The sky above Westchester wasn't just dark; it was bruised.
Great, rolling masses of purple and charcoal clouds were churning in from the Atlantic, swallowing the twilight whole. The air pressure was dropping so fast my ears popped, and the scent of ozone was so thick I could practically taste the electricity on my tongue. It smelled like wet asphalt, static charge, and the heavy, earthy promise of a deluge.
It was fitting. I wasn't just riding into a school; I was riding into a hurricane.
The Harley roared beneath me, but I kept the speed steady as I turned off the main highway and onto the winding private road that led to Greymalkin Lane. The trees here were old, ancient oaks and maples that leaned over the road like skeletal fingers, stripping away the light.
My internal systems were running hot. The encounter with Victor—with Sabretooth—had left my adrenaline spiking, and even though the fight was over, the predator inside me was still pacing the cage, looking for the next threat.
[LOCATION ALERT: XAVIER INSTITUTE VICINITY]
[MISSION UPDATE: HOMECOMING - FINAL STAGE]
I ignored the prompt. I didn't need a HUD to tell me I was close. I could feel it.
It wasn't a psychic feeling—I didn't have that yet. It was the memory. The phantom sensation of driving this road a hundred times before, in a life I hadn't lived but remembered perfectly. The turn in the road where the pavement cracked. The stone gargoyles on the massive iron gates that loomed ahead.
The gates were closed, an imposing barrier of wrought iron and pretension.
I didn't slow down.
"Open up, Chuck," I muttered under the roar of the engine.
As if on cue, the heavy iron groaned. Motors whined in the stone pillars, and the gates swung inward just seconds before my front tire would have introduced itself to the metal.
I throttled through, the gravel of the long driveway crunching satisfyingly under the heavy treads.
And then, I saw it. The X-Mansion.
In the comics, it looks regal. In the movies, it looks expensive. In reality? It looked like a fortress dressed up as a country club. The limestone walls glowed faintly in the dying light, ivy crawling up the sides like veins. It was massive, imposing, and reeked of old money and secrets.
But as I got closer, the illusion of tranquility shattered.
BOOM!
A dull, thumping explosion rocked the east wing of the building. It wasn't the sound of a bomb—it was the sound of something pressurized letting go, a concussive whump that rattled the stained-glass windows.
Smoke, thick and smelling of sulfur and burnt hair, billowed out of a second-story window.
Then came the voices. Even over the idling engine of my bike, my enhanced hearing picked them out clearly.
"SHUT IT DOWN! KURT COULD DIE!"
"I'M TRYING ! THE KEYS AREN'T WORKING!"
"KURT! GET OUT OF THERE!"
I pulled the Harley up to the main circular driveway, right in front of the grand wooden double doors. I killed the engine. The silence that followed was filled instantly by the chaos coming from inside.
I kicked the kickstand down and swung my leg over, my boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. I took a deep breath, expecting the smell of rain. Instead, I got a noseful of something else.
Acrid smoke. Melting metal. And... Smoke.
CRASH!
Above me, the sound of shattering glass tore through the air.
I looked up just in time to see a figure come flying out of a first-floor window. He didn't fall; he vaulted. He moved with a jerky, kinetic energy, landing in a crouch on the hood of a parked station wagon before springing onto the driveway about ten feet from me.
It was a kid. Maybe sixteen. He was hunched over, wearing a wierd frog like costume and a pair of thick, amber-tinted goggles. His skin had a sickly, greenish pallor, his pupils red and surrounded by yellow and his posture was all wrong—knees bent too deep, fingers splayed on the asphalt like a frog.
Toad. Todd Tolansky.
He scrambled upright, looking over his shoulder at the window he'd just exited, a backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder. "Not my fault! It was the Elf! I ain't gettin' blamed for this!"
He turned to run, and that's when he saw me.
I hadn't moved. I was just standing there, next to my bike, hands in the pockets of my leather jacket. But to him, I must have looked like a monster.
I saw the moment his mutation kicked in. His pupils contracted to pinpoints. His posture dropped lower. He started to shake.
It wasn't just that I looked scary. It was the biological imperative. The System had told me I had Feral Senses, but it worked both ways. I projected an aura. To a prey animal—and let's be honest, a kid who hops like a toad is lower on the food chain than a wolverine—I smelled like death. I smelled like the thing that eats you in the dark.
