1

The girl with the long brunette-shaded hair partly hidden by an olive green hood shrugged into the long paneled coat she was wearing and tried to keep even more to herself in the corner of the bar. The sign outside clearly marked: NO UNDER 21s but the bartender hadn't done anything except give her suspicious looks occasionally. The hood fell too far forward for a positive ID.

The man with the wolfish features and matching haircut sat on the far side of the bar where it curved at the door on its way to the shelves of alcohol. There was no mistaking him but his permanently pissed off expression meant none of the other patrons engaged in conversation or invaded his personal space. If they did, he'd make it personal. In fact he was the shy underaged girl's complete opposite: the mature hardened drinker, ordering one beer after the other. Each time he downed one the barman would make a note on a blue slip behind the counter.

"Most guys I know are drunk on ten or twelve," he observed openly, nodding towards the scowling wolf of a customer.

The man with the wolfish features spared him the slightest of glances, one hard enough to be a glare.

The bartender was genuinely impressed. According to his pen ticks the man had downed twenty-one beers one after the other and was still going at it. He was about to ask him if he wanted another but it was the until recently silent patron who engaged him. To the girl on the other side of the long, greasy bar he tilted his head. "What's she havin'?"

The barman smiled nervously without looking in the girl's direction. "Her? She's havin' water." Slender fingers concealed in thin nylon-gloved hands played around the contours of a glass filled with a clear liquid. Like the bartender said: water. Probably as bad as the booze. "Little honey's not havin' a good day."

"I wanna buy her a drink."

Surprise and irritation flashed across the barman's face and then he was all business and no longer in the mood for a chat. "You want the cops to shut this place down? No drinks for under 21s."

For the first time since his arrival the bearded man's facial muscles moved. The eyebrows rose as he turned slightly on his bar stool and surveyed the humid, hazy room stinking of cigarette smoke and the sour breath of a bunch of drunks. "C'mon, there's hardly anyone here. No one's gonna notice."

The bartender considered this for less than ten seconds. He even frowned a little but his brows were nowhere near as furrowed as his customer's, leaning on the counter with an empty beer bottle. He shrugged; ten seconds of capital-driven thought. "Hey, it's your money. What should I give her?"

"Somethin' strong, somethin' she's never tried before." The roughly-groomed stranger at the bar smiled, a kind of devilish smirk that left nothing to the imagination.

The barman shook his head silently in convincing disgust and took a whiskey tumbler from the shelf lined with half clean, finger print-laden glasses. With a dull clink he set it down on the counter and took two clear bottles with colourful labels from a potent shelf near the top of the booze rack. Both were three-quarter full. Nothing that could kill, but enough to make the drinker pass out and wake up sometime in the next couple of days with a paralyzing hangover. He put the full glass in front of the lost girl.

A soft waifish, questioning look replaced the self-pitiful expression on her young face.

"From that guy over there," the bartender pointed out the wolfish character sitting on the other side of the bar. "He paid for it so it's your choice to drink it or not. Still, I'd be careful if I was you, honey, he's a weirdo and that stuff kicks like a mule."

She peered into the glass. The surface was like water and glinted in the dim bar lights. The girl glanced at the older man and averted her eyes when their eyes made contact. Her gloved hand gripped it unsurely and she spared the barman another questioning look. Her eyes darted around nervously, unceasingly, giving her a permanent lost puppy-innocent look.

"Just throw it back and swallow hard."

"What's innit?" The girl's Southern twang, gentle as her voice, was quiet. The sound of it rang in the bartender's ears, though. Canada was a long way from the Mississippi.

The girl's grip became more assertive, awaiting the recipe with mild trepidation.

"Tequila and vodka."

A mischievous grin suddenly shone from her face and her dark eyes glowed with the kind of warm pleasure one experiences before satisfaction. "Now there's somethang Ah haven't tried before."

The barman frowned again and turned his face towards the wolfish man sitting calmly at the other end watching them. Something clicked in slow motion. Too slow to see the girl throw her slender neck back and down the contents of the glass in a single gulp before slamming the empty receptacle on the counter. Two splutters accompanied her body language as she reached out her hand to the oblivious bartender.

"Say g'night, *honey*." The nylon glove was no longer on her right hand and as soon as it connected with the barman's flesh something terrible happened. The skin grew taught for a split second and then he collapsed on the floor in a mild seizure.

"Rogue! The cash register!" The grinning wolf with the scowl was still scowling but he was alive and calling to the teenage girl.

