multiversallogs | born down in a dead man's town

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born down in a dead man's town

Who: Logan and Bruce Wayne
What: A completely coincidental meeting (no).
Where: Some underground cagematch thing in Griss Twist.
When: Veerdi evening, 24th.
Warnings: Brawly violence under cut and possible references to murdery violence beyond.

The fight ends when Logan's forehead flattens his opponant's nose, which happens in a few moments.

His matches tend to be quick, although this one drug out; the chain was distracting, and though weapons are not done in these kinds of situations, baseline humans get a free pass, depending, and it's not like people don't notice that Wolverine never comes up bruised. He enjoys it, this, better, now that he doesn't actually require the pay like he once did, but he does require an outlet that flanking a princess doesn't actually provide thus far. What feels like a ham-sized fist finds his side, knocking him into the diamond wire fence that separates the fight from the on-lookers, and he tears himself away before the next one can hit his face.

The iron links lash out to catch Logan across the face, earning a snarl. The next time it comes down, his arm moves, three blades sliding out between knuckle bones to tangle with a scrape of metal, arm jerking until splinters of broken links go scattering and the other fighter staggers forward.

The guy pays for his closeness when Logan jerks his head forward and says 'hello', crimson red instantly gushing enough that Logan shoves him away before he can get any on him, looser dust rising from the sandy ground when the man falls. Claws disappear back inside his hand and arm. No bruises shine his face, a smear of his own blood painting a half-moon near his brow but no cut beneath to show for it, and beneath the loose cotton he wears, aches ebb away from where internal injury below protective ribcage undoes itself. He breathes in, and out again.

Now is probably a good time to quit, tonight, but he does loiter around to permit the other man to leave first, circling beneath the bright lights as those that lost their bets grumble.

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There are some men in the subterranean warehouse that recognize Bruce - or whatever face it was that he'd shown them, those months ago - and the ones that do nod at him, or raise a hand, but no one says hello or attempts to engage him; as if they know not to bother, not out of fear, but a certain understanding of sheer unsocialness. He watches from near the bar, forearms resting on a railing, paying particular attention to a combatant that he's sure will recognize him - in a way. It's not the first night he's been here, not the first night he's observed him.

When Logan's match is over, Bruce pushes up from where he's been lounging (right) and begins to make his exit; through the dingy bar and past the cage, to the exit in the back alley. Someone follows him, irritated at the human presence in the mixed crowd with the gall not to even chip in for a bet, but he doesn't seem to notice (or mind?).

When prospective opponents do not immediately take the bait, Logan gets out of the cage at the gesture from the guy who's overseeing this particular tournament. No sense in arguing, not when his cash is likely to be held back for starting trouble, so he shoulders his way out the gate to collect his fistful of money and be on his way.

Thoughts of going for an exit versus the bar are shattered promptly, though, when instinct overrides and he finds himself turning his head towards where a scent catches familiar. A human scent and therefore unspecial, except for in here, when it happens to be uniquely individual, and out there, where he's picked up traces of it before in his paranoia that seems to operate entirely removed from him consciously. Which is a good thing it does, considering what he does on his own time these days.

Anyway. There's a guy being followed by some other guy. Either the first guy is oblivious to this, or his nonconcern is as eerie as his own (what appears to be like) apathy to the adrenaline charged environment of the bar.

Logan picks up his jacket as he goes to doggedly follow.

Outside, there's an angry, growled threat - that stops short, because metahuman super-strength doesn't save a person from getting tripped and subsequently crashed into a brick alley wall if they aren't trained to avoid it. Which the second guy (not the first, eerily apathetic one) isn't. Apparently.

Bruce all but rocks back on his heels, hands still in his pockets (were they ever out? weird-) and watches his would-be assailant with a blank expression. A beat later and he looks over his shoulder at Logan, having expected him.

"I'd like to talk to you about something."

Meanwhile, the metahuman who got his face casually slammed into a wall is pretty pissed, about now.

