Completion Date: May 16, 2004 (prt. 1c)
Warning: Contains extremely graphic violence, imagery and strong language.
Acknowledgements: To my Yorkshire chum, the voice that Echoes against the sunset, and my Stormy friend who whispers to trees. Your support and encouragement makes the creativity continue, for this I thank you. Double blessings to Ms. ‘Ko - for the focus and the deadline to set me back on track.
Rememory, part three
This was it, he decided. Last time.
*Whomp**Whomp**Whomp**Whomp*
*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*
*WHRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*
The downdraft created by the helicopter’s rotors in full rotation whips Logan’s hair into a frenzied dance. The noises of its winds pulsate in his ears, drowning out surrounding sounds. He leans against the body of the helicopter alit in a grassy glade that rises above the jungle; upper body against the open cabin door, his left foot resting on the left skid. Around his right boot, crimson pools of communal blood ripple. All around him the almost turquoise grasses vibrate. He, unlike his hair, remains motionless, only occasionally adjusting his grip on the gun he grasps beside him, his eyes trained on the tree line. Alert. Ready. Waiting. Wounded.
Logan’s mouth contorts into a down turned sneer as he applies pressure to his hold of his middle, keeping his insides from spilling out. Trying to maintain his focus, he surveys the scene around him dispassionately. The clearing designated as the extraction point was randomly scattered with bodies contorted in disfigured positions. Beyond this, the jungle at the foot of the landing zone’s rise. Beyond that, the camp. Well, he smirks bitterly to himself, it WAS a camp. They were first introduced to its existence with a series of “X’s” and arrows on a map. Now the only significant topographical feature to this place is a burnt out ten acres in the middle of this dense jungle. Current population: Debris. Discarded remnants of burning shacks, destroyed jalopies, bodies, limbs, discarded shoes; alone forever, a random soot covered soccer ball rolls aimlessly.
Logan bends over sharply and cringes in reaction as another wave of burning pain ran from his oozing gut and travels swiftly throughout his body. With a settling snort he assesses his possible continued tolerance of this open ended torture. He figures his constitution could stand an extra dose of morphine more than he the pain and he starts to grope one of his pants pockets on his legs to retrieve the mediject cylinder. Once gripped, he exposes the syringe needle by ripping off the yellow cap off with his teeth, spitting it out to his right. He swiftly stabs his thigh with the tranquilizer and squeezes, he grits and tries to maintain an air of healthy control as he sees the rest of the team appear and make their way to the helicopter. Repositioning himself straighter, he tries to rearrange his face to mask the pain as they come closer. His face settles for a look of detached determination. His body on the other hand has its own motivations. He camouflages a groan through his sneer, the unintentional reaction to the sickening sensation of the narcotic and the agonizing expulsion of shrapnel from his womb. Another surge of nausea fed by the blended sour sweet stink of cooking flesh, gunpowder and diesel fuel gather and marinate at the back of his throat.
He vigorously shakes his head to regain focus. The morphine only provides a faint hum of relief thanks to his healing abilities and the severity of the wound. The drug seems to be affecting more his mind than his nervous system as his senses play havoc. His ears vibrate with the constant whir of the rotors whipping through the air and the dull ring of eardrum damage. Painfully he swallows back impending bile.
His teammates are walking, damn near strolling, to the site. Before his eyes they morph and blur into distorted shapes and corrupted forms. He shakes their demonic transformations away. He cannot allow himself to collapse from his injuries as much as his body wants him to. Not here. Not in front of them, he asserts to himself as he watches them either side step or step over bodies. His teammates smell the wounded. They gauge everything for weakness. It’s their job. He grimaces in disgust as he watches Mastodon crouch down to roughly frisk and defrock a body scavenging for intelligence. They have no problem feeding on their own.
The pilot of the chopper thumps about in the cabin behind Logan impatiently, anxious to take off. Logan continues to ignore his questions of his strike team’s progress. Barely gave him a nod when he crawled to standing as the transport landed after he was deposited there, barely conscious, by one of the team. Logan hears the pilot groan in disgust as he notices the others’ approach and he roughly sits to buckle up, clicking switches as he goes.
Maverick and Wraith make it to the helicopter first. Wraith slowly removes his rifle in its sling from his shoulder with one hand while dropping his gear bag roughly by his feet. Mastodon, the relative newbie, trots forward to the two men, bent over to one side with the weight of his gear and rifle while holding a bloodied rag to his neck with his other hand. Maverick turns to shout instructions to the last two. They lag behind, slowly making their way up the rise to the copter.
Noting the lack of haste, Logan holsters his gun and straightens up further. There was no longer a sense of immediacy Logan acknowledges as Wraith takes out a silver cylindrical case and holds a fresh cigar from it in between his teeth. He tosses his gear in the open space beside Logan into the belly of the cabin. All so casual, all so easy. The mission was done, everyone was dead. Logan barely hears the order Maverick shouts to the remaining two who approaches. Logan grits his teeth and swallows to reduce the flavor of bile as Silverfox and Sabretooth look up at Maverick to acknowledge the new order, carelessly toss their bags to Mastodon and then turn back to the clearing unholstering their guns to survey the dead. Ollie Ollie Oxen Free, an eerie voice chatters in Logan’s head. Come out, Come out…
Logan grimaces at the faint metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth as his eyes dart around in chemical disorientation. Silverfox and Sabretooth are on possum duty to find those who play. He wonders how long he can hold out while waiting for departure. Hallucinations meld with the actual visual nightmare as he follows their progress from body to body checking for survivors, shooting those who have to insure they wouldn’t. A coup de grace? A final insult from the victors? Just part of the full service they provide, really. Another wave crests over Logan as his eyes start to hood, trying to keep focus on his teammates.
