Logs:Come the Raptor

Come the Raptor
Dramatis Personae Bryce, Dallen, Hive, Matt, an angel
In Absentia	2023-11-01 "You knew our brother."
Location <XAV> Conservatory - Xs First Floor
Tall panes of glass and a many-gabled glass ceiling protect this large indoor garden from the elements, while welcoming in sunlight to keep it warm year-round. Adjoined to the southern face of the venerable mansion and surrounded by more conventional gardens beyond, the conservatory is all Old World elegance from the outside. Within, however, it is lush and green and in certain corners--whether despite its careful tending by the groundskeeper or because of it--seems practically wild. Footpaths and a burbling artificial steam wind through the space, connecting its disparate parts. Benches are scattered throughout, thorough soft grasses or mosses under certain trees also invite rest. The outside wall is lined with tropical and subtropical plants. The ferns and cycads and epiphytes are kept moist by artfully hidden misters that also give the place a sort of magical ambiance, dense foliage wreathed at times with drifting patches of mist. Nearest the building is a desert in miniature, with a few impressively sized cacti as well as palo verde and other trees adapted to arid climes. Between these, and by far the largest section, is dedicated temperate zone plantlife from around the world, the beds growing more carefully manicured and the pads less winding as one approaches the center, where a clearing with a small ring of seats is a popular spot for some teachers to hold court. It's damp and chilly outside, though not so gray now that the rain has tapered off, but it's as pleasant and temperate as ever here inside. Matt has fetched up beneath the banyan tree--perhaps a bit on the nose given the companion he's dragged along--where he's perched now on a low, wide trunk supported by a nearly solid row of prop roots. He's claimed the first day of November for October and dressed accordingly: a vest in black and purple damask, the skulls worked into the floral scroll work not very obvious at first glance, a single bright marigold pinned to the lapel, a peach dress shirt cinched with a tie tessellated with stylized bats in a range of grays, black trousers, and black dress boots embossed with leafy arabesque. And yes, he's still wearing the witch hat. "I think," he's concluding after another sip from a thermos that he then offers to the man beside him, "she's probably a vampire." This is underlined by a pointed recollection of Elie Tessier, garbed in elegance that would look outrageous on a woman with less presence. The confused jumble of love and loathing and fear behind the memory are typical when he thinks of her, but much, much more intense than usual, especially given his recent tendencies. "She looks more like Mother than I ever remember Mother looking in life." It might be pleasant in here, but that hasn't stopped Hive from bundling up; he has his ancient oversized Theta Tau sweatshirt on over a long-sleeved shirt beneath and a blanket he's dragged down from his room to wrap around his shoulders. He's still managing to look miserable, shivering faintly under the fleecey blanket. He clutches tight at the thermos when it's offered, taking a slow sip and then keeping the lid popped as if the paltry trickle of steam it dispenses will warm him. "Fuck you," he grumbles without any heat, "I've studied them for years and vampires are much more cuddly." His shoulders hunch just a little tighter inward. "... sides, the immortality thing's a myth." After another sip of the coffee, he compromises: "She's probably a lich." A cold, damp draft sweeps through the corner of the Conservatory when the door to the garden outside opens to admit a small East Asian tween with an unfortunately white haircut. Dallen is wearing a light blue soft-shell jacket, heather green turtleneck, gray jeans, and brown hiking boots, a pair of binoculars hanging from around his neck and a Peterson's Field Guide tucked under one arm. "...and there'll be eagles next month! I wonder if that lake is big enough to support a bald eagle." In his mind's eye, the bald eagle swooping down from a snag on the far side of the lake is larger than life and twice as patriotic, his mental image of the grounds is uncommonly vivid and detailed. "That lake --" Bryce has been on the verge of making an Unfavorable Comparison regarding the lake -- he's comparing it to the vast lake he is used to and finding it coming up rather short, but at the last minute decides against being uncharitable and reroutes to: "-- do bald eagles stay this far out so late?" He's trying to page through his mental Audubon guide and coming up short. Beside his brother he's a little bigger, a lot brighter, vivid red and purple plumage contrasting uneasily with the flattened bulldog nose he's kind of wheezing a little through. His clothes are just as bland, jeans and grey hiking boots and a light grey rain shell half-zipped over his green henley. "I bet Miss Munroe kno -- oh-h-h," now he's coming up short physically, scuffing to a wide-eyed halt as he notices the two adults there. "Oh sorry! We didn't mean to --" He's quickly put a name to Matt's face, learned by reputation