Okay, people. It looks like it's going to be like this.

I'm going out of town the first full week of February (the 5-10), so I thought I'd try something new and warn you beforehand that you aren't getting a new chap during that week. So it looks like I'm going to skip next week due to craziness of recent times and me putting in a little time to work on an original story I'm working on, but then be posting chapter 55 (currently titled "Reaching") the first couple days of February, and then chapter 56 (currently titled "Deep Breath") a couple weeks later.

In a nutshell, posting over the next month looks like it might go every-other week:

Today=Chapter 54

First week of February=Chapter 55

Third week of February=Chapter 56.

It may be sooner than that if I manage to get more work done than I'm expecting the next few days, but this is the plan for now.

Just wanted to give a heads up, so you don't think I disappeared again.

To all you new readers I've been seeing on my view count slip in and out-please remember to review! Short or long, doesn't make a difference to me, and I often take time to respond if you want. For all you who have taken the time-thank you!

I hope you've been enjoying the longer chapters, and the story itself. :)


Chapter 54: The Clod and the Pebble


There are so many levels of being human. Figure most people don't even realize it.

Yeah, there's the basic stuff. Feelings and doing the things humans do . . . but it's the smaller things that bring you in or keep you out. Take language. Doesn't matter if you know how to talk—there's a thousand different things that come together for communication, a thousand different meanings, and beneath the meanings there's a millennia of history and a lifetime of understandin' that goes a thousand times deeper than anythin' you can put into words.

That goes for all knowledge. People take it fer granted that you grow up knowin' some things. Your favorite color, fer instance. Your birthdate, your age. Makes ya wonder who first started askin' those questions, or keepin' track of them at all. The only reason they're important is because they've been made important.

It's part of being human, and it wouldn't matter a bit, except that it does.


Then:

Wolverine frowned as he flipped to the third channel in as many minutes. Mac and Heather didn't have many channels—at least, that's what they told him—but what they did have held faces and words enough for a thousand books. Watching people, but they didn't stare back, or jump when they saw him watching.

Faces from around the world—with a million different features and styles and clothing. Words that sounded strange at first, but settled into his mind with meaning as he listened. Talk of murder and theft and crime—the news. And other things—with people he couldn't see laughing over something that he guessed must be funny, but he didn't understand. Fiction.

He had paused on the one channel to watch something he didn't recognize—a sport, like hockey—something with a small round ball rather than a puck, and a . . . square field on the grass. They didn't wear the pads and helmets either, but Wolverine grew bored after a few minutes of waiting for something—anything—to happen. It wasn't hockey. Something called . . . baseball. He wondered what the point of it was.

He'd discovered an interest in the television the night before, after Heather had turned on the news. She hadn't let him stay up to explore—the noise would have kept her awake, and Mac—but he'd made a beeline to it after they got back from the base the next day. Sometimes the words were hard to make out—they talked fast—and his nose twitched in vain, trying to get a scent of the people inside the screen . . . but of course he couldn't. It wasn't them. Just a recording. An image. Could be from anywhere.

Still, now and again his nose twitched as the channel showed a new place, or a new face. He felt almost blind—there was no dimension to the pictures, and the faces blurred together in his head. Words and faces and places . . . there was so much. Too much, sometimes—it made his brain buzz like wasps had climbed inside. So big.

He heard Mac stepping down the hall and paused on his flipping through the channels—he'd passed this one already, anyway, though a different show was on this time around.

Mac was going out. He could smell it in his leather coat he was still pulling on, smell that he was wearing his shoes: he'd spilled some spaghetti sauce from his lunch on one of them, and he could still pin the smell, no matter that he had wiped it away. Wolverine looked up as he paused, eying him.

Collared shirt. He'd seen some people wearing collared shirts—white, with suits. Mac mostly wore lightly colored ones—sometimes a thing around his neck . . . a tie. Wolverine couldn't imagine wearing one of those. Just the thought made him swallow thickly. He was getting used to wearing more clothes, but the though of that made him feel . . . claustrophobic.

Stupid to wear, anyway. Anyone could grab it and strangled him, and if he was running it could get caught and choked.

Wolverine grimaced. No. People didn't have to worry about that. People didn't fight—not that he had seen yet. He'd heard raised voices at the base, and smelled males as they stood up to each other and stared each other down like wolves staring down before a fight . . . but he hadn't seen a fight once.

Hadn't seen one dead.

