This is a 3 chapter story I have been working on. Logan in this story is younger, so less aggressive. I choose to interpret him as having become more off putting as time advanced. You aren't going to have any battles, this is more of an exploration of the psyche.
This story takes place in the 1920's, so not all of the language will be sensitive, please understand any iffy verbiage reflects the bigotry of the time and not myself. Thanks! Enjoy.
The lights dimmed on the small Speakeasy . Grubby men at round tables clinched cigars, drank, squinted in the light cast by candles on tables. The air was stale with smoke, body odor, and bathtub gin. Unspoken anticipation made the intoxicated patrons hearts beat with a quickened heat.
A light. It started out dim, yellow, and sparkled in the darkness over the stage. The light swung around, leaving a trail behind it, and landed at the bottom of the stage. An explosion of color, bathed the stage in a vivid purple light, and for a second revealed a long legged dark haired woman crouched on the floor.
Darkness descended the room again, held breath exhaled; chairs shifted from the weight of men from all walks of life. Another yellow light appeared in the darkness and sparkled with a heated frenzy, as a sultry tune began to play. The lights on the stage came up just enough to reveal the figure of a long legged pale woman, wearing a black kimono dress, with a belt around the middle. Her black finger curls reflected the pale glow of the gas lamps around her, and she kicked a leg out of the long slit of the kimono, dangling it in air like a porcelain object meant for worship. She brought her foot down to the floor, causing a small explosion of light and sparks to erupt from around her tall stiletto shoe.
Another leg extended into the darkness, the light playing along the pristine pale flesh, then set down on the ground, causing another explosion. The music picked up, and the woman on the stage swerved her hips around in a seductive manner, turned suddenly, and made a show out of loosening her belt. The men in the audience shifted to the ends of their seats, drinks, cigarettes, dates, all forgotten. She shimmied her kimono down past her shoulders, and rolled right one, and then the left one with a slow languishing gesture. The woman extended both of her arms quickly, and a blast of fireworks blinded all of the people in the audience.
Once the light died down the woman stood on stage, still, in a skimpy black dress with fringe. It was the style of the day to wear these dressed made to accent a boyish figure, but this woman was to curvy to look boyish. The dress was lower cut, and shorter in skirt than any proper woman would be comfortable in. The red painted lips of the woman parted as she began to shift and dance again. Her hand rested on her skirt, the cloth inching up slowly, slowly, until the edge of black stocking, with a garter holding it in place, became visible.
A man in the audience wolf whistled. The woman made her fingers to look like a gun, lowered it to her hips, and announced "Hey cowboy," and pulled the imaginary trigger. The finger gun caused a long jet of multicolored light, sparks, and gentile explosions to move out into the audience and spread over the heads of the men. As the crowd stared in disbelief, the woman cleared her throat, and all heads turned to watch her. The performer winked, turned, shook her fanny, and walked off stage.
As the curtains slid closed, men in the audience applauded and called out for more. A man named Logan refrained from showing his exuberance, and instead simply downed a shot of rotgut. He placed a hat over his head, covering twin peaks of spiked hair that started from his forehead and moved out towards the back, grabbed his coat, and headed towards the door. Something about the show bothered Logan, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. These makeshift speakeasies always had a scummy atmosphere that set him on edge, yet he couldn't think of another place in Chicago that he felt more at home. A dark haired man, with a thin pencil mustache, moved out of a private office in the hall, a long filtered cigarette between his fingers, and a meticulous silk suit.
"So, you think you can keep the peace in this place Mr. Howlett?"
"Call me Logan and yeah...Sure. Jobs a job."
A dirty smile creased the face of Dino Rossi, he put an arm around the thick shoulders of his new employee, and directed him into the office. The cheap red wallpaper reminded Logan of bordello, but he kept the opinion to himself. Dino went over pay, hours, and expectations, the biggest being to keep the patrons in-line, so the cops stayed out. Dino was full blooded Sicilian and was interested in keeping his boss happy with how he was running the establishment.
Chicago had been going downhill ever sense the Americans outlawed liquor, and criminals like Dino ruled the city. Logan weighed the pros and cons of staying here in his mind while Dino chatted with him, it was close to his home, Candada, but it was a dirty city that smelled like hell.
"What is the name of the woman who performed with the fireworks?" Logan interrupted.
"Ahhh, you liked her? The men always love her shows. Between you and me she's a bit of a cold fish. Stage name is Sapphire, which seems to common for the money she brings in. Should name her mint, 'cause she makes me one." Dino said. Logan remained stoic next to the man. "Hah, ah, well that should be all Mr. Howlett, I'll see you here tomorrow at 10pm. I'll work you this week doing security backstage. Gig's real easy like, just keep the guys from molesting the dames, and you'll get your pay check."
"Thanks," Logan said as he adjusted his hat, and headed out into the cold wind. Snow had fallen earlier in the day and collected around the edges of the building. For a moment he thought he could smell the air of fresh snowfall on the forest floor, but it was quickly replaced by the smog off of a Model T that ambled by.
Looking at the gas lit street it occurred to him what was wrong with Sapphire's performance: didn't smell right. If she was using pyrotechnics there should have been that tale tell odor of gunpowder and smoke. The only smoke in the speak easy had come off of the lit cigarettes of the patrons. He pulled his trench coat tighter, less from the cold and more from the sobering realization that she was probably another one. It had been decades sense he'd met another person with powers, and he certainly hadn't expected to meet them in a night club.
The isolation of living so long and having so many secrets had driven him out of the wilds of Canada into the big city, but the constant flux of people around him had only furthered his solitude. Hopeful that he would meet someone who understood him, he caught himself looking out for people sympathetic in kindness or likeness, but rarely did he find someone with abilities like Sapphire.
Logan slipped inside a tenement with mildewed bricks and a well worn roof. He made his way up the old wooden stairs, past the slumbering people inside, and turned the key on his room. He sat for a second on the edge of the bed and looked out the window. Maybe landing a job at Dino's Speakeasy was the best thing to happen to him in this century.
"Nineteen Twenty Two, things are looking up," he said as he took a swig of gin off his hip flask. Logan settled back into bed, on top of the covers, and slept soundly for the first time in days.