Author's notes: The children's institute in this story is based on the "Boys House of Refuge" which existed in New York City at the turn of the century.

This chapter contains violence against children, be warned.

Many thanks: To Karen and Jonas for all their help.

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Victor's Laboratory
Present Day

Marie sat spellbound as Victor concluded the tale of his and Logan's shared past. To her it at least partly explained Victor's compulsion to kill that he'd until recently shown. A conversation with Hank had long since convinced Marie that a person's childhood and early life experience set the foundation for what kind of behaviour they would exhibit as an adult.

Victor had gotten up and was currently leaning over Logan. The facial contortions Logan expressed assured Victor that Logan was nearly finished processing the memory and would be conscious in a few minutes. Victor injected another dose into the IV drip he'd started in Logan's arm. He turned to face his other visitor and noticed a thoughtful expression on her pretty features. "What are you thinking about?"

"Um, actually about how surreal this all is. I mean the first time we met you; you'd thrown a tree at Logan's truck. And now, you're helping Logan gain back what he's always wanted. Its kind of overwhelming to tell you the truth." Marie concluded.

"Yeah, well I owe Logan a lot. My life in fact. I feel kinda bad about ya know, tryin' to kill him and shit before."

"I'm not saying that trying to kill him, or helping to kill me was right, but um things were different then." Marie stated. "And um, I'm real interested in how you met Logan anyway, what's the story behind that?"

"Well, after my mom died, and my fuckhead father disappeared, I was sent to live in a bunch of different places. When I was ten they transferred me to The Children's Institute in London.........."

November 1889
The Children's Institute
London, England

A drab and rundown brick building on the corner of Asher Avenue and Arlington Road was home to London's youngest unfortunates. Among them was a 12-year old boy named Nicholas Logan. He was a tall, lean youth with hard lines on his young features and piercing hazel eyes that practically glowed with pent up rage. Life hadn't treated him well. He'd been in and out of jail so many times, a judge had finally sent him to the Children's Institute in a last ditch effort to reform him. So far it had only made him more resentful of the people around him and he longed to be back on the streets.

Upon his entry into the Institute, Nicolas had dropped his father's name and his childhood nickname and became known as Nicholas Logan. He also claimed he was an orphan, lest anyone discover his true monstrosity of a parent. The boy was paranoid about his father finding him, and convincing the authorities to release Nicolas back into his care. He wanted nothing to do with the man. To Nicolas, his father had died that on the November night one year ago when he'd inadvertently revealed himself to be the Whitechapel killer.

Things didn't get any better for the boy. Since his arrival, he'd been the favourite of the guards to beat and torture. He was still bleeding from the last bout of torture three days ago, that had been particularly rough. A young guard by the name of Donaldson had thought it'd be particularly funny to take a piece of lead pipe and see how far up Nicolas' rear it would go. It was said his screams could be heard for hours afterwards. The nightmares of the event frequently woke him up, and he hadn't slept for more than four hours straight since the rape.

He was beginning to understand why his father felt the need to kill. That thought terrified him more than anything the guards could do to him. He'd willingly take his own life before he ended up like his father. It was that belief that had led him to the bathroom, with a jagged piece of glass held over his wrist, prepared to end it all.

"Hey, what are you doing?" a timid voice asked.
Startled, Nicolas dropped the glass down the drain and whipped around to see who'd interrupted him. He saw a small boy, with sandy blonde hair and chestnut eyes. He was tiny, couldn't have been more than nine or ten.

"Whadya want, runt?" The older boy bit out.

" Just wanted to see what you were doing." The small boy said shyly. "I'm Victor. Who're you?"

Nicolas thought about telling the kid anything. Then again Victor was so small and helpless, it's not like the kid could hurt him. "Nicolas."

That brought a smile from Victor and a sense of de' ja vu to Nicolas. Where had he seen the kid before? The blonde hair, the brown eyes, something about them was very vaguely familiar. Pain. Terror. Brown. Blue. Ripper. Father. Death. The stream of thought shot through his brain and a sickening sense of recognition settled in his stomach. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, chastising himself for linking the young boy with the dead woman. Shaking himself into reality Nicolas crossed the bathroom and locked the door. He felt the boy's eyes tracking his every movement and he didn't like it. "What the hell are you looking at kid?" He snarled at the boy.

Victor swallowed. "N-nothing. Just, you have it too." He spoke with a sadness that a ten year old should never know.

"What are you bloomin' talking about?" an agitated Nicolas demanded.

"This," the child whispered as he turned around.

Nicolas noticed the back of Victor's nightshirt had a telltale spot of blood. Rage coursed through his veins. It started in his chest and spread outwards in a white heat, finally exploding from his hands. Victor gasped and pointed at Nicolas' arms. Three bone-shaped claws protruded between the nuckles of each hand. The rage dissipated and was quickly replaced by shock.

With the change of emotions the bone-claws slid effortlessly back into Nicolas' forearms. The two boys watched in amazement as the wounds from the claws healed themselves before their eyes. "How did you do that?"

Nicolas answered honestly "I don't know."

Not wishing to discuss the subject of the mysterious claws anymore he changed the subject. "Who did that to you?"


The boy dropped his eyes and shifted nervously. "I can't say, he'll kill me."

"I won't let him."

It came out as barely a whisper, "Donaldson."

Nicolas didn't know where the rush of affection for the boy came from, but he didn't need to take the time to analyse the situation to realize that the boy was important to him.
"Listen to me Victor, we're gonna get out of here."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Victor's Lab
Present Day

Logan awoke with a start. He opened his eyes and blinked. Marie was sitting right by him, with the keys to the cuffs in her hand. She uncuffed Logan and he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him. She didn't say anything; she just let him get what he needed out of having her near him.

Marie wept for the terrible things that had been done to her beloved Logan. All that pain and suffering, and it was only the first twelve years of his life. Victor silently brought in a cart with food on it and left the couple. He'd told Marie earlier that there was a small bedroom and bathroom attached to the laboratory that they were welcome to use.

Marie swayed backward and tugged on Logan's hand. Wordlessly he followed her, and they collapsed on the bed still in their clothing. Logan pulled Marie to him and buried his head on her chest. He snaked his arms around her waist and tried to escape the terrors of his recent discovery. She stroked his head and wordlessly comforted him. His past was terrible, there was no getting around that, but Marie was determined that no matter what happened, she would be there for Logan, she'd be the one to help him live through this.