That accent, he decided right then and there, would probably never cease to be charming. Dusting himself off as he stood, he moved his hands to his hips and let them rest there, just considering her for a moment. It always surprised him when he heard people tell him that they didn't know anything, though it shouldn't have. His whole life he had known what he was, had lived the history of an entire class of people. What was it like to be free of that knowledge? No wonder she could be so happy. His heart and stomach twisted with a sharp pain that faded into a dull ache. For a moment he was utterly in love with the fact that she wasn't tainted by a history of violence and hate and oppression. But she needed to know. Knowledge could protect her and keep her going when all else failed.
"You know, at least, that mutants aren't everywhere and out and proud and accepted. There's a reason for that. The people in power don't want them to have any visibility. So we live in the shadows, and they go to pretty great lengths to keep us there." Understatement. But this was going to be the kinder, gentler version. She didn't need to know every gross detail. Though he also had the sneaking suspicion that she wasn't the sort who would let him get away with a vague description. Cordelia seemed the sort who would ask questions. So he'd let her. She was young enough in his eyes, new enough to being a mutant, that there was no harm in approaching this as if one were speaking to a child. "They used to go to much greater lengths. Obviously you know about Willowbrook and the Centurions? At least something and in passing?" He trusted the recruiters, but it never hurt to check.
Deciding to pause there, he jerked his head in the direction of a nearby bench. It was stone, so it would be cold, but he didn't feel comfortable having this conversation elsewhere. Too many ears. Plus it seemed right to have it in view of his father's grave.