With no memory of her past and prejudice running rampant against mutants, Y/N finds herself trying to start anew in Small Heath, Birmingham working at The Garrison alongside a mysterious Irish blonde named Grace. Y/N had all intentions of lying low...
A/N: Welcome all, you know the run-down that is going on! Reader takes on the place of Wolverine in the 1920's
Warning: Violence, language, drinking, general Peaky Blinders stuff, 1920's mentality
"This ain't no place for no heroes, this ain't place for a better man, this ain't place for no heroes to come home..." ~ Short Change Hero by The Heavy
~ Birmingham, 1919 ~
Her knuckles ached and burned, healing factor didn't take away pain, just healed the wounds; especially when it came to her mutancy, her knuckles were practically a permanent red bruise now. She had them stuffed into her jacket pockets, she felt the cold metal of the military dog tags against her breast as she walked, they were well-hidden under her dress.
Y/N had only the information that was stamped on those dogs to go off her: Y/N L/N, Wolverine followed a series of numbers. She couldn't remember why or how these tags came to be, hell, she couldn't remember who she was; her accent wasn't the same as those around her, leading her to know she wasn't from England yet she was told it wasn't a European accent she had.
Birmingham was said to be dangerous, not like she needed to worry with the mutation she had; she figured that part out rather quickly. And it was just like any other place she had wandered through, the prejudice against mutants rampant and violent as she walked to the Garrison, she saw an example.
A couple being dragged out into the streets, people shouting the slurs and words at the woman who had an obvious mutation. Separating her from her husband, the mob closed in on her and Y/N looked away. The best thing a mutant could do was blend in, try and hide whatever mutation they had; it wasn't as if she was proud of it, seeing a fellow mutant, especially a woman being mobbed, but it was the way of survival.
It was how they all survived. She picked up her pace, the stolen heels she wore hitting the stoned streets at a faster pace as she hurried her pace. She couldn't afford to get into a fight, not like it could kill her, but because of what rested on her bones, especially in-between the bones of her arms that could pop out of any moment from her knuckles.
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Walking into the Garrison, she took off her hat; she had worked here for a few weeks as a simple stocker, Harry having been pleased with the way she could lift the heavy crates and handle the rowdy men of the pub. The men usually didn't bother with her, the glare that she had that cut them deep into their very core was reason enough for them not to harass her and put their hands on her.
As she began to take her coat off, Y//N noticed a tall, slender blonde woman speaking with her boss. She wore a coat-dress with a matching hat, her makeup impeccable and a little too nice to be here at the pub.
"She seems to be one of your employees", the woman said, motioning to Y/N as she hung her hat and coat.
Harry let out a laugh, "Love, I'm not sure if you've seen her eyes, but no man wants to get near her. Her eyes alone cut a man deep, no matter how pretty she is."
