Logs:Of Trials and Teamwork (Or, In Which Without Counsel, Plans go Wrong, but With Many Advisers They Succeed.)

Of Trials and Teamwork (Or, In Which Without Counsel, Plans go Wrong, but With Many Advisers They Succeed.)
cn: simulatious of violence/murder
Dramatis Personae Jax, Ryan, Erik, Charles, Regan, Steve, Hive, Kavalam, Scott, Kitty, Matt, Eric, Taylor, Scramble, Leo, Alma, Polaris, Isra, Cerebro, Heather, B, DJ, Dusk, Hank, Ion, Fury	july, 2023 "They've done it for so many years with so little support. Not anymore."
Location the road to lassiter
july 7. rooftop, s.h.i.e.l.d. hq. Other people would, perhaps, be worried about surveillance in a situation like this, but between Jax's illusory screens and Ryan's audio ones, surveilling this conversation would prove quite hard. Which is good, really, because at this very moment Jax's voice is raised clear and agitated -- even if only Ryan is getting the force of his heat. In more than one sense, too: there's a fiery warmth roiling off him in waves, not quite enough to burn but it's certainly creeping up alarmingly. "-- and, what, I just sit here? While they do who knows what -- I was supposed to keep him safe. I didn't pull him out of those cages just to let them --" "We're not letting them," Ryan cuts in, and though he speaks abruptly his voice is low. "We're going to throw everything we have at this. We've got backing, we've got reinforcements, we've got a plan. The question is when he comes home do you want to fucking be here, or not? Which do you think Spence would want?" Jax's mouth snaps closed, his head bowing. When he throws his arms around Ryan the heat is fiercer, still, his forehead dropping heavily to the other man's shoulder. He doesn't speak, for a time, though a wordless strangled noise catches in his throat. The tears that have started to glimmer in his eyes have dried themselves already by the time he pulls back. "-- Okay. Go bring our kid home." --- july 8. charles’s study.' It's quiet for a long time after Charles finishes speaking, a quiet that has nothing to do with the difficult position white has put black in on the board between them. Erik's eyes are focused on the just-moved white pawn where it captured his knight, jaw working silently. He is thinking of a glossy magazine-image of Ryan, placing it against Jackson drawing in a modular cell -- maybe still, even now, with his son in horrific hands -- waiting for freedom. Anya's killers are rising in his mind -- are shoved down as bile rises in Erik's throat. "You wouldn't have come to me," is what Erik eventually says, slow and thoughtful while his horror-rage burns cold, "if you did not need my strength." << But they ask for no deaths, even when they would be slaughtered themselves? >> Prometheus, in his mind, is a pasted together collage of modular trailers and Soviet cobblestone drives, gleaming bloody metal instruments and the acrid smell of burning bodies. The missing students are slotted, one by one, into the scene, brutalized by guards that have been dead for generations before these children were even born. << Surely, Charles, even your heart cannot bleed for those who will kill to keep our children in chains. >> He moves a piece across the board, conservative where at this point in the game, Erik tends to push his luck. "Am I being called upon to keep your hands clean after all?" << (Because I will) >> is strong and protective across the telepathic link -- he can see clearly where Magneto fits into this, now -- shouldering the blood so that the school may remain a safe haven, once the children are rescued from hell. "We've always needed your strength." Charles clasps his hands together tight, studying the board needlessly. "That isn't about your capacity for or willingness to do violence." His shields are relaxed as far as he'll allow them under normal circumstances, and the ambient warmth of his telepathic presence aches to fold Erik into him. He quiets it with a will, keeps it soothing and passive. The corner of his labyrinthine mind that houses Erik's memories whispers, in his native Yiddish and yet without words, << ({you are not a weapon.}) >> But he doesn't pursue this consciously, only acknowledges that it happened and that this is a bad time for them to have that fight again. << I cannot help how I am made. >> This isn't regretful, exactly -- just tired and resigned. << You know what killing is to me. At the same time, I had much rather kill those traitors than risk any of my (our) people's lives in the assault. But that isn't my decision, or yours. >> The Jax in his mind's eye is a composite of boy and man, artist and warrior, glittering in every possible color; beside and with this, Ryan is a harmony distant and sometimes dissonant but bright and fierce in his own ways. "Trust that they know how to fight this. They've done it for so many years with so little support. Not anymore." He castles queenside, neatly doubling his rooks to menace black's already compromised defenses. Then lifts his pale eyes to study his adversary and his friend. "They need our strength now, Erik." --- july 9. brotherhood council room. "...This is not," Magneto stresses from his place at the head of the council table, "our mission." His hand tips out to the knot of raid team members, sitting (and standing, in this crowded assembly) at his side. "If you choose to join our brothers' assault on Prometheus, you will be subject to the rules of their organization. You will take orders from their leader, train with them for however many hours are required, give whatever information about your gifts they may ask, whatever is needed to break into this evil fortress. You will not kill the traitors and humans holding our children hostage, though they will certainly attempt to slaughter us." This gets a murmur around the table -- Magneto holds up one dark-gloved hand to silence the room. "Those that will join us, I want your names by nightfall. Training -- under Ryan Black's eye -- begins tomorrow." As she often is, Regan