Chapter One: Awake

New fallen snow carpeted the mountainous landscape in a white sheet that sparkled under a moon edging between dark, bloated clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled once and an animal cried out in the moment of death. At the edge of a frozen lake, a half dozen buildings surround by a chain link fence topped by razor wire, looked dilapidated and long deserted. Broken down military trucks further lent an air of neglect and abandonment. But appearances were purposefully deceiving. In the basement of a long, one story cinder-block bunker, computers and other equipment hummed in a neat and sterile environment. Half a dozen technical personnel went about business, quiet and orderly, checking computer hardware and program output on monitors. One man wearing a white lab coat paused to study a satellite image.

"Close-up on image in quadrant L2, Miss Edwards," he requested.

"Yes, sir," his assistant answered and used the mouse to draw a square around the specific area. The computer screen clicked to the area and centered, bringing into focus a man, his eyes and face frozen in an expression of serious intent. "Who is he?"

"Ah, that is the question, Miss Edward, that even he doesn't know." He raised his voice just a bit, enough to catch his team's attention. "It is time, my friends, to finally see the face of freedom. He is the key," Doctor Kirby said. "Freedom from fear of mutant persecution."

A few techs gathered around to get their first look at the weapon that they had worked so hard to reconstruct. Many of them had left lucrative jobs to work for Kirby and the doctor appreciated their dedication. In the process of choosing his select team, he had screened each applicant thoroughly. All of them, he made certain, had suffered or had a loved one suffer under a mutant's power. Those he had hired understood that due to the nature of their project, security around the secret of their agent would be kept until the moment of deployment

Kirby felt that moment had arrived.

"Weapon-X is... impressive, doctor," said Miss Edwards. "He is not what I expected." The woman adjusted the glasses on her nose and licked her lips. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun as severe as the cut of her gray suit.

"What did you expect, Miss Edwards?" Doctor Kirby asked and took note of the slight flush in her cheeks. It wasn't hot in the room, just the opposite. All the computer equipment needed to be cooled.

"I expected a more brutal appearance. He appears intelligence and that makes him more dangerous." She tapped her fingernails on the keyboard. "A pity we can't meet him in person."

"Weapon-X's civilized exterior is only a veneer; he is a tool, a living tactical weapon with the appearance of a man. This satellite photo was taken this afternoon in Professor Xavier's School for the Gifted. He is in a perfect location for initial deployment," Kirby said and smiled. Thick eyeglasses magnified his benign expression and his avuncular smile was one a child would trust. "All my anti-mutant colleagues were going about mutant elimination the wrong way."

"Find a mutant to execute the rest," Miss Edwards said with approval in her tone.

"Exactly. My uncle found the perfect mutant, one that could survive the required operations, but my uncle made one lethal mistake. He underestimated Weapon-X's ferocity and strength and paid the ultimate price. I won't make the same mistakes he did. Weapon-X will never know what is happening to him or by whom. All our contact with him must be by remote only, with his mutant senses it is important that he can't see our faces or identify our scents." A year ago, when Doctor Kirby first stumbled upon his uncle's technical journals and tapes in an old box, he realized he held the salvation of mankind in his hands. The journals were damaged, some slashed to ribbons and splattered with his uncle's own blood. Kirby had some problems reading them and the tapes needed restoration. The expense and effort to restore the tapes were worth the trouble; what he saw both frightened and thrilled him and gave his life new direction. It had taken him six months to rebuild this lab on the ruins of the old lab. After that, it took Kirby another three months to locate Weapon-X, and when he found him he couldn't be more pleased.

"Should I run another simulation?" Miss Edwards asked, her fingers moved nimbly over the computer keyboard. "I have Professor Xavier's mansion plans and grounds layout downloaded."

Kirby tapped a finger on his chin and stared at the image of Weapon-X. "No. Are all the necessary software and hardware upgrades in place?"

"Yes, sir. The revisions have been completed and complied successfully into existing code and all A.I. simulations have executed as predicted."

"Kill rate in the simulations?" Kirby asked.

"Averaged over ten scenarios, sir, KR is 99%," Miss Edwards answered. "Would you like me to bring up the data?" "Not necessary, Miss Edwards. Tonight we bring Weapon-X online. We're going live people," Professor Kirby turned and announced to the techs in the lab and a subdued cheer arose. They all had been working hard for this moment, the moment of truth when they would know if their world would at last be safe from mutants. "Miss Edwards, let's wake up Weapon-X and apply stimulus at one quarter. Let's see what he can do."

"Is that wise, sir? We should run through a few more tests...."

"You're second guessing me, Miss Edwards," Kirby mildly reprimanded his assistant. She was a good assistant, asked few questions, usually did as she was instructed and unlike his other half dozen assistants, she was pleasant to look at. "Even the most detailed computer simulations cannot substitute for real data. Let's see what we can do with mild stimulus."

"You're correct, sir, I apologize." Her fingers tapped on the keyboard.

"Tech, bring Weapon-X's retina camera online," Dr. Kirby ordered. He clasped his hands together and put a calm façade on his excitement. His uncle had spent years working on this project; he wished he could tell the man that his dream would finally find fruition.

"Yes, sir," replied a young computer techie sitting in a swivel chair at a bank of system. "Executing programs. Programs in run state."

The screen displaying the retina camera feed remained blank, that was to be expected Kirby knew, their subject would be sleeping.

"Thank you. Miss Edwards, you may proceed to bring up Weapon-X's neural controls."

"Executing," she said and typed in the final keys, then quoted Virgil "Let us die even as we rush into the midst of the battle. The only safe course for the defeated is to expect no mercy."

"You misquoted. Isn't it 'expect no safety'?" Kirby asked with a slight amused tilt to his lips.

"Not in this instance, doctor" she replied with an arch of one eyebrow.

---

He opened his eyes and found himself surrounded and suspended in a warm, viscous liquid contain a glass-like tank; a breathing tube tape into his mouth force-fed him oxygen. Dozens of attached tubes snaked off his body, and like snakes he could feel their teeth locked deep inside his flesh.

"He's conscious. What are his vitals!" barked a voice.

"Stable," replied a female voice, the rest of her reply drowned out in a hum of machinery.

"Very good. Begin the feed."

His whole body spasmed and he tried to gasp, the breathing tube stifling his cries. Exquisite pain painted his world red and seared through his entire body like a blazing inferno that charred every nerve ending. A blurry figure wearing hospital scrubs and a surgical mask bent over the tank, they held a long hypodermic needle.

"Cardiotach?"

"High. Higher than we expected and rising."

"Up the pheno-B two points... no make that one. We don't want him to have beans for brains."

"Resistance, sir."

"Compensate and increase feed."

Liquid metal seemed to rush through his body, hardening it and turning it to a pillar of living steel.

"AAAAHHHHHHH!" Logan shouted and jackknifed up in his bed. A sound like a gunshot cracked over his head.

SNIKT!

Six adamantium claws slid from Logan's hands and he rose up to his knees and lashed out. His right claws hooked into the wall and slashed through the drywall like paper. He stumbled from the bed and slashed at anything in his way. His claws ripped blanket and sheets into thin streamers. Spinning around, he slashed blindly, splintering a chair and ranking the claw points through the wooden closet doors. Outside, a crack of lightening lit the room to daylight brightness.

The sound had been lightening, not a gunshot.

Crouched, naked and panting in the middle of his room, Logan stared wildly into the darkness and realized he was alone. Outside, another crack of lightning lit the room before it plunged into darkness once again. He retracted his claws and breathed in deeply of the familiar smells... yet there was something off about the smell, some underlying change that he couldn't define. The peculiar scent faded. Perhaps it was nothing more than a phantom of his nightmare. He looked around the destroyed room. Jean and Storm weren't going to appreciate his interior decoration techniques.

"Shit," he mumbled, stood and retracted his claws. "I'm losing it."

Maybe it was the storm that had triggered his dream. In the shadowed areas of his memory he could remember a mother of a storm the day that two men approached him in a snow-covered lot outside a crowded Canadian bar. He'd been half drunk; they had taken him by surprise. Logan had sworn it would never happen again, but it did the day he met up with Sabretooth. He crossed to the window, moved aside the curtains and looked out into the darkness and the heavy rain slanting down in a stiff wind.

In had been a few months since dreams of the Weapon-X lab haunted him. Since his return from the abandoned military installation at Sulphur Lake, he and the professor had twice-weekly sessions. In these, he gritted his teeth and tolerated the professor screwing around in his head attempting to purge memories that might be false and to help fade the tormenting memories of the adamantium bonding. At first Logan disliked allowing another to free range into his mind. It was the only place he felt vulnerable, where he felt he could not shield himself.

Until tonight, he thought the nightmares were gone, but the memory of the suffering was forever burned into his mind. Not even the professor could heal those invisible scars.

