The warehouse was silent, dark and gloomy. The night sky over it illuminated by the white moon and stars, the only sound were the footsteps of a security guard.
The guard moved with a fluid, almost royal grace. Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight, high ponytail that swung like a pendulum with every step. Her uniform was crisp, her eyes scanning the crates with vigilance and care.
High above her, tucked into the darkness of the rafters, a figure moved. Evan didn't make a sound. He shifted his weight, and with a series of muffled thwips, jagged, ivory-colored bone spikes erupted from his forearms and palms. He pressed them into the bricks of the wall, using them like climbing pitons to hang suspended directly over the guard's path.
She passed beneath him. Evan didn't hesitate. He dropped, silently, landing directly behind her. Before she could turn, he pulled a canister from his belt and hissed a cloud of pressurized gas directly into her face. The woman gasped, her knees buckled, and she slumped into his arms, unconscious.
"One down," Evan whispered into his comms, dragging her into the shadows.
On the other side of the warehouse, near the secondary loading dock, another guard was on patrol. This one was taller, bulkier, with wild dark hair and a permanent scowl. He walked unbothered by the objects around him, his nostrils flaring as if he could literally smell trouble. Or maybe it was the sweat of those around him.
He stopped, his head snapping toward a solid brick wall. His senses picking up something.
Inside the wall, Kitty Pryde held her breath. The her body phased between the inside and the wall like a ghost. She could see the guard—or rather, the hazy, outline of him—through the bricks.
She stepped through, emerging into the air behind him with a faint whoosh. The man began to turn, his reflexes frighteningly fast, but Kitty was faster. She lunged forward, pressing the nozzle of her spray-can to his nose.
"Lights out, big guy," she whispered.
The guard's eyes went wide for a split second before the sedative took hold. He collapsed like a ton of bricks. Kitty caught him—which was a feat, considering how heavy he was—and leaned him against a crate. She tapped her earpiece.
"Scott, the perimeter is clear. We're a go for the extraction."
On the roof, directly above the center of the warehouse, Scott Summers adjusted his yellow-tinted visor. Beside him, Kurt Wagner crouched, his tail twitching in the cool night air.
"Ready, Kurt?" Scott asked.
"Always, mein Freund," Kurt grinned.
Kurt grabbed Scott's shoulders, his fingers digging into the Kevlar of Scott's uniform.
BAMF.
The smell of sulfur and a cloud of indigo smoke heralded their arrival inside the building. They appeared directly beneath the glass sunroof, but there was a problem. The floor below wasn't empty; it was a lethal boobytrap of glowing red laser lines, crisscrossing the air in a complex, shifting grid.
"Whoa!" Kurt cried out, his boots nearly clipping a beam as they began to fall.
Suddenly, their descent slowed. They didn't hit the lasers. Instead, they found themselves hovering in mid-air, as if suspended by invisible wires.
"You guys really need to cut back on the burgers," a strained, feminine voice echoed in their ears. "You're getting heavy."
They looked up. Jean Grey was perched on a narrow maintenance window thirty feet up, one hand pressed to her temple, the other reaching out toward them, her fingers trembling with the effort of holding their weight with her mind.
"Thanks, Jean," Scott whispered, his voice urgent. "Lower us down. Gently."
Jean swept her hand downward. Scott and Kurt descended like astronauts in low gravity, drifting through the gaps in the laser grid.
In the center of the room, a woman was chained to a massive iron support beam. Her head was hooded, but her posture was one of defeated exhaustion.
"Storm!" Scott whispered hoarsely. "We've got you!"
He looked at the heavy iron chain securing her wrist to the beam. He touched the side of his visor, adjusting the intensity of his optic blast. He fired two quick, shots of red concussive energy.
Pew! Pew!
The beams sizzled through the air, but they missed the chain by inches, scorching the iron beam instead.
"Nice aim," Kurt jeered softly, suppressed a laugh.
Scott grumbled, "The wind in here is weird." He took a breath, centered himself, and fired a third time.
CLANG.
The chain shattered.
"Yes!" Kurt hissed, and the two high-fived.
