(no subject)
From the paper journal of Father Simon Terrence, St. Francis of Assisi
Fri, March 10, 2006.
The leak over the southwest corner has become something of a deluge. I am very much afraid that ice is making the hole worse. Mrs. Molnar assures me that there is nothing to be done until the winter is entirely over. I fear she is far more qualified to handle the maintenance of the roof than I am. God may be my shield, but I own I somewhat hesitate to speculate on His willingness to be an umbrella.
The sermon is coming along splendidly. I have managed to work in a reference to the Evangelical Counsels which I am rather pleased about. I'm afraid that Sister Angelica will say that I have been too clever again, but I truly believe that it is a mistake to speak down to those who are kind enough to submit themselves to my poor preaching. Education can never be undertaken without a whole heart and joyous spirit, or else we punish our students with our own failings. I have hopes that there will be young people at Mass who will not understand the full text of my sermon, and will willingly seek out understanding. What a splendid thing that would be!
I fear that my cat has once more proven unfaithful to holy orders. She is with child. All life is precious, but I sometimes wish she would hold the dignity of our office in higher regard.
In other news, I received a phone call from the Archdiocese today. They have asked us to take in a fellow priest, who has found himself stranded and wavering in his faith. He has, they tell me, been much battered by life in a most literal sense, and has the need for some sanctuary. I fear that our little parish will be unable to provide him the kind of rest he so sorely deserves, but the Archdiocese assures me that it is precisely what he needs. I have advised Mrs. Molnar and Sister Angelica, who have promised to make Father Thomas's old room ready for him. He is to be on strict vacation and perform none of the sacraments, which makes me wonder if he is perhaps undergoing some sort of penance.
I am very much afraid that I continue to suffer from the sin of curiosity. I will tie a knot in my handkerchief to remind myself against it. We will do our best to make Father Christopher welcome. I wonder how he feels about kittens?
---
At the end of a dark alleyway Cassy huddles under a blanket, everything around her in pieces. Bottles are smashed, boxes are torn apart and even the lone dumpster is dented and warped.
Not so much different than the rest of this street, homely and pitted as it is. The siren's bark echoes in the shadowed passageway, the blare of a loudspeaker inarticulate in its wake. Moving slowly, a black-and-white cruises past the alley's entrance; a little while later, on foot, a black-haired man in a dark overcoat ambles down the sidewalk. "--'ll check in here," baritone pitches, thrown askance somewhere. His footsteps turn him in and down, through the clink of debris kicked aside.
A bruised face appears from under the blanket, then after a moment a hand reaches for a nearby rock. "I said I /don't/ have any money." She snarls
"Better be thinking twice before you throw that missile, sweetheart." The deep voice is touched by Brooklyn's accent; the arrogance it rides is wholly NYPD. The clip of boots on pavement halts, and their owner drops to his haunches, elbows on knees, green eyes bright and sardonic. "I'm a cop. I'm not after your stash. --You been here all night?"
Sitting up from under the blanket Cassy eyes the stranger wearily. Her voice a little dazed she asks "Maybe. Is it still thursday?"
The cop's mouth twists askew; the orderly knot of his grey tie blinks against the black of shirt and suit. "TGIF. Rise and shine. Back to the world of the working stiff. You hear anything out there last night? Anything unusual?"
Cassy draws in on herself, pulling the blanket tight. "This alley /was/ a lot more picturesque last time I was awake. But I think I hit my head, because I don't remember much after Wednesday." She replies, guilt and fear colouring her voice.
"'Hit your head,'" echoes the cop, cynical amusement ribboning through the lazy voice. "That what we're calling it lately? --What is it, coke? Heroin? C'mere, kid. Let me take a look at you." Latex snaps, pulled from a pocket and drawn on over a strong, scarred hand.
A sharp mental blow to the dumpster causes it to shudder. "Stay /Back/." Cassy half warns, half begs. "Please I'm... not safe.."
The reaching hand pauses. Green eyes glance askance. "What the fuck? Jesus. Is that a rat?"
Cassy forces a brief smile all the while shuffling back, her knuckles white as she grips the rock. "Perhaps its the /easter/ bunny."
"No place for a kid to be living," the cop observes, gesturing again with the gloved hand. "C'mon out. Don't worry. I'm not gonna hurt you. You could probably stand to be taken in, though. At least it'd be warmer in the station."
Cassy rolls her eyes. "I'm worried about hurting /you/ not the other way round." She declares "Besides, how do I know your even a cop?"
The unclothed hand scratches at a clean-shaven jaw; eyebrows level, wryly amused, before the man flips his coat lapel aside. Gold in the dull alley light, a detective's shield hangs on a black leather backing. "There. Satisfied? I'm a detective at the one-nine. Homicide and Mutant Affairs. You coming outta there? Or we have to send in some dogs?"
Cassy shrugs. "For the record, I dont have a stash and I dont want one either." She begins to stand her legs unsteady. Her rock free hand brushes her hair back to reveal a nasty looking lump on her head and a swollen black eye. "And I dont live here its just.. they wouldn't let me in the shelter is all."
"Were you high?" the cop asks with callous indifference, rising himself with a hiss of overcoat around his calves. The gloved hand reaches for the girl's chin, to trap it and turn her face to the light. "Or drunk?"
"No. I needed a doctors note to say I'm a /freak/." She spits the words out as if they were poison. She lets the rock drop to the floor with a clatter.
An eyebrow lifts, dispassionate and quizzical. "That's quite a shiner you got there," the detective notes, and releases her. Latex whispers, dragged off his hand to be shoved into a deep pocket. "Freak. What. Mutant?"
Cassy nods. "Do dumpsters smash themselves these days?" Quietly she adds "But if I close my eyes I cant hurt anyone.. well anyone else..."
"Can't aim worth a damn?" the man asks dryly, and gestures with impatience. "Close your eyes, then, if that'll keep you from blowing my ass out of here. Get enough of that with Pezhead. --Can't leave you hanging around out here. Think you need a shelter, kid."
Cassy finds herself laughing desite the situation. "No it just slugs me in the head." Her head tilts as she looks at Rossi. "Mother nature was on form when she thought /me/ up eh?"
"What's the damage?" The cop skips his gaze around the alley, pausing thoughtfully on signs of shattered drug paraphernalia -- no rarity in this neighborhood -- before refocusing on the girl. "What's your mutation?"
An unsteady hand reaches up and waves at the surroundings. "Things get knocked over and... when they do bigger things fall and I cant stop it.. and.. and why wont it go away.." She blurts out, As if she was afraid that her courage might fail after each word.
A hand pushes the overcoat aside, absent-mindedly unbuttoning the suit coat so the man can shove a hand into his pants' pocket. "Doesn't work that way, kid. Sucks to be you. --Here," Rossi adds, digging out his wallet to thumb through its contents: credit cards, business cards. "You know how to read?"
Her jaw hangs open at that implication and the dumpster shudders with sympathy "Sleep in the gutter a few times and suddenly people think you cant even read."
"Relax," the cop says, dark voice brusque and dismissive. The hand stills in the act of thumbing out a card; pale eyes skim up, remotely amused. "There're hundreds of kids on the street who can't. No reason to take offense. You wanting shelter?"
Cassy takes a few breaths. "I guess so, but I cant get in without that testing thing." she forces herself to look Rossi in the eye. "I.. I didnt mean to be rude, Its just people here are just so mean."
Amusement cuts a little deeper. The cop fishes a pen out of his overcoat pocket and scrawls on the back of the white slip of paper. "Welcome to the big city," he drawls, clicking the pen blunt again before replacing it. "Chews you up and spits you out -- and if you're throwing around dumpsters, a test is the least of your worries. Address on the back's the nearest safehouse."
Cassy huffs dramatically. "If they would just do it on command." She reaches for the card as if any minute it might get snatched away. "Chews you up eh? Then I get the last laugh. 'Coz with all this muck I must taste vile."
"City's eaten worse." A smile's shadow hooks in the corner of the man's mouth. It relaxes the harshness of his features, somewhat. The wallet tucks away; the pale gaze glances towards the street. "So you got nothing on last night? Figures. --Head to the shelter," he recommends, turning to prowl back towards the alley entrance. "Get that head looked at."
