Rogue's mind just wasn't on the foosball game; her heart wasn't into it. He can't just leave me here! Angry, she smacked the ball with her paddle and inadvertently made a goal. Bobby whistled.
"Great shot! Heh heh, we got you on the run now," he said to their opponents then smiled at Rogue.
He's not leaving me! She glanced toward the door that Logan had walked out of thirty minutes ago. Taking care of some business up north, he'd told her. What kind of business -- more roaming, more fighting? He didn't have to do that anymore, he had a home here with Professor Xavier, and he could be an X-Man. Then again, it seemed to Rogue that Logan felt that he didn't fit in amongst the civilized trappings of Professor Xavier's School for the Gifted...and the civilized attitudes. She knew some of the students were still afraid of him; at least those who heard that he'd rammed three nine-inch blades through her shoulder. That was an accident, and many felt it was an accident that could happen again. Better that Logan leaves, she heard a boy whisper, nods and murmurs of agreement had followed. A few students asked how she could trust him, how she could like him, but they wouldn't ask those questions if they knew him like she did. Despite the gruff attitude, Logan was a brave man who'd risked his own life to save her from Magneto and for that she loved him.
And now he'd left her. Unconsciously her fingers moved to her neck to touch the dog tags hanging under her clothing.
"Hey!" Bobby yelped. He nudged her with his elbow. "They got that ball right past you," he said.
"Opps," she replied lamely. Her hand dropped to her side. She couldn't tell Bobby she was dreaming about Logan. "Jubilee, take my place," Rogue suddenly called in her soft Southern drawl. Bobby caught the ball under the plastic foot of one of his men, then spun the paddle, deftly smacked it into the goal then looked up at his partner amid groans from the other team.
"Hey, Rogue, we're tied, you can't leave me now."
"I'll be back." Rogue gave him what hoped passed for a sunny smile; inside she felt like she was grimacing, a sharp pain in the pit of her stomach. "Jubilee is better than I am, anyway."
Jubilee rose from the couch, set aside her homework and joined them, taking over Rogue's paddles. "Watch out, guys," she said. "Bobby and I are out for blood."
Aware of Bobby's longing look, she hurried out of the front room toward her own room. She didn't want to think too hard on what she was about to do. If she did, she wouldn't have the courage. Her brows pulled down into a mutinous frown and anger gave her strength. Logan wasn't just going to dump her here and leave, he promised he'd take care of her, he promised. Her hands balled into fists. A promise was a promise.
"Son of a bitch! Logan took my motorcycle," Scott shouted from somewhere down the hallway and Jean murmured something soothing, Scott's irritated tone drowned out the red-haired doctor's softer voice. "Where'd the hell did he go?"
"The professor and Logan were in the map room earlier," Jean replied. Rogue heard their footsteps coming up the hallway. "I think the professor found a link to Logan's past."
"A link to a thieving past," Scott replied. "I don't care if the smart-ass bastard disappears altogether, I just don't want him disappearing with my motorcycle."
"Now, Scott," Jean replied, "you'll get your motorcycle back."
"In pieces," he grumbled. Their footsteps faded away down the hallway.
"So that's it," Rogue said softly to herself. The professor did find something about Logan's past and now he's gone to look for himself. He didn't leave you. That thought made her feel a little better, that he hadn't just dumped her at the first opportunity. "But what if he gets into trouble?" she thought aloud. "He might need me." Pursing her lips, she pinched herself. "He doesn't need you. You know where'd you place your bet if anyone messed with him, but at least I can make certain he comes back."
If Logan was on a motorcycle, that meant she had to move. She opened the door to her shared dorm room and found no one else inside. Good. She donned her old full-length hooded coat. Thankfully it had been washed and mended. Then she pulled her duffle bag out of the closet and shoved in the few clothing items that she owned. All the while she kept her mind quiet -- if she panicked the professor would might telepathically sense her agitation and try to stop her.
"This is foolish," she told herself. "Then again, ever since that first kiss, when did you ever do anything that wasn't? Like running off into the Canadian wilderness wasn't foolish." But then you wouldn't have met Logan, a little voice told her.
With her meager belongings packed, she scribbled a quick note to let them know that she'd be back and not to worry, she'd be with Logan. To her, it was the safest place on earth. And the feeling of being safe was a sensation she'd almost forgotten until that fateful meeting at that bar in the Canadian wilds. It hadn't been that long ago since she watched, wide-eyed and breathless, this huge bare-chested man beat the daylights out of all opponents. Once upon a time, the word safe would have applied to her room with her mom and dad in their comfortable Victorian-era farmhouse; now safe meant an ageless man with a quick, lethal temper and nine-inch adamantium claws.
Note written, she placed it on her dresser. She hoped it wouldn't be discovered until she was well on her way on down the road. The next step was to find out exactly where Logan was going. She couldn't ask the professor, but she could ask the map room and hoped it had a recall button.