High above, Jean was so focused on holding the boys steady that she didn't hear the silent footsteps behind her. A dark, hooded figure emerged from the shadows of the rafters, moving with the terrifying stillness of a predator.
The figure leaned in close to Jean's ear.
"Boo."
"GAH!" Jean shrieked, her concentration snapping like a dry twig.
The telekinetic field vanished instantly.
"Whoa-oh-no!" Kurt and Scott yelled as gravity reclaimed them. They tumbled the last six feet, crashing onto the warehouse floor. Fortunately, as their bodies hit the ground, the laser grid flickered and died, the security system disengaging.
Kurt was the first one up, shaking the cobwebs out of his head. He rushed to Scott's side, helping him up. "You okay, Scott?"
"I'm fine," Scott groaned, rubbing his lower back. He looked at the hooded hostage. "Let's grab her and get out of here!"
Scott reached out, his hand grasping the hooded woman's arm. "Storm, come on, we have to move!"
The hostage didn't move. Instead, her hand clamped down on Scott's wrist with hands cold as steel. She looked up, the hood falling back to reveal the face of Rogue—but something was wrong. Her eyes weren't green; they were glowing a fierce, artificial crimson.
"Gotcha," the Rogue-thing said in a metallic, distorted southern accent.
Before Scott could react, a twin beam of red energy erupted from the Rogue-android's eyes, slamming into Kurt and sending the blue mutant flying backward into a stack of crates.
"Kurt!" Scott yelled. He raised his hand to his visor, his finger hovering over the trigger. "You're not Storm!"
He was about to unleash a full-force blast when a voice like thunder boomed through the entire warehouse.
"STOP THE SIMULATION! NOW!"
The warehouse walls didn't just fade; they dissolved. The crates, the darkness, the rusted iron beams—all of it vanished into a grid of yellow lines on a black background. The "Rogue" holding Scott's arm suddenly went limp, its eyes losing their glow, revealing the dull grey plastic and circuitry of a training android.
The massive steel doors of the Danger Room hissed open.
Wolverine stomped in, his boots echoing like gunshots on the metallic floor. Behind him followed Professor Xavier in his hover-chair, along with Storm, the real Jean, Kitty, and Evan.
Scott stood in the center of the room, panting, his visor still glowing. He looked at Logan, his jaw set in an angry line. "What the hell, Logan? We were right in the middle of the extraction! Why did you kill the sim?"
Logan didn't stop until he was inches from Scott's face. He was taller than the boy, and the sheer physical menace radiating off him made Scott take a half-step back. Logan's nostrils were flaring, a low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest.
"Sim's over, Summers," Logan barked. He turned his head, his yellow eyes fixing on Xavier. "Charles, what is this? Why was Rogue the target?"
Xavier sighed, his expression calm but weary. "It was a variable, Logan. The team needs to be prepared for the possibility of a teammate being compromised or mimicked. The element of surprise is a vital teacher."
"Element of surprise my ass!" Logan shouted, his voice echoing in the vast room. He gestured wildly at the deactivated android. "You used her likeness without her consent. You turned her into a villain in front of the people she's already terrified of being around!"
Logan's perspective was a storm of red-tinted fury. He wasn't just angry at the simulation; he was angry at the lack of control. Liam's, his memories of the show told him that Rogue was fragile right now, a girl held together by a little bit of hope, hell the only reason she was even with them now instead of later was because of him.
"I wasn't informed," Logan growled, turning back to Charles. "Why wasn't I told she was being used as the 'surprise'?"
"Logan, please," Charles said, his voice entering Logan's mind with a soothing, telepathic touch. Calm your mind, my friend. We can discuss the logistics in my office—
"GET OUT!" Logan roared, his hands flying to his head. He pushed back with a mental force that made Xavier flinch in his chair. "Stay out of my head, Chuck! No more mind-games!"
The room went deathly silent. The students looked at each other, stunned. They had seen Logan grumpy, even aggressive when it came to enemies, but never directed at them.
