*OOC -- The setup for this thread is based on the X-men: Endangered Species one-shot by Mike Carey.The Professor was sitting behind them
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Logan didn't bother to argue the point about the Fantomex mission any further. Yeah, Scott's marriage had been ending. And Logan had tried to get him out of his depression by getting him drunk, and then making him do the kind of work he was so goddamn good at. He'd thought that Scott might appreciate the effort - or at least want to try to help Logan like Logan had tried to help him. Logan had gone to that facility in search of his identity, after all. He'd needed backup. But Scott hadn't stopped bitching the whole time.
If there was one thing Logan should have learned at this point, it was that trying to help Scott Summers out of depression was a thankless, frustrating, and ultimately futile task.
Though at least this last time he'd gotten some kissing out of the deal. That wasn't likely to happen again, so maybe it was worth it.
"He's the Professor," Logan said, leaning his seat back and putting one foot up on the dash, for no real reason other than to be obnoxious. "'Course he knew. But I don't got a lot of faith in Chuck's judgment these days, and I don't think you do either. Which means we're gonna track down Shaw ourselves and find out what the hell he's after."
"There's really no point in asking the Professor," Scott agreed. He pulled the car onto the highway, glad that Logan was agreeing with him. "I don't know what we'll get out of Shaw, but it can't hurt to let him know we're paying attention. Plus, you know, a little brawling might be good for the soul right now."
Reaching over to turn up the radio, he flashed a grin at Logan and got eyeful of the soul of his mud-covered shoe, not to mention -- well, he was glad that Logan wouldn't be able to trace the path of his eyes behind his glasses. This new awareness of the other man's body wasn't a bad thing, but it did feel odd. So did wondering exactly when would be the right time to say, By the way, I told Emma what happened, and she said it's all right if you and I fool around a little. It wasn't just the kind of thing you could drop into a conversation. At times like this, Scott wished he had more experience dating people who didn't read minds.
He turned his eyes back to the road. "When we get home, you're cleaning that dashboard."
Logan grinned peevishly and spread his legs a little wider, smearing more mud on the dashboard in the process. "Yeah, you think so."
***
It didn't take long to get to the city, and before long they'd parked the car in a cheap lot and were approaching the Upper West Side entrance of the Hellfire Club.
Logan turned to Scott, expectant. "So what's the plan, bub? I'd suggest one of my own, but I'd be willing to bet you spent that whole ride thinking up some strategy. Wouldn't want to hurt your feelings or nothin'."
"Of course I have a plan," said Scott. "I always have a plan. "
He led the way up the tall marble steps to the club's main entrance, hearing Logan behind him and just a little to the left. They approached the doorman, a small unassuming type with an old-fashioned livery jacket, and glasses that looked like antiques. He appeared completely harmless, which meant he either had hidden powers, or that the real guard was elsewhere. Still, sometimes a direct approach was best.
"Hello, Michael," said Scott, reading the nametag. "I'm Mr. Summers, and this is Mr. Logan. We're going to see Sebastian Shaw, and if you try to stop us, my friend will kill you."
If a person could raise an eyebrow inwardly, Logan would have done it. This was Cyke's great plan?
Well, to be honest, Logan's wouldn't have been much different. So he might as well go along with the flow.
Logan stepped forward, grabbing the doorman by his bow tie and sliding his claws about an inch out of his knuckles. "I can give you six reasons why that ain't an idle threat."
The doorman quailed. "Bruno?" he called, voice quivering. "A little help here?"
Almost instantly, a much larger man with a squashed, mean-looking face, rolled-up sleeves, and inexplicably pink suspenders stepped into the doorway, hands hanging in fists at his sides. "What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?"
"We're here to see Sebastian," said Scott. He gestured toward Logan and the doorman. "Michael here seems to be under the mistaken impression we needed an appointment. I'm letting Wolverine handle this --" Scott tapped his glasses, "Because I don't want to bring out the heavy artillery. SHIELD's getting pretty tetchy about civilian property damage."
