Al's lay about one hundred miles north of the Canadian border, and if you had grown up never seeing the sunlight or going outside and had kept your eyes closed from the moment of birth, you might describe Al's as charming. For all the rest, it was a time capsule, a reminder that once men made a good living in this forest, in an age before technology, and a good living meant good revelry. The paneling was dotted with faded girlie posters advertising assorted domestics with wildly varying and incorrect prices, if the beers were even still in production. The only other noticeable decoration were two dart boards at the opposite end from the entrance, though even they were almost overshadowed by the pitted holes from years of drunken dart tosses from drunk lumberjacks and lost travelers. The shelves behind the bar were dusty and the bottles themselves were cheap. Above the wheezing Kegerator the tap handles were smudged from years of hard use.
Still, thought Clark, scrubbing out pint glasses, this is a good place to be. Little place I own outright, something that bitch Carol ain't get in the divorce. Nice quiet little place. With that thought he cast his glare to the end of the bar. Stranger had been coming in for over a month now, never talked to anyone save for ordering. Always paid in cash, tipped average but nothing flashy. But those eyes. Didn't make eye contact a lot, but when he did he possessed a look. Clark had seen that look before, and it always brought trouble with it. And that was even before the sheer amount he drank. The guy went through two cases beer and at least a bottle of whiskey a night when he was taking it easy. All while managing to walk out at the end of the night without so much as a stumble. Clark had seen dedicated alcoholics drink their share, but this guy was something different.
It was a slow night. They were all slow nights, at least at this time of year. Winter was in the air and what few tourists came through this area dried up. Now it was all skiers and the closest one of those was ninety miles away. The next four or five months would be trappers and hunters with the occasional carful of lost tourists to break the monotony. As it was Clark wasn't completely shocked to hear the door open, but that changed when he saw who had walked in. The woman was tall, with a shock of fleece-white hair that flowed down her back like water. Clark could tell she was beautiful despite the wide-brimmed hat she wore and the dim lighting afforded her. Beautiful and tall and long white hair. That would be the brief description he gave the police later.
"Excuse me bartender." Her voice was dark and husky, with an accent he couldn't quite place. She didn't belong in this place, hell she didn't belong within five hundred miles. She belonged on a beach somewhere, being fed grapes and fanned with a palm frond. Clark swallowed, hard, and his Adam's apple felt like a lead weight in his throat and his mouth was dry. He mentally prepped himself to give her directions without looking like a complete fool
"Can I help you, lady?" He tried to throw it out casually and could tell he had failed by the crack in his voice. His chest felt tight. In the back of his mind he pushed down an old memory.
"Yes, a French 75 please," When Clark stared dumbfounded he thought he saw anger twist her face but next he looked it was gone and her face was serene once again. She even laughed slightly before speaking again, laying a hundred dollar bill on the bar. "Just a screwdriver please. No change, sir, just please let the gentleman over there know I'd like to speak to him." Clark dutifully mixed the highball then watched her sit down at the furthest table from the bar. It was maybe thirty feet from the bar. He then approached the stranger, apprehension beginning to grip his mind as lust faded.
"Hey bud, the lady over there'd like you to join her." In order, the stranger grunted, snorted, and turned to look toward the lady. Clark watched the man's shoulders sag as though the weight of the world had just been placed upon them and sighed.
"Let me get one more round." The stranger said, almost under his breath, and Clark cracked him open another Molson and poured two fingers of whiskey. The stranger slammed the whiskey and let out another deep sigh before extracting himself from his barstool, taking the lukewarm bottle of beer with him. Most beautiful woman this place has ever seen walks in and he acts like it's a goddamn homework assignment. Guess that mysterious stranger thing pays off. I shoulda bought that fedora. Clark turned back to washing his glassware, pondering why anyone would trudge through a small town to a small bar to find the likes of that.
Logan trudged over to the table where Storm sat with her back towards him. He took a slug from the bottle, staring at the back of her form. "Well, you found me, 'Ro. I'll buy you a drink for your trouble, comin' out this way and all. Beyond that, though, can't say I'm much interested in any pitch you're selling." Logan moved closer to the table a second, waiting for Ororo to answer him. When she didn't, he continued.
"Look, I ain't trying to be rude, just stating the facts is all. Those days of playing school teacher are over. However, if you're lookin' to share a drink and some warm reminiscing, well, I can spare the time."
