The morning sun rose over Bayville High with a gentle warmth, doing little to thaw the icy tension radiating from the Principal's office.
Raven Darkholme, known to the world as the stern and unflappable Principal Darkholme, stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. Her reflection in the glass was a masterpiece of strict professionality—sharp suit, hair perfectly coiffed, a mask of calm. But behind that mask, her mind was a hive of frantic calculations. Below, in the parking lot, the bright yellow school buses were idling, their exhaust plumes curling into the crisp morning air like ghostly fingers.
She watched as Scott Summers and Jean Grey hauled their bags toward the lead bus. They looked so normal—just two more teenagers excited for a school trip to the snowy peaks up north. Seeing them, especially Jean, safe under Xavier's wing, made Raven's jaw tighten. Every student Charles brought into that mansion was a soldier Raven hadn't secured for the brotherhood.
The air in the room suddenly changed. it grew heavy, and cold like steel.
It was a pressure that sat on the lungs, a density that felt like the room had suddenly been plunged into the depths of the ocean. No door had clicked open. No window had creaked. Yet, in the far corner of the office, the shadows seemed to detach themselves from the wall, coalescing into a towering, shrouded figure.
Raven didn't need to see his face to feel the shiver that raced down her spine, rattling her bones. The sheer presence he exhaled was a physical weight—a cocktail of ancient authority and absolute, unmitigated darkness.
"You are watching the fruit of your failure, Raven."
The voice was like grinding stones, resonant and cold. It didn't come from the figure so much as it emerged from the air itself.
Raven turned, her pulse hammering against her throat. She kept her chin up, the habit of a shapeshifter who refused to show weakness, but her hands were trembling behind her back. "The situation with Rogue was... complicated. Xavier's dog, Wolverine, he is an anomaly I did not account for."
"I did not come for excuses," the figure replied. A flicker of movement in the shadows suggested a hand being raised. "I came for results. You were tasked with bringing the girl to us. Instead, she sits in a mansion eating breakfast with a telepath. You were tasked with thinning Xavier's ranks. Instead, his school prospers."
"I apologize," Raven said, her voice cracking slightly. "It was a series of unforeseen variables. Please... I just need a little more time. I have a plan. The school trip—the environment is isolated. I can get to Anna there. I can show her that the X-Men are not her family."
The figure stepped forward, the darkness around him flaring like a black sun. For a split second, a wave of pure, concentrated bloodlust hit Raven with the force of a physical blow. In that darkness, she saw her own death—a thousand ways she could be unmade by the man standing before her.
"You will not fail me again," the shadow hissed. "If the girl is not in our possession by the time the snow melts on those mountains, there will be no place on this earth, or any other, where you can hide from what I will do to you."
With a final, suffocating pulse of energy, the figure vanished. The shadows snapped back to the walls, and the heavy pressure evaporated.
Raven collapsed into her leather chair, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Cold sweat soaked the back of her blouse. She sat in the silence for a full minute, staring at nothing, before she lunged for the phone on her desk. She dialed a number with trembling fingers.
"This is Principal Darkholme," she said, her voice regaining its iron edge as soon as the call connected. "I'm calling about the northern expedition. Yes, the ice-mobile trip. I need to speak with the lead instructor. There's been a late change to the roster, and a... change in the itinerary. We need to ensure certain students are grouped together for 'special projects.'"
The Mansion Gym:
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack-thwack.
The sound of leather meeting sand-filled boxing bag echoed through the sub-basement gym. Rogue was alone, her face flushed with exhaustion, her hair damp and clinging to her forehead. She was moving with a desperate, frantic energy, throwing punches at the heavy bag like it was a mean girl at high school.
She took a ragged breath, stepped back, and launched a high, spinning kick. But her foot caught the side of the bag at an awkward angle, her momentum carrying her past her center of gravity. She stumbled, her boots slipping on the polished floor, and ended up in a heap on the mat.
She sat there for a second, looking down at her gloved hands, then at her own boots. A wave of self-loathing washed over her. Can't even kick a bag right without falling over. How am I supposed to be an X-Man?
"You're leading with your hip too much, darlin'. Keep your center of gravity lower or you're just gonna keep kissing the floor."
Rogue jumped, her head snapping toward the doorway. Logan was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he hasn't slept. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent, a lingering physical reminder of the nightmare from the night before, but his gaze was sharp and focused on her.
