"Lift."

Cameron complied, lifting a bare foot covered in muck and grime from the forest floor, and Chase hosed it off while Cuddy brought her a pair of Kayla's shoes. Standing on a towel and feeling excessively gross, Cameron tried to think of pleasant things instead of the look that must have been on Chase's face. "This feels wrong," she murmured.

"They shot you in the foot and left you to die. You can take their shoes. You can smash their TV," Chase added. "You won't get any judgment from us. Other foot."

She lifted her other foot. "I'm not talking about that. Aren't they supposed to―" Her voice abruptly broke off as she became aware of a distant vehicle, and she looked up into the forest, vying for a glimpse of headlights moving through the darkened woods. "Be here," she murmured.

Chase turned off the hose and they could better hear the vehicle. Dropping it to the floor, he instead grabbed his gun.

"Brilliant idea, Chase," Cuddy said, frowning at him. "Give him minor wounds to heal from while he kicks our asses."

"What am I supposed to do?" he demanded.

"You were supposed to leave," Cameron said, rotating carefully on two wet feet. "And be safe."

The car emerged from the forest, bathing Cameron in its headlights, and came slowly up to the cabin; unfortunately it wasn't a police vehicle. Chase kept his gun aimed at the driver. Opening the door, Kayla jumped out, raising her hands as she stepped around the door.

Chase scoffed, smiling despite himself. "Wow, I don't...even know who's worse."

"Did Logan do something?" she asked, and observing their faces she shook her head and mumbled, "Of course he did something. I swear he doesn't think."

"I'd like you to stop playing games now. The jig is up," he said. "So you may as well turn blue again and think of your final words."

"Turn blue? I don't un..." But her words trailed off and she began to smile. "Wait, I get it. Yeah, Greg told me. Actually he told Logan―Logan told me. How is he doing?"

"We don't know, because your boyfriend kidnapped him," Cameron bit.

"And why would you care?" Chase added, even while thinking it was karmic justice for Dr. Simmons.

"Because that blue woman you're mistaking me for kicked him in the head."

Cuddy was nodding calmly as Chase and Cameron stared at her in horror.

"Don't tell anyone," Kayla said bashfully, "But I kind of did some research on her."

Chase narrowed his eyes, listening to a strange voice in his head. It was for sure an inner voice, but it wasn't his conscience. Wherever it was coming from, it was telling him the copycat was gone and he could let his guard down. The mere fact it wasn't his opinion had him lowering his gun. "You know what, I don't care if you're Kayla or the copycat," he announced. "You either deserve a bullet or a concussion."

"I had to get her to stop."

"I don't want to hear anything you have to..." His words trailed off and he stared at her for a moment, finger still pointing at her. "You're picking the bullet?"

"Well, I'd rather kick you off the property, but I suppose that's not a choice."

"What if," Cuddy intervened, "Instead of shooting you, we ask you to drive us to the road... Cameron doesn't get injured walking again, and you don't have to feel her pain."

"Or," Chase said, "I pull this trigger and we hijack her vehicle."

"Are you insane?" Cuddy asked.

"You're bartering with the enemy. There's no way we can trust this girl."

Kayla watched the exchange, feeling insecure without Logan by her side and wishing she could "inspire" them all at once.

"I'd be okay with a ride," Cameron volunteered, and suddenly realizing nobody had asked what she wanted in a long time, Chase shouldered the gun with an air of defeat.

"What about your revenge?" Cuddy asked.

"Please... If that was your concern, you'd let me take the shot."

Slowly, Kayla lowered her hands, one of them still clutching her keys. Cameron easily slipped on the sandals without pain and the five of them went to the truck.

It was a bumpy and tedious ride, but much faster than walking. When they reached the road, Kayla remained quiet as they got out of the vehicle, thinking maybe shoes weren't a good enough trade for her life. All she said was, "I am sorry for shooting you."

"Yeah, whatever," Cameron muttered, as she got out.

And there they were; a pregnant woman, a man with a bruised face, and a woman with a bloody foot as they limped to a vehicle that was dented on the front and side. Kayla watched them get in, wondering what the hell Logan had done to them...and what he was doing to House.

Logan pushed House to the ground, and his cane clattered beside him. Looking traumatized, he didn't get up, wondering if the metallic murderer would torture him first...even as he listened to Logan's departing footsteps. "Fucking knew it. I fucking knew you couldn't be trusted. Of course she didn't listen, did whatever the hell she wanted, as usual." He turned around, eyeballing House, sitting exactly where he'd left him. "Maybe I should start mounting human heads the way people mount deer heads. That'd be a pretty clear hint."