has been quiet, casual posture belied by her keenly attentive gaze. Her eyes narrow along with many others at You will not kill the traitors, and her mouth is already twisting slightly to one side. She sits up a little straighter, and -- is she going to make an objection? Is she getting ready to volunteer? It's hard to say because the last words out of Magneto's mouth drop her brows into a flat disbelief. It takes a minute before her voice, clear and dry, cuts over the even more incredulous murmurs this comment has stirred up. "If we're challenging the quislings to a battle of the bands, at least we'll be set." --- july 9. jax’s cell, shield hq. Presumably Steve deduced the moment he stepped through the door and couldn't hear those present conversing that he'd stumbled into a strategy session. He vacillates only for an instant, then closes the door firmly behind him. Sets his tote bag on the dining table with whatever beverages and snacks he's foraged today. For an uncertain moment it seems possible he's just going to turn around and leave again. Then the moment passes. When he speaks it's Ryan he's looking at, the love and fear and hurt in his voice registering only as the barest unsteadiness to other ears. "Hey. I know this isn't the best time, but I don't know if there's gonna be a --" Over at Jax's couch, Ryan has been in an intense huddle with Jax and Wendy. He's the last to look up, after a tensing of his shoulders, a hard clench of his fingers against the couch cushion (which he's sitting next to, not on, perched on the couch's arm.) His jaw works slowly, his eyes narrowing on their notes. Does the silence close in more heavily for a moment, uncanny and deadweight against Steve's senses? It might feel that way -- just for a second before it breaks, the strange bubble rippling and shifting to encompass him. Ryan's own voice cuts in across Steve's words, his eyes lifting to settle on the larger man, and though his jaw is still tight, his shoulders still clenched, his voice is blunt and steady. "You in?" --- july 10. charles's yacht. Even with a lifetime of meditation under his belt, Charles is struggling to focus on breathing, here, on the gently swaying deck of his yacht where it rides at anchor in the harbor. He's been gamely keeping track of the hundred-some other heres, refracted through the prism of their many minds. That would be disorienting enough without the chaos of the firefight in an illusory Prometheus facility beneath his home some 50 miles north -- -- here, as they press forward the guards are falling back, laying down suppressive fire to retreat behind a security door flanked with turrets. More Sentinels are pouring in behind them, the knowledge instantaneously and effortlessly disseminated to a range of << (shit!)(oh God)(fuck!) >> and reactions in that vein. Still, they are turning to dispatch the Sentinels, and they are disabling the turrets, and they need information on what's beyond the door, so they reach -- -- here, into the mercenaries huddled in the security ready room. Hatred and fear blossom within them like blood in water, muddling their sense of selves as they fight off the Sentinels in the corridor, as they pour panicked calls for backup into malfunctioning comms, as a flex of their power wrenches the security door from its hinges to a range of << (fucking freaks)(oh God)(they're coming!) >> and reactions in that vein. Still, they are making their stand, and they are throwing the ruined door through the gap, and they are screaming as their arm explodes into agony, and they are taking aim at the intruders -- -- and here is abruptly fracturing, fragmenting, a hundred-some split-screen views with all the brightness cranked abruptly to high, a hundred-some overlapping thoughtstream voices raised to headache-inducing volume. Their weapons fall to the floor and the thud that follows is far louder than the sound the rifle should make. Over and above it, a sharp-snapping voice: << thought it went without saying but "No Murder" includes our own damn team. >> But under the acid of Hive's tone there's something else growing, questing down into deep earth and coming back up with memories, strong and solid. Each one glimmers with Charles' warm light, each one pulled from a strong-rooted foundation of love for his people, protectiveness over his community, justice for the wronged among them. << (here) >> they're whispering beneath it, << (you/we) (are here) >> "They need you," Hive's voice sounds now in his ears as well as in his being, gruff and low from the other side of the table where the younger telepath, at least, is sipping calm and casual at his coffee. "Try to fucking remember that." --- july 10. danger room. An alarm cuts through the room, even as long corridors fade to an industrial, geodesic white paneled interior. Simulation terminated. Simulation terminated. Simulation terminated. The last echoes of shouting are still bouncing off the walls, giving way to the blare of the siren and the drone of a computerized voice. In the middle of the platform at the center of the room, a motley crew of raiders exchange confused looks and quiet, overlapping murmurs with each other. Did you—no, I don’t—maybe it broke—what happ—? One of the members of the team pulls a gas mask off of his face and lets it hang at his neck, revealing a (slightly sweaty) Eric. “What?” The Brotherhood member glares at Ryan, even as he gestures ahead of them, where there is… nothing, anymore, but once there was a Prometheus guard. “What? It was a clean shot. He was pointing a gun at us.” As if to add emphasis, Eric slams his pistol down into the holster at his side, before crossing his arms over his chest. “Textbook justified use of force.” Ryan is lifting his brows, eyes skimming from where the hapless illusory merc had been back to Eric. "You shot him six times." This gets a roll of the eyes from Eric. “Yeah, well, you ain’t shoot to warn. If they’re gonna shoot at you, you gotta put ‘em down first.” Unhelpfully, Eric flashes