I am in California after a 10 hour drive, ready to head out on a cruise tomorrow, and here I am with the promised post. Sorry it's a couple days late; being at teacher and having to deal with making lesson plans for subs for an entire week is overwhelming to say the least.
Anyway, I'm off to bask in the sun. Enjoy the chapter and please remember to review. :)
Chapter 55: Reaching
Now:
The Blackbird settled onto the ground and Wolverine was down the ramp before it finished lowering. He stopped outside, breathing in the smell of dirt and dust and heat, his eyes adjusting to the blinding pale dirt. He pulled his hat down to shade his eyes.
Emma Frost stepped out behind him, shading her own eyes with a slender hand and looking across the flat earth towards the long house in front of them. It was small and simple looking—and one of the walls gaped as if a giant fist had blasted through it from the inside out. The two adjacent walls were all but gone, and the remaining section of the roof sagged as if ready to collapse. Logan strode forward, not waiting for the others.
He stepped over carefully over rubble, eyes sharp and as he breathed in the scents. His head fell under the shadow of the house, and he stuck his head in through the wall. Dust floated in broad beams in the streams of light that fell through gaps in the ceiling. The shade did little to help the heat.
"Summers?"
"Here." The voice was dry and pained, but slowly a man stood from where he had been leaning against one of the intact walls. He moved carefully—one arm not quite pressed across his ribs. Blood was dark on one side of his head, and he was pale. But he was standing, and Wolverine's glance took him and his injuries in and dismissed him, turning aside.
He'd be fine. Lotta pain and a bit of recovery time, but he'd live.
"Logan?" Rogue called from the outside.
"Yep," Logan replied. "Stinks of him, all right."
"Magneto?"
"Yeah. Ain't still here, though." He climbed out, and Kitty ducked past him, offering Alex Summers a shoulder to lean on as he limped through the rubble.
"Too bad," Rogue said, rubbing her knuckles. "Gotta admit ah've been lookin' forward to meetin' him again."
Wolverine stepped back into the light, shading his eyes. "Not catching scent of any of the other usual suspects, though."
"He was alone," Alex said, straightening. "Came in and just . . . took her. I didn't even have a chance to fight—he threw the fridge across the room and knocked me against the wall. I think . . . I think he's taken her to that island of his. Genosha."
Wolverine looked back at him. He stood slightly hunched, his arm still held protectively around himself.
His eyes had dilated normally when he stepped into the light, and while the blood on his face may have looked alarming, it was nothing to worry about. Head injuries always looked worse than they were. His limp was minor—no broken bones there, though he'd guess he had a couple cracked ribs.
"Looks like you got away clean. You're lucky he didn't smash you all the way through this wall, kid." He looked back at his team. "All right. We'll get you on the 'bird and out of here."
"Ah've got him, sugah," Rogue said, stepping forward. Alex's brow furrowed as she leaned down, wrapped an arm around his back and the other under his legs. He flailed slightly as she stood, lifting him easily as if he were no heavier than a babe. "Don't worry, ah got ya."
"Put me down," Alex insisted. Rogue shrugged and lowered him carefully to the ground, and he stared down at her for a second before looking back to Logan. "We're going after her."
"We're goin' after her," Logan replied. "You ain't in any kind of condition t' face Magneto."
"I'm going with you."
"Like hell you are."
"You think I'm going to let you leave me behind?"
"Heh. What're ya gonna do?" Wolverine's gaze took in his injuries, but more than that—his expression was as if he were looking at a upstart student.
"You have no right—"
"Don't know if you got the memo, bub, but I'm leadin' this circus, and I'm in charge of this caper."
"Alrigh', you two," Rogue interrupted. "This isn't getting us anywhere."
"You're right, ace," Logan said, sticking a cigar in his mouth and fixing Alex Summers with a flat stare. "Yer goin' back to the mansion."
"Dropping him off and returning would take another two hours, Logan. Genosha is just off the coast," Emma said.
Logan frowned at her, then turned and leveled his cigar at Summer Jr.'s chest.
"You stay in the plane. I ain't draggin' along a helpless injured kid—"
Logan was cut off—but not by another weak Summers' protest.