These are just two guys, one human, one not strictly so. In Logan's world, defining who can't be trusted between the two species isn't actually easy; anyone has the capacity to be an asshole. The door bangs shut on its own behind him, eyes set on where the assailant is gaining back his bearings and dignity, black-red blood beading from his nose. Droll, he responds;

"Sure this is a good time?"

As if perceiving distraction, the up and riled xenian launches to close his hand on Bruce's shoulder, as if to spin him and deliver a punch to the face. Upon summarily bouncing off whatever skills get applied his way, Logan takes his chances with the guy who wants to talk to him about something, and finds a handful of the other guy's shirt. Momentum, generic strength, and an arm backed with the hardest substance known to man has the troublemaker launched in the direction of the dumpster a few feet that way, middle connecting with the edge and staggering back, winded but resilient.

A boot casually tips an ankle, sending him tripping off sideways. There's a wheezed complaint, expressing confusion that the mutant isn't helping him give this motherfucker a taste of the freakshow.

"You've never been out to dinner before?" Bruce's tone is mild, but implicit - the dumpster xenian processes that for a heartbeat and then apparently decides whatever these two are up to is weirder than cage fighting, and he throws up his hands and retreats back inside, muttering about needing a drink.

That squared away, Bruce glances back at Logan, utterly devoid of apology.

"As good as any."

They should get the hell out of his alley, though.

He tracks the third wheel's progress back out of the alleyway, and by the time Logan is looking back at Bruce, his eyebrows have curled into an expression that communicates some degree of thanks, buddy. But the backbone of the situation puts that out of his mind as promptly as the door back inside had swung closed, regarding Bruce with level suspicion that comes across as hostile because, well, it says Wolverine on the box.

Although, when he starts to move, it isn't aggressive - the path his stride cuts indicates the mouth of the alleyway, passed Bruce rather than through him, and he heads for the way that takes them into the winding backstreet rather than the main cobbled road the cage den sits on. He is, however, tense, for all that the guy would be a veritable moron for cornering him in an alley to try for threatening.

Logan isn't in the habit of assuming people aren't morons, though. "Why, 'cause I sighted you?"

Hey, maybe Logan's going to eat him. Who knows what Bruce could be selling out here; your reputation will be fine, sir.

He walks easily, deliberately, and the scuffs his shoes make over stone (that he's doing on purpose so he isn't silent) don't hide the uncanny kind of awareness that only persons trained within a breath of their life or ones possessing animal traits maintain. Among mortals he's bizarre, likened to some wild thing only deciding to behave for a moment in willful captivity, but next to Wolverine -

Well. Who knows. Bruce has to wonder what all this man will notice.

"Because you've picked up some leads of mine."

The affect that Logan gives is one of casual neglect, like if Bruce had a mind to, he could suddenly ninja the mutant in the back without notice until the blade has sunk in. But Logan also has a talent from snapping from doing nothing to putting sharp objects in people in a matter of a second, and it's also true that someone like Bruce can note the tiny differences from apathy and a lack thereof; there is a line of tension to his spine, his hands don't go into his pockets, his feet connect harder with the ground, these minute expressions of waiting aggression.

His attention is forward, but in reality, everything listens to the guy following him. The guy who has been following him. Not a lot of people get to do that. He thinks about putting Bruce against the brick wall over there with adamantium points hovering an inch from his Adam's apple, and pushing forward the introduction part.

"Funny, I didn't see your name on 'em."

There's a thing in Bruce's phrasing that has Logan not doing that, and saying that instead. He remembers the bleeding soldier in the alleyway, that second time.

"Yours how."

Edited (rar werds) 2012-03-07 04:48 (UTC)

"By proxy."

He notices, yes. And he's noticed enough of Logan before coming here tonight to know that he'd be in a world of hurt if the other man decided to try and pop his head off, he'd be in for an unpleasant struggle. Bruce is not here unawares, or without a sense of his own mortality. But some of that - Logan's dangerousness, his sheer viciousness, plays into why he's come here at all, above the others. There are no ardent children here.

