Danger: Memory
By Artemis2050
I’m in a bar.
I’ve been here before.
It’s exactly the same.
Well, not exactly. That’s kind of the point of the exercise.
I’m standing near the door, a little shadowed from the main room, which is what I usually do first when I come here; check out the action, see what’s already happened tonight and what might be developing. The place is pretty packed, there’s a pool table in action, a crowd around the bar all demanding drinks. Voices are raised somewhere in the back, but then a roar of laughter bursts out and I guess it’s all just good fun for now.
I’m not the only woman in the place, but I’m pretty close to it. This isn’t a pick-up joint, after all. So when I come here I wear jeans and old t-shirts and a sweater under my jacket. No makeup. Hair back in a ponytail.
Still get hit on sometimes, but that’s all right.
I start to make my way toward the bar, ducking my head as I go past an old guy I know as a regular here. He’s nice enough, but the worst breath of any human being I’ve ever met. Sometimes I tell him he should go see a doctor; between that and the hacking cough it’s pretty obvious there’s something wrong. He always tears up a little and shakes his head. “Naw, sweetheart. Too late for that.” Then he always tries to hug me for being so sweet, and I don’t feel like getting into that tonight.
When I make it to the bar, slide onto one of the stools, the bartender looks up and his glance slides over me briefly, assessing, not really curious. He doesn’t recognize me, and he’s worked in these kinds of places far too long to be worried about anything except whether someone is likely to be trouble or not.
I don’t look like trouble. He finishes with what he’s doing before he comes over and slaps a dirty coaster down in front of me. Then he just stands there.
Back where I’m from, bartenders are social animals and even now it always throws me off. How yew, l’il lady? or What can I get for such a beautiful girl? is the kind of thing I expect to hear. This guy will just stand there until you order or until he gets called by someone else, so I quickly ask for a beer. He grunts, draws it off the tap and doesn’t let go of the glass until I put a blue bill down on the bar. He takes it and puts down a couple of coins in return, one of which I push back over the bar towards him. He still doesn’t speak or smile, but he does grunt something else that might be thanks before he scoops it up and tosses it into a jar on the corner of the bar. It has a handwritten notice taped to it that I can’t read from here, but I know what it says.
I drink my beer in its fingerprinted glass and try not to think too much about when the last time was it got washed. A few minutes tick by. It’s warm, so I slip off my jacket and lay it on the bar beside me.
And then someone comes up to the bar, tosses a well-worn knapsack onto the scored wooden surface, and sits down. “I’ll have a beer.”
Barkeep doesn’t pay much more attention to him than he did to me, although he jerks his head in acknowledgement and doesn’t insist on payment in advance. I stare down at my own beer, turning the glass around on the dark circle it’s made on the beat-up coaster, scrape a bit more of my peeling nailpolish off onto the bar. I wait until the beer is in front of the newcomer and the bartender has gone off to serve someone else before I say anything.
“Some fight,” I offer, and look up at the man sitting beside me for the first time. He spares me about as much of a glance as the bartender did, cigar already clenched between his teeth and hunting in the pocket of his leather jacket for a lighter. He can’t find it.
“Thanks.” And that’s all I’m going to get out of him, says his body language, as he hunches over the bar and knocks back half of his beer.
I glance at the watch on my wrist. Eight minutes. I sip my own beer and relax just a little. Tonight I don’t even really mind if I don’t do anything more than sit here.
Involuntarily I find my gaze wandering to the corner of the bar. There’s no one there.
“You want another?” The man sitting beside me is signaling to the bartender, and gives me a quizzical look.
That’s a new one, and I’m surprised. “Sure,” I say, and let the bartender replace my half-finished beer with another. I raise the new glass, which looks even more smudged than the old one, and tilt it towards his. “Cheers.” I put an arch note in my voice. “So you come here often?”
His mouth twists a little at that. But he doesn’t answer. He puts the cigar down on the bar, next to his knapsack, and swallows another half a glass of beer. But then he turns, really turns around, looks me over more carefully. “You don’t,” he says bluntly. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
There’s a second where I can’t breathe. Clean shot to the solar plexus, one absolutely stomach-clenching moment of wondering if this is real. “I’m on a trip,” I manage, and that’s only because other times, other variations of that line have worked.
He snorts. “Trip to where? Ain’t many tourist attractions around here.”
“Alaska.” And that answer, too, is practiced. It even makes some kind of sense, and he nods, but he’s still paying more attention than I’m used to. New game, new gambit, watch your step.
“You got a name?”
I relax. The relief is so great I feel almost dizzy. I also almost forget to answer. “Marie. I’m Marie.”
He’s looking at me strangely, which is only logical considering I think I just took thirty seconds to answer a simple question, but finally he nods. And says what I expect him to say. “Logan.”
I resist the urge to say that I know that, and drink some more of my beer. My watch tells me twelve minutes have passed, but when I look back up from that unconscious check, it’s been noticed.
“Got somewhere to be?”
“Not for about half an hour,” I answer truthfully. My stomach has settled and I’m ready, now, to see where this takes us. I don’t know why I was so startled, except that Logan has never asked me before why I’m there. That’s new.
