DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
thatcraftykid

track one // “MONEY”

MONEY, IT’S A GAS / GRAB THAT CASH WITH BOTH HANDS AND MAKE A STASH
“Oh, you hush.” She turns her glare on the unconscious
heap laid out across the seat. “Lucky for me, I am invincible.”
– Rogue –

Too anxious to get down from the cab and Rogue stumbles, worn shoes sliding past the metal step, toes landing on iced-over concrete. The door swings wide, pulling the weight of her body and her duffel bag with it. She rests her forehead against her gloved hand, still clutching the handle.

Nearly cross-eyed, she glares through the blotchy buzz until she can clearly see her breath coming out in puffs of condensation. Her taut skin settles into the pinprick sensation she’s more or less gotten used to. Five Mississippi Rivers, and she straightens.

She blinks rapidly, against the snow and the scenery. A handful of people paying her no mind. A dozen or so beat up pickup trucks. A dilapidated structure that looks half made out of aluminum. Beyond that, arctic tundra.

“This is Laughlin City,” Rogue intones.

Moron child don’t know a destination from a hole-in-a-wall. Sure, hitchhike ’cross Canada, eh? Why not. I could be anybody, takin’ her any place. She don’t know. Hell, all these fuckin’ kids today think they’re invincible –

“Oh, you hush.” She turns her glare on the unconscious heap laid out across the seat. “Lucky for me, I am invincible.”

His head lolls and gravity wins out. She tilts her chin, scrunching her face as his cheek smashes against the dirty floor.

“Not so lucky for you, I might need to know how to drive a semi someday.”

Dropping her bag to the snow, she climbs back into the cab enough to yank his bulk onto the seat. As she’s arranging him into a more comfortable position – he’ll be sleeping well through the night, by her careful estimation, and waking up not knowing what hit him – the wallet sticking out of his back pocket catches her eye.

Rogue’s nimble fingers have the wallet picked and contents counted before her conscience can interject. That ain’t Christian, chickadee, it reprimands in her momma’s voice. Her mother lost her footing on the moral high ground eight months ago, but Rogue still pauses.

Seventy-two Canadian dollars. Blindsided victim.

Moral quandary.

His drool collects on the seat. He bought her lunch, and this is how she thanks him.

“Damn,” she bites off, snapping shut the wallet and shoving it back into his pocket. “You waste that money on a hooker with a bad tit-job instead of putting it toward next month’s alimony payment, so help me.”

My ex put out honest like a hooker ’stead of givin’ it away for free to every man ’cept me, I’d consider payin’ her on time.

“Charming. You know, I cannot afford to be such a soft touch, especially not to misogynists. In fact.” Rogue pops open the glove box with her fist. “Keep your money. I’m going to pawn your gun.” She checks the ammo and safety with the familiarity of an Air Force captain. “You’re a lousy shot anyway,” she tells him, slipping the cool metal into the inside pocket of her voluminous cloak.

She gets down from the cab a final time and presses down the lock.

“Well, Patrick Lee Guff, lifetime resident of Calgary, antiques aficionado, and fly-fishing tournament champion ’85, ’86, ’87 and ’91 – quite a comeback – I appreciate the ride, and I appreciate the gun. Sleep well, and, uh, thanks for all the memories.”

With that, Rogue slams the door shut, picks up her duffel bag, and marches through the snow and into the next in the series of poorly thought-out decisions that have come to define her miserable excuse for a life.

And how, she thinks to herself as she edges her way into the bar, which seems to be lit by trashcan fire. Warm, yes. Cheap, yes. Intelligent, no. The siding might be aluminum but the rest of the place is little more than plywood.

There are far more bodies inside than the parking lot suggested. Their voices are rough, excited. Rogue shrinks back inside her hood. The crowd surrounds a large cage, where three figures are silhouetted by a thick haze of smoke. A boxing bell dings. Her gaze follows a body as he’s dragged out of the cage by his armpits. The crowd boos, evidently on the fallen man’s side.

She’s never seen a cage fight before, but Guff’s seen plenty. Blood sport, she thinks with his distaste. But profitable, she adds, remembering their buddy Al hitting pay dirt two summers ago in this very bar. Owner’s an old hunting buddy of Al’s. Rough clientele, damn fine whiskey.

“Gentlemen!” the announcer yells, and she has to sneer a little at the irony. “In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like this. Are you going to let this man walk away with your money?”

The man in question is all sleek definition and muscle tone, like a Roman statue with wild dark hair and a shiny belt. He has his bare back to Rogue, though by his stance she can tell his last competitor was less than a challenge. She stretches her fingers inside her thin gloves, knuckles cracking audibly.

“I’ll fight him!” a bald-headed behemoth cries from the bleachers.

Her arms droop. So disappointing. Rogue is confident she can take down anybody, and Statue’s naked torso intimidation ploy would’ve made for a record-breaking knockout. Along with, if Al is any indication, enough cash to get her to Anchorage in style.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our savior!” the announcer cries.

Nothing generates gambling better than theatrics. A girl her age would never be allowed in that cage. But a little mutant girl? If she knows rednecks – and she does, firsthand – a lot of them would empty their wallets and more to witness that particular brand of Jim Crow justice.

Too bad money is worth a hell of lot less to her than anonymity, even if she has gotten herself into such a sorry state that money equals food. She’s been careless with what she’s stolen. An upper middleclass upbringing is to blame. Feast or famine; she’s yet to figure out the in-between.

The bell dings again, signaling the beginning of the fight for what would be her winnings if the world was an even slightly fairer place. But fair play is dead, and Behemoth proves it by opening with a kick to the back and two successive punches.

Statue falls hard on his knees, and she half expects to hear a sound like shattered clay. The cage rattles as Behemoth repeatedly kicks him against the unrelenting metal. The crowd cheers.

Rogue watches grimly. She’s come to the conclusion that, one way or another, the winner is her next meal ticket, and Behemoth isn’t the better target of the two. He’s a townie, no doubt, and she needs a ride.

Get up, she wills Statue. Kick his ass.

Behemoth steps back.

Distinctly, she hears, “You idiot!” Someone’s been watching this fighter long enough to know that he may be down, but he’s not out. His fist comes up, making a brutal sound against Behemoth’s knuckles.

Her eyes gleam. The cage fighter’s aquiline nose and abdominal definition may be Romanesque, but he’s no statue. He is flesh, barely restrained. She knows something about that.

Blood sport, Guff whispers in her mind again. All of them boys is animals.

One good swing, and Behemoth bounces off the metal cage. He finishes Behemoth off with little more than a twitch of his neck.

Snarling, he loosens his shoulders. Eyes scan the crowd. A silver chain and dog tag flash under the glare of the lights. She raises her hand to the tags she’s worn around her own neck for going on two months.

The soldier gives Behemoth a farewell kick for good measure.

“Winner and still King of the Cage, the Wolverine!”

The boos are louder this time. He stalks to the side of the cage, where he lights a cigar and resumes his earlier pose.

Her lips stick as they part to allow her to take a steadying breath.

Animals. Wolverine.

The announcer calls for another challenger but no one speaks up, so the crowd begins to stand and reach behind them for their coats. The theatricality is lost. The King of the Cage has proven unbeatable.

Rogue slinks back. Doubt settles in, agitating her. She takes a perch on an empty bar stool and rests her feet on her duffel bag. She asks for a glass of water, the only thing in her life she can ever get for free.

Her plan for stealing the money is half-cocked, like everything she does. With this kind of crowd, Guff tells her the winnings could be a grand or more. Enticing, but it puts things into grim perspective. No one breaks out the dogs for twenty, fifty bucks here and there. But anything approaching four figures could get her into serious trouble.

