[ LAVERNE COX, TRANS WOMAN, SHE/HER ] — look who it is! if you take a look at our database, you’ll find that JANUARY ST. JAMES is a FORTY-TWO year old SOCIALITE that’s been in chicago for TWENTY-TWO YEARS. according to the file, they’re a mutant on LEVEL 4 with the power of REALITY WARPING. that must be why they’re POWERFUL and ARROGANT. if you ask me, they remind me of the clack of heels on a marble floor, the last drops of blood on a white dress, and the vague fear of something behind you. they are affiliated with THE HELLFIRE CLUB.
❝ it is your folly that you would think that you are something you are not—there is no immutable truth to what you are, except that there is power in your form. you know the way that you will drain them dry and leave the husks. call upon all your skills. of poison, of fire, of magic, and make them see what it means to suffer. ❞
A SUMMARY OF EVENTS.
tw: death.
there is something magical around the st. james line—and they’ll tell you that themselves. mutants one and all, and if not mutants, prodigies, the st. jameses are a family built upon the backs of their mutant gifts, one they’re proud to give in service to the family.
uniquely gifted, as a little girl, january always knew what to do to get what she wanted. sweet-talking her aunties or strong-arming her father, there was nothing that she couldn’t get unless she set her mind to it.
during puberty, she had developed a fascination with the world around. walking through the orchards at her auntie’s garden, she had wished for something a little more delicious than apples and in an instant, her mutant powers manifested.
first, they had thought she could conjure plants, then just things, then people. january’s mind thought of more things to do, an open-ended question answered with something just as open-ended. in secret, she practices things herself, and she dabbles in her old childhood fairy-tales. the wicked witches. the evil queens. the glamour of the antagonists’ side.
she leaves for college, and a fast four years goes by, all until she meets archibald. charming, devilishly handsome, almost as ruthless as she is, she meets him during her senior year and is intrigued when he delights her with tales from the high-profile world of business. at the profession of mutantdom however, he’s intrigued.
corporate intrigues suits her well, working up the ladder. she helped her beau advance, a nudge here, a data leak there—an untimed little onset of traffic? january helps. through the rose-colored lens of love, she helps and helps and helps, burning the candle at both ends.
here, she learns that corporate intrigue not only suits her, but also the odd fairy-tales that she had known to love. an old italian family, one that her own held in regard, had need of her, and she learns to suffer no fool. no person. no disrespect.
it’s unfortunate, then, that after years of love and scheming, her lover breaks it off with her. of course things can never last, but january thought herself the princess in her own fairy-tale. it turns out that she’s the rosaline here. she lives, but at what cost.
she drinks about it, like socialites bereft of love before her. hell, she even takes a bump; it’s definitely not going to kill her.
until january sees an invite to his wedding two months later.
turns out that she isn’t a rosaline—she’s the damn executioner. she is the spurned lover. she is the scylla in the cave. she is medea with the corpse of glaucis in her arms and the head of jason dragged behind her.
an old spell in an old text for a broken heart, one that she gives the bride—she waits until she sees them in her magic mirror, and she watches the happily ever after. up until the vows, and all she can do is launch her power at her. in an instant, she bleeds internally, as if a hand clasped at her heart and crushed it. how odd.
of course she kills him after. given torment, the furies desire blood. and the bride was only part of it, anyway. he lives, of course. tormented by her thoughts, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. he lives by her hand and dies by hers. january wants what is due, and she collects soon enough.
now, with that behind her, she focuses on her enterprise. formally a socialite with too much money to spend and too little time, she builds a network of agents, of mutants and people who owe her so she is never taken advantage of again.
TLDR: socialite comes from a long line of mutants, falls in love and rigs things in favor of her lover. when he has all he wants, he dumps her and she doesn’t take it well. when she recieves an invite to their wedding, she kills the bride, then him! #girlboss move i would say! currently a broker for power and information on the down-low, as well as a high-profile socialite.
RANDOM.
flaunts her power when it’s safe or when she can get away with it; can do almost anything, but knows how to teleport, create, or transform things the best! she can also fly, but she’d rather not.
has a black cat called the duchess aveline du grandpre and yes that is her full name.
a former underboss until she transitioned legally; does odd jobs for friends in new york on the side
There are no better men than me. Arrogant, but January can hardly fault him for it. In the bowels of the city, a veritable necropolis writhes under his command; she can fend him off, but most of the world would never. There are no better men than me. And at that, January clicks her tongue and grins. “Good thing I’m no man, Quijada. And you don’t exactly create mutants, sometimes you just make dead corpses move around, but the difference is stark, I grant you.”
