WHO The Summers Brothas
WHAT Having lunch together!
WHEN Uh, some afternoon.
WHERE The dining room!

( They were all too happy to personalize it for you! )

Medland Veterinary Hospital was a good fifteen minute drive from 1407 Greymalkin lane. They weren't particularly cheap, either, but they were a vet hospital, so they were open all night seven days a week, and when your boyfriend was stuck in wolf form with a possible broken leg, Jean didn't really have any choice but to pop him in the back of the SUV and drive him on down.

Of course, Scott was a little heavy in wolf form, and when he was in pain and injured, he tended to be a little more grumpy than he normally was. So Jean took along company to help. Alex was stronger than she was while she had to look like her normal self, and unfortunately when the vet hospital had a fairly extensive file on your dog because of his habit of getting into trouble, you had to be a little consistent in what you looked like when you turned up for the examination.

Jean pulled up into the parking lot trying to find a space as close as possible to the front door. Scott had been stubborn before they'd left, insisting on walking around on his broken leg instead of sucking up his pride and letting himself be carried. But Jean was going to have none of that while they were here in public. If they were at the vet, he had to act like a dog. A well behaved dog who was in pain because they thought he got hit by a car. So he would be carried into the vet's office.

"Thanks for coming with me, Alex." She said unbuckling her seatbelt, looking over her shoulder pointedly at the trunk, where her fiance was hopefully lying down.

It was by nobody's standards an ideal day to hold a protest. The weather was overcast-- rain was definitely on the horizon, and while the streets had been closed by the local council in order to let the protest march peacefully and safely up the street, by standing in the middle of the road in a thunderstorm the marchers truly were trying their luck. None of the weather forecasts had predicted lightning, but every single one of those forecasters knew that the weather could turn on you as quickly as a wild animal, that trying to predict it was a fickle art, and while you could monitor trends, you could never be one hundred percent sure of what was to come.

It was the only legitimate form of fortune telling out there, but it would not take a climatologist or a psychic to predict that trouble was looming on the horizon today.

The protest was walking down Waterbury St towards Cromwell High School. The roads were cleared ahead of the march, and leading the pack was one of the higher members of the Friends of Humanity, a society dedicated to the continued preservation of human superiority. Their aim was not, as their signs preaching Safe Schools declared, to keep society safe, but to keep society pure of the unpredictable, the unknown, the new.

Half a block in front of the protest, a man rose slowly up through the bitumen. He was dressed very nicely in a suit and tie, with his black leather shoes polished enough for them to shine. Erik had always had a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps it was because his home life was so terribly unassuming, and the nature of his powers was made more for stealth and secrecy than for theatrics, but whenever he had the attention of a crowd he certainly came into himself. The protest slowed down to a stop, moving no closer towards the terrorist.

"Surely you would have learnt by now." He said loudly, projecting his voice in a very theatrical manner. He would've been at home reading the bard. "Cromwell High School have made the right decision. I suggest you disperse now, while you're still well enough to take your children to school tomorrow morning, or you can stay and suffer the consequences."

For several seconds, the march stayed immobile, as his message was murmured and carried down through the crowd so everyone could hear what he had said. But they were not the kind who idly accepted and yielded to threats, even when it would've been the sensible course of action. Instead, they slowly began to march towards Erik once more.

"Nothing's changed, Scott," Moira McTaggert said, running her hands across the controls that ran the large scanner in the small medical area located beneath the mansion. "It's the same diagnosis: degeneration of the cells around the thalamus and scarring on the hindbrain, but instead of seizures you're –"

"Broken," Scott finished for the older woman as he sat up on the scratchy white sheets laid over the table.

"Your medical vocabulary has increased tenfold. Your fiancée must be so proud." She walked past, giving Scott a pat on the shoulder as she did. "Broken isn't quite the term I'd use. I was going to say that instead of seizures your brain has reacted to the scarring by essentially not allowing your mutation to develop the way it was supposed to. Not to mention with how early you manifested, it's no surprise that things didn't do what they were supposed to."

"'Things?'" Scott repeated. He slipped down from the bed and took his shirt from the counter. "Your vocabulary astounds."

