A/N: I got about 5 chapters into a very long and complicated Avengers/Sekirei crossover and spun out; too many moving parts, I think. I hope to finish it someday, but Lachie pointed out this omake could stand on its own.

So. Setting, somewhere in NYC, as a big hole's about to open in the sky….

Omake; or, why Sanada doesn't play a larger part in this story.

Pale ale, hell. Logan almost growled at the foamy concoction purporting to be a microbrew. More like straw ale. Somebody cut corners on the hops and thought they'd cover it up with extra proof.

Which might work for the average Joe out for "just a couple of beers, Officer, honest". But Logan couldn't get drunk on anything you couldn't set on fire. He'd come for the company of other diehard bikers and the taste. One out of two just didn't cut it.

Grr...

The bar door slammed open. Most of the bikers turned that way, like puppets on a string, eager to see who was crazy enough to walk in asking for a beatdown.

Logan ignored it, wondering if it would be worth throwing his money away to get the bartender to cough up a dark beer that had at least smelled hops when it was brewed.

Probably not.

"Hey!" The bartender wiped his hands on an almost clean dishcloth, then brandished it toward the door. "You can't bring those kids in here!"

"Kids?" The accent was Japanese, but Logan couldn't miss the devil-may-care grin in the man's voice. "These are my Lovelies! Kujika, Kuzuri, Shijime - say hi to the nice man."

"Hi!"

Logan's eyebrow twitched. Kids' voices; or at least young enough to risk being jailbait. So why was the bartender looking so uneasy?

And why did he smell something almost like warm feathers?

"Chiyo, Yuna, Hatae..." the Japanese stranger's voice had just a little wary edge in it. "Say hi to the nice man."

Shing.

Logan glanced toward the door, finally interested. One longhaired Japanese guy in a biker's denim and leathers. Three kids; two dark-skinned in leather, one blonde in long-sleeved white, none of whom looked Japanese at all. And three ladies in a lot less leather, carrying a scythe, a whip, and knives, all with grins that said they knew exactly how to use them.

"So!" Denim cracked his knuckles. "Where can a guy get a cold Kirin around here?"

The bar was silent.

Logan snorted. "You want a rice beer? In New York?" He waved his half-drunk mug at the bartender. "Hell, you might get lucky. Even a Kirin's got to be better than this swill."

"Hey!" The bartender snapped his dishcloth, taking half his attention off the newcomers. "You don't like it, go find some other dive."

Bad mistake, Bub, Logan thought, inhaling deeply. Yep; hair-and-feathers scent. Almost like Warren, but not quite. I'm just a mutant. They're... I'm not sure what they are. Besides spoiling for a fight.

"Oh no, he's not going anywhere." Denim stalked lazily in, followed by six varieties of assorted mayhem. "Are you dissing my beer, man?"

"Can't be," Logan shot back, already liking the guy's grin. "Spoiled rice isn't beer."

It might have ended there, with a fist-bump and mutual amused snarls...

Nah.

Bar full of bikers, someone was going to lay a hand on one of the girls. Which still might have been salvageable... if the idiot hadn't grabbed for one of the gold stars on little Kujika's swimsuit-style top.

The whip cracked, and Grabby let go. Only his buddies were either as drunk or as stupid, and swarmed the foreigners. Glass and bodies flew.

Logan ducked the first thrown his way, and smirked. If he couldn't get a beer, at least he could get a fight.

Blood. Glass. Beer, and other stronger potations, painting the walls. The jukebox screeched as someone upended it from the corner, then met its fate in a crash of metal and plastic as one of the Lovelies picked it up and pitched it underhand at the nearest biker gang.

...Haven't had this much fun in weeks.

Half a bar's worth of unconscious bodies later, Logan found himself suddenly back to back with Denim and the ladies, as suits and slacks started pouring in to mix with the leather. More people? What the- who runs into a bar fight?

And what was that alien smell wafting in through the door with every screaming civilian who fought their way inside?

"Hey!" Denim bumped a shoulder against his, ducking a bloody punch from one of the more stubborn bikers. "Nishi Sanada. You?"

What the hell. He liked the guy's style. "Logan," he called back. "Something's happening out there."

"Yeah! Looks messy!" Sanada had a torn-off barstool in his hands and a bloodstained smile. "Want to check it out?"

A few last screeches and booms in the distance attested to alien ships falling out of the sky. Logan shook purplish blood off his claws, eyeing the fallen bodies. One blast above the tower and they'd dropped like puppets with their strings cut. Living puppets. Who weren't, now.

Got to talk to Xavier about this later. If that wasn't some kind of alien mind control, I don't know what it was.

Around him, the girls Sanada had called Sekirei were cleaning off their weapons, or in the youngsters' cases wiping off their hands. They were a bit cut up and scraped, but they were healing faster than anyone Logan had ever seen without a healing factor. Heck, the little ones were still bouncing, ready to go again.

Swiping blood off his forehead, Sanada grinned at him. Held out his left arm, with its odd not-a-watch, and gestured toward the claws. "So. How sharp are those?"

Logan smirked back. "I don't have much use for can openers."

"Oh, I like the sound of that." Sanada rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck. "So, where's a guy go to get a real beer?"

Logan snorted. "Not anywhere around here."

Sanada nodded down the sidewalk. "Bike's over that way. Let's go, Lovelies!"

And thus began the legendary Japanese Mutant Upstate Beer Run.

...In unrelated news, a large shipment of aspirin was delivered to the administrator of a certain School for the Gifted in Salem Center.

It wasn't nearly large enough.