7/13/06 - Piotr
---
<< XS >> Main Computer Room - Lv1
This white and neutral-toned room, sterile and polished down to the last tile, is purely functional. At one end of the beige-carpetted expanse, the Main Computer is hooked up, and organized in little rows are other smaller monitors, perhaps half a dozen or so altogether. The professional air of the room is unsoftened by anything but a small coffee table sitting beneath long, rectangular window panes that let in ample light. No winsome little knick-knacks, or even any paintings on the wall, someone has obviously not gone to any great pains to decorate, here.
[Exits : [Li]brary, and [X]avier's [O]ffice ]
The hum of computer fans and quiet clicks of a mouse are the only sounds in the computer lab that is empty apart from person. Seated at a desk, looking a little out of place, Piotr sifts inexpertly through the goldmine of information that is the internet. Two windows are open: the CNN website with all the latest, unhelpful news on the O' Hare investigation, and a Russian website of the paranormal, ghostly images captioned and explained in cyrillic characters. From the serious, resigned look on the young man's face, it would seem that his search is so far in vain.
The hum of the wheelchair is a subtle purr, a feline sound for its sleek, contented frame. Its wheels make little sound across wooden floors and carpet. Noise must be made by its occupant, then, whose passage through the school is a graceful thing, manipulated by the light touch on the armpad's controls. Clad in a dark blue suit and vest, his head gleaming under natural and artificial light, Charles Xavier makes his way through the computer lab door to turn a quizzical, thoughtful regard on the back of Colossus's head. "Piotr," greets the warm baritone. "How goes the hunt?"
A little startled by the sound, Piotr's head is half turned towards its origin before the familiarity of the voice is fully recognised. He completes the turn, shifting with surprising lightness in his seat, and offers a smile in return, pleased to see his mentor, less cheerful about the answer he has to the question. "Professor," a little nod is offered with the greeting. "There is nothing."
"In itself a promising sign," Professor Xavier observes, routing his path to pause, angled by Piotr's chair. "Were she one of the terrorists involved in the bombings, the amount of press attention paid to the event would surely produce some indication, somewhere." Hands fold lightly over the ends of the seat's arms, fingers curling under metal. Lips curve, wry. "And how are /you/?"
The words of wisdom are received with resigned acceptance, eyes lowering to study a patch of carpet, unable to hold the knowing gaze of his companion. It is the truth, and Piotr knows it, and yet he still cannot shake the hidden longing that the teleporter was Illyana, back in the physical plane. The question breaks him out of his quiet reverie and he returns his eyes to the Professor. "I am... well," he replies, almost surprised to find that this is indeed the case. "It is good to be back here. It is feeling like home."
"And we are likewise pleased to have you back," Xavier replies, the vigorous baritone waxing warm over the assurance. Smile lines fold at the corners of eyes, hooding the twinkle of hazel. "The population at the school has changed slightly, as I imagine you've discovered, but the school itself is much the same. A period of grace to be appreciated," he adds dryly, "given modern affairs."
The Professor's gentle smile draws one from Piotr too, stern features easing into, if not happiness, then a sense of right and comfort. "It is a blessing," he replies, his low voice gentled by his smooth Russian accent. "That there is a place like this where we can be safe is truly a wonderful thing. It is an honour to return and offer my assistance to the new students as I was helped myself." The shining intensity of his eyes leaves no need for telepathy to discern his complete sincerity.
The twinkle deepens, if mutely; the rich cadence of the British accent smooths over the timbre of grave amusement. "I'm certain they will be as grateful as your class was to their predecessors. Have you had much occasion to interact with our newer students?" Xavier wonders, settling his back against the curve of his chair. "I'm afraid I've been too busy with other affairs to be as familiar with them as I was with your classmates."
"I have," replies Piotr, expression turning to introspection for a moment before he begins to list names and associations with the care of someone to whom each acquaintance is important. "Mira. Nisa - she was in the kitchen, her way of cooking is not so different from how it is at home. Amara. Walter I assisted in the gym. Cassy," a smile tweaks at his lips, "defeated me utterly at air hockey."
