Twenty one
Logan
A day passes. Then another. Then another. Three days of pacing, waiting, growing more impatient and frustrated. One of the telepaths Logan doesn't know had been dispatched to New York City to see what intel they may be able to find for him, and they hadn’t yet heard back. For most of this time, he’d been keeping to his room mostly, drinking and largely avoiding the students and other adults. And if he’s being entirely honest with himself, he’s especially kept out of Rogue’s way, particularly since, after much thought about it, he’d realized he’d acted like a fucking asshole that night outside the bar. He’s still sore over her forcing his hand here, but, if it does turn into a lead for the General, then he’s got no right to hold it against her, whatever her own motives, whatever crackpot crew she’s hitched her wagon to nowadays.
And speaking of that wagon, Logan is starting to realize that there are many things about the school that more than irk him. He had largely avoided the news in the most recent years with Itsu, especially as things grew worse, but sometimes she would tell him snippets of stories, tales of mutants’ rights groups and their “it’s-us-or-them” politics. He’s startin’ to think this place might be like that. Every once in awhile when he’d cast his hearing out and listen in on a lecture, and based off the few briefings he’d been to, he’s startin’ to suspect there’s some real ideological grooming going on here, like puttin’ lipstick on a pig and callin’ it something other than what it is. Westchester might be a safe haven, but it ain’t immune to speciesism; the slurs for humans he sometimes hears from the young ones in the hallways right outside his fucking door that make his blood run cold tell him as much. And while he knows that the adults don’t outwardly condone that sort of behavior, it’s the narrative they’re spinnin’, the distance they’re creating, the walls and trimmed hedges that got put up between us and them. Logan doesn’t know a lot, but he knows, in all of his fucking experience, that shit’s toxic. You spend too much time alone in a bunker with Malcolm X and you forget the ways of MLK. Separation is separation. Hate is hate.
Something inside of Logan quivers, and he shuts his eyes tightly, intent on pouring more whiskey down his throat. Hate is hate. She’d say that sometimes, especially toward the end, when shit got bad. To remind him, to soothe him. Absolute hate, even of evil, leads to nothing but sorrow and bitterness. Itsu had been a pacifist, and pretty much had made Logan into one late into their relationship. But hate is what killed her. And hate is what’s fueling him now.
Another slug of whiskey. Another wasted hour. Another empty moment without her.
And then, a foreign voice in his head. Fuck this school and its fucking telepaths, Logan thinks, just as he gets the message.
Noted, Logan. But, despite your sentiment, would you care to meet me in the sub-basement in Dr. McCoy’s lab? First door on the left. We have news you might find intriguing.
Logan lets out a low growl as he polishes off the bottle, setting it down roughly on the desk of his room, and shrugging on a red flannel he’d removed to meditate and later on drink. He reminds himself, as he slinks out the door and pass the throngs of students that are moving between classes, of why he’s here. The only reason.
His first attempt to deal with the beast’s howling grief was to throw himself off a fucking mountain up north in Yosemite. He’d still fuckin’ dream about it, even months later, and it feels as real now as it did then. He would climb. Day. Night. He hadn’t noticed the difference. In the thick of it, he didn’t know how long, how many times he’d been up on that mountain. He hadn’t known anything but the cut of the rocks on his hands and the taste of blood on his tongue. He didn’t know anything but the need to climb. It would take hours to reach the top, and yet, every time he had paused there, only a moment. Just long enough to remember why he was there. And then…. down, down, down. There was a moment after he had hit the rocks and his brains had turned to pulp, there was a moment where everything went black. And for three, sometimes four whole seconds, he had been without pain. Without despair or shame, without thought or feeling of any kind. But then, like always, his brain started to reknit itself, his guts slithered back into his belly, and his lungs once more filled with air.
After her death, he’d done it for weeks. He had hoped, maybe, if he’d done it long enough, he would have starved to death. Or his body would have finally just given up and stayed broken and unhealing on the forest floor. But other than those three or four seconds, he had found nothing but the pain he knew he deserved, but, after a while, the pain he could no longer take. So he’d moved on and had concocted another plan.
Rippin’ out the jugular of the kingpin’s throat is sure to bring him no solace, but it might, finally, quiet the animal’s howl of grief.