With Logan pretty much across the room, House began to move, examining the unfamiliar building. It appeared to be abandoned, but it was the fog, lightning and thunder that made it exceptionally creepy. Well, that and knowing he was about to be slaughtered. "I think the word you're looking for is bestial."

"I don't give a shit what you think."

"Well, that's a lie," he muttered, trying to meet his eyes even though he was obscured by fog. "You are going to kill me over what I think."

"That's not why I'm going to kill you."

House took a breath, then stood up, leaving his cane on the floor. His face was unreadable, but the way he suddenly held out his arms at his sides clarified things pretty fast. "Okay," he said pithily, and waited for Logan to advance. "Free the beast," he finally goaded, with slight impatience.

"You're just accepting it?"

"Can't stop you. It is a shame, though, what you've become." House smiled, averting his eyes as he muttered, "Can't even see the sanctity of a human life."

"The sanctity of a human life," Logan echoed, with a slight laugh. He pulled the paper out his pocket and read it aloud, "Mutants. Logan, immortal, speed-healing. Kayla, manipulation. Silverfox, Cataline Elementary. Logan's truck, 1965 Chevrolet El Camino. Plate, VC-9EF, home address, sawmill address―" His frustrated voice broke off and he squashed the paper in his hand, letting it fall to the floor. "Listen, don't stand there preaching about sanctity, asshole, alright? You've been fucking with us since day one."

"Actually I haven't. That's recent."

"And you're, what, gathering all that to turn us in. Right?"

"I was absolutely intending to, yes."

Logan narrowed his eyes, trying to figure the man out. "You like her."

"Used to. 'Til she shot Cameron."

"Why, do you love her, too?"

"More or less I can't stand her. But it'd be a shame to let her medical expertise go to waste." House stared at him, once again unreadable. "But that's boring. What's interesting to me is why your instinct is kill, kill, kill. I mean, you don't exactly strike me as the religious type."

Logan looked at him a moment longer, then suddenly gave the shadow of a smile. "Fuck religion."

House sighed, likewise trying to figure him out. "Probably decapitate your therapist, so probably anger issues... Feelings of inadequacy."

"Christ, what did I tell you about interrogation?"

"I diagnose for a living."

"Really? You can look me in the eye and tell me, to this day, in this moment, you are a doctor?"

House was quiet, suddenly breaking eye contact. Sighing, and rubbing at his hair, he muttered, "It's probably for the best, you not going to therapy. Means someone gets to live. Gets to go home, read a bedtime story, kiss someone goodnight. Until the universe finds another way to snuff their candle. Skydiving accident, animal attack, bus crash," his voice broke off and he was quiet, trying not to dwell on hallucinations. Where the hell had that even come from? Taking a breath, he met the man's eyes. "Or murder," he added, still not knowing when to shut up. "Of course in my case, being here with you, COD'll be murder and animal attack. Officials'll just see the attack, the gouges, the perforation; they'll controvert the blunt force trauma, say I fell and hit my head in a panic. Unless―and I can't see this happening―you do the right thing. Step up, turn yourself in, or just, I don't know, not kill me. Which would mean you're crazy," he falteringly added, watching Logan with a growing unease even as the man just stood there. "Not in your right mind."

"I'm gettin' real tired of people who won't shut up."

"Okay then. At this juncture I wish I could appease you, but gosh darn it, I just can't stop thinking about that unanswered question."

"What unanswered question?"

"Why is your instinct kill, kill, kill?"

Logan sighed, staring at him and finally shaking his head. "I don't know. Just seems easier than having to deal with humans. Their judgment."

"Hmm. Talk to me about this genetic mutation. Who carries the gene, is it everyone?"

"No. Well, I mean, anyone can be a mutant, but males pass it on. Done a lot of thinking, and... Guess that's why I killed my old man."

"You―" House paused, trying to absorb it. "You killed your father, and you're upset because I've been spying on you a little?"

"No, I'm pissed because you're gonna lock her away and ruin her life. And why?"

House barely smiled, looking at the floor as he repeated himself. "Because you're a malignant tumor in the body of society. Body needs to heal."

"We're a malignant what?"

"Oops. Did I say malignant tumor? I meant...completely benign speck of literally nothing. In fact it's probably my eyes. Don't pretend you aren't the villain in all this, don't pretend you're just following your instincts. You're not good to be around and neither is she. Least she's got a cover, fuckin' lumberjack. When last did you contribute to society?"

"Well, I donate a couple thousand to charity every year."

"While robbing innocent people the ability, the right, the gift of law enforcement. Cop killer."

