ArchivedLogs:Scenarios

Scenarios
Dramatis Personae B, Peter
In Absentia	2015-10-18 "Oh, *man* -- suddenly, my Last Airbender / Brotherhood fan-fic got *way* more interesting."
Location <BOS> B's Dorm - MIT, Random Hall
As college dorm rooms go, this one isn't terrible, a 2-room in in Random Hall with a decent amount of spaec for the desks and dressers (and lots of shelving and boxes that have been brought in for bits and bobs of machinery parts.) The room has been painted bright and cheerful, green and blue and yellow; half of the furniture is very tidily arranged while the other half kind of /overflows/ with odds and ends, small bone-worked statues, books, little robots. B, at the moment, is tucked into the lower bunk of the bunk beds (it's had some colorful strips of fabric tacked up to serve as curtaining, though these are pulled back and open right now) Hir roommate, thank god, is nowhere to be seen at the moment. Ze /has/ had hir computer out, a video call in progress; a holographic projection of Shane is tucked at hir side, though the call is ending. "{-- /seriously/. As bad as Dad I swear. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you.}" holo-Shane says in Vietnamese, before vanishing. B dips hir head, scrubbing a hand fiercely against hir eyes before flopping down on hir belly to turn hir attention to hir laptop. No sooner has Holo-Shane vanished -- giving B just a moment to scrub at hir eyes -- than does the sound of knocking come from the door. Rap-a-rap-rap-rap! It's a rapid, staccato pace; it's immediately accompanied by the sound of rattling, clicking, clunking -- a few mumbled curses -- and then... *click*! Peter's dark face peeks out from beneath the loose-fitting black hoodie; the collar of his blue buttoned up shirt is just slightly popped up from the corner of the hoodie's lower half. Peter's appearance is flustered; there's a hint of indigo, borderline violet to his cheeks -- his glasses, which have been brutalized since his arrival here, have received a recent fresh coating of tape to keep them together in one piece. Probably more notable: Peter's hoodie is currently soaked across the back, clinging rather sloppily to his spine and shoulders. The front half only has a few flicks of moisture clinging to it. As he peeks into the room, he briefly grimaces at the sight of B -- scooting inside, keeping his front to hir. "Ohhey." There's a small flutter of B's gills before ze rolls over, wiping once more justincase at hir eyes. Clad in comfortable pajamas, herself (purple yoga pants and a soft black tank top), Ze relaxes at the sight (or scent?) of Peter at the door, though, sitting up again and scooting to the back of the mattress to make room for him. "Oh, /you/. Thank goodness. I was worried Mac was back early." A small shudder at this thought. "You're -- wet." Sniff? Sniff sniff? Ze creeps forward on the mattress to snuffle curiously in Peter's direction. "--yeah," Peter comments, glancing off to the left -- a crooked grin slinking its way across his features. "No, it's just -- me. I'm wet. Uh, tripped into a puddle, and y'know -- lost the keys to my room. Was going to..." Peter's sneaky attempt to keep his back to B ends here; B's already got the scent. There's other scents clinging to Peter, too; wet foliage and the odor of creeping autumn. Peter's shoulders slump -- he half-turns, partially exposing the length of soaked hoodie -- a few colorful strips of leaves still clinging to it. The moisture is mostly soaked in; it's still dribbling, but only a little, down the waist and back of his pants. "...grab the spare I gave you, um, if that's okay." "Tripped." B's brows raise skeptically, nose still twitching. "Oh! Oh right yeah no I, yeah. Uhh --" Hir eyes cast around the cluttered-messy surfaces of /her/ desk, her dresser, her spaces so much less tidy than those of her roommate. She scrambles off the bed, computer left open on the mattress behind her as she goes to rummage through her desk. "Do you want to borrow a sweatshirt? Or something? I have a couple huge comfy ones that might fit. It's getting /so/ freaking cold out." "Yeah, I..." Peter starts, before -- his mouth clamps shut. Watching B struggle to rummage through her desk -- and at the mention of the sweatshirt -- Peter's expression shifts from one of nervous anxiety to an easier, relaxed grin. "...yeah, actually, um. That would be *awesome*, I think." Without another word, he's stripping out of the hoodie, peeling it back -- ew, ew, *ew*, wet and slimy! -- and dragging it over his head. Underneath, his blue collar shirt is *also* damp, though not nearly as soaked as the outer hoodie. He drops the hoodie beside the door, in a sopping pile; wrinkling his nose at it, he turns to B, and... "...oh, by the way -- did you *hear*? We're *Magneto*, now," Peter says, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial half-whisper -- that relaxed smile is now a broad, crooked grin. B's rummaging pauses, gills fluttering open. A small breath hitches inward -- when she turns around (no