| 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. | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Feb 2 2010, 11:21 PM (6,792 Views) | |
| PDA | Sep 10 2011, 09:20 AM Post #311 |
Secret Agent
|
Good things come to those who wait.... This is one of the good things that's definitely worth the wait. With all he's been through in the "Now" section, it's no wonder his healing factor is nearly maxxed out...and Emma's presence is hitting his last nerve. In the "Then" section, clothes shopping must have been a weird experience (ha!), but what I love is his wary observation of everything around him...absorbing information through all his senses. You just know that Gen. Clarke means him no good...even Mac just wants him to get on board and be another good, little superhero. Thank you, sniktsnakt, it's good to have you back again. |
 |
 
|
| sniktsnakt | Sep 17 2011, 05:49 PM Post #312 |
Mononoke
|
Hey, all! I told you the next chapter would come out soon-so here it is! I hope you appreciate that last chapter and this one are 2-3 times longer than many of my chaps, so yeah . . . I'm trying to make the long hiatus up to you lot. In that vein, thanks for all the reviews! I'm still making it a goal to break 500 reviews, so take the time to drop a quick review-even if it's anonymous and short (though the long ones make me happy). I try to respond to signed reviews as long as you have pm enabled, so check your inbox if you did this last time around.  And yeah. . . if you find typos and mistakes, feel free to point them out to me. I try to go back and fix things that are pointed out to me. I don't have a beta and am kinda a grammar freak, so I do appreciate it. To that point, I dedicate this chapter to PDA/Silverthorne, who as a consistent reviewer and supporter helped catch somewhere around 5-6 mistakes last chapter, and pmed me enough times during my long break to get me off my lazy behind and back to work. Thanks, Silverthorne! This chapter was much easier to write than the last chap. I hope you enjoy it. ----------------------------------------------------- Chapter 51: Broken Mirrors ------------------------------------------------------ Now: Logan showered and pulled on clean clothes before heading down to the kitchen for a beer and a late lunch. He pulled a container from the fridge, digging in without a care for what it was. He made a few phone calls to his contacts, but only half-rang through to SHIELD before hanging up. He glowered and stood, grimacing as his chest wound split enough to bleed again. Swearing, he headed down to the med center. The med room was dark and still: the lights off, the beds empty. Someone had cleaned up—Beast, he’d say—but he could still smell blood. It was funny: he’d seen plenty of accidents and injuries during his time at the school, but it was his blood he smelled here. The blood he’d left behind while sitting at Rogue’s side. He pushed in, throwing open a cupboard and grabbing enough gauze and tape to do up his chest and a long cut down his thigh that was healing too slowly for his liking. He swore as he wrapped the wounds tight to keep the blood from leaking too much—not bothering with disinfectant or painkillers. Not like they would do any good. He tossed the tape back in the shelf and was about to slam it shut, but paused as he caught a scent. He frowned, pushing aside the stacks of medical supplies to the back, where a small metal box lay hidden. It smelled of Jean. He hesitated, holding it in his hand before prying it open and turning to see the contents in the dim light filtering in through the door from the hallway. Odds and ends. Not a memory box at all—more of a practical one. Stretchy ties for her hair. A spare set of glasses. A small pile of notes and cards. A small mirror and a picture of Summers and her in front of the school—smiling. Wolverine grunted and snapped it shut before shoving it back in its place and replacing the medical supplies in front of it. He was already out of the room when it occurred to him that it would have been just as useful just to throw it away. Jean wasn’t coming back—why keep it? He shook his head, heading to check in with ‘Crawler and Beast about whatever Frost had been up to before taking his afternoon session in the Danger Room. -------------------- He met Rogue on his way out of getting changed—this time actually willingly pulling on the black leather suit. Would do good to hide the blood, if anything split open too badly. He tipped back the beer he had grabbed from the kitchen, swigging deep, but then threw out an arm to catch himself on the wall. He blinked, feeling a strange buzz that wasn’t going away. Heh. Guess his healing factor wasn’t up for the count in a few different ways. He tipped it