The first man went down much faster than Logan thought he would. They had exchanged only a half dozen blows, and for the last punch the man threw, Logan blocked with a sweep of his left forearm and delivered a quick right hook to the man’s jaw. Perhaps he had punched harder than he had intended, or maybe it was just that with the adamantium reinforcing his knuckles, his punches were more damaging than the average man’s. Whatever the case, he was climbing out of the ring less than two minutes after the fight had started and reclaiming his shirt from a chair in the corner. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, he mused, pulling on only his wife-beater and folding his flannel over his arm.
He saw Rogue watching him as he approached, a bemused little smile on her face. When he got close enough, he handed her his flannel shirt, which she placed in her lap.
“Thought ya might drag the fight out a bit, sugar. Give yerself somethin’ to do after bein’ cooped up in the car all day.”
“Was plannin’ on it,” he grunted. “Didn’t realize the guy had a glass jaw.”
Rogue smirked and handed him the shot of bourbon she had ordered for him. Logan grinned his thanks and downed the drink quickly, smacking the glass down onto the bar.
“Keep those comin’, Mo,” he said. “One after each round.”
Mo gave him a look of disbelief. “Ye’re gonna be drunker’n a skunk if’n ya drink like that.”
“Nah. Don’t get drunk.”
Clara gave an unladylike snort.
“He doesn’t,” Rogue confirmed. “Ah’ve drank with him often enough to know. An’ Ah’m the only one who ever ends up with a hangover,” she said ruefully.
“That’s ‘cause you try to keep up with me,” Logan said with a smirk.
Rogue made a rude gesture that had Clara gaping and tapped the bar to signal for another beer.
“Um, that’ll be yer fifth, little lady,” Mo reminded her as he slid a bottle in front of her.
Rogue shrugged. “Then Ah’m fine fer now. Eight’s mah limit.”
“Somebody’s gonna have to carry ya outta here later. Ya tryin’ to pickle yer liver, sweetie?” Clara asked, half serious.
“Nah. Liver’s fine. ‘Sides, Ah’ve been drinkin’ since Ah was seventeen; Ah’ll be able to walk mahself out just fine.”
“Seventeen? So ya did let this fella corrupt ya a bit.”
Logan raised a brow. “I assume you’re talkin’ ‘bout me.”
“Who else?” Clara asked archly.
“It’s got nothin’ to do with Logan,” Rogue defended him. “That place Ah told ya about, where we ended up livin’? Lots o’ kids with problems lived there. A bunch o’ us would sneak drinks.”
Logan made a rumbling sound low in his throat. “You always told me you were the only one stealin’ my beer. Gonna stick to that story?”
“‘Course, sugar.” Rogue smiled. “Everybody else was too scared o’ ya to try.”
“Fair enough,” Logan said, taking her beer from her and taking a long sip.
Rogue snatched the bottle back. “That’s not to say that they didn’t ask me to do it on occasion.”
Logan chuckled. “Thought so. Damn beer disappeared too fast for just you to be drinkin’ it.”
“An’ yet, ya kept buyin’ it, an’ in larger quantities, too.” Rogue shook her head in mock wonderment.
“Least ‘til I got the mini fridge in my room.”
“True,” Rogue acknowledged. “Then Ah was the only one drinkin’ it.”
Before Logan could respond, Mo pointed over his shoulder. Turning to look, Logan saw that the announcer was waving his hand, calling him back to the ring. He was mildly surprised. The fights were all moving much faster than he had thought they would. He tugged off his shirt again and tossed it at Rogue. She snatched it out of the air deftly and slung it over her shoulder.
“Make this one interestin’, sugar. Else Ah might get bored.”
“Smartass,” Logan said with a grin as he turned to leave.
Logan could see immediately that his next opponent was used to fighting. The man had a calm, observant glint in his eyes and he moved with Logan, shifting his body gracefully to always keep him in front of him. Logan could feel a feral grin stretching across his face and heard Wolverine’s faint growl of contentment.
The blond man was waiting for him, showing a patience that Logan never had in any of his recreational fights. In serious fights, such as missions with the X-men, he could be as patient as the situation required. But here, in a ring, he liked to get things started as soon as possible. It was with this thought that Logan suddenly rushed the man.
