Too Easy Pt. II

July 26, 2018:

Warnings: There is torture of an NPC here. Nothing very explicit, but it's there. You are warned. Mental torture/Logan's stabbines. Back-date to Too Easy Pt. I. Lorna, Logan, and Esme find out the information they need.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

It was fully dark when the car pulled into an abandoned lot some where outside of New York city proper. Not even a humble street light was left to illuminate the patchy, grass cracked concrete. The place had once been a building, some kind flavor or another. Decades ago. Now all that remained was the deep roots of the foundations. Spray painted by kids and hollowed out to create a make-shift skate park for all the local teenagers that wanted to be 'edge-y'

The only light came from the car's headlights, that remained on. Doctor Sales remained bound in ripped out seat belts, a piece of cloth muffling his voice. He cursed, he tried to shout, he thought nasty, dark things about what he wished for against the three mutants surrounding him. Esme would doubtlessly pick up the horrible experiments he'd done in Genosha, as he flung them mentally at the telepath.

Lorna stood, arms crossed as she shifted her weight on booted feet, staring down at the guy. "Find anything useful in there?" She drawled, watching the man struggle for a long moment before she asked the question. Her eyes narrowed into a faint glare.


This one is going a lot better than the last time Logan was involved. There's something deflating about seeing a grown man urinate himself at out fear. It also takes any pleasure out of exacting revenge when they plead. This one, though. This one wants to fight. If his past actions weren't evident, there might even be an ounce of respect for the bound man.

Logan stands to the side of the car, his back leaning against the driver's side door with his arms crossed over his chest and a cigar burning between his teeth. He peers over his shoulder at the struggling man, his eyebrows perpetually furrowed as his eyes drift from the prisoner to Esme and Lorna and then back. He trusts his partners in crime to keep things under control, but a man this wound up can surprise you. He doesn't want any surprises.

"He's really putting up a fight," Esma replies. She is squinting slightly as she studies the man's face, blue eyes thoughtful. "I could drag something out of him but I'm worried I'd break him first. Then there woun't be anything we can really learn."


Esme's left glove is ztill off. She isn't touching Doctor Sales anymore, but she had been cradling his cheek for a moment. She seemed somewhat vexed when he didn't reply to it. "He's trying to make me- reliveh is experiments. He's /proud/ of them. Still." She bites her lip briefly. "How badly do we /really/ need him intact…?"


Lorna pursed her lips irritation bright in her green eyes as she watched Esme break just about every rule the X-men had ingrained as far as telepathic usage went. Not that she hadn't already broken several rules, official or otherwise recently.. She reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"We have the lists for a few other leads. He's the only one from the conditioning program on Genosha that we had a solid lead on. The only one stupid enough to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. The others will take more work, but I'm sure if we tried we could find them." She dropped her hand, and iron rebar came thrusting through the ground as she bent nearer to the scientist. The metal reached up, curling tightly around his neck and squeezed lightly.

"Of course, if he proud of his work, and bringing it here, might as well give him a collar too. See how much he likes it." She snarled softly.

The Doctor grunted, glaring hatefully at them all. Though he managed to get the car strap off from around his mouth via his struggles. "You'll regret this, you'll all regret this. Killing me won't stop my work. The mutant problem won't be a problem in a handful of years. This country will reach heights that Genosha only dreamed of." He hissed, and images of enslaved mutants flashed over his mind's eye. Many conditioned to the point they no longer needed collars. They acted as ordered. Tattooed and numbered neatly. Orderly. And his work getting lauded for helping to start it all.


As the scientist continues to struggle and effectively avoid having his mind read in a helpful way, Logan growls and pushes away from the car. The cigar swivels from one corner of his mouth to the other as he trudges towards Sales with his hands balled into tight fists. As the rebar wraps around his neck, Logan drops to one knee and slams his fist into the man's left foot. His eyes rise to meet the face of the gasping man as the muscles in his hand ripple and metal grinds, his claws springing between his fingers and neatly through the foot and into the concrete below. He may be mentally prepared for telepathic activity, but scientists aren't very good at physical pain. If he is, Logan will find out just how good he is.

Logan's fist presses *hard* against Sales's foot, making sure his claws are being felt. He rotates his hand very slightly, his claws twisting between the bones and tissue in the Doctor's foot to give him a little something extra.

