NO LYRICS

• Heir of Grief
• Turbo Killer (video)
• You Say Run

LYRICS

• Polybius
• Veteran of the Psychic Wars
• Pompeii
• Love Runs Out
• The Wolf
• Hurt
• God's Gonna Cut You Down
• Mr. Fear
• The Crack of Doom
• Annihilate
• Till It's Over
• Mountain At My Gates

Lost Cosmonauts (Conspiracy)
Mnemosyne (and other Muses)
Azathoth

• Beryllium Bronze Bullets
• Jury-Rigged SRA powered by car batteries
• Mr. Night
• The Whisper
• Labrats (at least one of them) associate themselves with the Rats of NIMH.

Prometheus Labs Hub
Apotheosis Hub
SCP-106 (Old Man)
SCP-148 (Telekill)
SCP-765 (Duck Pond)
SCP-1984 (Dead Hand)
SCP-2498 (Rainbow Body)
SCP-2664 (Redline)
SCP-3033 (A Living Weapon)
SCP-3396 (The Empyrean Parasite)
SCP-4000 (Taboo)

Alto Clef Personnel Page

THEME: On the Run
ALIASES: Land of Oz

FULL NAME: Suryanshu Choudary
ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good
CLASS: Paladin (5th Edition)
THEME: Safe And Sound
AFFILIATIONS: Oswell Institute, Labrats
STAND: 「Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger (Far Out Remix)」

RESEARCH LINKS:
Tamils
Tamil Language
Sri Lankan/Tamil Literature
Tamil Literature
Ancient Tamil Religion
Dravidian Folk Religion
Tamil Nadu
Advaita Vedanta
Jivanmukta

FULL NAME: Maxine Powers
ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Awesome
CLASS: Barbarian (Berserker)
THEME: Ready to Die
AFFILIATIONS: Oswell Institute, Labrats
STAND: 「Fuel」

RESEARCH LINKS:
Lichtenberg Figure
Lightning Scars

FULL NAME: Machinehead
ALIGNMENT: TypeError: unhashable type ('ALIGNMENT')
CLASS: object
THEME: Π
AFFILIATIONS: Oswell Institute, Labrats
STAND: 「The Unified Field」

RESEARCH LINKS:
Illegal Prime

FULL NAME: ???
ALIGNMENT: Neutral Evil
CLASS: Pokémon (water type)
THEME: Gasoline
AFFILIATIONS: Oswell Institute, Labrats
STAND: 「Calamari Inkantation」

QUOTES:

"If someone invented water-proof books, I don't think I'd ever leave the ocean."

RESEARCH LINKS:
ASL Grammar
FISH PUNS VERY IMPORTANT

FULL NAME:
ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil
CLASS: Barbarian (Berserker)
THEME: I Can't Decide
AFFILIATIONS: Mnemosyne, Oswell Institute
STAND: 「Dragula」

FULL NAME:
ALIGNMENT:
CLASS: Wizard (of SPACE)
THEME: Space Lord
AFFILIATIONS: Mnemosyne, Oswell Institute
STAND: 「Space Lord」

THEME: Rescue Rangers

From this skip.

FULL NAME:
ALIGNMENT: Seem Decent Enough
CLASS:
THEME: Rescue Rangers
AFFILIATIONS: PARAWATCH
STAND: None

FULL NAME:
ALIGNMENT: Utilitarian
CLASS: Healer
THEME:
AFFILIATIONS: Mnemosyne, Oswell Institute
STAND: None

ALIGNMENT: Capitalist (Neutral Evil)
CLASS: Bourgeois
THEME: Be Prepared
AFFILIATIONS: Mnemosyne, Oswell Institute, Prometheus Labs (ex-employee)
STAND: None

ALIGNMENT: Take One Guess
CLASS: Supervillain
THEME: Everybody Wants to Rule the World
AFFILIATIONS: Mnemosyne, Oswell Institute
STAND: 「Superbeast」

THEME: War Pigs

ALIGNMENT: Lawful Evil
CLASS: Soldier
THEME: Hey Man, Nice Shot
AFFILIATIONS: Myrmidon International
STAND: None

A branch of the Serpent's Hand.

FULL NAME:
ALIGNMENT: Lawful Good
CLASS: Paladin (2nd Edition)
THEME: Inspector Gadget
AFFILIATIONS: Foundation
STAND: None

Ever since I can remember, fortune cookies have told me that I'm going to die.

They never get too specific. Just the basics: Your Lucky Numbers Are 3, 12, and 57. You Are Going to Die. Or: Try the Spicy Pork Rolls! And Then Prepare to Die. It used to freak me out, but I've gotten used to it. In a way, it's flattering. How many people can say that the universe lets them know the score?

Someone once told me that as you approach the impossibly dense center of a black hole, the axioms of physics stop functioning. Equations choke on the infinite and vomit up nonsense. Space bends. Time warps. Math breaks.

A black hole is a place where our explanations stumble; where descriptions elude even the most elegant of minds. It is a place where our perception of reality meets reality itself —- and shatters.

