. "I realize you might have some idealistic notion in your mind of resisting it, and I would be lying if I said I'm not highly sympathetic. But my recommendation? Considering your circumstances right now? /Pay/ it. There will be a time for standing on your principles. That time is not now. Now, you are fighting for survival, yes?" "I'm not paying it, miss," is the first thing Jackson says, and it's polite, apologetic, but it's firm. He kind of lazily half-rolls Mittens onto her side for combo chinscritch/bellyrub. Absentminded manhandling. Or cathandling, anyway. "One of them can. The drug charges. He'll be able to pay for his own lawyer, I think. The other -- no." His head shakes, expression shifting into exhaustion before, resolutely, he pushes it back with -- not quite a smile. But no grimacing, either. "Is that a problem? The ticket, I mean, miss. For you," he clarifies, a little awkwardly, "with deciding whether or not to take the case. You don't gotta help with that. I'd -- I just want my kids." "No," Claire tells him, and now she sounds thoughtful. "If the situation were different, I'd actually be interested in helping you pursue that. The ordinance is absurd. I'd love to see it struck down. But my recommendation is that you clear your plate. Remove anything and everything that might slow you down. Ultimately, it's your call. My suggestion is you pay it and focus on getting back your children. But I'm not here to tell you what battles are worth having. I'm only your war advisor. You're the general. But," she adds, "you are a general who, I presume, is inexperienced with this kind of war. So while you are free to ignore my advice, I hope you will still /listen/ to it." Mittens is amenable to chinscritch/belly rub, although there's a moment of low throaty growly noises and then she suddenly decides she's in the mood for HAND-FLAVORED STEAK. Not a hard bite; more of a 'ohisnowplaytime?'. Gentle, nibbling, with a few swipes of her paws -- claws currently sheathed and unexposed. Claire watches Jackson as he grooms and pets her. "I am willing to help you -- with the kids -- for no charge. If you'll have me. The other cases... again, we'll take those one at a time. Other lawyers might be better. I can offer legal advice, at least. You're going to need rest," she adds, "have you slept? You don't look like you're sleeping. Oh, and tell your friends: /DO NOT/ talk with the police. Not unless a lawyer is present. Even then, they probably shouldn't. In matters of the law, keeping your mouth shut is your most important right, and you should /all/ be exercising it." "I do appreciate your advice, miss," Jackson says, on the matter of The Ticket, and then says nothing more as to that. He shakes his hand gently back and forth, wrestling Mittens absent, light, against the ground. Now /is/ apparently playtime! Even if Jax doesn't growl. "I don't look like -- really?" Jackson sounds surprised at this, as he looks up, but the surprise passes. The changes in him that follow are very subtle, but there's just that much more healthy colour in his cheeks, just that much more perk to his posture. "I've been sleeping, yes'm. And I don't never talk to the police, really." Anarchism has been good at teaching him /some/ things! "I'll tell them. I -- no charge?" This gives him pause. "I mean, thank you, miss. But. Why?" "{Of /course/ Murphy didn't tell him.}" The words are mumbled in French, irritable; Murphy's name is spoken with the sort of disgusted contempt one reserves for anal leeches. "This," she says, gesturing to the whole room -- to Jackson, and maybe (for some inexplicable reason!) to the cats -- "is what I do, Mr. Holland. I'm -- not /rich/, per say, but I am financially secure. Comfortable," she says. "I have a law degree and I enjoy being a thorn in people's sides. And nothing pains them quite as much as mutants having competent legal aide. Oh /goodness/, the faces people make." At the very thought, Claire seems to cheer up immensely. Mittens, as if sensing her better mood, produces a happy meow, continuing to wrestle Jackson's hand mmmn delicious HUMAN MEAT *chomp*. A bit of claws, just barely enough to scrape. And maybe some teeth. "Not that I don't accept compensation, now and then. If any of you /can/ pay, I will happily quote some figures. My kittens do need more toys," she adds, thinking -- almost idly. "-- but as a rule, I tend not to get paid for my services. Not unless the clients can afford it." At this, Jackson's lips curl upwards, his smile quick and warm and /easy/ for the first time since getting here. "Is good, sometimes," he says, quietly amused, "being a thorn in people's sides." Wrigglewrigglewrestle "gah!" That is to Mittens. Jax doesn't sound genuinely hurt, more startled as he MOOSHES the cat's face. Drawing his hand back, a tiny red /dot/ of light appears on the floor by the cat instead. It wriggles temptingly. Skitterskitter. Hop. Wriggle. "We can try to come up with money, miss," he says. "I, um," His cheeks flush darker red. "Don't usually have much of any, though." "Don't think of it, then. As I said: You should clear your plate. Indulge in the things you enjoy. Leave that which you do not. This will be -- it no doubt /has/ been -- a stressful experience," Claire corrects herself. "So, take the opportunity to act selfishly. Think only of yourself, your friends, and your children. Leave the rest of us to fend for ourselves." The red dot -- oh, goodness, now Mittens is focused on that, *chasing* it like any good little blood-thirsty murderbeast should. Claire