Logs:Formal Proof

Formal Proof
Dramatis Personae Charles, Horus, Quentin
In Absentia Jax, Halim	Halloween "Whatever."
Location <XAV> Forest Clearing - XS Grounds
Like many such semi-secluded spots on the grounds, it's hard to tell at first glance how much work the groundskeeper has put into its upkeep. Certainly the wide, flat path looks deliberate, even with a thick blanket of fallen leaves to further obscure the sturdy wooden beams that pave the way. A great oak that had been struck down in a storm years ago was expertly converted into log benches, the remaining stump carefully leveled to serve for a low table. In most other respects it looks just like a natural clearing in the forest, and it's easy to overlook just how even the ground is, and how little poison ivy grows around it. Some teachers do bring classes here from time to time, but who knew Sherlock Holmes would hold a consultation out in the woods? Charles's tweed Inverness cape matches his distinctive deerstalker cap, and his commitment to the costume extends to a mahogany wheelchair which, given that it is motorized, probably isn't actually a Victorian antique. Probably. "There isn't any particular need for us to be out here," he's telling his single student conversationally, as he parks his chair, "but the weather is pleasant and I feel preposterous sitting in my office in this getout." There is a wordless and entirely unserious lament beneath this that his costume is all but unrecognizable sans outerwear, unless he were to go about with calabash pipe in one hand and magnifying glass in the other all day long. "Before we dive into the lesson proper, I would like to talk a bit about Monday." Quentin isn't dressed up at all, looking almost like he always does. Jeans, mismatched black and pink Chucks, a tee that says 'open-source insurgency'. His hair has apparently changed, some time in the last couple days, left in a mid-length mohawk fringe on the top and burst fade on the sides, the long hawk dyed a bold pink. He is restless, pacing the clearing -- out here away from the bustle of the mansion the oddly mirrorlike opacity of his mind is starker, eerier -- in a crowd overlookable, invisible, but out here alone quite notably reflecting Charles's own wordless lament back to him like mocking echo. Aloud, Quentin snorts. He's a ways across the clearing, crouching leaning down to lightly pull a leaf up from the base of a tree; with his back turned, body in the way, quite what he's peering at among the tree roots can't be seen. "Sure. What's there to talk about. Mr. Jax is still in a hole somewhere and the pigs still wallowed through here like this was their sty. Big bad superheroes 0, feds -- " He looks over his shoulder. "I dunno, Professor, you've been around forever, what's the count?" "You are too clever to believe our history -- anyone's history -- can be reduced to a scoreboard." Charles tips his head to feel the leaf-filtered sunlight on his face. << But I have, indeed, been around forever, and if you are genuinely interested I should be glad to discuss this on our own time. >> Twined in and through and around the verbal thoughts are an acknowledgement that few students are keen to spend their free time on such things, an idle speculative consideration that Quentin might be such a student, and an offer of very excellent tea if Quentin should ever take him up on it. "But what is relevant here is your performance in Mr. Tawadros's class on Monday." << Sorry, whose time is this? >> Underlying this is an odd clashing echo, (free time) and (such a student) and (excellent tea), snippets of Charles's thoughts like a funhouse mirror around Quentin's words. Quentin is turning, sitting back on one heel and stretching his other leg out in front of him as he looks around at the otherwise empty clearing. "I'm acing his class." He doesn't point out that he's acing all his classes, but it's there, in his small lift of brows, small huff. << Yours. >> There's an uncharacteristic lack of subtext here, but Charles is smiling, faintly. "I am sure that you are, and if you weren't that would be a matter to discuss with Mr. Tawadros." His psionic presence blooms warmer, infinitesimally. "I am more interested in how you applied my lessons. I regret that my attention was otherwise occupied, and I only caught the end of that encounter. Would you be so kind as to show me your work?" "If it was mine, we could talk about it now." Quentin's fingers are digging into the earth beside him. His eyes are slightly narrowed, his voice just slightly more peevish. Where that sunwarm bloom has echoed off Quentin's mind it is now shot through with a jagged dark trail of skywriting: '2 + 2 = 4'. Quentin leans back against the tree. "What. Do you want a whole formal proof to explain why I think cops shouldn't shoot my classmates?" Charles raises a single eyebrow. << Yours, telepathically. >> There's a riffle of distant amusement here. "I did not question your motivations and I do not know enough of your execution to comment on its tactical soundness. I do believe you did what you must to protect your classmates, at not inconsiderable risk to yourself, and find that admirable if worrisome." He braces his elbows on the armrests and steeples his fingers. "I want you to show me what you did --" << (show me) >> echoes with the brief memory of a different group of cops under Charles's somewhat subtler influence. "-- because I've had little opportunity to see your compulsion at work