Logs:Eye to Eye

Eye to Eye
Dramatis Personae Fury, Malthus	2022-04-24 "Quite clever, actually."
Location <NYC> HAMMER Offices - Federal Plaza
The DHS building in Federal Plaza is what you'd expect; an austere-looking office-building with multiple floors and offices to handle the many bureaucratic issues and legal proceedings surrounding a federal agency dedicated to matters of 'terrorism'. HAMMER's offices are a notably recent addition, and include their own small parking garage for dedicated vehicles, a data-center, and even a small holding pen. Malthus's own office is precisely what you'd expect from someone who doesn't spend any time in his office. It looks like what someone else might expect a career military man's office to look like: large, wooden desk; thick, comfortable chair. Walls crowded with military honorifics. A framed aerial photo of Quantico, Virginia. An American flag draped in one corner, and the red-and-gold-trimmed Marine Corps flag draped in the other. It has the look of the place you take photographs in just so you have something to show when someone asks you where you work. Regrettably, Malthus has to use it. He's just received word from his secretary that 'someone from the UN is here to speak to you' -- and that it's urgent enough to bump his teleconference with the Secretary of Homeland Security back an hour. There's only a few people with that much clearance -- and only one person he knows with the moxie to use it. As Malthus opens the door, the starkly-dressed man (in his long black coat with a manila folder tucked neatly under an arm) has his game-face on. Then he sees who's waiting for him, and... his left eyebrow twitches. Correction: Two people with the moxie to use it. "...good evening, Director Fury." Nick Fury is sitting in the chair behind Malthus's desk, and makes no move to vacate it when its proper owner enters. "Good evening, Director Rogers." He's dressed entirely in black as is his habit, just a bit more dapper than usual, the choice of a band collar shirt allowing him to forgo the tie without sacrificing formality. His coat is draped over the back of the visitor's chair. "Now, I understand you're going through a difficult breakup, and I'd like to offer my condolences, and perhaps even some assistance." He's not smiling as he leans forward to prop his elbows on the desk, but there's definitely a glint of pleasure in his one sharp eye. "So, then. How are you holding up?" Malthus's left eyebrow twitches again. Maybe he should look into that; get it checked out. Seems like it might be a medical problem. He does not take off his own coat, preferring to keep it on -- nevertheless, he takes several steps forward into the room... as if seriously considering slumping in the visitor's chair and accepting Fury's 'condolences'. And maybe even taking the chance to vent about his job. It's very stressful, after all! Instead, he just hovers over that chair like a raven circling over a carcass, his left hand moving up to pinch at the bridge of his nose and decisively rub. "...Director Fury, I've got quite a loaded itinerary -- as I'm sure you can imagine. Can we get down to the point of your visit?" "I sure can imagine. Don't you think you ought to take a load off?" Fury sounds infuriatingly reasonable, as though he were coaxing a toddler to take a nap. "Must have been real hard work keeping all those dangerous mutants under control. I know because DHS has been telling the UN for years that your flagrant human rights violations were necessary to protect everyone, and that you were best equipped to do it. I don't mean you as in y'all, I mean you, personally." He laces his fingers together and settles his chin on his clasped hands, elbows still propped on the desk. "Now, it looks a whole lot like you done shat the bed even with all the torture and effectively limitless funding. Figured you could use some help." "Technically, are they human right violations -- or mutant right violations? I can't recall if the UN has come to a consensus. Perhaps they should form a committee," Malthus responds, his tone soft -- but quick enough for it to come off as a bitter snap. For Malthus, at least. His free hand (the one not still rubbing the bridge of his nose) drops down to the chair where Fury's coat lies; fingers curl into the fabric, gripping it tightly -- as if to steady himself. The hand rubbing his nose drops -- that lone eye meets Fury's own lone eye. There is just a hint of amusement in his expression: "Oh. Are you going to 'help' me, Director Fury? Perhaps you intend to send your team of brightly-costumed color-guard after Lensherr? I seem to recall that going spectacularly well last