[ 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

[pse]

[ 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. ]

[carcajous]

[ What damage can he do is a good fucking question. Annoyance aside, Logan's already moved past the accusation, doesn't appear interested in defending himself once she finally stops pushing him for answers he hasn't got. There's a scenario where she might've walked in on a worse picture, with a hell of a lot more blood and bodies, and it would've been him.

He doesn't need her to believe he's innocent. He's not.

And she doesn't owe him an answer, either. She's got every reason to be wary. He's still asking. He's asking because she is one of them in his eyes. However she might think of it, he can't see her as anything else. Different. The type of different that gets you captured and killed for no reason except that you exist.

They're out of pencils. Now he needs one. Damn it. He pulls open a drawer and scrounges up a shitty dried-out pen, figures it'll leave an imprint on the notepad. He scratches in seven digits: his number. The notepad spins around to face her.

Then he's halfway toward the exit. The offer's there. She can take it or leave it. Professor needs him back, anyhow. ]

Just no detective questions, you hear?

[ He ain't answering more of those. ]

[pse]

[ Standing over the notepad with its ghost of a phone number impressed down into the paper, she doesn't take it right away. He's moving toward the door and she doesn't want him to go, she realises. She wants him to explain that word — mutant — until she can pry apart the scant syllables into discrete, malleable bits and hold them with both hands.

But that's another vague, creeping feeling she doesn't have the words in her vocabulary to express.

No detective questions. A slight frown, and then a nod.

It isn't until the bells above the door have stopped jangling and he's halfway down the sidewalk that she rips the piece of paper with his number off the pad and shoves it into her pocket. ]