All Logan had to do was close his eyes to feel pain spiking up his entire body, consuming him in fiery agony. He clenched his hands and recalled the first glimpse of his claws pressing through the flesh of his knuckles like an inner monster straining to free itself of his human-like cocoon. Perhaps in that instant, a monster had been born and deep inside his soul there was a darkness that still had a purpose.

Vivid in his memory were his screams and the glistening red blood running down his forearms and the horror of those 9" steel claws. He held his hands up for inspection. The skin was smooth and unbroken, only a few splatters of blood drying on his knuckles. Sleep was impossible now. A glance at the clock told him it was a little after midnight. Crossing to his nearly destroyed dresser, he slipped on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and his boots. Another jagged crack of lightening lit the room again and a rumble barely a second later, rattle the windows. The illuminated clock face blinked out. He flicked the light switch and nothing happened.

The power was out.

Logan considered the dark an ally, it provided a secure blanket of anonymity where he could shed his civil façade, but tonight he felt it provided no such refuge. Lately he felt his every move and thought was being watched and measured. He wanted to blame it on his paranoid personality. Logan kept a bottle of Canadian whisky in his top drawer and he reached for it. Jean couldn't disapprove of something she didn't know about. He gulped back half the bottle, his mutant healing ability compensating for most of the alcohol's effects. That sucked really. A man should be able to get wasted when he needed to.

Logan paused as an odd tingle spread up his spine and over his scalp. He staggered back against the wall. Static-obscured voices whispered to him, rising and falling like the volume control on a radio. He gulped down several large breaths and the odd feeling passed. He held up the bottle, looked at the label and made a silent vow to avoid this particular brand.

Needing something to do other than dwelling on his thoughts, Logan slipped out of his room and into the dark, silent hallway. The mansion appeared deserted, but he knew it was not. He could detect the different scents of the people sleeping behind closed doors. He passed the door to the room where Jean and her boy scout stayed. Imperceptible to anyone without his sensitive auditory mutation, Logan could detect the murmur of voices. He paused for a second then continued, his steps turning toward Rogue's room. He should make sure she was okay, then again he reminded himself, she was a young woman now and no longer a frightened runaway that needed him.

"Flamin' kids grow up too fast," he grumbled.

It hadn't been that long ago that he promised he'd take care of her, and he hadn't been doing a great job of it. Not that she needed help. She was busy with schoolwork and friends, and he with the X-Men. She didn't need him any longer, and although a remote part of him felt he should be pleased to shed that burden, he was not. She provided a grounding focus, a reason to not tell Dickhead to shove the X-Men idealistic bullshit rhetoric up his ass as he'd been tempted to many times. The X-Men was not for him.

Outside Rogue's door, Logan paused and lightly knocked with the back of his knuckles. If she didn't answer he would just leave her be, no sense in waking her. But before he finished his knock, the door edged opened and Rogue peeked out, her hair tousled and her robe askew. As usual she was dressed almost head to toe. At the sight of him she smiled, her affection genuine and unconditional.

"Hi. This is a surprise visit," she said in her soft drawl and opened the door a little wider.

"Lights are out. I wanted to make certain you were okay."

"I'm okay." Rogue flinched when another streak of lightening lit up the area. "This storm woke me up." Her smiled suddenly faded. "Logan, you don't look so well."

Logan ran one hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, it hasn't been a good night."

Rogue stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. "Are you having nightmares again? I thought the professor had taken care of them."

"Guess not." He flicked at her silver lock of hair with a finger. "I'll deal with it tomorrow. Go back to bed, kid."

"Promise me you'll see the professor first thing," she urged standing so close to him that he could feel the heat of her body. He found it comforting and dropped an arm around her shoulders. Her absolute trust and friendship had thawed a part of him that he thought would remain forever frozen.

"There's supposed to be a break in the weather tomorrow, so how about we go for a motorcycle ride."

"Go for a ride? Really?" Rogue clasped her arms around his chest and gave him a hug. He patted her back and smiled. Sometimes she really did remind him of a kid, but her quicksilver flashes between mature woman and young teenager still had the power to push him off balance.

"We'll go into New York City and walk through those museums you like." Logan set his hand on her forearms and drew away from her. "See you around noon." He started to leave but she stopped him with a light touch on his arm.

"Wait, Logan," she began, then hesitated and looked over her shoulder at the door then moved toward it. "Do you... uh, want to come in?" Rogue opened the door a bit allowing Logan to see that two other young students, Kitty and Jubilee, sat on Rogue's bed and looked at him with identical guilty expressions. They had a half dozen candles lit and a pack of Tarot cards lay spread on the blanket "We haven't been able to get back to sleep, so we're having a tarot reading party by candlelight." She tilted her head and smiled up at him. Logan wondered if she were flirting with him. "I could read your fortune."

"Kid, I don't think I want to know, I--." Kill her! a battery of voices muttered in his head. Logan looked away and shook his head and pressed one hand to his ear. "What?"

"I didn't say anything. Are you okay?" She closed the door, moved next to him again and put her hand on his arm.

Kill her. "I--," Logan said and looked up. The face of man in a surgical mask and scrubs looked back at him. He yanked away from her and stepped back.

"What's wrong, Logan? You look like you've seen a ghost."

It was Rogue's voice coming out of that mask. The image flickered back for a moment to Rogue then to the man with the surgical mask, the nightmarish image that played so prominently in his dreams; the face whose disembodied hand held a long hypodermic needle. One part of him, his conscious rational mind, told him this was Rogue, the other part of him, survival instincts on alert, shouted at him to pop his claws, gut her and take his long-overdue revenge.

Do it! sibilant voices whispered.

A sudden image, like a picture in a slideshow, clicked into his mind of Rogue lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out from her back, a white trembling hand pressed over three narrow wounds in her chest. He held onto that image like a drowning man to a life raft, it was the only thing keeping him from popping his claws. "I'll see you tomorrow, kid," he managed with what he hoped was a normal tone. "Go back in your room."

"Okay, Logan," she replied tilted her head for a moment, then quickly leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. It the briefest of touches that his healing factor immediately compensated. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear, then turned and sashayed back into her room with a provocative sway of her shapely rear end.

That sight was almost enough to clear Logan's mind. Almost. The door closed behind her and he leaned back against the wall. Sweat popped out on his forehead and he drew a long, ragged breath. He wiped his forehead on his T-shirt sleeve.

"I should wake up the professor," he told himself. It would take just a mental shout but whatever it was seemed to have lessened, although he could still hear a faint irritating buzz in the back of his mind. Perhaps another few hours of sleep would help and then he'd call the professor.

---

The image on the screen was that of a young woman with long brown hair and large brown eyes. Information streamed across the bottom half of the screen identifying the girl as Marie, AKA Rogue. Mutant abilities: With touch, possesses ability to absorb mutant power from other mutants or life force from humans.

"How convenient for her," Kirby muttered and tapped his fingers on the arm of his lab chair. "Update Miss Edwards."

Miss Edwards tapped on her computer keyboard. "Weapon-X's healing factor is compensating for the stimulus. He's fighting us, sir."

"that was to be expected. Increase stimulus by 1/8th and maintain steady current." His eyes narrowed at the screen. "We will find a point, Weapon-X, where your healing factor cannot cope."

The screen displayed the dark hallway from Weapon-X's point of view, all of the visuals automatically copied to disk for analyzing at a more convenient time. Someone approached up the hallway, they wore casual clothes and, oddly enough, sunglasses. The computer took the image of the newcomer froze it and streamed data across the lower half of the screen. 'Scott Summers,' the computer reported, 'AKA Cyclops, Mutant power: Produces optic energy blasts.'

"Increase stimulus another 1/16th."

"Increasing," Miss Edwards replied.

---

Logan turned back down the hallway toward his room but a familiar scent brought him up short. Growling, he stepped backwards, fading into the deep shadows of an alcove and listening to the approaching footsteps. A coherent part of his mind categorized man's scent as Scott Summers. Another part of his mind identified the scent as the man in the surgical mask and he readied himself for an attack on the man responsible for all his pain, take retribution for all the memories he had lost. He fell into a half-battle crouch.

Kill him! The voices urged. Feel his fear.

Just past the alcove, the masked figure stopped. "Logan, was that you? Are you here?" The man turned and stared right at him, eyes sparkling weirdly in the darkness. He held up a hypodermic needle and the voice changed, low and mocking. "And you're going to do exactly what we tell you."

"Like hell," Logan rasped and leapt from the alcove. He hit Scott straight on, taking him down to the ground and pinning him with his forearm cranked against his throat, twisting his face to the side and planting the knuckles of his free hand against Scott's cheek. The position rendered Cyclops' power useless. "Tell me why you're looking for me. What do you want?" The tip of a single claw slid out, touching flesh but not tearing.

"Logan! What the hell is wrong with you?" said Scott's voice, but this wasn't Scott.

