![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-forge.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsAfter Forge's plane lands, Scott has to come retrieve him from the airport - not from the traveler's lounge, no. It seems our boy genius has managed to get arrested without being back in the country for twenty minutes. We think that's a new record.
The police substation at JFK International Airport bore more of a resemblance to a white-collar office than the archetypical downtown precinct. Rows of cubicles lined the long open room, with offices and holding rooms along the walls and a floor-to-ceiling window giving a panoramic view of the airport's main terminal at night.
The only immediate clue to the facility's purpose was the plethora of safety and regulatory posters tacked up on nearly every flat surface, and the large embossed "AIRPORT POLICE" shield mounted on the desk nearest to the door, where a female officer was busy popping another square of nicotine gum into her mouth as she noticed Scott walking in.
"Can I help you?" she drawled in the voice that tended to indicate the end of a shift rapidly approaching. "Reporting or picking up?"
"Picking up," Scott said. I hope. Inwardly he was bewildered and more than a little irritated by what Forge had told him, and had been marshalling arguments during the drive to the airport. I hope I don't wind up wishing I'd asked Charles to come along... "An employee of mine called me, saying he'd been arrested. John Henry Forge?"
"Forge with an 'F'?" the officer questioned, turning to her computer. "Right, got brought in two hours ago by one of the Customs folks. Lemme tell you, he started one hell of a shitstorm over in that department. Says here... huh. Says here all charges have been dropped. Wait, he that little guy with the bum leg? Yeah, those two fellows in the Men In Black outfits came by for him. I think he's probably over in the break room." She jerked a thumb over to a small room to the left, then eyed Scott. "You guys work for the Feds or something?"
Men in Black? What the hell? "A school, actually," Scott said warily, his eyes straying towards the direction she'd indicated. "Thanks," he said, and headed towards the door. Dropped charges were good, Men in Black on the other hand...
Inside the small break room, Forge looked up from the cup of coffee he'd been sipping while he read the newspaper. The rest of the room was almost completely empty and austere, save for a small fridge and a coffee maker that was already brewing a second pot. "Ah, there you are," he said, folding the paper in half and setting it next to his coffee.
With an impish grin, Forge steepled his fingers together and leaned his elbows on the small break table. "You'll never guess how my day's been."
"It wouldn't be a proper homecoming without a little drama, would it?" Scott asked wryly, folding his arms across his chest. "What happened?"
"So I'm coming off the plane and going through Customs, right?" Forge began, leaning back in his chair. "I go through my usual routine of getting my medical documents out, since it saves time having to explain things at the metal detector, and since they always want to do an inspection anyway. And the Customs officer starts going through his questions. 'Have you been on a farm? Are you carrying over ten thousand dollars in currency?' And then he busts out 'Have you been in contact with any mutants during your travels?'. And I'm like, what the fuck? Totally out of line. So I tell him so."
Forge chuckled, then rubbed his wrists, the right one bearing the telltale red marks of a handcuff cinched too tightly. "So he starts reading me this speech about increased security and whatnot, and I ask him what mutants have to do with that. I mean, did I come into contact with any known terrorists? Yeah, that'd make sense. So I tell him that's bullshit and I'm not going to answer. Next thing I know, I'm up against a wall getting read my rights."
"Forge, while I sympathize and in fact agree with your reaction," Scott said, his voice still dry - the situation was clearly resolved, so he could afford to be, "a little diplomacy goes a long way. What happened then?"
"Then they brought me here and told me that a senior Customs Agent would be by to inform me of the charges. That's when I called you. Allegedly I was interfering with customs and immigration business. And that's when Johnson and Thompson showed up, and you know, I don't think those were their real names." Forge explained, getting up to pour himself another cup of coffee. "They quickly pointed out that the Customs agent who was interviewing me was going 'off-script', so to speak. What with those Preserver terrorists on the news, apparently there's a few people who've taken it on their own initiative to be the thin blue line against mutant terrorism. Yeah, fear them and their questionnaires."
He took a sip of coffee, then frowned and began emptying sugar packets into the mug. "So these two guys identify themselves as State Department agents, and go out and talk to Mister Senior Customs Agent for a while. He comes back in, takes the cuffs off, and gives me the biggest apology I've ever seen. I think Junior's losing his job over this, and in the past half-hour I've been apologized to by airport management, various federal government officials, and the New York Board of Tourism. Have I mentioned that some days I just really hate bureaucracy? Oh, did you want some coffee?"
