People Will Be People
When the planned training session turns out to be a bad idea, Kev and Harry go out to unwind, but the outside world isn't the most friendly place either.


January 18th, 2013

"People who can fly are still people. I'm a scientist, I should know."

The little ACRU gym area was recently flush with bodies; field specialists of all kinds getting in their exercise fix and training regimen for the day. It's still warm in their absence — almost too cloistering, given less-than-top-end air-conditioning in the part of the building the still slightly shiny law enforcement branch has been allotted. The only flush now exists in the single person who's stayed behind, waiting for a much less rigorous training session to ensue. Kev's thoroughly worked-out state places him more ready to hit the shower than the gym again, but he's here as he said he would be; a cheerful reminder hours past, his lackadaisical usual. And ya better be here!

Even if Harry emerged from her realm of science, though, he isn't prepared to notice. His back is turned, numerous muscles flexed into tension behind the droop of his sleeveless almost pink shirt and down his arms: one crooked, his hand pressed solidly to his side, the other flung out opposite to keep his cell phone pressed to his ear. A towel of highly questionable sanitation is slung over one shoulder, grasped a second later to shove against his exercise-taxed forehead, which is hunkered down. If he's having a conversation at all it's in tight, short mumbles that barely seem to break the sound barrier let alone form words in the English language.

A woman of her word, Harriet Parker exits the lab section of ACRU only a little later than she intended to leave. She got carried away with identifying a chemical compound found on one of their newest victim's shoes and lost track of time. However, she quickly threw on a pair of sweat pants and an old t-shirt and briskly walked toward the gym. As she pushes through the door, she's just finished braiding her hair and is wrapping the twist-tie around the ends. All ready for her training session.

As Kev is the last person in the gym, he's easy to spot. However, he seems to be on the phone and she doesn't want to interrupt. It's not hard to tell that he doesn't seem to be happy about whatever the topic is. She allows the door to shut behind her, then politely stays put to wait for him to finish.

A twitch of Kev's shoulder might indicate the closing door filtered into his brain, or it could just be a reaction to the phone — he twists the little thing in his grip, clenching and unclenching. Pushing the towel to his head, he paces — half turned toward Harry, but his sights are drilled into the floor ahead of him, every expressive line of his face down-turned into bull-doggish expression, angry at the mouth, sad between the eyes, rapidly hidden by the flagging towel. " — tellin' me — " his mumbling takes form, inching louder, distraught. " — that I'm not good enough, is that it? Hey. Hey!" The man thrusts the disconnected phone away from his ear — it only stays contained in his fist out of luck. His eyes flick in Harry's direction but don't land on her. He paces hard one way, then the other.

Perhaps too late, Harry realizes that such an unhappy conversation may be, uh, private. Never exactly one with good inter-personal skills, the wheels of her brain turn and she thinks it may be a good idea to step back into the hallway and give Kev some space to finish talking. She starts to do just that when he gets louder and talks about not being good enough. A hand slips behind her and grabs the door handle to pull the door open just as he angrily pulls the phone away from his ear. He's no longer on the phone, but it looks like he still may want to be alone. Is it ruder to slip out unnoticed or is it ruder to announce that she is here? Frozen in indecision she manages a soft, "Oh, uh, sorry…I'll…" she trails off, unsure of what she will actually do.

His head whips toward the sound and Kev harshly looks at Harry with all the force of a punch. After the initial, uncharacteristically aggressive glare — a split second, at most — he's left looking like the deer in the headlights. His shoulders heave once, twice, hard-working breath and internal struggle, and he grabs a handful of his hair with the towel and runs through it. "…Nah," he manages, more gruff than he means. "Nah…" he repeats, patting himself into some kind of calm — mostly looking bashful for even needing to try. He sniffs. "…s'my— fault. I wasn't payin' no attention to the time. Come on, uh— " He scratches the back of his messy head.

