Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The click of the boot of a car; the huff of men; the chafing of rope. 

" I thought you knocked hi- " 

The sting of cold hands and the screaming of tinnitus drown out much of everything. 

" I did! First try! You- " 

Logan's head spun and he growled, the back of his throat dry and painful. Not even the weightlessness of being hauled over a shoulder roused him from his on-and-off haze. 

The passing of a tree, a high fence, and the cold of metal. Logan tossed his head from side to side, a splitting headache running long fingernails down the sides of his brain. A sharp prick to his neck, the sting of a breached artery and suddenly the headache faded. His head hit the Ute and his vision faded. 

" Damn, that was quick. " One man laughed over the roaring of the off-road vehicle. He glanced at the beeping GPS, frowning at the metres and metres of pure, fenced off forest. A large, industrial stone building, nestled between the trees and hills, was the destination in mind. He pulled on the gearshift. 

" Detomidine. Doens't last long, though. 've had to give 'im two shots just to get 'im 'ere. Horses usually last three 'ours - This fucker lasts a third of 'at. " The other grunted, dry lips closing around a lit cigarette as he cranked down the window. He stuck his hand out the window and tapped on the cigarette before sighing through it. 

The car turned left, then right. A gravel pathway faded into view and the Ute jerked over the rough road. The driver coughed as he pulled into a garage - already open, expecting visitors. The inside was large, walls stacked high with shelving. Every shelf was littered with boxes - wires and metal and long, long pipes protruding from the corners and slits. The hanging, dim lights illuminated the obvious pathway for the vehicle and the beast on it's trailer.  Soldiers, though not military, lined the walls and a group of them stood by tall, bald man in a green suit, far too clean to fit into a grungy environment like this. He waited with his arms behind his back, his expression unreadable. Logan's chest rose and fell to the shallow beat of his thumping heart.

The car jerked to a stop and the driver ungracefully kicked open the door, stomping to the back of the car as he cracked his neck. The passenger put his cigarrete out on the car seat with a lazy sigh. He stepped out, too, and circled the car as the other pulled Logan's limp body over his shoulder. The two glanced awkwardly at each other as they trudged towards the man in his out-of-place attire. They stopped six feet away. A soldier stepped forward and took the limp body, grunting under the weight. They dragged it back to their employer's side by the collar. Their employed smiled. It did not reach his eyes. 

" You'll be paid within the next few business days. You're free to go. " He said, waving the two off. They stood awkwardly in the garage as the man and his entourage turned and left through a tight door. It closed with a loud bang and the thunk of a lock. 

" Professor Thorton, where do you want him? "

" This one's going in my lab. " He voice raised authoritatively and the group of black-vest-clad, gun-wielding goons moved in tandem down the long, perfectly symmetrical stone hallway. 

Logan's eyes leaked sand - heavy and tired and unfocused. His skin prickled, vision fluttering from the unsettling, unreal clarity of his suspended body and the thin pins emerging from every main muscle on his form, to the blurry, fading colours of his unrecognisable environment, the lingering taste of copper on his lips and the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. His consciousness was waxing and waning and he felt no inclination to move. Logan knew something was wrong; a nagging instinct to move; a twitch in his finger; a pressure behind his knuckles; pain in his metacarpals; the beating of hearts; muffled voices; and his hesitant senses. He knew something was amiss. But, as he breathed through a mask, suspended in an over glorified fish tank of pink, bubbling, viscous liquid, he couldn't find the strength to move. 

Professor Thorton stood, again, with his hands behind his back, watching his prize with an all-encompassing curiosity. He paced round the tank, watching Frankenstein's monster and it's quiet slumber. He fought a self-satisfactory smile, turning back to the elevator separating the beast's den from the civilized's control centre. He glanced over the shoulder's of his workers, raising a patronising eyebrow. 

" You've already started, I presume. " His voice bounced off the walls. 

" Miss Hines is gathering the material as we speak, Professor." A red-head Doctor said from his chair, looming over blueprints and anatomy references. He tapped his racing pencil against the desk. He pushed his round glasses over his mole-like nose, shivering as the Professor stood behind him. 

