Logs:Short Circuit

Short Circuit
Dramatis Personae Charles, Ion, Scott	2024-04-21 << !! >> (after talking to the BoM.)
Location <XAV> Xavier's Study - Xs Third Floor
The reading room tucked into the corner of the suite is much smaller than the one in the mansion's library proper, cozily appointed in polished dark wood and plush burgundy upholstery. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling mobile bookshelves, including a climate controlled case beside the antique writing desk and one behind it that conceals a private elevator. A sideboard by the door holds a silver platter with a crystal decanter of scotch and two old fashioned glasses, a pitcher of water, a crystal bowl of peppermint starlights, and a rather space age looking coffee machine(?) beside a fine white porcelain tea set at the far end. There is a small table with an elegant steel chess set in a bright nook beneath one of the windows, flanked by a single chair. Scott came straight here from an earlier mission debrief, with his mission team, but it doesn't really show in his expression, which is no more haggard than the vague disshevelment of his X-Suit, his hair, or the drying bloodstains on his shirt, visible under his open jacket, would suggest. Still, Charles can probably tell that it was an exasperating mission, for as buttoned-up as Scott is keeping as he finishes his report, his voice dedicatedly neutral, there is a sharp edge of irritation and worry bleeding through the edges of his orderly Situation Report script. "-- so I just called it and came home, I didn't -- we don't really know what Leo Concepcion is capable of. I didn't want to test it. I have no idea where Halim went, I was --" this is annotated somewhat sheepishly with the memory of former students' corpses clawing their way amid the illusory tentacles toward Scott; in retrospect he feels like a total fool for letting a trick like that trip him up -- "distracted. Shadowcat -- Kitty says it was like he vanished into thin air." He shifts on his feet. "I know Joshua must be pretty torn up but I can't -- obviously we can't just send him directly into the Brotherhood's clutches." Another tiny pause -- "They got the jump on us, I didn't --" even though Charles can probably tell where this was going, Scott doesn't really want to vocalize that he didn't expect it, that he didn't see it coming. His jaw flexes. "We'll be ready next time." Charles has been listening intently, his expression focused and thoughtful but neutral. He's in his comfortable weekend tweeds, and his psionic aura has steadily bloomed warmer even as his tea goes cold on the desk in front of him. "Thank you, Scott." Soothing and conciliatory. "It sounds like you did the best you could under the circumstances. I think some of this might have been averted if Cerebro had come to either of us straightaway, but he has never been much of a team player." He leans on these last few words ever so slightly. "Still, I am relieved that no one came to serious harm." His lips compress. "Or at least, not yet. I hold out some hope that if the Brotherhood bothered with a bait-and-switch rather than summarily executing him, they also know he was acting under compulsion and mean to try undoing it. I wouldn't put it beneath them to try weaponizing this man for their own purposes, but that would be as unethical as it is dangerous." He shakes his head slowly. "If only we had some means of contacting them..." If only! As if this was some kind of summoning spell, there's a slight power fluctuation that flutters through the mansion from the bottom up. It has resolved a couple times into an Uninvited Guest though at the speed Ion travels possibly only Cerebro might be quick enough to notice Ion's darting search. But now there is an Ion here in Charles's study -- considerably more alive than the X-Men last knew him to be, a little thinner, a little more bearded; there's still electricity shivering in crackles over the pronged hook he's wearing in place of his right hand. He's dressed bland in jeans, motorcycle boots, a lightweight grey-checked flannel over his grungy tee. His mind is a charged crackle that cycles through faces with the repetitive cadence of a litany, a good many unfamiliar to Xavier though Flicker is tucked in there, and Dusk, and a small handful of former X-Kids. He lifts his chin to the other men, posture alert but not wary although there is a definite edged feel to his restive mind. "I got the technopath." His eyes have fixed steadily on Charles. "How good are you at fix-up brains?" Is Scott a team player? In his mind he has somewhat less need to be, as the team leader, but he is accepting Charles's assessment with faintly hypocritical (judgmental) agreement. "Not yet," he echoes darkly -- "though I suspect if neither of our teams had acted, we would --" he does not need to clarify this; he is flashing through news footage of the Ascension Island attack, and