He sees Silverfox crouching over someone prone on its stomach. She pushes the body over with one hand while pointing her gun at its head with the other. Something must have gotten her attention. Perhaps an eyelash moved on its own. Perhaps the movement was just the helicopter’s wind. Perhaps she just was being sure. The shot barely registered above a firecracker over the rotor beat. She casually stands while fishing in her flak pocket pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. She bends away from the direction of the draft for a moment, still holding the gun, her hands cupping her mouth. She comes back up with her hair whipping about her face and freshly exhaled smoke trailing behind her. She briefly glances towards the helicopter. Their eyes meet. She smirks in her characteristic bitter bravado. His eyes hood further in delirium and he sneers in reaction. Her cocky, harassing smile. She taunts, she teases…
…Men with their conceit adjusted left and gun held right fall and collapse at her feet like heart wounded suitors. She offers as appeasement only her tight-lipped smile, showering with both hands blazing her affections wrapped in bullets and debasing labels. She switches positions, only penetration at the end of her blade. Wantonly passionate assertions hit each and every intended mark. Men grab their chests, cradle their skulls, frequently “ reactively “ clutch at their groin searching as they fall, wounded by her cavalier attention. She licks her lips in excitement, flipping back her painfully straight ebony hair. Looking for more worthy stimulation, she steps over her prematurely capitulated callers, leaving them to lie, bleed, emote and groan…
Logan deeply grunts, squeezing his eyes shut while trying to shake the delusion away. He breathes hard against his sneer as he watches her already swaggering off. Her gun swings alongside her. Off to find another to judge and execute. Nearby Sabertooth picks up a body and hold the was-face up to his face. He jostles the sack of weight a little then roughly tosses it aside and stalks another. Clothing and hair whipping in the wind.
Logan tries distracts himself as he regards the action they’re walking away sated from. The engagement between ‘they’ and ‘them’. He smiles faintly. It was good. Damn near worth the week and a half tracking through dense vegetation and dodging wildcats. Seventy two hours well spent crouching in mud and slithering about tree roots monitoring and memorizing the movements of targets. Hiding, blending, deceiving. The 98 minutes it took to approach and crouch in position waiting for the right moment. The seconds it took to take on, bring down, cut-shoot-stab, and then hop back up for another. It was well fought, he sneers in amusement. These people were tough assed bastards. They fought hard and kept on coming. Home team warriors maneuvered easily in their own element, throwing anything and everything they thought they had at them. One would think they had figured out the odds when they found themselves fully surrounded, out gunned, out of their last. Unintelligible words of surrender, heads bowed, coming towards the squad meekly as if to surrender. Get close enough for the team to touch and up goes the arms, down drop the live grenades out of armpits. Dive for cover and avoid the blast, the heat of the shockwave, flying body parts and organs, coming up with their blood splattered all over. Yeah, his nose flared as he smirks. Crafty, fearless. No lying down. No turning back.
Energetic movements in Logan’s periphery distract him from his thoughts. The young Mastodon bends against the draft and swiftly gathers discarded gear while keeping himself low to the ground. Regulation crew cut, his face screws past the wind in focus as he goes about this task. Mastodon’s mission enthusiasm reminds Logan not everyone sees the fight as he does. Logan’s eyes rest on the lines of bag straps Mastodon holds in his hands. His view rises to watch Mastodon ungracefully bound towards him. Well practiced cadence. One, two. One, two…
…Forget the stories you’ve been told. Erase your conscience and ignore your soul. Fight to win. Fight to prove. You try to kill me, I’m killing you. Collect your stripes to cover your green. You have no family just the team. Freshman, Junior, Senior, ghost. Don’t violate the order. Do maintain the post. Compete to win. Compete to prove. To be of the top, your heart you lose. Ranger, Seal, Beret, X. Do the worst to be of the best. One, two. One, two….
Logan blinks from the hallucination and his eyes settle on one of the bodies, its blue shirt flaps in the wind. His eyebrows furrow and his lids narrow as he recalls the animation of the fight. He suddenly wonders to himself who were these people. Communists? Rebels? A death squad? The left end of his mouth curves up in amusement. Terrorists or are they called Freedom Fighters now? He exhales in irony. Doesn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter when the order was placed weeks ago. When his Team gets called in, anything within their radius dies. Both the sides of his mouth curve down. But too many died this time. Women and children were caught in the mix, and that wasn’t detailed in the intelligence. And those details became inconsequential when in the mix of it. But that detail hits home when it’s all finished and done and all you have is bodies. Wide brown eyes permanently staring into blue skies, mouths yawn into infinite scream…
Wraith’s weight enters and settles in the copter. Logan turns his head to watch Wraith now sitting wide kneed in the other side of the cabin by its own doorway. Still rolling the cigar circumference in three fingers, Wraith regards its shape and runs its length slowly past his nostrils, trying to savor its scent over others. He puts all his concentration into cutting off the end. He moistens his lips as he brings it to his mouth. Logan finds himself watching thick tanned fingers coming together as one hand produces a flame…
…Different theatres of hell create different shades of men, shadows of souls, ghosts of humanity. Eyes grey out the color, they see past the dimensions. Walls are mere suggestions. Barricade yourself for security, for safety. He’ll appear, fire lit eyes “ you’ll die astounded. Try to defend with rounds and rounds. Unaffected, untouched, you disappear under his shadow. He invades your personal space leaving only space for one person. Then he’s a figment. Like smoke. Poof. Pow. Gone…
Wraith’s face is now surrounded by clouds with his first puff. He finishes a semi satisfied exhale and their eyes meet. Logan notices the change of the absence of color as Wraith blows the flame of his light. He is left with only an aura of cigar smoke around him. There is nothing communicated in the eye contact. No messages, no emotion. Nothing more than a glance. Logan blinks as Wraith’s eyes drift away to stare out onto his side of the jungle. Logan attentions turn back to his side, needing the stimulation of activity.