And that man is Trouble with a capital T, her momma warns.

Rogue tosses back her water like whiskey. Guff doesn’t want anyone thinking she’s soft.

It isn’t the man she’s worried about, not really. It’s the possibility of the hunt. Animal. Soldier. Wolverine might track her down, turn her in – strip her of her hard-won anonymity. She’ll starve before she gets taken back to Mississippi again. She’ll lay down and die.

Fear makes her weak, and the dark takes advantage, pulls her in. For an indefinite period of time, she’s aware of blinking but not seeing. She breathes, but she can’t think beyond the mantra she’s adopted. To the beat of a heart monitor: Me. Awake. Aware. Me.

With a slow shudder she pulls herself out of the dark.

She clenches and unclenches her jaw, upset with herself. She’s more susceptible to what she thinks of as her coma-narcolepsy just after she absorbs someone, especially if she makes the mistake of letting herself think of the clinic.

Too arrogant by half, Guff warns her. He’s not wrong, but she’s not happy to hear his opinion. She blames him, anyway. His personality is so easy to handle, it’s no wonder she got lulled off her guard.

Well, not again. No more just-in-case borrowings, and no more thousand-dollar fantasies. Stick to the small stuff, she tells herself, eyeing the jar full of singles and change in front of her.

“Want somethin’ new, honey?” The owner’s stare is none too friendly. “Or you stickin’ with water?” He slides the tip jar out of her reach.

She doesn’t respond. The man’s name is Ed Baylor, and he’s missing the pinkie toe of his right foot. Over a beer, he’d told Guff it was from frostbite, but Al told him later Ed’d accidentally shot it off himself on a hunting trip. His wife’s name is Leah, and he has a grown-up daughter named Marie. Rogue wonders if the coincidence is enough to wheedle him out of a bowl of peanuts.

Ed turns away before she can bring it up. It’s late now and the place is almost empty, but Wolverine takes a seat at the end of the bar. He could have left already, she wouldn’t have known. Story of her life. Always reflecting when she should be acting, always acting when she should be reflecting.

“I’ll have a beer.”

She expects his voice to be deep but not so low. The King of the Cage all but murmured, and that tells Rogue everything she thinks she needs to know – he doesn’t like attention, either. He’s like her, an outsider. Her resolve quickly vanishes. He’ll be all right to steal from.

Rogue is grateful. She almost smiles, watching him drink his beer out of the corner of her eye. He catches her. She demurs, but can’t help but look back when she sees him pick up his change from the bar. Is that part of his winnings? Has he gotten it yet?

He’s not pleased with her staring, but it honestly doesn’t matter at this point. They’re rapidly becoming the only people in the bar, so he’d notice her anyway.

If he looked a little more inviting, she’d slip off her coat, flash him some teeth. He’d pick her up, take her to a motel. She’d knock him out with a touch, enjoy a warm bed for a few hours, then head out with money in hand.

A good con in theory, and the only time she’d tried it it’d worked right up until the very last part. For fifteen measly bucks, pervert Gordy Neville rented a permanent space inside her head. After him, Rogue likes to think she’s become more discerning, but fear of ignorant mistakes and a half-realized search for something to fill the dark keeps her borrowing far more than she needs.

Wolverine glares at her. Rogue pretends to watch the television she’s just realized is on.

“The leaders of over two hundred nations will gather to discuss issues ranging from the world’s economic climate and weapons treaties to the mutant phenomenon…”

His eyes dart to the TV for the first time.

“…and its impact on our world’s stage.”

Mutant is a trigger-word for him as well, she suspects. Whether out of hate or affiliation she tries to deduce from his expression. His eyes are half lidded behind cigar smoke, but she decides it’s the latter. Not wishful thinking. Recognition.

It’s been a long time since Rogue has seen another mutant. She wants to run over to him, grab him by his leather jacket, shake him with the strength that isn’t her own. She wants to yell in his face, “Listen to what they did to me!” because someone’s got to. Someone’s got to look her in the eye and tell her no one deserves Southaven, no matter how dangerously unnatural.

But he has more pressing concerns. Behemoth approaches, taps him on the shoulder. “You owe me some money.”

“Come on, Stew, let’s not do this.”

Behemoth Stew waves off his friend’s words of caution. “No man takes a beating like that without a mark to show for it.”

“Come on, buddy, this isn’t going to be worth it,” the friend says, voicing her opinion.

Coming forward, Behemoth Stew leans in close. Whispers, “I know what you are.”

A thrill shudders through her. Recognition again, along with fear. That was all it took in Los Angeles. One sharp-eyed nun who thought a mutant runaway worth reporting.

Wolverine doesn’t miss a beat. “You lost your money. You keep this up, you lose somethin’ else.”

The friend ushers Behemoth Stew back, but cooler heads don’t prevail. Light glints off steel.

“Look out!”

She blinks, and Wolverine has Behemoth Stew pinned to the wall with the two huge metal knives jutting from his knuckles. A hint of a middle blade makes its way toward Behemoth Stew’s jugular.

Ed rests the barrel of his shotgun against Wolverine’s ear. “Get out of my bar, freak.”

“Don’t point that at him!”

Rogue brings her stolen handgun up steady, even as her stomach drops out. All are eyes are on her.

So much for anonymity.

DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
thatcraftykid

track one // “MONEY”

MONEY, IT’S A CRIME / SHARE IT FAIRLY BUT DON’T TAKE A PIECE OF MY PIE
“Don’t’ thank me, kid, I don’t want the fuckin’ hassle. Just take the money
and get the hell outta here. You’re in way over your head.”
– Logan –

Logan thinks he’s seen everything now.

The girl’s skittish and absurdly young, and she’s got her gun pointed two inches from any place useful. Still, her clipped drawl is all business. “Gun to the floor. Slow.”

Bartender does as she says, and Logan turns to coax him back on his feet with his second set of claws. Somewhere to his far right, a door shuts. Guy sweeping the cage has hightailed it out of there, and Logan doesn’t blame him. He keeps his eyes on the girl, the unknown entity.

“What d’you think you’re doing, kid?”

Her chin comes up and her brow moves in. “Saving your life.”

“No, you’re not.”

He’d laugh at the affronted expression on her face, but he’s too annoyed. A flip of his wrist and he would’ve sliced that shotgun in half. He’d have taught them a permanent lesson, maybe, or else he would’ve left, no fuss. Now he has the world’s most fucked up Mexican standoff on his hands, on account of some lunatic little girl who doesn’t know what the hell she’s getting herself into.

Her aim suddenly improves. The gun is pointed directly between his eyes. “Fine. Then I’m not saving your life.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks again, this time a lot more loudly and at lot less patiently.

“You could’ve been grateful, then I would’ve been nicer about all this. But…” She shrugs regretfully, daintily. “I want the money.”

Damn the money, he couldn’t give two shits. Logan is beyond annoyed. He’s working his way to angry. “Take a breath and drop the gun, kid. You’re done playin’ around.” He punctuates his order by pointing his left set of claws at her.

She shakes her head. “Mine’s worse.”

It’s probably supposed to be a threat, but her confession only serves to calm him down a fraction. Situation’s controllable, because the girl’s not crazy. Just a stupid-as-hell mutant who picked the wrong guy to identify with.

“All right. Look.” He nods toward the table where the blonde with the wandering hands and her old man are frozen in the act of counting up the night’s profit.

For half a second, she’s obviously thrown. He’d bet his cabin that she hadn’t seen them there before.

Big, brown eyes settle on his like a plea, then she turns the gun on the couple. “Hands where I can see ’em, Beer Belly. I Love the Eighties – money in the bag. All of it.” Blonde doesn’t move until the girl shouts, “Now!”

