Interview with the madman
I have no idea how I'll turn this pile of steaming horseshit into a publishable piece, but I'm sure something will occur to me.
For now, really gotta book it across town to get to Shaw. Shit. I'm already late! What if he doesn't wait for me? I think Andy at the Post gave me his number once when I asked, since his dad knows him. . . .
12/1/2005
Logfile from Leah of X-Men MUCK.
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Late evening -- when else? The clear night sky fails utterly to cover the dirty glow of streetlamps over the small, suburban house for this evening's meeting. A snug room; chintzy on the walls, brown in the couches, and a small uplighter casting long shadows at a diagonal. A darkly hooded figure reclines in a wing-back chair, leather-gloved hands steepled over thin, denim-clothed knees. He waits, he watches.
Leah climbs out of Nathan's car and slams the door with particular emphasis. She pauses to straighten her jacket, brush her hands down the thighs of her slacks, and look up at the house. Then she sighs and goes up the walk to the stairs, and then up them, too. Her hands go into her pockets; her head goes down, even before she gets to the door.
A wary eye clocks the incoming woman through the spy-hole. The door opens easily, revealing the darkly amused features of Sara Evans. The trilby is pulled down low on one side, and she slinks backwards, stretching the languid lines of her body against the fully-opened portal. "Well /hello/, there. You /are/ the visitor, by the presence of that meat? Please-" A sultry smile sketches over her lips, "First door on the left."
Contempt lines Leah's face briefly old and yellowed in the hall light, but then she looks away from the other woman (her shoulders tensely tight, her hands balled into fists in her jacket pockets) and goes where indicated, without a word. She does free a fist to knock on the door: a single polite rap (oh, so polite!) before she just walks in, the ghost of her scorn lingering after her like a faded, hungry cur.
Sara follows that movement around, eyes tracing the rear side of Leah's walk, even as the front door is swung shut, via the medium of a slinking hip. Then she leans, reaching towards a pocket for her suply of nicotine. In the room, Tom lifts his head at the sound, and develops the ghost of a darkly amused smile -- body motionless. "Good evening, Leah. Pleasure to see you. How are things?"
"Fine." Leah unbuttons her jacket, but leaves it hanging over her bland beige sweater. With a faint, distracted frown, she cases the room; her pale and tired eyes end up on him at the last. "I can't stay too long; got a source to meet on a big story."
"Are we talking about Magneto's recent foray into Greenwich village?" wonders Tom, mildly. White eyes settle on the woman, slowly blinking.
Leah shakes her head as she balances on the edge of a chair's seat. "Not unless--" Her mouth curves hard and sharp with bitter amusement. "Not unless dear old Erik is upset with the good Dr. Grey over the woman they appear to be sharing."
Tom leans forward a little, intrigue lighting up across his eyes. "Who's the source? Someone worthy of my attentions?"
Smirking, Leah pulls out a pad and pen from inside her jacket. "What, you lookin' to get into the journalism biz now, too, Tom?" She puts light emphasis on the name, and shows naked cynicism -- for that name, for him, for this game -- in her expression.
"I'm fairly sure we've established I'm not particularly good at it," Tom admits, dropping his eyes -- almost coy. "But I'm fairly certain you'd be interested that Prime's given his explicit permission for an interview."
Leah sucks in a breath. Holds it, for a long, strained moment. When she lets it out, it's with her eyes averted from him and her fingers slow and nervous on her writer's tools in her lap. "In that case," she tries to say lightly, "I guess telling you the source is quid pro quo, huh? Sebastian Shaw."
Tom breaks into a silent laugh, air punching from his nose. "Sebastian fucking Shaw? The pussy with a gob but no balls?" One leg rises to sit its ankle over the other knee, as the slender figure leans backwards. "What the fuck does /he/ know?"
"He has photographic and video evidence," Leah says quietly, "of Jean Grey's sexual involvement with Mystique, Magneto's lieutenant."
"... the /fuck/?" Startlement brings Tom's head up, his gaze locked firmly on the woman. A fist suddenly forms, slamming down onto the arm of his chair. "Fucking knew it! Promise me you'll send copies to John Grey?"
Leah flinches at the slam, but then shakes her head. "No need for that," she chides him almost gently, from her position on media's pedestal. "He can read it in the Post like everyone else; my friends are holding column inches for me, as soon as I meet him tonight to get the pics and tapes. Dr. Grey's gone through enough, hasn't he?"
