The Road to Nowhere [Wolverine and Cyclops]

[Rift]

The night began as they so often did for Logan: with a nightmare.

It was not unusual for him to dream of war. The Lord knew he had fought in enough of them. An eternal soldier, always a weapon, forever a killer he had battled in countless conflicts over the ages. The America Civil War, both World Wars, and even a couple only select few individuals knew of on other planets and even realities. It was no wonder than a man as old as he was that had seen and dealt out more than his fair share of violence would have restless nights and dreams haunted by countless ghosts. In fact, for as long as he could remember Logan had been fighting nightmares, reliving acts of savagery he'd either seen or performed. It had only been the last few years that the dreams had faded. A new purpose, a new path, and the family he'd always longed for had allowed him to shove them into the darkest recesses of his mind. But that was then and anything he'd achieved, any semblance of peace he'd found was shattered when Apocalypse took him.

This time there were no phantoms of the dead, be they victims or fallen allies. Instead, the ghosts that observed him in wordless unwavering judgment were those of the living. Those he had failed and betrayed, his found family, The X-Men watched in silence more condemning than any accusation or insult. No vehicles smoldered in foreign fields, no fires raged in burnt out buildings. How could they when everything stood in an ocean of blood. As for enemies there was but one and it didn't wear a uniform, didn't come with a squadron of goons, and there was no way for Logan to defend himself or anyone else from it. The lone enemy that lingered in his nightmares and haunted his waking hours alike was not a war it was THE War.

Much as he wanted to attack, to pop his claws and yell curses as he tore him limb from limb as he had so many other countless foes, he could not. For War was him and yet he was an outside observer, unable to seize control of his own form. He screamed but to no avail as sound refused to come out. Logan tried to shut his eyes, but they too refused to obey. He knew what was coming, what always came, the same thing every single time he dozed off.

In the center of the blood ocean stood a woman. Against the nightmarish scene she was the lone bright spot, literally glowing, her aura vibrant and pure. Had he any control of his body he may have wept at the sight of her angelic-like beauty, the way her perfect face was framed by her cascading red hair. Knowing what was going to happen he begged the X-Men to do something, silently imploring them to intervene, to repel War. Like any other attempts to speak it failed, his pleas for them to kill him going unheard.

He watched helplessly as War lunged forward, unbothered by the knee-high ocean of blood. He snarled and laughed in equal measure as the claws tore open the angel's throat. War paused only long enough to lick a droplet of blood from his claw. Then without a word he plunged both claws into the angel's chest, driving the blades so deep they emerged from her back, staining the wings in crimson gore. Logan stared in wide-eyed horror as the blades came out, her heart dangling from the middle claw. The angel gasped, clutching the hole in her chest as she looked at War, through War, staring into the soul that was Logan trapped inside. She mouthed something unintelligible before collapsing.

"There we go again bub, always breaking Red's heart," War snarked in his voice...

--------------------------------------------------------

"Nooooooooooo!" Logan shouted as he awoke, his clenched fist punching the windshield of the truck and sending a number of cracks cascading across the surface. The damage matched the shattered driver's side window.

Sweat poured down his face and his breathing was ragged as his heart raced. For a long moment he couldn't remember where he was at or differentiate between the nightmare and the waking world. When he finally calmed his nerves and forced himself to look around, it all came back to him in a flash. The dream wasn't accurate, but it was close enough. Jean was dead, by his hand, because he had for just a moment forgot the truth. He was a monster, a weapon, an animal.

The rest of what he'd done as War, as Apocalypse's puppet, was a hazy blur. He vaguely remembered a massive fight and seeing another Horseman, Blob be downed by the leader of the X-Men. Another flash he remembered the pain, the searing heat that shredded skin, the force that made his adamantium laced bones rattle and ache, his brain to rock against the side of his metal skull once the soft tissues were torn away.

Easy to forget why Summers is the boss man until he really let's loose, Logan thought.