Cassy attempts a childs copy of a salute. "Yes sir." After a pause she adds "And thank you for being nice."
A backhanded wave bids farewell, caught in silhouette against the glare of street life. "This isn't me being nice, kid," baritone scythes back, without looking. "It's just me not being as much of an asshole as usual." And with that, the cop is gone.
---
The Mustard Seed Clinic
Beyond a barred doorway featuring an intercom for after-hours access and a discreet bronze name plaque bolted to the wall, a short entry hallway with doors to an office and a washroom opens into a large open waiting room. There are no expensive leather couches or tropical fish tanks here, but a work in progress instead: The floor is now partially tiled, and the plastic lawn furniture replaced by restained and reupholstered benches and sofas. An air purifier chugs away in one corner, freshly-patched and -primed white walls are ready for the cans of paint stacked by them, one featuring the beginnings of a graffiti-art mmural. A small box of childrens' toys is set out on one of the rugs, a table with books and magazines for adults beside it. Off to one side, three doors lead to treatment rooms, one of them already furnished and stocked and ready for business. The back wall features two other doors, leading to a large back storage space and the the other, locked and secure, to private spaces upstairs.
"She should be here soon," Jean assures, although, self-controlled, it's only the second time she's made this statement. Hair back in a severe braid, lab coat and aura of lady doctor exchanged for black slacks and a black turtleneck, she seems instead to be going for the non-aura of someone set to fade into the background whenever it's situationally conveniant. She's settled on one of her refurbished couches, fingers tracing along some bit of writing carved into the wood ('Jono iz dikweed') and eyes settled on the pot of tea beneath a cozy that rests on a tray with mugs and some cookies
A pale, sharp glance skips towards the steady click of clock hung on a wall. From her companion, there is no answer at all: none vocalized, none actualized, though the hard clamp that muzzles his thoughts is reply of a sort. Chris Rossi prowls the boundaries of the clinic, and makes them smaller with each restless circuit. The overcoat, still donned, flares in angry wings behind each stride. Black suit and navy blue shirt speak of work in the past, while the loosened knot of the pale grey tie leave his collar undone. Time and past.
Dark, sultry thoughts precede the metal click of stilleto versus pavement. Sara exudes cool confidence; the swish of the highest class of call girl. With the obligatory trilby pulled over, she moves towards the door to the clinic and lifts a hand, a finger. Manicured nail presses against the intercom, the dark gleam of a handgun peeking out from within the leather, designer bag dangling off slender wrist.
"Hey, good-lookin'," slurs a bum cozied up against the brick outer wall of the clinic, more a mountain of ragged blankets, hair and fortified wine than a man. "D'yooo wanna step out onna town? I'm good to pay!" Lapsing into wheezy laughter at his own sodden witticisms, he rolls his head back and watches Sara at the intercom.
Inside, Jean's own reaction is far more neat and tidy. Head snapping upwards, muscles tensing like a glossy setter gone to point, she notes that "Someone's coming. I think it's her."
The first sentence is barely out before Rossi is by the entrance, back against the wall for a glance through the barred window. "Alone?" he asks -- the first word in almost an hour.
Sara tenses. The opposite hands drifts to the bag, nudging inside. Deliberately, she thinks, << If you're listening, Jean, I suggest you remove this bum before I do. >> "Fuck you, filth," she croons, sweetly. "I'm here for my AIDS pills." A mirthless smile stretches across her lips; dark eyes streaming malevolence. She looks at him. Presses the buzzer again.
<< Please don't commit murder while you're on my doorstep and there's a cop inside, Ms. Evans. >> Jean projects in return, carefully dialed down to the merest whisper of a thought, as little invasive as possible. The resigned tone translates all too clearly, nonetheless. To Rossi, aloud, she answers a brief "Yes." after an outwards push of her perceptions, before pushing past him physically and opening the door on the inner city night. "Come in," she invites, naming no names. Ignorance is bliss, for a bum that's likely to find himself with questions to answer.
Thin lips stretch into a sneer; jaw clenching at the whisper. "Of course," she says, stepping inside, but not before delivering a final, dark glance to the bum. A quiet mutter for Jean alone. "God, I hate men." Voice rises, and eyes slide around. "How many are here?"
"Just the one," the dark baritone answers from behind the door. An arm reaches out, straight-arming it closed; the heavy wood bangs, hard on Sara's heels. Rossi draws away from the wall, a hand readied by his hip, mouth stripped thin and hard. "I hear you got something to share."
Jean says, "Ms. Sara Evans, Detective Chris Rossi," Jean makes her introductions a half-beat too late and with a dry air because of it. She locks up the door again, and gestures for the pair of them to head forward out the entry hallway and into the main waiting room, eyes intent on Sara. A flicker of gunmetal catches the weapon in the purse, and a tendril of telekinesis sneaks over to coil inquisitively about it. Loaded, or just for show? "There's tea," says Jean. << She's carrying, >> she thinks to Rossi.
"Detective Christopher Rossi," purrs Sara, swiveling head and lifting her chin to jut the sharp edge towards the cop. "I have plenty to share, if you can provide what I need. What kept -you- away from the Friends, after getting yourself shot?" The weapon is loaded, cocked and ready. Still within the bag, away from Sara's hands. For emergencies.
<< So am I, >> Rossi answers back, without surprise. The mental reply carries with it overtones and undertones, inevitable spillage from the unpracticed voicing: certainty that Jean will handle it, if need be; lack of surprise that the informant would come armed; certainty that Chris will kill the woman if she-- "Knowing they weren't after me," he says, voice tight. "They were after Lazzaro. Can't blame them there. Isn't a Lysol bottle in the world who wouldn't want him out of the gene pool. --What's taking you /out/?"
Quietly, eyelids lowering as she turns her back and assembles tea and cookies, Jean reinforces that small tendril of telekinesis and clicks the safety on the gun back into place, covering the slight noise with a clattering of ceramics as mugs clash against each other. "Sorry," she murmurs, crouching to pour and resume watching turncoat and detective in alert silence.
Sara graces Christopher with a faint smile, allowing him the humour. She pauses for a moment, before replying. "My conscience, and--" Head shoots around; hand flexing towards the gun at the ceramic clatter. A deep breath. "I happen to like being alive, and out of prison. Also; she--" A jerk of head. "--was right."
Only the slightest twitch of Rossi's hand betrays his own reaction to the noise; the weight of his gun is cold and heavy at his hip, eminently aware. "I talked to the DA," he says, harsh-voiced. "They'll make arrangements with the DoJ. If, that is, you've got something worth hearing, that'll help us take down the Friends. Nothing for nothing."
Good black tea, hot and strong, is doctored with just enough sugar and milk to temper its astringent taste and then handed over, first to Sara and then to Rossi, with the sort of quiet firmness that suggests not taking the tea is not an option. Jean then settles to her own seat, much more comfortable with one safety on and two sets of hands at least temporarily occupied. She then attempts to fade into the background.
"Made a list," Sara says, as she accepts the mug slowly bringing the small bag in front of her. "There's a gun in here. It's not coming out, okay? There's also a piece of paper." She swings it out towards Jean. "Fifty three names and addresses, and as much as I could get on Tom. Jake Harrison is -yours-. Found out it was him videoed the Purity rally."
Rossi, for his part, ignores the mug; the barest of glances skims off of it, accompanied by the mental rejection: not /now/. His attention is spent on other things (anticipation, like a sharp spice on the back of the tongue) and the grating restraint of patience. "Heard about Harrison," he grants, eyes narrowed. "How high up are you in the Friends?"
Patiently, the mug veers off and hovers to one side of Rossi, standing like one of the Central Park carriage horses emblazoned upon it with a certain phleghmatic calm. Some day, its destiny will be fulfilled. Some day, someone will drink from it. Jean takes the piece of paper from Sara and unfolds it delicately, fingertips touching it as little as possible as she pulls out her reading glasses and gives a brief but intent once-over. No eidetic memory here, but working in concert with Xavier should be enough to bring the list of names back up for viewing later. She places it on the table for Rossi to take.
"Two barbs. Was going to get my third, before--" A flash of violence in her mind, coupling a brief pause. "Almost got it. Does that mean anything to you? I run the women's corps in New York City."
