| 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 (6,481 Views) | |
| sniktsnakt | Apr 22 2010, 02:33 PM Post #161 |
Mononoke
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Yeah, but at least I'm finally graduating . . . but that makes me feel old too. I guess it's a terminal illness. |
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| jrpbsp | Apr 22 2010, 03:08 PM Post #162 |
Undisputed Ruler of Comicdom
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Well unless you had a lot of graduate school, you can't be much older then 21-22 so not exactly old. Barely out of diapers really. |
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| sniktsnakt | Apr 22 2010, 03:48 PM Post #163 |
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Mononoke
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Just barely turned 23. A year of not being able to decide what I wanted to major in stretched my college education a bit longer. Still, yeah. Looking on this summer and trying to figure out what I'm going to do next--graduate school or get my own classroom and teach--is making me feel a bit younger than usual. Why did I have to graduate right after all these budget cuts in the education sector!? |
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| jrpbsp | Apr 22 2010, 04:18 PM Post #164 |
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Undisputed Ruler of Comicdom
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never really a good time to graduate. Jobs are always hard to find, note how many people are actually working in the field they studied. I can't think of any really unless they did go for post-graduate work. It always seems that there are a glut of people for some industries and none for others so you take what you can get. |
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| Gorvar | Apr 23 2010, 01:33 AM Post #165 |
Self claimed fanfic critic.
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A friend of mine is the eternal student. He worked for two years, and sicne then enrolled in all adult education schools, doing courses. I dont know about you lot in America but in Belgium, and I think in England, you get funded by the Goverment to go to school, that's how he supports his family and lesons along with some ide jobs, as in me buying pc's off him. |
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| sniktsnakt | Sep 12 2010, 09:50 PM Post #166 |
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Mononoke
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I LIIIIIIVE! Sorry for the long hiatus, fellas. New town, new job--lots of change this summer, and being a first-year teacher starting this fall means it's not getting any less busy. Still, life is good. I certainly haven't forgotten about this story. I'll try not to leave you hanging for so long again!  Hopefully I didn't lose my touch. Enjoy! As always, I'd love to hear from you! ---------------------------------------------------- Chapter 41: I Felt a Funeral in My Brain ---------------------------------------------------- Now: Logan had dozed off to sleep—slumped in the one-man couch in the corner of his room. His chin was low against his chest, his arms flopped haphazardly—one leg swung over the arm of the chair. But despite his lounging position, the distress of his dreams was beginning to become apparent. Sweat beaded his brow as his eyes shifted beneath eyelids. His jaw tightened beneath thick chops—his teeth grinding together. His breathing grew ragged. He shifted, his hands curling into fists as his breathing quickened. Suddenly his eyes shot open and he was moving—a blur as he jerked forward and flew off the couch. He whirled around, putting his back to the wall and raising one hand as his eyes darted around the room, a hand automatically seeking the gun that was always tucked in the back of his belt . . . . Two seconds after awaking and he had the room assessed—two easy exits from the windows. Lamp, towel, beer bottles on the floor could be used as weapons—either for him or the enemy. He went still—listening for the sound that had awoken him. There’d been something . . . . There’d been something . . . . He stood there, stiff and silent—eyes dark and wild, teeth bared, panting his breath as sweat dripped down his face as he waited . . . . His gasping slowed—his eyes blinked, and slowly recognition dawned. He pulled away from the wall, straightening and dropping the beer bottle he hadn’t realized he’d grabbed after failing to find a gun in his belt. It hit the carpetless floor with a sound too loud for the still night and rolled under the bed, falling still. Logan didn’t move—it barely seemed that he was even breathing. He stood stand-still for in the darkness, silent, unmoving. Far away beyond the windows of the mansion a lonely winter crow called out before falling silent in the chill that foretold the coming winter months. And in the darkness, Logan laughed. “Heh.” It was a cold laugh—soft and humorless, and swallowed up by the darkness as quickly as it had come, leaving only the bitterness. He fell back