Total Drama Tavern

December 30, 2015:

Scott tracks Logan down to a crummy bar in the Bronx after his brief but eventful visit to the Institute. The conversation that follows is a little tense— as is the mood in the bar at large, thanks to an involved spectator.

Larry's Tavern, The Bronx, New York City

Not even a little bit classy.


NPCs: Psycho Pirate

Mentions: phoenix professor_x marvel_girl


Mood Music: Colorado Kool-Aid

Fade In…

Logan is not an easy man to find when he doesn't want to be, but it helps when he happens to be limiting himself almost exclusively to New York.

Make no mistake, though: he does not want to be found. The often violent, sometimes shady, and occasionally stable mutant mercenary has left an especially ugly trail through the city since Christmas Day, beginning with 19 gangsters in Queens, continuing on to a stop-over at Xavier's Institute, then back out to Brooklyn for an anti-mutant bigot. Between these moments, he's done his best to stick to safe houses and out of the way hangouts while gathering intel.

There have been other incidents, however— incidents that haven't made it to the news yet, but might nonetheless stand out to someone who was looking for him: a tattoo-covered Friend of Humanity is found in the gutter with three slashes across his throat; a homeless mutant can't stop talking about the small, scowling man who threw her a fortune in crumpled 1s and 5s; a club known to frequently host anti-mutant musical acts has to close down for renovations after a massive fight. They're all clustered in one of the rougher areas of the Bronx— a place which also happens to contain just the sort of seedy, run-down bar one might expect Logan to spend his quieter nights at.

Larry's Tavern is busy tonight. Busy, and loud, which is probably why Logan hasn't stopped grimacing since he sat down at the bar. If there were any ''other'' decent spots…

One might question Logan's taste in bars, of course, because Larry's would probably win 'Most Disappointing Bar 2015' from Cheap Shitholes Quarterly. Not one of the tables is actually standing on all four legs, which is probably why there are so few ash trays to go around: stacks of them prop up legs where phone books or planks wouldn't do. Accordingly, floor is dusty with ash. Also, with dust; also, sawdust, for convenience's sake.

The bar does not currently smell as if the latter thing is a factor, so at least there's that.

There's a jukebox in the corner with a single functioning light. Despite this, it actually works just fine; the only problem is that it hasn't been updated since the 70s, and while Logan is quite fine with oldies, whoever was in charge of the jukebox then had— different tastes in music from his.

Some asshole spent a whole lot of money to keep ABBA on loop.

There's a pool table with half a dozen people engaged in a heated game, somehow or another. There are booths, tables, and the bar itself for seating; Logan is one of the few at the bar, positioned so that he can see all of the doors without issue. His sideburns are gone and he's wearing a stetson low over his hair; it actually goes reasonably well with his brown bomber jacket and jeans.


Did you know that there was 2,657 bars in the New York metropolitan area? When Jean sent Scott out to check on Logan, she should have mentioned this little fact as he boarded his motorcycle to start the search. At first, he started with every bar that he could come across, mentioning a short, hairy uncle that forgets his medications from time to time that might have come by.

Then Scott realized he needed to lower his standards. It was at a strip club in a rundown section of Harlem that he picked up the trail, overhearing a police scanner about the slit throat Friend of Humanity. Some more tracking brought him to the news of the attack on a couple of Purifiers at said strip club, and the homeless man that ended up with the 1s and 5s. Scott made sure to get him a warm meal and directions to the nearest X-Red outreach before he makes his way in the direction that the mutant pointed him in.

Pulling up outside of Larry's, Scott shuts down his motorcycle to make his way to the door, stepping aside as someone comes out, and he immediately catches upon the smell of stale beer, cigarettes, and sweat. His nose crinckles in distaste as he slips inside, glancing around as 'Dancing Queen' starts up for the tenth time in a row, ruby lens glancing around the establishment as he pulls his own black leather jacket further into place.


"Alright, alright," a blonde man with a broad, apologetic smile says to the cue-wielding man looming over him, "you're right, of course. I thought that I saw— ah, y'know, it doesn't even matter what I thought, right? Or what I think!"

"Fifteen fucking minutes," the looming player incredulously grunts to the man next to him, "and this asshole—" he snaps back to the blonde with a twitch forward that sends him retreating with his hands up. Once he's sure that he won't be followed, the blonde slips back to his empty corner booth, settles, and watches.

