capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

Setting foot inside City limits now made Sherlock feel much the same as he did when infiltrating government strongholds with his brother's identity. Consistently on edge, heart threatening to race at every sudden movement, and yet at the same time a sick, encompassing thrill and desire for thinly veiled, ugly truths that kept him moving forward.

More than a few unexpected familiar faces had taken the edge off slightly this visit. Sherlock didn't think so many people had managed to stay safely hidden in the City; he's not sure why they'd want to. John, of course, had charitable intentions, but others just seemed to cling stubbornly.

Then Sherlock noticed a somewhat unfamiliar face that put the edge right back on. The acclaimed pro-import writer Adrian Maskin was doing a press junket in town-- the flyers were all over. Sherlock had tried to read some of the books, but he couldn't stand political drivel. The one curious thing, however, was just how accurate some of the details in the books he'd skimmed were. Insider information when his sources seemed dubious at best. Of course he'd heard the rumors, but without actual evidence, Sherlock wasn't ready to believe that he could secretly be Mitchell Hundred. It's a dangerous line of investigation to pursue anyway, and he already has quite enough on his plate.

So naturally, he accidentally sets himself down that avenue regardless. When he went out to the closest book store from John's apartment complex, he had only intended to get his friend the crossword book he'd asked for, and maybe the evening paper. As luck would have it, however, the store was hosting a book signing for one of Maskin's bestsellers.

That thrill of being near a discovery takes over all of Sherlock's other senses, and he steps noiselessly inside, somehow seeming to avoid setting off the bell over the door.

Being an author was a shitty thing, during book signings. Well, once you hit it big. When he'd first started writing, a book signing would be mostly shooting the shit with whoever would listen, maybe some talking, and a few signings. Now, however, the book signings were longer. They always started with an exert from his latest book, which he'd finished over an hour ago. Maybe a Q&A session, and then signing, pictures, and more fucking signing. So much signing his hands ached.

Like any good publisher, by even midway through, his hand was planted on an icepack that was constantly replaced, and he signed as many as he could. He asked questions when he could. 'Who to make it out to? Oh, I'm glad you enjoyed the book. Well, I don't think that the tragedies that some imports caused should force us to punish the whole any more than we should punish a demographic for the hatecrimes that some of them perpetuate.'

Normal things, like that. He didn't even notice the gentleman who'd entered near the tail end, nor would he notice him until his head tips up, brown eyes and face entirely friendly, by impassive. If there was any recognition, he didn't show it.

He'd gotten very good at lying, if he hadn't been good before.

"Who do I make this out to?"

In a way, it was encouraging to see such a turnout for a pro-import author. However, Sherlock could only imagine how little these natives truly understood. How they were moved by patronizing pity towards those outside of their carefully constructed world, not out of a genuine concern for fellow human (or at least sentient) beings. It only made him angry, but what other support could they get? Frustration continuously threatened to boil over inside him. Why everyone didn't just band together and smash Lachesis to bits was beyond his comprehension.

No one seemed to notice him slip into the queue, nor did they notice him nick a copy of Maskin's book from the closest stand. He flipped through it idly as he waited his turn; the prose reminded him somewhat of John's in its more folksy moments, perhaps with a more polished vocabulary. It's what turned him off the books, really, though the more dissertation style sections were half decent. Nothing revolutionary. No, that would need the accompaniment of action, or the talent of a statesman, something that Maskin might have been holding back, if he was who some said.

When Sherlock finally caught a glimpse of the writer, he amped up his senses to full. Mitch's most obvious identifiers-- his scars, were gone, and the face was all wrong. Snatches of familiarity hover about the brow and the mouth, but if it was the result of reconstructive surgery, Sherlock was impressed. He would have dismissed the claims of this being the former mayor entirely if it weren't for the contacts.

Before taking up the Trevelyan identity, Sherlock researched colored contacts for himself, but in the end decided against it because of one factor-- no dye could quite properly duplicate the precise reflections and levels of melanin that create an individual eye color. The brown of Maskin's eyes was too rich of a hue. A shade lighter or darker and it may have been natural, and the placement of the contacts themselves was pristine. Still, it wasn't not his eye color, Sherlock is certain.

