17. Daybreak
He didn't know when the dream had changed. There had been something before, a different dream before this, of something mundane, trivial, of ordinary life. He couldn't remember anymore. The dream he was dreaming now had taken over and it had consumed everything else. It had devoured everything just like it always did.
It was all familiar, even the fear was familiar, and there was a certain comfort to the familiarity of the dream. All these dreams were the same. Everything always happened in the same order, the sequence never changed. And while it did make the dreams more terrifying as he knew what to expect, it also was, in a weird, twisted way, a comfort too: there was no exceptions and no surprises but safety through consistency.
It always began here with him being tied down onto a steel grill in a large operation theatre with a set of blindingly bright lights hanging over him. Eight of them. He had seen the dream so many times that he had had time to count them. He knew every nook and cranny of all that was visible to him. He knew when a certain orderly would come in. He knew he was naked, he had looked down along his torso and legs once before his head had been bound down. He knew there was no insignia on the green garments of the staff and that one of them had three ballpoint pens in his pocket and another had a pea whistle hanging around his neck. There were x-ray images on light boxes mounted up on a wall. Possibly pictures of him, some somehow looked like him, but others were clearly of a person far lighter than him, thinner boned and all. By now, after about fifteen years of dreaming, he knew he would instantly recognise the place if he ever saw it in the real world.
By then the orderlies had him immobilised and there was nothing he could do but to submit. In the beginning he had tried to fight them, he still sometimes did, but it changed nothing: he would still end up being strapped down on the grid. The fighting only made it worse. He lost control then, got enraged, then desperate, and it would all end in sheer panic that left him screaming for mercy as they injected him with something his body could not fight off and left him paralysed. He hated that, the vulnerability that left him open for any pain and any humiliation the dream presented, and so he opted for cool stillness hoping that it would keep him from loosing it and safeguarding what little illusions of dignity he still harboured.
The staff changed and a new set in green garments and black rubber gas masks surrounded him. They rained pain on him. He couldn't see what they were doing to him because his head was bound down but he could feel the cuts, the incisions as they sliced into him and all the way down to the bones. He felt how his body tried to mend itself, how to it tried to close the wounds, but the surgical team kept the flesh open and did not let the sides of the incisions meet. He felt how the blood gushed out of him as they pushed something into him through the cuts and that was when he screamed, he always screamed then.
'Logan, stay awake.'
Something had changed. He had never understood anything of what the people in these dreams said. Something was different. Something had changed.
He felt a hand on his forehead and it made him twitch.
'Here, I'm over here, Logan. See me.'
He tried. There was someone standing next to his head. Someone new who had never been there before. Someone standing there almost beyond his field of vision. 'Who?' he managed.
The figure moved a bit and he was able to see it more clearly. It was just another surgeon in his green overalls. He spat and cursed at him.
'No, Logan, see me. Look at me, carefully, and see me.'
He tried again and suddenly there was space between him and the pain. The pain was still there, he still experienced it, but somehow it was not quite there in him, not within him anymore. He tried harder and figure became more focused. 'Who are you? Who the fuck are you?' Blood spilled from his mouth as he spoke and he had to cough. They were working through his lungs now.
'Look, look carefully.' The figure reached for something and brought up his hand. He stared at it from the corner of his eye. It felt strange to have his hand free. He was never free in this dream. It almost didn't feel like his hand at all. It scared him. There was always fear in his dreams but the dreams had become so familiar that he was not afraid of the fear anymore but accepted it. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore, just fear to experience but nothing new to terrify him, nothing until now. He watched the figure bring his hand closer to its face and if he had been able he would have shrieked upon the touch, but there was too much blood in his mouth and he merely gurgled almost inhaling the warm liquid. He managed spat most of out.
'Logan, see me. Can you see me know?'
He had never been so afraid in his life, so terrified, scared stiff. The fear and blood made it hard to breathe. He did what the figure told him to do and let his hand rest on its face. The moment he felt the skin under his hand he recognised who it was.
'Grace?' He could see her now, standing there in full surgical gear except for the gas mask. Had she always been there? She had to have. There was no other explanation for it. His dreams never changed. He knew every nook and granny, every nook and granny. She must had always been there. She kept on holding his hand.
How can my hand be free?
Somewhere in the distance the pain was turning into anger. There had always been some intrinsic anger in him, a hereditary trait of fury, and now that aptitude for ferocity was the nucleus around which the pain gathered and crystallised into rage. He had been fearsome before; after the operation he had become something even more impressive.
