Logs:Of Cake and Control (Or, Nine Miles of Bad Road)

Of Cake and Control (Or, Nine Miles of Bad Road)
Dramatis Personae Fury, Jax, Kavalam	2023-07-05 "What in tarnation!" (Just before dropping in on the Tessiers.)
Location <NYC> S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ - Times Square
From the outside it could be just another office building obliquely overlooking the world-famous plaza. The signage in the lobby gives a directory of the obscure and prosaic businesses that have their offices there, but mysteriously none of them will take visitors who do not have appointments. All day long, people in sober business and work wear come and go, both through the front entrance and the highly secured private garage. Even inside, past the cover and the security high tech and low, it still looks like an office building. Only a select few locations -- labs and training spaces and most notably the immense command and control center -- betray the true nature of the organization operating here. Agent Itzhak Omer had been enjoying his annual Independence Day viewing of Independence Day just slightly late in the first-floor security office, but now he is standing in the lobby frowning at a young man, much-bruised and dressed in bedraggled clothes. "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do about it," he says patiently, as though it weren't the third time he'd said it. "Vising hours start at 10am. This isn't me being a stickler, we just don' have the staff to do visitations at this hour." He offers the kid an apologetic smile, "Look, there's got to be other folks who can help you. Like the hospital. Just come back in a few hours, huh?" "I need Jackson Holland," Kavalam is saying with a somewhat aggrieved patience. "He is not a doctor, he does some useless paintings. He lives upstairs." He raises a hand to about Jackson's height. "So-so? Looks like maybe someone they ate too many Skittles and then threw up on him? Aggressively homosexual? Dangerous terrorist?" If he is exasperated maybe it has to do with the bruising. He starts to take his glasses off his nose, starts to wipe them, instead glares at the thick crack through a lens and sighs. "Fine. I am sure one of his friends knows how to blow the doors open. I will go-and-come, yes?" His finger skates in indication towards the door, back, indicating the direction he might helpfully make this trip. Then he's vanishing -- not from sight but from notice altogether, as thought the Agent's night was never interrupted. Agent Omer blinks and looks around, perhaps just starting to wonder why he's out in the lobby and not in his office, watching his film. The elevator dings behind him and he yips, turns around, and frowns with Director Fury steps out of it. "Sir? Why are you..." His frown deepens and he pointedly does not reach for his sidearm. "Sir, I'm initiating the MAIN protocol." Director Nick Fury gives Omer the flattest stare, his eye tracking to the young man's right hand only briefly. "Agent, let me see if I understand you correctly. You called me down here because someone was asking after Jackson Holland," he recounts blandly. "And now you tryna run the Metamorph Agent Impersonator Neutralization protocol on me. Foxtrot Five One Two Half-Life Camlann." He spreads his hands as if to show himself harmless, even though doing so makes the guns holstered under his duster more visible. "You tell Coulson or whoever put you up to this, they've had their fun. Was there someone said they knew Jackson Holland?" "I know Jackson Holland." Kavalam is leaning against the wall nearby, and as he speaks it's clear he's always been leaning against the door nearby, was there since Fury first arrived, never left; somehow despite still being in their periphery the others managed to simply overlook him. He's staring down at his cracked glasses with a very mild dismay before replacing them on his scratched-and-bruised face. He tugs a little self consciously at the (rumpled, dirty, slightly blood-spattered) button-down he's wearing and looks over at Fury with hands spreading. Eyes wider. He's staring a little bit at the guns. "Please, unc... sir," he amends, "only but it's very much important. If he learns I am here he will want to come see me," he's chancing this hopefully, "and that's not as good, no?" Fury and Omer both turn to Kavalam, then look at each other, then back at the boy. "Agent." Fury sounds so, so very tired. "You think you coulda maybe led with 'hey look, one of Holland's students is here lookin' like nine miles' bad road'?" "Sorry, Sir," Omer replies, somewhat automatically, though his frown says he doesn't think it's actually his fault. Still, he's evidently