Alex had turned, raising his hands, and a blast louder than thunder shook the ground, the very air, like the shockwave from a grenade.
Across the field, the last remaining wall of the house exploded—sending shrapnel flying a good hundred feet in the air. Logan swore, ducking instinctively and shading his eyes from the blinding flash. When the dust and his vision cleared, he could see a deep trench, twenty yards across and streaming outward until it ran deep into the dirt. The wall wasn't even reduced to rubble—it was just gone. Down to the last brick, all turned to dust.
Logan took his hand away from holding his hat and glared at Havok, taking out his cigar and frowning at the dust covering its length.
"I'm coming," Havok said, his gaze deadly serious.
"Hell," Rogue drawled. "I ain't fightin' him."
Logan took off his hat and hit it against his knee, sending dust flying everywhere. "You stay smart—do what I say and don't try anything stupid or heroic, got it?" As if there was ever a difference between the two. Alex Summers nodded, and Logan put his hat back on. "Get on the plane, Summers."
Then:
Funny. Those first few days felt so new, so real. I fed on the details like a starving man. But days passed into weeks, and they blended together.
I owe everythin' t'Heather an' Mac. Two of them were like parents t'me. Brought me in when hell knows even a saint woulda turned me back to the wild—or maybe t'the government.
I didn't go with Mac again to the fights—figure Heather talked him outta it. So he started snaggin' me at work, lettin' me work some energy out in the gyms. I remember the first day he came out with some kinda giant robot—clunky as hell, but fast and strong. He asked if I thought I could take it—no holds bared. I remember grinnin' at that. There wasn't much I missed about bein' with him and Heather, but after the time I sliced through their countertop when tryin' t'cut vegetables with my claws I figured I'd keep 'em sheathed in the house. And at the office. And outside. They started itchin' ta come out.
So when he started pushin' me in the trainin' room, against the robots . . . I loved it. Helped me sleep better. Able ta rip free and wild—sweat and bleed a little t'keep feelin' alive.
Started simple, but Mac had as much fun as I did scrappin' things together for me t'tear apart. Weeks passed an' I figure we had somethin' t'give our Danger Room a run for its money. Maybe not as shiny, but challenge enough.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Wolvie? Breakfast in ten."
Wolverine grunted awake, lifting his head from the book he'd fallen asleep on top of. He grimaced at the wrinkled page, trying to straighten it with a sleep-fumbling finger, and then stuck his bookmark in before setting it aside and sitting up.
He looked at the door, disgruntled, but Heather had already left. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen.
He unfolded himself from the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd slept long enough to dream—a wild dream where he'd been running.
Running until they caught him, holding him down with a fork while a knife came down to cut him in two.
Heather and Mac had been chatting over him, completely oblivious to his screams.
At least he hadn't screamed out. That woke up Heather. Made her worry.
Wolverine grimaced, pulling on a shirt and went to join them in the kitchen.
Eggs and toast—a lighter breakfast, but one of Wolverine favorites. Kept him fuller than most meals. But Wolverine didn't move after Heather said grace, but just sat there, frowning at his silverware as if not really seeing them at all.
"Wolverine?" Heather didn't know if pulling him out of his thoughts was harmful or not, but he might sit there for hours if she didn't pull him out of it; he'd done it once, at the cabin. She'd watched him stand unmoving on the porch for a good three hours. It'd happened a couple times since, too.
He looked up, inhaling sharply as he focused on her. "Everything okay?"
He looked down at the silverware before snatching them off the checkered tablecloth. He stabbed into his food with determination. His knife screeched against the plate, and he eased up slightly. "Yeah."
Heather still watched him. "Nightmare?"
He shrugged.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked gently, not wanting to push too hard.
He blinked, his brow furrowing. He swallowed, looking away as he gave a short shake of his head.
Mac was making adjustments on his suit he wore in his lab when the security panel beeped and General Clarke stepped into the room. "You had something to show me?" the man asked without any small talk.
Mac pulled off his welding goggles and closed up the panel on the sleeve of the suit. "I thought you wouldn't be around until tomorrow, general."
