ArchivedLogs:Up to Speed

Up to Speed
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Ororo	2013-08-15 X-Men Briefing
Location <XS> Command and Control Center - B2
Here is the heart of the Xavier Institute's true operations, the room most central to its purpose, where the Institute's most adventuresome and powerful individuals gather to receive exposition. The room is dominated by an oversized viewscreen on one wall, presently displaying an intricate diagram of the planet Earth, as well as a large central holographic projector and a handful of computer terminals along the periphery. Curiously, the whole place is rather dimly lit, as though its designers prioritized dramatic lighting over being able to find anything. Despite the solemn officiality of the room, Jackson cuts anything /but/ a Solemn Official figure. He sits at the central table chatting, currently, with Scott (who pulls off Solemn and Official /much/ better than he does); at the moment, he's dressed in a lavender t-shirt with Dr. Seuss illustrations on it ('I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees', it says on the front woven through the illustrations, and on the back, 'Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.'); the t-shirt is paired with black capri pants that have had brightly coloured dragonflies embroidered into them, and chunky silver-and-black sneakers. His eyepatch is silver-trimmed, too, around a purple body. The conference table has cupcakes. They're very /cheerfully/ decorated cupcakes, chocolate-cherry and blueberry lemon in flavour but vividly rainbowy in decoration. Jackson is peeling the wrapper off of one, tongue swiping through the icing. He sits with one leg tucked up on the seat beneath himself, his other leg swinging against his chair with a habitual restless energy as he waits for the small meeting to collect itself. Ororo is perhaps the team member least concerned about solemn officiality, despite the fact that she pulls it off fabulously and seemingly effortlessly; actions speak louder than words, to her, and /far/ louder than fashion. Her presence in the conference room has been a rarity, this past year; after the events at the Statue of Liberty she was sent out on assignment after assignment, culminating in three solid months away over the summer. She still has yet to entirely exorcise the smell of smoke -- hot, sharp, dangerous, not the cozy holiday aroma nor that of a next-door neighbor's grill -- from her hair, though her appearance is otherwise crisp and neat. "Thank you for coming, everyone," she murmurs, in her low, smooth voice. It's about as effective as banging a gavel in a courtroom, to call the meeting to order, combined with her entrance into the room. "It brings much joy to my heart to see you all well." And while she may not indulge in a cupcake -- she's not opposed to them, she's just not hungry -- she does indulge in the thoughtful studying of, and softly smiling at, each person around the table in turn, appreciating their presence in a palpable way. "Scott, I was hoping we could begin with a briefing. As you all know, I am woefully out of date." She takes a seat at the table, next to Jean, then turns to Jackson expectantly, whom the telepath may have sneakily informed her is currently the one most in the know. (Or not, who can say?) She folds her hands, raises her eyebrows inquisitively, meets his vivid blue steadily with hers, and waits. Her acceptance of him as a teammate, rather than a student, is thus silently and totally communicated; there are no cracks about his (relative) novicehood, only respectful interest in what he has to say. Acceptance or no acceptance, there is a moment when Ororo enters where Jackson starts to /rise/ from his seat, deep ingrained habit when authority figures enter the room that Southern upbringing makes hard to shake. He only /half/ stands though, and then settles back again in his seat as the separate conversations around the room go silent. His tongue flicks out to wipe a stray crumb of cupcake from the corner of his mouth, and he nods. "S'a joy we're all more'n feelin', too, ma'am." His thick drawl is warm as ever; his smile is warm, too, if soon to even out into a quieter expression. "Even if celebration might hafta take a backseat. Hear tell you been more'n busy yourself. City's been kinda exploding here, too. Ever since that ordinance got passed banning using mutant abilities in public it's just been tension after tension. Someone tried /shooting/ the mayor when he announced that, and it's kinda escalated since there. Norman Osborn announced /he/ was building a --" Jackson's lips twitch upwards; it's almost a smile, but kind of too thin to hold much humour to it. "Institute. To /help/ mutants, though by all appearances, it looks more like a place to build himself his own private army. Probably a thing to keep an eye on. He also, ah, knows about this school. Though he don't seem inclined to tell nobody else about it -- /he's/ dangerous enough though that that's -- something to be aware of." /This/ announcement comes with a slight drum of his fingers against the tabletop, but he continues on evenly enough. "Most of the tension in the city lately stems back to the police. They'd been kidnapping mutants," here, even though his voice is calm, there's briefly a slight flicker of light around him, just a soft shimmer than fades away soon, "and forcing them to fight each other. For entertainment. When it came to light it -- caused a lot of backlash. We got the mutants out, but one of them killed a cop -- publicly. Been trying