(no subject)
Press conferences. They are an evil more necessary to some than others.
Erik would place himself in the second category.
Despite some adviser’s (that he did not hire, by the way) protests, he is unshaven. His hair has been cut and styled to a tolerable degree. It has possibly even been dyed slightly for a more favorable grey-to-white ratio.
His suit is black; his dress shirt is white. His tie is an inoffensive shade of diagonally striped grey. The sling that supports his broken right arm is also grey. He looks very “put together,” according to a woman who has been talking to him for twenty minutes. He does not know who she is.
Eventually, there is a table. It is not very long. A few government officials are seated on either side of him, answering preliminary questions before a sea of anxious reporters, glassy black lenses and fuzzy microphones while he examines the wood grain of the table. It looks expensive.
The man to his immediate left is sweating. He can smell it, as his official introduction is finally given. Feel the nervous heat radiating outward. He looks up, lax, but unsmiling when someone is courageous enough to nudge his foot under the table. The conference has begun in earnest. The man to his immediate right has already prompted the first reporter to ask his question.
“How did you feel, having to work so closely with humans like Majors Dillion and Leithan? Did they revise your opinions of humanity at all?” a young woman repeats, notebook in hand. She is wearing a pinstriped pantsuit. It is tasteful. Like everyone else present, she is nervous. He can feel a pen quivering in her grasp.
“Miserable,” is his answer. “And no. Major Leithan in particular was a waste of oxygen at best, and too stupid to live at worst.” The sweating man to his left pales. There is another nervous tap at the side of his foot. He ignores it. The reporter, possibly hoping for a different answer, hesitates before she retakes her seat. “Next question.”
Another reporter is selected. His name and origin sifts so fleetingly through Erik’s attention that it is as if he hardly hears the information at all. “How will you make use of the freedom granted by the pardon going forward?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” is Erik’s answer. There is a silence. The man does not sit down.
“What will you do? Will you teach? Will you volunteer?”
“I don’t know.”
The silence thickens. It is becoming uncomfortable. A chair creaks near the end of his table when the official seated there leans forward to try to give him some kind of look.
“How do you feel having helped to save Earth?” This man is braver than some of the others. Or less intelligent. He just keeps going, though one caretaker has lifted his hand to suggest that he should perhaps stop and…well. Perhaps everyone should stop and they should have some form of recess and discuss precisely what is meant to be going on here.
“Irresponsible,” says Erik, inevitably. The feathery buzz of electricity through his microphone switches off, so. He switches it back on again. A few of the reporters murmur among themselves. Pens scratch, keys are stricken. "Unhappy."
The reporter, satisfied that he’s gotten an answer, sits back down slowly. Without waiting for acknowledgment, another one pops up somewhere near the back. He is wearing a yellow suit. Who wears a yellow suit to a press conference?
“Are you planning on writing an autobiography?” he calls out across the floor.
For this one, Erik must look to the man on his right. He shakes his head. Satisfied that he will not be writing an autobiography, Erik then says, “No. Also, your suit is ridiculous.”
A security officer finally makes his way over to this man before he can say anything else, or sit down again. He does not seem to be wearing a gun. Perhaps more precisely, he does not seem to be wearing a gun with metal components.
“What, if anything, would you have done differently on the Pegasus mission?” Whoever asked that one doesn’t stand up at all, and Erik lifts a hand to brace paired fingers against his brow.
“No comment.”
Resigned to their various fates, and at the same time pleased that no one has died as of yet, the government officials have fallen still and quiet. The sweating man loosens his collar. Erik gives him a sidelong reproachful look, still slouched forward into the brace of his left hand.
“…Would you have had any of the others do anything differently?”
“The humans should have died,” says Erik rather blackly. There is another creak from the end of the table. Someone coughs. There is another unfortunate silence.
After the initial awkwardness has passed, two reporters attempt to speak up at the same time. The female half of the equation prevails, and stands. Near the back again.
“How sensitive is your mutation? Could you like, detect hidden body piercings with it?”
“Yes,” is the answer. Bland. He does not blink. Nor does bother with the first question. It is complicated. Most of this is complicated. Several men at the table look nervous about the potential for elaboration on this particular question, but Erik does not elaborate. He could say that her nipples are pierced, but he does not do that either. They aren’t, anyway.
How droll.
“What do you regret?”
Erik’s eyes slide from focusing upon that young woman’s breasts to focus upon a man in the second row instead. His brow furrows, and for a fleeting second, he is forced to actually pay attention.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you regret anything that you’ve done?”
The man is stared at until Erik mutters another lazy, “No comment,” and turns away to push himself out of his chair. “I lack the patience for this. Feel free to sit here and answer questions as if you were me.” This uttered to the rest of the table in general, Erik paces the length of it and vanishes behind a curtain to the sound of discontent rumbling through the press.
Considering the example he’s provided thus far, it shouldn’t be too difficult.