When he reached the front of the line, Sherlock was again impressed by the lack of any reaction to him. He could have made a more proper disguise of himself, but now Sherlock wanted to be recognized. His mannerisms weren't familiar, all smiles and wide eyes, but once he looked down at Maskin, the smile deflated into something altogether fake, and his eyes pierced him just as coldly as always. He slipped the book against the table, running his finger along the inside of the jacket.

"Just 'to an old friend.'" Not a trace of British, but the sarcasm is still there.

Inside the jacket, if Mitch bothered to look, there would be a matchbook with the address of an antique shop there, with the words 'TUTUS PORTUS' scribbled in small writing across the back.

"An old friend?" he asked, his head tipping up to look at the guy. The face, the face was somewhat familiar. It had been years, but his hand moved automatically, writing: 'To an old friend. Hope you learn something from this. Adrian Maskin.' His hand paused, even after he wrote, hovering over the book, the ache in his wrist settling in.

"So I take it you enjoyed the book?" he asked, carefully. An old friend, it said. He didn't trust it. Adrian Maskin didn't have old friends, not like most people did. Acquaintances, maybe. He had plenty of those, and he had plenty of people that he'd been introduced to over time, but no "old friends". That was the point of reinventing himself, to avoid this fucking issue.

He looked down at his hand, feeling the swelling in his wrist, and he looked back at his assistant, giving him a faint look of 'help me', which he would know very well. He gave the guy a look, a significant one. "Tell you what, actually. How about an exclusive? Give you something to tell your friends about later? You smoke?" he asked, even as he tipped to give him back the book, the matches falling out.

He tipped his head curiously, the words searing in his brain, even while he tried to figure out what they meant. "I guess you must," he murmured, a touch of sarcasm filtering into his voice.

"Oh, immensely." Mitch isn't the only one good at lying. Now wasn't the time for literary criticism. Sherlock saved that for his rare moments in a classroom these days. He was faintly annoyed when Maskin doesn't go for the matches right away, but Sherlock knew how to improvise. When the matchbook falls free onto the table, he gives a small laugh and a sheepish grin.

"Ah, jeez, so that's where I left my bookmark." Sherlock takes the book back, not bothering to look at the autograph. "You know what, you hang onto that. It's a nice place, hear they even got import memorabilia these days." He's too pale and polished looking to really look like someone from Brooklyn, but he certainly sounds the part. As for smoking, he jokingly raises his hands in surrender.

"Bad habit, I know, I know. Gotta have one vice in tough times though, right?"

"Heck, I'd say sometimes it's good to have a few, especially these days," he mentions, looking the matches over before sliding it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I'll be sure to check the place out. I'll admit it, I'm kind of a stickler for old memorabilia, obviously," he had a smile for him, like a sardonic little twist of fate.

He was convinced he was the only one who was laughing at the joke. The twist of a joke that was only funny when you knew who he really was. Memorabilia from his old campaign was probably going for a hot dollar right now, while people collected the oddity, like it was something to be marveled at. Pointed at. Like being on display at a zoo.

Now that he was gone, they couldn't get enough of him. He patted at his jacket with his unswollen hand, and gave an apologetic smile to the small crowd waiting.

"Sorry, folks, I think my hand's going to fall off, give me a quick break, and I'll get right with all of you, huh?" he pulled out his lighter and cigarettes, heading for the door. "If you'd like, I'll let you chew my ear off a little bit," he mentioned to the "old friend", giving him a grim smile.

Caught behind it though was a hardness, the cant of his eyebrows, the way his mouth settled, the way his motions were just a hair too hard. Nothing that most would pick up on, but he knew this guy would. He was starting to put it together, and the guy had a fucking distinct face.

It was the alley, he was beelining for, where he could smoke in peace, listening for anything out of the ordinary, and hearing nothing.

He suspected there were no efforts to watch him right now. It was a fucking book signing, not a rally.

