multiversallogs | where fast the Arctic nights set in

Entry tags:

where fast the Arctic nights set in

Who: Logan, Laura Kinney, Njoki Rainmaker, and some other people probably. Not all at the same time.
What: Existing in Baedal once an obvious exit sign has since not been found.
Where: Various!
Warnings: Swearing, so we can get an Oscar.

Shaking the cage of people in his same predicament, turns out, isn't as engaging as he had hoped. He doesn't like the CiD, it fits wrong in his hand, he feels like he could shatter it if he draws tendon and bone tight in a fist, and its mechanisms feel too small for his fingers. But eventually, he sends off a text message, some delayed and somewhat grudging.

could use that beer

He misses traffic, too. Cars don't spook so easily and he can live out of a truck.

There is a time after dusk that he picks up a scent, and follows it all the way into the Spatters. He'd been looking for it before and despite the waning hour, because a little darkness never killed nobody, and he had to know.

The evenings he isn't working in the gambling dens, with cards and fists both, to make his way are spent in hibernation on uncomfortable mattresses with a roof over his head. Daylight holds as many bar interiors as the evening. It isn't like useless, purposeless roaming never suited him before.

It just chafes, this time around.

[ OOC: See comments for some thread starters, both open and closed, otherwise make your own! ]

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If places can be characterised by scents, the Spatters is the bottom of a lake, the wrong end of town, and slowly urban decay tinged by that weirdness that comes from the fog. For a while, Logan moved on the open sidewalk, his fists in his jacket pockets and chin tucked in. Now he takes shortcut alleyways, scales unused fire exits and rooftops, and keeps to the shadows in a natural sort of sneaking default of approach. It's less that he wants to get the best of her.

He just doesn't want her to run away.

How're you holding up? is one of those common questions, so let's answer that with the kind of answer Logan would give: okay.

And he is. When he sits down, a little early because where the fuck else does he have to be, he has no injuries to speak of for all that he has earned them. He gets enough sleep because why deprive himself of that, and his face, wearing its age, doesn't present shadows or nightmares.

Mostly, he seems bored, but he flags himself down a beer and folds his arms on the bar top, leather jacket creaking over broad shoulders.

Edited 2012-01-01 09:39 (UTC)

No one here is stupid enough to call him on cheating. Everyone is an exciting new challenge and Logan could almost say that he was having fun. Almost. He doesn't often have fun in the strictest meaning of the word.

It's underground, dimly lit, utterly stinks of cigarette smoke and cloudy enough to think it's a fire hazard. Sometimes when his hits land, inside the ring of diamond-wire fencing, it sounds like taking a metal baseball bat to bone, which isn't completely a departure from what's happening there. He wins, mostly. Once, he didn't. So then he started using claws. It's just a different league, in Baedal.

After, sometimes he stays for a drink or to smoke. Sometimes he doesn't and takes off into the chilly winter evening, steam lifting off still heated skin.

[ OOC: Before, during, or after fighting, tag in however! This can also take a few threads if you want because he does this often. If you need a different neighbourhood, lemme know. ]

All people with vigilante tendencies tend to wind up in the Spatters at some point -- it's where most of the real crime that goes unnoticed by the militia happens. Oh, it's not like the rest of the city is entirely safe, but most of the danger there is tied up in the Candlelighters, or else low-level thugs most people can handle on their own. The Spatters have more urgency.

It's not exactly a need for atonement that drives her here, but it's close enough.

The context of the scene in which she can be found is immediately identifiable: one hysterical thug, one equally hysterical woman, and Laura with her claws pointed at the former, digging hard enough into his neck to make him bleed -- not that it takes much pressure. She won't kill if she doesn't have to, but times like this, it's hard.

She knows he's approaching, but her attention is directed firmly on the present -- she's reasonably sure he's not a threat, so she doesn't respond to his nearness. Not yet, at least. She breaks the guy's arm in two places before she hurls him halfway across the street despite the fact that he's twice her size, advancing on him until he flees like a terrified animal.

When she turns to look for the woman, she's already gone. That's probably for the best; Laura's strength lies in action, not comforting the traumatized. She wouldn't know what to do or say.

After agreeing to meet at The Apache, Njoki finished repairing the remade bantha (or whatever the hell it was), scrubbed up well because they smell only slightly better than a tauntaun, and made her way over to the bar.

"Hey."

Which is one way they differ. If not by a huge amount, to be honest.

He emerges from fenced off alleyway with his boots impacting heavy the pavement once he's scaled it, the concrete slick from recent rain. He's seen enough for all that he didn't need to watch the whole event, and heard more of it besides. Dark eyes flick towards where she sent the villain of this piece scampering, and he doesn't know her enough to be surprised that the guy was allowed to live.

But he can make assumptions. "I think you ruined his evening," is wry, Logan's voice vacant of the defense-aggression he was wired with when she first came hunting for him.

