Logs:Doing Something

Doing Something
Dramatis Personae Quentin, Nessie, Bryce, Emilia, Roscoe, Sriyani, Kurt, Kelawini, Dallen, Ford, Scott
In Absentia Taylor, Nick, Shane, B, Jax	2024-04-27 "I have to go home."
Location <XAV> Grounds - Xs Grounds
Xavier's School is situated on grounds as luxurious as the mansion itself. The tree-lined drive brings you up to the lush green sweep of front lawn and the wide front porch with its bench swing, often frequented by students studying in pleasant weather. The large oak tree in the front yard is home to a tire swing, installed long ago beneath the sturdy old treehouse. The lawn rolls out all the way down to the thin rocky pier at the edge of the glittering lake. The water stretches huge and wide off into the distance, the boathouse a small blip at its shore. Along its bank, forest stretches dense and shady to one side; to the other cliffs start to rise, high and rocky, providing trails for hiking or climbing, for the adventurous. It's very, very early, and probably most of these teenagers would not normally be awake. For the past little while, though, the mood at the Xavierites for a Liberated Freaktown encampment has been tense and growing tenser. The magic of copious livestreamers, livetweeters, myriad group chats and Discords with folks who have been in and around Freaktown has meant that it was not long after the shooting first started that kids in the camp were up and stressfully spreading the news. It's possible that someone is still sleeping, in eclectic campground (tents both expensive and makeshift, tiny and huge, dotted between hammocks strung between trees and haphazardly tarp-covered, huts raised straight from the earth, a stubbornly unmelted igloo.) Most of the kids seem to be up and agitated, clustered on or around the front porch stairs where they're trading anxious updates as they roll in. Quentin has been sitting on the porch railing, in jeans and a tee shirt that reads "I'm ready for the reboot", his hand clenched tight around a support pillar. He is one of the few without his phone out, though he's listening intently to the updates both spoken and not as the other kids doomscroll. "This," he says, grimly, "is what we were asking them to help prevent." Nessie is pacing back and forth, restless in her constant frenetic skitter of legs. She does have her phone and she's alternating between watching a Unicorn Riot journalist's livestream and frantically texting several variously-configured Morlock Group Chats for updates, only minimally soothed as different tunnel-dwellers report in safe. "I have people down there." She's looking up brief in between texts, and Nick and Taylor, Shane and B, are flickering in anxious dance in her mind. "Like, my people-kinda-people. Cops do not like us, I should..." Should what, she isn't quite sure; just a formless clenching stress that continues to build. Bryce is sitting on the top porch stair, bright-feathered head thunked against the pillar and one furry hand slowly picking a fig bar into crumbs. "Who is down there? I mean -- to -- to help them. Why won't the X-Men, what --" His spill of questions cuts off aloud but is still rattling around in his mind, << what's going to happen to them >> and << am I her-people-kinda-people >> and what that means in terms of Police, who he's always thought were there to help. Emilia has been pacing in the grass for hours, claws unsheathing and extending repeatedly. She's worn a line into the grass by now. As she's been more active on social media, she has seen the worst of humanity, and what they were willing to do to those who were different, past events in history notwithstanding, merely in these past few months. She thought she could trust humanity to be better than that, to be more than what she believed them to be. She was wrong. But she wasn't going to cross that line, yet. She believed she had a duty to protect all of them, but the line between protecting them and defending your own... She could heal. She could take them all down. No, that would just add unnecessary fuel to an already burning fire. Her headphones on as usual, she tries to get her feelings out through music. (Because I know I'll kill my enemies, when they come) (Surely goodness and mercy will follow me) (All the days of my life) (And I will dwell on this earth forevermore) (Said I walk beside the still waters and they restore my soul) (But I can't walk on the path of the right, because I'm wrong) (Well I came upon a man at the top of a hill) (He called himself the savior of the human race) (Said he'd come to save the world from destruction and pain) (And I said how can you save the world from itself...) Roscoe is standing on the porch, his elbows propped on the railing, holding his phone in both hands -- he'd been following the news updates on ugly-coded forums, on Discord, on Twitter, but now the screen is locked, still lighting up with notifications, and he's tilted his face away from it, up up up across the grounds, past the encampment, like he's