Disclaimer: all characters belong to Marvel except Carrier, my OC, who was created for the only purpose of starting the fricking plot of the story.

AN/ I'll be referring to Logan's time as the present, so five years before will refer to five years after Logan's present. But if I say five years later, it'll be five years after whoever's past I left off at.

Logan ran his fingers through his hair, as he stood in front of a mirror. A fierce-looking, stout and muscular man in need of a shave glared back at him. He gave a deep sigh and got dressed. "Another day in my screwed up life," he thought, as he strode out of the shabby motel with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Settling for a mug of ice-cold beer, the feral man let the bitter taste of the refreshing drink wash over his taste buds. Logan suddenly became alert as he sensed a familiar figure slide past almost too close for comfort. As the person, whom Logan had already identified, passed by, he hissed, "Outside, now." Then he was gone.

Snorting, Logan let the last few drops of beer slide down his throat. Throwing down a tip, he pulled his hat lower and left, unnoticed. Soon, there wasn't a trace of the living weapon.

"What do ya want Carrier?"Logan snarled at the dark skinned, 40 something year old man in front of him. The man scowled, "Can't you be civil for once in your life, Logan?" "Nope," was the reply. Logan let a slight grin show on his rough features.

Michael Carrier was a mutant that had also been subjected to the untold torture of the weapon x program. He had a power much like Mystique, but could only morph into animals or people he had killed. He had morphed so many times that he himself had no idea what his real appearance was like. Carrier and Logan were technically on the same side. However, they often did not see eye to eye.

"I repeat again, what do ya want?" Logan growled, losing his extremely limited patience.

Rolling his cold, grey eyes, Carrier smirked, "Patience is a virtue, Logan." Taking heed of the menacing that soon followed the comment, Carrier said seriously, "You're still searching for stuff on your oh so elusive past, right?" Logan nodded, suspicious. "Well, I just got a lead. My source tells me that a base in Florida might have some information on your past. Your records and the like."

Narrowing his eyes, Logan frowned, "Why are you helping me?"
A smirk returning to his face, Carrier stepped back, "I have my reasons. See ya around, Wolvie." Morphing into a pigeon, he flew off and disappeared.

Logan glared. Even as a bird, he still had that annoying smirk.

15 years ago

A blue skinned woman by the by the name of Raven Darkholme stared in despair at the strange, new born baby before her. He, or it, had three fingers on each hand and three toes on each foot. Covering its entire body was a pelt of dark blue fur. Its face had all the features of a demon, with its glowing eyes, pointed ears and the nubs of what looked like fangs in its gums complete with an arrow shaped tipped tail that snaked around its body.

Raven bit her lip. Her husband would be home soon and she couldn't allow him to see the mutated baby. "What should I do?" she thought, panicking. "I can't just kill it…him. No one has seen the baby but me, maybe I-" Her panic-filled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the butler greeting her husband.

Her mind fogged by panic, Raven ran out through another door in the west wing with the baby. Pumping her legs as fast as she could, she ran to the bridge over the calm waters of the stream. Whispering a hasty, "I'm sorry" and sparing the baby a quick hug, she dropped him into the clear waters below. Turning, she morphed into a dog and was soon out of sight.

The baby was carried down the stream until it neared the mansion of a rich man, Baron Eric Wagner. As it so happens, the baby was lucky enough that it was fished out of the water by a servant of the Baron. He was also lucky that the servant was a man and was not fazed by the baby's strange appearance. He was adopted by the Baron as his son, and spent the next few years of his childhood in loneliness, kept inside the huge mansion away from prying eyes.

Five years later

A five year old Kurt Wagner laughed in delight as he slashed the cardboard sword at an invisible opponent. His tail whipped about as the young blue furred boy hopped and ducked. "Aah!" Kurt cried as he tripped over his tail. He bumped into his father, who chuckled, amused.

Baron Eric Wagner helped his adopted son up as he exclaimed, "Papa!"

Smiling, he asked, "Und how have you been doing, Kurt?"

"Eet's so boring!" Kurt immediately complained. "No vone vants to play und you're alvays not home!" Pouting, Kurt asked, "Vhy can't I go out und play vith zhe ozzers?"

Sighing, the Baron knelt down, "Some people just can't accept differences. Zhey zhon't understand zhat you are unique, Kurt."

"Papa, who vas mein mozzher?"

"She…died vhen you vere born, eet's a long story.
Just remember, eet vasn't your fault zhat she died. Verstehen?"

"Okay, papa."

2 years later

7 year old Kurt sneezed again. His fuzzy little nose twitched as he sniffed. "Looks like a bad cold…" one of the maids murmured sympathetically. "I vant to get back to mein sword. Bitte?" pleaded the sick boy. "Zhat's not possible, you need to get vell."

Kurt slumped back down in his bed. Subconsciously, he felt another sneeze coming. It all happened so fast. Little Kurt let out his sneeze and at the same time, he vanished in a puff of acrid smelling smoke and the maid shrieked in surprise.

Down in the locked pantry, there was another puff of smoke and a small figure landed on the floor. A pair of glowing eyes widened as he inspected his surroundings. "Vow," Kurt breathed.

A month later

Shaking in fear, Kurt stared, wide-eyed at the bloody body of his father. He shrank farther in the small gap he was hiding in as his father's murderers strode into view. Anger overtook him, erasing any common sense from his mind. With a yell, he pounced towards the nearest of the men. There were shouts of "Demon!" and Kurt might have been inclined to agree with them if he saw himself now with his flashing eyes screaming murder, his bared fangs and his wildly lashing tail. He bit, scratched and shouted unintelligible german.

Unknowingly, Kurt was teleporting, or what his father affectionately called it 'bamfing' as he fought. Thus, the men were dreadfully confused and were coughing and gagging on the plumes of sulphur-smelling smoke.

Suddenly, the hysterical boy felt his whole body shake as pain coursed through his small body. Eyes wide and tears streaming down his face, Kurt fell in a useless heap before blacking out.

Vhat's going on?

Men. Bamf….papa.

A fresh new wave of tears cascaded over Kurt's eyes as he remembered everything. Before he had time to properly mourn his only known family member, Kurt heard footsteps. His pointed ears twitched with interest at the sound. Two guards approached his cell.

"A new one?" one guard asked, inspecting Kurt's prone body.

"Yep. Weapon 5878. That's if it actually survives."

"It'd be better if it didn't."

The cell doors slid open and they dragged Kurt's battered body up roughly. Kurt tried bamfing away but could not. They arrived at a white, sterile lab. Scientists covered head to toe in a protective layer strapped Kurt to a platform.

One of the scientists made to take off the protective layer around his head but a senior scientist stopped him hastily. "Don't take it off! You might catch the mutie's virus!" Kurt swallowed nervously, eyeing the sharp tools and shiny machines warily. Who are zhese people?

"Okay. Physical mutations: positive, Disease: teleportation," a woman read off a clipboard grimly. "Let's get this over with."

Kurt's tail thrashed furiously as a menacing machine clamped down on him. "Initiate." Screams filled the lab as a certain blue boy lost his innocence to the cold steel.

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