He should be sleeping. That much he knew, but somehow he hadn’t managed to even point himself in the direction of his rooms when he had returned from his long ride out on the town. Half across the state and back again, wasn’t bad in ways of records for how much ground he’d ever covered, though it always seemed the hardest part was turning back around. It wasn’t that anything had changed. Not really, at least. He still had only fragments of clues about his history, shattered remnants of memories that came to him clearer in his nightmares than in his waking hours. He still had the same people after his head. The same doubts about how he was, what he was meant to be, who he should have been. A monster, an animal, a teacher, a killer… all masks of the same face. The problem was the times when he caught a glimpse of his reflection, caught his image staring back at him… and wondered. Wondered, who he really was.
The one they called on to do the things that no one else would, or could. ‘Burned them to ash, with smiles on our faces,’ the merc, Wade, had said, his tone grim and dark, his gaze steady despite the sneer that had lingered half on his lips. ‘If only you knew the things you’d done,’ Stryker had intoned, before Logan had left him to die, chained to the rocks outside of Alkali Lake that had been Jean’s resting place. He didn’t have to remember, the things that had come before, to know that the words the ghosts of his past had spoken had to hold some grains of truth. He was built for war, he was made to kill. And as much as he might try and run from the fact, as much as he might try and wrap it in the facade of school teacher, nurse maid and ‘hero’, he was … inevitably, a killer.
It was the nights like this that he knew there wasn’t a point in sleeping. Not without a good fifth or two of whiskey underneath him, and he couldn’t trust himself to try and lose himself. Not here, at the school, where he was meant to guard and guide. So instead, he’d spent the last hours after his return in the danger room, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, as much as he ever could, running scenario after scenario after scenario. It was almost as good as the real thing; giving him an outlet for his anger and his violence without shedding blood or stirring up and instigating trouble with the Brotherhood. As much as he might despise what they stood for, they had fallen silent in the last months, and he had been told not to be the one to put the spark to the gasoline. And he’d not managed to find a trail of the mercenary that had stirred the agitation those weeks ago, though he’d had a name and a face.
He’d approached Aroro, finally, a week or so after the altercation that had gotten him banned from what had been his favorite bar on the outskirts of Chinatown, and told her in brevity what he’d gathered from the man, but the eyes and ears of the school’s resources had turned outwards now, with the verging news of the Mutant Registration Act that had sprung to life again. What that would mean for him, and the students here, he could only begin to imagine, and those waves on unease and worry that had rippled through the school had done little for his mood. And here he was, again, spinning in circles, while the world and time moved forward.
What was it? One step forward, two steps back. He just needed… something. One thing to just go right. Even with the way that things had ended between him and the Professor, which was to say, on less than a pleasant note, he wished now that the old man had been around. He could have found the words to soothe the students, and calm the tensions that drew tighter and tighter like a rubber band stretched too thin. He didn’t know what it would be; the final straw on the proverbial camel’s back, but he could feel it building around him. The city was uneasy, the streets whispering of mutant meetings in the dark of night, in the places that humans feared to go.
It would only be a matter of time before the world exploded into chaos around them. And how many more would die? He could feel the blood on his hands, and it burned like acid, and stung the back of his throat, eating away at the core of him, and it had just begun.
His gaze turned, studying the city in front of him as he leaned against the railing of the bridge, his cigar clamped securely but still unlit at the corner of his mouth, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression brooding and discontent… which was to say, fairly close to normal, just perhaps a hint more somber than the typical. How was he meant to tell them it was going to be all right when he couldn’t say it with faith? This was never what he was meant to do, it should have been the last thing that he wanted to do, and yet somehow… here he was. Waiting, and watching, instead of running, and hiding. He shook his head slightly, grunting faintly as he let his hands fall, one digging into his pocket to pull out his lighter, flicking it repeatedly before glaring at it in discontent. “Damn.” He muttered, coming to the realization that either the flint was out, or the fluid empty. Just his luck.
It was a night off for Logan, something that he found both something of a relief, admittedly, and something of a shock, all in the same heartbeat. The shock wasn’t that he had a night off, of course… rather, that… he ever had nights on. He hadn’t ever considered himself a reliable kind of guy. Or a regular joe schmoe, one of the types to sit behind a desk from nine to five… that hadn’t ever seemed his thing, even if he couldn’t recall exactly what his thing had always been. Now, it wasn’t like he was behind a desk at the school, so to speak. But all in all, it didn’t change the fact that he was still rather unaccustomed to the concept of a night ‘off’.
