Y: Wolverine has been sent out to track down a mutant thief by the name of Storm; but it turns out, she’s rather stubborn…RoLo
The music beat at a ruthless rhythm that hurt his ears, Logan scowled at men but spared some women a glance, Victor Creed; otherwise known as Sabertooth was in here somewhere; where, at the moment, Logan couldn’t pinpoint. He heard a startled yelp and turned to see a woman dressed in a tattered rag for a top and a pair of leather shorts that showed the bottom of her buttocks crawling on all fours. A spiked collar was around her neck and a rough leathery leash led from the collar to another woman’s hand whom was holding the leash. The woman who was apparently reshaping the meaning to “walking the dog” had planted a spiked stiletto heel in the crawling woman’s back. With long, pale legs and dark black hair swooped into a messy bun; she bore large waxy lips and a pair of yellow hawk eyes.
“Bad girl, bad girl,” she scolded the other girl who only whimpered and rubbed against her other leg, eyes flashing to get a glimpse up the other woman’s skirt. Logan turned away from the slightly disturbing scene to hear his name being called by a deep and rumbling voice. He could see Victor over the sea of people, who were grinding, bumping, rubbing, growling and moaning. He fairly snapped at another girl who didn’t even look sixteen that had attached herself to his left shoulder. Pushing her away, he could see out of his peripheral vision that she had flipped him off and headed for the bar.
When Logan had reached Victor, he could see two women on either side of him on the leather sofa they shared. One was a short Japanese looking girl with deep brown eyes; along one eye was a circular tattoo with an upside down triangle. The other was a tall blonde with legs that went on for miles, dried red, yellow and black colored snakeskin sewn into her skin along her elbows, thighs and from what he could tell her breasts as well. “Runt, like ya ta meet Suko,” he pointed at the Japanese girl with the tattoo, “And Coral.” Coral’s obsidian eyes zoned in on Logan in what he couldn’t help but think of a predatory way. He suddenly remembered that one rhyme, but couldn’t remember it entirely.
Suko barely took notice of him, instead eyeing Victor’s arms. “Where in the flamin’ hell were you, moron!” Logan shouted over the loud screeching of the guitars and the wild beating of the drums. Victor lost his lewd grin before snorting and taking a quick gulp out of his beer bottle. “I was the one who had ta take down all o’ those damn soldiers, don think I didn’t get shot in the ass fer it either,” he snorted. Logan had known when Victor had shown up too late, past eight, he knew he wasn’t coming. Then, the mission was left up to him, taking down Rico’s super soldiers wasn’t a piece of cake but it hadn’t killed him. Sure, they were stronger than average men, sure they were quick, and sure they had a hella lot more of firearms than he did, but he had one thing they didn’t. Sure he had skills, expertise, a metal skeleton complete with claws that came out on their own, complete with heightened sense of smell, hearing and sight; but he also had a stronger bloodlust.
One quick swipe of his metal claws, one between each knuckle, and the black clad soldiers fell dead to the world. Rico had given up without a fight; shot himself to the head with a 45 caliber shotgun. Logan had strode in to the blood lathered office, ruffled through papers, sorted through cabinets before finding a diskette with a bar code scribbled across it; 18157215.
All that trouble (not to mention the guard dogs; one bit him in the ass) and all he’d gotten out of it was four credits, not that it was hard, just damn irritating. At least he didn’t have to split the take with Victor.
With a loud belch, Victor brought Logan’s attention back to him, “Xavier took me off the heist, told me Wolverine could handle it, and ya did.”
Logan growled lightly, “Well then what the hell were ya doin’?!” Victor took another gulp of beer and Logan acknowledged that Coral still had yet to take her deathly eyes off of him.
“Told me to kill a guy name Jod Cunner, I got ten credits fer it,” he grinned and Logan knew that Victor knew how much he’d gotten for his heist. He felt his biceps twitch and his claws eased their tips out.
“Damn Chuck,” he muttered, claws sliding from view again, something slithered around his leg; a snake he realized. Before he could reach down and crush its small skull, a hand with long nails untwined the snake from his leg, hands brushing against his thigh coyly. Coral took the deadly snake in hand; it flicked its tongue out before calmly settling around her shoulders.
“Sorry,” she purred, settling herself beside Victor again.
Logan looked up to see Scott; or what he usually called him, dick, at the top of a spiraling stairway that led to the second floor, he waved Logan over. Growling, Logan begrudgingly followed diskette still in his jeans pocket, he climbed the stairs, gothic women and teenagers pulling at him; he shrugged them off. The black lights in the club annoyed his vision; he was in a bad mood, so mostly everything living annoyed him at the moment. Scott waited for him at the top of the stairs, dark red tinted sunglasses over his eyes. Once Logan was beside him, he continued to walk through the throng of people.