He could have changed into a visor before he got here -- he had one in his jacket, like always -- but he'd been up late watching Cary Grant movies and had a vague idea that getting by on charm instead of muscle was more impressive.
Bruno rolled his eyes. "Let 'em in, Mikey," he said. Logan dropped the doorman, and nobody really listened to the strangled protests that he had never actually tried to stop them. Scott figured anybody who took a job here ought to expect that kind of thing.
"Hard to find good help these days, hmm?" Scott said smugly.
"You might say that," Bruno agreed, just before he turned around and punched Scott squarely in the stomach. He ducked in time to miss a second blow to the jaw, but had to double over and catch his breath, as he heard Bruno say to Logan, "I wouldn't try anything cute, if I were you, Wolverine."
"Don't you know?" Logan said, retracting his barely-protruding claws with a short snakt. "Cute's my middle name." And he punched the guy across the jaw.
His jaw felt... hard. Too hard. Hard like Logan's own, with its metal-covered bones. As he watched, the skin moved over Bruno's face, shifting like putty back into position over what, if Logan wasn't mistaken, was definitely a set of gears.
The guard was a robot. Fantastic.
Scott was still recovering from Bruno's first punch, and Logan knew he had to keep the guard distracted for a little longer while Scott got his bearings. He decided to put his theory to the test and released his claws again, raising them up to slash across the man's arm. If he was really a robot, he could get himself repaired; if he wasn't, well, he had attacked first.
Bruno's arm fell off cleanly, emitting sparks as it went. Logan could see wires and circuitry poking out from where his elbow used to be.
Damn, Logan. . . Scott thought, though he didn't quite have the breath to form the words.
He switched his visor, quickly, for the glasses, and when he refocused, realized what Logan already had -- that Bruno was cybernetic. That made sense; with a shortage of mutants, Shaw would have to look elsewhere for muscle. Good news, bad news. On the one hand, robot armies were a bitch to fight; on the other, they were usually pretty stupid, and you could slice or blast away at them without feeling any guilt. . .
Which Scott did, directing a sharp optic blast at Bruno's head, using another to explode his remaining arm, then hitting the chest for good measure. You never knew where the nerve center on these things might be.
By the third blast, Scott was on his feet, trying to give Logan a smile that said his ribs were definitely not broken. This quickly turned into a wince, that said, okay, maybe, but hopefully just some minor ones. "Good move," he said. "Do you think there are more?" He tried to look hopeful. The original idea, after all, had been to relieve stress by kicking some ass, which didn't work as well if you were the ones being beat up.
"Indeed, there are many where those came from," boomed a voice from around the corner. "But when Emma contacted me to let me know you boys would be coming, she did make me promise to go easy on you."
As Shaw stepped into the hallway, all bows and ruffles as usual Logan found himself completely unsurprised, both by his appearance and by the revelation of his contact with Emma. Emma knew Shaw's thought patterns like the back of her hand; she would have known he was there just as well as Logan did. And of course she wouldn't want to get her hands dirty; that was, after all, Logan's job description.
The fact that she'd known Logan would take Scott with him to track down Shaw was slightly more surprising, but not overly so. It just meant that she thought Logan was predictable - which, on this particular front, he knew he was.
"Yeah, I'm sure my buddy here really appreciates how you went easy on his ribs," Logan muttered, crossing his arms. They couldn't fight Shaw, of course. A fleet of robots would appear before Logan could ever get close enough to cut him, and Scott's blasts would only power him up. This was a time for diplomacy - something that Logan, for his part, had never been all that good at.
"My ribs are fine," Scott gasped, mostly because he wanted it to be true. Last time he had done something to a rib had been in the raid on Benetech. He had refused to get it looked at until Emma had pointed out -- or rather demonstrated -- that certain activities were more or less impossible. After that, he'd taken a session with one of the institute's healers. Those weren't exactly wandering the streets of New York, and -- he now admitted to himself -- he'd been thinking about staying somewhere with Logan tonight. Summers, you're such a slut, he thought -- though it did take a moment to convince himself the voice in his head wasn't Emma's.
