Trunko
Dissatisfied writer
- Location
- Milan, Italy
I remember The Fantastic Four had proven a good chunk of human population are "outside the genetic norm"? This means the Sentinel would target even normal people...and kill them.
Pound the Table | An X-Men Self-Insert
- Thread starter October Daye
- Start date
- Users' Choice!
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
I remember The Fantastic Four had proven a good chunk of human population are "outside the genetic norm"? This means the Sentinel would target even normal people...and kill them.
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
If we're strictly sticking with the Mark 1 from the 70s, X Men issue 14? The only thing stopping an ED209 from happening is the fact they were self-aware and more interested in preserving themselves before beginning world conquest. It's literally a plot point that Trask fucked up because he didn't know what he was doing. To quote Xavier:
As for how they check people, the only mentions I saw in that issue was what Trask called "the most complex mechanical thinking apparatus ever constructed", one of them later mentions a "Computo-meter" to detect Angel, and the wiki's mention that all life forms around them were scanned.
Taken at face value, the Sentinels can tell whether someone is or isn't a mutant at range perfectly fine. The problem is Another Skynet. But if a bit of... reasonableness and logic is applied to Trask canonically being a fuckwit who didn't know shit about robots, then I would absolutely say that their ranged scans, and any methods of deploying their weapons during the 'arrest' of a mutant, would be imperfect.
Trunko
Dissatisfied writer
- Location
- Milan, Italy
Power Pack included?
- Location
- madison
clearly, they would hire Noa to assert their personhood and thus their right to refuse illegal orders.
Yup, them included. Complete and total annihilation.
- Location
- Australia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Yup. Which is part of the reason said power is a danger to his well being
Noa can also give those idiots the Bright Slap to the face too as well.
- Location
- Oblivion
You know... Noa should absolutely bring a class action against the creators of the Sentinels.
- Location
- Right Where I Am
Have sentinels happened yet here? It's still rather early on, and I know they haven't come up in the main story.
Fellow Human
Verified Roado Rolla
I caught up so there's a bit of an old question I have to ask, why did Noa think it was a good idea to threaten/blackmail the Green Goblin, the petty psychopath obsessed with Spiderman who is also about to lose his company and in his mind having nothing else to lose?
Then she's surprised he went after Peter afterwards.
Then she's surprised he went after Peter afterwards.
- Location
- Goose Land
Because she successfully convinced him of her willingness to violently escalate enough to at worst delay his willingness to seek vengeance against Peter and much more likely reorient his focus onto Noa herself and all the much more economically lethal legal proceedings that she just brought onto him.
The basic idea of the bet was that by reorienting on her, who is an adult and has (had) friends in high enough places to feel safe (Magneto, Dr Strange), the Parkers would be shielded from Osborn and be able to continue to live in peace, for at least long enough for Osborn to either be thrown in jail or for him to go Full Supervillian at which point he lacks the economic factors that made his ability to go for this whole legal attack and becomes something to be addressed by the broader Superhero Community, as well as law enforcement.
And she would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for literally Galactus.
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Sentient Sentinels gives me flashbacks about Rover from Wolverine and the X-Men and I'm sad he went down protecting his mutant friends he traveled and bonded with against his own kind, grew beyond his programming.
His first and last word was: Run.
Trunko
Dissatisfied writer
- Location
- Milan, Italy
I am worried because the Sentinels weren't the only ones to make such discussions:
GYRICH: Because [the mutant] clearly is not a human being, despite what she looks like, my office has classified her as a strategically useful animal. As such, she is the property of the federal government.
You realize a government has reached the deep end of the alignment pool when it can ignore their own laws (13 Amendment) and choose to declare you a 'useful animal' for your powers.
Like they did after the Civil war with Abigail "Abby" Boylen...
I remember Gyrich being director of S.W.O.R.D., that deals with alien threats, in Avengers Earth's Mightiest Heroes animated show where he was replaced by a Skrull and when he introduces himself to the unimpressed prisoners during the breakout, they hope he's fired, roasting him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Pound the Table
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday, October 8, 1990
Having another, later appointment already scheduled on the books is one of the most powerful tools a lawyer can have for maintaining punctuality. A lot of us have a bad habit of getting into the weeds, of deliberately trying to stall for as much time as we possibly can, all just to have that time available to bill. If you had a recording of you and another attorney talking for three hours, then even if only thirty minutes of that time was actually spent making actual progress? Well… bill for three hours, make six times the money.
Also, a lot of us had an even worse habit of finding joy in making the other side waste time.
This made a full schedule and a hard cutoff an invaluable duo for actually getting shit done. When the other side knows that you have exactly two hours and seventeen minutes to give them, because they made the grievous mistake of not budgeting in time for a traffic jam, then suddenly the pressure is on.
This pressure was the only reason I was out the door in time to catch the car Professor Xavier so graciously sent for me. It was the only reason I was in such a good mood when I made the private acquaintance of the absolutely lovely miss Ororo Munroe, and chattered away with her for the duration of our drive to Westchester.
And this continuing good mood was the only reason I wasn't outwardly showing my anxiety as I sat in a chair at the front of an honest to goodness lecture hall. I watched as students filed in and filled out the seats, and my anxiety spiked briefly as I realized that the lecture hall would probably be at or near the seating capacity of 200 that I saw just outside, next to the fire safety information. At the very least, my anxiety wasn't showing to the average onlooker.
Some of them could see right through me.
"Please, do relax," Professor Xavier murmured to me, quiet enough that only a few of the students in the audience perked up at his voice. "Your nervousness is unwarranted, I am certain. And it is not as though you haven't spoken for a crowd before."
"It's not that," I said, sipping at the tea he'd so graciously provided me before continuing. "It's just… well, it's a different kind of scrutiny than I'm used to." My tail flicked behind me, and a few pairs of eyes in the audience followed it.
"And yet, their regard is mere curiosity, tinged with respect," Charles said, nodding at his student body. "You are not an unknown, no. But many of them have only seen you in passing, or perhaps on television. This time? Here you are, front and center. Quite different from─"
"Ms. Schaefer?" A voice asked, behind me and to the right. I blinked, surprised both by the familiarity of the voice and the manner of address, and turned to look at the speaker.
And then I blinked again, only to find myself smiling.
"Katherine!" I said, standing up from my chair to greet her. "It's so good to see you! But, ah, I thought you went to school in Manhattan?"
"Not anymore," she said with a saddened tone. "Too hard to go back after what happened to Johnny. That, and… well?" Katherine closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
Then she fell through the stage. No, not to the floor of the stage. Through.
I couldn't stop the gasp, or the way my free hand came up to my mouth in surprise. A moment later, Katherine rose up through the floor, coughing and spitting a bit.
"Ugh, God, it's full of dust and cobwebs under there!" She stepped past me, and to my current companion. "Professor, can we get a vacuum cleaner under there? It's nasty!"
"When did…" I trailed off. "How─?"
"After the trial," Katherine said, turning to me before Charles could even answer her question. "I, uh… uh." She seemed at a loss for words.
I laid a gentle hand on her arm, and caught her gaze with mine.
"You don't need to tell me, Katherine," I said, offering her a soft smile. "But while your Professor here is an incredible listener," I added, nodding at Charles, "you still have my card, in case you want to talk to somebody else, okay?"
"I─yeah, okay." Katherine opened her arms a bit, as though to request a hug, and I was always one to oblige. It was a short thing, but it felt nice, and I really did appreciate it. "O-oh, Prof Munroe says you made the hamentaschen, yeah? Thanks a dozen, they're real good!"
"You're very welcome," I said, shooing her off to take a seat. Katherine pulled back and hopped down from the stage, a bit early to actually go off the lip, but she just sank through the dais and down to the floor proper in what was, to me, an incredibly flashy and somewhat gratuitous display. That said, if she was having fun, more power to her.
Also, I wondered if she would be the only one to recognize hamentaschen. I hoped not!
"We shall commence in a few more minutes," Charles said, looking at a clock in the back of the lecture hall. "To allow my faculty time to round up the stragglers."
"And allow everyone time to get some snacks," I shot back with a conspiratorial wink.
I knew what most of these kids were. I knew their caloric needs. Most of them wouldn't last a fifty minute block without a snack, let alone a two hour seminar.
The snack bar at the back was loaded with my hamantaschen and some rugelach I grabbed at Kaplan's, yes. But it also had more standard fare: chips, cookies, a dozen 18-inch pizzas, soda, coffee, tea, fruit, crudité platters, the works. It was where I'd gotten my tea from initially.
And much to my dismay, only one other person besides myself and the Professor partook of it. What a disappointment. All of them, seduced by the sweet smell and horrific flavor of… coffee.
On the topic of that other tea drinker, though, that was a surprise. The woman of visibly Asian descent (though I couldn't even begin to guess at specifics) held even something so mundane as a cardboard-handled paper teacup with all the poise and grace I would have expected from an 1800's aristocrat. Little paper charger plate down at her waist, cup held by the handle, pinky in (which surprised me), and taking tiny sips, returning cup to plate in between.
She was almost mesmerizing to watch, actually, and before I knew it my own teacup was empty, so I set that aside on the podium as the last stragglers snuck in.
Aside from Katherine, there was nobody particularly familiar near the front rows. But in the back…
Peter Parker, you had best be able to offer me a good explanation for why you're playing hooky all the way out in Westchester! And no, having your new friend Bobby Drake sitting on one side and an admittedly adorable freckled redhead (in a hockey jersey, wow!) on your other was not sufficient!
The side-eye and raised eyebrow I directed at the Professor netted me little more than an enigmatic smile, even through my disappointment. Encouraging a student to play hooky from school just to attend a one time only seminar at a different academic institution?
… actually, no, that sounded like a thing I would do. Damn it.
The Professor's smile grew.
A couple minutes later, another few stragglers arrived before what had to be the faculty filed in after them. With one last look up at the clock, I decided that this would be a good time to start.
"Are you sure you do not need a microphone, my dear?" Professor Xavier asked as I stepped forward.
"Professor, please." I tossed a stubborn lock of hair back over my shoulder, and offered him a smirk. "I'm a Manhattan trial attorney."
With that, I stepped forward, and commanded center stage.
"Good afternoon, everybody!"
Nobody expects a four-foot-eleven petite little nothing of a woman to be louder without a microphone than with one. Oh, if only they knew.