Todd froze. He literally vibrated with the urge to flee, but his legs wouldn't work. He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing, a soft, croaking sound escaping his throat.
I stared back, keeping my face impassive. I didn't need to growl. The silence was doing the work for me.
"Logan."
The voice was calm, cultured, and carried an authority that cut through the chaos like a knife.
I looked up.
Standing—well, sitting—at the large bay window to the left of the front door was Charles Xavier. He was in his wheelchair, looking exactly like Patrick Stewart, which was both comforting and surreal. His hands were folded in his lap, his expression serene despite the smoke pouring out of the building behind him.
Beside him stood a goddess.
There was no other word for her. Tall, caramel-skinned, with hair like spun snow cascading down her back. She was more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen, a vision of divinity that came like a storm. Ororo Munroe. Her eyes were glowing faintly white, responding to the atmospheric pressure of the approaching storm, and her posture was rigid with stress.
[ALERT: OMEGA-LEVEL ENTITY DETECTED]
[CAUTION ADVISED]
The System blared the warning in red text across my vision, highlighting both of them. No kidding.
"Professor," I said, my voice a rough rumble. I nodded at him, letting the 'Old Friend' persona take the wheel. "Place sounds lively."
Charles smiled, a genuine warmth reaching his eyes. "We have our moments. It is good to see you, Logan. You are... earlier than I expected."
His eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second too long. I felt a ghost of a touch against my mind—like a feather brushing against a steel wall.
Mental shields, I thought. Please tell me the System gave me mental shields.
[Mental intrusion detected...Mental intrusion has been removed...Mental shields at 85%]
The touch retreated. Charles didn't frown, but his eyebrow quirked slightly.Tch seriously, i'm here less than 2 minutes and you're already trying to get into my mind.
Storm crossed her arms, looking from me to the trembling teenager on the driveway. "Todd," she said, her voice like distant thunder. "Where do you think you are going?"
Toad flinched, looking between the scary weather lady and the scary claw-man. "I... I was just... getting some air? Yo, mist—uh, sir... can I just... go?"
He looked at me with pleading eyes. He wasn't scared of Storm right now; he was scared of the predator standing three feet away. He could smell the blood of Sabretooth on me. He knew what I had just done, even if he didn't know the specifics.
I looked down at him. The kid was sweating buckets.
"You heard the lady," I grunted, stepping aside just an inch, breaking the invisible line of tension I held over him. "But if you're runnin', you better be fast."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Beat it, Bub."
The spell broke.
"Y-yeah! Gone! I'm gone!"
Todd didn't run; he launched himself. With a powerful kick of his legs, he cleared the fountain in the center of the driveway in a single bound and disappeared into the manicured hedges, scrambling away as if the devil himself had snapped at his heels.
"His journey doesn't happen with us." Xavier noted dryly, rolling his chair back from the window. "Though he was a surprising visitor. Come inside, Logan. The front door is unlocked."
I walked up the steps, the heavy oak doors feeling solid under my hand. I pushed them open and stepped into the foyer.
It was grand. A massive staircase swept up to the second floor. The floors were polished marble, the chandelier was crystal, and the whole place was currently filled with a thin, grey haze.
Xavier wheeled himself into the hallway to meet me, Storm walking beside him.
"You look different," Storm said, her eyes scanning me. She wasn't looking at my clothes; she was looking at the way I stood. "Like you've changed. More...calmer, grounded in a way."
"Had a rough commute," I said, shrugging. "Ran into an old family member on the road."
Xavier's expression tightened. "Victor?"
"Yeah."
"Is he..."
"He's napping," I said shortly. "He'll have a headache when he wakes up. But he won't be following me. Not today."
Xavier sighed, rubbing his temples. "I see. We have much to discuss, Logan. Your arrival marks a turning point, I fear. But first, we must—"
"KURT! WAIT!"
The shout came from the top of the stairs.
I looked up. A boy wearing a ruby-quartz visor—Scott Summers, Cyclops—was leaning over the banister, looking frantic. He was younger than the movie version, leaner, with the awkward energy of a field leader who was losing control of his squad.
"He's not listening professor!" Scott yelled down at the Professor. "I can't stop him!"