Maverick high steps it up into the transport. He looks over at Logan as he takes one of bags from Mastodon outstretched hands. He quickly looks him over and nods his chin up. Logan waves his open hand at him to indicate he’s fine. Maverick returns the affirmative nod and goes back to his work. He could have been crying or happy, the face wouldn’t change Logan remarks to himself. Maverick leans out from the cabin door and his lips and tongue folds into each other as he emits a high pitched whistle to signal Silverfox and Sabretooth. Gaining their attention, Maverick head slowly scans the treeline again. His face unmoving, his eyes only squinting in focus…
…Mask the pain, the anger, emotion. No laugh lines. No smiles, no squints. No sneer of fury. Just action. Click-snap-bang… thud. Take off the demon visage. Walk through chaos with barely a twitch. Wade through death with barely a blip above systolic. Without a flinch he’ll dissect. Without a blink he’ll butcher. With nary a shudder he’ll watch life force bubble and froth from the throat. He’s seen it before. It’s always the same. It’s just his job. Click-snap-bang… thud.…
Logan breathes deeper to try to clear his thoughts, inhaling some semblance of fresh air. He looks for any kind of identifying markers clueing him to his location before they leave this behind. Where were they this time? All the different mission situations have been starting to haze into a blur. He looked at the plant life and the makeup of the dead. Is this Laos? Honduras? Somewhere between Nigeria and Biafra? Definitely nowhere on the Sinai Peninsula. They just knew land at “X”, follow the long curving red marker line to the area circled and extract at the other “X”. Where they here to fight someone’s six day war? Border dispute? Economic insult? He gripped his middle gingerly as a dull ache sharpened. It really pissed him off that he didn’t know.
He moved his arm away as he looks at his middle area. Literally, a bloody mess. The pain reminds him he is still alive as he watches his wounds slowly repairing itself. It’s going to take a while this time. He was cut pretty deep, almost to his framework. This time, he almost didn’t make it. But he is going to survive. That’s why he’s here, why they keep calling him. Logan. Codename: Wolverine. Black ops, covert strike, tough sonovabitch. Super. Soldier…
…He is above skill, below radar. Form and function perfected. Hunter personified. Expel the gun, unsheath his flak and custom armor, dissolve the backup. He remains naturally, methodically, flawlessly, inherently - dangerous. Well seasoned and salty. Natural machine. Mechanized naturally. His training and experience in black ops and special forces culminate in a ruthlessness and paranoia that is beyond normal human boundaries. He isn’t a normal human. He has no boundaries. No borders, no line. No separation from him. And you. His hand, your throat. Your struggle, his sneer. Your heart, his blade. His steel, your blood. Your gasp, your God. Him. Separate the man from the animal. Prejudice the animal from the man. No boundaries, no? No. No separation of him. And him. And him, from him. Black eyes, black heart. Grey eyes…
The absence of external pressure worsens the pain forcing him to reposition a new hold. He looks down at his feet trying to gain a point of concentration. He squints in confusion as he notices movement off his right knuckle. His stomach drops as he raises his hand and sees a long lock of wavy brown hair with skin still attached holding it together. Blood, lock, scalp stuck and dried to the back of his hand. He grimaces in both pain and memory. He takes his blood stained left and pulls the scalp remains off by the hair with a sickening tug and rip. He holds it up and watches it blow for a moment before letting it go. It glides a careless progress down, blown by the draft to join the rest of the mess on the grass. He sneers as he searches out Sabretooth. He finds him taking the more brutal route in dispatching a prone injured. Sabretooth brutally swings with his right the base of his unloaded rifle against the head repeatedly until satisfied. He raises to standing with a satisfied grin and belatedly stalks back to the copter. As he approaches, Logan notices something turquoise swinging from his left wrist. Another wave of nausea comes over him as his anger grows. That bastard. That sneering murdering immoral…
… He steals the light from women’s eyes. They sense his leer and bad intentions before they feel his hot rancid breath. Eyes dilate and quiver in fear at his advance. He prefers the rip to the puncture. Fight - please fight - back to extend his glee. As the blood ebbs and the blush fades, so do the glimmer. The eyes are left as empty pools, to reflect his grinning scowl of satisfaction. He lives for death, toasts with blood. His only mortality, the violation of one’s life…
Logan’s heart pumps stronger and faster in anger as Sabretooth trots closer and closer to the helicopter. Logan waits for him to get nearer so he can focus all his pain and ire at that blond headed, bloodthirsty bastard. They- she was an innocent. The increased heart rate starts to push more blood out of Logan’s wound. He starts to feel dizzy, losing focus of his intended victim’s approaching form. No, he was wrong, Logan curses to himself under his breath. The fight today wasn’t completely worth it.
Silverfox reaches the helicopter before Sabretooth and hops up, pushing Logan’s head to the side by his temple with three fingers. He roughly bats her hand away in annoyance. He feels the vibration of her amused chuckle as she sits behind him, back to the pilot position. Her interference distracts Logan enough to Sabretooth’s arrival who steps into the cabin and sits in the other side, opposite Wraith. Now focused on their departure, Logan hoists himself inside to sitting on the cabin floor, leaving his legs dangling outside.
Silverfox takes a long drag of her quickly shortening cigarette and without turning reaches above her and pounds on the wall separating her and the pilot roughly. The rotors whip louder. The copter’s balance shifts.
Logan repositions himself as gravity dances. He grimaces past the sick elevator like sensation of the copter’s trying to gain lift and he breathes deep to maintain consciousness. He makes his mind work overtime in distraction. Everyone’s in the cabin now. Every one. Each one…
…No names. Just codes. All One. Not just a One. They are a machine. A unit. No official designation or true name. Deceptively generic. Like Plan A. Tab B. Team X. But there are no rules. No referee. Zone offensive, man on man defense. No over time. No foul calls. Definitely no do-overs. Fight, win, go home. Be on call. No prejudice, no politics. No black, white, yellow or brown. Team deniable. Players unidentifiable. Government unblamable. X…
He heaves as he gingerly lays his back down on the cabin floor. His feet swing in open air. The helicopter continues its abrupt ascent and then banks left. Horizontal tilts to become almost vertical for Logan. Everything shifts in the new direction of gravity. Ammunition, unsecured gear even Logan’s body starts to lean towards the open door and his body slightly slips to follow its feet. Logan does nothing to prevent momentum as he watches Maverick support himself with his hand against the frame. A rifle slides towards the opening. He hears someone stop it with a foot. As the helicopter completes its acute turn, the scenery of the ground below take up most of the door’s view. Like a Lincoln Log scene scattered with little green army men, like boys playing War. Green, trees, burning wood huts, a makeshift soccer field. Blood, Bodies. Abandoned.
