Chapter 61
***
A blow to the head has a remarkably beneficial effect on one's thinking. Like that old joke about the Russian mentality: Can't get moving until someone 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 me 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 — something she had never in her life been known to do — fried me potatoes, cooked up a pot of borscht, made okroshka. And the tenderness in bed! Absolute heaven.
The dog knows whose meat it ate.
True, after a week some new global menace started threatening our Dimension, 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 time for it. We were hosting the first All-Union Championship in Jeet Kune Do. Which left absolutely no time 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 immeasurably. 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 time 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 me 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 me meant nothing in terms of him recognizing himself as my student. He was very much his own man.
So it came about that the Red Dragons' wish had left me genuinely stumped. And it made me think seriously.
***
In '78, as I've already mentioned, the World War didn't happen.
In '79, Gina came 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 some serious criminal outfit in New York.
Logan's a tough man. Prefers to operate alone. Usually. But this time, something had gone differently. Maybe he was sober — hypothetically speaking, of course, but if you put down a crate of whiskey in one sitting, even someone 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 me 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 some mob or another.
I've never been able to figure out, by the way, whether they find him constantly or he finds them. The moment he leaves Xavier's estate for a vacation somewhere — 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 someone.
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 time, though, Howlett was sober. Clean-shaved. Neatly trimmed. Even had an actual manicure on his hands, rather than his usual method of biting the nails off. And — also against his usual habits — he called me instead of charging headlong into dealing out goodness and dispensing justice alone.
How could I not respond to that? Curiosity would have eaten me 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, trimmed. But covered in blood, with his clothing full of bullet holes.
"Victor," he said, and gave me a nod.
"James," 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 some man in a suit, handed it to him. The man nodded, got into a car — an expensive-looking one — and drove off. Logan came back.
After that we went to the nearest bar, where over a glass of whiskey James shared the details of his current adventure.
The short version: he'd fallen in love.
He'd met a girl coming out of a museum, and it had hit him like a hammer between the eyes. Well — I can understand that. Something similar had happened to me with Suo. Not exactly the same, granted — in my case the hammering had started before I'd even met 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 same.
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 some savings. He had some 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 helmets, 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 time he'd dragged himself out, by the time 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 name — 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 me.
I listened to James 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 me.
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 name, the name of the hotel she'd been staying in, and asked her to look into it.
***
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