A Feral Repose (part 2)
Ororo was beginning to feel impatient. She'd decided to contact Charles a few hours ago and vent her worries about Logan's lack of memory and he agreed with her that Logan could be in more danger without his memories and he reassured her that the X-Men would assist in any way possible. All she had to do was ask for it when she was ready.
But it seemed the longer she sat here in silence the more her own thoughts screamed at her to move it along, and now that her thoughts had taken a sudden turn in direction she was no longer content to just sit here and wait. She wanted to get going, back to the mansion and the support of her family and friends. She made her decision and stood up; dropping the stick she'd been using to stir the cold ashes of her long-since-dead campfire.
“Okay, big guy, I think it is time for us to go for a walk,” she said aloud to Logan as if he was listening, but he didn’t even turn around at the sound of her voice.
Logan was perched on top of his rock in the center of the clearing, where he'd been for the last twenty minutes. He was perfectly content to just crouch
there, listening to the wind in the trees and analyzing the scents that it carried.
The mild breeze was as hot as the ambient temperature and offered no relief from the intense humidity. She'd been watching him for some time, amazed at the amount of attention he gave to the natural things around them. Every now and then something would catch his attention on the other side of the river, or in the brush nearby and she’d watch as he tracked the movement with his eyes. There appeared to be more than enough activity around them to keep him occupied, but she was starting to get bored.
Even when Logan showed her where to look - unless it was a large animal or even a small one right out in the open - she just couldn’t see the things he could see. For all she knew, the movement on the other side of the river could’ve been a rabbit hiding under a bush a quarter mile away. And Logan didn’t understand her inability to pick up on the activities that surrounded them. He didn’t understand that his senses were extra-ordinary, while hers were the average for their species. Ororo had no trouble whatsoever hearing the obvious sounds, such as the fish jumping out of the water to catch insects a hundred feet down river, but she was well aware that, under these peaceful conditions and with the winds just right, Logan could hear something as slight as a whisper from half a mile away… and yet, he hadn’t shown any sign of having heard her when she spoke out loud to him.
Ororo didn’t realize that he'd gotten so used to hearing her voice, because she spoke to him as often as she could, that it had produced the opposite effect that she'd hoped for. He didn’t understand her words and found her vocalizations distracting, so he decided not to pay too much attention to it. Instead of calling out to him again, she walked over to where he was sitting.
“Hey,” Ororo said, tapping him on the arm with one finger and he turned his face to her. “Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested. Logan looked at her for a second then tilted his head to the side. Ororo brought her hand up in front of him and pointing her index and middle fingers toward the ground she moved them alternately back and forth. “Walk?” she asked as Logan watched the movement of her fingers, then shifting only his eyes he looked at her again. Ororo pointed at him and then to herself, then she pointed toward the woods and showed him the sign for ‘walking’ again. “You… and me, go… for a walk?” she asked him again as she motioned with her hands and to Storm’s surprise she saw a spark of understanding in his eyes just before he jumped off the rock and headed for the path.
Ororo’s heart skipped a beat when she realized he'd understood. She'd finally succeeded in communicating with him. Until now all her attempts to communicate with Logan had been severely lacking. Looking back now, Ororo realized that although she'd had no trouble at all understanding him and the lessons he'd taught her, Logan seemed to be having the hardest time understanding her at all. Even though his vocal abilities were nothing more than grunts and growls at this point, she always knew exactly what he wanted by the gestures that he used.
Up until now, she had used only words to communicate, with the hope that Logan would begin to recognize her language and try to vocalize his wishes back to her. It wasn’t happening and Ororo suddenly felt extremely foolish. ‘And you call yourself a teacher,’ she chastised herself silently, ‘…start thinking like one.’
Now Storm wasn’t fluent in sign language but she figured she didn’t have to be. Although Logan was quite intelligent, all he'd been using to communicate with her were simple and obvious gestures. His ability to get his point across came from a primitive and uncomplicated series of movements. Logan obviously knew, even in his present state, that human beings relied on body language to communicate a lot more than they were even consciously aware of. He had crossed the language barrier first and without great effort.
‘Smart boy,’ Ororo smiled; amused with herself for having thought Logan was the one with the communication problem. ‘He must think you’re a moron, Ororo,’ she quipped silently.
