Logs:Iron and Blood

Iron and Blood
cn: discussion of torture, murder, and genocide
Dramatis Personae Carnage, Erik	2023-01-11 I just want to protect something, for once.
Location '<BOM> Gardens - Ascension Island'
Considerably reduced from what they must have been when this place was actually running at full capacity, there is nevertheless a hefty amount of garden space tucked away behind the main cabin of the compound. Somewhat haphazard in its organization, the rows of plants -- mostly vegetables, with some herbs lining the borders -- seem to be chosen somewhat at whim. Despite the disorganized mishmash of crop selection, the ground seems well-tended, fielding the occupants a decent cache of produce three seasons out of the year. To one side, a fenced-in area with a raised coop houses chickens, often noisily squawking throughout the day. All of this, of course, is irrelevant to the figure stalking those gardens -- like some sort of peeved ginger bloodhound on a mission. Cletus Kasady is dressed in a tattered black wind-breaker with white stripes, and a white tee beneath. The left sleeve is currently filled with a very prominent arm of red, gleaming sinew -- extending into a similarly gleaming crimson hand. His empty eye-socket smolders with a bright yellow light. His strides are long and fast, but he's at least paying enough attention not to trod on the kale. "Yo! Old guy. Where are you?" he asks. His expression looks -- well, pretty pissed. At the edge of the gardens, Erik is not at all hiding from Carnage -- he's just sitting at a table alongside one edge, a yellowed sketchbook in front of him alongside some charcoal sticks. He's in a faded grey cable-knit sweater, sleeves pushed up and exposing the bands of steel links around his wrists, brown work pants and steel-toed boots, the Helmet tossed into an empty seat with a trowel tucked into it. He's working on something veeeeeeery slowly, the lines not coming together enough to suggest anything in particularly yet. He sets the stick in his hand down but doesn't turn. "Mr. Kasady. Do you need something." "The fuck was that shit?" Kasady exclaims, his head swiveling to lock on to Erik like a missile locking on-target. He's stalking toward the man, his strides just as long... but once he reaches vicinity of the table, he slows down. Both hands land on the other side of the table -- red hand and skinny, pale hand, side-by-side, as he leans forward. He's at least polite enough to keep himself out of immediate arm's length. "You fuckin'... fuckin' threatening people? Your own people?" The metal lattice of the table buckles under Cletus' hand, raising up a small barrier between the sketchpad and blood-mass. Erik meets the younger man's gaze steadily, no hint of surprise or displeasure on his face. "And what, Mr. Kasady, bothers you about that? I was given to believe you have done worse than threaten our kind." His tone is level and calm, no immediate judgement in it. The red hand's digits curl. Claws scrape against the edges of metal as the fingertips draw their way back toward the edge. "Oh, I've done way, way worse," he replies, his voice sharp and low. "But you -- you ain't supposed to be like me. You think anyone back there would disobey you, if you just asked?" Then, a moment later, the anger slipping through -- dissolving into baffled frustration: "She said she used to think you were a hero. She looked up to you. And you -- you almost strangled her cuz she said the name of your fuckin' ex?" "So have I. And I will again, if I must." Erik is quiet for a moment. Next to Cletus, the third, empty metal seat pushes back against the grass, an invitation to sit. "I attempt to protect our children proactively. I regret the use of my gift, but she had to learn quickly." Another pause -- Erik picks up the sketchbook and flips through, the black ink on the inside of his arm exposed to Cletus as he inspects each page. "What do you know of Charles Xavier? Now, after speaking with Li- Anahita." Kasady draws in a sharp breath, eyes snapping to the chair that's been pulled out -- then, snapping back to Erik, his expression a mask of pure confusion. Like he's trying to parse... all of this. Too befuddled to make sense of it. And then -- Carnage kicks the chair. Depending on Erik's hold over it, it will either be sent tumbling off to the side -- or remain in place, unmoving. Either way, Carnage pushes himself up from the table, standing to his full height and taking a step back -- eye burning. "Not a goddamn thing." The chair tumbles away for a moment, the lifts up