Snow swirled down in funnel-shaped mini blizzards from a matte gray sky and the winter sun was a dim glow from behind the mountains to the east. The only sound was the soft splats of snowflakes covering the broken-asphalt road and skeletal, leafless trees.
Logan fished a half-smoked cigar from inside his flannel shirt pocket and lit the tip, cupping a hand over the tiny flame from the lighter. He inhaled several satisfying drags and leaned back against a tree trunk. Two miles back the snow drifts were deep and he had to leave Dickhead's scooter parked in an abandoned one-room cabin and finish the walk on foot; the hike would have killed a lesser man, he simply found it invigorating. The temperature dropped quickly with the setting sun -- not that it had been warm before -- but he barely noticed. Squinting through the cigar smoke, Logan watched and waited.
A twelve-foot perimeter fence topped with thick coils of razor wire enclosed an outwardly abandoned compound. The snowstorm and spreading twilight obscured his view of the compound beyond a half dozen nearby buildings, still what he could see nudged a dim memory and a kaleidoscope of shadowy images but none that he could mentally grasp and examine. There didn't appear to be any human inhabitants, at least none that he could see or smell. A green military deuce-and-a-half truck, parked next to an old garage, probably hadn't been operational in years judging by the rust and the deterioration of its canvas top. Between the buildings there were no paths dug through the snowdrifts and from his reconnaissance of the perimeter he'd found no tracks save those of a snowshoe rabbit. Still he wasn't convinced that the compound was as lifeless as it appeared.
The last bit of light faded from the sky and under the cover of darkness, he moved away from the tree and sniffed the frigid air, feeling the cold burn of the freezing air deep in his lungs. The scent most evident was the pungent cigar smoke, but underneath it, diesel fuel and the scent of something old and burnt and something faintly familiar...so faint.
Snow coating his thick hair and a lazy plume of smoke rising from his cigar, he stood in the road while his gaze traveled over the peaks of the surrounding white-capped mountains. He had to hand it to the professor; it appeared the bald-headed geek was on to something. If it hadn't been for Baldy's tip-off, he would have never found this place. The road to it couldn't be found on any maps and the entrance off the highway looked like nothing more than another rutted road, useful only for summer four wheeling.
He sauntered up to the fence, clenched his cigar between his teeth and half-grinned. A rusted metal sign read "WARNING: Restricted Area. No Trespassing."
"Oh yeah? Well, fuck you."
SNIKT!
A single adamantium claw shot from between his middle right knuckle. He stepped forward, punctured the sign with the claw and ripped it off, throwing it behind him into the snow. He looked up and eyed the top of the fence and the sharp razor wire, then tapped it with the claw.
"And who the hell is this suppose to keep out...or in?"
SNIKT!
Two claws joined the single; Logan stepped forward with a casual uppercut and, from ground to head level, neatly sliced through the metal chinks in the fence. He gave it two more slashes and kicked it; a doorway-like piece of fence fell away, thudding into the snow. His claws slid back into their forearm housings and he stepped through, taking another deep breath. A growl rumbled in his throat and his eyes narrowed. Following a faint scent, he turned toward a long, narrow one-story building to his left. There was something in that building he remembered, a chemical smell, and a lingering old scent of death.
And along with that sensory signal came an emotion that Logan rarely experienced, and in fact was so foreign that it took him a moment to recognized: fear. Instead of deterring him, it only made him cautious and he mentally squashed the emotion away, killing it like he would an annoying mosquito.
A stabbing pain started at the base of his skull and ripped through his head, feeling as though it would split his skull. Its suddenness sucked the breath from his lungs and instantly dropped him to his knees. A groan rumbled from his throat and he gripped his head in his hands, his lips drawing back in a grimace of pain. Bright pinpoints of lights flashed in his eyes, blurring his vision.
Tick tick tick tick, the noise in his head like a clock, except it was a voice -- tick tick tick -- its tone smug.
Logan rose to his feet, dizzy, his knees a little unsteady, but the sensation passed, his healing factor taking care of whatever had struck him. Eyes narrowed, he stared around the compound. Someone or something was here and he suspected that was just a little signal from the welcome wagon lady. He looked down and grimaced. Pain he could deal with, he dealt with it every time he popped his claws, but this...
"Shit," he mumbled, leaned down and picked up his soggy cigar then flicked it away with his thumb and forefinger. "Now that pisses me off."
SNIKT!
Two sets of claws slid out. Time to find some answers and kick some ass.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is a continuation from the movie blended with information from "Weapon-X" by Barry Windsor-Smith Very very slight movie spoilers if any at all, but heavy references to Barry Windsor-Smith's "Weapon X." It's not necessary to have read "Weapon-X" to understand this story, but you're missing what I believe to be the definitive Wolverine story.