Wolvie Fanfiction: The Meaning of Pain

Another great chapter :D also it's good to see Gambit get a piece of the action ;)
And don't worry about the people, just like the voice in The Field Of Dreams said: "If you build it they will come". So just keep on writing and the people will read it and comment.
 
Awesome! You write better fight scenes than I do. Loved how Logan took out that last helicopter. I hope we get some similar action in the movie. :)
 
Sorry it took a little longer this week. Hopefully it'll still be worth the wait.

Enjoy.

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Chapter 24: Freaks

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The whole fight with those clowns is probably the thing I remember best from those days. Woke up parts a’me that I didn’t even know I had.

bad place, and who am I kidding? ‘Sides the fact that I was shot six times to bad place and back, I guess I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t admit that the whole thing was kinda fun. Woulda been real fun, if there hadn’t been the kid to worry about.

But maybe ‘fun’ ain’t the right word to use, ‘cause the Wolverine doesn’t really understand fun. But it was tough as nails pullin’ myself away from that fight and runnin’. Coulda kept fightin’ until I dropped, or there wasn’t nobody left to fight

The fact is that if the kid hadn’t been there to worry about, parta me woulda been having the time of my life.

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Logan had heard the taxi pull into the drive and had headed straight to the entryway, taking the stairs two at a time to the first floor. Ororo walked in after him, immediately pinning him with a suspicious stare as she saw him standing there.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Greetin’ the newbies,” Logan replied. Innocent as that was, Storm’s suspicion grew, if anything.

“I told you already, Logan, Alex is nothing like Scott. Give him a chance.”

Logan didn’t say anything to that, but just folded his arms. There was a knock at the door.

“Don’t frighten them off before they settle in,” Storm threatened. “I’m serious, Logan.”

She glared at him, but that was all she had time to do before the door opened. Logan stepped back, eyeing the newcomers with a careful scrutiny.

Green hair. And here came the other one—light hair carefully combed, every hair in place . . . . Yep. They were here.

You could tell a lot about a person by their hair, Logan decided.

“Ororo! Oh, you look absolutely wonderful,” green-hair—Lorna—said cheerfully, coming forward to give a friendly hug to the weather goddess. Yep. That green hair was natural, however that worked. He’d’ve smelled the dye if it weren’t.

“Hello, Storm,” Alex said from behind her. His manner was friendly, and Logan was a little disappointed that he wasn’t able to catch a scent of the famed Summer’s prick-ish-ness, despite his hair style. Maybe Storm was right, after all.

Damn. It’d been fun watching One-Eye get his panties in a bunch whenever Logan got bored. Too easy, too irresistible, and too damn entertaining.

Logan took a stand leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his wife beater as he appraised the new arrivals critically.

“It’s good to have you back,” Storm said to Alex. “I’ll have to introduce you to the students. We’ve grown so much since you were last here.” Alex had caught Logan’s eye, and lifted a curious eyebrow. Logan didn’t move, but stared right back. “Oh. And this is Logan. He’s been helping out here for a number of months now. He covers physical training and conditioning.”

Alex smiled and came forward, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Logan.”

“’s just Logan,” he replied, not moving to accept the handshake.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Lorna looked at Logan as is she couldn’t tell if he was a joke or a threat. Storm stepped forward. “Logan is a bit unique in his choice of welcomes. Shall I show you around?”

Lorna smiled—almost too broadly, to cover the awkwardness. “I’d love that,” she said, picking up her bags.

“Then here—I’ll show you to your rooms, and you can drop of your things before we continue on. I’ll show you around, and you’ll have time to wash up and rest a bit before dinner.”

The couple agreed, and Storm ushered them out in front of her. She made as if to follow, then swept back, turning sharply to glare and shake a finger at him. “Logan,” she said, between exasperated and upset.

“He’s as awkward as One-Eye was,” Logan near-chortled.

“Everyone is, if you give them cause to be,” Ororo retorted. She slapped his arm. “Behave.”

“Don’t I always?” Logan replied, jumping up slightly to sit on the small decorative table next to the wall. It wobbled dangerously, but held under his weight.

Storm wisely chose not to reply, and went on after the newcomers.

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Logan took care of his afternoon classes—giving the kids a good workout before sending them to shower before dinner. Nearly all of them were limping or rubbing various parts of their bodies gingerly as they slunk in.

He smelled someone wet and wearing far-too-much lavender perfume, and paused to grimace and rub his nose before walking in.

The female version of the jolly green giant was standing there, having come in apparently just moments before. He could tell from her scent that she’d just gotten out of the shower, but the scent of lavender suddenly slammed him in the face, actually making him stop dead-still like he’d run flat into a wall of adamantium.

Did she bathe in that stuff?

She tried with another smile, looking over at the bruised and grimacing children who were now digging into their food.

“I take it class went well?” she asked.

He sneezed in response. “Wonderful,” he near-choked, trying to breathe as little as possible.

“Does the staff sit together or—”

“Nah. Jus’ wherever,” Logan interrupted hastily, his eyes beginning to burn. Ack! She must be some sort of spy or something—she knew his weakness, and was still acting as innocent as a virgin, damn her. What else was she up to?

He turned away, ready to walk right back out of the hall.

“Are you okay, Mr. Logan?”

Storm walked in with Summers before he had a chance to recover from his three next sneezes.

“Goddess, Logan. Are you all right?” she asked, pulling out a handkerchief as he nearly ran straight into her.

He waved away the handkerchief, his eyes watering.

“What happ—what is that smell?” Ororo asked, the thick lavender enough to cause even her to wrinkle her nose.

Lorna blushed. “Oh! I just spilled some of my perfume—is it really that bad?”

Was she joking? He’d smelled corpses with a less deadly smell.

But of course he was fine. He was just being slowly tortured to death by greenie’s over-potent deathscent.

He sneezed again, trying to come up with an excuse to run out howling that wouldn’t damage his reputation.

He was saved by the sound of screams.

“Aaah!”

Thud!

“Kitty!”

“Oh, that is so not right!”

“Ugh!”

He took the opportunity to practically run from the door towards the far table, wiping his eyes and quickly putting on a disciplining, no-nonsense demeanor.

“All right,” Logan growled, pushing his way through, though his gruffness was slightly dampened when he had to stop for another sneeze before he got to his goal. Kitty had fallen off her chair, and now a growing space was clear around the cause of the disturbance. Angel had actually taken flight and now was perched on a windowsill out of reach. Jubilee looked disgusted, and Bobby standing on his chair, looking ready to flee. Even Rogue looked a little green.

Kylee stood there, her fur-like hair lying flat and her eyes wide and downcast as her chin quivered. Something dark—like drying ketchup—was smeared slightly over her down-soft chin, and in her hand she held a limp rat—its neck clearly snapped, it’s head lolling, and a good patch of its neck clearly eaten away. As he stood there, taking in the scene, it fell from Kylee’s shaking hand with a sickening “plop” on the floor.

“I-I’m sorry,” she whimpered, tears rising up in her emerald-green eyes.

Wolverine didn’t pause to think—he wasn’t a thinking man, after all. Never had been. He just stepped forward, snatched the rat with one hand and the girl in the other, then took a ragged tear of a bite from the rat’s neck, ignoring completely the gasps and strangled gags from the students. He distantly heard Lorna screech softly from near the doorway.

“Not a bad catch, Furball,” he said. And it really wasn’t. In his experience, rats were scrawny, stringy, and had too-little meat on them, but this one had probably lived an unusually long and pleasant life living off the barn’s endless supply of grain. Still not fresh venison, but he swallowed it without too much effort. He looked around at the shocked faces around him and resisted the urge to growl at them. It helped that it was still warm. There was little he hated more than cold rat meat.

He caught Jubilee’s eye, who was staring at him with a hand over her mouth like she was about to be sick, and then held the rat out to Kitty, who was frozen in the exact same position.

“Want a taste, Kitty?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. She shook her head, not moving her hand from her mouth.
Logan didn’t look away from her, even as her eyes dropped. The whole hall had gone silent. “Rogue?”

“No thank you, Logan,” she said softly.

Logan grunted, continuing to try and catch the student’s eyes and stare them down, but most everyone had suddenly found the floor tiles to be very interesting.

He nodded, then turned around and looked down at Kylee. “You got a seat for us, or am I gonna have to drink my brew standin’?” he asked, still holding the limp rat as he put one hand no Kylee’s shoulder and helped steer her out of the center of the room.
 
They took their place at the end of the counter, and Logan plopped the rat next to his beer before reaching over the grab a waffle for the kid, and light up his cigar.

The other kids didn’t move at first, and he didn’t look at them again. Rogue moved to sit back down, and Bobby slowly came down off of his chair. There was a soft flutter and a small breeze as Warren opened his wings and lighted down back on the floor.

Lorna stared from the doorway, unmoving, one hand still over her mouth as she stared at him, her face pale against her green hair.

Logan pulled the syrup closer so Kylee could reach it, taking a long draw from his cigar and ignoring them all.

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The stink of man and guns had long since faded by the time Wolverine even considered pausing. He found a broad-boughed pine and dragged both of them beneath the shielding branches. He eased the kid over his shoulder, but stumbled, nearly dropping him as he laid him down on the dirt.

Damn.

Blood had stained down the kid’s shirt and coat, smeared and dripping scarlet. Wolverine dropped down beside him, relaxing a hair as he breathed deeply.

Most of the blood was his own—he knew the scent well all-too-well—just smeared over the kid from being tossed of his shoulder.

Still, the kid still reeked of his own blood. Wolverine pulled back his shirt, finding the bullet hole. It was thick with clotting blood, but red had soaked his shoulder and a small stream had run down the pale of Gambit’s chin into his hair as he’d hung over Wolverine’s shoulder.

He was still bleeding.

This was wrong. Wolverine might still be bleeding, burning—and he thought he could still feel a bullet lodged between two of his ribs, though he wasn’t sure—and his whole body felt alive and crawling with fire. He was shaking and his vision swam, though he couldn’t let the darkness take him yet. But the kid . . . this was just one bullet, and he didn’t even know if it’d been pushed back out yet.

Why wasn’t the kid healing?

Was it because he’d been sick? Or ‘cause he was a kid? Maybe it just took him longer.

The kid’s pulse was weak, and he wasn’t getting any better. Part of him told him that if he didn’t do something soon, it’d be too late.

The kid’d be dead.

Why wasn’t he healing?

Wolverine ran a hand through his lengthening hair, pushing it from his face. Soaked as it was with blood, it actually stayed there.

You a freak like me.

The kid’d said that, days ago when they’d first met.

But that wasn’t right, was it?

They might both be freaks, but Wolverine couldn’t throw cards and make them explode. He’d tried while the kid was asleep in the cave, throwing it just like the kid and hiding behind a tree for the blast . . . that never came.

It was strangely anticlimactic when the cards had just fallen to the snow and lay there, and Wolverine had to admit that he was impressed at how the kid threw them in the first place. For the life of him, he couldn’t get those damn cards to go where he wanted.

He shook his head barely, the memory as strange as the feeling he had got standing there behind the tree, bracing himself, only to find that the cards were as harmless as anything.

One thing he knew for sure, he wasn’t ever telling anyone about it.

Kind of a strange thought to have, since he didn’t really have anyone to tell it to, but there it was.

He couldn’t blow things up like the kid, and the kid . . . the kid couldn’t heal.

He was like the soldiers. Like the rabbit, and the deer. He was like the wolves.

With that realization, Wolverine looked down at the blood seeping from the wound to the ground beneath, and felt cold.

It was bad. He didn’t know how he knew—it wasn’t like one shot was very much different than another for him—but he did know it.

If he didn’t do something, the kid was going to die.

Wolverine ripped the kid’s shirt, pressing it to the wound, where it was quickly soaked. He bound it there, tying it tight, trying to stop the bleeding.

The bleeding showed through the rough binding, but it slowed. Still, the kid didn’t wake, and just lay there like a limp doll. His pulse grew increasingly frantic.

Wolverine stood, glancing at the sky, but there was no sound of soldiers, no sound of pursuing helicopters. Maybe they’d finally gotten the idea that they couldn’t kill him, couldn’t catch him.

Why did they want to anyway?

He wiped a shaking arm across his face, smearing a fresh dribble of blood from his mouth across his chin.

