Mac is a compassionate person.
She has concern in abundance for all living things really, both big and small. She might not show it the way some people would, might not wear her heart on her sleeve, always ready to lend a listening ear. She has never joined any big groups, never done any charity drives, and never done a days missionary work in her life. She isn't the kind of gal to give her old clothes away to shelters (mostly because her clothes are threadbare, stained, and little more than rags by the time she's through with them), and she's not volunteering at soup kitchens on the weekends either. That's not the compassion she has.
She has, however, a long and colorful history of taking in bent, broken, and wounded things.
It started small enough. Strays, mostly. Old pets abandon on the back-roads, too old to be much use anymore to their owners. Sometimes they were balding in patches, with cataracts clouding their eyes, and yellowed teeth missing. They were still happy though, still domestic and loving, and even if she couldn't sneak them home, she could always sneak them scraps.
Sometimes they were young animals, too small to be left on their own, or otherwise burdensome. These were harder, because she wanted to keep them always, to protect and care for them. It struck her wrong that they could be so tiny, so perfectly healthy and good, yet they would be thrown out in old boxes or just left to die. They had done nothing wrong, had made no errors. Yet they were abandoned.
She did her best to nurse them along, find them new homes if she could. The old ones rarely got second chances, and would often just not show up one day. The younger ones, puppies and kittens, they were harder. Trial and error was the name of the game in those days, and she learned that cows milk can't nourish everything, soft fabric and litter-mates can kill, and the hardest graves to dig were often the smallest in size.
(There's a graveyard in the fields of her childhood home, with rock piles as markers, made up names scratched into stones.)
Every now and again, feral animals would make their way to her as well. Those weren't used to people, didn't care for them one bit. Birds with broken wings, dragged in by the mousing cat, or lizards with missing limbs. From frogs too far from water -an easy fix- and one time, a raccoon with angry eyes and a broken foot. She still remembers having to get a rabies vaccine after that raccoon bit clean through the soft flesh of her hand, and she still wears the faded white scar on her hand to this day.
It lived, though. Even if it hated her guts at first.
There were people too. Neighbors her age with no place safe to go when things got bad, classmates who just needed to be reminded that grades weren't the end of the world. Strangers that were down on their luck, and maybe needed to catch a ride in or out of town. Sometimes it was ice for the guy who got his bell rung because he was a dumbass, and sometimes it was a band-aid for the barkeep who chose the wrong pair of shoes. They weren't always grateful, not always nice, but they didn't need to be.
Victor Creed isn't like any of them.
He's vile, and struggle as she might, Mac can't see why. He's very obviously not like a domestic animal that might be mean because of abuse or pain. He's also not like a wild animal either, because those don't like people in general, and they do their damnedest to maim so they can get away. He isn't drunk, isn't actually wounded, and he definitely isn't scared.
He sits himself on their couch and makes himself comfortable even though his apartment is literally right next door. The six foot something Mutant menaces them without words, wearing a self satisfied grin the whole while. His stares them directly in the eye as he crushes their phones, feigns grabs that send them skittering just out of reach, throws his clothes at Ana to be washed, eats twice the amount of food they do in a single day, and is generally and entitled. It's as if he thinks they owe him now for something, as if they live to accommodate his entire fucking existence.
Who does that? Who just gets violently shot, and then when somebody helps them, starts invading like the Spanish fucking conquest? Well, she sorta answered her own question, considering that's exactly what early American colonist did, but still. Who, in this day and age, acts like this? This controlling, alpha, old timey domineering diskishness is like, two hundred years out of date.
"Where are you going?"
He's laid out on the couch still, nestled into it like it's his now, fully clothed with his boots on. Which, sure, fine. Take the couch, it probably smells like him now, and will never be comfortable again.
"Listen, Victor," Mac say, and she puts so much anger into that name it practically becomes a curse specially crafted just for him. It's four in the fucking morning, she's barely got any sleep thanks to him, and she's angry. "Some of us have to work for a living. This is me, trying to go to work so we can pay rent."
"You leaving me here alone with your friend? Trusting."
"Buddy, listen, I understand. This is probably the first time women have ever been nice to you in your life. For future reference, usually you thank someone when they take you in, maybe do them a favor in the future, not invade their home and threaten them," she hisses.
He laughs. He laughs because he's a huge, gigantic douchebag as far as Mac can tell.
"You kids got fight," he chuckles. "Much better than Logan's brat."
Mac sneers. She doesn't know who the fuck Logan is, or who his brat may be, but she isn't anybody's kid. She doesn't need this six foot monster of muscle with dirty blond hair and a mouth full of carnivore teeth to start playing fucked up father figure. She definitely doesn't need him making those shitty sexist remarks.
If he wasn't big enough to crush her like a bug, and creepy enough to give her the willies, she might do something about it.