"Your work, doctor? You hardly-" Then Logan interjects. Esme watches dispassionately as the torture takes place, icy blue eyes somewhat distant as she takes in all of this. She regards it the way one watches an ant die. With distanced interest, if you care about it at all.

Esme waits patiently until the clawed mutant finishes and offers Lorna a nod of acknowledgment. "Fair enough. I'll be gentle. In fact, I can keep him sane if Logan's methods prove too much for him." Then she turns back to Doctor Sales. "As I was saying, excuse me. Your work consists of finding ways to use bureaucracy to steal credit for the genius of others. You're a hack. A fraud. You're hardly worth my time but it seems you do know at least one thing of worth so we are going to continue until you divulge it. Let me make myself very clear."

Esme steps in past Logan, twisting slightly to avoid getting in his way. She lifts her bared hand and gently brushes the Doctor's hair away from his face. She cups his cheek in her hand and purses her red lips as she leans close. The girl is almost close enough to touch, blue eyes staring into his as she moves in near enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath. And she whispers, "He's been torturing you for thirty seconds. The next thirty seconds could feel like a hundred years. You could be a senile old man. Your intelligence, spent. And he'd still be torturing you. I'm not a very patient person, Doctor Sales."


It was decidedly a good thing that the abandoned lot was some ways away from civilization proper. Because while the collar didn't stop Doctor Sales from his insulting discourse, Logan's figure stilled him. Even as he made choked sounds against the iron rebar, a scream ripped from his lips as Logan did his brutal work. There was blood, a good amount of it, and Logan's sentiments were correct.

The man's mental strength was intact purely in response to his physical capabilities. This man was no soldier. He wasn't trained to withstand pain. He was a man that took pride in his mental strength, and less so in daily work-outs or physically pushing himself. When he was done screaming, he was left a sobbing, hateful mess. The collar of iron holding him under Lorna's grip. Lorna glanced once at Esme, arching a green eyebrow as she leaned back and gave the other two some space. A silent question was all that she offered, as she settled back on her heels and watched, unblinking or bothered at seeing the bigot-former-Genoshan sobbing before her.

"S-stop it." He choked out, rasping. "Please."


It's always the same thing. They put up a solid fight and talk a big game when they don't feel too threatened physically. As soon as the claws come out things tend to go in an entirely new direction for them. Tonight is no different. As the hate-filled rage gives way to intense pain and fear, the claws disappear back into Logan's hands.

With a grunt, Logan pushes himself back to his feet and takes a few steps back. He holds a fist up and looks down at the Doctor's blood that lingers from the retraction of his claws. With a grimace, he wipes the back of his hand against his jeans, his eyes shifting back to the sobbing coward. "Don't make me come back," he says as he turns and heads back towards the car, sucking down a long drag from his cigar.


"Oh, look. He stopped. Thank you for cooperation, Alan. Don't worry. We're not going to hurt you again." Esme's fingers curl against the doctor's cheek and she leans forward to plant a brief, chaste kiss on the man's forehead. His eyes roll upward into his head. The young blonde mutant tugs on that missing glove as she turns and walks away from the man.

"We can take him with us or we could even leave him here if you want," Esme states somewhat dismissively. "Either way I don't expect to see much from him again." She doesn't even look back as she strides toward the nearby car. "Thank you for your help, Logan. We couldn't have done this one without you."

The hallway is dimly lit by aa flickering bulb. Alan walks along it slowly, looking around. It's just a seemingly endless string of doors leading into the darkness but really, it's home. The same home he comes home to every single day. Old, creaky floorboards. A small kitchen with an island opposite a clean white counter. He walks over to the bare wooden kitchen table where his mashed potato, turkey, and green bean dinner is congealing in its own gravy.

"Alan." It's a rough, shaky older voice. "Alan, what are you doing home from school so late? Didn't I tell you to come straight back and help me with the car?"
"I'm sorry, dad. I had track practice. State Finals were next week."
"When I tell you to come home you do it." Alan's father strikes him across the cheek. He recoils. They struggle. He throws his father through one of the hallway doors and into darkness. Darkness…
Alan is standing in a dimly lit hallway. This time, he turns. His father is there. "I'm sorry I'm late, dad. I'll do better.

"It's too late for that boy."

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