Logs:Comrade America

Comrade America
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Ryan, Steve
In Absentia	2019-02-09 "Your voice could be a more effective weapon than whatever enhancements the military gave you."
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. The remnants of breakfast are still lingering in the kitchen -- spiced apple waffles with a light cinnamon glaze, garlic-rosemary roasted potatoes, herby vegetable omelettes (real egg for most of the Tessiers, tofu for Ryan), freshly juiced orange-carrot-ginger juice. Seated at the little-used dining room table with some potato and omelette still left on his plate, Lucien looks Saturday-morning casual; jeans and a soft grey-green v-neck tee. He sips at a mostly-still-warm milky-sweet cup of Nilgiri tea, setting it back down on a colourful glass coaster afterwards. "I suppose that takes care of security in the immediate term." The note of reservation in his tone seems like this is more concession than real acceptance. "And you are certain about Jackson?" "I want him there." Confident and unhesitating. "It's not just for the optics of it. I got a feeling it's going to be a long-ass night no matter how it turns out." Lucien's companion is perched atop the dining table, one leg curled underneath him and one foot resting on the chair he probably ought to be sitting on. He's wearing a bright green and black striped long-sleeve tee, its sleeves scrunched up to his elbows, and grey jeans whose hem he plucks absently as he talks. His own plate has been scraped clean, but he holds a glass of juice still, resting on his knee. "A long-ass -- year, probably." This thought doesn't stop the crooked grin that curls across Ryan's face. "Really fucking overdue, though." The rest of the house has been bustling about, prepping for their respective days, but Steve's comings and goings are mainly to the kitchen for seconds. And then thirds. By his fourth trip he's looking sheepish and does not immediately re-fill his plate. He leans into the dining room. "Sorry to interrupt, but does anyone want more breakfast?" He's sharply groomed, dressed in a flannel shirt of red, black, and gold tartan, the top two buttons undone to expose a white t-shirt, and straight-leg blue jeans. There is a thick book tucked under one of his arms -- Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. "If you want an easy life, there is yet time to change your mind." The half-smile playing on Lucien's lips suggests he's already well aware of the answer to this. He glances up to the doorway, and back down to his plate. "I'd be grateful if you finished what's left and spared the work of finding it a home in the fridge." His eyes skip between Steve and Ryan. His fingers tap briefly at the table before he adds, "-- If you can spare the time, would you mind joining us? Our business is largely concluded." "Hold up are there still potatoes? Those were fantastic." Ryan hops down off the table. Dashes off past Steve into the kitchen to scoop a few remaining spuds onto his plate. He's more leisurely on his return, once his chance at More Potatoes is no longer in jeopardy. "I'm glad you're a glass-half-full kind of person. From where I'm standing," as he pulls himself back up onto the table, "it looks like our work is just getting interesting. Or -- terrifying." His hand seesaws in the air. "Little of both. You enjoying their library here?" He waves with his fork at the book under Steve's arm. "I would not mind in the least; and yes, there's still a bit," Steve replies, though the second part seems unnecessary as Ryan is already on the move. He trails the other man into the kitchen, hanging back to cede access to potatoes. He dumps all of the remaining food onto his own plate and washes up, though admittedly Lucien had not left much to clean save the servingware. He joins the other two at the dining table shortly, and seems almost to have forgotten the book until Ryan points it out. "Oh, I am most grateful and making good use of it," he says, setting the book on the table, well away from his plate, "although I cannot in good faith call this enjoyment." "His writing is engaging, at least." Lucien's tone slips dry, "Regrettable that his subject matter has trended so dark." He has polished off the rest of his breakfast by the time Steve arrives. "I ought to have given the both of you a more proper introduction, before." Only mildly apologetic. "If you are comfortable delving a little into your situation, Steve, I think Ryan's may be of relevance to you." "I'm sure they've got some light reading you can swipe. Break up the heavy shit with some --" Ryan squints at Lucien, mouth twisting to one side. "Dostoevsky or whatever the hell this guy considers casual." His voice is glib. One leg swings beneath the table, intermittently coming back to rest on the chair. "How relevant are we talking? Like, if you're about to do something crazy dumb and fuck your life up --" One shoulder lifts, falls. "Well, it'd be good to have company, anyway." "I'd probably enjoy it more under different circumstances," Steve admits, tucking into his food. "Or -- that." Nodding at Ryan. "Just...I have a lot to learn, and it doesn't feel like something I should put off." At Lucien's suggestion, he frowns slightly, more thoughtful than disturbed. "I'll do my best to summarize it in a coherent way -- maybe chronologically, this time?" He sets down his fork, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smile. "To hear some people tell it, my whole life is a series of crazy dumb decisions. You can decide if you agree." He takes a deep breath. "I signed up for an Army medical experiment in early 1942 which augmented my strength, speed, and endurance. After a wildly successful