| The Meaning of Pain; He got away from them and spent years trying to discover who and what he was: an animal, the Wolverine, or a man named Logan. | |
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| Topic Started: Feb 2 2010, 11:21 PM (1,680 Views) | |
| sniktsnakt | Feb 2 2010, 11:21 PM Post #1 |
Mononoke
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Title: The Meaning of Pain Summary: He got away from them and spent the next 15 years trying to figure out who and what he was . . . an animal, the Wolverine, or the human named Logan. This is his story. Rated PG-13 for violent images and language. Features our favorite Cajun and others! (Starts movie-verse after X-3, with me trying my best to fix everything I think they messed up. We'll see how well that goes. This completely ignores XMO:Wolverine). Disclaimer: See every disclaimer ever. Not mine, never will be. Just me playing in their sandbox. A/N: Just because the process of putting text on here is semi-tedious, I'm putting these chapters up in sets instead of individually--at least until I catch up with where I am writing right now. I noticed that there seemed to be some pretty good interaction and some rather knowledgeable Wolverine fans on here (fancy that), so I was hoping to get some reactions from you. I hope you enjoy and can't wait to hear from you! So here's the first section: chapters 1-3, I think. Enjoy! ---------------------------------------- Chapter 1: Dear Journal, Signed Wolverine ------------------------------------ May 22, 20- I swore I'd never do this. I talked to Chuck some months ago, just after getting back from Alkali Lake after that dead-end lead. I wanted answers, but he said some crap about "the mind having to figure things out for itself." To hell that he already said he'd do everything he could to help me. Instead of giving me anything useful, he gave me this. A damned journal. Even another one of his lectures would have been more useful. Stupid. Like writing things down might help me figure things out. Damn that idea. I've lived enough of life, and I ain't one to think too much. I just get things done. Besides, I ain't a writing man, either, and never have been. I can just see it. "Dear Diary, Signed, Wolverine." HA! Wheels must have been crazy. He really was crazy, old fool. He thought I was more human than I am. He thought Jean was more human than she was, too. For a man who could read minds, he really didn't know people that well. I'm just an animal, and I know better. I've known better. That's why I could do it. That's why I had to do it. But he's dead now, just like all the others. At least I didn't kill him. I didn't have to stick these damned metal claws into his chest and rip his heart out. I had to do that, with her, and it was like ripping my own damned heart out, too. I think I've died a thousand times these past couple months, and thousands more before that. Died every time they died. But whatever keeps bringing me back . . . Who'd have thought that a mutation of healing could be so damned painful? Can't get away from it, though. I can't get away from who I am, from the death that tracks me. It's always tracked me, but I've never cared-not before. I didn't have anything to lose, not really. It couldn't get me. I'm a survivor. Damn that Jean wasn't. The professor wasn't. Hell, even pretty-boy One-Eye wasn't. It was so much easier, before all of them. Before it all. Damn them. Damn Xavier-giving me this damned journal. Why the hell am I doing this anyway? I already know what I know, and writing things down won't help me remember that damned past that is forever lost to me, now, and heaven help the man who puts his grubby paws on it. A damned journal. Stupid. I'd ask One-Eye to burn it, smash it, or whatever he does-but he's dead along with everyone. Damn it. ---------------------- August 14, 20- Damn journal. Stabbed the thing clean through a couple months ago and tossed it in the corner. The devil must have brought it up again. Would have been just fine never to see it again. Damn it all. It's 2 am in the damned morning-just had another damned nightmare flash thing. Wish they'd just stop. They don't do a damned thing, now. Stryker's dead. I as good as killed him months ago. His damned body's probably rotted and eaten down to nothing but a bleached skeleton by now. Damn him most of all. I guess that's right, though, even if everything else in the world has gone to the dogs. It's right that he'd be eaten by wild beasts, lost in those wilderness of Canada. That's right. Shows there must be some damn hope for some damn justice in this damned world after all. But justice aside, he's dead, and with him died with any hope for me to ever find out who I used to be. Buried in Alkali Lake. Maybe Stryker was right. Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe whoever I was before was as much of an animal as I was after. That I am now. Maybe before, I was animal enough that this damned pain would heal up and harden like my damned bones that just won't break, no matter how much it hurts. Wish Magneto had ripped the damned stuff from me when he had the chance. Wish Jean had had the power enough to tear right through me and finally kill me off into dust and numbness. Wish it would mean something when I slice those damned metal claws into my own damned heart, trying to end it all. But it doesn't mean a thing. Doesn't mean a thing but more damned pain. Damn the cost of survival a hundred times over. Cause that's what I am, now. I'm Wolverine. I'm a survivor, just like Stryker said. That's what everyone sees. All the kids here are scared to death, and the damn world's not staying too happy either. All hell's going to be set loose-if not now, then it'll come soon enough. Wolverine's gotta stay tough. Unmovable. And damn Storm's worry about me, because it doesn't matter anymore. I know that death happens. Seen it too many to count, just in my fifteen years of memory. Never really thought too much of it, before. Pain was always what I hated-never death. But Death was a good thing. Death was The End. The end of pain. Damned thing'll never come for me. All I get in its wake is that pain, damned pain. And damn me if I ever let pain stop me. I gotta move on. I've left the past. I just gotta make it leave me. ------------------------------------------- August 16, 20- Damn it. Damned memories just won't leave me alone, and the damned professor's damned dead voice just won't leave me alone, and damn Storm for her damned 'You need an outlet' lectures. So I left a damned hole in the wall of the kitchen. At least I didn't hit Mr-I-am-a-Diplomat, though I probably would've felt better if I had. They shouldn't be complaining, considering, especially Blue Boy. Got enough money to fix another damned hole in the damned wall, but Storm was speechless anyway, and not in a good way either. Couldn't speak for a full damn minute. People don't act like that, she said. Damn people. She doesn't understand. You wanna hear, then? You wanna hear what a damned life I've had? Summers used to say I was dangerous. If only he knew. I can't tell them. They just wouldn't understand. They'd pity me, maybe, or be afraid, because they can't understand how much of an animal I really am. I don't think anyone knows-Chuck didn't even know, really. Just Stryker, and me. The kids, Storm, even Beast . . . they were born human. There's something there, I think, that just starts you off looking at the damned world like a human, no matter what they do to you. No matter that you're a mutant. I wasn't born a human. I wasn't even born a mutant. Not in this life, that is, because everything before is Nothing. I'm different, even here, at Xavier's damn school where different means normal. For the kids here at the school one of the greatest shocks of their lives was finding out that they were