Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press

[Tom Harriman]

"Are you sure?"

Emma's hands smoothed down the lapelles on his jacket, and ever so slightly neatened up the angle of his tie. She was a pillar of unwavering calm just like she always was, and she knew exactly what she needed to say to impart a little of the same onto Tom; probably because she was casually poking around in his brain.

"You heard the nice lady from PR," she reminded him gently. "Audiences will respond better to a handsome man in a smart suit than they will to one in a grubby lab coat."

Tom curled his nose. "My lab coat isn't grubby," he muttered defensively. "And it makes me look like a scientist."

Emma offered him a pitying, almost maternal smile. "But you aren't a scientist. At least, not today."

Tom blew out what was supposed to be a calming breath. It didn't really live up to the name. "No," he agreed. "Today I'm an idiot who has to stand up in front of a crowd of people, and schmoose them like a pretentious ass."

She patted him gently on the shoulder. "A handsome pretentious ass in a suit," she pointed out.

Someone stepped through the door; she held up a hand, silencing before he'd even spoken a word. "That's your cue," Emma said to Tom, her head twitching slightly towards the door.

Tom swallowed, nervously. "Wish me luck?" he asked.

"Break a leg," Emma offered instead, with a wink.

* * *

The sun was ridiculously bright. Public Relations had picked this particular spot just outside Treadstone Tower because it was outside, and apparently outdoor press conferences seemed more open and honest than those in cramped little rooms, at least as far as far as the focus groups were concerned. At this time of year though, at this time of day, with the sun reflecting off every glass window in sight and all those eyes and cameras pointed at him, Tom felt like he was under the blinding light of a Nazi interrigator; or somewhere equally nefarious.

He stepped up to the podium, his knuckles turning white as he grabbed both sides for stability, leaning ever so slightly closer to the microphone. "My name is Doctor Thomas Harriman," he said, his voice sounding strange as it echoed out of the public address system, "And I am a mutant."

His eyes roamed the crowd - so many unfamiliar faces - and he wondered what it was about this that made him so much more nervous than all the classrooms, lecture halls, and battlefields he'd found himself in before over the course of his life. It was stupid, frankly, and he refused to let it carry on any longer.

"As you can probably tell from my accent, I'm not from around here," spoke again, a new edge of confidence in his voice. "I'm from the United Kingdom originally, and I served my country as a member of the armed forces until they realised I was a mutant. I was politely asked to leave."

"So I moved to New York, got my PhD, and began to lecture in one of your universities. They found out what I was, and I was politely asked to leave."

A hint of accusation began to pepper his tone. "I came here to Los Angeles; I worked in one of your schools, providing an education to your children. I played ball with the people who run this state, and I registered myself as a mutant." He produced his registration card from his pocket, waving it at the crowd for emphasis. "It doesn't take much guesswork to figure out what happened next: yet again people found out what I was, and yet again I was politely asked to leave."

He gestured over his shoulder, pointing at the building behind him. "But not here. Treadstone Industries didn't hold the genes I was born with against me, any more than you'd expect them to if I had red hair or blue eyes." He paused for a moment, hoping to let his point sink in. "What they did do however was provide me with an opportunity. They gave me a budget, a lab, and a mandate."

He picked a few arbetrary people in the crowd, and chose to speak to them directly. "Up there, on the eleventh floor -" He glanced over his shoulder, counting under his breath. "- three windows from the right, is Treadstone Industries' new department of Applied Sciences. We exist not to study mutants, but to study what mutants can do."

He placed a hand on his chest. "I don't care about your genes. Treadstone doesn't care about your genes. But if you can levitate things with your mind or shoot laser beams out of your eyes -" He shrugged. "Personally, I think that's pretty cool. And I want to know how you do that. Because maybe, just maybe, there's a way I can do that too; or a way to build something that can do it too."

He let out a single, silent laugh, a slight smile of disbelief creeping onto his features. "This world is scared of mutants, because they only ever think about the bad things that we can do. But mutants and their gifts are capable of incredible good, too. Out there somewhere there could be a cure for cancer, the solution to global warming, or some groundbreaking new understanding of physics that allows us to build flying cars: but the world is without those things, because the missing pieces of the puzzle have been forced into hiding."

His tone softened, and he picked one camera in particular, staring imploringly into the lens. "We don't want to jam you full of needles or start biopsying your brain: we just want you to come here and show us what you can do... and maybe together we can work out what lets you make the impossible possible."

He let those words hang in the air for a moment, before once again leaning a tiny bit closer to the microphone. "I'll happily take any questions you have."

