In reaction to reviews: MK (guest)- Is it Rogan or only have Logan n Marie as leading characters n as friends in the very least? – this is not your typical flowers and box of chocolate romance, obviously. But love and friendship are the main themes.

Special thanks& Credits:

Special thanks to my beta's Jeanniebird and imsuchanut whose close collaboration made this fiction possible.

Chapter1

0000~S~0000

William Stryker stubbornly ignored the guards and soldiers throwing him displeased frowns as he marched through the entry way and into the elevator to his office on the top floor. Smoke trailed him and flowed past, then started compacting over his head in the now-sealed off close quarters. The elevator shot past floor and floors of now-empty research facilities and cages, but Stryker hardly passed that a though by now.

Ridiculous modern non-smoking rules! If they'd thought for one moment he'd hold to them, in his own base… And, Lord protect him, it was still his base.

Backstabbers. False smiles; lies. He had known what to look for. He had always known where to look for the devil. But even he would fail to see, every once in a while. And when Stryker missed one turncoat; missed a snake-in-the-grass, the cuts they gave him hurt all the more for it.

Power. Stryker had lost a lot this time, had he not? And all of it under his own nose, while he was in the euphoria of total victory. Hubris; God punishes those that give into her. Yes; he had been thoroughly engrossed with Weapon-X, working in close-concert with the renowned Doctor Cornelius, to get the most out of his perfect weapon. His killing machine.

It had been all too perfect; Weapon-X had been complacent, yet deadly. Conditioning progressed slowly -as expected. But progress was progress. On trial missions, the Weapon extinguished mutant-lawless with precision and exquisite skill. Congress had lauded Stryker and the Weapons Program with praise. Future prognoses had been excellent, publicity ecstatically positive. Stryker had even had a backup Weapon in the making, quite unexpectedly, and pleasantly promising.

And then, disaster had struck: and well at the hands of his most trusted advisor: the Judas indeed.

His own secretary.

The bitch, the vixen. A woman, once again instrumental in his down-fall. That'd surely teach him to ever trust a woman in the military again. No matter what modern believes on that were, today. The previous lady he had let anywhere close had also done more damage than good, after all. Women were just not made for this line of work.

No; they were always too soft, too caring. And, of course, like Eve, natural double-crossers.

But Stryker could not cast blame completely on females. He had been irresponsible: too engrossed in his work to realize what was going on; not until it was too late. Far, far too late. William had lived and breathed Weapon-X, in those days, and had put all other work into the incompetent, wicked woman's hands.

And Stryker had never even researched that secretary's past. If he had, he might have found out she had spent her college years with animal and human rights groups. That she had been, perhaps not arrested, but seen in close liaison with the criminals and degenerates that had got themselves a criminal record in the name of 'righteous protests'.

She had set out to change things around the weapons program. And Stryker had happily let her, accepting her arguments to hire regular workers instead of hired day laborers and professional soldiers in the name of budgeting. Stryker never looked twice at the new workers files; never wondered what kind of men she was hiring.

And the Commander had been punished severely for the oversight: in the end, it turned out the woman had hired all those college-time friends and acquaintances, convincing them to their cause that here, at the scene, they could do more for abused mutants and animals alike than anywhere else. By the time Stryker realized what had happened, power had been taken from his hands and placed firmly with a union of hippies. And how had he been known to expect such a thing? Really, idealist infiltrating the very people they meant to be fighting.

It was preposterous.

"The enemy within, boy." The blond had smiled, or at least barred his teeth at young William. Voice a monotone purr, like a cat lolling a canary to sleep. "That is the dangerous one. Not the one on the other side of that bush, the squint-eyed Charlie kid with the gun. No, the true enemy sleeps with us; eats with us. He laughs at our jokes, shares stories of his childhood. He pretends to be our friend… until the time of ultimate betrayal."

