ArchivedLogs:Stealing the Fire

Stealing the Fire
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Elliott
In Absentia	2013-10-19 '
Location <NYC> Elliott's Apartment - East Harlem
Malthus' arrival at Elliott's apartment is slow and careful; he picks his way up the stairs as if they represented some grave danger to him. He refuses a cane -- a decision that has left him walking unsteadily and slowly -- and his hands are still wrapped in lengths of gauze, reducing them to mere flippers. His skin is unwholesomely pale; there is a cool clamminess to him -- a tendency to sweat. Otherwise, he still bares his trademark charcoal longcoat -- his dark, black clothes -- that resigned, serene stare -- as he carefully reaches for the doorbell, ringing it. Elliott is soon to answer. She's recently showered, hair still wrapped in a towel, otherwise comfortably dressed in grey sweatpants and a Navy t-shirt. She walks slowly, too, as she comes to the door, pulling it open and looking to Malthus's hands before his face. "-- Goodness." The door opens wider. "I heard you had an -- /incident/ -- are you alright, can I get you something?" "--I am fine, Ms. Carruthers," Malthus responds, though the words are slightly belaboured -- as if he is having difficulty getting them out. "A glass of water would be -- lovely, however. May I come in?" A shuffle, a shift; for a moment, he looks as if he may topple. But, he does not. "Of course." Elliott steps back, gesturing Malthus inside. When he looks as though he might topple she steps forward instictively, hand lifting towards his elbow. When he doesn't, she steps back, heading into the small obsessively tidy apartment and towards the kitchen to get him a glass of water. "I've seen fine," she continues lightly, "you look like you're not /quite/ hitting that mark." "Mmmh," Malthus replies, stepping into her apartment, his shoulder immediately leaning against a wall -- pausing to regain his breath. "I have had," he informs her, "an interesting few days. I am not sure I understand what fine /is/, any longer." Another ragged breath, as she disappears into the kitchen; a slight narrowing of his eye. "Your prosthetic is functioning admirably," he tells her. And then: "Ms. Carruthers, tell me -- I know you have made a bid for politics. But are you interested in returning to some form of active service?" "I had a boy today tell me I could do with a better one." Elliott returns, with a glass of water; she gestures to an armchair in the living room. Her brows raise at Malthus's question. "Oh, I'm just in a supportive role in politics right now. And the service too, I suppose," comes with a wry crook of smile. "But when I'm through school I'll have more freedom to devote to both. Why?" He accepts the glass of water graciously; in an instant, half of it is gone -- gulped deeply, Malthus' throat clenching in consumption. But then... he slumps to the chair, gratefully -- dropping to it as if it were the last step he was capable of. "Are you familiar with HAMMER, Ms. Carruthers?" Malthus asks, finding the energy to sit up in the chair -- one hand on the glass of water, the other reaching in his coat pocket -- for a handkerchief, with which to dab at his brow. Elliott moves to take a seat on the couch beside the armchair, sinking into it with a lot less slump than Malthus. Perfectly upright posture. Hands folding in her lap. "I've heard of the work you do," she agrees. Exhales a quick huff of breath. "Saw a bit of it on the news, during that debacle in Harlem. Though honestly I think it was some unexpected help; Luke Cage's poll numbers dropped several points after that. It's a good thing /you/ weren't running for office. You'd have been screwed." Malthus actually laughs. More of a chuckle, really; a clucking noise in his throat -- a slight smile that manages to even reach his eyes. "--oh, goodness, no," he tells Elliott, "I don't think I'm a very political creature. That entire event was -- very regrettable. It's caused a bit of a PR nightmare for HAMMER, as I'm sure you can imagine..." He pauses, then -- long enough to lift the glass to his mouth and take another firm, sturdy gulp -- swallowing back all but a 1/3rd of the glass. "--the work we do, with HAMMER. It's necessary. Ugly, but necessary. Not many people understand that -- they only see the ugliness," he tells her. "I was contemplating -- and I hope this is not too forward of me -- you might be able to help with that." Elliott's head tips to one side. She doesn't answer this. Her eyebrows raise in silent questioning -- explain? "I want to hire you, Ms. Carruthers," Malthus informs her, quite simply. "Assuming you have the interest -- I would like you to become an agent of HAMMER." Elliott exhales, soft and amused. "Me. What do you think I'd bring HAMMER? I don't doubt," she adds easily, "that the work you do is necessary. I know as well as anyone how difficult these situations can be. And people with the training to handle them are in woefully short supply. But my talents lately --" She shrugs a shoulder, hand dropping to rest against her leg, fingers tapping against the prosthetic knee beneath her sweatpants. "Are you looking for an effective soldier, Mr. Rogers, or just one more palatable to the press?" "Both, Ms. Carruthers." And now there is a flicker of something in Malthus' expression -- amusement? Or something more grim? The glass of water is sat down, still with a third of its contents -- he leans forward, his hands clasped together over his knees. "Understand, what I am about to tell you is of a highly sensitive nature. However..." Malthus pauses, letting the silence stretch out for a long, tantalizing moment -- as if reluctant to relinquish it. Then: "What if I told you it may be possible to regenerate your lost limb, Ms. Carruthers? What if I told you it may be possible to make you -- stronger than you ever were before?" Elliott's brow crooks up again, this time only on one side. "Are you trying to stop mutants, Mr. Rogers, or create them?" "Mmmnh. A fair question. But the point remains, Ms. Carruthers -- again and again, it has been demonstrated to us -- there is no adequate defense against mutant powers. Except," Malthus says, retrieving the glass -- leaning back in his chair -- "mutant powers /themselves/." His eyes close as he sips the water, as if savoring it; when he speaks next, his voice is softer, more reluctant. "This is not a conflict we can win with conventional tactics." Elliott's mouth twists to one side. Her fingers drum against her knee, quickly. "Once you've bastardized everyone, given everyone these abilities -- what's to differentiate you from them? What's even the point of trying to stem this tide if you're trying to /spread/ it?" "Control, Ms. Carruthers," Malthus responds, and now his eyes are -- once again -- open. "These abnormalities do not perpetuate through our genes -- our children will not be born with them. In addition, we can decide -- for ourselves -- who can be trusted with these abilities. And who /cannot/ be trusted." "We decide." Elliott echoes this, quiet and thoughtful. "But who are we." It's half to herself, musing and quiet. "And reading our minds. Walking through walls. The explosive power to demolish a whole city. Who would /you/ trust with these?" "In all honesty, Ms. Carruthers?" Malthus says, his eyes drifting toward the side of the room -- not looking toward her. "No one. But the fact is that we already /live/ in that world -- and if we are to defend ourselves against those who would misuse their power -- we must be willing to seize that power for ourselves. If only -- temporarily. Until we have... better solutions." There's a long stretch of silence as Elliott considers this. /Her/ eyes don't leave Malthus, focused there steadily. At length she just nods. Heavily. Once. "Are you saying that's really even possible?" "Possible?" Malthus asks. The glass is set aside again -- but this time, on a nearby table. Well out of reach. Malthus' other hand reaches, slowly -- tentatively -- for the lampshade nearby. Flicking it off, casting the room in darker shadows. And then... He lifts his finger upward, in Elliott's view -- as a single tendril of darkness extends from it, languidly rising, lashing out toward the ceiling... before shrinking back into his hand. Clenching it into a fist. "Ms. Carruthers, it's already been /done/." Elliott falls very quiet, through this. For a moment her breathing stops, watching the shadow curl out of Malthus's hand. Her leg shifts, just a small tic of motion. And then she gets up, slowly, to start back towards her kitchen. "-- I think I'm going to need a drink of my own, for this."