#With mentions of

[snkts]

The Good Fight - Ouija & Siren

“Ah, Logan. There you are.” Charles says from Cerebreaux. His voice bounces off the walls of the room. It’s almost a perfect sphere, and it turns into an echo chamber. “Welcome home.” 

“Hey, Chuck.” Logan puts his hand on the back of Charles’ chair. “Got here as soon as I could.” Charles looks up at him with a smile.

“I appreciate your haste, old friend. I hate to interrupt your vacation, but this is a rather pressing matter.” 

“It’s fine.” Logan shakes his head. He’d been minding his own when the call came in, standing at one of his favourite seedy bars (Tony Slim’s, an unknown and unwashed gem) and playing pool. A good way to unwind and destress after missions and mansion life. (Yeah, yeah, he knows, what a hard existence he’s leading now.) But his comm had gone off, and that was more important. He’d always be there when his family needed him, and they needed him now. “Tell me about the kid.” 

“Right.” Charles looks back at the display. Rendered in blue light is an array of photographs of a young girl - a yearbook photo, family portraits. Beside them all is a neat rectangle of statistics and flashcard-style information. “Her name is Samantha Everett, from Chicago, Illinois. She just recently turned seven years old-” 

“So I’m guessing she didn’t go out for a pack of smokes.” Logan shoved his other hand in his pocket. 

“Doubtful.” Charles typed in a few commands, enlarging some of the photos. 

“Seems a little young to be getting her powers.” Logan remarked, frowning. “What kinda baggage are we looking at?” 

“Surprisingly, none.” Charles said. “We’ve already conducted interviews with her parents, teachers, and even her babysitter. As far as anyone knows, she’s a happy, healthy little girl.” 

“I’m gonna want to talk to ‘em myself.” Logan said, chewing the inside of his cheek. Charles nodded. 

“And you will.” Charles shifted, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a paper-wrapped plastic straw before holding it out. “They’re eager to meet with you.” Logan blinked at the straw, then accepted it. He raised it in a silent ‘cheers’, removed the wrapper, shoved it into his pocket, and stuck the straw between his teeth. It wasn’t nearly as good as a cigar, but if he wasn’t allowed to smoke in here, it was better than nothing. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, chewing on the straw. 

“So, happy, healthy little girl just up and vanishes.” He mused. “With no sign of a struggle.”

“None.” Charles confirmed. “And before you ask, there’s been no sign of her on Cerebreaux, either.” He reached up and removed the helmet, resting it in his lap. “Wherever she is, she’s not using her abilities.” 

“You said she’s a telepath?” 

“Something tangential.” Charles put the helmet away and wheeled backwards out from the desk. “When my gift manifested, I was the only one hearing voices. If other people had reported the same, I may have felt less…” 

“Alone?” Logan supplied. Charles hummed and nodded. 

“Yes.” For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Logan plucked the straw - now thoroughly mangled - from his mouth. 

“Well, Charles?” He turned towards the door. “Might need half an hour for this one.” Charles chuckles and follows him across the catwalk. 

“Don’t tell me, you’re slowing down in your old age?” He asks, grinning and arching a brow. Logan scoffed. 

“Watch it, Junior.” But he’s laughing, too. 

***

The Blackbird touches down in what looks to be some sort of baseball field. Nothing too fancy. The sort of thing that made Little League teams feel important, but that's about it. Logan stepped off the gangplank, one hand in his pocket and the other hanging loosely at his side. He glanced around as his boots met the grass. It's empty aside from a small group of people - five of them - huddled a ways away from the jet. He could smell their anxiety even from where he stood. It was brought over to him by the breeze that ruffled the grass and plucked at his hair. The parents he would’ve recognized even without the family photos. The mom had the same straight ash-blond hair as her daughter. She got her daddy’s nose, though. The other hint that they’re the parents are the eyes. Not just the colour, though it’s the same green-hazel on the dad as stared back from the school photo. The dark bags and red rims tell it all. The scent, too. The salty, sickly-sweet smell of grief and tears. That wasn't something you could fake easily. The other three were a separate family unit. A girl - maybe seventeen, eighteen at the oldest - and her parents. Her hair was red and tightly braided, a similar shade to her father’s short crew cut. She kept clutching and releasing the too-long sleeves of her sweater. Nervous. Not afraid, nervous. And judging by how frayed her sleeves were, she’d been doing this a lot - it wasn’t a ‘new’ nervous, not brought about by his and Charles’ arrival. Her mom was a different story. Her hands were on the girl’s shoulders, and her freshly-manicured nails dug into the mint-green fabric as the two mutants approached. Logan furrows his brow but says nothing. Charles does the talking for him. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Everett,” he begins. “I’m-” 

“Professor Xavier!” Mr. Everett let go of his wife and stepped forward, shaking Charles's hand in both of his. “Thank you so much for coming. We still haven't heard anything. We’ve been worried sick, and we didn't know who else to call-”

“There's always the MRA.” The redhead’s wife sniffs. Logan scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Not if you wanna see her again.” He says. Mrs. Everett’s heart rate spiked. 

“What?” She gasps, hand flying to her mouth. The redhead’s wife’s had a fast pulse the whole time. She shifted closer to her husband, pulling their daughter along with her. Her husband, the red head’s, scent shifted from anxious to aggressive to anxious again when Logan grinned at him. Big man didn't feel so big after all. Still big enough to open his mouth, though.

“And you are-?” The redhead clutches at his wife and daughter. 

“Logan.” Logan replies. He turns his body to face the redhead square. “Who’re you?” The redhead clenched his jaw in an attempt to rally and puffed out his chest.

“I’m Lyra’s father.” The effort to put more bass in his voice was noticeable. Logan blinked at him, one brow raised to indicate how little that meant. He glanced at the girl, then at Charles. 

“Samantha’s babysitter.” Charles supplied.

“Ah.” Logan nodded. He’d figured, but it was good to get the confirmation. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Everett.” Charles wheeled forward to once again take charge of the conversation. “Logan is the one I told you about over the phone. You would be hard pressed to find a better tracker.”

“There isn’t one.” Logan said, crossing his arms. “Doesn't matter where she is, I’ll find her.” Mr. and Mrs. Everett smiled.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Everett says, reaching to hug her husband’s arm. 

“If there’s ever anything-” Mr. Everett begins, but Logan cuts him off with a raised hand. 

“Save it for when the kid’s back watchin’ Saturday morning cartoons.” And then he rocks his weight back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Now, how’s about we get outta this field and talk somewhere more private?” 

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Mr. Everett nods. “We actually live just across the street from the stadium. That’s why we suggested meeting here.” The couple turns to go, Lyra and her family at their heels. Charles and Logan follow behind, Logan matching his pace with Charles's, never straying from his side. It takes a concentrated effort to let Charles into his mind, but he can manage enough to get his point across. 

Babysitter’s parents seem shady, he thought. I don’t trust them. 

They do not trust you either, old friend. Charles’s voice in his head. They’re quite suspicious of the both of us. 

Figures. Logan struggled not to scoff out loud. Think we’re gonna have to worry about a phone call? 

Perhaps we will. The thought has crossed their minds once or twice. Charles mused. We’ll have to be alert.

Always am. Logan returned, then relaxed as his mind closed and he put more of his focus into the world around them. The wind through the faint trees scattered at the park’s edge, and the residential yards across the street. Birds chirping - robins, sparrows, chickadees. The hum of insects, the rustle of their footsteps, the sound of a dog panting a few streets away. A nice, quiet neighbourhood. So painfully upper-middle-class that the lack of white picket fences felt like an oversight. Given the time of day, most people were out, as demonstrated by the many empty driveways. Didn’t stop a few nosy neighbours from peeking through their blinds, but that wasn't surprising. As long as they kept out of his way, Logan would pay them no mind. 

They approached a quaint little two-story bungalow, white siding and blue shutters, flower boxes under the window. The path up to the front door was cobblestone, greys and sandy browns framed on either side by perfectly manicured grass. There was a single step up to a small concrete porch that was barely larger than the front door. Logan lagged behind just long enough to ensure Charles got up alright before joining everyone inside. 

“Nice place.” He comments. Mr. Everett shoots him a long-suffering look. 

“The next door neighbour is HOA president.” He said. Logan let out a noise that was half sympathy, half amusement.

“You poor bastard.” He says, shaking his head in sympathy. Mr. Everett nods, and his shoulders relax a bit. Good. If they were calm, they’d give better intel. Might be easier for Charles to sort through, too. They stepped through the foyer to the family room, wide and spacious, a cream carpet, white walls that were covered in photos and paintings. There’s a fireplace, and the mantle is covered in more pictures, some figurines - animals, mostly, one or two that looked like Disney princesses. At least one that was some unrecognisable lump of clay, probably made by a grade schooler. Three guesses who, and the first two don’t count. 

“What about you?” Logan asks. Lyra’s parents look up from where they’ve settled themselves on a loveseat. “You live around here?” 

“The street behind this one.” Lyra speaks up suddenly. Logan shifts his attention to her. She’s small, and skinny. A smattering of freckles across her nose. Her hair pulled into two braids, done tightly and bound in elastics. And still pulling on her sweater sleeves. It’s a miracle the damn things hadn’t fallen off. “And a few houses down. I used to come in through the back gate when I…” She trailed off and looked around, realising people were staring at her. She ducked her head to hide from the attention. Logan glanced at Charles, then stepped around the glass-topped coffee table to crouch in front of Lyra. 