Even the meat Heather bought from the store was long dead when she bought it; when he brought home fresh kills, she paled at the sight of them.

Death was so removed from them. It was hard for Wolverine to imagine, when it was just a heartbeat away. For them.

Because they weren't freaks like him. They were like the hunters he'd run into the woods-those orange-vested men who had shot him. They'd lain still after his claws has cut them. Still as dead wolves in the snow.

He distantly remembered fights in a cage—cheers on the other side. Money and beer and hot cooked meat, and meeting the kid in that small bar. It was like remembering through a shadow—the faces and scents all blurry. So long ago. Had it been real? Men with rough curses and cold-chapped red noses over beards. A different kind of man.

But even they hadn't fought to kill—not before the ones who came for the kid, and even they had seemed hesitant to kill at first. Gambit, with his red eyes. He hadn't seen anyone else with eyes like that—not in the tv, at the base, or in the town.

No one else with claws, either. He'd popped them once when he was startled, and everyone had stared. Someone—a woman—had even screamed. Nearly given him a heart attack.

But the memory made his stomach turn and his lip want curl in a snarl. He'd have snarled at them all, had Heather not taken his arm.

Even when she smelled nervous, she was never afraid. And her eyes on him . . . they weren't the same as the others. She saw him, not . . .

Not what? A freak? She'd even gotten mad at him when he'd called himself the word.

Wolverine realized Mac had said something—a question, and a question for him. He backtracked, trying to remember what he said.

"Where?" he asked. Mac had mentioned going "out"—which was a fairly useless phrase on its own. It could mean going out of the room . . . though Wolverine had noticed it usually meant outside the house . . .

"To meet a few buddies, maybe go a few rounds. Want to come?"

Wolverine flicked off the TV without looking at it and rose smoothly, grabbing his jacket from the floor on the way up. Heather had got him for him last week, after a heavy May rainstorm. It hadn't even been cold enough to turn the rain to snow, but she'd insisted.

"Just wear it for me," she had said, shivering in her own jacket. "You're making me feel cold."

He pulled it on. It wasn't cold out, but it was just another something people wore. And Heather had given it to him.

The truck cabin was comfortable as they drove. Wolverine kept his eyes out the window, as usual—tracking where they were going, his mind processing what he saw in an endless buzz. Even after a month—30 days, with the moon growing bigger and smaller again—it didn't seem to stop. He wondered if it ever would.

It didn't take long for Wolverine to recognize the route—they were heading back to the base. He frowned at the window and glanced at Mac. He didn't mind the base, of course, but this wasn't normal. They woke before the sun—the digital clock that Heather had gotten him usually read 6:00 when she knocked softly on the door—and went to work by 7:30, returning home anywhere between 3:30 and as late as 6, depending on the day. They'd never gone back so soon after leaving—they'd been there only two hours earlier.

They parked, but instead of following the usual route that Wolverine was familiar with Mac led the way to a building Wolverine had never been in, but he'd seen men in uniforms come and go from frequently. He swiped his card, pushed open the door, and led the way towards the dull roar of the sound of a hundred voices, whooping and cheering and booing.

Wolverine tensed at the sound as they stepped in, and he looked down at a blue mat below, where two men were . . . fighting? But the crowd didn't smell right. This wasn't a fight to the death. This was . . .

"It's a sport, Wolverine. Like hockey. Nobody really gets hurt, but we're just here to sweat a little, bleed a little, beat out any grudges and have a little fun. It's sport."

Definitely not that baseball thing that he had seen on the tv earlier.

Wolverine and Mac sat high near the back, though Mac was on his feet often and Wolverine stood beside him just to be able to see. Apparently he was short, though whenever he remembered it made his fists curl. He'd taken down bigger.

Two men stood on the mat at a time. It was like the bar so long ago, the cage—but different. Many of these men moved more lightly—less wildly. He found himself following the fights blow-by-blow. Calling who would win—frowning at the weaknesses in the fighters.

The pale man, with the thin scar through his short-buzzed black hair. Fast on his feet with quick strikes, but he telegraphed each move. Not much—a step, a shift of his weight . . . Wolverine could read him like a book. A larger man, with arms as thick as his legs—his left arm sunk slightly, leaving him slow protecting his left side, even though he ended up beating the smaller guy on the mat across from him.

And then Mac was pulling off his jacket, pushing through the crowd forward to cheers of the soldiers. Wolverine stiffened, not sure whether to follow. He strained to see, tried onto his tip-toes, then glowered at the backs of the men in front of him and climbed up on the bench to see over the men now standing in front of him.