He's digging out a cigar from his pocket by the time he's joined with company, glancing sidelong and then tipping up his chin in a nod of greeting rather than echoing the same thing back at her. Logan's own beer is partway drained already when he offers; "Can I get ya anything?"

Which is when he picks up his half-finished beverage and-- well. Swallows down the rest with little effort.

She should have killed him. It's bothering her, tension visibly rising -- she should have killed him. Leaving survivors goes against everything she's been raised with, and it's a poor tactical decision to boot. She scared him and he might lay off for a few weeks, maybe months, but sooner or later he'll try again when he's sure he won't be caught. She shouldn't have let him live.

Laura's fists clench hard enough to leave her knuckles white as she turns around. She's never happy to see him under the best circumstances, but she's making an attempt to reign her anger in because he's not the one she knows. Her claws retract; she's not planning on fighting him.

"I told you to stay away from me." They're both so good at doing what they're told, yes.

He doesn't have claws out to retract, but he notes it when she does. His hands have found their way back into his pockets by the time she's turned to him, his posture loose and open. If they were to suddenly descend into fisticuffs, he'd have the disadvantage in terms of nanoseconds. And while he may not be programmed to her degree to think tactically about the lay of the street and the positioning of warm bodies as an automatic thing, it's probably not not deliberate.

"Yeah. It didn't take."

Clearly. He wanders a step closer, kind of nods in gesture of wherever the action just too place, the smell of panic still lingering in the air. "You do this a lot?"

"S'on me," she says, keeping her promise as she flags down the bartender and orders a pint of something keg brewed and reasonably popular.

Logan is welcome to notice that her body language is a bit unusual for someone full human. There's something 'off' about her posture and the way her joints line up and move. She smells of a recent shower with a mildly cedar scented soap, under that there's sandalwood, old blood, gunpowder, beeswax and something animalistic.

She gives him this look like really, you're here to make smalltalk? and doesn't answer. He didn't track her down because he's interested in her hobbies, she's reasonably sure of that, and he's not dumb, he knows by looking at her that she doesn't need to be tailed for protection.

Fair enough, and so Logan occupies himself with lighting up, coaxing flame to the blackening end of his cigar. He's found a brand he tolerates, being something of a creature of habit; but he should know as well as anyone that times change, even when he doesn't. He just is lazy with his adaptation.

What he picks up about Njoki is nearly subconscious to him, his senses ever working over time and the Apache vibrant enough to lay cotton over intangible detail. He reeks, as ever, of smoke and leather and someone who sleeps in said leather on occasion.

He isn't actually good at smalltalk, so he lets her fix the drinks before he has to think of stuff. He does come up with; "Thanks."

Njoki chuffs and moves to clink her glass against his in an impromptu toast in lieu of telling Logan he's welcome. "To the universal constant of beer?"

The cigar smoke doesn't bother her, but then again, not much in The Apache does. Ki is comfortable and confident both because she's been here before but also because she knows they have no problem with xenians. Other than being able to sense the undead, Njoki doesn't really have any skill when it comes to identifying who or what her drinking companion might be.

Yeah, well, no one said he was ever good at it either, and he gives a vague, uncomfortable sort of shrug when she simply looks at him. Not that hunting down thugs is much of a hobby per se, but then again, it may as well be for some people in this town.

"Valid question. Someone put metal on your bones for a reason. Wondering if it was this."

"No." Wouldn't that be nice, though.

She considers him for a moment. If she were in his position, she'd want to know. The similarities can't have escaped his notice and she wouldn't blame him for assuming it does have something to do with him, because he would be right. If he doesn't remember Weapon X, implied from the last time she mentioned it around him, then she knows something about his past that he does not. "You want to know what I am."

And Logan comes from a place where sometimes, people smell, look, and move a little weird, which was training wheels compared to some of what he's seen in Baedal. Fortunately, the science that made up his home was just as mystical to him as the magic that's infused in Baedal, and it doesn't make a lick of difference. He lets his glass get dinked, and takes a long pull of it.

"I'll toast to that," he agrees, ever lowkey. He drinks. "Congratulations on the offer of a free drink being about the only thing I remember from that whole thing."

It isn't a common procedure. It isn't a common metal.

And getting answers from someone on his end of things is something he can swallow in place of wheeling and dealing with the likes of Stryker. I'll take my chances with them. "Yeah, I want to know what you are," he agrees, his voice level and neutral, and he flicks a glance around the street, and then back to her. "Wanna walk?"

He isn't offering apology for the fuck off he gave in every way that wasn't actually those words, but mostly because he isn't sure it'd take.

Laura starts walking without answering -- well, why not, she's not a chatty kid by any stretch of the imagination. She's heading to a lesser populated area -- nearly out of the Spatters, but also close to the fog, where average Baedalites won't go. That prickly feeling she gets in every one of her enhanced senses is annoying, but it doesn't bother her enough that she can't stand to be out here. Anyway, it keeps her alert.