decided Fury probably isn't a Metamorph Agent Impersonator and is now fastidiously straightening his jacket, tugging his sleeves, and doing what he probably thinks are reassuring, non-gun related things with his hands. "Kid," Fury starts, then pauses, spreads his hands out again where they definitely are nowhere near his weapons. "We ain't gon' hurt you, aight? Now, I can see you had a rough night, but I can't imagine what you got to tell him that can't wait until morning, or you can't go to some other adult about." He looks toward the door of the lobby, then back at Kavalam. "I understand if you don't trust us, but if there's someone out there tryna hurt you, we can take care of that. Or call you a car to get you back home, or to school, or wherever you gon' feel safe until tomorrow, then you come right on back and talk to your teacher all you like." "I know where Spencer is. Do you want to tell him you made me wait until morning?" Kavalam's chin lifts just a little bit higher, jaw set in a defiance that quails slightly as he curls an arm around himself, cups a hand against an elbow scraped red-raw and stippled with fresh scabbing. Softer, softly hopeful: "...and I would please like some food." Fury's eye goes very wide. "Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath. "Come with me, kid. Omer, as you were, and let Detainment know I'm coming up." He's already turning, striding on long steps toward the elevator, though he does spare one glance at Kavalam to see that he's following. "If you like cake we got that in spades, if not we figure somethin' out." He somehow manages to sound grouchy with even this offer. Kavalam is still hugging himself tightly with one arm. He just nods -- a little blank at the subject of cake. "... I like --" His voice is a little rough, a little unsteady, but he clears his throat and continues mildly: "I like Mr. Jackson's cake." He is following Fury, was following Fury, until the elevator door closes and he slumps heavily against a wall. And, once more, fades neatly from notice. Why were they going up to Detainment, again? Oh well. It's probably Always Something. When the elevator doors open again, Fury squints at the elevator lobby and the detainment checkpoint where he had hazily expected the hallway leading to his office. << What in tarnation... >> But then he takes in the guards' wide-eyed, uncomprehending stares and steps out of the elevator as bold and brazen as if he'd fully intended to come here. "As you were, agents," he tells them as he badges himself in. "I think some of the cake Holland made wound up back here. Don't tell Fitzsimmons I liked his better, they'll be heartbroken." His purposeful stride does not slow until he's gotten to the communal kitchen for the detainees. "Evenin'," he says, unusually casual by his standards. "I know it ain't my birthday no more, but there wouldn't happen to be any of that cake left still, would there?" Was that why he came up here? He still can't recall, but he's convinced Jax or his mutant rabble must be involved, and committed to the bit in lieu of showing his confusion. Besides, that cake is fucking delicious. "Mmm?" Jax has changed since The Party, evidently, and is now in comfortable overalls in a homemade-patchwork-quilt of fabrics, worn hanging off one shoulder over a Captain America: The Musical tee. The kitchen smells heavily of lavender and lemon -- there's a half-filled pitcher with lemon juice in it and he's stirring a pot on the stove. His brows rumple but only briefly when he sees Fury. "Ah -- sure is, sir, s'right under the --" He gestures towards a dish covered in a colorfully-decorated glass cake preserver, at one end of the counter. "Don't s'pose you want some lavender lemonade to go with, this syrup'll be done right soon." "Mr. Jackson." Beside Fury's elbow a Kavalam has just materialized. He's beelining for the cake -- or was. He stops with one hand on the dish, tracing against some of the painted decorations on the cover. "I know it is -- late, I am sorry. I was -- they said -- I was supposed to come straight here. I came straight here." Much to his displeasure, Fury actually blurts "What in tarnation!" out loud this time, though he reflects that Jax, at least, isn't likely to judge him for his hillbilly diction if he even noticed with the sudden appearance of Bedraggled (presumptive) Student. << Is this one invisible, or another teleporter, or some kind of mind-control... >> He crosses his arms and opens his mouth to say something about visiting hours, but with another look at Kavalam he just shuts it again. "Kavalam!" Jax's eye goes wide, and he's clicking off the heat under his syrup, turning immediately