Wolf Pursuit
Chapter 2
by
Paxnirvana
Author's Note: This is a continuation of my "Wolf Among Birds" movieverse continuity. Read that if you like first or just dive in here. I strongly recommend you at least read Wolf Pursuit - Part I first. Rating for violence, adult situations, and some bad words. I used to have a life. . .sigh . . .the X-Men have taken it over!
Acknowledgement: To my sweetie, for plotting mayhem with me in the kitchen. Thanks for entering my insane world for a little while. I'll come back out to play soon.
Disclaimer: The X-Men belong to Marvel, the Movie to 20th Century Fox. I don't want any money for this story. . . just a little rest!
Charles Xavier sat frozen in his office, a clenched fist held to his forehead. Jean Grey's frantic mental message still echoed in his head. Disaster. Once again one of his students - one of his children - had been taken and he had been powerless to stop it. He forced his hand to relax, to fall back into his lap as he took a deep breath.
Seated on a nearby couch, Scott looked up from the report he had been reading. "What is it, Professor?"
"Ororo has been taken from the museum."
"Jean? The kids?" Scott rose anxiously to his feet, his hands clenching into fists at his side.
"They're all safe. And well on their way back here," the Professor said with a reassuring glance. "It appears Ororo was specifically targeted."
"Could it be the Brotherhood?" Scott offered, folding his arms across his chest. "Most of their bodies weren't found. And we know at least Mystique is still alive." The Professor closed his eyes for a moment, seeking with his mind. The museum was outside his normal range, but he reached for it anyway with a swift, directed probe. He sought an echo, a glimmer of familiarity. There was none save that left by his student's presence. It was too long after the kidnappers had departed to pick up any sense of them, or their purpose.
"I don't believe so, this is something else," he said wearily, pressing two fingers to his forehead. "And we have a more difficult problem - we still have to tell Logan."
* * * * *
The Professor had called it the Danger Room. It was a huge echoing space carved into the bedrock far below the mansion. The walls were layered with movable panels, odd rooms and unexpected obstacles. It was computer controlled so that different conditions could be simulated: water, heat, cold, darkness, light. The room had grown from an interactive testing facility for determining the extent and attributes of mutant abilities to a kind of proving ground. The Professor used it primarily to help students hone their abilities with the goal of giving them better control. In the hope that better control would keep them from detection, so they could some day blend back in to normal human society.
With the current unrest caused by Magneto's aborted attack on the collected world leaders, it was more important than ever that mutants remained hidden from humanity's fear. Anonymity was the best protection so far. Graduation from the Danger Room meant you could re-enter human society, if you wished. It was a challenging test of control and skill.
Or, the room could just be programmed to try and kill you.
That made it Logan's favorite place.
When the Professor summoned him mentally, he was crouched in the shadowed center of the room, stripped to the waist, glaring at the mangled remains of a sophisticated fencing robot. His claws were extended from clenched fists and his body was streaked with sweat. He'd been in here for more than an hour, running through obstacles, overcoming traps. It was heady stuff. The human-shaped robot had been a surprise, though. He'd shredded it before he realized that it was inactive.
"Logan, meet us outside Cerebro, please." He shook his head, still uneasy about the Professor's mental calls. Though assured by the Professor that it was, in practice, a one-way transfer no different than the sound of his voice, Logan always felt a sense of invasion. After all, it was inside his head.
"Cancel program," Logan growled. There was an obedient chime and the lighting in the room returned to normal. Pillars and false walls dropped away, covers rolled across pits, and the broken robot descended slowly back through the hatch that had ejected it until the room was smooth and clear again. He shook the sweat out of his eyes as he waited for the room to re-set itself. Then Logan stalked toward the door. The area immediately outside held two short stairwells; one led to the Danger Room control room, the other to a small locker room with a shower. At the end of the hall loomed one of the omnipresent cylindrical elevators. He glanced at the elevator door, brow furrowed. The Professor didn't usually mind-call him unless it was urgent. He lifted an arm, sniffing experimentally, then shrugged, picked up his T-shirt from where he had dropped it by the door and tugged it back on.
If it was that urgent, they could just stand the reek.
* * * * *
He froze just outside the elevator, eyes narrowed as he took in the triptych of the Professor, Jean and Summers standing under the arch of the big vault-like door. Something was wrong - he could smell their fear. Summers had unbent enough that he'd actually put his arm around Jean in public. She had her forehead down on his shoulder, her hand resting against his chest. It looked as if she might cry.
