I don't know why, but for some reason this chapter was really hard to write. The last five+ chapters have all but written themselves. Maybe it's just that I'm getting spoiled.

Maybe it's just because school is starting again so soon.

Anyway, the reviews helped more than ever for this chapter. Thanks a bunch, and please continue to review! Those who haven't, please just drop a line or two!

We're setting up more real fun stuff, people. More reviews=faster updates. ;)

Chapter 25: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Thud-thump.

. . . .

Thud-thump.

. . . .

Thud-thump. Th-thump.

. . . .

Damn noise. He wished it'd go away. He was trying to sleep.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

It was waking him up, drumming in his ears, his chest, his bones. He felt bruised from its pounding, and every beat made the pain clearer, sharper.

He just wanted to rest.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

He hated the sound. He heard it every time he woke, now. Sometimes slow—sluggish, like now, each beat like a punch to his chest. Other times it was frantic—pattering away and leaving him gasping at the weight of it.

So often now he wished only for silence.

Th-thump.

It was bringing him closer to wakefulness, now. He could feel the cold, sticky cement under his arms, against his chest where he'd fallen—feel the air stirring against his bare back, the stickiness as his hair clung to his face wetly. His ears were roaring—his hearing fading in and out. Were those voices? Maybe just voices in his head. Voices of the past, murmuring like waves of blood in his head. Blood and a bitterness he could not identify lay thick in his mouth.

His insides burned with healing. The devil knew what they'd done to him this time.

Even his teeth hurt. Had they pulled them again out? Or maybe this time it'd just been an accident.

If a bullet to the mouth or the butt of a rifle to the face could be called an accident.

They had grown back, though. How long had he been out?

Th-thump.

Wish it was longer.

He floated in a haze of agony. His insides felt turned inside-out, his eyeballs burned, and as he shifted the smallest bit he felt a dozen bullets shift inside him, and more slide in the blood and filth on the cold floor beneath him. He immediately went still, hoping the darkness would take him again.

There was no point in moving anyway. There was nowhere to go, and wakefulness only meant more pain—more humiliation—more degradation.

He was nothing here. Not a man. Not even an animal.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

Damn heart. Wish it would just—

"Fold."

"Straight flush."

"Damn."

The bored soldier slapped down his cards and turned, lifting his gun and without even bothering to aim, shot three plugs into the corner of the cell at the man lying there. Logan didn't even twitch as two of them slammed into him—chest and leg. Third one bounced off the wall, but he couldn't even muster up enough energy to sneer at the guy's bad aim.

Didn't matter. The roar of blood grew louder, blocking out the sounds, the feelings, the world. The beats grew distant, and then slowly built up again as the roaring waves retreated back behind the drums.

Th . . . thump.

"Again?"

"Why not? Nothing else to do." They dealt out the cards again. The sound of the cards moving from hand to hand sounded loud. He wanted to cover his ears—to hear nothing at all.

He felt eyes on him—but did that matter? There were always eyes on him now—watching him, picking him apart. Almost worse than the pain.

"He even feel anything anymore?"

An answering grunt. "Dunno if he felt anything in the first place."

"Usually a lot more fun, though. Hasn't moved since they brought him back here."

"They musta tried something new. Kinda curious what they did. Tired even Wolverine out." A pause. "You should have seen him when they brought him back from the lab yesterday. Near ripped off his own hand, trying to get out of those chains. Freaky, man. He's like an animal. Almost got Johnson for good with his teeth—his teeth. Grabbed his arm and ripped a big chunk right off. Had to get flighted out."

"Crazy devil."

Th-thump. Th-thump. The two newest bullets were beginning to inch their way out of him. Hurt like hell.

Maybe that's where he was. He deserved it.

"Who d'ya think he used to be?"

"Dunno. Not like it matters, now. Nothing human left in him."

"Stryker says he volunteered."

"Stryker's a bastard. Nobody'd volunteer for this. 'Specially not the Wolverine. Can't see him volunteering to raise a finger t'save his own mother."