For me, it's a place where fortune cookies issue death notices and you always lose the coin flip. It's a place where cats hiss and dogs run away. It's a place where, no matter where you are or what you're doing, it always rains on Monday.

My name is Lucky Monday. And that place is where I live.

This is my black hole.

• "You are not the place you came from. You are a journey away from that place."
• Someone allergic to peanuts; kid orders peanut-butter pancakes: "I ordered these specially for you! They're so delicious!" / "That's sweet, but I'm allergic…" / "I know." *slides plate over to self*
• "Let's get a race going." *rolls up tie, drops both sides* "—oh, wow. Look! We've got a tie!"
• Mistaking kindness for weakness; love for frailty.
• "Fill your heart with bees. If someone breaks it, they have to deal with the bees."
• "The man in ecstasy and the man drowning; both throw up their arms." — Kafka
• "The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor from begging for bread and sleeping under bridges."
• "Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely."
• "Whatever doesn't kill me had better start running."
• "All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why." — James Thurber
• "And while I can be logical, logic has never once mended a broken heart, or fixed a sundered soul." — ???
• "Your mother's so classless she could be a Marxist utopia."
• "Take heed, lest your story be naught but another cautionary tale."
• They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness." — John Milton
• "If you torture the data long enough, it will confess." — Ronald Coase
• "So, when do we get invisibility cloaks?" — "What, you haven't seen them?" — "I hate you."
• "I love the term 'partners'. Are we dating? Are we on a robbery spree? Are we a law firm? Who knows!"
• "To appear sane in an insane world is, in itself, a sign of mental sickness."
• "We need her alive." / "I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't quite make that out over the sound of my men dying."
• "Justice is bloodless."
• "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, still shame on you — because trusting others is never shameful."
• "The difference between a hero and a God is that heroes do what's right — but a God does what must be done. People love their heroes, but they need their Gods."
• "I need you to push it too far. I need you to forget everything I've ever told you to do. I need you to be dangerous."
• "Faith is an inability to imagine under what conditions something ceases to be true."
• "Dude, the Venn Diagram is a single frigging circle."

Machine-Head looks up from the pamphlet.

Sunny hugs the back of the passenger seat. He's bitten down so hard on his bottom lip that the part bulging out from under his teeth has turned an anemic white-yellow. Alex is up-front, shouting at Seph. Seph has both of his webbed hands locked tight on the steering wheel, frantically waving his head-tentacles in an attempt to communicate.

Machine-Head frowns. It turns to the right, and sees rolling hills and trees. It turns to the left, and sees a Virginia State Trooper — lights flashing, siren howling. The latter occurrence is determined to be the most likely reason for this interruption.

"Go! Go! Just fucking go!" Alex is screaming. Approximately 50% of Machine-Head's occupants disapprove of Alex screaming.

"We can't — we won't get away from the cops —" Sunny stammers. His fingers are digging into the back of the seat. This implies he is afraid. Approximately 85% of Machine-Head's occupants disapprove of Sunny being afraid.

"We're fucking dead if he stops us!" Alex replies. Precisely 100% of Machine-Head's occupants disapprove of being dead.

Machine-Head turns to face the Virginia State Trooper. The driver is flagging them down. He looks angry. This displeases numerous occupants of Machine-Head. A brief, spirited debate occurs; options are discussed, and a resolution is proposed. It passes by a narrow margin.

Machine-Head flattens its palm to the window and makes a minor adjustment to the Trooper's current momentum.

His car is launched off the road.

The other three go silent. Approximately 35% of Machine-Head's occupants find this to be an unexpected but fortuitous consequence of its resolution.

"MH, did you just — did you — " Sunny is no longer hugging the back of Alex's seat. He is still stammering, and still biting his bottom lip; his attention is now focused squarely on Machine-Head. This implies anxiety rather than fear. " — did you just kill him?"

"Extremely unlikely." This is a lie. It is highly unlikely that this resolution has resulted in a fatality, but not extremely unlikely. Nevertheless, Machine-Head's occupants have previously voted to prioritize placating Sunny's anxiety over precision and accuracy.

"I didn't know you could — since when can you do shit like that?" Alex's voice is hushed. Her attention is also focused on Machine-Head.

"Just now." This is also a lie. Machine-Head's occupants have been internally developing and refining psychokinetic abilities since their escape from the Osworth Institute. Whether or not to reveal the full scope of these abilities remains a hotly debated topic among occupants. This is on account of their application carrying a high risk for the well-being of Machine-Head, its occupants, and its external allies.

WE SAFE? Seph's head-tentacles twist into the familiar patterns of American Sign Language. His body is partly turned, his attention having shifted from the road to focus his eyes temporarily on Machine-Head.

"No. We are about to hit a deer." This is not a lie. Machine-Head can see it just past the windshield, strolling out in front of the car.

Seph turns back. Alex shouts something; Sunny flings his arms around Machine-Head. Approximately 40% of its occupants disapprove.