"Mein Gott! I cannot do this! I am not a X-man!"
The voice was high-pitched, panicked, and heavily accented.
Suddenly, the smell of rotten eggs—brimstone—punched me in the nose.
BAMF.
A cloud of purple-black smoke exploded in the middle of the foyer, right between me and the Professor.
Out of the smoke tumbled a figure. He was blue. fuzzy. He had a tail that whipped around anxiously and three fingers on each hand. He was wearing a X-men training uniform .
Kurt Wagner. Nightcrawler.
He landed in a crouch, looking terrified. His yellow eyes darted around the room, landing on Xavier, then Storm, and finally on me.
"Kurt," Xavier said, his voice projecting a calming telepathic wave that I could actually feel buzzing in my teeth. "Breath. You are safe."
"No safe!" Kurt stammered, scrambling backward, his tail knocking over a vase on a side table. It shattered, adding to the noise. "The danger room! The explosions! They do not stop! I almost... I almost..."
He looked at the door. The open door behind me. Freedom.
"I go!" Kurt shouted.
"Kurt, no!" Scott yelled, running down the stairs.
I stood there, watching the scene unfold. This was it. The chaotic, messy reality of the X-Men. Not a paramilitary unit, but a boarding school for terrified kids with weapons of mass destruction in their genes.
Kurt looked at me. He saw the rugged stranger blocking the exit.
He didn't freeze like Toad. He panicked.
"Entschuldigung!" he squeaked.
BAMF.
Another explosion of smoke. He vanished from the foyer.
I spun around. Through the open front door, I saw a puff of purple smoke appear halfway down the driveway, near the fountain. Then another, further out near the gates.
BAMF. ... BAMF.
He was chain-teleporting. He was running away.
Storm stepped forward, wind whipping up her hair even indoors. "I will go after him."
"No," Xavier said, holding up a hand. "You are needed here to contain the fire in the Danger Room before the sprinklers ruin the circuitry. Scott, go help Jean."
Xavier turned his head slowly, looking up at me. His eyes were intense.
"Logan," he said softly. "You just arrived. I hate to ask this of you so soon."
I looked at the fading puffs of purple smoke in the distance. The storm outside was finally breaking, the first heavy drops of rain beginning to slap against the pavement.
A new mission window popped up in my vision, bright and urgent.
[EMERGENCY MISSION: THE LOST SHEEP]
[Objective: Retrieve Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler) before he leaves the school grounds or gets hurt.]
[Difficulty: C-Rank]
[Reward: +5 AGI, Reputation with X-Men +10]
I zipped my leather jacket up, hiding the claw marks on my shirt. I looked at Charles and gave him a grim smirk.
"Don't worry about it, Chuck," I said, turning back to the door. "I needed to stretch my legs anyway."
I stepped out onto the porch. The rain was coming down hard now, washing away the smell of brimstone, but I already had his scent. Ozone, fear, and sulfur.
I cracked my neck.
"Run, rabbit, run," I whispered.
Then, I bolted. I didn't run like a man; I ran like a hunter, low to the ground, my boots eating up the asphalt as I sprinted into the dark, wet night after the teleporting blue smurf.
KRAKOOM!!!
The rain had turned from a drizzle into a deluge. It hammered against the ancient trees of the estate, turning the ground into a slurry of mud and decaying leaves. The temperature dropped, biting and cold, the kind that seeps past denim and leather and settles in your joints.
I moved through the woods, not running anymore, but stalking. My boots sank into the mud, but I made no sound. The thunder rolled overhead, masking the snap of twigs, but nothing could mask the scent I was following.
It was a trail of burnt air. Brimstone. Sulfur. It smelled like a match struck in a small room, mixed with the damp, salty scent of tears.
He didn't leave the grounds, I realized, tilting my head as I tracked the scent trail to a massive, ancient oak tree near the edge of the property line. The scent stopped there, pooling at the base and then rising.
I looked up.
High above, hidden in the canopy of wet leaves, a shadow was huddled on a thick branch. He was shivering so hard the branch was vibrating slightly.
I sighed, wiping the rain from my eyes. "Alright, Bub. Let's do this the hard way."
I walked to the base of the trunk. I didn't bother looking for handholds. I flexed my wrists.
SNIKT.
