Caldecott County, Mississippi:
The air in the Deep South clung to you. It was thick and humid with the scent of swamp water, honeysuckle, and the damp earth of the bayou. But tonight, at the secluded lake house on the edge of the town, that natural scent was drowned out by the smell of cheap beer, expensive cologne, and the electric hum of a high school senior party in full swing.
The house was a large wooden structure with a wrap-around porch, glowing like a lantern in the sunsets afterglow. Inside, the floorboards groaned under the weight of fifty teenagers dancing to a bass-heavy beat that vibrated the glass in the window frames. It was the kind of party meant to celebrate the end of the year, a night where the future felt limitless and the rules of the world seemed like distant suggestions.
Outside, away from the sweltering heat of the dance floor, two boys walked toward the edge of the property where the docks seperated land from the dark, still waters of the lake. One of them, a broad-shouldered jock in a varsity jacket, had his arm slung heavily around his friend's neck.
"I'm tellin' ya, Cody, it's like those movies," the friend said, his voice slightly slurred. "I saw it on the news. People just... changing. Waking up and doing things they shouldn't be able to do. My old man says it's like body snatchers. Like they look like us, but they ain't us no more."
Cody, a handsome boy with a kind face and a mess of blonde hair, didn't answer. He stopped walking, his gaze fixed on a figure sitting alone on the edge of the pier, dangling her boots over the water.
His friend followed his stare and snickered. "Oh, man. You're still on that? You've been starin' at her in the halls all week like a lost puppy. Just go talk to her already."
"I don't even know her name, man," Cody muttered, shove-shuffling his feet. "She's new. She doesn't really talk to anyone."
The girl on the pier was a striking contrast to the neon-clad, sun-kissed girls inside the house. She was dressed in layers that seemed entirely too heavy for a Mississippi summer: a crop top with a dark green fishnet netting over it, a black PVC skirt, combat boots, and distinctive purple lipstick with a black collar with silver spikes. Her hair was a deep, rich brown, but two thick streaks of stark white framed her face, tucked behind her ears. Her makeup was dark, a gothic aesthetic that acted as a "keep away" sign to the rest of the world.
"Well, quit being a wuss," the friend said, giving Cody a violent shove toward the pier. "Go ask her to dance before the body snatchers get ya!"
Cody stumbled forward, nearly tripping over a tree root. The girl stiffened, her shoulders hunching as she heard the footsteps. She turned her head, her green eyes sharp and guarded, flickering with a mixture of annoyance and something that looked suspiciously like fear.
"Can I help ya with somethin'?" she asked. Her voice was a rich, melodic Southern drawl, honey-thick but edged with a warning.
Cody rubbed the back of his neck, his face turning a deep shade of red. "I... uh... hey. I'm Cody."
The girl just stared at him, her expression unchanging. "Good for you, Cody. I'm tryin' to listen to the crickets. They're a lot quieter than that mess inside."
"Right, yeah. The music is... it's a lot," Cody stammered, his confidence failing him. "I just... I was wonderin'... you... dance? Would you like to... with me? That is... if you want to."
The girl looked at him for a long beat. She looked at his honest, hopeful eyes, and then back at the house. A part of her wanted to tell him to get lost, to keep her distance like she always did. But there was something about the way he was looking at her—not like she was a freak, but like she was someone he actually wanted to be near.
She let out a small, huffed sigh. "Well, I reckon it's better than sittin' here waitin' for the mosquitoes to carry me off. Why not?"
She stood up, and Cody's face lit up like a Christmas tree. He turned back to the lawn, where his friend was standing in the shadows, giving him a double thumbs-up and a silent cheer.
A few miles away, in a quiet, modern home, the atmosphere was far from festive.
The interior was dim, the light off but the setting sun keeping things visible. A woman sat on a velvet armchair, her back perfectly straight. She wore a simple black dress and a pair of dark, wrap-around sunglasses that obscured her eyes completely. A silver-tipped walking stick rested against her knee.
