[ CLOSED ] june.

[carcajous]

Who: Logan + Kimiko, Scott, Jesse
Where: Panorama
When: June
What: Catch-all for the month, including a little misunderstanding at the barbershop (oops)

Warnings: A bit of violence, probably!

Comments

kimiko.

[carcajous]

[ It's not that complicated, how he ends up where he does: Logan smells the blood, sees the blood, and decides to look into what's going on. The blood's old, but not too old—from a day ago, about.

Which means it's two in the morning when he twists the doorknob 'round back and steps inside the cleared-out barbershop. Most of the puddle's somewhere inside, spilled over the scuffed linoleum tiles with a clump of brain matter and gore. No body, though. They must've dumped it somewhere. Yeah, he knows: it's not his business. He should leave it alone, and any other time, he would. Not like this is the first time somebody's ended up dead in the city. But deep down, he'll admit he's...Jesus, what. Itching for a fight? Searching for trouble? Not exactly, not like that, but—

Let's just say he wouldn't hate it if somebody decided to make this his problem. 'Cause it's been quiet. For him, for where he was plucked from, this is quiet. Pockets of odd jobs, coming home to Charles, scrounging up shit for the others to keep them fed and whatever else. On paper, all that's great. Good, even. But they're not safe here—aren't safe anywhere, usually—and he keeps waiting for something to happen. Keeps feeling as if something more should be happening. He hasn't been sleeping, either, which only stirs the restlessness boiling under his skin.

So maybe that's why he's not too careful about his intrusion, isn't as silent as he ought to be. Nor does he bother to hide his silhouette, outlined through the cracked glass window by the city's glowing neon lights as he rifles behind the front desk. ]

[pse]

[ Even Kimiko isn't sure why she decided to check out the murder at the barbershop. It isn't like she was some keen investigator back home. She was the muscle, a crutch for men otherwise surviving on ordinary genes, their wits, and a bloody crusade. Maybe it was because of the cruelty of it all. Factions warring for a payout or, worse, ideology tend to leave more dead bystanders than anything.

For most of her life, she's seen it, by being on one side or the other. Never in the middle.

It's an emotion to pick through. She's had a lot of those lately, so left alone with her thoughts.

What was it detectives on TV always say? The guilty can't help but return to the scene of the crime. They want to admire their handiwork. Having tucked herself away in a little nook when she heard the back door being pried open, she studies the silhouette of broad shoulders, the cloying scents lingering on him hours or weeks after they should be relevant — pine needles, booze, metal. The mirrors lining the walls of the barbershop give her an even better angle. He looks like any other fluxdrift: weathered by poverty and desperation, built back up to survive. Hasn't she seen coats similar to his on local gang affiliates? When he starts to rifle through the desk, her eyes widen.

She's cracked the case, she thinks. Either he did it or he knows something. One of the two.

Across the floor, she moves as silently as the Shining Light taught her, her body kept low and her movements animalistic. If she can get close, she'll aim to bring him down with a single punch to the side; but pulled, her impossible strength held in reserve, because she wants to incapacitate and question. Not blow his intestines out through the other side. ]

[carcajous]

[ His phone buzzes just before she moves. He glances down at it; not a lot of people have his number, and chances are high it's Charles or Rogue who need him. That's where his eyes are—on his phone—when it happens. She's practically silent aside from her steady heartbeat. He does smell her, though. Smells someone nearby, at least, buried beneath the stench of blood and rot in the summer heat. But she skitters up behind him quick. When he spins around to catch her fist in his hand, he's nearly taken aback by how fast she is—but he's fast, too, and maybe she can feel, through his grip, that his strength is...not exactly normal.

Jesus. Guess that goes both ways.

For a second, he hesitates—'cause he's realizing she is just a girl, a damn tiny one, too, and he's got no idea what the hell she's doing jumping him like that. If he stopped to think about it for a second, he'd figure out how this looks, but the problem is, he's not thinking. At least, not right now.

If she doesn't move through that split-second pause, he'll shove her back, hard enough to send her across the floor. Either way, his claws slide out, more reactive than anything. A beat where a part of his brain goes: probably shouldn't have done that, but it's a little too late. They're out, six long blades that glint in the dim light. ]

[pse]

[ She doesn't expect him to catch her arm. His grip folds around her wrist, dwarfing it in a way that would be intimidating if she was anyone else, and holds it still with a strangely cold grip. Not because his skin is cold, but—

The last time she felt anything similar, Soldier Boy had his hands around her throat.