"I know what it means," Rossi says, his voice flattening. He reaches for the paper, glancing across it with a quickly skimmed glance. Eyes flicker over the list, recognition at one name flaring in the mind, safely hidden from sight. "Sounds to me like you'll have a lot of people after you, pretty soon."
"Which is why I need this to be changed," Sara says, smiling mirthlessly and removing one hand from mug to lift up and tip off her hat. The trilby tumbles to the floor, and she shakes back her hair, revealing the ruined side of her face. Puckered and pottered burn scars, faded but glistening with the necessary moisturiser to keep away the cracks. "I want surgery, and I want out of the US."
Green narrows, surprise -- instinctive recoil -- reflected in their shadowed color. The cold set of face does not shift for it. "A look like that could make someone pretty easy to recognize," the detective agrees. Tension rides the set of shoulders, stiff over coiled, disciplined energy. "The Feds might be able to give you that. If you make it worth their while."
"Two-Face," Sara says, sneering, but with a dark humour sparkling a smile that allows teeth to show. "That's what the boys call me. Feds'll give me whatever the hell I want, if I give them fifty-three Friends; one three-barb, two other two-barb and a multitude of scumbags. Say; you ever hear of a school for mutants?" She looks over to Jean, though her mind betrays the uncertainty. -Is- it?
Jean can't remain neutral and detached at that sort of leading question. There's an audible clink of mug meeting table as she sits forward, eyes sharp on Sara's, eschewing the ruined face. "The standard doggerel about 'damn muties are training to fight us'" she wonders. "Or do you actually have something concrete?"
Dark eyes within mismatched make-up -- only one eye prettied up -- stare right back. "You, Scott Summers, Sean Cassidy. All teachers at one school." She pauses. "For the 'gifted'." Miss Evans smiles again.
It is enough for a crack, a splinter in the heavily-banded shields. Violence gapes and squirms its way through, streaking with a snarl towards the mind's forefront. Rossi's hand is not far behind; it lashes out for the woman's throat, grasping at the end of a knotted shoulder and straight arm to slam her towards the wall. Baritone rasps. "What the /fuck/ did you people do?"
Fear shines clearly for a moment, backed up by an aborted lifting of metal heel, that slams back down into the floor; splintering tile crunching ceramic defeat. A choked breath splurts out, as piping liquid in its container flings aside. Shoulders are held ramrod straight, a feral snarl cuts short with a hiss. "I don't -know-. There was something-- Tom's plan. No. -Prime's- plan. Now get your filthy, -male- hands off me." Nails form a claw, hand twisted around to aim for only one place. Held back.
"Rossi. Evans." Jean calls with voice hard, on her feet and shoving a barrier of telekinetic force between the pair of them with a thought and a wave of a hand, Jedi-style. The mug of tea catches in midair, drops of liquid forming into scattered globes. Eyes flash behind her contacts, and for a moment the warrior peeks out from behind the WASP. Tone dropping to something low and controlled, she fixes Rossi with a quelling look, rests a hand on his shoulder, and rounds on Sara. "You know enough to know that there's a school, and there's a plan. How many others know, and what did you hear about the plan?"
Telekinesis slams Rossi back and away; the grip on Sara's throat bruises as it drags, the strong fingers spasming in reluctant release. Rage streaks through that hand on his shoulder, clawing like electricity -- and tangled with it, old and unexpected terror: blinding, annihilating. The cop staggers to regain his feet; he wrenches away from Jean's touch, pulse and breath racing. "/Fuck/." << Don't do that don't ever do that don't touch me stay away rather be dead-- >>
Sara pins against the wall; clawed hand slamming back and jaw jutting up high. Strangled panic rides up into her eyes; wide like a rabbit's in a lamp's pool. Scarred skin twists with Rossi's fingers; splits. Defiance screams its angry song in her mind. << Fucking -mutant-. >> "I don't -know-. He never said."
Jean doesn't look particularly repentant as the two combatants find unknown solidarity in panicked anger shipped to her address. (Clearly, they'll be making s'mores and singing Kum-bay-a within hours.) "I apologize," she states, with measured calm. "But unlike either of you, I can't physically make anyone stop anything, short of a dose of Haldol." And that, it seems, is that, as far as Jean's concerned. The barrier drops. The mug of tea swoops to catch the escaped droplets. Jean's posture eases to something on watch rather than on the defensive. "What did he say, then?"
"I just overheard him talking. Maybe to himself--" Sara cuts off, with a scrape as heels dig against tiling. Vulnerable, as her head dips and she slumps slightly; defeated. "He's crazy, you know. Tom, I mean. I-- all I know is that he had something planned for the place."
<< How tight is your security? >> Rossi asks, the question still tainted by the acrid taste of fear. His breathing slows, leashed by discipline; his pulse hiccups at the hollow of his throat, still chasing its own tail in adrenaline's wake. "You don't have any idea? What'd he say? What did he /actually say/?"
<< Damn tight. We've had the Brotherhood try and attack it about two times, now. >> Jean answers back, but with her mindspeech at a remove, careful and considered. The same courtesy, the same attempt to lessen fear, that she tried earlier with Sara. "Was it going to be an attack, or was it going to be an infiltration?" she wonders, encouraging Rossi's line of questioning.
"I don't -know-!" Sara pleads, sinking further down the wall, knees bending. "He said... Gotcha. Xavier's. Something. I don't remember." She looks up, eyes casting over Rossi and Jean. "You think I -want- to see dead kids? Even if they are--" << Freaks.>> "--mutants."
"A little harder when they're kids, isn't it? Not like a grown woman." Det. Rossi slits his gaze at Sara, green eyes blazing, and he wheels away on a heel to stalk to the other end of the room.
Jean doesn't stalk away, but she does step a pace back to give Sara room, lips thinned and eyes thoughtful. One hand twitches at the end of her braid, just long enough to rest against her shoulder. "Who -would- Tom tell?" she wonders, glance flicking to Rossi with mild concern, but soon settling back on her target again. "And how long have you known about this."
"Fuck -you-," Sara snarls; lashing out with words if not body. "I had nothing to do with Leah Canto's death. Even if she was a bitch." Dark eyes cast to the ceiling, and she shakes her head. "Prime? Harrison? Morgan? God knows. Since-- since he said it. November? Didn't make sense until about a month ago, though."
Black flares wide, lanced with green and the snap of white. Rossi's stride is hard and fast, thoughtless, immediate violence poised and readied to fall at the ball of a hard-knuckled fist. Rage has already slipped its leash; it crests and batters at the telepath, catching her in its riptide. "You /bitch/--"
"Rossi..." Dubious, this time, Jean tries to reach out and catch his sleeve as he passes her, rather than leaping to immediate action. Perhaps it's the distance between the man and his target. Perhaps it's the riptide of emotions battering her. Perhaps it's a late-dawning sense that it's OK to be a mutant around Chris Rossi, as long as you don't act like one where he can feel it. In any case, she reaches for fabric and tugs, a warning shot. "What happened a month ago, to make it make sense, Sara?"
Sara lifts her eyes to the noise of steps; strands of hair partly masking the fear that strangles her movement. She slips lower against the wall, mixing terror with preparations to fling up the sharp point of the stiletto for the cop to run on to. Flight is not an option. She speaks rapidly, a muscle twitching in thigh as the shoe begins to rise. "I realised about the school. When I was researching, for-- what you said. Cassidy and Summers."
He pauses for that touch, that restraining hand and voice. Anger clears, clamped down and suppressed, driven back behind the veiling shield. Green eyes focus. The jaw and mouth slash hard, sharp lines. "You say this guy Harrison would know?"
Jean subsides, satisfied, and allows Rossi to take the point again, although her attention is now far more split towards him than Sara, who seems to be quailing like a good informant ought.
"Maybe. He's Tom's beat-boy. The silent guy behind the chair on the video," Sara says, from her crouched position; foot half-risen to present the tiny square of steel on her heel. She pauses. "Hang on-- I'm saying no more 'til there's something on paper. You're a fucking madman. Send me straight back to them, won't you?" Something in her mind murmurs; those addresses aren't -quite- accurate. A safeguard.