--
It doesn’t take too long to find the lab, as easy as it is to sniff out McCoy. He ain’t seen a mutant so feral-lookin’ and yet, by the sound of him, he might as well be some fancy to-do from an Ivy League get-up. Through a steel metal door, his hair is already standing on end. It’s a medical facility, and the stench of rubbing alcohol burns his nose. There ain’t nothing natural in this room, and he tries to quell the growing anxiety in him. Ever since the fucking memories of Alkali had returned, he hates this fucking shit. Even Itsu’s lab had made his skin crawl, and most of the time if he ever had to pick her up after work she’d walk out to meet him.
Over some paperwork at a desk on the far end are the two, talking lowly. He doesn’t bother to be polite and rudely interrupts them both, suspicious and uncertain of why he’s down here alone.
“Chuck...Blue…. What is this?” he mutters, and at the same time both mutants glance upward to him. Blue has a mild scowl on his face; the Professor forces a smile.
“ Dr. Hank McCoy has isolated the virus and has been able to extract vital information concerning its infrastructure,” the Professor murmurs, gesturing to a glass slide under a microscope. Logan shoves down the memory of sets of clean ones that sometimes littered he and Itsu’s small apartment in California. He had shelled out some serious cash to buy her a decent microscope for Christmas two years ago.
Thank you, Yūkan'na , she had said.
“That so?” Logan mutters through another shake of his head, coming back to the moment. “What shit is the Army cookin’ up, then?” he snarls.
“In a term, it’s an attempt at a gene drive,” Hank states clearly. Logan only blinks at him, even as he racks his brain for some of the medical knowledge he’d picked up over the years from Itsu. Still though, nothing.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, doc,” he mutters through crossed arms. McCoy shoots a look to Charles, and Charles offers him a small nod, before Hank elaborates further.
“Essentially, gene drives propagate a particular suite of genes throughout a population. They have, in the past, provided an effective means of genetically modifying specific populations, and, at times, entire species,” McCoy explains. Logan lets out a low, sarcastic whistle.
“Gene modification eh? Modifying ‘em to do what?”
“Sterilization, mostly. I myself developed and engineered the initial protocol during some post doctoral work. It began with altering the genetic code of mosquitos,” Hank explains.
“But ain’t mosquitos extinct?” Logan asks. At this moment, the blue mutant practically grins, and Logan can’t quite get the bad taste out of his mouth.
“Now you know why,” McCoy states proudly. Logan can't help but let out a low snarl, fully intent to let whatever animal deep inside McCoy know what he thinks of that smug attitude and god-like ego.
“Doesn’t seem right, messin’ with nature like that,” Logan grumbles, turning to Charles. The old man hasn’t said a word since this back-and-forth started, and still says nothing as he raises his eyebrows at Logan, before silently turning to Hank once more.
“We saved half a million lives, human and mutant, developing that prototype,” McCoy almost growls. So the Beast is in there somewhere, Logan thinks smugly.
“And how many mutants are the there on this rock the humans are lookin’ to sterilize? ‘Round 30 million?” he snarls, looking to them both. Hank sighs, running a hand through his blue fur before once more looking over to Xavier. Xavier again says nothing from his chair, which further frustrates Logan.
“So. This seems like some big fuckin’ news.
You mind telling’ me, Chuck, why you’re sharing this shit with me, and not Cyke and the rest of your team?” Logan says through a scowl, arms even more tightly folded across his chest. Finally, Xavier speaks, his voice even and careful.
“Logan, this information changes everything . In ways, it is the last piece to the puzzle, and, in others, it is something we never could have anticipated. The point is we have reason to believe, based off of intel from our former mission, that the children from the Staten Island zoo are being injected with test versions of these very gene drives,” he finishes, his hands folded together closely in thought, almost as if the man’s praying to some sort of invisible god.
At this, Logan can feel the physical reaction of his body. Something deep in his gut feels rotten at the injustice of it all, even as his blood sings and his claws itch in his arms at the thought of finding the General.
“And you found the new location?” Logan asks tersely.
“Yes. It’s been relocated to one of their main bases,” Charles says curtly.
“And you want me to infiltrate it,” Logan finishes the unspoken request for Xavier. Charles only nods.
“We have reason to believe the General could be there.”
“Yeah, no shit. But that’s not all you want outta me,” Logan mutters.
“No,” Charles says.
“You want me to save those kids…”
“Yes,” the Professor says once more. And then Logan tastes the meaning on the air, and once more his body is pulsing with the promise of murder.