It was good that he was and that he had. The Optic Blast not only took War out of commission and rocketed Logan away from the battle where he could do no further harm, but it seemingly shattered Apocalypse's control over him. All the changes and additions that made him the Horseman of War had been stripped away. Unfortunately, the guilt and the consequences remained. That was why when his healing factor kicked in and restored him to fighting shape, he didn't return. There was no way make better what had happened, there was no chance he'd return the conquering hero that saved the day. He had betrayed his friends and family and he had no idea how many others than Jean had been victims.

The truth stared him in the face. All those years ago when he knew he was a malfunctioning weapon, a rabid beast needing to be put down, he was right. He was an animal play acting at being a man and the only thing he could do since he was seemingly unable to die properly, was to leave. To go where he could do no harm. Once, long ago he'd done just that and vanished into the woods to live among the wolves. Now, it was time to return to the wilds, for good this time. Thus he found himself sleeping in a stolen truck on the side of a snow packed road, somewhere in Alberta. If he was going to vanish he was going to do so in a place not terribly far from where his life of murder and pain began.

At least that had been the plan. Like so many things in his existence, that particular goal was going to have to take a slight detour. Several towns back down the road he'd stopped at a gas station to fuel up. After paying he'd intended to get back on the highway, but another patron had caught his attention. After being around death for as long as he had, the smell of it was unmistakable and the customer reeked of it. Or rather, his truck did. A large 18-wheeler it tore out of the station in a hurry, but not before Logan had smelled the decay and heard whimpers of what sounded like several people that were likely still young enough to be considered children.

As the semi vanished Logan had considered calling the cops, giving them a description, and going on his way. It wasn't his business. He told himself it was asking for trouble, that he was in no condition to try playing at being a hero. Not now, not ever again. That argument lasted for a grand total of three minutes until he was able to get the hijacked piece of ancient junk he was driving started. For the last several hours he had followed, tracking more by scent than sight thanks to the blizzard that had popped up. Eventually he caught up, but somebody had noticed him following. The semi had come to an abrupt stop and Logan hadn't reacted fast enough when a passenger ended up at his door and fired a shotgun point black into his face.

Getting sloppy old man. Creed would be eating your intestines for supper by now, he thought, reconfirming that he had no place getting involved in anything combat related.

That could only have been not five minutes prior. His unintentional nap while he healed hadn't been too terribly long meaning if he could get going again, he could find the truck.

Glancing at a bloodstained picture of Jean pinned to the sun visor, Logan sighed, her eyes accusing.

"Dammit. Fine darlin' one more time. For you," he muttered as he coaxed the old pickup to life again.

Convincing himself he could do one last act of good before vanishing forever, he drove on, catching the scent once more despite the whipping winds. Slowing down only when he saw the trailer of the semi, he glanced around the area it was parked. An old hole in the wall bar that was a home away from home for many a trucker and occasional biker. He'd been there once, years ago, but the place had seen better days even back then. Leaving his pickup parked away from any of the lights in the parking lot he exited and approached the trailer, a quick swipe of his claws tearing the lock away. Opening it he found a nightmare withing. Bodies crumpled in corners, dried blood throughout. Still whimpering were a trio of young girls, one elementary school age, the other two barely teens.

Logan knew about these kinds of operations, human traffickers. If he had to hazard a guess he would have bet they were smuggled in from the states, maybe somewhere like Montana or Wyoming. Maybe elsewhere. They'd be taken up north, up to some far-flung towns where untold horrors awaited them.

"C'mere. I want you girls to listen to me. Take these keys, go to that pickup over there, get inside and you stay there 'til I get back. Go. Now!"

As the trio followed orders, Logan turned to the bar. Inside he heard music and laughter, including the voice of the man who had tried taking him out on the road. a savage, toothy snarl spread across his lips as he walked towards the entrance...

[Rift]

3 Days Later...

Logan sat in yet another seedy bar, possibly even smaller and less reputable than the last. he took a shot of whiskey as he scanned his surroundings, the old soldier in him refusing to let his back be towards the door. He listened to the news report on the small television over the bar and tilted his cowboy hat downwards, casting shadows over his eyes.