a grin at Ryan, before turning the toothy smile on the rest of the team. “It’s like they said in Zombieland. Gotta hit ‘em with that double-tap.” Ryan's eyes turn upward, lips moving in some silent prayer. Maybe it's for patience. The hand he turns out to gesture Eric towards the exit is decisive. "You," he finally says, "ain't gonna shoot at all." --- july 11. command and control center. Behind the visor, Scott's eyes are trained on his laptop; the bulleted list on the screen (DR_Training_Notes_20230711.docx) is reflected faintly in the ruby lenses. His words are chosen carefully, slowly, one at a time. "Everybody going into this," he says quietly, "knows the risk they are taking. I don't want to leave anybody behind. I am... I have to be prepared for the possibility." Kitty frowns down at the laptop, at the names being moved up and down the list taking up much of the screen. At her name. At Scott's own name. At all the names between the two. Lets out a long breath. "...Well, it's better than not going into this at all." She does not sound pleased nor victorious. Her shoulders tighten. "We have to be prepared to be left. Is Ryan going to tell folks who's important enough to go back for, or are you?" Have students recently been invited to the team's terrorism sessions? It seems wildly unlikely, and yet, there is a student here, at once suddenly-appearing and not at all; once they can see him it's like he's been here all along and they somehow just didn't pay attention. Kavalam has been studying their list, too, and if his face is a little too pale after reading it -- well, the lighting in here is crap. "For Gods' sake --" Right now he's just pushing his seat back further from the table, brows hiked as he levels an unimpressed look on the two adults. "Would this be easier if I go and tell it for you? I have the practice." --- july 12. hellhound bikes, brooklyn The bike behind Taylor needs a whole lot more work before she'll be street ready again, but though he's been sitting on the platform beside it a long -- long time, his many usually-industrious arms are quiet and still. His hands are restless, fidgeting with a torque wrench that gleams against his black skin from how long he's been rubbing a cloth over it. "I know he said he wasn't expecting any of us to suit up but -- it's fucking Lassiter." And, softer in the mental space between them but wrenching, all the same, with grief and rage and stark memories of a tiny boy pale and frightened under the harsh lights of a testing room, huddled beneath the drape of a much-younger-Taylor's snakelike limb, << It's fucking Spence. >> The memory doesn't continue, but doesn't need to; Scramble doesn't need to see it to understand the hard contraction of all Taylor's boneless arms, wrapping tight and unhappy in defensive coil around himself. "I -- don't think I can." "I feel you." Leaning back against the workbench Taylor isn't actually using, Scramble sets down the beer she had been sipping. "And yeah, it's fucking Lassiter." Her mind has been steady against her own horror and anger, and she's offering that steadiness now without flinching from Taylor's memories. "That's all the more reason we need everyone where they can be." She curls an arm around Taylor, limbs and all, and squeezes hard. "I been done since Dawson died, but this time, I'm going." << And that's all the more reason I need you holdin' things down out here. >> --- july 12. x-men locker room, xavier’s sub-basement. Steve looks up from checking his armor when the door opens in his peripheral vision, and his hands freeze on the buckle he had been tightening. Team members have been trickling in for a while now, and new ones -- at once more and less than anyone would like -- are hardly a surprise anymore, but the entire room quiets when the latest recruit steps inside. Steve straightens and takes a few hesitant steps towards the door. When he speaks it's surprisingly soft, even against the uncomfortable silence. "This is -- are you sure --" He swallows. Tries again. "You don't have to do this." Leo doesn't look very much ready for battle, in his neat jeans and crisp color-blocked button down. Maybe at some point someone will instruct him on proper battle clothing, but for now he's just standing -- shifting a little awkward from one foot to the other, his eyes lowering as the room goes quiet. He breathes in deep and lets the door close behind him, his eyes only dragging back up when Steve breaks the silence. "If you had been in that place," he replies, soft, as well, "you would know that is not true." --- july 13. xavier’s school, gym. The tiny woman in the on the other side of the mat looks dubiously at her opponent, no trace of her usually present disordered anxiety currently in her mind. So far, close quarters sparring has been going strongly in Kitty's favor -- and it has been almost exclusively close quarters, as illusory bullets pass through her charges over and over and over again. Now, spinning weighty metal kali sticks in each hand as the power suppression bears down, she's saying, confident, in the face of the flying projectile that she is absolutely not moving fast enough to avoid: "I dunno, I feel like even depowered I'm in a good spot --" Scramble has been turning one of Kitty's bokkens (or, rather, the Danger Room's copy of them) over in her hands, testing its balance as if she actually knows how to wield a sword of any kind, wooden or otherwise. Swings it experimentally. She does not look impressed. The moment the suppression comes on, she's hucking the weapon directly at Kitty -- not with any particular skill or grace, just a forceful two-handed throw -- and launching herself after it. The sword doesn't score a solid hit. Kitty's too skilled for that, but it does mean she's still occupied following through on her parry when her long-legged opponent reaches her. It looks like Scramble is going to miss Kitty altogether, but she's caught the smaller woman's wrist and, turning, executes a crude but effective