Logs:Make Them Care

Make Them Care
Dramatis Personae Quentin, Scott, Sriyani, Roscoe, Kelawini, Ford, Dallen, Nessie, Bryce, Spencer
In Absentia	2024-04-23 "You have my sword!"
Location Making Some Noise
<XAV> Scott's Office - Xs First Floor There are relatively few personal effects in the Residential Dean's (actual) office, save for a few framed photos and a diecast model of a sleek black muscle car in the hutch of Scott's L-shaped computer desk. The rest of his space has been devoted to printouts and papers -- stacked in manila folders in plastic trays, leafed into neatly labeled three-ring binders on his shelves, and probably filling up the wall of sleek black filing cabinets that extends from behind him out to the opposite corner. There is room for four comfortable-ish chairs opposite the desk for guests, but three of those chairs have been lined up by the wall next to the door to create more maneuverable floor space. Quentin had been sitting, at some point, in the chair opposite the desk. The longer he's been speaking the more intense his energy has gotten, though, and at this point he's only nominally in the chair -- half standing, one knee resting on the seat and his words punctuated with emphatic open hand gestures. "-- can feel it in the air if you go down there, I think some of those people could be in real danger, those cops are waiting to start a fight. But you guys could keep people safe -- and again that's just until the Professor could help find them places to go." On the other side of the desk, Mr. Summers is still seated, has been listening patiently and quietly, rotating his chair very slightly from left to right but otherwise hardly moving at all -- his elbows on the armrests, his hands clasped in front of him, his face blank. He is not slouched against the back of his chair, but it's a little unusual that he's using it for support at all, sitting back in the seat. He hesitates at the conclusion of Quentin's -- request? plea? presentation? -- like he isn't totally sure it's his turn to talk yet, then presses his lips together. It's another couple of moments before he says evenly, a little tightly, "I understand how you must feel, Quentin, I know it's difficult to see our people in danger. But as much as I wish that no mutants had to live in fear, it's not our place to get involved in this. This school has very much to lose, and very little to gain, from drawing the attention of the police, much less the government. We aren't equipped to help every squatter in Riverdale, even those that would accept our help." "Aren't equipped?" Now Quentin is drawing himself up, planting both feet on the ground. "Do you have any idea how much a billion is? How much billions is, plural? The Professor could buy Freaktown and put it in permanent trust. The Professor could buy an entire island and have a real liberated Freaktown there. We're going to keep living in fear as long as we aren't looking out for each other." He pushes back from the desk, hand raking through his hair. "Maybe you don't think it's much to gain but I think making sure a whole lot of mutants aren't out on the street or -- or worse gunned down by the cops is worth something." Scott does not move, is not moved. "I am not the Professor," he says -- he's speaking a little more slowly, choosing his words deliberately. "What you are asking me for -- to risk the team, the school, in defense of an illegal occupation -- is a different question entirely from what can be done for homeless mutants." His fingertips drum, just once, at his armrests, before he adds, with the faintest trace of apology in his suddenly severe tone, "My priority is always here, with the school. We cannot paint a target on our back now, with the entire world watching Riverdale, and still expect to keep you kids safe. You may think that's not fair." Was there a 'but' in here? Scott doesn't vocalize one -- he just shakes his head and finishes, "That's my final word on this, Quentin." "Illegal occupation. Right. La majestueuse égalité des lois, qui interdit au riche comme au pauvre de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues et de voler du pain." Quentin is shaking his head in exasperation. "If Mr. Jackson weren't an X-Man I bet you'd have let my classmates die like labrats in cage." He's storming out, and though he doesn't touch the door, it whumps heavily shut behind him. --- <XAV> Rec Room - Xs Second Floor School this may be, but life for Xavier's students certainly isn't all studying. Outside classes, this is a popular spot to find students in their downtime. An enormous tribute to slacking off, this room is a wealth of fun and relaxation. Comfortable armchairs, couches, and beanbags offer plentiful seating scattered throughout the room, and the cushioned windowseats by the high windows offer a cozy nook to curl up and look out on the grounds. The room is often filled with the noises of gaming -- whether it comes from the big-screen television (tall racks of DVDs beside it, if nothing can be found on the multitude of cable channels), tricked out with consoles from retro to the latest releases, or the less electronic clatter and thump of the pool table, air hockey, or foosball. For those a little more subdued in their gaming, the cabinets hold stacks and stacks of board and card games, ranging as classic as chess and go to as esoteric as Dixit, Catan, and Gloom. More days than not, there's some variety of snacks to be found on a table beside the gaming cabinet -- quite often in the form of fresh-baked desserts. "-- talking about how we have little to gain like the only reason we should be helping people off the streets is because it's, I don't know, good publicity." There's a clear fury in the staccato clip of Quentin's words but he isn't raising his voice. He's perched on the back of the sofa, fingers laced tight together and his shoulders hunched. In the air in front of him a small set of little pentagonal disks, magnetic on each side, is forming and re-forming itself restlessly into a succession of structures. "If