Wolvie Fanfiction: The Meaning of Pain

[sniktsnakt]

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Kitty was holding her breath as she phased through the wall into Logan’s room. Of course, that wasn’t unusual—she always had to hold her breath when phasing through solids—but she kept holding it as she padded silently towards the dark shapes of the sleeping duo.

She paused to swallow, then slowly bent down, still phased. She could hear the faint, slow rasp of Logan’s breath, but her heartbeat sounded loud enough to wake a deaf man, let alone the local feral.

The fact that he couldn’t hurt her right now didn’t make her feel much better.

Finally out of air, she breathed out, then froze as Kylee shifted, her nose twitching slightly as she rolled back against the unconscious man behind her.

She tried not to look at him, but even in the darkness the pale gleam of wet blood drew kept trying to draw her gaze.

She was running out of air. She had to move.

She leaned forward slowly, unphasing as she took a hold of the girl’s shoulder and slowly shifted her away from Wolverine’s chest. Kylee, ever the deep sleeper, breathed out the softly rumblings of a purr but didn’t wake.

Her pajamas were wet—sticky. With blood, even if it wasn’t her own. Kitty closed her eyes, doing her best not to think about that as she eased her away, then phased back out as she lifted Kylee from the floor, taking her with her into intangibility.

Kylee hardly stirred as she was lifted into Kitty’s arms. Kitty headed for the door, still treading softly, her heart pounding in her ears.

Beast was hovering there, shifting from foot to foot with as much nervousness that Kitty had ever observed in him. He held out his hands, and Kitty wordlessly handed the little girl in her arms over.

Kylee’s nose twitched. Her ear flickered back. Her eyes shot open, and immediately she bolted upright.

“No! WOLVIE!”

She twisted and leaped out of his arms before Beast could get a firm hold of her, but he snatched her right out of the air.

Kylee hissed, a tornado of angry cat cutting into Beast’s blue fur. She got to his shoulder and he dragged her down with a curse as she nipped painfully at his ear, but she twisted her head and chomped down hard on Hank’s thumb with a feral snarl. Beast jerked back with a snarl of his own, and the noise suddenly doubled in volume from behind him as a deep growl rumbled from the darkness.

SNIKT!

“Oh dear,” Hank said, freezing with Kylee at arms length, his glasses hanging askew from one ear.

He made a clean leap back as Kitty phased back into the wall, and Wolverine staggered into the light of the hallway, one clawed hand leaning against the doorframe.

He stopped, half-slumped, half crouched, flinching at the brightness of the hall in his one bloodshot eye. Kylee was trying to fight towards him again, but Beast had her arms pinned firmly and was determined not to let her go.

The sounds of her struggle shook the feral man out of his pained shock. He bared his bloodied teeth, and even Beast couldn’t hold back a shudder as Wolverine pulled away from the doorway, hunched like a beast, his eye wild as he limped forward, fists clenched and claws ready at his side.

Beast stepped back. “Wolverine. Logan, listen to me. We’re just trying to help—”

Wolverine lunged.

Beast was surprised at how quickly the injured man was still able to move, and felt the claws pass within millimeters of his skin as he leaped back. Kylee screamed again as he flipped down the hall, hearing Wolverine close on his tail.

Kitty returned through the wall behind Logan, dragging a large metal man behind her. Colossus didn’t stop, but moved out of her grip, and caught Wolverine’s leg as he tried to leap.

“I’m sorry, Tovarish,” Peter Rasputin said as he grabbed the man from behind, effectively pinning his claws to his side. Wolverine snarled and balked, but Peter could lift a truck without strain, and in his weakened state Wolverine didn’t stand a chance of getting loose, no matter how he kicked or twisted.

That didn’t keep him from trying. Peter finally put him to the ground, all but sitting on him to keep him from struggling. It was breaking open any wounds that were beginning to heal over, and blood was beginning to seep slowly into the carpet beneath him.

“Well done, Mr. Rasputin,” Beast said, still holding a furious little girl. She’d gotten away in the tussle, and his face was now well-scratched as well, but he had her by the scruff of her neck and kept her safely away. She hung there, scrambling to get a glimpse of Logan.

“I can take her,” Storm said, coming out of an adjoining room with a pale Jubilee and Rogue. “And you can go to bed, you three. All is in control, now.

“Logan—” Rogue began, starting towards the still man, who now lay all but still, his claws still unsheathed and his teeth bared in a snarl against the floor. Each breath rasped out as a rough, hair-raising growl.

“To bed, Rogue,” Storm repeated. “You need rest, and more people will only upset him.”

“But Storm, ah—”

“He wouldn’t want you seeing him like this,” Storm said, looking at her sternly. “You know that.”

Rogue hesitated, but then nodded reluctantly.

“Good. Now all of you. Get some sleep. We may need your help in the morning.”

Kitty looked doubtful. She glanced at Peter, pulled her torn nightgown better closed, and nodded. All three of them headed to their rooms, glancing back more than once as they went.

“Now,” Storm said, looking at Beast. “I can take her.”

“She’s gone into a feral state herself, it seems,” Beast observed.

“I was raised on the streets of Cairo,” Storm said. “I can handle her.”

Hank handed the girl over cautiously, and though she tried to struggle Storm’s grip was firm and her manner unyielding. Kylee hissed, but Storm was too quick and caught her so she couldn’t add another mark to her scratch from earlier that evening.

“Fascinating,” Beast said, watching the feral child for a moment longer, but no longer than that. He turned to Peter. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, if you could take our dear Wolverine to the medlab—”

His request was again rudely interrupted from Kylee, who began growling and struggling in earnest again. She managed to get a hand loose and darted towards Storm’s face, but Beast caught her arm.

“Now, Kylee, don’t you want Logan well again?” Beast tried reasonably. She just hissed at him and tried to bite him again. He looked at Storm. “We had best take her away from here. Her state is not making his any easier.”

Storm’s eyes went to Wolverine and she swallowed, then nodded. “You are right,” she said. “Take care of him, Hank.”

“Of course.”

Storm turned and started down the hall as Colossus began rising, keeping a firm grip on Wolverine’s arms. The man was growling louder now, and as Storm started carrying Kylee off towards her own bed the little girl snapped back and cried out brokenly:

“W-wolvie!”

Her voice was like new blood. Wolverine’s head snapped up, his arm twisting out of Colossus’s metal grip. He twisted over, catching his steel nose with his elbow and knocking Peter back a step from surprise.

Wolverine snarled, echoing Kylee’s frantic screams as he knocked Colossus back into the wall and nearly through it. Beast jumped forward to defend his comrade, and Wolverine ducked, but not quick enough to dodge the firm kick right to his chest. He fell, gasping blood, and Beast dropped next to him, jabbing a syringe into his chest as he struggled to rise.

“I’m sorry, Wolverine,” he said, standing back as the man swung weakly towards him as the drug began taking affect. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this.”

The drug hit him like a wall. He stared for a second, and without his healing factor Wolverine just slumped back gracelessly, his head knocking loudly against the carpet and the wood beneath.

“WOOLVIEEE!!” Kylee screamed as Wolverine went limp.

“Kylee, he is just sleeping—”

Kylee’s horror split Beast’s weak attempt at comfort as her screams vanished behind gasping sobs as she strained towards the unconscious man.

Beast’s own fur went back guiltily. “Would you mind trying to put her to bed?” he asked Storm, loud enough to be heard over the girl’s tears. “Try to explain what is going on. The poor child is tired and traumatized.” He paused, looking quite tired himself. “Piotr, if you would help Wolverine down to the lab—I’m afraid he’s even worse off than I predicted.”

The young colossus nodded, looking a bit harried himself despite his metal exterior. He bent to lift Wolverine into his metal arms easily, but with surprising gentleness, and together they headed down the stairs to the lab. Kylee’s broken sobs faded behind them.

TBC . . .

 

[squeekness]

Poor Kaylee. She is so attached to Logan.

 

[Dark_Gambit]

This is getting beter with each chapter, keep it up!

 

[sniktsnakt]

This is getting beter with each chapter, keep it up!

Whohoo! A new reviewer. Thanks for speaking up!

And thanks, as always, to Squeekness as well!

Expect the next chapter tomorrow!

Happy New Year!

 

[sniktsnakt]

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Chapter 19: Healing

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Wolverine hardly slept a wink except for once, when he woke up after only a couple minutes to his heart pounding like it was trying to leap out of his chest. He’d jumped to his feet and ran outside the cave, looking around for danger, only to find nothing but the untouched snow; nothing had come by, except for a couple mice, and a bobcat that had quickly moved on after catching his scent. After returning to the cave he curled back up, shivering, and staring at the kid, feeling empty and hungry.

The kid started shifting uneasily near dawn, and Wolverine rose, drawing close and leaning over him as he checked on him. The kid opened his fever-bright eyes and glared at him, the redness of the fire odd against his own red eyes.

He pushed him away with clumsy hands, and Wolverine pulled back quickly away before his hands could touch him.

“Wol,” Gambit mumbled, his voice dry as bones. “I a man, you . . . you a man. You stay over dere, and I . . . I sleep here.” His head flopped back against the ground, and he curled in on himself as a cough suddenly shook his frame. He heaved, choking on his own breath, until Wolverine was sure he was going to pass out from lack of air. It passed after a seeming eternity, and his body relaxed, sinking as if devoid of all energy. “I . . . sleep . . . here,” he trailed off.

Wolverine didn’t move for a long minute, and the kid had gone still again. “Kid?”

Silence, except for the slow lengthening of the painful breaths.

“Kid?”

Again, no answer. Another one of his ramblings, then. Wolverine didn’t know what to make of them, and he wasn’t going to waste his time bothering with them.

He shifted slowly, lifting the bowl, and helped the kid get a drink. He mumbled something that might be a weak thanks before slipping back off to sleep.

Wolverine put the bowl down and felt the kid’s forehead, but paused before drawing it away to make sure he was feeling right.

He was slightly cooler. He could feel it. And his shivers were a bit less, weren’t they?

He glanced out at the blue-ice morning as he added more wood to the fire.

The kid would be hungry. He was a hungry himself, though he could probably go another day or two before he really started getting too bad. But the kid needed something.

Besides, if he stayed in here any longer he was going to go insane.

Like you aren’t already.

Wolverine wanted to growl at that, but that was the point—wasn’t it? Hearing voices in his head . . . that wasn’t normal, was it?

What the hell. Who was he to know what was normal anyway?

Freak.

He frowned down at his hands, then clenched them into fists. He checked to make sure the fire was warm and the kid was well covered before he headed out of the cave.

He let himself forget. He let himself stop thinking.

Otherwise it hurt too much.

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He came back with a rabbit. It wasn’t a very satisfactory meal—he could have eaten it all himself within a few seconds, if he wanted to—but he ignored his own hunger and just licked the animal blood from his fingers as he brought it back to the cave.

The kid hadn’t moved, and was sleeping more peacefully than he had all night. Wolverine slipped inside the cave silently. He stirred up the fire before sticking the rabbit on a stick and letting it roast over the fire, and sat back and stared into the fire, waiting.

He didn’t like staying in one place long. Never had. He was starting to get an itch to move on.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. A few more days, and the kid would be better, and they’d head out. But where?

It was a foreign idea, actually going someplace. He couldn’t remember planning on going anywhere, except the river to drink or to go hunting. Other than that, one acre of woods was as good as the next.

But for some reason that wasn’t enough.

His interruptions were cut short with an itch on the back of his neck. He was being watched.

He snapped back to his surroundings and his eyes shot up . . . to catch the kid looking up at him through barely slitted eyes.

“Kid?”

He blinked. Shifted. Gave a low groan, reaching one of his arms out from under his coat and to rub his eyes.

Wolverine rose quickly, fetching the bowl of water and bringing it to him. He crouched over him, holding the bowl awkwardly. Of course, he’d been taking care of the kid when he was asleep, but now that he was awake he wasn’t sure what to do.

The kid squinted at the bowl, then looked back at him. He reached for the water.

The kid’s arm was shaking as his hand curled around the bowl. He’d spill all of it all over himself if left to himself.

Wolverine pulled the rough bowl away. The kid’s arm fell weakly to his side, and Wolverine shifted forward slowly, bringing the bowl to the kid’s mouth. He drank greedily, draining the whole thing in seconds, his eyes on Wolverine.

The water gone, Wolverine pulled back into the shadows. He didn’t like the kid looking at him.

“T’anks,” the kid whispered again, but this time his voice sounded a little stronger.