He went in low, bending his knees and then lifting upward in a vicious right uppercut to the man’s hard stomach. The blond’s breath came rushing out in a wheezing grunt as he was lifted onto his toes by the force of the punch. He recovered quickly, though, and Logan wasn’t able to block the elbow blow to his temple. He staggered back a few steps, and saw that rather than following, the blond actually shifted his weight back a half step.
He’s gonna kick, Wolverine warned a fraction of a second before the man’s foot came flying toward his head. Logan ducked, lunging forward and slamming his shoulder into his opponent’s stomach. The man’s unsuccessful kick unbalanced both of them and they slammed to the floor of the ring. Once again, the blond’s breath was forced out of his lungs.
He pushed his hands hard against Logan’s shoulders, his face registering faint surprise at being unable to move him. Logan grinned again, not against using the weight advantage the adamantium gave him. He put some muscle behind that strength, grinding his left elbow into the tender area directly below the man’s right collar bone. The move also served to immobilize his arm, allowing Logan to deliver a short blow to the unprotected left side of the man’s face.
His head was slammed to the side, but he immediately turned back and spit a mouthful of blood into Logan’s face.
Dirty move, Wolverine growled.
Nah, he’s pinned good, Logan returned. I’d pro’ly do the same in his position.
Logan grinned again, not realizing how much the expression unsettled his opponent. He eased up just the slightest bit, allowing the man to throw him off. Although he couldn’t say that he appreciated having blood spit at him, he had to admit that the blond had his interest.
That interest was rewarded with a spinning back kick the moment Logan was at the appropriate distance. He let the kick land on his shoulder, pivoting with the impact to minimize the damage. Although he wasn’t worried about permanent damage, a dislocated shoulder in the middle of a fight would seriously hinder him. That was one of the strange quirks of his reinforced frame. Joints could still be dislocated and he could, in theory, be dismembered with little difficulty. He remembered the sparring session with Rogue that had resulted in a dislocated shoulder; the pain wasn’t too bad, given that his healing factor had the pulled muscles and tendons repaired before he even noticed the injury. What hurt was trying to get the joint back in the socket afterward.
He and Hank misjudged the angle and Logan had actually heard the screech of adamantium bones scraping together deep in his body. That was the only time Logan could ever consciously remember blacking out from pain. He knew, intellectually and from his nightmares, that it had happened often when he was in the lab, but those memories had never included the slow slide into soft, embracing blackness.
Ironically, it was a sensation that Logan had quite enjoyed. He hadn’t realized, however, that in such a situation, Wolverine was also effectively unconscious. Upon coming to in the mansion’s infirmary, Wolverine immediately began railing at him. He hadn’t liked the sudden unawareness, the lack of all senses. Wolverine’s mind, if he possessed one separate from Logan’s, had still been functioning, but it had been closed off from everything, almost as if his connection to Logan’s body had been severed. After discussing it a bit, they determined that that was probably partly responsible for the difficulties Logan had remembering his time in the military lab. They had no doubt, however, that his inability to remember his life prior to that was due to the massive trauma caused by the insertion of the adamantium into his body, and whatever else they might have done to him in the lab.
He supposed that he could get more answers about the situation if he shared what he had discovered with Professor Xavier, but he was strangely reluctant. Rogue was the only person he had told. And she was the only one whom Wolverine did not object to telling. When he had broached the subject of asking for Xavier’s help with his alter ego, he had been presented with a graphic depiction of violent decapitation. He had to admire the fact that Wolverine was able to converse so succinctly without words, but it was rather creepy that Wolverine identified himself as looking just like Logan. So the image was effectively of being decapitated by a swipe of his own adamantium claws.
In mentioning the peculiarity to Rogue, she had just given him a little shrug. “Well, what else should he look like, sugar?”
Logan hadn’t known how to respond; he had always assumed that there were enough fundamental differences between him and Wolverine for there to have been physical differences as well if Wolverine had his own body. Even without explaining any of that to Rogue, she had been able to answer. “Ya know,” her tone had been musing consideration, “maybe ya talk to him the way ya do – as a separate person an’ all - because ya have a hard time picturin’ him any other way. He’s you, ye’re him – parts o’ ya anyway. Do ya remember the first time ya seemed like two people?”
