Chapter Text
It’s cold outside, even for this time of year, and the rather gray-looking clouds in the sky don’t do much to lift anyone’s spirits. With every turn of the road, the light seems to dim even further, until at some point you start to wonder if you’re slowly going blind or if the weather just likes to be a jerk. At least, thankfully, the road is mostly clear of snow.
‘That’s something at least.’
Rogue thinks that being constantly jolted by the groaning truck would probably drive her completely crazy. She just has to look out into the nothingness to feel like everything's turning against her. She’s lucky if she sees a truck drive by every now and then, or at least one of those huge pickup trucks. Apparently, no one lives here. Or — as Rogue would say — they’re in a godforsaken hole.
She pulls her gloves up a little higher and wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. This damn truck doesn’t even have heat. Well, what did she expect, at that price? She’s actually more surprised she hasn’t been kidnapped yet. Oh well, she shouldn’t think so badly of the driver — after all, he’s taking her to the next town for only fifty bucks.
Still. Cold weather is pretty much the last thing that can lift her spirits. But as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers.
With a jolt, the truck comes to a stop at the edge of a small group of trees. Rogue jolts awake from the slumber she’d almost been able to fall into and grumbles. Even she can drive better — and she doesn’t even have a driver’s license.
Those thoughts vanish just as quickly as they came, though, when the driver flings open the passenger door and announces that they’ve arrived.
‘He must have made a mistake.’
Rogue reluctantly gets out and lands on hard winter ground. In front of her are a few plain buildings, probably warehouses or something like that.
“I thought you were taking me all the way to Laughlin City.” She looks at the driver — she’s forgotten his name, probably Mike or something like that — through narrowed eyes.
“This is Laughlin City,” he replies with a shrug and strides purposefully toward a bar down the street.
Great. So much for that. Better get inside where it’s warm — she doesn’t want to get frostbite. Maybe she’ll find something useful in that flat building that looks like a dive bar. People, money, stuff like that.
She pulls her hood over her head and makes her way in.
Inside, it smells of tobacco smoke, alcohol, and wet dog. If it weren’t for one of the roaring guests here and there wearing a neon-colored baseball cap, she’d almost think she was in a tavern straight out of the Middle Ages. Not only does it look that way, but the people are acting like uncivilized animals, too. No offense to animals.
She walks further inside, past drunken truck drivers and hooded figures, until she sees a sort of arena in the middle of the main room.
‘Must be some kind of boxing club…’
In the ring, a tall man with a hairstyle that takes some getting used to is leaning against the ring’s fence. Apparently, a new round is just about to begin.
Rogue moves closer, curious. The yelling and cheering people around her don’t seem to notice her at all. All the better.
She looks around discreetly and observes the excited crowd. Apparently, wrestling matches are the only form of entertainment people have in this town. To her left, a few drunks are sitting on a row of benches. A little off to the side, a thin hooded figure has curled up in the corner. Probably another drunk.
In front of her, someone is shaking the ring’s fence.
“Whatever you do… don’t hit him in the balls,” a bulky man with an unkempt beard whispers to a new opponent. “He takes that personally.”
From the shouts of the spectators, Rogue knows that the newcomer is now facing off against ‘Wolverine.’ What a weird name. No one would ever voluntarily call themselves that, except maybe an edgy teenager. Although, ‘Rogue’ probably shouln’t complain too much.
The bell rings, and after just the first two punches from the bald fighter, Rogue can already tell the match is going to end ugly. The newcomer seems to be completely ignoring the referee’s warning and immediately aiming for the crown jewels.
At what follows next, Rogue can only wince and close her eyes.
After the last fight ended in Wolverine’s favor yet again, Rogue sits down at the bar — right in front of the tip jar. The grumpy bartender places a glass of water in front of her for the second time before pushing the jar out of her reach with a knowing look.
‘Would’ve been too good to be true.’
To be honest, she’s surprised they haven’t kicked her out yet. She barely looks like an adult. But maybe the people around here aren’t as heartless as northerners are said to be, and they just don’t want to let her freeze to death outside.