"Pompous dickhead," dismisses Tom. "Though you have a point." The fist unfolds, returning to its steepled position, lengthy fingers pointed skywards. "I forgot to congratulate you on recent performance. You've been doing exceptionally well."
A shrug. Leah busies herself with uncapping her pen, flipping open the pad, preparing to take notes. "Newsweek wants to do an article on me -- or us, I don't know." The cynicism bites again. "Since I'm the voice of the Friends and all. Can't have the one without the other anymore, can we?"
Tom approves such with a nod. "Sounds good to me. I'd appear, but I don't think steel bracelets would suit, hmm?" A smile appears, devoid of its usual vicious bent. The hooded head tips, intent on the woman across from him. "Are you receiving enough cash, at the moment? If you need anything..."
"Fine," Leah says. Snaps. She breathes out hard through her nose. Stares at him. "I'm fine. I'm not your leman, okay? I'm doing interviews, selling pieces, making appearances -- money's fine."
Leather lifts, palms outward. Innocent. "Hey, just checking." Tom allows a quick grin, flashing expensive white teeth. "Nathan doing alright by you?"
Leah simmers sullenly, all the same. "Sure, for a watchdog." She flourishes her pen deliberately. "So, wanna do this?"
Another smile twitches at the thin lips, as a hand waves agreement. "Sure. Fire away, but remember to edit my more, ah, fervent moments?"
Leah just gives him a patient look, and it almost has a sense of amused camaraderie -- no. She bends her head to her pad, making hasty notes at the top of the sheet. "Name?"
"Tom."
The pen doesn't move to inscribe those three letters. Leah exaggerates her patience: "Full name."
Raymond Damian Hubb- "Tom. Feel free to refer to me as one who speaks with the voice of Prime, if it pleases you." Crow's feet appear over his grin. "How about... Tom John Smith?"
"Tom Doe," Leah says sarcastically. "Fine, fine. The voice of Prime -- boy, we love our drama, don't we?" But she writes and, as she writes, keeps questioning. "What do you say with the voice of Prime? Are they your words or his?"
I am aware enough of his vision to speak on his behalf," Tom reels off, parrot-like. He leans backwards, curving his spine to settle with feet outstretched. "Drama keeps the public interested, Leah."
Leah's jaw clenches against the sound of her name in his mouth. "Right, right. And that vision would be...?"
Tom pauses, resting interlocked fingers over his stomach. "The protection and preservation of humanity, by virtue of the incarceration or eradication of dangerous mutants." Another smiles ghosts over his lips. "We do what the police cannot. We're humanity's friends."
"Does humanity need friends?" Leah wonders.
"Heard about Greenwich apartments?" asks Tom. "The Purity Rally? Only a lack of manpower and equipment meant that the Brotherhood escaped unscathed." Suddenly intent, focused, Tom continues, "Imagine the lives that would be saved in the long run."
Leah says, "By humanity's friends. Because humanity can't do it alone? Even though we outnumber them by a huge margin."
"Most of humanity are not standing up to fight." Tom glares now, unwavering and practically unblinking. "We're the part of that margin prepared to protect the rest. I would dearly love to see humanity as a whole take up arms to protect from every threat to their existence, mutant or otherwise."
"What 'otherwise'?" Leah wants to know, and she's in journalist mode now, all right: hard and level and incisive, every word carved out of Brooklyn alto as if with chisels. "Do the Friends fight against al-Qaida, too, for example? Or greenhouse warming?"
Again, Tom pauses. One second, two, three, four. "A focused group fights infinitely more effectively than one with a broad agenda. Each problem has those fighting to solve it -- green lobbyists for greenhouse warming, CIA and other groups for Al-Qaida. We fill a niche that has been gaping, through the lack of action on the part of the government."
Nodding absently, Leah scribbles. She flips over a new sheet and shifts her weight on the chair's edge. "So, you're opportunists."
"An opportunist implies personal gain," Tom reproves, mildly. "I do not believe that applies to the Friends of Humanity."
Leah cocks up a sardonic look. "You have no personal stake in this grand venture?"
"My stake is my life, my odds are poor."
Leah murmurs, "Not exactly a get-rich-quick scheme, what you have going here. --Are you in charge of the Friends? What's your rank, exactly? How are the chapters organized?"
"I serve as the voice of Prime in a number of locations," Tom explains, nodding slightly. "If I give you more than that, I risk jeapordising the entire organisation. Suffice to say I am relatively well-ranked within the Friends in New York City."
"But there /are/ chapters. And an organization." Leah taps her pen on the pad, frowning again. "You work -- as Prime's voice -- with other chapters?"