he is still engaged in this laborious process of recall when -- << !! >> Scott did not expect to see Ion; the shock that goes through his mind is -- well, electric, simultaneously thrilling with delight and relief at the sight of the other man, and with fear too. The fear only sparks when Ion speaks, brightens with wordless warning, a faintly desperate attempt to justify how this could be so that ends at what, probably, is the only possible explanation, with cold realization. << He has the technopath, >> is just another echo. << How, >> is to see if Charles has drawn the same conclusion, if Charles already knows more. His hands behind his back clench a little harder around the spare visor he's still holding onto from the fight, sharp edges digging at his palms. One of the pillbug-like cleaning drones rolls out from under the sideboard and pipes, with Cerebro's voice, "You won't believe --" right about as Ion arrives, then diverts from whatever he'd meant to report to, "-- ah, nevermind. Carry on, then." Charles does not, in fact, carry on -- not immediately. He's staring up at Ion in stunned silence, his presence gone suddenly cool, though it's warming again as he slowly relaxes his psychic shielding. << He is a member of the Brotherhood, then. >> This is quiet and matter-of-fact in Scott's mind, layered with wariness and relief and a quiet wordless faith that this man is not a ruthless murderer. Or, at least, he hadn't been, before the Lassiter raid. "I am exceptionally good at it," he replies, at not too long a delay. "I am very likely better at it than anyone else alive. Where, if I may, have you got him?" Ion's eyes tick swift towards the motion of the drone, a sharp flick that betrays more of his tense wariness than his posture previously allowed. "Far." It's clipped, and though for a moment Halim's (sleeping) face flickers in to jar the rhythm of his consecrative rotation, the nondescript mattress does not betray much more helpful information. "Mission was to kill him. Ain't really his blood mis hermanos want, though. Wanna make damn sure he not bout to spill more of ours. If --" His hesitation is quite short here, but somewhere in it Xavier can feel the fear that is, despite its clanging, not getting in the way of several overlapping calculations. The arcane math that is attempting to weigh Terrifyingly Powerful Telepath against the speed at which he could flee against how likely jumping While Being Fucked In The Head would be to end (again) in near death collapses unsolved. When he continues it's in Spanish, and the far less taxing fluidity with which the words come frees his mental static to tumble back into place. "{If I let you near him. You gonna give me any kind of straight answer on if there still a him there? If you can get him some place that ain't slaughtering us for America?}" << --... >> Scott is warning -- is this meant for Charles or for himself? He blinks with bland acceptance at the conclusion that Ion is in the Brotherhood, blinks again with very cautious curiosity that -- in spite of that -- Ion is here now. In his words, his voice, he is much more guarded when he speaks, measured and controlled once more. "Should I believe you? Your leaders have shown again and again they won't balk at sacrificing their fellow mutants for some supposed greater good." He is drawing his posture even stiffer, even straighter, than it already was, fierce with protectiveness and fear for the professor -- it has not escaped his notice that, if Ion wanted to simply grab the other man and leave, Scott would have no way to stop him. Though he doesn't move, a part of his mind is reaching for -- maybe clinging to? -- Charles, half for mere translation and half self-soothing. This comes with mild disgruntlement, << if this is all you wanted then we could have avoided a lot of trouble, >> somewhat dampened by severe doubt that this is all the Brotherhood wanted. "Professor," he says quietly, "I don't..." whatever he doesn't want, doesn't feel comfortable with, doesn't trust, he leaves unspoken, even unthought -- all there is to finish this is vague unease. Charles obliges Scott's reaching, though the soothing warmth feels so natural that it might not be obvious he's doing so. << If he had wanted to simply grab me and go, I would be gone before you knew he was here. Kitty can attest to that, as can the children and raiders he saved at Lassiter. >> There's no admonishment in this, only reassurance and a quiet gratitude for Scott's protectiveness. << Besides, I do not think he is fool enough to start a war the Brotherhood would likely lose. >> Aloud, in Spanish -- or really, Spanish-leaning and weirdly American-accented Llanito which he silently renders into English for Scott, "{Whatever you think of my politics, you know that I would protect my students -- with my life, if I must.