The weight of memory
Morning clawed its way over the horizon, fingernails of light scratching at Logan's eyes. He woke with the familiar litany of aches, each joint complaining as he swung his legs off the cot. The floorboards creaked under his weight, a chorus of old wood and older bones greeting another day.
The mirror held no surprises. Same hard face, same deep lines, same gray stubble. Just another morning in a string of them, blending into a monotony of quiet solitude. He splashed water on his face, chasing away the last remnants of sleep.
Downstairs, the cabin was still. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the window, settling on surfaces untouched by the chaos of the world outside. A kettle hummed softly on the stove, steam curling upwards like a spectral hand. Logan poured coffee, black and bitter, suiting his tastes just fine.
Outside, the land stretched out in a patchwork of green and brown, tended fields interspersed with wild growth. Logan's farm was the manifestation of his stubbornness, a defiant finger raised against the ravaged world. He'd chosen this spot for its remoteness, its disconnect from the tech-ridden hellscapes he'd left behind. Here, there were no neon lights, no hum of machinery, just the rustle of leaves and the occasional lowing of cattle.
He stepped off the porch, boots sinking slightly into the earth. The air held a chill, the last gasp of night before the sun took hold. A rooster crowed somewhere, its call echoing through the stillness. Logan walked towards the barn, coffee in hand, breath misting in the cool air.
Inside, the scent of hay and animal musk filled his nostrils. The cow blinked at him, chewing cud lazily. He set down his coffee, grabbed a stool and pail, and settled beside her. His hands found the familiar rhythm, coaxing milk into the pail. The cow lowed softly, shifting her weight but offering no protest.
This was his life now. Quiet. Simple. A far cry from the blood-soaked days of old. He'd traded violence for routine, chaos for calm. His hands, once weapons, now tilled soil and harvested crops. His body, once a tool of destruction, now nurtured life. It was a conscious choice, a deliberate step away from the path he'd walked for so long.
Yet, the echoes of that life lingered. In the way he scanned the horizon, eyes picking out potential threats. In the way he listened to the wind, ears tuned for the hum of drones or the rumble of engines. In the way his hand sometimes twitched, reaching for a ghost of a gun that wasn't there. Old habits died hard, if they died at all.
But here, in this quiet corner of the world, Logan could almost forget. He could lose himself in the rhythm of farm life, in the cycle of seasons and harvests. He could pretend that the world beyond his fence line didn't exist, that the wars and the tech plagues and the endless power struggles were just bad dreams, remnants of a life left behind.
He finished milking the cow, setting the pail aside. Standing, he stretched, feeling the pop and crack of joints realigning. The cow watched him, placid and unconcerned. He envied her simplicity, her contentment with merely existing.
Stepping out of the barn, Logan shielded his eyes against the rising sun. The day promised warmth, a respite from the chill of morning. A good day for working the fields, for losing himself in the mindless labor that kept his demons at bay.
He headed back to the cabin, pail swinging gently in his grip. The farm spread out around him, a living testament to his determination to leave the past behind. It was a fragile peace, built on shaky foundations, but it was his. And for now, that was enough.
Inside, he set the pail down, poured himself more coffee. The silence was comforting, familiar. He'd grown used to it, even welcomed it. It was a far cry from the cacophony of his old life, the constant noise and chaos. Here, there was only the tick of the clock, the hum of the stove, the occasional creak of settling wood.
But as he sat there, cradling his mug, Logan couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. A subtle shift in the air, a faint tension that hadn't been there before. He listened, straining his ears, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, the sensation persisted, a nagging itch at the back of his mind.
He stood, setting down his coffee. Moving to the window, he scanned the horizon, eyes narrowing as they swept across the landscape. Nothing seemed amiss. The fields were undisturbed, the animals grazing peacefully. But the unease remained, gnawing at him like a rat at a rope.
Logan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Maybe it was just paranoia, the lingering effects of a life lived on edge. Maybe it was nothing. But as he turned away from the window, he couldn't shake the feeling that his quiet life was about to be disrupted. Whether he liked it or not, the world had a way of finding him, of dragging him back into the fray. And all he could do was brace himself for the storm on the horizon.
Logan listened, the house creaking softly around him. Then, a faint scratching at the door. His hand reached for the gun that wasn't there, settling instead on the hunting knife by his bedside.
He moved silently through the house, each step measured. The scratching came again, insistent. He gripped the knife, easing the door open with his foot. A figure stumbled back, eyes wide in a face smudged with dirt and exhaustion. A kid.
"Logan?" she asked, voice barely a rasp. She was small, dark hair tangled and sweat-slicked. Her clothes were a patchwork of scavenged items, practical and worn. She held her left arm awkwardly, like it pained her.
Logan's eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"
She swallowed, throat bobbing. "Sarah. Sarah Pryde."