Seph slams the brakes and turns. Machine-Head feels its stomach lurch up. The car's wheels are leaving the ground. Several occupants note this situation will likely escalate unless immediate action is taken. A brief, spirited debate occurs; options are discussed, and a resolution is proposed.

The risk associated with repeated psychokinetic action is deemed too high. The resolution fails by a narrow margin.

Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Each hit jerks them into new directions. The world is a blur of noise, heat, and violence. They are rolling off the road, spinning wildly as chunks of their vehicle twirl away.

Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Crrrnch. Machine-Head throws its arms above and pushes against the roof, which is now the floor, which is now the roof again. It is incurring significant levels of damage. Sunny squeezes tighter. Machine-Head begins to glow.

Crrrnch. Crrrnch. CRRRNCH. The world settles down and levels out. Machine-Head struggles through a haze of pain. It can feel the hard, savage pound of its heart; it can smell burnt rubber and leaking gas. It can hear the gentle pop, pop, ssss of the radiator's water supply as it sizzles away. Something stings its eyes. Blood, most likely. Machine-Head's blood.

By the time the wreck has settled, they are are a quarter-mile off road. The vehicle is upside down. Smoke fills the enclosed space. Multiple occupants submit requests for the status of Machine-Head and its allies.

"Fuck." Alex appears dazed, but intact. A streak of crimson dribbles down from her forehead. She is unbuckling herself from her seat. Seph also appears dazed, but intact. His tentacles twitch; a few stalks are smeared with stripes of slick, dark blue fluid.

Sunny's grip on Machine-Head goes slack. Machine-Head ceases to glow. The blood stinging its eyes is determined to not be its own.

Approximately 85% of those who voted against the previous resolution now regret their decision.

Once Alex and Machine-Head manage to get a tourniquet around Sunny's thigh, Seph uses his arms and tentacles to keep him cushioned while he carries him. Together, they make their way through the woods.

About half a kilometer away, they emerge on a hill overlooking a small town below. Machine-Head points out the medical clinic near its edge.

With his arms and most of his tentacles cradling their unconscious friend, Seph can't sign. Instead, he wraps his two remaining tendrils around Alex and Machine-Head's shoulders, squeezing and tapping.

no money

"No," Alex agrees, looking down at the clinic.

cops will find car

"Yeah."

whats ur plan

"Same as always," she replies. "We go in, do what we have to do, and then we get out. All of us."

Approximately 95% of Machine-Head's occupants approve.

"Notice," Malthus spoke, his voice as soft as a whisper, "the angle of impression." His fingers drifted to the small, flat stone against the earth. "The way the stone has slid — what does it tell you?"

William crouched beside his uncle. The boy was a wiry sprout; only fourteen, but already eager to join Malthus on the hunt. He held his bow tightly, his knuckles turning bone-white. "It tells you — the direction?" he said. "That the deer ran in?"

"Yes." Malthus smiled; his approval was a rare gift, but he was always quick to offer it when it was deserved. The gesture crinkled his mutilated face — the jagged, gruesome scar that rode past his right brow, down across the ruin of his eye — down to his lip, splitting it, exposing a small sliver of teeth. Despite the grotesque injury, there was a gentleness in his eyes — in the curve of his mouth — that defied the savagery of the scar. "Very good."

William smiled. Together, they continued, into the woods that surrounded his uncle's estate. "—why don't we use guns?" he asked, as they crept forward, following the trail. "Wouldn't it be — easier, sir?"

"Easier," Malthus explained, with gentle patience, "is not always better. A bow and arrow requires the discipline a firearm demands. Master this, and I will show you how to use a rifle."

"You will?" There was an edge of nervous excitement in William's tone.

"Yes. Shhh." Malthus' hand descended atop of William's shoulder, squeezing it. He pressed him down, into a crouch; they watched, then, their eyes locked on the sight before them.

A lovely buck had emerged from the foliage 20 yards down. He grazed, oblivious to the two hunters who stood up-wind.

"Nock your bow," Malthus whispered. "You have a clear shot. Aim for the heart."

William trembled, but did as he was told. Malthus' hand squeezed down upon his shoulder. The buck continued to graze, unaware of the arrow aimed for his heart.

Moments drew out to seconds; soon, there was nothing but the beat of William's heart — and the faint murmur of the forest — to be heard.

When William fired the arrow, it was off by nearly ten feet — thudding roughly into the trunk of a tree. The buck's head sprang up at once; he was gone in an instant, leaping through the foliage with effortless agility.

Malthus drew in a slow breath as he rose to his feet. His grip on William's shoulder never flagged. "William."

"Yes, sir." His voice was downcast; his eyes fell to the ground.

"Did you miss on purpose?"

William drew in a heavy, nervous breath. When he spoke next, his voice trembled: "…yes, sir."

"William." Malthus' grip turned to steel; the man fell to his knees, turning the boy to face him. "Why did you miss?"

William lifted his eyes to look into Malthus' own; one colored a dark, penetrating hazel — the other, pale and unseeing: "II didn't want tokill him. HeI'm sorry, sir. I"

At once, Malthus embraced him; his hug was fierce — sudden — and all-encompassing. "/William/. Do not apologize. The fault is mine; I thought you were ready."

