Chapter One
THE NOT SO DISTANT FUTURE
It was a workman�s boot, steel-capped. Something you could drop an anvil on without crippling yourself. He felt himself curl inward, stomach muscles clenched. The foot drew back, returned lower, between his legs. It took the breath straight out of his lungs. A kick like that sounds an alarm through the whole body, like sirens up a quiet street. Up his hips, his guts. Organs stuttered in the middle of their work. It was a nauseating pain, a paralyzing pain, a finishing pain.
For most.
Logan straightened up. He grunted, a sound which expressed weeks of bruising compressed into seconds, tissue springing back into place, nerve endings shushed. A beer bottle shattered against the cage to his right, splashing glass and Molson across the floor. Fuckin� waste. His opponent wasn�t looking at him, he was looking at the crowd. The room was screaming, stomping, spitting their encouragement, and he was high on it�on the cheers, on the bloodlust, on the idea of looking the way he thought a man should. Logan sniffed, registered the spike in his bloodstream�adrenaline and arousal, jeans tight with excitement. The man had climbed into the ring pale, but he was flushed now, breathing fast. The lopsided swastika on his throat shuddered. Logan tended to respect people who got in the cage, even ones who snuck in brass knuckles. They wouldn�t be in a place like this if they�d won often in life and Logan saw no reason to embarrass them. They were both here to do a job and if they came packing--well, so did he. Everyone who climbed into the ring was prepared to hurt. He liked that. The least he could do was make them feel like they had a chance.
But this asshole. .
He walked across the cage. Stalked, fans of Animal Planet would have said. He heard heartbeats pater like rain on a trampoline, heard stomachs gurgle, heard the toilet flush, heard engines turn over in the parking lot. But all he saw were his opponent�s eyes�not stupid, realizing there was something off. There was a moment�that moment, where the decision on fight or flight needs to be made. To the boy�s credit, he swung. Logan took it straight on the jaw, didn�t try to duck.
And then he wrapped things up.
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He fucked a waitress in the backroom, against a freezer stocked onion rings and hamburger patties. He wasn�t really in the mood, but she reminded him that she had kept his whiskey topped all night and he didn�t want to tip her. Afterwards, he walked through peanut shells and pretzel crumbs to the bar. It was so late it was nearly morning, and the rooms were as quiet as they ever got. Employees were sweeping the cage, picking up unbroken bottles and setting them carefully aside, to be refilled and sold tomorrow night. There was a man passed out on the sofa, making cozy gurgles in the back of his throat. The bookie and his partner were counting out tonight�s winnings, minus Logan�s take. The bartender was rinsing his cleaning rag out in the sink so as better address the next glob of vomit. He used the same cloth to wipe the last round of glasses before setting them on their shelf.
�I�ll have a beer.�
He smoked between sips, drawing the flavor of the cigar deep into his chest, feeling it scrape gently against the interior of this lungs. It was the good kind of discomfort, like the way the waitress had bit his shoulder. A scratchy country song played on the radio. He�d stay here long enough for the sun to finish getting up, drive all day and cheat one night out of its dreams. He took a deeper drink, wishing that he wasn�t so goddamn tired.
Somebody is watching me.
A few seats down the bar a small sat in a green coat, hood shielding hair and face from view. He hadn�t noticed her before�and it was a her, a young her. He could smell that much. He knew that she�d walked a long way�blisters had popped; pus all but glued her socks to her feet. He knew that she was hungry, that she needed to wash her hair. But he didn�t know the color of that hair or why, a second before he turned, she�d been staring at him. Waitress notwithstanding, he was surprised to find that he wanted to.
�You owe me money.� The voice was slurred in a way that was less due to alcohol and more from biting into his tongue. Half of his face looked like the kind of meat you�d throw in a stew before it could go bad. �No man takes a beating like that without a mark to show for it.�
�You lost your money, you keep this up you�ll lose something else.� In glancing back at the men, Logan missed seeing the girl, who he was certain had peeked their way. His opponent�s friend, who looked embarrassed, afraid, and a little bit like Jerry Seinfeld, tried to talk him down. But people don�t like to be talked down, especially when they think they�ve been cheated�and he was right, he had been cheated. Not that I particularly give a shit.
He heard the click of the switchblade. He heard the scream. Things happened quickly then�the man against the wall, Logan�s own blades sliding silently out of his arms, the bartender�s gun against his shoulder. �Get out of my bar, freak,� he said. As if anybody was going to leave here without bleeding. Logan moved�the rifle spewed grey pellets as it was cut in half. Thoughts flipped through his mind like fingers over a stack of well-worn playing cards. He knew he couldn�t kill one without killing the other. But what about the rest? The bookie and the truck driver, still sleeping in the corner? He�d have to cut phone lines, incapacitate vehicles. But still, calls would be made and once again he�d be the hunted one.