The bar hummed as the drunk locals became aware of what was happening. A few lifted their heads to stare uncomprehensively, while a big guy pulled out a shotgun. There was the sound of metal pinging, like a fork catapulting onto a pile of knives and before the bulky customer could fire the gun it was in two pieces, gun powder and cartridge lying on the stained floor.

"Wolverine, let's go!" Rogue shouted, dashing out from behind the counter, carrying a plastic bag stuffed with money.

He paused, six-inch blades protruding from the skin between his knuckles on each hand. Six in total. The Wolverine grinned and for an instant his incisors looked more pointy than that of a normal human's. The challenge was issued. "Anyone else wanna piece of me?"

No one moved. They were all staring with abject horror at the mis-matched robbers poised for an easy getaway. Without taking his dark intense eyes from them Wolverine stepped behind the counter and cut the telephone line with one swift pluck of the coated wire. "The police station's half a mile that way," he made a vague gesture down the street, "let's see how fast you Cajuns can run."

Within a second he and the girl, Rogue, were out the door and climbing into the old battered camper with a rattling trailer attached to it. The tires spun on the wet road and then created a thin white spray as the vehicle pulled away and chased down the road. The camper's roof threatened to roll but Wolverine was a confident driver, familiar with quick getaways. The lights were only faintly visible by the time the first drunk staggered outside the bar calling for help. They were long gone by the time the sheriff arrived. They were probably across the provincial border by the time the proper authorities got to hear of it.

---

The last of the oil-coated lamp posts whipped past, creating a brief metallic sheen on the single dog-tag adorning Wolverine's neck. The beast's name was printed in caps and subscripted by an eight digit number. Two powerful arms obscured it as they deviated from the steering wheel for a moment to bring the cigar and lighter to his mouth.

"So how much d'we steal?" He asked gruffly between a mouthful of cigar, careful not to euphemize the verb. Relaxed hands, minus metal claws, rested lightly on the wheel. Blue smoke twisted and curled an imaginative pattern in the front of the camper. His sharp eyes he kept on the road, only glancing at Rogue's deft hands now and then to get an idea of how much cash was in their possession.

Rogue shrugged her hands out of the gloves and began counting with the experience of a banker, mumbling numbers to herself in a pleasant Southern twang. "Ah shoulda swiped the tippin' jar," she drawled regretfully, scratching in the cubby-hole for an elastic rubber band to bind the cash. "Ah was sittin' right nexta it the whole night and that asshole kept watchin' it tah make sure Ah didn't steal none. Woulda made a statement tah have stolen it. Guess there's nothin' for it now, there's a grand here."

The Wolverine grunted, not a clear sign of dissatisfaction seeing as it was a uniform response, but close enough to it as he was going to show. "It'll be enough to get to Anchorage."

"Yeah, for gas, but how're we s'posed tah eat? There ain't that many bars from here on out." The twang whined like an untuned violin.

"Then we'll rob a gas station," the driver growled in annoyance.

Rogue stuffed the wad of Canadian dollar notes on the dash with the respect crushed paper balls deserved and pressed her hood back away from her face. Her red rose-coloured lips were parted indefinitely, giving the impression that her accent was largely due to breathing through her mouth and speaking nasally-like. "Ah dunno, Ahm gettin' tireda robbin' people. Ah hafta use my power every time. It's easy fir you: all you do is slice somethin' up and they leave yah alone, but Ahm the one havin' tah suck the life outta 'em. That bartender's gonna be in a coma for three weeks."

"You wanna eat, dontcha? You don't want the cops chasin' us?" Wolverine gave her a threatening glare, but by the time he turned his eyes to the road he was calmer. "He won't remember a thing, better for him. Better for us. Once we get to Anchorage we're home free."

The girl, of average height, seventeen, sulked in her seat and shrugged into her coat. The gloves she pulled on aggressively. They hadn't driven a few hundred yards since the last exchange of words when she said, "Logan, pull over, Ah think Ahm gonna be sick."

The camper chuck-chucked gently as the vehicle came to a stop and Rogue kicked open the door and threw herself into the drift at the side of the road, retching violently. Logan waited patiently, smoking the cigar and rubbing his hands where the claws came out when he felt threatened. The spaces between the knuckles were red and the skin itched. He glanced at the girl's stooped figure. "You awright, kid?"

"Ahm fine, just drive," she said weakly, climbing back inside and slamming the door shut.

"No more moonshine fer you," Logan growled in a low voice.

"Ah can handle it."