for a compact first-aid kit stashed beneath the sink. "Who said, What happened to you, where --" Only now that question seems to be sinking in more deeply, some sick-dawning realization creeping in. "...what's going on?" He sets the kit on the counter, studying the boy intently as he pops it open. "C'mere, I should 'leastways get you cleaned up, where -- have you been." Kavalam doesn't come any closer. Isn't looking at the first aid kit. His eyes just fix on the swirls of color on the glass in front of him. "Ohio," he replies, "do you know where Ohio is? Very boring state. Spencer is there. Gaétan. All of them. At least, when I left. A place called Lassiter." This comes out flat and rote, like he has practiced it. "Nobody is enjoying themselves. Can you fix it?" Fury's eyebrows shoot up, the scarred one as always lower than the other to apparently skeptical effect, though there's no real skepticism in him now. Lassiter, Ohio doesn't immediately ring any bells for him, but he resolves to look it up the moment he's no longer in front of Jackson Fucking Holland. "I don't reckon he can himself, son," he tells Kavalam, as gently as he can, "but he can let some other folk know who can, aight?" "Lassiter." All the color has drained abruptly out of Jackson -- quite a bit more thoroughly than the expression normally suggests, his sudden shadowy-pall leaving him looking like a black & white filter has been applied to his Real Life Person for just a second before it snaps back to his aggressively vivid shading. "Oh, sugar. This whole time you -- what did they -- how did they even --" His mouth clamps shut, and he breathes deep. "We'll do everything we can, okay? I -- Ryan an' I are gonna have so many questions for you, many as you can answer, but not this second, okay? You -- you need to get some rest, I'm sure, you need to get somewhere safe where won't nobody forget --" His brows are knitting, and he's bustling around the kitchen once more. "You got a car, Nick Fury?" He's pulled a small magnetic whiteboard from the fridge, hastily wiped clean its cheerful reminders about leftover dates and snack requests. "Take this boy to Lucien Tessier's -- you know the way, I assume. You're gon' want to put the address in your GPS now and don't turn it off for nothing. If you forget why you were driving, just don't stop till you get there. Put this on your dash." He's written a note on the whiteboard that he hands to Fury now, blocky in all-caps: 'LUCIEN TESSIER'S HOUSE. DO NOT TURN AROUND. DO NOT TURN OFF GPS.' "This time'a night couldn't be what, more'n ten minutes drive?" He's setting several alarms on his phone: CALL LUCI, ASK HOW HIS NIGHT IS GOING / LEAVE SHIELD!! FIND MATT!!. "If Luci don't call me up personal in twenty and tell me this child's safe with him I'm heading there myself to make sure, y'understand, sir?" This might on other nights sound like a threat, and maybe it is; but at the moment, the wire-taut thread of fear in Jax's voice is unmistakable. Somewhere in the middle of this, Kavalam, slumped exhausted now against the counter, has briefly flickered from notice and then reasserted himself, a little more strongly than before. He blinks as he watches Jackson and something in the determined bland set of his expression, the firm clench of his shoulders, eases. A little. He's given about .05 seconds of thought to insisting they debrief Right Now, and then put that out of his mind in favor of a vague comfort at Watching Adults Handle Things. "Have Mr. Tessier check the empty seats," he adds, with a small nod toward the list of whiteboard-instructions, and there's relief in his voice, deep gratitude in his mind. "But I will try not to fall asleep." He will probably fall asleep. Fury starts to balk. << (the hell business is it of his if I got a car) (I ain't goin' to his house for chrissake) (or lettin' this whole white boy order me around) (owe him, though) >> He takes another look at Kavalam and swallows his pride and vexation both. "I got a car." He accepts the whiteboard and frowns at it. << Guess that means some kinda mind control, just my goddamn luck (got to be better than this kid's luck, to judge by the look of him) >> "I won't let him out my sight until he's in that house. C'mon, kid." 'HAVE MATT CHECK EMPTY SEATS' Jax adds dutifully to the list. "Okay. Okay. The Tessiers'll take good care of you and I'll -- we'll. Talk." His shoulders sink, and the light in the room shivers around them. His breath comes out shivery along with it, and he nods once to Fury. "Thank you, sir. I -- thank you." Kavalam's laugh -- at won't let him out of my sight -- is just a little strained. A little edged. "Oh. Oh. I guess we will see."