“It’s okay, darlin’.” He says gently. “Anything you can tell us helps. That gate you mentioned - anyone else use it?” 

“Just us.” Mrs. Everett comes out of the kitchen with a tray of glasses. Lemonade, by the smell of it. Store bought - too artificial to be home-made - but a nicer brand - real lemons and sugar. “There's a lock on the back. We have the key, Ted and Aimie and Lyra have a key,” she nodded to indicate Lyra and her parents, “and my mother has a key. And Jack’s father.” After setting the tray down, she put her hand on her husband’s arm. 

“But neither of our parents live in town.” Mr. Everett - Jack - says, bending over to lift some of the glasses from the tray. He passes one to Charles, who accepts it with a smile and a quiet ‘thank you’, then one to Lyra’s father, Ted. Then he passes a glass to his wife, then Aimie, then holds one out to Logan. Logan eyes it, then looks back at Jack with a raised eyebrow. 

“Wouldn't happen to have a beer, would’ya?” He asked. Jack sighs and pushes his free hand through his hair. 

“I could go for a beer.” Jack mumbles. He turns and heads past a marble-top counter into the kitchen. There's the sound of a fridge opening, a clinking rustling noise, and Jack returns with two bottles held between his fingers.

“Cheers.” Logan says as he accepts his drink. Jack nods. 

“We have a bottle opener around here somewhere…” He turns, and Logan huffs. 

“So do I.” His claws extend with a snikt from them and a gasp from the humans. He wedges the blade under the bottle cap and twists his wrist. The cap flies off. He catches it, retracts his claws, and stuffs it in his pocket as he tips the beer back. 

“So.” Charles says pleasantly, sipping his own drink. “What can you tell us about your daughter?” 

“Oh, uh…” Mrs. Everett blinks, closing her mouth. Then she collects herself. “Well, she’s very shy. She has some friends, she does well in school… She’s a normal little girl.” Logan didn't miss the look Ted and Aimie exchanged. He glared at them. 

“Got something to say?” The edge in his voice made them flinch. 

“Just that-” Aimie starts, then stops. Ted puts his hand on her shoulder. 

“Normal little girls don't do the things she does.” He’s trying to be defiant.

Cute. 

Logan growls. In the same moment, Mrs. Everett stands. 

“There is nothing wrong with her!” She snaps. 

“Marcy-!” Jack cautions, putting his hand on her arm. 

“Everyone, please!” Charles spoke up. Logan settled somewhat and took another swig of beer. The humans quieted too. Charles paused to have a sip of lemonade. “I understand that emotions are running high right now. A child has been taken. It is only natural that you might feel stressed or defensive. But the best way we can help you right now is through rational discussion. The more information Logan and I get, the sooner we can ensure Samantha is brought home safely. That is what we all want, correct?” A silence. Jack and Marcy nod, Lyra nods, and after a beat, so do Ted and Aimie. Charles nods as well. “Very good.” He set his glass down on the coffee table, minding the coaster. “Now, let us resume our discussion. We’ve brought up Samantha’s gift multiple times, now. Could you explain to us what that is?” Marcy nodded, then slowly pried herself off of her husband and sat in an armchair. Jack rested his hands on the back of the chair. 

“We thought it was Lyra, at first.” Marcy begins. 

“But it wasn’t.” Aimie says, grabbing at her daughter’s hand. Lyra looks up at her, then back at the floor. Logan grunted. 

“Wait your turn.” That quieted Aimie down, even if her face looked like she wanted to say some non-PTA-approved words. Tough luck. Marcy, by contrast, smiled. Her shoulders loosened and her heart rate slowed just a touch. She was grateful. Another good thing. 

“She told us she heard voices. And we were alarmed, but-” 

“Not-” Lyra started, then clamped her mouth shut as her scent spiked with fear. But Logan just looked at her and tilted his head curiously. She swallowed and tried again. “Not voices. Just one voice.” 

“Whose?” Logan asked, facing her fully. She started pulling at her sleeves again, letting go of her mother’s hand in favour of fiddling. 

“My Nana’s.” She says, then blinks. “Um, my grandmother on my mom’s side. Her name was Nancy, and she, um…” 

“My mother passed five years ago.” Aimie said, putting her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. 

“Heart failure.” Ted supplies. Charles nods and folds his hands in his lap with a sympathetic hum. 

“I’m sorry. And you said you heard her voice, Lyra? Could you elaborate on that?” He asks, and she nods. 

“I was walking Sammy home from school like I do every day. We have one of those weird schools where it’s mostly a high school, but then there’s a bit at the back for the elementary schoolers.” 

“It’s a private school.” Jack cuts in. “It’s smaller, but they teach the kids how to sign, and Sammy’s mute, so we thought it’d be good for her to be around people who could actually communicate.” 

“Mute, huh?” Logan chewed at his lip. “So, chances are she didn’t call out when she got taken. Keep going, kid.” Lyra nods, even though she keeps her eyes on the floor. 

“We got to the back gate, and I unlocked it for her. And she always wanted a high five before we said ‘bye’. It’s our thing.” She twisted the fabric some more. Her breathing hitched. “So I did, and…” She sniffles. Logan tilts his head and crouches down, setting his beer on the table. 

“And what, darlin’?” He asked. (Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles lean forward and slide a coaster under the beer bottle.) 

“I heard my Nana.” Her voice was even quieter now. “Loud and clear. She told me to tell my grandpa not to go in his car, because his breaks were broken. And I got freaked out, so once Sammy was in her yard, I closed the gate and ran home.” 

“She told us about what she heard.” Ted says quietly. “At the time, we thought maybe it was some kind of divine intervention.” Logan cast a glance back at Charles, who nodded subtly. That fucking figured. When mutants do weird things, it’s a curse, a disease, something to be fixed and cured and punished. But when it was their own kid? It was an act of God. A miracle. (Until it got too much to handle - then it was back to being a curse again.) 

“I didn’t know what to think.” Aimie says. “I just mentioned it to my dad because I was worried. He checked the breaks to reassure her, but-” 

“But they were actually broken.” Logan finished. Aimie nodded. 

“Just like she said.” 

“We didn’t know about any of that at the time.” Jack said, squeezing the back of Marcy’s chair tightly. “We thought it was strange that Lyra didn’t come say hello like she normally does when she drops Sammy off, but thought maybe she was just busy. Nothing to comment on, you know? So I picked Sammy up to hug her hello, and one of my old war buddies was suddenly talking about being cold.” 

“Us Army,” Charles offers. 

“Canadian Special Forces.” Logan said. 

“Marines.” Jack replies, easing his grip. “Swanson was his name, Fred Swanson. KIA. He just kept saying, ‘It’s cold here, kid.  It’s real cold’.” Marcy reached up to put her hand on her husband’s. She gave his fingers a squeeze. The tense look on his face and shift in his scent hinted that he needed the comfort. 

“Do you believe he was speaking to you?” Charles asked.

“No.” Jack didn't hesitate. “Fred never called me ‘kid’. We were the same age. He called me Jackie.” 

“I heard my grandmother.” Marcy said. “She was just singing. The same songs she used to sing when she was gardening.” 

“I see.” Charles frowns. “And what did you do?” 

“Got us out of the house.” Jack shrugs. “I thought we were hearing things. I thought- I thought maybe there was something wrong with our carbon monoxide detector. So I got us out and called the emergency number to get someone to come check it, and everything came back clean.” 

“But it kept happening?” Logan prompted. Marcy, Jack, Aimie, and Ted nodded. 

“Not the same voices.” Marcy said. “Different ones, every time.” 

“And it was every time.” Jack picks his beer bottle off the counter he’d set it on and takes a pull. “Every time we touched her, or she touched us. It didn’t stop. I would’ve thought I went crazy if Marcy wasn’t hearing it too.” Logan frowned, looking over at Charles. 

“That’s not a telepath.” He says. 

“No, it isn't.” Charles steeples his fingers and furrows his brow. “At least, not the typical sort. I can understand how that might have been troubling to you. Did you tell anyone else?” 

“We called around to different resources.” Marcy said. “That's how we found out about your school. We emailed you not long after.” Charles nodded but said nothing. 

“So how else do you factor in?” Logan looks to Lyra. 

“I was the last person to see Sammy before she vanished.” She said, her voice cracking. “But I didn’t do anything! I swear, I-” Charles held up a hand. 

“It’s alright, Lyra.” He soothes her, cradling his glass of lemonade. “I know for a fact you did nothing wrong. This is just part of our investigation.” Lyra nods again. “Just tell us what you saw.” 

“She was just playing in the backyard.” Lyra said, graduating to chewing on the ends of her sleeve. “I was worried. She hadn't been to school in a while and nobody knew why, we just heard she was sick.” Logan and Charles glanced at Jack and Marcy. 

“We pulled her out of school.” Marcy said, fiddling with one of her earrings. “We didn't want people knowing she was a mutant until we had the, ah, resources, to handle her- gift.” 

“So I hadn't been walking her home, and it kinda felt… It was weird. I guess I missed her.” Jack smiled at this, sad though it was, and Marcy reached out to take Lyra’s hand. Lyra accepts the gesture in spite of the look Ted and Aimie exchange. “So when I was passing by their house, I just… Looked over the fence.” She grimaced and let go of Marcy’s hand. “Oh, god. That makes me sound like a creep. But I looked in, and I saw her, and she was just playing. She had her dollhouse and her bike and a few other things. And she was just playing. So I called to her and waved hello and she waved back. I tried to get her to come high five me, like we always did, but she didn’t want to. Guess I know why.” She shrugs and pulls her knees to her chest, locking her arms around her legs. “We had a conversation for a little bit. Nothing really important. I was asking how she was feeling, she was telling me about the story she came up with for her dolls. Something about a senate that got infiltrated, and trying to find who the bad guy was. She did that one a lot. And then I got a phone call, and I looked away for a bit, and when I looked back, she-” Lyra’s voice broke and she buried her face in her knees, holding herself tighter. “She was gone.” 

