Chapter 10

The man in the recliner looks up at me with a concerned grimace and a jerk of a bushy eyebrow. He's every bit as gnarly as Dr. Frost had warned me, short and compact yet built like a fortress, with a matt of wild brown hair that doesn't seem to want to stay down. He stares at me with clear blue eyes that make me nervous, self-conscious.

"Ain't you a little young to be workin' here?" he says with an incredulous sneer.

He's also chewing on a cigar. Seriously?

"Ummm... Mr. Howlett? I'm Dr. Grey. I'll be your mem-therapist for today."

He gives a laugh that sounds like a growl.

"So what happened to Dr. Haller?" he asks.

"She's off sick," I reply. I point to the cigar, trying to put out some kind of confidence. I feel like this man will jump up and bite me if I even so much as look at him the wrong way.

"Do you mind, er... Putting that out, please?"

I don't know how he isn't setting the alarms off. Dr. Haller and Dr. Frost told me they gave him certain concessions to get him to cooperate, but surely this isn't one of them...?

He eyes me like he knows exactly how I'm feeling. Nervous, uncertain, out of my depth. I half expect him to just give a terse fuck off, but he doesn't. He curls a slow smile, removes the cigar, and stubs it out on the arm rest. I wince a little, but manage a "thank you," and set about turning on the interfacer.

He watches me so closely it makes my eyes prickle.

"So... Dr. Grey? How come a kid like you is workin' in a shit hole like this?"

His voice is like tyres on gravel. I'm a little surprised he calls this place a shit hole. I mean, I had to fight off a shed load of competition just to get to the last round of interviews.

"I got hired."

"Pfft. You gotta be – what – twenty, at the most."

I pause and grab the sensor pads for the nearby cabinet.

"Eighteen," I correct him as firmly as I can.

He seems shocked at that.

"Jesus," he mutters.

"I just graduated," I feel the need to explain.

"What? High school?"

"College."

"Ooooh." His gnarled tone lifts with amusement. "So Essex is going for the child prodigy market, huh? He likes 'em young with his subjects. Guess he likes 'em young with his staff too."

I turn and frown at him.

"What do you mean?"

I don't like the way he grins up at me with that smug, knowing expression.

"He's always sayin' how young people are more impressionable, easier to mould. That their neural patterns ain't fixed yet, or some such shit." The smile on his face widens derisively. "See, I'm old. I'm forty-two and I've had a lifetime of shit, and so my neural patterns are shit. When your life ain't nice, turns out your brain learns to be 'not nice'. But I guess that's why I'm here, doctor."

I stare at him a moment. Behind that disdainful smile I see anger. And behind that, sadness. I can't say how our why exactly, but I'm touched.

I brave approaching this frightening hulk of a man and gingerly attach the sensors to his temples.

"What kind of shit have you had to go through?" I ask him quietly.

He stares at me with this kind of stunned expression, like no one's ever asked him this question before.

"Death," he finally answers gruffly. There's a finality in the word, and I know he won't add anymore.

I feel sorry for him. I can't help it, even though I know he would never want my pity.

"My name's Jean," I say to him without thinking.

Again, he's silent, like he has to analyse every word for a hidden trap.

"Call me Logan, kid," he finally replies, before adding in a disgusted undertone: "None of this 'Mr. Howlett' crap."

I smile and hand him the visor.

"There. We're all set. Whenever you're ready."

I don't think anyone's ever given him the option of putting on the visor himself. He holds it like he doesn't know what to do with it. I'm a little surprised that my colleagues here don't appear to have been encouraged in following the proper doctor-patient bed manner.

A few seconds pass before he finally puts on the visor. He presses the switch at his temple and the therapy begins.

-oOo-

I've been here before.

Under the power of the visor, of the mem-chip, of an unformed past.

The jigsaw puzzle pieces of other peoples' memories.

Hello. My name is Jean Grey.

