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Chapter 1: The Beast

Canada Rockies
Many years past


He can hear the echoing sounds of his breathing as his bare feet trots through the ice and snow. Crisp cool air whips around his body with every step he takes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been running or where he’s been running from, but the notion; the need to flee won’t leave him…so he runs.

Flashes of images, memories, emerge in sporadic jolts, dragging him into zigzag paths through the trails. He remembers the flames, he remembers the screams, but most of all he remembers the overflowing stench of blood. Rumbling a mixture between a grunt and a roar, he pounds his legs into a furious sprint. Almost as if the visions, as if the horrors he was trying to run from were right behind him, nicking at his heels.

With powerful legs, he bursts through a pine brush; a thousand needles erupt in his wake. Dozens of tiny bristles pierce his naked flesh but as seconds pass they are all soon expelled. His lungs rage from the exertion almost as if he were in danger of them exploding from his chest. He doesn’t question why, in his nudity, that the cold climate doesn’t chill him to the bone. In fact his body seemed to be burning an inferno the longer he moves, each of his breaths causing a mist of fog with every exhale.

His hand snatches out to this left, whipping his body around a mighty larch tree as he rounds the bend. For a moment he finds himself in error. His feet slip on a rogue piece of hard ice. Breathless he finds himself as he fumbles with his footing, sliding down the hilly snow bank beside him. Cloudy debris of wind and ice flows around him during his decent. His eyes scan up ahead only to see the edge of the cliff he was rapidly approaching.

He has only one attempt in preserving his life, but that was more than was needed.

With the grace that would have humbled a mountain lion he leaps. Wind sails around his body as he soars. For brief seconds the murderous visions abandon him, for just a moment he truly feels free.

He reaches the other side in a hard crouch. With less than two breathes he’s rolls to his feet, heedless from his sudden brush from death he continues on to move, each stride grander than the last till he reaches the canyon edge.

His massive chest rises and falls with every breath as his gaze continues to reach. His sharp eyes glance over the various mountain ranges, the thick brush of green trees and rocks. For a moment his eyes close as he takes in a long breath. The air around him was rich, clean, almost purifying, easing the animal lurking inside of him, cooling his pulse.

Then from up high at the top of the world, the Beast lets all along the horizon know of his presence with a mighty roar.

*Thump! Thump! Thump!*

“Wolverine! Wolverine!”

OoOoOo


The Rumble House
Laughlin City
The not too distant future…


The thunderous pounding on the bathroom’s door, breaks him from the cavernous calm of sleep. His eyes swim around the low-lit damp room of the bar’s men’s room. His elbow budged, knocking the bottle of whiskey that still had a swallow left to the floor.

His mind mixed-in bits of now from bits and pieces of his dream. It was a memory, probably the first honest one he could cling to from his wretched mind. His hand raked over his face trying to right the direction of his thoughts, but still the dream lingered. It was as if he concentrated just hard enough, he’d still be able to recapture that scent of crisp clean air, the vastness of the mountainside. That opened breath of freedom.

“Wolverine, ye in t’ere?” the voice called again through the door, “Wolverine, ye’re up next!”

His steel gray eyes narrowed in recollection as his name was uttered. More of the world comes to him, fading away all traces of his sleep. His hands fumble across the sink he was slumped over, turning on a mild stream. After a few splashes of water, he rises up. Tough dark eyes, forged from so many years of a not so pretty lifestyle stared back at him. “Why do ya keep doin’ this bub?” he asks the reflection, but just like all the other times, he again didn’t have an answer.

He suddenly feels the familiar dark prickling sensation along the back of his skull. His eyes sharpen instantly as well as his pulse starts to burn. The dark entity that was lying dormant inside of him was awakened. It heard its siren call for blood.

He knows there will be chaos. He knows there will be pain. His life as far as he’s known it has been a conjuncture of the two that honestly it’s all he’s ever known, but for a single fleeing moment he wanted to enjoy this instant of peace for just a little longer. But just like that the moment passes.

It was time to go to work.

OoOoOo


The Rumble House, if there ever was a coliseum of shit holes of all the world, it would have been there.

It was a rough joint where the lowest of the low always seemed to flock to. ‘Specially Friday nights, where any two assholes that had guts enough; got to step into that steel cage to the cheerin’ shouts of the crowd to show e’erybody what you were made of.

Three minutes of mayhem. Three minutes of pain, ya were given. And at the end of it if ya were lucky ya’d be the bastard that walked out of there. Yer head’s held a little bit higher cause for a moment ya thought that ya were worth something, that maybe even you could be a champion.

OoOoOo


He doesn’t budge when the blows rain. He doesn’t flinch he simply embraces it.

His body holds, allowing the maniac from the other side of the ring wail on him for all he’s worth. Dozens of frenzied spectators stand-up and shout from outside of the steel cage, each of them anxiously waiting for that first shred of blood.

