Logs:Grapevine

Grapevine
CW: implication of torture (waterboarding)
Dramatis Personae Hive, Lucien, Jax, Mirror, Charles, Hank, Erik, Heather, Tian-shin, Malthus
In Absentia	april 9-11 "Where is Magneto?"
Location
saturday, april 9. 4:05 pm. mindspace At first it's just a whisper, a featherlight psionic touch up against Lucien's mind. It sinks in swift and sure, Hive's voice immediately following in a soft multilayered rustle. << this might not be -- >> << {If you're going to say a good time you have an astounding gift for understatement.} >> In the background there is bombastic singing, "We must again make our nation great," heard in a vivid array of color through Lucien's crosswired senses. Lucien himself is in the hasty process of being assisted into Captain America's armour. There's a warning flicker of pain that sears through both of them. The long tendrils of Hive's mind shiver but do not pull back, apology and irritation both mingling in his mind. His voice has taken on some of Lucien's crispness in his terse reply: << It's Jax. >> --- saturday, april 9. 4:05 pm. hammer black site. The interior of the mobile trailer is dimly lit; it comes equipped with a sink, faucet, and an old medical examination chair bolted down at its center. The chair’s sole occupant is secured to it via zip-ties. Bruises darken his wrists, his head held down by another man’s hands. Another soldier – standing over the restrained Jackson – dips the towel into the bucket of ice-cold water, preparing to start again: "We're going to keep going until you tell us what we want to know, okay?" His tone is that of a paternalistic parent addressing a toddler he is in the process of punishing. "Where is Magneto?" The unsteady flickering of the lights in the room has ebbed away over the past little while. In the center of the room Jackson is pale, his breaths coming in shaky gasps even when the cloth is gone. His twisting jerk at his bonds has, for the moment, calmed, though his hands clench down hard again when the soldier addresses him. It's a long slow minute before he responds, a weak tug twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Gosh, sir, but here I thought keepin' tabs on him was your whole job." The soldier’s face flashes with a savage anger at Jackson’s words; the hand holding the towel clenches into a fist. But then, behind him – a voice so cold it makes the man nearly drop dead of a heart-attack: "Sergeant, what the fuck do you think you are doing?" Every man present aside from Jackson turns to face Malthus. None have ever seen the oft-serene commander’s face etched with this much rage. As his single functioning eye falls upon the empty syringe of mutant-suppressor on a nearby table, that rage only swells. "Get him back in his cell and tell the on-site physician to meet me in my office. Now." --- saturday, april 9. 6:45 pm. hellfire club, basement. Jackson has, as of last reporting, not escaped jail -- yet here he evidently is in the plush Inner a circle lounge. Tucked into a booth with a very large cup of coffee, laptop and a tablet opened in front of him. He's just getting off the phone, slumping back in his seat and running a frustrated hand through hair bright at its tip and dark at its roots. Lucien has just a moment of hesitation on the threshold of the lounge, eyes fixing on the not!Jackson with a slight narrowing. He looks down at the tray in his hands -- pastries, small sandwiches -- and his lips compress as he brings it over to the booth. "I don't suppose I could offer some assistance?" Mirror looks up with a hike of brows, coffee pausing halfway to their mouth. The tilt of their head is small, birdlike, and they lower the cup again, single eye flicking toward the computer screen. "I'll have a story," they reply, "what I need is a source." --- saturday, april 9. 7:45 pm. xavier's school, westchester. With all his skill and experience, Charles probably doesn't strictly speaking need to annotate the memory he is sharing, but he's done it all the way through, ever so slightly defensive in his thoroughness. << ...so then he finally puts the blasted helmet back on and orders his hooligans to destroy my chair. >> He refills his Scotch again, hand shaking only slightly. << Maybe I ought to be grateful he spared me whatever Galaxy Brain take led him to that decision. >> He frowns down into his glass. << Anyway, that was it. We didn't communicate out loud. I wasn't even anywhere near them. >> << Why do you (even) care about his reasoning? >> Hank’s thoughts turn from the memory to Rogue, with her white streak of hair and shaking, fearful hands while Hank takes her vitals after Liberty Island. << Have you so easily forgotten what he’s done? >> The Hank in the room mirrors the one in the memory, wrapping the blood pressure cuff carefully around Charles' free arm. << We are responsible for them. >> Rogue fades into a mosaic of other students' faces around the school -- laughing on the basketball court, quiet in the library, safe in their dorms from the world outside. << He’ll come for them again, now that you have let him out. >> The thought comes in time with a warning growl at the back of Hank’s throat, a surge of protectiveness. << Or, worse, they will come here looking for him. >> There’s a brief flash of something else, here, buried and painful -- a young, much less blue man, digging in a garden under a fatherly eye and a shock of white hair. He squeezes down on the blood pressure pump, squeezes back down that old betrayed hurt. << (told you these visits were foolish) (when will you let him go?) >> ​​Charles sighs and rolls his glass in a slow, idle circle. << I haven't forgotten. >> This comes out just a touch sharp, though his telepathic presence remains warm and pleasant. << What he did was wrong, but nobody deserves what's befallen him since. All those years and he never gave us up for the hope of buying himself any advantage, and when I saw those men... >> His weary eyes lift to study Hank, half defiant and half despairing. << They would have killed him, and the damned fool children trying to rescue him. If they somehow got him back into that cage alive, how long would it be before they found a telepath of their own to read him? >> His gray brows arch as he lifts his glass for a small sip. << But. It is done. We can prepare for the worst, but I feel a great swell of pity for the poor soul who comes to this school looking for trouble. >> His mental voice takes on an uncharacteristically menacing edge when he adds, << And if that ends up being Erik, I will handle him. >> --- sunday, april 10. 