Muscle jumps under the skin, rippling the tight strain of jaw. "I want the Friends," Rossi says, accent wrenching across his voice. "I want them all. If you give them to me, I'll make sure you get what you need to make it out. There're some people waiting to talk to you, and there's a safehouse set up and ready. If they like what they hear." << If you give me /Tom./ >>
"What? You want Graydon Creed as well?" Sara mocks, shaking her head. "I can give you a quarter of this city, Christopher." Defiance steamtrains back; dignity following as she begins to rise. A thin line of black streak down her face; the legacy of fearful tears. "Locations. Fight clubs. Hell, I can tell you where there's caches of weapons, everything. I have enough. This safehouse better be -safe-. They have guys everywhere."
"It'll be safe," Rossi assures, hand stretching to crackle knuckles strained by pressure. His head turns slightly, to the closed bank of door and wall. The fine mouth curves. "You'll even get a Federal escort there."
Sara breaks into a sudden laugh; as feminine a sound as ever to eminate from her. "Flashing blue lights and men in suits looking nonchalant?" She smirks. "I die, I'm haunting you to your grave, Christopher. My life is in your hands, and we both know it."
"They're good hands to be in," Jean states simply, and without a shred of mockery or anything else conjuring up the so-recent still frames of hands strangling and fists clenching. Even with the marks on Sara's throat beaming cheerful red beneath the fluorescent lights. "Now... is there anything else I should know before the government decides you're for their ears only?" she wonders.
Macabre humor glints in the splintered gaze; Leah's voice echoes across Rossi's thoughts. "You wouldn't be the first one," he says, dry. "Jean, I've got a call to make. I'm borrowing the other room. Keep an eye on her." He strides away down the hall, swift and peremptory.
"Get Tom," Sara says to Jean, nodding slowly. "He's killed at least two Friends that -I- know of, and God only knows how many other people. Then there's Prime. I'm not certain he even exists." Shoulders twitch in a shrug. "Anything else, I'm sure your meat--" Head jerks towards the retreating Rossi. "--can get you the info."
Jean nods at that, nothing new, but nothing useless either, and steps back over to the shambles that was once an attempt at serving a civilized tea. She reaches down to pick up the plate of cookies and offer it over. "How is your throat?" she asks.
The slender woman rises to her full height, assisted by heels to stretch up and not quite reach that 5'11. "No, thank you." A hand lifts to rub at the throat; coming away with just a smear of blood from the split skin. "Sore. Bastard'll get a kick where it hurts once my saviours come along."
"Do you want me to get something for that?" Jean wonders next, nodding at the trace of blood as she commences apparently taking 'keep an eye on her' to heart. While waiting for an answer, she shrugs and takes a cookie for herself.
"Another scar means nothing," Sara says, somberly. "It's fine." She flicks a glance over to Jean, a tiny smile twitching onto her lips. "You -really- should go dyke, you know."
Saviors at one end. Rossi first, to take her there. The dark skirl of mood precedes him down the hallway, the cell phone flicking shut in a hand's hollow. "They're coming," he says briefly, the cold-blooded professional for this space of time, at least. A glance takes in Sara's measure, flicking without apology over the bruised throat. "Federal Marshals. Got what you needed, Jean?"
"Honey, I'm thirty. If I was ever going to switch teams, it'd have happened before now." Jean assures Sara. Connveniantly, -right- as Rossi returns. Jean coughs once, and then coughs again as the first cough results in inhaled crumbs. She gulps tea and stands again. "I'm good. I'll tell Logan to let the Professor know about..." A hand waves. "All this." Silently, she projects that << You'll want to double-check those addresses she gave you. I don't know if the names are wrong and the addresses right or vice-versa, but there was... something. >>
"Cock is -vastly- overrated," Sara explains, slowly shaking her head; mournful for a sister lost. "We know what's best." It's the numbers incorrect; a fairly simple pattern so Sara can decipher with ease. She steps away from the wall; regained dignity a brittle glass facade. "How long are your boys going to be?"
The cop tips his head. The door rattles, the buzzer's chime joining it a half-second later. "That's probably them now," he says, dry. "Can you check, Jean?"
Outside, faintly, the bum can be heard as Jean works to open the locks and bars. "Hey, you guys wanna step out?" SHUNK goes the last lock, and a sober-eyed and silent Jean opens the door to welcome reinforcements.
"-- the -hell- are you doin' here, lass?" questions a perplexed Irish voice from outside.
"Irish," says Rossi, setting his back against the wall, arms folding under a grimace. "Wouldn't it just figure."
Sara falls quiet, now. One cop is bad. Many is awful. She stands mute; erect but mutely submissive. This is no longer her game.
"Oh -hell-," says Jean. And ducks back inside and into a treatment room, leaving Rossi and the Feds to deal with their new toy. << Sean, what are -you- doing here? >>
The Feds pour in -- all three of them -- to claim possession of their new prize. The NYPD girds himself for territorial battle.
The lift of black head is swift, and immediate. Rossi pulls away from the wall; at the small table in the room, the suited figure of the Assistant DA sits straight-backed and expectant, preparing for interview. "Irish," he greets, green eyes abstracted. "What're you doing here? Working for the Feds, after all?"
"Returning a favour," Sean says, with a shrug. "For now, anyway." His mind ripples with confusion. << Things? What things? I-- damnit, I should be going soon. I can forget I was here, if you want, or I can come back for a visit-- a chat? If you want. Charlie's gonna-- guess he already does. >> A flash of Alyssa; of an injury, an attack. Reassurance flows soon after. Going to be -fine-. Surgery-- damnit, Cassidy, shut your mind up.
From the treatment room comes the sounds of shattering glass and a muffled curse, the images all too effective as they leak from a mind familliar with telepaths and their ways. << Come back, if you want, >> Jean offers, an odd ripple to her thoughts, of conflicting desires for isolation and for integration all wrapped up and fighting like cats. << I'm going by the name Dr. Madelyne Black, if you ask for me during clinic hours. >>
"And here I thought the Feds couldn't fuck up any worse than they already had," Chris says with brief, absent-minded mockery. Arms unfold, thrusting fists into pockets; a passing glance touches on the conversation between lawyer and informant before Rossi pushes through the door, out and away. "I'm out of here. I got what I need."
"They -love- me, man," Cassidy tosses back. "Better than any old scumbag detective. 'Specially an ugly one." He flicks a hand in a wave. "Later, Chris." << I will. Soon. Jean? You don't have to come back until you're ready, okay? 'Til you want to. >> There's a desire skipping behind it; a wish for her to come home, so to speak. << I'll pop along with some sort of UTI, then. Maybe even alcoholism. >> An internal grin couples a quick exchange of words with the assistant DA, and a sweeping glance over the informer.
Jean answers no more in words to this, but projects a rush of assent and understanding in reply. She makes a brief appearance from the treatment room, flicking a surreptitious look at Sean, before appearing at Rossi's ear and wondering "Am I going to have to play host to these guys, or are they going to go away?"
Fingers flick in a casual wave, not matched by glance or other acknowledgment. "They'll leave," Rossi says with one hand on the door -- and indeed, the party is already breaking up, satisfaction bright and slick across the lawyer's mind. Such a case could make a career. Chris jerks a shoulder in a shrug, his own mind grey as ash. "We'll pick up the people she gave us. If the addresses don't work out, she gets no deal. It's as easy as that."
"We'll be off in just a minute, Dr. Black," assures the Irish Fed-helper, before taking up a stance overlooking the informer herself.
"One, two, four, three," Sara says, quietly. "Take it off the house numbers in order. Three, one, two off street numbers, where applicable." She stands with a gentle drag from a Fed, and begins to walk away; clicking heels barely swinging her hips, now.
"Good, good... it's a little unusual, having federal agents in here." Jean states, brushing a hand against her slacks to construct a picture of a discomfited but well-meaning doctor a little over her head. It doesn't last long, for, alias aside, too many people in the room know who she is already. Feds aside. "Ms. Evans...?" she wonders, trying to catch Sara's attention. "You're doing the right thing." And with that, and an "Eat some of the cookies, damn it," to Rossi, Jean vanishes again.
"Miss!" calls back a final twitch of defiance, from Sara.
Backs set against the weather, the government moves out of Dr. Black's small clinic, herding their catch with them. One long arm, uninvited, reaches out to snag a cookie. Friends in the hand: a man deserves a little dessert.