If only they knew that a common trick for teaching trial advocacy class… was to sit in the very back of the biggest lecture hall on campus while the students stood on stage, sans microphone, and gave opening statements. We all learned to project our voices properly… or fail.
"My name is Noa Schaefer. I work as an attorney in Manhattan, and am, to the best of my knowledge, the city's only openly mutant attorney." Yes, even a year and change later. "Now, those of you who keep on top of current events will know that my open mutant status was not exactly voluntary. It was in connection with a criminal case last year — and it's because of how that case came to be that Professor Xavier asked me to come speak with you.
"Now, I recognize that none of you eat, sleep, and breathe legalese the way I have for the past decade or so," I said, which thankfully prompted a fair few chuckles. "While I do prefer the raised hand approach to asking questions, the exception is if you don't understand what I said. The legal profession has a problem." I paused here, and acted as though I had just remembered something. "Correction, the legal profession has multiple problems. Like cocaine." This one got even more chuckles than the last joke, including my own, rueful laugh. "But the one at issue is that many of us have a bad habit of overusing the near impenetrable vocabulary unique to our profession. So if it starts sounding like I'm trying to read out of a Latin spellbook, interrupt me.
"We will circle back around to last year's criminal case, because I have this funny feeling that at least a dozen of you only showed up to hear about it." I gave the assembled mass in front of me the stink-eye, and sure enough, several of them shifted uncomfortably in their seats. "But there's a fair bit of groundwork that I have to supply so you properly understand the many, many, many issues I have with how that case ended. And one last thing?"
I waved to the back of the lecture hall.
"Don't hesitate to partake of the food and drink at the back. You won't insult me by getting up to grab food, or going to the restroom. Just try not to make too much noise."
Immediately, almost two dozen students all got up and stampeded to the back. Three of them quite literally flew. And for two of them, food or drink floated up from the table and over to their seats.
"Now, to start things off properly!" I clapped my hands together once. "We're going to begin with a question. Students, faculty, you're all allowed to answer here. So, tell me: what are the two parts of a crime?"
Students looked at each other. Faculty gave me a questioning glance. Out of the corner of my eye, Professor Xavier chuckled.
And after about thirty seconds, a few hands went up.
"Yes, you with the green hair." I didn't say her name. It wouldn't have been good if I revealed I knew who she was already. That would predispose her against me.
And I didn't want Lorna Dane, Magneto's third daughter, to have me on her shit list before we even got a chance to talk.
"Is it the criminal and the victim?" Lorna asked.
"I'm afraid not," I answered. "Those are parties to a crime, but neither of those answers were correct."
All at once, the rest of the hands went down. I would wager that all of them assumed that the criminal had to be one of the two parts of a crime.
"Darn," I said. "And here I was hoping to avoid the chalkboard a little longer."
A few people chuckled at that, even as I turned to the chalkboard at the back of the lecture hall, picked up a piece, and turned around to address the class before I wrote anything.
"The two parts of a crime," I said, waving the piece of chalk in my hand as I did, "are what legal scholars call the actus reus and the mens rea. Now, because I am not a professor, and you are not law students, I'm not going to expect you to know what those mean. So we'll just call them what they are."
Now, I wrote on the board, in as big of letters as I could.
"The two aspects of a crime are the action, and the mentality," I explained, tapping the chalkboard as I said the words. "The action is all of the things that a person physically does in the commission of a crime. Anything from breaking into a car, to discussing a plan with conspirators, to, well. Physically hurting another person. All of those fall under the first component.
"The second piece is the mental state. The mentality. The 'guilty mind', if I want to translate the Latin." To the side of the word 'mentality' on the chalkboard, I drew a line, and then branched it into four. "Now, because it's very hard to actually define a mentality, our legal system has broken it up into four main categories. Would anybody like to offer a guess as to what one or more of these are?"
Only a very small spattering of hands went up, less than ten. The enchanting Asian woman from earlier was one of them.
"Yes, you," I said, looking her in the eye. "The only other woman here cultured enough to take tea over coffee."
Immediate laughter. The woman I'd pointed out bore it with grace, and simply offered me a conspiratorial smirk, then turned to give the same to Professor Xavier.
"Elizabeth Braddock," she said, introducing herself. "And I believe negligent behavior to be one of the four criteria, no?"
I couldn't help the double take when the woman spoke. Part of me had been anticipating an accent of some kind. But I did not expect what had to be the most crisp, perfectly pristine Queen's English that I had ever heard. Also, a distinctly Anglican name? Was she…?
And then she raised her eyebrow in amusement, and I realized I'd been staring.
"Y-yes, that's correct," I said, needing a second to collect my thoughts. On the chalkboard, I wrote 'Negligence' at the top of the four branching spokes. "I'll define it properly once we have the other three. Speaking of, would somebody else like to take a stab at it?"
I looked to the back of the auditorium for hands, and while I didn't see one where I looked? Well, I wasn't above being a little mean.
"You in the back with the fake glasses, in between the redhead in the Bruins jersey and the boy with the popped collar polo shirt."
Peter Parker perked up, his attention taken away from the two on his sides who were, if I wasn't wrong, helping him complete this morning's crossword.
"U-uh…" Peter stammered for a moment, eyes flicking to the blackboard, to me, then back to the blackboard. "The other three are reckless, knowing, and purpose, yeah?"
"Yes, well done, I'm glad you remembered! The exact phrasing isn't quite that, but still, excellent!" I turned to the board and wrote the other three words in: 'recklessness', 'knowingly', and 'purposeful'. Then, I turned back around. "That said. Mister Parker, you've clearly been coming around often enough to have a standing invitation, so take off the fake lenses; trust me, that may work in Manhattan, but not here." The boy next to him started laughing and saying something, so I cut back in. "Mister Drake, the popped collar looks hideous, makes you look like a jerk, and should only ever be done if you actually need to protect your neck from the sun."
There was plenty of laughter in the lecture hall at that one, so I whistled to get attention back.
"That goes for everyone with a popped collar!" I half-yelled, then turned back to the trio at the back. "And you with the hockey jersey!" The new girl accompanying Peter and Bobby froze for a moment, and I offered her a solemn nod. "My condolences to your favorite team. Nobody likes the Oilers."
As the assembled masses murmured (and I heard the rustle of far too many fabric collars being lowered… dear God…), I wrote in the other three definitions on the blackboard.
"Now, as for what these all mean! We're going to start with the least extreme, and work our way through them in ascending severity. First up, negligence!"
I moved over to the other blackboard, and wrote Negligence as high up as I could. Which, to be fair… wasn't very high. I didn't exactly have much reach, even on tiptoes, and my tail flailed behind me a little to help with how annoying it was to balance.
"Okay!" I turned back around to face the lecture hall. "The fancy definition for negligence is acting in a manner that you know, or should have known, was reasonably likely to cause harm. There's a few examples you'll only hear about if you choose to go to law school, but can somebody give me one right now?" A couple hands went up, and I picked one from the leftmost edge of the lecture hall. "You in the leather jacket, with the spiky blonde ponytail."
"Giving someone a pill without checking what the pills are!" The girl – maybe a student, maybe adjunct faculty, her voice sounded too old to be a teenager, and she was standing in the aisle as opposed to sitting – had a certain edge to her tone that spoke of personal experience.
"Oh, that one is a classic!" I exclaimed. "I think I settled three such cases back in '84?" I waved it off. "Regardless, yes, that's a classic case of negligence. As for one that I think all of you will know, and should make the definition exceedingly clear?"
I turned to write it on the board, and once that was done, saw a lot of the confusion fading from the audience.
"Running. With. Scissors." I punctuated each word with a tap of chalk against the chalkboard. "We all know not to do it, we've all seen someone do it. And true, most of the time, nobody gets hurt. The problem is that someone can, and that's all we care about.
"Alright, next up, we have recklessness!" I tapped underneath the word with the chalk. "Recklessness is defined as knowing an action is dangerous and likely to result in harm, and then doing it anyway. The way that my professor in law school explained it, and that stuck with me, is that it's the equivalent of looking at something dangerous to yourself and others, shrugging your shoulders, and asking who cares." I wrote a very abbreviated version of the definition for anybody taking notes: knowing + disregarding likelihood of danger.. "This is one step above negligence, because negligence still allows for the possibility that you didn't know something could cause harm to other people. When we're talking about recklessness, a high chance of harm is a foregone conclusion. It is baked in.
"Now." I took a step away from the blackboard and towards the audience. "There is one particular ur-example for recklessness that perfectly sums it up. Would anybody like to take a guess?"
I didn't have to wait long for an answer. I didn't even need to call on somebody. The answer got blurted out almost instantly.
"Drunk driving."
I wasn't sure who spoke, beyond that it was a male in the audience. And from how much hate dripped from his tone, I didn't feel like trying to specify who it was. That answer felt like it came with a lot of baggage, and… well, frankly, I didn't want to unpack that right now.
"Correct," I said, writing it on the board. "For somebody to drive drunk, there is a willful disregard for the wellbeing of others. That callousness is what separates recklessness from negligence. It's the difference between 'what's the worst that could happen', and 'who gives a damn'." I paused to let that really sink in, then turned briefly back to the board… and drew a line between 'Recklessness' and 'Knowingly'.
"Next, we have crossed a key line here," I said, pointing at the line between the two words. "I like to call this line, 'intentionality'. Actions on this side," I waved at 'negligence' and 'recklessness', "can be done without any intention of harming another person. That can get a bit fuzzy with reckless conduct, but ultimately, recklessness is less the intent to cause harm, and more that you just don't care if it happens. Here, though?" I pointed towards the remaining two. "This is where the severity jumps up. Once you get to this point, there are no accidents, and the penalties jump accordingly.
"First up, we have 'knowingly'." I underlined the word, then drew three question marks underneath it. "I'm not going to ask you for any examples here, because this is the weird one. We define the 'knowing' mental state as being absolute certainty that harm will occur as a result of your action, but having that harm not be the intended goal."
Confusion abounded. As expected, of course. This legal standard was the hardest to understand, because it required wrapping your head around a certain disconnect: how can you be absolutely certain that you were going to hurt someone, but not have that harm be the end goal?
"Collateral damage."
The voice came from the back corner of the lecture hall, leaning against a wall, maybe two steps away from one of the exit doors. I looked up and saw a relatively short, hirsute man, but despite his stature, I could only describe him as 'built like a brick wall'. His shirt was pulled tight over serious musculature, with faded jeans and well-loved boots showing just how out of place he was in an academic institution.
"That is correct, Mister…" I offered.
