Logs:You Wouldn't Steal a Car

You Wouldn't Steal a Car
Dramatis Personae Naomi, Roscoe	2024-01-13 I ain't good at being bored.
Location <XAV> Computer Lab - Xs First Floor
All modernism in contrast to the old-world elegance of most of the mansion, this room has been dragged into the twenty-first century wholeheartedly. Rows of top-of-the-line computers provide internet access to any students who lack their own in their rooms, and sleek tablets give the mansion's artists a place to practice their digital art when the art studio does not suffice. Whether knuckling down to pull an all-nighter on a research paper or simply killing time browsing, students can be found in here at all hours in front of the glows of the screens. It's a lazy Saturday at Xavier's, and there are a number of students in the computer lab taking refuge from the winter weather. Roscoe has staked out a computer by the far wall, where he's ensconced in a rolling chair, both feet in the seat with him, wearing a bright orange T-shirt and joggers and warm woolen socks. Absent his usual hoodie and beanie, most of his face is actually visible for once; his hair is starting to reach an awkward length that defies both gravity and style. He's staring at the computer with a disconcerting look of serious focus, strange on his young face. Half of the computer screen is taken up by a video of several Debate Bro YouTubers on a Zoom call shouting at each other, but this seems to be playing as some kind of background noise, for Roscoe is much more engrossed in a fast-paced Discord chat conversation. Naomi is dressed for Lazy Saturday -- she's wearing green-black flannel pajama pants still, winter boots and thick wool socks, a large zip up hoodie in Xavier's blue and gold open over a bright orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD shirt, locs loose over her shoulders, headphones over her ears, where the faint tinny echo of an audiobook is playing. A worn backpack is slung over her shoulder when she enters the computer lab, loose and mostly empty. It clatters and jangles when Naomi drops it on the floor underneath a nearby computer -- not the one next to Roscoe, but the one right after that. "Whatchadoin'," asks Naomi, leaning over to squint at Roscoe's screen. "...Is that Steven Crowder?" Her nose wrinkles disapprovingly. Roscoe startles, though he is remarkably quick with ctrl+w; the windows both close at once. "Nothing," he says defensively, swivelling somewhat ineffectually -- the rolling chair swivels underneath him as he tries to turn. "Sheesh, knock." What was she supposed to knock on? Unclear. "Whatchu doing?" Looking Roscoe dead in the eye, Naomi stretches out her arm and knocks, three times, on a spot of desk next to Roscoe's monitor. "Dunno yet. Homework, maybe. I asked first." She settles into a chair, stretches to boot up the desktop with her other hand. "They got Youtube in Boston, I thought." Though he in fact specifically invited this, Roscoe jumps slightly at the knock, his eyes darting to follow her hand. His eyes flutter half-close but there is definitely some eyerolling going on, but when they open again he evidently decides to honor the code of She Asked First. "YouTube," he says. His eyes track over to gawp at her screen, still narrowed with suspicion. "Do you think Boston is some kind of nuclear wasteland?" he says, confused. "Why wouldn't they have YouTube?" "Yeah," Naomi says, her accent at odds with the dismissive New Yorker inflection on, "it's Boston." Her screen is booting up Adobe Premiere Pro when it gets past the login screen, a window of MuseScore attempting to grab Naomi's attention before being quickly closed. "Wasn't sure if you ended up grounded all of break or something." She settles in her spinny chair, crosses one foot under her leg. "...Was it good? Going home?" "It's Baahhston," mimicks Roscoe, his eyes now flicking back to his screen; he reopens his browser, then -- apparently unwilling to go back to what he was doing now that Naomi is here to judge it -- navigates to chess.com and starts up a new game. His eyes stay resolutely on his screen -- "I need to get my grades up," is not really an answer to any of Naomi's questions, but it's what she's getting. "How was it here?" Naomi sucks in air through her teeth -- if she's judging the move to chess on Roscoe's screen, she's not saying. Just drags her eyes back to her screen, where it appears she's uploading an entire episode of television into Premiere. "Less boring," she says, "than last year. Bunch of new year-rounders here now so it's less quiet." "Sounds depressing," says Roscoe; he's not even playing chess, though his