“What the hell did you call me?” Logan demanded, now more confused then ever.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Bob told the pudgy middle manager. When Logan started forward, Bob grabbed his arm. “You neither.”

He scowled at him and yanked his arm out of his grip. “What the fuck is this about?”

Bob glanced at the man standing stock still behind his desk, framed by the spewing smoke stacks beyond him, and said, “Why do you recognize Logan here?”

The man’s eyes never focused. They were staring at a distant point somewhere behind them, just over and beyond their shoulders. So the whole “push” thing wasn’t a god power, it was just a Belial one, huh? He always wondered. “He’s the source of gene MSR-10504.”

“Source?” he repeated, anger warring with confusion. He knew the Organization had isolated his healing factor, as they gave it to Chimera. But what did this have to do with anything?

“What was Project Alter all about?” Bob asked.

“Trying to find out if there was a way to guarantee Human immortality genetically. There were problems, though. The project had to be outsourced.”

“”What kind of problems?”

“MSR-10504 didn’t correspond to any regular Human gene our people were able to find. Attempts to create a simulacrum in mice ended badly.”

“How badly?”

“They all died.”

Logan had started to say something, but stopped. They all died? What, like all those people off the island of Aero?

Bob continued with his strangely mild third degree. “What did they die of?”

"Unknown. It was assumed that there just wasn't a rodent analog for this gene, and too much alteration to fit caused too much damage."

"So you thought moving it to Human subjects was wise?"

"We didn't. The study was outsourced to people with more experience in gene technologies."

"Priotech Pharmaceuticals?" It really wasn't a question, it just sounded like one.

"Yes."

"Hold on a second," Logan interrupted, anger winning out. "Are you saying this is all related to me? That the Organization killed those people with my fucking genes?"

Bob's look was measured and kind, which was a warning in and of itself. "Not necessarily. I believe they were experimenting with it, and there was an inadvertent side effect."

"What, like death?" He shook his head, still not quite getting this. "How the fuck do you kill someone with a gene? They're not contagious!"

Bob hesitated. "Not normally, no."

He glared at him, a promise of bloody death he couldn't technically deliver - not while Bob had powers, at any rate. "Do I have to beat the explanation out of you?"

"In gene therapy, viral vectors are often used to deliver a gene to its targeted source. Now, these viruses are usually emasculated and harmless, used as a carrier for DNA only, but ... there could be mutations. It's not beyond the realm of possibility."

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly out his nose. Jesus Christ, he didn't even work for the Org anymore, and they were still using him as a killer. "They created a plague?"

"Not intentionally. And the truth is, we don't know how contagious this is. How quickly did the mice die after being altered, mate?"

The man seemed to realize he was talking to him. "Almost instantaneously."

"Symptoms?"

"None. Autopsies revealed they had massive aneurysms in their brains. It was like a major vessel just exploded."

What? There would have been signs if the Humans on Aero died like that ... no, wait. Only if it took them a couple of minutes to die. If death was almost instantaneous - a sudden sharp headache, then Boom!, goodnight nurse - there wouldn't necessarily be any signs left on their body. An autopsy would be a different story; an autopsy would show the blow out in their brain, perhaps a segment with a pudding like consistency. There was cold comfort to be had in the possibility that they felt little to no pain, that their deaths were probably so quick they had no idea what had happened to them.

"Well, that's good, I suppose," Bob muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"What d'ya mean that's good?"

"It's good 'cause if the virus or whatever the hell it is kills people almost instantaneously, it's limiting the ground its carriers can cover. Viruses that take days or weeks to kill you - Ebola for example - give its carriers ample time to spread it around, ensure its survival beyond the death of the host. This will naturally limit its effects."

"Assuming it actually dies with the host. What if it doesn't?"

Bob considered that with a twisted grimace, shrugging half-heartedly. "It's a slim possibility, but considerin' it has its roots in you, I guess its possible. But you felt no effects when you visited the island, right?"

"Right - but if it is part of me, wouldn't I be fucking immune to it?"

That got him. "Yeah, okay, you gotta point."

Logan went right up to the man's desk, and felt like putting his fist through it, but since Bob still had a stranglehold on the man's mind, it'd have no effect on him. It was still tempting anyways. “What did Priotech do? What were they gonna do with my genes?”

“Answer him,” Bob ordered.

