crusaded | settling uneasily

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wolverine

settling uneasily

When the color of the sky overhead begins to change, I know that I've taken too long in returning to Rapture. From the disdain in Damian's voice alone, I've gleaned more about the island than any stranger could tell me. Batman isn't welcome on an island such as this one. I know that there is a group of people who have taken it upon themselves to carefully watch over every possible source of danger and risk, a group that frequently denies access to Rapture, taking it upon themselves to make sure that every person who travels below is capable of defending him or herself. A nice sentiment, but already it rankles, settling uneasily over my skin. For anyone to have that level of knowledge is setting a dangerous line over which the island could topple at any moment. Creates an imbalance of power. For all the foolish choices that people may make, the option is still meant to be in their hand. Children should be overseen by their guardians. But if freedom is something which this island claims to grant its citizens in any capacity?

There shouldn't be anyone standing guard.

Still, I'm expecting it. The sun which threatens beneath the horizon won't make a difference deep in the caves, but it gives me a sense of how much time has passed as I run straight to the caves, turning sharply, relying on memory. A deep and faint glow heralds success as I spot the winding staircase, taking several steps down at a time, not bothering to completely silence my footfalls.

I don't expect for this island to turn a blind eye for me, and the least that means for my actions now is that I should avoid taking any of these officers by surprise.

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Life on this island involves entirely too much hanging around.

Oh, I keep myself busy, as much as I can. The food people eat isn't catching itself; there's a few people that hunt, but there are enough people on the island to keep us at it.

But it's not the kind of hunting I'm used to filling my days. It's not the same amount of work, either. Busy, sure, but it's not the X-Men and the Avengers and my own business. I need to be doing something more than just bringing in the bacon, and fighting off a few rejects from one of Arcade's schemes just isn't going to cut it.

This, now. The job Bucky's given me, that's better. So far it's been more standing around, but someone's coming. Making noise, but if I had to guess I'd say he's making noise on purpose. Wants me to know he's coming.

That's fine. This ain't an ambush. I'm standing right in front of the bathysphere with my arms crossed. I want him to know I'm here... and this is where the trip stops.

I expected for him to be taller.

From my response to their first question, the two officers of the task force must have known that I wasn't the type to stop and elaborate. I felt no shame in holding certain facts closer to my chest, and no amount of questioning would be able to pry that knowledge from my fingers. What purpose could there have been, then, in holding me there for that extended period of time, if not to glean whatever information they could from my movements, my tone of voice and carriage?

Of course, I need to be careful not to underestimate the man. Anyone who practices enough can learn to make the best use of their size.

"I need access to Rapture," I tell the man once I'm within several paces, even though his stance tells me that he doesn't plan on letting me have what I want. At least giving him the chance to step aside, however, seems fair.

I may not spend fights making references to TV shows and movies like some chuckleheads I know, but that doesn't mean I don't know who this is. You'd have had to be in space for the last century, not to recognize him.

This isn't an actor playing a guy from a comic book, though. That's obvious, right away. The real deal, from some dimension where he is real. Doesn't change anything. As far as I'm concerned, he's just another guy in a mask. And a cape, too. Showy. Impractical, you ask me, but there's no way he doesn't know how to use it. It's not going to get in his way.

Cyclops would probably dig it. Goes with his spandex bent. Astonish them, he says.

I tend towards inspiring something a little grimmer than astonishment. And so does my new friend, here.

My smirk widens a little. "I need a good Canadian brew and a game of hockey to watch," I say. "We're both out of luck."

He's not about to simply let me through. He doesn't show even a glimmer of fear. That much shouldn't come as a surprise; my reputation means nothing on an island I've barely walked on for a few hours, and the lighting of the stairwell does nothing for the design of my suit. The cape, the cowl, the lights shining from my lenses, they're all details meant to work in the blackest of nights, with movements so smooth that I seem nigh intangible to some. But a lack of fear is, on the other hand, a notable detail. He's not frightened by the unexpected or the unfamiliar.

Sometimes, that's what makes a person the most dangerous, and I don't need the curve of rouge to remind me of that.