He does not belong in Larry's anymore than Scott does, though he wears his incongruity more openly with his bright red suit, golden drama mask cufflinks, and designer shades. If he hadn't dropped the right names at the right moment, he wouldn't have lasted five minutes here— much less the two hours he's spent alternatingly people-watching and people-nudging.

He is lucky that nobody saw him at the jukebox.

Alcohol's been flowing freely all night, thanks to him. Two separate couples so far have lapsed into arguing thanks to enigmatic notes sent by phantom suitors. A table not even involved in the pool match took to loudly debating whether or not that 8-ball really counted.

Logan himself has eight empty shots lined up in front of himself, along with a scotch and a beer for sipping. He looks up at the sound of the bike - familiar as it is after hours spent tinkering with its inner workings - and stares at the door for a moment before lowering his head and waiting to see who enters. It could be a coincidence. It could be anyone. It could be—

Jean— no— cologne—

— oh.

Logan's nostrils flare. Something almost like a word is growled when the bartender passes near. A few moments later, shot number nine appears.

He still doesn't look up, but he does, after a few seconds, raise his middle finger.

Just in case Scott's having a hard time finding him.

The bar just screams Logan, however. A throwback to a different time, with the neon beer signs, ketschy posters of scantily clad women on the walls, and an old tube-television that is showing the current college bowl games on screen. As if Scott didn't need anymore clue that he was right place, the hairy Bronx salute is more than enough to cause him to smirk as he pushes his glasses up on his nose. As he walks towards the bar, he raps his knuckles on the wood. "Club soda, please."

With that, he takes over the stool next to the Canadian. "Logan." he greets quietly as he folds his hands in front of him on the scuffed counter in front of him. "Jean sent me to see how you were doing. Considering the trail that I just followed to get through to here…" he trails off as the soda water arrives and he takes a drink from it.

"If you're coming back, you're going to have to stop doing that." he says finally. Scott is much like Charles in the whole 'no kill' department. He turns to look at Logan and waits to see if he's going to play nice with the concept of returning to the fold.


As soon as Scott sits, shot number nine is plunked down in front of him.

"Real nice'a her," Logan grunts. "Got yourself a good woman there, don't you?" His attention turns to the bartender. Once he's brought over with a call and a gesture, the feral mutant says, "Let's just keep this easy for all of us: nine more, then find another part'a the bar to tend for a while," while pulling a few 20s from his pocket and holding them out for the taking. "My friend and me, we got some catchin' up ta do."

As shots are poured, Logan returns his attention to Scott while quietly wondering, "Don't think I ever told you how I got this hard head'a mine, did I?" instead of engaging on the point about coming back.


Scott takes a quick count of the number of shots. Though, knowing the former's healing factor, he's probably burned off seven of them without even trying. "She's concerned about you. As are others, Logan." the young man blows out a breath as he finishes off his soda and sets the empty glass on the bar. With the money exchanged, and the shots left, the bartender ambles off, leaving the two men alone.

"I assume it was the same way you got the shiny claws and winning personality." he admits honestly as he gives a frown. "There's things that need to be taken care of, and I'll be more than happy to know that you're on board, and I'll leave you to your drinks. But the indiscriminate vengance is going to have to be stowed away."


"Most of it, I don't know," Logan lowly growls as the bartender leaves, still not quite willing to fully engage. "That's 'cause they wanted it that way, see— the people that did it to me. Only reason I know that is 'cause I read it in a file; could be bullshit for all I know, but it's somethin' ta hold onto."

A shot disappears as Logan lowers his eyes to the bar.

"Was an outfit by the name'a Weapon X. Way I read it, they cut me open an' played with the guts, over an' over, ta see how I worked. When that got old, they figured they'd see what kinds of tricks they could get me ta do."

Another shot vanishes. Logan's voice is steady, but it's an affected calm; the breaths between his words are sharp and jagged and angry.

"Couldn't tell ya how long. Earliest records on me I seen from 'em goes back to about '66; anything before about '91 for me's hit or miss, so I got my guesses. Ain't really the point, though."

Another shot is nudged in front of Scott, whether or not the first one's been taken.

