They were holding him down pretty good, but it felt like they only had one strong guy each on his arms, which was their weakness. He struggled a lot with the lower half of his body, getting them to bear down even more on his legs, shifting their focus, and then popped his claws. His only hope was that someone might be startled enough to ease up for a second.

Someone was - the guy holding down his left arm. (It was possible he was in so close he'd nicked him when the claws came out).  The very second the pressure eased up he lashed out blindly on his left, cutting into something, and in the resulting scrum he got his right arm free and slashed into the arm of the man holding his head under the anodyne.

Something plopped into the water as Logan shoved himself up, gasping for breath, aware now that someone was screaming, "My arm! My fucking arm!" Oh yeah, he'd remember to weep later for him.

A shadow moved in from the right and he slashed out blindly, on his knees but about to jump up to his feet, when the Queen said, "Wait! Give it a second to take effect."

An instruction to his/her people, not Logan. What the fuck did that mean?  But then he noticed the strange taste of anodyne in his mouth - like dirt and copper, thyme and iron - and realized they weren't necessarily trying to drown him, just give him a major overdose of bliss.

Of course, it didn't work - wouldn't work. Marc had already given him anodyne back in Hong Kong. As much as he wanted to experience it again, he wouldn't - his system had adapted, and killed it before it could sink its chemical claws in.

But they didn't know that.

He let himself relax, and tried hard to remember what being on anodyne was like. The memory was almost painful, simply because it had felt so good. No pain, no fear, no remorse - nothing but a kind of freedom of the soul that you just knew had to be a lie, but was still irresistible.  He let his claws retract into his hands and pretended to be mildly startled by it, but he made sure to react slowly, a beat too late, just like the terminally sleepy - or the blissfully stoned. "Wh-what ..?" He began, swaying slightly on his knees.

The Queen smiled at him, baring smoke-stained teeth and bloodless gums, and waved a skeletally thin hand to back his/her people off. Logan idly noticed a big, meaty arm, from the elbow joint down, bobbing in the pool of anodyne. "Don't you feel silly for struggling now? Why do you stupid meatbags fight against peace anyway?  Maybe you're afraid you'll realize what an evolutionary dead end you really are?"

There was a noise outside, kind of like a muffled thud, and he noticed that thing again, flickering in and out of his vision. The Queen scowled, and said, "Go see what that is."

Most of the bodyguards, including that shadow thing, turned and left the burnt out husk of the church. Logan remained where he was, pretending to be blissed out, biding his time.  It was especially hard because he hated the drug, but mostly he hated it because he could never feel it again.  He would never feel what it was like to be rid of everything, to wash clean the stains of his soul, and he resented this thing for making it and giving him just the one taste, never to have it again.

Was it wrong to want to be insensate, to not feel - or at least not feel bad - ever again? Yes, it was, and
he knew it, but that didn't stop him from wanting it so bad he could feel it like a cramp in his stomach, taste
it like last night's beer.

The Buddhists were right: desire was the source of all suffering.  Especially when it was a desire for something you could never have.

"Did you bring some friends along?" He/she asked.

"I don't have any friends," he replied, keeping his words measured and soft, his eyes half-lidded and tired. The first thing a good undercover operative learned was how to pretend at an expert level, play the role that other people expected of you. (...Now how the fuck did he know that..?) "What the fuck have you done to me?"

"I just gave you a taste of what you were fighting against. Did the Powers not tell you what it was that I'm really distributing? You see, that's why everybody wants it." He started walking slowly toward him, almost slinking like a cat, a move far too graceful for such a painfully bony and wasted frame. "You want it too, don't you?"

"Yes." And that was the truth, one so embarrassingly powerful a tear spilled from his eye and ran down
his cheek.  He wanted to wipe it away before he/she could see it, but he couldn't - a blissed out shell wouldn't move that fast.

The queen saw it and his/her grin became wider, more self-satisfied and predatory, and it took all of Logan's strength to swallow back the rage and self-loathing that was threatening to explode from within him. He felt so hot and tight it seemed as though his skin might split open like a sausage casing. "No shame, my poor messenger. The Powers would never give you something like this. They don't care about the suffering of your kind. You know that now, don't you?"