"Logan."
"Thank you," I said, glad that the god damned Wolverine was at least willing to introduce himself, saving me a potentially awkward conversation with the Professor later. "As Logan said, the answer we're looking for here is 'collateral damage'. The example often given in law school is the rather ridiculous scenario of a woman running over her husband, while her husband is holding their baby. Her only intention is to run over her husband, but she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in doing so, she will also harm her child. But hurting the baby isn't the intent. She only knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she will hurt the baby anyway."
There wasn't really any response to that. I wrote 'collateral damage' underneath the term on the whiteboard, utterly unsurprised at the silence. It was a strange concept to wrap your head around at the best of times, but—
"That is a dumb example," I heard someone say.
"I said the same thing," I said, turning around, but not trying to find or single out the speaker. "Anyways. Last but not least, we have 'purposeful'. This one is self-explanatory, so I'm not going to go into it. Instead, we're going to move along to the next topic. Namely: why do these categories matter?"
I turned to the blackboard and went to go write that in, before realizing I'd worked myself into a corner: I didn't have enough room on this blackboard, and I didn't want to raise or lower the blackboards, because that always kicked up a cloud of chalk dust whenever I had to do that in law school.
"... give me a moment," I said, walking over to the podium and opening up my briefcase. "Professor Xavier, would there happen to be any tape in here, by chance? Painter's tape, masking tape, preferably duct tape?"
"Oh, I've got some!" A young Asian girl stood up from the seat closest to Wolverine, and rummaged around in the pockets of an incredibly voluminous coat before producing a mostly-used roll of duct tape. She hopped down the stairs and up onto the stage, then handed me the roll of tape. "Here, use however much ya need!"
"Our thanks, miss Lee," Charles said, saving me from having to ask the girl's name.
"Absolutely," I said. "Give me a moment, I'll have this back to you." A small wave of my hand, mostly for flourish than anything, and my focus flew out of my briefcase and hovered in front of me. I took a fresh piece of chalk and held it up to my focus, then took a bit of tape, and secured it in place. "There! Now I don't need to move the blackboards." Just to test, I moved my focus over to the blackboard above the one that held the four mental states, and tested by writing in four M's, decently spaced apart.
The fine control was a bit fiddly, but I could do it! And now, I could clean the chalk dust off of my fingers!
"Do you mind if I hold onto this for now?" I asked miss Lee, and she smiled.
"Sure thing!" Then she hopped backwards off the stage, went back up to her seat, and flounced down into it with the casual clumsiness only a teen could muster.
I looked back to the audience, and saw a lot of them fixated on my mezuzah-focus.
"What?" I asked. "At least this way I don't get chalk dust on my clothes or under my nails."
There were some grumbles of assent, mostly from the girls, but I distinctly noted Dr. McCoy nodded from where he stood over in the back-left corner.
"Anyways!" Now that both hands were free, I clapped, and pulled attention off of my mezuzah and back to myself. "We have our mental states. But why are they important? Well, table that question for now, because we have one more thing to explore before we can answer that question. If you look at the other blackboard, you can see I wrote in four M's," I said, drawing the audience's attention where I wanted it. "To understand why, I'm going to give you a bit of context.
"In February of this year, a case came out of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit. To translate, this means it's a federal case that was appealed from either California, Nevada, Arizona, Idaho, Montana, Washington, Oregon, Hawaii, Alaska, or one of the U.S. territories out in the Pacific. However, to answer the question, I'm just going to tell you that it came from Los Angeles.
"Now, the only reason we care that the case came from Los Angeles is because of who prosecuted it." I waved my tail behind me a few times as I looked over the audience. "Would anybody care to guess who it was, or why they're important?"
No hands went up.
"Ah, well, can't blame a girl for trying," I said with a sigh. "The prosecutor for the initial case was AUSA, or Assistant U.S. Attorney, Jennifer Walters. Better known as the She-Hulk."
Understanding dawned instantly. And audibly, to boot. The collective "Ooooooooh!" from the audience was a thing of beauty, and the kind of thing I hadn't experienced in years.
The last time I'd heard it had been while defending a medical malpractice case, when I successfully led my doctor expert witness into translating complicated medical jargon into layman's terms.
"The thing we care about started forming during the trial phase, then became more defined during the initial appeal, and by the time it got to the Court of Appeals, the judge penned the important part into his ruling. Then the Supreme Court denied certiorari – that is to say, they chose not to take the case – so this is about as final as it's going to get.
"I want to be clear here, though," I firmly stated. "This is a case from the Ninth Circuit. Which means that because it didn't actually go to the Supreme Court, it has no binding precedent on us here in the State of New York. However, because the Supreme Court chose to let the ruling stand, it has a lot of persuasive power, and what I'm about to talk about did get cited by a Manhattan judge just last month. That is to say: it's not black letter law, but most of us in the legal field are appending a 'yet' onto that."
With that, I turned around and used my focus to write in the rest of the four M's on the board, going in alphabetical order.
MACHINIST
MASTER
MUTANT
MUTATE
"These are the Ninth Circuit's categories for metahumans," I said. "No, I don't know why they all start with an 'M'. The only idea I have is that in my experience, a lot of jurists have a penchant for wordplay. If you give them the opportunity to alliterate, they will alliterate aplenty. If they see the chance to make a pun, they will seize it. And each and every one of them thinks they're the smartest person to sit on the bench, which means that their language jokes are clearly the best thing since sliced bread."
Plenty of chuckles from the audience on that one.
"You think I'm kidding?" I asked. "If any of you are interested in seeing an example, let me know, I'll make sure to bring some samples with me for the next seminar." I looked to Professor Xavier on that one, and he gave me that wonderful combination of smile-and-nod.
Ah… blessed confirmation.
"Now, while the names came from the Chief Judge of the court, their actual definitions came from AUSA Walters. These definitions clearly come from a place of deep experience, given that she has had direct contact with the Avengers multiple times, so she had the first-hand knowledge to actually define these."
With a glance over my shoulder, I moved my focus to hover over the first of the four M's.
"Machinist. This is the meta-that-isn't," I said," because this is the category that only applies some of the time. A Machinist, under the Ninth Circuit definition, is any person whose use of technology puts their capabilities above the accepted norm. As for what the 'accepted norm' is, the Ninth Circuit looks at the physical ability of an Olympic athlete, and the threat level of a standard military loadout. If your technology puts you above either of those levels while using it, you are a Machinist.
"The best example we have is Iron Man," I continued. "Now, I've had the distinct displeasure of speaking to Tony Stark at shareholder meetings, and a few times he's shown up injured. When asked why, it's because he got hurt testing the equipment he makes for Iron Man." I pitched my voice lower. "'If it ain't safe for me, it ain't good enough for him'. This is not a proper QA process, but if he wants to break his neck testing out some new doohickey he tried to recreate from Star Trek, be my guest," I said with a shrug.
"Anyways. Next up!"
My focus moved again, and with it, I stepped to the side, helping my audience 'move along' to the next point.
"Master. This is for any powers that are learned. These are the results of practice, study, training, etcetera. Unlike the previous category, however, there is no minimum threshold involved here. You don't need to be more physically capable than an Olympic athlete, or more capable of damage than an infantry soldier. You just need to be capable of something different."
With that, I made my focus move in a figure eight, drawing attention to it. Then, I moved it one category over to the side.
"Next up: Mutate. Not Mutant," I said, stressing that difference. "Would anybody like to guess the difference between the two?"
A very small number of hands went up. Once again, I chose a faculty member.
"You, with the pretty glasses," I said, pointing at one of the teachers.
"... Scott Summers," he said, by way of introduction. Maybe a bit flustered at my compliment of his glasses. "I'm thinking one's a fluke?"
"... sort of?" I answered. "Okay, you're not quite correct, but you're also not wrong. The difference between a Mutate and a Mutant?" I turned around to draw arrows pointing at the word. "Being a Mutate means that your powers came from an outside source. AUSA Walters had a lot to say about this definition, because that's what she is.
"More specifically, this one is further subdivided into two categories." With my focus, I drew a line straight down from the word 'Mutate', then drew two small horizontal lines off of it for bullet points. "These two are 'intentional' and 'unintentional'. Basically: were the Mutate's powers the intended result of whatever caused them, or were they an unexpected side-effect?" I saw a hand go up in the audience. "Yes?"
"Kurt Wagner," the teen said. I gave him a nod and waved him on, though I couldn't help but blink when I caught a faint hint of… something?... wavering around his form. It looked a bit like some of my earliest attempts at my glamour, actually. Also, that accent was oddly familiar. "Is it possible to go from one to the other?"
Well, one, I recognized his accent now, and couldn't help but wonder how a German or Austrian teen came to be in Westchester, New York. But second?
"... not exactly?" I answered, trying to hedge. "The judge was explicit that the same Mutate-making event can't be reclassified later, even if it's repeated, because it strictly looks at how things were at the time. However!" I raised a hand to forestall any additional commentary. "If, say, the Hulk were to go through a second experiment that gave him perfect control of his transformation and levels of strength? Then he would go from an Unintentional Mutate to being an Intentional one. Does that answer your question?"
The teen nodded, so I continued.
"Last but not least?" My focus went to underline the word. "Mutant. Most of us here know this already, but mutants are born, not made. I don't know the genetics behind it, don't ask me. I'm sure Professor Xavier here will host a seminar explaining it if enough of you ask." I turned to look at him. "And I expect an invite well ahead of time if you do!"
"Of course, my dear," Charles said, chuckling along with a good chunk of the audience.
"Good!" I said with a sniff. "I have court dates to plan around." The additional laughs were a balm for my soul, because they told me my audience was still paying attention, and that was excellent. "Anyways. You can't become a mutant. You're born that way. Either you are one, or you aren't. That's it.
"Anyways!" I clapped to draw attention, and to break up the talking. "We have our four categories, and we have our four mental states. As for why this is important: the Ninth Circuit's ruling specifically assigned harm caused by different categories of metahuman to different mental states. Basically: unless the prosecution can specifically prove otherwise, it is to be assumed that the mental state accompanying the action is tied directly to what kind of metahuman you are.
"So it's time to guess!" I paced a bit across the stage, and my focus came back to float over my shoulder. "Who would like to guess which type of metahuman gets which mental state as its default?"
A few tentative hands went up, and I zeroed in on the one in the back.
"You, miss Bruins fan," I said, aiming at the girl sitting next to Peter.
