He'd only meant to cook some for himself but as doing that was to practically make a mess for nothing, he decided he could just as well give the others a little treat.

"Treat."

It was instant macaroni and cheese he'd found in the cupboard but he had done the effort of cooking everything up plus adding some meaty bits and some other spices (the stuff from McCormick). It wouldn't taste much better but it definitely looked more presentable and less like something you just popped into the stove and let cook for half an hour or something.

On the table, he placed everything else: more McCormick, more cheese (Parmesan), more bacon bits and because some people might be weird, ketchup, mayonnaise and mustard. Bread was being toasted on the kitchen counter now and if they wanted it garlic, they could just grab the garlic butter from the fridge.

If it was still there.

Stepping out, he called towards the empty hallway, "Heeey." And with a pan and a spatula, Kevin started to bang the two together so that the sound sort of echoed through the walls. "Lunchtime, c'mon."

[ Open to: Everyone Within the Brotherhood House ]

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.

Getting four cases of beer onto his motorcycle had been no easy task. Some cleverly placed bungee cords worked wonders. Remy LeBeau had made it back to the Brotherhood house with no casualties. There was going to be some big celebrating tomorrow - even if he was the only one. He was perfectly content to sit on the rooftop by himself, finishing off his stash.

Tomorrow was Mardi Gras, after all.

Carrying the beer inside was another matter. With two cases in each hand, and a case tucked under each hand, Remy couldn't get his keys from his pocket. The back door was going to be a problem. Walking up to the screen door, Remy kicked it with the toe of his boot. If anyone was in there, maybe they'd hear it.

Remy shook his head. Nope. No one would get it. They'd probably walk right past the door with him outside, struggling to keep from dropping his precious cargo. The beer was too much for him to take into his shadow form to slip under the door. He'd try it, but he doubted it would work.

He faded into a dark shape, the outlines of his beer cases still visible, but he couldn't hold it for long. He faded back into his visible form, panting slightly as though he had been holding his breath.

"Hey! Anybody in there wanna get the door? I got my hands full," he hollered at the back door.

Maybe that would get someone's attention.

[Open - Brotherhood house]