“I don’t know. As soon as it was outsourced, we were cut out of the loop. We had no need to know.”

“Who can tell us?” Bob interjected.

The man paused, long enough that you might think he was trying to resist control, but he was actually just trying to remember. “Doctor Bernhard Schultz, the head of Priotech labs, I suppose.”

“And where do we find him?”

“Corporate headquarters in Stockholm.”

“What did you people do to me?” Logan demanded, so angry his claws felt like they were coming out on their own.

“Nothing. We simply worked on your salvaged gene. We only saw you in a file.”

“Bullshit.”

“Mate, you know he can’t lie,” Bob said, in a gentle voice that suggested he was on the verge of pushing him.

Maybe that would be for the best. Maybe it would be even better if he made him forget all of this. His rage was like vomit moving up his throat, and he didn’t think he could hold it back much longer. “When does it stop?” He shouted at him, figuring Bob was a better target than the mindfucked functionary, as he would be immune to all of it. “When do they stop fucking using me?!”

Bob shook his head, and glanced down at the carpet, perhaps to avoid his eyes. “Logan -”

“Don’t you even try and calm me down! I’m tired of it! I have died a thousand times, I have killed these fuckers, and they keep coming back and finding new ways to rape me! When does it stop?!”

Bob fixed him with a steady look, trying very hard to keep the pity out of his eyes. “When we stop it. And we will.”

“Bullshit! We haven’t stopped it yet, Bob, and it ain’t gonna happen! It’s … it’s like this fucking immortal beast! We can’t kill it! We can’t even slow it down!” He could feel himself flushing with rage, he could feel himself edging towards hysteria, but he was spinning out of control. This was his fault - this was all his fault. He killed those people, and he never even saw them before they were corpses splayed out on a quaint cobblestone street. The Organization used him to kill them, and he wasn’t even on the same continent.

He felt the most minute vibration, growing in intensity, and when the window began to rattle in its frame, he knew that there was a helicopter or something coming in. He turned towards the window, eager to vent his rage, but the thing that dropped into view, hovering so close to the window that you could see it shaking like gelatin, warping in its frame, wasn’t a helicopter. It was the nose of the X jet, the body settling into a hover on a cushion of air just beyond the building. After a moment, a voice came over what sounded like a loudspeaker. “At what point did you decide that you were going to do this without me?”

Scooter. Just what he needed right now, Captain Buzzkill to bug him. He slammed his fist on the desk, hard enough to do some damage but not enough to break anything. “Can you get rid of him?”

The corner of Bob’s mouth quirked up in a half smile. “What, and lose our lift to Stockholm?”

Oh goddamn it. This was just what he needed.

9

Scott was a little ticked off, but in a somewhat passive aggressive way; instead of shouting or threatening to punch them, he just glared at them from behind his visor, muscles in his jaw taut, arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t appreciate the disappearing act,” he said flatly.

Logan glared back at him, with an intensity that could have made grapes wither on the vine, but Scott was too accustomed to it to seem affected. “I could kill you, you know that? In more ways than one.” He stalked off to the back of the jet, leaving him and Scott alone in the cockpit.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Scott replied to the sealed door.

Bob shrugged with his hands. “He isn’t in a good mood right now.”

“He’s never in a good mood,” he responded, turning back to the control panel. “So where are we going?”

“Stockholm. And make it extra snappy. I’ve made everyone we encountered forget we were here, but somebody else might notice the jet leaving.”

He sighed, resigned to taking an order from him for now, and his hands moved over the panel quickly, pulling them up and out into the overcast blue-grey sky. Bob had to grab the back of his pilot’s chair to keep from losing his footing. “What’s in Stockholm?”

“Priotech’s home base, and some Doc named Bernhard Schultz.”

“Bad guy?”

“Most likely. Probably the source of our little plague here.” He slipped into the co-pilot’s seat, and Scott seemed determined not to look at him. How funny. “We’re gonna have to give Logan his space for a while, ‘kay? He’s not in a good place.”

“He’s never -”

“Please don’t make that joke.”

Scott briefly glanced at him with a small grimace, but then turned his gaze back towards the clouds streaming past them, torn like filmy spider webs He was silent, and Bob let it be until he was willing to break it. “I don’t get it. Xavier’s friend says there’s something unusual in the blood that Logan brought back, but he can’t say what; it just seems like broken protein strands. And genes aren’t contagious.”

