Logan grinned to himself at the puzzled expressions on the faces of all the X-Men but Scott as they filed into the Danger Room. With Jean out of town and Ororo stepping back to an ad-hoc status, he faced Scott, Peter, Bobby, and Kitty. It still gnawed at him that Marie had chosen to leave the team, but that was her decision to make, and she seemed happy with it.
Still, it meant only four to one odds. He'd hoped for a real workout, but this wasn't likely to be it.
"So what's going on?" Bobby asked, glancing around. The holographic projection grid that lined walls, floor, and ceiling was dark, so the room looked like any other sterile windowless room.
Scott shrugged. "Logan's running the workout today."
His grin broke through when he heard Bobby's low groan. Enhanced senses could be a blessing as well as a curse. "I do things old school," he said. "No fancy illusions, no manufactured robot monsters."
Kitty hmphed and looked away from him. She'd taken far too much pleasure in writing that particular program, and he couldn't resist teasing her about it sometimes.
"What, then?" Peter asked. His expression almost mirrored Scott's -- cautious interest.
"Blindfighting," Logan answered, then showed his teeth in a feral grin. "Powerless blindfighting. Means no night-vision visor, either," he added to Scott, who nodded and tucked the visor he wore into a pocket on the back of his uniform.
"I'm thinking robot monsters would be more fun," Bobby muttered.
"We were caught by power-null beams in Los Angeles," Logan reminded him. "Which Kitty and Storm destroyed before anyone got a good look at them. That doesn't mean someone else won't have something like it. Gotta be ready for every eventuality, right, Cyke?"
"Absolutely," Scott said. Unlike the younger X-Men, he looked almost eager for the workout. "We'll be doing more of this kind of training, so get used to it." He looked at Logan. "Don't I remember hearing something about a dark room exercise where two men are inside, each trying to find and disable the other?"
"Sounds like something Special Forces would do," Logan said, unwilling to admit that he didn't know anything about such an exercise. "Today you have the advantage -- alla you against me."
"Four to one odds?" Bobby sounded interested for the first time. "If we win, you buy us pizza tonight."
"You said powerless," Kitty said. "But your power's always on. You can hear or scent every move we make."
"Very good," Logan pulled a pair of foam earplugs from his pocket. "These'll dull my hearing down to about normal. Inhale."
Kitty frowned, then breathed in deeply. "Ammonia?"
"Pungent enough to baffle my nose," Logan said, shoving the earplugs in his ears.
"I could've brought my aftershave," Scott quipped.
"Ammonia smells better," Logan shot back. Scott grinned and the others laughed. While they were still laughing, he said, "Lights."
The room went black, and Logan heard three startled yelps -- three, not four. One female, Kitty. One male, loud, Bobby. One male, quieter, Peter. Scott stayed silent.
Logan slid one foot back, shifted, and repeated the move. Now he was about five feet away from where he had been, and he waited, still, breathing slow and steady through his nose, though the ammonia hurt with each inhale.
A shuffling, barely audible through the foam earplugs, ahead of him and off to his left. Kitty and Bobby had been standing there, and he smiled as he heard Bobby's whispered, "Got you."
"Touch me there again and I'll stick you in a wall," came Kitty's low reply.
Logan felt the air currents shift and sensed more than saw a bulky form coming at him from the blackness that was the Danger Room now. Peter.
In other circumstances, he'd never consider a sacrifice throw, but this situation seemed perfect. He grabbed the armholes of Peter's uniform, rolled backward, using one foot to throw Peter over his body. He rolled with the throw, ending up on top of Peter, and tapped Peter's throat with his fist. In real combat, the blow would've crushed Peter's windpipe and incapacitated him. As it was, Peter went limp and lay still, out of this combat, and his body became a new obstacle in the room.
Logan rose, moved two steps to his right. Scott had been standing to that side, but with the noise of the throw, fall, and Peter's grunt, there was no telling where he might have moved.
Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning one arm to his chest, but leaving the other free. He lunged forward into a runner's crouch, reached behind and over his head, caught hair, and rolled half-sideways, sending the other man to the floor. A knee tap to the head ensured that Bobby -- very short hair had told him who attacked him -- joined Peter in being another obstacle.
Two down, two to go. Kitty and Scott.
Logan moved toward ten o'clock. Kitty shouldn't still be there, which meant it would make a good regroup location. Not that he expected to need long to regroup, but --
A fist drove into his stomach with relatively little impact. That and its small size told him Kitty had joined the fray. She hit him a second time, and he was prepared, grabbing her fist and twisting it to one side. She yelped and he tapped her neck with the side of his hand. She fell, also out of the fight.
Which left Scott, whom he'd known would be his greatest challenge.
He froze where he stood beside Kitty's prone figure, listening, slowing his breathing instinctively.
The snap-kick to his kidney caught him off guard, and he stumbled forward to regain his balance, lashed out with a kick behind him that connected with empty air.
Scott's next kick caught him in the hamstring, and he felt his leg giving way for a heartbeat or two before his healing factor activated. Scott was fast, but not fast enough to take advantage of that small an opening, especially when Logan was already pivoting on his good leg to face Scott, though he couldn't see the other man in the black hole the Danger Room had become.
