14. Converging Threads
Logan hung up the phone before the line even had a change to connect. He left his hand on the receiver rubbing the black plastic with his thumb as he tried to decide whether or not he in fact should call her. It had become an uncomfortable ritual to pick up a payphone and dial the number Grace had given him only to chicken out when he heard it ring at the other end – often sooner. He was not in the habit of calling her, not often, maybe once in every three months, but it had been going on for years. He let the phone go and turned around to face the babel of drunken voices, chinking glasses and some mediocre rock music that tried its hardest to rise above the racket but which only managed to escalate the cacophony. It was a busy night, and good money to be made on the intoxicated punters.
Logan circled around the worst of the congestion filling up the heart of the large establishment. Some well oiled customers didn't pick up on the exasperation he exuded and he left a string of cursing and threats in his wake. It was a part of the show to gather enough animosity towards his character amongst the crowd before the evening's fights. It upped the bets against him and created some hefty ones for him, though they were usually few and far apart, which meant better returns for him and the ringmaster he was working for. It was a pretty standard prizefighting setup they had going. The ringmaster knew about Logan's mutation and knew how to utilise it without revealing, so far, that ace in their sleeves. He picked up the toughest and the meanest of the willing members of the crowd to fight against Logan thus protecting his other, human fighters from unnecessary risks, and providing the crowds with more brutal and bloodthirsty fights than others in the business could. That was their selling point and it made them good money though it also meant that they had to keep to the less than classy venues of the North American outback. But the money was good. And it was a job with considerable benefits on which the prizefighters capitalised shamelessly.
Logan felt he had found a nice niche for himself to pass the time, but sometimes, and always before a fight, he found himself standing before a payphone, staring at the dial and thinking about Grace. In those moments the roar of what ever dive he was in turned in to a distant rumble as he thought about her cabin. He thought about the mountains and the smell of the snow and pines in the air. And the quiet, the stillness. And the scent of her. And the scent of dried hay. He always, eventually, dialled up the number but when the last number was selected and he leaned against the wall with his hand and shielded the phone and the conversation he was not about to have with his body, he remembered the cell and her in it. He never let the phone ring twice and on the rare occasions when he let it ring once she was never fast enough to pick it up. He didn't know if the number was even legit anymore after such a long time but it was all he had on her. The cabin was absolutely out of bounds for him. He had no business in going there, not after what he had done to her. These days, sometimes, he had dreams about her in that cell and of him there with her. They weren't nightmares while they lasted (he had other dreams for that), often quite the contrary, but he always felt disgusted after he had woken up and wondered why she had not taken his life in the reckoning he deserved. He hated her for that, then, when he lay woken in his bunk with the sheets wet from his sweat. There was no way he could drive up to that cabin just to see her. And to have her scent in his lungs. No way. No question about it.
It's all gone.
If she ever wanted to find him, she could do it; Logan was sure she had the means to find out where the unanswered calls had come.
Logan kept an eye on the throng he was ploughing through scanning for potential opponents, for big thugs with massive shoulders and an aura of misguided arrogance. He changed his course when he found one, walked right into the sucker's shoulder spilling his pint all over his chest and bounced back the curses with a filthy gesture. One more fucker going to get what he deserves. The coming satisfaction made Logan grin. It burned in his chest and gut, the warm, reassuring knowledge of success; the sense of power, his dominance, and submission he was about to beat out from the fucker in the blue flannel shirt. It made him growl aloud as his claws and hands itched.
Few times over the years he had managed to notice someone keeping an eye on him in the crowd. Always someone he didn't know but who always seemed to know him. They never exchanged words but Logan was sure those times he saw them he was meant to do so, that he was allowed to discover that he was still under surveillance as a bate for the bigger fish. Often it annoyed him, sometimes it felt reassuring; he wasn't as alone as he felt. When he managed to catch one they traded a knowing look and a slight nod recognising that a contact had been made before the tail turned away and disappeared again. Logan never saw the same person twice (and he never saw her).
Logan reached the dark corner he had been heading for and sat down. It was one of their usual dives, remote though well established in certain blood thirsting, boozing and whoring circles under the currents of the society. All kinds of people seemed to crawl into places like these: the ones with money and the ones without (the ones providing most of the entertainment, usually, but not always), lumberjacks and Wall Street white collars off the leash, drifters like him and local residents, old friends and packs of buddies, one night stands with complete strangers you never needed to see again. The real world got checked in upon entering but what one found inside was no paradise or fantasy, just something other than what waited at home or on the road. A drug of a sorts, one that swarmed your dulled senses with intoxication extraordinaire that pulled you under with its promises of ecstasy and it's delivery. People drowned here every night, over again and again. And Logan found his rupture in the intensity of the theirs. He could hunt here though his was forced to let his quarry go.
