xp_logs | Artie and Kevin - Thursday night

xp_artie posting in

Artie and Kevin. Sort of a sideways movement in the work he'll be doing, definitely because of Artie's Issues.

"I wanted to know if you wanted to switch to the analysis side of the shop. We're shorthanded there and you've shown an aptitude for it. You'd keep your personal criminal and Mutant Underground networks, obviously," He said, taking a healthy swallow.

Even the rap on the door was short and to the point. Kevin hadn't said anything about Artie's outburst for a few days, wanting to give him a chance to cool down. Unfortunately, part of his job meant dealing with things like this head on. However, as he headed down to Artie's suite - more neutral ground than the office - he realized that he didn't know that much about the young man outside of his files and working relationship. He had a detailed dossier and some solid insights based on being, well... old, but ask him the younger man's favourite movie, he'd draw a blank. Still, a bottle of good whiskey generally worked as an ice breaker.

Artie sighed. Twenty years in the mansion and people still believed they could just ... knock on your door. He levered himself off the couch and padded over to the door to find Kevin. How wonderful. He wasn't even at work. The bottle of whiskey suggested a conversation and appealing as redirecting it to a common area sounded, well, you dropped in on someone unexpectedly, you got what you got. He nodded hello and waved the other man into the suite. "Pull up a..." There was space for one on the couch, the other half still covered in last week's laundry. "Pull up a chair," he offered, using the text to direct Kevin to one of the two dining chairs and starting to pick up the half dozen plates on the suite's small table, dropping them onto the counter in the kitchenette.

Kevin pulled one over and sat down, setting the bottle on the table. He wasn't fussed about the state of anyone's room. Most people thought his was a guest suite based on the lack of personal items.

"Appreciate it. Can you dig up a couple of glasses? Thought we should have a talk."

"And it couldn't wait until business hours?" Artie handed over one glass and one mug.

"I think this one might be better in private. After all, if you feel like throwing a punch at me, better in your own place." Kevin said, pouring a healthy measure into both glasses.

"You think that poorly of me, do you?" Artie asked, taking one of the glasses and leaning back slightly in his seat. So this was going to be some version of 'antagonise him for his own good because everyone appreciates involuntary therapy-slash-operational briefings from a man who pre-dated the internet.' He'd figured, given Kevin, that it would come during the work day.

Kevin rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt. "I came to talk.You might not like it. I'm over fifty years older than you. I might have some things I anticipate."

Artie shrugged. "Fine. Let's talk." He took a sip of the whiskey and scrunched his nose. Oh, hell with it. He reached over and opened the fridge, grabbing a can of coke and pouring most of it into his mug. "I don't like spirits. My head is like 90% sinuses and that shit burns."

"Whatever you want. It's been a long time since I cared how people drink." Kevin said. "See, I should know that about you, and I didn't."

"That my head is like 90% sinuses?" Artie added a wireframe diagram to his text. "I guess it's pretty cool if you care about those things but, honestly, from where I'm sitting, it's old news. Look, no offence here, Kevin, but what's the reason for you dropping by? I've had a long day and I'm watching the Bachelor."

"I wanted to know if you wanted to switch to the analysis side of the shop. We're shorthanded there and you've shown an aptitude for it. You'd keep your personal criminal and Mutant Underground networks, obviously." He said, taking a healthy swallow.

Artie blinked, face carefully bank. "I'm not sure I follow your logic here. What's the reason for this suggestion?" Oh, he followed. Ninety percent certain he knew where he was supposed to end up with phrases like You'd keep your personal criminal and Mutant Underground networks, obviously being thrown around but he'd hold off on conclusions until anything was said out loud.

"I thought you might be more comfortable not having to deal with as many humans. After all, even before the new intel, the vast majority of our contacts and assets are human. That trend is only going to accelerate." Kevin shrugged.

Ahh yes, there it was. It obviously wasn't concern about his ability to pass so, yeah, this was definitely going to be some attempt to unravel his unwarranted prejudices or something like the worst session of involuntary therapy known to man. Artie smiled, switching seamlessly from text to synthesiser and the illusion of spoken English. "Thanks, Kevin. Real sweet of you to think of me like that. I'm not sure why you think it might be an issue for me, though."

"Same reasons I wouldn't ask you to handle gay contacts if you were a n opinionated homophobe or Israeli government contacts if you were an avowed Nazi. De-personing makes for unreliable intel." Kevin's tone never changed. They could have been discussing local sports coverage.

"Good thing you don't have any of the traditional issues men your age have, isn't it? No sexism, no weird issues about Black people or Italians or the Russians."

"Oh, I had plenty of them. See, when I was at the CIA, we had terrible intel in Asia for decades. I was originally a specialist there, due to language abilities. The professionals in charge... I'm talking guys with a decade or two in intel under their belts... they used to chew through assets. I mean, China had civilization while Irish guys like me were still trying to figure out what rocks to eat. But to them, it was all good time girls and chop suey cooks. They liked to use terms like you do - chinks, gooks, slopes- and opposed intelligence services ran rings around us. A lot of people who made the mistake helping us ended up with a bullet behind the ear because they were unnecessarily risked or tossed aside."