"The Professor is just trying to make us better!" Scott stepped forward, trying to reclaim his authority. "We have to be ready for anything! If Rogue joined us in training, maybe we wouldn't have to use androids, but she's too busy hiding in her room!"
Logan spun on his heel. He didn't claw Scott, but he jabbed a finger into the boy's chest hard enough to make him wince.
"She isn't 'hiding,' kid. She's scared. She's a girl who can't touch another human being without nearly killing them. She needs a teacher, a mentor, a family—not to be used as a target practice dummy because you want to play soldier."
Logan looked around at the team, his eyes fierce. "The reason she isn't here is because she's still a kid who needs guidance before she can be thrown into this meat grinder. Training is over. Go get some air."
Without waiting for a response, Logan turned and stormed out of the Danger Room.
Evan looked at Storm, his eyes wide. "Is... is Logan okay? He seemed like he was gonna pop a gasket."
Storm watched Logan's retreating back, a deep line of worry etched between her brows. She hadn't seen him this volatile since he'd first arrived at the mansion years back. "He is under a great deal of pressure, Evan. Go on, get some rest."
Logan took the stairs three at a time. His heart was a drum, and his skin felt too tight. He could feel the System ticking in the back of his mind like a bomb.
[Countdown to Synchronization: 0 days, 18 hours, 42 minutes]
Tomorrow. It was happening tomorrow.
He felt like he was losing his grip. Since Tuesday, his life had been a blur of stress. Charles had filled him in on the weekend's events while Logan and Storm were together that night on the roof—how the kids had gone to save Evan from the speedster Pietro, only to find out that Evan was being framed. long story short they helped him deal with the kind and managed to get a confession out of him. Now Quicksilver was in a cell or he would be if Liam didn't recall the metal manipulating groomer who went to pick him up in the show, any way Evan was officially a student, but Logan hadn't even had the headspace to process it.
The nightmares were the worst. They weren't just memories anymore; they were vivid, visceral scenes of blood and snow, mixed with flashes of a life in a world of screens and stories. It felt like someone was trying to bury their way into his brain with a rusted shovel.
He passed a window on the second floor and stopped.
Down in the garden, sitting under the deep shade of a sprawling oak tree, was Rogue. She was wearing a long-sleeved green shirt and gloves, despite the warmth of the day. She had a thick book in her lap, but she wasn't reading. She was just staring at the grass, looking so small and isolated that it made Logan's chest ache.
He let out a long, ragged sigh.
"Logan?"
He turned to see Kitty running toward him. She looked worried, her brow furrowed in a way that looked out of place on her young face.
"Hey, Logan, are you like, okay or something?" she asked, her voice high and breathless. "Because that was, like, seriously intense in the Danger Room. I mean, Scott's being a total jerk, but you looked like you were about to go all... you know... shnikt."
Logan looked at the "half-pint." Her eyes were wide and honest, filled with a genuine concern that bypassed his defenses.
He felt the tension in his jaw soften. He reached out and placed a hand on her head, playfully messing up her hair.
"I'm fine, kid. Just a little low on patience today. Don't worry your head about it."
"Hey! My hair!" Kitty laughed, swatting his hand away and trying to smooth down the frizz. "You're like, such a typical guy. Ruining a perfectly good look."
"Go find Kurt," Logan told her with a small, weary smile. "Tell him I'm sorry for blowing up. I'll see you at dinner."
"Okay," Kitty said, her smile lingering. "Just... don't be a stranger, okay? We like you better when you aren't scaring the floor tiles."
Logan watched her jog away, then headed for the garage. He needed to work. He needed the smell of grease and the cold weight of a wrench to calm himself down.
The garage was quiet, the air smelling of oil and old tires. Logan clicked on the overhead lights and walked to his motorcycle. It was a beautiful machine, but it was currently stripped down, its engine exposed like an open chest cavity.
He picked up a rag and a socket wrench and went to work.
There was something meditative about it. Rebuilding a carburetor, tightening bolts, cleaning the spark plugs—it was a world where things made sense. If you turned a screw, the part moved. If you added fuel, the engine roared. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of his mind and the looming countdown.
