never again ,

he’d never been the type to stare. aside from the fact that it was plainly rude, it revealed a measure of interest that sen was in no way keen on displaying toward anyone. junki, for his all of his eloquence, had deemed it a social anxiety and sen, for all of his warm-hearted restraint, had refrained from launching his good friend through the nearest window.

in jest, of course.

naturally, there are exceptions to every rule. and the exception finds him today, when he calls a meeting—to discuss the successful outcome of a personal mission he’d endorsed himself—and the grand total of members that appear (the grand total of his small but mighty band of radical pro-mutants) is ravi.

sen stares.

by time he considers calling his good friend junki, he knows precisely how many eyelashes the male has—136 (an absurd number)—and just how long it’s been since he’s washed his face.

he hadn’t called a meeting for one-on-one time.

it's to be expected that he's at a loss, for once. his fingers tap lightly on his desk, eyes fixed on the stack of papers before him that serve as some (heavily-edited, he supposes they wouldn't divulge everything) report of the events taking place over the previous weeks.

think, sen. think.

thin cigarette propped between his lips, he inhales and releases a cloud of smoke; repeating the motion until the most brilliant of ideas occurs to him in one of those signature light-bulb moments.

he begins to shuffle through the pages, piecing together the elements of his lie before he writes it all down. it's within the hour that he calls upon his members, lips curved into an enigmatic smile.

“Mitsuji-ssi, are you ready to close this deal?”

Scuffed shoes, grey slacks and a shirt too tight at the buttons—“Mitsuji-ssi?”

His observation continued.

Thick, bifocal glasses and a gold wedding band; the man waiting expectantly for his answer hardly seemed like the kind of man that would be called an anti-mutant. Perhaps on Sunday nights he washed his car. On Monday, he probably drove his children to school before coming to work; a glance at the desk revealed the picture of a happy family; small kids gathered in the arms of their smiling father—“Can you hear me?”

His gaze drifted to the posters lining his office walls. Wanted. Dead or alive. Mutant.

Sen sighed. “Yes, I am ready. Where do I sign?” Calloused fingers reached for the stack of papers, dragging them to his side of the small table—each page bore a thin line at the bottom, prepared for the pen spun idly in his free hand.

“On the X, pages three through ten.”

He thumbed through the pages to three. Usually, it was Junki’s preference—or perhaps just his own—for the other male to do paperwork. Without much taste for sitting still for more than a moment at a time, Sen had become accustomed to leaving the work on his friend’s desk and getting a call later.

This time, Junki wasn’t there.

Junki wouldn’t be there. It was only a matter of time before he located and killed Akechi. The hunt had led him to Seoul before he was forced to return to the mansion and consider his options in full. This task—signing each page with careful, precise strokes—would be the first in his plan.

He would make a change in their lives—for the better of their race.

“Here.”

After a brief inspection, the man—the anti-mutant—produced a set of keys from his pocket and held them out, “Property 5032-A, B and C are now yours. Congratulations, Mitsuji-ssi.”

It was Magneto. Though maybe it was too soon to take on that mantle full time.

With a vague smile, Sen took the keys and rose to his feet, shoving them into his pocket, “Thank you.”

"Pay attention. I'm only saying this once."

Busan is under attack. From what we've learned so far, other mutants are involved--we have yet to learn what their intentions are, but as Xavier and myself are heading out to see for ourselves, we'll find out soon enough, won't we?

If you're interested in tagging along, do so. If you think for one second that you're going to be in the way, do us a favor and don't. We can't protect you in the middle of a battle. Our infirmary is going to be full enough tonight as it is, kids. Get ready and try not to panic.

＇ ＳＥＲＶＩＣＥ ＩＮ ＴＨＥ ＧＡＲＤＥＮ ＞ ＰＡＲＫ "ＰＬＡＧＵＥ" ＪＩＹＥＯＮ．

"This week," He began, looking over the small crowd of students that had gathered thus far before him. By his side stood a--for once--speechless Junki, staring out beyond them to some place within the boundaries of his own mind. "we have lost someone very precious to us."

She was one of our own.

Sen paused, lips pursing into a thin line before he continued. He'd never had much taste for having thoughts that were not his own nearly falling from his lips--a glance to his left said Junki was apologetic--but, perhaps this once he'd make an exception. He was mourning as well, wasn't he?

"She was one of our own." The faintest of smiles curved his lips, "Plague--Park Jiyeon was our student. She was our friend. She was our comrade, and we will miss her."

The approval from his friend was near tangible.

"Today, we pay our respects."

In honor of our fallen comrade, the Institution will be holding a service in the memorial garden. It is not a requirement to attend, but for those who wish to pay their respects to a member of our family, the service will begin at 12:00PM and end at 2:PM.

You may script or para this mini event (or you can go ahead and disregard it completely!). Note that any drama started around or near the memorial garden will result in punishment from Xavier or Magneto as respect during the service is absolutely required!