Logs:Eleventh Hour

Eleventh Hour
Dramatis Personae Ion, Scott
In Absentia	2024-12-31 "You come do some New Year with me, say fuck-off to 2024 proper."
Location <XAV> Upper Armoury - Xs basement / <???> Somewhere in the Andes
Adjoining the teachers' lounge, this is a pleasant but understated enclave for the faculty to relax or catch up on work. Lit softly by a small chandelier, and warmed in the winter by a grated fireplace, it is furnished with one long table and comfortable plush chairs, as well as smaller individual desks, each with a small Tiffany-style lamp. Tall, elegant shelves of antique books stand along the walls, with displayed antique hunting rifles, finely-crafted swords, or full suits of armor in the interstices between them. The elevator to the lower level is tucked unobtrusively at the far wall, between two framed antique maps. There are a few hours still before the new year arrives, but even the reduced student body has been humming with anticipation for most of the day. Still, down in the basement it's quiet, only Johnny Cash playing softly on the radio and the (slow) (very slow) turn of pages where Scott is sitting at one of the desks, illuminated in counterpoint by geometric green and teal from the Tiffany-style lamp on end table, and flickering orange from the fire. He's dressed comfortably, in an old pair of jeans and a soft crewneck sweatshirt, light heather grey with the Xavier's logo emblazoned on the back, his hair neatly and recently combed after a shower. For once he's not actually doing anything that looks like work -- there's a soldering iron on the desk beside him and a half-assembled model airplane (a Stearman Model 75) in front of him, an array of unused parts spread around it and a pile of printed-out and heavily annotated blueprints he's currently looking through, his brow furrowed, pencil tip tapping at his Bill of Materials. The fire is flickering -- the lights probably should not be. There is a shiver, dimming and brightening. Shortly after, there's a crackle and a "-- Ey-yo, Boy Scout, what you --" Ion's voice is booming as he lopes over, drops into a chair across from Scott. He's casually dressed -- no cut, just jeans and a plain black tee under his monochrome plaid flannel. He does not finish his question, largely because his attention has immediately been captivated, rapt, by the model. There's a small clackclack of his hook at his side, and he actually sits on it as if reminding himself Not To Touch. "Ohshit you make this thing?" As Ion crackles into existence, Scott has tilted his head back to frown around up at the chandelier, but he's relaxing again as his gaze lowers to take in his sudden guest, grinning small but easy -- "Hey, Ion." He taps the point of the pencil against his blueprints again, then, "Oh, yeah. I haven't put in any of the electrical parts yet," this is said like it's explicative of something, presumably the fact that if he had he would not be reaching to hand Ion the plane's frame, not as delicate as it looks. "Happy New Year. Got anything fun planned for tonight?" "Electrical -- damn tell me this thing really gonna fly?" There's a wide-eyed delight on Ion's face as he takes the half-finished plane (in his actual hand, he's still sitting on his hook), cradling it very carefully as he lifts it up to inspect the frame. "This wild how long these things take you, damn. You make some real-real tiny friends they gonna have a baller ride." He's setting the frame carefully back down in its place, then setting himself down lower, too, arm pillowed on his head and his eyes still fixed on the model. "Shit I been saying hi at the new year hours already I got friend here to Japan. How you gonna start 2025, huh?" Scott looks simultaneously pleased with himself and sheepish -- "It's just a toy," he says. He picks the plane up again as soon as Ion sets it down, tilts his head -- "Mm. I didn't think of that, there isn't a cockpit. They'd be in for a pretty uncomfortable ride." He sets the frame down again, goes back to inventorying his parts; though his face has relaxed out of its smile and his tone hasn't strayed from businesslike, his posture is still cheerfully lazy. "I don't know, yet. Asleep. Maybe if I have a quiet New Year I'll have a quiet year." His voice here is a little warmer with amusement, though not particularly optimistic. "No cockpit, tch. You meet a this-big pilot," Ion is squinting at the plane and then holding his forefinger and thumb just a little apart, "I bet that fucker used to getting real creative with they selves." His head turns against the crook of his arm, watching the inventorying with casual interest. "See," he sounds very pleased, now, sitting up with a broad grin, "I knew you be a bed-before-midnight fucker -- don't front though you be bored out your skull, quiet year. I make you plans, though. You come do some New Year with me, say fuck-off to 2024 proper." Though immediately after this invitation he is eying the plane with a touch of anxiety: "... she be safe here? Guess you maybe put her away first." "Hff." This isn't a proper laugh, mostly just an inhale, but Scott is tilting his head in acknowledgment -- "Maybe a little bored," he says, like this would totally be No Biggie. He gives this offer considerably more thought, eyebrows quirked down at the model plane, before -- "Let me drop her off," he says. "Should warn you I'm no fun at parties, though." Ion bounces to his feet, abruptly alight with energy now that this invitation has been accepted. He does not seem to know quite where to put all the energy, though, bracing his hands on the back of the seat he just vacated, rocking up in a jittery bounce onto his toes. He is almost aggressively trying Not to rush Scott, fingers squeezing down hard against the chair as if this will hold him in place. "You met my dogs, you think this where I be if I looking for fun at parties? Looking for you, Boy Scout." --- <???