Chapter 1
Talk about your Technicolor flashbacks! Been here. Done this. There's a ratty t-shirt at the bottom of my pack to prove it.
My butt hairs started twitching half hour ago when Vic ordered us to secure all loose items and strap on oxygen masks before taking the Blackbird well over a hundred kilometers up. The fucking Thermosphere! When Charles said we were to rendezvous at a secure location, this ain't what I had in mind.
But it's amazing up here. Diamond studs on a shroud of blackest black. Sheets of light ripple across endless time. Halos of color ring orbs of pure energy. Remote as a celibates promise and cold as a polar bear's ass,(1) space is still unbelievably beautiful.
We bank hard left. "Holy shit!" What dominates the view is big as a city block and maybe twenty, twenty five story's tall; looks like a cross between a flying aircraft carrier and a submarine. White, blue and red lights sparkle against a dove gray hull. She's got a designator number and wears the crests of the United Nations and—I'll be fucked! Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage and Logistics Directorate.
Cutting the thrusters so we're almost hovering, Vic radios, "Blackbird to Ares control, permission to dock."
"Affirmative Blackbird. Transmit security code."
Slowly, like a jaded slut, Ares' hatches yawn open and Vic eases the Blackbird in like she's still got a cherry.
Picture perfect, he sets us down and cuts power. Hatches slide closed behind us and the comm. unit barks, "Wait for the escort to disembark your vessel."
Ya think? A depressurized, zero gravity, zero oxygen chamber's the perfect deterrent to overzealous idiots. Even a space suit wouldn't be much good. Just open the hatches and it's a long space walk home.
K-chunk! Screech. The jet shudders and over the comm. we hear, "Docking bolts secure."
Might not be able to get off the plane yet but that doesn't stop me unstrapping from my seat. Curiosity's about to gimme a rash—or maybe it's this damn leather costume Charles insists on.
The restraints tethered to my chair undulate like snakes as I glide forward grabbing onto the seatbacks to keep from hitting the ceiling. Zero gravity's a blast once the inner ear and gut figures which way's up or down.
From Cyke's greenish complexion, I'm guessing his gut's only thinking up, as in up-chuck. "Feelin' puny, Cyke?."
"I'm fine," he replies.
"Uh huh." Just to prove him a liar, I make a gagging noise.
"Fuck you," he croaks and stuffs his face in the barf bag.
Storm nails me, "Logan that was cruel. Besides, I seem to recall some gossip I heard about you and a certain night time sortie."
Grinning smugly, I feel a twinge of guilt 'cuz her café au-lait complexion's definitely more au- lait than café. Don't mind pissing off the Fearless Leader, he's had a burr up his ass since we got word of this mission. But Storm's all right, she doesn't deserve the aggravation. My best pal, in the pilot's seat, grinning from ear to ear's gonna get my boot up his ass for his big mouth.
A low whistle escapes my lips. This hanger's straight out of a Star Trek movie or something. A vast hemispherical chamber of brushed metal; I'll lay down a week's pay it's adamantium and heat resistant ceramics. It's long as a football field, not quite as wide and high enough to stack two or three Blackbirds and still maneuver freely; sort of makes ours look like it was outfitted with bargain shop rejects.
Fore and aft, port and starboard it looks like there are lifts and passage ways girded by electronically controlled hatches. Can't miss the retinal scanners imbedded in the bulkhead or the touch pad manual overrides. Twelve feet or so above the main deck, four glassed- in observation platforms glow blue-white protruding beyond putty gray bulkheads.
A series of lights flash, there's an audible whoosh, my ears pop and I'm feeling my full weight as air and artificial gravity's restored. I'm not a big fan of artificial anything. The air's stale and dry; draws the moisture right out of your cells. Gonna find the Post Exchange and suck down couple litres of liquid. Temperature's not exactly cozy either. Shrugging my shoulders against the chill, my healing factor kicks in raising my internal thermostat a notch or two.
Some color comes back into Cyke's and Storm's faces just as a pair of hatches slide open and two escorts approach the Bird. The comm. drones, "You may lower your ladder."
Vic snorts and says to us, "These guys are seriously into formalities," before replying, "Aye, aye."
