Logan bounded through the underbrush with the grace and speed of one of the antelope he was scent-trailing. Almost on all fours, he felt the soft caress of the wind along his fur, heard the faint heartbeat of the earth, smelled the distant dampness of the sky.
He needed the passion of the running, the feeling of fire in his veins.
It was the distant rocks that made him slow, finally coming to a halt.
While he enjoyed the faint, flowing sounds that emerged from the strange deep-rock-place when he approached it, it also gnawed at his consciousness, sending him back to the border of the area.
For an hour he stalked the perimeter, trying to identify the source of his disquiet, but in the end, he turned to crouch on a ledge, watching as the herd of prey moved past his perch.
The scent of crumbled eternity floated gently across his senses, and he turned his head toward the tall rocks that seemed to be standing side by side.
Music. Strange-almost-sense. Real but - strange.
Logan skirted the edge of the sound-strangeness, claws extended, fangs unconsciously bared in warning as he moved around the rocks.
Near the two tall together-stones, the music was strongest.
Not louder, but stronger.
This was - strange.
Strange-not-dangerous.
Not yet.
He sniffed the air, scenting solidness and clean sky-wind, but the flecks of those tones continued, flickering around his awareness.
Logan growled, leaping from the ledge and making his way with sure, feline grace down the side of the ancient cliff.
Den. Rest. Scent-think. Sound-think. he decided, and began the journey back to the grove.
She appeared in the middle of blue.
In an absent sort of way, she noticed it was beautiful before gravity kicked in and she began to plummet toward the ground with an outraged yowl.
Frantic flapping of arms and a last-minute memory -concentrate - had her halt suddenly, but her ankle slammed painfully into the rock, eliciting a yelp and a flurry of inventive curses in Acadian.
Trying to rise, she hissed in frustration as the swelling extremity refused to hold her weight.
Some superhero I turn out to be. she snarled at herself. Ow! Damnez-le! Dat hurt!
Grumbling at the preposterousness of this indignity, she managed to pull a knife from her belt, cut a strip from the battered shirt she was wearing, and wrap her - as her agile fingers told her - broken ankle into the matching boot.
Lifting a staff almost as long as her body, the girl leaned heavily on it, taking an experimental step.
The pain was sharp, grinding, but already receding to a repressible ache.
Well, dis do-able. she thought, determinedly. Get to de right spot, help, den get home. She took a step toward the distant rock outcroppings.
Ow.
Logan prowled the edge of the grove, finally settling in a crouch not far from Ororo.
She looked up at him, smiling, then saw the strange expression on the feral mutant's face.
"Logan?" the weather mutant said, her voice gentle and soothing. "Is something wrong?"
Stone. A low growl, sharp quick movement of his head. Music. His gaze steadied, piercing her with it's confusion. Song change. He began to pace, eyes on the distant plain. Strange scent-hear. Strange. He emphasized.
"Music?" Ororo rose to gently rest a hand on his forearm, aware of the restlessness of his movements, the sharp edge to his body language. "Logan? What music?"
He met her gaze. Flicker of gold. Amber fire.
Rock. Scent-change. Strange. Music. Hear-change. Strange. The eddy-whirl of images included the image of solid-ground-rising, strong solidness, sharp scent-image of ancient rock split yet united. Yet...
Yet.
Music. Sound. Tones of voice rising and falling in a strange tongue that should - should - be understood. Thought-sound-strangeness.
The lioness edged close to them, uttering a soft sound of concern as Logan ruffed her shoulder- fur, eyes on Ororo.
Puzzled, she spoke carefully. "Where, Logan?"
Hunt-territory. The scent of rock-tinted-liquid, the chase, the kill, the feeding - the stones in the territory Logan claimed.
He growled, shaking his head to clear it.
Ororo reached out, gently resting a hand on his shoulder, feeling tension there, the bunched muscles ready to move at any moment.
Yet his gaze came up, meeting her's with an open frankness despite those hidden depths, and she decided that tomorrow she would go into the village and speak with the elders.
When Remy came home to the mansion, the first thing he noticed was the aura of deep misery. That alone didn't surprise him - the X-Men could generate enough angst to write a psychological treatise on - but it was the way that even Scott couldn't quite meet his eyes, the way Hank's gaze slid away when he banged in with his hearty Cajun hellos.
