Hey, all. Sorry this one took a little longer, but thanks to trying to continue to read a good many comics along with a number of fanfics out there that I have been so fortunate to stumble upon, I guess this got a bit pushed behind. But here we are anyway. I hope you enjoy it.

MidlifeCrisis-Thanks for your review. I've been reading your Hopefully this chapter starts us moving forward a little more. I guess in my mind, at least, this story consists more of a bunch of drabbles at the moment than a full story-arc, but we'll see what I can pull together. Hopefully it won't be disappointing.

RhiannonUK-Hi! I'm glad you're reading my fic, though I think it's nothing compared to yours. Goodness, your stories just leave me breathless. I think I need to go start them over again. Say, you don't have any idea how much longer it will be until the next chapter, do you? I hope it's not long. Anyway, thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoy my story.

Rowena DeVandal-Heh. I suppose you're right. But Wolvie's really kind of a softie under it all, I think. And he'd pretty much planned for the rain as it were-it was just the kids' insistence that they didn't need his help that he let them get caught out in the rain in the first place. As for Jubilee, she's a part of the storyline I've been working on. Hopefully you won't be disappointed.

CaptMacKenzie-Thanks for your review. Jubilee will be making a more prominent appearance in a few chapters. I hope you enjoy!


Chapter 9: Chance Encounter


Camping. The end of the road led me to a campground of some sort. It stank of people, and the animals had been scared away so that the most I saw was a scrawny little squirrel.

I could last some days without food, though, especially in the warmth of the season. I decided to take the risk.
I drew close that night. I saw that the humans had shelters—cloth caves, and metal houses of some sort. You could have tossed me into the middle of New York and I would have been just as overwhelmed.

Maybe, anyway.

I saw fire for the first time, while I was hiding in the shadows. I must have made a sound of surprise or something when the flames first leaped up, since a kid picked up a rock and threw it at the bush I was hiding in; he must have heard me. It didn't hit me, but it reminded me to be more careful.

I smelled cooked food. Saw them eat strange things, that certainly were not meat, and that they took from little packages and didn't have to hunt for them.

That night, when everyone went to bed, I went foraging.

I got shot at that night, but not before I'd decided that whether I was human or not, being around them was worth the risk of the pain.

Just because of their food.

Laugh if you want. But you try living your first months of life on nothing but a rare meal of meat—and rare in more ways than one.

I remember the first time we had steak at Xavier's, before Alkali Lake—before I left. Had mine ordered rare and warm—still cooked enough to my liking, but not burnt through and brown like everyone else likes it. One-Eye got so queasy (Kept telling me to go off and catch it with my teeth if I wanted it raw, damn him. Doesn't know a thing about that.) that he eventually took it into his own hands. I ended up smearing a half-charred piece of steak all over his pretty-boy little face.

Ah, those were the times.


Then:

Wolverine darted away from the human camp, his hands filled with something he was positive was most assuredly good.

He'd had to break open the lock to the cooler with his claws to get to it, but the treasure inside had been worth every second of the pain.

Besides, the man had missed him when he had shot at him, so there was no harm done.

He slowed to a jog, listening for any pursuers and relaxing when he heard none.

He hadn't expected any, though. Men were afraid of the night. They liked to stay inside, with their fire and lights.

He didn't mind.

He stopped, falling back to sit against a tree as he beheld his treasures.

He stuffed them in his mouth—graham crackers and sweet white bread alike. They were gone in moments, leaving him growling softly for more.

But then, there was the last thing.

It was brown and waxy—odd, and wrapped in such a way that he had ripped it clean open with his teeth to get to the inside. It smelled different, but he had seen the little ones eating it, and it hadn't done anything bad for them.

Was he a human? Or would this poison him, like the poison from the traps?

He didn't know, so he just stuffed as much as he could into his mouth, and suddenly moaned at the melting, sweet, terribly overwhelming taste that made him sit back as his senses were completely overwhelmed by it.


Chocolate.

