View source for Logs:Your intuition is working well, and you have a clear view of what's coming.

{{ Logs
| cast = [[Heather]], [[Ion]], [[Isra]], [[Natasha|Natalie]]
| summary = "We are owed three and a half of these people as compensation."
| gamedate = 2020-08-24
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = 
| location = <BOM> [[Common Room]] - Bom Lodge
| categories = Heather, Ion, Isra, Natasha, BOM Common Room, Brotherhood of Mutants
| log = 

<pre style="white-space: pre-wrap;">
Donald J. Trump☑️ @realDonaldTrump (2020-08-24 12:33) The Radical Left Democrats (in collusion with the Deep State) will go to any length to DESTROY America! A Fake News Sentinel Assassination HOAX now? Gee, I wonder why?? They know my beautiful convention will draw bigger audiences than Sleepy Joe's snoozefest!
</pre>

The common room's rustic-lodge feel has been somewhat mitigated by the modern amenities inside its sturdy wooden walls. It has comfortable couches, several chairs, a refrigerator (stocked with snacks and drinks!), a pool table, a pinball machine (METALLICA!), an assortment of books, a television -- with several game systems! -- and a splendid view out the windows (when their lacy yellow curtains are drawn open) for the rest of the island. The pale wood floors have been covered in places -- by a pair of soft thick blue rugs, by a large squishy pair of beanbags that stand in front of the stone fireplace. There's also a board up on the wall, half corkboard, half whiteboard, with a variety of community notes (and occasional insults) to other Brotherhood members. 

Large doors on the right-hand side lead off to the kitchen and dining room. In the back of the room, the council room's heavy oak door bears solid locks that are almost never actually barred. A short hall adjacent to the council room's door leads to a trio of multi-stalled bathrooms; these might once have been marked with the typical man-woman-handicapped signs, but someone has given them new plaques on the door; a stick figure with horns and a long tail, one with wings. One -- the large single-user toilet -- has instead been given a helmet and a cape.

The television has been left on in here -- it's hard to say why, nobody really seems to be ''watching'' it. Probably nobody is watching it because the room is empty, though there are ''plenty'' of adjacent signs of life -- clattering and rich warm smells from the kitchen, thuds and heavy breathing from the training room below, voices drifting in from the grounds through the fluttering curtains on the open windows.

Probably nobody ''would'' be watching it, regardless, because for some mystery reason it is currently tuned to the barely-coherent rantings of Fox News -- something-or-other about Trump's Latest Twitter Storm.

Ion isn't paying it a ''lot'' of mind as he emerges from the kitchen, wearing a cheerful yellow apron with a smiling cartoon avocado (arms flung wide, it says 'Let's Avocuddle!' underneath) over his black tee and jeans, booming voice carrying easily over the television as he sticks his head out the window to announce lunch is ready. ''Stays'' in the window after, perched on the sill with one leg dangling out it, patting at his pocket to dig out a pack of Newports.

Isra has been sitting on the porch, typing diligently on her gigantic laptop, wearing  a drapey, silver affair that wraps close to her muscular frame and accentuates rather than disguises her inhuman physique. Her skin is a pearlescent blue-purple all over, lighter on her face, palm, and ventral surfaces, a dusting of fine metallic spots along the dorsal surfaces looking like nothing so much as the milky way in a clear sky. The membranes of her massive wings are even more striking, painted to resemble shattered prisms that catche and reflects light in a veritable rainbow of spectra. The horns that spiral back from her forehead and the talons that tip all thirty of her digits are a bright, polished silver.

She's closing the computer and rising even Ion's pronouncement, perhaps hearing his approach. "Thank you," she tells him soberly as she ducks in the doorway, tail swishing beneath the silvery hem of her dress. Despite her obvious eagerness for lunch, she pauses as she crosses in front of the television, eyes fixing on the screen, head tilting, ears perked up.

There's a thump of footsteps coming up the stairs, a clunk of the door. Natalie's in lycra shorts, a sports bra, hair tied back in a ponytail, water bottle in hand and a towel around her shoulders. She's downing a long gulp of her water, nodding a breathless thanks at Ion though she isn't quite cooled-down enough to beeline for the food yet. Rocking into some lazy stretches as she slooowly drifts nearer the television before a blunt: "The fuck."

