ArchivedLogs:Strength

Strength
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Shane, Sebastian	2013-10-18 '
Location <NYC> Common Ground Clinic - Clinton
A dingy waiting room with a line of rickety chairs, a small glass table with a set of permanently out-of-date magazines, a set of plastic holding racks with a number of informational pamphlets about STIs and partner abuse. This place is not, to be sure, the most cheerful on earth, but for many of its clientele it is the best they have. The Common Ground Clinic's staff provides free and low-cost medical care on a sliding scale to many of Manhattan's poorest residents, without checking for insurance, immigration status or many other things that bar entry for many of them to traditional medical care. There is counselling available, too, and once a week social workers to help people find resources for getting on their feet. The wait times are long, but the volunteer staff here is dedicated (if always overworked.) The scent of Malthus' blood cuts through the various odors that linger around the clinic -- medicine, alcohol, other people's blood -- and adds a sharp, acrid edge to the no doubt unusual scent that comes with a hospital setting. Malthus is in one of the private rooms. A small, cramped space -- an IV is hooked to his arm, feeding him a steady stream of nourishing blood. He is already in the process of carefully /removing/ that IV -- extracting the tip of the needle that punctures his skin. Malthus has seen... better days. Unusually pale, his hands are wrapped carefully in several layers of bandages -- leaving them flipper-like. He is clad in a hospital gown -- it looks almost /funny/ on him. A brute of a man with that scarred eye and those hard, vicious muscles -- dressed in a polka-dot gown. His charcoal suit is nearby, however, along with his other clothes -- draped over a chair. He looks as if he intends to put them on... Today the clinic is getting a steady trickle of rather /unusual/ visitors; the recently freed labrats, though none were in need of /acute/ medical care, still have a whole lot of need for /emotional/ care. And navigating the bureaucracy of insurance and getting set back up in Normal Life. To this end: social workers, a resource freely available at Rasheed's oh-so-helpful clinic. With a recommendation from the clinic's founder himself, the twins are today escorting a pair of recent escapees down here to help sort out the world of Finding Their Old Life And Integrating Back Into It. Mostly -- a lot of paperwork. But after their labrats are taken off their hands they have little to do but wait. Shane is sending rapidfire texts on his phone. Bastian is working, lines of code on a tablet in his lap. It's not so mcuh the tang of blood that draws his attention upwards as a -- different familiar scent, nose twitching in the air. A sudden /hiss/ escapes through his teeth, and without saying anything he gets up, glancing towards the receptionist on the phone behind his desk and then slipping into the back. He's dressed cheerfully, long flowing blue skirt, pale yellow cardigan. Shane looks up from his phone, eyes wide. "Dude what the fuck --" He grumbles as he follows Sebastian into the back. But then stops, too. His gills flare. He looks snappy as he often does, vest and pinstripe trousers, dress shirt, bow tie. His claws lengthen slowly, and at first he reaches to his brother's shoulder to stay him. But then he grimaces, and follows. It's a very /serious/ blue face that first looks through the door of Malthus's room. No words. Just huge dark eyes, and slowly lengthening claws. Malthus does not possess the twins' sense of smell. But years in battle /have/ left him with a honed sense of danger. There is a tiny prickle at the back of his neck; an unfamiliar twist in the knot of his belly. His eyes rise, meeting that familiar blue face at the doorway. And then, Malthus' eyes narrow. "How would you explain my death?" he asks in that strangely serene, gentle voice -- before adding: "Ah, of course -- no need. You'd happily go to prison for the sake of your father, wouldn't you?" "Happily," Sebastian answers, simply and immediately. "I've been in cages before. There are worse things." Shane says nothing. He lingers at Sebastian's elbow, watching his brother more than he is watching Malthus; at least that's the direction his /head/ is turned but with his solid-black pupilless eyes it's sometimes hard to tell. "I suppose there are," Malthus agrees. The IV slips out of his arm, placed aside on the nightstand. He shifts, then -- sitting up. Brushing off his lap with the flat of his palms. Eyes returning to Sebastian's face. "One of the mutants your father took," Malthus