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October 2018 Test Drive Meme

OCTOBER 2018 TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to October’s Test Drive Meme! This month's Test Drive's theme is: HALLOWEEN HORROR.

All Test Drive Memes contain at least one clue to the Deerington's upcoming in-game events for the month! Keep your eyes peeled! But...not literally.

Characters may die during TDMs, but you do not need to count it towards a game-canonical death unless you want to. Consider it a freebie. All TDMs can be considered game canon as TDMs introduce minor aspects about the world of Deerington that can be revisited by characters later on in the game. You may also use TDMs for your application writing sample as well as AC.

CW: Wet and rotting corpses/zombies, ghosts, violence, blood, knives, possessed dolls, options for underage drinking

Don't forget to tag content whenever necessary. Have fun!

Prompt One
Prompt Two
Character Arrival
Master Navigation

IT’S JUST A BUNCH OF HOCUS POCUS

It’s not Halloween if you don’t make a trip to a cheesy haunted house. At least, that’s what everyone in Deerington likes to say. The old Victorian stands at the top of a hill, rickety and in desperate need of a new paint job. The yard and porch have been decorated with what you’d expect for your typical haunted house; fake spider webs spread across the overhang, painted foam grave markers with cheesy names like “Here lies Richard Cranium” and “BEWARE!!” in creepy letter etchings. You can see the blinking of variously timed strobe lights in some windows and the shadow of what you’re pretty sure is a full-sized doll standing in the window, meant to look like someone staring out at you. The rocking chair on the porch near the door has a skeleton with a bowl of candy in his lap, and a sign is propped up against the wall next to him.

“ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. TOUCH NOTHING AND NOTHING WILL TOUCH YOU!”

Well that sounds promising.

The first few rooms you enter are appropriately cheesy. There’s the silly burst of air that you hear just before a plastic figuring pops out of a poorly constructed coffin, the clicking sound of the machinery inside echoing in the room when it starts to pull back and the lid closes once again. There’s fog machines trying to give the appropriately spooky air, stuffed sheets shaped to look like dead bodies wrapped up laying in piles on the floor with fake blood staining the white fabric, black lighting to show off words scribbled on doors like “TURN BACK NOW” and “SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES.” Nothing you haven’t seen before. It might be even worse than things you’ve seen before, over the top cheesy, boring enough to give a yawn. Each door seems to open on its own so you don’t even have to touch the handles.

As you make your way through the next automatic door, the room you walk into is different than those before it. It’s a regular children’s room. A bed against the wall near the window, a dresser in the corner, a small desk with a chair. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for the lights not being on, and the strange flickering light in the closet. You step towards it, figuring you’re in for another jump scare, but the door doesn’t open. Whether you’re naturally the curious sort or not, something in the back of your mind makes you want to open the door and see what’s on the inside.

If you fight it and walk towards the next automatic door, you’ll find you’ve walked out to the backyard of the house, those same foam decorations and a dozen or more jack o’ lanterns lighting your way on a path back to the town.

If you choose to pull the door open, however, it’ll take you into yet another room, with a flickering television playing nothing but static. Once you step past the doors of the closet, they slam shut behind you and whoever else dared to enter. The doors won’t lock no matter what you do, no matter how strong the person shaking the handles or pushing against the wood may be. You realize you broke the one rule; you’ve touched something. But can things now really touch you?

The only light source in the whole room is that television and it’s not lighting up much inside the room around it. If you squint when the TV is at its brightest setting, you can just make out another door. Your exit, you hope. But as you make your way towards the door, the flickering suddenly stops, the TV steadily bright, a low humming noise coming from the screen, and suddenly the door seems several more feet away from you than it was a second ago. Before you can reach the door, there’s the sound of trickling water from behind you. If you choose to look back, you’ll see something coming out from the screen - a girl with soaked clothing and pale, rotted skin. She emerges fully from the glass and starts to move towards you. You know it’s best to start running for that door. If you stay and try to fight, you’ll find that no regular weapons work on her, though special weapons and powers that are effective against spirits will definitely do the trick. For those who don’t have any of these at their disposal, however, there is one more hope besides just trying to run; two old school VHS tape sit on the table near by, a fancy machine between them that is meant to copy one to the other. Work as a team and have one distract her while the other records, and you’ll find that she disappears as quickly as she flickered on the screen and the TV will return to static.