"Well, hey, why the hell not?" Sherlock replied jovially. It would sound foreign, even unnatural, to anyone who knew him. He could feel the seething of jealous sociology and poli-sci students behind him, but that only made him feel more triumphant. A cover as a professor only made Sherlock hate pseudo-intellectual young people even more. Or maybe it was just age. "I could use one anyway. Taking the Metro here was nuts."

A cigarette was already waiting behind Sherlock's ear, and he plucked it free as he followed Maskin away. The locale didn't surprise him. Whether or not this was Mitch or simply a hermit author with chocolate colored contacts, the paranoia was palpable. Sherlock knows that beast well enough. He lived it, too, and his guard was just as in place as always. His shadow seemed to expand more than physically possible when he stepped into the alley; a quick escape if he needed it.

"But man, you should see it. Never thought I'd see the day when you can buy a suit James Bond actually wore. If you've got the cash, anyway."

He watched the shadows, feeling nervous. He thought he knew the face, nagging at memory, but he didn't speak of it. He didn't call imports out on their identity, because he knew the folly in knowing what was happening. He worked his wrist, even while he slid a cigarette between his lips, pulling out his lighter, and flicking it manually.

He could hear its voice, clear as day in his head. Telling him that he was lighting it, because even as he did so, it had to tell him he did it. They always did, using the moniker he still had for the machines around him. They knew him as his number, as 100, even if he no longer held the name. They always did, because his signal that he sent out was distinctly him to every device and machine and fucking toilet in the vicinity.

"I remember the movies, before imports came. He seemed to have expensive tastes in them, I'm sure it'd be the same here, and then add the celebrity status, and well," he shrugged, his words coming out with a haze of smoke, even as he tipped his head back to exhale. It was a small vice, a pathetic one. It was no spliff, either, despite his desperate need to shut them off even here in the City. He'd spent so long in a place with what was familiar and that was all, and even there, his powers had grown. Exponentially. Using them so much had given him a wider worldview, and with that, a wider grasp, but he could hear more too.

"It's weird, though, I never heard of it before. Is it a new place?"

Once Sherlock lit his own cigarette, his first drag was slow and indulgent, and he breathed any smoke that escapes from his mouth right back through his nose. Holding the burn in his lungs was preferable to having to speak in that bloody accent again. He was totally dedicated to remaining in character, but that didn't stop the sound of his own distorted voice from grating on his nerves.

"There's cheaper stuff, too. Superhero trinkets, framed wanted posters. Some of it's kinda tasteless, but I guess the guy's gotta make a buck, you know?" He takes another deep breath.

"Well, you have kinda been pulling a Salinger forever. It's not like people outside the City know much about it. But I couldn't tell you. It's up in the Bronx, and I never have much excuse to be up that way." Sherlock lowers his cigarette and looks Maskin square in the eye.

"Ever want to talk to a real import, though? That guy might have a few leads. But you didn't hear it from me."

It was a risk letting that slip. If Maskin wasn't Mitch, Sherlock may have just compromised a safe house he used to keep in touch with his resistance contacts. Fortunately, gambles were all the rage in import life these days.

He inhaled again, watching. Carefully. There was a flicker of trepidation on his face, wondering and worrying about who this was, or what this meant. Why did he seem to be pushing the import thing, was it because he was the fucking author on the subject, or was it because they suspected something? Paranoia flooded his senses, leaving just a hard edge.

Something that was, unfortunately, decidedly Mitchell. The way his brows knotted, the way his eyes narrowed and the hard line of his mouth. He'd had extensive surgery, yes, but even so, in the occasional light, he looked like himself still. Even without the strong jaw, large nose, and thin lips, there were parts of him he couldn't deny, or fight off.

When caged like an animal, one revealed their true nature, and he was quickly becoming backed into a corner.

"I actually have my own sources for imports. How did you think I got my intel? You have to talk to people to write about them," he paused, taking another long, slow inhale, fighting his fight or flight instinct.

As soon as it was in, he exhaled, not even taking the time to savor it, just letting the burn flood, and then pour out. "And before you ask, no, I don't give up my sources. Believe me, people have tried."