"These fucks, whoever they were," he continues, dropping to a harsh whisper, "they did what they did 'cause they looked at me an' they saw somethin' less than a man, even less than the thing they made me. They're gone, an' the world's a better place for it— but that don't mean this world ain't full'a people just like 'em who'd look at me, you, Jeannie, an' every precious soul you can think of - an' I'm bettin' you can think of a few - an' see somethin' less than human, does it? An' that's all. It takes. For 'em to justify doin' whatever they like to ya."

Another shot goes.

"An' you wanna— what? Put 'em on trial? Let 'em rot away in prison, gettin' three squares and diggin' for converts? I saw what they did to her, Scott—" He turns the glower that's been burning through the bar towards the other mutant.

"— an' you want me to stop? You want me to choose between comin' back and givin' these bastards what they deserve? Drink your fuckin' shots, mebbe you'll start makin' some sense."

As Logan downs what's left of his scotch, the blonde at the corner table waits for a moment when everyone else is focused on themselves or the music('who the fuck played 'Fernando' for the seventh fucking time' indeed) to draw one of his sleeves over his face. The motion leaves a golden mask in its wake; the cuff links are gone when it's over.

As the mask twists into an angry rictus, one of the women arguing with her partner suddenly snaps, hurls her drink in his face, and starts screaming about years worth of pent up frustration while slapping him.


Even as Logan pushes another shot in front of him, Scott ignores it. He figures he'll slide it to the end of the line at some point, Logan'll think it's his and drink it anyway. He needs his wits about him. Especially as Logan starts to talk. He listens, patient through it all as he sets his hands on the bar and listens. "We all have stories to tell, Logan." Scott starts off, his voice calm, containing the tight bundle of nerves that forms in his stomach as he hears the song playing yet again, the faint tones of the argument behind him.

"You're not the only one to find yourself on the wrong end of the government. My own daughter - mine and Jean's flesh and blood, was accused of being a traitor and I had to take her away so that the world wouldn't come knocking at the Institute and expose everything we've come to stand for." he says, his tone flattening, barely belying the anger of what he had to go through over the last several months.

"I know what happened. And am I angry that it happened? Yes. But we cannot let that turn us, and make us as low as them." he says with a frown. "If we stoop to the methods of judge, jury, and executioner, we are no better than those that we're supposed to be defending the world from, Logan." he points out as he eyes the small shot glass and picks it up.

"This isn't the Brotherhood, or the Purifiers, or even the Friends of Humanity, Logan. We're supposed to make a difference, and it means we hold to our standards, even when everything tells us not to. So yes, that is exactly what I'm saying."

Scott turns to face Logan, his gaze unreadable through those dark red shades of his. "I know what she went through. I also know what several dozen.. hundreds others have gone through. This isn't a one man vendetta to avenge what happened to Jean, if it was, you couldn't pry me away. This is about rising above and still doing the right thing." he comments as the argument behind them starts to boil over, but in the space of the argument with Logan, Scott is not paying it the due diligence he perhaps should.


Shafts of dim light bounce off the golden mask, momentarily intensifying.

*SNAP!* goes a pool cue when debate over yet another 8-ball begins to boil.

Logan greets his sometimes teammate's words with bared teeth and an incredulous rumble as the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The bar is only getting louder. Scott doesn't really get it. Scott's trying. Scott's mocking him, not even listening— Purifiers??

"Ain't about stoopin', Slim," he bites off as heat rises along his spine. "Ain't even about defendin' the world— 'cause what's the fuckin' point if all it's gonna do ta thank you is piss in your eye?"

A snickering man tells the guy fending off his girlfriend to 'control his woman' in even less polite terms. Not only do they abruptly break off their spat to turn on him, the woman he came in with starts yelling at him too.

"You people— Chuck, all'a you, what you're tryin' to do, it's nice, real nice," Logan hisses with a curled lip as he dances a fine line between sarcasm and sincerity. "Real pretty— but that dream'a his, it's gotta exist in the real world at some point, don't it? An' the real world, it ain't so kind ta nice, pretty things like dreamers an' boy scouts an' cute li'l red-headed girls, is it?" Bile rises in his throat, and it isn't the liquor.

"Musta stung, hearin' that maybe there'd be a man around the Institute again," he mutters before downing another shot.