The claws popped out, gleaming wetly in the flash of lightning. I drove them into the wood. The oak was old and hard, but adamantium is the hardest substance on earth. It sank in like a hot knife through butter.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
I climbed, hauling my dense weight up the vertical surface, the sound of metal piercing wood rhythmic and dull under the thunder.
I reached the branch about thirty feet up. I retracted the claws—snikt—and swung my leg over, straddling the thick limb.
Kurt was there. He was curled into a ball, his knees pulled to his chest, his tail wrapped tightly around himself like a security blanket. He was rocking back and forth, sobbing quietly.
He heard the movement. His head snapped up.
"NEIN!" he shrieked, his yellow eyes wide with terror. "Stay back! Do not hurt me!"
Smoke began to coil around his shoulders. He was charging a teleport.
"Hey! Woah!" I held up my hands, palms open, showing him no claws. I kept my voice low, pitching it under the wind. "Easy, Elf. Easy. I ain't here to hurt you. Nobody is."
Kurt hesitated, the purple smoke dissipating slightly. He pressed his back against the trunk of the tree, looking at me like a cornered animal. "You... you are the man from the driveway. The one with the knives."
"The name's Logan," I said, keeping my posture relaxed, ignoring the rain soaking through my clothes. "And yeah, I got knives. But I keep 'em sheathed when I'm talkin' to friends."
"Friends?" Kurt let out a bitter, choked laugh. "I have no friends here. I am a menace. A monster."
"You're a kid sitting in a tree in a rainstorm," I corrected him. "Scoot over. You're hogging the dry spot."
I shifted forward, sitting on the branch next to him, but leaving enough distance so he didn't feel crowded. I let my legs dangle.
"So," I said, looking out at the dark outline of the mansion in the distance. "Quite a show back there. Windows breaking. Smoke. Screaming."
Kurt flinched, burying his face in his knees again. "It was not my fault... well, it was my fault. But not on purpose."
"Spill it."
Kurt sniffled, wiping his nose on his oversized hoodie. "That boy... the one who jumps like a frog... he broke in. He was trying to steal things. I tried to stop him. I grabbed him, but I panicked. I... I teleported us."
"Let me guess," I said. "You popped into the Danger Room?"
Kurt nodded miserably. "The Professor, he showed it to me yesterday. He said 'Do not go in there, Kurt. It is not calibrated.' But in the panic... poof. We land inside. The sensors activate. The lasers... the saws..."
He shuddered. "I tried to get us out. But the systems overloaded. I just wanted to stop the bad man. Instead, I nearly blew up the school."
He looked at me, eyes swimming with tears. "I am dangerous, Herr Logan. I ruin everything I touch."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. He was blue. Fuzzy. He had three fingers and toes. He looked like something out of a medieval woodcut about demons. But his eyes... his eyes were soft, scared, and incredibly young.
"Kid," I grunted. "You teleported an intruder into a secure room and survived a combat simulation that wasn't calibrated? Most people trip over their own shoelaces. You stood your ground."
"I ran away!"
"Strategic retreat," I countered. I cracked a grin. "Besides, if I had a nickel for every time a robot tried to kill me in that house, I could buy the place. Seriously. Chuck needs better firewall software. Last Tuesday, the toaster tried to assassinate me."
Kurt blinked. He looked at me, confused, and then a small, tentative giggle escaped his lips. "The... the toaster?"
"It burned my bagel. Unforgivable."
Kurt laughed. It was a wet, shaky sound, but it was a laugh. The tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.
But then, the laughter died. Kurt looked down at his wrist. He was wearing a bulky, strange-looking wristwatch. He rubbed his thumb over the face of it, obsessively.
"I do not belong here," he whispered. "I do not belong anywhere."
"Why's that?"
"Look at me," Kurt said, gesturing to his blue fur. "I am... I am wrong. The Professor gave me this." He tapped the watch. "An Image Inducer. When I wear it, I look like a normal boy. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. No tail. When I wear it, people do not scream. They do not throw stones."
He looked up at the stormy sky. "My mother... she left me because of this. My father... whoever he was... he must have been a devil."
The pain in his voice was so raw it felt like a physical weight on the branch between us. This wasn't just teenage angst. This was a soul-deep wound.
