"We're here to be different; to show the world they don't have to fear us with loaded guns."
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Ximena Dominguez has lived one too many lives. The ending of the last wasn't one she liked to repeat. From a young age her mutant abi...
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LOGAN GROANED AS HE sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. It was the middle of the night and no matter what he tried, he couldn't get back to sleep. Professor Xavier was right in saying the mind was a complex machine. He was sure he dreamt of his past but every time he ended it by abruptly shocking awake. When he opened his eyes, he remembered nothing but unhelpful bits and pieces. He scrubbed at his bearded face and stood up on shaky, bare feet. His dingy, white tank top sticking to his body.
As he stood, he stepped on a pair of slippers Ximena got him while they were away. They weren't fuzzy, because Ximena knew Logan would chuck those shits out the window the first chance he got. No, they were made with leather on the outside, padded on the inside. No squeak or swish would come out of them when he walked.
Logan couldn't help but slide his feet into them and instantly, he thought of Ximena at the perfect fit.
He padded into the hallway and unconsciously found himself outside of Ximena's bedroom. He blamed it on the slippers. His hand raised to knock but he stopped himself short, thinking better of it. He didn't want to bother her when she could be enjoying a very good sleep right now.
Scratching the back of his head, he spared it one more glance with a hesitant breath before walking beyond it. It wasn't easy telling her to be in separate beds yesterday and it felt deeply wrong to do so after the fact. However, Logan couldn't seem to escape his mind. He didn't want to drag Ximena down with him more than he already was. This was a mercy, he thought to himself.
He was doing her a favor by keeping them at arms length. This past year was fun, but that's all it was.
That lie was getting harder and harder to recite to himself.
The dark brown interior of Professor Xavier's school all looked the same to him. Fancy and a complete waste of money in some regards. What nine year old needed a wide, forty inch television in their bedroom? He thought the kids ran rampant at the school, doing whatever they pleased. A prime example of that was him stumbling upon a twelve year old sitting in the den, changing the channels with only his mind. Jones.
"A dozen terrorists in the White House during the attack are still being held for questioning." Logan allowed the news to turn into white noise in the back of his mind. He crossed his bare arms over his muscular chest, leaning against the wall to observe the young boy and his abilities.
"Can't sleep?" Jones spoke, not taking his dulled gaze off the television.
Logan tilted his head to the right amusedly. "How can you tell?"
