Post by blackdew on Oct 18, 2008 10:24:01 GMT -5
Love to keep hearing from you.
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Chapter 15: One’s Better
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What Logan loved about his adopted Harley was the same thing he loved about running out in the woods at night. You get on a deserted road with no lights, you hit the gas for all its worth—and that’s freedom. The wind snagged at his jacket as he ducked down, decreasing the wind flow, and he let himself soar.
It reminded him of flying. Of course, he’d never flown—not outside like this, with the wind sweeping the air from his face, but it was almost familiar.
Damn that he couldn’t say why. For all he knew, that familiar feeling—like a shadow, or a ghost of a memory walking across his mind—could mean anything, or nothing at all.
Maybe he had a Harley before. Maybe he had a jeep. Or maybe he had a penchant for sky diving—any of those would work. But none of them rang a bell.
He pushed the throttle on higher, listening to the machine roar underneath him like a wild animal set free.
Forgetting, ignoring, leaving things behind in the darkness.
How many times had he done this very thing? The irony of his life was that no matter how much he tried to remember, it always seemed he just built up more things he wanted to forget.
But he never could. Drinks wouldn’t do it, drugs wouldn’t do it, broads wouldn’t do it.
Only the wild. Only freedom. Only the purring, wild lure of the animal inside of him.
Dammit, the only way to forget would be to lose himself, maybe for good.
And after fighting all this time to become a man, he couldn’t let go of that.
Even when it would be so much easier—so much simpler, just to let it all go, and run free.
The illusion of it—running in the woods, or roaring on his bike—it was the closest he could let himself get to the edge.
So he flew—riding the wind, riding the edge of glorious wild freedom—and even the beast rejoiced in it.
In the darkness, he barely saw the blur of the swinging blade before it hit him. He jerked the bike to the side instinctively, but it was too little too late. Metal tore through metal; the tires screeched as the bike twisted sideways, and then Logan was airborne.
Crap!
He hit the road, with enough forward momentum to make him skip off the rough asphalt like a stone off the surface of a lake. The first hit he landed on his head, smashing his nose into fragments and near knocking him out as half the skin was torn off of his scalp, which he was actually grateful for, because it made the rest of it harder to remember. He flew into the air, flipping clean over before landing on his back and rolling, tearing off his shirt and the layers of flesh beneath like a meat cleaver.
He must’ve blacked out for a second, because when he came back to himself the world had stopped turning (despite the fact that he still somehow felt like it was), and he felt like he’d been turned into ground beef. His arms burned like a million ants were burrowing under his skin—nah, not ants. Maybe acid. Yeah, he could remember acid, and that was as close to this as he could figure.
Someone had done this. Someone with—
—a sword?
He heard it—or maybe felt it, since one of his ears was probably lying shredded about twenty yards back by what was left of his bike. But instinct screamed at him, and with what strength he could muster he rolled away, just as a sword slashed just where his neck had been, burying the tip of the blade in the road.
Logan staggered to his feet, shaking his head at some blood dripping into one of his eyes. He couldn’t feel the other one—there was just a flame of agony from the whole side of his face—it was probably half on the road along with his missing ear. The blade was coming again—but no—there were two—and somehow he managed to catch both of them between the claws on each hand. The guy was fast, though—he spun away, leaping to a safe distance.
Logan spun backwards himself, giving himself room to catch his breath and gauge his opponent. His attacker was swathed in black—
Damn, was he serious?
If it weren’t for the fact that his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins—on his torn skin, tearing through him with a howling fury—he would have laughed out loud.
Only he had enough bad luck to get attacked by a psycho-ninja on a back road in the middle of New York.
“Hello again, meat,” the man rasped. His voice sounded like metal on metal, and made Logan’s newly-growing hair stand on end. Damn, even that hurt. “After all this time, I’d wondered where you’d been hiding.” The veil over his face shifted, and Logan had the absurd feeling that the son-of-a-***** was smiling. “I’m very glad you’re not dead.”
Logan took the opportunity to try and brush away some of the blood from his eye again—he needed to be able to see. White agony threatened to make him pass out again—but no. The rage was beginning to raise, to sweep the pain away. It was just pain, after all. He’d heal. He’d forget.
“All right,” he growled, his own blood in his mouth as he felt his nose beginning to reshape itself, and the healing of his skin fire as bad as the injury itself. The animal wanted to kill him right now, and ask questions later, but he needed time to let his healing factor do its work. The world was spinning—or was that his head?—and the ragged remains of his pants were clinging to his legs—literally soaked with scarlet. “I don’t know who you are, but you just earned yourself a one-way ticket to hell.” He held his claws before him. “Got any last words, pal? I’m dyin’ ta have you spill yer guts.”
The man raised his sword and shorter knife in front of him. “So it is true about your memories. Almost a pity—yet it seems you haven’t changed at all.” He reached up, pulling the veil down, so Logan saw a blurred, too-pale face in the shadows of his cowl. The man smiled—no. He bore his teeth like an animal, and Logan returned it, blood dripping between his teeth. “You still talk too much.”
“Who are you, and how the hell d’ya know me?” Logan demanded. His nose healed enough that he finally got a whiff of the man before him, though it was tainted with the stink of his own blood. Whatever it was, he wasn’t human. Not a normal one, anyway, and not any kind of mutant he’d ever come across. The guy stank worse than Sabertooth—and that was saying something. “What the hell are you?”