"In other news, authorities have issued no further statements regarding the vicious and lethal attacks at the Blackout Bar, refusing to confirm earlier reports that the six fatalities did not in fact include the humans being smuggled nor releasing any additional details as to the identities of the deceased or their assailant. Sources close to the investigation have suggested an oddity to the slayings, hinting that the only firearms recovered from the scene were used by the victims and that the killer or killers used bladed weaponry to commit the crime. While a makeshift memorial for the smuggled women is forming outside the bar, most coming to pay their respects are more interested in the fate of the two survivors and are actually praising the person or people responsible. One local politician used the opportunity to speak out on the lack of media coverage concerning human smuggling in Canada, especially among the indigenous population..." the reporter said just as the bartender turned the volume down.

The report didn't seem to draw attention from the few, scant patrons within. Everyone went back to their drinks or listening to the old jukebox belt out a classic.

For his part Logan too ignored the television. He knew all too well what had transpired in that other bar. He knew before he walked in what was going to happen. Killing was never easy and he tried to remind himself that it never should be, but the truth was those men that he had left sliced and diced? He wouldn't be having any nightmares about that. They were monsters, heartless and without a soul, and they got what the had coming to them.

After all, they were predators treating others like cattle. You just showed them what an apex predator is, what a real animal can do, he thought.

He had spent the last three days trying his damnedest to put some distance between the scene of what the media had dubbed the "Trafficker Massacre", but without a vehicle it wasn't as easy. He'd contemplated stealing another one just to get him on the way faster, but he didn't want to take a risk. By now some S.H.I.E.L.D. lackey at some substation or another had likely seen the signs. Best case scenario they were looking for a random superhuman. Worst case they knew it was Logan and were already searching for him.

Even worse case is that someone back home caught wind and decided to come reel the dog back in, he thought bitterly.

The last thing he needed was one of the X-Men showing up. Whether they wanted him dead for what he'd done as a Horseman or were stupid enough to think they could talk him into coming back to the fold, he didn't want to have to deal with it. If anything, his little attempt at doing one last bit of good before fading away had only proven what he already knew: he was a beast not fit to be around civilized folk, mutant, human, or otherwise.

With that in mind he decided to get one last drink before hitting the road.

"Banner did this whole hitchhiking thing for a bit and I'm far prettier. I'll be out in the wilderness in no time and then I'll just disappear alongside all the other animals," he muttered.

Standing he headed for the bar and one last drink. Maybe he'd even silently toast the death of The Horseman of War. The death of Logan the man. Long live the Wolverine.

[webdevil]

7... 8... 9... 10.


The barbell clanged onto its rest. Chest and row supersets engaged the body. Weight training made him feel like something was being accomplished. Simple, yet required all of one's concentration. Something that did not require one to dwell...

Scott Summers sat up from the bench and immediately spun on the spot to prep for bent over rows of the same bar. He didn't have much private time to work out lately so he was making the most of it by combining exercises in as quick a fashion as the non-Mutant related parts of his body would allow. Helping to run a school and multiple active teams of X-Men all fighting the good fight had made him a rather busy bee, even when it was quiet. Quiet was both relative to Mutants as much as it was a luxury, so he felt he needed to make the best of it while he could. Apocalypse's reign of terror did not go unnoticed and its effects were still felt all around the mansion. Privately, he wondered if he should check up on Gambit; they were never close by any means but he was an X-Man all the same. He snorted at the thought. Oh sure, be sincere, have a heart for once and care, he thought, they'll just eye you with suspicion. He could lead them all into a war and they would follow, but try to be anything other than their commander?

He pulled the 300lbs off the rack and lowered it into a controlled position. Face it, Scott, the only people who saw you as anything other than a stiff are dead or distant. Warren? Hank? Bobby? Emma? Madelyn? Logan? Jean?