“Who called you?” Logan asked. Lyra kept her face buried and shrugged. Logan waited. Eventually, she spoke again. 

“Brian Casey.” She mumbled. When she looks up, her face is bright red, and her pulse is elevated. “He’s, um, a boy from school. We talked for a minute or two, and I turned to wave bye to Sammy, and I didn’t see her.” 

“Was there anything strange about the phone call?” Charles asked. Lyra nodded. 

“Yeah. I asked Brian about it the next day, and he had no idea what I was talking about.” Her face twisted into a frustrated frown. “But I know it was him. We even talked about a chemistry assignment we’d done together.” 

“But he denied it the next morning?” Charles pressed. 

“According to him, it never happened. … And there was nothing in either of our call logs.” Charles and Logan stared at each other. They both nod. 

“That’s all I need to hear.” Logan crossed his arms and rocked his weight back on his heels. Then he looks back to Jack and Marcy. “You got anything important to her I can take with me? A stuffed animal, a blanket…?” 

“Part of Logan’s gift is enhanced senses.” Charles explains. “Bloodhounds are quite envious of his ability to follow a scent.” 

“If it’s something that makes her feel safe, it might help me get her to come out if she’s hiding.” Logan adds. 

“Oh.” Marcy says as the humans glance between each other. Then she stands up. “I think I know just the thing.” She steps around the chair, manoeuvres around Charles with a quiet ‘’scuse me’, and heads up the wooden staircase by the door to get to the house’s second level. Logan tilts his head, following her footsteps, the creak of the door, the pad of socks on carpet, her mumbling, the quiet ‘there you are’ when she finds what she needs.  And then she retraces her steps and joins them in the sitting room again.

“Here.” She held out a shapeless, threadbare blob of fabric that had, at one point, been a plush lion. “This is Thimble. I-” She flushed. “I had a hard time saying ‘Simba’ when I was little. Sammy sleeps with him every night.” 

“That works.” Logan reached out and took the toy in one hand. He glanced over to Lyra and added, “You said the last place anyone saw her was the back yard?” Lyra nodded. Logan smirked. “Half an hour.”

“What?” Ted asked. Logan was already moving past them to the sliding glass door in the back of the kitchen. 

“That’s how long it's gonna take me to find the kid.”

“But she's been missing for three days.” That was Jack. Logan didn't turn around.

“I know.” He said, pushing the door open. “That's why I gave myself extra time.”

****

Finding the scent had been easy. It was all over the place. And yeah, it matched the scent that clung to the toy, Thimble, so he had double confirmation it was her. The artificial fruit scent of children's shampoo, goat’s milk, sidewalk chalk, grass and dandelions, petrichor, something not-quite but similar to ozone, the worn rubber of her shoes that was just a bit burnt from the lights that would come on when she stomped, bananas, washable markers, and granite. A little bit of sweat, which made sense if she’d been playing outside, but no fear. Highly unusual for a kidnapping victim. Her scent travelled alongside another, one he didn't recognize. That was bad enough. What made it even worse was that it carried traces of a scent he DID know. Oily-slick and painfully artificial, like pouring cologne on a chemical spill. Rot and rebirth, cold metal, blood. 

Sinister. 

If he was involved, a half hour search was probably too long. Fucking hell. His Harley, retrieved from the jet, roared down the street. The suburbs had long since fallen away. The buildings here were crowded together, businesses hunched under apartments and jostling for an inch of breathing room. He wrinkled his nose and growled. He hated places like this. Noisy, smelly, chaotic headaches. The perfect places to get lost in. well, not on his watch. 

The trail led him to a bus terminal. It was empty now, but they had definitely been here. Logan cut the ignition and kicked the stand into place, swinging off the bike. He glanced around and sniffed the air. Yup, there was Sammy’s scent, and the other one, too. Leather and hand sanitizer, hair gel, gunpowder and gun oil (the good stuff, too, nothing cheap), lemon and honey and tea leaves, wintergreen mint and nail polish, glacial ice, adrenaline and blood and Sinister. Who the hell was this? And where had they gone? 

There was a schedule on the wall. Laminated paper, sun-bleached but legible, detailing the routes each bus took. Logan grunted and ripped the sheet off the wall. Could be useful. He studied it a moment longer, then looked up and around. … There was a newspaper stand across the street. Logan was quietly amazed that those still existed. It was a hole-in-the-wall, probably part of the convenience store with the barred windows, with road sign-yellow paint on the counter and the signage. A far cry from the Everett’s suburb. Logan cast a quick glance in either direction then crossed the street, taking off his helmet and cradling it under his arm. The kid leaning against the counter can’t be more than late 20s. Long hair, stubble that was probably meant to be a beard. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and fixed Logan with a disinterested stare as he approached. His nametag introduced him as Jeremy, and that he was a ‘proud employee’ of Luckee Mart. Congratulations, Jeremy.

“Hey.” Logan said, stopping in front of the counter. Jeremy said nothing, only raised his eyebrow. That was fine; Logan would do the talking for both of them. “I’m looking for a kid. You seen this girl?” He slaps Sammy’s school photo - printed off before they even left the mansion - down on the counter. Jeremy props his face on his fist and looks down. 

“You a cop?” He asks, and Logan grimaces before shaking his head. 

“Hell no. Private investigator.” He taps his finger against the photo. “Her parents really want her home.” Jeremy looks down at the photo. His brow furrows, his heart rate picks up, and his scent shifts to nervousness and fear. Oh, okay. He was about to start lying. He takes a drag of his cigarette and holds it out to the side, tapping the ash off. 

“Never seen her.” He said, leaning his weight to the side in an attempt to appear casual, confident. Logan sneers. 

“Listen, bub.” He says. The cockiness vanishes from Jeremy’s face when Logan lifts him, one handed, by the front of his shirt and snatches the cigarette away. “You can keep talking outta your ass if you want, but I got three things you should consider first. One.” His first claw slid out, close enough that the flat pressed against the punk’s cheek. “Two.” The second claw slid out along the other side of his face. “Three.” the third, central, claw extended just enough to press into the soft underside of Jeremy’s chin. Jeremy’s eyes were wide, frantic, and brown. Same brown as his hair. Same brown as his jeans were gonna be, too. 

“Wait! Wait wait wait, shit man, wait! You’re a- You’re a fuckin’ mutant?!” 

“Nothin’ gets by you.” Logan grunted. “Where's the girl?”

“She took a bus!” Jeremy yelped, scrabbling at the counter and Logan’s wrist. Logan growls his frustration and tightens his grip. 

“I know that, numbnuts.” He snapped. “When and what direction?” 

*I don’t know!” Jeremy tilted his head back even further, trying to get as far away from the claws as he could. “I-I was just coming back from my lunch break, so I dunno, like- Noon? Noon-ish? And they went off towards McKellen street– Uh, that way!” He pointed. 

“They?” Logan pressed. Jeremy started to nod, then thought better of it when he felt cold adamantium against his neck. 

“Yeah, she was with someone. A woman. She was kinda freaky-looking, but still a babe, y’know? Really tall, hair slicked back, some kinda… Body armor type deal. And she was strapped, man, like- Guns and shit? I was surprised they let her on the bus. You ever seen Kill Bill? Or the Matrix? Like that- Hey!” Logan shakes him once. 

“Focus, kid!” He snaps. “How long ago was this?” 

“I dunno!” Jeremy shakes his head frantically. “I dunno! Two days ago? Three? Something like that!” Logan growls his frustration and drops Jeremy back down, retracting his claws. He wasn’t going to get anything else from this guy. No point wasting his time. He kept the kid’s cigarette, though, and held it between his teeth, inhaling deep. Then his frown deepens as he lets the smoke out from his lips. 

“What is this? You smoke Pall Mall?” … He still took another drag as he referred back to the bus schedule. Logan shook his head. “Switch to Camels. You’ll thank me later.” He rolls the bus schedule up and stuffs it into his belt to hang onto, just in case, and makes sure to swipe the school picture as well. He crosses the street again, puts on his helmet, and swings onto his bike. The engine takes just long enough to cut on that Logan gets to hear Jeremy’s bewildered ‘What the fuck just happened?’ as he drives away.

*****

They’d left the city.  They hadn’t gone far, but they were past the limits. He’d picked up the scent at one of the bus stops marked on the map. That hadn’t been difficult. There was only one bus that matched Jeremy’s estimated scheduling: the 632. From there, he’d figured out the stops in order, and had taken alleyways and side streets to check each one off faster until he hit paydirt. Then it was just tracking. Tracking, and breaking a few traffic laws. Not like he cares - if the cops ever got on his tail, they'd have to catch him, first. 

“Hey, Chuck.” Logan said, flicking his comm on. 

“Logan!” Charles's voice is bright and pleasant. “I was wondering when we might hear from you. Good news, I imagine?”

“Yeah.” Logan took a right turn. “I’m close. The scent's blowing pretty fresh. I’d say I’m roughly three minutes out from her location.” 