" If you see here," He began, glancing up at the taller man and pointing at the circles on his diagram, " We've already placed pins at the sites of interest - as you likely saw on the specimen himself, but... we're running into problems concerning his... unique attributes. We've had to leave the pins in his flesh. It simply heals too quickly, otherwise. He's ugly like this, we know, but- "

" Cornelius, aesthetics is the least of our worries. I want this"- he took the pencil from the Doctor and tapped the blueprint - " under my control by Monday. " 

With that, the Professor turned to leave, rolling his shoulders. The Doctor sighed and pressed his pencil to the paper. He barked commands at the others in their white coats and the small room bursts forth with movement. Heaps of metal, bunched wires and the glint of tools passed from room to room. A diagram of two human bodies - hauntingly large, taped to a chalkboard at the corners - was wheeled in by the door. The others watched intently as the doctor pointed to every tendon of significance. The muscular half stared with unmoving eyes. A bright yellow pin would pierce the paper and the witnesses would nod. The doctor lifted a pen. With steady hands, he drew three thin lines onto the wrist of the skeleton. The skeletal half didn't stare at all. It had nothing left to see. 

Chapter Text

Anaesthesia had never worked on Logan. Hard drugs and animal sedation darts might have a short-term affect, but anaesthesia was simply ineffective. Despite this, however, he had no memory of being moved to an operating bed. The plastic clung uncomfortably to the sweat on his back like a parasitic blanket. His legs shook and his eyes rolled backwards, and he swore he could feel the saliva run down every inch of his oesophagus. The glint of a scalpel was the last of his vision.

Doctors huddled round the table. They were focused, sweating and deathly quiet. The scalpel was brought down on each wrist, moving from the metacarpals to the elbow. The skin split like butter and pearls of blood decorated the fine, straight lines even as the starting point began to restitch itself together again. The knife was placed on a tray to the left. A nurse placed clamps under the flesh and pulled with a grunt. The pale skin was peeled outwards and pinned back with long, skewers. Logan’s muscles twitched, spasmed and stilled. Blood built in beads and dripped like frosting down the forearm. The tendons and muscles were poked and prodded until, at last, the three mucronate blades and unique tendons at each end, nestled between the ulna and radius, were exposed.

Metal pins were still placed awkwardly into the main muscles, and they pressed against nerves and capillaries with every minor movement.

The surgeons, despite medical training, were not inclined to be particularly careful. Every knock of an artery - the walls breaking under the knife like a balloon, blood spraying with force across surgical scrubs, tools or the cold, tiled floor - or vein - a slow, pulsing stream of blood that flowed down the plastic underneath the arms and pooled behind Weapon X's back - was no cause for concern. It would heal. At most, the majority avoided mishaps for the sake of cleaning up afterwards.

A small, round, plastic and metal piece was inserted into the tendons and weapon X breathed raggedy, harsh breaths. The surgeon, hovering above the other arm, paused their work to glance at Cornelius, standing at the foot of the operating bed.

" You don't think he's conscious, do you? " They asked, sweat dripping down their forehead, worlds muffled behind a mask.

The doctor hesitated, glancing towards the diagram on the chalkboard. " Vecuronium managed to relax the muscles and paralyse the body temporarily but..." - He took a deep breath, wrinkling his nose like an unhappy animal at the thought - " ...he can likely feel most of this... on and off, of course. He seems to have blacked out. " He winced inwardly, drawing a circle in the air with his pencil, gesturing towards the operating table.

" It's the price he pays for volunteering, I suppose. " The Doctor added, almost half-heartedly, turning his back away from the operation. The surgeon stilled before sighing and glancing back down at the open, surgical wound. They sighed when the muscle began to heal itself under the knife. Another, identical metal and plastic piece was placed in the tendons at the base of the claws in the forearm.

" Moving onto the next set, Sir? " A nurse spoke up, unclasping the clamps holding the skin back from the flesh. No stitches were used. The flesh clung to the meat and knitted itself back together, wonky and pale and dripping with bodily fluids. Plasma, sweat and blood dripped lazily, in pools, onto the floor. It splashed in time like the beat of a drum.

Logan woke slowly, head spinning as colour knocked on his eyelids. There was no feeling; no tactile senses. Not yet, at least. He groaned and his eyes flittered open. The dim, hanging light above his head and dark blue, brick and metal walls shifted and swirled uncomfortably. He felt drunk on poor quality liquor. He gagged and curled forward.

