liquid poetry ♥ (mlina) wrote in otherearth626,
liquid poetry ♥

“No, you have to look now. You have to look here."

Concept: Nathan Pico
Written by: Noelle Pico
Beta readers: Nathan Pico


Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters, Salem Center, New York.
Shortly after Lunch.

She doesn’t need to be told that Remy is passionate. She knows that from experience as both his teammate and his friend. Still, it’s always just a little frightening to see him truly angry, as only a few things ever really push him to something short of rage. Yet, it’s not so much the anger that unnerves her, but the helplessness that it attempts to mask. It’s a helplessness that she herself feels. A helplessness that they all feel.

“‘s been a week!” he’d shouted the words at all of them with such force, heavy with contempt and the accusation cut just as the fire in his pupils all but burned into each of them. “An’ what’re we doin’, huh, Scott!? Huh, Storm!? Sittin’ round like it don’ matter that she could be out there—”

That had been minutes ago, though she knows that he’s been like this since Sunday.

When he stalked off, distraught and frustrated, the room had fallen silent save for the everyday sounds that filtered into the room from the window. No one sure of what to say or do to make it better.

Now, quietly watching from the door, she sees Remy sitting – defeated – on the couch. Ororo, who followed him only moments after he’d left, is waits patiently at his side, her arm looped through his. The silence that they share, speaks volumes more than any words could ever say. She slips quietly into the room, sitting herself down on his other side. On her shoulder, she feels Lockheed shift: watchful and wary.

“Remy,” Ororo begins, but whatever it is that the woman wants to say fails to follow. Kitty watches as Storm turns her eyes away from the Cajun so that theirs meet. She reaches over, prompted by the look in the older woman’s eyes. It’s a look that she rarely sees, and rarely wants to. It’s just as bad as Remy telling them all that they don’t care about finding Rogue. As bad as hearing Kurt echo that sentiment to her right before he grudgingly boarded the Blackbird the morning before.

And as she needs comfort and support herself, Kitty gently tightens her grip, the action only heightening her awareness of how she is trembling, as if cold. When she turns her gaze to Remy, she covers his hand with hers, and they sit: the air about them hushed and heavy.

He looks worn; she can’t blame him. It’s not too hard to believe that he’s barely gotten any sleep in the last few days, perpetually walking the house like a restless ghost. There’s a hint of fear there in his eyes, perhaps the only trace of it he’ll ever show. Just a hint, but it’s enough to tighten the sudden vise over her heart.

Had they been wrong to dismiss his concern as merely another bout of over-protectiveness? She knows that the answer to that question is yes. Yes. Had they been too complacent, too sure that things were all right? Again: Yes.

“I’m gon’ down. Need t’walk.”

For a moment, it’s as if Ororo wants to protest, but the woman whose powers allow her to shape and shift the weather at her whim chooses to remain silent, unable to calm the storm raging in the heart of the man she considers as one of her dearest friends. He stands and walks away, exiting the room, his footfalls fading as the distance between them grows. Kitty watches as Ororo curls up on the couch, legs drawn up under her chin, eyes shutting in quiet pain. It is here that she moves over, offering a tight embrace to one of her oldest friends.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers, feeling Lockheed crawl down her side to squeeze himself into the warmth between their two bodies. She holds tight, but her thoughts turn somewhere else. Somewhere across the continent, where someone else – she knows – is just as angry and worried as the thief they call friend.

X-Factor Investigations Headquarters, Los Angeles California.
Some hours later, late afternoon.

Everything was in order: the papers on the table, the filing cabinet in its pristine condition, the computer shut down as it should be at the end of a working day, digital files all neat and logged. The tables and chairs – Meine Gott – even the dirt was in order.

There were no indications that there had been a struggle. No shattered windows, no broken down doors, no tipped over furniture. Not even indentations of footprints outside, on the moist soil. Not a scent.


Not that they had expected things to appear as such. Yes, abductions, in this day and age, were often carefully plotted out; abductees meticulously researched before finally, action was taken.

But this was just too perfect.

They were X-Men for the love of God. There should be something, at the least. Something. But there was none.

Being who they were didn’t change the fact that their friends were missing. That like many of those that Jamie, Rahne and Guido had been checking up on, it was as if the three had simply vanished without a trace, taken away by something that might easily rival the button-eyed evils from Neil Gaiman’s Coraline.

