Blueshift

Blueshift Chapter Three (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… *bouncy* Almost have a schedule! InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink and Dracena are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. :) ProPhile: Yep, more adult material… Morgan: *random glomp * Readers/Reviewers: I need to thank Doctor Nightfall for his help with the Shi’ar and this fic will have his Mary Sue, which he won (hee hee) in a fic contest on the Yahoogroup. Wheeee. And thanks to The Other Michael for his input on the Pantheon and their elements.


The smoke used to burn his nose and eyes but no more. He assumed he had gotten used to it, since there was no way the sensitive tissues had been permanently damaged, but he rather missed the burning sensation. It let him know he was alive, at least, on the night when it just seemed that the sun would never come up in the morning and he would never leave the wooden confines of the rundown bar. He could ignore the noise around him while still being alert for danger but tonight, he was letting it all in. Voices and music and the scrape of chairs on the wooden floors and beer bottles clanking and even the hiss and pop of matches and lighters flaring to life all flooded and swirled together, making him angry and frustrated. Which, he supposed, is just what he wanted and needed. It had been several years since his cage fight and he needed the anger that only a place like this could give him. The stench of human bodies, of sweat and beer and flesh and anticipation and sexual desire and odors more base and indescribable than those overlapped and seeped into him, becoming part of him as he shoved his barstool back and stood, wiping the back of his mouth with the sleeve of his ill-fitting shirt. It had been over a month since he had been in Bayville, over a month since he had woken up laying in a ditch, a deep scar along the back of his neck that he had no recollection of being part his original set. He had panicked at first until he realized that he had not forgotten much, just how he got there. He remembered the Institute, the Professor, his life in as much as he could recall… He just did not know where he was, really. Or why. “Hey,” he barked at the rat-like man leaning against the chickenwire and wood and metal structure set in the middle of the room. “When’s the next go?”
The man sniffed, curling his lip at Logan, his eyes traveling from his worn military style boots to his odd hair. “Jus’ a minute… You gonna fight?” He punctuated his question by spitting on the floor, the wad of putrescence landing near Logan’s boot.
“Naw, I’m just asking for my health,” Logan snarled. “How much?” He stared holes into the man’s head, waiting for some smartass remark. _Make me, jackass… make me… _
“Ten.” He shrugged. “Winner take all…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He shoved ten dollars—Canadian, he noticed bitterly—into the coffee can with the hole cut in the plastic lid which sat on the barstool next to Rat Face. _Why the Hell do I keep ending up back here? Sure as Hell can’t be the healthcare… I don’t need it… _ He glanced at the chalkboard listing the names of everyone who had signed up to fight. “Logan,” he murmured just loud enough for the man to hear as he reached for the chalk. “Just Logan.”
“Sure, Just Logan. You’re goin’ fourth.”
Logan nodded and ambled back to the bar. He did not need the money. He had found a thick wad of bills in both American and Canadian denominations in his hip pocket when he had awoken. He just needed the fight. He rapped on the bar and signaled the bartender for another beer and waited his turn. The first fight was already starting, the crowd shouting and really getting into it, the bloodlust inherent in all humanity overtaking reason and safety. Logan ignored the sound of bodies slamming into the cage’s barricade, the faint rattle of a tooth hitting the wooden floor and the hideous smell of blood mingling with the stench of the bar. His turn was coming up soon, judging by the sound of the crowd. The first fight ended in under five minutes and he signaled for a sixth beer, shoving the empty bottle back across the bar. The bartended did not even look at him as he shoved another bottle his way. The second fight took longer, lasting a full ten minutes before the crowed groaned in unison, their favorite getting laid out by the upstart. Logan sniffed. Something did not smell right. It was too animal, not entirely human. It was not a threat yet but it was getting there. The smell grew stronger as he sat still, listening to the third fight gear up. The cage rattled as a body met the resistance of the barrier and tumbled to the floor. They did not get up. He sighed wearily and shoved himself away from the bar, turning to face the cage and crowd. They were carting out a large, bloody man, dragging him by the arms down the steps of the cage, his feet thumping along the floor. His opponent waited inside, bent low over something in the corner. The animal smell was stronger, growing worse as he walked towards the cage. He ignored the crowd, ignored Rat Face, ignored the announcer who was spouting some bullshit about his origins, making it up as he went along. Logan slammed the cage’s door behind him and waited as Rat Face locked it tight. Even before his opponent stood, he knew who it was. He cursed himself for not recognizing the smell sooner. “Sabretooth…”
Viktor Creed smiled, his fangs showing clearly as he towered in the corner. “I’ve come to bring you back,” he rumbled.
“Figured as much,” Logan sighed. “Right…” He smiled ferally and leapt.