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Drinks or food of some kind were surely needed after dispatching two foul bloodsucking residents of Hell's Kitchen, something to wipe away the memory of bodies bloated on stolen blood turning to ash in the purifying flames of a mutant's charged gift. Something to banish the memory of breaking glass and a distorted voice hissing, "Delicious," in a curdling sibilance grating on the ears.
Scarlett, as the resident oracle for all things worthy in the vicinity of nicer parts of the city, threads the way out of the Kitchen and into another of those burgeoning regions of New York. Greenwich Village is home, a place the redhead bohemian knows back and forwards. Plunging into the fray puts them squarely on a track for one of the city's many pizzerias, albeit this one's claim to fame is a molten hot, cheesy purgatory and deep booths where the pastiche of cultures and ethnicities gather to feast on the finest pie one can buy for about a buck. She covers that, naturally.
"When they call Jack and Bobby, you go up and get it," she says over her shoulder to John with a grin. "I'm sure the momentary flustered response will be worth it, right?" Because they're all Kennedys.
*
Sinjin can't help a laugh at that, in spite of the circumstances. Cheekiness is an admirable trait in his world. "I'm all for flustering people when the opportunity arises." He gestures for Scarlett to sit before he joins her. When it suits him, he does have manners.
"That was a first for me today," he says, once they're settled. "And I thought I was running out of firsts."
*
Lynette sat there, unsure of what to say. She had lingered, her hands brushing over her arms. Once the other two had sat down, she, too, takes up a seat. She gives smiles to the pair and glances at the door, then around, trying to make sure she was, infect, allowed here and in her section. "'m sorry." She begins, going from Rogue, to Sinjin, and back again. "F'worryin' y'two earlier. T'inkin' I was sick. Guess y'can tell where dat smell was comin' from." Clearing her throat, she presses her fingers on the flat of her chest. "'m Lynette."
*
Scarlett's ordering follows whatever the others prefer; her only requirement is not to have a pile of pepperoni on a crust with nothing else. At least half will need a sprinkling of chopped green pepper or slices of tomato, something to lend a flavourful dimension beyond the lava sauce and cheesy goodness being served up on worn wooden platters by a uniformly Italian staff that probably all share the name Giovanni, or John to keep the Americans happy. She brings over a bottle of pop, the lid already removed, and two glasses. "Normally I don't suggest self-medicating this way, but a bit of fizz could be just the thing. Hope no one minds?" The bottle is plunked down on the tabletop and she eases into a spot by the others. They can sit wherever they like, and it's fair enough to say that Scarlett has a tiny bit of cachet to allow someone with her a spot to eat. Any glares are met with a flat, emerald stare that would best suit a tiger sizing up a deer or goat for a quick snack.
"You needn't apologize. If you had any sense those horrors were there, you were one better than I." The tightness to her voice speaks to the irritation for missing the obvious, even though she gives the pair a rueful smile. "The point is, both of you are well and fairly good. Nothing that a few slices of pizza can't fix, at any rate. I'm Scarlett." She doesn't reach out her hand; not too odd, is it? Albeit the girl is wearing gloves, and her backpack with the precious hemispherical purchase seated between her feet. And there's that minidress, speaking to her fashion mores. "Sincerely though, the two of you were outstanding. You didn't scream and flee."
*
"St. John Allerdyce." Sinjin didn't miss Lynette's recoil from touching his hand earlier, and it's impossible not to notice Scarlett's preference for lack of personal contact. Whatever the reason, he's happy to let it lie. "I hope everyone's intact, at least physically. And I'd like to say I haven't seen worse, but… Creepier, no. That was definitely a new pinnacle for creepy." He pulls out his notebook to add a few points to the information he was collecting.
"I gave up journalism at one point and I'm starting to think I should have left it that way. Of course, I think that every time." While he's writing, he notices ash on the sleeve of his velvet jacket and makes a face. "Pardon me." He gets up again to, carefully, slide the jacket off and drape it over the back of his seat. Vampire ash and pizza are not a combination he plans to sample today.
*
Lynette glances at the woman across from her, but she doesn't lift her hand. She had had too many 'touches' in the last couple of days. She at least smiles to both, nodding to them as their names are given. "Why run? I mean, dat's de smart t'ing t'do, right? Guess, well…guess we all a bit special." She accepts a slice for herself, starting to stuff it away as she was know to do. She eats as if this might be her last time eating, and the helping is quick to disappear and round out her cheek.
She chews and watches the pair whenever they speak, her dark eyes skipping about and remembering to be aware of the front door and any other patrons that may be around. "Dis whole city openin' up t'somet'ing…wrong. Dark."