He lost track of time. An hour might have passed, or maybe two. He was deep into the alignment of the rear chain when the garage door creaked.
He didn't look up. He knew the scent. Wildflowers and a faint, electric hum.
"What's up, Belle?" he asked, his voice low and steady as he continued to polish a chrome pipe.
Rogue walked in, her steps hesitant. She stopped a few feet away, her hands tucked under her armpits. "I heard what happened," she said softly. Her Southern drawl was more pronounced when she was nervous. "In the trainin' room."
Logan stopped working and set the rag down on the workbench. He still didn't look at her. "How'd you find out? I told the kids to take a hike."
"Kitty," Rogue said. Then she added quickly, "She didn't mean to tell me. I just... I overheard her talkin' to Kurt. She was worried about you."
Logan nodded. "Kid's got a big heart. Too big for her own good sometimes."
Rogue stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the motorcycle. "Logan... you don't have to fight my battles for me. I know Scott thinks I'm a coward. I know they think I'm just takin' up space."
"Is that what you think?" Logan asked, finally turning to look at her.
Rogue stayed silent for a long moment. She looked down at her gloved hands, her shoulders hunching. "Do you think I'm dangerous, Logan?"
Logan stood up, wiping the grease from his hands with a cloth. "What brought that up?"
"I'm not blind," Rogue whispered, a tear tracing a path through the heavy makeup around her eyes. "I see how people walk around me in the halls. I see how they pull their hands back if I get too close. And now... now the Professor is usin' me as a 'target' to teach the others how to fight people like me. It's hard not to feel like... like bein' here was a mistake."
Logan walked over to her. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her. She refused to look up, her gaze glued to the concrete floor.
"Look at me, Rogue."
She didn't move.
"Rogue. Look at me."
Slowly, she lifted her head. Her green eyes were swimming in tears, her lower lip trembling.
"You aren't dangerous," Logan said, his voice firm and absolute.
"Logan, I—"
"I said you aren't dangerous," he repeated, cutting her off. "I can feel it. Your power is dangerous, yeah. It's a beast, just like the one I got inside me. But the power ain't you. You're just a girl who's been dealt a bad hand, and all you need is time to learn how to play it."
"What if I can't?" Rogue choked out a sob. "What if for the rest of my life, I'm a ghost? I just... I wish I could get close to somebody. I wish I could feel... anything. But you know what happens, Logan. You touched me and I hurt you bad. I can't control it. I just take."
Logan sighed. He looked at his own hands—scarred, rough, capable of so much violence. Then he looked at her.
He reached up and pulled off his heavy leather work glove, tossing it onto the workbench.
Rogue's eyes went wide. She immediately tucked her hands behind her back, taking a frantic step away. "No! Logan, don't! You know I can't—"
He moved slowly, deliberately, the way one approaches a wounded animal. He reached out and gently took hold of her forearm. Through the fabric of her sleeve, he felt her shaking.
He didn't let go. He reached for her hand—the one hidden behind her back. Gently, he pulled it forward. He found the tab on her black glove and slowly slid it off.
Rogue was hyperventilating now. "Logan, please... I don't want to hurt you... I can't lose you too..."
"You ain't gonna lose me," Logan whispered.
He placed her glove on the workbench. Then, with a steady hand, he reached out and took her bare palm in his.
The contact was electric.
Rogue gasped, her body jerking as the connection was made. She felt the familiar, terrifying rush of her power—the suction of the soul, the sudden drain of vitality.
But then, something happened.
Usually, when Rogue touched someone, she was flooded with their memories, their secrets, their very identity. It was a tidal wave of noise that threatened to drown her. She remembered only vague memories from him, from the two times she touched his skin. The first time was like everyone elses, the second time felt like she was taking less yet still draining alot.
But as she touched Logan, the memories were... blurry. They were like a radio station with too much static. She saw flashes of a white room, a silver forest, a woman with brown hair and loving eyes... but they wouldn't solidify. It was as if something was blocking her, some internal firewall that refused to let her in.