"I grew up in a church," Kurt continued, his voice trembling. "Father Wagner took me in. He taught me about God. About love. But every time I looked in the mirror... I saw the adversary. Why would God make me like this, Logan? Why would He make me look like the thing everyone is taught to hate? He abandoned me. Just like my family."
He started crying again, harder this time. "I am a mistake."
My heart clenched. Not Logan's heart—Liam's heart.
I remembered my life before this. I remembered Sunday mornings in Chicago. My parents weren't perfect, but they were devout. They had a quiet, sturdy faith that held them together when times were tough. I remembered my mom telling me that hate wasn't from God, that hate was man-made.
I reached out and placed my hand on Kurt's shoulder. He flinched, but he didn't pull away.
"Listen to me," I said, my voice dropping the gruff persona for a moment. "You aren't a mistake, Kurt."
"You do not know—"
"I know enough," I interrupted gently. "I know that looking different doesn't make you evil. And looking 'normal' doesn't make you good. I've met men in expensive suits with perfect smiles who were monsters. And I've met people who looked like nightmares who had the purest souls I've ever seen."
I tapped his chest, right over his heart.
"God... if you believe in Him... He doesn't roll dice, kid. He doesn't make junk. He paints in all colors. Blue, green, red... it's all just packaging. What's in here?" I tapped his chest again. "That's what matters."
"But I look like a demon," Kurt whispered.
"So?" I shrugged. "I got knives in my hands and I heal like a lizard. The guy inside shoots lasers out of his eyes. The woman with the white hair controls the weather. 'Normal' is just a setting on a dryer, Kurt. It doesn't apply to us."
Kurt looked at me, the rain dripping off his nose. "But you are strong. You are brave. I am just... afraid. I am afraid that one day, I will be so scary that even the Professor will send me away. That I will end up alone again."
He hugged his knees tighter. "The silence... the being alone... it is the worst thing."
[SYSTEM ALERT: MEMORY SYNCHRONIZATION TRIGGERED]
[SUBJECT: KURT WAGNER]
The headache hit me, a sharp spike behind the eyes, but I welcomed it this time. The memories flooded in. Not my memories—knowledge. Comic knowledge.
I saw a woman with blue skin and red hair. Raven Darkhölme. Mystique. I saw her running, clutching a bundle. I saw her tossing the baby—this baby—over a waterfall to save herself.
I saw the kid growing up in the shadows of a Bavarian church, hiding in the bell tower like Quasimodo.
I saw the villagers with torches.
I saw the circus. Der Jahrmarkt. I saw him in a cage, drugged, forced to perform as "The Incredible Nightcrawler." People throwing popcorn. People laughing. The loneliness of a cage where everyone can see you, but no one knows you.
The anger flared in my chest. Not at Kurt. At the world. At Raven. At the cruelty of a universe that would take a gentle soul like this and try to beat the light out of him.
"You aren't gonna be alone," I said. My voice was rough, choked with emotion.
I moved closer. I ignored the wet fur, the smell of sulfur, the strange geometry of his body. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug.
Kurt stiffened for a second, shocking tension running through his frame. He wasn't used to this. He was used to being hit, or stared at, or tolerated. He wasn't used to being held.
Then, he broke.
He turned into me, burying his face in my soaked leather jacket. His claws gripped the fabric. He wailed—a sound of pure, unadulterated grief letting go.
"I gotcha," I whispered into his ear, resting my chin on his wet head. "I gotcha, kid. You hear me? You ain't alone. Not anymore."
I held him tight, letting my body heat warm him up.
"I know what it's like," I murmured, the memories of Logan's own isolation blending with Liam's empathy. "To not know where you come from. To feel like your own skin is a uniform you didn't choose. But you found a pack now, Kurt. We're strays. All of us. But strays stick together."
Kurt was shaking, his tears soaking through my shirt, but the hysteria was fading. He was just a kid crying in his big brother's arms now.
"I promise you," I said, making a vow that I knew the System would probably turn into a quest, but I didn't care. "No one puts you in a cage again. No one hurts you because of how you look. You're with me now. You're with the X-Men. And we protect our own."
I pulled back slightly, gripping him by the shoulders. I looked him dead in the eye.
"You are family, Kurt. And family doesn't get left behind. Not ever."
Kurt looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, his blue fur matted with rain, but a tiny, fragile spark of hope had ignited in those yellow irises.