different-that they weren't as human as they thought. That they were mutants. That they were different, and the world would hate them for it. The greatest damned shock of my life wasn't finding out how different I was from all of them-but realizing, after all, that I was a damn human. That I was one of Them. It was the damnedest shock of my life. ------------------------------------------ Chapter 2: For the First Time ------------------------------------------ Birth is a wonderful thing. A miracle. Beautiful. The newborn is brought into the bright light, covered in blood and filth, its fists balled in furious confusion as it screams and roars its new-sprung lungs, its eyes squinting against the terrible, unfamiliar light. The world is a stranger, and there's nothing bright light, fear, and a strange, terrible sensation-pain. Pain where there was nothing before. Terrible, searing, crunching pain as if life was starting the new life out with a beating-a warning of what life would hold, and of what he was bound to become. …….. Pain. His body tried to scream, or breathe, and gasp, but hot, cold, burning, bitter liquid rushed into his blood-flooded lungs and choked him. Suffocation. Terror. Pain. White, deeper than bone, deeper than life itself, streaming down and cutting through his very soul as blood-darkened fluid flowed around him. Metal gleamed, and for the first time, cruel metal blades sprung from his knuckles. SNIKT! He reared out of his restraints, not hearing the cries of pain and terror as he struck out, snarling. He stood out of the bitter liquid, dark blood pouring off him like a curtain of rain as he struck out blindly, cutting the men around him down. They clung to him, their painful fingers slipping on his bare bloody skin as he wrenched away, leaping from them even as his blades sunk into their human flesh. They're screams struck him, paining his ears, and the scent of blood filled his mind, as he cut them down with a frantic, furious strokes. Pain! He snarled. The animal rose up, and, and unbreakable metal slashed without care or precision, their only aim to get away, and to stop the damned pain. ------------------ I don't remember much from the beginning. Most of that's just the dreams, or the damned flashbacks. From what I do remember, I'm glad that's all there is. I remember the pain, the fear, the anger-animalic, wild, uncontrolled. Yeah, that damned anger was there from the beginning. Kept me alive, got me free, and carried me out of that place into the open air. ------------------ The agony faded into a dull ache as he fled, leaving him weak and shaking as he ran down the echoing black halls, his feet sounding heavily on the hard stone. He could hear Them after him, shouting, making noise that hurt his ears and made his nose twitch at the thought of more blood, more pain. He didn't know why he felt it, or what it was, but he hated it. He feared it. The animal in him snarled to get away. The darkness parted before him and he ran unsteadily, his feet unsure beneath his heavy body, and a great grey wall grew up in front of him, blocking his path. He stopped on his heels, jerking back to snarl at the approaching echo of footsteps chasing him, his angry breathing loud and blood-roughed in the closed space. Trapped. He didn't like it. He backed against the wall behind him, the metal cold against his bare, blood-slicked back. He snarled at the contact, leaping back and striking out to leave three deep gouges in the thick metal, but it didn't cry out or move, not like They did. He stared at the gouges, something moving in the back of his mind beneath the panic and confusion. Open the door, damn you! He snarled at the strange thought, but his eyes snapped towards the unmoving wall in angry confusion, flicking his blood-soaked hair to slap against his face, and sending dark drying smears to smack across the already stained sides of his face. He didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but something guided his hands, and he thought of sliding the wall aside, strange as it seemed. He struck out again, leaving more deep cuts through the metal. He snarled, demanding it get out of his way or die. It didn't move. And They were coming. Panic filled him, and he struck again and again against the metal, and pain split his hands as new red poured down his knuckles from contact against the roughly-cut surface as he attacked it with all force and fury. It pushed outwards with a broken screech of a sigh at last, defeated enough to let him pass. He pushed it open with all of his might, and then there was light. He staggered back from the sudden blinding shaft, throwing his hands to shield his eyes with a harsh growl as the brightness attacked him. He shrunk back from this strange, frightening new pain, cringing against the wall in blank fear and confusion. Then They were there. Four soldiers, one already bleeding from a long strike over his arm, rounded the corner, their guns at ready. Their was a frozen moment as the four pairs of grim eyes connected with the wild and bloodstained creature before them as he shrank in the light of the sun. He froze at the sight of them, and his lips curled up in a feral snarl as he jerked around towards them, his bloodied blades rising. BANG! The sound of the gunshot echoed a hundred times over in the small tunnel. The bullet embedded deep in the animal's chest, throwing him back against the wall as he staggered with a strangled gasp at the surprise of the new, tearing pain. He wanted to scream, to howl, but blood filled his mouth and choked the cry. Pain blinded him, filling his vision with red and terrible white. They were still there. A hand jerked out, and claws buried deep in the stone wall as he dragged himself to his feet. Blood leaked down his chin, but he lifted his eyes and snarled. BANG! It struck his shoulder and he staggered back again, only to throw himself forward blindly. He had to stop the pain. He had to stop it. BANG! BANG! BANG! The bullets were useless. Moments later they were shattered, and the men lay still in their own blood, their faces and bodies torn. The animal dragged himself from off the last blood-soaked body, gasping around the bitter fluid that filled his mouth, his sight, and roared in his ears. The bright light from the broken opening in the door filled his eyes, and he lay on his bare, bleeding stomach as he lifted his head weakly towards it as he grasped his hand over the gaping wound in the center of his chest as he struggled to stand. The agony was fading, like it had faded before. Strength slowly returned, and even as the pain trickled away he stood, newly clothed in blood as he stared at the light. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Four hard metal chunks dropped unnoticed from his bare torso, twisted from the impact against his invulnerable bones. New sounds of echoing footsteps reached him, and while his fists clenched and his claws trembled in a mixture of furious terror and savage need to fight, he stepped forward and ran towards the light. The door opened grudgingly, and he stepped out, then froze at the sudden sensation of wind, of the ice-cold white snow under his bare and soaking feet, of smell of everything, beyond the almost overwhelming taste of blood on his tongue. The scent of new soldiers, the sound of their beating hearts reached him. He glanced back towards the known closure of the tunnel, then turned and ran into the open world, springing forward. The door groaned further open as the soldiers poured out, but he was already gone, leaping over a height of rocks to escape the terrible sound of the guns as they whistled over his head. He landed hard, but was already up and running as they shouted and ran after him, lifting guns to their shoulders, and loud pops struck the white, cold earth as he fled, leaving dark red marks in the