Cut them.

A steady, mechanical blipping sound.

Rip them.

The hot bite of gunfire punching holes into flesh and metal.

Stab them.

Sparking wires, glass flying in all directions, pink goop flooding out onto the floor. Sight and sound blended into one, the desperate sensation of needing to breathe forcing her into awareness. Her mouth tasted watery and sour, sick rising up to the back of her throat and retching, she shook as some kind of ribbed tube came up from her throat accompanied by a hard thump to her back. Pink fluid gushed out of her mouth and nose in a stream that felt as if it would never stop. Dizzy and gasping for air, she choked in the acrid stench of burning plastic.

Where am I?

She had no time to think as something grabbed her foot. Feeling herself being dragged, she lashed out. The kick hit home, illiciting a grunt of pain from her adversary. With vision obscured by viscous pinkness, she threw a punch and felt her fist hit hard into another person. Refusing to let go, her captor grabbed her other foot. Her ankles hurt as they were clamped in a grip like a vice. She thrashed, unable to see or smell. The world was a blur of noise and too-bright images.

What's... happening...?

Pressure stamped down on her arm, followed by a colossal force slamming into her head. The floor tiles stretching out before her at first doubled, then melted into blackness.

Consciousness came with a shudder and rumble. Opening her eyes a crack, she could feel firm cushions under her head. Staring up at a window, her vision bobbed along with the bouncing surroundings.

A truck? It's moving.

She lay covered in glass and wet with some kind of thick, pink chemical that refused to mix with the blood oozing from her wounds. All thoughts of struggling disappeared as her vision began alternating between going double and just swimming. A hideous nausea swirled in her belly. The only way to settle her stomach was to go back to closing her eyes tight.

Whoever it was at the wheel - it smelled like a man - drove on without a missing a beat. Her fists burned, and she did not need to look down to know that long blades protruded from between her knuckles. After a few moments, she dared trying to look around again. Her state did not disturb the driver in the least; his eyes remaining locked on the road.

"Oh great, you're awake," he growled. "Don't try anything stupid. I'm driving."

"Ugh," she groaned. "I… wasn't planning to." Her tongue felt heavy, as if unused to forming words. The tip of one of her claws poked into her leg. "Something's not right... Claws. Stuck?" she mumbled.

Taking in a deep breath and trying to relax, she focussed on the sore points near her elbows, hoping to will them away. All six blades, three in each hand, remained extended however, and straining so hard she could feel the metal vibrate against her bones. Next to her, yellowed stuffing hung out in clumps from three deep gouges in the seat. A bitter taste filled her mouth and it was all she could do to concentrate on not vomiting. Miles wore on in silence. Occasionally she could not win against the sickly sweet sensation, but nothing except bile and foam ever came up from her stomach.

"Here," he grunted, after the umpteenth time she began heaving. A towel arrived next to her face. Through glassy, half-lidded eyes, she could see the sky outside darkening and faint stars between the treetops rushing by. The ache of remaining in the same position for hours on end encouraging movement, she pulled herself up. Something dug into her side, and looking down she saw a shard of glass brushing against the seat, driving its way in deeper. Though her cuts knitted together sealing the wounds hours ago, a deep and pervasive ache throbbed through her body. Catching movement in the corner of her eye she watched the driver's hand reach over and flick a switch. A familiar melody filled the truck cabin. Her jangling nerves began to settle a little, enough to shift about and get down to the business of removing that glass.

"I'd wait a bit if I were you," he said, without taking his eyes off the horizon. "You've got that shit everywhere and I don't need you fucking up my truck even more."

"Where...?" She croaked, letting her hands dangle off the edge of the seat.

"You're headed towards the Highway 90, in a truck."

"Going?"

"Westchester County," he replied. He picked up something from the dashboard that smelled like salt and looked like red leather, and stuffed it in his mouth. Looking down at herself, she was clad in a suit of skintight black material with what looked like ports of some kind - presumably for wires - clinging to her skin. Most of the pink goo from earlier had dried into a flaky crust. Her brows came together in confusion and disgust.

I don't remember this.

Something shiny bounced against her chest as they drove over yet another pothole, getting her attention. A pair of dogtags hung from her neck. Craning to get a better look at them, she read '003 - C - S - ADM' embossed into the metal.

The fuck does that mean? Who is this guy? Where is Westchester? Should I know where I am? Letting her head fall back against the window, she turned her gaze from the cryptic letters and joined him in staring at the road ahead, another wave of nausea rushing up. Grabbing the towel, she willed her stomach to settle.

