logan + callisto

[x-callisto.livejournal.com]

Logan meets Callisto. There is awkward conversation, beer, and pool.


Logan leaned against the doorway to the Gym, watching Callisto put the littles through their paces. He grinned to himself as he watched her move - she knew a thing or two, although he'd put money that she was self-trained. Maybe she'd be willing to take a few falls on the mat, get a real workout. He knew almost nothing about her, but something was nagging him about the way she moved, the way she moved from attack to block and back again. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, and for all he knew she was reminding him of somebody he couldn't even fucking remember.

"Okay, enough," she was saying now, glancing up at the large clock on the wall. "Your next session is with Lex. Try not to accidentally let him turn you into guerilla fighters or ninjas or pirates or whatever," she added with a wave of her hand, moving over to the benches to retrieve her towel and give her face a cursory wipe, although she didn't appear to have actually broken a sweat. As the kids filed out she remained, beginning to collect together the floor mats, handling them very much as though they were slightly unweildy table napkins rather than substantial rubber sheets.

"Kinda guy who likes to watch kids getting sweaty, huh?" She seemed to be speaking to the air around her - or at least, she wasn't actually looking in Logan's direction. It was also hard to call whether or not she was being sarcastic.

"Kids are kids. Hopefully this stuff you teach'll keep them alive long enough to get clear." he commented. "Street-brawler, huh?" he asked with amusement. "You remind me of someone. Dunno who yet, but the way you move's pretty familiar. And I'm Logan." he said. "You're the one who calls herself Callisto?" he asked.

Busted... Callisto didn't know what this guy's game was, but being pegged as a street fighter when she was supposed to be teaching kids the finer points of not getting dead wasn't on her To Do list for the day. She had hoped that her sessions with Munroe had put a dent in the untrained appearance of her style, but apparently not enough of one.

"What about it?" Was her only response. To what was anyone's guess.

"Nice to have a name with the face." he said with a shrug. She was - spiky, was the best way he could think of to describe it. Hard to tell from here with this still air. "Want a hand with cleanup?" he asked.

"I think I've got it." By now Callisto had all the floor mats gathered up, held across her back in what looked to be a somewhat haphazard fashion. As she turned to head for the cupboard where they were kept though she rolled her eyes and with a sigh commented, "I guess you could get that door."

"Sure." he said, walking over and opening the door for her to get the mats put up. Now that he was closer he could get a better smell of her. Sweat, of course, along with something else spicy. No hostility, though. "How's your afternoon looking?" he asked her as she finished getting her class's gear put away.

"Uh. Okay." Callisto seemed somewhat confused by this line of questioning. The cupboard door clicked shut and she turned to face him. She looked for a moment as though she might say something more, but then she merely stuff her hands in the pockets of her cargo-pants, and made her way back over to the bench at the side of the room.

"Got some time for Harry's?" he asked. "One fighter to another?" he asked with a grin. "Used to teach this class." he noted.

"Right. I mean, no." Callisto hesitated, confused now. Was this guy trying to make friends, tell her how to do her job, or hit on her? "I mean, sure. Whatever. Harry's. Okay."

He chuckled. "Not really used to someone askin' you out for a beer and chow, are you?" he commented. "It's just a beer. And some grub. That's it." he said cautiously. He was strongly reminding her of someone, but for the life of him he couldn't put his finger on it. He just hoped she wasn't retarded or something. She didn't seem to be tracking real well. Maybe one of the kids got her once or twice upside the head?

Callisto frowned. "I don't really... do... people," she said carefully. Nonetheless, she picking up her towel and threw it over her shoulder. "Gimme ten minutes, okay?"




She hadn't showered. She had, however, changed into the ubiquitous faded jeans, lace-up boots, wife-beater and biker jacket combo that she could usually be seen in any time she wasn't either training or in overalls under a car - today, a cold but bright day, she topped off the ensemble with a pair of mirrored aviators. It was a cliché, perhaps, but it definitely worked for her, for all she looked like she'd stepped right out of a James Dean movie. One hand emerged from a pocket holding a zippo, though she didn't pull out cigarettes, just flipping it lit and back closed again a couple of times with a neat flick of the wrist before returning it to its hiding place. One boot scuffed slightly on the gravel driveway outside the garage where they'd agreed to meet. However cool she was trying to look, she wasn't passing - she was nervous. Why, however, was hard to gauge, even for someone with a super-sense of smell.