"Yes." He'd known it all along, but why split hairs?

There were more thuds outside, and a few curses. The Queen looked toward the far wall, scowling, and they both heard faintly, distantly, "I know I fit the dress code. So why don't you let me in?" The voice was slurred, a drunk who was obviously confused ... but why did he sound familiar?

The Queen continued to frown but was simply annoyed, and quickly turned his/her attention back to him. “You’re an unusual specimen; I can see why the Powers chose you, in spite of your other limitations. You must be in so much pain. The Powers pick those who are in pain, just like demons do.  Humans are the middle ground in a very long, very old power struggle; you’re food or you’re territory. It’s not your fault.” He/she splayed a pale, bony hand against his/her chest, and adopted the look of a politician who claimed he was “compassionate”. “I saved this creature from an awful fate. His name was Dell, and he was going to die of some disease in his blood. Can you believe that?  In some Humans, your own systems eat themselves up. That alone should tell you how deficient your species is. And I can save you from that fate.”

Oh sure. Kill him and use his body. Terrific. “You can?”

“Yes. I’m much more powerful than my minions. Did they tell you that?  I bet they left that detail out as well.” He/she swept his/her hand away from its chest, and took Logan in with the odd gesture. That’s when he felt, starting in his mind and quickly swelling outward, a wave of pleasure that was as devastating and paralyzing as any pain. “But power has more uses than just as weapons of war, don’t you think?”

There was more noise outside, it sounded like a skirmish, and it distracted the Queen enough that the unrelenting, high intensity pleasure abated, letting him breathe. “Ren, what the hell is going on out there?”

Ren?  The cartoon dog? Was Stimpy around somewhere, too?  Logan almost laughed, but was too enervated by the intensity of the pleasure to do much more than pant.

“Uh, some drunk asshole thinks this is a club or something,” a voice said, crackled by the radio.

The Queen’s thin, bloodless lips twisted in disgust. “Just get rid of him, jack-off.  Jesus!” He shook his head, and as soon as the radio died, he/she sneered, “Help these days. God, I swear they’ll all retarded.”

He knew the Queen had no idea how much it was killing him not to be able to make even one sarcastic comment.

The Queen fixed him with a hard gaze, as if wondering if he was faking. “You know nothing of what’s going on outside?”

“No. I came alone. I was sure I could handle you by myself.” He knew from his brief experience with it that anodyne acted as a sort of truth serum; you just felt no desire to lie. When you had no fear, there was no reason to conceal anything.

That made the Queen laugh. “Are you so sure you can now?”

“No,” he lied.

This was what he/she both wanted and expected to hear. The Queen looked smug, crossing deathly thin arms across his/her sunken chest, and assumed a posture of superiority. “I can do something for you the Powers would never do. I can make you feel this way all the time. Now I know you’d like that.” He continued gliding down the aisle toward him, avoiding the bigger chunks of charred detritus. “Wouldn’t
you like to serve me instead?”

It was then that they heard the roar of an accelerating engine, and suddenly a car smashed into the front wall of the church, collapsing part of it and sending up a huge plume of ash. It was pure reflex that Logan ducked some of the flying debris, and out of the corner of his eye he saw something misshapen and oily
hit the charcoal smear of the second aisle, briefly noticing it wasn’t humanoid, but something with lots of floppy appendages. The shadow thing? Once it stopped rolling from the impact, it seemed in no hurry to get up, or otherwise move.

The Queen’s face flushed pink with rage as he/ she stomped toward the car - a car painted a bright and unfortunate teal. Oh no. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He/she held out his/her hand, as if trying to use powers on the driver, but quickly gave up. They probably only worked on a being with a specific type of brain, one that Thrak just didn’t have, being a big pile of goo. “Idiot Ugg demon. What
the fuck are you doing driving anyway?”

There was a familiar noise outside, a muffled “whoomph”, and Logan sighed inwardly, aware that it
was time to give up the charade before everybody got themselves killed.  He didn't recall asking for an entourage.