Logan heard a distended moan, a choked one; he glanced inside a room, a flash of a man moving rhythmically atop a woman who had a python clutching at her throat. Scott opened a white door with the writing ‘Dissecting Room’ scrawled on the door in lavender paint. “Go in, Charles wants to see you.” He coughed before leaving hastily. Logan couldn’t say as to blame the di - guy. The Dissecting Room wasn’t one of his favorites either.
A woman, dressed in a scandalously clothed nurse’s black colored outfit with red checkered garter belts passed him, dragged an unconscious youth, a boy of maybe fourteen, along by a leash. She smiled at him, a nose stud in her right nostril and about a dozen small earrings in each ear. She had a scalpel in one hand he noticed, then shuddered slightly.
He continued walking, metal stretchers holding up writhing men and women, some screaming in pain and ecstasy, others, desperate to get away. A tall woman with dark mocha colored hair bent over another girl, razor drawing circles and delicate patterns over her flesh, over her stomach and chest she gently drew pretty patterns. The younger girl, only sixteen maybe, was crying and panting. Her eyes rolled over to Logan, eyes pleading.
Logan turned and told himself not to look over his shoulder when he heard a sudden shriek. The door at the end off the black lighted hallway seemed to beckon him to move quicker.
He grunted when a scared boy ran into him, torso bleeding slightly, eyes wide with fright before darting off.
Damn Dissecting Room.
He opened the door at the end of the hallway, he smelt a drowsing drug; it smelt like gasoline and charcoal combined. Stepping inside one of the many rooms called ‘Incense Room’ was like stepping into a whole new type of sixties, pale, calm colors, calming drugs and sweet guitar music. Figures a nice place would be next to the Dissecting Room. A woman walked up to him, clad with bell bottoms with bells and the cuffs and a psychedelic spiral colored shirt, holding up a bottle of Potcheen to him. He took it, nodding to her and noting that she smelled of strong weed. She smiled sweetly before wandering off with a light sway in her steps. He remembered her name; Sandy Wuthersith made the best damn burger and fries anyone could.
Popping the cap open to the bottle of whiskey, he chugged it down, not his favorite Canadian beer, but hell, it was a damn strong Irish alcohol. Walking to the end of the room and taking a left to another hallway, there stood two broad doors, walking in, he saw a bald headed man in a wheelchair sorting through paperwork. “Hello Logan, nice seeing you again,” he said without even looking up, Logan sat at the chair and the door closed abruptly. It seemed that the friendly greeting only set Logan off.
Logan growled none too nicely and stood up, fist slamming onto the lacquered oak table, causing a system of large cracks and pieces chipping off. “Why the flamin’ hell did Creed get ten credits for killin’ one lousy run-down bastard when I had ta go through five stories worth o’ soldiers ta get tha damn disk?!” he snarled, long canines snapping at the air; he could feel the tips of the adamantium claws slid out.
Charles smiled warmly before looking back down at the paperwork, “Is the disk with you now, Wolverine?” Logan snarled before tossing the diskette to Charles. “Much obliged,” the tone was dry, “Now. About those credits…” Logan hissed and spat at that. “Wolverine, I’d prefer not to have to quiet you myself.” Logan became silent, though he was still smoldering. “The reason Victor got more credits was because he didn’t try to kill Mystique, so any let over credits that I had subtracted from your original amount-” Logan cut him off.
“And what the hell did the subtract-ns count fer?” he growled. Charles tipped his head.
“Those counted for, not participating on teamwork with Scott, distracting Jean,” Charles sent a mild glare Logan’s way, “And nearly killing Mystique a third time this week. I thought I was quite generous and fair.” He brought his hands together and rested his chin on them, “Besides, I have a new assignment for you.” Logan raised a thick brow at that.
“Yea? What’s it about?” he snorted suddenly when the scent of Mystique, smelling of mountain water and nothing else came in.
Her blue skin with slight scales rippled and she became a long haired red head with dark brown eyes, a stack of folders in her arms, “Magneto sent these,” the whisper sounded like the death warning from a cobra. Logan naturally felt his claws try to come out; the scent of Mystique was discerning, couldn’t tell whether she trusted you or wanted to kill you.
His nostrils flared as he kept himself in check, he didn’t want to spear the shape shifter in front of the professor and lose more credits. Her glowing eyes turned sharply on him, winking and licking her lips, that was one thing she and Magneto had in common. The art of manipulation. Granted they were both different sorts of manipulation, hers being sexual while his was more for greed. She handed the stack to Charles who tipped his head and gave Mystique the diskette Logan had retrieved.