Logan bore down on the forearm at Scott's throat. With his adamantium skeleton he outweighed Scott by close to a hundred pounds. No mercy. Logan's voice dropped to a guttural growl. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I don't like it."

"Why don't we end it right here, Logan," Scott rasped though the surgical mask, his face turning read. "Let's do it. I'm sick of your shit, you psycho."

Logan pulled Scott's head around so they faced each other, and he shoved a fist under Scott's throat. "I'm game. Let's see what is faster, your beams or my claws. I'll even give you a head start."

Kill him!

Logan blinked. The face wavered between that of a man wearing a surgical mask and Scott's. What was he doing to Scott? Granted, he thought the guy was a dickless Boy Scout, but he didn't hate the guy enough to scramble his brains. He fought to relax his arm and release the guy. His arm would not obey. He gritted his teeth and fought to relax his arm.

Kill him, now!

"Stop it!" Logan shouted. His arm shook with the strain, sweat popped out on his forehead. Finally his hand obeyed him and he jerked it back, releasing Scott and stepping away.

Scott rolled to his side and coughed, holding a hand to his throat. Logan watched him, waiting, but nothing in Scott's demeanor told him that he was a threat. Finally, Scott sat up. "You don't belong here, Logan," he rasped "You're a danger to yourself and everyone around you. If you respect the professor, you would leave before you kill someone."

---

"Healing factor still compensating," Miss Edwards reported. She brought up a graph on the screen. "Should I increase?"

Dr. Kirby remained silent for a moment. "No, decrease the stimulus and let him relax and drop his guard. Let him think that his hallucinations have past. Then, we'll increase it to 90% and take him unawares, he'll be unable to fight us then."

"90% could render him unconscious," Miss Edwards said.

"I think we're underestimating our weapon's resolve and regenerative abilities. It is what my uncle did. I will not make that mistake."

---

Rogue slipped back into her room, shut the door and leaned on it, her grin stretched ear to ear. She was going to spend an entire afternoon in Logan's company. She couldn't think of another way she'd want to spend it. Maybe they could take a picnic or stop at a café and have lunch. With Logan she could forget her cursed mutation and just be herself. Oh, her friends at the school were nice and she felt like she belonged, but none of them gave her the fluttery feeling Logan did.

"Why was Logan here?" Kitty asked.

"Checking to make certain I was okay with the power being out and all. He's going to take me out on the motorcycle tomorrow." She skipped to her bed, plopped down and rolled to her back, smiling.

"She has that dreamy look on her face again." Jubilee rolled over to her side, leaned on her elbow and propped her cheek in the palm of her hand. "You really like that guy." Rogue hugged her pillow. "He's too old for you. I've heard Jean talking with the professor that because of his mutation, no one knows how old he is."

"If you take that into account, then he'd be too old for anyone," Rogue said, a little miffed. She didn't want to hurt her friend's feelings so she added, "anyway, we're just friends." That's a lie, Rogue corrected herself.

"I think he's scary," Kitty spoke, gathered up the cards and shuffled them. "I've heard he's got metal claws. I mean, why would someone want metal claws unless it was to hurt someone."

"I've seen them," Rogue replied, remembering the Canadian bar. That seemed so long ago. "It's not his fault. He didn't want them there."

"Still you have to wonder why they're there," Kitty persisted. "Anyway, Bobby thinks you spend to much time with him."

"Bobby would think I spend too much time with any guy that wasn't him," Rogue countered. "Logan makes me feel… safe."

"Well, you're here with us now, and that should make you feel safe," Kitty replied. "You don't need him anymore. Here, look, I've shuffled the cards. Let's do you, Rogue. Touch the cards and shuffle them and think about what you want to know?"

Rogue took the cards, shuffled them absently and thought a moment. She rolled to her stomach and crossed her legs up behind her and handed the cards back to Kitty. "Okay I've thought."

"Keep those thoughts." Kitty turned over the first card and laid it down. The three girls drew quick breaths at the face-up card.

It was Death.

---

Scott lay on a trolley underneath Storm's black SUV, only his legs and feet showing. He loved tinkering with cars and the smell of oil and grease usually had an odd comfort for him. Today it couldn't banish his mood. He hadn't slept well last night after his encounter with Logan and he was angry with himself for backing down. Logan couldn't be trusted. He lived on a hair trigger, anything could set him off and one day he was going to snap and someone in this school would end up dead. Scott gave the wrench a vicious twist. From now on, he would be on guard around Logan. He heard the scuff of feet against the cement floor of the garage. He looked down and saw the boots that Rogue favored.

"Hi," Rogue said, bending down and looking under the car. "What you doing?"

"This is my grease monkey impersonation," he said and smiled. He liked Rogue. What she saw in Logan was beyond his ken. She envisioned him as some kind of hero; a ludicrous label for someone like Logan. "Want to help?"

"I'll pass for now," she replied. "I'm suppose to meet Logan. Have you seen him?"

Scott's smile evaporated along with his fragile good mood. His expression darkened. "Don't know," he replied shortly, and continued working, his stiff posture a clear dismissal.

"Maybe he's upstairs in his room," she said. By the tone of her voice, he could tell she was confused by the shortness of his reply. "I'll look for him there."

Scott didn't reply, just mumbled something that he hoped she couldn't hear. She left, her footsteps fading away and Scott focused on his task, trying to forget last night. Working on the SUV helped, it gave him something to focus on. Alone once again in the garage, he couldn't get his mind off last night's confrontation. He should have spoken with Jean about it, which would have helped. Maybe. She seemed to be on Logan's side lately, defending him and reminding him that he had risked his own life to save Rogue. The soft swish of wheels broke into his thoughts.

"What's going on, Scott," the professor asked. "I need you to talk to me."

So much for hi how are you, Scott thought. He scooted out from under the car and looked up at the professor. He knew why the professor had found him and he didn't' want to talk about it right now. "Nothing." He started to scoot back but the Professor's voice stopped him.

"I don't need to be psychic to know when you're lying."

"Damn," Scott muttered and pushed away from the car, sat up, straddling the trolley and looked away from the professor's intent face. He couldn't lie. "Logan attacked me last night." He pulled down the collar of his turtleneck with the crook of a finger to show Xavier the finger shaped bruises.

Xavier was silent for a moment. "Logan did this," it was a statement and not a question. "Do you know why?"

"Who knows what the hell goes through Logan's mind. Except perhaps you." Scott shrugged. "Maybe you can give us a clue."

"To help him, I want you to tell me what you think happened before I go talk to him," the professor said.

"He kept saying that `It's not going to happen. I won't let you take me off guard.' He was babbling and I thought he was going to kill me, then he just let me go and disappeared." He tried to sound offhand, but knew he'd never fool the professor who didn't need to read his mind to know he was upset.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Scott shrugged again. He knew he was being difficult but he couldn't help it. "I can handle him."

"Logan is not someone you can simply `handle'" the professor returned tightlipped, and Scott keenly felt the reprimand. "He's had his mind tampered with, his memories ripped from him. He doesn't know the first thing about himself. He's not even certain about his real name. That would make anyone angry."

"It's not the anger!" Scott shouted, unable to prevent his surge of anger. "The anger we could all handle. The problem is that the man is dangerous to everyone around him. Who does he have to kill in order for you to believe me?" Scott looked at the Professor then took a deep breath. "Logan doesn't belong here. I don't know why you allow him to stay."

"This is the very place that Logan does belong," the professor corrected. "Would you have me turn him out? The brotherhood is not dead, only temporarily suspended. We all know they won't hold Magneto for long and Logan would be a valuable ally for their cause. We all must work to help him."

"He is dangerous."

"He is a more of a danger out there among humankind.

"What you're doing isn't helping him, and it's putting us all at risk."

For a moment an expression of uncertainty crossed the professor's face and it rattled Scott.

"Logan's memory implants are deep and I've been unable to purge them. I'm sorry, Scott. I'll ask Logan to report to the lab so Jean can run some tests." Xavier suddenly jerked in his chair, his eyes widened and his entire body stiffened. "I heard…" he said between clenched teeth and held a hand to his head. "Logan. There's something wrong with him, I…" The professor's body spasmed then stiffened, his mouth opened in a silent scream.

"Professor!" Scott shouted and grabbed his shoulder.

"Logan… is…" the professor whispered, straining to speak. "Something is very wrong. I cannot break in, something is blocking me. I cannot help him."

"Son of a bitch," Scott swore, "Rogue went up there looking for him."

"Hurry," the professor whispered. "Hurry before it's too late."

---

"Logan!" Rogue called through the door and knocked again. She pressed her ear to the door. It appeared no one was home. "Hey sleepy head, you promised to take me for a motorcycle ride!" The lug wasn't answering... unless he'd already gone somewhere else and forgot about their date. She brushed a lock of long brown hair away from her face and resisted the childish urge to stomp one foot. "The rat, he wouldn't dare," she mumbled to herself.