back again, then smashed the empty can between his hands. Screw the Danger Room. He was heading out to get thoroughly and completely drunk. He turned and almost ran headfirst into Rogue. “Hold it, sugah,” she said, catching his shoulders as he wavered on his feet. “What’re you doin’ up and out of bed? You look like hell, ya hairy idiot.” She ducked her head to look at him closely. “And are you . . . drunk?” Logan blinked at her. He scrubbed his eyes. “’m fine.” “Uh huh.” He looked back at her, focusing on her face. The buzz was already receding—his healing factor was still working, if a bit more slowly than usual. No grayness in her skin, no stranger looking out of her eyes—no ghostly scent that didn’t belong to her. Still wearing those damned heels, though—even for a Danger Room session. It was his Rogue, though. “You okay, kid?” Rogue punched his shoulder. Hard. “Ow!” The girl still had a punch for someone twice her size. He caught his balance on the wall, bringing a hand to his arm when the pain didn’t immediately fade. “What the hell was that?” “You try pulling a stupid stunt like that again, and ah’ll pull your sideburns off,” Rogue snapped. “That’s twice. Twice you’ve thrown your life in the air—and that’s just for me. It’s hazy, but I got some from Carol. You’ve done the same kinda fool thing before.” He looked at her sideways. “Danvers’s still there?” Rogue shrugged—clearly uncomfortable. “She’s here,” she said. “But behind a wall. Not takin’ over so much, but I can . . . I don’t think she’s goin’ anywhere, sugah, but whatever Emma Frost did . . . it’s workin’. Not even hearin’ much from you in here, and after last night . . .” Logan let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He nodded gruffly, pulling his hand away from rubbing his sore shoulder. He could feel the bruise forming. Was this how most people felt like—so fragile? “Logan—” “Leave it. I’m fine,” he said. ------------------------------------------------- She didn’t leave it. Rogue made no effort to be discrete as she hovered over him—sometimes literally—during the session. The kid had never been intimidated by him like the others, but now even her hero-worship was gone, replaced by stone-hard stubbornness. Logan ducked a blast of an energy beam, finally catching an opportunity to use her over-protectiveness to get rid of her. “Rogue!” he shouted, pointing to the ‘bot that was targeting him. “Got it covered, sugah,” Rogue said, bolting off the ground. She dodged a blast, spinning in the air, and drew back her fist—slamming a punch into the robot’s center. It shot back as if hit with a cannon—slamming into the wall and falling in a smashed, sparking heap. “Logan, down!” Logan dropped as fireworks blasted over his head, sending a robot staggering, Logan whipped upwards, finishing it off with a slash that cleaved it from shoulder to side. He ducked as another blasted over him, but he caught its foot, sending it spinning off balance before he sling-shot it into the wall. He straightened slowly, casting a quick look around the room. Rogue was hovering above him again, and Peter was busy beating a metal twin of himself to a heap of rubble. “You doin’ okay, Wolvie?” Rogue called. “You seemed a little slow on that last pass.” “Fast enough,” Logan replied, ignoring the twinges as he straightened. It was easier to ignore the pain as he fought—it was part of the battle. He could take it. He wiped his arm across his face, already moving on. “Good shot, Sparks,” he said. She was getting better—better reflexes, more aware of her surroundings without getting distracted by the less immediate dangers. “And . . . Sparks—keep your elbow down on the left block. You ain’t bad on the speed, but a guy changes his hit at the last second, and you’re leavin’ yourself wide open.” The kid flipped her black hair from her eyes. “Jubilee.” “What’s that?” “My name is Jubilee.” “It’s called a codename, kid.” “Jubilee is totally cool enough to be a codename. Anyway, my name is Jubilation. I mean, seriously? ‘Sparks’?” “Live with it.” “Okay, Claws.” Logan glared at her, but the girl didn’t stand down. So there was a disadvantage of getting their problems out in the open. They headed for the exit, and Rogue landed next to Jubilee, brushing some dust from her shoulder. “So you make Frost’s club, Jubes?” “Yeah. Bunch of stuck-up kids.” Logan snorted. Both girls turned back to glare at him. “Dust,” he explained, gesturing to the sparking ruin on the floor. “I mean, Hellion is soooo full of himself. And don’t even get me started on M. It’s like she’s trying to put a team together with the biggest assholes out of the school, and somehow I get thrown in with them.” It was a bit of a discontinuity, Logan had noticed. Most of Frost’s new team (She was calling them the Generation Xers, or something like ridiculous like that, but what would he care?) were high-end (not to mention high-maintenance) mutants. TKs, shifters, and whatever-the-hell Monet St. Croix was being categorized with on a given day (Logan had simply lumped her power as “arrogance” besides having to listen to her protest with being categorized as “just” super-strong, “just” super-smart, “just” a flier, or “just” a telepath). Jubilee was probably the least-high-strung out of the bunch . . . and that was saying something. Maybe that’s just how Frost liked them. He wished her luck getting the team to keep from killing each other. The call for mail delivery echoed down the hall as the lift to the main floor dinged open. Piotr and Kitty bolted from the lift, but Jubilee hung back. Logan headed for the kitchen to grab another beer from the fridge: from the aches in his side and leg, he was hoping that he hadn’t missed the window for him to get drunk. Jubilee took her time, walking into the game room for a creased magazine from the table. She opened it up, popping a huge piece of gum in her mouth as she strolled towards the stairs—practically reeking of projected disinterest as the other kids sorted through the mail. “I got a letter from my dad,” Kitty said, pulling it out and continuing to flip through the pile. “Peter, there’s one from your family here, too. Sam, here’s your mom’s letter, and—oh my gosh.” She pulled out a letter, staring at it. “There’s one for Logan.” “What?” Jubilee said sharply. Kitty looked at her, but she looked back to her magazine, pretending like she didn’t care. “I didn’t know Logan had anyone to, you know—write him,” Pixie, a younger student with diaphanous, lacey wings sprouting between her shoulders, said softly. Logan cleared his throat, stepping louder as he approached the hallway. Kitty looked up at him from the pile of letters. “Logan, there’s a letter for you.” Logan stared at her. “What?” “A letter. See here? ‘P. Logan.’” “P. Logan?” Logan repeated. He set his beer on the decorative desk next to him and grabbed the letter from her and sniffed it. A number of people had touched it—most recently the postman—but he didn’t recognize any of the scents, besides the kids’. Was this some kind of joke? Jubilee made a face, looking up from her magazine again. “Peter Logan? Or Paul? Or P—uh, Puh . . . Pablo?” she guessed. Logan stared at it. It was postmarked from St. Martin’s Church, Madripoor—first class. The letter wasn’t thick—it felt like it only had a single piece of paper in it. He held it carefully as he read the sender’s name. Ishikawa Yukio. Yukio? “Ish-i-kawa?” Kitty read, face twisting as she struggled with the pronunciation. “Who’s he?” “The name’s Yukio, kid—and she ain’t a he.” He popped a claw and slid it along the top, cutting it open cleanly as he headed up the stairs, leaving the kids behind. Their curious gazes followed him all the way up, and they broke into whispers as soon as he disappeared around the corner. P. Logan? Private Logan? Or did the P. actually stand for his name? Madripoor. Not the first time he’d heard the name in recent months. P. Logan. Patch? He shook his head. And who the hell was this Yukio? He closed the door to his room and locked it before opening the letter, sniffing again for the scent. A lady, that was for sure. And the name wasn’t right for Madripoor, unless she didn’t belong there in the first place. The name was Japanese—hell, even the lingering scents on the paper smelled Japanese. He could almost taste the sake. He turned to the words, written in a fine hand, though unelaborated. Whoever had written this didn’t care about assembly. Logan— Good to see you back on the map. The hand of your enemies is moving. Be wary. Yukio There wasn’t enough there to pour over, but Logan read it again anyway. Short, to the point. No instructions of what to do, or who it was—the lady was cautious, careful. Back on the map? He’d been back on the map for years. Freakin’ useless, that’s what this was. As if he weren’t paranoid enough already. But Logan paused, taking one more breath of the scent before carefully closing the letter back up. He tucked it in his pocket, unlocking his door and striding back down the stairs. The kids looked up at him, half-wary, half-curious. “Everything okay?” Kitty asked. “Fine,” Logan said, turning down the hall. He strode forward, throwing open the coat closet, but then stopped as he stared down at Bobby and the violently-blond Boom Boom, lip-locked and intertwined, their hair askew. They stared up at him, somehow both pale and flushed at the same time. Logan frowned back. “I just wanna know one thing,” Logan said, his low voice causing Bobby to pale another shade. “Did