While being paranoid was necessary in the City these days, falling too deep into it could become a weakness. Sherlock was constantly holding his in check, barely, so it was easy to see Mitch's slipping through. Easier than his facial features, but that didn't go unnoticed either. Sherlock put his cigarette back between his lips and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, hey, just a friendly suggestion. Last thing I want to do is get some innocent saps arrested." He finished off his cigarette with another long drag and dropped the stub to the ground. It vanished into the shadows, and Sherlock looked Mitch directly in his covered eyes.

"But really," he sighed, all signs of the Brooklyn accent vanishing, "Do brush up on your Latin. It is part of lawmaking, isn't it?" When he dropped the facade, Sherlock almost seemed like an entirely different person. He didn't wait for any shock or denials from Mitch.

"I'll be at the shop for most of the night, if you care to reminisce with your old friend." He wasn't sure that the invitation would even be heeded, but it was worth the effort to at least settle the mystery about Adrian Maskin for himself.

Having dispensed that last pent up bit of wry wit, Sherlock vanished into the shadows. All that remained of him was the autographed book, discarded on the ground with his cigarette butt.

He didn't even take his fucking book. Yeah, that's what he dwelt on, of all the fucking things. He hadn't even taken his book with him. Rude. It was easier to dwell on that than it was to deal with anything else that was running through his brain. He could set it all aside and deal with one thing at a time. Compartmentalize, really. He'd always been extremely skilled at compartmentalizing. It was how he managed to deal and continue on, even when fear and guilt and sorrow should cripple him and leave him only a waste of a human being.

So he finished his cigarette, pointedly not thinking of it, and went back to the signing, holding the book in his hands, as if it were nothing. He did the whole song and dance for the rest of the afternoon, smiling, signing, talking with all the young poli sci students with stars in their eyes, all the professors and intellectuals and pseudointellectuals, everyone who came. Even the young newspaper reporter with a short cut that reminded him far too much of someone from his past. He gave her kind words and something for her article, despite the uneasiness in his stomach.

But when it was all done, he had the matchbook still, and he had a hotel room with his laptop. It took really only a quick google search to figure out what he was looking at, and an even shorter time to pop painkillers to dull the pain from signing, dress, and head back out. He had a coat this time, with a hood, his shirt hidden underneath, although he'd stripped off his tie. He found what he was looking for, the shop, and hovered outside, caught outside the light of the streetlamps, before he hesitantly reached out for the door, the signed book still in hand.

A friendly bell jingled as Mitch stepped inside, belying the far more sophisticated security measures in place over the rest of the building. Glass cases full of the memorabilia Sherlock had mentioned were all over the shop floor, illuminated by fluorescent lights and cushioned on delicately laid cheesecloth. Bond's suit was there, as promised, with a pair of Zatanna's fishnets nearby. Both outrageously priced, both equipped with alarms.

Other things set out like shrines included batarangs, full quivers from both the Hawkeyes and the Green Arrow family; anything the imagination could find. The displays even ranged to the slightly macabre with supposedly authentic troll horns, samples of Dr. Hank McCoy's fur, while fenders and mufflers hung on the wall claiming to be parts of KITT and other transformers.

Posters and photographs and press clippings also stood proudly on the wall, framed for posterity. Many of them captured both the good and bad deeds of imPorts. Documentations of skrull sightings, political rallies and signs, and of course, a large Hundred/Nygma campaign poster sticking out among the rest.

The shop owner smiled cordially enough at Mitch when he noticed him. He leaned over his counter top full of cheaper items, gesturing to another corner of the shop.

"Ah, Mr. Trevelyan said he was waiting for somebody."

Sherlock doesn't turn to look to see if it even is Mitch. Instead, he continues to stare up at a clothing exhibit, displayed fully so passerby could catch all the details. There were two coats, one long, black and woolen, the other a black leather shooting jacket. Both were riddled with bullet holes. Directly next to them, a newspaper clipping proudly prolclaimed: "HOLMES AND WATSON OUT OF PUBLICATION -- famous detectives gunned down for continuously refusing regisitration."