onto the bed, grabbing a half-empty beer from the nightstand and tipping it down his throat. The liquid slid down, and he tossed the empty bottle away, sitting up. He couldn’t even remember this dream. Couldn’t even remember it when he came to himself, flattened against the wall. Couldn’t even remember what he’d been thinking. Heart still pounding with adrenaline, though. Felt cornered, somehow. Cornered with nowhere to run. The feeling had left him sweating. He was prepped to kill—prepped to fight his way out, and anyone that got in his way wouldn’t last long enough to do more than scream. He lifted a hand, wiping sweat from his face. Was he even awake now? Was he dreaming? Was it all just that—dreaming? One never-ending nightmare, tying together day after day after day after day . . . . . . . . There was something he needed to do—something he needed to finish. But the bastards could wait—he’d be back in time for them to send him out again. He’d be rested and ready to do what he did best . . . . Keep low. Keep low, don’t trust anyone. Not them, not the team, not anyone. What the hell was the point of it all? So tired . . . tired of running . . . . Sick ‘n tired. . . . Faces. Cracked and black and bleeding. Smiling, laughing, crying. Lying on the floor, on the road, beneath his feet. He could smell their fear, their pain—the death. Filling trenches, filling his nose, filling his head, pulling him down. Had he killed them all? Men. Women. Children, even. Dead eyes watching him, waiting for him to join them, bleeding tears. Waiting to catch him with skin-less fingers, digging, tearing, ripping . . . . They’d wait forever, just out of sight—just out of memory. Haunting, invisible, faceless. Black hair against red. White flowers scattered on the floor, cast in black shadow of the night. Blood. He could smell the blood, and it made him scream. Screaming, never to stop, but without sound as he was swallowed up, drowning in bitter green despair that bled down his throat, filling his lungs, his chest . . . . Logan sat up abruptly with a choked breath, cutting off his own thoughts as they began to spiral into chaos. Sweat had beaded on his face again, and he leaned forward, clutching his hair as he shut his eyes against the darkness of the room that was so familiar, but suddenly so strange. He was losing it. Finally, truly—he was snapping. He kept his eyes closed, consciously breathing deeply of the scent of the room—his scent. Breathing in his blood and dirt and bile and fear. Breathing in the scent of the dead—he could still smell Jean where she had walked, not many months before. He could even still catch a trace of Summers, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped his foot in there. More ghosts—still lingering despite their bodies being long gone. Then, the living. Beast. Kurt. Storm—airy and earth-rich. Different kids—most brief and fading after the rare visit into his room. The Icicle’s and Angel’s, months apart—probably from pranks or a dares which Logan hadn’t bothered figuring the details. Kitty, her scent ethereal as she could become. Rogue, filled with her energy and trust and southern stubbornness. Jubilee, from the time Kitty had dragged her along with her once; the kid’s scent hovered near the door, uncertain, but stubbornly defiant beneath that. Kylee’s—clear above the scent of beer and cigars, open and fearless as a person could be. Logan’s eyes opened, and he lifted his head, staring out into the darkness, suddenly wondering. Where the hell was Kylee? Dammit, what was he thinking? It was two o’clock in the morning, for crying out loud. Kid was probably asleep. But the furball hardly liked to sleep in her room even when Ororo was sleeping across the hall. Ororo. Storm’d been the one to watch after the kid—make sure she ate, bathed, all that mess. All the other kids were old enough to take care of themselves more or less, but Kylee . . . . Logan was off the bed before the thought was finished. He crossed the room, opening the door silently and slipping down the hall, cursing himself mentally. Stupid. She’d probably just fallen asleep in her own bed, or maybe in one of her hiding places. She’d run off before. And who’d been watching out for her? She’d been sulking at dinner the night before, and she’d stayed quiet during breakfast—Logan had hardly noticed her. Logan’d missed lunch and eaten leftovers for dinner, after most everyone had already cleared out. She could have run off hours ago and nobody would have even noticed. He pushed open her door, but before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he knew she wasn’t there. Her scent was hours old. Same with Ororo’s room. Darkened, the moonlight from the large windows glimmering off the leaves of the potted plants hanging from the ceiling, sitting along the floor. The room was neat, clean, the bed made without a single wrinkle—but the air smelled like earth and life, though the plants smelled a bit on the dry side without their mistress to water them. Storm was gone, and there was no sign of Kylee. Logan swore, hitting the doorframe as he