"What's goin' on?" he snarled as he paced down the hall.
Jean lifted her head off Summers' shoulder, but didn't step away from him. As if she needed his support for some reason. Logan stalked up to them.
"There's been an . . . incident, " the Professor interrupted, his face grim.
"You're all scared shitless," Logan snapped, glaring around suspiciously. "What's the deal?"
"It's Ororo, Logan," Jean burst out. "At the museum, it was crowded, and . . . "
"What happened?" he growled, turning to face her fully, hands clenching ominously into fists. He'd known the field trip was a bad idea. Some of those kids had no brains. Hell, they were kids weren't they? They'd probably done something stupid and gotten her into trouble. Well, he'd get her out of it.
". . . I was shielding - I didn't even see them - and they took her," she finished in a rush, her eyes wide with guilt.
He didn't know he'd moved until he had her pressed up against the wall, one hand around her throat, the other fist near her ear, his eyes slits of rage. She gave a half-scream, her eyes closing tightly as she felt his knuckles brush her jaw. Summers was dragging at his arm, yelling at him to let her go, that it wasn't her fault. But all he could see was her guilty eyes.
"Enough, Logan!" The Professor's voice was stern and cold. And backed by the full force of his power. Logan released Jean and pivoted slowly, screaming inside the prison of his own head as Charles Xavier took over his body, bending it to his will. His body stopped, facing the man in the wheelchair. Jean wheezed for breath behind them, Scott's voice could be heard murmuring reassurances.
"Logan, I will hold you until you agree to listen, do you understand me?" Control of his head and his voice returned to him and he cursed bitterly. The Professor silenced him with a frown. "It was professionally done, Logan, by whom we do not yet know. However, reacting with violence will not help find Ororo."
Only then did he notice how sick and defeated the Professor appeared. "Yes, four of you in as many months, I'm beginning to wonder if we can ever succeed in peacefully coexisting with the world." Logan was released, stumbling forward as his body became his own again. He shrugged his shoulders hard, feeling the tension of rage in his neck and arms as he glared at Xavier.
"The world's out to fuck you, Chuck. The sooner you figure that out, the better."
"You're an animal, Logan," the furious Summers said, his arms protectively around Jean, his face behind his red glasses dark with anger. "Why the hell attack her? What kind of sick bastard are you?" Logan glared back, but the angry words cut deep. Truth hurt. He was a sick bastard. But all he could think about at the moment was finding the ones who had taken Ororo and slicing them open with his claws. Ororo.
"My guilt," Jean cut in, her face still pale, her voice shaky. "He could tell I felt guilty. I'm sorry, Logan." Logan didn't reply, lost in his bloody plans for revenge. Beside him, Charles Xavier winced.
"I'll use Cerebro to find her," the Professor said. "Can you keep from killing each other while I do so?" His piercing gaze cut through Logan, then toward Scott.
"Yeah," Logan snarled. Summers blew out an angry, exasperated breath but must have assented, because the Professor nodded at them both before turning his chair and guiding it out to the glittering silver helmet in the center of the room.
Logan stepped back from the door as it slowly closed, refusing to look at the other two. He knew he teetered on the edge of control. He could sense Jean's distress, her regret, her shame, but couldn't summon the will to care. Cyclops' anger he ignored. The Professor had found Rogue, and him and Jean - he'd find Ororo too.
* * * * *
Charles Xavier concentrated as he reached out to find one of the daughters of his heart. The power of the Cerebro system swirled around him, letting his mind glance over thousands of minds, across incredible distances. Normally this kind of precision search was impossible. But with his early students he'd gained their trust and permission to form a psychic bond. That tiny psychic thread still linked him to Ororo - it was that he would hopefully be able to track. Her life could very well depend upon it.
He sought for a long while, until even his prodigious energies began to flag. But he persisted, pushing his thoughts further and further away. He avoided the hive that was New York City and the other great metropolitan areas of the coast. The concentration of minds there made them dangerous places to search, and it was far more likely her captors would take her to a remote, secluded location than to a city. Especially if they knew she was a mutant.
Then, finally, he felt an echo - a flutter of horror along the thread he'd woven to her so long ago.
Small. Dark. No air.
Her thoughts were trapped on a tight inward spiral of fear. When she'd first arrived, they'd tried to face down this phobia of hers together, and had been unable to break it. Too much sorrow and loss welded it to her psyche. But they had made progress in controlling it. All of it now lost. She was being held bound in darkness, he could tell, in a tiny space. Too much longer under those conditions and she might shatter forever.
