Malcom Black

[Malcom Black]

The easy S T U F F . . .

Name: Malcom Isha Black
Nickname: People tend to call him Mal. He doesn't like that much.
Age: Thirty-three
Member Group: Security
Power(s): Telekinesis- he can lift anything he can see without touching it, so long as it's something he could lift normally with his own hands. It results in severe migraines, but that doesn't usually stop him.
Play By: Saif Ali Khan

Let it F L O W . . .

He’s a sullen, quiet child when you first meet him, all of eleven years old. He answers with one word and only one, but perhaps that isn’t a surprise, considering he has nine siblings—five older, and four younger. The house he lives in is a madhouse, filled with running children, floors covered in papers and wrappers and his mother faintly visible above the chaos, yelling and trying to maintain some form of order.

This is your third trip to the Black household. You already recruited the two eldest, and now you’re here for the next in line. But this is the first time you’ve seen Malcom.

“Oh, he tends to stay to himself,” his mother explains, a little breathlessly. She is a pretty, dark-haired woman who looks worn out. She isn’t meta. Nor is her husband. She has no idea where her brood got their talents, but she’s taken it fairly well thus far—possibly because, in a household of twelve, your only reaction is to be calm because nothing else works. Her Indian accent is faint but present nonetheless. “He’s a shy one, our Malcom. Don’t pay him any mind.”

You look down at the boy, who’s regarding you from under his dark brows with suspicious eyes. For the past hour, you’ve been trying to explain to him why you’re taking away yet another one of his siblings, but he doesn’t seem to understand it. Meta, powers, X-Men…it all rolls off that small face as if it is going in one ear and out the other.

“We think he’s a little slow,” his mother explains, quite kindly, and leads you to the child you came for. You take one last look at the boy over your shoulder, but he is already gone, and all you can see is a ripped jean-clad leg disappearing into a doorway.

It is a year before you see him again. You are picking up yet another Black child. Another one older than him, this time by…three years? You gave up keeping track by the second one. He opens the door. His hair is longer and he is taller, and he seems less sullen, but no more inclined to be talkative. He has a child, a girl maybe three years old with bright green eyes, clinging to his hand. Her other hand is up at her mouth so she can suck at her thumb. Distractedly, you hope she’s not meta too. You don’t want to keep stopping by this house of madness. It seems to have gotten worse, but that’s because there’s a boy—the one you came for—running around the house at ridiculous speeds. You sigh and look down at Malcom, wondering just how much he remembers and how much you have to explain. But to your surprise, he speaks first.

“Have you come to take him away too?” he asks. The girl is still holding his hand. Surprised, you nod. “Good,” he says. “He keeps breaking the pictures.” And he steps inside to let you in. But this is where his kindness ends. He doesn’t help you chase down his brother, and he certainly doesn’t help you escort the loudly yelling thirteen-year-old to the door. In fact, he has taken his small sister elsewhere. Once you have his brother safely locked in the car, you turn to his mother.

“Have you noticed anything odd about Malcom?” You figure you should ask. You don’t want to miss him only to come back a few weeks later. There is only one sibling older than him now, and he is the right age. But the woman just shakes her head.

“Oh, no. There’s nothing unusual about Malcom.”

And that does indeed seem to be the case. You come back to see the Blacks quite often. When Malcom is thirteen, his older sister is next to be recruited. And then at fifteen, the one directly younger than hm. This time, he does help you wrestle the floating girl to the car, and stares at her ruefully as you shut the door.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” he asks you. You stare down at him, unsure of what to say, and he nods and shrugs.

“I kind of thought so.” And he goes back inside.

You don’t go back to the Black household for a year. That’s a relief. You go to other places, though, meet other students, but for some reason Malcom and his quiet, vaguely-suspicious attitude stick in your mind. You aren’t much surprised when you get your orders to go back to the Black household, and you glumly pack your bags and leave.

With half the family gone, the house should be less chaotic. And indeed, the last time you came, it was. Mrs. Black had gone back to work, and Malcom seemed to have most of the younger children under control. That is not the case today. It’s bedlam. Pictures rattle on the walls, vases fly off tables and crash to the floor, and two children are huddled in the corner, eyes wide and clinging to each other. You pass them a look and head up the stairs, looking for Mrs. Black. Instead, you find Malcom in his room. He wide-eyed, pale and shaking, and curled on the bed with his youngest sister—the one with the green eyes—wrapped tightly in his arms. You are just examining the sight when Mrs. Black finds you.

“I think it’s her,” she calls out, looking as unfazed as ever, even by the rattling of the door to the room. “She has been acting very oddly for the past few days. I’m very worried.”

“Does she complain about headaches?” you ask, looking down at her. She blinks at that.

“No. But she doesn’t talk much.”

You shake your head. “No. She’s too young.” And then you both look at Malcom.