Jean...

He began to row.

1.

Always back to her.

2.

Are you really going to just boomerang like this every time she dies?

3.

She'll be back and then you ask: Will she even be the same?

4.

Could you really put your heart through all that again?

5.

Would she?

Scott paused at the bottom of the rep. He felt his teeth grind in their place. Once more, the weight came up before being set down on the rack.

"You're being an idiot," he murmured to himself. He felt a sense of deja vu and glanced to see if Hank had come in to admonish him again. He had not. He exhaled his held breath and then glanced at one of the TVs. The TV, like all the things in this room, was merely a forced holographic projection, but it still simulated things in real time as if it were real. He could not help but admire the Danger Room's ability to create such perfect, tangible illusions as this. Scott liked the room best in this state. A quiet gym in the middle of suburban America was a place to catch oneself. Perhaps it was the mundane atmosphere. Or maybe it was a reminder of what he fought for, both as a Mutant, but also as one of the many so-called "superheroes" he and his fellow X-Men have been called:

We fight for the calm.

The TV, he realized, was on one of the state media broadcasts. Scott's opinion of most mainstream media had sharply declined since the days they tried pushing incredible anti-Mutant rhetoric - rhetoric that the Professor worked tirelessly to combat and made frequent appearances on said channels to do so - and hit rock bottom after they labelled him personally a terrorist when it was Magneto who tried declaring New York a new Genosha*. But he understood why the Professor requested it be present in the feeds of the Danger Room:

To know and to observe.

So when a report about a savage attack in a Northern Alberta bar cropped up on one of the talking heads shows - or, rather, a commentary about said report trying to spin it in a way that energized whichever political base they were playing up (to which Scott didn't really care since to him both American Democrats and Republicans hated Mutants quite openly) - it struck a chord in the back of his head.

Sources close to the investigation have suggested an oddity to the slayings, hinting that the only firearms recovered from the scene were used by the victims and that the killer or killers used bladed weaponry to commit the crime.

As the talking head interjected to give his two cents, Scott felt his eyebrow go into his hairline. Sounds to me like a dude brought a knife to a gunfight and managed to win. If this was Alberta, the scene surely would be rare but not unheard of. Didn't Canada have their own superhero team and government agents operating out of Alberta? Scott distinctly remembered the Professor outbidding that team for Wolverine's services so perhaps they got a new member with extensive martial arts training?

Out of a place like Red Deer?

Scott stared for a moment longer, not taking in the talking head's words. It was a commentary on a comment some provincial politician in Alberta's legislature concerning Indigenous affairs that were still very relevant to Canadian politics in a way that were superseded by Mutant affairs here stateside. But what came before this caught his eye:

While a makeshift memorial for the smuggled women is forming outside the bar, most coming to pay their respects are more interested in the fate of the two survivors and are actually praising the person or people responsible.

Scott was intrigued.

"Computer: Change program: Library. Keep television parameters, open channel source to any feed corroborating current story," he said.

With that, the gym vanished only to be replaced by several computer terminals with a veneer of bookshelves. The television sets remained in place, but now had sunken themselves into the pseudo-oak wall paneling. It looked as impressive as any other area in the upper levels of the school, but here it allowed Scott to remain flexible. He took a seat at one of the terminals and pulled up notes about the incident.

Whatever it was, it was not the first.

Several minor police reports of assaults, attempted murders, attempted sexual assaults, and at least one confirmed homicide, a gang banging biker from around the Calgary area, painted a trail. All with the same M/O: Barfight, woman reporting a short man with a lot of hair stepped in and beat the tar out of the entire bar after a drunken stooge tried assaulting them.

Scott glanced over at the news report that showed the aftermath footage of the one confirmed homicide. Blood in the snowbank, police tape cordoned off. Scott's eyes, covered as they were by the ruby-quartz sunglasses that kept his Mutant power in check, saw only in varying shades of red, but he still had enough mental knowledge and training to know how to distinguish blood. And it was a lot.