[Log ends]
Fri, March 10, 2006.
The leak over the southwest corner has become something of a deluge. I am very much afraid that ice is making the hole worse. Mrs. Molnar assures me that there is nothing to be done until the winter is entirely over. I fear she is far more qualified to handle the maintenance of the roof than I am. God may be my shield, but I own I somewhat hesitate to speculate on His willingness to be an umbrella.
The sermon is coming along splendidly. I have managed to work in a reference to the Evangelical Counsels which I am rather pleased about. I'm afraid that Sister Angelica will say that I have been too clever again, but I truly believe that it is a mistake to speak down to those who are kind enough to submit themselves to my poor preaching. Education can never be undertaken without a whole heart and joyous spirit, or else we punish our students with our own failings. I have hopes that there will be young people at Mass who will not understand the full text of my sermon, and will willingly seek out understanding. What a splendid thing that would be!
I fear that my cat has once more proven unfaithful to holy orders. She is with child. All life is precious, but I sometimes wish she would hold the dignity of our office in higher regard.
In other news, I received a phone call from the Archdiocese today. They have asked us to take in a fellow priest, who has found himself stranded and wavering in his faith. He has, they tell me, been much battered by life in a most literal sense, and has the need for some sanctuary. I fear that our little parish will be unable to provide him the kind of rest he so sorely deserves, but the Archdiocese assures me that it is precisely what he needs. I have advised Mrs. Molnar and Sister Angelica, who have promised to make Father Thomas's old room ready for him. He is to be on strict vacation and perform none of the sacraments, which makes me wonder if he is perhaps undergoing some sort of penance.
I am very much afraid that I continue to suffer from the sin of curiosity. I will tie a knot in my handkerchief to remind myself against it. We will do our best to make Father Christopher welcome. I wonder how he feels about kittens?
---
At the end of a dark alleyway Cassy huddles under a blanket, everything around her in pieces. Bottles are smashed, boxes are torn apart and even the lone dumpster is dented and warped.
Not so much different than the rest of this street, homely and pitted as it is. The siren's bark echoes in the shadowed passageway, the blare of a loudspeaker inarticulate in its wake. Moving slowly, a black-and-white cruises past the alley's entrance; a little while later, on foot, a black-haired man in a dark overcoat ambles down the sidewalk. "--'ll check in here," baritone pitches, thrown askance somewhere. His footsteps turn him in and down, through the clink of debris kicked aside.
A bruised face appears from under the blanket, then after a moment a hand reaches for a nearby rock. "I said I /don't/ have any money." She snarls
"Better be thinking twice before you throw that missile, sweetheart." The deep voice is touched by Brooklyn's accent; the arrogance it rides is wholly NYPD. The clip of boots on pavement halts, and their owner drops to his haunches, elbows on knees, green eyes bright and sardonic. "I'm a cop. I'm not after your stash. --You been here all night?"
Sitting up from under the blanket Cassy eyes the stranger wearily. Her voice a little dazed she asks "Maybe. Is it still thursday?"
The cop's mouth twists askew; the orderly knot of his grey tie blinks against the black of shirt and suit. "TGIF. Rise and shine. Back to the world of the working stiff. You hear anything out there last night? Anything unusual?"
Cassy draws in on herself, pulling the blanket tight. "This alley /was/ a lot more picturesque last time I was awake. But I think I hit my head, because I don't remember much after Wednesday." She replies, guilt and fear colouring her voice.
"'Hit your head,'" echoes the cop, cynical amusement ribboning through the lazy voice. "That what we're calling it lately? --What is it, coke? Heroin? C'mere, kid. Let me take a look at you." Latex snaps, pulled from a pocket and drawn on over a strong, scarred hand.
A sharp mental blow to the dumpster causes it to shudder. "Stay /Back/." Cassy half warns, half begs. "Please I'm... not safe.."
The reaching hand pauses. Green eyes glance askance. "What the fuck? Jesus. Is that a rat?"
Cassy forces a brief smile all the while shuffling back, her knuckles white as she grips the rock. "Perhaps its the /easter/ bunny."
"No place for a kid to be living," the cop observes, gesturing again with the gloved hand. "C'mon out. Don't worry. I'm not gonna hurt you. You could probably stand to be taken in, though. At least it'd be warmer in the station."
Cassy rolls her eyes. "I'm worried about hurting /you/ not the other way round." She declares "Besides, how do I know your even a cop?"
The unclothed hand scratches at a clean-shaven jaw; eyebrows level, wryly amused, before the man flips his coat lapel aside. Gold in the dull alley light, a detective's shield hangs on a black leather backing. "There. Satisfied? I'm a detective at the one-nine. Homicide and Mutant Affairs. You coming outta there? Or we have to send in some dogs?"
Cassy shrugs. "For the record, I dont have a stash and I dont want one either." She begins to stand her legs unsteady. Her rock free hand brushes her hair back to reveal a nasty looking lump on her head and a swollen black eye. "And I dont live here its just.. they wouldn't let me in the shelter is all."
"Were you high?" the cop asks with callous indifference, rising himself with a hiss of overcoat around his calves. The gloved hand reaches for the girl's chin, to trap it and turn her face to the light. "Or drunk?"
"No. I needed a doctors note to say I'm a /freak/." She spits the words out as if they were poison. She lets the rock drop to the floor with a clatter.
An eyebrow lifts, dispassionate and quizzical. "That's quite a shiner you got there," the detective notes, and releases her. Latex whispers, dragged off his hand to be shoved into a deep pocket. "Freak. What. Mutant?"
Cassy nods. "Do dumpsters smash themselves these days?" Quietly she adds "But if I close my eyes I cant hurt anyone.. well anyone else..."
"Can't aim worth a damn?" the man asks dryly, and gestures with impatience. "Close your eyes, then, if that'll keep you from blowing my ass out of here. Get enough of that with Pezhead. --Can't leave you hanging around out here. Think you need a shelter, kid."
Cassy finds herself laughing desite the situation. "No it just slugs me in the head." Her head tilts as she looks at Rossi. "Mother nature was on form when she thought /me/ up eh?"
"What's the damage?" The cop skips his gaze around the alley, pausing thoughtfully on signs of shattered drug paraphernalia -- no rarity in this neighborhood -- before refocusing on the girl. "What's your mutation?"
An unsteady hand reaches up and waves at the surroundings. "Things get knocked over and... when they do bigger things fall and I cant stop it.. and.. and why wont it go away.." She blurts out, As if she was afraid that her courage might fail after each word.
A hand pushes the overcoat aside, absent-mindedly unbuttoning the suit coat so the man can shove a hand into his pants' pocket. "Doesn't work that way, kid. Sucks to be you. --Here," Rossi adds, digging out his wallet to thumb through its contents: credit cards, business cards. "You know how to read?"
Her jaw hangs open at that implication and the dumpster shudders with sympathy "Sleep in the gutter a few times and suddenly people think you cant even read."
"Relax," the cop says, dark voice brusque and dismissive. The hand stills in the act of thumbing out a card; pale eyes skim up, remotely amused. "There're hundreds of kids on the street who can't. No reason to take offense. You wanting shelter?"
Cassy takes a few breaths. "I guess so, but I cant get in without that testing thing." she forces herself to look Rossi in the eye. "I.. I didnt mean to be rude, Its just people here are just so mean."
Amusement cuts a little deeper. The cop fishes a pen out of his overcoat pocket and scrawls on the back of the white slip of paper. "Welcome to the big city," he drawls, clicking the pen blunt again before replacing it. "Chews you up and spits you out -- and if you're throwing around dumpsters, a test is the least of your worries. Address on the back's the nearest safehouse."
Cassy huffs dramatically. "If they would just do it on command." She reaches for the card as if any minute it might get snatched away. "Chews you up eh? Then I get the last laugh. 'Coz with all this muck I must taste vile."
"City's eaten worse." A smile's shadow hooks in the corner of the man's mouth. It relaxes the harshness of his features, somewhat. The wallet tucks away; the pale gaze glances towards the street. "So you got nothing on last night? Figures. --Head to the shelter," he recommends, turning to prowl back towards the alley entrance. "Get that head looked at."
Cassy attempts a childs copy of a salute. "Yes sir." After a pause she adds "And thank you for being nice."
