The hum of the Blackbird's engines was a low-frequency vibration that most people would find soothing, but to me, it felt like a swarm of angry hornets buzzing against my skull. Ever since the Level 2 Mutation kicked in, the world had become a lot louder, a lot brighter, and infinitely more crowded. Despite what most fanfics and anime I had seen displayed about gaining power all of a sudden, you don't just adapt and learn to control it in a day.That was something I learned 3 days ago.
Up in the cockpit, Kurt was humming a German folk tune, his blue three-toed feet gripped firmly onto the secondary flight controls while his hands adjusted the navigation array. Beside him, Scott Summers—the golden boy of the Xavier Institute—sat with his back straighter than a steel girder, his gloved hands resting perfectly on the primary yoke.
"Stealth mode is stable, Scott," Kurt announced, his voice crackling over the internal comms with a grin. "Leveling off at ten thousand feet. The Jackson approach looks clear."
Scott nodded, his red visor reflecting the glow of the dashboard. "Hold it steady, Kurt. Your altitude control is getting better. Keep your toes off the ejector seat button this time."
Kurt chuckled, looking genuinely pleased with the praise. Scott then turned his head slightly toward the Professor. "Professor, I've cleared the flight plan with the FAA under the 'Specialized Search and Rescue' permit. We're clear through Jackson. Once we land, we'll take the van to the coordinates."
Charles smiled, his eyes twinkling with parental pride. "Excellent work, Scott. You're picking up the logistics of these operations with remarkable speed. Your leadership in the field is becoming quite refined."
Scott's chest practically puffed out. He turned back to the front, a small, confident smirk playing on his lips.
I narrowed my eyes at the back of his head from my seat. Chucks golden boy and the future leader of the X-men...The same guy who would later abandon the team every time Jean died while Logan picked up the pieces but no one ever acknowledged that—Of course there's also the fact that Scott Summers would eventually turn into a man so stiff and uncompromising he'd break the team in half. Right now, he was just a kid playing soldier, but the seeds of that "by-the-book" obsession were already sprouting.
In the seat behind Jean, Kitty leaned forward, her voice a stage whisper that I could hear as clearly as if she were shouting into my ear.
"Oh my god, Jean, did you see that?" Kitty gushed, glancing toward the cockpit. "Scott is, like, so together. He's so cool. And, I mean... he's kind of cute, right?"
Jean let out a dry, short scoff, not even looking up from her tablet. "Cute? I don't see it, Kitty. He's... stiff. Maybe a bit too exacting for his own good. He probably organizes his sock drawer by thread count."
Kitty rolled her eyes. "Exacting is just another word for 'knows what he's doing.' I think it's sweet."
Up front, Kurt's ears twitched. I could smell the sudden spike of jealousy rolling off him—the sharp, acidic scent of insecurity. He looked from Scott to the windshield, his need to prove that he was just as 'cool' as the field leader practically radiating off his blue skin.
"Exacting, ja?" Kurt muttered to himself. "I will show them exacting."
Before Scott could react, Kurt vanished in a violent cloud of purple smoke. BAMF.
"Kurt!" Scott shouted, his hands frantically grabbing for the controls Kurt had just abandoned.
I looked out the main windshield. Kurt had teleported himself outside the jet. He was standing on the nose of the Blackbird, ten thousand feet in the air, grinning through the glass as the 400-mile-per-hour wind whipped his hair. He took one step, trying to look heroic, when the sheer pressure of the slipstream caught him.
His eyes went wide as he was blasted backward. He lost his footing, his body flipping over the top of the canopy like a rag doll.
"Kurt, you idiot!" I growled, standing up.
He warped just before he hit the tail fins, a desperate BAMF echoing through the cabin as he reappeared inside. But his momentum was still there. He flew through the air, screaming, and slammed directly into Kitty, sending both of them tumbling into the aisle in a tangle of limbs and blue fur.
"Kurt!" Charles's voice boomed, sharp and authoritative. "That was incredibly reckless! You could have been killed, and you certainly could have frightened Katherine!"
Kitty groaned, her face contorted in a mask of pure disgust as she shoved Kurt's tail off her shoulder. "Ugh! Get off me, you fuzzy freak! Like, stay away from me!"
