Stupid American legal drinking age regulations. Stupid.
It took Effie three tries to get the fake ID right.

She had to admit that somewhere, deep deep down, she kind of liked the school. It was not the private mansion with the rich husband and the limo she'd been aiming for, but it was not the end of the world either. If she stayed long enough (she was not planning on it... but then again, she was not planning on the opposite either), she might even make friends. Or friend-like creatures.

Still, once in a while, she just had to get out to be among normal people. People who didn't do weird and potentially dangerous things every time she touched them. She felt old. At least older than the kids running wild in the Mansion.
So, she got an ID to prove she was old (enough), and went downtown to find a pub.

And this is the true story of how Effie ended up sitting at the bar once upon a Friday night in downtown New York, with a White Russian, the pun not entirely lost on her.

After all, things can't just keep going bad every time she went out on her own, right?

Today was a grand day for Max. One he had been waiting for since his arrival at the Institute. To him, it was a special day. One where he could enjoy himself more then any other. A day that made all his worries go away, and provided him with a chance to feel like the man he really was. What was this day? It was not holiday. Around the world, today was unlike any other. To Max? It was simply Friday.

And Friday...was Kilt Day.

Max walked through Downtown proudly, cigarette in one hand, a grin on his face, and all while wearing a leather jacket, black dress shirt, boots, and of course, his kilt.

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He had been coped up in the Institute for almost a week without a drink. Granted, he liked the place, but the alcohol free part was really starting to get to him. That day, while preparing for the glorious event that was the donning of the kilt, Max decided to make up for lost time and visit the pub he had scouted out the day he'd first came to New York.

It had taken him awhile to find a proper "pub." New York had so many upper class, snooty bars with names like "M" and "Eduardo's." He could tell by the lines to get in, and by the people in those lines, that he'd have more fun trying to swim across a loch during the winter in nothing but a bonnet. However, a few hours after arriving in New York, he saw it. "The Red Horse." It had a small, wooden sign with some neon lights that said open. It looked slightly run down, a bit lax on regulations, allowed smoking inside, and somewhat knowledgeable what a proper drink was like. It was perfect. He had planned to come back on Friday, and today was the day.

A few people that stood around the front door had been talking amongest themselves, but they all stopped and stared at Max as he strolled up in his kilt.

"Aye-aye min chaps. Faine evenin innit?" Max grinned as he opened the door. He laughed as the group was a bit in shock, too much so to reply before he fully entered the pub. Looking around, the inside was just as he hoped. There where tons of wooden tables and chairs, a few pool tables, loud music coming from the actual jukebox in the corner. It was rather crowded, fully of men and woman alike. As he entered, people slowly stopped talking and turned to him. Soon, the only sound in the bar was of the jukebox.

"Wot?" Max shouted. "Ain't yew people seen a Scotsman before?" Max became slightly worried after a few more seconds of silence, but luckily, someone spoke up. It was the barman, and he held up his glass, speaking in an all too familiar accent.

"By Gawd, finally a bloke who knows wot he's bloody doin! Get back to ya drinks folks, the next rounds on me!"

A cheer came from the bar as people went back to drinking. Max laughed as he walked up to the bar, and sat down on a stool. He nodded to the bartender, offering his hand.

"Aye-aye min mate, thanks for cuttin the ice. Ya from Edinburgh?" The barman nodded, putting a bottle in Max's hand instead of shaking his hand.

"Aye, ya gots a Doric drawl yaself. Glad to have ya." Max nodded and opened the bottle as the barman went back to work. Leaning into the bar, Max looked around, enjoying the atmosphere. He looked to his left, and saw a very attractive woman. Smiling, he took a large swig. However, that smile faded as he saw an obviously drunk man, flanked by two others, approach the woman. In his gut, he knew something was going to happen.

Effie had been staring into her glass for long minutes when she noticed the talk and noise had died around her. Looking up, she followed the surprised glances and glares towards the door.
That guy was wearing a skirt.
So what?
This was New York City. He could have been green and twenty feet tall.