This was Irene Adler, and to the world, she was a blind woman taking care of Rogue. To those who knew the truth, she was Destiny, a woman who saw the world not through light, but through the shifting threads of the future.
Suddenly, Irene's hand gripped the armrest of the chair so hard the fabric groaned. Her head snapped back, her breath hitching in her throat.
The "Sight" hit her like a physical blow.
In her mind, the darkness was replaced by a jagged, flashing image. She saw the lake house. She saw the girl—the child she had raised as her own—standing on a crowded dance floor. She saw a boy reaching out, his hand glowing with a terrifying, white-hot psychic static.
"No," Irene whispered, her voice trembling. "No, not yet. It's too soon."
The vision shifted. She saw the boy on the ground, his life force being drained away like water down a storm drain. She saw the girl screaming, her mind fracturing as she absorbed a lifetime of memories that weren't hers.
"Don't touch him!" Irene shouted into the empty room, her sightless eyes weeping behind her glasses. "Oh, my dear child... keep your distance! RUN!"
She collapsed forward, gasping for air, but the thread of the future had already been pulled. The manifestation was inevitable.
Back at the party, the music had shifted to something slower, a pulsing, rhythmic track that filled the room with a heavy heat.
Cody and the girl were in the center of the room. They weren't exactly "dancing" in the traditional sense; they were swaying, the girl keeping a careful few inches of space between them. But nevertheless having a great time, dancing like nobody was in the room.
"You're actually a pretty good dancer," Cody said, leaning in to be heard over the bass.
"Don't go gettin' a big head, Cody," she replied, a small, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I'm just tryin' not to trip over your feet."
Near the edge of the dance floor, Cody's best mate was watching them with a grin. He felt a surge of wingman pride. He wanted to give his friend the ultimate "in."
"Go for it, Cody!" the friend yelled, though his voice was lost to the music.
He stepped forward, intending to give Cody a playful, encouraging shove into the girl's arms—the classic "accident" to close the gap.
He lunged forward and shoved Cody's shoulder.
Cody, caught off guard and mid-step, lost his balance completely. He stumbled forward, his arms flailing. He collided with the girl, the force of his weight knocking her backward.
"Whoa!" Cody cried.
They hit the floor together. Cody landed on top of her, his chest pinned against hers. For a split second, the room seemed to go silent as the surrounding seniors started to snicker and whistle.
"Smooth move, Cody!" someone yelled.
"Get a room!" another laughed.
Cody, his face bright red, scrambled to get off her. "Oh man! I'm so sorry! I'm such a klutz!"
He stood up quickly, his hand automatically reaching down to help her up. It was an instinct. A gesture of kindness.
The girl was sitting on the floor, dazed, groaning due to the heavy impact. Her fishnet had shifted during the fall, exposing a small patch of skin at her wrist.
Cody's hand closed around her bare wrist.
And that was a big mistake.
The girl's eyes flew open, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks. A sound escaped her throat that wasn't a scream—it was a hollow, agonizing gasp, as if the very air had been vacuumed out of her lungs.
Cody's reaction was identical. His back arched, his head snapping back as a surge of brilliant, white-violet energy crackled between their skin. It looked like static electricity magnified a thousand times.
Flash.
Cody falling off a bike when he was six. The smell of asphalt and the taste of blood.
Flash.
The feeling of his first crush. The butterflies in his stomach when he looked at a girl in the third grade.
Flash.
His fear of failing his math final. His love for his golden retriever. His favorite song. The way he felt about the girl with the white hair standing in front of him right now.
The memories weren't being shared; they were being ripped out of him.And becoming part of her psyche.
The girl pulled her arm away with a violent jerk, falling backward and scrambling away on her hands and knees. The connection broke with a sound like a whip-crack.
The music had stopped. The room was deathly quiet now, the seniors backing away in a circle of pure, unadulterated horror.
Cody didn't move. He hit the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. His skin had gone a sickly, pale grey, and his eyes were rolled back in his head.