to stop more escalation since then but it's hard to keep a lid on that kinda angry. Also, uh -- after the news came out about it a woman blew up City Hall, which -- didn't help none with people's opinions of us." Ororo bows her head pleasantly at Jackson's welcome, the torch of her smile remaining in her eyes, though the rest of her expression has become grave. That gravity only intensifies as the briefing goes on; she nods again, with recognition, at the news of the ordinance, which apparently was carried on national networks. She tilts her head to one side, thoughtfully, which sends her starlight mane cascading over one shoulder, as he speaks of Norman Osborn's Institute. Her lips purse, as though she has a thought, but she opts not to interrupt. The fact that a thunderstorm doesn't occur on the spot -- indoors, no less -- at the news of the police's kidnapping mutants to fight for sport is testament to her self-discipline. Her expression barely changes, though the light in her eyes grows cold with fury. And the feeling that the room's temperature drops a few degrees may be literal rather than figurative. It stabilizes after a few moments, the event barely a heartbeat long. "Please excuse me," she murmurs, as one might apologize for passing wind in an entirely different sense. "And thank you," she adds, simply and honestly. "Do you have any further news, or analysis, or suggestions? I would like to hear it all, please, though you have already given me a great deal to think about. Still, sometimes the perspective of an outsider can help shed new light." "A number of our students were taken by the police," Jackson tells her -- very quiet, again, very calm, though it comes with that same brief flicker of light. "As well as one who'll be starting this upcoming term. Been rough for them, might be good to keep an eye on things with them." He draws in a breath, lips pressing slightly together. "The Brotherhood broke the woman outta jail who blew up City Hall. The same woman kidnapped one of our students earlier this year. Ivan Dravovich. I spoke with her personally when I went ot get him back from her, and I think she's a lot more -- hurt than /bad/ -- but that's still dangerous. I don't know if she'll come lookin' for him, but if she does, I think she can be reasoned with. -- S'a woman from that same jailbreak up in Harlem. I know one'a the other folks up there, too. Things are quiet there for the moment, I don't --" His head shakes. "-- know the whole story, yet, but for now they got food and ain't nobody doing no /killing/ so that's a good." "And -- The woman who -- killed the police officer responsible for running the fight ring. The news reported recently that she was killed in a police action in the sewers trying to arrest her. That ain't the truth. We have reliable intel that they fabricated that report so they could take her to the same labs that --" His lips compress again; it's common enough knowledge among the X-Men that Jax's own eyepatch is a trophy of his stint in those same labs; "-- a number of our students come from. They also took a couple of other Morlocks. We helped a few of the Morlocks arrange a rescue on a convoy taking them /to/ the labs but -- they switched the prisoners at the last moment," he says, regretfully. "Two of the three of them are still in laboratory custody." His expression, here, is darker than usual. "I think that's about it for news." Jackson's twitches a quick crooked half-smile. "If that can be called it. As someone who's been watchin' the city for the past couple months, all I can tell you is that it's a powder keg. Right now it needs /positive/ examples'a mutants -- but /being/ a positive example of one is -- like to just make you a target. I think keeping the situation in Harlem from exploding should probably be our biggest priority right now. After that --" There is oddly uncharacteristic /reluctance/ in his voice when he says, "-- helping the Morlocks get their folks back." Ororo folds her hands in front of her and starts to scowl increasingly, thunder writ large across her face instead of across the sky. How much of that expression is reaction to all this, and how much is extreme concentration to prevent further outbursts, is difficult to say. "So members of the police are working with Prometheus," she muses, her tone not half as dark as her expression. It's more thoughtful than anything. When Jackson continues, she falls silent once again, and nods her firm agreement to his opinion. "Feelings travel in both directions," she reflects, more softly, her voice like a soothing, sweet summer breeze. "Everything is connected. The city may need positive examples of mutants, but the mutants, too, need reasons to work towards peace. They need hope, Jackson. There is no more powerful force for justice than people with something to believe in." She fixes him with a thousand-yard stare, as though looking at some part of him more than skin-deep. There's no disapproval there, only steady, patient concern. "What is the matter?" Uncharacteristic reluctance /indeed/; she's not the sort to let that sort of thing pass her by. "Members of -- /something/. A new organization? /HAMMER/, it's called. Seems to be their sole purpose to -- kill us." Jackson says this with a strange sort of detachment. His hand lifts, knuckles digging it at his one good eye. "The man in charge of it is -- very dedicated t'his job. The day he went down into the tunnels after the Morlocks I -- well. I was there, he don't mess around." His head shakes, and his hand drops back to the table. His eye