17
It was hard to run when your body wanted to give way, when your muscles were shredded by bullets and your internal organs were sliced open and pulped by high velocity projectiles. But if you were riding your anger, you could. Or at least Logan could.
And riding it really was what it felt like. A great black beast, much wilder and more lethal than any horse, pushing him to his limits and beyond. It was madness, pure and simple, insanity that made you greater than you were simply by the deeply delusion belief that nothing could hold you back, but as Bob had told him in the past, belief was nine-tenths of anything.
He didn't know if he had control of his madness, and he really didn't care. All he could feel was a gnawing, acidic hate as he ran through the bullets, wanting nothing more than to hurt those fuckers. His hate was a swollen, angry black river that he let him carry him away into the unknown. They had taken enough from him, they had killed Mariko -
- (they had killed him) -
- and they weren't taking any more. It stopped now, even if he had to be shredded down to a metal skeleton, a skinless beast that couldn't be recognized as Human. He didn't care.
Blood bubbled in his chest as at least one bullet hit his lung, traveled out and through his back, but he didn't stop. Oxygen was overrated - all he needed was adrenaline and rage. Everything else was superfluous.
Even though a bad bounce of a bullet sliced through his Achilles tendon, he was able to ignore the pain and the sudden weakness of his right leg -
- (What pain? He was a ball of fire, nothing but endless burning, nerves in overload, too much, too fast) -
- and let the personal velocity of momentum and rage carry him to the edge, where he sprung for the helicopter.
He extended his body to full, even though he was a bigger target for bullets, and felt - for one single second - that he was actually flying, thirty stories off the ground and sailing through the air like gravity had finally decided to stop punishing him - and he heard one of the men yelling over the contained explosions of gun shots to "Pull up! Pull up!" as he knew what Logan knew only a millisecond later.
He was going to make it.
Logan jumped not only into the open side of the chopper, but straight into one of the shooters. He took a bullet in the face for the trouble - it tore through one cheek and went right out the other, taking one of his teeth with it; powder burns made his eyes water - but Logan drove one claw straight into the gunman's heart as they both sprawled on the floor of the chopper. He didn't just stop shooting; he stopped living.
The helicopter slewed wildly - both sudden extra weight and general panic; he could smell it, taste it, feel it pouring down his throat like wine - and even though he was still on the floor, claw buried deep in the dead man (who wore a bulletproof vest - too bad it wasn't adamantium proof), he kicked the gun out of the hands of his partner, who was shifting aim towards him. It went flying out of the chopper, and Logan followed up with a blistering kick to the man's face: unlike most other times, he didn't hold back - he got him full strength.
There was a crack that even Logan's gunfire numbed ears could hear, and the man hit the floor of the chopper convulsing slightly, blood spurting from his crushed nose. Logan figured he'd split the guy's skull straight down the middle, busted it like a piñata, but he didn't care. No, that was incorrect, he did care.
He was glad. He was almost laughing.
He could almost feel the weight of his anger - his insanity? - shifting around the inside of his head, loose contents jarred in transit, and he ached like a motherfucker. His body was on fire with agony, making him see red, making him seethe. Part of him wanted - needed - to find a hole to crawl into, to collapse, to be safe while his body undertook its long and frantic healing process … but he knew the moment he gave in, he would be out for a very long time. He was too damaged, too badly hurt; he could taste blood and gunpowder in his mouth, his guts were on fire from organs attempting to knit themselves back together (the shirt could only stand up to gunfire for so long - now it was tatters, and the only thing completely covering his chest was blood ), his chest still bubbled with blood when he attempted to take a breath. (Full breaths were right out, but as long as he kept it shallow, sips of air, he was okay.)
It was his traitorous body that was turning the tide here, keeping the beast at bay - it could no longer take what he - it - was asking of it. But Logan didn't want to be sane right now. He couldn't be sane. It wouldn't help.
He staggered to the cockpit as the pilot swung the chopper back towards home base (wherever that was), and the pilot pulled a handgun out from under the control panel, but not in time. Logan slashed it to scrap with a single swipe of his claw, and retracted them into his left hand in time to grab the asshole by the throat. He let a single claw out to poke him under his Adam's apple, for added leverage, but he hardly needed to. The pilot pissed himself staring up at him, eyes almost all white, jaw so slack he was going to start drooling in a second. He was terrified by him, almost paralyzed, and he was a fucking gangster.
Logan wondered how bad he looked. Covered in blood, holes still in the face? He knew his eyes were healed; he could see fine. He probably didn't look Human anymore, or at least not like any Human you'd ever want to meet.
"Put the chopper down now," he growled, feeling blood ooze out of his mouth when he spoke. He couldn't do anything about it, so he just let it happen, and the stink of fear coming off the guy increased thirty fold. He wanted to bust out a window to get some fresher air in here. "Put it down or I'm shoving you out and taking it down myself." The guy was now shaking in his seat, unable to look away, so Logan shoved him brutally towards the control panel, breaking the spell. "Now!"
The pilot did as he was told, and Logan was glad, because he honestly didn't know how long he was going to be able to stay conscious.
He wondered if he'd wake up again. He wondered if he should care.
