Logs:For Future Reference

For Future Reference
Dramatis Personae Ford, Hive, Roscoe, Sriyani	2024-05-05 "Break a window. For me."
Location <XAV> Gardens - Xs Grounds
From indoor gardens to outdoor, though without the protective greenhouse glass the back gardens do not last all year round. Still, the gardens out here are well-tended and well-worth spending time in, as well. The paths wending through the beds of flowers and herbs and vegetables spread out through the school's back grounds, tended by students as a credit class. Benches offer seating and a small pond is home to koi and turtles, as well as a few frogs. At the far back edges of the garden, a droning buzzing marks a few stacked white boxes as beehives. It's not raining, currently, but it has been recently. The benches are still wet, the petrichor scent still heavy in the damp air. In this corner of the garden there is still occasional drip-drip-drip from the wet tree leaves. Hive, in jeans and an old Cornell sweatshirt, has shed his rain coat to sit on it instead, and is scuffing a hand irritably against his hair where a tree has just had the temerity to once more drip on him. He doesn't move. There's an unlit cigarette between his lips, and his thumb is flicking restlessly at the wheel of his plastic lighter. His current distraction from actually lighting the cigarette is his phone, where he's scowling down at a New York Times op-ed about the ongoing protests. While the rain has stopped, Ford still has an umbrella tucked under his arm, the pattern of which somehow matches his beige linen blend canvas shirt, the top button undone. His double cotton twill pants look nearly new, with only the web loop adding some colour. << Excuse me Mr. The Hive? With or without the 'The'? Mr. Hive? Just The Hive? >> He is walking down by the pond, slowing his walk as he mentally practices his planned conversation opener. << He's an adult-- >> The thought of an adult who does not want a kid to address them formally would mark that adult as 'weird'. << Sir Hive-- no, he's not a knight. >> An image forms in his mind of knight armors in a large hall, one of them awkwardly inhabited by this unknightly adult. He frowns and pushes all these thoughts aside as he settles on. "Excuse me, sir? Do you have a moment?" Sriyani's thoughts are a messy clutter preceding them through the garden -- snatches of protest chants set to the tune of Ryan Black's "Rogga", vaguely (and incorrectly) trying to remember what OPQRST stands for, vaguely (and even less correctly) trying to remember what assignments they have due tonight, idly trying to determine what a reasonable price for Making A Door should be, rapidly shooting off a text to one of several protest text loops they are on to see if they need -- -- what? They've forgotten what question they were in the middle of typing as they come into view of Hive and Ford. They're looking quick at Hive's head, wondering if his old scars still hurt under there and if telepathy really made the Professor's hair fall out and then just as quickly remembering oh yeah he's a telepath and -- starting to hum "Rogga" out loud though they are meaning to just think the song a little louder. "He barely leaves the guest wing he's probably got --" Though now they are not sure where this thought was going or what the Mystery Telepath might actually do up there. Does he have a lot of free time? Does he have very little free time? They're studying Hive intently as if his unlit cigarette may tell. "Wait why do you stay up there?" Did Roscoe come all this way for a light? Probably not, he's had one of Hive's own lighters stashed in his dorm for months, but his thoughts as he kicks through sloggy, muddy fallen leaves and flowers toward this little corner are dwelling pretty heavily on the loose cigarettes he has in his own pocket (though the lighter he also has in his pocket, pilfered from somebody other than Hive, is flatly ignored.) Under this is another sloggy, muddy trail of thought, low and discontented and snarly, << what if he says no (he should say no, you degenerate) (everyone says no to everything you want it's just this one thing --) >> but this is gone entirely by the time he reaches this corner of the garden, replaced by just, << omg >> at who Hive is here with. "Yeah, why?" is half genuinely curious, half deliberately annoying. "S'just Mr. Hive, Mr. the Hive is my father." Hive flicks his lighter again. He doesn't look up from his phone -- not at Ford, at least, though he does look up shortly after to scowl at another drip from the trees. Then continues the scowl, at a blue jay shaking itself dry on a branch overhead. He doesn't look at Sriyani or Roscoe, either. "Shit, you seen rent prices in the goddamn city these days?" When he looks away from the bird he's grimacing. Looking down at his lighter. Grimacing more. Finally he shoves the lighter back in his pocket with a sharp hff. "Don't you all have. Homework or. Windows to break. Something." << A perfect segue opportunity! >> "Speaking of broken windows, I wanted to ask, if you could give a reference letter for the work I've--" He looks over towards Roscoe and Sriyani, pained to have to amend this to, "--we've done restoring the historic Xavier's manor. I've taken the initiative of typing it out, all I'd need is a signature, and I think it'd look much better coming from a real architect." Ford's self-satisfaction in the prospect of turning these lemons into fine lemonade is near glowing. He frowns at the remark about New York prices, and asks, "Rent can't