Scott holds my hand… And the baby's in my arms… The children on the other side of the one-way window. Logan in the recliner… and Essex by the Machine, far, far away…

Blood on my hands. Blood… …

I jerk into wakefulness, sweating and nauseous, gasping for breath, my hands trembling violently as I grapple with the comforter.

The bleed effect. This is the bleed effect. The first time I've experienced it in about 18 months. God, it hurts.

I bite down hard into the sheets, trying to get a grip on myself, trying to muffle my moans of pain.

Sweet Jesus, how did I ever live with this, day in, day out?

"Anna?" Remy mumbles beside me, and fuck, I've woken him up.

I bite down harder into the comforter to silence myself, but it's too late. In a moment he's up and hovering over me anxiously.

"Anna, what the f—?!" He stops himself mid-sentence and barks "On!" to the lights. Their tawny glow fills the room, and I could murder him about now. Him seeing this is the last thing I need.

"I-I-I'm fine!" I manage to stutter.

I have to admit – I'm thankful when he simply presses his lips shut and lets me get on with it. At least, I thought he would let me get on with it, but he doesn't; instead he gently works the covers out of my hands, locks fingers with me, and presses my fists hard into the pillow. He holds on until the tremors slowly fade and then die away completely.

I'm left reeling, the room spinning sickeningly around me.

"Better now?" he asks expectantly; and I'm just about to nod, when I feel a powerful urge to vomit take over me.

I pull out of his grasp and throw back the covers, racing for the bathroom and retching over the toilet.

Nothing comes up.

For several moments I feel like I'm completely outside of my body, my senses divorced from my skin, my thoughts from my actions.

And then Remy's hands grasp my upper arms, and I'm jolted back inside of myself; I'm wobbling by the sink on legs like jello, and he's virtually the only thing holding me upright. The vertiginous sensation slows; the world straightens. I realise how hard I'm breathing. I stare into my hands and they're trembling. I blink, confused.

There's no blood.

But I thought—

"…Anna…" Remy's saying. I don't know how long he's been saying it.

Anna.

I'm back in the bathroom, and the tiles are cold.

I wrap my arms round myself and shiver.

"Anna."

Remy's in front of me, his hands cradling my cheeks, making me look at him. I find his eyes and focus on them. There's worry, concern on his face; the line of his mouth is flat, grim.

"The bleed effect," he murmurs as he searches my face. He says it like it's so damn simple, but it can't be. I was cured, goddammit. I'm strong, I'm whole. This is the only good thing Essex ever did for me. He took away the bleed effect; he gave me back my body, my mind.

"It's not possible," I gasp, pulling his hands from my cheeks. He drops his arms to his sides and just looks at me, like he's judging me. I can't stand it. "It's impossible," I seethe, "'cos Essex cured me!"

That's what has him worried. He doesn't need to say it. His expression goes very still.

"What was in Jean Grey's mem'ries, Anna?" he asks quietly. "What the hell did you see?"

The question brings a gasp to my mouth. I look down into my hands, and there's no blood. There's no pain.

"I saw… …" I say. My voice breaks a little and I can't continue. I lean into the sink again and his hand comes up over my shoulder, his fingers squeezing reassuringly against my flesh. It gives me the strength to go on. "I saw death, Remy," I explain in a tiny voice. "First there was all this… And then there was nothing. Nothing."

The admission confuses me. There is never nothing, always something; and the sense of paradox is so visceral that it's like my mind skips a neuron firing. I'm still staring at my hands, and it's only when he takes them in his that I'm here again.

"Anna," he's saying slowly, calmly. "You can't do this."

"Can't do what?" I ask.

"Take on this assignment. Go find this Logan. It's too dangerous."

I glare at him.

"Dangerous?"

"Yeah. Dangerous. You could get fuckin' killed."

"I've done this before. About a million times. Since the age of fourteen. Don't patronise me, Remy."

His mouth goes hard. Abruptly he turns away from me and heads back into the bedroom.