His eyes traveled the room, looking this way and that. It was sad, really, to see everything they amounted to here for purchase. Even his posters, from the second campaign. They hadn't won. There had been a hell of a shock that went through the community then. He'd thought to pick things up, move forward and up. There had been a senate seat he'd been eyeing, or maybe the Governor's chair. Either one, and maybe if he hadn't thought he had time, maybe if he hadn't been slowed down by living in the City, he would have been able to stop things.

Maskin didn't intend to move slow. He knew what a junior senator could do, because even if he hadn't won, he'd come fucking close, and if the president (in his world) hadn't had his name to back them up, it could have easily gone in the wrong direction.

He walked slowly, feet moving on the wood flooring, stepping behind him to the coats, the clipping. He remembered when that happened. He wondered, for a moment, if the guy was a fan, or if this was really him. He didn't dare think it, because Maskin couldn't be held liable if he hadn't known. There were cameras in the shop, he could hear them. If it went south, he wanted the surprise on his face to be genuine. He wanted it to be authentic. Above all, he wanted to be able to pull and dump it to where the government could find it, even if they didn't know the source.

He'd never been a good person. He sold it, sure.

But he never had been.

"Latin might be a dead language, but it isn't exactly the hardest thing to navigate," he mentioned, rounding a touch closer. "I'm afraid, that while this is interesting, it isn't exactly something I can afford. Memorabilia is nice and all, but the small collection I have is plenty."

Small collection meaning the few things he'd managed to take with him. A few preserved documents, his signed autograph of superman, his comm, and his gun he'd built. Everything else had been destroyed-- torched in the Gracie Mansion vault, before anyone had been able to get their hands on it. There had been recordings, everything, in case of an emergency. It looked, now, like he had been unprepared, but really, he hadn't been willing to let anything surface.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge Mitch at first. If he had any reservations about this really being Sherlock Holmes, the subtly forlorn creases in his face as he gazed at the coats might have partially addressed them. More than once, Sherlock had made plans to steal them back, but it would raise too much suspicion. Not even the best tailor could have patched those holes, anyway.

He turned to face Mitch, cocking his brow at him. The former mayor didn't need the facade anymore. Still, Sherlock understood the desire to hold onto a cover that kept him safe for so long. It was a feat among their kind, really.

"Well, that's lucky. If anyone tried to buy this, I'd probably snap all of their fingers." Sherlock's tone was pleasant, but just cutting enough to mean it. It was extremely lucky for whoever had sold the coats to the shop that he didn't have time to hunt them down.

"If you're worried about Douglas, don't be. He lost his hearing years ago. He can read lips, but poorly." Sherlock stamped his foot on the hardwood floor, using the vibration to catch the shopkeep's attention. He snapped up from reading a catalog at the counter and bustled over to the two men.

"Ah, thinking of finally dropping a dime on those, huh?" he asked, his voice a bit too loud, though not on purpose.

"Afraid not, old man. Just have a new member of the history club I want to show our fallback meeting place."

After a moment's contemplation to make sure he got the gist of what Sherlock said, Doug nodded emphatically.

"Right, right. I know the wife hates it when you spring meetings on her. I'll unlock it for ya." He headed for a staircase at the back of the shop that lead to an empty apartment on the floor above.

"No security cameras up there," he muttered to Mitch and made his way after the old man.

He followed, nodding silently to the guy, but not saying a word. It wasn't that he didn't believe the person who was mute, but that he didn't want to take a chance. He was starting to believe the guy was Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't sure. He couldn't take a chance, even as he moved.

His hands in his pockets, he walked the stairs, taking them one at a time, footsteps silent, until they came to the apartment. He looked around drinking it in, listening more than anything else. He wanted to be sure, be 100% certain that he had an out.

He didn't even trust his friends anymore. Not after what Edward had done. Certainly, he knew the stakes, and he'd forgiven him, but that didn't mean he was going to be stupid again. He listened for every out, to find the escape routes just in case. He'd become paranoid.

