Vancouver, British Columbia

Faith had a feeling she should stick around, as she was sure someone - she wasn’t sure if it was Angel or maybe Logan himself, perhaps Marcus - had told her that Logan really didn’t like hospitals, that in fact he loathed them like some people loathed car alarms at three in the morning, or Paris Hilton. So she thought it might be best if someone familiar - and reassuring - was around if he woke up, in case he started to freak out. (When Logan freaked out, it could get pretty bloody.)

So she and Tagawa hung around at the back of the room while the Doctor and her nurse (his name was Raj) attempted to work on Logan. The room was actually an old operating room, but one clearly unused for a while; in fact, all of the floor they were on looked like it had been little used in some time. Perhaps it was the “hidden” floor, one off limits to most of the hospital, but safe in its supposed invisibility. Mutants could come here and get treated, and no one ever need know that the hospital was catering to them. It saved them from both protestors and lawsuits, as well as getting besieged by mutants seeking medical help. Presumably you needed to know the “secret handshake” (which must have included a fistful of cash) to even know this place existed.

As soon as they had monitoring equipment hooked up to him, the Doc stared at the readouts for a long time, in a manner which suggested she had no idea what she was looking at. Presumably the readings were really weird, and she had no idea what she was supposed to make of them. After what seemed like a minute, she said, “Without baseline averages, it’s going to be very hard to determine how he’s doing.”

“The fact that he was blown up and isn’t dead says something,” Raj suggested helpfully, although he looked no less puzzled.

The Doc nodded absentmindedly, still staring at the numbers on the machines. You know, after watching so many episodes of ER while in prison, Faith had a feeling she should know what it all meant, but she didn’t. Maybe she just hadn’t paid enough attention.

The Doc stuck a needle in Logan’s arm to draw some blood, but Tagawa suddenly said, “Don’t do that.”

Everyone looked at him with varying degrees of surprise. “Excuse me?” the Doc replied, her brow furrowing in annoyance.

“There are people who will kill for a sample of his blood. I don’t think you want to endanger the hospital like that.”

Okay, what? What the hell was he talking about?  How did this guy know so much about Logan, when she didn’t?

The Doctor looked like she wanted to question him further on this, but Faith saw the conscious decision she made to let it go. Why - because it was Tagawa who said it? Clearly the old guy had lots of money, and that was always synonymous with power.

The Doc tried to pull the needle out, but something stopped her, and she leaned close to Logan’s arm for a look. “Well, what do you know? His skin’s trying to grow around the needle.” She pulled it out, put with a bit more force than normal.

“What does that mean?” Raj asked.

“He does heal fast. He’s just not healing fast enough for these injuries.” The Doc turned towards the EKG machine and stared at it for another long moment, one hand tapping restless fingers on her thigh, while two others were tucked away in coat pockets, and the other was scratching her head. It was like watching a live action Tim Burton cartoon.

The funny thing was she looked better than most Doctors. She was young, maybe in her early thirties, and even though her brown hair was cut almost ludicrously short, it looked more punky than manly, and she used just enough eye shadow to highlight her hazel eyes. But the four arms ..? Yeah, you could never look quite good enough to wear that well, although Faith had to give her props for trying.

Almost in desperation, the female Doc Ock asked, “Neither of you would happen to know his physiological responses to healing, would you? Heart rate, blood pressure ..?”

Hesitantly, Faith admitted, “I think his heartbeat’s stronger than that. I mean, it’s usually pretty powerful.”

Desjardin turned back towards Logan, then muttered, “Let me try something.” That never sounded promising, especially coming from a doctor.

What she wanted to try was adrenaline, which worried Raj, because he thought it might cause him to bleed out faster, but Desjardin pointed out that he actually wasn’t bleeding all that much considering the extent of his injuries. (Which was true, as Faith had noticed in the helicopter that he wasn’t bleeding as much as he had been. She took that as a good sign).  So Doc gave him “a bit” of adrenaline, just to see what his reaction to it would be.