this start before or after Rogue broke up with ya?” Bobby swallowed. “A-after,” he near-gasped. Logan grunted, and Bobby recoiled as his hand went towards his face, only to grab his coat from the hangar behind him. Without another word, he shut the closet door in their faces and headed towards the garage. He had some people to track down, some hunting to do, and then some bars to drink dry. -------------------------------------------------- Logan padded onto the back porch late that night (technically morning, but he shrugged at the difference), sitting down on the stairs leading to the large walkway and the frost-white grass beyond. Winter had brought a light dusting of snow—not enough to stay long, but enough to blanket the land with a chill of silence. He hadn’t slept. The mansion had been quiet when he’d returned, wiping a line of blood from his cheek from a bar fight that he hadn’t bothered trying to avoid. The beer and his previous injuries had made it interesting, but the guy he’d gone to talk to hadn’t minded the mess. Still no sign of Storm. He had intended to track down of this Yukio, but when it came down to it, he’d kept the letter hidden and the name unspoken. The hand of your enemies is moving. Be wary. The dusting of white coated his toes, sank cold through his sweats—chilling him. He ignored it, resting his chin on top of his arms as he stared into the icy darkness. A few stray flakes floated from the foamy sky, settling down in the black of his wild hair. He rubbed his forehead against a steady headache. His healing factor was still getting back on board, and it wasn’t happy at him for his drinking binge, or his lack of sleep. Logan lifted his head as something caught his ear—a slight rustle, the slightest shifting of movement. His eyes twitched towards the sound, but he didn’t move—his nose flaring for a scent. Ah. He lifted his head slowly. Emma Frost had stepped out of the shadows, and as he watched she moved forward and rested her forearms against the banister across the large banister. She hadn’t seen him yet, but in the darkness, she looked even more pristine than usual—even in her bathrobe. She didn’t seem affected by the cold, but leaned forward, bowing her head. Was it just him, or did the dim light from the clouds seem to catch in her hair in an odd way? It glimmered like light on a cut diamond. He frowned, squinting slightly, but then Frost looked towards him—seeing him for the first time. She pulled back, drawing her bathrobe close, and the moment was gone. “You,” she said, taking a few steps closer before leaning back onto the railing next to the stairs where he sat. “What’re you doin’ out here, Frost?” “I could ask you the same thing.” Logan grunted, looking forward into the darkness, but not taking his attention from the woman. He could smell her better, now—beneath the scent of flowery soap from a shower only hours before, she stank of flop sweat and the fading stink of fear. Looked like he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. “Since we’re both here, we might as well address the situation of Storm,” Emma said. “I know she’s missing; two minutes inside Cerebro and I could pinpoint her down to the inch.” Wolverine barely even glanced at her. “Heh.” When hell froze over, maybe. Frost moved forward, stepping down the steps so she was next to him. “What reasons do you have to mistrust me?” “Where to start?” Logan drawled. “Give me one. Be a pet.” “Kitty doesn’t like you.” She snorted delicately (Logan hadn’t known such a thing was possible).”You can’t dwell on that. It’s not like I blame her. We met on one of her first missions—and the X-Men’s first defeat since the beginning of her membership, I believe. But she doesn’t have to. None of them do.” “I ain’t like the rest a’ the X-Men.” “I know,” Emma said, raising her eyebrow slightly. “In fact, I wonder if the dispute between the Hellfire Club and the X-Men might have had a very different outcome if you had been on the team at the time.” Mighta saved Jeannie. The thought slipped through before he could stop it, but he squashed it as fast as he could anyway as he turned away to reset his expression. “Flattery’ll get ya nowhere.” “What about honesty?” Wolverine didn’t answer. Frost was shivering, but she pulled her plush robe closer; he could see her toes peeking out from beneath the pale white hem. What was she thinking, coming out here barefooted? He ignored the fact that his own bare feet sat on the step beneath him, burning with the cold. It was hardly the same thing. “Then let me be blunt. I’m not here to be liked, Wolverine. I’m here to get results.” Logan turned his gaze to her for the first time. “All right, then. What exactly are ya aimin’ for?” A pause. “We may not have