So this idea struck me in my sleep, and I decided I needed to share it. This might be a one-shot, but if people like it I'll continue.
A/N: I own no characters, I'm only borrowing them.
~palmtreedragons
Northern Alberta, Canada
"This is it."
A young woman bundled in a cloak groggily climbed out of the large truck, shivering as the harsh snow fell from a black sky above. She turned back to the driver, barely more than a stranger. "Where are we?" she asked, eyeing the only building for miles—a small bar. "I thought you said you'd take me as far as Lotham City."
"This is Lotham City," the driver replied, turning from the lonesome girl and walking away. With no other choice, the girl trudged to the bar.
In the center of the noisy, bustling bar was a fighting cage, where two bulky men were brawling. Bike riders with beards and waitresses in skimpy costumes roared as the metal fence enclosing the cage rattled. It reeked of testosterone. Wanting nothing more than peace and quite—wanting nothing more than to go home—the girl headed to a nearly deserted corner in the back, away from the bar and away from the adrenaline spiked men.
A table was set nearby, and a group of men were playing poker. One stood out from the rugged men surrounding him. Perhaps it was the mountain of money and winnings in front of him, or the fact that he was nearly half the size of the surrounding men, or maybe it was the sunglass shaded eyes staring directly at her that made him noticeable. The girl pulled her jacket around her tighter and averted her gaze. She only needed to stay until someone not too horrible looking stumbled out of the bar to leave; she only needed a ride.
She inspected the disgruntled men, all rising from the card table with less money in their pockets than before. She decided they were too drunk for her to be comfortable riding with. But one man did not leave the table. He sat with his eyes trained on her, a cigarette absentmindedly hanging from his lips and a card twirling in his fingers. Maybe he wouldn't be too horrible.
Seeming to take eye contact as a positive move, the man pocketed his winnings and pulled himself from his chair, taking his time approaching the girl. "Wha's a nice lady like you doin' all alone t'night, cher?" His heavy Cajun accent made his voice sound fluid and carefree.
The girl was reluctant to answer, but figured he would probably be the safest driver for the rest of the night; she didn't have a place to sleep, and the cold seemed very uninviting. "I need a ride."
The cigarette flicked upward with the corners of his mouth. "Where to?"
"Anywhere."
Glancing around, the man nodded, more to himself than to the girl. "Well, then, le's go." The girl followed the man to the small lot outside. He was wearing a leather jacket with the collar turned up. The darkness of the bar and the outside world obscured his features, but she could catch dark hair on his head as he sauntered into a patch on moonlight. He stopped uncertainly at a rusty, old two-door car. It seemed decades old, the paint nearly all gone, and one of the headlights shattered. She feared what state the inside of the car was in.
"Is this yours?"
With a sly grin, the man pulled a key from his pocket of winnings. "T'is now."
Shoving the key into the lock, the man climbed in. The girl glanced once more at the bar. A larger man with dark hair and sideburns stumbled out the front doors. She recognized his as one of the fighters from before. Pulling the creaky door open, she climbed in too. It smelled like something had died and decayed in the backseat, but the engine and heating worked, and that was all that really mattered. Fidgeting with her gloves, the girl pushed herself against the door, as far away from the giddy driver as possible.
He stopped himself from putting the car in drive. "M'names Gambit. What be yours?"
The girl eyed him with caution. "Rogue," she said simply.
"Rogue," repeated Gambit under his breath, trying the new name on his tongue. He smiled, and slammed his foot on the gas.