snow behind him as he ran, and ran, and ran. ------------------------------------------------------ Memories came slowly, though I didn't even think of them as memories. Didn't know a damn thing that was going on-probably as innocent and damn naive as a newborn. I didn't remember anything, and even when I was just running away from them, the confusion of my awakening faded and I knew just the Cold, the Pain of my bare skin and feet and hands as I scrambled over frozen snow and damned sharp rocks. I learned the names, in a way, but didn't think of what they meant. They just Were. I knew Pain. Fear. Those who chased me were Men, who carried Guns, the loud, metal damn pain-givers that I grew all-too-familiar with in those early days. The redness was Blood, and it meant more Pain. I knew I was hunted, though I didn't know what to call it, or why. I just knew, somehow, that I was not going to let them catch me again. ----------------------------------------------------------- The wood was still, as if the cold frost that hovered over the white, brittle branches was holding its freezing breath. Distantly, surreally, a faint bird's song twittered out of the silence, though it quickly went still as well as if even it felt the damp spirit of the wood. There he crouched between the grey trees, almost invisible for his own darkstained stillness. Completely unmoving save for the slight rise and fall of his bare chest, and the white mist that left his mouth at each exhale. He was crouched there, his arms around his bare chest and his bloodstained face bowed. Bare feet had sunk into the freezing snow, and now were pressed together as he knelt there as if for some lonely seeking of warmth. He was shivering, but he hadn't stopped shivering since he had gotten away. Maybe he never would stop. The snow hurt, but not as bad as the guns and the men. His feet, hands, and body had bled more than once during his naked flight away from the compound, and he was already beginning to forget what had happened there, and the terrible fight he had faced in his escape. It didn't mean anything to him, the noise, the confusion, the further pain and weakness as red splashed the white snow around him. He remembered it as a blur, another confused memory, uncertain what had happened except that he had gotten away. Forget everything but the pain, and those who had given it to him, again and again. Remembering only the confusion, the fear, the hatred, the pain. Remembering the terrible sound of bullets, the sound of blades cutting through flesh, the screams. Remembering the snarling of his own voice as he got away. He lifted his head slowly with a soft rumble of a growl in his chest as his eyes darted over the still wood, the trees, the open sky. There was no noise, no unnatural scent but for his own drying blood. They had left him alone, for now. He stood slowly, letting his hands fall to his sides as he looked about, breathing in the world. Breathing in the confusing, meaningless clutter of scents. He licked cold lips with his dry tongue, and something within him twisted unpleasantly. He put a hand to his stomach and looked down, feeling the sick twisting inside of him as he wiped his damp forehead with a shaking hand. He was weakening. He could feel it, now that his mind was settling and beginning to comprehend his surroundings. Something was wrong, something not exactly pain, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. Grrrrr . . . . . He pulled his hand away from his stomach quickly, giving a warning growl. A bird fluttered over his head and he stepped back automatically, his head snapping up towards the small creature before it disappeared back into the trees. He stared around suspiciously for a moment, sniffing the air again before satisfied that nothing threatening was near. He looked back down, staring at the cold snow that hurt his feet and legs as he walked, and licked his lips again before reaching down and taking a handful in an awkward grip before lifting it to his mouth uncertainly. It was cold and unpleasant against his tongue, but after a moment the solid changed and pleasant liquid filled his mouth, cold and sweet, clearing out the stale taste of thick blood in his dried throat. He reached down eagerly for another fist of it, for though it was cold he could feel some strength returning to him, and his mind began to clear. Thirsty, something told him. It didn't seem exactly right to be eating the snow like that. Seemed like there should be something sweeter, stronger, and a lot of it. But he took another bite of the snow and swallowed it with a snort at the bland, freezing taste. It would do, for now. His stomach was cold and frozen, but at least it was still, for now. He looked back down, folding his arms around his bare chest for warmth, and something glinted in the light of the sun. He paused, cautious as he saw the shine lying across his chest, then brought up curious fingers to finger the metal tag that hung around his neck. He held it up, staring at it and the marks on the smooth surface. The bird landed on a branch close to him, eyeing him with black beady eyes, and he looked back with a glower and a warning growl as he let fall the dogtag against his chest, already forgetting it. The bird just twittered at him and darted away for good, though he stared after the odd moving thing. After a moment he shook his head, like a dog shaking off some sprinklings of water, and pale droplets of diluted blood flicked slight marks into the snow around him. The wind shifted, and he went suddenly still and stiff, smelling the men who had been creeping up on him from downwind-from where he had come, and from where his blood-stained tracks led. His teeth bared in a soundless snarl, his brow furrowing and his eyes narrowing as his fists tightened at the thought of his hunters. SNIKT! Claws shot from his hands without thought and he snarled at the pain which shot from his wrist to where they broke cleanly through his skin. It was time to go. ------------------------------------------- Chapter 3: Death and Pain -------------------------------------------- I heard somewhere why we feel pain. Maybe from her. Jean, that is. She probably heard me muttering about it sometime. Explained something about some damn protection thing-like your body's telling you when to stop, or a warning that you were going to die. I never really understood that-not really. From the beginning pain was just pain. Meaningless-fading quickly but leaving behind a damn ache, and a damn memory of it. It's too bad that my damn healing factor couldn't just do away with pain in the first place. It doesn't mean a damn thing anyway. It never has. ------------------------------------------ He shrunk, shivering, over the crest of a hill, hiding around the trees and his whole posture alert as his eyes darted over rock and shadow. He didn't know time, but the bright light-the Sun, something told him-had come and gone, but he couldn't have told you how many times, because Days and Nights were nothing beyond light and darkness. Time just was. His legs were lagging, and his breath was loud, though he warned himself to be quiet. Noise was something he learned would bring Them, though once they saw him he could use it to scare Them. His step was naturally careful, and though his skin was white from cold, he left no blood behind. He had learned that, too. They were following him, tracking him, perhaps by scent, but he had seen them following the terrible red that he had left behind, in the beginning. It had hurt, but he had made sure to stop and rub himself with the snow to get all the blood off that he could, so he would leave less tracks. They were smart. He had learned to avoid them, when he could, by using their scent, but then they would hide upwind so he couldn't smell them, and would sit quiet so he