Chapter 6
The chopper blades hadn't even cooled when Department H's brass came swarming. Suits, lab coats, operatives with clipboards — like vultures circling something that wasn't quite dead yet.
"Outstanding results, Weapon X," one of them beamed, clapping his hands like he'd raised a prize pig. "Your success rate is unparalleled. The department is most impressed."
Logan gave them a flat stare. Most impressed. He didn't need their damn pat on the head. With a grunt that could mean "thanks" or "drop dead," he shoved past them.
Behind him, his hearing — sharp as a blade now — picked up the whispers they thought were safe.
"He's uncontrollable."
"Needs more discipline. More structure."
"Animal pretending to be a soldier…"
Logan stopped in the hall. For a heartbeat, he thought about turning around, maybe letting his claws answer back. Instead, he kept moving. Their voices followed him down the steel corridor like gnats buzzing around his skull.
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His room was bare, utilitarian. Bed. Locker. A single ashtray overflowing with cigar stubs. He shut the door and finally let himself breathe.
He leaned back in the chair, lit a cigar, and exhaled slow. Smoke coiled up to the vent, curling like a question mark.
That fight… those twins… that shiver.
It came back to him — the rush that lit up every nerve, the kind of high no drug could touch. Not pain, not adrenaline. Something else. Something inside.
He tapped ash into the tray. So far, it's only happened when I cross claws with feral types. Wendigo. Those bone-spawnin' kids. Not Hulk. Not soldiers with guns. Just the beasts. Means it's gotta be somethin' in common. Somethin' overlap.
Logan flexed his hands. The adamantium sang in his bones, restless.
When the younger brat sprouted those bones out his back, I felt it. My claws stretched long as his spears. Five meters, maybe more. Same damn measure. Not shorter. Not longer. Exact. Means I don't just copy—I copy to their degree. Their limit becomes mine.
He extended a claw and studied the gleam. It looked the same, but it wasn't. The elder twin had rammed his chest like a battering ram, and his spears hadn't splintered. Logan's claws now carried that same density. Reinforced. He could feel it when they clashed, the metallic song deeper, purer.
Can't sprout bones from my chest, though. Or from my back. Means no new tricks — only the ones that overlap. I can't grow new weapons. Just upgrade what's already here.
The cigar burned down to his fingers. He dropped it in the tray and growled softly.
So that's the game. Equalizer. Makes me a reflection of the feral bastards I cross. Hunter's nose. Predator's reflexes. Stronger claws. Longer reach. Faster healing. But all only where I've already got somethin' to work with.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The shadows painted him in half-light.
The shiver's the key. That's the tell. Every time it hits, I know I'm changin'. Not just once. Permanent. Like layers stackin' on layers. And it only comes in the heat of the fight — when claws are out and blood's in the air.
For a long while he sat there, quiet but restless, turning over the puzzle pieces in his head. His instincts told him the Equalizer wasn't a one-off. It wasn't luck. It was a new law of his nature, and laws don't just stop applyin'.
Somewhere down the hall, boots marched past, and someone barked an order. Logan closed his eyes, inhaled smoke and steel, and let a grim smile touch his lips.
Let 'em grumble. Let 'em talk about discipline. They don't know what I'm becoming. Hell, I don't even know yet. But I'll find out. One fight at a time.