singillatim | ▷ open & closed - get about as oiled as a diesel train

It doesn't take Logan very long to get an idea of how things work in Milton, at least when it comes to the little community that's sprung up around the empty town. In his experience, these things tend to go one of two ways: either everyone bands together for the good of their group, usually under some charismatic leader; or it becomes an all out war with every man for himself. Methuselah seems to be doing a pretty good job of keeping things together for now, but Logan doesn't doubt things could slide pretty easily, especially with supplies getting scarce. So he stays wary, watchful, a wolf on the edge of the pack.

But that doesn't mean he's beyond making a few mistakes. Pain, boredom and too much hard liquor is never a good combination. He wakes up in the days after the brawl with bruises stamped on his body that shouldn't be there, black smudges under his eyes and a boot print across his ribs, bones aching with a cold that can't be driven back no matter how close he sits to the wood stove in the little cabin he's claimed. But he keeps himself going, keeps his head down and goes about his business.

At least he can help. In the early days of the month he spends most of his time hunting for game outside the town. Under the bed in his new home he finds a rifle, the stock inscribed with unfamiliar initials, that just needs a little cleaning. It saves him using his claws on deer and larger game, which is useful, since his hands hurt enough without any more new cuts. The cabin also furnishes him with some cold weather clothing -- another unfamiliar need.

More than once he makes the short hike up to the hot springs, looking for something to ease the aches that come from hauling around his metal skeleton, not to mention the various injuries he's picking up. He's pretty shameless when it comes to stripping off, not caring if someone else is already in the springs before he starts shedding his clothes and sliding into the steaming water with a grateful noise.

When he's not out of town, Logan can be found in the Community Hall or out among the unused cabins, a cigar stuck between his teeth, investigating anything he might be able to fix or reclaim with the attitude of an experienced scavenger.

Edited 2024-05-05 16:36 (UTC)

"Find anythin' useful?"

Claudia's standing not far away when Logan emerges from a cabin, her small silhouette bordered by the faint moonlight. It's dark enough for her to be out, at last; tucked up in her her finely made, fur-lined coat, she looks as if she's just out for a simple evening stroll.

"I would've thought everyone else already took it all by now."

The thing is, Logan's not used to being surprised. Until he arrived in this godforsaken freezer, he would have heard her arrive outside, would have been able to pick up on the scent of her breath and the sweat in her clothes, the musk of the fur she's wrapped in, even the oil she used on her hair. As it is, he doesn't spot her until he's heading out and sees her from one of the windows, irritated at being hunted down by whoever this is.

He steps out of the front door and closes it behind him, even though there's not much point. There's a cigar clamped between his teeth and fading bruises on his face.

"Not everything," he says, plucking the stogie out of his mouth and holding up a box of rifle ammunition, giving it a rattle as he drops down the porch steps and onto the crunch of the snow.

"If you're looking for a handout," he adds, slipping the ammo into the pocket of his jacket, "you're in the wrong place."

He doesn't wait around for a response, already starting off through the snow towards the next cabin.

"I don't want a handout."

It's hard to let go of the mindset that she doesn't need to look after herself like other people do, because she's stronger than other people are. She's lived like that longer than she's lived any other way. It's like losing the ability to breathe without making yourself do it, mechanically pulling in each breath and pressing it out. It makes it harder to go to sleep.

She follows him at something of a distance. "I don't know how to use a gun, anyway. Bullets wouldn't be much use to me."

"Sure." Logan doesn't sound like he believes her, but he doesn't do anything to stop her following along through the snow. If she wants to watch him raid some poor snowbird's summer cabin, that's her business. She might look like a kid, but she's not his responsibility, and Logan is damned if he's going to pick up another stray in this mess.

He pauses for a moment when he reaches the boundaries of the next property, dulled senses stretched to make use of the thin moonlight bouncing off the snow and the fog. His breath plumes in front of him as he stands in the snow. If she moves behind him, he'll put out a hand to indicate that she should stop.

"Bear," he says, in a low voice. His gaze is fixed on a corner of the cabin up ahead, under the overhang of the porch, where a shadowed and furry shape is digging through what little remains of the garbage cans. "Stay still."

Sam went out for a smoke and felt like she should offset the damage to her lungs, so a short stroll around the neighborhood turned into a hike through Milton's outskirts. Her built-in ability to keep warm allows her to roam further than she would otherwise dare; Sam only realizes how far out of the way she has traveled by trampling into someone's hunting grounds.

"Shit!" The deer she scared away disappears over a snowy hill and Sam has the good sense to look deeply apologetic as she turns to address the hunter. She approaches from an angle so he can see her coming but can't quickly aim his rifle her way. Just in case. "I'm sorry I ruined your shot. Do you smoke? I can make it up to you in cigarettes."

