The kids have been sent up after a whole day of activities disguised as training. Remy had fought for the day of frivolity, leaning heavy on the fact that most of the kids came from rough homes and one day of fun ain't going to kill any of them. He might have played a little dirty too, reminiscing loudly about past holidays and how they always seemed to fall short on the streets. It's not often that he dwells on his past, but he can't argue with the results as he watched the kids laugh as they decorated cookies and dodged faux snowballs.
The presents aren't much. Just little bits and bobs that made Remy think of them and clothes. Bought with mostly legit money. He stole the wrapping paper though, enjoying the challenge of shoplifting a gigantic tube of shiny paper. He'd steal wrapping paper any day of the week over actually using the damn thing, but he manages to not completely mangle his first few presents.
she doesn't flinch when recalling the killings. she's not disturbed by how many women and men she's put in the dirt, whether they looked like her or not, and or how many more she might. but the rituals—those nights when the body wasn’t buried, but consumed—those linger. the act marked her as a true hyena, as it was necessary, in her tribe's militaristic worldview.
you consumed the dead to keep the spirits from returning to haunt you. cowards were devoured. traitors were devoured. fallen comrades, even if they were kin, were devoured. their spirits, their essence—taken in. it was tribal law.
it wasn't monstrous to her back then. it was a intimate aspect of her relation to nature. it was the ceremony that showcased her prowess and strengthened her identity. a rite that proved you belonged.
but now?
she survived in a world post-kidnapping. a world that doesn't speak that language, but a different means of war, in which she learned very well.
she doesn't consume human flesh anymore. she might make crude jokes—say she'll eat her partner alive, or swallow an enemy whole—
but she doesn’t mean it. not anymore.
she lost her taste for meat altogether, especially as she gained new worldly experiences across the continent. she's seen poachers string up elephants for ivory. watched big cats get declawed, sedated, mounted in glass boxes, their populations under threat. she's seen the same cruel reverence turned toward black flesh. she was taught about it in the history books.
and maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with madam slay—her first love, long before klaue, the woman who communed with cheetahs like sisters and daughters of human flesh. because of her, she did work with armed anti-poaching collectives in africa.
so, she stepped out of the food chain.
plants, roots, grains are her diet. she won't splash her teeth with blood anymore. she doesn't make a moral podium out of it. she doesn't need anyone to understand it. she'll kill when she has to, there's no moral qualms she has about that. but human and animal consumption is something she consciously abandoned.
the dreams always come to him in fits and starts; while he's sleeping, when he's drifting, mid-way through pouring his coffee in the morning. in tandem, it overflows and spills with hot liquid on the counter. he doesn't notice until it's too late. the burn wakes him from his stupor, and he tries his best to cling to wisps of thought as he scrambles for a towel - always coming up empty, filling his journal with half-formed thoughts.
all that lingers is the dread of certainty. all he can offer is a warning.
rogue reacts almost exactly the way he thought she would. more used to his powers than others, she presses for whatever answer he can provide; he can't fault her for wanting details. he can't thank her enough for not asking specifics. guilt weighs him down enough for all the death he hasn't been able to prevent, still sick with the thought of past blind spots.
we ain't exactly been drowning in good prophecies, she says, and he thinks that might be an understatement. ( don't they deserve the utopia they keep being promised? don't they deserve to exist, to live happily at all? )
his eyes are tired when he glances toward the empty portal. he's free to come and go, but he isn't welcome. he's afraid they'll close up and lock the others away forever.
"i ... i wish i could dream of something good, too. for what it's worth." instead there's just the terror. the lump in his throat when he watches a group of students running by, falling over in fits of laughter. he'd give anything to see them through a bright future.
"whatever's coming... it's big. i see so much, rogue. so many people. things. i... i can't make sense of it," he finally starts. his brows draw together like it physically hurts to explain it. "something cuts a hole through me while i sleep."
it's different than the nothingness he'd felt in the purge, an attack on all sides that leaves him breathless and shaking. "there's so much of it. can't shake this feeling... it's like waiting for the sky to fall. if that makes any sense." he knows it doesn't. everything is jumbled together these days.
"we're part of a puzzle, but someone else has the pieces."
Rebecca has no idea how she got into this world. Everything is... younger than what she knows. It is the past, but not one she knows. Not the one of her actual parents. She figures that was how Rachel Grey felt when she landed in a past that wasn't her own.
The young woman did everything she could to steer clear of the X-People - especially the two who were her parents in her own world. So when she sees the telltale two toned hair, she wants to duck into a dark alley and avoid her altogether.
But she is no coward. She wonders what brings Rogue out into the city on this night. Is there trouble? Or is she looking for a relaxing night on the town?