gone about it the same way, but Xavier and I had the same goals.” “That’s exactly what Magneto said, darlin’—you ain’t exactly gainin’ ground with me here.” “Magneto is a crass tyrant seeking nothing but power and empty revenge,” Emma waved away. “True power? That requires more finesse. If mutants are ever going to be able to thrive as they should, we need an image. A voice. A platform.” “You sound like a politician.” “And if I do?” she said coolly. “Look at the Avengers. Two of them mutants, just like us, but with public opinion for them—completely different. You may help people by skulking about in the dark like you’re prone to, Wolverine, but it won’t gain their trust.” Wolverine looked forward. She was right. This wasn’t his kind of caper. Half the time he wasn’t even sure why he was still here himself. “So that’s what you’re putting your boy band team together for? Flashin’ them around in public?” “Once they’re ready, yes.” Logan fell silent. “Along that line, I’m also here to help you. ” “Take your help and stick it, Frost.” “Whether you like it or not, Logan, you’ve become the leader of this school. It only damages the cause when you go about threatening the Scarlet Witch and SHIELD officers. You’re used to being a loner, but you have to face the fact that what you do reflects on all of us—and that includes your recent decline. Your mind is fractured. It’s a marvel that you can operate as it is. In all reason, you should be a drooling mess—nothing more than an animal at best.” Logan stood—so quickly and smoothly that Frost blinked, taking a step back. Wolverine looked up at her. “Ya don’t know me, Frost. I don’t care what yer pickin’ up from my head, but I can tell you—ya don’t know me. This ain’t a recent thing—this ain’t new. I’ve been handling it for years, and I can handle it now. Even—” He stopped. He turned away. “Even Jean couldn’t handle it.” “But—” “Leave it, Frost.” Wolverine stalked into the house, leaving Emma Frost on the stairs alone. She unfolded her arms, but then looked back out over the dark, frosted grass—her face as unreadable as diamond. --------------------- Then: The woods were wild, cold—wet. The branches whipped at his bare arms as he fled, his breath tearing at his lungs, blood raining down his skin like rain—but he knew it wasn’t his. It was hers. He leaped over a stone ridge, landing on his feet like a mountain cat, and still running, even as he tasted blood in his mouth, and felt dampness run down his cheeks as the cold wind tore at his eyes. Pain gripped at his lungs—his heart. Ripping out his heart . . . Wolverine bore its teeth. He’d heal, he always did, and then— No. It was too late. He couldn’t heal from this, couldn’t heal . . . . He stopped, his feet sliding in sharp snow, and dropped to his knees. He turned his face upwards and roared. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!” It was an unnatural sound—inhuman, but too pained and tortured for an animal. It tore from his throat like a thousand claws, ripped through his chest like bullets, jerking him, tearing his soul to shreds. He slumped forward to the earth, his fists clenched, his arms freezing to the icy ground. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care. He just wanted to—just wanted to— —not care— He felt eyes on him, and he lifted his head wearily, numb, and saw the building in front of him. A bar? Lights sparked from its weakly spattering neon sign, blazing its name like lightning through the ice and snow. THE PROPHECY. No, not a bar . . . The apocalypse. When all secrets are exposed, an’ all runnin’ ends. Hell. Hell was coming. SKOFF! VRAUVRAAAVA! What was that sound? What was that sound? Hell, who cared? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more. Just numbness. VRAAAAVAVRRRAAVA! “Mr. Logan.” Someone was standing over him—he could smell him, smell the gun on him. Didn’t matter. He lifted his eyes, his arms limp at his side—too heavy to bother to lift. PHUP! A dart hit the side of his throat, flooding his blood with drugs, and he slumped over, not even trying to resist. Automatic rage fought to make him move. He hit something—someone groaned— but something struck his face, knocking him back. He felt his nose break, blood flood his throat. The drugs dragged him down. He couldn’t care, even as hands started to lift him. “Uhf. Help me with him.” “Yuh. He’s real heavy for just—a little guy.” Heavy for a little guy . . . . Why should he care? There was no reason to care. Not now. Not ever. He was just a freak. An undying disease that killed and never stopped killing. An illness without a cure. And if they wanted to kill him . . . hell, wasn’t that what he deserved? Do it. NO! a voice screamed in his head—wanting to rage, to rip, to kill them