"Both," I reply, voice deep, although I barely bother to raise it above a whisper. Confidence won't buy him everything, and I decide I have little to lose by striking out first, attempting to find a path around the man that'll take me directly into the bathysphere. Once we're both inside, there'll be little reason for concern. The controls of the bathysphere aren't that intricate, and I can withstand whatever force he uses for the span of a couple of minutes. There's only so much strength in any single person.

I let out a small huff of air. Time for him to show me what he's capable of.

Not much of a talker. Suits me just fine. I've been wanting to get down to business since I showed up here, and finally I have a good excuse.

He wants in that bathysphere, he has to go through me. As long as I'm here, he isn't putting so much a foot inside it.

"C'mon, then, bub," I say, letting my hands drop to my sides. No claws. A last resort, considering I'm not out to kill the guy, just drop him. This'll take a little more finesse than I usually bother with...

...so I'll probably start out with the same kind of berserk storm I usually do. Have to make sure he doesn't think he can bypass me, that he has to concentrate on me before he can even think about the bathysphere.

He's close enough to the mouth of the bathysphere that there aren't many blind spots to be had. From this distance, I can't raise my speed enough to slip by without notice, or before reflexes will have him blocking my way. Each step I take echoes against the walls, and the lap of water against the smooth metallic surface clashes with their pace; if he isn't backing down, then there will be conflict, and the sooner I resign myself to the fact, the sooner I'll be likely to make it down to the city. (I have no doubt that someone has been sent below already, that Jason has allies by his side, or if nothing else, allies trying to make their way to his side. No guarantee that he'd accept their help. Not where I'm concerned.)

"No chance of convincing you to step aside where my son is concerned?" I ask. It's a thin chance; he doesn't look the fatherly type.

(Then again, neither do I.)

I raise my arm, holding it in front of me as I try to slip him by, hoping that the sharp edge might serve as any kind of deterrent. Or, if nothing else, as a defense.

Another day, in another situation, it might make me pause. Consider what it would be like if the situation was reversed; if I was up here, trying to get down to Dakin. I know what it's like, to have a son -- if that's really what Bucky's protegee is to him -- who would run, fight, rather than have anything to do with me. Who'd rather burn everything I am to the ground than have me for a father.

It's almost enough to make me feel sympathetic.

Almost.

"Nope," I say, and rush him. The edge on that gauntlet's going to hurt, but I don't intend to get fully impaled, and a little pain never did me any harm. I don't heal so fast as I used to, but nothing gets the adrenalin pumping the same way. Nothing makes a fight feel like a fight.

I don't aim to hit him head on, but off-center, to spin and throw us further from the bathysphere. To keep him from getting a sense of how much I weigh, too; with the metal covering my bones, that's more than it looks. Another surprise I'll save for later.

This does serve to confirm one thing: that this man doesn't feel fear in the same capacity as the rest of us.

I pull my arm back suddenly when I feel it graze against flesh, the edge sharp enough that most skin hardly puts up resistance; the action is, indeed, as reckless as any other I could take. I don't know that I can afford to hold back with a fighter like him. I don't know that I'll get another chance to land a hit solidly in the early stage of this fight. I hold back for no better reason than the fact that I know the effect adrenaline has on a man, and even if he doesn't feel the pain now, that might only worsen things as blood flows free, crimson bright even against darkened complexions.

But as he throws another punch, I catch a glimmer in his eyes, not quick and rising only at the dig of my heel into the ground, but lingering. And I know that he's enjoying this.

I feel my blood start to boil.

The punch lands, but whether or not he means for it to hit closer to my shoulder, that brief glance of time is enough for me to dodge; the blow ends up glancing. A look at my uniform should make it pretty clear that it would take a great deal of effort to hit through the armor, but I have no intention of letting on just how much. Most masked men, vigilante or villain, don't rush around with kevlar covering the majority of their body. It's bulky, cumbersome. But if you can learn to carry it correctly, suddenly, doors once closed will open.

"What does this make you," I challenge him, and if my nerves weren't worn ragged before, they certainly are now. "A guard dog? This isn't your business."

Better to stay my ground than to let him guide me elsewhere, even if it means taking a few more hits in the process. Grounding myself, I feel my feet grating against stone as I throw a punch, aimed at his right side, free arm reaching for my lasso. Maybe he's looking for a good, grounded fight.

I'm looking for a quick one.