"'Things'. I wouldn't want to bore you with the details. Button up before you catch a cold." Moira tapped his shoulder again as she crossed the room yet again, going back to look at the computer screen which connected with the machine. She stared at the screen again before nodded her head. "Mmhmm. It's the scarring. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'd be thanking God, if I were you, that you had the mutation to counteract the seizures."

He didn't look at her at first, still concentrating on finishing off the buttons on his shirt. It had been embarrassing enough, being shirtless in front of Moira to begin with. He disliked visits to the doctor in general, and especially hated full physicals. He was pretty sure that he was one of the few people whose full physicals involved CAT scans.

Scott did like Moira –he'd known her since the age of eleven– he just wished that he didn't only have to see her when it came time for poking and prodding. "How long are you staying this time?" He finally looked up, scratching his hair in a very dog-like manner.

"Don't worry. Jean's going to get her lab back," Moira teased, still looking up at the screen. "I won't be staying very long. I'm presenting to a group in DC later this week and I should be back on Muir by next Saturday. Shoes too, Scott."

Sometimes she still treated him like he was eleven. "I meant, how long are you staying here?" he asked, avoiding her gaze has he reached for socks. "I heard about the conference – it's a big deal. Congratulations."

"Thank you, dear." Moira passed him a smile before bringing her fingers to her lips and staring once more at the computer. "I'll just print these for Jean and she can have a look before she sticks them in your file, alright?"

Scott nodded, hiding a smirk. "If I said 'no, hide them from her', she'd load her gun with silver bullets."

"It would take much less than a silver bullet," she said quite seriously, pursing her lips and very nearly glaring at him. "Please remember that? I'm leaving the printouts in her office on her desk. Let her know they're there."

"Yes ma'am. I'll tell her." And then he stopped once her glare turned a bit harsher and he realized he was close to annoying her. Scott smiled, though perhaps the charming affect was dulled slightly by the fact that he was once again scratching at the hair around his temples. "What are you presenting?"

Moira hit the print button and almost instantly the whirring sounds of a printer started from somewhere underneath a desk. Moira's heels clacked across the floor as she went over to meet the scans as they came out. "The usual sort; genetics. I'm presenting new research on possible therapeutic treatments for – well, it's a rather long explanation. It's just new research." She turned around to look at him and give him what was perhaps a kinder look than the glare she'd been giving him before. "Go on. Get out of here. I'm going to clean up and give Jean back her rooms. I'll see you for dinner with Charles."

Scott had almost forgotten about their dinner tonight, to be honest, and it probably for the best that Moira had reminded him before Jean had been forced to ten minutes beforehand. He smiled at her in thanks, though she might not have known it and looked back down at his shirt. His fingers started playing at the buttons on his shirt again. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Mmhmm– Scott, I told you to button up."

There was nothing left for Moira to do on that front, for even before she'd finished speaking Scott had removed his shirt and kicked off his shoes. The painful transformation was through quickly and Scott was a few feet closer to the ground than he had been. He purposely rubbed his snout up against Moira's leg on his way out of the room. His claws clacked across the sterile, white, tile floor on his way out of the door and echoed on the stairs up from the basement.

He was thinking a run would be nice

[Open w/Scott- Xavier's People]

WHO Alex & Lorna
WHAT Alex picks the woman up from the airport
WHEN Uh. Some. day.
WHERE The airport....

( Do you fight for truth and justice, too? )

It was Monday. Warren was at work, busy with his many and varied Important Things To Do, which involved at the moment signing off on the absorption of a new shipping business in the northwest while simultaneously keeping an eye on the CNN marquee (and the local news via screen-in-screen). The TV was mounted on the wall of his office, far enough away that he wasn't tempted to change the channel - which was probably all to the good, since Warren had no particular desire for his office staff to find out that he was strangely fascinated by HGTV or that he didn't have the slightest idea of what the multitude of unlabeled buttons lining the bottom edge of the TV frame did.

"The pro-MRA group Friends of Humanity has announced their intention to hold a peaceful demonstration protesting the recent change to a Connecticut school's charter, which would allow mutants to attend the school without prior registration or notification..."

His mouth thinned, but he didn't glance up from his computer for another few moments. When he did, it was to reach for his phone - speed dial three for the mansion - then cradle the handset between shoulder and ear as he leaned back in his chair. He hadn't called Westchester in a few days; it was probably overdue by now anyway.

Ring. Ring.

[ alex! ]