all and run and run and run—that the man who was now being lifted by the three intruders had no idea what he was about to face. What was coming was not peace at all—but the apocalypse. He sank . . . sinking down into darkness, sinking into oblivion and nothingness. ------------------------------ Wolverine jerked upright in the guest bed, gasping. Heather opened the door, holding her hastily-donned robe closed as she flipped on the light. “Wolverine?” Wolverine jerked to his feet, tearing out of the sheets and moving agitatedly towards the mirror on the wall. “No!” he snarled. He drew back a fist, and the mirror shattered into a million pieces. “GRRAARGH!” He slammed a fist back, smashing clean through the wall and sheetrock. “Wolverine!” Heather said sharply, alarmed. “NO!” he turned to her, his fists clenched, his teeth bared, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide and afraid, and as he slowly became more awake, he turned away, trying to stop himself from shaking from rage and the lingering pain of the dream. The pain—like a knife, but deeper, deeper—far deeper . . . Heal, dammit. Heal! GodohGodohGodohGod— Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. It was choking him, ripping him apart. He wasn’t healing! He bent, curling into himself and gripping his head against the phantom agony. But it was slipping away—slipping away into red, into madness. A hand reached out, touching his shoulder, and he flinched, choking on a snarl. Heather! He’d let it happen before. Let himself let go—rip into the trees, the earth: whatever got in his way. Had even let it happen, once, around the kid. But Heather was there. No defense, no place to hide or run. Smelling of worry. For him. He couldn’t let go. Wolverine fell onto his knees, baring his teeth and shutting his eyes tight as he fought the rage inside of him. Breathe. He breathed in a shuddering breath like a man starving for air. Had he been holding his breath the whole time? Felt he was breathing through a tube. Water pressing down on him. Claustrophobia like the weight of a thousand mountains bearing him down. A dream. It was just another freakin’ dream. A dream. His hands slid where they had tangled in his own hair and he opened his eyes, looking at his knuckles. They trembled as he resisted the wild urge to pop his claws and dig his way out. That feeling—it was like fire. Rage, is what his mind came up with, but it felt larger than the small word. It felt like blood, like claws, like screams. Like starving wolves ripping into one of their own in the winter—driven mad by starvation. Wild. An animal. Something berserk trying to break free. Fight it. Breathe. He slowly became aware that he was shaking—that Heather had an arm around him, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back. It made part of him sick, and he had to fight to keep from pulling away from her. It felt good, this touch. He lifted his head slowly, turning to look at her. Her hair was sleep-tousled, but her eyes were alert. Her expression was worried, but it began to change into something he didn’t like. It took him a second to think of the word: pity. He pulled away, climbing to his feet and turning away from her. He felt heavy: had he always been this heavy? The animal still snarled inside him, and he clenched his fists, still fighting it. Always fighting it. He had never noticed it before—in the wild—but now he felt it clear as day. “Wolverine, are you—” “Logan.” Heather stopped. “What?” “What they—called me,” Wolverine said haltingly, shutting his eyes. He breathed in again—the air was close and dusty. It smelled like books and distanced frost from beyond the windowpane. “Logan.” They’d taken him. They’d—taken him. All alone, taken him, and he hadn’t even fought. He hadn’t wanted to. Hadn’t cared. “Logan? You mean—that’s your name?” Wolverine felt a second wave of rage and popped his claws, slicing through the wall with a snarl. He hurt. Wolverine was no stranger of pain—far from it—but even the shadows of the dream made him want to fall down and never get up—to curl up and howl and never stop—to die, just so it would end . . . Wolverine fell, dropping to the floor and grabbing his head. Blood from his already-healed hands smeared his face. “Wolverine!” Logan. The feral man didn’t seem to hear her, but knelt there, tears running down his face and his fingers gripping his head as if he were trying to rip it open. Something foreign was clawing its way out of him, but it was no longer feral. It was grief—raw and broken, opening its eyes to a gaping wound he hadn’t even noticed. Some part of him awakening inside for the first time. Something human. “Why? !” the word was wrenched out of his throat, torn and bloodied in the air. “W-w-hy did they do this to me?!” Gentle hands touched him, and he made to flinch away, but Heather bravely didn’t let go of his bare shoulders. She pulled his head to her shoulder, not letting him pull away. She was warm—the touch of mankind strange, but good. Very, very good—so good that it enveloped him, crashing over him like a tidal wave—overwhelming him. And suddenly, it all came down. He sank into her hold, gasping at the unknown, foreign pain in his chest that wouldn’t go away. Tears falling from a man dead—for a man who he would probably never know. Tears ran down Heather’s cheeks and fell onto the top of his head. