Chapter 2: Mutant Rising (pt. 2)

The Professor had grown far more sickly since Jean left his side. His age wore thin and his once healthy exterior, flushed and full of life had become wrinkled and rigid, clammy, and warm to the touch. Jean hardly recognized him. He lay there sedated in a comatose state, decaying like a rotten apple left in the garbage a week too long. She hovered her hands over him and soothed herself long enough to sense his mind.

His pain was vivid; his will, void. A distant voice kept crying out through a thick cloud of black mass that left its origin shrouded in a cocoon of telekinetic energy. The Professor's spirit was dull, dense, yet longing with a lust to be heard. His voice faded as if it were swallowed by an unknown entity. It grew disoriented until it was nothing more than a faint whisper lost in a countless dreary echo.

Jean saw something in the depths of the Professor's subconscious. Something ominous, and heavy in a mask of grievous and dread, vague, yet hideously persistent. From the hollow mist formed a vicious facade that spread a thickness of evil in a pair of twisted eyes and a wicked grin. The maniacal laughter rang like a menace through the endless sea of blackness before it withered into nothingness. Then there was silence.

Jean let out an harrowing cry. The floor started to vibrate. Pulse after pulse it grew stronger like an irate heartbeat that punished the walls in an uncontrollable tremor. Jean's powers were roaming free, completely unhinged, succumbing several innocent objects to its deadly wake.

Jean's eyes widened, her pulse increased rapidly, and she became stricken to a cold sweat that fell over her body. She shook violently and was thrust into a series of medical devices across the room, with a force strong enough to blow the door wide open and shatter nearby glass containers.

Scott, Hank, and Storm crept through the debris and rushed over to aid the tortured redhead.

The men placed their hands under her arms and helped Jean to her feet, while Storm gathered the remnants of the medical objects that fell to the floor.

"Jean, what happened?" Scott asked, brushing his hand over the bangs that gently caressed her forehead.

Sorrow wept from her shivering lips as she grinned in anguish. Not even Scott's beautiful grace could erase the heavy trauma that had overcome her, even if his warm touch provided a slight comfort against her tender skin. "I saw something in the Professor's mind," Jean began, breathing deep to regain her composure "something powerful. It has him...I fear he doesn't have much longer."

"Unfortunately Jean is right" Hank said. "I calculated the rate at which Charles' health is degrading. The results are sporadic at best, but they should give us an indication of a worse case scenario." Hank retreated to the other side of the room, where the Professor remained undisturbed. He pulled up the various lab reports on the Professor as well as his blood work, MRI scans, and X-Rays. At first Hank flashed a confused expression across his ape-like facade.

"Intriguing, given Jean's recent telekinetic 'outburst' it's amazing these machines even work at all." Hank took a second and admired the wonders of modern technology, forgetting only for a moment that he wasn't the only one in the room.

"Maybe you two should have the room to yourselves" Scott said.

Hank cleared his throat. "Well, uh yes. My apologies. I'll get to the point." He pressed a button on the control panel of a nearby medical device. The blank screen on an adjacent wall lit up with a series of images containing the Professor's MRI brain scans. "Every viable micrometer of Charles' brain came back clean. It appears, scientifically, there is nothing wrong with him." Hank walked over to a cluttered desk and shifted through several papers before returning to the others. "I made every evaluation I could and the only cause for concern were his vitals. They're low, but steady. His pulse hasn't dropped much in the past few hours. I'm hoping that's a good sign."

"I don't understand" Storm said. "If there's nothing wrong with him then why isn't he conscience?"

"Due to the unique nature of Charles' condition, I'm afraid there's no scientific explanation per say. There's only so much I can do with the resources I have, and so far, none of them are helping shed light on the situation."

Scott's back was turned toward them. His soul focus rested uncomfortably on the unconscious Professor. His brow sunk in heavy against his eyes and his mouth twisted into a cold grin reminiscent of the Wolverine. He faced his teammates and slammed an open palm against the glass that covered their mentor. "That also doesn't explain what Jean saw inside the Professor's head. Dammit Hank, we don't have time for you to argue logic with us." Scott's delivery was raw and unapologetic. If he were standing any closer Hank would have questioned his tone. Scott paused for a brief moment and stood quietly, grief mutating his well-mannered facade. He was a man of marginal regrets and took pride in knowing he was commonly on the receiving end of a welcome compliment. This wasn't one of those times. He was sounding too much like Logan. Such a thought left a bitter taste of anguish in his mouth and a lump in his throat. He held on to words he uttered. That, he refused to apologize for.

