Fighting Wolverine | John & Dex
 He’d gotten worried, the absences, the abrupt way their brief conversation had ended last time—not out of the ordinary for him but John had never been so flighty before. Always took time and patience to sit and talk with him, listened and mentored him through the lengthy period of recovery to fight. So he did the only thing he knew, he jacked into the net, delved deep until he found what he was looking for—jumped from one lead to another. Until he found an alarming collection of footage, half obscured by what he could only assume was graffiti on the camera’s lens. Trivial matters given what he could make out within the footage horrified him, a woman who was strangely familiar as if he’d seen her before was unleashing her demons—on John.
 Then it occurred to him why she was familiar, he ran a stream of data down the right side of his vision simultaneously checking he was right before jumping to conclusions. Unfortunately whilst he got his answer it was not the one he’d hoped for, the woman was none other than Wolverine, appeared in the news over half a decade ago. Real name Xiomara Attah, but they usually left that out of the reports liked to give her a name that made her a monster (and she was).
 The information dropped at that point and no amount of digging would incite anymore leads on her, she had simply disappeared—died according to the media. He knew better than to trust them, but it was sickening watching her beat into his friend—that glimmer of her green psychosquad patch on her sleeve. It seemed ridiculous, were the cops truly that desperate that they were hiring psychos to take down those that had one too many augments? The only possible reason he could conjure for it was that they were physically stronger, they knew themselves better than anyone else and thus they’d know their opponents. He’d watched the SWAT team over the years struggle to tame even the mildest of cyberpsychosis cases. Not everyone lost it, not everyone rampaged and raged against human flesh. It didn’t make them any less dangerous.
 He replayed the footage once and then twice, but that was more times that he could handle, it wasn’t simply the way his limp prone body was sprawled out across the floor afterwards—after she had simply taken off. It was the fact people saw what was going on and simply carried on walking, heads down and walking that little bit faster. Did they see the uniform and assume that John was the bad guy in all of this? What about when it was just him, alone and soaked in his own blood?
 It made his blood boil.
 Then as he worked his way through hospital records, he checked every single one in the city, he went on to check all their mortuary records too (just in case). There was nothing. The anger settled into a deep-rooted worry and after doing as much possible digging as he could, he left no stone unturned, he came back to the real world. Dion made sure to pull up his address before he jacked out and despite the fact it cost him a chunk of money he called for a taxi close to his home, but not directly outside. The rest of the way was short, he was lucky enough to slip into the building as someone left—breeze of cigarettes and gaudy aftershave that made his nose wrinkle.
 He knocked on his door once, gently but perhaps a little too softly so he rapped his knuckles against the door for a second time with a little more oomph. Somewhere between worried and still caught up in his rage, that was pointing in all directions but for the time being mostly at the woman who may or may not have added another name to her hit-list.