Looking up at him, there's a brief flicker of fear in her eyes. The shove breaks through, sending her skidding back a foot. She's mentally preparing to jump him again when the schikt of metal claws, of all thing, draws her gaze. Kimiko doesn't hide her puzzlement, the furrow in her brow vivid and pronounced and halfway down the bridge of her nose. He's like Popclaw, she thinks. That makes him even more likely to be involved in this murder somehow. The logic falls together like Tetris pieces.

On a foot, she's lunging forward. She gains the air, her own fingers curled into claws, and comes at him like a feral cat.

An extremely telegraphed feral cat. ]

[carcajous]

[ That is fear. Flashes by in a blink, and if you ask him later, he won't able to pinpoint what he picked up on. It's not conscious—just a prick in the back of his head that makes him peer at her through the dark, feeling like something's not right.

She barrels at him. He plants his feet, takes her square to the chest with a grunt. They roll together. A mirror cracks against his back, scissors and combs flying. If she scratches him, the marks don't last—but he does bleed, and it does fucking hurt. Instinct nearly has him swiping back. He can see all the ways he can end this in a second. She's strong, but she's still flesh and blood.

Instead, all he does is try to grab her hands and get his legs under her so he can flip her over.

Fuck. This isn't—

The claws retract. ] Wait. Wait.

[pse]

[ He speaks reason to a wall. Her blood starts roaring the moment he has her on her back. She's past the point of being able to collect herself, to think, to wait like he's insisting. She's in that basement after escaping from her cage; she's back in Shining Light's compounds, massacring children to stay alive. She's barely in the moment and his words go in one ear and out the other.

She's back on her feet the moment his claws retract, flipping up with impressive speed and control. She sees them through a haze of bloodlust.

The good thing about a barber shop? It's no garden shop, but it has plenty of handheld items of destruction just lying about. She's turned less likely things into weapons of death. When she grabs a pair of scissors off of a haircutting station and flips them so the sharp corners are pointed in the right direction, it's with a keen, brutal sense of purpose. She's losing grip on why she came here in the first place — to investigate a murder. All she sees is a dangerous man who won't go down. All she hears is a stream of cajoling Tagalog, the cruel commands that turned her into a weapon, and Butcher's throaty, exaggerated accent voice above it all. Kill him. Kill them. Kill anyone with superpowers.

With the scissors in hand, she lashes out toward any point of egress he gives her. He's not a small man. She has plenty of room to aim, plenty of flesh to strike. ]

scott.

[carcajous]

[ The past few weeks have gone like this: he picks a job. He shows up, usually after sundown, stays until just before dawn. Then he takes his money and goes. When he's not doing that, he's riding through the Fringes, usually comes back in a couple of days with something they can use.

He looks in on Rogue. Charles. Karen. Doesn't look in on Scott—not in any way that Scott would ever know—and after the little showdown with Erik, he hasn't had the goddamn energy to deal with. Anything. Least of all the dozens of complications surrounding Scott.

Go figure that's who he sees first thing at the warehouse. He stops short, just outside the back doors. Logan takes one last puff on his cigar. Great. ]

The hell are you doing here?

[ Working is obviously the answer, but that's not why he's asking. ]

[opticular]

[ Scott has also pretty much built a routine during the past few weeks. None of them involves checking in on Logan either. To be fair, there are brief instances wherein he'd actually check, which is nothing more than trying to know where the other mutant has gone off to. If he's off disappearing into the Fringes, he'd take note of it, mostly due to his rule of Sticking Close By. So if Logan's away for more than what Scott has told himself is Too Long, he has Plan B in place, which involves basically retrieving him.

Most of the time Scott's busy taking shifts at the supermarket doing manual labor, usually during nighttime. He'll also explore and scavenge whenever he can. Then checks in on other members of the X-Men, specifically Charles and Rogue. Also checking in on this young woman he met named Wanda after their bowling hangout because she definitely needs someone checking her transportation from time to time.

He did appreciate those times where Logan comes back, gives him a screwdriver, or a used coffee maker this one instance, and leaves without saying more. Like a cat giving their owner a dead mouse. It's nice, especially when Scott realizes the things Logan gives him are stuff he's missing in his makeshift tool box.

And speaking of the cat - ] Working.

