Leo rarely gets angry. After so many years on earth, she has learned just to surround herself with things that keep her happy, and pay no mind to the things that don’t. Sometimes, though, the things that don’t creep in. The Xavier Institute is supposed to be safe; she’s spent a lot of happy years here now, and so the Brotherhood breaking in feels deeply personal. She’s heard kids scream, seen colleagues fall -- had her own blood spilled.
She’s still wearing it, a ghastly streak of deep, rusty red splashed down the front of her clothes. There had been pints upon pints of it, though she’s at least stopped leaving bloody footprints wherever she goes. The sticky, uncomfortable feeling hasn’t improved her mood, though, and when she spots a Brotherhood member by himself, she’s no longer in the mood to play nice. Leo’s not in the mood to play at all, in fact. “Give me a reason not to,” she says, sweeping her sword up to hold to the man’s throat. She doesn’t want to kill him, but it’s clear from the sharp ice in her voice that this isn’t the bright, bubbly Leo the residents of the Xavier Institute have gotten to know. @combustiibles