"Prime serves as the organiser of the New York chapter." Another couple of nods, and a wry smile, before Tom corrects, "I do not, I am afraid. Though I have met members across the country, my home and my job are in New York."
"Where do you live?" Leah asks guilelessly. "Not in the Greenwich Apartments, I hope. There's holes in it."
"I wish," murmurs Tom, with a snort through his nose. "I don't think my home is pertininent to this conversation, though I'll say it's not particularly classy."
Another patient stare. "People like the little, homey details," Leah explains. "It humanizes the subject. You're a Friend of Humanity. You don't want to be humanized? You know the kind of things they say about you."
"Not particularly. Try me."
Leah admits, "'Hitler' seems to come up a lot."
A sharp bark of laughter rips from Tom's mouth, vastly amused. "I like chocolate ice cream. That within the Friends or the papers?"
"Well, it will be now," Leah says, trying to smile. She does write it down. "You got any pets? Family? Hobbies?"
"Remember the spin," chides Tom, cheerfully. "I have a pet cat, Mitzy. Also, two brothers and a sister -- none involved in this organisation, though they support my choice to do so." A tingle of amusement drifts through his voice. "My hobbies include drinking, playing video games and spending time with my girlfriend, Suzie the blow-up doll, though she has recently refused to marry me. Don't tell the punters I'm a bachelor, eh?"
Scribble, scribble. "...Blow-up doll. Ha. Right." Leah patently believes that not at all, but she writes it down all the same. "That'll make for good copy, sure, and hey, if I can be getting marriage proposals because of the crap I say, why can't you?"
"Marriage proposals?" Surprised, Tom shifts up in his chair, settling his back against the cushion. "Sounds like good fun. Any of them attractive?"
"No," Leah says shortly: a warning, and if her short bronzy-brown hair could bristle on her head, it would. "But hey, maybe Shaw'll have something for me, if I write a good piece on this Grey/Mystique story. Back to you: what do you see as the long-term goals for the Friends? Where do you want the group to be in five years?"
"Going to fuck Sebastian Shaw?" Tom wonders, with that same mild amusement. The white eyes narrow a little, and the man takes a moment's pause. "Five years? I would like to see politicians in power that are dealing with the threat of dangerous mutants, supported by police, army and all official services. I would wish that there is no need for the Friends in five years -- that we would've realised our goals and eradicated the dangerous mutants and their organisations, as well as having changed the attitude of the government."
Leah makes a face. "God, no. He's such a boor. No idea what my friend--well, never mind. No need for the Friends, right. Now, by 'eradicated,' are you talking about genocide?"
"Not the entire mutant population, of course," Tom says, "but Magneto has escaped from prison once -- I'd rather see him dead than out and murdering hundreds. The same with all of the Brotherhood of Mutants."
Leah puts in, "After a trial under the law, of course."
"Like I said, he escaped once." Definitive, and edging towards the harsh edge of the killer, Tom continues, "I'd kill him myself given the chance. Vigilante, perhaps, but we do what needs to be done."
Leah smiles. "So, maybe you do have a small personal stake here. You'd like to kill mutants. The bad ones."
"I don't /want/ to kill anyone, Leah," Tom reproves, dropping his face to stare at her from under darkly lowered brows. "There is no choice. It's necessary, else he -- /they/ -- would simply escape again to murder more innocents. That is unacceptable."
"You just sounded so certain about it," Leah protests. Innocent, innocent as the very lamb. "And the words you use... Gosh. I didn't mean to misrepresent you, Mr. Doe."
"I /am/ certain," Tom states, quietly. "Every time my resolve wavers, I think of those people looking out from whatever afterlife they happen to inhabit, murdered by a madman, and I can reclaim my resolve." A smirk does find its way back onto his lips. "Tom, please."
Leah lowers her head, expression hidden in the move and her note-taking. "What makes your resolve waver?"
Tom grimaces a little, falling back against his chair. "That I am forced to make a mockery of my country's laws, that I can be seen as little better than a murderer, that I am forced to hide myself from the public eye."
"So, if you could, you'd like to be feted as a national hero, say."
Tom frowns slightly, the creases in the centre of his brow visible underneath the balaclava. "Who wouldn't?" A wry laugh drives from him. "To be perfectly truthful, I don't care about recognition for my work. I mourn my secret life because it's too dangerous for me to be public -- because I know I would be dead within days of revealing myself."
Leah takes careful notes. "And who would you be revealing yourself as?"