Wolverine grunted, turning his back to him. He pulled the cooked rabbit from the fire, letting it cool, and glanced back to the kid.

Remy sat up slowly, rubbing his head and squinting around the cave. Finally his gaze settled on Wolverine, and he stared at him, his expression unreadable beneath his exhaustion.

Wolverine ripped off a chunk of scalding meat and looked back, glaring. The kid was still watching.

At least he wasn’t shaking too much to feed himself. He occasionally dripped the steaming grizzle and meat onto his coat or chin, but he got through it. Wolverine hankered across the fire, gnawing on the scraps of meat left on the bones. When the food was gone the kid lay down, huddling closer into his coat and the blood-crusted shirt Wolverine had draped over him.

“You know, Wolvie?” Gambit said, his voice weak, but more clear than before. “I think Gambit gonna make it.” He lay back down slowly, pulling his coat up to his chin. “I tink I gonna make it.”

Wolverine grunted in reply.

He didn’t care. Death was a part of life—the truest part he’d ever learned of. Why should he care, after all?

His stomach growled and he grimaced at the scent of the rabbit, which was already fading from the bare bones.

Damn kid. Had to go and get sick. Had to eat all his food, too. He’d been nothing but trouble the whole while.

He headed out of the cave, intent on getting some food for himself. Some paces from the cave he realized he felt something was wrong with his face.

What the hell—? He was . . . .

He was . . . smiling? Maybe not a full-out grin, but he could feel it there—a slight, strange pulling at his lips.

He quickly changed it back to a scowl.

Damn it. He really didn’t care.

Not one damn bit.

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[sniktsnakt]

Logan was out like a light the whole trip to the basement. Peter laid him carefully on the table as per Hanks directions, and stood back, still looking sleepy, but not about to leave when there was a chance of trouble. Beast moved forward and with an expert eye and hand began checking his vitals—listening to his heart and breathing, and prying open Logan’s good eye to check for dilation. By his expression his diagnosis was not a good one.

“Could you get the box from the bottom right drawer in my desk, Peter? Thank you.”

Colossus returned a minute later to find Hank loading a tray with a pile of antiseptics and bandages, while at the same time trying to prep an IV. He directed Peter to the table while he worked, who pulled out the thick leather straps and carefully attached them to the bed.

Peter couldn’t keep his eyes away from the wreck of Wolverine’s face. He’d seen as bad before already—not that he’d tell Storm that. But once he and Logan had taken the Blackbird on a mission and used their now-favorite maneuver where he threw him towards their target: the fastball special. Logan’d ended up with a face-full of acid from the crazy mutant they’d been sent to confront, and by the time Logan’d knocked him unconscious most of his face had been eaten clean away, even the surface of his eyes.

The memory still made Colossus sick, but Logan’d been right—he’d healed, and right in front of him too.

He could see he wasn’t healing this time, though. Not like usual, at least.

“Where did you get these, tovarish?” Peter asked softly, finishing securing the last restraint from the box. He hoped they would keep Wolverine from hurting himself (or others) more when he woke up. He wasn’t sure how Logan had done it, but Peter’s arm was actually a bit sore where the feral man and wrenched out of his grasp.

Beast didn’t look up from hooking Logan up to uncountably many wires.

“A safety precaution,” he said, his voice almost absurdly calm. “Logan is hardly the only feral who has graced our halls over the years.”

Logan groaned softly—more of a twitch of breath rather than an actual sound, but Beast perked up at it, glancing at his face before proceeding to inspect his wounds carefully.

“He has not had the cure,” Beast murmured distractedly. “He shouldn’t wake up for another four hours at least from the drug alone, let alone his injuries.”

Logan flinched, but was unable to move far with the restraints, and gave a low whimper that was cut off. His arms tensed unconsciously, testing the bonds that held him down.

“Logan?” Beast queried softly. The prone feral flinched, and his bloodshot eye shot open, darting around the room. A machine to the right started beating frantically with his increased heartbeat.

“Logan, it’s all right. Can you hear me?”

It took Logan a second, but recognition dawned slowly in his pain-misted eye. His heartbeat slowed a hair, but the machine still beeped erratically.

"H’nk?" he gruffed. His voice was rough and dry, and weak. He probably would be shouting it if he could. "L—l’mme go." He could barely make out the slurred words.

“You were badly hurt, Logan. Your healing factor is not up to its normal pace. We’re helping you.”

Logan stared at him blankly through half-closed lids, trying to remember, and still pulling at the restraints without realizing it.

Beast decided to give him some time, and made to give him his IV. Startled by the sudden movement, Logan recoiled back with a surprising snarl, considering his state. He couldn’t even hold up his head, but his fists clenched.

SNIKT!

Blood sprayed across the table as his claws shot out of his knuckles. The skin still hadn’t healed over from the last time, and blood streamed between his fingers as he twisted in vain to cut the bonds that held him.

Hank straightened, still holding the needle. “Now—”

“I—don’t—need—this!” he gritted through bared teeth. His words were emphasized by the frantic beeping of the heart monitor. Sweat glistened on his skin, streaking with the smears of blood. “Let me go.” He strained against the bonds.

“Logan—”

Logan growled, his arms cording as he twisted, trying to get an angle with his claws to cut himself free to no avail. Peter stepped forward, pale, but looking ready to armor up and help.

Logan was shaking in earnest now—if not for him gritting his teeth they would probably be chattering. Just as suddenly as his rage had risen he fell back, limp and gasping for air.

Beast stepped forward slowly, wary that he might go feral again, but Logan had shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He spoke again, shaking from the bloodloss and pain. "Beast—I'll heal. Y’know . . . I'll heal, and if not there's nuthin’ you can do to help me.” He choked and grimaced—his teeth were red with blood. “Lemme go."

"Logan—"

"Dammit, Hank,” he rumbled softly, his pain-hazed eye fixed on him as his muscles coiled, his fists clenching unconsciously. His shaking was growing worse, but not from pain or shock, there was something else. Something Beast could smell—something sharp, putrid . . . .

Terror. Near-panic terror.

Logan, the fearless, unbeatable Wolverine, was afraid. He'd never admit it, but waking up, helpless and tied down in a medical lab, had scared him half to death. Scared almost enough to go back into his feral state. He could see the fight there, see the animal struggling to break free again.

Free. Hank had felt that urge before. Maybe not as much as the Wolverine—maybe more. He didn’t know. But he could understand.

“Can rest . . . in m’room,” Logan said, clearly struggling with consciousness, but still determined to have his way. “’ll heal. Alw’ys do.”

“You can go to bed now, Peter,” Hank said, apparently ignoring his patient’s words as he moved forward to continue cleaning Logan’s wounds. He winced as he saw silver bone beneath sliced and lacerated flesh. Whoever—or whatever—had been able to do this to the Wolverine? The young X-Man nodded, taking one last glance at Logan, and headed out the door, looking ill. Hank was pretty sure he wouldn’t be dreaming well that night.

Logan flinched away from the blue doctor, snarling again. “’m not a damn kid. Lemme go or’m outta here fer good. I mean it, Hank.”

"If you die—" Beast hedged, but he’d already pulled back again. As a doctor he was sworn to help, and as an associate—if not some odd sort of friend—he felt responsible for the man. But he knew he couldn’t keep Wolverine down here. The animal in him understood.

"Won't," Logan said weakly, cutting him off. "Jus'—I needa get back to my room, and—and—" He stopped, his bloodied and torn brow furrowing in confusion as vague, shadowed outlines of memories slipped by him. Beast was unbinding him, so he puts a hand to his head, but flinched and barely kept from gasping out loud as he brushed his hamburgered face. He pulled it away, taking another deep breath.

Beast would never let him go unless he was calm.

Damn, he wanted to kill something. Now. But first—

“Kylee? Where’s Kylee?” he rasped.

“With Storm.”

Logan nodded wearily, as if it used too much energy just to lift his head. But immediately he sat up, his claws clicking against the metal table-top and unconsciously leaving marks that could never be scrubbed away on the polished surface. “Th’nks,” he muttered, withdrawing his claws. Beast went to his side.

“I will take you upstairs, but you will still receive medical care,” he said, uncompromising on this matter. “Storm would put up quite a shocking display if she found I had just let you go, pun intended.”

Logan didn’t even hear him. Three steps away from the table his legs gave out, and Beast caught him.

“Completely unconscious,” Beast announced to the empty room. This should make things easier.

He looked back at the medical table and his instruments, torn. He shook his head to himself, then simply picked Logan up and carried him out of the lab towards the man’s room.


TBC . . .

 

[squeekness]

Another good chapter. The only thing I would question is Remy's slightly homophobic reaction to Wolverine leaning over him. I would think he'd guess the guy was just trying to take care of him and not be threatened by it.

 

[Dark_Gambit]

Whohoo! A new reviewer. Thanks for speaking up!

And thanks, as always, to Squeekness as well!

Expect the next chapter tomorrow!

Happy New Year!

Not new check the previous page .
And Happy New Year to everybody in here.

Another good chapter. The only thing I would question is Remy's slightly homophobic reaction to Wolverine leaning over him. I would think he'd guess the guy was just trying to take care of him and not be threatened by it.

Well I guess thats just another take on the character, plus he's sick so you can't really hold him accountable for the things he says
And I've read your fanfic some time ago and loved it and the take on gambit you had.

 

[squeekness]

Thanks! I recognized your name but you haven't been around in a while. I am glad you're back and enjoying this story as much as I am.

 

[sniktsnakt]

Yeah, I figured he was delirious, and opening your eyes to a big, hairy, smelling wild man with his face two inches from your own . . .

I pictured him saying it half-jokingly, referring more to a need for personal space than anything else. t:

Thanks for speaking up, you two!

 

[squeekness]

LOL, now that I can see. I'd be a little scared too.

 

[sniktsnakt]

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Chapter 20: Raw

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They were out of meat. The scrawny rabbit he’d caught earlier before wouldn’t have lasted him a five minutes on his own. He was hungry, and the kid hadn’t eaten much, but he should have food just in case, for when the kid woke up.

Besides, if he was stuck in that cave any longer Wolverine was going to go crazy.

The kid was still asleep, but restfully now, and Wolverine headed out with the pain in his chest eased, as he had well expected it to. It faded almost to nothing as he ran out into the woods, the few inches of melting snow slipping between his toes and the scents of the mountains filling his senses with a second sight. It was so much easier, out here. Just to let go and forget.

To hunt.

Prey had come along, but had scented his and the kid’s smell and had left long ago. Wolverine put his head down and moved outwards, holding the tatters of the remnants of his stolen pants up as he slunk, silent as a puma.

He jumped down a small incline, catching a scent even as he spotted the light prints on the snow. He paused, taking its scent in deeply. The doe had been here not long before—ten minutes at most. He flashing his teeth in a grin and moving after it.

The chase was on.

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I can’t remember all the times I’ve died. Not just almost died—but actually died: like bullet-spittin’, heart-stopped, gut-ripped-out dead.

Storm freaked like it was something to worry about. Scares lots of people, dyin’. Never been able to figure out why, though. Suppose ‘cause they figure it’s coming, no matter what they do.

Sometimes I wish I knew that for myself, but I never could. Never can.

Maybe they think it’s like losin’ someone else. That’s bad enough to understand. Worse than just dyin’, in my book. Far worse.

It’s not always the same, coming back. Sometimes nice as anything, like wakin’ up after the most peaceful sleep you can think of. Sometimes hurts like hell—yeah, usually hurts like hell—since dyin’ usually ain’t a pretty thing, and healin’ ain’t either.

But the worst is sometimes just not bein’ able to remember what happened. Just wakin’ up, and . . . nothin’. Maybe some pain, usually lots of blood, maybe some bodies . . . but beyond that, nothin’.

It’s happened more than once—and more often than just when I die. More than after waking up in the snow for the first time, more times than just waking up in the forest with nothing but ruin around me.

What’s it like not knowing yourself? Not being able to trust yourself, because you don’t know who you are—what you are? Not knowin’ the devil that’s crawling beneath your own skin?

Happens too much. Too often. And there’s nothing worse than not knowing, when you wake up—cut to the bone with confusion and damn pain.

It’s what always comes to the wicked after they die, like ‘Crawler says.

It’s Hell.

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Logan awoke slowly from a nightmare—which was unusual even to the echoes of agonizing pain resonating through his bones. But this time they didn’t fade with the nightmare. He didn’t move—he felt disconnected, distant. The dream was slipping away faster than he could hope to hold on, leaving him cold and with a taste of blood in his mouth.

