No I in Team

"Today, as always, men fall into two groups: slaves and free men. Whoever does not have two-thirds of his day for himself, is a slave, whatever he may be: a statesman, a businessman, an official, or a scholar." —Friedrich Nietzsche.

10. All Who Wander

Location: Black Cloud Creek

British Columbia, Canada

21:35 HRS

Snow started to fall; small, early November flakes that danced down from the sky and clung to the ground. James, standing in the flurry outside the noisy bar, shoved his hands into the pockets of his thick jacket to warm his fingers, and sniffed the air. It smelt heavy and cold, and he knew that winter had just arrived.

The bar called to him, light spilling out from the cracks between the wooden boards of the walls, the scent of alcohol lingering in the cold air. It wasn't a posh bar, not the sort you'd find in a city, inhabited by yuppies. It was a country bar that had been set up in a dingy old barn as a place where loggers, miners and labourers could go after a hard day's work.

He'd avoided the place until now, keeping to himself for the past three months, working his new logging job but purposely not getting involved in case the shadows of his past—namely, Victor—came back to haunt him. Now, winter was setting in, and the thought of spending all his spare time alone in his little log cabin was almost unbearable. Though he didn't fear solitude, he wasn't accustomed to it. He'd never truly been alone before. Victor had been a near-constant in his life, and from time to time there had been women to fill the gaps, and more recently, Team X.

He missed the banter. He missed Wraith's humour, and Bradley's introspective questions, and Zero's frosty glares, and Dukes' deadpan comments, and Victor's little snarks, and God help him, he even missed Wade's mind-numbing chatter. A little. But it was time to lay the shadows of his past to rest. It was time to stop existing, and start living.

Now that his mind was made up, he found it easy to step forward, towards those yellow shafts of light that sliced the ground so cleanly and warmly. As he approached the door, the sound of voices filtered into his ears, little snippets of conversations jumping out at him before being swallowed by the hubbub. He reached out and pushed open the door, and the volume decreased as men and women stopped to glance at the stranger. They seemed content that he was no threat, and returned to their merry-making.

"Hey, Logan, over here!"

He recognised the voice which called out to him. A guy he worked with named Nell, so called because he hated his real name—Nelson—and a fellow lumberjack. Nell drove the skidder that pulled felled trees away from the forest to the landing, and he was a decent, hardworking guy. Nell gestured him over, and Logan found him sitting with a group of the other loggers, enjoying what appeared to be their second round of beers.

"Well well, look what the cat dragged in," Nell grinned. "I was beginning to think you were one of those tee-totallers, the way you always ran off after work without sticking around to be invited for a beer with the boys."

"To be honest," James replied, "I wasn't too sure I was going to stay here. Never been a lumberjack before, and didn't know if I'd get the feel for it."

"You're a natural, Logan," said Dave, one of the sawyers. "Hard to believe you haven't done this before."

"Dave, the man didn't come here to talk about work," said Nell, and he clapped Logan on the shoulder. "What'll it be, buddy? You've got some catching up to do."

"I'll just have whatever you're drinking."

Nell went off to the bar, and the conversation turned back to its original topic. One of the guys was getting married and looking for post-marital advice from the more experienced men in the group. Logan listened, but said nothing. His experience of marriage wasn't bad, but it had often been bitter, and for some reason, the bitterness tended to taint the happier memories, blurring them almost beyond recognition.

Because of his enhanced constitution—what the docs at Bunker Five had called his healing factor—he rarely ever got drunk, and he quickly caught up with his workmates. The alcohol tasted a little bitter, but it wasn't half bad, and the more he drank, the better it seemed to taste. After four rounds he was just starting to feel a nice, warming buzz, when a prickling feeling along the back of his neck told him he was being watched.

He scanned the room, eyes passing over groups of people as they sat or stood chatting to each other, until he noticed a woman sitting on her own at a small table to the side of the bar. Her eyes, which had been roaming over his body, looked away when she noticed he'd caught on to her.

"Who's that?" he asked Nell and Dave.

"A new teacher at the local school," Nell replied. "Her name's Kayla. She got here about a month ago. Comes in from time to time to have a drink or too, but I never see her sittin' with anyone Why, you thinking of helpin' her keep warm at nights?" The skidder grinned again.

"No," he said, a little more curtly than he'd intended. He wasn't sure he was ready for women, yet. He wanted to ease himself back into civilian life by taking baby-steps. First had been the cabin, and then the job, and now a few beers with his work buddies. Perhaps in a few months he'd be ready to make new friends, but for now he wanted to take it all slow. Too many times in the past he had rushed in and made mistakes. This time would be different.

"Hey, no offence, pal," said Nell, holding up his hands.

"Sorry," he said, because he knew he'd been wrong in snapping at Nell. Guys talked, almost as much as women, and he knew Nell didn't mean anything by it. "Why don't I go buy the next round? Figure it's my turn by now."

There was a cheer from the group, and James made his way to the bar on legs which were still mostly steady. "Six beers," he said to the barman. Then, as an afterthought, "and three packets of chips."

As the barman pulled the drinks, James took a cigar from his pocket, lit up, and listened to a few snippets of conversations that were happening around the room.

