It Keeps You in the Game

[Zachariah Irons]

Zach leaned back against the bar and slowly eased the bottle to his lips before taking another sip. He'd just spent his last couple years at the University of Chicago and just because he was suddenly 21 in the last several months did not mean he had all of the sudden began to drink. The University of Chicago held awesome parties actually and Zach hadn't missed many since his freshmen year.

In his red leather jacket, Zach set the bottle down and smoothed out the wrinkles of his jeans with his hands slowly, looking into the small crowd of the bar. This was the closest one he could find to the Cullen Institute. At least it wasn't completely cut off from society, this small gas stop community was only about a 10 minute ride down the road.

They had beer at the Institute too. In fact, they had multiple kitchens, but that didn't mean Zach just wanted to get out sometimes. Sure, you saw mutants on the news, and online, pictures on Youtube and stuff. But to live with them, to actually BE one of them. The sense of normality was out the window. Zach was still adjusting.

[Junkie]

Bob hunched over a barstool with a pitcher of Sam Adams in one fist and about five cigarettes in the other, taking a long drag from each one between heavy gulps of lager. He paused a moment and tapped his sternum with his thumb, making waves of smoke with each thump. His jarring released a hair-raising belch as he continued to sip the foam from the empty vessel.

Bob’s life was mundane by his standards, but a bit criminal by others. He did as he pleased and was considered by most to be a “loser”. That was fine by him. He did whatever made him feel good, and heavy drinking was one of those things. He had a pension for picking fights and pressuring young women into returning to his modest living quarters for a midnight romp. The man wasn’t exactly Captain America.

Bob turned on his barstool and hopped down, placing his pitcher on the bar. He looked over at Zach and opened his mouth, with no good being his intention. “Ay son… ainchua bit young’a be ina place lahke this? Sure aina dern soul ‘roun here’da hep you if’n sumpm bad wuzta happm… Yuhlook lawst, son… Ahthinkyaneeda dern ride home…” he jeered at the young man, scratching his belly and poking at the would-be adversary’s leatherclad shoulder.

[Zachariah Irons]

"Get lost, man."

The guy was looking for a fight and Zach slowly stood from where he sat. Not that Zach wanted to have anything to do with anymore fights. He was too afraid of his own powers to start anything with a sloppy drunk. But nonetheless, his body tensed slightly and he knew the sensation as his body felt... denser. Punching Irons now would be like punching a boulder. Zach wasn't even sure if he would feel it or not. And he wasn't sure exactly how much he weighed either but the wood flooring beneath him creaked so he let up on it a little.

"I don't want any trouble, lemme' finish my drink and I'll be on my way."

[Junkie]

“Get lost.”

The phrase rang in Bob’s ears until they felt like bleeding. “Kinda hawrd t’get lawst whenyaint got no place t’go, cep’na broomclawset…” Bob mused at the thought of having a home. “If’ahada place’t cawl m’own, I’d not be herein this dump pickin fahts wi’ boys’t wear red leatha.”

“Oh…” Bob grinned as he yanked the young man’s drink from his hand, tipping his head back and finishing the drink, “looks liker drank’s been emptehd son… You ready’ta daince or aintche?”

Bob smashed the brown bottle against the crown of his skull, showering in the suds and shattered glass. He could feel the blood trickle down to his ears, the beer stinging the cuts on his head. He hissed as he shook his head. His heart began to beat faster and everything became a blur as he slashed the broken bottle towards the younger adversary, cleaving the man’s jacket across the chest, pulling away a smooth glass bottleneck…

“Yaint normal son… ya’mightwannagit dat checked out…” Bob’s speech became a bit quicker than the usual slow cadence of his Kentucky drawl as he picked the boy up by the collar and threw him back to the door as the frame loosed itself with ease, taking the fight outside.

Bob walked with heavy footsteps and a hunched back, looking down at Zach with his piercing steel-blue eyes, “Yerabit heavy furra pertyboy, aintche?”

[Zachariah Irons]

Zach tried to get to his feet as quickly as possible. The glass bottle bit had caught Zach off guard. He didn't know it all worked like that, not at all. Again he felt that awkwardness creeping into the back of his mind. And to boot, he'd just been thrown out of a bar, and not just out of a bar, but through the door of the bar which lay in pieces beside and beneath him. And amidst all of that, Zach felt fine, physically that is. And he could barely understand what the psycho crack head was talking about. Regardless, Mr. Crackhead was about to take one for the team.

"Man, I liked that jacket."

Irons gained his feet just as the creep came within arms reach.

"But I'll give you a last chance to just give me enough for my jacket and then get lost. We've already made a mess and you don't really seem like the kind of guy who's gonna stick around to help me clean up. I'd hate to have to clean the floor with you."

Zach liked to think himself clever.

[Vigilante]

"Hey, hey!" The bartender threw up his hands and yelled towards the now broken doors. "You're gonna have to pay for that!" He fumbled under the bar and retrieved a heavy wooden baseball bat and a phone. "I'm calling the police."

Ginny Hayes was sitting well away from the altercation, but was watching just like everyone else in the small bar. A good looking guy got slashed with a broken bottle, thrown through a door, and seemed none the worse for wear. The drunk responsible for the mess seemed to be stumbling towards the kid, which was good 'cause it meant maybe they'd keep it outside.

They were pretty close to the Institute, however. That place for mutie teenagers. Ginny hunched down over her half-empty beer bottle and tried to ignore the growing chaos.