Again, Logan hadn’t had an answer. Neither had Wolverine. But they knew that the split, for lack of a better descriptive, had probably occurred during their time at the lab. The only basis for this reasoning was that Wolverine responded primarily to pain stimuli. If Logan felt pain, Wolverine was instantly swimming to the forefront of his mind, ready to take control if necessary, perhaps in an attempt to avoid blacking out.
Of course, he had recently made appearances much more frequently and for reasons other than pain. Most of them centered around Rogue.
There was a burst of pain in Logan’s left eye socket. His musing had distracted him enough that he hadn’t seen the backhand the blond had flung at him as he stumbled away. Luckily, his skin hadn’t split open; the last thing he needed was to heal instantaneously in front of a room full of people.
Won’t be able to hang around for long after the fights, though, Wolverine reminded quietly. Logan smiled faintly. That had been how he had met Rogue: staying long enough after the fight that people noticed when he didn’t develop bruises.
* * *
That damned grin again. It unsettled Hector more than he could say, for reasons he couldn’t name. The man’s smiles weren’t malicious or condescending, like the ones some fighters manufactured for the sake of psyching out their opponents. Maybe it was the pure animalistic joy in the smile that shook him. Except for the last smile; that one had spoken of fondness and contentment, two emotions completely out of place during a fight.
He had had a lot of surprises during this fight. The first had been the speed with which his muscular opponent moved. He hadn’t expected that first rush, or the pain that had shot through his elbow when he retaliated. The next surprise came in trying to push the man off him. Hector knew that thickly muscled men tended to weigh more than one might expect, but his opponent was ridiculously heavy. Hector could bench press 320 on a good day, but he had barely been able to budge the other man. It had been mainly out of frustration that he had spit in his face, knowing that he couldn’t get out of the hold, and feeling angry that the man seemed to want to draw out the fight. Maybe it had been misplaced pride, but Hector had wanted the man to end it quickly and brutally. There was no dishonor in losing like that, but to be pinned to the floor while the crowed jeered at you to give up? He wouldn’t let it end like that.
And then the bastard had eased his hold. Had let Hector break free. His pride was trashed after that, and all he felt was confused wariness and cold fury.
The man called Wolverine evaded or countered most of his blows, except for the occasional one that Hector knew he allowed to land. He began to feel something like desperation as his opponent allowed the fight to continue and Hector’s focus narrowed to one goal: find the man’s weakness.
A particularly vicious right jab knocked Hector back several steps and he almost tipped over the edge of the raised fight platform. There was too much weight and hardness behind the man’s punches, and the bastard even seemed like he was pulling them. As Hector teetered and regained his balance, he saw Wolverine glance over his shoulder toward the bar. The little bit of a girl he had come in with merely raised an eyebrow and lifted her hands in front of her surreptitiously. She tapped the index finger of her right hand on an imaginary wristwatch.
What the hell? Hector thought, insulted. She knows he’s toyin’ with me and tellin’ him it’s time to end it. Why though?
His opponent was frowning a little now, almost pouting really as he turned back to the fight. And suddenly Hector realized how he could salvage a bit of his pride.
“She’s got you whipped real good, huh?” He hardly noticed the flecks of blood that sprayed from his gums as he spoke.
“What did you say?” The man’s growl didn’t sound human. Another idea came to Hector, and he ran with it.
“Is it ‘cause she knows your secret?” He saw a flicker of panic flare to life in Wolverine’s eyes, but it was extinguished just as quickly as it had appeared.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, bub. Don’t much care either.”
“I think you do,” Hector goaded, shakily dodging a punch. “Is she like you then?” The second punch landed hard on his mouth and chin, and he felt his lower lip split open like an overripe melon. Hector cursed and spat a mouthful of blood off to the side.
“Keep your stinkin’ mouth shut about her,” Wolverine warned. For the first time during their fight, a real killing intent entered his eyes and Hector felt a surge of satisfaction. He had the upper hand at the moment and would use it to see that the fight ended the way he wanted it to.
