Characters are the property of Marvel, I make nothing from this, etc. This is set in the main MU in spring of 2012, prior to the events of UXF #24. A special thanks to Karl for all his help in proof-reading this story.

Prologue: The Desert in Spring

TWOKK

The dagger hit just to the left of the intended target yet again. Scheisse!

I need to compensate more for the wind this high up, he thought. Let's try again. Kurt ambled towards the wooden board roughly cut into the shape of a man. His distinctive rolling gait, necessitated by his unusal feet, slowed as he paused briefly to look out over the late afternoon desert. Tail swishing lazily in the heat- laden air, he pondered the landscape, as always looking for changes and mentally marking defensive positions for when the need arose. Logan's assurances aside regarding the isolation and safety of this location, Kurt still felt like the proverbial sitting duck out here in such a barren, open environment.

He supposed, if he were inclined towards caring about such things any longer, the panoramic scene before him would be considered "pretty". The sky was pale blue and cloudless with a clarity not seen in his own world for more years than he cared to remember. Fading sunlight lit the desert floor and surrounding mesas in stunning tones of red and orange - something that might look hellish but for the signs of tenacious life dotting the landscape. Patches of sagebrush here, a lone cactus there - it broke the monotony of red in the shimmering heat. A small cloud of dust marked the zig-zagging path of a desert hare, and Kurt's pointed ears picked up the high screech of a bird of prey overhead just before he saw it dive with folded wings after its would-be dinner.

He took a deep breath of the dry air and held it briefly in his lungs before exhaling. That much, anyway, he liked of this world; he could breathe without the stench of death and decay coating the back of his throat. He could certainly do without this heat though. Dark indigo-colored fur made daytime excursions a fair misery. If it was this hot in April, he shuddered to think what it would be over the summer months.

Kurt reached out and yanked the knife from the plywood, sweat trickling from under his arms, down his sides. The white, sleeveless undershirt he wore in lieu of anything heavier, was long soaked. He irritably wiped the sweat from his eyes. Ach! Diese schreckliche Hitze, he muttered.

He also wasn't best pleased with the dust that puffed up at every step he took, coating his bare feet and lower legs exposed by the short pants he was wearing. He thought it made him look like an unkempt rug.

Returning to his original position, he noted the wind direction and modified his throw slightly. He curled his lip back in an unconcious half snarl, and narrowing his eyes, imagined another face in place of the blank target dummy. This time, he had the satisfaction of a perfectly executed hit.

Gott, but he was bored.

The mesa where he'd chosen to hone his skills sat near X-Force's base. It was not the tallest in the area, but it provided the best unobstructed view for several miles. Better still, it offered him the chance to be away from the sometimes stifling presence of his temporary teammates. It did little, however, to ease the boredom, or his increasing frustration at feeling cooped up. Kurt retrieved the dagger again, sighing grumpily before he disappeared in his trademark brimstone-smelling cloud to reappear in the artifically cooled interior of Cavern X.

"What a silly name for a base," he muttered. He was amused that no one had decided to paint a large "X" on the topside of the cavern - they certainly decorated everything else in that fashion around here. Team spirit was one thing, but really, these people took it to extremes.

He listened for signs of the others as he went first into the kitchen for a cool drink, then on to his room to shower. In the hallway, he heard sounds of a television in the distance - Wade probably. That imbecile spent the majority of his down time parked in the team's living area in front of the TV, stuffing his misshapen face.

Perhaps that is part of my problem, Kurt mused. It has been so long since I have had "down time" I no longer remember what to do with myself.

His own world was certainly not one that encouraged relaxation. Every minute of recent years had been about survival, it seemed. Fighting, planning, scraping the already stretched resources of a post-apocalyptic world, just to ensure another week of survival - his days there had been full to overflowing. It was difficult for him to adjust to the change here, he found. He wondered what it said about him, that he seemed do better with struggle and hardship over just living.