But he learned enough from that brief touch. He knew how to find her.
* * * * *
After nearly an hour, the great door slid open. Scott and Jean had withdrawn to the medical lab, keeping an eye on the door. Logan paced before it, his claws popping free occasionally as he moved, low growls coming from his throat.
The Professor looked pale and drained, his eyes dark with fatigue. Scott and Jean hurried up, hand in hand. Logan ignored them, all his attention focused on the Professor. "Did ya find her?"
"She's being held in the trunk of a car, heading in the direction of Niagara Falls," the Professor said wearily. Scott muttered angrily. Jean drew in a hissing breath, her words anxious, "Is she conscious?"
"Currently, yes," the Professor said, trading significant looks with her. Logan glanced suspiciously between them. "Why? She's okay at least," he said.
"Ororo has a pathologically intense fear of enclosed spaces. She's been awake for some while now. She is not. . .coherent."
"Whadda ya mean?" he snarled.
"If Ororo isn't released from that trunk soon, she may very well go insane."
* * * * *
It took nearly half an hour to get in the air. Every second became a torturous delay to Logan as he imagined Ororo's fear sending her beyond their help. Beyond his reach. The Professor had laboriously cross-referenced his mental map with real maps to pinpoint her last location. Summers readied the plane; Jean gathered various medical supplies. Logan changed into the black combat suit without argument. He found little irony in the fact that they'd had one made for him while he was gone. No more choking around the neck, but he still had to christen the gloves himself.
No one had balked at taking off in the middle of the day.
Summers eyed him darkly as he climbed into the co-pilot's seat. Logan glared back as he belted in, knowing it was her seat, daring Summers to say anything given the nature of their mission. Cyclops went on with his final checks, clearing the plane for take-off. Jean climbed aboard, closing the hatch behind her. As she took her seat, Jean signaled the hanger to open. The Professor had already called in all the students so the area would be clear.
The plane boosted elegantly free of its hidden hanger, lifting barely clear of the mansion before Cyclops sent it streaking north-west just above the trees, well below the broken clouds scudding across the sky.
"Kinda low, aren't you?" Logan looked out the window at the tops of trees.
"Better this way," Cyclops said with a grin sharp enough to pass as one of Logan's. "Locals can't track us so well, then. They blame the Airbase."
"How long?" Logan growled after several minute's flight.
"Ten minutes," Summers said, checking instruments. "That will get us ahead of them, find a clear place to land. We can disable their car. . ."
"No," Logan said, snapping his head around to glare at Summers. "Just open the hatch."
"You've got to be kidding. Drop on a moving car?"
"Easiest - your way they might spot us and run. Then what? Chase them in the plane? We'll have the Air Force on our asses so fast. . . "
"Quiet, both of you!" Jean snapped. Logan darted a surprised look at her. "I've got them - they're not that far ahead of us."
* * * * *
"Is that the one?" Summers asked, twisting to look at Jean for confirmation. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her hands pressed to the side of her forehead as she concentrated.
"Y-yes, the blue sedan ahead. She's in the trunk, like the Professor said. Oh! Ororo, we're coming!" The last was obviously a mental attempt to soothe the panic of their trapped teammate. With a snarl, Logan slapped his restraints free, lunging toward the back of the plane.
"Get us over there, Summers!" he yelled. Jean released her own restraints, moving forward clumsily against the motion of the plane. She put her hand briefly on Cyclops' shoulder, trading looks with him. "She's bad, Scott. Hurry." She took up station in the co-pilot's seat, looking down a the highway below.
"I'm coming down," Cyclops called back. "Slowing to match. They're going to hear the jets soon - the slower we go the louder they get." The plane bounced around more, jiggling from side to side as it descended. Logan leaned against the hatch, watching Jean avidly. She had her face pressed to the side window, watching for the car. She looked back at him finally, her expression concerned.
"They're right below us, but we're moving around too much - Scott?" she said, desperate. Logan growled, lifting up on the latch and rolling the door open. Air rushed in, buffeting him back. Jean clutched at her seat, thrown off balance. Summers cursed under his breath, struggling with the controls as the plane slewed sideways at the sudden drag.
"What the hell are you doing?" Cyclops shouted, darting looks between his controls, the window and the open hatch. Logan looked down, squinting against the rushing air. They were still too far behind, and off to the left of the car. It was a late model sedan, the curving roof offering no handholds, the sides no purchase. He popped the claws on both hands, clutching at the hatch frame as he watched for his moment.