Bruce is watchful, stable, but not aggressive - guarded but not in a standoffish way; he's guarding himself, but it's almost polite, in terms of body language. Which may be subtle manipulation on Bruce's part (I'm not a threat, I'm nearly submissive, I'm not here to challenge you), but it isn't malicious manipulation.

Bruce owes him a few things, Logan decides. An explanation. A beer. He skipped out on getting a drink due to a sense of intrigue and it always takes so long and so many for his body to even register the toxins of alcohol. But the latter probably isn't forthcoming, so he fishes out a cigar he's been working on, thumb nail edging against its blunted black-burned end.

A glance back, following a glance up a down, taking in physical signs and cues not wholly consciously.

"You got a problem with what happened to your leads?" he asks, ever gruff, ever impatient in some way or another. The cigar goes into the corner of his mouth, stapled with blunt white teeth, other hand dipping into a pocket to find a matchbook. He can still talk. "Little late."

"I didn't say I had a problem." Not hostile, or even pedantic - just pointing it out. There's nothing about Bruce that telegraphs aggression. Which might make this even weirder, when looked at honestly, but he isn't here to kick Logan off his beat. Not by a long shot.

When he speaks next he can't keep the wry tone out of his voice, ghosting on bitterness. "I was hoping for some kind of reaction."

Those broadcasts were a provocative move, but clearly the doings of someone who'd worked very hard - it's known, been known that the Militia is corrupt and abusive for what looks like generations; so ingrained it's common knowledge, an easily accepted way of life. One person's not going to make much of a difference investigating, and the broadcasts were desperate. Forcing it in peoples faces. Wake up.

Call it a habit of being-- Wolverine. When people track him down, it's because they have some problem.

Or. This.

His own automatic hostility can take a backburner, then, not inclined to superparanoia when it comes to stories that add up. The citizen that starts broadcasting that shit is probably the same kind of person who would be able to track him down from a couple of knifed corpses and, let the record show, he had been careful-- inasmuch as one can be with murder.

"It gave me something to do," Logan says, the words a little fuzzied but not unclear as he goes to nurse his cigar to life at the same time. Soon, a single, thick puff of smoke lifts up, and he tosses the match aside.

He'd been very careful and, in fact, a pain in the ass for Bruce to track down - particularly without being noticed by the man himself. The ease of the other candidates put them out of the running; Bruce's judgment is harsh, some might say unfair, but that's life. Improve or find another job.

"That's a lot of specificity for boredom."

"That's 'cause I'm not talking about boredom."

Let's be clear, here.

Logan gestures, the orange end of his cigar kind of loosely indicating the direction they just came. "That, in there. That's what I do for boredom." These days it's a little less about apathy, but, that's rather the point. He's not sure how to make his point, like, being given a reason to give a shit about some stuff is more insight than he wants to get into. Instead, he lets this negation and his own slightly firmer tone stand on its own.

Not wanting to get personal about his motivations is fine - but Bruce has to dig at least a little; trust doesn't grow on trees, and he likes having a bit of footing even when he's gambling. So if he digs his nails in a little it's not because he's trying to get a rise out of the other man.

Mostly.

"If you knew before," the broadcasts, obviously, the specific detailed information - everyone knew about the state of the city, one way or another, "Would you have acted earlier?"

"Probably."

Logan knew, certainly. He knew within moments of arrival, told in no uncertain terms, but he was still, at the time, reasonably sure he could stab enough people to get a ticket home. By the time that wore off-- "They're ghosts," he comments, gruffly. "I wasn't making much ground on trying to give 'em names and faces, before."

He spills ash with a tap to his cigar. He'd thought about it. "You can stir trouble in any xenian hotspot, but you don't know who'll get in the way, who'll come knocking. The broadcasts meant they didn't have to." And they meant that Wolverine did.

