11/30/06 - Jackson
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=XS= Main Computer Lab - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
White and neutral-toned, sterile and polished down to the last tile, this is a room of pure function and little form. At one end of the beige-carpeted expanse, a raised platform holds the instructor's computer, with a whiteboard and projection screen behind it. Four rows of six desks and chairs each furnish forth a lab fit for twenty four students to check their email in class at one time, on flat screen monitors and systems kept religiously upgraded and updated. A small coffee table sits beneath long, rectangular window panes that let in ample light, the only non-regulation piece of furniture. Trays filled with assignments marked and waiting to be marked have colonized it.
With his PC unhelpfully back in his bedroom in New York City, Jackson is thankful for use of the school's computers to help him keep up-to-date with his emails. Currently, though, the message on his screen has left his nose wrinkled in a scowl. The scowl is halfhearted, though, and quickly losing a battle for primacy on Jackson's features with a rather fond smile that is fighting to replace it; as he re-reads the note a third time, his mind is coloured with warm thoughts of family.
That the computer room is quiet may be a relief to a harried telepath, though there is only the smallest tightness around the Professor's eyes to suggest the need for relief. Chair-bound again -- still -- from the long day's lessons, Xavier coasts into the lab with a small frown for the papers on his lap. Inattentive steering. A bump rumples the quiet, prompting a vexed cluck and the scrape of metal on tile. Xavier reverses; a plastic chair, hooked by some fashion to the wheelchair, skids merrily after.
The noise draws Jackson's attention away from his parents' message, looking up with furrowed brow for the source of the disturbance. "Oh -- dear." His eyes widen as he notes the Professor's predicament, and with a guilty blush he forces a smile off his face. His own chair scrapes as he pushes it back, standing to detach the plastic seat from the back of the wheelchair. "Good day, Professor," he says quietly, amidst a brief internal struggle to not be amused.
The rumpled dignity is armored against such inconveniences, at least; the corners of Xavier's mouth dip into shadow, sketching the first lines of a smile that only just warm the strong voice. "Thank you, Jackson. I appreciate the assistance. There are times when I rather envy Jean her telekinesis. --And how are you?" The row of chairs littering the path from door to door is eyed with some resignation. Obstacle course. Yay.
"Doing well, sir." Jackson's response is automatic, rote, while his eyes follow the Professor's glance. One by one, he begins pushing the chairs neatly into their places, trying to leave as wide a path as possible between the desks. "My ma's been writing me a list of worries, s'kind of sweet. You'd think from reading it that New York was just brimming over with conscienceless killers who were out to get me," he adds brightly. "How are you, sir?"
A wordless, courteous note of thanks taps lightly on Jackson's forebrain as the chair slowly advances, finding its way down the aisles. "It is the nature of parents to worry about their young, I'm afraid. An anxiety I regret that I, too, occasionally experience on my students' behalf. I'm quite well, thank you." Xavier lifts the file in his lap. The paper within slips to peek a corner out, bulky between the manila covers. "You'll be pleased to know our lawyer has been quite busy on our prickly red friend's behalf."
"Oh?" Interest and worry spike in Jackson's mind; not parent nor teacher, he is still no stranger to concern. His eyes fall to the folder, curious. "Do you know what's going to happen to her, Professor? I --" His nose wrinkles, and he does not scuff his foot bashfully -- but he comes quite close. "M'getting kind of fond of that one. I been real worried for her."
"A curious case," the Professor grants, professional, clinical interest slipping into the warmer timbres of his own concern. The folder twists; the mouth does likewise, gesturing at rue. "It will not be easy to convince the authorities to release her into our custody, but it is not impossible. The state does not yet have the means to deal with someone of her unique situation."
"Do we?" Jackson's head tips to the side, thoughtful. "I mean, I'm sure we can --" But there is uncertainty in his tone, not quite sure of much. "I try to get through to her, but s'hard. She seems to respond well to my powers -- when she ain't all caged up," he adds, voice tinged with bitterness. "Seems like she's been through a lot. Do you think you can help her?"
That gleaming pate tilts. "That," Professor Xavier acknowledges, "remains to be seen. Certainly she cannot be allowed to wander about freely to cause injury to others. In that, the authorities and I are agreed. However, she stands a better chance of improvement with us than with them." The file folder drops to his lap, the long, graceful hand folding over it. Dryly, he adds, "With all due respect to the authorities."
A brief scowl flits across Jackson's features, his mind filling with distaste at the thought of police types. "Yes," he agrees softly. "With all /due/ respect."
"Men and women who do a difficult and dangerous job that they are neither equipped nor educated to do," Xavier says mildly, folding the other hand atop the first in a restful cross. A ghost of a twinkle touches the hazel eyes as he adds, wry, "I recall being somewhat less than enthused with the law myself, when I was young. Age and experience brings a different perspective."
"And I have neither," Jackson admits sheepishly. "But the cops back home were kind of --" His jaw clenches, and he shrugs. "An experience I don't want to repeat. Still, that's past. S'kinda hard to shake some bitterness, though."