Kurt heard nothing else on his route, which was not entirely surprising. It was unlikely for Betsy to be present here; her recent personal problems and other obligations kept her away except when necessary. He preferred her absence. Even as familiar as he was in working with Jean back home, the presence of a stranger capable of seeing into his mind was not an altogether comfortable thought. Jean-Phillipe tended to stay on his own. The only wild card was Logan - this world's Weapon X. Nein, Kurt thought, this world's Wolverine.

It was difficult to separate in his mind at times, though this Logan had shown himself to be at least somewhat honorable in Otherworld - even if Kurt had to shame him into action. Still, he sometimes struggled to control the urge to lash out with a blade if the man caught him unawares.

More disturbing, however, was the close friendship the man had apparently had with Kurt's dead dopplegänger. Not even when the Logan of his own world was with the X-Men did Kurt have anything more than a working relationship with him. Truth told, he'd found him egocentric and difficult to tolerate even at the best of times.

The best he is at what he does, indeed. Kurt snorted.

This man, who wore the face of a mass murderer back home, and lead a team of assassins here, looked on Kurt - at least at times - with a kind of sad expectation, as if he were willing some aspect of his lost friend to suddenly appear. It was maddening, and it seemed the scenario was repeated for every person Kurt met who had known Wagner. He was growing to resent it more each time it happened. He detested being seen only as who he was not, rather than who he was.

Well, there had been one exception to that oft-repeated theme. He certainly hadn't minded the lovely Megan looking on him with those dewy calf eyes. Entzückend. Kurt smiled at the memory. Pity the woman was so attached to her thick-necked lout of a husband. How typical. He wondered just how much Wagner had enjoyed those feelings the she'd mentioned from the past, then shook his head with a smirk. From what he'd heard about his dopplegänger, the man had probably been too noble for such a thing.

Having tossed his dusty, sweat-drenched clothes in the corner, Kurt stepped into the shower. He held his head under the spray for a long time in an attempt to clear the headache that always seemed to start forming as soon as he was back in this verdammt base. He had to get out of here for awhile.

It wasn't that he hadn't explored the surrounding area - he had. His team leader had been thoughtful enough to procure a little device for Kurt that cast an illusion around his appearance. An "image inducer" was what Logan called it. To Kurt, it was simply a useful toy that allowed him to remain unobtrusive in this world. It did, however, rankle that he had to use it. Thoughts of keeping his presence here a secret aside, in his own world, humans were the minority and mutants the dominant beings, not like here, where they seemed on the endangered species list. Ach, well, he had no plans on being around that long, and the device did allow for him to be in public without the nuisance of a probable altercation looming on the horizon. Said altercations tended to put a damper on his preferred recreational activities.

He'd even found a particular establishment that suited his tastes; though the beer was weak it was drinkable, and the perhaps dubious charms of the ladies who frequented it were tolerable given the strategic lighting. What more did a man need for a few hours of distraction?

He toweled off and dressed, his mind on the planned nocturnal excursion. He very nearly had made good his escape when there was a knock at the door.

Of all the verflucht luck, Kurt thought, as he opened the door and saw Logan.

The short, stocky man eyed him from under the brim of his hat, then almost seemed to offer a smile.

"Headed out fer the evenin' El...Kurt? Stopped by to ask if you wanted to go for some beers. This place gets to me after awhile, don't know about you," he added. "Figured you might be needin' some breathin' room."

Kurt looked at Logan, deliberately making his face devoid of expression. That particular unreadable look actually made him resemble his mother even more than usual, though he didn't realize it.

"Ja, I suppose I was on my way out." He gave himself some credit for at least trying to hide the irritation in his voice.

"Well if you ain't particular, I know a good spot close by. Come on, I'm buyin'". Logan turned and started walking, apparently expecting Kurt to follow.

Feeling like he had little choice - the man was his host here after all - Kurt nodded once, less than enthusiastically, and closed his bedroom door behind him. He followed Logan to the makeshift garage of the complex where Logan moved to get into a battered, yellow pick-up truck, rather than the more modern sedan. Kurt groaned inwardly. The thing was sure to be a smelly rattle-trap that went at a snail's pace. This is getting better by the moment. He frowned. Perhaps staying at the base and listening to Wade argue with himself (and lose) would be preferable. But, mustering his resolve, he climbed into the truck and perched himself on the cracked vinyl seat.

