Logs:Jax vs. SHIELD

Jax vs. SHIELD
Dramatis Personae Jax, Shield NPCs	May - November 2022 << Is this appropriate? >> (rippling into some highly unauthorized visitation.)
Location S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ
May 13. Jax's suite. The man who had introduced himself curtly as "Chevy" waves a thick ID card (bearing Jax's mugshot and name) in front of a touchscreen embedded into the wall beside the door (also bearing Jax's name), which promptly opens onto an amply sunlit room. It's not large and the furnishings are aggressively bland, but it looks comfortable enough. "You stay here." His gravelly voice grates against his thick French accent. Behind them there's a lot of quiet shuffling and chattering as the other detainees are shown to their respective cells. He steps inside and indicates another touchscreen on the other side of the wall from the first one. "This panel, you can use to contact security and staff." He hands Jax the ID card by its lanyard. "Do not make some trouble, if you please." Still absorbed in taking in the common area -- which looks like nothing so much as a hotel lounge with a large flatscreen TV -- Jax seems almost startled when the door opens up to spill sunlight out into the room. He drifts inside, brows pulling towards each other as he wanders toward the window. When Chevy speaks he pulls his gaze away from the slightly bemused look he was giving his new and somewhat unconventional confinement, turning a faintly curious glance on his grizzled captor. "Didn't guess I had much choice in that, sir," he replies with a small but polite smile, accepting the ID card to fidget with it restlessly between fingers a little too pale, a little too shaky. "Though now I am mighty curious what might be that you consider 'trouble' 'round here?" The head of containment narrows his eyes at Jax, then glances back out at the common area and the guards lingering there, unsure what to do with themselves. "To attack my people. To free yourself and the others. Like so." He shrugs muscular shoulders, extracts a pack of Gauloises from a pocket, shakes one out and sticks it in the corner of his mouth without lighting it. "But I have...how you say, no rocks for throwing. Maybe it is your duty, also." He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and salutes Jax with it before stalking back out to bark at his subordinates. May 19. Infirmary. Dr. Moreno is frowning over and not through his thin-framed glasses, glancing between his console's display and a tablet propped up on the desk beside it. At last he shakes his head. "Forgive me, Mr. Holland. I had thought that your medical records from DHS were all over the place because their personnel were incompetent or inattentive, but our tests also turned up all over the place." He takes off his glasses and polishes them carefully with a lens cloth that he's produced from somewhere as if by sleight of hand. "If you're willing to tolerate a bit more poking and prodding, I'd like to run a full metabolic panel to make sure you haven't spontaneously developed diabetes." Jax has been sitting on the edge of the elevated exam table, legs swinging with a staccato thump-thump, the tip of his tongue flicking rapidly at one lip ring. The flicking stops at the question. The thump of his heels does not. "Welllll --can't say as I'm the biggest fan of too much more poking and prodding," his drawl comes with an excessive mildness, here. "Would it help if I just told you I have done? Nearenough you can treat it the same for now, anyhow. My metabolism'll come correct when I can photosynthesize again." "Ah." Dr. Moreno's eyes widen so faintly that it's hard to read the reaction. Surprise? Dismay? It takes him a moment to recollect himself while carefully resituating his glasses. "I see. In that case I can requisition a glucose monitor for you and go over a diet plan if you need or want the guidance." His lips compress, also faintly, and his voice is even quieter than usual when he adds, "Though I imagine that you have done this before." June 2. Kitchen.' There are several hefty bags of groceries on the kitchen counter, in a haphazard state of being unpacked. Jax seems to be rearranging the cabinets while he unpacks them, freely reorganizing the space as suits his current fancy. He's paused at the moment, though, frowning as he takes a head of lettuce out of the bag. His brows scrunch deep and he peers through the other bags, nose wrinkling up as he sets the lettuce down. "I know you got green leaves," he is complaining at the vegetable, "but that don't make you no collard greens at all." Coulson has been hovering awkwardly nearby, fingers drumming on the supply cart he'd used to bring up the groceries as he hems and haws about whether he should offer to help put them away. At Jax's complaint he frowns. "Oh! That is pretty different." << Instacart isn't always very reliable... >> His words come out at a slight delay from his thoughts, though the intonation is identical. "Instacart isn't always very reliable. You know, I get groceries at the Union Square greenmarket. Well, and the Whole Foods across the street, if I can't find it." He frowns and bites his lower lip hard. "Well, unless it's just not something you can find here. Like jaboticaba. Sorry, I'm rambling, you probably don't need jaboticaba, though it is delicious..." << Is this appropriate? What's the protocol for any of this? >> His fingers tap faster. "...sooo...if you give me a list, I can just pick it up on my grocery trip." Jax leans against the counter, hands braced to either side of the offending head of lettuce. He's leveled his gaze on Coulson, brows hiked high over the rims of his sunglasses. There's a long of silence, only his blankly mirrored gaze stretching between them, before his softly pleasant drawl breaks it. "Well, now, I really am gettin' the whole entire luxury prison