And the drain... it was there, but it was slow and getting slower. Logan's skin was rough, calloused, and so warm. She could feel a strange, metallic hardness beneath his skin—his skeleton—but more than that, she felt his life.
He didn't collapse. He didn't scream. He just stood there, his eyes locked on hers, his face etched with a grim, determined peace. He was a well that wouldn't run dry. His healing factor was fighting her power in real-time, the level two mutation. Updating every two seconds
[VITALITY: RECOVERING (92%)] [MENTAL RESISTANCE: 50% (TEMPORARILY COMPROMISED)[LIFE FORCE DRAIN 20% RESISTANCE][LIFE FORCE DRAGIN 25%RESISTANCE]...
"See?" Logan said, his voice a bit strained, but his grip remained firm. "I'm still here."
Rogue was sobbing openly now, her fingers curling around his, feeling the incredible, impossible sensation of skin-on-skin contact. It had been so long.
"You're so warm," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"You're never gonna be alone, Rogue," Logan told her, his yellow eyes glowing with an intense, paternal fire. "No matter what Scott says, no matter what the Professor does. I'll be there for you. Through the thick of it. Because I can take it."
Rogue couldn't hold back anymore. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest. She squeezed him with all her might, her tears soaking into his tank top.
Logan hesitated for a heartbeat. He wasn't a "hugger." Maybe he was before, when it was purely Liam but now, now something inside him snarled at the closeness. But then, he felt the girl's heartbeat—rapid and terrified, but starting to slow.
He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her hair. He held her as the garage lights hummed above them, two broken things finding a moment of wholeness in the dark.
"I've got you, Belle," he whispered. "I've got you."
In the back of his mind, the timer continued to tick.
Timeskip:
The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of salt, inside Logan's bedroom, the light from the moon shined through the blinds.
Logan lay sprawled across the bed, the sheets twisted into tight, ropes around his legs. His skin was a map of cold sweat, glistening under the pale, flickering moonlight that filtered through the window. His chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven hitches. His eyelids flickered, his eyes darting beneath them, an expression of pain of terror stuck on his face.
"No..." a low, guttural rasp broke from his throat. "Stop... no!"
He wasn't in the mansion anymore.
The Flashback:
Liam felt himself pulled into an abyss. It wasn't like watching a movie; it was like being shoved into a suit of skin that didn't fit, forced to feel every nerve on fire at once.
The air was freezing. Sharp, crystalline snow whipped against his face, stinging like a thousand tiny needles. He could smell wet pine, gunpowder, and the copper scent of fresh blood. He was running. His boots hammered against the frozen earth, the rhythm of his heart a frantic, double-time beat in his ears.
But he wasn't alone.
Beside him, leaping over fallen logs with a predatory grace, was Raven. In this memory, she wasn't the confident infiltrator of the Brotherhood. She was younger, her blue skin streaked with mud and soot, her eyes wide with a raw, primal terror he had never seen in her.
"Don't let them catch us, Logan!" she cried out, her voice nearly lost to the howling wind.
Behind them, the forest was almost alive with the roar of engines and the harsh, rhythmic barking of hounds.
"Subject is in sight! Deploy the neuro-shackles! Bring him back! We need them both alive, but she is the priority!"
The orders were cold, clinical, and devoid of humanity, William Stryker. Liam felt Logan's internal reaction—a surge of protective fury so hot it felt like it was melting the marrow in his bones. He wouldn't let any harm come to her, he wouldn't let anyone hurt Raven. He loved this woman. Not with the polite affection of a teammate, but with the fierce, possessive devotion of a wolf for its mate.
The soldiers burst through the treeline—men in high-tech tactical gear, their faces obscured by gas masks that made them look like insects.
Logan skidded to a halt, his heels digging into the icy slush. Raven stopped beside him, reaching for his arm.
"Logan, we have to keep moving! The border is just—"
"GO!" Logan roared.
Liam felt the vocal cords tear at the force of the command. He would sacrifice himself here, so she would get to see tomorrow.
"Logan, no! I won't leave you!" Raven pleaded, her hands trembling as she gripped his jacket. Her eyes were swimming with tears. "Don't leave me alone again! Please!"