Curled forward, suspended in a viscous, pink liquid once more, Logan slowly came to his senses. His mouth and nose were masked with a breathing tube. The oxygen felt cold. He could feel the panic rise in his chest, chilling his lungs. The tank extended upwards for metres, as did the isolating room it sat in. On the far wall, a large glass pane jutted out of the miserably blue-black bricks, curving outwards like a looming balcony. Doctor Cornelius and the green-suited professor stared down at him, the doctor taking furious notes, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

Logan turned his head and groaned. It came out rough and crackly and his eyes drifted hesitantly down to his wrists. There was no evidence of the recent surgery or the searing hot pain that crawled and weaved its way through his every nerve like an infection and crashed over him like a wave with every turn and twist of a scalpel or tweezer. There was no proof, other than the protruding pins that pressed through his chest, his thighs, his calves, his biceps, his triceps, his forearms, his lower back and his neck. He had no memory of arriving here. The holes in his head were followed only by the bright light above a dank surgical bed and pain beyond reasonable comprehension.  

He shifted and his jaw clenched shut with an immeasurable force. He growled and kicked the glass. He thrashed lazily, forcing one arm through the pink sludge and latching onto the jutting needle in his chest, dragging it down as it tore through the skin and muscle in its way. Hot blood dissolved into the tank. Logan’s vision blurred when the pink lost its translucence. He reached for the pin in his neck. An angry, ugly, animalistic growl rumbled like a mad dog in his throat. His claws itched underneath his skin and released on instinct. One clicked against the glass, the bone pressed with tight tension against it. Logan pressed into it, snarling as the thick glass cracked and splintered.

Doctor Cornelius watched with trembling hands and, like a spinning top, glanced hurriedly between Weapon X and Professor Thorton. The Professor watched, almost bored. He lifted a hand and gestured to the vast number of glowing buttons at his waist. The doctor pointed shakily to a red button labelled ‘X’ and the Professor pressed one long finger into it, leaning closer to the glass as he pressed and did not let go.

Logan almost grinned as the glass let out a resounding crack.

Beneath his skin, where his elbow met the tendons at the base of his claws, a painful, electrical jolt burst to life and diffused through his body, tugging on his spine. His claws withdrew, nestling back between his ulna and radius. Horrified, watched as his skin forcibly closed over like the claws were never there. He curled inwards and bashed on the glass with his shoulder. The glass shattered with an echoing cry and burst of liquid like a popped balloon.

Soldiers in black, bullet proof vests funnelled into the room and lifted guns with a thin, square base and long scope. A piercing had Logan snarling as he tore the mask off his face. A dart, clear and thin like an echidna’s spine sunk into his shoulder. He unsheathed his claws. The sunk backwards almost instantly.

The, another jab and another, followed by the spinning of colours and the instinctual rise of his heart rate.  

Chapter Text

Logan has long been intimately acquainted with dissociation. Once a traumatic response in early childhood, and again as a young adult, extending over lengthy periods of time that made defining who you are, where you come from, and what you stand for very difficult.

Despite all this, Logan was yet to find a way to rouse himself from his periods of dissociation. An endless cycle of "I'll wake myself next time it happens" and "I couldn't wake myself; I was in too deep."

It won't happen next time, he'd think, picking up a bottle of cheap beer and pressing the cold of the glass against his palms with a sigh, nestling into a corner stool at the bar. But every time next time came around, it happened again.

This time, however, Logan was, on some level, aware. He could feel as much as smell the cold metal against his forehead. He could sense as much as hear the shuffling of feet and the muffle of voices behind walls of glass and surgical masks. It was almost like a lucid dream - or, more accurately, sleep paralysis.

When he tried to move, his bones protested with an almost mechanical groan and an ache he couldn't verbalise. His skin, dry and coated in an epidermic layer of blood, goop, and dirt. His tailbone felt numb, pressed awkwardly against a thin and uncomfortable fold-up chair. He didn't bother moving out of it, unconsciousness nipping at his heels. There's a metal band strapped round his head, tight enough to make his head throb. There’s a box clipped onto it that presses against his cheek and long, thick wires that snake down his torso. One finds its way into his biceps, weedled under the skin. Another runs along the ridge of his elbows and inside. The other two sets climb down his arms and nestle under the bandage-wrapped skin of his forearms. Bright cables and cords cover every surface of the room, one dropping from the box round his head to the floor and running up the walls. A red wire is tangled round the foot of the chair, curling and whirling round and round itself until it stops at a helmet; it's grey and round and heavy as a crown. A red visor stretches across the front. Panel after panel juts out awkwardly from the dome. Logan doesn't know it's there. He doesn’t care.

"How large is the range?" A muffled man asks. There's an awkward shuffle and the grinding of a chair against the concrete floor.

"Approximately nine miles, if other factors don't intervene." Another said with a nervous shake of his voice.