[Jim Lewinski]

"There! Y'see, what did I tell you?"

A collective sigh rolled around the family room as the television pinged into life, its large screen flushed with colour, projecting an image that was crisp and clear. Jim struck a heroic pose in his dusty coveralls and beamed with satisfaction, his work was done. In the end, it had been a simple enough operation requiring little other than a few common tools, an empty soda bottle and a turkey baster - not that it diminished one iota the tidal wave of appreciation from his housemates. Even Anna would be thrilled, after all, it was commonly accepted knowledge that a house full of teens with no television courted heartbreak and disaster.

The movie of the day was Tropic Thunder and Ronnie, who never missed an opportunity to quote from his favourite films, was anxious to have the proceedings underway after the minor setback of a contaminated CRT coolant. He swept down from his spot on the sofa and fed the disc into the player, but before he could press the play button something caught Jim's attention:

"My name is Doctor Thomas Harriman and I am a mutant."

Thereafter, the crowd of excitable youngsters fell silent for the rest of the doctor's presentation, some latched onto the familiar notes of social rejection, others scoffed cynically at the promise of positive science, while Jim found a spot on the floor and sat perfectly still. It was a fascinating and personal speech, delivered by a man who sounded like he truly believed in his words and was frank in addressing the needle-jabbing doubts on the lips of every mutant who had ever before heard the words science and mutation in the same sentence together. This Tom Harriman seemed the real deal, thought Jim, it was just a shame he didn't have a lab coat.

"Doctor Harriman," a woman from one of the local papers spoke out, "It is widely accepted the Jericho Foundation is at the forefront of mutant research and have an established presence here in Los Angeles with its Jozua Clinic. Does Treadstone have any intention of collaborating or sharing data with the centre, and also, what sets your branch of Applied Sciences apart from the groundbreaking work taking place there?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom's automatic gut reaction was the kind of phrase that he couldn't get away with saying aloud. Clearly the reporter was non-mutant: no mutant who had heard the rumours and horror stories about what happened at Jericho would have asked such a question, or at least would not have asked it in such a way. Tom remembered a girl he'd once known back in New York; a few consulting sessions with Jericho arranged by a well-meaning father, and he hadn't heard from her since.

He didn't allow his undiplomatic opinion of the institute to show outwardly, however. He even managed to offer her a greatful smile, for raising a question that he was all too happy to clarify.

"I think you almost answered your own question," he pointed out; though it was an answer he wanted everyone to hear, he aimed his response directly at her. "Jericho are the foremost experts on mutation. Their research - as far as I know, based on what they've published - focuses on the genetic, and the biological. They provide care -" Describing it in such a benign way left a bitter taste in his mouth. "- and treatment in cases where the nature of the mutation, or the nature of the ability, is having an adverse impact on the patient's wellbeing. Much of their work centers around techniques to surpress or reverse those negative characteristics."

Which they then weaponise and sell to the military, he added darkly to himself. Or at least, so the internet conspiracy theorists claimed.

His expression turned apologetic. "My goal is to work with the mutants who aren't getting helped out in all this. This country feels no duty of care towards the mutants who aren't struggling physically with their abilities, but are perhaps struggling mentally, or socially. There is no safe place for mutants to experiment with their powers: no where safe for them, or for those around them."

"Imagine a child who can generate electricity with her hands. There is nowhere safe she can go to experiment with those abilities: and if she can't experiment, how does she find out what makes that ability start, or how she can make it stop? How can she live a normal life when it doesn't seem safe for her to be around people? It's no wonder that mutant terrorists find recruitment so easy: up until now, they were the only people claiming to have answers. Now, there's me."

"Thanks to Treadstone, that little girl has a safe place to learn about herself: and she doesn't have to do it alone. Together, we can learn what makes her so special, learn how to use her gift safely - and maybe, just maybe we can find a way for her or her ability to help the rest of the world too." He allowed himself another small smile. "I certainly wouldn't mind having a girl like that around next time I need to jump-start my car."

[Alex Kaine]

"You hear that Sparky, he's talkin' about you!"

Ronnie was all grins as he thumped Alex in the shoulder. Alex pretended not to notice, hunched forward in his seat with a stormy, contemplative look on his face.

"Yeah, let's all line up and let 'em put a patent on us," he groused.

"Dale Presley, CNN. Is your lab open to any and all mutants, or are you looking for particular kinds of mutations? Do you have any sort of process to separate beneficial abilities from, say, abnormal hair or skin color, or those mutations that may be too dangerous to test?"

