The cold snap that had been going on for the last few days seemed nearly ready to dissipate, but Logan knew that there would be at least another day or so. Maybe it would back off for a few days, enough to melt the snow, and then as December came into view, New York would get the winter it usually did. As a Canadian, Logan didn't mind the snow, and even if he didn't, he wouldn't gripe about it as others did. There was much more to complain about than the weather.
There were wars. And hate. Corruption and terrorism. But Logan wasn't going to complain about those things either. Because they were things that always were and always would be. And if there was one thing he learned from nearly two centuries on this earth, it was to keep on keepin' on, because it was really the only thing he could do. He had found, though, that keepin' on didn't have to mean movin' on, and he was proud to say that he had finally settled on something worth sticking around for. Charles Xavier, a frail man in a wheelchair, with a mind that had to be seen, and then still was unbelievable had shown him that. Had given him a purpose. And had treated him as a person and not a soldier, not a weapon. That courtesy, Xavier's kindness, was the reason why Logan would stay. Not to mention, he kind of liked doing his thing with a lot of breathing room.
He always drove with the window cracked, much to the dismay of any passengers he might have, because he didn't like the window stopping his senses from the outside world. His senses, not to toot his own horn, were a bit like Xavier's mind – incredible. And, he probably could have still smelt what he had with the windows up, but there was a freedom in riding with the window cracked, the wind whistling in, and Logan enjoyed whatever freedoms he could get. Especially in the day and age when freedom was a word that had a definition, but to a mutant, sometimes, little else.
That unmistakable smell caught deeper in his nostrils, like a red beacon glowing, giving away its position, and he pulled over to the side of the road, cutting in front of a car that had the same idea. The harried business man flipped him the bird and Logan thought about flipping him a claw or three, but didn't. See, he could be tame, at times.
Following his nose as only he could, he disappeared into a back alley, where no one else would have noticed the smell because of the dirty garbage containers. A clever mask, perhaps? Or maybe just a coincidence. Logan wasn't sure if he believed in them, but wasn't foolish enough to dismiss them completely. Partially behind one of those containers was a pair of huge legs that led to a huge body with four arms and mottled red skin, peppered with both small and large moles.
"Why'd you have to die on my friggin' shift, stinky?" Logan muttered to himself, giving the air a deeper sniff to see what else he could determine. Because the body was literally frozen to the ground, the smell was fainter than it would have been to him. A body found ripe in the dead of summer, and well, Logan could smell the name right off him.
He walked around the body in a wide enough circle not to step on it; thankfully, due to the alleyway and the garbage bins, the snow drifted around the body, but didn't cover too much of it. And he sniffed again; carefully, his olfactory receptors sifted through what he had taken in. Recently dead. Someone who hadn't lived well in life. And a faint, chemical scent that smelled almost like sweat and adrenaline. This, more than anything, peaked his interests, putting his interest level now at a one. Speaking again, this time as if his boss might be listening, he said, "All right, bub, let's see what you got."
Mutant communities have existed from about the same time that baseline communities have, but no one seemed to notice or care unless something bad happened. That was the case until the MCRT was formed. The Mutant Community Research Team was added as part of the deal between Charles Xavier, Nick Fury and Tony Stark when the latter two commandeered Charles's family property which contained The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning, The Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters and a supposed to be clandestine underground training facility known as The Danger Room.
Charles said he would offer his land, and allow for The Avengers Academy as well as The S.H.I.E.L.D. compound to be built there, and he would give The Danger Room technology to S.H.I.E.L.D., so long as he could still have the schools under his name and also a hand in what mutants would be sent to The Academy. He also asked that S.H.I.E.L.D. take the initiative to learn about what kinds of mutants exist out there and to set up a program that was more legitimate than the use of his brain amplifier, known as Cerebro. Fury and Stark considered the proposition, and to them, Xavier asked for very little in comparison to what they were getting in return – a collection of some of the best mutants available to them. These mutants would be trained in mutant ethics and power and ability management before they entered The Academy, which would save Stark and Fury both time and money. And also public outrage from having untrained, potentially dangerous mutants working for the partially government funded organization. They agreed to this 'legitimate mutant research team' and passed it off to Charles to handle it himself.
Charles, in turn, dropped it right on the lap of his then head X-Man, Scott Summers, who was, in Stark's and Fury's estimate, not nearly old enough to lead a baseball team let alone a team of mutants. But, they had washed their hands of it, and would not renege on their deal. Any X-Man would now be an Avenger, and would go through Academy training like anyone else.
Scott, who had been training with Xavier for ten years, since he was twelve, when his optic blast powers first manifested, surprised everyone and finished the Academy requirements in only a year (usually it took two to four). So, young or not, Scott, with his average height, thin build and average appearance was more than he seemed. He looked at his newest recruits, roughly the same age as he was, and after naming the new team the MCRT, handed the entire program to the LSU graduate with a sociology degree – Remy LeBeau.
At twenty two, Remy was an arrogant, athletic asshole who was a newlywed, fluent in more than three languages and had a penchant for feeling sorry for anything underprivileged. Handsome and a natural charmer, thus making him well-liked, he seemed the perfect candidate to jump into uncharted waters. No one knew, except Charles, where these mutant communities were, and no one had ever visited them. And one by one, Remy went into previously unvisited areas, where only Charles's mind might go – and where his body could not. Sewers, mountains, the deep woods, abandoned buildings, and even an established small town, or two.
And six years later, slightly less arrogant and now divorced, Remy was still at it. He had made countless censuses, wrote report after report detailing their community formations and ideologies, taught many to read and write, and occasionally fought with those who did not want him there.