9

Logan imagined that now he knew what a cigarette butt felt like.

Was Roshenko attempting to scrape his entire face off, all the way down to the skull? It felt like it. The asphalt was now wet and slick with his blood and skin, and while his face now felt like it was on fire from his healing factor, the pain had reached a zero point, the point where he didn’t quite feel it anymore. The smallest nudge and he would, but for the moment he was blissfully numb as his eyelid ripped and his cornea scraped bare concrete. It was amazing how detached he could become from his own body, which was probably not healthy. Jean had been right about that.

He had been searching his mind for some way out of this, but he wasn’t having much luck; it was like yelling in an empty warehouse - when, abruptly, there was a fleshy thud, and Roshenko finally let go. “Paws off the boyfriend, Bluto.”

Oh good - Faith must have wondered where he'd gotten to.

He turned over and just lay there, listening to the fight as he tried to will his healing factor to speed the fuck up. His face was burning still, and his eyesight was somewhat lopsided, as spots were clearing out of his left eye, but he still had a significant dark spot in his right eye. Good enough.

He pushed himself up, trying not to look at the bloody smear on the pavement that was probably the majority of his face, and sat heavily against the wall, waiting for more of his vision to come back and some strength to enter his legs. His head was reeling, his face burning and angry, and he wasn’t sure if he could actually stand up without falling over. He watched as Roshenko got up with a grunt. “You’re the one from the other day, aren’t you girly? Not too bad for a piece of ass.”

“Ooh, name calling. I‘m so scared,” Faith replied, running at the alley wall. As she reached it, she actually seemed to run up it for a couple steps, using it as a launching point from which she sprung off and aimed a mid-air side kick at Roshenko’s face as he straightened up. It was a solid hit, one that made something fly from his mouth and made him stumble back, but he didn’t fall down. As he staggered toward him, Logan kicked out and caught his ankle, sweeping one of his tree trunk legs out from under him and sending him falling on his ass.

Logan would have yelled that he wanted his skin back, but he wasn’t sure he could talk, so he simply lunged from his seated position and stabbed his claws right through Roshenko’s face. He made a noise that was partially a gag, partially a noise of pain, and Logan did it again, driving it all the way through. Before he could do it a third time, Roshenko hit him with a fist like a sledgehammer and drove him back. “Motherfucker!” the Russian roared, although it sounded like “mudderfudder”.

As the giant tried to get to his feet, Faith kicked him in the face, and while his head snapped back hard, causing blood to splatter, Roshenko grabbed her leg reflexively, and threw her into the wall. Logan was on him in a second, rage allowing him to move despite the pain, and he just began stabbing him. There was no aim in mind, no goal, he just wanted to inflict as much pain and damage as possible.

Roshenko turned his attention away from Faith and grabbed him by the throat, hammering his fist in his face, breaking his newly healed nose again, but Logan knew where his target was now whether he could see or not. He lashed out, and the pressure on his throat fell away, along with Roshenko’s arm. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, sounding more indignant than injured.  Blood was pouring out of six holes in his face, one of which had cut his tongue down the middle (which was why he sounded funny, and why blood was pouring out of his mouth), and now blood was fountaining out the stump of his left arm, which ended just where his elbow had been. He still hauled back and punched Logan in the face with his right arm, throwing him back against the wall, making him taste new blood in his mouth. He had to spit out a tooth, which he hated since it always hurt so much when they grew back.

Faith must not have been hurt that much - thank god - as she grabbed Roshenko’s arm and twisted it before bringing her elbow down hard on the bend, snapping his limb like an icicle.  He screamed in pain and rage, and ran into the wall, slamming Faith between him and the brick, and Logan was on him once more, stabbing him in the side of the neck and head. He was spurting blood like a sieve now and roaring incoherently, unable to use his arms to continue the fight, and unable to use his legs since Logan was on his back, an arm around his throat, stabbing his other claws into him like this was a contest to see how much you could perforate a person before they fell down.

He was probably going to run Logan into the wall too, but as soon as Roshenko pulled away to do it, Faith kicked him in the groin, full power, and he made a retching noise and dropped heavily to his knees.  Logan let him go, only to stand back and slash full-on, decapitating him. “Do you have a second head, too?” Logan grumbled, as Roshenko’s head rolled down the alley.

He then bent over, putting his hands on his knees, and spit more blood as Roshenko’s headless corpse fell over and hit the ground with a wet plop. He was trying to will himself not to collapse. So far so good.  But was the pavement really undulating?