Tom simply looks at her. "Please." Sarcastic, perhaps? "No comment."
"But you do hate to hide yourself," Leah presses, unfazed. "Even though it's keeping you alive, apparently."
"Contradictory, I know," murmurs Tom, "but again, there's no choice. Necessary is not always desirable."
Leah mutters, "Tell me about it," but less viciously than she might've. "But you do see an end to the struggle, and humanity winning? Do the 'good' mutants have any place in that world?"
Tom raises a single finger from his motionless position, the other hand resting back onto the arm of his chair. "That," says he, "is a point current debated within the Friends of Humanity. My own view is that mutants who are not attacking and murdering people have just as much right to live as anyone else. It is unfortunate that what you seem to have discovered would suggest that even such mutants as Jean Grey, supposed pacifist, can secretly be associated with terrorists."
"And not so secretly, since you really can't miss a Hummer getting thrown into a building like that." Leah scowls at the thought. Shakes her head. "There's something going on between her and Magneto, for sure. Someone on MSNBC today was suggesting a huge mutant conspiracy, and Lensherr playing bad cop to Grey's good cop, but I don't know if I can buy that. Then again, if she /is/ involved with Mystique, who /is/ Magneto's right-hand woman..."
Leathered hands are thrown wide. "Welcome to my dilemma. If such a thing exists, /which/ mutants are the ones I should be hunting? We can never move without proof, so we're forced into maybes, 'perhaps's and 'possibly's. Uncovering this, however, one of our current objectives -- off the record, yes?"
Leah narrows her eyes. Hesitates. "All right," and she puts her pen down.
"The potential for a conspiracy scares me, Leah," Tom says. "The thousands of mutants in this country -- if all, or even most, were to work together, they could do some truly horrific things. If it does exist, I intend to stop it before anything major can occur. That's why we need an army, we need PR, we need recruitment -- preparation."
Leah settles a careful breath in her lungs. "You're building an army?"
"We already have one," Tom says, with an affirmative nod. "An army ready to strike against that worst case scenario. I sincerely hope they never need to do anything."
"I see." Leah stares at the pad balanced on her knees. Her voice is steady, but hollow. "An army. Your own private army. Of followers devoted to your cause. And armed?"
"Not /my/ army," scowls Tom, suddenly glaring dangerously. "A group of people ready to act if it becomes necessary, which we pray it doesn't. Rest assured they exist only for your protection." He leans forward, intent on the woman. "I think I've said enough about that."
Leah's voice is soft. "I think you have. Let's get back on the record. Can we talk about recruitment, on it? What kind of things you or Prime or whoever looks for in recruits, how you're looking to expand, what you can offer followers..."
A quick nod comes from Tom, and he allows a more friendly smile. "In a recruit? The most important thing is a wish to protect and preserve humanity from those who would endanger it." He taps fingers together, clasped as they are in his lap, and continues with a relatively business-like manner. "Expansion is performed mainly via recruitment, though we are currently hoping to spread our wings towards the more suburban areas. We offer followers the chance to make a difference, to fight for their right to exist as a species."
After she has all that written down (flip! new sheet!), Leah asks, back on solid professional ground, "It's personal recruitment, right? Well, and through the radio station. I don't have to keep writing for them, do I?"
"The station has a full-time DJ and writer now," Tom grins, "so you shouldn't need to do anything for them, except in an emergency." He nods, though, before his business manner returns. "People are generally recruited via personal contact with an experienced member, such as the lady upstairs or myself. We believe that you've got to meet a person to find out if they're dedicated."
"And how /is/ Lydia Bancroft doing these days?"
"Oh, she's wonderful," Toms smiles, blandly. "Doing her job, successful as always."
Leah smiles blandly back. "Great. Give her my regards. I think we're about done here, and I don't want to miss Shaw in the city, so..."
"Get yourself gone, good girl," Tom beams, rising to his feet. He steps forward, offering out a leather-gloved hand for shaking. "Please try to cast me in a good light? Embellish, or whole cloth if you feel like it. Thank you, Leah."
Leah doesn't shake it. She does nod. Curtly. "Thank /you./" Pause. "Tom."
The hand drops, coupling a shrug, and the man gestures lightly with one hand towards the door. Sara awaits at the top of the stairs, that sultry smile reappearing for Leah's benefit. "See you soon," says Tom.
"Probably," Leah agrees sadly and goes out, not even looking at Sara or her smile on the way. Nathan's waiting in the car, and somewhere in the city, Sebastian Shaw is waiting in a bar, with titillating, devastating terrorist evidence in hand.