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just don’t know.” -------------------------------------------------- Had a bit of a rough time for a while there. I think part of me came back, when I remembered my name. Part of the old Logan, maybe. Realized that there had been something else before—somethin’ I’d probably never get back. But I got enough back to understand that I’d lost something—and that something wasn’t going to heal. Never has. And by now, it’s pretty clear it never will. Every day it seems I’m wakin’ up a new me. I’ve died a thousand times—not just from my heart stoppin’, but me. Changin’. See, some people get ta die, and once they’re dead . . . well, that’s when they finally get ta stop dyin’. Ya think about how temporary people are. Guess it comes with th’ territory of bein’ like me—you just wonder about how things can change soon’s you can bat an eye. Blowin’ out the candle, and you're gone. But that’s just it—bein’ human. I ain’t the only one ta die a thousand times. We all die. Every day you wake up someone new—maybe you don’t even notice the difference. Or maybe ya wake up and you realize the person you buried the day before’s a stranger—‘cause time changes a person. I bury myself every day, but there ain’t no funeral—no procession, no ceremony. Sometimes I wonder that in the future I’ll just bury myself away for good, and forget who I am now—I’ll be a stranger with my name. But ain’t that it? Isn’t that what already happened? The man that I once was is more dead than death itself. He’ll never come back. He’ll never even be remembered right like he would’ve been if he’d actually died. I look back at myself, just when Heather found me. A stupid animal: ignorant, wild, so different—just the same. He’s dead too. No one will ever look like him, think like him, act like him again. Mr. Logan, Logan—whoever the hell I was before—he’s more dead than I’ll ever be able to be. ---------------------------------------------------- He didn’t sleep that night. Heather stayed with him until he cried himself dry, and he pulled away reluctantly, feeling strangely fragile—like something had broken inside him, and Heather’s arms were the only thing holding him together. She didn’t talk—she seemed to realize that this was beyond words, until the minutes slid into hours and she murmured something he didn’t hear and headed back to bed. Wolverine—Logan—sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness. Logan. Logan. Logan. Logan. He didn’t stop repeating it. He repeated it in his head. Mouthed it silently, and whispered it in the darkness. Once he even said it out loud, but then immediately went still, the silence deader than before. It sounded strange in his voice. Strange in the darkness. Familiar, yet unfamiliar. Substantial as a dream, but a part of him as the dog tags that once again hung over his chest. Somehow, he missed those more than ever. When had he lost them? Sometime before the cabin. Before Heather. They had told him who he was. Wolverine. Logan. Logan, Logan, Logan. The name hurt—he hated it. Hated the sound of it, and wondered who else had said it to him. Mr. Logan. He shivered. How many times had it been said over him—a name, but not a name for a person? For a thing. But the name meant something more. It was his. They’d tried to take it away from him, but they couldn’t. His. An unexplainable wave of fierce satisfaction washed over him at that, but he couldn’t say why. Only that no matter how much it hurt, he was never going to let it go again. Would it feel the same tomorrow? Would he wake up to found it lost once again? He was afraid that if he let it go for a second it would disappear forever. Logan. But Heather knew. He’d told her. She would remember, even if he forgot. It was that thought that allowed him to shut his eyes at last as he laid back down onto the spare bed, pulling the homemade quilt up around him. It smelled clean, but not sharply sanitized. It smelled safe. Logan. Logan. Logan. Logan. TBC . . . . Edited by sniktsnakt, Sep 26 2011, 09:48 PM.
|
|
|
|
| LoganActor | Sep 18 2011, 09:36 AM Post #313 |
Plays Logan on TV!
