Logs:Chillsville

Chillsville
Dramatis Personae Ford, Roscoe
In Absentia	2024-10-18 "My poor, dear, cynical friend..."
Location <XAV> Courtyard - Residence Hall
The Residence Hall's common house borrows just enough of the mansion's architecture to complement it, though it has its own distinctive flavor as well. Walkways and bridges connect each dormitory wing to the common house at the center, with picturesque outdoor courtyards tucked alongside each wing, providing many of the dorms with a view of the plantlife and water features. No two courtyards are exactly the same, but all have plentiful seating along their winding footpaths, benches fixed in place as well as chairs and tables that rearrange themselves along the flagstones or in the shade according to the students' whims. It's a pleasant Friday afternoon, and elsewhere the grounds are no doubt buzzing with early-weekend activity, but this particular courtyard, wedged triangularly between two adjoining wings, is shady and quiet, with ferns and foliage fanning out around a pair of circular wicker chairs and a low table. Roscoe has claimed one of the chairs and the table, hood pulled up just enough that his shaggy hair won't get caught in the woven rattan, cross-legged and slouched over with his open math textbook serving as a very dubious lap desk, supporting a spiral-bound notebook, several loose-leaf sheets of graph paper, a small pencil case, a graphing calculator, and his phone, through all of which the textbook isn't actually visible at all, though once he's wrapped his latest answer in a carefully pencilled box, Roscoe isn't bothering to move any of his things out of the way as he starts copying the next one down below it. While Roscoe gets his wish for the quiet study space he must have been seeking, all things must eventually come to an end, as Ford slips into the space and takes the seat across the table, despite there being plenty of other open space. He puts his own book down on the surface, along with a blue leather portfolio that contains his papers. In fact, leather seems to be the material du jour, with his plaid flannel shirt actually being made of leather patterned in such a way that it only looks woven and his Balenciaga leather track pants. He leans in and says, "Hey, pal, how's it going? Are you getting a one-up on your assignments for the weekend? Smart, smart, getting that out of the way first so it's just--" He claps his hands together and then extends his hand forward while vocalizing a 'pshoo' sound, "Smooooooth sailing to chillsville." Roscoe stops writing, maybe out of sheer confusion at being called 'pal', his eyes ticking up from his homework. "'sgoin' fine," he says. "I have a bunch to do this weekend, actually, if I don't get started early I'm just not gonna get to it and then I'll fall behind and then I'll die." Should there be more steps in that process? His expression is very earnest. He has to lurch himself to achieve escape velocity from the concave chair, but he leans over his lap to drag his backpack closer to his chair, ceding the table to Ford. "Chillsville sounds nice though. Like Margaritaville." "Death by homework, what a way to go. You'll need that vacation to Chillsville all the more if you want to prevent your untimely demise," says Ford, his lips quirking down slightly. He looks about over his shoulder as if searching for something, but refocuses quickly on Roscoe. He rests his hands on the table and leans forward, "You want to work together on the math stuff? Many hands makes a lighter load or whatever they say, and we'd both save ourselves some time. I wouldn't mind a little free time opening up, myself." "You mean cheat?" says Roscoe bluntly, though -- notably -- he's not saying no, just regarding Ford with an inscrutable, lopsided squint, one corner of his mouth tugging thoughtfully sideways. "What's it worth to you?" "Cheat?" says Ford, his eyebrows raising, "Why, I'm offended that you should think I'd suggest such a thing!" His quick grin suggests that perhaps he is not that offended, "Is it really cheating to collaborate? It's not an exam, and it shows a community-minded spirit! Would our teachers really want to discourage the youth of tomorrow from working together?" He scoffs and shakes his head, waving his hand as if to dismiss these concerns, "My poor, dear, cynical friend... it would benefit us both-- Nay! The entire mutant community! To join hands in brotherhood to ascend to greater mathematical proficiency than we each could have alone." Roscoe almost keeps a straight face, like this is all deeply unimpressive to him, but his eyes are narrowing very slightly very briefly with amusement. "Yeah, I think our teachers would probably discourage the youth of tomorrow from joining hands in brotherhood. You sound like a hippie." Probably this last remark is a targeted psychological attack. Still, Roscoe glances down at his work, lips pressing thinly together, bapping the pencil eraser lightly against the edge of his notebook. "Yeah, whatever." This, too, comes in a tone of bland ennui and indifference, though something he's mortgaged in this exchange -- his math homework, his academic honesty, his independence -- does actually kind of matter to Roscoe. He spins the pencil in his hand. "Extra couple hours in Chillsville, on me." "No, a hippie would be more like." Ford half lids his eyes, sways and takes on a wheezy property in his voice, "Hey man, do you got any weed? We can wrap it up in your homework and smoke a big fat marijuana cigarette," says Ford, his forehead creasing a little bit in consternation at this accusation. "I'd say what I'm suggesting is a little more collegial than terrorism, also." He opens up his book to the assigned page and smiles, "Glad to see you coming around on group work. It can be a game changer!" Roscoe grins, toothy but fleeting. "Yeah, whatever," he says again, shrugging, "I'm not gonna hold your hand is all I'm saying." He spins his pencil again and gets back to work. "And nobody says 'marijuana cigarette'."