Geez, life is impossible. But the chapters still come.
Thanks you thank you thank you for any reviews you have dropped, especially you few who take the time to drop massive, detailed reviews. They're what keep me writing. I looove to see what you guys call from what I have planned. :) Jeanniebird and silverthorne, your reviews especially are fantastic. And Jeanniebird, silverthorne wrote a review back about your comments on the last chapter. I love your discussions on Wolverine's character. He is the driving force for this story-his character-and I love to hear what you guys think of him as I write these little things of mine.
Anyway, I've gotta run. Barely took the time to drop this chap before running off again. Hopefully I'll have another chap for you in a couple of weeks. :)
Chapter 56: Deep Breath
Then:
Wolverine wasn't shaking after he got out of the gym showers, but he felt like he should be. The ground under his feet felt unsteady, the light too bright, the scents too sharp, each sound like a scream—metal-on-metal. He could feel his claws hidden in his forearms; each one felt cold, his flesh too hot around them.
A young soldier was waiting outside when he stepped back into the hall. The man—boy, really—wiped his forehead and said Mac was getting cleaned up and said to meet him in his lab. Wolverine gave him a sideways glance and sidestepped him, walking forward. The man followed him him a couple steps back. Wolverine looked back with a frown.
"I . . was told to see you there," the soldier said. His gaze flitted to his eyes. He looked ready to add a title, but after floundering for a moment he just shut his mouth.
Wolverine frowned at him and turned around without a reply.
"Dr. Hudson's office is in the other direction." No answer. "Wolverine?" He said the name slowly—as if not sure if it was the right name to use—and Wolverine could feel his eyes on his back. Wolverine's lip twisted, but the kid couldn't see it.
"'Hungry," Wolverine grumbled, not looking back, though an itch was growing between his shoulder blades. A different kind of itching, anyway-his skin still felt like it was crawling, even if the visible healing was all but finished.
The soldier waited by the door of the cafeteria while Wolverine picked at his lunch alone in the corner facing the entrance. The food came in a very different quality than Heathers'. The thought of her made Wolverine's appetite disappear entirely.
He sat there until the food was cold and stirred to mush. He put his fork down and ducked into the kitchens when he saw the young soldier's eyes slide from him for a moment. He sniffed his way through the path that smelled of most traffic and came out in the hall. Nobody glanced at him, but he tread softly until he stopped against the wall in the corner beneath a camera—a rare blind spot for the cameras that he had noticed in passing, some days before.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling hunted as the camera hummed above him.
Mac found him some time later—Wolverine didn't bother moving, and looked at him squarely as the man came around the corner. Sharp eyes noticed him favoring his side, his arm held a bit too stiffly next to him. Wolverine could smell the blood, the disinfectant, the sting of pain.
Not healing. But Mac wouldn't heal, not like him. If things had gone differently-and they could have, easily-Mac would be dead.
Dead. It seemed a strange word, here. In the wild it had been everywhere, but here it sounded off-like the sound of a rusted bell.
"I've been looking for you," Mac said, coming to stand next to him casually. Too casually, with how he shifted around his wounds.
Wolverine didn't look at him. "Could'a killed ya, Mac," he said softly, even for him.
"Sorry?"
"Could'a killed you," Wolverine repeated, his voice sharp.
"Oh. Well," Mac shrugged. "You didn't."
Wolverine raised his head and stared at him.
Mac shook his head—looking down the hall away from him. "I . . . it's as much my fault as yours. More."
"That's shit."
Mac lifted an eyebrow at him, but shook his head again, more vehemently. "The suit wasn't ready. I wasn't ready. Neither of us were. I pushed, and . . . I'm just glad it didn't turn out worse for both of us."
"'m always fine," Wolverine mumbled.
Mac made a noncommittal sound that wasn't quite agreement or disagreement, but somehow managed to sound encouraging. He reached out a hand, putting it on his shoulder. Wolverine resisted the urge to jerk back.
"I won't tell Heather."
Wolverine's eyes finally rose to meet his. "Yer injuries?"
"Accidents happen in the lab. I'll take care of it."