Behind him Jean was yelling something that he ignored, lost as it was in the howling wind. Summers slowly guided the agile plane toward the car. The driver had spotted their approach. A white face flashed in the window and the car wavered in the lane before speeding up. Around it, other cars were falling back, swerving, honking in alarm, drivers pointing up at the strange actions of the plane. The ride steadied as Summers was forced to increase speed to catch the kidnapper's car. Logan saw his chance. Summers would overshoot, but there would be a brief moment. . . now.
Logan leaped from the open hatch of the hovering plane. Claws extended, he landed hard on the rear corner of the roof, driver's side. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent stars spinning in front of his eyes, but he immediately turned both wrists and punched straight down into the roof, holding himself in place. A small hole appeared in the metal near an arm, but he ignored the shot, dragging his fists toward himself, tearing two jagged gaps in the roof. He pulled his right hand free and slashed across the roof again, a piece falling inside onto the seat. He followed it down, ignoring the sharp metal that tugged at his thick leather uniform as he slid through.
Two men were yelling in the front seat, the driver trying to keep the car steady as the other took aim at their unwanted passenger. Another shot went past his shoulder, blowing out the rear door window, a third went lower, through his arm and into the upper corner of the seat. His vision flashed red. The trunk was behind that seat. She was back there. Trapped. He lunged forward, lips fixed in a snarl, a set of claws plunging through the back of the passenger seat, the other swiping across the gun. The shooter cried out sharply and fell silent. The scent of blood, hot and thick, filled the car. Logan sucked in half his claws and laid the still-glittering fist near the driver's throat.
"Stop or die," he snarled. The car slowed drastically, swerving off the road, finally coming to an untidy stop near a grassy ridge along the highway's edge. He glanced outside. A field of some kind rolled away into the tree line, beyond a shabby wire fence. Maybe space enough for the plane to land. The second set of claws vanished before he rabbit-punched the driver in the temple. Metal-reinforced knuckles sent the man reeling into unconsciousness, alive for later questioning. Logan dived out the back door, scrambling in the gravel at the road's edge for purchase. He had to get to her, get her out. He looked down at the closed trunk for an instant, trying to gauge size and probable placement. Then, with one claw, he carefully slashed the lock open.
The scent struck him hard as soon as he lifted the trunk lid. Pure fear. She was lying on her side, her arms pinned brutally behind her by cuffs the width of her forearms. Her eyes were closed to mere slits, her lips parted as she panted wildly. There was blood on her face, trickling down from the corner of her mouth.
He looked up, desperate for help. The sleek black plane was just settling in the nearby field, grass and dust shooting up around it from the jet backwash. She made no response when he reached in and lifted her free of her prison. He spoke as soothingly as he could around his rage. "I've gotcha, 'Ro, you're out now." He held her tightly, feeling no change in the rigidity of her body, the tension stretching her. It was as if she could no longer hear, or feel anything save the terror in her mind. He stumbled away from the car, looking down at the still woman in his arms. The grass on the roadside was thick and lush and amazingly free of trash. He laid her gently on her side, a shaking hand brushing the hair back from her face.
"C'mon, 'Ro," he all but begged. "Wake up, honey, an' look at me. You're outside, darlin'." The roar of the jet engines slowed, idling loudly, but not stopping. They'd need them hot to get away from here before any authorities showed up. He caught a glimpse of movement, glanced up, then back down at Ororo, his heart in his throat, his guts churning with terror. What if she never came back?
Moments before, Jean Grey had leaped from the plane's hatch, stumbling over tussocks of grass as she tried to keep an eye on their surroundings. No other cars were stopping yet, but traffic had slowed and curious faces stared back at her from car windows. There would be trouble later over this incident, she knew. She climbed nimbly over the wire fence, glad for the heavy leather of her combat uniform. Running toward the car, she started to change direction when she saw Logan leaning over the trunk. Then she came to an abrupt halt.
She stood frozen, staring in horror at the blood dripping out from underneath the closed passenger door of the car. Too much, it was far too much. For a human to lose that much blood could only mean. . . Peripheral motion startled her out of her daze, snapping her gaze back toward the trunk. Logan had lifted the silent Ororo free, cradling her gently in his arms, his expression pure agony as he looked down at her. He looked up at Jean then, a quick look of anguish and turned his back on the car. Stalking away, he found a portion of the roadside covered in thick grass and gently laid his burden down, careful to not strain her arms, pinned as they were behind her in wide metal cuffs. He smoothed the tangled hair back from her face carefully, his lips moving with soft words drowned out by the roar of the jet.