He's man with a sense of humor I can appreciate and takes it one step further when we step onto the hangar deck. "Permission to come aboard?" he spouts crisply while saluting with his left hand.
Our escorts, mere kids in their early twenties, don't react one way or the other to Vic's slight. As if programmed, the girl replies, "Permission granted. Welcome aboard the Ares. Please step this way."
The man—er boy really; if he shaves once a week I'd be surprised, instructs, "Your retinal profiles must be loaded into the database for security purposes. This is painless but will take a few moments…."
Security purposes, my ass! We'd be space debris if these guys don't know who we are. Call me paranoid but this smacks a slick way to get the Team registered. Only way I'm registering'll be at my funeral and then I won't give a shit.
"Excuse me," Cyke interrupts. "You don't want a retinal scan from me."
"Uh! Oh! Why's that sir?"
"Have you people not been briefed on our mutant capabilities?"
The kid's bluffing. Clearing his throat, he straightens his backbone. "Of course. But I've got my orders."
Cyke, for the first time this entire trip, cracks a wicked grin. "Don't say I didn't warn you.," and takes a place at the back of the line.
The kid looks at me and I shake my head. "Pass," I growl.
"Sir, if you don't comply further access into the station is denied."
I'm so heartbroken I think I'll curl up in a corner and cry! Shrugging, I move back toward the Bird.
Cyke asks, "I got a good reason but what's your deal?"
"Are you guys fuckin' stupid? You've worked with these bozos before. So've I when you were still sucking your thumb. Since when has a retinal scan been part of the plan?"
Vic weighs in, "¿Qué estás hablando?"
Back at him in Spanish, "MRA is what I'm talkin' about."
"Oh for Christ sake, Logan," Cyke grouses. "You're taking paranoia to a new level, even for you."
"Fuck I am. You all can do what you like but nobody's scannin' me."
A hatch abruptly slides open. Standing with arms braced against the bulkhead is one red faced, orange haired, huge, ugly motherfucker. His bristly walrus mustache twitches as he speaks in a thick Boston accent, "Wolverine! Should've known you'd stir it up. "
Excuse me. Who the hell are you, bub? For a second I feel that buzz set up deep inside my head. A memory fast forwards across my minds eye. Operation Eagle's Talon. April 1980. C-130 transport planes. RH-53 helicopters. Great Salt Desert of Eastern Iran. Sandstorms. Mission aborted. Bug out. Chopper clipped a C-130. Eight killed. A few of us made it including this smart ass in front of me: Thaddeus Dugan.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare him straight in the eye, "Just getting warmed up, Dugan."
"Save the heat for later," he replies and thrusts his right hand out. "Good t'see ya, Logan."
I ain't reciprocating. We got history and it ain't all that peachy. "Tell me I'm wrong about the scans."
"It's a don't ask, don't tell kind of situation."
"I'm askin' Dum Dum and if ya know what's good yer tellin'."
Cyke interrupts, "Chill Logan," He's got a cagey look plastered on his face as he steps up to the scanner. "I think I've got the solution."
My reply, "So do I," comes reinforced: Snickt!
"You've got no creativity, no finesse," Raising his visor, a red beam shoots out. There's a thump, like a fist punching into a wall. The scanner lens cracks, littering the deck with glass.
"Dammit Cyke! Ya call that finesse?"
"You're just pissed I beat you to it."
"Yeah! Life's a bitch sometimes."
Behind us, I sense a mix of emotions ranging from shock to disapproval to fall on your ass hilarity Let's see if I can guess who's what without looking.
Dugan clears his throat, "If you puds are done screwing around, we've got a deadline to meet."
He's chapped but needs us so his ire's directed at the poor security officer, "What part of concussive eye beams didn't you understand, soldier?" With an expression that'll melt the polar ice cap, he motions us through.
Licking my thumb and tracing a tally in the air, "Score one for the home team."
"Watch out for the rebound," Cyke lips quietly.
The rebound wasn't long in coming. With the gee-whiz technology aboard this tub, I'm blown away by metal detectors. How fuckin' useless can ya get?
Just about to step through, a claxon blares. Growling, "Shut the fuck up!" I spike the offending buggers, setting off a shower of sparks.