they don't care maybe we can make them care." "You don't mean like mind controlling them, do you?" says Sriyani, who is a little bit hoping that Quentin does mean mind controlling them and envisioning a comic-book-stylized kind of battle with glowing pulses of energy shooting forth from both Quentin and the Professor's heads. They are forced to immediately concede: "Because I think Professor Xavier would win that one. Could we do something for Freaktown directly?" Only now it's a deafening gunshot ringing in their mental ears and Brendan's blood splattering back over them and they are hastily tacking on: "I don't mean like fight the cops I mean like, collect a list of mutant housing resources or -- or something. I don't want to just sit here." Roscoe is crunched small in the sofa, his feet pulled up underneath himself and one cheek pressed up against his knee, frowning down at his phone in one hand. He's not scrolling, but his ex-labrat Discord server is bumping right now, so the screen is in a constant downward scroll anyway. "I can ask around, get some links together," he says -- he doesn't specify this at all, but after a moment he moves to another, slower-moving channel. "I'unno if it'll be enough, do you think most of these things'll be flooded in a few days? There's thousands of people, not all of them can even --" he gnaws on his lower lip, tapping his thumb against the side of his phone, his eyebrows pinching even lower. "Shelters just don't work for some people," he says. Kelawini only wandered in half-way through this strategy session for a cookie, but whatever context she's missing doesn't deter her from butting in. "Chee, mind control?" Her tone is dismissive rather than scandalized, and when she drifts over with her snack there's an excited conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. "Once we wen bus up dat old bolo--baldy real good. Didn't need no mind control." The recollection of the event in her mind is admittedly a bit hazy, a lot complicated, and involved a rather large number of people. But she's sure this would be much easier. They won't even need to break back into the school this time! "Just gotta come at 'im fast kine, yah." Ford has been sitting, relaxed while he listens, his phone in his hand with the screen on, though he is not currently looking at it. He is instead watching Quentin, subtly making his roommate's words feel more weighty than they might otherwise have been. << Nothing wrong with good publicity, >> he thinks, << Publicity is powerful. >> He raises his eyebrow at this notion that shelters don't work for some people, though it's Kelawini who prompts him to speak. "I don't think we need to 'bust up that old baldy', really." He frowns and looks to Quentin for confirmation. Some of the tension in Quentin's posture eases -- a little bit as the others speak and then moreso with Ford's silent assistance. "Be a whole lot of people," he's agreeing, a small frown pulling low at his brows. "Okay so we can make our own resources to add to it. We --" He's a little derailed by Kelawini's interjection. It pulls his eyes wider in a quick amusement, clearly kiiind of tickled by this Punch Xavier suggestion. He schools his expression back more Serious, though. "He probably won't give our cause money if we punch him." There's a regret here. Mild. "But we can keep that in a back pocket." And he's snapping, pointing at Sriyani like they've hit on something brilliant. "We can just sit here. Like -- have a strike. Make them pay attention, at least, but we don't have to wait for them to care. If we start our own campaign while we're Just Sitting Around at least we might actually do some good for people coming out of there." "Oh-h-h, like an actual sit in?" Sriyani is immediately eager about this idea; it comes with flickers of Protests Past, their mom locked with several companions to the doors of an ICE detention center, crowds of climate protesters blocking an intersection in DC, Palestine-flag draped tents popped up Right Now on the grounds of Columbia University. "We could have our own encampment on the grounds. Run our own protest school. Help teach people about direct action and -- and --" Their face is scrunching up thoughtfully. "I bet between us all we know some folks who could really get traction on fundraising." They are sort of glancing towards Ford, evaluating uncertainly << isn't his dad like a Senator? >> << but like, from Montana or wherever, he's probably a shitbag. >> before suggesting, tentative, "-- Spence could probably ask Ryan Black." Roscoe was texting and only half-listening, up until everyone started discussing punching the professor; he doesn't put his phone away, but he looks up now, face still scrunched in a frown, and tucks his chin over his knee, eyes cutting sideways at Quentin and then at Sriyani as he weighs this new proposal, which -- for lack of protests past to contextualize it -- he is holding up to a very high standard set by Occupy Lassiter, which even months later is remembered so-bright and so-big and so-loud. He releases his lower lip for long enough to say, "I mean, I can talk to Spence. I dunno how to do -- any that other stuff." Then he is chewing on it again, with muddled concern that, << who's gonna listen to a bunch of prep school protesters? >> Kelawini gives a "suit yourself" kind of shrug, though she seriously doubts punching the headmaster will make any him less likely to consider their grievances. She'd only had a general sort of awareness of the situation in Freaktown, but she has catching up on it rapidly through the link between her mind and the phone in her pocket. By the time she finishes her cookie, she's assembled a news feed of live updates from the protests across several platforms and is skimming the Wikipedia page for "sit-in". "Huh. Well, I get one roommate she real good for spread the word. Some her guys stay over in Freaktown, she'll want in. Yah." She's also thinking about her sister's related but separate set of getting-the-word-out skills, but less certain she can