Disclaimer: I own the entire Marvel universe, particularly Wolverine, but only in my dreams. I have but two brass pennies to rub together so suing me means I'll have to cancel my subscriptions to diverse Marvel titles.
This is my first ever piece of fan fiction. I have no idea how it will be received so constructive criticism is very welcome, especially from old hands of the fanfic game.
The story is Logan centric, written in first person singular and, although the first chapter is clichéd angst, subsequent chapters (providing you want 'em,) will explore a friendship based pairing that seems to have been ignored by fans. There is strong language because that's the kind of guy Logan is.
There is some exposition in this chapter but it is there to help me get inside the character's head and the interpretation I have put on Logan's fighting skills and the way he perceives his opponents will be fully explained in a later fic should my enthusiasm live that long (it's in your hands). Apologies for going over heavily trodden ground but I promise you, the original story will begin in chapter three.
My warmest thanks to Wolflver for her encouragement and my very first review.
It would be nice to receive other reviews, even if it's to say you don't like the story or how it might be improved. If nothing else, at least I'll know it's being read. Please, people, the noob craves input!
Chapter 2: Breaking the Rules
It's just after 4 a.m. and I'm prowling the grounds near the school again. A combination of rage induced adrenalin and my healing factor has scotched a serious attempt to drink myself insensible and right now I'm treading a thin line between reason and an intense desire to damage something or someone.
Cage fighting serves as a valuable and necessary safety valve for my aggression as well as providing a regular income. I don't have that right now and nightmare induced sleep deprivation, mixed with the raw, violent tension building up inside me, has the potential to explode into a body count if I don't deal with it. Taking out my aggression on members of the boozing public ain't the acceptable thing to do in civilised Westchester so I settle for something. Beneath the school is an extensive hi-tech complex that serves as a base of operations for Xavier's team of mutant gooders. Part of that complex houses a training facility with special effects that would put a mega budget science fiction movie to shame – the Danger Room. Stupid fucking name, like something out of a comic, but it's somewhere I can unleash my aggression without harming anyone.
So, I have a plan. Now to make good on it. I head for the nearest entrance, the kitchen.
One thing I've learned since coming here is that my fighting skills, while more than adequate to hold my own in any number of cage fights, leave a lot to be desired when throwing down with other mutants. Sure, for fifteen years I've been Mister Cock-of-the-walk, all adamantium reinforced brute strength and a slick sideline in slice 'n dice to go. It ain't enough. In the few weeks since I crossed paths with the X-Men, I've had the shit kicked out of me by a tree-slinging maniac with a personal hygiene problem, an old man and two skinny women and I don't like it. I don't like it at all.
I'm better than that.
Deep down inside I know I am.
So where is it when I need it?
Sabretooth nailed me the first time because I was groggy from kissing windshield the hard way. It rankles that I needed Summers' help to take the bastard down during the rematch but, shackled to Magneto's machine, Rogue's life expectancy was measured in minutes and I had no choice but to pansy out. I've heard rumours Sabre'd survived the fall on Liberty Island. If that's the case I still owe him for making me eat spruce.
Physically Magneto is no match for me but my metal bonded skeleton renders me particularly vulnerable to his powers. He has the ability to take me apart piece by piece. I'm gonna have to devise a way to gut him before he gets the chance. Ain't gonna be easy.
Mystique is the real shocker.
Three hundred pounds of brute strength and two sets of razor sharp, unbreakable nine inch claws were outclassed by the snake lady's hard hitting gymnastic moves. Given sufficient room to manoeuvre she brushed off my sustained attacks like I was a fucking mosquito. Name suits her too. It's a complete fucking mystery to me as to why, when she had me cold, she backed off rather than move in for the kill. More contradiction - she's fast, she's smart so what was she thinking getting herself close enough to become shish kebab? And what the hell was the business in the tent all about? Is the bitch sweet on me for chrissake? It don't add up.
Going head to head against the kid with the adamantium manicure was an epiphany. Like me she had a healing factor. Like me she had been dipped in adamantium. Unlike me she had the moves of a martial arts master and could throw herself, and Rag Doll Me, around with an athletic skill that defied gravity. This despite the fact she was half my size and weighed down by nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of dense steel alloy. Pitting her against me was akin to pitting a sleek leopard against a lumbering mastiff. There was no real contest and she had me on the ropes way too fast. Fucking unbelievable. I came out on top because I got lucky and now she's dead instead of me. At the end the lucid expression in those deep brown eyes indicated she'd regained control of her mind, finally freed from Stryker's chemical slavery by the pain of the spontaneous adamantium infusion. Then she died in the hardest way possible, cooked from the inside as molten metal withered, then replaced her internal organs. I had no choice. I'm glad it wasn't me but I wish it hadn't been her either. I killed a kid Stryker had created in my image. Some fucking victory, huh?
Stryker's killer babe taught me something valuable though. Now I know that I can be far greater than the sum of my parts. I just gotta work out how.