She scrambled to her feet, wiping her shirt as if she'd been touched by a wet dog, and stomped toward the back of the jet, as far from Kurt as she could get. Kurt sat on the floor, looking dejected, his pointed ears drooping.
I sat back down, letting out a long, weary breath. Kids *sigh* how could I forget that Kurt did this in the show.
I leaned my head back against the cold metal of the hull and closed my eyes. The movement, the noise, the drama—it all felt secondary. My internal focus was elsewhere.
Ever since I'd hit Level 2 Mutation, things had changed. It wasn't just about being stronger; it was merging. Liam, the guy from the modern world, was still there, but Logan—the Wolverine—his experiences his life was slowly becoming mine. The memories weren't just data anymore; they were sensations. I could feel the cold of the Canadian wilderness; I could smell the gunpowder of Normandy; I could feel the phantom weight of a cedar log on my shoulders.
System, I thought. Show me my stats.
A golden screen flickered to life in my mind, transparent but vivid.
[MUTATION STATUS: LEVEL 2 - THE APEX]
[ATTRIBUTES]
(STR): 30 - 90
(AGI): 30 - 90
(END): 35 - 105
(INT): 15 - 25
(CHA): 20 - 25
(WIL): 25 - 30
[NEW MUTATION TRAITS UNLOCKED]
Senses (Apex Tier): Olfactory and auditory processing increased to 5,000× human baseline. Can track a specific scent across state lines and hear a heartbeat through lead-lined walls.
Vision (Nocturnal/Spectral): 30× visual acuity. Partial night vision.
Reaction Speed: 3× greater than the peak of the Super Soldier threshold (0.05s response time).
Muscle Density: Cellular structure is 3× denser than a normal human's, providing natural resistance against physical damage and immense physical benefits in speed and power.
Carbon-Fiber Reinforced Skeleton: Underneath the adamantium, the bone marrow has restructured into a carbon-fiber-like lattice for maximum durability.
Adaptive Regeneration: Healing factor now prioritizes threats. If burned, skin becomes temporarily heat-resistant; if drowning, lung capacity expands.Resistance increases with duration of damage.
Osteo-Reinforced Claws: Bone claws have evolved into a serrated, high-density edge, now coated in the system-refined adamantium.
I stared at the "Osteo-Reinforced" part. I looked down at my knuckles. I could feel the claws resting inside my forearms—they felt heavier, more "hungry." When they popped now, they didn't just cut; they tore.
But it came with a price.
The nightmares.
The image of that POW camp flashed through my mind again. The sound of the bamboo... Crack. The smell of my own burning flesh as the soldiers beat me. The faces of the men I couldn't save because I was too busy being a "good soldier" and holding that damn log.
It wasn't just a memory. It was an anchor. It was the system reminding me that to be the Wolverine, I had to carry the weight of every life he'd ever taken and every bit of pain he'd ever endured.
I felt a bead of cold sweat roll down my neck. My heart rate spiked, the thump-thump echoing in my ears like a drum.
[WARNING: PSIONIC ECHO DETECTED] [ADAPTIVE REGENERATION ATTEMPTING TO STABILIZE MENTAL TRAUMA]
I'm fine, I told the system, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth creaked. I'm fine.
"Logan?"
I opened my eyes. Jean was looking at me, her brow furrowed. She didn't say anything, but I could feel her telepathic touch—a soft, warm pressure against the jagged edges of my mind.
"I'm fine, Red," I grunted, my voice a low rumble. "Just hate flying."
She didn't believe me, but she gave me the space I needed. She knew better than to poke the bear when its eyes were glowing.
[MISSION NOTIFICATION] [UNMASK THE FAKE: CURRENT STATUS - IN TRANSIT] [REMINDER: MYSTIQUE IS CLOSING IN ON THE TARGET 'ROGUE'. PREPARE FOR PSYCHOLOGICAL AND PHYSICAL COMBAT.]
I looked out the window at the dark, rolling clouds of the Mississippi border. My senses were already reaching out, filtering through the smell of the jet's ozone and the teenagers' sweat.
Somewhere down there was a girl whose touch could steal a persons life force. And somewhere near her was a woman who could look like anyone—maybe even me.