[ Scott delivers that as dry as a desert, as he continues to carry boxes from point A to point B wearing a sweaty tank top and jeans. Under the artificial flourescent light, his skin shines a little from a thin layer of sweat. ]

What are you doing here?

[ Also probably here to work, but you know. ] Didn't know you're back in town. [ He does, but good luck trying to have Scott admit that. ]

[carcajous]

[ Working. Working, he says, Jesus Christ. When's Charles gonna try and pop up another school so Scott can go there instead to boss some kids around and Logan doesn't have to see him at a warehouse at quarter past ten.

He rolls his eyes, tugs a crate off the palette. Yeah, he can carry more than one, but the pay's hourly and he's not interested in getting anyone's attention on top of that. This place isn't as uptight about mutants—to say the least—and Logan's pretty sure the floor manager's got a forked tongue, but regardless. Old habits. ]

What's it to you? [ The crate goes on the shelf. ] After last week, I'm not the one who needs supervision.

[ Only one of them lost their head at Magneto, and it wasn't him. Nah, he doesn't hold it against Scott. Bet it's a sore spot for the other man, though. Logan's nothing if not good at finding sore spots. Which is probably a dick move, but you know what else is old habit?

This. ]

[opticular]

[ This is a dick move, and it is a sore spot, that for a brief moment, Scott stops what he's doing to glare at Logan. Not that the other could see it through his ruby quartz glasses, but Scott hopes the other can feel it. This lasts for a few seconds before he goes back to point A to carry another box to point B, almost slamming it down in his annoyance. ]

What's it to me? [ He retorts, running a hand through his slightly damp hair, before resting both on his hips. ] Thought you already know how teams work, Logan. Or do I have to spell it out for you again? Give you a text book definition?

[ The warehouse, naturally, doesn't have proper ventilation, and with continuous manual labor and the sweltering heat even during nighttime, Scott has built up a sweat. He glares a bit more at Logan, shaking his head, before lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe off sweat that has gathered on his forehead and brows.

Not letting that hem drop all the way because goddamn it's really hot Scott takes a breath and heaves it out in a sigh. His glare dissipates, reminding himself Logan is Logan and they have to stick together here, so he pivots to business. ]

You were gone longer this time. Found anything interesting? [ Other than the usual stuff, not that Scott's not grateful for them. ]

[carcajous]

[ Logan absorbs that glare. He's not satisfied with Scott's reaction. Not regretful, neither. He's not sure what he is. More than anything, it feels like he got exactly what he wanted. For Scott to grow pissy at him.

Fuck, he's gonna have to spend the next six hours here with the guy, isn't he?

He rolls his eyes. ] Only one of us can walk off a shotgun to the chest.

[ What, he wants him to leave a note every time he goes out scavenging? Which he does for all of them, by the way. It's not that difficult to understand. He can take a lot of damage. The rest of them can't. That makes him the prime scout for the Fringes. And it also means he goes alone. He doesn't need anybody to look after. He doesn't need to take someone he'll only risk losing. Again. ]

Yeah. [ He slaps another crate onto the shelf. If he notices Scott's increasingly shrinking wardrobe, he mostly just looks annoyed about it. Because he is. Annoyed. And Scott doesn't even know the reason why, the oblivious motherfucker. (Which is Logan's fault, but this place's fault, too, for dragging the guy back from the dead.) ] Some peace and quiet. [ A beat before he relents an inch. ] Siphoned a tank of gas. You're welcome.

[opticular]

Still doesn't mean you do things alone.

[ Even without any warnings, Scott always takes note of the day Logan leaves to venture alone in the Fringes for all of them and counts the days he's gone. Never not counting because Plan B exists and he's going to execute it whether the other likes it or not.

Carrying another box, Scott lets that hem drop now, but his tank top is increasingly getting soaked with perspiration. ] Hate to break it to you but I can also handle myself just fine.

[ Slightly slams that box down. Wipes off some sweat again with the back of his hand, runs it through his hair, shakes off some more sweat. God, the humidity is almost insane. ] But this doesn't mean I'm not thankful. I am, Logan. Us mutants have to stick together, you know that.

[ Probably heard it from him numerous times to the point it's infuriating, but Scott will repeat himself if he has to. He's going to remind Logan he's not alone and that he needs to depend on him, too.

And you know what, he's also just going to lose the tank top now. Fuck this heat. ]

jesse — TDM (cont.)