Scott gets it. Scott gets it far more than Logan may ever realize. He'd love nothing more than to walk into where the Purifiers are, open his eyes wide, remove the glasses, and let all the pieces fall where they may. But he and Jean had discussed it. Between X-Red and now the JLA's involvement, it's better that the Institute pull itself from the fight for now. He feels the heat in Logan's words, the accusations. His hand clenches into a fist and then unclenches.

"So that's what it boils down to you, Logan? Insults and innuendos?" he frowns. "I should have thought better from an old man, but I suppose if you're going to be as bitter as the bile that you're putting in yourself."

He pushes away from the bar. "I'll let you get back to pickling yourself, Logan. Apparently it's all you really give a damn about, after all, besides yourself." he rumbles as he sets a 10 on the bar to cover his own expenses of one soda water and a tip. He shakes his head, disappointed in the man, and perhaps, while he had expected this outcome - it's not the one Jean wanted. And that's probably what disappoints him the most.


The glowering, golden mask flares, lighting the blonde's solitary corner for a few seconds and igniting the bar's mood.

A bottle breaks and a body hits the ground— hard.

An already distressed table collapses when the snickering guy gets pitched onto it.

The bartender screams for order, only to be cut off when he has to duck a flying glass.

There are a few patrons who, like the bartender, are merely upset at the sudden breakdown than actively engaged in violence. A few savage tweets fly as they nervously look around and/or hide.

"THAT'S what you think I'm about?!"

Logan explodes from his seat to throw a punch towards Scott's jaw as he roars. "They'd hunt you— they'd hunt US, FOREVER if we let 'em—!"

Logan never did hear about X-Red or the JLA's contributions to the case; he left too quickly, too angrily.


Scott was already on his feet, however - it's not Logan's outburst he notices at first, it's the flare of the mask in the corner. The young man starts to frown, ready to interfere with the blinding flash over in the corner to figure out exactly what's going on over there. Logan's obviously funding Captain Morgan's next mission single handedly, after all.

The bartender's call for order is quickly added by Scott taking out his phone to press the emergency dialer. This may not end up pretty, at all. And that's exactly when it goes south. Logan's roar is only heard on the periphary as he turns, and the punch catches him solidly in the jaw.

Scott stumbles backwards, his hand rising to his jaw to rub at it. Contrary to what Logan may have always dreamed of and though, Scott Summers did not drop with one go solid hit. He is not that much of a glass cannon.

Though that is totally going to leave a mark for a while. "Dammit, Logan!" he snaps in anger. And as the man comes rushing at him, Scott tries to use the rush to his advantage to try to sidestep and grab Logan's arm to rotate him to slam into the bar - and spill all those drinks that Logan had lined up.

However, while on the attack, or at least defensive, he is still looking for the masked man, his concern for the others rising above his own protection as he frowns. "…get a hold of yourself!"


Logan is far, far heavier than he should be, but that just gives Scott more momentum to redirect. A crack nearly splits the bar in two when his arm slams into it and he stumbles away.

The masked man - the Psycho Pirate - is seated a few booths dowm from the pool table he agitated before sitting down, ostensibly - somehow - watching the chaos unfold through the appropriately placed depressions in his mask. The glow isn't constant, but flares up periodically as the violence does, getting a little brighter each time. All the while, the Pirate gently strokes his sculpted features.

At one point, it almost seems as if he's looking at Scott looking for - or perhaps even at - him.

Awkwardly, though, this is about the same point where Logan's shaking off the momentary stun of slamming into the bar; after a quick, twitchy step towards the ruby quartz wearing man's side, he barrels in and tries to catch him unawares with a jab to the gut.

"You got SOME FUCKIN' BALLS!" he screams, bloodshot eyes barely focusing on the object of his wrath, "layin' down the law to me like you got the first clue— HOW MANY BODIES before they get what's comin' to 'em, huh?!"


There's a moment as Scott releases from Logan and steps back as he turns to face the Psycho Pirate. He watches the man's mask and the flares and the battle starting to unroll around him - and it clicks in his head. He knows Logan's more than a little.. berzerk.. but even this is out of character for the short Canadian.