“That’s one way to end a fight,” Faith noted.

When he’d caught enough breath to speak and was sure he wasn’t going to pass out, he replied, “It’s wonderfully final. Most of the time.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the heat of his eyelid growing back, and heard a sound like potato chips crunching along with a feeling like fire ants crawling under his skin as his cartilage restructured itself and his nose healed up. Fuck, it hurt. It felt like his brow ridge was healing up too, the skin of his forehead bubbling like scalded milk.

Faith put a cool hand on his back, and he glanced at her. She had blood on her face and her t-shirt - most of it not hers - blood trickling from her nose, and what looked like the beginning of a shiner on the left side of her face, but otherwise she looked remarkably good. “Don’t take this personal, sweet cheeks, but he really fucked you up.”

He nodded, not taking it personally. “I hate the super strong ones,” he admitted, feeling like he had a monster fever. His head was burning, but his eyesight was almost back to normal.

They both heard footsteps and turned around to face the head of the alley, where a big thug suddenly rushed in, gun out. He stopped short when he saw them, covered in blood and still healing, and then noticed the headless corpse of Roshenko on the ground behind them. For a moment, all three of them stared at each other, and then the Russian thug dropped his gun. “Fuck this,” he said in perfect English, then ran away.

“Should I go after him?” Faith wondered.

He shook his head. “Naw, he’s smarter than the rest of ‘em. Maybe he’ll take this as a warning to find a new life.”

“Wow, that’s very optimistic of you.”

“I think I still have a concussion.”

But at least he knew that even his brain healed fast. Well, from some things. Physical injuries faded with time, but some of those mental scars were total motherfuckers.

****

Faith let him have a minute to recover some more, then they took out the rest of the thugs as they raided the warehouse. It didn’t take long, and all and all was an embarrassing show for the mafia. Maybe the two of them were just that good. Or the mob was counting on Roshenko to take care of any and all threats, and none of them had counted on him having a kick-ass girlfriend. Logan didn’t much care - he was just glad he didn’t get his face ripped off again.

They found the toxin in a sealed crate, in a metal container that was too narrow to be a proper suitcase, and was full of dry ice. The toxin itself was in a sealed silver flask about the size and shape of your average thermos, only with a biohazard warning sticker on it. Good thing, as you really didn’t want to accidentally drink it.

Once they recovered it they took off, headed for downtown.  They were to take it to a lab that was under Tony’s auspices, and they would destroy the stuff.  Faith trusted this would happen, as Tony knew better than to make things worse, and also the lab techs knew better than to piss her off.  He’d healed, but he was still a huge bloody mess - it looked like he was wearing red face paint. So he trusted her to go in alone, deliver the stuff, and watch it get obliterated.

He felt like falling asleep, but he managed not to. Instead, he pulled out the GPS unit and tried to call up the signal.

Marc had told him to do it, of course - “Track that bitch!” - but Logan hadn’t been sure how to do that. Except of course Marc knew how, and was aware Tony had the know-how as well. Faith just had to call in, and she got a tiny tracker that he was able to stick on her at the Barnes and Noble. Since she didn’t wear clothes, since she was literally her clothes, he was sure she wouldn’t wear it for long, either shedding it accidentally or deliberately.  But he didn’t care as long as it was close to wherever she had gone.  He figured he’d be able to triangulate or at worst, guess where she and Vogel’s mob were hiding out.

He got a hit finally. The tracker was stationary (no real surprise there), and in an area on the outskirts of the city, about fifteen miles northeast of their current location. He tried to remember what was out that way. Vacation homes? If he was right, that was still a fairly rural area, private … a good place to hide from a killer who expected to find you in a city. Also just a good place to hide a multitude of sins. There were many meth labs in places just like that - maybe a Hype lab too? Why the fuck not?

Logan knew he couldn’t trust her plans for Vogel. If she just wanted to kill him outright it’d be no big deal, but he felt that it wasn’t that simple. She could have found a moment to do that while pretending to be a member of his crew. There was something else going on, and he didn’t trust it.

Faith got back and assured him the stuff was “neutralized”, in science geek speak - unless it could survive being nuked, but Faith said it didn’t look like it. It changed color and started smelling like burnt hair spray. As signs went, those were odd but positive. Now all they needed to do was make sure all of Vogel’s notes about the stuff were destroyed, cryptic or not.