He hadn’t thought about it for a long while. He used to think that they wanted to eat him—after all, food was scarce during the winter, and he hadn’t had anything else to think.

But now . . . .

There was something else. Another reason they were hunting him, ‘cause they’d lost too many of their own, and still kept trying no matter that they knew they couldn’t kill him. They hunted him for something else.

And no matter how much he’d hated the thought of being caught and eaten down to his bones, this was much worse. It settled in his gut, solid and cold.

No time for that now.

The kid wasn’t healing. Was he broken, like a splintered tree? Maybe he couldn’t heal at all; maybe a little scratch was enough to hurt him and never heal, but just give him pain until he died.

No, that didn’t feel right.

He was getting better from being sick. He could get better from this.

Wolverine turned away, looking down at his bloodstained hands. A glint of metal still showed at the end of one of his fingertips, and he was missing three fingernails.

And besides, while he’d been fighting he’d known how to kill. He’d known he wasn’t wounding. Just like the men after him. Both sides’d been aiming to kill.

The kid wasn’t dead yet.

Wolverine crouched down next to the kid again. The kid was cold, and his heartbeat faint.

The bullet was stuck inside. If he pulled it out, would that help him heal?

He drew his fingers into a fist, but didn’t pop his claws. He paused.

Wolverine looked down at his clenched hand, unclenching it slowly and turning it over and looking at it again. Blood stained his whole arm, his face, his chest. A fair bit of it wasn’t his, but enough was.

Blood. The kid needed more blood.

He ripped back the rough bandage and popped his claws on his right hand. He held his left arm over the bloody wound, and sliced cleanly through his wrist.

A stream of blood ran down his hand, and Wolverine turned over his arm, letting his blood drip down to add to the scarlet gore of the kid’s shoulder, but after a meager stream it immediately stopped—still red and bleeding, but the skin healed. Wolverine growled softly, turning his arm over again just as the self-inflicted wound sealed up.

Not enough. He didn’t know if this was going to work, but if it was going to . . . he needed a lot.

He took the soiled bandage, wiping away the congealing blood around the wound. He prodded at the inflamed and torn flesh carefully.

Bullet must be caught against his scapula.

Wolverine gritted his teeth, retracting two of his claws. He inched the last one in, pulling back the kid's flesh to get to the bullet. Blood pooled around his claw, but he dug in carefully, soaking what was left of the kid’s shirt through as he tried to see.

There it was—lodged in good. The bone’d fractured around the bullet, burying it in deep. Wolverine slid his claw carefully next to the bullet, trying to pry the tip between it and the bone.

There. He shifted his claw, and after a small pull, the bullet dislodged. He retracted his claw, holding open the flesh as he reached in, pulling the slug out. He threw it away from them, immediately pressing his hand to the wound, which was now bleeding in earnest again.

Wolverine lifted his arm again, popping all of his claws and ripping down his forearm so blood fell like rain. His blood mixed with the kid’s, and he sliced again, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Didn’t matter, anyway.

His arm healed more slowly this time, and he pulled ripped in a third time, then immediately threw out his good arm to catch himself from losing his balance and toppling right over. He growled softly, balancing on his knees while the world began to tilt beneath him. He grabbed the bloodied tear of the kid's shirt and wrapped it tight around the wound, then slumped back, leaning against the tree trunk as he shut his eyes.

Something was buzzing in his ear, and he wanted to flick at it--tell it to go away.

Not worth the effort.

Blood was trickling from his nose onto his chest again, curling through his chest hair and around his stained dogtags. The pain was stopping though. At least it was feeling farther away.

Damned buzzing was getting worse. Flies, maybe?

Maybe they’d swarm all over him, like bees.

He’d seen them buzzing over a corpse before, and he stank like one.

Flies. Not bees. Whatever.

God, he was tired.

He just wanted to rest—to sleep. Maybe never wake up.

But he couldn’t.

Couldn’t wait.

They had to keep moving.

Had to . . .

. . . . keep . . . .

. . . . moving . . . .

. . . couldn’t . . . .

. . .

Wolverine’s head slumped down onto his chest, and he didn’t so much fall asleep as dive from the plane of consciousness into oblivion.

TBC . . .
 
Mmmmm... nothing better than dead rat in the mornin' ta git ya going! :D
 
Here you go. Enjoy.

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Chapter 25: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

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Thud-thump.

. . . .

Thud-thump.

. . . .

Thud-thump. Th-thump.

. . . .

Damn noise. He wished it’d go away. He was trying to sleep.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

Damn sound. It was waking him up, drumming in his ears, his chest, his bones. He felt bruised from its pounding, and every beat made the pain clearer, sharper.

He just wanted to rest.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

He hated the sound. He heard it every time he woke, now. Sometimes slow—sluggish, like now, each beat like a punch to his chest. Other times it was frantic—pattering away and leaving him gasping at the weight of it.

So often now he wished only for silence.

Th-thump.

It was bringing him closer to wakefulness, now. He could feel the cold, sticky cement under his arms, against his chest where he’d fallen—feel the air stirring against his bare back, the stickiness as his hair clung to his face wetly. His ears were roaring—his hearing fading in and out. Were those voices? Maybe just voices in his head. Voices of the past, murmuring like waves of blood in his head. Blood and a bitterness he could not identify lay thick in his mouth.

His insides burned with healing. The Devil knew what they’d done to him this time.

Even his teeth hurt. Had they pulled them again out? Or maybe this time it’d just been an accident.

If a bullet to the mouth or the butt of a rifle to the face could be called an accident.

They had grown back, though. How long had he been out?

Th-thump.

Wish it was longer.

He floated in a haze of agony. His insides felt turned inside-out, his eyeballs burned, and as he shifted the smallest bit he felt a dozen bullets shift inside him, and more slide in the blood and filth on the cold floor beneath him. He immediately went still, hoping the darkness would take him again.

There was no point in moving anyway. There was nowhere to go, and wakefulness only meant more pain—more humiliation—more degradation.

He was nothing here. Not a man. Not even an animal.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

Damn heart. Wish it would just—

“Fold.”

“Straight flush.”

“Damn.”

The bored soldier slapped down his cards and turned, lifting his gun and without even bothering to aim, shot three plugs into the corner of the cell at the man lying there. Logan didn’t even twitch as two of them slammed into him—chest and leg. Third one bounced off the wall, but he couldn’t even muster up enough energy to sneer at the guy’s bad aim.

Didn’t matter. The roar of blood grew louder, blocking out the sounds, the feelings, the world. The beats grew distant, and then slowly built up again as the roaring waves retreated back behind the drums.

Th . . . thump.

“Again?”

“Why not? Nothing else to do.” They dealt out the cards again. The sound of the cards moving from hand to hand sounded loud. He wanted to cover his ears—to hear nothing at all.

He felt eyes on him—but did that matter? There were always eyes on him now—watching him, picking him apart. Almost worse than the pain.

“He even feel anything anymore?”

An answering grunt. “Dunno if he felt anything in the first place.”

“Usually a lot more fun, though. Hasn’t moved since they brought him back here.”

“They musta tried something new. Kinda curious what they did. Tired even Wolverine out.” A pause. “You should have seen him when they brought him back from the lab yesterday. Near ripped off his own hand, trying to get out of those chains. Freaky, man. He’s like an animal. Almost got Johnson for good with his teeth—his teeth. Grabbed his arm and ripped a big chunk right off. Had to get flighted out.”

“Crazy devil.”

Th-thump. Th-thump. The two newest bullets were beginning to inch their way out of him. Hurt like bad place.

Maybe that’s where he was. He deserved it.

“Who d’ya think he used to be?”

“Dunno. Not like it matters, now. Nothing human left in him.”

“Stryker says he volunteered.”

“Stryker’s a bastard. Nobody’d volunteer for this. ‘Specially not the Wolverine. Can’t see him volunteering to raise a finger t’save his own mother.”

Wolverine?

What was that name?

It spoke of happy times, sad times. It made him want to smile from the memories—no, to weep. To rage.

Sabretooth, you animal bastard.

Animal . . . .

Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . .

No, no, no . . . .

Th-thud—th-thud—th-thud . . . .

Heart pounding furiously now, pain roaring through him with adrenaline. He opened his eyes, staring dully at the puddled blood on the floor.

“Look who’s awake. What you looking at, freak? What are you looking at?!” The guard fired another shot, and blood splattered against the back wall as it passed clean through the feral man’s body.

“Something going on down here, private?”

Wolverine shifted slightly at the new voice. Chains clinked around him, dragging him down.

He knew that voice. Knew it and hated it, even as blood roared in his ears, and his heartbeat pounded him into the floor.

Th-thump . . . . thump-thump . . . .Thump.

Darkness closing in around him, and silence . . . beautiful silence—

Beautiful . . . .

Darkness. Silence.

Hands grabbed the chains that held him, jerking him back against the wall and back into consciousness as they dragged his arms up above his head, securing the chains to hold him there. He lifted his head weakly, slime and blood dripping into his eyes. At the motion blood rushed in his ears, threatening to pull him under again.

“My, my, Wolverine. You are a mess,” Styker spoke. Logan could smell the man better than see him; his vision was spotted and blurred. Maybe they’d popped his eyes out again, too, and he was still healing.

The bastard walked forward slowly, his boots sticking to the blood-thick floor. He nodded to a soldier, who grabbed his hair and pulled back his head. Logan snarled softly, baring his teeth as Stryker strode forward. The man looked down at him in disgust.

“Just look at you now. You’re a freak. An animal. A killer, finally revealed for what you are. After Vietnam did you really think you could just walk away?” He hefted his pistol, his voice soft and absurdly calm. “But that’s all you’ve ever been, isn’t it, Wolverine? An animal in man’s clothing—a mutant freak.”

“Damn you,” Logan rasped out. His mouth tasted of blood and his saliva was thick with it—his tongue swollen from dehydration.

WHACK!

The butt of the gun smashed into his throat, crushing his esophagus. Logan gasped, choking on his own blood. Stryker grabbed his hair, holding his head up as fresh blood leaked from between his teeth. A gurgled growl bubbled up from his throat.

“Talk now, you son of a *****,” Stryker said. When Logan stayed silent, he shook him, flicking blood on his stainless uniform. “TALK!”

Logan remained silent, his eyes dilated almost completely black and his bloodied teeth still bared, but like a fatally wounded animal—trapped, and too weak to fight back, but refusing to admit it.

He was sinking—thank God. Sinking back into oblivion. Taking him away from here again—but forever. He’d be back, damn him. He’d always be back.

Someday he’d gut this bastard.

The hand let go of his hair and he slumped bonelessly against the chains.

“Clean him up. The professor wants him.”

“Already?”

“They’re done with preliminaries. We wanted to see if the Wolverine had a limit.”

“Guess we found it.”

Stryker laughed distantly. “Found it? Private, we’ve been trying almost as hard as we could to kill that stubborn bastard for the past three months, day in and day out, and that animal’s not only breathing, but give him five minutes to heal up and he’ll be ready to gut any fool who thinks they can take him. Wolverine doesn’t have a limit.” He turned away from them. “Clean him up.”

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“Wolvie—WOLVIE!”

Logan jerked upright, seeing red.

A snarl ripped from his throat—like metal tearing metal.

They∙were∙all∙around∙all∙around∙watching∙hurting∙pain∙PAIN

SNIKT!

What∙have∙you∙done∙to∙me∙what∙have∙you∙done?!Kill∙you∙kill∙you∙BASTARDS

“Wolvie, it’s al’right!”

Oh God. Kylee.

Blood∙and∙pain∙and∙bile∙knives∙cutting∙him∙open∙like∙a∙fish∙bleeding∙out∙run∙away∙run∙no∙kill∙them∙KILL

Slash across the throat, one down through the heart, spilling red, hot blood. Hear the heartbeat stagger to a stop∙stop∙stop∙STOP!

Th-thud∙th-thud∙th-thud∙∙∙∙

SNAKT.

He leaned over just in time to empty his stomach over the side of the bed.

Dammit!

A small hand touched his shoulder and he recoiled, nearly falling clean off the bed into his own vomit.

“Wolvie—”

It was Kylee. Just Kylee. What the bad place was she doing here? Oh God, what was she doing here?

Thud∙thud∙thud∙thud

He stood sharply, almost falling out of bed in his haste to distance himself from the girl. He stepped across the room and stared at the wall. He wiped his face with a shaking hand, sweat dripping onto his already-soaked t-shirt. He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes tight.