couldn't hear them. They had shot him more than once, that way. But he had learned. Something was wrong, though. His body felt heavy, and growl as he might, his feet wouldn't lift as quickly from the snow, and something in the center of his body rolled and made him feel sick. He had eaten as much snow as he could, trying to quench this odd feeling, but it was no good. He was Tired. He was Hungry. But he couldn't sleep. They were after him, and even when he paused to rest for a moment, they grew closer. He couldn't rest, or they would catch him again. He walked onward, his constantly numb feet catching on sharp stones and leaving faint traces of blood behind that he couldn't help. He managed to reach the bottom of the hill before he paused, panting as he leaned heavily against the trunk of a thick tree. He slid down the length of it, sitting with his back against it in the bitter cold and huddling his knees close to his chest with a soft growl as he looked about the woods. Nothing moved, not even the wind, as if aware of the strange creature in the trees' midst. With another wary look around the wood, he drew up a handful of snow and sucked on it, letting it warm in his shivering mouth before he swallowed the liquid, but it didn't settle the unpleasant rolling of his stomach. The glint of metal on his chest caught his eye again, and careful fingers lifted the dogtag. He sniffed it, stared at it and its metallic, empty scent, and then frowned, his brow furrowing at the letters. WOLVERINE. It might have come to a shock to him that he could read it, but it didn't, because it was odd to think whether he should or shouldn't-he just could. He just knew for a fact that that was what the strange marks on the metal said. WOLVERINE. Was that his name? It brought to mind something feral-something wild and dangerous. It could be his name. It felt . . . right, somehow. He leaned back with his head against the tree, letting the cold metal drop back against his bare skin. His breathing filled his ears, and while he was so cold his whole body ached with it, weariness soon overtook him, and he slept. --------------------- Hunger, pain, thirst, sleep. Most people just grow up with them, with the words, with what they mean. But I remember the discovery of the power of sleep when my damned eyes couldn't stay open and I fell asleep despite my best efforts. I remember waking up from sleep the first time from the throes of my first nightmare to confusion. Cut right through the tree I was sleeping by without even thinking, and nearly got crushed by it. Reality, dream, and fading memory were the same in my confusion, and I didn't dare sleep for days for fear that the darkness would once again transport me back to the room and the agony of it. I didn't understand the pain of my hunger, or the growing weakness of my body. It wasn't until I came across a wolf pack devouring a cold, hard carcass that I realized that snow was not enough to live off of. I tried to approach the animals, but they attacked me. I attacked them and chased them off, weak as I was, and though I didn't like the damn blood that they'd left all over the place I tried to eat what they had left behind. My first meal ever was stolen from a wolf pack and eaten off the ground with my teeth and claws, like the wild animal I was. Like a wolverine. --------------------- The red meat was not gone, but a pleasant sensation left him feeling stronger and better than he had . . . ever. He stood from the mess of red, his hands stained and his face sticky, like it had been in the beginning, when his own blood had begun to dry on his face. He moved away, licking his lips as he sat on his haunches, lifting the cold, biting snow and wiped off his hands, his feet, his mouth. He couldn't leave tracks. He paused for a moment, looking down at the red mess of the slaughter he had feasted from. Food. Experience of his returned thirst again and again told him he would be hungry again, and he didn't know how to get more. Blood. He could smell it. He had eaten it, with the meat, and the bitter taste still lined his mouth. The same sort of smell he recognized whenever he buried his claws into one of his hunters. He was hesitant to leave this place, however, where he knew there was food. Yet the men were still behind him, he was sure. He hadn't heard them for some time, though-since he had hid in a small, dark cave under a rock, curled up against a freezing blizzard that made his toes and fingers break open and bleed before sealing back closed, but leaving them aching. He didn't know why it did that. He didn't know why he bled, or hurt, but he knew he didn't like it, or the cold. It gave him pain, and though it went away soon after, he didn't like it. Finishing with his rough cleaning and licking the last traces of moisture from his seemingly-constantly-numb fingers, he looked down at one of the wolves that he had hit with his claws. It hadn't moved from where it had fallen. None of the ones he had hit had. Its belly was sliced open, spilling its fresh meal and its own slashed innards over the snow, and its fur was thick with blood that stained the snow underneath. Its eyes wide and unseeing. He inched towards it cautiously, with a warning growl towards the still creature, but it still didn't move. It didn't even twitch with fear or caution. It didn't smell right. He bent down, sniffing it. SNIKT! The pain in his fist was sharp, but familiar now, and he knew it would disappear soon enough. Life was pain, and because he didn't understand it he didn't wonder. It just was, like the cold, like the hunger, like the thirst and the men hunting him. Like the dogtag around his neck that he knew gave him the name of the Wolverine. He held one bladed-fist forward as he reached out a cautious hand towards the wolf. Slowly his hand reached down, brushing the fur, and finally resting on the cooling flesh of the body. It still didn't move. He pushed at it, then prodded at the stiffening flesh with the tip of his claws. Nothing. No sound of the heart or scent of feeling or fear. Nothing. Just stillness. The belly didn't heal itself upwards, not like he had seen his own torso mend together within moments of a terrible wound, again and again. The breath didn't start again. He took the risk to stay close by that night. He curled up under the roots of a fallen tree to sleep, and while it wasn't as warm as his cave the night before, it was well enough. He returned to the feeding place before the sun rose, and saw that the wolves were still there. Dead. Frozen. They smelled like the mess of blood and shredded meat he had fed upon the day before. And then he began to understand. They weren't going to come back. They were gone. Dead. Forever. No healing, no end of pain. They weren't like him. To stop the pain, they had to stop it all. The end. He looked towards the shredded mass of red from which he had eaten before, recognizing the scent of blood. For the first time in his life he saw Death-or, at least, for the first time he looked it in the face and beginning to understand the truth. Death. And he had done it. He had Killed it. And the men, who hunted him. He had killed some of them too. He had to have. He had heard them scream and cry and fall on the snow and lie still, just like the wolves. He just hadn't understood what it meant. But now he knew. A part of him snorted. Death Was, like the snow, the cold, the hunger. It was life. But the thought made another part of him shiver. He wanted to run, to cry, to scream and howl at the thought and terror of it. But instead he gave a low snarl and stalked forward, leaving the dead wolves. He ate his fill from the now-frozen carcass of whatever the wolf pack had been feeding on, and then tested the wind before running forward again, following the stale scent and rough tracks of the wolves in the melting