He pulled up social media. He hated using this as well, but for what he needed from it, it had its uses once he was able to completely mask his ID and location from all potential invasion:

the bar was a complete wreck even by the standards of a barfight. He once heard of a story of a bar in Manhattan that often looked like this once a cape had blown through it, and what he saw fit that description to a tee. Didn't even leave the windows intact. And those bar tops had to be solid oak. Nobody could just crash through any of them that hard and splinter them that much without some kind of force behind it. And then he saw the aftermath of the bar in Red Deer:

Claw marks.

Scott's eyes went wide, crimson flashing. No. No no no no no. Scott stood up in abject horror. It couldn't be!

[Rift]

One last drink turned into several rounds. Logan knew it was a risk and a stupid one at that. All the commotion he had caused the night prior was still on the news and considering he was back in his old stomping grounds there was no telling who might recognize him or who was actively looking for him.

Fer' all I know Fury done rang up Alpha Flight or whatever is left of them these days soon as he heard what went down with the X-Men, he thought.

Despite knowing that every moment he stuck around was another chance for something to go wrong, another opportunity for the Animal to break free, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong. It wasn't just paranoia and it sure as heck wasn't him trying to delay his going back to nature act. No this was a gut feeling, one he had ever since he first crossed the border.

Like I'm being watched and not by some freak from an alphabet agency or even one of Stark's satellites. Not, this is something else. Something primal. I'm being hunted and whoever, whatever it is, they saw that mess I made and they haven't turned tail.

And so instead of leaving the area and heading so deep into the woods nobody would ever find him again, he stayed a day. Had a few extra drinks. Came back the next day after staying up concealed in an alley all night. Because of there was someone or something looking to throwdown with him, Logan was not gonna run. Not when the hair on the back of his neck kept standing on end and the animals in the area went from carrying on like lunatics to not making a sound cause something had them scared.

That was why when he finished his drinking the second day he meandered down the side of the road in the dark, feigning drunkenness, and only half-heartedly trying to hitch a ride. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, he caught a whiff carried on the air. He thought he knew that scent and he very much hoped he was wrong, that it was his mind playing tricks again, just like the dream about Jean.

Get it together bub, you ain't been able to trust yer mind in forever, but the nose knows. It's out there looking for a rematch. And maybe a snack. he thought, trying to remember the last encounter with the beast he thought trailed him and to not think about all the legends he'd remembered hearing from his time among the indigenous people of the region.



Tired of play acting he stopped and looked to the edge of the tree line, where gravel stopped and nature really began, and popped the claws. The SNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINKT! echoing in the silent night.



"C'mon shaggy, I ain't got all night and ain't neither one of us gonna be getting any prettier!" he growled.

[webdevil]

Scott had to wait a day for the Blackbird to be returned and prepped for takeoff. He used that time to further study up on the situation and at least one Danger Room session preparing for Snow Combat. It didn't make the minutes go by any faster. The more he poured into it, the more evidence supported his theory and he hated himself for praying it was not true:

Wolverine was alive.

The Battle with Apocalypse was chaos and much was forgotten in the interim, but he vividly remembered Logan disappearing under the weight of his Optic Blasts. Nobody except Apocalypse himself could have survived that kind of damage, every atom would have been crushed. There would have been nothing left. But then again, stranger things have happened. He had seen the other side of the universe, other dimensions, and power that took reality and beat it with a bat just for fun. By the time he had the Blackbird preparing to leave the docking bay beneath the mansion, he realized: What was driving him was his search for an unexplainable thing to be explained. Maybe it didn't need to. Maybe he should just power down now and go on.

He gripped the yoke of the Blackbird tighter.

No.

Even if it wasn't Logan, there are citizens being impacted and nobody was paying attention, not even the local Alpha Flight. The X-Men had no borders or jurisdictions, especially not after being to multiple planets and involving themselves in events far beyond their "usual affairs" as other heroes in their world would call it. And with that thought put aside, he pulled the thrusters and let the Blackbird soar high and Northwest.