Regardless of what you choose before carrying on, the next room you come to as the door slams and locks behind you is entirely different. Brightly lit and filled with what seems like hundreds of porcelain dolls, it’s almost hard to tell where there could possibly be another exit hidden among the massive shelves. You can start to wind your way through them, but before long, you start to hear the sound of running feet, the jingling of bells, the swish of satin, and most eerily the sounds of children giggling - but there’s nothing that sounds save about them. Some of the dolls you saw on the last shelf seem like they’ve moved and are sitting in the corner or laying in a new position on a new shelf. Sometimes you swear you can see their heads turn to watch you pass, but it has to be a trick of the light, doesn’t it?

That is until one of those dolls runs by you, brandishing something shiny in their hands - something sharp. A knife, you realize too late, as it tries to slice at your legs and knock you down. You can kick them away and they’ll go flying, and when the porcelain smashes, the doll will scream in agony. You notice there’s blood pouring from the hole that formed, spreading quickly across the ground. The dolls are easy to kill, but are they really just dolls? You can take your time to contemplate that later, as now you have to fight your way through the violent and armed toys to reach the door at the end of the maze of shelves. Hopefully you can get out without too many severe injuries.

When (or if) you do manage to get to the next room, you seem to have a chance to take a breath and tend to any wounds. It’s decorated like the room of a small cottage, a large pot over the fireplace that isn’t lit, and several jars full of (possibly rotting) food and herbs on the shelves. You see a book on the stand in the center, latched shut and covered in dust. You can open it, if you want, but remember the warning you ignored that got you in trouble in the first place. It’s probably better to carry on to the next room.

If you do choose to open the book, though, there will be eerily glowing text lining the pages, the light will seem to poor out and fill the room, and you’ll be transported back out in front of the house.

Those who continued through the door will find themselves out in the backyard. Just like for those who got out sooner, there are dozens of jack o lanterns, but the graves don’t look like they’re made of foam this time. They’re real stone, engraved with real names and real dates this time. And the ground underneath them seems to be moving, like someone’s trying to crawl out of there. Better not to wait around. Soon as you start to move down the path, you’ll start to hear the sounds of groans as the undead start to crawl from their own graves, pulling themselves up through the dirt, and determined to get to the only food source they see - you. The zombies seem like they’re never ending, coming from every inch of the yard, but at least they’re just like normal zombies - completely incapable of being killed unless you cut off the head. There are shovels lying next to a few graves if you need a quick weapon, but there’s also still always the option to run as fast as you can up the stone path to the front of the house and back towards the street.

When you do finally manage to get back to the front, there’s a momentary blinding flash of light, disorienting anyone near it for a few seconds. When it finally fades, any leftover zombies chasing you have disappeared and the house looks like the same, cheesy haunted house you walked up to in the first place. If for some reason you decide to go and explore the backyard again, the grass will be back to normal, and the graves will all be replaced by cheaply painted foam once more.

Was that all in your head? Who knows. But maybe it’s best to just get out of here.

WE DID THE MASH

Somehow the street lamps have all been converted to oil based flames, the Authority are in witch hats, and every where you go there is music that seems to be playing from faintly glowing bats hanging upside down from telephone wires. The bats will open their mouths in succession, seeming somehow capable of producing the sounds of instruments and singers alike of popular Halloween songs.

Yards are decorated as thoroughly as the front of stores. Maybe you haven't bothered to decorate, but your neighbor sure has! Fake gravestones are propped up in yards, giant fake spiders in trees, and no matter where you walk, the ground seems covered in thick, rolling fog from machines. Or at least you hope it's coming from machines. Hell, you can't even find it in yourself to be too worried! Everyone around you is having way too good of a time! And God, there is food everywhere! Might as well grab a bite while you're out, huh?

It's tempting to break loose and dance. Jack-O-Lanterns absolutely crowd the streets. There's more than you can even begin to count, and all of them are lit all throughout the night. Even if you accidentally trip over some, they don't seem to catch fire to anything or go out! Some neighbors have camp fires set up with marshmallows to roast, while others have...are those broomsticks? Well that's kinda cool, you guess. Correction: it's really cool since you can actually pick one up and take it for a fly! Make sure to attach a little lamp to the front though because God knows it's dangerous flying at night. The brooms only work if you wear the appropriately provided hats, of course, but you can keep both the broom and hat indefinitely and have a readily available means of flight in Deerington after! Be forewarned though: the brooms are as easily broken as regular brooms and the hats easily blown away in the wind.

