ErsatzEmpress
Half Pint
Bingelly
ChronicleMan
Fuzzybootz
Simple Unicycle
Sep
Heat
Nightwing95
IzurichBanner art image by Krysdecker
New York State
Definitely Not Queens
Out in the sticks there were the sort of places that never really shut. Not because they were always heaving like the most infamous of night clubs but just for the chance of anyone passing through a part of the country no one had any real reason to be in.
In Laura's defence that was exactly what she had been doing, passing through. She'd loosely been heading in the direction she was supposed to be, roaring through the countryside on the way to New York proper. The Ducati Diavel Cromo she had 'borrowed' from Logan a while back had always been a dream to ride and so she'd been in no real rush other than wanting to push the speed on her way down from the border. Ever since Logan and her had put a crashing stop to the latest (and hopefully last standing) Weapon X offshoot she'd been killing time while Logan focused on the set up for the new academy. While she'd spent plenty of time with the old man she'd not seen much of Canada, the land that had brought the world Wolverine.
A few months of crisp air, endless forest and rolling mountains had done her good. Perhaps she had inherited some of Logan's desire for isolation after all, for she hadn't found herself missing much in the way of company, beyond the small collection of frontiersmen and Athapaskan she'd shared a few campfires with. She'd felt far worse on the brief trip across the Great Lakes once she had finally quit the wild lands of the Canadian North West. The deep cold waters of Lake Ontario were one of the few environments she wasn't built to survive, just an endless cold waking grave were she to go overboard and sink on account of her mesh skeleton.
She'd been frantic once she was back on dry land in Rochester and had opened up the bike, far from taking a direct line to New York City she'd powered up and into the Appalachian mountains. Laura had spent some time on the trail, listening to old ghost stories from keen-eyed students and excited pensioners on their bucket list trip across the mountains. Older than the rings of Saturn, she had no doubt at least a few of them had to be true about those ancient peaks. Eventually though, if she was going to be on time, she had to carry on.
So, that's how she found herself at Roamin' Joe's. An establishment that half claimed to be a truckers' diner, but in reality was a dive bar on a trucking route. The kind of place that had sprung up when drinking and driving wasn't considered a crime but an acceptable way to deal with the boredom of such a life.
Plus they did an all-you-can-eat wings deal and she was very determined to prove that 'all' was her limit on that.
The claret red of her Doc Marten boots kicked the stand of the bike into place as she dismounted, helmet under one arm as she made her way to the bar itself, the gravel of the car park crunching under her tread. With a short black leather jacket, matching colour jeans, and a white European Tour AC/DC T-shirt tied into a crop top, she certainly hit a few wild child stereotypes as she pushed her way through doors that had once been automatic and into the establishment.
It would be generous to suggest there were half a dozen other patrons in the bar, depending on if you included an older man snoozing in a booth in the corner, so she sat at the bar with a generous bracket of empty stools on either side of her.
"Wings, please." She called out, pointing to the offer hanging from one corner of the bar. "What whiskey have you got?" This second question earned her a long look from the bedraggled man behind the bar. They shared the look for a moment before the man decided the business was worth more than pressing on the matter of her age.
"Just serve Jack." He rumbled in reply, which earned a scrunch of Laura's nose.
"Ugh, best hope the sauce on those wings is strong then."
Time passed, as it was want to do, wings were consumed along with a steadily increasing measure of Jack Daniels’ finest whiskey. The previously quiet bar, while it could hardly be described as busy, had livened up a bit with the benefit of live entertainment.
Live entertainment in the form of a young woman in the process of breaking whatever ludicrous record had been set before, no doubt by a significantly larger human being.
Where before she'd been sitting alone at the bar, Laura was by now nestled in one of the booths, accompanied by an assortment of individuals. A combination of those who had been passing through and decided to watch history in the making, and those called in by the barman, who she had presumed to be the eponymous Joe, as excitement had built up.
One wing left. The last wing on the last plate to cap it all off. Taking a moment to breathe, Laura pulled her teeth along the bone, pulling the ragingly spiced meat, before throwing up her hands in victory. There was an assorted and raucous cheer from her new trucker friends, who immediately took to taking photos with her, one would end up on the board no doubt for her efforts.
With a content sigh, she sat herself back down, just as another drink arrived for her, although not served by ‘Joe’ as a shorter man slid into the sear opposite her.
“I didn't think when I said ‘be in New York’ I had go specify the City and not wherever this damn place is.” The voice was a growl, but it was hardly done with malice, for all the judgment Logan attempted to put into the words, it was clear he was somewhat amused.
Laura attempted to immediately reply but the combination of a few too many drops of bad whiskey and a few too many (admittedly quite good) wings replaced her retort with an overfilled hiccup, the young woman raising a hand to signal a pause as Logan snorted a laugh at her predicament.