"…late for dinner again, and stopped out most of last night. I don't know what I'm going to do with him…"

"…can't believe it's snowing already. Seems like only yesterday we were baking in the sunshine. Where did summer go?"

"…had an offer of a job over in Alberta, two years at least, but not sure the wife and kids will want to go…"

"…tried to change it for my spare tyre, but that was flat too…"

Small-town problems, from small-town people. James smiled. He'd missed this. In places like Black Cloud Creek, even big problems were pleasantly mundane. It was nice to be able to sit and relax and not have to worry about people potentially tearing each other apart with mutant powers, or be concerned with not drinking because tomorrow was a training day. Now, there would be no more training days, no waking up long before the crack of dawn to put a team through its paces, and though he did miss the people he'd come to, mostly, think of as friends, he found himself feeling surprisingly… free. A weight that had been sitting on his shoulders since he'd crossed the I's and dotted the T's on a US government contract had finally been lifted.

"I'll have a beer, please."

James glanced to his side at the sultry feminine voice, and saw the woman who'd been watching him earlier standing just a pace or two away at the bar. When she noticed him looking, she gave him a friendly smile, which had just a hint of 'coy' in it.

"Hey," she said. "I haven't seen you around here before. New in town?"

"No," he replied, and mentally hurried the barman along. Women just complicated things far too much. "I've been here three months or so, but this is the first time I've visited the bar."

"Took you a while to find it," she pointed out. One eyebrow lifted slightly as she posed the non-question. "I would have thought the bar is the first place anyone would come, in a little place like this. It's not like there's much else to do."

"Well, I've had a few things to work out in my head. Didn't feel much like being social."

"And now?"

"I'm getting there," he replied.

The barman finally brought the last beer, and dropped three bags of chips down on the counter, but the woman wasn't going to let him get away so easily.

"I'm Kayla, by the way," she said, offering her hand. Her eyes invited him to take it. "Kayla Silverfox."

"James Howlett," he replied, shaking her hand, trying not to squeeze too hard, as was his habit. "But everyone calls me Logan."

"Oh? Why's that."

"Because I tell them to."

She smiled, and it lit up her sun-kissed face. Then she picked up her own beer and turned, glancing at him over her shoulder.

"Maybe I'll see you in here again, Logan."

"Yeah, maybe."

While she sauntered back to her own table, he turned and took a long draught of one of the beers. Women. They were damn complicated things. But perhaps a little complication wouldn't go amiss. It might help to keep him on his toes. Give him something to think about during the long Canadian winter nights.

To complications, he thought, toasting himself as he took another swig of the beer. And my new life.

o - o - o - o - o

Location: Bunker Five

20:35 HRS

With a feral snarl of anger, Victor slammed the door of Stryker's office, taking momentary pleasure in the way that the whole frame trembled with the force of the blow. Stryker's answer today had been the same as the last three times; Yes, Victor, of course we can graft adamantium to your bones. But we're still trying to refine it, to remove the impurities. And after that we must test it, to ensure the procedure actually works. You're too valuable to be risked on an untested procedure.

He growled under his breath as he made his way back to the rec room. At this hour of the day it was empty. Zero, the last remaining member of Team X other than himself, was out on a mission for Stryker. Victor didn't know the particulars, and he didn't care for them. He had little love for Zero, and he knew the feeling was mutual. But that didn't matter. Adamantium bones were worth putting up with Zero's haughty, condescending sneers for. And once the adamantium was finally bonded to his bones, the first thing he'd do would be to wipe those sneers off Zero's face.

Throwing open the door to the rec room, he tossed the unopened dossier down on the table and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Had he wished, he could have crushed the can, beer and all, in his powerful grip, but for the moment he set aside his desire for destruction and settled instead on opening the can and drinking the contents in half a dozen huge gulps. Only once it was empty did he crush the can and toss it aside, not caring if it landed in the bin.

He hated it here. When he'd first arrived, it had seemed a place of endless possibilities. Now, there was only one thing he wanted, and Stryker was telling him he had to be patient to get it. Patience was not one of Victor's strengths. He was used to getting his own way, and pretty damn fast.

Besides, without Jimmy, this facility was just another place to rest his head at night. He'd always thought that it would be him and Jimmy against the world, but his younger brother could be a selfish bastard at times. Victor had been just fifteen years old when Jimmy had killed their father. It was the freedom Victor had been longing for since the old drunk had first picked up his leather belt and lashed his son for 'bad behaviour.' As if that bastard was any better, sleeping with another man's wife, beating his boy black and blue, drowning himself in cheap bourbon during the working hours. A fine example for Victor to learn from.

He'd thought that Thomas Logan's death would be the end of it. The start of a new life. The night Jimmy had killed the old sot, Victor knew that he'd finally found his family. Jimmy was his brother, his own flesh and blood. And Victor, as the older of the two, had considered it his responsibility to keep his brother safe. When Jimmy, aching and feverish from his recent change, had been too sick to run anymore, Victor had carried him. When Jimmy had complained of tiredness and nausea, Victor had found a cave for him to lie safely inside. And when the militia and their tracking hounds had gotten too close to the cave, Victor had lured them away, running for almost two days, doubling back on his tracks, leaving false scent-trails, anything he could think of to throw the dogs off his brother's trail.