possibly be more than, what, ten thousand a month?" "Sooo much homework," Sriyani agrees blithely, "so many windows to break. But," they're hastily reassuring, "not like, windows here, just. Um actually we're totally not breaking any windows in the city either." Now they're trying Very Hard not to think of coffee, but instead accidentally thinking of lots of coffee. Big pyramids of cans of coffee. Coffee geysers erupting from fire hydrants. Coffee For My Family. "Oh I'm pretty sure we're not going to care if you smoke," this is mostly referring to themselves and Roscoe, Hardened Prison Veterans; what Ford might or might not care about is a large uncertain space in their mind filled up mostly with an American flag, "but you know it's --" They're thinking didn't he already have a cancer but then their thoughts are derailed into a meme -- I mean, it's one banana, Michael -- and a slightly bewildered look shot to Ford that is not particularly shocked this Rich Boy has no idea what rent costs but moreso: "Aren't you from, like, Idaho, rent can not be that much out there." Then a small frown. "... wait what are you getting a reference letter for." "You can smoke," is almost at the same time as Sriyani's reassurance; Roscoe is even offering Hive his lighter. << Reference letter? >> is with simultaneous bafflement and guilt that Roscoe has not thought about "reference letters" once, or even about the future more generally, and this only feeds into the quiet grumbling undercurrent in his mind, << (you are going to end up running a laundromat when you grow up.) >> He yanks his cap a little lower on his face, trying to assess Ford's age when Ford has a kind of white boy genericness that is kind of convincing him that Ford should just already be in a frat. From under the hat he squints sideways at Hive even though he isn't wearing any fraternity swag right now. He is noting the Ivy League sweater with a bit of interest but Roscoe personally owns shirts for multiple colleges he's never attended, so he's not sure this means anything (though as soon as he considers this, he then considers that he will probably find out imminently.) "You can write your own reference letter?" he says finally, a little affronted at the idea, or possibly that it never occurred to him. Hive is easing slightly at these reassurances, and though he's patting his pocket for the lighter he just put away he gives up on this when Another Lighter makes itself more readily available. He lights his cigarette and passes the lighter back with a gruff, "thanks"; there's a small smile twitching at his lips with his first puff. "Eh. Cancer wasn't in my lungs." One of his eyes has squinched up. "Haven't looked at the work you all did. Sriyani's ready to break another window, though, you wanna fix the next one in front of me. What are you getting a reference letter for." He's looking back up at the blue jay again, elbow propped on the arm of the bench. "Professional world's, like, ninety-five percent bullshitting skills. Talking yourself up and making it real easy for other people to help you go a long way." "I thought you might ask, so I took pictures. No need for Sriyani to do any extra work!" << I like that hustle though! >> << Do I like that hustle? >> Ford reaches into his pocket for his phone, and quickly fails once to put his pin on the lockscreen. "The reference letter is for whom it may concern, about my volunteer efforts. I will put it in my," << folder of accomplishments >> "portfolio. Probably for college. And--" He smiles to Roscoe, "--of course you can! Important people are often busy, so if you can," << Bullshit >> "represent yourself well, it," << makes it harder to refuse >> "shows gumption!" He does actually unlock his phone now to look for pictures, adding, "I just figured New York rent must be a little higher than back home?" The mental number rolls down to his estimate of 8000 a month for an apartment in Wyoming. "What's in your portfolionow?" Sriyani is vacillating somewhere between impressed and incredulous, only vaguely considering whether or not they ought to have thought more about college just yet. Only after this are they frowning suspiciously at Hive. "Are you an important person?" In case the answer is yes they're preemptively preparing to downgrade his general level of Badassery (already a mixed bag; getting psionically lobotomized to help save them from torture gives several points, slouching around the Xavier's guest wing in sweats all the time loses several more.) "And I'm not gonna break any more windows here, Mr. Summers would probably be even less impressed next time. I didn't break any in the city," << yet >> "either but I totally understand why people are. I hope the cops get real sick of coffee. Are you," this time it's to Roscoe, hopeful, "coming back out tonight? I don't think protests are ending for a while." << 'course Sriyani ready to riot again, >> Roscoe thinks with a strong albeit vaguely confused sweep of admiration. He is getting out his own cigarette (Marlboro Red) to light up anyway, with a sense that Hive and Sriyani as Hardened Prison Veterans won't snitch on him and, if Ford does, Roscoe has enough friends here to exact revenge. He doesn't put much thought toward his own nonexistent portfolio, though he does try to remember why his instinct is that one should << never represent yourself >> before he realizes this was legal advice, not life advice, that he got from jail, which does not help the low muttering refrain about what a bad and rotten kid he is. Nor does Sriyani's