Logs:In-Class Exercises

In-Class Exercises
Dramatis Personae Bryce, Halim, Quentin, Roscoe
In Absentia Jax	2024-10-28 "What's wrong with you." (Just after a bogus arrest.)
Location <XAV> Computer Lab - Xs First Floor
All modernism in contrast to the old-world elegance of most of the mansion, this room has been dragged into the twenty-first century wholeheartedly. Rows of top-of-the-line computers provide internet access to any students who lack their own in their rooms, and sleek tablets give the mansion's artists a place to practice their digital art when the art studio does not suffice. Whether knuckling down to pull an all-nighter on a research paper or simply killing time browsing, students can be found in here at all hours in front of the glows of the screens. This should be a coding class. Quiet, orderly, very outwardly dull. Right now it's in a tumult -- the very recent announcement that the school is getting raided by cops, the (re-)(re-)(re-) arrest of the school's beloved celebrity terrorist, the growing agitation spreading through the halls from this invasion. There's very little code being written and a good deal of unrest. Halim is up at the front of the room, fingers rubbing slowly to his temples. "In your seats." His commands don't sound much different than his regular statements, flat and abrupt. "The police will be here soon. They want the computers. Not you. Stay in your seats. Stay quiet." Bryce had been staring at his work like it's giving him a stress headache, and there was a very brief moment at the first announcement of Impending Doom that a relief flooded his mind. << yes >> << thank you Heavenly Father >> though a second later a dread has snapped hard and fierce into his mind << wait cops >> << I wasn't doing THAT bad >> tumbles into actual understanding, into a concern for Mr. Jax and a nervous-excited pang. He's starting to get out of his seat and sits right back down into it at Halim's order, his silky dog-ears flopping down against his brilliant blue-scaled skin. Technically he is in his seat, knelt backwards in his rolling chair with his arms draped over its back, but Roscoe is really still not quite following the spirit of these instructions, swinging his body (and rocking the chair) agitatedly from side to side as he watches the agents' progress through the school. Despite this obvious unease his expression is flat and impassive under the hood of his DBZ sweatshirt. "They're in the library," he says -- his voice is flat and impassive, too -- << (nothing in the library but books, what are they looking for, what do they want) >> -- "They're in the kitchen," this is assuredly not improving the mood in the computer lab but Roscoe does not seem able to help himself. Quentin is somewhat performatively ignoring everyone else's agitation. His eyes are trained steadily on his screen, his shoulders just a little tightly clenched as his classmates fret and commentate around him. He's finished his classwork but has moved on to a new project, fingers rapid against the keys as if the developing lines of code can in some what shut out everything else battering at his mind. But maybe he can't help himself, too, because it's just a moment before the library cops start to head this way that he pipes up (without looking up): "Coming this way." He's not moving, but he is logging out of the computer to start shutting it down. There are a number of cops coming this way, tromping with unnecessary disregard for the space into the computer lab -- kicking a backpack here and there. Jostling a chair. The one in charge is wearing a psi shielded helmet, thoughts as opaque as his blank face; the two men he is with have been getting increasingly antsy the longer they search through this school and have a distinct but growing feeling that the students are Weirder Than They Should Be. The feeling is only amplified as they start through the lab -- one has stopped to openly grimace at Bryce when he bumps the chimaera-boy's chair, as if Bryce was sitting there out of sheer malice. Helmet is ignoring this, just telling Halim: "We have a warrant to search these premises, including the digital devices owned by this school." Halim has not moved from where he's leaning against his desk, thin and unimpressive in comparison to the men coming to trash his classroom. His hands has lifted kind of placating -- to the kids, not the officers, IN YOUR SEATS is printed bold across all the devices still powered on in the room. "Sure." Clipped, too, but he manages to shift his voice into one that aaalmost actually has a tone -- even, polite -- as he starts moving to nudge one of the backpacks closest to him under a desk. "Can I move my class to the library?" Bryce squeaks when his chair is jostled. The brilliant red feathers improbably covering his head above the lizard-scales and between the dog-ears all stand on end like a bright and feathery mohawk. His clawed and furry hands lift reflexively to smooth them back down, his eyes a little wider. "Sorrysorry," he's saying quietly. "Um, wait, is that." He's looking uncertainly at his own laptop -- purchased for him by the school -- his brow furrowing. "Should I -- give them -- do you want --" He's twisting around in his seat like he's not entirely sure who he should be directing this question to. As the cops file past him Roscoe