For a fleeting second, the Professor's smile broadens into something less dignified: something easier, lighter, brighter. "Ms. Villeneuve," he grants, humor twined through his acknowledgment, "is something of an experience. She rather reminds me of Jubilee, I confess, in the same way I see elements of Rogue in Mira. It is curious how history repeats itself, even in the confines of these walls."
The amusement is matched, smile for comfortable smile. "Some things, it seems, never are changing. Ms Villeneuve is Cassy, yes?" Piotr hazards a rather well-informed guess. "On the first night I was returning here, there was a cake with balloons inside in the kitchen. Kitty said that she was glad to see others continuing with pranks, like Jubilee, Rogue and herself. Although," he adds in careful fairness, "Cassy says the cake was not made by her."
"Indeed?" Whatever Xavier might feel about the tradition of pranks, he keeps his opinion locked safe away, though a certain resignation crosses the strong, aging face at the news. "In their time they were a handful," he acknowledges, apropos the older trio, "and we will survive another such group, if need be. This old house has weathered worse in its time. We have been fortunate in skirting disaster until now. With your wiser head to watch them, we can keep the worst enthusiasms under control."
The compliment sends a warm tinge of pink to Piotr's fair cheeks and his eyes flicker briefly downwards, though the smile they contain cannot be completely hidden. "I am thinking none of them mean any harm," he replies once he is certain that the glowing pride and modest disagreement invoked by his mentor's statement will not colour his voice too strongly. "The school is meaning too much to them for that."
"I have no doubt of their good intentions," Professor Xavier admits, hands loosely clasping to form a bridge across the seat's arms. His head inclines; the polished scalp gleams afresh, picking up reflections of the overhead lamps across its crown. "Unfortunately, as experience has taught us, the best of intentions--" Eyes twinkle again, rueful this time. "There is only so much that brick and mortar can withstand, after all."
"You are right, of course," Piotr replies with a gentle nod, his features, indeed, his whole bearing, peaceful, "but I am sure they will stand for many years more. They are strong, and they are well protected, yes?" A hint of quiet humour sparkles in pale blue eyes as he looks around himself with fond familiarity. "These walls are too well loved to fall."
Xavier's own gaze turns to the windows, and the solid, strong walls that frame them. Gracious, from the outside. Security, from the inside. "Yes," he murmurs, the smile fading slightly. A shadow dips into his eyes, and is as swiftly banished for his wry glance back to Piotr. "As you say. We are, I imagine, the best protected school in the world -- if not the most illustrious. When Sean returns," he tangents, baritone rousing to fresh determination, "we can ask him to contact his friends in the government, and see if they have any information on this young teleporter."
The flicker in the smile goes unnoticed, Piotr's solid trust in the Professor free of doubt, and the return of the topic of conversation to his sister is easily sufficient to prevent him from looking deeper. "Thank you," he replies, "though..." a memory tugs at his consciousness momentarily, "Dr Grey does not believe it is Illyana. I have no reason to believe she is wrong." No reason, but a wealth of unreasonable wishes.
The telepath's mind, closed as it is, watches the colors of those hopes marble against his shields. "Sean may be able to tell us," Xavier says firmly, touching a hand to his controls to wheel the chair back. "At the least, to tell us what the government knows. And even if it proves not to be Illyana, the information of the girl's identity may still prove valuable."
"Yes, certainly." There is steel in the words, fraternal protection welling up for the teleporter, whether or not she is his sister, coupled with a serious concern that is evident in the set of his eyes at what the girl has tried to do. "Is there any knowing of who has made her do this?" he asks, retaining his serious tone. "The press," he makes a neat gesture towards the computer, "know nothing, but perhaps you..." The sentence is left open-ended, Piotr's knowledge of Xavier's methods of gathering information uncertain, though his faith in them is complete.
"Perhaps," Xavier says, and inclines his head to the younger man, the slight, humorous smile hiding a wealth of secrets. "We will see. Have a good afternoon, Piotr. Try not to worry too much. The day is beautiful, and peace is too precious not to take advantage of." With a last, warm tilt of voice, the Professor turns his chair away, letting motors and steel bear him off to the cloister of his office.
[Log ends]
Xavier finds Piotr on the internet. Looking for his sister, that is. NOT what you think.