if not by actual interaction, slotting through student-chatter rumors ranging from easy A to totally a witch to superhero/terrorist to flaming [bleep] the bleep comes as a hitch of mental static where his mind is self-censoring. The other adult is derailing him more, though, unfamiliar by any metric, and he's scrunching up his face briefly in thought that skitters from terrorist-friend? to witch-friend to [bleep]-friend -- At least the feathers and fur obscure his blush but can't obscure his automatic guilt at even thinking That Kind Of Thought. "-- um, interrupt! You're -- Mister Tessier, right? And..." His feathers pull slightly together with the wrinkle of his brow as he offers Hive an apologetic: "I'm sorry, sir, I don't think I know you." "Mm, but your vampire sampling might be a touch skewed." Matt isn't really very fussed about the precise undead taxonomy of his recently returned mother, but his relief at departing from his tale into spookiness instead is palpable. "Anyway, immortality isn't necessary--she only died and came back the once. That we know of." He's reflexively wrapping an arm around Hive as if that would shield him from the cold. "I will keep an eye out for anything suspiciously phylactery-like about her--" His words tumble out of existence when his mind finally processes the not-as-yet familiar signatures he'd only half attended crossing the garden outside. He glances aside at Hive with a wordless apology that does not clash with the knowledge his friend probably heard the Allreds coming well before he did. When he turns to the youngsters, though, he's all smiles. "Why yes, I am! And you are Bryce and Dallen, no?" The sweep of his hand between the brothers is gracefully ambiguous. "I'm embarrassed to say I'm not actually sure which of you is which!" "My vampling is --" Hive's brows knit, which might have been at thoughts of his vampire experience but, just as well, might have been at the approaching minds, because it's shortly after this deep frown etches itself onto his face that the Smallreds are entering. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, scowls down at the coffee. "Feathery one's Bryce. Chinese one's Dallen." Despite himself there's a very small tug at his mouth that -- only slightly eases the scowl. "Terrorist friends," he confirms, "and --" And what will have to be left to Bryce's imagination because instead of finishing he's gulping at the coffee and finally handing it back. He offers with an easy nonchalance: "Just so you know, I can hear what you're thinking." And, oddly more reluctantly: "I'm Hive." Dallen is mentally searching his earlier Internet search results on the local raptor migration corridor. "Audubon says they winter here December through March. Even in Central Park! But we're more likely to see them..." He trails off and lets his brother take the lead greeting the two men, offering only a shy bob of his head while trying not to look too much like he's admiring Matt's outfit. It's not that he'd ever want to dress like that! Well, maybe a little, even if it's not very modest or plain or... He balks inwardly at "Chinese one" with a vehement wordless conviction that he is American and nobody can tell him otherwise. His eyes snap over to Hive when Bryce asks about him, then back to Matt, then to Hive again. << Is he actually gay is that his boyfriend are they just allowed to be gay at school? >> He's already admonishing himself for thinking such thoughts about anyone, much less a teacher, when Hive identifies himself as a "terrorist friend", which brings its own wave of confused pondering along the lines of << is he joking are they In The Closet is it because they're not allowed to just be gay at school? >> Probably he would be panicking if he had immediately parsed "hear what you're thinking" as "telepathy", but he's busy trying to puzzle out what that metaphor might mean when Hive's name suddenly gives context to "terrorism" and he loses everything else about this encounter in a rush of memories: the news about Dawson's death, the footage of protests, the hushed arguments between his parents that he pretended not to hear, the incomprehensible decision to bury his brother so far from home. The only words he can distill out of all this are: "You knew our brother." Bryce is watching Matt's arm drape over Hive's shoulders with some inward sense of Knowing Confirmation: << [bleep] friend -- >> that all tumbles apart rapidly as Hive speaks. << oh-h-h okay terrorism >> << wait terrorism >>, and now he's trying to sort through television reports and student gossip to tease apart fact from hyperbole from complete and utter lies. "... can everyone here read minds?" is what he asks first, wary but relieved that at least here the mind reading does not come with such unsettling squirms. Somewhere along the way Hive is matching up, less vivid than Dallen but roughly in the same wavelength, fuzzy emotional recollections of anxiety and curiosity, confused grief and equally confused pride. This spills over into a strange sort of indignance, now, as he studies Matt's familiar-draped arm with a more critical glare. Reins it back in with the reminder that Dawson is dead and also, should not have been Doing That in the