Wolverine breathed out a sigh, though he still felt as if his shoulders had been welded solid.
He shrugged off his hand, frowning at him. "I ain't fightin' you again," he said, deadly serious. "Never again. Can't . . . can't control it."
"It?"
Wolverine looked away, uncomfortable. He'd felt it every second of his memory, but only noticed it since he picked up the kid. He'd only become more aware after he'd met Heather, and then moved to the city. It paced in his mind, shying away from people. It made his claws itch.
"Somethin' inside a' me," he said at last. "Something . . . " He thought of a word; a word he'd learned since he'd picked up reading. An animal. Uncontrollable. "Somethin' wild."
Mac nodded slowly. "Heather has heard of a couple mutants they're categorizing as ferals. Animal traits, enhanced senses . . . You're not alone in this."
Wolverine's ears perked at that. "Others?" Others that had run in the woods? Others who couldn't remember? Others with . . .
He looked down at his hands, about to pop his claws, but a glance at Mac made him change his mind. He didn't think Mac meant that.
More freaks like him, only not. He'd been born a freak.
Mac nodded. "We can control this, Wolverine. I'm willing to help. You just have to agree to try."
Wolverine raised his eyes to glance at him dubiously. But Mac sounded—and smelled—so earnestly positive that it was hard to disagree. Besides, what else could he do?
Run into the woods-wasn't that the only option? Because it was that or this. Forward, or backwards? And Wolverine wondered if he could go back, now. He didn't fit here, didn't fit there. Would he ever truly belong anywhere?
Mac was waiting for a reply.
Wolverine hunched his shoulders and nodded slowly.
What else was there to do?
Wolverine walked up slowly to the door, his shoulders hunched and his eyes wary. The door looked the same as any he'd passed on the base, though this one was tucked in the corner out of the way of things. He stopped, frowning at the name plaque.
Dr. Richens.
Mac hadn't told Heather. In fact, the man seemed determined to act as though nothing had happened, even to the point of straining. But once they'd reached base the next day and Heather had headed to her office, Mac had pointed him in to this office.
To visit a shrink.
A trauma psychologist specializing in PTSD was what Mac had called her, but a rose called by any other name was still a rose . . . or whatever.
He'd balked, and almost flat-out refused . . . but he had agreed to try, no matter how stupid this was.
Wolverine scratched a sideburn, still frowning at the door when it suddenly opened without him knocking.
He jumped despite himself, his claws going so far as to barely break his skin before he caught himself.
He hadn't realized he was so much on edge.
A short man—smaller even than Heather, and pale like a plant that didn't get enough sunlight—blinked up at him from the door. He was just shy of short—though that still left him half a head taller than Wolverine—with a hair too much flesh to be considered skinny, and a grey hair too much to be considered young. His smile was thin-lipped, but at least it wasn't faked.
Wolverine had the thought that he could kill him with nothing but a pinky finger. Harmless.
When he reached out her hand to shake his, though, his grip was strong. "Wolverine," he said. His voice was low and mellow. "Please come in."
Wolverine shrugged, but followed him in as he stepped back and held the door for him.
"Have a seat," Dr. Richens said, gesturing to the room. There was no shrink couch, and the desk was off to the side. A coffee table separated two leather couches in the center of the room—both looking comfortably worn.
He took the chair so he could face the door, slumping back and settling his hands on the arms. The shrink sat across from him, leaning forward to pour some hot liquid from a pot. "Tea? It's Oolong. I discovered it during some time abroad I spent in China—it's very relaxing."
The brownish-yellow tea smelled woody, with sweet earthy tones. But Wolverine didn't like the sound of anything that would force him to relax, but the man looked at him expectantly. He nodded, but when he accepted the tea he just held it, undrinking, and making sure not to breathe too deeply of its aroma.
He was ready.
