Continued from yesterday:
The shoes - Ug boots from a cheapie sweatshop somewhere - couldn’t fit through the narrow portal made for the food trays. Therefore, the troops on the other side of the cage began lobbing the boxes over the fence. In order to prevent the boxes from falling open in the air, they were held shut by thick rubber bands.
Sara couldn’t catch worth spit, but she was out there, amongst the other able bodies, leaping about and trying to field a box or two. Whooping and laughing with the others.
Callisto never missed a mark.
Mort hung back, watching. Not wanting to expose himself by leaping too high. Not wanting to run the risk of being found. Watching the media watching them.
Was he watching too much? There was little he could actually *do*, what with people around him who could do more without getting shot at… no opportunities anywhere to improve things for others.
He could help Sara, but only in small, small amounts.
All in all it was… frustrating.
~
“No way could you have seen Michael Moore out there,” someone was saying. “He’s incredibly old and that. Does all his agitating from a wheelchair. All you’d have seen over the first row would’ve been his cap[1].”
“I’m telling you he was the spitting image of Michael Moore, circa mid-nineties.”
“Then it *can’t* have been *him*.”
“Maybe his kid or his grandkid is taking up the business.”
“Does he even *have* kids?”
Mort let the idle speculation fade into the background as he strode towards the fence. There was still the Media, watching him watching them. But now he was looking for something - unique. Someone who shouldn’t have been there.
The second tier of concrete blocks had been spaced intermittently, so the Media could see in and make sure no further abuses of the law occurred. Mort watched in those gaps as he walked around the perimeter.
Michael More - circa mid-nineties - peeled off from the assembled observers and matched his pace for two blocks. Then he was Senator Kelly. Then that blonde bimbo Erik had hired, once upon a time.
There was no doubt about it. Mystique knew where he was.
He almost wet himself when she elected to look like Erik himself.
She settled into the guise of a guard and cleared the Media from the court-appointed communication spot. Not that anyone on the outside had used it yet.
[1] They say “not-too-distant future”, but I’m allowing for a good gap between now and the time period that this takes place in. Fictional characters, like those from my favourite shows, however, do not age
~
“You’re looking well,” said the guard in Mystique’s voice.
“Lot better'n I used… to.”
“Did you lose your abilities when you were dead?” she said. “Or hasn't it occurred to you that you could easily melt a hole in this cage?”
A glance back, to where Sara was amidst the group of fellow inarcerees doing exercises with Callisto in the yard. “Price is too high,” he said.
Mystique snorted. “They’re acceptable losses,” she dismissed. “Gammas at the most.”
Inside his head, Mort fumed. Magneto and his stupid mutant caste system. Alphas, of course, were those with powers that could be used aggressively. Betas, those with purely defensive powers. Gammas, those with powers that could plausibly be counted as ‘useful’… and Deltas were those with useless or next-to-useless powers… or those with purely physical mutations and no powers at all.
Mort had started out as a Gamma in Erik’s eyes, and had done a lot of work to 'rise’ to the position of an Alpha… Yet he was still looked down upon.
“Some of their deaths could prove useful to the cause,” Mystique speculated. “But not by much.”
“Woh? Even the pregnant woman?”
“Especially the pregnant woman.” Mystique sneered. “I’d expect this much sympathy if you were still a *Gamma*, yourself…”
Mort refused to take the bait. “'Aven’t been well,” he said. He had another pair of eyes to appraise him. In those eyes, he was cherished. "Maybe I made some… new friends.“
"So I’ve seen. And even though most of them are women… you choose to kiss–” a subtle pointing finger. Directly through his heart to Sara. "–*that*.“
_Poker face, boyo._ "It’s my mouth,” he said. “I can plant it… on whoever I like.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. And a distinctly *Mystique* smile spread across his features. “Aaaww… You’ve fallen in *lo-ove*,” she cooed. "Erik *will* be interested in her, then.“
Mort did his level best to remain impassive. "She’s sixteen.”
The sly grin remained. “So she *is* female. And prime breeding material, too. Erik’s always wanted to see a pure second-generation mutant.”
Now it was his turn to echo her smirk. “And 'ow *was* your… little 'oliday in Germany?”
Mystique-guard stiffened.
“You remember… way back when. You done a vanish… for a coupla years?” That wiped the smile off her face. Mort didn’t bother to gloat.
Mystique was especially dangerous when she was pissed off. “I see," she iced. "You know the contact procedures - *if* you decide to return to the winning side.”
_Translated: you’re on your own until you decide to come begging - *Gamma*._
“Don’t 'old yer breath,” he said. “Ducks.”
~
“Hey, look! It’s a strip show!”
“Take it off! Take it *all* off!”
“Tell me when I should avert mine eyes, dear,”
Mort laughed with the others. Apparently, orders had come in from the top that the incarcerated mutants should not be treated like toxic objects.
Callisto let out an ear-piercing whistle. “And the shirt, too, soldier-boy!”
“You are positively outrageous,” Sara giggled.
“I’m old enough to be *allowed* to be outrageous.” She let loose a wolf-whistle. “Show us yer pecs[1]!”
The soldier in question merely resumed his post by the guns.
As a diversion, it didn’t last very long. Nothing ever did, inside the cage. So, with a final chorus of disappointed noises, the soldiers resumed their former tasks.
Sara sighed. “Guess it’s back to pok-ball,” she said.
The game had been invented after Mort glued together two styrofoam cups for the kids to play with. A combo of hacky-sack, soccer, and God only knew what else, it had taken off as a welcome break from staring at the wire.
Anything was a welcome break from staring at the wire.
Even Mort had submitted to getting his jumpsuit altered, since Sara bribed him with nearly-thermal undershirts. They were improvised from the lining but they did their job.