"It is difficult sometimes to distinguish the group from the actions of a few." The Professor's head inclines in acknowledgment, the cultured baritone skeined with a ready compassion. "It is a hard lesson -- but a necessary one, for us more than most. How can we, as mutants, demand the right to be judged for ourselves and not for Magneto's actions, if we do not offer others the same courtesy?"
"I --" Jackson wrinkles his nose, head dropping as one hand brushes fingers through his hair. "Yes, sir," he says, quietly. "In theory, I know that," He exhales a soft, snorting breath. "M'kind of a hypocrite, I guess, cuz I preach the same enough but can't manage it myself." Resting one hand against the surface of a desk, he looks towards Xavier with bitterness creeping back into his thoughts. "They don't give us that respect, but we -- got to be /better/ than the rest of humanity just to be treated the same."
Professor Xavier's head bows again, the clear, wise gaze a touch quizzical under the shadows of his brow. "Something greater men and women than I have said over the centuries. Women, African Americans, Native Americans: theory is a far different thing from the reality," he grants. A touch of humor bends the mellow cadence of his accent, making velvet of his consonants. "I struggle with it every day. As they say, it is the journey and not the destination -- but I admit, there are times when I could do without the walk. So to speak."
Jackson's lips press together, the corners curling slightly as darker emotions begin to fade. "I guess, though, that we got more reason to have to be better, even if it makes the journey more trying," he says with a slight laugh, slipping back into his seat and looking back towards his email. "I mean, no other persecuted minority yet could kill people with their brains."
"The civil rights movement was an exciting and dangerous time," the Professor says, nostalgia smoothing the high brow. The wheelchair murmurs, steered again through the maze of desks and chairs. "A gun and a fist may be different from a telepathic mind or, I daresay, an SUV. Nonetheless, the end result is much the same. History repeats itself, one way or another."
"May you live in interesting times," Jackson murmurs. His mouse clicks, and his fingers hover uncertainly over his keyboard. "Guess I should reassure my ma ain't nobody out to kill me -- so much as I can without lying, anyhow," he adds wryly, images of Creed flashing through his mind. "Have a good day, Professor."
With a quiet hum, the chair and master burrow their way out of the computer lab's maze, leaving behind only a trace of their passage. A scent. A buzz of electricity in the air. And, mild, a farewell to pitch its echoes across a mind. "To you as well, Jackson." And Xavier is gone.
=XS= Main Computer Lab - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
White and neutral-toned, sterile and polished down to the last tile, this is a room of pure function and little form. At one end of the beige-carpeted expanse, a raised platform holds the instructor's computer, with a whiteboard and projection screen behind it. Four rows of six desks and chairs each furnish forth a lab fit for twenty four students to check their email in class at one time, on flat screen monitors and systems kept religiously upgraded and updated. A small coffee table sits beneath long, rectangular window panes that let in ample light, the only non-regulation piece of furniture. Trays filled with assignments marked and waiting to be marked have colonized it.
With his PC unhelpfully back in his bedroom in New York City, Jackson is thankful for use of the school's computers to help him keep up-to-date with his emails. Currently, though, the message on his screen has left his nose wrinkled in a scowl. The scowl is halfhearted, though, and quickly losing a battle for primacy on Jackson's features with a rather fond smile that is fighting to replace it; as he re-reads the note a third time, his mind is coloured with warm thoughts of family.
That the computer room is quiet may be a relief to a harried telepath, though there is only the smallest tightness around the Professor's eyes to suggest the need for relief. Chair-bound again -- still -- from the long day's lessons, Xavier coasts into the lab with a small frown for the papers on his lap. Inattentive steering. A bump rumples the quiet, prompting a vexed cluck and the scrape of metal on tile. Xavier reverses; a plastic chair, hooked by some fashion to the wheelchair, skids merrily after.
The noise draws Jackson's attention away from his parents' message, looking up with furrowed brow for the source of the disturbance. "Oh -- dear." His eyes widen as he notes the Professor's predicament, and with a guilty blush he forces a smile off his face. His own chair scrapes as he pushes it back, standing to detach the plastic seat from the back of the wheelchair. "Good day, Professor," he says quietly, amidst a brief internal struggle to not be amused.
The rumpled dignity is armored against such inconveniences, at least; the corners of Xavier's mouth dip into shadow, sketching the first lines of a smile that only just warm the strong voice. "Thank you, Jackson. I appreciate the assistance. There are times when I rather envy Jean her telekinesis. --And how are you?" The row of chairs littering the path from door to door is eyed with some resignation. Obstacle course. Yay.
"Doing well, sir." Jackson's response is automatic, rote, while his eyes follow the Professor's glance. One by one, he begins pushing the chairs neatly into their places, trying to leave as wide a path as possible between the desks. "My ma's been writing me a list of worries, s'kind of sweet. You'd think from reading it that New York was just brimming over with conscienceless killers who were out to get me," he adds brightly. "How are you, sir?"
