12/10/07 - Xorn
---
=XS= Xavier's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
This is a quiet, gracious room, wood panels and polished wooden floor giving warmth to a great and high-ceilinged study. A large fireplace claims the inner wall, a mantel lipped wide under a 16th century painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Colors are rich, glowing with life and vigor; the room itself is adorned likewise, thick rugs laid underfoot to draw together the hues of curtains and prints. A large desk dominates the far end of the room, framed behind by high windows that look out across the lawn. Closer to the door, bookshelves curl around the corner, framing a small nook for heavy, butter-soft leather chairs and sofas circled around a small tea table and chessboard.
It is late evening, and dinner is done and gone. The children are off doing -- whatever it is that children do in these late hours: homework, some of them. Frolic and gaiety, the rest. A warm sweater of garish red and green donned over the more proper suit that has served him for the day, Charles Xavier moves stiffly around his office, struggling with a cane in one hand and a large book in the other. He is reorganizing his shelves; the debris on the small coffee table nearby bears testament to his efforts. They are not enthusiastic.
Xorn's entry is surprisingly silent considering his size and the size of his boots. There is a quiet rustle of black and yellow leather over blue jeans, and he is simply there, standing in a doorway that was unoccupied mere seconds ago. His outfit has not changed. The same heavy jacket, the same jeans. The same ghoulish helmet. He breathes.
Charles, occupied with frowning over the damaged spine of a book, looks up -- and starts. He is unaccustomed to being taken unawares. The small jerk is close to disastrous. The book drops heavily, bouncing off his foot before sprawling face-down on the carpet; the man himself, unbalanced, loses his unstable stance to fall against the bookshelf. Several small marbles roll off the high shelf to rattle down on his bald head. "Bloody--" rattle "--hell."
For all this excitement, Xorn does not flinch. Perhaps he assumes that falling into shelves is a form of traditional greeting. Or perhaps he wishes to preserve Xavier's dignity by pretending not to notice the marbles bouncing off of his head. "Hello professor. That is a nice sweater."
For all this excitement, Xorn does not flinch. Perhaps he assumes that falling into shelves is a form of traditional greeting. Or perhaps he wishes to preserve Xavier's dignity by pretending not to notice the marbles bouncing off of his head. "Hello professor. I like your sweater." Or...perhaps not.
Somewhat ruffled in dignity and habitual placidity, Charles straightens as far as he is able and brushes (unnecessarily) at his sweater front, his free hand unclasping the shelf to smooth his battered skull. "Thank you, Xorn," he says, shuffling a foot against the marbles now scattered on the carpet. His baritone, usually warm, is rendered somewhat flat by the strain of recovery. "It was a Christmas present from last year from one of the children. --Please. Come in. Pardon the mess."
"It is pardoned." His own voice droning even lower than Xavier's, it betrays no amusement at his expense, and Xorn steps quietly to do as he is told. Two steps, then three -- then no further movement. He is in. "It is very colorful. Like a parrot."
"Exactly like," Charles says ruefully, turning a slightly pained glance at his sweater front before determinedly turning his injured aesthetic sensibilities aside. One hand gripping the sturdy shelf, he gestures with his cane towards the desk, pinned in by the mess around him. "There is a file folder on my desk with your name on it. Open it, if you please. There is a letter inside with an offer of permanent employment."
Xorn stills for a moment. It is something along the lines of an emote of surprise. The delay, that is, before he moves to reach for the file folder. Close inspection with glowing blue eye sockets is proof enough that it does indeed have his name on it. Then it is opened, all in silence.
From across the room, the British-spiced baritone continues mildly, "If you are interested, we would like to have you continue on with us as a permanent teacher. I have no immediate knowledge of when Ororo will return, but even if she should -- there is a place for you here, with your assorted skills. The children like and respect you. We would be honored if you would consider it."
Static crackles through metallic tubing in the neck, and around the jaw. "I am very happy." says Xorn -- one of few statements it is possible for him to make that meshes well with his wide skeleton grin. "Flattered is the word. I would like very much to remain here and teach with you and your students."
"Good," says Charles, true warmth buoying the word. "Splendid. The rest of the staff will be delighted, as am I. If you require a pen," he adds encouragingly, "there is a pen on my desk." He lifts his cane to bump books and papers aside on the carpet, plowing a small path down which he can traverse.
Xorn's metal cranium turns down after the bump of book and paper across the floor, then up again. He reaches for the pen, and signs his name in a crude, all-caps print.
Charles hobbles -- there is no other word for it -- across the floor towards the desk, leaning heavily on the cane as he goes. His glance touches on the signed name as he passes the desk, satisfaction touching the swift smile. "In light of your new status, it seems only fair to introduce you to the rest of what we do here," he observes. "I would like to take advantage of some of your expertise on several projects we have going."