"You're afraid of me. I can smell it," he informs her with a leer,as if he can read minds. Which she really hopes isn't among his repertoire of mutations, because there is such a thing as over kill. Considering some of her thoughts today, though, she would probably be dead already if he could.
"That's a tragedy," she comments dryly, masking the terror she feels. "Because if you can smell my fear, then I bet you can smell every puddle of piss in every alley you pass, and every person that touched themselves and never washed their hands."
For a moment, he seems like he doesn't know how to respond to that statement. He simply turns to her and stares, his face illuminated by the white light of the TV.
"You live a sad life Victor," she says, false empathy dripping from her voice. "Getting shot like a dog, smelling stink all the time. We can talk about it some other time, maybe when I don't have to go to work."
Victor seems to figure himself out, because he starts laughing again like it's all one big, fat joke. Maybe Ana was right last night. Maybe the universe did make a joke, only it's Mac's whole life instead of one guy with bullet holes.
"TRYING TO SLEEP IN HERE."
Mac closes her eyes. It's like thinking of Ana summoned her spirit from unconsciousness.
"Great job, Victor."
"Don't you have work?" he bites back, obviously uncaring.
"Bullets don't stick, but has anyone tried lighting you on fire? Curious, asking for a friend."
"Explosives haven't worked. Neither does drowning, any poison I've come across, dismemberment, or asphyxiation," he replies in monotone, his eyes glued to the images reflecting off the television screen. Mac can't actually tell if it's a documentary or a historical drama.
"What kind of life-" she starts, but then she cuts herself off because she honestly does not have time for this right now.
"Back to the drawing board for your friend," he advises her.
"Electric shock?" she shoots curiously, darting around the couch just out of his reach. She doesn't know if super strength or speed are part of his thing, and she's not keen on figuring that out.
"No."
"Sickness?"
"Never naturally."
Worrying implications, that. But then again, these are all some worrying answers. She feels like this isn't her forte. It actually kind of makes her uncomfortable to joke about
"IMPALEMENT THROUGH THE EYE?" Ana shouts from her room, apparently having none of the qualms Mac does. Her Anam Cara is surprisingly hostile, worn down from lack of sleep.
"Never happened, but no one's gonna get that close," he says with the sort of confidence that she, unfortunately, believes he can probably back up.
The apartment above them starts banging on their floor, causing a rain of what Mac prays to the good mother Mary isn't asbestos dust, as if to second her friends statement. Apparently Victor doesn't need those prayers though, because the guy she picked up off the street will take an act of God himself to kill.
Which just means that going to anybody for help seems even less likely to actually procure any assistance. She's not a snitch, but she briefly entertained thought of asking someone if the need arose. However, it seems like that's not an option, and dealing with him themselves just got about forty times more difficult. And it was already hard, so…
Mac slips out the door, rubbing her eyes. She goes to close it, but a hand gets in her way, keeping it open.
She turns, and sure enough there is Victor, somehow having moved without her hearing him. She feels unease bubble in her gut at the thought.
Why did she even care? Why couldn't she leave him?
"What now?" she hisses in demand, using her aggression to cover up her trepidation.
He raises an eyebrow in need of a good trim, just like everything else on him. He needs something to make him look less like a paleolithic neanderthal, and more like and actual person. A razor, or a good wax. Hell, maybe a pair of garden shears.
"Work," he answers.
Mac's upper lip curls, exposing her front teeth. As if it's some sort of unspoken challenge, he looks down at her and displays all of his disturbing pearly whites. She is forced to admit his showing is far more intimidating.
"Are you gonna follow me?" she asks, damning the hitch in her otherwise perfectly pissy voice.
He closes the door behind him with a smirk, brushing his hand along his coat. It occurs to Mac that it it still has holes in it, the edges fraying along the rips. It's no longer coated in blood, thanks to Ana, but it is still very obviously shot through.
The man himself is totally fine, a feral grin growing on his scruffy cheeks.
"Later. You aren't the only one with a job," he tells her.
He brushes past her, bumping her shoulder roughly as he goes. She stumbles, and she thinks she can catch a glint in his eye that promises violence. She doesn't envy whoever get in his way, or whoever he tracks down for retribution this night.
It strikes her that the entire hassle he gave her inside -threatening Ana, questioning where she was going, harassing her- was nothing more than sport. He was already fully dressed when she came out, already planning to leave.
She curses, wanting to chase after him and give him a piece of her mind. Mac knows it would be useless though. Victor Creed isn't an animal. He isn't even a person.
Victor Creed is an asshole.
And she's got to get to work.
They've been playing a game, Ana thinks. They've been playing it for years, and they have been lucky to get such a fair hand for so long.
There are three popular crimes in Hunt's Point, four if one wants to include smuggling. By and large though, the most popular illegal activity in the area is theft. Whether it be burglary or vehicular, stealing is the most common crime committed the area. This is one that Ana and Mac have been victims of before, mostly when they just moved in and hadn't insulated themselves in the area yet.
