Logs:Claws, horns, tail, sure. Weird. / But treating bodies like toys? / Yeah, I've seen monsters.
| Claws, horns, tail, sure. Weird. / But treating bodies like toys? / Yeah, I've seen monsters. | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-12-08 "I'll try to be more careful." |
| Location
<XAV> Attic - Xs Third Floor | |
Dark and cluttered, this place is a treasure trove of Xavier's history, years of lost items packed away and forgotten about in the depths of the fourth floor. Remnants of students and teachers of years past are left over here in bits and snatches, tucked away in dark corners. Students come up here often, to sit and study or sit and think (or sit and smoke), up by a dusty old window on a dusty old pillow -- although that last may not always be such a good idea, given that the one bedroom up here, tucked away in the back of an attic, is inhabited, and by a teacher at that. One of the less-creaky windows looks out onto the roof, and is big enough to squeeze through. It's mostly quiet up in the attic, this evening -- a Sunday-night-lull as kids scatter back to their rooms to finish the homework they've been procrastinating on all weekend. The tucked-away snugness somehow feels all the more cozy in contrast to the rattle of winter wind creaking at the windows in intermittent reminder of how cold it isn't in here -- though for just a moment the coziness is interrupted as one of the windows is pried open from the outside. Bryce is clambering in, a little ungainly on the squeeze, he's still not entirely used to the long armored tail coiling behind him. Aside from the pangolin tail and his everpresent bright red crest he's mostly revamped yet again, arms speckle-spotted in yellow and black scales, huge gold owl eyes, a thick brown-and-red-and-white red-panda mask of fur beneath his standard head of red feathers. He's got a blue puffer coat on together with his jeans and sneakers, and is tugging his backpack through the window before using his tail to pull it tight shut behind himself. Natsumi has been tucked up here for a while with a thermos of cocoa. Enjoying the warmth quite a bit thankyouverymuch, until the window opens and disturbs her peace with a blast of chill. She's been sitting in an old beanbag, a couple ooold crates of decades-old Xavier's newspapers and yearbooks dragged out from the depths of the attic to sit beside her. She looks up from the yearbook she has been reading and hunches a little bit further down into her plushy-soft oversized red-and-white sweater. "Oh my gosh you know the school has a million real doors, right?" Roscoe is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back flumped against another beanbag, paging lazily through another old-old yearbook in his lap. He still has the hood of his blue sweatshirt pulled up over his head, stray bits of cobweb and large swooped dust streaks clinging to the fabric; though he had a vape tucked in his mouth when Bryce came in his surprised puff of pineapple-melon gets mostly swallowed in the interrupting gust of cold air, and when he sees who it is the vape gets tucked into his pocket anyway. "Aaah watch the tail," was the tail anywhere near him, no. "Oh sorry sorry!" Is this for the tail or for the window? Bryce is double-checking both, tail coiling around one leg as he tugs on the closed window. "I know, I know, I just I've been trying to avoid..." He shakes his head, scooching further in and dropping down to sit cross-legged on an empty patch of floor by one of the crates. "What'cha doing? Oh my gosh is that Ms. Grey?" He's craning over closer to Natsumi's bag to peer with interest at the yearbook. "Who else is in there?" "Who're you avoiding, Roscoe could totally give you advance warning if they're incoming." Natsumi is sliding slightly farther down into the beanbag and tilting the book obligingly. "Just Jean, back then. Bunch of 'em in these things." She's waggling her manicured fingernails towards the newspapers. "You have no idea how much trouble Miss Munroe used to get into. Mr. Summers seemed -- just about as stodgy, actually." She sounds faintly disappointed as she offers Bryce the yearbook. "Who knew he'd be most likely to date a crime lord." "Only if they're coming by land or sea," says Roscoe, "you scared the bejeezus out of me." There's only a mild, good-natured grumble in his tone, as he turns another page. "I still don't buy it," he says. "Look, Summers has had it up for Grey for ever," the picture in his yearbook he's tilting to them for inspection is not exactly incontrovertible proof of this, but he's going on with a shake of his head, "And that guy is way too cool for him anyway." "It's -- no one, it's. -- You