"I'm fine," he repeated, leaning against Logan just a little.
"Very well," Shaw said coldly. "Then you can cease to vandalize my very expensive cybernetics long enough to join me for a drink. In one of our more -- private rooms."
He turned on his heel and swept off ahead of them, not looking back to see if he would follow.
Scott shrugged at Logan. It was what they had come for.
As they walked up the stairs, Scott might have leaned on the shorter man's shoulder a little more than was strictly necessary.
Scott's weight was heavy on Logan's shoulder, but he found he didn't really mind. He'd carried heavier things, after all. For a second, he worried that this meant Scott was more seriously injured than he appeared, but Logan could smell something on him, something that smelled a little like... affection, mixed with lust. Like maybe his leaning was purposeful.
Well, that was interesting.
But Logan didn't have time to think about that, as, seconds later, they reached the top of the staircase and entered the room Shaw had mentioned. Shaw made a flippy gesturing motion with one hand, and they all sat down on velvet-covered chairs arranged around a polished wooden table.
"Let's cut to the chase," Logan said, leaning over the table, unwilling to wait for Shaw, or Scott, to speak. "What the flamin' hell were you doing at that kid's funeral?"
Sebastian raised his eyebrows, all innocence. "To pay my respects, naturally. As members of a dwindling species -- if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less -- et cetera, et cetera" He raised his hand, and gestured. A short man in a velvet coat emerged from the shadows. "Claude," said Shaw. "Do bring out some of the twenty-year armagnac that just came in? Nothing too good for our guests."
Claude approached, with a bottle, but pointedly avoided Logan's side of the table. "Ahh, yes," said Shaw. "Claude would like to make sure that you know he is not a robot. He seems to assume that this would buy him mercy at your hands -- or, rather, claws -- Mr. Logan, as he seems to believe you are a gentleman."
"Nobody's cutting anybody," Scott said tersely, with a glance at Logan to get an idea how true this was. As much as Scott hated to admit it, Shaw had been a perfect gentleman since they had arrived -- barring one robot punch, anyway, but they had sort of asked for it.
That said, Scott still wasn't at all sure he wanted to drink this man's brandy. As Claude pushed the glasses across the table toward them, Scott watched Logan for a cue. With his sense of smell, he could have an idea what was off. Scott had spent too many unpleasant hours in this place to risk waking up tied in a basement with some kind of helmet strapped over his eyes.
Logan leaned back in his chair, the picture of calm. He wasn't dumb enough to try slicing up anyone else, not when they were actually trying to get the info they'd come here for. He was pretty sure Scott knew that.
When the drinks came, Logan saw Scott's sideways glance, and he picked up his glass of brandy. Logan's metabolism processed drugs and poisons within seconds; if the liquor was tainted, Logan would feel the slight discomfort, but it would wash away immediately. He picked up his glass, sniffed for a second to see if he could detect anything that way (he couldn't) and took a long drink, kicking Scott under the table to make sure he didn't follow suit.
The liquid burned down his throat - it wasn't bad, really - and settled in the pit of his stomach. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then he felt it - a pinching in his intestines.
Shaw didn't intend to kill them with their drinks, but he did intend to make their lives somewhat uncomfortable. It was a strangely low-brow move for Shaw, but then again Shaw should have known that the drug wouldn't affect Logan. Either the man was getting sloppy, or he wasn't the one controlling the whole of this interaction. There was a good chance they were barking up the wrong tree.
"Thanks for the drink, bub," Logan said, setting his glass back down. "But I'll take my next one without the laxatives."
If there was one thing Logan should have learned at this point, it was that trying to help Scott Summers out of depression was a thankless, frustrating, and ultimately futile task.
Though at least this last time he'd gotten some kissing out of the deal. That wasn't likely to happen again, so maybe it was worth it.
