X-Men and the Avengers: Lost and Found Page 2

  I can take care of myself, no matter who is behind this. Ordinary humans are different.

  An overwhelming blast of concussive force, striking her at the base of her neck, shattered her confidence and sent her reeling forward. Gray institutional tiles seemed to rush at her face as darkness encroached on the periphery of her vision, casting the stark white walls into shadow. Her I.D. card slipped from her fingers.

  Of course, she recalled right before she blacked out. That blasted Doom puppet...!

  Chapter Two

  He crouched in the underbrush, sniffing the scent of his prey.

  That way, he thought, nodding to himself. Just like I figured.

  Most hunters might have never noticed the subtle deer path winding through the trees and bushes ahead of him, but Logan was the best there was at what he did.

  The dense wilderness of the Adirondacks surrounded him. Towering pines and spruce trees branched out high above his head to form a verdant canopy that shielded the forest floor from the afternoon sun. A light breeze rustled through the branches, carrying with it a dozen separate aromas, each distinct and recognizable to Logan’s keen sense of smell. Out of sight, but not beyond earshot, a mountain stream rushed through the woods somewhere ahead. Logan could practically taste the cold, clear water.

  It doesn't get much better than this, he thought, a rare smile creasing his rugged yet ageless features. Twin peaks of bristling black hair rose from his scalp, looking like the vee-shaped points of the mask he often wore. Logan savored the primeval sanctity of the untamed wilderness, along with the sense of solitude. Here in the woods of upstate New York, it was easy to fool himself into thinking that he was the only two-legged mammal around for hundreds of miles.

  Yeah, I needed this, he decided, breathing in the clean, intoxicating aroma of the trees and loam, so similar to that of the Canadian timberlands he had long ago called home. Even though he was no longer quite the loner he once was, thanks to Professor Charles Xavier and his X-Men, sometimes he still needed to put some distance between himself and other people, mutant or otherwise, and get back to his roots. This is where I really belong. In the wild.

  His heightened senses revealed all the secrets of the woods to him. A whiff of wintergreen in the air announced the presence of a stand of yellow birch to the west, while his ears detected squirrels scurrying through the branches overhead. His fingers brushed against the scaly bark of a tall white pine, guessing the tree’s approximate age from the feel of the bark. Probing gray eyes penetrated the shade, spotting the spoor of his prey as it led away to the north.

  They were here less than an hour ago, he estimated. I’m gaining on them.

  Rising from his crouch, Logan took off through the forest, moving with practiced speed and stealth. His well-worn cowboy boots trod softly upon a carpet of twigs, pine cones, and fallen needles, making little or no sound as he followed the trail. He had left his Wolverine uniform behind in Westchester; a red flannel shirt and faded Levi’s were all he needed for this hunting expedition. Besides, he wouldn’t want to give any stray hikers or forest rangers a heart attack by surprising them in his X-Men gear.

  We’re unpopular enough as is, he thought.

  The deer path led uphill, toward the peak. Logan came upon the stream he had heard earlier, cutting its way through the sylvan landscape, and paused only long enough to take a couple of deep mouthfuls of the icy water, which was just as refreshing as he had imagined. Like a cool beer on a hot day, he decided. Licking the last drops of moisture from his lips, he waded across the stream, then headed up-country. If his prey had thought that the flowing water would throw him off the trail, they were in for a big surprise.

  Scotch pine and aspen gave way to balsam and paper birch as he climbed the mountain, gaining elevation. Snow-white flowers bloomed from the occasional mountain ash growing along the trail, a sure sign of springtime. Logan sniffed the air again and nodded to himself. He was getting closer. Hunching over, his flared nostrils scouting ahead of him, he stalked forward even more quietly than before.

  Easy does it, he counseled himself. The last thing he wanted to do was startle his prey as soon as he caught up with them. Retracted for the moment, his claws itched within their metal sheaths.