Her pitch is so high, it takes Logan a beat to hear the bartender diving for the shotgun and react. Bartender brings up two halves. The only sound in the place is the hiss of gun powder falling to the floor and the bartender’s shaky gasps. Then a drawn-out moan and a thud as the big-ass redneck who’d kicked him repeatedly in the balls and then demanded fair retribution topples to the floor in a dead faint.

“Thanks,” the girl breathes, a little shell-shocked. Her gun’s pointed at the fallen redneck. She moves it back to the couple.

“Don’t thank me, kid, I don’t want the fuckin’ hassle. Just take the money and get the hell outta here. You’re in way over your head.”

The girl barks out a laugh. “Been that way for a long time, sugar,” she drawls.

“You’re not doin’ yourself any favors here.”

“Never can seem too.”

She’s got to be older than she looks, he suddenly thinks, because her arch bitterness hits him where he lives. Ain’t it the truth? he could tell her. Instead, he scowls harder. He means what he said – he doesn’t want the hassle.

“Eighties, money,” she prompts.

Blonde looks to Logan. Claws top gun, strange world. He motions her on with a sharp incline of his head. She stands shakily, picking up the fake leather bag. She makes it three wobbly steps on her too-high heels before her knees give out.

“Toss the bag over here,” the girl demands.

Her best effort makes it little more than halfway.

“How much, Big B?”

“Tw-twenty-two hundred,” he stammers.

Her lips twist into something like a smile. “Good.” Gun up, she reaches down and slings what looks to Logan like an army duffel over her shoulder and walks over to pick up the money. She holds the bag up by one handle. “I’ll pay you for a ride,” she offers.

That level of audacity renders him speechless. He settles for his most disgusted stare.

She waves the gun. “I could just take your car.”

Speaking of cars.

Hairs raise on the back of Logan’s neck. He swivels around, and the redneck’s friend stumbles back with his hands stretched out. Logan glares past him, toward the back door. The sound is faint, still pretty far out depending on the wind, but it’s unmistakable.

“What’s he doing? What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? He turns back to the girl. “Shut up. You’re a stupid kid.”

“I am not – ”

“You hear that yet? Sirens. While you been standin’ around jawin’, janitor called the police. You don’t have five minutes.”

Even in the orange glow, the girl looks sheet white. Her eyes glaze over.

Logan draws his claws back in, earning a wince from the bartender. He rolls his shoulder to loosen it up, and the bartender falls back on his ass. Logan gets a tiny amount of satisfaction out of that, but it doesn’t begin to make up for the world of aggravation one slip of a mutant has brought down around his head.

The gun is pointed at him again, but she can unload the thing for all he cares. He’s out of there. Up close, she looks older again, like a dead woman standing, though he refuses to feel sorry for her.

“Best of luck in juvie,” he says, dismissing her even as he walks by.

He’s held up suddenly by his elbow. Her gloved hand is trembling, but it’s stronger than he thinks possible.

“I’m a mutant,” she says.

Like it matters.

Her eyes shine green, startling him. Tears gather on her bottom lids as her face contorts in bitter anguish. “They don’t have any right to do what they did to me, and I am not going back.”

Logan jerks his arm away. He’d prefer a bullet in his gut to the sickening twist he feels. Ain’t it the truth? he could almost say again, except he’s always thought deep down that whatever his they did to him, he might’ve deserved.

“Help me.”

He clamps his arm around her shoulder, shoving her in front of him. “Move your ass.”

The sirens are louder outside, of course, but they don’t sound like they’re getting any closer. Confusion slows him down. The girl tugs at his jacket, and he grabs her wrist before she can do any damage. Leather’s probably older than she is.

“Come on!” Terror rolls off her.

“There’re two cop cars out there, and they’ve both stopped up the way.”

“Good! Which car is yours?”

He sniffs the air. Something else doesn’t smell right.

“Wolverine!”

“Blue and white pickup, with the camper.”

She slips out of his grasp and runs toward it. If she feels safer standing next to it, she’s welcome to, but she’ll just have to wait. The cop cars have stopped dead, no question, and Logan’s drawing the conclusion that something else did the stopping. He listens hard. Gunfire. A – roar?

He loses the far-fetched notion to an engine turning over. The taillights of his own pickup glow red. His hand goes to the pocket of his jeans to feel his keys. The fuck?

A whiff of something sharp and metallic hits his nose. Blood, not human.

His pickup swings around and skids to halt in front of him. The girl reaches across his seat to push open the passenger door. All he can smell now is gasoline and fear.

“Get in.”

She settles back into driver’s seat, buckling the seatbelt in one fluid motion.

“No way you’re driving my – ”

“Get in already!”

She yanks the shift. Logan hardly has time to step in before she floors the gas, the passenger side door nearly slamming closed on his fingers. His indignation is nothing to his anger when he sees the exposed wires hanging near her knees.

“You hotwired my truck!”

“So bill me!” she retorts, pumping the wheel to the right to keep from sliding into the back of a parked semi.

“Watch my – ” A terrible thought has him sticking his shoulders out of the door. “That’s my damn chopper you unhitched!” he bellows. He just bought the damn thing. 1977 XS 650, all original parts. For christ’s sake, he hasn’t taken it out for more than a test drive.

A tug on his belt sees his head back inside the cab just in time to avoid braining himself against the side of a building.

“It would’ve slowed us down. If you want it that badly, take a flying leap. Otherwise, sit back.”

White lights go off behind his eyelids. He’s actually seeing stars, he’s so fucking furious. He fights against his claws. They slice through his sore knuckles before he can will them back behind his skin.

Logan’s breathing is heavy. The girl’s is shaky.

She seems content to finally shut the fuck up, and it’s a long time before he can bring himself to speak to her.

“You got a plan?”

The girl wets her lips. “Keep down this road, and we can get onto the highway.”

“What makes you say that?” He hasn’t seen any signs.

Her lip quirks, only slightly. “Trucker told me. I’m heading – ” She hesitates, poses her direction as a question to him, “West?”

“West,” he allows roughly. Little under four hundred kilometers that direction, and they’d be in High Level. He’ll let her off there and circle back to his cabin. Peace and solitude. At this point, fucking deserved.

He considers telling her to pull over, despite the fact that he’s bone-tired. From stress, no doubt, as opposed to a solid week of bar hopping and cage fighting.

She beats him to it with a yawn. “If you want to drive now…”

“Nope.” Logan tosses her duffel and the money into the camper behind him and settles into his seat, stretching his cramped legs as far as he can and crossing his arms over his chest. “You can handle it, kid.”

“Sure, of course,” she says quickly. “Not a problem.”

He snorts softly at her sudden change of attitude. Better, he thinks, and closes his eyes. Practically meek.

“It’s Rogue, though. Not ‘kid.’”

Practically.

“No talking.”

“Right,” she whispers.

Logan growls lowly. He thinks he hears a suppressed laugh, but he chooses to ignore it in favor of silence.

Rest is what he needs – how long’s it been? – but there’s no getting that smell out of head.

Not human, but nothing like a dog. Cougar’s closer, but who ever heard of a cougar at this altitude, this close to civilization? More the point, who ever heard of a cougar attacking a couple of cop cars on their way to break up an armed robbery?

Too convenient. Had to be related. “They” and the way she said it sticks in his mind. They’re looking for her, undoubtedly. Had they found her?

Opening his eyes a crack, he studies the girl who calls herself Rogue. Too slim under that coat, he’d wager. Could be why she looks so young. Straight brown hair wisps out past her hood. Her cheekbones suggest she’s older, he thinks. Lips, too, even pressed together tight like that. He could swear her eyes are brown again.

