Thanks again to those who reviewed! Yeah...I know they were all
bad little X-men, but they're only human after all. Mutants are
human, as we all know. Anyway, I wanted to get this part of
right away because...well, it's important. Thanks again!
* * * * * * * *
September
Much like the artificial reality he had created just two weeks ago in the Danger Room, in Alberta, Canada there was a steady fall of snow mixed with the occasional familiar blasts of icy northern wind. Logan had spent more time in this part of the world than any other, or at least that was what he was led to believe. But either way, he belonged here. The ice, the snow, the cold, the nothingness...they all fit his personality. Despite the fact that he was a member of the X-Men, an important one at that, he knew, he would never completely fit in. Though there were times he wanted to, he would always be a part of the cold, harsh reality of the North. Bread n'Butter, he thought.
Just outside the small, remote hunting village known as Cold River Place, he kept a cabin, something no one knew. At least he didn't think so. It was his escape whenever he felt too cramped in back in the sticks. In a way, it was a form of claustrophobia. Not as bad as Storm's, but he still felt the occasional itch to get away from all the people and the noise. And especially all the bullshit. The bullshit of being a mutant, the bullshit of having the kind of life he did, not knowing who or what he really was...all of that. Even the bullshit of being an X-Man. It wasn't that it didn't mean a lot to him to be a member of that team. It really did. More than anyone knew, as a matter of fact, but still, that itch arose every now and then. And he learned a long time ago that he was better off just obeying it.
Cold River Place had about a hundred or so permanent residents and maybe a thousand seasonal ones that showed up simply to hunt caribou and elk, and some to ice fish. The town saw snow ¾ of the year so there was almost no point in paved roads and the 'town' consisted of a general store that sold near everything, but most people shopped mainly for guns, ammo, and hunting and fishing supplies. There was a small school that covered all grades from kindergarten to twelfth grade and had maybe a total of thirty kids attending it in a good year. The last graduate of Cold River High School had been three years ago. The point was, the place was small. Logan liked it that way, that's why he built his cabin here. The people didn't look close, probably most had never even seen a mutant, let alone suspect that he was one. Here he was just a guy, a normal person who lived a normal life and didn't worry about such things as his screwed up past, and uncertain future.
The only other thing of noteworthiness in Cold River Place was a bar/restaurant called The Albatross Bar and Grill. A stupid name, Logan had always thought. An albatross was a huge seabird that lived only near water, and there was probably not a single one in the whole country of Canada. But whatever, they served a pretty good bottle of beer, and somehow managed to make a decent burger. That was enough for him.
The owner of the bar was a weird little man by the name of Steve MacDonald. He, along with his mental brother Herbie, the bouncer and 'cook' and his loud-mouth other brother Charlie, the m.c., constituted almost the entire work-force of The Albatross. There was one waitress, Laura or something like that, who annoyed Logan to no end with her constant giggling and flirting, but that was it. During the majority of the year, this was more than enough staff to keep the place up and running, but during hunting season when the place was much busier they sometimes hired some of the locals to help out.
Besides the fact that it was the only place in thirty miles to get a cold beer, the only other thing the place had to offer was cage fighting. An actual cage, maybe twenty-foot square was erected in the center of the bar, and every night big sweaty men would get inside of it and try to beat the shit of each other. Funny as Hell to watch, even more fun to actually do.
It was a Friday, the night the bar was the most full, and the night the cage-fighting champion would take on all-comers. Right now, that champion was none other than Logan. He arrived at the place some time in the early evening, before the joint got too crowded, and had a seat at the bar. Uncomfortable wooden stools that dug into your groin like a nut cup, but some how strangely relaxing. The little midget owner, Steve, was at his usual place behind the bar, cleaning glasses. Steve was short, bald, and one of the weirdest people Logan had ever met. But he liked the guy. He didn't take crap, for one thing, and he knew the score. Important things, in his book.
"Well, if it ain't ol'Jim. How you are, eh?" The man had the strangest accent Logan had ever heard, not really Canadian, but definitely not American. He had never been able to pin-point why exactly he talked to way he did. Logan jerked his head in greeting.
