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Extemporaneous: Composed, performed, or uttered on the spur of the moment: Impromptu
In this world there lies hidden among the common man both angels and demons. Literally in some cases, but more often metaphorically. Generally, those metaphors are along the lines of someone is secretly a wizard or a mad-scientist or an alien god. But most commonly its suddenly finding out that you or a loved one turned out to be a mutant. Sometimes it’s obvious, and you have blue skin and fangs. Sometimes it’s not, hell you might even be able to ignore it if you pretend hard enough. And sometimes, sometimes you’re a late bloomer.
“Look, I’m not exactly the welcome wagon.” Logan, Wolverine, says to the panicking woman. Rightfully panicking, considering, but still panicking.
“Welcome- No, I don’t care. What the hell happened to my brother? You’re a hero you’re supposed to fix things like this!” She yells at him and waves her hand at the… sack. Cocoon?
Wolverine regards the… fleshy lump. The bastard of the day was just a run of the mill terrorist, bombs and guns not cancer rays or clone army. There’s no way in hell that the recent idiots caused this. Not directly at least. There’s only a handful of options left, and a quick message to the guy who built a way to track every mutant on the planet, he who knows no privacy laws, confirms the sinking feeling in his gut.
“Alright,” he brushes away some of the broken glass with his foot “This isn’t usually how we do things. But it’s already gone to hell, so, congratulations, it's a mutant.” He gestures to the gently pulsating… it has to be a cocoon, right?
“What.” The woman responds.
“Sometimes this happens.” He sighs.
“Sometimes?! What do you mean, what the hell is this?” She asks, her voice ratcheting up the octaves till she’s nearly shrieking. Which, again, a reasonable reaction. Just one he’d really rather not deal with.
“Sometimes mutant genes lay dormant until the person experiences a life-or-death situation.” He waves to the pockmarked wall behind him. “Usually with these kinds of revelation you get some punk kid shooting fire from his hands or levitating everything within ten feet.”
“So what, my brother thought he was going to die and he just- just-” She waves more frenetically at the most likely a cocoon, now less flesh colored and more a purplish green.
“Rarely, the dormant genes are, uh, transformative. Most of the time when we see folks that don’t look human, they were born like that.”
“And?!”
“And, what happened was that your brother thought he was going to die, and that woke up something that should’ve happened in the womb,” it’s not a cocoon it’s a womb. That’s worse actually. “When he gets out, he’ll still be your brother, but he’ll be pretty different.”
“Different? That’s all you have to say?!”
“I said I ain’t the welcome wagon. Look, I’ll contact some people. They can make sure you two stay safe until he’s done, and they’ll help walk you through everything. They’re a little bit cult-y but considering everyone else is trying to kill us I can’t really blame them.”
The woman opens her mouth as if to yell at him, then closes it, and repeats this process. Not an uncommon reaction to him. Fortunately he has other things to do, unfortunately those things are talking to his colleagues. He glances at the… sack, now no longer purple with the green making a gradient to orange. Probably something bug related. Hopefully Nightcrawler is free.