Aikido throw that lands her flat on her back. "You're right." She's reaching to help Kitty off the mat, grinning bright but not unkindly. "That's a pretty good spot." --- july 13. command and control center. Practice has been in session for some days now, but it is only today that Erik enters the sub-basement, strolling far too comfortably into the Command and Control Center. No helmet, but he is still clearly recognizable -- shock of white hair, booming commanding voice, the red accents of his suit almost the same shade of red as the infamous MAGNETO WAS RIGHT original tee-shirt. "Mr. Black," comes at a reasonable volume, all things considered, "It has been a long time since I've been a soldier, but for this mission I believe I must give it a try once again." One eyebrow arches. Continues, deeply serious -- "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to thrill and suffer at my hand, or know the joy of my command. I am sure that could be arranged." Ryan's eyes go a little wider, when he enters the control room and finds it already quite occupied by the larger-than-life presence of the Master of Magnetism. His casual amble comes to a halt, his shoulders straightening just a touch -- and then a fierce deep blush floods his cheeks when Erik quotes his own song at him. His teeth catch at his lip, his head briefly bowing as he rubs at the back of his neck. When he looks up the blush is starting to recede, sliced away by a sharp hook of smile. "Hey I am so down but, work first, yeah? Then play." "Mm, but that's not how he really likes to play, now is it?" Matt, who almost certainly knew who awaited them in the control room before entering and did not see fit to forewarn his friend, coasts to a stop beside Ryan and drapes languidly on his shoulder. "Lovely to see you again, darling." His tone is so pleasant and casual--and, to Ryan's senses, simmering with prurient intrigue--that it seems almost unremarkable he should be addressing Magneto as "darling". He flashes Erik a coquettish smile and nuzzles Ryan's shoulder. "Work or play, we're all here to know the joy of your command." --- july 14. cloudraker. new york harbor. Since today's lesson permits having staff aboard, luncheon is a more pleasant and elaborate affair than their other training breaks these last few days. Despite the service, Charles still insists on handling the coffee. << I had thought it'd be simplest if Ryan just sent me a bill for compensating the team members, too, but the man is dealing with a lot. >> He fills the glasses of ice with coffee, sprinkles in fresh-ground spices, and pours the condensed milk, casual now with long practice. "Generally my accountant and the school's payroll department handles such things." << Or Jean, in more... delicate cases. >> He plucks up a tea sandwich, delicately. "So, for one week it should be, what. One hundred dollars?" He glances aside at his companion for confirmation. "Is that low? Perhaps there ought to be overtime." A murmur of doubt muddles the oddly pleasant warmth seeping through his relaxed shields, as if he's not altogether sure how overtime actually works. It's a testament to how long they have known each other that Hive does not, in fact, spittake at this suggestion -- but in his mind there is a clear reaction-meme-gif image of doing so. He sips with no small pleasure at the Thai iced coffee, and maybe its familiar sweetness washes back some of his incredulity, because his mind has settled into just a rippling sense of laughter when he looks back at Charles. "Ohhh, I will enjoy being a fly on the wall when you tell those motherfuckers you're cracking open your piggybank to pay them a cool hundred a week for their trouble, here," comes aloud, dry, the simultaneous overlap above it warmer and fonder but sharp with an almost gleeful expectation: << Try again, friend. >> Charles accepts Hive's amusement with grace, no suggestion of the mortification he would surely be hiding from just about anyone else. "I've not had to pay anyone personally since the '70s," doesn't sound like a defense, exactly. But maybe it is, just a little. "Inflation aside, the 'trouble' they are going through is exhausting." He sips at his coffee, the rigorous working of his mind sensible if not legible to Hive from behind his shields. << And I'm sure Scott's schedule warrants overtime. >> It's unclear whether this means he's decided what "overtime" means, but regardless he's concluding, "Say, one hundred thousand dollars, then?" The clap of Hive's hand to his mouth is not, this time, enough to stop the startled-choked spray of coffee across the table. --- july 14. danger room control room. "-- that way, we can keep the route clear when we -- no, wait." Scott is pinch-and-dragging his way through a hologram replay of the last drill, hovering over the table. The helpful "DEATH TOLL: 14" tally is still blinking irritatingly in one corner, but Scott is frowning at the team, paused in various stages of diving away from Ororo. He zooms out again. "Now that we know," he says, slowly, "We can work around it. We'll make a better exit plan, and then I can have Hank bring the jet…" this suggestion trails off too, and Scott's hand drops back down to the table; for a moment he just stares down at the hologram, leaning heavily on the table, before dragging his gaze up again. His face is implacable behind his visor, but his voice is tight -- "We can make this work." Ryan has been seated on the table, one leg tucked beneath himself and the other dangling over its side, chin propped on his loosely curled knuckles. He has been looking at the chaos frozen on the screen, and then lifting his eyes to Scott. Lifting his brows to Scott. "I ain't denying she's a whole powerhouse all to herself. Kinda-sorta the problem." He's spinning the hologram, fingers briefly illuminated by the jagged spear of a lightning bolt coursing through the frame. "Those mercs got a lot of darts. How many of our team do we want to risk with each one?" Scott drops his chin again, waves a hand to resume playing the hologram, stares resolutely at their last disastrous drill as the team scrambles to regroup. After a long pause, his jaw working silently, he says, only, "I'll tell her." --- july 15. x-men locker room, xavier’s sub-basement. The sub-basement of Xavier's School has become crowded with duffel bags, backpacks, and the occasional giant tote bag from the non-X-Men at training, each item marking someone's permanent station as training goes on. Steve's is distinctive -- an old fashioned footlocker, low on the ground, marks his footprint in the room. It's here that Erik approaches Steve, expression unreadable. "I did not believe you," he says, without preamble, "all those years ago. Yet here you are. {Fighting until every camp -- everywhere they send us to die -- is closed, still.