“And you want me to kill every single one of those fucks inside that hurt ‘em. That’s why yer telling me and not Slim,” Logan growls.
Charles only blinks at him, before shooting a silent look to McCoy and then turning back to Logan. When he doesn’t say anything again, Logan finds himself losing a bit of respect for the old man. He won’t agree to the truth of what he wants. He fucking can’t.
“Doesn’t that fly right in the face of some of those lofty X-Men morals, Chuck?” Logan presses in his anger. Xavier frowns for a moment, before continuing on carefully.
“These are desperate times, Logan. And we both benefit from your...service,” he adds, once more folding his hands in front of him. Logan snorts.
“This ain’t the first time I been used for somethin’ like that,” he grumbles. At this, Xavier nods.
“I know. But I would like you to think of this as a quid pro quo. You get your revenge… and the school provides a haven for the children,” Xavier finishes. Logan finally uncrosses his arms, suddenly desperate to hightail the fuck out of the foreboding smells and sights of the lab.
“Well, Chuck,” Logan murmurs, looking once more around the place. “Seems like you got yourself a deal.”
--
Of the few things he owns, most of it is carelessly tossed into his pack after his meeting in the lab. He downs what’s left of the whiskey, makes the bed. He laces his boots up quickly enough, and walks over to the nightstand to grab his wallet and watch. It’s then that he frowns, as he looks down at the small carved wooden turtle that he had placed on the bed stand a few nights before, the first night he had arrived and made careful inventory of his things after reaching his room. He picks it up slowly, as polished, cherrywood eyes stare back at him blankly. He simply grips it tightly for a moment, running his thumb over the grooves of its wooden shell, before murmuring to himself, “I ain’t sure what I’m doin’ anymore, baby.”
Just then though, footsteps right outside his door, and he’s realized, in his haste, he’s left it wide open. Rogue clears her throat from where she lingers in the doorway, and he quickly shoves the rest of his shit, including the turtle he normally handles with care, into the pack and zips it up.
“You’re leaving,” she mutters. She’s adorned in a black long-sleeved top, grey cargo pants, and combat boots. She looks like she’s about to jump out of a fucking plane.
“I got what I need,” he murmurs, before turning to snag his leather jacket from where he’s hung it on the back of the desk chair.
“That right?” she asks, moving into the room a little bit more, an unreadable expression on her features. He sighs, even as he slings his pack over his shoulder. Maybe it was the feeling of being caught in an intimate moment, or perhaps the feeling of the guilt from earlier, or maybe it’s just the goddamn way she’s looking at him, but he finds himself speaking once more, his tone terse, but polite enough.
“Listen, kid. It wasn’t right, what I did or the shit I said the other night. Outside of that shithole of a bar. A person like me’s got no right judging anyone on their business,” he mutters, hand tightening on the bag. She only blinks at him, still expressionless, and his legs move on their own accord, walking to stand square in front of her.
“You got every right to hate me,” he mutters. At this, Rogue sighs frustratingly, uncrossing her arms with the need to fidget.
“I don’t...I mean… I-” she stammers, before he cuts her off.
“-You do. I can see it smoldering in yer eyes. I can smell it on ya,” he says, and, before he can think better, he rests a heavy hand on her thin shoulder. “And maybe you should. Either way… the last thing you need is me commentin’ on the state of yer affairs . ”
Something about how he says this, even though he meant it as genuine, has her snapping out of the trance he had unintentionally put her in, and she immediately shrugs off his hand with one sharp jerk of her shoulder.
“No. No, I don’t,” she mutters bitterly. He can’t help but smirk at her fire for a moment, before letting it go and walking toward the door. Just then, though, a thought strikes him. There was somethin’, even with all the bullshit, somethin’ he’d been meaning to tell her, and he stops in the doorway, looking back in her direction.
But...what he finds is a woman that looks relieved. Relieved he’s leaving. Relieved he’ll once more be out of her life. The way she’s always wanted it. He frowns deeply, and she looks annoyed as she mutters a “What? ” at him. Another defeated expression, and then he’s muttering, “S’nothing, darlin’. Take care, kid.”
He’s down the hallway and about to reach the stairs in the foyer when he hears her quietly murmur back to him, “You... too.”