But the shrink didn't seem in any hurry. He sat back, sipping his own tea and looking out the window. After a couple minutes of waiting, Wolverine shifted his gaze from him to the window. He had a good view. Heather's and Mac's offices didn't have windows at all, and this opened up to the forest beyond the perimeter, rather than to the tarmac and boxish buildings on the other side of the complex. It was a grey day outside—not drizzling, but with a heaviness to the air that meant that it could start raining at any moment. The grass was growing high in the field, the trees already thick with green leaves as field gave way to forest. Blackberry bushes choked out the meadow beyond the fence.
There were blackberries in the field behind Heather's house. She said they would go picking in the summer. Said she used to stuff herself with them, when she was a child.
Wolverine wondered why he'd had to be lost in the wilderness during the winter. The rest of the year sounded like paradise.
He frowned.
Lost. He'd never thought of it like that. He hadn't been lost, really. He just hadn't had anywhere to go.
Just surviving.
He shifted in his seat, looking back over at the shrink. He was watching him over the rim of his cup. He hadn't even felt his eyes move to him.
"I never liked camping. It's wet, dirty, cold. Not my kind of fun."
His words made Wolverine blink. He hadn't expected them, nor the subject. He shrugged.
He remembered when Heather'd first explained camping to him. 'Roughing it,' she called it. Guess it made sense to want to get away from people, especially with so many living together. Hardly "roughing it," though, with fire and a tent and food and flashlights, and a car to travel in if need be.
He had nothing really to say, but the man didn't say anything else. Waiting for him.
He'd promised Mac he'd try. If the guy thought that talking about camping was going to help him, well . . . a promise was a promise.
Wolverine cleared his throat. It sounded loud in the small room. "I know I'm a freak," he said, but it was not harsh. "I know 'm all wrong. Ya can't tell me anythin' that I don't already know."
Dr. Richens raised his eyebrows. "Now what makes you think that?"
It was long ago—one of the first coherent thoughts he remembered. Standing outside the light of a campground, watching the distant fires flickering in the rings. Smelling the food, hearing the talk. Seeing a boy slip an arm around the shoulder of a girl next to him, and her nestling in close.
No. Even before that.
When he'd first recognized his reflection as a man and known that it was wrong. Oh, so wrong.
"Kid told me."
"Kid?"
Wolverine didn't clarify—he just nodded. He couldn't remember his name right now—just a grinning face, glowing red eyes, and a roguish smell that was his smell. More important than words. And he remembered how he'd slipped out of the brace, that night. Swallowing the numbers the kid had written on the paper so they couldn't find them.
The kid had wanted to disappear, Wolverine knew that. This wasn't about the kid, so he wouldn't give them more than that.
He wondered if he'd made it to . . . Nawlins? Wherever that was. He hadn't been able to find it on a map, when he'd thought to look.
"What about before that, Wolverine? Or do you prefer Logan?"
Wolverine frowned sharply at the name. "Wolverine," he said, before even thinking. His name—Logan—had stopped hurting when Heather used it, or Mac—though that was more rare—but it was his name. His.
"Why Wolverine?"
Wolverine squinted at him. It'd always been there. Always . . . gleaming in the sun on his bare chest, cold as metal and ice.
But he didn't want to talk about this. Didn't want to think about it. The memories were screaming black and blinding white and sharp and wild. Fear.
He raised a hand to rub his chest, where he could almost still feel the metal dog tags, despite their long absence.
He'd promised Mac he'd try.
To keep the . . . what was the word? Berserk. To keep the berserker away. Nothing worse than that. Not if Heather was around. Not if . . .
He swallowed, fighting not to choke on his words as he forced himself to start at the beginning.
Heather cared more about what had happened, in the beginning. Details, faces, memories. The doc didn't care so much about the details. He wanted to talk about what it had been like, to wake up in the snow. How he'd felt, running with the wolves. Why had he reacted so strongly when he'd recognized himself as a man, and . . . did he still harbor some of the same feelings?
Of course he did. But hell—he couldn't answer all the questions. Not out loud, not with words. The first three sessions left him feeling drained and cold.
But he could still feel the animal pacing. If anything, the longer he pushed it down, the more restless it became. He worked twice as hard in Mac's workouts—working to exhaust himself, trying to push the himself so he had no energy to fight.