"RUN, RAVEN! YOU NEED TO ESCAPE OR ALL OF THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN FOR NOTHING!!"
He shoved her. Hard. He watched her stumble, her eyes breaking as she realized he wasn't coming. And then, Logan turned.
Liam screamed internally as the "Wolverine" took over.
There was no metal. Not yet. Six jagged, white blades of bone erupted from Logan's knuckles with a wet, sickening thwack. The pain was sharp and hot, but it was nothing compared to the rage.
Logan charged.
He didn't fight like a man. He fought like an animal. Liam watched, horrified, as Logan's vision turned a deep, visceral red. He saw the first soldier—a boy, really, no older than Scott. Logan's bone claws punched through the man's tactical vest, the ribs snapping like dry kindling as the blades buried themselves in his chest and he lifted the body into the air before smashing him into the ground.
Logan didn't pull them out. He twisted.
The sound was a wet crunch. Blood sprayed across Logan's face, hot and salty. He moved to the next, a blur of motion. A decapitation with a single sweep of his left hand. A disembowelment with the right. Limbs were severed, skulls pierced, the forest floor turning into a gruesome tapestry of gore and grey matter. He ran at two soliders sliding between them as bullets pierced his skin, the flaring penetrating agony healing in seconds as he cut their legs off with his claws and as they screamed shoved his claws through their throats.
Another soldier began firing at him but Logan only roared and ran at him shoving his claws through his skull and eyes, then tossing him off. He ran for more of them, he killed so many more of them. Swiping his fist up he gutted one soldier, slashing to the left he cut their face off, swiping to the left he decapitated another. And then he jumped into the air." GRAAAAAAAAAAH!!" Shoving both claws through the chest of their commander.
Liam felt the stomach-turning revulsion of a modern man, but he also felt the Wolverine's satisfaction. The need to make sure Raven escaped. The animal was protecting its own.
Then, the world shifted. The forest vanished.
The Tank
The cold was replaced by a stifling, chemical heat.
Logan was suspended in a tank of viscous, glowing fluid. It felt like being buried alive in warm gelatin. His lungs burned as a respirator forced oxygen into his system, but that was a minor annoyance compared to the needles.
They were everywhere.
Dozens of them, long and thin, were driven through his skin, pinning him like a specimen in a jar. They weren't just in his muscle; they were drilled into his bone. He could feel the slow, agonizing drip of something heavy—something like fire—being pumped into his marrow.
Adamantium.
It felt like lava. It felt like someone had poured molten lead into his veins and was stirring it with a soldering iron. Every nerve ending was screaming, a high-pitched, white-noise agony that threatened to shatter his mind.
Through the thick glass of the tank, a voice drifted—distorted, echoing, sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
".Will he survive this?"
" I don't know".
Voices, talking, memories. Pain, Kayla, Love you, you're not an animal. VICTOR!...
.
.
.
It means the Wolverine
"Bonding works, we use his DNA for the new meta" a second voice replied. "Erase his memory. Erase his memory."
Erase his memories...
The words became a chant, a psychic hammer beating against his skull. Erase his memories... Erase his memories...
"NO!" Logan's thought was a silent roar in the tank. He fought to hold onto the image of Raven. For the memory of Kayla, for the revenge against Victor. He fought to remember the smell of the forest. .
"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!".
Snikt.
The claws came out. They weren't bone anymore. They were the polished, silver death of the adamantium age. They ripped through the velcro holding him shredding the steel around him as Logan's body shot up, standing out the tank as the acid like liquid dripped down his body and the needles were forced out
The Fire
The laboratory shattered. He was standing in a void.
Everything was on fire. Not the orange flames of a campfire, but a roaring, cosmic gold—a fire that didn't burn the flesh, but consumed the soul.
In the center of the inferno, a woman stood. Her hair was a river of crimson, her eyes two suns of pure power. She reached out a hand, her silhouette framed by the wings of a great bird made of light.
"Wake up, my love," the voice echoed.