Suddenly wondering if he was pushing it, he watched in well-concealed fear as Logan eyeballed him―a glint in his eyes, Hulk muscles on his...everything. Then Logan was talking again. "Well, I do wonder how many people I've killed were related to me."

"Yeah, see, that...may indicate time for change. I mean, if you don't know for sure it's just one..."

"Sometimes I'd like to just forget it all. Sure as hell can't take it back."

"No shit," House answered eloquently. "You know, most people try to do something with their lives. You, you're just, you're pulling people into the grave you dug yourself."

Logan extracted his claws, and the metal sound rang throughout. "I didn't ask for these. Can't change what I am."

"Well, you can control who."

The tension was palpable as he knelt, finally grabbing his cane. Finally, he stood without leaning on his left leg, seeming to oddly relax as he took off the pressure. "Another day," he said, unflinchingly meeting the man's eyes, "Another martyr. The world isn't fair, nobody likes you. Instead of carving a path, you just carve people. No daddy issues there. You say you do it to protect your isolation; you sure it's worth so much blood? So much of yourself?"

As Logan advanced, he heard the metallic ring and naturally assumed Logan had taken out his claws on the opposite hand―assumed he had pushed too hard. But instead of decapitating him, he had suddenly brushed harmlessly past; his claws retracted on both hands. But all of his instantaneous relief was extinguished when Logan said, "I ain't finished with you yet."

He opened the door, and House had just enough time to see Chase's startled face before Logan had grabbed him and wrestled him into the shadows.

"How 'bout that?" Logan asked, looking at House through the window. "Another goddamn spy!"

He didn't know how, but suddenly Chase had kicked him in the back of the head. Moving spryly away, with a grace that was not his own, Chase circled around Logan as he recovered from the blow. He grabbed Chase, but found himself wrestled back against the window. And then, as the pair moved just right, House was afforded a glimpse of a naked blue woman with yellow eyes. Who had suddenly stabbed Logan in the neck with a blade. More stunned than injured, Logan leaned against the window, watching the undeniably alluring and incredibly dangerous woman back up towards the forest; then she turned and began running, so quickly it was like she became a blur.

Logan's fingers came up and searched for the handle of the blade, and despite the fact he had just tried to kill him, House found himself yelling, "No, don't―"

Too late. With a wordless shout, Logan ripped the knife out of his neck, spraying the window with blood. Already healing, he ran after the indigo lady. Alone and horrified, House limped up to the window and peered out through the smudges and spatters of mutant blood.

"Fucking shit."

He turned and wandered through the unfamiliar edifice, digging for his phone; seeing the crumpled-up paper on the floor, he withdrew his hand and knelt to pick it up instead. It was still perfectly readable, a little wrinkled, but that was okay. He stuffed it back into his pocket and proceeded to dig out his phone, and feeling suddenly boy-like, he speed-dialed Chase.

"Like a voice from the beyond," was the greeting he received, then his more distant voice added, "Yeah, poor choice of words, but he's obviously fine."

"You don't know that. I could have been Logan, or a shapeshifter."

"What shapeshifter would turn into you?" Chase chuckled.

"Before I dignify that with a remark, just, uh, two quick questions."

"Shoot."

"One, have you encountered the scary blue chick? And two, are Cameron and Cuddy with you right now?"

"Yes, and yes."

"Okay, good. Now my remark―obviously the kind of shapeshifter who would turn into you."

"What?"

"Yeah, listen, I don't know what her deal is, but Scary Blue Chick is obviously looking for something. Or someone. And she's been spying on us, which wouldn't piss me off because I get it―but this is a fucking mutant. Who can turn into us and live our lives and destroy our identities. And that's different."

"Yeah, yep."

House sighed, rubbing at his face, and suddenly chuckled. "God, I don't... I don't even know who I can trust anymore."

"Then abort the mission. Meet us in public and let's leave."

"After all the information I got, I can't just stop here and think o―"

"Abort the mission, House. Go back to being your narcissistic self. It's time. Lest you wind up with three metal spikes going from your chin through your forehead."

House shook his head, only able to repeat the one word that had gotten him into this mess. "Can't."

"Why not?"

House hesitated for a moment, thinking of all the reasons why not before quietly disconnecting. All the reasons why he couldn't bring himself to abort, and all the reasons why he wanted to. This place was less of a cabin and more of an abandoned warehouse; no furniture, so he took his time and ignored the pain, finally sitting on the floor. Its glass-covered floor had a thick carpet of dust and an ample supply of bricks, which his mind immediately viewed as weapons. Things he could throw. Blunt force trauma...or a sharp edge. He didn't have to lean very far to grab one, and he held it in his hands, liking the feel and the false sense of security.

