Hi readers! I was going to make my next one Dark Logan from his POV, so we could get to hear his side of the story then maybe it wouldn't seem so extreme. Then I realized I stupidly STUPIDLY wrote the whole mini-series in third person… I'm not going to go back and change the whole thing now, so I'm just going to have to live with what could have been.

The first fanfiction I ever read was "A Rogue Obsession" by QueenOfOld. I loved it and to this day I think I would have to say it is still my favourite story from my favourite author. She was the one who got me hooked; her stories are so well thought out and addictive. No kidding I was reading them under the desk at work. So I wanted to dedicate this one to her, a little different to what I normally write but a nice change. So, Queenie, this one's for you.

Inspired by "A Good Solider."

For the purpose of this fic, the year is 2009 (which is actually when origins came out.) I'm under the impression Rogue's birth year is 1981 but here I'm putting it as '91 so it works more in my favour. Sorry if I've just confused you.

Chapter 1 - The Target

Logan

I smelt her as soon as I walked in. Over the grease. Over the pungent odor of burnt coffee. She was sweet, almost like vanilla ice cream on a hot summers day. Her aroma called out to me, begging to be tasted.

The target was a seventeen-year-old girl. 'bout 5'2. Brown hair. Pretty.

That stuff didn't really matter, of course. Just intel to help me locate her.

I'd skim read the details; 'Project X – classification TOP SECRET' was printed across the front page with a small photograph paper clipped to the outside. The only useful information which wasn't redacted was 'Name - Marie D'Ancanto. Date of Birth – 08/26/1991.'

Her eyes flicked up to mine again from behind the counter. Deep, dark brown. Like pools of molten chocolate. She smiled, then looked away bashfully, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.

It was two am. A truck stop in one of those middle states that don't have enough personality to be distinguishable. 'Marie', as her name badge so helpfully pointed out, had already twice offered me a refill of the god-awful dishwater they called coffee. I didn't think I could stomach another. Yet, I'd have to do something other than stare at her if I wanted to remain inconspicuous.

I'd been the only customer for at least an hour, discreetly watching Marie refill the sugar shakers and tidy the hostess stand. I caught snippets of conversation the fry-cook tried to coax from her, his obvious attempts at flirting flying straight over her lovely little head, trying to ascertain tiny threads of information. Not that I was one of those who needed to know. My job was to get in, get it done, get out.

And in the time I'd been here, I'd established nothing more that a guess at what state she was originally from. Somewhere south. Her sweet voice honey-coated softness. Like I said, I didn't need to know. I had no reason to get involved. Just a job to do.

"Can I get you anythin' else, sugah? Maybe a plate of somethin' hot?" She smiled, a hint of a blush tinting her creamy cheeks, a touch of arousal in her scent.

"What's good?"

"Erm, well… the breakfast hash is pretty nice… but it isn't usually served until six."

"That's a shame."

"Hang on, I'll find out if Mike'll make an exception." She rushed off, ponytail swinging, her butt wiggling under the short yellow dress that comprised her uniform. Christ, I'd not seen a thing so beautiful in a long time.

By the time she came back, I'd managed to re-focused myself.

"It's your lucky day."

"Thanks." I replied, some deeply repressed part of me softening at her easy smile. I had to focus!

"No problem. What's a guy like you doing out on a night like this?"

"A guy like me?"

"Well, you don't have a truck." She gestured vaguely out the window to the deserted parking lot.

"That's a good point. That's my ride there." I pointed to my bike, resting against a flickering lamppost.

"That a Harley? My brother had one when I was a kid."

"Yeah? This one's an authentic too. Completely original parts."

"No kidding?"

With no other prompting, the conversation fell to an awkward stop, and I felt my ears practically burning off. It wasn't like I had no social skills, but making small talk with a girl I was about to kidnap wasn't my forte.

"You in the army?" She pointed to the chain of my tags, peaking out the collar of my shirt. "Doesn't that mean you were in the army?"

I quickly tucked the chain back away, the surprisingly heavy weight of the tags reminding me what I was going to have to do sooner rather than later.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"S'okay."

"Well, err… I best be getting back to…" she gestured over her shoulder.

As she busied herself with other meaningless tasks, I contemplated my assignment. I normally didn't have so much of a conscience. The job should have been completed by now. I should have been on my way back to Alkali Lake with the cargo safely stowed on the back of my bike. In any other circumstances, it would have been.

I ate the meal, leaving the money on the table and headed out into the cold. The air had a distinct metallic bite to it, the type of cold that seared your nostrils as you breathed it in. God, she'd be freezing walking home in that get-up. Even if she had a coat, her bare legs would still be exposed.

I waited in the alley across from the diner until her shift was over, then watched her locking up and saying goodnight to the pimply squirt who manned the kitchens. The breakfast hash was nothing special, even for someone who lived on canteen food most of the time.

I followed her home on foot, keeping a good distance. Relying on my heightened senses to keep track of her. Even half a block away, she smelt good.

In my pocket, the syringe of specially modified suppression serum weighed heavily. I'd just have to grit my teeth and do it. What they wanted her for was none of my business.

Before me and my brother were enlisted into the "special services" department, we were mercenaries, and before that, we'd fought in every war this side of the twentieth century. Killing was what we did best. That and taking orders. One personal law that was engrained deeply in to me, as deep as the Adamantium that covered my bones, was never question your superiors judgement. That kind of treachery could get you discharged, and in this highly classified unit, a discharge could only mean one thing. Termination.

I took my opportunity as she paused outside the entrance door of a rundown apartment complex and rummaged around in her bag, supposedly for keys. A few strides was all it took to appear from the shadows and wrap a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. Seconds, that was all it would take. Then she'd be unconscious and I could get on with my life.

That didn't stop a stab of guilt flooding through me as I depressed the contents of the syringe into her pretty neck.

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