experience, ain't I? My own personal shopper from the Whole Foods an' all. Guess if I want to be makin' these folks some food tastes like home to them I'll be getting you that list." June 28. Rooftop. It's blazing hot out, even in the shade of trees high above the city with a steady breeze. Agent Ally Sparks's beanpole silhouette is easy to recognize where she's planted herself beneath a willow tree, her lunch tray balanced across her knees. It's not actually pleasant for her out here, the heat playing poorly with both her sharp black pantsuit and her northern blood, but she's relieved just to be away from her colleagues and, most of all, from her boss. Her sullen expression brightens (with an effort) the moment she hears steps approaching. "Hey! Sorry, don't mind me, I'm just trying to get away from the testosterone poisoning down there." Her blush is sudden and deep enough to show on her warm brown skin. "Uhhh down in our staff room, I mean." Jax has brought his own lunch up here, but stops short at the sight of the guard. He hesitates, fingers tightening on his bowl, before continuing in to settle himself at a patio table nearby. "Can't say I blame you, plenty times I need a break from my coworkers even when they're all bein' lovely." His nose wrinkles, a faint blush darkening his cheeks. "-- guess I got myself kinda an extended one, now. Someone bein' particularly full of machismo today?" "Oh. Sorry, uh. That's -- probably more break than you were bargaining for, eh?" That Ally doesn't blush now is almost entirely because her face is already red. << Oof, I really shouldn't joke about that maybe. >> "But, yeah. Chevy's out of his disgusting French cigarettes. He can't get more because there's some kind of supply shortage, and he won't smoke anything else because..." << …he's a caricaturish man-baby? >> She affects an exaggerated shrug in lieu of voicing her theory. "So he's crankier than usual, and his baseline is already Pretty Cranky. I'd steer clear of him for a while if you can, but if he says anything like. Inappropriate? Let me know, or Agent Coulson. He shouldn't get to take that out on you." July 22. Kitchen. The rangy teen hovers at the doorway of the kitchen for a long moment before continuing in with a resolve. It isn't quite enough resolve to stop him looking down at the floor instead of Jax when he says, "I'm sorry I never eat much. It's not that your cooking isn't good, it's the medication, you know?" He straightens up a little, smiling a half-forced smile. "But I like cooking. I mean I'm not that good at it, but I used to help --" Help his dad, he was going to say, with a wave of grief and homesickness. Instead, "Can I help you?" "You don't got nothin' to apologize for, sugar, that stuff don't do nothin' good for the appetite." Jax is in the middle of an organized sort of chaos, several pans and pots on the stove, the oven on as well, a number of vegetables in various states of peeling and washing scattered around the counters. "And Lord knows neither do being locked up in here. Still, there's anything that might catch your particular fancy even a little, you tell me an' maybe I'll see what I can scrounge up, yeah? Can't hurt none to have a proper familiar meal when everything's so --" His nose wrinkles, cheerful smile screwing briefly to one side. He barely misses a beat, though, before flipping a wonderfully sharpened santoku knife handle-out to Kevin and gesturing with it to a pile of onions. "-- well. Everything. You made corn chowder before? This one tastes just like you caught summer right in the pot." Kevin's brows scrunch briefly as he makes a halting attempt at remembering what he actually likes to eat. "I've never made corn chowder, but I like creamed corn casserole, so..." He doesn't actually know what he meant to say after "so", but having the knife in his hand seems to ground him somewhat. "Honestly I kind of miss junk food. You know, like McDonalds and stuff." He shifts his grip on the handle carefully, lessons about knife safety long ingrained, as he goes to the onions. "So, you want this diced?" August 26. Rooftop. Several of these beds are fairly barren, a few sad tomato plants straggling their way up between their cages and a handful of somewhat more flourishing herbs dotting one of the borders. The dirt staining Jackson's overalls, the compost and seeds beside him, suggest that he has designs on changing this -- though perhaps he has a ways to go, currently laboring on hands and knees with a hand cultivator at one of the weedy and too-packed beds. The sprayer head on the garden hose neatly coiled nearby suddenly pops off, but instead of flooding onto the ground the water flows up, up above the garden beds to spill down again into a hemispherical dome, a cloche made out of falling water that never quite hits the ground before flowing back up to its source, an uncanny water fountain in the air. A parabolic door opens in the curtain of water, and through it steps Remy Heidlage. "I hope you don't mind the theatrics, but I wanted a private word, and this is better than any white noise generator you can build or buy." The "door" closes behind Remy, who's pacing leisurely around the edge of the garden beds. "We're the same. We fought against our own enslavement, and now the elites in Washington are scared." He stops and looks down at the soil Jax is working on. "They "should" be afraid of us, not internationally bankrolled agents of chaos like Lensherr. We know the way to the future is our God-given gifts, not machines." He kneels and looks directly into Jax's eyes. "We should find out what we can do for each other. What our folks out there can do for each other." Jax glances up at the flowing curtain of water with a curious startle, though he's turned his attention back to his dirt by the time Remy steps through. The prongs of his cultivator dig hard into the earth, loosening at a