The pain is distant, like it always is, something happening to someone else, someone who isn't in this moment. Someone not feeling the rage build up. Gotta keep that locked down. Can't lose my head on this. No healing factor to fall back on, and an opponent armored and equipped and trained.

"I'm no one's dog, bub," I say. Not any more. I'm done with being used, being someone else's tool, someone else's weapon, with no choice of my own. I follow, but not blindly. "And this has always been my business."

The business of fighting. Of bringing the other guy down. Of being the one who takes the hits so that someone else has time to fix things.

Usually that someone has hands a little cleaner than Bucky's, but everyone gets their chance to be the good guy. If that means being the bad guy, being the one keeping a father from his son, as he says, so be it. I've done worse, and I'm choosing it, these times.

I block the punch to my right, push past it, aiming to grapple with him, keep him off whatever he's going for. Aim a stomp at his leg, to try and put some move in the fight. "So you won't need whatever chew-toy you're going for."

A breath passes through my teeth, derisive. Whether or not he chooses to think of it as such, at best, he's still taking orders. At worst, this becomes an excuse for him to work out a deeper desire for violence, for pain, for a challenge that he values above trying to understand the situation in full. I can already sense the way that this island functions, under a rule that's about trust rather than justice. In certain areas, it's the right model to have; I'll be the last person who preaches the need for an absolute adherence to the rules. But on my end, it makes me no more inclined to listen.

(Not now. Not for this.)

Without a word, my teeth grind as I feel him grabbing for my arm with an almost surprising amount of strength, and my breath rushes from my lips as I feel the brunt of his kick against my leg— there'll be a bruise, although I don't think it's broken. I lift my own in response, hands turning to grab onto his wrists for balance, and though I'll have no guarantee that he won't simply ease out from under the grip, I kick off the ground and aim to deliver a blow square in his chest with the heel of my boot. All I need is space. If I have space, then I'll have the chance to pull out a tool or two.

He seizes my wrists. I twist my hands to try and get his in turn, to prevent him throwing me off, but those spiked gauntlets make it an awkward grip. I try to slip the kick but can't, entirely, and it knocks me back, gives him that room he's been scrabbling for.

He may have room, but I don't intend to give him time. My footing's back in an instant and I'm launching myself back after him, feinting low before driving my fist towards his chin in an uppercut. He's armoured, and while it might not be as impenetrable as something Shellhead would wear, it's still a barrier. The jaw's my best bet of cutting through that, putting him out.

I have a hell of an uppercut. Comes of having the bones of the fist covered in metal. My own hidden brass knuckles, although brass doesn't even come close.

First blood doesn't mean a thing, especially when it's a sacrifice readily made by an opponent. I might have been the first to break through skin, but the force at which I feel my head kick back sends a thrill all the way to my fingertips, and I feel my teeth click against the coppery tang of blood in my mouth. Whatever advantage I might have gained in that second's worth of time has been undercut entirely; if there's anything I've learned as the stars only just begin to clear, it's that this man's size belies his weight. That kick should have sent him flying against the wall. A fist from that angle and velocity shouldn't have had so much momentum. But as a quick glance over his person again tells me, while my feet twist to find friction with the ground and both gauntlets sweep the air in front of me in a protective swipe, that it isn't weight that he's strapped onto his person.

I wonder what he's hiding inside.

This, however, changes the game entirely. Without being able to visually assess all his strengths, there's simply too much uncertainty for me to waste my time here. Any other day, I'd be claiming more of a height advantage, a ledge, a shadowed corner—

—then again, there's a bathysphere standing but a few feet away.

Whipping my cape, aimed roughly around the man's shoulder level, the armored tips easily slice through air with a whisper before I try to bring an elbow across, aiming to land between shoulder and neck if I can.

I duck, but not fast enough. He's faster than he has any right to be, with all that gear. And I was too quick to write off the cape. It's only moments before it's due to hit me that I recognize the way that it's weighted down, made into its own kind of weapon.

I'm not down far enough, so it connects, staggers me. I can only drop further, tilt my head to take the elbow on the top of my forehead. It's the hardest part of the body, and that's for someone whose skull isn't reinforced. There's still those barbs, though, that armor, and the guy hits like a train. Not getting out of this without some pain.

Then, what else is new?