  The timberland opened up before him, exposing an open meadow awash in golden sunshine. Sneaking up to the edge of the glade, Logan knelt behind a fallen log, its rotting carcass covered with moss and mushrooms, and peered with feral satisfaction at the sight of a family of deer—doe, fawn, and even, surprisingly, a buck—grazing upon the wild grass near the center of the clearing.

  Gotcha! he thought, eyes narrowing. Almost.

  Logan, sometimes known as Wolverine, ached to unsheathe his claws and pounce upon his prey with all the ferocity of his namesake, but more civilized habits prevailed. He seldom hunted to kill anymore, at least where dumb animals were concerned; it was sport enough to track a deer through miles of wilderness, until he came close enough to touch the skittish creature without being detected first. Not as satisfying, perhaps, as indulging his predatory instincts to the full, but enough of a challenge to make it interesting.

  ’Sides, he thought, what’d Bambi and family ever do to me? These days, he preferred to reserve his claws for those folks that really deserved them, like Magneto, for instance, or the Hellfire Club.

  Officially, deer hunting season did not begin until winter, but the law didn’t say anything about just tracking the animals. Logan liked it better this time of year, when he didn’t have to worry about any trigger-happy weekend warriors tromping through the woods, shooting at anything that moved. I’ve got the whole forest to myself, just the way I like it.

  This close, the musky scent of the deer was almost overwhelming. Logan started to creep around the lichen-wrapped log, then paused and sniffed once more, A scowl creased his feature; something wasn’t right. The deer smelled like deer, all right, but the pungent odor was almost too pure, like someone had distilled the essence of deer musk and sprayed it on the trio of animals grazing a few yards away. Logan couldn’t smell any evidence of fleas or ticks or even dried deer droppings; it was like all three deer had been raised, or at least painstakingly groomed, in a pristine laboratory environment, instead of the wilds of the Adirondacks. .

  There was something vaguely wrong about this perfect little domestic tableau—what was the buck doing here, hanging out with his family? Typically, adult male deer went their own way.

  Maybe I’m just getting paranoid in my old age, Logan thought, but I don’t like the smell of this. As far as he knew, nobody but nobody knew where he was right now, not even his fellow X-Men; still, he’d made plenty of enemies in his time, and he was too smart to underestimate any of them. There was always a chance that these

  harmless-looking deer were being used as bait in a trap. Maybe I’ll get a chance to use my claws after all, he thought hopefully, looking forward to a good scrap.

  Retreat was not an option. He had tracked this game too far to give up now. More importantly, if this was a trap he wanted to know who was behind it. A frontal assault, even into the jaws of danger, was better than looking back over your shoulder all the time, at least as far as Logan was concerned.

  Let’s get on with it, he decided.

  Getting down on all fours, his nose only inches from the fragrant soil, he slipped around the overgrown log and into the tall grass. He crept through the clearing on his hands and knees, eating up the distance between him and the grazing deer. His senses and reflexes were geared up to razor-sharp intensity, yet he could detect nothing in the vicinity except a few birds and rodents here and there. If an ambush was in the works, he sure as blazes didn’t know where it could come from; there was nothing here but the deer.

  The fawn, its tawny fur still spotted with patches of white, was the closest to Logan. Balancing awkwardly on four spindly limbs, it nibbled on the grass within the protective shadow of its mother and father. So far, none of the animals appeared aware of Logan’s ap
proach, which was just the way he liked it. He came within reach of the baby deer, then stretched his fingers toward the fawn's flanks.

  Here goes nothing, he thought, suspecting that the trap, if any, would be sprung once the deer reacted to his presence.

  Before he even touched the unsuspecting animal, however, that unlikely father deer lunged at Logan, his head lowered so that an impressive rack of antlers came straight at the crouching mutant. The deep-throated roar of the attacking buck sounded in Logan’s ears. He was only a heartbeat away from being gored.

  “I knew it,” he muttered. Something wasn’t right about that buck.

