Logs:Manufacturing Consent
| Manufacturing Consent | |
|---|---|
CN: Mentions of rape/incest/murder | |
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2025-01-02 "Jesus." (Some time after turning down the gaslight, immediately followed by talking to Charles.) |
| Location
<XAV> Scott's room - Xs Third Floor | |
Scott's room is spacious and comfortable; it retains much of the old-fashioned furniture it came with, and only a few elements of the decor have been updated to reflect its occupant -- a framed vintage military recruitment poster on one wall; a neatly alphabetized bookshelf doubling as storage for several model airplanes; a small TV on the dresser; a minifridge under the desk, covered in magnets from National and State Parks; a tiny Alaska state flag and a tiny American flag side-by-side on the desk, along with a wireless radio and a soldering iron. The windows look out at the lake, but usually the sheer curtains are drawn. Winter break is winding to a close; maybe Scott is trying to eke out his last few days to relax before term resumes? No, even at this early-morning hour he is working, sitting at his desk with his laptop and a stack of manila folders, yesterday's Rose Bowl playing on the TV mostly as background noise, though once in a while he pauses his work to watch a replay, eyebrows quirked up over his glasses. He's probably been up for hours -- he has an empty coffee mug on the desk beside him, is already dressed for the day in jeans and a dark red flannel, but with house slippers instead of boots. Scott's solitude is broken somewhat abruptly -- Joshua was not there, and now he simply is. He's in sneakers, jeans, an aged Xavier's sweatshirt unzipped over an OCCUPY LASSITER 2023 tee. He's just lowering his hand, bottle of tequila open and half-finished in it. He levels a long and slightly confused frown on Scott before a sudden snap of understanding widens his eyes. "Fu --" "--ck," finishes at a slightly muffled remove outside the door. There is a shuffling of footsteps, but no knock. Did Scott actually get a good look at his guest in the time he was here? Apparently, good enough -- or maybe he just took a good whiff of tequila -- for when he gets up to open the door, he's just waving Joshua in wordlessly. "Sorry," Joshua mumbles, for a moment a little frozen in place outside the door, his eyes fixed down approximately where the handle just was. He blinks several times and finally remembers to come in. His fingers are clenched tight against the bottle; he's stopped a few steps inside the door and after this, looks a little at a loss. He swallows, but when he finds his voice again, "Sorry," a little bit more clearly, is all that comes out. "Don't be. Not doing anything that can't wait." Even if Scott has been up for a while his voice has a vaguely early-morning gruffness to it. He closes the door, turns off the TV, closes his manila folder, then finally settles against his desk, thumbs tapping the wood on either side of him, giving Joshua a scrutinizing frown. "What's wrong, Joshua?" Joshua is still just standing, a little stiff, a little awkward. His head shakes; he lifts his hand (bottle clutched tight) to rub at already reddened eyes with his knuckles. It's only when Scott closes the folder that he seems to find his inertia again, moving further into the room. Probably he meant to find a seat, but instead he stops in front of the bookshelf, eyes locked somewhat blankly on the first book spine he sees. "Been at Matt's place." If this takes Scott aback at all, he isn't showing it, just watching Joshua with the same pinched worry. "Why?" "Luci fucking asked me." What does this explain? Who knows. Joshua is saying it with a fervent heat not often heard in his low voice. "Lucien was there?" This is a little taken aback; Scott's frown is pulling deeper. For a moment, it's his turn to flounder for a response, but he finally asks, "What did he want you to do?" "After what that fucker did to him --" This, at least, does not seem like it's even intended to be an answer. Joshua is muttering it darkly to his bottle and not so much Scott. He lifts the tequila, takes another long slug. For a moment he seems almost like he is about to droop straight into the bookshelf but with a frown and an oddly gentle pat at one of the model airplanes, he moves to the side and promptly slumps against the wall instead. "Exonerate his rapist brother." Scott moves swiftly out of the way of the chair, shifting it away from the desk, though then he is pulling up short, like somebody's just pressed 'pause' on him. "Exonerate?" he repeats with confusion, then, far more quietly, "-- rapist?" "I put him back together. I saw what he fucking -- I felt --" Joshua is sinking lower and lower as he says this, back against the wall, until he just sets down on the floor with a thump. "... Matt," he finally answers, a little more directly. "He -- they -- Luci wanted me to -- figure out their. Mom's -- fucked up power." Scott leans a little more heavily on the chair, hands white-knuckled on its back -- he watches Joshua in discomfiting silence for a moment, before he leaves the chair where it is and goes over. Drops onto the bench at the foot of his bed and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, eyebrows scrunching low over his glasses. "The Professor went over. Spoke with her," he says. "After Luci was killed. He said she -- did you figure it out? Her power?" Joshua's pulled one knee up toward his chest, and though he starts to lift the bottle again he does not actually drink this time; he rests it on his knee, eyes squeezing tightly closed. At length he huffs one short-sharp breath, shakes his head slow and small. "Superhuman gaslighting." He opens his eyes again, though now as his head drops heavily back against the wall they're fixed aimlessly up at a corner of the ceiling. "Not sure all the -- edges, it's. Slippery thing. Like a --" The shake of his head grows a little more pronounced as he grasps for words. "Manufactured complacency." "Jesus." This is sort of flat, nothing much out of the ordinary in Scott's voice; a moment later he just repeats in this same inflection, "Jesus, that's --" what is it? He doesn't say, now staring hard at a spot a little bit past Joshua, his hands clasped in front of his face. "Do you think that Matt --" Scott, at least, is slowly shaking his head through this, though it's not clear if this is his own answer or some kind of tic. He presses his chin against his clasped hands. "Exonerate," he repeats. "Their whole damn life, she's..." Joshua blinks hard -- his eyes have refocused when he opens them again, this time narrowed hard on the wall as if he's trying to see straight through it. "I think --" His next breath is very unsteady. "Her shit fooled Xavier." Almost defensive, this is, though, immediately followed by the much softer: "I'm never going to -- unsee that night." "Jesus," says Scott again; one hand drags slowly down the side of his face. His gaze drifts back to Joshua for a long moment before it begins to reintensify. "Usually he can spot other psionics a mile away, but I guess if she causes complacency --" he shakes his head just once, a little fitfully. "I bet," he says. "I -- I'm sorry." He presses one thumb at the bridge of his nose, then drops his hands to clasp between his knees. "We should talk to the Professor," he says, slowly, then, after a pause, "...once you've slept." "S'not -- exactly psionic, it's." Joshua does not elaborate on what it is; probably the tequila is not helping with his mutant science jargon. He is pushing himself back to his feet clumsily -- he has, thankfully, forgotten the bottle on the floor where he'd been sitting. "Right," he's saying, a low mumble as much to himself as to Scott. "Right, we should --" He's reappeared beside Scott, claps one hand on the older man's shoulder, and -- | |