"Family," he tested the word. It sounded foreign on his tongue, but sweet. "Like... brothers?"
I smirked, ruffling the wet hair on top of his head. "Yeah. Something like that. Though I'm more like the weird uncle who lets you watch R-rated movies."
Kurt laughed again. A real laugh this time. He wiped his eyes with the back of his three-fingered hand.
"Come on," I said, jerking my head toward the mansion. "Storm's probably making hot chocolate. And if we stay out here any longer, I'm gonna rust."
Kurt uncoiled his tail. He stood up on the branch, balancing perfectly on his toes. He looked down at me, and for the first time, he didn't look like a victim. He looked like an X-Man in training.
"Logan?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"Danke."
I nodded. "Anytime, Elf. Now, you wanna walk back, or can you give us a lift? My knees are killing me."
Kurt grinned. It was a toothy, demonic grin, but it was full of joy.
"Hold on tight."
He grabbed my shoulder.
BAMF.
The smell of brimstone filled the air again, but this time, it didn't smell like fear. It smelled like home.
[MISSION COMPLETE: THE LOST SHEEP]
[REWARD: +5 AGI]
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: KURT WAGNER (TRUSTED/BROTHERLY)]
[BONUS: UNLOCKED 'MENTOR' TRAIT, UNLOCKED 'ALPHA' TRAIT]
The text scrolled across my vision as the world twisted into purple smoke, but for once, I didn't care about the stats. I just held onto the kid, making sure he landed safe.
The deluge had slowed to a steady, rhythmic drumming against the slate roof of the mansion, the fury of the storm passing east toward the Atlantic. The air was left scrubbed clean, heavy with the scent of wet limestone, crushed pine needles, and the electric tang of ozone that always seemed to cling to Ororo Munroe.
Storm stood on the sheltered stone porch, her arms crossed over her chest, the white fabric of her blouse fluttering in the damp breeze. Her eyes, glowing with the remnants of the atmospheric power she held in check, scanned the dark tree line intently.
"I still do not like this, Charles," she said, her voice tight with worry. She didn't look back at the man in the wheelchair behind her. "Logan is... volatile. We both know his history. Sending him to bring back some as fragile as Kurt is a dangerous gamble."
Professor Xavier sat perfectly still, his hands resting on the wool blanket draped over his legs. His gaze was fixed on the same patch of darkness, but unlike Storm, he wasn't looking with his eyes. He was feeling the psychic resonance of the grounds.
"He is not the man he was, Ororo," Charles said softly.
Storm turned, her white eyebrows knitting together. "He is Logan. He is a weapon. You have seen his mind, Charles. It is a labyrinth of trauma and violence. He does not 'retrieve.' He hunts."
"He hunts, yes," Xavier agreed, a faint, enigmatic smile touching his lips. "But a hunter is not the same thing as a killer. A killer destroys. A hunter provides."
Charles closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the brief, fleeting contact he had made with Logan's mind when he first arrived.
For years, whenever Charles had brushed against Logan's psyche, it had felt like touching a live wire. It was static, screaming rage, fragmented memories, and a constant, drowning noise of pain. It was a mind shattered by Weapon X, held together only by instinct and adamantium.
But today... today was different.
When Logan had looked at him, Charles had felt something else. The rage was still there, yes—a furnace burning in the basement—but the house itself was orderly. There was a clarity, a structure that hadn't been there before. The mind wasn't a chaotic storm; it was a fortress. It was the mind of a man who knew exactly who he was, and more importantly, who he wanted to be.
"He has changed," Charles murmured, opening his eyes. "The animal is no longer pulling at the leash. He has taken hold of it. He is patient. He is... protecting."
Storm looked skeptical. "I hope you are right. Kurt is fragile. If Logan scares him off, we may never see the boy again."
"Have faith, Ororo," Charles said. "Sometimes, it takes a monster to understand a monster."
BAMF.
The sound was sharp, displacing the air on the porch with a sudden change in pressure.
A cloud of sulfurous purple smoke exploded into existence right at the bottom of the steps, mixing with the mist of the rain.
Storm tensed, her hands sparking with tiny arcs of lightning, ready to intervene.
The smoke cleared.