Logan stared at one of waitresses attending the bar long and hard enough to catch her eye and lifted his forefinger for a beer after he had caught her attention. He, like all the fighters, had a tab that was open within reason. They generated enough business for the patrons to be generous with their beer in return.
The girl that brought to the bottle of beer was dressed in dark jeans and a form-hugging black t-shirt. The bar girls were off limits to the public, untouchable if you wanted to keep having fun in this establishment. Some of the girls did have their share of fun with the fighters after hours but for anyone else they were not available. There had to be some rules, even in a place like this. All anarchy is an illusion.
The girl (Logan hadn't bothered to learn her name yet) put the bottle down in front of him. 'There's someone at the counter asking for you.'
'Yeah?' Logan downed a third of the bottle on one go. 'Who?'
The girl shrugged her shoulders. 'A woman. Dark hair, tall, kinda good looking but not your usual type.' She put her hand on her hip. 'And she ain't alone.'
Grace? He took another swing. 'Not my usual type?' There was a hint of tease in his voice.
The girl laughed. 'Yeah, everyone here knows your type and she ain't it. And like I said, she ain't alone. There's some hulking piece of a man with her.' She glanced over her shoulder. Logan smelled swelling lust. 'Oh well, anyhow, she wanted to know if you were around. We said that we'd let her know if we saw you.'
Logan let the girl wait. Could it be Grace? Usually women came asking for him after the fight but not before it, not unless they were already acquainted with him from an earlier encounter. But apparently this one wasn't his type and Grace had an uncanny talent when it came to finding him.
'What is she wearin'?' he asked.
'What?' Clearly not the question the girl had been expecting from him.
'Her clothes. What are they like'?'
'Ah, right. Jeans and some kind of a parka. Kinda sexy in a way, if you ask me, with that shirt she's wearing.' She smiled coyly. Logan wondered if she was cheering for both teams.
'An air force jacket?'
'I dunno. It ain't blue, if you mean that. It's black.'
Gotta be Grace, though. 'Bring me the bottle from the barkeep. And a glass.'
'What about her?'
'I'll let you know when you get back here.'
The girl was about to leave when Logan reached for her elbow. 'How about the man with her?'
The girl thought about it for a moment. 'Big, like I said. Packs a bunch I'd bet. Light haired. Younger than her.'
Not that Nick then, Logan thought. Maybe it wasn't Grace after all. Maybe the guy was just another fighter looking for a team or wanting to set up something against Logan. The girl got a few paces away but then turned around again.
'And I think she's packing.'
Logan nodded and the girl disappeared into the crowd. Logan finished the beer. He rolled the sweating bottle between his hands trying to organise his thoughts.
It probably wasn't Grace but what if it was? Something like this was bound to take place after such a long time. He knew Grace and her kind (what ever they were) were serious about this genetic engineering shit, and the mutants were everywhere these days. You couldn't watch the evening news without at least one of the stories dealing with mutants. It made his fighting life more difficult. One day – and that day was bound to be soon – one day real soon someone in the ring or in the audience would figure out why he always won without a scratch to show and that'll be it. No more Wolverine, the king of the gage. As soon as the word would spread, no-one would be willing to fight him. Not in the ring that is, but he knew he would get more than his fair share in dark alleys behind the bars. And if Grace and company were right, the ever rising numbers of mutants got something to do with him being engineered.
Logan yawned and stretched his arms. This mystery woman thing was easily solved. He saw the girl was returning with his personal bottle of whisky and he tried to peer through the mass of people between him and the counter hoping to catch a glance of this woman of mystery but the crowd was too thick and constantly shifting.
The girl put the bottle and the glass down. Logan began to pull the cork off the bottle.
'Should I tell her where to find you?'
Logan filled the glass to the brim. 'Yeah, why not but not now. Tell her to wait at the bar. I'll look her up between the fights.' The girl said that she would and left. Logan followed her back with his eyes and downed the whisky on one go. The girl disappeared behind the line of customers at the end of the bar. Logan poured a refill and let his gaze wonder about. I'll find out who she is whichever way. The ringmaster and two roadies he had were preparing the ring for the night's fights. Logan followed how the older roadie checked that all the chain-link panels were secured to the larger frame. A loose corner or a protruding wire could cause serious damage during a fight. Not that it would matter in his case but you couldn't have punters puncturing their eyes or ripping open their arteries. Not in these fights anyway. There where other venues for that kind of tourneys. He couldn't take part in those: it was impossible to hide his mutation when you were meant to twist bones and remove earlobes.