snow. ----------------------------- I'd guess I followed those wolves for weeks. The scent of the men who had followed me grew old and eventually vanished completely. Yet they were never far from my mind, even as the memory of my beginnings continued to fade into nothing. I realized I had killed them, those men I had struck at in the blur of memory that made up the whole of my existence. I had killed them, burying my cold pale blades into their damned hearts and ending them for good. And it seemed that their only goal was to try and kill me. I didn't regret killing them. I never have. I watched the wolves, followed them, found how they found shelter, and hunted. I saw the deer, saw the wolves outsmart and kill the creatures, saw them rip into the innocent pale throats and fling the blood all over each other, the trees, the snow. I never killed one of the wolves again, but continued to feed from their hunt, though the meat was cold when I got to it, every time. I tried hunting myself. I can't remember the number of times I failed--either by just scaring off the damn creatures, or being too damned slow to catch them as I darted across the snow, naked and cold. I was not a wolf. I knew it, even then. I was not the deer we hunted, or the rabbit. The bark the deer ate, and the kind of dry grass that those we hunted ate made me sick. Meat alone sustained me, and the animal in me wanted fresh meat. It wanted to hunt. I made my first kill on the hunt by climbing a tree waiting. Hunger made me patient, until a doe grew near and I leaped on it, stabbing it deep and shredding it until its heart stopped. I ended up stabbing myself in the knee and getting half trampled, but I was triumphant. I was a hunter. I was a survivor. I ate the deer hot, while its blood was still warm and flowing, and the wolves ate after I did, that night. Damn wolves taught me more about life and death than any of the men did. TBC . . . . |
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| PDA | Feb 3 2010, 01:30 PM Post #2 |
New Avenger
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I have been following your excellent two-pronged, then-and-now story on other sites, and while I'm very happy to see you post it here for these W.F. fans to enjoy, I find the formatting on the other sites easier to read. I eagerly look for each new installment. A really good accounting of how Logan regained his humanity, working up from a snarling beast in the wilderness after escaping the Weapon X lab, is a story I've long been interested in. I was disappointed in the Marvel novel, "Violent Tendencies," by Marc Cerasini, and feel that your "then" portion of "The Meaning of Pain" more closely captures what I was looking for...the excruciating path Logan took to survive and become a man again. Yours is a well-written, thoughful story, with a modicum of pesky, grammatical errors...unlike the vast majority of "fanfic" out there. |
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| sniktsnakt | Feb 3 2010, 02:31 PM Post #3 |
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Mononoke
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Thanks!  I actually read Violent Tendencies and was just as let down. I can't remember if that was before or after I started writing this fanfiction, though.. . . . I think it was after. One way or another, onward I go. I figured that since I've become so dependent on news and such from this site, I might as well start to give back a little. Edited by sniktsnakt, Feb 3 2010, 02:49 PM.
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| PDA | Feb 3 2010, 03:54 PM Post #4 |
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New Avenger
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Your input has helped pick up the activity here since the holiday doldrums. Have you explored many of the hundreds of old threads in forum? Your interest and commentary could refresh many an older, forgotten topic. Thanks for "giving back!" |
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| sniktsnakt | Feb 3 2010, 04:47 PM Post #5 |
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Mononoke
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I'll look into it. While my collection probably doesn't even hold a candle to many of the members on here, I like to think myself as one of the biggest Wolverine fans out there, so hopefully I'll find *something* to say.
Edited by sniktsnakt, Feb 3 2010, 04:48 PM.
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| LoganActor | Feb 3 2010, 09:28 PM Post #6 |
Plays Logan on TV!
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Wow, man. I'm more blown away by this than anything I've read in a long time. I can't wait for more. Also, you're a better writer than I am, so I hate you just a little bit now. Just so you know..... |
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| sniktsnakt | Feb 4 2010, 02:12 AM Post #7 |
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Mononoke
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Thanks for the warning . . . . I've very glad you're liking it, though. Should have the next few chaps up in a little bit. 
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| sniktsnakt | Feb 4 2010, 02:13 AM Post #8 |
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Mononoke
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Here's the next couple parts: Chapters 4 and 5. I'll try to keep them coming--it just takes a bit of time to format them for posting. Thanks for the comments I've received so far. I'm glad everyone's liking it! --------------------------------------------- Chapter 4: Hunter and Hunted --------------------------------------------- Pain and hunger were my only constant companions that winter. I watched one of the wolves die—too damn tired and hungry to last the damn bitter cold of the winter, and their companions ate him so quickly there was nothing left for me. Saw my own fingers grow black, only to heal again and again. I grew weak, and in the cold of the winter I decided to leave them. I was a damn survivor then, too. I would not die no matter how weak I got—not by injury, cold, or hunger. I didn’t need their company, and so I headed out to the cold white world—alone again. It was not long after I left them that I smelled man again for the first time in a length of time that yet had no meaning for me, yet seemed so far distant. Yet my fear and memories remained. My first reaction was to flee, but I smelled meat. I was so hungry and so damned weak that it took over even my caution. ---------------------------------- The meat sat on the ground, untouched and cleanly cut, unlike the times that he had eaten with the wolves. The scent of man had passed into the trail and snow, but now he stood cautiously, sniffing and looking about thoroughly for any trace of the animal that might have killed the meat and left it. He had never seen anything like it. Yet he could smell nothing, and there seemed to be no imminent danger. He drew out his claws anyway, and crouched down with a soft growl as he inched forward slowly, his mouth watering at the sight and scent of the meat. SNAP! Fire shot up his leg as metal ripped into his calf and jerked against his metal-plated bone. He howled and leaped away, only to give a terrible snarl as the steel teeth dug deeper into his leg, catching him and tearing him, and scattering red droplets like rain around him as he fell, his bare back cold and freezing on the icy snow. Snikt! Sharpened blades cut through the chain biting him to the ground and he scrambled back, snarling at the pain until he was a safe distance from the now-forgotten meat. Blood poured down his leg, and odd metal teeth clamped deep into his muscle, creating a jagged, deep tear in his calf. He snarled and growled as he tore the teeth open with his claws, forcibly