}" There is respect in his tone, more when he switches briefly to German and more still when he holds out a framed piece of sketch paper and an old military knife. "I do not know what of your old life was returned to you, or whether you want it. But I know what it is to have all mementos taken away." The drawing in Magneto's hands is in Steve's style, the paper aged and pencil faded, but it's been carefully preserved -- the face drawn there remains recognizable. "Your gifts served me well." Steve is not yet in his armor, but has its components laid out on and the shield leaning casually against the side of the trunk where he's sitting to lace up his boots. He rises when Magneto approaches him, carriage easy and relaxed but eyes just a little wide. At the old man's words his brows furrow, but though obviously confused he does not interrupt. The drawing -- his own drawing -- of Howard Stark brings him up short. He opens his mouth, but cannot speak for the breath caught in his throat. Tries again, faintly. "Oh gosh, thank you. They didn't -- I have -- pretty much just that." He gestures at his iconic shield without looking at it. "But how -- where did you..." He trails off as he studies Erik's face, and his eyes go very wide, the rush of realization practically visible in their ice blue depths. "The Allied line at Metz, November of '44," he says, quiet and awed. His hands close gentle and reverent around the framed paper and the sheathed knife, his breathing rough and his eyes bright however hard he tries to blink them clear. "Max." --- july 16. xavier’s school, elevator. Normally, this is where Alma would leave Ryan, with the assurance that he will be safe in the superhero lair beneath Xavier's School. Normally, she makes a not-completely facetious show of checking the elevator before letting Ryan go on to his training. Today, she gets in with him. "I want to go with you," she says without looking at him. Her voice sounds flat, deliberately so, but Ryan can feel her determination as well as her fear. "I'm a good fighter, I take direction well, and I train hard. You know this." She swallows, and chances a sidelong glance at him, her voice quieter but angrier, too, when she adds, "They have my cousin." Normally, this is where Ryan might make a glib comment about the Dangerous Mutants Alma is sending him off to join. Today he freezes, finger hovering over the elevator button, and drops his hand to his side. "Yeah. I know it." He speaks soft, and though his tight control does not bleed any emotion in the empathic ripples his voice often carries, there is no need for any psionics to feel the tired weight in it. His fingers curl into a fist at his side, and then ease. The elevator door slides closed, and then open again on the same floor as if in condemnation of his indecision. He's staring at the panel of buttons for long enough that the door slides shut once again in a huff, and stays there. Eventually his gaze lifts, dragging slowly up to Alma's face. The shaky slow breath he lets out is visible in the shiver of his shoulders, the small puff of his cheeks, but, uncannily, makes no noise at all. His eyes turn back front, and when he presses the button, firm, they ride down to the basement in silence. --- july 16. xavier's roof. The intensive training sessions have paid off. Polaris rises up from the gardens to the rooftop of the mansion with a grace and efficiency that already rivals the man she's come up to see. Her "hey," is kind of anticlimactic after this impressive entrance--she has much to learn, yet. She touches down lightly and perches herself beside Erik. "I just wanna check in. Like, just to be clear, I don't blame you for being protective back there. In fact it's kinda..." She blushes ever so faintly and busies herself unbraiding her sweat-damp hair by way of disguising it. "...novel, in a way? But I don't need you to protect me. I'm less vulnerable than a lot of other people on the team, and..." She darts a sidelong glance at him through an uneven curtain of green hair. "...I'm not a little girl. I was already fighting this war when we met, and you've taught me so much. Your strength is already in me." Erik is focused, while Polaris speaks, on precisely installing the repaired weathervane back to its place on one of the mansion's towers. When she finishes, he is quiet. His power releases the thin iron and the weather vane begins to lazily rotate in the summer breeze -- only then does he let out a single, sharp breath, eyes watery and bright at the lids. "-- No, you are not," Erik agrees, "a little girl, and you've come so far without my protection. But yet --" his voice breaks, "I cannot watch my daughter die again." It takes a moment for Erik to regain his composure -- when he sinks to sit on the edge of the flower bed, he gestures for Polaris to join him. "I will tell Mr. Black I resign, later. Now -- if you will listen -- let me tell you about your sister." --- july 17. danger room. The talons of Isra's wing cannot penetrate the mercenary's armor where they've caught and dug in, but his neck breaks quite readily when she flings him against the wall. Probably some of her teammates will only learn upon later review what