Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 12
Continued from yesterday:
There was a game of pok-ball in progress when the tour party emerged. The President watched with a mixture of confusion and delight.
“I’ve seen this on the news,” he grinned. “How do you play, exactly?”
Callisto clapped Sara on the shoulder. “Show the man, sky-high. You, too, Mort.” She waited until they were both out of earshot. “Mr President - a private word?”
The leader of the free world gave a nod to his security guys, who gave them space. To anyone else, it looked like she was explaining the game during a moment of relaxation. But this was more urgent business.
“Strictly between you and me, sir, some of us aren’t doing too well in the cage. Sara’s about the worst,” she said.
“She seems in fairly high spirits to me…”
“That’s the problem. It only *seems* like high spirits, but - she makes her own entertainment… usually at other people’s expense. I give her half an hour, tops, before she realises exactly *who* she’s been wisecracking to and implodes.”
A sidelong look that barely concealed alarm. “Please tell me you don't mean that literally?”
“It’s a mental thing. She’s stressed out beyond belief, sir. Please. You *have* to be here to forgive her when she wakes up to herself. We've been lucky, keeping her seizures out of the public eye, but–”
“She’s epilleptic?”
“Not… exactly. It’s hard to explain without knowing her, sir. All I’m certain of is that they’re stress-related. Giving her something to do… a method of play… they’re stopgaps and everyone here knows it. She’s done a lot for everyone here and she’s completely unaware of it and… damnit… She needs better help than we can give.”
The President nodded. “I’ll see what I can arrange,” he said. “And now, the press expects me to join in. Basic rules?”
“Keep the ball in the air. If you *must* use your hands, use the back, like you’d punch a volleyball. You break the ball, you owe Mort a dollar.”
“He expects to collect?”
“He’s keeping a tab.”
The President boggled briefly, but boldly stepped forward and had a go. The cameras loved it.
*
“Thanks for seeing me, Professor.”
“Thankyou for coming,” said Xavier. “It’s rare indeed that we meet parents with a tolerant nature.”
“Parent,” Sam corrected. “My wife has… *Views*.”
Xavier nodded. “Quite a few parents have Views… most of them based on misconception and myth that are… somewhat hard to dispel.”
“I’ve tried the DNA primer, myself,” said Sam. “Genetics and You. It worked right up until the X-gene got into the mix… but we clearly digress. I’d like to place my daughter in your school. As soon as possible after she’s cleared.”
“Cleared?”
“Of the mutant conspiracy,” Sam was momentarily distracted by the contents of a bookshelf. “Sara was one of the many scooped up in the initial panic… as if every mutant alive was responsible for the attack.” He tisked and rolled his eyes. “Those who failed to learn from history have more or less repeated it,” he sighed. “And will probably continue to repeat it for quite some time until someone hits them upside the head with a clue.”
Xavier laughed. “Some *have* learned, Mr Adrien. The nation *admits* that the initial sweep was an error. Many even regret contributing to it.”
“But a very rare few are willing to defend them… so far.”
“Another thing we have to thank you for,” said Xavier. “We were beginning to lose hope of finding someone to help free them legally.”
“I’m used to pushing boulders uphill,” said Sam. “Sara *needs* this place. Somewhere she can just - *be*… without judgement. Somewhere she can expand to the limits of herself, not the limits someone else puts on her. From what I’ve seen - this is the best place for her.”
“We’d love to have her here,” said Xavier.
“Ah. You haven’t seen her permanent record, then.”
“On the contrary. I’ve examined it with great interest. The gelatin cameo gallery rather stands out in my mind.”
“Really? Most people pick the July ice capades… or the Noodle Incident[1].” Sam found delight in a small tchotchke lurking amidst the accumulated tools of academia. “The Noodle Incident’s remarkably popular.”
“I was considering the event in context,” said Xavier. “The school counsellor sent a note?”
“*Ah*. That one.” He quoted, “‘It would be sooner possible to carve jello and nail it to the wall than it would be give Mr Essel–’ long story ’–the psychological help he so clearly requires.’ Well, I suppose Sara did her part…”
“Mutants regularly make the impossible… more than likely. Finding a student willing to *accept* that from the beginning is a rare and cherished gift.”
“Sara’s the sort of girl who’d do ten impossible things before breakfast[2],” Sam smiled at the memories. Then realised that others might not find it so endearing. “You’d better consider that a warning.”
“I think we’re more than prepared.”
*
“Good afternoon, Miss Adrien. I’m Jenny Adler[3], your attourney." They shook hands.
"Nice job covering the flinch,” said Sara. “I can understand it completely.”
Ms Adler sighed. “I’m still… getting used to a lot of things.”
“Am I Thing One, Thing Two[4], or somewhere down the list?”