The defiant streak ran right through her and Logan couldn't tell if it was his influence or if she'd been that way when he met her a few months ago. Right now, however, she remained solemnly in her seat, pouting.

"Ya look like shit, kid," he reached out and placed his hand affectionately on her hair. The scowl didn't suit her the way it did him. "Get some sleep."

Rogue looked at him. "Yah gonna drive all night?"

"Yeah, well, who knows what that damn sheriff's got planned for us. I figured I'd put some distance between us. We're wanted criminals now."

"Like Bonnie an' Clyde," Rogue declared proudly. "'Cept they didn't knock off bars."

"You'd prefer it if we knocked off banks?" The unhappy growl was back in Logan's voice. Bars were easier because of the poor security and inattentive drunks who frequented them. The less contact with humanity, the better.

"Ah didn't mean it like that. They'll remember us for robbin' bars an' they wouldn't call us Bonnie an' Clyde. We're Rogue an' Wolverine, beauty an' the beast. Kinda has a nice ring to it." Rogue beamed, her eyes glinting.

Logan snorted indignantly at the adventurous fantasy. His voice was low and mocking. "That's the stupidest thing I ever heard."

"That's 'cause you didn't think of it," Rogue hissed back. "Anyways they know our names so we're gonna be called Rogue an' Wolverine whether you like it or not." She nestled back into her seat and concealed a self-satisfied smile behind her plum-coloured scarf. Using her booted foot she kicked the money to Logan's side of the dash and placed her feet against the windshield. The hood she flipped back up so that her face was partially concealed and closed her eyes.

"Put yer seat-belt on."

"That ain't no way tah talk tah a lady; yah didn't say please."

"Marie!" Logan snapped at her with a wolfish bark. The only time he called her by her real name was when he was mad at her. The wild brown of his eyes burned into her, keeping him from what was important on an icy road in the early hours of the morning.

A blinking silhouette sped towards the camper. Rogue watched it without actually seeing it until she could make out the mottled white on its body, the thin, knobby legs, the ears pricked up. "Look out!"

The first words she had ever spoken to him. The high-pitched scream he'd come to expect from her when she got a fright or was angry hysterical, the one she'd used to warn him about the knife in the attacker's hand at a bar in Laughlin City, a truck stop about five hundred miles north of the US-Canadian border.

Logan slammed into the deer before he slammed on breaks. The animal thudded against the camper bumper and bounced onto the hood, slid up the windshield and cracked it. Rogue shrieked again and a third time as she was catapulted forward. Her head banged against the already damaged glass and her hood fell back. She would've sailed over the bloody mutilated forest animal if Logan's sharpened reflexes hadn't reached out and stopped her. Her slender body made to look heavier by the extra layers of clothing she wore to keep out the cold slammed into him.

"Kid?" He let go his restricting hold on her elbow and peered over her shoulder to see if she was conscious. "Kid, you awright?"

Blood, thick and dark-looking in the headlights dimmed by a mild snowfall, trickled slowly from a wound at her hairline, over her forehead and over the bridge of her nose.

He reacted automatically, his left hand cupping her face. A split second's worth of tingling sensation made him jolt backwards, away from her. Rogue's head of gently wavy hair sank uncomfortably against the seat. The blood followed a new course. Logan, hands thrust out tentatively, were pressed against the door. It wasn't that he was afraid of Rogue, just of touching her. Bad things happened to people who made skin contact with her. Violent seizures, comas, others - people like them - temporarily weakened. He'd seen it often enough and he respected the barriers she placed as security measures.

"Rogue?" He asked again when his initial fear wore off. He pushed her into a sitting position and used her shoulders to maneuver her head into an upright position against the seat. He shook her carefully and then pressed his ear to her chest when he got no response. There was no way to pick up a beat through all the clothes. Logan shook her harder. "Rogue!"

The blood had smeared her forehead and he stared at it peculiarly. The iron smell of it filled his wolverine nose, mixed with the slow cooling of the deer's own vital organs plastered across the camper's bumper. Suddenly he began pulling the gloves off her limp hands and forcing his larger hands into them. When he had them on he cupped Rogue's face in his hands and patted her cheek as hard as he dared. "Rogue, wake up."

All he needed was a moan, a twitch of the eyelids, anything to show him she was at least semi-conscious.

"...gan," Rogue's lips moved.

"Kid, ya gotta wake up," Logan told her evenly, pointedly hinting at an "if ya don't".

"Tired," she slurred in her Southern accent and then tears glistened on her eyelashes, still shut. "...hurts..."