"Gotta get the keys for these things," he shouted, lifting his head and turning his blazing gaze back on the car. Jean held up a restraining hand but dropped it back down when he whirled on her.
"Get over here and check her out," he yelled, running toward the car again. Jean shuddered but went to Ororo's side, kneeling beside her. She was pale and clearly in shock, her pulse thready and fast, but she seemed otherwise whole. No obvious wounds or bruises. Jean looked up as Logan dropped back down beside her. She could see splashes of something on his leathers, but ignored it for now, reaching for the key he silently presented. Jean fumbled the heavy cuffs free as they both eased her onto her back. Ororo let out a small gasp, her eyelids fluttering for a moment, but didn't respond further. Logan's hand rested against Ororo's cheek briefly, and Jean turned away, her eyes stinging at the tenderness of the touch, to unlock the cuffs around her ankles.
Once Ororo had been completely freed, Logan thrust a lumpy bundle of cloth at Jean. It was clear he expected her to take it, his expression fierce. She caught it to her chest, standing back as Logan gathered Ororo into his arms, rolling her head carefully onto his shoulder. With an impatient jerk of his head, he gestured for Jean to proceed them up the small slope to the waiting plane.
* * * * *
The man woke to the deafening roar of a jet engine nearby. Lifting his head with a groan, he looked up, confused by the image of the deadly black plane rising straight up before his eyes. That plane had been in his rearview mirror before, he thought blearily. Then he smelled it. Blood. Fresh blood.
Looking to his right, he had to suppress a quick lurch of his stomach. Smith was dead. The man who had come through the roof had stabbed him through the side and chopped his gun-hand off with metal blades. He raised his hand to his own throat, wiping away a thin line of blood from his skin. Their attacker had even cut him before knocking him out. Why he wasn't dead, he didn't know. Sloppy work, but lucky for him.
He slid out of his seat, through the open door beside him. His coat was gone, his weapon was gone, his phone was gone; was everything gone? He looked back. The trunk stood open, the lock cut away. Yes, even the contract was gone. Stumbling around to the passenger side, he opened the door. Smith's body fell out onto the verge with a soggy thump. He dragged it around to the back, lifted it and dumped it inside the trunk. Walking back to the passenger side, he reached to close the door, saw the severed hand on the floor, picked it up and pitched it in the trunk as well. Then he slammed the passenger door closed. The trunk was harder to close, but he finally managed to wedge it shut with the twisted remains of the lock. Not pretty but it worked.
The shredded hole in the roof was rather conspicuous as well. He'd have to ditch the car right away. He climbed back into the driver's seat. The contract'd had friends, apparently. Powerful ones. It was time to check in with his superiors for further instructions. Without another glance at the torn and blood-soaked seat beside him, he drove away. North.
* * * * *
Jean stood near the examination table, her white coat clutched close about her. Scott stood silently behind her, a hand on her shoulder. "There's nothing else I can do," Jean said wearily. "She simply won't wake up."
"Outside, she's gotta be outside." Logan breathed hard, staring down at the woman on the table, lying so still. She seemed vulnerable without the force of her personality animating her. He remembered her crying out against 'the small' in his arms on the plane and winced. Her voice had been high and frightened, like a little girl's.
The Professor rolled up to the head of the table and placed his hands beside her head. He closed his eyes as he said, "Later, I will try to lead her out first."
* * * * *
She heard him even through the darkness - his pain, his anguish. It puzzled her. He seldom admitted to any emotion other than rage. She drew a deep breath, and a warm spark started in her mind, leaping along a thread long forgotten. Memories of sun and sky and wind filled her mind, driving out the darkness, the smallness. She remembered flying. She remembered freedom.
She remembered him.
"Logan," she sighed, opening her eyes. But it was the Professor leaning over her, his kindly face papery and drawn with exhaustion. He slowly lowered his hands from beside her head. She was in the infirmary. Lying on an examination table.
"Welcome back, Ororo," he said, a gentle smile of relief on his face.
"Professor," she smiled back tentatively, her voice little more than a whisper. "What happened?"
"'Ro!" Then he was there, dropping to his knees beside the table, taking her hand carefully in his own and looking down at it. He took a deep breath, then lifted his head again, looking into her eyes searchingly. "You okay?"