“Okay,” he agreed, panting heavily as he moved around his opponent. Despite the roar of the crowd, he kept his voice low, not wanting to risk being overheard. “But on one condition.”
“You’re not exactly in a position to bargain, bub.”
“Oh, but I am,” Hector countered, spitting another mouthful of blood. “I’ll keep my mouth shut about you and her. About what you both probably are, but only if you end this fight the way I want.”
“I’m not big on takin’ falls just ‘cause somebody threatens me.”
“That wasn’t what I was proposin’. Way I see it, I’m losin’ this fight, and have been since it started.” Hector was amused as his opponent blinked twice rapidly and even lost a step in his prowling stride as he stalked Hector around the ring.
“Then what do you want?” Wolverine asked suspiciously.
“All I ask is that you show me some respect, fighter to fighter, and quit playin’ with me. One solid punch to knock me out, man. No shame in losin’ a fight that way. But if this keeps draggin’ on, I’m gonna end up lookin’ like a pansy.” Hector cut his eyes to the side, directing Wolverine’s gaze to a tall blonde woman standing close to the ring. She was chewing on her lower lip and wringing her hands. “And I’ve got my own lady watchin’.”
Wolverine grunted. “Understood,” he said, a slight lift to his lips as he moved in closer. “Looks like you’re just as whipped as I am.”
Hector didn’t even see the punch. He did, however, feel the sudden whoosh of air past his chest that exploded on the underside of his jaw. His head snapped back and his body arched backward away from his opponent. He thought he felt his heels lifting off the ground until he was standing on his toes, but he couldn’t be sure. His body was numb and limp as his vision turned grey and his head felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton. He twisted as he fell, and his eyes slid closed before he hit the floor. The last thing he saw was Joanna covering her mouth with both hands and tears standing in her eyes.
* * *
“One last shot of bourbon,” Logan said to Mo. The bartender slid the glass in front of him and also threw a small white towel toward him. Logan ignored the latter until the bourbon was burning a cheerful little hole in his stomach. As he wiped the sweat and the other man’s blood off his chest, he felt Rogue’s hand on his shoulder.
“What’s the matter, sugar?”
“Dunno,” Logan grunted. But he did. He just wasn’t sure if he could explain it to Rogue.
Rogue tipped her head to the side as she looked him over. “What did he say to ya?”
Surprised, Logan turned to look at her. “Didn’t think you’d noticed.”
Rogue took the towel from him and moved around to his back to wipe the sweat from between his shoulder blades. She didn’t speak again, knowing that Logan would eventually give in and tell her what was bothering him. She finished toweling him off and handed him his shirts. She tossed the towel onto the bar and Clara swept it up and dropped it in a sink.
Logan pulled on his wife beater and spoke while the fabric still covered his face.
“He knew.”
“Knew what, Logan?”
“‘Bout us.”
“Ya mean he saw the interview?” Rogue asked anxiously.
“No.” Logan scrubbed his hands over his face harshly. “He just seemed to figure it out while we were fightin’. Knew I was holdin’ back and pro’ly figured that the only reason I would be is if I was…different.” Logan spoke softly, mindful of Mo and Clara close by.
“Whatdya wanna do, sugar?” Rogue asked quietly.
“Hey, Mo,” Logan called. The bartender turned to look at him. “I’m done with fightin’ for tonight. That guy punched hard as hell.”
Mo’s look was one of surprise. “Ain’t more’n two fights left ‘fore the three way showdown,” he protested.
“Even so,” Logan said, “I think he might’ve cracked a rib.” He clutched his side and offered what he thought was a convincing grimace.
“But—” Clara’s elbow to his stomach cut Mo off.
“Ya just head on over to yer room, then,” she said soothingly. “I turned the heat on earlier and the bed’s been turned down fer ya. Plenty o’ fresh towels in the bathroom, too.”
“Thanks,” Logan grunted, sliding some bills over the counter.
“What’s this?” Mo asked. “Ya already paid fer yer food and room, an’ ye’re out the hunnerd fer the entry fee.”
“Consider it a tip for watchin’ over Marie for me,” Logan said as he shrugged on first his flannel and then his jacket. He held Rogue’s for her and settled his hands on her shoulders as she zipped up the front.
