“To Hell & Back”:

A ‘Wolverine’ Saga

 

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions; I’m here to tell you the path out is covered in blood…

 

Where the hell am I?

It’s dark-or maybe he just needed to open his eyes.  Either way, it’s dark.  A naked Wolverine lies on a slab of granite; a solid, stone surface providing no comfort, no solace at all.  ‘Comfort’ & ‘Solace’ are two sentiments you won’t find in this place.   

A nebulas glow of red, orange, and yellow flickers in the background.  Where the hell am I? he thinks again, flashing his right eye open, the other pressed closed against the rock-hard ground.  Examining the space with his one eye, The Wolverine honestly has no idea how he arrived here.  

‘Ugh,’ he mutters, gradually beginning the process of lifting his beaten, broken body.  Involuntary moans of anguish and pain subtly seep through his lips, as slowly but surely he pushes his body up, placing his palms on the floor, hoisting his battered frame.  Lying there for the longest time he couldn’t move as he waited for his body to piece itself back together, the area around him getting hotter and hotter.  ‘Ugh,’ he repeats, finally able to stand on his own two feet.  

Dragging his leg, he lurches forward; all the while, around him remains that omnipresent glow.  Arm busted too, he holds it against his side as he starts making the journey out of wherever it was he now found himself in. 

What is this place?  

Scanning the horizon in every direction, all The Wolverine could see before him was a wide, flat plain atop what appeared to be a large, square platform; of which he stood smack-dab in the middle.  Stretching a great distance, it was a long way from where he stood to any of its edges.  Begrudgingly, The Wolverine limped along, assessing the situation currently presenting itself.  A constant crackle reminiscent of fire burning popped persistently in the background as he crept forward.  Head equally worn as his chest, legs, arms, and back, The Wolverine couldn’t shake the groggy feeling penetrating his skull.  Not remembering a time he’d felt so befuddled, he knew he must’ve taken quite a beating.   

Healing faster, The Wolverine dropped his arm, and was limping less notably as he arrived at his destination.  Peering over the edge, there was only that crimson, cadmium, and citrus glow, emanating from the bowels of an unknown abyss threatening to swallow him whole-and the faint sounds of what he could’ve sworn were the cries of wailing voices.  

Staggering back, The Wolverine found himself feeling something foreign, something he hadn’t felt in quite some time: fear.  

What is this place?

From this new vantage point, The Wolverine could see along the vast side of the platform ran two long ramps, separated by a wide space in between, spanning across the aperture of the chasm, each leading to its own entryway.  Walking much improved, in tedious fashion, his brittle, weathered bones bounded back-and-forth.  Muttering ‘Ugh’ from time to time was the only audible sound able to be elicited from his bashed mouth as he investigated further. 

Along two of the square’s sides opposite one another, sat two entrances each; on the other two sides there was only that pulsating red, orange, and yellow glow-and those whispered wails in the distance.  The Wolverine could’ve sworn it was voices calling out to him, but there was no one else there.  He was alone in the middle of a football field made of rock, surrounded by fire, brimstone, and the ever elusive cries of woe.  

He couldn’t remember a thing, but recollecting the origins of how he’d gotten here would have to wait, as the only thing currently on The Wolverine’s mind was how to get out.  Made by Mother Nature, enhanced in a laboratory, it was glorious the things he could do.  Glorious in their savagery, beautiful in their brutality.  With his healing factor, The Wolverine was able to withstand experimentation none of the other subjects were able to endure.  It was his ferociousness, coinciding with his ‘special abilities’ that made him the perfect subject to become the perfect weapon.  

Examining each individual ramp, he stood at the precipice of every door, staring into the blackness beyond their threshold.  The walls and ceiling of the grand room were made of the same stone as the great plateau The Wolverine stood upon, both lighting up with each dancing flicker of that dim, ominous glow.  His body recovering, clarity came back into his consciousness.  Acclimating to the heat, no longer did he feel as dazed and confused as when initially waking.  

Cracking his bones, he loosened his limbs, shaking out the cobwebs of his mind.  Stretching as he walked, his body was intact, only severely beaten; the worst abuse The Wolverine could remember taking-except he had no idea who could’ve administered such a thumping.  Energy and focus returning, he was determined to get himself out of this mess, like he always did, scratching and clawing if he had to.  Clawing.  These claws…They told him they were a ‘gift’, but more often than not they felt like a damned curse.  With these claws he’d done terrible things, awful things, unspeakable things.  The Wolverine was good at one thing, killing, and he was eager to get back to it.  That meant delivering himself from this hellhole.  

