AN: So this idea is old, but I always regretted never publishing this fanfic years ago when I was on here under a different name. I think my fear has always been that of writing a Marty Stu, which is why this is so tentatively posted. All criticism and suggestions are welcome with this one. I know where the plot is going, but that's about it right now.
I was going too fast to stop. If I stopped, I might have realized what a horror idea this whole thing was.
Though my progenitor hadn't been noted for his speed, I was more or less forced to build up endurance and the ability to maintain speed and dexterity. Perhaps this was due to genetic make up, but I attributed it to the ability of determination to make even the most mild target a viable threat. And I had never been a target at all before, so the whole experience had been new when it started. It had taken a lot of running before the idea all I was, was speed and survival and hope had occurred to me. I leapt from roof top to roof top, as if someone was after me.
Maybe someone was. I could never be sure. I was led to believe my senses were impeccable, far above even mutant capabilities, yet every whistle of the wind and footstep on pavement had me whirling and diving and hiding and leaping. Was I afraid? Not as a human fears things, no. I was afraid as an animal fears for itself, as a rabbit or mouse might be. I had been running for over two months, so long that my clothes had rotted and I had stolen new ones and repeated the process. Every article of clothing, every encounter with people, every time I locked eyes on someone, I felt panic course through my lithe, well muscled body. If I left a trail they would come for me. If they came for me they would make me into what I never wanted to be.
They would make me a weapon, or drive me mad enough to become like my progenitor, violent and vile. I was running not just from them, then, but from the world I didn't think I could be a part of. I was no predator. What predator jumps from tree to tree only to crash land on the Institute's lawn, rolling with speed for a good twenty feet and then pushing into a hurtling dash? Scents whipped by me, all the normal smells of teenagers, plastics and papers and sneakers and perfumes. I took in nothing, blocked it out, focused on the fainter but real smell of a metal wheelchair. If I had enough left in me to feel, if I was a person instead of an animal, I would have felt hope. Animals don't know hope, only to run, and run I did, sometimes on all fours, shifting inbetween positions with practiced ease.
There is some bravery in rushing into the den of your enemies, or possible enemies. They call that bravery stupidity or, charitably, poor planning. I would later opt to call it a strategic risk, after I'd collected myself enough that I resembled something sentient or civilized. At that moment I had other priorities. Security would have been hard to dodge had I been trying, but I wanted the Mansion of Charles Xavier to know that I was there, I wanted cameras on me, I wanted proof I came bearing no ill will, that I didn't hurt anyone, I'm not him I'm not him I'm not him. Even though the one called Wolverine was bound to smell it on me, death at his hands was preferable to life with HYDRA.
That's real fear, fear of life itself. Fear of living to see a hundred thousand tomorrows you don't want, to the point where admantium blades ripping through you seems a comforting thought, a hope to towards. That was the 'hope' I had, that life would get better or end. Both options were equally viable and I embraced both hopes as I crashed through a kitchen window, sniffing the air, ears perked, running down the hallways with my keen senses directing me. It was late evening, and the students were a formidable wall of startled faces and potentially dangerous powers. If I'd tried to fight them I would have died. Instead I crashed through them with brute force. I inherited super strength from my progenitor, and even though all my ribs were visible and I swam in my clothes, I could toss them all around like newborn kittens if I needed to. They weren't expecting it, and I saw hesitance in their faces to attack someone so beaten down and thin looking.
Their momentary weakness is how I burst into the Professor's office, tripping on my way in, scraping my skin on the carpet and barely caring, breathing hard and fast. I stared up at him like he was my own personal religious figure, if I'd believed in that sort of thing. My ash blonde hair hung inbetween my eyes and I scrambled for words, having prepared nothing for this moment. I'd rehearsed it in my head, but not every word I'd ever come up with left me, failed my tongue, and my hands dug into the carpet, tearing through it like it had all the resistance of snow. The claws, the hair, the smell – surely he knew my progenitor, but this place was sanctuary for mutants. X-23 said so, as she moved further north and I went further south; as much as our meeting had been her beating information out of me, she'd offered me the location of this place afterwards.
"I – I – please, you have to help me, I don't – I need – I'm sorry," I blurted out, rambling, and that was when I smelled him and curled into a bowing position, hands covering my head feebly. "I have to warn you! It's important, HYDRA-"
Wolverine thundered down the hall, growling. "I can smell Creed, I – what is that?"
"He appears to be a mutant, and in need of some assistance," the Professor's voice gently, calmly replied.
I could feel myself shake, feel the adrenaline begin to leave me, and wondered how I'd escape alive, but my shoulders slumped with the realization that it might all be over. That sounded good. I was so tired. I was tired of running, stealing, trying to find food, scouting out somewhere dry or a little bit warmer to lay my head down. I was tired of looking at people and wondering if I'd get them all killed with my presence. I never quit looking over my shoulder expecting something or someone to come up and haul me back into the life I hated so much. I was tired of being used. If Wolverine was going to put me to sleep, then that was really, truly alright with me. I had come far, but I could accept this as the end of the line.
"If he needs to kill me, that's okay," I volunteered meekly from my position on the floor. I meant it. "Just let me save you from HYDRA, please, they're coming, I need to warn you..."
From where I was huddled, I could hear several students in the hallway watching and heard them inhale sharply. After a moment, my progenitor's enemy stepped closer to me. I held my breath. There was a snikt sound as his claws retracted. I breathed out, shakily, waiting for some signal to move, raising my head enough I could get a glimpse of the room, feeling the urge to run again, a caged animal, always. But no finishing blow or kick from the towering form of my enemy came. When I tilted my head upwards as much as I dared without moving from my small, relatively safe position by the Professor, I saw clearly the unreadable eyes and sharp features of the man I'd only seen pictures of at HYDRA – Wolverine. I flexed the sharpened claws of my nails on the carpet and kept quiet. The students in the hall were distinctive – one with fire red hair, one with blue fur, and one with sunglasses on perpetually. I smelled no hate off of anyone, only confusion, some anger from Wolverine, and concern from the Professor, who seemed to radiate such a scent unknowingly.
"I believe," he said gently, reaching down to coax me up onto hesitant feet and thin legs, "We should take a moment to examine all facets of this situation before we jump to such drastic measures. Young man, what is your name?"
"XV2 6," I volunteered, drawing a frown from him. Earnestly, I added, "I was never given an alias to go by, I promise, I-"
He held up a hand. "I believe you. And that is exactly what troubles me."
I didn't understand.