“No, but as I said, there’s the viral vector to consider.”

“But even then …”

“So what’s this man’s synopsis?”

He slumped back in his seat. “He didn’t have one.”

There was a rather loud, dull “bang” from the back, which made them both jump. A quick scan of the instruments showed that nothing had changed - it was Logan, punching or kicking something. Scott toggled an intercom switch, and said, “Don’t damage hull integrity.”

Logan didn’t get on comm, but they could still hear his “Go fuck yourself!” loud and clear, reverberating through the body of the plane.

“The guy down there confirmed they were working on using Logan’s genes for immortality experiments.”

“And?”

“Apparently it killed every gene altered mouse they created.”

Scott exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “That’s not good. It’s the exact opposite of what they were trying to do - how did that happen? Could they have screwed up that bad?”

“In the beginning, yes, but you’d think they’d have learned something after that.”

They continued to sit there in absolute silence, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before. After a moment, Scott asked him, “Does that feel like a clue to you too?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. Still, I think there’s something there, if you look at it the right way.” That was the worst part - he was sure that was vital, and not a failing of Primafacie. But how? Genes weren’t toxic; even Scorpion, with his poison glands, wouldn’t have some kind of poisonous gene. So why did analogues of Logan’s healing factor kill them, and then the people off the coast of Denmark? A piece of the puzzle was missing, or it was just too obscure to be visible right now.

“And the right way is ..?”

“Fuck me sideways if I know, mate. I’m hopin’ old Bernhard will have some more answers for us.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.” There was another thud from the back, but it was dull and not quite as resonant as the last one.

“Can’t you tell him to calm down?”

“I could, but it would come out later on. Besides, he has a right to be angry, and we can use that to our advantage.”

If Bob could have seen his eyes, he knew that Scott would have been said to be looking at him askance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I think it would be in all of our best interests to let Logan go in alone. We give him five minutes, and then follow.”

Scott paled visibly, muscles working beneath his skin. “That’s a death sentence for those people and you know it.”

“Not necessarily. Besides, it’ll be the best therapy for Logan right now, and it’s our best bet at retaining hull integrity.”

Bob knew he wasn’t exaggerating either, but he was aware that he might have to give Scott a little push to get him to go along with it. Scott should have understood, though, without having to be told - when you were totally divested of any power, the only way to regain any sense of personal safety and sanctity was to take some power back. Sometimes, that was just a tad on the bloody side.

****

The home base of Priotech was just one spire like skyscraper in a small sea of similar skyscrapers in downtown Stockholm. Oh, some outer aesthetic touches let you know this wasn’t an American city, but one with history and some lingering touch of civility, but Priotech didn’t make itself stand out in any way at all, which made Logan instantly suspicious. Trust no one who engaged in urban camouflage when they didn’t technically need to.

The city almost gave him a sense of déjà vu. Almost. It was frustrating to think he may have been here before, at one time or another, but he would be the last person to know. It made him that much more angry, and he honestly didn’t think he could get much angrier. He already thought he was going to explode from it, that the rage was a physical thing that could burst through his skin and leave him behind, like an empty shell.

The day was clear and slightly cool, the warmth of the sun on his skin a pleasurable sensation that threatened to be distracting. Well, for a moment; anger was starting to make him numb. He didn’t know why Scott agreed to this plan, he assumed Bob had given him a push, but he honestly didn’t care. It was more troubling that Bob thought that this would be good for him, and that he was probably right.

He walked straight into the wide glass double doors of Priotech’s home, entering a large marble lobby with sparse but tasteful furniture in polished mahogany or cool aluminum, save for the front desk, which was a huge curve of whitewashed wood. Seated behind it was a stern faced young woman with milk blonde hair, piled up on top of her head in a complicated knot. Did he speak Swedish? He couldn’t remember. Well, now he’d find out.

She looked at him sharply, her blue eyes coolly disdainful (what, wasn’t he dressed right). “May I help you, sir?”

She wasn’t speaking English, but he could understand her, so Swedish must have been on his list. Good. “I need to talk to Bernhard Schultz, now.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

He couldn’t help snicker. “I don’t need an appointment. He has my genes, and I have visitation rights.” He walked right past her desk, heading for a bank of elevators at the very back of the lobby.