Logan gathered her head up so it wouldn't rest so comfortably. "I know, kid, that's the idea. You've got concussion, ya gotta stay awake." There was no point in searching for any medic kit; there'd never been any use for one. Short of shock therapy he didn't know how to treat concussion. The only other alternative was still unacceptable to him.

The tiny groans stopped and the tears cooled immediately in the frosty air on Rogue's cheeks. "Rogue? Damnit kid!" Logan shook her violently, causing her head to loll forward against her chest. He waited for her to slap him away. "C'mon kid." She didn't respond. "Shit!" His fist connected with the door in frustration and indecision.

The nearest doctor was behind them where they'd just robbed a bar so whether she lived or not didn't matter. If they didn't go to jail they'd end up lab rats in a government-run institution. Logan stared at the blood drying on Rogue's face, then at her cold fingers in her lap and then at his own gloved hands. He climbed out of the camper and dragged what remained of the deer from the dented hood. The carcass he left lying in the rising drift alongside the road. The snowfall was heavier now.

"Hang on, kid." Logan started the car and drove away, tires spinning on the snowy road. He drove straight on, as fast as he could in the snow, Rogue resting unconsciously in the crook of his right arm. There was only one thing for him to do and if he was going to do it then he'd better get off the main road. He didn't know how long he'd be out and it was unfair on her to have to deal with the consequences.

At the first deviation in the road he swerved and let the snow cover his tracks for him. The sheriff wouldn't find them before one of them regained consciousness, and Rogue was smart enough to run if they did. The track was muddy, carved from the harder frozen soil beneath the snow. A forester or hunter's road maybe. The camper was only a few hundred yards up it when the beaten track beat itself out. Logan growled loudly in frustration and flawed the vehicle up and over a heap of fresh snow, going in no specific direction.

The gloves were off even before he killed the engine. The girl next to him didn't move except when he sat her up. "Okay, kid," he began, poising his hands over her temples, "this's it. I'm savin' yer life so try notta kill me, okay?" His hands were shaking visibly. One touch and all he had to do was hold on until she absorbed his power and healed herself. One touch and she could use too much and kill him. Letting go, Logan had seen, wasn't as easy as it looked.

First his fingers touched the sides of her face and when nothing happened he clutched her head firmly in his hands, willing what he feared to happen. It happened quickly enough: the characteristic tightening of the skin, the cracking noise of blood vessels hardening as the life was sucked out of them, the painful expression as a wound opened up in Logan's hair-line. Rogue gasped, coming violently to and screaming when she saw Logan. His dark wolfish eyes rolled into the back of his head and he lost consciousness.

"Logan!" Rogue cried out and repeated the ritual he had tried on her: shaking, everything short of beating her fists against him. "Logan, wake up!" But Marie had inflicted her powers often enough to know that everyone she touched lost consciousness for a few hours at least. It didn't comfort her and she racked with tears, retrieving her gloves from the floor. "Ah prob'ly killed him," she drawled hysterically to herself and cried. "Logan." Her cut was on his forehead, bleeding.

Rogue looked around helplessly and leaned over the seat, rummaging in the mess they lived in for something to treat him with. But they were both runners, running away from everything, and they had nothing. With any luck he'd heal himself, but her power was stronger than most and she wasn't sure how long he'd held onto her. She stared hopelessly at the car keys stuck in the ignition and stopped crying. Without hesitation she dragged Logan out of the driver's seat with difficulty, climbed over him and got behind the wheel. Her gloved fingers turned the key and the engine, beginning to ice up, came to life. She looked at the side mirror, saw the road was snowed under at the back. There was no road.

"Where the hell ...?" Rogue's accent was soft, edged with emotion. She craned her neck and peered through the cracked windshield and ice over the hood, ahead. Open air marked with thick conifers in the distance. The terrain dipped a few feet in front of the camper's wheels. Rogue could see a path through the trees down below, but no tracks. The snow had taken care of them. "Fine," she said decisively and edged the camper over the decline, her foot hovering over the brake nervously. She had little driving experience.

The camper groaned on shifting chunks of ice and slid gently down. The back began to swerve out, sending them down horizontally. Rogue panicked and hit the brakes. The wheels locked, but the snow kept sliding. The camper stopped when the decline leveled. Again she drove but the snow was deeper and the wheels only churned up a cold spray. Rogue pulled her most frustrated face and turned the camper off. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

It was cold in the camper. The glass had been knocked out partly on her side and the snow was coming in. Rogue grabbed one of Logan's flannel shirts from the make-shift clothes-line in the back and stuffed it in the hole. Glass slivers flaked off and fell on the dash. If the wind got any stronger it'd knock the whole windshield out. Rogue turned on the heater and shrugged into her coat. She looked unhappily at Logan and was relieved to see the wound was already healing. At least he was alive.