TRICK OR TREATS

At any of the events, especially the nighttime partying, you can find any number of the following treats (and their potential side effects):

Donuts (Will make you deliriously happy. Everything is amazing to you. May cause a lot of affection. A lot of affection.)
Candy Apples (You will eagerly tell someone everything you like about them. Talk about a sweet tooth.)
Candy Corn (Will make you extremely sad. Like god, you'll be wondering why you hate yourself so much.)
Pumpkin Spice Lattes (Causes suspicious amounts of obedience and a desire to do what you're told.)
Hot Chocolate (Can provide some minor healing. Best stuff to drink with a common cold!)
Hot or Cold Apple Cider (Nothing will happen. It's just really good.)
Alcoholic Cider (This isn't your grandma's apple cider. This stuff will knock you on your ass. Anyone who drinks this will get wasted regardless of whether or not they are immune to alcohol or even ingest regular food. It only takes one or two before you start to get tipsy, but any more than that and you'll be well on your way to drunk. Please drink responsibly. We don't need any FUIs.)

Character Arrival

You can read how all characters arrive in Deerington here.

There is not a collective "all these characters showed up at the exact same moment" occurrence in Deerington. Since characters fall asleep, die, or pass out at various times throughout all their worlds, it wouldn't make too much sense if they arrived in game all at the exact same time. There should be some discrepancy between character arrival, whether by a couple minutes, hours, or even days up to a week.

The players are entirely in control of how/when they want to play their characters arriving in Deerington. For TDMs, you can play it like your character has just arrived and that can be maintained as your game canon, or you can wait until game events for that moment. Or you don't need to acknowledge it at all. The flexibility for character allows a bit more of an organic feel to the character arrival situation, so please play it to whatever feels right for you.

If you are interested in having an "arrival" introduction for one of your TDM prompts, you are more than welcome to explore that option.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She's expecting him to say shit. She can almost see it on the tip of his tongue, but when something else comes out instead she's left not really being sure what to do. Of course she knows him, and instinct has her wanting to go to him. But she's seen him die, she's buried him. She can't call this man daddy, not when she isn't sure if it's him. The fact recognition isn't showing in his eyes makes her heart ache in a way she doesn't fully understand and can't process. And being that she's so emotionally behind other children her age, she's quick to upset because of the feelings she doesn't know how to work through.

"Shit," she says for him, instead of answering his question. Her head shakes a little though, relenting just enough to be cooperative.

As bewildered as she is to see him here, she has no idea what to really do about it. So she's rooted to the spot, because she can't bring herself to growl and knock him over so she can run away.

A brow lifts. "So you got a mouth on you, huh."

He's not going to reach out to her just yet. Unsure of what's making her upset, he suspects it might be a lack of trust thing-- something stranger danger-esque. Kids still have that, right?

"You got a place here? Anyone I can call?" His fingers crumple the handkerchief a bit more, and he takes in a small breath through his nostrils before expelling it from his mouth. "And look, can I..." Logan makes some brief gesture to his own face. "You're covered in" -- and because she's said it, well, that makes it fair game -- "shit."

He definitely doesn't know her. That causes her heart to twist and drop with a painful lurch, and her hand presses against her chest like it might make it stop. Now that she's able to see through all the blood soaked hair caked onto her face, she realizes he looks too young. He doesn't smell right either, not sick and waiting for death. He's...young. Too young for her to even exist.

"Shit," she repeats, voice trembling. Yes, she's covered in shit. But the fact he doesn't know her is also shitty. She's been sad in recent memory, she's had her heart broken with his initial loss. But this is something else completely, and it twists and contorts deep in her belly and makes her angry enough that she feels sick.

With an abundance of caution to be gentle, she reaches up to take the handkerchief from him. It's not going to really help, not with as dirty as she is. But she doesn't want to turn down something she might be able to take that's his.