[carcajous]

(( sliding from here )

[ In the dark, and with Jesse at his back, the roll of his eyes probably goes unnoticed. Yeah, Logan must've hit a nerve. Can practically hear the impact. Some part of him knows he's being a dick; it's the same part that doesn't apologize for it—not because he's trying to say something, but because he's had a long fucking week (decade) and can't bring himself to care about making nice with a kid he's got no plans of ever seeing again.

(Funny how that works. When he in all likelihood will.)

Still, the lines of his shoulders soften a hair. He glances back for the first time since they started walking to see if Jesse's keeping up. The moment the kid showed up, Logan reshuffled his priorities, and that scream's left his mind while he focuses on this instead. Maybe he should've gone to take a look, anyway, even with Jesse along, but Logan often follows his instincts ahead of anything else. If you asked him later what made him decide to take Jesse out of here and ignore that sound, he won't be able to say. It's just what he did. ]

Logan. [ No pause on his end. He's got one name that matters, and it's the only one he uses. Sometimes, he remembers the years where it was all he had, haphazardly flickering through the puzzle pieces of his life. ] Something tells me you won't stop asking.

[ Now what's that remind him of? But it's been years since there was a school or students to harass him every damn morning.

At the stairs, he pauses, listening, then opens the door. The hinges creak. Like the rest of this place, the carpet's scuffed and uneven. He releases the lighter's wheel for a second—lets his fingertips heal back up—before he flicks it back on. ]

Watch your step.

karen.

[carcajous]

[ After the night Logan spends with Karen at the weird resort, he doesn't return for another two, three days. Uses that time to find work, do the work, make sure the room he's got for him and Charles is still good and paid for so nobody kicks them out or dumps their shit onto the side of the road.

Eventually, he returns to check up on folks. Or just to see how the place is still hanging on. Far as he knows, zones like that tend to vanish without warning. Could be replaced with a nice little meadow, could end up with a hurricane sweeping through. Either way, the more time passes, the less he likes the idea of people he knows, people he cares for, being in the area. It's not without purpose that he asks Karen: You heading back? And either she already planned on doing so or she sensed something in his question, but she heads back.

He heads back with her.

Electricity's back on these days, at least. Not so much the AC. His tank top's damp by the time they reach her door. He pauses in front of it. Where he seems almost at ease now that they're back on familiar ground, he can practically spot the tension coiling around Karen's shoulders. He gets it. This city, it's not safe, not the kinda place you wanna walk around at night if you didn't carry a healing factor and six blades in your hands. It's not where she calls home. And it isn't where Logan calls home, either, but for him? For him, not having checkpoints or cameras or mutant trackers, it's the kinda freedom he hasn't had in a long fuckin' time. Here's as close to the home he used to know as it gets—at least any time he slips out of Westchester. Old city, jackasses looking out for themselves. Everybody minding their business.

He watches her unlock her door. His gaze lingers on her as the hinges creak. A week ago, he wouldn't have asked. But a week ago, they hadn't spent four hours looting luggage together. A week ago, she hadn't asked him to stay in a tone that was almost uncertain. As if she expected him to say no. As if she was preparing to be disappointed. ]

You gonna be okay?

[pagings]

[ no, logan doesn't return for another couple of days.

karen tries to act like she's not looking for him, tries to act like she's not mildly disappointed when she doesn't find him there, and also tries very, very hard not to think about the why. to not recognize the fact she knows what this fluttering is starting to mean, and what that might mean for. the rest of it.

she eventually convinces herself to stop looking, to get back to what she'd been doing, to what she had resolved to do during this time. if she was going to lose her job, if she was going to be stranded at a creepy resort, she would make the most of it. and she does a decent job - has a good time, meets a couple of people, feels a little less like she's simply there to take up space, and more like these people, this time they spend here, something can happen with it. that maybe she can find others to help her figure all this out.

it's not perfect, it doesn't solve anything, but with each day she feels a little stronger in her footing. footing that, at some point, she acknowledges will have to end. murmurs of how diffusion zones work start to spread around the resort. more and more people leave, finding pathways to work their vehicles out of the parking garage and heading back to the city. karen feels the urge to fight it in her chest, stays probably a couple more days than she should, but there is something in logans eyes - when he does come back, when they see each other again, when he asks you heading back? with a look that says it all.

yeah, she says, with very little fight, to her already packed bag. it's probably time.