The man-creature—whatever the hell it was—raised its sword, and Logan tensed. “Yes, get me talking, and let yourself heal. Always a good plan, isn’t it, immortal one?”
He lunged. The bastard was fast—inhumanly fast, and Logan was barely able to catch the sword before it sliced right into his throat. The second blade sliced through his already-hamburgered leg, and he staggered, twisting backwards and striking out at the same time. His claws caught black fabric, and the psycho flipped out of the way, standing before him.
“I ain’t immortal,” Logan snarled, wanting to rush him, wanting to charge at him and claw away until he was lost in red and gore and blood. But he couldn’t. The bastard was too fast, he was too injured—light-headed. He need time to heal, time to think.
His attacker spun, landing smoothly and facing them. “That’s what you told me decades ago, but you haven’t changed. Not since Madripoor . . . No—Not since France.”
France? What did this guy know? What was he talking about? It didn’t matter that this foul-smelling clown was trying to kill him—he knew who he had been, and Logan was going to take opportunity of that. If only to slow him down and allow himself more time to heal. “What the hell was I doin’ in France, let alone with a bastard like you?”
He wanted to lose himself in the animal raging up inside him—it’d make the pain go away, but he couldn’t let himself let his go. He’d worked so hard to rein the animal in; if he let it out now he’d have to start all over again.
The pale man lunged again, and Logan ducked, bringing his claws up and pivoting—somehow deflecting both blades harmlessly away and managing to strike back. He felt something more solid catch on his blades, smelled the stink of the creature increase as he sliced through flesh, but didn’t follow up. He spun backwards, putting distance between them and cursing under his breath as he felt the world tilt again, and his good eye’s vision grow paler.
Take your time. Think. You are a man, not an animal. Fight like one.
It was another one of those phantom voices. He wished he had time to wonder where this one was from.
The ninja-guy landed perfectly, his long pale hair coming free of the hood. He wasn’t unbalanced or winded, and Logan couldn’t see where he had felt his claws catch him.
“I am known as Bloodscream,” the creature replied, eerily composed, uncannily posed to strike—like a giant rattler surrounding a rat. “And I need your blood, Ancient One. Only by the blood of an immortal will you be freed.”
Blood? What the hell was this madman on? Didn’t he realize Halloween wasn’t for another month?
He could feel his muscles stitching back together, and his vision in one eye was almost back to normal. He was done playing around.
“You want my blood, Gramps?” he said, his voice low, his patience and control slipping. “Come get it.” But this time, he didn’t wait for his opponent to strike. He leaped forward, feinting before cutting down and striking low. Bloodscream twisted away, so Logan adjusted and cut upwards, slicing off two of the guy’s fingers and sending his sword skittering across the blood-splattered road. Black, foul-smelling sludge spouted from his stumps of pale fingers.
“Rargh!” Bloodscream snarled, but instead of retreating to regroup and attack he cut back in, leaping over him and striking at his back. Logan spun, catching the sword’s blade before it could reach him, but feeling a sudden searing of heat on his shoulder as something brushed against him. He snarled, punching back with his claws, and his opponent was forced to duck and roll to keep from getting his head lopped clean off. Logan followed, slicing after him, ready to end this.
Bloodscream moved faster than Logan could react, leaping to his feet and striking back.
Logan didn’t have time to dodge, but instead kept his momentum forward, going for keeps. He cut deep into the creature’s ribs, but something ripped into his shoulder, digging into him—like fire eating right into his veins—
Cripes! The bastard’d had actually bitten him!?
He could almost feel the life leaving him—feel the blood rushing out, and his healing factor struggling in vain to replace it. There was a thrill of incredulity mixed with brief panic, then pain, and rage.
Rage.
Something snapped within him, and it flickered in his eyes—something red, and wild, and Logan was gone.
“Aarrrrrrgh!” He swiped for the vampire’s (?) throat, but he pulled back just in time—inhumanly fast. Wolverine snarled, leaping after him, but the creature evaded him, so he only caught cloth as he reeled, feeling drained and weak, but shaking it off.
That didn’t matter to the Wolverine. Nothing did.
Bloodscream smiled, his teeth red with Logan’s blood. “So sweet—so much power runs through your veins! I have not felt so alive since our last meeting, wild one!” He held his sword with one hand and held out the other—now stained red with Logan’s blood. His fingers had grown back.
Damn. The bugger healed even faster than he did.
Oh, well. More fun killing him then, the low-life scumbag.
Wolverine struck out, rolling, striking. Black, thick blood flew through the air, but another deep cut across Logan’s ribs poured red. He roared—ripping down and across his enemy, tasting his bitter, foul blood on his tongue, slicing right through his sword. The vampire dropped the useless handle, grabbing onto the side of his neck with both of his hands—driving him to the ground.
Wolverine snarled, digging his claws into Bloodscream’s chest and trying to flip him over, to get the upper hand—but he was weakening. His hearing roared like bad static—he was growing faint. And was that Bloodscream—laughing?
No!
He wasn’t going to die like this! Not like an animal!
He pulled his claws out of the bastard’s chest, and Bloodscream let go of his neck, grabbing one of his wrists to keep him from striking, but Logan jerked his knee upwards.
To hell with honorable fighting. This fight had started dirty, and it was going to end dirty.
