***
A blow to the head has a remarkably beneficial effect on one's thinking. Like that old joke about the Russian ntality: Can't get moving until soone gives you a kick. Apparently I needed exactly that kind of "kick" — to stop moping around, stop brooding, and just go to Xavier.
Charles took one look at my scowling face and didn't ask any of the stupid, superfluous questions — things like "are you sure?" or "you certain?" or "how do you know?" or "did you happen to hit your head?" He simply walked with to Cerebro.
And that, really, was all there was to it.
Yes. Just like that, without any great heroics, the World Nuclear War ended before it had even begun. And when I got back, I would have given Suo a piece of my mind! Every last piece! I had so much to say!… if I were the kind of person who said things.
What actually happened was one very long, very expressive look. After which my wife dropped her eyes, went slightly pink… and spent a week being absolutely silky. She even stood at the stove herself — sothing she had never in her life been known to do — fried potatoes, cooked up a pot of borscht, made okroshka. And the tenderness in bed! Absolute heaven.
The dog knows whose at it ate.
True, after a week so new global nace started threatening our Dinsion, and my Darling swept off to her heroic world-saving business. But what can you do — that's her job. No one else is going to do it for her.
My job was in the Union. And I did it.
Everything, in short, returned to how it had been.
***
In '75, I missed the Dragon Battle — there was no ti for it. We were hosting the first All-Union Championship in Jeet Kune Do. Which left absolutely no ti or energy for anything frivolous. An hour's sleep would have been a luxury. It was the first Championship I had ever seen from the inside — not as a participant, but as an organizer. And I will say: I have no desire to repeat that experience. On the other hand, my respect for the Red Dragons grew imasurably. My event covered only the Union; theirs covered the entire Planet — including, not least, its various "hidden" parts. I will never again call them "lizards" with contempt. When our Championship concluded, I took the ti to write and send them a letter expressing my appreciation and respect. To my own surprise, I received a reply: a handwritten letter in a wax-sealed envelope, just like the one I had sent them.
It thanked for the warm words, inquired about my plans for the next Battle — and delicately suggested I might consider joining their ranks, citing "my authority and organizational experience in conducting events of this kind."
I had to decline politely, citing how occupied I already was with affairs in the Union. As for the next Battle — well, the '80 Olympics were planned for Moscow that year, so… they understood perfectly, I was sure.
They replied: yes, they understood. But they would very much enjoy seeing my Pupil in their Arena and in future Battles.
Exactly that — not "pupils," but "Pupil." And among my personal students… only Bruce and Taskmaster. Cap had gone back to the States. Nicole was buried in SHIELD, perpetually swamped with business. Logan… was a layabout who treated the martial arts with complete indifference, and had never technically been one of my pupils at all.
Bruce… Bruce was "clean." The Dragon Battle wasn't for him. His Path was the Path of developing Martial Arts — bloodless, clean, competitive, made accessible to the public. He liked to teach and to learn. There was no wild warrior's ferocity in him.
Besides, he wasn't a "super." Even with the Serum's capabilities — which he had, at this point, reached the maximum of — he still wasn't one. I wouldn't put him up against a sorcerer, a vampire, or a mutant. It wasn't that I doubted he could manage, but…
Taskmaster was not my pupil in any full sense of the word. He had made himself. The fact that he trained with ant nothing in terms of him recognizing himself as my student. He was very much his own man.
So it ca about that the Red Dragons' wish had left genuinely stumped. And it made think seriously.
***
In '78, as I've already ntioned, the World War didn't happen.
In '79, Gina ca again, and Charles and I readjusted the block on her gift — the old one was no longer holding up.
In early '80, Logan ran into so serious criminal outfit in New York.
Logan's a tough man. Prefers to operate alone. Usually. But this ti, sothing had gone differently. Maybe he was sober — hypothetically speaking, of course, but if you put down a crate of whiskey in one sitting, even soone like him will feel it. Briefly, granted — but you can always go back for seconds. Which Howlett typically does… right before his sense of justice wakes up and he lands himself in his next adventure.