The size of a large gymnasium, uniform grey and featureless save for the overhead observation booth. That's the Danger Room. Its blandness is a deception and it ain't called the Danger Room for nothing. Here the team cohesion is forged; skills are tested and improved. It ain't enough. Regulated sessions don't give me what I need, only how to disable rather than dismember and how I should follow One-eye's orders in simulated combat. Waste o' fucking time. People come at me with murder on their mind and in their eyes I ain't gonna worry about their feelings when I slice 'em wide open. If Summers had been a little less careful with his aim on Liberty Island and killed Magneto instead of winging the motherfucker, he could have saved the entire world a load of grief.
Stripping off to the waist I throw my jacket and shirt into a corner. Kurt and 'Ro were the last to use the room so I expect a half way decent workout.
"Run last program," I demand of the grey emptiness. I'm breaking one of Xavier's cardinal rules of safety here; this is a solo run and there ain't anyone in the control booth monitoring the session. Like I give a shit.
A vaguely female and obviously synthetic voice grinds out in monotone, "Combat drone simulation level six activated. Prepare to engage." Apparently the computer don't give a shit neither.
Suddenly I'm standing in a bleak, rain-slick and dimly lit alley in some shabby warehouse district. Overflowing dumpsters placed at irregular intervals add atmosphere to the general cruddiness. Shadowed doorways gape menacingly and litter is being blown around in aimless clichéd circles Overhead the sky is a yawning cavern of stormy darkness. I guess the geek who designed this program has seen way too much film noir.
A full sensory suite has been programmed into this scenario and the place stinks of damp, decay and rotting trash. The air throbs faintly with an electronic hum that sets my teeth on edge. Whatever is waiting for me is somewhere up ahead so I move forward, keeping to the shadows and occasional cover provided by the dumpsters, remaining alert to any threat that might sneak up behind me or fall from above.
The humming is louder now and I test the air with my nose. Mixed in with the decay is the stench of ozone you get coming off electrical circuitry running hot and the slightly sickly odour of top grade mineral oil. The stink is wafting from one of two adjacent doorways maybe fifteen feet ahead and to my left. Crouching down behind a dumpster I unsheathe the claws of my right hand, ignoring the fire and ice pain as they break through the skin. There's no cover between the dumpster and the doorways on the other side of the alley so I pick up a handy piece of crumbling brick and lob it through the nearest doorway. A dull clang rings out as I hit pay dirt. Let battle commence.
What glides out of the shadows is a joke. For a head it has a flattened ovoid carapace roughly thirty inches in diameter and painted matt black. There's a red photoelectric sensor and a handful of antennas stuck out at random angles. Hanging stiffly beneath it are some bunched up spindly spider legs. It's maybe five feet tall all told and hovering about eighteen inches off the ground. The thing is depressingly familiar and I've seen scarier shit served up on a plate. Guess the unknown computer geek is a Star Wars fan too.
A dull red, low energy beam flares briefly and strikes the dumpster just above my head. I'm motionless and mostly under cover so one of the antennas must be an infra red detector. The drone is coming for me fast and I let it narrow the gap before launching myself towards it, keeping my head low but aiming high with the claws. Razor sharp adamantium connects with the narrow joint between the body and the legs and suddenly the legs are gone, falling in a tangled mass to the ground leaving the carapace hovering uncertainly at chest level. Twisting around fast I slap my left hand on top of the carapace and push down hard while bringing up my claws from beneath. The adamantium blades slice through the drone's shell with little resistance, shearing something vital that emits an echoing, metallic shriek as it dies. The carapace falls, trailing sparks and blue smoke, its baleful red eye fading to black.
The hair on my neck prickles to attention and my animal senses scream at me to drop and roll. I feel the dull heat of a beam scorch my cheek as a second drone zips out of the neighbouring doorway where it had been silently lurking. Sneaky! Thirty seconds later it's making scrap patties with its buddy.
Ten minutes and four more drones into the combat scenario, I still haven't broken into a sweat, let alone sated my need for carnage. A man can expend more energy raising a shot glass. Debris litters the floor and I kick contemptuously at a nearby lump of carapace I've carved off a drone. It skitters a few feet before coming to rest beneath a brick wall covered in streaks of moisture and dark green slime.
Beating up serial metal freaks with a non-existent functional threat ain't hardly therapeutic. It ain't giving me the workout I need. Time to up the ante.
"Increase threat to level ten."
"Activation denied. You are not authorised to modify safety parameters above level six."
Damn! New tactic required.
"Maintain level six. Increase threat frequency by five hundred percent."
"Activation denied. You are not authorised to modify safety parameters above accepted norm."
Damn and damn!
"New simulation. Activate program Brotherhood oh one three eight, level six."
"Activation denied. You are not authorised to modify the schedule."
"End program," I snarl as I sense another lumbering heap of scrap gliding up behind me. The scene evaporates like the morning dew. It spooks me to see something so solid and realistic do that. This freaky hard light technology really is something else.
I'm supposed to have full voice coded access to the Danger Room's control system. For some reason the computer doesn't recognise my voice activated commands above a certain level.
Well fuck that.