"Angelica Jones, ma'am," she said, introducing herself like the others I'd called on had done before. "Um… I think Mutant and Mutate would fall under, um, purposeful?"
"Excellent guess!" I answered. "Not quite correct, but about as good a guess as I could've expected."
With a wave, I had my focus go and cross out 'purposeful' entirely, then circle 'knowingly', and draw lines from the two meta-categories she'd mentioned down and towards the word.
"None of them get Purposeful by default, because that is the highest level. At that point, it's never going to be that you got startled and used your powers by accident. No, both Mutants and Mutate, by default, get the Knowing standard. Would you like to guess why that is, Miss Jones?" I asked.
"Um…" The poor girl seemed to be at a bit of a loss, so I decided to throw her a lifeline.
"Mister Parker?" I asked, looking at the secret superhero seated next to her.
"Y-yes? Oh!" Peter snapped his fingers. "Because they have to figure out their powers with trial and error!"
"That is the general assumption, yes," I answered. "The Ninth Circuit decision assumes that this is the metahuman's first day with their powers, regardless of whether or not it actually is. And this is largely because both mutant and metahuman powers have been shown to change and grow, suddenly and without warning."
I turned back to the board, and drew lines from the other two categories, Machinist and Master, down to point at 'negligence'.
"These two categories, on the other hand? Machinists are those who use technology, therefore, whoever built the technology should know what it's capable of. Masters, as they are the result of teaching and/or training, had to learn and grow to reach their current levels of capability. There is a lot more inherent knowledge involved here, and as a result, the law looks at their fuck-ups much more harshly."
There was a bit of laughter when I cursed, and even as Professor Xavier gave me a small frown of disapproval, I smiled.
"Basically: take the mental state applied to the metahuman, and swap out the necessary mental state for the crime with whatever mental state applies to their M-category. This will make things easier to prove, or harder, depending on what type of metahuman is on trial. If you're a Master, even if the crime would normally require a purposeful mental state, the prosecution only needs to prove negligence to get you on the hook. On the other hand, if you're a Mutant, even if normally the prosecution would only need negligence, now they need to prove the knowingly standard. It's a replacement.
"But now, it's time for the trick question."
I stepped forward, and brought my focus to hover over my shoulder.
"Say I were to commit a crime with my abilities. Which mental state do you use?" I looked up at the back. "Mister Parker, you don't get to answer."
I'd seen his hand going up, a smug little grin on his face. That little shit thought I didn't know what he was up to? Nice try, kid, but I used to be a teenager myself.
Unfortunately, the fact that Peter clearly knew the answer had dissuaded others from trying. Although, ten seconds later, I had to amend that to most others.
"Yes, Ms. Munroe?" I asked, calling on Ororo.
"For you, Ms. Schaefer, a prosecutor would use the 'negligent' mental state," she answered confidently.
And at the answer, I could only smile.
"That's correct," I answered. "My mutant power lets me manipulate light, a little bit. It doesn't let me create it." I saw the understanding dawn on Katherine's face right then, even as I held out my hand.
With a single word in Hebrew, spoken and clearly enunciated as opposed to murmured under my breath, light bloomed to life in my hand.
"The various metahuman categories can stack atop each other," I said then. "I myself fall under both Mutant and Master – although my tutor would happily argue over applying that particular appellation to me," I said. "I am not, nor will I ever be, a master of magic. I am barely even third-rate. But, magic is magic, and because I'm capable of it? The law gets to call me Master"
I closed my hand, and the orb of light winked out.
"If you fall under multiple categories, regardless of which one's powers you use, you only get judged under the most restrictive use of your powers. It's a compromise – not a good one, if you ask me, but welcome to the law. We take what we have, and we make it work. Do I think I could do better? Yes, I do. Do I have specific ideas about it? Also yes. Feel free to come and ask me after the seminar.
"But for now!" I clapped my hands. "I need something to drink, so we're going to take a ten-minute break. Get yourself some snacks, run to the restroom, or come find me and ask a question. But once ten minutes are up, we'll get to the topic of the hour.
"The People v. S.J. Allerdyce. What the hell went wrong, and how things should have happened."
The rest of the seminar proceeded swimmingly, if I dared say so myself. I was worried things would turn ugly, especially given I was describing the result of anti-mutant sentiment in front of an exceptionally large number of mutants, but no. Things went pretty well.
I would readily admit that Katherine being willing to come on stage and help, especially when we got to the Richards v. Doom precedent that let her testify about St. John's use of his powers, was rather helpful.
And it was especially gratifying to see the students start trying to apply the information regarding metahuman categories and mens rea to the issue, and seeing just what result that would have gotten instead.
Now, an hour after the seminar, I was sitting in Professor Xavier's office. We'd spoken over the phone beforehand about the other objective I wanted to accomplish during my visit, and as nervous as I'd been about the seminar before really getting into the swing of things… well, this was worse. I felt nauseous, and uncomfortably warm, and everything felt too itchy. My hands were clammy, and I kept having to control the urge to twine a strand of hair around my fingers, just to have something to do with them.
It was a common anxiety response, and I recognized it for what it was, but that did nothing to abate the sensations.
The mostly-empty manila folder on Xavier's office's coffee table almost taunted me.
Finally, I heard a knock on the door before it opened a moment later. The same green-haired girl I'd initially called on pushed the door open hesitantly, looking from Xavier's empty desk to where I sat at his coffee table, having taken one of the two armchairs for myself.
"Um, you wanted to see me, Ms. Schaefer?" Lorna Dane asked, her tone a combination of confused and annoyed. Confused, because she clearly hadn't a clue what was going on.
As for the annoyance? Probably because I was taking up the after-school time that she could've been spending with her friends.
"That's correct. Please, take a seat," I said, inviting her in. To my great relief, she picked a spot on the sofa, and more specifically on the side closer to where I already sat. "I'm sorry about taking up even more of your day, but, well, given that I'm already here, it was easier to just kill two birds with one stone, as it were."
Lorna didn't respond. She just looked confused, and I saw her eyes settle on the manila folder I'd brought with me.
Unfortunately, I had to be the one to start. As difficult as it was, as uncomfortable as it was, this was on me to do.
"How…" I trailed off, thinking of how best to phrase this. "How much do you remember of what led to you living here at Xavier's?"
It was easy to tell how hard this topic was for Lorna to even think about. She visibly shrank in on herself, pulling her legs up onto the seat of the couch and hugging her knees with both arms. One hand tapped out a staccato rhythm on her leg, while the other wound a strand of green hair around her finger.
"I'm sorry," I said. "That was indelicate of me. I—"
"There was a plane crash," she said, almost robotically. "Mom and my step-dad, they…" Lorna shuddered and exhaled, her breath shaky. "I, I remember someone calling f-for Mom, and then, I, I think I passed out?" She shook her head. "Uh, the next thing I remember is waking up here. In the infirmary."
"Did Charles say anything about how you go there?" I asked her, picking my words carefully.
"He said it was my bio-dad?" Lorna's reply was halfway between question and statement, like she wasn't quite certain herself, and the furrow in her brow said as much. "I'm not sure. I didn't see whoever was calling out for, f-for Mom, and…" Lorna trailed off. I heard her sniffle, and her eyes were misting up a bit. This was hard for her, I knew. "He just… took me heard, and left. Like I was, I, I don't know. Just… he was my dad? Why didn't he stay?" She hiccuped. "Mom had just—why did he leave?"
I sighed, and reached over to Lorna, putting a hand on her shoulder as the first tear fell.
"Do you want to know?" I asked.
Lorna looked up ever so slowly, eyes wide, mouth falling open. She tried to say something, but just nodded instead.
"Your father…" I trailed off and wet my lips, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this. "Actually, let me ask a question first. Do you know what the Nuremberg Trials were?"
"... what?" Lorna asked. A quick glance at her expression told me that she had no idea where I was going with this. So rather than make her try to figure it out herself, I pressed on.
"The Nuremberg Trials are where Nazi war criminals were tried and sentenced," I said. "But not all of them were found. If anything, most of them weren't. They escaped justice." I looked Lorna in the eyes. "Your father and mine survived Auschwitz together. And your dad couldn't fathom those… monsters escaping justice. So he hunted them down. And eventually, some of them decided to hunt him back."
Lorna took a moment to process that. I caught the exact moment she realized just what kind of connection our fathers had, and knew then that she had an inkling of what I'd wanted to talk to her about.
"W-what happened?" she asked.
"They killed your sister."
Lorna gasped.
"Is…" she trailed off. "Is that why he… why he left?"
"It is," I confirmed. "Max Eisenhardt was convinced that if he stayed near any family members he had, that his past would put them in danger. And that…" I paused. "I don't agree with his decision. But I understand it. Hell, I didn't even know what he was to me until well after we'd met through completely unrelated happenstance."
Lorna looked at me and sniffled, drying her tears with a tissue from the coffee table. Her eyes fell on the manila folder in front of me.
"What's in there?" she asked.
I flipped open the folder to show the sole document inside, and turned it towards Lorna.
"Your father is… he's not afraid to be near you, but more afraid of what attention he might bring down on you," I said, trying to be mindful of the issue. "But depriving you of familial connection because of his fear and past trauma, while understandable, isn't fair to you. So… I guess this is the best substitute. If you want it, I will sign this document, file it with the State, and… well?"
It was a legal document. As I was one of the involved parties, I'd asked Sam Lieberman to draw it up for me as a favor.
"I'd become your godmother."
Lorna brought a shaky hand up over her mouth as she looked at the paper in front of her.
"I understand if this is too sudden," I said. "You've only just met me today, and while Max is your father, you don't even know your bio-dad. So if you don't want him to have made this decision, then—"
I didn't get to finish what I was saying. Lorna flung herself out of her seat, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as the waterworks started. I took a shaky breath and fought back tears of my own, and wrapped my arms around her carefully, just holding the poor girl as she cried.
I wasn't sure why I'd ever thought she would say no. Lorna was seven when she lost her parents. Then here I came, somebody that the closest thing she had left to a father figure seemed to trust implicitly, with an offer of something she hadn't had for almost as long as she could remember.
Some part of me was afraid she would say no. That she'd tell me to fuck off and never talk to her again.
I was unquestionably, indescribably happy that she'd said yes.
… oh, dear.