know, I think that picture looks more like he's had a thing for cars for forever," Bryce is saying, slightly skeptically as he squints from one to the other of the yearbooks. "Mr. Summers has a really cool motorcycle." He adds this a little defensively, but then scrunches up his face as he reconsiders whether or not this is something he should be defending. "... You know that new, um, Egg, who just joined, they're Mr. Ion's kid and they say --" Though here he's hesitating too on his language. Eventually he decides a little awkwardly on: "I think maybe scary situations like they were in can, you know, make people have -- feelings. I think maybe when you're in situations like that together it's different." "People can step out on their relationships. People can sleep around with their partners, Dr. Grey was up there in Alien Hunger Games, too." Natsumi curls her legs up beneath herself and plucks up her thermos. "People do make some pretty bad prison relationship decisions, maybe alien kidnapping's a similar vibe. -- Are you serious, though? Who exactly did..." Her lips purse. "They must really favor their mother. Seriously though, has someone been giving you crap?" "But Mr. Ion has an even cooler motorcycle," Roscoe says, "make it make sense." He's sort of completely disregarding the 'feelings' part of the equation altogether in this conclusion, as sensical as it might have been, flopping back against his beanbag with a billowy poof of dust; his gaze cuts aside to Natsumi with a small, scowly grimace, then back to Bryce. "Who the hell would give you crap? Just shoot them with --" he was starting to move his hands in an unporcupinish machine-gun gesture, "-- your porcupine -- oh, wait. Well, get the porcupine thing back first." "Porcupines don't really shoot their -- anyway the quills are really tough on church clothes." Bryce fidgets, a small uncomfortable twitch of his shoulders, and plucks (also uncomfortable) at the neck of his jacket. "Egg said their dad was --" He stumbles a little bit over the terminology, his hesitation quite noticeable here before he continues in a kind of scandalized hush. "... sleeping with Mr. Summers because his paperwork's all messed up but I don't know about that part I bet we get a lot of kids with messed up paperwork and they can't all be sleeping with Mr. Summers, right?" Hopefully right. He's chewing at his lip as he considers-and-then-quickly-unconsiders this possibility. "Anyway maybe Mr. Summers wants help getting a cooler --" It's somewhere around here that he stops, hand clapping back to his mouth sharply to stifle -- well, he doesn't actually make much sound, mouth pressed firm behind his hand to stifle the cry that wanted to come out. His shoulders twitch again -- only a little visible externally through the puffy jacket, though somewhere beneath that the muscles are spasming far worse. The tough scale-armor that's grown down over his back is shifting, splitting in places, pulling apart as a thick bristle of quills start to force themselves through. There are quiet scratchy tearing sounds coming from his jacket where new bristles and the displaced edges of rough-hard scales torn from his skin are poking and scraping through the puffy material. Bryce has half-collapsed against the side of Natsumi's beanbag, his clawed hand digging gouges in the fabric where he's gripping it tight. "... gosh," is all he manages aloud, small and pained. "Okay if the quills are attached it still seems like a bad idea to mess with you, though. Like --" Natsumi is making a fist, much less intimidating than it would be if she were a strapping athletic monsterling. She does not have time to demonstrate her impression of Bryce Taking On Some Unfortunate Wannabe Bully, though -- she's dropping her hand quick, brow creased as she scoots slightly higher up the large beanbag. Her eyes darting to Roscoe first in confusion, and then she's tentatively reaching a hand to tap, ginger, at Bryce's shoulder -- "Hey. Hey, what's, um, what's happening, are you. Are you feeling okay? I have -- Advil?" Roscoe is jolting upright, his eyes going wide-wide-wider as he does, his fingers scrabbling at the floor on either side of him. "Oh my -- I didn't mean you should -- oh my..." He's just trailing off, trying to gauge what's gone wrong with so much haste that his eyes seem to vibrate in their sockets as he tries to focus them. "I can -- I can call Joshua," is his contribution, hushed-horrified. The warping in Bryce's back is continuing, a twisting rending of the flesh and scales there. Several quills have now finally stabbed through the coat, and with a small muffled sound Bryce is starting to unzip it properly to