[Log ends.]
For now, really gotta book it across town to get to Shaw. Shit. I'm already late! What if he doesn't wait for me? I think Andy at the Post gave me his number once when I asked, since his dad knows him. . . .
12/1/2005
Logfile from Leah of X-Men MUCK.
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Late evening -- when else? The clear night sky fails utterly to cover the dirty glow of streetlamps over the small, suburban house for this evening's meeting. A snug room; chintzy on the walls, brown in the couches, and a small uplighter casting long shadows at a diagonal. A darkly hooded figure reclines in a wing-back chair, leather-gloved hands steepled over thin, denim-clothed knees. He waits, he watches.
Leah climbs out of Nathan's car and slams the door with particular emphasis. She pauses to straighten her jacket, brush her hands down the thighs of her slacks, and look up at the house. Then she sighs and goes up the walk to the stairs, and then up them, too. Her hands go into her pockets; her head goes down, even before she gets to the door.
A wary eye clocks the incoming woman through the spy-hole. The door opens easily, revealing the darkly amused features of Sara Evans. The trilby is pulled down low on one side, and she slinks backwards, stretching the languid lines of her body against the fully-opened portal. "Well /hello/, there. You /are/ the visitor, by the presence of that meat? Please-" A sultry smile sketches over her lips, "First door on the left."
Contempt lines Leah's face briefly old and yellowed in the hall light, but then she looks away from the other woman (her shoulders tensely tight, her hands balled into fists in her jacket pockets) and goes where indicated, without a word. She does free a fist to knock on the door: a single polite rap (oh, so polite!) before she just walks in, the ghost of her scorn lingering after her like a faded, hungry cur.
Sara follows that movement around, eyes tracing the rear side of Leah's walk, even as the front door is swung shut, via the medium of a slinking hip. Then she leans, reaching towards a pocket for her suply of nicotine. In the room, Tom lifts his head at the sound, and develops the ghost of a darkly amused smile -- body motionless. "Good evening, Leah. Pleasure to see you. How are things?"
"Fine." Leah unbuttons her jacket, but leaves it hanging over her bland beige sweater. With a faint, distracted frown, she cases the room; her pale and tired eyes end up on him at the last. "I can't stay too long; got a source to meet on a big story."
"Are we talking about Magneto's recent foray into Greenwich village?" wonders Tom, mildly. White eyes settle on the woman, slowly blinking.
Leah shakes her head as she balances on the edge of a chair's seat. "Not unless--" Her mouth curves hard and sharp with bitter amusement. "Not unless dear old Erik is upset with the good Dr. Grey over the woman they appear to be sharing."
Tom leans forward a little, intrigue lighting up across his eyes. "Who's the source? Someone worthy of my attentions?"
Smirking, Leah pulls out a pad and pen from inside her jacket. "What, you lookin' to get into the journalism biz now, too, Tom?" She puts light emphasis on the name, and shows naked cynicism -- for that name, for him, for this game -- in her expression.
"I'm fairly sure we've established I'm not particularly good at it," Tom admits, dropping his eyes -- almost coy. "But I'm fairly certain you'd be interested that Prime's given his explicit permission for an interview."
Leah sucks in a breath. Holds it, for a long, strained moment. When she lets it out, it's with her eyes averted from him and her fingers slow and nervous on her writer's tools in her lap. "In that case," she tries to say lightly, "I guess telling you the source is quid pro quo, huh? Sebastian Shaw."
Tom breaks into a silent laugh, air punching from his nose. "Sebastian fucking Shaw? The pussy with a gob but no balls?" One leg rises to sit its ankle over the other knee, as the slender figure leans backwards. "What the fuck does /he/ know?"
"He has photographic and video evidence," Leah says quietly, "of Jean Grey's sexual involvement with Mystique, Magneto's lieutenant."
"... the /fuck/?" Startlement brings Tom's head up, his gaze locked firmly on the woman. A fist suddenly forms, slamming down onto the arm of his chair. "Fucking knew it! Promise me you'll send copies to John Grey?"
Leah flinches at the slam, but then shakes her head. "No need for that," she chides him almost gently, from her position on media's pedestal. "He can read it in the Post like everyone else; my friends are holding column inches for me, as soon as I meet him tonight to get the pics and tapes. Dr. Grey's gone through enough, hasn't he?"
"Pompous dickhead," dismisses Tom. "Though you have a point." The fist unfolds, returning to its steepled position, lengthy fingers pointed skywards. "I forgot to congratulate you on recent performance. You've been doing exceptionally well."