war bonds circuit as 'Captain America', I joined the fighting in Europe. My commandos and I spent much of the war behind enemy lines taking down a secret Nazi R&D division." He stops for a beat, his eyes going a little distant, his jaw tightening, but he recovers and forges on. "In 1945, I pursued their leader onto a supersonic bomber and crashed it into the Arctic Ocean rather than risk letting it reach populated territory. I was declared killed in action, but managed to survive, frozen, for over 70 years. Last week, a covert International government agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. revived me, probably hoping to reverse-engineer the enhancement process. Now I'm on the lam and figuring out how I can get back into fighting fascism here at home." Pauses again, glances at Lucien. "I think that covers everything relevant?" "Tolstoy," Lucien answers Ryan, deadpan. He lapses into quiet as Steve speaks, just sipping slowly at his tea. "That seems approximately the sum of it. Steve has been of a mind," he informs Ryan, "to punch his way through those in government responsible for our current predicaments. I'm trying to help him figure out where his particular skills would be best leveraged, though." Ryan chokes, splutters, coughs some of his juice over the table and the hand he's lifted quickly to his mouth. His eyes water, coughing not really subsided while he studies Lucien and then Steve's faces in turn. "Are you fucking shitting me?" he finally manages, wiping his hand on his jeans and then his eyes against a sleeve. "Sorry that's just. Not." His hand flutters, waves in Steve's direction. "Not what I was expecting. Are you." Squints, peers more intently at the others, senses silently expanding to catch empathic hints in their replies. "You're not joking, are you?" Steve hands Ryan a napkin. "Terribly sorry for the shock," he says, "but I'm afraid I'm not joking. At all." His emotional landscape at the moment is a raw, wrenching tumult of grief and rage and heedless determination, but there is no hint of deception in him. He indicates Lucien with a nod of his head, "He's exaggerating, though. I'd get hold of some weapons, of course. Whatever the comics tell you, I did not fight the Nazis with fists and a shield." A pause as he picks up his fork. "With just fists and a shield." Lucien's face remains impassive through this. Another slow sip of tea, a very slight shake of his head. "Would that we were. It would be a sight easier for Mr. Rogers if this were a fiction. Given your respective experiences with government --" Here his jaw does tighten, fractionally, "Experimentation, I thought that perhaps your current venture -- might offer some perspective." Ryan's cheeks are flushed, eyes still a bit watery as he takes the napkin. He doesn't use it, just wrings it -- sort of crumply, starting to tear -- between his hands. His shoulders have tensed, his eyes fixed far too intently on the slowly ripping paper between his fingers. "Fuck." Softly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. You're not -- fuck. Shit. Okay. Shit." One hand squeezes into a tight fist, balling the napkin within it. "Look, I mean, God fucking knows I want to go all John Wick on every last politician, too, but as long as the whole-ass country is as twisted up as it is, there's just always going to be more waiting to keep the status quo. No matter how much I want to blow shit up, I think revolution's gotta happen with the people first." His fingers untense, clench again. His jaw works slowly from one side to the other, and he knocks back the rest of his juice before looking down at the empty glass, disgruntled. "You got something stronger?" He finally manages to tear his eyes back upward, looking at Steve again. "So you're some kind of -- proto-mutant. Volunteer. The Army gave you... powers?" Steve leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing a touch at Ryan. "Hey," he says gently, "if you don't want to continue, or just need a moment, we can stop..." He trails off. Rallies again. "I know it's a lot." He makes some more progress on his meal -- more than one might normally expect of someone in dire emotional distress who has had three helpings already. "You're right, and lifting up the people -- that's far more important work. But those being displaced, hurt, killed, right now?" He shakes his head, once, sharply. "I know there's more than one way to help them, too. But I haven't got all that many skills, as Luci says, to leverage." Ryan's question draws a frown from him this time. "Mutant. S.H.I.E.L.D. told me a bit about mutants, but they weren't very specific. I think I met one, a few days back? I volunteered, though...I don't think I fully understood what I was volunteering for. The Army called me a 'supersoldier', if that is along the same lines of what you would call a 'proto-mutant'? With 'powers'?" Lucien inclines his head, rising smoothly to take Ryan's glass and vanish into the kitchen with it. His own mental landscape is quiet as ever, difficult to glean much from past a very steady calm. "Shit. No. I'm good. I just --" Ryan shakes his head fiercely. "I'm good." Regardless, he's kind of slouched forward. Head in one hand, fingers knitting into his hair. "There's ways to help them, for sure. But it doesn't..." His jaw clamps tight, and he pushes a hard swallow down his throat. Finally he straightens, managing a thin smile. "You've met more than one mutant, man. Kind of why I'm here at all." He nods in the direction Lucien has just left. "Pretty sure the government didn't give up after you vanished. They've been experimenting on mutants for years, hoping to make better weapons. Better soldiers. And there's a lot of people trying to fight