It hadn't stopped there, either. The boys had needed to eat, and Victor had been the one to provide. Whilst Jimmy watched, safely hidden up a tree, Victor had snuck into a farmstead's chicken coup and snapped the necks of the birds. The brothers had eaten well for days, the juicy chicken meat spitted over the fire just like Victor had seen the fur-trappers do. And when Jimmy needed new shoes, to replace his worn old boots, Victor had been the one to break into a farmhouse and steal clothes from the family within. He'd come very close to being shot, that time, not knowing back then that bullets would do little more than tickle him.

Of course, Jimmy didn't remember those things, just as he didn't remember the mob that had almost caught the pair of them and threatened to hang them for stealing from the general store. Just as he didn't remember how Victor had lain in wait for a passing soldier, pouncing on the man and knocking him from his fine horse, when Jimmy's feet were too sore and blistered to walk anymore. That horse had carried them for miles, and then been sold for a decent amount five towns over. The money from that sale had seen them kitted out in new clothes and with a bag of bread and cheese to keep their bellies full for a week.

No. All Jimmy remembered was the blood. The chicken feathers around Victor's mouth. The crimson red liquid beneath Victor's fingernails after he'd jumped the soldier. The scarlet stains on his shirt after his was forced to defend himself and his brother from a man who tried to rob them of their food.

Victor had done what he'd needed to do to survive. He'd accepted the bloodshed, welcomed it even, so that his brother didn't have to. And was Jimmy ever grateful for that sacrifice? Of course not. What had Jimmy done, in return? He'd gone off and found himself a wife. Some pretty woman to warm his bed, but who had ultimately ended up hating him and cursing his youthfulness. During the Klondike gold-rush, the brothers could have been made rich men, but Jimmy was too soft to give up his house and his wife. After each and every bar brawl, Jimmy swore it would be the last, that he'd never drink again, never let his temper get the better of him again. Just as how after each and every war he swore he would fight no more. That this was the last time he would be a soldier, fighting somebody else's battle.

But that was Jimmy all over. He went in circles, and sometimes he even forgot the cycles which had come before, trapped in some perpetual loop of trying to escape the violence but ultimately being drawn back to it like a moth to a flame. Ten years. Twenty. Thirty, tops, and Jimmy would forget all about Nigeria, about Team X and the black-skinned corpses which had littered the ground of that tiny, unimportant village. Victor would show up on his doorstep, tempt him with some offer, and Jimmy would come running back, just like he always did. You can't run from your family forever. He knew that better than most.

In a slightly better mood now that he knew he'd only have to wait a couple of decades to get his brother back again, he took another beer from the fridge and sat down at the table. The dossier—the word 'classified' stamped over its front in big red letters—was waiting for him, begging to be opened and read. So Victor, after drinking half his second can, opened the folder and read the file inside.

Target: Remy Etienne LeBeau

Current location: Nashville, Tennessee

Occupation: Thief & Card Shark

Mutant Power: Ability to control potential and kinetic energy. The subject is skilled at charging small items to be used as impromptu incendiary devices, and has above average skills in hand-to-hand combat. Known to law enforcement agencies across several states, nobody would ask questions if he were to go missing.

Victor smiled. This sounded like a challenge, and he was always up for a challenge. Something to help take his mind off his ungrateful little brother… at least until their paths crossed again. Just as they always did.

o - o - o - o - o

Location: Fordham Plaza

The Bronx, NYC

11:50 HRS

The ladder wobbled, and John Wraith froze in mid-stroke. He wasn't all that big on heights, which most people found strange or amusing—sometimes both—but there was no other way to paint the yellow-and-brown coloured ceiling of the dive Dukes had bought to turn into his new restaurant. The place had potential, but it needed a lot of work. Almost as much work as the place he'd bought to make into a boxing gym. And since Dukes had helped him haul in the ring, and all the bags and pads and done most of the heavy work and half of the manual labour, John reckoned it was only fair he help Dukes out with the restaurant.

Perhaps there'd even be some free burgers in it.

"Y'need a hand?" he called.

Dukes, who was huffing and groaning as he hauled an industrial-sized dishwasher through the back door, glanced over and shook his head. "Nah, I got it."

"Alright. But any time you want me to come down from this ladder and help you out, just yell."

Damned ladder. It was trying to kill him. Every time he bent down to dip his brush into the tray of paint, it wobbled. And when he reached up to spread the paint across the ceiling, to conceal some of the suspicious stains, it creaked and groaned threateningly. Not that he would hit the floor, of course; he could always teleport himself upright and ground-side before that happened. He just didn't like the sensation of falling. Brought back too many memories of that day on the bridge when three of his childhood friends had died.

Because of that day, parachuting was a nightmare for him. Or at least, it had been. He didn't have to do that anymore. No, you'd never catch John Wraith airborne again. Not unless he had the solid floor of an airplane beneath his feet, at least. Airplanes were fine. Helicopters were fine. It was just open air he had a problem with, and it extended to depths, as well as heights.