Sometimes I tell him, eventually, some story or other about why I’m there. When I first started coming here it was all but impossible to get his attention at all, so small talk never used to be part of the equation. That’s been different, lately, but not like this.
“So why Alaska?”
I toy with my coaster. “Don’t know, really. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Which is true, and which I’ve said before. “There was something at home I wanted to get away from, I guess. Thought a trip would be fun.” I take a bit of a gamble. “How about you?”
Predictably, he closes off. “I live here.” He feels around in his pockets again. Still can’t find what he’s looking for.
Naturally. I didn’t put it there.
“You oughta be careful.” He’s not looking at me, just focusing on his drink. “Shouldn’t be in a place like this.”
I hide a smile. That usually comes out eventually, the protective streak. “Talking to guys like you?” I hazard.
“’Specially talking to guys like me.” But he gives me half-smile, an indication I know as being up for a little flirting, nothing serious.
“You seem okay.” He snorts. I laugh. “Okay, but you bought me a drink. Least I can do is be polite.”
“Yeah.” He studies his beer a little more. “Got a car?”
I nod. I do. “Just waiting for the storm to blow over,” I tell him, which seems to relieve his mind somewhat.
“Okay. I’ll walk you out when you go.”
“Thanks.” He offers that, sometimes. Usually not. “Which is the best way back to the highway?”
He gives me some directions which I make a pretense of writing down on a bar napkin. Then I order another round for both of us. A burly guy from the back comes between us and orders for his table; it takes him two trips to carry the pitcher and the glasses.
“So what do you do? Between fight nights?”
“Nothin’ much.” He shrugs. “Nothin’ much to do around here.”
“Must get boring.”
“Sometimes.” He looks over just as I’ve checked and seen that twenty-three minutes are up. “What’re you, following a schedule?”
I laugh, but it sounds a little forced. “Just habit, I guess.”
“Well, relax. That storm’s going to keep going a while.”
It won’t, but he doesn’t know that. “Okay.” And I paste on a smile and take a chance. “Where’d you rather be? Right now?”
Logan doesn’t answer this question, but he does parry with one of his own. “What’re you looking for? In Alaska?”
I take a deep breath. “Well…there was this guy I liked. And we kind of had a thing for a while, but it ended. And I just didn’t want to be where I was any more, but I couldn’t leave.” I turn my glass around. “Work stuff. And then I had a chance to take a vacation and thought, why not? Always wanted to see new places.”
“So you’re running away.”
I look up, startled, but there’s a humorous glint in his hazel eyes and it doesn’t mean anything. I force a laugh. “I guess. Sort of. Does it count as running away if you’re going back after?”
“Sometimes,” he answers, and then he reaches over and brushes some hair back from my cheek. “Who’s this asshole and what was his problem? Or did you dump him?”
“It was mutual.” I blink my eyes hard and fast. “And he wasn’t an asshole.”
“Must be, if he ain’t here with you.” His fingers gently stroke against my face and christ, this is not a pickup line Logan has ever used before. I want to lean into his touch, savor it.
Instead I reach up and take his hand in mine. “He wasn’t,” I say firmly. “Any more than you are.”
“You don’t know what I am.” Now we’re taking a turn toward something that could be dangerous, and I don’t want that. Not tonight. I close both my hands over his.
“Know what I think? I think you’re a really nice guy and you want me to think you’re not.” I make him open his fingers. “I can see it. Right here.” I trace the lines down the center of his palm. “See? That shows you’re a good guy.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. And this shows a long journey, and crossing water. And six kids,” I add for good measure, and he actually laughs. I turn his hand over in mine, run my fingers over his knuckles. “Does it hurt?” I ask softly. “When you fight.”
He pulls his hand away from me, as I knew he would. “Sure,” he says briefly. “Don’t try it.”
“How come you do it?”
“Because the money’s good and I’m good at it.” He gives me a direct look. “Am I supposed to ask you what you do?”
“Not if you don’t want to know,” I answer. And he doesn’t want to know, I guess, because he doesn’t ask. We just sit for a while and work on our drinks.
Someone comes in from outside and brushes some snow from his coat. Logan nods that way. “Still snowing.”
“It’s okay. I have four-wheel drive,” I say, and he nods again. “Logan? How come you bought me the drink?”
He considers that. “Seemed like what you were lookin’ for.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say, and don’t mention that he never has before.
“I don’t know. What the fuck is with all the questions?”
“I’d just like to know, that’s all. Don’t you ever wonder about people? What makes them do what they do?”
Logan sets down his beer. “I don’t know,” he repeats, and then glances away from me, toward the corner of the bar. He shakes his head as if he needs to clear it.
I have fourteen minutes left. “I’m going to the restroom,” I tell him, and get up to maneuver around the bar. I do this for one reason only, and that’s to watch him as I come back a few minutes later. This time, I see that he’s watching for me to return. I pick up my jacket from where it’s still lying on the bar, and slip it on before I finish off my beer.