time." Fury actually rolls his eye. "You got to be either a goddamn moron or a petty-ass motherfucker or both to trot out that race science bullshit on anyone with two brain cells to rub together. You might want to brush up on your genetics and linguistics before taking your technical complaint to the HRC." He straightens up in the chair and suddenly seems larger than life. "You think it's gonna be any one agency looking for him? For your career's sake, you best hope you get to him first." His smile is cold and sharp and humorless. "No. Since you apparently can't walk and chew gum at the same time, I'll take on the prisoners you somehow managed to not lose -- I assume by accident -- so you can focus on finding the ones you did." The grip on the back of that chair subtly tightens... but the tightness is enough to cause Fury's jacket to crumple, ever-so-slightly -- and the timber of the chair to produce a gentle, near-silent creak. "What? On who's auth--" Malthus starts, before cutting himself off -- his single functional eye narrowing. "Why? Of what use are they to you?" That left brow gets to twitching, again. "More recruits for your absurd little 'Isle of Misfit Toys'?" "Guess I got to break this down for you real simple." Fury tsks, shaking his head. "See, DHS and the White House know Jackson Holland ain't the kind of threat you've been making him out to be. They just wanted him out of the way while they figure out who to throw under the bus for the whole Prometheus fiasco. Your terrorism theatre was all well and good until the shit hit the fan, but right about now they do not give a single solitary fuck what you do other than find Erik Lensherr." He pushes himself up slowly until he's standing with both palms still planted on the desk, looming ominously toward if not over Malthus. "As for me? I don't owe you any explanations. You can try to fight this, but Uncle Sam is very eager for scapegoats, and you might not be glad to stand out more than you already do." "But why you?" Malthus asks, and for just a moment, there's a sharp twang in his inflection... a vibration of anger. His grip on the chair tightens -- and then, it suddenly goes slack. His fingers roll in a slow, languid drumming motion, one digit at a time rapping across the surface of the chair's back, managing to make a low thmp-thmp-thmp sound even through the fabric of Fury's jacket. "Holland," Malthus states, his tone suddenly flat. "You want Holland. He gives you leverage among mutant communities -- leverage you can use. It even lets you set yourself up as an ally -- a 'hero' -- saving Holland from the monster." Malthus's nostrils flare. "Quite clever, actually." "Maybe I'm just nice like that." Fury's tone is breezy, but his posture remains threatening. "Maybe you pissed someone off down in Washington. Or maybe it's on account of how I actually do my job, have the relevant equipment and expertise, and haven't misplaced the most infamous mutant terrorist on Earth." He straightens up now and slips out from behind the desk, his gait slow and even like that of a stalking wolf. "'Ally?' If you really think this'll win me points with his people, you're more delusional than I gave you credit. Lord knows I'm no hero, but at least I ain't a bully, neither." Malthus doesn't move from his position behind the chair -- instead, he stands his ground, that single eye pursuing Fury with a slow, calculated calmness. No response is forthcoming when Fury lays out the possible reasons why; when Fury emerges from behind that desk, there is an ever-so-slight tight-lipped smile on the scarred director's face. "Oh, you can't call yourself one... but that's what you aspire for, isn't it? To be the 'good man' -- to do 'the right thing'." The slight, tight smile fades. Again, his nostrils flare. "That's the difference between a hero and a soldier, Fury. A hero does what is right. But a soldier...? A soldier does what must be done." "What I as --" Fury actually barks a laugh. "What I aspire to?" He looms over Malthus. "I aspire to do. My goddamn. Job. And you know what? If that involves being a hero, I will be one. But you ain't never gonna be anything but a fascist." He yanks his jacket from the chair, dislodging Malthus's arm if he does not move himself out of the way quickly enough. "My people will be in touch to arrange the transfer of detainees." Malthus does not move fast enough. His arm is jerked up and away by the force of Fury's motion, but -- rather than pursue -- Malthus steps back, like a raven perched atop a tombstone, waiting for his chance. He says nothing in response to Fury's announcement... merely watching in silence through that single tranquil blue eye.