It might have worked, some. But he didn't notice a difference. Fighting was like living. Breathing. You stopped doing it when you were dead. Dr. Richins had been interested when he had said as much, and had paused to mark something down onto a pad of paper. Wolverine's skin crawled every time he did that. Made his stomach churn.
Three days into the sessions and he put his fist through the wall for the first time. He'd managed to calm down before hurting the man, though his response had been infuriating. The shrink'd praised him on redirecting his anger to keep from hurting anyone, and gone on to discuss different coping methods that could take the place of striking out.
Breathing deep. Counting to ten. Using words instead of actions. Wolverine had stalked out before he could get any farther. But the next day it was the same. And the next. And the next.
He tried.
But the breathing deep just made the human scents grow stronger in his mind—the counting let the rage build. And words? Words were too slow. Too clumsy. So much to say, with not enough room to say it. It bottled up inside him, but didn't make it disappear.
Wolverine looked forward to the time after work when he would be free to roam outside with Heather, or throw a ball around with Mac or watch hockey. Even the quiet times in Heather's office, when he could sit and read in the corner. She liked to talk too, but her questions were easier than the shrink's. Less prying, even if they had the same words. He told her about them—if not the reason for them—and she was encouraging without pushing.
And she talked back—but not like he was slow, thick, or a time bomb ready to go off like many people did around here. Around her tension left his shoulders and he felt like he could just be.
A week into the sessions, Wolverine settled back in the corner of Heather's office with his latest book across his crossed legs. Heather had been talking about the various mutations she'd come across in the last couple years—from energy blasts to physical mutations that made Wolverine stare despite himself—but she'd fallen silent as she turned back to her paperwork and the blinking cursor on the computer screen before her. Wolverine was watching her, practicing the breathing methods the shrink had been trying to help him with, though he didn't feel even a hint of anger at the moment. In his nose. Out his mouth.
It was calming, even with the stink of disinfectant in the air. He'd picked apart the scents in Heather's offices a hundred times before, and his mind felt as settled as he thought it could be. And Dr. Richens said to picture somewhere safe. Somewhere where he felt safe.
Images flashed before his eyes, but rather than fight them or grab at them, he let them pass by. His heart still quickened, twisting at glimpses of things his conscious mind couldn't make out. He breathed in. Breathed out.
Safe.
Not here. Heather's presence was enough make him like her office when she there, but with her gone the air seemed sharper, the lights brighter, the entire place cold and alien and painful. Even thinking about it, he could hear his heart quickening, and he fought to keep his breathing steady.
Heather's house slid into his mind. Someplace he didn't have to be wary of strangers, of soldiers. Where the scents were simple compared to here. Warmth, food. Safe.
Wolverine shifted in the corner, frowning to himself.
Physically safe. No harm would take him. No hurt. But there was still danger—he felt it. Never able to rest, like eyes on his back. Even with Heather, the pressure was there. Like walking on a razor's edge.
Was any place safe?
He looked down at his hands. They were clean and smelled of soap. No dirt beneath his fingernails, no blood. Not even a healing scratch or burn of cold, or the slightest mark of a fading scar. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
He let his eyes slide shut. Remembering the sound of crickets in the crisp spring air. Remembering the bite of the cold on his toes—thawed in the spring to nothing more than a greeting nip. Remembered the smell of damp, rich earth and new green, and the scent of melting snow on the air from the higher peaks.
Alert. Alive. There was still danger there. The danger of predators, and of them following him. Hunting him.
His heart thudded in his ears, but he knew how to survive here. Knew how to live.
Perhaps it was as safe a place as there could be, for him.
The intercom beeped and General Clarke's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Wolverine started, eyes shooting open and hands immediately closing into fists.
"Dr. Hudson, can I see you in my office?"
"Me or my husband?" Heather asked. It was her office, but Mac was down often enough that the general could mean Mac just as soon as her.
"You."
"All right. I'll be down in five." She turned to Wolverine. "You good to sit tight for a few?" He nodded, and she stood, pulling her lab coat around her. "I shouldn't be long."