"Logan, yes, I believe so," she said cautiously. She yawned widely, her eyes drooping. The Professor drew back with a satisfied smile on his face. Logan shot him a puzzled look, but quickly returned his attention to her. "We got 'cha back, darlin'," he said, his voice husky. "You're safe now."
"I know," she murmured, her eyes fully closed as her voice trailed away. "You're here. . ."
The Professor put his hand on his shoulder, indicating the sleeping woman with a nod of his head. "Don't worry, it's normal sleep now. After such stress, her mind needs to recuperate. Let her rest, Logan." He smiled again, reassuringly. "She's going to be fine."
* * * * *
He went upstairs to her room. If he stayed in the lab, he knew his restlessness would soon disturb her. He was terrible at waiting.
Logan wandered through her room, looking at it closely for the first time. There was little inside it, save the bed, a single nightstand and a small, paper-laden desk and chair near the window. Most people who stayed in one place for a while filled their space with stuff. Ororo's room was nearly bare. Only two pictures adorned the walls. One was a panoramic black-and-white photograph of the African savannah. Herds of wildebeest and zebra and giraffe were running wildly across the scene, a lone mountain looming in the background. It was only after looking closely that he caught sight of the lions running among the stampeding herds. The faded photographer's stamp in the corner said 'D. Munroe'. The other was a famous full-color photograph of the earth taken by the Apollo astronauts from space. It showed the south-eastern portion of the globe, Africa looming large on the bulge of the equator. The earth seemed to shimmer with life in the image, blue-green and vital under small patches of clouds. Only the central core of Africa was brown.
He turned away from the pictures. She lived lightly. Here, maybe, but he'd also been inside her greenhouse. That was a joyous explosion of plant life, lush and beautiful, and as busy as her own room was plain.
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking around. Her scent was everywhere, mingled only faintly with his own. They smelled somehow right together. Where had this come from, he thought suddenly, this need for her, for anyone else. He'd been a loner for a long time. Hiding out. Keeping a barrier between the world and himself.
Rogue, maybe, had broken the barrier with her innocent need. Then Jean had reminded him of desire. But Ororo challenged him, made him think as well as lust. It was a potent combination, and a terrifying one.
* * * * *
In the lab, Jean set the bundle Logan had given her down on the table near where Scott leaned against it. It was a man's coat, bloodstained on one side, wrapped around several items. Jean unfolded the coat after touching a gloved hand thoughtfully to the blood stain. Inside were two handguns, several full ammunition clips, two wallets, a cell phone, a pager, and a small device with a flat screen on it. Shuddering at the guns and clips, she pushed them toward Scott. He was also gloved and picked up a gun carefully. He checked the safety, relieved to find it on, then quickly checked the other weapon. It's safety was also engaged. She picked up the small device, examining it curiously. There was a power switch. Without thinking, she turned it on. A map-like display lit up and it immediately began a rapid, yet muted beeping.
Alarmed, Scott came around the table. "What's that?" he asked.
"I don't know, looks like a map. And it kind of looks like the lab."
"How can that be?" he said, confused. Jean shrugged, peering intently at the screen. "Wait, there's a light flashing here, with some code numbers next to it." She lifted her head, looking curiously across the room. On the far side, shielded behind a drawn curtain, her friend Ororo lay sleeping. "Does that look like the exam table to you?" Her slender finger touched a rectangle under the flashing light. Scott shrugged, examining the contents of a wallet. Jean took an experimental step around the table, watching in fascination as the map shifted on the display.
"It must be some kind of low-level sonar or something," she said, walking slowly around. "What a clever device." No matter how she turned it, or where she went in the room, the indicator remained fixed over the rectangle holding Ororo. Finally she walked over to the bed, pulling the curtain slowly aside. Looking down, she saw her friend asleep on her side, the blanket pulled loosely to her shoulders, a hand lying limp on the table. Metal gleamed at her throat. Curious Jean leaned over, drawing carefully on the chain. The soft beeping grew faster, more insistent. She lifted Logan's dog-tags into the open, staring down at them in horror. Scott came up beside her, glancing quickly from the tags to the device.
"It's a locator," he said grimly. "They didn't want her at all. They wanted him."
* * * * *
It was just the two of them, as if Jean hadn't been the real witness. He supposed someone had to stay with Ororo until she woke up and it might as well be the doc. Summers was standing beside the Professor's desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression hard. The Professor looked at him sadly. "Logan, about the mission. . . "
"Jean said you butchered one of the men." Cyclops interrupted, his voice hard, his stance screaming righteous anger.
