Logs:Truth Hurts

Truth Hurts
Dramatis Personae Lael, Marcus	2019-09-05 "I figure you got a right to know."
Location <XAV> Lael and Marcus's Dorm - Xs Second Floor
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. Neither side is very heavily decorated, both desks being mainly taken up by textbooks, both beds made with the plain linen supplied by the school. The only noticeable personal touches are a few whittled wooden animal figures on the dresser on one side, a crucifix on the wall and a catnip plant by the window on the other. The energetic sound of Megan Thee Stallion's Hot Girl Summer can likely be heard even before the door opens -- the huge headphones Marcus is wearing is blaring it loud and the song echoes through his mind in odd psionic stereo, only half the lyrics correctly reflected there and the rest cheerfully made up. He's toting an enormous suitcase with him as he opens the door -- looking a bit skinnier even than he had at the end of the school year, it's possible the thing weighs as much as he now does. His head bobs along with the song, at least until he gets mostly into the room. << {Oh rude} >> is his reflexive thought as he pushes the headphones down around his neck (they leave a squished indent across the top of his neatly-trimmed afro), though doesn't actually switch the music off. Lael is sitting at his desk, his school books divided into neat stacks with their attendant supplies, though at the moment he's whittling, an old bandana spread across his lap to catch the shavings from the amorphous lump of wood between his hands. His hair has coiled itself into tight, squirming knots, but he still smiles when Marcus walks in. "Welcome back." His hair writhes harder as he takes in his roommate's diminished frame. "Can I offer you some venison jerky?" He's already pulling a gallon zip bag of jerky from a desk drawer and holding it out. "Naomi sent me a care package. How'd summer treat ya?" Marcus's eyes light up at the offer. << Venison, >> sounds itself carefully back in his mind, without much understanding, though the actual meat offered is self-evident enough. He drops his suitcase in the middle of the floor, darting over to dip one long hand into the bag and pluck out a large piece of jerky. Only after he's bitten into it (with clear satisfaction) does he ask uncertainly, "Venison?" His brows lift in hopeful inquiry. The question of his summer brings jumbled imagery -- a lot of time hiding in his room, a lot of time being hidden in his room or dolled up and trotted out by turns, as suits the particular dinner party his parents are entertaining, a haze of fear that hangs over memories of one sibling, much more pleasant thoughts of chess and swimming with another. << {Would have been better getting to be a person and not a prop.} >> It all sums itself up in a very small frown, a lift of one shoulder. "Different there. Not like..." He gestures toward Lael, his thoughts lingering with an odd fondness on the squirming hair, some warm feeling of kinship there that is almost entirely absent from his thoughts of his own family. "Here, was OK?" "Yup, s'just another word for deer meat," Lael explains as he tugs a strip free for himself, setting the rest of the bag down on his desk. "My brother hunts--lotta folks back home do. I'm not a bad shot m'self, but..." He shrugs. "No real call for it here." He tears off a chunk of the smokey dried meat, chews meditatively. Somewhere in the midst of all this he has forgotten to blink. "It weren't that different from the rest of the school year, I s'pose, 'cept with fewer folks around. I finally caught up on my classes, at least." His hair has unwound from its tighter knots and returned to its usual serpentine motion. He hesitates, then adds, quieter, "Weren't a lot of folks like us back my home, neither. I guess there's not a lot of folks like us most places." << deer meat >> conjures up the appropriate type of animal -- albeit a very feet tall mental image of a spotted fawn nosing at the body of a fallen doe. It does nothing to dampen the satisfaction with which Marcus takes his next bite. "Summer class?" His eyes go a liiittle bit wider here, but his brief horror is swiftly displaced by the comparison of this to his own uncomfortable summer. Holding up the thought of a quiet library, books by the lakeside, against his own and finding the balance maybe tipped in favor of summer school. The mention of home sends his thoughts straying far from Canada -- to a small boy with grey-green scales sharing a bowl of rice and beans with a much smaller Marcus on an empty playground roundabout. There's a faint twinge of guilt that comes with it. "Harder," he acknowledges pensively. "Being the only." This shifts elsewhere, too. A dining room full of well-dressed white people laughing around a table. Sitting curled up with a book in the corner while their -- also white -- children cluster around the Playstation. "Here..." He begins, but stops with an uncertain frown as he tries to rearrange words in his head. << {Is it better to have a place where you half-belong? I bet more of the kids like us stay over summer than the ones who don't look shameful to their families. But that doesn't mean they won't still put fingers in your hair.