Normally that would be a fucking scary thing for a doctor to say, but this was Logan they were talking about, and little seemed to hurt him permanently, at least that she had seen. That made him an ideal test subjects for doctors to try things on … and, come to think of it, perfectly explained his generally enmity towards hospitals.

His response to the adrenaline was almost immediate.  His heart rate went up, and so did his blood pressure - but most noticeably, his healing speeded up to the point where they could all see skin suddenly spread over his exposed jaw like a living stain.  That actually made Desjardin and Raj take a step back. “Holy hell,” she exclaimed. “That’s just creepy.” Neither Faith nor Tony said anything about that because, frankly, it was.

The Doc shot him up with more adrenaline, and the results were dramatic. His heart rate and blood pressure were at levels that made the machines beep warnings, green lights fluttering over to red, but the wounds were closing themselves with a great rapidity, the skin and muscles and tendons knitting themselves back together as they watched. “So adrenaline sparks his healing factor?” Faith asked, pretty sure that was the lesson here.

“It could just aid it, make it faster,” the Doc suggested, sounding like she knew she was guessing.

Tagawa nodded. “It must. When he’s angry - and I mean furious - little seems to stop him.” He sounded like he was speaking from experience, and she had little doubt he was.

Logan was almost as good as new, the Doc and Raj clustered around the gurney and staring down at him in slack-jawed awe as his healing factor did their job for them, and it finally occurred to her how dangerous that was. “Uh, guys, you should really get away from him.”

The Doc tossed her an annoyed look from over her shoulder. “Why?  We need to monitor him.”

“Not that close, you don’t. Not unless you fancy gettin’ a claw in the gut. If he wakes up in a strange place, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, he wakes up fighting, and it takes him a few seconds to realize there’s no threat. By that time, you could be in a world of hurt.”

The Doc stared at her in obvious disbelief. “Claw?  Look, I’m sure you’re worried about your friend here, but even with the adrenaline, he’s experienced severe physical trauma, and I don’t see him regaining consciousness for a little while. Also, no one can actually “wake up fighting”; no one can bolt up out of a dead sleep either. Those are just Hollywood things.”

She scoffed. “No it ain’t, sister. I’ve seen him do it.”

“I really do think it would be for the best if you joined us over here,” Tagawa said, quietly but firmly. It sounded polite, but it was undoubtedly an order.

They certainly responded as such, with the Doc and Raj retreating back to where they were, observing from the far side wall.  From the looks on their faces, they weren’t happy about it at all. “This is silly,” Desjardin muttered.

Almost a minute later, Logan sat bolt upright; there was absolutely no transition.  He had been flat out on the gurney, and now he was sitting up, looking around as he slid off the gurney, the skin still growing over the last of his exposed ribs. His pupils were wide, eyes unblinking as he took in the old operating room, nostrils flaring as he parsed all the scents, fists clenched in preparation of springing his claws. Raj had jumped when he moved, and the Doc looked pretty startled that she had been so wrong.

“Logan, it’s okay,” Faith said, in the type of soothing voice you’d use on a scared animal that you didn’t want to run away or attack you.  But looking at his wide, wild eyes, she knew he wasn’t completely in the driver’s seat yet.

What happened when Logan first woke up - whether it was after a bad nightmare or after being knocked out cold and waking up in a strange place - she had no idea, but somehow his body was up before his mind had fully engaged, and there was this … thing there behind his eyes. She didn’t know what to call it. Instinct perhaps?  Some kind of knee-jerk training?  Fear?  She had no clue, but it wasn’t precisely Logan, and it could be a little scary.  Maybe this was part of the post traumatic stress disorder Marc had mentioned. “It’s us. You were hurt, remember? We brought you here to get help. You’re safe; it’s okay. No one‘s gonna hurt you.”

He stared at her, no through her, but then his pupils seemed to contract, and he was back; she could see him behind his eyes now. He took in the newcomers with a look of annoyance, scowling. “I didn’t need help. It was just a grenade; I’ve had worse.”

The worst part of that? She could easily believe it.

“How do you feel?” Desjardin asked, trying very hard to pretend that Logan hadn’t just scared the shit out of her.