William squeezed back as best as he could. "I, um, I'm sI mean. Aren't you — you aren't — disappointed, uncle? I thought you'd be —"

Malthus pulled William back and fixed him with yet another of his rare smiles: "Disappointed? Of course not. I'm /proud/ of you, William."

William stared at his uncle, mystified by this revelation: "Pr-proud? But — I thought — wouldn't you have been proud — if I /had/ —?"

"To have a nephew who can kill," Malthus said, through his smile, "or to have one who cannot. Both are things for which I can be proud."

Two days later.

"He's got three hostages," the commanding officer spoke into the radio with one hand, crouched behind his car. Four police cars were arranged in a curved shield in front of a lone diner that sat along a lonely stretch of highway; the officers stood at the ready, guns pointed toward the entrance. "A man and two kids. He's — some kind of fire mutie. Keeps yellin' stuff."

"I JUST WANT TO COME OUT!" the man inside the store front bellowed, head popping out from behind one of the counters. In front of the glass, the officers could make out the adult hostage and his two children — he clutched at one of his arms, where severe burns had emerged. The kids were cowering. "JUST — I WANT TO TURN MYSELF IN! JUST — PUT THE GODDAMN GUNS DOWN!"

"Christ," the commanding officer responded, setting the radio down. "What a fuck-up. Alright, gimme the bullhorn—"

"Sir." The nearby police officer's head craned up. "He's here."

"Oh thank /fuck/," the commanding officer said. In the distance, a vehicle was rapidly approaching — it looked to be an armored car. It wasn't long before it was coming to a halt, scraping across grit and dirt with a low growl of tires.

The doors opened. Malthus stepped out of the passenger seat, flanked on both sides by Marines in uniform, armed with assault rifles. "The situation?" Malthus asked, casually.

"fuckin' mutie's got fire-powers," the commanding officer said, gesturing. "Blew up one of my squad cars. Took three hostages. Wants to turn himself in, but we don't even know — if we can contain him. I mean, hell, what if he just — blows up /another/ squad car? We can't"

Malthus' remaining good eye narrowed. He turned toward the store front, then back to the commanding officer. When he spoke, his voice — level and quiet — sliced through the commanding officer's like a razor: "You called me for /containment/?"

"we can't. We don't have theisn't thatwe were told to contact HAMMER. That you're handling — mutant situations," the commanding officer said, suddenly apprehensive. "I thought"

"Officer." Again, Malthus' tone cut in, /demanding/ silence. "Are you familiar with 'Cain Marko'?"

"Y-yeah. The—guy on TV? The 'Juggernaut'."

"Cain Marko," Malthus corrected. His voice never rose. "A mutant who is not only, by all appearances, indestructible — but capable of walking through a tank as if it were made of tin-foil." He reached, then, for one of his soldiers' rifles. It was handed over without thought or question.

"right. Yeah, okay," the commanding officer said. "But"

"/That/ is the mutant I am currently in the process of tracking," Malthus explained. He turned, dropping to a crouch; the assault rifle was brought to hover just above the hood of the car in front of him. "/That/ is the task you pulled me from. For — what does this one do, again?"

"He — blows things. Up," the commanding officer said, voice shaking. "But he wants to — turn himself in, and—"

This time, it wasn't Malthus' voice that cut him off — it was the gunshot. Sharp. Quick. Instant. The mutant inside had just peeked out from under the counter — and suddenly, the wall behind him was painted red. His body slumped to the floor.

"Next time," Malthus told the officer as he rose back to his feet, "save us the trouble." He snapped the gun's safety back on and passed it to the soldier. As they returned to their vehicle, Malthus continued: "And just kill it."

"Sir, permission to speak?"

The question came from a younger soldier, dressed in preparation for the last battery of training before tomorrow's operation. Malthus glanced up from the monitor; on the screen was footage of the protest over the Mendel Clinic announcement.

"Of course, Sergeant. At ease; speak freely. My door is always open for my troops." The response came automatically; Malthus' full attention settled on the young man.

"Sir — it's — a bit of a personal question," the soldier admitted.

Malthus smiled, small and polite: "Ah. The scar?"

"No — I mean yes, but — well. There's — rumors going around that," the soldier continued, before taking in a breath: "You founded this organization because they — gave you that scar. Muties, I mean."

"Mutants," Malthus corrected, although his tone was gentle. "Please, Sergeant. Sit." He gestured to the chair in front of him; the sergeant quickly complied. Malthus then turned the monitor to him — showing him the frozen image of a man, colorful and bright, a moment away from being tased.

"Are you familiar with this man?" Malthus asked.

The soldier stared at the image for a few moments. "Yes, sir," he replied. "We've all been briefed on—"

"Jackson Holland," Malthus agreed. "Probably the most dangerous mutant in New York City."

"that's. Part of — I don't understand, sir," the sergeant admitted, his tone hesitant and cautious. "According to the briefing we were given, his only power is producing shields"

"His power," and now there was something piercing in Malthus' tone, "is not what makes him dangerous."