"Make it 15." The professor replied curtly. He raised his voice and tucked his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders as he looked out at Weapon X. "I want this thing under my control as soon as possible. Do you understand?"

"With all due respect, Sir..." The doctor replied, tapping rhythmically against the control panel, "...adding anything more will simply weigh ‘im down. He's already got the helmet Isn't nine enough?" He pleaded, trying his best to sound confident.

"Doctor, if you’re done complaining, I suggest you get to work." The Professor said with a frown and a shake of his head, turning to face the control panel. "Now," he continued, lifting a hand to hover over the board. He wiggled his fingers like a child. "Someone teach me how this works — I want a test drive asap."

Sighing deeply, Cornelius hovered over his monster. He chewed his cheek, waiting for the Professor to speak. Thorton tapped his foot, deep in thought, an irregular beat that bounced off the metal walls. He turned, hands clasped behind his back, green suit perfectly ironed, and stood next to the doctor. He smiled emptily and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

“You should have control over it, Professor.” Cornelius said, brushing away the hand and holding out a head piece. “You can talk to him through this; avoid using his name and try not to get too worked up when speaking, lest he have another outburst…”

The Doctor prattled on as Thorton turned the device over and over in his palm. Finally, he secured it around his ear, fiddling with the microphone until it rested comfortably in front of his mouth.

“Unconscious - no, uh... subliminal persuasion?” The Professor raised an eyebrow, tapping his foot once more. The Doctor nodded in response, gesturing to a flashing red light on the motherboard of buttons, switches and levers. “Can it hear me?” He asked.

“No, Sir, the light is red.” The Doctor frowned, running a hand through his beard, tired.

Thorton glanced down at Logan, practically mummified in wires. His chest rose and fell, a grimace etched onto his face. Every now and then, he’d snuffle or twitch.

The Professor didn’t have any pity for the beast. He was, however, curious. Do dogs have nightmares?

It twitched in the face, and it twitched in the hands, with a wrinkle of the nose, a tightening of the eyes, a jerk of the fingers, and a twist of the wrist.

Miss Hines entered the room with the tap-tap of her heels. She dusted off her dress and nodded towards the men. She sat down quietly and started to flick switches and press buttons with a practiced precision.

“Keep a constant supply of adrenergic, Miss Hines. We can’t have him waking yet. We’re gonna take ‘im for a test run, soon.” Cornelius mumbled lazily.

Miss Hines responded with a nod, rolling her seat across the room and resuming tapping away. A large screen on the wall behind them light up with a buzz. Blue light flooded the room as Miss Hines worked. She brushed her short hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ears, plugging multiple wires into Logan’s metal, coffin-like, cot that stood two feet off the ground. She slid over to stand behind Logan’s head, placing a set of suction wires gently on his forehead. She frowned, pressing them into place, and turned to face Professor Thorton and Doctor Cornelius.

“We’ll begin the third lot of adamantium bonding and testing in a moment.” She began. “Professor, the information you feed him through the microphone should appear on the board. I-in the form of how he perceives it whilst... unconscious, of course. It’s really quite advanced; I coded it myself.” She smiled, proud.

The Doctor circled Logan, overviewing his condition before nodding to Hines who flicked the same switch the Doctor had earlier. The light turned green, and the whirring of technology began with a clunk and a thunk. The blue screen flickered between colours and the Professor cleared his throat.

With a clank and a pop and a high pitch whirring, sparks burst from the base of the metal cot like fireworks. Miss Hines stumbled backwards and yelped as Doctor Cornelius and Professor Thorton jumped, whipping around like startled dogs at the sudden sound.

“Hines!” Hissed Thorton. “Fix this! Now!” He yelled, pressing himself up against the wall in fear.

Hines rushed forward and yanked cords from the base of the cot, gasping and clutching her wrist when a spark bit the skin. She rushed to the motherboard and frantically flipped switches. As she did, the bright blue screen began to shift in colour, shapes of red swirls and glimpses of unnatural skewed bone.

“S-sir, we’re facing some interference in the system!” She blurted, trying to remain level headed.

The screen shifted from bone to a face – a twisted and shifting Professor Thorton, puncture wounds across his forehead. Blood and fluid dripped down his face and across his cracked and split glasses, pooling beneath him. Then, the image distorted once more into a haze of red, cream bones, and spines tugging on flesh like fish hooks. Flashes of men in black and camouflage uniforms, and the blurry outline of claws that slid between ribs and pulled everything inside, out displayed across the screen in bright colours.