The first rounds of fighting went by without an incident. The human fighters, four of them, won their matches though one perhaps too easily and one with only luck. Logan's opponent had been what he usually got: a bully with some shoulders and a very much larger-than-life self-image who thought himself to be invincible. Logan had proved the bastard wrong with a dislocated shoulder and a possibly broken jaw. He had took his time, played his part feeding the bastard's confidence and self-flattery before taking him down in a prolonged row of calculated punched that ended with an elegant welt on the chin. It had been a satisfaction. Logan liked that, being an instrument of some kind of justice (he didn't know nor much care what kind). It was a way of making someone deserving take on some of his pain. And he had plenty to pass around. He had more suckers to beat at the end of the second half. This one had been only the first course, an appetiser to entice the rage of the crowds. The was more to come. More fun to follow.
He rubbed the sweat off but didn't shower even if it was two hours before the second round. He run his fingers through his hair a couple of times and headed for the bar. He wanted to find out how the mystery bird would react to his smell. And if he would like hers. The thought made him pause on the dressing room's door as he realised that he did have a type but not of the kind the others thought him to have. It wasn't based primarily on the looks; it was a scent. He picked up girls whose scent he liked, the looks where – even to his own surprise – not that important. Good looks just compensated for a lacking scent. He snorted at himself as he stepped out.
The bartender pointed towards the far end of the bar with his forefinger when he saw Logan emerge from door leading to the backstage. Logan nodded and lifted up two fingers before pointing at the direction the barkeep had indicated. The sturdy, middle-aged man nodded in return and Logan headed for the end of the long bar. The barkeep caught up with Logan with two glasses of whiskey in his hand and Logan trusted the man's intent to guide him to the woman. The whiskey made Logan hesitate for a moment, though: the women that wanted to see him usually tended to prefer some kind of a mixed drink or a straight vodka. Logan sniffed the air hoping to catch a whiff of the woman beforehand but the background stench of the partying crowd drowned all individual scents and he was forced to wait.
The barkeep reached their destination before Logan who had been forced to take a short detour around a large group of friends arguing loudly but lightheartedly over whose turn to pay it was. He had managed to keep his eye on the barkeep's greying hair and had seen where he had stopped to lay down the drinks. Logan changed his route and the barkeep waved his hand over the customers' heads at Logan pointing out the spot. Logan pushed through but stopped on his tracks when he saw her back. It was Grace. He would have known that curve of her back and hips from anywhere. She sat with her back directly towards him, turned away and talking to a man sitting on the barstool next to hers. She had a black oilcloth jacked on her, not the old faded air force blue he had seen her wearing on previous encounters. And the girl had been right, she was carrying a gun under her arm; Logan noticed instantly where the gun and the holster caused the jacket to bulge subtly.
Grace.
Logan hesitated for a moment longer, then advanced with determination and walked right over to her. She didn't notice him and he saw his hand sink its fingers into her hair and found himself leaning in to smell her almost black tresses. She smelled like she always did: of living earth, something musky and sweet. He let her hair fall down and his hand traveled down her neck, spine and her side before he managed to stop it on her hip preventing it from travelling down on her ass as he circled around her. He felt her back stiffen under his hand. An old pain shoot up his arm making the muscles between his shoulder plate and spine cramp up.
The young man with uncannily blue eyes glanced over at Logan recognising his presence before looking back at Grace questioningly. Logan did not see her reply but the young man got up without a word and with a look that made clear he'd be watching. The man walked past Logan who noted that the man was about his hight and with a musculature similar to his. He turned around to have another look but the man had already disappeared into the crowd.
Logan sat down on the vacant stool. Grace had turned her side towards him and was leaning her elbows against the bar with the glass in her hand. Logan picked up his and remained fully turned towards her. She paid no attention to him for awhile, not until Logan turned his head to scan the crowd as he took a swig.
'He's a Soldier. A pure-bred Soldier,' Logan heard her say. She too was looking through the crowd when he turned his eyes back to her. She turned again towards the bar without looking at him. 'That's why he looks so much like you. If you noticed.'
Logan took another swing that emptied the glass. 'Yeah, a spittin' image. Except for the eyes.' He put the glass down on the counter and signalled for the girl to refill it.
'The eyes are a new thing. They used to have eyes like yours in the auld lang syne but I changed that.'
The girl arrived with his personal bottle and poured a hefty measure in his glass. Logan too turned to sit with his face towards the bar. You hate my eyes, don't you, darlin'? The thought kindled a sadness he had not expected. 'You're buildin' up an army?'
In the corner of his eye he saw Grace sip her drink. 'Nae, not as such. It's just him and a few others. There's a – a storm brewing and we need to be prepared.' Grace glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure the young man was still there though unseen. 'He has adamantium – on him too, you know.'
Logan was not sure what to make of the last remark. Was it to point out that others could take the bonding process but not him? Or that he was not the only one of his kind? Logan scratched the stubble under his jaw. You fuckin' moron. He's her ace in her sleeve against you, you goddam nitwit. You, bub, have just met your match. Logan drained the glass before the full realisation could hit him wholeheartedly and without mercy. I ain't on her good books anymore. Don't think that you ever were, he warner didn't smell any fear on her but he knew that what ever bond he had thought them to have between them was now gone (if it ever had been there in the first place). She had recognised him as her enemy, the source of her personal pain, and even if she was forced by the circumstances to look after him it didn't mean it had to be – nice.
