@behaviorisms
“I see that ‘poster boy for mutant inclusion in law enforcement’ thing you had going for you crashed and burned, Agent. The Registration Act lobbyists love you these days, and god knows that’s not a compliment to any of us.”
Will Graham—if he has a real name he doesn’t use it in public—hasn’t been FBI for more than a year, and he’s gone from hero to pariah back to hero and gotten unceremoniously dropped off at cautionary tale. Agent still slides off her smiling lips like a curse as she pours Will a glass of whiskey.
“I’d ask how you found me, but I’ve dealt with telepaths before. You’re subtle, I’ll give you that, but I’ve seen much better.” Mystique crosses long legs, eyeing Graham up and down with her currently-hazel eyes. “So I don’t have to tell you what I’ll do to you if you’re thinking of turning me in, do I?”
Her eyes flash yellow, but her smile doesn’t waver.
“What do you want from me?”