Men patted his shoulders as Mac made his way towards the mat. He turned and grinned before climbing up, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet to loosen up as he let a man on the side wrap his fists with tape..

Wolverine realized his fists were clenched, his shoulders stiff—ready to charge down, if Mac needed help. He forced his fingers to loosen, the muscles in his wrists to relax.

A sport. He wouldn't be hurt.

Like the cage fighting. Like hockey. No danger.

He balanced on his feet, though, ready to move if needed.

Mac wasn't the best—he telegraphed as bad as anyone, and his strikes lacked power, but he was fast. He managed four hits before a single hit brushed his shoulder, spinning him back. Wolverine tensed again, but Mac danced out of the way. He lasted a good minute before he ended up getting caught in a tussle with the bigger man he fought—obviously outmatched as he got caught in a headlock and tapped out. But he returned to his seat, grinning and sweating, with the men patting his back as he pushed his way back up to the high seat.

"No real limits," Mac grinned, even while he wiped blood from a split lip and looked up at him on the bench. "Department H recruits the best from the country and around the world. We have a dozens of different fighting styles. A hundred experts with the best training available."

Wolverine glanced at him, hands loosely in pockets, but instead of climbing down from where he stood he looked back to the mat.

The best? They were obviously better fighters than what he could remember from fighting in the cage—they had been pure muscle, with no finesse involved. There was even one or two here that he might qualify as good, and perhaps a bit of a challenge.

The man on the mat now was one of the better ones. He and his opponent were dancing across the floor, both feet and hands flashing. He jumped high, bringing his heel around in a round kick and catching the man he fought on the jaw. He went down like a tree with its roots torn out in a storm.

Wolverine had stepped down off the bench towards the mat before he even realized it, but when he did he finished taking off his jacket and tossed it back, followed by his plaid over shirt. Mac noticed.

"You think you can take them?" Mac asked. His tone was deceptively casual-his eyes watched him like a hawk. Wolverine lifted an eyebrow at him, and Mac smiled. "Okay. Just remember," he said. "It's just a sport. Don't hurt them when you take them down."

Wolverine nodded and stepped forward, cracking his neck.

"Got a name?" a man asked him at the edge of the mat, holding up tape for his fists. Wolverine held out his hands like he'd seen Mac do. He flinched slightly when the man first touched his hand, but made himself hold still.

"Wolverine," he said, and only after thought of his name. Logan. But despite the look he received, he didn't correct himself.

The man nodded, and as the loser was helped off the mat Wolverine climbed up, twisting his neck to pop it as he eyed the man across from him.

Swing to the right. While opponent blocks, lift left arm to block return strike, cutting across to catch his throat in a sideways blow. While he's off balance and choking, a hook around his right knee, drop him hard—elbow to the kidneys . . . no claws, no blood, and with his throat crushed there would be no sound. He was faster than these men—it would be over quickly.

But no. The kidneys would do too much damage—this was a game, that was all. But it wouldn't be much different to take him down without giving him more than a bruise.

And it might be just enough of a challenge.

Wolverine lunged forward, right fist raised.


Heather saw the edge of blood on Wolverine's white undershirt when he came home, along with a the scab of dried blood from a cut along his cheek he hadn't really noticed. He'd ended up fighting for a good two hours in there—though it was strange: time seemed to fly faster when he was fighting—and he felt tired, but somehow invigorated in a way he hadn't felt in a good month.

It was something he'd left in the woods. It felt good to let go, to calculate, that struggle for survival—even if it was artificial without any real threat. It was something he was surprised to recognize he had missed.

But Heather's eyes caught the blood, the sweat-damp hair, and her scent turned sharp with worry. "Wolverine? What happened?" she asked.

"Eh, nothin'." At her look he wiped the blood from his face with his forearm. "Really—nuthin'."

"Just a little one-on-one at the gym with the boys, hon. Everything was in control."

"Mac—"

"What did you think of it, Wolvster?"

Wolverine glanced at him. "It was . . . fun." That word felt weird. Fun? But he'd heard the word—from Mac, from the books, from the television. Yes, it was fun.

Mac actually laughed. "There you have it."

Heather closed her mouth, pressing her lips together as she looked at Mac, and when he went to kiss her she pulled back. Wolverine watched without watching—wondering why Heather was upset.