keys in hand yet) to lean against the desk, hir eyes are wider, a lopsided half-smile on hir face. "You could've just /metalbended/ your keys over to yourself and I wouldn't have had to get up." The smile fades after this, though. "It's been all over the news -- um -- have you -- it hasn't given /you/ problems, has it?" She's eying the sodden sweatshirt, though, with a trace of uncertainty. "--hmph, I guess I could have done that. Oh, man, Magneto is -- Toph? Oh, *man* -- suddenly, my Last Airbender / Brotherhood fan-fic got *way* more interesting," Peter says, his face suddenly split with the width of his grin as he creeps forward -- creep, creep! -- toward B. "So like, the pro-registration people are the Equalizers?" The question gives Peter a brief, hesitant pause -- his eyes slink over to the wet hunk of fabric, too -- before slinking back to B, and immediately giving a shrug. "Dunno. Doesn't matter, though, I mean -- come on that's totally *worth* it. Registering everyone as Magneto I mean that's --" Peter hops forward, suddenly; now he's on B's mattress, sitting and watching keenly as B searches desk drawers. "--I mean you know I'm not into the whole violence thing? But that's *awesome*." "... you write Brotherhood fanfic." There's a distinct widening to B's eyes at this, hir hand lifting to press against her mouth. The tiny choked noise that gets lodged in hir throat is prooobably a laugh. She turns back to the desk /quickly/ after this, closing one drawer to open another to look through. "Awesome?" Her gills open, then close again. "First I've heard /that/, everyone on the news is just having conniptions." Peter's grin doesn't fade -- he shakes his head, a little, at the mention of Brotherhood fan-fic. "That was a joke, but y'know, it's *gotta* exist, I mean..." He pauses, pursing his lips together, suddenly thinking. "...like, even Al Qaeda's got fan-fic, and it's not like the Brotherhood is--" Peter stops here, suddenly frowning -- a prominent brow-wrinkle marring his expression. He soon leans back, propping his palms behind him on the mattress -- leaning back far enough to make his legs dangle above the floor. "Yeah, that's because they're idiots. Like, 'oh my God! This means we might accidentally beat up *non-mutants*! The horror!'" To emphasize the horror, Peter drops -- fully flat -- atop of B's mattress, lifting his palms up to slap against his cheeks, ala Home Alone. He retains this pose for at least a second, before leaning his head up to peek at the back of B's head, peering thoughtfully. "Not like the Brotherhood is --?" B presses, still shifting things in her drawer with a rattle and thunk. "Don't worry!" This is almost cheerful. "They can stick to beating up people like us and there'll be no mistake." Eventually the rattling stops. Even so, it's kind of a long pause before B finally turns back around, clutching Peter's keys in webbed fingers. "Anyway, if nothing comes of it it's just a stunt, right? It needs -- follow up. To matter." "--like Al Qaeda. Or maybe they are. I don't know." Peter sits up straight, now; his feet touch the floor -- he examines them, as B produces the spare set of keys. "Do they have an end game? Is there any scenario where they actually *win*?" Peter's frown intensifies; it begins to fade only when he glances up and sees those keys dangling from B's webbed fingertips. He swaps it out with a hesitant smile, particularly at the bit about no mistake. But at that last comment... the frown edges its way back in, just a bit. "...I guess, yeah, it's just... the only scenario *I* see them winning in is one where--" Peter leans forward, for the keys -- something flickers over his expression. "--people die." "I don't know. I -- you saw the future dreams, too." The mention of them alone puts a faint shiver through B, gills rippling. "I'm pretty sure that's the scenario where we /all/ lose. And even if it's not that extreme I -- think. People are /going/ to die either way." Her brows crease together deeply as she turns her hand over, presses the keys into Peter's palm. "I mean, the cages, the labs, we -- people already /are/." "Yeah," Peter agrees, and the mention of the future dreams causes him to briefly grimace -- that 'something' flickers over his expression again. Something dark and determined. "Yeah, they already are." He squeezes his hand around the keys, drawing it back, sliding it into his pocket -- still frowning. His frown is interrupted by a flicker of a smile, eyes darting to meet B's. "*You're* still alive, though." Tiny grin. "Good job." B creeps back over to the bed, dropping heavily down onto the mattress beside Peter. Ze looks down at hir hands, folding and unfolding in hir lap. "So're you," she finally says. "And I want to keep it that way for a real long time." For several long moments, Peter doesn't say anything; he doesn't know *what* to say. But then -- very slowly, and very carefully -- he reaches over toward B, arms scooping out to just firmly tug over -- and *hug*. (Even *if* his shirt is still a bit moist.)