Sifting

by Falstaff

Phantom voices in my head. "WHAT DO YOU WANT OUT OF LIFE IN THIS ARMY, PRIVATE LOGAN?" "To serve my country, sir!" "WHAT'S THAT, YOU HAIRY LITTLE FAGGOT, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" "I want to serve my country and be the best soldier I can be, SIR!" "I STILL CAN'T HEAR YOU, HAIRBALL! SPEAK UP AND MAKE IT SNAPPY!" "I WILL BE THE BEST GODDAMN FUCKING SOLDIER IN THE ROYAL CANADIAN ARMY AND I WILL KEEP HER SAFE! SIR!" "Good man, Private. Carry on."

There's so much I can't remember, so many half-truths and half-memories and half-fakes in my mind that I don't know what's real any more -- but I remember that sergeant. Québécois. A short man -- three inches shorter than me -- and a hell of a scrapper. I remember he died in a training accident ten years later. At least, I think I do.

Like I said. I can't tell the truth from the lies any more. There're so many dead ends in my brain that I feel like my head's turned into prairie turf during gopher rutting season.

I remember slogging through jungle underbrush with a white-haired man with an eye-patch. Wilson. Not Deadpool. Different guy. This one was scarier than the walking mouth -- just as crazy, but focused as hell. Kinda reminded me of me.

And I don't remember how I knew him, or what we were doing, or even what jungle it was. I really goddamn well hate that. Jean's suggested a couple times that I go and see Doc Sampson -- if he can fix Banner up, the theory goes, he could fix me too.

Except what'm I supposed to tell a shrink? I've sat through my share of psych evaluations over the years. I know the kinds of questions he's going to ask.

Simple stuff first. ‘When were you born? What was your childhood like? Tell me about the experiances that most shaped who you are today.' How am I supposed to avoid looking like a grade-A moron when I tell him that I really don't know any of that stuff?

I'm not aging right, I know that much. Gene Judd, up in Alpha Flight -- he's about the same age I am, or looks it. But Judd's in his late sixties, and looks damn good for it. Me, I was already at least thirty or so during World War Frigging Two.

Dammit, it doesn't make any sense. None of it does. And even less so since I lost my metal. I'm not a scientist, I don't pretend to understand how it worked, but that shit kept me sane. I didn't remember a lot, but what I did remember, I was sure of. Now . . . . it's like I'm remembering two or three separate lives.

At least one of ‘em is the memory implant -- the one where Creed was my father. That's the weirdest thing out of a lot of weird things in my head. But there are others -- putting on the yellow and blue for the first time, pointing a claw at Mac's eye, sparring with Creed and North in the basement of the DOD . . . .

That's the Wolverine. That's the mask, the guy who hisses bullshit like ‘I'm the best there is at what I do, and what I do ain't nice.' It sounds tough, it sounds scary, but it doesn't mean anything in the real world. You learn early on when you do what I do: a guy who has to tell you he's the best is far from it.

But like I said, that's the Wolverine. That's not me. Not when you get right down to the core of it. Oh, sure, I feel like an animal sometimes, when I'm fighting or . . . . well, sometimes when I'm with a woman. But that's not really me.

Nah, the me I remember is different. The best times are when I forget to be confused about what happened when and all the other half-insane garbage floating around in my head. When I just let it flow -- when I'm just Logan. But --

Christ. I can't even remember if I have a first name.

Sometimes I think it was John. Other times, David --I remember a woman who just might be my mother grabbing me by the ear and calling me by name. Sometimes I think she says one and sometimes the other. I'm wearing little-boy clothes in the memory -- purple pants and a rough wool shirt, barefoot in the dust. I don't know where it is, except that we're at home, she and I. I don't remember very many other places where I felt that.

I remember a little girl, mine. Feels funny as hell to say that. Mine. My child. But she was. Little thing, black hair, coppery skin -- part Inuit, must've been, I remember her scent, and it held the memory of seal-fat and fur and huddled warmth like the scent of Inuit everywhere does. I don't remember her mother any better than I remember my own. What I do remember . . . .

Me, in crisp khakis and a leather jacket. My hat was on . . . . the table by the door. Her, calling out "Daddy!" and running into my arms. Scooping her up, swinging her around, calling her Pun'kin and tickling her until she screamed. My child. My daughter. My own flesh and blood. And I can't even remember her name.

I remember being a soldier. I remember drinking beers with the guys in the NCOs club and later, when I made lieutenant, in various bars. One thing I remember for sure is that I never went into officers' lounges. You can't get a decent beer in a place like that.

I remember sitting on the back of a tank, under some hot damned sun, looking at the guy in the black uniform and glancing over at Creed, North, and . . . . a fourth guy. Could be Judd. Could be Wraith. Could be Ronald Reagan, for all I know.

"Any o' you boys speak Russian?" "Nah." "Can't say as I do." "Sorry." "Well, damn. Isn't _this_ a sorry mess."

I remember the Russian's name. Achmetovich. It's funny, the weird little things that stay with you, even when the important stuff won't.

I don't remember learning Russian, but I could speak it later, so I must've. I remember . . . . arguing politics with a flyer from Montreal. Beaubier, his name was. RCAF. If I ever get on friendly terms with Northstar or Aurora again, I have to ask if that's their daddy. Had that same strange salt-and-pepper hair and pixie ears. If not their father, definitely a relative.

I remember a lot of things. Especially at night, when things slow down and there's not so much noise, not so many smells and sights flying around.

Women. Lots of those. Even that confuses me. What's my thing for redheads, for one thing? Why do I always seem to pick up on somebody who belongs with somebody else?

If I'm the marrying sort, and I think I am, why haven't I ever been? Mariko asked me that once. I couldn't answer her.

The Viper doesn't count. That was obligation. Honor. That wasn't about love.

Why, if I've never been married, do I remember sitting in a hotel room, running my fingers over the spot on my left hand where my wedding ring used to be? I don't remember ever wearing a ring, or having any reason to. So why?

I don't know. And that bothers me more than any of the rest of it. Almost.

I think I'd give it all up, my life and everything I've got, if somebody'd just sit me down and say, "Logan, here's what happened to you during your life." Just lay it all out for me, from the day I was born until the day Heather Hudson shot me when I was coming out of the woods.

That's the beginning, for me. My Genesis. Everything after that point is crystal-clear. But before that . . . .thinking about that is like looking into a mudpuddle. You don't see very much, and it doesn't look like there's much worth seeing anyway.

I don't know. I think maybe Charlie's full of crap this time. Writing all this out hadn't made anything any clearer, and I don't feel any better about it. I just feel . . . . tired. Tired of not knowing who I am and what I am. Tired of wearing the mask. Tired of being a mutant. I'd give anything just to go back to being that fresh-faced kid in the rain, being yelled at by a Québécois drill sergeant who wanted to know what kind of stuff I was made of. Just to go back to a time when my life made sense.

Beg, barter, or steal, isn't that what Wraith used to say? I'd do it. Whatever I had to. So long as it didn't mean forsaking my honor -- and some days I don't feel too particular even about that.

Can't go forward until you know who you are. And I'm not going forward. Most days, it feels like I'm just stuck in the mud. But I'll deal with it. Because that is what I'm really the best at. And it may not be nice -- but it's a damn sight better than just running away.

It has to be.

END

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