With the crook of his elbow now covering his closed eyes, he surrenders himself to the nauseous motions of the airborne vehicle and the queasy momentum of his spinning brain. His gut still burns, the healing seems agonizingly slow. He got it real deep this time. For a moment, he thought this indeed was it… the last time.
The copter completely rights itself. The vibrations of the mechanisms keeping them in flight agitate his head adding to his sick. He almost didn’t make it this time, he realizes that. As he forces the whir of the rotor to lull him to a tentative rest he knows he will not miss this place. And he didn’t even have a real idea of where his body would have been dropping. That’s bullshit. He’ll never enjoy these sickening physical feelings. The ebb of the after battle adrenaline leaves his body exhausted of whatever combat euphoria he may have had; like after the climax of cheap spontaneous sex, a wave of disgust, a tinge of regret, a sense of bewilderment. She was right. Who would have told her? How would she have known? She would have still been there, waiting, with no damn clue.
That’s bullshit. That’s IT.
*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*
*Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp*
*Whomp-pomp* *Whomp-pomp* *Whomp-pomp*
He succumbs further into his injuries. Nothing left to do but be shipped back. Back home. Back to her.
This is it, he decides. This is the last time.
His ears are starting to ring again. It grows louder and starts to gain intonation. Wide eyes, contorted mouth. Why? The wail, the scream intensifies. It pierces his temples. His hands grip in tension. He starts to see red behind his clenched eyelids…
~
Deep red trails down the rough tan of Logan’s skin. Spurred to movement by the addition of water. Diluted further by the chemical combination of soap. His naked body is a three dimensional canvas. A solid muscle masterpiece of chaotic, multicolored splatterings. As Logan vigorously soaps, scrubs, rinses and repeats, the vivid Jackson Pollock transforms into the lush swirling strokes of a brilliant van Gogh. His hands lather the grays, greens, reds and whites about every inch they can reach. With each thorough repetition the colors that slide down to his ankles gradually fade. The over flowing pool of frothy primordial soup at his feet creates a river on dark gray asphalt. The river empties into a rusty drain grate, some of its openings clogged with whatever solid filthy masses Logan carried to cleanse himself of. The liquid swirls around the opening of the drain, faster and with more organization forming a vortex. A polluted whirlpool into which all the fading colors and their once compositions disappear into the blackness, never be considered again.
Logan lets the thick stream of water linger on his face. He holds the rubber hose consisting of his improvised shower above him as he lowers his head. The shockingly cold water runs down the back of his neck, past his shoulders, down his lower back; rinsing whatever soap film and muck is left from his scrubbing. Weeks of no washing, no changing and crawling through the jungle had seemingly soaked into his skin, deep into his dermis. He’ll never get it all off, he frowns. He feels clammier than the Everglades, filthier than the LaBrea. He gingerly bends over, lifting one foot then the other, soaping and rinsing each. He feels he brought the jungle back with him; under his fingernails, matted into his dark hair, and, he cringes while gently running his hand over the still open wound below his breastplate, pushing through his gut.
His hose arm drops and the water splashes roughly onto the hangar floor. He shakes his hair out with his other hand as he hears the movements of his teammates behind him. From over his naked back he sees the others in various stages of undress, semblances of personal grooming or just wearily lounging about the front end of the hangar by the open door. Officially, the mission is completed and they are all back on friendly soil. This time is theirs to spend and Logan sees no need to waste his staying in their company any longer. He looks forward to the road and the throttle. A real shower with hot water, holding warm body, soft. He won’t miss this. He won’t miss them. This is it, he silently cursed before he even strapped on his gear weeks ago. Last time.
And the jungle was indeed far behind them. From the extraction point via helicopter, they traveled in a theoretical straight line. Escape the dense bush to land at an unlabeled airfield. Board a cargo plane flown by men who don’t converse and sit cramped together with the other equipment for hours until the next destination. No in-flight movie, no little bag of peanuts, no window seat. Finally disembark at an unnamed base. No ceremony or regard. No pat on the back, no marching bands, no grinning girls in bikinis waving beer in thanks. Just reconnoiter, regroup, refresh at this unnumbered hangar at this unmapped military site. Which military? Don’t ask. A water hose for the hero’s anointing. Mechanics’ soap for scented oils. It was the same every time. Logan didn’t know who made the rules, what clean manicured hand pushed with index and middle the chess piece from H4 to G6 on the global board. He had his suspicions but a soldier never questions, just delivers. When feet deep in a mortar hole with all the Fourth of July letting loose at his direction he would imagine men in smoky rooms coughing out orders from deep leather chairs. They sip burgundy brandy while scarlet blood flow. Comfortably relieve themselves in gold inlayed urinals while he walks through shit. Those faceless, nameless chess masters he will not miss either, he faintly smirks. For a moment, he wonders if *they* will miss *him*.
With no towel to dry himself off, Logan grabs his second to last clean white t-shirt and wipes the water from his face while dropping the hose to the ground for the next to wash. There were only two hoses with which to clean and Sabretooth was already engaged with the other one. Humming a disjointed contented tune of his making, Sabretooth scrubs soap into his unkempt blond hair mercilessly with his nails. His large well-built frame he does not bother to turn from the others. He briskly makes a once over with the fuzzy bar. Over and under and well in-between, obscenely making a show of his familial relationship between he and his manhood. Keeping his eyes off him more out of distaste than courtesy, Logan pads past him with purpose holding his boxers close in front of his privates, moving forward to a stool where he left some of his things by.
In the front of the hangar, leaning on the right edge of the doorway, Silverfox looks over her shoulder casually blowing out smoke to punctuate the movement. She starts to grin as she watches Logan a distance behind her swiftly dry himself with the makeshift towel. She finds fascination in his usual sanitary routine. She knows it well.