There was a sickening squelching noise as Thrak started oozing out the open window and seams of the closed door like an overflow of mucus, and the Queen snapped at her subjects, “What the fuck is going
on out there? Ren? Ren?!”

Logan noticed the Queen was making a “rise” gesture with his/her hand, so he stood up, still moving slowly and drunkenly, not quite ready to give up the pretense just yet.

The Queen started edging out the hole that Thrak’s cab had made in the shell of the church, and Thrak gathered himself into a big wet pile and shot across the sooty floor with surprising speed, spreading out
like a spill of water before plopping moistly into the pool of anodyne. The noise made his/her head snap around, and anger flared like a pink sun in its eyes as he/she started stomping back towards the pool.
“No! Get the hell out of there, you amorphous freak!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan noticed Thrak was turning pink and swelling up to fill the hole. Was he absorbing the anodyne like a sponge? It sure looked like it. Would he O.D. on it, or as a demon would it not affect him at all? He suddenly remembered Lorne implying that Ugg demons had very stupid powers, and he wondered if this was it - absorbing liquids. That would be very stupid, and not very useful, unless you were in a drinking contest, or in a situation exactly like this one.

The Queen started to walk right by him, not even giving him a second glance. “I will have you squeezed dry, you meddling fucker. Don’t you think -”

Logan shot out a fist, like he was throwing a punch, and at the last second popped his claws, which sliced straight through the top of the Queen’s skull, skewering the brain. He/she froze, like a puppet with tangled strings. “Did I mention I was immune to most drugs?  Some evolutionary dead end, huh?” He then ripped through, taking the upper half of his skull and cranium off like it was the top of a soft boiled egg.

The Queen collapsed to his/her knees, and then pitched forward bonelessly, blood and brain fluids spilling on the floor like Thrak had previously, but never gathering itself together again.  Logan thought he saw a brief shimmer of pink in the air like an escaping gas, but he wasn’t sure.

Thrak, pink and swollen up like a blood-sated tick, made another gravelly gargling noise, and Rags “whoomped” into existence about five feet away from him. “Ya got ‘im?  Cool -”  He then saw what was left of the Queen’s host, and turned around and barfed up a breakfast of what appeared to be burritos and daiquiris. He reeked of so much alcohol Logan’s eyes were watering.

“Oh good, we’re done here?” Lorne slurred, stumbling in through the hole in the wall. He was holding a spill-proof mug that said “Welcome to Hollywood!” on the front, and smelled like it was full of rum. Lorne loitered around the hood of the cab, smart enough to not come any closer.

Logan snickered, shaking his head. The drunken cavalry to the rescue, if only they could focus and stand up straight. “Why the hell are you guys here?

“I saw what was gonna happen, my hirsute hombre, and I thought maybe we could lend a hand,” Lorne replied, making vague gestures with his mug. It looked like he was stirring an invisible bowl of batter.

“What, I couldn’t take care of this?”

“No, you could, but I thought … well, we could hasten things up a bit.” Logan didn’t like that hesitation; Lorne wasn’t telling him something. “Besides, Angelcakes had so few friends, I figured it was the least I could do to help one out. He’ll appreciate it if he ever comes back.”

What a revealing choice of words. “He’s not coming back, is he?”

Some of the drunken glaze in Lorne’s eyes faded, and he frowned slightly, wrinkles bunching up around
his horns. “I dunno. But traditionally, no one walks away from a battle with the big cheeses, and I haven’t seen him in forever. If I try, I get a … black spot. It’s like he’s not on the map anymore. Any map.”

Now he recalled Dru’s words: “ …He's fading away in the distance, but I know he's still there….” and knew she must have been referring to Angel.  He was fading away from everybody who had even a smidgen of psychic ability. That led him to wonder if Lorne was trying to save him from something similar, or simply from future employment with the Powers.

Rags, done barfing for the moment, had teleported himself back by Lorne, to avoid looking at the headless body any longer. But he really didn’t look too steady. “Can we jus’ get outta ‘ere now?  I’m losin’ my buzz.”

Logan pointed at the corpse. “Is it dead?”

Lorne snorted, and almost spilled his drink. “Uh, yeah, I’m gonna bet having your brains spill out your head is fatal, even for a Lamia queen.”