>>"Wot? Ain't yew people seen a Scotsman before?"
>>"By Gawd, finally a bloke who knows wot he's bloody doin! Get back to ya drinks folks, the next rounds on me!"

Something had been said that caused a lot of cheering and consumption of alcoholic beverages - but Effie had not the slightest idea what it was. Or, for that matter, what language it had been said in. She was pretty sure she'd never heard that language before.
Oh well.

Turning back to her glass, she stared at her gloved hands on the counter... until one of them was grabbed by a huge male hand. Effie shuddered as the guy pulled her around on the barstool by the hand, and stared into her face.
Out of ten?
Minus five and a half.

"Heyyathere, miss" he drawled, and Effie leaned back, almost falling off the barstool in the process - almost, because he was still holding her hand, and now he grabbed the other one too. He swayed a little, but his eyes were gleaming. Effie cursed her natural gift for making people feel awake.
Why can't I just put the creeps to sleep?...

The creep was still talking, but Effie couldn't make out the words; she was not really interested either. She could smell all kinds of alcohol on his breath. That told her more than she needed to know.

"Let me go." she said, very clearly and with a very heavy accent "I don't want to know you."

Of course he didn't care.

Max sighed. He'd only had time to drink half a bottle when something happened. Looking over at the Russian, which he called her upon hearing her accent, and the man grabbing her.

"Let me go." she said, very clearly and with a very heavy accent "I don't want to know you."

The man just laughed, and tried to pull her up off the stool. Max frowned, and got up, bottle still in hand.

"Oi! Think the lass just asked ya ta leave mate." As Max walked towards the confrontation, he began to feel more...charged. More awake, even more focused. It might have been the situation, or just the pleasure of a drink after a weeks drought.

The drunkard's two companions stepped out in front of Max, blocking him with their broad shoulders. "Whatshoo care?" slurred the drunkard, who turned back to the Russian. "Now come here missy. I want shom love, from Russia. Hurrhurhurrhurr."

The Russian struggled more, cursing in Russian. Max took a deep breath, and made up his mind. Taking a step, he quickly judged his surroundings: the two goons where about two meters from him, and Russian and the drunkard about four. The goons where blocking the drunkard partially. Not that it mattered.

What happened next was almost a blur....

10 m/s, 9 clicks sidespin, aim for the bathroom

Max finished the bottle, then spun it around on his palms, grabbing it by the neck after a few rotations. Infusing it with the right momentum, he threw it over the left shoulder of the goon to his right. He gave a grunt as he did, somehow fueled by...something. His aim, however, was perfect. The almost empty whiskey bottle arced around the goon, and hit the drunkard in the head, knocking him out cold. The shattering of glass pierced through the sound of the talking and music. Letting go of the Russian, the unconscious body of the drunkard fell sideways onto a table breaking it. Everything on the table was spilled onto the laps of several drinkers. As the goons turned their heads to look back, Max threw a left hook, sucker punching the goon on the right in the jaw.

"BAAAARFIIIIGHT!"

Max didn't know who shouted it, but the instant his fist made contact with the goon's jaw, the bar simply erupted! Chairs and tables went flying, pool sticks swung in the air, fists where thrown, and utter chaos spread like wild fire.

Somebody stood up for the damsel in distress. Effie didn't really see... was that the guy in the skirt?
...
Was that a whiskey bottle?...

>>"BAAAARFIIIIGHT!"

She didn't need to know what that word meant.

As soon as people and other objects started flying, Effie hopped off the barstool on her own, taking the time to dig a heel into the fallen guy's side before she scurried out of the way. With her back against the counter she inched away from the worst part of the crowd, towards the exit.
The Guy in Skirts was in the way.

Whiskey bottles don't fly that fast.

Max had been through worse. His nose was broken (again), he had a few scratches on his face from bottles and other debris. His side hurt like hell after being whacked with a pool stick, his foot was numb after being stepped on, everything was sore. However, Max had two things going well.

His kilt was still in perfect condition, and he'd never felt so alive in a very long time!