After drying himself discretely between his legs, he throws the shirt on the seat. He quickly steps into his underwear - she allows her eyes to linger fondly - then he sits on the stool over the shirt. He rubs his hands briskly together with lotion preparing to apply after, of course, a little talcum thrown into the front of the shorts. She smirks seeing the different levels of opportunity. With a passing word to her smoke buddy sitting outside and the toss of the cigarette in an aimless direction, she struts past Maverick sitting idly on a large tool cabinet into the belly of the hangar towards the water hoses, unbuckling her belt for her turn.
Logan keeps his head down, not acknowledging her presence. He knows she was watching. He has made ignoring her an art form as of late. It wasn’t always this way. And he knows she hates to be ignored. Their relationship now is her always trying to get a rise out of him, one way or another. It’s a game they play but with only one willing participant. As she is approaching, he keeps his attention on rubbing the white lotion on his arms and legs. He keeps her, as one does with all unpredictable animals, in his periphery.
Silverfox stops at the vacant hose and continues her undressing. Sabretooth’s trill melody an odd accompaniment to her slow strip. Logan is all focused on his own business, not wanting any sort of talk. Yet, although there was no conversation started, Sabretooth begins to chatter, still enthused from the action hours before.
“I liked those bastards,” he spits out with a spray of water.
Logan says nothing although he, Silverfox and Mastodon are in his immediate vicinity. Logan snaps his fingers over at Mastodon to get his attention. Mastodon looks up from his lotus on the floor a few feet in front of Logan sitting over a medical case he was engaged with. His hands were stained with blood from his neck wound he was trying to clean and dress. Logan motions for the bandages and gauze tape silently with his fingers and open hand. Mastodon tosses them one-handed his way.
“They had heart,” Sabretooth continues in idle thought, “wouldn’t lay down for shit.”
Silverfox unlaces and kicks off her boots. She steps out her socks and wriggle to toes for newfound freedom as she lets her pants drop. With her hands on her lower back she arches backward, stretching out to counteract the seemingly endless sitting hunch she had to endure during the trip back north. Her long back hair falls straight down towards the floor, her shoulder holster she still wears flap open towards gravity. Logan concentrates on covering the gash with a large bandage. Leaning to one side to keep it from falling, he picks his fingernail along the tape to find the opening.
Sabretooth’s trails off into deeper thoughts of a more immoral nature. They do not notice his looking off in the distance with a growing leer; his soap hand lingering about his groin, moving in slower circles.
“Even their women,” he murmurs with a sinister chuckle. His prurient suggestion not lost on the three. Silverfox’s head quickly whips around. At first taken aback her face immediately twists into severe irritation. She sucks air between her incisor and canine to show her displeasure. Mastodon just shakes his head lower. He rarely converses with Sabretooth outside of the field, seeing nothing he wants to learn from the brute’s experience. Logan’s eyebrows furrows slightly, trying to regard Creed’s voice as just white noise. The white gauzed tape makes a painful ripping sound that echoes throughout the hollow structure as Logan quickly unravels a piece.
Sabretooth continues his reflective snickering as Silverfox snaps him out of it with the sharp clicks of her locking and loading her gun in warning. He glances at her in astonishment from the interruption and meets her hard glare with his amusement. He snorts at her unfazed by unsaid threats.
“Yeah,” he continues as his vigorous scrubbing returns. “They had heart.” His smile widens with a punch line. “And guts, and spleen and…” he chuckles out.
“Shut up, Creed.” Silverfox sharply orders through gritted teeth, obviously near her limit with him. He goes back to scrubbing his back with a pleased hiss.
Logan fastens the last of the tape and stands up to step into his jeans; his dogtags chime slightly as he bends “ gingerly - to pull them up. Logan’s obvious haste catches Creed’s attention. A salacious interest creeps over Creed’s face. Pissing off Fox was one thing. Getting under Logan’s skin was far more rewarding.
“Hey!” Creed barks. Logan doesn’t slow the fluid motion of sliding his last white t-shirt over his head. Unabated, Creed stretches his left arm towards Logan’s line of sight, jiggling the long silver chain double wrapped around its wrist at him. Logan’s eye catches on the small turquoise charm dangling from one of the strands. A small, almost childlike shape of a butterfly hangs under Creed’s damp wrist, pink soapy water dripping from it. His stomach drops at the sight of the charm and the memory of the wearer. A residual echo of a woman’s scream rings in his ears over the sound running water. Her wide brown eyes stared at him emotionless, hopeless, dead. A deep growl emanates from deep within Logan and he meets Creed’s deriding smirk with a teeth-baring sneer.
Pleased he got his attention and itching for more, Creed crudely snips, “Maybe your frail would like this, hmm?” Logan’s eyes quickly start to darken to black. His knuckles burn, angry for freedom and his growl of anger resonates throughout the hangar. Logan knows he’s being taunted for someone’s sick enjoyment but Creed should not have gone there. That depraved, immoral, son-of-a-bitch…
“Creed!” Maverick shouts from the front of the hangar, watching the escalation of the group’s exchange the entire time. None of the faces, save Mastodon’s, turn to acknowledge him. “Cut it out,” he commands sternly. Maverick snorts a frustrated breath out his nose and runs his fingers across his scalp. Great soldiers, he acknowledges to himself, but downtime is always a wildcard when those three are in company.
The two men maintain a stare of defiance, each daring the next to make a move, any move. Logan wasn’t in the mood for this but he’s quickly gaining the motivation to finish it, all of this, now and for all. He’s two heartbeats away from popping the claws out of his hands and performing a spontaneous lobotomy on the lousy bastard. Fuck him for even bringing her concept in their company. Silverfox’s excited chuckle throws him off his momentum. He sees her biting her upper lip in anticipation. Her eyes sparkle at his loss of control. Never one to give her what she wants, Logan pulls back the urge to maim. He growls louder in warning to Creed then quickly turns back to his clothes, briskly tucking his shirt into his jeans and fastening them. As Logan picks up his things and stalks away Sabretooth’s pleased low laughter vibrates through the air.