"He's the Professor," Logan said, leaning his seat back and putting one foot up on the dash, for no real reason other than to be obnoxious. "'Course he knew. But I don't got a lot of faith in Chuck's judgment these days, and I don't think you do either. Which means we're gonna track down Shaw ourselves and find out what the hell he's after."
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Reaching over to turn up the radio, he flashed a grin at Logan and got eyeful of the soul of his mud-covered shoe, not to mention -- well, he was glad that Logan wouldn't be able to trace the path of his eyes behind his glasses. This new awareness of the other man's body wasn't a bad thing, but it did feel odd. So did wondering exactly when would be the right time to say, By the way, I told Emma what happened, and she said it's all right if you and I fool around a little. It wasn't just the kind of thing you could drop into a conversation. At times like this, Scott wished he had more experience dating people who didn't read minds.
He turned his eyes back to the road. "When we get home, you're cleaning that dashboard."
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***
It didn't take long to get to the city, and before long they'd parked the car in a cheap lot and were approaching the Upper West Side entrance of the Hellfire Club.
Logan turned to Scott, expectant. "So what's the plan, bub? I'd suggest one of my own, but I'd be willing to bet you spent that whole ride thinking up some strategy. Wouldn't want to hurt your feelings or nothin'."
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He led the way up the tall marble steps to the club's main entrance, hearing Logan behind him and just a little to the left. They approached the doorman, a small unassuming type with an old-fashioned livery jacket, and glasses that looked like antiques. He appeared completely harmless, which meant he either had hidden powers, or that the real guard was elsewhere. Still, sometimes a direct approach was best.
"Hello, Michael," said Scott, reading the nametag. "I'm Mr. Summers, and this is Mr. Logan. We're going to see Sebastian Shaw, and if you try to stop us, my friend will kill you."
Reply
Well, to be honest, Logan's wouldn't have been much different. So he might as well go along with the flow.
Logan stepped forward, grabbing the doorman by his bow tie and sliding his claws about an inch out of his knuckles. "I can give you six reasons why that ain't an idle threat."
The doorman quailed. "Bruno?" he called, voice quivering. "A little help here?"
Almost instantly, a much larger man with a squashed, mean-looking face, rolled-up sleeves, and inexplicably pink suspenders stepped into the doorway, hands hanging in fists at his sides. "What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?"
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He could have changed into a visor before he got here -- he had one in his jacket, like always -- but he'd been up late watching Cary Grant movies and had a vague idea that getting by on charm instead of muscle was more impressive.
Bruno rolled his eyes. "Let 'em in, Mikey," he said. Logan dropped the doorman, and nobody really listened to the strangled protests that he had never actually tried to stop them. Scott figured anybody who took a job here ought to expect that kind of thing.
"Hard to find good help these days, hmm?" Scott said smugly.
"You might say that," Bruno agreed, just before he turned around and punched Scott squarely in the stomach. He ducked in time to miss a second blow to the jaw, but had to double over and catch his breath, as he heard Bruno say to Logan, "I wouldn't try anything cute, if I were you, Wolverine."
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His jaw felt... hard. Too hard. Hard like Logan's own, with its metal-covered bones. As he watched, the skin moved over Bruno's face, shifting like putty back into position over what, if Logan wasn't mistaken, was definitely a set of gears.
The guard was a robot. Fantastic.
Scott was still recovering from Bruno's first punch, and Logan knew he had to keep the guard distracted for a little longer while Scott got his bearings. He decided to put his theory to the test and released his claws again, raising them up to slash across the man's arm. If he was really a robot, he could get himself repaired; if he wasn't, well, he had attacked first.
Bruno's arm fell off cleanly, emitting sparks as it went. Logan could see wires and circuitry poking out from where his elbow used to be.
Yep. Definitely a robot.
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He switched his visor, quickly, for the glasses, and when he refocused, realized what Logan already had -- that Bruno was cybernetic. That made sense; with a shortage of mutants, Shaw would have to look elsewhere for muscle. Good news, bad news. On the one hand, robot armies were a bitch to fight; on the other, they were usually pretty stupid, and you could slice or blast away at them without feeling any guilt. . .