You had it commin', bub. And you deserve nothin' less. What ever retribution she had in mind, in a direct or a roundabout way, he deserved it. Logan was more than half expecting that when the day came and whoever was hunting him would catch up with him, there would be a fatal oversight or outright blunder on her watch that would cost his life. Nothin' wrong with that, he thought while studying her features, She deserves it and I would get my peace.
'I'm glad I found you here,' she said. She had turned to face him.
Are you? Logan thought, Bet you wouldn't be here if it was up to you. 'What do you want?'
The bluntness seemed to make her back away a bit. 'I don't want –. I came to warn you, that's all.'
Logan flashed a grim smile of self-loathing at the row of bottles on the wall. 'Yeah, sure, a storm is comin'. And you came to tell me to buy a raincoat.' The sarcasm didn't ease the pain in his shoulders.
He heard Grace chuckle. 'They're going to rain on your parade, Logan, but I don't think you need waterproofs for this one. You just need to keep your eyes open.'
A wave of paranoia made Logan's neck tingle. 'Who is it?' he asked trying to sound uncaring.
'We're not sure. There has been an increase of – movement in the North American mutant community, so something is definitely going on but we're yet not sure what exactly.' She leaned her cheek on her palm and tilted her head towards him.
'So how do you know they're comin' for me?'
She didn't look into his eyes but somewhere about his brow. 'I have no idea how that could have anything to do with you, but Sattar – you remember him, the arab, right?' Logan grunted an affirmative. 'Sattar's saying that something is coming your way and we always take his word for it.' She looked over her shoulder towards the Soldier. Something in her demeanour betrayed the insecurity she tried to hide from Logan.
I ain't gonna touch you again, Logan thought more as pledge to himself than as a reassurance to her. 'I'll keep my eyes open.'
She looked at him and smiled. It seemed genuine to him. 'That's all I'm asking.' She sat up turning towards him. 'And we'll keep an eye on you. I – we want to catch those bastards too.'
Logan didn't know what to say so he drained his drink and stood up. 'I gotta get ready for the next round.' He meant to leave without another word but found himself standing in front of her. 'You gonna stick around and watch?' Her presence and the closeness of her body felt as warmth in him. He was about to step an inch closer when he sensed the Soldier standing right behind his left shoulder.
Where the fuck did you come from?
'I don't think so,' Grace answered but still smiling. 'I've seen enough price fighting to last me a lifetime. And we need to get going anyway.'
Logan felt a sting of disappointment he ignored almost as soon as he felt it.
'I think we ought to go, ma'am.' The Soldier's deep voice resonated in Logan's back irritating him; the fucker even sounded a bit like him. He wanted to bark out a dry-witted comment on the blu-eyed boy but failed to deliver. He focused on Grace again. He thought he understood why she would not want to see him fight.
'Yeah, well,' he said feeling uncomfortable, 'I guess you know how it'll turn out. Probably won't get my ass kicked.' He flashed his teeth in something that he intended as a friendly smile.
'I'm counting on that,' she replied sounding amused. Or as if they had in deed shared a private joke. Then she turned somber and met his eyes. 'You take care of yourself.'
Logan swallowed. 'Yeah, sure. Takes one of them to take me down,' he said giving the Soldier a nod. He stared at her for a while. 'You too, love. Watch your back.'
Grace blinked looking surprised.
Sometimes she looks so small.
That's me. I made her small. Back then. She didn't look small when I first saw her but I made sure she'd leave lookin' like nothin'.
Logan stepped forward ignoring the Soldier following him and cupped her chin and cheek in his right hand. Her muscles turned granite under his touch but he didn't mind. He brushed her lower lip with his thumb; he remembered doing something similar years ago, in the woods after she had found him, but to smudge her cheek with blood as a warning. I'd take it all back if I could. The Soldier put his hand on Logan's shoulder as a warning. Logan ignored the gesture and brushed her hair behind her ear with his left hand. He left the hand there, in her hair, on the back of her head. He smelled her cautiousness and a hint of fear.
I'm sorry.
He pulled her closer to him and leaned in so that he could sunk his face in her hair. It felt soft on his face and he rubbed his sideburns against her head right behind her ear. The Soldier's fingers dug into his flesh putting pressure on certain nerves in his shoulder. A person less accustomed to pain would have been brought to his knees but Logan made sure he didn't even twitch.
