Kyle drew in a deep breath, trying to think as he followed the thicker feral along. His lips pulled into a frown, brows knitting as he tried to think. It was hard for him to remember it all, he had blocked much of it subconsciously, but Xavier would surely get a show. Flashes of memory. Smells, sounds, fear, pain, fury. Some visual, some not, scents Xavier would never have been able to smell before with his normal senses, the feeling of pure helplessness, and not simply moments of it. Days of it, weeks of it, the cellular burn as one's very DNA was tampered with, and being powerless to stop or fight it.
Kyle snorted, as if doing so would force the memory-scent from his nose somehow, shaking his head as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "I don't know how long it has been," he stated in a low, quiet voice. "I was sedated with something and... and remained that way for a very long time." Blue eyes turned to Logan, the pain and frustration in them would likely speak volumes to the other feral. Few things their kind hated more than being completely restrained. They were a restless breed, they wanted to move and fight and run wild.
"I was always transported a long distance for tasks." These 'tasks,' of course, included killing Hemlock, another memory Xavier would get. That was when the fog had begun to lift, when Kyle had been able to regain a few strands of himself among the tapestry of a cold killer the Perfect Soldier Program had so carefully woven. while Kyle was not quite able to put words to it, his instincts knew they had traveled south west each time, if Charles was able to tap into those instincts and interpret them was anyone's guess.
His jaw clenched, eyes darkening, growing almost cloudy as his mind skipped over the next parts. Deaths, bloody, gory deaths at his claws. New skills, moves and techniques he did not remember learning, he just knew, used to take life after life as his captors tested him. His stomach turned, he had sworn to himself that he would not behave after the flare as he had before... and here he was. It had not been his choice, really, but still. It had been his hands. His claws. He should have been able to stop himself... and he failed. His head dropped for a moment. "...I..." He tried to find words for what he had not meant to do, what he had not voiced to Wolverine, yet he was entirely sure the man knew. There were none, no words, so he simply kept silent, flexing his claws as if to relieve tension, waiting to see if the smell of guilt and murder upon him would cause Logan to turn on him. It would not surprise him, and he was sure he deserved it.