TM #183 “Tell Me A Secret” (locked)
Logan’s the oldest, hardest, most experienced mutant Charles Xavier managed to rope into his crusade. (So says him. Go ahead an’ argue.) He was used t’bein’ a commodity, and that was how he bought his way into such a cushy deal. At some point or another, great men realize they need a thug or two. Wolverine came into the X-Men because he was a thug (or two, or ten). Because he was strong but confused, and those are the type of people Xavier (though he’d tell it different) likes to begin with best.
Logan didn’t let him monkey around upstairs for long; just long enough to start seein’ clearly again.
But this bit of truth, this he didn’t really start seein’ clearly until recently.
It doesn’t take much work to keep quiet; there aren’t many people who could call him on it. He doesn’t even abide by it. Wolverine keeps on treatin’ jurisdiction like what it is, a real easy way to piss off serious people. He kills who he thinks needs killin’, not who he’s told to kill. He makes sure no-one’s positive whose weapon he’s gonna be. (Logan remembers that little speech, figures Slim had no idea he was in hearin’ range. He was. Ain’t never gonna admit he was. “…he's not their Weapon Ten, he's not Professor Xavier's weapon for peace…”. Hell, that bought the kid at least two crunch-time moments of obedience; he just ain’t felt like handin’ them out yet).
Logan makes sure it’s understood, loud and clear. He’s the best there is at what he does. But the truth is…it ain’t quite true.
To understand that, you’ve got to go back a bit.
Since the start of the twentieth century, in all its technological, irreversible, real debatable glory, there’ve been three men wearin’ Logan’s face. The memories come how they come, impressions an’ actions, scents an’ moments. Logan’s mind is like a maze of trap doors and floodgates, designed to slam closed when another one opens; to close the door on an old flame when a new one lights, so he doesn’t backhand it just for bein’ there.
i.
He was a fighting man, plain and simple, when it turned 1900. He fought his way through the First and Second World War, but he didn’t fight either of ‘em with six claws. He hates this feelin’, tryin’ to think like they’re separate people now. It’d be lyin’ to think any other way. So when he thinks about this person, he thinks in the way he understands best: the physicality of himself.
Logan was the smell of cheap cigar smoke back then, of a deer hide jacket and drizzle-damp sheep lined collar. He had fist-fighting arms, with the gritty smell of coal under his nails an’ black scuffed over the back of thick veined hands. Bristly side burns twenty years out of date, and a back country accent. Here, he said by bein’, was a man of the rail road towns. He knew how to ride a horse for weeks (was born when horses were all that got a man further than his own two legs could walk him). He took his beer cold, his friends serious, and his women sweet. He wasn’t a tall man, never would be a tall man, but he had one of those faces-strong and broad that said manners didn’t take no account of size, and he’d be one to prove it if you made him. He’d prove it for good.
That man, he got into a lot of trouble, so much you could say he was trouble. But he had his head and his heart in the right place. He’d take care’a his girl as long as they were his, large hands and unshakeable feelin’s. He didn’t spend much of his time lonely.
It was that man who met a certain Paragon of Patriotism in Madripoor, watched for a little bit as The Hand tried to flea bite the kid to death. Hasn’t forgotten Captain America as a twenty year old, all apple pie and muscles and tossed into the big bad world like he should know what the hell he was doin’. Hasn’t forgotten that kid askin’ him to stick around, either. But he’d had other things t’do.
Things he never expected to do.
There’s a lot of strength in being able to trust yourself, an’ have people trust you.
ii.
Weapon X wasn’t just a codename; it ended up bein’ a creation. What happened might’a been terrible, it might have been inhuman, but just forget about all that. What mattered was that it drove him out of his fuckin’ mind, and then gave him a new one.
Weapon X wasn’t insane, but he was sharp. The taste of it and the smell of it; the crawlin’ chill in the kitchen at night, no light on and too many locks on the door. You’re already inside; you’re already bolted up safe. And you know you ain’t anywhere close to safe from who he was. He got to like it: the terror he could cause and the simple, brutal perfection of it.