"Cody?" his friend whispered, stepping forward with trembling legs. "Cody, man, get up."
He didn't get up. He lay there, still as death.
The girl was huddled against the wall, her hands clutching her head. She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.
"My head..." she groaned, her voice sounding like two people speaking at once. "All these images... the bike... the dog... Cody? Why am I Cody?"
She looked up at the circle of horrified faces. She saw the fear in their eyes. She saw them looking at her like she was a monster. Like she was the "body snatcher" they had been joking about only minutes ago.
"What's happenin' to me?!" she shrieked, the Southern accent thick and desperate.
She looked at her hands, the gloves torn. She felt a hunger in her soul—a cold, empty void that had just been momentarily filled by the life of the boy on the floor, and now it was screaming for more.
"Who am I?" she whispered, her voice cracking as she felt her own identity slipping away, buried under the weight of Cody's stolen life. "What am I?!"
The lake house was no longer a place of celebration; it was a crime scene of the supernatural.
Rogue scrambled toward the exit, her vision blurring. It wasn't just her own panic anymore; it was Cody's. She could feel his fear of the dark, his worry about his mother's car, and—most sharply—his desperate crush on the girl with the white hair. It was a cacophony in her skull, a thousand needles of memory stitching themselves into her brain.
"Hey! What did you do to him?!" Cody's best friend, the one who had shoved him, was no longer laughing. He was terrified, and terror made him aggressive. He sprinted around the porch, positioning his broad frame right in front of the stairs to block her exit. "You ain't goin' nowhere till the cops get here, you freak!"
Rogue skidded to a halt, her breath coming in ragged hitches. "Please... move... I didn't mean to..."
As she looked at him, a strange sensation washed over her. It was like a film reel being played at triple speed. She saw the friend's stance, noticed the way his weight was distributed on his heels. Suddenly, her own body felt... different. Her center of gravity shifted. Her muscles tightened in a way they never had before.
Cody's memories. He wasn't just a nice guy; he was the star varsity linebacker. And right now, Rogue knew exactly how to execute a perfect lead block.
She didn't think. She reacted.
Rogue dropped her shoulder, her feet driving into the porch wood with sudden, explosive power. She slammed into the friend's chest with the precision of a seasoned athlete.
THUD.
The boy was lifted off his feet, flying backward over a decorative planter and landing hard on the grass. He groaned, the wind knocked out of him, staring up at Rogue with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Woah..." he gasped, clutching his ribs. "Ah thought... only Cody had moves like that."
Rogue didn't stay to listen. She leaped off the porch and vanished into the thick Mississippi treeline, her combat boots pounding the earth as she fled the sound of her own name being shouted into the dark.
Five miles away, the "modern home" was a quiet sanctuary of glass and stone, tucked away from the prying eyes of the town. Inside, the lights were low, highlighting the sleek, minimalist furniture.
Irene Adler sat on the designer leather sofa, her grip white-knuckled on the phone. She wasn't the calm seer now; she was a mother whose world was being torn apart.
"That is not what I said!" Irene shouted into the receiver, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You know as well as I do that my gifts are not a map; they are a compass! I see pathways, possibilities, the shape of what is to come. Not the exact second it strikes!"
She stood up, pacing the room with her silver-tipped cane, her sightless eyes fixed on some distant, internal horror.
"I saw the form of the manifestation. I knew it would be touch. I told you I took precautions! The long sleeves, the gloves, the stories about her 'skin condition'... I did everything! But she is a teenage girl, Raven! I could not keep her hidden like a prisoner in a dungeon!"
Irene listened to the voice on the other end—a voice that was cool, dangerous, and shifting in tone.
"Of course you're coming," Irene sighed, her anger draining away into a cold, hollow dread. "I know you can't stay away when she's like this."
She paused, her head tilting as a new thread of the future wove itself before her mind's eye.
"But you won't be the only one. The others... Xavier's team. They've sensed it too. They're coming, Raven. And they won't be as patient as I've been."