wrenching the sharp tearing things from his ragged flesh. He tossed it aside, holding his leg and whimpering softly as he waited until it was healed. The pain went away slowly, though he sat shaken, but newly afraid and therefore furious. Man had done this. The hidden teeth had been a trap, hiding beneath the snow harmlessly, so that he hadn’t seen it before it had been too late. Man had hurt him again. He shredded the trap into slivers of metal, then went about the area carefully and set off four remaining traps hidden there—shredding them and ripping into the earth, the trees, and the metal in his wild fury. His anger finally abated, he stole the meat and setting into his prize with absolute unrestraint brought on by near starvation. ------------------------------------ Damned hunter trap. I never stepped in one again, and damn it if I didn’t become the best damn trap-thief north of the border. I even found other animals that had been less fortunate, dead or dying, and was able to steal and eat those as well. It was a good time—a better time, at least. ------------------------------------ Wolverine sat hunched in the new, shallow snow that had fallen the night before, his eyes narrowed as he watched his prey—the two targets he had been following for some time now, and had watched them time after time as they’d made this familiar trip up and down the land, setting up their traps. They were dressed in heavy furs—he could smell the stale, old scent of dead things easily, though it didn’t hide their hated scent. They were warm and human, and carried guns. It was the guns that had kept him from killing them straightaway the first time he had seen them, but he had grown bolder over time, and now he drew close enough to hear their meaningless mumbles and growls. He had already considered more than once simply going down and killing them. Their guns might cause pain, but it would go away, and the hatred that burned and growled in his throat at the sight of them would be satisfied. But he had recognized that these men somehow caught the meat that kept him fed, and being fed kept the anger in him content to wait. So he watched them, making note of their placement of the traps, of their wariness. They were afraid of him. Were they hunting him? He didn’t know, but he was damned sure that they would never be able to catch him. Not these two, anyway. He was sure of that. Memories kept him wary nonetheless. But he had never come this close before. Their growls were more distinct, but dull and almost constant, unlike the wolves’ growls and howls. He could hear them. “Here’s another one,” one of the men said, and Wolverine twitched, cocking his head at the sounds that were so familiar, yet strange. Almost as if he might be able to understand, if . . . “Damn it,” the other swore, lifting the broken trap from where it lay amidst a dark stain of blood. He looked around warily, hefting his gun. “It’s not natural, I tell you. Something wild’s got onto our traps—something devilish. Remember?” Of course they both remembered that trap they had found, some weeks back—shredded and bloodied as it was, and the bait gone. None had been ripped to shreds like that since, but there were clear signs of their catches being stolen, and now and again the traps came up oddly twisted or scratched, as if some wild animal had ripped into it to open it. But no wild animal could tear through solid steel with its claws like that. The scent of their fear rose as they looked around, and a soft rumble of a growl rose in Wolverine’s chest, thought too soft for them to hear. “Let’s go.” The hunters moved, and for once Wolverine let them go, though he stared after them, his brow furrowed. ‘Something devilish.’ He knew what that meant, somehow. And he didn’t like it. But he didn’t think too much about it as he turned away from where the men had walked in their clumsy, slow, large feet. Sure, the feet helped them walk on the snow like the scrawny rabbits and hares he had learned he could catch, if he was lucky, but it was different from the men who had hunted them, before, who had sunk into the snow but been able to move more quickly. It was strange, but he didn’t have an explanation for it. ------------------------------------------ The weather was not quite so cold—or maybe I was just numbed to it by then. The hunters practically gave me breakfast in bed every morning, and though I was almost always hungry, at least I wasn’t starving. I found a small cave and found I could sleep there for some warmth, and might have been—well, if not happy, at least settled. It didn’t last forever, though. It wasn’t long before I stole some meat from a trap and ate it only to find that it was laced with some sort of poison. I was damned sick, and near coughed up my damn lungs before the end. Thought I was good as dead for sure, but I lived on anyway. Started to wonder if I even could die, except by those damned hunters in the shadows of my memory who hunted me like a rabbit, or a deer—perhaps to cut me open, to rip me open like I ripped open that first deer that I killed. I was sure they wanted nothing more than to eat me damn clean down to my damn bones. And damn you if you laugh about that, because there’s nothing funny about it. ---------------------------------------- Logan paused, lying on the carpeted floor next to his bed and holding a pen in a hand that seemed like it should have been more awkward, but it wasn’t. He lifted his head, sniffing as he looked towards the door. His sleep-ruffled hair seemed to stand up in its odd style even more sharply than usual. There was a soft knock—one which probably wouldn’t have even been audible for a human. A moment later the doorknob slowly turned, and the door opened a crack. “L-logan?” A small face bearing two wide, shining green eyes peeked around the door. It was little Kylee, the youngest of the students at the school and barely seven years old. She’d been found abandoned in New York—left alone after she had started to grow a distinctive layer of tabby-colored fur. Now her eyes had grown pupils like that of some sort of feline, which were currently wide in the dim light and from fear. Her eyes went to the empty bed, and her nose twitched as she sought out the missing man. Logan stood from the other side of the bed, and the girl ran forward on short legs and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Bad dream, kid?” He rested a hand on her short-cut, strawberry hair that reminded him so much of someone else. The girl didn’t pull away, but nodded soundlessly. Logan lifted her up easily and swung her onto his tangled sheets. Distant thunder echoed outside his window, heralding some coming storm, and he wondered if this was natural, or if perhaps Ororo was having a bad dream herself. There were times, ever since the professor died, and Jean . . . The weather just wasn’t right. Logan couldn’t say he blamed her, though. He pulled the sheets up around the little girl and sat down next to her, brushing her hair from her eyes with large fingers. “Well, you fall on back ta sleep now, Tiger.” The girl nodded, her eyes already drooping as she curled her fingers over Logan’s bedsheets, breathing out a long, soft purr. He pulled his hand away, just watching her as her breathing evened out towards sleep. He bent down silently, lifting the notebook and pen from the floor and lying on the bed next to Kylee as he opened it again, frowning at the page unseeingly. He hadn’t known Kylee very well, before, but apparently her age and size had endeared her to Jean and Scott. She had been able to get away from the soldiers, that fateful night when the school had been attacked, but had lost a mother that day. Scott had disappeared not many weeks after, and Kylee had been left an orphan once again. No one could say why she had immediately bonded with the gruff