}" Beneath his words, he conveys the understanding that this protectiveness has led him to questionable decisions, as well. "{I will tell you if he cannot be saved. But if I go with you, what assurance can you give me about your Brothers' intentions -- with him or with me?}" He switches back to English now. "I never quarreled with your organization until they came after my children." His tone has gone dangerously mild. "Raven tried to kill me, and nearly succeeded. I am not eager to let her improve upon her record." "I ain't my damn leaders," Ion replies, immediate and firm, and here Charles can feel the metallic-edged vehemence behind this -- disdainful and disappointed, brimming with hurt and disgust at the kind of leader who would put his people in such danger and then, simply, vanish. "I been fighting. For all our people. I --" His lips press tight, eyes lowering momentarily as he takes in a slow breath. It's out of some sheer and stubborn sense of politic that he does not continue, here, does not, right now, want to further anger these men and make this interaction more difficult than it already has to be. For a stark-bright moment, though, Charles can feel that sense of disdain brimming over to encompass these pseudo-cops in their opulent mansion, sitting on their high horse with their clean hands while how many Promethean children ended up safely in these walls because of his family's sacrifice. While every day more mutants straggle in to Freaktown with empty bellies and haunted eyes fleeing a world that has tried and tried again to kill them but are not worthy of the same notice as one mass-murdering fed -- in Ion's eyes, this persistent inaction a far bigger amassed Sacrifice For The Greater Good than one man who has killed many and says he will again. It's Charles's mention of children, of Raven, that pulls him back into something approximating calm. Mostly this is met with a confusion, but it's filed away to Ask About Later as he steers his thoughts back on track. "{My Brothers want safety. I was suppose to kill him. They ain't got no intentions on you and I ain't taking you to them. You want my assurance? If you can't do it, I bring you home safe and that's my word. And if you can't do it, I kill him. And that's my word too.}" Scott clutches tighter again at the spare visor in his hands, a little startled at the edge behind this denial, and shifts on his feet; somewhere behind the forward-facing quiet of his mind he's not sure what to make of the idea that there exists a Brotherhood separate from its leaders, that any organization can be so easily cleaved from who is calling the orders. This confusion reflects only briefly back onto himself and Charles, as Scott considers his own team and his own leadership, before he is back on the Brotherhood. For the first time he wonders very idly what Ion has risked by coming here, before the slight swell of worry that accompanies this is packed neatly away again. His mind stays very quiet as he chooses words -- not for Ion, this time, but finally presented plainly and simply to Charles: << I don't want you to do this alone. >> Charles narrows his eyes fractionally, and almost manages to mask the flare of his anger -- almost, but for just a brief flash of heat that quickly mellows to an indefinable apologetic warmth. "You aren't your leaders," he agrees, simply. "I don't trust them, but I trust that you are willing and able to defy them." << He can risk their ire because he is powerful and well-connected, >> he tells Scott silently even while he's speaking. << But it's not without risk, and I hardly to do this alone, either. Such work takes a great deal of concentration. >> "I accept your word and give you mine to be forthright with what I am able or not able to do." << {Not merely for Halim's sake,} >> is for just Ion, this time. "But Raven is as resourceful as she is capricious. I expect she would guess what you're planning even if you didn't tell her, so I hope you'll not object to Scott coming along." His lips press into a grim line. "Nor to my switching this chair out for one less liable to ah...short circuit, as it were." "I told her," Ion confirms readily enough. "They ain't real pleased with this plan but if shit go sideways with the technopath --" In his mind the litany of faces have gotten a bit more shadowed, a bit more bloody. "-- That'll be on me and them." But he is easing, at least a little, at Charles's reassurance. "Yeah, yeah. Bring your boy. No phones, neither, though. Nothing with no hint of computer in it. I ain't trusting this motherfucker 'round a goddamn abacus till we know more." It's only now, scrubbing his palm slowly against his beard, that he finally gives Scott a -- brief, crooked -- smile. "Che, Punch-eyes. Glad you made it back safe." Scott eases too, the slight slump in his posture only noticeable for how very upright it was to start with, his relief far more plain to Charles, and he smiles back -- brief, thin, but rare. "Mm," he says. "You too, Ion."