patron saint of suffering.

❝ give me steel and flint and poison to whet my teeth upon, so that the transubstantiation of all these things bring me the swift hand of justice upon their throats. there will be wailing and gnashing and the horror dealt upon my hand for the crimes committed unto me this day. blood begets blood begets blood. ❞

HISTORY. (coming soon!) CONNECTIONS. PINTEREST.

Cyra stays quiet a moment, then another as she contemplates the admittedly loose explanation Ms. Jones offers her. Eventually, a hand lifts to adjust the sunglasses over her eyes. “So.. It’s more like some kind, mutant-lead political PAC?” A bob of her head indicates that she’s not exactly against that idea, and she continues saying as much. “I suppose that’s not really a bad thing, hm?” Only tedious thanks to the personalities of those in DC. “Not if we want to be seen as equals. Or at least, not as..” Cyra hesitates, the corners of her mouth turning down. She turns to meet January’s face, her eyes still hidden behind her own sunglasses. “Is that the goal? To fix the reputation we have now thanks to that hateful group of terrorists?” Though she keeps the ice from her voice, the question is asked point blank; her decision hanging on the answer.

A political action committee? God rest her soul, January St. James was no politician and while she contributed to lobbyists and activists, she wasn’t exactly one herself, but she puts on a nice look on her face and pauses. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. This is simply... a club. Where we talk and drink and chat to other people about what we do with our money and our influence. Perhaps resort to the odd blackmail or so. Collectively.” Santization. Just a little. She tucks a hair back into place and sighs.

“Our reputation isn’t going to be fixed. People will always hate mutants,” she continues, walking astride with her. “But the goal is to play their game and to play it with such a clarity as to win. Give them scapegoats, give them technology, give them access to mutant healthcare, control them the way all these nations do.” This is a clear day, a good day. And one that she dares to feel optimism about. “Then, we take their outrageous sums of money—the profit they love so much, and buy their banks. Their politicians and media and their little cultural attaches. We take it from the people who would do our children harm and render them impotent. Just like that. Like a fire with no oxygen.”

          “that’s why you have other people to do the hitting for you.” or a mutation, for that matter. what difference do charges make when she can wipe them from existence? but impulse is the last sense to adhered to when making a plan. regardless of any specific tricks, violence almost always came with consequences. hasn’t he learned that many times over?

          he shrugs off the compliment, uncertain of it himself. growth ( or rather, change ) is enevitable, but he rejects the idea that he’s been much different. he still worries for what essex has planned, even with an empire crumbling around him. he still sees those enemies in every direction he turns. maybe it’s the fact that he’s actually been proven right. “not enough,” he ventures, instead of voicing any of that. “but i’ll get there.”

"Self-improvement. I can admire that.” There’s something in the air with him, a fear that January can’t quite place, but one that’s definitely a survivalist’s bent than actual fear in his veins. The arrogance of her place here, in society, in the world of mutants has made her skin like steel, and if she can afford it? That steel may prove useful as a shield. Or a sword.

     the woman had been right to be worried. a look was given and then her name was announced, drawing unwanted attention to her. she felt several eyes on her but looked down to avoid locking eyes with anyone else. the other woman had been so quick to ‘give her up’. emmeline didn’t deserve peace and quiet but this was becoming too normal - having people notice her and want to have a conversation about it all. her cowardice was warranted when it felt like she was stuck in a never-ending cycle. she would have to do something, anything to help but the urge to hide out at xavier’s for as long as he would allow was weighing in her mind. xavier was going to reject her, that was clear, it was just a matter of when.

       emmeline opened her mouth to respond but she wasn’t quick enough. the woman had already sat down opposite her. she could feel herself tense up, breathing slightly more shallow as the woman started with the questions. “i don’t want to cause any more trouble.” she shook her head as she finally looked at the other. “keep your voice down.” she was a target and now with most people knowing who she was, she was even more vulnerable. “i didn’t know it went that far.” things looked rather different once you were out of something. she had been seen to enjoy hurting people during her employment at the house - those with little power were extremely dangerous when they were handed it over someone else. “there’s no coming back.”

"I don’t think I will, Miss Essex.” Her voice is clear and dry, even as she’s seen with her. The woman who helped manufacture Jess’ torture—and found herself on the receiving end of it when all was said and done. Latent mutancy even in these circumstances, is pitiable. Sometimes, people go their whole lives without knowing they were special, and realize it a little too late. But January has no more pity for her, she thinks. The withered flower on the vine as she sits before her.