Rogue lost track of time. In that part of the Canadian Rockies it was difficult to tell how early in the morning it was. The light only showed through the thick cloud cover around 8am. She hoped that time wasn't so far away. The snow was beginning to hide the rubber of the camper tires. The heated air circulated, warming the place up and making Rogue sleepy. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. She was asleep before she noticed the pairs of yellow eyes peeping out from the thick forest or heard the distant howl of a wolf.

---

2

The sheriff, a forty-something man already greying at his side-burns, watched the wheelchair-bound man, already bald and much older, approach. An American who'd flown in from New York and driven two hours from the nearest town with a small airfield. He had an assistant with him, a beautiful woman in her early thirties, who looked just as out of place in the rustic sleazy bar environment. She was dressed professionally, like the man in the wheel chair. His deputy had sent word they'd arrived but he hadn't paid much attention to their names. He'd learn them again; they were making their way over.

The bald man in the wheelchair looked up at the sheriff pointedly with hard smoke-blue eyes. His stare wasn't the only thing pointed about him. His features, from his head to his chin and knees was angular in a peculiar way. The neatness indicated he was an intellectual.

"Sheriff Donnelly, I'm Professor Charles Xavier and this is Dr Jean Grey," he introduced them and shook the sheriff's hesitant hand. It was obvious from the knowing upwards curl of his lips that he recognized the skepticism with which he was being greeted. "I'm something of a researcher in the mutant phenomenon."

The sheriff nodded stiffly and straightened himself, pushing the belt down on his hips. "Phenomenon. Those freaks robbed the place and put the barman in a coma. Local doc hadta rush him to the nearest hospital, a hundred miles from here."

Jean Grey was annoyed when the sheriff mentioned the word "freaks" and looked around so no one would see her rolling her eyes. The professor merely lifted his chin and asked the questions he wanted answered. "What exactly happened here?"

"Witness says the girl touched Mike and he had some kind of seizure before losing consciousness. The guy had metal claws that shot right out of his hand." The sheriff waited for the strangers to digest the information. They were mutant experts, people who kept mutants in cages and studied them all day. The law enforcer believed that was how it should be. In his mind there was no room in society's finely tuned nature for mistakes. "This isn't the first."

"First what?" Xavier looked up sharply and out of thought.

"First time they've done this." The sheriff lifted his head and spoke to Jean. Either his neck was sore or speaking down to someone made him feel uncomfortable. "My deputy tells me they've robbed five bars. They call 'emselves Wolverine and Rogue. Pretty stupid if ya ask me, but they won't get far. I had a local listen to an eyewitness account and sketch them. It'll be in the paper tomorrow. Also I'm putting it on the radio." He smiled wryly the way bitter fools do when they're convinced they're going to succeed. "We'll see how far they get."

"Could we see the sketches?" Jean asked in her mature, sensual voice.

The sheriff nodded a second time. "Sure."

Xavier was noticeably surprised by the extension of help. In this remote place he was expecting to meet with resistance at every turn. It was pleasant to have co-operation; so much the easier tracking down the two mutants. He took the proffered sketches and examined them with the precise observation of a scientist.

"She's very young," he mused aloud, holding them out so that Jean could see them as well.

The sheriff was uncomfortable. "Yeah. When Mike comes back I'm gonna hafta make regular checks on who he's lettin' in here. None of this woulda happened if he hadn't let her in." He pulled his lips tight and glanced at the bar counter, devoid of customers. An empty glass stood in a dark corner near the bathroom and an empty beer bottle stood on the corner where the counter turned heading towards the shelf of alcohol. "Deputy says they follow a pattern: they come in early like complete strangers. She drinks water, he drinks beer ... the whole night. Then when everybody's drunk or gone home he'll make like he's interested in her and order her a strong drink. Once she's finished that they rob the place. It's sick. And people are too afraid ta try ta stop 'em, they're dangerous mutants!" The sheriff was getting passionate in his speech, but Xavier cut him off.

"Where were they headed?"

Jean handed the sketches back to the sheriff and her elegant fingers closed around the handles on the back of the professor's wheelchair.