With a shake of the head, Stryker acknowledged that if he himself had stolen that idea, why would not another do the same to him? They probably considered it poetic justice, these deluded men: Stryker had used mutants against the mutant threat. And now mutants had used the Weapons Program workers against the Weapons Program.

And, of course, betrayal always did come from sides least expected. All the same, the Colonel had been shocked when control over the Weapons program had been wrestled from his hands. His mutants turned free, his animals sheltered. The Government, alerted and bribed by footage putting his organization in a bad light, dropped him like a stone.

It was only thanks to Doctor Cornelius and his quick thinking that they had re-acquired Weapon-X and the now-abandoned half-product that should have been its backup.

And so, Stryker was once again working his way up from the bottomless pit of nothingness, back into the saddle of power. It took months before William even managed to fire that back-stabbing secretary (damn labor laws). Most activists left on their own after the Program's living material made its exodus, but a hard-core group had remained. Also, it seemed that even the military had changed; a certain… animal-first sense had taken hold on his people. Soldiers fresh out of boot-camp seemed to abhor the idea of any brutality against animals. Even the old orders-are-orders mentality seemed near gone. People thought for themselves entirely too much.

But William Stryker would accept this as his penance too, and see it as a trial. A challenge to rise up to. Once more.

He had been making good progress too.

Now, however, he felt the old worry nag at him; that worry had he had ignored the first time he had put all his eggs in the basked he named the Wolverine, and nearly lost it all.

Stryker finally made it to his still-dark office, and he drew the door shut behind him. He left the shutters down to keep the sunlight at bay, and flung himself into his office-chair with a grunt. Tiredly, Stryker's rubbed a hand over his face as he put both feet up on his desk. A sigh, and a tired drag from his cigar.

Yet peace would not come. Damn them—this room was supposed to be sound-proof! Still, he could hear the bustle in offices under and around him, annoying him; distracting him. While Stryker needed - thirsted for peace.

The peace and quiet to contemplate this new situation involving the X-men. Sure, on the front, using the crowd's favorite to get back into good graces with the public sounded like a good idea. But it was also dangerous; this cooperation could completely expose him.

Stryker felt sure he could work with it though; if he just got the chance to think—to concentrate and figure a way to cover all the risks. But it was so hard to concentrate, when the guy down stairs kept creaking in his chair…

That, too was part of his penance though. Part of punishment from his own making. Tainted hands, blemished soul - call it what you will, William Stryker would accept this burden as well, if he meant to save the world from the devil's own. What was it Lieutenant Creed had said, that day he had met the brothers? That day, when he had been a raw recruit, afraid for his life and in awe of his new commanders?

"You might not want to extend that hand so readily, boy." That giant of a man had grinned, bearing too-sharp teeth. "Bad things happen to those'd get too close ta us."

0000~L~0000

So, she'd dead.

Damn bitch has gone and done it. And all on her own. Though I couldn't have engineered a better cock-up if I tried. Remember that poor hostage-girl this so-called X-man was coaxing outta hiding? The poor hostage lady with the big doe-eyes and the fearful expression?

That weren't no hostage. She was one o' them. Jumped right out and pulled a machine gun outta no-where. Splattered us both good with a generous helping o'lead. Then she came up and stood laughing over our bodies.

She was still laughing when I cut her head clean off.

Now this is where I woulda turned an' ran.

It's kind of my thing; Cut and run.

No; I aint no coward. Or I don't think I am. But when there's nothing left on my short-lift of orders, and I'm bleeding—well, that's when it's time to take care of number one. Not that it's usually much of a conscious decision. I just go to auto. Ditch the pain and what not and log off. I dream o' the she-wolf, and we run.

Weird? Well, maybe it is. But the she-wolf is one of the earliest memories I have that I can call my own, and I like her. She came to me in my dreams first, told me to run. And we did; through a forest of make-believe winter land. Call on her pretty much any time I get bored these days, which is a lot. Find myself a secluded spot amongst the shrubbery in my pen, try and go for a sleeping dog's pose and just… meditate? I guess that's what it is.