That would make two deers in two separate pairs of headlights as Harry returns Kev's strangely aggressive glare with a wide eyed look of her own. Immediately she realizes she must have made a grievous error in remaining inside the gym and listening in on part of his conversation for him to look at her like that. Kev's such a friendly guy, that she can't imagine why he's so angry. "N-no, it's…I'm so sorry. I was running late and then I saw you on the phone and was starting to leave…." she trails off for a second, tugging the end of her braid anxiously. It's a nervous habit. "Are you okay?" It's not just a question about his anger, but also stretching back into the phone conversation. She likes Kev and doesn't like to see him anything other than his laid back self. Plus, the fact that something's shaken him to this state means it must be rather upsetting to the man. "I'm not really good at talkin', but I'm good at listenin'. If you want to, of course. You don't have to! You can tell me to keep my nose out of your business and we can do trainin' another day."

Kev's eyes narrow and narrow into slits — solely out of effort to focus on Harry, one second brightly alert and the next trying to piece together her words. He scrapes his towel over his head a few more times, sending his hair into several new and angles. It can't look any messier than it did before. "For someone who's not good at talkin'," he says, "that was a lot of talkin'." Not an insult, from Kev, simply a lazy explanation, sounding more like himself. "It's uh," he tosses the towel down onto a bench. "Nothin'." His eyes shift about like a scolded puppy and his jaw clenches; he works at letting it free.

"Some people, you know," he offers vaguely before pawing through the air in gesture that Harry come forward. "It's trainin' time. I try to make a habit'a keepin' my word!" He smiles, in a flash — his mouth is quick to trouble and pull thin, eyes shading. He realizes he's still clutching the phone like he's keeping a grenade pin in place and tosses it on the bench too, mumbling, "When someone wants it."

"Well, I mean, I talk a lot, but I don't make a lot of sense, I guess." That's what Harry's been told a lot, at least. When he looks like a scolded puppy, Harry's deer in headlights look turns into more of a protective and sympathetic one. "Sure!" she says, though she doesn't exactly know what he means by some people. Some people anger you enough to yell on phones? Some people listen in on conversations accidentally? "Though, honestly, Kev, if you want to skip the training, that's fine. We can go grab a beer across the street. That's what people do when they're upset, right?" The woman who goes home and makes models of the 5th Dimension doesn't really know what normal people do after work. "It's not breaking your word if we both wanna do something else," she gives a nervous half smile.

His head's tipped down; Harry's nervous smile might go unnoticed. Her entire well-meaning response might have gone unnoticed, if Kev's silent distraction is any indication. He worries darkly at the floor and kicks it with a few shuffles of his sneakers; just when his silence starts to verge into sulky territory, the man whirls around and—


— his fist into the cherry red punching bag hanging from the ceiling. The weighty object sways on its chain like a child's swing-set. It thumps against him on its swing back — seeming light only for the way that he doesn't move, just keeps looking at the floor, breathing heavily. Fists clench; release. His shoulders fall. Now that he's gotten that out of his system: "… 'kay," Kev answers in nervous, mumbling agreement, pushing his expression into a kind of accidental pout, shooting wary split second peeks up at Harry.

Harry is quite startled by the sudden punch toward the punching bag. While the punching bag was made for such assaults, the CSI isn't quite sure what to make of Kev's sudden deterioration. She jumps at the sudden sound and then stands very straight. Whatever that phone conversation was must have thrown Kev for quite a large loop. Tugging again at the end of her braid, Harry walks over to her coworker and friend and reaches a hand out to gently place on his shoulder. While she's nervous about his recent burst of anger, this is a friend in emotional need and she can't overlook that. "I'm sorry." She's not apologizing, just attempting to sympathize. "Let's go get a drink." Because that's what friends do! She thinks!