"I had a space open in my schedule. You mentioned something about your Wolverine?"
"I did. Let me just slip out of this . . ." He gestured to his suit.
"Oh, no—don't let me take any more of your time. You have some tests set up in a few minutes, I believe?"
"Just some exercises. If you'll come over here." Mac put down his welder, stepping over to the tv on the counter off to the side. He reached for the control, pressing play on the tape. It was black and white, hazy, but Wolverine was clearly distinguishable on the pad in the middle of the room—if only by his hair and his broadly hunched shoulders—squaring off against his opponent.
As they watched, his opponent shot forward with his fist, and Wolverine caught his arm, using the man's momentum to twist him off balance and catch his neck in a deadlock. "As I mentioned, I had Wolverine come down and put some matches in with the men—mostly to just get him out and about. I got a hold of these tapes afterward, and had our boys analyze it." A second fight—the man coming in agily with a flip and a twisted kick. Wolverine stepped back, watching him warily, then reached out, catching his foot, returning blow-for-blow a blur of flying fists until his leg came out, swiping the man onto the mat—hard. "Half a dozen types of martial arts mixed in with who-knows-what. Whatever our soldiers came up with, Wolverine countered like he'd been born to this."
"Perhaps he was," General Clarke mused, his eyes not moving from the screen as Wolverine took down another opponent—a broad man a good two feet taller than him. "He beat them all?"
"Everyone that gave him a chance."
The general nodded, distracted still by the screen, but a frown now marred his lips. "Anyone out of a dozen mutants can take on even the best of trained soldiers without breaking a sweat, Hudson." He turned his dark eyes on him. "If he's to be your front man for your team, you're going to have to have more than this."
"We've been building up slowly," Mac said. "Why don't you come down and see him today? He'll be on his way to exercise room 5. Come see for yourself. I'll just change really quick—"
"Don't bother," the general said. You might as well show me in person your progress while we're at it. Unless you're not ready . . . ?"
"The suit's fine," Mac said, pulling on the suit gloves. "Just some kinks in the power cell, but a little more playing with the wiring should sort that out. We should have it ready for work in the field within a couple months."
Clarke nodded, his bald head shining beneath the lab lights. "Then let's go see what Wolverine is capable of."
General Clarke stood next to the window that peered down into the gleaming exercise room, his arms folded and his face expressionless. Mac flipped a few switches on the walls, adjusting the settings and setting up the sound and recording.
The door slid open, and Wolverine stepped into the doorway—not entering all the way until he'd looked around the whole room, no matter how many times he'd been in there before. The door slid shut behind him and he looked up to the control room.
"You ready down there?"
Wolverine turned his head, popping his neck and rolling his shoulders. "Yeah." He spoke louder than he usually did to make sure his voice carried to the room—but even then, it was soft for the distance.
"Last time a good level?"
Wolverine shrugged. "Gimme another one," he said.
Mac nodded, even though Wolverine couldn't see him, and turned a couple more switches. A panel slid open, letting four Frankensteinish robots slide into the room with surprising grace.
Wolverine faced off with them. The microphones picked up the distinct sound as his claws popped.
SNIKT!
Wolverine's shoulder's hunched and he moved forward like a tiger. He leaped sideways to dodge a hail of darting energy blasts from the crudely-formed cannon on the robots' shoulder.
"And these are?" Clarke asked, not looking away from the window and Wolverine below.
"Some basic 'bots I've thrown together. He's ripped most of them apart by now, but it doesn't take too long to piece them back together. We've got basic projectiles, short-range physical attacks, group attacks."
"And this?" General Clark tapped at a display on the control panel.
"Difficulty level. He's at 6 now."
"6?"
"Advanced soldier training maxes out at Level 4."
Clarke reached over, casually twisting the knob to 10. Down in the room, a sudden blast knocked Wolverine from the air mid-jump. He slammed against the wall, knocking a good dent in it. He leaped up from the ground, dodging another blast with a snarl.
"General, you can't—" Hudson's hand shot for the control, but the general caught his arm.