He’s sure it’d give some people a good laugh to know Weapon X wasn’t allowed to be difficult when it suited him, and he wasn’t allowed to be surly on the company’s time. Those are warning mechanisms, identifiers, and they didn’t deal in warnings. His clothes came clean, pressed, specific and provided. In those years he smelt of army soap, permanent iron knuckled tang of blood and metal slippin’ through skin; Kevlar and cordite. He had a quick triggered laugh where it used to boom, from the throat instead of the chest. He hates that fuckin’ sound.
They pumped him full of metal and then taught him how to move as fast at three hundred pounds as he had at two hundred. And they taught him a lot more than that.
They taught him how to evaluate, formulate, execute. Weapon X was an animal, but he was more intelligent than the first bastard ever was. He finally got to see the strings.
And learned how to cut ‘em.
iii.
He goes by Wolverine now, the third of the century, and he’s taken as much of that first man back as he can. He took him to the wilderness of Canada, to the paper world of Japan and into the Prof’s wood paneled therapy room, like old jeans he might be able to fit back into. He drinks his beer cold and loses his temper quickly, blowin’ off the steam before it builds. Refuses to take orders he don’t agree with, and buys better cigars now there’s no war on. But it ain’t a simple case of going back to the way he was, now he’s feelin’ sick when kids bite it again. The weapon’s a part of him now, just like the Adamantium. It’s there in the nasty glint his eyes get. The twitch in his head when some part of his brain tries to decode messages he shouldn’t even be seein’.
He can’t trust himself now, not like he could. And most people don’t trust him. Tony fuckin’ Stark had to persuade the Paragon of Patriotism to extend that offer again, to the man he is now.
He can’t throw his punches as fast, either, not like he could when all he had to do was kill. There’s 100lbs of adamantium to weigh him down, and there’s twenty years of murder behind the ability to compensate for it.
The secret is that Logan’s the best there is at what he does--but he's not as good at it as he remembers bein’. He don’t abide by it, but he knows it. These kids, they measure their power levels and their grit. Well, he's gained enough grit to last him winters, and he's gained strength. But he’s sure he's gotten weaker, not stronger.
‘course, this is startin’ to sound like it matters. Wolverine’s weaker ain’t close to weak enough to fuck with, he’s made sure of that. That’s all anyone else needs to understand.
Logan didn’t let him monkey around upstairs for long; just long enough to start seein’ clearly again.
But this bit of truth, this he didn’t really start seein’ clearly until recently.
It doesn’t take much work to keep quiet; there aren’t many people who could call him on it. He doesn’t even abide by it. Wolverine keeps on treatin’ jurisdiction like what it is, a real easy way to piss off serious people. He kills who he thinks needs killin’, not who he’s told to kill. He makes sure no-one’s positive whose weapon he’s gonna be. (Logan remembers that little speech, figures Slim had no idea he was in hearin’ range. He was. Ain’t never gonna admit he was. “…he's not their Weapon Ten, he's not Professor Xavier's weapon for peace…”. Hell, that bought the kid at least two crunch-time moments of obedience; he just ain’t felt like handin’ them out yet).
Logan makes sure it’s understood, loud and clear. He’s the best there is at what he does. But the truth is…it ain’t quite true.
To understand that, you’ve got to go back a bit.
Since the start of the twentieth century, in all its technological, irreversible, real debatable glory, there’ve been three men wearin’ Logan’s face. The memories come how they come, impressions an’ actions, scents an’ moments. Logan’s mind is like a maze of trap doors and floodgates, designed to slam closed when another one opens; to close the door on an old flame when a new one lights, so he doesn’t backhand it just for bein’ there.
i.
He was a fighting man, plain and simple, when it turned 1900. He fought his way through the First and Second World War, but he didn’t fight either of ‘em with six claws. He hates this feelin’, tryin’ to think like they’re separate people now. It’d be lyin’ to think any other way. So when he thinks about this person, he thinks in the way he understands best: the physicality of himself.