The barstool next to her is pushed back with a squeak, and the hooded figure from the corner sits down beside her. Rogue leans away slightly and rolls her eyes. Of course, some pervert has to sit right next to her of all places, even though the rest of the bar is empty.
‘Asshole.’
A man’s voice calls over the bartender, who’s in the middle of locking the tip jar in a safe under the counter. Paranoid much.
“A cider and a Coke.”
The bartender grumbles briefly but fetches the drinks and sets them down in front of the guest, who takes a sip of the cider and then pushes the Coke toward Rogue. She looks up, surprised.
Normally, she’d wonder if they’d slipped some knockout drops into it, but that isn’t the case now — unless the bartender is buddies with Mr. Cloak. Oh, whatever. This is free sugar, and Rogue isn’t gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Thanks.” She can always regret it later.
The hooded man turns his head slightly in her direction, revealing long hair. Huh. Must be a hippie. And he actually has the guts to set foot in a bar.
“Long road ahead?” he asks. Rogue can’t tell if he’s up to something or just curious. Damn it, she’s usually smarter than this.
“Mhm.”
“Looks like your driver’s already taken off.”
Rogue turns toward the snow-covered window, but can’t tell through the storm whether the truck is still gathering rust outside.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Mhm.”
Silence. Further back in the bar, there seems to be one last brawl going on. How idyllic. The wrestler from earlier, Wolverine, sits down next to the stranger.
“I’ll have a beer.”
Great, so now both guys are cozying up in her corner.
As if on cue, two guys come out of the restroom and stride straight toward them. Rogue would almost rather focus on the bigoted ramblings about mutants on TV.
The bald guy is the same one from the ring, and now he’s tapping Wolverine on the shoulder.
“You owe me some money.” God, he’s got some nerve.
Wolverine ignores the guy, but the man who bought her the Coke turns around and leans his elbows against the bar.
Immediately, the bald guy’s face contorts with rage.
“You fuckin’ bastard- You said his balls were his weak spot!”
Despite the tense atmosphere, Rogue has to stifle a giggle, and even one corner of Wolverine’s mouth twitches upward.
“You must have misunderstood me. I said he probably doesn’t have any balls.”
Wolverine jerks his head to the side and takes his cigar out of his mouth.
“Excuse me?”
Oh oh. Dangerous territory.
The hooded man lifts his head and looks the bald guy straight in the eye. Whatever he sees seems to scare him, because he takes a step back and, after a single dismissive huff, he and his buddy make a quick exit.
The hooded guy turns back around and finishes his cider. Then he pulls a stack of cash from his cloak and throws it down on the table in front of Rogue. Rogue can only stare in disbelief. Does he think she’s some kind of—?
“I’m sure you don’t mind if I give her my winnings from your victory?” he asks, glancing sideways at Wolverine. Wolverine just chuckles briefly and shakes his head.
“Damn scammers.”
The hooded man snorts and then looks up at the TV, where the news is still playing.
“Wait a few more years, and anyone whose parents were criminals will get the death penalty. It always starts small. People are good at stirring up fear — especially against one another.”
He stands up and hands the bartender — who’s now in a much better mood — a wad of cash for the drinks.
“I know someone, Mary. She’s survived incredible things and has abilities that only come with suffering. If she didn’t have such a supportive family, she’d probably have wondered if there was something wrong with her. She can hurt people if she wants to.”
He looks at Rogue. She thinks she sees a warm gaze from beneath his hood.
“But anyone can do that. I think with practice, you can solve just about any problem.”
The man salutes and leaves the bar. A handkerchief falls out of his cloak.
Wolverine bends down and tosses the handkerchief to Rogue.
“Here. From your ‘benefactor,’” he says with a smirk.
Rogue picks it up and runs her fingers over it.
Is there really a way to control her curse? Maybe even reverse the coma?
She looks at the cloth and wonders.
C. H.