Professor Thorton grasped his collar, hissing and wheezing, yelling incoherent commands as Logan began to stir, tensing and arching his back. His wrists flexed, pulling back as sparks caught his skin. The machine whirred by his ears, projecting his muddled thoughts, a mixture of wants, instincts, and memories, and blasting clashing colours of light across the room in waves. Logan’s claws burst through his skin with a clink, pushing through the base of his wrist and spraying blood across his legs before healing around the blades. He cried out with a growl and began to stir from unconsciousness. He tried to lower his hands, only to have the blades press into his palms, blood dripping down his arms.

Miss Hines stared in horror at the beast’s apparent self-destruction. She stammered back and glanced down at the motherboard. Stretching as best she could without taking her eyes off the flailing beast, she latched onto the adrenergic dial and cranked it till the knob groaned.

Logan growled and huffed like a dog, shaking. His claws, however, retracted and his thrashing legs began to still.

“My god, woman! What happened?” Snapped the Professor, finally stepping away from the wall as Doctor Cornelius tugged on power cords, putting an end to the sparks. Miss Hines shut the system off, and the screen went black.

“I’ve no clue, Sir, but he’s sedated for now. Doctor Cornelius and I will… clean up, I suppose…” She replied, rubbing her forehead and grimacing at the thought.

Doctor Thorton scowled at Logan, full of disdain. He tore the headset from behind his ear and flipped the switch, scoffing at the red light.

He ran his hands down his torso, leaving black smudges across the front of his suit. He straightened himself and left the room, still scowling. Men funnelled into the room and waited as Doctor Cornelius unplugged the metal cot from the system. One slid his arms round Logan’s chest and hauled him up, dragging him with a huff, the others holding tight onto their guns.

They left wordlessly.

Chapter Text

Logan stood, motionless, ankle-deep in snow. Pine trees slouched with the weight of the snow, ice and cold. Sunlight glittered across the red visor and silver helmet, of which put an uncomfortable strain on his neck. Red and white light reflected off the dome and flittered over the white area.

His breathing, monitored by the box at his hip, wired into him through the skin, relayed shallow, quiet breaths to Professor Thorton and his group.

Thorton glared at his monitor, chewing his lip, waiting for Doctor Cornelius to fill him in.

“Adrenaline, blood pressure and heart rate are all normal, Sir.” said the Doctor, rolling his chair backwards and tapping the desk idly. He glanced down at the motherboard, clean of blood spots and soot. He could feel his pulse behind his ears, throbbing, and a growing feeling of uncertainty in his stomach. Still, he remained silent.

Thorton wrapped his hands around his mug of coffee, sighing at the warmth. Taking a sip, he turned towards Miss Hines.

“Hines, the wolves are active, yes? Not dead yet, I’d hope.” He inquired, sounding more like an expectation than a question. He raised an eyebrow, pushing his glasses up his nose. Miss Hines bowed her head politely and turned to her computer.

With a crackle, she spoke through a thin microphone by the keyboard.

“Handlers? Can you hear me? Are the wolves ready?” She asked, awkwardly waiting for a response.

“Copy. The wol-“ the reply crackled “-are awake an- pacing, Ma’am. They haven’t b--- fed in a wh-le, so we can presu—they’ll be aggresi—”

“Perfect!” Cheered Professor Thorton, moving to stand behind his subordinate. He reached over her shoulders and hovered over the microphone’s button.

“All cameras are working, yes? All its gear is in top condition?” He asked, once more framing it as more of an expectation that a question.

Hines replied with a series of yes’s, and Cornelius simply nodded, gesturing towards the monitors displaying Weapon-X from almost every angle, along with numbers and symbols galore. Professor Thorton orders the gate be opened, eyes fixed on the computer screens, even as he barks through the dodgy microphone.

The wolves are hungry; they pace with need. Panting, they breath in the cold air, noses scrunching with discomfort. Their heartrate rises as the metal gate lift with a groan, and a creak, snow toppling to the ground.

One white, one grey, one grey turning white, and one brown. The wolves haven’t been fed in six days. And yet, despite it all, they’re eager, and they’ve got the energy to rival a motor. Such are the advantages of a feast or famine lifestyle.

Without missing a beat, the four bolt. And even now, Logan is still. He says nothing; does nothing; thinks nothing. His eyes are closed, and his shoulders are slouched and his head lolls forward with the weight of his helmet.