'I'm sorry,' he whispered into her ear while holding her head gently. 'I did mean to hurt you but I could've chosen not to. I'm sorry but I can't take it back.' He pulled his face away from hers and stroked her hair but the words didn't have the effect he had hoped for. He let her go and stepped away. She looked bewildered, her hair slightly ruffled where he had nudged her. The Soldier loosened his grip but left his hand on Logan's shoulder. Logan knew the next time those fingers would leave his left arm useless. For awhile.
The Soldier paid no attention to the man he was holding. 'I think we'd better go now, ma'am. It's almost 1 a.m. and we have a long drive ahead.'
Grace remained silent, lost in her thoughts and staring at Logan. Logan accepted her scrutiny.
'Ma'am. We ought to go, ma'am.'
Grace nodded. 'Aye, we should.'
'I'd better get going too,' Logan said and turned pulling his shoulder free from the Soldier's grip while shooting his most menacing look at the blue-eyed man. 'Sure you're not stayin', bub? I could make sure there's your name besides mine on the roster.'
To his surprise a glint of amusement flashed in the man's eyes. 'Some other time, sir. I'm sure we can arrange something.'
Logan grinned. 'You just let me know where and when. I'll always have time for you.'
The Soldier laughed. 'It's a date then. We will figure out the details later, sir.'
Logan chuckled and walked away. He couldn't help liking the blue-eyes but he didn't let the banter mislead him into forgetting that he had been talking to a man manufactured especially for dispatching him. Friendly manners had nothing to do with it.
Logan almost took a look over his shoulder to see the two before the throng closed behind him. He'll take care of her. And I have a match to win.
I watched Logan walk thought the mob of drunken punters on his way backstage. The crowd parted like the Red Sea in front of him. People, those that saw him coming, stepped quickly aside to clear room for him. Those who didn't, soon found themselves shoved aside by an indiscriminating bulk of a man who didn't seem to even notice he had run into someone. The cursing and the threats that followed him fell on dead ears. Though I'm sure nothing escaped him. He was playing the part of the badass thug, building up enough revulsion and animosity to challenge every ned that thought himself the top predator in this neck of the woods. But even more effectively he enticed the most dangerous primal reaction of them all: jealousy, the cousin of resentment and retribution as the eyes of the women he passed followed him. Some discreetly, others – not so much but all were looks of attraction and desire. I was sure he noticed those too just as I was sure he would take up some of the offers, like was every man that saw their women stare at him. Lust is a heartless bitch. It knocks down empires and turns hearts to ashes.
Love. What a strange thing to say to me. And the way he had rubbed his head against mine. Like a dog rubbing its head against its pack mate. It reminded me of the dream I had had ages ago. The one of the warhound. The one I had had before I had found him in the forest. Was this the barren sunburnt land from where he had come in that dream?
A shudder run through me.
Why hadn't I recognised him the moment I saw him lying unconscious on the forest floor? I could've left him lying there, let the hunger of his body finish him. Why had it taken me so long to remember him? How could I have forgotten him – of all the torturing bastards I have met in my life. He was one of the worst. For some twisted, fucked up reason, I had crossed roads with one of the worst I had ever met.
I followed his departing figure and felt the weight of sadness settle on me. It was strange: why thinking of him made me feel sad? Why not disgusted, enraged, terrified or self-pitying?
Had been? Had he changed? Had he changed like I had assured him he had? Had he changed, somehow, over the years? Or because of the brain damage and the trauma? He looked exactly like he had back then with his sideburns and permanently ruffled hair that looked like he had ears of an animal. Beastly, I suppose. The hound, no doubt about it.
'Are you alright, ma'am?'
'Yeah,' I turned around towards Pete, 'He managed to ruffle my feathers but I'm fine.' I smiled at him in order to sooth his nerves.
Pete looked unconvinced but changed the subject anyway. 'So, he is one of us?'
I glanced over my shoulder but Logan had disappeared amongst the crowd. 'Genetically yes. Mostly at least. For the most part he is a Soldier but somebody has made modifications on the principal genome.'
'He certainly looks like one of us Soldiers.' Pete looked thoughtfully over the heads of the crowd behind my back. 'I can take him down, ma'am, in combat,' he said and locked eyes with me. 'I have an idea and I think I know what he has done to you,' he added quietly. 'I smelled some of the story on you two.'
I had forgot how extraordinary their sense of smell was. Even with Logan. It must be a completely different world for them.
'Don't.' It came out snappish. I closed my eyes and gathered my thoughts. 'Do not kill him unless you absolutely have to, is that clear?'
Pete squinted at me before replying. 'Yes, ma'am, not unless I absolutely have to.'
'Good.' I did realise Pete had produced an answer that in effect left the choice to him but I knew he would wait until it would become an absolute necessity. They all were men of their word. They were bred and raised to be that way.