A dream, dammit.

They’d been getting like this, since Bloodscream. More vivid. More real, and they were sticking with him longer after waking up. And frankly, he was getting sick to bad place of it.

Memories, or dreams?

Th-thud. Th-thud.

But oh, God—the eyes.

He could still feel the eyes—watching him, weighing him, picking him apart. A low snarl rumbled in his throat and he turned sharply.

“What the bad place are you doing in here?” His voice was low and close to a growl. He was ignoring the dream—it was just a dream—the pain would go away.

Kylee shrunk into the quilt. “I heard you,” she whispered.

“What?”

Kylee gave a weak shrug, her eyes downcast. “You sounded hurt,” she whispered.

He didn’t give a damn. He didn’t want to talk right now—didn’t want to talk, to think. He didn’t want the kid here.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

Shut the bad place up!

Logan turned away, wiping his face again. His teeth hurt, his throat hurt, and he had a mess on the floor to clean up.

Well, bad place. At least there wasn’t a rug to worry about now.

He turned and strode back to the bed. Kylee shrunk back further, but he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the door. He pushed her out, ignoring her protests, and slammed the door behind her. He locked it and leaned against it.

A minute passed. Kylee was smart enough not to bother knocking, but she stayed on the other side of the door for a full two minutes, hissing softly to herself. He finally heard her soft footfalls pad away, and moved away from the door.

He ripped off his shirt and dropped it on the floor, not caring where it landed.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

He was panting—breathing like he’d just sprinted a mile. Still shaking, too.

It was just a dream, dammit! Just a damn freakin’ dream!

He stripped down on the way to the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and turned on the shower. He didn’t wait before stepping beneath the spray and putting his face towards it, intent on washing away the stink of his own fear—washing it all away.

Liquid sprayed towards him—high-power, blasted from a hose that bruised to the bone. It hit him, knocking him clean against the wall—pinning him there. It filled his senses—sharp, bitter, burning. Despite his still-healing voice, he howled as acid ate away through his skin, burning away his hair, his flesh, eating to his bones . . . .

“AAARRrghh!”

Logan jerked back away from the spray of water. His foot slipped, and like a catapult he flew back, bashing his head against the wall of the shower. Tile shattered and blood swirled down the drain.

Logan swore, putting a hand to his head, but the blood was already being washed away; the wound was already well on its way to be healed. He reached out blindly to slam off the spray of water and blinked at the gaping hole in the wall from his head.

Dammit.

His hair dripped in front of his face and he pushed it back, irritated. He stood, stepping shakily of the shower, trailing a puddle of pink-tinged water onto the floor.

He leaned against the sink, staring at his own reflection unseeingly.

What the bad place had that been?

Had he fallen asleep without realizing it?

He looked back over at the shower. He stepped in slowly. He clenched his jaw and turned back on the water, then stepped under the spray unflinchingly

Acid ate into him, running down his face, eating into his eyes, his nose, his throat. His voice gave out—the pain raging on long afterwards. But it didn’t matter—not to him, not to them.

It wouldn’t go away until he was clean, and even then . . . this was only the beginning.

Logan shut his eyes, refusing the memory of pain. It was gone now; it didn’t matter anymore.

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

Logan strode out of the bathroom in the nude to see Kylee sitting curled up on his bed, looking content.

The vomit on the floor was gone.

He could still smell it—the kid hadn’t used any cleaner, and she’d stuffed what looked like two whole rolls of toilet paper into his already-heaping trash bin.

He stopped stand-still as she looked up, her eyes growing round as coins.

Logan grabbed his sweats from where he’d dropped them on the floor and turning around to pull them on. Not like he cared about that sort of thing, but this was Kylee.

“Wolvie?” Kylee asked, all innocence, though her eyes were still a bit wide as she stared at him.

“How the bad place did you get back in here?” Logan asked, but his voice was just tired. He was sick of this, and it wasn’t the damn kid’s damn fault.

Kylee shrugged, looking away from him. “Ms. Monroe taught me.”

“Huh?” Logan dry-washed his face again, rubbing the flat of his palms into his eyes. He could almost still feel the burning.

“To pick the locks,” Kylee explained guilelessly. “Are you all right, Wolvie?”

He looked up at her. “Storm taught you to pick locks?”

Kylee shrugged. “She said she learned when she was my age, and I jus’ watched her when she was teaching Rogue. I been practicin’.”

What other kind of crap did the kid pick up around here? Well, what the bad place? There were worse things a kid could be getting into.

Logan grunted, grabbing a relatively clean shirt from where it was draped over a chair and pulling it on. Kylee slid from the bed and walked to his side, a bit unsteady as she rubbed her eyes sleepily. He glanced at the clock, blinking at the glowing numbers: 4:15 am. Damn.

“You dropped this, Wolvie,” Kylee said softly, holding up her hand. His eyepatch rested in her small palm.

Oh. Of course the kid looked completely unsurprised that Logan had both eyes hale and whole, even though he’d continued to wear the patch around the kids since his run-in with Bloodscream.

Damn. Sometimes he wondered if this kid was the densest thing west of the Blob, or whether she could give Beast a run for his money, but was sneaky enough to not flash it around. How much did she see around here?

“Don’t need it anymore,” he muttered. But he took it anyway, stuffing it into his pocket. “Go back to sleep, kid.”

“Where’re you goin’?”

“Out.” At her unwavering stare, he picked her up and tossed her back onto the bed. She landed lightly—cat-like in her balance. “Now get back to sleep.”

Kylee fur was a bit flat—she wasn’t happy with his decision, but she didn’t say anything. She just nodded, settling into the covers.

Logan left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He paused, sighing and running a hand through his still-damp hair, and then slowly he headed down the darkened hallway.
 
------------------------------------------------

He ran even farther this time, hoping that the scent of the wood and physical exertion would keep him from thinking too much. His heartbeat pounded in his chest—almost a living thing in and of itself, echoing through his bones and bouncing around his skull.

His claws itched to kill something. No bar fight would do this time, and any X-Men business would be too gentle.

What he really wanted was to find Sabertooth. That clown had a healing factor too, hadn’t he? Logan could have taken that fall from the Statue of Liberty any day—surely the reeking bastard had enough of one to have recovered by now.

Logan could practically feel his claws ripping into the bastard. Just let the animal go wild, and rip into him like the killer he was.

He stopped by the barn and dragged out a beer, draining it in seconds.

Sometimes he really hated how he couldn’t get drunk.

He sat on the front porch, brooding silently until the first light of dawn began to lighten the horizon. He tossed his empty bottle into the bushes—feeling too drained to do anything else—and went back inside. He was too tired to even be angry.

He was sick of this.

Maybe he’d go back to sleep. Nah—he was done with that for now. He’d go grab his keys and take off for the day—see how much beer he could down in one day. He’d never really kept track.

Didn’t care enough to count.

He was trudging past Storm’s office when he smelled the stink of lavender—not so overwhelming this time, but enough—and pulled out a cigar. He lit up before continuing down the hall, drawing deep.

He was about to head up the stairs when he heard murmuring voices from the professor’s office.

They were up early. It was just getting light outside.

He paused, letting smoke gather over his head, but through the senseless murmurings he thought he heard his name. He hesitated, then stepped closer. As he stopped on the other side of the door their voices carried clear as if he were standing inside right along with them.

“Come now, Ororo. We can get a decent physical education teacher anywhere—even Alex could take over. The man is an animal. He ate a rat, for heaven sakes!” Lorna said, her voice hushed but intense. “I woke up half scared to death by his screams—and they were inhuman—like a rabid wolf, or something!”

“Lorna—”

“I don’t know why Xavier let him come here in the first place,” Alex said, his low voice calmer, but still serious. “I’ve heard stories enough about the Wolverine, Ororo, and I don’t think there’s a more dangerous mutant out there—including Magneto. The stories—”

Storm scoffed. “Of course he’s dangerous. But you could blow up half the earth and I could bring on the next ice age. We’re all dangerous, and as for Magneto—he was unbalanced. Grief drove him to madness.”

“And what about an excuse for a man who can’t even remember his real name?” Lorna insisted. “I am serious, Ororo. Scott wrote to Alex about that . . . man. He’s unpredictable, and even more so without the professor here to keep an eye on him.”

There was a pause. “Logan does not need anyone to keep an eye on him,” Storm said, her voice low. “You don’t know him, and I will not hear you go on about things you can’t possibly understand.”

“He killed Jean, Storm!” Alex insisted.

Silence at that. He could almost hear Ororo’s sharp intake. No one talked about that—not now, not ever.

“Hear me out, Storm,” Lorna said, grim and with finality. “If he doesn’t go, we do!”

There was a long silence. Logan took his cigar from his mouth—it was irreparably smashed. He crushed the rest of it in his fist as he stepped away from the door, careless of the pain of his burning flesh.

It didn’t matter.

He turned back up the stairs like a shadow—silently as a ghost. He strode, in no hurry, but not taking his time either. He came to his room in the far corner of the mansion and walked in. Kylee was sitting on his floor, scribbling some nonsense picture with a bunch of crayons, still dressed in her pajamas and looking ruffled from sleep. Logan stopped, feeling an odd aching in his chest.

“Wolvie!” she cried, jumping to her feet and waving her picture excitedly for his inspection. “Look! It’s me, and you!”

Stupid kid. Just a couple hours ago he’d been about to kick her out on her ash, and here she was, oblivious. Either that or she just plain didn’t care.

She should have gone back to sleep. It was too early for her to be up—kid needed her sleep.

Logan took the picture, and actually took time to look at it. There were too blobs, the bigger of which he figured must be him. Other than that, the only distinguishing characteristics was that Kylee had orange ears, and he had something that looked like thick horns on the top of his head, and . . . could that be a cigar, and some smoke? Either that or it was his mouth and nose: he couldn’t tell. And for some strange reason the middle of his blob was colored a scribbled blue. Maybe she was about to draw Nightcrawler or Beast, and changed her mind at the last minute.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

Damn that dream. Made him feel hollow, sick. Like someone’d taken all the air out of his lungs, and was sitting on him, not letting him breathe.

Like there was a bullet stuck in his heart: not yet working its way out, just sitting—a lump of lead clunking around in there.

God, he felt sick.

He rubbed his chest absently.

“That’s nice, darlin’,” he said, kneeling down to hand it back to her. She took it, then looked back at him with serious green eyes, sensing his mood and actually responding to it this time. “Look, furball—it looks like I might have to hit the road for a little while.”

“When will you be back?” Kylee asked, guileless and without worry. After all, he’d left for a little while plenty of times before, and he always came back.

Logan swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat. Dammit. He was planning on heading out soon anyway. This didn’t make a difference—not really. “Not sure. Just gonna chase the wind for a little while, ya know?”

Kylee’s eyes grew wider, and suddenly filled with tears. She’d seen right through him, though damn if he knew how. “You’re leavin’ me too, Wolvie?” she asked, her voice a hushed, tearful whisper. “You not comin’ b-back, jus’ like M-mr. S-s-scott, and M-m-s. J-Jeannie?” Tears spilled from her eyes, dripping down her down-furred cheeks. She fell onto her knees, sobbing as only a five-year-old can.

Logan took her shoulders. “Darlin’—I’ll visit when I can, I promi—”

“You gonna leave me, jus’ like everyone else!” Kylee cried. “Why, Mr. Logan? Why?” her voice broke, and she buried her face in his wife beater, though he jumped slightly at the action. “Is it ‘cause I don’t listen to you? I’ll listen, Wolvie . . . I won’t come in here—I’ll leave you alone!”

Damn. He was no good with women—little or grown ones.

“Listen—it ain’t nothin’ you’ve done,” he tried. He hesitated, then cautiously stroked behind her ears, just as she liked. Her small body shook with tears. “I don’t wanna leave, but I gotta. The Wolverine—he ain’t one to stay in one place too long. I’ve been here too long, kid. It’s time to go.”

“But I don’t w-wan-t you t-to!” Kylee sobbed, clinging onto him. Her claws dug into his back, deep enough that he actually felt blood dripping from the scratches, but he didn’t care.

He had a brief, crazy urge just to up and take the kid with him, but he immediately dismissed it and almost laughed at the thought. He really must be mentally imbalanced if he thought he was capable of taking care of a kid—he couldn’t even take care of himself. It wouldn’t be good for her at all, not in any way, shape or form. There was nothing left for him, after all. He’d just have to go back to wandering . . . again.