And what about her, he thought. What about that scream? �Look out!� That was a new card. He heard her pulse, smelt fear beading up out of her pores.
He looked at the girl on the stool, and froze, horrified. The claws shrank back into their sheaths. He didn�t care anymore about the men, the bar�he left as fast as possible, boots crunching over peanuts and hardwood and then snow. I didn�t see that. His hands shook putting the keys into the door, and then the ignition. I�m drunk. He�d never felt so sober. Logan drove for ten miles, and then twenty, and then thirty, trying to convince himself that he had imagined it. It wouldn�t be the first time. He�d hallucinated, he�d had bad trips�with his healing factor, Logan took a Why Not? approach to drugs. But that. Jesus. That was a first.
Still, nobody experienced the things that Logan had without learning to compartmentalize. It was just another thing the weird world had thrown up at him. Like the dog tags around his neck. Like the nightmares. Something had happened, but he had to move on. He lit another cigar, reminded himself to pick up a new box at the next town. The snow stopped, but it draped thick across the road and the trees. He loved silence like this. It reminded him that there were places in the world that people hadn�t scarred up. Being alone allowed him to appreciate it more, although once in a while he thought he wouldn�t mind appreciating it less, just to have someone with him.
At that moment, a turn in the road caused things to shift in the back of the trailer. He heard boots fall out of the cupboard, bottle clinking, a toolbox sliding�and a soft, feminine shriek.
He stopped the truck�in the middle of the road; nobody was coming either way�and got out. Bemused Logan walked to the back of the trailer. He noted the tarp, the lumps underneath too large to be simply his rust bucket of a bike. He could smell her now, and he was afraid. But he was also the Wolverine, and the Wolverine didn�t panic in the face of things he couldn�t understand. Twice. He poked where he thought her shoulder might be, and then he jerked back the tarp. �What�what the hell do you think you�re doing?�
The girl sat up. Around her neck was a purple scarf, but the rest of her was covered in greens and browns. She had long hair, and it spilled out of her hood. A delicate neck, and small breasts.
And no face. No face at all.
The figure stood, clumsily. She hooked a leg over the side of the trailer and jumped down. Her boots sank into the snow. She walked towards him, slipping a little.
He backpedaled. He couldn�t understand how she knew where he was. Where eyes should be, there was a blur. Her whole face looked like smeared clay or a painting that water had melted the features from. And yet she followed him. And when he stopped, she came close, standing on tiptoe until her head was close to his. He heard her speak, although she didn�t have the lips to do so with.
�I really wish you would remember me.�
He woke up.
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Story Notes:
I've got Writer's Block. Bad. I am *months* overdue on drafts of a novel I was supposed to give to the head of my department. I've burned incense. I've prayed. I've bought and roasted chickens just to get to the wishbone. I've lit candles just to blow them out. I've listened to Mozart, Debussy, Beyonce. I've exercised. I've turned my phone off. I've eaten a healthy diet. I've read books on writing. I've drunk unholy quantities of coffee.
I can't get a single darn thing on the page.
Something about January always brings me back to this site. I can't tell anyone else, but I *loved* writing fanfiction. Partially because I was doing it just and only for *me*, partially because of the incredible sense of community the fandom has, partially because of my Hugh Jackman obsession. Last night, I spent an hour self-indulgently reading old reviews on old stories, trying to psych myself up. Writer's Block feels like a limb going so numb you can't tell if it's there. I wanted to wake it up--and I did. I went to bed, and for the first time in half a year, there were words in my head. I stayed up past midnight writing them down. *Not* the work I'm supposed to be doing---but this. I'll take it. Gladly.
I can't get a single darn thing on the page.
Something about January always brings me back to this site. I can't tell anyone else, but I *loved* writing fanfiction. Partially because I was doing it just and only for *me*, partially because of the incredible sense of community the fandom has, partially because of my Hugh Jackman obsession. Last night, I spent an hour self-indulgently reading old reviews on old stories, trying to psych myself up. Writer's Block feels like a limb going so numb you can't tell if it's there. I wanted to wake it up--and I did. I went to bed, and for the first time in half a year, there were words in my head. I stayed up past midnight writing them down. *Not* the work I'm supposed to be doing---but this. I'll take it. Gladly.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you for taking the time to check out this story-- I hope you enjoy it as much I did writing it. More to come soon, I hope.
Chapter End Notes:
If you made it this far, you have my undying gratitude. I would love to hear what you think.