The wolves, locked onto Logan and his warmth, bound off the snow so fast they’re nothing but a blur. Logan hits the ground as teeth sink into the flesh. Time slows down as his back arches against the cold of the ice and snow. A snarl, right by his ear reverberates through his skull.

Hazy on drugs, dissociation, sparse meals and a lack of uninterrupted sleep, it takes him terribly long to open his eyes. His eyelashes flutter and his eyes open as his instincts kick in, pain dulled but ever-present.  

Professor Thorton glared, nails pressing into his palms. Doctor Cornelius leaned forward in his chair, chewing his cheek in deep thought. Sweat rolled down his forehead. He winced when Thorton spoke.

“What’s it doing, God dammit?!” He squawked, glancing rapidly between monitors. “Bloody hell! Do something, man! That things of no use to me if it’s in pieces!”

“His vitals seem fine, Sir. He’s definitely alive, I promise you. He- ahem... It’s just... he’s simply not fighting back.” Cornelius replied, even as his words trailed off, eyes fixed on the charts on the screen.

Just as Thorton moved to throw his coffee and shatter the glass, Cornelius leaned impossibly forwards, peering over his thick lenses, eyes locked on the vitals. He breaths in sharply, gasping.

“Epinephrine is rising, Sir! He’s moving!”  Cried Cornelius and Thorton leaned over him, eyes glancing from screen to screen.

Logan winced as he opened his eyes, staring right at the sun. He raised a first and as he felt canines tear through his calf, the unmistakable feeling of a drag across bone had him moaning in pain. The noise rose from a low whimper to a catch in his throat. A growl, then a cough, and then a roar as he wrapped his arm round the brown beast crawling up his front, widening its jaw around his neck.

Claws burst through the space between his knuckles, splitting through tender flesh dusted with dark hair and covered in grime. Logan kicked and twisted, punching through the guy of the closest one he could reach. It whimpered and howled on is claws before being tossed angrily to the side.

“Ah! Oh, it’s perfect! It’s ploughing through the mutts like nothing! Name a single military that wouldn’t kill to get their hands on such bloodlust, Cornelius!”

“I… don’t think it bloodlust, Sir. Pain, more likely. Perhaps instinct.”

“All the better.”

As Logan flipped the second wolf, tearing it open from neck to tail, the bright computer screen, showing red line graphs by the dozen, began to flicker. Heartrate skyrocketed and adrenaline hit the roof so quickly, the monitor began to lag.

Miss Hines frowned as the third mutt dropped.

“I have to admit, I hate seeing the poor things die like this.”  She confessed to no one in particular, standing a foot behind the two. She watched as the wolf was skewered, thrown to the ground and then stabbed relentlessly, repeatedly, until intestines caught on the attacker’s claws, unwinding and splaying across the battlefield.

“If the dogs were even half as good a predator as my dearest Weapon X, they would’ve fought harder, Hines.” He barked back at her.  Or perhaps had the brains to run away.”  

“What we have here is the pinnacle of beast evolution.” He continued, “The perfect wild card – those damned claws, grafted to my adamantium- Lord, the perfect killing machine.

She said nothing in response. Swallowing, she took a step back, sliding her coat off the back of her chair and slipping it over her shoulders. She shivered.

Logan huffed, his kill spread across a 5-metre radius. He brought his fist above his head once more, bringing it down with a sickening squelch, hacking away at the last corpse until sufficiently brutalised. He dropped to his knees, breathing heavily. He glanced sideways at the bodies, considering, maybe, he should take a bite. Go for the intestines, the heart or the liver – get as much nutrients as possible before they dragged him back inside.

And although this train of thought made sense to him, he denied indulging . Logan, confused and twitching and oozing blood over the snow, felt the tension in his throat. Blood; air; a gasp; a cough, perhaps?

He growled, followed by a roar, looking more like a plea or a cry than a victory.

With the weight of his helmet, he fell backwards, top-heavy. Logan landed with a squish of a still warm body, his head shut down and he couldn’t muster the energy to do much more than breath.

“Well…. I’ll have it brought in, then, if we don’t have any more animals for it to kill.” Cornelius declared, standing and moving to the motherboard, wiggling his fingers. Thorton raised an eyebrow at the attitude, glaring at the man over the wire frame of his glasses.

He stood, smoothing out the creases on his suit – the same type and colour as yesterday, and the day before, though always miraculously clean. He fought a sadistic grin, considering what to say.