“Already?” That was Jack’s voice, muffled by distance. Logan grinned. 

“I told ya, thirty minutes to find her.” He says. He slows his bike and comes to a stop, bracing his feet on the gravel road. “But your police force must be shit. Nobody checked the…” He squinted at the weather-beaten sign in front of him. “Steel mill?” 

“He’s at Flagship?” Jack still sounds surprised. “But…”

“But why would she be there?” Marcy’s voice, equally surprised. 

“No idea.” Logan grunted. “But as long as I get her back safe and sound, who cares? I’ll call back when I’ve got her.” He shut the commlink off. If he was being honest, the ‘why’ did matter, and he was curious about it, but he was on a time crunch - both for the limit he’d set for himself, and the kid’s safety. They could chat and theorise when she was home. 

He elected to leave his motorcycle behind. It would make too much noise on the approach. Best to go it on foot. He circled through the grass, stepping past what remained of a chain link fence and avoiding the main entrance. That'd be too obvious. Besides, the scent didn't lead to there. Whoever took the kid also didn't use the front door. 

That was interesting. 

They skipped most of the broken windows, too. Could be a couple reasons for that. Reason one: The kid couldn’t get that high. That would suggest that whoever took her wasn’t carrying her - which in turn suggested Sammy had gone willingly, or had been coerced to follow. Reason two: For whatever reason, the KIDNAPPER couldn’t get through the windows. Could be because they were too big to fit. At first listen to Jeremy’s story, that didn't sound right. He’d described a woman, and those windows were pretty damn big. But Logan didn't know this person. If they were a mutant, and he was assuming they were until otherwise proven wrong, they might have some sort of shape shifting power. Maybe the woman wasn't their real form. Maybe they had increased weight for another reason (better not be chomping his flavour).

Maybe they just couldn't jump that high. 

He stopped just behind the steel mill, staring at what probably used to be a loading bay. He was around a corner, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Coast looked clear. He could hear talking, but it was too distant to be at the door. He counted one voice- No, wait. … Why did it sound like so many more people all of a sudden? He swore, he SWORE he’d only heard two heartbeats a moment ago. Only two sets of breathing. And he didn't smell sulphur, so what in the fuck-? He narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air once, twice. Three times. He smelled rust, and dirt, and decay, mould and mildew and wildlife, petrichor and rotting paint, crumbling wood, and… 

And…

What the fuck? 

Why did it smell like the forest? … And why did he recognize those voices? 

This is a goddamn trap. 

He growls low in his chest, bares his teeth at nothing in particular. This is a trap, and it makes no sense. The people he hears, smells, can't possibly be there. And if there's a trap, that means whoever was behind this - whether they were just in league with Sinister or it was the man himself - knew someone was following them. If it had been tailored to him, they knew he was coming, specifically. But he was three days and a few police calls behind, and he'd gotten on the trail as soon as he'd heard all the relevant Intel. How could they know…? 

Fuck it. Screw the door, screw the loading bay, he was going in through one of those windows after all. He retraced his steps at speed - if they knew he was here, there was less point in being stealthy - braced his feet against the concrete and jumped. His hands caught the edge of the window. Glass bit into the leather of his gloves. Sliced into his hands. He swung up and over, using the windowsill as a pivot point. By the time he let go, the cuts were already healed, and he landed on the ground and woke up.

… Had he been sleeping? It felt like he had. Logan screwed his eyes shut and groaned, grinding his face into the heel of his hand. His head hurts. He hears the sound of chatter, and opens his eyes. … He's on a bench. On a bench, at the institute. His favourite bench, the one near the treeline. He frowns. Breathes in. The air is clean and fresh. Wasn't he just doing something? Or had it been another dream? Another nightmare? Another lost memory trying to bleed through to the surface? He blinked a couple times, trying to clear his vision. Something flew at his head- His arm snapped up- snatched it out of the air-

A frisbee. 

Bright red plastic with a black ‘X’ emblazoned on the top, marking it as property of the Institute. 

“Sorry, Logan!” A young voice called. Logan looked up, still clutching the frisbee. There, waving and giggling sheepishly, was a group of familiar faces. Pyro, Drake, Rogue, Kitty, Jubilee, and Colossus. Kitty was the one who had spoken. She stopped waving to rock onto her toes, then back down. “Can you throw it back?” He studies it a moment longer - does the weight feel different, or is he still waking up? - then shrugs and gives it a toss. It flies in a clean, precise arc, and Drake jumps to catch it.

“Thanks!” He yells back. Logan nods. 

“You need t’ work on your aim, petite.” That voice is also familiar, and he looks over to see Gambit propped against a lamp post, shuffling his cards. “You missed.”

“She throws better than you, Gumbo.” Logan huffs, standing and stretching. His back pops and he grunts. 

“You break Gambit’s heart, homme.” Gambit says, pausing his shuffling to put the back of his hand to his forehead. “I bake for you, and you talk t’ me like dat?” Logan rolls his eyes, but the ghost of a smirk belies his amusement.

“Don’t forget who pulled your ass outta the deep freeze, ‘homme’.” He crosses his arms loosely and looks back at the kids. “Whadda’ya want?”

“Gambit? He wants for nothin’.” Gambit returns to his cards. “Storm was lookin’ for you, though.” 

“Storm?” Logan glanced over, and Gambit nodded. Logan let out a curious hum, then set off back towards the mansion, tossing a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder. As he stepped out from the shade, he was awash in warm, buttery sunshine. It was warm enough to be nice, but not overbearing, and the breeze that carried the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass was the perfect equaliser between hot and cold. The lawn crunched under his boots as he walked. The voices of the frisbee game drew slightly softer as he approached the front of the grounds. There was a deeper sound. A low, baritone rumbling, growing louder and louder and Logan sprang back just as a red sports car zoomed into the circular driveway. 

“Jesus, Slim!” Logan shouted, regaining his footing. “Eyes up!” 

“Oh, man, sorry Logan!” Scott climbed out of the car with his shoulders hunched and his hand in front of his mouth, the universal posture for ‘I fucked up’. This was echoed in his scent, which was spiked with adrenaline and worry. “I didn't see you there. It’s just, Jean and I were planning this field trip for the kids, to the natural history museum. There’s this travelling exhibit that's coming to town, one about folklore and sea monsters and how that connects to different real-life sea creatures, and we thought it could be a creative tie-in for the mutant history class and how-”

“What Scott means is,” Jean steps out of the car and cuts Scott off with a hand on his shoulder and a fond smile. “We’ll pay more attention next time. Are you alright?” 

“I’m always alright, Red.” Logan said, then glanced to Scott, who was fiddling with his glasses nervously. “But I’m holding this against you, next time ya try to kick me outta the pilot seat.”

“That's fair.” Scott’s shoulders relaxed and his grin became more casual. “Sorry again, Logan.” Logan turned to leave, but only managed a few paces before Jean spoke up again. 

“Actually, we were hoping to run into you.” She said, taking an imploring step forward just as Logan turned back again.

“Almost did.” He huffs, and Scott sulks. Jean ignores them both and continues. 

“We were hoping to ask if you and Mariko would like to chaperone with us.” 

“Mariko?” He repeated, breath caught in his throat. No. No, that wasn't possible. He couldn't ask Mariko, because she was-

Just fine. She was fine. She was fine because she'd been there when he'd gone back to her home. She’d been waiting, safe and sound. And he’d dealt with the other Yakuza, and everyone else, and she’d finished disentangling her family from crime. It had been a long and arduous process. Some people had resisted at first. But in the end, she’d persisted, and eventually succeeded. The Yashida clan was respected under her lead. And she’d come to visit as a vacation from the constant work that came with running a family.

“Yeah.” Scott nodded. “The kids really like her. And, besides, we know she’s not going to be here much longer before she goes back to Japan. We thought she might like seeing a bit of American folklore before she goes home.” 

“She might.” Logan nods slowly, then screws his eyes shut and rubs at his temple again, teeth grit tight. “I’ll- I’ll ask.” 

“What's wrong?” Jean asked, signalling her concern in the tilt of her head and the furrow of her brow. Logan shook his head and stepped back. 

“Just a headache. I’ll be fine.” He says, muffling a growl in the back of his throat. “If I see her around, I’ll ask.” And now he did walk away. His head hurt more now. This isn’t right. None of this is right. It doesn’t make sense - why doesn’t it make sense? He was still glaring at the dirt when little footsteps scurried by him. A young girl, running across the lawn. She was about seven or eight, with straight, ash-blond hair and… Green eyes. She was very familiar. Of course she was familiar, she was a student, wasn’t she? Had to be. But there’s still  something– Movement behind– He turned– 

Caught Victor Creed’s arm by the wrist. (Wait-) Victor looked down at him with a bemused expression. 

“Uh, boo?” He blinked, waggling the fingers of his free hand in a half-assed parody of an old-school movie monster. Logan released his arm, and Victor let it drop to his side. “Hell’s got you all jumpy for?” 

“What the fuck, Creed?” Logan grumbled, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. His head felt like it was about to split open. 

“What?” Victor sniffed, adopting a similar posture. “Can’t a guy come ask if his partner wants to go for a hunt?” Logan tilted his head in confusion. 

“Hunting? Now? … What time is it?” Both he and Victor looked up at the sun. It hung contentedly in the middle of the sky. The ferals looked back down as Victor pulled a smart phone from his pants pocket. He tapped his thumb on the almost comically undersized screen. 