“It’s obvious, you know,” Silverfox sings mockingly to Logan’s back, enjoying the new game. Logan closes his eyes firmly and stops, cursing under his breath. Here they go again. Fox and Creed could never stand each other but they always find some sort of mutual kinship over tag teaming on Logan.
Logan turns his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She motions to her stomach area with her index finger in wide circles.
“Slop-pee,” she mouths quietly. Her lips thin into a mock sympathetic smirk and her head slowly shakes back and forth. He wrinkles his face at her and continues away from them to the front of the building. Silverfox smiles broadly while wrenching off her t-shirt, content with her parting dig. Just a shirt and what God gave her… of course. Her display is answered with Creed’s approving whistle. Mastodon looks up at the call and tries to hide his embarrassed grin. She throws Creed an ‘as-if’ look, lifting the hose to wet her hair.
Maverick pushes himself up from sitting as Logan approaches. They give each other a familiar nod of regard as they stand together by the opening of the doorway. Outside, the flat gray asphalt surface of the airfield stretches endlessly with other hangars scattered about its rim. Beyond them, the distant tops of pine trees. He takes in a deep breath. It was the cool scent of those needles and the air that gave him the clue he was back up North, back where they started. North America. Canada specifically. Just a few hours southbound on the road back to New York. Back to the city. Back to her. He looks up to gaze at the bright blue sky with pale white cirrus clouds lining the undercarriage of the heavens. He wonders where she is right now and under which distant cloud she is now standing.
“You HAVE been distracted,” Maverick quietly remarks to him, breaking Logan of his train of thought. One side of Logan’s face wrinkles in slight irritation and his eyes drop forward, but he does not answer.
Silverfox’s voice trumpets from around her soapy shoulder with perfect timing as always. “It makes you an *impotent*…” pause for effect, “soldier!” she gleefully mocks. From behind him, Logan hears Sabretooth laughing heartily.
Maverick’s head drops with a disturbed groan while Logan rolls his eyes. Yep, that’s his cue. He quickly turns and bends down to his bag he arrived with containing the rest of his things. He puts on his socks and boots tugging sharply on the laces as he ties them. He internally talks his way through this, trying to keep calm. He’s on his own mission now: get up and get out. Away Leave was getting fewer and farther between all the point-and-shoots they’ve been sent out on recently, especially since The Cold War was heating up, cooking with a different flavor each progressive year. He needs the time away. He needs to get back and take care of who needs him. Get up. Get out. Get gone.
From the outside edge of the hangar doorway, a large puff of smoke bursts and then sails with the breeze. On the floor beside where Maverick was sitting before, by the tool cabinet, a large black duffel bag lay conspicuously. Half collapsed unto itself. Very lightly packed. While Maverick watches casually, Logan rifles through it, sorting through small, brown drawstring pouches each with black markered initials on them. He picks up and tosses aside in the bag “C.N.”, “J.W.”, “V.C.” until he finds “L”. Logan stands with the pouch in his hand and starts to untie it. Maverick turns back to the outside scenery.
Logan turns it upside down, emptying its contents: his wallet, his ID, wad of cash that was crudely stuffed into it while they were gone. The trappings and minutiae “people” carry. Perhaps a picture of a loved one. A matchbook of a particular restaurant in the neighborhood. Evidence of civilization. All of it gets handed in before the mission. Everytime. Sheep dipped. No identity. No life on the outside. You submit it at the door and leave it all behind. If you get killed or caught where you weren’t officially supposed to be, you became deniable. How to know where he came from or who he belonged to? Even what nationality he was? The perfect soldier. Executable when not claimable. Governments maybe suspected but never blamable. And so their lives were a gamble, playable. Yes, so perfect. Possibly die by order and die alone. Accept the risks and pay the price. Disappear behind someone’s border and if you’re never heard from again, who would miss? Chess pieces are played to be expendable. All for the greater good of the game. And the war machine belches on.
Logan carelessly tosses the empty pouch upon the now open black bag. The other five pouches sit waiting to be claimed. Logan looks around covertly to glance at his other teammates as he stuffs his personal things into various pockets on his person. If it weren’t for the occasional socializing outside the field, they wouldn’t even know each others names. The names they use outside “the life”. But they never discuss specifics. Sports, battle recall, personal hygiene… all open topics. But who may or may not be waiting for you, kids, where you come from, never subjects to be broached.
Mastodon finished attending to his wound and now sits leaning on the wall with his knees pulled near his chest. His arms rest on his knees and his head is back trying to catch some rest while waiting his turn. He’s the newcomer, the newest recruit. He takes the ribbing and the occasional hazing from the others in stride. He always showers last and has to do so fast because the others will be finished leave him without thinking twice. Logan’s mouth twitches with the barest of smirks. Mastodon came to them confident, slightly cocky but humbled. He was with one of the best covert teams in the black ops biz. The big leagues. The baddest set of guns the government keeps concealed. He knew he had a lot to learn if he wanted to be the best as well. Not every man gets chosen to be part of a super soldier crew. So he keeps quiet, his head down and his eyes open, but never blinks. Logan wonders if he ever was so green and hopeful in his long life.
“Psst, Creed…” Logan hears Silverfox whisper low. He finds Mastodon also has Silverfox’s attention. Her eyes sparkle mischievously as she keep them trained on Mastodon’s open mouthed napping form. She stretches her free wet arm behind her to Sabretooth, motioning with her wiggling fingers for his gun. Logan arches an eyebrow at her. Yes, always keep an eye on Silverfox. Females have vicious streaks that can never be matched by a man. Don’t let her dark blue eyes behind the batting eyelashes fool you. Women can be twice as malicious and ferocious as any man, but their viciousness comes from a different place within themselves. No posturing, no overt bravado. They’ll slide right up beside you, gently find and tickle your softest places then rip out pieces of your flesh just to see you scream. Absolutely the most dangerous of creatures on earth. And Silverfox is their patron saint.