Scott tilted his head. "No, I've had my daily infusion... State Department, huh? I wonder what triggered that. Maybe just your name going into the system." Forge was a person of interest in a few different ways for the government, after all. The smile was trying to creep out, but he didn't let it.
Forge arched an eyebrow. "Given their phrasing and attitude, I get the feeling that ever since I made that deal with Agent Cooper to testify against Magneto, it would behoove some groups to keep an eye on me. Make sure I'm not skipping the country to go hang with the Brotherhood or anything. Which makes sense." He drained the coffee mug and then set it next to the tiny sink. "At least I don't have to wear a tracker like our young Lehnsherr. Then again, I doubt Pietro bothers with Customs most of the time."
"Actually, he's rid of the tracker. One of the numerous things that have happened since you've been gone - you've got some catching up to do, I think." Scott eyed Forge, his lips twitching slightly. "Ready to go, or shall we stick around just in case of further opportunity to see the sometimes magnificent and sometimes appalling wheels of bureaucracy turning?"
Forge pondered for a moment, waving his hand sarcastically. "I don't know, I think we've missed Happy Hour, but maybe the band'll show up before midnight. This place seems like it could be pretty hip. Rad. Totally boss. Like a club with no cover charge. Yes, I want to get out of here, where the hell did they put my luggage?"
"Let's go find out. I can always charm the female officer at the front desk. I do charm well, you know. That tends to mean I get arrested a lot less." Oh, he was going to have a good time giving Forge a hard time about this from time to time. Occasionally he was a very small person.
Scowling, Forge walked past Scott out into the hallway. "Yeah, but I wreck cars a lot less. Speaking of which, flip you for who gets to drive back to the mansion?"
"Oh, you think I'm going to let you drive the Solstice, do you? Just because you've been penned up at the mercy of bigoted customs agents and well-meaning State Department suits..." Scott extended the keys.
Forge smiled, accepting the keys and laughing as he saw his suitcases neatly arranged by the door. "You know, Scott? I don't care what anyone says, you're totally not that much of a dick."
The police substation at JFK International Airport bore more of a resemblance to a white-collar office than the archetypical downtown precinct. Rows of cubicles lined the long open room, with offices and holding rooms along the walls and a floor-to-ceiling window giving a panoramic view of the airport's main terminal at night.
The only immediate clue to the facility's purpose was the plethora of safety and regulatory posters tacked up on nearly every flat surface, and the large embossed "AIRPORT POLICE" shield mounted on the desk nearest to the door, where a female officer was busy popping another square of nicotine gum into her mouth as she noticed Scott walking in.
"Can I help you?" she drawled in the voice that tended to indicate the end of a shift rapidly approaching. "Reporting or picking up?"
"Picking up," Scott said. I hope. Inwardly he was bewildered and more than a little irritated by what Forge had told him, and had been marshalling arguments during the drive to the airport. I hope I don't wind up wishing I'd asked Charles to come along... "An employee of mine called me, saying he'd been arrested. John Henry Forge?"
"Forge with an 'F'?" the officer questioned, turning to her computer. "Right, got brought in two hours ago by one of the Customs folks. Lemme tell you, he started one hell of a shitstorm over in that department. Says here... huh. Says here all charges have been dropped. Wait, he that little guy with the bum leg? Yeah, those two fellows in the Men In Black outfits came by for him. I think he's probably over in the break room." She jerked a thumb over to a small room to the left, then eyed Scott. "You guys work for the Feds or something?"
Men in Black? What the hell? "A school, actually," Scott said warily, his eyes straying towards the direction she'd indicated. "Thanks," he said, and headed towards the door. Dropped charges were good, Men in Black on the other hand...
Inside the small break room, Forge looked up from the cup of coffee he'd been sipping while he read the newspaper. The rest of the room was almost completely empty and austere, save for a small fridge and a coffee maker that was already brewing a second pot. "Ah, there you are," he said, folding the paper in half and setting it next to his coffee.
With an impish grin, Forge steepled his fingers together and leaned his elbows on the small break table. "You'll never guess how my day's been."