8:45 am. ascension island. Magneto’s residence has sat empty for years. Rust coats the open metal door and window shutters, dust billowing out of them in wake of Erik’s extremely aggressive cleaning methods. The leaf blower is getting a well deserved break for the moment, resting against the side of the building while Erik surveys the weed-covered state of his small personal garden with dismay. Suddenly, a figure appears at the metal door, bringing with it a cool gust of wind. Heather, now in a brighter coloured tie-dye t-shirt and rainbow tights. Her arms are crossed over a couple of notebooks, and at the front of them, a wooden chess set, drawers carved into both sides of it to provide a secure home for the chessmen without mixing enemies. Her neutral gaze fixes on the older man, her recorded voice plays without her moving her hand to the controls, "A change of environment requires adjustment. Even if it is a positive change. It requires some putting things in order." She looks past him towards the garden with a small nod in its direction. "If you require aid, I have time to spare. I've prepared some information on our recent activities. To help you settle in." There is an upwards twitch on her lips, fast enough to miss in a blink. "Once the rust is shaken, I would like to discuss the future. And if you wish to play a game, consider me as a partner." Erik blinks, the tension at Heather's sudden appearance slow to fade from his shoulders."Yes," he replies, distantly, looking not at the garden but the chess set in Heather's arms. "I, too, believe I am rusty." There's an iron table on the edge of the garden -- Erik gestures out to it, the metal chairs creaking slightly but not moving. "Sit with me. I believe a game will help an old man adjust. Help me see what moves remain to be played." --- sunday, april 10. 9:17am. federal plaza Tian-shin stares flatly at Malthus across the table. "So, that's it?" Her slender black brows arch behind her glasses. "You are responsible for our client's safety and well-being. Your baseless refusal to grant a pre-trial release hearing is why he is still in your custody. Now you are barring him access to his attorneys, while still permitting him no other visitors." She puts down her pen and removes the glasses from her face. "...and you can't--or won't--tell us his situation for 'security' reasons." She props her elbows delicately on the table, folding her glasses with an air of finality. The pause stretches on just a little too long for comfort before she concludes, "You leave us few options, and I doubt you'll like any of them." Malthus, meanwhile, is in the process of pinching at the bridge of his nose – rubbing it firmly in a sign of increasing distress. Today has not been going well for him, and he recognizes that it may, in fact, become worse: "He's under medical supervision," Malthus finally confesses, after a prolonged pause. "During the attack – the exact circumstances are still under investigation, but I believe he may have had his powers… suppressed. I'm having him transferred somewhere for observation and care – as per the needs outlined in his medical file." Tian-shin does not immediately respond, but she replaces her glasses and scribbles something down. "This is unacceptable, Captain Rogers. Mr. Holland would not be in this situation if you, knowing full well he was not a flight risk, had actually followed the laws you dare claim to serve." Her voice is shaking, and her shoulders very stiff. "If you do not allow one of our physicians to evaluate him posthaste, my co-counsel has an emergency injunction readied and I'm sure you don't want to deal with that right now." She puts her pen down and leans forward, fixing Malthus with a cold, cold glare. "And if our client has come to any harm, and you have concealed it? We are going to raise so much hell that you'll find it a relief when DHS throws you under the bus to avoid accountability." --- sunday, april 10. 6:45 pm. midtown. "So, my name – it stays out of this, right?" There's a hint of uncharacteristic agitation in the man's voice. He is muscular, pale-skinned, in his thirties – with a clean buzz-cut and a long-sleeve shirt that barely hides his military tattoos. "And nothing I tell you, whatever you put in the story – none of it can be traced back to me?" Sitting across the small table, Naseemah looks quite composed in contrast to her companion's agitation. There's a tablet notepad in her lap, a recorder between them and a stylus held between her carefully-manicured fingers. "You'll just be a source within the organization. No names. No identifying information. I take the privacy --" The smile that slips across her face here is small and sympathetic. "-- and safety of my sources very seriously. And I hear Captain Rogers -- runs a very tight ship." Something flickers over the man’s expression at the mention of 'Captain Rogers'. As if evoking the name has forced him to flinch. "...alright. Well, as long as that son of a bitch – pardon my French – gets what’s coming to him." — monday, april 11. 8:45 am. midtown. Malthus adjusts the prepared speech at the podium. In front of him, the press hushes down; the only other sound – besides the occasional murmur and click of cameras – is the shuffling of paper. "On Saturday, April 9th, at approximately 2 o'clock PM – the terrorist organization known as the Brotherhood launched an attack on two seperate HAMMER sites for the detainment of dangerous mutant prisoners," Malthus begins, his lone functioning eye remaining firmly locked on the document in front of him. "The prisoners at this site included one Erik Lensherr – the mutant terrorist infamously responsible for the Liberty Island attack several years prior. As of this moment, we are–" As his speech continues, several reporters – previously listening with rapt attention – turn their heads down to examine their phones. "--still determining the precise number… of casualties, but expect to…" Malthus's gaze rises from the documents in front of him. A litany of rings, bells, and acknowledgement sounds fill the conference room. "...have a detailed… report… by the end of…" Malthus’s eyes narrow. By now several reporters, having looked up from their phones, are clamoring over each other to get their questions in. "How do you answer for the escape of nearly the entirety of the prisoners you were tasked to secure?" one man near the front with a Fox press pass is asking. Beside him, a woman from CNN with an article still pulled up in front of her: "Jackson Holland's ongoing case has been the subject of so much scrutiny -- how do you think torturing him in your custody will affect his chances of release?" Near the front, a dark-skinned woman from the Daily Bugle has not, actually, been glancing to her phone. She's watching Malthus steadily, a very faint smile on her lips before she speaks up. All she asks, clear and crisp over the din, is "Where is Magneto?"