Had it been anyone else looking, the scene might have been abandoned, the need to search and scour for details forsaken under the crushing presence of futility.

But not them. Not him.

Perched atop the counter, Kurt Wagner listened to the rhythm of his breathing. He should be home. He should be on the other end of America, standing right beside Remy, pushing everyone to look for Rogue. Instead, his talents required that he be elsewhere. Elsewhere being here, in the so-called City of Angels where demons in human guises roamed free just as they might anywhere else.

A demon himself, if only in form, the new image inducer that they’d acquired had helped him walk the city alongside Logan and Piotr without attracting undue attention. The device served him well enough, but his temper didn’t. He credited that to the fact that it came so rarely: that need to break something as a means of relieving the tension that had gathered in every fiber of his being over the course of the last week.

Jumping nimbly from his perch to the tiled floor, he exhaled as he landed, eyes closed, before rising to what he could of his full height. When he walked towards the console table set under a mirror on one side of the room, his fingers curled over one of the many picture frames that graced the small table’s surface. In this particular photograph, Jamie, Rahne and Guido stood proudly at the front steps of the hotel, their figures dwarfed by the looming building. He recalled Rogue telling him of that day, having been able to drop by on the three after a stint with Ororo, Remy and Hank in San Francisco.

One of Jamie’s dupes had taken the picture. It had been the opening day of X-Factor Investigations.

He resisted the urge to fling it against the wall, though the desire to hear shattering glass was just far too tempting. Setting the frame back down was a struggle – one that he nearly won, but then the rage roared in him again, and he whirled around at that last instant, arm raised, frame in hand.

He would have pitched it across the room. He would have – could have – but Piotr’s form had appeared under the archway that led to one of the other halls, and at the sight of his comrade, the former circus acrobat repented; though the careless near-smack of the frame face-down on the console bespoke barely-checked frustration.

While the X-Man named Colossus watched in silence, the often nicknamed ‘fuzzy, blue elf’ perched himself again on what once had been joked as Jamie’s ‘reception desk’, a living gargoyle far from the churches where most stone counterparts belonged. Silence lingered, the air electric with Kurt’s need to let loose the caged animal that had been quiet days before. The same one that was now growling at the bars, demanding release.

“Kurt,” Piotr moved to stand at his side, one hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

“I am fine.” Kurt answered, dismissive of the concern.


“I am fine, Peter.” The words were now growled back, fangs glinting, the show of hostility only prompting the unarmored Colossus to say “You want to get angry?” evenly, the frown a crease between his brows.

Kurt felt himself rear up. Confrontational fell short of what exactly he felt. He wanted to hurt someone – anyone – if it meant that there would be an outlet for all the dark thoughts that had settled within. In that moment, Kurt relished the heat behind his eyes, the almost dizzying sensation of barely checked rage.

“Do you want to get angry?” Piotr asked again, more forcefully this time, and while the animal inside Kurt had built up the need to lash out, it quickly backed away at the sight of one of his oldest friends willingly offering himself up as the proverbial punching bag.

“Forgive me,” Kurt murmured finally, palms coming up for him to rest his head on, before he gathered himself, slipping off the counter to stand on level ground. He looked away, ashamed. “It has been frustrating.”


“She is, in all respects, my sister, my friend.” A sigh. “Even if only through the woman I regretfully must call mother.”

A snort cut in then, causing both men to turn their attention to the third of their party who had just returned to the room. Wolverine looked far from pleased. “Why don’t you girlies stop flirting and help me look for a damn lead.” And without another word, and as just as soon as he’d arrived, the Canadian X-Man and Avenger turned on his heel to head up the stairs, prompting the two friends to follow suit.

Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters, Salem Center, New York.
At around the same time.

Superheroes knocking on your front door are the last thing anyone might expect to see, but as Victor Brokowski had learned in all the time he’d spent at Xavier’s, when your professors happened to be good friends with people like the Avengers, finding Carol Danvers a.k.a. Ms. Marvel at the front door was supposed to be taken as normal as sunshine or rain.

“Carol,” the teenager glanced over his shoulder to see his teachers, Professor Summers and Dr. Grey step into the foyer. Watching quietly as Ms. Marvel walked past him and towards them, he decided that it was probably best for him to make himself scarce. Noting that Nori, Sofia, Laurie and Jay were not too far off the side, he turned around and headed toward his peers.