“Three-thirty.” He says, stuffing the phone back and away. Logan took a half step back. He scratches at the back of his head, then twists his hand in the hair that grows from the nape of his neck as though that can hold the sides of his skull together when it feels like they’re trying to rip apart. 

“I… Have a class to teach.” He says it slowly, like he's trying to remind himself of the fact. It’s three thirty, and he's pretty sure it's Friday, so-

Victor laughs.

“Boy howdy, that must’ve been some nap.” He grins and picks at his fangs with a claw, peeling off a shedding layer. “You put your brats up to it, remember? Said they gotta… Earn their stripes, or, somethin’. I wasn't listening.” He pulls his hand away from his mouth to examine his nails. Satisfied, he gives his claws a quick extension-retraction, then props his hands on his hips and grins. “And before ya’ ask, yes, you're still on Earth, but Bugs Bunny is president.” Logan turned and walked away, shaking his head. 

“Thank God I’m Canadian.” 

“You guys got Daffy.” Victor called to his retreating back. “And what about our hunt?”

“Later.” Logan replied, waving him off. “I gotta find Storm.” And so, he continued around the perimeter of the mansion. With every step, his head hurt more and more. Maybe this was why he'd asked the kids to cover for him. He was so distracted by the pain in his skull that he only narrowly avoided Lockheed, swooping low to bring something to Kitty. Logan didn't know what it was, and shot a few curses at the tiny dragon as it flew off. Maybe Kitty oughtta invest in some pint-sized glasses. He’s still grumbling to himself when he rounds another corner, and what he sees is enough to  dissipate his bad mood instantly. 

There they were.

His kids - or, three of them, at least. The ones that looked like him. Akihiro, Laura, and Gabby. Even from here, he could hear what they were saying. It was a tracking lesson. Laura and Akihiro were explaining how to read broken undergrowth to determine approximate weight, speed, and direction of moving prey. Gabby was holding up Jonathan, who was chittering contentedly. Apparently, she was gonna take the oversized rat and they were both gonna hide themselves somewhere in the woods. It was a good drill - real world practice in a low-stress setting. He’d done it plenty of times before. Sometimes they’d have to find him. Sometimes it’d be someone else. Sometimes he’d just stash a random object and have them bring it back to him. And now his kids were using the same lesson. 

So they did listen to him, after all. 

And seeing that - seeing them, happy and safe and together - brings a smile to his face, even despite the throbbing behind his eyes and what the FUCK was wrong with his head?! He snarls to himself, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head, clutching at the roots of his hair. His vision blurs and he squints. … That girl’s there again. The little one whose name he can't remember. She's hiding behind Mikoto, clutching at her leg and peering out. Mikoto doesn't react. That's weird for a lot of reasons. Mikoto liked kids - she was great with the younger students. He’d heard her refer to herself as their ‘big sister' countless times, and they adored her right back. She’d never ice one of them out. And, hold on, why was the kid even in that class? The rest of the students there were teenagers, and if they were doing field tests, this was steering towards the advanced track-

“Logan! There you are.” A voice interrupts the latest snarl of frustration before he can finish it, and he looks up. There's a trace of desperation in his eyes as he seeks her out. Her.

Storm.

Ironically, she'd always been a calming presence in his life, from the moment he met her. Her and Charles, who, speak of the devil, is at her side. They approach him with smiles that falter when they catch sight of his expression.

“What's wrong, old friend?” Charles asked, steepling his fingers in his lap. Logan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I dunno, Chuck.” He took a moment before looking up again. “My head fuckin’ hurts, and I swear, something just ain't right about today. Can't put my finger on it.” Storm frowned in sympathy.

“You're stressed, Logan. This is exactly why we suggested you take the day off.”

… Oh yeah. They had told him to do that, hadn't they? Said he’d been pushing himself too hard and no matter how he argued - and he’d argued - they’d insisted. And now he was here. … Was that right? It felt- At least, it made-

“You still seem tired. Though I’m not surprised to find you watching over the students again, I assure you, Logan. They will be fine while you take some time for yourself.” Charles’s expression is equal parts fond and exasperated, the guiding hand that he always is. So why does this…? 

“Cajun said you were looking for me.” Logan mumbled, once again blinking against the discomfort.

“I was.” Storm confirmed. “Though I told him not to wake you if you were resting. I hope he listened.”

“Does he ever?” Logan rolled his neck to one side. It doesn't help. Storm tutted and rolled her eyes.

“That man.” She huffed. Logan grunted. 

“What'd ya need, Storm?” He asked. She blinked and stood a bit straighter.

“Oh! Yes. I was about to head to the greenhouse. There are some plants I need to prune, so I was wondering if you might lend a hand. It’s been far too long since we’ve had some time to really catch up.”

“Y’know what?” Logan managed a smile. “That’d be nice.” 

Snikt.

“Except you're not Storm.” 

And he drove his claws into her abdomen. She let out a shocked, pained gasp. It echoes off the walls of the loading bay, shattering the quiet that remained once the constant droning was gone. Already, his head started to feel better. The little girl - Sammy - toppled over from behind the guard rail. She shook her head like she was coming out of a daze. And the woman on his claws staggered back, olive face ashy and grey eyes wide. 

“H-how-?” She sputtered. Logan pulled free, but didn't sheath the blades. Blood dripped onto the concrete, and it smelled real and it smelled heavenly. 

“You’re good, sister, I'll give ya’ that.” He said, stepping a slow circle, stopping only when he stood between her and Sammy. The woman looked up, sweat coating her brow and making her slicked-back brown hair look even shinier. (Fuck, she was younger than he expected. Probably had a good few years before she even hit thirty.) “Not too many people can get anywhere near my head. But you made one huge mistake.” He held up his index finger. “Things never go that smooth when I’m around.”

“...Wait.” The woman slowed the desperate scrabbling she’d been doing through her belt pouches, and looked at him with what he sure hoped, for her sake, wasn't concern. “Are you saying you broke through my illusion and evaded all my attempts at killing you… Because you think it's unrealistic for you to be HAPPY?!” Logan let his shoulders sag as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s- What are you, my therapist?” And when he looked back at her, she had a syringe in her hand. The scent of Sinister got stronger. “Wait, the hell is-”

She pressed the plunger down and gasped like she'd been pulled out of ice water. He lunges. She jumps back.

“Do you have a therapist?” Her voice was still unsteady, but she grinned, flashing bloody teeth. The flow of blood from her stomach had stopped. “Cause if not, I can probably help you find one. And when you get there, you can tell ‘em Siren sent-” She yelped and leaped out of the way of the concrete slab that shattered against the wall. “Hey! Rude!”

“Shut your damn mouth.” Logan growled and lunged again. She - Siren, really? Another one? - drew a pistol from her belt and fired. Logan ghosted the first three with little effort, but the fourth- Ah, shit. Too close to the kid for his liking. Better just take it. The bullet collided with his shoulder with a dull ting. Logan roared. Duck. Slice the gun. Useless. Catch her arm. Slice the stomach. Block the swing, take the headbutt - moron - both sets of claws through her shoulders into the wall.

Ding ding ding.

We have a winner. 

She cried out and struggled, but it was useless. 

“Why are you working with Sinister?” He snarled directly in her face. The bruising from the failed headbutt was already fading, but… Slower now. 

“Who?” Siren sputtered.

“The guy who hired you. Essex, or whatever he’s callin’ himself now - and I bet he gave you that fancy needle, too.” 

“A job’s a job.” She coughed. “Not all of us get a cushy mansion.”

“Not all of us use that as an excuse to hurt kids.” Logan shot back. He pulled his claws out and let her drop. She looked pale. If that shot let her heal like he thought it did, then she better hope it could fix all that. Not his monkeys, in any case. 

“If you ever want a taste of the good life…” He said, stepping back and retracting his claws. “Charles Xavier, he can help you.”

“Charles Xavier…” Siren’s voice was thick and wet as she reached into her vest. “Is a fucking hypocrite.” Logan realised what she was doing just in time. He dove over Sammy right as the explosion went off. 

…

…

…

The dust settled. Nothing moved. Then, the scuttle of smaller rocks as something shifted. A chunk of ceiling moved. Then, with a grunt of effort, Logan shoved it off and away. His hair was a mess, he was streaked with dirt and his own drying blood, his jacket was shredded and his shirt and jeans barely survived - but he was alive. 

And more importantly, so was she. 

“You alright, kid?” He asked, looking down. Sammy was curled into a tight ball at his feet, hands over her ears and trembling visibly. When he inhaled (a strange feeling, given that his lungs were still repairing themselves), what he smelled above all else, more than the blood, the accelerant, the rubble, was blind terror and tears. 

“Ah, geez.” Logan scratched at his neck and crouched down. “Hey there. Sammy, right?” She didn't move. “I think you’ve had a real lousy couple of days. Is that right?” She stayed curled up. He tilted his head. “I bet I know just the thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his comnlink. “I have her, Charles.”

“I heard. Your link must have turned on during the fight.” Charles’s voice - the real Charles. 

“Figured.” Logan shrugged. 

“Are you both alright?”

“I’m fine. Takes more than that to bring the ol’ Canucklehead down. The kid… she ain't hurt, but she's shaken up bad. Think you can get her parents on the line?”

“Of course.” Charles sounded relieved. “I’d stepped outside when I got your signal. Let me fetch them.”

“Thanks.” Logan said. “Oh, and, uh- Charles?”

“Yes?”