turned around. There was no point in waking the team; Logan would track her down easy enough. He headed down the stairs, ignoring the chill of the coming winter in the stones beneath his bare feet. He should have seen this coming. Kid hadn’t been pouting about something petty like he’d immediately assumed. Storm was like a mother to her; she’d just lost another parent—again. And he hadn’t even thought about it, dammit. Normally Rogue might have helped her out; she was like a big sister to the kid. But with everything going on the past couple days Rogue’d been busy with her own problems. Didn’t know if anyone had thought twice about the kid all day. He stalked the main floor, parsing the scents of students, and catching a whiff wherever Kylee had been. Her scent was all over the place—particularly in her favorite sunny seat in the front sitting room. Catching a fresher scent, he headed into the back porch, frowning down at the night before slipping forward, a shadow himself in the darkness. A cat meowed in the darkness and Logan twitched, glancing in its direction before dismissing it. He stepped onto the lawn, then straightened from his tracking, looking towards the barn. He slid the door open quietly, murmuring to calm the horses that nickered nervously at his entrance. He stood there, inhaling the scent of dust and straw and hay before padding up the narrow staircase that led to the loft. He didn’t see her at first. The loft was piled high with bales and straw, and was all but pitch-black. But he could smell her, and that was enough. He crawled forward on hands and knees quietly, the straw rustling as he pushed it aside. There was a quiet shifting beneath his hand—the tickle of soft fur and whiskers as luminescent green eyes cracked open in the darkness. “W-wolvie?” she asked drowsily. “Wha’s wrong?” “Shh. Nothin’. Just takin’ you inside.” He eased her into his arms carefully. “Mmm,” she yawned, turning to snuggle against his t-shirt against the chill of the night. A hand curled in his shirt. Her face was against his chest; his heart pounding just this side of her face. Safe. She hadn’t gotten far. Shouldn’t have worried. Kid was smart enough to stay close. Even if she had run off that one time. He shook his head at the thought, looking out over the lawn. The cold made the air clean and sharp, but he paused. Was that rustling in the bushes? Was that the sound of footsteps, the click of magazines sliding into guns? He could almost smell it, almost hear it, almost see them—blending like shadowy wraiths in the past and into the present. Was that a soft growl in the night—the animal, always stalking him? Waiting for him to let his guard down, always waiting . . . . He shifted Kylee in his arms slightly, readying himself, even as he realized the sounds were empty, the thoughts from the past—the fear, the suspicion unfounded. This time. Was he shivering? He almost felt like he should be shivering—but he wasn’t. It wasn’t cold enough. Not cold enough to keep a new bead of sweat from dripping down his hairline and into his eyes. Something wet dripped onto his arm and he looked down; Kylee’s eyes were open, and clear tear-marks marked their way down her face. Her eyes didn’t waver he met them. “Stormy’s dead,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically expressionless. Logan wasn’t prepared for her to say it flat out, but the words served to bring him back, though from where he couldn’t say. He didn’t respond at first, but took a deep breath, lifting an arm to wipe his forehead. Kylee took the opportunity to continue, her voice small. “Everyone goes away.” Logan looked at her; he wasn’t one to lie to a kid, but he sure as hell didn’t know how to talk to her about this. Especially not right now. “Storm ain’t dead,” he snapped, but then stopped when Kylee flinched. He breathed in through his teeth, willing the straining string in his chest to relax just a hair; it felt like it was ready to snap. “We just gotta find her, kid.” “They said Mr. Scott weren’t dead either,” Kylee said softly. “Never found him, just disappeared. Same with th’professor. Just gone. Everyone leaves.” She blinked, new tears dripping down her face. “You leaving too, Wolvie?” “Don’t think ya gotta worry about that. Figure I’ll never kick it.” But his words instantly brought back the faces—dead, pale, withered with years. If he’d been around as long as Rogue made it sound, who knew how much more time he had? Wasn’t like he’d aged a day the last 15 years. He’d already seen so many dead, even in his recent memory. Too many violent deaths, too much blood. Too much pain and fear and running. But that wouldn’t be the worst, would it? It’d be the days, the years. Watching the kids grow up. Watching them age. Watching Rogue’s hair grow white all the way through, and Kylee become bent with age as he stood there, watching all of them as they turned into dust. Watching—unmoving, unchanging. How many times had he seen it happen already? Would he ever remember? Did he even want to? “Wolvie?” Logan inhaled sharply, snapping out of the stupor that had stopped