Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never have. Never will...*sigh*
Forge sat at his desk, his head buried in his hands. Just what in the hell was going on here? This had all seemed so clear-cut, so simple just a few scant days earlier...when he had received the priority clearance memo from Major Santrock, asking assistance on a simple question-answer mission. Question-answer mission, his ass...he snorted weak laughter at the thought. Question-answer gigs were just that...a mission to sequester an individual who was believed to be harboring possibly classified information, find out what they know and make a record, then quietly release them to their lives, without knowing who or what it was that had been so interested in the information they had in the first place.
That had all gone rapidly downhill, as soon as Forge entered the black van and saw Santrock...and his tranquilizer gun. And then Logan had identified Forge by his scent...Forge sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. How could he have been so stupid? He knew about Logan's heightened senses, but somehow he had simply forgotten about them, and by the time he remembered, it had been too late. So, now what? Logan knew he was at least partially responsible for this affair...and when he was released, Forge knew Logan wouldn't waste any time coming after him. And what of the others? How could Forge possibly explain to Xavier...and Ororo...his part in this escapade? He knew the answer to that one already...he couldn't. He would never be able to justify this to the X-Men...sometimes he was surprised that he'd been able to justify it to himself.
He could only hope Logan would provide the answers the military wanted so desperately. The brass had been extremely interested in his report, especially those sympathetic to mutant causes...but the report on Logan had been of particular interest to them. It was inevitable, really...what military intelligence wouldn't be interested in a man that could heal himself of nearly any injury? A man whose senses were so hyper-attuned he could identify anyone solely on the basis of their scent? Forge hadn't been too terribly surprised when the memo from Santrock had come down, asking him to join in on this small mission to question Logan more thoroughly. The only surprising thing had been that it came from Santrock himself...an officer that had been under questioning himself for engaging in projects considered...how had they put it?...potentially threatening to the goals of the U.S. military.
He should have looked closer. He should have thought about this a little more...but now, here they were, and he had to decide what to do next. Forge pulled his hands away from his face and looked down at the solitary paper on the desk in front of him, the one bearing the contact numbers for Santrock's superiors. Should he do this? Going over an officer's head was one of the worst insults you could bestow on him, but something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and Forge was beginning to be more and more sure that Santrock wasn't precisely following orders.
Where was Logan now? Most likely still in questioning. Christ...if they had just brought the man along peacefully, he might have answered every question without a hitch...but Forge was certain that Logan was refusing to answer anything they posed at him, and probably peppering them with a healthy dose of profanity to boot. Forge grinned...like it or not, one couldn't help but respect a man with those kinds of cojones.
So, now what? Forge leaned back, drumming his fingers on the desk. What's it gonna be?
With a sigh he leaned forward and plucked the phone off its base. He punched in the numbers off the sheet quickly, then leaned back in the chair again and put the phone to his ear, waiting patiently for it to ring and someone to pick up on the other end.
There was a great deal of soft clicking on the line, then the phone rang once. Someone picked up on the other end, and Forge waited until he heard the faint hum of the answering service come through. "This is Forge, 0699852," he said into the phone, carefully spacing each word and number.
Another long series of clicks, as the system processed this information, then a final click, and a deep, gravelly male voice answered on the other end. "Yes?" it said.
"General Webster?" Forge asked.
"Speaking."
"This is Forge, sir."
The general's voice warmed up considerably. "Forge! How the hell are you, son?"
"I'm fine, sir. Look, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I have a question that needs answering, and I thought you might be able to help me."
"I'll do what I can."
"Great. Do you have access to the response orders for the last week?"
"I do." There was a silence, then Forge could hear the distinctive sound of a keyboard clicking.
"Don't you have a secretary to do that for you, sir?" Forge asked with some amusement.
"I do...but she can't type for shit," Webster laughed. "All right, son...I've got them. What do you need me to find?"
"I need to know the commanding officer that signed off on the Wolverine Project."
"The Wolverine Project?" The general sounded like he was frowning. "Never heard of it, son...but I'll take a look." Forge waited patiently while the general typed away on the keyboard, then..."Sorry, Forge, but there's no record of a project of that name. Can you give me the register number?"
"Sure." Forge picked up the paper on his desk and read off the top. "It's 55600892-A."
There was another pause filled with clicking. "There's nothing with that number either."
Forge frowned. "What? But, there has to be."
"There's nothing. Are you sure you gave me the number right?"
"I'm positive. I..." Forge's frown deepened as an unsettling thought came to him. "General, can you give me the cleared assignment and location of a Major Robert Santrock?"
"Sure." Click-click-click-click-click. "Major Robert Santrock is on a requested six month leave of absence."
Forge's stomach dropped. "You're sure about that?" he asked faintly.
"Positive." There was a pause. "Forge, what's going on? Is something wrong?"