watching for the sunrise. He doesn't say anything. Sriyani is bouncing a little restlessly in the porch swing, its chains rattling quiet with the uneven motion. They've got a half-dozen Signal chats blowing up and are flicking absently between them and a different on-the-ground livestreamer. "Mr. Jackson is down there," they're kind-of-reassuring Nessie and Bryce, kind of -- just doing different anxiety about Mr. Jax, bright and cheerful and a Very Big Target for police. Aloud, determined: "He's a total badass, he..." But here they're trailing off -- as they read their latest updates a dread is clawing at their mind, shaped vaguely with the cheerful welcoming warmth of Evolve and Nessie's bubbly brightness. "Nessie you -- you live with. Taylor, right? Evolve Taylor?" Nessie's scuttling stops, abrupt. "What? Yes. Yeah he's like my brother, is --" But she's looking at Sriyani's face and that clench is squeezing harder at her heart. "Did he --" And now she's looking at her own phone, fiercely willing it to tell her something good. After a moment of scrolling it drops from her grip; she's clapping her hand hard to her mouth, which does not quite stifle the deep anguished cry that is tearing up from her. Quentin's eyes are darting between the many other X-Kids and their many incoming updates on the volatile Freaktown situation. His fingers clench tighter against the wood and his, "-- Nessie," comes heavy with concern and just a moment too late. He's jumping down off the railing and though his sneakers land light on the porch floorboards, there's a rattling tremor that runs up through the windows and doors of the mansion; it comes with a brief echo of grief and rage that washes through the crowd, through the encampment, through the mansion itself and those still inside. "This didn't have to happen," comes through his teeth, fists balled at his side. Kurt appears, not entirely silently as he’s made sure to make a little noise before e teeing the porch. What looks like three massive carafes of coffee are in his hands and his tail carries a backpack of mugs. “Guten Morgen, kinder,” he says, setting the carafes down on a free surface. “I thought this might be of some help. Coffee in here and I’ve some tea steeping in the kitchen that I’ll bring out shortly for you.” "I'm so sorry," Sriyani is saying, tearing their eyes away from their phone to Nessie. "Maybe -- maybe he's --" They can't finish this, though, don't really believe it with the reports coming in, and instead they pivot swift to: "What do you need? Do you need to get to someone? We could get you home or -- or --" They don't really have a clear destination in mind here, just trying to offer Some, Any help in the middle of this horror, but when Kurt appears they're whirling quick with a sudden impotent blaze of fury. << we ASKED for help >> << too late >> << why are adults USELESS >> bubbles over to just a sharp and frustrated, "Read the freaking room." "I don't think," Bryce is scrambling to his feet when Kurt arrives and addressing the teacher kind of low and kind of anxious, "that this is, um, the best, time for, hot drinks, sir, we --" His eyes squeeze briefly tight, and he is trying Very Hard to turn his anger into something else, trying Very Hard to remind himself that Satan is the father of contention and Heavenly Father expects him to make the choice to Not Be Angry. He's latching on kind of hopeful to Sriyani's suggestion: "Can we help? Can you get her home?" The echo of the grief as she realizes how deep this loss hurts cuts through her like nothing else can. While she keeps a distance out of respect-- she doesn't really know Nessie that well-- she wants so desperately to rush in and hug her, to say that she too has lost, she knows how deep it goes, how it rips apart your soul and never pieces it back again. But she decides that is the last thing Nessie needs, so she refrains from doing so. She too shares the unknown anger of many of the kids, because help was needed for these people, and they said, sorry not our problem, they're not the 'good ones', and so they don't get any help from the X-Men, sorry. They don't get any help from anyone. It reinforces Emilia's cynical mindset that perhaps she was always better off on her own, because no one else will help her. Nessie is still just crying, low and ragged and muffled against the palm of her hand, but she's whirling on Kurt too when he appears. "Go away," she cries, "go away go away go away -- yes." This last, to Sriyani and not Kurt. "Let's get out of here." "You people really have no heart," Quentin is accusing Kurt. "Her family is dying and you think coffee is going to make it better?" There's another rattle at the windows but this time it comes with an outward telekinetic blast. The carafes of coffee fly off the porch. "Why don't you go do something useful like put yourself in front of those bullets instead." Kurt raises his hands, palms out. “Stop. I don’t know what has happened; there is no way for me to know unless someone explains what’s