Logs:Don't Kill the Messenger

Don't Kill the Messenger
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Dusk, Heather, Scramble, Pyro, Mystique
In Absentia	2020-09-20 "You are a benighted fool." (Set after breaking the news.)
Location <BOM> Common Room - Bom Lodge
The common room's rustic-lodge feel has been somewhat mitigated by the modern amenities inside its sturdy wooden walls. It has comfortable couches, several chairs, a refrigerator (stocked with snacks and drinks!), a pool table, a pinball machine (METALLICA!), an assortment of books, a television -- with several game systems! -- and a splendid view out the windows (when their lacy yellow curtains are drawn open) for the rest of the island. The pale wood floors have been covered in places -- by a pair of soft thick blue rugs, by a large squishy pair of beanbags that stand in front of the stone fireplace. There's also a board up on the wall, half corkboard, half whiteboard, with a variety of community notes (and occasional insults) to other Brotherhood members. Large doors on the right-hand side lead off to the kitchen and dining room. In the back of the room, the council room's heavy oak door bears solid locks that are almost never actually barred. A short hall adjacent to the council room's door leads to a trio of multi-stalled bathrooms; these might once have been marked with the typical man-woman-handicapped signs, but someone has given them new plaques on the door; a stick figure with horns and a long tail, one with wings. One -- the large single-user toilet -- has instead been given a helmet and a cape. It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, gorgeous and peaceful out here on the island. In the lodge the sheer curtains have been pulled closed, though this does not much shade the warm sunlight streaming in from outside. Probably at some point Dusk has been working, his laptop on the coffee table in front of him, but just at the moment he's dozed off. In faded old corduroys, no shirt, his deep black wings (rich red on their insides) draped around him like a blanket. The sounds of The Good Place (on low, captions turned on) are are washing over him where he's fallen asleep, head half-cushioned against his companion's leg and his sunglasses pushed askew. Considering her purple sweats and oversized tie-dye t-shirt, it is likely that Heather is having a bit of a lazy day. A few colourful clips are haphazardly clipped into her hair without much rhyme or reason. She is purposefully being extra still and quiet so not to make Dusk stir, even opting for a quiet food in the form of a big bowl of chocolate pudding swirled with butterscotch resting next to her. Her everpresent swimwear goggles are up on her forehead so that she may see the show unimpeded, leaning in with interest. In the kitchen, Pyro is cooking -- perhaps ironically -- without fire, assembling himself a sandwich of slightly ludicrous proportions while occasionally singing Ryan Black's "Stop For Death" tunelessly under his breath and bopping his head arrhythmically to the same. There's a flutter, a blur of motion just outside and then just inside the window. A moment later the ghostly distortion has resolved itself into two figures. Typically for a Sunday afternoon, Dawson is dressed far more formally than the relaxing Brothers, still in blue slacks, vest, a dress shirt, a tie. There's a distinct tension in his posture as he lets Scramble go, eyes darting around the cabin. He does not head straight for Dusk, but there's a quiet telepathic nudge that, gently, pulls the other man out of sleep. Scramble was clinging to Dawson hard through the trip, but now she pulls away rapidly -- straight for the single-user bathroom, where a moment later she can be heard throwing up. While Dusk's head is near to her, Heather does not make any move to stand up, but she immediately makes some loud high pitched sounds with her mouth. Her pudding spoon is launched directly towards the interloper's midsection, at greater speed and strength than should be expected from someone of her small frame. Spatters of chocolate-butterscotch swirl all over. The moment Dusk moves away from her, she is up on her feet, her fists raised defensively. Incoherent shadow-filled dreams, warm and cosy, are slowly giving way to Dusk's usual hunger-tinged thoughts. He scrunches his eyes shut, stifles a fangy yawn, pushes himself up; the dreamlike warmth only increases when he opens his eyes and sees Dawson. His first thoughts are just pleased, not given much words and only vague half-formed shapes; a wing draped around Dawson's shoulders, a house bustling with board games and tipsy company. It's only after this that his thoughts clear some more, darting with a cold and clawing dread between Heather, now standing, and his housemate. "-- What the fuck are you doing here?" Drawn by the commotion, Pyro tumbles out of the kitchen, his eyes going very wide when he spots Dawson. "Intruder!" he hollers at the top of his lungs, his mind blank with excitement and fear, "we're under attack!" The firestarters at both of his wrists spark and he hurls a fireball (hadoken-style, no less) at Dawson. Dawson's cheeks have flushed, deep. At first this is the only outward sign he gives of any kind of surprise; when Heather throws her spoon at him his hand darts down almost too fast to track, snatching it out of the air (but not, alas, saving his church suit from a spattering of pudding.) "I'm sorry, I --" is as far as he gets, quiet, his hands held up (still clutching the spoon) in a gesture of surrender. At least until the fireball