* * *

It's not the favoured ACRU bar that Kev and Harry wind up sitting in for the friend thing; it's another little spot twists and turns away from the headquarters, a dark and over-air-conditioned establishment that's considerably lower-key than the prior neighbourhood. Still charged under the surface, the combat specialist — wordlessly — thought it best to be away from his other colleagues' usual carousing. Whether this joint is actually a better choice is up for debate; a few loud patrons in the back corner continually raise his hackles. He does a fine enough job, though, so far, at hunkering over the bar and focusing mostly on Harry or the bowl of peanuts beside his beer.

A scruffy red sweatshirt hanging off him — so glamorously covering his sweaty post-exercise style with a similar style called too lazy to shower — Kev shuffles his hands and part of his sleeves around on the bar, chasing a stray peanut. His face is pinched; he alternately appears to be engaged in a thought too deep for him to figure out, or not paying attention at all. "Mmyeah," he replies to something Harry said — or it could have been the radio. He's not sure.

Harry doesn't really know what the favored ACRU bar is or not. She's not the type to 'carouse' with members after work. This bar is as good as any other that's available near their work place. The beer that Harry ordered - seemingly at random - sits at her elbow and is barely touched. It's easy for her to see that Kev is at some odd ends and she's not quite sure how to help him. He seems to be nodding and agreeing to the music that's playing as she has been unable to work up the nerve to say anything. Finally, she decides to do something. Taking her pint glass, she tips it and clinks it next to Kev's.

"Cheers!" She pauses. "Not, really, in a happy way, since you don't seem to be very happy right now. Just, you know, in the acknowledging that we both have drinks and are drinking them sort of way. So, what happened?" This is Harry's A-Game for trying to talk her friends through bad times.

Kev blinks as if out of a daze, looking dumb-foundedly up. Despite the pulled-down expression he's been afflicted by, he's quick to crack a grin at Harry now. "Cheers," he returns, lifting his glass to give it a little tip in turn. He takes a drink before running his hand through his hair and grumbling, "Aaahhh…" in gravel, evasive. "Nothin' new." His head-scratching pauses at the back of his head and he squints at Harry with a pointlessly raised elbow. "I don't wanna get angry 'bout it again. Hey, you've barely taken a sip'a that stuff. Lightweight?"

"Oh, yeah, sort of. I don't drink that much. Or often. Or, really, at all." Though, in the spirit of friendship, Harry takes a small swig of her pint glass. Her nose wrinkles a bit at the taste - it's not something she's used to. She also looks like she weighs about 100 pounds soaking wet, so her tolerance is probably not exactly that high. "I don't even know what I ordered, to be honest." Some sort of brew involving a Anchor. It had a nice looking tap. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry again. This is the relaxing over a beer time! Not that I really know how that works." She thinks to the books she reads. Once, a friend made her watch Sex and the City. They talked all the time over drinks! What did they talk about a lot! Oh, right! Putting her elbows on the bar, she gives Kev a serious look. "If it's a sex thing, I'm here to listen."

Sex thing. Kev's eyebrows lurch so high against his forehead that they may crawl all the way up and over his head. He leans back out of his hunch, gradually straightening in slow increments as if waking up — into an incredibly bewildered state. "Uhhhh." His eyes are tiny slits of confusion, and — eventually — amusement. And some shock. He wets his lips and tries for an extended moment to answer. It clearly takes some consideration. "No, uh. It's not like that," he says frankly, managing a flicker of a smile for Harry's efforts. He plants an elbow on the bar, leaning in toward her while he gestures once, twice at her with a palm down. "Now, why— why— " he impresses with slightly worried curiosity. " — would you think it's a sex thing?"