“Tell me you have something.” Carol murmured as she curled her fingers around Scott’s wrist with an urgency that drained the pallor from her cheeks. Her history with the woman called Rogue was colored with both the dark and bright. When they’d first met, the younger woman had taken her powers, her memories—her life. It had been an encounter that had plunged her into a coma for the course of several years. But it had also been Rogue who had been there to see her when she finally awoke from her comatose state, and it had been the younger woman who had made all the effort in the world to earn her forgiveness and much later, cultivate a friendship so fierce it brought her here—now—where Rogue was missing with no leads whatsoever to where she might be.

“Tell me you have something, Scott.”


“Tell me you know where she is.”

The chatter that was circulating in the foyer and the rooms close by ceased, all eyes turning to the distraught Avenger standing before one of Xavier’s first five.

“Carol,” Scott grasped her upper arms gently, his eyes hidden behind the ruby quartz glasses that reflected her image. “Carol,” he said her name again, as if to do so was to calm and anchor her. “We’re doing everything we can. Logan and the oth—”

No.” The word hadn’t cut him off, the pain behind it had. “You have to look.” Her fingers tightened, one hand on his forearm now while the other curled on the fabric of his shirt. “You have to look, Scott. This is Rogue.”

“We’re doing our best—”

It’s not good enough!

Silence again, bleeding out into the air like a cut artery.

“Carol, please,”

“No, Scott. No. She is out there. Somewhere. And we need to find her.”

“And Kurt and Logan and Peter are looking in LA.”

No,” she said again, emphatic, shaking her head and looking both angrier and more helpless by the second. “No, you have to look now. You have to look here. Not in LA. Here.” She pushed back, as if human contact was the last thing she could want or need, but Scott pulled her close in the manner of family, tucking her head under his chin as Jean stepped towards them both, one hand coming to rest against the small of his back. A sign of unwavering support.

From across the room, Sam Guthrie watched; hands tucked in his pockets, Tabitha Smith at his side. Having finished their day’s classes at MI, both had rounded back to the Mansion. Now, they watched in sober silence as Carol Danvers pulled back from Scott, head shaking as she angrily raged against their helpless situation. Though the look in her eyes wasn’t quite visible from where they stood, her body language cued them in enough on what she was feeling.

He heard Tabi wince, felt her shy away in something akin to sympathetic pain as Carol lifted her fist—a fist that had done much damage to things hardier than the human body—to strike down at Scott’s chest. The blow came, but there was no strength behind it as the woman crumpled inward, weak and obviously exhausted from worry. Worry that had sapped her of her superhuman strength better than any supervillain she’d encountered ever had.

Have to, have to, have to. It was a word that they had heard others say repeatedly over the course of the last few days. Remy and then Kurt and now Carol Danvers, Ms. Marvel herself.

“You alrigh’, Tab?” Sam asked softly, turning to his companion, her face turned away from the scene. Setting a gentle hand on her shoulder, he felt the need to say something, anything, but found that there was none.

“Sam,” another voice called to him, and he turned around, hand falling away to his side as he locked gazes with his younger brother.

“Jay,” he said simply, the nickname smooth on his tongue compared to when his brother had first arrived. In his head, Sam always called him Josh or Joshua, but to his face, it was always just ‘Jay’.

The red-haired Guthrie all but shoved his hands into the loose pockets of the sweats he’d pulled on that morning. School had been called off for two days straight now, since the adults had been coming and going without any certainty of actually coming back in time to handle their classes. For a moment, Jay glanced off to the side, as if to indicate the group of teens huddled several feet behind him, and then finally, he spoke: “Victor’s worried about Dani. We all are.” His voice was even and low.

In response, Sam could only nod. “Ah suppose you’ve been told, she went off to check up on James.” He said it plainly, as if nothing were amiss. “We haven’t heard from her since Tuesday. Ah’ve tried callin’, but her mobile number just keeps on ringing.” As if he didn’t have to stomach the possibility that she was gone too.

“Right,” Jay nodded, seemingly satisfied with that simple explanation. For a moment, both brothers regarded each other once more before the younger finally turned back to his friends, jogging lightly over to pass on the news.

“I’m going to the kitchen,” Tabitha’s voice pulled Sam back and when he saw her face, he noted that her eyes were guarded, an indication that her mind was working on shuffling around her thoughts.

