[ So far, the only positive thing about this whole mess is that nobody's asked him to do anything nasty to any kittens. Otherwise it all seems pretty familiar, just a different name and a different planet and no goddamn swords. Even the Colosseum isn't anything new, thanks to every two bit battleworld and half-assed Arcade dimension he's been dragged to over the years. Logan's mostly just hoping he stands a chance at winning this time.
He ignores most of the clamour and the glitz, heading out into the streets instead. It doesn't take long for him to find what he's looking for, the kind of thing that always turns up in places like this -- a seedy little alley between a fast food restaurant and a laundromat with a switchback that opens up into a courtyard big enough to hold a crowd and a makeshift fighting ring.
Apparently the audience are as fond as bareknuckle fighting as they are gladiatorial combat. Logan's dispatched a handful of combatants and is waiting for the next one, wondering if he ought to get out before the ringleader decides to get rid of him rather than pay out, when he catches someone watching from the crowd. He's shirtless, bloodied. He turns his head and spits onto the wet ground. ]
You just gonna look?
CASINO ROYALE— cw: body horror, loss of autonomy
[ The prom holds no interest for Logan. As soon as he hears about it, he heads straight for the casino, certain it will at least provide some entertainment if nothing else. He doesn't give the wheel at the door more than a glance, watching it land on number 13 with a shrug. Whatever the hell it means, he can deal with it.
It starts slow. Dressed in his Patch finest, he spends some time at the tables, tossing back drinks and keeping an eye out for the tells of the staff, monitoring the rhythms of the place, checking exits and doors -- all the tricks of the trade he's used to infiltrate countless outfits like this. But the house keeps winning, the drinks keep flowing, and everything feels -- off.
Getting up from the craps table, he stumbles. The room tilts around him. Grabbing at the edge of the table, he rubs his numb face. ]
Shit. Feels like.. I've had a case of Everclear -- [ At least, that's the only time he gets to feel this way. His healing factor should be more than capable of dealing with the cocktails he's thrown back. Pushing off the table, he staggers into the crowd, trying to focus. ]
Gotta find the goddamn.. the goddamn thing, fuck.
WILDCARD
[ OOC: Here for most anything, including inbox/text tags! Current canon point is roughly post-fall of Krakoa, sometime around Storm #3. ]
Logan | Marvel 616 | new character
He ignores most of the clamour and the glitz, heading out into the streets instead. It doesn't take long for him to find what he's looking for, the kind of thing that always turns up in places like this -- a seedy little alley between a fast food restaurant and a laundromat with a switchback that opens up into a courtyard big enough to hold a crowd and a makeshift fighting ring.
Apparently the audience are as fond as bareknuckle fighting as they are gladiatorial combat. Logan's dispatched a handful of combatants and is waiting for the next one, wondering if he ought to get out before the ringleader decides to get rid of him rather than pay out, when he catches someone watching from the crowd. He's shirtless, bloodied. He turns his head and spits onto the wet ground. ]
You just gonna look?
CASINO ROYALE — cw: body horror, loss of autonomy
It starts slow. Dressed in his Patch finest, he spends some time at the tables, tossing back drinks and keeping an eye out for the tells of the staff, monitoring the rhythms of the place, checking exits and doors -- all the tricks of the trade he's used to infiltrate countless outfits like this. But the house keeps winning, the drinks keep flowing, and everything feels -- off.
Getting up from the craps table, he stumbles. The room tilts around him. Grabbing at the edge of the table, he rubs his numb face. ]
Shit. Feels like.. I've had a case of Everclear -- [ At least, that's the only time he gets to feel this way. His healing factor should be more than capable of dealing with the cocktails he's thrown back. Pushing off the table, he staggers into the crowd, trying to focus. ]
Gotta find the goddamn.. the goddamn thing, fuck.
WILDCARD