@brokenxglassâ
The scar was a jagged, wretched thing, skin left shiny and smooth in the greater gaps from where his flesh had been torn open. The kind of battle magics that werenât seen that often, not by the civilized, and Caliban had seen more than once. Just not so close, not ripping him open, not the flash of bright light and agonizing pain that didnât last as long as the blackness that followed. And it was there he put his thoughts on hold, a hand pressing against his chest to rub idly at that scar just beneath his shirt. Trying to focus on nothing but the glass in front of him while he waited alone in the corner of a bar on a Thursday night.
He was halfway through his second pint when the bell above the door went off, a quick glance stolen in its direction to see a familiar face. Then he went back to his pint, enough energy put into keeping his thoughts on little else that he still didnât know what else he was going to say. Thank you? What the fuck is wrong with you? Some combination of both, and he hadnât settled on either by the time the kid got closer, so the only thing that left his mouth was a familiar brand of sarcasm.
âWell you took your sweet time getting here.âÂ