  Snikt. Matching sets of twelve-inch steel claws emerged from the backs of his hands as he swiped out at the oncoming antlers, responding instinctively to the threat. The sharpened edges of his claws sliced off the points of the antlers, sending the bony tips flying off into the scrub. The buck reared up on its hind legs, kicking out at Wolverine with its forward hooves. He threw himself backward, dodging the blow, and scrambled to his feet; mutant healing factor or not, he didn’t feel like having his adamantium skull slammed by a tw'o-hundred-pound deer.

  What’s this about? Logan speculated. Primal aggression from a protective papa or something more sinister? He glanced quickly to each side, but saw no sign of any human attackers—or inhuman, for that matter. Maybe, just maybe, all he had to deal with was some irate wildlife. That would be easy enough to handle. The only tricky part would be resisting the temptation to lash back with deadly force against an animal protecting his family. He clenched his fists, keeping the claws raised in front of him. There were three on each hand, all six poised to strike out at all comers. He had killed more than deer with those claws....

  Then, before his startled eyes, the buck’s severed antlers grew back until they were even larger and more lethal-looking than before.

  “That cinches it,” Wolverine muttered. This was no ordinary deer and the whole altercation was no isolated incident; hostile agencies were at work. And Bambi’s father wasn’t just bait, either. He was part of the ambush, maybe the most important part.

  Lowering his head, the buck charged again at Wolverine, who braced himself for the attack, shining silver claws extended.

  “Come and get me,” he growled. “I smell venison on the menu.”

  A sudden impact, followed by agonizing pain, caught him by surprise as another set of antlers stabbed him in the back, tearing through the flannel shirt to gouge the skin and muscle below, the bony horns lodging deeply into his flesh, barely missing his spine.

  “What the—?” he gasped, glancing backwards to see who or what had gored him.

  Impossibly, it was none other than the fawn, now twice its previous size and equipped with antlers fully as large as its apparent father. Only yards away, the doe was also growing a rack of antlers, the bony tines extruding from the female deer’s skull at an unnatural rate.

  Kind of like Marrow, he thought instantly, the freakish sight forcibly reminding him of that disagreeable mutant rebel and the bony protuberances that spontaneously erupted through her skin. But since when have there been mutant deer?

  Impaled upon the transformed fawn’s horns, Wolverine tried to pull himself free, but the fawn reared up, dragging the hero’s boots off the ground below, making it harder to get any kind of leverage. He gritted his teeth against the shock and pain of the antlers tearing through his flesh; his rapid healing factor couldn’t repair the damage until he got the injured tissue away from the antlers. Meanwhile, bright arterial blood streamed down his back, soaking his shirt, while the original buck came stampeding toward him.

  Jaw clenched as tightly as his fists, Wolverine yanked his entire upper body forward, ignoring the stabbing shrieks of pain racing through his nervous system. The convulsive effort ripped him free of the transformed fawn’s antlers and he dropped onto the grass below—just in time to be gored in the chest by the onrushing buck.

  A savage howl escaped his frothing lips as the points of the antlers dug into his ribcage. He slashed out wildly with his claws, but whatever wounds he inflicted on the buck’s neck and shoulders closed almost as fast as he opened them; it was like slicing through some sort of living jelly.

  An adciptoid? he guessed desperately. A new kind of organic Sentinel? The metallic scent of his own blood inflamed his senses, driving reason and intellect from his mind. He became an enraged animal, fighting to survive.

  His preternatural healing factor kicked in, the gashes on Wolverine’s back were already knitting up, staunching the flow of blood. But the lessening of the pain from those injuries was more than overpowered by the impact of two sets of hoofs pounding against the back of his head. While the buck stabbed him in the chest, both the doe and the fawn kicked at him from behind, their hoofs slamming again and again upon his skull. It fell like the Juggernaut was pounding on his head while Sabretooth clawed at his heart simultaneously.

  It was too much even for his legendary endurance.

  Funny, Wolverine thought, in one last burst of consciousness before darkness descended, I thought I was hunting them. .. .

  U o one knew her real name, and the woman now known ■ 'I as Rogue preferred to keep it that way. Truth to tell, she rarely thought of herself as anyone but Rogue these days.

  ’Cept when I’ve got someone else’s memories stuck in my head, she thought.