"What's goin' on, Stevie?"
"The usual, you know. Fuckin' snow, and cold. Not good for business. But can't complain, I guess, eh?" He snorted a strange little laugh.
Logan gave him a lop-sided grin. I could complain, he thought bitterly. But I doubt it'l do a damn bit of good. "Gimme the usual, Steve-o." Steve MacDonald tottled off to fetch him a bottle of Fang Ripley, a native brew of the not-too-far away Vancouver. Nice and strong, but not sludgy like some of that imported European crap.
That night, like most of the previous nights, he found his thoughts turning to Ororo and what had happened the day he took off. He wished to Hell it hadn't happened. Not so much the whole I just-screwed-my-friend-and-teammate-thing-and got-her- pregnant, but how it came out. Ro probably hated him for taking off the way he did, but he had freaked, in a way. He wasn't sure why it had bothered him so much, but it did. The thought of having a baby, the thought of Jeannie messin' around in his head, the thought of everyone in the whole flamin' institute knowing what he and Ro and Gumbo did that night...well, it wasn't a happy thought. Granted, they must have all been pretty smashed, but even so. The fact remained that Storm was pregnant. Pregnant with a baby that had a 50/50 chance of being his, and the thought of permanent and unrelenting fatherhood scared him more than any of his normal adversaries. A baby...Jesus H. Christ.
Still, it had been almost a month. He had already convinced himself that he wasn't running away, just...putting things in perspective. And he was ready to go back...soon anyway. He had to make things right sometime. Discuss things with Ro, as much as he didn't want to. She was an incredible woman, and a hell- of-a leader, one of the few people who had his complete respect, and he valued her friendship. Maybe that's why this whole thing is pissing me off. I know I don't wanna lose her as a friend. Well, something like that anyway.
"Eh, Jim, you alright?" Steve asked, snapping him out of his self-induced trip down the life and times of what the fuck do I do when I get a friend pregnant, only I don't know for sure that I'm the father?
Taking a sip of his beer, Logan shook his head. "I'm fine. Jus' got some things on my mind, s'all." The Ripley was delicious, cold and sweet. Certainly more real to him than the situation he'd somehow found himself into.
"You think 'bout who you fight t'nihgt, eh?" The little man gave him a funny smile as if he knew some dark secret of his and he was sharing his thoughts. Showed what he knew.
"Nah," Logan replied. "I don't worry 'bout things like that. Whatever happens in the ring, happens." I wish that was the only problem I had.
"Talk 'round here say no one can beat ya, eh?" Steve added with a little snorty laugh.
Shrugging, he polished off the last of his beer and slammed the bottle back down on the bar. "Maybe so, bub. Maybe so." I know it's so.
That night started like all the others since he's started coming here, the typical wet ends who didn't know the first damn thing about fighting, and truthfully, Logan wasn't having as much fun as he normally did. What fun was it to fight someone who was no match for you? He half-hoped that even his mortal enemy Sabretooth would show up. As much as he hated the man with every fiber of his being at least he would make him break a sweat. These clowns were a waste of his time.
Finally, after going less than two rounds with his final opponent, he was going to call it quits. If I can't even get a decent workout, then what the Hell's the point of being here? The crowds, normally packed in the bleachers had started to dwindle away, and there didn't look like there was going to be anyone left who wanted an ass-whipping, so Logan went back to his corner, and grabbed his shirt, using it to wipe the blood and sweat from his face. Hell, Jubilee could give me more of a run for my money than these fools, he thought with a sneer. Suddenly, he was sick of this whole thing. Sick of the smell of sweat and puke, sick of the cold, sick of Cold River Place. He wanted to get back home. Home...well, at least the closest thing he had to one.
"Hey," a voice called from somewhere in the bleachers. "You, in the ring."
Logan turned, surprised. "You talkin' to me?" He asked, vaguely aware that he came off sounding like Robert De Niro from Taxi Driver.