"I'm glad you two are okay," Heather said. "You're sure you're alright, Wolvie?"

"I won," Wolverine said, wondering if that would make her worry smell go away.

It didn't, but it did make her smile.

"I was thinking," Heather announced suddenly, still smiling, though when she looked at Mac her the skin around her eyes tightened slightly. "Tomorrow marks a month since you've come to stay with us, Logan, and since I've got a meeting to go to tomorrow, I thought we could go out tonight."

"Exactly what I thought. He can't stay cooped up in here forever," Mac said, raising his eyebrow at Heather. "You ever been to a bar, Wolverine?"

Heather had already opened her mouth to protest, but to both their surprise, Wolverine nodded.

"Really?" Mac said, looking at him sideways.

Wolverine looked between them, clearly feeling that they were waiting for something more. "I like beer," he said plainly.

Heather hid a smile, remembering the multiple times she'd found beer bottles around the cabin, and James laughed—seeing Wolverine on their couch that first night at their home, a six pack all but drained around him.

"Yeah, I figured," Mac grinned, and looked at Heather. "They have killer burgers."

Heather sighed. "Fine." But the look she gave Mac as Wolverine pulled back on his plaid shirt said that she wasn't done with him.

Wolverine couldn't get the edge from Heather's scent out of his nose as he sat in the back seat and they drove to the bar. He looked out the window, watching as the sky darkened and the stars began to come out, and all the while unconsciously tracking the route to this new location.

The stars were different than they had been in the mountains. Dimmer—the black of the sky lighter. He wondered if people made it that way on purpose, to keep away from the feeling of them standing on the edge of the round earth. He frowned, suddenly wondering what kept them from just floating off into the blackness.

Gravity. It came first as a feeling—the memory of stumbling through the snow, of the gunshot to the head, sending him tumbling over a cliff. Down, down, down . . .

They pulled up to the bar. Wolverine didn't remember the first one he'd been to well, but this one felt cleaner, and smelled it to. Though maybe he was just getting used to it. Heather said he could smell better than other people—enhanced senses , she said—but it was hard for him to see how oblivious they could be to the odors around them. At times it was like getting smacked in the face, even now.

He followed Heather and Mac to a side table, and scanned the bar before taking a seat with his back to the wall, so he could keep an eye on the door, another on the bar and keep half a mind outside the window. He didn't like having Heather with her back exposed, but he'd just have to watch for her.

They ordered something called hamburgers, which actually had no ham at all in it, but when Wolverine asked about it Heather blinked, grinned, and shrugged with a light laugh. The English language was strange.

It was good, if not as good as Heather's cooking. Grease dripped from the bun, and he worked to catch every drop. He was hungry, and spending time fighting—even in sport—had built up his appetite. He was licking the last of the juices from his fingers when Heather caught Mac's hand.

"We're going to go order some dessert." Wolverine made to stand, but Heather put a hand on his arm. "It's okay. We'll just be a minute. We need to talk." The way she said the last word was strange—heavier, and Mac grimaced slightly. It wasn't normal talking, and it didn't sound good.

Wolverine settled back down, watching them as they left. Mac had smelled . . . guilty? And Heather still had that edge of anger, though he didn't think it was at anything he'd done. But he hadn't seen Mac do anything wrong either.

At least, he didn't think he had.

He wasn't sure why they needed to "talk," but he settled back, nursing the last glass of a pitcher of beer that he'd ordered, looking around the bar.

A couple eyes glanced over him. He actually recognized a face or two—men from the base, from the fighting ring. One's expression was flat as he saw his eyes on him, but another—a man who was sporting a black eye from his elbow—nodded a short greeting at him across the bar. Another one ignored him completely, though Wolverine knew he'd seen him glance in his direction.

Wolverine glanced over the room, itching at the feeling of eyes on him. Most of them looked away at his gaze, but one stayed stead—a blond woman taller than Heather wearing a tanktop across the bar, her elbows forward on the counter. A square-jawed man was prattling on at her elbow, but she didn't seem to be paying attention.

She met his eyes easily and smiled, looking down for a moment before looking back up through her lashes. Wolverine felt suddenly very warm. He took a drink of his beer and loosened his collar.

She left the counter, eyes not leaving his, and she sauntered up to him.

"So you're the Wolverine," the woman said, her dark eyes locked on his. "Some of the regs said you dominated the fights tonight. It seems that you're the worst-kept secret that little base down there has."

