[Suburbs] I Need a Hero

Sophia didn't offer much feedback on Des' encouragement, mostly much rolling of eyes and fiddling of fingers. She exuded doubt every time Des brought up the process of learning, or that brought up people in the equation, biting her tongue as if to justify her constant disdain. It was strange that a distant hint of anticipation permeated the dour woman, as if she wasn't mulling whether or not to confide in Des, but when.

Her mood brightened a second or so before her face reflected it, the idea of considering someone else as their person tickled them fancy. "Well, I would like to sit down on my couch, with a warm mug of coffee milk, and watch nature documentaries. Sort of...the thing I plan to do after this chat", Sophia cupped her hands, her marker firmly between them. "Honestly, I'd just love to...substract things. I don't want to think about being some sort of freeloader. Getting up and adding to my portfolio helps, but hurts, its cauterization"

"Excuse me?", Sophia rebutted, though she wasn't, nor sounded, offended. The outrageous idea seemed to have brought her new perspective.

The woman straightened up and conceded, slapping her legs as she tossed her back into the couch, if she didn't find her misery to be funny before, it seemed like she did now. "Didn't think this we would be switching to anesthesia but here we are I guess. Something about rubber ducks whatever", she flicked her marker backwards as if discarding it, though it instead wedged itself perfectly between her shoulder and her seat. She seemed to ease in for a moment, before Des casually mentioned being a romantic aide, which seemed to congeal the woman, her fingers curling up on top of her knees. Her emotions were flatlined, before churning into some sort of sputtering, defeated anger.

"We can start substracting that"

There wasn't much more room for Sophia to physically elicit her displeasure once Des hinted at cutting the chat short, lest her nails dig into their palms.

It was still a strange stew of emotions, rising in an unsteady pitch as if they were adding wood to a bonfire. "Stop", Sophia interrupted her, it was a rather cold demand, and with it came a release, a concession, albeit the relief that usually came after it was also laced with curiosity. "I have a...an impeccable record of regretting confiding things with people, one of those things is a thing that haunts me still. It has a name, though only gods know what it currently is, it used to be 'Hans'". The woman hugged her left arm, tapping her fingers. The marker on her shoulder fell from its post, yet her left hand still caught it on the way down. "Hans, I thought, was the crux of my muse, I thought he would be the person that could make me see my work as something that makes me alive rather than just keeping me alive. Then I let him in on a secret, and I barely ran away with my life", she confessed. Certainly Ms. Allard would be familiar with people that might face such conundrums, perhaps it's one of the reasons they chose her.

"He hasn't stopped, he has changed his identity, stalked my relatives, for all I know your secretary over there could be him. All in service of righting some sort of self-perceived betrayal! I wish I was apathetic about my work, but it's him that tetters its to hatred", she held on to her anger, unburied, yet strangely warm. "This is why I need to become someone else, to find comfort in doing. I want to not have to think about myself again. I have the means I know but...somehow the road eludes me, the road i've already crossed but had never thought about"

Sophia, once again, seemed to take the rising pitch in an uneasy amount of stride. This time, there was honest doubt hovering around her, as if they had found what they wanted, but not in the way they expected. Her marker never stopped drifting between her fingers through this inner turmoil, that eventually settled into relief once more.

The woman did not sigh to Desiree's exhausted spiel, merely brushing part of her hair aside. She turned her gaze slightly to her right to look at the so far silent secretary, then it shifted back to Ms. Allard, or at least, half of it did, one eye drifting aside while the other stared straight ahead. She flicked her pen towards this so far nameless assistant's forehead, to see where his attention was, they would loathe to be dramatic and have someone miss the intro. "I will apologize for my circuitousness Ms. Allard, I have been told, many times, that people prefer their stories with some color", her eyes discordantly looked back down as her now free right hand reached towards her left, to remove her black gloves, and part her sleeves.

"I hate color"

Sophia's hand revealed an unsightly anomaly, a scale-ridden, pale hand with crooked nails and patches of bright green and blue, constantly shifting in place and direction, shrinking, as if they were being chased out. "I will no longer bore you, nor I will try to delve into the details. There are people in my life that want me dead, and there are people in the sewers that think that's where I belong. I don't want anything to do with neither of them". She boasted, her eyes disturbingly twitching out of sync, to the observant eye. There was bravado behind her, overtaking her anger. Her hand's tint reflected this, brightening in more unnatural hues as she let go of her focus. "I seldom take chances, but what I know is that there are things that you do and are that will, with any luck, let me be who I am, or be at peace with being someone else". She crossed her arms, and leaned back, sweltering with some sort of far flung pride. Her hand bloomed with maroon and purple, no longer bothering with masking with human colors, somehow this change matched her sweltering emotions, if one could somehow read into her swatch.

"Substraction never comes easy"

Des pinches the bridge of her nose at the theatrics of it all. Anything to keep from laughing at the absurdity that is Wally right now. Thankfully, however, she hopes he could help her escape this situation should it turn deadly. She's not much of a fighter, not one for the pain of it all. It's why she went into the private sector, not the silly X-Boys or Brotherhood of Genocide or whatever their stupid groups were called. Every Child Soldier Groomer found her particularly hostile and incapable of... well, grooming her. Too willful. 

That side of her is showing now. 

"Leave my assistant out of this, they are a consummate professional, unlike some people..." she mutters. "I am not people, thank you very much. I care not for the shade, nor the tone, I just want something to work with," Des says at the first opening, rolling her eyes as she crosses her ankles. "It just has to be something," she says, snapping twice. "Something real."

Real she receives. Though, it isn't anything particularly... startling. Good Gods, she was raised in the X Manor. Odd bodies and changing appearances were a dime a dozen. She hopes, however, praying to anyone who will listen that she isn't dealing with Mystique. Fuck, pardon her French, that would be catastrophically bad. Des has been avoiding mutants like the plague people think they are.

"You want to exist without dealing with these outside factions? Have you considered hiring a security firm?" Des says, narrowing her eyes. "Of all the things I can do, protection is not one of them. Failed every child soldier class, I'm afraid, and I have no affiliation with any Mutant or Superhero teams. If you want my honest opinion, it's time you faked your death like the rest of us running from our pasts, and concocted a new identity all together. Sadly, that is not something I will help with, as it is wildly illegal, and I happen to look terrible in orange."

West watches the exchange between the two for a moment longer before pinning his pen to his notepad with his thumb. He leans over to capture the pen that Sophia had thrown at him. The leather chair creaks as he pushes himself to his feet in a slow, elegant motion. Strands of red hair shift over his forehead as he stands to his full height. While many are taller than he is, 6 feet is still enough to cast a shadow.

Without an invite from either woman, West sits himself down calmly into the seat nearest Ms. Allard. His posture is a picture of perfection as he settles and his sunglasses only reflect the world around him. West lightly places Sophia's pen on the coffee table before leaning back and out of her reach. As if nothing has happened, he picks his pen back up and flips the page of his notebook. Here, he starts a new line now well within his boss's eyesight.

I'm here.