Logs:He Doesn't Even Go Here!

He Doesn't Even Go Here!
Dramatis Personae Naomi, Roscoe	2023-10-22 ...Dang. Guess you do go here.
Location <XAV> Music Room - Xs Second Floor
Wide and spacious, seating in this soundproofed room comes largely on the sweep of gentle risers that afford the teacher an easy view of all the budding performers, and add another dimension to the acoustics of the room. Instruments of all types are carefully stored around the room, and a grand piano, immaculately upkept, takes the position of prize near the back. In a nod to the eclectic studies of the students, digital mixing equipment and turntables rub shoulders with the classical instruments. Music stands sit in front of most of the seats, and the only windows look out out over the side of the school grounds. It's early Sunday afternoon, and the mansion is still quiet-ish – so many students are still down in the city, waiting till the last possible moment to hustle back up to Westchester. Not so Naomi – she's not been back from the city for long but she's back early, the steel drum she's made habit of borrowing rolled back into place among the other pitched percussion instruments. Her bag is full and heavy where it rests on a low riser – she hasn't been back to her room to unpack, it seems. Maybe she was going to do homework? Her notebook of blank music sheets is out, half a melody penciled onto a tenor clef, and abandoned next to her bag and phone on the ground. The cacophony of beats and cymbal crashing is probably not her music composition homework. Perched on the stool behind the drumset in black jeans, a Capsical longsleeve shirt in red, white, and blue, silver septum ring attached to a flared nostril, locs tied out of her face and headphones over her ears, Naomi is very intently working through a drumline, visibly frowning harder at every tiny mistake. Not that this stops her aggressive playing, just makes the next downbeat that much louder. "Jeez." This probably isn't entirely audible over this drum solo, especially not through headphones, but the C-major chord Roscoe strikes as he's passing the grand piano might be. He probably hasn't been to the city; he's dressed very casually in bright blue basketball shorts and a heather-grey tee, doesn't have a backpack, doesn't even look like he's carrying his phone. He does not linger long by the piano -- already he is wandering toward Naomi, flicking a fingernail at the triangle, which disappointingly does not produce much of a ding. "Whatcha doing." The C-major chord is followed by a loud smash of drumsticks against the center of the tom. Naomi yanks the headphones off her head, scowling. "Jesus Christ, can't any o' y'all use the practice rooms," she's starting to say, one hand going automatically to the triangle to mute it, "ain't like we hurting for keyboards 'round –" Now her eyes actually seem to land on Roscoe, and not the just general shape of Annoying Intruder, and stutter there. She just stares for a moment, eyes going from green to green and back again as she works her jaw. "...Boy," Naomi says at last, only a touch accusatory, "you don't even go here. Why you here messing with my drums?" A beat, then – "Why you here?" Though Roscoe ignored the reaction to the piano, too busy sticking a finger into the hi-hat, he yanks his hand back hastily at the flash of green that is Naomi's reaction to him. Doesn't flinch otherwise, not even at her tone, but when he responds it is rather more defensive than was warranted, though his expression is familiarly, carefully blank. "I go here now." "Bruh." Naomi slips out from behind the drumkit to grab her phone. "Since when?" The answer to this is presenting itself in her (very full, very Unchecked) email inbox. The ridges of scales on her forehead press slowly upwards. "...Dang. Guess you do go here." There's an edge of hurt in this admission as Naomi swipes over to Instagram to look at her DMs with Roscoe. No new notifications. "...This how you telling everyone? Jumpscaring us all over campus?" "I'unno, since tomorrow?" Roscoe doesn't move, though his eyes warily track Naomi as she heads for her phone; he drops his hands into his pockets, hitches his shoulders up. His voice is rising even more defensively with, "Well, jeez, you were gonna find out anyway. Next time I'll be sure to alert the media." "I guess, but if I'da known –" Naomi bites down on her lip. "Ionno. We coulda done some sorta, welcome