Scott exhaled long and pronounced then looked Hank in his deep blue eyes. "I'm sorry Hank." He caressed the bridge of his nose in disdain. "Look, why don't you stay here with the Professor, run some more tests and see what you can discover about his condition. Jean, Storm, Logan, and I will canvas Mutant Town, search for survivors, and gather as much Intel as we can while we're there." Scott looked to his right, where the African weather goddess displayed herself in instructor's attire. "And Storm? Find Logan."

There was a silent agreement between them. Storm left the room while Hank returned to his cluttered desk. Scott examined the Professor's body once more before tending to his mentally distant redhead. "Are you okay?" he asked as he massaged her shoulders.

Jean leaned against his chest and fell into his adoring arms. Scott pressed his palm against her forehead and kissed her temple. She was warm, feverish.

"Hey, Jean, look at me."

Jean turned while in his embrace and met him at eye level. "Scott, I'm fine."

"And I believe you. I just..." Scott slid his hand from Jean's forehead to her cheek, and let his thumb rest comfortably against the edge of her lips.

Jean took Scott's hand and held it in her own. "You're not going to lose me Scott. I promise."

Scott smiled and kissed her tenderly.


Logan preferred the woodlands, especially during a storm. It kept his mind calm and fresh. The scent of pines, the running river, the foul stench of a rotting carcass, all made for peace of mind. Here, his feral side was one with nature, and couldn't be tamed or a subject to violate. Here, Logan had no limits.

Everything was clear, and the air was brisk. Even something as trivial as the cold wind wetting his savage, yet carelessly trimmed sideburns was a welcome change. The way it soiled his burly hair and saturated his pores was pleasant, if pleasant was familiar. His eyes bore aggression toward something in the distance. Suddenly the air was calm no more. Logan sensed a shift. Six armed men at the far end of the woods. By their odor he put their ages between 30 and 35, and races between Caucasian and African. His primal instincts kicked and he drew his claws. He kept still, and silently tracked the scent toward a far away hill. Logan hunched and crept slowly through the murky terrain, careful not to step on any twigs or other debris that would make a sound.

Logan found footing on a large root that canvased it's way up the hill and used it as a pathway toward the peek. Lighting crashed, followed swiftly by the roar of thunder. Suddenly Logan could see it all. An open grass plain, with a careful selection of towering trees that covered the area. The men were masked and shrouded with bulletproof vests, I.D dogtags, cammo pants, and boots, military issue. They roamed the scene, weapons armed and ready to fire at a moments notice. Logan scoffed at their use of the flashlights they had attached to their guns. It'd make his job far more enjoyable, and easier to savor the expressions of terror across their faces when he went in for the kill. Ah, target practice.

One of the ground units spoke into his radio. Logan's sharp hearing listened in on the conversation.

"Alpha Five, this is Ground Squadron Delta. The perimeter is secure. Awaiting further instructions."

"Hold tight solider. We're on route for rendezvous. Extraction is ten minutes out."

"Understood."

Logan leaped from his standing and grabbed an overhanging branch that dangled in front of him. It splintered and nearly broke under Logan's weight. Logan corrected his balance and regained his forward momentum as he silently walked across the tree's thick branch. The first man stood under him, arms out, and trigger ready. Logan smirked. He craved the kill. He bent down, gripped the bark fiercely and waited patiently for his unsuspecting victim to move. The moment the gunman stirred the hunt was on. Logan slowly stood and stared the man down. He followed as his prey walked away from the edge of the tree, crossing his feet with exact precision. The branch began to crack as Logan neared its end. Shit. He was motionless.

"What was that?" The gunman peered around his surrounding and discovered nothing. He turned toward his right and began walking in the direction of noise.

A distorted voice called out over the radio receiver. "What's got ya spooked this time Smitty? Did a bird land on a branch and make you piss yourself again?"

Still laughter.

"Look at you Garret, Mr. Funny Man. I hope your ass gets mauled by a snake." Smitty

I promise bub, you won't even feel a thing. In one motion Logan lunged at Smitty, extended his claws and pierced the back of his neck, killing him instantly and without a sound.