He let out a long breath. He really was just a drifting bastard animal, wasn’t he?

He looked around his too-nice room—personalized with the scattered clothes, beer cans, and the comfortable scent of cigar smoke, and beneath it all, the faint stink of old blood and badly cleaned-up bile.

Damn it.

No matter how hard he’d fought it—this had become home. The first one he’d ever had.

And now he knew why he’d avoided having one before. It hurt like bad place to leave.

But what did the pain mean, anyway? Nothing, that’s what.

He’d heal. The pain would go away.

It always had. Always did.

He held her until her tears subsided, and then he slowly tried to ease her off. She held fast, like a cat to a high branch in a tree.

“I gotta go, kid. Let go’a me, now. Come on, dammit. Let go.”

Kylee didn’t meet his eyes as she slowly unwrapped herself from him. He stood, setting her on the unmade bed.

It was funny, Logan realized. She’d been the only person he’d shared a bed with for months. Normally he’d be stir-crazy at this point, but in truth, despite his unusual celibacy . . . he’d never been more satisfied in his life.

Well, in his memory, at least.

And now he was taking off.

Kylee didn’t meet his eyes, but curled up around herself, her breath hitching occasionally with remaining broken-hearted sobs. He felt her eyes on his back as he want about, grabbing a few shirts, pants, and other necessities and stuffing them into a small bag. He stuffed the eyepatch in at the last moment.

He’d always traveled light. He’d head to Madripoor, though at this point he wasn’t expecting anything to pan out. After, he could head back up to Canada and start over. Start his round with cage fighting again—maybe buy himself a new trailer. Keep moving. Always keep moving.

But what the bad place was the point?

He pulled on his jacket and grabbed the rest of his cigars, but left a note for the elf telling him where he’d stashed the rest of his booze. It was better than a goodbye, he reckoned.

Finally throwing his bag over his shoulder, he looked back at Kylee, whose tears had soaked her face and made her short whiskers droop. She was trembling as he stepped forward and bent down to look at her in the eye.

“You be good now, hear?” he murmured roughly. “Storm’ll look after you—she understands more than you think.” He brushed her cheek, wiping away the most recent tear. “You’re a beauty, darlin’—don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Kylee leaped forward, and Logan jerked back, but managed to keep from going defensive at the last moment. She hugged him around the neck, and brushed a soft, wet, whisker-tickling kiss on his cheek. “You too, Wolvie,” she whispered brokenly. She pulled back, pressing a now soaked, smeared, and wrinkled picture to his chest. “For you.”

Logan took it, glancing down at the rough figures. He nodded, silent, then slowly lowered her down. She let go of him reluctantly, but at last he turned and left down the hall, leaving her standing there alone in the middle of his room.

TBC . . .
 
Okay, now I'm gonna cry. :waa: Poor Kylee....
 
Lucy in the sky said:
Great work and I really like the title.
Click to expand...

!!!

Another reader! Yay!

Thanks for speaking up. It's kinda bummer only to have a couple people speaking up over here, even when you can see the "view count" growing by the day. ;)

Hope to hear from you again!
 
This is a great place for views but you know which one is even better? The sister site -- Comingsoon.net. I get more hits for my story there than here and it's a smaller board. Go figure. :p
 
All right. This chapter's quite a bit longer, so . . . yeah. Enjoy.

Thanks for the feedback, as always.

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Chapter 26: For Better or Worse

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Logan wheeled his Harley out of the garage and closed it behind him. He paused beside the motorcycle, looking around and enjoying one last breath of the air there.

He mounted the bike and gunned it out the gate.

He didn’t look back.

The morning air chilled the drying sweat on his face. From the dreams? No—running. He’d been running.

His bike roared down the road, breaking the silence of the morning. Wind swept his hair from his face, pulling at him. The first glimmer of the sun turned the eastern clouds golden.

The sun was rising later. Summer was ending, fall beginning. The air was growing cooler, and though the trees were still full with the green flush of summer, he could smell the coming change. The leaves would be turning soon, drying up, falling.

He knew the roads around here with his eyes closed, and let the wind take him. He blurred past forest and pastures, flying past where he’d left Bloodscream ripped to shreds all over the road. The only remnant of the fight was a long mark in the asphalt where his bike had skid, and three thin, clean cuts where he must’ve sliced through the road during the fight.

Wonder who’d cleaned it up. Storm? Maybe just the NYPD—they’d gotten used to seeing a lot of crazy crap. Maybe SHIELD.

Did it matter? Someone always cleaned up. Blood washed away, marks faded, people forgot. Given time, it was like nothing had ever happened.

With nobody to remember, did it matter if it ever did happen?

It didn’t.

And Logan couldn’t remember. Just in nightmares and dreams—and who gave a damn about that?

He was gunning to the highway when his stomach gave an audible growl.

He was tempted to growl right back—he didn’t feel like eating, and he knew real hunger. But he had money, and it wasn’t like he was in a hurry. He had all the time in the world to kill. Maybe literally.

bad place, he had nowhere to be. Why should he care if he wasted an hour, a day, a year? Not like he was wasting his life away.

He took to the city, winding through early traffic that was already clogging New York’s heart like fat in a chucky man’s veins. The air stank of oil and exhaust mixed with humanity.

A turn here, a wind around a block. He knew New York City like a general knew a battleground, though bad place knew why. Far as he knew he hadn’t stepped there before being picked up by the X-Crew, and even then he’d known the streets like he’d lived there for years.

He parked his bike next to the smoke-hazed dive and walked inside, stepping over an unconscious drunk sprawled next to the doorway and ignoring the scent of blood.

It was a dive of a bar—the worst of the worst. What other kind would be open this early? The place was all but vacated, besides the bartender and two beaten-down teens picking up the mess from the night before. Three chairs had been completely splintered, and broken glass was scattered across the floor, glittering.

Logan spared the energy to be briefly sorry he’d missed the fight. But even that was passing. Guys who hung out here were too beat down by life to even be satisfying punching bags.

“Talk now, you sonava—”

BAM! BAM! BAM!

With bloodied bruises, too beaten to move. Wounds deeper than bruises.

Weighed down with bullets and metal. Too heavy to move.

Logan shook his head slightly, settling down into a seat next to the wall where he had a full view of the rest of the near-empty bar.

Damn, he needed a beer.

He barked the barkeeper, who took his money before filling him a glass and sliding it across the counter to him. He told him to keep them coming.

Logan buried himself in the cheap beer, ignoring the phantom aches in his chest as the boys’ sweeping the broken glasses from the floor echoed in his ears as if glass-shards had somehow found themselves into his skull.

Damn dream. Could almost still feel it.

He shook his head, grinding his palms into his eyes.

He didn’t want to think.

He’d head north. Maybe take the side roads, so he could go as fast as he could without picking up any cops. If he crashed he’d heal up easy enough, and he still had enough cash to go grab another bike. They’d tail him for a little longer, but he’d lose them again. He always did.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have a life without the X-Men. Even without Madripoor, it’d be easy to find some bastards that could use a good beating. That was the good thing about this damn world—never a shorthand of evil *******s.

Two more beers later and he wasn’t feeling any better.

Kids were watching him; he could feel their eyes, sweeping over him—curious. The bartender too—sideways looks, measuring.

He hated it.

They were pale and weak. Kids probably too drained by drugs to think straight—probably high right now, by the dazed look in their eyes. Bartender probably moved a mile an hour, with the belly he was carrying around.

No threat.

Five meters back. He could be on them in a second. Maybe take four plugs—two from each, if they were lucky. If they had army-issue or something illegal it’d be a bit messier. Slow him down a hair, make him a little sloppier. Two seconds, maybe. No time for them to call for backup. Two more seconds for the guy behind the bar and there’d be no witnesses.

He glanced back at the kids, at the barkeeper.

No. No threat.
 
Dream’d put him on edge. Like breathing through a straw. He felt like if he turned fast enough he’d find . . . .

A gun? No—guns never had frightened him, and never would. He wasn’t afraid of pain. This was something he couldn’t remember—but it made the beer sit in his gut like mercury, eating away at him.

Worse. Something far worse. A nightmare, walking in his shadow.

He frowned down at his beer—more than half done with the latest one already. He swirled the remaining liquid around slowly, watching swirl and ripple across the smeared bottom.

“That your phone? Hey, you! That your phone?”

Logan glared up at him, annoyed at the interruption. “What?”

“Your bag’s ringing. That’s, like, the fifth time they’ve called.”

A phone?

Dammit. The X-clowns always had him take a phone with him. Must’ve forgotten to take it out of his bag. He hadn’t checked it before rushing out.

Stupid. Mistake like that could cost lives, if someone had slipped a bomb in there instead. Wouldn’t hurt him for long, but it might take him out of the game—make him vulnerable, and kill anyone that was too close to him . . . .

Why the bad place would anyone stick a bomb in his bag? Okay, stupid question. But who the bad place would be able to, with him holed up at the mansion?

Damn. He was going freakin’ crazy. Paranoid, even for him.

The phone was ringing again. Guy behind the counter was giving him stink-eye. Guess he’d silence it, one way or another.

He dug through his bag to find the phone at the bottom. He bumped his beer as he pulled it out, almost knocking it over before he grabbed it. He took a deep drink and stared at the phone as it buzzed in his hand as if personally affronted at being ignored.

He could crush it. Push one of those damned buttons just to silence it. Flush it down the toilet, maybe, or stab it. That’d get the guys to move—maybe get that fat clown behind the counter to pull out the gun. Give him something real to slice, no matter how pitiful the target. Sure, the guy could probably hold himself against half a dozen normal drunks, but Logan wasn’t normal, and he wasn’t a drunk.

Too bad.

The phone fell silent. Good. Maybe now they’d take the hint.

He dropped it on the counter and began to drain the rest of his beer.

Fifth glass? Sixth? Who was counting? Who cared?

Ring. Riiiing.

He slammed his glass down on the counter, glaring at the phone.

Well, what the bad place?

He flipped it open.

“Yeah, what?”

“Logan, where are you?” Storm demanded.

“Ain’t none of your business.”

“Listen to me, Logan. Kylee is gone.”

Logan almost bit his tongue. He sat up from his slouch, automatically alert. “What?”

“We have been looking all over for her. She is not in the mansion.”

Oh. Just missing—not necessarily gone. He slumped again. “You’re overreacting. The kid’s probably just holed up somewhere.” Sleeping or crying. “Listen, I got some business in Canada. Don’t expect to be back for a while.”

“Wolverine—”

“Check the stables,” Logan said, dully running his finger down the condensation on the side of his half-empty glass. “Kid likes to hide in the loft. If she ain’t there she could be hidin’ in a closet or tree—maybe under the bed. Send one of the kids to go check down by the lake.”

“Listen to me. She is not there. Security footage caught her climbing over the northern wall an hour ago, and we lost her trail not far from there.”

Silence.

Damn.

Damn damn damn.

“Logan?”

“Kid probably’ll come back on her own.”

The reception crackled static for a moment; Logan pulled his ear away. Storm must be angry. “Logan, what is going on?”

Damn it all.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Keep lookin’. I’ll be there in a half an hour.”

He snapped the phone shut before she had an opportunity to respond.

He stood, pushing back his chair hard enough that one of the drained-out teens jumped. Logan didn’t even glance at him as he grabbed his bag and strode out the door, leaving his half-drained beer behind.

-----------------------------------------------------------
 
They hadn’t found her by the time he got there.

He didn’t bother heading to the mansion—didn’t bother talking to anyone. He parked outside the wall and headed right into the woods. He could hear the kids calling for Kylee to the west—Rogue, Bobby, Colossus, even some of the younger kids. As he moved silently through the trees he could see Jubilee’s bright coat in the distance.

Who needed flares with a beacon like that?

Nah—Kylee wasn’t lost. The idiot kid’d run off.

He ducked low, going still as Angel flew overhead. He waited, his nose twitching slightly as he parsed scents, and then moved on. It smelled like the kids’d already searched over here—their stink was everywhere.

He moved quickly, keeping close to the ground.

There.

Kylee’s scent, along with the smell of traces of her dinner from the night before and strawberry bubble-bath.

Damn kid.

