It's not too terribly unpredictable yet, I know, but hopefully you'll have some fun seeing what (I think) the characters were thinking about during the event. And now we shall see if I have the energy for chapter three.
Oh, and please critique!
Marie stirred herself out of a restless half-sleep as the truck shuddered to a stop, chains clinking noisily against the dirty snow. The driver, an old trucker she'd shared no more than four words with the entire trip, came around and yanked her door open. Her small duffel bag slid unceremoniously to the ground, and she pulled the plastic sports bag with her sleeping roll inside out as she got off her seat. The trucker slammed the door behind her once he was sure she wouldn't have to come back and bother him about something she'd forgotten, and went around to the driver's side again to lock the cab.
"Excuse me..." Marie chimed shyly, unsure of how to politely give him her thoughts. "Thank ya for th' ride, but...ah thought we were goin' somewheah...biggah?" She had been hoping for a quaint mining town, not a couple of metal-roofed shacks along the highway. A payphone and some decent food might be good, too, but here she wasn't sure if she could trust anything to be clean.
"I ain't drivin' ya all the way back to the interstate, kid, if that's what yer lookin' for," he growled roughly. He had already started walking towards what looked like the only restaurant in town. Marie ruefully acknowledged that he would give her no more help, no matter how nicely she asked, and she followed him quietly into what was not actually a restaurant but a rough-cut saloon.
The place turned out to be much more of a curiosity to Marie than she could ever have assumed from the outside. The main room of the business had a cage at its center, which was surrounded by a huge crowd of people. The noise was deafening, but it wasn't the profanity that made Marie jump...it was the rattle of the cage walls, the sharp sound that cut through all the distractions and shocked her well out of her sleepy demeanor. She hurried quickly to an unoccupied corner of the room, so she wouldn't be in anyone's way, and watched the display with timid fascination. She had never seen a cage fight before. Whether that was because she'd just stayed away from anywhere seedy enough to host a thing like it, or some other factor was at work, it wasn't clear. But she found herself watching the action with a somewhat primitive fascination, letting her mind engulf itself in the lightning-fast twists of the muscular fighters.
Plus, being the age that she was, she couldn't help but find herself overly attracted to the toned, shirtless men sweating away for her in the arena.
She pushed away those emotions angrily. She could never have a man now, no matter how strong he was...she would always be too dangerous for him.
As she watched, her mind bringing her close to tears, she began to notice that one man never left the ring. He was short and sturdy, with wild black hair and a dark face that never quite came into the light. At the end of each match he was there in the winner's circle, taking a shot of some kind of alcohol to quench his thirst. He fought calmly, Marie thought at first, but the more she observed the more she felt like she could see the little bit of extra energy that helped him win each time. An inner fire, so to speak. She wasn't sure what to make of it, what sort of personality fueled a trait like that, but she couldn't help but admire his skill. Most opponents only lasted through three or four of his punches before they fell to the floor. He was brutal.
After a while, though, Marie began to notice the noise more and the sport less. She wished she'd brought something to do on her trip...and then there she was, thinking of home again.
Tears welling in her eyes, she turned away from the cage and made her way into the bar.
She didn't figure that anyone around here would care if she was underage, but even so she sat down timidly, ready to flee if someone came towards her. The bartender was the only one, an aging man with a giant mustache and a scrappy looking vest over his plaid shirt. Marie asked him quietly if he could bring her a glass of water, and he obliged without a word. The T.V. above the shot glasses droned tonelessly on, saying something about the U.N. World Summit...and mutants.
Marie's mind shifted miserably back to what she'd become.
Hours later the stuffiness of the bar had slowly dispersed as the customers had taken their leave. A few still lingered, either too drunk or too tired to head on their way, and Marie had the distinct impression that she was the only female in the entire establishment. It was a fact that would have made her nervous if it weren't for her poisonous skin. The cage fights had been over for a while now, and the girl watched a few men clean up the ring for tomorrow night's entertainment.
The wild-haired man was nowhere to be seen.
Marie picked at the stitching on her duffel bag, the loose threads providing her with mindless amusement. But her thoughts were far away, worried, as she tried desperately to see what was ahead for her. All she could predict was loneliness and desperation. She had no money and no way to get a job, much less hold one after her employers found out what she was. Her thoughts drifted unhappily from one hazy version of her future to the next, unable to settle or give her any peace. It was hopeless.
That was when the wild-haired man settled heavily onto a barstool to her left.