Eventually, she simply followed with, “Yeah but this seemed more fun at the time.”
“You even have to show em a fake ID?” Logan flicked one finger towards the now empty glass still held in Laura's hand. Despite downing drinks for the last hour, she barely felt a buzz and that was fading, the power of their shared healing factor generally more powerful than the rate a dive bar was willing to serve drinks to counteract it.
“I'm waging a war against tyranny in all its forms, like a drinking age of twenty-one, my people would never stand for it.” She mused with a grin, pushing the glass away and drumming her hands on the table.
“You can't drink in Canada yet either.”
“I was talking about Mexico.”
“You're a quarter Hispanic, you've never even been to the place.”
“Sure, but I feel very strongly about this issue.” She let out a sigh, sitting back up straight as the supercharged nature of her body was already easing the sensation of being too damn full. “So, you here on a collection call?”
“Kinda bad form if my kid doesn't even make the opening ceremony,” Logan grunted, trying and failing to seem like that sort of thing would ever bother him.
“Oh no…it's just opened and I'm already a legacy.” Laura half-wailed, a look of false horror on her features. “I can already feel the transatlantic accent taking route.”
“Shut up, pay your tab, and let's go.”
“Oh don't worry, you already did that.”
The rest of the journey went even faster, as was their nature to be competitive, the pair practically racing their way across the remainder of the state, as green mountains gave way to urban sprawl.
The gun of engines heralded the arrival of Wolverine past and present by a few moments, the pair of motorbikes swinging through the gate, the older Logan marginally in the lead as the bikes swung into place. A few terse competitive words bounced between them, before Laura swung herself off her bike. Logan hadn't made an issue of it, so she mostly presumed it was her's to keep for now.
As her genetic father made to vanish into the backdrop, ostensibly to aid with any further preparations but no doubt a means to avoid having to socialise with all the new arrivals at once’ Laura treaded her way over to where the great green form of the Professor was greeting the new arrivals.
“Sup, Hulk.” She called out with a friendly wave and flicked of her hand in a mock salute before her attention drifted around the new arrivals. She'd been part of a similar institution before, but issues among mutantkind had soured that experience. Perhaps a fresh start could lead to a new result.
“How do you do, fellow kids?” She spoke with a flash of a smirk, enough of her black matte-covered lips parting to reveal the flash of her sharpened canines in amusement.
New York State
Definitely Not Queens
Out in the sticks there were the sort of places that never really shut. Not because they were always heaving like the most infamous of night clubs but just for the chance of anyone passing through a part of the country no one had any real reason to be in.
In Laura's defence that was exactly what she had been doing, passing through. She'd loosely been heading in the direction she was supposed to be, roaring through the countryside on the way to New York proper. The Ducati Diavel Cromo she had 'borrowed' from Logan a while back had always been a dream to ride and so she'd been in no real rush other than wanting to push the speed on her way down from the border. Ever since Logan and her had put a crashing stop to the latest (and hopefully last standing) Weapon X offshoot she'd been killing time while Logan focused on the set up for the new academy. While she'd spent plenty of time with the old man she'd not seen much of Canada, the land that had brought the world Wolverine.
A few months of crisp air, endless forest and rolling mountains had done her good. Perhaps she had inherited some of Logan's desire for isolation after all, for she hadn't found herself missing much in the way of company, beyond the small collection of frontiersmen and Athapaskan she'd shared a few campfires with. She'd felt far worse on the brief trip across the Great Lakes once she had finally quit the wild lands of the Canadian North West. The deep cold waters of Lake Ontario were one of the few environments she wasn't built to survive, just an endless cold waking grave were she to go overboard and sink on account of her mesh skeleton.
She'd been frantic once she was back on dry land in Rochester and had opened up the bike, far from taking a direct line to New York City she'd powered up and into the Appalachian mountains. Laura had spent some time on the trail, listening to old ghost stories from keen-eyed students and excited pensioners on their bucket list trip across the mountains. Older than the rings of Saturn, she had no doubt at least a few of them had to be true about those ancient peaks. Eventually though, if she was going to be on time, she had to carry on.
So, that's how she found herself at Roamin' Joe's. An establishment that half claimed to be a truckers' diner, but in reality was a dive bar on a trucking route. The kind of place that had sprung up when drinking and driving wasn't considered a crime but an acceptable way to deal with the boredom of such a life.
Plus they did an all-you-can-eat wings deal and she was very determined to prove that 'all' was her limit on that.