I'd need to revamp my home office into a bedroom for when Xavier's was on breaks, wouldn't I?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday, October 8, 1990
Having another, later appointment already scheduled on the books is one of the most powerful tools a lawyer can have for maintaining punctuality. A lot of us have a bad habit of getting into the weeds, of deliberately trying to stall for as much time as we possibly can, all just to have that time available to bill. If you had a recording of you and another attorney talking for three hours, then even if only thirty minutes of that time was actually spent making actual progress? Well… bill for three hours, make six times the money.
Also, a lot of us had an even worse habit of finding joy in making the other side waste time.
This made a full schedule and a hard cutoff an invaluable duo for actually getting shit done. When the other side knows that you have exactly two hours and seventeen minutes to give them, because they made the grievous mistake of not budgeting in time for a traffic jam, then suddenly the pressure is on.
This pressure was the only reason I was out the door in time to catch the car Professor Xavier so graciously sent for me. It was the only reason I was in such a good mood when I made the private acquaintance of the absolutely lovely miss Ororo Munroe, and chattered away with her for the duration of our drive to Westchester.
And this continuing good mood was the only reason I wasn't outwardly showing my anxiety as I sat in a chair at the front of an honest to goodness lecture hall. I watched as students filed in and filled out the seats, and my anxiety spiked briefly as I realized that the lecture hall would probably be at or near the seating capacity of 200 that I saw just outside, next to the fire safety information. At the very least, my anxiety wasn't showing to the average onlooker.
Some of them could see right through me.
"Please, do relax," Professor Xavier murmured to me, quiet enough that only a few of the students in the audience perked up at his voice. "Your nervousness is unwarranted, I am certain. And it is not as though you haven't spoken for a crowd before."
"It's not that," I said, sipping at the tea he'd so graciously provided me before continuing. "It's just… well, it's a different kind of scrutiny than I'm used to." My tail flicked behind me, and a few pairs of eyes in the audience followed it.
"And yet, their regard is mere curiosity, tinged with respect," Charles said, nodding at his student body. "You are not an unknown, no. But many of them have only seen you in passing, or perhaps on television. This time? Here you are, front and center. Quite different from─"
"Ms. Schaefer?" A voice asked, behind me and to the right. I blinked, surprised both by the familiarity of the voice and the manner of address, and turned to look at the speaker.
And then I blinked again, only to find myself smiling.
"Katherine!" I said, standing up from my chair to greet her. "It's so good to see you! But, ah, I thought you went to school in Manhattan?"
"Not anymore," she said with a saddened tone. "Too hard to go back after what happened to Johnny. That, and… well?" Katherine closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
Then she fell through the stage. No, not to the floor of the stage. Through.
I couldn't stop the gasp, or the way my free hand came up to my mouth in surprise. A moment later, Katherine rose up through the floor, coughing and spitting a bit.
"Ugh, God, it's full of dust and cobwebs under there!" She stepped past me, and to my current companion. "Professor, can we get a vacuum cleaner under there? It's nasty!"
"When did…" I trailed off. "How─?"
"After the trial," Katherine said, turning to me before Charles could even answer her question. "I, uh… uh." She seemed at a loss for words.
I laid a gentle hand on her arm, and caught her gaze with mine.
"You don't need to tell me, Katherine," I said, offering her a soft smile. "But while your Professor here is an incredible listener," I added, nodding at Charles, "you still have my card, in case you want to talk to somebody else, okay?"
"I─yeah, okay." Katherine opened her arms a bit, as though to request a hug, and I was always one to oblige. It was a short thing, but it felt nice, and I really did appreciate it. "O-oh, Prof Munroe says you made the hamentaschen, yeah? Thanks a dozen, they're real good!"
"You're very welcome," I said, shooing her off to take a seat. Katherine pulled back and hopped down from the stage, a bit early to actually go off the lip, but she just sank through the dais and down to the floor proper in what was, to me, an incredibly flashy and somewhat gratuitous display. That said, if she was having fun, more power to her.
Also, I wondered if she would be the only one to recognize hamentaschen. I hoped not!
"We shall commence in a few more minutes," Charles said, looking at a clock in the back of the lecture hall. "To allow my faculty time to round up the stragglers."
"And allow everyone time to get some snacks," I shot back with a conspiratorial wink.
I knew what most of these kids were. I knew their caloric needs. Most of them wouldn't last a fifty minute block without a snack, let alone a two hour seminar.
The snack bar at the back was loaded with my hamantaschen and some rugelach I grabbed at Kaplan's, yes. But it also had more standard fare: chips, cookies, a dozen 18-inch pizzas, soda, coffee, tea, fruit, crudité platters, the works. It was where I'd gotten my tea from initially.
And much to my dismay, only one other person besides myself and the Professor partook of it. What a disappointment. All of them, seduced by the sweet smell and horrific flavor of… coffee.
On the topic of that other tea drinker, though, that was a surprise. The woman of visibly Asian descent (though I couldn't even begin to guess at specifics) held even something so mundane as a cardboard-handled paper teacup with all the poise and grace I would have expected from an 1800's aristocrat. Little paper charger plate down at her waist, cup held by the handle, pinky in (which surprised me), and taking tiny sips, returning cup to plate in between.
She was almost mesmerizing to watch, actually, and before I knew it my own teacup was empty, so I set that aside on the podium as the last stragglers snuck in.
Aside from Katherine, there was nobody particularly familiar near the front rows. But in the back…
Peter Parker, you had best be able to offer me a good explanation for why you're playing hooky all the way out in Westchester! And no, having your new friend Bobby Drake sitting on one side and an admittedly adorable freckled redhead (in a hockey jersey, wow!) on your other was not sufficient!
The side-eye and raised eyebrow I directed at the Professor netted me little more than an enigmatic smile, even through my disappointment. Encouraging a student to play hooky from school just to attend a one time only seminar at a different academic institution?
… actually, no, that sounded like a thing I would do. Damn it.
The Professor's smile grew.
A couple minutes later, another few stragglers arrived before what had to be the faculty filed in after them. With one last look up at the clock, I decided that this would be a good time to start.
"Are you sure you do not need a microphone, my dear?" Professor Xavier asked as I stepped forward.
"Professor, please." I tossed a stubborn lock of hair back over my shoulder, and offered him a smirk. "I'm a Manhattan trial attorney."
With that, I stepped forward, and commanded center stage.
"Good afternoon, everybody!"
Nobody expects a four-foot-eleven petite little nothing of a woman to be louder without a microphone than with one. Oh, if only they knew.
If only they knew that a common trick for teaching trial advocacy class… was to sit in the very back of the biggest lecture hall on campus while the students stood on stage, sans microphone, and gave opening statements. We all learned to project our voices properly… or fail.
"My name is Noa Schaefer. I work as an attorney in Manhattan, and am, to the best of my knowledge, the city's only openly mutant attorney." Yes, even a year and change later. "Now, those of you who keep on top of current events will know that my open mutant status was not exactly voluntary. It was in connection with a criminal case last year — and it's because of how that case came to be that Professor Xavier asked me to come speak with you.
"Now, I recognize that none of you eat, sleep, and breathe legalese the way I have for the past decade or so," I said, which thankfully prompted a fair few chuckles. "While I do prefer the raised hand approach to asking questions, the exception is if you don't understand what I said. The legal profession has a problem." I paused here, and acted as though I had just remembered something. "Correction, the legal profession has multiple problems. Like cocaine." This one got even more chuckles than the last joke, including my own, rueful laugh. "But the one at issue is that many of us have a bad habit of overusing the near impenetrable vocabulary unique to our profession. So if it starts sounding like I'm trying to read out of a Latin spellbook, interrupt me.
"We will circle back around to last year's criminal case, because I have this funny feeling that at least a dozen of you only showed up to hear about it." I gave the assembled mass in front of me the stink-eye, and sure enough, several of them shifted uncomfortably in their seats. "But there's a fair bit of groundwork that I have to supply so you properly understand the many, many, many issues I have with how that case ended. And one last thing?"
I waved to the back of the lecture hall.
"Don't hesitate to partake of the food and drink at the back. You won't insult me by getting up to grab food, or going to the restroom. Just try not to make too much noise."
Immediately, almost two dozen students all got up and stampeded to the back. Three of them quite literally flew. And for two of them, food or drink floated up from the table and over to their seats.
"Now, to start things off properly!" I clapped my hands together once. "We're going to begin with a question. Students, faculty, you're all allowed to answer here. So, tell me: what are the two parts of a crime?"
Students looked at each other. Faculty gave me a questioning glance. Out of the corner of my eye, Professor Xavier chuckled.
And after about thirty seconds, a few hands went up.
"Yes, you with the green hair." I didn't say her name. It wouldn't have been good if I revealed I knew who she was already. That would predispose her against me.
And I didn't want Lorna Dane, Magneto's third daughter, to have me on her shit list before we even got a chance to talk.
"Is it the criminal and the victim?" Lorna asked.
"I'm afraid not," I answered. "Those are parties to a crime, but neither of those answers were correct."
All at once, the rest of the hands went down. I would wager that all of them assumed that the criminal had to be one of the two parts of a crime.
"Darn," I said. "And here I was hoping to avoid the chalkboard a little longer."
A few people chuckled at that, even as I turned to the chalkboard at the back of the lecture hall, picked up a piece, and turned around to address the class before I wrote anything.
"The two parts of a crime," I said, waving the piece of chalk in my hand as I did, "are what legal scholars call the actus reus and the mens rea. Now, because I am not a professor, and you are not law students, I'm not going to expect you to know what those mean. So we'll just call them what they are."
Now, I wrote on the board, in as big of letters as I could.
"The two aspects of a crime are the action, and the mentality," I explained, tapping the chalkboard as I said the words. "The action is all of the things that a person physically does in the commission of a crime. Anything from breaking into a car, to discussing a plan with conspirators, to, well. Physically hurting another person. All of those fall under the first component.
"The second piece is the mental state. The mentality. The 'guilty mind', if I want to translate the Latin." To the side of the word 'mentality' on the chalkboard, I drew a line, and then branched it into four. "Now, because it's very hard to actually define a mentality, our legal system has broken it up into four main categories. Would anybody like to offer a guess as to what one or more of these are?"
Only a very small spattering of hands went up, less than ten. The enchanting Asian woman from earlier was one of them.
"Yes, you," I said, looking her in the eye. "The only other woman here cultured enough to take tea over coffee."
Immediate laughter. The woman I'd pointed out bore it with grace, and simply offered me a conspiratorial smirk, then turned to give the same to Professor Xavier.