Have to try and back him up more, or he's going to get past me; he's already getting too close to being able to duck past. I try to seize his arm as its connecting with the top of my head, aiming to twist, slip behind him. Plenty of ways out of that hold, though, if I manage the grab, and I'm betting he knows more than a few of them.

He's resilient. Bringing my elbow down on his head feels more like coming down on a block of metal than it does flesh and bone, a numbing sensation traveling up the length of my arm, though I've trained myself to move in spite of a loss of feeling. He grabs on before I can pull myself entirely away, the grasp strong, but more importantly, constricting— if I don't move soon, the loss of feeling might spread, forcing me down a slippery slope. Thinking fast, I wonder if he's taken his gaze off my belt.

If he has, then that might be my saving grace.

I have no idea how this might play out, were we to continue. For all that he's unarmored, this chump seems to be taking each hit far better than I am. Taking advantage of his next maneuver, I put up just enough resistance to have my hand swipe by the proper pocket of the belt, slipping a small pellet out and crushing it with my fingers.

Knock-out gas. If I remember correctly, I only brought three with me; this needs to count. Or at least earn one or two seconds' worth of distraction.

"Ready to give up, go find another cave?" I grunt. I'm not a talker the way some folks are, but it has its place. Bravado, taunts. Sometimes it's just another way of expelling air as you exert yourself, like I am now, trying to to force his arm behind his back in a position I can pin him, force him around and back.

It's a lot harder than it is with your average punk. I can take a lot of hits -- I've had plenty of practice -- but even so, I'm going to start slowing down, getting more dazed. I don't want to take my time putting him down for the count.

Not easy, though. He's had experience, too. If I didn't have a job to do, this'd even be good practice.

Hell, it still is.

The less I talk, the better. I've started holding my breath. Without access to my gas mask, all of this comes down to a race. I've had enough exposure to my own tools that the dizziness isn't instantaneous, but in the end, a single full breath should be enough to knock out several people in the immediate vicinity, once the gas has spread— I'm no exception to that rule. And a man can only survive without air for so long. The more he talks, the more silence he seeks to fill, the better my odds are. Something tells me I need all the luck I can get, too.

Another cave, though— I wonder what this man has heard. I wonder just how many secrets Jason has armed his allies with, but if there's anything to take comfort from, it's the sense I've gotten that this man isn't fighting to kill. He's hardly drawn blood. Everything falls under an effort to knock me unconscious, where stars are still forming at the corners of my vision.

I wrench my arm suddenly in his grasp, relying on the slight give of glove and gauntlet to whirl myself around, facing him again, one hand freeing in time to try and send my palm directly in his face, the two broken halves of the pellet still pressed there.

Open-palmed strikes are common. Lots of styles use them. I don't think anything of it, just brace, prepare to roll with the blow.

It's a mistake. His hand isn't empty. Too late, I notice that he's holding his breath. No one as good as he is would hold their breath in a fight without good reason, would subject themselves to oxygen deprivation in the middle of a knock-down dragout...

...unless they're expecting to be breathing something other than oxygen.

"Son of a-" I grunt, but it's too late, I've already got a faceful, already inhaled reflexively as the palm connects and snaps me back.

If I had my healing factor, it's possible I could fight through it, depending what type of gas it is, how it works. I don't. I try, anyway, with a roar, let the rage, the animal rise up in an attempt to put him down before the gas takes effect. All I have to do is make him breathe, or use the fact that he isn't to knock him out before I'm gone.

"You think that's enough? For me? I'm the goddamned Wolveriiiin-"

Too little, too late. The world goes black.

The name means absolutely nothing to me, although it's yet another fact that I file away for safe-keeping. Names are chosen for a reason. And, if I'm lucky, I might be able to run the name through some type of database, keep an eye out for mentions. Learn more about the man.

Had I easier access to all of my resources, this is where I'd tie the man up, make sure he won't simply dive right down into the bathysphere and cling doggedly on to my trail. I decide to place my bets elsewhere. If there's a man waiting at the entrance of the city, chances are there'll be more underground. And there's no guarantee that a group would place their greatest defense at the mouth of a cave.

I wait until I've stepped inside the sphere, locking the door and taking a shallow breath, testing the air. Clear, fortunately. Casting one last look over at the body crumpled on the floor, I half-expect him to be up on his feet when I pull the lever to descend back into Rapture.

"Sorry, bub."

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