[John's patient. Well, no. He's really not. But he's also stubborn and has nothing to say. One would think after a month of Logan's brooding fucking silences, John would be ready to burn the dickhole's face off just to start a conversation or a fight, to not deal with this pervading, infecting quiet. John never found peace in silence; quite the opposite. Just being alone lately is enough to want to take a gun and blow his brains out, just to stop his mind from whispering to him: about the Brotherhood, about his life, about his choices. Unfortunately enough, John has nobody to stick around and drown that shit out, and he sure as hell isn't going to seek anyone out.

Maybe it's been a worsening problem. Maybe he's just getting used to Logan taking his fucking precious time, as if prolonging the inevitable share-time does what? Makes the blow easier to take? Increases suspense? Fucking load of shit.

John swipes the offered paper from him with that suddenly visible streak of nasty impatience, his eyes flashing with a glare as he sets aside his emptied beer and bows his head to read.

Montreal. Research lab. Dead sapiens. Missing prototypes. And it stinks of not only the Brotherhood.

Mortis. Lois.

John pushes the paper away and leans back, his face a mask.]

Last time we were in Montreal, we camped in a rundown warehouse. Didn't stay long. Mystique's careful. I doubt she'd revisit old haunts.