[closed] we expected something more

[charismatic]

Who: Will, Logan, and a Militia dude
What: Violence
Where: Flyside
When: S...ometime this week. Sukkardi or Shundi, probably.
Warnings: Just the violence, I think.

A few more years and a couple more hard knocks and Will would probably come up with a better plan -- or a plan at all, really. As it is, when the transmission ends, Will just stands up, drops some shekels on the table for his half-eaten lunch and gets on the train to Flyside, knuckles white around his CiD. He cools off before he quite gets there, at least, enough to just walk by the address casually, like he's just out for a stroll. There's no one there.

And, okay. That's a start. Check it out every once in a while. Try not to look too much like a creeper. Eventually progress to sitting outside a few nights a week and observing while trying to decide how exactly to deal with this guy because at this point in his life, Will has never held a tactical position, never had to worry about how his actions affect anyone but himself and those in his immediate orbit, never decided to break off from a faltering movement to start his own. It also means he's less stealthy than he thinks, because one night while he's leaning against the cold brick of an alley across the way, in his civvies, no weapon, no nothing, he learns he can dodge bullets.

It's a close thing -- the alley is dim and cramped and Will only gets by because he's lucky and quick and has an advanced warning system. Two shots and there's a dark shape dropping down from above; Will recognizes the shape of him because he's spent too much time staring at it not to. He probably should have expected a Militia member to be prepared, but it's too late for plans now. He's flying by the seat of his pants and operating on instinct when he darts in, low to the ground, shoulder impacting squarely with the bottom half of the agent's ribcage and and one hand out for his gun arm. Hitting the wall gives Will a chance to slam his wrist into the brick until he lets go of the gun and Will kicks it off into the dark recesses of the alley before he catches the heel of a palm with his jaw. His teeth click shut on the flesh inside his mouth but he goes with it, lets the momentum push him out to the side where he can pivot and take a bare second to reset before there's a fist flying at his face again.

Close combat has never been Will's area of expertise, but his neurons are firing so fast that all he can really do is react, ignore the bones crunching when his foot gets caught under a boot, manage to miss the worst of it and do as much damage as he can when he's too close to use his legs. Phineus must be getting annoyed with his dodging, because Will catches the glint of teeth before he drives his fist into it. He breaks a few of them. He hasn't got time to feel any satisfaction before he's hurling himself backward and away, not entirely in time.

There's a long, clean slice up his side, less serious than ugly, and Will can't feel it at all over the adrenaline rush. It'll need stitches later, but he'll be fine. He just needs to get to the later and stitches stage. He backs toward the mouth of the alley, warily eying the glimmer of the long knife being passed from hand to hand. That's okay. He's just got to recalculate to adjust for the length of the blade.

Comments

[perfectcameo]

It's really the smell of blood that has Wolverine moving to act.

Sharp and sudden in the murkier smells of the city, human sweat, the unique signature to the Militia man himself that Logan's been keeping a creepy kind of track on; spilled blood is a beacon. Being not the most subtle of individuals, he takes the high road and manifests into the scene in the form of something dark, big, and heavy plunging from the rooftop of the smaller building with a flash of steel--

The benefit of this is that falling is almost soundless, save for the flap of leather jacket above that has the Militia man acting on instinct, quit fucking with his knife, and twisting to avoid collision. Which doesn't stop three very long, very thick, very sharp claws nearly but not quite separating arm from shoulder.

There is blood, but no scream, as if too much in shock to do so. The soldier folds, Logan rising out of the crouch his landing bowed him into, red running off steel. He flashes a look to Will, tense, calculating, bewildered.

[charismatic]

Oh. A giant dude with claws. Why not. Will doesn't straighten from his half-crouch, unsure if this is sudden assistance or just sudden – well, murder. He should probably start running if that's the case, but he's not getting any indication that clawman wants to kill him yet, so he's... just standing here and listening to the blood rush in his ears, breathing in the scent of blood and the taste. He takes a beat to touch the torn tissue of his inner cheek with his tongue. Must have cut it on his teeth earlier.

“Uh, hi,” he says after a moment, eyes flicking uneasily over the slow downward drip of blood over metal. The body doesn't bother him so much as not knowing if he's going to have to fight someone who's clearly way above his pay grade.

[perfectcameo]

The giant dude with claws raises an eyebrow at uh, hi... not that that happens to be the most objectionable thing going on right now. The militia man doesn't seem to have a problem with it, but he does take issue with his almost dismembered arm. With a slide of metal and bone, Logan re-sheaths his claws, fingers stretching out from where they'd been curled into fists, excess blood grimy on his knuckles without actually any injury to show for it.

He leaves one, however, long enough to grab the back of the militia man's head and execute him cleanly with a red swipe splitting open across his throat. It's done, claw put away in the next second, and if Logan was the type to apologise... ever... he might consider it now.

But he is distracted, stepping over the outflung limb of the dead militia man, and matches the wariness the stranger regards him with with uncertainty. Hi in return might be a good idea.

Of course, he doesn't.

"He went after you," he states, gruffly. Confirming. "Why?" He isn't sure if this guy's scent is familiar or not, but he can't keep track of everything. When looking for Phineus Coilean, it was all he searched for.

[charismatic]

Not coming after Will after fully disposing of the militia man is a good sign, probably. Hopefully. Talking is even better. “I was keeping tabs on him,” he says after a moment. “I guess he didn't like it.” His training is good enough to keep him from fidgeting or shifting his weight around like a frightened rookie, but it still takes a conscious decision to not take a step back as he straightens up slowly.

His shirt is soaked through, sticking damply to his skin. He doesn't look at it. It'll probably hurt, once he comes down off the adrenaline high, but at the moment it's not his number one concern.

[perfectcameo]

"Good reason not to."

Two things hold Logan back from any kind of berating. One, Will carries himself like he stepped out of the sort of profession that demands a little experience in the areas of taking care of yourself, among other things. Two... well, Logan just isn't really the kind of person who does that. The dangerous choices that people make aren't his business unless they are his business. Besides, Will isn't dead.

People who shouldn't be keeping tabs might be, by now.

Meanwhile, the assault of blood on his senses means that in Will's adrenaline addled point of view, his injury probably bothers Logan more. "You need someone to look at that?"

[charismatic]

“Might be a good idea,” Will says easily, and he doesn't relax, exactly, but the tension lifts a little. If this guy wanted to kill him, he probably wouldn't be asking about that – and, from what Will's seen, he could probably just do it without much effort. Will's getting used to the idea that there are people who can do that, here. It's still unsettling, but it means he's less likely to be taken by surprise.