caused the explosion that blossoms out of his slumped body to engulf the corridor, obliterating raiders and mercs alike and collapsing three floors in that corner of the facility. As the flames and rubble fade away, Ryan leans out over the console of the control room and gestures a very unambiguous throat-slash down at the offending gargoyle. Is the holographic "DEATH TOLL: 55" larger than usual? Perhaps not, but the sudden appearance of another illusory person is definitely not standard post-simulation feedback. The man is small, with brown skin and wavy black hair, wearing a purple nehru jacket and an expression somewhere between frustration and disdain. He says nothing, just produces a party popper and showers the nearest team members with confetti and streamers. Having been unfortunately near to the blast, Heather pops back up to her feet and slaps her own face a couple of times to liven up after that unfortunate death. Her focus is not on the source of said fiery death, but the sudden appearance of the illusionary man. The appearance of confetti and streamers has her eyebrows shoot up. "There is an achievement system?" is first said with delight, easily read on her body language. And then quizzical when her recorded voice repeats after further consideration. "There is an achievement system? Was this programmed to do this?" Beside Ryan, Charles has buried his face in the palm of one hand. "I suppose there is now." His tone is long-suffering as he looks back up at the (in fact larger than usual) death toll floating over the heads of the team. Cerebro's avatar disappears again along with his illusory props. "I want to say no, but upon reflection, Colonialism is a kind of programming. Let's hope we don't unlock further more 'cheevos.'" --- july 17. xavier's school grounds. The chair is not remotely sized to B's tiny stature, and with the heavy-duty armored frame, with the lasers embedded in an armrest, with the sharp-gleaming jagged edges spiked along what would be wheels if it had wheels instead of its faintly glowing repulsor frames, the little shark-girl is dwarfed even more in the seat. That doesn't seem to daunt her; once her spiel is done and her demonstration over she hops down out from where it's been floating above the ground, landing neatly despite the height; the chair sinks smoothly to the grass after her. Her enormous black eyes, so like her brother's, are fixed wide-wide on her one-time headmaster, and the ridge of her brow lifts -- excited, first, then a little uncertain. Her gills flutter slow, and she looks from Charles to the chair and then back, mind already racing ahead to several other potential designs. "... is it too much?" Charles is in fact riding one of his heavier-duty chairs, with wide tires, a strong motor, and high ground clearance to handle uneven, unpaved surfaces, but it looks flimsy next to B's latest creation. He has been staring kind of wide-eyed himself -- though again, he can hardly compete in that area -- while B lists the features of this fully armed and operational battle wheelchair. "I think..." he begins, then hesitates and circles around to the back to get another look at the praying mantis-like drone mounted there. "I think it's ingenious, and while I do not plan to do this sort of battle it is certainly wise to be prepared. I'm not sure that the robot really needs a guitar, though..." The drone turns and cocks its triangular head at Charles, the iridescent facets of its compound eyes unnervingly lifelike even if its sleek metallic body is obviously artificial. "It's a bass," it says, in Cerebro's voice, its speakers perfectly rendering his mild but ever-present disdain even as it waggles the miniature electric bass, "and it's absolutely essential!" The metal mantis undocks and climbs up, fluid and faithfully insectoid, to perch atop the backrest. "How the hell else would you do this?" One of the drone's serrated forelegs "strums" its instrument, which blasts both an epic chord and a long gout of flame into the air. --- july 17. x-men armory. DJ has been quiet as he listens to this spiel, not sticking too close to his tour guide but wandering in a quiet but focused examination of the surroundings. In thoughtful-observant demeanor he is so very like his counterpart that it makes the dissonance that much more striking when, at the proud conclusion, he glances up from where he's been examining a suppression-dart gun to only cock one highly skeptical eyebrow. "-- 'kay, but, what do you do on the off chance you all have to deal with real violence?" Furrowing brows are never quite so clearly confused -- nor so fuzzy -- as when Hank McCoy's brow furrow, as they do now as he looks away from the prototype lightning grenade in his big blue paws. "Why, we do face real violence, Daw--" his gaze stutters on DJ's face and drops away before continuing. "But we use our mutations to --" His feline eyes rise up from the floor, settling instead on the dart gun in the teleporter's hand. Then and only then does the confidence begin to drain from Hank's voice, finishing with far less aplomb than he began: "-- neutralize almost every threat, and thus do not need..." It's hard to tell if the Beast is flushing, but he is snatching the dart gun out of DJ's grip and retreating, swiftly, in the direction of his laboratory. --- july 18. danger room The Danger Room reverts to its default configuration as the simulation ends, and when the grounds of Lassiter fall away they leave the now (unfortunately) familiar brown-skinned young man, dressed sharp and smiling sharper. "Congratulations! You've rescued the children." He actually speaks, this time, his voice high and melodious, the clap of his hands just a little too slow and too loud. "And left many of your teammates behind, who knew what they were getting into, of course. The projected death toll is..." A slip of paper appears in his hand, or maybe had been there all along, unnoticed, and he adjusts his thin-framed glasses primly as he considers it. "Just