"No. Only you," she insists, trying to rub the cloth along her face. It just smears the blood all over the place, the smell of it making her nostrils burn. Everything she's feeling threatens to boil over, and tears stream down her face. They mix with the blood, and she just keeps furiously scrubbing at her face with the handkerchief.

Ah.

Fuck.

He made her cry.

Logan's eyes widen-- he can't remember if he'd ever made a kid cry, knows that he's scared a few in his life, but never this-- and panic in its basest form starts in the bottom of his chest. She's crying. She's crying and she's rubbing at her face and he's frozen, useless, because nowhere in the five wars he's been in and the years he's spent as a professor has he ever had to dealt with a child crying because of something he did.

Only you rings in his head. Likely he doesn't compute it the way she wants him to, but he knows that this means she's alone. (And he knows what that feels like more than anything.)

"Okay," he says, reaching forward properly, one big hand wrapping around a bloody wrist and gently bringing the kerchief and the fingers attached to it down.

"Okay."

If she doesn't pull her hand away from his grip, Logan's going to reach out and use his other palm to smear the blood (and tears) out from her cheeks, pushing it towards the side before he flicks what's on his hand away from them. Either way, whether he's allowed to touch her or not, he'll promise this much: "I got you.

"Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

The urge to yell at him and stab him right in the wrist is tempting. She's angry, and even if she can't put a finger on why she knows she wants to take it out on him. She's alone here, and he's reminded her of that, and he's made her cry out where everyone can see. Soon the sniffling sets in and she nods a little in response to what he's said, but her eyes hold an intensity that begs him to try and understand what he is to her.

"Okay," she says, voice thick with emotion.

He says he's got her, and she feels a swell of something that comes close to comfort. She feels a sense of urgency to get him to realize that she's special, that she's like him. So her wrist twists, hand moving out of his hold. The claws come out next, to show him that she's like he is. She doesn't need his help. But she'll accept it because it's him.

"Daddy." It's a simple word, one that comes out sounding more like a growl of a cornered animal than anything. In a blink of an eye her arm jerks forward, small fingers curling around his wrist with a death grip. If he can't smell the metal on her, now he can see it. It's there, under her skin, forcibly put in a growing child's body.

The tell-tale sound of metal dragging through flesh and bone makes Logan's blood run cold.

But the sight of that metal, shining in the light and reeking a scent sharper than even the gore that covers her tiny body, makes his heart stop entirely.

Daddy.

"Wh..." She holds him tight, tight enough there might be little finger-shaped bruises later with his healing factor so off in this town, and Logan knows he should look at her, but he can't pull his eyes away from the claws that come from her knuckles, just as his do, just as his have.

It's impossible. He'd been careful with his old boss' daughter, the first. He and Kayla hadn't been ready. Mariko, God, she wasn't in the position to have a child, wouldn't have wanted one with a wild man she slept with just once--

But the claws tell him enough. And as Logan takes the back of the hand attached to them, drawing it and her wrist closer to himself, he smells not just the adamantium, but the unmistakable stench of Logan blood.

It's funny, really, how now that he knows, the faint scent of family smells even more familiar with the violence caked on top of it. Thomas Logan had been oozing it when Logan stabbed him (killed him). Victor always had it smeared over him, from top to bottom. Logan's second skin is blood. And now this-- this girl, his daughter--

He wants to laugh. This has to be a joke. Deerington has to be pulling his fucking leg. This is just like Stine said-- it's a disgusting twist, some stupid Stephen King bullshit, some kind of personal horror...

But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't even cry.

He pulls his gaze away, meeting the girl's face instead, and while he might not be angry, emotions flick and war inside him with all the destructive power of a hurricane. He's always wanted a family, but not like this. God, not like this. "I don't know your name.

"I don't know your name, and... someone hurt you."

He lets out a 'heh', releasing her wrist before his grip becomes so tight it hurts her. No. "Someone hurt you before I even met you, I..."

It's not her fault. Logan's head dips, and he struggles to even his breathing out. One deep inhalation, one shaky exhalation.

"I'm sorry." He's always sorry, but does it even make a difference? "Shit. I'm sorry they did this to you. I'm sorry I wasn't there..."

