Logs:Forms
| Forms | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2023-05-01 Anyway if you can't even keep track of your brothers I don't know how I'm supposed to manage. |
| Location
scott's office / chez tessier / texts | |
<XAV> Shop Office - Garage There's a Residential Dean's office on the administrative level, and Scott Summers is the Residential Dean, but his de facto office is here, in what was once just a utility room for the auto shop. "Cramped" might be uncharitable, but it's not large, more an extension of the shop than anything else. One wall is half glass and looks out onto said shop, one given over entirely to a pegboard sporting meticulously organized tools, one lined with sturdy wire racks laden with supplies and components, and the last, beside the door, almost completely papered over with colorful safety posters save where an almost comically large first aid cabinet is mounted. A workbench is kind of like a desk, right?" "This isn't like him." Matt isn't pacing, but perhaps that's just because the only logical route for pacing in this room runs behind the back of the man he's talking to. He's in a pale pink dress shirt, purple-and-pink floral vest, and light gray trousers, yet somehow doesn't look so terribly out of context in this no-nonsense space. "He said he'd be out for the weekend, but he wouldn't be missing school so casually, even if he didn't have exams." His hand tightens on the edge of the workbench where he's not-actually-casually leaning. "Forgive me, I do appreciate you checking, though I'm sure he must have just taken off. Certainly no one authorized picked him up and I hardly see why he'd sign himself out." On the other side of the center workbench, leaning over a sturdy laptop, Scott is already pulling up the reception logs from the school’s servers. “Would there have been any reason for him to take off?” Click-click-scroll. Scott frowns, looking back up at Matt through ruby red glasses. “…huh.” Blinks at the screen again, the crease in his forehead visible about the rims of his glasses. Scott spins the laptop around and pushes it across on the workbench, the relevant line on the sign out log centered across the screen. “Seems his mother signed him out. Is she not supposed to be authorized?” He’s reaching for a filing cabinet bolted underneath the work surface. “I got forms for that.” "Not like this, no. If he were going to take off..." The shake of Matt's head is emphatic. "No, it doesn't make any." He doesn't so much break off when he sees Scott's screen as just stop. His mouth opens and closes once before any sounds come out, and when they do it's in a tight, breathy "Hein? Our mother is dead ben tabarnak de marde--" He sputters, backing away from the computer as though it might jump out and bite him, then immediately leaning in closer to inspect the signature. "--for seven years she has been dead! What madness--why would he--" He looks back up at Scott, green eyes blazing. "What the fuck?" It’s hard to see through the thick panes of his glasses, but there is the distinct sense that Scott is blinking very slowly at Matt. Closes one drawer of the filing cabinet. “…Congratulations?” Slightly hesitant, this, but no bemusement. “I don’t have a form for that.” Scott turns his computer around again, boots up a MS Word template with the Xavier’s header on it. “Yet.” ~~~ <PRV> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. Lucien has been paying this conversation plenty of mind, honest! Other people observing might not think so, his attention outwardly quite split between the careful short strokes of his safety razor and phone and tablet he has been juggling communications on. But where Matt can feel the meticulous organization of his mind, it has been quite steadily trained -- through anxious waiting -- then bafflement -- then cold fear -- then back to just bemusement again. He puts Ryan on hold as he swipes a warm cloth against his chin, eyes (just for tonight, back to their uncanny shade of green) flicking to meet his brother's in the mirror. "... clearly," his voice is dry, more confident here than in the vague sense of foreboding rippling under his words, "I am not giving Mirror nearly enough to do." "I don't know why that wasn't my first thought instead of the third," Matt admits easily from where he's draped against the doorfram behind Lucien. "Gae might roll with it if they showed up with an offer to troll us, but I didn't think he'd miss school over it, or neglect his feeds." The echoes of his earlier distress stir again, though distant and unaffecting save in resonance with his brother's. "If he is trolling us with Mirror--with any metamorph--I'm disappointed he hasn't made more of it. Where are the cheesy mother-son road trip photos? Why stop answering, for that matter?" He turns one hand up, a helpless gesture. "If he's out discovering his inner Beatnik, he missed a trick not doing it with Spence." That foreboding stirs again. Lucien pushes it back down. Glances to his phone where, in the brief interval since the video call paused there are now several more texts from Ryan. He looks back up to the mirror, hanging his face towel back on the rack. "... and we are sure Spencer doesn't know where he is? Because last time, that --" He presses his lips together thin. "I will text them."
From Lucien's end there is, now, a very long silence.
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