View source for Logs:Unfaithful creatures! Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God.

{{ Logs
| cast = [[Ion]], [[Isra]], [[Leo]]
| summary = "Well. You ain't all they said about you, either, plague rat."
| gamedate = 2020-04-22
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = 
| location = <BOM> [[Front Porch]] - Main Lodge - [[Ascension Island]]
| categories = Brotherhood of Mutants, Mutants, BOM Front Porch, Ascension Island, Ion, Isra, Leo
| log = 
The front porch of the lodge unfurls its way across the entire front length of the building. Stained in a dark reddish finish, it seems to have been refurbished somewhat recently, the sturdy wood rather less weather-beaten than many of the buildings on the island. A half-height railing edges most of the porch, with a wide gated staircase centrally leading to the heavy front door, and ungated ramps at either side end. Protected from all but the most driving of rains by a sloped roof, the porch has been furnished with an assortment of furniture. Wicker rocking chairs, a pair of small square aluminum tables, a hammock at the far right end, a bench swing at the left. Despite the solid locks on the doors and windows, the front door holds a cheerfully flower-edged mat reading WELCOME.

It's a mild spring day, and though the breeze off of the water still carries a chill it does not pack much bite, and the warmth of the sunshine is just enough to offset to suit most people's comfort. A shadow passes over the lawn in front of the main lodge, too fast to be a cloud. It returns a moment later, then yet again as it descends in a graceful spiral. Isra mantles her wings and finally deigns to flap them once, twice, breaking her momentum as she drops the last few feet to land softly in the grass.

Though she's wearing an exceptionally simple white linen wrap dress, Isra is nevertheless resplendent in spring colors, much of her skin the light, young green of leaf buds not yet unfurled, with subtle variations in shade and drifts of fine golden spots that highlight rather than diminish the inhuman angles of her face and body. The horns that spiral back from her temples and the heavy talons that tip all thirty of her digits are bright, luxuriant gold, and the vast leathery membranes of her wings are the rich, velvety purple of irises in full bloom, complete with veining and variegation that evoke the real flowers, right down to flashes of startling yellow near the joints of her phalanges. She stretches her wings out to their shockingly wide full span once, then gathers them loosely inward as she surveys the grounds.

Ion can rarely be said to be *resplendent* and today is no exception. His white tee has grease stains on it, his jeans, leather jacket, and boots, though sturdy, are all old and very beaten up. He's sprawled in the porch swing, leaned way back, one foot propped on the rail and a dark unlabeled bottle of some sort of booze in his hand. The plate on his lap is still steaming -- some sort of mess of stew, heavy on beef and root vegetables, that certainly lacks for presentation but is making up for it in the rich-spiced fragrance it gives off. "Shiiiit," he calls out as Isra lands, "but you look a fucking *wonder*. Like damn I come out here, enjoy the springtime and you just *showing* up nature today."

"I shall pass your compliments to Tag," Isra replies evenly, though the tilt of her head and the carriage of her tail bespeak her own pleasure clearly enough. She does not bother with the stairs, but with a single stroke her her wings hops up to sit sidewise on the railing near Ion, one wing casually hooked around one of the pillars to keep herself balanced. "You are, I hope, managing regular rest, now?" She looks Ion over speculatively, sniffling at the food.

"Tag's a fucking boss but even he only do so much with a shitty-ass canvas, huh?" Ion passes the plate up, brows hiking. "You hungry? I cook. More on the stove. Lot more. Sometimes, I think, maybe I learn how to cook for less than a army but --" He waves his spoon vaguely around the grounds. "Not like my life ever *short* on nobody to eat." His leg pushes slow and lazy at the railing, setting the swing to a casual sort of rocking. "The fuck is a *rest*. Gonna be a long-ass while till we short on patients, vaccine or no. You know the feds they just been straight-up stealing hospital equipment? I'm steal it right the fuck back, that shit it don't belong in a warehouse. Not *now*, Christ."

Leo's entrance is far less eye-catching than Isra's, making his way quietly out from the woods to the side of the lodge. He's dressed springlike enough, in colour at least -- a plaid button-down in a handful of cheerful pastels worn open over an incredibly soft purple v-neck, crisp, fitted blue jeans, and camel suede loafers. He's still markedly underweight, though there's more warmth in his brown skin than there had been in weeks past. He stops shy of ramp near Ion's side of the porch, biting down at his lip as his fingers fidget with the button of his opposing sleeve. His eyes lock on Isra, wide, then pull away. Skip to Ion, drop to the ground, eventually settle somewhat uncertainly somewhere around one of Ion's boots, watching its slight motion as he rocks. "Sorry, I -- thought I should --" he starts, but then trails off. "Am I interrupting?"

Isra accepts the plate from Ion with an incline of her head and samples it. The tip of her tail swings loosely, rippling the hem of her dress. "Quite excellent, as always, and I don't see any particular cause for you to cook for less. I shall fetch some for myself shortly." Though she still takes another bite before handing it back. "I know you've a lot to do, but only hoped you might find some reprieve now that new cases are in freefall." She tilts her head. "I have read as much. I do not think the administration is particularly clear on what a federal stockpile is meant for, if not this." Her ears flick in the direction of Leo's footfalls well before the young man comes into view, but she does not otherwise move significantly in response until he speaks. "You are not. Ion has made a scrumptious stew, if you are hungry."