Wolverine nodded again. He didn't need to be watched. He was in control. The door closed behind her as she left, and he shut his eyes again, trying to find himself back into the woods.
But the closeness of the room seemed closer without Heather there. The air rubbed raw, without the scent of her. The white noise of nothing made the hair on his arms lift like a scream.
He rubbed his eyes, grimacing.
He waited for Heather to come back.
And waited.
Thirty minutes later Wolverine stood from his seat in the corner, glancing at the clock again before moving to the door. He opened it, sliding out into the hall and glancing at the camera on the ceiling before stepping forward at a steady pace. Soldiers passed with barely a glance at him, and he didn't bother with them either—simply following the scent he knew better than any other.
Heather. What was keeping her?
No one stopped him as he walked forward; his presence had become accepted, if not comfortable. A guest allowed to roam, but eyes still followed him—watched him.
His path took him up the stairs and to a side office. Clarke's. The door was shut tight, but Wolverine stood outside, pressing his ear against the thick wood door.
"—best for everyone involved," General Clarke was saying. His voice was low and muffled through the door, but Wolverine could hear it clear enough.
"I understand that, sir, but we have it under control."
Heather.
She sounded impatient. Defensive. Angry, even, though held in check. He had never smelled her angry-not really. He clenched his fists, ready to fight.
A sigh. The sound of papers shuffled in callused hands. "I don't think you understand what I mean, Dr. Hudson." The papers slid across the desk. Heather inhaled sharply—a soft choking sound.
"General, what—?"
"Fourteen men have been found dead in the Rockies the last number of months. Hunters, rangers, campers, skiers. All of them killed by something we've never seen before, and all within the range that we predict Wolverine may have been in before you found him. Something with long claws, and you can see clear enough that it was no bear. And then there's this." There was a long pause. Wolverine leaned forward, his palm flat against the wall. "Teeth marks. Human teeth marks."
Wolverine jerked back to stare at the wooden door, his hair prickling on the back of his neck.
"No," Heather's voice was soft enough that Wolverine had to strain to hear. Then louder. "No. Wolverine—Logan—would not—"
"How do you know, Doctor?" Clarke said, his voice only colder next to Heather's. "You've had him for a handful of weeks, but your own report has discussed your concerns of how dangerous he is, and wild. Barely human when you found him, as I remember you saying. Starving in the wilderness, why wouldn't he turn against his own?"
"He wouldn't," Heather said. "Besides, there's Remy—he protected him." But her voice shook. "He would have . . . said something," she finished.
"You're assuming he would remember such a thing at all," the general said. "With his memory as it is, who can say for sure?"
There was a long silence. "I've talked to the director," Clarke continued, not harshly. "We have a team of doctors who would be able to take him in and give him the best possible care, and with the security that we lack to take care of him if he got out of control again. For him, as much as for your safety, Heather." His voice strained slightly, as if he were trying to sound sympathetic.
Wolverine felt a chill growing in his bones as the silence stretched on. Hollow.
His heart pounding in his skull. Thudding.
Silence, stretching the space between heartbeats into a lifetime.
"No," Heather said, firm once again. "Prove it was him, general, and then you can take him in with the law on your side. Until then, he stays with me." Heather's footsteps turned to the door, and Wolverine tensed to bolt, but the next words made both him and Heather's footsteps freeze.
"He almost killed James last week," Clarke said, all business now. "What? Didn't he tell you? They were sparring in the gym and Wolverine lost control—went completely berserk, and would have killed him if he hadn't gotten away. Don't believe me? Ask your husband."
Wolverine felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him. He slipped away from the door, walking quickly around the corner, and feeling numb. His hands were slick with sweat, his mouth dry.
He leaned against the wall around the corner, dry-washing his face. Whatever had Clarke shown her. He'd said . . . fourteen men—dead? He hadn't killed them. He hadn't.
. . . had he?
He hunched there, waiting until he heard the door open, and Heather's footsteps fade down the hallway in the other direction. General Clarke left a few minutes later, and Wolverine slipped forward quickly, darting around the corner and rushing down the hall. The door closed slowly, and he managed to slip his fingers to catch it before it shut fully. He pushed open the door, eying the interior.
