Chapter 9:
Logan leaned against the crude tombstone he'd carved with his claws, his body half-shadowed by the sinking sun. The slab of stone was rough, jagged, letters barely legible — but it was enough. A marker for a boy whose name he never knew. Dirt still clung to his hands, the scent of earth and blood mixing in the air.
His hair had grown longer in these months of silence, wild tufts bristling like the mane of some half-tamed beast. His beard was thick, scruffy, catching the dying light in flecks of bronze. His uniform was long gone, shredded in the rampage. Now he wore only a tattered undershirt and fatigues, both streaked with mud and ash, boots worn through from restless pacing around a grave that had become his prison.
Logan's head tilted when he heard it: wheels crunching over gravel. Not boots. Not the clipped march of soldiers. Something slower, deliberate.
A wheelchair emerged from the treeline, rolling forward with a quiet hum of precision engineering. Seated in it was a man of stark contrast to Logan — bald, clean-shaven, dressed in a dark suit that carried the dignity of an era Logan had outlived twice over. His eyes were calm, piercing blue, heavy not with judgment but with knowing. The air shifted as he drew closer, as if even the wilderness recognized the gravity of his presence.
" Logan," the man said, voice clear, carrying without raising. "I've been looking for you."
Logan's lip curled at the name. "Ain't many left alive who'd bother."
The man smiled faintly, not offended. "My name is Charles Xavier. You may call me Professor X. And I didn't stumble here by chance. I used Cerebro, a machine that allows me to find mutants across the world. Your mind… burned bright. Untamed. Pained."
Logan snorted, eyes narrowing. "So you're the type who likes pokin' around in people's heads. Shoulda guessed." He tapped a claw absently against the tombstone. Snikt. Metal slid free for the barest moment before retracting. "If you're here to collar me, you picked the wrong dog."
Xavier wheeled a little closer, unshaken. "I don't want to cage you, Logan. I want to offer you a choice. A path."
"Path?" Logan's laugh was low, bitter. "Look around, bub. This is my path. Dirt, blood, and corpses. Yours if you take another step."
Xavier regarded the crude grave, the feral man guarding it like a wolf at a den. He spoke softer now, but no less firm.
"I know what they did to you. I know the weight you carry. But you are not alone anymore. There are others — mutants, like you, each struggling with powers they never asked for. I'm building a home for them. A place where they can belong. Where you can belong."
Logan turned away, jaw tight. Smoke from a half-burnt cigar stub littering the ground drifted lazily as he ground it under his boot.
"I don't belong anywhere."
"That's where you're wrong." Xavier's tone sharpened, steel under silk. "You belong with us. Because the world fears what it does not understand. And unless we stand together, that fear will destroy us all."
Silence fell. Logan's ears twitched at the distant rustle of trees, the heartbeat of a bird taking flight. His feral instincts screamed don't trust him. Too smooth. Too clean. Too damn hopeful. And yet… behind the professor's words, there was no leash. No scalpel waiting. Just an open hand.
"You want me on your team, Chuck?" Logan finally growled, eyes narrowing into a predator's squint. "I ain't no boy scout. I fight dirty. I drink too much. I don't play well with others."
Xavier's lips curved faintly. "That is precisely why I need you. Not as a soldier, but as yourself. A man who has survived everything designed to break him. A man who can teach others how to endure."
The words hung heavy. For the first time in years, Logan felt something crack through the haze of blood and rage. A sliver of… belonging. Dangerous thought. He scowled to mask it.
"And what's in it for me?"
Xavier's voice softened to its gentlest register.
"A home."
That word hit harder than any blade. Logan's hand flexed, claws twitching but staying sheathed. Slowly, he pushed himself upright from the tombstone, his frame looming larger than Xavier's chair, a shadow against the fading sun.
Without a word, he stepped past the professor, crouched beside one of the corpses still rotting in the brush, and tugged a bent cigar from the pocket. He lit it with a battered match, flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face.
He took a long drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke into the twilight. Then — for the first time in half a year — Logan smirked. Not joy. Not peace. But something close to defiance with direction.
He extended a scarred hand toward Xavier.
"Alright, Chuck. Let's see if your 'home' can handle me."
Xavier took his hand without hesitation. Grip steady. Unflinching.
And just like that, a feral loner shook hands with destiny.