Don't look at me like that. I'm no woman—I'm not crazy about that stuff, and I'm not like Sparks and all her sugar highs. You just try going for your whole life without anything but meat and water, and then let me stuff a chocolate bar down your throat.

Kids near went crazy without it our last survival trip. They'd always gone through that sweet stuff fast, but since we've been back they've been going through it like . . . .

Damn.

Well, they've been going through it fast. No wonder why they jumped back so quick after the survival training. All of them've gone crazy since they got back-bouncing off the damn walls—just like they're doing right now. They've got their damn music trying to shake the whole damn place down.


Now:

Logan closed the journal with a snap, stuffed it under his pillow, and rose up grumbling. There was a squeal and a giggle that was clearly audible—to him, at least—through the ceiling above him. He stalked out of the room with a soft growl.

A couple of younger students wisely steered clear of him, stepping out of his way without a word. They knew he'd been either locked in his room or gone missing for hours on end even more frequently than was usual for him, and when he was out and about he was strangely broody, even for him. Since he got back from the survival course a few days ago, he'd hardly been seen except for a couple rare glances of his usual pacings around the grounds, and a break he had taken to fix a leaking pipe under the sink and to change the lightbulbs in the entryway—which was odd, because there were others who were more graceful on ladders and probably could have done the job even without a ladder at all—but again, that was Logan.

The world wasn't fair, Logan figured as he strode along. Sure, he understood that better than most, but still . . . .

If he wasn't allowed a good bottle of beer inside the mansion, why in the world was it legal for the Sugarbomb and Co. to have such a stash of dangerous drugs in her room? Dangerous to her, at least, and anyone in her company.

There was no use snarling at her for it like he wanted to—the girl was already terrified of him. Every once in a while he'd catch her staring at him, and when he caught her at it she'd just sort of freeze, like a startled deer.

Logan grimaced at the image that he was all-too-familiar with.

Scared of him, that's what. Terrified.

She'd looked that way ever since Alkali Lake. She'd been one of them he hadn't been able to save—hadn't been able to keep out of Styker's hands. He didn't know what she'd seen, or what had happened, but ever since then the kid hadn't been comfortable being in the same room as the man known as the Wolverine.

Logan tried to tell himself that it didn't matter.

It shouldn't matter. He'd never cared before what people thought of him; why should he start now? Especially for some no-good, loud, sugar-high teenager.

He strode out the front door, taking a right across the grounds towards the stables.

No one was about, really. He walked into the stables, glowering his very best so as to avoid any unwanted greetings or conversation. The few students playing cards in there made a quick exit.

Good.

SNIKT!

A single claw carefully pried at a floorboard in the corner, lifting it up to show a slab of concrete that had been painstakingly hollowed out by some sort of blade—his claws, of course.

It wasn't like they could get dull anyway, the Wolverine reasoned as he reached in to retrieve one of his prize possessions.

A large bottle of beer, unopened and waiting.

He replaced the board carefully, then scattered dust and straw over it again before striding out again, feeling uncustomarily smug as he headed towards the front gate.

He didn't feel like another attack from Storm—she seemed even more on edge than usual, as of late, and she'd actually zapped him the day before when she found him smoking in the kitchen . . . .

More of a prick than One-Eye had been, sometimes, though you'd never guess it.

Of course, she probably hadn't meant for it to be half so bad, but she had forgotten about his damn metal skeleton. Fried the freezer so bad they had needed to get a new one, and had knocked him out on his back for a good five minutes.

Okay, maybe not five whole minutes—but it should have. As it was, he'd snarled and had his claws out and was back on his feet before even thinking about it, his hair smoking and his teeth bared.

That added three more claw marks to the kitchen wall.

It didn't help that the whole school actually seemed to have thought the whole incident funny.

Logan opened the gates and stepped outside to sit down on the curb, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it. He held it between his teeth as he glanced both ways on the road, then popped a claw to open the bottle.

A long drink later he was feeling a hell of a lot better.