Things had been quiet at the school for a while now, which was something of a relief and something to worry about all in the same go. Logan didn’t trust peace, as a whole, and it was pretty well known he was a fan of waiting for the other shoe to drop. He preferred to think of it as practicality. Others, particular the professor, had called it a defeatist attitude. Then again… the professor had said a lot of things, Logan brooded, as he settled deeper into the wide frame wooden chair that only creaked a little under the bulk of his weight. A rumbled half sigh escaped from him, cut off by the press of the icy beer bottle against his lips, a quick toss of his head back to drain the last of the tan liquid inside.
He’d never paid much attention to brand, or label, or color of the bottles, or even whether they came in bottles or cans… he wasn’t a connoisseur of beer, he was a beer drinker. “Another one.” He called, tipping his empty beer in the direction of what passed for a cocktail waitress here, waiting til she’d nodded in his general direction before settling the chair flat footed once more. The bar wasn’t half bad, given the fact that it was one of those places that didn’t care who came or went, and turned a blind eye to just about anything that took place in plain view, or in the shadowed recesses of its walls, or behind it, or through it. The beer was cold, and the whiskey tolerable, though tonight hadn’t quite turned into a whiskey night.
It might, before it was said and done, depending on how much brooding he was intending on doing, or whether he ended up in a fight. Not that he intended on looking for a fight. That was something that he’d seen change in him, just a fraction, since he’d picked up the stray in Alaska all those months… years.. ago? He’d lost track, and in truth, time didn’t matter much to him as it did to other people. He didn’t seem quite as inclined to go looking for a fight, as he had been, though every now and again there was someone who just really was asking for it. And he couldn’t well let a punch go unanswered. But if he’d seen anything in his time at the Institute, it was that really… trouble had a tendency of looking for him, and the others. He didn’t really have to go chasing it much these days.
Fortunately, tonight looked fairly trouble free, from where he was sitting. Most of the regulars of this particular brand of run down bar had seen enough of him in his trips here to give him a wide berth, and leave him to his peace and quiet. Just the way he liked it.
He could hear, he could feel the blood pounding, surging through his veins as his heart raced with the mixture of adrenaline and anticipation, as he surveyed the scene ahead of him. His foot long adamantium claws had long been extended, his fingers curled in to determined fists as his head cocked to the side, nostrils flaring to test the scents in the air even as his eyes delved into the murky shadows around him, and his ears sought to decipher the cacophony of sounds that surrounded him. Chaos had erupted, and lingered, and while he felt right at home, he had not forgotten his goal, his task at hand.
Search and destroy. It’s what he was best at. The earth rumbled, shaking beneath the blasts from the robotic sentinel that swept through the streets around him, and he could hear the sounds of people screaming, running, car alarms and horns jarring and blaring. Explosions erupted, caused by cars caught in the crossfire, or the laser beams that sliced through nigh close to anything that got in their way from the robotic visor, and Logan couldn’t help but keep an eye on the location of the red bursts of light in the peripheral of his vision. He doubted those lasers could cut through adamantium — so far he hadn’t found anything that could — but healing back organs and skin and sinew was never exactly a pleasant experience, and one that (despite what some people believed) he did try to avoid, every now and again.
Part of him… the side of him that had slowly begun to get used to the idea of this whole… ‘teamwork’ thing, or looking out for somebody other than himself, was nudging him insistently, a tug against the back of his brain that there were people out there that were in trouble. People that needed his help. But then… there was the other part of his brain: the logical side, which insisted on reminding him that this was, in fact, only the danger room, and that those people out there that were screaming, and panicking weren’t actually there.
It felt real, though, which was one of the things that he rather enjoyed about the danger room at the school. He didn’t know if it was all in his head. If the projections that the computers simulated were so realistic, backed up with some fancy lasers or something that one of the scientists had cooked up while on something resembling an acid trip, or if maybe it was a modification of a telepathic system that the Professor had jury rigged before … Really, he supposed, it didn’t matter, what made it feel real, what made it have tastes and smells and sounds and things he could touch and slash and that could hurt him in return.
But that was the fun. It wasn’t fun when there wasn’t any risk. Not that much could actually put him down. With the exceptions of a handful of the Brotherhood and the stray that he’d picked up and since departed the mansion, and one or two others that he chose to forget about for the time being, there wasn’t anything out there that could hurt him good, but… some of these kids came close, and when they worked together, they had even more of a chance.
And so, it had been, that the game had been devised. Call it hide and seek, combined with tag, thrown into the mix of a city gone to hell… and here they were. They got to work on working together, and he got the chance to mess with them some, without getting yelled at by Storm. … Hopefully.
The last week had been a hard one in particular, which he guessed was saying something for a guy with a life like his. What he could remember of it, what had been pieced together from the jigsaw of stories and memories that had been handed over by friends and allies, dangled like carrots by enemies and manipulators, scavenged from files and records…. Loss and cruelty dotted his past, his suffering and those that he had loved, had cared for, those that had loved him. There were times that he felt as if he himself was poison, destruction, death, tarnishing everything that he touched until it fell away like dust. How many times had he wished he could turn back time. Do things differently. Do all of it differently. Found some way. Found some way to do things right. To save… her.