I gripped the armrests, my fingers leaving deep indentations in the high-tech alloy. The Beast in the back of my mind wasn't pacing anymore. It was crouched, ready to leap.
I didn't care about the stats. I didn't care about the rewards. I was going to find that girl, and I was going to show her that while the world might be full of monsters and fakes, there was only one Wolverine.
And he was coming to bring her home.
"Dropping to five thousand feet," Scott announced, his voice snapping me back to the present. "Landing in ten minutes. Get ready, team."
I stood up, the grey V-neck clinging to my frame, highlighting the defined build the system had gifted me. My body was something that could put Thors to shame and watching Chris Hemsworth in the MCU during Thor Love and Thunder, I knew what I was talking about.
The bumping of the jets wheels against the asphalt shook me out of my thoughts, and slowly the plane came to the a stop.
The Blackbird's ramp lowered with a mechanical hiss, venting the pressurized cabin air into the sweltering, humid soup of a Mississippi evening. We were met on the tarmac by a stiff-faced man in a cheap suit—an FAA liaison who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Behind him sat a nondescript white van, the kind of vehicle meant to blend into the scenery of a sleepy southern town.
"The keys are in the ignition," the man said, barely looking at Charles. "The local authorities have been told to stay clear of the Caldecott area for the next three hours. Don't make me regret this."
"You have my word, Agent," Charles replied, his voice calm and professional. He gestured to the van. "Everyone, inside. We have a significant distance to cover, and time is of the essence."
Scott was already at the driver's side, his hand on the door. Jean, Kurt, and Kitty began to pile in, their faces tight with the tension of the mission. But I stayed rooted to the ground.
"Logan?" Charles's voice carried that edge of academic authority that usually worked on the kids. "This is no time for a fuss. We need to move as a unit. Get in the van."
I didn't answer. I didn't even look at him. I closed my eyes, tilting my head back. I began to tune out the sound of the idling engine, the crickets in the tall grass, and the sharp, insistent rhythm of Scott's heartbeat. I pushed past the Professor's voice, turning it into background static.
I needed the scent.
With the Level 2 Mutation I had become a huntning in the truest sense of the word, the world appeared in my mind through smell;. I could smell the stale coffee in the FAA agent's breath, the ozone clinging to the jet's hull, and the deep, loamy rot of the nearby swamp. But I was looking for someone specific.
Only I didn't know how to find her, I had nothing belonging to her, no piece of clothing, or possesion that could help me. I was lost, but I couldn't give up, my senses were nearly as great as a bloodhounds, there must be a way. And then it hit me.
I was looking for a person when I should have been looking for something deeper, the fear she was feeling.
Fear has a scent—it's bitter, like burnt rubber and copper. Desperation is different; it's cloying, a thick, oily smell that sticks to the back of the throat. I searched the air currents, my mind mapping the invisible trails of pheromones and stressed female hormones drifting on the wind.
"Logan, I'm talking to you!" Scott snapped, stepping away from the van. "We have a plan. You don't just get to walk off because you're having a mood."
Jean, sensing the sudden shift in my mood, reached out with her mind. [Logan? What are you doing? Let us—]
The moment her telepathic "fingers" brushed against my subconscious, the Van Helsing side of my soul roared back. Though no one has seen my werewolf side, it would rear its frightening head when I used its power, and rear its head it did. A wall of primal, predatory territorial pride slammed shut in her face.
I opened my eyes. I was still facing away from them, but I could feel the heat radiating from my own skin. My eyes weren't brown anymore. They were a vivid, burning gold—the eyes of the Beast.
There.
About four miles out. A spike of pure, unadulterated terror. It was accompanied by the smell of lavender soap and old, dusty paper. It was Rogue. And it was moving.
Jean gasped, her hand flying to her chest as she stumbled back against the van. She looked like she'd just been shoved by an invisible giant.
"Jean! What's wrong?" Scott asked, catching her by the shoulders.
"He's... he, he forced me away" Jean whispered, her eyes wide with an emotion she couldn't name.
I turned my head just enough to see Charles, losing that golden glow. "I've got her trail, Chuck. She's not where you think she is. She's at a house on the edge of town. And she isn't alone."