him in his tracks just inside the kitchen door. He cleared his throat, adjusting her in his arms as he moved forward again. “’S nuthin’,” he said shortly. He padded into the house and up the stairs, silent on the new carpet following the length of the hall—passing by three deep gashes in the dark wood on the wall that no one had gotten to patching up yet. From the attack on the mansion, or after Bloodscream? Logan couldn’t remember. His bare feet crossed shadows and streams of moonlight from the broad windows, passing Jean and Scott’s room, the door closed as usual: the room unclaimed. No one had ever gotten around to clearing it out. Logan stepped over a stream of faint blue light from Storm’s room; he hadn’t closed it all the way when he’d looked there for Kylee. He could still smell her, but already fading. He nudged Kylee’s door open with his foot, stepping over a tangled blanket on the floor and careful not to step on the crayons fallen next to a spread of colorful pictures. He pushed aside a stuffed animal with his foot to have space to step next to her bed. He set her down, pulling the covers up over her arms; the winter chill was evident even in here. Big mansions were plenty drafty, no matter how fancy they looked. “Wolvie—” Kylee began, reaching out to catch his arm as he began to pull back. “Jus’ go t’sleep, kid.” “Wha’ ‘bout Stormy?” Logan frowned, standing in shadow as he straightened up. “Ain’t any kinda hell that can keep me from findin’ her.” The kid nodded, pulling her arm back under the covers. Trust colored her sleepy eyes as she finally settled back into the blankets. Logan took a step to the door, but her voice spoke up again. “Don’ go.” Logan pushed a collection of toys from the couch in the corner of the room and eased himself into them; his bones felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere, kid.” He sat there, staring into the darkness as the kid’s luminescent eyes slid shut and she drifted back to sleep. It was only about fifteen minutes later when Wolverine shut Kylee’s door behind him silently. He padded down the hall, his feet quiet on the thick carpet. He walked past the entryway, glancing down the stairs, and paused. A shadow flickered across the moonlight streaming in from the windows—a glimpse of a yellow coat as it vanished into the front room. Jubilee Lee. What was she doing up? ‘More happened there than them just sitting in a pen waiting for you to come save them, Wolverine. You should know that better than anyone.’ Reyes’ words came back to him, loud and clear, and Logan felt a chill pass over him at the memory of Alkalai Lake. What had they done to the kid? He could smell her, sitting down there—unmoving. Probably holding her breath, afraid that he would catch her up and about. Afraid. What had they done? Sure, he’d smelled the soldiers on all the kids, but none of them had been hurt beyond a few scrapes and bruises. As far as he figured, none of them had been touched besides chucking them in that hole. So what, then? She was scared of him, more than anything since they’d escaped. What had Styker told her? Shown her? What did she know? He turned, lighting up a cigar. The familiar scent and action helped him ease up a hair as he grounded himself even more firmly in the now. He felt her eyes on his back, watching him. He moved on, letting her continue her late-night vigil, and him continue his. ----------------- Restless or not, Logan couldn’t deny how tired he was. He ended up back in his room and fell back onto his bed, not bothering with the covers as he stared at the shadowed ceiling above him. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he frowned. Headaches? Really? He couldn’t remember the last time he had this kind of lingering headache. Nah—maybe he could. That one time he’d been lobbed out of an airplane at full altitude. Had a headache for a good week, that time. But falling out the window on the 20th floor was nothing compared to that. Somethin’ ain’t right. He’d been tracking down his past for years now. Tried meditation—all that chi crap, introspection: the whole nine yards. Hadn’t mattered. The best he’d been able to get was a memory of the room, of that tank, and of fire eating over his bones until he didn’t want to remember any more. Dreams, though. Dreams had been more . . . helpful, if you can call them that. He’d wake up sometimes with feelings, faces—almost enough to be memory. Woke up and grabbed at them, trying to hold onto them before they slipped away with sleep. It’d never worked, though. The harder he’d tried, the more it’d slip through his fingers like water. But something was changing. It was inside him, growing. Had been for some time, but it was getting too much to ignore. Like shattered glass, shifting and cutting every time he moved. Like broken shadows, whispering in the back of his mind. Muttering of fear and hate and rage. Gibbering like madness, only to quiet when he turned his attention to it. It was there, and he felt like if he just looked a little closer, listened a little more carefully, he would remember. A cold wind pushed