“That’s not necessary,” Clara protested, trying to hand the money back.
“Keep it,” Rogue said softly. “Ah appreciate ya bein’ so kind to me.”
Clara looked torn for a moment. Finally, her brow smoothed out and she nodded once decisively. “All right. But only if ya stop by fer breakfast ‘fore ya leave. Back door will be open, so just let yerselves in, say around eight o’clock.”
Rogue smiled and looked over her shoulder at Logan. He nodded. “We’ll do that. Thanks.”
It wasn’t until Logan was unlocking the door to their room that Rogue spoke again.
“Ya figure it’ll be okay? Lettin’ ‘em see ya tomorrow when ya won’t be all bruised up?”
Logan grunted softly as he stooped slightly to grab their bags from Rogue. “Pro’ly. Won’t shave in the mornin’, though. That’ll cover up enough of my face that they won’t look too hard for bruises. Just remind me to hold my ribs every now and then.”
Rogue chuckled. “Will do, sugar.”
They were pleasantly surprised at how cozy the room was. Although the bedding was slightly worn, it was obviously clean, as was the carpet and the drapes covering the room’s only window. The heater beneath the window was humming cheerfully, taking all but the barest hint of a chill out of the room. Logan tossed their bags on the bed and went to inspect the bathroom. The tile and all the porcelain gleamed with cleanliness and the towels were white and fluffy, showing none of the use that the bedding had. He felt Rogue behind him peering over his shoulder. He knew when she raised up on tiptoe by the way her hands clutched at his shoulders for balance and for the briefest moment, she leaned into his back in a half-embrace. Logan inhaled quickly, the expansion of his ribs and back allowing him to feel Rogue’s breasts more fully, but before he had even let the breath back out, Rogue was dropping down on her heels and moving away.
“Looks good,” she said. “Why don’t ya go ahead an’ shower first? Ye’re all sweaty still.”
Logan grunted and took the two steps forward into the bathroom. He swung the door closed without looking back at her. He stripped off his clothes quickly and started the shower.
What do you make o’ that? His tone was grudging as he asked Wolverine’s advice.
She’s nervous.
Why?
Some part o’ her pro’ly expects us to jump her.
Logan growled a bit as he tested the water temperature. Finding it warm enough, he stepped into the shower and drew the curtain closed behind him. Why the hell would she think that?
Wolverine gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. Dunno for sure. It’s hard to figure with Marie. On the one hand, she seems years older than she actually is, and the memories she has from other people make her seem more experienced than she is. On the other hand, she is still young. And a virgin.
Logan couldn’t help but chuckle at the satisfaction he heard in Wolverine’s voice. His chuckle quickly ended in a scowl as he got a mouthful of shampoo.
Logan spat and rinsed his mouth. Even so. She knows us. Knows that we would never hurt her.
Maybe that’s it, Wolverine mused.
What?
She knows you, but does she know me well enough to know I wouldn’t hurt her?
‘Course she does. Logan finished lathering up with soap and began rinsing off quickly. She’s got you in her head same as she does me.
How often does she let me out, though?
Logan’s hands paused mid-motion as he considered the question. You might have somethin’ there, he conceded. For a moment, he leaned forward into the water and braced his hands on the wall. The sharp, needling spray was like a thousand tiny fingers massaging along his back. I used to keep you locked up pretty tight in the beginnin’. Might be Marie’s been doin’ the same.
I’d put money on it, Wolverine said. So, congratulations. It’s not you she’s afraid of. It’s me.
Even though Logan knew that Wolverine shared his affections for Rogue, he was still surprised by the sad chagrin in his voice.
Hey, don’t wor—
Rogue’s sharp cry cut him off.
“Logan!”
Just that one word had him bolting out of the shower without even turning the water off. He was reaching for the door when Wolverine’s hasty reminder had him slinging a towel quickly around his hips. He flung the door open and caught it instinctively as it rebounded off the wall. Scanning the room swiftly, he saw no immediate threat. His eyes went to Rogue sitting on the foot of the bed, the remote in her hand, and her eyes fixed on the television. She glanced up at him and pointed wordlessly at the screen.
Logan went quickly to the foot of the bed and the headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen had him sinking down beside her.