A shrug. Leah busies herself with uncapping her pen, flipping open the pad, preparing to take notes. "Newsweek wants to do an article on me -- or us, I don't know." The cynicism bites again. "Since I'm the voice of the Friends and all. Can't have the one without the other anymore, can we?"
Tom approves such with a nod. "Sounds good to me. I'd appear, but I don't think steel bracelets would suit, hmm?" A smile appears, devoid of its usual vicious bent. The hooded head tips, intent on the woman across from him. "Are you receiving enough cash, at the moment? If you need anything..."
"Fine," Leah says. Snaps. She breathes out hard through her nose. Stares at him. "I'm fine. I'm not your leman, okay? I'm doing interviews, selling pieces, making appearances -- money's fine."
Leather lifts, palms outward. Innocent. "Hey, just checking." Tom allows a quick grin, flashing expensive white teeth. "Nathan doing alright by you?"
Leah simmers sullenly, all the same. "Sure, for a watchdog." She flourishes her pen deliberately. "So, wanna do this?"
Another smile twitches at the thin lips, as a hand waves agreement. "Sure. Fire away, but remember to edit my more, ah, fervent moments?"
Leah just gives him a patient look, and it almost has a sense of amused camaraderie -- no. She bends her head to her pad, making hasty notes at the top of the sheet. "Name?"
"Tom."
The pen doesn't move to inscribe those three letters. Leah exaggerates her patience: "Full name."
Raymond Damian Hubb- "Tom. Feel free to refer to me as one who speaks with the voice of Prime, if it pleases you." Crow's feet appear over his grin. "How about... Tom John Smith?"
"Tom Doe," Leah says sarcastically. "Fine, fine. The voice of Prime -- boy, we love our drama, don't we?" But she writes and, as she writes, keeps questioning. "What do you say with the voice of Prime? Are they your words or his?"
I am aware enough of his vision to speak on his behalf," Tom reels off, parrot-like. He leans backwards, curving his spine to settle with feet outstretched. "Drama keeps the public interested, Leah."
Leah's jaw clenches against the sound of her name in his mouth. "Right, right. And that vision would be...?"
Tom pauses, resting interlocked fingers over his stomach. "The protection and preservation of humanity, by virtue of the incarceration or eradication of dangerous mutants." Another smiles ghosts over his lips. "We do what the police cannot. We're humanity's friends."
"Does humanity need friends?" Leah wonders.
"Heard about Greenwich apartments?" asks Tom. "The Purity Rally? Only a lack of manpower and equipment meant that the Brotherhood escaped unscathed." Suddenly intent, focused, Tom continues, "Imagine the lives that would be saved in the long run."
Leah says, "By humanity's friends. Because humanity can't do it alone? Even though we outnumber them by a huge margin."
"Most of humanity are not standing up to fight." Tom glares now, unwavering and practically unblinking. "We're the part of that margin prepared to protect the rest. I would dearly love to see humanity as a whole take up arms to protect from every threat to their existence, mutant or otherwise."
"What 'otherwise'?" Leah wants to know, and she's in journalist mode now, all right: hard and level and incisive, every word carved out of Brooklyn alto as if with chisels. "Do the Friends fight against al-Qaida, too, for example? Or greenhouse warming?"
Again, Tom pauses. One second, two, three, four. "A focused group fights infinitely more effectively than one with a broad agenda. Each problem has those fighting to solve it -- green lobbyists for greenhouse warming, CIA and other groups for Al-Qaida. We fill a niche that has been gaping, through the lack of action on the part of the government."
Nodding absently, Leah scribbles. She flips over a new sheet and shifts her weight on the chair's edge. "So, you're opportunists."
"An opportunist implies personal gain," Tom reproves, mildly. "I do not believe that applies to the Friends of Humanity."
Leah cocks up a sardonic look. "You have no personal stake in this grand venture?"
"My stake is my life, my odds are poor."
Leah murmurs, "Not exactly a get-rich-quick scheme, what you have going here. --Are you in charge of the Friends? What's your rank, exactly? How are the chapters organized?"
"I serve as the voice of Prime in a number of locations," Tom explains, nodding slightly. "If I give you more than that, I risk jeapordising the entire organisation. Suffice to say I am relatively well-ranked within the Friends in New York City."
"But there /are/ chapters. And an organization." Leah taps her pen on the pad, frowning again. "You work -- as Prime's voice -- with other chapters?"