The person who belonged to the voice was a guy he had never seen before. Immediately, his feral instincts kicked in, and he summed the man who was now climbing in the ring. Medium-height. Short, close-cropped blondish hair with very dark brown eyes. Almost black, in fact. He looked about thirty-five or so, with a decent build rippling under tanned skin. He spoke with a surprisingly high-pitched voice, yet commanding at the same time. "Yeah, you," he replied in response to Logan's question. "I've been watching you fight for a couple of days now. You're good, real good."
He had a strange smell, like rotting meat, Logan thought, only half-listening. He had a habit of doing that. Most people didn't say much worth listening to anyway. Turning away he mumbled thanks or some sort of nonchalant remark.
"My name's Barry Statler," the man continued anyway, as if he cared. "And you are...Jim, isn't it?"
Logan climbed out of the ring, throwing on his scuffed up old Leather jacket on top of his now sweat and blood-stained shirt. "Yeah, sure," he said in the direction of the guy. "Jim'll do." Of course, in reality, he hadn't the foggiest idea what his real name was, but Jim was a common alias he used. Nice and simple, and more importantly not very memorable.
"The thing is, Jim," Barry Statler said, now following him over to the bar. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in a job."
Logan paused upon hearing this, vaguely intrigued. Not so much in the actual job, but in just who this guy really was. Strange people who watch you beat the crap of guys and then turn around and offer you jobs don't happen every day. Steve already had a beer waiting for him, as well as his share in the winnings for the night. He gave him a jerk of the head as his way of thanks and headed for the door. "What kinda job?" He asked.
Statler followed. "You ever heard of the Friends of Humanity?"
Logan stepped outside, but stopped himself so quickly he nearly fell over. "The Friends of Humanity?" He asked, sure he hadn't heard right.
"That's right. You've heard of us?"
The snow was really starting to come down now, and already the almost pleasant warmness of the bar was wearing off. No longer interested in the least, Logan flipped up the collar of his jacket and started scanning the area, trying to find where he'd left his jeep. He'd better start heading for the cabin before it got much worse and he couldn't. "I've heard of you," he spat at the man. "And what I've heard, I don't like, bub."
Judging from the reaction on the man's face, Barry Statler looked pretty surprised. He had been so sure that this man was going to be his organizations next recruit. "That wasn't exactly the reaction I expected," he said. "Maybe you don't know as much as you think, friend. You see, we believe in purifying the human race. Eradicating that mutant plague that is gripping the country. You would make an ideal candidate for us."
Logan almost had to grin at that. An ideal candidate for the Goddamn Friends of Humanity. Hardy Flamin' ha ha. Crunching his way through the now twelve or so inches of fresh powder, he turned to Statler. "I don't think I'd make such a good 'candidate'. In fact, I'm the last guy you'd want for your little club."
"Why?" Barry Statler said, following him. The wind was Hell, blowing so hard that even with Logan's hearing he could barely hear him. Not that that was such a bad thing, but it whistled and stung, freezing tiny bits of ice in his eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket for his keys. "Trust me, you don't want me." He replied adamantly. All he wanted to do was get out of this blizzard and get to his cabin. Why couldn't this freak get that through his thick blond head?
Barry Statler was now getting kind of mad himself. He had already told the head of the F.O.H. that he was sure he had found the right man. He hated turning around and telling him that the guy turned out to be a mutie lover or something. "I saw you in the ring," he shouted. "You liked beating on those guys. I saw it in your eyes. Don't you get it, man. Join us, and you can do that to freaks every day!"
Logan growled and slammed shut his jeep's door. He had wanted this to just end, this guy to go away and leave him the Hell alone, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. "Freaks, huh?" He roared, unsheathing his claws before spinning around. Six-twelve inch blades of solid adamantium gleamed even through the dark storm. "Well, then, I guess that would make me a freak. You wanna beat on me, 'friend'?"
Logan would have bet that seeing them would have scared the shit out of the man. It did with almost everybody else, but not Barry Statler. He narrowed his eyes dangerously. Logan was pretty sure it wasn't do the weather. "You're a mutie..."
"That's right, bub. You still want me for your club?"