The second target was near. Logan saw him disappear behind a field not thirty seconds south of the area. At this rate, he'd have them all picked off in a matter of minutes. This hadn't been the challenge he hoped for, but it was enough to satisfy even his simplest desire. He couldn't argue the fact. It was still fun. Logan stalked the second gunman to a decaying bridge that crossed over a shallow creek, and hid behind a large tree. He peered out and saw the man standing in place, pausing only to unzip the seam of his pants. The gunman moaned in pleasure as he pissed into the creek. Logan slid out from behind the tree and quietly approached the bridge, clawsless. Pour sap doesn't even see me comin'. His claws grew from the gaps between his knuckles. He dug them in the gunman's back while covering his mouth with his free hand. Logan let the man gasp and come to terms with his end before dropping his lifeless corpse in the creek. Sorry bub, not your day.

Guns cocked behind him. "Don't move Mutie."

"Alright. Now there's a party" Logan said in his deep, grizzly voice. He turned around and grinned. "We both know how this ends. Take your best shot." This is gonna hurt.

Logan took on the stance of a savage beast and prepared for the remaining guards to open fire. Each piercing round left the barrel with enough force to fatally wound a normal man. Not for the Wolverine. Logan pushed the ballistic assault with a feral roar sufficient to shake the fur of a four ton grizzly. The bullets rippled Logan's flesh but refused to silence the advance of his coming fury. Like pellets, the rounds ricocheted off his adimantium bones and ended up a mutilated waste on the ground.

Logan's flesh resembled a deformed ravage brute that had been bathed in blood. His healing factor was rejuvenating his organs faster than they could be torn apart; a nauseating sensation, one Logan never became accustomed to. Every inch of him ached with a raging pain. His muscles were raw, rigid, and pleaded for mercy; for Logan to collapse and welcome death on the murk soil soaking beneath. Logan was a survivor, a fighter, who's lone urge was to feast on a punishment only the taste of blood could satisfy.

The gunfire was brutal, and unrelenting. Logan set is eyes on his quarry. He heard a shift in the man's pulse. It beat rapidly, aggressively. A sick grin formed along Logan's face as he showed his teeth. Logan lunged toward the man, sliced the assault rifle in half and buried his claws deep into the heart of his prey. In a swift motion he pulled him around and heaved the lifeless corpse toward the second gunner, who's ballistics were swallowed by the mass that struck him. Logan lunged toward the gunmen, claws out, and impaled them through their chests before their bodies made contact with the ground. The Wolverine forced his claws from their cold flesh and let them slide back in his hands. Logan examined the soldier's dogtags in a ravish, petty amusement and tore them from their necks. O'Riley and Harrison...more respected soldiers would have put up a better fight. He pushed the metal plated tags in his pocket and took off after the final hired gun.

The timberland was daunting for Garret. When his commanding officer approached him with this mission he was hesitant and less than eager about his prospects. He could do battle in a deserted ghost town with the best of them, but being trapped in with a ravaged wolf-man was career sabotage. Give him a sniper and a faraway target, and you had your man. There was none better. He had to admit the thought of gorilla warfare could provide an added improvement to his list of recent and otherwise dull accomplishments. For that idea he welcomed the challenge, no matter how pessimistic his views of success were or how they would interfere with his performance.

Garret had lost a lot of good men under his leadership. Most of the causalities were the result of highly trained and decorated soldiers they were privileged to combat, rather than poorly executed assaults. This field was different. He wasn't hired to do a traditional battle, although any team under his authority were expected to be prepared for one at all times. Ground Squadron Delta was assigned to survey ten acres of woodland in a crude attempt to prevent a runaway mutant from leaving the premises. Intel specified the mutant in question was no immediate threat, but recent actions disproved that assumption. Because of a technical error, several good men had paid the price with their lives. His only mission now was ensuring their senseless deaths were not in vain. The mutant needed to be silenced.

Garret found shelter behind a large tree with a base consumed with overgrown weeds. He was safe for the moment, but he sensed he didn't have much time in his present location. He separated the magazine from his assault rifle and peered inside. Only a few rounds left. Garret reconnected the magazine to his rifle and strapped it behind his back. He pulled a hunting knife from a holster strapped to his left leg and rose slowly against the bark of the tree, clenching the knife firmly in his right hand. Looking across the terrain, Garret saw Logan approaching, nose flinching in the wind; an acknowledgment the beast was tracking him. He pulled his head out of sight and hid it behind the tree and looked above him to the countless thick, overhanging branches. Taking several, silent and heavy breaths to calm his rapid heartbeat. Garret placed the knife in his mouth, bit into the handle and began to scale the tree.