Wolverine?

What was that name?

It spoke of happy times, sad times. It made him want to smile from the memories—no, to weep. To rage.

Sabretooth, you animal bastard.

Animal . . . .

Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . .

No, no, no . . . .

Th-thud—th-thud—th-thud . . . .

Heart pounding furiously now, pain roaring through him with adrenaline. He opened his eyes, staring dully at the puddled blood on the floor.

"Look who's awake. What you looking at, freak? What are you looking at?" The guard fired another shot, and blood splattered against the back wall as it passed clean through the feral man's body.

"Something going on down here, private?"

Wolverine shifted slightly at the new voice. Chains clinked around him, dragging him down.

He knew that voice. Knew it and hated it, even as blood roared in his ears, and his heartbeat pounded him into the floor.

Th-thump . . . . thump-thump . . . .Thump.

Darkness closing in around him, and silence . . . beautiful silence—

Beautiful . . . .

Darkness. Silence.

Hands grabbed the chains that held him, jerking him back against the wall and back into consciousness as they dragged his arms up above his head, securing the chains to hold him there. He lifted his head weakly, slime and blood dripping into his eyes. At the motion blood rushed in his ears, threatening to pull him under again.

"My, my, Wolverine. You are a mess," Styker spoke. Logan could smell the man better than see him; his vision was spotted and blurred. Maybe they'd popped his eyes out again, too, and he was still healing.

The bastard walked forward slowly, his boots sticking to the blood-thick floor. He nodded to a soldier, who grabbed his hair and pulled back his head. Logan snarled softly, baring his teeth as Stryker strode forward. The man looked down at him in disgust.

"Just look at you now. You're a freak. An animal. A killer, finally revealed for what you are. After Vietnam did you really think you could just walk away?" He hefted his pistol, his voice soft and absurdly calm. "But that's all you've ever been, isn't it, Wolverine? An animal in man's clothing—a mutant freak."

"Damn you," Logan rasped out. His mouth tasted of blood and his saliva was thick with it—his tongue swollen from dehydration.

WHACK!

The butt of the gun smashed into his throat, crushing his esophagus. Logan gasped, choking on his own blood. Stryker grabbed his hair, holding his head up as fresh blood leaked from between his teeth. A gurgled growl bubbled up from his throat.

"Talk now, you son of a bitch," Stryker said. When Logan stayed silent, he shook him, flicking blood on his stainless uniform. "TALK!"

Logan remained silent, his eyes dilated almost completely black and his bloodied teeth still bared, but like a fatally wounded animal—trapped, and too weak to fight back, but refusing to admit it.

He was sinking—thank God. Sinking back into oblivion. Taking him away from here again—but forever. He'd be back, damn him. He'd always be back.

Someday he'd gut this bastard.

The hand let go of his hair and he slumped bonelessly against the chains.

"Clean him up. The professor wants him."

"Already?"

"They're done with preliminaries. We wanted to see if the Wolverine had a limit."

"Guess we found it."

Stryker laughed distantly. "Found it? Private, we've been trying almost as hard as we could to kill that stubborn bastard for the past three months, day in and day out, and that animal's not only breathing, but give him five minutes to heal up and he'll be ready to gut any fool who thinks they can take him. Wolverine doesn't have a limit." He turned away from them. "Clean him up."

Now:

"Wolvie—WOLVIE!"

Logan jerked upright, seeing red.

A snarl ripped from his throat—like metal tearing metal.

They∙were∙all∙around∙all∙around∙watching∙hurting∙pain∙PAIN!

SNIKT!

What∙have∙you∙done∙to∙me∙what∙have∙you∙done?Kill∙you∙kill∙you∙BASTARDS

"Wolvie, it's al'right!"

Oh God. Kylee.

Blood∙and∙pain∙and∙bile∙knives∙cutting∙him∙open∙like∙a∙fish∙bleeding∙out∙run∙away∙run∙no∙kill∙them∙KILL

Slash across the throat, one down through the heart, spilling red, hot blood. Hear the heartbeat stagger to a stop∙stop∙stop∙STOP!