Wait. Something about some psycho who tried to drink his blood. Ripped him up pretty damn well, before he got the bastard for good.

But that hadn’t been a dream, had it?

He didn’t move, still floating in some odd post-healing bliss mixed with remaining lingering pain. An odd but not altogether unpleasant low sound vibrated in his ears. In fact, it was threatening to put him right back to sleep. But an uncomfortable growl from his stomach reminded him of more important needs than sleep, waking him enough so in his half-conscious state he realized that the sound was someone was humming.

He tried opening his eyes, and on the second attempt succeeded with opening one to see Kylee curled up so close to his bandaged chest that she was practically sitting on him.

“Dammit!”

He started sitting up quickly, but then stopped shock-still and fell back with a gasp of pain. He winced as sunlight cut into his eye and he raised a heavily bandaged arm to shade his eyes and swore again.

“Dammit, kid, I’ve told you a million times not to get near me when I’m sleeping,” he snapped.

Kylee ducked her head at the anger in his tone. “But Wolvie’s sick. I was sick once, and Ms. Jeannie always said that it was good to be sick every now and ‘gin, ‘cause then everyone loves you and makes you feel better.” She looked at him, then wiped a hand across her soft-furred face as he forced himself up onto his elbows. “’Sides, you weren’t asleep. Beast said you were uncon-sceence,” she said, sitting down next to him again and settling her front small hands lightly on his bandaged stomach.

God, the little hairball was so trusting, innocent . . . and he could have killed her, just like that. The inside of his wrists and his knuckles ached with remaining pain from his claws coming out. Had he just almost popped his claws at her? Or was he still healing from . . . whenever it was?

He slumped back again, his whole being seeming to ache, and he wasn’t sure what was real or what was the usual leftover pangs from phantom wounds since healed. He settled his head against the pillow which had been placed behind his head (Storm’s doing? Hell, what was he thinking? It was more likely Beast.) and peered out at Kylee through a squinted eye. The other one had a heavy weight on it—bandaged, Logan realized. He was starting to feel hot and claustrophobic from the weight of all the bandages.

“How long I been out?” he rumbled. His throat hurt, and he sounded awful. Guess that came with getting your throat cut by a crazy ninja vampire.

“You’ve been un-con-sceence all day and all night,” Kylee near purred, still obviously pleased with herself and her new word. She settled down, resting her chin on her paws and gazing up at him.

“That long?” It looked well into the afternoon outside. That sucker’d really taken it out of him. Literally.

He rose, and fell back again, gasping and clutching his stomach at the sharp pain that cut through his gut.

He couldn’t remember a particular wound to his slicing across his ribs and into his stomach, but that wasn’t saying much.

“Dr. Hank said you had to sleep,” Kylee warned.

“Dr. Hank can—” Logan cut off with a growl. Wait. He remembered . . . something vague. Hank’d brought him back here. Even if Logan hadn’t really needed his help in the first place, that meant something. “It doesn’t matter what he says.”

He rose again—but more slowly this time—causing Kylee to slide off him again where she sat, watching him openly as he swung his legs over the bed and stood. Well, dragged himself to his feet with the liberal help of the bedpost.

His legs were weak, and he felt dizzy—lightheaded, while at the same time his feet felt ready to sink right through the floor. Biting off another curse, he popped his claws and sliced through the bandages.

Probably not the smartest thing to do, but Wolverine wasn’t one to care.

He withdrew his claws and wiped away the driblets of blood from the slow-healing wounds before chucking the dark and sticky linens into his already-over-flowing garbage. He limped to the bathroom, feeling feverish but irritated.

A day and a half, almost. He should’ve been healed hours ago. A day ago. More than that, even.

But seeing himself in the mirror helped finish the mental checklist he had already marked off.

His chest was crisscrossed with pale white scars, and his whole right side was scarred a deep angry red where he’d eaten asphalt. His stomach was mottled with deep bruises from internal wounds not yet healed.

But most prominent were the handmarks—still sharp, burning red and perfectly defined over his healing neck and face.

Oh, and his eye was still missing.

Great.

Logan washed his face before washing off his chest and arms of scum and blood. He drank a couple handfuls of tapwater to try and wash out the taste of copper.

He’d always hated the taste of his own blood.

He stopped to stare at himself for a moment once he was done. Water had settled in the scars riddling his face and a few drops had settled into the empty eye socket, and though his hair was damp it was nonetheless was even wilder than usual. His remaining eye was bloodshot, his face pale.

He didn’t even know himself.

But then again, that wasn’t a very unusual feeling.

He was pulling on a t-shirt as he limped back into the room.

He hoped his damn eye would grow back. He’d never actually had it ripped clean out before. Popped, shot, smeared, slashed—sure, but not torn clean out. Not in his memory, anyway.

 

[sniktsnakt]

Kylee leaped down from the bed. “Where’re you goin’?” she asked, apparently unphased by his appearance, except for an unusual amount of bossy concern entering into her voice.

“Gotta get something to eat and drink,” Logan said. And preferably a lot of the other. He couldn’t remember many other times he’d been ripped up this bad, and most the times he had he’d always been starving after he healed up. His body took care of itself—he wondered if even starvation could kill it—but food did seem to help speed things up.

So he’d head to the kitchen. He’d—

Damn, his head hurt.

He’d head on down there, looking half-dead, and scare the kids to death. Rogue’d probably have a heart-attack.

He sat on the end of the bed, staring at the door. He saw the bloodied handprints on the door frame, and followed the trail of blood to the floor, and to the rug, which was stained black and stank of old blood. No one had even tried to clean it up yet.

How the hell?

He stood again, stepping carefully to the doorway. He pulled it open, sticking his head out and sniffing. It made his eye water; the hallway reeked of disinfectant and bleach. The long rug that had run down the hall was gone.

He’d dragged himself up here?

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, and then his eyes fell on the deep, thin grooves in the wooden floor, and marring the walls. He’d recognize his claw-marks anywhere.

What the hell had happened?

“Kylee!” Logan snapped, pulling his head back inside. His voice still sounded about two octaves lower than usual—more of a growl than a voice, but it would have to do. “What happened when I got here?”

Kylee was still sitting on the bed, watching him. “You should come back to sleep, Wolvie.”

“Dammit, kid! Was anyone hurt?”

She stared guilelessly at him, then bowed her head and spoke softly. “You were,” she said.

Logan swore again, stepping back and closing the door. He sank back onto the bed, ignoring the slicings of pain from the motion. It’d go away.

His head felt like it was packed with cotton.

“Wolvie?”

Kylee had crawled forward to sit by him, and reached out to touch his arm. He pulled away sharply.

He couldn’t remember.

God, sometimes he really hated his life.

“How’d I get up here?”

Kylee looked a little confused. “You don’t remember?”

“Just answer the question, kid.”

“You walked,” she said, then frowned, touching his arm again with a feather-light touch. “You were hurt,” she repeated softly.

There was no getting anything from the kid. But for some reason he couldn’t manage to get angry at her.

He growled softly and stood painfully again, heading for the door. Kylee met him, grabbing a bunch of his shirt in her small hand.

He didn’t even waste the time trying to pry her off him, but just limped down the hall, one arm around his stomach.

The reek of cleaner was thick all the way down the hall and down the stairs. He wrinkled his nose, gripping the railing as he headed down into the entryway.

Suddenly Kitty trotted around the corner and nearly ran into him. She gasped and reeled back, dropping the bottle of bleach she had been carrying and the armful of rags. The air reeked of fear, but it immediately decreased as the young mutant phased.

Logan’s hand, which had automatically reached out to help her catch her balance, swept through her arm uselessly.

Kitty fell backwards and right through the floor.

Logan stared at the floorboards, and then swore loudly.

“Kitty!”

Damn. Of course she could go through walls and such, but he’d never seen her drop through the damn floor before!

What if she kept falling down and couldn’t get herself to stop?

“Logan!” Rogue gasped, coming running from where she had been scrubbing in the sitting room. “Wha’s wrong?”

Logan looked up at Rogue, who stopped stand-still. “Pryde,” he said, gesturing to the floor.

“Oh,” Rogue said. She smiled, though it faltered slightly. “Don’ worry. She used to do that all the time, before she learned how to really use her powers. You probably just startled the girl.”

“Like hell I did,” Logan said, running a hand through his hair. “Kid looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

That weak smile again—faltering, wide-eyed. Hell, Rogue looked like she’d seen a ghost too. Kept staring at his face—maybe at his empty eye socket. Maybe at the hand-marks. What the hell had that freak been, anyway?

The smile vanished completely, and pure concern took its place. “Are you all righ’, Logan?” Rogue asked, stepping forward. “You should probably still be in bed. Beast said—”

“I’m up and healin’. That’s enough to say I don’t care what Beast said.”

“Logan—” Rogue said, frustration and worry clear in her scent. She shook the rag she held at him, and Logan paused before grabbing her gloved wrist and looking at the blood-and-bleach soaked rag.

“All righ’,” he said, his voice rumbling more than usual. He looked at Rogue with a narrowed eye, and her own eyes widened. So he looked and sounded bad enough to even scare Rogue now, did he? Good. He let go of her arm and stepped back. “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

“You don’t—?” The question was quickly cut off and Rogue snapped her mouth shut. “Nothin’.”

“Dammit, Rogue!” Logan snapped. “The bleach ain’t for nothin’, this whole place stinks like a morgue, Kitty smells scared to death, and you ain’t doin’ much better.”

“Ah ain’t afraid,” Rogue said, looking at him boldly. If her gaze hadn’t wandered to his missing eye it might have had a chance to convince him.

“Then what’re you hidin’?”

“Absolutely nothin’,” she replied, folding her arms, her eyes flashing. “Why don’t you remember?”

“Damn if I know,” Logan said, running a hand through his hair again.

“Well, it’s all right. Probably just bloodloss, concussion, or somethin’. Beast’ll figure it out. Just . . . how about you go shower, or somethin’?”

So she can finish covering up, or warn the whole place? Not bloody likely.

“I want answers first.” And food. Besides, startled people were unbalanced—easier to shake. Easier to get them to talk.

“Fine,” Rogue said. “Though none of us know the whole story. Beast found your bike jus’ five miles out on a side road, all cut up. Your blood was everywhere, and something else—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan waved his hand. He remembered that part. Remembered enough, anyway. “After all that.”

“You dragged yourself here an’ died on the front stairs,” she said shortly. She stopped, glaring at him as if he’d done it on purpose.

“Then what?”

Rogue stared. “’Then what?’ Jus’ like that?”

Logan shrugged. “Well, it’s obviously not the end.”

“Wolvie,” Kylee said, tugging on his pant leg. Logan shushed her, not looking away from Rogue.

“It coulda been,” Rogue said sharply. “Beast said he didn’t know how you got so far. Twenty percent blood content, Logan. That’s all you had when Hank got here.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, waiting for her point. It was obviously the wrong reaction, because Rogue turned around, throwing up her hands.

“Ah can’t deal with this right now. You were dead, you big lunkhead, and now you come stomping down like everythin’s all right—”

“Wol-vie,” Kylee insisted. Logan ignored her.

“It is. I’m healin’, and if this is all about the cleanup work, then Storm shoulda hired out, or somethin’. . . .”

Rogue had turned on him again, this time her eyes flaring with anger. “You think this all’s about a little cleanup? You were dead! And then we all thought you’d die again, and . . . how d’ya think w’all felt, not knowin’ if you’d had the cure, or if you’d die for good, or . . . or . . . .” A tear ran down her face, and though it was quickly brushed away, Logan felt frozen in his tracks. “You’ve never been like that, Logan. You’ve never been like that.”

Crap. He’d been barking up the wrong tree here.

Rogue had turned away again, now hugging herself. Logan didn’t move for a second, then stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “Darlin’ . . . .”

She turned suddenly, hugging him tight. Logan stiffened and stifled a gasp and curse, but didn’t push her away. “You idiot,” she muttered. “You pull somethin’ like this again and ah’ll make ya wish you were dead.”

When she finally let go he nodded gruffly, not willing to admit how much her tight hug had hurt. He folded his arms.

“You go on back t’your room, now,” Rogue said, wiping her eyes again.

Logan shook his head, looking away from her. Something bad had happened—something beyond him coming back with a few scratches.

And he thought he knew what it was.

 

[sniktsnakt]

He looked away from her. “Where’s Storm?” he asked, his voice soft and even more growly for it.