Well, now she decided that she was going to try to teach him words and language using the same simple techniques he'd used with her - gestures and repetition. After all, that's how people of all cultures teach their children to speak and, at this stage, Logan was really no different. Human beings are not born knowing the language of their parents. Although they possess vocal cords and the ability to speak, they must be taught how to make the sounds that when put together make up their language. Normally, Logan could speak at least half a dozen languages fluently; Basic English should be a snap.
“Time to remember,” she said, making her final decision. Then she turned and followed him down the wooded path.
Victor Creed sat in a booth in a small café in New York City, across the street from the office building that now housed the operational headquarters of Canada’s secret military force. He ordered a large breakfast that consisted of steak and eggs, potatoes, corned beef on toasted rye, and half a pound of bacon. When the young waitress wearing a nametag that identified her as Joyce came over to fill his cup with coffee he told her to just leave the pot. His animal-like features, jagged teeth, and anti-social behavior guaranteed that he always got exactly what he asked for.
He poured the last of the coffee into his cup and finished off the last morsels left on his plate when a young man wearing military fatigues stepped into the café. The soldier glanced around nervously at the few patrons in the restaurant, and was about to leave when he noticed Creed watching him from the booth. Sabretooth glared at him over the rim of the coffee mug as he sipped the hot beverage, feeling annoyed by the intrusion.
Corporal Timms swallowed hard then mustered up enough courage to walk over to the booth. As he approached, Victor lowered the cup to the table and didn’t even bother to look up when the man stopped next to his booth.
“What?” Creed asked curtly.
“Uhm, Sir? Sergeant!" Timms corrected himself quickly.
Creed normally would have found the man’s fear amusing, but he wasn’t in the mood. He made a quick decision, that if this little peon happens to wet himself right here he’ll just have to kill him where he stands. Victor was sure he could hear the man’s knees knocking together as he tried to form the words he came here to say. Sabretooth shot an irritated glance at the young soldier.
“Spit it out, boy. I ain’t got all day,” he growled.
“Uhm, the colonel… Wraith? Uh, Colonel Wraith sent me to, uhm… bring you, Sir. Uhm, he wants you… wants to see you…” Sabretooth rolled his eyes and looked at Timms. He wasn’t going to let the man off the hook that easily. He knew perfectly well what Corporal Timms was trying to say, but he found it entertaining to watch the man flounder in his presence. Timms finally stopped stammering long enough to take a deep breath and collect his thoughts. “He’d like to see you in his office, Sir… Sergeant!”
Having said it, Timms dropped his eyes to the empty plates on the table. He prayed that the giant mutant’s hunger was now satisfied and hopefully was not thinking about taking a pound of his flesh for dessert. Creed let out a sigh of irritation and slid out of the booth. His irritation was with Wraith though, not this foot soldier. Corporal Timms took a hesitant step backward as Sabretooth stood up, straightening to his full height.
Victor casually reached into his pocket and tossed a wad of crumpled up bills on the table. He turned and looked down at Timms, whose eyes were as big as the plate on the table. Then he left the café without a word and crossed the street, leaving Timms standing beside the now vacant booth. Joyce came around the counter with a fresh pot of coffee in hand. She walked over to Timms, who seemed stunned that he actually survived his encounter with the famed mutant.
“You look like you could use a drink,” she told him and he turned to look at her. He could tell she understood exactly how he felt for she had survived unscathed as well. She lifted the pot toward him as an offering, “How about a cup of coffee instead?”
“Sure,” he replied quietly. He began to lower himself toward the booth as if to sit down, but quickly changed his mind. This particular table gave him the heebie-jeebies and he rebounded from the seat as if it were suddenly on fire and pointed toward the counter. “Uhm, I’ll… sit over there,” he informed her and Joyce nodded with a bemused grin.
* * *
Sabretooth stepped off the elevator on the thirty-second floor and marched down the corridor to the office at the end of the hall. His long stride and quick pace caused the knee-length duster he wore to billow out behind him and his long blond tresses bounced with the impact of each heavy footfall. He barely missed a step as he pushed through the door to Wraith’s office.
His momentum brought him to the center of the room before he realized the office was empty. Victor stopped and looked around; he could smell Wraith’s scent, strong and close, so he had to be here somewhere. Then he heard the sound of running water coming from behind a closed door to his left and a second later the door opened and Wraith stepped out, drying his hands on a paper towel.