darts at him. Or -- darts at where he was; in the next instant he is on the other side of Heather and Dusk's couch, jaw clenched and eyes much wider. Maybe he intended to say something a little more explanatory but what actually comes out is: "This cabin is wood." Heather's fists lower slightly when Dawson begins to apologize and seems to surrender, her expression softens briefly to her usual neutrality, and she flips the goggles back down over her eyes. With the flash of fire and the intruder suddenly appearing behind her, she once again lets out an indignant squeak (spoken slowly enough that it is almost intelligible, "gvmbckmspn") and jumps over the couch at him, her fists swinging in a blur. Dusk is still (unsuccessfully) trying to process what the Entire Fuck Dawson is doing here when Pyro appears. His thoughts ricochet between resignation and a tense bracing that, ultimately, resolves itself into action -- launching himself off the couch to hastily snatch his laptop up and out of the way of further fireballs. That safely out of the way, he now lets himself shift into worry -- -- Not, immediately, for Dawson. Mostly an anxiousness hovering around the rest of his Siblings here. "Dawson -- you cannot be here." Missing Dawson entirely, the fireball blows out one of the front windows of the cabin in a spectacular shower of glass and flaming stripes of curtain. Pyro wades into the common room more fully, balls of fire cradled in each palm, circling around behind Dawson. His second shot is a bit more circumspect, as much in consideration of Heather's proximity as the pointed reminder they're in a wooden structure . Even if it's coming from behind Dawson, the palm-sized gout of flame roars plenty loud in warning. Outside, other members of the Brotherhood are gathering to peer at the mess that has been made of the main lodge window -- pieces of charred wood still smoldering out on the porch -- but the crowd parts with the arrival of one curvy blue woman, arrayed in a comfortable white cowl-neck sweater and wide-legged black slacks. Scramble emerges from the bathroom just in time to see Pyro launch the second gout of flame. For all that she doesn't look all that perturbed. "Chile, I look away for five seconds and y'all starting World War III up in here. That boyscout's got important information on B for us." "Believe me, I --" Eyes still wide, Dawson blinks again, landing just behind Heather. "-- don't --" The spoon has been left behind, falling from where he had just been standing. "-- want --" Gone again, with a ghostly blur that, when he stops again by the couch, has ended with Pyro no longer in the cabin but just outside the charred window. "-- To be." The glance he gives Scramble is relieved, now, as he futilely flicks chocolate-butterscotch pudding from his previously neat vest. Heather snaps the spoon from out of the air where it is left, as if it had just been hanging there completely still, and she points it menacingly in Dawson's direction, turning each time that he re-appears. Her eyebrows raise at what Scramble has to say, and just as fast she has the bowl of pudding wrapped in her arm while a typed message on her phone plays out in a monotone: "Is B okay?" It's about now that the front door opens to admit Mystique, followed closely by a tall east Asian man. Her luminous yellow eyes survey the room and land on Dawson, evidently unimpressed. "I expected Charles to send more than one of his whelps when he finally grew a pair," she says, though she's far tenser than she lets on. << It could be a ruse -- one of his mind games. >> "But you're quite surrounded, young X-Man. Speak your piece before we dispose of you." "B?" Though it's Shane who appears with a twist of dismay in Dusk's mind, now, too-thin and skin cracking after his imprisonment. Trying not to think of B going through the same. Though there are a million questions girding his thoughts he swallows all of them down when Mystique arrives. His wings fold tight behind his back, and there's a quiet cracking sound as his arms tighten around his computer. << Well, fuck, >> is kind of a distant dismay beneath a more stressed hypervigilance. "We been compromised," Scramble says flatly, her mind a miserable roil of hunger and agony. "It ain't this guy we should be worried about. Nat was a fucking infiltrator, and I'd still be pining away for her if he --" Jabbing a finger in Dawson's direction. "--hadn't stuck his neck out to tell me." "Before you --" Dawson's lips compress at this, shoulders squaring and fists clenching. << What kind of James Bond villain nonsense -- >> overlaps in his mind with a klaxon-clamor of << should just go should go should go go go go >> with a stressed, << we can't get B out >> with << not AGAIN Dusk >> His eyes dart between the Brothers in the room -- the crowd gathering outside. A rapidfire assessment of his chances at fighting shifts into an equally rapid assessment of his chances at fleeing, then circles back to Maybe Fighting Again. "The Professor doesn't know I'm here." He pushes a slow breath between his teeth, the bracing of his posture deflating. << tell them just tell them >> << NOT getting disposed of today -- >> "Natalie was spying on you all. I only just learned last night. I don't -- know what it is her organization wants, exactly, but it's not B. She's --" His hesitation before he finishes is only very slight; it overlaps with a flash of memory, signed conversations in a crowded bar, cool nighttime air, his own sick dismay. "Willing to help get B released." At a slight delay, Heather's eyebrows furrow slightly, but