The ramp he chose first was the one currently in closest proximity.  What awaited him beyond those doors?  What horrors did this place hold?  Restlessly, The Wolverine paced across the bridge, eager to find out, eager to remove himself from this purgatory.

Passing under the arch of the doorway, everything behind him disappeared in an instant, and The Wolverine found himself immersed in the pitch of complete and total darkness.  His body began to tingle; that distinct surge of adrenaline.  Feeling it coursing through his veins, instinctively his claws couldn’t help but come out.  Unsheathed for the first time, he gazed upon them and their gruesome magnificence.  He was ashamed to admit he enjoyed the things he could do with those claws.  That sensation was taking over him again: instinct taking precedence to reason.  The Wolverine was no longer alone. 

‘Remember me, Wolverine?’ a hushed voice echoed throughout the emptiness.  That hiss.  He could never forget that hiss-or that tongue.  Haunting him, it must’ve been nearly a foot long when fully unraveled.  Witnessing that venomous creature changed The Wolverine.  That alien, that monster, showed him what this world had to contend with-and that he had no clue to the extent of what else existed out there in the universe.

It’s face so hideous, it’s eyes so hollow, with teeth so sharp-and that tongue; wrapped around his neck, constricting tighter and tighter it choked The Wolverine until he couldn’t breathe.  Saved by his brothers, he was.  The three of them killing machines sent in to neutralize the threat.  In this case, ‘the threat’ was an interstellar symbiote virus that infected and invaded its host.  ‘Brock’ was his name: ‘Eddie Brock’.  

An astronaut, he brought something back with him from outer space, something vicious; something evil.  They hunted it down to the swamps of the Everglades after escaping the NASA facility trying to quarantine it.  Placing him under observation, they witnessed in real-time the frightful transformation of Eddie Brock.  Spreading quickly, the disease took over him in mere hours upon re-entry, our atmosphere conducive to its growth.  More powerful than its surroundings, the venomous creature broke free, and was on the loose.  This was exactly the type of job The Wolverine and his team were designed for.

Trudging through the Floridian swamp, The Wolverine could feel the creature moving in the muck; a prevailing slime, seemingly everywhere and nowhere all at once.  Restricted by the mud, it had The Wolverine dead-to-rights: but he was rescued by his brother-in-arms.  Otherwise, he would’ve been dead in the water.  Swinging away with reckless abandon, there was nothing he could do to strike his swift target, its amorphous form changing shape from moment to moment.  Unceasingly chasing after it, ultimately The Wolverine’s incessant attacks distracted it enough where the other two members of his crew could move in.  Capturing the specimen, they handed it over to some egghead who would do god knows what with it.  But that’s exactly what they signed up for: jobs with no questions asked.  

“You were afraid of me, weren’t you, Wolverine?  I could tell as you chased me around that swamp.  You were afraid of what I was, and afraid you couldn’t beat me on your own.”

It was true.  For the first time in combat, The Wolverine had serious doubt he could vanquish his opponent.  

“I should’ve killed you then!  There’s no one here to save you now!”

The creature couldn’t speak before, but now it recited every insecurity running through The Wolverine’s head, mocking him as he hissed, all the while flickering that massive, scarlet tongue.  Slithering among the goo, constantly metamorphosing in the physical form, now it infiltrated the psychosis of The Wolverine, attempting to break him down mentally by conjuring up past physical inadequacies.        

“I’ll tear the flesh from your metal bones, and watch you bleed to death while I eat you alive!”  

Over the course of its diatribe, the demon had taken shape, forming from the liquid The Wolverine waded knee deep in, into the towering body of a dark, bulking mass, whose pulsating veins protruded prominently underneath its black, mired skin.  All black, except for jagged, white designs where its eyes would be…and that bright red tongue.  Barely visible within the midnight vortex, snarling, the creature rapidly approached. 

Not one to be on the defensive, claws already drawn, The Wolverine assailed upon his would-be victim.  But again, swing after swing, swipe after swipe he missed; the brute’s enormous body as unexpectedly fluid as the solution that birthed it, always a second too fast, a moment too quick.  