question -- he sucks in so much smoke on his first pull that he almost (but doesn't! point, Roscoe) chokes. "Naw," is a little hoarse through his sour tone. "My dad's starting to sound real serious about how maybe I didn't do enough jail time if I'm still fucking around this much -- maybe next..." the mental calculation he initiates to determine how much longer he needs to watch his step just returns a preposterous << infinity years >> so he just shrugs. "Break a window. For me." Is this a platonic thing platonic friends would do for each other, platonically? At once he is concerned it is Not. Hive's eyes dart quick to Roscoe -- then to Sriyani -- then back up to the sky with a faint amused hfff. "Far as I can tell, Sriyani was born ready to riot." His brows pinch. "You got a buddy? Shit's spicy out there." He takes another slow drag of his cigarette and levels a long and flat look at Ford. "Bruh were you living at a ski resort?" He's considering the boy like he would not actually be surprised if the answer were yes. He blinks, tips his head back to blow the smoke up at the sky. "Important people are way the hell less busy than the people brewing their coffee, they just scam better." Though the interior of a cozy ski house surrounded by snow is instantly conjured in Ford's memory, it is decidedly not his permanent residence. "We didn't really rent," he admits. << He must be really important then, >> is a stray thought that gets through his mind when he finds a picture to show to Hive of his alleged handiwork. "My portfolio currently includes notes from coaches and teachers, that kind of thing." The absolute glow of satisfaction at the idea of receiving physical evidence of approval seems like it might be the stronger motivator than telling his future college about his elementary school class presidency. "I went to my first protest in a babywrap," Sriyani confirms cheerfully, easily shifting Hive comfortably into badass enough, for now, with this dismissiveness of The Rich. Their nose wrinkles up a little bit at Roscoe's refusal, mouth scrunching to the side. "This is an important moment." Somewhere in their mind there's images of MLK on the Edmund Pettus bridge, of people crawling determined up the Capitol Steps, of police with clubs outside the Stonewall Inn. Probably coffee through police station windows is going to join these in the annals of History According To Sriyani. "Your dad wouldn't even let you if we have a --" Though this thought is soon derailed into an uncertainty about which adults might not Entirely Suck to go to a protest with. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Joshua are high on the list but they have a sneaking suspicion both those men may be Otherwise Occupied lately. "-- you work here, right?" They're regarding Hive a little dubiously, somewhat unsure of his Protest Chops. It takes Roscoe a few seconds to figure out what Ford's family did that wasn't renting, and even after he's remembered the concept of ownership he isn't sure how much money this entails. His mental imagining of protests has less historical context, only updated from Camp Lassiter over the summer to Freaktown last weekend -- tear gas haze in his throat, flashbang afterimage in his eyes, gunshots in his ears. << Jiminy Christmas, >> is vaguely horrified at the thought of bringing a baby to that. Roscoe puffs again at his cig, eyebrows pinching down low, trying half-heartedly to find an unembarrassing way to cop to still being afraid of his parents at almost sixteen before Sriyani's sudden change of topic catches him off guard, << ? >> He catches on quickly -- his assessment of Hive's Cool Adultness views both psionic heroism and slouching around the guest wing in sweats as the time as definite pluses. But -- "...does he?" is still uncertain. "I think he's an outside contractor." "'course you didn't." Hive's thumb flicks quickly against the end of his cigarette. "How many U.S. Senators rented before coming to D.C., can't imagine that number's real big." His eyes close in time with the protest images that flash and bang in Roscoe's memory. "Oh hell no, I'm -- that." He waggles the cigarette towards Roscoe. "Building plans only I am not staff." But then he's sitting up a little, frowning at Sriyani and doing a quick about-face: "I've kept my team together in way worse situations than a little coffee-throwing. M'sure Scott knows I can keep you all from getting arrested." He's a little less sure on the Roscoe's-parents front, though: "... am the wrong kind of Asian, though." "Well, I also don't take care of the finances back home. On account of being still a minor," says Ford, smug in the technicality and wiggling his phone with ever more urgency to attract attention. "And technically, you are doing work on campus, even contract staff is staff. Though..." He looks to Sriyani, almost apologetic in tone, "Probably faculty wouldn't really trust any kids in his care." << We got in trouble for a little excursion, and he got his brain blown up in a full blown terrorism. >> He squints his eyes, scrutinizing Hive to evaluate both the responsibility level and authority of this adult, and concludes that he is still an architect and worthy of some deference. There's a no wonder they're roommates kind of feel somewhere in Sriyani's mind at Ford's smugness, somehow ringing to them at once as very like and very unlike Quentin. "Please it could be worse, I'm Sri Lankan. Oh don't tell them that," they add to Roscoe. "If you sign out right you probably don't have to tell them