So maybe drinking was bad. Maybe smoking was bad. For the kids, that was. He certainly didn't want to see Rogue pick up a habit like smoking. It just didn't seem right.

For him, though, he figured it didn't matter. Just like pain. Let the smoke eat away at his lungs, like the Blue Diplomat was always ranting about. They'd heal up anyway, just like everything else.

He sat back, feeling the sun on his face and feeling content, despite the fact that even this prime choice of alcohol had little affect on him.


Beer. I remember the first time I tasted it—on this side of the memory-line, anyway—as clear as day. Must have been a real drinker, before. Of course, no one holds their beer like the Wolverine.


Then:

Wolverine crouched in the bushes, his chest rising and falling with rapid breathing—though this was not from any exertion rather than adrenaline rushing through his veins.

He was dressed in a soft, too-large flannel shirt he'd grabbed from a camp some days back, and his pants still hung loosely about his waist. The shirt had been buttoned carefully—though it had taken more than one try to get the holes and buttons aligned right, and the shoes he had likewise stolen hurt his feet.

He was hidden. Hidden like a trap—like the kind that had caught him during the cold time, since he hadn't seen it before it was too late.
And he wouldn't go off unless he needed to.

His nose twitched as two burly men walked across the darkened street towards the loud building. Wolverine had seen them coming and going for hours, now, and had watched more than one place like this over the weeks he'd been traveling since he had found out he was a human. He hadn't seen anyone get turned away yet.

He had been watching. He was ready. He'd even cut back his hair, and though it stuck out differently than the other men's. That, at least, seemed to vary enough that he didn't think it would matter.

He hoped.

He straightened from the bushes. The animal in him snarled to return to the shadows, to get away from the cursed men or—even better—to kill them all, because they were a danger.

He could do it. Easy. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but without even thinking he knew there were probably a hundred people in the bar, and he could take them all down in less than five minutes if he needed to.

Easy.

He stopped in his tracks with a low growl, clenching his fists.

No.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his hands to relax.

He was a trap. He needed to blend in, for now. No one else was showing their claws.

He just wanted to watch. To see if they would attack first.

He stuck a hand in his pocket and stepped forward, his hand clenched around the dirtied money in his pocket.

He stepped forward slowly, breathing in at each step as if to adjust himself to the growing scent of man. He walked slightly jerkily, growling softly without realizing it, and standing straighter than he had in months as he tried to act like them while he wanted nothing more than to crouch into fighting stance and flee or fight.

A trap. Ready.

He would learn nothing if he didn't wait.

Who was he? What was he?

He hunched his shoulders and took another step forward, his hands clenched.

The scent of man was everywhere. It was thick—mixed with grease and sweat and so many scents that he couldn't separate them all. They filled his nostrils—made his eyes start to water. He sneezed twice and shook himself, stopping in the shadows to try and adjust after the relatively gentle scent of the wilderness.

And the noise.

It was like a beehive. He'd come across one of those only a couple days ago, and though he'd felt a lot of pain in his life he had decided that he really, really hated bees. They were something that even his claws hadn't been able to stop.

A man stood next to the door, smoke rising from his mouth—from a cigar. He lifted his shadowed face as Wolverine paused before him.

"You want somethin'?"

Wolverine sniffed, then snorted—taking in the thick smoke, alcohol, and human sweat. The man was no threat. His eyes moved over the man's rough face, his blurred eyes, his greasy hair.

This was a man? This was the dangerous creature that had hunted him for so long?

"Hey, bub, what'chu lookin' at?" the man slurred. He struggled to stand straight without the support of the wall. He staggered forward, and Wolverine edged back as the man came to close—wary, but unafraid. "You lookin' fer a fight?"

He swung sloppily at Wolverine, and though the feral man easily ducked the wild swing, the threatening action had been enough. Wolverine lifted a fist and slammed it into the guy's gut. The drunk doubled over and fell gasping onto the ground.

Wolverine looked down at him. If this was all these men had to offer, he was in no danger at all. He snorted again and walked into the bar.

A rabbit gave more of a fight.