*
"Live to see another day," the redhead offers in a lilting voice, almost singing. She rests her wrist on the tabletop, toying with one of the napkins. Their pizza, the two glasses for Coke, and good company help brush away the memory of being dinner to a dead horror. "Different, that might be a fine way to describe us. How long have you been swallowing fire?" she asks Sinjin, tracking her finger in a bent shape, akin to a less than sign. Doing equations on the table, that's her, dragging out a bead of water left by the last person to wipe the top down and lengthening its legs slightly. "You're a journalist? I attend Columbia; their journalism school is said to be second to none, if you have the grit for it."
If he's showing that notebook, lovely; if not, then she refrains from making a point of openly peering at it. The pizza here is good, a landmark for the area, and the spices fresh and sharp. "The city bubbles with turmoil and uneasiness. The whole business in Central Park casts a long shadow, and those of us who actually leave our dusty ivory towers feel tremors and the anticipation you have before a thunderstorm breaks. It's that tight tension right here." A long manicured finger taps her temple. "Something is going to break if that source in the park isn't shut, and I doubt the police have the least idea how to do that. I fear the primary sources who might wouldn't be those participating in the cordon. I'll have to ask."
*
Sinjin's notebook is visible but it's full of a weird amalgam of shorthand and Korean. "The fire? Mid-teens, I guess. I think it started earlier but it's the kind of thing you don't notice until you need it. And things were weird enough for me then anyway." The Coke and pizza go a long way to clearing the burnt-flesh taste out of his mouth. "I went to journalism school of a sort — I just started chasing a story years ago, ran it down, chased another one." He doesn't look old enough for anything to have been 'years ago' the way he says it, with a heavy weariness to it.
He scans the room, glances toward the door, scarred fingers drumming the tabletop. "That thing in the park — that tension is not the kind of thing anyone can ignore, not even with a lot of drink. Can you actually feel it?" He asks Lynette. "Or you?" He looks at Scarlett.
*
Lynette stares across to Scarlett, listening, intently, and nodding here and there, even as she keeps feeding her face. She then looks to John when he speaks about his abilities. Reaching for a napkin, she cleans off her mouth and starts nursing from her own Coke. She doesn't say a word, there's an odd shift in her eyes, some glimmer of knowing as she lingers her attentions on the fops face. "Hmm?" Then she realizes she was asked a question. "Oh! Oh, yeah. Felt it 'lot when I use t'sleep dere. Got t'be too much. T'ankfully, I got a place t'stay now."
*
With the pizza delivered, Scarlett is the last to help herself. She has to do something about her gloves, stripping one off and then nimbly reaching out to detach a generously sliced triangle from the diminishing pie. But let's be real: it's huge, more than enough for three hungry young people to devour. Her own preferences using small bites, neat and tidy, speak to manners, the kind enforced with an iron rod and a demanding smile, something that would take her into the diplomatic upper echelon. They might be surprised how quickly the triangle vanishes, without a whole lot of evidence of her chewing. Putting it down onto her plate unfinished, she dabs her fingers off on a napkin before speaking. "Stories begin that way. You tease out a detail and follow the thread all the way to the end, or the beginning. Doing it under the auspices of asking the question, wherever would that lead you?" The corner of her mouth lifts all the same.
"The thing in the park alters patterns completely. I've watched the results concretely and discretely; what I mean to say is they are obvious, and the subtler effects are something I have a pulse on simply by being in it," Scarlett explains. "I had the misfortune of meeting one of those… visitors… that popped through, and it ended rather messily. I want the park back. It's only mildly worse now than before, but at least I knew the dangers were other people, at least. Now, it could be anything." She could be talking about wild dogs, to say the least. "I'm glad you have somewhere better than that, Lynette. Real estate in this city is impossible to find."
*
"I suspect that, as with most things out of the ordinary, the usual authorities are going to struggle with dealing with it. Disbanding the Avengers at this juncture seems myopic." Sinjin looks irritated. "My first thought was that it was a military experiment gone wrong but there isn't enough Army presence to account for that. I'd hoped it was some kind of mistake from our end but, whatever it is, I am guessing it was generated from the other side. Which suggests that is where the answer lies. Not my department at all. I'm just a novelist who can't stay in his lane these days."
"My skills, limited as they are, would be put to best use on this side of things. Street-cleaning, so to speak." Sinjin leans back in his chair and exhales sharply, then runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not a heroic type. Hell, I'm hardly even civic-minded. But this nonsense — especially with all the rest of the bad news in the papers — is not going to help…" He pauses, and then gives in to the idea. "…us. People like us. Which is why I dragged myself out of a very comfortable occupied bed to find out more. Vampires have not clarified things any."