It was a familiar look, one that he’d seen it enough times over the years that they’d known each other. It was a look that told him simply that what she wanted now, was breathing (and thinking) space. “Ah’ll go with you.” He murmured, falling into step beside her just as two more Avengers entered through the door.

“Jean, Scott.” Tony Stark’s helmet retracted from his face, sliding neatly into his armor as Steve Rogers reached out to gather the weeping Carol close, his brown, leather Avengers jacket now wrapped around her. The two X-Men nodded in acknowledgement, handshakes and hellos exchanged briefly thereafter. “Any news?” The multi-billionaire inventor asked without hope, nodding only in sober understanding when neither replied.

“We’re searching the city,” Steve reached out with his free hand to clasp Scott’s shoulder. “All Avengers have been alerted to the situation. We looked into the disappearances as soon as the numbers became too large to escape notice. As soon as we got word on…” he trailed off as Carol shook her head, the heels of her palms wiping at her tearstained cheeks. Steve’s next words caught both X-Men off-guard. “Luke, Jessica and Jewel are missing.”

The look that Scott and Jean exchanged prompted Tony to clear his throat. “Sam went to visit them last night. He’d bought baby Jewel a present and planned to share a nightcap with the couple. No one was there when he arrived.” He breathed a sigh as he shook his head, eyes shut, head tilted down. “Everything was in order; the doors and windows were shut and locked, tables and dishes clean. Sure, the Tv was turned off,” he let out a half-hearted chuckle, “but Luke just isn’t that neat, even with Jess breathing down his neck all day.”

“There was no sign of a break-in or struggle,” Cap gently ran fingers through Carol’s hair as her shoulders shook from the silent sobs that she hid from them. “We’re not sure when it happened. Could’ve just been last night, or even last Friday for all we know.” Tony rubbed his temple with his thumb and index finger. He obviously hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Steve was doing a better job hiding the fatigue, but that was likely attributed to the fact that his perfect body would never show it. “People don’t just up and vanish into thin air like th—”

“Steve, Tony, Carol,” the three Avengers looked up as Ororo Munroe descended the stairs. Her expression bespoke calm, but her eyes betrayed her true feelings. “The Professor would like to speak with you.”

“Of course, Ororo,” Steve nodded then, glancing once to his companions before moving towards the staircase, Carol at his side. Quietly, Tony sighed, turning his gaze to both Jean and Scott. “Nothing happens under his roof without him knowing about it,” he said the not-so-off-hand observation on Charles Xavier to the X-Men, and smiled weakly, before turning away to join his two friends.


“Scott,” Jean reaches out just as he leaves her side, turning away from the foyer to head down the corridor that leads straight to the back of the house. Curling her fingers over her heart she follows him in half-jog, reaching him just as he pushes open the back door to step outside onto the terrace.

“Scott,” she says again, fingertips brushing against his shoulder.

“Carol’s right.” He says it so softly she almost misses it. Coming to his side, she slides her hands along his waist until he is snug against her. It is as close to an embrace as she can manage. Right now, Scott isn’t exactly inclined to being held.

He’s tense, and she doesn’t know that just because of the ambient thoughts coming out of him—names, faces, feelings. The muscle in his forearms are tight. She credits that to the fists he’s made with his hands. His stomach is taut, as if holding breath; jaw just as firm, because of teeth clenched together.

“We’re not doing enough.”

“That’s not true.” She blinks, pressing her lips together as the words leave her mouth. “Scott, you know that’s not true.” She feels the frown between her own eyebrows, and as her mouth quavers, she curses herself inwardly. The last thing she needs to do is cry. The last thing anyone—any of the children needed to see—is this moment of weakness, of not knowing what to do.

He pulls away just as she closes in on calm, and in the moment that his warmth leaves her side, she bows her head, calm and steadiness further away than she can ever hope to reach.

Looking up, she sees him: arms crossed over his chest, feet braced apart, an image of long ago coming to mind. A time when they’d first graduated from this same school and Charles had pushed them to enjoy a few weeks of freedom; their last few as teens. It had been on Warren’s yacht, the sun had been just like this, setting into dark, and Scott had been looking out towards the breadth of ocean.

She’d peered into his mind, had seen him take off his glasses, deadly optic blasts gone, replaced by a pair of warm hazel eyes that hinted bronze as sunlight tinted them with gold.