[Tom Harriman]

"I'd suggest that a quick visual inspection would be enough to separate out the hair and skin colours," he quipped, but a moment later his brow furrowed as he considered a more serious answer to the question.

"Honestly, I'm not entirely sure that there are abilities out there that have no benefit whatsoever. A benign mutation that changes appearence might not necessarily yield a miracle disease cure, but it might teach us more about evolution, or might lead to a radical rethink of the way we think about ourselves as a species, or how we regard other species. Or maybe there is some secret benefit to their mutation that no one has noticed yet: how do you know if you're immune to polio or cancer if you've never had it?"

He offered a slight shrug. "There is no way to know the full extent of a mutant's abilities until we start to explore them: that's the whole point of what we're doing here. So no, we won't be making any efforts to 'filter out' anyone: not even the so-called dangerous ones. After all, lets not forget that if it weren't for atomic bombs, we wouldn't have nuclear power."

[Madeleine Flores]

"What are you watching?" She asked, walking in with daughter in tow. José blinked and nodded at her. He shifted from his reclined position on the couch to sitting up straight. She nodded in quiet acknowledgement.

"He's my old physics teacher," José said, waving his hand towards the set. "Looks like he's some sorta scientist working on mutants now."

"Like Jericho?" she asked, happy that there was something catching her son's interest. He needed some direction, and while she was tough with him, there wasn't much else she could do. José shook his head.

"Nah. He's talkin' about using whatever they're doing with the mutants and makin' stuff we can use with the results. You don't have work tonight?"

Madeleine smiled and shook her head, sitting on the sofa next to her son and hugging him.

"No. I get to spend the whole night with my boy and girl," she said. José grinned.

"Doctor, Charles Federer, Associated Press. How many people do you have working in this new department, and can you tell us about any of the projects that you are working on currently?"

[Taya Robbins]

Third question, third question...

Taya Robbins stood somewhere in the second row of reporters, gaining a new appreciation for the word press. When she'd arrived an hour and a half ago to pick up her press kit and find her seat on the manicured lawn, she hadn't had any trouble finding space - most of the professional reporters had spotted her ears and muzzle and whiskers and politely shied away. Either that, or it was the student badge on her lanyard. Taya's appearance had always been a mixed bag, but she'd always been able to count on standing out in a crowd.

But now that the press conference had begun, and every human being in the park was stretching a microphone or a camera toward the stage, Taya was just a petite kid trying to look professional in a skirt suit, and between the tight pack of bodies and her thick coat of fur, she was sweltering in the July heat. But this was her chance, she had the third question, student reporters never got to ask questions in a press conference, let alone go third. Her tail was snaking uncontrollably, and her ears were buzzing, and she was finding it unbelievably difficult to count to three.

Don't screw it up don't screw it up don't...

She opened her mouth only to have her mind go blank at the sight of the sunlight rippling off a thirtieth-story window that was quivering in a high-altitude breeze, and then, to her mortal horror, she heard someone else taking her question spot!

Taya tried very hard to flatten her ears out of sight as they turned beet-red.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom's eyes settled on Charles Federer, wondering if he'd been put up to the question by his oh-so-sparkly boss.

The real answer involved admitting that he had been procrastinating when he should really have been reading personnel files and resumes, mainly because he didn't feel like enough of an expert himself to be judging the qualifications of others. He was being presented with potential employees who were professors and career scientists, all alumni from some of the most prestigious centres for learning from across the world; a doctorate and a few years of lecturing at Columbia University didn't really seem like enough.

The worst part was that the kind of things he'd decided he was looking for weren't skills or certifications that could be listed on paper. He needed a team of not just experts in science, but also experts in people: scientists who would treat his potentially frightened and reluctant volunteers like people to be learned from, not subjects to be studied.

Essentially, he was looking for a bunch of geeks with social skills. Part of him wondered if questing for the Holy Grail might be a better use for his time.

"My team at the moment is small," he answered, being as vague as he could without seeming intentionally vague. "There's only so much space available to us in Treadstone Tower, and a larger team with more minds and faces wouldn't necessarily bring about better or faster results."

"However, Treadstone is in the process of converting some of the facilities at the old Marine base at El Toro into extra labs and testing grounds. Once we have the space available, and provided we have the volunteers, we'll definately be investing in bringing more experts into the fold."

"Plus," he added, "We aren't planning on keeping this research all to ourselves. We're currently exploring options for collaboration: not just within the departments of Treadstone Industries, but with universities and research centres across the country; and further afield, if anyone is interested. In fact, I have a meeting with the Chancellor of UCLA later on this week to discuss exactly that."