Wolverine didn't look away from her eyes—she had eyes like a wolf's, vying for position, and smelled like she was on the hunt. He figured he should say something, but suddenly he couldn't think of one damned word. Stupid. Couldn't think straight. Think of something clever. Something . . . . "Guess word gets around," he said in his soft voice, not lowering his eyes from hers.

Her lips curved in a smile and she slid down next to him. She leaned towards him, wrapping an arm through his and leaning close. "They say you're an animal."

Wolverine's eyes narrowed and he pulled back stiffly.

He was surprised when he felt warm fingers taking hold of the collar of his plaid shirt, pulling him forward again. He looked up into her eyes, bigger than life, her lips parted as she leaned towards him.

"I like it," she said, her voice nearly a purr as she leaned in.

Wolverine's heart was pounding, and he began to pull back—wondering what there was to be afraid of. But she moved forward, suddenly catching his lips with her own. He responded without thought, his hands that had been clenching into fists moving to her side as she drew close against him.

His heart pounded in his ears—her scent was so good, her warmth wonderful. The cheap perfume she wore meant nothing, and he breathed in, breathing in the beer in her breath, her sweat and adrenaline . . .

"Brooke Evans!"

The woman pulled back at the name—her name. Wolverine was panting—why did she stop?—but the sight of Heather striding towards them, her face furious, helped clear the fuzz in his brain.

"Get away from him," Heather demanded, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. Wolverine tensed—upset as she had been before, he'd never smelled her like this: furious.

Brooke slipped her arm back around him, and he froze—torn and tense. Heather was mad—mad at this woman. But she wasn't hurting him. She was good.

She was good.

"He's old enough to take care of himself, Dr. Hudson," the woman said calmly—but there was a cold edge to her velvet voice. "Besides, you already have one man, haven't you?"

She drew close, her breath hot on his cheek, a hand resting on his chest possessively. The touch was good, but he didn't know if he liked that. Still, he didn't care too much to worry about it right now.

"Wolverine," Heather said stiffly, breaking through the hot mists. "I need to speak to you."

Brooke leaned in, giving him a good look of her low neckline. "Stay with me, Wolvie," she said, looking up with him through thick eyelashes. "You can talk to her later."

"Now, Logan."

Heather's scent leaked through the lady's overwhelming scent and presence. She was furious, but even worse—there was the edge of something close to fear. Wolverine stood, pulling away from Brooke, feeling hot and strange—dizzy, but not in a bad way.

Heather caught his shoulder, grounding him, and started pulling him out. "Come on."

Logan glanced back. Brooke still sat at their table, and when she saw him watching she blew him a kiss. Wolverine swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Wolverine." He had stopped in his tracks, but now he looked down at Heather. "Come on."

He followed her out, dragging his feet. Heather dragged him across the parking lot and into the shadows of the moonlit trees before she let go of his shoulder. "You have to stay away from her," she said plainly.

Wolverine stared at her, then back at the light from the bar, licking his lips. He could still taste her—smell her—feel where she'd touched him.

"Why?" he asked, looking at Heather.

"She's a . . . !" she began sharply, but then bit her tongue. She took a deep breath and toned down her words. "She's a player, Wolverine. She doesn't care about you. She just wants to be able to claim she was able to take the Wolverine that everyone is talking about." The way she said the name—Wolverine—made him frown. She pushed on. "She tried the same thing with James after he first got here. Women like her—they only want one thing. And it's not right."

Logan shook his head, still looking away. He could still see her eyes, feel her heat.

He'd heard Heather say it. Heard Mac say it.

Was that . . . ?

"I love her," Wolverine tried, but with more of a question in his tone than a statement.

Heather's eyes widened, and she fumbled to push her glasses back up her nose as they slipped. "What . . . ? Wolvie, where would you get such an idea?"

He didn't answer.

"Oh, Logan." Heather breathed, between exasperated and pitying. "That's not how love works."

He looked up at her through his hair. The heat was dissipating into the night air—his mind was clearing of the woman, leaving only a new confusion at what had happened, and the fading taste of her on his lips.

"People like that will try to make you think you're in love, but that's not it. Love—real love—it lasts forever. Would you want to be with Brooke Evans for the rest of your life, Wolvie?"

He gave her a confused look as he thought about it, but apparently came to no conclusion.