pulls sharply back, eyes just a little wider as they follow the cop in charge, but having them in actual proximity is making him strangly less nervy than he was just watching them. He shakes his hands out of his baggy sleeves, turning slowly in the chair, glancing nervously at Halim. Still in the chair, at least. Quentin's eyes are snapping to Bryce. Kind of through the cops. He, also, is a little twitchy, but he stays put. "Bryce, that's yours." There's an uncomfortable continued commentary that speaks in his classmates' minds, now, less wary than offended: << They got their own teep out there. >> "Fine, you can --" the psi-shielded man is starting to say to Halim. He cuts himself off sharply at a tug from a reedy looking older man who does not, in his jeans and sneakers and shuffling walk and polo shirt, seem particularly coplike at all as he appears in the doorway. Probably because he is not -- Halim likely recognizes him from Project Wideawake, just as he very clearly notices Halim, eyes narrowed sharp. The older man is murmuring something quiet to Helmet, and there is a distinct sharper anxiousness in Helmet's voice when he barks: "Stop." The other cops had been on edge the moment that Bryce's feathers started to ripple. The sharp bark from their leader pushes that over -- one of them has drawn his gun, though he's pointing it a little absurdly at the nearest computer to him. The other just cuffs Bryce roughly back into his seat -- "Sit down, freak." Even as dark as his skin is, Halim has gone noticeably more ashen at this new addition to the room. He pulls himself up from the desk to his -- very unimposing height, beside the armed and armored larger men. His arms are folded tight over his chest, and he's very deliberate in his movements as he stalks a little closer to Bryce. "If you touch any of these kids --" he is beginning, harder, now, but then his eyes shift quick to the drawn gun across the room. Narrow there hard and calculating -- there's a girl next to the Dangerous Computer who is starting to ooze a faint pink mist from her skin; there's a boy on the other side of Roscoe whose computer is beginning to vibrate. Probably, Halim with his near complete lack of Defensive Power is not liking whatever calculation he has arrived at; it looks almost physically painful for him when he says, tersely: "You are frightening my students." Bryce yelps, at the shove. "What'd I --" There are new ridges forming thick and scaley on his forehead, claws sprouting longer where his hand claps to his mouth to physically restrain the rest of this question. He hunches in his seat, but his mind is loud with confusion and indignance (he was being so good!) and -- not quite fear but a sort of meta-fear that is trying to make up his mind about what level of danger this represents. There's a shame there, too, some strong conviction that Real Superheroes would not be cuffed about this way. Roscoe puts one foot down, half-rising, though from his previous vantage point knelt up on the chair this actually drops his height substantially. His head turns from Halim to the head cop to the new teep in the room with a pointy frown; where he has been aggressively battening down his mounting panic he has unwisely left himself a lot of mental space with which to bristle protectively. "What's wrong with you," he says hotly to the officer by Bryce. "You can't touch him, he's not doing anything." The Chief Pig's helmet lifts directly off his head and drops to the ground. "What the fuck, leave him alone --" is what Quentin is snapping, sharp, as he jerks to his feet. The actual mental compulsion that lodges itself firm and commanding in all the cops' minds is more specific -- holster those guns, back away from the kids. Has he entirely forgotten the older teep in the room, probably, but his strange and see-through mind is reflecting only the anxieties and stresses of the students around him. The police are holstering their guns, are backing away, though they look pretty irked to be doing so -- the blare of anger and panic in the man who just got de-helmetted is particularly loud against his previous radio silence. Despite his irritation and his growing desire to put someone in their place he is not reaching for his weapon. Can't reach for his weapon, the impulse vaguely swelling and then popping against the hard edges of Quentin's compulsion. "I've been wondering where you got to." This isn't any of the cops -- it's the little older teep, his smile thin and hard and uneasily nasty. He's staring straight at Halim, but cuts his eyes sharp to Quentin. Something savage and sharp snaps through Quentin's mind, crumbling those compulsions into dust, but not before the teep has taken over, turning the men towards the door to start backing away. "Leave the machines, they're dangerous." << and destroy your fucking phones. >> is slamming kind of crankily into the officers' minds as they go. Halim's arms uncurl slowly from his chest. He exhales slowly, his head bowing. He's looking over Bryce with a frown -- and then the rest of the class. He walks back slowly to slump against his desk as the computers all start rebooting or shifting back to the work-in-progress. His palms are pressing hard to the sharp edge of the desk as, silently, the due date for the current assignment shifts itself back an extra day.