born down in a dead man's town

[perfectcameo]

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.

Comments

[caballero]

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?).