Logs:Porcupine Handling

Porcupine Handling
Dramatis Personae Bryce, Quentin, Tok
In Absentia Dallen, Ion, Scott	2024-12-06 "Of course I'll ask Dallen, but right now I'm asking you."
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. Classes have finally let out for the week, and while outside the temperature continues to drop, the conservatory stays warm and bright in the mid-afternoon sun. It’s quiet, at least, small patches of students passing through or conglomerating about a bench. Almost hidden amongst the misters, of which the most recent vapors are fading, Tok is crouched and leaning in close to inspect some tropical plants—and they all seem perfectly normal and fine, but their poking and prodding with their claws may not guarantee that for much longer. They wear a pair of cargo pants with patches at the knees, and an oversized t-shirt with some sort of faded restaurant name on the front. Their sweatjacket is slung over a nearby bench, and their tail flicks in a twitching manner behind them, counter balancing them as they tilt to inspect another plant. The fur of their tail is dotted with mist that makes it almost look like it’s sparkly. Their mind is somehow more restless than usual, thoughts beginning and colliding in an excited ansty whirl then being replaced before they have the chance to be completed. In the background there’s brief flashes of fuzzy swirling shadows that are accompanied by a spike of giddiness. << Thought they said plants were- >> << Where- >> << Maybe this weekend..? >> << oh shit! Don’t forget about th >> << keep poking it! Maybe blood plants are just shy? >> A blast of cold squalls bitter but brief through the conservatory's warmth. With it comes noise -- a brash bark of laughter, a stomp-stomp of footsteps just inside the door before continuing further. "-- you serious, I thought that was just -- I mean, please, he's so boring." For a moment the leaves do curl away from Tok's prodding finger, recoiling noticeably from the poking claw -- maybe they have succumbed to whatever strange phenomenon has been whispered to be creeping through some of the plants outside? A moment later Quentin is coming into view, peeling off his warm red coat (underneath his unzipped black hoodie, his tee shirt has images of bullets with deny - defend - depose etched onto their sides), stuffing his hat and gloves into its pockets. He runs his fingers through his pink hair, tousling it out of its hat-squished muss. His mind is kind of idly orienting in on the giddiness rolling off Tok, and though his curious mental probing is invisible his question -- "What's got you so amped?" -- is a good deal more open. Bryce is trailing back in after Dallen -- he doesn't have any outerwear at all, despite the cold. His Xavier's tee is heavily chewed up, both by the immense falcon-esque wings folded behind him and by the porcupine quills sprouting from much of his torso. The brilliant red and purple feathers atop his head are much as per usual; the soft mask of rich red and white fur around his face has recently changed, and the armored pangolin tail emerging from beneath the low hem of his shirt is definitely new. His eyes are enormous compound insectoid things, and slender sharp-tipped black horns poke out from the feathers on his head. There's a downy grey-white fur down his arms, short black claws at the end of his fingers. In his mind he's been rearranging pieces of thoughts like pieces of a puzzle -- going over their training session and what he could do better, (rearranging pieces of himself like a slowly-building 3-D tower puzzle, what could he switch around or slim down for better agility, better efficiency); what homework he has to do now that they are back; what excitement (there's always excitement) will be planned at the Refuge this weekend; how hard would it be to learn to surf well that was So Much Fun; and though this is snapping Very Attentively back to the present conversation with a complicated guilt (<< should we be gossiping about this >> << it's about a teacher so -- >> << wait that's worse >> << no I think that's less worse >> << is he boring? >>) and while he is stuck on musing that Mr. Ion is definitely not boring but does that make Mr. Summers boring, they've come into sight of Scott and his thoughts tumble back down into so many snapping rods and blocks and connectors with a vague and unnamed << oh no >> when he sees Tok. It doesn't make it into his face -- just a smile, unfailingly polite. "Amped?" he's asking uncertainly, and peering a little closer at the plants. "Is there something wrong with the plants?" Tok’s tail shudders and puffs with the wave of cold, and an excited gasp escapes them when the plant leaf seems to recoil. They quickly pull back, leaning away to gain a fuller view of it, checking for signs of blood. One of their ears flick idly towards the sound of Quentin’s voice, most of their attention centered in on the plant, but it’s his question that’s pulling them out of it. Something bright sparks in their mind, and they twist, eagerly, sharp grin already spreading across their face, “Oh hey!” They’re greeting Quentin, first, but when their eyes land on Bryce, their ears flick down briefly. << Oh shit. >> is the very first thing that makes it through, accompanied by a flash of their own claws drawing blood, whose blood? It’s