None of them, caring who’s…

For a split-second a grin crosses his harsh features in dark humor, through the dull haze that a half drunken a bottle of whiskey brings, because in this hell, in this chaos, he’s in his element. The steel reinforced foundation is his kingdom.

Brief flare-ups of pain ignite around his rib cage as his opponent continues his assault. Left, right, LEFT, right, RIGHT, that last one nearly buckles him, bringing him down to a knee.

His eyes start to flare dangerously. He feels the other him growling, the darkness whispering to him, pleading him, begging him for release. Like a bright red poker, scraping at the back of his skull, he feels it. The destruction, the fury, the rage inside of him, spectators call it the Wolverine; he simply knows it as the Beast.

The Beast starts to call for blood it craves it. He feels its claws inching behind his knuckles. It starts eyeing the poor jerk’s body like a whimpering doe. It would be so easy, it whispers, so simple. Its voice always low always seductive. Always seeking release, always seeking its freedom… But the man resolutely keeps it in check.

His eyes start to focus as he begins to scrutinize his opponent for the first time. Bald and broad-shouldered, half head taller than him with a chin that looked like it could break concrete. He’d chuckles to himself briefly, wondering how well it would fare against a knuckle-full of adamantium.

His opponent eyes him strangely, hearing the laugh. For all the jerk knows he’s been winning this fight. The infamous Wolverine hasn’t delivered a single blow, hasn’t even attempted to fight back what so ever. But his opponent, a pro in his own right, quickly shakes it off and comes at him again. Two quick strides with his long limber legs bring him into the Wolverine’s corner and the doom, which the act brings.

As soon as his opponent’s foot lands, the Wolverine is on him like a storm. He drops his shoulder sliding inside the bald brawler’s guard, where his large fast fists make murder on baldy’s rib cage. And the funny thing about the Wolverine, his fist don’t just pound or bash, they simply pulverize with every blow that lands as if each knuckle was dipped with steel.

The Wolverine’s nostrils flare with each attack as his fury builds. He doesn’t simply strike to dispense pain the Wolverine strikes to disable. After ten-seconds of mayhem, Baldy’s ribs are all but destroyed, making each attempt at breathing a Herculean effort. A right cross-left hook-uppercut sends Baldy to the ground in a crumbled heap, with everyone in the crowd on their feet in a frenzy.

The combination he dubbed, ‘The Works,’ was something he was known for, because after ‘The Works,’ you didn’t get up.

The Wolverine then stalked away from his latest win as the announcer proclaimed his victory. His eyes scanning for the next would be sucker that decided to dethrone the Wolverine.


OoOoOo


They drag what’s left of his last opponent out of the ring. The guy was still breathing, which meant he’d wake up…someday.

The Wolverine’s eyes the trail the stream of blood that followed behind the poor bum as they took him away. He had to be more careful. He almost lost control that time. He could feel it within himself; the Beast seemed to be gaining another foothold every day.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself as he bit into his cigar. He had to go grab tonight’s winnings.


OoOoOo


When he gets to the bar the other patrons instantly give him a wide-breadth. He likes it that way he enjoys the space. It doesn’t allow anyone to get too close. It doesn’t allow anyone to ask him questions. It doesn’t allow anyone in.

He barks out an order to the bartender asking for a drink. His lip curls around, biting into his burning Cuban cigar. His dark eyes scan over the room glancing over the late night lowlifes and drunks that always hung out till last call, his sharp ears picked up pieces of all of their conversations.

There would always be a sob story somewhere. Some poor bastard’s wife left him. A fella got laid off today with his girl expecting. Or someone owed a bit more money then they ever hoped to get. Just as always he wrote them all off just as the barkeep slid a frothing mug in front of him.

For a brief moment, big chocolate brown eyes draw his intense dark glare. A young girl, that couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, was staring at him from across the bar as if he was the devil incarnate. He’d seen girls that young around her before, most of them runaways, some of them doing a bit of ‘night work’ in order to survive. He would have written her off as another streetwalker, but it was her eyes that betrayed her.

Her eyes, large and brown, were too innocent and too pure for a shithole like this. A small part of him wondered sadly what she had done or even who’d she done to get to a place like this. But just as quickly he shrugs the thought away, returning to his beer. It wasn’t his problem; he already had a truckload of his own.

He turns away from the girl, already putting her innocent stare out of his mind. He briefly scans at the television not really caring what was on. It wasn’t till the word, “Mutant” comes across the Newscaster’s lips did he even glance up.

The U.N. seemed to be having more talks about the growing Mutant issue that was facing the world. There were talks of forcing government assigned registration for all Mutants in the United States; the driving force behind this movement was the newly elected Senator Kelly. But as Kelly’s goal seemed to be burning with a strong resolve, there seemed to be a growing number of political figures that were trying to find a less conservative solution.