take it off, but then immediately reconsidering and leaving it right where it is. He doesn't get up even when the shifting has stopped -- beneath the jacket his back is kind of a mutilated mess of displaced scales, plenty of quills half-formed and then given up where they seem like they've been jabbed haphazardly back into him. "No -- no no no it's," Bryce is trying, but his voice is kind of thin and kind of shaky. He takes several ragged breaths before he continues, dogged if nothing else in his poor attempt to sound level. "It's fine I'm. Fine. I'll be. Don't bother Mr. Joshua I'm. Okay." "Oh my god," Natsumi is jerking her hand back away rapidly when suddenly Bryce's jacket is bristling with spines, and then, "Oh my god. Bryce you didn't have to grow them back now what -- did you mess it up can you mess it up -- wait is it always this painful. It's not always like this is it." She has a deep grimace on, now, and is leaning down over the side of the beanbag (making verrrry sure not to get too close to Bryce, anymore) to pick up her purse. She digs a small travel tube of Advil out of one of the pockets. "You look miserable will this help?" "Oh --" though he's cringed sharply, Roscoe's expression is a little fixed in its original shock, his eyes finally settling on what probably is not a pleasant view at all, his fingers frozen in place where they were scrabbling like claws at the attic floor. "I didn't -- I'm sorry," is very tiny, "I didn't mean now, I didn't -- did you -- did you mean to do that?" Bryce is quiet, at first. He's still just clinging to the beanbag, claws digging into the fabric and poking at the tiny pellets starting to spill out from inside. It takes him a while and a few careful breaths before he pulls himself -- stiffly, with an additional gasp -- upward to take the pills from Natsumi. He plucks a water bottle from a side pocket of his backpack to down the Advil, and scoots against the floor back away from the others, trying very hard to move as little as possible with the motion. "No." This is clipped, eventually, reluctant. His voice is low, still kind of thick with a pain that is not all that legible in his furred expression. "I didn't -- think --" He swallows, eyes fixing hard on the dusty floor. "Tok took my quills. Off me. On Friday. I guess they're -- bored with them now. I don't know." "Oh my god." This time it's hushed, an entirely different cadence of horror than her earlier two. "Are they who you were -- oh my god." She's sliding carefully off the side of the beanbag, moving around it to avoid the few quills that have lodged themselves in the fabric. She's cautiously starting to fold herself onto the floor beside Bryce but, after a moment, pulls a stack of old newspapers over to sit on that instead. "Tok did this to you? Like -- they just --" She makes a small yoinking motion. Roscoe, finally, is unravelling his legs in one not-quite-fluid motion, pushing up to his knees and shuffling caaarefully closer, settling back down onto his heels at Bryce's side -- "Joshua won't tell on you," he says, barely above a whisper, then, "-- Tok?" Bryce nods numbly. He's dropped his hand, claws now picking at the tight-knotted lace of his sneaker. "They stole Dallen's -- her shadows. Her powers. She was really upset. But I was asking them about it and they didn't --" He shakes his head. "They said it wasn't a big deal and they took --" His other hand is gesturing with a sharp twitch of claws in the general direction of his mangled back. "I didn't -- even think they'd -- I didn't know they'd put it back, they just took them right out of me and I don't -- know why it --" He swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut tight for a moment. When he opens them it's with a shaky smile and an attempt to reassure Natsumi: "Usually it doesn't really hurt at all." His shoulders shift very slightly beneath his jacket, spines bristling and the fabric creaking. "I can. I can probably fix this. Probably. I'm sure it's fine." "They took --" Natsumi has gone noticeable paler. Her face scrunches, mouth twisting downward as she looks sharply away from Bryce. A brief shudder runs through her. She's relaxed when she looks back, cautiously offering a hand set upward on the floor near his clawed one. "That's so messed up, that --" It seems to take her a considerable effort to say, delicately, "-- kid," in lieu of some other word, "is so weird but this is -- are you sure? Like, what if it hurts you worse, what if they aren't done, I -- it's a big deal." "Joshua won't tell on you," Roscoe repeats, more insistently this time; his hand is dropping down, unzipping his jogger pocket, "Sorry," he adds a moment later.