The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Memories surged—Kitty's smile, the weight of her hand in his, the emptiness when she was gone. He shoved them back, burying them deep. This kid wasn't Kitty. She was a stranger, another stray drawn to his doorstep by whispers of the Wolverine.
"What do you want?" His voice was harsh, a growl tinged with warning.
Sarah straightened, despite the pain etched on her face. "I need your help. My brother... he's been taken. I can't get him back alone."
Logan snorted. "Kid, I'm not who you think I am. Not anymore."
Her eyes flashed, green and determined. "You're Logan. You were an X-Man. You knew my grandmother, Kitty Pryde."
Each word was a jab, digging up ghosts he'd long buried. He shook his head. "That was a lifetime ago. I can't help you."
He started to close the door, but she stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Please. I have nowhere else to go." Her voice cracked, desperation seeping through. "I heard stories about you. About how you helped people. I thought... I thought you could help me too."
Logan paused, the plea tugging at something deep within him. He saw the tremor in her hand, the sheen of tears she blinked back fiercely. She was tough, this kid. Scared, but not broken. It reminded him of another time, another girl.
He sighed, running a hand through his beard. "You're hurt."
She looked down at her arm, cradling it protectively. "It's nothing. Just a scratch."
Logan grunted. "Let me see."
After a moment's hesitation, she stepped closer, extending her arm. He examined the wound, a nasty gash slicing across her bicep. It needed stitches, maybe antibiotics. He could patch her up, send her on her way. That was all.
"Come inside," he muttered, stepping back to let her pass. She slipped in, eyes darting around the sparse interior. He led her to the kitchen, gesturing to a chair. "Sit."
She obeyed, watching as he gathered supplies—gauze, antiseptic, a needle and thread. He worked silently, cleaning the wound, stitching it closed. She hissed at the first prick of the needle but held still, jaw clenched.
"How old are you?" he asked, tying off the last stitch.
"Fourteen," she murmured.
Too young for this shit, he thought grimly. But then, hadn't he been too young once too? Hadn't they all been, back when the world was new and dangerous and full of promise?
He finished bandaging her arm, stepping back. "It'll scar," he said gruffly.
She shrugged. "Won't be my first."
Tough kid. He turned away, washing his hands in the sink. "You should rest. There's a spare room upstairs. You can stay the night, then move on."
Silence. Then, softly, "You won't help me, will you?"
He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white. "I can't, kid. Those days are over."
"But you're still him. Aren't you?" Her voice was steady, unyielding. "Underneath all this, you're still the Wolverine."
Logan closed his eyes, the weight of his past pressing down on him. He saw faces, heard screams, tasted blood. He'd walked away from that life, left the heroics to others. He couldn't go back. Not even for Kitty's grandkid.
"No," he growled, turning to face her. "I'm not. I'm just Logan now. And I can't help you."
She stared at him, eyes searching. Then, slowly, she stood, gathering her things. "Fine," she said, voice cold. "I'll do it myself."
She walked out, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Alone with his ghosts, his regrets, his cowardice. He listened as her footsteps faded, the door creaking shut behind her. Gone. Just like that.
He sank into a chair, head in his hands. Sarah's arrival had forced open doors he'd kept locked tight, dredging up memories he'd fought to forget. Kitty, the X-Men, the endless battles—it all rushed back, a tide of blood and loss.
But underneath it all, something else stirred. A spark, long dormant, flickering to life. The urge to fight, to protect, to stand against the darkness. He'd buried it deep, smothered it with guilt and pain. Yet here it was, clawing its way back to the surface.
Because of a kid. Because of Sarah.
He lifted his head, staring at the closed door. She was out there, alone, hurt, determined to save her brother. She needed help. She needed him.
And he'd sent her away.
Logan stood, decision made. He couldn't let her face this alone. Not again. Not like before. This time, he would stand. This time, he would fight.
For Sarah. For Kitty. For himself.
He grabbed his coat, striding towards the door. Towards the past he'd tried to outrun. Towards the battle he couldn't escape.
Towards redemption.
Logan moved swiftly, despite the protests of his knees. Sarah's determined stride had left quick, distinct tracks in the dust. He followed, the old hunter's instincts kicking in, senses heightening. The sun bore down, a relentless enemy, but he barely noticed. His focus narrowed to the path ahead, to the girl who'd stirred memories he thought long buried.
A sudden cry shattered the silence. Logan's heart kicked into a gallop. He surged forward, rounding a bend to find Sarah cornered by three raiders. They were scavengers, filthy and desperate, wielding makeshift weapons—a rusted pipe, a jagged shard of metal, a crude club.
Logan didn't hesitate. A snarl ripped from his throat, primal and fierce. The raiders turned, eyes widening as they took in the figure bearing down on them. He felt the familiar snap of bone, the hot rush of pain as claws sliced through his flesh. The world narrowed, honed to a brutal edge.
He hit the first raider like a freight train, claws sinking into soft belly. A scream, cut short by a savage twist. Blood sprayed hot across Logan's face, metallic and familiar. He tossed the body aside, already moving to the next target.