> Somewhere in the Andes Somewhere nearby, there is definitely a party going on. The lights can be seen from here, fireglow flickering and gaudy-colorful string lights and a riot of colors from the vibrant outfits of the revelers dancing below. From here, though, currently, its more of a background suggestion of Festivity than an actual party -- some of the music drifts upward, a distant thump of drums, but mostly it's the wind in the trees, the occasional call of nightbirds. Ion is releasing his passenger not too close to the edge of a rocky outcropping of cliff overlooking the village. There once was some kind of building here, though it's long since tumbled down to a few half-collapsed walls and a small set of stone steps. Ion is tipping his head back (the backwards stars up here are glittering far more brilliant than in New York) as if the sky itself will tell him something, and when he finds no answer there he is looking back to Scott instead. For a second, at least, before, "-- ohshit I forgotten --" His fingers brush against one of the broken walls and he vanishes. Briefly; when he reappears it is with two bottles of beer. "Only tiny-bit party," he's offering, along with one of the bottles. Scott takes the beer sort of absently, still looking around -- down at the party in the village, up at the other side of the sky, around the crumbling building -- but when he runs his thumb over the cap he is at once a little more focused, fishing a multitool from one pocket to crack open his beer, then holding it out in offer to Ion, and then holding out his bottle for a clink before he takes a sip. Then his focus is lapsing again -- the glittering red glow from his glasses is pointing here, there, sort of everywhere but Ion until he says, "Where are we?" Ion clinks the bottle back against Scott's. He's dropping down to sit on the bottom of the flat stone steps that lead Nowhere, Really, anymore. His elbow rests on the step above him. "Home. One home, anyway. Grew up all over these damn mountains. Some whole other life, feel like." He rolls his head back; his outstretched leg gives one or two restless bounces, but then is calming into a surprising state of languid, for him. "You think it true? How you see the New Year it tell you a thing about what coming?" Scott lowers himself onto the steps too, a little more gently, rests his elbows on his knees -- "Oh," he says. His head tilts up at the sky again, this wandering glance only interrupted by a small, considering nod at some whole other life, his lips mouthing it back silently, then pressing thin in a kind-of-not-quite-smile. Out loud: "I don't know," he says. "I'd like to think so. Be kind of nice to be able to predict what's next. I guess," he admits, lifting his beer again so that his next words are echoey against the bottle lip, "it's a little boring that way." He takes a swig. "What would this be telling us?" "Know some future-seers, ain't seem to tame their lifes for shit," Ion is saying with a rough bark of laughter. His hook clicks against his bottle. He takes a long pull as he considers Scott's question, his eyes locked on the merriment down below. Eventually he rolls his head to the side, gives Scott a crooked grin. "Shit, this? Tell us the only thing I give a shit about. Find some home where you can. Fill my year up with the people that matter. We manage that, the rest of the fuckery it'll work itself out." The maybe-sort-of-smile, though in the silence it'd begin to relax into a more peaceful expression, is crooking lopsidedly now. "That's a lot of faith," remarks Scott. "Faith, fuck. Took some damn planning, figure out how to cram all the new years I want in one night. Faith for Him up there --" Ion is gesturing with his bottle, heavenwards. "-- here-people take lotta work." Somewhere down below there is a faint and distant cheering; the shiver and sparkles of small fireworks illuminating the village with brief scintillation of light. Ion glances sidelong at Scott, and then down to his bottle. "Feliz año nuevo," His smile is crooked when he lifts the beer in toast. "-- Argentina time, too. Still get you into bed on time." Scott clasps his hands around the neck of his bottle, just taking this in with a slow nod, before this last bit surprises him into a short but genuine laugh. He tilts his head up at the sky again, tilts his posture back to lean on one bracing hand, tilts his beer out to clink the base of his bottle against Ion's again -- "Downright gentlemanly of you, Sparky," he says with amusement, then "Happy new year, Ion."