Chapter 10: Wolverine Walked into a Bar . . .
Kid bought me a drink. Probably wasn't old enough to get it himself, but I guess they ain't so picky up in north Canada. Suited me fine. Settled me right down nicely. Well, I guess Beast would say that's an exaggeration or somethin'. All right, maybe not settled, but lookin' back I'd say it was still nothin' more than a miracle that it didn't turn out worse that it did.
Then:
For the tenth time in as many minutes the whole bar seemed to erupt as another man went down in the fighting cage, and for the tenth time in as many minutes Wolverine leaped to his feet, sloshing his fourth beer over the counter as he lifted his fists and felt the prickling of a familiar pain deep within his wrists.
His teeth bared as he stared at the ended fight, a low growl growing in his chest as he felt the crowd pressing on him.
The animal wanted out!
He wanted to growl, slash, and generally leave this place behind for good. It seemed he might be a man, but what did it matter?
But the beer . . . this was good. And some deep-buried part of him almost . . . liked it here, in an odd, growly sort of way.
But it wasn't that part of him that was in control—or almost out-of-control, as it were.
"What—? What—goin' on?" he snarled to the kid, the words blurting out before he had time to really think about them.
"Cage fighting, mon ami," Remy said calmly, flipping some face cards from his pocket from one hand to the other and pulling down his hood a bit further. "Man who win get d'money."
Wolverine paused, remembering the money in his pocket, which had already shrunk so much. Apparently beer was expensive.
The crowd roared again—and the man in the cage raised his arms, howling like a beast as sweat flicked from his arms and hands.
"Damn," someone next to them muttered. "Not Nielson again. Every time he pulls through there just ain't no fun in the bettin'. Steady winners take out all t'fun."
Wolverine wrinkled his nose and his eyes went to the cage, much like a wolf surveying a stretch of land before standing and beginning the hunt. His eyes almost glowed as he recognized the man in the cage—the large man that had tried to kill the kid, and then him.
As if feeling his gaze, the big man turned, his lips curled in an ugly, victorious grin. His eyes met Wolverine's and his look turned ugly—only more so because of the large bruise growing off the side of his face—the bruise that was not from any of the cage fights.
"You think you're tough because of one lucky hit, bastard?" the man roared at him. "Come and be a man, runt! Show yer a man!"
The words stung at forgotten memories and forgotten pains, and a fury beyond the animal survival rose up as he put his cup down firmly and stood, his teeth bared in answer to the challenge.
But no claws. He hadn't seen any yet, and the last one carried out of the ring had been breathing.
He was a trap.
He stepped forward, and absently caught sound of the kid learning over the counter.
"Put this all on homme petit," and it took a moment for him to be able to understand the kid through his strange-sounding voice. "No—not that one. Dah hairy one, over dere."
Wolverine shook himself, pushing through the tall men around him towards the ring.
"What's yer name?" a man stopped him before the cage.
Wolverine tensed, his mind hurting from the noise and chaos in his surroundings. The animal growled, and so did he, though softly.
"Come, on, bub. A name."
A name. A name? His name?
Just like the kid had asked . . .
"Wol-verine," he uttered roughly. The man had already turned away. "All right, folks. Tonight we got ourselves a new champion—the Wolverine! Will he be one to finally bring down the Demon King!"
The crowds roared, and the Wolverine stood and roared with them, his blood running hot—ready to kill the giant across from him once and for all.
"You sure you wanna try yer luck, runt? They're gonna be moppin' the floor with yer brains once I'm done with ya!"
Wolverine bore his teeth—but no. This was not to kill. This was to put the stupid one in his place—to hunt, and get food without killing by getting the useless paper the men were so stupid to trade for food and beer. His snarl took the hint of a grin.
The man struck.
He was slow. Slower than a mountain lion, slower than a wolf. Slower than deer, and the very last trace the Wolverine's uncertainty vanished to replaced only by confidence.
This man was weak. He was no hunter—no danger. The man was prey.