} >> He moves over to sit on his large suitcase, nibbling contemplatively at his venison strip. "Need our own school," is what he finally says aloud, with a small twitch of his mouth. "Jus' English an' History." Lael waves dismissively with his jerky strip. "Weren't too much work for all that, but I didn't much like the teachers treatin' me like an idjit on account of havin' t' take 'em. Kinda seems to me they oughtn't to look at anyone that way that they're teaching." He looks down suddenly, his hair squirming harder, clinging close to his scalp. Lifting his free hand, he digs his knuckles into one temple. "It'd be a mighty small school. Don't reckon it'd be easy, neither, finding enough teachers like us to staff it." His hand presses harder against his head, but then he drops it. "Marcus...there's something I ought'a've told you before, but..." He shakes his head, then winces, his hair rippling with obvious discomfort. "I read minds. I don't mean to, but it jus' happens sometimes. Used to happen less, but I been working on tryna control it better so it don't jus' happen, and that's...also made it stronger." His shoulder hunch inward, his misery plain without any psionic senses. "I figure you got a right to know." Marcus is still dwelling on how many people they might potentially round up for such a school when Lael continues on. His brows crease -- for a while he is just puzzling over this. A mental image of his skull opening up, Lael peering inside. He gnaws his current bite of jerky into a pulp. The image shifts, Lael using a long hook to fish up Marcus's nose while he sleeps and slowly extract his dreams. One of his long tapered fingers taps slowly against the edge of the suitcase. "You hear," he finally asks slowly -- lifts his hand to tap his finger lightly against his temple instead. "All this?" Lael makes a point of concentrating on his jerky while Marcus considers his revelation. The only indication that he's noticed any of the other boy's thoughts is a cringe at the image of him trying to hook Marcus's dreams out through his nose. He's shaking his head already. "No, not all of it. An' I swear I ain't prying intentionally, but...I don't reckon that makes you feel much better." His hair curls into knots again. "Mostly I catch things when I'm payin' a lot of attention to someone, but I'll pick up on real loud thoughts, too--if someone's hurt, or very upset. On the plus side, I can't understand when you're thinkin' in French. Or any language I don't know." He sighs, straightens up a little. "I'm working on gettin' so I can stop it, but I jus' ain't there yet." Marcus starts, eyes widening as he suddenly remembers -- switches off the music that's been playing through his headphones. << {... oh. Probably not what he meant.} >> is followed by his next uncertain question, "Thoughts are loud -- how?" << {think quiet think quiet think quiet} >> he's chanting over and over in his head, now. "You see... dreams?" A bigger frown. "Test questions?" And, deeper, "Rememberings?" Lael tilts his head to one side, his locks waving in the air like sea-grass. "Oh! No, not loud like..." He gestures at Marcus's headphones. "By 'loud' I mean...thinkin real hard about somethin'? Or havin' very strong feelings about it. Sometimes even jus'...a thought that's stuck. Like..." He snaps his fingers. "Like a song that keeps playin' in your head. Those kinda things are 'loud' to me." He frowns, too, at the list. "I can see dreams, but it don't happen often on account of I'm not usually having no conversation with people what are asleep. Test questions--sure, if someone's thinkin' 'bout 'em, but it's not as useful as you might think. Well. Might be more useful if I tried, though I ain't eager to get in trouble over that when I do fine on tests without it." He fishes out another piece of jerky and offers Marcus the bag again. "If folks is rememberin' right now, I can hear that. Not sure I can go lookin' for memories that ain't...up front, you know what I mean? But, again, I'm mostly trying real hard not to do any of this." Lizzo's "Truth Hurts" starts up in Marcus's head. He fidgets on his makeshift seat, slender fingers playing against the edge of the suitcase. Whatever his next long string of musing is, the rambly Creole doesn't sound particularly comfortable. He stands slowly, his head just shaking. "I have to do. A walk." His words come out even more stiffly than his usual stilted English. He starts for the door -- turns back around as an afterthought, nabs another piece of jerky from the bag. Then scurries back toward the door.