and settles behind Cletus, upright. "He is an extremely wealthy human who helped discover the X-gene. Runs a school that is one of the most tolerant of mutant children in the world. Now, do you think that school would continue to be a safe haven for our youth if, for example, it got out that he is one of the strongest telepaths alive, and was... a confidant of Magneto?" Erik sets the sketchbook down -- on the page, a building burns, windows shattered, shadows of people looming large as they disappear around a bend and off the page. "The school would be destroyed. Likely not by bombs, the way they destroyed Utopia, but certainly by mobs. Pitchforks." For whatever it's worth, Carnage does listen. Though, even with that chair behind him... he doesn't sit. And as he listens -- some of what Erik is saying does squeeze past that intense glare. An eyebrow twitches up; his mouth twitches down. At the mention of a school for mutants, he even looks briefly startled. But the hard-earned grimace is still there by the time Erik's finishing up with the violent mobs -- pitchforks, etc. Though, for a moment... something softer does bleed through: "...seen kids from there, once. All mutants. Thought that was..." Cletus trails off, shaking his head. Carnage glares. "So, okay -- you act like a fuckin' maniac every time somebody says his name in your presence? And you think that's gonna stop people from putting two and two together?" Carnage seems agitated. Along his shoulder, underneath the tee-shirt, little lines of red -- like circuitry -- are spreading, extending out toward his neck, creeping their way toward his jaw. His crystalized fingertips creak as his fist clenches. "Can I -- tell you... how they controlled us? Controlled me?" "She is not somebody. She knew us both before, but was absent for the work of erasing that history. She is someone who should know better." Now agitation creeps into Erik's tone, his words sharper. "You think you know of some torture that will shock me, boy? We were both forged in cages." Erik extends his left arm fully now, the numbers clearly displayed. "Before you were born, I was beaten into compliance. Before the word mutant existed, I was under the knife of scientists. I will not diminish the horrors you've faced, nor will I hold the choices you made against you, but do not presume that you are unique in your suffering." His voice has not increased in volume, but Erik has not stopped to breathe -- he inhales, exhales slow. Calmer, he continues, a little genuine curiosity bleeding through now; "Please. Sit. Tell me." "Hnhh--" Carnage's red hand reaches up, mopping at the hollow socket. The red circuity spreads further, deeper; it overcomes his jaw as Erik exposes the tattoos. His jaw tightens, then loosens, then tightens again -- he doesn't appear to grasp the deeper historical significance of the tattoo, but he clearly understands what it means. "I don't -- for fuck's sake, I ain't gonna try to compete with you old man, I just --" More mopping of that eye. Suddenly, Carnage is pacing, walking back and forth across the garden. Without even thinking about it, he's picking his footsteps very carefully -- avoiding the various vegetables underfoot. As he speaks, he's not looking at Erik -- not at first: "It's just -- fuck. Look." Now he's looking at Erik, as he spins around and yanks the chair up with that crimson hand, holding it in front of him. "They starved me, yeah. Tortured me, sure. Scared me -- oh yeah, they scared the shit out of me. All to convince me to be their 'good boy'. A good pet. To know better. But that's not what broke me. What broke me..." Carnage slams the chair back down -- and shoves it back under the table, where it was before. "--was what happened when I did 'good'. Did as I was told. Started knowing better," he says. The red has spread over half of his face, engulfing his eye socket... but there, it seems to have stopped; the edges quiver and twitch, refusing to press any farther. "When, right after splitting some poor kid from belly to throat and drinking his blood, I walked up to the staff table, and they -- they smiled at me, welcomed me, and -- and pushed out a fucking chair." "And I -- I fucking took it." Carnage is breathing heavy, now; in his one remaining eye, there's something frantic, fierce, fragile -- it's hard to tell if he's on the verge of tears, a panic attack, or just picking up that chair and chewing it to pieces. His hands still grip it, one set of knuckles bone-white -- the other as red as blood. Underneath Carnage's hands, the back of