"Prime serves as the organiser of the New York chapter." Another couple of nods, and a wry smile, before Tom corrects, "I do not, I am afraid. Though I have met members across the country, my home and my job are in New York."
"Where do you live?" Leah asks guilelessly. "Not in the Greenwich Apartments, I hope. There's holes in it."
"I wish," murmurs Tom, with a snort through his nose. "I don't think my home is pertininent to this conversation, though I'll say it's not particularly classy."
Another patient stare. "People like the little, homey details," Leah explains. "It humanizes the subject. You're a Friend of Humanity. You don't want to be humanized? You know the kind of things they say about you."
"Not particularly. Try me."
Leah admits, "'Hitler' seems to come up a lot."
A sharp bark of laughter rips from Tom's mouth, vastly amused. "I like chocolate ice cream. That within the Friends or the papers?"
"Well, it will be now," Leah says, trying to smile. She does write it down. "You got any pets? Family? Hobbies?"
"Remember the spin," chides Tom, cheerfully. "I have a pet cat, Mitzy. Also, two brothers and a sister -- none involved in this organisation, though they support my choice to do so." A tingle of amusement drifts through his voice. "My hobbies include drinking, playing video games and spending time with my girlfriend, Suzie the blow-up doll, though she has recently refused to marry me. Don't tell the punters I'm a bachelor, eh?"
Scribble, scribble. "...Blow-up doll. Ha. Right." Leah patently believes that not at all, but she writes it down all the same. "That'll make for good copy, sure, and hey, if I can be getting marriage proposals because of the crap I say, why can't you?"
"Marriage proposals?" Surprised, Tom shifts up in his chair, settling his back against the cushion. "Sounds like good fun. Any of them attractive?"
"No," Leah says shortly: a warning, and if her short bronzy-brown hair could bristle on her head, it would. "But hey, maybe Shaw'll have something for me, if I write a good piece on this Grey/Mystique story. Back to you: what do you see as the long-term goals for the Friends? Where do you want the group to be in five years?"
"Going to fuck Sebastian Shaw?" Tom wonders, with that same mild amusement. The white eyes narrow a little, and the man takes a moment's pause. "Five years? I would like to see politicians in power that are dealing with the threat of dangerous mutants, supported by police, army and all official services. I would wish that there is no need for the Friends in five years -- that we would've realised our goals and eradicated the dangerous mutants and their organisations, as well as having changed the attitude of the government."
Leah makes a face. "God, no. He's such a boor. No idea what my friend--well, never mind. No need for the Friends, right. Now, by 'eradicated,' are you talking about genocide?"
"Not the entire mutant population, of course," Tom says, "but Magneto has escaped from prison once -- I'd rather see him dead than out and murdering hundreds. The same with all of the Brotherhood of Mutants."
Leah puts in, "After a trial under the law, of course."
"Like I said, he escaped once." Definitive, and edging towards the harsh edge of the killer, Tom continues, "I'd kill him myself given the chance. Vigilante, perhaps, but we do what needs to be done."
Leah smiles. "So, maybe you do have a small personal stake here. You'd like to kill mutants. The bad ones."
"I don't /want/ to kill anyone, Leah," Tom reproves, dropping his face to stare at her from under darkly lowered brows. "There is no choice. It's necessary, else he -- /they/ -- would simply escape again to murder more innocents. That is unacceptable."
"You just sounded so certain about it," Leah protests. Innocent, innocent as the very lamb. "And the words you use... Gosh. I didn't mean to misrepresent you, Mr. Doe."
"I /am/ certain," Tom states, quietly. "Every time my resolve wavers, I think of those people looking out from whatever afterlife they happen to inhabit, murdered by a madman, and I can reclaim my resolve." A smirk does find its way back onto his lips. "Tom, please."
Leah lowers her head, expression hidden in the move and her note-taking. "What makes your resolve waver?"
Tom grimaces a little, falling back against his chair. "That I am forced to make a mockery of my country's laws, that I can be seen as little better than a murderer, that I am forced to hide myself from the public eye."
"So, if you could, you'd like to be feted as a national hero, say."
Tom frowns slightly, the creases in the centre of his brow visible underneath the balaclava. "Who wouldn't?" A wry laugh drives from him. "To be perfectly truthful, I don't care about recognition for my work. I mourn my secret life because it's too dangerous for me to be public -- because I know I would be dead within days of revealing myself."
Leah takes careful notes. "And who would you be revealing yourself as?"
Tom simply looks at her. "Please." Sarcastic, perhaps? "No comment."