Instead of replying, the blond man grinned. It was a horrible grin, lopsided with misshapen lips, portraying evil in its purist form, the same evil that all the X-Man associated with this organization. It was not a good sign, Logan immediately recognized that, and it was only his feral reflexes that saved him from what happened next. "Well, then," Statler said. "If I can't recruit you, I guess I'll just have to do the next best thing." He reached inside of his ski jacket and pulled out a small plasma rifle, aiming it right between Logan's eyes. "I'll kill you."
The gun went off, missing its target by mere inches. Logan jumped with all the force he could manage given that the snow was up to his knees, and dove out of the way. As it was, it was a close enough call for him to smell the burnt hairs on his head the high-powered weapon sliced off. He landed hard in the soft, cold powder and was back on his feet in two seconds. Staler had the gun aimed at him again. "Die mutie," he screamed into the howling wind. Once again, Logan was forced to dive out of the way. This time, he didn't land quite as smoothly, and the impact of the ground was enough to take his breath away. His jaw clamped down, and blood squirted out from his tongue. A familiar taste, but it was enough to really awaken him to what was going on here. This guy meant business. So despite the throbbing in his mouth and chest, he hopped up, managing to crawl behind the relative safety of his jeep. Several more of the silent, but deadly shoots rang out, taking out his driver side window. Bits of glass flew every which way, landing on Logan like sharp shards of ice. "You can't hide from me!" Statler cried. And sure enough, Logan heard the crunching of snow as went after him.
Painfully, he made his way to his feet. "Why are you doing this?" He asked, stumbling to get around to the other side. Damn healing factor, you sure are taking your time...As if he didn't already know the answer. Killing mutants was what these fools did. He crept around his now relatively war-torn vehicle, wondering how he could surprise the man.
"It's nothing personal," Statler's voice rang out above the wind. "I just don't wanna live in the same world as a clawed freak like you."
Ah, and I thought we were getting to be such good friends...Walking as quietly as he could, he placed both hands on the hood. Statler, now near the bumper, fired, but only managed to take out more of what used to be the jeep's interior. Now was the time. He pushed himself up on the hood, and like some sort of wild animal, he pounced. If he screwed this up, he would be dead. But he didn't. He felt his boots as he kicked off the car and with claws straight out, he let out a bestial roar and made contact. The impact of the move sent both men flying back several feet, and with a loud thud that could be heard despite the storm, they landed in the nearly waist-high whiteout. It was so much like his holographic fantasy from a few days ago that it was hard for Logan to remember that this man was not Sabretooth. The minute they hit, Statler kicked up, landing a perfectly timed thrust to Logan's chest, knocking him off, but still he managed to land on his feet, claws bared. "I don't wanna kill you!" he yelled.
The gun was pointing at him once again. The evil of Barry Statler's grin was transformed to the two dark holes of his eyes, visible even in the blinding snow. "That's too bad, mutie, 'cause I wanna kill you." He fired, and it was like slow motion. The bright light of the gun came out, and Logan timed his move perfectly. Ducking the beam, he lunged at the F.O.H. soldier, and the last thing Barry Statler saw was the sneer on his adversary's face. He felt the familiar twinge of pure indestructible adamantium ripping clean through flesh and bone. The expression on his victim's face changed from disgust to pure shock as Logan pulled away and the man dropped into the snow. He shook for a second, as if he were trying to get up, probably to get to his weapon, but in the end, a red bubble of blood dripped from his mouth and he fell, never to get up again.
Logan stared at the body of the man he'd just killed. It was certainly not the first man he'd killed, far from it, in fact. But still, he wished it hadn't happened. Taking a deep breath of frosty air, he knelt beside him. "Jesus, why'd you make me do that to you?" Goddamn F.O.H., he thought contemptuously. They think they're trying to save mankind, and instead all they do is cause more death.
Meanwhile, at the bar, Steve MacDonald, hearing the commotion, came outside. "Eh, Jim, something goin' on out here?"
Logan was far enough away that he was reasonably sure the body couldn't be seen. "No, s'alright, Steve-o. Nothin' goin' on here." He turned back to what was left of Barry Statler. Why does my life have to be this way?