Just as Scott is putting it together, however, he's under assault again, as Logan slams into his side, sending him tumbling into a table, shattering it, and sending the tall man to the ground. The sharp jab to the gut causes Scott to lose his breath with a whoof of air as he turns to face Logan. "Don't make me.." he warns quietly, angrilly, his hand going to side of his glasses. "…please." he says, his breath trying to catch.

Shoving his feet into Logan's stomach from where they are on the floor, Scott tries to launch Logan off of him to give him a little breathing room. His hand clenches to the side of his head, holding the ruby lens tight to the side of his face.


Being pinned beneath Logan is an experience like few others. A hot, heavy, sweaty, frothing, snapping, screaming experience featuring a pocket-sized man as he alternates between jockeying for position and throwing haymakers.

Luckily for Scott, the educator and adventurer is able to wedge his feet into Logan's belly and leverage the heavier man off of him. Although he probably doesn't fly as far as Scott might like, the way he bounces and tumbles along the ground, taking out tables and inadvertantly drawing further aggro to himself gives Scott a few seconds of breathing room just the same.

Fascinated, the Psycho Pirate watches every second of the drama playing out between the two men as he continues to stroke his mask.


Peppered and smacked around by Logan, Scott is at once thankful for a few seconds reprieve. And while he could open his eyes, take off his glasses, and blast the hell out of Logan and pulverize him down until one or the other gives up. However, instead, Scott turns towards the Psycho Pirate.

"Dammit.." he hisses. Reaching up to the side of his head, the quartz glasses come off. The eyes are closed as he turns his head towards the bemasked Psycho Pirate. Opening his eyes into narrow slits, he lets go with a blast towards the mask, looking to slam into it as he tries to keep the beam narrowed and focused, because opening his eyes wide would probably demolish half the bar in the process.


The Psycho Pirate tilts his head as Scott— looks at him, again, instead of letting himself be wrapped up in a melee.

He doesn't understand the significance of the X-Man's glasses, but he is concerned with Scott's apparent resistance. So concerned, in fact, that the mask begins to sink into a frown.

The next flare from his mask is dim. In its wake, the man whose girlfriend was slapping him around stops in the middle of beating the crap out of the guy laughing at him; following a moment of wordless lip-quivering, a tear begins to roll as he remembers all the times his dumpy high school self got laughed at by the other kids.

The brawl over by the pool table reaches a somber lull as well as friends and future brothers in law pause to—


Psycho Pirate's head snaps with the impact of Scott's beam, shoving him back into the both so hard that his head smacks against the wall. The mask doesn't break, but the impact does dislodge it, causing it to tumble off into his lap.

A hush falls over the bar, then— metaphorically speaking, of course, because damned if 'Fernando' isn't still going. Brawls and tearful realizations alike stop cold; whatever feelings may have prompted them don't quite dissipate, but the catalyst that caused them to boil into violence is gone.

The rest of the bar is too busy being confused and/or apologetic and/or shocked at what must've come over them to notice the guy in the corner struggling to haul himself from his booth while recovering from taking an optic blast upside the head, so at least he has that going for him. He'd expected to rob the place once everyone was too busy fighting to care about him; eye lasers were not part of the deal.

"The fuck— " Logan exhales after shoving past the couple of bewildered guys who almost made a terrible mistake by engaging him to stagger towards Scott, "What the fuck— I popped you in the mouth, right, Slim?" he wonders, bemused.

Psycho Pirate keeps his mask clamped close to his chest as he tries to edge towards the back door.


It was a desperate gamble. Scott blasts the mask off and as he turns to Logan, the anger broils off. Yes. He was mad. He was that angry - but it's the desperate hold he has on his emotions kept it most in check. Scott lifts his middle finger to Logan in response, cracking his jaw a little, the angry red welt on the side of his face where Logan did indeed slugged him.

Pointing quickly at the man with the mask, he gestures. "Take him down!" he manages, a hint of blood coming from his busted jaw as he tries to cut off the Psycho Pirate at the pass to take him down.



Logan's eyes twitch towards the line Scott's making.

"Guy from the juke— ?" He doesn't quite finish the thought because Scott's moving and it's kind of pointless. Mask or no mask, Logan is still pretty riled up; since he at least trusts Scott not to suggest mugging a random person just because(especially after their conversation), he joins the X-Man in racing after Psycho Pirate—

— who panics and slaps on the mask—

— which instantly twists, eyes and mouth widening in abject terror that thrums through the bar with another dim flare.

