Chapter 7
The man was short and compact, a half a head shorter than average and wiry rather then sturdy despite his broad shoulders. His skin was naturally pale but long since burned nut brown by sun and time, and he had a squashed, mean face that put one in mind of a fox, a sloping forehead and a broken nose, and plenty of attitude, which, along with his natural roughness, gave him looks that were a real hit with many wilder ladies. His hair in particular was distinctive, big and tall on the sides coming up to brush points in a devilish manner, and he favoured a prominent pair of side-burns that grew in a wiry, course thicket along both sides of his face. He wore a pare of faded jeans, a leather coat, and old well-broken in cowboy boots. A throwback from the look of him, like a neanderthal that had against all probability survived and thrived in the twenty first century. The motorbike out the front was his, one of them at least. This was that sort of place.
The 'Crocodile Bar and Grill' was one of seven commercial buildings in the town, though that might be too strong a word for a cluster of prefabricated, identical terrace houses, a small lumbermill that pulped wood, and an oil refinery. Their certainly wasn't much in the way of community or society beyond a certain working-class solidarity and shared occupation. If you wanted to work, you could find it here, but there were little in the way of luxury, it was as far on the outskirts of civilisation as anywhere in this hemisphere. Which is why he was visiting. He preferred to live away from humanity, though he had been having dreams of Japan, and felt a strange ache that told him to go back to one of the few homes he'd known in a life that had, in many ways, been far too long. His life had been ugly, brutal and unending, but before he joined the X-men most of his happiest memories had been in Japan. Maybe, when he was ready to be a person again, he would go back, but for now he just wanted to be alone, and this was a good place to do that.
Logan had always been a wild, natural personality that liked women and to gamble, drink, smoke and fight. But in spite of that, and seemingly in contrast, he aspired to a dignity and high degree of honour, derived from his own interpretation of the samurai code of Bushido. While in part a brutal, ruthless fighter, Wolverine had mellowed somewhat over the years. He had made a definite effort to subdue the 'beast' side of his mind, although he still found it in him when he called on it. This conflict all added up to a certain degree of self-loathing, due to his past and perceived value as a killer, which had really been letting him have it lately. He was a loner, through and through. Being on his own was the thing he'd needed.
Felicia wasn't doing so well, in their shared self-imposed exile. She was a city girl, born and bred, and while at first life in the wilderness had interested her due to the sheer novelty value, she was a girl who liked her creature comforts, and was beginning to get miserable. What she wanted and what he wanted were very different, and while he was dangerous enough to keep her addiction to living on the edge under control, she wasn't happy on the edge of civilisation, where there were no clubs, no ready avenues of socialisation, nothing to steal or flirt with, and the VIP treatment was running water and a roof over your head, and she was more or less completely dependent on him for everything. As a result she was beginning to get snappish and withdrawn, and he as beginning to fear that he was in the midst of yet another relationship that wasn't going to work out.
He still wasn't altogether sure what attracted him to her. Well, aside from the obvious. He cared for her, and they had fun together. Her enthusiasm and carefree spirit were appealing to him, as was the fact that she was independent enough to take care of herself, and the fact that such a ravishingly beautiful woman and fantastic in the sack was more than contributing as well, but the two of them fitted together badly, and were too different in their wants to keep it up for long. An amicable split might be best. Don't bring love into it, not after all you've been through, just accept that you're being selfish, and only holding onto her because she's the only person that you have left, and you don't want to be alone.
Let the girl go, and you got plenty more time to feel sorry for yourself before you finally get a life, and when you do crave company (like you do now, like you do every few months) you can show up here, to drink, and to feel like a stranger.
But he wasn't, not really. Alone in a crowd, he still could tell more about these people, about their lives and their habits than all but their closest acquaintances. You could tell a lot about a man by their scent, if your senses were as advanced as Wolverines. His nose was so sensitive he could track a trail a week dead trail under fresh fallen snow, if he gave it his best - when he was in built environment he had to keep a cheroot lit non-stop, or it felt as though his nose was getting pummeled by twenty million scents, and that was no lie. But sometimes finding a faint trail was easier then distinguishing specifics from a multitude. Humans were always a cacophony on their own, each one detailing their past as surely as any tell. Some were always present, usually soap, stale sweat, and mint, along with the distinctive smell of humanity, all mixed together with the other lingering odours that clung to them, each one a reminder of some part of their life. And beneath that, there was where they were from and who they were. Experiences and feelings had their own distinctive odours. The man pouring his drinks, for example, had a scent of good, oiled hide.