“Out front,” Rogue said. Logan glanced towards the door. Rain was pouring from the sky, and Logan figured she was doing her own kind of cleaning out there. Trying to wash away all the blood. “But Logan—”

Logan didn’t want for her to finish. He turned and walked towards the kitchen, Kylee still trailing behind him.

If he ignored her, maybe she’d leave him alone.

Classes must’ve gotten out already. He could hear the students outside (in the back, where the sky was blue and quite clear), and in the game room a game of pool was in full swing. On a normal day Logan might take some time off to show the kids a few tricks, but this time he didn’t even glance inside as he passed by.

He felt stares enough—heard the gasps of surprise and fear, and the whispers. He didn’t bother with them, but headed straight into the kitchen, which was all but deserted. Bobby Drake froze in the middle of taking a bite of ice cream (it slid from his spoon back into his bowl, but he didn’t even seem to notice), and Warren Worthington straightened in surprise, his wings flaring slightly.

“L-logan,” Bobby choked. “Kylee, what—”

Logan didn’t even glance at him. He could smell the stink of wariness, even fear, and he hated it.

It confirmed his suspicions.

He needed to get out of here.

He opened the fridge and grabbed a soda and a box of half a cold and grease-stiffened pizza. He began snarfing them down, and Kylee let go of her vice grip, but kept a hand wrapped in his t-shirt like he was a dog prone to wandering.

“Kylee, is everything all right?” Warren asked hesitantly.

Kylee nodded factually. “He missed breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, and breakfast again,” she said, as if that explained everything.

The pizza and soda weren’t near enough. He turned back to the fridge, finding a bowl of half-eaten pasta and helping himself to it.

He was already feeling physically better. His head was clearing up, and the pain was taking its place where it belonged.

Bobby and Warren didn’t move, but stayed still, watching him, though both looked a bit green. Probably had looked at his face.

Kylee stayed right at his side as he emptied the fridge of all immediate edibles—including a full gallon of milk and a raw marinating steak. He only paused to pull the meat out of the reach of Kylee’s reaching hand.

“You’ll get sick,” he snapped.

“You are sick,” she bounced back. “Ms. Jeannie said it needs to be cooked.”

Logan did not want to think about Jean right now. Another person who had trusted him. But she hadn’t been so lucky to walk away.

The food had settled into his stomach, and he didn’t feel like eating anymore. He chucked the rest of the raw meat into the sink and slammed the fridge closed.

He smelled him before he turned back around. Good. Just who he was looking for.

“Logan!”

He turned sharply, his lip curling to a snarl. “And what the hell were you thinking?”

Beast stopped dead-still in the doorway. “What is it that you mean?” Beast looked a bit worse for the wear, and as he stood there he took off his glasses and cleaned them slowly on a cloth from his pocket. There was a scratch on the right lens. “I have been looking for you, Logan. You are not well enough to be walking about already.”

“I doubt I was that hard to find.” Logan reached down, catching Kylee’s wrist without even having to try, and pulled her off him. “I’m leavin’.”

“What—?”

“I know what happened, Hank. This proves it ain’t safe when I’m here.”

“On the contrary,” Beast replied, always the voice of reason. “This actually went farther towards supporting the safety of the children than any action we have thus far observed. You have always feared loosing your feral side around the children. Now it has happened, and no one was hurt.”

“Sheer damn luck.”

“Again, I disagree. Those you came across performed admirably, and you were contained as we thought needed. Yet your feral side is not evil or bloodthirsty, Logan. You were simply afraid, hurt, and confused. Striking out was purely defensive.”

Logan stared blankly back at him. He thought that maybe Beast’d understood, being part feral. But this was more than just being feral, wasn’t it? Something else was wrong with him.

Had Beast ever felt the bloodwrath? The berserker rage, building in his bones and wanting nothing more but to kill, and rip, and shred, and to howl in the terrible, agonizing glory of blood?

Damn.

“Hank? Did you find him?”

“Just where you thought he would be, Ororo,” Beast replied.

Storm ran into the room, looking frazzled and exhausted, but relieved. She smiled and came forward. “I told you he would not stay in bed, Hank.” She stopped at Logan’s unyielding stare. “What’s wrong?”

Logan shook his head and tried to walk past them, but Storm put a hand on his shoulder—right over where Bloodscream had grabbed him. He pushed her back, swearing.

“What the hell’s wrong with you people?” Rogue had followed him, and now was watching him in concern. Kitty stood some paces behind her, looking a bit pale, but otherwise composed. If anything, she looked a bit sheepish from her earlier stunt.

“Logan, what—” Storm tried again.

“You let me in the damn house,” he turned sharply to confront her. “I coulda killed any of you—all of you. Hell, Beast, when I woke up, this furball was sitting right next to me!”

“She wouldn’t leave your side,” Rogue said.

“I almost killed Kitty, and I woulda killed you. And you let her get near me?”

“She went near feral herself, Logan. And you didn’t hurt her at all; indeed, it seemed as if your feral side was determined to protect her—”

“I don’t give a damn!” he snarled. Even Kylee backed up, her fur slicked back and her eyes wide.

I killed Jeannie, and you still don’t understand.

These fools were as bad as Chuck. Could have been killed by their own just like he did, because he thought she was in control.

He needed to get out of here. Now.

He stepped forward, but Rogue moved with him, standing right in his way. “You try to leave and ah’ll touch you,” she said plainly. Not the best of threats from the average person, but it was enough here. “We need you, Logan. So you coulda killed one of us—but you didn’t. Dozens of mutants and normals died because Professor Xavier was controlled by Stryker. Ah almost killed off enough folks to toss down all the world’s governments. It wasn’t our fault. You said so yourself.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“And this wasn’t yours,” Rogue declared, drawing her full height. Logan realized that she’d passed him up sometime since he’d met her. “Ah mean it, Logan.” Seeing his unyielding look, but shying away from looking directly at his missing eye, she tried again. “You try to leave and you’ll be back in bed for a week. Besides, if you really feel that all guilty, you gotta stay on and make it up to us.”

The kid really was desperate.

“Really, Mr. Logan,” Kitty said softly. “Stay. Please.”

“Storm cannot run the institute on her own with none but Kurt,” Beast added. “I myself am leaving to Washington as soon as I am able.”

They were all crazy. There was no other solution.

He felt a shy hand clutching his pant leg and looked down to see Kylee looking up at him cautiously, her ears back. He heard a faint purr that he could swear almost vibrated from her palm.

God, this kid was the only one who could look him in the face without flinching.

And the Wolverine hadn’t fought her. Hadn’t tried to hurt her.

Had tried to protect her.

And still wanted to. He could feel it, burrowed deep inside him, wrapped around with anger and fury and hatred—there was that need to protect. She was pack. Even more than Rogue, who was like a sister to him. No, Kylee was more. She understood more than anyone, and she knew.

Hadn’t even Beast started out as a normal human being? He and Kylee—they’d always been freaks. Long as both of them could remember.

He grunted. He wanted a cigar, but the standard issue sweats he was wearing didn’t even have pockets for him to busy himself checking. He pushed past Rogue, and she actually reached for her glove.

“Quit it,” he stopped her, not even slowing his pace. “I go where I wanna go, and you damn well know you couldn’t get a finger on me if I didn’t want it, even now.” She stopped, biting her lip. Logan turned back around. “’m goin’ upstairs.”

Rogue let out a long breath. “Thank you, Logan,” she breathed softly, knowing he’d hear it clearly. He thought he heard a breath of relief from Storm too.

They were all crazy.

The only one with an ounce of sense was Jubilee, who had stood watching the whole thing, her expression set and hard, her hands ready to be raised.

The kid’d always been scared of him, but something had changed from the day before. Fear was gone, and instead there was defensive, fearless anger. She was practically ready to fight him right then and there.

Good.

Ignoring the rising pain, he climbed the stairs, apparently not noticing his small orange shadow that trailed behind him.

TBC . . .

 

[squeekness]

Poor Logan. Hope his eye grows back soon.

 

[sniktsnakt]

Okay, guys. School just started up and it's going to look crazy for a while, so I might start spacing out the updates a bit. Thanks for your patience and support!

Enjoy,

----------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 21: No Rest for the Wicked

----------------------------------------------------------

September 7, 20—

It’s kinda funny.

Storm’s apparently been ripping the place apart to clean up the mess I made. The second time I’ve smeared this place with blood.

The whole place reeks, and not just with disinfectant. Same as with the blood of the guys I killed back when Stryker stormed the place—you can still smell it. Every time I walk in the front door I can smell the blood of the clowns I sliced up there, under all the coming and going, fading—but always there. Now the stink of my blood’s smeared all over on top of theirs. Can’t come or go without smelling it.

Storm rained down the front walk until the grass around it’d turned into a swampy mess. Walked out and took a look around, and stood where I’d died on the steps. Rain kinda puddled where my eye shoulda been. Felt weird.

It takes more than a bunch of chemicals to clean up blood, and rain don’t do a thing—just washes it around and hides it in the grass. Even time can’t really take care of it, ‘cause even after the smell’s gone—it’s still there, both inside and out.

Wish there were a better way to clean it up.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Logan took a long hot shower and limped out of the steaming bathroom, zipping up his pants. He flopped down on the bed, then immediately rose with a sound of disgust. The bedsheets were stained and stank to hell.

One place the cleaning brigade hadn’t gotten to yet.

He stripped the bed and was roughly rolling up the stained floor rug when there was a knock at the door.

“Yeah, what?”

“Can I come in?” Beast queried.

“The door’s unlocked.” Not like it mattered in this place. He’d seen Beast slam a fist through a steel-plated door once. Hardly slowed him down.

Diplomat his ass.

Hank opened the door and stepped kicked. Logan kicked the soiled rug against the wall and clapped his hands together. Besides the blood, he hadn’t realized it’d gotten so just plain filthy. Course, it figured. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d stomped in after a mission, muddy, bloody, or covered in who-knows-what. Probably about time to get a new one anyway, even without the newest bloodstain.

“What d’ya want?”

“I am soon to leave for the airport. I took off without much warning, and some of my associates are none too happy about my absence, I’m afraid.” Logan nodded. Beast cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Yes, well. I took the liberty of procuring this for you,” he reached into his suit pocket.

Logan reached out, and Hank dropped it into his hand.

An eye patch.

“I thought it might spare the students a nightmare or two.”

Logan grunted, closing his fingers over it.

“Alas, they had no such patch for the whole visage . . . .”

Logan snagged an old t-shirt from his floor and chucked it at Beast’s head.

-------------------------------------------------------------

September 8, 20—

Dammit.

So I told Storm and Rogue ‘n all of ‘em that I wouldn’t leave. But that doesn’t damn-well mean I put myself into house arrest, even for a day.

Gotta get out of here. Gotta breathe. And it sure don’t help that Cyke’s bike’s insurance had expired five months ago.

And most of all, I gotta find out who this clown was. He knew who I was. Knew more than I do.

Dammit.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Logan stood on the front steps, above the stone walkway and staring out over the front lawn. His eye patch covered his empty eye socket.

He could still smell the traces of his own blood, and he knew the darker traces on the walkway weren’t there naturally. Even Storm’s rains could only wash away so much.

He drew deep on his cigar.

Who the hell had been that guy? What was it—Bloodscream, or whatever the hell. It couldn’t have been his real name, but then again—half the people who knew him knew him as Wolverine.

Madripoor. France. The ugly bastard’d said they’d seen each other there, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember a damn thing.

Not like he had expected anything else.

But no matter how many questions that clown had brought up, he’d answered something even more important.

There was a Before. Before the white snow, before Weapon X. He’d been someone.

Immortal.

Logan scowled.

You’ll never learn, Patch.

Patch? He said it like it was a name.

Damn. It sounded like a dog’s name. Even worse than Wolverine.

I can’t be killed—not by any weapon forged by a man. And that is all you are—all you ever have been.

Logan dropped his cigar and ground it under his heel.

He’d left a note for whoever found it. He’d said he wouldn’t leave—permanently, for now—but he needed air.

He headed across the grass, still limping slightly, but not slowing his pace for it in the slightest.

-----------------------------------------------

September 14, 20—

It’s weird going back. Course, I’ve only been outta Canada for a few months, and that’s nothin’, so that ain’t the weird thing. It’s walkin’ into a high-class bank, bein’ let in, bein’ recognized, even with this damned patch . . . .

I think security near had a heart attack. Still, things went through all right, ‘specially once I showed my claws and offered to get the money myself.