He studied her with a jaundiced eye, as if she were a particularly pesky fly. “Like I just got blown up, and then had a pot of coffee. I’m jittery for some reason.” He held up his hand, and said, “Look.” It was barely noticeable, but yeah, it looked like it was shaking a bit.

“They pumped you full of adrenaline to stimulate the healing process,” Faith told him.

He grunted, as if that had been a silly thing to do, and scratched the new skin on his chest.  Save for all the blood on his chest, neck, and face, and the good portion of it that had soaked into his jeans, he looked perfectly fine. Well, except on his face where the shiny new skin had no stubble, making him look like he’d shaved only half his face. He looked around again, and asked, “Where’s my shirt?”

“There wasn’t a lot of it left,” Raj said. “We threw away what little there was.”

He shook his head, grimacing in disgust. “Why do I even bother getting dressed?”

“I think you’re wildly optimistic,” Faith said, partially joking. She wouldn’t have minded if he never wore clothes, but this was probably neither the time or place to mention it.

“Perhaps you can find him a shirt while we talk in private,” Tagawa suggested, in that soft, genial tone that was clearly an order.

Desjardin shot him an irritated look, but she sighed, aware that he was the boss, and no protests would help her in the least.  As she and Raj left the room, Logan added, “Hey, get me a beer too. I’m thirsty.” There was no reply to that, simply the door slapping shut behind them.

“You were attacked by the Yakuza,” Tagawa said, with absolutely no preamble.

Logan nodded, scrubbing a hand through his hair, making some dried blood flake off. “Yeah, some smug little bastard who thinks I’m freelancing for the Triad.”

“Why would he think that?”

Logan shrugged. “Down in L.A. a little while back, this guy named Wing and I had a similar enemy, so I didn’t get in his way and he didn’t get in mine. He was Triad, but I never worked for him - I just didn’t kill him.”

“A crucial distinction,” Tony said dryly, although he was agreeing with him. “If this took place some time ago, it would be odd for them to think you work for them.”

“Oh yeah, ‘specially since Wing’s daughter told me in no uncertain terms she didn’t want to see my ugly mug again.  Her father seemed to like me, but he’s dead, and so is any truce with them.”

Faith couldn’t hold it back any longer. “How in the hell did a guy like you get so mixed up with Asian gangsters?”

The look Logan gave her was filled with a surprising amount of pain. He opened his mouth to say something, paused, and then glanced away at the door, as if waiting for someone to barge in. “I … a long time ago, I kinda … fell in with a family that was Yakuza. They were tryin’ to go straight, and I tried to help, but … things just went to shit. It’s a long story, but … a lotta people died.”

That was so tantalizingly vague, she knew he was leaving out a lot. In fact, a whole hell of a lot concerning the amount of pain in his expression, the shame and embarrassment that made him unable to look her in the eye. The more she realized how little she actually knew about Logan, the more she realized she was probably better off.

“Did they tell you what they wanted?” Tagawa asked, clearly trying to move past this topic. He knew, didn’t he? He knew this story of Logan and the Yakuza, and hadn’t shared it even though he told her the story about the battle royale in Hong Kong. She began to wonder how much of it was true, and how much of it was tailored specifically for her.

Logan turned back to face them, and for just a moment, she thought she saw a look of relief flash through his eyes. These men clearly had a secret history, one she had no part in. “For me to leave. They threatened to kill everyone I know if I didn’t get out of here now.”

That took Faith aback. “Whoa. So I guess we’re gonna go kick their asses?”

“We?  No, me. Those fucks can threaten me and blow me up all they fucking want. But they do not threaten the people in my life.” He spat that out with such venom that she knew this was a sore subject, one that had happened before: people targeting his friends, lovers, always others rather than him, perhaps because he was too hard to kill, or perhaps because they were monstrously cruel. Either way, she knew this was a huge tactical error on the Yakuza’s part. “Who’s the head of the Vancouver Yakuza?”

Tagawa shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Logan paused before replying, and she had a feeling he was parsing the scents in the air, confirming that Tagawa was telling the truth. Again another hint of that secret history. “But I know you can find out.  Do it. I want to pay them a visit before they realize I’m back on my feet.”