The Xavier Institute – 3:00 AM:
Crack.
The sound of bamboo splintering against flesh echoed like a gunshot.
The heat was unbearable—the humid, stifling air of a Japanese POW camp. Logan was shirtless, his body a map of scars and fresh, bleeding welts. Two Japanese soldiers were behind him, their faces masked by shadows, rhythmically slamming bamboo poles into his torso.
Logan didn't move. He couldn't.
Across his shoulders lay a massive, water-logged cedar log. It weighed hundreds of pounds, the rough bark biting into his raw skin. His muscles were screaming, his knees trembling under the sheer, agonizing pressure.
In front of him, tied to wooden posts, were the men of his unit. American soldiers. Boys, really. They were weeping, their eyes fixed on Logan with a mixture of terror and hope.
"Save us, Logan!" one of them sobbed. "Please... don't let him do it!"
A Japanese captain stood beside them, a Nambu pistol pressed to the temple of a young private. He was speaking, but the words were a blur of static in Logan's ears. All that mattered was the weight.
Don't drop it. If you drop the log, they die. Hold it. HOLD IT.
A cloth was tied tightly around Logan's mouth, gagging him, turning his screams of agony into muffled, desperate grunts. The bamboo hit him again. Crack. His healing factor was working overtime, the wounds closing even as new ones were opened. The torture was infinite because he wouldn't die.
"SAVE US, LOGAN! SAVE US!"
"LOGAN! LOGAN, WAKE UP!"
The world shattered.
Logan roared, a sound of pure, unbridled animal rage. His eyes snapped open—not the calm brown of a man, but a glowing, feral yellow.
SNIKT!
The six-inch adamantium claws erupted from his knuckles with a lethal schlick sound. He twisted in the bed, his body coiled like a spring, the claws swiping through the air, inches away from the throat of the person standing over him.
"Logan! No!"
Logan froze. The red haze of the POW camp retreated, replaced by the soft moonlight of the mansion.
Kitty Pryde was standing by the bed, her face pale, her hands raised in terror. She was inches away from being shredded.
Logan stared at her, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his chiseled torso. The yellow glow in his eyes faded, returning to normal. He blinked, the phantom weight of the log still ghosting over his shoulders.
"Kitty..." he rasped, his voice raw. He pulled the claws back, the metal sliding into his hands with a heavy, wet sound.
He slumped back against the headboard, rubbing his face with his hands. "God... I'm sorry, kid. I'm so sorry."
A self-deprecating frown etched itself onto his face. He felt like a monster. He was a monster.
He felt a small, warm hand on his shoulder. Kitty didn't shrink away. She stepped closer, her expression shifting from fear to deep, genuine concern. "It's okay, Logan. I know you didn't mean it. You were... you were screaming. Loud."
Logan looked down at his hands. He was shaking. "Just a dream, kid. Too much history, I guess."
"The Professor is calling everyone out," Kitty said softly. "He said it's an emergency."
Before Logan could respond, a soft BAMF echoed through the room, accompanied by a cloud of purple, sulfur-smelling smoke.
"Is everything alright? I heard the shouting!"
Kurt Wagner—Nightcrawler—appeared at the foot of the bed. Kitty let out a sharp gasp of fright, losing her balance and falling backward.
Logan's reflexes, even sleep-deprived, were perfect. He reached out and caught her by the waist, gently steadying her.
Kurt winced, a sheepish grin on his blue face. "Ach! My apologies, Fraulein! Next time I will honk before I... pork?"
Kitty sighed, standing up on her own and smoothing out her pajamas. She looked at Kurt with a look of mild annoyance. "It's 'pop,' Kurt. Before you pop."
"Pop! Right. My English, it is still... under construction," Kurt laughed.
Kitty looked at the two of them—the feral man and the blue demon. "I'll see you guys downstairs with the Professor. Try not to break anything on the way down."
She turned and simply dropped through the floor, phasing out of sight.
Kurt watched the spot where she vanished. "She is... fully not into the fuzzy dude, is she? Not that I blame her. I am a bit much at three in the morning."