internally there is a flare of burning rage at the news, but her gaze turns towards Scramble and that quickly turns to sympathy, her thoughts themselves loud and overlapping. Her recorder plays, in her usual neutral tone, "I am sorry Scramble." Then she looks towards Dawson. "If she is working with an organization that is spying on us. It is likely it is government adjacent. How would she help to get B released? How would we know it is not a trap? She is, apparently, deceptive." "What? Nat? No." Somewhere amid denial -- anger -- upset -- more anger, Dusk just barely stops himself from continuing to crush his hapless laptop. He leans heavily down against the couch he'd just vacated, but straightens just after, stepping back and extending one long wing to brush Scramble's shoulder gently. Mentally he's checking over the laundry list of tortuously acronym'd agencies that have been hunting them; his thoughts stray back to B (worried, yes, but also sharply wishing he had her assistance right now in the realm of maintaining their digital security.) "Spying for who?" Mystique's eyes widen fractionally. << The timing of Natalie's disappearance was rather suspect. >> The surge of her anger is fierce but tightly controlled. She has other, more present matters to attend to. << Whisper, >> her thoughts bend toward the man accompanying her. << Is it true, what he says? >> Whisper frowns, studying Dawson intently. << He's a telepath, but he's telling the truth as far as he knows, >> he's not unaware that their dialogue is probably plain for Dawson to overhear. This exchange is over in the blink of an eye, and Mystique gives a solemn nod. Her thoughts are suddenly more muted -- she has some considerable experience in mundane psionic self-defense, but the faint thought still slips though: << A telepath and a teleporter -- and fast, to boot. >> "I thank you for bringing this information to us," she tells Dawson. "If Natalie's been out there for this long, knowing what she knows, it's clear her agenda isn't just taking us down as quickly as possible. If there's a chance she can return B to us, it might be a risk worth taking." She nods at Dawson, once up, once down. "But I admit I'm curious," she nods at Dusk's question, "what agent -- and what agency -- is willing to help release one of their marks like this." Scramble offers Heather a sad twitch of a smile. Leans into Dusk's wing, then ducks beneath it to tuck herself against his side, her exhaustion plain in the slump of her shoulders. The possibility of B's release wrings a surge of hope from her frazzled mind, but she lapses back into despair immediately after, her thoughts an incoherent litany of suicide and a clawing need for equilibrium. Dawson's eyes flicker over the group again, lingering longest on Dusk with a cold clench in his gut. There's another rapid series of mental calculations that ends, only, in exhaustion. A slow grinding of his teeth. << We've had worse odds. >> His own psionic self-defense is external, more sure, a carefully secured wall erecting itself around his thoughts that only another telepath could achieve. "B's my family. She's spent enough of her life in cages; I'd die before I see her disappeared into another forever. If there's a chance at her freedom I'd rather not see it killed." He's gone very still, eyes returning to lock on Mystique. "Doesn't mean I'm here to help you all." Heather's mouth presses into a fine line and she nods. "I would also prefer if B is not in a cage." She takes a scoop of the pudding and shovels the heaping spoonful of it into her mouth. In her mind she is also calculating as she stares towards Dawson through her reflective lens, considering the importance of B's safety, the likelihood that it is a trap, uncertainty on Natalie's intentions, and what would happen if a clash were concerned. "You and I fought robots together once," she plays, as if this is the deciding factor in whatever she was considering. "What do we do to make sure she is freed?" Dusk wraps his wing snug around Scramble's shoulders, holding her close against his side. His eyes close, and for once, rather than trying steadily to ignore the pounding at his senses, he focuses intently on the thrum of pulsebeats around him. The surge of hunger that follows is a welcome distraction from his previous conflicted deliberation of just what he would do if this tension collapses back into violence. Mystique's disquieting yellow eyes narrow. All that Dawson can read from her is a wave of irritation. "Impudent," she says coldly. But there's a suggestion of reluctant admiration beneath this, too. Whisper bows his head slightly. << This guy's a badass. I'm not sure picking a fight with him would be worth it. It's not like Xavier doesn't know where we are, anyway. >> Despite this advice, it's in glancing at Heather that Mystique makes up her mind. "We grant the traitor a reprieve," she allows. "There'll be time enough to punish her if she fails to free B. As for you," her eyes settle on Dawson, her expression opaque. "You risked death coming here to help our sister, and won't betray Charles even when he cannot lift a finger to protect you. You are a benighted fool." She smiles, slow and predatory. "But an honorable one. Go in peace." Her expression hardens. "Never come back." Dawson does not need to be told twice. With a surprisingly inconspicuous psionic touch, a memory embeds itself into the forefront of Mystique's mind; Natalie giving Dawson a phone number. In nearly the very next moment he is gone, only a spectral blur of afterimage lingering in his wake.