Logan was the smell of cheap cigar smoke back then, of a deer hide jacket and drizzle-damp sheep lined collar. He had fist-fighting arms, with the gritty smell of coal under his nails an’ black scuffed over the back of thick veined hands. Bristly side burns twenty years out of date, and a back country accent. Here, he said by bein’, was a man of the rail road towns. He knew how to ride a horse for weeks (was born when horses were all that got a man further than his own two legs could walk him). He took his beer cold, his friends serious, and his women sweet. He wasn’t a tall man, never would be a tall man, but he had one of those faces-strong and broad that said manners didn’t take no account of size, and he’d be one to prove it if you made him. He’d prove it for good.
That man, he got into a lot of trouble, so much you could say he was trouble. But he had his head and his heart in the right place. He’d take care’a his girl as long as they were his, large hands and unshakeable feelin’s. He didn’t spend much of his time lonely.
It was that man who met a certain Paragon of Patriotism in Madripoor, watched for a little bit as The Hand tried to flea bite the kid to death. Hasn’t forgotten Captain America as a twenty year old, all apple pie and muscles and tossed into the big bad world like he should know what the hell he was doin’. Hasn’t forgotten that kid askin’ him to stick around, either. But he’d had other things t’do.
Things he never expected to do.
There’s a lot of strength in being able to trust yourself, an’ have people trust you.
ii.
Weapon X wasn’t just a codename; it ended up bein’ a creation. What happened might’a been terrible, it might have been inhuman, but just forget about all that. What mattered was that it drove him out of his fuckin’ mind, and then gave him a new one.
Weapon X wasn’t insane, but he was sharp. The taste of it and the smell of it; the crawlin’ chill in the kitchen at night, no light on and too many locks on the door. You’re already inside; you’re already bolted up safe. And you know you ain’t anywhere close to safe from who he was. He got to like it: the terror he could cause and the simple, brutal perfection of it.
He’s sure it’d give some people a good laugh to know Weapon X wasn’t allowed to be difficult when it suited him, and he wasn’t allowed to be surly on the company’s time. Those are warning mechanisms, identifiers, and they didn’t deal in warnings. His clothes came clean, pressed, specific and provided. In those years he smelt of army soap, permanent iron knuckled tang of blood and metal slippin’ through skin; Kevlar and cordite. He had a quick triggered laugh where it used to boom, from the throat instead of the chest. He hates that fuckin’ sound.
They pumped him full of metal and then taught him how to move as fast at three hundred pounds as he had at two hundred. And they taught him a lot more than that.
They taught him how to evaluate, formulate, execute. Weapon X was an animal, but he was more intelligent than the first bastard ever was. He finally got to see the strings.
And learned how to cut ‘em.
iii.
He goes by Wolverine now, the third of the century, and he’s taken as much of that first man back as he can. He took him to the wilderness of Canada, to the paper world of Japan and into the Prof’s wood paneled therapy room, like old jeans he might be able to fit back into. He drinks his beer cold and loses his temper quickly, blowin’ off the steam before it builds. Refuses to take orders he don’t agree with, and buys better cigars now there’s no war on. But it ain’t a simple case of going back to the way he was, now he’s feelin’ sick when kids bite it again. The weapon’s a part of him now, just like the Adamantium. It’s there in the nasty glint his eyes get. The twitch in his head when some part of his brain tries to decode messages he shouldn’t even be seein’.
He can’t trust himself now, not like he could. And most people don’t trust him. Tony fuckin’ Stark had to persuade the Paragon of Patriotism to extend that offer again, to the man he is now.
He can’t throw his punches as fast, either, not like he could when all he had to do was kill. There’s 100lbs of adamantium to weigh him down, and there’s twenty years of murder behind the ability to compensate for it.
The secret is that Logan’s the best there is at what he does--but he's not as good at it as he remembers bein’. He don’t abide by it, but he knows it. These kids, they measure their power levels and their grit. Well, he's gained enough grit to last him winters, and he's gained strength. But he’s sure he's gotten weaker, not stronger.
‘course, this is startin’ to sound like it matters. Wolverine’s weaker ain’t close to weak enough to fuck with, he’s made sure of that. That’s all anyone else needs to understand.