“You ought to stay,” Logan says suddenly. “Until the snow lets up, I mean.” He reaches out and grabs one of my hands. “C’mon. You might even find out why I do what I do.” He gives me that half-smile again, but he seems uncertain, unsettled.
“I can’t.” That’s the simple truth, and with only a few minutes left here I can say what I want. I lace my fingers through his. “But I might come back.”
He starts to get up. “I’ll walk you out,” he says, and that he can’t do. I pull my hand free of his and place both of mine on his shoulders, lean in close.
“No,” I tell him, as quietly as I can over the noise of the bar. “Just stay here. If the snow’s too bad I’ll come back, okay?”
One of his hands slides around my waist, and for just a second I want to forget the time, forget everything, forget this isn’t real. “One more drink,” he murmurs back, and it’s killing me not to be able to say yes.
“I can’t. I’ve got to drive,” I remind him. “You stay here.” I move my hands up to his face. “Remember, you’re a good guy, okay?” I lean in and kiss his cheek gently. “Don’t forget that.” I start to step away from him but he tightens his arm around my waist and pulls me closer again. “Logan…”
“You looked sad,” he mutters into my ear. “That’s why. The drink.” His hand strokes up and down my back, under my jacket. “Sure you have to go?”
“Yeah.” But I hug him, tight, around the neck before I can bring myself to leave, and his arm closes around my back for that long, stolen minute. “Thanks.” And before I can think about it any more I pull away from him and put my head down as I push my way toward the door. Even when I get there, I stand for a second, making an excuse of zipping up my jacket. My eyes are stinging a little.
I take hold of the handle and open the door.
Before I go out I look back at the bar one more time. As though the scene has just been reset, Logan’s got his cigar back between his teeth and is feeling in his jacket pockets all over again. “Lighter,” I whisper under my breath, and that’s what he finally finds in the left-hand one. I wait for him to light up before I slip out the door. I’ve just watched him forgetting all about me.
Logan doesn’t know me here. Ever. And he never will, no matter how many times I come back.
Outside is cold and dark. There are some looming shapes that might be parked semis. Not much more. I reach into my own coat pocket, which is empty.
“Cigarettes. Matches.”
And when I reach back into my pocket there’s a packet there, and a half-empty book of matches that I waste three of trying to get one lit in the wind. I take a deep drag and glance at my watch again. Fifty-seven minutes.
I finish the cigarette and drop it in the snow before I speak again. “End simulation.”
White walls replace white snow. Lights come up. The Canadian landscape, unformed as it is, vanishes. Even my cigarette stub is gone. Of course, it never really existed.
Guess you can’t get lung cancer that way.
“Simulation complete,” a female voice states unemotionally from somewhere above or around me.
“Thanks.” The door is in front of me now, and I slip out of the Danger Room which is as blank and barren as always. But I’m a little shaken tonight. I know we don’t know everything about the technology we use in here, and every once in a while the programming seems to randomly come up with things that are new.
That’s its purpose.
That’s what keeps me coming back.
I don’t know how many times I’ve been here, or even why I keep running this same simulation. I used to just come and watch. It’s only in the past few months that I’ve actually interacted, and that’s when the differences started to appear. A new face in the bar here and there, earlier or later in the evening, things like that. And the way Logan reacts to me; that changes. The first time I spoke to him he ignored me completely. Once he never showed up at all. I learned ways of starting a conversation that didn’t make him suspicious or steer him in the wrong direction. But tonight’s session was the strangest yet.
There were just two caveats I gave the Danger Room when I asked it to use what I remembered to create the scene: no fighting outside the cage. And no girl in a green coat in the corner of the bar.
I’m not about to meet myself coming or going.
I have to go upstairs to retrieve my things from the observation room and shut down the computer before I go back to bed. The door isn’t locked and I realize I must have been more unsettled than usual even when I started my session, because I always do lock it. I always leave the window blanked out and it’s open, too, the great white room cavernous below me; I must not have noticed it was open when I programmed my session. I touch a button and the lights go out, leaving only shadows beyond the huge glass panes before I darken them as well.
This is not what the Danger Room is meant to be used for, of course. When I was still in school we did some basic training here, and that was when I learned that sessions under an hour weren’t reported in the daily logs. I flick a switch. “Erase previous session.”
“Session erased.” It’s my imagination that gives the voice that note of regret, I think, whenever it says that. Only I wonder sometimes if the Room doesn’t like my secret brief visits, the only times it isn’t asked for the kinds of scenarios that give it its name.
My gloves are lying on the console and I pick them up, smooth them on, and gather up my bag from beside the controller’s chair. “Good night,” I say out loud.
“Good night, Marie.” The computer powers down, lights going out and others coming on, and I’m halfway to the door before I realize what it’s said. My name here has always been Rogue.
Something has changed.
Shi’ar technology marries others, I remember the Professor once said to us. It is not static. It grows. It learns. That is why it changes.
I wonder what will change when I come back.
I know I'll be back to find out.
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Story Notes:
Might be slightly confusing at first, but stick with it.
Chapter End Notes:
It's been a long time. Let me know if you still want more.