Rags turned yellowish again, slapping a hand over his mouth.  Did he have anything left to throw up?  He had already left quite a pile.

Thrak oozed across the floor, gargling out something that sounded sober but slightly ticked off.  He was still pink, and twice his normal size.

“He doesn’t appreciate the fact that you left an arm in there,” Lorne told him, by way of translating.

Logan could only snort as he wiped the tears away from his eyes.  Boy, who'd been hitting the rotgut like cheap cologne? “Life’s a bitch, phlegm boy.”

Next to this group, the X-Men suddenly looked really, really good.

By the time he helped Rags back up to his place (and he needed the help, wavering like he was on the deck of a storm-tossed ship), the sun was out in all its blinding glory, and it was already well past eighty degrees. Rags was groaning like his eyes were going to fall out of their sockets, but considering how
much he’d had to drink, Logan thought it was more likely he’d burst into flames.

Back at the car, Lorne was slumped in the passenger seat, cradling his head like it was a bomb that could detonate any second, and Thrak was passed out on the back seat, looking like someone had thrown up their body weight in pink jello. (He was immune to the effects of anodyne, but not, it seemed, to a binge that included Slippery Nipples, Drunken Leprechauns, and Banana Daiquiris. Could Ugg demons even barf?  Because if they could, Thrak would probably be praying to the porcelain god all day.  He was making an odd noise, like water half-heartedly gurgling down a plugged drain, but Lorne said that was normal snoring for him.

Because he was the only sober one, Logan was driving. And now that Rags was safe at home, he just
had to drop Lorne off at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and then drive back to West Hollywood, where Thrak apparently lived.  Ironically, Logan would be forced to walk back to his motel, but it wasn’t that far from Thrak’s.

As he started the car, which cranked to life with a cough and groan, like it, too, was hung over, Logan asked, “So why come for me? If you knew I could handle it, why bother?” Lorne was in a strange space, somewhere between drunk and hung-over, and if he was going to be even close to honest to him, it was now or never.

Lorne groaned, and rested his head against the passenger window, eyes tightly closed. “It was gonna hurt you, big guy. Didn’t hafta.”

“I can take the pain.”

He scoffed, then grimaced at the uncomfortable gesture. “I know that. Isn’t that one of your mutant powers? You’re so used to pain, it’s only an annoyance; the best it can do is slow you down.  I wish I
had that now, I’m tellin’ you - the jackhammers are starting to work inside the old noggin.”

“So why do it if you knew it didn’t matter whether I was hurt or not?”

“Not that kind of pain, amigo. Not physical. It was the kind that really hurts you.”

That didn’t sound good. “What was the Queen going to do to me?”

“I don’t know, champ. I didn’t want to know the details at all, okay?  I just knew this victory was gonna hurt you, so I thought we could help you cut to the chase.  I didn’t mean that 'cut' literally, but hey, that’s Lalaland for you.” He rubbed the skin around his left horn, like it was hurting him or something, and then muttered, “I just don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

He waved a hand at the windshield. “This, all of this. I just wasn’t cut out for it, you know, this hero stuff.” He lapsed into silence again, and Logan had steered them out into the insane Los Angeles traffic when he said suddenly, yet quietly, “I knew what he was gonna do.”

Logan glanced at him, pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the Queen’s host. “Who?”

Lorne shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and started to pat the pockets of his loud jacket as if looking for smokes. “Lindsay. Angel sent me off with him, and asked me to take care of him once we were done with our assignment, 'cause he was afraid of what Lindsay might do without him around to ride herd on him. I know I agreed to do it, but I couldn’t...you know?” Logan had no idea what he was talking about - who the hell was Lindsay? - but he just nodded, as this was clearly something that Lorne wanted to get off his chest. “But then he sang. We were on our way, he was driving, and he turned on the radio to fill in the awkward silence. A song he liked came on, and he sang a line or two under his breath until he suddenly remembered I was in the car, but it was too late. Angel was more right about him than he would ever know.