The second crime, of course, is prostitution. It's got nuances, because it's a crime for the sex workers to sell, it's a crime for the Johns to buy, and there are all the little details in between, including but not limited to the forced aspect it sometimes take,or the coercion and abuse. Neither Ana and Mac are involved with this one much, other than the occasional solicitation that occurs.
The third offense is actually a category in and of itself. Violent crimes including murder, rape, robbery, assault, and all the subtleties of the actions thereof, are not quite as rare as she would like them to be. Not rare at all, actually. According to the spreadsheets, there's a one in thirty four chance of being victim in Hunt's point of either a property or violent offense. Much higher than the national average, but still not the worst.
So really, it makes sense. The longer they stayed, the higher chance they would have of being a victim of some sort. It was all a numbers game, one that's keen on dragging her back in.
Ana vaguely wishes she could correctly identify whatever Victor is doing to them in legal terms. There's no particular reason for it other than to quiet her own curiosity, because it's not like they can go to the police or get his ass locked up for it.
Ana has the sneaking suspicion that if they even tried they would disappear pretty fast, and in a fairly gruesome manner. Oh, Mac and her are probably gonna give the mutant a good run for his money, if only because they aren't the type to just take whatever the fuck he's doing lying down, but she has her doubts about their rate of success. The man just has too much stacked in his corner for this type of game -experience, connections, lack of morals, incredible healing factor, extreme strength, heightened senses, willingness, drive- while she and Mac have too little. If she's honest, their best bet is to cut everything and run. Just her and Mac, enough supplies to last them a week or two, and nothing else. They should leave the same way they came into this city.
Mac probably won't go for that though.
Fucking Mac. Stand your ground, don't give an inch, do good things for the sake of doing them, Mac.
(Mac is safe. Mac isn't hurtful. Mac is-)
Ana shifts her weight, feeling dead on her feet. Her mind is a quite, deadened haze that nobody seems to notice as she walks in between the tables and booths, slinging out burgers and fries. Her feet are like nerveless weights, her legs just appendages to move as she operates on autopilot. Her brain doesn't even feel like it's part of her body at this point, just a third person viewer who gives out commands that her flesh follows like a Stark designed drone.
At least it ain't Hammertech. It actually manages to complete its functions.
"Long shift?"
Ana blinks, distantly registering the oddity of that question. Nobody says that, and the peculiarity of it forces her mind to focus for a second trying to piece it out. Belatedly she realizes she's serving up a grilled chicken sandwich to someone, with a side of extra salted fries.
A receding hairline registers, along with a bland smile. It's Suburban Dad.
"Digging?" She hears herself ask. On some level she realizes it's a bit defensive. He's asking a question, not interrogating her.
He keeps the same smile, one that she returns. If she were a little more observant, she might notice how he get a searching look in his eyes, like she's triggered some dormant instinct, but she's kinda stuck in her head at the moment.
"Just trying to be friendly, Ana."
"My mistake, I'm so sorry sir," she apologizes, but the words ring hollow no matter how falsely chipper her tone is. She wants to wince, but can't summon the energy.
He nods his head acceptingly as she sets his the food down on the vinyl tabletop, generic particle pattern gleaming up at her. Her eyes slide to the scratches etched into it for no reason. She's seen them a thousand times, there's nothing new there. Scuff marks from tableware, and those people who like to scratch their names into things because... well, actually Ana doesn't get why people do that. It's just sort of a dick move.
"Something happen?" he asks, his voice smooth and carefully casual.
'A mutant got shot down night before last, fell near dead on top of me. My crazy best friend said we should help, and now he's staked out our house as his own. It's been near twenty hours of harassment, almost no sleep, and when I thought I could escape to work, you show up,' she replies in the safety of her own head.
"You have lots of questions today," she states out-loud, still pondering the various scratches on the table's surface.
"You seem a bit distracted."
"That's very observant of you."
"And your answers are very deflective."
Ana continues smiling, her eyes crinkling in the corners. She can feel it on her face the same way she can feel the shirt on her body, or the flimsy charm around her neck. A costume, a reminder.
"Can I get you anything else sir?" she asks. She gets a tingle along her shoulder, the kind that tells her a customer is staring at her in a silent demand for her attention, and she tilts her head to see spot them, scanning the booths near the windows of the diner. Table three looks like they're going to need refills, and the children at six have gotten the majority of their lunches everywhere but their stomach. The mother there looks noncommittal, half-heartedly watching them and doing nothing at all to stop them. Outside the windows the sidewalk is crowded, but one figure in particular stands out to her.
Her stomach clenches, and she feels hollow acceptance settle as nausea in her stomach.