By the by- I know this place sounds curiously like the place in the beginning of the first movie. But it just fit so perfectly.
* * * * * * * *
September
Much like the artificial reality he had created just two weeks ago in the Danger Room, in Alberta, Canada there was a steady fall of snow mixed with the occasional familiar blasts of icy northern wind. Logan had spent more time in this part of the world than any other, or at least that was what he was led to believe. But either way, he belonged here. The ice, the snow, the cold, the nothingness...they all fit his personality. Despite the fact that he was a member of the X-Men, an important one at that, he knew, he would never completely fit in. Though there were times he wanted to, he would always be a part of the cold, harsh reality of the North. Bread n'Butter, he thought.
Just outside the small, remote hunting village known as Cold River Place, he kept a cabin, something no one knew. At least he didn't think so. It was his escape whenever he felt too cramped in back in the sticks. In a way, it was a form of claustrophobia. Not as bad as Storm's, but he still felt the occasional itch to get away from all the people and the noise. And especially all the bullshit. The bullshit of being a mutant, the bullshit of having the kind of life he did, not knowing who or what he really was...all of that. Even the bullshit of being an X-Man. It wasn't that it didn't mean a lot to him to be a member of that team. It really did. More than anyone knew, as a matter of fact, but still, that itch arose every now and then. And he learned a long time ago that he was better off just obeying it.
Cold River Place had about a hundred or so permanent residents and maybe a thousand seasonal ones that showed up simply to hunt caribou and elk, and some to ice fish. The town saw snow ¾ of the year so there was almost no point in paved roads and the 'town' consisted of a general store that sold near everything, but most people shopped mainly for guns, ammo, and hunting and fishing supplies. There was a small school that covered all grades from kindergarten to twelfth grade and had maybe a total of thirty kids attending it in a good year. The last graduate of Cold River High School had been three years ago. The point was, the place was small. Logan liked it that way, that's why he built his cabin here. The people didn't look close, probably most had never even seen a mutant, let alone suspect that he was one. Here he was just a guy, a normal person who lived a normal life and didn't worry about such things as his screwed up past, and uncertain future.
The only other thing of noteworthiness in Cold River Place was a bar/restaurant called The Albatross Bar and Grill. A stupid name, Logan had always thought. An albatross was a huge seabird that lived only near water, and there was probably not a single one in the whole country of Canada. But whatever, they served a pretty good bottle of beer, and somehow managed to make a decent burger. That was enough for him.
The owner of the bar was a weird little man by the name of Steve MacDonald. He, along with his mental brother Herbie, the bouncer and 'cook' and his loud-mouth other brother Charlie, the m.c., constituted almost the entire work-force of The Albatross. There was one waitress, Laura or something like that, who annoyed Logan to no end with her constant giggling and flirting, but that was it. During the majority of the year, this was more than enough staff to keep the place up and running, but during hunting season when the place was much busier they sometimes hired some of the locals to help out.
Besides the fact that it was the only place in thirty miles to get a cold beer, the only other thing the place had to offer was cage fighting. An actual cage, maybe twenty-foot square was erected in the center of the bar, and every night big sweaty men would get inside of it and try to beat the shit of each other. Funny as Hell to watch, even more fun to actually do.
It was a Friday, the night the bar was the most full, and the night the cage-fighting champion would take on all-comers. Right now, that champion was none other than Logan. He arrived at the place some time in the early evening, before the joint got too crowded, and had a seat at the bar. Uncomfortable wooden stools that dug into your groin like a nut cup, but some how strangely relaxing. The little midget owner, Steve, was at his usual place behind the bar, cleaning glasses. Steve was short, bald, and one of the weirdest people Logan had ever met. But he liked the guy. He didn't take crap, for one thing, and he knew the score. Important things, in his book.
"Well, if it ain't ol'Jim. How you are, eh?" The man had the strangest accent Logan had ever heard, not really Canadian, but definitely not American. He had never been able to pin-point why exactly he talked to way he did. Logan jerked his head in greeting.
"What's goin' on, Stevie?"