anything. Anyway I'm gonna get ready and ask Mr. Summers about why super powerful telepaths can't be chaperones because you'd be way safer than Ms. Briggs and she's allowed. -- Oh find me if you change your mind," they're saying this to Roscoe, giving the others a small wave before they dart off. They're adding, quick over their shoulder: "And if not I'll break so much window." Roscoe gives Ford a reproachful look, little though Ford can probably see it past the brim of his hat. << You think they'd let the Prometheus boogeyman angel of death teep live here if they didn't trust him? >> His parents track his phone, << (pfft, amateur hour) >> but he can't find a cool way to admit this, either, so he just bluescreens at Sriyani as they depart, before perking up at this promise of window breaking in his honor, with a swell of elated excitement and some smugness of his own that he can't quite place, and even though he is not going to find Sriyani later, for a moment he is thinking about how it would be very meaningful if he did and in a moment of panicked indecision about whether to respond with 'Yeah!' or 'Sure!' which seems for some reason like a very important choice, he takes another drag of his cigarette and this time, alas, he chokes. Hive flicks a glance to Ford's phone, then rubs his hand against his eye. "Boy, get your recommendations once you know what you actually want to do. 'sides. Google my name up and up there with the awards and the fancy-ass buildings it'll tell you I'm a telepath who got my brain blown up doing full blown terrorism. You think that's gonna make J.D. Vance or whoever trust you on an internship?" He takes another drag of his cigarette, and then plucks his cane up from where it's leaning against the bench, leaning on it heavily as he pushes himself to his feet. His words thump heavy and only a little amused in Roscoe's head: << S'cool, man, don't think they saw that. >> << Oh yeah, >> is Ford's first thought, as he engages his most powerful and sophisticated psionic defence (though indeed engaging it does prevent him from noticing Roscoe's struggle): << None of what I think can or should be held against me in any official capacity. My ideas are my own and should not be copied or spread without my written consent. Section 107 of the copyright act of 1976 does not cover thoughts as allowable for copy, parody or educational content under fair use-- >> And so on. He slips his phone away, and takes out the neatly folded letter (all typed out as he promised), "It's okay, you never know how circumstances might change and when a reference might come in handy. Your work speaks for itself." He glances towards Roscoe, a glow of pride as the other boy gets to witness this masterstroke of planning. Ford draws a monogrammed pen, and adds, holding it and the blank letter towards Hive, "I even brought a pen for you." Roscoe wheezes through much of this, though he registers the thud of reassurance with a confused and conflicted impulse both to cling to the mental contact, and to recoil. "What circumstance do you think is gonna change?" he says. "Maybe when I graduate we'll all be living in the Marxist State of Mutant America but you are getting out of here way faster." He has a pen too, actually, which he shoves one hand into his jogger pocket to fiddle with -- Sriyani's departure has swept his grousey mindset away and now he is in the mood where everything is funny, even the notion that he no longer needs to carry pens around as plausible-deniability contraband weaponry. "Trust me, kid, I have no plans to use your thoughts in any --" Hive is grumbling, but he trails off. His eyes fix on the pen for a blank and silent moment. "How the fuck," sounds somehow more pained than he has through the entirety of the rest of this surly conversation, "are you two isn't your father. Senior. Do you --" He's dropping his hand, patting at his pocket, but when he pulls his phone back out he almost as quickly puts it away with a small sagging of his shoulders. "Pretty sure Mr. Young Republican here or Objectivist Sr. have a pretty different vision of the future. -- oh shit did I mention how long I was in this country illegally? Aren't there people around here whose approval you'd actually. Want." When he reaches into his pocket again its to pull out a metal ashtray, engraved on the lid with a tangled banyan tree motif. He stubs the cigarette into it, snaps the lid back closed. He's not taking the pen, just squinting over the letter like he is actually reading it. "Detention is not community service. You actually volunteer, do some real good in the world, come back and see me. Got a whole-ass program builds homes for people who need it, plenty of opportunity if you want to get your hands dirty." He lifts his chin to the boys, leaning heavily on his cane as he trudges away. "College review boards often have Democrats on them, so it doesn't hurt to have a wide swathe of recommendations," says Ford, matter-of-factly. He shrugs, seeming not actually terribly bothered by this refusal, and the pen and letter are stowed again while Hive makes his way off. Once the older man has reached beyond earshot, he looks to Roscoe and says decisively, "He'll cave." Probably nothing Hive could have said would have had quite as profound a cheering effect right now -- Roscoe watches the telepath go with his spirits soaring high and a song in his heart (it is a mean-spirited little dirge that goes, << he said, he said no, ha-ha >> to a taunting, bouncy tune.) "Lol," he says, also decisively. "No he won't."