Realizing that perhaps talking to people outside of work is not exactly how they present it in TV and movies, Harry blushes and takes another quick drink of her beer. "O-oh. Uh." Now she's nervous and realizing how bad she is at talking with people. "I just, well. See, I saw something. And all the friends talk about sex over drinks. I kinda thought that's what we were supposed to do? Maybe that's just a girl thing. They were all girls. Maybe you don't want to talk about how someone's member is too small. Or was it too big? It was one of the two." She can't remember the basics of the episode. "Sorry. If it was a serious thing you didn't want to talk about, I thought maybe it had to do with a girlfriend. Or sex. Or a boyfriend. Or a boyfriend and a girlfriend." With a start, she sees she's rambling again. Luckily, she can stop it with another drink.

A trainwreck. This is a trainwreck. This is what it feels like to experience the phrase like a trainwreck in real time. Kev's gaze shrinks and widens on and off until he's squinting so hard he might be trying to block Harry out of his vision in secondhand embarrassment (and a dose of firsthand). Ultimately, however, he busts out with a big ol' laugh and slaps the bar, turning away to briefly hang his head and get himself together, scraping a hand over his eyes. "It's not only a girl thing, but I uh, I don't wanna talk about anybody's parts if it's all the same t'you," he says. "I was worried there for a second that you thought I looked like I had sex problems, or that you wanted to hear me talk about— … " He thins his mouth. It disappears into his mustache, then— smack. "It's uh. It's not any'a that." In other words— new topic? He has none.

Unfair! Harry started the talking! That is what got them into this mess in the first place. She takes another long drink, in direct defiance of her earlier notion that she was a lightweight. She is, in fact, and this will get her into trouble later should she continue on this pace. However, she can't help herself when she's involved in such a trainwreck, as Kev so appropriately thought of her talking techniques. "No, that's no problem. I just, uh, wanted to say that it was okay if you wanted to." Harry puts her face in her hands. "I don't know how to do this talking thing! I thought I did, but mostly I just like to talk about chemical bonds and alloys with people. I don't know the other things." She quickly picks up her head. "How is work, that's a normal question, right?"

"Don't worry about it," Kev says with a much warmer smile, appreciating Harry for her good intentions. All is easily forgiven. He drinks his beer and rubs a few knuckles under his chin. "Work's as normal as it gets for us, I guess. Probably means someone's gonna burn the city down by Friday. How's uh, the lab. Did you do any interesting chemical bonding today?"

The blush on Harry's face doesn't recede quickly. She made a bit too much of a verbal blunder to not be blushing for the next few minutes. Instead, she takes another drink. In the short time before she started speaking and now she's almost a third of her way through the pint. "That's good. I mean, not good. It's hard in our job to say how things are going well or not. Catching a criminal is great, but the fact that the crime was committed isn't." Harry dips her hand into the peanuts and starts arranging them into the chemical bonds found in gun powder on the bar in front of her. "The lab is doing fine. We found a link between the dirt on the shoes of the suspect in that robbery and the footprints left at the bank. That'll be helpful when it finally goes to court. Other than that, same old labeling and identifying and assembling broken things."

Kev briefly eyeballs the progress of Harry's drink and the pattern she's making with the peanuts. He steals one, oblivious that it may represent part of a chemical bond, and flicks it into his mouth. "Good stuff. People with these abilities," as if he doesn't have one himself, "sometimes they get it in their head they're so high 'n' mighty 'n' powerful they can get away with anything." While true, the statement is somewhat vague in purpose; Kev lifts his beer and waves it slightly. "It's good what you do. Reminds 'em they're still human. They might be able to shoot flames from their fingernails or whatever but they still wear fuckin' shoes."

Harry doesn't mind that a crucial bond between potassium and nitrate has just been popped into Kev's mouth. Instead, she starts to rearrange the bonds and circles to account for the sudden unstable chemical. She pauses for a moment to take a sip of her beer. "Well, they are just human, that's true. I mean, I don't see what we do is any different than what my old job used to be. What's really interesting about it is the implication of the new science involved. I haven't gotten a chance to study the remains of someone who shoots fire, but I have to wonder where the spark comes from, you know? Is there a chemical combustion or is that person actually causing that combustion somehow? How is it different from when an accelerant is used, you know? Is it faster or slower burning?"