Two figures stood there, soaked to the bone. Water dripped from the hem of Logan's ruined leather jacket and matted the fur on the blue boy standing next to him.
Logan stood with his feet planted wide, his posture relaxed, unthreatening. And next to him, Kurt Wagner was not cowering. He wasn't shaking.
He was beaming.
It was a smile that lit up the gloomy night, a toothy, joyful expression that seemed too big for his face.
"That was... incredible!" Kurt breathed, looking at his hands as if checking he was still in one piece. "The jump... it was smooth! Usually, I feel sick, but..."
"You stuck the landing, Elf," Logan grunted, reaching out to give the boy a rough, affectionate ruffle on his mop of wet, indigo hair. "Told you. Don't think about the wall. Think about the space behind it."
Kurt looked up at Logan with eyes full of hero worship. "You really think I can join the training tomorrow?"
"If you don't, I'm dragging you out of bed myself," Logan said. He jerked a thumb toward the heavy oak doors. "Now go get dried off before you catch pneumonia. I don't think your healing factor handles the sniffles as well as mine."
"Ja! Okay!"
Kurt turned to the Professor and Storm. He gave an awkward, respectful bow that was half-curtsey, his tail wagging behind him like a happy dog's.
"Professor! Miss Storm! I am back! I did not run away!"
"I see that, Kurt," Charles said, his smile widening. "We are very glad to have you home. Go on. The kitchen is open."
Kurt scrambled up the stairs, past them, and into the warmth of the foyer. BAMF. He teleported halfway down the hall just to save time, leaving a faint smell of brimstone and joy in his wake.
Silence returned to the porch.
Logan stood at the bottom of the steps, wiping rain from his face. He looked up at the two of them.
"Well," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Mission accomplished."
Storm stared at the empty doorway where Kurt had vanished, then back at Logan. Her expression was one of profound bewilderment, her glowing eyes fading back to their natural, piercing blue.
"I..." She faltered. "I have spent weeks trying to get him to look me in the eye without flinching. How did you...?"
Logan shrugged, walking up the steps. His heavy boots thudded against the stone. "We just had a chat. Man to... whatever he is."
He stopped in front of them. Up close, I could see the toll the day had taken on him. There were fresh tears in his shirt, dried blood on his collar, and a weariness in his eyes. But there was no tension in his shoulders.
"You have a gift, Logan," Charles said, looking up at him. "I admit, when you ran into the woods, I expected you to bring him back over your shoulder. I did not expect you to bring him back with a smile."
"Kid just needed to know he wasn't the only freak in the circus," I said, channeling the memories of the old Logan while mixing in my own modern perspective. "He's got a good heart. Just needs a little armor over it."
I looked at Storm. She was still studying me, like I was a puzzle she couldn't quite solve. She looked stunning, even in the gloom—regal, powerful, and intimidatingly beautiful.
"You look shocked, 'Ro," I teased, a small smirk playing on my lips.
"I am," she admitted, falling into step beside me as I moved toward the door. "I did not peg you for the nurturing type. Perhaps we have been underutilizing you. Maybe instead of combat training, we should assign you as the school guidance counselor."
I let out a bark of laughter, the sound echoing in the high ceiling of the entryway. "Yeah, that's a great idea. 'Alright kids, today's lesson is how to stab things and drink cheap beer.' Parents would love it. Tuition would skyrocket."
Storm rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The tension that usually existed between Logan and the rest of the team—the wariness—was evaporating.
"You surprise me, Logan," she said softly. "Truly."
I stopped, turning to look at her. I allowed a bit of the rogue charm to slip through, the kind of playful energy that the old Logan buried under layers of grumpiness.
"Stick around, Darlin'. I got plenty of surprises left."
I winked. It was bold, maybe a little cheesy, but it worked. Storm actually laughed, a bright, melodic sound that chased away the last of the storm's gloom.
"Come on," I said, gesturing deeper into the mansion. "I promised the Elf that you were making hot chocolate. And frankly, after the day I've had—waking up in a motel, fighting my psychotic brother, and climbing trees—I could use a cup. Heavy on the marshmallows."
"You promised him I would make it?" Storm raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation. "I am a Goddess of the Weather, Logan, not a barista."
"Hey, you control the temperature," I countered, walking alongside her. "You can flash-heat the milk. It's efficiency. I'm thinking about the electric bill."