<< XS >> Main Computer Room - Lv1
This white and neutral-toned room, sterile and polished down to the last tile, is purely functional. At one end of the beige-carpetted expanse, the Main Computer is hooked up, and organized in little rows are other smaller monitors, perhaps half a dozen or so altogether. The professional air of the room is unsoftened by anything but a small coffee table sitting beneath long, rectangular window panes that let in ample light. No winsome little knick-knacks, or even any paintings on the wall, someone has obviously not gone to any great pains to decorate, here.
[Exits : [Li]brary, and [X]avier's [O]ffice ]
The hum of computer fans and quiet clicks of a mouse are the only sounds in the computer lab that is empty apart from person. Seated at a desk, looking a little out of place, Piotr sifts inexpertly through the goldmine of information that is the internet. Two windows are open: the CNN website with all the latest, unhelpful news on the O' Hare investigation, and a Russian website of the paranormal, ghostly images captioned and explained in cyrillic characters. From the serious, resigned look on the young man's face, it would seem that his search is so far in vain.
The hum of the wheelchair is a subtle purr, a feline sound for its sleek, contented frame. Its wheels make little sound across wooden floors and carpet. Noise must be made by its occupant, then, whose passage through the school is a graceful thing, manipulated by the light touch on the armpad's controls. Clad in a dark blue suit and vest, his head gleaming under natural and artificial light, Charles Xavier makes his way through the computer lab door to turn a quizzical, thoughtful regard on the back of Colossus's head. "Piotr," greets the warm baritone. "How goes the hunt?"
A little startled by the sound, Piotr's head is half turned towards its origin before the familiarity of the voice is fully recognised. He completes the turn, shifting with surprising lightness in his seat, and offers a smile in return, pleased to see his mentor, less cheerful about the answer he has to the question. "Professor," a little nod is offered with the greeting. "There is nothing."
"In itself a promising sign," Professor Xavier observes, routing his path to pause, angled by Piotr's chair. "Were she one of the terrorists involved in the bombings, the amount of press attention paid to the event would surely produce some indication, somewhere." Hands fold lightly over the ends of the seat's arms, fingers curling under metal. Lips curve, wry. "And how are /you/?"
The words of wisdom are received with resigned acceptance, eyes lowering to study a patch of carpet, unable to hold the knowing gaze of his companion. It is the truth, and Piotr knows it, and yet he still cannot shake the hidden longing that the teleporter was Illyana, back in the physical plane. The question breaks him out of his quiet reverie and he returns his eyes to the Professor. "I am... well," he replies, almost surprised to find that this is indeed the case. "It is good to be back here. It is feeling like home."
"And we are likewise pleased to have you back," Xavier replies, the vigorous baritone waxing warm over the assurance. Smile lines fold at the corners of eyes, hooding the twinkle of hazel. "The population at the school has changed slightly, as I imagine you've discovered, but the school itself is much the same. A period of grace to be appreciated," he adds dryly, "given modern affairs."
The Professor's gentle smile draws one from Piotr too, stern features easing into, if not happiness, then a sense of right and comfort. "It is a blessing," he replies, his low voice gentled by his smooth Russian accent. "That there is a place like this where we can be safe is truly a wonderful thing. It is an honour to return and offer my assistance to the new students as I was helped myself." The shining intensity of his eyes leaves no need for telepathy to discern his complete sincerity.
The twinkle deepens, if mutely; the rich cadence of the British accent smooths over the timbre of grave amusement. "I'm certain they will be as grateful as your class was to their predecessors. Have you had much occasion to interact with our newer students?" Xavier wonders, settling his back against the curve of his chair. "I'm afraid I've been too busy with other affairs to be as familiar with them as I was with your classmates."
"I have," replies Piotr, expression turning to introspection for a moment before he begins to list names and associations with the care of someone to whom each acquaintance is important. "Mira. Nisa - she was in the kitchen, her way of cooking is not so different from how it is at home. Amara. Walter I assisted in the gym. Cassy," a smile tweaks at his lips, "defeated me utterly at air hockey."