"North-west by the looks of it," the sheriff replied, taking the drawings and having a last eye at them. He winced at the sight of Wolverine. "Don't worry, they won't get far tonight. Weather's gettin' bad, snow storm's comin'. If they're smart they'll stop somewhere and wait it out. If they're lucky enough not to get buried they'll be stuck. There's only one road around here and that's empty enough as is. The only other roads are the ones the national parks people and hunters use and those aren't accessible this time of year. We'll find 'em."

Xavier arched his neck back and raised his eyebrows in an open exchange of looks with Jean. Afterwards she tried not to look directly at the sheriff who was once again staring at them with curious suspicion. The fact that they were researching mutants didn't make them any less disturbing in his eyes. "I guess you'll be wanting to study 'em after they're arrested," the sheriff hinted and rested his hand on his gun.

Xavier stared at the weapon, no readable expression on his face. Upon looking up he appeared startled out of deep thought. "Well, thank you for your help. We'll be in touch with you once you've caught them." Despite the effort he still succeeded in making his hope for the sheriff unconvincing. He didn't think the man would volunteer a contact number and he was eager for them to be gone. The muscles in Jean's arms contracted, ready to wheel the professor out of the cool bar. It had lost its atmosphere.

The sheriff accompanied them to the door with its small circular window. He held it open and dipped his hat in final farewell as Jean pushed Xavier along the sidewalk. It had been swept clean of snow and her heel crunched on wet grit. She paused in her long refined stride on the professor's behalf.

"It's stopped snowing," he commented, lifting his attentive eyes to the sky drifting past in shades of grey. The faintest of smiles settled on his lips and Jean hmphed knowingly, hardly sparing the skies a passing glance.

She helped her mentor into the dark blue Ford and watched the sheriff watching them out of the corner of her dark left eye. "They license people like him to use guns and they call us dangerous?"

"We'll find them before he does, I'm sure," Xavier said confidently, helping himself into the leather seat. "Their resources are limited."

Humanity's treatment of mutant's saddened him and so he and Jean made it their work to enlighten people. Their cries for equal rights for all mutants had thus far reached the Senate but their arguments were unconvincing. There was little more they could do. It was incidents like this, mutants like Wolverine and Rogue who placed their own kind in jeopardy, increased the risk that one day the governments of the world would pass laws that would place them in concentration camps with numbers tattooed into their skin.

Jean climbed into the car, the door clicking shut while her hands were already on the steering wheel. "I'll contact Scott and tell him to ready the Blackbird. Professor, how far away do you think they are?"

"I can't say," Xavier replied eventually, confusion clouding his facial features. His eyes opened slowly, his mind still sampling the residues from the mind probe. "Something's blocking both of them. Fear or pain, I'm not sure. Cerebro could tell me more."

Jean's mahogany-red ponytail whipped round suddenly. "Are they in trouble?"

"No, but we'd better hurry. Wolverine's signal is very weak." The professor leaned back in the chair and rested his elbow on the plastic windowsill, fingers supporting his pointed chin.

Wolverine and Rogue. Two gifted people he wanted to rescue, not necessarily from society, but themselves. They hadn't yet come to terms with their powers and feared the damage they could inflict. Xavier learned that Rogue had run away for that reason exactly. This Wolverine character was more obscure. On their own they'd been harmless enough from what he'd pieced together, alone in his office or in Cerebro, but they were a team now. And they had their own rules. He wanted to teach them new ones to benefit themselves and humanity. He wanted to try.

---

White light reflected off the pure snow, piercing the windshield and hitting the pale-skinned girl hunched in a tight curve on the camper seat. Another day in the Canadian Rockies. Rogue poked her head above the blankets, disturbed by the silence. It took her a moment to realize the humming of the heater, loud in the still night, was gone. The battery was dead. She cursed and buried her head beneath the warmth of the old wool blanket which she shared with the gruff-looking unshaven man pressed against her. Her memory was awash with the events of the previous night: robbing the bar, hitting her head on the glass, Logan touching her and losing consciousness, and all the while the alcohol worked her system. Logan would be awake soon with a headache and mad as hell she'd run the battery down.

The snarl, deep and menacing, sent the adrenaline rushing through her body so fast she felt the sting of it. The effect was long in wearing off; the blood pumped loudly in her head to the beat of her heart. In the dark beneath the wool she felt secure. She held her breath for almost a minute and exhaled hard. Her lungs hurt to be filled with air again but her breathing returned to normal. Her breath almost caught in her throat when she heard Logan's irritated waking moan.