He couldn’t get over the sense that this was a gimme.  Not by the mob, but by Mystique.  This was a distraction or a diversion - like he was supposed to be - for the real target. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

They made a quick stop at Faith’s place to wash off the blood and change clothes, and Faith decided to grab a few things (weapons) “just in case”. He was fine with that, if only because he had no idea what they’d be facing. Might as well be prepared for anything. They also stopped quick to grab some burgers, because healing from getting the shit beaten out of you made you hungry.

Eventually they discovered the GPS tracker on the side of the road, looking like just another piece of litter. They were in an area of pine wilderness, cut out here and there to make rooms for old farm style houses or McMansions, such a modern dichotomy of rural poverty and casual excess that the people who should have found it ironic somehow never did. Faith was sure he should ignore the farms and concentrate on the mansions, but that seemed too easy.  If he was them, he’d take over something older, something that wouldn’t stand out, something that blended into the background. That would be one of the older places, not a McMansion.

Faith drove around slowly while he kept a look out for anything he would deem promising, and he had his window down on the off chance he’d get an olfactory clue. But what exactly was he scenting for? He could smell exhaust and fertilizer and Chem-Lawn and burnt leaves, all sorts of scents that were a miasma and would probably hide anything that he might find helpful. If he even knew what it would be when he smelled it. Damn, they had entered the “stabbing in the dark” part of the proceedings fairly early, hadn’t they?

Several minutes went by, and it seemed like they were searching for a needle in a haystack. What was he expecting, a big sign saying “Mob Here”? He thought he should hit himself just for being stupid, but he knew Faith would look at him funny, then volunteer to slug him if that’s what he was really into.

It was then that he smelled the smoke.

It wasn’t a burned leaf smell, or even a burned garbage smell, or the scent of someone’s wood stove. It was the intense, piercing smell of chemically treated wood, wood and paint and something totally wrong kindling and taking off, filling the air with particulates and a sharp scent that seemed to cut through his sinuses like a chainsaw. “Aw fuck,” he exclaimed, bringing a hand up to his nose as tears welled in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, concerned, and then, as they turned a soft corner, uttered, “Fuck me.”

The smoke was now visible, plumes of grey-white funneling into the sky beyond a stand of trees, and he told her, “Head for it.”

“You think they’re burnin’ the place?”

“I dunno. It smells wrong.”

She stared at him for a moment, eyebrow raised, clearly wondering if he was fucking with her. She decided he wasn’t, and drove toward the smoke.

Eventually they came to a gravel drive that wound down toward an older style home, although it was the actual outbuilding - the barn, although Logan doubted it had been used in that capacity for several years - was what was currently burning. Flames were consuming the entire left side, and the door was slightly ajar, grey smoke pouring out from within. Here the sharp chemical smell was almost overpowering, but he was getting accustomed to it. And layered beneath it, he could smell blood and burnt flesh along with accelerant. “Shit,” he exclaimed, bolting out of the car and heading for the barn.

“Logan!” Faith shouted.

“It’s okay - this can’t kill me,” he shouted back, assuming that was her concern. Of course, was he certain fire couldn’t kill him? He had a suspicion it wouldn’t - if being at ground zero of an explosion hadn’t killed him, would a mere flame do it? - but he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out either. Still, he had committed to this, and he couldn’t chicken out now.

He kicked open the barn door to see that the place was a cathedral of flames, something up in the hayloft feeding the fire, the flames racing across the ceiling like it was a contest. Down on the floor not far from him were tire tracks in the dirt floor, and a few dead men. A couple appeared to have been shot, blood pooling around their bodies and reflecting the flames like a mirror, and others appeared to have had their necks broken, their heads turned as if to look behind them. They were all dark clad, thick necked thugs, Russian mafia muscle.

Faith came up behind him, looking over his shoulder, holding her coat over her nose and mouth to try and blunt the smoke. “Party crashers?” she wondered, coughing faintly.

Tears of irritation were running down Logan’s face, as the accelerant scent was so sharp it was like inhaling broken glass. He coughed reflexively, and that just made the tears worse. “No. Mystique.” This had her fingerprints all over it, didn’t it?  Just what he was afraid of. He could almost hear Marc saying, “See? I told you so,” like he was suddenly gifted with telepathy.

Here were some mafia thugs, and what could have been the remains of a Hype lab of some sort. But where was Vogel, and where was Mystique?  Hell, that was a stupid question.

Find one of them, and you’d find the other.