the chair remains still. The legs and seat, however, are coming undone, a pile of metal strips forming on the grass below. Is Erik trying to disarm Cletus? All the pieces remain in easy reach. Quietly; "And do you wonder if I will be the same? If a seat at my table will resemble the seat which you've left behind?" "YES!" And, at last, that red does sweep over the man's face -- revealing, in all his splendor, 'Carnage'. Red, all red -- eyes yellow, burning like embers, pupil-less and smoldering like two golden moons. Teeth like serrated steak-knives -- snapping into the air with an audible CLACK. Beneath his clothes, blood undulates, rolling out in waves... before being reeled back in. "...fucking. Yes. Yes," he mutters, weaker, now. The visage of Carnage melts away -- leaving a sulking, slumped, one-eyed Cletus. Still holding the chair. Staring down at it. "I'm a monster. I know it. I fucking know it. But I'm not... not their monster. Not now. Not ever -- never again." He looks up; the glow in the socket is gone, leaving just a hollow recess to stare at Erik in tandem with his one remaining eye. "I'd sooner claw my own throat out before I'd help someone hurt any of our --" He grimaces, looking away and correcting himself: "--these people -- ever again." "Our people." Erik's correct comes out mild, as if he had not finally reacted, however minutely, to Carnage's blood form with wide eyes and a brief pull of the metal furniture towards him. "You are a mutant. Killing our kind does not change that." Erik pauses, tugging the metal remainder of the chair's back away from Cletus, though not strong enough to actually dislodge it if he does not let go. "There are those of us who have chosen to hurt their own freely, without coercion. There are mutants who do not care for the survival of our species, only theirselves. They are of our people, yet endanger us, feel no kinship with us. Utopia was betrayed by a mutant." The other pieces snake out from under the table to Erik's side, where they are twisting together into a new shape. Three legs this time, forming a round platform with no back. "If you will not lay a finger to any fellow mutant, I will not compel you to. But there may be times when someone will have to." The stool complete, Erik deposits it beside the table. "And at that time, it would be valuable to have someone question that decision, to examine it, to make sure no mutant blood is needlessly spilled. Would you take that seat, if offered?" There's very little strength left in Cletus's grip; removing the chair from it is near-effortless. He lets go, stepping back, slumping away -- even as the metal reshapes, creaking into a new form. He watches it, somewhat perplexed... but then catches something that Erik has said, and lifts his head instantly -- exposing a bright grin. "Oh... I know that type. In the labs, some of the guards were mutants. And I've been happy to rip open their throats." The grin fades. "And, y'know... if I came across myself, from back then? I'm pretty sure... I'm pretty sure I'd rip his throat out, too. It'd be... a mercy, I think." His eyes flick back to the chair, now remade into a stool... he frowns, looking back up to Erik. "I dunno if I'm the guy to talk to about moderation. I mean, have you met me?" But he's not pushing or kicking the stool away this time. Instead, he just walks over to it, reaching out to tap it with a claw... like he expects it to collapse. "Just, if I'm gonna be a monster... I want to be a monster that scares other monsters." His eyes flick back up to Erik. "I don't want to hurt people who don't have it coming. I just want to protect something, for once. Something worth protecting. I don't --" Something clenches in his chest; his breathing gets shaky. He forces the words out, but it's just a hushed whisper: "--I don't -- Jesus. I don't want to hurt kids." Dryly, Erik replies, "I never said you would be the only voice, did I?" Erik closes the sketchpad, stands up. "We are not so different, you and I. We will both do whatever it takes to protect our people. We both refuse to be the weapons of those who made us." Underneath the claw, the stool is steady. "There is no back to this chair, no wall I will hold you against. You are a free mutant, Cletus. The choices you make now are yours, and only yours." "...yeah. I get it. I -- mmh." Cletus finally slumps into the stool, mopping his empty socket with that bright red hand. "Okay. Yeah. You got my claws. Just... don't go all Saruman on us, arright?" Erik frowns, eyebrows knitting together. "What is a Saruman?"