It was hard to run when your body wanted to give way, when your muscles were shredded by bullets and your internal organs were sliced open and pulped by high velocity projectiles. But if you were riding your anger, you could. Or at least Logan could.
And riding it really was what it felt like. A great black beast, much wilder and more lethal than any horse, pushing him to his limits and beyond. It was madness, pure and simple, insanity that made you greater than you were simply by the deeply delusion belief that nothing could hold you back, but as Bob had told him in the past, belief was nine-tenths of anything.
He didn't know if he had control of his madness, and he really didn't care. All he could feel was a gnawing, acidic hate as he ran through the bullets, wanting nothing more than to hurt those fuckers. His hate was a swollen, angry black river that he let him carry him away into the unknown. They had taken enough from him, they had killed Mariko -
- (they had killed him) -
- and they weren't taking any more. It stopped now, even if he had to be shredded down to a metal skeleton, a skinless beast that couldn't be recognized as Human. He didn't care.
Blood bubbled in his chest as at least one bullet hit his lung, traveled out and through his back, but he didn't stop. Oxygen was overrated - all he needed was adrenaline and rage. Everything else was superfluous.
Even though a bad bounce of a bullet sliced through his Achilles tendon, he was able to ignore the pain and the sudden weakness of his right leg -
- (What pain? He was a ball of fire, nothing but endless burning, nerves in overload, too much, too fast) -
- and let the personal velocity of momentum and rage carry him to the edge, where he sprung for the helicopter.
He extended his body to full, even though he was a bigger target for bullets, and felt - for one single second - that he was actually flying, thirty stories off the ground and sailing through the air like gravity had finally decided to stop punishing him - and he heard one of the men yelling over the contained explosions of gun shots to "Pull up! Pull up!" as he knew what Logan knew only a millisecond later.
He was going to make it.
Logan jumped not only into the open side of the chopper, but straight into one of the shooters. He took a bullet in the face for the trouble - it tore through one cheek and went right out the other, taking one of his teeth with it; powder burns made his eyes water - but Logan drove one claw straight into the gunman's heart as they both sprawled on the floor of the chopper. He didn't just stop shooting; he stopped living.
The helicopter slewed wildly - both sudden extra weight and general panic; he could smell it, taste it, feel it pouring down his throat like wine - and even though he was still on the floor, claw buried deep in the dead man (who wore a bulletproof vest - too bad it wasn't adamantium proof), he kicked the gun out of the hands of his partner, who was shifting aim towards him. It went flying out of the chopper, and Logan followed up with a blistering kick to the man's face: unlike most other times, he didn't hold back - he got him full strength.
There was a crack that even Logan's gunfire numbed ears could hear, and the man hit the floor of the chopper convulsing slightly, blood spurting from his crushed nose. Logan figured he'd split the guy's skull straight down the middle, busted it like a piñata, but he didn't care. No, that was incorrect, he did care.
He was glad. He was almost laughing.
He could almost feel the weight of his anger - his insanity? - shifting around the inside of his head, loose contents jarred in transit, and he ached like a motherfucker. His body was on fire with agony, making him see red, making him seethe. Part of him wanted - needed - to find a hole to crawl into, to collapse, to be safe while his body undertook its long and frantic healing process … but he knew the moment he gave in, he would be out for a very long time. He was too damaged, too badly hurt; he could taste blood and gunpowder in his mouth, his guts were on fire from organs attempting to knit themselves back together (the shirt could only stand up to gunfire for so long - now it was tatters, and the only thing completely covering his chest was blood ), his chest still bubbled with blood when he attempted to take a breath. (Full breaths were right out, but as long as he kept it shallow, sips of air, he was okay.)
It was his traitorous body that was turning the tide here, keeping the beast at bay - it could no longer take what he - it - was asking of it. But Logan didn't want to be sane right now. He couldn't be sane. It wouldn't help.
He staggered to the cockpit as the pilot swung the chopper back towards home base (wherever that was), and the pilot pulled a handgun out from under the control panel, but not in time. Logan slashed it to scrap with a single swipe of his claw, and retracted them into his left hand in time to grab the asshole by the throat. He let a single claw out to poke him under his Adam's apple, for added leverage, but he hardly needed to. The pilot pissed himself staring up at him, eyes almost all white, jaw so slack he was going to start drooling in a second. He was terrified by him, almost paralyzed, and he was a fucking gangster.
Logan wondered how bad he looked. Covered in blood, holes still in the face? He knew his eyes were healed; he could see fine. He probably didn't look Human anymore, or at least not like any Human you'd ever want to meet.
"Put the chopper down now," he growled, feeling blood ooze out of his mouth when he spoke. He couldn't do anything about it, so he just let it happen, and the stink of fear coming off the guy increased thirty fold. He wanted to bust out a window to get some fresher air in here. "Put it down or I'm shoving you out and taking it down myself." The guy was now shaking in his seat, unable to look away, so Logan shoved him brutally towards the control panel, breaking the spell. "Now!"
The pilot did as he was told, and Logan was glad, because he honestly didn't know how long he was going to be able to stay conscious.
He wondered if he'd wake up again. He wondered if he should care.