"It won't help you."

He lifted his eyes to Cameron―or at least, ninety-five percent of her. The giant metal claw spikes were not her own. Ignoring it, and ignoring the fact that acknowledging her meant he was crazy, he nodded at the visual projection of his own mental illness. "I know."

"You're beyond help."

"That's why you like me. Which means you're beyond help." His eyes roamed down and he saw her foot, bleeding all over the floor. Despite knowing it was a hallucination, maybe from tumors, maybe from withdrawal, maybe from his instability―who fucking knew anymore?―he still took comfort in looking into her eyes instead.

She smiled at him. "I guess I am."

"And you're still here. Literally here, or technically there," he amended, "Refusing to leave my side. Even if it endangers you, your ex-husband and Cuddy Junior. Why won't you leave?"

"Why won't you leave?" she parroted. "Don't you think you're in over your head?"

"I know I'm in over my head. So over, I can't even see the surface. And I'm drowning."

Watching him mutter to himself, Logan finally saw him for who he was―a simple, weak human, no matter how smart, who had the misfortune of stumbling into his weird-ass world. No training. And while he was born a mutant, and had killed for the first time when he was very young, there had been a time when he thought he never would kill. A time that it never dawned on him that he could be virtually indestructible. That had been good enough. It had been normal enough. When it came down to it, this Greg guy's losses were bigger than his own.

He slammed the door, effectively breaking the old man's delusions. Saying nothing, he stepped over the debris and offered House a hand. This time, when he pulled him up, he was surprisingly gentle. "You live as long as a housefly compared to me," Logan finally said. "Ten years, fifteen, twenty if you're really lucky, your body'll break down. I can live with that."

"Thank you," House said, looking as puzzled as he felt. "That's... I'm glad to hear it."

"You know how to shoot?"

"Uh, kind of rusty."

"Let's get the fuck outta here," Logan muttered.

"You seem awfully mellow... Did that lady let you touch her in a special place?"

Logan hid his irritation as he walked to the exit; limping after him, House let his eyes alternate the chaotic floor and the mutant's perfectly healed neck. "So is there damage?" he asked, using his cane to push a brick aside with an annoying, gritty scraping sound.

"To what?"

"To your spine. You never have to worry about paralysis?"

"Nope." Logan turned, putting one hand on his vehicle. "Coming, Gramps?"

"Says the guy who probably survived the Ice Age," House retorted. He limped to the truck like he was dragging an anvil, and they got inside. Instantly, House's hand went to the gaping hole hidden under his pants, and he anxiously thought of Taub, coming to the border with his Christmas gift. Not that a year's supply would last him a couple months.

Logan looked at him bearing the burden of intractable pain, and said, "So why the limp, anyway? Get shot?"

"Yeah, by your girlfriend," he snarled, and Logan quietly started the car.

Finally he said, "I refuse to believe that. Had to be the blue bitch again. And I know who I'm dating. She's a goddamn shapeshifter, could even pull the wool over...what's-his-name's eyes. The guy with the bad hair."

"Now we're just talking about you."

"At least I have hair."

House turned his glower up front as Logan began to drive.

"All the pain in the world, all the torment," Logan muttered. "The kind that makes you wake up screaming, kind that interferes with everything. You should be glad it exists."

House scoffed. "Be glad?"

"If everybody in the world was like me, you'd be taking people's money a lot slower."

House was quiet for a moment, wondering how to respond; finally he muttered the only thing he could think of, "Wish Foreman came instead of Chase." Then he felt the need to explain, "He's my, uh, was my neurologist. Be nice if you let someone else do the dissecting for a change."

"I'm not surprised you saw a neurologist."

House went to clarify himself, stopping when he saw the mild amusement on his face. "Long distance therapy, it's something you should consider. Arrange to have all your meetings via webcam, have them ship your meds, never actually know a thing about your psychiatrist. Charlie's Angels, for lunatics. Could work, it's a win-win; they live, you heal."

"Never been a problem."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Every time you kill a person, you kill a bit of yourself... Can't you feel it?"

Logan tried to drive on in stoic indifference, feeling himself under the intense scrutiny of the much-too-intuitive doctor. "You speaking from experience?"

"It's up for debate."

Logan's scoff was interrupted by the old-school ringtone of an old-school cell. House fumbled for his phone, seeing an unfamiliar number on the caller ID. He accepted the call, only after grumpily repeating, "Never get famous."

Then, answering the phone, he greeted his caller with a pithy, "Yeah."

