The night was cold, damp, like a thawing freezer. At least in Logan's opinion. It seemed to him that he had been in one once, but memories that far back were hardly reliable. Actually, that problem was why he was in this crumby weather, in southern Canada all wet and clammy instead of warm and cozy in the mansion.
The mansion. How he ever got to living in a mansion, he'd never know. Life had kicked him around so bad for so long he didn't have a fond memory left. That is, before he met the X-men. But not even they could keep him in one place forever. He was a loner by nature, an animal, some would say. Whenever some instinct spurred him forward, he went without a second's though. That is, until he was trudging through melting knee deep snow in the wilderness of a Canadian spring.
He smelt the place long before he saw it, the familiar smell of cheap cigars and even cheaper beer. He could smell the life there. One particular scent caught his attention. Aside from the freezing water trapped against his skin and the empty hole in his stomach, that smell drew him to the bar.
It was blissfully warm inside, heated by a huge fireplace stocked to the gills with good strong wood. To the left, three pool tables were getting a workout. At the back, a fighting cage sat waiting for its turn at the drunkards. Logan smirked. Well, at least he'd win some money here.
He headed for the counter where the bartender stood, washing out a glass. It wasn't quite rush hour for him yet, so he had time to talk. Logan settled wearily onto a bar stool.
"A beer," he muttered. His throat was still slightly frozen.
"What kind?" the bartender asked.
"Don't matter."
The bartender handed him a bottle. Taking it, Logan noted it was the second most expensive one they had, not high enough to make a man offended, not low enough the bartender would lose out on a good profit. He took half the thing in one gulp. The liquor warmed him for a second before his healing ability canceled its affects, but by then he was thawing anyway.
Refreshed, Logan turned his attention back to the scent that lured him here, that fighter's scent, all sweat and adrenaline. It had a familiar ring to it, but he couldn't quite decide why.
He found the source of the curious scent at the first pool table, a fiery little number all in black. She wore a black leather halter top and tight black pants to match. Each wrist was wrapped in strong black cloth, the kind that protected a fighter's wrists from overextension. Her hair was mercilessly pulled back into a French braid, jet black as well. Her back was turned to him, so he couldn't see her face, but her whole form screamed fighter.
He took another swig. "So what's her story?" he asked the bartender.
The man chuckled. "Lorna? Don't even think about it, eh. She's the prince of the place here."
"Prince?" Logan asked.
"Fits better 'an princess," the man replied. "Been livin' here two months now. The regulars all see her as a daughter. She's safer here than a cub in a lion's den."
"And the others?" Logan pressed.
"Well, they all learn what's what quick enough," the bartender said. Then his eyes caught one customer. "Like Joe's about to."
The man in question walked lazily up to Lorna. He watched her as she leaned forward to make a hard shot, pool cue stretching halfway across the table. His eyes were keen on the curves of her figure, a perfect hour glass, if a little leaner than was typically desired by such a man. She took the shot, a perfect strike, and maneuvered for her next hit.
"Hey, gorgeous," Joe purred.
"Go away," Lorna said. She shot again, another success, and went for her next target.
"Ah, that's not very nice," the man jested. He seemed unaware that half the bar was watching him now.
"Back off before someone gets hurt," Lorna told him. She leaned over the table again, stretched out away from him.
Joe smirked. "Nobody's going to get hurt," he said, "unless that's the way you like it." He gave her thigh a slap.
In a fury of movement, Lorna whipped around, slammed the man against a pillar with one arm, and brought the other fist forward. Logan could hear the far too familiar sound of metal on flesh, the snapping shink! of extending claws. Two long blades framed the man's neck, one to each side, barely off the skin. Joe kept perfectly still. One millimeter either way would mean a quick and painful death.
"I said, don't," Lorna whispered.
The whole bar was motionless now, watching the exchange in silence. Half seemed expectant, the others terrified. Logan could only stare at the glistening metal stretching out from the girl's knuckles.
"Lorna," the bartender called.
