ArchivedLogs:What Comes Next

What Comes Next
Dramatis Personae Claire, Jackson	2013-05-22 '
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A dingy waiting room with a line of rickety chairs, a small glass table with a set of permanently out-of-date magazines, a set of plastic holding racks with a number of informational pamphlets about STIs and partner abuse.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.) Wherever Jackson might be -- dealing with what is no doubt the very cluttered, /busy/ business of handling numerous refugees -- it wouldn’t be long before he was approached by Claire Basil. Clad with perhaps a surprising amount of brisk professionalism -- a grey, knee-length skirt, a dark gray coat, a coral-pink button up shirt, with a Louis Vuitton bag over one shoulder -- a cane in hand -- she arrives shortly after the van does and navigates the clinic with a tense expression. Maybe-perhaps helping, here and there, if she can -- a brief flicker of clarity in places where panic and confusion start to bubble over (and there are many such places) -- but in the end, the inevitable target of her interest is Jackson. If -- and when -- she finds him, the first thing she’ll say, as she walks forward, cane clicking on linoleum -- is: “I know you are /incredibly/ busy, Mr. Holland. But things are moving very fast, and I need to talk to you about -- can you spare me five minutes?” Jackson doesn’t look particularly professional. Mostly kind of harried. Uncolourful at the moment; black hair, black cargo pants, black boots, a dark blue t-shirt. At least his tattoos kind of give him perma-brightness. There is a lot of chaos and he is in the middle of directing a bulk of it; shepherding people away from clamouring for the healers’ who are in pain but not severely in /danger/. Finding nurses to tend to some, making sure the food is in order for those with appetites to eat it. Claire’s greeting pulls him up short with a reflexive smile, thinner and more exhausted than his usual warmth. “Ms. Basil,” he greets, and even as he does his attention is flicking away towards a panicked girl whose current rocking back and forth is sending out /tremors/ that are uncomfortably threatening to put serious cracks in the clinic walls. “-- one second, yeah, I --” am dashing off, that sentence might well be ended, because he DOES. But he’s back again soon enough, after pointing Matt and Lucien in the girl’s direction: “-- Hi. Right. Sorry. Of course. Hive said you were --” He shakes his head, slightly. “-- Real helpful. What can I -- how can I -- do you need --” There’s a lift of eyebrows that turns all these aborted sentences into aborted /questions/. Claire Basil watches as Jackson /dashes/ off; eyebrows lift quickly at the tremors -- when he returns, her brows lower -- and she concentrates. The effect is subtle, but slowly swelling; the minds around them -- in a steadily increasing tide -- begin to grow quiet, clear, /sharper/. Not they are not /already/; but that added sharpness may help the flow of this conversation. One she is not -- entirely looking forward to. “--the people who did this to your children -- the mutants -- Mr. Holland, they were cruel, but they were also /stupid/. Your friend showed me a glimpse of their operation. They have /one/ bank account. And by all appearances, they were making no attempt to /launder/ their ill-gotten gains.” Claire lets this linger for a moment; as if it should mean something to Jackson. “If they had been running this operation for another year, I might imagine them to be arrogant enough to file with the IRS. They were running it as if it were merely a /legitimate enterprise/.” “Mr. Holland,” Claire continues, and there is -- a forcefulness, an edge of /desperation/ to her tone -- as she moves closer toward him. “I cannot over-emphasize how /important/ it is that we gain access to that account. /Immediately/. I know your friend is tired. I have been told that this process is -- of great risk to him. But none of the officers he currently controls have access to the account. I need -- /we/ need -- Mr. Holland, without that account, this will have /never happened/. With it? You will have ironclad, indisputable /evidence/,” she insists, “the /names/ of those in power who came to drink overpriced beer while watching children /die/.” Perhaps, then, a little more quietly -- more meekly: “I need your friend to help me get it. That is... the first thing.” "The first thing." Jackson scuffs fingers through his shaggy black hair, flicks another glance around