“Logan, there’s a thief, professional of the likes, I’d like you to convince her, without the need for violence, to join the X-Men,” Charles reached across the desk to retrieve a packet, “Give her this.”
Logan grabbed the packet quickly, so quickly it would be considered immediately rude, “The hell ‘r these fer?” Charles said nothing but straightened the stacks of papers.
“An invitation to the X-Men league-”
“Ya mean a bribe?” Logan cut in, steel eyes glinting in the harsh sunlight, pupils constricted to let less light in and not damage his eyes. Charles chuckled at Wolverine’s choice of impeccably correct wording.
“Yes, in these circumstances, this would be considered a bribe,” he folded his hands together again and leaned forward, “Her name is Ororo Munroe; her codename is Storm. She too, is mutant, but with the capability to conduct or conjure lightning, thunderstorms, fog, high winds, hurricanes, and possibly a few tsunamis,” Logan snorted.
Charles went on, “At this moment, she’s believed to be hiding out in Nevada, Las Vegas with stolen blue Jaguar, and approximately five thousand dollars of stolen bills. Wolverine only snorted and grunted this time. “For this single assignment; fifty credits for giving her the packet and bonus seventy five credits if she’s recruited successfully.” Charles smiled when he saw Wolverine grin in a sort of feral way. “But, of course, if you refuse, I could always give the assignment to Scott or Victor…” Charles knew he didn’t need to continue.
“Chuck, I’m gonna need a bike,” Logan grunted. Charles indicated that Angevin; a high strung French mechanic with her infamous temper that cause her to throw wrenches at people, (especially her clients) would give him the key to any bike that was available. He liked Angevin, mostly because she didn’t like Scott or Victor and because she didn’t take crap form anyone. But that didn’t mean liking her stop her from throwing more than a few wrenches at his crotch considering it wouldn’t really hurt if it was aimed at his adamantium skull.
Wolverine grunted before opening and closing the door behind him, packet in hand, taking a right, he walked to an elevator and took to the bottom floor; the garage. Wolverine opened the file, the one that Charles said had contained her physical appearance, age, nationality and anything else they could scrounge up on the mutant thief.
The report wasn’t the best, then again, people probably didn’t get to know many Egyptian, white haired, blue eyed, storm conducting and thieving women.
Name: Ororo Munroe, Storm, Windrider
Nationality: Egyptian, possibly other parts of Africa
Physical Appearance: White hair, Blue eyes, Light brown skin tone
Occupation: Car hijacking, stealing art, pottery, jewelry, petty thievery, etc
Accomplice/Acquaintance/Partner: Remy Lebeau, Gambit
Helluva report, Wolverine snorted. ‘This Gambit guy…sounds kinda fam’ilar…’ the thought processed through his head before the elevator doors opened with a hiss to reveal Angevin in her mechanic uniform cussing and partially foaming at the mouth as she looked at the smashed Red Viper Scott had earlier. The front end was smashed into a thin neck, the tires (plated with a type of clear, flexible metal cover Hank had concocted for the mechanic) were bent and the air was slowly shushing out of them, the window shield with Angevin’s specially designed bullet proof and temperature resistant was smashed to oblivion and the roof had collapsed in.
“…Goddamn mother-fuckin’, ass rapin’ hella son of a bitch!” she snarled, kicking a tire and the rest of the air deflated from it. Her lower half, composed of long, wolf-like legs, back like a canines with gigantic paws with black nails was slowly melting to reveal humanoid legs, minus the pointy toe nails. The wolfish tail however swished and the ram horns on the sides of her head didn’t disappear either.
Logan didn’t even blink at the colorful language the French girl uttered, “’Ey, Vin, I ta use a bike.”
Angevin turned on him, white foam forming at the corner of her mouth, blonde hair askew and black obsidian eyes depthless, reaching to a wall covered with keys of different numbers and letters, she threw him a key, labeled S6. “Take Scott’s.” The answer was short and her breath was growly from her anger and utmost irritation. Wolverine tipped his head and smirked when Angevin began wailing and a loud crash of glass sounded out before it was quiet again. The girl had too many mood swings everyone was sure she’d break into a high fever then slip into a coma.
Scott’s bike; built for speed and made of hardened metal and a seat of high class leather, it was custom made. Wolverine grinned, Scoot didn’t even take this hog out for a little courtesy spin every once in a while. Too damn bad for ol’ One Eye…
Wolverine ran his hands across the handle bars, over the seat, oh yeah; he was gonna like this mission.
B/S note (yeah, I know, sounds weird): Credits meaning points for a certain vacation you’d take or steps closer to being a team leader.