'I knew you were here when this happened,' he said spurting out blood from his mouth as he spoke, 'You did this to me, you lying piece of shit.' He was still afraid, so scared, and he desperately wanted to see what they were doing to him, but the rage and hatred were now outgrowing the fear. He focused all his attention on her, on her figure, on her flesh and how he would rip it into pieces as soon as he would get off of his shackles. 'I should've torn you into pieces in that cell! I should've fuckin' killed you! It was all on you!' The last sentence came out as a mangled scream that spewed warm blood from his lungs on her.
'No, Logan, this is your dream. I am in your dream but I wasn't there when this took place.'
Something burned into his left leg just below the knee. Pain shoot up his leg and up through his stomach but by the time it reached his consciousness it had turned into rancour. 'You did this to me. You deserved all I did to you, bitch, and I'll come for seconds.' He spat more blood at her. It stained her face and he growled at her. Then the pain shoot up his leg again and he screamed. He knew he had lost the fight; only pain would exist now that he had lost the fight. He managed to sob between the screams.
'Logan, stay awake. Stay with me. I need you to stay awake in this dream, don't fall deeper into it.'
She leaned in closer to him and he spat at her again. There had to be something in his lungs, something piercing them and keeping him bleeding internally. 'I'll get you, you piece of shit. I'll be comin' for you. I'll make you wish I had killed you in that cell!' The pain made him grind his teeth together. The pain was closer to him again, more real and more familiar, not quite inside him yet but it was creeping closer by the second. He tried to grab her with his hand that had somehow been freed but she saw it coming and stepped a side. Then the hand was again held immobile by shackles as if it had never been free at all. He howled at her, he felt how all the pain channeled through him and turned his scream of hatred into a screech.
Then she was there again, holding his head between her hands. 'Logan, listen to me. Look at me. This is your dream I'm in and not the real thing. This is your memory of the bonding. Remember it and stay awake.'
He fought against the restrains with all his strength but they didn't give. Her hands remained on his cheeks. He yelled at her, shrieked so hard that he felt how it strained the muscles of his throat and neck to their limits. The struggling made his lungs bleed harder and for a moment he felt like drowning in his own blood. The surgical team didn't seem to notice. The blood filled his mouth and surged through his nose. He panicked, tried to force air into his lungs, but all he got was warm, thick blood. His body spasmed. The convulsion arched his spine and neck. Someone stuck a needle into the side of his throat, the spasm loosened, and he was able to breathe again.
Grace was still holding his head. 'Remember the snow, Logan. Can you smell the snow, mo charaid?'
He inhaled between the bursts of insane, stellar pain. There was something strange in the air that flushed his lungs. It was too cold and sharp. He bit his teeth together to keep himself from screaming and stared into her eyes. 'Shut the fuck up, bitch. Stay out of my head.'
'Smell the snow, Logan, and stay awake. Stay with me.'
He inhaled again. The air was so cold it bit into his lungs. It wasn't like this. It was hot, fuckin' boilin'. He inhaled again: the air smelled of snow. The distance between him and the pain returned and the rage begun to loose it momentum.'Grace?' He was disoriented, his own body felt unfamiliar. 'Snow. It smells like fuckin' snow in here.'
He saw Grace smile at him. 'Stay calm. Hold on to that scent and stay awake in here.' She stroked his cheek reassuringly and he knew he was still dreaming.
'Were you here?'
'No, not in here where this took place but I am inside your dream now. We are still in that ruined room at Alkali Lake. You are still dreaming. It's cold outside but the heater is keeping us warm.'
The pain intensified and left him gasping for air. He forced himself to breathe through his nose and the scent of snow pushed the pain into the background. 'In my dream?' He felt his body shudder as the pain from the surgery tore through it but it all took place somewhere in the distance, somewhere in the landscape of his dream. He kept his eyes locked at her. It helped to keep the pain at bay.
'You are having a nightmare and your yelled in your sleep. That woke me up. You told me not to wake you up if you had one, remember.' Logan nodded. He did remember but it still didn't make sense. Grace stoke his forehead. 'Remember that time when I kidnapped your body?' He nodded again. He didn't dare to speak. He feared he might loose the scent of snow if he did that. 'This is something similar. I delved into you again but this time were are dreaming the same dream.'
The thought alarmed him. 'You shouldn't see this,' he panted though his teeth, 'Get out. You shouldn't see this.'
'No, let me see this. Finish the dream.'
'No. Get out. The pain. I don't want – you to see this.' He was ashamed by his weakness.
She climbed on top of him. It didn't seem to bother the surgical team. She seemed weightless as she stood there with legs astride his chest and looked around before looking down at him. 'Who ever it was that ordered this to be done to you is in this room. He, she, they,' she said thoughtfully, 'certainly would have wanted to witness the process.'