Scott pressed his attack anyway, aiming a punch at Logan's midsection. Logan took the blow, tensing his abdomen at the last moment, and brought his hand up under Scott's, grabbing the younger man's wrist and pivoting away from the punch, drawing Scott's arm up and over his head in a wide circle that ended with Logan gripping Scott's wrist and guiding the other man to his knees.
Scott exhaled tightly, a sound that might've been, "Ow."
"Lights on dim," Logan said, closing his eyes against the glare.
When he opened his eyes, he looked down at where Scott knelt before him, then released Scott's wrist, which he'd held pinned in the air between them.
A glance around the room told him no one was hurt -- other than their pride, he amended, noting Bobby's expression -- and he pulled the earplugs from his ears. About time, too, they made his ears itch.
"What was that?" Scott asked, rising to his feet and rubbing his wrist. Logan had had to press fairly hard, given the reinforced material their uniforms were made of.
"Aikido," Logan replied. "Use your opponent's momentum against him. And nerve endings to control his response."
"Yeah," Scott said as the others climbed to their feet. "I had no choice but to go down when you got my arm above my head like that."
"It's one of the more subtle martial arts," Logan agreed, wondering where and when he'd learned it. Before Stryker, he knew, but how much of his life was before Stryker? "It would be good for you, Kitty, because you don't need to be very strong. You need flexibility and endurance more."
"Might be good for all of us to get some of that training," Scott said.
"Takes a lifetime to master," Logan said, and had the sense that he had mastered it, sometime in the haze that made up most of his memory.
"What about the basic principles?" Scott asked.
"I can show some basics, sure."
"We'll work it into the regular training rotation," Scott said, and Logan could almost see his mind working to adjust the training schedule.
Before Scott could get too deeply into that thought pattern, Logan looked at Bobby. "You lost. That mean you're buyin' me pizza tonight?"
- X -
She'd been fortunate so far, Jean thought. A day and a half into the conference, and no one had recognized her from the news footage of the battle in Los Angeles. If they had, they hadn't said anything to her.
If that were going to change, it would in the next hour. She sat at the head table of the keynote luncheon, waiting to speak. Fitzroy had mentioned when he greeted her that there might be a few reporters in the room, come to report on Dr. Rao's research. When she'd asked why they hadn't been informed of Dr. Rao's absence, he'd said simply, "We kept hoping she would change her mind. The reporters won't be a problem, will they? After all, you faced worse when you testified at the Senate."
Which meant her gut agreed with William's -- she did not like Trevor Fitzroy at all. She had agreed to speak, though, and she would, out of respect for the conference itself if nothing else. She just hoped that nothing would go wrong.
The squeal of feedback from the microphone made her wince. Then Fitzroy's voice filled the room. "All the advances we've made in computers, genetics, medical science -- and we still can't keep a microphone from squealing."
Jean laughed politely with the rest of the attendees, and Fitzroy finished a flattering introduction of her that somehow managed to make the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
She took the podium with a smile amidst quiet applause. "I understand that Dr. Rao intended to summarize some of her recent research as a retrospective of where we've been and an impetus to greater achievements in the future. But as we look toward that future, we cannot focus solely on ever greater technical achievement without also considering the consequences of those achievements. So I'd like to talk about some of the questions that arise, though I don't expect any answers in an hour."
Without any prompting from her, the lecture became the discussion she'd envisioned, as she mentioned that the suppression serum had been used on a mutant without due process and several people voiced their outrage. Other topics grew naturally, from the aborted Mutant Registration Act to the growth and spread of mutation in the general population.
"You've raised some excellent issues, Dr. Grey," Fitzroy said when she'd concluded. "But aren't you somewhat biased? I did see you on television at Alcatraz, didn't I?"
She blinked at him, momentarily panicked, and Scott's presence strengthened in her mind. In an instant, she gave him the situation, and he sent her a wave of reassurance.
It's an opportunity, he told her. Don't waste it.
I won't, but I really wasn't ready to go entirely public, either.
Better now when you can control it a little than some other time when they control it. He had a point, and she knew it. She took a breath, and looked first at Fitzroy, then around the gathered scientists.
"I am a daughter, a sister, a friend, a student and a teacher," she said deliberately. "I'm a doctor, a geneticist, and an activist. And I happen to be able to pick up my iced tea without touching it." She levitated her glass from the table to the left of the podium, caught it in her hand, and took a sip. She didn't need telepathy to sense the collective shock from those assembled.
She set her glass down, allowing the murmurs of surprise and unease to settle before continuing, "Some people choose to use that last fact to define me, just as some people choose to define Dr. Grandey by the color of his skin, or Dr. Katz by her religion. I don't believe any of those definitions are accurate or complete. If that makes me biased, Dr. Fitzroy, then I'm proud to be so."
- X -
"Oysdarn zol bay dir der moyekh." Logan barely heard Kitty's muttered words over the echo of a badly-hit cue ball as he walked into the game room.
"That sounds unpleasant," he observed.
Kitty straightened from where she bent over the pool table, scowling. "It's not unpleasant. It's Yiddish. I said my brain should dry up. I should've gotten this by now."