“In that moment, I saw everything. Angel was gone, Wesley was dead, and Lindsay was alone with a head full of bad ju-ju and a thirst for power. He would cut a deal with an evil hellgod, and cast a spell that would kill thousands of people and demons in the Los Angeles area, the street would run Technicolor with blood, and that massive sacrifice would be enough to open a portal between here and there. He would be the most powerful Human on the planet in no time, and he would carve the Earth up in bloody slices if it got him more power, more vengeance against a humanity and a demon community that he felt had always
done him wrong. I knew then if I didn’t kill him, thousands of deaths would be on my hands.” Tears were spilling from his ruby eyes, running down his green scaled face, but he found what he had been looking for - his sunglasses - and slipped them on. “So I did it - I killed him.  And it bothers me, even though it didn’t bother me that much at the moment; after all, I knew what he was planning to do.  No, what bothered me the most was the knowledge that I was the only one who walked away.  In that car with crazy Lindsay, I realized Angel had deliberately sent me away, out of the worst of it.  He wanted at least one of us to walk away … and for some reason, he chose me.  Even though he knew I’d hate him forever for putting me
in the position of having to kill someone, he picked me to live.  I don’t understand why.  I don’t even understand how anyone could have made that decision.”

“You do what you've gotta,” Logan told him with a shrug, aware it was a less than satisfying answer. He didn’t know what else to say to him, or what Angel had actually known or thought at the time; had no clue. What could you say that would assuage survivor’s guilt?  But was that the real reason why Lorne had decided to help him?  Some kind of obscure attempt to even the scales between him and Angel?

Awkward silence settled in, and he wondered if humor would help. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’d have done the same thing. You’re the worst fighter I’ve ever seen.”

Lorne stared at him for a moment, then started laughing. “Yeah, I do suck, don’t I?  I’d have lasted less than five minutes.”

“Does that include getting out of the car?”

“And getting in the car. All car related activities.” He wiped the tears from his face and looked out the window, shoulders rounded in continued pain and defeat. “I can’t help but feel guilty. Maybe I should keep fighting the good fight, even though I suck, because I’m the only one left to do it.”

“Do you think Angel thought, for a single moment, that you would?  Did the Powers pick you as a proxy? I don’t know how you got mixed up in all this, Lorne, but this was never your fight. Thank you for the help, but you’re excused now. Go have a life, enjoy it for those of us who can’t.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lorne staring at him. “You’ve given up on that already?”

“You saw some of my life, didn’t you?  Do you think anyone will let me stop fighting?”

He considered that, and in spite of the sunglasses, had the decency to look away. “No, I suppose not.”

“So...there. Leave the fighting to those of us who don’t have a choice, and are damn good at it anyway."

Lorne looked thoughtful. “You and Angel must have been a real horror show, fighting together.”

He shrugged. “We each had strengths the other didn’t.  If they could get by him, they couldn’t get by me, and vice versa.” He paused before adding, “Sorry I wasn’t there for you guys.”

“It’s okay, hombre. You had your own fight to deal with.  There’s certainly no lack of it, is there?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

Logan didn’t know what to say to that, except to agree, so he said nothing at all.

****

Once Logan got back to his stuffy motel room, where the air conditioner was issuing continuous death rattles as it struggled in vain against the heat of Southern California - a battle it was destined to lose - he realized he wanted a drink very badly.

He took a shower, washing off sweat and blood and the scent of hung-over demons, but the desire for a beer still lingered. No bar was open yet, save for the Way Station, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk that. He didn’t feel like sleeping, and besides, it was too hot to do so.

Eventually he wandered off to the Way Station, taking a chance and, amazingly, it paid off.  Lau was tending bar, and he didn’t say anything, just gave him a nod and poured him a beer.  There were lots of demons in the place - well, it was off-hours for many of them - and as a Human he earned lots of funny looks - so he took his beer to a back table, one in a far corner hidden by shadows.  He listened carefully to various conversations in spite of the jukebox.  He heard several songs that Bob had sung before, including that dark Afghan Whigs song which took on an ironically funny air in this place (“When you say/Now we got hell to pay/Don’t worry baby, that’s okay/I know the boss”).