outside of these sessions. I may be able to offer feedback, or adjust future lessons to better suit your power." He splays his hands in a mildly resigned gesture. "I'm sure I can find something to lecture you sternly about, too." << So yours, then, >> bounces back, bland now and echoed (echoed) (echoed) with Charles's increasingly less distant amusement: << Yours, telepathically. >> << Yours, telepathically >> << Yours, telepathically. >> "Whatever." Quentin's eyes have closed, head tipped back against the trunk. He's pinching at the grass beside him, ripping small pieces off the end of the blades. Beside him, several rocks are floating up from within the ground, clack-clack-clacking against each each other and shedding small showers of dirt with each hit. He's not ignoring Charles; there's a replay of the moment -- telekinetically removing the psi helmet, compelling the guards to leave Bryce (and all of them) alone -- that is dumping itself silent and instant into the older telepath's mind. Charles laces his fingers back together again. His eyes track not the floating rocks but the boy's restless hands. His expression doesn't change, but his steady comforting warmth shifts and expands -- well past the clearing, only incidentally encompassing Quentin on his way to check on the rest of his school. << (thank you) >> He examines the transmitted memory in minute detail where Quentin can see it, if he chooses, adding his own annotations. "That is handy, with the helmet," he says abstractedly. "I had to get an assist from the photography teacher." At the very edge of what Quentin can see, he is methodically connecting that moment to a wider web of information about the telepathic contractor who had accompanied the feds. "Your technique has advanced farther than I had given you credit." There's just a hint of reluctance in this admission, but he doesn't seem displeased about it, exactly. "In fact, I think at least half of today's lesson as planned is redundant, and we do have some time for history, after all. If you don't have any questions about my notes." He returns an analyzed and annotated version of Quentin's memory. There's been a lot of rustling. The wind in the leaves. Birds flitting by. Squirrels scurrying along on their fall gathering. Here and there something bigger -- a deer spooking in the distance, a hawk diving with a screech and a shriek for a lucky/unlucky kill. There's another swoosh now, a tight rush of air and a FWOOM of displaced leaves and branches rippling in the wake of a large bird diving very-very fast and very-very precise into the clearing. The triumphant screech only comes seconds after the kill -- okay, not a kill. Charles's hat is gone, veering off behind the chair and over the canopy and out of sight, carried off in the talons of -- is that bird wearing a helmet? Almost certainly, yes. The rocks clack together a little faster. Quentin flicks tiny shreds of grass from his fingertips with hard, staccato tics. That comforting warmth reflects back to Charles. Steadily. Quentin's eye twitches, and it's the contractor he's attending more closely to, his brief inquisitive << (who the fuck was that asshole) >> << he knew Mr. Tawadros) >> / brief impressed << (he was scared of Mr. Tawadros) >> intersecting with Charles' awareness for an infinitesimal flash only where he does reach, only because he does reach, curiously focused harder and straining on what periphery of information he can catch in the elder telepath's complicated matrix. He's not exactly asking further -- maybe he would have, there are a million questions buried just behind his attentiveness, but then -- FWOOM. The rocks freeze in midair, and then twirl, an ornate spinning dance orbiting each other intricately now as Quentin barks a laugh. His tee shirt is changing, the text now reading 'Information wants to be free' above a silhouette image of a bird of prey grabbing a helmet off a pig. Quentin's mind is opaque once more, just a (so very pleasant. So very comforting) secondhand warmth. He's hopping to his feet, the rocks all dropping with a thump thump thump to the dirt. "Thanks, Professor, but if you're done for today, I think I've got other things to do with my time." Charles may or may not have intended to let Quentin to see the information he's collating, but he is annotating it with more context than he probably needs for his own mental organization. Maybe he would have answered some number of questions if asked, but at the abrupt and uncharacteristically stealthy attack, his mind practically vanishes from telepathic perception. There's only an impression of icy chill where his fear would have been if he hadn't reflexively slammed down layers of psionic shields around himself and his student. It's an older kind of shielding, hard and crystalline, quick to form and quicker to dissolve. The chill, too, bleeds away, though the old man's face is slow to regain its color, his hands clasped together tighter than altogether necessary. "It is in the spirit, but this is rather the sort of thing I'd expect from a student." There's a fussy indignity in this, whether for the fright he just received and the crippling blow dealt to his costume. "Young man, I did say half the lesson, did I not?" His eyes cut back to Quentin, lingering briefly on the shirt, his expression inscrutable. "Now, if you will kindly return your attention to your spontaneous in-class exercise on Monday, let us talk about intercepting telepathic compulsions..."