Set early pre-series.
It'd been a hell of a night. He may not have all his memories intact for comparison, but he's pretty sure he's never had to deal with astral projections speaking to him in his head, or bucketheaded war-freaks descending ominously from the sky. Or women with mile-long legs floating down on an off-season breeze...
He'd been on the run from some feds who somehow caught and sedated him after his claws aroused suspicion during his last cage match. How and why they brought him across the border and clear across the US was beyond him; all he knew was government feds were bad news, no matter what the country.
He'd just lost them when a vision in a purple turtleneck and faded grey jeans came floating down to him on a breeze so fresh, it had no business in the backstreets of New York. The claws came out in an instant, but she didn't seem alarmed. In fact, she'd been the one to ask him not to be afraid when she offered help, her lightly accented voice a smooth and calming alto.
What happened next was a bit of a blur. A voice in his head was speaking about evolution and genetics and mutations, when a man in a metal helmet and yet another leggy beauty with a dangerous smile and gleaming blue skin appeared as well, both talking about a coming war...
In the end, he'd been offered two options. Join one and fight on the "right" side of this war, or join the other and help keep the peace.
- it doesn't have to be a case of us versus them.
Even without the strange astral projection's voice in his head, it wasn't much of a decision. He may not remember much, but even from the little he could recall? War was ugly, and somehow he knew that he'd seen enough of it to last several lifetimes.
Once the freak in the bucket had flown off in disgust, the oddly comforting voice in his head began explaining things in more detail. He was a mutant, the next step in evolution. More importantly, he wasn't alone. And despite the words thrown around in the altercation in the alley, he was being given another chance to make a choice. Charles Xavier wasn't about to force him into joining his cause. He was, however, prepared to offer him a place to stay for the night - a safe place, no strings attached, until he could decide for himself what he would do, where he would go.
Logan couldn't remember the last time he'd been offered that. Not even Fury was so generous.
The lady with beautiful white hair was looking at him expectantly.
"Charles Xavier is a good man, Mr. Logan," she began, her startlingly blue eyes warm and sincere in the light of a flickering street lamp. "I know it's quite a lot to take in, and I am not asking you to put your trust in him right at this moment... All I ask is that you give him a chance, and listen to what he has to say."
With that, she'd offered a hand for him to take. Had anyone else ever done that for him? Not in recent memory - not that he had very many memories, to begin with.
He grasps her hand; both his eyebrows go up at how firm her grip is. She smiles at his surprise, and her blue, blue eyes seem to gleam with the promise of tomorrow.