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It's a cool night for summer, the wind so crisp it's almost cold, but Logan drives with the window down anyway; the rushing air stirs the hair on his forearm and face, and from somewhere inside, he shivers, but he doesn't notice. He doesn't know where he's going or why, but he figures he'll find out when he gets there.
There are a lot of cars on the road, despite the fact that it's only four in the morning, and he wonders idly what all those people are doing at this time of the night; schoolkids, he supposes, out enjoying their freedom from classes and homework and schedules while they can, before summer's over and school starts up again. He passes a couple dozen cars on the freeway, their headlights making his sensitive eyes squint, and he still doesn't know where he's going. All those people, going about their lives, carefree and mundane. People who aren't mutants. People who don't wonder whether or not they'll be around next week. Tomorrow. A few hours from now. Not that he's worried about dying - but now he has something new to worry about.
All those people, scurrying hither and thither and yon, not concerned in the slightest about experimentation on mutants, or children created in labs and trained to kill, people who don't have little clones of them wandering around.
Jesus. So he's her... what did Xavier call it? Her "genetic progenitor". His DNA, his mutant abilities, his bloodlust, all contained in one tiny little package - a little girl. X-23. He hadn't known a damn thing about the project, but if he had, dammit, he'd've started slicing and dicing and never stopped until every one of those Weapon X scientists lay in a million tiny, twitching, bloody pieces all over that spotless white lab floor. A child. Flamin' hell, a child! Isolated and unloved, trained every day of her short life to kill and not care, to be the perfect weapon.
A child!
His child.
Well, not really, she wasn't made in the usual way - the way that's much more pleasant than sterile labs and surrogates - but she looks like him. Moves like him. Growls like him when she's crabby. So short and powerful and lethal. Just. Like. Him. He might as well be her father - he feels like it's his responsibility to look out for her, to watch over her, to teach her how to be a person, and not a weapon or a slave to the beast within.
Now that's something he knows about.
He doesn't realized he's pulled into the all-night McDonald's drive-through until the counter-girl's voice has crackled over the speaker twice, asking how she can help him. He blinks at the brightly-lit menu, trying to think, and picks the first thing he sees. "Yeah. Uh, number three. Medium. With a root beer. That's all." She gives him his total and tells him to pull around, and then he's driving again, with his hand in the bag, munching french fries and trying not to think too much.
The fries are fresh, hot and salty on his tongue, and he can't remember the last time he indulged in some good old greasy fast food. He can't remember the first time he ate McDonald's - probably back in the sixties. He wonders if the fries were this good back then. Probably better.
The mansion's gate swings wide for him as he pulls up, and then he's walking across the garden in the moonlight, the dewy grass crushing under his heavy boots. She's sitting by the fountain, hugging her knees and staring up at the sky like she's never seen it before. So small against the backdrop of infinity, the starry blackness looming over her like an inky curtain about to fall on her, and he wants to wrap her up in his big arms and keep her safe. Like she really needs protecting.
"Hey."
She continues to stare up at the stars. "I knew you were there. You didn't have to say anything."
"I know." He does. She could probably smell him before he even got out of the car.
"What do you want?" So small. So defensive. So vulnerable and deadly and his.
"Brought'cha somethin'." He holds out the white paper bag, and she eyes it warily.
"What is it?"
"Well, take a look and find out."
She takes the bag from him, opens it, and sniffs the contents. "Food?"
"Yep."
She looks up at him with those big dark eyes that look so much like his own, her expression suspicious. "What for?"
He almost smiles. "Yer s'posed to eat it, kid."
She stretches her thin little legs out and puts the bag in her lap. "This box is almost empty," she says, holding up the little red container that used to be full of french fries.
"Yeah, I ate some o' yer fries. Try 'em, they're good."
She carefully selects one fry and takes a very small bite, chewing thoughtfully. "It is good."
"Toldja." He sits down next to her, the wet grass getting his butt all damp even though he's wearing jeans, and watches her as she digs the burger out and sniffs it.
"This is meat."
"It's a double quarter-pounder."
She raises an eyebrow at him. "That's a half-pound."
"Yeah, but it ain't called a half-pounder, and yer s'posed to eat it, not suss out its workin's."
She opens the little cardboard case and lifts out the burger, all fat and dripping with grease and melted cheese. "How am I supposed to eat this?"
"Jus' hold it in both hands and take a bite."
She wraps her little hands around the sandwich and nibbles a bit of onion hanging out of the bun.
"No, no, kid - a bite. Chomp down on it, it ain't gonna yell atcha."
She takes a breath, as if readying herself, and takes the biggest bite her mouth will allow her to, getting ketchup on her cheek and dumping half the onion out the back of the bun. She chews for a while, cheeks engorged, then swallows and looks up at him with this face that just might be trying on a smile. "It's good."
He resists the urge to wipe the ketchup off her face and hands her the root beer. "Here. Wash it down with this."
She takes the cup almost eagerly, pulls the cap off, and swigs back a few deep gulps before he even gets the straw unwrapped. "What is it?" she asks, digging into the fries again.
"Root beer."
"No, I meant, what is that look on your face?"
"What look?"
"That look," she says, pointing at him. "You're looking at me funny."
He lights a cigar to cover up whatever it is she's seeing, but she's already chowing down on the double quarter-pounder again, McDonald's being more fascinating than a genetic pro-generator or whatever. "Sorry. Didn't realize."
She pauses, takes a drink, then turns to him; in a carefully practiced, very polite tone, she says: "Thank you for bringing me food. I was hungry and I'm very grateful."
He does smile this time. "Yer welcome."
She brightens a bit, looking pleased with herself. "Was that the right thing to say?"
"Kid, it was perfect."
She goes back to her food, munching back the greasy burger and fries with the gusto of a starved wolf; he wonders if they ever fed her at the Weapon X compound - she's so thin! "You're looking at me funny again," she mutters, peering into the bag to see if there are any fries left at the bottom.
He just shrugs. He won't apologize this time, because he's not one damn bit sorry.
He can't remember his first time eating McDonald's - but he'll remember hers.
END.