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Story Notes:
I told myself I shouldn't have a DependentRouge story so soon after Heal Over. I didn't want people thinking it's the only thing I can do. But after I finished Overlap, I looked through my list and this one had the most half-ideas attached to it. And...Well, I really wanted to. :-) I can't believe I got this chapter done so fast! It must be the fiction gremlin's way of apologizing for how long the last one took.

Thanks go to the wonderful men/women/magical inspiration fairies on Nanowrimo who donated the first and last lines of this fic, which I happily took and twisted. You guys are incredible.

Alright, so things ya'll should probably know...

The chapters following this one will contain much more Rogan-interaction. I promise.

I will never ever ever do a story where Marie and Logan have a platonic relationship. Don't worry/flame me: I'll keep Logan well outside the realm of pedophilia.

I have not forgotten that Marie is from Mississippi. This is AU.

.....Oh lord. There was something else....well, I guess you'll figure it out.

Thank you for clicking on this story! I truly hope you enjoy it and will let me know if you do or not by the end. Happy Reading.
The Girl: Chapter One






"You know what bleeds alot?" Logan mused, as the man looked on terror causing him to choke on every breath like it was water, not oxygen, he was inhaling. "Fingers."

He decided that that little wheeze indicated disbelief, so an adamantium claw helped drive the point home. It took only a moment, a quick nip of a blade sharper than a surgeon's scalpel. A clean cut, despite the twisting and wriggling of the finger's owner--his arms were well-strapped to the chair. The pasty digit fell to the floor, and a tiny waterfall of blood followed.

There was no need for the man to scream that loud. It was only his pinky finger.

Thomas Whitmoore appeared as innocent and blandly American as his name suggested. A clean, comfortably furnished office within a clean, comfortably furnished building. Degrees and awards hung on the walls in matching black frames. Filing cabinets and yellow pencils, eco-friendly light bulbs. A picture of a smiling couple--Whitmoore and his wife, now five years old--in front of their new house. A coffee cup with '#1 DAD!' painted on the side.

The man himself was in his thirties, slim with dark hair trimmed once a week. Dark blue suit and tie, buttery palms and a body that seemed molded at birth to sit behind a desk.

There was nothing to suggest that every certificate was purchased online, that all the names and all the appointments on the papers strewn across the table top did not exist, and never had.

Nothing to say that Thomas Whitmoore, Attorney At Law, had never had a legitimate client, never stepped into a courtroom, never once used the phone on the desk.

Nothing to tell the observer that the money he brought home came from the sale of children, women, and (the reason Logan was here): mutants.

"You're hurting my ears," he informed Whitmoore mildly. The man was beet-red, gulping and squirming uselessly against the wire that tied him to his expensive leather chair. "Relax. I was joking. Fingers aren't so bad. I can show you some other body parts that hurt a lot more when you lose them. Believe me, bub, I know."

Bright, bulging green eyes stared at him wildly. He hadn't said much, not since Logan had first stepped in the room. He'd probably never had a wound more serious than a skinned knee.

"No," he whimpered.

"No what?"

"No sir."

Logan laughed. He hadn't asked for that, but it was a nice touch.

"I got some questions for ya, Thomas. An' you have a list of names for me. I wanna know everyone who works in your branch of the trafficking."

If at all possible, Whitmoore's face went even paler with realization. Logan wondered what else he was involved in, how he could have expected this visit to be for anything else. The man looked from his face to those monstrous strips of metal, resting against Logan's knee.

"You-you-you can't do this," he said. Logan could beg to differ. "My-my wife, s-she's-"

"Spit it out."

"She's w-waiting for m-me. She expected m-me home. She'll call the police."

He shook his head in a parody of sadness, leaned forward and whispered.” Thomas, your wife never leaves the house without sunglasses and a long-sleeved sweater." A soft voice could be more terrifying than the most ferocious of yells. Especially if it was accompanied with adamantium. "I don't think she'll miss you."

Whitmoore's finger hadn't clotted, but the blood wasn't gushing quite so fast. Instead, it seemed to unwind and fall from the hole like wet ribbon.

Logan sat back in the visitor's chair he'd dragged around the desk. His was less comfortable than the other man's.

"I don't-I don't know any-anything. You've got the wrong guy."

"Know what a lie smells like? Burned rubber. And carrots."

"You're crazy! You freak! Psycho!"

"Uh-huh," Logan agreed. He placd his claws on the man's jerking leg, pushed them smoothly up, all the way to the hipbone like some bizarre caress. Not pressing hard--or not hard enough to hit a serious vein--yet. Cloth and skin tore. The flesh at the front of the blades did not bunch up, but parted like meat cooked all day.

Adjacent to the scarlet stain, another one appeared. Whitmoore had pissed himself.

"Everybody went home, Thomas. Hey-hey, bub. Nobody can hear you. But you're givin' me a headache. Stop screaming."