Th-thud∙th-thud∙th-thud∙∙∙∙

SNAKT.

He leaned over just in time to empty his stomach over the side of the bed.

Dammit!

A small hand touched his shoulder and he recoiled, nearly falling clean off the bed into his own vomit.

"Wolvie—"

It was Kylee. Just Kylee. What the hell was she doing here? Oh God, what was she doing here?

Thud∙thud∙thud∙thud

He stood sharply, almost falling out of bed in his haste to distance himself from the girl. He stepped across the room and stared at the wall. He wiped his face with a shaking hand, sweat dripping onto his already-soaked t-shirt. He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes tight.

A dream, dammit.

They'd been getting like this, since Bloodscream. More vivid. More real, and they were sticking with him longer after waking up. And frankly, he was getting sick to hell of it.

Memories, or dreams?

Th-thud. Th-thud.

But oh, God—the eyes.

He could still feel the eyes—watching him, weighing him, picking him apart. A low snarl rumbled in his throat and he turned sharply.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" His voice was low and close to a growl. He was ignoring the dream—it was just a dream—the pain would go away.

Kylee shrunk into the quilt. "I heard you," she whispered.

"What?"

Kylee gave a weak shrug, her eyes downcast. "You sounded hurt," she whispered.

He didn't give a damn. He didn't want to talk right now—didn't want to talk, to think. He didn't want the kid here.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

Shut the hell up!

Logan turned away, wiping his face again. His teeth hurt, his throat hurt, and he had a mess on the floor to clean up.

Well, hell. At least there wasn't a rug to worry about now.

He turned and strode back to the bed. Kylee shrunk back further, but he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the door. He pushed her out, ignoring her protests, and slammed the door behind her. He locked it and leaned against it.

A minute passed. Kylee was smart enough not to bother knocking, but she stayed on the other side of the door for a full two minutes, hissing softly to herself. He finally heard her soft footfalls pad away, and moved away from the door.

He ripped off his shirt and dropped it on the floor, not caring where it landed.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

He was panting—breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile. Still shaking, too.

It was just a dream! Just a damn freakin' dream!

He stripped down on the way to the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and turned on the shower. He didn't wait before stepping beneath the spray and putting his face towards it, intent on washing away the stink of his own fear—washing it all away.

Liquid sprayed towards him—high-power, blasted from a hose that bruised to the bone. It hit him, knocking him clean against the wall—pinning him there. It filled his senses—sharp, bitter, burning. Despite his still-healing voice, he howled as acid ate away through his skin, burning away his hair, his flesh, eating to his bones . . . .

"AAARRrghh!"

Logan jerked back away from the spray of water. His foot slipped, and like a catapult he flew back, bashing his head against the wall of the shower. Tile shattered and blood swirled down the drain.

Logan swore, putting a hand to his head, but the blood was already being washed away; the wound was already well on its way to be healed. He reached out blindly to slam off the spray of water and blinked at the gaping hole in the wall from his head.

Dammit.

His hair dripped in front of his face and he pushed it back, irritated. He stood, stepping shakily of the shower, trailing a puddle of pink-tinged water onto the floor.

He leaned against the sink, staring at his own reflection unseeingly.

What the hell had that been?

Had he fallen asleep without realizing it?

He looked back over at the shower. He stepped in slowly. He clenched his jaw and turned back on the water, then stepped under the spray unflinchingly

Acid ate into him, running down his face, eating into his eyes, his nose, his throat. His voice gave out—the pain raging on long afterwards. But it didn't matter—not to him, not to them.

It wouldn't go away until he was clean, and even then . . . this was only the beginning.

Logan shut his eyes, refusing the memory of pain. It was gone now; it didn't matter anymore.

Logan strode out of the bathroom in the nude to see Kylee sitting curled up on his bed, looking content.