Did that mean that Logan too was a man of his word? He had the DNA but not the education. Not that we knew. He just as well might had been brought up in the way that would have brought into existence the traits and possibilities hidden in his genome; you needed to have the right environment for the genetic traits to manifest themselves, otherwise they would become dormant for the generation. And every now and again some soldiers turned unpredictable and ferocious up to the point of being unmanageable despite of the best training possible.
And sometimes it was done to them on purpose to mould them into perfect instruments of terror. I have seen Soldiers like that in action. On our side and on other's. A world of pain was needed in creating them and a world of pain followed in their wake.
I combed my hair with my fingers to smooth out the ruffles left by his fingers. I stifled the desire to wipe my face with my cuff as well. 'Okay, let's go. He'll take care of himself and we'll leave a lookout to notify if anything does come his way.'
Pete grinned. 'That'll be interesting.'
I headed for the exit and Pete fell into pace with me extending his arm here and there to clear way for us. We got out and crossed the car park. I waited for Pete to unlock the doors but he leaned his elbow on the roof and studied the facade of the establishment we had exited.
'Come on, it's cold out here.' I had left my cap and mittens in the car and the wind was dragging the warmth out of me. 'Take a picture, Pete, it'll last you longer.'
'Hold on. Did you notice that girl in that green hooded thing there, ma'am, sitting in a corner table close to the exit and trying to be invisible?'
'Can't say I did.' I was sure Pete was right. 'Nothing escapes you, does it? What about her?'
Pete grinned at me. 'Not much.' He looked back at the entrance. 'I don't know. She is a mutant but – I don't know. Something peculiar about her scent.' He unlocked and opened the door. 'Probably nothing. She hasn't washed properly for awhile so it might be just that.'
'Don't tell me you can tell people's mutations by their scent?'
Pete laughed. 'Well, I can't. All I can tell is that she didn't have that usual mutation scent.'
We got into the car. I put the mittens on. 'Sometimes I'm happy I don't have your sense of smell, Pete.'
'But most of the time you wish you did, ma'am.' Pete started the car. 'You know, you always could ask Oji to do something about it the next time you need to spend time in the tank.'
I laughed. 'I'm quite happy with the model I have, thank you very much.'
Pete stopped at the junction and looked both ways before turning right and southwards. The bizarrely named small community of Laughlin City was soon left behind us. We drove on in silence.
Pete overtook a lorry. 'You could find out a lot, ma'am, if you had our sense of smell.'
'I know. And you're right, sometimes I do think about getting an upgrade.'
Pete didn't say anything for awhile but it was clear he had something on his mind. I was happy to wait; it was a long drive.
'Like I said, ma'am, I did figure out some of the history between you two, but –' he threw a quick side long glance at me, '– I think I have a better picture of the current situation than you do. With all due respect, ma'am.' I didn't respond and Pete shifted his weight. 'Something you can't tell without a sense of smell like mine, ma'am.'
I felt discomfited by his remark. It's damn unnerving to know for certain that the person next to you knows things about yourself that you don't. Things you might not even want to know. 'Is that right?'
Pete kept his eyes on the road. Miles passed. I took the mittens off and turned the heating down a bit.
'He was scared when he came down to see you, Grace,' Pete said eventually.
I turned to stare fixedly on the black wall of the boreal forest along the road as if I could see something out there.
'And I heard something too.'
Pete slowed down and stopped the car on a small lay-by when I didn't say anything. He left the engine running and turned towards me on his seat. 'I heard what he whispered to you. I don't know if he knew I could hear him – that easily – but if his senses are anything like mine he should have known. Maybe he just didn't realise,' Pete offered when I didn't respond.
'Your point being?'
Pete turned away again. 'What he said, he meant. That's all. He was being honest with you. He is genuinely sorry but I'm not sure if he actually really regrets what he did. Do you know what I mean by that?'
I swallowed. 'I'm not sure if I do.'
Pete put the gear on before elaborating: 'Grace, he is sorry. But I think he is sorry just because he did it to you.' Pete turned to check if the road was free. 'In some other case, I not so sure.' The road was empty and dark and he didn't take the trouble to switch on the indicator before returning to the road. 'I watched him fight the first rounds. He doesn't seem so but he is a damn shrewd combatant, not the berserker it seems on the surface. Every move he makes is calculated but he had to fight to keep himself from finishing off those guys. I noticed few times when he had to redirect a blow as he realised it would do far too much damage or be lethal on contact. And every time he managed to do so.' Pete paused to rub his eye. 'But it doesn't prove that he is lenient, just that he is a master of his craft. If he could he would have allowed every single one of those blows to land. So he's in control and ruthless and has a willingness to do harm. Not just readiness.'
I thought about what he had said. 'Is that what you feel in a fight?' I assumed he did. He was a Soldier.
