Neon lights flashed by, the Harley speeding by bright-lit doorways and club signs flashing in a blinding haze of flickering shadows. Strobing pinks and blues rushed by as air flung Reno's hair behind him, water droplets flying from hair ends and spiralling desperately away into the night, into the dark. Behind him Logans pressurising weight created a layer of warmth between the two men, and Reno glanced down to where he had handcuffed his bounty's hands round his own waist. Briefly his mind wandered to a police-mans potential thoughts, and he almost smiled.

His bounty's head was slumped on Reno's upper back, and steering the bike with such a ball and chain was ten times harder. Every corner seemed to drag him sideways with supreme force as Logan shifted, and Reno's tired limbs were forced to work harder than ever to keep a dignified line.

The deep purr of his bike's engine sent comforting waves of vibration through his body as leather creaked and he negotiated another corner, gunning and rolling into a luxurious stretch of wider road. Strips of illumination accompanied raised voices, snatches of club tracks and mindless trance sounds, bouncers glaring and mini-skirt tarts shivering in the name of temptation.

Veering off the busy streets, he watched the lights dim and the shop signs turn to symbols are he glided into the chinese district, his Harley engine throbbing always through his mind. He veered sideways as he saw a set-aside hotel, small and with a dimly lit entrance. Pulling his bike into the curb and cutting the engine, the silence of the cool night away from the crowds cut into his head and left a buzzing hum in his water-filled ears.

Fumbling briefly for his handcuff keys he struggled to unlock the metal restaints, finally managing and grabbing roughly behind him as he felt Logan slide sideways. Twisting awkwardly and pressing two fingers to his bounty's neck he was surprised to feel that his pulse was steady, if a little fast. Stepping off the bike he kept his hands on Logans shoulder, balancing him upright in his sitting position and then shaking him roughly, "come on, you gotta walk this bit man."

~~~~~~~~~

The owner of the Palms Motel peered out from the brightly lit interior and through the widows into the dark night. Blurry figures swayed closer to the door, and it opened slowly, the night air rushing in and touching his greasy hair. He stood, his hands frozen on the large notebook in front of him as an unlikely pair staggered inside. A large long-haired biker in a leather jacket and saddle-bags strung about his shoulders was all but carrying a much shorter man, with sodden hair that was stubbornly attempting to defy gravity despite the weight of the water it held. The shorter man's jacket was zipped firmly up to his neck, but in the harsh lights the motel owner could clearly see rips and tears all over the material, and the glisten of thick red liquid.
He took a small step backwards as they reached the counter.

"Hi, can we get a room with two single..." the taller man started, and then struggled as his friend seemed to buckle and sink below the counter. The motel owner lifted his heels slightly in a bemused attempt to peer over the counter-top and watched the taller man guide the shorter to the ground.

The biker popped back up, looking a little flustered. "He's... tired," he explained, and then deflated a bit, seemingly disappointed that that was the best he could come up with.

The owner's look hardened. "How tired?" he asked, rubbing his fingers in the universal sign for 'cash'.

The biker reached into his inside pocket.

Right, thought the owner to himself. You've either just paid your bills for the month, or you've left your children with a shabby motel, a handful of debts and a police report about being found stuffed inside one of your own matresses with your brains blown out.

The biker pulled out a wallet, and the owner untensed about two thousand muscles that he didnt even know he had.

"Two-hundred do it?" the taller man asked.

~~~~~~~~~

Slamming his hand against the wall for balance for the umpteenth time, Reno finally pushed the key into their motel-room lock and shoved the cheap veneer door open. Lurching into the pitch black room with his bounty, he thought Logan had collapsed again when he felt him keel away to the right, evading the bounty-hunters desperate grasp. Reno fumbled behind him for the light switch and snapped it on, staring to his right and blinking fiercely. Somehow Logan had found the bathroom, and more specifically the toiet over which he was now hunched.

Reno dumped his saddle-bags and stepped falteringly into the small room, watching as Logan started to heave. His rough hands gripped the porcelain white-knuckled as he used what little strength he had to support himself, his stomach muscles contracting repeatedly and not letting even one gasped breath into his crippled lungs.

Reno took a small step closer, a subtle indication of support as the man's dry heaves finall gave way to expulsion of that same thick blue glue. It slapped into the water below him and strung down from his mouth as he struggled to clear it and free his airway, his eyes wide from lack of oxygen. The frantic gurgling retching sounds bounced around the little tiled room, and eventually stopped as the man managed one deep rushed intake of air.

Reno grabbed a cup sitting on the sink and filled it with water, stepping forwards to pass it to Logan and cathing a glimpse of the thick coils of blue gunk that had sunk to the bottom of the toilet bowl.
"What the hell is that stuff, man?!" he asked, as Logan took the offered cup with a shaking hand. He cautiously sipped at the water and took small comfort in the cool liquid running down his savaged throat, sinking back onto his butt on the floor, even more impossibly drained than he had been before.

"Poison," he answered finally, his breathing coming fast and shallow and a telling rattle still evident in his lungs. As an after-thought he added, "thanks," waving the cup and then setting it on the floor.
"I need to sleep," he remarked in a soft growl. Reno nodded, quietly pleased to some extent that the man was asking for help and not insulting him instead. He stepped into the main room, picking up his bags and throwing them on the far bed. He turned all the lamps in the room on and turned the main light off by a second switch by the window on the far side of the room. Turning back to the bathroom he stopped. Logan was almost bent-double, but standing nonetheless, propped against the wall and breathing thickly.