It doesn't take much to startle a deer. A snapping twig, a shadow that looks wrong, a hint of a predator's scent on the breeze. Logan's spent a long time learning how to hunt, both with weapons and with his hands, and he knows how to be cautious, quiet and careful.

Which means nothing when his stalk is interrupted by another Interloper blundering through the brush like she's walking to the mall. As the deer turns and bolts into the trees, Logan straightens up from his crouch with a scowl, lowering his rifle from his shoulder.

"I'd rather have the deer than a cigarette, kid," he grouses, but only takes a beat or two to think about it before he sighs and starts forward to walk to where the deer was browsing, reaching out to touch some of the tough winter needles it was stripping from a nearby pine sapling.

"You coulda got shot. Stupid to be walking out here."

Sam rolls her eyes, which won't help her beat the "kid" allegations but she is too annoyed to stop herself. She knows that she messed up and he has every reason to be upset but he made her feel defensive and now she has no choice but to double down.

"'Could've got shot' is a convenient way to frame it." She crosses her arms in front of herself and narrows her eyes at him, trying to look intimidating yet painfully aware that she is more likely coming off petulant. "If you could've shot me for walking by, maybe you shouldn't be out here with a rifle."

Having faced down his fair share of moody teenagers by now, Logan doesn't react to the eyeroll beyond his scowl becoming a degree or so darker as he turns to look at her.

"Maybe you shouldn't have been walking by where you could've been shot," he points out, not avoiding a small amount of petulance himself. He's not exactly in a great mood, and the fog is thickening again, meaning that was probably the last decent shot he'll have for the rest of the day.

"What the hell are you doing out here anyway?"

"You must be new if you think there's anywhere we're safe from being shot." Sam has been lucky enough to avoid the Forest Talkers so far but she has heard about their indiscriminate gunfire. Admittedly, the group is more of a Lakeside problem but Sam omits that detail for argument's sake.

"Cabin fever." Her answer is delivered with a shrug, as if she knows how weak it sounds. "I know it's dangerous, I'm not stupid. If I let fear of injury keep me inside, I'd be living as a hermit."

It's not the first time Logan's heard about the potential for violence in the wilderness around Milton, but he's not phased by it. At least he knows that a bullet is unlikely to do him much harm, even without his healing factor. He eyes the kid thoughtfully, unimpressed with her answer.

"Maybe you ought to be."

He takes a glance around, frowning, then lifts the gun onto his shoulder. "C'mon, I'll walk you back. You can let me have that smoke."

Another eye roll. Is this how Tara feels when Sam goes in on her over a forgotten taser or an unsecured deadbolt? Karma is really getting the last laugh right now.

She is half-tempted to turn down the hunter's offer; he hardly seems like good company. But she does owe him that smoke and even a small debt is best settled sooner than later.

Reaching into her back pocket for cigarettes means drawing attention to the sheathed hunting knife that hangs from her belt. She hopes that he doesn't ask about it because she has yet to use it for actual hunting. A pair of cigarettes is wedged between her lips so she only has to do this once: with a snap of her fingers she conjures a small flame at her fingertips to light both cigarettes. The flame is out by the time she offers the second cigarette to the hunter.

"Do you have a name?" She asks around the cigarette left in her mouth, which bounces up and down with every word.

The knife isn't all that surprising, though Logan is curious to see such a big blade on such a small chick. At least she's carrying it as though she knows how to use it, and he's immediately distracted by the way she snaps her fingers to conjure the flame -- something he's seen before, though not here. He'd assumed, since talking to Daisy, that everyone was in the same boat when it came to losing their powers.

"Logan," he replies, taking the cigarette, not seeing any reason to lie. He gestures at her hand. "Nice trick."

"My gift from the aurora. That's about as much as I can do with it," Sam admits. "And it only took me—" She rolls her eyes back like she's trying to see inside of her brain as she calculates. "—five months? Every decent fire I've started was by accident."

That sounds familiar. During his time at Xavier's, Logan witnessed plenty of accidents from kids who were too powerful to handle themselves, only stopped from hurting themselves or others thanks to the intervention of their teachers or peers. It's not like getting an ability like that came with a guidebook.

Logan takes a drag on his cigarette, enjoying the dry warmth of the nicotine. Smoke plumes from his nostrils on the exhale.

"Gift from the aurora, huh?" He eyes Sam thoughtfully. "Could be worse. At least it's useful out here."

"Yeah, I think that was the point. There was a dream that came with it: this woman's voice said it was a way for us to level the playing field or something like that." She frowns, exhaling and watching the smoke billow into the cold wind. "Maybe it was supposed to give us a fighting chance against the Darkwalker but strong emotions make it harder to control and that motherfucker induces fear on a supernatural scale."