Which Scott did, directing a sharp optic blast at Bruno's head, using another to explode his remaining arm, then hitting the chest for good measure. You never knew where the nerve center on these things might be.
By the third blast, Scott was on his feet, trying to give Logan a smile that said his ribs were definitely not broken. This quickly turned into a wince, that said, okay, maybe, but hopefully just some minor ones.
"Good move," he said. "Do you think there are more?" He tried to look hopeful. The original idea, after all, had been to relieve stress by kicking some ass, which didn't work as well if you were the ones being beat up.
"Indeed, there are many where those came from," boomed a voice from around the corner. "But when Emma contacted me to let me know you boys would be coming, she did make me promise to go easy on you."
Shaw. Scott gave Logan a look. Fucking great.
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The fact that she'd known Logan would take Scott with him to track down Shaw was slightly more surprising, but not overly so. It just meant that she thought Logan was predictable - which, on this particular front, he knew he was.
"Yeah, I'm sure my buddy here really appreciates how you went easy on his ribs," Logan muttered, crossing his arms. They couldn't fight Shaw, of course. A fleet of robots would appear before Logan could ever get close enough to cut him, and Scott's blasts would only power him up. This was a time for diplomacy - something that Logan, for his part, had never been all that good at.
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"I'm fine," he repeated, leaning against Logan just a little.
"Very well," Shaw said coldly. "Then you can cease to vandalize my very expensive cybernetics long enough to join me for a drink. In one of our more -- private rooms."
He turned on his heel and swept off ahead of them, not looking back to see if he would follow.
Scott shrugged at Logan. It was what they had come for.
As they walked up the stairs, Scott might have leaned on the shorter man's shoulder a little more than was strictly necessary.
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Well, that was interesting.
But Logan didn't have time to think about that, as, seconds later, they reached the top of the staircase and entered the room Shaw had mentioned. Shaw made a flippy gesturing motion with one hand, and they all sat down on velvet-covered chairs arranged around a polished wooden table.
"Let's cut to the chase," Logan said, leaning over the table, unwilling to wait for Shaw, or Scott, to speak. "What the flamin' hell were you doing at that kid's funeral?"
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Claude approached, with a bottle, but pointedly avoided Logan's side of the table. "Ahh, yes," said Shaw. "Claude would like to make sure that you know he is not a robot. He seems to assume that this would buy him mercy at your hands -- or, rather, claws -- Mr. Logan, as he seems to believe you are a gentleman."
"Nobody's cutting anybody," Scott said tersely, with a glance at Logan to get an idea how true this was. As much as Scott hated to admit it, Shaw had been a perfect gentleman since they had arrived -- barring one robot punch, anyway, but they had sort of asked for it.
That said, Scott still wasn't at all sure he wanted to drink this man's brandy. As Claude pushed the glasses across the table toward them, Scott watched Logan for a cue. With his sense of smell, he could have an idea what was off. Scott had spent too many unpleasant hours in this place to risk waking up tied in a basement with some kind of helmet strapped over his eyes.
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When the drinks came, Logan saw Scott's sideways glance, and he picked up his glass of brandy. Logan's metabolism processed drugs and poisons within seconds; if the liquor was tainted, Logan would feel the slight discomfort, but it would wash away immediately. He picked up his glass, sniffed for a second to see if he could detect anything that way (he couldn't) and took a long drink, kicking Scott under the table to make sure he didn't follow suit.
The liquid burned down his throat - it wasn't bad, really - and settled in the pit of his stomach. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then he felt it - a pinching in his intestines.
Shaw didn't intend to kill them with their drinks, but he did intend to make their lives somewhat uncomfortable. It was a strangely low-brow move for Shaw, but then again Shaw should have known that the drug wouldn't affect Logan. Either the man was getting sloppy, or he wasn't the one controlling the whole of this interaction. There was a good chance they were barking up the wrong tree.
"Thanks for the drink, bub," Logan said, setting his glass back down. "But I'll take my next one without the laxatives."
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