Choose Wisely

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Brief Title:
Choose Wisely

Logan, X-23

Scene Runner/Watcher:

IC Date:
03/23/13 22:30


Logan hunts down X-23 - and is left with a choice.

Social or Plot:


It all begins with little bits and pieces. The first word Logan had on her was some sightings by people, eye witness accounts, and troublesome things they were. Then there were the crimes connected, a re-opening of cases that held a particular M.O. which led a few contacts down their way to speak to the elder X-Man himself. It wasn't much, but it was enough to motivate the man.
Into the city he went, cutting himself off from his team and the individuals he most considers family. His pursuit was of another facet of family the likes of which most can't even wrap their minds around. An individual grown from his DNA but not in the traditional sense.
Once he was in the city it didn't take much. A few contacts, some strings pulled, some arms twisted, all eventually led to a few names of people who wound up dead and then others who might just be in the line of fire. It's while tracking one of them that he finally turns up pay dirt.
When he first catches her scent, it is literally her scent that he finds. Just a light thing on the wind in the heart of Chinatown. Mixed amongst the melange of odours that this particular neighborhood holds was her scent. It was barely there, but it was enough to make him key up to fully focus on the task at hand.
As he drew closer it took almost every trick of the craft that he had to maintain a position to hold her in view without being spotted. After all, the only edge he has on her is experience.

And experience is a very thin edge to rely on when it comes to her.
She's here. More specifically, she's in an abandoned tea house, on the second floor. The stairs are rickety, the building condemned - and it's the perfect place for her to find a certain species of rat that populates the area. Her scent is faint, masked by the other aromas of the area, but it's not enough. And his scent isn't strong enough, not yet, for her to get any grip on. Her nose is full of the local smells - and, specifically, the man in front of her, who is at 'wetting himself' levels of terror. To his credit, it's taken a little while to get him there - his nose is broken, one of his wrists is sprained, and he'll have some amazing bruises in short order. In the process, X-23 has herded him into a dubious corner in the equally dubious structure, with one claw popped out and nothing else. She wears no balaclava, no uniform, nothing at all to hide her identity from the quivering mass of Cantonese-babbling local. She listens. She waits.
And when he doesn't come close to answering the question she asked a minute ago, she asks it again - and advances a single step with every word, gradually eating the distance between them.
"Where. Is. He." The question ceases to be a question and is turned into a partial demand - all uttered in a cold, flat voice. The voice of death.
If he's lucky.

A voice lifts, even as a few of the remaining locals in the tea house rush past the man now standing in that small stairwell. He lets them go, his attention focused on the girl and the man at her mercy. "Better tell her what she wants ta know, fella."
It's that rough gravelly voice, the one she knows and has heard in the past as well as on countless numbers of recordings that she's been shown. The original Weapon X, the first one where it all started. He's standing there, silhouetted by the faint gleam of light from the dangling lightbulb down that stairwell. A brown leather jacket covers him, blue jeans, white sleeveless t-shirt, and a brown wide-brim cowboy hat with a single feather at the fore.
"And then when you two're done, we got words ta have. She and I."

She's in black. Black tanktop. Black pants. Black boots. Her hair is a savage veil that does nothing to hide coldly glittering and nigh-feral green eyes. X-23 doesn't look over her shoulder. She doesn't need to. The smell of him is enough to tell her all she needs to know. His location is gleaned easily based on his voice, the creak of wood, the placement of his footsteps.
He's a wiser man than most to realize just what her flavor of mercy is.
"I don't -know-," the man croaks out and it's the wrong answer. Her lips flatten into a thin line.
"Have it your way."
He doesn't have a chance to scream. She steps in and pierces his throat, then removes her blade to let him bleed out on the floor. He gurgles and clutches at the ruin left behind, while the young woman half-turns to finally regard her genetic father from the corner of an eye.
"Speak, if you want to speak." It's a small concession to offer him. A professional courtesy - and nothing else.

As quick as that, blades slice from between his knuckles, locking into place with that trademark sound of metal on metal. He rests his hands at his sides, open and ready as if preventing her flight should she try to rush past him. His brow furrows with the first tough of anger or rage. If he needed any proof that she had regressed, well there it rests upon the floor as blood fills its lungs.
There's a short sharp twist of his neck to the side, a metallic pop sounding as he almost growls. "They got their hooks inta you again. This ain't you, kid. But I can't let you go runnin' around." He takes a step forward, starting to move on her as his own green eyes hold hers. "One way or another this's endin'. For you, and fer them."

"Did they ever fully withdraw their hooks?"
And, with that, she sprints for the only way out that isn't past Logan - it's a window, the sort of thing that's barely held into the frame in the first place. X-23 throws herself through it and tucks into a ball, only to unfurl once she's nearly at the ground. She uncoils like a cat, lands on her feet, and sprints off into the narrow-alley bowels of Chinatown. He'll be left to decide whether to pursue or save; for her, the decision is already made - it is not time, not yet, to complete her primary mission. The throat-clutching man will die - if not tonight, then tomorrow. Or the night after. The odds of the man talking are slim to none - the odds of anyone believing him are even more narrow.
At least the wound is clean; no twisting, no tearing, just a straightforward hole. Easy to patch up. Easy to save him - but for how long?

A few steps carry Logan in X-23's direction. His features are darkened, clouded with anger as he stands there watching her small form break to a run into the night. His scowl is marked, strong as he for a bare instant perhaps entertains the idea of chasing after her, finishing this tonight. But then he remembers one of the differences between them, at least right now.
He spins back away and moves towards the bleeding man. One heavy hand lowers to try and staunch some of the flow of blood while his other reaches for the cellphone in his hip pocket. A low growling, "Hang on, fella." is heard even as he places the quick call to emergency services.
Maybe down the line he'll regret this decision. If he had let this one guy die maybe he'd have saved countless other lives down the line. But only thing he knows that right here, right now, he's not going to let this guy die. Not without at least a fight.

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