"There," Dukes said, sounding satisfied. "Dishwasher in place. Now I just gotta get a plumber to come and pipe it in."

"I can hook you up with a guy," John offered.

"Thanks. You wanna take a break, now?"

"Music to my ears." He put down the brush and teleported down to the floor, taking the first opportunity he'd had all day to stand up properly without fear of falling off something. He knuckled his back for a moment, trying to work some of the tension out of muscles that had been ready to twitch and teleport for hours. God, he hated ladders.

From the huge fridge which had been installed yesterday, Dukes pulled out two cans of beer, and tossed one of them to John.

"Cheers," he said, opening the can and taking a long drink of the cold amber nectar. As it cooled his throat, he looked around for somewhere to sit, and spied the serving counter.

"Don't even think about it," Dukes warned. "No sitting on my counter whilst you're all covered in paint. You'll ruin it."

John rolled his eyes, and settled for leaning back against one of the unpainted walls. "Look at us," he said, raising his can. "Beer before lunch. Wonder what Logan would say if he were here."

Dukes shrugged. He'd never been a big fan of the Captain. Oh, he hadn't hated him, as Zero had, but he'd always been… cool, with Logan. Not cold, or frosty, just cool. "Guy gave me the creeps," the big man admitted. "Living all that time. It isn't right."

"Some people might say that being able to punch through walls with your bare fists, or being able to teleport, ain't right," John pointed out. "Besides, Victor was just as immortal."

"And that guy gave me a double helping of the creeps with a side of fries. Do you think he's still with Team X, now that Logan's gone?"

John snorted. "Man, that team will have fallen apart without us. You wanna know where I think everyone is, now?" Dukes nodded, and John began tallying up on his fingers. "Logan will be off somewhere doing charity work, you know, building homes for people in Ecuador or something, to try and make up for all the crap he had to do under Stryker's command. Victor will be off fighting in some war, tearing people's heads off, or working as a bodyguard for someone rich and stupid. Wade, he'll be travelling 'round the far east, challenging anybody with a knife to a duel to the death, and possibly fleeing from angry fathers. And Bradley… well, I bet he's gone back to school, studying something like astronomy. In ten years we'll see him on TV, talking about space and stuff, finding new stars and naming them after us. He has the brains to go far, that kid, and something he loves to give him the passion to see it through."

"I wonder if he'll come try my burgers," Dukes mused. "Hey, if he names a star after me, does that mean I have to name a burger after him?"

"At least. It's only fair, man." He glanced at the big man, and little gears began ticking inside his head. "Speaking of fair, maybe we could come to some sort of business arrangement."

"What sort of arrangement?"

"How about I big-up your diner to all my boys and their families, encourage 'em to come and patronise this place a couple of times a week, and you give them a bit of a discount? Y'know, help out some of the low-income kids, do your bit for the community, etc?"

Dukes frowned as the idea rolled around his mind. "And what do I get out of it?"

"Word-of-mouth advertising, my friend. Word spreads that this is a great place to eat for a decent price." He looked around, at the walls which were currently yellow-and-brown-stain coloured, but would one day be clean. A fresh canvas. "Of course, I'll probably need you to put a couple of posters up, maybe famous boxers, and my gym's name underneath 'em. Just to point people in my direction."

"I suppose I could manage that," Dukes relented at last.

"Great. We're going to make it big, Dukes, I can just feel it," he said, a smile spreading across his face of its own volition. He had a good feeling about all of this. Like he'd really be helping people, and making a difference, and hopefully getting famous in the process. "I'm gonna train up a boxing champ, and people will be flocking for miles to try your Bradley Burgers."

"That name is so lame," Dukes scoffed.

"Alright, then use Bradley's codename; Bolt. Spicy Bolt Burgers, guaranteed to make your spine tingle."

"Hmm. I think I can work with that." Dukes drank the last of his beer, crushed the can as easily as any other man might crumple a piece of paper, and tossed it aside. "But we've got a lot of work to do first."

"I know, I know," John sighed. "Finish the painting." He downed his drink, threw his empty can down next to Dukes', and teleported back to the wobbly ladder. He'd have the ceiling finished by the end of the day, and the walls by the end of the week. All of the stains, even the interesting-shaped ones, would soon be gone, erased by a coat of glossy white. And as he worked, he tried to imprint his less happier memories onto those stains, so that they, too, could be covered over forever.

o - o - o - o - o

Location: Waukegan, Illinois

20:45 HRS

Carmine's Carnival was many things. It had started out as a circus, many decades ago, but then the elephants had gotten too expensive to keep, the big cats had been confiscated when one of the leopards managed to maul a child through the bars of its cage, and the monkey-trainer had died leaving no heir to continue the time-honoured tradition of teaching monkeys to dance the conga whilst wearing ridiculous outfits. There were still some animals left; the performing dogs were always popular with the kids, and the stage magician had a menagerie of his own, but animals just didn't draw the crowds like they used to.