Adrenaline surged through Marie's veins at his sudden appearance, and her heart did a little flip of surprise...he'd been so quiet! He glanced at her and held her gaze, head cocked and frightening amber eyes calculating. She got the strangest impression from those eyes that he could hear her heart pounding away in her chest, and that thought made her pulse race all over again. She turned away before he did, yanking her eyes forward with a colossal effort, but the fighter examined her for a few seconds more before he refocused his attention onto a much more rewarding subject: the bartender.
Marie took a chance once he'd looked away and furtively glanced at him again, sure he'd be oblivious to her attentions, but she was shocked to meet his stare again. His amber eyes turned black with what Marie assumed was anger, his heavy brows shadowing his eyes until they were dangerously dark. He was much more aware of her than she'd expected him to be. She flinched away from his expression with a little jump.
The news story about the U.N. Summit popped onto the television screen again, just as Marie cast one more glance at the stranger. This time she was more cautious, examining him out of the corner of her eye. Wolverine, the ref had said. Was it a name the man had chosen himself, or was it a nickname he'd earned over time? Whichever it was, it certainly fit him well.
He caught her staring, and their eyes met for a long second, but this time he glanced tamely away...his cigar was much more interesting than her nosy attitude. He generously allowed her to look him up and down, but when he deliberately shifted his shoulder towards her she quickly looked back at the T.V. She wasn't sure if he'd really meant the gesture as a warning, but she wasn't going to chance it; provoking him would be a very bad thing.
That was when a man came up to the bar and plunked himself down next to the fighter, immediately drawing the eyes of everyone left in the bar. The guy was huge. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, with tattoos across his shiny pink scalp and a tattered biker jacket slumped over his shoulders. The wild-haired man, dwarfed by the giant's size, glanced at his new companion out of the corner of his eye and then went back to watching the news, his attitude that of one without fear; and that didn't make sense at all. This new man was enormous.
"You owe me some money," the biker said blatantly, a dangerously confident tone in his voice. The Wolverine didn't even glance away from the T.V.
"C'mon, man." the stranger persisted. "You ain't even hurt, are ya? You got one bruise on you, boy?" He punched the fighter in the ribs, hard, and the Wolverine's jaw tightened angrily. "You beat everyone in th' place and you're thinkin' you c'n get away with that? Eh, boy? I'm'a talkin' to you!" He gave the fighter a harder shove this time, causing him to fumble with his cigar.
Wolverine turned slowly away from the television to face the biker, one hand resting against his thigh. It was tight, like a bowstring, ready to snap forward with enough force to knock the other man to his knees. "Ya think I give a shit what you want, you motherfuckin' sonofabitch?" His reply was icy calm, his voice much quieter than Marie had expected it to be...and, ironically, much more frightening. His tone was more furious than the biker's in its own way; Marie thought she could even hear a snarl in the back of his throat.
"Don't you get yourself into no trouble now, boy," the bartender interjected calmly. Marie hadn't noticed him come up, but there he was, a rifle in his hands. The weapon was loaded and aimed straight for the Wolverine's head. "Olson here's a good friend, an' we don' want him hurt now, got it?"
The fighter's fist got even tighter, knuckles bloodless and white beneath the taut skin. Marie thought he might start throwing punches regardless of the danger he was in, but he did not. Instead he lunged for the rifle and grabbed hold of it over the bartender's hand; his arm had been hidden beneath the counter, but the movement was so swift that it took Marie a second to figure out what had happened. She assumed he was going to try and pry the bartender's hand off the gun, but he never got the chance.
A shot rang out in the surprised instant after the fighter's hand clamped down on the gun. An ominous ping of metal on metal was heard almost simultaneously with the bullet's explosion. Marie gave a little yelp and ducked reflexively, though of course if the gun had been aiming for her she wouldn't have had a chance.
Wolverine let go of the weapon, letting his hand fall away to rest lightly on the counter again. His left arm lay unmoving on his leg; the fingers had not loosened from their fist at all. The bartender and his biker friend both had terrified expressions on their faces, expressions Marie didn't understand at all. Why were they so scared? Of the wild-haired fighter? They had been the ones to threaten him! To shoot at him!
The Wolverine stood silently, downing his unfinished whiskey before he went. "He ain't gonna live through the night," he growled to the bartender, gesturing at the biker with a cigar-laden hand.
And then he turned and strode out the back door.
They had tried to kill the man. Kill him, for winning all of those fights. Marie understood, she could see the logic in it, but she couldn't grasp the twisted sense of ethics these men had. This thing she had just witnessed was not at all fair, and fairness was what she wanted more than anything else in the world.
She had to get away.
So she picked up her bags and rushed after the man who had just left.