[ Something in Daisy visibly deflates when he says that word: mutant. She pulls herself together after a few moments, shoving all that pain and grief back into their boxes in the darker corners of her mind, and turns back to the bar to mechanically take another sip of her drink. There's no taste to it now, numbness filling the absence of those emotions she'd tucked away to deal with never. ]
You're probably right. That's one of the things they've called us, just not what we call ourselves.
[ That urge to run rises inside her, and she can feel her heart try to race as panic churns in her stomach, and she again makes a concerted effort to slow her pulse and breathing. There's no point in giving in to this; she's stuck here, alone, and that's just something she has to deal with, the same way she's dealt with all the other shitty things in her life. ]
no subject
You're probably right. That's one of the things they've called us, just not what we call ourselves.
[ That urge to run rises inside her, and she can feel her heart try to race as panic churns in her stomach, and she again makes a concerted effort to slow her pulse and breathing. There's no point in giving in to this; she's stuck here, alone, and that's just something she has to deal with, the same way she's dealt with all the other shitty things in her life. ]