Thinking of the Interlopers who haven't made it this far brings a sharp pang of guilt. She should have done something more than cower in the dark.

Kate found in the Community Hall most days; she lives there, but she always around — plenty work to be done with cooking and cleaning since everyone drops by. She's in the kitchen, getting through dishes, mentally singing church hymns. She's just about managed to not always broadcast her thoughts to the world around her but it still happens — the words to the air like some kind of religious radio station.

Someone else enters and while the singing stops, there's nothing more than a passing glance up from the dishes. She does a double take. It's the cigar she notes first, and she turns — flustering a little for a moment. "Um, excuse me. If you could not— oh."

She stops when she finally looks at the man properly. He's one of the newer Interlopers, she realises. And not only that— her expression dimming.

"It's you." she's not exactly thrilled, but she keeps her tone mild. "You're one of the ones from the fight."

The one with Wynonna. The one where Lieutenant Little got knocked out.

The singing is what he hears first, leaking through some door in his mind already kicked open by Xavier and Jean, through the metal static of scar tissue and fractured memories. He assumes, as he walks in, that it's the kid in the little kitchen area, and doesn't notice that her mouth wasn't actually moving.

He's got the remnants of a snare in one hand, cigar in the other as he knocks icy slush off his boots. The bruises on his face are fading, thumbprints of purple under his eyes from the broken nose courtesy of Jason, and the bandages around his knuckles aren't bloodstained even if they are dirty from working out in the fog and the forest.

The girl's words have his eyebrows inching upwards. It's you is rarely the start of a friendly introduction, in Logan's experience. He scowls, then dismisses her, heading to one of the tables to set down the coils of wire and wooden pegs.

"Yeah, so what's it to you?"

Okay, wow. Rude, mister. Kate bristles a little but she pauses, letting the moment pass. Okay, fine. He's being defensive. She reaches for a dishtowel to dry off her hands; defensiveness or not, she's still pretty unhappy about what's happened — for a number of reasons.

"Wynonna's my friend." Being the first reason. Her getting shot last month being another, but she doesn't mention that part. Wynonna is a grown adult, yeah. And she's not entirely stoked about her actions of getting involved in that whole mess. "You were in the fight."

Which brings her to another point:

"The same one where Lieutenant Little got knocked out."

And she's even more unhappy about that.

"That's his name?"

Logan doesn't look up at her, too busy untying the wire from around the pegs, careless of the melting snow and dirt he's leaving on the tabletop. No sense wasting it, when they've got such limited resources.

"He was the one who chose to get involved, kid. Let him live with the consequences. As for Wynonna -- she gave as good as she got." There's a hint of satisfaction to that last remark. He's not beyond hoping for another round with her.

"He was trying to stop you guys fighting." Kate's brow furrows, and she hovers for a moment. She has a great deal of affection for the man. He's important to her, and she cares about him a whole lot.

"Fighting's not okay." Her cheeks puffs a little in indignation, but she— looks more like small annoyed animal than anything. She takes a breath, shakes her head. "Like, okay. So I get you're new here and everything— but like... this place is not cool. There's some serious supernatural stuff going on. This place wants us dead."

He might not be looking at her, but she sure is looking at him. Serious, but also imploringly.

"Not to mention we're in the middle of nowhere with limited supplies. The last thing we need is brawls in the street where someone might end up killing someone."

You know, like what might happen when someone gets punched in the face.

"Not my first time, kid." That goes for being in the middle of nowhere and for being somewhere that wants him dead. Most places he's been to tend to end up that way, once they find out what he is.

He flicks a glance over at her as he unspools the wire, dropping it onto the table, then looks away again.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," he points out, which is a stupid thing to say considering he definitely meant to hit him. But he also doesn't feel like he needs to apologize to this strange kid. "Maybe he'll learn to duck next time."

"... Doesn't that mean you should know better?" Genuinely asking, raising an eyebrow at him. If he's been through something like this before, then, like— that's invaluable experience. But also... don't you kind of learn from that sort of thing?

Oh. So he is the one who did the punching. Kate's frowning in disapproval for a long moment but it passes and she's inhaling and exhaling heavily. She's so tired of stuff.

"You know, it'd be super nice if there wasn't a next time." Look, she's just saying. Fighting is not cool! "He's a good man, and he's been through a whole lot. He means a lot to me too."

Both him and Wynonna.

▷ open & closed - get about as oiled as a diesel train

▷ open - post-brawl - early May - I may use a little muscle to get what I need

cabins!

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hunting

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community hall;

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