"Round New York they are. *We* immune, just means there a whole fucking world out there could use some help now. -- Ohshit!" Ion doesn't take the plate. His eyes have lit, his smile bright as he bounds up out of the chair and over the railing (ramp? what ramp?) to clap Leo on the shoulder. "You see this? Motherfucker up and *at* em. I thought you was gonna sleep a *month* boy and hell if you not earned it. Isra-Isra-Isra you meet our latest of Brother?" He's pressing his bottle into Leo's hand, jostling the taller man's shoulder. "You like mead? Brewed up right here, this shit. Good n strong."

Leo's eyes are wiiiiide-wide when his head lifts again. "I'm -- I'm not really sure I count as a..." He doesn't shy away from the jostling -- nor lean into it, just kind of *submitting* to his companionable shaking with an uncertain? blink? that gets no less uncertain when he finds himself with a bottle of mead in hand. His very tentative sip suggests *he* isn't particularly sure if he likes mead, though his *second* one is a little more confident. "Ah --" His dark eyes flutter back up to Isra, slowly. "We -- we met? Briefly, after -- after I --" Very slowly, his brows are pinching together. "Um, is -- is *everyone* that I've met a --" He swallows this question, swallows another mouthful of mead. "Did you brew this?"

Isra's ears twitch forward slightly when Ion bounces on Leo, but she shows no other sign of acknowledging the outburst. "You count," she replies equably, "at least, as much as you'd like to be counted." To Ion, she finishes Leo's halting explanation, "I gave him shelter briefly after Flicker and Polaris broke him out." Her tail sways, quick and loose. "Given who broke you out of Prometheus, you have likely met more than the average share of mutant terrorists, but I doubt very much if it includes everyone." She tilts her head, studies Leo with unblinking green eyes. "Allow us to welcome you, to the island and to our family. And to thank you."

"You here, aren't you? Why you wouldn't count?" Ion leaves his mead with Leo and hops back up onto the rail, leaning up against Isra's wing where it's hooked around the pillar. "Everyone a what?" Now he does take his food back, scooping up a mouthful hungrily. His grin when Isra fills in the missing end of Leo's thought is broad. "*Hell* yeah. You a terrorist for saving the fucking world! Boy, what freak ain't a terrorist these days huh? They gone and make it illegal for us to fucking live, of *course* we are. Every last one of us. Round here we just keep it a little more honest."

"I don't know how much thanks I should -- I mean, a lot of people would have done the same if they *could*. I'm just grateful. I had -- a lot of help." Leo's eyes skip between the others, a small wrinkle in his brows. "I'm not --" His teeth click on the lip of the bottle as he sips at the mead, his weight shifting back onto a heel. "Mmnh." There's a very small twitch that tightens his cheek. "It does seem to be a -- kind of. Loose. Definition." His shoulders sag, breath pushed out slowly. "I know this probably sounds naive, but this place is -- not what I expected. You -- you hear about it, you know. On the news. I never thought --" His wrist rolls, encompassing the wooded grounds with a pointed sweep of his bottle-neck. "Your clinic and -- home-brewed mead."

The last phalanx of Isra's wing unfurls to drape neatly around Ion even as she relinquishes the stew. "I think I know a certain schoolmaster who might take exception to that assessment, though in fairness he would not count himself nor his scions among us 'freaks'." Her expression remains placid, though her ears press back against her skull and her tail whips faster. "Perhaps so, but I suspect few would have risked their lives or freedom to do what you did, even if they did not have prior experiences that make them wary of defying the state." Then she actually smiles at Leo, the expression mild but surprising on her, the tips of unusually sharp canines just barely visible. "I feel like most terrorism--here or elsewhere--looks unimpressive at the moment beside you saving the whole world. Any one of us should be proud to call you 'brother'."

"{Shit, brother, you *looked* at the news lately? Please. Half these motherfuckers are downright *gleeful* about letting people die for their convenience, you think they'd have risked a *single* hair on their heads to save anybody? Save people who want them fucking *dead*? Hell no, they aren't even risking one goddamn penny.}" Ion's eyes have narrowed, his head turning as he spits sharp into the grass. He leans back into Isra's wing, taking another bite of the stew. The smile that splits his face after softens the anger that had been sparking there. "Well. You ain't all they said about you, either, plague rat."

Leo's mouth opens -- just slightly. His eyes widening -- just slightly. He tips his head down, takes a longer sip of the mead as he settles his weight back forward, his posture straightening a touch. The smile he offers Isra in return is a small slip of a thing, as he takes an uncertain step up onto the porch ramp. Trails his fingers lightly along the railing as he walks up, settling himself carefully on one side of the bench swing. One of his arms hooks around the chain, softening the rattle of its links as he starts it to a slow rock. "I mean, yeah." There's a wry amusement tugging at his lips. "For one thing, I'm Filipino."
}}