Maybe Rebecca should have gone to Valle Soleada, instead of sticking around New York. She ducks her head, trying to hide her own white streaks - knowing all along that it was probably useless to hide from Rogue. Rae looks so much like her mom, Rogue might feel like she's looking into a mirror.
Midafternoon, the sun high in the sky but not far from dipping into setting, and Logan feels like he’s been wasting the day away.
While his teammates have remained busy, working with the kids, cooking, telling jokes and making laughs; Remy busy with card tricks, Jubilee explaining her gymnastic skills to the Outliers, Kurt practicing his acrobatic sword fighting at the makeshift Danger Room, Rogue… well, she had been watching Remy while baking, but has seemingly wandered off, possibly busy with her overwhelming (or what Logan assumes is overwhelming) duties as team leader of this... new group; Logan is finding himself in quite the rut of unproductivity (which, is truly saying a lot, as card tricks don’t usually fit into his idea of getting things done). He’s completed his share of the chores for the day, as is part of the X-Men’s agreement with their hosts, and even half finished up part of his end-of-week chores, much ahead of time. But that had only taken up until a little after noon, leaving him with the rest of the day and night to find something that wasn’t drinking, bars or fighting to get up to. The vehicles were in fine condition, he’s gone over them with Rogue, Jubilation and his brand-new mentee, the makeshift Danger Room is properly secured, the kids are busy— and the bar’s been calling to him for the last few hours, now.
But he doesn’t go. No, Logan’s decided to stick around and work on something. The piano first catches his eyes, and he sits down on it, opens the lid and lifts his hands to play. And then, of course, Chelsea walks into the room and her eyes lock onto Logan’s back. With a sigh, his hands already forgetting which keys are which, he closes the lid and shoves himself up, before walking away. After that, he drifts over towards the bookshelves, but most of the books his eyes skim across are things he’s already read once, if not twice or maybe even three times over. Uninteresting. Unable to find a book, Logan considers going out to work on training, but the kids looked happy enough with Jubilee and Kurt, and he doesn’t wish to interrupt. Shit. Leaning against the wall, he decides his final attempt to find something to do will be based on the fact that Valentin has a large rip in his favorite pants that needed to be repaired. Alice, a host, was going to stitch it up in the coming days, but Logan is quite adept at sewing. So he’s set off to find his little tin of supplies. After searching through his room, his jackets and his jean pockets, he can’t seem to find it. Logan curses himself, realizing he’s probably left it upstate. He could go ask Alice to borrow hers, of course, but he doesn’t. Logan’s plenty stubborn, yes, but he’s just frustrated enough to not give a singular flaming care right now.
Maybe the bar is the best idea. He stands, in the middle of the Haven House’s foyer, grumpy and already reaching towards the coat rack for his hat. It’s a bit early for it, and he’d agreed to only go out to drink once a week but, well— just as Logan pushes his hat onto his head and turns on his heel to go out the door, he sees it. A closet door, not fully closed, with a thick, leather covered case inside. Not a guitar case, though that would have caught his fancy as well; but something different and similar. A banjo case. The hat is immediately off and back away, and Logan scurries over to the closet. A few clicks and the case is open, wherein he’s immediately hit by the smell of dust and antiques. He fishes the instrument out of the case, shoves it back into the closet, and stands with the banjo in hand, before walking off and slinking out the back door.
It’s not so much that he’s using it without asking. It’s just easier to try and find any of his once-known, mostly-forgotten creativity when there isn’t someone around to watch. Logan settles down under a tree, back towards the back of the house, and bites his nails down enough to play. It takes a second, tuning, remembering, muscle memory catching on— but soon enough, he’s plucking out a little tune, too absorbed in his motions, with some seldom creative wind, to hear the woman who’d he’d lost sight of earlier approach.
❛ it was a REAL mermaid , rogue. a legit one. flappy tail and all ---- ❜ she's visibly vibrating in her seat , hand fanning a bit to go along with the statement for emphasis. a lack of that natural deadpan expression she wore. instead allowing corners to tug and a slight flash of enamel to show. ❛ she spat water in gabby's face. i recorded it. ❜
legs are folded up beneath her in dining table chair, a hand held tight around one. rather than just watching with her head tilted, she should just offer, right? right. but she doesn't even know if they do that. but they're married, aren't they? so they should. ❝ misss rogue? ❞ and on instinct, her hand raises like it's not just the two of them, everyone else gone off, or asleep, or dancing on her own. ❝ i cccould do your hair. orr your makeup. for yours and mr. lebeau's next dattte. ❞ but just so quickly as it had gone up, her hand is retreating, tucked back in like it's just touched a hot surface, ❝ u-um. not that i thinnnk you needd the makeup — ❞