“I dunno how much you heard, but, uh…” Logan chewed the inside of his cheek. “What that Siren lady said? She's wrong. You saved all of us. … Especially me.” 

There were a few seconds of silence. Logan wondered if he had lost the signal. 

“Thank you, Logan.” Charles finally spoke. “Coming from you, that means more than I can say.” And then it was silent again, aside from the sound of a sliding door. And then Charles’s voice again, distantly. “Mr. and Mrs. Everett?”

“Is that-?” Jake sounded hesitant. 

“Sammy?!” Marcy sounded close to tears. 

“She's here.” Logan confirmed. 

“Oh, my baby-!” Marcy wailed. There was a jostling sound, and then her voice was much clearer. “Baby, Mama’s here, is that you?”

Sammy finally looked up.

“Hey, little mermaid!” Jack's voice, and it sounded like Marcy’s weeping was contagious. “The nice man’s gonna take you home, okay? Make sure you listen to him!”

Her big, green eyes welled up with fresh tears. 

“And then we’ll bake cinnamon cookies.” Marcy promised. “All day.” 

“All day.” Jack echoed.

“Why don't you stay on the line til we get back?” Logan said, then held the commlink out to Sammy. “Here, little darlin’. Hang on to this for me.” She blinked up at him, uncertain. He crouched down even lower and softened his voice. “It’s real this time. I promise.” She sniffled, and when he dropped the commlink into her open palm, clutched it to her chest.

“We love you, baby.” Marcy’s voice leaked out from her fingers.

“You’ll be home soon.” Jack added.

“Y’know,” Logan rocked back on his heels. “They’re not the only ones who missed you.” Sammy looked up again, her face tear-streaked and puffy. “I had someone who was so worried, he came all this way just to help me find ya’.” And off his belt, Logan pulled Thimble the Lion - a bit flattened from having been caught underneath him during the explosion, a little dirty, and maybe a bit torn, but otherwise intact. Sammy gasped and surged forward, gathering the toy against her chest. Logan smiled, then stood. 

“C’mon. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” He held out a hand to help her up (thankfully, his gloves were dark enough to hide any bloodstains). Sammy peered up from Thimble’s threadbare fur, looked at the hand, then shifted Thimble to the other side so she had a free arm to reach up with. She hiccuped. 

Well.

How the fuck did he say no to that?

“Alright, up ya’ go.” Logan said, ducking down to scoop her into the crook of his elbow. She nestled her head against his shoulder and soon, even with the revving of his motorcycle’s engine, was asleep.

******

The reunion was about as tearful as Logan expected it to be.He’d woken Sammy up when they got close. When they pulled in the driveway, she didn’t wait for the engine to cut off before she’d jumped off.

“Sammy!” Jack and Marcy cried, sprinting off the front step. They scooped her into her arms and collapsed on the lawn, holding her so tightly Logan couldn’t see her anymore. Charles wheeled out of the door, down the small step, and then moved to Logan’s side. 

“Well done, old friend.” He said with a smile. Logan nodded. 

“Just doing my job.” He replied, arms crossed. “Glad it’s over.” And both he and Charles smiled. 

“Oh, and Logan?” Charles spoke. Logan grunted.

“As I told you, we could hear what you and Siren were saying. We will be discussing it at your next session.” Logan opened his mouth to say something, then glanced over at Sammy and reconsidered his phrasing. 

“Sometimes, Charles, you can be a real pain in the- … Rear.”

Charles only laughed. Jack and Marcy looked up.

“Thank you.” Marcy sniffled, her cheek still pressed against her daughter’s hair. 

“Charles?” Jack nodded, then glanced back at his wife, who nodded. Jack faced forward again. “We want to take you up on it.” Logan tilted his head to the side, then glanced at Charles with an arched brow.

“She comin’ with us?” 

“Not yet.” Charles shook his head once. “But soon. We’ll make arrangements once they’ve all had some time to recover.” Logan looked back at the Everetts.

“Then why don’t you hang on to that commlink for a while?” He suggested. “It’s a direct line to the mansion. Anything happens again, we’ll be here before you know it.”

“Thank you.” Jack, this time, and his voice broke before he scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. Sammy took advantage of the loosened grip and squirmed free, stumbled, then scurried to stand in front of Logan. He blinked, then crouched down.

“Hello, little lady.” He said. She studied him for a moment. He tilted his head. Then she carefully set Thimble down and reached for his face with both hands. He froze. Once again, he was hearing impossible voices.

But these weren’t voices he recognized.

Or- They were. One was. But- But he couldn’t be hearing it. It wasn’t possible. He’d… He’d thought he’d never hear it again. He shouldn’t be able to…

[Hello,] said a young girl’s voice. Shy and innocent. 

[Hm? Oh, good afternoon, my dear.] A man’s voice. Oh god. 

[What are you doing?] The girl asked. Logan struggled to breathe.

[I’m sitting, I imagine,] the man said. [Would you care to join me?] It hurt.

[But why are you sitting here?] The girl asked. [You can go.]

A moment of silence. Logan wasn’t even sure his heart was beating. 

[I’m waiting for someone.] The man said finally. 

[Who?] The girl asked.

Logan felt his chest constrict. 

[My son.] The man said. [James.] Logan’s eyes stung. [He’s a sweet boy. A strong boy. But he’s always hated being alone. I’d like to be here for him when he arrives, to help show him the way.] His voice sounded so different than Logan remembered. Had he remembered his father wrong, all these years?

[You must’ve waited real long.] The girl said. 

[I… I assume so.] The man said. [I’m not actually sure how long it’s been. I hope it’s been many, many years, though. I’d like him to have grown up by the time we see each other again. I… I hope he got the chance to do so.]

[Do you miss him?] The girl asks. Logan feels sick. 

Another silence.

[Yes.] The man says softly. [But I’m glad that I do.] And then Sammy steps back, and Logan snaps back to the present. She blinks up at him curiously, waiting for a reaction he couldn’t give her. He couldn’t move. 

“Logan?” Charles sounded a thousand miles away. A hand on his back. “Logan, are you alright?” He blinked, rocked back. He was replaying those words over and over again, as much as they hurt - desperately trying to cling to that voice. The first voice to ever love him. 

“Sammy, what did you do-?” Marcy asked, pulling her daughter into her arms.

“I’m so sorry-” Jack began, but Logan just shook his head. He swallowed, drew a steadying breath.

“Sammy, can you do me a favour?” He asked. She nodded, peeking out from her mother’s blouse. “You ever see him again… You tell him not to wait up.” And he turned and stood, waiting for Charles, and remained silent long after they got back to the mansion.

He had a lot to think about.

[reassambled-dragoon]

Shippy Nonsense

(Or: Storm Dancer--the Warrior of Light, Savior of Ishgard, Champion of Eitherys, "Former Scion", Mother of Four Including A Two-year-old Menace and Excluding Her Bajillion Adopted Kids, Grandma of Three Kids, Chaotic Bisexual Extraordinaire...versus Hekaarn, a 4,500+ year old world-hopping dragon who is Done With Midgardsormr's Inbred Lunatic Descendants Except Vrtra Because Vrtra is Sensible)

In the spirit of Dawntrail early access starting TOMORROW HELLO...

   -You'll need to take the ship, with the Toothpicks.- Hekaarn rumbled quietly as he lazily glided above Scholar's Harbor, the sensation like a greatly oversized housecat's purr. Instead of making Storm's chest buzz, her whole body vibrated, which���was actually pleasant. As usual, she was seated at the base of the huge red dragon's neck, comfortably warm from the natural heat radiating from his scales. -I'm sorry, my friend, but this is one fear I can't fly you away from.-

   Storm's hands clenched on her thighs. She knew he was capable of flying damn near anywhere–hells, he'd taken her into “orbit” to watch Eitherys turn–but there were some things he simply would not budge on. She took a deep breath, then sighed. “Any chance y'could explain why?”

   Hekaarn tipped a wing, shifting away from the harbor and gaining altitude to fly over Old Sharlayan. The wind sang over his scales, but though it was snowing, he made sure his Dragoon was in a little bubble of summer. Ah, magic. -Because, in short, I am now augmenting and strengthening your magic and channels, which, need I remind you, is necessary after your little universe-saving stunt and subsequent duel with that Zenos bastard. Congratulations. If any mortal can be called dragon-souled, it's you.-

   Before Storm could do more than twitch, his physical chuckle rolled through her body. -Not that I mind. You haven't a greedy bone in your body; it would never occur to you to take without asking. No, what I am doing is freely given. However, it does limit me somewhat. I cannot carry and shield you, Alphinaud, and Alisaie, in addition to all of your combined gear and your beasts, across that great a distance. Not for the initial flight, at least.-

   “But–Hekaarn, why didn't you tell me this bond was risking–”

   -Because I trust you. And I am not being harmed by this augmentation any more than when we fly together.- He put on a burst of speed and broke through the clouds, ignoring the condensation that immediately froze on his scales. Storm, of course, stayed warm, though she put her sunglasses on; it was bright up here. -Besides, you do realize this makes you a more powerful Dragoon than those Ishgardian fools that took dragonsblood? Most of it was given or taken unwillingly, and their magic suffers as a result.-

   “...like Estinien and Heustienne,” the Roegadyn murmured. Poor Heustienne would always suffer from what the heretics had forced down her throat, and Estinien may be coming to terms with Nidhogg's aether, but the man would probably never know true peace and happiness. “...and Catrine and little Snow have the risk as well.”