I don’t like that. There’s a reason I ain’t been there in ten years. Got what I came for, and got out. Headed back to the states ‘s fast as I could, ‘cause I knew that as soon as I left they’d make a couple calls . . . .

There’s a reason I drove around in an old camper for all those years. Didn’t have to, but damn . . . they’re still lookin’ for me. No, not Stryker’s clowns—other people. Canadian gov folks. Good people, if you wanna call them that. The worst kind to have after you.

They might not’ve made me into what I am—a weapon—but they recognized me for it. They honed me, used me, and I got sick of it. So I left. They didn’t like it one bit, and tried comin’ after me . . . probably saw me as an investment, or a secret weapon or some crap that they didn’t want to give up.

Either way, that’s long past. No regrets, either. Not about walkin’ away, anyway.

Not like getting to the states would leave ‘em behind, though. Got them on my tail just outside Ottawa. Ended up leadin’ them on a wild goose-chase ‘til I lost ‘em near Marathon. Knew some guys there that helped me sneak back over the border without drawin’ too much attention.

Some day they’ll learn that the Wolverine goes where he wants ta go.

---------------------------------------------

 

[sniktsnakt]

Storm was overseeing the placement of the last of the new carpets when she heard the motorcycle roar up the drive.

She didn’t think anything of it at first—it was a common enough sound, after all, and always had been, with first Cyclops and then Logan. The bike had gone silent before she realized what was wrong with it.

Cyclops’ bike had been beyond repair. It’d sat slumped in pieces at the back of the garage for the past few days since Logan had left, and no one else around here drove a motorcycle.

She walked to the garage to find Logan kicking down the stand of a red, gleaming Harley. He looked up and gave a crooked smile, which looked even more crooked due to the eye patch he still wore. At least all of the other scars had healed up and vanished.

“Beauty, ain’t she?”

Storm stared. “Where did you get this?” she asked, reaching out a hand, but Logan caught her wrist before she could touch it.

“Not unless ya want to shine her up, darlin’. That’s a custom paint job. Virgin—never been rid before.” He stroked a handlebar gently. He almost missed her suspicious glare, but caught enough of it for him to raise his hands innocently—or, as innocently as Wolverine could be. “I didn’t steal her. Got the registration forms and everythin’. All legit.”

“I did not think you had stolen it,” Ororo claimed. Logan snorted, and she glared at him defensively. “Well, where did you get the money for such a thing?”

Logan raised an eyebrow at her. “Who died and made you Cyclops?”

Storm folded her arms, stepping back. “That’s not funny, Logan.”

Logan ducked his head. “Yeah,” he admitted, putting down the garage door and engaging the lock. “Been a long week.” No need to expound. His life was complicated enough as it is.

“At least you came back whole this time.”

Logan snorted, heading to the house. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered.

All he wanted was food and a nice, long nap.

------------------------------------------------------------

Wolverine slipped downwards on the slope in his eagerness, craving fresh meat and warmth. His claws itched beneath his skin, and he growled softly.

Then suddenly, he froze, staring down at the ground, and the clear tracks that he had slipped into after his slide down the muddied incline.

There were footprints there, and not animal ones either.

Wolverine crouched down, staring around warily as he breathed in the stink of leather and gun oil, and no less than five individual humans. He remembered the stench vividly, though distantly. Like his dreams, spiking pain and terror, yet without understanding. He gave a low growl, feeling a wild roar of red rising in his mind. But these tracks were not completely fresh—maybe an hour old. He felt a sudden terror, and an urge to run and keep running and not look back. He could lose them again.

Or he could follow them. Follow them and kill them all. Easy.

He knew them now. He wasn’t weak anymore, if he ever had been. He knew who he was, what he was.

He was the best. And he wouldn’t let them hurt him again.

And if they were dead, they never would be able to, ever again.

He straightened slowly, already baring his teeth at this new hunt, but he caught himself.

The kid.

He shook his head, growling as he stepped in the direction in which the tracks led, but then stopped again.

No. The kid.

He looked down at the tracks, then back at his own, and felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the snow.

He’d left his own tracks, and they were impossible to miss in the melting snow.

These guys were bad news, and something reminded him that they never traveled alone. There were always others.

Why were they here? How had they found him?

There were always others, looking for him. Looking for freaks like him. Looking for freaks like the kid.

Wolverine growled again.

No.

He’d gotten careless. He’d gotten careless, and he’d led them right to the kid.

Wolverine turned around and darted back up the slope, refusing to let the thought that he was running away enter his mind. He backtracked, running straight rather than following the winding path that he had taken in following his prey this long.

There was something cold and hard inside of him—something sharp, and honed. He wanted blood—he wanted to kill, and to tear—to let the red rage take him, like it did—let him forget.

His hands shook, and he convinced himself it was the cold, and that the cold pit of tar in his gut was just hunger.

He was hunted again, and it's something that he hasn't felt for a long time.

He hated it.

Wolverine was running full out when he heard the angry roaring. He looked up, trying to find the source of the sound as it grew louder—closer.

Too loud.

He dove under some bushes, hugging close to the snow as some giant creature passed overhead, making the tops of the sway with the wind it left.

A helicopter.

Damn.

If there was any doubt in his mind before of who these people were, for some reason this banished it. As soon as the noise passed farther away he leaped to his feet, running again.

Somehow, they knew he was there. They were looking for him again.

Wolverine slid into the cave through the muddied entrance, but then stopped, frozen.

The kid was asleep, his breathing loud even over Wolverine’s own panting, huddled in his coat by the dying fire.

The kid was too sick to run. Too sick to even walk from here.

Wolverine straightened slowly, his eyes not leaving the kid. His hair brushed the top of the cave. His heart pounded in his ears.

Panic faded. Fear vanished. Resolve took their places.

Hard, metal, fearless resolve. A soft growl rumbled from his chest.

The kid shifted slightly, and Wolverine looked away—back to the white snow and the world behind him.

He stepped outside of the cave into the sunlight. He tested the air, like a wolf heading out on a hunt.

It was time to stop running.

TBC . . .

 

[squeekness]

Hey, don't sweat the less frequent updates. I am back to work now myself and will have less time to hang out here at the Hype as well.

Thanks for the new chapter, it was great as awlays. I always liked Logan as Patch so it was good to see that come up again.

 

[sniktsnakt]

Here you guys go. Enjoy.

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Chapter 22: The Best at What He Does

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I hate sentinels.

Damn tin cans. Clumsy and stupid as the government brains who made them. But that makes ‘em even more inconvenient to have running around, if anythin’.

The government swears they stopped making ‘em months ago. Dunno if I believe ‘em for a second, but ‘Roro says we have enough trouble as it is, without worryin’ about government conspiracies or whatnot. Don’t blame me for laughin’ at her.

One way or another, there’s been some rogue tin woodsmen popping up now and again across the good ol’ US of A. ‘parently some smartass gov-man told them they could reconfigure all hostiles or non-hostiles in their systems, and their little computer brains took off with that and decided anyone tryin’ to order ‘em around was hostile. Damn smart, that.

I’d pay a lot to see the look on that clown’s face when he realized what deep **** he was in.

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Logan lunged at the sentinel, twisting his claws in the metal cover so he could climb upwards without cutting right through. He scrambled upwards, his feet flailing beneath him as the sentinel turned. He felt a breeze, and glanced over his shoulder to see another sentinel leveling its hand right at him, its missile launcher opening.

Oh, great.

Logan leaped from the sentinel’s side, free falling. The missile shot right past him into the first, and the blast from the explosion sent Logan’s free fall into a wild, spinning careen.

He didn’t have time to think before he slammed into the ground, plowing a good rut in the mud.

“Oh, to hell with this,” he snarled, spitting out mud and slashing at the dirt as he rose up, hardly feeling the bruises with the rush of adrenaline. “Popsicle! Give me a lift, will you?”

Bobby did a double-take at his blood-and-muddied condition, pausing in the act of freezing a sentinel’s shoulder-joint. He turned a single hand, and suddenly Logan felt the ground shoot up with him on top of it as a pillar of ice grew right under his feet. And then, he was airborne.

It wasn’t near so direct or accurate as his and Colossus’s now-famed fastball special, but Logan wasn’t picky.

His trajectory went over the massive robot’s head, and he turned his momentum into a flip, spinning to catch himself on back. His claws screeched in protest, hardly slowing his descent until he rammed them up to his elbow. He stopped with a teeth-jarring jolt, the torn metal of the sentinel slicing into his arm as he caught himself still. He snarled, slicing deeper through the covering, and let his claws do what they did best.

He cut through the shell like it was soft butter, cleaving through the tank-level armor like it wasn’t there. His claws struck a cable, throwing sparks into his face and a jolt of pain through his skeleton. Undeterred, he dug in, metal flesh flying until he dragged himself fully into the massive machine, set on doing as much destruction as possible.

Not as satisfactory as fighting the real thing, but you did what you could with what life gave you.

The metal earth that surrounded him suddenly gave an odd shudder, and began to waver like a ship on an uneasy sea.

Damn.

Logan scrambled backwards, heedless of the sharp and twisted metal that cut him, and he jumped from the sentinel, falling again.

This time he kept his landing, though—catching his weight on his feet and keeping it there. If he’d had normal bones he’d probably had splintered his legs like green wood. It was a good thing he didn’t have to worry about that.

The sentinel was tottering above him, and Logan ran forward, slicing at its leg and letting it topple over. The ground shook as it landed, and Logan dove out of the way as an energy beam shot so close to him the heat scorched the side of his face.

He ducked behind a fallen piece of scrap metal, looking for the kids. Damn. He hoped Rogue’d gotten out of there like he’d told her—she was helpless in a fight like this.

“Logan!”

Think of the devil.

He jerked around, seeing Rogue scrambling over the scorched and potted war-torn earth, ducking and weaving.

Damn.

He jerked up, running full at her. He hit her, knocking her clean over and shielding her with his body as a rocket shot past them. Shrapnel tore into his back, but a millisecond later he was on his feet, dragging Rogue up and turning to see the last sentinel standing, and leveling both hands towards them.

Ah, hell.

KA-BOOOOOM!

He felt the heat even through his eye patch. Light blinded him, and Logan staggered, bringing his hands to his ears at the blast of noise. Damn—he was blind and deaf—all he could see was white—he blinked rapidly to see the sentinel still standing there—but now smoking from a sizable hole in its head, while electricity arched over its full length, crackling.

A final gust of wind finished it off, pushing it to fall away from them harmlessly. Storm all but appeared at Logan’s side as he began to stand slowly, a hand over a smoking hole in his side. “Wolverine! Are you all right? I saw—”

She was cut off by a very thorough kiss. Iceman gave a whoop, and Kitty laughed.

“Logan!” Storm gasped, pulling back. She wiped her mouth—the kiss had tasted muddy and bloody—and made a face. “What—?”

“Aw, come on, darlin’,” he grinned wolfishly. “It wasn’t that bad.” He turned back to the younger X-Men. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

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One more X-suit destroyed.

At this rate he might finally convince Storm to let them wear something more comfortable. She couldn’t keep up the drain in the budget like this for long. Jeans and a t-shirt were much more affordable, not to mention a whole lot less tacky.

Where’d Chuck get his money, anyway? Reading old folks’ minds and cheating them out of their riches?

Right.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.

He started down the stairs. He hadn’t reached the grass when the door opened behind him.

“Where are you going?” Storm asked, her voice carrying clearly in the darkness. “You said you were staying.”

Logan looked down at the faintly dark-swirled sidewalk. He wondered if those stains would ever really wash away. Well, at least most people wouldn’t recognize it for what it was. “Never be stupid enough to say somethin’ like that.” They were silent for a long moment. “Headin’ to France.”

“With no passport or money?” Storm asked dubiously. Logan didn’t answer. She let it go. “This has to do with that creature that attacked you.” Logan’d told them about the Bloodscream character—briefly. Wouldn’t have left him alone otherwise.

Logan looked back at her. “I gotta remember, ‘Ro. You don’t know what it’s like, not even knowin’ who you are.”

“But will this teach you anything?” Storm pressed. Logan looked away. “They never have before, and even if you learn something, does it matter? If you don’t remember—whoever you were isn’t who you are now.”

Logan just frowned into the darkness. “I gotta know,” he insisted quietly. “I just—I gotta catch one these guys alive, find out who hired him. Somebody knows who I am, Storm.”

“Who you were,” she emphasized again. “Are you really expecting to track down someone who wants to kill you, then take his word on what kind of person you are? I can tell you that, Logan.”