raises an eyebrow and stifles a smile. "You'd make an exceptional cat-toy," she tells him. Then: "I'll need to know more. Much more. Everything I can -- names in particular. You may not be comfortable trusting me with them, not without first speaking with your friends. But Mr. Holland... and I realize this may go without saying, but I must still say it: If you intend to do anything outside the boundaries of the law, I cannot know. And also... I would prefer you keep my name and work in this matter quiet. Helping mutants is... politically tricky. I am 'known' to defend them, but nothing more. For me, that is /highly/ advantageous." "My cat adores me," Jackson affirms, a small smile lingering on his lips. The dot of light skitters, across the floor in a quick dart. Up the wall. Back down in front of the cat. Zip! Zipzipzip. "-- Indulge --" he echoes this word almost like it has startled him to hear it. And then passes on past this idea to set it aside, pick up a different one: "-- Oh. Oh. Yes," he says, looking back up at Claire. "I don't -- I won't -- I'll be careful. About you. Your name. I don't --" His cheeks flush slightly, darker, "Out people. I just -- m'thankful, miss. For -- all this." Mittens *flies* after that light. Poor thing probably thinks she can actually manage to catch it. And soon, there's another -- oho. Booger's come out, now. Fascinated by sounds. And there is a light and oh goodness, they're teaming up to try and take down this insidious red villain! Jumping up walls and charging over the floor, pawing and snapping! "'Out' people?" Claire asks, though she sounds more amused at the selection of words than anything else. "It's only that, in the circles I work in, a little discretion goes a long way. I love to piss people off -- but only when it doesn't prevent me from helping. But, yes." ZIP ZIP ZIP. The light goes everywhere. And then splits into two. Dancing around each other, skipping up the walls. Zipping along the floor. Jackson blushes a little deeper. "Sorry, miss, I just --" His head shakes. He lifts a hand, brushing bright blue hair back off his forehead. "So we're doing this, then." He draws in a deep breath. And then another. "Cool," he says, a little tireder, a little more shakily. "Cuz I didn't even slightly know where to start." "Start at the beginning, proceed through the middle, stop at the end," Claire tells him. "We start with damage assessment. Speak to your friends -- the ones you can contact. If they've yet to secure an attorney, give them my card, have them call me. If they /have/ secured an attorney, have their attorneys take my card and call me. The ones you can't contact..." Claire purses her lips. "You're going to have to get me a list of their names, where they've gone, what their woes are. And I'll attempt to get in contact with them, sort out what's going on." She reaches into the drawer next to her -- pulling out -- oh! Business cards. She has a /bundle/ for him. Jackson gets to his feet, moving closer to take the whole /bundle/ of business cards. Behind him, there are still dancing lasers across the floor. He slips the cards into a jacket pocket. "I think, miss," he says, with some small note of apology in his voice, "You're gonna be getting yourself a whole lot of calls, next little while. And, um --" His hand rubs at the back of his neck, his brow creasing into a frown. "I don't -- maybe don't gotta say this but, um -- be -- careful, miss? These people --" His hand, with is scarred stump of missing finger, gestures, vaguely. "S'is kinda -- well. Scary." "Oh, I suspect you are right," Claire says, her cats all leaping and cavorting in a mass of furry, feline interest after those flashing, dancing beads of red. "As for the danger -- I presumed that was the case when you informed me that we're talking about people who kidnapped and tortured you and your friends. Still, I /do/ appreciate the warning," she adds, and her eyes follow that stump, however briefly. Her fingertips brush over the length of her cane, instinctively. "I /will/ be careful." "Uh oh. I think I made you some kinda cat riot, sorry!" Jackson doesn't sound sorry. He's smiling, more than he has been all the while, as he looks at the cats leaping after his makeshift cat toys. He offers that same smile to Claire, quick, warm. "Thanks, miss. I should -- it's late, I should let -- you --" He blushes. "Get back to life. And maybe also I should sleep. Probably. I -- we'll be in touch? Soon-like?" Claire grins, and nods. "Absolutely. Send me a list of names -- the ones you're comfortable giving -- with their situations. And a contact number I can reach you at. Preferably, one I can /always/ reach you at," she adds. "Tell your friends to keep their heads down, too. Nothing criminal. I'll contact some people I know who work with children services and see if I can't find out more about your situation." Claire quickly adds: "And by criminal I mean don't so much as /jaywalk/. If you do drugs -- even the most harmless stuff imaginable -- get rid of it. All of you. If you have unpaid parking tickets, /pay/ them. Etc." "No jaywalking," Jackson agrees, with his smile a little crooked. He smooths down at his skirt, brushing a bit of stray cat hair off it. But ignoring the plenty of /other/ cat hair where Mittens was rubbing against his ankle. "I can do that, miss. Return to my proper Southern roots, shed the habits New York been pounding into me." The dancing red lights fade away as he takes a step back towards the door. "I'll send you the list. Thanks again, miss. Good -- goodnight."