Challenging Cyke, I gloat, "Howzat fer finesse and creativity?"
"Doesn't count."
"Bullshit!"
"Liberty Island."
Aw fuck! So knock off a couple style points and lose the smug grin before I wipe it off your puss.
Didn't know it could be done, but Dugan's face goes redder than the mop on his head. Projecting my best shit eating grin, I suggest, "Hey Dum Dum, there's good drugs for high blood pressure, don't ya know."
The whoosh of another set of automatic hatches and we're ushered into a Buck Rodgers style conference room. "Well hell," I say. What's this? Birthday, funeral? No wait! The apocalypse.
Avengers and Justice League! I ain't seen a gathering of the who's who of costumed do-gooders like this in—damn if I remember.
Surrounded by so much spandex and ballistic resistant rubber, I'm thinking our leather monkey suits ain't so bad after all. Least the X-Men don't come across like ballerina's on steroids.
Dugan points to half dozen empty seats and like good kiddies, the Team settles in. Not me and he gives me another one of his quit fuckin'around stares. Pushing Dum Dum's buttons is almost as fun as pushing Cyke's but the real reason I ain't sitting's because I focus better on my feet.
I'm not the only one either as a pair takes a stance a few feet away. Freelancers most likely because they're suited up in street clothes, more or less. The big one, a good three inches taller than me and I'll bet a hundred pounds heavier, looks fresh from a Hells Kitchen gang bang draped in gold chains and one of those months worth of paychecks athletic suits. The other's average in build, wearing a t-shirt with a skull plastered across his chest and has a better don't- fuck- with- me frown than I do. He's wearing biker leathers the likes of which would take me more than a couple cage fights to pay for.
I'm getting that weird feeling running up and down my spine. I've known these guys in a past life; probably worked with them. Inhaling, I get a snootful of cheap cologne. Pinching my nose, it's too late. I sneeze loud enough to earn a few sideways glances and a Gesundheit which I don't acknowledge. Divining enough; I have known them, but where? And what the fuck are their names?
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dugan begins. "I believe you're all familiar with one another so I'll dispense with intros and get straight to the point. We have intelligence that a previously unknown renegade mutant faction is planning a nationwide disruption of New Year's Eve celebrations in protest against the Mutant Registration Act. We believe they've planted various explosive devices around major US cities timed to detonate at midnight."
A babe in a body hugging, black jumpsuit with a funky red hourglass shape on her belt asks, "Who or what are we up against?" She's real familiar; biblical sense familiar but with so many bodies in the room I'm not close enough to parse her scent. Damn this memory of mine. Lot's came back but just as much hasn't.
Save your questions for the end of the briefing," Dugan replies and has an aide hand out some kind of mini disks. "In the interest of saving time, we prepared a dossier. Everything we've got on 'em is included on these."
Saving time? How 'bout spoon feeding the 'shrooms what you want them to know. Or worse; glossing over what you don't. Dossier's don't do squat compared to verbal Q and A—can't sense gut reactions to the hard questions.
"Who's 'we' and how long have you known about this threat?" comes a sarcasm spiked question. Damn! It's Cyclops. Gotta ask him what his beef is with SHIELD.
Dugan doesn't answer the question but it's a good bet SHIELD's probably known something was up for a couple weeks, at least.
I sense deceptiveness as he barrels on with his spiel. "Think along the lines of nine-eleven in a dozen major cities."
"So the man puts a lid on New Year's Eve celebrations," says a voice from behind I don't recognize.
"Politically and practically inexpedient," Dugan whips back.
Somebody else grills, "You're saying the locals don't have a handle on this?"
"The local authorities are handling their own jurisdictions; in as much as they're capable."
"That's a crock," declares the gang banger. "Every major metropolitan area has specially trained personnel for just this kind of thing. Mandated by Homeland Security, for crying out loud."
"Correct," Dugan says. "And all of you will be teamed with special divisions."
"Then why call us in on this at all?" voices another.
"The scope of the threat is believed to be credible and extensive…."
So what? Bomb threats, even nationwide don't rate a pow wow like this.