I don't judge him for it. Everyone manages their century however they can — especially a long one like the two of us have. I can't stay in one place too long myself without the boredom starting to gnaw at until I'd sooner hang myself. But I have my outlets: the Arena, Suo, and my studies. Logan has a cigar, whiskey, and a war, or a brawl with so mob or another.
I've never been able to figure out, by the way, whether they find him constantly or he finds them. The mont he leaves Xavier's estate for a vacation sowhere — and he is, for the record, officially employed by Charles with an actual salary, days off, and paid leave — not three days pass before he's cutting into soone.
I understand now how his original Sabretooth always managed to track him down: what is there even to track? There's a permanent trail behind him. A bloody one. If Charles weren't covering for him, he'd have been behind bars long ago.
This ti, though, Howlett was sober. Clean-shaved. Neatly trimd. Even had an actual manicure on his hands, rather than his usual thod of biting the nails off. And — also against his usual habits — he called instead of charging headlong into dealing out goodness and dispensing justice alone.
How could I not respond to that? Curiosity would have eaten alive.
I arrived about five minutes after the call — I'd needed to change clothes, having been pulled off the mat to the phone mid-training. When I got there, I found Logan exactly as described: sober, shaved, trimd. But covered in blood, with his clothing full of bullet holes.
"Victor," he said, and gave a nod.
"Jas," I said, and nodded back.
"Talk," I said.
"Money," he said.
"How much?" I asked.
"Three hundred thousand," he said, setting his jaw.
"Here," I said, wrote the check, and handed it to him.
"Thanks," he said, took the check, walked over to so man in a suit, handed it to him. The man nodded, got into a car — an expensive-looking one — and drove off. Logan ca back.
After that we went to the nearest bar, where over a glass of whiskey Jas shared the details of his current adventure.
The short version: he'd fallen in love.
He'd t a girl coming out of a museum, and it had hit him like a hamr between the eyes. Well — I can understand that. Sothing similar had happened to with Suo. Not exactly the sa, granted — in my case the hamring had started before I'd even t her — but I can understand the feeling.
Logan stood there like a post for about three minutes, then set off after the girl. Never mind that she'd already been gone for two minutes, having driven off in a sleek black car with tinted windows. He tracked her. By scent.
That, too, I believe without question — I can do the sa.
He found out where she was staying — turned out to be a rather expensive hotel. He stopped, scratched his head, caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window's reflection… and went to shake loose so savings. He had so put aside, in spite of his generally marginal and irresponsible way of life.
He quit drinking. Went to a barber. Threw out his cigars. Went to a boutique. Got himself dressed properly, rented a fine car, rented a fine yacht — and went to introduce himself.
He caught her at a contemporary art exhibition, invited her for a date… and things took off from there. Howlett, when he puts his mind to it, can be genuinely charming and distinguished. The girl didn't stand a chance.
And so that evening, the two of them were out on the yacht together, enjoying each other's company, admiring the night lights of the Big Apple — when out of the water launched a group of thugs in flippers, with jet packs, wings, sealed helts, and futuristic-looking automatic pistols.
They shot the yacht full of holes. Shot Logan full of bullets. While they were reloading, Logan jumped and cut all three of them into ribbons. Then fell into the water. And with his adamantium skeleton, he swims like a thrown axe.
Long story short: by the ti he'd dragged himself out, by the ti he'd climbed back onto the yacht — there was no trace of the girl. Going by the tracks and the scents, three more flippers-wearing individuals had boarded from the far side of the yacht and taken Mariko — that was her na — back down into the water with them.
And in the water, neither of us can follow a trail.
The money — Logan needed it to pay for the damaged yacht. He promised to repay .
I listened to Jas all the way through, then asked the bartender for the phone. He pulled a battered rotary dial from under the counter and slid it across to .
The first call I made was to Howard Stark. Got Nicole's number from him. Then called her directly. Gave her the bar's address, the girl's na, the na of the hotel she'd been staying in, and asked her to look into it.
***
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