*
Lynette keeps her silence for now, just listening as the two talk and share ideas. She slows her chewing, swallowing what's still in her cheeks and then cleaning at her fingers and mouth. She nods when spoken to, and looks to each person whenever they speak.
*
"What about yourself?" The question tips towards Lynette, even as Scarlett keeps drawing runes with her fingertips on the tabletop out of the water left behind. She adds a thorn after the bent '<' sign, proof she is listening even if her creative mind engages in another sense. "This nonsense causes me more than a little concern. It escalates the situation if we don't have some coordinated means to protect ourselves. The Avengers are a new group, and perhaps they are just as troubling as any, but they were backed by the government. Their absence concerns me that any individuals with a variety of talents are now going to fall under scrutiny." Her mouth tightens slightly, the generous line of her lips compressed at the corners, and she drops her too-vibrant jade gaze to the tabletop rather than fluster anyone. "The unfortunates in the Kitchen that we handled are a symptom, but they leave an inevitable question: what is going to happen once they are gone? Or what if this is the new state of normal for us?"
*
"I think we only need to look at some recent history to know how badly this could go for us." Sinjin's expression is fairly inscrutable — a mix of unhappiness at the history and something else. "My skill has always been my writing, not whatever I can do with a lighter. I was hoping to mitigate some of the fast-selling hysteria in the news by dropping the counterweight of reality on the scales. The truth rarely sells but I have to do what I can. Are there any existing…groups, I suppose…that share our interests?"
*
Scarlett resumes eating her pizza while he speaks; again she applies that gracious sense of etiquette to dine politely rather than casting herself in a darker light. She nods to the young man's concerns, her own no less gravely rendered upon her marble face. "My wishes do not easily align with the reality of this city, and the weight of society behind New York. How can we reach out to bridge the fear and the divide, when we cannot even treat people of another colour the same as ourselves? When we are so bound up in our divisions, the mere notion someone would have an advantage over another is frightening and rightly so. But also, it's not right, and there must be some way to address that. I am terribly afraid we are going to be caught on our back foot, an agenda given to us instead of a narrative we establish ourselves on our terms. I don't know, how do we tackle this? Do we step out and make it clear we can help and do good things like any other citizen, and not only on the basis of our powers? Maybe that has to be the route, the first trailblazers step out there and challenge preconceived notions using some of the ideas Doctor King suggests: non-violent, as much as possible. Show that differences are limited. As for groups, there aren't very many. The Avengers are the most visible. The Fantastic Four are… " She gestures in a circle. "Four of them, not exactly open. I am swiftly becoming of the mind we need an organization, we need a shared interest. Are we forging those beginnings in a pizza parlour? It's very revolutionary. Hamilton and Madison probably would have, if they had a pizza parlour."
*
Sinjin can't help laughing at that. "We can't be the only ones thinking like this. This has everyone worried, and I've talked to some people who are hanging out with the cockroaches — morally, at least. It's not surprising. When a true crisis hits, you often see the best of people surface." Sinjin runs a finger down his glass, watches the condensation coalesce into heavy drops that streak down the side.
"Just takes something to break the tension between all the little clusters of humanity. I can't help feeling that people like the Avengers and the Four don't quite have the streets-eye view, the small human scale perspective, that some of us have." He's quiet a moment before admitting, "I do well enough for myself these days but I was sleeping rough before I was old enough to drive. I'm worried about the people who are still in that position. They're the ones who are going to suffer most. The wealthy and the useful, the obedient, are going to be unscathed until the last minute. Asking the vulnerable to step out and reveal themselves is too much. People like myself, though…" He's going to have to step up, isn't he? "Maybe more of us should be open about what we are. Maybe it would help."
*
Maybe Scarlett reads high class. She could; the Columbia degree in the works suggests she's at least smart, and the refined diction that's hers to command hints at money or a background. But she lives in the Village among the hoi polloi; which one she belongs to, without straddling, is an open question. "We have the profound moment to choose, and I think this is essential to our understanding. Events are still pushing forward and haven't reached their peak as far as I can tell, but they are moving forward and higher. Mutant Town is a ghetto," she stresses this softly, voice low, "and if some elements had their choice, it would be exactly the same as the Eastern European ones where people with an obvious difference will be completely segregated, a city within a city. Maybe they'll put some nice police officers outside to keep the city from bothering the inhabitants, but we know the real reason is to keep the undesirables in. These are imminent questions that need answers, suggestions, at least a conversation before the choice is made for everyone who might be different. Civil rights means more than people of colour or different ethnic background. It means the dimension of everyone else, but I'm sure you know that." Her smile is a faint, vaguely sad wisp that covers a honed edge of adamantium; behind the belle is a mind.