she doesn't remember asking him to, he does follow her back to the city - some comment about diners, about heading back himself, about making sure he gets into the city without issues - and she tries, really honestly tries, not to let that simple thing make a world of difference.

because the drive is hard - she laughs a little to herself somewhere on the drive at how ridiculous it is that it feels a bit like she's having some sort of post-holiday blues. how, despite it all, the closer she gets to the city the heavier her chest and shoulders start to feel. she notices the electricity is back, notices that the drive back to the motel is about the same as it was when she left it, and somehow that feels wrong. like there should have been more that changed, despite the fact it had only been a week or so.

by the time they pull into the parking lot, karen feels a bit of that old weightlessness returning to her. the feeling she'd been trying to run from when she'd decided to stay at the resort. she hides it well enough, taking a breath and grabbing her bag, smiling when logan makes it obvious he plans on walking her to her door. when she gets the keys into the lock and pushes open the door, the homecoming is less than joyous. less than nothing, somehow, in a weird way. she tries not to think about how often she'd had this feeling - this emptiness at looking through the front door of a place that was supposed to be 'home', and how used to it she feels.

she walks inside, tossing her bag on the bed and looking around - pleasantly surprised nothing seems to be touched, or looted, or moved. in the span of those seconds, she very nearly forgets that logan is there, only looking over to him at his question. you gonna be okay?

karen, out of habit more than anything, offers him a small smile - her hand going to comb back her hair from her face. ] Yeah. [ though it's not her most convincing. ] Of course. Thanks for walking me in.

[ and the plan, or at least the initial plan, is that karen was going to say goodbye. that logan would probably nod, hopefully reach in to close her door, and she'd settle in for the night. get some sleep, plan to get up and look for that new job, get back to whatever counted as normal around here.

except that something stops her - her hand slowly drifting from her hair to the back of her neck. she doesn't know if it's something she sees, or if maybe it's logan - hesitating for just a moment longer than she expects - but something surges behind her ribs. ]

Logan? [ she looks back to the door - suddenly hoping that he hasn't walked away just yet. hoping that she hasn't missed a chance she didn't know she needed to take.

he does stop - whether he's turned down the hall to walk back to his room or he's still standing there, somewhere in her doorway. karen meets his eyes and some kind of stubborn tension that had been holding her shoulders up fades, and the drop a bit. ]

I'm- [ what is she saying? what is she doing? she doesn't know, but that doesn't stop her.

get it together, karen. she takes a breath. ] Are you working tonight?

[carcajous]

[ Keys jingle in his hand. He's taken a couple of steps, back turned, when his name makes him stop. He turns around.

She looks exhausted. Looks hopeful, too. Might be that's what gets him to walk back. Or might be that it's just Karen, waiting, nothing more to it than that. He's not gonna deny he thought about it often, over the past few days. About her. Honestly? He doesn't spend too much time debating, trying to figure out the right thing to do. It's not hard to read between the lines. She asks, he decides: fuck it, he wants to stay. So he does. ]

Not doing much of anything tonight.

[ He returns to her door. When she moves aside to let him through, he steps across the threshold. His gaze sweeps over her room, taking in the few personal touches she'd managed to gather. Call him curious. It's different, in a place like this, where nobody's true life is on display. They're not driving the cars they've had since college; they're not working the jobs they spent their lives going to school for or wearing their grandma's ugly Christmas sweater. She's been here, what, a handful of weeks with the clothes on her back?

What he's getting at is, he wants to know more. About her.

He leans his shoulder against the wall in the hallway, arms folded as he watches her settle in. For a minute, he's quiet. Isn't altogether sure what the hell he's doing, if this is even a good idea. At the resort, it'd been easy, y'know, letting her energy carry things along. Now he's suddenly not sure where to begin. But...

Maybe he wants her to know more about him, too. ]

I, uh— [ He moves a little further inside. ] His name is Charles. The man you've seen coming in and out.