Heather's scent was strong—tinted with bitter fear and doubt, prickly with fury and sharp with defensiveness. The general's scent was the strongest, with a dozen dozen others passing over him, and a sweet smoky smell that Wolverine couldn't identify—there was no fireplace in the office, big as it was. Wolverine rubbed his nose.
The folder still lay on the general's desk, and Wolverine moved forward and flipped it open. He glanced at the map on the top, marked with red x's, and then laid it aside. His eyes didn't flicker as he spread out the pictures beneath it
The bodies were in various stages of decay—one nothing but a skeleton and scraps of cloth, half-buried in melting snow—its skull marred by three slashes down its face. Two more were marked found fifty miles apart—one with its guts spilled out on snow, wide eyes frozen solid with the cold. Another was torn clean in half—an arm completely missing. The next had been picked clean entirely, with a close-up shot of teeth marks that had torn flesh right off the face.
Wolverine turned over the next picture, and froze.
Two men lay in mud, bright orange vests marking them as hunters. They were dead a week at least when the picture was taken—the sunken cheeks and bloated flesh was telling enough. One of the faces was ruined beyond any chance at recognition. The other's shirt was ripped open—the sunken chest bare.
No teeth marks. But in the back of his mind buzzed a memory. A memory of a gunshot, a scream, that rage . . . the memory of blood on his hands, and a reflection in the water of a river, and the horror of a revelation as he stared at the men he'd killed.
He was a man.
Logan pulled back from the picture, knocking into the chair behind him and almost stumbling before steadying himself on the back of the chair.
He gritted his teeth, steeling himself to look at the picture again.
No teeth marks. None human, at least—the bodies looked whole save for their original wounds, which was surprising enough.
He flipped through the rest of the pictures with a feverish intensity. Flesh with deep gouges and claw marks too deep and sharp for any beast's. Flesh torn off with teeth too dull to be a scavenger's. Most were too stripped for identification—only tattered skeletons in the snow.
The last one made his mouth go dry again.
One body—alone, this time. The face was intact enough to see the features, and the cold of deep winter had frozen it—preserved it where warmth would have left it rotted. He recognized it vaguely, with a memory of metal traps and black cold and food stolen from the two men in the mountains, with words he could almost understand. A quick glance at the map showed the location, along with the scattered dots of where the other bodies had been found.
He wondered if they ever found the second trapper.
Wolverine replaced the photos with a cold numbness and slipped the map marked with small red X's into his pocket. He stepped out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him.
He found himself outside Heather's office without being entirely sure how he had gotten there. His hands were cold, but his palms were damp. His stomach rolled.
He readied himself to enter. I didn't do it. I didn't kill those people. But that wasn't quite right, was it?
I didn't kill most of those people?
That'd go off well.
And they were right—what if he just couldn't remember? What if he had killed all those people? What if he had . . . eaten them all? He'd seen the trappers, after all. Perhaps he'd been the last one to see them alive.
That fear in Heather's scent . . . the disgust at the thought . . .
It made his own stomach roll.
He inhaled, breathing in the scent of her from her office. Her hair, her clothes . . . even the slight scent of her sweat smelled wonderful.
He frowned, turning around and stepping down the hall with purpose. He drew his collar up as he moving quickly.
Away from her. Away from here.
Away.
Now:
Logan whipped around, grabbing hold of a seat as the plane began dipping.
"Kurt! Get the kid out of here!"
Kurt darted forward, grabbing Kylee and vanishing in a blast of sulfur—and then everything went to hell.
The Blackbird dove, and Kitty screamed, barely catching hold of a handle on the wall before the floor dropped beneath her feet. Frost fell and slammed against the seats hard enough to break bone, but she straightened and looked towards Wolverine—her skin suddenly transparent, and her hair as clear as glass. Emotionless, blank eyes looked at him; she'd turned into a flawless ice sculpture, but a thousand times stronger; ice would have shattered into a million pieces with that impact.
Logan ignored her for now. He grabbed onto another handhold and dragged himself upward towards the hatch. He reached it, pushing against it, but the pressure from the cabin was too strong.