It was compounded by Kurt being there for a visit - for some strange reason, everyone was tiptoeing around the black-furred mutant as though they feared he might hear their very thoughts.
Finally, after accidentally walloping Cyclops over the head in a Danger Room exercise he should have known by heart, the New Orleans-raised mutant decided to find out what he'd missed.
"Mon ami, is it jus' Gambit or is de whole mansion filled wit de angst?" he asked Kurt, as they raided the refrigerator.
Yellow-gold eyes blinked at him a moment, then the gentle, demonic-appearing mutant nodded. "Ja. There is too much sadness here, even for normal." he said, his German accent muted by years among the X-Men but still as distinctive as Remy's own Louisiana drawl.
"An' even de Fearless Leader not wanna talk 'bout it." observed Remy, seating himself at the table and taking a sip of what the other members of the group called "Louisiana Mud" - a coffee-based liquid that was so caffeinated it could keep even the mild-tempered Hank wired for several days.
"Ja." nodded the German mutant, wrapping his tail absently around a ceiling beam and dangling there as he drank his own orange juice.
"I say we go fin' out what happened, oui?"
Kurt smiled, fangs glinting in the light. "I am with you, mien freund."
Step.
Drag.
Step....
Owwww!
She finally had to take a break, and reluctantly admit to herself that Africa was much bigger than she'd expected.
Rummaging in her backpack, she found her precious sunglasses and perched them on her nose, now able to watch the wildlife without fear of sun-blindness.
From her studies, she could identify several of the creatures she saw, but seeing life moving over the savannah was a bit different than looking up geneses in a book.
Big shock. she snorted, annoyed with herself.
Her ankle ached, and she examined it again, fingers checking the most sore points, but there was no sign of anything that would be permanent.
Painful, yes. Permanent, no.
She spent an hour or so recovering, then doggedly forced herself to her feet and toward the place she had heard tales about but never seen - a beautiful grove.
It might take some time, but she'd get there.
She was not going to give up.
When Remy and Kurt saw the taped footage of Logan's madness, and subsequent use as a temporary cure, at first they could only stare in a kind of horrified fascination.
The same type of fascination that led people to look at accidents - it was terrifying, but hard to look away from.
Finally, it was Kurt who whispered, "Mien Gott. Logan." Tears were on his cheeks, tears of pain and horror, but not blame. That wasn't in Kurt's nature, to blame or hate.
"Logan." confirmed Remy, voice shaky despite himself. Though he often went out of his way to appear nonchalant, he felt a bond with the gruff Canadian, a closeness he didn't speak of or show often. Logan was more than just a friend to him - he was like an older brother, and he was shocked and horrified at the thought of him insane and lost to them.
"Kurt, de X-Men not go find him yet, oui?"
"Not yet." said Kurt, reaching over to turn off the tape.
"Den we go."
"What?" Kurt turned toward his friend, expression startled.
"Oui. We not there when dis all happen, maybe he not - 'void us."
Kurt stared at Remy a long moment, just long enough for the door to open and Rogue to stick her head in the door. "What are you two up tah?" she asked, tone more playful than accusatory.
"We jus' talkin'." Remy replied, trying to hide the image before the young woman could see it, but her gaze saw the last image, of Logan's slumped body against Ororo, and she came fully in the room.
"What happened to Wolvie?" she demanded, a determined spark in her eyes.
"Chere, I not think...." began Remy.
Rogue rewound the tape, eyes getting bigger and filling with tears before she finally turned it off. "Remy - don't protect me. What happened?" her voice was firm, determined.
Remy and Kurt glanced at one another, then the Cajun answered, in a low, careful voice, "He go mad. An' 'Ro take him."
"And you're gonna find him, and her, right?"
"Dat de plan." admitted Remy, knowing it was useless to try to hide his intentions when Rogue was in this frame of mind.
"I'm comin' with ya."
Remy stared at her, and Kurt smiled slightly, nodding.
"Den we better get t' work, chere." he replied, his night-and-crimson eyes taking on a determined glow. "We go t'night."