Logs:Bad Blood
| Bad Blood | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2022-05-14 "It would be easier if he would simply drain those annoyances, but I cannot imagine they taste good." |
| Location
<BOM> Front Porch - Main Lodge - Ascension Island | |
The front porch of the lodge unfurls its way across the entire front length of the building. Stained in a dark reddish finish, it seems to have been refurbished somewhat recently, the sturdy wood rather less weather-beaten than many of the buildings on the island. A half-height railing edges most of the porch, with a wide gated staircase centrally leading to the heavy front door, and ungated ramps at either side end. Protected from all but the most driving of rains by a sloped roof, the porch has been furnished with an assortment of furniture. Wicker rocking chairs, a pair of small square aluminum tables, a hammock at the far right end, a bench swing at the left. Despite the solid locks on the doors and windows, the front door holds a cheerfully flower-edged mat reading WELCOME. There's a light rain curtaining the island in misty grey, pattering steady against the roof and leaving the ground a sodden mess. Under the eaves of the porch it's still cool and mostly dry, and it is here that Regan has made herself comfortable. She's in a black cropped tank top with crimson leather jacket over top, black skinny jeans and tall boots, tucked into one of the rocking chairs with a tablet in her lap and a large cup of coffee near to hand on a side table. Her eyes are narrowed in annoyance, the butt end of her stylus pressed to crimson lips as she tabs back and forth between a budgeting spreadsheet and a bank statement. From inside the lodge there’s a soft humming of something in the Freygish scale, accompanying Erik’s footsteps as he emerges onto the porch. Erik is wearing a loose red button-down with bell sleeves, the right cuff pushed halfway up his forearm, tucked into black leather pants hitched with a matching red belt, old black oxfords landing quietly on the wood of the porch. There’s a small notebook and trivet tucked under one arm, the other holding a large mug of still steaming tea, and a pencil tucked behind the soft fading red of his hair. He looks faintly amused at Regan’s focused annoyance as he settles into another rocking chair, floats one of the tables closer to set down his things. “I hold out hope that the bookkeeping has gotten easier in my absence, but your expression makes me think it is unlikely." Beneath a dim cloudy sky, those in flight cast no shadow. Instead what presages Isra's arrival is a moving gap in the rain, circling the lawn in front of the lodge. It's still perhaps startling when she appears, the sound of her descent masked by the rain as her immense wings are mantle wide to shed her momentum, then snap down hard once, twice, three times--stirring little vortices of water droplets--setting her gently on the ground. Instead of folding in, her wings raise up to shield her head from the rain, notwithstanding she's utterly soaked through. She stops at the base of the front steps and shakes as much water as he can from her wings before gliding up onto the porch. She's wearing a gauzy chicory blue asymmetrical wrap dress that cling to her angular, inhuman body, Her skin is its natural slate gray with subtly highlit in metallic blue-violet, the membranes of her wings rich purple edged with drifts of fuchsia spots. The caprine horns on her head and the heavy talons tipping all thirty of her digits are burnished gold to match her large, bright irises. She starts to head inside, then hesitates and look down at the amount of water she is still dripping and instead perches herself out of the door's way, wings pulled in to avoid disturbing--or dampening--the others. Her head dips low in greeting as she unzips the bag slung across her body and retrieved a tablet of her own in a waterproof neoprene sleeve. Regan's eyes flick up quickly at Erik's arrival, then snap back down to the tablet. "I don't think it's gotten worse," her reassurance comes with a wry smile. "New people make our food budget very unpredictable. I think we're going to need more chickens." She's just tapping out a note on the tablet when Isra glides in; her head inclines to the other woman. "How do you feel about goats?" “Oh, you are going to despise me,” Erik says, though he’s smiling, “for what I had been hoping to speak to you on, if the feeding of the island is what’s vexing you.” His returning nod to Isra comes with a slight frown, directed more at the puddle forming under her. Pushes his mug, still steaming, in her direction. “What other livestock is there to chose from?” Isra's ears press back and her bare eyebrow ridges tick up fractionally. She taps the screen of her tablet a couple of times and its (surprisingly robust) speakers say in a clear if clearly synthetic alto, "Delicious." Then, another tap and swipe later, "Great horns." Her tail swishes once, flicking a delicate arc of water droplets off its end as she looks down nonplussed at the shifting of Erik's mug, composing her next comment all the while. "We should have some." Regan's head tilts to the side; she taps the stylus lightly against the edge of her tablet. "If you have particular meal requests, Ion usually handles the kitchen schedule. I just make sure we're stocked." Her eyes drop back to the screen. "Rabbits. No milk, but you can get a lot of meat out of rabbits. And get a lot more rabbits from rabbits. They're like the mint of mammals." “Do you not drink tea? Come, if you must drip-dry you should at least warm your stomach.” Erik, in lieu of nudging the mug again, floats the whole table towards Isra with an easy flick of his hand. “This is about stock. We have two obligate hematophages in our ranks — what row on your spreadsheet shows how we feed them?" "Soft," Isra's tablet