The air was jumbled, thick, heavy. It hurt his ears, muddled in his nose; it made his knuckles itch. His growl rose slightly in volume as he tensed tight as a bowstring ready to snap as the crowd suddenly seemed to surge around him like water, like a cage.

For a moment he just froze, stiff as the men moved around him—but they didn't seem to be paying him any mind.

He pulled back from the general jostling—towards the back, where he could smell the excitement of the men—the excitement of violence. He jerked his head about like a wary animal—his heart pounding in his ears as he tried to keep his eyes everywhere for sign of danger.

He growled as he saw the cage in the center—saw the two men inside—fighting.

Someone was pushed against him—someone smaller, who just bumped against his weight.

"Sorry."

Wolverine looked down—the first time he had looked at someone shorter than him at close quarters—to see the person who had invaded his personal space this time, and had actually paused to say something. He wore a long coat and a hood pulled up and over his eyes, though he thought he saw a gleam in the shadows of it—like the red gleam of a hunting feline in the darkness of the wood. The spoken word formed its meaning slowly in his mind as his nose twitched.
The human smelled different. He smelled . . . cleaner, though not by much. Smelled a bit of fear, of wariness—like a wolf aware of a larger predator in the area.

He smelled like a cub. A kid.

And one thing Wolverine knew automatically is that he wasn't supposed to be in here. That was only more firmly confirmed when the kid knocked back against another man beside him. The man—who was much larger than both Wolverine and the kid (perhaps even put together)—turned sharply, grabbing the kid by the arm.

"Damn it! Watch where yer goin'!" He threw the kid back sharply, and the force of the thrust threw the kid into another—and equally unpleasant—man, who swore as his beer sloshed down his muscle-ripped chest. Laughter followed, and he grabbed the kid, baring yellowed teeth.

"You just tripped over yer last crack!"

Wolverine stepped forward, his own teeth bared as he spoke the first and only human words that he could think of at the time.

"Damn you!" he snarled, echoing his cry from the woods—the only words he could ever remember saying.

"Why you—!"

The large bulk took a swing—Wolverine felt his fist brush the top of his head as he ducked. The crowd roared as he returned with a blow that knocked the man back into the crowd.

"Not here, idiots! The cage! The cage!"

Hands grabbed him and the man, pulling them apart, and hands grabbed the kid. Wolverine snarled and pulled out of their hands, a rising terror and rage building in his heart as his body remembered memories that his mind had forgotten.

A small hand touched his arm. "Not good idea trying to fight dem all, mon ami," the kid said, sounding a bit out of breath, but surprisingly calm despite the excitement. The tone of the voice pulled the beast from the edge and likely saved the lives of all the men in the bar.

Wolverine turned sharply to him nonetheless, jerking away from the unfamiliar touch with a growl. The kid's eyes widened at the near-berserker gleam in the man's eyes and he jerked back automatically, his scent alarmed. The alarm passed abnormally quickly, though, and an odd caution mixed with something else took its place in his scent. When he spoke, he sounded almost . . . intrigued?

"You from around here, homme petit?"

Wolverine hardly glanced at him, his head still ducked and his muscle-ripped form tense as he stared at the large man who was all but ignored as he climbed from where he had fallen, looking quite dazed.

"What your name?" The kid tilted his head, catching glimpse of the dogtags hanging from the loose neck of the too-large shirt. "You from da mil'tary?"

Military?

Wolverine shook his head like an animal flicking an ear at an annoying fly.

Military?

His name . . . .

Something hurt behind his eyes. He shut them, closing out the light, the noise, and the sharp, sudden pain in his head. He drew up a hand and pressed against his temples with a low groan.

"'M," he half-growled. " 'm . . . ."

Wolverine?

He ended in a soft growl, turning his face away and shutting his eyes again.

The kid titled his head up, his strangely dark eyes looking back at him.

"Dat some name," the kid said with a crooked grin. "Nice ta meet you. Da name's Remy. Remy LeBeau."

TBC . . .