“Ahh, Victor…” he greeted casually and Creed narrowed his eyes at him. Wraith walked to his desk, ignoring the look he was given and dropping the crumpled towel in the wastebasket as he passed it by. Sitting down in his expensive leather chair he flipped open the cigar box on his desk. “I trust you already had breakfast.”
“Just finished,” Creed told him with a sneer, then added sarcastically, “Thanks for the concern.”
Wraith smirked as he lifted the box toward Sabretooth. “Cigar?” he offered and Creed stared at him without replying. Wraith raised his eyebrows then shrugged. He picked out a cigar for himself and placed the box back on the desk and closed the lid. He sat back in his chair and rolled the sweet smelling stogey under his nose, savoring the fine scent of the expensive Cuban.
“Whatdya’ want, Kestrel?” Sabretooth asked impatiently. Wraith glanced up at him, then bit off one end of the cigar and spit it into the trash.
“It’s been seven weeks,” he informed Creed as he fished in his pocket for a lighter. Finding it, he looked back at Victor. “I need information on Wolverine’s condition. Department H has been all over me the past forty-eight hours. They want to know where we stand but I can’t tell them, can I? Why -- because I don’t know where we stand. But, you’re going to find out where we stand… today,” Wraith told him, specifically repeating his words with the hopes that Victor would understand the importance.
Sabretooth stood silent as he was given his assignment. He had an overwhelming desire to rip out Wraith’s throat as the colonel glared at him with his expression and tone becoming seriously threatening. Sabretooth didn’t like to be threatened, even when the threat was only insinuated.
“Your mission… is to watch and listen. Do you understand?” Wraith hissed at him.
Creed dropped his gaze to the floor and gritted his teeth. He didn’t like Wraith’s threatening tone at all, but in this instance he thought it best to keep his mouth shut. He figured Department H already knew he'd fouled their plans and he was sure his punishment awaited him at the end of this mission; he didn’t feel it was necessary to stack the deck against himself.
“You take up a position for surveillance," Wraith continued. "You sit…you watch…and you keep quiet. You do not engage him... and you do not confront them. You do not take action of any kind. Do you understand?”
Sabretooth raised his head, his teeth clenched, and he looked out the window at the horizon. He didn’t like being spoken to as if he was a child, but he knew if he screwed this up in any way he would be removed from the mission. And he wanted to be a part of this more than he ever wanted anything.
“Do you understand your assignment, Victor?!” Wraith asked, demanding he answer.
“I understand,” Sabretooth growled, trying unsuccessfully to suppress his anger.
“I hope you do,” Wraith told him in a menacing tone, “or you may find yourself shackled right beside our old friend for the trip back to Canada... and I don’t think the good doctors will show you the same courtesies they’re going to bestow upon their ‘golden boy’.”
Sabretooth shifted his eyes from the window to Wraith. Their eyes locked and the two men glared at one another. Wraith’s eyes however held a glint of sarcastic delight as he reminded Creed of his placement, which was always one step behind Wolverine in the eyes and hearts of the military bigwigs. After a moment of hate filled silence Wraith spun his chair around, rudely turning his back on Creed in silent dismissal. Victor clenched his fists and a low growl escaped his lips as he sneered at the colonel’s back then he turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The impact made the glasses on the wet bar rattle and an evil grin spread across Wraith’s face as he lit his cigar.
After Charles had left the impromptu meeting, the X-Men remained in the library for quite some time discussing amongst themselves the situation they were now being presented with. The discussion seemed to last for hours, each member adding their own thoughts and airing their own concerns.
“I’m still not sure I understand exactly what we’re supposed to do,” Bobby admitted.
“None of us are really sure, Bob,” Scott told him.
“Just be yourselves,” Jean advised them.
“What does that mean?” Kurt asked her.
“Just what I said,” Jean said shrugging her shoulders. “Just be here for him. Let Logan take the lead if you want when they return. I’m sure Ororo can advise us as we go along, but if you think of something that may help jog his memory, present it. We don’t have to go into any of this with some pre-rehearsed dialogue.”
“That probably wouldn’t be the best course of action anyway,” Hank added. “As unpredictable as Wolverine can be, it would be a waste of time to think he would follow any of our predisposed plans or even react to them the way we would hope.”
“Exactly,” Jean nodded. “He’d see right through it anyway. Just present yourselves honestly. If you feel a little scared or intimidated, don’t try to hide it. If you try to hide your feelings from him, he won’t trust you and he’ll see you as a potential threat. If you’re unsure, let him know that. Let him react to that.”