To Alberta. Whatever is out there.

[Rift]

Logan sailed backwards through the air and kept going, splintering trees as he went until he slammed back first into a sturdier trunk. Falling to the ground he coughed out blood, the bruises and contusions he'd received already starting to heal over. Indeed a regular human and a good number of his fellow mutants probably would have had their spines broken in multiple places, but the Wolverine's adamantium laced bones merely meant it hurt. Badly.

Damn! Getting rusty. Even knowing it was coming I couldn't react in time! he thought bitterly.

Rising he coughed once more and popped his neck.

"Nice one ugly. You've gotten faster since last time we tussled, but I've just gotten meaner," he barked.



Taking a stance he popped his claws, the metallic blades sliding from between his knuckles, tearing flesh as the distinctive SNIIIIKT! sound echoed through the area. If the beast known as Wendigo didn't know who he was before, the sight of the claws would definitely remind it.

Ain't the same this time. Back then I thought I had the animal at bay, thought I could still pretend, that I could act like one of them. A human. But Apocalypse showed me, hell the world, the truth. I'm a monster and monsters don't care about things like mercy. Not even for fellow monsters.

With a guttural snarl that sounded ever bit as inhuman as his adversary, The Wolverine launched himself at the creature intent on driving his claws clean through to its heart.

[webdevil]

The claws were sharp. It felt the little man charging at him like a missile. Felt as metal carved flesh. A roar echoed through the trees and then its own claws found purchase as it grabbed for wrists and forced the little man's claws free and then pulling, trying to find purchase in the man's trapezius with its fangs. Instinct was all that mattered. The claws were sharp.

------------------

The Blackbird landed short of Red Deer, Alberta. Scott had the sense to pre-load the truck and gave a low sigh of relief he did as he entered Canadian airspace. Early spring in Alberta more or less did not exist. He thought for a moment to what his father once said about living in the North during their time in Alaska:

"Up here? There are only two seasons that exist and should concern yourself with, Scott: Winter and Construction,"

Scott did not smile at the amusing tidbit in his memory, but he nevertheless understood what Christopher Summers meant when he said it. He had a feeling this would be the last amusing thought on this mission. He questioned whether or not he should have informed the Professor about his departure, but perhaps Charles already knew and that was why he did not stop him, or ask him to take more X-Men with him. He considered this as the jet touched down, put it in cloak, and then lowered the rear bay doors before getting in the truck. He pulled the seatbelt to his waist. The truck's instruments were already calling it into low teens and a blizzard coming. Turning on the engine, he steeled himself, visor firmly in place despite the more inconspicuous look he made sure to wear, and set off.

[Rift]

Over his many years Logan had faced plenty of tough opponents. Some had more power or superior technology that allowed them to stay in a fight longer than most. Others had mystical abilities that gave them endurance or longevity that rivaled or surpassed his own. Then there were his fellow beasts, other monsters, things like The Hulk and Sabretooth that were pure instinct and primal rage mixed with a taste for violence and blood. As far as tough foes went the Wendigo was in the top tier. From past encounters Logan knew that the creature was damn near invincible, that he could hack and slash and rip and tear as long as he wanted and it wouldn't make much difference...

But that was Logan the man who was calculating, intelligent, and able to use his knowledge to win battles as much if not more than his aggression and claws. This was the Wolverine, as much a creature of rage and instinct as the beast he battled, a weapon sharpened over the years through unbearable pain, loss, and savagery. So when the Wendigo bit into him, tearing clothing, flesh, and muscle the Wolverine howled in pain only to try and return the favor. Snarling, saliva dripping from his canine teeth, his vision as red as the bloodstained snow, he kicked away from the creature no doubt leaving bits of flesh between its teeth. With his back and shoulder region screaming with white-hot pain, he growled, nostrils flared as he stared down the beast. Rather than retreat however he rushed it again, using his shorter stature to try and duck beneath its reach, one set of claws slashing towards its growing area as the others tried to tear apart hamstrings.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that the pain he felt was deserved and even it was not enough to punish him for what he had done and every slash he handed out in turn was done with Apocalypse and himself in mind. The nightmare he'd had of War superimposed on the Wendigo for moment and he once more gave himself over to the animal within.