"Okay. I have not been planning for this talk," Heather sighed, stopping to think. She looked up at the stars, and was silent for a long moment. "Here—I met Mac six years ago, Logan. We were going through graduate school—me in medicine, Mac in engineering. One of my friends introduced us." She smiled softly. "We went on a date." At Wolverine's expression, she explained. "A date is where two people go someplace together—usually dinner and something fun—to get to know each other to see if they might be interested. Interested in . . . well, finding out if they could spend the rest of their lives together," Heather tried. "Later, you date to get to know a person better, and to show that you like them—maybe even love them."

"It took us four years, Wolverine. Three years of getting to know each other, of spending time with each other. Of becoming friends."

She held up her hand, showing him a delicately set diamond ring. "Now we're married. That means that we are a family, now—we're even planning on having children. But that's what love is—I love Mac, because I know him so well, and I know that I want to be with him for the rest of my life. I want to have him with me when I'm happy, sad, mad, tired—all the time. You need to look for the one person that you can love, and save yourself for that. You let people like that Brooke come onto you like that and you'll only get hurt, no matter how good it might seem at the time."

Wolverine took her hand gently, holding up her fingers to let the diamond catch the moonlight. It looked like another star on her finger.

"Please, Logan," Heather said, hoping he was hearing. "Promise me that if she—or any other woman—tries that again, that you'll tell her you're not interested."

Wolverine looked up from the ring, catching her eyes. There was still confusion in his own depths—a tear between trust and physical urge—but trust won out. After a pause he nodded slowly.

Heather sighed. She pulled him forward into a hug. "You'll find someone for you, Wolvie," she said. "Just give yourself time, okay? You're trying to take a lot in at once."

Wolverine swallowed, feeling hollow, but he nodded against her shoulder before she pulled back.

"Okay," Heather said, letting out another long breath as if she had been holding it throughout their whole conversation. "Let's go back inside. But I swear, if that—" she cut off sharply, looking at Wolverine, and he was left wondering what she had been about to say.

It hadn't sounded very nice. One thing was for sure: Heather did not like this—What was her name?—Brooke Evans.


Now:

Tryin' to keep it easy. Figure I'll let myself rest up for good—don't think I've been fully rested in months—if not longer—and even if I'm healed my healin' factor ain't up to 100%. If Emma's right, I'll go jump off a cliff a few times after everything settles down over here and we bring Storm back. That should bring the memories running.

We got Crawler on board, too—ended up leadin' the team on a couple missions this last week. Couldn't make me stay behind, and I hate stayin' out of the front line, but at least there wasn't any major trouble.

Ran out of ideas to look for Storm. Ain't no word from the sneaks, the news, Fury, the Scarlet Witch, or anyone else that usually stays on top of whispers of strange goings on. Ain't happy, but right now it looks like all we can do is wait.

At least the head's feelin' better. Haven't zoned out for 4 days now, far's I can tell. Seems like whatever Frost knows, she's been right about that. Takin' it easy. Right.

We'll see how long that lasts.


The phone rang from the hallway.

Wolverine didn't look up from the TV and his beer—phone calls were common enough, around here. Kids parents calling to talk, or business with the school and who-the-hell knew what else. He was enjoying not having to worry about that kind of stuff. Even Beast had seemed fairly willing to hand over the reins of business to Ms. Frost—even if he did triple-check everything she did at the end of each day. So far, nothing had gone amiss.

And he had to admit, his healing factor had appreciated the downtime. He could feel it in his bones—slowly going back to normal.

Almost. Well, for him, anyway.

Dreams were as bad as ever. But at least the daytime flashes had gone away.

And there were always the phantom pains from wounds long healed. Took a couple weeks for those to really go away, even if they were all in his head. Still, every once in a while he received a sharp stab of pain—a reminder that just a week earlier he'd been cut up like a tenderized slab of chicken.

Rrrring . . .

Footsteps, then someone picked up the phone. Jubilee. "Hello? Um . . . hello? What? No, no—she's not here. I don't know—okay, dude, hold on. Seriously, take a chill pill. I can't tell what you're saying—"

Logan had stood from the couch and moved to lean against the wall behind her, drinking from his beer.

"What is it?" Logan asked.

Jubilee jumped, almost dropping the phone. She recovered, covering the mouthpiece. "Okay, seriously? You need to make more noise when you're sneaking around and whatever."

She turned back to the phone. "Okay. Hold on one second," she said, then shoved the phone into Logan's hands. "You figure it out."