This time she took a sip of her drink, but said nothing. This time Logan let a long pregnant pause grow before speaking again.
"Fine. Long as the ground rules are set, I'll hear you out. I always did admire your stubbornness, 'Ro. You missed a good career as a card shark. Course, I'd cool it on the perfume. Smells like you bathed in it." Logan grabbed the back of the chair and set his beer in front of him. He sat down and studied the mouth of his beer bottle before looking up towards her.
"So glad you decided to hear me out, Logan. Tell me, how many times have you woken up calling out her name?" Ororo's eyes flashed yellow.
"Mystique? What're you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing. Playing lumberjack, or barfly? Neither suits you, but do me a favor and play dress-up a little while longer. If you don't want to 'hear me out' like you said, then consider this an apology for disrupting the first chance I had to see my daughter in twenty years."
"The hell you talking about? You come to collect about some fight three years ago?"
"Has it only been three? Feels like longer. Must have been the coma I was in. Anyway, be a good boy, sit down, play nice, and I'll give you a treat later. Also, if you don't pretend we're old friends I'll kill the bartender. You've only been in this town for six weeks, you've got dozens of fake licenses and the bartender has been suspicious of you for at least two of those weeks."
"Yea, and how do you know that? Been following me?"
"Last night I was one of the men playing darts. Day before that I was the lost traveler, all the way from Muskogee and looking for the highway. Want to know who I was Tuesday? Or Monday?"
"I get the point. Fine, you got my attention, Darkholme," Logan said through a swig of beer.
"Oh good, I was worried. Thought I might have to draw a map. Look, you might not want to play hero anymore but I need someone with covert-ops experience and you're one of the few people I could come to."
"And now my attention is gone. You're off committing crimes you can do it without me." Mystique pounded a fist on the table,
"It's not a fucking crime, Logan, if you could hold your tongue. Try to forget what you know of me from Charles and Erik and all the rest. Look, we've had our differences but neither of us have those allegiances anymore. You and I are free agents now." The two sat across from each other in silence for a moment. Above a fan wobbled and spun and circulated the stale air.
"So, if you ain't out stealing and you ain't looking for a fight, what exactly you need me for?"
"Mutants have been going missing. Young ones, off the streets. First San Francisco, then Chicago, now New York. The police either don't know or don't care. They get labelled suicide or overdose if they get labelled at all."
"It's a bad time to be a mutant," Logan agreed. "But somehow you've managed to link the disappearances across multiple cities and thousands of miles. Just you, by the way, with what? Your own eyes and ears?" Logan saw here eyes flash again.
"Do not patronize me Logan. These were kids who lost their homes the minute their skin altered or they sprouted horns. It might be hard to comprehend, but I cared about those kids. They were going through the same thing I did, and I was trying to help them so maybe they could lead better lives than I was afforded." Logan stared into the neck of his beer and fidled with a cigar. Behind him he heard the door open, and the bartender's charmless greeting that followed. Logan brought the cigar to his nose and inhaled. He caught the scent of tobacco. "I didn't come here for a fight, Logan. I have a lead on who's abducting and killing my kids. I've done some reconnaissance work but I need a second person."
"Ain't like you to come asking for help, especially trekking all the way up here." Something wasn't right, Logan thought. He smelled the gaudy perfume coming off Mystique and the bartender's body odor. He could smell the leaky trashcan in the corner and the tray of pretzels sitting on the bar. They were stale. Logan took in another breath. Nothing to indicate anyone had entered the bar. He cursed himself for picking a chair that faced away from the door. Damned if Mystique didn't know how put him off-balance, but he'd have to marvel at that another time.
"No, and I can't say I've enjoyed the trip, but this is something that affects both of us, just in case you forgot what happened to you when someone kidnapped you and ran-"
"Mystique, you want me to take you seriously, call off your goon and talk to me without the parlor tricks." Logan didn't have time to savor her confused look before an ice-blue hand lay on Mystique's shoulder. The tall, thin shadow stood in the space between their table and the exit. In a fedora pulled low and a dark colored trenchcoat the man looked so close to a noir illustration it was almost a parody. In another situation Logan might have laughed.
"Ms. Darkholme, my but you're a hard one to find. Although with a nickname like yours, I would expect nothing less."
"Well, shit, they say three's a crowd, and I can't tell you how true that feels right now." Logan tried to stand up and another hand brought him back into his seat. Logan was shocked by the strength behind it.
