Five minutes.
Twenty obstacles.
Fiveteen seconds per kill.
One tunnel.
Ten niches, each side.
Twenty automatic rifles.
Three extra rounds each.
Two grenades per soldier.
One-half suit of body armor per soldier.
Twenty one scents of fear.
One from abuse.
Twenty from the unknown.
The timer resides as a digital disturbance in the pseudoreality, a reminder of the two possibilities present before him: success or failure. Win or lose. Live or die. And the last didn't pertain only to himself--otherwise the ultimatum wouldn't be so important.
Time was perhaps the most dangerous of the opposing forces. Tangible beings could be slaughtered, lives could be ended. Time could not be stopped--only resisted. And so it was the true reason the minor of difficulties were processed without further thought. Instincts alone, passive mental activity would rectify the situation without need for any great concentration. Just let Weapon X do what he does best.
One tunnel, 8 feet wide. Ten inches each side, each recess four feet by four feet with four feet in-between each set. One guard per niche cowering in the corner with their rifle loaded and the safety off. One had it on and didn't know it. They would not make the first move, they knew their opponent. So his backside was pressed against the right side, and movements were made in stealth, methodically in tune with the precalculated limitations set down by the opposition. Five seconds spent for this kill already.
The round extension from the weapon clutched to the mans chest was seen first, but steps were taken until oceanic pupils were seen large and swelling. Three indestructible weapons were unsheathed in a penetration of his own flesh, lurching from the wall and into the first left crevice as the guard attempted to aim with his movements, fear paralyzing his potential into nothing. The first kill was made with a three second excess, claws piercing the cranium to remove life instantaneously. Serpentine movements circled him around the guard, unattacking arm then grasping the corpse by its own left bicep, churning the dead weight around to guard his own body from the fire received in the adjacent depression. The entire round unloaded onto the lifeless form, the soldier began to reach for his survival knife when the unused gun was let loose to remove the second deterrent. Nine seconds excess for the second kill.
Two down, eighteen trembling, one of which was crouching in the corner of his hideaway. A grenade was stripped of the first soldier, unpinned and tossed approximately four feet ahead. Both soldiers realized in horror, but did nothing about it. The situation seemed rectify itself, for them. He followed the grenade and slid to a stop with his bare foot, momentum continuing the grenade further down the hallway where the explosion startled guards further down. Right arm again made a lethal strike to the northern region of a soldier, this time a preferred decapitation before he dropped low to avoid immediate fire. A backwards roll and the lowering fire was still yet evaded, each set of adamantium implanted into the abdomen of the firing soldier. Two soldiers killed, excess of 24 seconds between the two. Thirty-six seconds excess total.
Fifteen soldiers were still alive. The detonated grenade forced panic to the point of fatal friendly fire from one guard in the next section, giving him another fifteen second excess and the right guard still needing to reload his rifle, still cursing in panted breaths. Only death and hunger fumed from his own. Hunger for more death.
The survival knife was then the next pilfered object. Twelve seconds for the next kill. A dash of four feet, calloused flesh standing upon scorched flooring as feet stilled the lower motions, leaving the knife-held arm to project the weaponry into the very heart of the now-reloaded soldier. Another carcass, ten seconds excess. Six dead, fourteen left, sixty-one seconds excess.
Two grenades unpinned, and tossed into each indention as it was sprinted along, leaving the soldier to fumble to catch it and attempt to give it to his unknowing comrade. Five seconds used, twenty five excess between the two. Eighty-six seconds excess total. The sprint continued, where the choice was made by passive calculations to veer right, and slit another throat. The true reason Logan was the chosen being for Weapon X remained distinctly clear, just then. For while if that had been done at any other section, the adjacent soldier would have readily filled him with an entire round of ammunition. But his perceptions of something truly beyond capability to be perceived held firm. The private squeezed the trigger repeatedly, but failed to realize that the safety was indeed, still on. He was dead before he could attempt to fire again. Two sets of metal pierced each breast bone, and he was used to slow the descent of the launched murderer. That's what he was, in those moments. A murderer. And he relished it. Ten dead, twenty-two seconds excess between the two.