The second raider swung his pipe, wild and panicked. Logan ducked, feeling the whoosh of air above his head. He came up fast, claws catching the raider under the chin, slicing through skin and bone with a sickening crunch. The body crumpled, lifeless before it hit the ground.
The last raider backed away, terror etched into every line of his face. He held up his hands, the metal shard clattering to the ground. "Please," he begged, voice cracking. Logan paused, breath coming in ragged gasps. The raider's eyes darted past him, to Sarah, and something ugly shifted in his gaze.
Logan saw it. Knew what it meant. The raider lunged, not for the exit, but for Sarah.
A roar tore from Logan's throat. He launched himself forward, claws out. The raider didn't even have time to scream. Logan's claws punched through his back, erupting from his chest in a spray of blood and gore. The raider went limp, sliding off Logan's claws to the ground.
Logan stood there, chest heaving, claws dripping red. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant caw of a scavenger bird. He looked down at the bodies, at the carnage he'd wrought. It had been so easy, like riding a bike. The violence, the death—it was all there, just under the surface, waiting.
He turned to Sarah. She stood frozen, eyes wide with shock, green as Kitty's staring at him. Staring at the monster he'd become. Again.
"You okay, kiddo?" His voice was rough, barely human. He retracted his claws, feeling the familiar ache as bone and flesh knit back together.
Sarah nodded, slow and jerky. She looked down at the bodies, then back up at him. "You're... you're him. Aren't you?"
Logan didn't answer. Didn't need to. The blood on his hands, the bodies at his feet—they spoke loud enough.
He stepped towards her, expecting her to flinch, to run. But she didn't. She stood her ground, chin lifting, eyes steady. Tough kid. Like her grandmother.
"Come on," he growled, gesturing towards the path ahead. "Let's get moving. Before more show up."
Sarah hesitated, then nodded. She fell into step beside him, casting wary glances at the bodies as they passed. Logan kept his eyes forward, scanning the horizon. The fight had been quick, brutal. But it was over. And they had places to be.
As they walked, Logan could feel Sarah's gaze on him, questioning, wary. He didn't blame her. He'd given her a glimpse of the beast within, the Wolverine. And once seen, it couldn't be unseen. But she was still here, still with him. That counted for something.
They moved swiftly, Logan setting a grueling pace. The landscape blurred past, all dust and decay. The sun beat down, merciless, but neither complained. They pushed on, driven by shared purpose, bound by blood and violence.
Logan kept a steady pace, eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Beside him, Sarah matched his stride, her breaths coming quick but controlled. The silence between them stretched taut as wire, humming with unspoken questions.
He glanced at her, noting the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. She was a coiled spring, ready to snap. He recognized that look - it was the same one he'd worn when he was her age, full of anger and fear disguised as determination.
"So," he began, voice gruff from disuse, "what happened to your brother?"
Sarah's eyes flicked to him, wary. She hesitated, then spoke, her words clipped and precise. "We were scavenging in the old city. Marcus found something... a piece of tech, hidden in one of the ruined buildings. We thought it was just some old comm device, but..." She paused, swallowing hard.
Logan waited, patience born of years spent watching and listening.
"It was a trap," she continued, voice barely audible. "They came out of nowhere. Grabbed Marcus, knocked me down. I tried to fight, but..." Her hand clenched, knuckles white. "I phased. Couldn't control it. By the time I came back, they were gone. Took him, left me behind."
Logan nodded, understanding. Her power was a double-edged sword, just like his own. A gift that could turn on you in a heartbeat. "Who took him, Sarah?"
She looked away, her gaze fixed on the distant ruins of what was once a city. "They call themselves the Reavers. A gang, scavengers mostly, but they've been... collecting mutants. Experimenting on them." Her voice shook, just slightly. "I heard them talking. They want to make super-soldiers. Weapons."
A cold chill ran down Logan's spine. He'd seen the results of such experiments before, the horrors men created when they tried to play God. He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar ache in his bones, the echo of past battles.
"How'd you find me?" he asked, needing to shift the focus, to keep her talking.
Sarah reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, worn patch. An 'X' stitched in blue and gold. Kitty's patch. She held it out to him, her eyes steady. "Mom told me stories about you. About the X-Men. She said if anything ever happened, if I needed help, I should find you."
Logan took the patch, fingers brushing against the faded threads. Memories flooded back - Kitty's laughter, her fierce determination, the way she'd looked at him with trust in her eyes. He pushed them down, locking them away. Not now. Not yet.
"Your mom was right," he said, handing back the patch. "I'll help you, kiddo. We'll get Marcus back."
Sarah took the patch, her fingers closing around it tightly. She nodded, a quick jerk of her head. "Thank you," she murmured, then fell silent again.