Pete held his silence for awhile. 'Yeah, I do.' He sounded uncomfortable admitting it. 'I know it's not ethically justifiable but it is a – high, I suppose.' He didn't sound willing to talk about it so I didn't push the subject. He wasn't done yet, though. 'So I know how he feels. I have done things I wish I had't have to do because I recognise that on a personal level they are unfair and target an undeserving person. But I don't regret the deeds themselves. They're just things that I do, nothing more. Things that I'm good at. Like you're good at intuitive healing or reconnaissance and in –. It's just what I do well.'
I knew exactly what he meant. We all had done things over the course of history that had been necessary, the unavoidable evil, I reckon. You can't make an omelette without breaking the eggs and all that. A nice thought but not much of a comfort.
'So, you don't think he's changed?' I asked eventually.
Pete took his time to consider my question and I appreciated it. 'No, I don't think people in general can change. Not in their heart of hearts, no.'
My heart sunk. It's just the way the world is, unfair.
In the corner of my eye I saw Pete glance at me before continuing: 'I believe that after a certain age our minds and personalities are set. Certain things become part of us for good and we can't shake them off anymore. No matter how hard we try. What we are at that point becomes what we will be for the rest of our lives.'
I knew he was right, in my heart of hearts. Unfair, that's all.
I heard Pete draw a ragged breath. 'I love the combat and I love to battle. It's the reason I live for. It's a cliche to put it like this, I know, but it's the most alive I ever feel.' He swallowed. His voice was husky. 'It's always in my mind. Even when I'm not thinking about it and I have to be careful with it. It so easy to start to measure everything against it. And when that happens, Grace.' He drew another breath. 'I hope the day never comes, but I fear it will.' I closed my eyes. I knew it would come, eventually. Pete reached over and squeezed my hand in his. 'I'll need your help if – when the day comes, Grace.'
I closed his hand between mine. 'I'll be there, ready for you.'
Pete sighed leaving his hand between mine for a long while.
'Logan hasn't changed, ma'am,' Pete said after he had withdrawn his hand. 'The beast will always be there. Like it is in me. In all of us, for that matter.' I wasn't sure if he meant the Soldiers or people in general. 'The man that tortured you will always exists, somewhere, deep in him. Take my word for it. It takes one to know one.'
'You have never harmed me,' I protested.
Pete laughed ghoulishly. 'Not you but –. Let's just say that I'm not unfamiliar with the concept and leave it at that, okay?'
Grace, you big sumph. 'Sure. But you're a good man, Pete,' I added.
'No, I'm not. Nor is he.' Pete remained quiet for a while. 'But he tries to be something else than what he knows he is. He's trying fucking hard to be something he's not. And it'll backfire on him.'
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. 'I know. Wake me up in an hour or so and we'll switch.'
'Sure thing. Mind if I turn on the radio?'
I smiled and shook my head.
The fights went well, Logan thought. Except for the very last one which the ringmaster had announced unexpectedly. The old man sometimes did that when he thought that there was still money to be made on the displeased, blood thirsty crowd that wanted to see their heroes avenged and the beast known as the Wolverine spitting out his own teeth for a change. Logan didn't mind. Nothing much to it. Take a few hits, let them think that they're close to making him bite the dust, and then turn the game around. Not too soon though. Logan thought that he might have taken the surprise contender down too soon. The guy had been dealing tougher punches than what Logan had expected, hard enough to knock the wind out of the mighty Wolverine when Logan had had his back turned. Stupid mistake, but he had made the fucker pay.
To be perfectly honest, Logan had been slightly off his game and he knew it. Grace had thrown him off balance (she seemed to have a knack for that). Her appearance had made him – careless. He had let the rage in him rise too close to the surface. Logan let out a growling sigh. A mistake for an amateur. She had been on his mind throughout the second rounds. At first he had just wondered about her reappearance out of the thin air. What was this 'storm' she had warned him about? Should he let it, or her, to have a say in his plans (as if he had any)? He had thought about the gun. He hadn't though she was the type to carry a sidearm, but what the hell did he know. It wasn't like he had known her that long, just had fucked her once and even then it had been her own –.
Wrong. Fuckin' is all you've ever done to her. That's why you think you know her, but you're wrong. Fuckin' bastard, you only know how it feels to be inside her.
A wrong thought to have in the middle of a fight night. It had made him think about the cell and her in the wrong way. He had thought about how it had felt to have another person (her to be precise) under his control to do as he pleased. After that he had begun to have flashbacks, first as he watched the other prizefighters beat their opponents. Then during his own fights which was not so much a distraction but a temptation for his rage; It had made him hit too hard a few times.
Then, when what he thought had been the last fight had been over, he had been unable to maintain the curbs on the memories, and suddenly he had been walking through the door to the cell. Grace had been there, lying on the floor, on her back, black and blue from bruises he recognised as his handiwork. He downed a glass of whiskey but it didn't help to drain the memory, it just made it more intoxicating. He remembered how he used to walk over to her and stare down at her (he saw his own reflection in her eyes). A wave of lust caught him and he didn't hear the ringmaster announce the one last contestant, their saviour. And he didn't see the first blow coming.