"Elizabeth Braddock," she said, introducing herself. "And I believe negligent behavior to be one of the four criteria, no?"
I couldn't help the double take when the woman spoke. Part of me had been anticipating an accent of some kind. But I did not expect what had to be the most crisp, perfectly pristine Queen's English that I had ever heard. Also, a distinctly Anglican name? Was she…?
And then she raised her eyebrow in amusement, and I realized I'd been staring.
"Y-yes, that's correct," I said, needing a second to collect my thoughts. On the chalkboard, I wrote 'Negligence' at the top of the four branching spokes. "I'll define it properly once we have the other three. Speaking of, would somebody else like to take a stab at it?"
I looked to the back of the auditorium for hands, and while I didn't see one where I looked? Well, I wasn't above being a little mean.
"You in the back with the fake glasses, in between the redhead in the Bruins jersey and the boy with the popped collar polo shirt."
Peter Parker perked up, his attention taken away from the two on his sides who were, if I wasn't wrong, helping him complete this morning's crossword.
"U-uh…" Peter stammered for a moment, eyes flicking to the blackboard, to me, then back to the blackboard. "The other three are reckless, knowing, and purpose, yeah?"
"Yes, well done, I'm glad you remembered! The exact phrasing isn't quite that, but still, excellent!" I turned to the board and wrote the other three words in: 'recklessness', 'knowingly', and 'purposeful'. Then, I turned back around. "That said. Mister Parker, you've clearly been coming around often enough to have a standing invitation, so take off the fake lenses; trust me, that may work in Manhattan, but not here." The boy next to him started laughing and saying something, so I cut back in. "Mister Drake, the popped collar looks hideous, makes you look like a jerk, and should only ever be done if you actually need to protect your neck from the sun."
There was plenty of laughter in the lecture hall at that one, so I whistled to get attention back.
"That goes for everyone with a popped collar!" I half-yelled, then turned back to the trio at the back. "And you with the hockey jersey!" The new girl accompanying Peter and Bobby froze for a moment, and I offered her a solemn nod. "My condolences to your favorite team. Nobody likes the Oilers."
As the assembled masses murmured (and I heard the rustle of far too many fabric collars being lowered… dear God…), I wrote in the other three definitions on the blackboard.
"Now, as for what these all mean! We're going to start with the least extreme, and work our way through them in ascending severity. First up, negligence!"
I moved over to the other blackboard, and wrote Negligence as high up as I could. Which, to be fair… wasn't very high. I didn't exactly have much reach, even on tiptoes, and my tail flailed behind me a little to help with how annoying it was to balance.
"Okay!" I turned back around to face the lecture hall. "The fancy definition for negligence is acting in a manner that you know, or should have known, was reasonably likely to cause harm. There's a few examples you'll only hear about if you choose to go to law school, but can somebody give me one right now?" A couple hands went up, and I picked one from the leftmost edge of the lecture hall. "You in the leather jacket, with the spiky blonde ponytail."
"Giving someone a pill without checking what the pills are!" The girl – maybe a student, maybe adjunct faculty, her voice sounded too old to be a teenager, and she was standing in the aisle as opposed to sitting – had a certain edge to her tone that spoke of personal experience.
"Oh, that one is a classic!" I exclaimed. "I think I settled three such cases back in '84?" I waved it off. "Regardless, yes, that's a classic case of negligence. As for one that I think all of you will know, and should make the definition exceedingly clear?"
I turned to write it on the board, and once that was done, saw a lot of the confusion fading from the audience.
"Running. With. Scissors." I punctuated each word with a tap of chalk against the chalkboard. "We all know not to do it, we've all seen someone do it. And true, most of the time, nobody gets hurt. The problem is that someone can, and that's all we care about.
"Alright, next up, we have recklessness!" I tapped underneath the word with the chalk. "Recklessness is defined as knowing an action is dangerous and likely to result in harm, and then doing it anyway. The way that my professor in law school explained it, and that stuck with me, is that it's the equivalent of looking at something dangerous to yourself and others, shrugging your shoulders, and asking who cares." I wrote a very abbreviated version of the definition for anybody taking notes: knowing + disregarding likelihood of danger.. "This is one step above negligence, because negligence still allows for the possibility that you didn't know something could cause harm to other people. When we're talking about recklessness, a high chance of harm is a foregone conclusion. It is baked in.
"Now." I took a step away from the blackboard and towards the audience. "There is one particular ur-example for recklessness that perfectly sums it up. Would anybody like to take a guess?"
I didn't have to wait long for an answer. I didn't even need to call on somebody. The answer got blurted out almost instantly.
"Drunk driving."
I wasn't sure who spoke, beyond that it was a male in the audience. And from how much hate dripped from his tone, I didn't feel like trying to specify who it was. That answer felt like it came with a lot of baggage, and… well, frankly, I didn't want to unpack that right now.
"Correct," I said, writing it on the board. "For somebody to drive drunk, there is a willful disregard for the wellbeing of others. That callousness is what separates recklessness from negligence. It's the difference between 'what's the worst that could happen', and 'who gives a damn'." I paused to let that really sink in, then turned briefly back to the board… and drew a line between 'Recklessness' and 'Knowingly'.
"Next, we have crossed a key line here," I said, pointing at the line between the two words. "I like to call this line, 'intentionality'. Actions on this side," I waved at 'negligence' and 'recklessness', "can be done without any intention of harming another person. That can get a bit fuzzy with reckless conduct, but ultimately, recklessness is less the intent to cause harm, and more that you just don't care if it happens. Here, though?" I pointed towards the remaining two. "This is where the severity jumps up. Once you get to this point, there are no accidents, and the penalties jump accordingly.
"First up, we have 'knowingly'." I underlined the word, then drew three question marks underneath it. "I'm not going to ask you for any examples here, because this is the weird one. We define the 'knowing' mental state as being absolute certainty that harm will occur as a result of your action, but having that harm not be the intended goal."
Confusion abounded. As expected, of course. This legal standard was the hardest to understand, because it required wrapping your head around a certain disconnect: how can you be absolutely certain that you were going to hurt someone, but not have that harm be the end goal?
"Collateral damage."
The voice came from the back corner of the lecture hall, leaning against a wall, maybe two steps away from one of the exit doors. I looked up and saw a relatively short, hirsute man, but despite his stature, I could only describe him as 'built like a brick wall'. His shirt was pulled tight over serious musculature, with faded jeans and well-loved boots showing just how out of place he was in an academic institution.
"That is correct, Mister…" I offered.
"Logan."
"Thank you," I said, glad that the god damned Wolverine was at least willing to introduce himself, saving me a potentially awkward conversation with the Professor later. "As Logan said, the answer we're looking for here is 'collateral damage'. The example often given in law school is the rather ridiculous scenario of a woman running over her husband, while her husband is holding their baby. Her only intention is to run over her husband, but she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in doing so, she will also harm her child. But hurting the baby isn't the intent. She only knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she will hurt the baby anyway."
There wasn't really any response to that. I wrote 'collateral damage' underneath the term on the whiteboard, utterly unsurprised at the silence. It was a strange concept to wrap your head around at the best of times, but—
"That is a dumb example," I heard someone say.
"I said the same thing," I said, turning around, but not trying to find or single out the speaker. "Anyways. Last but not least, we have 'purposeful'. This one is self-explanatory, so I'm not going to go into it. Instead, we're going to move along to the next topic. Namely: why do these categories matter?"
I turned to the blackboard and went to go write that in, before realizing I'd worked myself into a corner: I didn't have enough room on this blackboard, and I didn't want to raise or lower the blackboards, because that always kicked up a cloud of chalk dust whenever I had to do that in law school.
"... give me a moment," I said, walking over to the podium and opening up my briefcase. "Professor Xavier, would there happen to be any tape in here, by chance? Painter's tape, masking tape, preferably duct tape?"
"Oh, I've got some!" A young Asian girl stood up from the seat closest to Wolverine, and rummaged around in the pockets of an incredibly voluminous coat before producing a mostly-used roll of duct tape. She hopped down the stairs and up onto the stage, then handed me the roll of tape. "Here, use however much ya need!"
"Our thanks, miss Lee," Charles said, saving me from having to ask the girl's name.
"Absolutely," I said. "Give me a moment, I'll have this back to you." A small wave of my hand, mostly for flourish than anything, and my focus flew out of my briefcase and hovered in front of me. I took a fresh piece of chalk and held it up to my focus, then took a bit of tape, and secured it in place. "There! Now I don't need to move the blackboards." Just to test, I moved my focus over to the blackboard above the one that held the four mental states, and tested by writing in four M's, decently spaced apart.
The fine control was a bit fiddly, but I could do it! And now, I could clean the chalk dust off of my fingers!
"Do you mind if I hold onto this for now?" I asked miss Lee, and she smiled.
"Sure thing!" Then she hopped backwards off the stage, went back up to her seat, and flounced down into it with the casual clumsiness only a teen could muster.
I looked back to the audience, and saw a lot of them fixated on my mezuzah-focus.
"What?" I asked. "At least this way I don't get chalk dust on my clothes or under my nails."
There were some grumbles of assent, mostly from the girls, but I distinctly noted Dr. McCoy nodded from where he stood over in the back-left corner.
"Anyways!" Now that both hands were free, I clapped, and pulled attention off of my mezuzah and back to myself. "We have our mental states. But why are they important? Well, table that question for now, because we have one more thing to explore before we can answer that question. If you look at the other blackboard, you can see I wrote in four M's," I said, drawing the audience's attention where I wanted it. "To understand why, I'm going to give you a bit of context.
"In February of this year, a case came out of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit. To translate, this means it's a federal case that was appealed from either California, Nevada, Arizona, Idaho, Montana, Washington, Oregon, Hawaii, Alaska, or one of the U.S. territories out in the Pacific. However, to answer the question, I'm just going to tell you that it came from Los Angeles.
"Now, the only reason we care that the case came from Los Angeles is because of who prosecuted it." I waved my tail behind me a few times as I looked over the audience. "Would anybody care to guess who it was, or why they're important?"
No hands went up.
"Ah, well, can't blame a girl for trying," I said with a sigh. "The prosecutor for the initial case was AUSA, or Assistant U.S. Attorney, Jennifer Walters. Better known as the She-Hulk."
Understanding dawned instantly. And audibly, to boot. The collective "Ooooooooh!" from the audience was a thing of beauty, and the kind of thing I hadn't experienced in years.