"So," he said, once the doors were closed, and they were alone. "I'm not sure I know what this is about."

Once the shopkeep was gone, Sherlock's whole body tensed. He forced it to relax around natives to keep up a casual show, but in privacy his nerves were always on edge. It was just one of the reasons to take up smoking again. He leaned against the table in the middle of the room, shaking his head. If Mitch knew him, he had to know he wasn't a bloody idiot.

"For God's sake, My--"

Sherlock practically gagged on whatever word that was. Christ. He almost called him Mycroft. Luckily the slip didn't really sound like a name, but he still pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Sometimes, he feared that his mind was taking more of a beating from all these years than he realized. Still, the similarities between Mitch and his brother were disturbingly numerous. The dedication to whatever his secret plans were, and deciding that the rest be damned stuck out in both of them like a sore thumb. After nearly a decade, it still left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth. Maybe that's why he was trying to get through to Mitch; a misplaced sense of filial piety. What an awful thought.

"You know perfectly well who I am, and that I know who you are. You honestly didn't expect to come back here in person and have no one recognize you?" Well, with that good of a disguise, no one else might have, but Sherlock didn't want to compliment him. He drifted over to a minifridge against the wall and took out two beers, setting one on the table.

"I'm not asking you to trust me. That would, frankly, be idiotic of either of us. But you can drop the act now. It's not necessary."

He didn't offer Mitch the other beer. It was left on the table as his to take or leave, just as he could with this entire encounter.

Mitch never took the beer. He'd been painfully paranoid, perhaps too much so, but the fact of the matter was that if this guy even suspected that he wasn't Adrian Maskin, he had reason to worry. He had a desperate need to keep his eyes open, and to keep himself save.

"I see. So you think I'm an import?" he hedged cautiously. Too cautiously, maybe. After a moment, years of keeping himself in line seemed to melt away. He'd only been himself around a handful of people over the years, Katurian, Edward, that was it. It was a sad state of affairs when you'd even gone out of your way to deceive your own bodyguard for as long as you could, if just to keep himself safe.

"Alright, Sherlock. What the fuck do you want?"

The implication of the swear said enough. It wasn't that Adrian Maskin didn't swear, but instead that he wasn't Mitchell Hundred when it came to them. They didn't have to worry and hover over the dump button just in case he lost his temper, or just had enough.

He crossed his arms, staring Sherlock down. He didn't think he'd call him here just to make sure he knew that he knew who he was. That was too contorted. If Sherlock wanted to do that, he could've done it a million times differently. As it was, there was something he wanted, Mitchell knew it.

"Not to kill you. That's probably a start."

A small, triumphant smirk crossed Sherlock's features when Mitch finally let himself go. There was a degree of satisfaction in being right, as there always would be, but the ex-mayor was right-- Sherlock wanted more than to simply prove that. He wanted answers. That was his ever present desire, which seemed simple, but with Sherlock Holmes, nothing ever is.

"I'm curious as to why you're undertaking this massive task of winning over the population again in a new name without any help whatsoever." Sherlock gazed at Mitch, not drinking his own beer either. "It's not like politicians to burn bridges."

Sherlock didn't mind being a lone wolf himself. However, in this hostile world, imports needed some modicum of brotherhood that even he couldn't deny. One person, he was certain, couldn't change the whole world's opinion.

"Without any help?" he tipped his head, staring him down like he couldn't believe that he was asking that. His lips pursed, even while he shifted, his arms still crossed even while his eyes narrowed slightly.

"Look, I don't think imports are going to be able to help much, do you?" he asked. It was true, too. They were in a sad state of affairs, throughout the country. Bad, actually. They were dropping like flies, and fast. He couldn't expect their support, and he couldn't chance moving for it.

"I have the help I need in contacts through the country. It's not conventional, but it's something that I needed to build, if I want to get anything done for us."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at Mitch's explanation. There was no point in disagreeing that all of them were scattered, plenty were in custody, and others were simply useless.

"Then what makes you so different?" he asked, with more than a little venom slipping into his voice. "There's resistances cropping up all over. I should know, I've been feeding them information all this time. But I suppose you've been forced to denounce all of that behavior."