Rogue
Rogue watches him go, jaw clenched and feet frozen to the floor. Her thoughts are inundated with confused and mixed signals-- from the weight of his hand on her shoulder to using the word “darlin’” to the simple and honest apology he had given her to the quiet thing she had caught him murmuring under his breath as she had approached his room. I ain’t sure what I’m doin’ anymore, baby.
Who had he been talking to? And where was he going? Still unable to move, she stares at the room, which she finally notices, perhaps for the first time, is meticulously clean. She had always thought Logan a slob, but as she stares at the bed, carefully made, her mind pulls her back into a memory that had noticed the same thing about the bed in the camper so long ago. All relics of booze and cigars, too, have been cleared away, although, if she took a deep breath in, she can tell it still smelled like him. Like tobacco and good bourbon and leather. She inhales again, deeply, savoring the scent, before she realizes she must be fucking crazy for doing so.
Quickly, she shakes herself out of her coma, choosing, instead, to stalk back to her own room across the hall. She had been so angry at him. So angry for calling her out for her transgressions, and accusing her of being some sort of dirty sinner for sleeping with humans. She isn’t sure where he got that load of garbage, but it had her fuming for days. It hadn’t sounded like the Logan she had known at all. He had hated all that mutant rights stuff, at least, in the short time she was with him and they had known about it. But that was ten years ago, a gnawing voice reminded her from the back of her mind. Nevertheless, she had deliberately avoided him, and most men, for the past few days in a desperate attempt to quell the growing insecurities in her own head.
As she makes her way back in the room, she finds herself biting her lip and pacing, before sloppily opening a bottle of Merlot and indulging heavily. For a while she simply exists like that, pacing her room and occasionally refilling her wine glass. When one bottle is empty she opens another, until her anxiety spikes, and she can do nothing for a moment but set down the wine glass and flop backward on her bed, exhaling exasperatingly.
He’s gone. That’s what you wanted, she reminds herself, just as there is a steady rap on the door. She groans, turning over so her face is in the pillow
“Go away,” Rogue mutters, before a woman’s voice fills her mind. Rogue, it’s not Remy. It’s me. Please let me in, just for a minute. I have news.
Jean.
Rogue blindly shuffles off the bed, realizing it’s still rather early to be as quickly intoxicated as she is, and opens the door to an older woman, bright red hair pulled back, a tired, concerned look on her face.
“Logan’s left,” she murmurs, even as she stands in the hall.
“Shhhhh,” Rogue whispers, grabbing Jean by the hand and pulling her inside. Jean stumbles forward, before straightening as Rogue slams the door shut from behind her.
“Rogue, I-” Jean begins, but Rogue is already stumbling toward the desk, reaching for a spare wine glass, now filling both up generously.
“I already know,” Rogue murmurs, handing Jean the second glass. Jean frowns, but takes it from Rogue, taking a rather large gulp.
“So he told you?” she asks calmly.
“Well….I ran into him. As he was leaving,” Rogue mutters, as she takes a spot on the bed. Jean awkwardly clears her throat, and Rogue encourages her to drink with a hand gesture. As long as she’s known Jean, the older woman has always seemed to be the perfectionist, forever spot-on, the equal of Scott Summers, certainly, but never one to unwind.
Rogue tipsily pats to a spot beside her on the bed, and Jean finally decides to sit. Jean seems restless, fidgety, even as she takes another sip of wine. Then, carefully and out of nowhere, she asks, “So you two were….lovers?”
It takes everything in Rogue to not spit her sip of wine out across the room. She coughs through the swallow, before sipping more wine, and looking to Jean with she’s sure is a flushed face.
“Yeah, uh, a long time ago,” Rogue murmurs, through another sip of wine. “Well….sort of more like...he took advantage of me.”
Jean’s eyebrows shoot up at that, and Rogue realizes she’s misspoken.
“Oh no! Not like..not like that. It’s just… I was young, and he wasn’t.”
“That’s not the way he sees it, you know,” Jean murmurs into her glass, before drinking once more. Rogue jerks her head over to the older woman, feeling both simultaneously helpless to plead for more information and angry that Logan wouldn’t fess up to the truth.
“Yeah, well, the perpetrator never does,” she grouses, turning once more to face forward, staring at a random spot on the thick, expensive rug that stretches across her room. Meanwhile, Jean is clearing her throat once more.