says. "Also delicious." Her wings draw in a little closer as she eyes the encroaching table, her tail flicking quick and tight. Then stills, her ears flattening back, at the mention of hematophagy. There's a small delay before her AAC program spits out, "I drink tea. Thank you." She snaps the stylus back into the magnetic bracket on her tablet's case and carefully crouches down to pick up the mug. The awkwardness of her long talons in this operation is ameliorated by the the silicone pads secured to the underside of each claw, and she sniffs at the tea before taking a careful sip. Regan's brows hike, her eyes dropping back to the spreadsheet. "These are for expenditures. Is there somewhere I can purchase humans as blood dispensers? I hadn't heard about it but that's a fascinating business." Her wrist rolls, stylus describing a lazy circle in the air. "Cletus has been getting regular blood deliveries, there's a cooler outside his --" Her lips twitch slightly, "--boat. Dusk --" Here her brows knit briefly together, her eyes skating to Isra and then back down. "Well, I think there's very few people around here likely to turn him down when he asks for a drink with them. As long as the rest of us stay fed we probably don't need to bring in any flatscan livestock just yet." “No, but surely we could invest in some supplies. Iron supplements. Training for blood draws, surely some people would prefer a needle to the other way.” Erik’s hand goes up to scratch idly at the puncture marks on his neck. “Money for testing, or perhaps — Mr. Concepcion could take care of that, no? With our new recruits, surely we could get enough of a rotation started that no one is left too dry. Without,” he adds, looking at Regan with amusement, “sullying our ground with humans.” His eyes flick up to Isra at the flattening ears in Regan’s pause. Frowns. “Am I missing something, here? Is there history I should know?” Isra watches the exchange about human livestock without comment or any discernible change in expression, sipping somewhat mechanically at her donated tea. She looks down at cup and at tablet, then tucks the latter beneath her opposite arm so she can sign slowly, one-handed, 'he does not like to ask.' At Erik's question her tail flicks again and she starts to sign, but cuts herself off at 'blood, I have--' Then shuffles the tablet back to her right hand and sets down the tea so she can use the AAC to say, "I have a lot of blood. He does not want to feed from me. But. Needles maybe OK." Regan is adding iron supplements and phlebotomy kits to her list of stock. "Okay, so we're back to goats. They'll keep the grass in check better than a pen of surly humans anyway." She looks up, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration when Isra signs. "Of all the places in his life to be shy, that one seems inconvenient." Her head waggles noncommittally side-to-side at Erik's question of history. "There was a minor incident in the fall after one of Xavier's flunkies gave him rabies. Really unbalanced him. Leo can definitely verify the good health and safety of everyone's blood -- as long as they're on the island and not on a rabid spree." “Forgive me, child, of all the languages I know, this is not one of them.” Erik watches the signing with some frustration, glancing to Regan when she replies. The faint growing displeasure doesn’t fade when Isra’s tablet speaks again. “Maybe? Do you have a fear of needles?” This is perhaps surprisingly sympathetic. “Or is this bad blood between the two of you?” His frown grows deeper still at the mention of Xavier. “Rabies. Hm. I did not realize …” His frown deepens. “A low blow, that. I want a list of his current X-Men, and whatever we have on those who tried to interrupt us at HAMMER.” Isra shakes her head vehemently. "Needles OK. Dusk does not like me." She gives a soft, rumbling growl as she composes her next message, the motions of her stylus suddenly agitated. "Sick, not Kitty fault. Not Leo fault. Accident." Her cat green eyes fix down at Erik--it's the first time she's met his eyes--steady, unblinking, difficult to read except to Regan who can hear the loud yet wordless indignity and disdain in her mind. Regan's brows lift with an intense skepticism at Isra's assertion that Dusk does not like her, but she doesn't argue the point. She does offer a further clarification: "Beyond a slew of dead Purifiers, he also attacked Isra and -- a friend. I gather he was quite ill at the time, but the guilt remains." Regan herself might not have much room in her own life for guilt, but her tone here is matter-of-fact rather than condescending. "I'll see what Dusk and B can dig up on the quislings." Erik's brows are also lifting, not at the dislike but at the idea this was an accident. The names Isra's tablet read out are accompanied by a flicker of dismay, faintly leaking around Erik's psionic defences. "It would be easier if he would simply drain those annoyances, but I cannot imagine they taste good." His watery blue gaze lifts and meets Isra's steadily. "It does not sound -- if there is guilt -- that he does not like you. But --" Erik's shoulders hitch up. "In your own time, and his. Until then, you are free to choose the needle over the other." Isra...has not actually stopped growling, but the quieting of the noise suggests she's at least somewhat mollified. It takes her longer to compose her reply this time. "I love him. He does not want me around. His decision, not my choice. I will give my blood if he will take it. Goodbye." Whether she's dripped adequately dry or not, she is heading inside without further comment. Regan nods to Isra as she takes her leave. She's reaching for her coffee, taking a long swallow. "There's the problem with dating among each other." She's slightly wry when she adds, "-- of course, the only thing that would make worse drama is dating outsiders." | |