Rogue had dressed carefully this morning for the motorcycle ride. She wore her long, elbow length gloves, her long black coat she'd had since her runaway days and boots. Her jeans were flattering. She'd wrapped a soft scarf around her neck, the muted colors of brown and tan complimented her eyes. Before thinking about what she was doing, she wrapped a hand around the doorknob and turned. His room wasn't locked. Taking a breath and holding it for a moment, she slowly pushed the door opened and peeked into his room.

"Hellooooo," she called, stepped inside and stopped short staring at the chaos. "What happened here?" Logan's room was a mess. Sheets and blankets were shredded to ribbons. Claw marks perforated the walls and the beautiful woodwork and furniture. Rogue's eyebrows rose. "He had said he was having a bad night, guess he wasn't exaggerating. Well, it looks like he left without me where he went, that rat. When I catch up to him I'm going to... OOF!"

An iron-like clamp encircled her throat, lifted her up off the ground, spun her around and slammed her against the wall. Held there, like a pinned bug, her head rocked back, cracking into the drywall. She couldn't breath and she gasped for breath. "Please," she managed and looked into the enraged eyes of Logan.

Only this wasn't Logan. It was his face, but it wasn't him. It was a raging beast that looked like Logan, that had his face but the light in his eyes was that of a madman, no light of recognition. He held up a large fist, jack it back and popped his claws. She stared at those deadly weapons and couldn't look away. When she had first seen them in that Canadian bar they had frightened her, now they were turned on her. Death. She remember the card.

"Logan," she whispered, her throat constricting in far. She squeezed her eyes closed, tears trickling from under the lids. "Please don't do this." Somehow she summoned the strength to lift a gloved hand, reached out and stroked the hand that was cocked back to kill her. "Logan."

A shred of sanity flickered in his eyes. "Rogue, you... shouldn't... have... come," Logan stuttered. "I… can't…. fight… it." He struggled to speak plainly, the words forced out between clenched teeth. His hand shook and the claws inched toward the tender underside of her jaw. She could feel the cold, sharp points touch then indent the flesh. Rogue swallowed and took a ragged breath, feeling a prickle of hot blood as his claws drove into her skin

Rogue closed her eyes. "You promised, Logan. You promised to protect me." The claws pushed further. "You promised," she ended on a sob, her fragile courage shattered.

Logan threw his head back and creamed, eyes clenched shut. "NO!" he shouted, pulled back his claws and released her. Logan staggered back, hunched and panting, arms held out to his sides.

Rogue slumped into a crumbled heap and held a hand to her neck as she gulped in deep breaths climbed to her feet. "Logan," she said, "talk to me. Tell me what's happening. What is wrong?"

"No, no," he kept saying to himself, shaking his head. "Go away. I won't do it. I. WON'T. DO. IT!"

And before she knew what he was about he turned the claws on himself and rammed them full length into his chest. Blood instantly soaked his T-shirt and he grimaced before sagging and falling, almost in slow motion, to the floor.

"Logan!" she screamed and ran toward him and he put out a shaking hand.

"Get away, Rogue, while you can." His voice was rough and scratchy from pain. "I won't let them hurt you or anyone." He popped out the claws from the hand he held toward her and, arm quivering in exertion, straining against an invisible bond he pointed them inward at himself. He clenched his teeth and slowly, winning the battle, his claws pressed against his own throat.

Rogue took a step toward him and reached out to grasp his straining arm. "Don't do this," she whispered.

"Me or you." His expression was tortured, like a helpless prisoner. "It's the only way," he ground out. Sweat poured down his head. "It's the only way."

Logan shoved the claws into his neck, the tips protruding out the opposite side.

"Logan!" Rogue screamed again. She ran to him and went to her knees at his side. Grabbing each of his forearms in both her hands and yanked his claws from his flesh. Blood flew in an arc, spattering her face and clothes. "Logan," she whispered, slipped her arms around him and tried to lift him up. He was slippery with blood and she couldn't get a good hold on him. She wasn't certain how his mutant healing factor would handle this, or even if it could. She had to get the professor.

"Help!" she cried. "Someone help me!"

---

Scott, following by Storm and Jean ran into the room and stopped short.

"My God," Storm whispered, and held a hand to her mouth.

The room was in chaos and splatters of blood were everywhere, smearing the walls and the floors like a haphazard attempt at painting. The smell was pungent and made Scott's stomach roll. At least Rogue was still alive; Logan had not yet harmed her. Rogue stood in the middle of the room, her clothing soaked with blood. Logan with his claws popped, weaved drunkenly at her side. Rogue's face was drawn tight in pain, three red spots glistened at her neck from three puncture wounds.

"Get away from him!" Scott shouted and touched the controls of his visor, aiming for the middle of Logan's chest. He'd been waiting to take out this psycho and now this was his opportunity. No one would question what he was about to do, and in time they would thank him. He dialed up the beam control, he wouldn't let Logan's healing factor heal this.

At that moment, Rogue looked at him. Her eyes widened.

"No!" she shouted and leapt in front of Logan. "It's not my blood!"

Scott had already let loose an optic blast; he couldn't take it back. The blast hit Rogue square in the chest, lifted her up and flung her backwards, slamming her against the far wall. Scott instantly shut down the beam. It was too late.

Rogue slid limply to the floor amid plaster pieces and dust and lay unmoving, limp and lifeless.

---

Chapter Two: One Heartbeat

"Rogue!" Scott, Storm and Jean screamed as one and the two women ran to the young woman's side.

Guilt immobilized Scott and he could only stare in disbelief at Rogue's lifeless body. She had neither moaned nor cried out when the beam hit her; perhaps killing her in that instant. For a moment he almost convinced that she was just a pitiful rag doll, lifeless and cold. He had not held back on that blast intended for Logan. And he had intended to kill Logan. He had never wanted to kill anything in his life except in that instance of uncontrollable anger—like Logan.

"She's not breathing," Jean said darting a glance over her shoulder at Scott.

Scott could have told her that Rogue couldn't survive that blast. He hadn't even hit Sabretooth with that much force and it was with consuming shame that he knew he didn't hate Sabretooth as much as he hated and resented Logan. He felt he should do or say something. To say he was sorry seemed ridiculous, inadequate. Sorry for killing? Sorry it was a mistake? Sorry couldn't turn back the clock to that moment he had fired that optic blast. He started forward and stopped abruptly.

A mind numbing pain stabbed up his leg, seizing it and immobilizing it in a grip of agony. For a moment the room darkened.

For what seemed like eternity he couldn't draw a breath, the air paralyzed in his lungs. He looked down at the source of his pain and stared, uncomprehending, at the adamantium claws rammed through the top of his foot and into the floor. Even in his wounded condition— wounds that would have killed a lesser man—Logan had moved with quick and deadly purpose. Scott stood skewered, unable to move, his mouth worked wordlessly and time stood still. Jean said something to him, her words stretched out and unintelligible. The only things that existed were those three claws and the murderous stare of a madman who meant to see him dead.

"We ain't through yet beam boy," Logan rasped and sat up. Quick as the strike of a viper, the other set of claws rushed toward Scott's unprotected stomach, to disembowel him like a fish. Scott fumbled for his visor control and knew that he wouldn't be fast enough to save himself and he understood his own woeful lack of experience in the face of a skilled killer. He had underestimated his enemy and Scott prepared for death, his heartbeats thumped abnormally loud in his ears.

The lethal adamantium claws slowed on their fatal trajectory. Scott thought it was a trick his mind played on him. The claws, light glinting wickedly off their razor-honed points, drew closer, pressing into his flesh, slow and determined. He looked at Logan's straining face as he felt the metal tips slip through his skin like pins through a cushion. The pain was unlike anything he had experience in his young life as the claws sunk inexorably toward his vitals.

Scott counted his heartbeats to death when those claws would rip upwards, tearing through his stomach and slicing his heart. One

Two.

Three.

The claws stopped and quivered inside his flesh. Scott fell to his knees at Logan's mercy. There was no clemency in that gaze. And Scott knew he looked at the face of his death. Logan's face.

Numb, Scott saw Jean come into his tunnel vision, her face white and her eyes wide and frightened. She held out a trembling hand, it seemed a futile gesture until he realized she was using her powers to hold Logan, to keep his claws from their goal. Logan fought her and judging by her pinched, desperate expression, she couldn't hold him much longer. She continued moving toward Logan, slow and cautiously like approaching a rabid animal. Scott wanted to shout at her, to tell her to stay away but he couldn't speak, the pain sapping his voice and his strength.

"Logan!" she said, her voice a hoarse pleading whispered, "you've got to stop. Rogue is dying."