"What are you afraid of? Heather's reports claim he heals—you claim he can fight. You want me to have faith in your pet, Hudson, then let us see what he's capable of."
Hudson's jaw tightened. The general's arm strained against his suit—he could have pushed through easily with its added strength—but dark eyes met hazel and Mac pulled back, clenching his fists as he turned his eyes down below.
He'd seen Wolverine fight. He'd seen him take on man and metal—but he'd never seen anything close to this.
Blasts shook the walls. Wolverine darted in and out like a blur—flipping, kicking off walls and debris and twisting in with savage claws flashing. Mac watched, mesmerized—his own worry evaporated as Wolverine ripped into the armored robots.
A great slash of inhuman metal cleaved one of the machines from shoulder to the floor, sending it sparking into a heap on the floor, but before it had even settled Wolverine and leaped from its metal corpse. An energy blast hit the fallen 'bot the explosion was enough to shake the glass on the observation room.
Mac was jarred out of his awe the blast wave caught Wolverine in mid-air, spinning him off balance so an energy blast caught his side. Wolverine skid across the floor, leaving a bloodied skid-mark in his wake. A second blast sent him scrambling, one hand over his gut—blood dripping from his brow.
Mac reached for the panel as Wolverine narrowly avoided a head-on blast—even the glancing blow sending him skidding again. Claws flashed out, catching the floor and leaving deep gashes as he flipped to his feet—not even slowing. He ripped forward, leaping into the air with a howl of rage, ripping the head off the nearest 'bot.
Mac pulled back his hand from the controls.
Panels slid open on the walls of the room, exposing gun turrets that suddenly flashed. Wolverine ducked and dodged, ducking to slice off one of the last of the robot's guns. It fired wildly, but Wolverine took it in hand and his aim slid along the room even as he rolled through the rubble. The guns sparked and smoked as one by one they were demolished by his aim, but Wolverine turned to the last robot and threw the gun away—his claws at his side as he ran at it, tearing into it with a savagery that made Mac's mouth go dry.
Blades shot across the room—some hit him, though Mac wouldn't have been able to tell except for the cameras. They didn't slow him down a hair. Blood was flecked across his arms and shirt—but the wounds closed as soon as he got them.
"This isn't enough," Clarke said, and there was an odd note to his voice.
Mac couldn't help but laugh—a laugh of amazement. "What more do you want? We needed a weapon, general—and we've got one. He's taken everything we can throw at him."
"Not everything." The general's gaze turned away from the ruin in the room, settling on him expectantly.
Mac stared back for a moment before it hit him. He looked down at himself—the maple leafed costume bright in the room—and shook his head. "Not a chance. His claws can't penetrate the shielding."
"Then it will be a true test of his mettle. You think that robots and metal is the worst of what he will face in the field?"
"I can't. He trusts me. His psyche—"
"Must be tested as much as his physical prowess," the general finished. "I never wanted you in on this project, doctor," Clarke said idly, looking down at the room, his mask of almost unimpressed almost-boredom back in place. "I was . . . stuck with you—a naïve, dreaming, insubordinate civilian—and believe me when I say it will not go well for you if I report you for insubordination again. You will go down there, Dr. Hudson, and you will push him. And you will push him to prove that both he and your pet project are viable for any future consideration in the field. Do you understand?"
Mac's jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Clarke lifted an eyebrow, his tone changing.
"Come now, Dr. Hudson. Look at him. He's loving this. You won't be in any danger, and he will jump at the chance of a challenge. You saw him in the ring with our soldiers. You see him down there now. He wants to be pushed."
Mac looked down at the room. Wolverine was tearing into the last, weakly twitching robot, his claws tearing in deep.
Mac nodded, pulling the hood of his suit over his head.
Mac made his way down to the entry door on the floor below and pressed in the code before stepping into the room. The door sealed behind him.
The last robot lay in a sparking heap. Fragments and dust scattered across the floor, and mounds of metal—some still creaking wearily as if trying to rise despite having fallen in dozens of pieces—lay about like a surreal scene from a battlefield.
