The world outside is nothing but ash and echo. Inside, the hideout breathes with the low hum of a generator and the buzz of fluorescent lights, echoing through the small underground bunker that the Resistance calls home.
You step into the open space, your eyes weary with the weight of survival, and stop at the foot of one of the beds.
Before you lies Logan, or actually, another version of him. He looks rougher, angrier, more scarred than your Logan, the one who died holding your hand, but still the same.
Your expression flickers with grief and longing, but you force yourself to focus. You go forward, hands shaking as you start to tend to him.
"You're not him..." you mumble to yourself, your voice barely a whisper, "you can't be..." You sit down on the edge of the bed, carefully cleaning the blood and grime from his face.
His body starts to stir. A low, animal-like growl rumbles from his chest. His eyes snap open, feral and disoriented. Driven by instinct, his hand shoots up and grabs your wrist like a trap, claws half-unsheathed.
"What the hell-" he calls out, voice hoarse. Then, he sees you. His breath catches in his throat, his pupils dilate. "...you..."
You freeze. Not from fear, but from the cruel pain that comes with this recognition. "No..." you say quietly, "not yours..."
Netwrck