They could almost be twins in their fashion sense. He himself was wearing a wifebeater, a button-down flannel over it, faded and comfortable jeans, leather jacket, and boots. Although his were cowboy, not combat. His Stetson on his head and a stogie clenched between his teeth. "Hey, kid." he said in a friendly sort of a way, waving as he walked out of the garage. "Too nice of a day to drive - we'll just walk it if that's all right with you." he said. Then he got close enough to catch her scent - she hadn't showered so it was still prominent despite the wind and the weather. Still spiking all over the place.

Callisto shrugged. She usually biked to Harry's, but it wasn't far, pushing her hands deeper into her pockets and hunching slightly against the wind-chill, her shock of dark hair whipping around her face, she turned to head in the relevant direction.

He walked alongside her, his hair much more resistant to being whipped about in the wind. "So. Where ya from?" he asked as they walked, just to make some conversation.

"Around. Uh, the city, I guess," Callisto qualified, her New York accent becoming a little more apparent as she said it.

"OK." he said. She didn't want to talk, they wouldn't talk. That simple. He almost liked a woman who could keep her fucking yap shut a time or two. "Do anything for fun other than fix up beaters and teach the kids how not to get murdered?"

"Stuff." Callisto seemed to have a habit of at least initially answering any question monosyllabically, even if she invariably caught herself and elaborated. "Work on the blackbird sometimes," she offered. Another pause. Then, "Bit of work around the mansion, upkeep. The kids around here trash stuff a lot. And the grown-ups." Another short pause, before she added, "Sometimes I bike into town." She stopped short of mentioning the shelter. Callisto had a funny way of thinking about her philanthropic work - there was a part of her that thought that if she talked about it, it almost didn't count - like bragging about it took away its value somehow.

"So you like working with your hands?" he asked with a grin.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Nope." he said. "I think it's a good thing." he replied. "Little defensive, ain'tcha?" he mused.

Callisto scowled, but there didn't seem to be much energy behind it. "You used to live here, right? I mean, before?" The question was asked with a tone that managed to combine reluctance and challenge. This chick had 'defensive' down to an artform.

"Been around for a bit." he said. "Picked up Marie at a dive-bar in Canada and then the Brotherhood trashed my home." he said with a shrug. "Been here mostly ever since. How about you? City girl, by the sound of it." he said with a grin as they walked.

"Uh, I guess you could say that," came the reply. She sounded almost amused at the question. "Lived there most of my life, more or less."

They were almost to Harry's now, and he fell silent for the remainder of the short walk. Once inside the bar, he headed straight for the back by the pool tables, but not before ordering a pitcher of beer and a pair of pint glasses. "Sure hope you like beer." he commented.

"It's been known." Callisto watched the beverage slosh its way into the pint glasses with a slightly distracted expression. Eventually, it occurred to her to observe some of the rules of basic conversational etiquette, particularly when someone has just bought you beer. "So, uh... You're not from around here?" she suggested. Logan's accent wasn't strong, but it was also most definitely not New York.

"Dunno." he said with a shrug and a slurp of beer. "Memory goes back maybe fifteen years now, give or take." he said. "Earliest I know is up by Mount Logan, in Canada, so I figure I'm Canadian." he said. "Eh."

"Huh." Callisto mused on this for a moment, sipping idly at her beer. It seemed to her that memory loss, for some people, probably wasn't such a bad thing. "So how'd you end up here?" She had something of a feeling that, as with her, Logan's arrival hadn't necessarily been entirely voluntary. This did not look like a guy who particularly needed or wanted the protection of other mutants.

"Picked up Marie at Laughlin City." he said. "Well, she stowed away in my gear. Then the whole Liberty Island thing hit." he said, and left it at that. "Been around, mostly, ever since." Save for a bout of the Crazy and some time trying to scan inside his head with Walt. "You got the look of someone who can take care of herself." he said, meaning it as a compliment.

The young woman lifted her slim shoulders in a graceful shrug. Sure, she could take care of herself. If you don't care too much how you make money, don't strictly need a roof over your head - one that isn't underground, anyway, if you don't need or want decent people around you or, y'know, self respect, it's pretty easy to take care of yourself. Callisto didn't ask to come to the mansion, but she wasn't dying to leave again either. Regular visits to the shelter had cemented that in her mind. "I do okay. I guess it depends on your definition."

