Garficcino
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More figures pour into the alleyway. Now there's about half-a-dozen Yakuza, give or take a few. Real ratrace, cut-throat low-lives, who probably consider themselves as rough-an'-tough as men can be. My kinda crowd... my kinda odds. I almost feel sorry for 'em. Punks armed with pipes, knives, and whatever else they can get their hands on lunge out of the dark corners to my flanks, not knowin' I can smell 'em comin' a mile away. Hotshot that'd been doing the mugging pops a full 40-round box of 9-mil my way, not caring a hoot if he drops friend or foe -- so long as he nails me. The bullets burn like fire. Would've killed anyone else. They just make me mad. That's about when things start to get outta hand.
The claws are out. Six of 'em. Three in each hand, extending from bionic housings implanted in my forearms. Blades are pure adamantium, just like the rest'a me. They're near indestructible, and honed so sharp they'll cut through anything. Usually, I'm restrained about using 'em. Not tonight. These fellas don't seem ta give a damn who they hurt -- So neither will I. I jerk my head, motionin' the lady with the handbag out of the alleyway. She's happy to oblige. She doesn't wanna be here for what happens next.
One thing that's important to know about me -- I'm not like the other X-Men.
They're Super-Heroes. Idealists. Dreamers. Folk that look for the best in others. Good People.
Me, I'm somethin' else.
I take the world as it is, an' I give better than I get.
I move quick - not even havin' to think. I'm as fast and as yellow as lightning. Adamantium claws tear through gunmetal an' silk suits like wet paper as I rush between a handful'a the gunmen. The Yakuza drop like flies. One tries to turn his head to follow me as I pass 'im, when he spots somethin' on his shoe -- The steak he'd had for dinner. He sinks to the ground, clutchin' his stomach where I'd slashed him. The three claws on my other hand sink deep into a fella with a bat as he tries to get the drop on me, taking an overhand swing at me from my lefthand side. I lift him up with one arm, slingin' him into another frightened punk on my right like a ragdoll. Gunfire rips, an' I charge , workin' through the pain. I lunge at two more punks as they frantically backpedal, puttin' a set of claws through each of 'em. I rip my arms loose. I've still got work to do. I'm barin' my fangs like a tiger someone kicked in the teeth. A lead pipe makes contact with my head. I wasn't payin' attention -- Didn't hear the creep comin' over the gunshots, the yells, and the screams. Clumsy on my part. Stupid. I don't so much as flinch as the thing bends around my adamantium skull. I retaliate, shifting my weight, then launchin' a slash that cuts loose the arms that swung the thing at me in the first place. I can smell that the dirtbags still standin' are terrified, as they oughta be. Most of 'em scramble outta the alleyway in a panic. The few that stay behind are either too wounded to move, or too scared. My claws retreat back into their housings, and I leave the alleyway, too. Don't need hearing like mine t' hear the sirens headed my way.
I climb back up the same way I'd come down. In no time, I'm movin' seemlessly from rooftop to rooftop. I make my way back to where I'd stashed my bike, an' I take off. Destination: Central Park. Xavier's Institute. I'm only a hop an' a skip away. I opt to cut the east corner to get around Central Park -- avoid the traffic pourin' inta Times Square. I ride north. Past the Metropolitan Museum. That's when I get a whiff of somethin' interesting. Somethin' I ain't smelled in a while. Smoke... an' brimstone.
I park my Harley right outside the museum. Sue me. Yet to meet a fella with the stones to tow anything'a mine. Place don't exactly look open for business right now, anyhow. I climb my way up onto the roof. Smell's comin' out from the open skylight. And sound. Voices. Figure that's how Kurt got in, so I follow suit.
---
The Wolverine pounces through the open skylight, landing on the museum floor with the agility of a Great Cat. He scans his surroundings. Two familiar faces. Kurt. Spider-Man. Two less familiar. Also, a whole lot of ninjas. Museum robbery. He pops his claws and speaks up, making his presence known.
S N I K T !
( Crenando Phantom Thief of Hearts Ferociousfeind Faerie13 )
"Hey - You fellas need a hand?"
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