"I...I...no. Um, let me get back to you, General," Forge said. He heard Webster's cautious farewell, and then he hung up the receiver with shaking hands. Was it possible? No...not even Santrock could have...would have...come up with a scheme like this. And why? What purpose could it possibly serve to create...what? A false mission? Was it possible?
Things started falling into place. The secretiveness...Santrock's abrupt change in plans to bring them to this converted missile silo, which just happened to be a fully functioning lab as well. The undue force used to bring Logan in. And why Logan? What could Santrock possibly want with him? Was he a mutant hater? No...that wasn't right, because if he was he certainly wouldn't have specifically requested that Forge join him on this mission. So...what was he up to? What was the answer?
Should he call Webster back? Get his superiors involved? No...that was a bad idea. If this was shaping up to be as bad as he suspected, well...Forge wasn't too keen on bringing in his superiors to let them see how badly he had screwed up. Fix it himself? First, he would have to know what was going on, right?
He stood up, his dark face furrowed in concern, and headed out into the hall outside his makeshift office. Two doors down was Santrock's study...he knocked forcefully on the door, then waited while the sound of booted feet echoed in the office beyond.
The door opened. "Forge," Santrock said evenly.
"We need to talk," Forge said. He pushed past the Major and crossed the room to the desk, insolently rifling through the papers piled there.
"Leave that stuff alone," Santrock said.
Nothing. The papers on the desk were useless work orders and such. "Would you like to tell me what's really going on here, Major?" Forge asked, slinging a sheaf of papers angrily.
"What are you talking about?" Santrock asked, kicking the door shut and coming to stand before Forge with his arms crossed.
"I just got off the phone with General Webster," Forge replied."He checked the classified databases for me...and there's no record anywhere of this project. In fact..." He paused, noting the paling flush spreading over Santrock's face. "You seem to be on an extended leave of absence, from what he told me. Would you like to explain precisely what is going on?"
Santrock didn't say anything for a long moment. He looked down and away...and then before Forge could react, there was a hollow click, and Santrock brought up his .45 sidearm pistol and leveled it with Forge's chest.
"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," Santrock said coldly. Forge couldn't answer...he was too busy staring down the black barrel of the weapon, while Santrock sidled carefully around the desk and pressed a button underneath.
"What are you doing, Santrock?" Forge asked, trying to keep his voice calm. Stupid stupid stupid...why had he come in here unarmed?
"I'm building the perfect army," Santrock replied. "And you're going to help me do it."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Forge asked.
"They wouldn't listen," Santrock said. "Your reports on Logan...they were a gold mine for us...but they just...wouldn't...listen."
"You're a United States soldier!"
"It's not my fault the U.S. government is too short-sighted to give me clearance," Santrock said. The door behind Forge suddenly burst open, and four armed soldiers hurried in, their rifles trained on Forge as carefully as Santrock's pistol.
"What the...?"
"You've become a liability, Forge," Santrock said calmly. He made a motion with his head, and one of the soldiers stepped forward, yanking Forge's arms behind his back and snapping a set of heavy cuffs over his wrists. "I'd kill you now," Santrock added. "But you're still too valuable to me alive."
"This is treason, Santrock," Forge said evenly.
"Only if I lose...and I won't," Santrock replied. "Once the Pentagon sees the information I'll have to give them, they'll be itching for the chance to put my plans in effect."
"What plans?"
"What is the U.S. military's greatest asset?" Santrock asked. "It's manpower...but that same manpower is depleted every time we have to send our boys in. Why? Because they get killed...all that training, all that promise, wasted. What if we could create an elite army of men...soldiers. Soldiers that are impervious to bullets or grenades, soldiers with the regenerative capacity of...well, of your friend Logan."
Forge's eyes narrowed. "You're kidding, right?"
"No."
"This is ridiculous! What are you going to do...clone him?"
"Why not?"
"That's nuts!"
"It's not nuts if it works." Santrock scowled at Forge, then motioned the soldiers again. "Take him to the brig, men."
"You don't even know if this project is viable!" Forge shouted, struggling as the soldiers began to half-lead, half-drag him out the door. "Logan has healing capacity, sure...but you don't know what his system can withstand! This whole project could be a failure from the beginning!"
"True...which is exactly what we're going to find out," Santrock said. He gently released the hammer on his pistol and grinned sardonically. "Experiments, my boy...we'll see just how much pain that Logan can stand...and live."
Forge's eyes widened. "You can't do that!"
"Watch me."
"Let me go, dammit!" Forge snarled, trying to wrest free of the soldiers as they yanked him out into the hall. "Dammit, Santrock! He's a human being.....!"
The soldiers finally succeeded in dragging Forge through the door, and the door slammed shut on Forge's final words. Santrock tossed his pistol on the desk, then picked up his clipboard and made ready to go down the hall to the test chambers. "You're wrong, Forge," he said to himself. "Logan's not a human being...he's a mutant. And therefore...expendable."