A hard sigh pressed out of his nose, almost like a bull's snort.

"It's been seven years, and you're just coming back to the City now. How long do you expect to get your throne back, then? Another decade? Maybe then there might be three or four of us left to appreciate it." As far as he was concerned, for now Mitch had lost the privilege of using the collective noun for them.

He didn't even bat an eye at the unspoken accusation. The idea that he was no longer one of them. Even if, even if he could convince the government to overturn this, even if he managed to make things better, he would never be able to be one of them again. He wasn't an import anymore. He'd gone fucking native.

It was the sacrifice he'd made. He'd given it up, on purpose, because he'd needed to. Because imports needed him to.

He'd been a man to give up everything once already. He would do it again and again and again if it meant he could save the planet. Hell, if there was a chance of saving the planet. "You're joking, right? Sherlock, I'm not going to make this slow," he explained. He didn't offer more than that, of course. He couldn't. Not which cycle, not which office he had his eye on. Saying that he wasn't making it that slow was too ambiguous, too little for him to go off of, while still contradicting him.

He'd learned so much, even from being Maskin, at being the consummate politician.

These days, Sherlock would willingly, maybe even gladly, admit to the fact that he had no in-depth knowledge of American politics, nor did he want any. They clearly hadn't done much for him. Because of this, or maybe in spite of it, Mitch's ideas only sounded delusional.

"You're willing to gamble like that?" he asked with a shade of incredulity. They both understood there was far more at stake if he didn't make it anywhere than if it were under normal circumstances. "A few bestsellers are hardly a guarantee of office." He put his unopened beer aside with a pointed clank and began to pace the length of the meeting table.

"People don't want us to be human. Even if they're in favor of us, they want a bloody spectacle, not our rights. You saw it downstairs. It's like a colonial trading post; next they'll have our shrunken heads for sale. That old fool loves imports, he says. We're profit, not people." Sherlock paused in his walk, drumming his fingers on the table top.

"And if you get anywhere, and they find you out? What then?" He sighed. "Government officials certainly aren't as sharp as me, but give them a few more years of having you under a microscope. Even the best disguise doesn't last forever."

"I have been under the fucking microscope, asshole!" he threw his hands in the air, launching into a pace that was all Mitchell. "How the fuck do you think I've survived? It hasn't been just from being careful! I know how to pretend to be human because I've been doing it for a lot longer than most of you assholes."

And that was the truth of it, the centerpiece. Mitchell was an oddity even in his world. If he'd had no superpowers, and come to the City, he probably would rely on them more, and be unable to hide it. In his world, he could shut down a city with a word, or even worse, mentally command a good portion of New York City without a whisper or a word.

Nobody knew how far his powers went, because he'd never spoken about them. He refused to speak on them. It'd been a recipe for disaster, and yet now it was his savior.

"I know exactly what I'm doing. Do you think I'd risk my skin if I didn't think the payoff was worth it?"

Mitchell had always been the sort to go balls to the wall with his gambles. They paid off, most of the time, but it meant he was risky. He mitigated all risk he could, but sometimes he really, honestly, truly was kind of a dumbass about it.

Sherlock, for once, couldn't quite argue with that. At home, he'd certainly been an outcast, but not to this level. Not because of anything supernatural. And most of them, he knew, had horribly great potential within them that the natives feared. Sometimes he marveled at the fact that more of them didn't use it. Some deeply hidden moral code inside the majority of them, however, kept that from happening. Or maybe it was simply their lack of organization.

Mitch's outburst, though, was actually refreshing. It proved there was still a fire in him, something that Sherlock watched more than a few imPorts lose over time. It didn't make his plan look any better, but it at least relieved Sherlock regarding his motives.

"This system has abused us for nearly a decade. I don't think trying to make it fall on its own sword is going to happen at the beck and call of one person." He gives Mitch a cold, level look to contradict his fire. "If you at least had help from those working against it, you wouldn't have to be such a damned martyr."

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viced - 2013-03-26 06:02 (UTC) - Expand