Logs:Prometheus: TITANFALL - Alpha

Prometheus: TITANFALL - Alpha
Dramatis Personae Charles, Matt, Ryan, Scott	2023-07-07 "Street Smarts with Ryan Black: Prometheus edition." (The beginning of the end.)
Location <XAV> Command and Control Center - Xs Sub-Basement
Here is the heart of the Xavier Institute's true operations, the room most central to its purpose, where the Institute's most adventuresome and powerful individuals gather to receive exposition. The room is dominated by an oversized viewscreen on one wall, presently displaying an intricate diagram of the planet Earth, as well as a large central holographic projector and a handful of computer terminals along the periphery. Curiously, the whole place is rather dimly lit, as though its designers prioritized dramatic lighting over being able to find anything. The briefing underway is most unusual for both its content and the audience, though it is not in fact the first time that a raid on a Prometheus lab has been discussed here. The student who had been invited down here to give context has already been released back to, presumably, get more rest, but Kavalam's voice is still speaking to those gathered, the poor audio quality of the recordings made crisp and strange by the superb sound system: "Mr. Tessier-uncle, I still cannot make the police listen. The others they are all inside now. I think they will need help, please. I have looked and looked but there is nothing near here and I do not know how to go for help." The viewscreen displays the transcription and metadata for that message, stamped Thursday, May 4 at 4:33 a.m., among the last of the twenty-some entries received by Matt's voicemail box over the course of a few hours spanning from 11 p.m. May 3 and 5 a.m. May 4. Matt himself is present in a mint dress shirt cinched with a tie comprised of tessellated leaves in a range of metallic greens, a, gray linen vest, charcoal slacks, and black oxfords, slouched back in his seat with one ankle propped on the opposite knee, looking generally bored and rakish. "...and here is the seventh and final panic button call," he annotates live as Cerebro highlights the next message, though he isn't even looking at the screen anymore. His voice, to most ears, is as impassive as his expression, but there is a mix of wrath and horror behind like a wound scraped raw afresh as each message plays. "At 4:41am Thursday morning, student Kavalam Neelakantan's panic button was activated at [coordinates]." The next entry is stamped Thursday, May 4. 4:45 a.m. Matt closes his eyes, as if that would keep out the recording. This time, Kavalam sounds flat. Tired. A little numb. "I think my phone will die soon, to send the location it takes a lot of battery. Some of these guards are going inside soon. Maybe I will follow. Probably I can find the others?" There's a very determined bravado in Kavalam's voice here. "People do not see me. Probably I can find them." Matt opens his eyes and sits up straighter. "As I said, I could not actually perceive any of these until Kavalam made it back to us in person, which is obviously a serious problem we must fix." He hates having let Kavalam leave at all, not wholly irrational in his terror that they'll lose track of him again, that some harm will befall him here where he should be safe. Where the others should have been safe. Where his brother should have been safe. "But as difficult as that problem is, it can't hold a candle to attempting our own version of the 'raid' that trapped our students there." He turns one hand elegantly palm up, "One does not simply walk into Lassiter." Charles wears a fine three-piece linen suit in a pale blue that puts some of the color back into his faded eyes, riding his favorite powered chair for everyday use around the school, comfortably padded if lacking in extra storage space. He has listened to the voice mails with a grave, stony expression, hands steepled in front of him. His eyes had lingered on the screen long after the last message had finished playing, but now they take in each of the others. The halo of his telepathic presence is warm and soothing if barely noticeable, and with only a touch of hesitation opens wider to Matt, a quiet unassuming offer of comfort. "Sysadmin has some ideas for working around Kavalam's powers, at least in terms of the panic button. I imagine you and the young man himself will half to vet any such efforts, given the difficulties involved with learning how that power does to begin with. As for this...facility." He looks between Matt and Ryan, thoughtful. "I know that you normally dedicate quite a significant amount of time to gathering intelligence, planning, and training for raids. I assume whatever information Kavalam brought is not adequate, but we could surely help you gather more in short order." Ryan