[ Humans call them — us — one thing. We — they — prefer a different title.
As he does... what? Mr Popclaw is strong, resilient, with his weapons grafted to him. What damage can he do? He's talking to her gently, but it's only getting her back up further. She rubs at the back of her neck and tries to get her thoughts together. It's hard not to be tense. She's spent the last three years of her life being pit against Supes, being an asset of convenience, being reassured that her existence is as unacceptable as the rest of them.
He says he didn't kill the victim, but she has no proof.
He talks to her as if he's like her, but—
Over her shoulder, she gives him an uncertain look. The broken pencil stub is tossed aside. She's out of words. Turning around, she shakes her head. One finger up, one, and then she gestures to herself. She's alone. No Serge, no Hughie or Annie, no Butcher. No idea what to think or do. ]
no subject
As he does... what? Mr Popclaw is strong, resilient, with his weapons grafted to him. What damage can he do? He's talking to her gently, but it's only getting her back up further. She rubs at the back of her neck and tries to get her thoughts together. It's hard not to be tense. She's spent the last three years of her life being pit against Supes, being an asset of convenience, being reassured that her existence is as unacceptable as the rest of them.
He says he didn't kill the victim, but she has no proof.
He talks to her as if he's like her, but—
Over her shoulder, she gives him an uncertain look. The broken pencil stub is tossed aside. She's out of words. Turning around, she shakes her head. One finger up, one, and then she gestures to herself. She's alone. No Serge, no Hughie or Annie, no Butcher. No idea what to think or do. ]