Almost everyone else stank of fire ash and flint, bone dust and chemicals and mineral dust. They worked on the refinery, turning crude oil into gasoline, and it had left it's mark on them, even if they didn't know it. Others smelled of resin sap and mould, lumberjacks and saw-mill workers. And a few others, of hard, good steel. There were fifty in the bar, it being the only source of entertainment in a town of six hundred. And he could tell you everything about them, where they'd been, what they did, what they were trying to hide, whether they were nervous or happy or scared out of their minds, and where they'd come from, just with a single sniff.
He sniffed again as the door opened and a blast of cold hair hit his back. Now, there were two more scents mingling in the air, one who stank of machine oil and blood, the other like stale decay, of a sickness that he recognised as cancer, the disease that rots. The latter was so overwhelming even the ordinary people could sense it. Wolverine knew that scent. Only one man was walking around smelling like that, anyone else would be long dead.
"Not you." He groaned, not turning around. Only one man had cancer at that advanced a state and was still walking, unwelcome wherever he went. The red-headed stepchild of the superhero world.
"Hello, Hugh Jackman! It sure is nice of you to cameo in my movie that is about me." Deadpool said, prompting Wolverine to groan again. He didn't want to deal with this. Not now. Not ever. "And incidentally, it was ten times better then any of yours! The cast has great chemistry, the sets are really well done, and the girl I got to make it with was -"
"Lets get on with it." The voice was cold and rigid. He didn't recognise it. And he knew almost everyone in the game. "I've been driving fourteen hours without a break, so I want to skip ahead to the fight. So reign in the banter."
"Rightyo, Willy." Wolverine looked up. He'd just realised who the other was, the one who smelled like the Taskmaster. It made as much sense as anything. The two had a long shared history, and he'd been going through a lot of that lately. He'd wondered when he'd get around to this.
"Don't call me that." Slade Wilson said.
"Bro? Slade?"
"Not acceptable. We're working."
"You're not the police of me! Anyway, Deathstroke sounds so nineties." Deadpool whined. "I'm not even going to comment on 'The Terminator'. Former Governor of California, you ain't." There was a smooth sound of oiled steel scraping lightly against on oiled steel, and suddenly Deadpool was focused and on the job and all business. "Anyway, attention all random people in this scene! We are dangerous lunatics who are, needless to say, out of our minds! Anyone not out of this place by the time I draw my weapons and start firing them indiscriminately will get killed to show just how dangerous I am, most likely in a gratuitous and gory fashion to attempt to wring emotion from a jaded audience, and display just how awesome I am without losing any valuable characters who sell comics. You have until the pre-fight banter comes to an end to get out of here. Over to you, brother. Do something cool."
This was not Slade's preferred style at all. He had to take a prisoner, Wolverine would take time and effort to kill, but he would have preferred to take his target out from half a mile back with a dark rifle, then move in. Failing that, if contact was absolutely necessary, a series of thumb jabs to the nerve cluster at the base of the neck would be his chosen modus operandi. Quiet as a whisper. To Slade, the ideal fight was one that your opponent didn't even know about, although he rarely got to do that.
But that wouldn't do any good against a regenerator. He'd get back up before you'd even finished. Even something like a high-powered explosive detonated at close range would only slow him down. The only way to do it was to kill him and keep him dead, overwhelm him before his abilities could bring him back, then restrain him in such a way he couldn't get back out. Which meant getting in close and getting your hands dirty. And Slade could do that too, and had done time and time again. And in this instance, he was actually looking forward to it.
"Well that's just adorable." Wolverine said, turning to look at the two of them, as the rest of the patrons exited the premises. Police would be called, but their weren't any law enforcement in a tiny place like this. By the time they'd mobilised and actually arrived in a position to do something, both the Brothers Wilson and their target would be long gone, one way or another. "Family outing, is it?"
"Something like that." Slade replied, folding his arms across his broad chest. The mask was half black and half copper with a single eye, the costume all layers of leather and kevlar and chain-mail well-fitted so as not to inhibit movement, the arsenal considerable. He hadn't drawn any of his dozen weapons slung on his back and clipped to his belt, but one only had to glance at him to tell he was spoiling for a fight. This wasn't just a job. This was something that had been festering in him for more than four decades, ready to let out, all at once. And once he began striking, he wasn't going to be able to stop.
Which was just fine with Wolverine. That was the sort of fight he enjoyed. "I keep telling people. I'm the best there is at what I do." Wolverine boasted, the bravado hiding a keen gaze. Slade's movements were curt, their exactness reflecting his intensity and the precision of his methodology. He depended on knowing the steps ahead of time. Wolverine would have to see how he did with some improv. He grinned, showing his sharp canines, his claws sliding out with an audible snikt as he did, and even in the low light they gleamed. "Well lets see what you got, bub. Come at me."
Slade's face shifted beneath the mask. He took his hands out of his pockets like Bruce Lee, and smiled like Lee Van Cleef. "Thought you'd never ask."