Perhaps it was the sheer desperation in Jean's voice that penetrated Logan's single-minded mission to kill Scott. Whatever it was, Logan shouted, a desperate cry of a wounded animal and he yanked both sets of claws out of Scott's flesh, arcs of blood followed, dozens of bright drops suspended in midair for a blink of a second, before showering them all. Scott sagged to the floor, holding his hand to his stomach, blood seeping out between his fingers. He'd never seen so much blood, his blood, Logan's blood and fascinated he couldn't look away.

"Can you hang on?" she asked him, concern in her eyes. Scott could detect no censure in her voice for his deed and he hated her for it; he needed someone to yell at him, tell him he did the wrong thing. Nothing could justify his impulsive actions. Instead he simply nodded, hating his cowardice. Jean studied him and he wondered if she were reading his thoughts as open and vulnerable as they were. Can you hear them, Jean? He thought. Maybe you should let Logan kill me.

"Stay with me, Scott," she whispered again then turned and reached out a tentative hand to Logan and place it on one of his shoulders. Scott could see the man's muscles bunch as if to strike. Scott swore that he would find the strength to kill him if he hurt Jean, and if that meant his own death, so much the better. He couldn't live with himself if Rogue died. "Only you can help her, Logan," she said to him. "Please."

The mad gleam flared in Logan's eyes and he took a long breath that shook his entire frame. Scott remembered that the Professor had said something was wrong with Logan, something blocked his way into Logan's mind, and looking at the man, he could see that Logan was struggling against an invisible foe. Scott tried to summon a thread of pity for the man but could not. It was Logan's nature to be violent, Scott reassured himself, otherwise he would not have been chosen for the project that turned him into a weapon. Fate and Logan's nature had determined his path.

"Stay away…," Logan began and tried to push Jean away. His words trailed off as his body spasmed. Shaking, he rolled to his back, his arms bent and claws held above his face. His scream echoed through the room and his back arched, his eyes rolled up in his head. "Keep your hold… hold my claws… and bring her to me…," he managed.

"Storm!" Jean called over her shoulder, "bring Rogue over."

"Okay," came Storm's soft accented reply. Through a haze of pain, Scott watched her conjure a strong wind. She had learned to control her powers since Magneto's defeat, and used the wind to gently lift Rogue, cradle her broken body and place her next to Logan.

"He's going to kill her," Scott whispered. No one listened. Why would no one listen? But even Scott was surprised when Logan strained to retract his claws, veins standing out in sharp relief across his forearm. The deadly weapons slid back into his arms, and he turned to cuddle the dying girl next to him, pressing her close to his chest and tucking her head into the crook of his neck. Their relationship baffled everyone. He treated the young girl with tenderness , an emotion that should have shriveled away and died of neglect in a man like Logan.

Perhaps there was more to Logan than Scott wanted to credit him for. Scott brushed that thought away. He would not make excuses for Logan's behavior like everyone else had. There were no excuses.

"Give me one heartbeat, kid," Logan said hoarsely to Rogue. "One heartbeat." He cupped her head in one hand and looked down into her face. It was the closest Scott had ever seen to love in Logan's face and then he did the unexpected. "You know I always keep my promises." He pressed his lips to hers.

---

Rogue floated in vast darkness and from here she could see two lights. One was bright and white, soothing and comforting, it beckoned to her promising release from agonizing pain. The other light was red, pain and suffering lay in that direction and fearful, she moved away from it. She stretched out a hand to touch the light, instinctively seeking release from the curse of her mutation. In that light she could go to a place were no one would be afraid to touch her.

"Rogue!" called a familiar voice.

She turned to the voice and saw a silhouetted figure step through the red light and hold out a hand. She flinched from it drawing closer to the white light.

"Come to me, kiddo. Take my hand," the voice cajoled. She looked at the bright light, feeling its warmth then turned back to the silhouette, confused. "One heartbeat is all I want," the voice said. "Don't quit on me."

Somewhere in her subconscious she knew that voice meant safety and love, two things she had precious little of since running away from home. Making up her mind, she turned toward the red light and took the hand. Warm lips pressed against hers, coaxing her to draw a breath, his breath, warm and full of life. At last she accepted this gift, and his life-force entered her, pumping blood through her veins with renewed vigor and drawing away the lethargy in her heart. She returned the kiss, seeking the life promised there, and love swathed her in gentle warmth and swept away her pain.

Rogue took a heaving breath, sucking air into her starved lungs, breathing life and exhaling death. She focused on four faces hovering over her. Scott, his face drawn in pain, clutched a hand to his stomach. Jean and Storm's faces held identical expression of alternating worry and relief. The professor was there, his face an unreadable mix of emotions but from all of them she could smell fear. Then she remembered.

Logan!

"Oh please, no," she whimpered.

He lay at her side, the wounds in his chest and neck bleeding freely, pooling around his body in a crimson lake. His eyes were closed; his chest rose and fell erratically and one arm twitched.

"No!" she cried and flung herself across him, holding onto him and pressing her face into his chest uncaring that his blood covered her. He couldn't leave her. She wouldn't let him. The professor leaned down and took her arm, Rogue pulled away from him.

"He's still alive, Rogue," Professor Xavier said. "We need to get him to the lab where we can help him." He reached for her hand again and she let herself be drawn away. At that moment, Storm hurried the room pushing a gurney. "Are you okay."

Trying to hold back tears, Rogue nodded. This was the second time Logan had risked his own life to save her. How could anyone doubt his mettle? In his heart, he was a good man, and a heroic one. Could Scott look within and say the same thing about himself?

The professor used his powers to lift Logan and place him on the gurney, he then wheeled behind Logan's head and placed his hands on either side of the man's temple and closed his eyes, his breathing deep and even. His body twitched and his lips drew back into a grimace. Jean stood near, her hands on his shoulder. After a moment he opened his eyes, they seemed glazed and his hands trembled slightly. Rogue caught another scent of fear. What was the professor afraid of? Logan? He would never purposefully hurt any of them. It wasn't his fault!

"What's wrong with him?" Rogue asked.

"I'm… not certain," the professor admitted and his jaw tightened. "But whatever was controlling him has retreated for now, however we must expect that it'll return. If they mean to destroy us, they'll try again." He reached out and took Jean's hand, making her look down at him. "Make certain Logan is secure." Rogue could tell that something else passed between them, telepathic thoughts.

Jean nodded to whatever else the professor had telepathically said. "Take Logan," she said to Storm. Storm complied wheeling the unconscious Logan out of the room while Jean knelt next to Scott. "Can you walk?" Jean asked. Scott grimaced and nodded. She wrapped one arm around him and helped him up. He leaned against her and hobbled out.

Rogue tried to contain a sudden flood of anger. She knew its source but was helpless to control it; Logan's emotions were too powerful. Boiling clouds of hate and rage grew inside her. "You hate him so much that you would kill him?" she shouted, stepping forward, her hands clenched at her thighs. Jean and Scott turned to stare at her, Scott's face a mask of uncertainty, and Jean's expression pleaded with her to stop, to consider what she was about to say. Rogue couldn't stop the rush of words. "He was fighting whatever was controlling him and had it under control until you interfered! He is more courageous and noble than you could ever hope to aspire to. You've hated him from the beginning, and you've tried to find anything that you could use to condemn him and force him to leave." A twinge of pain sparked in her head and she held a hand to her temple. "You can't know what he's gone through. You. CAN'T. KNOW!" Tears rushed down her face and she shoved passed them.

If Logan died, she would never forgive Scott. Never. Her anger broke on a ragged sob and she ran down the hall, ignoring Scott's voice calling out to her. She just ran. Out of the mansion and across the wet grass, she ignored curious glances of her classmates. Someone shouted her name, maybe it was Bobby. She didn't stop to look. They would all hear about what happened soon enough and they would believe their fears confirmed. It would be all Logan's fault. Rogue didn't want to hear it. Out away from the mansion and the manicured grounds, the trees grew thick and tall, and there she sought shelter and solitude. Out of breath she collapsed at the trunk of a tree and breathed deep the wet smells of the forest, the moss, the damp, dead leaves.

Rogue curled up on the ground, tucking her head against her chest, and folding her arms over her head to shut out the world. She didn't want to contemplate what it would be like without Logan. There was something between them, her and that gruff man, something indefinable but nevertheless powerful and that bound them together.

"Logan," she whispered to the trees and the leaves rustling in a cool breeze. "Don't you dare leave me. I gave you one heartbeat, now it's your turn."

---

For several minutes, the only sounds in the lab were the low hum of computer equipment. Everyone stood mute and stunned by the violence they had all witnessed, staggered by the brutality of their creation. A passage from Nietzsche popped briefly into Doctor Kirby's head: `He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster'. Perhaps having Logan in the midst of the X-men was more fortuitous than even he had imagined. According to intelligence reports, Scott Summers was not prone to uncontrollable fits of anger. Perhaps he would be of use later. Kirby hid a smile, in the face of his staff's horror it would have been inappropriate. He looked down at Miss Edward's ashen face.