"Logan!" Rogue scrambled to her feet, wiping the sweat from her eyes and trying to look like she hadn't just been brooding. "I was just... practicing. It's nothin'."
"Didn't look like nothin'. Looked like you were tryin' to kill the bag for lookin' at you funny," Logan joked, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He walked over, his boots thudding softly on the mats.
He didn't lecture her on her mood. Instead, he stepped behind the heavy bag, wrapping his strong arms around it to steady it.
"Again," he commanded. "Straight jabs. One-two. Focus on the snap, not the power."
Rogues face brightened at that, then stepped into her stance. Punch 1. Punch 2.
"Better. Keep your chin tucked. You leave it out like that and a guy like the Blob'll take your head off," Logan advised.
Punch 1. Punch 2. Punch 3.
"There you go. Now, the kick. Don't spin yet. Just a lead-leg snap. Watch my hands."
They went on like that for fifteen minutes, the rhythmic sound of her strikes filling the room. For those fifteen minutes, Rogue wasn't a mutant or a freak; she was a student. And Logan wasn't two different minds in one body; he was a teacher. He held the bag with a rock-solid stability, his presence was grounding and it allowed her to vent her frustration safely.
Suddenly, the chirping of a cell phone broke the rhythm. Rogue stopped, panting, and walked over to the bench to grab her jacket.
"Take a breather, Belle," Logan said, stepping away from the bag. He leaned against the wall, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.
Rogue answered the phone. "Hello? ...Yes, this is Rogue. Who's callin'?"
Logan stayed still, but his ears twitched. His super-senses, amplified by the looming synchronization, picked up every vibration from the tiny speaker.
"This is Mr. Harrison from the Bayville High outdoor program," the voice on the other end said. "I'm just calling to confirm your spot for the ice-mobile trip. We're leaving in an hour."
Rogue's brow furrowed. "The ice-mobile trip? Sir, I didn't sign up for that. I don't even have the gear."
"That's strange. I have your digital signature right here on the waiver, submitted this morning. Principal Darkholme herself approved the scholarship. We've already got a parka and boots waiting for you on the bus. We expect all participants at the front gates by 9:00 AM sharp."
Rogue looked at the phone, then at Logan. "I... I guess I'm goin'? I don't remember signin' nothin', but if the Principal says so..."
"I'll see you there," the teacher said before hanging up.
Rogue lowered the phone, looking frustrated. "I was hopin' to keep trainin' with you, Logan. I don't even like the cold."
Logan didn't answer immediately. He was staring at the wall, his mind racing.
[Synchronization: 16 hours, 12 minutes].
His instincts—the Liam part that knew the tropes and the Logan part that knew the scent of a trap—were screaming. Principal Darkholme. A sudden trip. A forged signature. It stank of Mystique. But he couldn't just tell Rogue "No." She was finally trying to integrate, to be a normal kid.
He forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his weary eyes. "Eh, don't sweat it, kid. A little fresh air'll do you good. Get your mind off the mansion for a bit."
"You think?" Rogue asked, her eyes brightening slightly at his approval.
"I know. Go on, get changed. I'll drop you off at the school on the bike."
Rogue beamed at him, the frustration vanishing. She did something she rarely did—she lunged forward and gave him a quick, gloved hug around the waist before spinning around and sprinting toward the locker rooms. "I'll be ready in five minutes!"
Logan watched her go, his smile fading into a grim line.
The Garage
Logan walked into the garage, the smell of oil and gasoline acting like a balm for his frayed nerves. He walked over to his workbench, his eyes landing on the small, silver communicator he'd left there the day before while working on the bike. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It was a standard X-Men issue, with a tracker built in.
He slid it into his pocket and straddled his motorcycle. He kicked the engine over, the roar of the machine vibrating through his bones.
Something is wrong, he thought. But what?
He drove the bike around to the front of the mansion, the tires crunching on the gravel. He didn't have to wait long. Rogue came bursting out of the front doors, a massive purple backpack strapped to her shoulders, looking every bit the excited teenager.
"Got everything?" Logan asked as she hopped on behind him.
"I think so! Jean said she'd bring extra gloves just in case!"