There was no need for his claws. He cleanly sidestepped the first wild, strength-driven thrust and caught the second swing with his own, suddenly sure hand. And immediately, he knew he'd done something like this before.
It was right. It was familiar, to fight—even without his claws.
He knew what to do.
He blocked the next powerful strike cleanly with his forearm, and it wasn't even a hesitation before his own fist drove home to connect with his jaw. There was an awful crack, a splurting of blood over his fist, and the man went down—out cold with the first hit.
Still alive. Wolverine could hear the man's heart beat as he stood tall, the predator in him snarling for him to end it, but he stifled it and roared with the maddened crowd. He didn't have to kill to be the victor.
I don't remember how long I fought that night. I didn't always get away without them landing a hit. First time it happened I caught the guy on the cage and put my fist under his throat—was about a hair away from letting those claws do what they've always done best. Don't know what would have happened if I hadn't stopped myself, and don't really know why I did. Maybe being amidst man—even the most wild of the worst—started waking up what was almost forgotten to me
Course, I won. Might have been wild, back then, but I still had my instincts, and there wasn't anything holding me back, either. I just let them come, and let them fall.
It's funny that the first time I really felt like I fit in with mankind was in a cage, with them all wild on the other side.
The man named Wolverine sat at the counter, holding but not drinking from another of his countless glasses of beer. It was some time after the fights, and he'd just been sitting there, drinking beer after beer. The man behind the counter smelled surprised for some reason, but he didn't ask any questions as long as he kept the money between them, so Wolverine didn't mind.
He had plenty money to spare. The man'd even offered a room, but for the amount of about four big beers. He must have been crazy.
Wolverine could sleep in the woods, but he doubted he could find a single bottle of beer no matter how hard he looked out there.
Not to mention the food . . .
He'd smelled it across the room, and asked the guy for a plate of whatever it was.
Steak and potatoes. And some green stuff—vegetables, though he didn't touch that, and when he ordered his second plate he'd skipped the greens altogether.
Green stuff grew everywhere in the wood. Why should he waste his money on it?
Money. He had been right—it was very valuable indeed.
Someone walked out of the shadows, and he didn't need to see his face to recognize his scent, even with the remaining clutter from the night's earlier crowd. It was the kid.
Most everyone had given him a good berth after his winnings in the cage, which suited Wolverine just fine. The kid, though, just came over and sat down.
Sure, he still smelled wary, but he must have been too young to recognize the danger, with the casual way he was acting.
He should be more careful.
The kid said something. It sounded like nonsense.
The Wolverine shook his head. He had become pretty good at understanding the men around him—it had been coming easier throughout the night. He must be tired if he was beginning to lose that.
He glanced over and growled softly at the kid.
The kid lifted his hands in what might seem an innocent gesture, but with his deep hood and dark-gloved hands it looked guilty, if anything.
"Jus' complimenting your fighting, mon ami. You quick on you feet out dere."
Wolverine just looked at him. The kid patted one of his coat pockets. "None thought little man like you come out ahead, but I saw. You move like you used to fighting. Had you pegged first step you took in dah door."
Wolverine sniffed at his beer. He wanted to drink more, but he was stuffed. He drank a little more anyway.
He stopped as two tall men and a woman walked in through the front door. Wolverine looked up, his eyes narrowed as he watched them.
The men may not have attacked him yet, but these ones smelled like trouble. They smelled dangerous.
Wait. He was a trap ready to spring.
And he could take them down without his claws, if he needed.
But no. They walked past him, and their gaze was on the kid.
They looked like hungry wolves narrowing down on a lone rabbit.
The kid turned, and though the scent of wariness increased there was little, if any, fear.
He really was an idiot.
"All right, LeBeau. You thought you got away then, but we found you again, oui? You come quiet, and maybe we'll let you live a little longer."
It wasn't his business. It didn't matter to him. He'd never stepped between a hunter and his prey before, not except when he was starving—dying for want of food.
The kid had tensed, and now held his cards in a steady hand.