"You said you'd back me!" I rail at him, and he stops, pivots right back round, and blasts at me furiously:

"You're unstable, Anna!"

The words are so fierce, so unexpected, that I'm both taken aback and vexed at the same time.

"I'm fine!" I yell back, and:

"You're goin' through the bleed effect! You're fuckin' unstable!"

I can't remember the last time I saw him this pissed… or in earnest. The anger fizzles and pops like a physical thing between us. I'm so incensed that stars are beginning to form across my vision.

"I'm not," I say. My tone is deep and quiet, quivering with a threadbare restraint. He doesn't buy it; and neither do I. His shoulders slump and he turns, disappearing back into the bedroom.

As soon as he's gone it's like I'm doused in cold water. I march after him.

"Remy—"

"Anna," he breaks in in a harassed voice, "I'm worried 'bout you. First ya jump headfirst into Wisdom's mission, then this. You said Dr. Grey's mem'ries were the reason this Logan fella went an' lost his mind. How the hell do I know the same thing ain't gon' happen t'you?"

He swivels round to face me on that final sentence. It's obvious how tired and frustrated he is right now. I can hear it in his voice, his accent more clipped and thick than usual. But his expression is beseeching, like he wants to get through to me.

"I'm better than Logan," I say with quiet conviction.

"Right," he says with bitter sarcasm. "You jes' had a bout of the bleed effect, and yet you're s'pposed to be cured."

The hair on my flesh is bristling, my eyes are stinging. I stare at the floor. I don't want to fight either. A few seconds pass and suddenly he comes to me.

"Anna," he murmurs, touching my hair tenderly. "Lissen. This ain't just any old con. You're impersonatin' Jean Grey. Wearin' an identity again. You ain't done that in an age now. Logan is dangerous, and he's prob'ly gonna be suspicious, and the moment you trip up…"

I raise my eyes to his.

"I won't."

He huffs out a breath at my stubbornness, shakes his head, throws up his hands.

"Fine," he says, and he heads back into bed.

He wants to help me. I know he does. His concern is a beautiful thing… but sometimes it's too much. It's too invasive for me, for someone who's spent her whole life taking care of her own broken self.

I walk back to the bathroom to turn out the lights, and once there I stop in the doorway; I take stock.

I care about this man, deeply. I appreciate his concern for me, and it feels good to have it. But navigating this thing between us – sometimes it leaves me all lost at sea. Being with Cody was simpler. He was gentle, patient. And I was a beginner, a learner in love. I'm a different person now, and Remy isn't Cody. I want to be with him, and I know he wants to be with me, but sometimes I don't know exactly how this is supposed to work.

Maybe it's because I can't hide who I am from him. Because the person he sees is Anna Marie Raven – a little girl who lost everything; a broken woman who stole the lives of others to be somebody. An orphan; an experiment. A killer; a vampire. Somebody who can never bear him children. I've always been myself with him – and now, without the distraction of the mem-intoxication, myself is somebody I'm finding it hard to be.

At last, I shut out the lights and head back into the bedroom. I lie under the covers and stare up into the darkness. His back is to me, and I feel the frustration and hurt emanating from him. They prickle up and over me, needling into this horrible cloak of pain and suffering Dr. Grey has given to me. An age-old fear takes me – a childhood fear only recently restored. Suddenly I'm a kid again, staring up into the bottomless heart of the sunflower. And now it has a terrible new dimension. The dark is nothingness. The dark is death.

I turn and curl into his back. There's nothing more comforting, more reassuring against death than the warmth of another human being – of someone you love.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "Don't be angry at me. I don't want to go to sleep with us bein' angry at each other. I'm sorry, Rem."

I put my arms around him, and after a moment his fingers lace through mine.

"It's okay, Anna," he murmurs back. "I gotcha back. Whenever you're ready."