"You blokes are all a bunch o chanty wrassling choobs! Me Maw could whip ya into a ACK!" Max shouted as he ducked, barely dodging a thrown stool. Covering his head, he looked up and saw the pretty Russian woman flat against the wall, inching her way towards the exit. However, the one goon remaining that had started all of this (Max totally didn't consider this his fault) was closing her on her.

Dashing forward, he grabbed a table and flipped it over. Max turned to the Russian and shouted "OI! If ya wontta keep that brawn pretty face o yas, git down!" Max tried to grab her by the arm behind the table to provide cover

>>"OI! If ya wontta keep that brawn pretty face o yas, git down!"

Effie had just enough time to see the man moving towards her before the hero in skirts dragged her down behind a table he'd turned over. The barfight was at full swing, and, strangely enough, people seemed to be actually enjoying it. Effie had believed this kind of thing only existed in movies. American movies.
Yet, here she was.

"I don't understand you." she told the strange man as they ducked for cover. She already had one of her gloves off. She put her palm against his face and kept it there for a few seconds. "There."

Let's hope you are a mutant.

"I don't understand you." The Russian woman said to Max. She then put her palm against his face and kept it there for a few seconds. "There."

As soon as she touched him, the world began to "pulse" slightly. He felt a surge of...something...of power. Energy. Ability. He felt like he could take on the world. He looked at the Russian, a look of confusion upon his face.

"Wot the bloody hell did you just....WOTCH IT!"

Max quickly stood up and blocked the swing of a pool stick intended for the Russian. With a grunt, he tackled it's wielder, the only conscious goon that had "started" this whole thing. As he began to run however, he...didn't just run. His gyroscopic running kicked in, sending both him and the goon racing forward, accelerating much like a car.

CRASH

The two fighters slammed into the wall, their speed so great they managed to break through it. Luckily, the wall was just wooden, on the other side was the bathroom. Max and the goon stopped after Max tripped over a broken pipe from the sink.

THUD

They hit the floor. Slowly, Max got up with a groan, popping his back. The goon groaned as well...but didn't get up. Max looked back at the Russian again, realizing what she'd done. She was a mutant. She had to be. He'd never been able to accelerate that quickly before. She had to be...

Oh yes, he was definitely a mutant.

Effie winced as Guy in Skirts crashed through a wall, and put the glove back on before she emerged from behind the table.
Mental note: I need to find out how my gift works.

There were less and less people fighting with every minute. Some fled, others ended up unconscious. Some just simply stopped, staring at the hole in the bathroom wall with their mouths hanging open.
Effie carefully picked her way across the room, and stopped next to her savior.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Because that's English for 'I just made you crash through a wall, and I think I should be sorry.'

"Are you all right?" the Russian asked.

Max looked into the bathroom's broken mirror. His nose was still broken, but the bleeding had stopped. His face was scratched and bruised. His body ached all over. He turned to the Russian and grinned.

"Course I am lassie, gonna take more then this ta.." Max tried to stand in a slight, heroic pose, but his left shoulder gave out. "Yowch!"

Max sighed, "Alright, maybe I'm inna wee bit o peen." Just then, a police siren could be heard from outside, followed red and blue lights fillinghe front window. Max looked around as the barman spoke up, waving Max towards him.

"Youse two, ova 'ere!" The barman pointed to the backdoor behind the bar. "Ye might be wontin ta leave mate, don't worry. I gots inner-sewer-ants."

Max turned to the Russian and said,"Can youse run sharpish marm or am I going to half to carry ya?"

All right, Effie could read the signs. He was definitely hurt, but nothing major, he could walk, and did walk, and they had to get out of the bar fast or Ms. Morozova would have a lot to explain to the police. She didn't like explaining to the police. They spoke English.
Guy in Skirts didn't.

>>"Can youse run sharpish marm or am I going to half to carry ya?"

The blonde girl rolled her eyes.

"Vat language is dat?!"

Sirens.

"Les go."

"Running in heels is one of the few useful skills only a real lady can possess."
- Russian Brides' Survival Guide, Chapter 1.

Max helped the Russian up, and hurried to the back door, very careful not to activate his somehow enhanced powers. He was surprised. She COULD run quickly in heels.