Now, she knows, without having to look into his mind that in the sunlight he sees them all: all the ones now gone from sight, taken from them. She knows that he wants someone to blame for Alex’s disappearance, for Lorna getting caught up in that. For Rogue’s absence and the painful truth that there’s a boy still comatose in the infirmary. For Jamie and Rahne and Guido, who Peter had called in earlier had seemingly vanished without so much of a trace. For Dani and James, who they already know, despite their best efforts to deny it, aren’t coming home. For Warren and Betsy...


She swallows, recalling the brief, psychic conversation she’d had with Charles Xavier. Scott, she calls out to him without saying so much as a word.

“Someone has to call Brian.” She utters the words, her voice hesitant and just above a whisper. Turning, their psychic rapport conveying to him that no, she doesn’t think she has the strength to tell Brian Braddock—Captain Britain himself—that his twin sister has vanished somewhere between France and the United States. And yes, can you be there, beside me, when I dial his number?

“Jean.” Her name is a balm of sorts as he reaches for her, pulling her close as she permits the tears to come, sobs like chunks of not-quite-shredded-ice marring the insides of her throat.


They’ve watched Jean and Scott from this window before. They had been young, full of dreams—sheltered, even, though not one of them would be prepared to admit that. As the eldest, Hank had been the one to chide its not good, Robert, to encourage voyeurism. He’d laughed it off, elbowing his older friend in the ribs, saying something or another about Hank being just as curious as he to see if Slim actually had the guts to kiss their lovely Jean.

Warren had often opted to play pool on the same, slightly weathered but well-loved pool table sitting still in this very rec room. The table had been Warren’s gift to ‘his boys’, and the game had been the winged wonder’s way of brooding.

Jean, after all, was his best friend, and the law of proximity dictated that he was the man the pretty redhead was supposed to fall for.

You’ve forgotten to factor in the allure of mystery, Bobby remembered telling him. It had been mid-autumn, and Scott had been ready to leave for a few days to visit his brother, Alex, who lived with the foster family who had adopted him. You gotta admit, Slim’s got that one up on the rest of us.

“Hank,” the voice that interrupted their shared silence caused them both to turn to see Tony Stark and Steve Rogers walking over, leaving Carol and Ororo to stand quiet by the door. It had been Tony who had called out, and Hank crossed the space between, “Any word? Any news, my friend?” clasping the other man’s hand firmly in his own—one Avenger to another—as if to do so might bring good news.

When Tony shook his head, “I’m sorry,” the heavy-hearted reply, Hank McCoy stepped back, nodding and mute.

Bobby watched this quietly, hands tucked and warm in the pockets of his sweater as the two men turned back to the door, Captain America and Iron Man once more as they returned to Carol’s side. The three Avengers then followed Ororo out of sight, to what Bobby knew would be the far end of the hall. As for Hank? Hank looked like his heart was breaking.

Shaking his head wordlessly, Bobby walked over to sit in the nearby couch. “What is it, Bobby?” The question drew his gaze up to where Hank was flexing his fingers, as if the action might right the world.

“I just… dunno how much more the old man can take.” Bobby shook his head, a weight settling about his shoulders. “I dunno how much more… what with the Avengers knocking on his door when his kids are—” Lights from outside cut through the dark, striking the room and Bobby’s eyes with an ominous sort of brightness. When the light faded, the sound of breaking tires screeched all the way from downstairs and outside, and a loud sort of BANG signaled the sudden opening of the front door.

When Doug’s voice cried out in near-desperation for help, the blood in Bobby’s veins ran colder than the ice he could generate.

It was second nature—first, really—as Hank bounded out from the rec room, Bobby not far behind. Over the railing, the eldest of Xavier’s first class displayed why exactly he’d been named ‘The Beast’, deftly jumping the rail like a low fence, acrobatics of a sort slowing his otherwise brutal fall. As Bobby didn’t have such reflexes, he instinctively froze the staircase banister and slid down, landing not three seconds after, to stand and turn to Jean with an “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I know—no ice in the house. I’ll wipe the floor.”

But Jean’s—and everyone else’s—attention was turned to the man at Doug’s side, the much larger, muscular form supported by the former Gen-Xers slighter frame. The ex-time-traveler was spouting gibberish, his eyes were wildly unfocused. “Forge.” He said finally, with a measure of coherence, all but stumbling and taking Doug down with him. “They took—Forge.”