Bloodscream gasped a choked scream—good. He wasn’t sure what this clown was, but he was man enough for an adamantium knee to the family jewels to be felt for a couple generations down the line.
He didn’t hesitate, but with the last surge of strength wrenched one arm free and struck, cutting the creature’s gasps short.
Bloodsport’s head went flying from his shoulders, rolling into a ditch by the road. The body slumped forward, leaking some reeking dark fluid onto Logan’s gash-riddled chest. He groaned, pushing the already-cold corpse off him.
“Ugh.” Logan staggered to his feet, bleeding from so many different cuts that he wasn’t sure which one he should put his hand over. Finally he put his hand over his side, where he could see a long of a silver rib sticking through. “Damn.” He took a step forward, almost falling on his face. Damn, he must look like a drunk. He sure as hell sounded like one. He felt something running down his chest and brought a hand up to his neck, where Bloodscream had grabbed him. The skin was raw—burned, and dripping blood like a broken faucet. He jerked his hand away, gritting his teeth. “Gotta—gotta heal, dammit.”
He was wavering—dammit, he wasn’t going to let himself pass out on the road. The son-of-a-***** was dead, he just needed to rest for a second, then get back—get back . . .
Where was his bike?
He turned, almost falling over as the world reeled dangerously around him.
It sat just a few feet away, the first tire near torn right in half, and the engine shredded into a mess of metal.
The damn vampire’d killed his bike.
Crap. He hoped Storm’d kept the insurance up-to-date.
His knees hit the concrete, his legs too weak to hold his full weight.
It was times like this that he really felt all that metal weighing him down.
How much extra was it, anyway? A hundred pounds? More . . . ?
He shut his good eye for a second, resting his torn palms on the asphalt as he grit his teeth against the agony of his insides stitching themselves back together.
Dammit. It felt like the bastard’d taken out his liver. Maybe his kidneys, too—and that was a lung he was hearing, wasn’t it? Slipped right through his ribcage and sliced it open like Thanksgiving turkey. No wonder he felt like he was swimming—drowning. He was drowning in his own blood. Never really liked swimming all that much, anyway . . . . Bad memories and all . . . .
‘Sides, all that metal’d probably just drag him right down to—down . . . .
He spat out a mouthful of blood, trying to keep his breathing steady—trying to keep from blacking out. He’d heal. He already was healing, even if it had to be slower, now. Damn healing factor was taxed to hell already.
Just close his good eye for a second, try not to listen—or feel—his body crawl back together, like needles stitching through his arms, his face, his gut—like knives, cutting him open.
The skin closed up over his ribs, agony ripping over as waves as nerves healed themselves, muscles reconnected, and skin stretched. He must’ve looked like a backwards cadaver.
His ear twisted into shape, his hearing returning just as he heard a footstep fall behind him, and a hand of fire slap onto the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin and driving him to the ground with inhuman strength, grinding his still-healing skin into the dirt and holding him there, trapped.
“RRRRRRRAAAAAAWWGGG—!!!!” His roar was cut off as Bloodscream’s hand ripped across his throat, cutting deep. Blood bubbled over his tongue, but not as much as there should be—he’d lost too much already . . . his healing factor was giving out . . . .
“You’ll never learn, Patch!” a dry, blood-flecked voice rasped in his ear. “That doesn’t work for me. I can’t be killed—not by any weapon forged by a man. And that is all you are—all you ever have been.”
Logan gasped wetly against the asphalt. He was shriveling from the inside out—bleeding out. His vision was going oddly pale, not dark . . .
Well, Storm, darlin’—here’s the problem solved for both of us.
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The kid was strangely quiet, though the Wolverine didn’t complain and certainly didn’t feel a desire to. Remy just sat there, cross-legged and still, until finally he lay down on the dirt next to the shrinking fire and fell asleep—dead tired from the long day’s walk. Wolverine flopped down on his side across the fire, enjoying the last of the dying warmth of the flames, and watching the cold, white breath of the kid in the growing chill of the night air.
It took him a long time to fall into a restless sleep.
. . . .
He was cold, lying naked, with snakes writhing around him, biting him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t feel anything but a faint, drifting helplessness. His lungs were heavy—dragged down and saturated, pulling down his heart and sinking into the sludge of his guts as he lay there.
Someone was talking to him—calling him . . . .
Drifting . . . sinking . . . .
No! He couldn’t . . . . lose it . . . he couldn’t . . . . Lose . . .
He swam, and his claws shot from his knuckles. He stared at the metal blades, shocked to stillness as his own blood tainted the green water around him, and he screamed.
Fire! There was fire, eating at his lungs, ripping at his bones, cutting him open and freezing him.
He was naked—exposed, drawn up and peered at and picked at like some lab rat—stared at, poked at. Pain was no stranger—it never had been, but there was something worse about this—something terrible and horrifying at the helplessness, at how they systematically stripped away his sanity, his humanity, his being. He screamed in agony, howling, and over it all was their dry tones, talking him towards his death and he bled out his own soul.
. . . .
“Wolvie! Wolverine! Wake up!”
The Wolverine snapped awake, jerking upright with a choked-off scream. His claws shot from his fist he grabbed his head, gasping at the fire of pain between his temples.
Oh, God. Oh, God. There was that voice again—screaming—no, crying now. Empty-sounding—hopeless, like a lost soul. Rage pounded in its wake, sweeping the terror away. WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO ME?!