There was a knock on the door, and then Raj came in, holding a sweatshirt and a bottle of water. “We don’t have alcohol in a hospital, except for the purely medicinal kind,” he said, almost scolding.

Logan fixed him with a hard look. “I ain’t picky.” Faith assumed that was Logan being funny, although he was so deadpan she could understand Raj’s surprise at the statement.

She wanted to help him, and she knew Logan would probably need the help, whether he admitted it or not.  But she also knew there was something Logan wasn’t telling her, a piece of baggage so heavy and so personal she could almost see him bowing under the weight of it.  She wanted him to trust her enough to tell her about it, to admit these secrets that so clearly hurt him.

But the truth was she was almost glad she didn’t know. She had seen his nightmares, and they were bad enough. She didn’t want to know what had been so bad that it had actually broken him.

*****

Brent finished filing away his report, and sat down to get a glimpse of the preliminary autopsy report on their latest mystery corpse. He always told himself not to get his hopes up, that this one would be no different from the other ones, but even after so long in homicide, there was some basic spark of optimism in him. There must have been, because when he read the findings he always felt crushed.

Such as now. No identifying marks, no obvious cause of death, hands removed after death (with the head it was unclear). Male in his late twenties, probably Asian judging from his skin tone, black body hair. Even his clothes were anonymous: Levi jeans, Hanes tighty whiteys, t-shirt from the Gap. He wanted to bang his head on the edge of his desk until his skull broke or the desk did, but having done that before, he knew it would only leave him with a headache competing with his gut to see which caused him the most pain.

He’d thrown the report down on his desk in disgust, just as Jason came back to their paired desk, a piping hot cup of coffee in his hand. Their desks were together, head on, so they could face each other and discuss cases without having to move. It also saved floor space in the cramped police station. “Is that the report on our guy?” he asked, easing down in his chair.

“Yeah. And it’s just as wonderfully informative as all the rest,” he replied, shoving the manila folder over to his desktop.

Jason sighed, putting his coffee cup down and sitting forward, the chair creaking like it was complaining. He opened the folder and glanced at the sheet inside, but just barely. “Well, I was talking to Kim over in the OC unit, and it might be that our theory of gang violence isn’t so far fetched anymore.”

His stomach twisted, sending out a pang of fresh pain. “Oh really? Why’s that?”

“She just heard from a trusted informant. He said the Yakuza’s got its panties in a bunch ‘cause the Triad’s brought in some kind of legendary assassin, known only as - get this - the Wolverine.”

The pain flared anew in his gut, almost roared. “What?”

Jason snickered, leaning back in his chair, making it creak like the door of a haunted house. “Yeah, I know. Ever since Carlos the Jackal, these guys like animal names. Course it doesn’t really make a lot of sense for a Japanese guy to call himself the Wolverine.”

“If he’s Canadian, it makes perfect sense.” It couldn’t possibly be Logan, could it? Oh hell, who else could it be? That was on those dog tags he wore, and even when Lily first found him, he spoke flawless Asian, even if he didn’t know why. They always figured he was some kind of Black Ops military guy, one possibly driven bugfuck by the nature of his job or the duality of his lifestyle, and what were Black Ops guys if not spies and assassins? It would make a ludicrous amount of sense, especially considering how crazy he was when Lily first dragged him back to civilization, and how dangerous he was. And how whenever he showed up, bodies seemed to follow shortly after. He was nothing if not trouble personified.

Jason shrugged, acknowledging the point half-heartedly. “You know the name?”

That surprised him, but he did his best not to show it. “What?”

“You got this funny look on your face.”

“Oh. No, I was just thinking about this wolverine I encountered once. I used to work up in the mountains, you know.” It was truth with a kernel of a lie in it - it was not that wolverine he was actually thinking about. “I was just checking out a report of a cabin break in when I hear these weird noises in the woods behind the house, and I saw this cougar corpse being torn into bite size pieces by this wolverine. It was just ripping chunks out of the belly, crunching rib bones like potato chips.”