She looks up from her peanuts and her beer and she stops herself. Get her started on science and it's hard to make her stop. "Sorry, I'm rambling again. I'm not sure what I do is good, really. I just use science to either rule out or confirm your suspicions. I wouldn't even have the evidence to do that if it weren't for you detectives. You're the people who really catch the criminals."

"Eh," Kev paws a hand through the air above his glass, good-naturedly dismissive. "I just bully 'em around." He cracks a mild grin, self-deprecating but holding no grudge about it; his expression warms, focused more on Harry's and her job than his. "I bet there's whole wings of the government figurin' all that shit out now. Evolved research. I bet," he pauses to sip, looking at Harry over the top of his beer, "you could get in on all that, if ya really wanted to."

Harry gives Kev another skeptical look. "It's way more than that. You have to hunt people down and think about things. I assemble broken glasses and check chemical compounds for the proper materials. I'm kind of a step in a long line." This isn't just modesty. She loves what she does and won't hear Kev say that he's not good at his job - she thinks he is! "Oh, no, I don't think so. The science of that interests me for its implications, but I like my job now. I feel like I'm helping people and what I want to know is more based on criminal science." She frowns and tilts her head slightly. "Evolved research by the government. It's not something I really thought about. It gives me a little weird feeling in the pit of my stomach."

Kev pulls a face around 'thinking about things', but it doesn't last; it turns into a mild smile, instead, and drifts away. "You an' me both," he admits then. "Makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up if I think about it too long. At least that's not somethin' that happens much."

Two men bumbling toward the bar next to Harry to order their next round for them and their friends — in the back corner — have caught bits and pieces of the conversation. It's sparked a more drunken version between them; between orders to the bartender, mumbled gems such as — stronger testing if you ask me (no one did) and give 'em all a lobotomy drift over. Drinking establishments: well-known to be tinderboxes over A-Positive issues since the news came out.

Harry thinks about things a lot, so she's a little surprised at herself for not thinking that the government wouldn't start studying the Evolved and their implications on the world. She just thought of them as a regulating body that would make sure that the scientists would do their job properly. Just reading about MK-ULTRA is enough to allow her to think the government or the military doing it behind the scenes is a bad idea. There needs to be oversight.

In fact, the idea of testing filters through her ears and she realizes that she's actually listening to someone else say that there should be stronger tests. Blinking, she glances about in order to find out who the people making such statements can be found. Narrowing in on the drunken individuals, she gives them a once over and then turns away. They're not worth an actual discussion on the issues with. "Ignore them," she tells Kev softly with a dismissive wave at her drink.

Kev looks from Harry to his beer and grips it too tightly to be practical, but the strength seems to work at taking his focus away from the other conversation. Slightly. Barely. He grunts. "Screw 'em," he rephrases. The buddies stumble into a drunken argument with the bartender, meanwhile, degrading him for the bar's open policy to A-Ps. Kev keeps his sights determinedly on the bar in front of him, but — twitching muscle by twitching muscle — it's obvious that he's listening in, keeping tabs on the escalation. One man pounds the bar with a fist; Harry's peanuts all rattle.

Picking fights with drunkards isn't exactly Harry's cup of tea. Seeing Kev's face keep it's tightly concealed anger and listening to the more idiotic conversations happening next to her is making her more and more on edge. Plus, she is sober and her chemical peanut connections are now messed up. Something has to be done about this. Turning slightly, she gives the men a small smile. "I'm sorry gentleman. I was hoping you could settle a bet I had with my friend here. Is there really a big difference between an Irishman and an American?"

The shift, from Harry talking to him to Harry talking to the drunkards, jolts Kev into attention; he doesn't turn, but eyes the group darkly out of the corner of his eye, on high alert and, frankly, curious. Not to mention confused.

