[disclaimer: no, I dont own any of the following characters except the protagonist who emerged from my own imagination. all references from here on out to Marvel Comic's characters are obviously used without permission (like any of us has permission anyways). ]


Did You See The Blood Run Down?

Part One: Finding a Drunk


            The streets were crowded with people. Paper flew through the air, creating the illusion of snow falling. She folded the wings, and stood atop the iron staircase, just off Bourbon Street. The mystery woman looked about. This was her destination, the place she foreseen to go to ten years prior. Why, she didn't know, except to find a man, lying in the street somewhere. All she had to go on was a song, a memory, and an instinct that this man existed. Partygoers wandered by, one commented on the wings. She retracted them, and walked down the stairs to the cobblestone streets that is New Orleans. Masked faces haunted her shadows, beer cups littered her path. Where was this man?

            The young woman circled the outer streets, checked every dark corner and dimly lit alleys she came across. Still no luck. Happy faces clogged her view, brightly clad couples snuck off into previously empty alleys for a snog. Just when she was about to give up hope, an idea came. Maybe the man was not hiding in the outer streets, maybe instead she should look where the lights and action was.

 
            She headed out into the open, wings long since gone, and stole a mask from an empty café table before joining the crowd. Blend in was her rule, and she did it remarkably well. No one seemed to notice she was alone; the majority of the crowd was to far intoxicated to notice such small details. Her eyes scanned the growing crowd; he was not in her line of vision. Yet she sensed he was near, and began a search of the open cafés and bar's. Most were packed, but after only a dozen steps inside or so, she knew he was not there. It was in the 3rd bar, halfway down from her starting point, that she saw a familiar face. But no, she thought, it couldn't be. The girl was slim, of average height, but stood out from the crowd. White hair merged with the girls' auburn hair, obviously natural. Her body was outfitted in black (nothing weird about that, she thought, looking at her own attire) but she wore gloves in the muggy, smoke filled air of the bar, along with a long-sleeved shirt. The mystery girl seemed to be looking for someone, as well, but seemed to have as much luck as the winged mistress. They met eyes. A warning bell rang in her head, and as quickly as she'd seen the girl, the girl was gone. Was this odd woman looking for the same thing as she? Possible, yes, but not likely. After all, New Orleans housed many people, from many places. She continued her search.

 
            It was well past 2 in the am when she entered her last bar. The café's had closed an hour ago, leaving her with bars and whatever alley's she'd left uncovered. Something inside her told her this was the place. She was right.

            Arguing with the barkeep was a man, no more than 6 foot in height, of sound build and beauty to even seduce Cleopatra. It seemed that this fight had been started much earlier. Scorch marks painted the walls black, wood chips from blown up tables carpeted the flood, while the stench of bad beer and sweat perfumed the air. The barkeep was holding a shotgun at the man, who seemed to want nothing more than another beer. However, lying in the shadows were drunken, passed out men, shirts with burn holes, holding empty glasses and broken bottles.

             "Donnez-moi plus de bière! Plus bière monsieur!" the young man waved about an empty ale glass.
            "No more beer! You've caused havoc in my bar!" he waved the shotgun wildly about, she doubted it was loaded, and kept more for scaring than shooting.
             "Monsieur, plus biere, si vous plait?  Ah jus' wan some more..." the voice bounced along the walls, the southern French bayou accent tingling down her spine.
            "Excuse me, sir, but I think I can help." She stepped closer to the bar, careful of the drunken Cajun.
            "Ah yah? How? This man here's drunk, unless you can get 'im out, I'm afraid you cant do nothing" his bad English made her shudder.
            "No, see, monsieur, this man here's mon cousin. Ma mere sent me out looking for him. He's got a bad drinking habit, see?"
            "Ah dun know you, cher, but ah'd like to if you'd jus' gemme some more beer..."and he was out. The drunk Cajun fell to the floor with a thud, and promptly began snoring.
            "You need help, lady? I've seen this man before. You not really 'is cousin, aint you?" the barkeep lowered the shotgun and came out from behind the bar.
            "Non, I don't need any help, sir. And yes, he's not my cousin. Actually I don't know who he is, but he's going with me. Thank you for not shooting him," she said, hoisting the now drooling man to his feet. She had quite a time half walking, half dragging the drunk outside, and into an empty alley. It's not that he was heavy for her, oh no, but more that she didn't want to draw more attention to the pair than they were already receiving.

            Once in the alley, the wings reproduced themselves from her back, and off they flew into the unusually warm February night.