Her fingers crossed in a steeple, she leans forward and examines him. “You have dominance down to a T, Santiago. But I know that Starcaller would never choose to do what you do. What happens when your army of the dead isn’t up to his liking?”
“and you are better off for it, senora. but you’re wrong—i don’t just make the dead move. they’re not my puppets.” well, not literally. figuratively, that’s much more accurate. “i bring them back from their graves better than they ever could be living. i change the very fabric of their dna. i give them gifts beyond their wildest imagination—and mutation is a gift, is it not?” one worth giving, so long as it fuels the fires of his long con. they’re giving him pieces of their soul in return for the chance to join him, why not offer a little incentive?
the mention of starcaller curls his lip, just slightly. “i have no time for idealists, january. action will always speak louder than words. he can hide in his bubble for all i care.” if he didn’t like what santiago had become, he shouldn’t have sent his lackeys to see him dead! one day, he’ll die regretting that he did.
Mutation as a gift. As if January could just snap her hands and make people mutants—she probably could but that's no way to live a life, being indebted to someone because they made you who you are. She already saw that with Archie, and she wasn't too keen on being forged in his likeness, whether intentionally or not. She wants to believe Santiago, but some days he's no better than a rebel with the tongue of a snake-oil salesman.
"Don't get me wrong, Quijada, Starcaller isn't exactly on the top of my list," she says, leaning forward a little. "But he does show restraint. In an all out war? Well, I don't want to ask—but do you know how many people have combat-ready powers? Not just people who can shoot fire or fly?"
“I thought I’d be dating around, we were initially friends with benefits. I haven’t slept with anyone but him, though. Even flirting feels like I’m betraying him.” Carina doesn’t know how David has managed to win her over, but he has. Maybe it’s because he didn’t try at all. He only has to be himself and she’s happy. His brooding darkness compliments her bright light. “They’ve met. It was an accident, though. My abuelo brought her home early one afternoon, and I had no choice but to introduce them. I’m glad I did, they get along well. Charlotte is a little sassy, but she’s like that with everyone. The whole finding her feet and personality thing. She takes after us very much,” Carina laughs.
"Betraying him? Do you mean Levi? Because you’re separated, and if there’s one thing I know from my years of living is that if you’re split up, guilt is just such an unnecessary feeling.” Guilt is a feeling that she herself knows all too well, but chooses not to indulge—rage is a much better tool for anything at least. “If it feels nice and helps you move on, then who am I, or who is anyone to stop you, right?”
The mimosa, finished, magically fills up again as January puts her hands on it. “Well, that’s my niece for you—spitfire and all. I hope you don’t spoil her, dear. You’re supposed to be the stick and the rich aunt’s supposed to be the carrot; if the roles were reversed, I don’t know what I’d do!”
“ well, i do hope you conquer it sooner rather than later. god knows it could use someone with more… power. ” and it was no lie ! for all the ‘planting the roots’ lenore had done in chicago, she could easily pick up and leave ( god knows she wasn’t planning on sticking around until the Moon fell down ) – her history was full of it ! but… it needed something a little stronger, a little more trustworthy, first. “ it would be a joy to, but… only if it’s the best motor vehicle the city has to offer, and only if it’s the best escort the city has to offer. ”
January laughs at that—a mutant ruler. Well, it was on her Christmas list, that’s for sure. She could wave a hand and turn city hall into rubble, but imposing her will onto a city is hardly something she desires. Not when there are other people that she can manipulate to her own ends to deal with the bureaucracy of reigning. “Lenore. You know me—would I settle for anything less?”
A quick text on her cell and an armored, enchanted and frankly expensive SUV arrives to their location in record time. Her bags are given and the doors open into plush seats and bottled water. “Just say where to Caroline,” she waves at the driver, fixing her bags onto the trunk. “And she’ll have us there in no time.”
“there are no better men than me. that’s why i will succeed where they’ve failed.” quietly, unspoken—with or without her. she would be a powerful ally on his side, and is one of the few people among the living that he has any interest in at all. even his dealings with lenore are a matter of convenience. “as i’ve said, we’re not so different. you keep your people here safe, you give them purpose. i do the same thing, only i take it a step further—where you can only take in mutants that exist, i can create them.” and santiago does it often. any humans that die at his compound don’t remain that way long—not unless they’re to be devoured by the hungry dead. “unity and dominance. they are the only way forward.”