“And how do we go about jogging his memory?” Kurt wanted to know and everyone looked at Jean with expectation. She looked back at them, suddenly feeling like she was under a microscope but she didn’t have a precise answer to his question. Jean looked at her teammates' faces and was about to offer some lame suggestion, but as she opened her mouth to speak Bobby cut her off.
“I heard once, that our memories can be triggered by certain odors. Different scents that have a precise meaning for us… with Logan’s sense of smell…”
“It is true that our sense of smell can play a major role in memory recovery,” Hank concurred with a nod. “But the other senses can also be a huge factor: sounds, taste, touch...”
“Count me out of that last one,” Rogue quipped and Jean and Hank smiled at her, as did Scott. She turned to Remy hoping she'd gotten him to smile too, but he didn’t seem to notice. He stood next to her quietly, leaning against the table she was sitting on. His arms were folded across his chest and he wore a serious expression. He looked sullen and brooding as he stared unfocused at the floor.
“Gambit?” Rogue said to get his attention. Remy glanced at her then moved his eyes quickly to indicate Warren’s presence silently. Known by the codename Angel, Warren Worthington III was one of the original five members of the X-Men. He and Logan had never gotten along simply because Warren did not trust the feral.
He'd been on an extended vacation until his return today and his presence at this particular time was making Gambit uneasy. Remy ignored Rogue's attempt at humor and was about to address Hank instead, when Warren spoke up. “How do we control what memories we bring back?” he asked.
Hank raised his eyebrows in surprise to the question and looked at Angel over the rim of his glasses. Everyone else looked at him stunned. “We don’t,” Hank answered calmly. “Why would we?”
“Well…” Warren responded slowly, trying to choose his words wisely, “he doesn't like most of the memories he had to begin with. Maybe we could just bring back the good ones. You know... the civilized ones. And…”
“We don’t have the right to choose that for him, Warren!” Jean told him, trying not to let her anger show.
“Yeah," Iceman piped out. "I mean… how would we know which ones he would want and which ones he wouldn’t?” Bobby asked, missing the point entirely.
“We don’t!” Jean answered. “Even if we had the knowledge of how to do it, it’s not our place to decide which ones he should keep.”
“Mein Gott!” Kurt shot out. “Do you hear what you are saying? Do you hear yourselves?! I can’t believe that question was even asked!” Then he stood up and turned on Angel. “You stand in this room and dare ask how we go about manipulating Logan’s memories?!” When Warren didn’t reply, Kurt turned away from him to address the rest of the group. “I think we are all well aware of the fact, that it is precisely that kind of tampering that caused the images that torment Logan to begin with!”
“I was only suggesting…”
“I know vat you are suggesting!” Kurt said then he squinted his yellow eyes at Warren. “Vat do you wish him not to remember? Vat are you hiding?”
“Nothing!” Warren answered.
“You have something you want to share with us, Warren?” Scott asked, giving Angel a chance to explain his motivation behind his original question. This was his chance to offer some real insight regarding whatever the problem was that he had with Wolverine. Everyone stared at him and Hank hoped he would take advantage of Scott’s open attempt to understand. When he did respond to Scott’s question, it wasn’t the one Hank had hoped for.
Warren looked Scott square in the eye and then shook his head slowly. They seemed to be at a stand still; Warren obviously had a bone to pick with Wolverine and, because of Angel's negative attitude toward his teammate, Logan was always on alert around Angel.
Cyclops had made numerous attempts to get Warren to talk about it, but he was determined, it seemed, that no one would know what was between him and Logan, not even Logan. Finally, Peter stood up. He'd been sitting quietly, listening to everything as it transpired. He was never one to jump to conclusions, nor did he judge a person or that person’s actions, without getting as much information as he possibly could. He stood still in the ensuing silence of the apparent stand-off, looking weary and concerned.
“Please, stop,” he spoke quietly, his tone was soft and mournful. “This does not help our situation.”
“Peter, are you alright?” Jean asked.
“Nyet," he answered. "No, I am not alright. This arguing is upsetting.” He looked around the room at each of his teammates. “Has it been so long? Do we not fight our enemies enough that we need to fight amongst ourselves?” No one answered him. They knew it was a rhetorical question. It was Peter’s turn to vent his feelings and they let him. “Do you really expect Wolverine to want to come back? To this?” he asked them, almost accusing them of deliberately causing a situation that would be impossible for Wolverine to enter into voluntarily. “We need solidarity here. We need to be united. If we are splintered and harbor anger toward one another, he will know.”
