ArchivedLogs:The Cost of Progress

The Cost of Progress
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Rasheed	2013-07-26 Post-Morlock raid, Rasheed and Malthus have a chat. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location Undisclosed
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/."