The Triumph of Man
The thing that collapses to the floor looks like James Logan. When it coughs up electrolytic fluid, it sounds like James Logan, and the needle wounds on its skin close almost before it takes its first unobstructed breath, just like James Logan.
But what looks out of its eyes isn't Logan. It isn't the savage Wolverine or conditioned-to-be-obedient Weapon X.
It's...broken. Lost...dark eyes looking about with a sense of despair that can only come from a broken heart, a shattered soul.
"R-Rems?"
The tiniest spark comes back at the sight of the man he loves (don't ever fuckin' say that!), at his rescue and the cessation of the physical torment...but then the memories come back.
"She...she killed him. Hank. Ripped his guts out an inch at a time, burned 'im up...an' she made me watch. If I'd just had a little more control...hadn't given in to the filthy fuckin' animal, the goddamn monster inside me...he'd still be alive."
A choked, hoarse sob escapes his throat. Over and over again, his friend's screams play itself in his mind.
"I'm an animal. A weak, filthy goddamn animal. Ain't no good to Hank, or Jeannie, or Mariko...or you..."
His fist pounds the wet floor in impotent rage, his form huddled and shivering. Broken.