Now is three minutes after the sequential onslaught of ruby and metal against fur and flesh.
Wolverine pants underneath the midnight sun. The previous fifteen minutes have spent him. He feels the savory rush of restless blood ebb and shallow. I need a cigarette.
He approaches the man.
The man's body lies like a searchlight, blond and brown against red snow and white air. Limbs splayed and bleeding. Wide pink gashes. Severed fingers. Dead.
No.
Things ain't supposed to end like this. We're supposed to claw and thrust into each other. Then after we've both had enough, you get up and run. Say "I'll get you next time, X-Men!". Or "I'll make you pay for this!". And I'm to look at up and down at your retreating back, torn and bleedin' all over from me.
But I don't chase. It's our rules.
Then I remember the sheer unholy joy of having my face and body scratched and sliced and more besides.
And maybe next week we meet again. Saturday morning at 10.00 am, perhaps.
We heal. That's why it's fun with you.
Get up! Get up and run, damnit!
Please…
"This is Scott. Logan and I are at location Bravo, north-north-east. We have accomplished our objective. Send Blackbird to our location within half-an-hour. Oh, and Emma?"
There is the whip of static on the other end of the line.
"Love you, baby"