ArchivedLogs:Tenacity

Tenacity
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Jackson	2013-12-24 Malthus and Jackson meet again.
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. The strange spell of freakishly warm weather the city has been having has passed; outside now it's cold again, down in the thirties and with an overcast sky that looks /almost/ hopeful of having a white Christmas. It's not Christmas /yet/ though, and Jax is just getting off a shift at the clinic -- a /busy/ one from the looks of it. He's dressed still in red and black Mendel guard uniform -- his hair is festively red and green though his makeup and nailpolish is red-silver-black to match the uniform. He looks a little worn, usually upright posture dragging as he tugs his jacket back on to head out into the streets. He stops to offer a hug to one of the guards outside (there to help watch the doors and escort patients safely through the frequent crowds of sometimes-violent protesters), a cheerful goodbye to the other, and /he/ cuts through the small cluster of protesters with lips pressed thin and a rather set expression that is Determinedly Ignoring them. His face is kind of too-pale beneath his colourful fringe of hair, his steps sluggish as he starts the not-quite-mile walk back from the Clinic to his home in the East Village. He takes a detour, though, down a side street with a cluster of rowhomes, abandoned since the zombie crisis and in considerable disrepair. He walks by them more slowly still, eyeing the derelict properties thoughtfully. Like a raven perched above a freshly slain corpse; Malthus' black coat flutters in the stiff, chilled pre-Christmas breeze -- his lonely eye watching with a stark, serene calm. At first, he was watching one of the homes himself -- but at the sudden appearance of Jax's bright hair, his attention has been drawn from the corner toward the approaching mutant. Perhaps shattering that brief, macabre image of a scavenger perched above its prey is what Malthus holds in his hands -- a large cup of fresh, hot espresso, still steaming from where he's recently opened it. A line of stubble coarses over the man's head and face -- he hasn't been keeping up with his shaving. He's also got what looks like a freshly-changed wrapping peeking out from underneath his flipped-up coat collar -- a recent injury? That serene eye of his regards Jackson Holland as he approaches with a chilly indifference. If Jax doesn't notice him in time, Malthus will help -- his voice cutting through the stillness that surrounds those derelict homes with all the sharpness of a swiftly-drawn knife: "Do you blame yourself?" Sip. Jackson does notice, a habitual ingrained paranoia paired with a long stint of guard training leaving him perpetually rather /alert/ to his surroundings. He stops long before Malthus speaks, single eye watching Malthus right back. /His/ face is rarely given to indifference, slightly flushed, slightly wide-eyed, but brightly /curious/ as he looks at Malthus. Then looks around, glancing briefly around the -- deserted street, out of sight now of his companions back at the clinic. He draws in a slow breath, half-turns towards the buildings again though he's keeping Malthus very much on his sighted side. "Do you?" "I find no utility in it. What has happened cannot be undone; all that remains is to learn from the experience." The espresso lifts toward Malthus' mouth; where Jackson is careful, Malthus is relaxed -- if anything, he projects a sense of casual serenity. As if the notion of being attacked here, now -- is a foreign thing to him. Although the clever eye might make out the vague shape of the firearm strapped beneath his coat, close to his heart. Or how his coat remains unbuttoned; or how his right hand is never far from the holster. "I act. I learn. I move on," Malthus continues, and now a rush of breath sends the plume of steam swelling out, toward the houses in front of him. "Guilt and self-recrimination is a weakness." "Mmm." A shiver passes through Jackson; he zips up his coat in contrast to Malthus, drawing it closed over rainbow hoodie and black-and-red uniform. "So what have you learned, then, sir?" His bright blue eye flicks sideways towards Malthus. "An' what have you moved on to?" "That a lone mutant is capable of decimating a city." Malthus sips; the gesture is dainty -- perhaps even feminine. "And that you now have access to that power. And more." Malthus' own eye flickers toward Jackson; the cup lowers. There is, *perhaps*, the ghost of a smile. "You've healed well since our last encounter. Interesting." "He didn't hardly want to be, but when y'all shove us into it we're capable of a lot." Jax's teeth clamp together. His arms fold across his chest, posture tense where Malthus is relaxed, motions hard and sharp where Malthus's are dainty. "I don't. It ain't no power he's plannin' on using. I ain't gonna access nothin'." One arm unfolds, fingertips ghosting against his jaw, healed free of scars where once half his face was torn off. He answers this with a sharp huff of breath, pluming out white into the cold air. "Pretty resilient." "Aren't you?" Malthus asks, his voice so soft, so gentle, one might be excused for thinking he was trying to /sweettalk/ Jackson. "You know where he is. You know what he can do. If we pressed you up against the wall -- if we threatened the people you love -- what do you think /you/ would be capable of doing, Mr. Holland? To protect them?" Malthus' lone eye drifts away, now, to follow the rapidly vanishing puff of steam that still emerges from his cup -- eyes trailing up toward the sky. "Can you truly tell me that you've never heard that voice, whispering in the back of your mind? The voice that beckons you to kill us all?" "If?" Jax turns to face Malthus, his pierced brows climbing. "/If/? Sir, you've had my back shoved up against a real hard wall for months now. You /have/ threatened the people I love. /Murdered/ them. An' you're still standing. What do you /think/ the answer is." As Jax goes on, Malthus' face shifts from indifferent serenity to something warmer, something more pleased. His eye darkens; the edges of his mouth begin to twist up. It is the ghost of a smile, searching for a ruin to haunt. "Oh, Mr. Holland. If only /this/ was the extent to which we will push you. What a tender world it would be." The espresso cup lowers; Malthus' right hand dips, fingertips drifting over the edge of his jacket. "It would have been a good death, in the sewers -- saving your husband. The death of a martyr, unblemished by sin." Malthus' lone eye narrows, though the smile remains. "You have spared my life, so I shall return the favor. This is my mercy to you, Jackson Holland: Advice from the mouth of your enemy. So long as you live, those around you shall continue to suffer -- until you find the tenacity to /end/ this." "My name's Jax, sir." It's reflexive, at the use of 'Mr. Holland', so rote as to be unthinking. Jackson's eye dips down, watching the trace of Malthus's fingers against his jacket. "So long as I live," he murmurs, softly. Around him, there's a faint dim tremor of light, fluttering briefly and then vanishing. "Do you /want/ me to kill you, sir?" "Hm." At that, Malthus /does/ smile -- though there is very little pleasure in the expression. His lids drop low as he regards Jackson with thought; the tremble of illumination never causes his gaze to waver -- though he no doubt has noticed it. The fingers continue to linger along the edge of his coat. "--it would be easy, wouldn't it? Very simple. So much suffering -- abated. And all you have to do," Malthus continues, his fingers relaxing -- his hand slipping away from his coat, to reclaim his cup, "is find the courage to murder a man while his back is turned." And then Malthus turns -- exposing his back -- as he walks down the alleyway, away. Jax's breath catches, just one small puff of white in the air. It's echoed darker by the small wisps of smoke-dark shadow that curl around his arms. For a long hard moment his eye fixes on Malthus, another shiver rippling up him. The shadow dissipates as he turns around, putting Malthus behind him as he walks the other way.