From the side of the tree Garret saw Logan stop cold in his tracks. His eyes were fixed ahead, but Garret couldn't tell if he was staring out in the distance or if he was concentrating hard to listen in on any sudden movement. Still, he paused for the moment. His pulse was rapid; his heart pounding. The sweat from his forehead stung his eyes, leaving his sight jarred and blurry. He crept along the tree silently without another distraction and grabbed hold of the highest branch. Garret balanced himself perfectly and pulled the knife from his mouth. Logan remained motionless directly under him. His claws hadn't been drawn, but Logan maintained an attack ready position. Garret grabbed a second knife that was strapped on his right ankle. This was it, his moment. The mutant displayed no signs of going down without a fight. Garret expected nothing less.

Garret leaped toward Logan, blade drawn. Logan, hearing everything, turned around and spread his claws. Logan struck Garret in the left shoulder while Garret simultaneously pierced Logan's abdomen, which healed within moments. Screams echoed from both men as they fell to the ground. Logan kicked Garret in his stomach and thrust him opposite the tree. Quickly, they returned to their feet and took a fighting stance. Their eyes locked, their arms upright and guarded. Logan moved first. He carried his right arm at a perfect right angle with his fist placed directly beside his head and left hand straight out. Garret dodged with precision and Logan's claws dug deep into the bark of the tree behind him. Logan's sliced at the wind with his free hand and cut the tree in half with the other. Garret braced for another barbaric attack. Logan was wounded but his impulse indicated he wasn't about to slow down. Garret smiled under his mask and prepared his defense. Logan let out a fierce, primal roar and engaged his opponent in a brutal knife fight. Strike for strike, Garret matched Logan's raw intensity and countered every blow, evading his metal assaults eloquently.

Through a series of quickly paced attacks, Logan stabbed Garret through his right wrist and severed his hand. Garret's voice was horrid. Logan threw him down. Garret quickly reached for his assault rifle and shot Logan through his chest and abdomen with his remaining rounds. Logan stumbled from the shear nature of the blasts but balanced himself before he could fall to the ground. Garret's assault rifle clicked, and within seconds his ammo had been depleted. Logan's face turned from enraged to berserk. His brows narrowed, his nose wrinkled, and his eyes resembled that of a savage beast. Logan grabbed Garret by the neck, raised him above his line of vision and repeatedly gutted him. Garret let out a series of soft cough and wept blood before Logan tossed his mutilated body aside.

Logan breathed heavily and scoffed at the lifeless corpse that lay below him. He spat his blood at Garret's remains and sighed. The scenery shifted and slowly began to fade from existence. The woodland terrain and the murky, stormy skies was replaced by reflective metal walls and high energy LED lights. Suddenly everything was dry and bright again. Logan looked up at the empty control room above him. An automated voice sounded through the room. DANGER ROOM SESSION COMPLETE. The metallic doors opened and Logan walked out.

Logan had to admit, he was impressed with how Hank was able to enlist the A.I with emotions over a select list of per-programmed backgrounds. It made the exercise more authentic, one he chose to indulge in from time to time. He didn't expect the squad of mercenaries to put up much of a fight but he was pleased with how well the session was put together.

"Logan," a woman called out in a thick, African accent. Logan turned impulsively and gazed upon the cocoa colored beauty approaching him. The woman was a few feet taller than him even when he stood upright. He didn't encounter many dark skinned woman with white hair in his lifetime, but she was the only one who could actually pull the look off. "What the hell do you think you are doing?" She barked.

"Danger Room session. What's it look like darlin'? Thought I'd cool off before our little trip to the sticks." Logan grumbled.

"Charles is dying in the other room and you can't even be bothered enough to show you care. You're a part of this team Logan, and from time to time you need to acknowledge that."

Logan's short stature barely brought him to Storm's chin, but he brushed up close and made his distaste toward her statement known. "Look, I ain't one of your students you can bully into a lecture. I went in to clear my head. If this school didn't have some screwed up rule about alcohol, we wouldn't be having this conversation. So don't be blowin' smoke about something you don't understand."

Storm's eyes turned pale white. Logan's odor offended Storm. His breath smelt of cigar ash and stale bourbon, and his facial hair reeked of a large, wet, and dying mammal. Logan only let himself go this bad when he became distraught with an overbearing sense of grief. So in his strange way, Logan did care. "Fine. My mistake." Logan's back was turned, and hunched over. "Scott is prepping the jet. Are you going to join us?"

"What, and let you bang on those MRD freaks all by yourselves? Yeah, ain't no way I'm missin' that."

Storm flinched a smile at the rugged man.

"So, when we leavin'?"