It's Victor, being impressively creepy and looking threatening as hell. She wasn't even aware he knew where she worked. Maybe he didn't though, maybe he tracked her down for a laugh.
He doesn't look to be enjoying himself now, if he ever was. He's glares pointedly at her, then and Suburban Dad, nostrils flaring. He looks grim, his brow furrowed, his hands flexing by his side like he wants to grab something and throttle it.
"Ana?"
She turns back, and Suburban Dad is staring at her. She flicks her eyes back to the window, but Victor is disappearing already in the crowd. She doesn't notice Suburban Dad mirroring her action, trying to pick which person she's looking at until he speaks up.
"Who is it?" he questions softly. It's as if he's speaking to a wounded animal rather than a person. His soft tone grates, because he's just digging.
"Can I get you anything else sir?" she repeats, but she can't summon the right face for it. Her tone is correct, but her smile is gone.
"Maybe you should take a break," he answers, and she can hear the unspoken 'so we can talk' that ends the statement.
She peels her gaze away from the crowd, turning her focus onto the fading paint on the wall just behind Suburban Dad's head. She feels floaty, suddenly, even more so than before.
"I don't get breaks most days," she answers instead, grinding down all the fear in her chest and boxing it away. Not here. Not now. She won't give anybody the satisfaction of seeing her afraid.
The suit's eyebrows twitch, the closest he gets to displaying surprise.
"Don't you work nine hour shifts?"
She shrugs.
"After work-"
"-I gotta go take care of table three," she finishes for him, ignoring the rest of whatever offer was going to come out of his mouth. "They need some refills, don't worry about it."
Ana dredges up a smile to slap on her face, inclining her head as a nonverbal 'excuse me', and starts walking away from his booth, her shoes squeaking on the tile the tiniest bit. She only comes back to give him his bill, which he pockets after he pays for his meal, walking out without any further conversation, the dove grey of his pristine suit burning itself into her eyes the same way those scratches did. They are similar, just mundane, random little subjects that caught her eye, seemingly of no importance of all.
Why then, does it feel like she's missing something?
Ana can't shake the feeling of being watched the rest of the day. That tingle on her shoulders, the feeling like something is on her skin. Even when the man in the suit leaves, she feels it lingering, and it makes her check everything. It's a normal, it's been normal save for the conversation she had, but she can't shake the sensation she's being stalked.
So when she clocks off, escaping through the backdoor, she's really unsurprised to see Victor out of the shadows like some harbinger of doom.
"Really?" she says, because at this point it's all she's got left. A tired, defeated callout in a grimy alleyway, next to a dumpster that smells of old grease and cardboard.
"Girly," he greets.
Neither of them say anything for a moment. Ana could call him out for being a creep, could do a lot of things actually.
She's not gonna. She knows better.
He prowls closer, exuding menace like some sort of noxious gas. Maybe it's one of his mutations. It would fit with the whole theme he has going.
"Do you know who that was?" he demands of her.
Ana looks at him straight in the face. There is so many people he could be talking about, but she knows who he means. Victor and him are the two new anomalies in her life, the people who started making everything unsteady again.
"No," she answers truthfully. "He's just some guy Mac saved from being mugged, and ended up coming here. It's been like this for months. Don't even know his name."
He encroaches on her personal space further. She wants to shy away, to back up, but there's nowhere to run. She has to accept this, has to stay calm, even as his fingers come up to grip her chin. He's got a hold like a vice, and his hand smells like sweaty meat. She hates being touched by most people, but this is a special kind of fucked up.
"You sure?" He asks, and his pointed nails bite into the soft flesh of her cheek as he drags her closer. She can feel the hot wash of his breath on her face, and it's a disgusting sensation. She wants him to go away, to leave, to just die. She would kill him herself if she could.
"Absolutely," Ana replies without hesitation.
He stares at her like he can pluck the truth from her eyes. Or maybe just the general vicinity of her face. His nostrils flare one, twice, and that's it. It's over. He releases his hold on her, leaving Ana with with the quiet desire to figure out a way to pay him back for the last thirty hours. It's a spark of light in the empty acceptance she feels, a rage that is just beginning to sprout.
One that quickly dies out, because she knows she can't fight him and win. There isn't a use trying. She's been living on borrowed time anyway, always playing that numbers game, and this time her cards were shit. She's tired, and she's not Mac. She can't fight this.
"Get your bags. You and your friend picked up a spook."
"What?" Ana asks, composing herself. She wanted to run earlier, yes, but the point was to leave this guy behind, not have them...she doesn't know. Is this a hostage situation of some sort? A round about kidnapping, maybe? "Really? You, now this?"
"Some kind of luck you have," he responds gruffly.
"It's 'cause fucking Mac is Irish," she states emptily.
The man in front of her snorts loud enough it echoes off the dirty alleyway walls.
What an asshole, Ana thinks.