first place. "You knew our brother?" when he echoes Dallen it isn't actually a question, but the lingering mild accusation there makes it sound like one. He's correcting immediately after, apologetic and hopeful: "I mean. Really knew him?" "We knew him." Matt's reply is gentle and confident and gives no hint of the rage he's long since gotten used to stifling. << They could have known him, too, if not for their godsdamned parents. >> "Really knew him," he adds, with a sidelong glance at Hive. << As impossible as it seems I expect things will get even more awkward if they find out about you and DJ. Gods, what do they make of DJ? >> "He was a remarkable man, and a wonderful friend, and so much more. I'm sorry he isn't here to show you all the best birding spots himself." His gaze lingers on Dallen's binoculars for a moment. Then he pulls in a deep breath, shoves the hurt aside, and lapses into an encouraging smile. "We do get some eagles around here in winter, though." << They think DJ's an angel. >> In Hive's bludgeoning mental communication this isn't metaphorical, isn't a wonderful person but a much more literal messenger from heaven sent to rescue them. He's leaning more heavily into Matt's arm, though it doesn't do much to stop his low-grade shivering. "-- you all are allowed to be gay at school," he's affirming kind of offhandedly to Dallen as he scrunches his fingers hard against his blanket. "I don't even go here so they couldn't stop me if they wanted to. But, uh, we're --" His fingers are waggling between himself and Matt, "just friends." To Matt alone this comes with a vaguely amused echo of Bryce's critical indignance that Hive has Moved On from Dawson so soon, underlaid with a wrenching ache: << how has it [only/already] been three fucking years. >> "Dawson and I were --" He stops short, here, teeth grinding briefly. Just friends catches in his throat, squeezes his eyes briefly shut; finally, instead he manages: "He saved my life back in Prometheus. Saved it a lot after, too -- do you," he's asking this of Dallen now with a deeper frown, "not know how to hyphenate. Americans goddamn love hyphenating." "He's an angel now," Dallen offers, earnestly. "But we probably shouldn't be asking for angelic assistance for birding." Though now he's tentatively contemplating it. He's supposed to pray for things great and small, right? He looks between Matt and Hive again, unsure whether he's relieved or disappointed by the lack of gayness going on and unsure why that came up at all. Then, at his brother's question, his frown suddenly clears with << ohhh he meant literally hear what we're thinking why am I so stupid? >> Despite that sentiment, he's as defensive as he is bewildered at the suggestion he doesn't know how to hyphenate. He struggles for a moment before settling on a slightly flat "Yes I know how to use hyphens." He's still looking to Bryce as if for backup, though he genuinely isn't sure what backup would even look like, here. His mind's eye is constructing a vision of his brother spontaneously quizzing him on proper hyphenation. "Can you get angel help for birding, though?" Bryce is brightly enamoured of this idea, his thoughts briefly focusing on a short but intense prayer for another Angel Visit, this time recreational. He doesn't dwell too much on it, with an inward sigh deciding that Dallen probably knows better than he does if this is an appropriate kind of request. "Dallen gets great grades in English," he's backing this up without giving a whole lot of thought to the oddity of the question; he's more invested in a suddenly keen and pointed: "... saved you?" There's an inward sense of relief that comes with it, a years-long anxiety answered, here: laid to rest this far from home, in such tumultuous circumstances, did Dawson have any endowed loved ones around to dress him for burial the way his father or brothers should have done? Matt's bittersweet amusement at being paired off with Hive does not make it fully to his face, but his smile does soften a little with a kind of irritated fondness at the boys' loyalty to a brother they'd never met. << I suppose they have, in a way. Just probably not the way they think. Do regale me with this angelic rescue later, if you please. >> "I don't see why you shouldn't ask," he says casually, "he's free to say no, or cut you an angelic rain check." His arm tightens fractionally around Hive's shoulder. "He saved a lot of people — from disasters, from violence, from cages — including yours truly and most of our other…terrorism friends." He pops the cap on his thermos, but then just hands it back to Hive. "Saved this guy from being a cranky overworked shut-in, also." << He rescued a lot of kids this past summer, but overhearing them was a hell of a coincidence. Who's to say it wasn't divine intention. >> Hive's mind starts to bear down against Matt's but then pulls back without the connection needed to properly infodump this encounter. << ... later, >> he promises irritably. His teeth grind again and after a moment he takes out his phone to swipe out a quick measure. "He takes his angel duties damn seriously, he's not gonna say no." This is confident, as he puts the phone back in his sweatshirt pocket. "Not grammar, I