2019-03-24 - Meeting at a Brawl

Summary:

It's a rough night at The Cockerel when Logan and Rogue meet…

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Sun Mar 24 07:01:35 2019
Location: The Cockerel, New York City

Related Logs

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Theme Song

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loganrogue

It was a Saturday evening at the Cockerel, which is the first choice of only those venturing into the ironic for their choice of entertainment or those who can set their sights no higher. Clusters of hipsters and college students have infiltrated the place, though not enough to displace the regulars, who sit like lumps at the bar, who keep watchful eye over the jukebox, and who circle the pool table.

Logan is, while not quite a regular, established in the place. He's dressed understated enough that he passes notice, in a plaid shirt with a denim jacket overtop, as well as jeans and scuffed, lazily laced work boots. He sits at the corner of the bar, elbows on the scuffed top of it, cradling a beer and a whiskey in his hands. He tries to pay little mind to those around him.

Rogue may look like a college kid, but there's something else to her as she walks into the place that suggests she's not some cute co-ed slumming it. Her boots are dark brown leather, scuffed and showing wear from work. The leather jacket matches the boots, over a black tank top tucked into jeans. There's a swagger to the step, her stride leading her to an empty stool near the corner of the bar that she slides up on as if she's been doing it for years.

A pale hand with a couple nicks, scrubbed clean with a soap that clings to her skin a faint scent of pine lifts, pushing through her hair to strip it back from her face. Dark green eyes fasten on the bartender as if she can summon her with her will alone. Lips tinted a soft red with a stain quirk in a curve, as the bartender approaches. "Beam. Neat." She will slide a hand inside her jeans pocket to pull cash free to pay for the bourbon.

Logan doesn't look up from the bar. He gets more information about the new arrival from the sound of her, the smell of her, than he would with his eyes anyhow. He figures her age, he catches the sound of her swagger from the cadence and quality of her footfalls. He takes a draught of his whiskey, downing the last of it before he piggy-backs on the young woman's order. He lifts his rock glass and waggles it toward the bartender. It is another double for the man hunched over the bar with rounded shoulders, exhibiting terrible posture.

If he works at it, he can piece some of her together. That pine scent from the degreasing soap on her hands, even though she'd showered after - there's still no fake chemical flower scent to her. A clean sort of scent for soap and shampoo, deodorant - but none of the perfumes and sprays so many girls her age wear. There's grease and oil on her boots, though the rest of her clothes have been spares such treatment.

She does cast side-eye at his waggled glass, smirking just a bit. She will lean on the edge of the bar with her forearms, waiting for her drink with some semblance of patience. Green eyes take in the place, looking for exits other than the front door, possible problem patrons.. and nails will tap on the bar several times before they stop.

Logan doesn't look over at the woman alongside him, save a flicker of his eyes, spying her in the periphery of his vision. He waits for his whiskey and bides his time by drinking some of his beer. There is a moment of external excitement, however, when one patron gets too near one of the regulars around the pool table. A verbal challenge is made, a push is offered, and the escalating calls of "You wanna go?" "You lookin' to get fucked up, boy?" are heard. Logan minds his own business. If the new arrival shows any likelihood of getting up, he'll caution in a growl, "Best not to get involved."

She will watch the push, expression impassive. Deep green eyes will turn to look over at the man beside her, a sassy little smile flashed his way. "Who, me, sugar? Do I look like I'd go wadin' into a fistfight with men bigger than me?" The southern accent isn't as thick as it once was, but it's certainly notable in a bar in Harlem. Of course, she is that sort of girl, as eyes sweep back towards the fight. She sighs, promising herself she'll only wade in if one side gets others to gang up on the opposing side.

Bar fights are seldom fair fights. Alcohol is a fuel for loyalty and erodes sense and restraint. A couple of pushes in, somebody takes a swing and receives a swing back. Soon enough, the friends of the first party are jumping in, groupthink and alcohol taking over. Even as this develops, Logan tells the woman, "Hard to say who's got no sense." He takes a swig of the beer before him. With this new distraction escalating behind him, it seems the whiskeys are waylaid. "You ain't from 'round here," he observes, whether she sticks around for small talk is anybody's guess with the impending brawl.

