His past, his god damn past. Twenty years he had searched for it; searched long enough he could have made a new past. But something deep inside him told him he couldn’t forget, couldn’t move on, he had to know. He was foolish enough to think that meant there was somewhere he was needed, an unconscious beacon summoning him home.
A few years ago he found out that wasn’t the case. He never found his past. His past found him. That feeling of need to remember was his survival instinct trying to make him remember the pain, the people, the enemy.
And now he remembered it. Remembered every god damn thing and whished he hadn’t. But at least now he knew why he was running. And who he was running from. Those bastards were going to have to try a lot harder to get him a second time, that he’d make sure of. So if he’d have to run from them another two years and keep wiping them out one faceless fucker at a time then that’s what he’d do. But the Wolverine wouldn’t be collared again.
He paced around the cage, hungry and waiting. Coming to these places almost always insured they’d catch his trail again. Shit-hole bars in bum-fuck nowhere was the first place they looked for him. But he didn’t care. The chase, being the prey, ate at his predator psyche. The fights were the only thing that kept him sane. He needed them, needed to see the sad plea on the beaten and bloodied humans’ faces, begging him for mercy, asserting that HE was the alpha.
A long, slow drag from his cigar filled his lung with the comforting smoke, forcing out the air of stale, cheap cigarettes. Clenching his eyes shut he leaned heavily against the back of the cage. His nerves hissed as the shark wire dug into his skin although his face remained expressionless. He didn’t watch as they dragged the lump of his last opponent out and the leers and boos of the crowd were merely a faint, ethereal noise that seemed so far away. The only sense that stayed heightened was his nose. And what he smelled was desperation. Pathetic desperation from every last dumb fuck in that place.
Another challenger stepped into the cage with the Wolverine and he swore into his drink. He wanted to get him out of there without a scene but the fights never seemed to end. Didn’t any of these poor fools realize they didn’t have a chance? He could see through the hazy fog and rowdy crowd that new challenger taking a swing at the Wolverine. Apparently not.
Downing the rest of his scotch, he decided the freak had been out long enough. Not to mention he was eager to get the hefty reward the general was offering. He pulled out his phone from the inside breast pocket of his jean jacket and pressed the only button on it that actually did anything.
“Yes, sir, it’s Lt. Anderson. I’ve got him. He’s--”
He didn’t see the small hand come up from behind him but was startled when it lightly grasped his over the phone. His words stopped and he could only give small gasps as his body seizured. Pain surrounded him until he fell into unwelcome, unholy oblivion.
“Anderson? Anderson, report! Do you re--”
A leather clad foot reached over his body on the floor and landed hard onto the phone, making sure to crush it into the liquor and piss covered concrete floor. Its partner joined it with a little leap.
She looked down at the man as she jumped up onto his stool. Shaking her head she tugged her dark, navy glove back on. A familiar pounding formed in her head and she rubbed her temples while rolling her eyes, trying to ease the pressure.
“Oh, sugah, ya are a bad, bad boy,” she mumbled to the body and reached for his glass. It wasn’t till she touched it to her lips that she found it was empty. She huffed and turned it upside down. The ice bounced off the back of his head before settling on the ground beside him.
“Excuse me? Can ah get a refill?” She called out to the bartender, waving the empty glass and winking at him.
He came over immediately, a pudgy middle aged man covered in his own sweat. “Sure, honey, what were you having?”
She sniffed the glass then smirked. “Scotch. But don’t be wastin’ no space with ice.”
“You got it,” He reached to take her glass but his hand stilled when he saw the man lying face down on the floor. “Wha…” he stammered, eyes wide.
“Wha…” she repeated, looking at him. Then she followed his eye line to the mass at her feet and she couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh, him. Some people jus’ can’t hold their liquor, ah guess. Anyway! How ‘bout that scotch, big fella?”
The slow southern drawl dragged his attention back to her where it blatantly landed on her ample chest. He lingered there till a glass was again shoved in his face and she smirked at him. “Ya ain’t gonna keep a girl waitin’ are ya?”
Quickly he shook his head, his second and third chin jiggling, and ran to the back shelf behind the bar. He returned and refilled her glass with a shaky hand, unable to stop himself until the amber liquid was pouring over the side. She took it and winked at him again before turning her stool to face the main attraction.
Inside the cage the man Lt. Anderson knew as the Wolverine was shoving the heel of his boot into the ribs of some tiny little shaking man that was laying on the floor. Her grin grew as she looked down to the man at her own feet. As she figured it, guessing by the new military information buzzing through her system, she had a little over an hour before the cavalry came. And that was more than enough time to watch the rest of the fights and finish her drink.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Updates will be a little slow on this one till I magically find more time, so be patient with me. And, as always, forgive all errors. :)