To make up for the lack of animals, the circus owners had bought a few mobile fairground rides, begun hiring freakshows, and changed its name from Circus to Carnival. Now there was something for all the family. The little kids got to enjoy the performing dogs and the vomit-inducing merry-go-rounds and whirly-gigs, the older kids and teenagers mostly spent their time playing the near impossible to win games which afforded prizes for those lucky enough to make a score, and the adults had any number of freaks to gawk at, though the kids did just as much gawking as their parents.

There was the bearded lady, though it was a genuine medical condition she suffered from. Similarly, the contortionist, who could squeeze herself into the smallest of boxes, was simply double-jointed in each of her limbs. The strong-man was merely a guy who'd worked out since he was three years old and survived almost entirely on protein since then, and the dwarfs were, well, dwarfs. Dwarfism had been around since forever. Really, there wasn't anything all that freakish about it. The same probably couldn't be said for the ventriloquist and his freaky dummy, however.

In fact, thought Chris Bradley, as he sat inside his little booth, watching the world pass him by, there's really only one freak here—ventriloquist dummy notwithstanding—and that's me.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He'd applied for jobs as an electrician, but pretty much everybody who was hiring wanted to see qualifications, and those who didn't want qualifications didn't pay enough for him to buy peanuts, much less survive on. Then he'd tried being a handy-man, but discovered he wasn't really all that handy. He'd been sleeping rough outside of Des Moines, Iowa, when the Carnival had rolled into town and pitched its tents in the open fields outside the city. Because he was small, and military-trained, he'd managed to sneak in without paying and gotten a good look around. Then, he'd had a thought.

I can do this.

He'd impressed Chuck, the self-styled ringmaster—even though there was no longer a ring—with a few simple electricity manipulation tricks, and asked if he could join up. He'd also promised to fix any of the Carnival's electrical faults whenever they occurred. Chuck had accepted that proposal easily enough. Bradley didn't know if Chuck knew that he was a mutant, or whether he merely suspected, or even cared.

It wasn't a grand life that Bradley lived now, but it was a life, and it was his. Here, he had friends. Matilda, the bearded lady, cooked for him once a week, and in return he put some extra juice into the generator which powered her trailer so that she could have a few extra hours of television. Whenever the Carnival pulled into a new town, he went out with Gino, the strongman, for a tour of the local bars, which always helped to drum up interest because Gino was huge and drew a crowd wherever he went—sometimes they even followed him from bar to bar—and because Bradley had started to learn how to juggle, he was usually able to impress the local drinkers by juggling two or three lightbulbs, making them light up whenever they were in the air, and go dim when they touched his hands. The kids liked that one, too.

Here, he had his own little booth, where he performed his juggling trick whenever there were enough people nearby, and offered the chance for people to win prizes by turning off one of his bulbs. Nobody ever won, of course, and though some people did grow frustrated, Gino was always close by to make sure nobody did anything about their frustration. And since Gino was bigger even than Fred Dukes, disgruntled locals were never willing to cross him.

The booth wasn't the only thing he had. He also owned a small trailer; nothing posh, but it was his. He considered it his haven, the place where he could go to be surrounded by the things that he loved; an electronic train set that he could take apart and put back together with his eyes closed; a robot that walked, barely, at his mental command; lightbulbs in myriad colours and shapes and sizes, providing him with an aurora-esque light-show whenever the mood took him. He'd even managed to save up enough to buy himself a telescope, so that when the nights were clear he could climb up onto the roof of his trailer and look out at the distant stars.

It was a quiet night, tonight. Not many people glanced over to Bradley, in his little booth, so he was free to people-watch, which was one of his favourite things to do, when he wasn't performing. Right now he could see a family of four, typical mother, father, son and daughter set-up, and he guessed that she was a housewife and he was a dentist; the entire family had nice teeth. And when they disappeared into the Fun House, a name which was very much false advertising, he spied a young couple at one of the other booths, trying to hit targets with a water pistol. They were both crap shots; wouldn't have lasted more than twenty seconds in a firefight, either of them. But they were laughing, and looked to be having fun… perhaps he was being overly critical. It wasn't as if most people needed to last twenty seconds in a firefight, after all.

He looked at his watch, which, of course, always kept perfect time, and saw that the hour was getting late. Almost ten-thirty, which meant that in another half-hour, Chuck would start closing up and politely ask his patrons to leave. Nobody would miss Bradley, between now and then – he'd had only six customers all night. So, deciding that because tonight was a special occasion, he closed up his booth and returned to his trailer. Inside, he pulled a bottle of champagne from his fridge, grabbed seven plastic cups, and then stepped outside to where the ladder led up to the roof of the trailer.

Tonight, he didn't bring his telescope with him, despite the fact that it was a clear sky and perfect for star-gazing. Instead, he cracked open the champagne bottle—he'd had to save for two weeks to afford the stuff—and set the plastic cups out in a circle, pouring half a glass of bubbly into each one.

"Well, guys," he said, "it's been one year. Twelve months since I walked out of Bunker Five and left my old life behind me. A year since I saw some of you, and longer for others. I have no idea what any of you are doing now, but I hope wherever you are, and whatever you're doing, you're happy. Here's to us."