“It wasn’t the swamp that made you too slow,” mocked the monster, “it was you.  Do you really think you can keep up with me?”

The vitriol it spewed was offensive, but also correct.  He had gotten old, and he had gotten tired: but he was still ‘The Wolverine’, and so long as he was standing, he would not allow himself to be thwarted in battle.  This creature was faster than him, yes; but like this disease, The Wolverine too could evolve.  Opponent to opponent he adapted his fighting style, learning from each occasion, applying it to the next, always exiting the victor.  In hindsight, studying what he’d done wrong, he adapted tactics to make him more prepared, better suited to best this foe the next time around, should the opportunity arise. 

In the past, The Wolverine aggressively attacked the symbiote, failing in hitting a direct strike, the monster’s movements too fast, too sudden; The Wolverine perpetually unable to catch up.  ‘Monster’.  He kept forgetting there was a man underneath that monstrosity.  A poor, unfortunate soul taken over by that virus, that devil.  Absolving the creature of its humanity made it easier for The Wolverine to unleash his murderous intent.  Nevertheless, he was still incapable of landing that finishing blow.  If The Wolverine couldn’t catch the creature, he’d lay a trap for it.  The only question: would it take the bait?

Outmatched physically, he’d have to resort to more creative means in overcoming this adversary.  Antagonizing from his enemy would not prevent The Wolverine from completing the outcome he sought, as he remained still, hoping to draw the brute in closer. 

“Come and get it, bub…”

Searing pain from jagged teeth ripping into soft flesh sent shots of agony throughout his entire nervous system: but he would have to ignore that, concentrating fully on the task at hand.  ‘Pain’ had no place when fighting for life or death.  Clamping its jaws down on his shoulder, biting into his flesh & bone with maximum force, The Wolverine had the creature right where he wanted it.  In one abrupt movement he brought his clenched fist, with claws extended, across his body, stabbing the venomous extraterrestrial in the skull.  Vibrations reverberated through his adamantium skeleton as the alien twitched and squirmed violently.  

Once rendered motionless, The Wolverine retracted his bloody instruments, concealing themselves underneath the unassuming cloaking of his weathered skin.  The exorcised remains of what used to be Eddie Brock fell lifeless beside him, disappearing into the void rippling at his feet.  

In a shallow pool, The Wolverine stood; the only source of light coming from the flares of that mysterious glow, summoning him back.  Valiant and victorious, The Wolverine returned to where he originally started, having to choose a different path out…  

​

‘Is that you, Wolverine?’     

Recognizing the voice, The Wolverine follows it, bringing him towards a second doorway.  

‘Where you been, Wolverine?  You ran away, and never told us you were leaving.  We missed you at the reunions, but I guess you’ve got a new family now, don't you?  Or, you had a new family...’

As the voice continues speaking, The Wolverine descended further and further down a winding staircase imbedded within the walls of the cascading chamber.

‘I always knew you were spineless; not the formidable ‘Wolverine’ everyone thought you were.’

The downward spiral leads him to another cavernous room, this one filled top-to-bottom with staircases going in every direction.  Where one set of steps ended another began.  Ranging in length and width, throngs of them criss-crossed and overlapped within the area…And standing at the base of all those stairs, defiant and indignant, was Omega Red.  

“We carried you on our backs-especially me!  I was the one who saved you!  I should’ve let that monster kill you, but I let duty get the better of me.  You’re not my brother anymore, Wolverine, so I owe you nothing.  If anything, you owe me!”

Like The Wolverine, Omega Red was enhanced by the aid of adamantium.  Three subjects in total, all infused, each one’s mutation altering the chemical compound in its own unique way.  He served his masters obediently; yet, he could never measure up to the legendary ‘Wolverine’. 

Omega Red’s power was the ability to absorb the energy of any living creature he came into contact with.  His reaction to the adamantium injection was his skin merging with the metal, turning into an almost impenetrable fortress.  Epidermis comprised entirely of the unbreakable material, his outer shell was covered in an armor-plated shield from head to toe.  