Logan let the silence sit, his mind racing. The Reavers. He'd heard whispers of them, even out here in the middle of nowhere. They were bad news, a gang of cutthroats and thieves, led by a man named Pierce. Ruthless, cunning, and cruel. But they'd never come this close to his territory before. Until now.
He looked at Sarah, her young face etched with worry and fear. She was tough, resilient, but she was still just a kid. She needed help. She needed him. And despite every instinct screaming at him to walk away, to leave her to her own devices, he knew he couldn't. Not this time.
"We'll need to gather intel," he said, breaking the silence. "Find out where they're keeping him, how many there are. Can't go in blind."
Sarah nodded, her eyes sharp. "I can help with that. I've been tracking them, hacking into their comms. I know some of their routes, their safe houses."
Logan raised an eyebrow, impressed. "You can hack?"
She shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Self-taught. Had to be, living out here."
He grunted, a sound of approval. "Good. That'll be useful."
As they walked, the landscape shifted, the flat expanse of desert giving way to crumbling buildings and rusted metal. The outskirts of the old city, a graveyard of a once-great metropolis. Logan's senses heightened, his body tensing in anticipation of potential threats.
Sarah led the way, her steps sure and confident. She knew this place, had explored its ruins, scavenged its remains. She was a survivor, a fighter. Like him. Like Kitty.
Logan followed, his eyes scanning the shadows, the rooftops, the windows of the decaying buildings. He could feel it - the familiar hum of danger, the prickle of violence just beneath the surface. It was only a matter of time before it erupted. And when it did, he'd be ready.
They rounded a corner, stepping into the shadow of a tall, crumbling structure. Sarah stopped, her hand resting on a rusted door. She looked up at him, her green eyes steady, determined.
"This is one of their safe houses," she said, her voice low. "I've seen them come and go. They bring supplies here, sometimes captives."
Logan nodded, his gaze sweeping over the building, taking in the exits, the potential ambush points. "Alright," he said, his voice a low growl. "Let's see what we can find."
Logan's nostrils flared as they entered the safe house. Blood. Old blood. His jaw clenched. The place reeked of fear and pain, masked under layers of gun oil and cigarette smoke.
"Clear," he muttered, scanning the empty main room. Scattered chairs, a table with playing cards frozen mid-game, food wrappers. They'd left in a hurry.
Sarah phased through a locked door, her breath catching. "Here. They kept them here."
Logan followed through the conventional way, shoulder checking the rusted metal. The hinges screamed in protest.
The cell was small, concrete walls marked with scratch marks and desperate tallies. A bucket in the corner. Two thin mattresses pressed against opposite walls. The air felt thick with despair.
Sarah dropped to her knees beside one of the mattresses, fingers tracing the wall. "Marcus was here. He..." Her voice cracked. She pressed her palm flat against the concrete.
Logan watched her phase her hand through the surface, pulling out a small bundle of wires twisted into letters. Smart kid.
Sarah's hands shook as she unfolded the makeshift message. "It's binary. Marcus... he speaks to machines. He must have pulled these from somewhere inside the walls."
Logan crouched beside her, studying the crude characters. Sarah translated, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes.
"'Taking us to the old hospital. Two others. Dr. Essex wants...'" Sarah frowned. "The rest is just numbers. Coordinates maybe?"
Logan remembered that name. Essex. His blood ran cold. This wasn't just about super soldiers anymore. This was something worse.
"You know where this hospital is?" he asked.
Sarah nodded. "Northeast. About two days' walk. It's in the red zone."
Logan stood, muscles tensing. The red zone. Of course it would be there. Nothing good ever came from that radiation-soaked hellhole.
"Then we better get moving," he said, already heading for the door. "Your brother's smart, Sarah. He left us a trail. Now we follow it."
Logan caught their scent before he heard them. Five distinct bodies, gun oil and sweat carried on the night wind. His muscles tensed, old instincts rising like bile in his throat.
"Down," he growled, shoving Sarah behind a rusted-out truck.
The Reavers emerged from the darkness, their augmented limbs gleaming dully in the moonlight. Logan's claws slid free with a familiar snikt. The sound drew their attention, heads snapping toward him like wolves scenting blood.
The first Reaver charged, mechanical arm whirring. Logan ducked under the swing, claws ripping through hydraulics and synthetic muscle. The arm dropped, spurting black fluid. His follow-through opened the man's throat in a spray of red.
Two more rushed him from opposite sides. Logan spun, claws catching moonlight. The left one's chest cavity exploded outward, ribs and circuitry scattering across dirt. The right one got a shot off - the bullet punched through Logan's shoulder. He roared, driving six adamantium blades up through the Reaver's jaw and into his skull.
The fourth had better aim. Three rounds caught Logan in the chest. He stumbled, falling to one knee. The Reaver grinned, cybernetic eye glowing red as he leveled his gun for a head shot. Logan lunged forward, ignoring the burning in his chest. His claws found the sweet spot between armor plates, tearing through the Reaver's gut. The man's intestines spilled over Logan's forearms, steam rising in the cold night air.
