Hi, you've reached Bobby, Nic, Beth, and Dylan. We're not here right now, but if you leave a message after the tone, we'll get back to you as soon as possible.

...

BEEP!

This journal is now on indefinite hiatus. It's been a ball playing with all of you, but - for the moment at least - Kelly's story has come to an end.

Feel free to assume in the meantime that he's hanging out at home, playing with the kids, and staying the hell away from politics.

His dreams are all memories.

wicked tongue

He has nightmares that stretch beyond that childish term, verging on true physical pain when he revisits those cold blue eyes, colder iron against his hands. He flinches at the thought of the man he was - bigoted, scared, human - and the memory of what they'd made him.

The rush of adrenaline, air around his body, water that batters and consumes him... Escape brings more fear than relief, and then a euphoria that scares him even more.

He survives, but he does not wake up.

we're not what you think

He dreams with his eyes open, feeling eyes behind his own, a perspective, a way of thinking that is so alien to him it makes him choke on air. Not just a voice in his head, but a man, making him see again, making him examine every moment, every angle, of his own torture.

He's tried everything to suppress even one detail, but Xavier's left him with everything. Every damn second.

He dies, and lives, and does not wake up.

where's the mutant?

He lives through someone else's nightmare, learns acutely what it is to be a mutant, what it is to be afraid. A human dies for him, and a mutant saves his life, and he can no longer tell the difference. In his mind, although he reaches for detail and for meaning, it remains a bloody smear.

He wants change, desperately, but he knows fear better than heroism. He knows the chill of those iron bars, the hatred in blue eyes.

He survives, but he does not wake up.

we've been better than this

He dies on the senate floor. In his nightmares, his blood is hot and thick and red, and not the water he knows it was. He struggles to live, to live as a mutant, knowing that his wife and his daughter and his baby son may already be dead. It is the longest day of his life, a day he could grow old reliving.

He comes back to them, to all of them, something less than a hero. Nothing has changed but the scar in his shoulder, and scars in his mind he can never erase.

He dies, and lives, and does not wake up.

not the one you want

He dreams of his children, of life, of a normality he's never had. He dreams of Beth drawing on the porch, inspiring the world with tales of superheroes even more valiant and daring than those she's met. He dreams of Dylan puzzling over his ABCs and growing up as much in the ocean as on dry land.

He dreams memories of refusing the greatest offer he's ever had, of knowing that it's not for him, of knowing, finally, what is.

Gradually, his eyes are starting to open.

Aquaman.

Now, I can't say that I know much about the man. Beth is much more into Marvel Comics, as I'm sure you all know. But, with the abilities that I have, comparisons always come up. Usually unfavorable comparisons.

I was never cut out to be a superhero, or even to have extraordinary physical abilities of a purely human nature. The limit of my sporting feats was running cross-country in high school. I'm a tall skinny guy - Captain America before they gave him the Super Serum - and, honestly, not so skinny anymore. There aren't too many 40-something lawyers with superpowers. There's probably a reason for that.

Aquaman looks good in spandex. He has physically implausible muscles. He's aged about two years in fifty. He's a two-dimensional, primary-color character in a comic book, and my wife still thinks he's hot. Still, she's always had questionable taste.

He can talk to fish, too. When people ask me what I can do, I list my fantastic, mindboggling abilities, and then they ask: "yeah, but can you talk to fish?" I don't even understand why anyone would want to talk to fish.

Most of all, though, the moral issues he faces are mostly very black and white. Clear. Easily resolved within thirty or so pages. What wouldn't I give for a few problems like that.

ooc: tm_northstar used with permission.

Pad pad pad.

It's just after ten, the night before Christmas, and a little girl in Spider-Man pyjamas is creeping down the stairs to do her heroic duty and fight off intruders - even if they happen to have a bright red nose, or a reassuringly bushy beard.

Jean-Paul Beaubier has neither of those, but he does at least have a Santa hat on as he kneels under the Kelly family tree, arranging the presents he's bought. The pointy ears probably help too.

( Read more... )

I'm making some cuts to the flists of my various RP journals to remove dead journals and people who I no longer interact with, just so I have some hope of getting on top of everything and commenting as I should. No offence meant.

"I don't understand why I'm here."

Here is a non-descript office building in windswept Chicago in early December. Earlier in the day, Robert had received several telephone calls to his Washington home - calls that had quietly convinced him to make his way to Illinois in his customary fashion. Standing dripping wet in a bathroom, a young man in a suit had handed him sweatpants and a hoodie emblazoned with an all-too-familiar campaign logo before he had been led to the inner sanctum.