unclear in the sudden wave that follows of greedy want and almost toxic envy that crashes in to disrupt any sort of cohesive thought when they take in Bryce. It takes them a moment, to wrangle it back in, to remember to mentally catalogue Bryce, jumping up to his polite smile, and ultimately deciding << All good. >> Then a fruitless, much too late << shh!!!! Quiet!! Visitor visitor visitor >> “Bryce you’re so cool.” They’re saying immediately, and it rings true in their mind, “Heyheyhey lookie that we’re matching!” They tap their claw against one of their own horns, with a quick wink. They stand abruptly, tail flicking behind them, “Overheard some kids were talkin’ about plants turning into like- zombie plants!” They explain hastily and poke at the plant again, “Been trying to find one and- I swear this one just moved.” Quentin's brows have hiked. The plants are relaxing into their previous configuration; Quentin is sizing Tok up, more thoughtful. His mind is pressing, quietly more insistent, after that oh shit, a keen attentiveness to where exactly that flash of anxious memory comes from and leads. "Why are you worried about Bryce, he's never hurt anyone. Who'd you hurt?" "What? No we don't." There's genuine confusion in Bryce's mind; he's stuttering on this, looking between himself and Tok with an absolute noncomprehension, trying to figure out exactly what part of their completely and utterly disparate presentation is matching. Needless to say, there is no wink. He's dismissed the you're so cool kind of out of hand, and though it has not registered with any particular conscious thought it does, faintly discomfited, increase the sense of mental distance he's already been putting between himself and Tok. "Wo-o-oah, zombie like, eating brains?" He's trying to decide whether this is cool or scary or just some dumb Tok lie and has settled on no real decision except that zombie plants would be kind of cool, maybe, but would that also hurt the wildlife? He's half-crouching to look a little closer at the plants in case they reveal any further info. His head tilts, slightly up, slightly to the side. "Wait what'd I do?" << Oh shit. >> Is sounding off in Tok’s brain again, perhaps making up for what their reaction should have been to seeing Quentin. Tok shoots him a pleading look, “It was an accident.” Their eyes dart away, and their tail is beginning to re-puff up. They attempt to ignore the question of who, even though their thoughts are already jumping at it in the background, “Yeah we do- we both got horns!” They point to Bryce’s horns popping out of his feathers. << don’t think about- >> “And the plants are apparently like, all bloody? Less eat your brains.” Despite the attempt at the distraction for their own mind, at their attempts to mentally lock everything down, pointedly trying to not think about Dallen do not think about- << ahhh shit >> “You didn’t do nothin’- serious! I ain’t worried ‘bout you.” "What did you do to Dallen?" Quentin asks, direct and immediate. His voice has gone just a little harder. While he hasn't gotten any bigger there's certainly something about his presence as he straightens up, snaps his eyes to Tok, that seems like he has. "What?" << that's the dumbest -- >> "They're not -- the same at, um, we also both have -- eyes? Tails? And -- arms. Legs?" << do birds match fish do people match dogs what an -- >> is also derailed by Quentin's questioning. Bryce straightens, immediate, and he's thinking back over the past couple days -- too busy, far too busy as ever, between school and incredibly chaotic mission, between training and flitting off to Hawaiian party. There's a hollowness somewhere in all of it that he can't quite name or place and it's surfacing, now, in an uncertain (guilty?) attempt to think about how much he's seen Dallen the last couple days and how she's been. His voice is quiet, his arms folding carefully across his chest. "What was an accident?" Tok’s fingers curl against their palms and their tail ticks agitatedly. Their mind is flitting about with wild abandon now, anxious and defensive. Their eyes dart quickly between Quentin and Bryce, and they take a small subconscious step back, closer towards the plants. “I just scratched her- I didn’t mean to scratch her-” This actually carries a wary sort of fear-guilt in it, and they’re burying their claws into the fur of their tail, as if to hide them from sight. “She-” Tok cuts that off, but their mind is filling in the blank, Dallen tackling them, a punch thrown, Tok shoving back at her. Strangely enough, some of that restless anxious giddiness from before sneaks in surrounding the memory, like something residual. “Just ask her.” They insist. They look at Quentin, shake their head slightly, << don’t don’t don’t >>. Quentin's eyes are boring steady and hard into Tok. He doesn't add any further commentary, here -- just, quietly, expands the reach of his quiet mind, reflecting Tok's wariness and guilt and giddiness and defensiveness and the fragmented memories alike all unfiltered towards Bryce for him to make his own judgments. His brow quirks -- he's looking at Bryce, now, waiting fully for his input as if Tok has become somehow altogether irrelevant to this exchange. "When's the last time you saw Dallen throw a punch?" "Of course I'll ask Dallen," Bryce answers, carefully, "but