Missing: Month One

It's been twenty-seven days since Marie's been gone. Logan's patience was severed by the razor-edged rage that overtook him on day four.

There is a world of difference between being generally unpleasant to be around, and being downright homicidal. Something the residents of Xavier's school have become intimately aware of lately.

Twenty-seven days. In that time, they've tracked down leads to three different labs. The first two didn't turn up shit. Facilities long-empty, water dripping down into the cracked plaster and concrete walls, the stench of mildew and old-death lingering in the air. And the third...

The third is currently in the process of being ransacked by one pissed off Wolverine, and a team of overly-cautious X-Men.

The buzzing of the piece of plastic in Logan's ear is accompanied by Cyclops even tenor. "Third floor - all clear, everyone hold position."

Logan growls, frustration and adrenaline fueling his movements as he prowls the corridor. Five steps up, five steps back. An even march in front of the electronically sealed door blocking his way to the cells beneath the lab. Already he's overturned four suites worth of high-end research equipment, and mowed down a dozen guards. (The rest of the X-Men can play it stupid all they want, and take them down gently, he's not nearly so forgiving.) All that's left is for Cyke and Kitty to work their mojo up in the server room, and let him the hell through, so he can clear out what's left, and maybe, just maybe, find Marie.

Everything else he manages to accomplish is an incidental bonus.

His muscles are tense, the fibers laying beneath the surface of his skin, bunched up and waiting to spring. Claws dragging deep grooves into the wall as he moves. Little sparks jumping out with each swipe. His upper lip curls back in a snarl every few seconds that the damn red light above the door stays lit. He's giving the geek squad exactly ten more seconds to turn off the security feeding into the door, and then he's slicing through it, high voltage or not.

Fifty-thousand volts to the head would be preferable to keeping still any longer. It's only the thought that Marie may be on the other side, and in need of him as more than a pile of drooling indifference, that keeps him from plowing onward, warnings be damned.

There's a click, click, clicking sound, and then the light turns from red to green. Cyclops yammering some caution or other in his ear, but he doesn't register it. Too busy barreling through the door and into the cell block on the other side.

Six mutants in total. All of them stinking of fear, pain, abuse.

Not a one of them Marie.

One lone guard at the end, an awful shot. But when you have seventeen bullets, and no obstacles in your way, you don't need to be anything else.

Unfortunately for the guard, it takes more than that to put down an angry Wolverine.

Unfortunately for Logan, there is nothing at all satisfying about the lack of a fight the man puts up when he has eighteen inches of adamantium sunk in his gut.

And when Logan pulls them back out, with a slick, popping sound, he finds that he can't relax his tendons enough to get them to retract.

He's breathing hard, huge panting inhales and exhales of air that do nothing to calm him - just force the antiseptic smell of the place deeper into his lungs - reminds him that she's not here - when the Boy Scout and Company finally arrive. He shoulders past them, claws still extended, a gnarled "no" his only response to the team's request for his assistance in getting the lab-rats outta their cages, and back on the jet.

The team scowls, judging, think he's doing it to be a bastard. Thinks he just doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, and Marie.

And maybe they're right, but still the last thing any of those tortured S.O.B.'s need is to get filleted by one of their rescuers.