A voice to my right snipes, "And the threat comes from a mutant source."
There's the crux of it and the comments and questions are flying fast and furious.
Raising his voice over the racket, Dugan continues, "…Therefore local law enforcement asked Mutant Affairs for an assist."
Ah shit! Here we go. If there's ever a clusterfuck in the making, Mutant Affairs is behind it.
I ain't the only one developing a severe case of crabs over shackin' up with Mutant Affairs. The biker dude standing next to me says, "No way in hell an I putting my ass on the line for a bunch of Nazi wanna-be's bent on seein' mutants collared, castrated and caged."
Dugan glares, "Lemme set you straight, Castle…"
Castle? Damn! Frank Castle, Captain, U.S.M.C. Here goes the brain buzz again. This time it's a wavering image of narrow city streets choked by rickshaws and motor scooters. Seedy bar, cheap, warm beer, pocket stripping poker. Urban patrols, sniping Viet Cong and firefights. Good guy to have covering your six even if the bastard beat me six ways to Sunday at poker.
"There's a bunch of you….," Dugan's eyes sweep the room briefly settling on half a dozen, me included. "….walking around freely at the pleasure of Homeland Security and Mutant Affairs, among others. Work with 'em and keep walking free."
Popping and inspecting a claw, I challenge, "That some kind of a threat, Dum Dum?"
Stone cold, he stares me down. "Think of it as a prophecy, Wolverine."
Sure is and it turns my stomach thinking about it. At the core, outfits like Mutant Affairs are divisive at best. Factor in mother fucker's like Stryker and you're goose stepping with genocidal fanatics.
Dugan moves right along, "Now I'll turn this dog and pony show over to Commander Hill…"
In walks an Amazon of a babe. Six feet tall, attitude to match and dressed in fatigues; she's got a fit body that gets my attention.
"…she'll give the gouge and divvy out assigned locations," Dugan concludes.
"Thanks sir," she says to Dugan and launches right in. "Listen up people. You've all been selected for this assignment based on unique abilities, expertise and reputation..."
Reputation! What the fuck she been smoking? Well yeah, the Justice League's squeaky clean far as I've ever heard. As for the rest of us, it's a good bet there's been some fence straddling and that's generous.
She pushes a couple buttons, "However, some of you are more skilled in the area of high explosives than others. In light of that, please pay close attention." A display screen lights up just as the overhead lights dim.
Whoop-de-do! Just like film strip day in grade school.
"This is admittedly basic," Hill admits as the presentation wraps up. "But our expectation is once on location, each team will organize themselves to maximize effectiveness and safety." Her eyes sweep the room. She looking for challenges or validation?
"Ok. Listen up," she commands. "West Coast Avengers, we want you people covering L.A., San Francisco, Seattle and Las Vegas. Great Lakes Avengers you've got Chicago. Justice League you'll be spending New Years Eve in New Orleans, Miami and Washington DC. Your call who goes where. X-Men we're keeping you in your own backyard, New York City."
This is the stupidest thing I've seen in a long while. Why all the complications, expense and high drama assembling a crew like this when a simple message to our HQ's or bases would get the job done? Don't take a lot of brains to figure there's a hidden agenda.
"One more thing," Hill silences the minor racket in the room. "Since personal communications devices are jammed while on board Ares, you're welcome to utilize our communication center for limited personal use before departure. We suggest you alert family members to avoid crowds for the next twenty four hours."
This is one perk I'm gonna take advantage of. We bugged out of Canada in a big hurry. Charles was cool about diverting so we could deliver Matt right to his dad but the trip was tough on Susie.
Queuing up at the rear of a short line outside what can be described as a row of your basic airport style phone booths: High tech tub like this and a fuckin' phone booth? Gimme a break.
I'm getting strange looks. Yeah, believe it or don't; the Wolverine's actually got some ties back home. It's nobody's fuckin' business so I repel them with a death glare and growl.
Cyke, just ahead of me, mutters, "Got flatulence or something, Logan?"
I crack half a grin. "Better hope not."
"Trust me," he says.
It's down to Vic, Cyke and me waiting our turns and Vic comments, "Something about this mission doesn't seem right."
"Anything involving SHIELD is never right," Cyke replies.