"Doesn't it always?" he said with a chuckle, draining the last of his beer and pouring himself another. "Smoke?" he asked as he dug out his cigarillos and offered the black-haired woman one.

A short shake of the head. "Can't do stimulants."

"Suit yourself." he said, lighting up and enjoying the harsh smoke, the buzz of the nicotine that was smothered almost before it could begin, the damage to lungs and throat regenerating. A habit he wasn't even sure why he kept, save that it dulled the world a little, made it easier to bear.

Just once he'd like to find sweet oblivion in the bottom of a glass.

"Play pool?" he asked.

Callisto raised an eyebrow. "A bit."

Logan grinned, showing teeth. "Want to put something on that?" he asked.

"I don't think so," came the reply as Callisto slid out from the booth and shrugged her jacket off.

"Not even, say, the next round of drinks?" he asked, shrugging his own off as well. "But hey, I understand. You don't think you rate, that's fine." he said with a small grin.

The look Callisto gave him was unreadable - was she amused? Unimpressed? Bored? It was hard to say. But there was something in the air that said that the game was on.

Still, though, she shook her head again. "Let's play one with nothing to lose first."

"Your call. Rack 'em." he said, killing his second beer and refilling his cup again. He went for the rack to grab one of the least-crooked cues of the bunch for his use.

Callisto racked up the pitted, scratched balls neatly, then grabbed a cue of her own, apparently caring little how straight it was. "Your break?" She offered.

"Ladies first." he said, conceding the break to her.

Giving a shrug that clearly said 'your funeral', Callisto bent over the table, and broke. Viciously. The balls scattered wide across the table, although only two went in.

"Stripes," she called with barely a glance at the table, and in the time it took Logan to neck half his third beer (which wasn't very much time at all), another three stripes followed, landing in their pockets with an inceasing precision as they went. An unexpected cannon, however, alterted her to a hitherto unnoticed cambre at one side of the table, and Logan was up.

He grinned as he stepped up to the table and started to run it. Solid after solid landed in pockets, Logan's long-familiarity with the game and almost preternatural hand-eye coordination served him well, until he misaimed a shot just by a millimeter or two.

"Over to you, darlin'." he said.

If Callisto was surprised by Logan's skill, she didn't show it. But was that the tiniest hint of a smile?

Some clever safety shots and a few minutes later, there were three balls left on the table. Shortly after that, there was only one. And it was Logan's.

"Huh." Logan said, looking at the table. "Not bad. But anyone can get lucky once." he commented. "Care for another go?" he asked. "With or without the rider?"

Another shrug. "Sure. Next round I guess?"

"All right. Pitcher of beer for the winner." he said, then racked up the table to start up the next game. "You're not bad, kid." he said. "Got a good eye. Enhanced?" he asked curiously.

Callisto cocked an eyebrow at him. What was it with people around here and asking personal questions? She hadn't asked him what side he dressed to. Back in the old days, you never asked unless you wanted a fist in the face, or a boot to the stomach, or a... prehensile clubbed tail to the back of the head or whatever. Mind you, back in those days most of the mutants she knew wore their mutations on their sleeves, as it were. Also, kid?

"Rack 'em up," was all she said.

"All right." he said, respecting her silence. He was just trying - badly - to make conversation anyway. He racked 'em up and blew 'em apart with a break that sent the balls flying - including two stripes into pockets.

"Stripes." he said unnecessarily, then proceeded to sink shot after shot. When Callisto finally got onto the table, there were eight balls left and none were stripes.

With an expression of concentration that made her brow furrow in a way that was almost endearing, she stalked slowly around the table, sizing it up from every angle before she began, pacing slowly and methodically around the table to take each shot as she had mapped them out in her mind. Far superior in the tactics department, however, Logan knew before she did that they weren't all going down, and sure enough, she snookered herself on the seventh solid, and clipped the 8-ball trying to hit it.

"Tough break." he said, then took up his cue more like a weapon than a cue. Shifting his grip, he lined up his final shot and sank it quite handily.

"Got a good game." he said. The way she moved was seriously itching in his brain. She reminded him of someone and he couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe some beer'd help him sort it out. "Pitcher's out." he said with a grin. "Give you a chance to break even if you want." he offered.

The young woman shrugged. "I've got nowhere to be."

"Rack 'em." he said with a grin.