Distracted by The Wolverine, and its attention occupied elsewhere, Omega Red was able to sneak behind the venomous varmint, grabbing hold, draining enough of its rage to quell the monster so they could contain it.  Soon thereafter, however, there were alarming side effects to their encounter, as he and the adamantium he was fused with both began demonstrating the same special attributes as the alien, shifting and morphing, maneuvering effortlessly the way the creature moved.  Omega Red even developed the ability to extend long, cable-like appendages from where his arms used to be, stretching them to tremendous lengths on command. 

The Wolverine didn’t run away-he left.  And that talk about him being the weakest link was bullshit.  Quick to recover, he was resilient, his training way tougher than the rest.  Regularly, he pushed himself to the brink physically, mentally, and emotionally in his dedication and devotion to transforming into the most effectively lethal killing machine in history.  His commitment was undeniable, his spirit indomitable.  Last to bed, first to rise, there’s no one you’d rather have in the foxhole with you than The Wolverine.  The sole reason he needed saving was because he was the only one capable of going head-to-head and lasting with the villian they’re calling ‘Venom’.  Omega Red reaped the benefits of The Wolverine’s hard work. 

Acting like whips, Omega’s cables thrashed through the air at audacious speeds, thunderously cracking with violent force, sending booming waves against the cavernous chamber walls.  More agile than his opponent, The Wolverine was able to avoid each potentially debilitating blow, eluding the snare of Omega’s tentacles as he bounced from one set of steps to the next.  Still disoriented as he jumped, periodically his equilibrium would be thrown off due to the discombobulating orientation of the staircases; The Wolverine not able to tell if he was right-side up, or upside down.  Leaving one set of steps meant its imminent destruction by the maniacal manacles of a metallic madman hell-bent on eradicating him from the face of the earth.

As each staircase was destroyed, chunks of debris rained on the two of them.  “What do you do when it all comes tumbling down, Wolverine?” Omega shouted, remnants of staircases crumbling to the ground, ricocheting off the surfaces surrounding them, the steady sound of ruins crashing to the floor.  “There’s nowhere left to go; nowhere left to hide!”

First his left arm, then his right; snatched by the grasps of Omega Red’s strength-sucking clutches.  The Wolverine could feel the energy being sapped from him, seeping from his body.  Soon enough, he wouldn’t have the strength to fight back.  Drawing him closer, he could feel his opponent’s hot breath against his face, the crazed spit foaming in Omega’s mouth spraying onto his skin.  There was nowhere left to go, and The Wolverine could feel himself getting increasingly fatigued…but it was when the chips were down The Wolverine was at his best: this bastard only reminded him of that.

Hubris can be a wonderful thing when exhibited by your enemy.  Feeling that hot, stinking breath meant Omega Red was close.  Thinking he’d gotten the better of our protagonist, unwittingly, he put himself within perfect striking distance.  He should’ve known it wasn’t going to be that easy defeating the vaunted ‘Wolverine’.  

While Omega’s body was completely covered in adamantium, its density was a fraction of that of The Wolverine’s.  Injected with the same amount of the liquid metal, the dosage was more concentrated in his body.  For The Wolverine, his power was embedded in his bones.  His bones were thicker, stronger, harder.  Eventually, he adapted to his new musculature to where he could heal and mend his broken metal frame when need be.  

Hanging there, crucified, a martyr in his own mind, the only things The Wolverine would die for were already gone; now, he was in it for pride and his own preservation.  Both their eyes lit up simultaneously, but for very different reasons.  Omega Red’s eyes lit up, because he thought The Wolverine was finished.  The Wolverine’s eyes lit up, because he knew he wasn’t.

One shot was all The Wolverine had.  One shot to summon up a Herculean effort, and cause Omega Red to release him from his deadly grip.  Pulling back, The Wolverine slammed his forehead into that of his captor with such velocity, the blow left a gigantic dent in the middle of Omega's chromed dome.  Though metallic on the outside, Omega’s insides were still organic, with organs susceptible to being jumbled, neurons shooting intense pain to his every nerve.  

Seeing the expression of anguish on his rival’s face, and sensing the tremors carrying throughout his extremities, The Wolverine knew he’d gotten the better of this deal.  Stranglehold loosened ever so slightly, it left a small enough window to bring his clenched fists, claws extended, together in one quick motion; razor-sharp edges slicing through the thick neck of his titanium tormentor.  Head severed, the detached cranium rolled off Omega Red’s shoulders, finally stopping at the feet of our champion.