For a fleeting second, the Professor's smile broadens into something less dignified: something easier, lighter, brighter. "Ms. Villeneuve," he grants, humor twined through his acknowledgment, "is something of an experience. She rather reminds me of Jubilee, I confess, in the same way I see elements of Rogue in Mira. It is curious how history repeats itself, even in the confines of these walls."
The amusement is matched, smile for comfortable smile. "Some things, it seems, never are changing. Ms Villeneuve is Cassy, yes?" Piotr hazards a rather well-informed guess. "On the first night I was returning here, there was a cake with balloons inside in the kitchen. Kitty said that she was glad to see others continuing with pranks, like Jubilee, Rogue and herself. Although," he adds in careful fairness, "Cassy says the cake was not made by her."
"Indeed?" Whatever Xavier might feel about the tradition of pranks, he keeps his opinion locked safe away, though a certain resignation crosses the strong, aging face at the news. "In their time they were a handful," he acknowledges, apropos the older trio, "and we will survive another such group, if need be. This old house has weathered worse in its time. We have been fortunate in skirting disaster until now. With your wiser head to watch them, we can keep the worst enthusiasms under control."
The compliment sends a warm tinge of pink to Piotr's fair cheeks and his eyes flicker briefly downwards, though the smile they contain cannot be completely hidden. "I am thinking none of them mean any harm," he replies once he is certain that the glowing pride and modest disagreement invoked by his mentor's statement will not colour his voice too strongly. "The school is meaning too much to them for that."
"I have no doubt of their good intentions," Professor Xavier admits, hands loosely clasping to form a bridge across the seat's arms. His head inclines; the polished scalp gleams afresh, picking up reflections of the overhead lamps across its crown. "Unfortunately, as experience has taught us, the best of intentions--" Eyes twinkle again, rueful this time. "There is only so much that brick and mortar can withstand, after all."
"You are right, of course," Piotr replies with a gentle nod, his features, indeed, his whole bearing, peaceful, "but I am sure they will stand for many years more. They are strong, and they are well protected, yes?" A hint of quiet humour sparkles in pale blue eyes as he looks around himself with fond familiarity. "These walls are too well loved to fall."
Xavier's own gaze turns to the windows, and the solid, strong walls that frame them. Gracious, from the outside. Security, from the inside. "Yes," he murmurs, the smile fading slightly. A shadow dips into his eyes, and is as swiftly banished for his wry glance back to Piotr. "As you say. We are, I imagine, the best protected school in the world -- if not the most illustrious. When Sean returns," he tangents, baritone rousing to fresh determination, "we can ask him to contact his friends in the government, and see if they have any information on this young teleporter."
The flicker in the smile goes unnoticed, Piotr's solid trust in the Professor free of doubt, and the return of the topic of conversation to his sister is easily sufficient to prevent him from looking deeper. "Thank you," he replies, "though..." a memory tugs at his consciousness momentarily, "Dr Grey does not believe it is Illyana. I have no reason to believe she is wrong." No reason, but a wealth of unreasonable wishes.
The telepath's mind, closed as it is, watches the colors of those hopes marble against his shields. "Sean may be able to tell us," Xavier says firmly, touching a hand to his controls to wheel the chair back. "At the least, to tell us what the government knows. And even if it proves not to be Illyana, the information of the girl's identity may still prove valuable."
"Yes, certainly." There is steel in the words, fraternal protection welling up for the teleporter, whether or not she is his sister, coupled with a serious concern that is evident in the set of his eyes at what the girl has tried to do. "Is there any knowing of who has made her do this?" he asks, retaining his serious tone. "The press," he makes a neat gesture towards the computer, "know nothing, but perhaps you..." The sentence is left open-ended, Piotr's knowledge of Xavier's methods of gathering information uncertain, though his faith in them is complete.
"Perhaps," Xavier says, and inclines his head to the younger man, the slight, humorous smile hiding a wealth of secrets. "We will see. Have a good afternoon, Piotr. Try not to worry too much. The day is beautiful, and peace is too precious not to take advantage of." With a last, warm tilt of voice, the Professor turns his chair away, letting motors and steel bear him off to the cloister of his office.
[Log ends]
Xavier finds Piotr on the internet. Looking for his sister, that is. NOT what you think.