The attempted small talk on the drive into town was predictably strained.

"Reckon things are pretty different here than back home, ain't they?" Logan looked over at Kurt, one arm hanging out of the truck window and his other hand on the steering wheel.

Thinking of the mountains of corpses that lined the streets and the sentinel patrols filling the skies, Kurt nodded. "Ja, it's different." The man certainly had a talent for understatement.

"Suppose it's a relief, you know, bein' out of that mess."

"That mess you are referring to is my home." Kurt replied, without turning his attention from the view passing by outside.

Logan lit a cigar, and said nothing further until they arrived.

By the time they arrived at a very questionable-looking bar, Kurt was already trying to think of ways to cut the evening short. It didn't help that the other man seemed even moodier than his normal less-than-sunny self. Hardly the demeanor of someone wanting a night on the town, Kurt mused. He wondered, not for the first time since they'd left, just what this was about. Perhaps it's team business under the guise of socialization. That must be it.

In the time he'd been in this world, Logan hadn't gone out of his way to seek Kurt's company since those first snarky assertions regarding who he was not. In fact, the man had pointedly seemed to try and avoid him, except when it was related to X-Force business. That had suited Kurt just fine. None of these people were his friends, they were simply temporary associates, and a means to an end.

"Well, this is the place." Wolverine hooked a thumb in the direction of the building's front awning. "Ain't much on the outside, but they don't water the beer. C'mon, neither of us are gettin' any younger."

Logan exited the truck, slamming the door with a resounding clang. Kurt sighed and fished the image inducer from his pocket. He used the tip of one pointed fingernail to adjust the settings to what he wanted, then followed the man into the bar. The stink of stale beer and the twang of Hank Williams on the jukebox assaulted him as he entered.

He followed X-Force's team leader to a booth in the corner, where a harried looking waitress was already arriving with a pitcher of beer and two glassses. She smiled familiarly at Logan and yelled over the din, "Holler when you want more, Hon."

Kurt curled into the bench seat opposite and tried to find a comfortable position. He much preferred barstools and the freedom of motion they offered for his tail.

Neither man said anything as they drank the first round, and "Vera", as the waitress's name tag declared in bold letters, brought the second, including a bottle of whiskey and two shooter glasses.

"What, no movie stars?", Logan finally queried over the rim of his glass, starting round three by then.

Kurt was jostled from his thoughts on how best to extricate himself from this miserable experience of attempted male-bonding.

"Hmm, what?"

"I said, no movie stars?" Logan looked at him with wry amusement.

"Yer image inducer. You just made yerself look like any average Joe. You could look like - hell, I don't know - some Hollywood hotshot or somethin'. Give the broads here a thrill."

Kurt looked around at the available "broads" in question and quickly decided that he had no wish to give any of them a thrill. He took a swallow of beer and said as much. Chuckling, Logan shook his head, and drained another glass, followed closely by two consecutive shots of whiskey.

Gott, but that man could drink! Kurt hoped that he, himself, wasn't intended to be the "designated driver". Logan had been right that the beer wasn't watered, and Kurt could feel the alcohol warming his blood.

"Yeah, ain't no real lookers in here. But hell, the Kurt I knew woulda been yackin' it up just the same, makin' 'em think they were lookers." By this time, the older man's voice had started to slur a bit.

"I swear he could've had any woman eatin' out of the palm of his furry blue hand. Old and used up like these here, or some babe lookin' like she stepped out of a magazine." Logan chuckled again and took another duo of shots before washing it down with more beer. "Used to get numbers thrown at him on napkins."

"And funny - hell he could make a rock laugh. Had me snortin' beer out of my nose more'n half the time when we went out partyin' ", a drunken Logan continued along the same vein.