under 800,000, worldwide. At a conservative estimate." He produces a party cracker and yanks on the string, ejecting a few sad streamers and some confetti. The initial stark confusion in the team at that number -- has the computer somehow wildly flubbed this math -- is slowly melting away as the raid team assesses who is left standing and who got caught. One pair of eyes after another turn towards Leo, who has been looking back at Cerebro's avatar with wide eyes and a slightly paler face, perhaps understanding the significance from the jump. The breath he draws in is slow, and soft, and then he only nods -- just the once. He doesn't need wait for the team lead to address him; he's already turning to walk towards the exit, though he does pause as he passes Ryan, an apology in his eyes that, by the time it makes it to his lips, has shifted away from sorry. "There are some costs that --" he starts, soft, and then lowers his eyes. "Good luck." --- july 18. blackhaus. Ryan's dining table is a mess of paperwork, right now -- his will has gotten a whole lot more complicated and hefty over the years, and he's frowning deep at a form in front of him as he settles on its latest amendment. "-- we'll try with you on extraction tomorrow." He's looking up from his papers, now, to pluck up the glass of sazerac that has been near to hand and take a small sip. Given his usual proclivities, it's a fair bet that his grimace isn't because the alcohol is too strong. "At the very least it can't go any fucking worse." Matt looks up from his phone and blinks at Ryan owlishly. "You really oughtn't to be issuing challenges, darling. We didn't think we could do worse than that run with all the office furniture, until today." The flat weariness behind these words is par for his course of late, but this time he's leaning on it deliberately. He gathers his half-drunk tea closer, though it's not hot anymore and he could hardly need the warmth to fortify him, and falls quiet for a moment. "You know that I trust you." His voice is extremely even, but he knows perfectly well there's no disguising his worry. "But I need to know you're not doing this to keep me safer." Ryan's eyes snap up to Matt's face swiftly and lower again only slowly. "I'm doing this because it's the right move. With you there we can stow the rides somewhere actually safe and Blink can keep going until..." This trails off, a complicated series of shifts darkening his expression. He chases them back with a longer swallow and turns a crooked smile to Matt. "If you stay safer, s'just a little lagniappe." --- july 19. xavier's school gardens The sun is bright today and harsh; emerging from the long basement hours into the garden, Dusk is shading his eyes with a wing even over the sunglasses he's already put on. The small cooler-bag he's carrying is emblazoned appropriately with a red BIOHAZARD emblem on its sides, a red cross on its lid. His steps drag for just a moment, as he turns towards the bench, but then he makes his way over all the same. He's pulled his wings in tight against his back, and the heavy swallow he pushes down his throat sets his already extra-prominent adam's apple to a noticeable bob. "-- just trying to catch everyone before I head out. I know Ryan mentioned but --" He unzips the case, tipping it out to display what's on offer; several unlabeled collection-tube vials of dark blood. "Who knows but maybe the boost will help." Kitty looks up from her laptop, away from the long email to Theresa Pryde (scheduled to send a week from today) that she's been drafting for too long in the too-bright sunlight. Her eyes go wide at the sight of Dusk, then wider still when he holds out the cooler. Lets out a long breath. "-- That's not kosher," is her first rushed response. She bites her lip for a moment, glancing to her screen again -- to Dusk's arm -- to Dusk. The 'thank you' she signs is slow with one hand, the other pulling a vial out like it's something precious. "Shit," is more casual, on the edge of a breathy-almost-laugh, "do not tell QAnon about this." --- july 19. jax's cell, shield hq. "-- I know it's a lot I'm asking," Jax is just finishing his long entreaty with a worried frown, a faint shadowy flutter distorting the light around him and then easing off again. "Thought of stayin' here while y'all rush off to -- s'half killing me. But it's something, at least, knowing that our folks gonna be in good hands." He's been pacing, restless, a little jittery, but stops now by the very large windows in his cushy SHIELD jail cell to look at his two guests, an earnest plea in his single blue eye. "S'our family in there. You're my --" He presses his mouth shut tight, finishing instead, softly: "Keep 'em safe." Scott's very upright posture has not eased at all as Jax spoke, and there is a heaviness in the way he bows his head. The quiet tone of his voice is not wholly uncharacteristic, but the emotion is. "I wish you could come," he says. "I -- I want nothing more than to do you proud." Still, when Scott finally manages a sidelong glance at Jax's other guest, it is not without trepidation. He extends one hand in a silent offer to shake. Ion has been perched on Jax's painting stool, leg bobbing fast and restless as the other man speaks. "Shit," is what he says finally, when Jax is done; he's launching himself off the stool to pull the photokinetic into a bear-hug. "{How the fuck I gonna let you down you say some shit like that.