The claret red of her Doc Marten boots kicked the stand of the bike into place as she dismounted, helmet under one arm as she made her way to the bar itself, the gravel of the car park crunching under her tread. With a short black leather jacket, matching colour jeans, and a white European Tour AC/DC T-shirt tied into a crop top, she certainly hit a few wild child stereotypes as she pushed her way through doors that had once been automatic and into the establishment.
It would be generous to suggest there were half a dozen other patrons in the bar, depending on if you included an older man snoozing in a booth in the corner, so she sat at the bar with a generous bracket of empty stools on either side of her.
"Wings, please." She called out, pointing to the offer hanging from one corner of the bar. "What whiskey have you got?" This second question earned her a long look from the bedraggled man behind the bar. They shared the look for a moment before the man decided the business was worth more than pressing on the matter of her age.
"Just serve Jack." He rumbled in reply, which earned a scrunch of Laura's nose.
"Ugh, best hope the sauce on those wings is strong then."
Time passed, as it was want to do, wings were consumed along with a steadily increasing measure of Jack Daniels’ finest whiskey. The previously quiet bar, while it could hardly be described as busy, had livened up a bit with the benefit of live entertainment.
Live entertainment in the form of a young woman in the process of breaking whatever ludicrous record had been set before, no doubt by a significantly larger human being.
Where before she'd been sitting alone at the bar, Laura was by now nestled in one of the booths, accompanied by an assortment of individuals. A combination of those who had been passing through and decided to watch history in the making, and those called in by the barman, who she had presumed to be the eponymous Joe, as excitement had built up.
One wing left. The last wing on the last plate to cap it all off. Taking a moment to breathe, Laura pulled her teeth along the bone, pulling the ragingly spiced meat, before throwing up her hands in victory. There was an assorted and raucous cheer from her new trucker friends, who immediately took to taking photos with her, one would end up on the board no doubt for her efforts.
With a content sigh, she sat herself back down, just as another drink arrived for her, although not served by ‘Joe’ as a shorter man slid into the sear opposite her.
“I didn't think when I said ‘be in New York’ I had go specify the City and not wherever this damn place is.” The voice was a growl, but it was hardly done with malice, for all the judgment Logan attempted to put into the words, it was clear he was somewhat amused.
Laura attempted to immediately reply but the combination of a few too many drops of bad whiskey and a few too many (admittedly quite good) wings replaced her retort with an overfilled hiccup, the young woman raising a hand to signal a pause as Logan snorted a laugh at her predicament.
Eventually, she simply followed with, “Yeah but this seemed more fun at the time.”
“You even have to show em a fake ID?” Logan flicked one finger towards the now empty glass still held in Laura's hand. Despite downing drinks for the last hour, she barely felt a buzz and that was fading, the power of their shared healing factor generally more powerful than the rate a dive bar was willing to serve drinks to counteract it.
“I'm waging a war against tyranny in all its forms, like a drinking age of twenty-one, my people would never stand for it.” She mused with a grin, pushing the glass away and drumming her hands on the table.
“You can't drink in Canada yet either.”
“I was talking about Mexico.”
“You're a quarter Hispanic, you've never even been to the place.”
“Sure, but I feel very strongly about this issue.” She let out a sigh, sitting back up straight as the supercharged nature of her body was already easing the sensation of being too damn full. “So, you here on a collection call?”
“Kinda bad form if my kid doesn't even make the opening ceremony,” Logan grunted, trying and failing to seem like that sort of thing would ever bother him.
“Oh no…it's just opened and I'm already a legacy.” Laura half-wailed, a look of false horror on her features. “I can already feel the transatlantic accent taking route.”
“Shut up, pay your tab, and let's go.”
“Oh don't worry, you already did that.”
The rest of the journey went even faster, as was their nature to be competitive, the pair practically racing their way across the remainder of the state, as green mountains gave way to urban sprawl.
The gun of engines heralded the arrival of Wolverine past and present by a few moments, the pair of motorbikes swinging through the gate, the older Logan marginally in the lead as the bikes swung into place. A few terse competitive words bounced between them, before Laura swung herself off her bike. Logan hadn't made an issue of it, so she mostly presumed it was her's to keep for now.
As her genetic father made to vanish into the backdrop, ostensibly to aid with any further preparations but no doubt a means to avoid having to socialise with all the new arrivals at once’ Laura treaded her way over to where the great green form of the Professor was greeting the new arrivals.
“Sup, Hulk.” She called out with a friendly wave and flicked of her hand in a mock salute before her attention drifted around the new arrivals. She'd been part of a similar institution before, but issues among mutantkind had soured that experience. Perhaps a fresh start could lead to a new result.
“How do you do, fellow kids?” She spoke with a flash of a smirk, enough of her black matte-covered lips parting to reveal the flash of her sharpened canines in amusement.