A backhanded wave bids farewell, caught in silhouette against the glare of street life. "This isn't me being nice, kid," baritone scythes back, without looking. "It's just me not being as much of an asshole as usual." And with that, the cop is gone.
---
The Mustard Seed Clinic
Beyond a barred doorway featuring an intercom for after-hours access and a discreet bronze name plaque bolted to the wall, a short entry hallway with doors to an office and a washroom opens into a large open waiting room. There are no expensive leather couches or tropical fish tanks here, but a work in progress instead: The floor is now partially tiled, and the plastic lawn furniture replaced by restained and reupholstered benches and sofas. An air purifier chugs away in one corner, freshly-patched and -primed white walls are ready for the cans of paint stacked by them, one featuring the beginnings of a graffiti-art mmural. A small box of childrens' toys is set out on one of the rugs, a table with books and magazines for adults beside it. Off to one side, three doors lead to treatment rooms, one of them already furnished and stocked and ready for business. The back wall features two other doors, leading to a large back storage space and the the other, locked and secure, to private spaces upstairs.
"She should be here soon," Jean assures, although, self-controlled, it's only the second time she's made this statement. Hair back in a severe braid, lab coat and aura of lady doctor exchanged for black slacks and a black turtleneck, she seems instead to be going for the non-aura of someone set to fade into the background whenever it's situationally conveniant. She's settled on one of her refurbished couches, fingers tracing along some bit of writing carved into the wood ('Jono iz dikweed') and eyes settled on the pot of tea beneath a cozy that rests on a tray with mugs and some cookies
A pale, sharp glance skips towards the steady click of clock hung on a wall. From her companion, there is no answer at all: none vocalized, none actualized, though the hard clamp that muzzles his thoughts is reply of a sort. Chris Rossi prowls the boundaries of the clinic, and makes them smaller with each restless circuit. The overcoat, still donned, flares in angry wings behind each stride. Black suit and navy blue shirt speak of work in the past, while the loosened knot of the pale grey tie leave his collar undone. Time and past.
Dark, sultry thoughts precede the metal click of stilleto versus pavement. Sara exudes cool confidence; the swish of the highest class of call girl. With the obligatory trilby pulled over, she moves towards the door to the clinic and lifts a hand, a finger. Manicured nail presses against the intercom, the dark gleam of a handgun peeking out from within the leather, designer bag dangling off slender wrist.
"Hey, good-lookin'," slurs a bum cozied up against the brick outer wall of the clinic, more a mountain of ragged blankets, hair and fortified wine than a man. "D'yooo wanna step out onna town? I'm good to pay!" Lapsing into wheezy laughter at his own sodden witticisms, he rolls his head back and watches Sara at the intercom.
Inside, Jean's own reaction is far more neat and tidy. Head snapping upwards, muscles tensing like a glossy setter gone to point, she notes that "Someone's coming. I think it's her."
The first sentence is barely out before Rossi is by the entrance, back against the wall for a glance through the barred window. "Alone?" he asks -- the first word in almost an hour.
Sara tenses. The opposite hands drifts to the bag, nudging inside. Deliberately, she thinks, << If you're listening, Jean, I suggest you remove this bum before I do. >> "Fuck you, filth," she croons, sweetly. "I'm here for my AIDS pills." A mirthless smile stretches across her lips; dark eyes streaming malevolence. She looks at him. Presses the buzzer again.
<< Please don't commit murder while you're on my doorstep and there's a cop inside, Ms. Evans. >> Jean projects in return, carefully dialed down to the merest whisper of a thought, as little invasive as possible. The resigned tone translates all too clearly, nonetheless. To Rossi, aloud, she answers a brief "Yes." after an outwards push of her perceptions, before pushing past him physically and opening the door on the inner city night. "Come in," she invites, naming no names. Ignorance is bliss, for a bum that's likely to find himself with questions to answer.
Thin lips stretch into a sneer; jaw clenching at the whisper. "Of course," she says, stepping inside, but not before delivering a final, dark glance to the bum. A quiet mutter for Jean alone. "God, I hate men." Voice rises, and eyes slide around. "How many are here?"
"Just the one," the dark baritone answers from behind the door. An arm reaches out, straight-arming it closed; the heavy wood bangs, hard on Sara's heels. Rossi draws away from the wall, a hand readied by his hip, mouth stripped thin and hard. "I hear you got something to share."
Jean says, "Ms. Sara Evans, Detective Chris Rossi," Jean makes her introductions a half-beat too late and with a dry air because of it. She locks up the door again, and gestures for the pair of them to head forward out the entry hallway and into the main waiting room, eyes intent on Sara. A flicker of gunmetal catches the weapon in the purse, and a tendril of telekinesis sneaks over to coil inquisitively about it. Loaded, or just for show? "There's tea," says Jean. << She's carrying, >> she thinks to Rossi.
"Detective Christopher Rossi," purrs Sara, swiveling head and lifting her chin to jut the sharp edge towards the cop. "I have plenty to share, if you can provide what I need. What kept -you- away from the Friends, after getting yourself shot?" The weapon is loaded, cocked and ready. Still within the bag, away from Sara's hands. For emergencies.
<< So am I, >> Rossi answers back, without surprise. The mental reply carries with it overtones and undertones, inevitable spillage from the unpracticed voicing: certainty that Jean will handle it, if need be; lack of surprise that the informant would come armed; certainty that Chris will kill the woman if she-- "Knowing they weren't after me," he says, voice tight. "They were after Lazzaro. Can't blame them there. Isn't a Lysol bottle in the world who wouldn't want him out of the gene pool. --What's taking you /out/?"
Quietly, eyelids lowering as she turns her back and assembles tea and cookies, Jean reinforces that small tendril of telekinesis and clicks the safety on the gun back into place, covering the slight noise with a clattering of ceramics as mugs clash against each other. "Sorry," she murmurs, crouching to pour and resume watching turncoat and detective in alert silence.
Sara graces Christopher with a faint smile, allowing him the humour. She pauses for a moment, before replying. "My conscience, and--" Head shoots around; hand flexing towards the gun at the ceramic clatter. A deep breath. "I happen to like being alive, and out of prison. Also; she--" A jerk of head. "--was right."
Only the slightest twitch of Rossi's hand betrays his own reaction to the noise; the weight of his gun is cold and heavy at his hip, eminently aware. "I talked to the DA," he says, harsh-voiced. "They'll make arrangements with the DoJ. If, that is, you've got something worth hearing, that'll help us take down the Friends. Nothing for nothing."
Good black tea, hot and strong, is doctored with just enough sugar and milk to temper its astringent taste and then handed over, first to Sara and then to Rossi, with the sort of quiet firmness that suggests not taking the tea is not an option. Jean then settles to her own seat, much more comfortable with one safety on and two sets of hands at least temporarily occupied. She then attempts to fade into the background.
"Made a list," Sara says, as she accepts the mug slowly bringing the small bag in front of her. "There's a gun in here. It's not coming out, okay? There's also a piece of paper." She swings it out towards Jean. "Fifty three names and addresses, and as much as I could get on Tom. Jake Harrison is -yours-. Found out it was him videoed the Purity rally."
Rossi, for his part, ignores the mug; the barest of glances skims off of it, accompanied by the mental rejection: not /now/. His attention is spent on other things (anticipation, like a sharp spice on the back of the tongue) and the grating restraint of patience. "Heard about Harrison," he grants, eyes narrowed. "How high up are you in the Friends?"
Patiently, the mug veers off and hovers to one side of Rossi, standing like one of the Central Park carriage horses emblazoned upon it with a certain phleghmatic calm. Some day, its destiny will be fulfilled. Some day, someone will drink from it. Jean takes the piece of paper from Sara and unfolds it delicately, fingertips touching it as little as possible as she pulls out her reading glasses and gives a brief but intent once-over. No eidetic memory here, but working in concert with Xavier should be enough to bring the list of names back up for viewing later. She places it on the table for Rossi to take.
"Two barbs. Was going to get my third, before--" A flash of violence in her mind, coupling a brief pause. "Almost got it. Does that mean anything to you? I run the women's corps in New York City."