Wolverine. She’d been withdrawn and gloomy for weeks, and he had come across her huddled in Scott and Jean’s room about a month after it had happened. They’d had a short chat and the girl somehow ended up asleep in Logan’s arms, and he asleep beneath her. Was the first good sleep he’d had since he’d—killed . . . her. Cut his claws right through her heart. Since then, it was an almost nightly occasion to hear the feline-ish girl’s soft footsteps, her barely audible knock, and then her soft sniff as she scented him out. More than once he’d come back from his nightly haunts and found her huddled up in his covers, soundly asleep. He rarely slept when she was there, though. Not on the bed, at least. He remembered all too clearly waking up from one nightmare and finding himself in another—that he had speared Rogue right through her chest. Just like Jean. Damn it. Damn memory. Another one that would never go away, and kept his sleep fearfully light as he listened for another uninvited visitor to his room. Even locking it didn’t do any good, seeing as Kitty had shown up more than once just by walking right in. Near scared him out of his boots, having her pop out like that. “What’re you doing?” Kylee asked, and Logan looked over sharply. “Writin’.” The girl’s odd green eyes looked befuddled as she cocked her head to the side in confusion. “Mr. Scott always said you were ‘ee-lit-trate.” Logan snorted and his lip curled. “Damn boy scout didn’t know a—” He cut himself off with another snort and a glance at the girl, whose eyes had grown wide as saucers at the curse word she knew he had cut off. “Go to sleep now, or you’re off to your own room, and I don’t care—those kitty-cat eyes of yours are useless tonigh’, kid.” “’Kay.” Thunder echoed their words and Kylee burrowed deeper into his covers, burying her chin into the warmth there. “’Night, Wolvie.” “’Night, darlin’.” Logan watched her until he was sure she was asleep, the glow of the light soft on her young face. His gaze was drawn towards the window where a sheet of furious rain had begun to whip out its wrath on the world beneath. ------------------------------------------ Chapter 5: Spring ------------------------------------------ The men had disappeared shortly after his illness with the poisoned meat, and when he followed their scent he found an odd sort of place—a cabin—but they were gone and the place was empty and dark and stank of men. He didn’t want to stay there, and didn’t grieve their disappearance long, because he had learned not to trust the damned men or their damned food anyway, and he couldn’t sleep with the scent of them all around him, even if the habitation was warmer than his usual hide-outs. He moved on. ----------------------------------------- I’m not a nature-lover. Not one of those “I’m-goin’-out-to-find-myself-in-the-wilderness” kind of people. See, I already tried that, right in the dead of the winter, and it wasn’t a pretty thing. But as winter turned to spring I found time to think around the once-constant damned cold. The world’s a damn beautiful place, if you don’t think about the blood, the pain, the killin’ that runs the whole damn thing. It really is a damn beautiful place. ------------------------------------- Meat became scarce again after he left the trapper’s trail, but not so much as before, and he was strong. He traveled day by day, hunting when he could, and the world began to change. The constant whiteness began to melt away. Beneath that, odd green things began to grow from the dirt underneath, and the grey trees began to grow buds. The world smelled different. He found a river, and though the roaring white current frightened him, and didn’t move despite his snarls and a furious swipe of his claws to the depths. But he found the water there a thousand times more satisfying than ten times as many handfuls of snow, and while it chilled him, the cold was less sharp than the white crystals. His bare feet trod more easily on the damp brown dirt. The air was softer against his winter-numbed skin, and feeling began to return to his fingers, and the awful, painful black burning of his skin faded away for good. Food became more plentiful, and his maddening drive through the dead, winter-still woods slowed as he gazed about, almost overwhelmed by the explosion of sight and scent and sensation. The past continued to fade. His beginnings were already all but lost in the fight for survival, and even winter’s terrible memory of struggling survival amidst the pain was passing in the face of spring. ----------------------------------------------------------- Spring seemed like damned heaven to me. Near forgot everythin’ ‘cept eatin’, drinkin’, an’ sleepin’. A dog’s life. But I grew restless and continued my journey, though I had no idea where the hell I was headed, or what I was lookin’ for. Just knew that the world grew warmer, greener, and after some days, the scent of man crossed my path again. I was more than a little tempted to turn back righ’ then and stick to the wilderness, but I had grown stronger in spring, and though I knew pain, I had defended myself from men, wolves. . . I even killed a damn grizzly that was trying to steal one of my kills. I wasn’t invincible. They hurt me—all of them did—but I always healed—and I always won. I was wary. I’d learned how to be cunning, like the damn trap that had caught my leg in the damn cold of the winter. I had learned to think like the greatest hunter, but also to avoid fighting the mountain lion when the deer would be an easier kill, and more filling. But I was no longer afraid. Of anything. I was the best at what I did, and I knew it already. So I walked right past that first scent of man, and moved past it. They were just another animal—another prey, or perhaps a predator, but one that could die. One I had killed, and knew I could kill again. I saw three of them, just walking through the woods. Figured they must be like wolves—hunting together, but they didn’t notice me and I wasn’t hungry, so I let them go. I can’t say the same for the next ones, though. ------------------------------------------------ Wolverine strode through the brush almost silently, his lithe and filthy form blending naturally into the wood. His hair had been roughly cut back with his claws, and his beard cut back into rough muttonchops. The remnants of his meals were too hard to clean from his chin and upper lip with the thick, long hair there. He was constantly alert to any danger or possible meal, but for now he was relatively relaxed as he moved, pausing only occasionally to listen more closely to a sound that had caught his attention, his nose twitching at the host of scents around him. The wood was pleasantly quiet, comfortable now with a new predator that was likewise comfortable in its presence. He paused to sniff at a tree, recognizing this as the territory of a wildcat, and a big one at that. He moved on, more wary, but not overly so. Big cats were wary of him too, and for good reason. Still, he would have to be careful to try and pass peaceably, if they happened upon each other. The sun was getting high, and the Wolverine was beginning to long for a midday nap next to the languid river he’d been following since before the sun had risen. He yawned and shook himself, then began searching for a safe place to let his guard down . . . BANG! Fire shot up his arm like the slice of the bear’s claws. He dropped to the ground automatically with a snarl, furious at the pain but unheeding to it. Snikt! He knew this pain. He knew the guns. Man. The Wolverine shrank into the brush, almost disappearing as he waited, forgotten memories rising as waves of hatred, fear, and fury as blood dripped down the length of his arm. Them! Wait. He had to wait. He was a hunter, not the hunted. Not anymore. “Damn!” The man was a stupid man. Like a rabbit, moving too far