Wolverine was crouched next to his last kill—his back towards him, his shoulders hunched around him. A large gash was healing across his shoulders—it vanished even as Mac watched, but he could see his shoulders shaking.
He couldn't do this.
"Wolverine?"
No response.
Mac swore. What had they done?
Mac took a careful step forward. Debris cracked under his boot. "Wolverine? It's Mac. Are you—"
Wolverine twisted, mid-leap before Mac had a chance to even register that he'd moved.
SCCHTEEEER!
The field around his suit flashed, blocking the blow that crossed his torso, but the force alone sent him wheeling back. He shouted, stumbling, but Wolverine bore down, slashing wildly—heedless that his strikes couldn't hit him, but deflected them centimeters away from his skin. Mac could feel the energy pushing back against him—the pressure tangible, terrifying, and somehow thrilling.
Mac raised an arm towards and down-turning set of claws, and they struck. He strained, holding Wolverine's blow from falling, and stared.
Wolverine's eyes were wild—near-black and dilated, mouth twisted in a snarl. He howled, striking down with all his force. Mac's arm flinched down under the assault—suit enhancing his strength or no.
Mac opened his mouth—to call his name, to try something . . . but couldn't seem to find the words. Numb panic at the sight of him. Wolverine was death embodied, and suddenly he was glad his suit was there just to keep his knees from buckling.
He stumbled back—arms raised instinctively from the blows until his back hit the wall. Wolverine drove in with all his might—both fists pummeling towards his gut.
The energy of the suit held, and suddenly buckled.
Sparks flew, and pain shot from Mac's side.
He reacted—raising a hand and blasting a bar of energy. It hit Wolverine's shoulder—knocking him hard and sending him tumbling across the room and landing in a heap of still-sparking metal. Mac gasped, taking to the air and hovering—a hand over his side. Sweat dripped down his face.
Wolverine rose from the heap and shook himself before turning bared teeth towards Mac. He eyed him, pacing the floor—shoulders hunched and claws still bared, snarling under his breath.
Mac risked a glance down at his side and swore at the blood. His suit was a prototype, no more. The fact his shielding held up at all broke a dozen suppositions of science, and he had said it wasn't field ready—the power source was too weak, the circuits still glitching at times. He could feel the buzzing of the suit—the energy close to his skin—and he couldn't say if it was his imagination or not that he could almost feel it flickering.
He looked up at the windows of the observation booth, but he couldn't see to the other side—couldn't see Clarke. There was nothing keeping him from leaving right then, but he had the sudden realization that this truly was a test. For both of them.
"Wolverine!" he shouted. "Logan, snap out of it!" The man didn't seem to hear him—didn't seem to recognize his own name.
Suddenly grim, Mac eyed the doorway, and turned his body, whipping suddenly downward.
Wolverine reacted as if he had already known his move—Mac raised a hand, blasting energy towards him, but the feral man dodged and cut in, swiping towards the previous injury. Mac barely stopped him by catching his wrist, and blasted him in the face backwards.
Adrenaline pumped through his head—pain fueling near-panic. Wolverine landed on the ground, and Mac followed, keeping the energy on and facing it right on the man. Electricity coursed down his arms, his palms growing hot from the heat as Wolverine dug in claw in and dragged himself forward—skin beginning to smoke and the sleeve of his shirt smoldered. But Wolverine's claws ripped from the metal floor and he rolled out of the blast—breaking forward again, and Mac sent out a blast hard enough to crash him into the ceiling. But he twisted, slicing his claws along the lights and sending sparks flying as a light shattered, and he fell in control—landing hard enough so that his weight actually dented the floor beneath him.
Mac didn't let him straighten—but raised his fists and flew toward him, catching the man hard in the chin. He swooped around as Wolverine staggered, sending a blast that Wolverine managed to dodge, but Mac went in with two fists and caught his arm, slamming his fist into Wolverine's throat.
The suit increased his strength fourfold, but Wolverine caught his arm, and they rolled in the air—tumbling as Mac slammed him in the face, his gut, wherever he didn't get blocked. Wolverine struck back again and again—Mac felt his suit give as the claws glanced painfully across his shoulder, but blood splattered from Wolverine's face as he slammed into the feral man's gut, and Mac let him drop.
