CHAPTER 175 — NAMES AND GOODBYES
The morning sun spilled soft light across the mansion, but the atmosphere inside was heavy as lead. The team had gathered in the common room, Xavier at the center with Kitty Pryde perched nervously on the edge of a couch, twisting the strap of her bag like it was a lifeline.
Xavier folded his hands. "We must, as tradition dictates, grant our newest student a codename. A name that will mark her place among the X-Men." His eyes twinkled. "Kitty, may I suggest… Ariel?"
Kitty froze, face burning red. "Uh—n-no, Professor. I… I don't like that. It doesn't feel like me."
The silence stretched. Colossus shifted awkwardly. Angel's wings rustled. Logan puffed once on his cigar, smirking at the kid's stubbornness.
Storm came to her rescue. "Then perhaps… Sprite. Light, quick, untouchable."
Kitty's eyes lit up. "Sprite… I like that! Yeah. Sprite!"
The team smiled, tension easing. Nightcrawler grinned wide. "It suits you, fraulein. Small but full of spark!"
"Hey!" Kitty laughed, tossing a pillow at him.
Logan caught it one-handed midair, tossing it back onto the couch without looking. "Sprite, huh? Better than Ariel. You ain't some mermaid. This way, at least, you don't drown easy."
Kitty gave him a crooked smile. "Thanks… I think?"
But the moment cracked when Logan stubbed out his cigar and stood. His voice was low, final. "Listen up. I'm headin' north. Canada. Got some old ghosts need buryin'."
The team stared at him, Storm tilting her head. "What do you mean, Logan?"
"Alpha Flight," Logan said flatly. "Government boys. They been itchin' for me since I quit. Time I squared things." He crossed his arms. "I ain't draggin' you into it. This one's mine."
Angel frowned. "So you're just walking out? Again?"
Logan shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Ain't walkin' out. Just settlin' a debt. And I ain't expectin' trouble."
Xavier's voice cut in, calm but firm. "Then you will not go alone. If you wish my blessing, Nightcrawler will accompany you. Otherwise, Logan… I cannot condone this trip."
Logan growled under his breath. 'Old man knows how to corner me.' He flicked his eyes at Kurt, who just shrugged, grinning sheepishly.
"Ja, mein freund. Think of it this way—you get to fight the whole Canadian government, I get to watch."
Logan sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "Fine. Elf comes. But he carries his own damn bags."
Nightcrawler beamed. "Naturally!"
---
The jet roared over endless swathes of pine and snow. Logan's eyes stayed fixed on the landscape below, memories gnawing at the edges of his mind. Heather's smile. James's hand pulling him out of the dirt. The first time he smelled Wendigo's stench.
Nightcrawler broke the silence. "You have changed, Logan. Back at the mansion, you spoke of Jean with more softness than I thought you capable of."
Logan's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. His inner voice spat bitterly: 'Softness didn't save her. Being tough didn't either. Nothin' saved her.'
---
On the ground, in the thick of the forest, three figures crouched near a torn-up clearing: Vindicator in his red-and-white suit, Snowbird pale as moonlight, Shaman kneeling with his medicine bag spread wide.
"Tracks end here," Vindicator muttered. "And still no sign of the creature."
"Nor of the woman and child," Snowbird added, frowning. "The longer we delay, the greater their peril."
Shaman's voice was calm, but strained. "The Wendigo is elusive, even for one such as I. Its curse clouds the very earth it walks upon."
A voice drawled from the shadows. "You're lookin' in the wrong direction."
The three whipped around instantly, hands and powers at the ready.
"Who—?!" Vindicator barked.
Logan stepped out from the treeline, cigar glowing faint in the dark. Beside him, Nightcrawler waved cheerily.
Snowbird's eyes narrowed. "Wolverine."
"Bad time for a social call," Vindicator growled.
Logan smirked. "Relax, Jimmy. If it's a fight you want, I'll carve out the time. But that ain't why I'm here." His eyes sharpened. "That beast you're huntin'? I know it."
The three exchanged quick glances. Shaman spoke first. "You… know of the Wendigo?"
Logan's voice dipped lower, rough. "Knowin' ain't the half of it. My life turned upside down the day I met him. Didn't expect to smell that stink again." He paused, the cigar ember flaring. "Name's Georges Baptiste. Took the curse from a friend. Paid for it ever since."
Nightcrawler's tail flicked nervously. "Mein Gott…"
Logan blew smoke out, nostrils flaring. "Already got the trail from the bodies you missed. I can lead you straight to him."
Snowbird's eyes softened with surprise. "You would help us?"
Logan's jaw tightened. "I ain't helpin' you. I'm payin' my own debt."
Vindicator's voice lost its edge, just a fraction. "Then lead on."
Logan sniffed the wind, claws flexing unconsciously. The scent was there—blood, fear, the foul rot of cursed flesh. His lips curled back.
'Alright, Wendigo. Round two. This time, it's personal.'