back against all the crap they've been up to. But even more set against us. And me, I'm good at fighting, sure, but Lucien's good at people. Which is something we really fucking need when the majority of the country's too happy to look the other way no matter what's going on. I've been getting his help figuring out how to -- make headway in that battle." Steve nods solemnly, and though his brows do not un-knit, he does settle back into his chair. "They kept calling me a weapon, too," he says quietly, eyes far away, "at least while trying to sell the program to Congress. Weapons are what they want; not men, not even soldiers." His gaze returns to Ryan suddenly, an immense horror creeping into the chaos of his other emotions. "'Experimenting on mutants,'" he echoes, carefully. "You don't mean voluntary experiments, do you?" Lucien returns with two glasses where he'd had one before. Tall and filled with screwdrivers that are rather heavy on the vodka. He sets one before Ryan, and the other in front of Steve before returning to his seat. There's a slight but more noticeable tension in his jaw at Steve's question. Ryan nods his thanks, and takes his glass for a deep gulp before he answers Steve. His empathic focus relaxes, shuttering safely once more away from the deluge of other people's feelings. "Maybe some people volunteered, but these days they take whoever they think they can get away with grabbing. I spent two years locked in a cage, and I'm pretty damn sure they'd put me back there if they could." His fingers are tight around his glass, but his voice is steady enough, though a clearer thicker drawl is creeping its way into his accent. "That's where this'n comes in." A tip of his glass toward Lucien. "I've spent a few years now making sure I'm too damn noticeable to just disappear again. But this country's never had a public mutant celebrity. I'm planning to change that this weekend -- and hopefully be able to be a voice that --" His lips thin, a hard push of breath flaring his nostrils. He takes another swallow of his drink, sets a firm smile on his face. "Well. Hopefully one the country can't ignore." Steve takes a long, slow, breath. Swallows. Looks down at the glass. Up at Luci, with a quiet "Merci." He looks over Ryan, his expression inscrutable now. "I'm sorry. For what happened to you, and for speaking so casually about...what happened to me. Whatever S.S.R.'s faults, they didn't force me." He drinks deep from his glass. "Celebrity? Are you an actor, too?" He glances back at their host. "And Luci is your agent? I'm guessing a lot of people are going to be angry with you, when they realize you are a...mutant." "Not exactly an agent. More of a public relations representative." Lucien pulls his tea back close to him. "And Ryan is quite a phenomenally talented musician. His music is very popular. He has been nominated for some very prestigious awards, and if the academy has any taste at all, their ceremony tomorrow evening will provide him a wider platform." His hand turns upward. "Many people will be angry. That is unavoidable. In the long run, others might be swayed. Or among mutants, inspired to follow suit." "Yeah, provided they don't just fucking shoot me first." Ryan's smile grows a little tighter, a little harder. "But my plan is to be a pain in the ass for a long fucking time. There's few enough people at a national level speaking up for us." Steve seems to consider all this for a moment, nodding minutely, sipping his drink. "People oppress their fellows for so many reasons," he muses aloud. "You might win over the ones who are fearful because you're...other. Unfamiliar. But men like those...'Make America Great Again' folks? They will insist on hating you, even if they loved your music up until now." He studies Ryan closely. "You are very courageous, and I hope goes well for you." "I doubt he had many fans among them to begin with." Here, at least, a touch of amusement slips its way back into Lucien's tone. "Regardless," quieter, "you are not wrong. He is quite brave, and it will be a dangerous path for him. I will do all I can to smooth it, and make sure that his courage is not for naught, but --" Briefly, his fingers spread, and then drop back to curl against his mug. "When it comes to turning the tide of public opinion in this country, an iconic war hero -- and one who is human -- I imagine, Mr. Rogers, that your voice could be a more effective weapon than whatever enhancements the military gave you." Ryan's laugh is bright, a flutter of amused warmth carried palpably in the sound. "Shiiit, if I have any MAGA motherfuckers among my fans they have not been paying attention until now. I don't think some queer anarchist spic is like. High on their favorites list to begin with. They'd throw my whole family into camps if they could, nevermind that most of my relatives hate my guts for being a freak." Head shaking, he looks back down at his drink. Takes his next sip slower. "Jesus fucking Christ, though, wouldn't that be something? Comrade America stepping right out of the past to put their fascist asses back in place." Steve blinks. Does a quick double-take at Ryan's list of self-identifiers, though he gives no clear indication which part caught his attention in particular. "Surely I can't be that much of an icon anymore. My shows and films were...what, 75 years ago, now?" His gaze shifts to the Howard Zinn book lying nearby. "I would have vastly preferred to be Comrade America," he muses, thoughtful. "Maybe I can be, now." "It has been some time, true. It's true you are not much of an icon just right now. But if you give me leave," Lucien's smile is a slow-growing thing, spreading as his forefinger taps against the side of his mug. "You will be."