He took a swig of his beer, but accepted the phone. "This is Logan."

"Who?" The connection was bad—riddled with interference, but he could make out the word.

"Logan. Wolverine. Who is this?"

"Wolverine? Dammit, w—where is Storm?" the man on the line sounded breathless—his voice was rough, gasping.

He knew that voice. Not well, but it rang a bell, even shaken as it was. "Summers." Damn. Hated breaking news like Storm's disappearance, even to people like Summers the second. "What happened?"

"Oh God," Havok said. "I . . . I need Ororo. He—he took her—d-dammit—"

Great. He was going into shock. That would be really helpful if he passed out. "Breathe, kid. Breathe. Where are you?"

Alex Summers swallowed loudly. He exhaled shakily. Guy'd been crying? "S-south Africa, just south of a mining down named . . . named Sishen. When they were digging, they found—"

"Dug somethin' up?" Logan interrupted.

"What? No. No! Why am I talking to you? Where the hell is Storm?"

"Storm's gone," Logan said. "Gone MIA without a sign days ago. So you need some help, pal, you're gonna get it from me. Now what happened?" There was silence on the other end except for distant gasping—didn't sound good. Maybe a broken rib or two. Sounded out of it, too—maybe a good hit on the head.

Who the hell could beat up a mutant with energy blasts with a name like 'Havok'? And what had happened to his girlfriend—Lorna? Polaris. Whatever. The girl with green hair.

Logan was half-expecting being hung up on before Alex spoke again.

"It was Magneto," he said. He seemed to have gained some composure in the pause—his voice was stronger, more commanding. He almost sounded like Scott. "He—he came and took her. She didn't want to go, and we fought, but—we weren't ready."

Of course now would be when Magneto would decide to come back on the map.

Damn it.

"Okay, Wolverine, this is what I need you to do. Just—just get . . . uh, the blue German guy—Nightcrawler? Uh . . . get him, and . . . Rogue, the leech girl, and . . . find Beast. Have him get a team together. You think you can do that? With people who can hold their own against Magneto. Have them get on the Blackbird, and—is there someone that can fly her over here?" He sounded like he was trying to coax a feral dog to fetch a stick.

Logan was suddenly struck with a very strong urge to hang up the phone right then and there and pretend he hadn't heard a thing. Bastard. With luck he'd just bleed to death out there and no one would ever know.

"Shut the hell up," Logan said. "Just get in the shade. It gets in the 140s out there in the sun, and if you're bleedin' you need to keep yer liquids. You got water?"

"Y-yeah."

"Keep it close and keep hydrated. Stay awake and stay calm. With the Blackbird doin' her time we should be there in . . . an hour." Didn't know if the Bird's tech really did come from aliens or that Forge guy he heard Storm talking about once, but as long as it worked he didn't give a damn. "Got it?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine, just—just hurry."

"Keep your phone close."

He hung up. Jubilee popped from around the corner, chewing gum. He looked at her, unsurprised—he'd smelled her settle down to listen.

"Whazzup?" Jubilee asked.

"Suitin' up," he said. "But first—I need Rogue, Kitty, Frost, 'Crawler. See any of them, tell them we're gone in five." Colossus would want to come, and he would be useful against the Toad guy if that clown showed up again, or any leftover goons from Alcatraz Island—but organic steel wasn't the best thing to go up with against Magneto. Besides, it'd be best to leave some muscle behind, just in case.

And some brain. That's why Beast wasn't coming, even if he was healing.

"I want to come."

"No."

"Why the heck not?"

"'Cause this is gonna be an in-out thing, kid, and I don't want you on my ass the whole time."

"Why don't you just say it? You don't trust me."

"I need a team that'll do what needs to be done, no questions asked. You ain't got the experience or—sure, trust, ta come along." He grabbed his jacket from the closet. "Nothin' personal, kid. But this ain't a normal mission. This is Magneto we're talkin' about."

Jubilee scowled. "But you're bringing the White Queen?" she said. "Yeah, she you can trust."

"No. But if she steps outta line she'll have me to answer to." He'd have few qualms in putting her down and doin' it fast. Kids, though . . . they just made a mess of things, and there wasn't ever an easy answer.

Jubilee's dark glare told him she'd got the message.

She went off to gather the people he'd asked for, and Wolverine cracked his neck and stretched out his arms.

He'd been waiting a long time for this. And this time, Magneto wasn't gonna be walking away from it.

TBC . . . .