ArchivedLogs:Anti-Stress Biking

Anti-Stress Biking
Dramatis Personae Jennifer, Scott
In Absentia	2013-04-21 Scott and Jen ride out to New York City on their manly bikes.
Location I-684
The I-684 is an Interstate Highway and the road you are going to take if you leave from Salem Centre, New York, to New York City proper. It is this highway that Jennifer has chosen to embark on a trip to a bar, summoning her friend Scott to join her on this journey to a drunken stupor. Of course, the 'drunken stupor' part is yet to be mentioned, and the method of coming back to Xavier's School is also yet to be discussed Although initially a wager and a race, the sign with the speed limit swishes by Jen no quicker than the law allows. Sixty five is the number that the arrow obediently points to on the speedometer. Sam shreds the lanes with beautiful elegance nonetheless; its driver guides the two-wheeled monstrosity from one lane to another as though this was waltz. Occasionally, cars that are cut off sound their horns angrily. Communication within this madness is... well, madness. And so headsets have been arranged to solve that particular conundrum. Cosily clad in leather entirely, save for the sturdy black helmet protecting her pretty head, Jennifer scoffs at the microphone not far from her sneer. "And then she just ran /out/ with barely a word. I can't really blame her, though!" Scott hugs his corners comfortably. He did not bring up or otherwise mention the race - he did not push her for an explanation. His head is encased in a black helmet - he loved black. His bike was black. His bomber jacket for riding was black. His silence on the other side of the radio might have been expected, but was still a little unsettling. "So how are you going to handle this from here on out?" The radio-static voice sounds out over the thrum of the bike engines. "Honestly? I have no idea." Jennifer's bike, on the other hand, is a blend of dark purple and bright green. Hers was a bike that everyone would see whiz past, and she naturally wouldn't have it any other way. Even on the back of both flanks, her alias is written; "She" in cursive and "Hulk" in attention-grabbing capital letters, stylised to appear stone-like. "The kids did better than anyone else is going to give them credit for. But /no one/ is going to admit it because they will never get over the fact I had an illusion shoot at them. And if you ask me, they'd be at least half-right in doing so", she exclaims. A quick glance to the speedometer reveals her speed dips to 62. Unacceptable! Hands grip the handles more firmly. Another car is elegantly driven around, until she rides by Scott's side. At least for the time being. There's a subtle turn in Scott's helmet as he looks at her nearby, wind whipping against his jacket. He turns back towards the road after a brief moment of consideration. "Why are you letting these kids get under your skin? Or rather, you made a mistake - why is it bothering you so much?" The speed begins to escalate past the legal threshold. Shulkie's motorcycle climbs all the way to seventy, just so that she could cut off a car, the driver of which sounds the horn in frustration. After that, Jen lets her vehicle decelerate on its own accord. "God damn it, Scott, it's not just a silly mistake! We're not flipping burgers, y'know? We're teachers. We're supposed to be role models. Hell, teaching a kid, teaching him values and how to survive life's hardships? That's one thing. Teaching someone like /us/? Do you imagine what the smallest mistake could do?" "I'm not saying what I did was /completely/ wrong, but-- Cyke, there's a hundred ways I could have gone about it!" Scott's quiet during the bike ride, allowing Jennifer a moment to cool off as he eases off the throttle a little. He sidles up close to Jennifer. The radio finally sounds off. In a cross between amusement and bemusement, he asks, "You do realize who you're talking to, right?" "Logan, right?" As annoyed as she might be at her mistake, it is still not something that knocks her sense of humour out of her. While the bike gracefully returns to the sixty five mark, she avoids another car. "I know I am not spraying any more water at any more students. At least, I hope I'll know better in the future. I still have no idea what I'm gonna tell Jackson, though." "You don't answer to Jackson. You answer to Charles Xavier." Scott rounds around the same car gently, glancing over his shoulder at it. The little street line demarcations flip by as he leans. He clears his throat as round the bend. "I'll tell you what I told him, though, to the letter. If you don't believe in yourself, what makes you think you can teach these kids to believe in themselves? Sometimes that means being strong enough to make a mistake and let it be You sound like you're ready to make a life-decision here. You're agonizing and hand-wringing. That's what these kids do not need to see." "I know, Scott, I /know/ the kids don't need to see doubt. Hell, they shouldn't. They mustn't. But last I checked, /you/ weren't a student of mine." A quick glance to the speedometer is flung. Okay, so far, so good. She tries to look around, tries to spot where Scott is, all the while rambling at the mic. "I answer to Xavier, yes, but Shelby and Ivan are not only Jackson's advisees, they're more to him than that by now. More importantly, /Jax/ is more to /them/. I answer to Jackson if my fuck-ups concern his students. He's going to come knockin' on my door, and what am I going to say? What /do/ people say? Sorry? If sorries were a legitimate defence, the world would /drown/ in crime, Scott!" "Jesus /Christ/," Scott says in exasperation, gunning it with a tilt of his head up the way, with no regard to the speed limit or the length of the stretch. "Why don't you just tell him the truth, that you did your best and that you stuck to a gamble and it didn't take? What's he going to tell you? He's spent semesters with these kids doing the same thing. He'll get that, and if he doesn't get that, then I failed /him/. " Scott shakes his head and squeals the tires out on the next turn, burning rubber as he guns into it. "Sometimes I wish I could be Logan, just so I could just walk away chomping some dime-store cigar and let people stew in what I said to them, instead of being constantly /questioned/ on it." "Oh, come on, Cyke, stop being such a girl!" She's one to talk. Jennifer ups the speed of her own bike, and boy does it roar. Sam knows how to announce its power, and the green-and-purple monstrosity leaves the rest of the vehicles in dust. Figuratively speaking. "Look, I needed to rant, okay? I spent a whole year doing things that required little more than brute force, and now I'm back in an environment where I have to use a delicate touch." Uh-oh. That sounds awfully like an excuse. That idea causes her to grunt. "I'll tell Jackson the truth, I guess. As sunny as the guy is, I don't know if even he will refrain from tearing me a new one." "Until then, however, I want to get drunk. Maybe shoot pool-- I've never played pool in my life. Maybe shoot pool /while/ drunk." Scott's jaw sets inside of his mask, the radio silence conspicuous. He is continuing to gun it, his Ducati revving like a bat straight out of hell. He hunches over his bike and hugs it with his legs. The speedometer is probably best not even reviewed at this point. "Scott? Scott, I don't-- I don't want to get fined! Scott?" The Ducati eventually is nothing but a dot in the distance. "Oh, for the love of--" Sam knows when its speed is needed. The bike growls fiercely before that arrow climbs up and over numbers at a ridiculous pace. What started out as a mere trip towards the bar becomes a race of two stubborn bike riders zipping past cars. "I swear to God, Scott, you're paying my fine!" "Oh, man up, Jennifer." Scott begins to weave between the sparse traffic with a cavalier attitude that is probably best not paired with increased attention to the road the cops have been giving lately. Rrrrrrn. Rrrrrrrrn. There he goes, woosh, woosh. As long as Scott's bike continues to speedily cut through the highway, so does Jennifer follow in turn. Eventually, a peculiar sound finds its way into Scott's headset. Is that laughter? That definitely sounded like laughter. "Scott!" This time, his name is called out with greater amusement than annoyance. Unsurprisingly, her showoffish superbike doesn't take long to catch up with Scott's, but Jennifer seemingly trails behind on purpose, if only to have a reason to continue speeding. "Scott?" Her bright voice chimes in Cyke's headset again. "Thanks." Screw pool. This is way more fun.