The last time I'd heard it had been while defending a medical malpractice case, when I successfully led my doctor expert witness into translating complicated medical jargon into layman's terms.
"The thing we care about started forming during the trial phase, then became more defined during the initial appeal, and by the time it got to the Court of Appeals, the judge penned the important part into his ruling. Then the Supreme Court denied certiorari – that is to say, they chose not to take the case – so this is about as final as it's going to get.
"I want to be clear here, though," I firmly stated. "This is a case from the Ninth Circuit. Which means that because it didn't actually go to the Supreme Court, it has no binding precedent on us here in the State of New York. However, because the Supreme Court chose to let the ruling stand, it has a lot of persuasive power, and what I'm about to talk about did get cited by a Manhattan judge just last month. That is to say: it's not black letter law, but most of us in the legal field are appending a 'yet' onto that."
With that, I turned around and used my focus to write in the rest of the four M's on the board, going in alphabetical order.
MACHINIST
MASTER
MUTANT
MUTATE
"These are the Ninth Circuit's categories for metahumans," I said. "No, I don't know why they all start with an 'M'. The only idea I have is that in my experience, a lot of jurists have a penchant for wordplay. If you give them the opportunity to alliterate, they will alliterate aplenty. If they see the chance to make a pun, they will seize it. And each and every one of them thinks they're the smartest person to sit on the bench, which means that their language jokes are clearly the best thing since sliced bread."
Plenty of chuckles from the audience on that one.
"You think I'm kidding?" I asked. "If any of you are interested in seeing an example, let me know, I'll make sure to bring some samples with me for the next seminar." I looked to Professor Xavier on that one, and he gave me that wonderful combination of smile-and-nod.
Ah… blessed confirmation.
"Now, while the names came from the Chief Judge of the court, their actual definitions came from AUSA Walters. These definitions clearly come from a place of deep experience, given that she has had direct contact with the Avengers multiple times, so she had the first-hand knowledge to actually define these."
With a glance over my shoulder, I moved my focus to hover over the first of the four M's.
"Machinist. This is the meta-that-isn't," I said," because this is the category that only applies some of the time. A Machinist, under the Ninth Circuit definition, is any person whose use of technology puts their capabilities above the accepted norm. As for what the 'accepted norm' is, the Ninth Circuit looks at the physical ability of an Olympic athlete, and the threat level of a standard military loadout. If your technology puts you above either of those levels while using it, you are a Machinist.
"The best example we have is Iron Man," I continued. "Now, I've had the distinct displeasure of speaking to Tony Stark at shareholder meetings, and a few times he's shown up injured. When asked why, it's because he got hurt testing the equipment he makes for Iron Man." I pitched my voice lower. "'If it ain't safe for me, it ain't good enough for him'. This is not a proper QA process, but if he wants to break his neck testing out some new doohickey he tried to recreate from Star Trek, be my guest," I said with a shrug.
"Anyways. Next up!"
My focus moved again, and with it, I stepped to the side, helping my audience 'move along' to the next point.
"Master. This is for any powers that are learned. These are the results of practice, study, training, etcetera. Unlike the previous category, however, there is no minimum threshold involved here. You don't need to be more physically capable than an Olympic athlete, or more capable of damage than an infantry soldier. You just need to be capable of something different."
With that, I made my focus move in a figure eight, drawing attention to it. Then, I moved it one category over to the side.
"Next up: Mutate. Not Mutant," I said, stressing that difference. "Would anybody like to guess the difference between the two?"
A very small number of hands went up. Once again, I chose a faculty member.
"You, with the pretty glasses," I said, pointing at one of the teachers.
"... Scott Summers," he said, by way of introduction. Maybe a bit flustered at my compliment of his glasses. "I'm thinking one's a fluke?"
"... sort of?" I answered. "Okay, you're not quite correct, but you're also not wrong. The difference between a Mutate and a Mutant?" I turned around to draw arrows pointing at the word. "Being a Mutate means that your powers came from an outside source. AUSA Walters had a lot to say about this definition, because that's what she is.
"More specifically, this one is further subdivided into two categories." With my focus, I drew a line straight down from the word 'Mutate', then drew two small horizontal lines off of it for bullet points. "These two are 'intentional' and 'unintentional'. Basically: were the Mutate's powers the intended result of whatever caused them, or were they an unexpected side-effect?" I saw a hand go up in the audience. "Yes?"
"Kurt Wagner," the teen said. I gave him a nod and waved him on, though I couldn't help but blink when I caught a faint hint of… something?... wavering around his form. It looked a bit like some of my earliest attempts at my glamour, actually. Also, that accent was oddly familiar. "Is it possible to go from one to the other?"
Well, one, I recognized his accent now, and couldn't help but wonder how a German or Austrian teen came to be in Westchester, New York. But second?
"... not exactly?" I answered, trying to hedge. "The judge was explicit that the same Mutate-making event can't be reclassified later, even if it's repeated, because it strictly looks at how things were at the time. However!" I raised a hand to forestall any additional commentary. "If, say, the Hulk were to go through a second experiment that gave him perfect control of his transformation and levels of strength? Then he would go from an Unintentional Mutate to being an Intentional one. Does that answer your question?"
The teen nodded, so I continued.
"Last but not least?" My focus went to underline the word. "Mutant. Most of us here know this already, but mutants are born, not made. I don't know the genetics behind it, don't ask me. I'm sure Professor Xavier here will host a seminar explaining it if enough of you ask." I turned to look at him. "And I expect an invite well ahead of time if you do!"
"Of course, my dear," Charles said, chuckling along with a good chunk of the audience.
"Good!" I said with a sniff. "I have court dates to plan around." The additional laughs were a balm for my soul, because they told me my audience was still paying attention, and that was excellent. "Anyways. You can't become a mutant. You're born that way. Either you are one, or you aren't. That's it.
"Anyways!" I clapped to draw attention, and to break up the talking. "We have our four categories, and we have our four mental states. As for why this is important: the Ninth Circuit's ruling specifically assigned harm caused by different categories of metahuman to different mental states. Basically: unless the prosecution can specifically prove otherwise, it is to be assumed that the mental state accompanying the action is tied directly to what kind of metahuman you are.
"So it's time to guess!" I paced a bit across the stage, and my focus came back to float over my shoulder. "Who would like to guess which type of metahuman gets which mental state as its default?"
A few tentative hands went up, and I zeroed in on the one in the back.
"You, miss Bruins fan," I said, aiming at the girl sitting next to Peter.
"Angelica Jones, ma'am," she said, introducing herself like the others I'd called on had done before. "Um… I think Mutant and Mutate would fall under, um, purposeful?"
"Excellent guess!" I answered. "Not quite correct, but about as good a guess as I could've expected."
With a wave, I had my focus go and cross out 'purposeful' entirely, then circle 'knowingly', and draw lines from the two meta-categories she'd mentioned down and towards the word.
"None of them get Purposeful by default, because that is the highest level. At that point, it's never going to be that you got startled and used your powers by accident. No, both Mutants and Mutate, by default, get the Knowing standard. Would you like to guess why that is, Miss Jones?" I asked.
"Um…" The poor girl seemed to be at a bit of a loss, so I decided to throw her a lifeline.
"Mister Parker?" I asked, looking at the secret superhero seated next to her.
"Y-yes? Oh!" Peter snapped his fingers. "Because they have to figure out their powers with trial and error!"
"That is the general assumption, yes," I answered. "The Ninth Circuit decision assumes that this is the metahuman's first day with their powers, regardless of whether or not it actually is. And this is largely because both mutant and metahuman powers have been shown to change and grow, suddenly and without warning."
I turned back to the board, and drew lines from the other two categories, Machinist and Master, down to point at 'negligence'.
"These two categories, on the other hand? Machinists are those who use technology, therefore, whoever built the technology should know what it's capable of. Masters, as they are the result of teaching and/or training, had to learn and grow to reach their current levels of capability. There is a lot more inherent knowledge involved here, and as a result, the law looks at their fuck-ups much more harshly."
There was a bit of laughter when I cursed, and even as Professor Xavier gave me a small frown of disapproval, I smiled.
"Basically: take the mental state applied to the metahuman, and swap out the necessary mental state for the crime with whatever mental state applies to their M-category. This will make things easier to prove, or harder, depending on what type of metahuman is on trial. If you're a Master, even if the crime would normally require a purposeful mental state, the prosecution only needs to prove negligence to get you on the hook. On the other hand, if you're a Mutant, even if normally the prosecution would only need negligence, now they need to prove the knowingly standard. It's a replacement.
"But now, it's time for the trick question."
I stepped forward, and brought my focus to hover over my shoulder.
"Say I were to commit a crime with my abilities. Which mental state do you use?" I looked up at the back. "Mister Parker, you don't get to answer."
I'd seen his hand going up, a smug little grin on his face. That little shit thought I didn't know what he was up to? Nice try, kid, but I used to be a teenager myself.
Unfortunately, the fact that Peter clearly knew the answer had dissuaded others from trying. Although, ten seconds later, I had to amend that to most others.
"Yes, Ms. Munroe?" I asked, calling on Ororo.
"For you, Ms. Schaefer, a prosecutor would use the 'negligent' mental state," she answered confidently.
And at the answer, I could only smile.
"That's correct," I answered. "My mutant power lets me manipulate light, a little bit. It doesn't let me create it." I saw the understanding dawn on Katherine's face right then, even as I held out my hand.
With a single word in Hebrew, spoken and clearly enunciated as opposed to murmured under my breath, light bloomed to life in my hand.
"The various metahuman categories can stack atop each other," I said then. "I myself fall under both Mutant and Master – although my tutor would happily argue over applying that particular appellation to me," I said. "I am not, nor will I ever be, a master of magic. I am barely even third-rate. But, magic is magic, and because I'm capable of it? The law gets to call me Master"
I closed my hand, and the orb of light winked out.
"If you fall under multiple categories, regardless of which one's powers you use, you only get judged under the most restrictive use of your powers. It's a compromise – not a good one, if you ask me, but welcome to the law. We take what we have, and we make it work. Do I think I could do better? Yes, I do. Do I have specific ideas about it? Also yes. Feel free to come and ask me after the seminar.
"But for now!" I clapped my hands. "I need something to drink, so we're going to take a ten-minute break. Get yourself some snacks, run to the restroom, or come find me and ask a question. But once ten minutes are up, we'll get to the topic of the hour.
"The People v. S.J. Allerdyce. What the hell went wrong, and how things should have happened."