The vomit on the floor was gone.

He could still smell it—the kid hadn't used any cleaner, and she'd stuffed what looked like two whole rolls of toilet paper into his already-heaping trash bin.

He stopped stand-still as she looked up, her eyes growing round as coins.

Logan grabbed his sweats from where he'd dropped them on the floor and turning around to pull them on. Not like he cared about that sort of thing, but this was Kylee.

"Wolvie?" Kylee asked, all innocence, though her eyes were still a bit wide as she stared at him.

"How the hell did you get back in here?" Logan asked, but his voice was just tired. He was sick of this, and it wasn't the damn kid's damn fault.

Kylee shrugged, looking away from him. "Ms. Monroe taught me."

"Huh?" Logan dry-washed his face again, rubbing the flat of his palms into his eyes. He could almost still feel the burning.

"To pick the locks," Kylee explained guilelessly. "Are you all right, Wolvie?"

He looked up at her. "Storm taught you to pick locks?"

Kylee shrugged. "She said she learned when she was my age, and I jus' watched her when she was teaching Rogue. I been practicin'."

What other kind of crap did the kid pick up around here? Well, what the hell? There were worse things a kid could be getting into.

Logan grunted, grabbing a relatively clean shirt from where it was draped over a chair and pulling it on. Kylee slid from the bed and walked to his side, a bit unsteady as she rubbed her eyes sleepily. He glanced at the clock, blinking at the glowing numbers: 4:15 am. Damn.

"You dropped this, Wolvie," Kylee said softly, holding up her hand. His eyepatch rested in her small palm.

Oh. Of course the kid looked completely unsurprised that Logan had both eyes hale and whole, even though he'd continued to wear the patch around the kids since his run-in with Bloodscream.

Sometimes he wondered if this kid was the densest thing west of the Blob, or whether she could give Beast a run for his money, but was sneaky enough to not flash it around. How much did she see around here?

"Don't need it anymore," he muttered. But he took it anyway, stuffing it into his pocket. "Go back to sleep, kid."

"Where're you goin'?"

"Out." At her unwavering stare, he picked her up and tossed her back onto the bed. She landed lightly—cat-like in her balance. "Now get back to sleep."

Kylee fur was a bit flat—she wasn't happy with his decision, but she didn't say anything. She just nodded, settling into the covers.

Logan left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He paused, sighing and running a hand through his still-damp hair, and then slowly he headed down the darkened hallway.

He ran even farther this time, hoping that the scent of the wood and physical exertion would keep him from thinking too much. His heartbeat pounded in his chest—almost a living thing in and of itself, echoing through his bones and bouncing around his skull.

His claws itched to kill something. No bar fight would do this time, and any X-Men business would be too gentle.

What he really wanted was to find Sabretooth. That clown had a healing factor too, hadn't he? Logan could have taken that fall from the Statue of Liberty any day—surely the reeking bastard had enough of one to have recovered by now.

Logan could practically feel his claws ripping into him. Just let the animal go wild, and rip into him like the killer he was.

He stopped by the barn and dragged out a beer, draining it in seconds.

Sometimes he really hated how he couldn't get drunk.

He sat on the front porch, brooding silently until the first light of dawn began to lighten the horizon. He tossed his empty bottle into the bushes—feeling too drained to do anything else—and went back inside. He was too tired to even be angry.

He was sick of this.

Maybe he'd go back to sleep. Nah—he was done with that for now. He'd go grab his keys and take off for the day—see how much beer he could down in one day. He'd never really kept track.

Didn't care enough to count.

He was trudging past Storm's office when he smelled the stink of lavender—not so overwhelming this time, but enough—and pulled out a cigar. He lit up before continuing down the hall, drawing deep.

He was about to head up the stairs when he heard murmuring voices from the professor's office.

They were up early. It was just getting light outside.

He paused, letting smoke gather over his head, but through the senseless murmurings he thought he heard his name. He hesitated, then stepped closer. As he stopped on the other side of the door their voices carried clear as if he were standing inside right along with them.