"Logan!" Rogue shouted. She half-flew, half-crawled across the cabin, taking hold of the handle and wrenching it forward and out. A vacuum of air snagged at them, and Logan let it sweep him out into the sky.
Seconds later, they were all airborne, free-falling behind the Blackbird.
Logan twisted around, throwing out his arms to control his fall as he looked around him. Frost was still in her icy form, Kitty looked just plain strange: falling, but somehow her hair still hung around her face—hardly touched by the wind as she phased her way down through the air.
Where were Rogue and Summers?
He glanced down at the plane speeding below them. Still falling, but as he watched the tip lifted, leveling out before a figure darted from under the nose—Rogue, with Havok held against her with one arm.
Rogue twisted towards him, reaching out, but Logan pointed to Kitty. Rogue nodded, swooping over and grabbing hold of Kitty as she went solid and grabbed a hold of her neck.
He glanced at Frost one more time—she was swan diving, arms thrown back and eyes closed as her transparent hair flowed—a liquid solid, somehow—behind her. She could have been asleep.
Whatever was going on with her, she probably wasn't even going to feel the hit.
Lucky girl.
Logan gritted his teeth, bracing himself as the water rushed forward, the air making his eyes stream.
He didn't remember hitting the water.
It was dark—pitch black, and cold. Where was he? Where were his fingers, his hands, his feet? He could barely feel them—distant, throbbing. He tried to move his fingers to make sure they were there, but there was no response. They sat there—curled but unmoving, a part of him . . . no, someone else's body. Distant.
Throbbing, frozen pain.
Cold. Metal. He could feel the cold leaking through his wrists, his ankles. Burning ice dug between his temples—into his eyes—stuck in his flesh.
Pain. Pain enough that he wanted to scream—but his vocal chords were dead, his panic muffled behind a thick fog of cotton stuffing his mouth, his ears, his brain.
He willed his eyes to open—but his eyelids were gone. He was gone. Someone had stolen his body, leaving his consciousness floating in an unresponsive, cold mass.
Trapped.
Water licked at his toes. It was warm—like blood—and crawled up his legs, around his chest—constricting him. He tried to gasp reflexively as it covered his mouth, his nose—he couldn't even hold his breath as he felt the bitter liquid rush down his throat, choking his lungs with fire and acid.
Lights flashed behind his eyelids. Unnoticed by him amidst the agony, his throat constricted—his hand flinched, his muscles quivered—reflexively fighting to respond as the ice needles drilled down to his bone and turned to fire.
Water lapped over his head, and chains pulled him down, dragging at his bones, tightening around his chest as he sank deeper into the depths—
Logan gasped—breathing in a mouthful of bitter seawater reflexively.
He sputtered—losing the last of his air as he flailed wildly, his brain panicked between reality and memory.
His eyes shot open—burning at the saltwater—but he twisted and saw the dimming light and began swimming towards it.
Flickering. Flickering so distant, like warped reflections of a reflection of a reflection.
The water pulled at him—fingers fighting to pull him down. His bones dragged—he felt a million pounds from head to toe, and bubbles streamed upward past him. The light seemed farther away than ever.
Sinking. No matter how much he tried, just going deeper.
His fingers dragged through the water—was it really just water? His eyes burned like fire as his vision grew darker and darker.
He strained, his lungs seizing. His diaphragm fought to expand—to inhale.
He'd always figured drowning was the worst way to die. No matter how much a person tried to fight it, or even just take it, there was a corner of the mind that will gasp in—no matter that it's water. There's no reasoning, no bravery. Just panic.
He fought the urge to gasp, his vision going darker.
Sinking, just sinking . . .
Something grabbed his arm, yanking him upwards.
His automatic response was to fight. He jerked away—but the grip was unyielding, and he was already speeding towards the surface. His head broke the surface and he gagged—coughing out a mouthful of water and gasping for air as he twisted to clutch Rogue's arm as the water's surface dropped beneath them.