With Creed’s gun in her palm, she rests the tip of her tongue on her upper lip and closes one eye, pointing and aiming directly at the sleeping kid. A deafening shot reverberates throughout the hangar. A loud squeak followed by the explosion of blood and solid masses bursts around Mastodon. His whole body jumps with a start and he opens his eyes in shock at the sight of blood all over him. As Silverfox giggles deeply, the kid tries to scamper up from his sitting position, stumbling over himself. He finds the source of the blood and with a yelp of distaste he kicks the now open cavity of a large rat away from him across the floor.
“What the fuck, Fox?!” he screams in confusion.
“What?!” she gets out between giggles with her arms outstretched in question. “You were going to shower anyway!” bending her naked body over in laughter. The kid is obviously pissed but isn’t about to say anything back to her. His frustration dripping off his face along with the blood and rat guts.
“Awww… Butch up, Hump!” she hoots while handing the gun back, handle first, to Creed.
“Fox! What the fuck was that?” Maverick shouted exasperated, annoyed he’s sounding more like a babysitter minute by minute.
Silverfox pouts innocently. “It was gonna bite the kid, North.” She chuckles again, turning back to her washing. Logan puts up his hand to shield him from the kid who is left standing dripping with the animal’s filth, trying to find a direction to shake at.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Maverick mumbles to himself. He holds his eyes with his right and walks further outside.
Logan idly watches how the water trails off Fox’s dark straight hair down her back meeting her light tan flesh right above her rear. His eyebrows wrinkle together. How could a woman so easy on the eyes be so hard to stomach? He frowns and goes to get his flannel shirt and lumberman’s jacket he wears in colder climes. No, not all women are like her. Some have softer skins and softer hearts. Fox has not always been this way, at least this cold. But Logan guesses it must be true: One man can make one woman hate all men.
He walks to the front again near Maverick who watches Logan hastily putting on his over-shirt then jacket. Maverick wants to say something to Logan, he wonders how he should say it. Not a diplomatic man by nature, truly a soldier’s soldier, he knows how to give orders but not how to make gentle suggestions. He and Logan share a quiet respect for each other, never stepping on the other’s command, assisting when necessary, leaving the other be when essential. Everyone needs to be at 150% when in the field; even those two back there in the peanut gallery, Maverick assesses. But Maverick has noticed a change in Logan, a more detached aspect. The hesitation to consider consequences. No longer the apathetic disregard of his own survival. Logan is rarely in the moment and his distractibility almost got him and the others killed. It *has* been obvious that Logan has someone who waits for him now. That alone motivates soldiers to become men and not blindly obeying machines. Logan the machine is far more valuable to them than Logan the man.
Fully dressed and ready to go, Logan is in the mood for a smoke. John Wraith is unseen but not far. Logan can smell his unwashed sweat mixed in with the sharp woodsy aroma of his favorite pastime. Taking a couple steps to the outside where he knows Wraith is, he pulls out a half smoked cigar out his jacket and starts to pat down his pockets for his lighter. Idly, like a routine frisking, he pats the front and back of his jeans, squeezes the pockets of the jacket like a sponge and then goes to the pocket of his flannel. From the outside he feels the rectangular shape of his metal lighter but buffered with something else inside, something softer. His eyebrows knit in confusion as he reaches inside. The smooth coolness of the pewter casing, beneath that… almost silken…
“Hoo, Boy!” Creed bellows from Logan’s immediate vicinity. Surprised by the closeness of the outburst both Logan and Maverick turn their heads to its direction and is brutally confronted by a wet, dripping, stark naked Victor Creed, grinning like a Cheshire Cat out by the doorframe.
“Am I hungry and horny!” he announces gleefully, stretching in the open air, everything out and unabashedly hanging. An ‘Oh, Jesus’ is moaned from Mastodon who quickly shuts his eyes and turns as if his corneas were burning. Maverick just sighs loudly, lowering his head. Distracted from his discovery, Logan snatches the lighter from the pocket. With a flick of the wheel and flint he lights the cigar and snaps the casing closed, moving away from the prurient spectacle. Creed sneers, enjoying the outraged attention, wants a little more stimulation.
“Bet that piece of ass of yours can cook up some sweet tail,” he chides in Logan’s retreating direction. “Think she would mind a visit from a real man, Runt?”
Instantly Logan’s body stiffens and curves in anger. His knuckles burn for action as the growl within him grows. His intended half turn was interrupted into a quarter as Maverick roughly grabbed him with both hands on the shoulders.
“Okay! Okay- That’s it!” Maverick shouts to Creed behind him as he pushes Logan back. “Creed, shut the fuck up! Go jack off or something.” He walks Logan further outside of the hangar. Satisfied, Victor chuckles while slowly padding back into the hanger to get into his clothes.
After a few steps and couple of pats to jostle Logan to his senses, Maverick and Logan stop again and set a respectful distance from each other. Still pissed, Logan idly drops his lighter back into his pocket. The odd weight that shakes in the pocket reminds him of what he felt in there previously. He put his fingers back inside and feels the silk again and closes his three fingers around it to pull it out.
“Do you want to go grab a beer?” Maverick says quietly, hoping for the opportunity to have that talk with Logan.
Logan looks at the small white blossoms he had forgotten in his pocket. He feels their soft texture, their scent lightly reaching his nose. He frowns slightly. He put them in his pocket as he was leaving New York the last time. When he left her those weeks ago. When Maverick repeats his name for an answer, Logan barely heard him. He shook his head slowly in the negative.
“I gotta go,” Logan says softly, flatly, still focused on the blossoms.
Behind them, sitting in a wide kneed squat up against the outside wall of the hangar, Wraith’s aimless attention suddenly shifts to Logan. His brow wrinkles in curiosity as if he heard something between Logan’s words.
“Okay,” Maverick answers unfazed. Now is as good as any, he says to himself, preparing to broach the subject of Logan’s outside activities. “I think we have another couple of weeks until-“
“No,” Logan says firmly, looking Maverick in the eyes. “I’m gone.”