The last one turned to run. Logan's claws took his legs out at the knees. The Reaver screamed, trying to crawl away on mechanical arms. Logan grabbed a handful of greasy hair, yanked back the head, and opened the throat to the spine.
Silence fell. Logan stood among the carnage, chest heaving, blood dripping from his claws. His wounds had already closed, leaving only torn fabric and cooling anger. He retracted his claws, wiping his hands on a clean patch of shirt.
"You okay, kid?" he called out.
Sarah emerged from behind the truck, face pale but steady. "Yeah. We should move before more come."
Logan woke to the rusted groan of the car's suspension as Sarah shifted beside him. Dawn clawed its way over the horizon, casting the world in a dull, reddish hue. The red zone. A place where the earth itself seemed to bleed, poisoned by radiation and choked with the remnants of a fallen civilization.
He stepped out of the car, boots crunching on gravel. The air tasted metallic, like blood on the tongue. Sarah joined him, her face pale but set with determination. She'd slept fitfully, her powers flickering in her dreams, phasing her limbs in and out of the worn upholstery.
They stood side by side, looking out at the old hospital. It squatted on the landscape like a rotting corpse, windows blank and staring, walls stained with years of neglect. The building was a relic of a time before the fall, when sickness could be cured with pills and needles, not bullets and blades.
Logan scanned the perimeter, noting the crumbling fence, the overgrown courtyard, the shadows that could hide any number of threats. His eyes narrowed as he picked out the faint glint of metal - cameras, strategically placed to cover every angle. Someone had gone to great lengths to secure this place.
"We're not alone," he growled, nodding towards the cameras.
Sarah followed his gaze. "I can take care of those. Jam their signal, loop the footage." Her fingers twitched, already itching to hack into the system.
Logan grunted approval. "Do it. But be quick. We don't know who's watching."
While Sarah worked, Logan studied the building, mapping out their entry points and escape routes. The main entrance was too exposed, but there - a side door, half-hidden by ivy. Above, a window on the third floor, a fire escape dangling like a broken limb.
Sarah's breath hitched beside him. "Done. We're clear."
He looked at her, saw the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. She was running on fumes, but she hadn't complained once. Tough kid.
"Alright," he said, voice gruff. "We go in quiet. Stick to the plan. Get in, find your brother, get out."
She nodded, green eyes hard. "Got it."
They moved towards the hospital, keeping low, using the cover of rusted cars and dried-out bushes. Logan's senses were on high alert, every nerve ending alive with the familiar hum of danger. He could feel Sarah's heartbeat, rapid but steady, her breaths measured despite the fear that rolled off her in waves.
At the side door, Logan paused, listening. Silence echoed back, heavy and oppressive. Too quiet. He exchanged a glance with Sarah, saw his own unease reflected in her eyes.
He pushed open the door, wincing at the loud creak. They slipped inside, entering a dimly lit hallway. The stench hit him first - decay, antiseptic, the faint undercurrent of something sickly sweet. His stomach churned, memories threatening to surface. He pushed them down, focusing on the present.
The hallway stretched out before them, lined with doors leading to god knows what. Logan motioned for Sarah to stay close as they began their search, each step echoing ominously in the silence.
Abruptly, Logan halted. A sound, faint but distinct. Footsteps, coming their way. He grabbed Sarah, pulling her into a nearby room. They pressed against the wall, listening as the footsteps grew louder, closer.
Logan's claws slid free, the snikt echoing in the small room. Beside him, Sarah tensed, her breath hitching. He shook his head, warning her to stay quiet. They couldn't afford to engage yet, not until they knew more about what they were up against.
The footsteps passed by their hiding spot, fading down the hall. Logan waited, counting heartbeats until he was sure they were clear. Then he signaled Sarah, and together, they stepped back into the hallway, resuming their search.
The hospital sprawled around them, a labyrinth of decaying corridors and abandoned rooms. Each one held horrors best left undisturbed - rusted gurneys, rotting mattresses, medical equipment frozen in time. They moved through it all, shadows among shadows, drawn ever deeper into the heart of the beast.
Finally, they reached a set of double doors, sealed tight. A sign hung overhead, letters faded but still legible: 'Restricted Access'. Logan looked at Sarah, saw the mix of fear and hope in her eyes. This was it. Behind these doors, they'd find answers. Whether they'd like them was another matter.
Logan reached out, hand hovering over the handle. Then he paused, turning to Sarah. "Ready, kiddo?"
She swallowed hard, then nodded. "Ready."
He gripped the handle, cold metal biting into his palm. And pushed.
Logan pushed open the double doors, the grim corridor of the old hospital yawning before them. A heartbeat later, they were flanked by Reavers, ten of them, a ragtag assembly of scarred flesh and metal, their cybernetic enhancements glinting menacingly in the harsh fluorescent light.