|
EPIC-OSITY ACHIEVED!!!! Oh, sniktsnakt. You make my day so much better. Every time. I read the "Now" section yesterday, but had to drop out (due to stupid work) before I could start the "Then" section. It made for some interesting re-reading of the "Now" section after having 12 hours to ponder it. I think I'm going to start reading the sections a day apart. It's like two updates in one! So magical. The "Now" section totally punched me in my memory's face, and shot me back to the very early days of my infatuation with the X-Men, when I'd just discovered them. It was new, and yet familiar. I nostalgia'd hard. Thank you for that. The "Then" section was totally awesome. I felt a little like I was wandering inside Logan's head, but then also watching things happen on a screen. It was a totally visual experience for me. Fab-tastic! My only concern is that when I read this passage: "But the name meant something more. It was his. They’d tried to take it away from him, but they couldn’t. His. An unexplainable wave of fierce satisfaction washed over him at that, but he couldn’t say why. Only that no matter how much it hurt, he was never going to let it go again." I had an image of a Feral Logan in the woods, cradling a solid block of text, like the attached picture. My brain goes weird places....
|
|
|
|
| Cat | Sep 18 2011, 02:01 PM Post #314 |
Secret Agent
|
Is really sorry that I didn't comment on your last post, but did read and love it. Great to have you back. and a great update. Hugs Logan (and likes the scene in the last chapter with the firing range, especially remembering in comics what happened the last time Logan was on a firing range) |
|
|
|
| WolvieRules | Sep 21 2011, 07:00 AM Post #315 |
New X-Man
|
Really enjoyed the interplay between Logan and Emma. You have her spot-on, I can feel the coldness coming off of her in waves! When she says his mind is fractured and he should be a drooling mess, not much more than an animal, and his reaction, well, I applaud him for holding back, I think he shoulda socked her one! LOL...The part with Logan finding Bobby and Boom Boom in the closet, great! Logan not wanting to miss his window of opportunity to get drunk is funny! I love this line about the snow outside..."but enough to blanket the land with a chill of silence." Very nice. What is going on with Yukio and her warning? Can't wait... My favorite part is the Then parts. OMG. That dream, his remembering, Heather comforting him...amazing, and very moving. |
|
|
|
| PDA | Sep 22 2011, 12:59 PM Post #316 |
|
Secret Agent
|
Ohhh, sniktsnakt....you know how I feel about your work in this outstanding story. Your Logan is the one I want to read. Your Wolverine is the one that is so true to character...much more so than what's going on in most of the recent comics, anyway! I've posted elsewhere, but wanted to leave a note for you here also. Your writing is far and away better than anything else I've come across. Fantastic work! |
|
|
|
| WolvieRules | Sep 23 2011, 07:55 AM Post #317 |
|
New X-Man
|
Okay, I am repeatedly draw to this part: ~~ Had a bit of a rough time for a while there. I think part of me came back, when I remembered my name. Part of the old Logan, maybe. Realized that there had been something else before—somethin’ I’d probably never get back. But I got enough back to understand that I’d lost something—and that something wasn’t going to heal. Never has. And by now, it’s pretty clear it never will. Every day it seems I’m wakin’ up a new me. I’ve died a thousand times—not just from my heart stoppin’, but me. Changin’. See, some people get ta die, and once they’re dead . . . well, that’s when they finally get ta stop dyin’. Ya think about how temporary people are. Guess it comes with th’ territory of bein’ like me—you just wonder about how things can change soon’s you can bat an eye. Blowin’ out the candle, and your gone. But that’s just it—bein’ human. I ain’t the only one ta die a thousand times. We all die. Every day you wake up someone new—maybe you don’t even notice the difference. Or maybe ya wake up and you realize the person you buried the day before’s a stranger—‘cause time changes a person. I bury myself every day, but there ain’t no funeral—no procession, no ceremony. Sometimes I wonder that in the future I’ll just bury myself away for good, and forget who I am now—I’ll be a stranger with my name. But ain’t that it? Isn’t that what already happened? The man that I once was is more dead than death itself. He’ll never come back. He’ll never even be remembered right like he would’ve been if he’d actually died. I look back at myself, just when Heather found me. A stupid animal: ignorant, wild, so different—just the same. He’s dead too. No one will ever look like him, think like him, act like him again. Mr. Logan, Logan—whoever the hell I was before—he’s more dead than I’ll ever be able to be. ~~ Wonderful stuff, Sniktsnakt. Truly, you are a great writer. |
|
|
|
| 2 users reading this topic (2 Guests and 0 Anonymous) | |
Mine.jpg (97.75 KB)
|
|
| « Previous Topic · Short Stories and Poetry · Next Topic » |
3:44 PM May 22