"It's not all geometry, Punkin."
She gave him a sharp glance at the nickname, but didn't pursue it -- just as well, since he had no idea where it had come from. "Trigonometry."
"Whatever. Gimme the cue." He held out his hand and stepped around the table. She'd managed a lousy break, he noted, with most of the balls still clustered together and a few outliers. "You also need to hit the ball. Not just tap it. Like this -- one ball in the side pocket."
He sank the ball, glanced up to see her watching intently.
"Keep your elbow in the same place, swing your forearm." He demonstrated the move and she nodded. "And practice hitting harder, dead center, for the break."
He handed her back the cue and watched while she lined up a couple of shots. "Better. Once you've mastered that, then you can start trying the fancy stuff, like banked shots."
She sank a ball and grinned at him. "Thanks."
"Any time. You get good, we'll start playing for money."
"That's a 'when', not an 'if'."
"Sure is," he agreed. "Long as you practice."
"Life is practice," Kitty grumbled good-naturedly. "Practice dancing, team practice, now this."
"Hey, you chose 'em all, Punkin."
"I know." She rested the cue on the floor, and he smiled to see that it was almost as tall as she was. She had to crane her neck to look up at him. "So, just passing by, thought you'd offer a lesson? Or looking for Marie?"
"Looking for you, actually."
That startled her. "Me?"
"Yeah." He glanced around, some instinct making him confirm they were alone. Well, as alone as anyone could be in the same house as the most powerful telepath on the planet. "Need some help. Figure you're the best person to ask."
"If I can, sure."
"I got a lead to my past the other day," he said, trying to sound more casual than he felt. "Wondered if you could track it down -- that's computer stuff, right?"
She blinked, and then said, "I can search, sure. Just give me whatever you've got."
"A James Logan served in the Army in Viet Nam. General Heath said he looked a lot like me."
"You think he might've been you?" She wasn't really looking for an answer, because she continued, "That makes sense, with your healing. I'll let you know what I find."
"Thanks. Now line up on the three and sink it."
He led her through the remaining balls and nodded when Kitty sank the last one. "Better. You run the table once a day, you'll be ready to hustle with the best of 'em in no time."
She flicked a startled glance at him. "I couldn't do that, it's wrong."
"Christ, it's spreading."
Now she looked puzzled. "What?"
"Ramrod up the ass disease. First Cyke, now you." He shook his head and gave an exaggerated sigh.
That made her laugh. "One of these days, I'll figure out your sense of humor."
"Nah, you'll just give yourself a mental hernia trying. Better you keep practicing your bank shots."
"Thanks for your help, Logan," Kitty said, her tone laced with amusement.
"Anytime, Punkin." He grinned and turned away from the game room, half of his mission accomplished. The other half --
He checked his watch, decided that it wasn't too close to the dinner hour to call, and strode out of the mansion onto the grounds. Scott's offer of the caretaker's cottage sounded better and better the more he thought about staying in the mansion, and he punched in a number on his cell phone as he turned toward the cottage.
"Summers." Scott's father sounded just as abrupt and businesslike as he did, Logan thought.
"Corsair, it's Logan."
"Thought you got your fill of military at the debriefing." Christopher Summers, father of Scott, observed.
"Got my fill long before that," Logan countered. "Turns out I may need a little more exposure."
"What's up?"
"You want the long version?"
"Short version will do."
"Assuming it hasn't been cleaned out yet, I want to get into Stryker's office. Or his assistant's."
"And do what?"
"See what I can find about my past." It was a bald statement, one that he wouldn't normally have made. But like father, like son. Corsair could handle any truth, no matter how difficult or ugly, but lies would send him right over the edge. "Stryker was involved. Don't know how much, but he was. Might be some records there that he didn't bury deep enough. Thing is --" Logan stopped outside the caretaker's cottage. "I don't know what I'm looking for exactly. Hopin' I'll know it when I see it."
"You're asking a lot," Summers said after a pause. "Getting you in isn't the problem. It's what you find when you're there. He had access to a lot of secured materials."
"Thought we were getting clearances. X-Men, saved the country."
"Just because you get a clearance doesn't mean you're cleared for everything. I'll see what I can do."
"Appreciate it." He ended the call and shoved his phone into his pocket. It was a leash, a tie to the team. He thought he should resent that leash, but he found he liked the sense of belonging it gave him. Living in this cottage was another tie. He hoped he'd like that one, too.
The cottage was barely ten feet on a side, made of mortared stone that didn't have any visible cracks, with an oak door that might still be solid, if termites hadn't gotten to it, and he stepped onto the slab of stone that served as a front stoop to test the door.
The hinges shrieked in protest, and Logan winced. That would be the first repair he made. Inside the single-room structure, he noted broken windows, animal nests, and a few rotted floorboards. On the whole, he thought the fireplace set into one wall would make the cottage cozy enough in winter. But the lack of a proper bathroom might prove a challenge to the collective powers and engineering talents the X-Men had.
That was a problem to solve later. This evening, he simply relished the thought of a private, quiet space. Soon enough, it would be livable.
