He was surrounded by water. Something was on his face. No matter how hard he tried, he could not break free.

No.

They were all around him. All those dispassionate eyes. All those masks. Their knives gleaming in the lights from above. He struggled. He knew what they were going to do.

No.

The pain was incredible. They kept coming. They kept cutting. His breathing was coming in gasps. He could not move. His bones seared with agony.

No.

He was no longer in the water. There was nothing holding him. He saw a dark figure above him. One of them. He lashed out in fear and anger. But the face on the end of his blades was not wearing a mask. This was a young face. This face was beautiful. This face was full of surprise. This face was dying.

"NO!"

He awoke to the sound of his own voice. The walls of the motel were all that greeted him. His sheets were drenched with sweat. Rising, he padded softly into the bathroom and turned on the harsh light. The mirror revealed his dark, handsome face. The circles under his eyes were fading. No scars, marks, or clues were ever left on his skin to show his past or what he was going through. No one really knew him, not even himself.

Fifteen years ago he woke up with almost no memory to speak of. His name was Logan, he knew that. Although, to be honest, he did not truly know if this was a first name or a last name. The dog tag he found on the chain around his neck said Wolverine. Wolverine: a carnivorous solitary mammal of the weasel family noted especially for its strength and ferocity. He had looked it up in a dictionary, once he found out he was a human being and could read.

He sighed. The mirror was not offering anything else, so he relieved himself, grabbed his few belongings, threw on his clothes, and headed out the door. The motel disappeared from view as he and the motorcycle sped down the road.

His mind drifted as the stripes in the road ticked by. He had been in a routine. The fights in the bars were a release. His frustration at not finding out anything had been taken out on the poor bastards that entered the cage with him. He did not feel sorry. They had come in for a good fight and left knowing that fighting can leave you hurting. He had no qualms about teaching them a lesson. He was different than they were. They were truly human. He was a mutant, a freak. Chuck liked to think humans would accept mutants and become open to relations with them. He had no such pretty illusions. He carried the results of the scientific experiments that a few of these humans had done to him. He shook his head. Don't go there.

He spotted a diner up the road. His stomach responded. Should he stop? He didn't really want to. He needed to get back. He needed to take the bike back to Scott. He wanted to talk to Chuck about the nightmares. He wanted to see how she was doing. His recurring dreams left him wondering if he was having a premonition of some sort of danger. Could she be in danger? He stopped at the diner to collect his thoughts and satisfy his appetite.

Marie.

He had met her in that last bar. She had a child's face, but a woman's ability to cause trouble. He grinned. She had made an impression. He did not know it then, since he had been preoccupied with a fight. But he did remember being startled to see such a sweet face in that dismal scene.

One greasy meal and a few hundred miles later he was closer to his destination. Within a couple of hours he would be there. Why was his mouth dry? He stopped on the side of the road in a wooded area. He pulled the bike out of view and quietly took in the smells and sounds around him. Most people were blind. All this beauty. All this life. Even he had not appreciated it until he met her.

At first, he had survived. Then he had learned. Then he knew he was human. Then he found out horribly that he wasn't. Then he couldn't live with it. That had been the worst. How many ways are there to kill yourself? How many ways had he tried? How many times had he come to, only to find that he was as he had been. Exactly. No difference. Only in more pain. The dog tag had offered the only clue so he poured his energy into that. Would he find out what he was, who he was? After a while, it really hadn't mattered. He just wanted some answers. Who cared what questions the answers raised. He had been blind. He had wallowed in his obsession, not seeing what was around him. All he had found out was that he knew how to fight and he knew how to survive. But he did not want to survive. He wanted to find out or die. He didn't care which at that point.

When he woke that night, fresh from a nightmare and lashed out with his claws, stabbing through her chest, he had panicked. Had he killed her? The familiar scent of blood was in the air. He had taken the lives of others, why was she different? Because he found he cared. He cared and now he was killing her. He remembered thinking this couldn't happen, someone had to help, someone had to reverse this mistake he had made. Her sweet face had smiled as if to say it was ok. She had gently placed her hand on his face. That was when it had happened. The changing point in his life. He had finally met death. He was given a glimpse of what kind of permanent peace he could have and it had scared him. Scared him back to life, really. That touch had given him the knowledge that he wanted to live.

Sure, on the statue, with her in his arms, not breathing, her heart beats slowing to nothing, he had faced death again. This time it was different. He had given her all he had. It was ok to die if he could help her. Give her a gift in return for the one she had given him; life. She had survived. He had, too.

He left when Chuck had given him his first solid lead. His ache to know rearing its ugly head. The building had been abandoned. Nothing tangible was left. There was a faint taste of a memory, though. Grey walls. The whispers of claw marks were in those walls; a ghost of a chance that he had been in the building, but, as always, nothing really solid.

He kicked the motorcycle back to life. Onward: that was his goal now. He was not human. His past was not available to teach him what he was so he would start again as he had before. He would not lay down and die, he would survive. He could make a difference to her. He could help find a future for the other kids. His life could have new meaning.

The lights of the mansion came in to view. He had forgotten how big it was. The doors opened under his touch and he smiled fleetingly. In the hallway was an impressive figure waiting in a wheelchair.

"I felt your presence."

He cleared his throat. "It's been a long day, Chuck. Thanks for the lead, but in the last two weeks I have gotten exactly nowhere. I brought Scott's bike back so he won't have a cow."

Charles Xavier smiled. Knowing how much Logan valued privacy, Charles shied away from reading his thoughts. He knew Logan would tell him in his own time what was going through his mind.

"I'm sorry to hear that the journey wasn't fruitful, but I am happy to see you come back. You are staying for a while, aren't you?"

Logan's mind skipped back over all the thoughts he had on the road here. He could not leave without knowing she was ok, could he? He could not leave a place where he might be able to help, could he? He would not turn his back on the future she could have if he protected her and was there for her, would he?

No.

"Yes," he replied.

Maybe someday he would tell her what kind of a difference she had made in his life. Someday.