tells him. "Codename 'Vector'. Modifies viruses and diseases inside of him. He needs to be returned." Malthus reaches for his shirt, then. A slow, careful gesture. Before: "I almost killed him, you know. Your father." "We know." This comes from both twins chorused in unison. And from Shane, "why the fuck would we put someone /back/ in a cage? People fucking die just to get them /out/." Sebastian shifts position, his shoulder now just a bit more squarely between Shane and Malthus. His claws inch out a bit further. "-- Modifies? What kind of diseases?" "Pathogens," Malthus clarifies. The repositioning of Sebastian gives him pause -- momentarily. As does the lengthening of that claw. But then his hand is retrieving his shirt, drawing it to him, slowly flattening it out on the bed besides him. "I'm not familiar with the full scope of what they've done to him, but -- I was told that his containment was of the highest priority. I was to kill anyone who had physical contact with him. Including," he adds, "my own men." The gown shifts; Malthus slides it off his torso -- exposing the scars. Burn marks, still healing, along his throat, his shoulders, his chest; the tattoos, once blazing bright, seem stark and sickly in comparison, now. The shirt slides up over his head, drifting over his skull. "My dad could touch those up for you." Shane is offering this with a teeth-bared grin, looking at Malthus's tattoos. "He's wicked good with a needle. Did your men touch him?" "... all pathogens?" Sebastian isn't joining in the grinning. Just continuing to watch Malthus, intent and steady. "As far as I'm aware, yes," Malthus responds to Sebastian -- apparently ignoring Shane's comment. At least, regarding the needle. A moment later, and... "No. My men were incapacitated." The shirt settles on top of his chest; Malthus rises, reaching for his pants. He is not a man concerned with modesty; the gown slips to the floor as -- inch by excruciating inch -- he begins to slip them up over his legs. Scarcely more than a grimace settling through that harshly serene visage. "I'm curious," Malthus tells them, as he lifts the pants up to his hips -- slowly, carefully closing them. "Your father spared my life. /You/ wouldn't have. Do you think that makes him foolish?" "No," Shane answers immediately. "He's just a good man." Sebastian doesn't answer at all, at first. His lips compress, his weight shifting back, slightly, not withdrawing but pressing his shoulder up against his brother's. "Do you?" "Mmn." Malthus is standing, now; it's not a very /stable/ stand, but he manages to maintain his height. It looks as if, at any moment, he might collapse -- but then he takes a slow, trembling step -- and turns to face the twins again. "No," Malthus tells them both. "I /also/ think he's just a good man." "And that is why I intend to kill him." Sebastian /lunges/, at this. No more words, just a sudden forward rush of motion, teeth bared, claws long and sharp and aimed for Malthus's gut. But Shane moves every bit as fast as his brother, and seems to be /expecting/ this; his arm reaches up in a reflexive swipe, curling around Sebastian's midsection. "You won't," he says, through his teeth, lean-thin muscles flexing with the force with which he pulls his twin back towards himself. "He might be a good man but his /people/ aren't all saints. And they are all stronger than you." It is, perhaps, strange -- Malthus' response to Sebastian's lunge is tiny, almost delicate, almost /feminine/. A flinch in his expression; a tenseness in his posture -- but nothing else. No fear in his eyes -- if anything, there is a sense of resignment. And a slow, languid smile that swells into place as Shane seizes hold of his brother -- pulling him back. "Are you?" Malthus asks. "Will you pay /any/ cost to save those you love? Would you burn down the world...?" Sebastian just bares his teeth at this; no words, only a fierce struggling /fury/ that tugs him against his brother's grip. Shane holds on stronger, pulling Sebastian back towards the door. "No," he answers, through his teeth, strained as he drags Sebastian back. "I'd burn this whole fucking city down but I wouldn't take them /with/ me." "Then," Malthus responds, his tone so soft, so treacherously gentle as Shane drags his brother out the door -- the echo of his voice following them both, "you are /not/ as strong as I." Shane's soft /hiss/ suggests he might rather want to have the last /word/, here. But he doesn't. He's pretty well focused on yanking his brother back out, shutting the door behind them to close out those soft words. Close out Sebastian's view of Malthus. Close out everything, and shove his brother back out towards safety.