"I didn't do anything," Bryce is saying in response to this, "I mean I thought about punching Tok because of Dallen but I didn't do it and maybe I --" His shoulders are tightening. He is eying Natsumi's hand and sitting up a little straighter, but after this small show of toughness takes it to squeeze it brief. "... what'll he do to Tok, I know people think we're weird goody-goodies but I wasn't trying to snitch. I didn't know this would happen." There's abruptly one more person up here in the attic. Joshua is in his uniform pants but a plain undershirt, ancient FDNY sweatshirt half-zipped overtop. His hair is mussed, boots still unlaced, and he's pinning a kippah hastily askew upon damp mussed hair. He doesn't say anything, when he arrives, but after his healing sense takes a quick and silent stock of the kids in the attic he's just whistling low. He tips his chin up to Roscoe, and pulls a crate of newspapers a little closer to the kids to sit himself down on it. "That just happen?" Natsumi squeezes back. "I think they deserve at least a bit of punching, c'mon." She's sitting up straighter too, when Joshua arrives, though almost as quick she's relaxing again. "OK it's wild how fast you do that you could make a great slasher movie villain -- um can you fix it? It seems like it's hurting him a lot." Roscoe shrinks his head down between his shoulders, his eyes squeezing shut -- "You can tell people I snitched," he's offering, very quietly; his eyes are still shut when Joshua appears, but he's straightening up automatically also, hands clenching into the fabric of his joggers. "His -- porcupine thing is --" now his eyes are opening, still a little squinty at Joshua. "-- with his -- snake thing." "... pangolin," Bryce corrects, with a weak half-smile. "Their scales are --" But the smile fades entirely as he finishes, "... kind of more like fingernails." His shoulders are shuddering again, despite the twinge this causes. "I'm really sorry to bother you, Mr. Joshua. I'll --" He stops toying with his shoelace. "Try to be more careful." "Tch. You got no idea some of the mess I got myself into when I was figuring my thing out." Joshua extends his hand toward Bryce, his brows hiking. "You want to get to your dorm? Might be easier if you get that jacket off, it's." He's eying the coat warily. "Poky." He is adding, very (very) mournfully to Roscoe before he vanishes with Bryce: "... your photo was blurry." Natsumi's eyes have gone very wide, and the moment Joshua disappears she's letting out a breath, another: "Oh my god." She's starting to carefully pluck a few stray quills from the beanbag. "You think he'll be okay? Thank God for Mr. Joshua, right? Did you know that Tok -- I mean they're always saying weird things but I didn't think they'd, like, attack someone." Roscoe is turtling further into his shoulders -- he reaches for his hoodie's knotted drawstrings, but doesn't pull them further, just fiddles with the cords, bites hard on his lower lip. "Mr. Joshua got it," he says, finally, his face pinching into a steep scowl. "You can never tell," he adds, then, a little darkly, "You know that." Natsumi is still a little bit pale. She looks down at the quills in her hands, her fingers closing around them tight. After a hard push of breath she stabs the whole cluster of them upright into the torn beanbag like it's a pincushion, just nodding, silent, as she drags a fresh crate of ancient newspapers over.
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