Logan drew in a deep breath. The scent of snow was like honey to his lungs now. 'Grace, please, please go. I don't want you to see what they did to me.' Another deep breath. 'I don't want you to see me like this. Please. Go.'
Grace looked at him. She looked sad. 'I already know what they did to you. I have seen it done before.' She climbed down and disappeared from his field of vision. He heard her footsteps circle around his head and shoulders. 'This is not the way to perform the bonding. You should be unconscious. This is crude,' there was deep loathing in her voice, 'and cruel, unprofessional. We need to find out who did this to you.' She reappeared on his right. An orderly walked past her showing no awareness of her presence. Her eyes followed him. 'They were here that day and they are hear now. Logan,' she whispered into his ear, 'dream the dream through. I'll be here too and I will find out who where here that day.' She wiped blood and sweat from his face with her sleeve. 'Be brave. And strong. Dream this dream through one more time.'
Logan nodded though he didn't really know what she meant by one more time. Then he remembered what would come next. 'They're about to sink me into the tub, Grace.' He intuitively reached for her arm, 'don't let them do it.' The feeling of drowning was the worst. Pain he could take, pain was nothing. A piece of cake. A walk in the park.
'I'm sorry. Pain I can ease but – there's nothing I can do about what happens in the dream.' She combed his hair with her fingers. 'You have to dream this dream through. Remember the scent of snow from now on. Hang on to it. It will be there even under the water. And I'll be here with you all the way through.' She kissed his forehead, then stepped back and disappeared from him again.
'No! Don't let them do this!' He panicked as the steel grid begun to sink into the green liquid taking him under with it. He kept gripping her arm. 'Please, Grace, stop it!' Some green liquid splashed into his mouth and he coughed. 'Please,' and then he was under.
'This is the last time you will dream of this. I promise,' he heard her say before the liquid got into his ears. He was still holding on to her arm when he realised the liquid now smelled of snow. Not of his blood and of the chemicals and of bile but of snow, white snow in the mountains far up north.
It's changed, he realised as the liquid turned brown as his blood spilled into it, the dream has changed.
She changed it.
Logan woke up leisurely. He turned to his side and buried his head deeper into the bundle of clothing he had for a pillow. It was all good: comfortably warm inside his sleeping bag and nicely cool outside giving him a chance to appreciate the warmth. Had he been sleeping in a bed he would have turned onto his stomach, tucked both of his hands under his hipbones and his head partly under the pillow. He used to sleep like that, on his stomach and hands locked under him, a long time ago.
Logan opened his eyes. He did remembered sleeping like that, remembered the feeling of safety and the depth of relaxation. He never slept like that any more, never is a position that would in any way hinder his ability to defend himself. It had to be an old memory from his most distant past, from before he had become who he was now or who he had been when he had first met Grace. Maybe it was a memory from his childhood? He laid still and thought about his childhood. He remembered nothing about it, nothing at all, not a single toy, no feeling, no hurt nor hug. That shapeless void in his mind left him feeling adrift within history. He did have two clear harbours of memory where to dock himself: the memory of the adamantium bonding (as Grace called it) and the memory of meeting her for the very first time, but neither were harbours he much cared for, and anyhow, while the memories were clear, he had no sense when exactly, how far back in his past those events had taken place. The two memories were too loose to offer a secure anchorage.
Floating docks.
It would be nice to remember even just one birthday from when I was a kid. Other people had those memories. It felt bitter to hear them talk about them.
Fuck that. It was comfortable now, right now, at this moment. Fuck the past. And the future. Carpe diem and all that shit. He knew it to be true: there was no point in lingering in the past or in imagining the future. All that really mattered was the present and this present at hand was comfortable, pretty good even. Let the past lie. Let it go. He was fucking immortal (practically) anyhow. He had all the time in the world to do anything he wanted to do. Maybe someone would eventually invent time travel. Apparently somebody had invented faster than light travel and that was supposed to be impossible.
So why the hell was he still stuck here in the snow?
He turned onto his back and kept his eyes closed. It was warm inside the sleeping bag and the ground was not too hard or lumpy. He had spend good money on the mat and it was worth every fucking buck he had put into it. No way he was getting up before he absolutely had to. He opened his eyes and grinned as he stared at the concrete ceiling covered in crackled paint above him. Some bacon would be nice. Maybe she'll fry some. There was a dusty blue line painted on the ceiling some inches away from the wall and circling around the room. Logan followed it with his eyes. An unusual feature he thought. Never seen one on the ceilin' before.