A car whizzes by, and she relaxes her grip on the steering wheel ever so slightly. Her posture remains rigid. He immediately pegged her as skittish, and first impressions don’t lie.

What’d they do to her? Who are they?

It bothers him that he’s curious. He doesn’t give a shit about the details of other people’s pasts. The only past he cares about is his own. If he can survive fifteen damn years with that a mystery, he can certainly let Miss Rogue suffer in blessed silence.

The sting of salt hits his nostrils. Logan shuts his eyes, never expecting to fall asleep.

DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
thatcraftykid

track one // “MONEY”

MONEY, IT’S A CRIME / SHARE IT FAIRLY BUT DON’T TAKE A PIECE OF MY PIE
“Okay, so I don’t live by the Girl Scout Law. I’m a thief and a liar –
but, far as I can tell, you beat people up for a living so no lectures, please.”
– Rogue –

Rogue checks the rearview mirror again. It’s been light out for over an hour now, so the police car three lengths behind her stands out against the snowy backdrop. Longest seven minutes of her life, she’s been watching that car. Just waiting.

The cop picks up speed. She wants to do the same – an out and out chase might be kinder to her nervous system. The suspense is hogtying her stomach something awful.

Wait for the sirens, a bell-like voice cautions her. A ghost from the dark. Maybe it’s an omen.

Rogue shudders.

Miraculously, the cop passes her without so much as a sidelong glance. She can almost make out the driver. He or she, hard to tell, is big and blonde. If she sees another police car with a big blonde driving, she’ll know she’s in trouble. For now, she breathes.

“Jesus fucking goddamned Christ,” Rogue can’t help but say aloud, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Slumped over in the seat beside her, Wolverine snuffles and opens his eyes. For a split-second, she’s sure he doesn’t know who she is. Then a look of pure irritation settles on his features, and Rogue knows he’s remembered.

“Got one helluva mouth on you for a girl,” he says hoarsely, rubbing both hands over his face.

“A cop car just passed us. I might throw up.”

The comical alarm on Wolverine’s face is heightened by his mutton chops, which are sticking out in swirled patches. “Pull over.”

Rogue has an iron stomach, but she stops anyway. It’s been a long, anxious night. She’s sick of driving. Once she has the truck in park, Wolverine looks like he wants to shove her out the driver side door.

“Just an expression,” she assures him, letting the back of her head rest against the seat. She tugs at her purple scarf. “They’ve got to have an APB out on me. I’m shocked I didn’t get pulled over. Shocked. I wanted to get as far on the highway as possible, but I figured I’d have to turn off onto some side road eventually. When I saw hardly any cars…Stupid. Again.”

Rogue lets her chin drop so she can see him past her hood. Wolverine’s head is resting against the seat, too, but he’s looking forward. He finishes smoothing down his beard and rubs his knuckles with his long fingers. For the rough and tumble sort, he’s got enviable eyelashes.

“I should’ve gotten off the highway earlier. Sorry.”

“It’s your blood pressure.”

“No roadblocks, so they probably haven’t thought to consult anyone stateside about me. There’s a bright side for you.”

“Criminal record.”

“Believe it or not, that was my first holdup. Scout’s honor.” Rogue puts down her three fingers at his skeptical bow. “Okay, so I don’t live by the Girl Scout Law. I’m a thief and a liar – but, far as I can tell, you beat people up for a living so no lectures, please.”

Logan snorts, clearly not impressed. “You’re worried about a missing persons.”

“That’s the one.”

“Parents.”

His way of asking questions via presumptive statements does not make her want to open up. “Private party,” she replies, her tone final.

Wolverine turns his head to look at her now and finally asks a real question: “Does this private party use mutant trackers?”

Left field, much? “No way. They hate mutants. That’s the point.”

“So then they wouldn’t have anything against exploitation.”

“They hate us most of all because they can’t control us. Southaven’s a clinic. They…run tests. Try to figure out how we work. ‘Know thine enemy’ bullshit.”

“Mm.” He sits up, apparently finished.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“I’ll drive. Hop out.”

“Can’t. I broke the door to get in. Why would you ask me about a mutant tracker?”

“What d’you mean, broke the door? How’d you get it shut?”

“I pulled real hard.” She unbuckles herself and turns to face him, arms across her chest. “Mutant tracker?”

He sighs. “Something stopped those two cop cars last night. Am I driving or what?”

“Switch me spots.” She waits for him to grudgingly half-stand, knees resting on the seat, so she can scoot down the bench, almost on her back. Right as she’s passing under the arch he’s made with his body, she stops to look up at him through his arms. “You were making a point.”

“Point is, we got away, ’cause somethin’ stopped those cops from doing their job. Somethin’ that didn’t smell human.”

“What, like a bear?”

“You got a trained bear standin’ by in the woods in case you get into trouble? This isn’t exactly a comfortable position, kid.”

He does look cramped. Also, she’s close enough to bop his belt buckle with the tip of her nose. She refrains – he’s annoyed with her enough as is, excessive goading not required – and slithers the rest of the way down the bench.

As he’s taking his seat, she slides back her hood. “I’m Rogue,” she reminds him.

“You mentioned that.” He opens the ashtray and takes out a cigar.

He leans forward and she sees his dog tag. Familiarity bubbles up again.

“You were in the army?” No response. “Doesn’t that mean you were in the army?”

Wolverine tucks the tag back under his shirts, scowling.

“You are easily upset. It’s a character flaw.”

That elicits a snort, a fleeting hint of a smile. “I got plenty more of those where that one came from,” he tells her, putting the cigar between his teeth. “Good thing I’m dropping you off at the nearest bus station.”

The lighter pops out, and he holds it up to the end of his cigar. A couple of puffs and then a long, satisfied drag. He contemplates it like a favorite lover. She almost tells him to get a room, but a clarification is more pressing.

“I get to keep the money, though, right?”

A flash of anger. “Yes. You get to keep the damn money.” He puts the truck into drive and starts them back down the highway.

Rogue smiles smugly as she buckles her seatbelt. “Don’t mind if I do. How about you drop me off at a really shady used car dealership instead?”

“There ain’t but one dealership where you’re gettin’ off, and it’s not cheap. Welcome to Northern Canada.”

“Never mind. I wouldn’t want to spend all my hard-earned money in one place.”

He grunts around his cigar but doesn’t deny it’s hers.

Glad that’s settled, she looks behind her to gaze fondly at the bag. His tiny, messy camper strikes her again. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Just, suddenly my life doesn’t look that bad.”

“What’d you tell me? ‘Take a flying leap.’”

Technically speaking, she very well could, but he doesn’t know that.

“It looks great,” she amends. Rogue looks down with a sideways smile. “Looks cozy.” She glances up again.

He blows out a puff of smoke, focus on the road.

Her stomach gargles. Pots and pans…“You wouldn’t have anything to eat back there?”

“Nothin’, unless there’s somethin’ in the glove box.” He leans over and reaches past the gun she stashed in there to pull out a package of beef jerky, which he tosses in her lap.

With her teeth, she pulls off her long, thin gloves so she can open the wrapping. She devours the piece of jerky in under fifteen seconds, barely remembering to chew with her mouth closed. Far from a hearty meal, but better than saliva. Anyway, she’s a rich woman now. Before Wolverine sends her off into the wild blue yonder, maybe she can talk him into lunch, her treat.

Rogue rubs her bare hands for warmth. Character flaws notwithstanding, she likes the King of the Cage. She could take a little part of him with her, of course, but something tells her, of all the indignities she’s put him through, that’s the one he’d consider unforgivable.

“Put your hands on the heater.”

She jerks away just in time, pressing her shoulder against the door.

Wolverine looks truly offended. “Now you think I’m gonna hurt you, kid?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Rogue says as she puts her gloves back on. “When people touch my skin, something happens.”

