I got no excuse. Is that all right?
It's different when the day ends and night begins, right when the light starts to fall. Lately, it's different all the time, but night always carries something else in it. Rogue supposes it's simply a part of the dark and shadows, not seeing things clearly or knowing what's out there until it's closer than it should be. It's a lack of control,
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She's walking back to the Kashtta instead of going anywhere.
She might later go out on patrol, but for now she's just walking back towards the building.
Not really looking forward to the conversation that awaits her.
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When he gets close enough to see smaller details, things that blend from a distance, he stops. He takes a breath and waits several moments before speaking.
"Hello, Jo." He looks away for a moment, and if his hand tightens on his keys, it's only enough to give him a reminder. "I've been waiting to speak with you, but I think it's important that we talk now. Do you have a minute?"
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"Kind of in a hurry here," she says, keeping her voice neutral. She's not inviting invitation and for once, she's not inviting trouble, either.
She's already got plenty of that. All of the Wanderers do, for that matter.
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"It won't take long," he assures her, "and I think it will answer a few questions you might have had. If it doesn't, I'll gladly answer any you have." Probably.
He'll step back, just once, to give her more room. He's giving himself more room.
In case her interest isn't piqued, however, he adds a little something. "That day in the park? When you were injured? I knew it was you without previously knowing you were a shifter. I already knew."
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He has no idea what he is hearing the thoughts of right now, but it's recently dead and motherfucking angry about it. The carcass, right outside the doorway and nearly under the soles of his boots, is unidentifiable - though he's not sure if that's because of how badly it's been beaten or because it's something he's never seen before.
And he's really really close to it and it's really really angry and it's screaming in his head and fuck fuck fuck.
He's not going to pass out. He's not. He -
Shit. He's on his knees clutching his head and he might be yelling a little himself and he can't get away from it. Shit.
Well this is new.
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Panic strikes her, and she thinks maybe she didn't finish the thing. Maybe it's still alive and it's hurting someone. Her feet don't touch the pavement as she turns, and she's over at Miles' side in mere seconds.
Her first instinct is to make sure the creature is not somehow hurting this guy, and she kicks the dead mass of pointy sharp badness about thirty yards away.
She watches the carcass, waiting to see if it moves, then breathes out before kneeling down next to the man. A gloved hand reaches out but doesn't touch.
"What's hurtin' you? Do you need a doctor?"
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He's aware of crouching on the ground treacherously close to the blood splatter on the ground, holding his head, and maybe there are tears in his eyes. Maybe.
He can still hear the incoherent shrieking, but it's a lot further away now, and he can think over it, though he'd like to get away from it entirely. Now.
He flinches when the girl speaks. He had no idea she was there, but she must have gotten rid of the thing somehow.
It takes him another moment, but he chokes out, "I'm... I'm better now. That thing - what is that? It's really fucking pissed that somebody or something killed it."
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He's also saying that the dead creature is pissed off, though. It takes a few moments for her to process that, but she figures it's some kind of telepathy thing. Or something.
She doesn't doubt that it would be pissed off as she truly kicked it's ass three ways from Sunday, and she doesn't doubt that he...somehow knows that it's pissed off.
Hearing the dead just isn't something she's real familiar with.
"It was one of the monsters that fall through the rift," she says quietly. "I took it down. I'm sorry ...if that hurt you, somehow." Rogue can't be sorry that she took the monster out, as it would've hurt someone, but she doesn't like being the source of anybody's pain, in any way.
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She blinks at who she sees, brows furrowing with concern. "Doctor?"
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This place is different and off-balance in the way of things.
Everything is nothing he expects.
"Hello again," he says, attempting a smile once he recognizes who it is. It's a poor attempt for the Doctor, really, and even as he realizes this, he tries to reach for something within himself that will give him enough peace to throw off this mood. "Terribly sorry. I'm being rather noisy, aren't I? How are you?"
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Sympathy flashes in her eyes as she wonders if he's feeling the same way everyone else is: hurt, scared, desperate to help. He is a Wanderer, after all, but she can't assume much.
"And so are you," she gently reminds him. "But I guess you're-well. You have a reason for kicking cans, I think?"
And yet she assumes anyway.
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There's a glimmer of something that lights in him, something that's always sought out what he's found here.
"I am, and yes. I have a reason, though it's unfair to unleash my frustration on the world." His hands emphasize each of his words, whirling around his head not unlike a small, broken windmill. Just saying the words out loud feels like layering a sheet of memory, and there's guilt inside it.
"I'm looking for a ladder," he says honestly, "to break into a building. A station." He has little hope that the building will have much useful information pertaining to the recent murders, but any hope is more than none.
It's impossible to sit idly by and do nothing while there's rage and fear surrounding them all. He needs something to act upon, wherever or however it starts.
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