[Taya Robbins]

Taya was fairly quivering with energy now, which wasn't doing her any favors in terms of body heat, and she almost, almost spoke up and interrupted Dr. Harriman when he paused for breath. But she wasn't taking any chances this time, and as soon as he wrapped up, she spoke with all the confidence and authority she could muster for someone who was convinced her voice still sounded thirteen years old:

"Taya Robbins, Daily Bruin. If you can clarify this for me, Dr. Harriman - your intention is to develop products based on mutant abilities, right? How do you plan to compensate your volunteers for their contributions to your research?"

Oh God, was that too confrontational? Never mind, let it stick. Someone had to take him to task after serving up three softballs.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom was a little taken aback, not so much by the question itself, but by the sudden explosion of sound from the petite previously unnoticed mutant in the second row.

Part of him wondered how he hadn't noticed her before, given her striking appearence - but on balance, he supposed that was a good thing. Wasn't that part of what this was all about: looking beyond the label and seeing not a mutant, but a person with great potential?

"Our intention isn't to provide mutants with a get rich quick solution," he replied, deciding to focus entirely on answering the question for now, and worry about whether or not he was being accidentally racist later. "By helping mutants to explore their abilities, they'll get something out of the process too. Having said that, we're not doing this to exploit mutants for a profit, either."

"The FDA does have guidelines regarding the kind of compensation that volunteers for medical testing should recieve; and while those don't strictly apply in this case, we will be complying with them regardless. We're also looking at other ways to compensate our volunteers: with our resources, we may be able to develop tools to help them live with their abilities, and lead a more normal life."

[Gunnar Ottesen]

“Yeah, the…” He laughed, then, a deep laugh to accompany his young, deep voice. “…ha, no, no. Salinsky will not take kindly to that kind of tomfoolery, even if it’s applicable to the project. Just put on your grownup panties, Collins, and do what we discussed, precisely as we discussed. Hey, look. That Treadstone conference is coming on and I really don’t want to miss any of it. You shouldn’t either, you fucking clown. Any of us could be working for a big suit like that.”

“Nah, faceless corporations ain’t my thang, y’knowhatahmean? And… tomfoolery? Really, man… does anyone even say that anymore, for real? Dorkface.”

Gunnar snorted.

“Hey, who are you to be calling me a dorkface, of all things?” He grasped the phone between his head and his shoulder to free up his hand to scratch at the nape of his neck while taking care not to spill the milk anywhere other than directly into his bowl of cereal. “Alright, I’ve had enough of your dickery. I’ll see you around. Later.”

“Later, muffin.” Collins sniggered.

Gunnar pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at it somewhat incredulously, the jug of milk suspended from his other hand, the milk safely poured into the confines of the bowl of Cheerios.

“Oh, fuck you, Collins.” He said, smirking. He mashed the end call button with his thumb, dropped the cellular phone on the counter and put the milk away before moseying over to the small, two-seat table he’d managed to fit in the generously sized apartment kitchen, carrying the bowl of cereal along with him. He settled in, the first questions already being posed to Dr. Harriman. He listened, munching away thoughtfully at his Cheerios and considering the answers to those questions himself.

“Serena Jones, Channel 5. Doctor Harriman, is there any requirement for volunteers to be registered mutants? And on the matter of discretion, are volunteers afforded confidentiality in the process, anonymity if they should wish it?”

[Tom Harriman]

"Mutant registration is not currently compulsory in the State of California," Tom replied, carefully stating the obvious. He managed to impress himself with how neutral and unjudging he'd managed to sound while saying that, and how he'd managed to prevent himself from over-emphasising the currently.

"Our legal department is currently in the process of examining what will happen when that situation changes, and what effect that will have on our ability to maintain confidentiality for our volunteers."

He stopped for a moment, finding himself in yet another situation where he was required to be uncomfortably careful with his choice of words. "Since our focus is on the abilities of mutants rather than the physiology of mutants, there is little need for us to retain a huge amount of personal information on our volunteers. In fact, science generally works better when the situation isn't clouded by superfluous factors. We firmly believe that volunteers are entitled to their privacy: and just like their time, any personal information we retain will be on a purely voluntary basis."

"That said," he pointed out, "I am unfortunately not the kind of doctor whose patient privilage is protected under the law; but barring a court order insisting otherwise, we will do everything we can to preserve the anonymity of our volunteers."

His voice took on a little of it's practiced teacher tone, with a slight hint of a smile added on top. "If any prospective volunteers are worried about us being forced to hand their records over to the authorities, I would suggest that not doing anything illegal is a good way of making sure that doesn't happen."