computer opponent is now waiting for him -- he's just staring at the screen, tapping his index finger against the left button without clicking. "You don't leave campus?" "Tch. Boy you know I go to the city, we ain't all grounded." Naomi highlights a clip of a young Black girl shoving a white boy into the ocean, and in a matter of clicks that's on a different line on the editor. "Just don't go home that often. That's a whole different thing." Roscoe's face twists suddenly and fiercely into a scowl as he finally clicks a pawn out into the board. "I'm not grounded, I'm just not allowed to go anywhere," he says -- these are apparently also whole different things. The computer swiftly answers his move, but he ignores it. "If you're bored, then, that's your fault," he says. "Just get better at being bored." Naomi stops clicking for a moment, eyes narrowing when she glances sidelong at Roscoe. She doesn't say anything at all, even at this clear provocation. Hits CTRL-S and then tabs over to her recent projects. When she tilts the screen back at Roscoe, it's filled with the play tabs for a dozen phone screen sized videos, all of which feature the cast of the new PJO series. "I ain't good at being bored," she says. "I am getting good at making fancams." She leans back again, setting her chair to a gentle spin. "What's the difference? Between grounded and whatever you got going on." Roscoe's eyebrows lift slightly as he scans her screen; he looks a little impressed, though out loud he says through a loud, fake cough, "Nerd!" When he turns his attention back to chess.com it is with a faint hunch and a fainter scowl. "You're crazy good at being bored, whatchu talking," he says, pulling his chair closer to the table with one hand. "That's way more productive than anything I do, I don't even contribute to science anymore." Even Roscoe can tell this isn't very funny; he wrinkles his nose and grimaces, sliding slightly lower in his chair, his shins pressing up against the edge of the desktop. "They're not mad at me," he says. "They're just strict." "You could do your homework." Naomi is tilting her monitor back towards her, faint scowl at Roscoe's insult twisting into a brief grimace. "Do you even like science?" comes after a pause, under her breath. She clicks back to her current project. "Kinda sounds the same to me, if you still can't go places either way." "I do homework," mutters Roscoe, without much heat; he stares at the screen with his brow furrowed for a moment, apparently seeing something he doesn't like. He clicks open the site menu to start his game over. "It's not the same," he insists. "I'm not..." This trails off, and he restarts his second game, too, only about two moves in. "I'm not even doing anything that bad," he says. This was with honest frustration, but he catches himself -- a moment later he adds cavalierly: "You steal one car, man." Naomi's eyes glance to Roscoe's screen again, then quickly back to hers. Her cheeks puff out for a moment. "Boo. You should get credit for not stealing two." She says this confidently, a flush only rising in her cheeks when a senior in the row ahead of them snorts, loud and derisive. "Seems stupid," Naomi declares, a bit softer, a bit more dark color in her cheeks. "That's all. You can't flunk out of Xavier's." Roscoe blows a sad, world-weary raspberry. "Yeah, they're totally overreacting," he says. "Literally what eighth grader hasn't stolen a car or two." He shakes his mouse to relocate the cursor, and clicks his virtual bishop out to capture one of the computer's pawns. "Yeah, but they can still pull me out if I'm just gonna waste everyone's time here," he says. "I'm -- " he darts an uncertain glance at Naomi over his shoulder, and aborts this sentence, biting his lip and turning with determined focus back to chess.com. "Kleptos," mutters the senior ahead of them, before returning his focus squarely to Fortnite. This is bringing a stronger flush to Naomi's cheeks -- she, too, is turning her attention back to her screen, though her editing project is taking a step back to a quick furtive glance at her online grade book. A little more strained -- "You ain't wasting everyone's time. Chess team would love you." Roscoe makes a disdainful face, closing chess.com mid-game and clicking to log out of this computer -- "I'm not that good at chess," he mumbles. He waits for the welcome screen to load up, staring balefully at the screen or possibly peeping at the senior's Fortnite game, before he pushes away from the desktop, yanking his earbuds out of the console. "I'll find some other way to waste time," he says. "Chess is way more interesting in jail."