Maverick’s head snaps back in surprise, obviously not seeing that coming. Wraith breaks into a wide grin. He chuckles low and looks out at the horizon with a deep puff of his cigar. Logan looks back at his fingers and brings the blossoms to his face.
“Gone,” Maverick restates again in startled confirmation. His jaw twitches in annoyed frustration. Damn you, Logan, he curses to himself. Always pulling this shit.
The fragrance of jasmine assaults Logan’s senses and he willingly melts into cotton sheets, their coolness tempered by the warm body he knows will be beside him. Running his fingers along her spine, down the length of her arm to knit his fingers with hers. He feels the fine hairs on her neck with his lips. The cool Canadian air rustles his hair as he remembers the feel of her ivory tresses in his rough hand. She is turning to speak to him. His breath deepens in anticipation. He wants to hear her voice, hear its music, hear the gentle chatter of her language. But all he hears are those words that have haunted him since she spoke them and lost the ignorance of their meaning.
“Nilikudhani dhahabu kumbe adhabu.”
He frowns deeply. The words she spoke in obvious frustration when she drew a line in the sand and he stepped over it, making it irrelevant. She spoke it like a cuss, a curse. He feels ten pounds heavier at the memory. The back of his throat tightens, making him swallow. She didn’t really mean that, did she? It was spoken in passion, in anger. He shouldn’t really take serious things said in anger, should he? And if it is true, how can he change it?
“Logan!” Maverick states firmly to snap him out of it. Logan turns in annoyance. He stuffs the blossoms back into the pocket roughly. One blossom slips from his fingers and starts to fall down towards the asphalt. Wraith and his dull brown eyes are the only witnesses to its gentle descent.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Maverick declares with a stern look in his eye.
“It’s going to have to,” Logan replies, turning to grab his bag from off the floor by the doorway. The blossom still falls its graceful ballet. Wraith quietly watches it, fascinated.
“It won’t,” Maverick says flatly, hands on hips, watching Logan’s movements with growing frustration. Logan approaches Maverick again and abruptly stops in front of him, preparing a retort. The blossom hits the floor. Once it does, Logan’s boot steps on it roughly as he stands before Maverick face to face. Wraith is the only one who sees this and he chuckles loudly at the choreography. Logan and Maverick are startled by Wraith’s animation. Usually so quiet and to himself unless necessary. It was if they didn’t have an audience. His sudden manifestation was out of the air like a ghost.
“Only a matter of time,” Wraith’s underused deep baritone chuckles, his vocal chords well worn by smoke and battle shrieks. He spoke it like an unpolished jewel years of age and experience formed but still went unrecognized by others. They stare at him for a moment, trying to understand the surreal moment and Wraith’s babblings. Still covered in blood and filth, he has no haste in cleaning himself. Outside the field, he goes about mundane tasks as if in a dream, waiting for the next call. A shower is just running water over sins, he resigned to himself long ago. All the soap in the world couldn’t wash all the blood stained on his hands.
Logan blinks away from Wraith who has now turned back to his blank stare of the horizon. He turns back to Maverick and raises his hands as if in surrender.
“I’m OUT!” he states firmly, harsher than intended. He walks to the side of the hanger where he left his bike parked. Now in his pants, Sabretooth catches Logan’s words.
“Hey, Fox!” Victor yells behind him while watching Logan load and mount his bike, “Logan’s pulling out.”
“Eh. Used to it.” She idly answers, not looking up, still in the double entrendre mindset she and Creed played with earlier. The roar of the engine turning over shoots her head up from her washing. She turns and runs her hand over mouth blowing out and water spurts out like a whale air hole. Her eyes recognize Sabretooth’s meaning and for a moment disappointment flashes across her face.
“Again?” she whispers quietly. The tiny glimmer of hurt quickly is replaced by mean spiritedness as she quickly recovers her sarcastic demeanor. “No BIG deal, right Creed?”
“Which one do you think the frail is?” Creed returns lightly with a chuckle.
Enjoying the concept, she smiles knowing not all relationships can be so easily walked away from. Her hose drops and she walks with her back straight to the outside of the hangar, much to the grinning approval of Sabretooth again.
“Hey, Logan!” she hollers, padding to the outside of the hangar, not bothering to cover her nudity. He stiffens again at the close proximity of her voice and the mischievousness laced in it. He turns to her and finds her standing outside the hangar door, dripping wet, soap bubbles sliding off her glistening skin. She stands legs and palms together, mocking the stance and visage of devotional prayer. Maverick watches her beside him with eyebrow raised. She closes her eyes playfully and slowly bows forward.
“Shiva is watching,” she chants. She straightens with a wry smile. She sharply 180’s it back into the hangar, a chuckle and swaying ass in her wake.
Logan’s eyes firmly close and his mouth thins in irritation. Damn her, she was right. Every Plan X as a Plan B. Protocol failsafes. Indeed, there was a referee if a flag was thrown or a player fouled out. He opens his eyes and sees Maverick glaring at him. But he would have to deal with that later, Logan decides. Absolutely, it was a matter of time. He revs the throttle loudly, about to peal out with no parting words.
Back inside the hangar, Mastodon still wiping off with his own filthy shirt, notices Logan left all his gear behind. Only catching part of the exchange, he runs out to the bike just gaining Logan’s attention before his departure.
“Yo!” Mastodon yells and motions with raised arms. “What do you want to do with your stuff?” he barely makes out over the roar of the engine.
The engine snarl louder this time as he looks at the bloodied youth unemotionally. The road is in one direction. Back to her. Only thing he will allow between himself his return to her is distance and time. He will shorten both without the extra baggage of this life he is leaving behind for her. For the both of him. They can all go to hell. The fighting, the wars, the team, the men in Corinthian chairs and corrupted perspectives. They can all burn in the fires of their own design…
The back tire spins on the asphalt leaving behind skid marks, smoke and the smell of melting rubber.
In his ears now is the sound of the engine, the wail of the wind and the rhythm of his pulse as he speeds faster across open runway towards the trees.
His last order. His impromptu parting words.
“Burn ‘em.”
in medias res