For every ounce of confusion Kev has, the pair has triple. "Whuh?" The closest man barely registers her question, distracted instead by Harry herself; the other glowers past, targeting Kev before blinking bloodshot eyes at the woman. "Uh, sure. One's Irish."

"Oh, yes, they're that. But, did you know the history of the Irish? In Boston, no less!" Harry glances over at Kev to attempt to let him know that she thinks she has this covered. Of course, she wasn't very good at talking with Kev, so what would be the basis of her ability to talk to two drunk belligerent men? Her argument is a little strange at best, but she delivers it in a friendly and jovial manner. It's as if she really is still attempting to win a bet. "The Irish weren't allowed to work just about anywhere only because they were Irish? Do you think that was okay?"

Now Kev's beginning to catch on to Harry's point. A tiny smirk wriggles its way onto his mouth, but it's squashed before it's given its due, his eye too sharp on the two men and the ways this could go south. He plants his head in his hand, knuckles digging a bit too hard into his chin and looks a bit like he's holding his breath.

The man who answered most coherently grows suspicious, a sentiment that's bitter on him, his alcohol-numbed features growing cantankerous. "Nah, I'm not a racist," he states. "I see what you're doin', lady. It's not the same thing."

"Harry," Kev mumbles into his palm.

"Why is it different?" Harry puts her hand in her chin and smiles at the other suspicious man. Her point was made to be simplistic, hence why she trotted it out in the first place. When Kev starts to mumble into his palm, she waves a hand backwards at him, as if to say, 'don't worry! I can handle this!' That may or may not be a fabrication. But, she is attempting to handle things in her own way.

"'Cause these people," the flick of the talker's eye to Kev isn't just accusatory; it's nervous, and thus short-lived; he stands much stronger staring down the young woman. Even then, the man's shoulders puff up; for all he knows, Harry could be different and capable of killing him within a few seconds. "They got somethin' in them that's not human."

Kev's hand drags its way up to his forehead, pressing knuckles into deepening creases. He doesn't let the taxed gesture block his view of the interaction for more than a jiffy. "These numbskulls aren't gonna get it," he murmurs in a low voice meant for just Harry.

The quieter drunkard looms closer. "A bet?" He's catching up. "You winnin' or losin' this bet?"

With a bright smile, Harry meets the talker with open friendliness. That's the way she wins arguments. "How are they not human? You know, for the longest time people though that anyone with dark skin was actually closer to apes and therefore not human and able to be enslaved." Harry's smile fades slightly. "People who can fly are still people. I'm a scientist, I should know."

Harry emphatically turns back to Kev. "It's not about that. It's that they think that humans aren't humans. That's ridiculous. It's like civil and women's rights just went out the window as soon as there was a blood test. The blood test is supposed to be there to make sure that people know they have an ability and can properly prepare themselves." She turns back to the quieter drunkard. "I think we're all losing the bet if you think people can be turned out of bar just because of their blood."

Kev knows — boy, does he know — but all he has to offer Harry in agreement is a high raise of his eyebrows, worry trapped in all the lines. What can ya do paired with distinct frustration that's settled on those same lines too many times.

"Test's a good start," the farther man says, "but even you scientists don't know everything. They're all too dangerous if you ask me. I bet, five years from now, society's gonna friggin' fall apart. Prob'ly sooner. Look at all the crime already."

"That's why we're here," Kev speaks up, standing with a tense sigh he'd been jamming in; he barely means to rise, it just occurs, as natural as a hand gesture when his mouth opens. There's no sign of a badge on him — only the faint A.C.R.U. insignia on his sweater, unfolding out of its lazy crumple as he shifts.

"Yeah, half-filled with possies— "

"The hell," his friend complains, "did we come here to argue politics or have a drink?"