It was time to quit and he had told so to the ringmaster. The old man had not been particularly pleased about it, but he too knew that they had taken it as far as it could go without blowing the cover on Logan's talent, as the old man called it.
Grace had talked about talents.
They had agreed on a break. Logan might return in a year or two, if he wanted to. He had promised the old man he would seriously consider it when the time came. Logan had warned that he probably would not return but the old man had been less pessimistic.
'You're the best fighter I've ever seen and it's in you, son. The fight is in you. You'll be back.'
Logan had smiled and said that that was precisely why he had to go. That it had been a good run, lot's of fun, and the old man had known exactly what he meant by that. So they had shaken hands and Logan had received his winnings for the night. All in all he had enough to last him what was left of the winter. He would take it easy for a while, he would put his feet up, hunt some and just drive around the north. Something else would turn up by the summer.
Logan took his gear to the camper van and returned inside for one or two last beers before leaving for the dive for good. The shoulder was giving him trouble and when he reached with his hand to massage it, his fingers found the scar on his neck. It occurred to him that he could cut off the skin where the scar was. He entertained the thought for awhile. He could do that. The pain would not be that bad, not in comparison to the total amount of pain he had suffered. And it would perhaps distract his body. He had turned down all offers of sex the night had earned him, and he hadn't been nice about. He had pretended that they, the women that came for him, were not even there looking straight through them and walking past them with deaf ears. That had not gone down well with the ladies, and to be honest, he would not have minded some sexual gratification after the fights. Memories about the cell had given him an itch he badly wanted to scratch, but because it was the cell he had been thinking about he didn't dare to give in to the temptation. He was pretty sure how that would turn out, and by morning there would have been yet another broken figure with his handiwork all over her.
A mistake he would not repeat.
And the scar would stay on as the reminder he badly needed.
Logan walked over to the bar and sat down at the end. The TV was on and the talking heads of the late night, or the not quite the early morning yet -news babbled about the current economy as the numbers of the stock exchange run by at the bottom of the screen. A lot of red there. Apparently things were not going well. Logan smiled wryly. When exactly had things gone well?
He paid for the bottle and the barkeep didn't object. The dive was practically empty. The old man was counting his money with his wife in one table; few customers were sleeping where they had fallen. The quiet made the dive feel almost comfortable after the maddening chaos of a fight night. Logan felt himself relaxing. The tension left behind by the fighting begun to evaporated from his systems. He was happy to leave these circles behind. All the hassle surrounding the fighting had begun to have its toll on him. He was happy to be done with it.
Little peace and quiet, that's all I need.
He noticed the girl sitting at the bar when he took his first gulp from the ice cold bottle. She was trying hard not to ogle him. Logan let his eyes run down her figure. A strange creature to be found in a place like this. Young, not even eighteen yet, he thought. Good looking figure but dressed in a dark green hooded coat that seemed a bit too thin considering the weather outside. And clearly interested in him though not that experienced in the matters of lust: every time he caught her eyeing him, she quickly turned her head away in embarrassment and stared at anything but him. It made Logan smile. A kind of a sweet thing, to be honest. He considered paying the girl a compliment but did not. He didn't want to give her any ideas. Tonight was not the night, and he didn't usually go for girls that young. Not that they could do better, they just needed to have their hearts broken by somebody of their age. They didn't know how to play the game yet and Logan didn't want to be their introduction to it.
Go find your love from some where else, darlin', he thought. What ever you're lookin' for, it ain't here.
Meeting Grace again had changed something. He thought how she had smelled when he had come up to her from the behind, and the scent of her hair; her cheek on her palm. The world had turned without him noticing, a new leaf and all that shit. He looked at the girl again but now saw only a sad little creature swimming in strange waters with bigger, crueler fish than she had known to exist.
Not your problem, he reminded himself. Mind your own business and let her figure it out by herself. You just walk away – Wolverine. You fight your own battles, nobody else's.
Wish you make it through, little girl. World's a big pile of shit and full of men like me.
A word from the author:
Thanks for sticking it out with us so far! Really appreciate it. This ain't a canon story as you might have noticed, and I have rewritten the universe(s) quite a bit. And it ain't over yet. This is just the end of the second part. Here my story catches up with the the X1, as you saw, and my next chapters will deal with the events seen in the films – but without being necessarily faithful to them. This being my non-canon universe and all that. (And the big W wants to shed a little more blood than what we see in the films. Who am I to deny him?) However, I will not retell the complete films in my story, only those scenes that I need to rewrite (or I might just refer to them in my story). So refresh your memories. What a great reason for watching the X1 again, don't you think? So, be warned: things will not go as you might expect.
Yours, ButNothing (+the cast)
