7

It looked like an abandoned Army base.

Set a few miles north of New Mexico’s White Sands Proving grounds, it was ringed by a chain link fence that had seen better decades, topped with rusty barbed wire that wavered in the wind like fishing line. Signs warning of radiation and toxic contamination joined the usual signs about hideous things happening to trespassers. Some of the signs, though metal, had bullet holes in them.

But Logan could smell that there had been much activity around here recently, despite all signs of abandonment: the scent of many Humans (mostly male, and with a penchant for cheap aftershave) mingled with fresh exhaust, and the smell of helicopter fuel. Bustling desolation?

The desert's sunset sky was a fiery orange, painting the blond desert with its bright colors, and you could be forgiven for thinking it was almost as pretty as a postcard, or a glimpse into hell itself. Somehow, it was pretty and ugly all at once.

He saw no guards, no people on duty, though he smelled the ozone of sensors and security devices, the oil of forgotten guns. He wondered how fast they would react.

Logan popped his claws and cut through the titanium lock and standard chains holding the front gate together, and kicked them open to step inside. It looked like the former base - a cracker box of dusty khaki - was miles away, but it was an optical illusion. The ground was so flat here, featureless, that a few hundred feet could be mistaken in the heat shimmers for a mile.

He retracted his claws and simply walked; he could sense himself breaking the infrared trips, smell the variation in their energy output, feel the blind eyes of cameras as they scanned him, compared him to the computer database, made him.

He could feel the blunt thuds of rotors cutting the thick desert air, and wasn't surprised when a sleek black helicopter, bracketed on either side of its bulbous nose by weapon ports, rose up into the sky from behind the base. It stayed low, not even gaining sixty feet, and scudded right towards him, weapons locked and loaded. "Stand down, Wolverine," a voice boomed from a loudspeaker inside the chopper. "On your knees, hands behind your back. We'll cut you to fucking ribbons if we have to." Backwash from the rotors kicked up dust devils that tasted like sandpaper.

Now jeeps were streaming from the dead base, full of men sweating in bulky body armor, wielding guns and other similar weapons almost as big as their legs. He couldn't help but snicker. "I freak you all out that much, huh?"

"You have three seconds to comply," the voice boomed.

He knew he might regret it, but he gave the guys in the chopper the middle finger salute as the troops from the first jeep jumped out and surrounded him, weapons aimed and ready to go. "Fuck you - I'm givin' myself up, ya fuckin' morons."

"What?" One of the body armored soldiers said, surprised.

Logan was surprised too, because the voice sounded female, and by scent, yeah, definitely a woman. Maybe it was a psych tactic; they knew he'd be more reluctant to attack a woman, even one with a big ass gun. Still, he fixed her with a hard stare, her hazel eyes all he could see of her face. "That's right - why the fuck else would I walk through the front door? I'm surrendering. You want me so bad? Have me."

"It's a trick," one of the men murmured. Static burst from radios as people instantly debated this.

"Area's clear," one voice replied. Obviously they had been scanning for his "friends", in case it was a trap. But he was simply bait - the trap hadn't sprung yet. He did wonder, idly, what Bob would do to these people.

"Let's just get this over with," he said, then added, with a self-conscious smirk. "Take me to your leader."

It wasn't everyone that got a thirty person commando team escort, complete with helicopter gunship. He should feel honored.

Strangely enough, though, he didn't. For the first time in a while, he was genuinely frightened. He did know what the fuck he was doing, right?

God, he hoped so.

***

His sullen escorts led him into the abandoned base, and from there - what a shock - into the true base underneath it.

There was a hidden access door that led them down into a bright metal corridor, and from there into a slightly more dingy metallic base. It could have been the base that had once been up top, only moved half a mile underground. At least it was cooler here.

He was actually frisked, which he found hilarious ("I think I have some knives in my hands," he offered, which earned him a round of dirty looks. It made him laugh), then scanned for tracking and communication devices, and they insisted on putting his wrists in some weird kind of handcuffs, not trusting that standard cuffs would do. They were titanium laced with adamantium (not much), and rather than be held together by a flimsy chain, they were connected by a short, thick, rigid bar. They also held his hands into his back, so if he popped his claws, he'd spear himself in the kidneys. Not life threatening for him, but definitely painful; he'd probably need a little down time to recover.

"Is this any way to treat a guest?" He asked, as soon as they were done. Of course his only answer was to have two of the burliest soldiers each grab him by a secured arm and hustle him along to a small room just off a secondary corridor, where the lights were so dim Logan wondered if the bulbs had blown out.

They bustled him into a room that looked like an Ops center of some sort: one wall had a dozen small monitors, showing security camera footage inside and outside of the base, while another wall had a huge lighted map, where the Western Hemisphere was shown broken up into a grid formation. Logan found himself staring at that, because he was trying very hard to make sense of it. Didn't that seem ... familiar somehow?