Logan's claws snapped out. He brandished his fists toward them, his face frozen in a snarl. "What do you think these things are fuckin' for, moron? Pickin' my teeth? I'm a killer." The claws snapped back again, the wounds their retreat had left already healed. But the wounds Cyclops' angry words had left would take longer to heal.
"Scott, a moment, please," the Professor said. Cyclops subsided, his expression mutinous, his stance rigid. "Logan, our struggle at times takes on the aspects of a war, but our ultimate goal is peaceful coexistence."
"Tell that to the ones that keep comin' here, after us." He lifted his head defiantly, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, ready for action. "Your buddy Magneto, that teleporter, now these human jerks. What's next, them?" He gestured to the upper levels, toward Charles' precious students. The Professor subsided with a worried frown.
"Jean and I examined that bundle you took out of the car," Scott said, stung that Logan had managed to give his mentor pause. "The identification was fake, but had real fingerprints on them - enough for me to identify. They're mercenaries. Someone had given them a tracer to follow a signal coming from your dog-tags. She was taken by mistake, Wolverine. They were after you."
Scott took a half-step back in shock. The look in Logan's eyes was pure devastation. Scott felt a twinge of guilt. Had he gone too far? But the look lasted only a moment before it was replaced with rage.
"I get the picture, Summers," he snarled. "Consider me gone." Then he turned and slammed out of the room. Scott and the Professor exchanged looks.
* * * * *
It didn't take long to gather up his things. He didn't have much. The hard part was saying goodbye to a place that had suddenly become more home than he could ever remember having. Rogue he avoided. He couldn't face the disappointment he knew he'd find in her eyes. Most of the students knew something was wrong - the plane had taken off in the middle of the day - but they didn't know specifics. They avoided him on principle. The really hard part was going down to the infirmary. He knew she was still sleeping but he had to see her one more time.
Jean was waiting for him inside, dressed in her doctor outfit, her arms crossed.
"Take care of her, Jeannie," he said gruffly. She stared at him in concern, eyeing the pack on his shoulder as he walked past her to the curtained-off bed. She remembered the blood, yet she also remembered the look of pain on his face when he tenderly lifted Ororo out of the trunk. To his surprise, she stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
"Away." He shrugged out of her grasp, not looking at her. He glanced at the curtain, his expression grim. "They seem to be after me. So I'm leavin'."
"Why didn't you kill both of them, Logan?" she asked, her voice quiet.
"For what it's worth, I only kill if I have to. That one fired at me, at the trunk. He coulda hit her."
"Oh," she said, her expression strained. He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye, then brushed past the curtain. Jean leaned back against a table, lost in thought.
She was still sleeping, her face smooth and serene. Jean had brushed the tangles out of her hair, so it fell in a cascade of white over the edge of the bed. His breath caught for an instant as he looked at her. What business did a killer like him have with a goddess anyway? She'd wise up soon enough. It was better he leave now. He leaned over, closing his eyes as he pressed a kiss to her temple. As he straightened, he caught a gleam of metal at her throat. His tags. He gently removed them, clutching them tightly in his fist as he turned away.
Now there was nothing of his left behind. Except maybe his heart.
* * * * *
She woke to find Jean smiling gently down at her. "Hey," her friend said.
"Hey," she replied, stretching tentatively. She was stiff, but felt strangely refreshed. Then she realized she was in the infirmary. That last memory hadn't been a dream then - the Professor leaning over her, Logan at her side. She sat up then, looking around. It was just the two of them.
"How do you feel?" Jean asked, ever the doctor. She sat up, looking down at the odd bruises around her wrists curiously. Memory returned in a rush. The sinister men in the museum, the injection, the stumbling walk to the car. The painful cuffs on her wrists. The trunk - she shied away from memories of darkness and fear. Logan's anguished face. The inside of the plane. Then here. She'd expected Logan to still be here, pacing anxiously until she'd woken up.
Her hand crept up to her neck, feeling for the reassuring presence of his tags. They were gone.
"I'm okay now," she said, slipping off the table, a puzzled look on her face. She looked at Jean whose glance slid away from her neck. "Where are they?" Jean shifted uneasily, a faintly guilty look crossing her face.
"Logan took them. When he left." She raised her eyes to her friend's, seeing trouble there. "He left?" she repeated, surprised. Pain could come later.
"A lot has happened, Ororo. I'd better explain."