“What?”

Level stare. “They get hurt.”

“Fair enough.”

She watches his hand come down to rest on the steering wheel. His knuckles look chapped, otherwise unbroken. “When they come out – does it hurt?”

“Every time.”

No mutation is perfect. She likes having that knowledge reinforced. Makes her feel a little less alone.

“So, what kind of a name is ‘Rogue?’”

“I don’t know. What kind of a name is ‘Wolverine?’”

“My name’s Logan.”

“Marie.”

For some reason, this time her sass earns her a half a smirk. But when she tries to give him legitimate advice – “You know, you should really wear your seatbelt” – she gets a cigar pointed in her face.

“Look, I’m not about to take advice on auto safety from some girl – ”

An alarming crunch, a sudden stop. She’s wrenched forward. Glass shatters.

Through her hair, she can see her legs. She tugs at them. Stuck, not crushed. Her neck hurts, her stomach where the lapbelt is pulled tight. Her heart beats in her ears. Most of the windshield is blown out.

Logan is out in the snow, staggering sideways like a miracle drunk. He stops a few feet from her to catch his balance. “You all right?”

There’s a huge gash on his forehead, revealing steel-gray instead of bone-white. She watches with jealous fascination as it disappears. Her skin feels like it’s reaching out.

“Kid, are you all right?”

Coming to herself again, she breaks the seatbelt from its metal clamp and holds it up as proof of her last remark. “I’m fine.”

With his arm, Logan wipes the blood from his wound-free face and comes toward her again as she’s opening the passenger side door. She’s halfway out when he stills. Looks around. Sniffs. Rogue sniffs, too.

She’s about to ask him if he smells smoke when a great big something jumps out at Logan from above and behind, knocking him back into the snow. The mammoth creature has to be over seven feet tall. Loose blonde hair and animal pelts hang over his back. When he opens his mouth to roar, he has fangs.

Smoke blurs her view. Inside the cab, she sees flames licking the back of her seat. “Um, fire!” Fire attacking her money, more importantly. She’s about to rescue it when Logan hurtling toward the tree-line catches her attention.

Her adrenaline spikes.

Rogue peels off her gloves. Then she peels the passenger side door off its hinges.

On his way to where Logan is trying to will himself upright, Fangs hefts a thick log like it’s a baseball bat. Rogue gives it her best guess and shot-puts the door. Fangs sees it coming soon enough to turn his back. By the time it hits him, the door isn’t going very fast but it has enough bulk to knock him to his knees.

Logan lumbers up from all fours. Gapes at her.

“He’s getting up!”

Rogue skitters forward onto the hood. Fangs has the door now, and Logan looks back just in time to see him swinging for the fences.

Takeoff!

Her legs propel her body into the air, pointed directly at projectile Logan. There’s nothing she can do to brace herself against his surprising mass meeting hers. His stomach hits her shoulder, and he grunts in pain. She balances him on her back, but they’re spinning out of control.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” he yells in her ear. Rogue has no energy to scream out loud. It’s all focused inward: Carol, Carol, Carol, Carol, Carol!

The wind has picked up abruptly, swirling them in falling snow. A flash of red.

Fangs’ roar reconnects her brain to her spinal cord. Rogue pushes up and out. Her body responds fast enough that they’re well over the trees when an explosion sounds. Logan’s unintelligible howl echoes off the low cliffs they’re heading for.

She doesn’t have to see it to know what the blasted remnants of his truck look like. The memory of a car bomb sinking shrapnel eight inches deep into a palm tree comes to the forefront of her mind. Her next thought is more personal – Bye-bye twenty-two hundred dollars. Later, she’ll let herself get upset over the loss. Now, she needs to concentrate.

Before she could do it herself, she used to think the trick to flying was weightlessness. That’s how it looks in cartoons, anyway. However, real world physics requires force to overcome gravity. Flying takes muscle, mental as well as physical.

Mental is harder for Rogue to maintain. The dark gathers around the edges of her eyelids. Carol, she thinks, but she’s been swallowed up again. The dark is an abyss. It’s only a matter of time before Rogue falls in with her.

“Hey, hey – Kid! Hey!”

The back of her thigh stings.

“Marie!”

Physics again. She’s losing momentum. What goes up must come down; a slow decent becomes a freefall. Logan’s weight tips her over, so that he bares the full burden of her body in absorbing their impact on the icy, uneven ground.

Two final thoughts cross Rogue’s mind – she can feel Logan’s arms wrapped tight around her waist, she recognizes the sound of a receding jet overhead – before an uncertain dark claims her.

DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
thatcraftykid

track one // “MONEY”

MONEY, GET BACK / I’M ALL RIGHT, JACK, KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OF MY STACK
Logan turns his back on her dumbfounded expression and starts walking.
“End of the road, kid. Hated knowing you.”
– Logan –

Acrid bile froths in his throat. Nothing Logan can do but choke on it, until his back knits itself together well enough for him to shove the girl off and roll onto his side. He empties the contents of his stomach onto the snow. Blood’s next, then dry heaves. Between the fight, the flight, and the fall, it’s a good amount of time before Logan can stagger to his feet.

Even passed out, Marie annoys him. He nudges her in the shoulder with his booted toe. “Wake up.” He doesn’t think she can be injured, so he nudges her harder. She flops back like a dead fish.

With a noise of frustration, he crouches beside her. The bare fingers of her left hand are curled against her ear. Snow glistens on her glowing red face. She looks as fragile and sweet as glass-spun sugar – a lying façade if Logan’s ever seen one.

He’s about to rap her against the forehead when he remembers what she said about her skin, whatever the hell “they get hurt” is supposed to mean. She didn’t say anything about hair, so he slides his hand inside her hood and checks for skull injuries. She’s sweating, not bleeding. Pure exertion got her.

“You think I feel sorry for you, kid?” Logan shakes her limp head no. “You think I asked you to lug my heavy ass up into the damn clouds?” He shakes her head harder. Right again. “You think I asked you to get me into a fight with a maniac fuckin’ mutant? My chopper probably stolen by now, my pickup blown all the hell – you think I asked for that? Huh?” He’s got her by the shoulders now. “You think I asked you and your goddamn problems into my shit life?” Logan has to force himself to stop shaking her before he breaks her neck. He sits back on his haunches, panting in her face.

Her nose twitches. She coughs. “Ugh.” She opens her eyes. Coughs twice. Moans, “What died in your mouth?”

Logan lets her drop to her elbows. He swipes his hand across his face as he stands. There’s some vomit in his beard, which he wipes on his sleeve. “I’m not big into flying.”

Marie’s still coughing. “Suck on some snow or something. God.”

“You finished? That’s where I threw up.”

“Oh, ew. Ew. I almost touched it.” She scrambles back on her knees. “It’s everywhere. How did all that even come out of you?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was the forty-foot drop with the hundred pound weight on my stomach.”

“Okay, that was not intentional. You know, neither of us are dead or mangled, so it was at least a fairly successful rescue.” Marie winces as she gets to her feet like a wobbly-kneed colt. “Where’d we end up, anyway?”

That’s the single decent upshot of this whole fucking catastrophe. The backdrop of the Rockies is as familiar to him as the back of his unscarred hand. His cabin’s just a short hike over the next ridge.

“High Level is twenty kilometers northwest. That’s where I was taking you. Ten minutes away, as the crow flies. Can’t do much better.”

Incredulous, she asks, “You want me to fly us again? I can’t.” She shivers visibly. Eyes not leaving his, she extracts her long gloves from the pockets of her cloak.

“Not us, you. And if you can’t fly, walk.”

“But where’re you going?”