"Hello, is this Dr. Gregory House?"

"Well, it's certainly my number."

"I'm Dr. Harris from Cariboo Memorial; this is about your test results. I've got an opening on Monday at 9:45―"

"Dr. Harris," he said, in a rather weary tone. "Can't you just tell me now?"

"Uh...sure. Let me just call you back."

Heedless to the regular boundaries set by normal people, he rolled his eyes and waited for Dr. Harris to go somewhere private, get out his cell phone, blah, blah, blah. As he endured the completely unnecessary wait, he ignored his driver, even though he had almost a decade of experience with people prying into his business. Now his natural instinct was to volunteer the information, an instinct he had to fight. He wasn't obligated to speak―and he knew, full well, anything he said could and would be used against him.

His phone buzzed again and he quickly took the call. "Yeah."

Logan drove on in stubborn silence, rather pissed off at this Dr. Harris. The one time he needed to speak to House... But his frustration fizzled when he heard the quiet, timid voice from the passenger seat. "Okay. Yeah. I understand. Thanks."

He snapped his phone shut and pocketed it, with a hand that barely trembled. Then his voice was hard again, as he issued the near-immortal a command. "Pull over."

"You're seriously giving me a―"

"Unless you want puke in your glove compartment," he growled, "Pull over."

Logan pulled over and hadn't come to a complete stop when House was opening the door; he hadn't buckled yet, and braced himself with a hand on the dashboard as he noisily and inelegantly got out of the car. Instead of doubling at the waist, he started walking; and hitting the steering wheel so hard that the air bags deployed, Logan leaned into the vehicle long enough to slash his with his claws before slamming the door.

He walked steadily after him, each man ignoring the rain landing on them. Quickening his stride, Logan put a heavy hand on the human's shoulder. "I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing―but you don't want to know what's out there."

"Like you suddenly care about my life."

"Guess you don't, either, huh? At least a fourth, that's what you told me. Shapeshifters, mind-readers and who knows what the fuck else."

"Do you?" House interjected, and looked at his reluctant face. "You don't, do you? You have no clue who she is or why she's attacking you. I mean, you ran after her because, what, you were annoyed? You're so upset because she might be looking for something?"

"I want her to be looking for something. Means she hasn't found it yet."

House stared into his intense eyes, seeing black fire. "You think...there's a connection."

"Given everything you found. Given that my life turned to shit right after you showed up, yeah."

House hesitated for a moment, then gave a wry smile. "That's why you wanted to know if I can shoot. You're not going to teach me. This is Old Yeller."

"I don't know what that means... But you're right, I'm not. She will."

He looked at him in confusion. "What?"

"I don't fucking need guns. She's gonna teach you how to shoot... We're gonna hunt that blue bitch down, and one of you's going to pull the trigger."

"You're crazy. I am not going to shoot someone!"

"Okay, well, fine, have it your way. If there isn't a connection, she's gonna be looking at you. Couldn't defend yourself before, but let's see how different it is when the shit really hits the fan. Knows where I live, whether you sent her that tip or not."

"I swear to you, I didn't."

"She's gonna be looking at you and all those people you brought. Maybe she'll hurt the baby, or finish what Kayla started with Allison." He barely paused, observing the sudden look of death on House's face. "Or she'll just finish you. In which case I'll make sure to tell 'em you refused to shoot a gun."

He turned and began walking away, his heavy steps splashing as he traipsed through a shallow puddle. Eyeballing the seemingly inexplicable blood on the back of his shirt, House found himself calling, "Wait. Uh, wait."

Logan waited.

House approached his backside, stubbornly turned to him. Huffing a sigh, he raised a helpless hand. "Maybe we should do some research on her."

He turned to face him. "Why would we do that?"

"Well, to see what kind of person she is."

"She's like every person in the world, that's the goddamn point. Someone like her shouldn't fucking exist."

"You mean a mutant?"

"I mean a dangerous mutant. A mutant who takes everything away."

"Right, of course. Hey―show me your claws of death again."

Logan actually started raising his fist, then he caught on and dropped his hand.

House sighed, observing in him the desire to kill again. "This isn't me. I c... I can't just dictate who deserves to be shot in cold blood."

"So. You'd rather all of us big bad killers get arrested. Live out our lives. Sleep on a bed, eat three meals a day. Stay in top physical condition."

House couldn't stop his eyes from moving down the man's frightening build.

"Do you care about your friend's kid or not?"

House didn't answer. He didn't need to. Logan could tell by the look on his face. Without another spoken word, they headed back towards the truck; each bearing thoughts heavier than the metal man himself.