Lost, drowning in red and black, Logan barely hears William's words over the din of those murmuring voices. He clutches his head with his hands, thin lines of blood running down over his knuckles and wrists as sharp adamantium edges bite into his skin, his healing factor not quite able to keep up with the wounds. Staggering and snarling like an animal chased by a swarm of bees, he tries to shake it off, tries to find reality again.

Distantly, as the tsunami of psychic energy begins to recede, he smells someone nearby. Someone real, someone he knows. Old sweat and flannel, spider blood on his shoes and ink on his fingertips. Someone who was there before -- and then Logan remembers why he's there, remembers what's happened. The world solidifies under his feet.

Get it together. He digs deep, relying on decades of training and experience to think through the psychic storm. Ignore the blindness. Ignore the noise. Focus on what's important. Breathe.

"Ruth," he grates out, a guttural animal noise, a little too loud over the voices only he can hear. "What happened to Ruth?"