caballero ∞ until one day it did (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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multiversallogs2012-08-15 06:39 pm
caballero) wrote in multiversallogs2012-08-15 06:39 pm
Entry tags:
without order nothing exists, without chaos nothing evolves
Who: Batman & Wolverine.
What: Good old fashioned vigilantism.
Where: Various places across the city.
When: Over the past few weeks.
Notes: Catching up on some mysterious events.
Warnings: Violence and language.
When he goes out at night, it tends to be to where he's actually needed. The gaps left by the police state are ravines; familiar ones. But sometimes, he has to go find that point he's proving and shove his fingers in the wound to remind them I'm still here - and sometimes, he has company.
The Militia needs to be reminded that they aren't strictly needed because the Militia's chokehold over the city exists by the leave of one word: necessity. The idea and belief that only this organization, this way, can keep Baedal safe, because it's all anyone's ever known. It's wrong - wrong in a factual sense; it's wrong when people go to gangs, or go to Hellsing, to sort out their problems out of fear of the Militia, it's wrong when criminals climb the socioeconomic ladders because they know that the police don't police the rich.
It's wrong in a moral sense, too. Tonight, like many other nights, it's just about facts. The Militia isn't strictly necessary, because two men get here first and do a more effective job at it - he knows (another fact) that the people they save on nights like these more often than not come away terrified. But that's fine. They're there to protect them from harm, not from fear - and civilians aren't who Bruce is illustrating anything to when he (they) do this.
Vigilantism, according to most people, is about extremism, about showboating. Vigilantism tonight is about fast, brutal, efficient work. They leave criminals destroyed and victims shell-shocked but safe, always several steps ahead of the Militia even in their own territory. They don't leave any calling cards, they give no names, and they're in and out as fast as they can, contributing no image, no symbols. They don't need any. Those that are corrupt get the message easily enough. (We're still watching you.)
no subject
It actually takes him a while to realise he's more alone in the city than he remembered being. That guy, the girl. Chuckles is around and there are reasons why he doesn't count. It's good, though. Logan doesn't want to be here, and doesn't wish it on other people.
It makes things simpler still.
He's an unchanging entity, though -- this stuff doesn't change him any more than how Tom discovered him prior. He probably wouldn't be much of an asset if he did. Maybe he'd stop showing up to the little social get togethers that Baedal is so fond of, but there hasn't even been one of those recent enough for Logan to reject. He still works for Nuala, hits up Lea's club, comes by Ki's with a six pack. And then, sometimes, hurts criminals before the Militia can fuck it up.
People profiting on the fear and need of citizens have a lot to sell, including weaponry passed to the hands of criminals that is steadily advancing in sophistication thanks to a recent influx of inventive genius. A door explodes open beneath the flying weight of a prospective buyer, landing on old world cobblestone amongst the splinters and glass and only getting a glimpse of Logan turning away from him again to deliver a punch to the well-meaning lackey of one of the arms dealers. The slick sound of grinding metal flashes forth claws and slices neatly through one of their fancy, probably cheaply made pistols, although he allows for a snarl when some surprise in-built taser function snaps electricity across his knuckles. Christ.
The guy gets a shattered kneecap under a kick for his effort, turned aside to be in pain out of Logan's way. The place -- what used to be an inn of some kind, but tourism isn't really a thing in Baedal, and now makes its living distributing drugs, not necessarily illegal, and contraband, necessarily illegal -- is not empty of innocents, although they'll be roughly shown out in time. Maybe not enough.
He can smell them, even through the alcohol and the cigar smoke on his own clothes and the blood. Its unique, the scent that clings to their equipment, the biochemistry of stinking adrenaline gathered in a wolf pack of men and women.
"Company," is all he need say, really, directed to only one person in his vicinity, over the heads of people cowering or readying attack.
no subject
It's quiet and nearly inaudible, but Bruce knows Logan will be able to hear him. He's figured out a great number of things during these nights out, and one of them is that the other man doesn't need to strain very hard to figure out what Tom is up to if he's giving just the faintest of hints. He tailors the way he moves, speaks, so that only Logan notices, playing his mutant senses to their advantage in terms of remaining covert.
At the head's up, he moves away from his mental note-taking (it wouldn't be very smart to show up to do this and not figure out where the product is coming from) and back into cracking heads. Because of how his armor makes him appear anywhere from eerily non-corporeal to flat out invisible, most people don't realize that the scary guy with the claws isn't working alone - and just assume he's got not only claws, but some kind of horrifying power that lets him beat the shit out of people from ten feet away.
It's kind of funny.
Visible nearby, Bruce holds up a device he's nicked from their friends, here: an explosive. The implication is he's going to chuck it at the incoming squadron - a bit more confrontational than they usually get, but he needs to grab something.
no subject
They make a good combination, in that Logan takes absolutely no pains to go invisible -- he's a swiftly moving, effective attention grab. Speaking of which-- hell. He looks to see the result of that yep, eyebrows practically question marks in themselves as he recognises the object for what it is.
