Not according to plan

By Adrian Tullberg.

***

Information was the greatest currency on this planet. And Wolverine needed some regarding the ... individual calling itself Romulus.

Someone knew. Naturally, there was a price. An act he wasn't feeling too proud to commit. But events were escalating beyond his control for him to be squeamish.

The mutant crept up to the slumbering individual. He'd spent an hour crossing from the front door to the bedroom, not wanting to wake his target. His victim's wife was out of town, so there was no better time.

Logan raised his hand, claws already extended. The stealth part of this mission was over.

With all the power in Logan's arm, three foot-long adamantium blades sharpened to a monomolecular edge were thrust towards the area between the ear and the outer tip of the eyebrow; the weakest part of the skull.

The claw hit, bounced, skidded along the target's cheek and jaw. Logan's eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he felt the pain run up his hand, forearm, elbow and radiate along his shoulder.

Breaking a new personal record for profanity, he lurched around the bedroom, knowing that he'd torn nearly every ligament and half the muscles in his hand and arm - also, every metacarpal had dislocated and his ulna and radius had wrenched itself from his elbow and one of the bones was a hair's breadth from puncturing his skin.

Logan clutched his elbow with his left hand, nudging the bones back into position. Taking deep breaths until the pain faded and his arm rebuilt itself, he looked at his target.

Still asleep.

Logan wasn't angry - no, he wasn't just angry, he was insulted.

Swinging one leg over, he mounted the sleeping man on his chest, and looked - yes, there it was, the carotid. Slightly off but after years of fighting those with altered anatomy, Logan could locate a weak point in seconds.

Extending a claw, Logan pressed the back edge against the skin. So stabbing didn't work, but he wasn't adverse to sawing.

The target rolled onto his side, taking Logan with him.

Logan had his left leg trapped under the target's side, with pyjama'd arms wrapped around his waist.

Not to mention the target's head was now nestled very close to Logan's crotch.

Logan tried to move the target's arm, but no luck; despite the fact they could have been made of cast iron, he couldn't find any tension or exertion or effort in the grip that was holding him there.

In fact, the icy cold realisation was emerging that nothing was convincing this guy to let him loose.

***

Lois Lane entered the apartment, heading towards the bedroom.

She'd seen a lot of strange things in her life, but her husband, asleep, his face in the groin of some short guy in blue-and-yellow spandex, also asleep, was new to her.

Her fast-paced career had taught her to prioritise, so Lois took out her digital camera and snapped off a few shots.

The sound woke up the little guy, who had the good grace to look sheepish. " ... ah ... hi?"

"Hi."

The little guy looked down at the arms of Clark who were still holding him in position. "... um ... could you ...?"

Lois walked over, flicking a fingernail over the top of Clark's ear.

Clark murmured, left arm flailing in her general direction, rolling slightly towards the irritation. The little guy immediately rolled off towards freedom.

"Thank you ma'am ..." The little guy immediately made for the exit.

"Anytime."

Lois looked at her husband, then the camera.

Information was the world's greatest currency. Now either Mr. Kent would give his wife an anniversary present she truly deserved for this information, or Mr. Bruce Wayne would receive an e-mail he would truly appreciate.