"Wolverine, there isn't a a mutant alive that wouldn't recognize you. You might not be my quarry but that shan't spare you tonight." The figure took a seat at the table, fitting themselves between Logan and Mystique. His face looked to be carved from glass, a deep aquamarine that matched the cold tone of his voice. The oversized coat and hat
"This the last guy you tried to get in on this job?" Logan lit a cigar and leaned back in his seat. He knew the guy was strong but it was any guess if the stranger knew how to use it. Logan had taken on many a bar fight against guys with arms like tree trunks but all the common sense of a squirrel in traffic.
"I've never met this man before in my life Logan. Believe me." Logan took a drag and glanced between her and the Stranger. Beneath the table he could hear her foot tapping on the floor. He believed her.
"Whoever you are," Logan caught the stranger's eye. "You seem to have some sort of grudge, not that it's any stretch of the imagination, and now I'm involved. So, what's say we at least do this over some good whiskey?"
"Lovely offer, but I do not drink."
"Your funeral Bub."
Logan smashed his boot into the leg of the Stranger's chair, knocking him off balance. Logan jumped from his chair and grabbed the stranger by the throat. He pushed the stranger back as hard and fast as he could against the wall. Logan brought up his fist against the Stranger's jaw and pain shot down his arm. Two of his fingers were broken and the Stranger barely flinched.
"Your mutation loses against mine, killer," the Stranger smiled and sent a quick sharp jab into Logan's nose. The Stranger had the skill and precision of a championship boxer. Logan tumbled out of his chair and onto the ground, catching himself on one hand. The fingers had already knit themselves together. "Unless you've got a lightsaber hidden somewhere on you. News of your 'declawing' has spread far and wide, Wolverine." The Stranger calmly approached Logan, still on his hand and knees staring at scuffed hardwood.
"Is that so? How do ya know I ain't get 'em put back in, huh? I'm crazy enough to do it bub, have 'em cut me open twice just for the thrill. Something like that'd be child's play for me." Where the hell did Mystique go, Logan wondered as the Stranger knocked him in the side. Air hissed out of him and he pulled himself up by the table behind him. He couldn't see the bartender either, the guy was hiding if he had any brains in him.
"Then do it, Wolverine. It's been so long since the cape and cowl community has seen you out and about. What a way to make a comeback." Logan kicked the Stranger in the chest and rolled over the table. He jumped up ready for the retaliation when he heard the roar of a shotgun behind him and saw the stranger's head explode into a shower of crystals. Mystique, no longer disguised, wisps of gunpowder smoke trailing up from a sawed-off shotgun.
"Where the hell did you get that?"
"It's a trucker bar in the middle of nowhere, Logan. I assumed the owner was a big supporter of the second amendment." Mystique flipped the shortened weapon over her shoulder and stepped out from behind the bar. Logan let go of the edge of the table, suddenly aware of his tense grip on the wood.
"You didn't kill him too, did you?" Rounding the table, Logan knelt by the body and began digging through the trench coat, now acting as a death shroud. There was no blood, only shards of aquamarine glass and in the dull lighting they were beautiful. Logan sifted through pockets, producing one pair of car keys and a wallet. The leather billfold was thick with crisp hundreds and fifties. The only other contents was a business card with a New York address. Logan took the wallet to keep the business card from getting lost.
"Didn't think to, I've still got time if you'd like."
"I'd like to get about a hundred miles away from this place before the cops show up." Mystique flipped the shotgun back on one shoulder and came around from the bar, drawing Logan's attention to the prone form of the bartender slumped in a corner, dozing but breathing.
"Look, I need your help. Let's skip the part where you argue with me and get on the road." She exhaled. Logan reached over the bar and grabbed the first bottle of whiskey he could find, stuffing it into an inner pocket of his flannel jacket.
"That's the first thing you've said I don't want to argue about." Logan said as he pulled open the front door of the bar. Outside were two vehicles, a boxy station wagon and a silver sedan that was just flashy enough to draw attention. Logan didn't have to look at the keys in his pocket to guess which one belonged to the Stranger. The engine turned over without difficulty and they pulled out of the dirt parking lot onto the road. Logan turned up the radio and settled on a country station. Mystique said nothing with the shotgun laying at her feet. The headlights traced a thin path on the blacktop through a dark night, as though the car was constantly on the edge of a precipice waiting to plummet.