  At the moment, thank goodness, her mind was her own, although she could barely hear herself think over the noisy chatter and confusion of the crowded West Village street fair in which she was presently immersed. Milling New Yorkers, ranging from college kids to senior citizens, and packed shoulder-to-shoulder, jostled and nudged their way past each other, between rows of covered booths hawking everything from hot Thai food to used books and LPs. Hucksters called out to passersby, pitching free massages, cheap phone cards, Peruvian sweaters and pottery, cold lemonade, baby clothes, comic books, keyrings, wallets, refrigerator magnets, strawberry crepes, antique movie posters, ice cream, blue jeans, and just about anything else Rogue could imagine. The booths lined both sides of Waverly Place between Broadway and Sixth Avenue, blocking her view of aging brownstones to the north and Washington Square Park to the south. The fair on Waverly, which had been closed off to traffic for the afternoon, had drawn a sizable crowd of shoppers and sightseers, including at least one mutant heroine from the suburbs.

  Nothing like a little bargain-hunting to take one’s mind off the super hero biz, Rogue thought, pausing to admire some reasonably priced turquoise jewelry; she was glad she had taken the train in from Westchester that morning. The sky, which had threatened rain earlier that morning, had cleared up, bathing the entire fair in sunshine. Wolvie has the right idea going walkabout and all. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up at the Institute all the time. She had better things to do this afternoon than run through another training exercise in the Danger Room.

  Too bad I couldn’t talk Ororo into joining me, she thought, but the weather goddess had been too busy with her beloved garden to waste a day in the city. Still, it was nice to have some time on her own, especially after all the X-Men had gone through recently. Like that whole time-travel mess with Spider-Man last year, or that ugly business with Mr. Sinister ...

  “See anything you like?” the jewelry dealer asked her, leaning forward over his wares. Despite the Native American designs of the rings and necklaces, the dealer looked more Pakistani than Apache. He raised a glittering trinket from a velvet-lined wooden tray. “Earrings are only $15 a pair. Very cheap!”

  It would take a diamond drill to pierce my ears, she thought, shaking her head. “No thanks. Ah’m just lookin’,” she added with a smile, her melodious drawl betraying her origins somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line.

  Rejoining the stream of pedestrians flowing by, she left the jewelry booth behind, blending in with the crowd, or so she thought. A couple of teenage boys, hanging out around a used-CD stand, looking for bootleg tapes of their favorite bands, whistled appreciat
ively as she walked past them.

  Trust me, sugar, y’all don’t want to be getting too close 27

  Chapter Three

  to me. Rogue sighed ruefully, running a hand through the bleached white skunktail running down the middle of her long brown hair; one kiss from her lips would sure suck the swagger from those boys, all right, along with what passed for their minds. Look, but don’t touch, honey. The story of my life...

  Even though her mutant body was immune to extremes of heat and cold, she had on a long-sleeved sweater and gloves. Manhattan was way too cramped to do otherwise; she couldn’t risk brushing any exposed skin against that of some poor stranger, not without taking a chance of absorbing all their memories and strength. Not exactly the kind of souvenir I was hoping to pick on this little shopping trip, she thought wryly.

  Rogue was treating herself to some freshly roasted com-on-the-cob, the melted butter dripping between the fingers of her glove, when she heard the angry shouting. At first she thought it was just another streetside salesman trying to attract the attention of the fairgoers, but there was a harsh edge to the yelling, very much at odds with the festive atmosphere of the fair, that caught her ear.

  Some kind of trouble? she wondered, and began edging her way through the crowd toward the source of shouts. Maybe there was something she could do to help....

  Packed in with several dozen other people, including a young mother pushing a slow-moving stroller, it took her a couple of minutes to get close enough to the speaker to make out the words. As she did so, her expression darkening, an all too familiar rage awoke inside her.

  “Wake up, America!” a man’s voice bellowed. “Do you know what your children are? Don’t sit back and let mutants take over our world. This is your fight, too! Fight the mutant menace! Join now!”