Logan didn't hesitate. He exploded into motion, his body shedding its weariness like a second skin. Claws snikted out, their razor edges glinting as he tore into the nearest Reaver. The man—more machine than flesh—stumbled back, mechanical arm sparking and whirring as it tried to compensate for the sudden loss of hydraulic pressure.
Sarah darted to the side, phasing through a swinging pipe as she dodged a Reaver's lunge. She emerged behind him, driving her elbow into his back, sending him sprawling. Her fighting style was all evasion and surprise, a dance of desperation and cunning honed by years of survival.
Logan, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of savagery. He slammed a Reaver into the wall, the force of the impact leaving a dent in the plaster. Claws slashed, severing limbs and ripping through cybernetic enhancements with brutal efficiency. Blood sprayed, mingling with the sparks of short-circuiting tech. His face was a mask of fury, every movement fueled by a lifetime of pent-up rage.
Sarah phased through another attack, her form flickering like a ghost as she moved through solid matter. She reappeared behind her attacker, striking at the back of his knees, sending him crashing to the floor. Her tactics were surgical, precise, aimed at disabling rather than destroying.
A Reaver with a mechanical arm lunged at Logan, the metal appendage whirring as it attempted to crush him. Logan ducked under the swing, his claws tearing through the Reaver's chest, exposing a mess of wires and flesh. The man collapsed, his body convulsing as his cybernetic systems shorted out.
Sarah found herself cornered by two Reavers, their cybernetic eyes glowing with malice. She phased through the first one's swing, emerging behind him to deliver a swift kick to the back of his head. The second Reaver lunged, but Sarah phased again, her body flickering as she moved through the attack, reappearing behind him to strike at his knee.
Logan fought with a relentless, brutal intensity. Every slash of his claws was a testament to his savagery, every blow a reminder of the beast within. He tore through the Reavers, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Blood soaked his clothes, splattered across his face, but he didn't slow down. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body aching with the exertion, but the pain only fueled his fury.
Sarah, meanwhile, danced around her opponents, her phasing ability allowing her to evade their attacks with an almost ethereal grace. She struck quickly and precisely, targeting joints and weak points, using her speed and agility to keep her enemies off balance.
As the fight wore on, the floor became slick with blood and oil, the air thick with the scent of death and the acrid tang of short-circuiting tech. Logan's breath came in ragged gasps, his body aching from the exertion, but he didn't slow down. He fought with a single-minded focus, his claws tearing through flesh and metal with equal ease.
Sarah, meanwhile, began to show signs of fatigue. Her phasing became less controlled, her movements slower. She stumbled, her foot catching on a discarded pipe, and a Reaver lunged, his mechanical arm whirring as it swung toward her.
Logan saw the attack coming. He lunged, his claws tearing through the Reaver's arm, severing it at the elbow. The man screamed, clutching at the stump as blood and sparks sprayed from the wound. Logan turned to Sarah, his face a mask of concern. "You okay, kiddo?"
Sarah nodded, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Yeah. Just... just a little tired."
Logan scanned the room, his eyes narrowing as he took in the carnage. The Reavers lay scattered around them, their bodies a mess of torn flesh and shattered tech. He turned back to Sarah, his voice gruff. "We need to keep moving. Can't stay here."
Sarah nodded, her face pale but determined. "I'm ready. Let's go."
Together, they stepped over the bodies of the fallen Reavers, their footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent corridor. The fight was over, but their journey was far from done. They had to keep moving, keep fighting, keep searching for Sarah's brother.
Logan's senses prickled as they rounded a corner and spotted another group of Reavers. Five this time, their mechanical augmentations glinting ominously in the low light. He turned to Sarah, his voice gruff. "Stay out of this, kiddo. Find your brother. Use your powers."
Sarah hesitated, then nodded, melting away into the shadows. Logan stepped forward, his claws extending with a metallic snikt. The Reavers noticed him, their eyes glowing as they locked onto their target.
The first Reaver lunged, A robotic arm hummed as it swept toward Logan.. He ducked, the arm whistling over his head. He retaliated with a swift slash, his claws tearing through flesh and metal. The Reaver stumbled back, clutching his injured arm.
Logan's body moved on autopilot, years of training and instinct taking over. He sidestepped another attack, his claws lashing out, disabling a second Reaver. His breath came in short, controlled bursts, each exhale punctuated by the impact of his claws against cybernetic enhancements.
In the background, he heard Sarah's soft footsteps, her phasing ability allowing her to move undetected. Good, he thought. Keep moving, kiddo.
A third Reaver attacked, this one wielding a cybernetic blade. Logan met the attack head-on, his claws clashing against the blade. The force of the impact sent sparks flying, the screech of metal against metal echoing through the corridor.
Logan's muscles burned, his body protesting the exertion. He ignored the pain, his focus solely on the fight. He caught a glimpse of Sarah slipping through a door, her form flickering as she phased through the lock.