"Most of 'em are all about the questions by now," he said around the piece of jerky clenched between his teeth. "What's your name? What were you doing in that tank?"

She did not answer.

"I'm a friend," he said. "You can trust me."

"You kicked me in the head!"

"You nearly cut out my kidney and I was running out of time. What was I supposed to do? I could've just left you there."

"I don't know what I was doing in that tank," she replied in irritation.

"Yeah. You wanna tell me your name?"

Her claws glinted in the orange glow of a passing streetlight. That's the first light I've seen. I must have been far from a city.

"I… Uh. I don't know?" she said, blinking in surprise at her own answer. Who am I? Where am I from? Nothing but cloudy blankness answered her attempts to call up a memory. Any memory. Her mind felt like a knife taped up in felt. Dull, fuzzy and useless. Fear twitched in her stomach. "Yeah, um, I don't know who I am."

"What's it say on your tags?" he asked, his expression stony and unreadable.

"Uh… Numbers," she replied, shaking her head. "Some letters, but no name."

"Well, I have to call you something."

"What do I call you?" She asked. He paused a few seconds before answering.

"Logan."

With the sky taking on a brownish hue, lights appeared more frequently along the sides of the road, and occasionally the trees thinned out enough for her to make out the evergreens' silhouettes and catch a flash of distant mountains.

What's my name... ? How did I get here... ? ...Nothing.

"Hey," he muttered, his voice and the crunch of tyres on gravel snapping her from her thoughts. Looking up she saw a sad, ramshackle building with a weatherbeaten neon sign. "Pulling in here for a bit. Need to get you cleaned up, and some sleep couldn't hurt."

"I'll stay in the truck."

"Don't be fucking stupid. You look like a cactus," he grunted. "And someone's gonna see you. Put those away," he added, gesturing towards the blades jutting out like knives from her knuckles.

"I can't," she replied. Logan rubbed at his temple, sighing. She flushed with embarrassment.

"Are they always like that?" He asked after a pause of only seconds, but to her felt like hours.

"No, they should pull back in. It's not normal for them to be out this long. Hey, why aren't you, you know, afraid? Are you a… Different one, like me?"

"Yeah. You pick a name yet?" He replied, his words brusque.

"Uh, I liked that song. When you first turned on the radio. I think I know it."

"What, 'Hey Jude?' Everyone knows that one."

"Yeah."

"Could've been worse," Logan said, shrugging as he elbowed the door open. "Could've been Delilah."

Sliding off the seat and out onto the gravel, she grimaced as glass poked and twisted deeper into her body.

"Ugh, you're right, this is everywhere!" Bloody shards fell as she stood up. Wobbling like a newborn deer, she took a few tentative steps towards the sagging porch. Logan allowed her to take her time, coming around from the rear of the truck with his jacket slung over one shoulder. He gestured for her to hold out her arms.

"Put this on. Make sure it covers your hands. Can't let 'em see those."

"My head… Doesn't feel right. Muddy. Can't think straight," she grumbled. Getting to her feet did not feel like the right thing to do, the urge to just lie down in the parking lot right then and there almost overpowering, even despite the bits of glass and blood.

"Yeah, your brain's probably swimming in all kinds of drugs right now." Something in his tone softened.

"That or... from your boot," she muttered under her breath, surprising herself with the sudden temper bubbling just under the surface.

"Hey, I can just get back in my truck, you know, and drive off," he snapped, the sympathetic note in his voice evaporating as he spoke, his eyes flashing in the headlights of a passing car.

"No, I'm sorry. You're right. You're helping. I don't know why I said that. I'm not -"

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. Just stick out your arms a bit," he grunted. "An' stay still, will ya? I like this jacket." She complied, wincing as he first plucked out a few bits of glass from her arms and shoulders and brushed away whatever that dried flaky substance was before tugging the sleeves up each arm one at a time, ensuring her claws were covered. "Just do what I say when we're inside. Let me do the talking."

The motel's sign had missing letters and Jude noticed the paint peeling up off every plank of wood as they walked inside. Following behind up the creaking stairs, the unpleasant buzzing of electricity filled her ears. A flickering blue bug zapper hung by the door. In the lobby, a hairy man in a stained blue overshirt sat at the desk, his belly spilling over onto the counter. Looking up from a small TV parked between stacks of papers, a slow smile slid across his face and he fished around for a remote, turning it down.

"Logan, been a while. Usual?"

"Yup."

The man's face fell at the sight of her behind him, the jacket hanging loose off her shoulders. She looked at Logan, saying nothing.