But he had her scent. She might have been on the run for a couple hours now, but she was heading deeper into the woods. Even if she kept running the whole time, Logan would find her soon enough.

And when he did, he’d . . . .

He’d . . . .

. . . .

He’d get to that later.

He glanced back at the students. Where the bad place was Storm? She should have been able to trace the kid well enough on her own.

But he pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t needed—no thoughts were, here. The woods were his domain, and even as he followed Kylee’s trail deeper into the woods he became more at home.

And so, apparently, had Kylee.

As he followed them her prints became almost non-existent—she must’ve gone without her shoes, but that hadn’t seemed to slow her in the slightest. She had kept a good pace—the distance between her tracks made that clear—sometimes on her feet and sometimes on all fours as she climbed over fallen trees and stones.

At a shallow brook Logan had even lost her scent for a while, only to pick it up a good hundred yards down stream where she’d climbed out on an overhanging branch. He’d almost missed it.

And despite his irritation at the whole affair, Logan felt a tinge of rare admiration before he shoved it back down.

Damn. For a house-bred, half-grown kid, she had skills.

She also must’ve figured he’d be following her, by the way her tracks weaved. She knew he’d be scenting her out.

She had doubled back twice along her same trail, more than once climbing trees and actually jumping between trunks above his head, leaving thin gouges from her small claws as she tried to hide her scent.

Kid might even be as good as Nightcrawler out here. Maybe better.

He’d never seen her out in the woods—not really. Usually their interaction consisted of bedtime stories and friendly morning attacks. Once he’d let her trail along with him as he led a bunch of the kids on a perimeter hike of the area around the mansion walls, but she’d spent most of the time sitting on his shoulders and snagging at overhanging branches when they got within arm’s reach, or holding onto his hair as she rode along. He’d had to threaten to send her back to get her to stop humming to herself; it had been driving him crazy.

What the bad place was she thinking?

She wasn’t. It was just some overdramatic, emotion-driven, thoughtless stunt to get attention. Kids did things like that.

The sun grew closer to noon, burning hot and clear. Couldn’t Storm have at least sent out some clouds to cool things down? If anything, she was probably keeping it clear for visibility. Didn’t help.

He’d long since left the rest of the searchers’ scents behind.

He followed her trail across a dirt road, up a knoll, and then slowed from his quick pace. He crouched down, breathing deep and keeping silent.

She was close. The scent of dinner had sweated out of her, the bubble-bath smell was covered under dust, river-water, and the scent of grass.

He crept forward, a slight breeze shifting his hair. He couldn’t see her at first—couldn’t hear her. He ducked low, following the trail to where it disappeared to a hollow under a fallen log.

Kylee was curled up there, silent except for her soft breathing as she slept. Her hands and feet were damp and browned from dust and dirt, and her short orange fur smudged and smeared, and her pink pajamas ripped from catching on branches and thorns. Her eyes were red from crying.

Next to her lay the bones and a few scattered tuffs of fur from a small animal—a squirrel, freshly eaten. Maybe twenty minutes dead.

Logan didn’t move, watching her through narrowed eyes.

The breeze shifted.

Kylee’s nose twitched. She shifted, giving out a long sigh, and then opened her eyes.

She blinked at him out of the shadows, then rubbed her eyes sleepily. She froze mid-yawn, her mouth snapping shut as she whipped her head around to stare at him.

Her eyes narrowed to slits. She twisted onto her feet in the small enclosure, scooting back into the hollow as she bared her teeth and growled.

And before he knew what he was doing, Wolverine was growling back—a deep, warning rumble, which he cut off sharply.

But at his growl Kylee’s eyes widened further, her ears went back, and she shrank—showing she was no threat.

Huh. Like that was needed.

Logan pulled back, clearing his throat and narrowing his eyes.

“What the bad place are you thinkin’, kid?”

She pulled back farther, her eyes reflecting like an animal’s in the shadows.

“Dammit, Kylee, I’m not gonna put up with this. If you wanna just stay put, then I’ll head on back and tell Storm where to find you and she can deal with getting you back home.”

He waited. She stared back, wordless—her face hard but telling nothing. Kid had a killer poker-face. Who knew?

He could smell it, though. She was tired, and beneath the forest-smells she stank of emotion. He’d been expecting grief and some anger, but he was surprised at the sharp, almost cutting smell of despair that hung over her. The kid smelled desperate.

“Fine.” Logan straightened, taking his time to stretch as he stood. “Your choice.” He stepped away.

No sound. He was six steps away before she finally spoke up—five steps more than he had expected.

“Wolverine?”

He stopped, but didn’t turn. He could hear Kylee as she crawled out of her hiding place and climbed up to crouch on the log. She looked down at her hands, her fur flat.

Logan glanced back. “So. You comin’? Or do I gotta carry you?”

She looked up at him, and with the mud streaks in her fur and her crouched position she looked as much a baby tiger than a person. Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “’s’not home.”

“Close a thing as you’ve got.” She looked away again, and Logan ran a hand through his hair. “You’re bein’ stupid, kid. What the bad place’re you thinkin’ you’re going to go?”

“’m okay here,” she replied.

Logan snorted. “Right.”

At his tone she straightened, her fur bristling. “You did it. I can too.”

“Like bad place you can. Now listen. You’re going to go back to the mansion, and you’re going to stay there. I’m leavin’, and next time I ain’t comin’ back—even to look for you, got me?”

“I ain’t goin’ back.”

Logan was through. He’d been walking forward slowly as they talked, and suddenly he darted forward. Kylee’d been ready—she was in the air, half-way towards an overhead branch by the time he snagged her by the scruff of her neck.

She hissed, twisting around. She grabbed his arm and he felt her claws beginning to dig into the skin. He ignored it, beginning to march back towards the mansion.

He’d dump her where the search party could find her and take off.

He’d walked for a few minutes when Kylee finally went limp, letting go of his arm, but without any of the mauling he’d been expecting. She hung there, her head bowed.

Sniff.

Damn.

Let her cry. She was just making this difficult for everyone.

Sniff. A soft, shaking breath.

Stupid kid.

He wasn’t hurting her, was he? He’d grabbed her by the scruff of her neck before, but he’d never carried her farther than down the stairs to the kitchen. Or had she hurt herself before? He didn’t smell blood, but she could have fallen . . . .

Nah. Damn kid was just moping. He stopped, putting her down, but keeping a firm grip on her arm.

“Gonna walk now?”

She shook her head, her eyes down. “I’m not goin’ back.”

Logan faced her squarely. “Okay, kid. What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“Kids pick on you?”

Kylee shook her head again, then looked at him.

“You come back,” she said.

This was exactly why he couldn’t stand kids. They didn’t make sense, they didn’t understand reason. Like talking to a PMS woman.

“I told you, kid. Time to move on. I got things to do.”

Kylee was looking at him sadly. “You’re lying again.”

“What?”

She rubbed her nose. “I c’n smell you lyin’. You’re leavin’ ‘cause you’re different, aren’t you? ‘Cause we’re different.” She sat down in the leaves, looking around the forest, her nose twitching at the scent of the wind. “Rogue was tellin’ me stories, ‘bout when you lived in the moun’ins all alone, without people. For months and months, all alone.” She looked at him. “Is that where you go, Wolvie? You go back, away from people?”

Logan stared at her.

Kylee looked away, hugging herself. “Is that how it’s s’posed t’be? Ms. Storm was talkin’ ‘bout how you don’t have a home. Running, she says—huntin’. I can hunt.” She went silent for a long moment, her chin beginning to quiver. “I’m sorry I brought the rat in, Mr. Logan. I’m sorry I made them watch you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Her voice broke, and she curled up closer, drawing her knees up to her chest. “They’re always watchin’ us, aren’t they? Always watchin’. They don’t know what to do; they never know what to do.” She was crying in earnest now, small sobs shaking her form.

Logan’s hand settled on her shoulder. She didn’t move, so he just scooped her up. She turned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and crying into his shoulder, her grip like a vice. “’ey all go a-away. They all g-go away,” she choked. “Mum ‘n Dad ‘n Jeannie ‘n Scott, Charlie . . . .”

“Shh, shhh,” Logan said, his voice a bit gruff as he held her against him. “It’s all right kid. It’s all right.”

She was shaking her head against him. He could feel her tears through his t-shirt. Probably wiping her nose on it too. He didn’t care.

She quieted, still clinging to him, but her weight was limp in his arms, one hand curled in the collar of his shirt. Poor kid was exhausted. He put a hand on her back to hold her against him and starting walking back slowly. She didn’t speak or move, though shuddering shivers still shook her body in aftershocks of her tears.

Must’ve cried herself right to sleep.

Logan let out a long breath.

The sun was now high and bright—too bright. It hurt his eyes as he strode—taking a direct path back to the mansion.

It took half the time to get back as it did to find her, even walking. The smells of the searchers returned, but many of the calls had faded—spread out, or gone in for lunch.

“Please don’t go, Wolvie.” Kylee’s voice was weak, with an edge of tears still sharp, the words shaking. She must’ve been awake the whole time.

Logan didn’t answer at first. His step didn’t falter. “Ain’t my decision.”

She fell silent again, her head bowed. Logan could see the wall to the mansion grounds. He made attempt to hide his approach, but he still was able to get within a thirty yards of Bobby before the kid saw. The young mutant blinked in surprise, then grabbed his ‘com.

“Found her! Storm, Wolverine’s got her!” He skid forward, using a created trail of ice to slide right to their side. “God, Logan—she hurt?” Bobby was staring at his face, though like he’d grown an extra eye.

Oh yeah. He’d forgotten to put his patch back on. Well, who gave a damn?

“She’s fine. Jus’ tired. Call everyone else in, will ya?” He walked right past him, and Bobby blinked after them before calling into his ‘com to gather in the search party.

Logan found his motorcycle and his bag where he’d left them—good thing, or he’d have had another long hunt for the day, and he was feeling a little hunted out. He settled the kid in front of him and gunned the engine.

“Hold on tight, kid.”

He turned the bike and headed back to the mansion, driving carefully and under the speed limit for the first time in his memory, and very likely his life.
 
-------------------------------------------------------------

Never thought the kid’d think like that.

Guess we all knew she was feral. She’s never really fit in with the rest of the kids, but I’d figured it was ‘cause she was so much younger. She likes to be alone, and more than a few kids have felt her claws ‘cause of her temper. Typical little kid.

There’s plenty of ferals that get along with people just well. There’s Beast, for one . . . .

. . . .

Well, bad place. Not like I know many ferals anyway.

But the kid’s a darlin’—don’t know how anyone who really knew her couldn’t like her. She shouldn’t feel outta place. No matter if she runs around on all fours or brings a rat to the breakfast table. There’re worse things to do. A bad place of a lot worse things. She seems t’think that we’re alike, me ‘n her—it ain’t true. Kid’s just lonely—bein’ the only one her age, ‘n all.

I really ain’t good with kids. Never pretended to be, and the devil knows what the professor was thinking when he got me to teach ‘em. I gotta admit that I still wonder if he screwed with my head somehow—with a brain already scrambled like half-cooked egg, how am I supposed to know? Even if he is gone for good, I ain’t one to put it path a telepath—especially one like Chuck.

Not like my record’s been that good, anyway. I can’t be easy with the kids—it ain’t like ol’ Magneto’ll be easy on ‘em, or any of the clowns they come across. Most the people they walk by in the street would like to have them locked up or dead, if they knew what they are.

So it ain’t the classes. It’s everythin’ else. Rogue got lucky. So did all the girls I almost diced up after Bloodscream. Kylee got lucky this morning, and every other morning she’s interrupted my nightmares.

But then there’s the others.

‘Cause not everyone’s been so lucky.

Seems sometimes that I’m almost as good as killin’ off my pals as my damn enemies.

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

Remy LeBeau was dead.

He was sure of it.

He woke up slowly, keeping his eyes closed as the memories of the past days came back to him.

He’d been sick. He’d thought he was going to die then, but he didn’t. Then he’d gone out and gotten shot. He remembered just before he blacked out realizing that he’d probably not wake up again.

But he was waking up now. He waited for the slam of drugs, the odd numbness of painkillers, and the distanced agony of his shoulder. None of it came. In fact, he felt great. No pain in his lungs or throat—which felt great, since the last he remembered he felt like he was trying to breathe underwater—his head was clear, his feet didn’t hurt, and his shoulder felt good as ever.