“I think…. Well. I think he thought you could... handle yourself. He...saw you as a woman,” she mutters, and Rogue’s eyebrows rise to her hairline. How the fuck did she know all this?
Rogue says nothing, but instead, stands, walking over to the bottle to refill their glasses. As she does so, Jean keeps talking.
“Rogue… you know Logan is… very old,” she murmurs. Rogue stops pouring at this, staring at Jean wildly, before setting her wine glass down, forgetting to refill it.
“What do you mean?” she asks carefully, suddenly remarkably sober.
“I… I shouldn’t say. But I saw memories... memories of a man from several decades back,” Jean stammers, clutching her wine glass with her thin, white fingers.
“He never….” Rogue begins, slowly sitting down once more beside her, wine glass forgotten.
“He didn’t know when he knew you,” she murmurs, and Rogue can’t help arch a skeptical eyebrow.
“You got all this from him projecting a little?” she asks carefully. Jean blushes as red as the wine she’s drinking, before answering quietly.
“Well, no. W-When Scott asked me to read his mind on the jet…. How do I put it? Ugh. Ummm, typically a person’s mind is fairly organized, with the most shallow and recent information, information they don’t particularly mind people seeing, presenting first. But… but Logan’s mind is a mess. I barely looked, and it was like an onslaught of an amalgamation of memories from every time in his life. Sort of like a cross between a child dealing with newly formed memories and an older person with dementia forever swimming, lost in them…” she finally trails off.
“How old is he?” Rogue breathes, practically unaware she’d even asked the question. Jean looks at her carefully, before shakily setting the glass down on Rogue’s bedside table.
“I….I saw memories of the civil war,” she murmurs, before looking up to Rogue once more.
Rogue blinks at Jean, unable to speak. Meanwhile, Jean keeps talking.
“He was... is ...an honorable man, whatever your opinion of him,” Jean practically whispers. Rogue is already shaking her head, looking down at her pale hands.
“Jean...if you knew what he’d done,” she hisses, before Jean interrupts.
“I...have an idea. But I also know, just by glancing in his mind...he’s saved….” she tapers off, closing her eyes for a moment, and when she’s opened them again they’re glossy. “He’s saved hundreds of thousands of lives.”
Rogue once more can’t speak for long moments, as her mind refuses to process this information. Logan had admitted to Rogue that his earliest memories were of living in a lean-to, practically as an animal, in northern Canada. When he’d touched her, the visual slideshow of his mind confirmed that. But if what Jean was saying was true...something... something terrible... must have happened to him to make him forget…. whole centuries.
Rogue shakes the thoughts away, suddenly grateful, perhaps for the first time, for Jean’s presence.
“You know…” Rogue trails off, finally looking at Jean. “This is the most we’ve ever spoken.” Jean once more blushes, before awkwardly adding, “Well...I do have a few years on you.”
“Jean...you’re like maybe only ten years older,” Rogue begins, but she’s interrupted.
“You always had Kitty, Jubilee, and I wasn’t in your class,” Jean murmurs. Rogue frowns, thoughts of her absent friends weighing heavily on her mind.
“You know...I’m here if you need me. Even if I’m the mom of the group…” she’s saying, but Rogue’s thoughts have suddenly jumped back to Logan and the way he hesitated in the doorway, and the way she heard him stride with purpose down the hall.
“Jean….” Rogue murmurs, looking up to the older woman once more.
“Yeah?” she asks cautiously.
“I need you to do me one more favor.”
”-
The stables are quiet in the pitch dark of night; only the occasional rustle of a horse punctuates the silence. Still though, she slips into the stables quietly and a couple of Xavier’s mares stir. She makes a gentle shushing noise to them, being sure to stroke one’s nose, before quietly walking the length of stalls, making her way to the back.
After waking up from the bar incident where she had encountered Logan, she remembered she had flown off without the Harley, and, the next morning, she had hurriedly flown back to the bar, careful to keep her cover, only to find it missing. She had been about to panic, when she noticed Scott’s Electroglide was there instead. Realizing what must have happened, she delivered Scott’s bike back to Xavier’s garage, and, curiosity getting the better of her, she had gone back to the stables to find the old bike right where it had been. God knows how Logan knew where she had stashed it, but there it was under its cover in the corner of the stables with the horses. Now, two days later, she’s grateful he’s returned it, because she needs it to leave in a way that doesn’t call attention to herself to track him down. Eerie, Pennsylvania. That’s what Jean had discovered with her subtle use of Cerebro. It wouldn’t make sense, not to a normal person. But Rogue knows, along with the other X-Men, that Eerie is supposedly home to a nondescript but sprawling underground hub of the Army. And if that’s where Logan is heading, she knows why. As she closes the distance between her and the bike, she hears a noise and sees an explosion of blue and black smoke, the form of Nightcrawler suddenly deftly perched on a rafter right above her head.