He glanced off to the side, where one of the organisers was waiting, flashing him a couple of digits. "I think we have time for two more questions."

[Jim Lewinski]

Jim vanished from his spot on the floor, a glossy magazine took flight from the coffee table and flapped noisely into Jennifer's lap, who in turn started to leaf happily through its pages. When he returned, a brownish streak of colour through the family room, he landed squarely in the exact same spot except this time he was armed with writing materials. He scribbled furiously, sentences leaping down the page in rapid succession, while from somewhere at the back of the room Alex pontificated Orwellian omens. Jim took a moment to fire a scowl his way, then returned his attention to the television in time to hear a young lady from the BBC speak up:

"Doctor Harriman, in the interest of transparency and accountability, what assurance can you give the general public Treadstone's research will not contribute towards the development of weapons technology?"

[Tom Harriman]

Despite having lived in Britain for most of his life - much of it in Scotland, admittedly - he still found the overly formal Queen's English tones of the reporters that the BBC so often attracted to be incredibly jarring, grating, and all manner of other uncomfortable things. It almost sounded like they were faking; Tom had to fight the urge to let a little more of his natural Scots drawl creep into his words as he replied.

"I won't deny it," he said, holding his arms out in an exaggerated shrug for the cameras. "Treadstone Industries is a research and development firm that spans a broad spectrum of disciplines, and on occasion they have developed technologies for the military."

His hands returned to the podium. "However, each one of those projects was developed under a military contract. As a former soldier myself, I wholeheartedly welcome the military to approach us with contracts for new technologies that will save lives; but as long as I am running this department, Applied Sciences will not be involving itself in any efforts to develop lethal technologies."

"Too many people die every day in this world; my ambition is to make that number smaller, not to provide the world's governments with the means to make it larger."

[Svetlana Ustinov]

"Da, Sergei...I had him for physics last year. Handsome, isn't he?" Lana said brightly, curled up on the overstuffed couch in her living room, the large screen showing the press conference in high-def. Chestnut eyes were wide, though her brow was slightly drawn in concern.

Lily lay curled up in her lap, content to be petted and linger half-asleep. Sergei snickered with laughter from the kitchen behind her, his rebuttal to her comment lost as she turned up the volume. The floor had been opened to questions, and Lana didn't want to miss a single detail. Of a certainty, Alex would be going on and on about it later, and perhaps if she paid close attention the conversation would be just that, a conversation, instead of her listening and nodding as he railed on about the 'establishment' and mutant rights.

It wasn't that she disagreed at all with what he was saying, she just chose to keep what few certain beliefs she had mostly quiet. With everything that had happened as of late, Lana couldn't even think about most mutant matters without giving herself a raging headache.

"Doctor Harriman, I'm Adelaide Cooper, with Fox News. In the interest of full disclosure, could you tell us what your particular mutation is and what it does?"

Lana arched a brow as the petite redheaded reporter spoke up, asking a question that had little to do with the press conference and more with curiosity. As if he were on display...which, she supposed in some strange way he was. Shaking her head, she leaned forward with anticipation.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom hadn't expected anyone to ask that; but he was quietly greatful that someone had. Unlike all the other questions he'd been asked, this one didn't require careful words, or delicate phrasing. This one was all to easy to answer.

He glanced around the array of reporters in front of him, a slight frown on his face. "Does anyone have a sheet of paper?" he asked; a murmer of confusion came in reply. One of the journalist's who'd been scribbling notes down on a pad raised a hand nervously into the air. Tom flashed her a smile. "Great. Scrunch that up, and throw it up here." More murmers. More confusion. "And not a pansy little throw, either. Toss it at me like you're pitching for the Dodgers."

With a degree of reluctance, the journalist complied; the tiny scrumple of lined paper tumbled through the air on a vague trajectory towards the podium. Tom's hand snapped up, fingers folded like pistol as his powers sent the screwball rocketing away.

He faked holstering his imaginary weapon, and threw a shrug at the crowd. "Give me a few years, and the right mutant volunteers, and I'll turn that into hoverboards and flying DeLoreans."

He threw a glance to the suited woman who seemed to be in charge of things; she threw back a nod. "I'm afraid that's all we have time for, ladies and gentlemen; but thank you for your attention, and your questions." He turned his attention directly to one of the cameras. "And thank you to those watching, who are thinking about sharing their gifts with me. I promise you; we will make the world a better place, together."

With that, and with a quick wave of goodbye, Tom abandoned the podium and fled from the camera's line of sight as fast as decorum would allow.