[ He knows she must've wondered. ]

[pagings]

[ she does try, though she's not sure how successful it is, to not look as relieved as she feels when he stops. when he turns back to her, when he says not doing much. but karen knows that her smile gives it away, the way she watches him as she steps through her threshold and she steps aside to let him in.

there isn't much in the room in terms of her - some part of her refusing to actually move in, to let herself get too settled in a place she didn't want to be in for very long. but there isn't nothing - a stack of papers she's kept on the corner, a near-empty bottle of liquor. there is a jacket she hadn't taken with her on the bed, a not-made bed, some trash piled in the corner. she'd cleared out her mini fridge a week or so before she left for the diffusion zone in the midst of the blackouts, and as he steps inside and looks around, karen is suddenly a bit self-conscious of the state of her place. ]

Ah- sorry. Hold on. [ she steps passed him, her hand setting on his arm as she passes and - quickly, a bit frantically - trying to pick things up. straighten things. it doesn't take too long, there isn't much for her to do, and so when the few moments pass and she's done what she can, she turns back to see him leaned up against the wall, watching her back.

there is a second or so where they just sort of stand there, watching each other, before karen takes a seat on the corner of the bed. logan speaks first, which karen wasn't really expecting, her brows lift a little, before they settle. ]

Charles? [ a pause, and then she nods a little. ] I think I met him at the resort. At the bar. He's uh- British, right? Dark hair. [ her laugh is a little breathless, a shake of her head. ] I've seen him a couple of times, can't believe I didn't recognize him.

[carcajous]

[ It does, yeah. It does give her away. He catches the edges of it, and for a split second, something about the curl of her lips and the flicker of her eyes reminds him of Jean. Been a while since he's thought about Jean. He thought...he'd buried her, you know, put her to rest, in all the ways that counted. Then he ran into Scott. Now her memory keeps scratching against the surface.

Christ. He shakes it off.

He's about to tell Karen that tidying up is the last thing she's gotta do—his place isn't exactly immaculate—but she's already got papers and clothes piled in her arms by the time he opens his mouth. He closes it, figures he'll let her move stuff off the couch before he sits down on the armrest. ]

Oh, yeah? [ Funny. Somehow, he wasn't expecting they'd met at the resort, even if that makes sense. Small area with nothing to do except hang out and drink. ] Guess he was kinda like you. Liked being out there.

[ Logan can't blame him. Or either, of them, really. After a minute, he realizes he looks as if he's still one foot out the door, hovering at the edge of her couch. He shuffles over to sit on it proper. Look, it's not Karen's fault, and it's not anything she's doing. He just hasn't been anybody else's home in a long time, not exactly uncomfortable but like he's forgotten what the hell it is you're supposed to do. Even back then, people didn't...invite him in much. He wasn't brimming with social calls. And if it was anybody else, he couldn't care less how he comes off, but with Karen, he does want to be here. He doesn't want her to think otherwise. ]

[pagings]

[ even if he'd said something, she probably wouldn't have listened - the movement helps expend a little of her nervous energy, helps her feel a little less like she's in someone else's place, and a little more like it's her own. it doesn't feel right, but it feels less wrong.

he perches on the armrest, and karen lets out a breath. a nod. part of her thinks about pouring them a drink, but she also doesn't know if she wants to get up and pour another- if that is starting to feel too close to old habits, old addictions. so instead she just watches him, hears him mention charles.

kinda like you. liked being out there. ] I did, yeah. Felt nice to be out there for a little bit.

[ there's a pause there, just a moment, where karen thinks the same thing that logan is. that he's hovering, waiting for a reason to leave. karen doesn't blame him, she's not really sure what all is happening right now, or what she's trying to do. she'd asked him to stay because the concept of being alone in the room all night had turned her stomach, but she doesn't blame him for being uncomfortable. wouldn't blame him if he came up with an excuse to stand, and head out. really- if he did, she'd probably let him, too.

that's when he shuffles over, sitting on the couch proper, and something in karen unclenches. ]

But not you. You couldn't wait to leave. [ she tilts her head a little, curious. ] Did it really make you that uncomfortable?

kimiko, the sequel.

[pse]

[ The place she picks is the Xiao Xue Dumpling House.

By the time Logan arrives, Kimiko's a few spoonfuls into her soup, effortlessly extracting noodles with chopsticks and feeling, briefly, like she did a long time ago — before the Shining Light, before New York and Supes, back when the sands of Yokohama's beaches was soft and warm between her toes and her father's cooking filled her belly. There's no awkward noodles dangling from her mouth, no soup broth spilled on her jeans. It's almost disgustingly graceful, the way she shovels her food down.

When he arrives, she waves over to Sophie and communicates seamlessly with the restaurant's owner in a series of visibly incomprehensible gestures.

Sophie, her grin as bright as her cheeks are pronounced, greets him like they're old friends. She says, "Please have a seat and order anything you want. It's covered."