against the window, and the mansion creaked distantly, settling in its deep foundations. Logan looked up sharply, listening intently, his heart thudding. He looked down at his palms, then closed them into fists as he shut his eyes and turned towards the darkness. When he’d woken up . . . he’d been standing, heart thudding, ready for a fight. Not afraid, though. Calculating. Impatient. On edge, tense—ready to pop his claws and shred anything in sight. Had felt the same way when he’d been out with Rogue. Undercover work wasn’t something he’d gotten fluent with over the last few years, but stepping into that role when they’d been tracking down Bloodscream had felt like second nature. Had wiped the place of their fingerprints without a second thought, no matter that it wasn’t likely that they’d be dusting the place down. It’d been natural, practiced. Whether she’d noticed it or not, Rogue’d fallen into the same pattern. He really had known this Carol Danvers character, hadn’t he? And in some way, a part of him still recognized that. He tried to picture her face behind his eyelids—Carol, not Rogue. He saw her through a haze of blood and pain as she pulled him out of his face-plant to the concrete, slamming him onto his back as she pulled back a fist, her blonde hair falling around her face. “I don’t like people sneaking up on my teammates, hairy!” But then she’d seen his face. Shock had passed over her own—eyes widening. Her fist sinking—surprise making her guard drop for that one vital second as Rogue dove at her, catching her face with her bare hands. Shock turned to pain, and then she was gone. Logan shook his head, going back to her face as she recognized him. Shock, but along with that, something else. She’d been glad to see him. If Rogue hadn’t touched her, her next move probably would have been to haul him back onto his feet and grab him in a hug, pounding him on his back. He could see her face—concerned, lecturing him to sit down, to let himself heal, even though he’d never seen those expressions on that stranger’s face that he somehow knew so well. Could see her, sitting across from him in some candlelit hut. Could hear the crickets, feel the humidity on his skin as he watched her disassemble her guns, cleaning each part with practiced, fluid movements. Vietnam? No—this was before that. Rogue had said that he had had his own platoon in ‘Nam. Bombed to hell. Faces danced across the back of his eyelids—warping, bending in shadows, floating just out of sight, out of memory . . . . “CAPTAIN!” “Get down!” Logan snarled, grabbing the soldier in front of him and pulling him down as the planes passed overhead once again. Machine gun fire sprayed around them, cutting into the dirt, the brush, the trees. Shattered wood sprayed through the air, cutting any exposed skin. They covered their heads, knowing full well that it wouldn’t do any good if they took a direct hit. Logan hissed, reaching down and digging one of the three bullets he’d bit out of his thigh while the private beside him looked up at the sky. The shooting passed—the plane roaring up to turn around for another pass. Logan grabbed the soldier’s collar, pulling him to his feet as he hollered at his other men to get to their feet, to keep moving. Some of them didn’t get back up. He didn’t have time to check to see who it was. Had to save his other boys. Get some of them out of there alive, get back to base. Logan pushed past two soldiers, taking the lead. They ran low, half-bent. Logan had to turn more than once as he caught the whiff of a mine beneath the ground—he pointed at it as he passed, passing the word along to his men. The roar grew louder. Roaring, roaring--turned to the white noise of chaos. The young soldier next to him was coughing—choking on his own lungs as he screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and over all of it was the roaring, the screaming as the world exploded around them, burning them to white nothing but pain pain pain pain as he tried to pull himself together, to fight, but he couldn’t move. Fire ate through his pores and dug into his wrists like claws, ripping open his veins as if to bleed him to death. He writhed, falling to the ground, but he was cold. Cold as fire ate at him, slicing through his spin, paralyzing him as the cold seeped into his fingers, into his gut, freezing him stiff . . . . “Staff, those braces can only keep the incisions open for so long, you know.” “Yes, doctor. The flesh is actually forming around the clamps, here. Amazing.” “Then work faster, man.” “Yes, sir.” “Computer indicates leakage of semen and marrow into the intracellular fluids.” “You heard the computer, boys. We’re losing goop here. Keep those holes plugged.” Something was moving inside his wrist—like claws, picking away at his flesh, prying it away from his bones. “Give me a right stem . . . short fiber.” Agony arced down his arms, and he screamed in agony as it drilled into his wrist. He strained to pull away, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t even twitch a finger. “Ughhhh . . . .” “Good God! He’s coming around!” “Don’t