So obviously, he was dead.

But while he never put much weight on an afterlife, he’d never expected it to be like this—a bit on the chilly side (a good sign; despite his lack of belief in religion, it was semi-comforting not to be caught in hellfire). He was lying down, and whatever was beneath him was slightly damp, and definitely not comfortable, though he had no aches or pains to blame on it.

He opened his eyes.

The sky was blue, salted lightly with a scattering of pale, thin clouds. The sun working its way up the sky, and with that the air was warming and the last of the mud-browned snow melting.

Wolverine was sprawled, blood-covered, his mouth hanging open, and slightly curled in on himself as he lay just out of arm’s reach.

Gambit sat up slowly, staring at him wide-eyed. He could hear the Wolverine’s breathing rattling softly in his chest, and could see his chest rising and falling. Other than that, he would have sworn he was looking at a day-old corpse.

Gambit dragged his eyes away, feeling a bit ill.

Well, he wasn’t dead then. He was alive—and feeling surprisingly good. Maybe he was in shock? The only other answer would have to be that he was drugged to high heaven—and somehow he doubted that Wolverine had been carrying around a bag of opium this whole time.

He looked down at himself. His shirt was missing, his coat ripped, and dried blood stained his torso—lots of it. He pulled back his coat, frowning at his bloodstained shoulder. There was no pain, but more than that—there was no wound.

He was better. Not just better, but perfectly fine.

Healed.

He looked down at the sleeping man, still rubbing his shoulder.

“Remy don’ know what you did, Wolvie, but you did somethin’.” He lowered his hand, rubbing the flakes of his dried blood between his fingers. “Saved m’life. You saved my life more dan once.”

The feral man didn’t stir.

Gambit looked up at the sky, and around at the forest. There was no sign of anyone—not helicopters or soldiers, and he could see the mountains through the trees.

He stood slowly, glancing at the slumbering man once more before stepping silently away from where he slept.

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

Kylee was bathed and smelling of natural herbal soap when Logan tucked her into her own bed and closed the blinds to make sure the bright sun wouldn’t bother her.

Herbal soap was better than that strawberry stuff. Kinder on the nose. And if the kid had half the sniffer Logan suspected at this point, the strawberries must’ve been giving her a headache.

Crazy kid had been up early and running since. If she slept until sundown it wouldn’t do her any harm.

Logan brushed her still-damp hair from her face and padded silently to the door, closing it behind him. It showed how emotionally and physically drained the kid was that she didn’t even stir.

He headed down the hall, still quiet. He could hear the kids getting back to their normal activities—after almost a full day of school off, by the complaints it sounded like Storm was giving readings to help most of the kids keep up with studies. Some sounded as if they’d gotten off free, though, and were now raiding the kitchen.

Homey. Strange.

He made his way down the stairs.

“Logan.”

He looked into the living room, unsurprised to see Storm seated on one of the new couches. She looked tired and wind-blown—as frazzled as after any mission. Figures. She took responsibility of all the kids here. She needed to give herself a break.

“Hey, ‘Ro.” He reached into his pocket for a cigar and tapped it against his palm. “Just leavin’.”

Storm stood and came forward, standing a whole head over him. “That’s what I need to talk to you about—”

“I heard the whole thing. No need to tell me to not come back.” Storm looked taken aback. “Yeah. But don’t worry about it. Those two’re good enough—better for the kids.” He shouldered his backpack. “And keep an eye on the furball this time, will ya?”

“Now hold on one moment,” Storm said. “You obviously did not stay long enough to hear the most important part of the conversation.”

Logan looked at her sharply. “Don’t pull my leg, Storm. Me against them two? The school needs the help, and it ain’t like I’m around all that much anyway.”

“The school needs your help, Logan, as this morning has shown us,” Storm said. She sighed, running a hand through her hair, and then looked him in straight in the eye. “We X-Men are family, Wolverine. Even if I wanted to, I would have no right to tell you to leave.”

“And I wouldn’t listen to ya if you tried to make me,” he replied. “But they were right, Storm.” She opened her mouth, but he ran over her, his voice low so it wouldn’t carry. Laughter from the game room echoed down the hall. “Cut the ****. They were right. I ain’t safe to be around.”

“Havok and Polaris are already gone, Logan.”

Logan looked at her sharply. “What?”

“They departed soon after we talked. I have enough immature and problematic students to deal with, and enough blind prejudice to face without having it under our own roof.”

Logan stared at her, and Ororo smiled. “I wish I had a camera. It is not every day that one finds the Wolverine speechless.”

Logan looked away. “What the bad place happened?”

“Before or after I came out and smelled that confounded cigar smoke of yours?”

“You knew I’d heard.”

Ororo inclined her head. “I must’ve called you ten times before you picked up. Where were you going?”

Logan shrugged. “What’d you do to the duo to get them out so fast?”

Ororo took his avoidance of the question in stride with a small smile. “Well, I . . . I am afraid I was kind of . . . upset.”

“Upset?”

“I . . . I think we need to replace the carpet in the office, again, Logan, and the wiring in the light fixture.”

Ah. It took a rare woman that could literally rain on a person’s parade.

Logan looked down, so she couldn’t see his face, but when he looked up he was actually chuckling. “Damn, Ororo. Sometimes I just love ya.”

“Yes, I thought you’d like that,” Ororo deadpanned, but then she smiled back. She put a hand on his shoulder, and he actually let her do so. “I told you I was glad you’re here, Logan. We’ve made do, and we can continue to do so.”

Logan shrugged in a careless manner, pulling away from her touch, but not too far away. “’s too late to head to Canada right now anyway,” he said gruffly, lighting up and drawing deep. Storm didn’t comment on it.

“That was . . . a very good thing you did with Kylee yesterday, Logan.”

“I was hungry,” he grunted with a shrug, stuffing his zippo back in his pocket. “‘Sides, it’s been a long time since I’ve had fresh rat.”

Storm looked at him, a curl of smoke twisting casually to gather at the ceiling far overhead, a hand in one pocket as he glanced down the hall as the echoes of kids making a sudden stampede to the backyard shook the floor. He was the picture of a person who didn’t give a damn.

But there was something defiant in his tone—perhaps defensive, perhaps daring her to shudder in disgust and draw away from him, or to stare at him a second too long.

She didn’t.

“Very well, Logan,” she said. “I won’t say thank you. I know how much you hate that.”

Logan shot her a strange look, readying some usual retort, but then he stopped, and just nodded. He took a long draw from his cigar and let his breath out slowly.

“Maybe you can call ‘em back and keep ‘em on for a while anyway,” he said. “’m planning on headin’ to Madripoor.”

“My decision is final,” Ororo said firmly. “But must you leave so soon? You just returned from your last search . . . .”

“I know,” Logan rumbled. “But Bloodscream said he knew me in France, and Madripoor. Made it sound like Madripoor was a bad place of a lot more recent, too.”

“Madripoor is full of nothing but criminals and murderers,” Storm replied. “If anyone does remember you, they won’t be volunteering information, I am sure.”

“Yeah, well. Man’s gotta try.” If he’d lived abroad so much it sure would explain his lack of history around the states and Canada.

“Logan, I was actually hoping that you might wait for a few more days at the least,” Storm admitted.

“Yeah? What’s eatin’ you?”

She took a deep breath, folding her arms.

“Besides the fact that it would be quite helpful with Kylee to have you around, I’ve been keeping in contact with Hank,” she said. “He has been playing it down, but I do not think his position is as safe as he would have me believe.”

“What’s been happenin’?” He never did like reading the paper. Enough trouble came to him without him having to seek it out and enjoy it vicariously. He didn’t like newspeople anyway. Almost as bad as politicians. Sometimes worse.

“It’s the cure,” Storm said. “Since it has been shown that it is not a permanent solution, the people are becoming afraid once again.”

“’Specially with old Magneto on the loose,” Logan added grimly. He’d thought about that himself—even taken a few days some months back and tried to track him down. No luck.

Storm nodded. “Beast is doing his best, but things are not looking good for him, Logan. By the sound of things, he may be let go soon.”

Logan let out a low whistle. Beast being put in as the Chair of Mutant Affairs had seemed a stepping-stone towards Xavier’s longed-for peace. A part of Logan had known better than to hope it meant things were going to be getting better, but it still sucked to have it happen so soon.

“How bad’s it looking?”

“Not good,” Storm admitted. “There were protests in Washington this evening. The people do not want a mutant in their government, no matter the good he has done.”

Logan scowled, taking another draw from his cigar. “Damn people don’t know good if you wave it in their faces,” he said. He looked at her. “Well, my past ain’t gone nowhere the past seventeen years. It ain’t goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”
 
----------------------------------------------------------------

October 3, 20—

Ororo was right.

Was runnin’ through a Danger Room session with our advanced kids—Rogue, Kitty, Colossus, Angel, Jubilee, and Ice-Pop when it happened. Kurt interrupted us with the news. ‘Ported in and almost got smashed by the Ruskie. Not the smartest thing to do.

Guess the reason was good enough, though. We came out and saw it on the tube.

Riots in Washington. ‘Parently folks’ve given up on even trying to appear tolerant, and they want Blue Boy out. Can’t stand having a mutie so high up in the government—even if it is in Mutant Affairs. Think he’s some sort of spy for ol’ Magneto.

Real nice. But prejudice never really has been known for smarts or reason.

Storm called him up. He says things aren’t lookin’ good, but he’s safe. Course, I’d hate to see what Beast could do to a crowd of non-mutants if he put his mind to it.

Okay, to be honest—given the right circumstances I actually wouldn’t mind seein’ that at all.

Problem is, he wouldn’t. Sure he could take down those racist clowns almost as good as I could, but he ain’t got the heart. Or maybe he got too much heart.

And ‘cause of that, the school’s worried. These riots aren’t peace-able, and they ain’t lookin’ like they’re going to get better.

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

Logan was slumped in front of the TV, beer in hand, when the phone rang. He’d been watching a hockey match, but had been interrupted when the kids ran in and turned on the news instead to the continued protests in Washington. Both riots and hockey might involve a satisfactory amount of bashing, but Logan preferred the latter. Still, he refused to give up his seat, and Kylee refused to move from her perch at his side. He let her stay there as long as she didn’t get in the way.

“Get the phone, will ya, kid?” Kitty jumped up from where she’d been lying on the floor and phased through the wall, one foot still inside the room as he heard her answer the call in the hall.

“Xavier’s School for Gifted Students, this is Kitty Pryde speaking.” Silence. “Ms. Monroe? No, she’s out right now.” A pause. “Yeah, he’s here. One second.” Kitty’s head popped through the wall. “Logan? It’s for you.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, but he went out into the hall and took the phone from Kitty, who slipped back through the wall. He stared at the mouthpiece suspiciously for a second before bringing it up.

“This is Logan,” he said slowly.

“Wolverine. Henry McCoy speaking.”

“Hank,” he leaned against the wall, turning to watch the slit of the television that was visible from the hall as he spoke. “Everything all right up there?”

“Yes, yes. Everything is fine,” Beast said calmly, contrasting against the sound of the news-coverage on the shouting protestors coming from the television. Of course, Hank had kept his cool during much worse situations. “I am just calling to inform you that I am being excused from my position. The official announcement will be made this evening.”

Logan snorted softly. “They got a reason?”

“Their explanation is that my frequent and sudden absences are disruptive to my post.”

Guess that taking off to save lives on missions or head to the lab to save the world from the latest man-made killing virus didn’t count as sick days. Well, bad place. Logan was half surprised that they’d bothered with a cover in the first place, no matter how bad it was. “Whatever helps them sleep at night.”

“Indeed,” Beast agreed, still sounding insanely cheerful. “The whole affair is not so inconvenient. I was thinking of retiring anyway, but this just saves me the trouble. I believe the X-Men need me more at the moment. Ororo, Kurt, and you have been handling things too long on your own.”

Logan couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so after thinking over it for a second or two, he just grunted.

“Besides,” Beast added. “I never really liked politics anyway.”

The TV screen zoomed in on the crowd. A filthy, ungroomed man reeled towards the camera, spitting in his fury. “DIE, FREAKIN’ MUTIES! WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE! GO BACK TO bad place!”