Bruce just makes a mild noise of agreement - yeah, they're a pain in the ass to investigate, ten times more difficult than trying to track down Logan. Not the most difficult angle he's ever worked, but the Militia definitely wins points for being uniquely organized.

"I can't offer you much in the way of an outline," he begins slowly - that he has to keep quiet on it to the extreme shouldn't be a surprise. It'd be nice if there could be a well-informed and tightly-knit group of participants, but this is not that sort of tango. "But I can help you if you tell me you'd like to do more than just react."

This is where aimless pacing halts so he can stand squarely and look at the other man, and-- Logan's expression kind of settles into a scowl no matter what, curled around his cigar and eyes studious through the thick haze of smoke exhales produce. Bruce probably shouldn't take it personally. He's just how his face goes, but more importantly, he's thinking. Taking out some obviously corrupt, reprehensible bad guys is one thing--

"Yeah?" he says, cigar lowering. Pause. His chin lifts, indicative. "Who're you?"

Edited 2012-03-13 04:50 (UTC)

"Someone effective."

Bruce meets his gaze without any shrinking - and no challenge, either. Logan will either believe him or he won't, but Bruce isn't going to feed him explanations and promises until he caves. That he thinks Logan is smart enough to fill in even these broad gaps is yet another reason he showed up here tonight.

Or he could leave, and this encounter will never have happened; he won't have to think twice about it. (Unless there's another leak, maybe.)

Though Logan can't help but let the corner of his mouth go into a cynical curl over what is a bullshit answer, he ultimately doesn't at this stage need a name and serial number more than he needs effectiveness. He snorts. "Ask a stupid question," he rhetorics, leaving the second half blank for Bruce to do the filling in. He taps ash off his cigar.

Considers that he's been working for Charles too long.

It was a leap of faith before now, with the anonymity, finished with his claws sank into a guy with incriminating photographs. "Alright. I'm up for more than just--" How did Bruce describe what he did? Messily, ruthlessly; "--reacting."

Bruce nods minutely; all right then. Now they're getting somewhere.

He lets the smoke go for a bit. He's not fond of it, but it seems fitting on cold nights.

"From now on, they will only appear to cull their own exposed corruption. Those that remain are now traps." The Militia has noticed that vigilantes have started picking off their disgraced number, and the Militia knows damn well how to pick battles. Nailing the people who did the exposing is a higher priority than a public show of discipline to pacify the masses. It's slow, frustrating work; his tactics likely won't work more than once. They're too adaptable, and too experienced.

"I'll contact you." When he's got more than a head's up. This is just one first step of many.

When you've roamed around and unattached for fifteen years before finding stability, there are things you let lie; such as, not having complete control over the actions of others. People come and go. Everyone has their own terms. Still, there's a twinge of predatory analysis when it comes to having no idea who this guy really is apart from his actions, but in turn being contactable. But Logan has his scent, which is something.

And he's always been able to take care of himself. He listens to talk of traps, changeable gameplay, the probable response of the Militia being peeking insight into how they might think. It makes sense, that soldiers stupid enough to get caught would be made into fodder. It makes sense that it won't happen again, on their terms.

His chin dips in at a nod. "You do that," he says, wry in a way that isn't actually dismissive. Something in stance, eye contact.

To that, Bruce nods. Accepting. He isn't actually very good at working with people but he can fake it. There's a goal here, and it's at the end of a long and insidious road, that the people involved - whether they realize they are or not - are going to have to be on for a long and painful trek. This won't be fun for anyone.

Logan seems like he's about as fun as Bruce, though. So it should work out.

He steps away, back, then turns and walks off, done with their encounter because the only thing that would be left is to manufacture some kind of clientele show for imagery and - no. A few steps into the dark and the question of humanity becomes muddled; no sound, no scent, and whether it's skill or divine intervention that makes him appear to vanish is impossible to say.

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born down in a dead man's town

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