from its hole. He ran forward, the gun held loosely in his hand. Wolverine wrinkled his nose at the bright orange clothes he wore and snorted softly. Was it a warning? Was he poisonous, or was he so bold so as to think that any animal would flee rather than attack him? How could he not have seen him, even if the man had been hidden downwind? Annoyance at himself made his eyes narrow. A low growl rumbled in the depths of his throat. The pain was his own fault. He had grown soft, with the coming of spring. “Got anything?” another man called from where he was still hidden in the bush. Damn, fool men. They thought they were the hunters. “Swear I got something—a bear, maybe.” The man drew close, looking around. The wolverine struck. The man didn’t even have time to scream. Nine inch blades buried clean through his chest, and a hand over his mouth stifled the sound save for a muffled gurgle as he fell. “Oh, ****!” Fear. He could smell it on the other man, as he raised his gun and shot wildly. Fear made the shot go wide. It didn’t matter one way or another. Red filled the wolverine’s vision as a rage overtook him. He leaped forward, slicing the gun clean through the barrel. The man screamed like a dying rabbit, but then that cry was cut short and the man fell, his blood bubbling in his throat as he convulsed on the ground. One last strike and he went still. Wolverine’s mind and eyes cleared slowly, and he came to himself as he stood bloodstained over his latest kill. He stepped back, shaking with the rush of the kill and the remnants of a rage that he didn’t understand. He had felt the rage before—when fighting the bear, when it had mauled him across the chest and ripped him deep. It had taken some time for him to heal from that one. With a half-snarl, the Wolverine shook himself and turned back to his kill. Its blood was already seeping in to the dirt beneath the corpse. He turned it over, readying his claws as he sniffed at the fresh blood. And he stopped. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten for a day, now, since he had killed a deer and stuffed himself on it and had to sleep it off for half the day and night. It was hard to travel and still stay fed. But the thought of eating this man made something odd in him turn upside down, like the poison he had once consumed with the meat from the trap. He shuddered, turning away from the body. The scent of blood suddenly seemed foul and bitter. His claws retracted, and his skin quickly moved over to seal up the wounds left behind. He absently rubbed his knuckles as he glanced back at his latest kill, smearing the small spots of fresh blood from both himself and the man over his fingers. Maybe the orange color was a warning. Maybe the body was poisonous, and instinct alone warned him not to eat it. He just knew something wasn’t right. He shook himself with a soft growl and turned to the river. The river was slow here, and he cleaned the blood from his hands carefully, letting the cold numb the dull ache from where his claws had contracted. Before it hadn’t bothered him, and it still didn’t much, but without the numbness and constant pain of winter, he had learned he didn’t like even that small remnant of pain. Pain was a part of life, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He drank deeply from the stream, lapping straight from the river before splashing some over his face to shock himself from the churning of his stomach. He shook himself, letting the droplets fall back down into the cold water. He wiped the moisture from his eyes, then froze in mid-gesture as he caught sight of something in the water. A man! Snikt! Flawless blades buried themselves in the river, cutting through cleanly and rising up into the air again without striking anything solid and soaking him from his blind lunge. Wolverine reeled back, panting as he perched over the water, his fist raised for a killing stroke as he searched for his target that had impossibly evaded him. He snarled at it, daring for it to emerge, his nose twitching as he searched for the elusive scent. There he was! The man was ready to attack—his hand raised over his head and three sharp claws ready to strike . . . But no. It rippled, like a dream, like cold winter-mist. Yet he could see the image, as the arm slowly lowered, mirroring his own. He bent down with a low growl, sniffing at it, watching as the man did the same. He looked different than a man, though. His chest was bare, his hair wild, and something gleamed over its chest . . . Wolverine. He reeled back and the man disappeared from the water. Something hit him then. Strong, like a memory, laughing at him. It was a reflection—showing the trees above his head, the sky, the clouds. He turned sharply with a snarl, searching for the man that must have been standing behind him, but the wood was silent and still. He turned back to the water, and saw the man in the river—the reflection—do the same. It was him. His reflection was a man. A plain, clear voice spoke out the implications of that. If his reflection was a man . . . then he must be a man. No! He turned away with pitiful mix of a howl and a snarl, his fists still clenched tight and his claws gleaming in the sunlight. He ran back to the men he had killed, staring at the bodies. The last one he had gotten to was too broken—its face was a ruined mess, its torso ripped too much. So he went to the first one, drawing close cautiously as he stared at the corpse. Staring at the man’s hands, at his own hands, which seemed so similar, though his were larger and still damp from the river water. The only differences were the claws. He let them vanish, let the pain fade. Turned the cooling arm over to compare the workings of the veins that ran beneath his skin. His hands shook, and with a feverish intensity he moved forward, ripping open the man’s shirt to see his bare chest, bloodied and torn as it was—staring at his face as he traced his own rough features. No claws. No paws, no fur like the wolf or the deer or the mountain cat. He was . . . a man? He was a man! He tasted bile in his throat and turned away to retch. Damn! ---------------------------------------- Damn. Damn. Damn. Hell, there’s no damn way I can tell anyone what that felt like. Damn humans, can’t even understand something like that. Can’t understand how it feels to open your eyes and see in the mirror your worst enemy. Except maybe the kids here. Mutants don’t exactly have a good name, to outsiders, and they had to wake up one day to seeing that in themselves. These kids have lived through more than most damn people should ever have to. --------------------------------------- TBC Edited by sniktsnakt, Feb 4 2010, 02:14 AM.
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| Cat | Feb 4 2010, 03:39 AM Post #9 |
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Secret Agent
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Interesting. Like the idea of Wolverine only realising he's human by looking in the stream. Oh and love the idea of Scott telling the student's Logan's illiterate. |
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| sniktsnakt | Feb 4 2010, 06:12 PM Post #10 |
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Mononoke
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One of the main things that I was discontent in the Violent Tendencies book is how . . . *normal* Logan acted right after escaping. Even if he hadn't had his mind wiped and screwed over, being experimented on for 4 years would leave *anybody* emotionally and mentally shattered. Put the memory adjustments (and complete memory wipe from the first three X-Men movies where I started this fic), and the opportunity for self-discovery is fascinating. Thanks for reviewing! I'm glad you're still liking it. |
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11:13 AM Sep 6