"I'm chargin' you extra if you fuck up that room again."

"Yup."

"237."

"Thanks, Joe," Logan mumbled, swiping the key up off the grubby counter.

"Fuckin' weirdo," the guy grumbled to himself, turning the TV volume back up as she walked past.

Room 237 shared a wall with the boiler room that was clearly marked with a cracked and fading sign. Walking in felt like stepping into a tiny desert. A fan in the corner of the room churned out a failed excuse for a breeze, aimed over the bed. Paint was flaking off here, too, on the walls near the ceiling. Huge tears in it revealed bleached wallpaper underneath. The furniture was sparse and chipped. Logan ducked into the closet-sized washroom, emerging seconds later with towels in his arms.

"You wanna do it, or should I?" he asked, gesturing to the glass sticking out of her hips and legs. Shrugging off his jacket, she took pains to slip her arms free from the sleeves and leave them in one piece.

"I'll do it," she said, stepping onto the towels he dropped on the floor and sitting down in the middle. Her fumbling grip found a shard embedded deep in her thigh. With hands both numb and tingling, it was hard to get a grip on the glass as blood welled up from the disturbed wounds. With her claws extended and fingers slippery, moving the pieces at all was difficult, but trying to manoeuvre without disemboweling herself proved challenging. Her skin had healed around the glass, and it opened new holes with each bit she managed to tear loose.

"Fuck!" she swore in frustration as her hand slipped off a piece lodged in her abdomen, clawtips nicking her leg. After some minutes of cursing and wriggling, it came loose at last. Logan sank down onto the bed, disinterested in the spectacle and instead turning on the television. The voices and noise of a news broadcast gave her something else to focus on as she worked. Skin and muscles knitted together in seconds, her pain giving way to relief with each piece that fell onto the towels. After she could neither feel nor find any more, her shoulder still throbbed with stubborn, sharp pain. Gingerly she touched her palm to it and felt the shape of something hard underneath the skin. A heavy sigh escaping her, she looked up towards the bed.

"Hey," she said.

"What?"

"I need you to cut this out of my shoulder. I can't reach it with my hands like this. You got like... A knife or anything in your truck?"

"Yeah." He rolled off the bed and stood up, eyeing the bloodied pile of glass on the soaked towel. "You got the rest out?"

"Yep. Look here, it's under the skin," she said, gesturing with her chin. He crouched down and gripped her arm, raising his fist up as if about to punch her shoulder.

"Wha-" she began, but the words died in her throat as a blade slid from between his knuckles. Blood trickled from between his fingers, but the skin sealed up almost as fast as it had opened. Her eyes widened. "Jesus, y-you're just like me!" she sputtered, shocked. Wasting no time he drew a line from shoulder to elbow, splitting skin wide open. Doing her best to suppress a cry, she just managed to stay quiet and still. There was only dull pressure rather than pain as he grabbed something inside the wound, and in meeting her eyes before pulling it, he gave her a second to prepare. A scant second later, a chunk of safety glass fell to the floor with a thud. Relief flooding through her, the breath she was not aware of holding escaped in a rush.

"Always hurts more when someone else does it." He said, wiping his hands on the towel, watching her wounds melt away.

"Ugh," she grunted in agreement, touching her forehead to her wrist. "Thanks." The bed squeaked as he lay back down, and for the next few moments an uncomfortable silence reigned. He cleared his throat.

"Yours are metal, too," she said, breaking the silence. "How did that happen?"

"Probably the same way yours did."

"What was that place you found me in? Why were you there?" she asked, turning to look up at him. Logan found the remote, jamming at the unresponsive buttons to flick through static and what sounded like about five channels. Taking his time in answering, he settled on the news again and took a packet out from his pocket, unwrapping it to reveal more beef jerky.

"It was kind of a storage facility," he replied at last.

"Storage? I was in storage? Like a lawnmower in somebody's shed? Jesus."

"I guess so. As for why, I'll let good ol' Charlie talk to you about that, because I don't know."

"Charlie?" she asked. "Who's that?"

"He's in charge of a school for the gifted, as he calls us. And some other things."

"There are more people like us? I mean - I know there are many kinds, but people with claws, who can heal like we do. I get the feeling I've never met another before."

"There's... a few, yeah," he mumbled, fishing a piece of dried meat from the packet. Getting up from the pile of towels, she came to join him in watching TV.

"Hey, Jude," he said, and grinned before moving over to give her room to sit on the bed.

"Yeah?"

"You want some jerky?"