The fact he isn't denying it means more than he'll ever know. Her anger starts to flicker out as he keeps talking, the familiar sound of his voice soothing her into calmness. It's hard to explain where she came from and that he couldn't have protected her, so she doesn't try to do that now. It can come in time. Right now, she's more paranoid about losing him all over again. So she quickly reaches back out to grip hold of him, this time with a tight enough grip he won't easily be able to get her to let go. It's obvious that she finds some kind of security in keeping him close, and there's a panicked look in her eyes that's borderline feral as she steps in close enough that she can smell their scents mingling.

They're family. It's the way it should be. The best parts of Laura and the best parts of Logan mingling together to make something solid and whole. Thinking like that is enough to take the edge off her panic, and she taps at her chest with her free hand.

"Laura. But the bad men called me X-23."

Her head tilts a little, to try and listen to the sound of his breathing. It's not as labored as it will be when he gets older. That realization makes her smile. He's healthy here.

"We can go now?" She doesn't mean for it to come out as a question. She wants to tell him that they're going now, that he can help clean her up. English is still hard for her, which is evident in her slow speech and her thick accent. But she's trying, because she wants to talk to him and she wants him to think that she's okay. He won't want a daughter that can't talk and seems broken, she thinks.

He's not okay. Not that he's ever really been okay, not in any way that counts, but this is still a new low for him. Logan doesn't argue when she takes his wrist back, but his heart is racing and he's not sure what to think. He's more scared than he is happy, more terrified that not only does he have a kid, but the kid's been experimented on, and now the kid's here, and-- God. Fuck. What is he even supposed to do with that?

Lifting his head, he gives the girl a serious look, even as his gaze wavers in its certainty. He still doesn't know what to think. He doesn't know what to feel. "Laura." He doesn't even try to say X-23, hating that he hears Stryker in his head and the laughing Weapon X that always comes with him. "Sorry." Stop apologising, idiot. "It's..." A lot to take in, he wants to say, but decides maybe he doesn't have to-- and he realises he doesn't want her to think that he doesn't want her. That any of this is her fault.

So he goes with, "It's really nice to meet you, Laura.

"We can go," he agrees, and he reaches with his free hand, hesitates-- and then moves to brush all the damp, bloodied hair out from her face, fingers combing through the strands as he follows the shape of Laura's skull. Logan swallows, and as he looks at her he sees himself in her eyebrows and the rise of her cheekbones. He wipes what tears are left from under her eyes in another form of apology, but because she's smiling, he tries to smile back.

"You... uh." The guilt is still choking him, making it so his words are softer than he's used to, but god damn it if he isn't going to try. "...you want me to carry you?"

Completely oblivious to his guilt or conflicted emotions, Laura takes the time to think over what she wants him to do. There really isn't necessity to his carrying her, but she remembers what it felt like for him to carry her a few times back when he was trying to get her to safety. Slowly, her head nods, before the gesture becomes more eager. Her death grip on his arm loosens, and her hand slips down to his hand before pulling away completely.

"Sí," she says, quickly adding on, "Yes."

He's made it clear that he doesn't understand Spanish, but even he must know that much. Just in case though, she makes sure to say it in English too. Any tears that he made her cry are forgotten and forgiven now, and Laura awkwardly looks up at him and tries to figure out how she's supposed to stand to let him pick her up. She's too old to be carried, but since she never received that kind of care or attention growing up she thinks that maybe it's okay to let it happen now. Just this once.

"Is that okay?" She wants to make sure she isn't bothering him.

"Hey." Smiling slightly (he's just as awkward as she is) and ruffling her hair a bit, Logan nods. "I was the one who asked."

So he turns in his crouched position, offering her his back. She doesn't seem to be injured enough to warrant a princess carry, and if she's got more of his traits than his claws and some looks-- and she must, to have survived whatever happened in that house-- then it's likely this is less about needing help and more about clinging to whatever kindness you can get.

"You wrap your hands around my neck" -- a fact he shows her by reaching backwards with both his hands to take hers and lead them up towards his shoulders, to slide them around him -- "and hold on."

And once she's got that settled, Logan's arms find their places beneath Laura's legs as he moves to get up to his feet and start walking home. He doesn't seem to mind the gore getting on his clothes, new they might be; the feeling of her heart twittering against his back is a far more rewarding experience than any lack of laundry.

"Did you just get here? To Deerington?"