occurred.” It reminds him of the fight with the woman who he had never gotten a name— expectations and no information. But they’re students, they’re children and whatever anger they want to put forth, it’s better to yell at him, who will not hurt the@, than the police who most certainly will. “What has happed in the riot.” It’s a question yet not. Obviously it’s something dire, and dread blooms in his mind. Roscoe is still standing on the porch; he twisted around when the building shook, flinched when the coffee went flying, his hands clutching harder around his phone, but he is otherwise very still, staring over his shoulder at the mansion now. << Summers is coming, >> is less a warning than a bland observation. Kelawini has been uncharacteristically quiet, pouring all of her focus into the Internet in her pocket, but at the news and the confirmation of Taylor's death she is pulling herself back only in time to see Nessie collapse. She just quietly puts herself between Kurt and Nessie, hands balled into fists, little though she actually expects the teacher to harm her roommate. "What wen happen? The cops killed her brother." She's speaking slow and clear, her anger growing as the half-dozen news steams continues whispering horrors into her mind. "He wasn't rioting. He was trying to save some kids. And they shot him." "What," Sriyani is hissing, sharper, their eyes flicking quick to Nessie and her continued crying, "is wrong with you. Does this look like the time to come and -- hrgh." That's as much as they say here to Kurt; now they're jumping down off the porch swing to go fling open the front door -- which is decidedly not leading into the mansion, anymore. There's a not-so-very-distant sound of gunfire beyond, flashing lights on a smokey street, a lot of yelling. "Let's go." Mr. Summers probably hasn't slept, unshaven and dressed in black tactical gear, one of his visors on a band around his neck but swapped out, for now, for wraparound glasses. He is preceded by his footsteps down the hall, though he's not visible until he emerges through the open door; his mind is very quiet, even for him. He has heard the news -- his blank-opaque gaze finds Nessie first, and lingers there for a moment, before he looks over his shoulder back through the door he just came through. His jaw tenses, just a little, and he reaches for the doorknob behind himself. "No," is all he says, a little apologetic but still very firm. "Come on, kids, you can't..." "You going to stop us?" Emilia speaks up, having had enough inaction, enough of this bullshit. Her claws are retracted, but they're so close to doing something really fucking stupid. "You didn't act, when a lot of us kids were asking you for months to help these people. People are dying! People have suffered, and for what? Because your boss doesn't want to reach out and do something about it? Because none of you are willing to act in the face of what we all thought you stood for, doing what was right? No. If you aren't going to do anything, we will." Emilia makes her way toward the door. "I may not have had much stake in this, I'll admit. But I'm not going to just fucking twiddle my thumbs and sit here while these people are suffering." Dallen has been tucked unobtrusively beside his brother, his arms folded across his chest, rocking very gently. He hasn't made any attempt to put words to his silent prayer -- it's just a quiet winding lilt in his mind that goes off key with the second-hand wash of grief, and then loses its tune completely as the volume of noise outside his head increases. It takes him longer than most of the other gathered students to put together what happened to Nessie's brother, but when he does that understanding reaches down through his memories for a different brother cut down by different police. It comes back with only fragments of he'd cobbled together from the news of Dawson's murder, of his life in the past tense. He's not rocking so gently anymore. The low groan he emits is probably too quiet for anyone else to hear right now, but it's more like a scream in his mind. The shadows around him shudder and swell and reach for Kurt, for the impossible door to Freaktown, for Scott. "You could have stopped this." There's a raw fury that whips sharp through -- all the others, really, though most keenly the adults, pulling in the grief and anger of Quentin's fellow students and pouring it back out in a brief and intense psionic spike. "Taylor died protecting his people. Our people. Doing what you were too scared to do. Can't what." The door is shuddering in Scott's hand, creaking back like it is thinking about coming off its hinges. "Can't want a world where all freaks are worth protecting? We're going to build it, with you or without you, old man." Ford has been assisting with ensuring focus goes to the right places during the duration of the event, but now it is past his bedtime. He does have his phone up, but his head has been bobbing up and down as the hour grew wee. At the talk about