It's been.. days? Weeks? Logan's used to keeping track of time in unconventional places -- jail cells, giant cages, strapped to a table in a lab, the occasional dank basement while being picked apart by cannibals -- but something about this place is messing with him. Could be the endless night, could be the fact that nowhere looks the same twice. Could just be the low grade adamantium poisoning fever he's been running since he arrived, which hasn't been helped by the fact that winter has decided to come all over the damn place with no warning.
Dark. Cold enough that his breath clouds in front of him. At least he avoided the flood, although hanging from a telephone pole in a blizzard wasn't exactly a day at the park. He closes his fists on the red burn of frostbite that's refusing to fade away on his palms. It itches the deep unsettling itch of slowly healing skin, eating away at his ability to cope. He thought he was used to that feeling. Turns out, not so much.
He's at least got something else to wear besides his uniform: a hoodie that smells like peanuts and has pockets of bits of them, shells crunching under his fingers as he shoves his hands into them. Better than nothing.
The smell of wood smoke guides him through the building he's found himself in. It's undercut with the sharp copper tang of blood and a familiar scent. Teenage hormones and gutsy resolve.
He doesn't bother trying to hide from her. Admires the woodchips as he steps through them, scuffing them back into place as he passes.
She looks up and tells him what he already knows.
"You ain't exactly lookin' so good yourself, kid." He shrugs out of his hoodie, warm from his body heat -- one benefit of running too warm -- and holds it out to her.
c
Dark. Cold enough that his breath clouds in front of him. At least he avoided the flood, although hanging from a telephone pole in a blizzard wasn't exactly a day at the park. He closes his fists on the red burn of frostbite that's refusing to fade away on his palms. It itches the deep unsettling itch of slowly healing skin, eating away at his ability to cope. He thought he was used to that feeling. Turns out, not so much.
He's at least got something else to wear besides his uniform: a hoodie that smells like peanuts and has pockets of bits of them, shells crunching under his fingers as he shoves his hands into them. Better than nothing.
The smell of wood smoke guides him through the building he's found himself in. It's undercut with the sharp copper tang of blood and a familiar scent. Teenage hormones and gutsy resolve.
He doesn't bother trying to hide from her. Admires the woodchips as he steps through them, scuffing them back into place as he passes.
She looks up and tells him what he already knows.
"You ain't exactly lookin' so good yourself, kid." He shrugs out of his hoodie, warm from his body heat -- one benefit of running too warm -- and holds it out to her.