"After the escape of Weapon X, the facility launched a new project intending to create a viable clone embryo. They used a DNA sample obtained during Weapon X's escape, but it was damaged and alterations were necessary. In the process, they removed the incomplete Y chromosome and doubled the X. A specimen was produced from that, surgically altered, and weaponized."

She pauses.

"They succeeded with me where they failed with you."

The last time Erik approached this man in a bar, he remembers, he and Xavier were barely able to introduce themselves before being told precisely where they could go. It's not a point of blame, really—he may have done the same, himself—but it was among the most memorable parts of the trip.
Back then, of course, he couldn't personally sense the guy from outside the building.

This is why, as Erik passes by a nondescript brick façade, its equally unremarkable door papered with the ubiquitous seasonal layers of faded and half-torn flyers, he is gripped by a legitimate double-take that stops him both mid-sentence and mid-stride. "She's gentle as a kitten, really, you needn't be intimidated—" It's well short of cartoonish, but for Erik, who generally conducts himself in an understated fashion, it comes off less than subtle.

"Hang on," he says to Xavier, who by this point may have overtaken him by a few strides, already turning toward the door before the words have even finished, "I want to see something."

Edited 2012-01-02 08:56 (UTC)

"I'm not intimidated, I—" Oh okay, Erik. He frowns, wondering what it is that got his friend's attention, and takes a moment to raise two fingers to his temple and do a careful mental sweep of the nearby area.

Huh. That's unexpected. Not to mention...different.

But since Erik is intent on going in, Charles is, too. They're admitted into the building very easily —too easily, some would say, but telepathy is fun like that— and walk on in to the bar area...if that's what it can be called. The place is an utter dive, but given the recreation it houses, it's not surprising. For the record, Charles doesn't feel unsettled in any way, although he does shoot Erik a questioning side glace.

"You know, I'm certain he made his opinion quite clear the first time." Then again, it's not as though potentially unwise, spur of the moment decisions have stopped either of them before.

"You seemed like a stand-up kind of guy," she says with a shrug. "And, I think it's a damn good idea to know who's in the cohort."

"You weren't here for it, but the last time the city went to shit, the gods tasked our cohort to do a bunch of Hercules' labours." Which is only slightly less mad than it actually sounds, but it provides a good reason to want to know reliable (or reliable looking) people.

They are two sets of many eyes in the crowd of many others. A final kick to the stomach of his opponent has the other man crashing into the opposite end of the cage, and there's no applause - no real applause, anyway. A few whoops from those that financially backed him, a murmur of conversation breaking like a wave around Logan as he lifts an arm and greases it elbow to wrist across his face, wandering for the gate. His jacket is picked up where he left it, drawn over bare skin and loose cotton.

Leaning, Logan barely listens to the bookie as his winnings are collected and counted out, and it's then that instinct kicks in enough for him to lift his head and spy the two gentlemen still watching him, even by the time the fight is over. He sniffs, but the air is acrid with smoke and, well, man-stench, and he dismisses them by the time he's being handed this new currency he had to learn before he could hope to gamble it on the cards.

It's pocketed, and he breaks away from the stranger.

"What, cleaning out stables, killing lions, that sorta thing?"

Elbows on the countertop and framing his beer, cigar caught between two thick fingers, Logan is about as close to relaxed as he generally gets, which is to say slightly never relaxed, not when he has his back for the door and he's still in kidnap city and learning to get used to the idea.

He doesn't bat an eye about gods, either. He's read things, and that seems about as sane as being trapped by fog and monsters in Magicville.

She's going fast. Or, really, no. The words are out of her face at a normal rate, but it's big information in not as many syllables as it might deserve. Logan's expression has lines in it, connoting tension, but he doesn't interrupt. If he knows anything about youth, and he sort of does by now, it's to let 'em speak, even if Laura is a different kind to the ones he's met. A lot different.

He keeps pace, longer strides slowed to match her's.

And for a moment, they are both silent, because she's finished and he is processing. "And what did success look like?" he asks, gruff.

There's no emotion in her curiously flat voice, no inflection -- these are straight facts that she recites as if she's talking about someone else or reciting a report for a class she's young enough to be in. "I outperformed Weapon X on every virtual combat simulation by an average of two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. My healing factor is estimated to be forty-three percent more effective. I killed one hundred and eighty six people over the span of three years, averaging twenty minutes, nine seconds per mission, at a rate of fifty five million dollars."

A million dollars a pound, is how Sarah put it. Laura was ten.

Her claws pop out of her knuckles, but it's not a threatening gesture; she's just looking at them.

Finally she looks at him, but without turning her head. "I almost killed you."

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where fast the Arctic nights set in

the spatters. closed to laura kinney.

a bar of ki's choice. closed to njoki rainmaker.

a cage fight in mafaton. open to whoever.

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