Logs:Home to Roost

Home to Roost
Dramatis Personae Horus, Ryan, Scott
In Absentia Jax	2024-12-10 I should get the art credit though. (some time after clearing up some miscommunications.)
Location <XAV> Scott's Office - Xs First Floor
There are relatively few personal effects in the Residential Dean's (actual) office, save for a few framed photos, a diecast model of a sleek black muscle car, and a chintzy Manhattan snow globe in the hutch of Scott's L-shaped computer desk. The rest of his space has been devoted to printouts and papers -- stacked in manila folders in plastic trays, leafed into neatly labeled three-ring binders on his shelves, and probably filling up the wall of sleek black filing cabinets that extends from behind him out to the opposite corner. There is room for four comfortable-ish chairs opposite the desk for guests, but three of those chairs have been lined up by the wall next to the door to create more maneuverable floor space. The door opens; the light clicks on; Scott's low voice says, "Have a seat." There's only one window in the Residential Dean's office, and as he props the door open and comes all the way in, slipping his phone back into his jeans pocket, Scott is going around the desk to open the blinds and peer out, glancing uncertainly over his shoulder with a furrowed brow -- "I don't know if he's in the mansion or not," he says, "should I..." but then, apparently without making any decision about the window, he's coming back around his desk. He stops with a slightly deeper furrow of brow beside his row of extra chairs, like he's not sure whether or how he should be preemptively setting this up for Horus, and then not making any decisions there, either, just crossing to sit heavily in his own chair, swivelling it to unlock his computer. A few seconds later, a printer -- somewhere out of sight, on a lower level of the desk -- is whirring to life with a chugchugchug that Scott, evidently, finds pretty pleasant; he's pausing, just for a moment, his head tilted, to listen. "Eh --" The fact that Ryan seems extraordinarily cavalier about where the tween bird might or might not be at the moment perhaps should highlight something about this whole escapade, but he's giving it little thought, just, "-- even if he's not he gets around pretty good." He is taking a seat in the extra chair with a small huff of relief, propping his crutches up against the desk. He stops for just a moment himself, head tilting to the noise as well and a brief twitch of smile crossing his expression. It fades into -- not exactly chagrin. "-- swear I meant to tell Jax once we figured out how old he is but shit was chaotic when y'all got back." Somewhere down the hall an elevator is moving, opening. There's a flapflap of wings, and then one Totally Very Adult Bird appears in the doorway, tablet strapped to his chest and a gold-trimmed derby hat perched on his head. He stops in the doorway when he sees Ryan there -- his head is tilting faaar one direction and then just as far the other. "It was chaotic. Not your fault." In fact Scott is grimacing in a guilty way that suggests he thinks this might be his own fault, though if he was going to make some overture at apology it's swallowed quickly at the sound from the hallway. His expression smooths back into its baseline -- steady, unruffled, unflappable -- and he gets up to his feet. "Hey, Horus, come on in," he says. "Looks like there was a misunderstanding about your enrollment, just wanted to get that sorted." There is not much inflection in his even voice, though there is a small (but bright) empathic flare of amusement. "What, we interrupting some important teacher business, don't give me that look." Ryan's brows hike up. He's turning both his hands upward like, what, then gesturing inside expectantly. He's adding a very encouraging: "You wanna run game on your teachers, that's your business but you expect me to cover for you I gotta even know." Horus takes a step back, and then a step forward. His talons click on the floor, and for just a moment the rustle of his wings seem like he might take off again altogether. He doesn't -- just flutters up to perch on the back of Ryan's chair, lightly bopping his beak against the man's head. He fusses more than usual with his tablet as he's unstrapping it, usually a deft-quick motion but this time he is fidgeting considerably extra with the straps and his stylus. There's something almost antsy in the continued ruffle of his feathers, though to Ryan's senses, at least, the quiet ruffling is whispering a soft amusement. Important very important very very important. I have proteges now very important bird very important mentor. Was teaching how to photograph flying-birds that is next next next level photographing. The rich voice of his tablet, steady and calm as ever, carries a far bolder empathic signature -- despite Horus's wide eyes and quiet fidgeting, the register in his voice is practically gleefully cackling. Even through the opaque lenses, Scott's glance aside at Ryan is a little obvious, though it's not until he speaks again that his amusement is swelling, tinging with a liiittle bit of sympathy and a liiittle bit of disgruntlement. Perhaps not enough of it. He's still keeping his voice level. "We'll reassign your mentee and get you a substitute until we can find another teacher to take over, Horus, don't worry." (He probably means himself; this probably bodes ill for the photography class.) He sits down again, swivels the chair to collect his forms from the printer tray (the rustle of paper, the pat-pat when he taps the corners square, the flumph when he sets them on the desk all come with a faint but very intentional peace of mind, smoothing out the ripples of his mood. "So, Ryan tells me you're -- how old, exactly?" "Exactly might be a hard one, don't think Prometheus shipped him out of there with any papers. He told us he was eighteen when we busted Mendeleev and coasted on that lie ever since." Ryan is not really bothering to paper over his own amusement. He reaches up to bop Horus's beak lightly right back. "-- damn, boy, you got a mentee and all? Honestly, kind of killing this teacher thing -- not," he's hasty to add, "that that excuses -- I mean you had to know the gig would be up some time, right?" killing it killing it kill kill killing it, Horus's tablet croons back. He's slowly bobbing in place, a very small side-to-side sway accompanied by a deep figure-8 sort of wobble of his head. no birth certificate no id nothing nothing nothing. Maybe I was small when I got out. Maybe three maybe four maybe five. Maybe maybe maybe I was a grown bird maybe now I lie about being small. He adjusts his grip on the stylus and now regards Scott intently with one large eye. I should get the art credit though. Scott has been trying so hard not to crack a smile but this, alas, is what does it, breaking through his determinedly straight expression in a small, half-voiced little chuckle. He shakes his head. "Mm," he says, setting a manila folder on the desk and flipping it open. "We'll have to talk to the department head, but --" his gaze flicks up at Horus again, with a tiny lift of his head, "-- I don't see why not."