Maxine: So, a mutant utopia? I'd find it hard to believe if co-existence is your endgame.

Maxine: And I suppose you're in charge of all the machinations, then? And we'd just be your Girl Scouts?

January: Why not? We're still going to be living with humanity. You think I'm just going to sweep all that aside because we're better?

January: Some of my favorite designers are human. Just some.

January: And forgive me, but I'm /not/ your mother, Miss Brandt. I can't hold your hand or look over your shoulder; you're independent thinkers. You do things you want.

Maxine: Like mutant-only private schools?

Maxine: It's fortunate that I've mastered the art of sitting still and looking pretty, then. I'd finally have something to thank my mother for.

Maxine: But you don't actually expect all of your members to be philanthropists, do you? I'm a tad bit rusty when it comes to good-doing.

January: Ha! Mutant-only private schools. No, Xavier has that down under lock.

January: No, no—I was thinking mutant legislation. Mutant businesses. Mutant art and culture. Mutants having a place in this world that humanity can't stain or take away.

January: And to be frank, Miss Brandt, I'd have to say that half of the people there are in it for the drinks and the bored humans and the simpering spouses.

Maxine: A businesswoman *and* a homemaker. How impressive.

Maxine: I hope you're about to say something trivial, like tax evasion.

Maxine: Surprisingly, I've had enough of corporate espionage in my lifetime. And nothing's of use to me at the moment, anyway. I'm unemployed, if you haven't heard.

Maxine: Maybe that's why I've taken an interest in your lunch club. What *is* a woman to do when she has too much free time?

January: If pressed? Shake up the economy with a twitch of my nose. I've done it before with a nice dress and a nicer wig.

         for now. it’s more of a chance than jack would expect from january, even as gracious as she’s always been to him. and min-ji. and jess. and who knows how many others. “you’re more tolerant than i ever could be,” he admits, shaking his head. “and i don’t know how you do it. if there’s one thing worse than a prick, it’s a rich prick.” of course, given where she’s hitched her horse, jack has little doubt that she knows all about that.

         “not exactly looking,” he answers, after a long moment of silence. and it’s true. although it takes effort to remind himself at times, he doesn’t have the same need for unusual methods of contact, anymore. he has everything he needs sorted out. “but if it makes things easier, or sinks a ship that needs sinking…” he trails off, shrugging. “i don’t lose any sleep over it.”

"Darling, my family is old Boston money. I can hit them, but that’d just leave me with assault charges and wasted effort,” she says blithely, rolling her eyes at the thought of it. Many have tried it with her, of course. Sometimes with her ex-mob ties, sometimes with the company she kept, but none of them ever stuck. A door to hell can make all the difference.

Maxine, chuckling: I thought you were a modern woman, Ms. St. James. Aren't lunch clubs, even as deceitful as this one is, are of a bygone era?

Maxine: So, capitalism melded with philanthropy, then?

Maxine: Why not just become a politician? That seems easier, doesn't it? Put a face to the movement and become a hero. Everyone loves a good hero.

January: I love a good lunch club. Call me old-fashioned.

January: And forgive me, but I have other ventures that require a deft hand. One that wouldn't survive politics, at least.

Maxine: So… what *is* the Hellfire Club?

January: Publicly? Mostly a debauched Dorian Grey club like the one in the 18th century. Entertainment. Rooms. Drinks. Connectivity.

January: Among the mutants and the supporters? Investment in private business and secretly funding lobbies that advance the interests of mutants.

         “don’t worry,” he almost grunts, eyes shifting back toward the doorway; “he’s gone. and if he knows what’s good for him, he won’t be coming back.” of course, there’s a small part of him that hopes he does. if january doesn’t take the time to mentally eviscerate him, jack will be perfectly happy to step in, instead. but he shouldn’t. he doesn’t need to, anymore. “i’m assuming he doesn’t have any friends hanging around with him?”

"Jack, these are rich pricks. It goes to show that the man has more money than sense, and I’m not going to throw him out after this, even if I do want to kill him. No, the humiliation is enough for now.” The words ring true as the last two are dropped. For now. “Just know that he’s on my shit list. And it’s hard to claw yourself back out from under that.”

      the other woman looked somewhat familiar but wasn’t sure where to place her. for someone that didn’t want to appear suspicious, a flighty emmeline shuffled uncomfortably in her seat and kept her head down. eyes flickered every once in a while in the other woman’s direction. perhaps she hadn’t even been looking at her and her paranoia (she’d argue it was a cautious approach) had taken over; there was a pattern with smart looking individuals approaching her and attempting to bombard her with questions. she had grown to expect it but it didn’t mean it was true. if anything, the way she was constantly looking at the other was enough to make anyone with no ill intentions uncomfortable.

