The MCRT, Morlocks, MGH and Murder

Part 2: Chapter 1

The cold snap that had been going on for the last few days seemed nearly ready to dissipate, but Logan knew that there would be at least another day or so. Maybe it would back off for a few days, enough to melt the snow, and then as December came into view, New York would get the winter it usually did. As a Canadian, Logan didn’t mind the snow, and even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t gripe about it as others did. There was much more to complain about than the weather.

There were wars. And hate. Corruption and terrorism. But Logan wasn’t going to complain about those things either. Because they were things that always were and always would be. And if there was one thing he learned from nearly two centuries on this earth, it was to keep on keepin’ on, because it was really the only thing he could do. He had found, though, that keepin’ on didn’t have to mean movin’ on, and he was proud to say that he had finally settled on something worth sticking around for. Charles Xavier, a frail man in a wheelchair, with a mind that had to be seen, and then still was unbelievable had shown him that. Had given him a purpose. And had treated him as a person and not a soldier, not a weapon. That courtesy, Xavier’s kindness, was the reason why Logan would stay. Not to mention, he kind of liked doing his thing with a lot of breathing room.

He always drove with the window cracked, much to the dismay of any passengers he might have, because he didn’t like the window stopping his senses from the outside world. His senses, not to toot his own horn, were a bit like Xavier’s mind – incredible. And, he probably could have still smelt what he had with the windows up, but there was a freedom in riding with the window cracked, the wind whistling in, and Logan enjoyed whatever freedoms he could get. Especially in the day and age when freedom was a word that had a definition, but to a mutant, sometimes, little else.

That unmistakable smell caught deeper in his nostrils, like a red beacon glowing, giving away its position, and he pulled over to the side of the road, cutting in front of a car that had the same idea. The harried business man flipped him the bird and Logan thought about flipping him a claw or three, but didn’t. See, he could be tame, at times.

Following his nose as only he could, he disappeared into a back alley, where no one else would have noticed the smell because of the dirty garbage containers. A clever mask, perhaps? Or maybe just a coincidence. Logan wasn’t sure if he believed in them, but wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss them completely. Partially behind one of those containers was a pair of huge legs that led to a huge body with four arms and mottled red skin, peppered with both small and large moles.

“Why’d you have to die on my friggin’ shift, stinky?” Logan muttered to himself, giving the air a deeper sniff to see what else he could determine. Because the body was literally frozen to the ground, the smell was fainter than it would have been to him. A body found ripe in the dead of summer, and well, Logan could smell the name right off him.

He walked around the body in a wide enough circle not to step on it; thankfully, due to the alleyway and the garbage bins, the snow drifted around the body, but didn’t cover too much of it. And he sniffed again; carefully, his olfactory receptors sifted through what he had taken in. Recently dead. Someone who hadn’t lived well in life. And a faint, chemical scent that smelled almost like sweat and adrenaline. This, more than anything, peaked his interests, putting his interest level now at a one. Speaking again, this time as if his boss might be listening, he said, “All right, bub, let’s see what you got.”

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