right now I'm asking you. Why did you hurt my sister?" He's rounded on Tok, and maybe he is not intentionally trying to loom, but his shoulders have squared, wings mantling slightly outward, and the height difference between him and the smaller teen is pulling even starker now than it normally feels. << -- not -- for a really long -- >> This is kind of confused, here, a kind of guiltily tired weight that accompanies the thought of his eternally-kind-of-pathetic little brother needing rescue from a succession of low- and not-so-low grade bullies -- the last time quite a number of years ago that Dallen had been pushed far enough to actually stand up for himself For Once and still needed Bryce to finish it anyway -- slipping into a faint uncertainty of what he should make of it that after years of attempting to teach her to hold her own, now that it is wildly inappropriate and unfeminine maybe she's finally decided fighting is her thing. It all spills over, spills away in a decisive rush of the much more pressing upset and anger that anyone hurt her to begin with -- the rest are questions For Later, the question For Now is -- "What did you do to her?" His voice isn't sharp, but it is firm. The quills starting, slow but very noticeable, to stand on end, don't make him look any smaller. A low growl is rising up in Tok’s throat at being cornered, and there’s a buzzing in their brain that begins to snatch the words and warp them, and they echo and distort further. A nervous smile is pulling their teeth into view, an anxious laughter bubbling up and mixing with the growl that internally they desperately try to shove down. A rippling electric feeling that coils in their chest. “Why? I didn’t mean to hurt her- you think I’m-” there’s an anger flaring now. The buzzing is expanding, and their eyes snap to Bryce’s rising porcupine quills, impulsive, and with a burst of white glow they yank the quills from him and plant them on themself. The overwhelming buzzing anxiety fades, a little, and even some of that same giddiness appears briefly. Memories of swirling uncontrolled shadows dance in their mind, a same excitement. “-Stupid too or something?! It was fine! You think I’d purposely hurt her?” They snap their eyes to Quentin, “Why couldn’t you just-” their words dissolve into hissing frustration, and they’re hunching low, tail twitching behind them. "Yes," Quentin adds, immediately. "I know you're stupid. Everyone knows you're stupid. That wasn't the question. You aren't answering the question, which --" He quiets, just a moment, as Tok steals Bryce's quills. << ... do you want those back? Fuck this dumb bully. >> he's asking the other boy, silent, but aloud snaps: "-- tells us enough." Tok's thoughts continue to echo. "And yeah. I think you'd hurt her, you obviously don't have a problem violating people. Steal her power like some kind of pathetic rapist. Guess what, not being comfortable in your own body doesn't mean you get to use other people's, you creep." Bryce's hands have balled into fists, and the immediate impulse to do violence here is sharp-clear-strong in his mind. "Yes. You're very mean. You would." << And stupid, >> he's thinking, but not adding; it seems hardly worth it -- somehow, abruptly, as he looks at Tok, the sheer disgust that fills him is mingling with a swell of almost overwhelming pity. His fists don't unclench but he does take a step back, shoulders flexing behind him to feel the empty hollow spaces where the quills should be. "Nah, he can keep them," he says, finally, "I can grow more." He's starting to turn but hesitates -- turns back, his immense wings flaring out in wider mantel to the side. "Touch my sister again," he says, very evenly, "and I'll show you hurt." << C'mon, >> is silent to Quentin, as he turns now to actually go, << let's make sure Dallen's okay. >> Tok shrinks, ears pinning back, and there’s something actually physically painful that alights in them at Quentin’s words. The word ‘rapist’ repeats over in and over in their mind, echoing and distorting and growing shouty in it. They swallow, blink harshly, “Real original.” They snap, “You rip all that out from somewhere in my brain? Rifle through it with your-” they snap their mouth shut, and try to smother the rest of the response that continues in their brain << creepy little- >> << stop it stop it >> “Sorry I forgot. It’s fine for you Quentin.” They roll their eyes, and grip at the fur of their tail and tug, harshly. “You’re all so weird.” They snap frustrated, and they don’t seem happy with the word weird but can’t seem to find something better. They continue, “I just didn’t think it was a big deal?” Their voice shifts up in pitch. They shake their head, swallow harshly, stare at Bryce, quickly look away. “Nah, I won’t touch her.” They reassure and step further away when Bryce turns his back, “But I don’t think you’d believe me.” "Oh, trust me. I don't want to be in your sick-ass mind. I lose braincells every time I have to listen to it and that was before I felt you gloating about violating other mutants for kicks." Quentin exhales sharply, something incredulous in the pinch of his brow. "You -- didn't think -- right. Yeah. Can't imagine why we wouldn't believe you." << She's in the gardens. >> The wind that whips in after them seems harsher, still, than the one when he arrived.