"I don't know what you want! I don't know any-any names!” he shrieked into the air, into Logan's face. Strings of spittle launched out, like a bulldog on a hot day. The smell of pain and fear and burned rubber. "I don't know anyone! I don't know anything!"

The other four fingers joined it's brother on the carpet. Little white pearls of bone were visible for an instant, before redness covered them. Logan let the man shout himself hoarse, get it out of his system, until Whitmoore was reduced to pants and urine. Slumped against his restraints, eyes bloodshot and weary. Clothes soaked through. It stank. Whitmoore was probably wondering why he hadn't yet passed out. And they had barely started.

"Let's keep it simple," he said, in a parody of gentleness that would fool no one. "Thirty-eight names, huh? Okay? Thirty-eight. And if they're good, if you don't lie--and I will know, trust me bub--then this will be over. We'll be finished. Thirty eight names."

The man blinked at him, tired. Distrustful. Sticky.

Hesitant--"And then you'll-you'll lemme go?"

Logan considered it. "Yeah. Sure." The pause, the lightness of his tone, let Thomas Whitmoore, Attorney At Law, know it wasn't the truth. But he eagerly grabbed the lie, took comfort in the hope of an escape he wouldn't receive.

He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them. Addressed the rug between Logan's boots.

"Enrique Vasquez. He's the guy who--"



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He saw her on the first day he moved into the grey city, the grey neighborhood, the grey street packed with tenements and garbage.

She was sitting on the stoop when Logan walked up (His truck was parked in a garage two blocks down; he couldn't afford to break the arms of any car-jackers here.). There's a tattered, crumbling paperback in her hands. A waif, malnourished and young. She lowered her head when she caught his eye, scooted over on the steps.

He only looked at her for a moment, a passing glance really. But...well, he was a man in the habit of analyzing everyone who passed within his field of vision--along with those who didn't. Yeah. Yeah. That would explain it. Useful little survival tool.

He noted that her eyes were brown like cedar wood, with splinters of mahogany and that her mouth was pink, plush. Straight brown hair, apparently cut herself. A splattering of half-visible freckles covered her cheeks, along with a glistening bruise. She was thirteen, perhaps fourteen, and judging by the faded color and rips, her clothes were older than that.

She smelled like cotton and peaches.

And when Logan went inside, he knew the kid's head lifted, twisted to watch him go.


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The building had four stories, each indistinguishable from the other except for the janitor's closet on the first floor (whose contents were only put in use when somebody moved out, and only grudgingly so then) and a laundry room on the third. The place was held together by sharp corners and mold, tiny rooms and tinier halls designed to fit as many occupants as possible. The walls were rippling from water damage and though once upon a time cheery wallpaper may have adorned them, now it hung in strips of an undeterminable color. Enough meth and opium hung in the air to give Logan a slight buzz.


He'd have to thank Chuck for the kind accommodations. But that would have to wait until after the mission was completed, for he would have no contact with the old man before then. Logan's rules, not Xavier's.

He honestly didn't mind the tenement (he'd certainly lived in worse). If Chuck hadn't picked and paid for the apartment he'd be staying in, Logan probably would have himself. It was a good place to lie low.

Logan knew which room was his--which was fortunate, because the landlord only visited once a month and when somebody was found dead. He unlocked a door at the end of the fourth floor. It had eight deadbolts and two chains on the opposite side that he never once turned during his stay. Let 'em try.

A living room and a kitchen in one; a bedroom and a bathroom so small it must have been added on by mistake. Rat droppings and torn carpet that cigarette burns gave a polka-dot design to. The apartment's sole perk--his sole perk--was that they came furnished. A bed (cloth and stains stretched over rusty springs), two lawn chairs, a fridge, and a couch that wasn't so bad, so it must have been stolen.

He unpacked. It only took a few minutes; he had enough money to buy whatever he needed here. Logan turned on the shower; let it run long before he got inside in an effort to clear away some of the grime.

The mission was simple and bloody. Locate the thirty eight men in the trafficking cell, along with anyone else those thirty eight happened to give up. Get rid of them. Quietly, permanently. It wasn't quite the task Chuck wanted associated with the Xmen, and Logan was the best choice for the job. He didn't flinch.

It had to be done carefully. Two or three deaths could be coincidence, even five or six; their's was a dangerous profession, after all. But if word got out that someone was hunting them, they--particularly the leaders--might flee, go into hiding. Logan could track them down; of course he could. But he wasn't in the mood.


Slowly, he raised his head to face the killer. Logan glared at him, cracked his neck. But then the perpetually angry expression slid off his face, and he turned from the mirror with a sigh.

He stepped under the weak, dribbling flow of the shower, finding himself--for no particular reason--thinking of the girl on the steps.
Chapter End Notes:
Hi! I'm so glad you made it down here. Thank you. I will try to have the next chapter fineshed as quickly as humanly possible (I'm housekeeping at a nursing home full time). Please know that it would absolutely make my day if you were to click on that review button...See it down there?. Isen't it pretty? It says "clickidy clickidy clickidy."
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