There are no better men than me. Arrogant, but January can hardly fault him for it. In the bowels of the city, a veritable necropolis writhes under his command; she can fend him off, but most of the world would never. There are no better men than me. And at that, January clicks her tongue and grins. “Good thing I’m no man, Quijada. And you don’t exactly create mutants, sometimes you just make dead corpses move around, but the difference is stark, I grant you.”
Her fingers crossed in a steeple, she leans forward and examines him. “You have dominance down to a T, Santiago. But I know that Starcaller would never choose to do what you do. What happens when your army of the dead isn’t up to his liking?”
“yes,” he confirms shortly, offering a nod. “everything.” anything that has lived, is living, or will live has death to face—and he is there to witness all of it. every. single. one. the human ( or near-human ) brain isn’t equipped to deal with that much information, particularly not in short succession, but instead of offering him relief, that only solidifies his torment. the song of death rings in his ears at all moments of the day, from waking to deep slumber. is it any wonder he’d tried to tear his own eyes from his skull? if only that had worked! “but it’s difficult for me to make sense of it unless i’m focusing on something specific.”
january’s condolences are accepted with another nod, but he doesn’t know how to truly take it. sympathy is nice, but it gets him nothing. “you can ask, but i’m afraid i don’t have an answer to give you. if something exists, i haven’t found it.”
“Huh. Have you just thought of looking at a rock? Focusing on one thing when you’re alone?” January isn’t the best to talk about mental powers, but she understands that focus can help. Telepathy isn’t her strong suit, or premonitions at all, but she thinks that it works the same way to his unfortunate mutation. A curse, but every curse has its use—David simply needs to figure out what it is. January walks him to the elevator where they wait, the steady clack clack clack as she waits for it ringing through a private hall.
“But you haven’t come for unwanted advice from me,” she says, patting his hand. “I believe that dinner would help, enough to get you less focused on death than usual, at least. Interesting people deserve a nice night out once in a while, wouldn’t you say?”
january certainly stands tall over most people, including him, but david is not easily intimidated. his depth of knowledge means knowing the eventual downfalls of everyone he meets—even the strongest people seem weak when it comes time to lay down their lives. while she is exempt from this judgement ( her own fate is ever-changing ) he isn’t as distracted by her… it’s everyone else that is drawing his attention. once they’re out of sight, so long as he has a sufficient distraction, it will be easier to keep himself locked into the present. into the conversation. into anything that isn’t the death of billions upon billions.
mister rojas. nobody has addressed him so formally, before. he doesn’t quite know how to react. “the mountains are as full of death as the cities,” he answers, after a moment of silence. “my vision isn’t spent only on humanity.” every living thing and its eventual demise is intertwined with his sight. the insects. the plants. the fungi. the particles that make up their reality. all of it has an end. all of those ends are something he can see. “there isn’t anywhere for me to run. i see it whether or not i make contact.” contact, vision, only brings it back into his awareness… eventually, he will see it regardless.
"So you see... the inevitable heat death of everything?” January whistles lowly, though the sound is barely heard over the low din of the patrons but it’s impressive. Death is constant and cyclical and everything, though she would be loath to say it in front of anyone; visions of immortality is something that she can afford to gain. A glamour of invincibility. The people part, but there’s still a ways to go as they gaze out onto the crowd of people, though she takes his expressions seriously. If he were to break down in the middle of the club, it would be... less than ideal. For a guest, of course.
The steady clack of her heels against the floor rings in her ears, a simple metronome to keep herself grounded. Rhythm was something she was attuned to, rhythm was something that she could get grounded on. “I have to say, if I haven’t offered my condolences yet—I do now. What makes it manageable, at least? Can I ask?”
“ oh, i’m sure you’re familiar with the classic tale of the weary traveler. and a city like this is… a change of pace. ” was chicago an ideal place to lay down her roots, per se ? not quite, but the… options were plentiful, and she had until the moon turned into meteors. “ i trust you’ve turned it into your very own regime by now ? ”
"Oh no. A duchy here and there, but no regime yet. I’m working as puppetmaster behind the throne.” She is, though it’s not too gauche to say it yet—it’s a joke. Mostly playful banter. Though mostly is a sixty-forty split right now. A girl has to have dreams, of course. “Would you like to accompany me for the afternoon? I can have my driver escort us to... well, wherever you want to go.”