“What happened?” The heads of those gathered turned to see Iron-Man—helmet donned—descending, thrusters set to low as not to scorch the polished floor. In his hands was The Professor in his wheelchair, who he lowered slowly onto the marble floor whilst Captain America slid down Bobby’s ice slide with perfect balance, rushing to take the weight of the injured man off of the young Douglas Ramsey’s shoulders. “Easy there, big fella’.” He said as Scott crossed the foyer to catch the slightly hysterical man’s face in his hands.

“Couldn’t—save him.” Bishop’s eyes were glazed over as he shook in spasms. “Too many—of them. Too—strong.” Dirt was smudged all over his face and his clothes were ripped and bloodstained in so many places. “Had—to get away… needed to get—help.” He shook harder and started to scream: “Let go of him! Forge!—it’s a—trap! Forge!” He started to flail roughly, held in place only by Captain America’s strong arms. “Forge!”

“Bishop.” Scott strained to keep the man’s face firmly in his hands, and tried to get Bishop to look at him. “Bishop.” To calm him down. “Bishop!” Scott cried out and the shaking stopped as Bishop seemed to deflate, strength seeping away as his body dropped to its knees as if it were dead-weight. “Bishop, talk to me. What happened?”

“Scott?” It was as if his vision was slowly blurring in, with the face of his team leader fading into solid. “Scott,” Bishop’s tone was urgent as his hands gripped Cyclops’ arms like a vise, “they took Forge from the base. I—” his words were cut off as he burst into a fit of coughing. From where she stood, Storm stepped forward with the intention of checking up on him, but Jean caught her wrist to hold her back.

It was Steve who patted Bishop’s back, while Scott set one hand on his shoulder. When the coughing subsided, Bishop spoke, forcing himself to continue: “I stowed away in the back of their truck and would’ve gone with them all the way when I noticed that they were only faking not knowing I was there.”

At this point in time, Tabitha and Sam had returned from the kitchen followed by a few others. Without needing to be told, they began ushering Jimmy and the other children, to Max Jordan’s dismay, out of the foyer and back up to their rooms.

Not sparing a glance to the young ones filtering out, Storm strode to the kitchen with the intention of getting Bishop a glass of water and a towel to help clean him up. Kitty followed not long after, slipping away quietly whilst Bobby and Emma approached Doug, who had seated himself on the nearest patch of floor, his back to the wall as he focused on evening out his breathing. Jean moved to stand by Carol as they all listened to what their friend had to say:

“I broke away from my hiding place to try to get to Forge but they were on us faster and harder than even Wolverine on a bad day.”

At that moment, the phone in Scott’s ppocket beeped twice and Logan’s voice made itself audible: “Boy scout, you there?” And as Jean knelt forward to check on Bishop, Scott pulled out his phone to take the call. Logan was using the team direct-frequency, which meant it was urgent. “Logan, I’m here.” He spoke into the receiver, as he turned to glance back at his injured teammate, who the Professor and Steve were now questioning.

“What’s going on there, Cyclops? I thought I heard Bishop. He told me that he and Forge weren’t going to be back till Christmas so what’s that baldy doing at the mansion?”

“He says there was an attempt to kidnap him and Forge.” Scott answered, “looks like Doug found him on the way back from MI.” A pause as he noted that they had now moved the large man to one of the nearby hallway seats. “He got away but they got Forge.” Storm had also returned, Kitty behind her with a small basin of water. Scott noted Bishop’s brief wince as Jean proceeded to clean out the cut under his cheek. “Bishop’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Me, Petey and the elf are heading back. I’ll tell you what we’ve got in the control room. Right now, just tell Bishop to keep away from the tub. Logan out.”

Stuffing his phone back into his pocket, Scott stepped back to Bishop’s side. Though beaten up, the ex-time travel’s military instincts took over. “What happened?” He asked. “What did Logan need?”

“He said to keep you from the tub.” Scott replied simply.

“I’m okay, Scott.” Bishop looked startled for a moment at the strange request. “I’m not going to kill myself cause of this.”

“He needs to sniff you.” The latter responded said flatly, obviously aware of what Logan had meant. At that, Bishop glanced away, sheepish. “Oh.”

Tags: earth 626, official release
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