There's laughter as he gets her on his back, and she winds up scaling up his back to sit on his shoulders. She's not that heavy, but the way she puts her hands into his hair to hold onto it probably is slightly uncomfortable. Being carried this way reminds her of riding a horse, which instantly puts her in a better mood.

Her hands tug at his hair like it's going to get him to go faster, and she looks all around Deerington as they go. "Yes," she finally answers his question. "I have been here...only two days."

Which means that the entire time she's been here it's been all she can eat sweets and spooky things, which has her a little wired and on edge and prone to a crash any time soon. But her being here only two days alone is probably a good thing, since it means she hasn't gotten into that much trouble left to her own devices.

"Where do you stay? Which house?"

Logan's walking's a bit clumsier as she climbs him, a soft growl building in his throat despite himself, but it's less one of intimidation and more one of mildly disgruntled surprise. Once Laura's settled, though, he's more or less fine, and notes with some relief that she's not heavy enough to have adamantium in her entire body. He remembers what the bonding process had been like more than anything.

"I live near the park." Resisting the urge to wince lightly as she pulls at his hair (and doing his best not to squeeze her tiny legs where he holds onto them as she sits), Logan gets the hint and starts jogging. His healing factor may have been compromised, but his stamina's fortunately the same in its unrelenting amount. "There're lots of trees, and a lake."

With Laura this close, all the blood on her smells worse, but the scent of him in her is all the more acute. It's jarring as hell; typically Logan wouldn't recognise his own scent, with how it's always on him, but it's so much more, like this, on this child.

"There's a girl who lives with me, Henry. She's a little older than you..." Then he gives a brief peek upwards, frowning slightly. "How old are you, Laura?" There's a pause, and remembering relief efforts in the Sentinel War-- how many children they'd had to save, how many of them couldn't even speak English-- he tries something out, albeit to remarkable lack of success. "Uh... cuántos. ¿Cuántos años?"

Yeah, Storm had spoken most of the Spanish.

Edited 2018-10-04 03:19 (UTC)

A girl named Henry. Laura sits up rigidly straight, mind going fast as she tries to determine if Henry is competition or someone she can trust. She decides that for now, she doesn't like the thought of sharing her father with someone else. It's irrational, but she's young and has the emotional capabilities of a six year old. It's only the fact that he speaks Spanish that pulls her out of that momentary burst of upset, and she leans down so she can answer him and he can hear.

"Once," she says eleven in Spanish, adding on a quick. "Maybe."

In Transigen, birthdays weren't things that the nurses were allowed to celebrate with them. It was done in secret some years, but most Laura never knew she was another year older until they performed the annual series of big tests to see if she's advanced any.

"The doctors at Transigen never said."

Transigen, she says. The name's not familiar in the least, but he files it away regardless for future use. Transigen, at least, isn't the Weapon X program, and though his upper lip curls with distaste now that he knows who's hurt her, he's careful to wait a few beats before speaking again lest he start growling.

If he ever finds his way back home, he's finding them and ripping them apart.

"Once is a good number," he says instead, eyes facing forward if only so she doesn't see how hard it is for him not to look angry. "You're 180 years younger than..." He clears his throat, trying again (and sounding all the more awful for it, given the terrible accent). "Tu es... uh. Ciento ochenta años menor."

Managing a small chuckle, he shakes his head. "If you can't tell, I can't speak Spanish for shit."

But he remembers Charles telling him that children are more comfortable less because of the language and more because you try. Logan's always made a fool of himself when he did, but he figures that of all the kids for that to be okay around, then... his daughter ought to be the most qualified one.

Even if it's hard to wrap his mind around it still. Daughter.

The circumstances are something he'll have to sit down and really think about for a while after this.

"You should pick a birthday," he says offhandedly. By now Laura should be able to see the park in the distance, which means his house isn't too far off now. "It can be any day you want."

"Why?" Laura understands the importance of knowing when you're a year older when it comes to being able to train and go through tests. But she doesn't quite grasp why he wants her to claim a day as her own. But she shrugs anyway and tries thinking it over. Maybe she can come up with a decent day to have a birthday.

"When is your birthday?" She curiously wonders, leaning over so her cheek is pressed against his.

The fact that he doesn't speak Spanish isn't lost on her. She knew he didn't before seeing him here. Talking in English isn't her native language and she has some difficulties, but she's learning quickly and doesn't mind talking to him this way.