Something caused them all to go nuts— it must have.

What if it's still here?

What if it's one of them???

Logan is accosted by a patron who insists on seizing him by the shoulder and gazing intently into his eyes, checking for— something. She isn't really sure what she's looking for, but she'd know it if she saw it; the devil, or something, probably.

"Lady— !" he snaps, tensing up instead of twisting away to give chase; strong as he is, what if he hurt her? "Leggo— geddoff— !"

Psycho Pirate is closing in on the door, but with the awkward gait that comes from panic and having his brain scrambled, Scott could easily catch up with a lunge or something— assuming that he's able to focus on him instead of the little fears trying to worm their way up from his subconscious, of course!


"Logan!" Scott manages to call out as he sees the fellow X-Men get ambushed. With his glasses in place, he's turning to try to catch up to Psycho Pirate, that is until the full weight of the mask comes on him. The younder X-Man slides to a halt, his hands going to the side of his head as he clutches at his eyes, trying desperatedly to cover them up.

The fear of lack of total control. Of not having a way to contain those concussion beams that emminate from his eyes every second, every moment of his life. Of destroying every single thing that's around him or is part of him. Not only destructive to himself, but to his loved ones, his family, his friends. The overwhelming weight of the world that Rachel Summers claimed was coming.

A world where the dream has died, and mutants and humans are at full-blown armageddon with each other. These all pile up inside Scott's gut, clawing, screaming, demanding for release in the only way it can.

Through his eyes.

Hands clutched to his face, Scott fights with every fibre of his being not to rip the glasses away and unload the unholy fury that is the full optic blast as he drops to his knees, clamboring ferociously for glasses that are on his face, but he can't feel them there.


Psycho Pirate staggers out of the bar as Scott hits the ground. Following a quick look left and right, he bolts off into the night; not even a minute later, the fear he stirred up is gone.

"What the fuck," Logan flatly states to the woman gripping him. The two share another moment - silent, confused - before she steps away and shuffles back to her boyfriend. Now that he isn't seeing her and everyone else in the bar bleeding and broken, he can - slowly - exhale.

Before he can sink too far into trying to recover from whatever the hell just happened, he spots Scott amidst patrons who are dazedly picking up chairs, pressing towards the bar to pay tabs(and tip generously), and in at least one case, trying to sneak out with an unpaid tab. After swallowing a snarl, the Canadian approaches him with an extended hand, in case he needs it.

"C'mon— you alright? We still got a guy to take down, or what?"


It takes several seconds once Psycho Pirate is gone for Scott to shake his head, trying to get rid of the fears that had welled up so suddenly inside of him. "No.." he manages to rasp. "He'll keep." he says with a frown as he closes his eyes, and makes sure his glasses are secure on his face before he accepts the hand up.

"Come home, Logan." he says plainly, finally. "You can't do this alone, and we can't do this without you. If you want to take it out on the Purifiers, see X-Red or the JL:A, they're the leads.. but Jean and I.. we need to keep the Institute safe. Will you help us with that?"


Logan maintains his grip for a while as Scott speaks before pulling his hand back.

"Too much heat for me to be layin' my head there right now," he gruffly murmurs after staring at the other man for a silent moment. "Shouldn'ta gone back in the first place, but hell— was the season for it, I guess." He falls momentarily silent again; his eyes shift so that they aren't quite on Scott's.

The mask brought a lot of things to the fore, but that's all it did, in the end; now that it's gone, the memory of having bled his frustrations all over still lingers.

"Me an' you— we ain't cut from the same cloth," he quietly says, pensive rather than judgmental. "I know what I'm good for, Slim - an' so do you, an' so does Chuck, an' so does she. What you're doin'— it is beautiful— but the way I see it, the best a guy like me can do for a dream like yours is whatever he can to keep people from takin' it away."

A beat.

"I'll be in touch."


"Keep in touch, then. We worry." We. Jean and Scott both. Scott gives Logan a small nod as he sets down a few bills to pay for the damage his optic blast caused as he lets out a breath.

"And don't try to shoulder it all alone, Logan. I did. And it didn't work."

With that admission, he turns to leave the bar, and use the motorcycle to head back to Westchester.

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