* * * * *
The tableau in the Professor's office was a familiar one, with one slight exception. It wasn't Logan doing the pacing. Outside, the sky had darkened with gathering clouds. Jean, Scott and the Professor watched the pacing woman with just as much trepidation as they'd watched Logan earlier. She was acting shockingly out of character, she knew, but then she seldom got this mad.
"How could you?" Ororo snapped at Scott, her expression fierce. "He risks his life for us more than once and you treat him that way? What is your problem?"
"Ororo. . ." he began. But she whirled around, leveling a finger at him.
"No, Scott, I'm sick of your male posturing. You two are too much alike, that's why you don't get along."
"I'm not like him!" Scott said, surprised.
"Go ahead and tell me you wouldn't kill if Jean was threatened. I won't believe you." She stopped before him, her arms crossed across her chest, glaring up at him. Her eyes were filming slightly, but still dark and angry. Thunder rolled outside.
"I - I don't know, Ororo," he admitted under that searing gaze.
"If the need was real, you would - as his need was real," she said harshly. "He didn't kill them both, Scott." Then she turned to the Professor and Jean.
"I'm going to find him," she said, daring them to contradict her, to argue. Neither said a word.
* * * * *
The clouds had been rolling in for more than half an hour now. Thick, black ominous clouds that flashed lightning inside. Low rumbles of thunder resounded off the trees. Just what he needed, Logan thought bitterly, a good drenching rain.
The bike he'd ridden back from Canada was a piece of shit. He knelt beside it at a wide spot in the road, tinkering with the fuel line. It had up and quit on him only minutes ago. He'd been tempted by Summer's new bike, but the thought of taking anything of that righteous bastard's turned his stomach. Unfortunately, he wasn't far enough from the school for his peace of mind.
The wind began to pick up, scattering leaves and trash around him. He swore and brushed grit out of his eyes. Giving up on the fuel line for now, he stood, glaring down at the bike. Lightning flashed low behind him, searing the air. He whirled, braced for trouble.
And there she was. Ororo.
Her hair was lifted around her, her eyes glowing white. Beautiful and dangerous. His heart lurched painfully in his chest and he swore again. Thunder crashed.
"How dare you?" she called her arms spread wide to the wind.
He snarled back against his pain, his desire. "It was fun while it lasted, darlin'."
"Coward," she sneered.
"Yep," he replied. "When it comes to your life."
"How dare you?" she cried again, her face dark. Lightning flashed close, thunder hard on it's heels. The air itself shook. "It is my life to live!"
"They were after me - and they got you instead!"
"But they did not keep me," she said, walking toward him slowly. He watched her approach with mingled need and anger. "You and the others brought me back."
"Next time they might kill you."
"Again, it is my life to risk, Logan." She was only a few feet away. The white had faded from her eyes, but the wind still lifted her hair about her like a veil. He clenched his fists at his side.
"I'm a killer," he spat, waiting for revulsion to cross her face.
"So am I," she replied.
"Bullshit," he snarled, taking an urgent step toward her.
"Every storm, every hurricane, every disaster of weather that kills is heavy on my soul." Her face was bleak, her eyes haunted.
"Are you kiddin' me?" He stepped all the way to her, his hands closing over her slender shoulders. She closed her eyes at his touch. The lightning had stopped, but dark clouds still loomed overhead.
"I can stop them, Logan," she said, her voice shaking with pain. "I can control them, ease their fury. But I can't be everywhere, I can't stop all of them. Every day people die that I could have saved."
He was stunned. He'd never imagined she considered her power in such a light.
"That's just crazy, 'Ro," he said gently, drawing her against his chest. She slipped her arms around him, holding him tightly.
"You killed to protect someone else, Logan," she said. "I kill from neglect."
"No, no," he muttered into her hair, holding her tightly. "That's just too much, darlin'. You can't take the weight of the world on your shoulders like that."
"I know," she said softly. "But it's always there in the back of my mind. So I treasure life around me, doing my best to preserve what I can. I understand nature, I know the cycle includes death. And I am learning to live with it."
"Christ, you scare me lady," he said shakily. She shifted in his hold but he didn't let her pull away. They stood like that for a long while as the clouds slowly broke up over them. Night was falling, the sky bright with streaks of red and purple on the tattered clouds. Finally she lifted her head.
"Stay," she said simply. He looked down into her eyes, searching their dark depths. Then he lifted a hand and gently brushed a strand of pale hair back, his expression somber.
"Okay."
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