“In related news,” the Newscaster continued, “Psychologist and world-renowned Mutant sympathizer Professor Charles Xavier spoke at the University of Winnipeg this evening on his views for Mutant civil and political rights.”

The report then switched to a live recording piece from a part of Xavier’s speech. A shot of the campus audience that attended, as Xavier’s rich voice was heard echoing in the background. “Mutation: it is the key to our evolution. It has enabled us to evolve from a single-celled organism into the dominant species on the planet. This process is slow and normally taking thousands and thousands of years. But every few hundred millennia, evolution leaps forward.”

The camera then shifted to a viewing of Professor Xavier. His clear blue eyes peered into the distance. A warm smile adorned the older man’s face as he began again, “Be not afraid ladies and gentlemen for the next stepping stone in the evolutionary process of man is upon us. It is with my hope that together we all will be able to witness the bright horizon that tomorrow can bring.” It was briefly silent when he concluded. The camera briefly then panned around to the auditorium. Hundreds of faces stared back to the Professor then slowly one by one people started to climb to their feet in thunderous applause.

The Wolverine cut his eyes away from the television show, his keen ears picking up somebody approaching from behind. A second afterward his nose picked up his scent; the guy reeked of High Karate and whiskey. There was a third scent that accompanied the guy; this one was far more subtle than the other two and far more bothersome. Trouble.

“My fighter’s busted up pretty good,” the Wolverine heard the guy grumble over his shoulder. The slight slurring of the guy’s words told it took a quite a bit of liquid courage before the guy decided to get the nerve to come over here. “He’s gonna get laid up in the hospital for weeks because of you.”

Strike one. The Wolverine slowly removed his Cuban from his lips, in order to speak. “I’d be sure to send ‘im a ‘Get Well’ card,” he gruffly shot back over his shoulder while returning to his drink.

“I saw that beating he gave you,” the drunk continued, “but there ain’t no marks. No man can take that much punishment without showing.” His teeth gritted as he leaned in close enough to whisper, “I know what you are…”

Strike two. The Wolverine’s head whipped back his dark eyes pouring deep into the agitated drunk. “Yer man wound up in the hospital, ‘less ya wanna end up in the morgue, I’d keep walkin’…” His eyes rose to get a good look at the guy; late forties, maybe early fifties, brown hair thinning and about twenty pounds overweight. He held himself pretty well on his feet, meaning he’d probably seen a few brawls in his day. He’d see one more tonight, if he kept it up.

The two stared at each other long and hard. The drunk started to notice that the Wolverine was actually smaller than he thought, although he didn’t look any less dangerous. The fierce gleam in his eye set the drunk retreating back a step and in another moment the Wolverine turned his back onto him returning to his chair.

And the guy was about to make Strike three. Because what his eyes and ears didn’t pick up, his nose always fell into place. And in this instance his nose picked up a whole lot. Besides the bad cologne, stench of whisky and the hint of crisp leather from the guy’s jacket, he could smell the clean metallic steel of the switchblade that was firmly tucked under the guy’s hand.

But most of all he could smell the subtle shift in the man’s natural scent from mild fury and bubbling rage. The type mindless rage that tended to make men do stupid things; such as trying to attack a guy that just demolished eight fighters in the steel ring, with a simple switchblade.

So even before the young girl screamed, “LOOK OUT!” the Wolverine was already on the move. With almost a leap he rounded the plunging knife to his back, finding himself on the outside of his attacker’s reach. The Wolverine’s hand shot out with a massive fist checking the drunk in the jaw so hard the defying sound of a bone cracking could be heard. His hand then jabbed out again this time driving lower. There was a faint metallic glint, accompanied by sleek sound of steel escaping steel from a metallic chamber that followed by a soft plunging hiss as his fist pressed keenly alongside the guy’s ribs.

“Ya feel that?” Wolverine grunted into the guy’s face giving his fist a jagged twist, “That’s one good reason, not to piss me off, bub.” A choked up bloody gurgle was the guy’s response, before he fell lifelessly to the floor. A pool of blood freely flowing from a gapping wound to his ribcage.

The Wolverine’s heated gaze, leveled on everyone within the bar. Just like always, everyone present head seemed to look the other way, as if the ceiling and floor was the most amazing thing they’d seen this century. He started to turn to the exit when his eyes met to those same pair of fearful brown eyes from before. This time before the girl seemed rooted to the spot. For reason’s he couldn’t explained his face softened the longer he looked at her. But just like that he looked away. Wordless he finally stalked outside.

The Bartender then looked up as if noticing for the first time shouted, “Someone get this piece of shit out of here!” he ordered while pointing at the body on the ground, “I’ve got a business to run.”


To Be Continued…





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