has looked slightly ill at ease since arriving here, and though he's heard them before, the replaying of Kavalam's messages does not settle him any, nor the barrage of emotional chaos that lights up his vision with sharply colored static from Matt's direction. It probably also does not help that he is currently seated the correct way in one of the chairs, butt in the seat and feet on the ground, and some twitchy-uncomfortable part of his brain has not yet adjusted to the formality of this posture. He doesn't look like a superhero, doesn't look like he should be in this high tech command room planning anything; in a faintly metallic-sheeny pink button down, well-tailored slim-fit jeans, very stompy boots with millennial pink buckles, he looks like he was perhaps on his way to a magazine interview before accidentally getting waylaid into the X-Men's basement. He's fidgeting in his chair, restless, until finally slumping back, propping an ankle on his knee in a mirror of Matt's. "In short order," he echoes, and he doesn't mean to sound disdainful here but there's an edge of incredulity in his voice all the same that he deliberately pushes back. "We've been collecting information on Lassiter for the better part of a decade, now. To date it's the only Prometheus facility we've solidly pinned down the location of but never hit. The info Kavalam brought is a big help -- and also pretty much highlights why we've stayed far away from that place. Prometheus labs tend to be small operations -- highly specialized. The average lab we've found has two, three dozen inmates at any given time, assigned to a handful of these --" << shitfucks >>, his brain is filling in automatically, "-- researchers' projects. Last we knew, Lassiter had more like seven hundred -- Kavalam says it's closer to eight now. Whenever a kid is shunted over from a group home that can't handle them, whenever a state prison decides to offload its freaks because the security budget is getting too high, whenever a doctor reaches out to get a little extra help with that difficult mutant patient -- every mutant in the country that gets thrown into Prometheus, most likely they're getting routed through Lassiter first. Poked and prodded by a barrage of wannabe Dr. Moreaus, haggled over for who gets the most excited powers on their project. They're set up to deal with -- almost any power they can conceive of, which is probably several even us here haven't thought of yet. Whole place has a robust and highly modular powers grid, they get access to the newest Sentinel updates before they hit the streets anywhere else, and that's before you even look at the entire battalion of shitbag mercs they've recruited there. The place is a fucking fortress and every plan we've previously thought about, when we run the drills it ends in --" In his mind he's thinking of Flicker, pale and bullet-riddled; he's thinking of the bludgeon-force of Hive's conjoined minds snuffing his teammates out of existence; he's thinking of Jamie, << I hope they kill you all. >> raging in their minds. His knuckle rubs at the hollow of his eye and he shakes the thought away. "-- that was before we had you, though." << ... but we had Flicker. We had Jax. >> He's Totally Not Despairing at how these glaring absences lengthen their odds, really! Instead he's looking at Scott, brows raised: "We do have you, right?" Scott is the least well-dressed in the room, in work clothes and work boots, but he sits in his customary spot at the front of the room with his elbows propped on the table, his hands clasped, his head bowed. What little of his face is visible is motionless and troubled beneath his ruby lenses, tension written over his features and roped through his muscles. His mind, as they listened to Kavalam's voicemail, was unusually quiet (so he has apparently learned from the professor's psionic shielding lectures) -- emptied of the usual comments or observations he would make to Charles during a briefing this important, masked in an oppressive, guilty fog. The dam finally cracks midway through Ryan's rundown. << Jesus H. >> may not be very eloquent, but it is jagged with horror; he is trying in vain to recall Kavalam's bruised face and broken glasses. After a pause Scott lifts his head, and though the glasses obscure his eyes his gaze is intent -- on Ryan, not the Professor. "I promised we would do anything we can," he says firmly, though this is accompanied by an almost immediate spike of emotion, apprehension and resolve bracing against each other. "You have the X-Men." "More information about all the ways they might crush us is always welcome," Matt agrees blithely. But he's careful not to lean into the support Charles offer, more careful still shielding the sharp edges slicing through his calm. "But what we really need is a