She blushed. “I don’t keep lists. Um. Okay…” she shuffled papers. "Prosecution’s going to have trouble proving the whole conspiracy plot… they’ll probably bury it in the middle somewhere. The charge we should be worried about is Incitement to Riot.“
"Why? It’s not as if I stood in front of a crowd with my face off and said 'victim here’.”
“No, but you were in a very public arena when your face *did* come off. Considering the negative atmosphere regarding mutants… it doesn't look good.”
“It was an *accident*,” Sara protested. “I didn’t go out there and tear my face off. It came unstuck. That’s the difference between an episode of Tourette’s in a church and a KKK march through the 'hood.”
“And speaking of episodes…” Adler flipped a page. “Are these seizures of yours in any way preventable? The last thing I want is for you to -ah- succumb in the middle of a courtroom.”
Sara went stony-blank. “You saw that.”
“Half the country saw that. The President was heroic. *You*… are a potentially unstable mutie threat.”
“Perhaps, but only to myself.” Sara shrugged. “My steam-valves have been clogged since they incarcerated me. I can’t vent. Just let me *play*… four hours a day. I think I can cope, four hours a day, even without the sun. Just let me have a harp, please. I think I can degauss with just a harp.” Her fingers, unbidden, trembled for strings that weren’t there. She stilled them with great effort.
Adler blinked and stared. “Oooohhh… kay…” she drawled. “We might even be able to use this. Maybe. If I had a handle on the Prosecution's strategy…”
“They’re going to use my past against me. Dangerously unbalanced element… kick in a few unprovable mutie myths for flavour, and definitely reference a few of the more colourful episodes from my permanent record. Paint me as black as they can, because they don’t have a real case to prove.”
“How–? How did you know that?”
“Wouldn’t you? If you were prosecuting me?”
[1] Obligatory _Calvin and Hobbes_ reference.
[2] I think it’s in _Alice Through the Looking Glass_ that the Red Queen believes in 'ten impossible things before breakfast’.
[3] Complicated and obscure side-fling. There is an ancient, *ancient* comic called _Jenny and the Pirate(s)_ which I’m sure only my folks remember by now. Now, since I couldn’t find any good synonyms for 'pirate’ on thesaurus.com, I made the same 'mistake’ as the nurse in _Pirates of Penzance_ and looked up 'pilot’… which I then translated into German for a nice-sounding last name.
[4] Seuss reference. If you don’t get it, go read _The Cat in the Hat_.
~
It was tough enough to find someone who hadn’t seen or heard of the news, given its ability to pervade society at large. It was harder to find someone who didn’t express some kind of opinion about it. The toughest thing was finding someone who knew the right answer to Sam's killer question.
“Are you afraid of mutants?”
It was the sort of question that had most potential jurors walking out the door with a firm thankyou and a neutral farewell[1].
It was the sort of question that had the Prosecution seriously considering people who turned up in Starfleet uniform or Jedi robes.
It was the sort of question that the Prosecution attempted to get him to stop bloody asking, damnit.
“Your honor,” said Sam. “This is a case of a mutant being on trial for *being* a mutant. We *have* to make sure that the jury is not going to be afraid of the defendant.”
Judge Scheindlin[2] raised an eyebrow. “Considering the racist nature of the case… not to mention the American Constitution… I’ll have to allow it. Proceed.”
The Prosecution saved him the trouble of asking on the next potential juror.
Sam smirked. He had to wonder if Jenny was having this much trouble.
*
She called the harp 'Lorraine’. Jenny had found out that it was never a good idea to ask why. Whys never got good answers. Whys *multiplied*. Questions like, “Why do I have to observe a four-hour solo harp recital?” got answers that involved a psychologically unstable defendant and a rich source of long, string-like objects that formed a potential source for in-custody suicide.
Pointing out the fact that this was the same prisoner who altered most, of not all of the unitards by unpicking every single available thread and re-sewing them in a different configuration - got a long, hard glare.
Asking why the hell the judicial system was interested in potential suicide *now* was just damn pointless.
On the upside, at least, was the fact that she could *play*. It provided a pleasant background for the necessity of ploughing through the relevant documentation and readying a viable defense.
_Hello… Witness for the prosecution is her *mom*…_ Step one, bring up the restraining order. Step two…[3] Jenny paused to think. Ah yes. Hostility against the defendant, history of mental abuse that has caused the current psychological instability and stress-related seizures. Motion to exclude said witness on the basis that she may even endanger her client’s health… Step three… if all else fails, treat witness as hostile.
Or better yet, let her bury herself in anti-mutant furforal, exercise the right to re-call the witness, and then put a genetics expert on the stand to blow Mommy-dearest’s statements the hell out of the water. Preferably in laymen’s terms. *Then* re-call the mother and ask her if she wishes to stand by her former testimony. Paint her as a bigoted, abusive bitch.