   -Existence is a risk.- Without warning, Hekaarn spun into a barrel roll, laughing as Storm cursed and punched him. His shields meant she wasn't going anywhere, and Storm knew that, but knowledge didn't always override instinct. -What's wrong, my dear Dragoon? Did you forget your boast that you can land anywhere?-

   “You are such an asshole.” Storm gave his scaled neck one last wallop, then sat up and stubbornly crossed her arms. “Fine, fine, I'll find other ways to fret about my grandkids. And my kids. And my papa. And–”

   -Windless hell, woman, I am going to eat you.-

   “That's Cid's prerogative.”

[jacks-the-flower]

darling i just can't get you out of my head, your scent lingers in my old jumper

~~~~~~

It was so elusive, so mind-boggling. It put her brain on the edge of an idea and her tongue ready to burst out with the answer.

Hang on, was that her old perfume?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a peculiar thing, something so familiar yet so unanticipated. She caught it at the edge of her own perception, sweetly reaching her senses with a dubious flair. It was something she knew well, something that she knew a little too well. What was it? It was right there for her to grasp, but the concept was elusive. Perhaps there was too much going on around her.

She stood before him, simultaneously at home and exposed. What would he think of her now? Did he remember her? Did he still believe in the end of that sentence? Why did he change? Was he alone? What was that smell?

Now she understood it, the floral scent of her past. Her past with him. But why was she discerning it now? Was it the reminder of everything, of what she’d had with him, what they had been? Unless…

She approached him slowly, artfully prowling towards him, making herself known yet advancing calmly and disarmingly. There was no need for her curiosity to scare him off. 

She stopped a few feet away from him, drawn in by her own scent. It wasn’t her scent anymore, however, it was his. It mingled with his own various aromas; the wool coat, the leather polish on his hands and shoes, the grease from the TARDIS, what must be numerous hair gel products he’d used. His scent was quite unique, yes, but under all of that: her. 

“Are you going to say anything?”

Her golden brown eyes flickered to his own green-tinged ones. She’d never thought that any other pairs of eyes would be as entrancing, or scents for that matter. Somehow this version was the most intoxicating, boyish but ancient and venerable, something new in ways that she hadn’t experienced from him. When she looked into his eyes, she saw an openness that hadn’t been there. He was somehow, simultaneously, more guarded than she’d ever seen him, and yet more open to her.

“Am I- is it… good different? Bad different?”

His eyes grew worried and lines started to appear in assent with his fears, she supposed it was now time to say something, “You’ve been using my soaps.”

He gave a light chuckle at that, bowing his head a little in confirmation, “Yes well, I had to, well I- I had to…” he stammered uncertainly, “keep you with me somehow.” He looked back up at her, “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been, well…” he paused before blurting out, “I’ve been using your room.”

She raised her brows, he what?

“Well some nights, I’m in the hammock; lovely things hammocks, quite comfortable.” 

Ah, a familiar habit. He did so love a good babble, in both of the bodies she knew. Though her first one seemed to prefer it from her while she was cross with someone. He’d had beautiful blue eyes then, though his new green ones were just as gorgeous. He smelt of leather polish in that face too. 

She slowly pulled her hand up, sweeping along the hem of his coat on its way.

“I erm, I can move back out if you’d like,” she kept moving ever so slowly, brushing over his hearts, enjoying his impatient jitters, “who am I kidding of course you’d like me to move out of your very own, very personal room. That’s,” he gasped out as she pressed her hand against his cheek, drawing circles behind his ear, taking in the details of his new face, “that’s just common sense. In fact, it was wrong of me to take up residence in the first place, what was I even thinking? Stupid Doctor, never thinking about what you want.”

And with that, she was thrust back into uncomfortable memories; moments where they were so close, but separated by a wall of fear and uncertainty. Now isn’t that a funny comparison.

Her hand had stilled and she brought it down to caress his chin, “If I’m allowed back, I can’t do that again, Doctor.”

He stepped impossibly closer to her, knocking her hand down to his chest where she could feel his hammering double-heart rate, and reached up to cup both sides of her face with his hands, staring intensely into her eyes, “It was never, ever an if, Rose Tyler. It was always a matter of when.”

She peered into his eyes, searching for the deceit, the lie to placate her. She found nothing but determination and adoration. He looked amazed, presumably at her, his eyes drifting over her features; she’d almost call it reverent. Did he still have that much faith in her? After all of this time?

“How long has it been, Doctor?” she questioned softly, lips moving faster than her mind. 

His eyes dimmed, skirting from her face, and he withdrew his hands from her cheeks. She missed them.

He retreated in on himself slightly, stepping back and slouching down, bringing his arms in close, wringing his hands. He wouldn't meet her eyes. She missed them too.

“It’s difficult to place exactly, but my guess is around three-hundred, three-hundred ‘n fifty, years.” It was a painful thing to imagine, but not a surprising one. He was older.

Then again so was she.

She couldn't help her regret in not finding him sooner. Centuries had passed and they had to move forward. It changed them. “I’m so sorry, Doctor; I’m so late,” she told him mournfully.

He smiled bitterly at that, still looking to the side, “Something tells me I’m late too,” he said, green eyes finally looking at hers once again. She understood immediately; there was always something of the wolf about her. Though wolves don’t tend to live as long.

He faced her fully again, gazing at her with a great jumble of emotions, “I suppose we’re a bit more evenly matched now, not that we weren’t before but…” At that, his eyes grew more pained and guilt-ridden, conveying what she thought was an apology. Those eyes were always quite expressive weren’t they.

She approached him once more, this time she snaked both of her hands around his neck, his own moving to rest on her hips. She fixed her eyes directly on to his, trying to convey as much love and determination as she could, “You’ve got my forever, Doctor, do I have yours?”

He drew her in closer, resting their foreheads together, “I think you’ve always had my forever, Rose,” he took a deep breath in, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She took her own breath in, cataloging his new scent of antiquities and floral soap. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, before confessing, “I love you.”

She knew what would happen next, he never gets to finish his sentence. She was fine with that, content even, only knowing that he felt so much for her. It didn’t have to be said.

“I love you too, Rose Tyler.”

She snapped her eyes open, flitting over his face – nose, hair, ears, cheeks, eyebrows - before settling on his eyes; his ever expressive, blue-then-brown-now-green eyes. He was fixed on to her, transfixed on her face, her own eyes. Amazed, relieved, and genuine all at once. It was not the platitude that she might have expected, it was a truth in the way he looked at her, held her in his arms, caressed her features. In the way that he used her old soaps and slept in her room, three-hundred something years after she was gone. 

“Yeah?” She felt a weight lift from her chest, something she’d never known about. She felt herself brighten and she smiled at him, giddy with the new revelation. She always knew he loved her, but now she believed it.

“Yeah,” He followed suit, lips growing wider and wider, toothier and toothier. It was a marvelous sight for a face so marred by regret and guilt to be so openly happy, so openly in love. She found that it was intoxicating. She found him intoxicating.

Every bit of him - clothes, cadence, scent, hair, freckles - was fascinating and new, but intensely familiar in ways she wasn’t sure he'd readily admit. She found herself loving him all over again.

She always fell right back in love, even when he changed faces and preferences. She just grew to cherish each and every new characteristic and quirk. Like the eyes that were staring at her. Like the lips curved into a small, fond smile.

She slowly raked her eyes up from his lips, leisurely gliding over his features. His eyes were heavy-lidded, no doubt from watching her sultry show. She saw the same feelings that she had reflected within herself; attraction, fondness, intoxication, and love. 

He leaned his head down and she tilted hers up, moving in a familiarity they shared in their old lives. When their lips met, she realized that this was in fact so wonderfully new. They were not so young back then to not have shared a kiss between them, but this one was different. Different in the way they held a tenderness between them instead of stunted longing. Different in the way they embraced each other with care and affection. Different in the way they could taste the devotion and determination they’d been too fearful to commit to. 

His tongue flicked out along her bottom lip and she opened up to him fully, one hand threading through his hair. His left hand slowly traveled up from her hip to the small of her back, nails grazing her skin. The physical and mental effect it had on her caused her to gently pull back for air; the bridges of their noses resting together, their hands in wandered places. 

She had taken a few moments of stillness before realizing how mentally connected they had become. A soft presence was intermingled with her mind, sharing in her love and admiration as they became closer than they previously dared. 

She opened her eyes and found him, his own eyes already wide and fixed on hers. She smiled softly and sent a warm wave of emotions to him, focussing on reassurance and determination as well as tenderness and adoration.

He breathed out a short puff, breaking out into another disbelieving smile. He brought the hand from her hip up to her cheek and kissed her again, this time with excitement and enthusiasm. His tongue dipped into her mouth again, energetically brushing over the back of her teeth and soft palate. A small laugh bubbled up from her chest and he pulled back, sharing in her euphoria.

He settled back down, loosening his hold to a comfortable embrace. “Am I dreaming?” he breathed out.

She hummed at him, “That depends, what would your dream say?”

“No.” he said, shaking his head slightly.

She smirked thoughtfully, tilting her head to mock-think, “Then yes,” she decided, giving him a tongue-touched smile that she knew made his mind misfire. And misfire it did, if the stumbling rush of consciousness brushing against her was anything to go by.

He rocked forward excitedly, before pausing, eyes alight with mirth, “Well hang on now, is that a yes to me dreaming or a yes in contrast to what my dream would say?”