"Logan, wait!" Charles shouted. "We must coordinate! The girl is volatile—"
"I'm faster on foot," I grunted. "I'll meet you there."
Scott:" Faster on foot ? We're driving in a van Logan !"
I started to turn, ignoring the little shit but a small, firm hand gripped my wrist. It was Kitty. She was looking up at me, her eyes filled with a desperate kind of loyalty. She'd seen what I did at the school, and she didn't want the "safety" of the van. She wanted the man who had pulled her out of the rubble.
"Don't go alone," she pleaded. "Let me go with you. I can... I can go through the walls. I can help."
I looked down at her. The golden light in my eyes returning for a fraction of a second. I reached out with my free hand and patted her head, my fingers lingering on her hair.
"Not this time, half pint," I said, my voice low and gravelly. "This one is personal. You stay with the team. You're safer with the Professor. I need you to be here, alright?"
"But you promised—"
"I'll be back," I said, confident and warmed by her desire to stay close to me. "And when I am, I'll make it up to you. Scout's honor."
Reluctantly, her fingers slipped from my wrist. I didn't wait for another protest. I turned and began sprinting away only when I was out of their sight did I finally run. The wind rushed past me so fast I barely felt it, and before it knew it I was running on all fours like a beast.
I wasn't running. I was hunting.
With 90 Agility and 90 Strength, the town was no longer an obstacle. I moved like a flicker of shadow, my feet barely touching the ground before I launched myself another thirty feet forward. Every muscle was a coiled spring, every breath a fuel injection. I was a blur of leather and golden eyes, cutting through the Mississippi night at a speed that would have left the van in the dust.
With Rogue:
The room was blue. Everything was blue. The curtains, the rug, the posters of the local football team on the walls.
Rogue sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clutching a leather-bound scrapbook. Her head felt like it was being split open by a rusted axe. Every time she breathed, she saw flashes of things she shouldn't know.
The taste of a victory pizza after the homecoming game. The way it felt to hold a trophy in front of a cheering crowd. The warmth of a mother's hug after a scraped knee.
"This is my life," Rogue whispered, her voice cracking. She turned a page in the scrapbook, seeing a photo of a young, blonde boy holding a puppy. "This is me. I remember this. I remember the puppy's name was Buster. I remember... I remember..."
She stood up, her legs shaking, and walked over to the dresser mirror. She looked at the reflection—the white-streaked hair, the dark makeup, the haunted green eyes.
"Who is this?" she screamed at the glass. "Which 'me' am I?!"
In a fit of agonizing frustration, she swept her arm across the dresser. Trophies clattered to the floor, shattering. Photos of Cody's family flew through the air like broken memories.
"Get out of my head!" she shrieked, clutching her temples. "SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
The bedroom door slammed open, the wood splintering against the wall.
Rogue spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs. Standing in the doorway was a man. He was short, thick-set, wearing a brown and tan suit with a mask that had long, pointed black ears.
"Who are you?" she gasped frightened.
"You're coming with me, girly," the man said. His voice was rough, but there was a coldness to it—almost like he didn't see a person but prey. "The Professor wants a word, and I ain't in the mood for games."
"Who are you? What do you want?" Rogue demanded, backing away toward the window.
"I told you. I'm part of the X-Men," the imposter said. He stepped into the room, his movements jagged and aggressive. He launched a sudden, brutal kick toward her ribs.
Rogue's body reacted before her mind did. Cody's muscle memory took over. She twisted, the football player's agility allowing her to dodge the blow. The imposter's foot slammed into the wooden dresser, smashing the frame.
Rogue grabbed a piece of the broken wood, holding it out like a stake. "Stay back! I don't know nothin' about no X-Men!"
The imposter growled, and the sound was wrong—it was a performance of a beast, not the beast itself.
SNIKT.
Three claws slid out of his knuckles. They looked real, but they didn't smell like metal, they didn't even shine.
"I'm done talking," the fake Logan snarled, crouching low. "You're coming, even if I have to carry you out in pieces!"
He lunged. Rogue squeezed her eyes shut, a scream building in her throat, waiting for the cold bite of the steel.
CRASH!
The bedroom window didn't just break; it exploded.