There was no desk, but a lighted table currently showing nothing. Still, the way the shadows of countries were painted on it, it could have been a high tech Risk game board. The rest of the room was swathed in shadows, and smelled heavily of rust and ozone. Because of the lowering darkness, he felt like he was in the world’s most spacious submarine.

The guards left, but he knew he was not alone. He could smell the man, even if he was hiding in the shadows. “So, are ya gonna talk to me, or do I get the silent treatment ‘cause I’ve been a bad boy?”

He could actually see the man, in spite of the overwhelming, induced night. He was tall and broad shouldered, starting to get thick around the middle, but nowhere near as hefty as Stryker had been. Something about his ramrod straight posture suggested he was still in fighting trim, and could, if necessary, drop into the trenches with the grunts. “What’s the play here, Wolverine?” He asked, with a smoky voice that could have made him a “smooth jazz” radio deejay. The pale yellow lights from the grid picked up silver in his otherwise dark hair.

“Titus Andronicus,” he snapped. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man turned to face him, chuckling mildly. “Well, not Titus - he was the man done hard by, yes? That can’t be me. Now tell me what your game is here.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Logan reiterated, growling this time. “You stink of head cheese to me.”

He took a single step forward, farther into a shaft of light. He had a face that might be considered rugged, with a heavy square jaw, and lines gathering beneath eyes as pale as rainwater. He smelled like arrogance and insect repellant. “You always did have a way with words. If it makes you feel any better, my code name is Home Front.”

“That’s not your name.”

“It would be a silly one if it was.” He sighed, like a put upon father dealing with a recalcitrant child. “You can call me Dorn, if you wish. So what will it be? Are your friends going to be crashing in here any moment?”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Now, come on, we both know that’s not true. There’s Xavier’s little mutant school, and the Australian miracle worker. Is he a mutant? There has been some conjecture he‘s far too powerful to be simply another of your kind. After all, he made Reaper a normal Human, and how on earth can anyone alter genetic structure just like that?”

Logan glared at him, trying to punch through his skull with his eyes alone, and ignored his question. “I certainly don’t have a daughter anymore.”

“Well, to your knowledge,” he replied glibly. “That was a tragedy, but Leonie was a deeply flawed experiment. It never should have happened.”

“Why did you murder her?” He refused to take the bait of his “That you know of” comment; he wouldn’t tell him the truth anyways.

Dorn cocked his head curiously, something approaching a smile entering his voice. “I just told you. And murder is rather a strong word -”

“What do you want from me?” He snarled. His heart was thundering in his chest, and he knew it was a combination of anger and fear ganging up on him, dumping adrenaline into his system by the ton and making him shake. He only let the rage bleed through, mainly because he couldn’t hold it back; he wouldn’t let this smug bastard see any fear. He’d die first.

“From you? Nothing at all. Except knowledge of your plan. We have telepaths here, you know, and I think you’d find the experience unpleasant. Especially since they know your little trick.”

“Plan? Get it through your thick fucking skull, Dorn - there is no plan. You blew Leonie’s fucking head off all over me, and left me a note threatening everyone else I know. What did you think I would fucking do?”

“Go to ground, or try and bring the battle to us. We were really hoping for the latter.”

He was going to kill this man. He was going to rip open his gut and let him die slow, Dorn’s intestines spilling out on the floor as he watched. Bob had better not try and stop him. “Why? So you can capture or kill my friends?”

Dorn grinned. “Now you have friends.”

He was going to kick his fucking teeth in and make him choke on them. Logan could feel his rage giving him power, and he suddenly wondered if he could break the cuffs. “I’m sick of you - I’m sick of all you psychotic fucks haunting my life. Just get it the fuck over with, whatever it is you shits are so hot to do to me.”

“And we’re supposed to believe this change of heart?” There wasn’t a single whiff of fear coming from Dorn - he controlled this scenario, he controlled this base, and he knew it. “We’re supposed to believe you’ll just waltz in our door and comply?”

“I don’t give a fuck what you believe. Just know that if you leave me alive, I will hunt down and kill every single fucking one of you.”

Dorn let out a bark of sharp laughter. “There’s the Wolverine we all know and love. Spitting in the face of his betters even as he falls. Even people who loathed you - like Stryker - had to admire that about you. You could be dragged out of the room by your ankles, not even resembling a Human being anymore, and you’d still be slurring curses at everyone. If stubbornness was a sport, you’d be a world champion.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Good lord, man, I know that. You’ve never issued an idle threat in your life.” He paused only briefly. “Are you wondering why I’m not quaking in my boots?”