He rose to his feet suddenly, pacing to the edge of the woods—away from the kid. He could hear Gambit’s heart beating quickly in his chest, could smell his breath and blood—and it made him angry.
He wanted blood.
“RRRAAAWRRGGG!” he snarled, lashing out at the tree in front of him. It was over a full foot thick, but his claws cut through it effortlessly, sending it crashing to the forest floor with a terrible ripping sound as if the forest’s soul was being torn out.
Still not satisfied, he slashed at the next tree, hacking at it in a vicious fury, wanting to hurt something, wanting to kill something—wanting to do something to get rid of the terror and pain in his choking his throat.
When he came to himself he was sitting slumped in on the forest floor, surrounded by slashed and fallen trees, with crushed and shattered branches fallen around him. The ground bore marks of his claws, and even a large stone had three long gashes along its length. The fire’s ashes had been scattered—he couldn’t remember what had happened, but now they lay smouldering on the river bank under the faint mist of freezing rain that he hadn’t noticed until now.
He was cold—ice cold, and his rage was not sated by his mindless destruction.
He lifted his head slowly, the dog tags rattling coldly against his chest, and he felt a colder chill come over him.
Where was the kid?
He looked around, then rose slowly, feeling dread rise in his throat.
He couldn’t remember what happened—just . . . red. They were hurting him, and he’d . . . he’d . . .
He looked down at his hands, his damp hair falling over his eyes.
No.
He moved forward, sniffing in the dead, cold air.
“Kid?” he called roughly. His voice was hoarse—broken, and it tasted like blood. “Kid!”
He stepped forward, right into something still warm and steaming in the cold air. He stepped back sharply, his breath catching as he noticed the red splattered around him, the skin and bones scattered—
—No. No! He had to think—
It was a squirrel. It didn’t even smell like a human, and he should have noticed that—would have noticed it right off, if his lungs hadn’t seized up on him like that.
Damn. He didn’t realize a squirrel had so much blood in it. His hands looked painted in the damn stuff.
He shook himself, gritting his teeth. “Kid!”
Still no answer.
He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands as he gave a low groan, then wiped his nose and sniffed the air.
He could smell the kid, even if it was mixed and confused after his destruction. Damn it, he’d blacked out like this before, but it wasn’t like it mattered. He loved the wild freedom of lashing out—of letting go. But if he had hurt the kid . . . .
He caught a faint trail and started after it, hunched and silent as he moved through the shadows of the still-lingering night. Dawn was not far off, but it was going to be a cold day, especially with the ice-cold rain.
Course, that was good. The rain wiped away their scent and tracks—and men didn’t like rain. They’d rather stay in their shelters than come out and hunt. All’s the better for him.
The kid stank of fear, but not terror like a cornered deer that was injured and had no chance against the full pack of wolves. Rather, he smelled . . . focused. And something else . . . ?
He slowed, hearing a shift in the undergrowth. He ducked down onto his hands and balls of his feet, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the dark grey clouds above.
There it was—a soft sniffle, loud and clear in his ears, and almost silent shifting of the kid in his hiding place. Wolverine slunk forward until he could see the kid curled up in the slightest overhang of a rock, his coat pulled around him like a safeguard.
He hadn’t noticed him yet.
Wolverine felt an easing of the pressure in his chest.
The kid was safe.
Why should he care? Honestly, he shouldn’t. He didn’t.
After all, why would he care?
He hesitated, listening to the kid’s chattering teeth and shivers. He had half a mind just to move on—leave the kid behind. Might be better for the both of them.
He wavered, uncertain, but was surprised when the kid spoke first.
“W-wolverine? Is dat you?”
Wolverine frowned. He was sure he hadn’t made a sound, and he was downwind of the kid—even though he’d realized during the day that maybe the kid couldn’t smell as well as he could, just like he didn’t have his claws. So how’d the kid know he was here?
Maybe it was just a lucky guess.
He didn’t move, still torn with the decision whether to leave and go off on his own.
That’s how he’d always been after all. It was easier that way.
These last couple days with the kid felt longer than the rest of his existence—the damn kid made him think damn too much. It was simpler without him.
He swallowed, licking the cold rain from his lips.
“Kid?”
The shivering stopped for a second—froze, like the white breath in the air. He saw a faint gleam of red, and realized it was the kid’s eyes—looking at him?
“Y-you back, Canuck?”
Back? He hadn’t gone anywhere.
But that wasn’t what the kid meant, did he?
He crept forward, keeping himself small and unthreatening. The kid didn’t move, but stared at him, huddled in his coat. Finally Wolverine stopped, coming to sit a few feet away. Two glowing eyes watched each other in the night, the rain singing throughout the forest the only sound besides their white breath.
“Yeah, you b-b-back,” Gambit said, almost a sigh around his chattering teeth. He shifted, shivering as he drew his sopping coat tighter around himself. “Poor devil. Dat some d-d-ream you had. What was it ‘bout?”
Wolverine shifted a little closer, frowning at the kid. He was wet—cold, and smelled like misery itself. He didn’t look too good either—exhausted, really.
He retreated slowly, then stood, looking around the rain-grey forest warily.
“W-wolverine?”
Wolverine held out a hand. “Stay,” he murmured roughly, hoping the kid would listen. Without another word he bolted into the woods and disappeared.