get jumpy, professor. We have to keep him floating so we can trace the relay flux in his nervous system.” “Do you mean . . . he’s conscious?” Logan choked, but all that came from his throat was a weak gasp of air. Unfeeling eyes looked at him and shrugged. “Yeah—partly. Add two pheno-B, staff.” “Yes, doctor.” “So he can feel what we’re doing to him?” “Most of it, yeah. Poor geezer’s in a lotta pain.” “Pain is a principal of life, Doctor Cornelius.” “Yeah, sure.” “Not that I subscribe entirely to the dictum.” Pain spazzed down his side, into his skull, cutting through his brain. He screamed, pounding on the inside of his skull as he managed to turn his head to the side, his bare skin sticking with sweat to the cold metal table as he heard a weak whimper--his. “Uhhh uhh.” “Four phenol-B, staff. And keep him from shaking, willya?” “Yes, sir.” “Readings, Hines.” “Sensory cortex monitor is overloaded, sir. There are no readings.” . . . . Logan woke up, huddled on the floor at the foot of his bed in fetal position—his knees to his chest and his fingers digging into his hair. A gasped sob broke through his teeth and he bit it off, choking on a whimper as he rolled over onto his knees. He rested his forehead against the bare, cold floor, panting as he clutched his head. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget as tears washed down his face. Forget himself, naked and helpless as they picked him apart. He raised his head slightly, eyes wild as he grabbed at his right forearm—right where his claws were encased in his arms. THEY DID THIS. Memory of pain shot down his spine and he clenched his fists, grabbing his head again. Professor. Cornelius. He could almost still smell them. People. People with names, faces, drinking coffee and joking as they watched him, picked at him, owned him. The feelings that encompassed him—buffeting him in its wild currents—were beyond words, beyond description—just a soulless, wild void that screamed, swallowing him, tearing into him . . . . Rage twisted his gut, choking him. Red ate at the edges of his vision as his fingers dug into his skull, as something horrible clawed inside him, demanding to be let out. No—the students. The kids. Couldn’t . . . He struggled to his feet, forcing his claws back into his forearms from where they had crept into his knuckles. He slammed the door open, staggering down the hallway. His footsteps were less than silent as he half-ran down the hall, down the stairs, slamming a fist against the elevator panel. He staggered inside, falling against the wall as he slid to the floor, grabbing his head. Think. Think. Thinkthinkthink. Too much. Wasn’t going to make it. The doors opened with a ding, and he bolted forward, his bare feet cold on the floor. The metallic lights strangled his sanity, and he pushed into the Danger Room, slamming his fist against the control panel and locking it tight just as the darkness claimed him. TBC . . . |
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| Cat | Sep 13 2010, 02:22 AM Post #167 |
Secret Agent
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YAY!!! WELCOME BACK!!!! AND A GREAT CHAPTER TO DO IT! Coughs, remind me why you're teaching, not writing for Marvel? Definately not losing touch. |
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| LoganActor | Sep 13 2010, 08:52 AM Post #168 |
Plays Logan on TV!
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Whoo! That's one hell of a re-entry into our little literary corner of the web. Welcome back and a half. Fantastic chapter. I was absolutely riveted from start to finish. |
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| Gorvar | Sep 13 2010, 10:31 AM Post #169 |
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Self claimed fanfic critic.
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Oh god this reminds me so much of a Wolverine issue called 'Dreams'. His dreams are so messed up you have to feel bad for the guy how he has to deal with it day after day after day, like you said. I do like how you did his sense of immortality to, after a while you just cant remember faces and names anymore sicne you lived for so long your brain just cant process it anymore. I'm glad your back though, was getting worried bout you, but i'm glad your doing well in life and I wish you all the luck in the world. |
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| sniktsnakt | Sep 13 2010, 05:16 PM Post #170 |
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Mononoke
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 What a great welcome-back party! Thanks, guys. I'm glad you all liked the chapter. I have to admit--I had to reread a fair bit myself, and I was a little bit worried that I wouldn't be able to get back in the right mindset for all the characters considering what's been happening. I'm glad it came across good for you all. Next chapter should be up . . . probably next weekend, maybe sooner. Gorvar, do you remember what issue that was? Was it one of the ongoings, or was it a one-shot? |
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