"It wouldn't be a proper homecoming without a little drama, would it?" Scott asked wryly, folding his arms across his chest. "What happened?"
"So I'm coming off the plane and going through Customs, right?" Forge began, leaning back in his chair. "I go through my usual routine of getting my medical documents out, since it saves time having to explain things at the metal detector, and since they always want to do an inspection anyway. And the Customs officer starts going through his questions. 'Have you been on a farm? Are you carrying over ten thousand dollars in currency?' And then he busts out 'Have you been in contact with any mutants during your travels?'. And I'm like, what the fuck? Totally out of line. So I tell him so."
Forge chuckled, then rubbed his wrists, the right one bearing the telltale red marks of a handcuff cinched too tightly. "So he starts reading me this speech about increased security and whatnot, and I ask him what mutants have to do with that. I mean, did I come into contact with any known terrorists? Yeah, that'd make sense. So I tell him that's bullshit and I'm not going to answer. Next thing I know, I'm up against a wall getting read my rights."
"Forge, while I sympathize and in fact agree with your reaction," Scott said, his voice still dry - the situation was clearly resolved, so he could afford to be, "a little diplomacy goes a long way. What happened then?"
"Then they brought me here and told me that a senior Customs Agent would be by to inform me of the charges. That's when I called you. Allegedly I was interfering with customs and immigration business. And that's when Johnson and Thompson showed up, and you know, I don't think those were their real names." Forge explained, getting up to pour himself another cup of coffee. "They quickly pointed out that the Customs agent who was interviewing me was going 'off-script', so to speak. What with those Preserver terrorists on the news, apparently there's a few people who've taken it on their own initiative to be the thin blue line against mutant terrorism. Yeah, fear them and their questionnaires."
He took a sip of coffee, then frowned and began emptying sugar packets into the mug. "So these two guys identify themselves as State Department agents, and go out and talk to Mister Senior Customs Agent for a while. He comes back in, takes the cuffs off, and gives me the biggest apology I've ever seen. I think Junior's losing his job over this, and in the past half-hour I've been apologized to by airport management, various federal government officials, and the New York Board of Tourism. Have I mentioned that some days I just really hate bureaucracy? Oh, did you want some coffee?"
Scott tilted his head. "No, I've had my daily infusion... State Department, huh? I wonder what triggered that. Maybe just your name going into the system." Forge was a person of interest in a few different ways for the government, after all. The smile was trying to creep out, but he didn't let it.
Forge arched an eyebrow. "Given their phrasing and attitude, I get the feeling that ever since I made that deal with Agent Cooper to testify against Magneto, it would behoove some groups to keep an eye on me. Make sure I'm not skipping the country to go hang with the Brotherhood or anything. Which makes sense." He drained the coffee mug and then set it next to the tiny sink. "At least I don't have to wear a tracker like our young Lehnsherr. Then again, I doubt Pietro bothers with Customs most of the time."
"Actually, he's rid of the tracker. One of the numerous things that have happened since you've been gone - you've got some catching up to do, I think." Scott eyed Forge, his lips twitching slightly. "Ready to go, or shall we stick around just in case of further opportunity to see the sometimes magnificent and sometimes appalling wheels of bureaucracy turning?"
Forge pondered for a moment, waving his hand sarcastically. "I don't know, I think we've missed Happy Hour, but maybe the band'll show up before midnight. This place seems like it could be pretty hip. Rad. Totally boss. Like a club with no cover charge. Yes, I want to get out of here, where the hell did they put my luggage?"
"Let's go find out. I can always charm the female officer at the front desk. I do charm well, you know. That tends to mean I get arrested a lot less." Oh, he was going to have a good time giving Forge a hard time about this from time to time. Occasionally he was a very small person.
Scowling, Forge walked past Scott out into the hallway. "Yeah, but I wreck cars a lot less. Speaking of which, flip you for who gets to drive back to the mansion?"
"Oh, you think I'm going to let you drive the Solstice, do you? Just because you've been penned up at the mercy of bigoted customs agents and well-meaning State Department suits..." Scott extended the keys.
Forge smiled, accepting the keys and laughing as he saw his suitcases neatly arranged by the door. "You know, Scott? I don't care what anyone says, you're totally not that much of a dick."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}