"So, you have the vulnerable hiding what they are. We don't want to wear our yellow stars, we don't want to alarm those who haven't got a gift because they deserve to be treated the same as someone who can read your thoughts or shape water into the most wondrous shapes." The redhead ponders this, resting her fingers in the table and tapping out a complex rhythm. "You know, I wasn't kidding about Hamilton and Madison. But you know what we could do? They had anonymous letters in the day. They used dialogues in the papers, and that isn't altogether farther off than going on the news or a television or radio program. Start here: 'A Patriotic Metahuman in New York.' Or 'A Citizen's Rebuttal: Hello, we're just like you.' We could lay groundwork, surely, and the pen is mighty enough. People think and talk. It doesn't have to be in the Times, it could be in the Bugle or just on the street. Talk about it, gather up those who can't get the same voice as someone rich on their own. Enough of them, though, they can speak as a group. A group is much harder to silence, a group is also much harder to disappear."
*
"Well, if it's journalism you want, I'm your man. And I can get some acquaintances working on the topic as well," Sinjin says, nodding. "We need the human interest stories — emphasis on the human. People can't pass up a good narrative. I'll see where I can get a story in. If you know anyone else who does this kind of work, put them in touch with me?" He rummages for his wallet, in the inner pocket of his jacket, and comes up with it at last.
"The phone number should stay the same — I haven't been evicted yet, but we'll see. Feel free to call if you need anything, or if anyone you know does. I've never been a joiner," he says, relinquishing the card. "I'm not good with people long-term. I've managed on my own for years." He pauses, looks at the scars on his hands, then exhales. "I don't know if I'll get past the habit myself, but I wouldn't want anyone else to suffer for lack of someone to call."
*
The bohemian curls up her napkin, folding the edges in on themselves, approaching something like art if one is generous in their perspective. The bend of the triangle forms something of a beaky head. "Journalist we can do. Human interest stories, yes, and a few editorials here and there. The pressure kept on the government for experimentation that was in the paper is only one angle; another showing these are just children, normal adults, people with the same concerns as everyone else is a good thing. I knew a journalist. Venn, I think his name was? I have not seen him about in a while, though, but he rather owes me for getting him out of range of trouble." She races her fingertips through the creases folded there, and then she reaches out to take the card from him. Scarlett's gaze is even. "If you are, come to the Village and ask for me. I might be able to find a place to put you up. I know enough people in this neck of the woods, and all you have to do is say you write. That's enough to open doors. Half of us are starving artists and the other half are rich kids playing at art."
She gives him a direct, unwavering gaze. "I mean what I say. My own experience is chequered by trouble and difficulty. I appreciate the need to cut and run, and trust will only come with time so I will not ask you to take my word for it. But the ability to choose and act in our own best interests in important. Let's see what we can do. Gather up whom you can, let's start talking, meeting, showing one another it's okay to come out of the shadows to one another. Not everyone will be nice, but it's better than hiding."
*
"Oh, I've always been a both-feet kind of person. That's how I get myself in trouble — that's also how I get my stories. You have to commit to an idea, to the pursuit of it." Sinjin looks pensive, leaning back in his chair, bouncing one knee a little. "I don't make friends, don't keep them. But I'll do what I can. I'll be around, which is… not how I usually am. I skip in and out of lives, like a stone. I'm not good at this kind of thing, actually connecting, but I will try."
*
"Is there any other way to go?" Laughter linking words to smile, Scarlett finishes the crumpled up napkin bird. "Cheep-cheep." She wiggles its wings at Sinjin, bopping it across the floor. "How do we pull them in? The obvious ways are not always so easy. We almost need word of mouth pulling them together, to see if we can get people who trust other groups pulling one another along. This isn't going to be a March on Washington." Her lips pucker into a tight circle, and she sighs. "I can see the headlines now. 'Mutants riot; attempting uprising.' It won't come to that."
*
"We use what's already there," Sinjin says. "It's the only way to go. You have to integrate to make change. People already have their own support networks in place. We have to find them and learn them and participate. And then they speak to each other, they make their own moves." He's gotten information out of people, moved from network to network in the underworld, by that same strategy. "We find people, like us, who are already coming together. There's out there. In Mutant Town. In other places. It just remains to find the little clusters and break the tension between them so they come together."
*
"Mutant Town, the rest. It sounds like a start," agrees the young woman, and she tips her head back. "We pull them back rather than connecting them under an umbrella at any institution or organization at the moment. If we are a network, we are underground for the moment. Or we can call ourselves something eventually, but it's enough to be together sharing thoughts. It's hardly as if we are sons and daughters of the American Revolution or something equally fancy." Her smile arcs up higher. "How about that? Then you touch base with me, or I you, and we see where it goes from there?"