Warren listened to Peter as he walked over to a window. He listened to the giant Russian’s words as he stared out toward the trees that bordered the grounds. Kurt sat down to listen, knowing Peter was right and Hank removed his glasses, dropping them carefully on the desk in front of him. He rubbed the tension from his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
Jean and Rogue watched Hank then looked at each other. Bobby sat down next to Kurt and stared at the floor.
Scott looked around the room and saw Remy looking back at him with a concerned look on his face. Cyclops drew in a deep breath and let it out; he hadn’t noticed just how much everything was spiraling out of his control.
“Being a loner comes naturally to Wolverine,” Peter continued. “Being out there… it is natural for him. It is where he has always preferred to be. His decision, through all these years, to remain among us... here, in this place, was not an easy decision for him. He didn’t make that decision so many years ago. He makes that decision every single day... every morning that he wakes up. It is a very conscious decision. And it doesn’t come from a need or a desire to be part of our society. His decision to remain here with us, and to fight alongside us, springs from a deeper desire… a desire, a desperate need... for hope. It is a tiny seed of hope… a seed we planted," Peter reminded them all. “Hope for peace, for a better life….for the chance at a better life. Not just for him, but for all mutantkind.
“We planted that seed of hope where none existed before… in barren soil. And it took hold, it prospered and flourished. It took root deep in his soul… and has gained tremendous strength. It has faced many obstacles and we have often seen it bend under stress… and yet, it has never been broken. Its branches reach for the sky, trying to feed off the things that will keep it alive. It has weathered many storms… and finds continued strength in the light of each new day. And yet, with all that we have accomplished, all that he has achieved can be torn asunder by one thing, only one thing.” Peter finally fell silent and Kurt looked up at this farmboy- turned- philosopher.
“What’s the one thing?” he asked quietly and Peter looked down at him somberly.
“Us.”
Still looking out the window Warren frowned. He turned around to address Peter. “What do you mean?” he asked and Peter turned toward him with his answer.
“Wolverine… he does not need us to survive,” Peter explained, “but the X-Men? We gave him a life, a life with great purpose.”
“Wolverine… he always had purpose,” Remy countered softly. “De gov’ment see ta dat.”
“That was exploitation, Gambit, not a life... and certainly not a choice,” Scott corrected. “That wasn’t a life of purpose; it was a life of captivity. That kind of life has no purpose for the one who lives it.”
“You are most certainly correct, Scott,” Hank acknowledged from where he sat behind the desk. “But so is Peter and it is Peter who poses the real concern here.”
“What’s that?” Bobby asked.
“We brought Wolverine into our fold and offered him a chance for a better life than the one he had at the time,” Hank began to explain. “Right now, according to what the professor just told us it would appear that Logan’s natural animal instincts have embraced the freedom of the wilderness. We must ask ourselves… ‘Can we now offer him something better than what he has found out there?’ “ Hank asked, nodding toward the window.
“Of course we can,” Bobby replied getting up to walk toward the desk and Dr. McCoy turned toward him.
“Are you so sure?”
“What. You really think he’d choose to sleep out there in the dirt if we offer him a warm bed?” Bobby challenged McCoy.
“Aaah,” Hank exclaimed pointing a finger in the air, “but what price that bed?”
“Huh?”
Hank rose from his chair and came around to the front of the desk. Placing his hand on the young X-Man’s shoulder he looked him in the eye. “Is a warm bed worth the price of freedom, Robert?”
“… but freedom at what cost?” Iceman asked in return. Hank raised his eyebrows at the question and its seemingly obvious answer.
“Freedom is priceless, Bobby,” Hank told him.
“Even if it means being alone?” the boy asked.
“To a loner,” Hank reminded them all, “it would be paradise.”
The X-Men stood silently, thinking about that. Dr. McCoy let go of Bobby's shoulder and leaned against the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and looked around the room at all the eyes looking back at him. He could see that they now understood the true dilemma, and why Ororo was so concerned about getting Logan back to the mansion as soon as possible.
“So,” Scott ventured, ‘how do we lure him out of paradise?”
Hank let out a sigh. Then with a shrug, he shook his head.
“I have no idea.”
TBC in "A Feral Repose, pt 3
