Logs:Enemy of the Cause

Enemy of the Cause
Dramatis Personae Jax, Malthus	2022-05-05 "Hope is poison."
Location <???> Some medical lockup, somewhere.
It's a little disorienting walking into this room -- one minute it looks like a very boring, somewhat industrial hospital room and the next curls of shadow are winding themselves unsteadily around the fixtures like hungry vines. Some of the odd shadow-apparitions look ravenous, too, leaves with sharp teeth and blossoms with salivating maws. The scenery never lasts for long, a constantly fluctuating fever dream -- although at its center Jackson, largely ignoring the shifting shadows around him, does not look all that feverish. He's extremely pale, thinner than he was some weeks ago, his hair grown out shaggily with faded coloring at the tips and dark brown roots. He's propped up in bed with a sketchpad on his knees, absorbed in a drawing of the Supreme Court crumbling beneath a forest of unearthly vegetation that is clawing its way up the pillars and pulling down the facade. Malthus actually knocks. Unless Jackson replies in some form of negative, he's opening the door in the next moment, showing that this was more a warning than a genuine request. The fact that the place even has doors is, perhaps, a little surprising. When the door opens, Malthus stands -- a looming presence, like a crow in search of his murder. Clad in black as always, he looks briefly distracted -- his lone functioning eye tracing over the room's shadows. Rather than being distressed, he looks... curious. Curious, but also tired -- there's a certain haggardness in his expression, marring that typical serenity. "Mr. Holland," he announces, his voice even and clear. His eyes drift to the shaggy, pale-skinned man in the bed. "I'm..." A pause, as if mildly puzzled at the very words coming out of his mouth. "...pleased to see that you are alive." Jackson does not answer the knock at all, just glancing up to the door, his mangled right hand gripping the sketchbook a little tighter. The shadows continue their erratic dance, serrated vines clawing their way up the door as Malthus opens it. He regards the other man steadily, quiet until Malthus has finished speaking. A small twitch pulls at his mouth, single eye dropping back to his work. "Oh, I'm sure it would've been a right headache for you if I'd died in here." There's a warmth in his heavy drawl that is somewhat at odds with the continued tension in his posture. One of the illusory vines snakes its way out toward Malthus, dissipating into nothing before actually reaching the man. "You look like you could use a good night's sleep. Hope all that kerfuffle with Magneto ain't been keeping you up." "Kerfluffle." Malthus repeats, his eye drawn toward the shadowy vine that approaches. He makes no attempt to retract from its presence; indeed, when it dissolves, there's almost a sense of... disappointment. "An intriguing choice of words." His eye returns to Jackson, briefly lingering on his mangled hand. Malthus's nostrils flare; his own hands drift behind his back. "Your death, at that time, would have displeased me for reasons that have little to do with optics," he admits, but -- before he can linger too long on the meaning of those words, he continues: "You are to be transferred. The man who will be overseeing your incarceration is..." Malthus pauses, here; his brow crumples in thought, as if struggling to reconcile some terrible internal paradox. "...not, I suspect, an enemy of your cause." "Why Malthus Rogers, I didn't know you cared so much." The fluttering lilt in Jackson's voice is over-exaggerated, carrying through to: "Somewhere 'tween the torture and the --" His eye flicks around the medical room, "-- torture, was hard to feel the concern." What vestiges of a smile he's been wearing melt away, his gaze locking on Malthus. "Don't expect you understand my cause so well, then. Every jailer on earth's an enemy to it. -- Where, exactly, am I heading?" "The waterboarding was not--" Malthus begins, and there's a hint of indignance in his tone -- but it's gone in the next moment, his posture relaxing. "--no. My men. My prison. My decisions. Every indignity visited upon you was only made possible through me. I will not compound it by claiming innocence." He does not, however, offer an apology. Instead, he adds -- with a wisp of annoyance: "Fury. The director of SHIELD. He is..." Malthus scowls. "Let's just say he is... more sympathetic to your cause." Jackson's brows hitch ever so slightly higher when Malthus begins to protest, but the expression is swiftly pushed aside by an incredulous widening of his eye, a startled laugh. "SHIELD? Sorry, you mean to tell me you messed up so bad you lost custody for the entire United States? That's -- amazing. Not sure it's exactly the legacy you're going for, but you might have singlehandedly prompted the first time the UN has ever stood up to the United States." Now his smile returns, quick and amused. "Thank you," he says earnestly, "This is giving me a lot of hope." "I am unconcerned with my legacy." A flat, quiet admission; almost distant in tone. Malthus's gaze settles on Jackson's notebook. He appears unphased by Jackson's perspective, up until the moment Jackson mentions 'hope'. At that, Malthus snaps his head up. The eye narrows; his mouth twists. "...hope. Hope is poison," he tells him. "You--" Malthus blinks. He shakes his head, as if dispelling some troubling thought. Then, with a small, thoughtful frown: "I will let you rest." "I do believe you genuinely think that," Jax replies at Malthus's comment on hope, his smile fading to something more melancholy. "And even more than the staggering incompetence -- that's why you're going to lose." Malthus has no retort to this. Instead, he just watches Jax for another few moments, still frowning. Then, he turns to leave -- the frown remains for quite a while after.