Wolverine clenched his fist. Only he could make such a small gesture look so dangerous. “Someone knows. I think more people know than they’re willing to say.”

“Who?”

He just shook his head. It would be too complicated to tell Storm about the Canadian government, whoever’d given him his claws, these guys after him, and a certain man named Nick Fury . . . .

“Does this have anything to do with the new motorcycle?”

Logan turned, looking at her. “Now who’s a telepath? You’re right—we don’t need Frosty.”

She looked at him blankly before she realized what she was talking about. “Emma Frost?” She glared. “You are avoiding the subject.”

Logan shrugged. “Whatever works.”

Ororo stepped forward, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “Logan, surely by now you realize that we are family here. You could not tell us anything that would change that.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Logan.” Her voice was low in warning.

Logan’s expression sobered. “I gotta do this, ‘Ro.”

Ororo sighed. “Your coming and going like this is not easy on any of us.” He didn’t answer. She removed her hand from his arm. “Go, then. But remember, Wolverine—perhaps it is time for you to start leaving the past where it belongs. You have a future for you, here.”

Logan nodded—acknowledging her words more than agreeing with them—and headed down the stairs. “See ya later.”

“Be careful. Do not be afraid to call if you find trouble, since you are so intent on seeking it out.”

Logan snorted softly. “Darlin’, trouble finds me easy enough. Why wait for it to find me?”

He cut across the lawn towards the garage to get his bike. The fading scent of his own blood in the grass tickled his nose.

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Wolverine ran through the woods, his head low and his steps all but silent, as he had for the months and months before.

But this time he wasn’t running from anything.

Each stride brought their scent closer—fresher. Eight men in this group, all stinking of gun oil and exhilaration and caution—and fear, as they should.

They’d tried to kill him. They knew him. They knew what he could do—and would do.

He was getting close.

And as he drew closer, he remembered.

Pain. Suffocation. Terror. Searing liquid pouring into his mouth, his nose, his lungs as he gasped in vain for air as knives cut to the bone . . . burning . . . burning . . . burning . . . .

Something putrid—something reeking and chemical, churning his stomach as it mixed with the stink of too much spilled blood.

His.

He bared his teeth as he ran, defying the fear, the memories of pain, the nightmares.

He’d killed them before. He’d gotten away. And now he was stronger, smarter.

He was the best there was in the forest, and here he would kill them all.

He was the prey no longer.

He could hear them, now, checking in with their other units as they swept the area. Their footsteps were careful, their eyes wary. They knew he was close.

But they had no idea how close.

Wolverine moved silently from their path, hunched next to the muddied ground as he prepared to spring.

SNIKT.

One of the soldiers stopped, lifting his gun. “What was that?” he whispered.

Wolverine leaped towards the two closest soldiers.

The two of them were dead before they had time to open their mouths to cry out. One fell to the ground, screaming to hurt his ears as he clutched as his sliced open gut. He’d be joining them soon enough.

Wolverine whirled away from them, flecks of blood spraying from his claws. Three plugs slammed into his chest, staggering his step slightly, but not for long enough. He darted low, snarling, and dove in.

He sliced through a barrel of a gun, and a caught a couple fingers by the scream. Bullets slammed into him and he kicked out, catching a soldier’s chest with a loud crack! Blades cut flesh, scarlet stained the snow, and screams died with their masters.

“Control!” one of the soldiers screamed into his radio. “Team B—we’ve found him! We’ve found Experiment X—” He was silenced suddenly. The radio fell into the snow.

Wolverine withdrew his claws straightened, blood-splattered and furious. The men around him were silent; the only sound was a helicopter drawing close.

Pain roared through his body, turning his vision red.

He bared his teeth in a grin, turning away from the slaughter

He ran back up the hill, working for higher ground. The bullet-wounds burned as they healed, but as he came to a stop and looked down the steep incline they were nothing but memories—the bullets themselves long-since lost in the snow behind him.

 

[sniktsnakt]

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In the beginning it was just like that—hot and bloody. I snuck up on them and took them out, bitin’ a few bullets for my trouble, and takin’ them down by the dozens in turn. But they got smarter after a while. Spread out, kept me in sights, and took their long shots. They had all the time in the world, and the numbers to spare in both men and ammo. They’d brought an arsenal to take out an army.

I could’a cared less, in the beginning. The pain just made me madder, wilder—stronger. But it started to wear. I was fightin’ wild—straight-on, and taking the punishment as it came. With all that, even my healin’ factor’s got a limit.

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Wolverine lurched to his feet in the middle of the most recent slaying field. Radios hissed static at him as he staggered forward, a hand over his chest as blood splurted between his fingers from the latest round of bullets he’d taken. He leaned against a bullet-potted tree as the blood slowed, then flung the bullet away from him as it popped out of the mutilated flesh. He trembled with pain and fury, his hard eyes darting to the sky as the helicopter drew close overhead.

He bolted down the slope, the wind of the helicopter shaking the leafless treetops as it zeroed in on his location. As it came over him he dove to the side, throwing himself behind a fallen tree and covering his head.

ZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIPZIP-

Machinegun fire fell around him, sending mud and woodchips flying. Bullets slammed into his leg and he jerked, but he rose as soon as the rounds passed, running downwind. They’d been trying to sneak up on him that way, hoping he wouldn’t scent them out before—

There was a soft thud on the snow in front of him. Instinct threw him to the side, curling up in a ball—

The world ended.

It hit him like a wall, tearing into his leg and ripping the flesh right to the bone, and shrapnel sliced into his side and ripped up his face. The force threw him back, and he bulleted into a tree and clean through it.

He rolled onto his stomach, coughing up blood.

Grenade.

He tried to stand, but his leg wasn’t responding—it wasn’t even hurting, now, and he looked down, half expecting to see it missing entirely.

Cold, scorched metal gleamed up at him from the knee down. Bits of burnt flesh hung off the flawless metal like rags of cloth.

What the—?

Immediately tendrils of muscle and blood vessels began crawling their way down his shin, twisting like a living thing.

Well, hell.

He began crawling forward, ignoring the damage of the grenade even as he felt his insides crawling back together. He could hear the men now over the ringing in his ears, shouting and running up the slope towards him

They knew he was down.

He dragged himself to a tree, then dug his claws into the wood, pulling himself to his feet with his arms. His rasping breath was loud in his own ears.

No time to rest. No time to heal.

He stuck his head from behind the tree, trying to scent them out downwind. A spattering of bullets made him jerk back, and he hugged against the trunk of the tree, his claws holding him up as much as anything else.

Damn.

The helicopter was coming back for another round. One more blast like that and he’d be down for the count.

His leg was healing, and beginning to burn as his nerves healed enough to feel. He gritted his teeth against the agony.

He had to move. Now.

He forced his exposed muscles to move. He darted low, ducking beneath the shots bolted after him.

“He’s going west! He’s moving!” someone shouted.

He saw their black glasses peeking from the trees and bolted at them, ready for the shock of bullets to cut through him.

“Raaaarghhh!”

They never came.

The soldier’s eyes widened and he stepped back, lifting the gun’s barrel, and flame spouted right into his face.

He roared in agony and struck out blindly. Metal sliced metal, and slick liquid sprayed over his face and arms. Fire darted up his arms, flaring at the fuel splashed all over them. Wolverine lunged forward, burning as he cut blindly through cloth, flesh and metal around him.

It was too much. He had to get back. He had to heal.

He bolted backwards, jerking as bullets caught his flesh. His eyeballs were seared—he was blinded, his senses burned to hell. He hit the dirt, rolling and covering his face. He choked, gagging on the smoke from his own flesh burning.

Heal, dammit! Heal!

He heard shouts—they were coming for him again. They were too many; too much for even him.

He staggered to his feet. Two more shots shook his body. He gasped, pushing himself forward on all fours down the mountain.

He didn’t know where the hell he was. His eyelids were growing back, and his vision was clearing slowly—too slowly. The world was white and grey, and he blinked furiously, tears burning their ways down his seared face.

Heal!

He pushed himself to his feet, forcing himself to stagger forward.

The helicopter roared overhead and he ducked, but his footing slipped. He fell forward, tumbling down the slick slope. He slammed bonelessly into a bolder and lay there, limp.

“We got him, boys!”

“Move in!”

Get up, dammit.

He lifted his head, getting a fire-blackened arm beneath him and raising himself slightly. His skin cracked, oozing blood. He snarled, baring his teeth at the sky.

He had to get out of there. He couldn’t . . . let . . . them . . . get . . . him . . . again . . . .

He stood, hunched, his claws drawn and gleaming with red and black before him.

There was no way he was going to beat them. They were like ants—he’d already killed too many for him to bother to count, but they weren’t thinning.

He looked north—to the cave, where the kid was sleeping.

He bared his teeth, turned around as sharply as he could without falling over, and ran, leaving a trail of scarlet behind him.

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Finally got the story ‘bout what happened the night Bloodscream bled me out from Rogue. Was like pullin’ teeth, but I got it.

Damn.

Could’a killed her. Almost killed Kitty. Dunno why I didn’t kill Kylee.

Wouldn’t risk it again for the world.

I pulled Storm aside and talked to her long and good. If somethin’ happens like that again
they’re gonna take me down—outside. Get Iceboy or ‘Ro to freeze me solid, or Jubilee to spark me—kid might be the only one willin’ to do what she got to. Either way, it gotta be from a distance—no Rogue, no Colossus. If Pyro were still here he’d do fine. A good dozen shocks from Storm might even do it.

Best way to do it would be to toss me in the pool, if not the lake. A good knock in the head and water deep enough and I’ll drop right to the bottom, with these bones of mine. Best way to cool things off, get control again. Hurts like hell comin’ back after that, but it works.

But that was the problem. Storm brought me back. Looked like she’d been shocked herself when I told her she should’a left me dead. Would’a been best in the long run.

Looked doubly shocked when I told her if somethin’ like that happened again they weren’t to take any chances—they were goin’ ta knock me out quick and toss me in the Danger Room—or they were gonna have to kill me.

Made her swear it, though. Tried to make Rogue swear it, too. Rogue gave me a tongue-lashing and refused to promise anything, but Storm understood. She didn’t like it, but she understood.

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Wolverine’d broken through their line and was bolting downhill as best as he could. His skin was crawling back at half its usual rate, and he could feel a dozen bullets wedged inside his scorched and torn flesh. His foot was still skinless, and the pain was enough that he had shoved his hand into his mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to escape him as he ran.

He couldn’t spare the breath—he needed to run.

Blood trickled down his hand where his teeth pierced his skin, but he didn’t notice.

They were right on his heels. He was slowing—and could hear them right behind him, closing around like a pincher. Trying to close off any escape.

He had to lead them away from the kid.

Wolverine stumbled on the uneven ground, but skid to an abrupt stop to stare over the cliff to the white-watered river below.

The soldiers ran at him—from the woods, and a group spread to his right, just out of lunging distance.

Wolverine whipped his head around, his teeth bared.

“DIE, YOU FREAK ANIMAL!”

The bullets slammed into his chest and he staggered back, blood filling his mouth and drowning him. He tried to blink blood from his eyes in vain, struggled to breathe, his feet slipping on the ice as his vision began to waver.

Dammit, they would never have him.

He leaned back, and even as his legs gave out beneath him he fell backwards and over the edge.

A soldier swore and lunged forward, but his gloved hand slipped on the Wolverine’s blood-slick arm and the feral man fell backwards. He fell like a bag of dirt, slamming twice into the cliff-side before hitting into the white water and vanishing.

The soldiers gathered around the edge, staring down at where he had disappeared.

One of them lifted off his helmet with a bloodied hand from where he had been holding his sliced arm. He’d gotten lucky surviving at all, and he knew it.

Nothing human could have survived that fall.

But Weapon X wasn’t human. If there had been any doubters before, no one questioned what they were doing to this animal now, and why he needed to be brought back in.

“Damn.”

There was nothing else to say.

TBC . . .

 

[squeekness]

Poor Logan. He takes so much abuse. Another great chapter.

 

[sniktsnakt]

A bit longer chapter this time around. I hope you guys enjoy it.

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Chapter 23: Not Waving but Drowning

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Just got back from France. Found nothin’.

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They attacked in a wave, swarming down with their gleaming blades bared.

Ninjas.

Logan wasn’t worried. He heard them coming, smelled them coming, and was ready for them. When the first one struck out with his slightly curved sword, he blocked it easily, brushing it away as if it were nothing.