Kimiko has been doing quite well for herself in the Dome and can afford it. Eat up, big man. ]

[carcajous]

[ Didn't have dinner with her on his schedule, but considering he's in the city and between jobs, now's as good a time as any. Besides, he's curious. After he gave her his number, he figured it was fifty-fifty whether she'd keep it or shred it. Turns out, she kept it. Since then, he's mostly stayed out of her way. He gets it. He prefers to be left alone, too.

So when she says she wants to talk, he's surprised and not.

A rumbling engine outside punctuates his arrival. The bell above the door chimes. Place smells like garlic and oil, reminds him of the dozens of noodle houses all over New York. Last time he was here, it was with Wade. Funny. She's the second person to cover his bill. He cocks an eyebrow, head tilted at Sophie, but he's not gonna ask too many questions about a free bowl of noodles.

Which is what he gets. Same as usual. He picks up his chopsticks. Watches Kimiko stuff some noodles in her face for a second. ]

So what're we talking about?

[pse]

[ Briefly, Kimiko has the audacity to look put out by his question — over her noodles, her brows slant slightly — but she comes around quickly enough. She did ask him here, after all.

Reaching over, she reaches toward his knuckles with almost a tap. Her fingers don’t actually make contact with his skin, but they come close enough to get the message across. The divots between his knuckles, from which she’s seen claws extend and glint in a barely lit barbershop.

Mr Popclaw, she still thinks in her head, even though she’s only seen the original Popclaw in fuzzy, discreetly taken pictures.

She’ll have to get over that eventually. Stop making comparisons. Stop holding up that world over this one.

He said his name was Logan. She tries to remember it.

Kimiko continues to shovel noodles into her mouth hole. ]

[carcajous]

[ Logan just tips his head at her in exchange, in a Well? sort of expression. Her last message to him said she was ready to talk, so that's what he's here to do. And to eat some noodles on the house, apparently. Nice bonus.

His gaze follows hers to his hand. Right. He flexes his fingers automatically. If they weren't in the middle of a well-lit restaurant, he might've let her see them again. It doesn't bother him, revealing them. But there are abilities you can show off like a harmless little party trick, floating pencils or making ice cubes, and then there's unsheathing ten-inch blades over a bowl of soup.

He sticks to eating. What's she wanna know? He could ask, normally would, but he gets answering questions is a pain in the ass for her, so he just. Picks a place to start. ]

Used to be bone. [ Something he only vaguely recalled 'til they kicked him back fifty years, long before Stryker, and he realized he was about two hundred pounds lighter. ] Then they got coated in metal. I don't remember when they came out. Probably popped when I was a kid...most of us start showing signs when we're kids.

[ She's gonna start realizing how many of his answers are I don't remember the more she asks. ]

[pse]

[ Setting her chopsticks neatly across the bowl, Kimiko curls her hands into gentle fists and spends a few moments staring down at her own knuckles. Looking at her unblemished skin, one would never know how much she's suffered — how frequently she's shredded skin, split bone, scraped and mashed herself within an inch of her life. Her nails dig into her palms and...

Nothing happens. Her brow furrows with concentration but no claws pop out.

Flattening her hands against the table, she doesn't let herself get down about it. She knows why. He asked her if her friends are like her, but without realising she's not like them.

Pulling out her phone, she types a message. Even with the numerical keypad and the limited function of her flip phone, she's ruthlessly quick and efficient with it. The words show as a text message sent to herself, and it isn't the only one. ]

Signs of what?

[carcajous]

[ He can't help but watch her, half-curious, half...something he can't describe. She really isn't sure what she is, huh? And the thing is, he gets that. That's one of the clearest memories he's got in a sea of blurry flashes: waking up one day with claws in his hands and not fucking knowing why or how or who the hell he was. How he got there.

He peers at the little screen. ] Our abilities. Mutations. [ Whatever you wanna call it. ] Old friend of mine ran a school for mutants. Not every parent wanted a kid with powers.

[ And not every kid wanted to tell their parents. For good reason. Anyway, he doesn't know if she's the same. Her world's obviously different enough. Maybe her powers didn't manifest until she was much older. The only thing he's learned about her from Scott is that she was experimented on. Like him.

Which begs the question: what exactly did they do to her? But that's her story to tell or not. God knows he's got zero fucking interest in talking about his. ]