But this hurts him. I can hear it in his voice, and I weigh the cost of following my own desires against the cost of losing him. He doesn't know what I owe Logan. He doesn't know what Logan's suffered – not the way I do. But I can't explain it to him, so I say nothing. Instead, I hold him a little tighter.

He falls asleep first.

I keep my eyes open and pray for the sunrise; and if I fall asleep before then, I pray there'll be no more dreams.

-oOo-

I sit at the big round table in Gavin & Lord's conference room.

There is the babble of conversation, the sound of voices talking from what feels like far away.

Jake and Wisdom are sitting there beside me; Remy is standing by the French windows, his presence like a burning warmth to my side.

My mind isn't here. It's somewhere else.

"How're you feeling today, Logan?" I ask him.

He's still staring that disdainful smirk. Oh well. At least there's no cigar today.

"Pissed," he decides.

"I guess it can't help, doing what it is you do here," I offer.

He snickers sarcastically.

"What I do here is what I do best."

"Killing?"

"Yeah."

I frown. I guess they don't get that the only way to cure this guy of his violent temper is to stop him from doing his job.

"So lemme guess," he begins, as I go to start up the interfacer. "Dr. Haller don't wanna deal with me, and Dr. Frost is too busy to give me the time of day, and no one else wants to face old Logan down, so they get the kid fresh outta school to do the shitty job instead."

I grin, unable to hide the truth from him.

"Something like that."

He grunts sceptically.

"Hmph. Sorry 'bout that."

I shrug.

"You're not so bad. I don't know what all the fuss is about."

He doesn't say anything. I'm not sure he likes what I just said. I suppose he has a reputation to uphold.

Don't feel sorry for him, Dr. Frost had said. Because he doesn't want to be felt sorry for, and he certainly won't feel sorry for you.

"Ms. D'Ancanto?" Wisdom is saying.

I shake myself free of the memory with an effort.

"Hm?" I ask.

"I was saying we'll pay all travel expenses, of course."

I'm momentarily confused at the statement, and I'm not sure whether Jake's noticed or not, but he rescues me by saying:

"Are you sure your mark is in the U.S.?"

"Oh, we're 100% sure," Wisdom responds. "We've been monitoring Cain Marko's communications for quite a while now. Our mark suspended contact pretty much as soon as Marko was arrested, but there's been some encrypted messages sent between him and Tom Casssidy, one of Marko's closest associates."

"And you're absolutely sure these messages are from the mark?" Jake probes.

"Yes." Wisdom's tone is confident. "Our cryptanalysts were quite adamant it was him. We had some trackers put out on him. Unfortunately they raised the alarm, which caused all communication between him and Mr. Cassidy to cease, but… We have a general location for him at least." He looks over at me. "What are your thoughts, Ms. D'Ancanto?"

I rise from my seat and stare up at the screen on the wall. It's a digital map of the world, showing all the various locations Logan has been in since Marko's arrest. A red line connects his last known location in Heathrow, London, to JFK, New York. There's a mish-mash of unevenly-spaced red dots sprinkled around the greater NY area. No discernible pattern.

Mad Logan may be, but he's smart.

"Which was his last known location before going dark?" I ask.

"Here." He hit a button on the tablet at his elbow; a single dot on the screen began to flash. "The ISP had been re-routed through Nevada. But we're pretty confident the signal originated from here."

There's a mental jump in my brain and for a second I'm disorientated. My stomach is churning and my hands are suddenly clammy. I stare at the flashing dot and all I see is red. Blood. I hope they think I'm sizing up the location on the map.

"I think…" I say, and is it my voice speaking? "I think this looks like he might be heading somewhere," I finish. It is my voice. I let out a pent-up breath as soft and slow as I can.

"Going somewhere?" Jake sounds incredulous. "That's just a cluster of random dots…"

"This is the southern-most." I tap the point thoughtfully. I feel normal again and I wonder whether this is all just my imagination playing tricks on me.

At the windows, Remy stirs.

"Do a run-through of the locations," he suggests. "In chronological sequence."