to freak high, party? thing?" There's a dark flush starting to spread over her cheeks – maybe only now is she realizing how cringe this sounds. "... It's good to see you," is a little more careful, a little more shy. "Was getting worried you really got grounded forever." Roscoe gives Naomi a loose shrug and a tiny smile, front teeth tucking out against his lip. "Aw. Usually I am the welcome party." The smile is gone again a moment later, like he's reconsidering whether this was funny, but it comes back in quick order. "No, I did get grounded forever," he informs her, almost cheerfully. "I'm still grounded, actually, I have no idea how the doc talked my parents into this." Naomi drops to sit on the risers, squinting up at Roscoe. "You don't look grounded from here. What doc, we got Dr. Grey, Dr. McCoy, Dr. –" Her eyes widen as she realizes the importance of the in "the doc". "-- shit, y'all got a house call from the Professor? Did he," she asks, eyes bright with curiosity, "bring the battle wheelchair, or did he just," she presses two fingers to the side of her jet-black temples, wiggling the fingers of her other hand out in front of her, "Jedi mind trick your folks?" "What do you mean I don't look grounded," Roscoe crabs, not sitting down next to her -- his face is pulling inward in a slight frown. "Naw, we got a laundromat call. And he didn't do any Jedi mind tricks." This has barely left his lips before his frown deepens sharply. "...did he? Wait, can he -- like what you do?" Naomi shrugs. "Ionno if he did, I wasn't there." She's shaking her head slowly, her lips pulling into a small frown of her own. "Professor Xavier can do way more'n what I do. Way more'n Lael an' I together. Folks say he's the most powerful telepath in the whole damn world. And," is only a little grumbly, "his eyes don't even glow about it." She glances back up. "-- probably if he did he woulda told you," Naomi allows, "he's real annoying 'bout psionic ethics." "Oh. Wack." Now Roscoe does sit, pulling his hands out of his pockets to slouch onto; he stares up toward the ceiling contemplatively, but he seems to get past this revelation fairly quickly. "And you can do a whole lot," he adds. Is this a compliment? He tilts an appraising squint Naomi's way, then looks back up at the ceiling. "What does that even mean," he says. "What, there's an ethical way to psionic?" His lip is twisting to one side doubtfully. "Nah," Naomi says – did she process this as a compliment or not, totally not clear! – with only a little displeasure creeping into her tone, "I just do my one thing real good. 'Less you count shedding, then I do two things." She fidgets with her phone. "Yeah, according to the Professor. They gon' make you take a whole class on power ethics with him, you'll see." Her lips are pulling lower. Softer, not looking over at Roscoe – "I don't use mine out here. Not on purpose, and it's easier to not slip up now. If you're worried 'bout that." Roscoe does not look convinced -- "How do you ethically mind-control somebody," he says, but then he huffs out a grouchy sigh. "Lame. They don't make humans take human ethics to graduate human school." He sinks lower into his shoulders; he tilts his head at Naomi again, even though she's not meeting his eyes. "I was just making fun," he says. "You're not so bad. You're probably my favorite mind controller." After a moment of consideration, this gets amended to, "...well, top three." Naomi bites her lip, flipping her phone around in her hand. "And it shows," she mumbles, low, after Roscoe mentions 'human school'. She stills at his last comment, gaze unfocusing for a beat as she looks at the floor. "--Psh." She exhales into a breathy laugh. "Shit, only top three?" She's still not looking at Roscoe, exactly, but her eyes are lifting up from the floor. "I didn't know I was competing." Roscoe's gaze has wandered off Naomi around the room again. "No offense," he adds. "Hah!" Naomi's next laugh is louder, brighter. "You're a brat." She pushes up off the riser, shoves her homework and her phone into her bag. "C'mon. You seen the boathouse yet?" Has Roscoe gotten the tour already, probably, but that's not deterring Naomi from glancing out the window over the grounds. Roscoe blows out a rude raspberry in response to either 'you're a brat' or this ridiculous question -- "I seen everything, uh-doy," he says, but he's bouncing up to his feet too, and and heading for the door.