_Note: check out the household help and ask for dirt… but ask nicely._
Sara, still improvising on the harp, said, “If you want some really nasty footage, you’ll have to tell Ray I said 'it’s time for the truth to come from the woodwork out’… those exact words. Ray’s been trained to be discrete - but I know where his sympathies lie.”
“Are you absolutely sure you’re–”
“Not a telepath,” said Sara. “Why does everyone keep *asking*?”
“Because you’re acting a lot like one. How the hell did you know what I was thinking?”
“The restraining order’s the only legal document in my permanent record,” said Sara. “And since you have two thick folders with only *one* legal document…”
“It could be someone else’s permanent record.”
“Not when you’re humming snippets from the _Mommy Dearest_ musical[4].”
Okay. The kid had a point. And she could read people like a book.
[1] A parody of the line, “a firm handshake and a fond farewell”… something I picked up from somewhere or other.
[2] No relation. Honest. Really. *snrk* Pfffftttt… BWA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA…
[3] _South Park_ side-fling. Remember the episode with the underpants gnomes?
[4] My future is a sick, sad world.
~
Sam had had to come for this part. He needed to see. Jenny had told him about the secret footage. The footage Jaquelline had ordered destroyed. The footage Ray and Sara both kept secret.
Sam remembered insisting upon the best securicams money could buy, for the safety of his family. Full audio. Full colour. Motion activated.
It had captured every foul word coming from Jaquelline’s mouth. Every abuse. Every nasty psychological ploy… until Sara nearly cracked her head open on the tiles from a severe stress-induced fit.
“An accident,” Jaquelline had said at the time. “She slipped and fell.”
Bologna.
When the lights came back on, Jaquelline was looking supremely flustered, Sara had turned to a statue, and not one member of the jury were willing to believe a thing she said any more.
Jaquelline found him with her eyes. Was the fear in them true? Was *anything* true?
_You *hurt* our only child,_ he thought in her direction. _Our beautiful baby girl… *WHY*?_
She was no telepath and neither was he, but she winced and put on her best pleading face.
He swore he heard her whisper his name.
Sam shut his eyes to her, turning away quickly. Walking away with leaden feet and wet eyes.
He’d known that there’d been friction between the two of them, that had been hard to miss… but this? This was *heinous*.
No wonder she referred to “the Gorgon” in her blogs… this woman turned little girls into stone. Tore grown men’s hearts out and split them in two.
To think… he’d loved Jaquelline for being the *least* extreme of her sisters. For *overcoming* most of the foibles of her family.
_…a whole family of Gorgons… *God*…_
*
Well. That had been intense.
Sara let herself come up for air during the genetics and mutation primer, doodling gene chains on the legal pad she’d been given to doodle on. Interesting that, while partially submerged, some part of her had drawn her mother as Medusa. Toxic symbols filled the speech bubble.
_My what an interesting subconscious we have. Papa Freud would have a ball._
Behind her, completely unheeded, a bald man in a wheelchair smirked.
The expert was putting on a nice show for the plebs in the jury box. It would have gone better with a catchy jingle. For some reason, she riffed on the _Duff Beer For You_ song from an ancient _Simpsons_ episode.
_The X-gene is cool… the X-gene is fun… the X-gene means no control for an-y-one… Nah._
The man behind her made some effort to wipe the smile off his face. Sara caught the motion in her peripheral vision as she shifted in her chair and looked.
He waved. An almost subliminal 'hello’.
Sara raised an eyebrow. _An Englishman, a Scottsman and an Irishman walk into a bar,_ she thought. _You’d think *one* of them would have seen it._
Hand over the mouth. Stifled snort.
_AHA! Now *you*, sir, are a telepath._
_Yes,_ said his voice in her head. _I’m Professor Charles Xavier. I just dropped by to see how you and some of your fellow mutants are doing._
_Just the mutants?_ Sara 'said’, careful to turn back to her doodles and half-bored posture. _Or are you only after the partially guilty?_
The presence in her mind seemed momentarily taken aback. _I must admit, I had only thought of offering the shelter of my school to those who needed it…_
_There are 'normal’ humans inside the cages, too, sir. Those who walk out may not have any place to go when they’re released. Mutant-human relationships have to start somewhere… and why not begin with the ones who automatically have sympathy?_
A silence both profound and deep.
_Your father was right,_ Xavier 'said’. _You *are* a very rare individual. Thankyou… for helping me see._
His presence left. Sara didn’t need to peek to see that he was leaving the courtroom, though she did take a good glance at his entourage. And what an *interesting* entourage he had.
Birds of a feather, indeed.
~