the hectic clinic. "You got a whole lot more faith in the legal system than I do if you think gathering more evidence is going to get any sort of --" His lips press together; he says, "justice," like the word is distasteful to be speaking. "What's the rest?" There is perhaps, something /sinister/ about the way Claire’s eyes suddenly narrow, a thin, tired smile slipping over her features. “We are not gathering evidence for a /trial/, Mr. Holland. We are gathering evidence for /leverage/. If we can prove -- mmn,” she turns her head away, that smile fading, eyes tracing the path of a nurse who rushes past to deal with a room that is -- apparently -- a little on fire? “--the second part,” she says, slightly more pained, “is deciding what to /do/ with it. I think it’s clear --” Her eyes flicker back to Jackson. “--that that decision belongs to you and your friends.” "Oh --" Jax's brow furrows, in answer to Claire's smile. "It's funny, y'know, I hadn't --" There's a moment where his nose wrinkles, the smell of smoke curling out into the hall. "Hive can't," he says slowly, "keep this up. I don't know how aware you are of the full extent of --" His teeth scrape slowly against his lower lip. Clickclickclick against his lip rings. "It ain't just dangerous for him, Ms. Basil, it's dangerous for everybody. But he could --" Another pause, another consideration. "You'd have to be quick." At the second part, his head tips back, eye focusing on the ceiling. "Oh, I'm sure there's a /wealth/ of opinions about that." It's quiet, a little dry, spoken half to himself. "There ain't a lot stopping these people from turning around and keeping on at what they do. There ain't," he says slowly, head lowering to look back at Claire, "/ever/ a whole stopping anyone from doing this kind of thing t'us. There ain't never any consequences." Claire seems amused by the fact that Jackson hadn’t thought about this. “You’re trying to save lives. Of /course/ you wouldn’t have--” The smell of fire -- and Jackson’s explanation of Hive’s situation -- prompts her to pause. Turning her eyes toward the room where another nurse is moving in -- her power shifting, swelling from her toward the room. The shouting inside grows more orderly; someone seems to be taking control. A fire extinguisher is brought in, just in case. “I don’t know the full extent of his powers,” Claire agrees, “and I know telepathy can be -- /extraordinarily/ dangerous. To both the telepaths and the people around them. I -- would not ask such a thing if it was not of exceptional importance. I only need two hours,” she agrees, “perhaps, control over one -- two, at most -- people. If necessary, I will bring Parley. To help him -- your friend -- navigate the minds. To stay clear.” “As to consequences... yes. That is -- /precisely/ why this is so important, Mr. Holland. As a lawyer -- as a practical person -- my advice to you would be to let me use this leverage to force the government to punish the officers. The people who came to these shows -- if all of this came out? Their names? It could be political bedlam. You saved the mayor; you saved police officers. Nox saved children. In reward, the city’s elite put her and your children in cages -- to watch them die. Such stories are -- it could destroy careers. Ruin lives. Upset the status quo. They would do /anything/ to ensure that this information does not come to light. But--” Claire is staring at the hospital room, now. Where the fire is now apparently dealt with. “--they would construct a narrative where someone in power saved the day. The FBI. Part of the NYPD. That would be the cost. Anything to ensure that the center holds -- that people continue to have faith in the law -- that people continue to believe the system, while perhaps not always perfect, /does/ work. Also,” she adds, voice starting to tremble, “that is /not/ the advice I would give you as a mutant.” Jackson listens to this with jaw slowly tightening, arms slowly crossing tighter over his chest. He steps back against the wall to let a nurse bustle past, and his heel starts to thud back against it. Thud. Thud. Thud. Slow and heavy and rhythmic. "Ms. Basil," he says eventually, quietly, "you don't live publicly as a mutant but I think if you did s'possible you might not be thinkin' to --" He hesitates, drawing in a slow breath. "This advice a'yours is contingent on kinda a huge assumption that if this came out it's be catastrophic for the folks involved. I think you might reconsider that assumption if you understood how deep the hatred really /is/ that people have for us. Politically speaking, they could've flayed my sons alive on television and it'd earn them a whole lot more reprimand for violating the FCC's regulations on graphic violence than it would for killing mutants. You say I saved the mayor like it makes me a hero when really it's made me a giant thorn they hate having in their side. I ain't --" His lips twitch up at the corners. "I just don't think you and I are really looking at the same picture when it comes to what their -- or society's -- reaction would /be/ when it comes to this kinda atrocity. D'you know what happened when we /did/ go to the media with the story of mutant kids being rounded up and tortured to death in some horrible mockery of science? Nothing. A couple stories that shocked nobody and the next month there was a government proposal in the works to fund that kind of thing legitimately. Cuz society? Thought rounding up mutants and torturing them to death sounded like a great idea." Claire grows quiet and tense as Jackson speaks; when he mentions not living publically as a mutant, she steps back; when he mentions the possible consequences for a live broadcast of his children tortured, her back finds the wall. When he at last describes the consequences of going to the media with what they knew about the labs -- she sags, weight settling against the wall somewhere near her hips, her purse held out in front of her -- her grip shifting from her cane. Eyes watching a spot somewhere between Jackson’s feet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holland. For everything you’ve had to -- I don’t think you’re right about this,” she adds, dragging her eyes back up to him, now steely-hard and determined. “I don’t know what you had before. I know, what we could have /now/ -- footage, bank transactions, names -- I /believe/ that it would be enough. To do something. Radically change -- /something/. Maybe that is because I am very foolish. I... can understand why you would think so. Nothing you’ve seen has given you a reason to expect anything else. But, please -- let me /try/.” Her breath is a little harder, now; her own jaw clenched. “ Jackson exhales, sharp and heavy. His hand lifts, knuckles scrubbing against his eyes. "I think," he says, quiet and with a trace of apology in his voice, "you're very --" He doesn't say foolish. He drops his hand to his side and he may as well /have/ said foolish when instead he finishes carefully, "well-meaning." His head rests back against the wall, and his heel continues thunking. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. It's a solid-steady beat against his quiet words. "I hope to God you're right." Claire /grimaces/ at the word ‘well-meaning’. As if it hit her harder than foolish would have. For a moment, her hand extends out toward Jackson - purse in tow - as he thunks his head against the wall. Like she’s thinking of trying to stop him. But, the hand soon retracts. “...if I’m wrong, Mr. Holland. If we live among a populace that would --” She doesn’t finish this thought; there is, instead, an unusual, uncontrolled /negative/ flutter of her power; a sort of sudden psychic shuddering, a constriction that is brief but chaotic - like stormclouds rolling across the mind. It ends an instant after it begins; Claire’s eyes widen, then shrink. She is -- suddenly /very/ desperate to leave. And, no doubt, coordinate whatever plans she has with Hive. “...I’ll contact you with the account information as soon as we have it,” she tells him, turning to go. Jackson grimaces, too, and in time with that negative flutter of her power there's a fuzzy-brained flutter of /his/; it curls ghostly smoky tendrils around his arms and drops illusion all at once to leave him decorated with a wealth of scars, pockmarked against his face and mangling the bright tattoos on his arms. His teeth are still clenched even after it passes, and the scars begin to fade themselves into pale skin and bright ink again. He closes his eye, and nods. "-- He's expecting you," is all he says, pushing away from the wall to open his eye and dive back into the chaos. Before Claire leaves, she catches sight of that flickering of light and illusion; her eyes drift across the pattern of scars and injuries that criss-cross over her tattoos -- there is something -- a flash of shock? Horror? Concern? -- on her face, but it is quickly gone, pressed down, watching him as he wades back into his work. When Claire turns to leave, she is breathing very heavily, all of her weight descending upon her cane.