( ah, well. the issue with being a telepath: once someone figures it out, the shields go up. not that parisa is complaining in this particular instance. erik's thoughts have been needling, one hot lash of righteous fury after the other, interrupted by names and flashes of faces, charles, emma, mystique — having all suddenly silent is a relief, and parisa lets out a hum of acknowledgement, her shoulders twitching at the relief of tension.

she takes a spot on the wall beside him, in theory looking at the rest of the bath house, but keeping a close watch on him from the corner of her eye. parisa, undignified, snorts. )

A machine.

( she can't say it's impossible. things here obviously don't abide by the rules of magic as she knows them, but it's still presumptuous for him to assume. )

The man you are, Erik, would probably think that. But it's more likely a person. Rather, it's probably people, all weaving some tangled mess of wards to keep every kind of person inside who they want to keep inside. ( a brief gesture to erik ) Machine. ( and one to her. ) People.

( the subtext: if it can be dealt with, whatever the cause, there's an equal chance we'll need each other to handle it. not that she necessarily understands erik's mutation, at least not fully, but she knows physicist medians and has a bit of that magic herself, so assumes it's the same sort of thing. )