It comes on its own when I'm in trouble now, and it's pleasant enough. No one found out yet, and as for the running: no one seems to mind. I usually wake up home safe and sound. Anyway, I was set for autopilot and ready to run.

But that terrorist bitch musta gotten lucky; dug a bullet right in between my vertebra or something, because I didn't get two steps before I tripped and went down.

When I opened my eyes, damn X-men bitch was right in front of me. On her back, flopp'ng like a fish outta water, making gurgling noises and staring up at the sky with un-seeing eyes. All she could see now was likely death, swooping down for her. Pathetic- and I'd almost feel sorry for her.

You know; if this whole business wasn't her own fault to begin with. If I even gave a damn. Which I don't. I mean, she'd had a choice, right? Knew this business would get her dead soon enough.

So, the girl is drowning on her own blood, lungs filling and breath failing. Pitiful sight. And that's not even considering the smell of blood and piss and fear. Even when I turn away, the smell stays. And the noise. God-awful rasps o' death, full of terror yet begging for an end to pain.

Did I mention I didn't give a damn?

Glad to be rid of her; the dumb broad. She was too young for this business anyway. Too nosey. Too green and overall too trusting. And hey, look at the bright side. Jake is likely to cry.

D'you know Jake? No? Hate that fucking bastard. One o' my handlers; newest one on the team. Not that they like to call m self that now. Like to go by care-takers. Yeah; I got a few better words for 'm, but no talking means no swearing either.

Jake 's the new guy. Only been with us 'bout two years now. He's not from Green-Peace. Or Mutant Lib, or anything like that. Definitely nothing like the old brawn-for-hire either. Yeah; me and Jake, we don't get along. Thing is, they took him on for me especially. Guy used to work at an animal shelter. Took care of the poor abused puppies and got them back into loving homes. Fucking righteous bastard. Thinks he's some kind of dog whisperer. He also thinks wolves and dogs aren't all that different.

We really, really do na' get along.

Well, anyway; that's my view. Jake, he thinks we're best buddies. Thick as pie; man and best friend.

Guy just doesn't get the hint.

Anyway, Jake's gonna cry when he sees her dead bleeding corpse. 'Cause he's got the biggest crush on this girl you can imagine. Fucking perv. She canna' be more then eighteen. Jake's –what? Twenty-five? Old perv, I tell ya. An' this 'll be payback.

Fer all the times he tried to get me to calm down w' talking in that stupid low-calm voice. For the time I'd managed to clamp down my teeth over his bare throat ( he always gets too close), and I was debating excuses to myself on why it was okay to tear this handler's throat out, and he started singing—singing at the Wolverine! Made me want to cry, that; and not just because o' his terrible, awful singing voice.

For all the times he gone an' deconstruct my over-violent behavior, obsessing that there must—must be a reason.

No, you stupid fuck, I just like killing and maiming!

Well, as I said. This is gonna hurt him bad. Hurt quite a few other people too; this Rogue girl is a popular one. She's a pretty one, true. I bet that's why. Bet her death will terminate this stupid program they got running with these X-men.

So, good! I'm happy she's dead.

Not like I can do anything about it. Even if I got the paramedics in, she's too far gone. I can hear her heart stuttering to a halt. It'll be over in a few more seconds. She'll be well and truly dead; gone. Poor thing's not like me. Got a taste of her mutation when we met, and it aint healing.

Well, not unless she's touching me.

Oh, no!

I'm not going there. Not ever again; not if I have a choice – and for once, I do. Touching that bitch hurts like the devil's got his hands on you, and he's taking out all yer wrongs in just one day. No way. Besides, I'm in the business o' killing, not saving. Like I said, I want her dead.

I need her dead.

I have absolutely no reason the safe the bitch, even if I can. Even if I'd want to.

Ah, fuck this.

