Clay had no idea, really, why he was drawn to places like this; he often had enough money in his pocket from his odd jobs and his actual job that he could afford to drink somewhere cleaner. There was just something magnetic, though, about these run-down little bars near the slums of whatever God-forsaken town he'd rolled into at the time; he liked the smoky atmosphere (to which he often contributed), the worn wood furniture, the smell of liquor and varnish and leather. He loved watching the people who came through; a lot of them were vagabonds, like himself... bikers, truckers, and then there were always a few obvious locals, regulars, drunks, sleazy men looking to pick up a hot piece of ass for a single night, when all they had to choose from here was usually trash. Every once in a while there was a diamond in the rough--but it was one hell of a rough.

He was leaning on the bar next to his vacated chair, sipping at a dark beer as he observed his company at the counter; dressed in a worn black leather jacket, an ACDC t-shirt and a pair of faded grey jeans and work boots, he blended in effortlessly with the local crowd. There was a man a few feet away from him making some kind of fuss, and he kept raising his voice; irritation started to creep at the edge of Clay's awareness like an itch, and this man was the one he wanted to scratch. He was practically shouting now, arguing loudly with the bartender about an apparently unpaid tab.

"You fuckin' listen here, man, I ain't payin' for nothin' I didn't get, no you watch it, man, I don't owe you shit--"

He stopped abruptly when Clay tapped him on the shoulder, looking at him--red-faced and distracted, he was obviously not sober. "The hell you want?"

"Has anyone told you you're kind of an asshole?" Clay commented, brow furrowed and head tilted the slightest bit.

Almost immediately the man lashed out at him, grabbing the front of his jacket in one fist. Clay twitched but didn't raise a hand, holding still.

"Don't touch the jacket," he warned, raising both brows.

"You got somethin' else to say, wise guy?" the man snarled, giving the soldier a bit of a shake. "This ain't none of yer fuckin' business--"

"I said, don't touch the jacket," Clay warned again. "You have three seconds."

"Why don't you put yer prettyboy head up someone else's ass before I--"

And then he had to abruptly stop speaking due to Clay's fist colliding rather suddenly with his jaw. There was a crack sound and the man staggered back, shouting in surprise and pain; almost immediately the man's friends rose from their seats, shouting angrily. Clay smiled and straightened his jacket, taking a step back. "I gave him fair warning, alright?"

"You're fuckin' dead!" Two of the men lunged for him, knocking over a chair; Clay was shoved back into a table, knocking over drinks. Grinning like a wild man, the soldier took to his feet again and caught a blow to his gut with both hands, kneeing the man in the chest with a pull down--and then there were two more on him, and the men at the table behind him were pissed off that their stuff had been disturbed, and--

Clay was surrounded and the bartender was shouting furiously for security and this was going to be a good night.

By now Clay was pretty used to being left mostly on his own when contending with the problems he started; it wasn't as if he couldn't handle himself, and even if he walked out--or was thrown out--with a few bruises, he never seemed to mind. Getting hit just got his blood pumping, adrenaline rushing, and he was starting to think he was becoming a bit of a junkie for that particular hormone. It had been years since his last deployment, his last real fights, and the Thunderbird craved combat like a fish craved water. His species weren't so much an omen of war as they were simply drawn to it. He couldn't stay out of trouble.

Apparently he wasn't the only such person, though; there had to be others who were problem magnets. Fiery redheads notwithstanding. In the middle of the mess there was suddenly a tattooed miss making quite the impression; he raised both brows, just as distracted as the other men as she made a few sudden moves and sent a couple of poor bastards to the ground. Ohh, they were so getting kicked out of this place tonight--but maybe not alone.

"Generally," he answered with a grin, rather pleased with this twist in events. "I've been described as a shit-disturber." And that was certainly true; picking fights was in his nature, though he rarely made the first aggressive move. People tended to punch first with a really well-placed insult as the catalyst, and he was always more than happy to tell a jackass exactly how it was. Said jackasses were regrouping for another disorganized assault, though, and Clay ducked as someone made a jab for his head, returning the hit with a boxer's roundhouse to the face and a follow-up downward heel to the poor sucker's back, flooring him.

The busy motion distracted him, though, and another guy managed to land a swing across his cheek, jerking his head to the side; he staggered sideways, putting a hand on the bar. Wiping his mouth, he turned his back to the wood-- the guy was charging at him. He reached out with both hands and grabbed his shoulders, throwing his weight forward to push him back toward his current partner in crime. "Catch!"

Clay let out a sharp whistle at that impressive throw; what a babe! He'd never seen a woman take to a fight like that, and he couldn't say he wasn't impressed. Maybe a little turned on. But he wasn't really in a good position to get distracted by that right now. They had more immediate problems to contend with—mainly all the chaos he'd started. and it was such a beautiful, noisy, destructive bout of chaos. The Thunderbird grinned wickedly, in his element. Everything was perfect.

Except for the cops being on their way; always spoiling his fun! Oh well, he could worm out of this, too. He wasn't really inclined to get any scratches on his record, being an honourable military man and all. "I think I can swing that," he said teasingly, grabbing a chair as another man came back for more; a heavy thwack and he was sent reeling back into a table, nearly knocking it over and pissing off a group of angry-looking fellas who almost immediately went after the poor bastard. As the fight changed focus to the other group, Clay slipped along the bar, slid a hearty tip onto the 'tenders table, and gave his new friend a short whislte and a 'come on' gesture with one arm as he slipped through the door to the back room and down the hall.

Shoving his way out the back door into the alley, chuckling, he waited to make sure she'd made it, rubbing at his bruised cheekbone, still pumped with adrenaline. Once the door was shut he made his way around the corner, leaning against a wall in the quiet of the evening, grinning like a maniac as he caught his breath.

"Oh fuck that was fun."

Clay finally found himself without excessive distraction, and was therefore able to actually get a good look at his partner in crime (so to speak); he couldn't say he was disappointed. The soldier was a red-blooded man and he knew what he liked, and that was it, all wrapped up in a nice little package of fiery redhead topped with ink and a fuck-you attitude. She was the kind of woman he'd expect to know how to handle a man like him.

Not that he was letting his ramped-up mood affect his thoughts, oh no.

A low chuckle, and his hand wandered up to his hair without thought, pushing stray bangs away from his eyes as he gave her a look right back, knowing full well she was appreciating what she saw. "Clay," he answered, figuring his first name was plenty enough; he didn't really want to bring up his rank, not feeling it was that important. His grin widened a bit. "I'm ah... a bit of an adrenaline junkie," he explained, rolling his shoulders a bit. "I can't resist. My nights get a lot more exciting than my days. How about you? Apparently you know what you're doing..."

He stopped himself from tagging his customary 'miss' onto the end of that, feeling it may have been inappropriate.

"Well, that explains a lot," he said with an arched brow, regarding her experience as a cage fighter; she had certainly looked like she knew what she was doing as she navigated that rowdy crowd. In fact, Clay was fairly certain he'd never met a woman who was quite so proficient in the field. If you could call it that. Times were a-changing, he supposed. Back when he was her age, most women were barely entering the work force, let alone becoming professional cage fighters. Huh.

It amused him, though, and he grinned a bit as well as he tipped his head back, regarding that fire escape. "Splitting sounds good. Up." He would have much preferred to put himself up rather than further along that narrow passageway. Just looking at it made him feel a little nauseous. Stupid claustrophobia.

He moved first, making a solid jump up to the fire escape; he hauled himself up with both arms, boots planting firmly on the grate, and he straightened, looking down. "I take it you've done this sort of thing before?"