Everything at the school reminded him of her, of a conversation or an argument they’d had; the infirmary where he saw her first, the last place that he saw her before she had been lost to the Phoenix, and the brotherhood…. The classrooms that she had taught, guiding and supporting those of the next generation that she had wanted so desperately to protect. Her room, empty and untouched. Her scent lingered in that hall, and at times he had found himself lingering aimlessly at the juncture, and other times he avoided it like it was what was poison. Every hint of red hair made his heart stop for a moment, and the gardens where the trio of graves stood, even the one that was empty, drew him like a magnet every time he woke feverish and his throat aching as he held back a scream. He had given up on replacing his bed sheets or his headboard. He was grateful, for once, he slept alone. The thought of waking with blood on his claws with her voice ringing in his ears was enough to make him damn near nauseous. He had forced himself forward. He had no choice. He could not go back. He could not do it over. Did not know how he could have made it right. One step forward, and the next, and the next. And one day, the hollow in his stomach would fade away, and he would forget just how much he hated himself for what he had done.
One day he would forget just how much he missed her. But how could he, when he saw her ghost everywhere. Her voice. Her scent. Her hair. What was he to do? Run? He wanted to. He wanted to more than he could ever remember wanting to run. But there was something in him that he didn’t remember. Something that had changed. A seed of goodness. Of loyalty. Some piece of humanity that had germinated along the path of his life that had taken hold, with the appearance of Rogue, and the Professor, of Storm and Jean. Pieces of them, that he could not bring himself to destroy so callously, even if he could not bring himself to admit that there was anything good left in him. He could not abandon them. Perhaps it was some whisper of ridiculous hope. She had found them again, once. To hope, even in the smallest, that she could do it again was nothing but a torture of perpetual motion. Yet he couldn’t really stop himself. He had to hope. It was what kept him breathing past the pressure on his chest, the twisting of his gut.
Even still, as the rumors… the whispers, made their way, crossing the distance… when the whispered stories of the woman in red met his ears, he felt his anger spark, flaring instantly into a hot-white fury…. How often had he heard the urban legends, of who knew what grains of truth, in his day. The lady in white, the man with the hook, the boogeymen … and now… what? She was to become one? The bits and pieces of those that could recall, or guess at what had happened, would turn her memory, her death, into this, something twisted by the grapevine, to be mocked and told over campfires while people roasted hot dogs and made s’mores?
He had left the school the night that he’d heard the rumors in one of his frequented bars, having left the place near a shamble in his upset. He’d left a note, at least, that he had somewhere to be, something to take care of, that he’d be back when he was done. He hoped that Storm would understand. That she wouldn’t assume that he had abandoned the school. But he had to deal with this once and for all. He had to put this to rest.
He had to say his goodbye. He had to say all the things he never could have to her face. All those things he should have. There was only one place he could do that.
Finding his way there was all too easy. The bike got him far enough, the boat he stole from the dock, the rest. He would have been able to find the way blindfolded. He would have swam, if he’d had to. He at least had the sense enough to go under the cover of darkness. Even the skyline of what was left of the prison was painful. The place had been left untouched, almost entirely. There had been talk, at some point, of making it into a sort of memorial, but if that was still the plan they hadn’t gotten very far with it. Piles of rubble…. half decayed buildings, rusted cars, discarded cure weapons still littered the ground. Only what few bodies had remained had been taken away. He could see it, as if it had been yesterday. The images that replayed over and over in his nightmares. He had been so close. They had been so close, to finding a way, to leaving that island, together. Finding some way. No!! He’d shouted, but it had been too late, the terrified human soldiers firing before he could stop them. The beginning of the end.
The pain had been excruciating… devastating. Worse than anything he had ever imagined, but he had had no choice. He had to find her. Had to try and help her, stop her, make her see. You would die for them? She had questioned, outraged and furious, astonished, confused… he didn’t know, he hadn’t known, exactly, could not have begun to imagine. He was not like her. He could not see into the hearts and minds of men. He could only guess, by her scent, her expression, the darkness in her eyes. Not for them, He had said, tears in his eyes, as he had come to that horrible realization that had hurt him more than her attempts to tear him apart atom by atom could have.Save me.
He was on his knees, where he had sunk to the ground with her in his arms those months past, and he could feel the fury and rage build, the pain bursting out of him in a scream that was harsh and rife with everything that he could not find the words to express.
[Please, please fill my ask box with questions! I need to get back into Logan’s head and am open to any and all inquiries (or potential small chat starters) — just keep in mind I do not accept m!a. <3
Give me a scene in my ask box from any of the X-Men movies that my character was in and I will write the scene from his perspective.