mean..." Hive's brows knit for a moment as he sorts through what he does mean. "Chinese-American," he picks up the thermos and gestures with it to Dallen. "Witch-Am... okay this asshole's Canadian so bad example. But you can say both, it's de rigueur around here. Dunno why you'd want to be American but I guess," he's allowing this magnanimously, "some people can't help it." He clutches the thermos in both hands as he takes a gulp, but despite this necessity is relatively successful at drinking it without spilling (much). He wipes the side of his chin with his sweatshirt sleeve and adds, "Nnnnot like that, I'm Buddhist and no plans to change. But," is a little gentler, "his mission companion was there to help get him ready." Dallen looks almost as deeply perplexed as he actually is. "But I'm not Chinese. I'm…an Allred." He realizes this isn't actually a very sound objection. "It makes about much sense as 'Witch-American', because he isn't really a witch, that's just a costume." He's too flabbergasted by the notion that anyone wouldn't want to be American to give much sustained thought to the reasons they might have. "You're really Buddhist?" he asks with a sort of horrified fascination. "But —" He's trying to picture Dawson on mission, but has no mental reference for how he would have looked at that age, so he's reflexively substituting his older brothers who are on mission now. The young man he imagines could be Alma or Ashtyn with a touch of DJ, clutching the scriptures to his chest, the light of the Lord shining from his eyes as he stretches out a hand to an also younger Hive, who looks a little like Dallen, incidentally. "But, didn't he share his testimony with you?" The idea that Dawson's testimony would fail to convert someone he was close to unsteadies him in some deep way he cannot quite understand. << (still seems cranky) >> Bryce is thinking a little skeptically; his attempt to school his expression into something Totally Blase at all Hive's cursing works better than it probably would if he were wearing a human face and not a squashy bulldog one. His forehead does wrinkles again at the exchange between Hive and Dallen, his feathers reflexively ruffling up. "He's American," he informs Hive, a little defensively. "He's my brother." In his head Hive's persistent Buddhism has slotted itself without any difficulty into the obvious answer: they weren't all that close. "I'm sure he did," he reassures Dallen, "but --" It seems rude to say the other part out loud so he does not finish the but, for all the good this does. Instead he's rocking his weight back on his heels, venturing a little more tentatively as he turns over cages in his mind, imagining the men in front of him in the same old scrubs so familiar from television -- it's much easier with Hive, sallow and gaunt and unstylish, than Matt in his colorful elegance: "... you were both in, um. In Prometheus?" It isn't the same need that draws Matt's mind toward Hive's, but it is a hunger all the same. His power threads into Hive, not to restrain the telepath but in some vague attempt to compensate for the connection they can't share right now. "Mm, you could argue this is a costume, but I am also, in fact, a witch. And he's actually Buddhist." He tips his head and bops Hive lightly on the head with his hat. "Dawson shared his testimony in his actions. Well…" He concedes with a rueful smile. "Probably he also shared it in proselytization, but by the time we became friends, he'd gotten pretty good at shining the light of your God by righting injustices and caring for those in need." The smile fades, just a touch. "Oh yes, for about a year. And I wasn't being metaphorical about Dawson saving me—he literally, physically carried me out of that lab." Hive's shoulders go tighter against Matt. His teeth grind audibly, but their hard clench successfully bites back his initial reply. "We were very close," he tells Bryce, no more gruff than his default, "and I'm still Buddhist. He had so much faith. He shared that with all of us in everything he did. In his passion for medicine, in the sacrifices he made over and over to keep his community safe. In his dedication to joy. He lived his testimony, he didn't need to --" His lips press together thin and he manages to summon up half a tact, enough to gentle the end of this sentence into: "preach what he practiced. He had a lot of respect for other people --" There's a pause here, a wry-sharp huff. "He learned a lot of respect for other people. And the choices we make. I think he had enough faith to believe that if your God is infinitely loving, that love will extend even to us heathens." Dallen's eyes have gone very wide as he tries to fit all this information into his existing worldview. He's dredging up every passage he can recall from scripture on witchcraft, but there isn't much and none of it seems very appropriate for talking to someone who claims to be an actual witch. There's nothing in the scriptures about Buddhism, and his secular knowledge of the religion amounts to…idolatry? He hugs his field guide closer as if it would protect him from the witchcraft. Living one's testimony, practicing what one preaches, shining the Lord's light in one's actions — all that