"—is it his. Politics?"

Malthus produced a world-weary smile: "No. It's because he loves us."

The soldier gave Malthus the blankiest of blank looks.

"Mmn," Malthus said, steepling his fingers. "I see I have lost you."

"He's dangerous because he… what?" the soldier asked. "Because he loves us?"

"Perhaps 'love' is too strong of a word," Malthus said, carefully. "But in the broadest sense — he saved the mayor from an assassination attempt; he saved Norman Osborn from rogue mutants — he even protected members of the NYPD. Why? Because," Malthus' eye focused back on the screen, "he refuses to yield to hate. To hate your enemies is to empower them, Sergeant. It's to make them into demons. To lose track of what they really are. I do not," Malthus turned, tone sharpening, back to the soldier, "hate mutants."

"…do you, uh." This question was asked much more hesitantly: "—love them, sir?"

Now, Malthus smiled; a rare, genuine expression of amusement: "I do not make the mistake so many men in this day and age make: I do not mistake hatred for strength and love for weakness. Love is strength. You must first come to understand them for what they truly are — you must come to accept them, embrace them, and yes — even love them."

"Then," Malthus added, his eye darkening, "you destroy them."

The most important thing to know about this meeting: There is tea.

Tea, and crumpets, laid out upon a silver tray; a pot, freshly prepared, sits on the table near the center of the otherwise windowless conference room.

Malthus Rogers enters, shortly after Rasheed Toure has been seated. The man is — well. If he's had a rough night, it's actually hard to tell. A slight /tightness/ in the way he walks; perhaps the faint edge of a bandage wrapping that extends above the cuff of his black shirt — but otherwise, he bares himself with all the ease and simplicity of a man who is unencumbered by injury or care.

"Dr. Toure," Malthus' voice is quick, brisk; he pauses, before extending a rough, well-worn hand: "A pleasure to finally meet you. I'm glad Ms. Lambton was able to arrange this. I believe," and there is here, the slightest /twist/ of a smile, "I've got something of yours."

Rasheed rises smoothly when Malthus extends that hand. His own attire is crisp, if unremarkable. Neat dark suit, neatly tied tie. He leans in to take that hand, his grasp firm. "Mr. Rogers." His head inclines, just slightly. He answers that smile with a small lift of eyebrows, his suit rustling very quietly as he takes his seat again.

"— Of mine?" It's quiet and curious. He leans forward to pour two cups of tea, dark eyes studying that smile for a long thoughtful moment. "Do you take cream or sugar?"

"—neither, Doctor." Oh so crisp, oh so polite; Rogers' grip is as firm as iron, but gentle enough to squeeze an egg without cracking the shell. When he releases, that tiny smile lingers. "Audrey Garrett. Interesting physiology. A living shadow." The hand retracts; Malthus slowly sinks to his seat.

"I have two others," Malthus continues. "A man who seems to be — a tree? And a man with an unusual ability to mold flesh and bone as if they were but putty. He demonstrated the latter ability on two of my soldiers. We are in the process of attempting to convince him to /undo/ this." Malthus pauses, before adding: "My troops met with a number of mutants, all with interesting powers. I'm hoping to secure clearance to have the intel forwarded to your offices — to see if any have passed through your system in the past." One final pause. And then:

"Are you familiar with a mutant by the name of 'Jackson Holland', Doctor?"

"Audrey Garrett." Rasheed echoes this name, quiet and considering. He sets one of the cups down in front of Malthus on a saucer, leaning back into his seat with his own. "I believe she styles herself Nox, of late. Her powers make " His lips press together, for a moment, " quite an interesting /complement/ to Holland's, don't they. Do you have /her/ in your custody?"

He tips his gaze down to his cup, examining the steam from it and just letting it sit for a while. "Quite familiar."

"Why," Rasheed asks this like a passing curiosity, "is she still alive?"

Now he picks up his tea, lifts it high enough to inhale the steam. "You did — what. Goodness," his murmurs is quieter, milder, "how did your men fare after that?"

"I'll soon know," Malthus responds to Rasheed. There is a /hint/ of displeasure there, too; guarded, but controlled. The distaste a man has for being called upon to do things he does not quite understand. But, that amusement soon returns, rich and pleased, at Rasheed's /second/ comment:

"Quite well, actually. How much do you know about Mr. Holland, Doctor? I do not mean to criticize," and here, a hand quickly rises — even as the other reaches for a cup of tea, "your handling of the situation. But I'm genuinely curious if you understand the nature of his weakness — and how best to exploit it. Had /I/ known his weakness in regards to light, he would no longer be a problem."

"His weakness?" Rasheed's eyebrows raise. He takes a small sip of his tea, and sets it back down on the saucer. He gives this a long furrowed-brow moment of consideration before answering. "I have had extensive chance to study Holland's abilities. The man carries, without a doubt, one of the most /potent/ powers I have encountered. Put him in sunlight, and he could " His head shakes, just slightly, " level this entire city. Put him in pitch darkness, though, and you may as well have stolen his oxygen. His body also lacks defenses against /itself/. Many mutants shut down, when they over-expend energy. He consumes himself when his other resources run dry. Fitting, perhaps," he decides, "for an activist."