The panic fell upon him without warning. It hit him like a sledge hammer, made his soul disappear into an abyss that imploded within him. It didn't crawl up his legs or begin as a whisper of doubt in his mind. It hit him with full force without a second thought. His chest collapsed, and air was suddenly too thin to fill even his compressed lungs; his heart accelerated. It raced so fast it skipped a beat here and there. His muscles tensed and he felt light and transparent – disembodied, dissociated. Then the fear flooded in, an indescribable, abhorrent, sheer fear that fell over him and into him causing a second implosion inside him that took with it everything that was left of him. It all took only a second: one moment he was there feeling rather good and comfortable, the next he was crawling up to his knees with his hands shaking and a whimper escaping his lips. He managed to pause himself there, managed to contain his reactions, trembling on his knees and gasping for air. The last time he had felt like this had been years ago while driving alone somewhere up in the North. Back then he had bolted and run until his feet had given up. Not. This. Time. He wanted to scream, to let the panic flow through him freely, to let go and to surrender to the void it had created inside him. No chance in hell. It ain't safe enough here. Anywhere. I need to get somewhere safe first. He fought for breath, nearly hyperventilated as he scrambled to his feet. He almost fell over managing only barely to steady himself. He heard footsteps. Someone came up to him from behind, grabbed him by the shoulder and he spun around as he screamed and lashed out with his closed fist. The blow landed and he fell down following his falling assailant. Only then did the claws come out as he fell on top of his enemy with his hands wide apart and ready to surge down.
Logan came to his senses when his knees hit the ground. Somehow the impact that shook his bones reconnected his mind with the reality and for a moment he sat there bewildered with his hands still halfway into the blow intended to impale what ever it was that was threatening him. The panic subsided and he looked down. It was Grace lying under him. Blood stained her temple where his out-lashing fist had landed, and her arms were thrown aback and open.
'There's so many kinds of fear and none of them is good.'
Christallmightygod. Not her. Not this again. He withdrew the claws and scrambled off of her. She was breathing, he could hear her draw air in and he could hear her heart beat unsteadily but defiantly. He wanted to grab her but he knew better. She had been lucky. He had been lucky. Had his fist landed directly in a right angle on her temple he would be holding her lifeless corpse in his arms now. The panic had made him miss. (He had never thought he would one day be thankful for his panic attacks.) It had made him move too soon and his knuckles had only bumped against her head, and even more miraculously the claws had not been out. A mere scrape this time, but with his strength, with the adamantium and the extra boost from the panic, even that indirect bump had probably cracked her skull and caused damage to her cervical vertebrae. He wanted to pick her up but knew enough not to: she was still breathing but that might not last.
He had killed Marie. Yeah, she was still alive but only because of her particular mutation. He had killed her and she had saved herself. Had she been anyone else, she would be dead now too.
Grace can heal herself too, Logan thought. Unless I hit her hard enough and she really is unconscious. He leaned in even closer and inhaled her scent. Her scent changed when she was healing herself. It added a touch of something resembling frankincense into her scent, something a bit more mellow and with a hint of citrus. He smelled nothing but her. He leaned in even more, as close to her skin below her ear he dared to. Nothing. He exhaled emptying his lungs as thoroughly as he could and inhaled again, carefully, deeply, savouring every molecule that passed through his nose. Still nothing. Logan closed his eyes and stayed there with his skin so close to hers that he could feel his stubble grace against her. He had hit her hard enough. She was unconscious, most likely in a coma.
She won't survive this one.
He jumped to his feet and let the frustration and rage and fear escape as he roared until there was no air left in him. He drew more air in and clamoured again. He cursed at the walls spitting out every foul word in his vocabulary. Then he fell down by her with his claws extended. He stared at the still glowing heater unable to look at her while what little life was left stubbornly lingered in her.
'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.'
He forced himself to turn his eyes at her. She looked peaceful. People in coma almost always looked peaceful. He reached for her face with his hand, realised the claws were out and withdrew them as he withdrew his hand.
'I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant it to be like this.'
He stayed there, on his knees, waiting for something that never happened. Grace kept breathing and her heart kept beating. Eventually he dared to reach for her hand. Her skin was burning. Fever was running through her. The force of his fist had injured her brain and her body was trying to survive without the help of the damaged areas. The body did what it could, what its limited knowledge allowed it to do, and so the fever had set in. He hovered his hand above her brow. She was burning up.
Look at her, he told himself, This is what you do. Death itself indeed.
There has to be a way.
Logan cleared her hair away from her face. The hair was like silk, exactly like that day he had first met her. He braced his palm on the ground above her head and leaned in lips close to her ear taking care not to accidentally move her.