“There are weapons trained on me,” Logan said, only to inform him he knew. Mechanically operated, probably up with the security cameras. Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean he couldn’t smell them or feel them. “Do you really think they’ll help you?”

“No, but the telepath observing from the listening post could grab your mind before you took a single step, so try not to be cocky.”

He wanted to kill him; he wanted to rip his throat out, and kick his skull in until it was a mushy paste. He didn’t know this man - he was roughly certain of that - but he loathed him with every fiber of his being. “Who am I?” He asked, unable to keep from snarling. But for the record, he had tried.

Home Front - Dorn - smiled coldly, his eyes glittering with malevolence. “You are Wolverine; you are Weapon X. You were the greatest assassin we ever had. And we’d really like to renew that partnership.”

His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might bust his ribcage, and he could barely hear the man through the thundering of his own blood.

He was still shaking, but he didn’t know if it was only due to rage anymore. He knew this - he knew what the man was saying, even though he didn’t want to believe it - and yet he didn’t want to hear this. He already had all the facts, but he didn’t want confirmation that he had never been anything but a cold blooded killer. “Eat me, you stupid fuck.”

Dorn shook his head sadly, a disappointed father. “We don’t have to be enemies, Logan. In fact, I think we can work together equitably.” He raised his hand, and as soon as Logan saw he had something hidden within his palm, it shot something at him. It was a dart that embedded itself in his throat. He could feel himself almost instantaneously floating away, the drugs hitting him hard and fast.

As soon as he dropped to his knees, Dorn added, “We’ll discuss it later, but not here, not now. Sleep well - it may be the last chance you get.”

He collapsed face first to the hard cement floor, and wondered what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

He just hoped Bob hurried his ass up, and fucked with these guys so badly they never knew which way was up ever again.

8

As soon as he got off the radio with Storm, Xavier wondered if he just shouldn’t have gone and had a talk with Marcus himself.

It had been clear no one liked him, and no one wanted to do it. Piotr balked, mainly because he was afraid of him, and how bad did you have to be to frighten a man who could turn to steel? Storm hadn’t wanted to go either - she seriously disliked him - but she went because someone had to. He had asked her to set aside her feelings and approach him amicably, but Xavier had the sinking feeling she hadn’t managed to do that. He could understand why she didn’t like him: mercenary had to be the lowest of low among occupations, just a step removed from assassin.

She was quite hostile towards Marcus, and felt he was lying about his knowledge of Logan’s whereabouts, which was undoubtedly true. But he didn’t believe that Marcus would ever endanger Logan deliberately; Logan was one of the few friends he had. Not that Marcus was unlikable (although that could be an issue), it was simply that he didn’t trust most people. Ironic, considering Logan didn’t trust many either, and yet they both implicitly trusted each other. Paranoia as proof of trust?

He knew what he was going to have to do, and he didn’t like it. But he knew Logan would go to Marcus for only one of two reasons: to get weapons, or get a target. He wouldn’t like it, but he would have to do it, for Logan’s sake.

Xavier was still psyching himself up when he felt an odd - and yet familiar - presence. Now who could that be now?

There was a knock at the door, and he said, somewhat distractedly, “Yes Brendan, what is it?”

Brendan opened the door and peeked inside curiously. Maybe it was his half demon nature, but he had recovered quickly from his bullet wound - he was hardly even limping anymore. “Um, there’s a guy here who really wants to see you. He said you’d know him as Spider?”

Xavier sat back in his chair, marveling at the timing. Surely it was coincidence. “Yes, of course. Send him in.”

Brendan ducked back out, leaving the door slightly ajar, and in a few seconds, the door was pushed open, and in walked Clive Koslowski, otherwise known by his Organization code name Spider. He was a tall man, lanky, almost gangly, dressed in baggy jeans and an oversized button down blue shirt, with a dark green overcoat two sizes too large over it all, as if trying to hide himself. Odd, because despite his long, loose limbs, he looked Human. It was just the face where things were … slightly askew.

The most startling thing was his eyes. Easily twice the size of regular Human eyes, they were also undifferentiated purplish-black, like a deep and horrible bruise. His lips were thin and shaded towards purple, and when he talked he revealed thin, pointed teeth that would have looked more at home on a small predatory mammal. He’d cut his chocolate brown hair, styled it differently, but looked much the same as he had when he’d left for his former home in England several weeks ago. “Clive, hello. What brings you back here?” Xavier asked, keeping his voice light and cheerful.

But it was clear something was wrong. After closing the door, Clive walked to the nearest chair with none of his preternatural grace, his slender shoulders rounded like he was a broken man. He seemed to radiate failure. “I’m sorry to be here, Professor,” he mumbled towards the carpet, collapsing in the chair before his desk. “But I didn’t know where else to go.”