Wisdom gives him a sideways glance, as if he'd forgotten he was standing there at all. After a moment he hits a key on his tablet, and we watch on as the lights flash in a zigzagging pattern over the map.

"He's pinballing," Remy murmurs.

"What?" Wisdom says, nonplussed. I try not to smile to myself. Remy and his dumbass codewords for business shit, trying to piss Wisdom off.

"It means he's zigzagging his way towards his destination," I explain softly. "He has a path, but he doesn't want the path to be obvious. So he strikes out in opposite directions either side of the path. Backs up some now and then, just to make it a little less trackable."

We stare at the blinking lights.

"So his general direction is… south," Wisdom concludes.

"Right," I nod. I touch the screen and the sequence pauses. I look at the final location on the map. It's an industrial area, ancient warehouses spaced out between now-empty lots. A temporary base of operations – a week old, judging by the timestamp on the marker. Probably already long-abandoned. I turn back to Wisdom.

"What did his messages to this associate of Marko say?" I question.

"Nothing useful, I'm afraid." He shrugs. "Mostly updates on Marko's situation, on the status of his contraband."

"Mem-chips?"

"Right."

"Anything in particular?"

"The ones he'd stolen. The one Gavin & Lord retrieved for me, in particular."

I purse my lips up at that.

I can feel Wisdom's eyes on me.

"Did you 'face with that chip, Ms. D'Ancanto?" he asks me with a dangerous softness.

There's a beat, perhaps a little too long, but I recover myself and answer with a small, self-deprecating smile: "No. Although I would have, if I'd had the time. I doubt it was anything important though."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's obvious what Logan wants."

"Is it?"

"He's trying to retrieve his memories."

"That mem-chip belonged to a Mr. James Howlett…"

"Logan is Mr. James Howlett."

He stares at me.

"And you know that because…?"

"I have contacts. Back home. Contacts who knew him."

The chair creaks as he leans back on a long exhalation.

"He discovered who he was. A Weapon X experiment. He interfaced with his own bloody memories and it triggered… all this."

I nod.

"Yes."

He lets out another breath.

"He wants his past. He wants to know about Weapon X."

I nod again. A moment of cold clamminess descends, and I lean against the nearest chair on a sudden wave of disorientation.

When I look up again, I start.

Jean Grey is standing there behind Wisdom, looking right at me.

"Do you like killing?" she asks me, her tone quiet, earnest.

I blink and she's gone.

"Ms. D'Ancanto?"

I shake myself, stunned, and Wisdom is staring at me, expectant.

I open my mouth to say something – anything – and that's when Remy intervenes.

"That's why Marie takin' on Dr. Grey's persona is the best in we got," he replies for me; and I'm surprised to find that he's so close behind me. Was I out so long there that I didn't even hear him coming? "If this Logan wants his past, wants to know about Weapon X so bad… Well, Dr. Grey's in the perfect position to give him what he wants."

He puts his hand gently, unobtrusively on my back – his way of anchoring me. Jean Grey is gone – a momentary trick of the mind, the bleed effect – I don't know. I don't want to think about it. I'm shaken.

"From what I can see of her memories, Dr. Grey had a positive relationship with him," I continue, grateful for Remy's orientating influence. "If we can somehow contact him, convince him I'm her, and set up a meet…"

Wisdom is nodding.

"I see. Dr. Grey could be the only one he trusts to get near him."

"Or she might not be," Jake mutters what I know Remy won't.

"It's the only shot we have," I answer quietly. There's tension in the room, but Wisdom, either unintentionally or not, chooses to ignore it.

"Okay, so… this is the plan you're pitching. Contact Logan, as Dr. Grey. Gain his confidence, bait him with some of the information about Weapon X, about his past, that he craves. It doesn't even have to be the truth. Just enough to hook him. Arrange to meet him, and we fly you out. You make contact. You bring him back."