Heather was not there before Ion made his announcement, and then suddenly, she is present. A gust of air accompanies her even as she stops with a squeak of her battered shoes. Her goggles, yellow-rimmed and purple tinted, cover her eyes as they often do. Her phone, the screen cracked in a few places, is in her hand with Twitter open, but it disappears into her bag when she looks back up to see Ion and gives a rapid wave to the foodbringer. She is wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a grinning watermelon surfing on a wave of colourful trash, and a pair of pants patterned with multicoloured geometric shapes. Her gaze turns towards the TV, her recorded voice plays after a few moments, "What are they saying?"

"Eh?" Ion looks up, flashing Heather a grin. "Probably they saying that chicken stew it'll get cold, you wait long." This is a lie. The oven is on very low, in the kitchen; the food will be warm a while. Ion tucks a cigarette between his lips, but doesn't light it. His eyes dart to the other women. "The fuck what the fuck." He hops down off the window as quickly as he got on it. "Oh shiiit, it's that time already. Shit, y'all watch this shit you gonna lose your appetite."

"Lose my appetite for your cooking? Unlikely. But also, I do not think it is going to be that time," Isra says evenly. Her tail is twitching, fast and agitated, the rest of her preternaturally still. "Evidently he's been tweeting about a 'Sentinel assassination hoax'. They know."

Natalie's eyes are fixed on the television, fingers tightening on her water bottle. She drifts closer, perching on an arm of a sofa. "That's gonna put a wrench in things." She lifts her bottle, takes another slow sip. "What's he saying? If he's dumb enough to think it's a hoax --" Her brows furrow.

"How would they know?" Heather picks up her phone again and looks back through her feed at first anxiously, but after getting through the last things that she has written her shoulders relax again. "I did not post anything incriminating." Her eyebrows knit slightly. "Is he going to not show up? It is his big day. Turn on the captions."

"They got a fucking army looking over all them robots, yeah?" Ion reaches for one of the remote controls, hesitating before picking it up. Switching the captions on, setting the remote back below the television. "We know B she's a genius but someone coulda see ''something'', after we send our pet spider back out there." He drops down onto the couch, leans forward with elbows on his knees. "Wait, this ''from'' their Nazi party? Like ''now''-now?"

Isra cocks her head slightly at the screen. "It does look that way." Her brow ridges pull together. "Surely they will have pulled all of the Sentinels off duty, if they know." Despite these words, she's scanning the screen intently. "If they haven't, we might want to shift gears and take advantage while we still can."

Natalie, too, is watching the screen with a keener eye. "There --" She points with the tip of her bottle -- a passing flash of many-legged robot in the background as an interview is conducted. "Do they ''actually'' think it's a hoax? This is live? Bot's are still there, for now, at least." Her eyes skip to Heather. Head shaking quick. "His big day ''should'' have been Thursday but the pompous ass insisted on speaking every day. Not sure if he's there right ''now''. He was gonna accept the nomination from DC. This is -- what, North Carolina? Who's there, now?"

"More big days are better," observes Heather. She shakes her head quickly, "How many times will they say Marxist? It could be a drinking game. If you want to die." Her lips press into a tight line as she consults her phone again. "It looks like this is live yes. I have a guest list for today. If they cannot target the president, it is unfair. We are owed three and a half of these people as compensation." She has her phone read off the list, a bit faster than one would expect from a screen reader.

"Shit, ''all'' them people there today? Scalise, he there? That fucker? Registration fucker?" Ion's cheek clicks against his teeth. His hand flings outward towards the screen. "Them rich gun fucks together maybe almost half a person, huh?" His brows pull together, his knee bobbing rapidly. "Where B at? Can she -- uh. Her shit gonna work in Carolina? Lil sticker thing?" His hand wiggles towards his face.

Isra nods slowly. "Scalise could use a good killing," she agrees. "Charlie Kirk, too. Too bad it isn't likely we'd be able to get them all before someone shut the Sentinels down. But yes." Her wings mantle out, as if she would take flight right there and go searching for B. "I think this will work anywhere she can get a projector. So let's get one in there."

"Someone else thought so once, too," Natalie says, a little wistfully. "Didn't take." She gets up, tapping the cap of her water bottle against her thigh to push it closed. Draws in a slow breath, gives the screen a long look. "Hope that stew's gonna stay warm. Guess our afternoon's about to get real busy."
}}