All You Need To Know
“It will be therapeutic, Logan.”
“I’m done with the team bonding, Chuck.”
“You will be surprised by the number of friendly people out there. People willing to give advice in times of need.”
“I don’t need advice. I don’t ‘need’ anything.”
“Except for answers?”
“… yeah, those might be useful.”
“Perhaps you will be able to find someone with information. Perhaps you might even run into a scientist from the project.”
“Right. I travel all over the world trying to figure out where in the blue hell I came from and all I really had to do was go online and click away for a while. Go figure.”
“… just write an introduction, Logan. You’ll see.”
So I’m writing one. But what do you say when you can’t remember half of what made you who you were? And I use past tense in that deliberately. Because I don’t know where my life started. Or better yet, what happened up until about nine years ago. All I have is shards. Bits and pieces of information scattered over my past that don’t really add up to anything in the long run. They just serve to make the web more tangled.
My name’s Logan. Just … Logan. Or Wolverine, depending on how lucky you’re feeling. I’m a mutant (join the club around here, huh?) and a solider. Or at least I was. From what I know of my past, I fought in a couple of wars here and there. Came out pretty much unscathed (not through the advantages of being a mutant, just skill and paranoia.) I stayed as an undercover agent for a while after that. I don’t remember anything specific.
Then I have a huge blank and the only thing that fits in it is a project nicknamed ‘Weapon X.’ A Canadian government (yeah, I’m Canadian, deal with it) medical experiment designed to make the perfect solider. Using mutants who could heal rapidly. I thought I was the only one that made it through alive, turns out that I was wrong about that as well. They stuck needles (red hot, scalding needles) into me after I’d been dissected alive and awake on an operating table. The needles held liquefied adamantium. The strongest metal known to man and damned near unbreakable. They bonded it to my bones, gave me three nine inch claws from the back of each hand. Saves money on the Halloween costumes at least.
Most of that I remember vividly through nightmares, some of it’s facts I’ve picked up along the way from people connected with the project or part of it. Names, faces, those kind of details are the ones that get foggy. Trust them to be the ones I need. You know, nightmares are wonderful things. They bring out all of those supposedly ‘repressed’ memories that the subconscious decides aren’t healthy for you and make you a damned insomniac. Mind you, night’s the only time I get peace around here anymore.
Anyway … through circumstances best left buried … I ended up here. Xavier’s Institute for the Gifted. A school that teaches adolescents (and younger kids sometimes, depending on their home life or lack thereof) how to control their mutant powers before they get out of hand. Or kill them. Or kill someone else. Oh, did I mention that I’m also an X-Man? Yeah, swallow that one down. It’s a team that Xavier put together, to protect mutant rights (and sometimes fight for them) along with preventing a war from starting between us mutants and normal humans. In other wards, I put on a tight leather suit and slice things up on occasion for the ‘good of mankind.’ Heh, and I call Kurt melodramatic?
(And I’m writing this bit purely because it’s either that or listen to one of the guys whining at me because I didn’t add it …) I’m single. (Happy?) And I’m single because I wanna be. (One person says Scott Summers and they’re going to be eating my fist, got it?) Not many people can put up with me taking off all the time. Not many people can deal with the fact that I have a shady past. Not many people can deal with the fact that I won’t be snuggling up to them all night every night because I have to damn well pace the halls to get visions of operating tables out of my head. And yeah, I said ‘people.’ (Or in Kurt’s words, ‘I wasn’t gender specific.’) Make of it what you will.
Friends wise? Eugh. I’m not much of a team player. I’ve been a loner for my entire life (the bits that I remember that is) and I’m doubting this ‘community’ thing’s going to change that. I’ve got a few people that stick around me for reasons of their own. Or because they’re mad. Or, in Kurt’s case, because he’s my conscience. Kurt’s … he’s a good guy. Best buddy. He keeps me from exploding sometimes (mind you, when I say ‘keeps me from’ I really mean ‘puts it off until I’ve got a punch bag in front of me and not Summers’ face.’) Then there’s Kitty. What can I say? She’s not a kid anymore and hell, she keeps me in line better than Chuck sometimes. And the sad fact is; that’s about it. I know hundreds of people. Doesn’t mean that I trust them.
I’ve got a laptop for this damned thing, one I can carry about. Mainly because it’s only a matter of weeks before I’m taking off again. Some people would call it running away. Kurt and Kitty call it ‘escaping for a while’ … me? I say it’s because inside’s claustrophobic. Give me a Harley and the open road against being rooted down in a job that’s going no where with the same mundane lifestyle hour after hour any day. I’m happier when I’m not tied down.
Anyway, that was longer than it was supposed to be. Chuck’ll be happy. Kurt’ll laugh. Bastards. Me? I don’t care, I’m signing off. There’s a beer down in Harry’s Hideaway with my name on it.