He raises his eyes to mine on the final sentence. An unspoken communication passes between us.

"Right," I say.

Wisdom taps his tablet stylus absently against his lips.

"And how're we gonna track where Logan is now?" he asks.

I say nothing. None of this will work unless we can contact Logan in the first place.

"Leave that to me," Jake says with a grin. He's obviously taking pleasure from the fact that he has some skill-set to abuse in this case, and I allow him the sense of victory. He looks confident enough, anyhow, that Wisdom is convinced.

"Okay," he says, opening up his hands agreeably. "This sounds like it can work. If you're happy with the proposal, I can fast-track a contract and have it approved by," he pauses, glances at his watch, "say, six this evening?"

That's fast. He wants this job done, and he wants us – me – to do it.

"If, of course, you're still willing to take the assignment," he adds, looking at me.

"I don't think we'd be here pitching this to you if we weren't," Jake speaks up.

"Naturally." Wisdom shoots him a smile. "But jobs like these… it's always best to make sure everyone's on the level. This isn't something you can just walk away from."

We all know the chances of discovery, torture and death are real in this scenario. It's always polite in such circumstances to give someone an out, even if it's only a token gesture.

"Send me the contract," I tell him. "I'll sign it."

Remy walks away, back to the French windows. I hear them slide open, then the click of his lighter.

Wisdom is all smiles.

"It will be a pleasure to work with you again, Ms. D'Ancanto."

-oOo-

"Do you like killing?" I ask him.

He glares at me in a way he hasn't for a while. He looks fierce enough to frighten.

"What the fuck kind of a question is that?"

I'm taken aback by his reaction. For a few seconds I'm embarrassed enough to feel tongue-tied.

"You display no emotion when you relive the memories," I try to explain. It feels inadequate.

"That don't mean I like it, kid," he snarls. "It means I don't give a shit."

"You don't care about killing?" I reason out the thought slowly.

"No," he growls belligerently.

I take in a breath.

"Why not?" I dare to ask him.

"'Cos I told you," he seethes quietly. "Death follows me, darlin'. It's been followin' me since I first learned t'walk." He pauses, chewing on the words. "This place is my home. You seen the kids downstairs? What d'ya think they're here for? They're here to be trained to be like me. To be better than me. Some of 'em ain't even much younger than you. I'm a waste of your time, Dr. Grey. You wanna help somebody, go help those kids."

…

…

…

"Jesus, kid," Logan says as I enter the room. "It's been a while. I thought you'd gone and bailed on me. Can't say I woulda blamed ya either. Where've you been?"

I want to lie and say I've been on vacation. The lie would be so much easier on myself, more so than on him.

"I was working with the kids downstairs," I say.

I'm trying for neutral, but it comes out tentative. In the end he doesn't make any comment. He simply makes a low rumbling tone in the back of his throat that I can't read.

"So what brings you back here then?" he asks with wry humour. "Did I finally give Dr. Haller that nervous breakdown she's been on the verge of for years?"

I look at him soberly.

"I asked to be put back here."

That surprises him. His eyebrow shoots up, but he doesn't say a thing.

I concentrate on plugging him back up to the interfacer. This time he looks at me – I mean, really looks at me. Does it unnerve me? Yes and no. Not in the way most people might think.

"Don't worry, Red, I know what you're thinkin'," he says after a good, long moment. "You're scared for those kids. You're scared of those kids. B'cause y'know what's in store for 'em. What Weapon X will do to 'em. Turn 'em all into cold-blooded little killers just like me, before they've even had the chance to grow up."

I flicker a glance at him, only to avert it quickly.

"Killing isn't the least of it," I murmur. He seems unfazed by the comment.

"Yeah, I bet it ain't. Just be glad you ain't one of 'em."

I get up quickly and walk over to the console. Does he know, I wonder? Does he know what they have planned for him? Why should I even care?

I press the on switch.

Why should I care?

Because it isn't right. It just isn't right.

-oOo-