‘Relax. Have patience. You are not an animal. You are more than instinct and reflex.’

The blades swung around him, and he danced, feeling the wind of their passing, but no pain. Nothing could touch him.

‘You were born with these things. But instinct must be tempered with reason, and reflex with thought. Practice these things, and you will truly be the best.’

He caught one of the ninja’s arms and flipped over his head, cleanly keeping the battle moving, the dance paced.

“Logan!”

It was a woman’s voice—frantic, desperate—in pain. He whirled around, interrupting the dance as his eyes darting up to find her—he had to find her . . . .

NO!

Fire sliced through his chest.

He gaped down at the sword sticking clean through his heart. Blood gushed around the wound, and his vision turned red with fury and pain. A sword he hadn’t even realized he had been wielding fell from his hands to the ground.

“RRRRRRrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaargggggggggggghhhhhhh!”

He struck out, his claws popping from his knuckles, splurting blood. He staggered, the dance interrupted, the serenity shattered. Swords jabbed at him from all directions, piercing like needles through his lungs, his gut—slicing to his bones. He flailed wildly—his actions frantic, furious, but he fell beneath the throng, snarling, clawing—but drowning in his own blood.

The bodies of the dead fell on top of him, pressing him down, and the more he struggled the more it weighed. He gasped, striking out and feeling hot blood splash onto his face, clothing his naked body in scarlet.

He couldn’t move. His arms dragged him down, chains held him. Blood blinded him, turning his vision black as he floated in it.

He rested, floating in the heat, unable to move—paralyzed as fire began to replace his blood in his veins.

“Cardiotach, Miss Hines?” The voice was cold—scientific. Logan’s heartbeat pounded like gunshots, shaking him. He wanted to bare his teeth, to open his eyes and let the berserker free and kill and run . . . . Let the animal take him away and let him forget . . . .

His whole being shouted at him to run, to flee the agony, the terror.

He couldn’t even tremble.

“Rising rapidly, sir.”

Liquid flame ate at his flesh, burning him from the inside out as a thousand needles pierced him, violating him.

“Feed. Steady. Feed.”

His lungs burned for air, his eyes stung with acid. His body wanted to scream—it needed to scream, but he couldn’t even manage that. He was all theirs.

Deep, helpless in his own head, he screamed as his body floated peacefully in the clean, cold lab.

“There should be no further problems, professor. You see, his heart rate can’t possibly go any higher or he’d be—“

VEEP!

“Impeded.”

“. . . Superman or something.”

Something grabbed his throat, tearing him clean out of the hot liquid. The touch burned, sucking deep into his soul, and even as he gasped for air the long fingers curled around his throat, choking him again. He opened his eyes to see Bloodscream leering down at him.

“A weapon forged by the hand of man,” he sneered. “That’s all you ever have been, Patch, and that’s all you ever will be!”

Logan jerked out of bed with a strangled gasp, clutching at his throat. His claws had popped and left deep groves in his flesh—one slicing clean through his bicep—but they were already well on their way to healing as he sat up. He retracted his claws and put his head in his hands, taking deep breaths as he waited for the trembling to stop, waited for the knife of panic in his chest to ease. Waited for the terrified sweat on his skin to chill. Minutes passed in the darkness, with nothing but his own shuddering breath to keep him company.

He let out a long, slow breath, wiping the sweat from his face and lifting his head.

It was a mechanical process, one he’d almost gotten used to over the years. He cursed, rising out of bed to go wash his face. He rinsed out his mouth afterwards, trying to get rid of the bitter taste of fear and bile. He stopped, gripping the porcelain sink and staring at his own reflection.

He swallowed, and his arms gave one little tremble before he clenched his fists, forcing the trembling to stop.

Dammit.

The dreams were always vivid, but not like they had been these past few days.

Damn Bloodscream. Like he didn’t have enough to have nightmares about without adding crazy ninjas and vampires to the mix.

But that scream, that cry . . . .

He shook his head. The dream itself was already fading, but he remembered the sound of her voice, the agony in his own chest, the jolting stab worse even the pain as the sword shot through his heart . . . .

It hadn’t been Jeannie.

He knew that. He’d had enough nightmares about cutting her heart out to recognize her voice—her screams—even in his dreams.

Who else had he killed? Was this just a twisted dream, or another clump of memories?

And if it was the latter, what did it mean?

He rubbed his chest. His lungs were still seized up—aching, and his throat was tight. He swallowed, and wiped at his eyes again. Damn sweat.

He glanced at the clock. He’d only gone to bed two hours ago—late. He’d come back to the mansion early enough to attack the Danger Room for a couple hours before making his usual rounds and ending up in bed. Sometimes he wondered how necessary sleep was for him anyway. After all, he’d gone weeks without sleep before. Sure, it screwed his head over royally, but he could do it if he needed to—even if he was hallucinating at the end.

Well, he was done with sleep for now, whether he was still tired or not.

He turned away from the mirror, pulling his arm down from rubbing his chest.

The pain’d go away. He just couldn’t think about it, that was all.

It’d go away.

 

[sniktsnakt]

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It was five o’clock in the morning. That was fine with Logan—it wasn’t like he was sleeping well anyway. He was restless, and sleep even without nightmares was the last thing on his mind now.

So he ran.

He was barefoot, dressed in loose, comfortable sweats as he ran through the forest. Sweat ran down his face, and he ran faster.

Ten miles and still going strong.

France had been a disappointment, but it could have been worse. It certainly was better than his last visit to Paris, where he’d been sicced on a bunch of terrorists. Ended up with a big shoot-out, one to a dozen.

One’d walked away.

Hadn’t even needed to pop the claws that time, though. Canadian government’s Department H’d made sure he knew how to use a gun before they’d sent him in, and that’d been well more than enough. It was low-profile, putting him through his paces to make sure he had his head screwed on straight before they’d put him out to real business.

This time, though, there’d been nothing. He’d trashed a couple bars, punched out more than a few idiots, and even put money out for information—but nobody had ever heard of any crazy by the name of Bloodscream, or anyone by his description. No one recognized Logan, either.

Figured. Everyone who knew the sucker was probably already dead. Probably the same for Logan, too. People generally didn’t live too long around him.

He jogged to the back door, slowing his strides. He took the stairs three at a time and opened the door to stride into the mansion, wiping his face with his forearm as he headed to the kitchen.

Storm was already awake and at the counter, dressed in a bathrobe and grading papers with a red pen in one hand and a huge mug of coffee in the other. Her hair was tied up in an odd towel-turban above her head.

Logan walked on in, opening the fridge and sniffing before grabbing a carton of milk and straightening to guzzle it.

“From the carton, Logan?” Storm asked, looking up at him.

Logan shrugged without pausing from his drink. Finally he finished, lowering the empty gallon jug and crushing it in his hands. “Was almost gone anyway,” he said, tossing it in the trash. He stretched, coming around beside her. “English?”

“History,” Storm replied, rubbing her forehead. Logan picked up a random essay, setting it on the counter and sitting down. He frowned down at it, lifting his patch to rub sweat from under it.

Storm stopped, looking at him. “Are you ever going to stop wearing that?” she asked.

Logan glanced up to give her an odd look. “Eh?”

“I saw you in the Danger Room last night.”

Logan blinked at the seeming non-sequitur, then glowered. “Damn.”

After France he’d felt like a real workout, and set the Danger Room to something that would stretch even his limits. He’d taken off his patch so he wouldn’t be handicapped by it. It’s not like he needed it anymore, after all.

“How long has it been?”

Logan shrugged. “Couple weeks. Got used to the damn thing.” At Storm’s look, he glared twice as fiercely, flipping up the patch so he could pin her with both eyes. “Y’know, you lot go on about how we should try t’use other ways before violence.” He pulled a cigar out of his pocket. “This patch is preventative.”

“You are trying to quit?”

“Funny.” He lit up his zippo. A small puff of wind blew it out.

“Not in the kitchen.”

“You let the elf bamf around in here.”

Ororo decided she didn’t want to rehash this argument again. “Preventative?” she repeated, eyeing his patch dubiously.

“Sure. Scares ‘em off. Starts ‘em thinking how I lost the eye, and if we get talking I can tell ‘em how I lost it in a knife-fight ‘gainst twenty men and was the only one who walked away,” Logan smirked.

Well, for Logan such a boast would be an under exaggeration, even if the average listener wouldn’t know that. Still, if it worked . . . .

“And if they aren’t scared off and decide to fight anyway, it’s usually ‘cause they figure I’ve got a handicap.”

“And they are all the more the fools,” Storm finished.

“Yeah,” Logan said, picking at his cigar before sticking it in his mouth, unlit. “’Sides, it makes the fight more interesting.”

Storm shook her head. “You speak all of this as if through experience.”

“I wasn’t chillin’ on a beach with a broad in France, Ororo.” He took the cigar from his mouth, smirking. “Well, not most the time.”

“Very funny,” Storm said. Logan pushed the essay back towards her, and she returned it to its place on the pile as he stood. “You are not planning on leaving again soon?”

Logan tapped his unlit cigar against his hand, frowning down at it before putting it back in his mouth. “Thinkin’ about Madripoor.”

“Will you at least stay around for a few days?” Storm asked. “The children are restless, and I do not have time for their Danger Room sessions. Besides, Alex and Lorna are coming to the school, and I was hoping you’d be around to help show them the ropes.”

Logan’s eyebrows lowered. “Summers and Dane’re comin’?”

“I know what you said, Logan, but especially with you gone so much recently . . . we need the help. And I trust both Alex and Lorna completely. The professor asked them to come on more than once. I think that in some way they’re hoping to make it up to him, by coming now.”

Logan flicked on his zippo a second time, shielding it as he lit up. He turned around. “What the hell,” he murmured. “Ain’t like I care one way or another.”

“You will be here?”

“Hell, darlin’, you couldn’t keep me away,” Logan said, looking back from the door. “Another Summers in the house? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

-------------------------------------------

He was drowning, paralyzed. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—there was only agony . . . .

Wolverine gasped, his claws shooting out reflexively. Water flooded his lungs and he flailed blindly, still caught in a nightmare. He coughed, spewing water out into the shallows.

He gagged, dragging himself further onto the shore from where he’d been washed up. His limbs trembled, and his lungs refused to cooperate. He collapsed into the muddied ground, coughing helplessly.

He rolled onto his back, his vision red, and black, and white. The trees were grey around him—there was nothing but pain, like fire eating at his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t . . . think.

But he could hear. The sound of a helicopter flying the length of the river was clear even through the haze of confusion.

Run. Have to . . . go?

He put a hand to his head. His hair was short—burned away, and his hand came away red from blood. He stared at it, dazed.

Kid.

He snarled, but even that was interrupted by hacking coughs. He curled in on himself, growling as he felt the searing metal of bullets inside of him, working their way out inch by agonizing inch.

Men.

He rose onto his hands and knees, dragging himself from the water. The air brushed against his raw back and he bit off a scream.

Kid.

He dragged himself forward, then rose onto his feet and staggered forward, following the sound of the stream. Heading to the mountains.

--------------------------------------------------

Was more than half delirious. Fall probably turned half my brain to mush. If I’d’a been thinkin’ I never’d gone back.

After any healin’ like that there’s nothin’ you want to do more than eat and sleep. Dunno how I got back up that mountain—hardly remember a thing of it, really. But somehow I did, ‘cause I woke up the next mornin’ and there I was, with the kid staring at me like I was some half-dead thing.

He was damned right about that, too.

-----------------------------------

Gambit stirred, then opened his eyes. He stared up at the cave ceiling for a good long while.

He was alive.

He swallowed. His throat was raw and dry, but he could breathe, and no longer felt as if he were freezing from the inside out. His eyes drifted towards the fire and he reached out a shaking hand to the bowl of melted snow not far from him. He drained it quickly, though he spilled a good half of it on the floor before he could get it to his mouth.

He felt weak, but lucid. The last days felt like another lifetime, like a bad dream.

He raised his head slowly, and then sat up. The fire had gone down, and he took a piece and added it to the barely-glowing ashes, hoping it’d catch fire on his own instead of smothering the whole thing. He rubbed his eyes and looked around.

There he was.

Wolverine lay curled not far from the cave entrance. His breathing was deep and even, his bulk dark in the shadows.

The man’d fallen asleep.

Gambit settled back down, pulling his coat closer around himself and hoping the fire would heat the cave up a little bit.

His eyes were drawn back to Wolverine’s silhouette. He frowned, rising again, and inched achingly towards the feral man, wondering what was different.