Logan.
“I’m done with the team bonding, Chuck.”
“You will be surprised by the number of friendly people out there. People willing to give advice in times of need.”
“I don’t need advice. I don’t ‘need’ anything.”
“Except for answers?”
“… yeah, those might be useful.”
“Perhaps you will be able to find someone with information. Perhaps you might even run into a scientist from the project.”
“Right. I travel all over the world trying to figure out where in the blue hell I came from and all I really had to do was go online and click away for a while. Go figure.”
“… just write an introduction, Logan. You’ll see.”
So I’m writing one. But what do you say when you can’t remember half of what made you who you were? And I use past tense in that deliberately. Because I don’t know where my life started. Or better yet, what happened up until about nine years ago. All I have is shards. Bits and pieces of information scattered over my past that don’t really add up to anything in the long run. They just serve to make the web more tangled.
My name’s Logan. Just … Logan. Or Wolverine, depending on how lucky you’re feeling. I’m a mutant (join the club around here, huh?) and a solider. Or at least I was. From what I know of my past, I fought in a couple of wars here and there. Came out pretty much unscathed (not through the advantages of being a mutant, just skill and paranoia.) I stayed as an undercover agent for a while after that. I don’t remember anything specific.
Then I have a huge blank and the only thing that fits in it is a project nicknamed ‘Weapon X.’ A Canadian government (yeah, I’m Canadian, deal with it) medical experiment designed to make the perfect solider. Using mutants who could heal rapidly. I thought I was the only one that made it through alive, turns out that I was wrong about that as well. They stuck needles (red hot, scalding needles) into me after I’d been dissected alive and awake on an operating table. The needles held liquefied adamantium. The strongest metal known to man and damned near unbreakable. They bonded it to my bones, gave me three nine inch claws from the back of each hand. Saves money on the Halloween costumes at least.
Most of that I remember vividly through nightmares, some of it’s facts I’ve picked up along the way from people connected with the project or part of it. Names, faces, those kind of details are the ones that get foggy. Trust them to be the ones I need. You know, nightmares are wonderful things. They bring out all of those supposedly ‘repressed’ memories that the subconscious decides aren’t healthy for you and make you a damned insomniac. Mind you, night’s the only time I get peace around here anymore.
Anyway … through circumstances best left buried … I ended up here. Xavier’s Institute for the Gifted. A school that teaches adolescents (and younger kids sometimes, depending on their home life or lack thereof) how to control their mutant powers before they get out of hand. Or kill them. Or kill someone else. Oh, did I mention that I’m also an X-Man? Yeah, swallow that one down. It’s a team that Xavier put together, to protect mutant rights (and sometimes fight for them) along with preventing a war from starting between us mutants and normal humans. In other wards, I put on a tight leather suit and slice things up on occasion for the ‘good of mankind.’ Heh, and I call Kurt melodramatic?
(And I’m writing this bit purely because it’s either that or listen to one of the guys whining at me because I didn’t add it …) I’m single. (Happy?) And I’m single because I wanna be. (One person says Scott Summers and they’re going to be eating my fist, got it?) Not many people can put up with me taking off all the time. Not many people can deal with the fact that I have a shady past. Not many people can deal with the fact that I won’t be snuggling up to them all night every night because I have to damn well pace the halls to get visions of operating tables out of my head. And yeah, I said ‘people.’ (Or in Kurt’s words, ‘I wasn’t gender specific.’) Make of it what you will.
Friends wise? Eugh. I’m not much of a team player. I’ve been a loner for my entire life (the bits that I remember that is) and I’m doubting this ‘community’ thing’s going to change that. I’ve got a few people that stick around me for reasons of their own. Or because they’re mad. Or, in Kurt’s case, because he’s my conscience. Kurt’s … he’s a good guy. Best buddy. He keeps me from exploding sometimes (mind you, when I say ‘keeps me from’ I really mean ‘puts it off until I’ve got a punch bag in front of me and not Summers’ face.’) Then there’s Kitty. What can I say? She’s not a kid anymore and hell, she keeps me in line better than Chuck sometimes. And the sad fact is; that’s about it. I know hundreds of people. Doesn’t mean that I trust them.
I’ve got a laptop for this damned thing, one I can carry about. Mainly because it’s only a matter of weeks before I’m taking off again. Some people would call it running away. Kurt and Kitty call it ‘escaping for a while’ … me? I say it’s because inside’s claustrophobic. Give me a Harley and the open road against being rooted down in a job that’s going no where with the same mundane lifestyle hour after hour any day. I’m happier when I’m not tied down.
Anyway, that was longer than it was supposed to be. Chuck’ll be happy. Kurt’ll laugh. Bastards. Me? I don’t care, I’m signing off. There’s a beer down in Harry’s Hideaway with my name on it.
Logan.