"—goodness." And now, Malthus' eyebrows lift. "/That/ powerful. Thank you for informing me of this, Dr. Toure. That is — mmn. I see," Malthus soon adds, "I will have to deal with this situation much more /delicately/."

The tea lifts; Malthus pauses to blow off the layer of steam that has gathered around its rim. And then: "—I reviewed the footage of the conflict between himself and my men. I suspect he could have easily killed them; indeed, doing so would have all but guaranteed the survival of himself and his companion. He chose, instead, to prolong the conflict for the sake of ensuring everyone survived — putting himself at extraordinary risk of death to do so. That is his weakness. Give him the opportunity, and he will /kill himself/."

"That powerful," Rasheed acknowledges, with a small tip of head, and then, "— ah." There's a beat of silence. "Forgive me, I have studied the man as a scientist, I answer as a scientist. If we could process solar energy one tenth as efficiently as he does, the entire world would be — mmh." His fingers curl more tightly against his cup. "I've scrutinized his DNA quite thoroughly. His /brain/ quite thoroughly. I haven't dedicated nearly the same investment into studying his /mind/. /My/ weakness, there, I think." There's a slow drum of fingers against his cup, and he reaffirms without the mitigation: "— My weakness, there, yes. You know, I always imagined when he and his compatriots attacked our facilities, he held back for the sake of — they take mutant guards with them, when they can. Perhaps, though, he held back for the sake of /our/ men just as much."

Malthus' smiles — sincere, deep — when Rasheed acknowledges that he has studied the man as a scientist. "It is always a pleasant surprise," Malthus tells him, "to meet a man willing to acknowledge the limits of his particular approach. Yes, I highly suspect that — mmn, I do not have the data available on these raids — I would like access to that data very much, but only, of course, with your permission. But it would surprise me greatly," Malthus adds, "to discover that he has ever killed any of your men /himself/."

"—not to imply, of course, that I possess an extraordinary insight into the man," Malthus is quick to add. "But as an outsider looking in — one who is not a scientist, but rather, a soldier — one who is /familiar/ with the nature of — shall we say, 'insurgencies'? Mr. Holland strikes me as the sort who would prefer, whenever possible, to spare his enemies." Malthus pauses, to sip his tea. "And I am quite experienced when it comes to killing such men."

"We have — an abundance of such data," Rasheed admits with a small press of his lips, thinning in mild displeasure. "Earlier this year was — the first of /my/ facilities that had been attacked, but the /sixth/ in the project overall. Each with their own trove of footage and reports. I believe," he says thoughtfully, "that Holland was present at all attacks save the first." He exhales once, quickly. "— Well, no, the first, too. From a different vantage point."

He sips his tea, once more sets it back down. "It would be a shame in some ways. As I said, if we could figure out how to harness energy as he does — there would /be/ no energy crisis, Mr. Rogers, now or ever in future. But —" Another slow exhale. "But as is, I would be glad enough just to see an end to his interference in our efforts."

"mmn." Malthus produces — a tight, polite smile. "So /many/ mutants hold the keys to miraculous discoveries, Doctor. While I understand your hesitation to let one opportunity slip by, we have so /many/ more at our very fingertips." That smile fades, just for a moment. "as a soldier? As someone who has seen how insurgencies operate firsthand? I cannot over-emphasize just how important it is that Mr. Holland be neutralized. Along with several other mutants — I would actually like to forward the list to your offices, to see if you have any data on /them/."

The teacup descends with a gentle, delicate /clink/. Malthus' lips tense into a thin line. "—speaking of such opportunities. You once had a mutant in your possession, I believe? One with blood that conferred certain superhuman abilities to its imbibers — even humans."

Rasheed watches Malthus with steady curiosity. "— Given that you were not previously aware of his staggering offensive capabilities, I assume you are speaking of some other threat than just Holland's abilities?" His lips twitch, very faintly, almost a smile. Almost. "He has managed, as yet, to make them seem relatively harmless in the public eye."

His eyebrows raise at the last question. "We had such a specimen, yes. Unfortunately, lost, also to Holland's efforts. We did manage to begin synthesis of a drug to augment — well. It's hardly fit, yet, for actual use, but it is promising all the same."

"Mutants like Holland — Ms. Garrett — that one, on the news, responsible for stopping that train — even Erik Lehnsherr — they are lightning rods for the mutant community," Malthus explains. "Should they be allowed to continue living, they will push mutants to act; should they merely be slain by the government, they will become martyrs and galvanize the already tightly wound mutant population. It is imperative they disappear, quietly — die peacefully — or become otherwise discredited."

The mention of that last specimen catches Malthus' interest. Deeply. "We're investigating the possibility of /human/ augmentation with your drug. An independent government operation with the intent of using it to increase the effectiveness of our soldiers — to a point where they are capable of competing with mutants. We've made some strides, but no where near, I expect, as far as your research could take us. I would like," Malthus adds, "to know the mutant's identity. In case it becomes possible to — recapture him. And create — mmn. Something of a 'super soldier serum', I suppose," he says, though this last phrase earns a wryful twist of his lips.