[webdevil]

Lungs filled. Legs slashed. Air cracked as roars escaped ribs and ripped the air. Claws found a tree. The roots went deep. Swing at little thing. Find little thing. Smash little thing. A roar rips the air.


------------------------------------------------

Cyclops parked the truck outside a local tavern that had made the news a few nights back. The police tape was still up, but had since been worn down. Seems the owner had little patience for their investigation as the parking lot had cars that seemed to be from the regulars. Sure enough, the roughly dozen or so patrons in the bar all looked right up at the tall, good looking, guy in red glasses. The two playing at the pool table looked up from their game, even the local barfly stopped. If this were a move, it would have looked like something straight out of the late 80s action films. Cyclops realized immediately that Albertans were not all that different from Texans: Too clean cut and they think you're a Fed. He felt his eyes roll. Idiot. Well too late now.

He walked over to the bar and pulled out a roll of Canadian cash in his pocket. He figured this over his wallet would look less suspicious, but the glasses alone probably made them leery. He couldn't blame them.

"What's with the shades?" asked the bartender as he came over, giving a tone of polite, but otherwise unwelcome demeanor.

"Light sensitivity," replied Cyclops and putting down a twenty. "And a Coors Light if you got it,"

The bartender quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise took the money and with it, pulled a bottle out from under the bartop, wrenched the cap off with a bottle opener, and handed it to him. Cyclops thanked the man and began sipping. He knew perfectly well if he began to ask questions, they would all clam up and work to have him thrown out - perhaps violently. Last thing he needed was a fight that risked knocking his glasses off and demolishing the dive in seconds. No, this was strictly observation. It wasn't hard to find. While most of the patrons - albeit cautiously - began resuming their usual activities, evidence of hastily replaced chairs, a table that looks like it was quickly re-assembled by a buddy good with a lathe and a hammer, and the juke was still effectively splinters. Even a chunk of the bartop seemed missing.

"What brings you up this way, stranger?" asked the barman, again with that unwelcome but otherwise polite tone.

"Looking up a friend. Heard he moved up here recently, told me to meet him here," lied Cyclops, tho there was enough of a version of the truth in there to make it work. The barman's expression cleared up a little, but the tone shifted from unwelcome in the underlying hostile kind of way to more of a kind of "polite you to death" kind.

"Ah, that fair. Got a name?" the barman asked.

"Scott," replied Cyclops. The barman gave a polite nod.

"Well Scott, I hope yer buddy wasn't looking for ya here. Place has barely been able to reopen. Those glasses make ya stop seeing the tape?"

"Well no, but that's not really my business," said Scott, giving a shrug of polite ignorance. He had to choose his words carefully here. If he let on he knew anything, they would pounce. "Everything ok?"

"Nah, guess not. But it's been all over the fake news: Damn place tore up. Honestly Jeff's or the Wild Wing might be better. Least they got more creature comfort,"

Scott lowered his bottle, only about half drunk, and then pulled out another tip.

"I can see when I am being politely excused. Here, and thanks for the heads up. I'll text him and let him know," said Scott.

"Any time," said the bartender, who clearly sounded as relieved as Scott felt that there was no trouble. Scott got to the truck and set in. He opened the map app to see where these two locations were the barman referred to. Still in town, but further down, he noted. Red Deer wasn't big population wise, but it was quite spaced out. Not many places for Logan to hole himself up at. The Wild Wing, he noted, was a family chain bar and grill, which Logan would only go to if he was decidedly not looking for a fight. It was entirely possible, but given the remnants of his last brawl in that dive? Jeff's Tavern was the better spot to start. He keyed the ignition and headed northeast out of the parking lot.