“American Scientific Community Revamps Mutant Classification Scale,” it read.
A pretty brunette reporter dressed in icy blue shuffled a stack of papers in front of her. “Would it be fair to say, Dr. Michaels, that this is in response to the interview of the mutants known as Rogue and Wolverine yesterday?”
The image of the newscaster was compressed to fill only half the screen. On the other half, a burly man with a full, greying beard appeared. The caption below him read, “Dr. Andrew Michaels, Senior Mutant-Genetics Researcher, Matagene Laboratories.”
“Not entirely, Susan. Adjusting the Mutant Classification Scale – we call it the MCS at the lab – isn’t something that can be done overnight. I think it might be more accurate to say that the interview paved the way for the revised scale to go public.”
“That seems reasonable,” Susan said, shuffling more papers. “I have a report on the revised scale here, but I have to admit that I don’t understand it completely. Could you give me – and our viewers – a description of the changes in layman’s terms?”
Dr. Michaels chuckled. “I can try,” he said, “but make sure to stop me if I’m mucking up the explanation with too many scientific terms.”
Susan offered a completely fake smile and nodded. “Please, Dr. Michaels, go ahead.”
“Well, basically the scale has been reworked so that it no longer gauges just the strength and entropic potential of a mutation. It now directly addresses threat to human life.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. ‘Entropic potential’?”
“Oh…yes. That is, hmm…the ability of a mutation to effect change in the mutant or his surroundings.”
“I see. And how does the scale determine ‘threat to human life’ without it being a completely subjective system?”
“Yes, that is still of concern. But we aren’t, of course, labeling mutants a threat to human life. Merely their mutations.”
Susan’s head snapped up from her papers. “But the two can’t be separated, Doctor. Labeling the mutation as a threat to human life is just as good as labeling the mutant himself dangerous.”
“Hmm…yes, I see your point.” Dr. Michaels shifted in his chair.
“So, put this in terms we can understand, with examples of mutations and where they would fit in the new scale, please.”
“Yes, certainly. We’ll use the mutants from the interview as an example, shall we? The gentleman, Wolverine; his healing factor on its own has been downgraded to a class 1 mutation. This is because the ability to heal in and of itself poses absolutely no danger to humans. However, the claws he possesses are at the class 5 level because they can easily take a human’s life.”
“But those claws are not a natural part of his mutation,” Susan challenged.
“True, but they are a…side effect of sorts of his mutation. Therefore, they may be assessed according to the new system.”
“All right,” Susan said slowly. “So he is potentially deadly, but surely not without provocation. The law allows the use of deadly force in self-defense.”
“Only to a certain extent,” Dr. Michaels defended quickly. “There are numerous incidents of highly trained service personnel serving jail time due to altercations that resulted in them using their skills on civilians. They are aware that their abilities give them the advantage over the general population, and so they are held to a higher standard of restraint.”
“Are you also a lawyer, Dr. Michaels?”
“No.” The man’s surprise showed on his face.
“Then we will leave the legal discussion for when our station may retain and interview a lawyer. Now, how about the girl? Rogue.”
“Oh, she’s a class 5. The girl can kill with a touch; she’ll always be a class 5 mutant, no matter how you spin it.”
“So what has happened to the ‘controllability’ factor in determining mutant classification?”
“It was decided that it was not an essential criterion in assessing risk to human life.”
“And why is that?”
“Whether the mutation is controllable or not no longer matters. If a mutant chose to use his or her ability against a human or an accident occurred because the mutant has no control, the human is still injured regardless of the mutant’s intentions.”
“I see,” Susan said coldly. “Well, unfortunately, we’re out of time, but thank you for joining us, Dr. Michaels.”
“My pleasure,” the geneticist responded stiffly.
Susan shuffled her papers again and turned more fully toward the cameras. “Join us next hour for more on Mutants’ Rights issues and a discussion of how the changes in the Mutant Classification Scale have affected the Mutant Registration Act in the United States.”
The news broadcast was replaced by a commercial for extra strength laundry detergent.
Logan slid the remote from Rogue’s limp fingers and clicked the television off.
“I guess now we know why Chuck was so distracted on the phone,” he said grimly.