"Are you shocked, Miss Edwards?" he asked, his tone mild.

"Weapon-X's brutality took me by surprise as did his sacrifice to save the girl. That is a weakness."

"Yes, he resisted," Doctor Kirby said and he once against examined the scene frozen on the screen. There was blood everywhere, and if he hadn't been watching he would have thought Weapon-X made a kill. It was all Weapon-X's blood, he had fought the stimuli and instead wounded himself to keep from killing the others. Interesting. The doctor and rubbed his chin between a thumb and forefinger. "Miss Edwards, what are his stats?"

"Stimulus was set at 95%, sir, as you ordered." She sighed. "It just wasn't enough. He is alive, although barely."

Doctor Kirby turned to the head tech, a short, slight computer scientist in his mid twenties. "Can we adjust on this side, Mr. Downes?"

The scientist shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I can make some adjustments to the program and hardware here. The main adjustments need to be made to Weapon-X's firmware. I would need him here to perform those adjustments."

Kirby's mouth thinned and he laced his hands behind his back and thought. When Weapon-X was created, they used a hypodermic-like needle with inner fiber optics to connect to Weapon-X's firmware though the back of his neck. There was nothing he could do to change that without capturing Weapon-X and retrofitting him. It would be too risky to bring him here. He thought the base abandoned and Dr. Kirby wanted to keep it that way. "No. Do what you can, Mr. Downes."

Downes nodded, turned to his computer and brought up a program to the screen. He pointed to several parameters. "If I increase the charge from here, it should be enough."

"Very good, Mr. Downes. You have eight hours."

Downes nodded. "Yes, sir." He swiveled back to the computer and began tapping on the keyboard, bringing up the myriad of programs that controlled Weapon-X.

Doctor Kirby stood and watched the scientist for a moment. He now understood what his uncle was up against. Weapon-X's true mutant abilities extended well beyond previously tested limitations. Was that why his uncle was slaughtered? Did he also think he had Weapon-X under control? For the first time since he revived the Weapon-X project, Kirby felt doubts nipping at the fringes of his confidence.

This would not do. Not at all. He would not make the same mistakes. Kirby looked around the efficient lab, everyone diligently working at his or her appointed duties. Assured that all was well, he turned and left the lab to the sanctuary of his office where he could read his uncle's notes and ponder his next move.

---

Chapter Three: Guardian Angel

"Son of a bitch," Scott ground through clenched teeth. He lay on an exam table while Jean cleaned the wounds on his stomach. His face was ashen and sweat stood out on his forehead. Jean had assured him the claws didn't puncture anything vital but it sure hurt like hell and he hid his pain behind anger.

Behind him and to his left lay Logan. He wouldn't allow himself to look at the man and instead he tried to focus on the soothing presence of his fiancée. Her clean scent of soap and the perfume from her shampoo comforted him and he enjoyed the light touch of her fingers while she wrapped a clean bandage around his middle. Absently she murmured over the clean punctures and the sharpness of Logan's claws with clinical detachment.

Those claws.

Until now, Scott had never been the focus of those weapons and for a moment he could sympathize with Mystique. She'd taken a trio of adamantium claws to the hilt in her stomach. That she survived the attack was a miracle. Possibly it was her mutation that saved her.

Scott was young and he knew he was inexperience, but he also knew he had good leadership skills and the professor saw that ability in him and trusted him to lead the X-Men. Yet Logan held the singular ability to strip away his confidence, make him feel inadequate and immature. And for the first time in his life, pinned under that killer's gaze, Scott had experienced real fear. When the X-Men went to the Statue of Liberty to rescue Rogue and stop Magneto, Scott felt more excited than frightened despite the dangers. He wanted to prove to the professor and especially Logan that he could handle a mission and he had. It had gone well, and they had won—at least for the time being. For a time last night and this morning, Logan wasn't that man who risked his own life to rescued Rogue from Magneto's machine. He had become something almost inhuman with a mindless need to destroy. Scott didn't trust the man—-he was too unpredictable and there was too much unknown about him. Scott flinched suddenly at a pain in his stomach. Jean gently touched his arm.

"Hold still, Scott, I'm almost finished," Jean said. They both looked up when the door to the lab slid opened and Professor Xavier entered and wheeled up next to him.

"How are you doing, Scott?" the professor asked.

"As well as any man who has faced a psycho like Logan. I told you he is dangerous," Scott replied. "Twice now he's almost killed Rogue and now he's almost killed me. Everyone seems to accept that it okay because, oh gee, he didn't mean it."

"And twice now he's risked his own life to save Rogue," the professor replied in his usual mild tone. "He'd do the same for any of us, even you, Scott."

"Really? That must be why I have two sets of claw punctures."

"Exactly," the professor replied with barely a ripple of irritation under his calm exterior. "That's why you only have two sets of non-fatal injuries. I think if Logan truly wanted you dead you wouldn't be sitting here."

"Excuse me if I don't find that comforting," Scott mumbled. He winced again and sucked a breath of air through his teeth when Jean lifted his injured foot to the table. The foot was swollen and purple, the entry marks of the claws were ugly and blood oozed from one. Scott shook his head and wished he hadn't; the smallest movement hurt his stomach "He is a killer, a weapon--."

"We don't know that," the Professor interrupted. "He's just a mutant like the rest of us, one who desperately needs our help."

"Oh, you're right." Scott snapped his fingers. "Logan's just your average everyday kinda mutant guy with an adamantium skeleton and six 9" adamantium claws that slide out of his forearms like razors. As far as I'm concerned, a weapon has been deployed and we're ground zero. None of us, even with our mutant abilities combined, are safe from this weapon. Do we all stay and hope we survive or do we try eliminate the threat?"

"It's not that simple," the professor said. "We're talking about a man, not a machine. He almost killed himself rather than killing Rogue."

"One day Rogue will be a credit to the X-men if she decides to join us, but her good sense is rose-tinted when it comes to Logan. I don't understand why all of you keep protecting him," Scott found he could no longer rein in his anger. "It's like you want to think that there's a good guy somewhere inside of him, but there's NOT!" He slammed his fist against the table. He looked to Jean but she stepped away from him, her expression a mix of confusion and uncertainty.

An uneasy silence stretched between the three of them before the professor sighed and wheeled next to Jean. "Jean, I think I may know what we can do. Finish your tests on Logan and then we'll talk about it later."

Jean nodded and Scott watched her blink away the worry in her eyes. When the professor had gone, she continued doctoring him for a moment before she finally spoke.

"I understand your anger," she said. Scott turned and studied her and realized that perhaps she did. "It's not your fault," she continued, "and if blame is to be assigned, there's a lot of it to go around." She brushed a finger down his cheek. "Your reaction was understandable."

"I--," he began then looked away from her. The anger drained from him. She had that effect on him. Maybe she used her powers on him, maybe not. He didn't care; he just wanted her to touch him again and took her hand pressing it to his cheek. "I wanted to kill him."

"I understand. When I ran into that room and saw them I thought Logan had injured Rogue," she whispered. "You were decisive, you reacted while Storm and I simply stood, frozen, unable to respond. So who was wrong?" she ended on a whisper. "Who was right? Will my indecisiveness one day kill one of us during a crucial mission?" She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He gathered her closer and she braced her hands on his shoulders. God, how he loved this woman. Their kiss deepened and Scott allowed his need to flow into it, his arms tightened around her, his breathing ragged. He slid one had up the back of her shirt, feeling her warm flesh. His hand moved around her ribcage to one breast and Jean pulled away, her face flushed. She ran a hand over his bare chest to soften the rejection.

"Scott," she began, "you have to talk to Rogue."

"I know," he replied after a short silence. "She blames me."

"She's young and you have to remember that as a frightened, ostracized runaway, Logan became her protector, her only source of refuge." Jean bent down then straightened and handed him a crutch. "I think you'll need this," she said with a tentative smile that faded quickly. "Scott, you have to stop blaming Logan." She cast a quick glance at Logan. His healing factor had not yet kicked in and he'd not yet regained consciousness, his condition still critical. Jean placed her hands on Scott's shoulders and squeezed. "Scott, it is our duty to help him."

Scott shook his head. "I don't understand your dedication to him."

"We are dedicated not just to Logan, but to mutant kind. If we don't help them, who will? Look what has been done to Logan because he is a mutant. They stripped away his identity, his memories, everything that made that man who he was is gone. Despite everything, he is vulnerable."

"If Sabretooth or Toad came knocking at our door asking for assistance, should we help them even if it means someone might get hurt or die?" he asked, trying to keep exasperation out of his tone.

"Yes," she answered and chewed her bottom lip then nodded. "Yes. Would it be right to decide who is or is not worthy of our help? Who should and should not be given a chance in a society that shuns us?"