It was his hair.

It was so absurd, but it came as such a shock that Gambit stared at him for a full minute. The wild mess of hair had been cut back, and his sideburns were gone except for some short scruff.

It shouldn’t have surprised him so much, but it did; the man, now sleeping, actually looked like a man, after all.

But that wasn’t all of it. His pants had been reduced to little more than scraps, and dark streaks of blood stained his sweat-gleaming skin. His brow furrowed with lingering pain.

Gambit sat back, shaking from his own weakness and from some vague memories which he had thought were fever-dreams.

He’d heard gunshots, for real. The Wolverine had been fighting.

Wolverine’s head suddenly jerked up, so quickly that Gambit started. Wolverine’s eyes narrowed and he looked towards the entrance of the cave.

“What is it, Wolvie?” Gambit whispered. The wild man looked at him, his eyes confused. He paused, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. He moaned softly.

He could hear the helicopters again, drawing closer. They were coming here, and why wouldn’t they?

Wolverine tensed, crawling to his knees. Bullets clinked onto the ground as he stood. He trembled, and his stomach growled, but he didn’t have time to rest. Didn’t have time to eat, even if he didn’t need to hunt to get it. He was healed enough, despite the lingering phantom pains and the burning deep in his limbs and chest. He could fight, and that was enough.

He looked at the kid, who looked back at him, pale, but awake.

Wolverine gritted his teeth. The helicopters were drawing closer, and he thought he could hear a truck, and men. He clenched his fists.

“Wolverine—”

“Shut up,” Wolverine rumbled. At least, that’s what he had meant to say, but it came out as a half-hiss, half growl. He coughed, hacking up a gob of half-congealed blood.

The helicopter passed overhead, and Wolverine shrank down, putting a hand towards the kid to ward him deeper into the cave.

“Who are dey, mon ami?”

A blast suddenly shook the cave. Gambit swore, covering his head as rocks and dust fell from the ceiling—but it held. Wolverine snarled, looking out.

They were planning on bombing him out. Of course, he’d survive it, and they’d dig him out. The kid, though . . . .

Wolverine looked at him. He was ready to go down fighting. If the men got him, maybe they didn’t know or wouldn’t care about the kid.

The helicopter was coming back, and no doubt the men were drawing close. Someone had to have tracked him here, after all.

Dammit.

He breathed deeply, ignoring his parched mouth. Once out there he wouldn’t have time for respite. He had to keep moving.

If he was going down, he was taking as many of them with him as he could.

“Stay,” he managed to rasp out. He pushed the kid’s shoulder roughly, almost losing his own balance before catching himself. “Stay.”

He crept towards the cave opening, peering out, and then dashed out into the sunlight with a roar of defiance.

 

[sniktsnakt]

Gunfire missed the Wolverine by centimeters. He sprinted across the open land, catching one bullet in his shoulder that normally wouldn’t have made him miss a step. But he was already weak and off-balance, and he staggered.

But the pain spurred rage, and adrenaline pumped into his veins, feeding his fury.

He could smell them—all around, all ready for him. There was a focus, a bitter stink to their hated scent that had been missing last time.

He’d killed so many of them. Their business was personal, now.

But it’d been personal for him all along.

He dove, darting behind trees and rocks—using the land to hide him and shield him as bullets spattered around him. He was dizzy, but he had to keep moving—had to be more cautious, now. The bullet he’d caught was burning, but he wasn’t healing fast enough. Fresh blood fanned down his arm and chest, smearing against the old.

There.

The three soldiers had been talking into the radios, watching for him, their guns ready.

They had enough time to look shocked as Wolverine ran at them—one of them had enough time to raise his gun, but not fast enough to do him any good.

Ch-chchchchchchchchchit!

Gunfire shot at him from another group, running from downwind. Bullets slammed into his back and he grabbed the body of the man he’d killed and used it as a shield as he bolted forward, snarling. Bullets shot through the corpse and Wolverine dropped it, diving forward to take them.

“AAAARRGHHHH!”

“DIEEEEEEEE!”

Bullets tore through him—ripping clean through his back. One shot through his lungs, deflecting off a rib and rebounding back out to slam into a soldier’s chest. He died, his mouth agape in shock.

Wolverine staggered, nearly falling as he tore the body of the last man off of his claws. The radio sputtered beneath him.

“—cave. He went back there for a reason—”

Damn!

A helicopter roared towards him, and as Wolverine whirled to face it a spear rammed through him, splitting out his back.

He snapped the spear, and the end jerked out of his grip, dangling along after the helicopter. But not before the pull of the rope had jerked him clean off his feet.

He fell three feet out of the air onto his back, landing hard. He rolled to all fours, each breath a rasping snarl.

They weren’t getting as close now. Probably lost too many of their cannon fodder already. Trying to catch him and rope him up, rather than chase him and bleed him out.

Not going to happen.

The helicopter was making another pass. He turned and ran.

He could smell more men downwind, but they didn’t matter right now.

He retraced his steps, ignoring the blood now running freely from his chest. He was having trouble breathing, and spots drifted before his eyes. But it couldn’t matter.

Bullets and shouts followed him as he bolted up the slope. He snarled, hating to run away, hating the pain . . . .

The kid.

No time.

Four soldiers were approaching the cave, and as one drew to the entrance Wolverine roared, sprinting towards them. He was too far to reach them, but his appearance jolted the men’s attentions towards him. The cave was forgotten.

“HE’S HERE!”

No time to duck, to hide—he ran right at them, bullets jerking through him, blinding him, killing him. He didn’t care.

The soldiers were dead in seconds.

Wolverine fell to his knees, his head ringing, his heart pumping for all its worth as his flesh crawled back over his wounds—more slowly, now. It made his vision turn red, threatened to turn it black, but he fought it. He snarled.

The helicopter came around again.

Wolverine struggled to stand, blood blinding his eyes, streaming from his mouth, choking him—to face it for the last time. The helicopter ran low—he could see the sniper’s goggles, and saw the pin of the grenade fall from the open door.

The helicopter exploded.

Wolverine threw himself down as fiery shrapnel rained from the sky. He stared as it twisted and fell into the trees below, exploding in a ball of heat.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned sharply, his claws ready . . . to see the kid run to his side, a glowing card perched between his fingers.

"If Gambit gonna die, mon ami, he gon die on his feet," he declared, his pale young face determined.

Wolverine responded by tackling him. Gambit went down hard with a sharp curse, which was quickly cut off as gunfire streaked over his head. Wolverine hunched over him, shielding him. A bullet slammed into Wolverine’s chest, and another skimmed his back. Blood splattered on Remy’s face.

“Damn, Canuck,” his voice squeaked as Wolverine leaped to his feet again, bolting out towards the snipers. He dove into the trees, and screams and frantic machine-gun fire echoed his snarls.

Gambit rose slowly, dropping the bent card in his hand and pulling out another one. He heard a sound to the side and turned sharply to see three soldiers break out of the trees.

He let his card fly.

The paper whizzed through the air, hitting the snow right in front of the armored troops. They never knew what hit them.

The ground exploded in front of them, with a force that threw them all back. Gambit swore as he scrambled to his feet, taking three cards between his fingers and letting them fly as he saw shadows move in the trees towards them.

One hit a tree, blasting it clean over and making black-shadowed figures scramble out of the way. The Wolverine darted forward, keen on them as the scattered in confusion at this new and unknown threat.

Bullets flew wildly, and Gambit pulled back, peering around a tree to throw another card.

Radio’s crackled in the snow and he looked down to see the four shredded bodies. His eyes widened and he stepped back.

“Mon dieu,” he breathed, putting a hand to his mouth as he turned a shade paler.

“—THE HELL’S GOING ON DOWN THERE?” someone roared over the radio.

A sound shook Remy out of his shock and he turned sharply, a card ready, but held it as Wolverine reappeared, blood-drenched, his teeth bared.

“KID, DOWN!”

Remy threw himself to the ground as bullets passed over his head. Wolverine ran forward, changing the soldiers’ focuses, and Gambit threw a card, blasting them back before Wolverine got to them. But Wolverine didn’t stop. He dove in, and Gambit felt his stomach flop.

He didn’t want to see this. The guys were unconscious already . . . .

“Wolverine—!” he shouted. Wolverine whipped around, blood flicking from his skin.

A bullet caught the kid by the shoulder, spinning him with the force. He fell back with a cry.

Kid!

Wolverine charged. Soldiers opened fire at him, but he was beyond even pain now. Rage coursed through his whole being.

How—dare—they—hurt—him!

The soldiers scattered—smart, but not fast enough. Wolverine sliced through them in seconds, moving faster than they could react. They fell, screaming.

Wolverine ripped into them again, and again—shredding him in his wild rage. A sound drew his head up, his teeth bared.

He ducked as another helicopter roared overhead.

A spear shot from the helicopter, and Wolverine hesitated.

The spear smashed clean through his gut. The rope grew taut, and yanked him off his feet.

Perfect.

He snarled, grabbing a hold of the rope as he lifted above the trees. He ripped the spear out of him, letting it fall as he scrambled up the rope.

“****!” the spear-shooter swore. “Shoot him, dammit! Shoot him!”

The sniper opened fire with one of his buddies, but even as the bullets bounced off his skull and dug into his face and torso, Wolverine grinned. He was up the rope in seconds, catching the spear-shooter’s foot and flinging him out the door, not even bothering to use his claws. He screamed all the way down.

Wolverine didn’t even look back, but lunged into the ‘copter, slicing through the sniper’s gun, cutting its barrage short. The sniper fell back, trying to scamper away from the shredded remains of his gun as he scrambled for his gun at his belt.

His pal already had his gun out and firing. Wolverine hardly felt the bullets anymore. Pain had vanished, and all he felt was a rush.

He darted at them, killing the shooter at once before grabbing the sniper and throwing him at the wall. He slumped down to the floor and lay still.

Pilot’s frantic shouts into his radio sounded distant as he turned sharply, ready to end this. The copilot had raised his own gun, and as Wolverine turned it caught him clean in the chest.

Except it wasn’t a bullet.

Electricity arched through him, streaking through his bones. He jerked back, almost falling into the chairs as it shook him, but he reared up, ignoring the pain, forcing his convulsing muscles forward.

He swung at the copilot, his action wild and uncontrolled. He cut flesh, but managed to reach the taser and tear it in two with a last jolt of energy that turned his vision white with pain. He fell to his knees, struggling against the reeling of the helicopter so as to not fall over completely.

A gun slid across the floor to bump against his hand. Wolverine’s fingers curled around it automatically and he stood, his motions still jerky from the shock.

He’d never held a gun before—didn’t even know how it worked. But though his arm shook as he raised it, his grip on it was comfortable, natural. The pilot swore.

Bullets slammed into the console, sending sparks flying. Alarms blared, lights flashed, and the helicopter spun out of control.

Wolverine snagged the door and he leaped away from the careening machine into the open air. The helicopter twisted out of control, then dove and crashed into the mountainside.

Wolverine didn’t have time to appreciate his efforts. He dropped like an asteroid, catching the tops of the trees, and then slamming through the branches, ripping the flesh from his bones. He slammed through a tree, toppling it clean over, and his crashed into the ground, digging a deep furrow from his landing.

He crawled from the pit, his head ringing. His arms almost collapsed beneath him, but he refused to let them as he dragged himself out, and then listened.

There were no more helicopters. He could hear men shouting—running. But none were coming close. A truck was gunned down the mountainside.

They were running away. Regrouping, maybe, or retreating for now. Half of him wanted to follow, still raging with the rush of blood despite the pain in his body.

Instead he stood, bruised and bloodied from head to toe, and somehow half-ran, half-staggered back towards the cave.

The kid lay there where he had fallen. His eyes were shut, and his face pale as death.

Wolverine collapsed on his knees behind him, his shaking hands following their own accord as they felt the kid’s throat.

He could feel his heartbeat, but it was too fast, and too weak.

He ripped open the kid’s shirt, and growled when he saw the scarlet staining his young chest.

The bullet’d hit his shoulder, and it hadn’t come back out.

“Kid,” he growled, shaking him. He needed to wake up. They couldn’t stay here any longer—not now. They had to run. “Kid.”

He didn’t stir, and they didn’t have time to wait.

Wolverine picked up the kid, stumbling as he put him over his shoulder and limped away as quickly as he could.

TBC . . .

 

[sniktsnakt]

I *know* there's other people out there besides just Squeekness, so I'm putting out a general plea for more feedback. <gets down on knees to beg>

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