A marginal turn in the slant of Xorn's jaw may register as a curious tilt, and he lowers the signed papers slowly back down onto the desk as Xavier passes by. "I do not wish to intrude. I understand that I am new. And unusual in some respects."
"Unusual in many respects," Charles says dryly, "but then, so are we." The wheelchair sits behind the desk. He lowers himself painfully into its harbor, not bothering in this relative privacy to conceal the ungainliness of the operation; his face goes blank, hiding the spite of pain. Rather breathlessly, he adds, "I trust I can rely on you not to share what I am about to tell you?"
"This is true." observes Xorn, who for no reason seems to have taken up an interest on the marbles left on the floor after their earlier tumble. The light from his eyes shines flatly downward in the well lit office. "I owe you silence at the very least."
Charles sinks back in his chair, molding his spine to its padded contours. Hands curl around the chair's arms; a small breath escapes him, a sigh of relief and a release of tension that sags the proud, silent face. "'Owe' is not the word I would choose," he says, his eyes pale, scimitar glimmers under the heavy eyelids. "Nonetheless -- have you been monitoring the news about the asteroid in the media?"
"I do not know of a way to prove that I am trustworthy." Broad shoulders slumping a bit at the misstep, Xorn is quiet for a moment while he processes the question. "I have heard of this asteroid. The world will end."
"Inconvenient," Charles says, classic British understatement. Having settled himself in the chair, he straightens himself again, comfortable at last in the familiar berth. "We have been asked to find a solution. To prevent, as it were, the end of the world. From astronomical causes, at least," he adds drolly. His hand taps at the signed letter. "We are attempting to find an answer to earth's current, most pressing question. I would like to have your help, if I may."
"Okay." says Xorn agreeably. That is...actually, all that he says. Then he just sort of stands there, as if he anticipates that there will be more, leather creaking quietly about the shoulders of his jacket. Apparently he doesn't have any bright ideas.
Charles looks amused. "Over time," he amends. "Not right at the moment. There are extra levels to the school than the ones that you are acquainted with, and a scenario in the Danger Room that I will give you access to. We will provide you access to the rest of the levels as well. There is a jet under the basketball court. I would prefer if you not take it flying, but if you absolutely must, we can discuss it. Scott or Hank can show you the computer systems, if you like."
This is a lot to absorb at once. Xorn is plagued by spans of silence tonight. All with due cause. "Will I receive leather pants."
Leather pants. Charles blinks slowly, a trifle taken aback. "If you like," he says, sounding doubtful. "I would advise against it. They have a certain flair, stylistically speaking, but they rather chafe."
"You have worn them." Is this a statement or a question? Xorn does not seem entirely sure himself. Static crackles through the quiet office once more, and something rattles at his throat.
Charles draws his fingers across the dome of his scalp. "Of course, your habitual attire is not geared towards comfort," he allows, skating over the question cum statement with aplomb. "I daresay leather pants will barely register, if you must go that route."
"My nerve endings have suffered degrees of damage. I do not have a brain." As if to illustrate this fact, Xorn's attention span fails enough for him to turn back to the marbles. His shoulders shake a little.
"How very unfortunate for you," Charles says, diplomat that he is. "However, you seem to function quite well without it. Perhaps it is part of what draws the students to you. Chaps are more comfortable. I will leave it to you to discuss with my tailor, if you wish."
"I will call him." The shaking affliction having passed, Xorn rolls his shoulders back and curls his hands into fists. "I will make a note of chaps. I have heard this is what cowboys wear."
Charles says with all due solemnity, "You would make a splendid cowboy. I believe Hank should be able to help you acquire a stetson. --Ah." A small head pokes in at the door, round-eyed and rumpled. Student-teacher conference. The Professor gestures invitation with a hand, the other drawing file folders across open letters. "Mr. Babcock. Come in, please."
"There are no Russian cowboys. It is not allowed." Equally as solemn, (presumably, anyway) Xorn turns to peer blanlkly at Mr. Babcock in his usual looming silence. "I will leave you to your work Professor. This job means much to me. I thank you."
"I thank /you/," Charles says, as the student edges his way into the room, his back to the wall. "Please. Call me Charles. --No, Mr. Babcock. Not you."
The child snaps his mouth shut and ogles Xorn. No doubt he is imagining him in assless chaps.
Cheered or nervous or ambivalent, Xorn nods once to Xavier and once to Mr. Babcock, ignorant of his staring. Then he turns to go.
[Log ends]
Xorn gets permanent employment and is invited into the lower levels of the X-School.