Even he isn't that much of an asshole.

~~~+~~~

"Subject 752-90-33. Submitted for procedure number twenty-one. Goal is the assessment of absorption parameters and length of sustainability. Time is...15:52. How are you feeling today Ms. D'Ancanto?"

"Fuck you." Her lips are cracked, split down the middle and along the side. There is no saliva in her mouth to hurl at the man leaning over her supine body, so she spits the words at him instead, hoping some blood will leak out the edges and find its way to his smiling face.

No such luck.

"Tsk. Tsk. Now, is that any way for a proper young lady, such as yourself, to behave?"

The drugs pumping around in her veins have sapped her of her energy, of muscle control, so she is helpless to do anything but curl back her lip in a borrowed snarl. It's the best she can manage, and she doubts Logan would mind.

"I asked you a question, Ms. D'Ancanto. How are you feeling today? Any side-effects after yesterday's procedures that we should be aware of?"

Ya mean after you made me suck that poor woman dry? After you poured her mind, and soul, and memories into me? Are you asking, dickface, if I'm feeling any side-effects after you made me commit murder, for the sake of your sick, twisted little experiments? No. Not a one.

By the way, she says hello.

She doesn't say any of that, can't possibly string enough words together around too tender lips and a too parched tongue to manage such a tirade, but it doesn't matter.

He doesn't really give a shit anyhow. The Malibu-Ken smile on his face tells her that much.

"None? Good, good. Now, if you will just raise your right arm." And because they know she lacks the coordination to do it herself, someone raises it for her. She can't turn her head to see who's responsible. Just feels latex slide along the exposed skin of her forearm, the hairs lining it standing up on end with the touch as the limb is tugged ever higher, until she's saluting the ceiling.

Tiny electrodes are suctioned along the length of it, slicked with some sort of gel. They are carefully maneuvered around the injection ports located at her elbow, and wrist. Her arm is lowered, and she manages to gain just enough control to curl numb fingers into the starchy fabric encasing the mattress. A few minutes pass, and the procedure is repeated on her other arm. Then down both legs, and finally her face, and chest. The asshole in charge humming the whole time.

"Now then, this might pinch a bit at first. But trust me, this is better than the alternative."

The 'pinch' builds slow, pins and needles pricking along her body, growing until it beats through her with the gentleness of three-hundred cattle prods. Makes her mind jump and shiver - familiar images of a cold-metal slab, and a man laughing in German nearby, fizzle through her head before being replaced, overlapped, by more recent ones. A slim, fair-headed woman, whipping through the air with nothing between her and the clouds but a gray jumpsuit; laughter in her throat. Surprised at the sudden loss of muscle control, the woman falls. Twists, tumbles through the air. Her body reaching a speed which a helpful voice in Marie's mind describes as 'terminal velocity' before she makes contact with the pavement. The sound of the thud echoes in Marie's ears. Again. And again. And again.

The foggy face of the man the woman sees when she opens her eyes is the same man currently hovering over Marie.

She sucks in a lungful of oxygen through the mask over her mouth, opening her jaw wide on a scream that refuses to be given life. Hush up, girl. Don't give 'em the satisfaction. Instead what pours out over her sandpapery tongue is: "Carol Danvers. Captain. United States Air Force. 987-65-4328." in rigid, mid-western tones.

"Retention rate of mutation, still 100%. Please, make a note that it has been 26 hours since absorption.

"You are doing very well, Ms. D'Ancanto. Very, very well. My superiors will be pleased. In fact, if I am not mistaken, I think that the success of this most recent absorption may just entice them to move to the next phase of your training."

The burst of fear that explodes in Marie's stomach at those words is smothered by the burning hate that blazes to life in its wake. Someone lifts her arm, holds it steady while a syringe is attached to one of her injection ports, a wave of fluid throbs through her veins.

The last thing she sees, before the welcoming arms of unconsciousness engulf her, is her captor's perfect teeth.

~~~+~~~

After: Day 11

Extended time in the medlab makes parts of Logan's brain twitch uncomfortably. Disturbs memories buried deep within his subconscious. Misty edged thoughts taunting him, forever out of reach.

The incandescent lights glare off the equipment like sun on snow. Bouncing back. Causing a pulsating ache behind his corneas. And the smell. That sickly-sweet antibacterial wash that coats all available surfaces - cut by the bitter, icy scent of rubbing alcohol - is thick enough to choke on.

But right now, Logan doesn't give a shit about any of that. Not with Marie's exhausted body stretched out on the cot in front of him. Wires and tubes, connecting her to all manners of machines. Beeping out their steady stream of nonsense. He doesn't need a digital read out to tell him what his nose can.

Stable. Tired. Drained.

Alive.

He feels the same way.

Worn down, gravity having its way with his metal-lined bones, making it hard for him to keep his head up. Eyes open. But he manages, since he can't bare the thought of falling asleep yet. Can't bare the thought of tearing his eyes from her...cause every time he does, every time he does...

Well, it just doesn't bare thinkin' about, what happens every time he does.

So instead, he sits. Body drug close to her bed in a swivel chair that no longer swivels. The knuckles of one hand gone white where they are clenched around the plastic arm of the thing. The fingers of his other hand lay a fraction of an inch from hers. Flexing open and shut, tugging at the crisp, cotton sheet laying beneath her. Like he wold like to pull her close, until the space between them is gone.

He wants, more than anything, to sweep his fingertips along the back of her hand - to feel the brush of that silken skin against his own, to feel the thrum of her pulse - and be certain that she is not just a trick of a desperate man's imaginings, but here. And real. And alive.

So that he can prove - so that he can confirm with his own hands - that she is whole. That there are still some parts of her that aren't broken.

Wants to trace those same fingers up along her arm, caressing every inch, until he reaches the spot where neck meets shoulder. Lift up, and stroke the platinum strands of hair from her face, and back behind the shell of her ear.

His skin is near to vibrating with the want of it all. But he manages to twist the frayed edges of his control together in a knot, and restrain himself. For her sake, not his.

Who knows what it would do to her right now, to have parts of his psyche slink their way inside her damaged mind?