"Logan?" Rogue asked.

The sharp tinkle of glass being chipped away sounded noisy in the silence. Rogue swallowed and felt the adrenaline travel down her spine. It was too close for comfort.

Logan grunted, shifting in his temporal sleep. Rogue poked her eyes up from underneath the blanket and stared towards the windshield. The high dash prevented her from seeing anything but glass pieces were falling on it and sliding off onto the floor. The elements were calm, meaning only one thing: something was outside and trying to get in.

"Logan." Rogue clutched his hand and shook it urgently without drawing attention to her movement. "Logan wake up." His non-responsiveness only encouraged her to shake harder and whisper louder, "Wake up."

The chipping away continued until there was a whipping crack. The fissure did a jagged snake across the windshield. Rogue froze, feeling Logan's powerful hand press down on her shoulder forcing her to lie still. His eyes were open, unblinking and staring out into the white tunnel of light. Only his lips moved in a rough whisper. "Wolves."

Rogue sighed. "The deer." Wolves of the wilderness were harmless in their curiosity. If she and Logan made some noise or startled them by sudden movement they'd go away and stay away.

"Something tells me they're tireda deer," Logan's masculine voice remained low in his throat, monotonous, worried.

"What?"

Logan restrained her attempt at sitting up. One of the wolves was standing on the hood, neck stooped towards the flannel shirt stuffed in the glass hole. The rest of the pack was nearby and standing in a close-proximity semi-circle. Their ash-brown fur was coarse and matted in places from wetness, the muzzles were larger and longer than any wolf's Logan had ever seen. They housed slavering jaws below yellow eyes mottled black. Big sons-of-bitches, too. Lean, well muscled bodies and paws that would fit neatly in the palm of a human adult. It looked up at him suddenly, growled, and began to paw at the cracked glass around the shirt. Rogue recognized the sound.

"Logan!" Her Southern twang was back in full force.

"Shut up," he snapped firmly but quietly. "They ain't ordinary wolves." His wolverine nose smelled the evil stench on the one on the hood and his precision vision saw the vapour steaming from its lolling tongue. They were different from the wild wolves of the mountains in the way mutants were from humans.

The wolf watched Logan's lips move behind the glass. The creature had smelled him miles away, even before he smelled the dead dear's blood. There was something else in the metal structure smelling faintly of fear. The wolf was confused because it couldn't see where it was coming from. It heard Rogue and snarled, the muzzle skin pulled up to reveal black jaws and off-colour white teeth. With renewed vigour it knocked at the glass around the Logan's red flannel shirt.

"What's it doin'?" Rogue whispered.

"Tryin' ta get in," Logan cut right to the chase.

His grip eased off her shoulder and Rogue inched herself up slowly, licking her cracked lips. She swallowed, coming into view of the wolf and its muzzle wrinkled in a toothy snarl. The bundled shirt was slipping out of the widening hole and the pressure of the wolf's weight would shatter the glass entirely. Rogue sat up straight, unmoving except for her chest which rose and fell heavily.

"What're yah gonna do?"

Logan didn't once take his eyes off the vicious creature but something in him responded to the question, to the eyes of the wolf. That thing was going to kill them. He moved, suddenly, quickly, climbing over Rogue into the driver's seat and twisting the key in the ignition. The wolf scampered off as the engine fought the dead battery, but the camper didn't come to life. Logan twisted the key again but nothing spectacularly life-saving happened. "What the hell?"

On the edge of his vision he spied Rogue shifting uncomfortably, shrugging into her coat as was customary when she'd screwed up. "Marie!" He yelled.

"It was an accident! Ah was cold. Wouldyah 'ave preferred tah freeze tah death?!" She let fly right back.

This was no time for sarcasm; Logan held back his retort. Outside the wolves' circle was temporarily wider but they were already warming to the struggling motor. The leader, the one that had been on the hood, slunk forward, its bushy jackal tail paint-brushing the snow.

"Shift over, kid."

They swopped places again and Logan sat forward, his face almost touching the glass. His fist was poised, concealing the deadly weapon that had contributed to his name. The wolverine. Rogue was under the impression he'd picked the nickname up in the army because it was imprinted on a rectangular silver dog-tag he wore around his neck like a glorified crucifix. The brunette teen huddled against the door, instinctively locking it. She screamed and moved away quickly when a wolf jumped up against it, growling and snarling aggressively. The pack was splitting up, homing in.