"Porque...because you are old." And maybe it might be a better special day if they share the same birthday. Assuming he can even remember when it is.

Laura's cheek is so soft. Not that Logan's skin isn't the same-- the healing factor made sure of it-- but she's round like a child, and even around the smell of blood, this close he can smell that she's a child, too.

He lets out a 'heh', though. "Yeah, I'm old," he agrees, not even bothering to fight it. "I was born fifth of April, 1832. Kind of makes you a baby."

They reach his home then with the ridiculous, gigantic hole in the wall of the kitchen, and though it'd be easier to enter through there, Logan takes Laura through the front door instead. He makes sure to bend so she doesn't bump her head. "But birthdays..."

The house looks like it can't decide to be neat or messy, which is the result of Logan wanting to clean up Henry's junk without touching too many things. But at least it doesn't smell rotten any more, and Laura will find that Logan's scent is subtle, but practically everywhere with how he cleans regularly.

He reaches the landing to the stairs, and just as he takes the first step up, he finally explains, "You're special, Laura. There's no-one else like you in the universe.

"And it took a lot of luck, suerte, to get you here."

Reaching the door to the bathroom, he crouches on the floor to let Laura off, but not without looking back and up at her with a half-smile. "Birthdays're weird. Only people celebrate them.

"But you're a person, Laura. Sometimes you're gonna think you're an animal, and sometimes people'll tell you you're a weapon, but they're all wrong.

"You're important. And a birthday celebrates how important you are."

His telling her this isn't new. He told her to be more than a weapon, to not be what they made her. Sometimes it's hard to imagine a life where she isn't a weapon, or treated as an animal. But he makes it easier. In moments like this one, where he has her in a home and he's taking care of her, it's easy to act like this is where she's meant to be. He's her father, and he wants her, and everything's going to be alright.

"Important," she slowly repeats, nodding in understanding. He thinks she's important, even if she doesn't feel the same way.

They're in a bathroom, clearly meant for her to clean up. But she's curious about this house and the girl he says lives here, so she creeps over to the doorway and peeks out into the hall. "Maybe..." She speaks as she sniffs at the air, nose wrinkling before she turns back in to look at him.

"April 5 would be good for me too."

She moves to the tub then, going to turn it on so she can watch the water fill it.

Logan's quiet. His heart warms, prickling from where it lies in his ribcage ever outward towards his fingertips, and he thinks about sharing his birthday with his daughter, and feels like someone's dumped love into him with an ice cream scoop.

Then he leans over, plugging the tub in to make sure the water doesn't drain.

"Smart idea," he says, giving Laura a pat on the shoulder as he kneels by the tub at her side. "We'll save money if we share a cake."

He's not sure if attachment this early into knowing your biological father is normal. He's not sure where Laura's love, unconditional as it is, and admiration comes from. But as someone who tends to need more concrete reasons to be a better person, he thinks this is the biggest reason he'll ever have.

Even if Logan's not sure she isn't a trick of the mind, it's hard not to fall a little in love with her, blood and all.

"There's some bubble bath in here," he says, reaching for the bottle and showing it to her. Logan even pops the cap off so she can get a whiff of it. He doesn't know if Henry uses it, but decides that he'll sit through her bitching if it'll make Laura smile. "You ever have a bubble bath before, Laura?"

It won't be long before she ends up telling him all about his future self and how they meet, but for now she's simply content forming new happy memories in place of the trauma. He pulls out the bubble bath and she goes over to curiously sniff at the bottle, nose wrinkling up at the overpowering scent. Her head shakes at his question, and she reaches up to tug and grab the bottle out of his hands. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the bubbles get dumped in the water, and she dumps about half the bottle in to watch and see what it does.

The bubbles instantly start to form and she makes a soft gasp, fascinated as she crouches down to stick her bloody hand inside. She waves it through the suds and water, watching as the red washes off and stains the bubbles pink. That's enough motivation to start undressing, throwing her blood stained clothes at his face so he won't see her as she finishes and leaps right into the tub.

She's eleven and doesn't particularly need him here for this part of things, so she points at the door and makes a grunting sound to signal that he needs to go. She can handle this on her own and find him once she's done.