Kurt looked at Logan coldly, lip curled back in a mocking smile. The other man was oblivious in his intoxication to the contempt directed his way. This was another attempt at Logan recapturing his dead friend. Kurt should have known. He debated on just teleporting out on the spot, leaving the man to wallow in drunken remembrance. Kurt watched him narrowly, tapping his thick nails on the grungy table before heaving a disgusted sigh and pouring himself more lager. Fine. Let him ramble on. It was just one night. At least now he knew not to fall for this particular ruse. And perhaps, Kurt thought, he would learn something about this dead twin that might be beneficial at some point. He smiled thinly with that thought. Logan smiled back, apparently believing Kurt's expression had to do with what he'd been saying. That was amusing, as he'd stopped listening some time ago, somewhere between the time his counterpart had bolted the bedroom furniture of someone called "Scott" to the ceiling as an elaborate joke (poorly received) and the more recent "war of pranks" in Europe. (He wondered if the Petey referred to was the same morose lump he'd seen a photo of at the base.)

So, the night proceeded at the pace of a drunken tortoise, and Kurt learned more about his dopplegänger than he'd ever expected (or wanted) to know. He politely interjected the occassional "Nicht wahr?" at appropriate intervals and mentally filed away what he was hearing. After enough alcohol was consumed, he even found some of the stories entertaining. Others, he found downright appalling. The man had once studied to be a priest? Kurt thought with horror. And he had been a circus performer? Scheisse! Had he no self-respect? How could two genetically identical men be so different?

One thing was certain, Kurt was coming to at least see the reason behind Wagner's popularity and the devotion of his friends. The man had made himself endearing, albeit clownishly at times. And he was either the next best thing to a saint, or he had been so consumed with the need to be liked that he'd woven an amazing facade of the "understanding friend" around himself, ensuring those closest would only see the best of him. Kurt tended to believe the latter. He also found himself quite glad that he had no such compulsion.

Finally, the bar closed for the night. They were the last patrons to leave. Kurt half-dragged an excessively drunken Logan to the truck and dumped him unceremoniously onto the rusted truckbed for the drive home. Feeling none too sober himself, though he'd long since chosen to voluntarily dilute his own drinks, Kurt took the drive very slowly, letting the cool night air wash over his face from the open window. He could hear the discordant (and frankly disturbing) sound of Logan singing, "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts", from the rear of the truck.

Arriving without major mishap - the rather large cactus stuck to the front grill didn't count, Kurt surmised, as it had caused no structural damage to the vehicle - he killed the ignition and got out, peering at the now snoring man in back who wore the face of a hated mass murderer. Sighing, he hefted the dead weight (Mein Gott he was heavy!), and teleported his passenger inside to the couch, laying him down. Then, with relief, he took himself to the welcome darkness and quiet of his own bedroom.

Logan awoke in the blackest hours of pre-dawn, a foul taste of stale beer in his mouth and his eyes still blurry from this latest binge. He ran his hand roughly back through shaggy hair, and grunting, got up to retreat to his room with thoughts no less dark than they'd been earlier today.

Damn stupid flamin' idea, draggin' Darkholme along. Bet he had a hell of a time. As if he didn't already bitch enough, now I dump a load of horseshit drunk ramblin' off on him, Logan thought. He wished he could remember what all had been said. Nothin' for it now I s'pose.

Still, he knew why he'd sought the other man out. Today, Logan had just wanted - needed - to see his friend's face; hear his voice. Even if it wasn't the real deal.

He closed the door to his room, switching on the lamp that sat on a small table on the far side. He dug around in his pocket for a lighter and lit the stick of sweet smelling incense in an ornate Japanese burner. The subdued lamp-light shone on a series of small framed photos lined up neatly on a silk cloth. Mariko. Jean. Kurt. He picked up the last picture and looked at it for a long while before replacing it on the table. Anniverseries. He was good at anniverseries. Today made two years ago that his best friend had died. And no amount of looking for him in someone else's face was going to change that.

Logan switched off the lamp and laid across the bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in memories.

German translations:

Sheisse : "shit"

Ach, diese schreckliche Hitze :"Ach, this tremendous heat"

Entzückend : "enchanting"

Verflucht : "Cursed"

Verdammt : "damned"

Nicht wahr : "not true" or "isn't it so" (Used in context as a phrase similar to "You're kidding?" or "You don't say")