"Ms. Garrett should be easy enough to discredit. The woman is a wanted murderer. Admittedly," Rasheed's displeasure presses his lips thin again, for a brief momet, "— her case made somewhat more sympathetic by that fiasco the police were involved in. Even so." His hand falls to his lap, knobbly thin fingers drumming agaist his knee. "Holland — perhaps more difficult. Reading the news, you would think the man is a saint."

His expression eases out into simple thoughtfuless on the subject of the drug, though. "We had made some progress, ourselves, with a drug that can augment humans — initial trials," he says with a tinge of regret, "prove more deadly than helpful, unfortunately. With further research, though —" Another slow drum of fingers. "It was the possibility of human augmentation — for military /or/ therapeutic purposes — that spurred the research. The mutant in question, though." His brows furrow, his head shakes. "Recapturing the individual will likely prove as much as curse as it is a boon."

"My superiors suspected as much. I was denied clearance to know even the mutant's name; everything I /do/ know has been verified only through an analysis of what few remaining blood samples we had left," Malthus explains, something /dry/ in his tone. He assuages this with yet another sip of tea. "I've been asked — pardon, no. /Ordered/ — to work with you in this instance — to put it more plainly, I am not to act in pursuit of this /particular/ mutant without first ensuring it in no way interferes with your project, Doctor. But I am /very/ interested," he adds, with just an edge of teeth to his tone, "in the potential military applications."

"This particular mutant interferes with my work quite frequently." Rasheeds tone is dry as well. His next sip of tea is longer. "Everyone is interested in the potential military applications." He says this quiet, mild, though there's the faintest edge of weariness in his voice. "This drug could help those who've suffered grievous injury. Assist immeasurably in the therapies of so many ailments. And yet —" His lips curl upwards, one hand turning over. "They always want to curtail my funding until I promise them better ways to kill."

His head shakes; his small hint of smile is an apologetic one. "Forgive me. I have nothing but respect for military institutions only — occasional frustration with some of the more limited viewpoints I encounter. — Mmnh. The individual in question poses no overly challenging problem inherently. Only — by association."

"—no, Doctor. Please, forgive /me/," Malthus says, lifting a hand up in a gesture of sudden contrition. "I am a soldier. In many ways, I see the world through a soldier's eyes. For a moment, I had forgotten," and Malthus produces yet another careful, guarded smile, "the nature of your profession. I cannot imagine how — mmn. /Exhausting/ it must be. To have your work valued only for its lethality, when your goal is so much more — wider? In scope. If it helps, our test subjects are almost universally combat veterans suffering from numerous injuries or terminal illnesses — individuals who are willing to put themselves under great risk for the opportunity to serve their country in a far more physical capacity. Our goal is to weaponize this serum, but we are also deeply interested in examining the medical benefits it could have."

"—association," Malthus says, repeating that last word with a raise of his eyebrows. And then, something humored — an uptick at the corner of his mouth. Almost a /grin/, with how it pulls and tugs at that scar, exposing more teeth. "Let me guess. Holland."

"I got into this work," Rasheed murmurs, half to his tea, "because I wanted to find an aid for neurodegeneration. In the years since I have found — so very many things. Many of them," with a wry note of humour, "even beneficial. Curiosity is perhaps a requisite component of science and I have been endlessly greatful for the opportunity to indulge mine. But it is, sometimes —" He reaches once more for his tea.

"— The man does," smoothly slips on to the next subject, a small twitch at the corner of his own mouth, "have somewhat of a gift for — inspiring those he takes from us. So very many of them return. Capturing his cohorts has a tendency to end in — well." His brows furrow, /almost/ as though the next is faintly puzzling to him: "— He takes it so personally."

"Neurodegeneration. How fascinating. The formula we're experimenting with actually has — an unusual impact — on neurodegenerative disorders," Malthus comments, a certain notable detachment sweeping over his voice, suddenly. "But, yes. It is regrettable that — we live in a world where your funding is, so often, only a component of your work's military applications."

"—mmn. Do you find that surprising, Doctor?" Malthus asks. Sounding almost… amused! By that puzzled furrow. "You're capturing his friends, his family, even his children — and dissecting them. If anything, their /restraint/ is what I find to be the most — puzzling, I suppose? Were I in their position," and now there is a wistfulness to his tone, as if he finds the very /prospect/ intriguing.

"I would kill every last one of us."

"The pair he now calls his children were among my first group of subjects." It might be a lament, there's something almost wistful in Rasheed's expression. Soon hidden, though, behind another sip of tea. His eyes close, for a moment, at Malthus's last statement. "Some of them would." His tone is still just thoughtful. His mouth gives another half-smile. "And the others, well. Perhaps — perhaps they are just better people than we are."

