Logs:Still Up

Still Up
Dramatis Personae K.C., Marinov	2019-05-06 "It was a good shot."
Location <XS> K.C. and Marinov's Dorm
This is a double-occupancy room, quite generously sized by dorm hall standards. Two sets of furniture, sturdy and pleasant if basic, take up one half of the room each. The bed on the right side of the room is generally crisply made up when not in use. Beneath the bed boxes upon boxes of supplies are stored in clear plastic organizers; beads and findings and all manner of tools. A large colorful basket sits underneath the desk, the desk itself often a messy disarray of half-finished jewelry or knitting projects. Near the head of the bed, a pair of food and water bowls covered in cheerful pastel pawprints sits on a large plastic placemat. The bed on the left side's covers are usually neatly made up, but covered with a quantity of pillows numerous enough that it would seem like they would impede normal sleep. On the desk, there is usually some kind of scene set up of dolls carefully posed and dressed up to imply some kind of story that is taking place and just frozen for the time being. Stored under the bed are varied fabric sheets, some more used than others. It's quiet around the dorms, by now. Earlier there was a lot of fuss, a lot of buzz -- even though most people at the school may not have known Ryan Black /personally/, The First Mutant Celebrity still has a lot of fans around these parts and the night's calamity has caused a lot of stir. More than a few tears. A large amount of speculation as to What Happened. Even more fuss given that at least a couple Xavier's grads numbered among his tech and dance crew and with the additional rumor that a teacher -- who /was/ his date for the night -- has been arrested in connection with the explosion? It took a while for the dorms to quiet for sleep. But now -- quiet. Mostly quiet. In this dorm room a light is still on, though it's not /immediately/ glaring from the door given that it's just the small bedside reading light and not the brighter overhead one. K.C. is in flannel pajama pants, a baggy New Leash on Life tee, sitting on her bed with needles clicking quietly. A large green and black chevron striped blanket is developing from her needles. Suga Mama dozes, sprawled across her toes on the mattress. There's a thermos standing close at hand on the nightstand, together with a plastic grocery bag and her charging phone. After seeing the footage of what happened on stage, Marinov had only spent a little more time in the rec room processing what happened before wandering out into the woods until the darkest parts of night. They wander back down the hall, soft footsteps making barely a sound, though they make no special effort to mask their presence. When they arrive at their dorm room, though, they are careful to open the door slowly so not to wake the occupants. Upon seeing the reading light on, Marinov turns towards K.C. and closes the door behind themselves. They still wear the outfit they had prepared for their mini-party, or at least part of it, as the jacket seems to be missing. "You're still up?" they ask in a hoarse whisper. K.C. glances up from her knitting, lips moving soundlessly. "You're still up." Her head shakes, hands continuing their quick steady motions. She sets the knitting down only once she gets to the end of the row she has been on. Wiggles her toes out from under the dog, scoops up the thermos and plastic grocery bag from her nightstand. Getting up, she goes to deposit both on Marinov's nightstand, returning to her own bed. Poking gently at Suga Mama with a toe until the dog starts to rouse with a slow thump-thump of tail. "Your jacket." "Oh." Marinov looks down at themselves, as if just realizing that part of their outfit is missing. "I'll... get it in the morning." They take the few steps needed to sit down on the edge of their bed, finding a small gap in the pillows and staring off blankly at the opposite wall for a few moments. Once those moments pass, their curiosity gets the best of them and they investigate the items that have been placed on their nightstand, both picking up the thermos and peering inside of the plastic bag. K.C. doesn't pick her knitting back up, just sitting on her bed with one hand flicking restlessly at the air in front of her. She wriggles her toes back under Suga Mama, hefting upward until she's scooted the dog's butt half off the edge of the bed. Only then does the pitbull rouse, grumbling half in protest. K.C. sends her the /rest/ of the way off the bed with a few firm nudges; it doesn't take /much/ encouragement for her to go looking for the next best available cuddles, wandering over to heft herself up onto Marinov's bed hopefully instead. The inside of the bag (labeled from the nearest grocery in Salem Center) holds a /number/ of bags of jerky of various flavors and meats. A wide assortment! Someone maybe ransacked a shelf. The tea is less eclectic, some kind of passionflower - mint blend. "It was a good jacket," K.C. says. Quieter: "... it was a good cape." Marinov's brows raise a bit at all the jerkies and they close their eyes while smelling the tea. When Suga Mama rouses and travels across the room in a cuddle quest, Marinov helps the dog up by moving the pillows and giving her a gentle headbonk of greeting and plenty of pets. Their gaze has softened a bit when they look back towards K.C., though there is still plenty of weariness in their expression. "Thanks, K.C. This is... thank you. I'm glad the cape was good. I worked hard on it." They lick their lips and look down at the floor. "I'm just..." they swirl their non-petting hand around their head, "Processing. Nobody's been answering my texts and..." A deep breath. "I'm scared." Suga Mama turns, flumps down heavily to settle comfortably half on the pillows, half on Marinov, offering a few sleepy licks before returning to semi-dozing. K.C. nods, fingers still tapping at nothing in the air. "No texts. No phone. Taylor's phone --" Frown. "No answer." Her shoulders slump. "The news says..." But she stops there, staring down at her unfinished knitting. "Scary. I'm sorry." There's a long pause after this. Eventually K.C. looks over, somewhere at the pillows that pile on Marinov's bed. "Was he nice?" "Taylor," repeats Marinov, tone anxious, before shaking their head and also repeating, "No texts." A hand slips into the grocery back to extract one of the bags of jerky, seemingly at random, and the claw on their index finger extends and draws across the bag to open it. They sniff at it, and then start devouring a piece of it without caring how polite they look. "He was nice, yeah. And just so fucking cool. Like not just like, 'bad boy music star', but like... actually caring about shit. And he took a shot on me." "News makes it hard to tell. Gives one picture." K.C. drops her hand, fingers squeezing at the ball of yarn sitting by her. "Picture of -- something else. Trouble. Not someone who takes a shot." She frowns, gripping the yarn tighter, letting it go. "It was a good shot. I saw. The carpet. Looked happy. Good wings." Her teeth sink briefly against her lip. "News says Mr. Holland was arrested. Think he did the -- exploding." /This/ earns a harder, fiercer shake of head. "Trouble, maybe. But like a good trouble," says Marinov after chomping up another piece and drinking some of the tea. "I am just." They close their eyes a moment, "So glad he took a shot. And he looked amazing." A look of disgust crosses their expression, their face scrunched up, at hearing that Jax had been arrested. "They think- what? That's just." They shake their head firmly in agreement with K.C. then lean forward to rest their forehead on Suga Mama's back. "Wrong." "Wrong," K.C. agrees firmly. "Wrong." There's a very long silence after this -- she lifts her hand again, fingers dancing quick and jittery. Tapping at the air. Flicking at nothing, her expression drawn taut and worried. Eventually she stops, sighing, and sinks down to finally /lie/ on her bed, pulling the covers haphazardly over herself. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. Just. Sometimes the news is. Wrong." Marinov places the jerky packet back on the nightstand and leans back again to rest awkwardly on their bed, not at all minding the self-created lumpiness. "Sometimes wrong," they say softly, thoughtfully. They prop their arm over their eyes and say even more quietly, with a sniff and in a voice fading from tiredness. "I hope I get a text."