@jcnuaries​

Emmeline. It takes all of her willpower not to charge at the woman and drag her back to the office for interrogation and a private session with Jess, Jack and all their other friends. She doesn’t take kindly to any of Nathaniel’s kin, much less his traitorous mutant daughter. January imagines every horror and pain that she’s inflicted, and all she can do is give her a pointed, yet slight frown on her face. The most lethal of the expressions.

          He  was  doing  what  he  knew  was  right.   Chris  was  doing  his  best  and  sometimes  it  didn’t  feel  like  his  best  was  enough,   but  sometimes  it  did  feel  like  he  wasn’t  doing  anything  helpful.    “That’s  true.   I  think  what  I’m  doing  is  helpful,   but  it’s  not  the  only  thing  I  can  be  doing.”   Maybe  he  needed  to  spend  more  time  on  his  social  life  and  not  on  his  writing.   “I  do  think  I  can  do  more.   And  even  if  it’s  not  writing,   I  want  to  do  more.” 

          Chris  follows  to  the  restaurant.   He’s  never  been  here  before  even  though  he’s  heard  of  it.   He  walks  in  the  place  and  smiles.   “Oh,   I’ll  leave  a  nice  tip  too.   Least  I  can  do.”   He  can  pay  for  his  own  meal  since  his  savings  are  actually  disgustingly  padded. 

"On a journalist’s salary? I think not. Treat it as a gift, from someone who has a vested interest in print media.” Closing the portal behind them, she signals to the maitre’d, and leads him to her favorite spot in the whole restaurant. Notice is paid to the both of them, even during a busy day, eyes of several people within the vicinity wandering the both of them.

          “Well  I  don’t  know  how  much  my  articles  are  actually  doing,   even  though  that’s  where  I  feel  like  I  can  make  the  biggest  impact.   I  just  don’t  know  what  to  focus  on  writing.   It’s  not  admirable,   it’s  the  right  thing  to  do.”    He  shrugged,   knowing  that  not  many  people  were  going  to  think  like  he  did.   “Sure.   Lunch  sounds  like  a  good  start.” 

"Listen. I have had experience with the papers, and a well written word can be kind or kill just as quickly.” Mayoral campaigns, ruining a socialite with rumor and one fatal scandal involving her old flame and his bride. January knows how the papers can help, and with the public outlook on mutants at a low thanks to Erik’s well-intentioned terrorism, she wants to spin the pro-mutant angle as quickly as possible. “Your articles have an impact. Don’t sell yourself short just yet.”

Solomon Ofori. It’s a powerful name, one that inspires respect and awe even without meeting him. Tiffany will remember it for sure. She’ll remember this for sure, whatever happens. There’s always been a vague horizon of hope in her heart that she’ll develop a mutation, but it’s been tempered by an impending sense that it’ll never really happen. It doesn’t remotely feel real that she’s the one able to control this floating piece of paper right now.

“Do you really believe that?” she asks softly, chewing her lip and regarding Jan earnestly. “Or are you just saying it? That it could be permanent, I mean.”

Do you really believe that? Well, January knows that it isn’t out of the realm of possibility, but with Tiffany barely lifting a piece of paper? It’s only a matter of time until either she or the power gives. At least she did give her a disclaimer about all of this; it wouldn’t do well to be advertised as a woman that can’t do the impossible.

“I do,” she says, a small smile on her face. A reassuring pat on the shoulder. January vaguely remembers something like this, these small white lies to herself, just to edge the day on. Wine on her breath, a ruined heart. Well, these things can help Tiffany along, if the mutation Solomon had given her wasn’t exactly suited to her body. “This may not be a natural mutation, but now? It is yours. And I believe that if you train hard enough, the odds of rejection will be slim.” Small reassurances. Not lie or truth, but plain reassurance.

Cyra blinks, then blinks again before slowly accepting the presented physical invitation. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, had it? She’s sure she wouldn’t have missed it. An impressed smile spreads wide over her features at the show of clear skill, and she can’t contain the light chuckle that bubbles up out of her throat. “Dorian Gray?” Her eyebrows raise with the question, her tone clearly still amused. “Well now you’ve definitely got my attention.” She flips the fancy cardstock between her fingers, examining each side before looking back up at Ms. Jones through her long lashes. “But is it a party or a club?” It doesn’t matter, really. She likes both.