He picked up one of the glasses and took a long sip, enjoying the sensation of cold bubbles running over his tongue. And when he was done with his glass, he picked up one of the others, because it would be rude to let their drinks go to waste. He'd even poured one for Victor, because he'd felt it wasn't fair to leave any member of Team X out, even if said member was a dangerous, violent killer who'd scared the life out of Bradley.

The alcohol began to relax him, and he lay down on his back, looking up at the stars twinkling in the sky. Were any of the others looking at these stars, too, wondering what had become of their teammates? It was a nice thought. A nice thought and a nice night. And because it was a special occasion, he opened his mind up to the barrage of electronic signals and waves which flooded the air, invisible to all but him. Telephone conversations passed through his mind, along with radio stations playing all different kinds of music, and communications to and from satellites in orbit. He closed his mind and let it all just run through his his brain. He didn't hear any familiar voices, and he wasn't expecting to either, but it was nice just to feel… connected. When he was listening to all this, he wasn't alone. Merely a small part of a larger web of information.

And that was a nice feeling.

o - o - o - o - o

Location: Estany de Banyoles

Catalonia, España

13:00 HRS

The best thing about being a mercenary, was that you got to pick your own working hours. You didn't have to get up at ridiculous-o'clock in the morning to run laps or siege a building, unless you wanted to, of course. You didn't have to spend an ungodly amount of time cleaning a gun you didn't care about, or firing said weapon at an immobile target, just to prove that you could hit what you aimed for. And you didn't have to kill any funny little bald men wearing dresses, which was probably a good thing as far as karma was concerned.

The past few months had been a learning curve. Or a re-learning curve, at least. One didn't go from soldier to mercenary any easier than one went from mercenary to soldier in the first place. Wade had to remind himself constantly that he wasn't under orders anymore, that he didn't have to kill, or hold back from killing, at anybody's command other than his own. Each day didn't have to be meticulously planned out, and each job didn't need three guys to be his back-up just in case he slipped up.

There were, of course, some things he missed. Being fed steak twice a day, for instance, and having somebody predictable to play poker with. But there were other things he definitely didn't miss. For one, the clothing. He'd always heard that women loved a man in uniform, and granted, the fatigues had been comfortable, but they were so bland, and the problem with women throwing themselves at a man in uniform, was that all women threw themselves at a man in uniform. Even the ones who weren't particularly attractive and he would rather have avoided entirely.

Another thing he didn't miss was the ridiculous rules, such as 'no drinking until after dark.' One of Stryker's rules that Logan had been forced to enforce. It was a stupid rule. Sometimes, the daylight hours were the best times to drink. Take today, for example. Here he was, his first holiday away from merc work in a year, sitting in a deck chair in a secluded spot beside Lake Banyoles, sipping a mojito. You couldn't do that at night, because you just wouldn't get a tan at all, and mojito was more of a refreshing sunshine drink than a sit-alone-in-a-dark-room-being-gloomy-and-moping kind of drink.

From time to time, his thoughts had strayed towards his former teammates, but mostly he was too busy rebuilding his own life to speculate about what everybody else was getting up to. He'd been out of the game for too long; some people had forgotten his name. Some people didn't even know his name! So he'd had to remind a few old acquaintances he was still alive, and introduce himself to a few new acquaintances, because it just wouldn't do to have people in the mercenary line of work who didn't know the name Wade Wilson.

After the (re)introduction period, he'd looked up some of his old contacts and put out feelers, to find out if there were any jobs he could take to ease him back into things. And by 'put out feelers', he meant he'd threatened people with his shiny new katanas until they either talked or bled. The ones who remembered him most fondly chose to talk. One or two had opted to bleed. But overall, it balanced out. He'd found himself a nice easy job to start off with; a bounty collection. Some jerk who'd crossed someone important in a place called Liechtenstein, wherever the hell that was.

Of course, now he knew where it was. And since then, he'd done over a dozen jobs, most of them successful. His one minor slip had seen him shot in the leg, but he really hadn't been expecting a twelve year old girl to be packing heat. How was he to have known that in Switzerland, everybody had guns? It was like America, only without the fast food and gaudy neon signs. Which was a shame, because he liked gaudy neon signs.

His slip up had landed him in hospital for two weeks, but the Swiss made great doctors, and great chocolate, and he'd taken advantage of both whilst laid up in a hospital bed. After he'd recovered, he discovered some other merc had made good on the contract, so he'd taught the guy a lesson by carving his initials into the man's chest, and he was confident that said merc wouldn't go taking any more jobs that Wade had expressed an interest in.

He heard footsteps approach before he saw the shadows on the ground, and looked up from his deckchair into two familiar, and rather unwelcome, faces. Instead of panicking, he sipped his mojito calmly, and took off his sunglasses.

"Zee. Vicky. What brings you to Spain?"

As he spoke, his slipped his left hand down, his fingertips brushing over the hilt of one of his katanas. Zero spoke, probably because Victor was still trying to think of a witty comeback. Creed wasn't the fastest thinker in the world.

"You do, Wilson."

"How'd you find me?" He'd been very careful about covering his tracks. Nobody even knew he was on vacation here, unless… Jefferson! That dirty snitch. If he'd talked, he'd pay for it. Unless he'd already paid for it, in which case, it didn't particularly matter.

"The government likes to keep tabs on all of its investments."