Logan let out a heavy sigh, swinging his legs out of bed. He was only in his boxers, his muscular frame glistening with a layer of cold sweat. He walked over to Kurt and reached out, ruffling the boy's messy navy-blue hair.
"Don't sweat it, bub," Logan grunted, his voice regaining some of its gravelly warmth. "She's still new here. She's still trying to figure out if she's in a school or a circus. Give her time."
Kurt smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Logan... are you okay? I could hear you through the wall. You sounded like... like you were being killed."
Logan stopped, his hand lingering on Kurt's shoulder. He thought about the last three nights. The memories weren't just dreams; they were bleeding through. The System, or whatever brought him here, was unlocking the vaults of Wolverine's long, bloody life. The wars, the Weapon X facility, the loss of everyone he'd ever loved. It was a tidal wave of trauma, and he was the only one holding the levee.
"I'm fine, Kurt," Logan lied, pulling on a pair of dark jeans. He grabbed a grey, short-sleeve V-neck shirt from a chair. As he pulled it on, the fabric stretched tight over his chest and shoulders, the sweat making the shirt cling to his physique.
Kurt looked at him, then looked down at his own slender, three-fingered hands. He looked a little jealous of the effortless, rugged power Logan projected even when he was exhausted.
Logan caught the look and smirked, giving Kurt a playful nudge. "What's the matter, elf? You worried you won't fill out a shirt like this?"
Kurt laughed, the tension breaking. "In my dreams, Logan! In my dreams. Come, the Professor is waiting. Hold onto your stomach!"
Kurt grabbed Logan's arm, and with another BAMF, they were gone.
The Foyer – Xavier Institute:
They materialized in the grand foyer, where Jean and Scott were already waiting. Charles sat in the center of the room, his expression unusually grim.
"Ah, Logan. Thank you for joining us," Charles said.
"What's the word, Chuck? Who's the fire drill for?"
Charles tapped a button on his chair, and a holographic map of Mississippi appeared in the air. "Cerebro has detected a powerful, highly erratic mutant signature in Caldecott County. The mental impressions I've received are... disturbing. It is an individual in a state of extreme psychological shock. She is a danger to herself, and unfortunately, to anyone who comes within reach of her."
Charles looked at each of them. "X-Men... we have a Rogue."
As the words left his mouth, the familiar golden interface flashed in Logan's mind.
[NEW MISSION: UNMASK THE FAKE] [OBJECTIVE: LOCATE THE MUTANT 'ROGUE'.] [SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: THE SHAPESHIFTER 'MYSTIQUE' IS ATTEMPTING TO MANIPULATE ROGUE BY POSING AS THE REAL LOGAN. YOU MUST CONVINCE ROGUE OF YOUR IDENTITY BEFORE SHE IS TURNED AGAINST THE X-MEN.] [REWARD: +5 WIL, +5 CHA, HIDDEN PRIZE UNLOCKED UPON COMPLETION.]
Logan's jaw tightened. Mystique. He knew that name. A shapeshifter. A liar. And apparently, she was already on the ground.
"Logan? You're unusually quiet," Jean noted, her brow furrowed.
"Just thinking about the South, Red," Logan grunted. "Lot of places to hide in the bayou. We better move."
"Agreed," Scott said, his hand on his visor. "To the Blackbird."
Thirty Minutes Later – The Blackbird
The jet roared through the night sky, its cloaking field engaged. Inside the cockpit, Scott and Jean were running pre-flight checks, while Kurt and Kitty sat in the back, whispering to each other.
Logan sat alone in the corner, staring out the window at the distant, dark horizon. He could feel the "Beast" from the Van Helsing template pacing in the back of his mind, sensing the conflict to come.
He didn't care about the stats or the hidden prize. He thought about the girl in Mississippi—scared, alone, and about to be lied to by someone who wanted to use her as a weapon.
He gripped the armrests of his seat, his knuckles turning white.