"But you do hate to hide yourself," Leah presses, unfazed. "Even though it's keeping you alive, apparently."
"Contradictory, I know," murmurs Tom, "but again, there's no choice. Necessary is not always desirable."
Leah mutters, "Tell me about it," but less viciously than she might've. "But you do see an end to the struggle, and humanity winning? Do the 'good' mutants have any place in that world?"
Tom raises a single finger from his motionless position, the other hand resting back onto the arm of his chair. "That," says he, "is a point current debated within the Friends of Humanity. My own view is that mutants who are not attacking and murdering people have just as much right to live as anyone else. It is unfortunate that what you seem to have discovered would suggest that even such mutants as Jean Grey, supposed pacifist, can secretly be associated with terrorists."
"And not so secretly, since you really can't miss a Hummer getting thrown into a building like that." Leah scowls at the thought. Shakes her head. "There's something going on between her and Magneto, for sure. Someone on MSNBC today was suggesting a huge mutant conspiracy, and Lensherr playing bad cop to Grey's good cop, but I don't know if I can buy that. Then again, if she /is/ involved with Mystique, who /is/ Magneto's right-hand woman..."
Leathered hands are thrown wide. "Welcome to my dilemma. If such a thing exists, /which/ mutants are the ones I should be hunting? We can never move without proof, so we're forced into maybes, 'perhaps's and 'possibly's. Uncovering this, however, one of our current objectives -- off the record, yes?"
Leah narrows her eyes. Hesitates. "All right," and she puts her pen down.
"The potential for a conspiracy scares me, Leah," Tom says. "The thousands of mutants in this country -- if all, or even most, were to work together, they could do some truly horrific things. If it does exist, I intend to stop it before anything major can occur. That's why we need an army, we need PR, we need recruitment -- preparation."
Leah settles a careful breath in her lungs. "You're building an army?"
"We already have one," Tom says, with an affirmative nod. "An army ready to strike against that worst case scenario. I sincerely hope they never need to do anything."
"I see." Leah stares at the pad balanced on her knees. Her voice is steady, but hollow. "An army. Your own private army. Of followers devoted to your cause. And armed?"
"Not /my/ army," scowls Tom, suddenly glaring dangerously. "A group of people ready to act if it becomes necessary, which we pray it doesn't. Rest assured they exist only for your protection." He leans forward, intent on the woman. "I think I've said enough about that."
Leah's voice is soft. "I think you have. Let's get back on the record. Can we talk about recruitment, on it? What kind of things you or Prime or whoever looks for in recruits, how you're looking to expand, what you can offer followers..."
A quick nod comes from Tom, and he allows a more friendly smile. "In a recruit? The most important thing is a wish to protect and preserve humanity from those who would endanger it." He taps fingers together, clasped as they are in his lap, and continues with a relatively business-like manner. "Expansion is performed mainly via recruitment, though we are currently hoping to spread our wings towards the more suburban areas. We offer followers the chance to make a difference, to fight for their right to exist as a species."
After she has all that written down (flip! new sheet!), Leah asks, back on solid professional ground, "It's personal recruitment, right? Well, and through the radio station. I don't have to keep writing for them, do I?"
"The station has a full-time DJ and writer now," Tom grins, "so you shouldn't need to do anything for them, except in an emergency." He nods, though, before his business manner returns. "People are generally recruited via personal contact with an experienced member, such as the lady upstairs or myself. We believe that you've got to meet a person to find out if they're dedicated."
"And how /is/ Lydia Bancroft doing these days?"
"Oh, she's wonderful," Toms smiles, blandly. "Doing her job, successful as always."
Leah smiles blandly back. "Great. Give her my regards. I think we're about done here, and I don't want to miss Shaw in the city, so..."
"Get yourself gone, good girl," Tom beams, rising to his feet. He steps forward, offering out a leather-gloved hand for shaking. "Please try to cast me in a good light? Embellish, or whole cloth if you feel like it. Thank you, Leah."
Leah doesn't shake it. She does nod. Curtly. "Thank /you./" Pause. "Tom."
The hand drops, coupling a shrug, and the man gestures lightly with one hand towards the door. Sara awaits at the top of the stairs, that sultry smile reappearing for Leah's benefit. "See you soon," says Tom.
"Probably," Leah agrees sadly and goes out, not even looking at Sara or her smile on the way. Nathan's waiting in the car, and somewhere in the city, Sebastian Shaw is waiting in a bar, with titillating, devastating terrorist evidence in hand.
[Log ends.]