She just smiled wider, “Can I stick around and find out?”

“Darling, you,” he kissed both of her cheeks, before looking right at her, genuinely, “can move in with me.”

She felt giddy at that, sharing it across their connection, but outwardly maintaining her playful demeanor, “Weeeell,” she drawled out, “your home is pretty big, infinite, you could say.”

He chuckled, holding her tight, “That she is.”

He slowed for a moment, taking a deep breath, before looking at her in earnest, “Be there when I wake up?” he asked hopefully.

She reached up a hand to brush his hair, giving him a fond smile and a caress of conviction and certainty. 

“Forever.”

[liminal-storage]

Blind Call

Bit of writing thanks to a plot thread given by @punches-and-cream-puffs.

Warnings: Mentions of violence/violent urges?

--------------------

The scent of wet leafrot pervaded the air, just as a feeling of rot pervaded her mind. 

Well, not rot precisely, but something else. A distraction. Worry dancing intimately with something else. There was rage there, of course. Rage in its proper place. 

Her footsteps carried her rapidly down the paths of the Lavender Beds, feet contacting paving stones with more force than was necessary. As if she were on a mission. As if she had no mission at all and merely needed to expel some pent-up energy before it killed her. The stones glistened, slick and dark after rainfall, but she took no notice as the autumn-chilled water splashed up around her boots. 

Since the day of the auction, wherein the bids had been high and the tensions even higher, one thing had been plaguing her. Something vital found amongst the sea of taffeta and gilded masks. Where she had expected to feel awkward amidst the well-dressed and wealthy echelons of Ishgardian society, she found distraction instead. 

Certainly there were sights aplenty to serve as that distraction, but lack of need outweighed any actual interest. Artifacts and artwork couldn’t pull her focus from the task at hand, and she’d remained unswayed in parting with contents of her gilpurse. Yet distraction came all the same. Not in bidding but in gossip, in facts that sent her reeling in a way that bid silence be her companion for that night. 

A good investigator never let go of a solid thread, and while she certainly had not done that, she had perhaps pinned said thread for another day, another worry. 

When the time came for fighting, she’d moved almost automatically. Instinct and muscle memory, rather than actual thought or strategy. Slash, move. Blood flowed, weapons clashed, arrows sang through the air. But the information that had reached her ears echoed over and over again long after the enemy had fallen. 

Those echoes made her blind beyond that night, too. Blind to another problem presented thanks to Arafel. Blind to evidence within the cave on Priarch’s scouting mission. Ignorant to the answer to a simple bit of wordplay. Underneath everything, the worry and anger, there lingered a burning desire…no, a need to tell someone of what she knew. 

"I heard Marcelloix chased off another pretty little thing; he has an eye for fine things and fine women, but his temper..... Heard he was following her straight out of the auction before it could even start! Think of the scandal; I hope my Eloisa finds a better match than -that-."

The name had, of course, caught her attention immediately. It was a name she’d kept an ear out for going on moons now. To hear it at the auction came as something of a surprise, but the rest of the statement bade her dismiss that particular line of gossip. The Marcelloix she’d heard of seemed careful in keeping up an air of humility and kindness. How else would he hide what he had done, had been doing for years?  Her gaze had shifted from scanning the nearby book titles to the small group of masked women standing nearby. It was from that group that the sound of that name had drifted, but it was a couple speaking near the piano that stole her attention. 

"It's a shame Ser Vadeboncoeur couldn't make it; Marcelloix would have loved these scenery paintings. But you know how hard it is to pull him from his humanitarian works; heard he's pouring his gil into some orphanage project now." 

And there it was, the lingering distraction. The name Marcelloix again, but linked now to a profile more in keeping with the picture Teagan had painted of who he was. What’s more, that name had a second, a surname that she’d been hoping in vain to hear until that night. The gossip could’ve made her feel sick. Humanitarian? Him? It was almost laughable. The talk continued. 

"I hear the Vadeboncoeurs couldn't make it, but you know how they are. I'm sure they have one of their servants here to pick out some fine pieces to add to their own collections, while the master of the house does what he does best. Heard he's been tracking down some assets that were lost a few years back; I admire his determination. It's no wonder his ventures are often so profitable."

Something horrible seized her then, a fury so great that she hardly realized the bidding on the amphora was beginning. While the words came to her ears on gentle whispers, it felt more like someone had inserted needles into her nerve endings. 

Heard he’s been tracking down some assets. 

Assets. 

Teagan and her shaken demeanor. The knowledge that the man had the audacity to touch her, to try to lure her away for a ‘friendly chat..’ 

Assets. 

More water sloshed underfoot as Kuni made the last turn towards the bridge and the ferry out of the Lavender Beds. She needed rougher terrain for her wandering. She needed to tear into something. She needed to get away from houses and lights and people. 

Everyone had different facets to their personality. Faces they presented to the public. Secrets they only showed their loved ones. Horrors they’d never tell their loved ones about. 

Did Marcelloix’s family know what kind of monster he was? Did they know, and support his endeavors as complicit supporters meant to keep up the charade? Or were they oblivious, convinced that he was as kind and gregarious as the public thought him to be? 

She’d kill him. 

She’d drag him underground and bind him there, fated to die alone and forgotten. She’d skin him alive and leave him under the desert sun. She’d let her companions have a turn at him, drawing out his punishment day by day by day. There was no forgiveness for the things he’d done. 

Even if some might argue otherwise.

Perhaps that was simply one of her own facets. Cruelty and wrath to contrast the kindness and tenderness given to her loved ones. And where she truly existed lie somewhere in between. 

That was fine by her. If her place somewhere in the middle of kindness and wrath meant that she could track down this beast, it suited her well. 

His name was a prey’s scent, and now that she had it, she would never let it go.

Now, if only she could do something about the anxious fury thrumming in her veins.

[raitrolling]

It really was one thing after another right now.

Lusien pinched the bridge of his nose as he sat at the kitchen table, while his other hand held a cigarette between two fingers. He’d lit it out of habit, but the nicotine was providing him no comfort, nor was the half finished glass of scotch next to him. Neither of these things were also helping his slowly growing headache.

He knew he was running himself ragged: operating the lighthouse was already a large task, and he’d spent hours earlier this evening repairing his washing machine that had unfortunately broken down, but a lot of his free time was spent on more pressing concerns. That, of course, being a certain town resident.

Vallis was becoming more of a handful than he had expected. He knew it was going to be work, given how recently he had become aware of his new nature, but the balancing act between keeping him content and the rest of the town in one piece was highly precarious. He couldn’t blame him for it, not when so few are willing to guide him through the act of being a horrorterror safely, but he didn’t know what else to do.

It would be foolish to blame himself for not keeping an eye on Celise. He genuinely didn’t know of their relationship with Vallis, and he didn’t know the extent of their obsession either. He had considered visiting them while they were recovering from the scientist’s song, but... He couldn’t think of what he could do for them. He barely knew them, and they had no interest in him at all. And they’d have no reason to believe him if he told them exactly what had happened to the object of their affections.

It frustrated him, feeling this powerless. He knew it wasn’t officially his job to protect the town from any potentially catastrophic incidents, but he felt responsible nonetheless. He knew he wasn’t alone either, and there were others much more powerful than him who were assisting in keeping things afloat. 

But he always hated being idle for too long, no matter how much it exhausted him. For better or for worse, he would keep going.

[molabuddy]

recently when im tempted to say 'i'm gonna kill myself' i try to correct it into saying "im gonna walk into the river and become a trout" or some other form of that. this is my new thing

[prokopetz]

While the Onion buying InfoWars is indeed extremely funny, very few of the posts I've seen commenting on the sale have mentioned that the families of the Sandy Hook victims apparently agreed to voluntarily reduce their lawsuit payout as part of a deal to ensure that the Onion would acquire InfoWars wholesale, rather than having the company broken up and auctioned off piecemeal, as the latter course could potentially have allowed some of those pieces to end up back in the hands of Alex Jones' cronies.

Like, yes, it is in fact very funny that InfoWars is now a wholly owned subsidiary of the Onion, but the real props go out to the Sandy Hook families who saw the opportunity and willingly gave up the additional millions of dollars that could have been realised by stripping InfoWars for parts in order to make that happen.

(EDIT: Fixed a sentence incorrectly suggesting that Clickhole is still affiliated with the Onion – it totally slipped my mind that they'd sold it back in 2020.)

[chessb0r3d]

Analysis so bad you don't even know what it's talking about anymore.

[some-pers0n]

Hey you ever think about The Characters so much to the point where

[shamefulzombie]

Not Perfect

[nat-20s]

Just thought to myself "can't women have a bad time in fiction without rape being involved" which really shows you how much you're in the fucking trenches if you are both a horror fan and women fan

[oldtvandcomics]

HEY GUYS!!

GUYS!!!

FRANCE HAS REACHED THE REQUIRED NUMBER OF SIGNATURES ON THE CITIZEN'S INITIATIVE AGAINST CONVERSION THERAPY IN THE EU!!

ONE COUNTRY DOWN, SIX TO GO!!

We also need still quite a few signatures in order to reach the one million required.

As to date, the six other countries with the most signatures are:

Spain - 38.72%

Finland - 30.31%

Ireland - 24.86%

Netherlands - 24.15%

Germany - 23.54%

Belgium - 23.09%

So yeah, still a long way to go, but we ARE slowly getting closer. Don't stop now! Don't let this stay within the community, either, if you have any friends or family who are open to queer rights, get them to sign, too!

[drowninnoodles]

Heh

thanks to @hannahdra-ws for quote, its very cursed indeed.