“Home’s due north, and I don’t need you destroying that, too.” Logan turns his back on her dumbfounded expression and starts walking. “End of the road, kid. Hated knowing you.”

“But – Hey, no. You can’t leave me. There’s a fangy Sasquatch back there, and my money’s on fire!”

He pivots. “The money I gave you after you tried to steal it from me at gunpoint. Easy come easy go.”

Marie puts her gloved hands on her hips. “First off, only half of the money was actually your winnings. Second, it’s gone because I chose you over it. Fangs would’ve knocked your head clean off your shoulders if it wasn’t for me.”

“If it wasn’t for you – ”

“Don’t try to make him my fault! Fangs totally went after you.” A valid point. One she ruins by milking it. “So if he comes after me to get to you…” She trails off significantly.

“Can’t guilt-trip me, kid. You may not have any common sense, but you’re sure as shit strong enough to take care of yourself. On top of that, you’ve done not one damn thing to endear yourself to me. I don’t owe you nothin’.”

“Okay. Okay, you don’t. I know that. Logan, I – ” Marie takes a step forward. He takes a step back. “I can’t go into town. I’m on the run now more than ever. You may not care about money, but without it…where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know or you don’t care?”

“Pick one.”

“Shit.” Gingerly she tilts her neck back. Tears gleam in her eyes, but she laughs. It’s sharp and quick to end. “Look, you can skewer me with your claws or whatever, but I’m gonna follow you back to your house. I have to eat. One meal, and I’ll fly away. I swear.”

Logan shifts uncomfortably, suddenly unable to agree to do so little for someone who needs so much.

“I’m not too proud to beg.”

He turns and walks away. “Move your ass,” he tells her for the second time.

Marie keeps pace on his left, taking two strides for his every one. She’s edgy, looking around the forest like the trees are going attack outright.

“Fangs won’t be able to track us since we flew, so that’s good, right?”

Logan grunts.

“Do you know why he’s after you?”

He’d tell her to mind her own business, but, hell, he can’t work out how it’s his business, either. “I don’t have a fuckin’ clue what that was back there. I counted no less than three mutants.”

“Three?”

“Two more showed up while you were busy playin’ Supergirl. Friends of yours?”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Yeah, well neither do I,” he replies before he can stop himself. Pressing on quickly, he points out, “But you do got enemies.”

“I told you, they’d never let a bunch of mutants run around using their powers like that. Besides, they’re doctors. They don’t have jets.”

“Who the hell does?”

“I don’t know. Military? You were in the army.”

He grunts. Had to have been, war is in his dreams. Would’ve been a long time ago, though. Too long ago, by anyone’s standards.

“Well, it’s probably not military, actually,” Marie says, like it wasn’t her suggestion in the first place. “The US, at least, definitely does not use mutants. Too risky, too much liability. It’s automatic discharge if they find out. Then they recommend you to Southaven for ‘treatment.’ Believe me, I know.”

“You were not in the army.” He actually laughs at the suggestion. “You’re just a kid.”

She bristles. “Air Force. Two tours in Iraq.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ask me anything. Ask me what it feels like to barrel roll a Boeing F-22 Raptor. Ask me the best place to score bootlegs and contraband in Baghdad.” She taps her temple. “It’s all up here.”

“Right.”

She stops to dig into her collar, bringing out a set of dog tags. “These belong to Captain Carol Susan Jane Danvers. I held her until she died, so don’t you tell me I’m just a kid.”

Logan recognizes the deep, turbulent currents running under the surface of those watery brown eyes of hers. It’s a wonder she hasn’t drown. He has. More than once.

“Fair enough,” he replies, longing for a cigar.

Marie lets the chain drop as she stomps past him. “Jerk.”

His sympathy threatens to dissolve. “What was that?”

“You heard me,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Slow down,” he orders, long legs eating up the distance between them. “Break your ankle, you’re on your own.”

“That’ll be a change. Just think, the faster we walk, the sooner you can kick me to the curb.”

“Been thinkin’ about it.”

They come to a high incline, on top of which rests the unpaved road to his cabin. Tree roots stick out down the side. It’d be an easy climb, if it weren’t for the melting ice. He slips twice, the second time as he’s hauling himself over the top. Wet mud clings to his jacket and his jeans.

“Well done.”

He turns, and Marie’s hovering directly behind him. She smirks. Logan has a strong urge to pop her like a helium balloon and watch her zip away. Instead, he turns around and starts walking. It’s not long before she’s huffing and puffing trying to keep up.

“Flying takes a lot outta you.”

“I’d like to see you try it someday.”

“House rule: Only people who shut their yaps get to eat.”

Marie falls silent, obviously just remembering she’s supposed to be humbled by gratitude.

As always, the approach to his cabin feels somehow right. Situated on a plateau, except for the view from above it’s camouflaged by the encroaching forest spreading out behind it. His cabin is sturdy, he cut down the timber for the necessary repairs himself, and a decent size, especially since he added the loft three summers ago. He stops before he gets to the side porch, ostensibly to check for wind damage on the roof.

“Wow,” Marie says.

“What?”

She smiles at him. For the first time, a sweet smile. “It’s nice.”

Logan snorts, but that’s what he wants to hear. Fifteen years, and his cabin is the only thing he has to show for it. “Roof needs re-shingling. And the inside’s…not finished.” Actually, he wrecked it the day he lit out for the winter.

“Outer appearances first. How like a man.”

“How like a woman. No concern for structural integrity.”

Marie’s smile gets brighter. There’s a small gap between her front teeth. He likes it because he’s decided it’s one of the things that makes her look older. That’s important, because she’s pretty when she smiles at him.

Or maybe he likes it because when she’s smiling wide enough to show teeth that means she isn’t talking.

He fishes out his keys as he strides up the porch steps. Unlocking the front door and stepping inside, he scowls at the deep gashes in the entryway wall. He almost forgot how stir-crazy he was when he left. The evidence reminds him. There are claw marks in the large, open den, too. His favorite chair lies overturned and the coffee table is in pieces. He steps over it to get to the kitchen.

Pulling out his cigars from one of the drawers, he watches Marie pick her way through the destruction. She stops at the bay windows, which look out over the screened-in back porch and the big pond. Pushing aside the tattered curtains, she asks lightly, “Ornery house cat?”

He takes a long drag on his cigar, relaxing slightly. “Ornery owner.”

“No foolin’?” she laughs, sliding out of her cloak and a zip-up jacket. She’s wearing a high-necked black top underneath. Fitted. He was right about too skinny, but those are hips he’s seeing now. And breasts.

Cigar clamped between his teeth, he opens all his cabinets at once. “There ain’t much here, kid,” he warns. “Canned vegetables, instant potatoes. More jerky. Crackers. Whiskey.” He opens the refrigerator. “Jar of pickles.” He turns to her. “Been gone a while, and I wasn’t exactly expectin’ company.”

“Sounds like a the makings of a feast to me.”

Comment’s not as glib as he’d like it to be. He shuts the refrigerator. “Eat what you can. I’ll get the water and the boiler going.”

Her thanks follows him into the very back of the cabin.

Pipes froze at some point so it’s a chore getting things up and running, which gives him plenty of time to stew. The mutant trio bothers the hell out of Logan, but not as much as the fact that Marie is right – Fangs attacked him. Saved him from the law, then lured him into a trap. Somebody else’s trap, no doubt, since Fangs seems about as intelligent as he looks. But whose plan and to what end?

Logan flexes his hands, feeling the metal under his skin even now. He was designed for use by someone; more than anything, he wants to know who that someone was. But not at the expense of his freedom. And not at the expense of the kid. She won’t get far on half a meal and zero dollars, not with a whole mess of people after her. Logan has cash money he hasn’t found a use for yet stashed under the floorboards, but even that won’t guarantee she’s not caught.