"I know what it means," Rossi says, his voice flattening. He reaches for the paper, glancing across it with a quickly skimmed glance. Eyes flicker over the list, recognition at one name flaring in the mind, safely hidden from sight. "Sounds to me like you'll have a lot of people after you, pretty soon."
"Which is why I need this to be changed," Sara says, smiling mirthlessly and removing one hand from mug to lift up and tip off her hat. The trilby tumbles to the floor, and she shakes back her hair, revealing the ruined side of her face. Puckered and pottered burn scars, faded but glistening with the necessary moisturiser to keep away the cracks. "I want surgery, and I want out of the US."
Green narrows, surprise -- instinctive recoil -- reflected in their shadowed color. The cold set of face does not shift for it. "A look like that could make someone pretty easy to recognize," the detective agrees. Tension rides the set of shoulders, stiff over coiled, disciplined energy. "The Feds might be able to give you that. If you make it worth their while."
"Two-Face," Sara says, sneering, but with a dark humour sparkling a smile that allows teeth to show. "That's what the boys call me. Feds'll give me whatever the hell I want, if I give them fifty-three Friends; one three-barb, two other two-barb and a multitude of scumbags. Say; you ever hear of a school for mutants?" She looks over to Jean, though her mind betrays the uncertainty. -Is- it?
Jean can't remain neutral and detached at that sort of leading question. There's an audible clink of mug meeting table as she sits forward, eyes sharp on Sara's, eschewing the ruined face. "The standard doggerel about 'damn muties are training to fight us'" she wonders. "Or do you actually have something concrete?"
Dark eyes within mismatched make-up -- only one eye prettied up -- stare right back. "You, Scott Summers, Sean Cassidy. All teachers at one school." She pauses. "For the 'gifted'." Miss Evans smiles again.
It is enough for a crack, a splinter in the heavily-banded shields. Violence gapes and squirms its way through, streaking with a snarl towards the mind's forefront. Rossi's hand is not far behind; it lashes out for the woman's throat, grasping at the end of a knotted shoulder and straight arm to slam her towards the wall. Baritone rasps. "What the /fuck/ did you people do?"
Fear shines clearly for a moment, backed up by an aborted lifting of metal heel, that slams back down into the floor; splintering tile crunching ceramic defeat. A choked breath splurts out, as piping liquid in its container flings aside. Shoulders are held ramrod straight, a feral snarl cuts short with a hiss. "I don't -know-. There was something-- Tom's plan. No. -Prime's- plan. Now get your filthy, -male- hands off me." Nails form a claw, hand twisted around to aim for only one place. Held back.
"Rossi. Evans." Jean calls with voice hard, on her feet and shoving a barrier of telekinetic force between the pair of them with a thought and a wave of a hand, Jedi-style. The mug of tea catches in midair, drops of liquid forming into scattered globes. Eyes flash behind her contacts, and for a moment the warrior peeks out from behind the WASP. Tone dropping to something low and controlled, she fixes Rossi with a quelling look, rests a hand on his shoulder, and rounds on Sara. "You know enough to know that there's a school, and there's a plan. How many others know, and what did you hear about the plan?"
Telekinesis slams Rossi back and away; the grip on Sara's throat bruises as it drags, the strong fingers spasming in reluctant release. Rage streaks through that hand on his shoulder, clawing like electricity -- and tangled with it, old and unexpected terror: blinding, annihilating. The cop staggers to regain his feet; he wrenches away from Jean's touch, pulse and breath racing. "/Fuck/." << Don't do that don't ever do that don't touch me stay away rather be dead-- >>
Sara pins against the wall; clawed hand slamming back and jaw jutting up high. Strangled panic rides up into her eyes; wide like a rabbit's in a lamp's pool. Scarred skin twists with Rossi's fingers; splits. Defiance screams its angry song in her mind. << Fucking -mutant-. >> "I don't -know-. He never said."
Jean doesn't look particularly repentant as the two combatants find unknown solidarity in panicked anger shipped to her address. (Clearly, they'll be making s'mores and singing Kum-bay-a within hours.) "I apologize," she states, with measured calm. "But unlike either of you, I can't physically make anyone stop anything, short of a dose of Haldol." And that, it seems, is that, as far as Jean's concerned. The barrier drops. The mug of tea swoops to catch the escaped droplets. Jean's posture eases to something on watch rather than on the defensive. "What did he say, then?"
"I just overheard him talking. Maybe to himself--" Sara cuts off, with a scrape as heels dig against tiling. Vulnerable, as her head dips and she slumps slightly; defeated. "He's crazy, you know. Tom, I mean. I-- all I know is that he had something planned for the place."
<< How tight is your security? >> Rossi asks, the question still tainted by the acrid taste of fear. His breathing slows, leashed by discipline; his pulse hiccups at the hollow of his throat, still chasing its own tail in adrenaline's wake. "You don't have any idea? What'd he say? What did he /actually say/?"
<< Damn tight. We've had the Brotherhood try and attack it about two times, now. >> Jean answers back, but with her mindspeech at a remove, careful and considered. The same courtesy, the same attempt to lessen fear, that she tried earlier with Sara. "Was it going to be an attack, or was it going to be an infiltration?" she wonders, encouraging Rossi's line of questioning.
"I don't -know-!" Sara pleads, sinking further down the wall, knees bending. "He said... Gotcha. Xavier's. Something. I don't remember." She looks up, eyes casting over Rossi and Jean. "You think I -want- to see dead kids? Even if they are--" << Freaks.>> "--mutants."
"A little harder when they're kids, isn't it? Not like a grown woman." Det. Rossi slits his gaze at Sara, green eyes blazing, and he wheels away on a heel to stalk to the other end of the room.
Jean doesn't stalk away, but she does step a pace back to give Sara room, lips thinned and eyes thoughtful. One hand twitches at the end of her braid, just long enough to rest against her shoulder. "Who -would- Tom tell?" she wonders, glance flicking to Rossi with mild concern, but soon settling back on her target again. "And how long have you known about this."
"Fuck -you-," Sara snarls; lashing out with words if not body. "I had nothing to do with Leah Canto's death. Even if she was a bitch." Dark eyes cast to the ceiling, and she shakes her head. "Prime? Harrison? Morgan? God knows. Since-- since he said it. November? Didn't make sense until about a month ago, though."
Black flares wide, lanced with green and the snap of white. Rossi's stride is hard and fast, thoughtless, immediate violence poised and readied to fall at the ball of a hard-knuckled fist. Rage has already slipped its leash; it crests and batters at the telepath, catching her in its riptide. "You /bitch/--"
"Rossi..." Dubious, this time, Jean tries to reach out and catch his sleeve as he passes her, rather than leaping to immediate action. Perhaps it's the distance between the man and his target. Perhaps it's the riptide of emotions battering her. Perhaps it's a late-dawning sense that it's OK to be a mutant around Chris Rossi, as long as you don't act like one where he can feel it. In any case, she reaches for fabric and tugs, a warning shot. "What happened a month ago, to make it make sense, Sara?"
Sara lifts her eyes to the noise of steps; strands of hair partly masking the fear that strangles her movement. She slips lower against the wall, mixing terror with preparations to fling up the sharp point of the stiletto for the cop to run on to. Flight is not an option. She speaks rapidly, a muscle twitching in thigh as the shoe begins to rise. "I realised about the school. When I was researching, for-- what you said. Cassidy and Summers."
He pauses for that touch, that restraining hand and voice. Anger clears, clamped down and suppressed, driven back behind the veiling shield. Green eyes focus. The jaw and mouth slash hard, sharp lines. "You say this guy Harrison would know?"
Jean subsides, satisfied, and allows Rossi to take the point again, although her attention is now far more split towards him than Sara, who seems to be quailing like a good informant ought.
"Maybe. He's Tom's beat-boy. The silent guy behind the chair on the video," Sara says, from her crouched position; foot half-risen to present the tiny square of steel on her heel. She pauses. "Hang on-- I'm saying no more 'til there's something on paper. You're a fucking madman. Send me straight back to them, won't you?" Something in her mind murmurs; those addresses aren't -quite- accurate. A safeguard.