She stood, saying, “Sir, you must have an appointment. Doctor Schultz is a very busy man.” At the same time, he heard a small, high pitched tone that he knew was a “silent” alarm, alerting security. So he wasn’t surprised that large men in dark suits swarmed out of side passages, blocking his passage to the elevator. For the moment, they just stood there, making a Human shield. There were six of them - for now, at any rate.

A big one who looked like the poster boy for hearty Aryan youth said, with a kind of stiff politeness, “Please step back, sir. There doesn’t need to be any trouble.”

He shook his head, feeling slightly bad for kid. He just didn’t know what he was in for. “There’s already trouble, bub. Now get outta my way, and I won’t hurt you.”

One of the guards pulled out a boxy looking taser, and another followed suit, as the line broke and converged on him from both sides. He shook his head, wondering about the kids today, and grabbed the man who had pulled his taser. He had a hold of wrist and simply twisted, snapping it clean, and before he could shout he kicked him in the stomach and let him go, so he stumbled full into some of his friends.

He felt them trying to flank him, he was aware of where every single one of them was in relation to him, all his senses painting a picture that he hardly needed to be conscious of to register. He threw back a hard elbow, nailing someone in the face, and he stomped on someone’s knee, making it crack and bend the wrong way, teasing a scream of pain out of its owner. He was vaguely aware that other guards had joined the scrum, but it didn’t matter.

Another taser came for him, crackling like something frying on the stove, and he snatched it out of his hand and jabbed it into a random guard, as two men grabbed his right arm, and two others grabbed his left, trying to pull his arms back and restrain him. The Aryan youth poster boy grabbed him around the neck, and he slammed his head back in a reverse head butt, breaking his nose with a strangely delicate “snap”, and he felt warm blood gush on the back of his neck before Blondie stumbled away. He stomped on the foot of a guard holding his left arm, then threw his elbow, catching him flush in the throat, and he was loose once more. A couple of punches and a kick or two later, and it was down to him and a single guard, who viewed his wounded companions spread out on the floor with more shock than genuine fear.

Logan just waited to see what he would do, staring back at him coldly. Finally, the guard said, “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

Them.  Like he was the monster in this scenario, like he was the one who had killed all those people in Denmark, like he was the one doing unconscionable medical experiments on people who may not have known what they were getting into. Like he had been the one who had stolen genes from them. He glared at the guard, lowering his head but never moving his eyes, and growled, “I haven’t even unleashed my power yet. You wanna see it?”

The Swedish were generally a sensible people, with a few notable exceptions, so he wasn’t surprised when the guard just stood stock still for a moment, then broke and ran. He was probably going for more back up, but it didn’t matter to him. He’d fight ‘em all, and it’d never be close to a contest.

“See? I told you he wouldn’t kill them all,” Bob said, as he and Scott walked into the lobby. Bob looked at the receptionist behind the desk, who was now on the telephone, and said, “Hang that up and sit down. There’s nothing to be alarmed about.”

She did as she said, almost robotically, and sat placidly in her chair, hands folded in her lap.

“They look dead to me,” Scott grumbled.

“They’re making noise. The dead generally don’t.”

“These are just wage monkeys, earnin’ a paycheck,” Logan snapped. “I wouldn’t kill ‘em for makin’ a bad job choice. But all the bets are off for Schultz.”

Scott shook his and frowned, continuing to view the devastation with open disapproval, but Bob looked unmoved and almost serene, like a god was supposed to look. He crouched down, and asked Aryan youth, “What floor is Doctor Schultz on?”

“Eighteen.” Of course, with his broken nose, it sounded like he said Eigheeb.

Scott’s eyebrows drew down in puzzlement. “You speak Swedish?”

Bob was speaking it too? Weird - Logan heard him as speaking English. “Enough to get a deep massage and a good chocolate bar,” Bob replied, standing up. “Let’s say we drop in on Schultzie and give him a fine how-dya-do, eh?”

“I’m not killing him,” Scott pointed out, although he followed Bob towards the elevator bank, stepping delicately over the fallen men.

“You don’t have to,” Logan replied. “Just stay the fuck outta my way.”

He knew Scott was giving him the evil eye, he could feel it like a pressure on his back, but he was past giving a fuck about Scott’s feelings.

Schultz had killed a bunch of people - possibly Marcus among them - and he’d used a piece of him to do it. If that didn’t demand a pound of flesh, nothing ever would.