It wasn't a voice he heard with his ears. It was a voice that vibrated in the very atoms of his DNA. It was ancient, tender, and terrifying.
"Wake up."
The image flickered. Suddenly, he was on his knees. The fire was gone, replaced by a cold, grey ash falling from the sky.
He was holding a woman in his arms. Her hair was long and black, her face a mask of porcelain beauty, a mole beneath her lips, but her eyes were dull, staring at nothing. Blood—dark and thick—stained the front of her white cape.
( If you can guess who, i'll post two chapters in a day)
Logan's mouth opened. A sound came out.
It wasn't a roar. It wasn't a growl. It was a scream of such profound, unadulterated loss that Liam felt his own heart break inside Logan's chest. It was the sound of a man who had lost his soul, over and over, across a hundred years.
"WAKE UP!"
Logan slammed back into reality with the force of a car crash.
He bolted upright in bed, a harrowing scream tearing from his lungs. The sound blocked by the noise cancellers around his room or else it would have echoed through the quiet halls of the mansion.
"GAAAAAH!"
He was gasping for air, his lungs burning as if he'd been underwater for an hour. His heart was hammering against his ribs—thump-thump, thump-thump—so loud he could hear the blood rushing through his ears.
His claws were fully extended, the silver blades gleaming in the dark. He had shredded his pillows to feathers, and the mattress beneath him was a ruin of foam and fabric.
Then, the pain hit.
It wasn't a memory this time. It was a physical reality. His skeleton felt like it was expanding, pushing against his skin from the inside out. The adamantium was a poison, a foreign heavy metal that his body was constantly, violently rejecting. Every joint felt like it was filled with broken glass. He had forgotten, the pain the old Logan felt every day, thanks to the system keeping it at bay but now, now it returned
A flash of blue light illuminated the room.
[SYSTEM ALERT: MEMORY SYNCHRONIZATION IN PROGRESS]
[CRITICAL WARNING: ADAMANTIUM TOXICITY LEVELS RISING]
[ADAPTIVE REGENERATION ENGAGED]
Logan groaned, clutching his head. The pain was so intense it was making his vision blur into a kaleidoscope of static.
[Pain Resistance increased by 5%]
[Pain Resistance increased by 5%]
The prompts began to pop up every few seconds, the cold, mechanical blue light of the system clashing with the red haze of his agony.
[Pain Resistance increased by 5%]
"Shut... up..." Logan hissed through clenched teeth.
He tried to focus, to breathe, but the phantom pains of the needles were still there, dancing across his skin. He felt the cold fluid of the tank. He felt the heat of the fire. He felt the weight of the black-haired woman in his arms.
[Pain Resistance increased by 5%]
The prompts were like a rhythmic heartbeat, a digital clock counting down the seconds of his suffering.
[Pain Resistance increased by 5%]
He lashed out with his hand, swiping through the air as if he could physically claw the system out of his vision. The motion sent a spike of agony through his shoulder that made him white out for a second.
"I said... shut the hell up!"
He managed to focus his mind, pushing the "Close" command with every ounce of his will. The blue screens flickered and vanished, leaving him in the merciful darkness of his room.
The silence rushed back in, broken only by his own ragged breathing.
The pain didn't leave, but it began to dull, shifting from a sharp, electric scream to a low, throbbing ache. His healing factor was winning. It was always winning, but the cost was a constant, low-level war within his own cells.
Logan slumped back against the headboard, his claws slowly sliding back into his knuckles with a series of muffled metallic clicks. The skin healed instantly over the exits, leaving no trace of the violence but the blood on the sheets.
He stared at his hands in the dark. They were shaking.
Liam? Logan? He didn't know who he was anymore. The memories of the forest, the tank, the fire—they weren't "recalled" data. They were him. He could still feel the phantom sensation of Raven's skin against his. He could still hear the echo of the Phoenix's voice.
And then bile come up his throat, jumping out of the bed he rushed to his bathroom, shoving the door open and rushing to the toilet before throwing up, the pain burned his throat, he felt sick. So much death, so much blood, he could feel it still over his skin.