"It's sometimes difficult for me to share those views." Scott pulled away from her, slid off the table and tucked the crutch under one arm to support his weight. His wounds hurt and pain pulsed through his leg and stomach. He didn't let it show.

"Scott," Jean said and reached out to him. "Wait."

"I'm going to find Rogue." He turned away, not wanting to look at the hurt expression he knew would be on her beautiful face. There had been no problems between them until Logan showed up.

---

Rogue sat on Logan's bed in his room. She wore one of his big flannel shirts and a pair of men's boxers. Next to her sat a whisky bottle with a few good swigs left in it. She'd found it in one of the drawers in Logan's battered bureau. It had been half full and she just drank straight out of the bottle. The first few gulps brought tears to her eyes and burned a trail of fire all the way into her stomach. She coughed and hacked and thought she'd start breathing fire. Now she just felt mellow and the dreadful events of this morning dulled.

In the drawer, next to the bottle, she had also found a box of cigars.

"Naughty naughty, Logan. No booze, no cigarettes allowed." She had shaken one finger, chastising the absent man. "Whatever would miss prissy Jean say? Maybe a few good swigs of whisky would loosen her up."

Rogue now puffed on one of those cigars, and discovered with childish delight that she could blow smoke rings. It must have been a trick inherited from Logan; she'd never smoked a cigarette let alone a cigar. She'd expected the cigar to taste disgusting, but actually found she enjoyed it, probably just another temporary trait picked up from Logan. And right now she liked being Logan, it helped her cope with the fact that he lay unconscious several stories below in Jean's lab.

Rogue frowned as she thought of Logan. Logan. Logan. The way she looked at it, this whole problem stemmed from Scott's jealousy. Maybe the boy scout had a teeny weenie or something.

Rogue took a swig of whisky and looked about blearily. The mess in Logan's room had been cleaned up, the blood washed away, although the walls and furniture still bore claw marks. It just looked like a really pissed off cat had gone ballistic.

"Rarrrr," Rogue growled like a cat, curled her fingers into claws and swiped at the air. She took a big gulp from the whisky bottle, drained it and belched. "Bring that up again and we'll vote on it," she said aloud and giggled. "Whoa!"

Listing to the side she slid down onto his bed and tipped up the whisky bottle holding it above her mouth, dripping the last few drops on her tongue. She missed and the drops dribbled down the sides of her cheek and she swiped them away with a finger. She loudly sucked the whisky off the tip of her finger while cradling the empty bottle against her. Maybe Logan had more hidden somewhere but the thought of getting up and looking for it wasn't appealing. For now she was content to lie in Logan's bed and smoke his cigars.

Rogue gazed at the cigar's glowing tip. Amazing how Logan's healing factor worked. If she'd done something this stupid on her own, she'd be barfing in the toilet by now. Although, if Logan's healing factor wore off before the effects of the liquor, she'd be in deep doo-doo.

Someone knocked on the door. The last two times she was under the effect of Logan's personality, people tended to leave her alone.

"Piss off!" she yelled.

"Rogue," called a voice through the door. It was Scott. "I want to talk to you."

"The feeling isn't mutual." The doorknob rattled and the door swung open. Shit. She thought she'd locked it.

Scott hobbled through the door, a crutch under one arm. To claim he looked like hell was being kind. Somewhere in a remote corner of her altered state Rogue felt she should feel sorry for Scott.

Rogue tossed the empty whisky bottle across the room and it bounced against the wall next to Scott's head, fell and spun once before coming to rest near his feet. Scott flinched, and stepped to the side and for a moment he looked ready to leave. She wished he would.

"Bulls eye," she said, hiccuped then took another drag on the cigar and blew out a series of perfect smoke rings. "What the hell do you want?"

"We need to talk," he repeated.

"I have nothing to say to you." From across the room she heard Scott's sigh. Jerk. She ignored him and laid on her back blowing smoke rings into the air. After a bit she thought he'd left and his voice almost made her jump.

"Would it help to say that I think you're right? That I think I might have misjudged Logan."

Rogue's eyebrows rose. The righteous Boy Scout apologizing? For a moment she expected the earth to shake and angels to sing. Scott hobbled further into the room and stood beside the bed.

"Why now?"

"I had a talk with Jean. She has a habit of gently beating sense into me."

"How nice for you. Maybe next time she should use a club." Rogue grunted, swung her legs around and over the side of the bed and weaved across the floor to Logan's chest of drawers. After rifling through the contents of several drawers, she found another bottle of whisky under one of his T-shirt. "Aha!" she said and held up the bottle like a prized trophy.

"Would you like me to get you some aspirin?" Scott asked after a long silence.

She sent him an inquiring glance.

"You'll need it when Logan's healing factor wears off. When was the last time you drank a bottle of Canadian whisky?"

"Uh, like, never," she said and laughed, falling back on the bed. "Now go away and leave me alone with…" she held up the bottle and tried to focus on the label, "uh… Mr. Canadian Bub… I mean Club."

Instead of leaving like she'd requested, he sat on the edge of the bed and winced as he stretched out his injured foot. "I really thought Logan was killing you," he said at last.

"Logan would never hurt me," Rogue replied.

"Yes, I know that now. I won't deny there is something about Logan that riles me. But Jean was right when she told me he needs us, even if he doesn't realize it. We have to find out what is wrong with him."

Rogue sat up and put aside the whisky. "Jean has some ideas? Can she help him?"

Scott shook his head. "Not yet, but she's good at this and she'll find something and the professor can help." Scott patted her knee. At this moment he seemed like a recalcitrant big brother instead of the leader of the X-Men. Rogue reminded herself that he wasn't much older than her. She was eighteen and he was what? Twenty-five maybe? Twenty-six?

"Can we call it a truce?" he asked.

Rogue tilted her head to the side and studying him a moment and realized she wasn't being fair. She held out her hand. "Truce," she replied and they shook on it. "Want to stay for a shot?" Rogue held up the bottle.

"No," Scott decline and chuckled. "Don't let Storm or Jean see that. Logan won't like them confiscating his whisky. And speaking of Logan, you should go see him, it might help. He's still in critical condition."

"Yeah, I'll go. But I think I'll need that aspirin first." She pressed her hand to her mouth and burped. What a bummer of a time for Logan's healing factor to begin wearing off.

---

Rogue walked—or rather stumbled in her current state—into the lab and looked around, squinting at the bright lights. It smelled of forced cool air and antiseptic that reminded her of a hospital. It was also a little cold and she wished she'd brought a sweater. She noticed was Logan lying on an exam table with only a white hospital sheet draped across him from the waist down. Heavy metal cuffs secured him to the table around his midsection, wrists and ankles. She walked up and was able to study him without those enigmatic dark eyes studying her back. She pulled the wrinkles out of her gloves then smoothed a fingertip across his forehead and eyebrows then brushed away a lock of hair from his forehead. He didn't respond; his breathing slow and steady.

"I wish I knew what was going on inside your head, Logan," she whispered to him. "All you gave me was a powerful urge to drink whisky and smoke cigars."

"He's sedated," said a familiar voice following by the tapping of high heels as Jean walked across the lab to join her. Jean wore a white lab coat over her blue dress and her hair was drawn up to a tight bun. "He looks so peaceful," she said, staring down at him.

"I was thinking the same thing," Rogue replied and touched his arm, wishing she could let him know she was here and didn't blame him for what happened.

"How is your throat," Jean asked, slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and gently lifted Rogue's chin with a thumb and forefinger. Rogue knew the bruising and the painful cuts were gone, healed by Logan's mutant healing factor. "When you retire for the evening, I can bring you some pain killers if you'd like."

"The pain is gone thanks to Logan, but I could still use some aspirin" Rogue replied, hoping Jean didn't notice the whisky smell. She nodded toward Logan. "Do you know what is wrong?"

"I have a theory, and I'm still running tests," Jean replied. "The professor is suppose to meet me down here tomorrow morning. You may join us if you'd like."

"Yes, I'd like that," Rogue said, glad they were including her. She felt she had a right to know what was happening with Logan. "What's with the restraints?"

Jean sucked on her bottom lip for a moment. "They are… a precaution," she said. "I don't like them any more than you, but they're necessary to protect Logan and to…," she paused letting the thought hang unsaid.

"Protect us from Logan," Rogue completed Jean's thought and the older woman nodded. She hated seeing Logan leashed down like a rabid animal. She wrapped a hand underneath a wrist restraint and tested it. No way Logan was getting out of those unless he was a circus contortionist.

"We can't risk another replay of this morning," Jean said quietly and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear that had escaped from the bun. Rogue saw then that Jean looked tired. Jean pulled up a chair and pushed it close to Logan. "Here, why don't you sit for awhile and talk to him. Even if he can't respond, perhaps he can hear your voice and it would do him good." Jean smiled then walked away, disappeared into her office and shut the door, leaving the two of them alone.

