Monday, August 26, 2013

Wolverine's Post M-Day Journal - Entry #4

Entry 4:

Shit finally hit the fan, and we got covered in it.

I knew this was gonna happen. All of these targeted attacks, heading for well-populated areas, we weren't gonna catch each and every last one of 'em. No one has that kind of power, not even a God. We're just one team. A big fuckin' team, but we can't be everywhere. Sooner or later we were gonna miss one.

Just our luck, it was Stamford.

Six hundred people dead. Almost a hundred of 'em were kids. That ain't counting the injured, or the property damage. I saw the mess with my own eyes. I smelled the ashes, the death that hung in the air. We tried to do our part to fix things up, to somehow apologize for this fuckin' mess. They don't need an apology. That's not gonna tuck 'em into bed at night when they think about their kid incinerating or being buried in the remains of the family home that has stood longer than they have.

I told Stark that he shoulda seen this comin'. He did, but he didn't take the steps to prevent it. Typical. That's the attitude of the day, ain't it? We know that a society run on celebrity mishaps, diet soda, and mindless entertainment ain't gonna last. What do we do when we see the city burning around us?

We grab a fiddle and head for the hills, unable to cope any other way.

But that ain't me.

I cope by sinkin' my claws into the mother-fuckers responsible. Lucky for me, the asshole that blew up Stamford is common knowledge. Nitro. I told Stark while he was drinkin' his troubles away that I was going to kill the son-of-a-bitch, and I wasn't kiddin'. He knows I don't joke around, and didn't try to stop me. Deep down, he wants Nitro dead too. I could smell it, past the alcohol. He just doesn't want to dirty those rich little hands.

So, now I'm on the road, trackin' down clues. Couldn't follow the bastard's scent. Too many other ones, stronger. I heard from a somewhat reputable source of mine that Nitro hauled ass into the back of a truck and tried to make himself scarce. I ain't a detective, but I know plenty of 'em. My nights have been spent in seedy bars and alley-ways, but that ain't nothin' different.

Funny thing happened one afternoon. Was drinking a beer, tryin' to beat out my healin' factor, watchin' the boob tube over a sweaty guy's head down the bar-line. A lady who lost her kid in the incident was drummin' up a rally so prestigious that they even got Cap himself to speak. 'Cept that wasn't who I was watchin'.

I was watchin' my clone, and somehow, she was lookin' right back at me with the stare I know too well.

For once in a long while since the mess began, I cracked a grin. Looks like hatin' Scott Summers and bein' locked up in the Xavier Mansion was hard-written into my DNA. What was she doin' there, exactly? Lookin' for me?

She of all people should know by now, I don't do public appearances.

One of my contacts finally turned up the truck company that carted my target away from the scene of the crime. I broke into their New York headquarters and started doin' some pokin' of my own. Threatened a few guys to death, barked and waved the claws, but eventually got enough to start tracking 'im across the country.

Before I left, I made sure Summers knew where I was goin', and what I was plannin' to do. Half-Pint met me at the door, goin' on about this great plan she had to partner up with Stark. Personally, I think the girl had another partnership in mind. Either way, the meetin' didn't go well. Slim made his case about not wantin' to get involved with this bill and stayin' on the fence, and I ignored him. Emma threatened to wipe my mind, but even she ain't brave enough to start workin' through my head.

On my motorcycle, I had the weirdest feelin' in my gut. Things are movin' in ways that they shouldn't, and somethin' messy is just peakin' over the horizon. 'Cept I'm gonna be the one to find out who's behind all of this, and sink my claws in. Deep.

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