“Eww,” Jason replied, with a sly smirk twisting his lips. He generally found his rural beat stories endlessly amusing; Jason had spent all his life in Vancouver proper, the city itself, and his idea of “roughing it” was living without a Tivo. “It killed a cougar?”

“I don’t know. The cougar could have died of other causes and the wolverine was simply taking advantage of an easy food source. It looked up when I came around, still chewing, and it was so weird. It wasn’t afraid of me at all. I got the sense that it was more than willing to attack me if I tried to get too close.” If an animal’s look could be said to be casual, that was what the wolverine gave him. It looked up at him, its muzzle stained crimson with fresh blood, its tiny, sharp teeth showing as it greedily chewed the remains of the cougar’s stomach. It wasn’t afraid of him, just curious to see if it needed to take him on too. That was abnormal, because that was the kind of look he expected from a bear, or maybe even the cougar the beastie was noshing on; not such a little animal, one he felt he could technically step on - well, if he didn’t mind getting his leg gnawed off and his femoral artery ripped out like a piece of string cheese. It was just disconcerting, and he! couldn’t help but dislike the little buggers ever since. He just got the impression that they were arrogant, mean animals, ones that just didn’t know their place, and worse yet, didn’t accept it. They didn’t realize they were as small as they actually were, and if they were going to die, goddamn it, they were taking you with them out of sheer spite.

And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to fit Logan perfectly as a description. He’d probably earned his nickname.

Was there any doubt he was a killer? He killed that crew in the woods all those years ago, and everyone on site knew it, even if Lily stalwartly refused to admit it. There was no way she could have stabbed (with what knife?) and bludgeoned to death four heavily armed drug dealer wannabes in less than a five minute span, and certainly not with her serious bullet wounds. Everyone knew it was bullshit, but no one actually cared enough about those dirt bags to press the issue. He asked her once why she let Logan walk, and she told him, “I wasn’t going to let a good man go down for some cop killers. It wasn’t going to happen.” But he didn’t understand what had made Logan a good man. The fact that he didn’t let her bleed to death, or the fact that he didn’t let Stoff’s gang kill her? None of that made him a good man; it just made him barely Human.

Yeah, okay, he got Lily’s killer where they couldn’t. But he also made some damn nutty claims about a secret organization full of mutants, one government sanctioned, that seemed to kill at will and fucked with people’s heads, freaky paranoid stuff that seemed to be straight out of the X-Files. And come to think of it, he had no proof that he had taken out Lily’s killer; he just had Logan’s word. How good was that?

Lily clearly saw something in him, but he had yet to see it. And just recalling how brutal the deaths of Stoff’s gang was, he wondered if Logan would be above cutting off the hands and heads of people, and found that, in his opinion, such a clean execution would be several steps above feeding a junkie his rifle butt first, until it burst out the back of the man’s head.

Is that what had happened? Logan regained just enough of his sanity to become an assassin for hire, working for the Triad because they paid very well? “How long has this Wolverine been in town? Did the informer say?”

Jason’s dark brows drew low over his eyes. “I got the sense that it was recent. Why? You think this guy could be who we’re looking for?”

“An assassin for the Triad? I’d say he’s a natural suspect if nothing else.”

Jason sighed once more, picking up the file and glancing at it, letting his eyes take in the vast white spaces that told them they had nothing on this corpse, just like they had nothing on the previous ones. As if being killed wasn’t bad enough, these people also had their very identities stripped from them; it was like they were nullified from life itself, unmade somehow. It wasn’t a fate anyone deserved. “It’s a shame we don’t even know what this “Wolverine” looks like. It’s not like the underworld guys are big talkers.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, turning to face his computer so Jason couldn’t read the expression on his face. He knew what Wolverine looked like; he knew he went by the name Logan, and was about a thousand times more dangerous than he actually looked. If he was in town, he had no idea where to start looking for him.

Still he had a name, and he could find a picture of his face. He was a detective, and it was time to prove it.

He would find Wolverine.  But what he would do when he did, he wasn’t quite sure yet.