He grinned a little, then went to the door and began the short walk down the hall...toward his greater glory and destiny.
*****
Logan opened his eyes groggily. They had drugged him again, giving him probably enough sedation to kill an elephant, but for someone like him the dosage had to be high since his body assimilated the drugs so quickly. He blinked, trying to clear his vision...the hood was gone, and he was slightly chilled, the feel of air on his bare flesh letting him know he'd been stripped of all his clothing.
He was spread-eagled, his wrists and ankles strapped securely to a large wheel of metal that was free-standing in the middle of a bright, sterile laboratory. It looked like a giant dental office crossed with an Inquisition torture chamber. Clean, shiny instruments and various mechanisms hung from the ceiling and walls, positioned on massive hydraulic arms that were poised as if to strike him where he stood.
Where in the fuck was he?
His vision began to rapidly clear...a pair of white-coated laboratory workers were close by, one of them readying some sort of small diagnostic tool, and the other busy making notes on a clipboard. And...Santrock. Logan lifted his head, watching with undisguised hatred as the Major entered from a door to the left and came to stand before him with his hands linked leisurely behind his back.
Santrock didn't make eye contact. "The subject is awake, Smith," he said casually.
The closest scientist...a young man with glasses and an earnest, freckled face...looked up and nodded. "Yes sir...he woke up just moments ago. We're finishing up our tissue samples, then we should be ready to begin the test procedures."
Test procedures...Logan closed his eyes, willing all this to be just a bad nightmare...but when he opened them again the room was still there, and whatever torture awaited him. Oh God...he didn't think he could do this again...
"Good," Santrock said. "I'll be in the booth...let me know when you're ready."
"Yes, sir."
Santrock nodded, gave Logan a last appraising look, then turned on his heel smartly and left the lab chamber.
Ow...something pinched the shit out of his left arm. He looked over to see the Smith kid step back, and a small trickle of blood start down his arm from where the guy had sliced a tiny portion of skin away from his left bicep. "What the fuck are you doin'?" he growled, the small tear healing in seconds.
"Tissue samples, sir," Smith replied without looking up. "We need them to record your DNA sequences."
"Why?"
Smith looked up and smiled condescendingly. "That's classified information, sir."
"Classified my ass! It's my fuckin' DNA!" Logan snapped, but the pair of scientists ignored him and moved away, the second of the pair still scribbling madly on his clipboard. What the fuck was going on here? His claws were useless...he popped them, almost reflexively, but whoever had put him in this contraption had made sure to fasten him in such a way that it was impossible for him to slice himself free. He strained against the restraints holding him, willing them to tear, to break...but nothing happened, and he was left panting harshly and staring around the room like a hunted animal, looking for a way...any way...out of this hell.
The clipboard guy moved to a small workstation on the far side of the lab, putting aside his clipboard and seating himself at a computer screen. Soon the relentless sound of his pen was replaced by his incessant typing. Smith, however, went to a high control panel and pressed an intercom button.
"Ready when you are, sir," he said.
Santrock's voice crackled back. "Good. Start with the basic injury program."
"I thought you would prefer to start with the exosystem program," Smith ventured. "Don't you think the B.I. program is too invasive to begin with, sir?"
"No...if he can't withstand basic injury, then this whole experiement is pointless. Queue up the B.I."
"Yes, sir."
Logan steeled himself, his face an etching of tight lines as Smith manipulated a few buttons, sending a piece of equipment over Logan's head to whirring. Metal clanged hollowly, then a giant apparatus began a quick descent to the floor, humming into position in front of Logan. It looked perversely like the barrel of a machine gun, welded into the body of a mechanized firing ensemble.
Smith and the other scientist had put on ear guards. Logan flicked a glance at them, then back at the machine, a trickle of sweat starting on his forehead.
"Open fire," Smith said calmly.
The machine roared to life, filling the air and reverberating off the walls with its thundering staccato...Logan's body jerking like an obscene puppet as his body was riddled with bullets. He couldn't scream if he wanted to...there was no air to scream with...and then as suddenly as it had started the noise stopped and silence fell, silence except for the softest sound of his blood pattering down on the sterile tile floor beneath his feet.
White-hot pain...there were hands on his chest, on his neck, and steadily the pain decreased as one by one the wounds healed themselves, just as they always did. Smith was beside him, clinical detachment on his face as he checked Logan's pulse, then inspected the still-bloody patches of healthy skin...where nothing but gaping holes should have been. Logan closed his eyes, concentrating on the pain...remember the pain, he told himself. The pain means you're still alive...
"What's the verdict, Smith?" Santrock asked over the intercom.
"Perfectly healed...vital signs increased but stable," Smith replied.
"Good...that was the easy part," Santrock said. "Start phase two."
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