TBC . . .
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Chapter 15: One’s Better
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What Logan loved about his adopted Harley was the same thing he loved about running out in the woods at night. You get on a deserted road with no lights, you hit the gas for all its worth—and that’s freedom. The wind snagged at his jacket as he ducked down, decreasing the wind flow, and he let himself soar.
It reminded him of flying. Of course, he’d never flown—not outside like this, with the wind sweeping the air from his face, but it was almost familiar.
Damn that he couldn’t say why. For all he knew, that familiar feeling—like a shadow, or a ghost of a memory walking across his mind—could mean anything, or nothing at all.
Maybe he had a Harley before. Maybe he had a jeep. Or maybe he had a penchant for sky diving—any of those would work. But none of them rang a bell.
He pushed the throttle on higher, listening to the machine roar underneath him like a wild animal set free.
Forgetting, ignoring, leaving things behind in the darkness.
How many times had he done this very thing? The irony of his life was that no matter how much he tried to remember, it always seemed he just built up more things he wanted to forget.
But he never could. Drinks wouldn’t do it, drugs wouldn’t do it, broads wouldn’t do it.
Only the wild. Only freedom. Only the purring, wild lure of the animal inside of him.
Dammit, the only way to forget would be to lose himself, maybe for good.
And after fighting all this time to become a man, he couldn’t let go of that.
Even when it would be so much easier—so much simpler, just to let it all go, and run free.
The illusion of it—running in the woods, or roaring on his bike—it was the closest he could let himself get to the edge.
So he flew—riding the wind, riding the edge of glorious wild freedom—and even the beast rejoiced in it.
In the darkness, he barely saw the blur of the swinging blade before it hit him. He jerked the bike to the side instinctively, but it was too little too late. Metal tore through metal; the tires screeched as the bike twisted sideways, and then Logan was airborne.
Crap!
He hit the road, with enough forward momentum to make him skip off the rough asphalt like a stone off the surface of a lake. The first hit he landed on his head, smashing his nose into fragments and near knocking him out as half the skin was torn off of his scalp, which he was actually grateful for, because it made the rest of it harder to remember. He flew into the air, flipping clean over before landing on his back and rolling, tearing off his shirt and the layers of flesh beneath like a meat cleaver.
He must’ve blacked out for a second, because when he came back to himself the world had stopped turning (despite the fact that he still somehow felt like it was), and he felt like he’d been turned into ground beef. His arms burned like a million ants were burrowing under his skin—nah, not ants. Maybe acid. Yeah, he could remember acid, and that was as close to this as he could figure.
Someone had done this. Someone with—
—a sword?
He heard it—or maybe felt it, since one of his ears was probably lying shredded about twenty yards back by what was left of his bike. But instinct screamed at him, and with what strength he could muster he rolled away, just as a sword slashed just where his neck had been, burying the tip of the blade in the road.
Logan staggered to his feet, shaking his head at some blood dripping into one of his eyes. He couldn’t feel the other one—there was just a flame of agony from the whole side of his face—it was probably half on the road along with his missing ear. The blade was coming again—but no—there were two—and somehow he managed to catch both of them between the claws on each hand. The guy was fast, though—he spun away, leaping to a safe distance.
Logan spun backwards himself, giving himself room to catch his breath and gauge his opponent. His attacker was swathed in black—
Damn, was he serious?
If it weren’t for the fact that his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins—on his torn skin, tearing through him with a howling fury—he would have laughed out loud.
Only he had enough bad luck to get attacked by a psycho-ninja on a back road in the middle of New York.
“Hello again, meat,” the man rasped. His voice sounded like metal on metal, and made Logan’s newly-growing hair stand on end. Damn, even that hurt. “After all this time, I’d wondered where you’d been hiding.” The veil over his face shifted, and Logan had the absurd feeling that the son-of-a-***** was smiling. “I’m very glad you’re not dead.”
Logan took the opportunity to try and brush away some of the blood from his eye again—he needed to be able to see. White agony threatened to make him pass out again—but no. The rage was beginning to raise, to sweep the pain away. It was just pain, after all. He’d heal. He’d forget.
“All right,” he growled, his own blood in his mouth as he felt his nose beginning to reshape itself, and the healing of his skin fire as bad as the injury itself. The animal wanted to kill him right now, and ask questions later, but he needed time to let his healing factor do its work. The world was spinning—or was that his head?—and the ragged remains of his pants were clinging to his legs—literally soaked with scarlet. “I don’t know who you are, but you just earned yourself a one-way ticket to hell.” He held his claws before him. “Got any last words, pal? I’m dyin’ ta have you spill yer guts.”
The man raised his sword and shorter knife in front of him. “So it is true about your memories. Almost a pity—yet it seems you haven’t changed at all.” He reached up, pulling the veil down, so Logan saw a blurred, too-pale face in the shadows of his cowl. The man smiled—no. He bore his teeth like an animal, and Logan returned it, blood dripping between his teeth. “You still talk too much.”
“Who are you, and how the hell d’ya know me?” Logan demanded. His nose healed enough that he finally got a whiff of the man before him, though it was tainted with the stink of his own blood. Whatever it was, he wasn’t human. Not a normal one, anyway, and not any kind of mutant he’d ever come across. The guy stank worse than Sabertooth—and that was saying something. “What the hell are you?”