"Come now, Ororo. We can get a decent physical education teacher anywhere—even Alex could take over. The man is an animal. He ate a rat, for heaven sakes!" Lorna said, her voice hushed but intense. "I woke up half scared to death by his screams—and they were inhuman—like a rabid wolf, or something!"

"Lorna—"

"I don't know why Xavier let him come here in the first place," Alex said, his low voice calmer, but still serious. "I've heard stories enough about the Wolverine, Ororo, and I don't think there's a more dangerous mutant out there—including Magneto. The stories—"

Storm scoffed. "Of course he's dangerous. But you could blow up half the earth and I could bring on the next ice age. We're all dangerous, and as for Magneto—he was unbalanced. Grief drove him to madness."

"And what about an excuse for a man who can't even remember his real name?" Lorna insisted. "I am serious, Ororo. Scott wrote to Alex about that . . . man. He's unpredictable, and even more so without the professor here to keep an eye on him."

There was a pause. "Logan does not need anyone to keep an eye on him," Storm said, her voice low. "You don't know him, and I will not hear you go on about things you can't possibly understand."

"He killed Jean, Storm!" Alex insisted.

Silence at that. He could almost hear Ororo's sharp intake. No one talked about that—not now, not ever.

"Hear me out, Storm," Lorna said, grim and with finality. "If he doesn't go, we do!"

There was a long silence. Logan took his cigar from his mouth—it was irreparably smashed. He crushed the rest of it in his fist as he stepped away from the door, careless of the pain of his burning flesh.

It didn't matter.

He turned back up the stairs like a shadow—silently as a ghost. He strode, in no hurry, but not taking his time either. He came to his room in the far corner of the mansion and walked in. Kylee was sitting on his floor, scribbling some nonsense picture with a bunch of crayons, still dressed in her pajamas and looking ruffled from sleep. Logan stopped, feeling an odd aching in his chest.

"Wolvie!" she cried, jumping to her feet and waving her picture excitedly for his inspection. "Look! It's me, and you!"

Stupid kid. Just a couple hours ago he'd been about to kick her out on her ass, and here she was, oblivious. Either that or she just plain didn't care.

She should have gone back to sleep. It was too early for her to be up—kid needed her sleep.

Logan took the picture, and actually took time to look at it. There were too blobs, the bigger of which he figured must be him. Other than that, the only distinguishing characteristics was that Kylee had orange ears, and he had something that looked like thick horns on the top of his head, and . . . could that be a cigar, and some smoke? Either that or it was his mouth and nose: he couldn't tell. And for some strange reason the middle of his blob was colored a scribbled blue. Maybe she was about to draw Nightcrawler or Beast, and changed her mind at the last minute.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

Damn that dream. Made him feel hollow, sick. Like someone'd taken all the air out of his lungs, and was sitting on him, not letting him breathe.

Like there was a bullet stuck in his heart: not yet working its way out, just sitting—a lump of lead clunking around in there.

God, he felt sick.

He rubbed his chest absently.

"That's nice, darlin'," he said, kneeling down to hand it back to her. She took it, then looked back at him with serious green eyes, sensing his mood and actually responding to it this time. "Look, furball—it looks like I might have to hit the road for a little while."

"When will you be back?" Kylee asked, guileless and without worry. After all, he'd left for a little while plenty of times before, and he always came back.

Logan swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat. Dammit. He was planning on heading out soon anyway. This didn't make a difference—not really. "Not sure. Just gonna chase the wind for a little while, ya know?"

Kylee's eyes grew wider, and suddenly filled with tears. She'd seen right through him, though damn if he knew how. "You're leavin' me too, Wolvie?" she asked, her voice a hushed, tearful whisper. "You not comin' b-back, jus' like M-mr. S-s-scott, and M-m-s. J-Jeannie?" Tears spilled from her eyes, dripping down her down-furred cheeks. She fell onto her knees, sobbing as only a six-year-old can.