godsdamned army. The X-Men aren't that, but I think there's some shock and awe to be found here, all the same--" He looks at Scott's glasses. "--powers they might not have ever considered." He slouches back down until one elbow comes to rest on the arm of his chair, and props his chin up in that hand. "There's overlap between these teams, and both are used to training in the Danger Room--which gives very excellent Prometheus, by the by, to the point of..." His mind doesn't complete his sentence with anything but the swell of anguish that he trailed off into, and which drops off abruptly into nothingness when he pivots yet again. "What would also help is better equipment--from weapons to transport to first aid--and time for planning and training. Time you can buy for those who don't have paid vacation to burn on vigilantism." The twitch at the corner of his mouth might not be a smile. "I guess the telepathy might come in useful, too, if you're inclined to get your wheels wet." Charles attends to Ryan's harrowing description of Lassiter, contributing only Active Listening gestures and quiet noises of assent that offer glimpses of the terror he keeps firmly ensconced behind his psychic shields. At a certain point in the explanation, his steepled hands shift to a tight clasp that generally indicates advanced agitation in his relatively staid body language. He does not answer Ryan's question at once, nor question Scott's answer. He does not react much, either, to Matt's suggestions. He's looking past all of them at the screen, static now, displaying an unnecessarily metal rendition of the simple circle-O emblem, his eyes lingering there for a long moment. "You have the X-Men," he confirms, quite abruptly, inclining his head at Scott so far that's almost a bow. "And my wallet and mind alike, though I doubt you'll want my wheels on the ground unless B has schematics for some manner of battle wheelchair lying about. But in light of your evaluation of the target, I think we ought also to consider an offer of aid I received early in this crisis..." Uncertainty and apprehension entirely apart from the fear of Prometheus's defenses that suffuses the conversation start to creep into his voice here. "...from Erik Lensherr." "B's got a couple different battle chair designs." Is Charles serious? Is Ryan serious? He is, at least, very briefly thinking of Matt, here, hovering in a heavy-duty Mad-Max-esque wheelchair; the image quick enough to make it hard to discern if this is a memory or a flight of fancy. "I've already got the nerds focusing on gathering whatever further Lassiter info they can get, but it's not going to be easy going, they've had a hell of a time lately with Prometheus's digital security. -- do you all even have weapons?" This question is offhand; he's breezing past it almost as soon as he asked, though not before an old argument with Jackson resurfaces in his mind, Ryan, what on earth I need a gun for when I got --, Jax's YELP as he's hit with a depowering dart. These thoughts are jarred out of his head by Charles's suggestion, and when he sits bolt upright in his chair the surprise is clear etched across his face. "I'm sorry, you what?" Stirring incongruously in his mind, a sharp amusement. "You telling me Magneto just rolled up in here like, yo, let's break some heads together?" In the chaotic jumble of his thoughts he has not yet decided where the hell he wants to put this bit of information, though it does come with a suspicious follow-up: "... he give you a sword too?" At the mention of B, Scott's mouth twitches. At the mention of weapons it twitches again, but he decides quickly that Matt can show Ryan around the armory later. Though he was putting quite a lot of effort into not looking at Charles, his resolve and anxiety mounting quite severely as the silence stretches, he breaks as soon as Charles speaks; his face is still neutral, but Charles and Ryan can sense his swell of gratitude and relief, as well as his indignation when he hears Erik Lensherr. "What?" he says. He is no less irritated by Ryan's reaction ( << is this funny somehow? >> ), but he wastes no time in asking, << He was here? (Where was I? Where was Jean?) >> His tone, when he speaks, is too tightly controlled to really seem casual. "Sir, it's one thing to work openly with members of the Brotherhood -- but the Brotherhood itself --" Scott pauses, looking beseechingly from Charles to the other two back to Charles. "I trust Jackson, I trust the people Jackson trusts -- I do not trust Magneto." "Sure we have weapons!" Matt's reply is bright with amusement. "I'll show you sometime, but you should probably still make a shopping list--or better yet, just bill Chaz an outrageous fee for a speaking gig at the school. Street Smarts with Ryan Black: Prometheus edition." He