Ten guards left, all thoroughly demoralized with the knowledge of their number now halved. All ready to fire. Both soldiers survival knives were filched, held tight in each hand as he rolled into the next section and launched one at each leg. Another right turn, to launch up both body and blades, into the gut of the wounded. As assumed, the other was still in shock from the unexpected pain. A turn and another launch, this time more vertical than horizontal; tucking legs up but still parted, left arm was used as the main form of slaughter to embed the length of his inherent tool for bloodshed in an almost-perfect angle down at the top of the head, piercing the helmet and cranium as a whole, protruding out the back, just at the top of the neck. A graceful landing followed as weight was distributed properly with the impending fall. Twelve down, eight to go. Twenty three seconds excess for the two, one hundred and thirty-one total to spare.
Despite however quickly he was removing his opposition, his patience was wavering. The scent of wounded life was getting stronger, and the scent was not radiating from any man. She was there, at the end of that tunnel. And she was dying. So he would save her. It was that simple.
Six seconds wasted on thought, before actions took over once more. Next was a game of manipulated. So, rather simply, steps were taken to step in the next section of niches, keeping with the tradition of first assaulting right to slaughter in a single swift strike. He dropped, but his companion reacted just as expected--in all accounts. A full round was unloaded into him, nudging him into the adjacent depression with each bullet from momentum alone, until his body sagged against the wall, limply leaning. The soldier, wary, stepped out of his own hole and toward the dead attacker. he didn't realize the truth until he looked at the backside, bloody, yet.. lacking any holes. the bullets hadn't made a sound, dropping upon the carcass below, and a round-house slash decapitated the semi-successful soldier before he had decided what to do. Two more down; six seconds more than the allotted for the two. Laying against the wall while the soldier closed in had cost him time.
A tactic of some similarity was again employed. Both grenades stolen from a dead soldier, this time tossed ahead in each niche without him running ahead of the explosion. He stayed back, and let them panic. Two more deaths, in the time of six seconds--easily making up for his previous lingering. Sixteen now down, four left. Twenty three seconds excess, totaling one hundred and forty eight excess. Ninety-two seconds used.
He picked up a gun, inserted a fresh round incase of a lack of bullets and again braced himself against a wall, this time the left. Another part to execute by feel, but he didn't prefer trusting a gun. Too many variables. He preferred blades. More specifically, his own. But the situation warranted varying from the norm. He crept, gun held in the right hand, until he began to spot the guard on the opposing side. From there it was just a matter of dashing forward enough to both fire the assault rifle at one soldier, and use the claws of the other arm to silence the closer of the two enemies. Nineteen seconds excess, since he took his time in creeping up. Two guards left, and he knew just how to remove them as deterrences from his goal. Taking a soldier already dead, a firm heave of the corpse was given to launch the decaying body forward, receiving frightened fire as he, for the first time, veered right. A jump over incoming fire, kicking against the far side of the left crevice to launch toward the soldier, kicking him back against the wall and giving a finishing slash across the chest. Landed low in a crouch, immediately getting airborne once more and spreading his arms out as claws came within range of decapitating the last and final opponent of any tangible existence. The head bounced to the ground, leaving the body lifeless.. just as nineteen others before he. As soon as legs again met with the ground, he was off--Weapon X had done his job, and now Logan was again in control. No questions asked. Weapon X had enough bloodshed.. for now.
Quite a ways of running, and the scent of Marie began to get stronger. Until he saw her, at the end of the tunnel, chained to the wall and hanging just as the lifeless shoulders had. He knew better--he smelt better. But the sight didn't help to calm his fears. He ran, of course, until he was there with her, removing the chains that kept her bound and catching her as she fell. And he swore he'd never allow her to be captured again, by anyone, as he brought his head down to kiss the lips that seemed so close to letting out a last breath. He swore he could almost discern the taste of her flesh, before it all snapped.
He awoke, quite sweaty in his bed. A glance at the time--4:27 in the morning. A dream. Just.. a dream. But he had to be sure. He always had to be sure. Which is why he left his bed in only boxers, and journeyed from his room to Marie's. Every night he had a dream like the one he just had. Every time, to make sure she was actually in her room asleep, and not captured. Not really gone. And every night he found her there, sleeping. Some nights she woke, he was never quite sure why. Not even trained soldiers could pick up on his movements--whether by sight or by sound--but sleeping Marie could identify his presence near her quite well. He both liked and disliked that about her, but said nothing. It was understood without discussion--until she awoke, as she began to do, and he attempted to exit her room before she could truly notice his presence. He'd slipped too close to her, in making sure she was alright. She was up in the bed before he could slide through the open door, and mumbled with due drowsiness. "Logan?"