A shadow burst through the glass in a shower of diamond-bright shards. It was a blur of grey fabric and raw, unbridled power. Before the imposter could reach Rogue, a massive, calloused hand grabbed the fake's shoulder, and a right hook—delivered with the force of a wrecking ball—slammed into the imposter's jaw.
The fake "Wolverine" was launched backward, crashing through the drywall and into the hallway with a sickening crunch of timber and plaster.
I stood in the center of the room, my boots crunching on the glass. I didn't have the mask. I didn't have the suit. I just had the grey V-neck, the boots, the jeans, and a rage that was making the air in the room vibrate.
I let out a low, guttural growl, a sound so animalistic it made the remaining glass in the window-frames rattle. I turned my head toward the hole in the wall, my yellow eyes tracking the movement of the shapeshifter as she scrambled away in the dark.
Then, I heard it.
The sound of a heart beating faster than it should.
I turned. Rogue was on her knees in the corner of the room, her hands over her ears. She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving so fast it looked like her heart might burst. Her eyes were unfocused, darting around the room as if she were seeing a dozen different worlds at once.
Who am I? Which is she? Why is there so much blood? Cody? ROGUE? PLEASE! SOMEONE! HELP ME!
Her thoughts were a scream I didn't need telepathy to hear what I could read on her face. I could see it in the way she was shrinking into herself, trying to become small enough to disappear.
I retracted my claws. I dampened the yellow glow in my eyes. I took a step forward, my boots making no sound on the carpet.
"Hey kid...Rogue," I said. My voice wasn't the roar of the hunter anymore. It was the soft rumble of a man who knew exactly what it felt like to have a mind full of memories that didn't belong to him.
She didn't look up. She was shivering, a low, keening moan escaping her lips.
I knelt down in front of her. I didn't care about the risk. I didn't care if she touched me and saw the horrors of Weapon X or the memories of Liam. She was drowning, and I was the only thing solid enough to hold onto.
I reached out and slowly, gently, pulled her into an embrace.
I wrapped my arms around her, my broad chest acting as a shield against the rest of the world. I felt her heart pounding—a frantic, staccato rhythm against my ribs.
"It's alright, darlin'," I whispered into her ear. I began to stroke her hair, my hand moving in a slow, rhythmic motion that I'd seen mothers use on their children. "You're okay. You're safe now. I've got you."
"The... the images," she choked out, her voice a fragile thing. "The boy... a'm him... but a'm not... a'm a monster..."
"No," I said, my voice firm. "You're just a lot of weight. And I know all about weight, believe me."
I held her tighter, letting my own body heat—boosted by the mutation—warm her chilled skin. I didn't push. I didn't ask for her name. I just sat there in the wreckage of a boy's bedroom, acting as the anchor for a girl who was drifting away.
For the first time since that moment at the lake house, the tension in Rogue's body snapped. She didn't pull away. She grabbed the fabric of my grey shirt, burying her face in my chest, and she began to cry.
It wasn't a quiet cry. It was a deep, racking ugly cry, snot and all. But I stayed there even as I felt the moisture sink through my shirt.
I didn't move. I just kept stroking her hair, my yellow eyes staring out into the dark hallway where the fake had vanished.
"Let it out, kid," I murmured. "I ain't going nowhere."
In that moment, the system interface flashed a soft, warm gold in the corner of my vision.
[QUEST COMPLETED: THE HUNGER OF THE SOUL] [OBJECTIVE MET: PROTECT ROGUE FROM THE IMPOSTER]
[HIDDEN OBJECTIVE COMPLETE: PROVIDE GENUINE EMOTIONAL ANCHOR]
[REWARD: +5 CHA, +5 WIL]
[HIDDEN PRIZE UNLOCKED: BONUS REWARD EMPATHY HAS BECOME 'THE WOLVERINE'S COMPASSION' - YOU CAN NOW TEMPORARILY STABILIZE OTHERS' MENTAL TRAUMA AND SENSE EMOTION THROUGH PHYSICAL CONTACT.]
I didn't care about the prize. I just felt the girl in my arms finally stop shaking. I felt her breath evening out.
And for the first time in a long time, the Beast in my head was silent.