“Jesus fuck!” she exclaims, much to the disagreement and huff of the stallions and mares in their stables, but then realizing it’s Kurt she’s just cursed to, blushes and adds, “Uhhh. Sorry. The Lord’s name and all.” Kurt looks serious, eyes forever alit and bright, even as he fluidly drops from his perch and stands between her and the bike.
“All is forgiven, liebchen . I frightened you,” he says, before glancing the way of the covered bike.
“Where are you headed so late?” he asks through a raised brow. At this, Rogue’s temper flares at his nosiness, and she shoves past him, closer to the corner where she’s got the bike stashed.
“I don’t report to you, Kurt. But if you have to know, the bar,” she lies, making sure to keep her eyes to the ground, certain he could sense she was lying if she held his stare. Meanwhile, she can hear Kurts tsk from behind her.
“ Lüge nicht. You’re not dressed for such a place. Not near enough skin showing,” he says rudely, and, at this, she whips around to face him once more.
“Are you serious? How could you say such a thing? To me?”
“Take no offense. I don’t mean… it’s simply you’re dressed more like you're about to head out on a mission, rather than dance to music,” Kurt stammers, his hands up, looking as if he’s blocking during one of their sparring sessions. Finally, he drops them, bringing one up to run through his dark blue hair, before running it through his equally blue beard he’s been sporting these last few months.
“Is this about der Vielfrass ?” he asks finally. She doesn’t quite take his meaning, but she can infer what he’s saying.
“You mean Logan?” she asks simply.
“ Ja, bärchen,” he adds, and something about the nickname has her heart hurting. She’s betraying everyone right now, had lied to Remy in a note she left him and snuck past his room, was now lying and being awful to Kurt, her best friend since Kitty and Jubilee had left, just to chase a man down that she rightfully hates.
“Yes,” she chooses finally to be honest with this statement, and she can see Kurt’s face fall.
“You shouldn’t concern yourself with him,” he mutters bitterly, and, once more, her anger spikes.
“If he’s going where I think he’s going, he’s in way over his head,” she says.
“I’m sure he’s fine operating on his own,” Kurt retorts. Rogue bites her lip stubbornly, before, in a rush of emotion, she starts speaking again.
“Fine. Maybe….maybe this is about me . Our last mission. We failed , and it was my fault,” she spits. Kurt only blinks solemnly at her, before offering her a blue, only three-fingered hand, placing in gently on her shoulder, in just the same fashion Logan had done hours earlier.
“It was no one’s fault, liebling, ” he mutters. She only shakes her head though, once more on the verge of tears.
“Those children are gone, and we couldn't find them after, because of me . Because I couldn't absorb the ringleader in time,” she hisses. Kurt only blinks once more, before dropping his hand.
“So Logan is headed to the zoo,” Kurt says simply. Realizing what she’s just admitted to, she curses inwardly, before nodding quickly.
“Swear to me...Kurt, if you’ve ever valued our friendship, swear to me you’ll tell no one,” she murmurs. He blinks at her with those bright yellow eyes, before once more sighing.
“ Am Grab meiner Mutter. I am right though. You’re ein bär , Rogue. You fight like one. And in that, you can take care of yourself,” he mutters, and, before she can respond, he has disappeared once more in a swell of smoke.
“ Shit,” she says underneath her breath, but still stalks blindly over to the draped form of the bike. She pulls it back with one desperate tug, and she finds, unlike two days ago, only a stack of hay bales.
“ Fuck!” she says, whipping around wildly. Fuck you Logan, she thinks, before quickly walking out the stables, closing the door silently behind her and lifting into the sky. Riskier, for sure, but a damn lot quicker.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
The paragraph describing the mountain is adapted from a heartbreaking scene from the comics (Wolverine, vol. 4 (2010) no. 15) that I wanted to pay homage to.