“No, no. Call off the wranglers. Leave it there – It’ll do it some good to lay in the proof of victory for a while.” Thorton replied, a tug pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Good God, man, it’s below freezing out there! That’s completely-“ Cornelius started, clearly horrified at the thought.

Professor Thorton cut him off with a glower. “Watch it, Doctor. Remember who’s employing you.”

Turning to face the desktop, recording the view of Weapon X, unconscious atop his kill, Thorton continued.

“Despite the lack of uhm… volunteering, I’ve given this man a freedom it’d never know without me. I’m indulging the inner beast in a controlled environment. You can shut him down, now, Cornelius.”

And so, Cornelius pressed the shining red button, ignoring the ache in his temple. On the computer screen, Logan’s claws retract into his unconscious body.

Thorton dipped his head, smiled, and left the room.

Chapter Text

Weapon X, dressed from head to toe in wires and flickering lights, little boxes, and heavy control panels, stepped purposefully, following a scent the hind-brain locked onto. Its chunky helmet glittered, as did the six shining claws. Behind, a camera whirred, following the movement. It paused, roughly digging its foot into the slippery snow. Turning the corner, the claws glittered and teeth grit together as an angry blur loomed, trying to make itself look as large as possible. A bear, brown and snarling, trying to finish the fight before it’d begun, a display of dominance.

In contrast, Weapon X bent at the knees, circling, fingers twitching. It braced and pushed off from the balls of the feet, snarling. The entire time, hazily aware that something was wrong and knowing, despite such a feeling, that a cesspool of non-stop drugs, topped with amnesia, put a stop on any attempt at fighting the situation.
Its back muscles tensed as it raised one shoulder.

Weapon X twisted its hand palm up, claws sliding cleanly through the cartilage rings round the windpipe. With a growl and a snarl, it pulled upwards with a surge of energy, adrenaline and an animal instinct vibrating thought its bones.

“Bravo! Oh, just magnificent!” Thorton cried, grinning from ear to ear. He turned to Cornelius, quickly barking an order to retract the weapon’s claws, lest it sunk them into anything else. Then, he turned to Miss Hines.

“Any notes, Hines?” He raised a thin eyebrow, the young woman nodded politely, turning her chair to face him.

“We noticed slight bleeding where the blades leave the skin, though they heal around and over during and after retracting. There’s… likely very little we can do to change that, other than inserting some kind of tunnel to hold his wounds open. Mister- ahem, sorry… Weapon X seems well-adjusted, otherwise.” She said, glancing between Professor Thorton and the camera, the screen still locked on Weapon X, unmoving in the snow.

“I still think there’s too much weight on the hips. And the damned helmet blocks the peripherals. Its counterproductive.” Added Cornelius, tapping away at the motherboard, keeping a close eye on the product’s vitals.

With a flick, handlers, dressed to the nines in black militaresque clothing, trudged out into the snow, hesitating as they approached the unmoving, heavily breathing figure. They poked and barked, moving it along, back into the warehouse facility, back into its pen.

“You worry too much, Cornelius. Its ready. You saw what happened just now. We tamed it.”

“All I’m asking is a bit more time to eliminate any glitches or knicks, okay? A week or two, run some test runs and-”

“Test runs? Bah! Be realistic, Doctor! What we need is solid proof of X’s ability. Come, be creative now, and tell me, what’s the most dangerous adversary you can think of?”

“Uh… a… constipated… Bengal Tiger.” He replied, leaning back in his chair with an unamused, deadpan expression.

“Good God, Doctor, you’re hopeless. Man! It’s man!”

From behind, a desk worked grunted awkwardly and said, “Theres none in stock, Sir.”

Cornelius felt his eyebrow twitch, staying silent. Professor Thorton pursed his lips.

“Then we’ll need to find some volunteers, then, won’t we?” He replied, patronising, condescending.

“You can’t be serious, Professor! That’s─ Do you have any idea what you’re proposing?”

“I’m dead serious, Doctor! I’m in control here. Every decision I make is intentional, understand?” He barked back in reply, rhetorical.

“If you need me, I’ll be in my control room.” Thorton added, slipping his long, pale fingers into his pockets, turning on his heals, loafers squeaking against the floor.

Doctor Cornelius sighed, slouching into his chair. He picked up a microphone and lazily relayed earlier orders from the Professor. Remove weapon X’s helmet, leave the batteries on, set the in-line alarm. Remove helmet, leave batteries, set alarm. Helmet, battery, alarm. Miss Hines gave Cornelius a sympathetic look, turning quietly towards a desk-worked to her left, waving him off, frowning as he left with confused mumbles.