Logan scowled pulled out a cigar, tapping it unlit on his hand. “Yeah, you’re preachin’ to the choir here, bub.” He pulled the mouthpiece away. “I’ve heard enough of this trash. Turn it down or turn it off, will ya?” They obeyed, muting the sound, and he uncovered the phone. “What was that?”

“I said that I will be returning home on the first flight tomorrow morning.” Beast paused. “Ah, home,” he sighed. “It will be wonderful to be back at last.”

“Yeah, well, don’t count your chickens yet. You need us to come’n get you?”

“No need,” Hank said, optimistic as always. “Once I am removed there will be no reason for these riots to go on.”

“You sure?” Logan asked, glancing at the now muted TV. Even silent, hatred and bigotry screamed from the riling crowds.

“Absolutely positive,” Beast assured him.

“’Kay. See you tomorrow.”

He hung up, then stuck his cigar in his mouth and pulled out his zippo. Storm walked through the door, caught sight of him, and set the bags she had been carrying on the floor.

“Has Hank called?” she asked.

“Just missed him,” Logan said, lighting up. “He’s comin’ home.”

“Damn it,” Storm sighed, causing Logan to spare her a glance. She rubbed her forehead, looking strained and tired. “The professor would know what to do.”

“Well, he ain’t here,” Logan said, but not harshly. “Beast’s leavin’ tomorrow morning. Tell Kurt to make sure the ‘bird’s filled up and ready to fly, will you?”

“He asked us to come and get him?”

“No,” Logan said, drawing deep in his cigar. “But we’re gonna go anyway.”

Even after everything they’d been through, these X-guys were still too trusting. Those protesters out there weren’t playing around, and if Logan knew anything about human nature, then things could very well get dirty.

But he didn’t want to break out the whole team. Didn’t want to alarm the kids, or make this bigger than it was. Best case scenario was that they’d walk in, grab Hank, and be back before breakfast.

Right.

TBC . . .
 
Still good but must have more Gambit! :D :p
 
Gotta post and run today, but thanks for the feedback!


Enjoy,


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Chapter 27: Good Intentions

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

Gunfire spattered now and again through the thick, cold air. Mist lay thick and low over the trenches, isolating him, even as the man next to him was clearly visible as he huddled in the foot-deep mud. He was young and pale, his hair grown out from a church hair-cut. His gun sat in the crook of his arm as he wrote in a notebook. Letter for home? Journal? Last wishes?

Logan began to straighten from his crouch, peering out into no-man’s land and its tangle of wire and bodies, and smoke and mist.

“Watch your head, sergeant,” someone spoke softly down the line from him. He could see the faded, mud-splatched patches that marked him as a sergeant as well. “They’ve been jumpy—shooting at anything that moves. I think they know they’ve lost their trench.”

“Bound and set ta die b’fore they do that,” Logan murmured. “They’re gonna go down t’the last man.”

“Bastards.”

The other sergeant checked his watch, wiping mud off the face to see the numbers. “Oh five hundred. Time,” he said, standing hunched over, and raising his gun. “Let’s go, boys.” His men obeyed, and Logan turned, looking at the pale, young faces around him. There were too few of them—too many had already died, following him. And chances were most of these ones would die before this mess was over.

Logan should have been dead five times over, himself. Nah—way more than five times.

“C’mon,” he said, lifting his own gun. There was no motivational speech, no reminder of why they were fighting. They’d all forgotten. It was just blood, and mud, and cold, and rats, and hunger.

He’d even eaten a rat—something he’d sworn never to do again. Didn’t matter. His boys needed the real food more than he did, and there were plenty of rats.

His boys gathered around him, grim and silent. Young as they may be, they were experienced. They’d survived, and that was enough. He trusted them to watch his back—and he hadn’t trusted a bunch of men in years.

If ever.

Funny, how facing death side-by-side pulls men together.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s do this. Last run before we get ta sleep.” That was motivation enough. These boys’d been up all night. They deserved their rest.

Logan grabbed a hold of the ladder, ready to make the first break. His men looked up to him—waiting, trusting. Not many sergeants led their men out in the front, but Logan was lucky—bullets never hit him. All of them hoped his luck would spread.

“MOVE!”

The command came up the line, and Logan bolted. He was out of the ditch before the machinegun across the way had time to register. He sprinted forward, his own gun punching out bullets as mud flew and bullets shot around him.

Rt-chchchchchchchchchchchit!

The silence was shattered. Bullets whizzed through the air, men screamed, bodies fell. Men streamed out of the trench behind him, and the front line was mowed down. Bullets slammed into Logan’s chest and he lifted his gun, returning fire. Men screamed in the trench before him, falling. The machine gun fell silent as its user flew back, his brains shot out and puddling in the mud.

He bore his teeth, leaping over barbed wire and leaving his men behind as they fired, keeping low. He could see the whites of the enemies’ eyes, see their fear as their bullets slammed into him, and he kept coming.

He dove in, slamming down on helmets with the butt of his gun. He fell into the mud of the enemy trench pulling his knife from his belt and slashing out. Men fell around him, and others poured in, shouting.

“DIE, AMERICAN ANIMAL!” one of them screamed in German.

“I’m Canadian, bastard,” he snarled back, punching him with the handle of his knife, before whipping around to gut one of his buddies.

“GAS!”

The cry called from behind him—around him—in both German and English. Soldiers dived away from him, struggling with their masks. Better die from a knife or a gun than from the gas.

Logan swore. He opened fire, cutting down this stretch of trench before the gas leaked down and began cutting into his own lungs. He grabbed a mask from a dead man and pulled it on.

Gas couldn’t kill him, but it was still damn ugly. He’d seen it.

He grabbed at the ladder and dragging himself up into higher ground—not that it’d help much. He ran back to his own trench, leaping over barbed wire—thick mud hiding his own blood and others’ that stained his uniform.

The gas was falling—he could smell it coming, even through the mask.

There. One of his men. Without a mask, trying to cover his face with his shirt.

Wouldn’t work.

Logan ripped off his own mask, putting it over the young man’s face. He stared back at him, eyes wide with horror. It was the soldier who’d been writing in the trench before the charge—barely more than a boy. Probably lied about his age to get here in the first place. “But sir—” he gasped.

“Get back to the trench,” Logan snapped, pushing him in the right direction. “Go!”

The young man obeyed wordlessly. The gunfire had paused for now, but in seconds it would be alive again. Even with the gas—with masks the enemy could still fire, still attack.

Dammit. He could already feel the effects of the gas. It burned his eyes, eating through his lungs. Blood began to froth in his throat.

He let himself fall to his knees. He couldn’t bring himself back to the trench—not like this. The gas had him now, and he couldn’t let them see. Couldn’t let them see him die, and then come back again.

He fell into the mud, his body seizing up. He clenched his teeth, tasting blood as his vision went red, his head felt ready to burst, his vision fading now to black . . . .

How sweet and fitting it is for one to die for one’s country.

Heh. Right. If he wasn’t bleeding out through his mouth and nose he’d laugh. Nah—he’d laugh anyway, with blood bubbling up his throat—sounded almost like crying. Kinda funny.

Hurt like bad place.

Damn pain. Wasn’t like it meant anything anyway.

And then, it began fading.

The gas still lay around him—different from the mists, and reeking. But he could feel his lungs burning as the damage from the gas healed, his throat clearing, his eyes itching and watering, but even that was fading away.

He spat, spitting out blood and bitter bile. No-man’s land was covered in gunsmoke and gas and mist. It was raining now, a faint sprinkle that felt good against his hot skin.

It was always hot when he healed. Like a fever, burning him from inside out.

A corpse lay next to him, wide-eyed and still. His gun lay fallen next to his chilling hand, and Logan could smell the blood.

It was another one of his boys.

At least the soldier’d been shot down—killed almost instantly, by the smell of it. There wasn’t enough blood for his heart to have kept beating long.

Still twitching from pain and breathing hoarse, Logan crawled towards him. He closed his eyes, letting him rest.

He deserved to rest.

Logan grimaced, straightening slowly and shaking a couple bullets out of his shirt where they’d been forced out. He wiped off his knife and sheathed it, then bent to lift his gun.

“What’s this?” It wasn’t spoken in German, or English. It was French. Logan looked up sharply, his nose twitching as he saw the thin figure through the smoke. The gas covered his scent. “Alive? Like this? Impossible.”

Logan grabbed his gun and leveled it at the man, his aim steady despite his remaining shaking. If he’d spoken in half a dozen other languages he’d have shot his head out without hesitating. As it was, his finger rested on the trigger, ready.

Friend or foe, this clown’d seen him withstand the gas.

The smoke swirled, and Logan saw his face.

He was skeletal, pale. His long, dark hair was pulled back from his face, and though he wore a French uniform, his gaze made Logan tense. He felt like a prey, being stared down by a predator much older and stronger than he. It wasn’t something he was used to, and he didn’t like it.

What was worse—this guy wasn’t wearing a mask either, and even as Logan’s breathing was still raspy as he healed, this guy didn’t seem affected in the slightest.

In fact, Logan couldn’t even hear the clown breathing.

“What are you?” the man spoke, this time in articulated, French-accented English—even cultured, his eyes glittering and curious.

“Pal, I was gonna ask you the same question,” Logan answered.

“I am a friend—an ally,” he said. He still hadn’t raised his gun from his side, but Logan’s instincts screamed warning, and he hadn’t lived this long by ignoring them. He kept his gun raised. “We are on the same side, non? Let us walk back together. I would be fascinated to hear your story.”

“I ain’t one to talk much,” Logan growled. The Frenchman stepped forward, and Logan took a step back, mirroring him. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. He didn’t like the smell of his clown, though it was hard to focus on through the gas. “You wanna live, Frenchie, you talk. Now.”

He shrugged casually. “Very well. Since you wish to make it more difficult for both of us—”

And then he moved. Logan fired, catching the man right in the heart despite the moving target. He didn’t stop moving, though—but slammed into him. The gun went flying, and a burning hand grabbed his throat. Logan fell back, grabbing at his arm as he snarled in agony.

The man wasn’t ready for him—no one ever was. Logan jerked forward with uncanny speed, slamming his forehead against the clown’s nose, then spinning around. The Frenchman grabbed for him again, his fingers raking across his face, but Logan knocked his arm aside, twisting him around and catching him in a headlock from behind. He held his knife at his throat.

“You gonna talk now?” he snarled. His neck burned, and he could feel blood leaking down his chest. Had the clown clipped him with a knife he hadn’t seen?

Whatever this guy was, he’d taken a bullet to the heart with even less of a flinch than Logan would.

“What are you? Your blood . . . powerful . . . . So wild! I’ve never tasted . . . not felt so alive . . . !”

Logan’d heard enough. He was too tired to bother with this. Too tired of everything. His blade cut deep, slicing off the madman’s words and breaking his neck in the same motion. The body slumped, limp.

Logan turned away, walking back to his trench—but not to his men. He’d climb in farther down and make his way back slowly. Come up with another story, ‘bout how he found another mask, hankered down and waited ‘til it was safe to come back.

They’d believe him. He was lucky, after all.

He called to the men in the trench, waving them down before they shot him down, and he climbed in, reporting his company and platoon number. They waved him on, and he passed through the mud and filth, looking at the mud and blood-streaked faces as he walked down the line to his squad.

“Sergeant? Sergeant Logan, you’re alive!” It was the kid he’d found, out in no-man’s land. Alive and well, his wide eyes disbelieving.

“Got lucky, private,” Logan said simply. He took his place in the trench, setting his gun down. He scanned the rest of the ditch. His men blinked back at him—pale, exhausted, huddling like pale rats.

He couldn’t see two of them. He didn’t need to ask where they’d gone.

He’d taken down two squads today to make up for two of his other men he’d lost the day before. Two more would go down in the next charge.

“Let’s move out. Get some grub and head to the cots. Keep low and sleep while you can,” Logan said, turning away to pick up his back with his meager belongings and his gun. He led the way down the trench, glancing up at the sky to the red sunrise as he reached up and put his hand over his neck to try and slow the bleeding.

Logan jerked awake—not screaming, any but sweating nonetheless. He could smell the mud and filth—and worse: the desperation, the hopelessness. He could hear the gunfire, the bombs falling in the silence . . . the screams.

It was a different kind of terror, but no less familiar.

He kicked off the bedsheets and stared at the ceiling. It was a long time before he climbed out of bed to shower.
 