Marie has to stay, only thing for it.

Logan kicks the boiler hard. It clunks slowly to life.

Hell. He runs his fingers through his hair, jerking back at the smell of his own armpit. Tools put away, he heads down the hall to the cabin’s only bathroom – could be an issue – to wash up. Water’s like ice, so he leaves it running.

He’s tugging off his muddy boots when he remembers that he doesn’t even like the girl. She’s a pain in his ass, as unpredictable as she is moody. She’ll start out obliging, maybe, but give it a day and she’ll be whining that the mattress in the loft is too lumpy and demanding she get his bed.

Logan scowls and sticks his arm under the water. Still icy. He mans up and gets in anyway.

So he has a housemate for awhile. Big deal. He’s shacked up with women before. Almost decade ago, he stayed in Montana with a down on her luck divorcee with killer legs for nearly five months. Of course, when they weren’t fucking they were arguing over some stupid shit or other. And, come to think of it, he spent most of that time on the road just to get away from her. Made a damn fine maid, though. Clothes washed. Meals cooked.

There’s an idea. He’ll put Marie to work, tell her she can earn back that two thousand dollars. Probably take longer than a few days, but more’s the better as far as safe travel goes. Second she starts driving him up the wall, he’ll hit the road and deduct rent for the trouble. He’s got a list of projects a mile long, so there’s no shortage of work.

Facts are facts, and a week or so of aggravation is much less likely to kill him than even one day of exposure is likely to kill her.

Talk about exposure, his dick’s about frozen to his leg. Still sudsy when he shuts off the water, he towel dries the soap off. Marie’ll probably need shampoo and other girly shit, he thinks. And clothes, because he’s not about to let her go naked, danger skin beside the point. Logan’s a lot of things, but he’s no maker of whores.

He’s not above petty revenge, though. First thing he thinks to have her do is wash the mud off his jacket. By hand.

DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
thatcraftykid

track one // “MONEY”

MONEY, GET AWAY / GET A GOOD JOB WITH GOOD PAY AND YOU’RE OKAY
“You’re right, it is just money. There’re more important things.”
She rocks up on the sides of her feet. Grins. “Like friends.”
– Rogue –

Rogue slouches over the stove, a mostly-eaten package of crackers to her right. Her mouth waters at the heavenly smell of frying fish.

When the bubbles burst like that, it’s time to flip it, her momma instructs her, and Rogue complies gratefully. How could it be that she ever took her momma’s cooking for granted? Her daddy used to call her his spoiled little Mississippi princess. She took that for granted, too.

“Hey,” Logan says from somewhere behind her, making her jump and about knock over the frying pan.

“Sneak up on a girl!”

“Where’d you get the trout?”

“I got it from the pond. Make a noise or something, jeez.”

“You fish?”

Not very well, until good old Guff. “Me? I’m a fly-fishing champ from way back.”

“That supposed to be a pun?”

Rogue’s lip quirks. “No. I caught these two beauties the old fashioned way. Your rod was out on the back porch.” She gives the meat a push with the back of the spatula. “Five more minutes ought to do it. Mashed potatoes and green beans are already done.”

Logan leans back against the counter on the other side of the stove. He’s wearing just a white cotton shirt now, so she can’t help but eye his muscles as he folds his arms across his chest. “Say one thing for you, you’re resourceful.”

She twists around. “That was a compliment.”

He shrugs.

Rogue’s surprised, but she’ll let it lie. She flips the fish in silence.

Taking out two plates from the cabinet over his head, he hands them to her. Skin brushes fabric.

A slow itch spreads beneath her protective layers, beginning with her fingertips, clasped tight around the plate and the spatula. Rogue hasn’t forgotten how the first sight of him in the cage absorbed her interest, how his keen senses impressed her, how his life-threatening injuries healed without a scar. She wouldn’t need money, if she had –

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. No. Stop it, she tells herself fiercely. Worse than the dark, this is the mutation, the monster.

Beside Rogue, her oblivious almost-victim rolls out the flatware drawer. “All I got is water,” he says.

She uses the time it takes her to set the dishes out on the table to find her voice again. “Sugar, I think we both deserve something a little stronger.”

He grunts and pulls down the half-empty bottle of whiskey, which he brings to the table along with two fairly large glasses.

Good stuff.

Guff is less articulate already. Soon he’ll be speechless, just a set of skills she’ll have to struggle to remember. Rogue picks up her glass after Logan pours and, with a swift toast, pounds one back for Patrick Lee Guff and his impressive ’stache. She’ll miss the conversation, just a little; she’ll miss the way it fills the dark and feeds the monster.

Logan sips his own whiskey, his stare evaluating. Rogue doesn’t care. As if he could even begin to guess at her thoughts.

She gingerly takes a seat – muscles she didn’t even know she has are sore – and rearranges the food on her plate. Hungry as she is, Rogue doesn’t want to start the meal. When it ends, she’ll have to make a liar out of herself. She won’t leave. He’ll try to make her, she’ll fight him and win. She’s already sick over it.

“’S wrong?” Logan frowns around his fork.

“Nothing. Is it good?”

He grunts again.

Rogue smooths out an aged paper napkin over her lap. Fiddles with the frayed edges. She can’t deny herself any longer and cuts off a piece of fish. Savors it.

“You got an end game?” Logan asks suddenly.

Rogue nods as she chews. Puts up her hand to cover her mouth. “Anchorage.”

“What’s in Anchorage?”

“Alaskans…Sorry,” she shrugs. “I figure if I dye my hair, change my name, I can start on somewhere as a waitress. If I hoard my every paycheck, maybe I can eventually open up my own bar and restaurant, like my Uncle Nuts has back in Meridian. Mississippi, that’s where I’m from.”

“You could do that anywhere. Why Anchorage?”

Her mouth turns up wryly. “Because a long time ago, a little girl had a big map on her wall with pins stuck in it, and the destination didn’t sound like an adventure unless it ended in snow.”

“Little girl, huh? Couldn’t have been that long ago.”

That’s right. You’re seventeen years old, young lady, so don’t you be inviting Trouble of his sort.

“I’m twenty-one,” she sasses, because it’s about as far as she can pass. “How old are you?”

Oh, that eyebrow does not look pleased with the question.

Sipping on whiskey, she has enough pluck to ask, “What’s the matter, sugar? You afraid I’m gonna think you’re too old for me?”

There it is. Reluctant humor. “No doubt about that. I stopped aging a long time ago.”

Neat. “So how old are you really? A hundred?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” he says briskly.

Please. His hedging is getting ridiculous. “What, are we talking amnesia? Government conspiracy?”

The stare he fixes her with makes her want to crawl under the table.

Slowly, apologetically, she says, “Someone…gave you those claws. Didn’t they?”

A little of the hardness leaves his eyes. “What’d they do to you?’”

“‘They’ never laid a hand on me.” She murmurs, “Too scared to do it for themselves.” Rogue wipes her mouth with her napkin. Scratches at her plate with her fork. “How come you don’t know how old you are?” A desperate question. She doesn’t want to talk about Southaven. She wants him to trust her.

Voice clipped, Logan answers, “Woke up in the ass end of nowhere. Didn’t even know my name, let alone my birth date.” He scoops up a forkful of green beans. “That was fifteen years ago.”

Something’s happening here. She doesn’t understand why, but she knows from their conversation in the truck – “Every time,” he’d said – that if she asks the right questions he’ll give her honest answers. Quite a concept.

“You remembered, though? Your name, at least.”

“No.”

“So, then you must’ve met someone who knew you – ”

“‘Logan’ was on the tag, before.”