Muscle jumps under the skin, rippling the tight strain of jaw. "I want the Friends," Rossi says, accent wrenching across his voice. "I want them all. If you give them to me, I'll make sure you get what you need to make it out. There're some people waiting to talk to you, and there's a safehouse set up and ready. If they like what they hear." << If you give me /Tom./ >>
"What? You want Graydon Creed as well?" Sara mocks, shaking her head. "I can give you a quarter of this city, Christopher." Defiance steamtrains back; dignity following as she begins to rise. A thin line of black streak down her face; the legacy of fearful tears. "Locations. Fight clubs. Hell, I can tell you where there's caches of weapons, everything. I have enough. This safehouse better be -safe-. They have guys everywhere."
"It'll be safe," Rossi assures, hand stretching to crackle knuckles strained by pressure. His head turns slightly, to the closed bank of door and wall. The fine mouth curves. "You'll even get a Federal escort there."
Sara breaks into a sudden laugh; as feminine a sound as ever to eminate from her. "Flashing blue lights and men in suits looking nonchalant?" She smirks. "I die, I'm haunting you to your grave, Christopher. My life is in your hands, and we both know it."
"They're good hands to be in," Jean states simply, and without a shred of mockery or anything else conjuring up the so-recent still frames of hands strangling and fists clenching. Even with the marks on Sara's throat beaming cheerful red beneath the fluorescent lights. "Now... is there anything else I should know before the government decides you're for their ears only?" she wonders.
Macabre humor glints in the splintered gaze; Leah's voice echoes across Rossi's thoughts. "You wouldn't be the first one," he says, dry. "Jean, I've got a call to make. I'm borrowing the other room. Keep an eye on her." He strides away down the hall, swift and peremptory.
"Get Tom," Sara says to Jean, nodding slowly. "He's killed at least two Friends that -I- know of, and God only knows how many other people. Then there's Prime. I'm not certain he even exists." Shoulders twitch in a shrug. "Anything else, I'm sure your meat--" Head jerks towards the retreating Rossi. "--can get you the info."
Jean nods at that, nothing new, but nothing useless either, and steps back over to the shambles that was once an attempt at serving a civilized tea. She reaches down to pick up the plate of cookies and offer it over. "How is your throat?" she asks.
The slender woman rises to her full height, assisted by heels to stretch up and not quite reach that 5'11. "No, thank you." A hand lifts to rub at the throat; coming away with just a smear of blood from the split skin. "Sore. Bastard'll get a kick where it hurts once my saviours come along."
"Do you want me to get something for that?" Jean wonders next, nodding at the trace of blood as she commences apparently taking 'keep an eye on her' to heart. While waiting for an answer, she shrugs and takes a cookie for herself.
"Another scar means nothing," Sara says, somberly. "It's fine." She flicks a glance over to Jean, a tiny smile twitching onto her lips. "You -really- should go dyke, you know."
Saviors at one end. Rossi first, to take her there. The dark skirl of mood precedes him down the hallway, the cell phone flicking shut in a hand's hollow. "They're coming," he says briefly, the cold-blooded professional for this space of time, at least. A glance takes in Sara's measure, flicking without apology over the bruised throat. "Federal Marshals. Got what you needed, Jean?"
"Honey, I'm thirty. If I was ever going to switch teams, it'd have happened before now." Jean assures Sara. Connveniantly, -right- as Rossi returns. Jean coughs once, and then coughs again as the first cough results in inhaled crumbs. She gulps tea and stands again. "I'm good. I'll tell Logan to let the Professor know about..." A hand waves. "All this." Silently, she projects that << You'll want to double-check those addresses she gave you. I don't know if the names are wrong and the addresses right or vice-versa, but there was... something. >>
"Cock is -vastly- overrated," Sara explains, slowly shaking her head; mournful for a sister lost. "We know what's best." It's the numbers incorrect; a fairly simple pattern so Sara can decipher with ease. She steps away from the wall; regained dignity a brittle glass facade. "How long are your boys going to be?"
The cop tips his head. The door rattles, the buzzer's chime joining it a half-second later. "That's probably them now," he says, dry. "Can you check, Jean?"
Outside, faintly, the bum can be heard as Jean works to open the locks and bars. "Hey, you guys wanna step out?" SHUNK goes the last lock, and a sober-eyed and silent Jean opens the door to welcome reinforcements.
"-- the -hell- are you doin' here, lass?" questions a perplexed Irish voice from outside.
"Irish," says Rossi, setting his back against the wall, arms folding under a grimace. "Wouldn't it just figure."
Sara falls quiet, now. One cop is bad. Many is awful. She stands mute; erect but mutely submissive. This is no longer her game.
"Oh -hell-," says Jean. And ducks back inside and into a treatment room, leaving Rossi and the Feds to deal with their new toy. << Sean, what are -you- doing here? >>
The Feds pour in -- all three of them -- to claim possession of their new prize. The NYPD girds himself for territorial battle.
The lift of black head is swift, and immediate. Rossi pulls away from the wall; at the small table in the room, the suited figure of the Assistant DA sits straight-backed and expectant, preparing for interview. "Irish," he greets, green eyes abstracted. "What're you doing here? Working for the Feds, after all?"
"Returning a favour," Sean says, with a shrug. "For now, anyway." His mind ripples with confusion. << Things? What things? I-- damnit, I should be going soon. I can forget I was here, if you want, or I can come back for a visit-- a chat? If you want. Charlie's gonna-- guess he already does. >> A flash of Alyssa; of an injury, an attack. Reassurance flows soon after. Going to be -fine-. Surgery-- damnit, Cassidy, shut your mind up.
From the treatment room comes the sounds of shattering glass and a muffled curse, the images all too effective as they leak from a mind familliar with telepaths and their ways. << Come back, if you want, >> Jean offers, an odd ripple to her thoughts, of conflicting desires for isolation and for integration all wrapped up and fighting like cats. << I'm going by the name Dr. Madelyne Black, if you ask for me during clinic hours. >>
"And here I thought the Feds couldn't fuck up any worse than they already had," Chris says with brief, absent-minded mockery. Arms unfold, thrusting fists into pockets; a passing glance touches on the conversation between lawyer and informant before Rossi pushes through the door, out and away. "I'm out of here. I got what I need."
"They -love- me, man," Cassidy tosses back. "Better than any old scumbag detective. 'Specially an ugly one." He flicks a hand in a wave. "Later, Chris." << I will. Soon. Jean? You don't have to come back until you're ready, okay? 'Til you want to. >> There's a desire skipping behind it; a wish for her to come home, so to speak. << I'll pop along with some sort of UTI, then. Maybe even alcoholism. >> An internal grin couples a quick exchange of words with the assistant DA, and a sweeping glance over the informer.
Jean answers no more in words to this, but projects a rush of assent and understanding in reply. She makes a brief appearance from the treatment room, flicking a surreptitious look at Sean, before appearing at Rossi's ear and wondering "Am I going to have to play host to these guys, or are they going to go away?"
Fingers flick in a casual wave, not matched by glance or other acknowledgment. "They'll leave," Rossi says with one hand on the door -- and indeed, the party is already breaking up, satisfaction bright and slick across the lawyer's mind. Such a case could make a career. Chris jerks a shoulder in a shrug, his own mind grey as ash. "We'll pick up the people she gave us. If the addresses don't work out, she gets no deal. It's as easy as that."
"We'll be off in just a minute, Dr. Black," assures the Irish Fed-helper, before taking up a stance overlooking the informer herself.
"One, two, four, three," Sara says, quietly. "Take it off the house numbers in order. Three, one, two off street numbers, where applicable." She stands with a gentle drag from a Fed, and begins to walk away; clicking heels barely swinging her hips, now.
"Good, good... it's a little unusual, having federal agents in here." Jean states, brushing a hand against her slacks to construct a picture of a discomfited but well-meaning doctor a little over her head. It doesn't last long, for, alias aside, too many people in the room know who she is already. Feds aside. "Ms. Evans...?" she wonders, trying to catch Sara's attention. "You're doing the right thing." And with that, and an "Eat some of the cookies, damn it," to Rossi, Jean vanishes again.
"Miss!" calls back a final twitch of defiance, from Sara.
Backs set against the weather, the government moves out of Dr. Black's small clinic, herding their catch with them. One long arm, uninvited, reaches out to snag a cookie. Friends in the hand: a man deserves a little dessert.
[Log ends]