"Tell me about it." My reply's aimed at both comments. If the half assed briefing doesn't set off alarms the political undertones should have you running for cover. "How's it feel to be the governments ass wipe, bub?"
"I think you're right, amigo," Vic agrees. "Betcha a bottle of Jose Ceurvo we'll have a press tail."
"Mmm, hmm," Cyke concurs. "Plastered all over CNN how the good mutants took down the bad and oh by the way, the good guys; they're all registered."
"Not all," I say. "And I'll tell ya something else I ain't real impressed with: Charles settin' us up like this."
"Always paranoid, huh Logan? There's no way Charles would set us up."
A communication pod opens up and just as Vic takes his turn he says, "Gotta agree with Cyke on this."
I'm gonna puke! With the right motivation anybody'll set anybody up. I'd like to be wrong this time but I ain't betting on it. "Yer both suffering from cranial- rectal inversion."
"Ever going to trust anybody, Logan?"
This topic stinks like a loose b.m.. Time to dump it. "So, what's your problem with SHIELD?"
Cyke's jaw locks up, "Short story but this isn't the place."
I nod. Gotta couple short stories of my own best told over several bottles of cheap bourbon. Guess that knocks him out from hearing them. "Callin' Julia?" I ask to change the subject.
"Uh huh," he replies just as two pods free up.
Glancing at my watch, it's getting late and I'm not sure Susie's going to answer. Neither of us pick up on calls unless we recognize the caller ID. Can't even guess what it's going to read from a space station. Four rings; it's just as I thought and I hear: "You've reached Doctor Susan Harris. If this is urgent please dial 212-….."
Muttering, "Ya da ya da," and rapping my knuckles against the glass enclosure it's like, crap sakes, what's wrong with a simple leave a message after the beep?.
" ….all other's please leave a message after the tone."
Beeeeeeep. Sheesh! 'Bout time. "Hey darlin'. It's me. Pick up." It's only got about thirty seconds before the thing switches off. "Ok, guess you're busy. I'm ok…."
There's a clunk and rustle. "Hey! Where are you?" comes her silky voice.
"Wouldn't believe me if I told ya. How ya doin'?"
"Great," she says with satisfied emphasis. "Got a fire in the fireplace and a pot of Stroganoff…."
"Rub it in, darlin'."
"Take heart, fearless warrior, the Stroganoff's for you."
Chuckling, I reply, "Well if that's true, you're forgiven."
"Mighty generous Bright Eyes. Hey!"
"Hay's for horses. What?"
"Har har. Allen called to say Matt got in safe and sound. He sends his thanks."
Son of a bitch better be grateful.
Vic taps on the glass and signals he's going pre-flight the jet. I gesture thumbs up. "Darlin', I only got a minute or two. I want you to do something for me."
"Ok."
"I want ya to go over to School and stay there tonight."
"Ok. What's up?"
"Probably nothing but I just wanna know you're safe."
"I'm guessing you'll tell me all about it when you get home."
"You know it." But if it all goes clusterfuck, you'll be seeing it on the news.
"Any idea when you'll be home?"
"When the targets're neutralized."
She sighs, "That tells me so much. Ok. You just be careful, you hear me Bright Eyes."
"Always am. Love ya."
"Love you too."
Cyke and I exit our pods at the same time and it feels like I walked into wall of shock and grief. What the hell? "Scott?"
He shakes his head and stares at the deck. "I don't believe this."
My stomach knots. "Julia?"
"Robert. He wrecked his car. Jule said they don't know how but whatever happened, it caught fire."
"Dead?"
He nods.
"Aw hell." He was all right. "Julia say when it happened?"
"Yeah, right after we all bugged out. Not far from the house."
Goddammit!. Now it's my turn to feel—guilt! He was on his way to file the papers Susie and I signed. Slamming my fist into the bulkhead and leaving a respectable dent I snarl, "Fuck it all!" It's as much an expression of my grief over Eastham as a reaction to the jarring pain shooting through my fist and up my arm. Dumb Ass is me! "Let's get back t' New York and get this thing over with."
(1)credit goes to RhiannonUK for this marvelous "Logan-ism".