The fourth Reaver attempted to sneak up behind him, but Logan's senses were too keen. He spun around, his claws tearing through the Reaver's leg. The man screamed, collapsing to the ground.
Suddenly, a female voice echoed through the corridor. "We need reinforcements! Logan's here!"
Logan's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the area. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it. He growled, his claws extending further. The fight was far from over.
He turned his attention back to the remaining Reavers. The fifth one charged, his mechanical legs propelling him forward at an alarming speed. Logan braced himself, his claws at the ready.
As the Reaver lunged, Logan sidestepped, his claws tearing through the man's side. The Reaver crashed to the ground, his body convulsing as his cybernetic systems short-circuited.
Logan stood there, panting, his body aching from the fight. He could hear Sarah's soft footsteps nearby, her phasing ability allowing her to move undetected. He hoped she was close to finding her brother.
But the female voice echoed in his mind, a nagging reminder that the fight wasn't over. Reinforcements were coming. They needed to move fast.
He took a deep breath, his claws retracting. He needed to find Sarah and make sure she was safe. Then they could figure out their next move.
Logan's boots echoed down the stark corridor, each step a hammer strike of urgency. The female voice still rang in his ears, a siren's call dragging him deeper into the decaying hospital. The air grew colder, the stench of decay and antiseptic mingling in a grim dance.
Sarah materialized from a wall, her form flickering like a poorly tuned hologram. Her eyes were wide, a mix of relief and fear churning within them. "Logan, I found him," she breathed, her voice hardly audible. "Marcus is in a cell with two others. They're all sedated."
Logan halted, his gaze locked onto Sarah's. "Good work, kiddo. You did well." His voice was gruff, but the pride was unmistakable. "Stay with your brother. Keep him safe. I'll handle the rest."
Sarah nodded, her hands clenching and unclenching nervously. Logan could see the tension in her shoulders, the fear she was trying to hide. He gave her a reassuring nod, a silent promise that he wouldn't let her down.
As Sarah phased back through the wall, Logan turned his attention to the corridor ahead. The female voice echoed again, this time closer.
The corridor stretched out before him, a gauntlet of faded paint and flickering lights. He moved swiftly, his steps echoing off the worn tiles. Each door he passed held the promise of danger, but he pressed on, his focus singular.
The voice came again, clearer this time. "He's here. The Wolverine is here."
Logan's lips curled into a snarl. They knew he was coming. Good. Let them fear. Let them remember what it meant to face the Wolverine.
Logan stepped around the corner, his boots grinding against the worn tile floor. The stark fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting the lab in an eerie, sterile glow. He saw her then—Dr. Essex. Tall and imposing, her white-streaked hair pulled back tightly, she stood with perfect posture, a pristine lab coat draped over her frame. Her pale complexion seemed to glow under the harsh lights, and the subtle red tint to her eyes lent her an unsettling appearance.
She was flanked by three Reavers, their mechanical augmentations shining under the frigid illumination. They stood at attention, awaiting her command. Behind them, an operation table held a motionless body, its form obscured by a stark white sheet.
Dr. Essex didn't so much as blink at Logan's entrance. She merely nodded, a slight tilt of her head, and the Reavers sprang into action. The first charged, a cybernetic blade extending from his arm with a sharp hiss. Logan met the attack head-on, his claws tearing through metal and flesh with brutal efficiency. The Reaver crumpled, his blade clattering against the floor.
The second Reaver attempted to flank him, but Logan's senses were too keen. He spun, his claws lashing out, disabling the man with a swift, precise strike. The Reaver collapsed, his mechanical leg sparking and twitching.
The third Reaver hesitated, his gaze flicking between Logan and Dr. Essex. Logan could see the fear in his eyes, the realization that he was outmatched. But the man charged nonetheless, driven by duty or desperation. Logan sidestepped the attack, his claws tearing through the Reaver's back. The man fell, his body convulsing as his cybernetic systems short-circuited.
Throughout the fight, Dr. Essex remained unmoved, her expression clinical and detached. As the last Reaver fell, she turned her attention back to the operation table. She leaned over the body, her gloved hands deftly extracting a syringe from the motionless form.
Logan watched, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. He could feel the fatigue in his muscles, the ache of his healing factor working overtime. But his gaze was locked onto Dr. Essex, his every instinct screaming at him to stop her.
She straightened, the syringe held carefully in her hand. Her eyes met Logan's, a cold, calculating look that sent a chill down his spine. Then, with a swift, decisive movement, she turned and hurried to the back of the laboratory.
Logan moved to intercept her, his claws extending, but she was quick. She reached a door at the far end of the lab, her hand pressing against a biometric scanner. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and she disappeared inside, leaving Logan alone in the stark, cold lab.