“I hope the steak is to your liking. I like mine on the rarer side of medium rare; there’s sort of a satisfaction to indulging my carnivorous side.” Wiping her mouth, January smiles. “And you? Any complaints?”
“appointments are for those within the constraints of time.” of mortality, to be exact. the living can wait. they always wait. that’s about all they’re good for! only the dead are truly enlightened to the reality of the world around them, for better or for worse. “but no, january. i don’t want to be remembered as a mutant warlord, or as a nuisance. i want unity. is that not your own goal? the unity of our kind is the strongest weapon we have.” it does pain him to throw his lot in with the living, but mutation is the reason santiago is conscious at all. this gift has only given him the perspective not to waste it. “together, we would be stronger.”
“Unity.” A simple word, but something that she won’t deny tastes good on the tongue; unity can be put on a slogan for easy access, it’s an ideal, it’s a motto. But unity is just not something that she wants. Subversion, perhaps. But she won’t say it—it’d give Santiago the satisfaction. “Of course we could, but better men than you have tried. Selling people on a dream doesn’t work, unless you have the actionable goals to show for it.”
Sitting up, January looks at Santiago, frankly. “What have you done for mutantkind, Mr. Quijada? Dreams of unity aside.”
“Isn’t this a surprise? What’s someone like you doing here, Miss Delacroix?” Beneath her shades is a sly recognition—of long dead stories that her grandmother used to tell her as a little girl. The moon and of women and of the dead crawling out of the swamp. A defunct Misty Moore. “A long trek from the bayou.”
“you’re right. i don’t pout—i insist.” upon him being here, despite his lack of invitation. despite his lack of being welcomed. despite her disdain for their separate organizations. “but to answer your question, miss jones… everyone wants to be remembered. the difference is that only i truly will be. the living have their memories on timers. the dead are limitless that way.” to call it a religion is as much an insult as him parading past her security—not-quite-underhanded disrespect. “perhaps i should change my phrasing. it’s not your memory that i want. it’s your time. our causes aren’t as different as you might believe.”
"Everyone wants something,” she says, a wan smile on her lips. That was her, the mover and shaker, January St. James. She brushes the slip of the tongue of his under the rug, just because she knows that killing him isn’t exactly permanent, nor is it smart. Santiago is still powerful, and she doesn’t want her office trashed at all. “But I usually make appointments,” she says, waving to a seat in front of her. “But do enlighten me! You want to be remembered as... a man who brings a horde of dead to the White House? A priest? I’d like to at least know what I’m being sold.”
it had been a long time since someone had asked whether he minded something that wasn’t the result of something related to his day work. do you mind telling me if so and so is still alive? would you mind telling me how so and so dies? it’s an occasional question from the timid sort, which while polite does nothing to relieve him of the burden of his task. they’re much less likely, in general, to take any of the warnings he gives about what information he has—about life in and of itself. they want answers, not advice. but didn’t that go for everyone? nobody wants to hear an inconvenient truth.
nodding, david takes her hand. “that should help me clear my head.” if it’s only one person’s circumstances that he has to deal with head on… that makes it a little easier. having them stand in front of them has always made it worse, their fates beamed into his mind as if by the hand of a vengeful god. but david knows that there are no gods—no true immortality exists. all who have a claim to it will end when all other things do. he’s certain of that fact. “i don’t mind at all.”
She gestures over to the patriots of the club and telepathically calls for a waiter to fix the table; to seat another baron of something or corporate whoever that might have called for the delights of the night’s pleasures. Standing tall over most people, most men, she’s learned to use her height to her advantage. The easy posture that she gives off, a pageant walk, is all but a facade, all to disorient anyone lesser than her. David, she assumes, is not. Or at least, January thinks he can hold his own.
“Mister Rojas,” she starts, a leisurely pace through the people in the Hellfire Club. She might be abiding by the laws of hospitality, but she does love to watch a man squirm. “Not to be uncouth, but I do imagine that public spaces are inconvenient to a point.” Eyes forward, shoulders back. The crowd parts like the seas to Moses, and if she were being blasphemous—she was better than him, really. “So why not run off into the mountains? Or God forbid, to Kappa?”