tracks. But he can't fathom his unquestionably heroic eldest brother would leave his friends in clutches of the Devil and…the Buddha?! "Of course God loves everyone," he says, quietly examining every word before he speaks it to ensure it's Loving and Tolerant but not Morally Relativistic (though he isn't quite sure how to evaluate that last one in nuance), "but respecting people's choices doesn't mean giving up on them. That's — that's —" His words suddenly come easier when he slots in a line he'd memorized from some General Conference talk. "— denying them the full share of the Eternal Glory that is the birthright of every Son and Daughter of God." Bryce is scrutinizing the witch hat with a new uncertainty, deeply skeptical despite all the rumors that anyone could be a real witch but, simultaneously, deeply curious about if Matt -- "Do you know any magic," he's voicing this curiosity with a small tilt of his head, very uncertain whether it is better or worse for the answer to be yes. Through his currently-squashy nose his slow breath sounds even more audible in its snuffle. "Of course God loves everyone," he's saying in time with Dallen, though with less evaluation and more inward nervous feeling that probably God loves some people better, though, that if you don't do the right things maybe -- His snuffling gets sharper, a quick-indrawn breath that pushes away thoughts of getting kicked out of ~~home~~ Heaven into ~~horrifying torture labs~~ outer darkness. "... just, wouldn't you want the people you love to share eternal happiness with you?" "Oh, I don't just know magic," Matt says conspiratorially, "I do magic. But if you want to know more about that you'll just have to take Paganism Through History next term, or ask a witch who doesn't teach at your school." He smiles wistfully and looks down at the roots twining beneath his feet. "He didn't give up on people." Something heavy stirs in the depths of his mind. He takes the thermos back from Hive and takes a swig, decidedly wishing now he'd spiked the coffee in it, afternoon classes be damned. "Maybe he had faith that your Heavenly Parents wouldn't, either." For a brief and painful moment there's a pang of grief that hits Matt bludgeon-heavy where the weight of Hive's mind has been leaning up against his friend's. "Yeah," is what he manages to say, quieter than before. "I would want that." Maybe there was going to be more after this but instead he just sags in against Matt's side, his eyes tipping upwards where those same roots stretch overhead. Against Matt's senses, there's a familiar strobing signature that registers to Hive's as a staccato flit of thoughts that range from repairs needed around Freaktown to his morning's slate of patients to anxious-hopeful consideration of the (not) brothers he's coming to see to a wrench of ache that he is trying hard to push down, push away, not tempt fate being around Hive after so long to -- -- a shimmer just at the edge of peripheral vision, and then there is DJ, neatly-pressed trousers and button-down still from work, hands starting to tuck into his pockets then removing them then returning them. The uncertainty in his mind is blaring but his smile is casual as he walks over, chin lifting to the others though his gaze studiously avoids Hive. Settles, instead, on the youngest Allreds. "So --" << don't be awkward don't be awkward >> "... birds." Dallen is nodding emphatically at Bryce's question, relieved that he's so much better at talking about these things (he's mentally taking notes) and slightly affronted that the adults aren't more impressed. Still, he'll take whatever opening he can get. "Right! We all want that and God doesn't give up on us, that's why He has given us the restored —" He forgets all about constructing his message of hope when an actual angel descends upon them. The shadows immediately around him swell and waver with startled excitement, and his sidelong glance at Bryce, so powerful in prayer, is openly impressed. "Hello," he greets DJ, wide-eyed. "Thank you for coming to help us again. We've been looking for good birding spots, and we read that raptors migrate up the Hudson Valley to winter in New York State, then we met your friends and we're trying to deliver the Good News…" He doesn't really seem to know where to go from there. It feels condescending to point out to the gentiles that the deceased friend they have just been praising now stands before them as proof of God's awesome power. It definitely seems inappropriate to tell an Angel of the Lord how to go about saving anyone, much less his own friends. Bryce's frown is knitting deeper at Hive's quiet reply, and something in the telepath's manner stalls the continued exhortation he was about to make. He's stalled, too, from asking what kind of magic, by the totally-nonmagical 100%-divine appearance of ~~Dawson~~ his otherworldly brother. He's feeling pretty impressed with himself, too, and then secondarily impressed with Dallen's vast ability to recall Bird Facts. His arms start to cross over his chest but then he is unsure if it's appropriate to say more prayer when the angel is Right Here to gush at in person, so instead he offers a small bob of his head and a toootally casual: "Birds."