"The usual, you know. Fuckin' snow, and cold. Not good for business. But can't complain, I guess, eh?" He snorted a strange little laugh.
Logan gave him a lop-sided grin. I could complain, he thought bitterly. But I doubt it'l do a damn bit of good. "Gimme the usual, Steve-o." Steve MacDonald tottled off to fetch him a bottle of Fang Ripley, a native brew of the not-too-far away Vancouver. Nice and strong, but not sludgy like some of that imported European crap.
That night, like most of the previous nights, he found his thoughts turning to Ororo and what had happened the day he took off. He wished to Hell it hadn't happened. Not so much the whole I just-screwed-my-friend-and-teammate-thing-and got-her- pregnant, but how it came out. Ro probably hated him for taking off the way he did, but he had freaked, in a way. He wasn't sure why it had bothered him so much, but it did. The thought of having a baby, the thought of Jeannie messin' around in his head, the thought of everyone in the whole flamin' institute knowing what he and Ro and Gumbo did that night...well, it wasn't a happy thought. Granted, they must have all been pretty smashed, but even so. The fact remained that Storm was pregnant. Pregnant with a baby that had a 50/50 chance of being his, and the thought of permanent and unrelenting fatherhood scared him more than any of his normal adversaries. A baby...Jesus H. Christ.
Still, it had been almost a month. He had already convinced himself that he wasn't running away, just...putting things in perspective. And he was ready to go back...soon anyway. He had to make things right sometime. Discuss things with Ro, as much as he didn't want to. She was an incredible woman, and a hell- of-a leader, one of the few people who had his complete respect, and he valued her friendship. Maybe that's why this whole thing is pissing me off. I know I don't wanna lose her as a friend. Well, something like that anyway.
"Eh, Jim, you alright?" Steve asked, snapping him out of his self-induced trip down the life and times of what the fuck do I do when I get a friend pregnant, only I don't know for sure that I'm the father?
Taking a sip of his beer, Logan shook his head. "I'm fine. Jus' got some things on my mind, s'all." The Ripley was delicious, cold and sweet. Certainly more real to him than the situation he'd somehow found himself into.
"You think 'bout who you fight t'nihgt, eh?" The little man gave him a funny smile as if he knew some dark secret of his and he was sharing his thoughts. Showed what he knew.
"Nah," Logan replied. "I don't worry 'bout things like that. Whatever happens in the ring, happens." I wish that was the only problem I had.
"Talk 'round here say no one can beat ya, eh?" Steve added with a little snorty laugh.
Shrugging, he polished off the last of his beer and slammed the bottle back down on the bar. "Maybe so, bub. Maybe so." I know it's so.
That night started like all the others since he's started coming here, the typical wet ends who didn't know the first damn thing about fighting, and truthfully, Logan wasn't having as much fun as he normally did. What fun was it to fight someone who was no match for you? He half-hoped that even his mortal enemy Sabretooth would show up. As much as he hated the man with every fiber of his being at least he would make him break a sweat. These clowns were a waste of his time.
Finally, after going less than two rounds with his final opponent, he was going to call it quits. If I can't even get a decent workout, then what the Hell's the point of being here? The crowds, normally packed in the bleachers had started to dwindle away, and there didn't look like there was going to be anyone left who wanted an ass-whipping, so Logan went back to his corner, and grabbed his shirt, using it to wipe the blood and sweat from his face. Hell, Jubilee could give me more of a run for my money than these fools, he thought with a sneer. Suddenly, he was sick of this whole thing. Sick of the smell of sweat and puke, sick of the cold, sick of Cold River Place. He wanted to get back home. Home...well, at least the closest thing he had to one.
"Hey," a voice called from somewhere in the bleachers. "You, in the ring."
Logan turned, surprised. "You talkin' to me?" He asked, vaguely aware that he came off sounding like Robert De Niro from Taxi Driver.
The person who belonged to the voice was a guy he had never seen before. Immediately, his feral instincts kicked in, and he summed the man who was now climbing in the ring. Medium-height. Short, close-cropped blondish hair with very dark brown eyes. Almost black, in fact. He looked about thirty-five or so, with a decent build rippling under tanned skin. He spoke with a surprisingly high-pitched voice, yet commanding at the same time. "Yeah, you," he replied in response to Logan's question. "I've been watching you fight for a couple of days now. You're good, real good."