"Sorry, Marie. I--" he was cut off, both by a lack of words to tell her, and by her own interjection to finish what he couldn't. "Had another bad dream?"
Part of him was grateful she knew without him saying it. Because he couldn't, really. But another part of him hated it. Because she shouldn't have to know about it, at all. But she'd learned so many, he wasn't entirely sure if he could say he knew more of his nightmares or she did. She picked up a lot of his when she drained him--sometimes ones he couldn't even remember. And she'd touched him too many times for him to keep track of. "Yeah."
"It's okay, Logan. I'm not going to be taken," she said, almost in a whisper. Because no matter how quiet she uttered it, he would hear her. And no matter how much confidence lined her voice, he could not believe her. Not fully, anyway. the dreams inspired a paranoia that was familiar. It was real. It was feared.
She began, as always, to get up out of bed, but he drifted back to the side of the bed to keep her from getting up out of the covers that coated her. He didn't want to disturb her night anymore than he had to. Even if he did, in some ways, just want to be close to her. Because the closer he was, the more real she was. And the better he could convince his own mind that she was there, with him, and safe. And going to stay that way, if he had any say about it. "I know, I just--"
She quieted him with a hand that reached out and grabbed his wrist. He swore he could feel her skin through the cloth of her glove, and he kneeled beside her as she came a little closer toward the edge while he lowered to become at a more even level. And in silence she allowed him to hug her. She hugged him back, too, to help him solidify her residence there. With him. In that room.
It took him a while of embracing her to loosen, drifting back to look at her in the same silence. She'd grown up, with everything. Alkali lake, New York. She'd become stronger, and less vulnerable. And perhaps he had become less so, in some of the same ways. She'd gotten settled--he'd gotten attached. But despite that, they were still close. Which is why when she leaned in to kiss him, he didn't retreat. Because in those moments he came to hope it was a dream after all, so that he could taste her lips without blacking out. But that never happened.
It was really her, both to his pleasure and his pain. He could taste her skin, her youth, her beauty. And she could taste him. His strength, his power, his skill. But she could taste so much more than that. Her mutation instantly began, and he could feel the pull. It was a part of her taste, after all. The taste of you being sucked out of.. you. It's like nothing he'd ever felt.
But she--she could taste his thoughts. His feelings. His memories. His dreams. More specifically, his latest dream. This is the true reason why she kissed him. To learn what could never be told, only felt. How he killed so many people, for her. To rescue her. Took bullets, for her. All for her. Because he cared more for her than he had for anyone he could remember. And she knew. He never said it, but she knew. She was the only one he allowed in. Perhaps it was because she was the only one that could get in--in a certain way. Jean might be able to read his mind, but she could never do it like Marie. Or maybe she never wanted to. She never knew. But she was grateful, because she enjoyed having that private Logan all to herself. Just as he enjoyed her being the only one who knew about his private side.
And so she pulled away, once she'd learned all about his dream, and his newest fear. His newest journey, for her, in his dreams. There were so many figmented quests for her, all in her name, all for her to be rescued at the end with them going to kiss, only to end just as they would start. Perhaps that ended as it did, so they could continue where it left off. With a kiss.
He fell limp, now unconscious, and she frowned a bit. Normally she tried to get him to lean forward more, if not get on the bed altogether, since she couldn't very well pick him up and put him on her bed with much ease, and she didn't think the floor was all that comfortable for him. But he wasn't out long--a few minutes, but nothing more. He came to with the same drowsiness she had when just awakening, and she gave him a smile as he looked to her and stood. Inside, she knew he smiled back. But outside, he stayed rather mute, and began to go. "Thanks, Logan," she said, everytime. And as he moved to the door, opening it and before slipped through the threshold, he whispered in perfect clarity every time, "Always, Marie."
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Story Notes:
First attempt at fanfiction in general. Relationship is intentionally vague. I promise nothing, since I'm new and rather ignorant to all of this. Read at your discretion. If I did/am doing/seem to be prone to do something wrong, then go ahead and tell me. I'd rather know than not.