"Mmn. How extraordinary," Malthus says, on the mention of the children. "And still he does not? Oh," and here, Malthus' eyes crinkle with pleasure at that last comment, pleasure that swings down to join his mouth. "'better' is such a dangerous word, Doctor. More loving, perhaps? More sentimental. But," the pleasure evaporates, replaced with something very cold, very /sharp/: "Sentiment is a luxury we often cannot afford. Not if we are to create a place in which we can flourish. Let your enemies carry sentiment; let them love and fret and weep over every body you leave. But /your/ burden is greater; your purpose, higher. They look at what you have done, and see terrible things. I look to what you shall /do/, and see marvels. A world without disease, without…"

Malthus sighs, deep and long. "—my apologies, Doctor. I often ramble. It is a terrible weakness of mine. I beg your indulgence; I fear I have exposed myself as a foolish idealist." The cup of tea is sat down again; it is now empty. Malthus wears his most self-depreciating smile yet.

"They were not his children at the /time/," Rasheed clarifies, "their real parents were only too happy to — did you /watch/ any of the footage out of that travesty with the police?"

Malthus's words draw an actual smile from him, a glimmer of amusement entering his dark eyes. "Idealist," he turns this word over in his mouth. "I cannot imagine that is a descriptor often applied in your line of work. But perhaps you are. Building a better world takes a certain dedication to your task that — well. Maybe idealists are best suited for."

"…he adopted them. Yes, I saw. He adopted — oh, /my/," Malthus says, and now something — unusual! — overcomes his face. A full on smile; one that spreads to the very far corners of his expression. Pulling that scar into a wretched snarl of flesh; exposing more teeth, giving his expression a certain /viciousness/. "—how utterly /fascinating/."

"mmn. I find it is a balance," Malthus agrees, carefully, "between idealism and practicality. But one /must/ have — something to believe in. Beneath it all. I believe, above all else, Doctor, in progress. I suspect, perhaps, you are similar? I imagine it is — hard," a faint tap of teeth, "for you, sometimes. To balance — the pain you inflict, with the progress you pursue."

"Mmm?" Rasheed's eyebrows lift questioningly at that sudden smile. "Fascinating? Which part?"

His own expression settles into a very studied calm, after that. He leans forward to refill his teacup from the pot, another questioning lift of eyebrows asking Malthus if he would care for the same. "We /have/ made so much progress. There is so much progress yet to be made. Those I report to like to tout my accomplishments — mmm. As though figuring out how to control a man's brain is the high point of my career. I had a patient in the other day who suffered from Huntington's. Therapy our labs have discovered have stalled its progress entirely. I would be lying if I said it was not hard. But I think the gains are worth the cost."

"—that he would adopt children capable of such violence. Love them for what they are. It had not occurred to me — that contradiction. What an extraordinarily loving man," Malthus states, and it sounds — genuinely /reverent/. As if he were paying this man high praise, indeed.

"I agree, Doctor. The cost is extraordinary, but so are the prizes. But," Malthus continues, perhaps hesitantly, "do not over-extend yourself. There is no shame in occasionally surrendering to sentiment; only in making sentiment your Master." He reaches to offer his cup of tea for a refill.

"—a man in your situation. Likely has few he can confide in; few who understand. Many of my troops think of mutants as monsters; they dehumanize them, for the sake of making their task more easy. It is an indulgence I cannot allow for myself; to think of them as 'lesser' beings would make me less effective. I suspect you face the same difficulty; you cannot afford to treat them as animals. I apologize if I am being presumptuous."

Rasheed pours, carefully, filling Malthus's cup again and setting the pot back down. "Those children are capable of quite a lot." Something in his tone is gentled, here; it doesn't /sound/ like he is speaking of violence anymore. His expression remains neutral, though very carefully so; there are small twitches that suggest it's not a genuine composure. A tiny twitch of jaw, a tiny lowering of eyes. "Many of my orderlies do much the same. It would be so much easier," he admits, "if I could think of them as animals."

"—yes," Malthus responds, though — if he is replying to the comment about 'animals' or the comment about the children is not clarified. Perhaps it need not be; perhaps his intent is to respond to both. "Again, I apologize if this is presumptuous of me — but, if you wish to speak with someone on this matter. It is one I have a great deal of experience with," he adds. "My door is always open. The cost of progress is always high," Malthus continues, lifting his cup of tea to his mouth, "but it is not a burden you need bear alone."

Rasheed just smiles, a very small curl of his mouth. "Not presumptuous. Rather considerate, really. I imagine you as much as anyone understand the stresses this can bring." He lifts his tea for another sip, too, exhaling a quietly contented sigh of appreciation. "I can speak with my superiors about the patient. Though I personally should like nothing better than to quietly rid ourselves of /all/ that group."

"I find softness is, regrettably, a rarity in my profession," Malthus admits, not without a hint of sorrow! "—many people mistake concern and compassion for weakness. But yes; I have — many coping mechanisms. I fence," Malthus adds, with a /tiny/ drop of amusement. Before, finally:

"—mmn. Quietly. Perhaps, with the right approach," Malthus tells him, "we can convince them to do us that favor /themselves/."