He stood there, panting, his claws dripping with blood and oil. The room was silent save for the hum of the lights and the faint beep of the machines. The body on the table lay still, the sheet undisturbed. Whatever Dr. Essex had taken, whatever she was planning, Logan knew he had to stop her.
But for now, she was gone, vanished behind that sealed door. Logan took a deep breath, his claws retracting. He needed to regroup, find Sarah and Marcus, and figure out their next move. Because one thing was clear—Dr. Essex wasn't done, and neither was he.
Logan's ears pricked at the sound of Sarah's scream, a raw, terrified cry that cut through the stale hospital air. He bolted towards the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. Rounding a corner, he skidded to a halt in front of a steel door, locked and imposing. With a snarl, he unsheathed his claws, the metal screeching as he tore through the door like tissue paper.
Inside, Sarah hung in the grip of a Reaver, her feet dangling above the ground. Her face was a mask of terror, eyes wide and desperate as she tried and failed to phase. The Reaver, a hulking figure of metal and flesh, held her aloft, a cruel laugh echoing from its mechanical mouth.
Logan didn't hesitate. A roar tore from his throat as he charged, claws extended. The Reaver turned, eyes widening in surprise, but it was too late. Logan's claws sliced through its neck, separating head from body in a single, brutal stroke. The Reaver's grip on Sarah loosened, and she began to fall.
Quick as lightning, Logan dropped his claws and lunged forward, catching Sarah before she hit the floor. She crumpled into his arms, her body shaking with sobs. "I-I couldn't phase," she gasped, her voice hitching. "I was too scared. I couldn't—"
"Shh, kiddo," Logan murmured, cradling her close. "It's okay. You're okay." He scanned the room, his gaze landing on three sedated figures lying on beds pushed against the far wall.
Sarah followed his gaze, her breath hitching as she saw her brother. "Marcus," she whispered, struggling to stand. Logan helped her up, keeping an arm around her waist as they approached the beds.
The other two were strangers, a boy and a girl, both with the telltale signs of mutant heritage. Logan checked their pulses, finding them steady and strong. Whatever Essex had done to them, they were alive. For now.
Sarah reached out a trembling hand, brushing a lock of hair from Marcus's forehead. "He's so cold," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Logan gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "He's tough, just like his sister," he said, his voice gruff. "We'll get him out of here. Get all of them out."
Sarah looked up at him, her green eyes swimming with tears. "Promise?" she asked, her voice small and vulnerable.
Logan met her gaze, his expression softening. "Promise," he said, the word a solemn vow. Whatever it took, he would keep these kids safe.
Logan woke to the familiar ache in his bones, the protest of a body that had seen too many battles and too little rest. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor. The mirror reflected a man worn by time and circumstance, but there was a subtle change—a spark in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
He shuffled into the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. Sarah was at the stove, flipping pancakes with a focus that belied her youth. Marcus sat at the table, tinkering with a small gadget, his fingers moving with a precision that spoke of an innate understanding of machinery. Gina and Tom, the other two kids they'd rescued, were setting the table, their movements synchronized in a way that suggested they'd done this many times before.
The coffee was already steaming in a cup, waiting for him. Logan grunted a thanks as he picked it up, the warmth seeping into his hands. He took a sip, the bitter liquid grounding him in the moment.
"Morning," Sarah said, glancing over her shoulder. Her green eyes held a mixture of determination and something softer, something that looked almost like gratitude.
Logan nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. "What's on the agenda for today?" he asked, his voice gruff from sleep and disuse.
Marcus looked up from his gadget, his eyes bright. "I thought we could work on the irrigation system," he said. "I have some ideas on how to optimize it."
Gina chimed in, her voice soft but steady. "And I thought Tom and I could help with the animals. We've got experience with that from... before."
Logan nodded, his gaze sweeping over the group. It was strange, having all these people in his space. Strange, but not unpleasant. He'd spent so long alone, his only company the ghosts of his past. Now, the house was filled with life, with noise, with purpose.
"Sounds like a plan," he said, his voice rough but not unkind. "Just make sure you listen to Sarah. She knows her way around the farm better than any of you."
Sarah flushed slightly at the praise, but her eyes sparkled with pride. "Don't worry, I'll keep them in line," she said, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Logan grunted, hiding his own smile behind his coffee cup. He watched as the kids interacted, their laughter filling the room. It was a sound he hadn't heard in a long time, a sound that made the ache in his bones seem a little less severe.
He thought back to the days before they'd arrived, the endless cycle of work and whiskey, the silence that had seemed to press in on him from all sides. Now, there was noise, there was life, there was purpose. It was a change, a big one, but not an unwelcome one.
He finished his coffee, setting the cup down on the table with a soft thud. "Alright, let's get to work," he said, his voice firm but fair. "Day's not getting any younger."
As they filed out of the kitchen, Logan couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. It was a foreign feeling, one he hadn't experienced in a long time. But as he watched the kids, as he saw the life they brought to his home, he couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was what he'd been missing all along.