He is, by far, the most casually dressed person in the room. And the only one whose bare feet make faint squelching noises against the hardwood floor.

The man he's addressing - a man about his age, with close-cropped dark hair and piercing eyes - sits forward a little in his chair and spreads his hands wide. "I would have thought that it was obvious."

It's really not.

Robert takes a breath. "I watch the news, Mr. President-Elect. You're putting together your cabinet. A... team of rivals, isn't it? One of the most diverse groups of people ever seen at the highest level of government."

"I'm not aiming for diversity, Senator. I'm choosing people based on ability. And if that means African-Americans, Hispanics, women, gays, then that's what it means. But I'm hardly turning away straight white men if they've got the goods."

"Or if they're mutants."

The President-Elect smiles. Robert's seen it on television more than enough, but in person it's quite... captivating. "From what I read in the papers, you're not the straightest rod either, Bobby."

And, with that, Robert gets to his feet. "I shouldn't be here. With all due respect, sir, I was voted out of office. The electorate doesn't want me, and neither does the Democratic Party."

"And mutants? You're the only mutant ever to hold public office in this country. You're a role model. This administration will need the input of experts in the field of homo superior. We'll need to make and change policy..."

He's still standing. "There are people far more qualified than I am. People who haven't made the mistakes I have. People whose personal lives aren't fodder for the tabloid press."

"Name them," the President-Elect says, and Robert's at a loss. Mutants are terrorists, superheroes, pop singers. Mike Connor's far too volatile. John Allerdyce too dangerous. Doug Ramsey, Terry Cassidy, and Jean-Paul already tied up with too many projects.

"Hank McCoy." And, even as he says it, he has his doubts.

The President-Elect motions to an aide to bring them coffee. "Sit down, Bobby. I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about."

I hope that things will get better rather than worse, and that if they get worse, it isn't by too much.

I hope that my life, when it's totaled up and examined and accounted for, will have meant something, whatever that means. I hope I'll know what that means long before I have to seriously worry about things like memoirs and legacies and whether my grandchildren are eating enough spinach.

I hope that my children will be happy, in general at least, even if they don't realize it at the time. I hope that neither of them will ever hate me too much, that they won't ever mind that Daddy goes sploosh, or that their childhoods will be very far from normal. I hope that they will each be content with who they are, regardless of who they fall in love with, which God they pray to, or how many tentacles they have. I hope they know now, and will always know, that I love them.

I hope that neither Jamie nor Nic will ever realize that they are far, far out of my league and could do much better than a somewhat dorky ex-Senator with strange hair who often feels compelled to throw himself in front of bullets.

I hope that I am wrong about a great many things, and right about a few others.

I hope that hope itself is worthwhile, that it doesn't exist solely to trip us up on dreams.

Fingers crossed.

I think this is a message from God telling me to stay the hell away from politics.

( Meme )

[locked to JP]

I'll be going to Rebecca's grave to pay my respects today. If you feel like coming along, give me a call, okay?

[/locked]

I woke up this morning with a little boy on my chest. He apparently doesn't hold losing the election against me, as long as I'm still entirely prepared to tickle his tummy and repeatedly pick up his elephant for him. If only the electorate were as undemanding.

( Song of the Month, just a little late )

( First meme in a while )

Almost entirely overshadowed by the Democrats' victory parties in the early hours of Wednesday morning was a single, albeit long-expected, defeat.

Robert Kelly, who has made history as the first mutant to serve in Congress, lost his seat after a long, well-fought, but ultimately doomed campaign. Rocked by allegations of marital infidelity and unprofessional behavior, Kelly, who by his own admission was surprised to win in resolutely Republican Kansas six years ago, had always lagged in the polls.

In his concession speech, Kelly called on members of his own party to continue to work for the future of Kansas, raising the specter of two members of his staff who have been murdered during his term of office. "Henry Gyrich and Rebecca Vilas were both victims of vicious, unprovoked hate crimes," Kelly said. "Whether it be anti-mutant, pro-mutant, or any other form of discrimination or intolerance, America as a whole must combat it wherever it lies."

Kelly praised the efforts of his campaign staff and field teams, and thanked his wife Nicole, young children Beth and Dylan, and former assistant Jean-Paul Beaubier for their support.

...and now I'm going to bed.

Thank you all.