Carina feels fear settling in the pit of her stomach when she she hears January’s question. Is this some kind of trap? Did Charlotte blab to Levi, and now he’s getting his sister to do his dirty work? Will this be something he tries to use against her in court, if she tells the truth? “I… I’ve more than thought about it,” she says, preferring to be honest over January getting the truth out of her another way, should she wish to. “I’m sort of seeing someone. We haven’t labelled what we are, but I’m happy. His name is David, and I’m hoping that I’ll eventually be calling him my boyfriend.”
"That’s wonderful! Well, for you anyway.” She laughs, taking a sip of her own mimosa. Levi is going to be devastated, but it’s no skin off her back at all; her baby brother can deal with the fallout and she can be there on the back end to pick him up off his ass. Or not. Who knows, maybe the therapy works after all. “Are you dating around? Price comparing, window shopping, or is this an ‘eggs in one basket’ situation? Did you introduce my niece yet or is that just... a nice surprise when you get to it?”
“they’re not dead,” he promises, casually. “i have more respect for you than that.” not enough to take a hint and heed the fact that he’s been avoided whenever recruitment ( or business opportunities ) opens up again. he likes power. she is powerful. “but after all these years… i’ve started to feel forgotten.”
Steepling her fingers, she rests her chin on them as she raises her eyebrow. “Don’t pout, it’s beneath you.” January lets him in, just a little—to see if the snake bares its fangs before she crushes it under her heel and it scurries back into its burrow. “And why would you need to be remembered, Tiago? Aren’t you busy with your—what is it now? Religion?”
knowing. oh, what david would give simply to abandon knowledge altogether! he’s never appreciated bearing witness to the universe in the way he has… even as useful as it can be to others. it’s never useful in the way he thinks it should be. never encourages them to see life as the sick joke that he does. never encourages them to give up and accept a doomed reality. nonetheless, he persists. maybe that’s part of the problem. “i’m always uncomfortable,” he admits, after a moment of pause. upon turning his head back to glance her way, he’s bombarded with another array of unpleasant imagery. the circumstances of her death change as quickly as she can warp it, her and death locked into an endless game of cat and mouse. which is predator and which is prey is equally as variable.
“it comes with the territory,” he continues, waving off any concern ( real or imagined ) she might show. “i’ve been in worse places.” as far as settings go, it’s even nice. not his scene, by any scope of the imagination, but… very little is. the alleyway he scratches his prophecies into is about the only home he has left. the only one he’ll let himself have, that is. “but if you were hoping to talk…” he trails off, uncertain of what kind of demands he’s at liberty to make, “maybe somewhere… quieter would be best.”
The absolute discomfort—well, she did give it a shot. Perhaps she could get him to train it, instead of cowering in the shadows like a vampire living in the sunlight, but January was no teacher and she certainly was no nursemaid. She, however, was a hostess. And while it was extremely Greek of her to do so, she still did abide by the laws of hospitality. He was a guest, and while an odd one, one to be accommodated as much as she could allow.
Rising from the seat, she lets herself extend as if a quickly growing tree and signal to an attendant to clean the table. Holding her hand out, she waits for David to take it, so they can at least move towards some place better than the lower floors of the club. “Less noise, less people. A little classier. Do you mind walking with me today, mister Rojas?”
david glances around the exclusive club half in horror ( unavoidable! ) and half in awe. why he’s been given a personal invite is beyond his comprehension—january doesn’t seem the type to need information on her own death, not when she can alter it just as easily—but he’s accepted it with only moderate hesitation. the lowest level he’s had in a long, long time. “forward is about the only way people reach me,” he admits, lip twitching with the hint of a wry smile. it’s true. he doesn’t do hints well. “i’m interested,” he continues, managing to meet her gaze without heeding the urge to close his eyes; “but i’m curious, too. why me?”
“I like knowing people—people like us, and then just seeing if they’re... well, I just like knowing.” He intrigues her and she wants the power on her roster. If she can die, well, January’s going to simply find a couple of loopholes to circumvent it. It’s not the first time she’s faced odds this bad, but it’ll be one where she has to finally work for something, after the amount of times she’s just simply splattered a problem against a wall. Blood comes easily, but her own is precious.
“And I know that this setting is less than ideal, but it’s good to come from a place of strength,” January muses, eyes forcefully trained on David’s. “Are you uncomfortable, mister Rojas?”