Taylor, though, his eyes snap up to something imperceptible in the middle distance. A look of sickness passes over his expression as he perceives the Weight of this information to Nessie, but he pushes it down, down, and then his jaw tenses as he now focuses his attention on Quentin. This fury, he can work with it; he adjusts the Gravity of his words, of his mood, of his anger so that it cannot be ignored. Scott tightens his grip on the doorknob, pulls the door shut behind himself -- it closes a little loudly for the early hour. "You can't go out there right now," he says, quiet but blunt. "It's not safe." Nessie's tail is swishing, restless and upset above her back. There's very little on her mind just now except home, Taylor, all the many Morlocks he'd shepherded over the years. She's been scuttling to the steps, trying as best she can to give Dallen some space as she skitters up, but when the door closes she just howls again. Her tail lashes down, a little wild and unfocused in Scott's General Direction. "Taylor is dead I have to go home. They're going to need --" What the Morlocks might need is way beyond her current scope to think about; they're going to need Taylor and he is gone. Bryce crouches down, curling an arm around Dallen's shadowy shoulders and -- kind of nudging, kind of tugging him aside to let Nessie by. "Dallen," he's whispering a little urgently, and tapping, light, at his brother's Choose the Right wristband, "our friends need us." He's looking up through the murk, putting on his strongest Serious Voice: "Sir, there are a lot of people who need help right now. I think it could be good to help them instead of --" << being mean >> he is thinking, and then chiding himself for thinking it, and then chiding himself for chiding himself for thinking it because Quentin is right and building this better world is their duty. For a second Sriyani looks like they are strongly considering fighting Scott over the door, but, after a closer look at his Size and Fitness compared to their own they are reevaluating. Earnestly reevaluating. Then after a measured and rational decision-tree process they are thinking very intently at Quentin: << okay if you steal his glasses I'll get the door open again while he's distracted >> Scott raises one arm to block Nessie, on autopilot if not exactly sluggish, and the pincer jabs into his forearm, near his elbow -- he flexes his fingers, taking rapid stock of the sudden weakness there, and grips the door handle tighter -- in stark response to the sudden added weight of everything, his resolve is hardening, his fear for his students -- and of his students, a little -- heightening. "Taylor is dead," he agrees quietly. "It is five o'clock in the morning and I cannot let you kids go run into an active shooting, for --" he does not make it all the way through for Jesus' sake, just takes a deep breath, sets his jaw, and shakes his head. Quentin takes a step forward, his chin set firm, though he has to look significantly up to level a glare at Scott. As the others sense of his importance grows, his anger is sharpening. The door rattles again in Scott's hand, just a faint warning -- but far heavier is the ferocious press of his mind. It comes with a sharp and angry compulsion that drives his words from anger to command: "Get out of our way." "Please," adds Bryce, but. Sternly. Scott's hand on the doorknob trembles for just a moment before he drops it and steps aside. Sriyani is darting forward the moment Scott steps aside, flinging the mansion door back open wide. The street outside is a slightly different one, slightly less smokey, the yelling a little more distant. They're standing in the doorway, gesturing their classmates forward. "Nessie c'mon. We'll keep you safe." Nessie is backing up a step or two when her tail actually spikes Scott, a momentary chagrin in her expression. It passes soon enough; perhaps there's not room enough for this and the grief. But she is ducking her head, her, "I'm really sorry," very quiet just before she bolts through the door. Emilia also enters the door, unsure how to feel about the sensation of going from one place to another like that. It's confusing, disorienting, but it passes quickly. And only then does she realize that even if she wanted to, (she doesn’t), there is no going back, not technically. At the least, it would be quite a while before she'd hike back to the mansion. She's made her choice. "Anything that happens is on us." She says, mostly to herself. She looks at the ones who plan to enter, who have already entered. All of this for a good cause. She just hoped it wouldn't be their last days. Quentin isn't apologizing -- just glaring at Scott as if he, personally, somehow instigated tonight's violence. He's waiting for the others to head through before he moves to the doorway himself. A moment later the door slams shut behind them, shutting out the sounds of sirens and crying just in time for the first rock, hurled from the angry group on the lawn, to smash through a front window.