=XS= Xavier's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
This is a quiet, gracious room, wood panels and polished wooden floor giving warmth to a great and high-ceilinged study. A large fireplace claims the inner wall, a mantel lipped wide under a 16th century painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Colors are rich, glowing with life and vigor; the room itself is adorned likewise, thick rugs laid underfoot to draw together the hues of curtains and prints. A large desk dominates the far end of the room, framed behind by high windows that look out across the lawn. Closer to the door, bookshelves curl around the corner, framing a small nook for heavy, butter-soft leather chairs and sofas circled around a small tea table and chessboard.
It is late evening, and dinner is done and gone. The children are off doing -- whatever it is that children do in these late hours: homework, some of them. Frolic and gaiety, the rest. A warm sweater of garish red and green donned over the more proper suit that has served him for the day, Charles Xavier moves stiffly around his office, struggling with a cane in one hand and a large book in the other. He is reorganizing his shelves; the debris on the small coffee table nearby bears testament to his efforts. They are not enthusiastic.
Xorn's entry is surprisingly silent considering his size and the size of his boots. There is a quiet rustle of black and yellow leather over blue jeans, and he is simply there, standing in a doorway that was unoccupied mere seconds ago. His outfit has not changed. The same heavy jacket, the same jeans. The same ghoulish helmet. He breathes.
Charles, occupied with frowning over the damaged spine of a book, looks up -- and starts. He is unaccustomed to being taken unawares. The small jerk is close to disastrous. The book drops heavily, bouncing off his foot before sprawling face-down on the carpet; the man himself, unbalanced, loses his unstable stance to fall against the bookshelf. Several small marbles roll off the high shelf to rattle down on his bald head. "Bloody--" rattle "--hell."
For all this excitement, Xorn does not flinch. Perhaps he assumes that falling into shelves is a form of traditional greeting. Or perhaps he wishes to preserve Xavier's dignity by pretending not to notice the marbles bouncing off of his head. "Hello professor. That is a nice sweater."
For all this excitement, Xorn does not flinch. Perhaps he assumes that falling into shelves is a form of traditional greeting. Or perhaps he wishes to preserve Xavier's dignity by pretending not to notice the marbles bouncing off of his head. "Hello professor. I like your sweater." Or...perhaps not.
Somewhat ruffled in dignity and habitual placidity, Charles straightens as far as he is able and brushes (unnecessarily) at his sweater front, his free hand unclasping the shelf to smooth his battered skull. "Thank you, Xorn," he says, shuffling a foot against the marbles now scattered on the carpet. His baritone, usually warm, is rendered somewhat flat by the strain of recovery. "It was a Christmas present from last year from one of the children. --Please. Come in. Pardon the mess."
"It is pardoned." His own voice droning even lower than Xavier's, it betrays no amusement at his expense, and Xorn steps quietly to do as he is told. Two steps, then three -- then no further movement. He is in. "It is very colorful. Like a parrot."
"Exactly like," Charles says ruefully, turning a slightly pained glance at his sweater front before determinedly turning his injured aesthetic sensibilities aside. One hand gripping the sturdy shelf, he gestures with his cane towards the desk, pinned in by the mess around him. "There is a file folder on my desk with your name on it. Open it, if you please. There is a letter inside with an offer of permanent employment."
Xorn stills for a moment. It is something along the lines of an emote of surprise. The delay, that is, before he moves to reach for the file folder. Close inspection with glowing blue eye sockets is proof enough that it does indeed have his name on it. Then it is opened, all in silence.
From across the room, the British-spiced baritone continues mildly, "If you are interested, we would like to have you continue on with us as a permanent teacher. I have no immediate knowledge of when Ororo will return, but even if she should -- there is a place for you here, with your assorted skills. The children like and respect you. We would be honored if you would consider it."
Static crackles through metallic tubing in the neck, and around the jaw. "I am very happy." says Xorn -- one of few statements it is possible for him to make that meshes well with his wide skeleton grin. "Flattered is the word. I would like very much to remain here and teach with you and your students."
"Good," says Charles, true warmth buoying the word. "Splendid. The rest of the staff will be delighted, as am I. If you require a pen," he adds encouragingly, "there is a pen on my desk." He lifts his cane to bump books and papers aside on the carpet, plowing a small path down which he can traverse.
Xorn's metal cranium turns down after the bump of book and paper across the floor, then up again. He reaches for the pen, and signs his name in a crude, all-caps print.
Charles hobbles -- there is no other word for it -- across the floor towards the desk, leaning heavily on the cane as he goes. His glance touches on the signed name as he passes the desk, satisfaction touching the swift smile. "In light of your new status, it seems only fair to introduce you to the rest of what we do here," he observes. "I would like to take advantage of some of your expertise on several projects we have going."