There's another sigh. "I hate seein' people not be able to fight fair. Ruins the whole thing, don't ya think?" She glances his way as she slips off her stool more like a dancer than a fighter. "What was your first clue, handsome?" She gives him that smile again, making green eyes gleam in mischief. "Be right back." She'll stroll towards that brawl like it's a dance floor.

"Ain't no fair to a fight," Logan grumbles, though Rogue may not catch his words, depending how fast she's moving away. The comment has him sneering down at the bartop and, a moment later, he smacks his open palm on the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention - trying to wave her over with the whiskey. He doesn't turn to see what happens in the fight, but that doesn't mean he's not keenly aware. The one in the Jets jersey with the gold chain has a gun. Logan can smell the gun oil from here.

"Shouldn't there be, though?" She'll toss back, shedding her jacket to drop on a chair back on her way over. Of course, this leaves her in a low cut top and a lot of pale, bared skin. Her friend at the bar probably doesn't realize just how dangerous everything just got. Her chin is lifted, as she will start peeling bodies back, ducking under punches and pushing broader bodies away. "Boys, boys, come on now. Lady present."

Logan is probably talking to himself by this point, but her rhetorical question is met with a heavy sigh and muttered, "Dumb kids." Whether Rogue is included in this categorization is left to interpretation. Logan can't get his whiskey with the current distraction going on, so finally he sighs and turns to watch. He sips from his beer all the while. Rogue, of course, isn't the target of any of the violence, but the melee is getting more intense, and errant skin-to-skin contact or being in the wrong place at the wrong time is always a possibility.

Well, the belle is working to just try and break it up, until one of them takes a wild swing just as another jerks her off balance. That's when she gets hit, and there will be a split second pause. Now it's gonna get ugly, and the 'lady' will crack her neck, glaring at the one who hit her. "You're gonna wanna apologize and go sit down now, sugar."

Logan watches idly from the bar, draining his beer down to the dregs. Those will be polished off a moment later. There's no real reaction, watching the woman catch a ham-fisted blow to the jaw, other than he raises his brow. Of course, drunk and with roused passions already, the thug tells Rogue she should go and sit down, calling her a bitch for added effect, before turning away to get back into the fracas, which is lob-sided and only getting worse for the losing side.

The look on her face will tell any man looking that he should never have said that. She won't hesistate, and a steel toed boot will go right up between his thighs from behind with no little force. Then the belle is swinging as well, and unless some of them are mutants, they will find any contact with her skin zaps them, just a little bit, of their energy.

Logan watches the brawl for a time, until it becomes clear that the lone woman involved is going to hand the rest a defeat. He finishes his beer and turns to try to get the bartender's attention. The sideshow that Rogue has orchestrated has made for an impressive distraction, enough for Logan to reach across the bar and help himself to a large pour of well grade whiskey, and to avoid notice in doing so. Soon enough, Rogue is the last one standing - the recipient of a few blows, though most showed some reluctance to go all-out on the woman, at least until it was too late for them. She dished out far worse than she got.

Rogue will linger a moment over the one who hit her first. "Who's the bitch now, sugar?" She'll nudge him with a steel toed boot before she's snagging her jacket on her way back to the bar. There's a flush along cheekbones, and a gleam in her eyes that suggests the slender young woman enjoyed that more than a 'lady' might.

Logan glances over his shoulder toward the triumphant woman. He slings back the rest of his ill-begotten drink, but then fishes into his pocket for some cash. A few wadded up bills are dropped on the bartender's side of the counter - enough for a double. "Came out on top. Good for you," he growls as he pushes what's left of his money into his pocket. Then he's pulling a large, cheap cigar from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. "Have a good night, UFC."

There's a notice that her drink has still not arrived, a sound of disgust. "Rogue." She says, cutting green eyes his way. "And I wouldn't have waded in, if I wasn't sure I'd end up that way if it came to it." She gives him a wink and a grink, as she turns to head out the door. "Night, sugar."

Logan spares Rogue a sidelong glance, one brow lifting slightly at the name she gives. He bites off the end of his cigar, flashing canine teeth a little too long to be normal. He was about to head out, but as she moves for the door while he pays what he owes, he elects to linger a bit longer. Her farewell earns her a noncommital grunt in reply, though, as before, she's likely already gone by the time he offers it.

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