The man actually staggered to his feet again—still snarling, still watching him with blood staining his chin, half of his face swollen almost unrecognizably. Before Mac's eyes bruising faded, and a broken blood vessel in one of his eyes cleared up in seconds. But he stumbled as he tried towards him, pace already quickening.
Taking a deep breath, Mac pulled on the rest of the suit's energy and blasted him full-on. He whirled through the air wildly, slamming against the wall. Bricks shattered on the impact, tumbling to the floor.
The suit sighed around him as the energy failed, and Mac barely caught himself as gravity took hold and he dropped to the ground.
Nothing moved.
Mac gasped a breath—lowering his hands slowly, though at this point he barely had enough power to send a small animal running. Brick dust settled down over the ruin.
He spared a glance to his side again—hissing as he placed a hand over it. It was painful, but didn't feel deep. Sweat stung half a dozen other cuts where his field had failed, but none so deep or painful.
The rubble shifted.
Mac's head shot up as Wolverine rose slowly out of the dust—head hunched and chin low, swaying, with blood coating the side of his face—he could see metal gleaming beneath the torn skin on his forehead, even as the skin crawled back into place like a living thing itself. He swayed as he rose, and Mac darted a glance at the door, then bolted for it.
Wolverine stumbled after him as Mac slid to the doorway and pressed his hand against the access pad. He spun into the hallway and slammed his hand on to the pad—sealing it shut. Three long claws suddenly cut through the thick steel door as if it was butter, and Mac staggered back—raising his hands again—but the claws suddenly retracted and all went silent.
Mac whipped off his suit's mask—it was damp with sweat, the temperature-control turned off with most of the components, though to be honest it was less from heat. His free hand trembled as he pressed it to his side. He gritted his teeth.
Mac slammed the door open for the observation room. Clarke hadn't moved, but sat staring through the windows down at Wolverine. Mac opened his mouth, but the words he was going to say vanished as he looked down at Wolverine.
The feral stood inside the door, staring at it. For a second he didn't move, wavering on feet, and sank to the ground, fingers tangling in his hair like he wanted to rip it out.
The cameras caught him pulling in on himself—as if trying to sink into the floor. His hands shook, trembling as one pressed against the cold metal floor.
Mac swallowed. He was shaking too. Shock? Adrenaline?
Fear?
He didn't think he could ever forget those eyes.
Wolverine shifted below. Then slowly—ever so slowly—he lifted his head, looking dazed, and then stared in confusion at the blood on his hands.
"He—he's back," Mac said, leaning against the wall and keeping his hand against his side. He let his head fall back. "He's back."
Clarke stood—so abruptly that Mac blinked. He faced Mac squarely.
"Sir—"
"Whatever you need to keep the Wolverine around, you will have it. The added funds for the improved components you requested in your last report will be provided." Mac blinked at him—while Clarke was as stern as ever, he had expected a different reaction entirely. "I expect excellence, Hudson. Do not let me down." He eyed him. "Go get cleaned up. Can you take care of the Wolverine?"
Mac nodded numbly. He didn't know what Clarke would say if he responded otherwise.
The general left without any further courtesy. Mac turned back to the room, where Wolverine was looking around the ruins, one hand on his head as if to stave off a headache. Any sign of injury was long past, save for the streaks of blood. As if sensing him watching him, he turned his eyes up towards the windows.
"Mac?" It was spoken cautiously, with an edge of confusion—his voice that low rumble of his.
Mac didn't reach for the 'com controls, but stared, one hand still on his side. His trembling had stopped.
Wolverine looked down at his hands, and then his head jerked up again—he'd smelled his blood.
"Mac?" he asked again, a note of panic entering his voice.
"I'm here, Wolverine," Mac said. He no longer wondered how he'd earned the name. When Wolverine didn't reply, he added, "I'm okay."
"Mac," Wolverine repeated, relief clear in his voice, though his shoulders were still tense. "What happened?"