Claws still out, he rolls a shrug of broad shoulders beneath leather. "Always been a fan of fireworks."
He's next occupied with picking up one of the briefcases on sale and slamming it down on a bartop -- the man who'd tried to make off with it is just bleeding quietly off to the side after Logan halted him. There's a glance over complicated fastenings before Logan simply rakes three long gouges that probably cut into the wood the case is resting on too, tearing easily through plastics and metals as if they were formed of wet paper.
After that, it'll be time to move. He works on instinct over analysis, batting aside the ruined case and the weaponry it conceals in search of next best course of action.
no subject
"One minute."
Ghostlike, he throws a much-maligned goon over the bar, where he'll be the most comfortable (..safe from the shrapnel), and then turns in time to be able to kick a chair leg that splinters off, the broken end flying up and cracking a man attempting to flee out the front door in the face. He crumples to the ground after, out cold, but at least he's not running head first into where the bomb is just on the other side of the wall.
Moving along-
Time to take a deep breath and slip out somewhere they can cover their ears.
no subject
One minute feels like nothing, even if everything can be broken down into increments of a few seconds. For good reason, Logan's concern of getting caught in the blast is one occupied with the inconvenience and unpleasantness of it than fearing for his life, and so he has time to tumble people out of the way, whether they're criminals or victims caught in crossfire both. He grabs the arm of someone in a daze and levers them out the other way for fate to do with what it will, before he's moving through the main area at a long-striding walk, a hand up to rough his knuckles across his face in slightly canine irritation.
A door out into one of those alleyways with the cigarette breaks of seasons gone littering the wet ground is imploded outwards. Well, when in Rome.
A lit match touches the blackened end of cigar by the time the bomb on the other face of the building detonates, Logan instinctively flinching as the sound cracks deafening through the immediate area. His ears ring in sharp sensitivity, but nothing lasts for long -- call it a few seconds. Should keep 'em busy. Cigar is clenched between teeth as he moves quickly, climbing fence and scaling wall to find his exit before boots land on cobblestone somewhere relatively quiet, if not far away enough to be home free.
He trusts Tom got away clean, or is in the process of -- they just have different ways of moving -- and tosses a look over his shoulder. As his hearing clears, he listens to the sounds of the Militia, and tooth shows a little beyond just the bite around cigar.
Tempting.
no subject
Logan tosses a look over his shoulder, and from the ledge of the opposite building, a shadowy figure drops down onto the low brick wall. Tom disengages the visual stealth, all black-armored but visible, crouched on the wall with two of the Militia's standard-issue force-pikes slung over his shoulder.
How the f...
"All in one piece?"
no subject
And the next day. Logan is not one of those that litters double-meanings in his words, but there is something to extrapolate anyway: they've raised a bar.
no subject
Yes, he knows; this is the sort of provocation that kicks the line they've been toeing, but there's nothing to be done for it, in his case. He's clearly working on something (or else he wouldn't have snagged those poles), and surely Logan has figured out by now that Tom doesn't do anything unless he really means to.
Still -
"I wouldn't go straight home."
no subject
Logan doesn't look particularly sorry, for upped ante -- part of him does just want to wage war, that part of him, the one that doesn't understand what a big fucking waste of time it would be. It's also the part of him that doesn't care about the victims and the injustice of it all but wants to put claws through something that he might find a way to blame for being trapped here. And so, that part gets ignored, let out when he needs it.
He takes a puff of smoke. "You wanna get a beer?" This time it's self-aware -- a crooked smile follows the comment. He is hilarious every time, Tom, tell your friends. (No, even Logan doesn't think he is.) "But I guess you need to stash your new toys."
no subject
WHAT NOW, LOGAN.
.. There's not actually any sense of 'I'm just fucking with you' there, either, his body language is completely accepting. Through his mask, Bruce is watching the commotion in the distance behind them, figures they have three, maybe three and a half minutes before it's actually necessary for them to move to avoid detection or tracking.
"I do, yes. I could stand to make an appearance after, though."
Covers are good.
no subject
Oh.
That makes some sense.
The above is generally expressed by way of puzzling scowl, as is most things, but the nod is affirmative understanding, an eyebrow raise like well why not. "The one in Griss Twist, on Archer, above the pawn shop." Like so many watering holes, the names tend to evade Logan, and knows them more by haphazard geography, smells and sights.
no subject
Later, he shows up at the bar, and by this time in their ... whatever it is, relationship is probably not the word, their association, it's odder to see him in plainclothes than not. There's always a sense that this is the costume. Tom quietly slinks onto a barstool next to Logan, tossing him a look and a barely-there slightly tired smile as a hello. A reddish bruise is blooming on his right cheekbone, but he wears it well enough.