A wordless, courteous note of thanks taps lightly on Jackson's forebrain as the chair slowly advances, finding its way down the aisles. "It is the nature of parents to worry about their young, I'm afraid. An anxiety I regret that I, too, occasionally experience on my students' behalf. I'm quite well, thank you." Xavier lifts the file in his lap. The paper within slips to peek a corner out, bulky between the manila covers. "You'll be pleased to know our lawyer has been quite busy on our prickly red friend's behalf."
"Oh?" Interest and worry spike in Jackson's mind; not parent nor teacher, he is still no stranger to concern. His eyes fall to the folder, curious. "Do you know what's going to happen to her, Professor? I --" His nose wrinkles, and he does not scuff his foot bashfully -- but he comes quite close. "M'getting kind of fond of that one. I been real worried for her."
"A curious case," the Professor grants, professional, clinical interest slipping into the warmer timbres of his own concern. The folder twists; the mouth does likewise, gesturing at rue. "It will not be easy to convince the authorities to release her into our custody, but it is not impossible. The state does not yet have the means to deal with someone of her unique situation."
"Do we?" Jackson's head tips to the side, thoughtful. "I mean, I'm sure we can --" But there is uncertainty in his tone, not quite sure of much. "I try to get through to her, but s'hard. She seems to respond well to my powers -- when she ain't all caged up," he adds, voice tinged with bitterness. "Seems like she's been through a lot. Do you think you can help her?"
That gleaming pate tilts. "That," Professor Xavier acknowledges, "remains to be seen. Certainly she cannot be allowed to wander about freely to cause injury to others. In that, the authorities and I are agreed. However, she stands a better chance of improvement with us than with them." The file folder drops to his lap, the long, graceful hand folding over it. Dryly, he adds, "With all due respect to the authorities."
A brief scowl flits across Jackson's features, his mind filling with distaste at the thought of police types. "Yes," he agrees softly. "With all /due/ respect."
"Men and women who do a difficult and dangerous job that they are neither equipped nor educated to do," Xavier says mildly, folding the other hand atop the first in a restful cross. A ghost of a twinkle touches the hazel eyes as he adds, wry, "I recall being somewhat less than enthused with the law myself, when I was young. Age and experience brings a different perspective."
"And I have neither," Jackson admits sheepishly. "But the cops back home were kind of --" His jaw clenches, and he shrugs. "An experience I don't want to repeat. Still, that's past. S'kinda hard to shake some bitterness, though."
"It is difficult sometimes to distinguish the group from the actions of a few." The Professor's head inclines in acknowledgment, the cultured baritone skeined with a ready compassion. "It is a hard lesson -- but a necessary one, for us more than most. How can we, as mutants, demand the right to be judged for ourselves and not for Magneto's actions, if we do not offer others the same courtesy?"
"I --" Jackson wrinkles his nose, head dropping as one hand brushes fingers through his hair. "Yes, sir," he says, quietly. "In theory, I know that," He exhales a soft, snorting breath. "M'kind of a hypocrite, I guess, cuz I preach the same enough but can't manage it myself." Resting one hand against the surface of a desk, he looks towards Xavier with bitterness creeping back into his thoughts. "They don't give us that respect, but we -- got to be /better/ than the rest of humanity just to be treated the same."
Professor Xavier's head bows again, the clear, wise gaze a touch quizzical under the shadows of his brow. "Something greater men and women than I have said over the centuries. Women, African Americans, Native Americans: theory is a far different thing from the reality," he grants. A touch of humor bends the mellow cadence of his accent, making velvet of his consonants. "I struggle with it every day. As they say, it is the journey and not the destination -- but I admit, there are times when I could do without the walk. So to speak."
Jackson's lips press together, the corners curling slightly as darker emotions begin to fade. "I guess, though, that we got more reason to have to be better, even if it makes the journey more trying," he says with a slight laugh, slipping back into his seat and looking back towards his email. "I mean, no other persecuted minority yet could kill people with their brains."
"The civil rights movement was an exciting and dangerous time," the Professor says, nostalgia smoothing the high brow. The wheelchair murmurs, steered again through the maze of desks and chairs. "A gun and a fist may be different from a telepathic mind or, I daresay, an SUV. Nonetheless, the end result is much the same. History repeats itself, one way or another."
"May you live in interesting times," Jackson murmurs. His mouse clicks, and his fingers hover uncertainly over his keyboard. "Guess I should reassure my ma ain't nobody out to kill me -- so much as I can without lying, anyhow," he adds wryly, images of Creed flashing through his mind. "Have a good day, Professor."
With a quiet hum, the chair and master burrow their way out of the computer lab's maze, leaving behind only a trace of their passage. A scent. A buzz of electricity in the air. And, mild, a farewell to pitch its echoes across a mind. "To you as well, Jackson." And Xavier is gone.