He had a strange smell, like rotting meat, Logan thought, only half-listening. He had a habit of doing that. Most people didn't say much worth listening to anyway. Turning away he mumbled thanks or some sort of nonchalant remark.
"My name's Barry Statler," the man continued anyway, as if he cared. "And you are...Jim, isn't it?"
Logan climbed out of the ring, throwing on his scuffed up old Leather jacket on top of his now sweat and blood-stained shirt. "Yeah, sure," he said in the direction of the guy. "Jim'll do." Of course, in reality, he hadn't the foggiest idea what his real name was, but Jim was a common alias he used. Nice and simple, and more importantly not very memorable.
"The thing is, Jim," Barry Statler said, now following him over to the bar. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in a job."
Logan paused upon hearing this, vaguely intrigued. Not so much in the actual job, but in just who this guy really was. Strange people who watch you beat the crap of guys and then turn around and offer you jobs don't happen every day. Steve already had a beer waiting for him, as well as his share in the winnings for the night. He gave him a jerk of the head as his way of thanks and headed for the door. "What kinda job?" He asked.
Statler followed. "You ever heard of the Friends of Humanity?"
Logan stepped outside, but stopped himself so quickly he nearly fell over. "The Friends of Humanity?" He asked, sure he hadn't heard right.
"That's right. You've heard of us?"
The snow was really starting to come down now, and already the almost pleasant warmness of the bar was wearing off. No longer interested in the least, Logan flipped up the collar of his jacket and started scanning the area, trying to find where he'd left his jeep. He'd better start heading for the cabin before it got much worse and he couldn't. "I've heard of you," he spat at the man. "And what I've heard, I don't like, bub."
Judging from the reaction on the man's face, Barry Statler looked pretty surprised. He had been so sure that this man was going to be his organizations next recruit. "That wasn't exactly the reaction I expected," he said. "Maybe you don't know as much as you think, friend. You see, we believe in purifying the human race. Eradicating that mutant plague that is gripping the country. You would make an ideal candidate for us."
Logan almost had to grin at that. An ideal candidate for the Goddamn Friends of Humanity. Hardy Flamin' ha ha. Crunching his way through the now twelve or so inches of fresh powder, he turned to Statler. "I don't think I'd make such a good 'candidate'. In fact, I'm the last guy you'd want for your little club."
"Why?" Barry Statler said, following him. The wind was Hell, blowing so hard that even with Logan's hearing he could barely hear him. Not that that was such a bad thing, but it whistled and stung, freezing tiny bits of ice in his eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket for his keys. "Trust me, you don't want me." He replied adamantly. All he wanted to do was get out of this blizzard and get to his cabin. Why couldn't this freak get that through his thick blond head?
Barry Statler was now getting kind of mad himself. He had already told the head of the F.O.H. that he was sure he had found the right man. He hated turning around and telling him that the guy turned out to be a mutie lover or something. "I saw you in the ring," he shouted. "You liked beating on those guys. I saw it in your eyes. Don't you get it, man. Join us, and you can do that to freaks every day!"
Logan growled and slammed shut his jeep's door. He had wanted this to just end, this guy to go away and leave him the Hell alone, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. "Freaks, huh?" He roared, unsheathing his claws before spinning around. Six-twelve inch blades of solid adamantium gleamed even through the dark storm. "Well, then, I guess that would make me a freak. You wanna beat on me, 'friend'?"
Logan would have bet that seeing them would have scared the shit out of the man. It did with almost everybody else, but not Barry Statler. He narrowed his eyes dangerously. Logan was pretty sure it wasn't do the weather. "You're a mutie..."
"That's right, bub. You still want me for your club?"