The gang war was definitely on. The demon mob was in chaos, and they and the Yakuza were killing each other off already; he heard one spectacularly horned demon (it looked like he was wearing an elk’s rack on his head) telling his friend there was already a massive killing down in Chinatown, and he had no idea how the “Hoo-mans” were going to survive this, being as outmatched as they were. But that just proved he didn’t know how deadly and resourceful the Yakuza were. Wing was probably gloating somewhere, elated that his legacy would be the complete triumph of the Triad over their enemies.

Logan was on his third beer when he remembered he did have a bit of unfinished business. Two bits, actually, but he had to take them in sequence. He went up to the bar and asked Lau for a phone book, which he supplied without a single word. (You had to love a taciturn guy.) When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he sensed someone looking over his shoulder, and glanced up, annoyed.

A blue-haired woman with three eyes - two in the regular spots, the third between the two but a couple inches up, and all different colors (left one blue, right one red, middle one gold) - and six fingered hands with fingers that tapered like cat claws, smiled at him, revealing rows of serrated teeth. “Looking for something, sweetie?” Her voice was a velvet purr, laced with a rusty echo.  Her skin was an odd color,
a metallic bronze with an apple colored blush, and she smelled like Italian parsley with a hint of mulch.
“I’m good at finding things. It’s my gift.”

“Is it? You do realize I’m a friend of Bob’s, and if you try and kill me, he ain’t gonna be happy with you.”

She scowled and looked down at her glass of wine. “Fuck.”

“Do you really think an ordinary Human would just wander into a bar like this?”

She shrugged bony shoulders. From the way they moved, he wondered if she had an extra joint...or several  “It’s the only one open.”

“If you do want to help me, though, I’d appreciate it.”

She gave him a slightly hopeful look with two of her three eyes. “How appreciative would you be?”

“You’re not killing me. You’re not even getting a nibble.”

She scowled violently. “Damn it!”

At least demons were relatively consistent - you couldn’t fault them there.

****

He didn’t need the three eyed woman - whose name was Claudia, it turned out - to find one of his lingering problems. He just waited for nightfall and headed out, wandering the back alleys of L.A. until he came upon a homeless man who looked like he was sleeping in a doorway, but had in fact had his throat ripped out; he was just placed in a lounging position meant to both conceal the body and amuse the killer. He caught a scent and followed it to a park, where he eventually came upon her beneath a weeping willow tree, feeding on a man who had been walking his dog. The dog, a German shepherd, had already had its throat ripped out and was laying on the grass, pink tongue lolling and eyes staring, killed so fast it hadn't known what hit it. “Hello, Dru,” he said, aware that sneaking up on her was not an option.

Her yellow eyes seemed to light up, and she dropped the man, an actor who hadn't lived long enough to be more than a wannabe. She grinned at him with a mouthful of bloody, pointed teeth. “Nowhere man, I knew you’d show up.” She started stroking her own cheek like she was petting the dog. “You want to play, don’t you?”

“You can’t stay here, Dru. I don’t care where you go, but you were brought in ‘cause of me, and you need to go now. I don’t wanna kill you … okay, that’s a lie. I want to kill you, but you still have to go.”

She giggled like a little girl, which was extra disturbing considering she was still in vamp face. “I know, pet. But you can’t. I know you, Weapon X.” He flinched at the name, and she grinned in triumph. “I know every little thing that ever broke your heart - or you. Your heart is a bloody piece of meat that someone nailed to a table.” She made a pleased “hmm” in the back of her throat, and said, “Daddy did that for me once.”

He seriously didn’t want to know. “You surprised me once. I felt it was my turn to pay that back.”

“Surprise me? You can’t -” Suddenly the smugly pleased look on her face died, and her head snapped around, first to the left, then to his right, as her surprise emerged from the shadows in the way that only vampires could.

“Hello-”

“-sister,” The Sisters volleyed, approaching her on either side with big, empty grins on their faces.

Dru hissed like an angry cat, barring her fangs at both of them, and started backing up. According to the Sisters, Dru couldn’t “read” them; their own weird psionic shit interfered with hers.  Checkmate.

“Surprise,” Logan said, giving her a cold, insincere smile.