"They still are. They still have terrible intel in half of Asia. They still chew through assets there, in the Middle East, in Central America when they don't pay the right people off. I'm not exactly sure what you think has changed. They still think white college kids and ex special forces types can be whatever they need."

Kevin took another sip, giving Artie a slight smile as the younger man lectured him about global intelligence. "So you agree with me. Having you running human assets and contacts isn't the best plan for us operationally."

"I"m still not entirely convinced it's a problem, though. The part where you decided that you'd convince me by comparing me to a homophobe and Nazi didn't help your argument. In your little CIA story, what am I? The white college kid who doesn't know shit or an experienced operative who has been at this a decade now? I've been dealing with humans my whole life. But, apparently, one little word and now I can't be trusted."

"Artie, I honestly don't care if you wallpaper this room in 'Magneto was right' posters and spend weekends with Quire going to underground mutant first meetings. That's none of my business. But you were the one that felt the need to make sure we all know what you thought of humans in a professional context. You made this my business." Kevin poured another couple of inches. "You made sure I had to know what you think about pretty much all our contacts. So don't whine that you're being called out on it."

Artie sighed. "For what it's worth, I have some pretty negative feelings about mutants, too." He locked eyes with Kevin for a moment and, still maintaining the illusion of verbal speech, because he'd been around long enough to know that shit mattered even when people said it didn't and said "Most of the time, you wear identities like, like, costumes, right?" He held up a hand and added, "Yeah, yeah, you spent a decade wandering the lands, never knowing your true form or identity, moving from one life to the next but that was before mutants were a thing. If I've got a problem with humans, it's because every decision I make in my life, every decision I've made the in the last 10, 15 years has been in relation to them. How I talk. What language I use. How I open my mouth. When I make audible sound. Every interaction I have ends up based around the degree I want to be disabled or a mutant in public.

Humans threw me away like trash. Humans are the reason the Morlocks in the world we came from were killed. Humans are the reason I didn't have access to an entire expressive language system before I came to the mansion - I couldn't sign, I didn't know how to read and write, I didn't have AAC. I can go on, if I want. But apparently, I just have a human problem and we can't be having that."

"Artie, I'm not here to demand you justify your views. My job is to get the absolute most value out of you and your skills for this shop in order to get the best intel." Kevin said, still holding that measured calm look. "You're a valuable professional in the field, but you'd be just as valuable to us on the other side of the shop. And based on what you've said, it sounds like you'd be a lot happier if the vast majority of your job wasn't handling people you hate. That's the scope of this discussion. If you want to have an off the clock get together and compare shitty life histories and who is ultimately to blame, give me a time and place and I'll cover the take out."

Get fucked. "You've already made your mind up, so do what you want, Kevin. Arrange it how you want." So this was what getting demoted felt like, was it? Artie kept his face neutral and the tone in the synthesiser was light.

"No, you don't get to put this on me. You've blamed everyone for everything else in your life. And now you are whining about a demotion that only exists in your own head.." Kevin said, and his gaze turned harder than anything he'd shown him before.. "You tell me you need to stay in the field, you stay there. Despite your proformative outburst, you haven't destroyed your professional reputation yet. But if it spills over, and it will, you'll be the one responsible. No blaming the flatscans. No being pissed off because some Cajun didn't respect you like you felt you deserved. It's all on you now. You ready for that?"

Artie sucked in his breath. How dare he. Fuck Kevin, seriously. "I don't fucking care. Take me out of the field, whatever but remember, you don't get to sit there telling me that I haven't taken responsibility for my own life." The worst bit was he could fucking see Kevin manipulating the situation but the end game wasn't clear. Was it just his fucking god complex or was this a reasonable movement to put him into analytics? Fuck.

"I told you. I'm not taking you out of the field. I offered you a different option. You don't want it, that's fine. But don't pretend this isn't ego driving it." Kevin said. "You have told me you think eight billion people are guilty for your life. And you judge them equally. Because you see them as all the same, you are responsible for the end results."

Of course motherfucking Kevin had no prejudices what-so-fucking-ever. No goddamn emotions about things. No kneejerk feelings about how women probably belong in the kitchen or Russia was going to nuke everyone or whatever the hell Cuba something something from the fucking 1950s like he probably was still surprised that women were allowed to wear pants and get divorced. Oh, sure. Just come into someone's damn home and be all unwilling psychiatrist on them, like he had any fucking idea. Get fucked. Allegedly, he could say no at this point. Prove he wasn't a fucking liability and keep doing what he'd always been doing. But the work with the human assets goddamn sucked and no, it wasn't because he had a problem. "I'll give it a go. It's not because apparently I hate eight billion people, asshole. It's because my mutations work better with our mutant and criminal contacts. The ones where this --" Artie pointed at his face, gestured at the synthesiser he had tucked over one ear like a bad bluetooth earpod, "isn't something that might blow my cover."

Kevin nodded. "I'll make the arrangements." He got up from his seat. "Keep the rest of the bottle. Welcome to the other side of the shop." Nothing in his voice suggested it was anything but a genuine expression from the man.

Artie waved him out and waited for the door to close before leaning forward against the table, resting his head in his arms. Fuck. He took one deep breath and then another, trying to calm down and stared bleakly at the TV, exhausted.