'Listen, love. I need you to fight for me. Give me a chance and I will get you out alive.' He let his forehead come in contact with her hair. 'Fight for me. Screw those Soldiers and Codes and fight for me. I owe you. You need to let me pay it back. You need to let me take it all back. I –.'
Logan stood up and looked around. She and him kept going about in these ridiculous circles of violence and near death. Over and over again. Karma, bub, that's life for you. He sighed and looked out through the hole in the ceiling. It was full day already. He had slept late. He didn't remember when he had last slept so late. It wasn't snowing anymore but he heard wind blowing outside. He walked away from the heater until he felt the cold bite into him as he stepped outside the device's range. Still way down below freezing. Logan returned to her. The fever was maintaining her body temperature but only for now and he wasn't even sure if it was a good thing: a lower body temperature would help to fight the damage spreading though her brain tissue. He wondered if he should turn the heater down and let her body get colder, but he decided against it. He didn't know enough about this stuff. A bit too cold and she would never wake up again.
They say freezin' to death ain't a bad way to go.
What the fuck does anyone know about dyin'?
Except me.
He didn't have much time and he could not move her. There was no choice. The help would have to come here to her. Even if he could have moved her, all the roads between the ruined base and any civilisation had at least a feet of new snow on them. There was no way out. He had to get help in.
She probably had a radio.
He stared down at her on the floor.
This is the moment when everythin' changes.
If she has a radio and I call for help, they will come and get me too. It would be a really simple scenario spreading about them. A woman beaten into coma alone with a man who – let's be honest – really didn't have that air of innocence about him. I could wait until they are almost here before I split. He knew that would never happen. To ensure his escape he would have to leave well in advance as the snow would slow him down and the tracks would lead to him. There was no way he would leave her alone for that long.
Not anymore.
If ever.
I could just let them take me in and make a brake for it later. It wasn't like any local cell would held him. He could do that, let himself to be caught by the local Mounties. There was nothing to it. Simple. Foolproof. Let them hold me until I hear she's safe. Maybe until I know she comes through.
It might be too late for me then.
He knew whoever it was that was hunting him would hear if he stayed too long in the system. It would take days before the doctors would know if she would make it or not. It could well be that by then he was no longer around to hear the news. They would get to him as soon as they possibly could and that'll be it. No second chances. They would have learnt from their mistakes.
Me for her life.
Fair trade.
He strode across their little camp and begun to tear through her gear. It took awhile and he paused every now and again to check on her. Her body temperature was dropping but slowly. He spread his sleeping bag on her to keep the warmth from escaping too quickly. He didn't find a radio but he found what he thought was a satellite phone. A number appeared on the screen when he turned it on. He didn't recognise it, the area code was not familiar. It made him realise he had no idea what to dial. Did the 911 work with satellite phones? He had no idea. He redialed the number on the screen.
Fair trade.
It took some time for the number to connect. Logan moved over to Grace while he waited. Her breathing was shallower but still steady.
'Grace?' A male voice that sounded familiar.
'No. It's Logan but I have her here.'
There was a pause at the other end. 'Have you hurt her?'
Logan bent down and touched her cheek with his fingertips.'Yes. I did –.'
The man cut in: 'You fucking bastard. Is she alive?'
'Barely. You need to get here ASAP if you want to keep her that way.'
The man cursed again. Logan could taste the want to kill him in the man's voice. 'We know where you are, Wolverine, you and her. We are coming in weapons hot.'
Logan couldn't resist the temptation. 'Aren't you afraid I might finish her off if you come in guns blazin', Nick?' he asked sardonically. He had finally recognised the voice.
'I'm sure you will. I'm pretty sure you already have. Otherwise you wouldn't have this phone.'
Logan sat down on the ground next to her. She looked so peaceful and her hair was so beautiful in the blueish glow of the heater.
A full circle. We have come a full circle, you and I, love.
'Logan, I know what you did to her in Afghanistan,' Nick said when he didn't reply. 'I saw what you did to her. When she forgot, I remembered.'
Logan smiled softly. 'I remember too. So that was in Afghanistan?' Nick didn't answer. 'Listen, you need to get your arse down here right now. She doesn't have long but she'll live if you get here fast enough. And Nick?'
'Yeah?'
'I'll be here too. You think you know what I did to her in Afghanistan? Think again.'
'You fucking piece of shit.' The coldness in the man's voice was something Logan knew intimately.
'You keep thinkin' about that on your way here. I might still surprise you.'
'I will have your head for this, you fucking piece of shit, Wolverine,' the man on the phone promised in a low voice.
Logan growled. 'No, you won't. But I'll have yours if you don't come in time.'
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