She glanced at him. After a long moment her eyes calmed and she turned back to her prey. He gasped as she slowly relaxed her grip, causing her clawspan to narrow. The blades cut easily into the man's soft skin. Then she gripped her fingers tight, releasing the pressure on his neck, and sheathed her claws. She stepped back.
Two pairs of rough hands grasped the offender's jacket and quickly threw him from the bar. Logan pitied him a little. Those flesh wounds wouldn't feel good against the cold, and the next real shelter was at least a day's ride away. Logan turned from his thoughts to discover that everyone had gone back to what they were doing as if the confrontation never happened. Lorna, picking up her fallen pool cue, calmly took her next shot.
"What'd I tell you, eh?" the bartender asked. "She's a spitfir', that one. And the whole crew backs her."
"She's a mutant?" Logan asked.
"Now, don't be going chiding her for that. There's a good many of them round here." The bartender gave his head a small nod as if the finalize his point.
"I wasn't chiding," Logan countered quickly. The last thing he wanted was to get on this guy's bad side now. "I was just asking."
The bartender studied him a moment longer before replying. "Yeah, she's mutant. Besides the claws she's a strong healer. You know? Got caught in a fire a few weeks back. Lost all her clothes and a fine pair of shoes, but her burns healed quick enough."
Boy did he know how that felt. Instead of saying so, Logan questioned the man farther. "That all?" he asked.
"That and a keen type of senses, eh. Lorna's better 'an the hounds for most anything." It was then that Lorna glanced towards the two. She caught the bartender's gaze and held it until he backed down. "That's my cue to shut my yap," he told Logan. "Her nose ain't the only thing that's above normal."
Logan glanced back at the woman. She returned to her game, showing no sign of aggression. To him she seemed completely in her element, a lioness lording over the lower creatures with ease. A smirk crossed his lips. However she got her set of adamantium, she was safe here.
He spent the rest of the night at the bar, waiting. The night's fighting matches came and went without his or the woman's participation. When most of the customers were gone, he spoke again. "Does she drink?" he asked.
The bartender sighed, giving Lorna a glance. "Never liquor," he said, "but she'll take a cranberry juice from time to time."
Logan motioned forward and the man regretfully poured the drink. Leaving his own, Logan took the peace offering and headed for the pool table.
"You don't learn by example, do you?" she asked, not turning towards the new opponent.
Logan smirked and set the glass on the edge of the pool table. "I'm not here to harass you," he said. "I just wanted to compliment you on your work. I've never seen a move like that before."
"That's because I'm one of a kind," she replied. Her pool partner missed, and she took her aim.
"I wouldn't go that far," Logan said.
She jerked, missing her mark, and the white ball rolled harmlessly into the side pocket. The bar dropped back into silence. Slowly she turned.
"What did you say?" she asked. Her voice was ice. He could tell he hurt her, like he'd be if someone suggested the pain he'd gone through wasn't enough. She stared at him until her shock turned to anger.
"Do you know how you get a pair of these?" she asked, unsheathing her claws. "They cut you open, fill every bone with metal until no more will fit. Your body rejects it so they have to break you first, again and again until it sticks. When it's all over, you're a hundred pounds heavier. Every movement hurts, like your bones are going to break out of your skin. It takes months to get back to full strength, and then every time you pop a claw it tears holes in your hands."
Logan shrugged. "Yeah," he said, "but I still don't see how that makes you unique."
Her eyes flashed. A sharp snarl escaped her lips and she lunged forward. Quick as a snap, Logan raised a hand and blocked her claws with his own. With a small twist, he had her blades trapped, metal wedged between unbreakable metal. She stared, eyes wide as sausers, trying to break the hold. Logan kept her in place.
"The bonding process," he said. "It hurts like hell, but getting thrown around by a magnetist set on ripping it back out again? Now that's pain." He retracted his claws and she pulled away, gripping her hand.
"You're," she muttered, "you're-" Her voice failed her.
"I'm like you," he supplied.
Slowly she shook her head. "No," she whispered. "You're Wolverine. You're the first."