scrunches up; for a moment the expression that crosses his face is distinctly guilty. Faint dark tendrils of shadow curl their way up around his arms, twining there and then dissipating. "I'm sorry," this apology appears to be directed to the room at large. "It ain't right to let my personal feelings get in the way of --" He swallows. "Those places are horrific. It /should/ be a priority to make sure we don't leave /anyone/ to get tortured in them, if we know where one is. Forgive me." He swallows hard, and his expression forces itself back into neutrality. "Should have information soon on the address of the lab. Can work from there on researching the best approach to hitting it up." "Jackson," Ororo says gently, reaching a hand across the table towards his without hesitation, irrespective of any shadowy tendrils, "You have done exemplary work." No caveats, no buts, no howevers. "Please... never apologize for your feelings. It is far better to work with the tide than against it, and the tides of your heart most of all. Your compassion is not weakness; it is strength." She clears her throat, lifting her head with great dignity to look around the room -- not daring anyone to oppose what she says next, but rather wholly confident in her team, in her friends, as their feeling anything less than what she describes would be a bitter break from tradition indeed. "And I know I speak for all of us when I say that we are with you, completely, without reservation. Saving those held by the Prometheus program is a very high priority indeed, and the bare instant that you have further intelligence on their activities, we /will/ formulate a plan. In fact, I will begin my own investigation. Harlem, as you described, is an excellent place to start -- there is a strong police presence there, and surely Prometheus is paying close attention to this opportunity to acquire more subjects. The bridge between the two organizations has probably already been assigned there." She pours a drink from the water pitcher in the center of the table and offers it to him. "We should find out who filed that fabricated report. Surely there are members of the police who would like to know that one of their own is serving other masters." The hand that meets Ororo's is feverish-warm, burning far hotter than most peoples as he turns his fingers over to curl just briefly around hers. For a moment his head hangs; shakes. "-- I'll let y'all know the moment I know anything," he assures them, quiet. His teeth sink in against his lip, and for a moment his expression sinks into guilt again. His mouth opens -- but closes again, without saying anything else. His other hand lifts, and he nibbles again at his colourful cupcake. "Hive is poking into a number of the Prometheus -- guard folk. If he finds out anything there, I'll let y'all know, too. Think at the moment that might just be a waiting game, though. But Harlem at least we might could do something about in the now. I, um." He blushes. "-- sent them cupcakes. Seems to be kinda a standoff for now. Police ain't acting. If we can get people out or talk 'em down afore there's any more violence maybe there just -- won't /be/ any more violence." Ororo squeezes Jackson's hand with the same tender gentleness that one might touch a bird, or something equally precious. (Storm loves birds.) She bows her head in acceptance of his assurance. "As will I," she reaffirms. "As for Harlem... the obvious action to take is, of course, to ensure that when the building inevitably comes under attack, there is simply no one there to attack. If that can be demonstrated /before/ an attempt to breach the building, there would be nothing for offended mutants to retaliate against, either. The person -- the Sing Sing escapee whose location precipitated all this -- are her feelings known? Is she spoiling for a fight? Or would she be willing to be extricated?" "Sent Dusk in with food. From what he says, she don't seem like a real militant sort. -- Actually, from the sound of it she didn't really have no call to be in Sing Sing in the first place. Seems like a case of bein' a mutant in the wrong place at the wrong time. She ain't even had a trial yet. Was in jail pending a trial for a murder she likely didn't even commit." Jackson grimaces, at this. "I /wish/ I had faith in the justice system to treat her proper. But with the way things are these days, having /scales/ is more a mark against you than -- whether you actually did it or not, unfortunately. Might be we could get her out first, an' see about gettin' her good legal representation next." "Gathering evidence for the trial sounds like a relatively low-danger task to assign someone to," Ororo observes quietly. "A senior student, even, if the circumstances are sufficiently safe. I will consider our options." She pours herself a drink of water, as well, and raises it in a silent toast to Jackson. "A mutant winning a legal trial would be an excellent reason for hope for us all." She drinks to that, and to him, then rises. "There is not a shortage of tasks before us. If you will excuse me, I will see to mine immediately. Thank you again, Jackson, for the briefing." She tries to squeeze his shoulder on her way out of the room, though if he avoids the contact, she makes no fuss about it, simply passing by. Right now, her task is to tend her secret garden on the roof, and let the pain of the latest news leech out of her like rain from soil to sea. Hopefully the plants can bring her the peace that they usually do. She had hoped to not need their therapy /quite/ this soon...