Politics is innuendo, for better or worse (usually worse).

There are less than three weeks to go until the election. It's a nervous period, the time when politicians and their supporters realize that jobs and ideals are truly on the line. When people are nervous, they are rarely inclined to quote the latest economic reports, the most in-depth scientific studies, and the public is rarely inclined to listen.

Much as we would love to think that we vote with our heads, most of us vote with our guts. Who is this guy? Is he like me? Does he make me feel nervous? Suspicious? Friendly? Would I invite him over to dinner with my family? Would I buy him a beer?

Intelligent, hard-working men and women from all parties and walks of life are suddenly reduced to stereotypes on the page. There's been a tendency lately to define opponents as "unAmerican". Etymologically, it's a little hard to define. But semantically? Oh, of course we all know the meaning: Black. Hispanic. Asian. Muslim. Jew. Homosexual. Mutant.

One might think that a loss is a loss, that the reasons behind it hardly matter. If I lose this election, I will be out of a job, and trying to reflect on the reasons why might seem pointless. Perhaps I have, through my own actions, made this race more about personalities than about issues. But let me be voted in or out based on who I am, not what I am, on what I believe and what I have done, rather than on what others say I believe or have done.

And don't let it be because I'm "unAmerican", whatever that might mean to you.

My wife reminded me today that I hadn't touched my computer for days, and that I had over a hundred unanswered emails. Being on the campaign trail while simultaneously dealing with the usual chaos in the Senate and spending time with my family has left me with little time for keeping up with my friends, so I apologize.

Things seem to be going relatively well in Kansas, but it's difficult to see the bigger picture. When I speak to people individually, I get a very positive result. The polls, however, don't agree with me at all. Still, I am getting to see a lot of the state, which is nice. Apparently, if anything, the electorate seem to think I should work on my farming skills. Not coming from a rural community is a bit of a setback, and I can understand why many people aren't inclined to trust a lawyer.

My greatest weapon at the moment isn't my brain, nor my public speaking skills. Predictably, it's my secret cache of baby pictures. Dylan may win this election for me through the sheer adorability.

Sadly, my campaign has lost a couple of key members. Due to recent events in Gotham, Pepper has left, and rejoined Stark Industries where I'm sure she'll do a stellar job. In addition, my press secretary CJ has departed for greener pastures. Best wishes to them both. I'm cursed, aren't I?

And, despite all of this, despite the fact that my entire body aches and I've just spent two hours in the shower, there's still over a month to go until the election.

...I think I'm going to bed.

Politics is not about winning.

I don't suppose that most nine-year-olds are particularly enamored with the democratic process. My daughter is exposed to it more than most kids, because Dad is a Senator, and she knows a lot about what I do simply from having to live with me on a daily basis. She knows I work long hours. She knows I go to work in an office that has more security than Fort Knox. She knows I do a lot of talking, and a lot of arguing.

( Read more... )

For Jeanne-Marie:
A giant sea turtle stuffie.

For Jean-Paul:
A talking 12-inch David Bowie action figure.

They come with a note written in very 9-year-old handwriting:

Happy Birthday JP and JM!!!
From Mom and Dad and BETH and Dylan

1. There are 30 questions.
2. Next to each number, write only the name of the person who fits.
3. Answer one question with one name.
4. Don't tell the questions to anyone who isn't doing the meme.
5. Want to know the questions? Then you have to agree to answer them too.

1. tm_northstar
2. bullet_jamie
3. sewing_on_ears
4. will_stiles
5. doug_ramsey
6. tm_magik
7. osborn_heir
8. fever_crusade
9. shaman_x
10. john_movinon
11. only_pepper
12. sewing_on_ears
13. slayer3063790
14. tm_aurora
15. alan_shore
16. justcameback
17. mutha_flippin
18. tm_aurora
19. siryn_song
20. mark_witha_c
21. I have no idea.
22. Me No idea to this too.
23. sewing_on_ears
24. morty_toad
25. madharleyquinn
26. sewing_on_ears
27. fever_crusade
28. mr_colbert
29. sewing_on_ears
30. Without you, my life would be much less weird.

I wasn't drinking last night. I haven't had a drink in almost eleven years.

So why does my head still hurt?

Thank you, Martha and Pepper for a wonderful evening, and to Mr. Stark and Mr. Luthor for their generous contributions.

I will be fast asleep on my couch if anyone should need me... even though my entire staff is still in Kansas, so I doubt that could possibly be the case.