Spider got his code name, as far as he could tell, from the eerie appearance of his eyes, and from the fact that his powers were control of his own personal gravity. If he wished to, he could sit on the ceiling. He could also - at least according to Chameleon - change his gravity in mid-air: he could jump as if there was no gravity at all, and land on you as if his gravity had increased fourfold. He was an expert sniper, and a devastating fighter. Chameleon had intimated Spider had been seen as the “go to” guy, one of Wolverine’s natural successors. “It’s perfectly all right,” Xavier assured him. “How was London?”

“Gone,” he said, and scrubbed a hand nervously through his hair. He was looking down at his shoes, as if unable to face him. “I thought … I thought I could just pick up where I left off, you know?  But time … fuck, it went on without me.”

Spider had been considered psychotic in the Organization; he was fearless, took much glee in killing, and he was good at it. But that had been a result of telepathic brainwashing, that Bob had “cured” him of. Clive - the Clive before - had been a law school student in England before his mysterious disappearance, his kidnapping by the Organization. Telepathic imprinting worked splendidly on him, because he had no healing factor to bollix it up. If you could judge him at an age, he seemed to be in his thirties; he was, in actuality, only twenty six.

“Did you find your family?” Xavier asked, although he supposed he could guess the answer.

Clive scoffed, and finally looked up at him, tears welling in his bruised eyes. “What family? My Mum died when I was twelve. It seems, in my missing years, my Dad got cancer and died as well. Everyone thought I’d dropped out and run off, even my girl, Sophie. Know who she ended up with? My bloody best friend! They got a kid now and everything. My flat is gone, my car is gone … everything, all gone. It’s like I never existed at all.” He sniffed, and wiped away the tears from his eyes with the back of his unusually long, slender hand. Even his fingernails had a vague lilac hue. “Maybe the worst part is they think I ran off. No one thought I was kidnapped. They figured my affliction was just too much for me to handle.” He scoffed bitterly. “That was the story, you know. I had a disease that made me look like this. I mean, I was from a nice suburb - mutations didn’t happen there. People just wanted to believe that. But this time, when I went back, there’d been too much news coverage about mutants. They’d decided I was a freak after all.”

Xavier hardly needed to be telepathic to pick up that anger. “Did something happen?”

Clive eyed him warily - and there was no denying it was eerie with his large, strange eyes - then laughed breathlessly. “Something? Just the typical shite. But you know, looking at some of the idjits in the pub, I couldn’t help but think how I could kill all of them. It wouldn’t’ve even taken much effort on my part” He ran his hands through his hair again, messing it up, the picture of frustration and dejection. “But I’m not a killer … or at least I wasn’t, until the Organization got a hold of me.”

“You still aren’t a killer,” Xavier pointed out. “You aren’t responsible for what they made you do. You weren’t in your right mind.”

He let out a sardonic snicker. “No, I was in someone else’s. But I still dream about it, you know, all those people I killed. And brainwashed or not, I did kill them. You know where I was yesterday? On the Tower Bridge, looking over the side, figuring if I jumped and increased my powers to full, I could hit the Thames at gee plus twenty: I could shatter like glass, turn my brain into hummus.  It was a really lovely idea. I stood there for hours, wanting so badly to die and just get it over with. But I couldn‘t do it. Can you believe that? The heartless slaughterer was too bleeding scared to off himself.”

“Because you are not a heartless killer. You’re a victim as sure as any of the rest of them.”

Clive looked away, so Xavier couldn’t see him tearing up again. Xavier still hadn’t told Storm or Scott that Spider was the mutant who had shot them, as he wasn’t the same man anymore, and he shouldn’t be punished for something he did that was not of his own volition. “I don’t know. I don’t know where to go, or what to do. I have no friends left, no family, no life, and I’m not like most of you - I can’t pass for normal. I’m a freak among freaks.”

“You are not,” Xavier insisted. He could chide him for being self-piteous, but now was not the time; he was far too fragile. He was like Logan when he'd first arrived here, only more open with it. “The Organization had no right to rob you of your free will and your life.  If you kill yourself or drop out of society, you’re doing exactly what they want.”

He sniffed again, wiped his eyes with his forearm. “Life hardly seems worth living anymore.”

“It is. Stay with us, and give me a chance to prove it.” The sunlight streaming through the window felt warm on his back, and Xavier knew the feeling was just adding to his confidence. But how could he help Clive? He hadn’t done such a great job with Logan, who was probably off seeking pointless and potentially lethal revenge right now.

Although he was still slumped in the chair, looking like he was collapsing in on himself, Clive eventually nodded, peeking up at him through a fringe of bangs. He looked achingly young, like a teenager. “Okay. What’ve I got to lose now, right? I’ve already lost everything.” He paused to try and get his tears under control, then asked, “Is Cressida still here?”

Oh dear. This wasn’t going to be easy.