Yeah, the faceful of clothes tells him enough. Logan looks at them, thinks miserably about how much blood he's going to have to scrub off, and then says, "I'll leave some clothes for you by the door."

He's sure she'll be able to tell which towel is his and which one is Henry's. Logan realises he'll have to add "things for Laura" onto the ever-growing list of shit to buy on his refrigerator.

The clothes he lays out on the table by the bathroom door are just one of his shirts (plain powder blue) and a new pair of plaid boxer shorts he's never worn, and for the first time he finds himself thankful for the people who'd dragged him out to go shopping. He doesn't have anything sized for kids and doesn't think he'll be able to pilfer something from Henry without being punched in the dick for it, so these'll have to do for now.

In any case, Logan's first order of business will be scrubbing the blood out of Laura's clothes under the sink in the kitchen. He'll see if he can't salvage it yet.

(If he goes through a minor undocumented breakdown without anyone around then. Well. If a tree falls in a forest...)

She takes her time in the bath, cleaning herself and exploring the feeling of splashing around in bubbles. Back at Transigen, she had been rushed through the showers. Now, she gets to enjoy herself and get to know what playing and splashing in the bath until the water goes cold feels like. When she finally does finish, she messes with the drain until she figures it out, then scales out of the tub.

Instead of using a towel right away, she shakes herself and gets the entire bathroom wet. The towel comes next to finish up getting dry, and then she steps out in the hallway so she can get the clothes he left for her. They're way too big on her but she ties things off and folds sleeves up, and then she's off, plodding along through the house to explore. He can probably hear the sound of her feet hurrying along, until eventually she runs downstairs to find him.

"Need new clothes," she tells him flatly, hopping right up on the counter to sit beside the sink so she can watch him work.

By the time he hears Laura's footsteps, he's more or less gotten a hold of himself, though there's sweat on his brow that wasn't there before. It probably shows in his scent-- a slight pungent tone to it that shows he'd been worrying-- but he hopes she computes it as worry for the shirt, which he's stopped scrubbing with cold water and soap to make the deep red now just the faintest pink.

Laura sits close to him, and Logan looks up at her so she knows he's noticed her, brow raised. "You want to go out shopping?"

He's making a corn starch mixture now with water, spoon moving quickly and evenly in the bowl. Once it's diluted properly, he pours some out onto the worst of the stains. He gets the merit of new clothes, but saving these ones gave him something to do while he weighed the changes he'd have to make in his life now that he had a daughter to take care of, the things he had to consider.

(And he was far, far out of his league.)

Leaning in briefly to get a whiff of her, he lets out a soft huff through his nostrils after. "Smell nice." Then he goes to lay the shirt out in the sunshine that filters down from the hole in the kitchen wall. The jeans, which he'd scrubbed out too, undergo the same treatment.

"I think I know a store." More or less. "You wanna do that today, or do you want something to eat?"

She stays still long enough to let him lean in and get a sniff of her, but then she's hopping off the counter to explore the kitchen. She's already looking for food when he starts to talk, and she huffs in frustration as she tries to find boxes of cereal like he had at his home in El Paso.

"Both," she grumbles as her impatience sets in, and she starts slamming cabinet doors as she peeks inside each one only to find dishes or other useless things. When she finds the bowls she grabs one and sets it down on the counter, brushing past him as her great cereal hunt continues.

"Food now." She demands, whipping about to face him with a demanding little look that says she has no problem bossing him around.

"Whoa." It's like watching a whirlwind move around his already considerably destroyed kitchen. Laura walks around like she owns the place, and she talks even more like it.

It's endearing, tugging at his heart. It reminds him a little bit of Victor before he lost his mind.

But instead of smiling, Logan narrows his eyes at her. "Where's your 'please', huh?" He's moving to the refrigerator, but instead of opening the freezer like he intends to, he crosses his arms over his chest instead and leans his bicep against it. "'Por favor'?"

Ugh.

Here comes the part where he tries to fix her manners and how she behaves. She's used to it, but still feels the need to stare up at him with a look that could kill. On the inside however, she's pleased that he's making the effort to try doing this. It makes her feel wanted when he corrects what she does, even while at the same time it infuriates her.

"Please." She flatly growls, hand slamming down against the nearby countertop. A single eyebrow arches after that, as if to ask if that's good enough for him.