The man-creature—whatever the hell it was—raised its sword, and Logan tensed. “Yes, get me talking, and let yourself heal. Always a good plan, isn’t it, immortal one?”
He lunged. The bastard was fast—inhumanly fast, and Logan was barely able to catch the sword before it sliced right into his throat. The second blade sliced through his already-hamburgered leg, and he staggered, twisting backwards and striking out at the same time. His claws caught black fabric, and the psycho flipped out of the way, standing before him.
“I ain’t immortal,” Logan snarled, wanting to rush him, wanting to charge at him and claw away until he was lost in red and gore and blood. But he couldn’t. The bastard was too fast, he was too injured—light-headed. He need time to heal, time to think.
His attacker spun, landing smoothly and facing them. “That’s what you told me decades ago, but you haven’t changed. Not since Madripoor . . . No—Not since France.”
France? What did this guy know? What was he talking about? It didn’t matter that this foul-smelling clown was trying to kill him—he knew who he had been, and Logan was going to take opportunity of that. If only to slow him down and allow himself more time to heal. “What the hell was I doin’ in France, let alone with a bastard like you?”
He wanted to lose himself in the animal raging up inside him—it’d make the pain go away, but he couldn’t let himself let his go. He’d worked so hard to rein the animal in; if he let it out now he’d have to start all over again.
The pale man lunged again, and Logan ducked, bringing his claws up and pivoting—somehow deflecting both blades harmlessly away and managing to strike back. He felt something more solid catch on his blades, smelled the stink of the creature increase as he sliced through flesh, but didn’t follow up. He spun backwards, putting distance between them and cursing under his breath as he felt the world tilt again, and his good eye’s vision grow paler.
Take your time. Think. You are a man, not an animal. Fight like one.
It was another one of those phantom voices. He wished he had time to wonder where this one was from.
The ninja-guy landed perfectly, his long pale hair coming free of the hood. He wasn’t unbalanced or winded, and Logan couldn’t see where he had felt his claws catch him.
“I am known as Bloodscream,” the creature replied, eerily composed, uncannily posed to strike—like a giant rattler surrounding a rat. “And I need your blood, Ancient One. Only by the blood of an immortal will you be freed.”
Blood? What the hell was this madman on? Didn’t he realize Halloween wasn’t for another month?
He could feel his muscles stitching back together, and his vision in one eye was almost back to normal. He was done playing around.
“You want my blood, Gramps?” he said, his voice low, his patience and control slipping. “Come get it.” But this time, he didn’t wait for his opponent to strike. He leaped forward, feinting before cutting down and striking low. Bloodscream twisted away, so Logan adjusted and cut upwards, slicing off two of the guy’s fingers and sending his sword skittering across the blood-splattered road. Black, foul-smelling sludge spouted from his stumps of pale fingers.
“Rargh!” Bloodscream snarled, but instead of retreating to regroup and attack he cut back in, leaping over him and striking at his back. Logan spun, catching the sword’s blade before it could reach him, but feeling a sudden searing of heat on his shoulder as something brushed against him. He snarled, punching back with his claws, and his opponent was forced to duck and roll to keep from getting his head lopped clean off. Logan followed, slicing after him, ready to end this.
Bloodscream moved faster than Logan could react, leaping to his feet and striking back.
Logan didn’t have time to dodge, but instead kept his momentum forward, going for keeps. He cut deep into the creature’s ribs, but something ripped into his shoulder, digging into him—like fire eating right into his veins—
Cripes! The bastard’d had actually bitten him!?
He could almost feel the life leaving him—feel the blood rushing out, and his healing factor struggling in vain to replace it. There was a thrill of incredulity mixed with brief panic, then pain, and rage.
Rage.
Something snapped within him, and it flickered in his eyes—something red, and wild, and Logan was gone.
“Aarrrrrrgh!” He swiped for the vampire’s (?) throat, but he pulled back just in time—inhumanly fast. Wolverine snarled, leaping after him, but the creature evaded him, so he only caught cloth as he reeled, feeling drained and weak, but shaking it off.
That didn’t matter to the Wolverine. Nothing did.
Bloodscream smiled, his teeth red with Logan’s blood. “So sweet—so much power runs through your veins! I have not felt so alive since our last meeting, wild one!” He held his sword with one hand and held out the other—now stained red with Logan’s blood. His fingers had grown back.
Damn. The bugger healed even faster than he did.
Oh, well. More fun killing him then, the low-life scumbag.
Wolverine struck out, rolling, striking. Black, thick blood flew through the air, but another deep cut across Logan’s ribs poured red. He roared—ripping down and across his enemy, tasting his bitter, foul blood on his tongue, slicing right through his sword. The vampire dropped the useless handle, grabbing onto the side of his neck with both of his hands—driving him to the ground.
Wolverine snarled, digging his claws into Bloodscream’s chest and trying to flip him over, to get the upper hand—but he was weakening. His hearing roared like bad static—he was growing faint. And was that Bloodscream—laughing?
No!
He wasn’t going to die like this! Not like an animal!
He pulled his claws out of the bastard’s chest, and Bloodscream let go of his neck, grabbing one of his wrists to keep him from striking, but Logan jerked his knee upwards.
To hell with honorable fighting. This fight had started dirty, and it was going to end dirty.