Mac looked down at him. Remembered the crazed look in Wolverine's eyes—the same wildness he'd seen that first time they'd met, when he'd come at him with eyes unseeing except for rage, with claws bared. ". . . You went berserk," he said at last.
Below, Wolverine flinched as if he'd been struck. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked down at it, grimacing at the blood. A dozen cameras caught his expression from a dozen angles.
". . . Don't tell Heather." The microphones barely caught the soft request over a sputter from a fallen robot.
Mac didn't answer.
They'd found their weapon. Now he only hoped they could find how to control it.
Berserk. There ain't no other word for what I do, when the red haze comes down and I see nothin' but blood and pain and rage. Some clowns I've come across've made the mistake of thinkin' that it's a blind rage. I guess in a way that's what it is—but the berserker in me, it ain't stupid. It's hot and wild, but sharp and cruel. Thinkin' through the blood, but thinkin' hard and quick—harder than diamond, sharper than claws. An' that's what makes it all the more dangerous.
Now:
"All right. We want in and out, no fightin' unless we can't avoid it," Wolverine said, all business as he rose from the pilot seat and addressed his motley crew.
"You feelin' all right, hon?" Rogue asked with a slight smirk.
Logan raised an eyebrow at her, but didn't respond. "Frost, if you're half the telepath as Chuck was, you'll be our radio—you tune into everyone at once?" Emma nodded, looking cool as ever. "Good. If we run into Magneto we want to converge in minutes—take him down fast. Teams: 'Crawler, you're with Havok. Any trouble ya can't handle right-off and you 'port back until you get backup. Kitty, you're with me. See Magneto and phase us both outta there—don't want him gettin' a hold of my metal. Rogue, you're with Frosty. If it comes to a fight—get his helmet off if ya can. Keeps teeps out of his head for some reas—"
He cut off sharply, suddenly jerking his head around towards the back of the plane. "What the hell?" he murmured. He turned sharply and stalked out of the cockpit.
Havok blinked. "What just happened?"
"What is it, Logan?" Kitty asked, following him warily.
Logan didn't answer, but stopped in front of a storage locker and wrenched the door open.
Large green eyes stared up at him, gleaming as she looked up at him with pure attempted innocence.
"Hi, Mr. Logan!" Kylee said, all smiles.
Logan didn't answer at first, but just stood there, frozen. Kylee's grin faltered and her hair flattened as her eyes grew even wider.
Logan took a tight breath as if to speak, but nothing came. He couldn't seem to find words.
"Kylee!" Rogue broke the tense silence. Kylee's eyes broke away from Logan's and she looked to Rogue with an almost relieved expression until she saw the lack of mercy on the other mutant's face. "What are you doing here?"
Kylee shrunk back further. "Jus' wannid ta go wit' ya," she murmured, barely audible as she dropped her eyes and pulled in on herself.
"Dammit," Logan finally gritted between his teeth, half-growled.
"Language, Wolverine," Emma said, smelling irritated but appearing completely unruffled nonetheless. "There's only one solution, then. You'll have to stay with the girl." Logan's eyes snapped to her, and she waved her hand at his expression. "Think rationally. With your metal . . . components, you are by far the most vulnerable of any of us."
Logan bristled, his nose flaring. "Says the broad in heels and a stripper's outfit." Frost lifted an eyebrow.
"She is right, Logan," Nightcrawler spoke up.
Logan turned his back to them, looking out the cockpit window as he dragged both hands through his hair.
"This does not give you free reign," Kurt said to Emma, who was smirking slightly. "I'll be leader on the ground, followed by Rogue. Kitty vill be next in line, should something happen to me. You obey her like you vould Logan."
Emma lifted an eyebrow and looked down at Kitty, who crossed her arms and glared at her in response.
"Very well," she said, but her smugness was gone.
"All right, zen," Kurt continued. "Kitty, go with Rogue and Ms. Frost. It'll—"
Rrrrumbble.
The cabin shook, and Kitty threw out a hand to steady herself against the wall as the lights flickered overhead, then blacked out. The roar of the engines sputtered, then went silent.
"I think our stealth plan just went bust," Rogue said in the sudden darkness.
TBC . . . .