He's so absorbed, so focused on the thin lines of blue tracing their way from her hand, up her wrist, and into her arm, that he doesn't see her open her eyes. Not until a tiny gasp draws his attention to her face.

He whips his head up, turns to lock his gaze on her. Sees liquid brown eyes staring back at him. The skin beneath them dark, heavy. A pink tongue darts out, licks a path along pale lips, and is pulled back in. "Hey."

That one little syllable may just be the best thing he has ever heard. "Hey."

"What - uh - what time is it?"

"Don't know. Late."

She coughs, once, starts to pull herself into a sitting position, Logan nearly vaults over her in his eagerness to help. Doesn't give a first thought, let alone a second, to fluffing a pillow to place behind her head.

The action earns him the closest thing to a smile to grace her lips since they got her back. He'd do it a hundred times over for a chance at one more of those.

"How ya feelin'? Need a drink?" He fumbles, grabs at the tumbler sitting by her bedside. Remembers Jeannie, before she went off to bed, saying that she should try and drink a little, if she awoke during the night. Tilts back the pitcher next to it, filling it half-way, before holding it out to her.

One hand, the one that he'd been watching so intently before she awoke, lifts up. A little shaky, but steady enough, and grasps at the bottom of the glass. Careful to avoid contact with his skin.

She holds the cup, stares. Head tilted and eyes narrowed a little. Like she isn't sure what to do with it, before she brings it to her lips, taking only a small sip before passing it back. "Thank you."

"Anytime, Darlin'." His body slumps back into the chair, hands restless by his sides, unsure where to settle, so they make do with his knees. Scratches at the threads of his jeans, just to give his fingers something to do that doesn't involve reaching out to Marie.

Silence builds between them, one brick at a time, before she knocks it down with a wrecking ball. "I killed, Logan. So many...so many people." She pauses, takes a deep breath. Her hands playing idly with the edge of the sheet. Looking - and sounding - more lucid then he can recall since her return. He wants to stop her. Tell her that she doesn't need to talk. Not now. Not about this, but he finds the words die a horrid death in his throat. Unwilling to halt her forward momentum.

"The doctors-" she spits the word, real heat flaring in her eyes. An answering growl expands in his chest, echoing in the quiet room. "They wanted a weapon. And once they figured out that I kept..that I keep...all of the mutations from the people I kill, they thought they'd hit the jackpot. Thought that I'd be their perfect creation."

Eyes that had been downcast, focused on the fabric being pulled tight by her hands, raise to his once more. Hurt. But aware. A fire feeding into them that he has missed. "But I was losin' it, Logan. I...I was losin' it." She laughs, a watery chuckle that is painful to hear. "But you already knew that, didn't ya? Seen how messed up in the head I've become.

"And I wasn't no good to them as a weapon, if I was stark-raving mad, now was I?"

The internal battle with his vocal-cords shifts in his favor, and he manages to say her name. But she railroads right over him. Doesn't seem to even notice that he spoke.

"So they decided to try a purge. Find a way to flush out all those voices chattering away inside my skull, and just leave what they wanted behind. Only they messed up, and I didn't work no more. They broke me, Logan."

He can't stop the angry growl when he hears those words. Can't stop his body from propelling itself out of the chair, and into a pace. Covering the short distance between the foot of the bed, and the head. "You're not broken, Marie. Never think that." He reaches out - can't stop himself - fingers twisting through a lock of white hair. Lets it slip between his digits, the satin sensation of it making something warm curl in his core. "What they did -"

"I know, Sugah. I know. 'Cause they're back."

The hair falls from his grip, but his hand hovers a second longer, before he gains enough control of his motor functions to retract it. Lets it fall to the space between the edge of the bed, and her side. Pressing a fist down into the mattress, next to her hand.

He knows already, of course, had a front-row seat to the episode that sent her into a coma days ago. Knows that her main mutation is back, along with all of the people she absorbed. But to hear her say it - so easily - is something of a shock.

"They're all back now, and I feel...I feel..."

She shakes her head, eyelids pinching tight as she does. One of the monitors attached to her starts to speed up, the little digital read out going haywire. And not matching at all with the pace of her heart, which he can hear steadily pumping beneath her breast. No sign of distress in the organ that he can tell.

"Marie?" He has a hell of a time keeping the rising tide of panic out of his voice. Tightly-clipped words betraying his struggle. "Marie, what's wrong? Talk to me dammit."

One of the bulbs overhead pops and then goes dark. Followed by another. The hellish lighting in the place suddenly much less oppressive. Marie's stare is back on him. Even. Calm.

Scary as hell.

"I feel whole."

~TBC