"Logan, don't you dare die on me. Don't you dare." She scooted the chair closer, pulled the sheet up over his chest and put her head on the sheet and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, her head rising and falling gently with each breath. Even wounded, he seemed strong, immortal. "I'm here, and I'm not leaving you. Tonight I'll be your guardian angel--everyone needs one of those, Logan. Even someone like you."

She must have dozed off because something touched her hand and she jerked upright, staring around the lab in confusion before remembering where she was. The next thing she felt was a powerful pounding headache.

"Ow!" she held a hand to her head and squeezed her eyes shut. "No more whisky for you."

"Did you drink it all," asked a hoarse voice.

Rogue momentarily forgot her pain and stared at Logan. He was conscious and looking at her.

"Uh---what?" she stuttered.

"Did you drink all my whisky?" he repeated.

"Ohh! Unfortunately." She groaned and dropped her head back to his chest and she could hear him chuckle.

"Hangover?"

"Yeah," she managed. "You drink some nasty stuff, Logan. No wonder you need a healing factor."

"That's my best whisky your talking about," he said, she could hear the smile in his tone.

"I'm glad you're back," she said, daring to hold her head upright again. It still throbbed but seeing Logan conscious made the headache bearable. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I went on a four day bender with a few cases of bad bourbon," he said then tested his restraints, she could feel his muscles bunching. "Am I on house arrest?"

"Not exactly. Jean has been working all night to try and piece together what happened. She's going to talk to the professor tomorrow," Rogue said. Logan's expression hardened and for a moment he looked like the man that had attacked her. "Logan," she whispered, suddenly frightened. "Do you know?"

"How's the boy scout?" he asked, clearly changing the subject. His abrupt dismissal of the subject did more to frighten her than sooth her. Anything that Logan wasn't willing to talk about couldn't be good.

"He's fine," she replied, thinking it better not to push him. "Jean stitched and fixed him up." She tried to smile. "And here we are, all of us alive, so maybe there'll be a happy ending to this after all."

"Come here," he said and wiggled his hand—-it was all he could do with the straps around his wrist. Rogue folded her hand into his, feeling his strength pulse through every fiber of her being. He winked at her and suddenly everything was okay.

"I had a dream that an angel was standing next to me with her hand on my head," Logan said. "She whispered to me that everything would be okay." He squeezed her hand. "Now I realize it wasn't a dream."

Rogue smiled, closed her eyes laid her head back on his chest, wrapping one arm around him and hugging him tight. She could feel his breath across her cheek. "Logan," she said. "The professor will figure this out, he will." Logan didn't reply so she just held him, silently letting him know that she wasn't giving up on him.

---

It was late when Jean finished the tests. She sat at her desk, took her glasses off and pinched her nose between thumb and forefinger. Her head hurt from staring at the computer screen. She wasn't pleased with the results of those tests, and they only served to create more questions and fewer answers. That Logan had been created to be a weapon there was no doubt. But why? What was his purpose? What were his creator's plans for him? A lot of expense went into to making Logan what he was, so why was he out free? And where were the people who created him? Could it be that they were just now using him? The professor said Logan had been wandering for close to fifteen years, so why wait so long?

Jean placed her glasses back on her nose and stared at the computer screen in front of her. She tapped her fingernails on the keyboard, frustrated that she was no closer to solving anything than she was six hours ago.

And speaking of time. She looked at her wristwatch. It was 4am. She was to meet the professor in 4 hours and brief him on Logan's condition. Perhaps a few hours rest would refresh her mind.

Jean yawned and stretched, turned off her computer and wandered out into the lab to check on Logan one more time before she retired. The lights were dim and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust while she walked to where he lay. He wasn't alone.

Rogue slept in the chair next to him, her head pillowed on the sheet covering Logan's stomach, her hand in his, her long dark hair spilling over him. Logan's chest rose and fell evenly, and Jean checked the machine and found his vitals had stabilized. She gently moved his head to one side and saw that the claw marks in his throat had healed. She didn't want to lift the sheet to check his stomach and accidentally wake Rogue, but she assumed those wounds were healed as well.

Jean stood and watched them for a moment and a smile tilted the corners of her mouth. If anything could get Logan through this it was this young girl who unconditionally gave him her love and trust. She softly touched a lock of Rogue's hair.

"Bless you," she whispered and left the room, leaving the two alone. Considering what she had found tomorrow wouldn't be pleasant and both of them would need their rest.

---

The next morning Rogue gathered with Scott, Storm, the professor and Jean in a meeting room off the main lab. Comfortable seats were arranged in a semi-circle, stadium-like fashion and facing a computer console and a large flat screen monitor. Jean moved to it, tapped a few keys and brought up an X-ray photo.

"As we are all aware, adamantium has been grafted to Logan's entire skeleton. This makes his bones virtually unbreakable, but it also prevents me from getting a clear CAT scan." She leaned over and tapped in a few more keys. "I went up through his sinus with a camera and this is what I found."

A new image popped up on the computer screen. The professor jerked in his chair.

"My god!" he said and wheeled his chair closer. "The first time I saw Logan's X-rays, I could scarcely believe it, but this is unbelievable."

"It looks like micro electronics," Scott said, drawing closer to the screen.

"Exactly," Jean replied. "Before his bones were grafted with adamantium, they first went in and inserted micro-electronic implants."

"What do they do?" Scott asked. His stiff-legged stance telegraphed to all presence that he wasn't happy with this new bit of information.

"That's the problem, these devices are so advanced I would not have believed they existed without this visible proof and I can only guess at their function." Jean sighed and picked up a laser pointer, flicked it on with a thumbnail and pointed it to the screen. "This tiny, solid mass here in the back of his retina is… well, I think it functions as a recording device of some kind. Here is the Thalamus, this large ovoid mass of gray matter at the base of his brain. It acts as the chief center for transmission of sensory impulses to the cerebral cortex. That is the location of another metallic object. My guess is that is the sensory information is changed, I believed when he attacked up he was hallucinating."

"Great," Scott muttered.

The professor said nothing, his face foreboding, his lips thinned. Rogue had never seen him this angry. Jean continued.

"These masses back here are located on the brain stem, which mean, with the proper stimulus Logan can be," Jean shook her head and frowned, "well, I think he can be remotely controlled."

Scott snorted. "I knew he was bad news, I just didn't realize how bad."

The professor ignored him. "Can you remove them?"

"That's the problem. I can't get through his skull; nothing I have will dent it. I could through his sinuses again, but there's a high risk of killing him even with his healing factor."

The professor sat and thought for a moment then looked up, his gaze encompassing all of them. "Jean, I spoke of an idea earlier, I think it's time to try it see for ourselves what might happen."

---

Weapon-X opened his eyes and the visual information was immediately uploaded to a computer screen. The room appeared to be some sort of hospital room or lab. Doctor Kirby couldn't be certain because the lights were dim. Weapon-X moved his head and at one end of the room they could see a woman with white hair walking across his field of vision.

Another computer froze the woman's image and information streamed to left side of the image. Ororo Munroe, AKA Storm, the computer identified the woman. Abilities: able to control the weather.

"Very good," Kirby said. "Weapon-X's first target. What are Weapon-X's vitals, Miss Edwards?" Kirby asked.

"Normal. Weapon-X has healed at a rate faster than calculated by our computers." She brought up a graph displaying Weapon-X's vitals.

"Very good." Kirby rocked back on his heels and smiled. "They believe he is secure. Now is the time." He turned to his main systems scientist. "Weapon-X is ready for deployment. Bring him online and set new stimuli parameters to 85%."

"Yes, sir," Downes replied. "Bringing systems online now."

---

Kill them!

Weapon-X jerked, his eyes snapping wide open, his senses instantly alert. Fists clenched, his arms strained against the lockdown. He lifted his head and tested the air, his mutant senses telling him that he wasn't alone in the room. He couldn't see his first target, but he knew where she was.

Six adamantium claws slid from their housings in his forearm and he twisted his right wrist toward the restraint holding his left wrist. A minute flick with the adamantium claw cut through the metal strap like butter. With his left arm partially free, he quickly cut through the remainder of the restraints and sat up.

His target sat at a computer screen with her back to him.

A feral snarl lifted Weapon-X's lips as he silently slipped from the table and stalked toward her in a battle ready crouch.

Kill her!

---

Storm rubbed a thumb in a circle on her left temple. She really needed to get to bed. She frowned at the slight scuffling noise that came from behind her. She smothered a yawn behind her hand and rose from the chair.

A shadow loomed over her. Her eyes wide, she gasped.

A monstrous silhouette rose over her. The dim light in the lab glinted down the length of six adamantium claws.

"Logan," she whispered. In that instant she knew she couldn't conjure anything strong enough to push him away in time. She could only watch in mute horror as those adamantium claws rushed toward her unprotected neck.