“This isn’t right, Hines. Morally.” The Doctor sighed after the man had left, slouching where he stood. Miss Hines nodded as he continued.

“I was under the impression this’d be another super-soldier thing. And all of a sudden, our ‘volunteer’ is some mutant, beast combination. I mean, mentally, I’d shut down too; operations while conscious, adamantium bonding to my bones.” He shivered, scowling.

Before Miss Hines could add anything more, Cornelius took a harsh breath in, sucking in air like he was about to go for a dive. He scrunched his nose in pent-up frustration.

“You know, I practically got forced here, right? Please… of course you wouldn’t know. Gosh… I’m going mad. Is it worth it, Hines? Will this protect us? From whatever non-existent foe Thorton fancies himself trumping? The communists, maybe? Some drugged-up, foreign assassin?”

Hines turned her seat to face the man, watching him push his round glasses up his nose.

----

Logan felt his eyes dry. An odd feeling settled in his chest - an idea that, if he stared long enough, he’d understand what shape the swirls and whirls, dancing across his vision, were meant to be. Men? No, he’d spent enough time around hordes of men (dead, alive, dying, surviving) throughout his years to know that wasn’t it. His memory may be shot, dodgy and prone to crater-sized holes, but certain elements of war linger for life. And Logan had lived two of them.

Or had he? He was sure, at one point, he had. But time had stopped, hadn’t it? Paused? Or, perhaps, he was sleeping... sleep walking. That’s right, isn’t it? That would explain the gaps in time, in place, between being unconscious, on auto-drive, and conscious, awake (but still delirious, confused and disoriented).

Still, Logan dared not move his gaze from the wall. The shuffling by his head was negligible. The grunting to his right was negligible. Surely, high off his mind on a non-stop flow of sedatives that didn’t quite work and a boat load of bad luck, he’d be too enthralled with delusion to move.

Logan’s hands lay resting on his lap, fingers lamely curled inwards. His fingers twitch. He took a deep breath, and felt as much as heard a man, placing the dome helmet with the glaring red visor on the floor by Logan’s too-small chair.

There’s an itch in Logan’s forearm. Like there’s energy, rooted deep in his bones, layered further underneath his skin than the wires embedded in his muscles. And the man coughs again, instinctively raising one arm, but not quite being bothered enough to cough into the crook of his elbow.

For a moment, Logan’s almost startled. His head is heavy, and his brain hurts, and he notices (it’s notable to notice that for the first time in a long while, Logan is noticing anything at all) that his face is awfully tight, scowling on instinct, like straining to see, almost 24/7. He glances, nowhere in particular. His eyes burn when he does. Just how long has he been staring? And the drugs were still there; and the 'it, it, it' was still there; and the blood, dried on the skin of his arms, dusted over his knuckles like cracked blush was ever-present. But he can blink this time and not feel the need to latch immediately onto the swirls on the wall again, as he had two seconds- no, milliseconds prior.

Logan is aware his conscious is not clear. That whatever decisions he’s making are clouded with sedatives and emotion. But the fact that he’s aware at all is what shocks him. Very quickly, though, he steels. As his fingers twitch, he glances down at the spaghetti-bowl-mess of wires wrapped around his calves and feels the tension in his eyebrows slack.

The man behind him, finishing with his fidgeting of the tangled cables and cords that ran across the room, into power-sockets and machinery, snuffled a cough. Logan’s eyes flickered, feeling the familiar slide of blade through gristle and skin. He lifted one hand almost deliriously as he watched the dim red lighting of his temporary holding cell, and, by extension, the visor on the floor, glint and reflect off his metal-coated claws.

Logan turns, vision locked on the man, and knows instinctively he has the higher weight-class advantage. So, he tucks his left arm by his chest, claws grazing his own chest, and puts his weight behind his right, and he stands and spears the worker through the gut, lifting him high off his feet, gravity pressing him down further onto the beast's knuckles. Logan growls, low in his throat, and relishes, for a moment, in the ability to make such a decision as who to maim and kill without influence.

Logan hears his heart beat loudly, thump, thump, thumping away against his ribs. Almost immediately, a box on his side begins to flash and a violent, wailing alarm began blaring through speakers, perched in every corner of the room. Logan grimaced, growling at the sound, dropping the now limp body with a wet thunk. He snarled as the alarms continued to blare, hearing men start to pause and panic, pacing through the walls.