thick clump of soil. His mouth twitches just a touch at one corner, and finally he rocks back on his heels, bracing a grubby hand against the edge of the garden bed. "Personally I've always thunk the way to the future's through buildin' strong solidarity with all oppressed communities out there. Ain't none of us free 'till all of us are, after all." His eye flutters open wider, head tilting up toward the militia man. "Come to mention it, ain't you an' I sitting tight in a cage in here while Lensherr's free on the outside? Gosh, but I sure do wonder who they're more scared of right now." September 12. Common Room." Lorenzo unfolds the dogeared envelope to reveal a stack of instant photographs, handling them with gentle reverence. "My sister dug up pop's old Polaroid so it would be easier to send me pictures. Here, this is my Bea." He holds out a photo of a teenage girl with a round, rosy face and loose glossy black curls. She's smiling up into the camera, which is pointed down at her from a few inches above her outstretched hands. "She was so afraid of her powers after what happened. I want to be happy she's curious about what she can do, but..." He suddenly looks tired, old beyond his years. "I lie awake so many nights thinking, what if it lands her in jail like me, or worse? I can't even imagine what it's like for you." "Gosh, what an angel she looks." Jax is taking the picture with just as much care, his fingers gentle on its edges. He's chewing on his lip a moment before he hands it back, looking down at the cushioned arm of the chair he's tucked himself into and not at Lorenzo. "Can't say I don't worry about 'em plenty," he admits, softly. "But the world's gonna do what it's gonna do, no matter how much fretting I do. Best we can do, I figure, is raise 'em up to be happy, an' raise 'em up to be good people." His smile is warm as his eye flicks up to his companion. "Bein' confident 'bout who you are, it's an important step there." October 15. Fitness Center. Bennet du Paris works out religiously -- and it shows in his impressive musculature -- though not usually at this time of night. He's not in workout clothes, either, just the fine unbleached linen kurta and gi pants he wears most days. His progress across the room is leisurely, but his mind is a chaos of pride and defiance battering without success against the despair that has driven him here. Is he not an agent of the divine? Was he not chosen to prepare the world for Apocalypse? The signs cannot be denied! And yet... "Excuse me." His voice isn't soft, exactly, but it lacks his characteristic tone of haughty conviction. "I know we're very -- different men, and I'm sure you don't have much love for my faith, but I've come to realize..." He hesitates, his jaw working. << This isn't a betrayal of my sacred duty. It's just another way to approach it. God hasn't called me — or them — to toil alone. >> "I was wrong," he says finally, blunt and resigned. "I misused my gifts, and that's on me. Maybe if I'd listened to and learned from others blessed like me --" He tips his hand toward Jax, his deep-set eyes hauntingly steady even in his distress. "-- I might not have gone so far astray. But I'd like to try, now. Listening and learning." In the gym, late at night, Jax is far less colorful than he normally looks around their odd prison -- alabaster pale without his bright hair and bright makeup, in plain black and blue shorts and tank and trainers. He's just in the middle of straightening from a back squat as Bennet approaches, and leaves the hefty barbell seated on a u-shaped transluent platform that manifests in the air beneath it, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. His head tips to one side, his bright blue eye regarding the other man steadily in return through a slow swig of water before he takes a step closer, drops a hand gentle but firm onto Bennet's shoulder. "Good an' bad thing about this fight, brother. Gonna be fighting it a long time yet. Plenty of room still for you to be joinin' us now, and the world always needs men who know how to learn an' grow." November 17. Common room. The common room has been dramatically rearranged today, set up like someone is ready for a party -- lavish bright-sparkle twinkly-light bounty-of-balloons decorations that have been set up here by someone with an overabundance of zeal. There's a table heaped with treats and drink, another for the elaborately frosted and candle-studded cake -- another holds the laptop that supposedly will allow Lorenzo to celebrate with his on video call. Jax, looking bright himself in vividly patterned overalls, bright rainbow colored sweatshirt, bird-of-paradise hued hair, is now off to the side leaning up against a ribbon-festooned armchair. His smile is bright and cheerful to Kitty when she arrives in person with the birthday girl, when Lorenzo's stunned surprise turns to pure elation. A shower of sparkling fireworks scatter noiselessly around the ceiling, scintillating in a rainbow of hues and scattering into butterflies that flutter off to perch -- mostly on the furniture, though one, glimmering in a lavender tone that matches the birthday girl's dress, fluttering down into her hair. Agent Coulson, looking a bit self-conscious in a staid black suit and glittery lavender party hat, is standing more or less exactly where he stopped when someone handed him a slice of cake. He watches the detainees and visitors -- he has dossiers on most of them -- gather to be introduced to Bea. He watches Chevy -- utterly unself-conscious about his party hat -- herd his guards out, his abundance of French profanities today light and almost cheerful. He watches the whole party with a sort of placid alarm, fretting vaguely how he's going to explain this to Director Fury. Then gives a mental shrug of << (...if you can't beat 'em...) >> and starts in on his cake. It's delicious, of course.