Logan handed her a spare helmet. Once she was buckled in, he opened the throttle. They tore down the driveway, the wind whipping past them. Rogue was quiet, her arms wrapped tightly around Logan's waist. He could feel her excitement, but he could also feel her underlying anxiety—the fear of being in a bus full of people she couldn't touch.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the curb at Bayville High. The yellow bus was there, its engine chugging. Students were whinning about, tossing bags into the luggage compartment. Logan saw Scott and Jean near the door, Scott looking typically official with a clipboard.
Rogue hopped off the bike, handing the helmet back to Logan. She looked at the bus, then back at him, her hesitation palpable.
"Hey," Logan said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the silver communicator and pressed it into her gloved palm. "Take this."
Rogue blinked. "Logan, I have my phone."
"Phones lose signal in the mountains, darlin'. This doesn't. You get lost, you feel uncomfortable, or you just need to hear a grumpy man's voice... you press this button. I'll find you. No matter what."
Rogue's eyes softened, shimmering with a sudden warmth. She gripped the device tightly, as if it were a holy relic. "Thank you, Logan. Really."
She leaned in, giving him one last hug—longer this time, a silent 'thank you' for the safety he provided—before turning and heading toward the bus.
Logan sat on his bike, watching her. He saw her meet up with Jean, who gave her a welcoming smile. He saw Scott give her a brief nod. He felt a small measure of relief. Jean would watch out for her.
He was about to kick the bike back into gear when a student walked past him, heading for the bus.
It was a boy. Tall, lanky, with a mop of blond hair and a casual gait. He looked like any other high schooler.
But as the boy passed, the wind shifted.
Logan's nostrils flared. His pupils contracted into needle-points.
The scent wasn't of a teenage boy. It was a complex, chemically masked aroma—the smell of aged gunpowder, expensive perfume, and something underlying it that was purely, unmistakably... Raven.
Logan's hand went to the grip of his bike, his knuckles turning white. He opened his mouth to shout, to stop the bus, to drag that kid off the stairs.
But the boy turned. He looked directly at Logan, his eyes a piercing, knowing blue. He offered a small, mocking smile—a split-second reveal of the predator beneath the skin—before stepping up into the bus.
The doors hissed shut.
"Damn it!" Logan growled, the sound lost in the roar of the bus engine.
He watched the bus pull away, the tail lights disappearing around the corner. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to follow, to tear that bus open. But he couldn't. Not yet. He didn't know the play. If he attacked a "student" in broad daylight in front of the whole school, he'd jeopardize everything Charles had built.
He sat there as the school yard emptied, the anger rippling through him. He trusted Jean's power, and he trusted Rogue's spirit, but he couldn't stand the thought of them being in a confined space with a snake like Raven.
And he especially hated that Scott Summers was the one "in charge" of the situation.
"You better keep 'em safe, Slim," Logan hissed under his breath.
He kicked the motorcycle into gear and roared away, the speedometer climbing rapidly as he headed back to the mansion. He had sixteen hours left before the countdown was complete.
Back at the Mansion:
Logan didn't go back into the house. He went straight to the garage, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind him. He needed to be alone. He needed to think.
He sat on a stool by his workbench, staring at the empty spot where the communicator had been.
The silence of the garage was comforting. He could feel the System humming, the countdown ticking in his peripheral vision like a heartbeat.
[Synchronization: 15 hours, 44 minutes]
He thought about the nightmare—the needles, the fire, the woman in the white cape and the pheonix. They felt more real than the garage. The line between Liam and Logan was becoming a blur of static. He was remembering things he hadn't seen in the show—details of the Weapon X facility, the specific cold of the Canadian wilderness, the exact weight of a bone claw before it was encased in metal. But the pheonix ? Where did she come from? Why was she in his memories when they'd never met, neither he nor Logan had ever encountered the Pheonix Force.
He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his knuckles.
He looked down. His hands were trembling. He didn't want this. He didn't want the memories of a century of slaughter. He was a guy who liked comic books and basketball, not a man who had gutted soldiers in a forest.
But as he looked at the motorcycle, at the tools, at the life he was building here with Rogue and Kitty and Storm and Kurt hell even with Evan... he knew he couldn't just walk away, not like the original Wolverine would when he felt lost.
He stood up and walked over to a locker in the corner. He opened it, revealing his leather jacket and his spare gear. Tucked in the back was a small, wooden box.
He opened it. Inside was a single, silver dog tag. It was old, scratched, and carried a name he barely recognized as his own.
"Logan..." he whispered.