get Nanami onboard and definitely not about to deal with that boatload of emotions right about now. She claps her hands together as she straightens to her full height. "Auright, what we wait for? Geev'um!" Ford's eyes drift again to the screen of his phone (which currently has some live baseball scores updating on it). "Maybe I could get a hold of someone..." he says vaguely, a bit skeptical, his mind shuffling through some media personalities that he might be able to connect with through his family connections. Personalities who might be able to whip up controversy prominent among these. "Though probably Ryan Black would be a good choice to look at for support. He's very influential." "We probably should work out a few logistics like. What we're even asking for or when we're going to start before we start recruiting people," Quentin says, even though he looks about ready to hop up from the couch Right Now. "But once we have some of the details ironed out, yeah. We'll give 'em hell." --- "-- and maybe the admin will actually pay attention," Quentin is explaining earnestly, "and maybe they won't but we'll have done something concrete for people either way, you know? There's going to be a lot of people there who need it." With this much said, he's adding, kind of casual at the end: "Plus, aren't you like a serious Boy Scout? I feel like we're going to need a couple more people with your skills." It seems inadequate to say that Dallen is hanging on Quentin's every word, when he's more properly spinning Quentin's every word into music. It's a nimble and heroic melody that threads his tangled misgivings about defying authority to find harmony in his deeply rooted sense of community and justice. Even as he listens he's somewhat matter-of-factly staking out new ground for direct action, where the unfamiliar idea of a sit-in can share the scaffolding he already has for looking after large gatherings of people, some of which he learned from -- "Scouting is kind of a big deal for my people," kind of just tumbles out, and he blushes but does not look away. He does take a moment to interpret his inwardly reorganization into words, though it's really their music he's hearing when he says, "This important. Let's make it happen." --- "-- das how we go tell 'um, all da people over in Freaktown? Those our guys, too." Kelawini is pacing back and forth, gesticulating expansively, "So try help, das all." She finally settles back against her desk, and continues, somewhat more calmly. "But before that we go need to get word out the whole school, right? So everyone know it's important, and what the plan is, yeah." Nessie has been crouching in front of her desk, taking diligent notes in a tablet as Kelawini talks. She's nodding earnestly, and when her roommate finishes she's clickclickclicking eagerly to her many feet, stylus flourished high. "You have my sword!" she proclaims, bold, and then -- just a little sheepish: "Or, well, the Oracle's -- pen. But you know what they say about the strength of those." --- "-- even if we don't know if it's gonna do anything or if admin is gonna care or if they just --" Roscoe has been unusually emotive throughout this, his voice pitched low and serious and urgent, his knuckles white on the back of his chair, but the vitriol in his voice here is still a little jarring for its strength, "want to let those people rot just 'cause they're a bunch of criminals, 'cause they're the bad kind of mutants and it's bad optics -- and even if we all get in stupid trouble over it and it doesn't even work don't we still have to try? 'cause even if we only help one person if that's one person that wasn't gonna get help otherwise --" he's not really raising his voice but he still cuts himself off as soon as he crosses some invisible threshold of too much and squeezes his eyes shut. When he reopens them he has abandoned this rhetoric entirely -- "Dallen is going." Bryce has been looking uncertain through the beginning of this, outright worried by the time Roscoe gets around to get in stupid trouble. He's shifting kind of uncomfortably, kind of apologetically, mouth opening on the verge of forming some politely worded refusal, but then. His head cocks at the last words, feathers fluffing slightly and his initial surprise to hear about his brother's sudden turn into rebellion swiftly followed by a bright smile. "Oh! Oh, yeah. It sounds super important, of course I'll go." --- "-- not just trying to get the X-Men to care, though obviously we want that too, but like," Sriyani has been gesticulating expansively throughout this, their pitch kind of casual with a sense that they aren't really trying to convince their audience -- kind of already assuming he'll be down -- but just explaining the overall logistics. "-- we're trying to make sure there's a dedicated fund even if Mr. Billionairepants does not want to open his wallet. And probably you could get a lot of notice on this if you bring it to like, your dads. It would blow up." Spence is bouncing lightly in place, his nods and twinkles coming at the sorts of places in the not-pitch that suggest he is in fact already down, just getting briefed on the overall logistics. "They definitely need to hear that!" This time his nod just continues until it blends back into the bouncing. "But yeah, for sure I'll get them onboard, Ryan will probably chuck some money at it himself. Is there a Signal group?" He's unlocking his phone, expectant. "Or should I make one?" --- Ford is next to the newspaper stand, a copy of the Oracle in his hands as he evaluates one of the article. "Nessie's a good writer," he says to himself in a soft voice, though not so soft that the passing student in the lonely hall doesn't hear him. He drags his finger down across the stack of papers slowly and then tucks his copy into his bookbag, "Could really use more readers on this one..." He continues down the hall, his thumbs hooking in his pockets. Behind him, another paper is picked up. It's not too long before the stand is empty; word of mouth is a funny thing.