The leader took a running leap and landed on the hood, its claws click-clicking as it challenged the snow on the metal.

"C'mon, bub, make my day," Logan threatened.

The wolf lunge-leapt, diving towards the material stopper. It's broad forehead shot through the glass, displacing the bunched shirt with a snapping deep-throated death-knell snarl. The windshield gave way in its broken entirety, exploding inwards and spraying shards all over Logan and Rogue. The former didn't react to the clear pinpricks. The second the probing head was close enough for him to smell the wolf's reeking breath he thrust his arm out in a well-directed punch. His fist never connected with the foaming animal. The sound of metal on metal accompanied the three blades as they shot from his hand, piercing the wolf through the jaw and neck, skewering it.

Rogue's face was shaped with her favourite "that's gross" expression, but her eyes, fixated on the gruesome scene nevertheless, didn't see the pouncing wolf to her left slink away at the death of its leader. The others slunk away without so much as the faintest of growls, tails between their legs. They disappeared silently among the dead bark of an old perennial clump of trees and lost themselves in the forest, lamenting with low howls.

Logan retracted his claws and the animal body thumped on the hood. He leaned back slowly and exhaled with noticeable relief. Rogue watched him anxiously, unsure if he still remembered to be mad at her about the flat battery. She opened her mouth to make another apology just in case but he held up a rigid index finger. It didn't exactly silence her but it altered her tone.

"Y're probably gonna say this is mah fault," she murmured sulkily, rolling her Southern Rs on purpose for added effect. The one thing Logan hated more than her crying was the warning whine she made before she cried.

Logan sat perfectly still, staring at the mutilated wolf. "This is all yer fault," he declared matter-of-factly, not once looking in her direction.

"Mah fault?" She thundered in her high-pitched near shout. "Y're the one who brought us here!"

"Because someone didn't wear her seat-belt," Logan growled evenly. He hit the cubby-hole open, retrieved a cigar and lit it with the Zippo at his feet. Rogue's silence allowed him to smoke in peace. She watched the grey-blue smoke fan out above their heads. Logan shoved the wolf head unceremoniously outside onto the hood with the heel of his boot, blew out a puff of smoke and kicked open the door.

Rogue didn't dare ask him what he thought he was doing. She rubbed her cheek where a piece of rocketing glass had nicked her and rubbed the spot of blood between her fingers. All she could do to show her discomfort was shift and shrug irritably into her coat.

Logan walked round the front and hauled the wolf off the camper. The body flopped to the snow. "Get yer things."

"Why?" Rogue drawled innocently.

"'Cause we're not stayin' here," he explained with tethered patience. "Those things'll be back."

Rogue stared towards the looming Canadian Rockies. Beyond their hidden peaks was Anchorage, Alaska. She and Logan were going there. He never said anything about himself and asking him out was like pulling teeth. At least when she'd asked if he was going to Anchorage he'd said he was. Rogue had planned the trip meticulously, mapped it out on the wall of her bedroom in Meridian, Mississippi while listening to her mother play the piano. Each time David came around she'd show him. After high school they'd go together. Before college, before she'd hurt him with her newly awakened powers.

"Ah thought wolves didn't attack durin' the day," she looked at him accusingly.

"They ain't ordinary wolves," Logan repeated. "They smell different. They look different, too. Hurry up, we'll have to hike ta the main road." He leaned over the seat and fished his rucksack from the back.

"What about the camper? Aren't yah comin' back for it?" Rogue asked, climbing in the back and getting her sling-over bag. She threw it over her shoulder and ducked back out. Logan tossed her the stolen cash.

"Never get attached to anythin' you might have to leave behind later."

"That's stupid," Rogue considered, pulling a disapproving face.

"That's life, kid. C'mon, let's go."

The camper door slammed closed with an empty ring and Rogue kicked her door open and climbed out. She slammed it less hard but had to run to catch up to Logan's 6'3" strides. The snow was ankle-deep. If anything the higher clouds and light made the air cooler and Rogue pulled the hood up over her head.

"What if someone from the bar recognizes us on the road?"

"They won't." Logan shifted the bag higher on his shoulder and trudged on up the slight incline which felt like a small mountain.

Rogue saw he didn't want to be bothered by her questions. She looked over her shoulder at the abandoned camper. The wolf's body was concealed. "Ahm sorry."

Logan grunted customarily at her genuine apology.

"Thanks fir savin' my life."

"Fair enough," he said simply. "Now we're even."

Rogue nodded. Somehow that made the silent walk to the road at least bearable.