The rest of the seminar proceeded swimmingly, if I dared say so myself. I was worried things would turn ugly, especially given I was describing the result of anti-mutant sentiment in front of an exceptionally large number of mutants, but no. Things went pretty well.
I would readily admit that Katherine being willing to come on stage and help, especially when we got to the Richards v. Doom precedent that let her testify about St. John's use of his powers, was rather helpful.
And it was especially gratifying to see the students start trying to apply the information regarding metahuman categories and mens rea to the issue, and seeing just what result that would have gotten instead.
Now, an hour after the seminar, I was sitting in Professor Xavier's office. We'd spoken over the phone beforehand about the other objective I wanted to accomplish during my visit, and as nervous as I'd been about the seminar before really getting into the swing of things… well, this was worse. I felt nauseous, and uncomfortably warm, and everything felt too itchy. My hands were clammy, and I kept having to control the urge to twine a strand of hair around my fingers, just to have something to do with them.
It was a common anxiety response, and I recognized it for what it was, but that did nothing to abate the sensations.
The mostly-empty manila folder on Xavier's office's coffee table almost taunted me.
Finally, I heard a knock on the door before it opened a moment later. The same green-haired girl I'd initially called on pushed the door open hesitantly, looking from Xavier's empty desk to where I sat at his coffee table, having taken one of the two armchairs for myself.
"Um, you wanted to see me, Ms. Schaefer?" Lorna Dane asked, her tone a combination of confused and annoyed. Confused, because she clearly hadn't a clue what was going on.
As for the annoyance? Probably because I was taking up the after-school time that she could've been spending with her friends.
"That's correct. Please, take a seat," I said, inviting her in. To my great relief, she picked a spot on the sofa, and more specifically on the side closer to where I already sat. "I'm sorry about taking up even more of your day, but, well, given that I'm already here, it was easier to just kill two birds with one stone, as it were."
Lorna didn't respond. She just looked confused, and I saw her eyes settle on the manila folder I'd brought with me.
Unfortunately, I had to be the one to start. As difficult as it was, as uncomfortable as it was, this was on me to do.
"How…" I trailed off, thinking of how best to phrase this. "How much do you remember of what led to you living here at Xavier's?"
It was easy to tell how hard this topic was for Lorna to even think about. She visibly shrank in on herself, pulling her legs up onto the seat of the couch and hugging her knees with both arms. One hand tapped out a staccato rhythm on her leg, while the other wound a strand of green hair around her finger.
"I'm sorry," I said. "That was indelicate of me. I—"
"There was a plane crash," she said, almost robotically. "Mom and my step-dad, they…" Lorna shuddered and exhaled, her breath shaky. "I, I remember someone calling f-for Mom, and then, I, I think I passed out?" She shook her head. "Uh, the next thing I remember is waking up here. In the infirmary."
"Did Charles say anything about how you go there?" I asked her, picking my words carefully.
"He said it was my bio-dad?" Lorna's reply was halfway between question and statement, like she wasn't quite certain herself, and the furrow in her brow said as much. "I'm not sure. I didn't see whoever was calling out for, f-for Mom, and…" Lorna trailed off. I heard her sniffle, and her eyes were misting up a bit. This was hard for her, I knew. "He just… took me heard, and left. Like I was, I, I don't know. Just… he was my dad? Why didn't he stay?" She hiccuped. "Mom had just—why did he leave?"
I sighed, and reached over to Lorna, putting a hand on her shoulder as the first tear fell.
"Do you want to know?" I asked.
Lorna looked up ever so slowly, eyes wide, mouth falling open. She tried to say something, but just nodded instead.
"Your father…" I trailed off and wet my lips, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this. "Actually, let me ask a question first. Do you know what the Nuremberg Trials were?"
"... what?" Lorna asked. A quick glance at her expression told me that she had no idea where I was going with this. So rather than make her try to figure it out herself, I pressed on.
"The Nuremberg Trials are where Nazi war criminals were tried and sentenced," I said. "But not all of them were found. If anything, most of them weren't. They escaped justice." I looked Lorna in the eyes. "Your father and mine survived Auschwitz together. And your dad couldn't fathom those… monsters escaping justice. So he hunted them down. And eventually, some of them decided to hunt him back."
Lorna took a moment to process that. I caught the exact moment she realized just what kind of connection our fathers had, and knew then that she had an inkling of what I'd wanted to talk to her about.
"W-what happened?" she asked.
"They killed your sister."
Lorna gasped.
"Is…" she trailed off. "Is that why he… why he left?"
"It is," I confirmed. "Max Eisenhardt was convinced that if he stayed near any family members he had, that his past would put them in danger. And that…" I paused. "I don't agree with his decision. But I understand it. Hell, I didn't even know what he was to me until well after we'd met through completely unrelated happenstance."
Lorna looked at me and sniffled, drying her tears with a tissue from the coffee table. Her eyes fell on the manila folder in front of me.
"What's in there?" she asked.
I flipped open the folder to show the sole document inside, and turned it towards Lorna.
"Your father is… he's not afraid to be near you, but more afraid of what attention he might bring down on you," I said, trying to be mindful of the issue. "But depriving you of familial connection because of his fear and past trauma, while understandable, isn't fair to you. So… I guess this is the best substitute. If you want it, I will sign this document, file it with the State, and… well?"
It was a legal document. As I was one of the involved parties, I'd asked Sam Lieberman to draw it up for me as a favor.
"I'd become your godmother."
Lorna brought a shaky hand up over her mouth as she looked at the paper in front of her.
"I understand if this is too sudden," I said. "You've only just met me today, and while Max is your father, you don't even know your bio-dad. So if you don't want him to have made this decision, then—"
I didn't get to finish what I was saying. Lorna flung herself out of her seat, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as the waterworks started. I took a shaky breath and fought back tears of my own, and wrapped my arms around her carefully, just holding the poor girl as she cried.
I wasn't sure why I'd ever thought she would say no. Lorna was seven when she lost her parents. Then here I came, somebody that the closest thing she had left to a father figure seemed to trust implicitly, with an offer of something she hadn't had for almost as long as she could remember.
Some part of me was afraid she would say no. That she'd tell me to fuck off and never talk to her again.
I was unquestionably, indescribably happy that she'd said yes.
… oh, dear.
I'd need to revamp my home office into a bedroom for when Xavier's was on breaks, wouldn't I?
So... it's been almost 3 months. Um.
Oooooops?
Sorry folks!
In other news... I moved to a new apartment (one bedroom, just me and my wonderful pupper!), and started my job! Oh my god, the euphoria of finally getting a proper paycheck after so, damn, long... and actually getting to use my Juris Doctor! My! GOD!
Oh, and also, I am now licensed to practice in the State of New York, and this coming Monday, I'm getting sworn in to practice in the State of Maryland. So I've got those going for me! Which is nice! (I could've done without New York's $375 biannual fee, though... eh, what can you do?)
Let's see, what else, what else... mm, nothing much.
No Ko-fi link this time! I now have a full-time, salaried position!... I may revamp the Ko-fi into the Art Fund (trademark pending), not sure about that one to be honest. But now that money is coming in, and I'm realizing that my budget is leaving me with discretionary funds again, part of me really wants moar ART! (... but why do I get the feeling someone's going to go back and dig up the ko-fi link anyway, I swear, some people are just maniacs...)
Thanks to @Origami Mountain for the beta on this one~
Anyways, thanks for reading, everyone! Hope you enjoyed!~
Oooooops?
Sorry folks!
In other news... I moved to a new apartment (one bedroom, just me and my wonderful pupper!), and started my job! Oh my god, the euphoria of finally getting a proper paycheck after so, damn, long... and actually getting to use my Juris Doctor! My! GOD!
Oh, and also, I am now licensed to practice in the State of New York, and this coming Monday, I'm getting sworn in to practice in the State of Maryland. So I've got those going for me! Which is nice! (I could've done without New York's $375 biannual fee, though... eh, what can you do?)
Let's see, what else, what else... mm, nothing much.
No Ko-fi link this time! I now have a full-time, salaried position!... I may revamp the Ko-fi into the Art Fund (trademark pending), not sure about that one to be honest. But now that money is coming in, and I'm realizing that my budget is leaving me with discretionary funds again, part of me really wants moar ART! (... but why do I get the feeling someone's going to go back and dig up the ko-fi link anyway, I swear, some people are just maniacs...)
Thanks to @Origami Mountain for the beta on this one~
Anyways, thanks for reading, everyone! Hope you enjoyed!~
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What a wholesome moment of Noa becoming the godmother of Lorna.
And congratulations on your job, October Daye!
And congratulations on your job, October Daye!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I get to see the gay lawyer lizard earlier than everyone else. I'm hardly going to call it work.
Excellent chapter! Noa being a Yenta is super sweet, you're giving me cavities here.
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Tale Swapper
(Unverified Madman)
- Location
- Lost Among a Sea of Imaginings and Dreams
Lorna: "...why is my Bio-dad dressed up in a Magneto outfit?"
Laura: "I knew I was forgetting something..."
Laura: "I knew I was forgetting something..."
- Location
- Argentina
Well, this is Marvel you are a mutant and you know Spiderman, this will go badly.
- Location
- Louisville KY
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I really like that Nora is going to have a family figure that links her more closely to her life of being an outed mutant. After all, it's easier to worry for a loved one's well-being than it is for your own.
Plus, I'm a sappy old guy that likes happy moments.
Plus, I'm a sappy old guy that likes happy moments.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I think I'm missing something.
Mental states go "negligence" -> "recklessness" -> "knowingly" -> "purposefully."
Master and Machinist got to their level through experience, so law looks at them more harshly — so their default mental state is "negligence." The least severe mental state. What?
Mutant and Mutate, on the other hand, have powers that can change themselves without their user's knowledge — so their default mental state is "knowingly." The penultimate one.
I think something broke during editing.
Quotes:
Mental states go "negligence" -> "recklessness" -> "knowingly" -> "purposefully."
Master and Machinist got to their level through experience, so law looks at them more harshly — so their default mental state is "negligence." The least severe mental state. What?
Mutant and Mutate, on the other hand, have powers that can change themselves without their user's knowledge — so their default mental state is "knowingly." The penultimate one.
I think something broke during editing.
Quotes:
A question of clarification- the whole reason you say Mutant and Mutate are different to Master or Mechanist is because they don't necessarily know all the ins and outs of their powers because sometimes they change-
Yeah, this has me scratching my head as well.