Logan took her shoulders. "Darlin'—I'll visit when I can, I promi—"

"You gonna leave me, jus' like everyone else!" Kylee cried. "Why, Mr. Logan? Why?" her voice broke, and she buried her face in his wife beater, though he jumped slightly at the action. "Is it 'cause I don't listen to you? I'll listen, Wolvie . . . I won't come in here—I'll leave you alone!"

Damn. He was no good with women—little or grown ones.

"Listen—it ain't nothin' you've done," he tried. He hesitated, then cautiously stroked behind her ears, just as she liked. Her small body shook with tears. "I don't wanna leave, but I gotta. The Wolverine—he ain't one to stay in one place too long. I've been here too long, kid. It's time to go."

"But I don't w-wan-t you t-to!" Kylee sobbed, clinging onto him. Her claws dug into his back, deep enough that he actually felt blood dripping from the scratches, but he didn't care.

He had a brief, crazy urge just to up and take the kid with him, but he immediately dismissed it and almost laughed at the thought. He really must be mentally imbalanced if he thought he was capable of taking care of a kid: he couldn't even take care of himself. It wouldn't be good for her at all, not in any way, shape or form. There was nothing left for him, after all. He'd just have to go back to wandering . . . again.

He let out a long breath. He really was just a drifting bastard animal, wasn't he?

He looked around his too-nice room—personalized with the scattered clothes, beer cans, and the comfortable scent of cigar smoke, and beneath it all, the faint stink of old blood and badly cleaned-up bile.

Damn it.

No matter how hard he'd fought it—this had become home. The first one he'd ever had.

And now he knew why he'd avoided having one before. It hurt like hell to leave.

But what did the pain mean, anyway? Nothing, that's what.

He'd heal. The pain would go away.

It always had. Always did.

He held her until her tears subsided, and then he slowly tried to ease her off. She held fast, like a cat to a high branch in a tree.

"I gotta go, kid. Let go'a me, now. Come on, dammit. Let go."

Kylee didn't meet his eyes as she slowly unwrapped herself from him. He stood, setting her on the unmade bed.

It was funny, Logan realized. She'd been the only person he'd shared a bed with for months. Normally he'd be stir-crazy at this point, but in truth, despite his unusual celibacy . . . he'd never been more satisfied in his life.

Well, in his memory, at least.

And now he was taking off.

Kylee didn't meet his eyes, but curled up around herself, her breath hitching occasionally with remaining broken-hearted sobs. He felt her eyes on his back as he want about, grabbing a few shirts, pants, and other necessities and stuffing them into a small bag. He stuffed the eye patch in at the last moment.

He'd always traveled light. He'd head to Madripoor, though at this point he wasn't expecting anything to pan out. After, he could head back up to Canada and start over. Start his round with cage fighting again—maybe buy himself a new trailer. Keep moving. Always keep moving.

But what the hell was the point?

He pulled on his jacket and grabbed the rest of his cigars, but left a note for the elf telling him where he'd stashed the rest of his booze. It was better than a goodbye, he reckoned.

Finally throwing his bag over his shoulder, he looked back at Kylee, whose tears had soaked her face and made her short whiskers droop. She was trembling as he stepped forward and bent down to look at her in the eye.

"You be good now, hear?" he murmured roughly. "Storm'll look after you—she understands more than you think." He brushed her cheek, wiping away the most recent tear. "You're a beauty, darlin'—don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Kylee leaped forward, and Logan jerked back, but managed to keep from going defensive at the last moment. She hugged him around the neck, and brushed a soft, wet, whisker-tickling kiss on his cheek. "You too, Wolvie," she whispered brokenly. She pulled back, pressing a now soaked, smeared, and wrinkled picture to his chest. "For you."

Logan took it, glancing down at the rough figures. He nodded, silent, then slowly lowered her down. She let go of him reluctantly, but at last he turned and left down the hall, leaving her standing there alone in the middle of his room.

TBC . . .