----------------------------------------

Logan met the fully-dressed Kitty, Storm, Jubilee, and Rogue in the basement hallway at four am. They were still wearing their civs; they were going as normals, and if things went well they’d stay that way. Kitty and Rogue still looked half-asleep, but Storm stood straight and alert, her slacks and blouse straight and unwrinkled. She looked ready for business, and smelled the same; she always smelled faintly like ozone when she was prepping for a mission.

Logan walked up, holding his broad-brimmed hat and his coat, and looking fully awake. He hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. He glared down at Jubilee.

“What’re you doin’ here?”

The girl folded her arms. She was still wearing that damned yellow raincoat, and earrings large enough to lasso a bull. “I want to come too.”

“I didn’t say you were comin’, so you ain’t. Go back to bed, kid.” He pulled his hat on, fingering the brim as he adjusted it.

Kid. All too young, like those soldiers. Should be at home wooin’ some crazy punk boy—anywhere but in the battlefront.

No. He wasn’t going to think about that. His dream was already fading—completely crazy as it was. Probably walked in on a World War I movie the kids were watching once, or something. And as for Bloodscream . . . well, he was popping up in a bunch of his dreams lately. Nothin’ special.

Probably just going crazy.

“Why Kitty and Rogue, then?” Jubilee protested.

Logan fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Storm can provide cover, Kitty can phase outta there if there’s trouble, and Rogue can fly the ‘bird. I ain’t plannin’ on fightin’.”

Storm had agreed that this was going to be low-profile. Most of the students didn’t even know they were going.

Besides, he could stand being around this team, and he trusted them. He’d’ve brought Nightcrawler along too, but blending into crowds wasn’t one of his strong points, especially when the crowd was a milling mass of mutant-hating bigots.

Jubilee’s expression at that was dubious, at best. Logan ignored her, pulling on his jacket as he faced the rest of the team. “We all ready?”

They boarded the Blackbird. Rogue took her place at the controls with Storm taking co-pilot. Logan gave her a sideways glance as he buckled up.

“You got it, kid?”

Rogue was awake enough to shoot him a glare as she started take-off procedures. “Ah fly better than you, so buckle in and shuddup.”

“In your dreams, darlin’.”

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

Finding parking in D.C. is never the easiest thing, but when it came to finding a landing spot for an improved jet, there was no chance, even with its stealth technology. Rogue was to stay in the ‘bird and keep out of sight.

“Just get us close to an alleyway,” Logan said, looking out the window to the streets and buildings that were just now beginning to be lightened with the beginnings of dawn. “We’ll get on down the rest of the way, and walk. Stay on the radio in case we need you to come on down.”

Rogue nodded, bringing the ship to hover next to a rooftop as the door lowered.

“Take Kitty,” Logan told Storm. The kid was just learning that she could walk on air in her phased state if she concentrated hard enough, but Logan wanted speed, and didn’t want to worry about the kid getting distracted and falling.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Storm said. She picked up Kitty and flew out, and Logan eyed the twenty-foot drop before stepping out and falling. He landed on his feet in a crouch, his teeth vibrating with the impact, and then stood, ignoring the burning of the healing bruises from the landing. He moved to the edge of the building, then dropped the three-stories to the alley below. Storm and Kitty landed beside him as he adjusted his hat, as it had almost been blown off during the fall.

“I was going to come back for you,” Storm said.

“No need,” Logan replied, shrugging her off. He pulled out a cigar. “Let’s move. We’ve got three blocks over and four up ta get to Hank’s.” He adjusted the small radio on his collar. “You still with us, darlin’?”

“You bet’cha, you crazy loon,” Rogue replied. “Up in the clouds, now. With the stealth mode on the only way they’re gonna find me is by runnin’ inta me.”

“Well, make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“C’mon, sugah. Don’t tell me ya don’t trust me.”

“Don’t get me started,” Logan muttered, then fell silent as they came out of the alleyway onto the street.

They headed down the block, but already Logan could hear it. They’d come early in hopes that the crowds might be asleep, but by the sound of things that hadn’t been enough.

Prejudice and bigotry never sleeps.

Kitty stopped stand-still, staring at the packed street before them. Bigoted signs blasted the crowd’s sentiments at them, and despite the early hour the noise was almost deafening. Logan’s jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed.

“Oh my gosh,” Kitty breathed. Logan passed by her, putting a hand on her back and helping her keep moving.

“Keep walkin’,” Logan whispered. She’d seen it on TV, but pictures were never the same as reality. The whole city reeked of hatred. It made his claws itch.

Friggin’ Nazis.

He could still remember it—all colorless and grey as bad place. Grey faces, grey eyes, grey skin and mud and desperation. He could still smell the death, the blood, the hatred. Cold grey barbed-wire fences and a grey smoke too sweet—too awful. The stench made him sick, made him rage.

But that hadn’t been in his dream.

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head. He took a long draw on his cigar, consciously unclenching his hands as he felt Storm’s gaze on him.

Damn, he finally really was going crazy—if he hadn’t been crazy all along.

The animal wanted out, and it was more difficult than usual to push it back, seeing as there was little more he wanted to do than to beat the **** out of these clowns. A few years ago he probably would have.

Damn Xavier.

But the professor had been right. Beating these bastard five times to bad place and back again would do a whole lot more harm than good, even if it would have left him feeling a bad place of a lot better.

He pushed down the rage, breathing shallow and focusing on the scent of the gutter-slime instead of the hatred reeking around them. It smelled a whole lot better, after all.

They moved through the press of the crowd, ignoring the leaders who were already standing on their platforms, shouting out sentiments that made the crowds mill about, all but snarling like wild beasts on a hunt.

“They are all around us!” a megaphone screamed. “Do you want these freaks teaching our kids?! ARE WE GOING TO LET A GENERATION OF MAGNETOS WALK BACK IN HERE AND TAKE CONTROL WITHOUT A FIGHT?”

“NO!”

Logan kept a hand on Kitty’s back, and noted that Storm was keeping close.

“FREAKS SHOULD GO BACK TO WHERE THEY CAME FROM!”

“LOCK ‘EM UP!”

He was growling under his breath as they walked, but no one had recognized them yet.

“You hear what they call him? The Beast. ‘Cause he’s nothin’ more than an animal, y’know . . . .”

“They say he’s supposed to leave this morning. They’re just letting him walk away scot-free, if you believe it—”

“Filthy mutie—”

The madness slowed them down—too much. They came to a road blocked off and packed, and Logan took off his hat, scowling at the wall of people before them. “Great,” he grumbled. “Now what?”

Somehow Beast leaving that morning had leaked out. Knowing politics, government, and human nature in general, Logan bet it was a leak from the inside.

Suddenly there was a stir near the front, and a small, pale man climbed onto the stand.

“Can’t you hear what you’re saying?” he shouted. “These people can’t help what they are. Magneto was one man—would you condemn a whole people because of the act of one man!?”

The shouting rose to deafening volumes, and a dozen men rushed the platform, their intent clear. Logan clenched his hands, ready to push forward, when there was a gust of wind and a blur of blue, and suddenly the brave speaker was twenty feet back from the masses, being set down by a tall, lithe stick of a man. His hair was so pale it was practically white, and he wore an odd blue suit that made the X-Uniforms look like Milan’s best.

“Break it up, people! There is no need for violence!”

“FREAKIN’ MUTIE! GET OUT OF OUR CITY!” A bottle flew at the young man, but he ducked—or Logan thought he’d ducked, but a second later he had appeared two feet to the side.

A mutant. What was this clown playing at? Suicide? Or slaughter? Logan didn’t really care—either way it was something that was slowing them down.

“Yes, we are mutants!” another voice said, practically appearing as she pushed from the crowd to stand beside the young man. Maybe she’d been invisible, ‘cause Logan couldn’t see how the scarlet red uniform and cape she wore could have passed through unnoticed. “We are members of the Avengers, assembled by the President of the United States. You will stand down!”

The people looked a lot less eager to fight two mutants, especially with government backing. The noise lowered, and the mob hesitated.

Kitty, Logan, and Storm had pulled back against the wall. “The Avengers?” Logan shouted over the noise.

“Yes, America’s super-hero team,” Storm replied. “Do you not ever watch the news, Logan?”

Logan didn’t grace that with a response, partly because he was distracted as a dark blur streaked across the sky, then swooped down. It was another woman—blonde, wearing what looked like a black swimsuit with a lightning bolt across her torso, and a red sash around her waist. A small mask around her eyes was either a disguise or a joke, ‘cause it didn’t do a thing to hide her features.

Damn, another hottie mutant. She didn’t land, but hovered over the two mutants, talking briefly and too softly to be heard before she took off again, darting into the sky. The crowd watched her go, scattering after her. They murmured still, but the bloodwrath had passed.

“Damn,” Logan said, looking after where the blonde had flown off. “So you know ‘bout these clowns?”

“The fast one is Quicksilver,” Storm said. “Pietro Maximoff is his true name.” She nodded to where he had stood, but the blue-clad mutant had already sped off, leaving the scarlet-caped woman to escort off the bold, but foolish, speaker. “She is his sister—Wanda Maximoff, called the Scarlet Witch. Reality-warper, class four.”

“And blondie?”

“Ms. Marvel. Flies, near-invulnerable. The president probably called them in to keep things from getting out of control.”

“Nice,” Logan said. Why did America support one super-hero team while it attacked another? A better question, why were these people working for the government in the first place? Whose side were they on? He started moving forward again. “She sure calmed them down fast.”

“She is not a mutant,” Storm admitted. “I do not know the full story, but her powers are not natural.”

Sounded like a long story. “So bein’ born different now rates under bein’ made different. Cute,” Logan summed up. And they wondered why he stayed away from people for years on end.

They walked more quickly. The crowd had settled, though the streets were still crowded, they seemed to sense an air about Logan, or perhaps recognized his expression as a man who wouldn’t take any nonsense, because the crowd moved around him, though he didn’t seem to really notice.

A soft roaring sound caught Logan’s ear and he looked up as another person flew by overhead. At least, he thought it was a person. Looked like a new-age red-and-yellow spacesuit.

“Another Avenger?”

“Iron Man—real name Tony Stark,” Kitty said, showing off her own knowledge of the team. “Again, not a mutant—he invented that suit himself. The whole team is real popular, Logan. Practically rock-star status since they were organized last year. Jubilee has a huuuuuuuuge crush on Stark.”

He’d heard of Stark. Some inventor company—Xavier’d used some of his gadgets on the mansion’s security.

That explained why the crowd seemed even calmer than before, if anything. Non-mutant superheroes were acceptable, apparently—even revered, by the way some of the rioters stared after him.

Well, bad place. How many of these clowns were there? “What they avengin’?”

“I am sorry?”

“The Avengers,” Logan repeated. “What are they avenging?” Dead kid soldiers? Spilled blood splashed with mud? “Someone insult their mommas, or somethin’?”

Storm stared at him. “I . . . do not know,” she admitted.

“Well, bad place,” Logan murmured. “Maybe I’ll ask if I can join.”

They walked in silence, surrounded by the murmurings of the crowds, but things were breaking up. The Avengers being there was doing some good, though thousands of people still packed the streets, and even as Iron Man flew from the street the leaders stood up tall again and shouted against mutants.

Sometimes free speech really sucked.

And then, he heard something else.

Logan froze in his steps, cocking his head. "Did you hear that?" he asked Storm.

"Hear what?" Storm asks.

Logan picked up his pace again, pushing through the crowd. "Trouble."

tbc . . .
 
I really liked the first part, the war description was amazing and very well done. Loved his meeting with Bloodscream.

I would only have one criticism and that is that this cast is getting rather large. You've introduced another team here, the Avengers, and yet you still have not resolved what happened with Gambit back in the past. I don't mind the flashbacks and all and things happening at different times, but at the moment anyhow, it's like that last bit with Gambit got left in the dust (unless I missed something..... )
 
Yeah. The back and forward is the hardest thing to juggle at this point.

We'll be back to the past (and Gambit ;)) in a little bit. I figure past-Wolvie's out like a light, and present-Wolvie's got a lot on his plate right now.

The Avengers are being featured, but aren't going to become too important. I actually wrote these few chapters just after seeing Iron Man, and was getting psyched at the idea of the Avengers movie, so . . . yeah. It rubbed off a little. ;)

We'll be back to the past not during the next chapter, but the one after that. ;)
 
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