"Former investments, you mean?"

"Well," said Zero, "that's just it. Stryker wants to talk to you. He has an offer that he thinks you'll like."

"He knows where I am. If it's that good an offer, tell him to come himself, instead of sending his lap-dogs"

Zero sighed, but it was more a sigh of impatience than of regret. "That's not how it works. Now, I'd ask if you're going to come quietly, but… well… it's you."

Wade put down his mojito as his left hand closed around his sword, and he picked up his second sword as he slid from the chair and into a relaxed ready-stance. Never leave home without your weapons. His own personal motto. Zero's hand was on his gun holster, but Wade wasn't concerned; Zero was good, but he was better. And as for Victor… well, it was time to find out how many body parts you could lop off Creed before he finally died.

He gripped his swords more tightly and took a step back, which prompted Victor to move forwards, then he smiled.

"Should we dance?"

o - o - o - o - o

Location: Three Mile Island

Pennsylvania

15:00 HRS

Stryker looked down at the cold metal table. The man who lay strapped down upon it was pale and still, his face sporting painful black and purple bruises. Other than that which was sub-dermal, there was very little bleeding, which was a surprise. Victor liked blood.

He heard the lab door open, and two pairs of feet approached, joining him in his assessment of what had been dubbed Weapon XI. Eleven, because the first nine had been failures, and the tenth had not yet been created. Weapon X would be a trial run, to ensure the bonding process would work. But that would come later.

"Is this him?" one of the newcomers asked, as he examined the man on the table. Dressed in a long white lab-coat, Doctor Killbrew was fairly new to the program, but he was claimed to be the best at what he did.

"That's right," Stryker replied.

Killbrew glanced at Weapon XI's face, then at the X-Ray slides suspended in front of the light machine. "My god, what did you do to him?"

Agent Zero answered. He and Victor were standing at the foot of the table, watching over their catch as a precautionary measure.

"He declined our offer to come quietly, so Victor had to soften him up a little before I could tranq him."

Victor smiled, and cracked his knuckles loudly. He was growing more and more violent by the day, but he was a useful tool and he'd proven surprisingly loyal… for the right price. Quite the opposite of his brother, who was one of the few men Stryker had known who couldn't be bought for any price.

"Soften him up?" Killbrew asked. "Dislocated jaw, broken cheekbone, three fractured ribs and extensive bruising."

"Zero, Victor, you're dismissed for now," Stryker said. They'd done well to capture their prey alive; Killbrew was being unnecessarily harsh in his judgements. But then, he wasn't used to dealing with mutants on a daily basis.

Both remaining members of Team X left the room. Before Stryker could open his mouth, Killbrew spoke again.

"Colonel, the subject is heavily sedated and suffering from multiple bone fractures. Is it really necessary to keep him strapped down, too?"

"I've learnt that it's best to err on the side of caution, where mutants are concerned," he replied coldly. He hoped Killbrew wasn't going to turn out to be one of those bleeding-heart liberals. "And yes, anybody who needs to be put down by Victor Creed should be kept sedated, bound, and secured in a containment cell at all times."

"Hmph. If you insist."

"Trust me, Doctor, you won't want to be around if Wade Wilson ever breaks free. Now, why don't you tell me how you're going to proceed?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Killbrew settled into the 'patient lecturer mode' that all scientists possessed, and Stryker tried to look interested in what the man said. In truth, he couldn't care less what Killbrew did to Wilson, as long as Weapon XI was a success. There had been too many failures in the Weapon X program, or so his superiors in Washington felt. They hadn't been pleased at all when Team X had been almost entirely disbanded. "The upgrades to the subject will be made incrementally, by inserting the mutated base-code from various mutants into the genetic sequence of Weapon XI's own stem cells.

"This process will involve two steps. The first step will be to effectively neutralise the subject's immune system, using chemical suppressants, to prevent immune cells from attacking the stem cells when we return them to the body. Once that's been done, stage two involves injecting the altered stem cells directly into Weapon XI's bone marrow. We'll have to drill into the iliac crest, both to initially harvest the stem cells, and later re-introduce them. To ensure swift uptake of the new genetic coding, we will subject Weapon XI to extreme physical stress… most likely blunt-force trauma. Or we may just irradiate his body, and see which method works best. Each new power we imbue him with will have to be done separately, to decrease the chances of rejection."

"Very good. I look forward to seeing the preliminary results. But before we can even think about using him in the field, we have to find a way to control him." That's what this was all about. One mutant under his control, to help control all the other mutants. There was no mutant powerful enough to stand up against other mutants, and certainly no mutant who would be willing to surrender his free will and become an unquestioning weapon of the US government. So, Stryker was going to make one. The perfect tool for controlling the rising mutant threat. "I doubt he'll be willing to volunteer his services, once we're through with him."

"Actually, I have an idea regarding that. As you know, I've been reviewing all of the Team X history files, and I'd like to make a suggestion. Actually, an improvement on one of Doctor Cornelius' ideas."

"I'm listening."

"Doctor Cornelius has suggested we implant Weapon XI with a computer processor, to control his actions. I believe the need for such cybernetics would be greatly reduced if we could somehow find a way of controlling him via genetics, specifically, a mutant power."