“Not so fast,” said Callisto, indicating the tidal sweep of cameras zooming away from their spots. “Something’s up.”
“Would the mutant committee please report to the designated communications window,” squawked the PA.
“Something *big*,” said Sara. “They usually chat to us over here.”
“By the left,” ordered Mort. “Harch![2]”
They struck up their irreverent theme song along the way. “O we got itty bitty titties and we made us a committee. If you ask us why, we've nothing much to saaaaayyyy… We remain in the committee, tho’ we know that it’s not pretty. There’s nothing else to do so here we staaaayyyy… O life here can be shitty, in the mutancy committee…" the girls trailed off, leaving Mort to rasp, "What we’d really like is to be given paaaaayyy…” before he, too, noticed who was at the gate.
The President of the United States of America.
Callisto saluted. Sara curtseyed. Mort gave a halfhearted wave and gravelled, “Wotcher.”
The President sprained something trying not to laugh. “Good morning. I take it you three are in charge?”
“Oh, no. The guys with the guns are in charge,” said Sara. “They usually are.”
Serious servicemen behind the President now sprained something trying not to laugh.
“We just try to arrange things,” said Callisto.
“Make it comfier,” said Mort. “Don’t suppose ya got a few heaters on yer?”
The President considered this. “No… but I can enquire about fulfilling some basic needs. If I can inspect the facility?”
“Um,” said Sara, holding up a finger. “Isn’t that like the guard asking the prisoner if he can enter his cell?”
This time, a dignified chuckle. “Somewhat,” he allowed, “But I've been informed that some mutants can be more than dangerous, given the right incentive.”
“Believe me, sir,” said Callisto, “we all have vested interest in your continued survival.”
“You can bring your goons,” added Sara. “Alas, we don’t have any tea.”
Sometimes, it was hard to tell if Sara was being serious or not.
[1] Were the gender roles reversed, it’d be 'show us yer tits’.
[2] British drill sergeants say this instead of 'march’.
~
Sam smirked at the parade on the TV. The President followed the three mutants. Sara was showing off the enclosure in a parody of a real-estate agent. The security attachment was following the President, and several aimless incarcerees were following the goons.
He gave the rest a handfull of minutes before they were all trailing around to see what happened next.
“Mr Adrien?”
“Hm? Oh.” He managed to laugh. His boss would see him now. “Thanks, Em.”
The office hadn’t changed. Greg Abernathy rarely changed any kind of decoration in his office, save for a cycling of the occasional kid's drawing that looked particularly interesting.
“Sam!” Greg grinned wide. “I thought you’d be on family leave.”
“Considering where my family *is*, I thought I’d talk with you,” said Sam. “That’s my daughter on the news, right now.”
Greg’s face fell. “The greenish girl?”
“Sort of aqua,” Sam corrected. “But I wasn’t thinking of stopping at Sara. All the assumed mutants need help.”
“You can’t defend *all* of them, Sam… There’s enclosures like that all over the country.”
“That’s why I need *your* help,” said Sam. “It so happens that we have law firms all over the country… a change in policy, a few ground-breaking cases… we’d make history.”
Greg leaned on his desk. “Damn, Sam… this is more than a handshake on the news.”
“That’s why it needs to be done,” said Sam. “The journey of a thousand miles *starts* with a single step… but it needs more of them in order to finish it.”
“It’s economic suicide,” Greg argued. “Once word gets around that we’re sympathetic to muties–”
“The mutie market will come to us. So will others who sympathise with muties. In the end, we only lose the bigot population. Did we really want them?”
“The bigots have the money, Sam,” said Greg. “It’s what keeps you in a job.”
“It’s also why I’d be good at this one,” argued Sam. “I help people not to be afraid of the other guy. Give me thirty cases, Greg. Thirty cases and I’ll bet the courts just open the gates and let them walk away.”
Greg looked away. He always found it hard to look at Sam when he Believed in something. “Thirty cases at random. Someone else defends Sara.”
“Someone *good*.”
“As if I’d let anything else happen.”
Sam seized his hand. “Done.”
“I certainly have been…[1]” Greg sighed. “How do you always talk me into these things?”
“Constant practice?”
*
“And these are the spacious, open-plan bedrooms,” said the tall one.
The green fellow had stuffed his sleeve in his mouth to stifle the giggles. The one-eyed woman provided the real-world additions.
“It gets *cold* in the night,” she pointed to the corrugated iron. “No insulation means no protection when the temperature drops. And more than a few of us are sensitive to low temperatures.”
“You should see Mr Toynbee first thing in the morning,” said the tall one in a rare moment of seriousness.
“Yeh. Not exactly at the helm,” he tapped his head. “Sara’s gettin' the same way.”
“I only forgot my shoes *once*, dear.”
“Yeah, but you need a minder in the snow,” said Callisto. “If I had a nickel for every time I had to herd you and your breakfast back indoors…”
The tall one shrivelled in place. “I’ve never been good when the cold gets to me… it’s just - never been this bad before. Mayhap a lack of insulation?”
“We’re all lacking insulation,” said one-eye. “And when you look at it, most of us wouldn’t even *be* here if it wasn’t for their physical appearance. That’s discrimination above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Well, I have some good news on that front for you,” said the President. “A law firm recently elected to defend you.”
“Abernathy Worthington Incorporated?” said the tall one.
One of the security men reached for the security of his weapon.
“Yes,” said the President. “Are you…?” he gestured at his head.
“I keep *getting* that question,” said the tall one. “It’s just that I know someone who works there… He’s very persuasive when the mood suits him.”
The green one looked intensely jealous. “Friend of yours?”
“Lifelong,” the tall one grinned. “He’s my Dad.”
[1] Rehashed _Goon Show_ joke. Look 'em up. They funny.
~