Bloodscream gasped a choked scream—good. He wasn’t sure what this clown was, but he was man enough for an adamantium knee to the family jewels to be felt for a couple generations down the line.
He didn’t hesitate, but with the last surge of strength wrenched one arm free and struck, cutting the creature’s gasps short.
Bloodsport’s head went flying from his shoulders, rolling into a ditch by the road. The body slumped forward, leaking some reeking dark fluid onto Logan’s gash-riddled chest. He groaned, pushing the already-cold corpse off him.
“Ugh.” Logan staggered to his feet, bleeding from so many different cuts that he wasn’t sure which one he should put his hand over. Finally he put his hand over his side, where he could see a long of a silver rib sticking through. “Damn.” He took a step forward, almost falling on his face. Damn, he must look like a drunk. He sure as hell sounded like one. He felt something running down his chest and brought a hand up to his neck, where Bloodscream had grabbed him. The skin was raw—burned, and dripping blood like a broken faucet. He jerked his hand away, gritting his teeth. “Gotta—gotta heal, dammit.”
He was wavering—dammit, he wasn’t going to let himself pass out on the road. The son-of-a-***** was dead, he just needed to rest for a second, then get back—get back . . .
Where was his bike?
He turned, almost falling over as the world reeled dangerously around him.
It sat just a few feet away, the first tire near torn right in half, and the engine shredded into a mess of metal.
The damn vampire’d killed his bike.
Crap. He hoped Storm’d kept the insurance up-to-date.
His knees hit the concrete, his legs too weak to hold his full weight.
It was times like this that he really felt all that metal weighing him down.
How much extra was it, anyway? A hundred pounds? More . . . ?
He shut his good eye for a second, resting his torn palms on the asphalt as he grit his teeth against the agony of his insides stitching themselves back together.
Dammit. It felt like the bastard’d taken out his liver. Maybe his kidneys, too—and that was a lung he was hearing, wasn’t it? Slipped right through his ribcage and sliced it open like Thanksgiving turkey. No wonder he felt like he was swimming—drowning. He was drowning in his own blood. Never really liked swimming all that much, anyway . . . . Bad memories and all . . . .
‘Sides, all that metal’d probably just drag him right down to—down . . . .
He spat out a mouthful of blood, trying to keep his breathing steady—trying to keep from blacking out. He’d heal. He already was healing, even if it had to be slower, now. Damn healing factor was taxed to hell already.
Just close his good eye for a second, try not to listen—or feel—his body crawl back together, like needles stitching through his arms, his face, his gut—like knives, cutting him open.
The skin closed up over his ribs, agony ripping over as waves as nerves healed themselves, muscles reconnected, and skin stretched. He must’ve looked like a backwards cadaver.
His ear twisted into shape, his hearing returning just as he heard a footstep fall behind him, and a hand of fire slap onto the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin and driving him to the ground with inhuman strength, grinding his still-healing skin into the dirt and holding him there, trapped.
“RRRRRRRAAAAAAWWGGG—!!!!” His roar was cut off as Bloodscream’s hand ripped across his throat, cutting deep. Blood bubbled over his tongue, but not as much as there should be—he’d lost too much already . . . his healing factor was giving out . . . .
“You’ll never learn, Patch!” a dry, blood-flecked voice rasped in his ear. “That doesn’t work for me. I can’t be killed—not by any weapon forged by a man. And that is all you are—all you ever have been.”
Logan gasped wetly against the asphalt. He was shriveling from the inside out—bleeding out. His vision was going oddly pale, not dark . . .
Well, Storm, darlin’—here’s the problem solved for both of us.
------------------------------------------
The kid was strangely quiet, though the Wolverine didn’t complain and certainly didn’t feel a desire to. Remy just sat there, cross-legged and still, until finally he lay down on the dirt next to the shrinking fire and fell asleep—dead tired from the long day’s walk. Wolverine flopped down on his side across the fire, enjoying the last of the dying warmth of the flames, and watching the cold, white breath of the kid in the growing chill of the night air.
It took him a long time to fall into a restless sleep.
. . . .
He was cold, lying naked, with snakes writhing around him, biting him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t feel anything but a faint, drifting helplessness. His lungs were heavy—dragged down and saturated, pulling down his heart and sinking into the sludge of his guts as he lay there.
Someone was talking to him—calling him . . . .
Drifting . . . sinking . . . .
No! He couldn’t . . . . lose it . . . he couldn’t . . . . Lose . . .
He swam, and his claws shot from his knuckles. He stared at the metal blades, shocked to stillness as his own blood tainted the green water around him, and he screamed.
Fire! There was fire, eating at his lungs, ripping at his bones, cutting him open and freezing him.
He was naked—exposed, drawn up and peered at and picked at like some lab rat—stared at, poked at. Pain was no stranger—it never had been, but there was something worse about this—something terrible and horrifying at the helplessness, at how they systematically stripped away his sanity, his humanity, his being. He screamed in agony, howling, and over it all was their dry tones, talking him towards his death and he bled out his own soul.
. . . .
“Wolvie! Wolverine! Wake up!”
The Wolverine snapped awake, jerking upright with a choked-off scream. His claws shot from his fist he grabbed his head, gasping at the fire of pain between his temples.
Oh, God. Oh, God. There was that voice again—screaming—no, crying now. Empty-sounding—hopeless, like a lost soul. Rage pounded in its wake, sweeping the terror away. WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO ME?!