I reach out a hand, carefully pull away a stray strand o' her white-streaked hair. Then I press down, and fuck things up more royally then I've ever done before.

0000~R~0000

She had been dying.

Rogue gasped, panted, trying for control of her wild, panicking mind. Images and sound and smells came to her, projected in a way she instinctively associated with a wolf.

Run, run, run!

A voice she faintly recognized echoed in the tumult of her taken powers, stronger now. Her feet beat to the calling rhythm. Two feet for her, four feet for the beast. She had to wrestle control from it.

Don't look, don't think. Just run.

Luckily, for her, that voice had seemed to want little with her body. Again, Rogue fought, and this time managed to stop herself. The wolf inside her turned, attacked; and as Rogue lost the battle; turned and fled on. In-human thoughts and feelings again assailed her:Cut lose. Run!

But this time, thankfully, Rogue managed to still her feet. She stood, panting a moment, and took in her surroundings. A forest. Sounds and smells assaulted her, stronger and more powerful then she had ever felt anything. A squirrel up in a tree, scurrying. A bird, calling for a mate. Insects, buzzing, smells of musk damp wood, animals, flowers… And it was weird, so weird.

No, you idiot. Run! It's a trap!

A calming breath, as Rogue recognized the mental thought as not her own. She ignored the she-wolf, its simple mantra that called to run, and tried to make sense of it all.

She was deep in the forest, with such bright colors and sounds and smells, and the last things she remembered was dying. Dying as a dozen bullets had hit her, riddling her body. Her last vision had been of Weapon-X's receding back as he loped forward, and plowed into their assailants, unaware or uncaring of her imminent death. Their last mission together: one to subdue terrorist mutants, hiding out in a hidden facility. But they had been armed, the old-fashioned way.

And she had died. Her eyes unseeing, gasping as she listened to the screams, knowing that the Wolverine would not be stopped by the bullets. Wondering, how she had managed to get shot. It had been over, had it not? Ah, but it seemed she had been wrong. That woman… that woman…

Had shot her, and she had died. How could she be here now?

"Oh, gawd!"

Rogue turned, and ran back the way she had come. Energy already replenished, her speed would have exhilarated her, had she not been filled with premonition. Her enlightened senses took her easily back to the compound. The smells of blood and gun-powder so strong she was sure even her normal self would have gagged when she drew close.

And there, as she had known, lay the beast. Exactly on the spot where she had fallen. Had he come back to cut her down too, to make sure nothing was left after his massacre? Or had it been curiosity, or some other, less murderous sense made him touch her? Whatever the reason, he was there, and Rogue felt an unexplainable sadness.

"Oh, gawd. I killed him. I killed Weapon-X."

Another, less selfless thought followed right at the heels of that. What am I going to tell the Program?

Rogue could hear them coming, with her enhanced hearing. The two care-takers that had delivered Weapon-X to location. They came crashing through the bushes, voices raised in alarm. They knew something was wrong; and it was all Rogue's fault. What was she going to say..?

The wolf was there again, suggesting with images and smells instead of words. Say nothing. They haven't seen you yet. Go back, close your eyes and run…

But then Jake and Sam where there, and it was too late to run. Jake, the young good-looking one, let out a cry of alarm and ran to the wolf-creature's side. Sam, the older one, took one look at his colleague then strode over to Rogue instead. The pair of them stood staring a moment at Jake. The man was beside himself, babbling words of comfort and stroking the dead wolf's black and silver mane.

And, impossibly, Weapon-X stirred.

Rogue nearly laughed. Those bastards were right; there really was nothing that could kill the Wolverine. Not even her touch, it seemed.

"What happened?" Sam asked, steady as always.

It was only then that Rogue realized, fully, the implications of that had happened.

"It saved my life."

Rogue shook her head, confused by the nonsense she was uttering. "Your killer weapon just saved my life."

Thank you for you time, I hope you've enjoyed! And pls leave a review. Or a heads-up ;)