ArchivedLogs:Bringing In The Trash
| Bringing In The Trash | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2015-12-02 'Right. Well. Welcome home.' (Part of Flu Season TP.) |
| Location
<XS> Front Gate | |
Situated along the long sweep of Greymalkin Lane, offset from the quiet hamlet of Salem Center, the Xavier Institute is a prestigious boarding school for young minds. Set on more than forty acres of carefully cultivated land, the mansion is not visible from the road. What can be seen are the rolling hills, forested grounds, and the sparkling blue of the large clear lake. The drive is gated, a small brick enclosure housing the security guard on duty to ID and vet visitors to the school. Somewhere off in the distance there is a creaking groan that rises above the rustle of wind through trees, here. Deep and croaking and resonant -- the chorus of hundreds upon hundreds Salem Center's dead, excited and baying after their prey. That's in the distance. Hopefully. Much /nearer/, though: the dirty guttural chug of a pair of engines, rolling their far-too-noisy way up towards the school gates no doubt to be seen by many camera's watchful eyes. Though municipal services have long since ceased around here, it seems someone has come to collect the /trash/? At least, a pair of dump trucks is roaring up to the drive. Blood-spattered dump trucks, bristling all over with jutting protrusions of thick bone spears. THWP -- a length of webbing zips down from a tree as one of the trucks passes under it, a thump coming a moment later as one small green figure slings himself down from the trees, a little out of breath but unharmed as he takes up a perch atop a platform on top of one of the trucks. In true cougar fashion, Deltressa wears tight leather pants. Granted, they've been stitched in a Frankenstein-manner to accommodate just how leggy the Great Dane of a woman is. Pulled over a pair of high-heeled boots, she's added at least 6-inches to her already unimaginable height. In contrast to the form-fitting pants, her more horrific features concealed behind the humble fabric of a niqab, under which something sinister shifts and creeps. As she steps out of the driver's seat of the one of the trucks, she rises and rises ...and rises. Drumming her stiletto-nails along the rim of the door, she dips to be handed a small bundle from her passenger - a woman who has concealed her face in a similar fashion. Deltressa wraps the chirping baby to her in a sling of fabric, clicking down to it maternally. The first sign that their approach has been noticed is a small blood-red dragonfly robot, humming out of the woods to hover by the gate. It flits a little bit forward, hovering for a moment at eye level with Anole before passing on. Soon afterwards, though, a figure comes jogging out of the woods nearby as well. Slightly flushed, boots crunching into the dried leaves. Jax looks remarkably colourless given his usual proclivities -- black hiking boots, olive-drab hiking pants, a plain black X-jacket, a soft red fleece beanie pulled down over his bald head, plain black eyepatch. There's a long knife in his hand, another sheathed at his hip, though nothing particularly threatening in the way he is holding it -- a slight grimace on his face as he wipes it clean against a scrap of rag in his other hand. He squints past the gate, then up at the trucks. Then at the driver who has just emerged. Up at the platform again. His pierced brows are furrowing. "... /Anole/?" Another strand of webbing shoots out once the trucks have stopped, latching onto the roof of the guard station at the gate. Anole swings himself over, scurrying to the roof's edge to peer down towards Jax, green eyes wide as he peeks downward. "Who are -- oh. You look terrible." Anole blinks several times at the sight of Jax's un-makeupp'd face. His head ducks after this, kind of cringe-y as he remembers himself: 'Is there medicine here I brought people. Many sick. Need medicine. Told them it would be safe here. We can stay a little bit right?' He gestures over his shoulder to the trucks. "We brought our own weapons." A clear selling point. And, brightening: "And Marrow." Snapping her fingers a few times, Deltressa signals her daughter to go around to the back of the truck while she approaches Jax. "Don't be rude," she chastises Anole sweetly in her husky voice before switching to vulgar attempts at signing of her own, 'Please, we require A-I-D.' Her black eyes fix down on the X-Man. If she is intimidating, it is by no intention of her own, 'We've met in P-A-S-S-I-N-G. I am D-E-L, our medic.' '... my makeup all burned up.' Jax seems more bemused than offended by Anole's comment. He is taking out his phone, tapping at it to hold it up to a control panel by the gate; the gates slide open, slowly. His frown hasn't quite cleared up even as he sheaths his knife; if anything, his eye is growing wider still as he looks over the trucks. Then looks up (up! up!) at Deltressa. Back at the trucks. Back at Del. 'Hi yes medicine. We have enough. To give. -- Wait wait there's more people. /In/ trucks.' His brain is only slowly catching up to this scenario, one hand pressing knuckles to his lips. What little colour has /been/ in his face is fleeing. 'How -- many? Are you?' The mention of Marrow has him looking over the trucks a liiittle closer. Eying their bristling BONE spikes warily. Anole ducks his head sheepishly, nodding to Deltressa and signing a quick 'sorry' as his cheeks flush a little darker. He scuttles down the wall of the gatehouse once the gates open, sliding down to the floor to stand upright. 'Oh yes! Trucks safer. For travel. Only 53 of us. Guest wing big enough yes? Nobody mind cramming into rooms. Used to that. Del good medic can help with our sick. Won't be a bother.' 'The third truck isn't F-A-R,' Deltressa signs before throwing Jax an obvious wink. Her smirk is concealed behind her niqab. 'Just kidding.' Clearly under the /bold/ assumption that the caravan couldn't possibly be turned away by HEROES, the arachnid woman moves to prowl back towards the driver's side door. "Zoraida," she summons her daughter to rejoin her, bouncing the human-looking babe to her bosom. The mention of the third truck has Jax pressing his scab-covered hand even harder to his lips, a veeery tiny whimper stifled behind his hand. He probably relaxes at the wink. Probably. At least his hand falls, and he exhales a small breath maybe of relief. He takes a moment as Deltressa moves off to turn his face away, lean back against a pillar of the gate, a small slump in his shoulder. 'Fifty three,' is not signed but mouthed to himself. He straightens with a /firm/ nod, a squaring of his shoulders. '/Right/.' The thump of his hands together on this is also more solid than strictly necessary. 'The guest wing is -- right. You guys should know there's a bunch of humans here right now. From Salem. Town's been swarmed. They will --" He shifts a little uncomfortably, teeth wiggling at one lip ring. 'Stare.' Probably putting it mildly. Anole's nose wrinkles at this news, though he only nods: 'We saw. Drove through. Went to help Marrow --' He points back down the drive. 'Lead zombies away. So they not follow. Here. She gone still. Make sure they stay there. Not here.' He fidets here, too, though, wrapping an arm across his chest to rub fingers against his opposite arm. 'Used to staring. Before humans too. Need medicine.' Deltressa misses the last bit of information, and so it is likely to come to her as a nasty little surprise. She'll have to add Keeper of the Peace to her ever growing list of honorary titles. The first truck's doors slam shut and after a pause, the engine starts up once more. Jax's cheeks puff out, his hand falling to his side. There's a moment where he just -- stands. Staring up at the trucks with a little bit of a lost expression. He shakes his head quickly, though, nodding as he moves back out of the way of the drive to head back inside. 'Right. Well. Welcome home.' | |