}" When he releases Jax, he's looking at Scott's hand like he has no idea what to do with it. His own hand claps, FIRM, to Scott's shoulder, a faint static-jolt of power coming with his rough-jostling touch. "Means it's you and me, eh, Boy Scout. Let's fucking break stuff." --- july 20. locker room "-- okay now you are being a jerk," Kitty hisses, trying hard to keep her voice low and beginning to fail, "and a hypocrite! Ten years I've followed your orders to the letter and now you think I'm a liability 'cause I said I might join the raid team two weeks ago? Because I disclosed why this is personal for me? Look around, Scott!" One arm flails out towards the door to the Danger Room, to the clusters of resting mutants on the benches around them waiting for the next drill to begin. To the X-Men that are waiting. "We're only here because it's personal for the school, why does that compromise my judgment and not yours? Put me on the goddamn extraction team." Scott is standing statue-still, his hands clasped behind himself, his head inclined in concession to Kitty's shorter stature -- not that it's still strictly necessary, as her voice rises. "I am not changing the team assignments," he says, the words gritting out very, very evenly. "Think what you want of your own judgment, Kitty, or mine, but I am the leader of the X-Men and this is my decision." << Enough. >> The voice in their minds isn't loud, but it is sterner than wonted for Charles Xavier, and a hush descends in its wake. When the doors open to admit the Professor himself, however, the tone seems on reflection perhaps a touch too mild. He's for once in an X-uniform of his own, and the armored chair he's riding gleams with high-tech menace, hovering silently on glowing blue repulsors. << You will discuss this later -- civilly -- with your mission leader. Right now, I need you to focus on training. >> As if on cue -- perhaps in fact on cue -- Cerebro's voice announces one minute next training simulation. Charles looks over his team and evidently approves of what he sees. Not stern, now, but confident as he leads the way to the Danger Room: << To me, my X-Men. >> --- july 21. danger room. It takes a moment, as the Danger Room's geodesic paneling takes shape around the raid team, as their simulated injuries begin to melt away, for the silence to break. Scott pulls the hood off his X-suit, his hair sticking up with static -- his gaze, behind his visor, is fixed on where their simulated students were clustered, just a moment ago, with the Extraction Team. Both teams are foregoing the standard headcount tallying their losses, as they start reconvening in the middle of the room, but -- for the first time -- they don't need it. Scott starts to stride toward the others, then stops himself, turns to the man beside him. "I don't know how we pulled that off," he says -- though the incredulity in his voice is palpable, only Ryan can sense the relief, a thin, thrilled note of triumph strung through exhaustion and stress from long, long hours, two long, long weeks. They still have to review this drill with the rest of the team, they still have to join the others at the center of the Danger Room, but for now, Scott is extending one hand to Ryan to shake. "Good work." Ryan is unusually laggard, making his way back toward the group at a slower trudge, the bandana that has been around his face now pulled down to his neck. "Friendship is magic," he answers wryly, exaggerated a description though this may be of the current uneasy alliance, "-- leaving seven hundred some-odd prisoners behind probably helped." He's blinking at the handshake, just one very-brief moment of puzzled delay before he clasps Scott's hand, pulls him a little closer for a quick-firm back-pat of a hug before turning to the team at large. "Let's take twenty. Get a drink, snack, savor that," his smile is a little thinner than his usual, "victory. And then we're back here to make sure it wasn't a fluke." --- july 22. xavier’s school, sub-basement. The sub-basement at Xavier's School is never well-lit, but it is especially dim today, the Danger Room and its control centers quiet and powered down. Everybody, hopefully, is resting up before tomorrow. There has been no motion to prompt the lights on in hours, though Scott is sitting at a table with his laptop waiting to scold anybody who might be sneaking in for some last-minute training, his head propped up on his fist. No -- on second glance, both Scott and his laptop are asleep; there's no ambient glow behind his ruby lenses, no alertness in his posture. At least he's taking his own advice. There are lights flickering to life down the hall and a heavy tromp of booted feet in the near distance. Ion is making a round of the basement at a casual swagger -- maybe he's had the same notion? Though maybe his is more targeted -- because when he finally enters the control room and spies Scott there his quick-hooked grin seems to have half been expecting this. He's quieter as he slips in, and on the table beside the other man's elbow he sets a still-warm tupperware filled with rich beef stew and a large thermos. He's shucking his patched leather vest -- heavily-worn but fairly clean in all defiance of stereotype -- folding it to tuck it with a careful delicacy behind Scott and lend some additional padding to the functional chair. And then slipping back out, the door shutting very soft behind him. --- july 23. shield hq, rooftop. SHIELD HQ's rooftop oasis is unexpectedly quiet when Nick Fury steps out of the stairwell. His perpetual scowl deepens as he strides out across the abandoned lawn, tapping a pack of Newport Menthols meditatively against his palm before shaking one out to stick in the corner of his mouth. His steps have carried him to the garden by the time he's replaced the pack and produced an ancient, much-abused Zippo, which freezes halfway to its mark when he spots one other soul up here. "Funny how all the agents minding you done forgot regulations and gone on break all at once," he drawls, and ambles downwind of his prisoner before lighting the cigarette. "I didn't reckon your folk would go and start the terrorism without you." Jax has been perched on the edge of a vegetable bed, eye slightly fixed as he scours it entirely unnecessarily for weeds. He stops when he hears the uncharacteristic drawl, head turning just slightly in Fury's direction and fingers digging hard into the earth. It takes an effort for him to look up the rest of the way, single bright eye meeting Fury's dark one. "-- m'just prayin' hard they see it finished, too."