He rose to his feet suddenly, pacing to the edge of the woods—away from the kid. He could hear Gambit’s heart beating quickly in his chest, could smell his breath and blood—and it made him angry.
He wanted blood.
“RRRAAAWRRGGG!” he snarled, lashing out at the tree in front of him. It was over a full foot thick, but his claws cut through it effortlessly, sending it crashing to the forest floor with a terrible ripping sound as if the forest’s soul was being torn out.
Still not satisfied, he slashed at the next tree, hacking at it in a vicious fury, wanting to hurt something, wanting to kill something—wanting to do something to get rid of the terror and pain in his choking his throat.
When he came to himself he was sitting slumped in on the forest floor, surrounded by slashed and fallen trees, with crushed and shattered branches fallen around him. The ground bore marks of his claws, and even a large stone had three long gashes along its length. The fire’s ashes had been scattered—he couldn’t remember what had happened, but now they lay smouldering on the river bank under the faint mist of freezing rain that he hadn’t noticed until now.
He was cold—ice cold, and his rage was not sated by his mindless destruction.
He lifted his head slowly, the dog tags rattling coldly against his chest, and he felt a colder chill come over him.
Where was the kid?
He looked around, then rose slowly, feeling dread rise in his throat.
He couldn’t remember what happened—just . . . red. They were hurting him, and he’d . . . he’d . . .
He looked down at his hands, his damp hair falling over his eyes.
No.
He moved forward, sniffing in the dead, cold air.
“Kid?” he called roughly. His voice was hoarse—broken, and it tasted like blood. “Kid!”
He stepped forward, right into something still warm and steaming in the cold air. He stepped back sharply, his breath catching as he noticed the red splattered around him, the skin and bones scattered—
—No. No! He had to think—
It was a squirrel. It didn’t even smell like a human, and he should have noticed that—would have noticed it right off, if his lungs hadn’t seized up on him like that.
Damn. He didn’t realize a squirrel had so much blood in it. His hands looked painted in the damn stuff.
He shook himself, gritting his teeth. “Kid!”
Still no answer.
He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands as he gave a low groan, then wiped his nose and sniffed the air.
He could smell the kid, even if it was mixed and confused after his destruction. Damn it, he’d blacked out like this before, but it wasn’t like it mattered. He loved the wild freedom of lashing out—of letting go. But if he had hurt the kid . . . .
He caught a faint trail and started after it, hunched and silent as he moved through the shadows of the still-lingering night. Dawn was not far off, but it was going to be a cold day, especially with the ice-cold rain.
Course, that was good. The rain wiped away their scent and tracks—and men didn’t like rain. They’d rather stay in their shelters than come out and hunt. All’s the better for him.
The kid stank of fear, but not terror like a cornered deer that was injured and had no chance against the full pack of wolves. Rather, he smelled . . . focused. And something else . . . ?
He slowed, hearing a shift in the undergrowth. He ducked down onto his hands and balls of his feet, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the dark grey clouds above.
There it was—a soft sniffle, loud and clear in his ears, and almost silent shifting of the kid in his hiding place. Wolverine slunk forward until he could see the kid curled up in the slightest overhang of a rock, his coat pulled around him like a safeguard.
He hadn’t noticed him yet.
Wolverine felt an easing of the pressure in his chest.
The kid was safe.
Why should he care? Honestly, he shouldn’t. He didn’t.
After all, why would he care?
He hesitated, listening to the kid’s chattering teeth and shivers. He had half a mind just to move on—leave the kid behind. Might be better for the both of them.
He wavered, uncertain, but was surprised when the kid spoke first.
“W-wolverine? Is dat you?”
Wolverine frowned. He was sure he hadn’t made a sound, and he was downwind of the kid—even though he’d realized during the day that maybe the kid couldn’t smell as well as he could, just like he didn’t have his claws. So how’d the kid know he was here?
Maybe it was just a lucky guess.
He didn’t move, still torn with the decision whether to leave and go off on his own.
That’s how he’d always been after all. It was easier that way.
These last couple days with the kid felt longer than the rest of his existence—the damn kid made him think damn too much. It was simpler without him.
He swallowed, licking the cold rain from his lips.
“Kid?”
The shivering stopped for a second—froze, like the white breath in the air. He saw a faint gleam of red, and realized it was the kid’s eyes—looking at him?
“Y-you back, Canuck?”
Back? He hadn’t gone anywhere.
But that wasn’t what the kid meant, did he?
He crept forward, keeping himself small and unthreatening. The kid didn’t move, but stared at him, huddled in his coat. Finally Wolverine stopped, coming to sit a few feet away. Two glowing eyes watched each other in the night, the rain singing throughout the forest the only sound besides their white breath.
“Yeah, you b-b-back,” Gambit said, almost a sigh around his chattering teeth. He shifted, shivering as he drew his sopping coat tighter around himself. “Poor devil. Dat some d-d-ream you had. What was it ‘bout?”
Wolverine shifted a little closer, frowning at the kid. He was wet—cold, and smelled like misery itself. He didn’t look too good either—exhausted, really.
He retreated slowly, then stood, looking around the rain-grey forest warily.
“W-wolverine?”
Wolverine held out a hand. “Stay,” he murmured roughly, hoping the kid would listen. Without another word he bolted into the woods and disappeared.
TBC . . .