"You are impossible."
"I'm charming. It's a curse."
Their voices faded down the hallway, blending into the ambient sounds of the mansion—the creaking wood, the distant hum of the generator, the quiet life of the school.
Outside, Charles Xavier remained on the porch for a moment longer.
He watched the empty hallway where the two most dangerous forces of nature he knew had just walked away, bickering like old friends.
He felt the change in the timeline. He didn't have precognition, but he had wisdom. The arrival of this Logan—this stabilized, focused, yet undeniably lethal Logan—had shifted the fulcrum. The darkness that Charles always feared was coming... the Sentinels, the wars, the extinctions... it suddenly felt a little less inevitable.
"Welcome home, Logan," Charles whispered to the night.
He turned his wheelchair and glided into the warmth of his school, the heavy oak doors closing behind him with a final, resonant thud.
[QUEST COMPLETE: HOMECOMING]
[OBJECTIVE MET: RETURN TO THE X-MANSION AND ESTABLISH RAPPORT]
I was sitting at the kitchen island, watching Storm fuss over a saucepan of milk, when the notification chimed in my head. It was the sweetest sound I'd heard all day.
[CALCULATING REWARDS...]
[RELATIONSHIP UPGRADE: CHARLES XAVIER (TRUSTED)]
[RELATIONSHIP UPGRADE: STORM (INTRIGUED/FRIENDLY)]
[RELATIONSHIP UPGRADE: KURT WAGNER (DEVOTED)]
[BASE REWARDS: +5 STR, +5 AGI, +5 END, Mutation upgrade path unlocked]
I felt the stats settle in. A subtle tightening of the muscles, a slight sharpening of the vision. But then, the window flashed gold. A Legendary color.
[BONUS REWARD UNLOCKED]
[CONDITION MET: COMPLETED QUEST WITH 'MENTOR' AND 'PROTECTOR' ARCHETYPES RATHER THAN 'BERSERKER'.]
[UNLOCING TEMPLATE...]
[MULTIVERSAL SHARD ACQUIRED: GABRIEL VAN HELSING (EARTH-TRN418)]
[INTEGRATION: 100%]
Time seemed to slow down.
I gripped the edge of the granite countertop. Storm was saying something about cinnamon, but I couldn't hear her.
It wasn't a memory flash this time. It was a physiological rewrite.
I felt it in my blood first. A heat that was different from the mutant rage. It was older. Primal.
The Van Helsing template. I remembered the movie. Hugh Jackman fighting Dracula. But specifically, I remembered the end. The Curse. The Werewolf of God.
[TEMPLATE ABILITIES ACQUIRED:]
Lycantropic Strength: Base strength multiplier doubled.
Monster Slayer: As a Van Helsing the knowledge passed from generation to generation of all monsters and how to hunt them has been deposited in your mind
Apex Speed: Movement speed increased to blur-levels when active.
The Beast Form: Ability to transform into the Divine Werewolf. (Note: Transformation is currently painful but controllable due to Host's high Willpower stat).
Supernatural Sense: Ability to detect undead, demonic, and unholy entities.
Alpha Trait: You protect the pack, no matter who comes to harm them you shall stand as their shield and wall. Your guidance they seek, your approval they desire. You are a hunter, a predator, skilled and dangerous, a leader.
Mentor trait: You have spent countless years alive, your mind is a deposit of combat knowledge and expertise. Now you can teach, better than before, better than ever
I looked down at my hands. Under the skin, I could feel the new power coiling around the old power. The Adamantium was still there, the mutant gene was still there, but wrapped around it was the essence of the Wolf.
The Wolverine was a tank. The Werewolf was a monster that killed tanks.
I took a deep breath, the air whistling through my teeth. My heart beat once, slow and powerful, like a war drum.
"Logan?" Storm turned, holding two steaming mugs. "Are you alright? You look... intense."
I blinked, clearing the golden notification from my vision. I looked at her, and my grin was sharper, wider, and filled with a terrifying amount of confidence.
I reached out and took the mug, my hand steady as a rock.
"Never better, 'Ro," I said, taking a sip. "Just thinking about the future."
I leaned back, the taste of chocolate and the hum of infinite power buzzing in my veins.
"It's gonna be a hell of a ride."