"No," Wolverine growled, putting down his drink and turning to face them. He stood, not liking having to look up to them so much.
"Well, well, what's this? The little rat find a little badger to play with?" the woman looked down at him. She stank of flowers, only far too strong, and it made his nose itch again.
"Nah, dat's dere's Wolverine—toughest cage fighter nor't of da Canadian border. So if you think t' take both us, cher, come on ahead. Gambit's waiting." He cocked his head, flipping through the cards in his hands. "Or you three too scared t' take us?"
"You cocky little LeBeau basta—"
The kid moved—and moved fast. He ducked and struck low, swiping the legs out from under the woman and knocking her heavily against a table behind her.
The dim light flashed off a blade, and the kid flipped backwards. The blade sang through the air, and Wolverine lunged forward with a snarl.
But the guy dodged, striking him low and kicking him onto another table that cracked under his weight. The man followed through, bringing down a gleaming blade.
SNIKT!
The man's eyes widened and he twisted in the air, but still the nine-inch claws slashed against his ribs, spraying a fine mist of blood across Wolverine's knuckles as he rose after him, the scent of blood fueling the fight.
Wild now, he rushed at him, blocking two high kicks and catching the man's ankle and flipping him around, but the man recovered, spinning in the air and landing to face him, daggers at ready.
There was a thrill down Wolverine's spine and he grinned as he dove forward again.
This man knew how to fight.
He barely had time to feel that odd appreciation when the man jumped forward, catching Wolverine's falling blades and cutting in sharply towards his gut. He felt the knife slice through the fabric of his shirt as he spun back, twisting to cut the man from behind, but he flipped cleanly over his head and knocked his balance off with a blow to his kidneys.
Wolverine rolled, coming up in a crouch with his blades ready. The man paused, taking a moment to stare at the six long claws as he muttered an oath.
The kid was surprisingly holding his own. He'd pulled a sort of staff from somewhere, and now was backing up. There was a cut across his brow and he was breathing hard, but he wasn't backing down yet.
Damn fool kid had courage and at least a little bit of skill to back it up, if nothing else.
The man in front of him struck, and Wolverine dodged, swinging a fist in a heavy backhand that struck him into the wall and left deep, bloodied gashes across his face. He went down, limp, and the Wolverine paused to make sure he wouldn't rise again.
Suddenly, the scuffle across the room went still.
The Wolverine turned swiftly to see that the kid had finally lost—the woman had him in a headlock and a dagger against his throat, his staff frozen in his hands.
"Stand back!" the man said, leveling a finger at him. "One move and she cuts the kid's throat."
It wasn't a smart thing. If they killed the kid there would be nothing to stop him from killing them. But he still stopped, ready to wait until he saw a weakness. Satisfied, the woman looked down at the kid.
"All right, LeBeau. Drop it."
"I don' think I like to, petite."
The blade pressed harder, and the kid stiffened, but he still appeared calm, now that his hood had fallen back to show his face and his strangely dark eyes.
"This is the last time I ask nicely," the woman hissed.
"Always thought ladies like a man who stood his own," the kid replied, then winced as the blade pushed hard enough to break his skin. "All righ', cher. All righ'." He opened his hand and his staff fell to the ground with a dull thud, but at the same time his deck of cards slipped from his sleeve and scattered over the floor, and it seemed that they seemed to almost glow as a bit of smoke rose from them.
The kid swore. "Oops," he said, then jerked his head back, butting against the woman's nose.
Wolverine smelled blood, but as he made to move forward to take care of the man the kid darted forward and grabbed his arm.
The kid smelled alarmed at last, so Wolverine let him pull him away as he dove towards the cupboard and pulled him down sharply to the ground.
Suddenly, it felt like the world had ended.
It was like gunfire, but a thousand times louder. Instinctively the Wolverine pulled the kid under him as it burst his ears, seared his hair and face and skin, and blinded his eyes. Pain followed the heat, and the world crushed in around him as he hunched down, shut his eyes, and waited it to go away.
TBC . . .