A marginal turn in the slant of Xorn's jaw may register as a curious tilt, and he lowers the signed papers slowly back down onto the desk as Xavier passes by. "I do not wish to intrude. I understand that I am new. And unusual in some respects."
"Unusual in many respects," Charles says dryly, "but then, so are we." The wheelchair sits behind the desk. He lowers himself painfully into its harbor, not bothering in this relative privacy to conceal the ungainliness of the operation; his face goes blank, hiding the spite of pain. Rather breathlessly, he adds, "I trust I can rely on you not to share what I am about to tell you?"
"This is true." observes Xorn, who for no reason seems to have taken up an interest on the marbles left on the floor after their earlier tumble. The light from his eyes shines flatly downward in the well lit office. "I owe you silence at the very least."
Charles sinks back in his chair, molding his spine to its padded contours. Hands curl around the chair's arms; a small breath escapes him, a sigh of relief and a release of tension that sags the proud, silent face. "'Owe' is not the word I would choose," he says, his eyes pale, scimitar glimmers under the heavy eyelids. "Nonetheless -- have you been monitoring the news about the asteroid in the media?"
"I do not know of a way to prove that I am trustworthy." Broad shoulders slumping a bit at the misstep, Xorn is quiet for a moment while he processes the question. "I have heard of this asteroid. The world will end."
"Inconvenient," Charles says, classic British understatement. Having settled himself in the chair, he straightens himself again, comfortable at last in the familiar berth. "We have been asked to find a solution. To prevent, as it were, the end of the world. From astronomical causes, at least," he adds drolly. His hand taps at the signed letter. "We are attempting to find an answer to earth's current, most pressing question. I would like to have your help, if I may."
"Okay." says Xorn agreeably. That is...actually, all that he says. Then he just sort of stands there, as if he anticipates that there will be more, leather creaking quietly about the shoulders of his jacket. Apparently he doesn't have any bright ideas.
Charles looks amused. "Over time," he amends. "Not right at the moment. There are extra levels to the school than the ones that you are acquainted with, and a scenario in the Danger Room that I will give you access to. We will provide you access to the rest of the levels as well. There is a jet under the basketball court. I would prefer if you not take it flying, but if you absolutely must, we can discuss it. Scott or Hank can show you the computer systems, if you like."
This is a lot to absorb at once. Xorn is plagued by spans of silence tonight. All with due cause. "Will I receive leather pants."
Leather pants. Charles blinks slowly, a trifle taken aback. "If you like," he says, sounding doubtful. "I would advise against it. They have a certain flair, stylistically speaking, but they rather chafe."
"You have worn them." Is this a statement or a question? Xorn does not seem entirely sure himself. Static crackles through the quiet office once more, and something rattles at his throat.
Charles draws his fingers across the dome of his scalp. "Of course, your habitual attire is not geared towards comfort," he allows, skating over the question cum statement with aplomb. "I daresay leather pants will barely register, if you must go that route."
"My nerve endings have suffered degrees of damage. I do not have a brain." As if to illustrate this fact, Xorn's attention span fails enough for him to turn back to the marbles. His shoulders shake a little.
"How very unfortunate for you," Charles says, diplomat that he is. "However, you seem to function quite well without it. Perhaps it is part of what draws the students to you. Chaps are more comfortable. I will leave it to you to discuss with my tailor, if you wish."
"I will call him." The shaking affliction having passed, Xorn rolls his shoulders back and curls his hands into fists. "I will make a note of chaps. I have heard this is what cowboys wear."
Charles says with all due solemnity, "You would make a splendid cowboy. I believe Hank should be able to help you acquire a stetson. --Ah." A small head pokes in at the door, round-eyed and rumpled. Student-teacher conference. The Professor gestures invitation with a hand, the other drawing file folders across open letters. "Mr. Babcock. Come in, please."
"There are no Russian cowboys. It is not allowed." Equally as solemn, (presumably, anyway) Xorn turns to peer blanlkly at Mr. Babcock in his usual looming silence. "I will leave you to your work Professor. This job means much to me. I thank you."
"I thank /you/," Charles says, as the student edges his way into the room, his back to the wall. "Please. Call me Charles. --No, Mr. Babcock. Not you."
The child snaps his mouth shut and ogles Xorn. No doubt he is imagining him in assless chaps.
Cheered or nervous or ambivalent, Xorn nods once to Xavier and once to Mr. Babcock, ignorant of his staring. Then he turns to go.
[Log ends]
Xorn gets permanent employment and is invited into the lower levels of the X-School.