TITLE: Fucking Fellini
SUMMARY: Movieverse. A journey into the internal
DISCLAIMER: Everyone belongs to Marvel, etc. I am
simply using them for my own amusement.
DISTRIBUTION: If you would like permission to archive
this story, please email: wxfonline@...
OFFICIAL WEBSITE ADDRESS: http://www.wxfonline.com
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Libby for handing over the
muse for a few hours.
DEDICATION: For Eiluned, I hope it makes you smile.
The frantic staccato heartbeat of a bass drum was his
first clear memory. Laying in a tangle of white linen
sheets, sonic reverberations shaking his flesh, Logan
thought that they must all be dead. Jean...
Cyclops... Xavier... sleeping through this? Damned
Shifting quickly, the soft cling of fabric falling
away, Logan's feet kissed the remarkably cool steel
that blanketed the floor of his bedroom. The
insistent, grinding whine of an electric guitar joined
the beat of the drum. The mice had set the house to
He shivered against the cool, crisp air that filled
his room, only then becoming aware of the yawning
chasm of his open bedroom window. He hadn't left that
open. Moving across the room, he ignored the press of
wind against his naked flesh. Who the fuck had been
in his room while he was sleeping? And, more
importantly, why hadn't he woken up?
Logan scanned the section of the grounds that was
visible from his bedroom window. The sky was clear,
the full power of the moon's reflection flowing back
toward earth. All was still; no one was out there, of
that much he was certain. Leaning forward, Logan
reached out into empty space for the windowpane that
suddenly swung outward instead of up and down. As his
fingers closed around the latch, a sudden flow of
water rushed over his flesh; his hair stuck closely to
his skin as beads of the liquid rolled down the thick,
muscular plains of his chest, nestling into regions
female students only dared dream about. In the
distance, the rumble of thunder competed with the
driving rhythms of rock music on acid.
Rain? But the sky was... overcast, thick ropes of
storm clouds blocking the light of his sister the
Retreating to what he supposed was the relative safety
of his bedroom, hands clutched in tight fists, Logan
shook the water from his body in a motion that was
strangely reminiscent of his totem. He eyed the red
cotton towel that had conveniently been slung across
his desk. He could think of very few people who had
the ability to control weather. Someone was fucking
with him; beyond which, Xavier didn't own red towels.
Looking around the room, Logan became uncomfortably
aware that the length of red terrycloth and the window
weren't the only things that had changed about his
room. The walls, once tastefully painted, were now
covered in a thick layer of what appeared to be black
gesso. The beveled mirrors tiling the ceiling weren't
too bad; but, the metallic monstrosity in the white
artist's smock and red beret wasn't exactly his vision
of a wet dream at 4:11 in the morning.
"You are ready, my friend?" the mass of mobile metal
asked in thickly accented English.
Just beyond his unwelcome companion, Logan spotted the
kind of cage strippers the world over used to help men
blow their wads. Yeah, how many fortunes had he
wasted at the foot of one of those cages? How much
had he won?
A body covered in gauzy gray material lay slumped on
the floor of the cage. Logan stared. Alive? Dead?
His senses felt dull, negated by powerful pull of some
unknown mutant. Slowly, the figure roused under the
pressure of his intense stare. Elegant white hands
tipped in red pulled the slight frame upright. A
curtain of mink brown hair masked most of the woman's
Slick black lips grinned around gleaming white teeth,
a glimpse of luscious pink hinted at the moist depths
of both of the woman's mouths.
Ignoring the insistent hum of desire that pulled at
his groin, Logan turned back toward the greater of his
worries. He frowned. Good old Pete had vanished,
probably one of his smarter moves. But, classically,
his departure hadn't signaled the end of whatever
half-assed reality he now found himself in. Cyclops
stood, unprotected green eyes burning in their
sockets, watching him.
Logan's brow wrinkled as he took in the absurd yellow
and black spandex outfit that the other man was
wearing. The nerve endings in the back of his neck
"I bet *she* would like yellow spandex," Cyclops
exclaimed, gesturing toward the woman in the cage.
Strands of snowy white hair clung to the woman's lips
as she began to laugh. She brushed her strange
chocolate and vanilla hair from her face and began
gyrating wildly to the never-ending strains of retro
funk. The desperate, frantic quality of her voice
pushed Logan forward.
"Marie," he exclaimed, "stop it. We have to get you
out of there."
At this, the woman laughed harder, collapsing to the
floor under the weight of sheer absurdity.
The gentle lilt of an unexpected southern drawl caused
Logan to look back over his shoulder. Marie stood
beside Cyclops, their hands entwined. She was swathed
in lace and pearls, a hoop and several stiff
crinolines forcing her long skirt away from her body.
Giving him a gentle smile, Marie turned to Scott, who
pulled a length of sheer fabric over her face.
"We're ready," she said, turning back to him with a
wry grin. "I have something new, something blue and
something borrowed. Do you think these," she asked,
gesturing toward three bloody gashes in her bodice,
"will qualify as something old?"
"Oh God, what did I do?" Logan exclaimed. "Not
again. I swore it would never happen again."
He tried to rush toward her, but the grasping fingers
of the woman in the cage held him in place.
Marie shook her head and looked at Scott
exasperatedly. "Logan," she said, "you didn't give
these to me. I gave them to myself." With an
unconscious flexing of the muscles of her forearms,
Marie released six smaller replicas of Logan's claws.
"I wanted them; and, now they're mine."
With that, she and Cyclops turned and began walking
out of the room. As they reached the door that led to
the hall, Marie turned back one last time.
"Don't wait too long," she said, "you don't want to
miss out on everything."
As the door closed behind the couple, Logan tried to
make sense of what he had seen. Pete and Cyke and
Marie, mirrors and gesso and the moon, what did it all
mean? Who the hell was making this happen? It had to
be more than one of them. The weather, the music, the
weird shifting of perception, was it a test? If so,
how was he supposed to pass?
Logan made a move to cross the room and follow his
fellow teammates. He managed a single step before the
hand closed around his wrist. The woman. He couldn't
seem to recall the moment she had originally
relinquished her hold on him. It wasn't important.
She was there now; and, he'd be damned if he'd leave
her in that cage to rot.
Turning back toward the metal structure, Logan was
stunned to see a pair of familiar green eyes.
"Jean?" He asked.
Slowly, she pulled herself free from the gauzy gray
cloud of fabric that had entwined her. Underneath,
she wore a simple white shift dress. Jean smiled, the
rich color of her lips eclipsed only by the flame of
"Ready to let me out?" She asked.
"-got his uniform from the Professor. That's all he
ever really needed," she said.
"-got her claws from you. And, that's all she ever
Logan opened the cage and helped Jean ease out on to
"You," Jean said with a grin, "are very wet, which is
why I brought you the towel. I thought you might need
some help drying off."
Logan awoke with a start. That had to have been the
most fucked-up dream anyone had ever had. He rubbed
at his face trying to dispel the remnants of the
incoherent workings of his mind. Already, as he lay
there, the images were fading back into the reaches of
Looking at the flashing green light of his alarm
clock, Logan decided to hit the hay for another hour
before getting up for a run in the Danger Room. As he
drifted off to sleep, his hand closed around the soft
length of a red towel.
One thing was for sure, no more Fellini movies before
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