blinks at Charles, his interest suddenly focused laser-sharp. "Erik Lensherr, you say?" There's a trace of intrigue and titillation in his voice, and what the name conjures in his mind is not the TV manifestos, not the news of the Liberty Island Incident, but warm calloused hands on his skin, the unexpected yet thrilling strength in his venerable lover's arms, the involuntary pulse of a power at once strange and familiar that lights up his senses and sets everything metallic a-shiver. "Mm," he says, at a small delay. "What does trust mean, in this context? I think my main concern would be whether he's willing to play by our rules." A fleeting frown. "The team's--" An eyeroll this time. "The raid team's rules. I've a suspicion the Master of Magnetism might not much like following anyone into battle, and even less so being asked not to kill the enemy." "We do have weapons, but we do not as a general rule deploy them unless there's a specific need. This...is specific, and I will see everyone equipped as you and Jackson think best." Charles furrows his brows deeply. "Perhaps not a speaking engagement, but I would like to insulate the school as much as possible in terms of funding, especially if this is going to end up in the media, as I imagine it must." He picks up the mug that has been languishing in its bracket beneath the arm of his chair and clasps it between his hands. << He was here, >> is quiet and conciliatory in Scott's mind. << You were asleep, likewise Jean and much of everyone else, it was quite late. I promise, I would have roused you if I were in danger. >> "He's made me quite a few swords, among others things," he admits, not even all that reluctantly. "We used to be rather close, Magneto and I, and I believe there are some matters on which..." His lips compress. "I believe he would take this seriously, and I can both demand some assurances from him and assess how likely he is to go off-script. Only by your leave, of course." This last to Ryan as he raises his mug, takes a sip, and prompts chokes on his tea, the warmth of his telepathic presence flaring -- not painful, but certainly more noticeable -- as he coughs and sputters. It's a few moments before he manages, tightly, "I'm sure, Matthieu, that some members of both your teams will be amenable to ah...fostering the relationships necessary for this venture." "Hhh." This sounds almost like a laugh, huffed out dry through Ryan's nose, but the whisper of anger it brings with it bears no resemblance to mirth at all. "Feel like they should learn Prometheus street smarts from someone who hasn't gotten themselves thrown in those cages --" << or someone who survived way worse in them, >> rustles beneath this thought with a strange sort of survivor's guilt and a dull aching terror as he thinks of B -- of Shane -- of the horrors they experienced at the labs. He's trying hard not to think about Spencer there, too. He's sitting up sharper in his seat, hands bracing hard against the arms of his chair. His eyes dart to Matt -- then Charles -- then he's subsiding, slouching back in his seat with only a hand tipped out towards Scott in acknowledgment, languid in the motion despite the churn of curiosity in his mind. "We been pretty damn serious about the lives we -- don't take, no matter what the fuck lies the media wants to spout about what we've been doing. God knows we're gonna need all the help we can get, but." But? After saying this he falls silent, thoughtful, mind ticking slowly over the approaches they've taken to the labs in the past and immediately discarding them as entirely inadequate. He scrubs his hand hard against his face, the heel of his hand digging into his eye. "...fuck," sounds abruptly deflated. "If we're gonna put out a call we should put out a call. Can't plan till I know what resources we're working with." Now there's a wisp of amusement curling back into his voice. "In the meantime, guess I'mm'a start by seeing which of your people still know a damn thing about fighting -- once the suppression grid's up." Scott's sense of deep offense -- doesn't disappear, exactly, but is dutifully reeled back. His hands unclasp and then flatten onto the table in front of him. "Magneto has shown in the past he has no regard for the human costs of his mission," he says. "Even when it comes to mutant children." He pauses; he turns a refusal over in his mind. << I don't trust him, >> is on the tip of his tongue. << I won't trust him. >> But the refusal doesn't materialize. The tendons on his hand flex, the irritation mounts again, but he thinks, << fuck, >> almost in tandem with Ryan, and reaches with one hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. His hand doesn't make it, but freezes in midair when Scott cocks his head at Ryan, squinting behind his glasses. "The what?"