"That's the same thing people have said about millions of people," Harry sighs and then just swivels back in her seat toward Kev. These people are not worth her discussion after all. The friend is right. They are there to drink. She'll let them get back to it. Almost immediately they are out of her thoughts and out of her periphery. She goes back to her chemistry peanuts. "Sorry," she tells Kev with a sheepish smile, almost glad he flashed his badge. "Bigotry makes me annoyed."

She's not alone. Kev's face gains a faint flush, a tinge of anger easily riling blood vessels into action as he watches the two men, his stance guarding even under the loose hang of his sweater. He's shorter than both of them. He's not so ready to ignore them.

The closest man is ready to ignore them; he moseys on, pint in hand, passed on by the wary bartender. The other… "You know, I'm sick'a all these scientists and experts on TV— " A wave of his hand includes Harry, as far away from a television screen as she is. "Talkin' like they know everything. How can there be experts on somethin' we just found out about? Tell me that!" He swigs his new drink. "You don't know anything."

Kev steps nearer, behind Harry's seat. "Why don't you head over to one of the bars that refuse A-positives," he says — and though it's through grit teeth, he manages to retain some level of politeness, even caution over speaking up at all — until, "If you're gonna be an asshole."

The flare in the man's eyes sparks similar in Kev's; he recognizes it. Interpreted: threat. He shuffles a hand onto Harry's arm. "C'mon, let's just get outta here."

Harry isn't one exactly to flare with anger. She sits straight up, however, when someone attempts to imply that she doesn't know anything. She is, in fact, quite knowledgeable. She stands up, but at the hand on her arm, she looks at Kev with an unreadable expression on her face. "Okay. Though, really, we shouldn't have to leave anywhere because there are ignorant drunkards here." She doesn't go out drinking much, so she's not sure about drinking etiquette. However, she knows about how to treat people decently and these fellows are failing miserably.

With an exasperated sigh, the scientist leaves her drink a third filled and makes for the outside. "I don't understand people." And she really doesn't.

A few half-mumbled, half-shouted words follow them; Kev takes Harry's arm, firm in urgency but not in force, an indication to hurry along as if the words don't matter even if they should. The evening air greets them pleasantly, the pedestrians outside drifting by obliviously, normal as can be. It's not until Kev veers left and bumps his back against the building to lean and take a breather that he says another word. "You know," he starts, quieter than usual but just as ambling… as if it's casual; looking down, scruffing his hand under his nose before it drops, "half — maybe more'n half — of the calls we get, it's 'cause someone with an ability's been threatened or turned into some kinda victim."

Harry follows, using long strides to keep up with him. Her expression is a tense and serious one, ignoring the words tossed carelessly at them. It makes her angry to hear people talk like that and just as angry that they have to leave because of them. "Really?" Harry doesn't take calls. She just logs evidence and attempts to link it with suspects. She frowns and leans against the building right next to Kev. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I watched those X-Men cartoons when I was younger."

He grins suddenly, and it warms around the edges that get lost under a few whiskers that need a trim. He gives a little laugh, a little snort of simple amusement. Can't count on Kev to linger in depth or mournful thought on humanity for long. He pushes off the wall in an easy slink. "Yeah? Me too. Never thought we'd be comparin' the world to 'em though." He starts moseying down the sidewalk, rolling his shoudlers a few times, expelling extra energy. "I'm not wearing any've those costumes though, don't get ahead've yourself, there."

For a few moments, Harry remains leaning against the building, but then she stands up straighter and follows Kev down the sidewalk at their slow pace. "Me neither." Who would have thought that cartoons and comic books would be anything like their real life. She laughs at the costumes comment, face relaxing. "Oh, I don't know, some of the Detectives would look pretty fetching in spandex, don't you think?"

"Uhhhhhh…" Kev scratches the back of his head as he strolls, his neck leaning down. If he's picturing this vision of spandex, the only indication is an awkward glance aside, slightly wary, as if afeared that a couple of his fetching colleagues might jump out of an alley and hit him. "I'm pleading the fifth on that one."

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