[First it was the smell of molten metal. Then it was burning flesh. Then it was pine. Eastern white pine. The bright terpenes of that soft needled tree and the earthy dank of juniper haircap beneath him was such a peaceful reprieve from smelting smoke and his own searing skin. Despite the ground under his back and the voices he didn’t recognize Logan filled his lungs with the damp air and felt at peace for a moment. Dizzy. Confused. But blessedly unencumbered by the weight of so much adamantium.

It didn’t feel right, of course. He knew that. The disembodied voices amongst the trees. The impossible height of the pines. Everything left him uneasy and out of reach. Like the uncomfortable dreaming sensation of reaching for something you can’t quite brush with your fingertips. It wasn’t right. But it was quiet. It was less painful than where he’d been.

But then he blinked. And now he’s here. Wherever here is.

You never get used to waking up in strange places exactly, but you learn when not to panic. There was no pain now. No Reavers. No chaos. Just the calm of a comfortable bed that smelled like… nothing actually. Like no other person had touched it before him. Not even a trace of laundry soap. Olfactory white noise.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this time had finally been his time.
He’d never expected heaven anyway.]

[The hisses and pops of a weathered record turning under the needle finally drew him out of that bed he’d turned up in. Someone was here. Someone who thought the foreboding warble of Billie Holiday’s Gloomy Sunday was a pleasant way to make a first impression.

Padding barefoot through the house though, there was no one. No record player either. Just a basket of things. His things. Things that overwhelmed him with a sense of deja vu. He’d already been here, he thought. He’d stepped carefully down that hall, trying not to let the hardwood creak underfoot. He’d sniffed his cigars. He’d examined that damned creepy ID with the photo of him sleeping. He’d helped himself to a handful of berries when his stomach grumbled. He just couldn’t tell how many times now. Once? A hundred?

He splashed water on his face over the kitchen sink and blinked through the moisture in his eyes until the sight of the backyard came into focus. A pair of dingy doors on the lawn, the passage to a storm cellar, so slathered in keep out, beware of dog signs, red paint, and chain it was inconceivable that he’d overlooked them before. How could he have walked all these steps already since waking up in that bed, but not caught sight of those doors?

With the grass under his feet he stood over the cellar. It reeked of livestock. Mold. Rot. Old meat. The lock was rusting, but the chains— still galvanized. And something snuffled behind the doors. Dragging its restraints on the stone floor inside. Who, or what deserved a cage like this?]

“What are you…” [He sighed and hunkered by those doors.] "The last guy to wake up in this house? Maybe they got a place like this for me too…” [He pulled a tuft of grass and looked out across the back lot as far as it went until it hit the treeline. And that’s when it grabbed him. A sinewy human arm, flayed and filthy but disconcertingly strong pushed through the eroded edges at the bottom of those old doors. Splintering away more of the rotted wood and grasping him at the ankle. ]

“The fuck! Human!? It’s human?” [He teetered back, kicking its grip off him until it retreated into the cellar like a worm into the ground. Finding his feet again Logan lunged at the door that fell back into place. Wearing his fingertips bloody with a tenuous grasp on pulling them back. Just a little. Just enough to see what the thing down there was.

Until the arm reached back. Flailing blindly at the anything on the sunny side of the cellars doors. Carving flesh from Logan’s leg with three gnarled claws of bone. He drew a sharp breath and felt the mattress under his back again.

Barely clinging to his bearings Logan whipped the linens off to examine his leg. Hurrying downstairs that song was still fucking playing. It should have run out of verses by now. Or maybe he’d just been hearing it through the fog of a dream. The shit from that basket was right where he’d left it. The berries still eaten. The backyard. Quiet. The cellar doors wide open. No chains. No lock. No trail. He must have dreamed it. But that was cold consolation.

At the edge of the yard he turned towards that town a couple of miles down wind. He wasn’t eager to meet the neighbours, but unless someone came home there weren’t any more answers in the confines of this house.]

[Exploring the town? Meeting the neighbours? DM me for a personalized starter.]