As they reached the alley, however, things turned for the worse. Two patrolmen had circled around the back. He couldn't see their faces, so he hoped they couldn't see his either.

"YOU! Freeze!" One of them shouted. Max turned to Muse and without a word, pushed her back into the doorway, leaping behind a dumpster himself. He put his hands on it's side, and focused on his powers.

I hope this works Max thought to himself. The dumpster was much bigger then his usual limit, but with his enhanced powers, he thought he could infuse it just enough. Infusing it with as much momentum as he could, he pushed hard. The dumpster rolled forward quickly, knocking into the patrolmen. It hadn't been nearly enough to hurt them, 3 m/s tops (6.7 mph). It was enough to move it enough so that it push the patrolmen over, just as Max had planned.

"Come on lassie, sharpish!" Max shouted as the patrolman scrambled to get up. Max bend down and picked up the Russian like a husband does his newlywed. He hoped she didn't take it the wrong way. "Sorry luv, but we gots ta move, and I'm a bit faster"

"Backup, this is Wilson behind the bar in an alley, two possible perps are attempting to flee, I repeat, we need....back up...." One of the patrolman began to shout into his radio, but stopped when he saw what happened next.

Max infused himself with his momentum, and without risking a chance to look back, took off running, accelerating like a car as he had in the bar. In less then five seconds, he had reached his maximum speed he felt comfortable with, and still carrying the Russian, turned left out of the alley and kept running.

"Negative on that" Patrolman Wilson said. "They're...gone..."

Effie tried to make sure she didn't touch Guy in Skirts skin to skin. She had a vague idea of how her gift affected others, and from what she'd seen in the pub (crashing through walls and the like) it seemed safer not to boost his powers too much.

She didn't need to run. Apart from the fact that she was a minor by this country's law, and she possessed a fake ID to replace another fake ID acquired with fake papers (courtesy of the Matchmaker), she didn't really do anything wrong. Tonight, that is. She didn't even fight.
But. She was a mutant, in a non-mutant environment.
Also. She didn't have a choice.

Effie yelped as the guy picked her up, bridal style, (oh the irony), and ran. Boy he could run. Effie held on for dear life and wondered if the police was chasing them. She didn't hear sirens. Yet.

Maybe because police cars chasing a running man with a woman in his arms...
... and losing...
... would probably make the news.

Max ran through the somewhat busy streets of New York City. They where at a dingy part of town, so it wasn't packed, but it had enough cars to make Max not go all out. Besides, he had extra...um...baggage would be a rude term. He was carrying the Russian, and he certainly didn't want to get the both of them hurt.

However, he had no choice within a few minutes. Passing 34th and Bronze, he felt his power surge fade...he was slowing down. It was strange. He felt tired, yet still...alive...the same way he'd felt since the bar. It must have been something the Russian was doing to him.

He turned off into the city park at 31st and Bronze. It had a small wooded area, a few benches, and was empty surprisingly. Stopping next to a bench, Max groaned. The pain from his injuries caught up. He set the Russian down on the bench carefully and leaned back.

"Bloody hell. Naw that wos summin else aye?" Max laughed, then grunted in pain as he grabbed his nose and straightened it. Sniffing and twitching his nose gingerly, he looked down at the Russian. "Yew alright? Hope I didn't scare ya too much..."

Max waited for her to settle down and respond before he asked her the question scathing in the back of his mind: What the hell had she done to him.

>>"Bloody hell. Naw that wos summin else aye? Yew alright? Hope I didn't scare ya too much..."

Effie remembered to breathe. As soon as her lungs were filled with fresh air, a couple of things occurred to her: one being she had no idea where they were, and another one being that the guy in skirts might, might just be speaking English.

"I am fine." she nodded, sitting up on the bench and smoothing down her skirt and blouse. She looked at him for a long moment, not really sure what she was supposed to say. He looked beaten up, as it could be expected after a bar fight. But judging from the way he moved (and ran), she guessed he would live.

"You are a mutant." she observed. Her hand moved on her own, but stopped half way towards him - offering a handshake might not be the best idea just yet.

"My name is Efimia. People call me Effie."