“Before what?” Rogue tries to get a look at it again, but it’s tucked where he seems to like it. Inside his shirts and out of everyone else’s business.

“Sliced it in half. Thought someone might be tracking me.”

Grimly, Rogue shows him the small, lumpy scar on the inside of her wrist where she’d fished out a flat microchip. She wouldn’t have known it was even there, if she weren’t –

A memory-suckin’ leech!

Rogue slams down hard on Eugene Macomb’s unexpected yelp, and focuses instead on the raised hairs on Logan’s left arm. He brings his fork up to rip off a piece of meat.

She looks down at the tabletop. It occurs to her that he must not know a single person who remembers him or any of the things he’s forgotten. The awfulness of that droops her shoulders. Which is worse? she wonders, because plenty of people know her, know what happened to her, only none of them have offered any understanding.

Rogue searches for something else to ask, hitting on the cabin since she knows this, at the very least, he likes. “How long have you lived here?”

He looks around, nodding slightly. “On and off, fifteen years.” He adds a shrug. “Maybe.”

“Does that mean you might’ve lived here before?”

“No one else has claimed it. It was run down when I found it, but there were clothes here.”

“And they fit.” Through a bite of mashed potatoes, she says, “That sounds hopeful.”

“You think,” he replies in a way that makes her doubt it. “What about you? Gotta lot of hope after that clinic?”

“What do you care? You hate me,” she spits back, startled by her own nastiness.

“Jesus, kid, I never said I hated you.”

“Yes you did. You said, ‘Hated knowing you,’ when you tried to leave me in the woods.”

He doesn’t have a reply.

“Look, either talk to me like a person or treat me like dirt. I can’t take your mood swings.”

“My mood swings? One minute you’re docile as a lamb, next you’re rarin’ for a fight. Case in point.”

“In response to you.”

He jabs his knife in the air. “Huh-uh. That shit’s internal. You’re off your rocker, kid.”

“Yeah, well you would be, too.”

“I am!” His mouth is open so wide she can see the hunk of fish and potatoes between his molars. “Look at this fuckin’ place, claw marks everywhere. Like an animal lives here.” Abruptly, he falls silent, all his focus on his whiskey.

Rogue recognizes “animal” as “monster” and swallows heavily. If wanting his mutation upsets her internal balance, she’s clearly no less guilty of upsetting his. So she tells him what she wants to be told herself: “For what it’s worth, I like you.” She tries to laugh. “Whether you deserve it or not.”

She’s barely had time to get that out when he says, “This is good fish. I’d pay good money to eat fish like this in a restaurant.”

“I’ll send you a postcard from Anchorage. You can be my first customer.”

“If you get there in one piece.”

“Very nice. Thank you.”

“What would you call a meal like this in your restaurant? Fifteen bucks? Thirty with tip, since you did the fishing yourself. We can agree on that, right?”

“Not following, sugar.”

“You’re gonna stay here for a while. Cook for me, clean, fix up the place. Split firewood with your bare hands. Whatever chores I ask, you’ll do them. And I’ll pay you. When you earn back that two thousand dollars, you’re free to go.”

Relief hits her in dizzying waves. Rogue’s not even aware she’s crying until she feels wetness dripping from her chin. She glances up at Logan, who’s looking at her in abject horror. She bursts out laughing.

“What’d I say about mood swings?” he complains.

A snort bubbles up and she puts her napkin to her nose to keep snot from going everywhere. That makes her lose it further, leaning forward and bouncing her fist off the table.

“Watch it! You’re gonna break the last decent piece of furniture in this place.”

Rogue shakes her head, still crying and laughing at the same time. No adrenaline spike, she could tell him, meaning right now she’s about strong as she looks.

He raises his voice to be heard. “Knock it off already.”

Steadying breath. Calm. She sits back heavily, wiping a finger under her eyes. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Deference ain’t gonna stick, is it?”

She snickers. “Probably not.” Her tummy aches, and it’s from fullness as much as from laughter. A few more giggles, another deep breath, and the fit passes. Rogue’s left relaxed. It’s a strange feeling. She flashes Logan a smile. Twirls a finger by her temple, mouths, “Cuckoo.”

Ankle resting on his knee, Logan leans on the back legs of his chair. He’s lit another cigar, which he holds between two fingers when he gestures to her. “You didn’t sleep at all last night, I forgot. Finish eating, and I’ll show you where you can rest up.”

“Orders worth following,” she toasts, picking up her fork again.

When she’s done, she talks him into another eight bucks for doing the dishes quickly.

“You’re a hell of a haggler. Come on, I got sheets in the closet back here.”

“Learned to first day in Fallujah,” she tells him, falling into step. It doesn’t feel like lying, adapting Carol’s history as her own.

“How’d you end up the Air Force, anyway?”

“My parents didn’t want me anymore when I turned out to be a mutant. Military or bust.”

A half truth, only Carol’s was prettier. Even though she was an adult when her mutant gene surfaced, her parents took it upon themselves to care for her while she was in Southaven. The Danvers loved their daughter unconditionally. Not exactly what Rogue feels for her own parents or they for her.

“Shit parents.” Logan dumps a pile of torn up blankets into her arms.

“Kind of. I…hurt people. Accidentally. The boy next door. My momma. Just from a touch. I couldn’t be at school – Or, you know, in the barracks. That’s why I had to go to Southaven. As far as mutations go, poison skin’s no healing power.”

Logan reaches up to pull on a string hanging from the ceiling, revealing a set of wooden stairs. “You can fly, super strength. That part’s not too shabby.” He motions her to go first.

No, not too shabby, but stolen at the highest cost she’d ever paid. She won’t tell him that. He already thinks she’s crazy, and he doesn’t even know a thing about the inside of her head.

The loft is one room, unpainted wood like the rest of the house, with a mattress tucked into one of the corners. It slants up with the roof, which has been cut out for a panel of glass, sort of like a skylight.

“I can get something to cover that up.”

“Don’t. It’ll be nice to sleep in the sun.”

He clears his throat. Looks around. “Right. I’ll leave you to it.” He starts back down the stairs.

“Logan? It was two thousand two hundred dollars, actually.” It’s not what she meant to say. She hopes he gets the message behind it – a willingness to work and a desire to stay as long as possible.

“Marie, it’s just money.”

Before, she would’ve argued, told him that money makes her world go ’round. Now, Rogue stands in the first real home she’s been inside since her parents packed her bags for Southaven a lifetime ago.

She looks at Logan. Really looks at him. Mutton chops, Indianhead belt buckle, veined arms, and dry knuckles – if he could be typed, he would’ve been exactly the type she’d have never known in that other, privileged life. Where the toughest part about getting money in her pocket was putting up with that minute or so of her daddy grumbling that they’re house poor, with her momma taking up her cause by calling him stingy and demanding he provide for his daughter’s caprice.

Yet, it’s this man, her momma’s Trouble, to whom Rogue has done much more harm than good – it’s this man who gives her the benefit of the doubt and lets her stay under his roof. An incredible turn of events just devastating enough for her to embrace.

“You’re right, it is just money. There’re more important things.” She rocks up on the sides of her feet. Grins. “Like friends.”

His eyebrow elevates slowly. “Take that nap, darlin’. You’re still loopy.” But there’s a hint of amusement in his smirk as he disappears down the stairs.

By herself but not alone, Rogue flops on the mattress like the carefree teenager she might’ve been. The bundle of sheets in her arms smells like dust and pine, and a little like Logan. She hides her face in them, embarrassed by her whimsy but pleased all the same. She’s got no right to be feeling so good. Not in the face of all the very serious problems in her life, ones that have only escalated in the past twelve hours.

Through aches and exhaustion, Rogue grins. Nope, no right at all.