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It's been months since I last lived on an island. Longer still since I lived anywhere even remotely tropical. Walking for any significant period of time's been a bit problematic since I picked that fight with Cable, but it's been a few weeks by now, and I plan to make the most out of the month I promised Rogue I'd stick around for. Besides, I've lived through worst scrapes in my day -- that's the problem with having a power that works on kinetic energy. You tend to get hit. A lot.
Though Madrox's bruises had faded from violet to a sort of sickly green, there was no mistaking him for the perfect picture of health. For one, his hand was still bandaged, and for two, he was still covered in bruises, sickly green or not. He looked haggard, the direct result of having yet to find a good night's sleep, and he was sporting a few fresh cuts from an ill-advised stroll in the jungle the night before. In short, he looked like Edward Norton in the latter half of Fight Club.
"With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels." That's why I had the gun held to my head. I wasn't about to kill myself without a few intelligible words at the end of it all.
His feet led him to the beach more so than any conscious choice on his part. Swimming was out the question because of the cast, obviously, though no one -- Rogue, namely -- would've had to worry about him trying to off himself, anyway. He'd nearly drowned back home thanks to a renegade dupe; he had no desire to repeat the experience. There were quicker and easier ways to go. Still, there was nothing preventing him from dipping his feet in the water. He'd left his trench coat back at the Compound, but even without it he was still horribly overdressed for the weather, and out of the shade provided from the trees, he was beginning to notice that more and more. So as Madrox slipped out of shoes, he thought about taking off his shirt, too. He was in the middle of a long, drawn out, internal debate about the pros and cons of being shirtless when he noticed he wasn't alone out there.
"Uh, hey," he greeted eloquently.
Though Madrox's bruises had faded from violet to a sort of sickly green, there was no mistaking him for the perfect picture of health. For one, his hand was still bandaged, and for two, he was still covered in bruises, sickly green or not. He looked haggard, the direct result of having yet to find a good night's sleep, and he was sporting a few fresh cuts from an ill-advised stroll in the jungle the night before. In short, he looked like Edward Norton in the latter half of Fight Club.
"With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels." That's why I had the gun held to my head. I wasn't about to kill myself without a few intelligible words at the end of it all.
His feet led him to the beach more so than any conscious choice on his part. Swimming was out the question because of the cast, obviously, though no one -- Rogue, namely -- would've had to worry about him trying to off himself, anyway. He'd nearly drowned back home thanks to a renegade dupe; he had no desire to repeat the experience. There were quicker and easier ways to go. Still, there was nothing preventing him from dipping his feet in the water. He'd left his trench coat back at the Compound, but even without it he was still horribly overdressed for the weather, and out of the shade provided from the trees, he was beginning to notice that more and more. So as Madrox slipped out of shoes, he thought about taking off his shirt, too. He was in the middle of a long, drawn out, internal debate about the pros and cons of being shirtless when he noticed he wasn't alone out there.
"Uh, hey," he greeted eloquently.