"Cool it, hairy," Rogue said, slowing a hair. His stomach clenched and he choked again—spewing out another mouthful of bitter water. Her hands held him up, his feet dangling over the waves—weird to say the least, but he wasn't complaining. "Ah got ya, sugah."
Logan looked up at her, clinging to her arm, blinking. Eyes burned from the seawater—lungs still felt half-full of liquid, and burned like he'd inhaled acid rather than water.
"'bout time," Logan gasped at last, wiping his arm across his mouth. He coughed again. "Where're—the others?"
"Safe. An' dry, which is more than ah can say for the two'a us," she said. "You okay?"
"Hate water," Logan muttered, looking forward as they flew—Genosha's shores in clear view. His hair clung mournfully to his face, and he shook his head, pushing it back from his eyes. His hand shook. He blamed the lack of oxygen.
"Didn't use t'bother you so much," Rogue said, and Logan knew she wasn't thinking about anything recent.
Wolverine didn't shudder. "Didn't use ta have a hundred pounds a' adamantium pullin' me down," he said, looking down at the waves. Still felt like he was sinking.
"Fair 'nuff," Rogue said. They fell silent for a moment. "Lucky I found you at all."
Logan didn't reply to that, though it was difficult to swallow before he spoke again. "Magneto knows we're comin'."
"He's not stupid enough t'think we're dead," Rogue affirmed, somehow making even that grudging admission sound like an insult.
Rogue angled down to the beach—low rocks where the waves buffeted against the unforgiving edges, and the rest of the X-Men stood, looking around warily. Frost stood pristinely—flesh once again. While her pale clothes were dripping, her hair was dry without a strand out of place.
Rogue landed and he stepped away as soon as his feet touched the ground. The ground still felt like it was shifting with the waves, but he ignored that, pulling off his soaked coat and dropping it behind him. He eyed Frost.
"Another power, eh? Turn into somethin'?"
"Diamond," Frost said, voice hard as the word she spoke. "Secondary mutation. Triggered by an old . . . friend of mine." Though by her tone, whoever had done that to her could hardly be called a friend.
Saved by 'luck,' huh? He'd bet a dollar a dime this secondary mutation had been what had kept her alive while her school fell down around her, her students dying around her as it burned. He grimaced, not wanting to think about that too much.
"Woulda been nice to know," was all Logan said, and he left it at that.
Emma Frost just looked at him, unapologetic.
He took in all of them. Besides Rogue, Frost, and himself, everyone else was dry. Kitty's hair had gone curly and wild, but she was dry; Havok was paler than ever, but still determined—his eyes drawn towards the tall metal spires before them. Kurt was worrying his lip with a slightly too-sharp canine, and Kylee was hiding behind him, holding onto his tail as she peeked towards him.
Logan gritted his teeth, catching her eyes for a mere second before looking away. "We stick to plan," he said.
"With you staying with the girl?"
"Ain't safe," Logan shook his head. "If we were on the 'bird we could fly out enough, but on shore everyone's vulnerable. Kitty, you're sticking with the furball. We're gonna go pay our old friend a visit."
"That is one big beach-house," Rogue commented, looking upwards. Above them rose a giant . . . fortress, would be the best word. Pure, seamless metal stretched towards the sky without break save for some distant windows far up in the spiking towers, and metal arcs and bridges curved through the air as if defying gravity. It all glinted coldly in the red light of the sun as it began to dip beneath the waves. Cold black and frozen blue clashed with red dark as blood. "Very homey."
Logan pushed his sopping hair from his face and leveled a stare at Kitty. "You keep down, keep phased. Got it?"
Kitty nodded, but didn't look happy about it.
"Radios are dead," Alex muttered, tapping against his earpiece.
"Not surprised," Rogue drawled, taking hers off and flicking it across the shore. "Never liked those things anyway."
"Got us online, Frost?"
Yes, sir, corporal, sir, her voice sounded dry in his mind. Logan's eyes narrowed at her.
Stay out of my business.
Wouldn't dream of doing otherwise. Her mind's voice was as dry as he was wet.
"All right," Logan said grimly. "Let's do this."
TBC . . . .