Of course it’s Malcom you take with you. The blood test ends up proving it. He’s very quiet during the trip to Hammel, and when you drop him off, he’s hardly said more than a word.

“It’s gonna be all right, kid,” you say after a moment. You wonder if it sounds as patronizing to his ears as it does to yours and suspect the answer is yes. He gives you a look, then leaves.

The next time you see him, he is seventeen. He’s finally grown tall, and now stands at the same height of 6’1” as you. You pass by him while he’s sitting, cross-legged, on the floor, eyes half shut, back straight, and body still. One eye shutters open as you stop at the door. He greets you cautiously. You nod back, then come and sit in front of him. When you ask if he’s settled in, you get a one-word response. Same to the rest of the questions (roommates, trainers, teachers, so on…) He even manages to do that when asked about graduation. You aren’t sure whether to be exasperated or impressed by his silence. You’re just about to leave when he finally looks up.

“You don’t think I’m weird, right?”

You just shrug.

“Too early to tell.”

He graduates at sixteen. He takes his diploma and stands with his large family, most of them Hammel graduates who look bored at being back at their old school. He’s smiling for the first time. Later, you hear he’s joined the army, and reflect that if anyone knew what to do with the bizarre boy, it was them.

You’re retired by the time he comes back into your life. You don’t recognize him. You just sit down next to a tanned man with a military haircut, and dark eyes, whose fiddling with a poker chip. He’s wearing a nice suit and has the glint to his dark eyes that makes you label him as a troublemaker. You’re just making a plan to find another place to sit when he looks in your direction, and a smile curves his lips upwards.

Of course it’s him—twenty-eight, discharged from the army, and looking for a job. He seems different. Cheerful. You’ve never heard a man coming back from a war cheerful, especially one who survived five years of the Afghan war. He says he wasn’t on the front lines. You’re pretty sure that’s half-true. Things don’t seem quite right. He’s well-built—no surprise there, he’s been in the army—but he’s thin, too, hollowed-cheeked, with bags under his bright eyes. But he’s more cheerful than you’ve seen him. Ever. When you ask why, he just laughs.

“I won big at the poker game,” he confesses. “And I’m just happy to be out of the army, you know? All these things that I can do now that I’m out.” He sighs wistfully and spins the chip in his palm. Without any help from his fingers. It’s nice to see a meta who is comfortable with his powers.

But you can’t get him to say what he’s been doing that he couldn’t before. He keeps the conversation on you, asking about kids, about Hammel. It’s only when you finally catch a cab home that you realize you didn’t get more than two details out about him.

You keep meeting him at the bar. Somewhere in those ten years, you discover Malcom found a sense of humor. He has a way of giving straight lines that has you choking on your beer. Other days, he comes in glum and depressed and makes you tell story after story until he’s regained some of his good mood. He’s generous and buys half the rounds, except for certain days when he insists you buy them because he’s broke. He seems to come in and out of wealth, too. Half the time he has an extensive tab, and the rest he’ll buy rounds for the rest. You discover why when he comes in one night with a black eye. When you ask what happens, he laughs it off and settles down next to you.

“Poker. Uh. Got caught with one more ace than I should have.”

He keeps you distracted until, subtly, he drops the question—possibly the one he’s been trying to ask you in those days you’ve been spending time with him.

“Know if Hammel’s hiring?”

By this point, you’ve both had quite a few drinks. You blink at him, and he shrugs sheepishly and speaks.

“Because you see, I…I need a job. I’m too young for a military pension, and I’m not disabled. And I run through money faster than I run through water. And….” He trails off and clears his throat. “I’m not sure anyone would hire me, anyways. I’ve got problems. You’ve probably figured that out by now. I probably should have had a host of therapists descend on me by now, but I haven’t. But I work hard, and I can keep my head in a crisis. Can’t get much more of a crisis than a war, right?” For the first time, you see some of the boy you’d recruited before in his eyes—vulnerable, and wanting reassurance, even though he’d never say so. Too proud for that. “You don’t have to get it for me. I just…” He takes another swig of his scotch to fortify himself, then looks at you. “I just know when I need to ask for help.”

Of course you find him a job—security. And he’s good at it. You don’t know about the war being a help—your bet is that his unflappable air is due to his nine siblings. You don’t ask about his gambling habits. You don’t ask if he’s sleeping better or if he’s feeling better. You just go back to your weekly meeting for drinks and hope that things will all work out.

Behind the M A S K . . .

Name: Sara
Age: Nineteen!
RP Experience: Eight years.>>
How did you find us?:...I've been here for a while now...?

Show your S K I L L S . . .

*points to Josef, Henry, Kateri, Danny and Brea*

...yeah.

[Raena *]

Accepted!

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Brilliantly done once again, Sara. You know what to do now![/blockquote][/center]