"Man," Reno snorted and shook his head gently, "you're like some kind of elaborate joke." He moved forward to take one of Logans arms, but the man lurched forwards under his own steam and executed an unco-ordinated dive for the bed nearest him. He rolled uncermoniously onto his back on the duvet, the pain coursing through his body over-ruling any superficial discomfort at having sticky blood sliding around under his clothes.

He closed his eyes and desperately tried to relax his muscles, tried to block out the agony of a deflated lung folded in on itself. He knew his healing factor was at work to some extent, knew also that all he could do was wait.
Evetually exhaustion and physical strain overcame the overwhelming pain, and he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep...

...Wolverine's claws thunked soldily into the ground mere millimetres from Scott's head, the blades driving in a few inches before coming to a halt. His musky breath washed over the younger man's face as he smirked, "better watch your head, Cyclops."

Scott rose to his feet, watching Logan stride away across the danger-room floor, the wisps of dark smoke curling around his singed suit the only reminder of their session. His eyes were filled with disgust behind his visor - Logan always managed to make Scott's codename sound more like a mockery than a title. The hairy mutant injected more egotistical smugery into his successes than was dignified, and yet he always succeeded because he could never lose. They all knew that you could have Logan pinned down with no hope in sight, and he'd still insult your mother and threaten to slice your bits off.

Scott took a deep sigh, feeling the calming presence of Professor Xavier in the corner of his mind, having undoubtably watched the session and seen Logan's display. It wasn't often Scott doubted the Professor's judgement, but when it came to Logan he wondered frequently what it was the old man saw in the animal that gave him such faith in his character.
Abruptly, the Professor's presence in Scott's mind cut off, and as a physical manifestation of his sudden departure Cyclops staggered slighty, his boots squeaking on the shiny danger-room floor. Xavier rarely pulled out so suddenly and Scott broke into a jog, heading for the viewing room. Exiting the door and turning a corner he was caught squarely in the shins by Xavier's chair-arm, and he flapped manically for a second in an attempt to avoid piling in a heap on the man.
"What's going on?" he asked hastily, regaining his composure.
"Somebody's coming," Xavier answered, his brow wrinkled in concentration, "It's Bobby... he's distressed and i can't find Rogue..." he flicked his finger and the chair whizzed on down the hallway towards the lift, Cyclops in tow.

On the upper level, the lift doors slid open and Cyclops and Xavier were met by Jean, Storm and Logan - having all been pardy to a mental heads-up from the Professor. Logan, his hair matted with sweat, shrugged uncomfortably in his hot leather uniform, unsheathing a claw and slicing a section from the collar, "what's goin' on prof?"
His question went unanswered as the group strode out of the main doors and into the piercing sunlight, close behind Xavier's wheels. The chair stopped as a sleek red sportscar entered the grounds and sped haphazardly towards them, spraying gravel in its haste.

"That's your car," Logan stated, glancing sideways at Scott.
"I'm surprised you can tell," Scott remarked, his lips pursed.
"So what's the kid doin' in it?" Logan pressed.
"They asked to borrow it for their trip," Scott replied, grinding the emphasized word out of a tense jaw.
Logan smirked, not flinching when Scott's car screeched to a badly controlled halt and flicked gravel up his suit. The door flew open and Jean leapt forward to help Bobby clamber out, his panicking expression affecting them all into concern instantly, "Rogue's hurt, she's in the back, you've got to do something!"

Storm wrenched the back door open as they all moved closer, catching sight of Rogue prone in the back, her face pale.
"They took us, used fire to fight me, i couldn't do anything, they did things, i could hear her but i couldn't get to her..." Bobby's panicked babbling burbled in the background as Storm gently lowered Rogue to the ground, "Rogue?"
Jean's fingers went instinctively to the girl's neck, "her pulse is weak, help me get her to the medical bay."

Logans strong hand clutched her arm and nudged her aside, "let me get to 'er," he stated, his voice gruff with concern as he knealt at her side. Placing his hands at the sides of her cold face he closed his eyes, hearing Xavier's gentle comment in the background, "be ready to pull him away when her eyes open."

Logan pressed his hands to Rogue's flesh, and waited. Waited for that sickening pull, for that moment when it would feel like all his organs had swollen and were trying to escape through his veins, the lurching in his stomach as his blood rushed faster and faster, whirled around his body in a flash of red haze. The moment when his eyes rolled back and his lungs seemed to gurgle, worse than the hundreds of times he had drowned before, worse than the hundreds of times he had bled to death before. He waited.

He waited too long.
He opened his eyes, "it's not working!"
Jean put a light hand on his shoulder, "quickly, get her to the medical bay."
Distressed, Logan pushed his arms under Rogue's knees and back and lifted her effortlessly, one hand pushing up her sleeve and maintaining contact with her skin - hoping still that if he waited her powers would kick in.
The group re-entered the house, Logan leading the way at a fast pace, Rogue draped in his strong arms, Scott talking up the back - his arm resting comfortingly around Bobby's shaking shoulders.

TBC