Instead of replying, the blond man grinned. It was a horrible grin, lopsided with misshapen lips, portraying evil in its purist form, the same evil that all the X-Man associated with this organization. It was not a good sign, Logan immediately recognized that, and it was only his feral reflexes that saved him from what happened next. "Well, then," Statler said. "If I can't recruit you, I guess I'll just have to do the next best thing." He reached inside of his ski jacket and pulled out a small plasma rifle, aiming it right between Logan's eyes. "I'll kill you."
The gun went off, missing its target by mere inches. Logan jumped with all the force he could manage given that the snow was up to his knees, and dove out of the way. As it was, it was a close enough call for him to smell the burnt hairs on his head the high-powered weapon sliced off. He landed hard in the soft, cold powder and was back on his feet in two seconds. Staler had the gun aimed at him again. "Die mutie," he screamed into the howling wind. Once again, Logan was forced to dive out of the way. This time, he didn't land quite as smoothly, and the impact of the ground was enough to take his breath away. His jaw clamped down, and blood squirted out from his tongue. A familiar taste, but it was enough to really awaken him to what was going on here. This guy meant business. So despite the throbbing in his mouth and chest, he hopped up, managing to crawl behind the relative safety of his jeep. Several more of the silent, but deadly shoots rang out, taking out his driver side window. Bits of glass flew every which way, landing on Logan like sharp shards of ice. "You can't hide from me!" Statler cried. And sure enough, Logan heard the crunching of snow as went after him.
Painfully, he made his way to his feet. "Why are you doing this?" He asked, stumbling to get around to the other side. Damn healing factor, you sure are taking your time...As if he didn't already know the answer. Killing mutants was what these fools did. He crept around his now relatively war-torn vehicle, wondering how he could surprise the man.
"It's nothing personal," Statler's voice rang out above the wind. "I just don't wanna live in the same world as a clawed freak like you."
Ah, and I thought we were getting to be such good friends...Walking as quietly as he could, he placed both hands on the hood. Statler, now near the bumper, fired, but only managed to take out more of what used to be the jeep's interior. Now was the time. He pushed himself up on the hood, and like some sort of wild animal, he pounced. If he screwed this up, he would be dead. But he didn't. He felt his boots as he kicked off the car and with claws straight out, he let out a bestial roar and made contact. The impact of the move sent both men flying back several feet, and with a loud thud that could be heard despite the storm, they landed in the nearly waist-high whiteout. It was so much like his holographic fantasy from a few days ago that it was hard for Logan to remember that this man was not Sabretooth. The minute they hit, Statler kicked up, landing a perfectly timed thrust to Logan's chest, knocking him off, but still he managed to land on his feet, claws bared. "I don't wanna kill you!" he yelled.
The gun was pointing at him once again. The evil of Barry Statler's grin was transformed to the two dark holes of his eyes, visible even in the blinding snow. "That's too bad, mutie, 'cause I wanna kill you." He fired, and it was like slow motion. The bright light of the gun came out, and Logan timed his move perfectly. Ducking the beam, he lunged at the F.O.H. soldier, and the last thing Barry Statler saw was the sneer on his adversary's face. He felt the familiar twinge of pure indestructible adamantium ripping clean through flesh and bone. The expression on his victim's face changed from disgust to pure shock as Logan pulled away and the man dropped into the snow. He shook for a second, as if he were trying to get up, probably to get to his weapon, but in the end, a red bubble of blood dripped from his mouth and he fell, never to get up again.
Logan stared at the body of the man he'd just killed. It was certainly not the first man he'd killed, far from it, in fact. But still, he wished it hadn't happened. Taking a deep breath of frosty air, he knelt beside him. "Jesus, why'd you make me do that to you?" Goddamn F.O.H., he thought contemptuously. They think they're trying to save mankind, and instead all they do is cause more death.
Meanwhile, at the bar, Steve MacDonald, hearing the commotion, came outside. "Eh, Jim, something goin' on out here?"
Logan was far enough away that he was reasonably sure the body couldn't be seen. "No, s'alright, Steve-o. Nothin' goin' on here." He turned back to what was left of Barry Statler. Why does my life have to be this way?
By the by- I know this place sounds curiously like the place in the beginning of the first movie. But it just fit so perfectly.