"Go on."

"I'm aware that one of your former team members, one Christopher Bradley, was able to manipulate electrical fields and even computers using his mutant ability." He waited for a nod of confirmation before continuing. "If we could introduce that particular ability to Weapon XI's genetic structure, we might find a way to tap into it, and control him by a similar means."

"Can that even be done?"

"I believe so. Weapon XI would still require some technological augmentation, of course, but with Bradley's ability to manipulate, we could leave most of Weapon XI's brain intact."

"Alright, you've got my interest. What do you need?" asked Stryker.

"A fresh sample of Bradley's genetic material."

"Does Bradley need to be dead, or alive for that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Sure. If you need him alive, I'll send Zero. Otherwise, I'll send Victor."

Killbrew shrugged. "A sample is all I need. The state of the subject isn't important."

"Then I'll tell Creed I have a new task for him."

"There's no hurry. It's probably going to be a couple of years, yet, before we're ready for that upgrade."

"Also," said Cornelius, speaking up for the first time, "we'll first need to get our hands on a particular type of micro-processor, if we are to create some sort of neural interface."

Stryker fought back a sigh. There was always something else. "And where do you suggest we get that particular piece of equipment?"

Cornelius shrugged. "I hear the Russians have been doing some excellent things with cybernetics."

"Very well. I'll send Agent Zero to retrieve it. In the interests of national security, of course."

"Of course," Cornelius smiled. The doctor knew, by now, how the game was played. You could do anything in the name of national security, and the patriotic, God-fearing public never questioned it.

"I'll leave the both of you to your research," he said. "I have to return to Bunker Five, and co-ordinate the locating of more of the mutants you've expressed an interest in working with. Keep me apprised."

"Yes, sir," said Cornelius, and Killbrew nodded in agreement.

As Stryker left the room, he heard the two quietly discussing the pros and cons of using radiation or trauma to trigger stem-cell uptake in Wilson's body. Then the door closed behind him, and their voices faded entirely. He returned briefly to his office here, to issue orders to the last remaining members of Team X, then took a single briefcase and made for the island's small dock, where a nondescript boat was waiting to take him back to the mainland.

This was an exciting time for the Weapon X project. Funding had been approved, Wilson had been captured alive, and soon his team of scientists would be able to start harvesting the powers of strong mutants to be combined within Weapon XI. His superiors in Washington thought it would end there, that this was about creating the perfect soldier to be used in open warfare. Which, in a way, it was. But now, the enemy wasn't Russia, or Cuba, or any of those back-water communist countries, but mutants. It wasn't just the American way of life that was at stake, but the human way of life.

Doctors Killbrew and Cornelius had enough to be getting on with, for now. Not only did they already have Wilson, but their first powerful mutant to run DNA experiments on. Jason was on Three Mile Island, held in cryogenic stasis in one of the underground storerooms. The ability to project images into the minds of others would be a convenient tool in Weapon XI's arsenal, though Cornelius wasn't sure it would work. Something about brain receptors in Jason's mind being unique from birth. But that didn't matter. If mind-control couldn't be programmed into Weapon XI, there were still dozens of other powers that could be used, and didn't rely on brain-receptors to activate.

Yes, this was progress. It was his dream that, one day, humans and mutants could live together in peace. It was just a shame that mutants would have to live in servitude to humans… but they couldn't be trusted otherwise. Jason had proved that, and it was the most painful lesson Stryker had ever endured. He knew, now, that freedom came at a price. And this was a price worth paying.

- The End -

Wade's Note: Aww, we've reached the end of the story. Hope you enjoyed reading about some guys who aren't me. And now, for something different, it's time for a Wade Wilson/Deadpool/Weapon XI sequel, yay! I just know you're all dying to find out what happens to me after that whole Three Mile Island thing, right? I mean, I got decapitated and had a big concrete tower fall on me. I couldn't possibly come out of that still standing… right? Right? Well, tune in next week to find out!

What? Oh. The author tells me my sequel isn't ready yet. Apparently, you readers didn't send enough beer to fuel the writing process. So! Next week you're getting a little one-shot story about some pansy angel dude called Castiel, which was supposed to be published ten weeks ago (before the author realised I am more awesome than angels). And then after that you're getting a short story from a brand new category! Or, well, in this case, a very old category. Something called Covington Cross, which was a TV show back in the early 90s (are any of you old enough to remember that far back?) that lasted for 13 episodes before the simpletons at the network cancelled it. Aaand because the author says I won't get my sequel unless I plug this other stuff, here's why you should definitely read the Covington Cross tale (in twenty words or less):

Mystery! Intrigue! Love! Deceit! Sword fights! Horses! Medieval babes! Knights in (somewhat) shining armour!

Also, the author promises you don't have to have watched Covington Cross to get the gist of what's going on, as you'll be eased into the characters (you might also want to go watch Covington Cross on youtube, because it's loads of cheesy medieval fun, hint hint). Now, that fulfils my required amount of plugging. Go, do your stuff, read some things, write some things, send more beer, and come back in, oh, five or six weeks for my sequel yay!

-_o