CHAPTER 210— STARFIRE AND SHADOWS
The claws were inches from Storm's chest when the ceiling split open.
Light screamed through the cracks—white, blinding, alien. Plasma beams lanced down, searing the hive. Brood guards shrieked as they burned alive, their chitin crackling like kindling. The Queen reared back, acid spilling from her mandibles, but even she flinched under the onslaught.
And then the light swallowed the X-Men.
Logan's claws froze mid-swing. The world tilted. His gut lurched as if he'd been yanked through a tornado. The stench of the hive vanished—replaced by sterile metal, humming engines, and ozone.
They landed in a heap on polished steel plating.
"Brace!" a gruff voice barked.
The ship lurched. Sirens howled overhead. Lights strobing red. Logan's instincts screamed trap, claws snapping out as he rolled to his feet.
But it wasn't Brood.
It was them.
The Starjammers.
At the center, standing tall with a pilot's swagger and a blaster smoking in his hand, was Corsair. His red bandana fluttered with the ship's vent currents.
"Raza! Ch'od! Hepzibah!" Corsair bellowed, his voice steel over the chaos. "Warp engines now, before their hive regroups!"
The motley crew jumped into action. Raza, the half-metal swordsman, slammed a fist into a control console. Ch'od, the hulking reptilian, lumbered toward the engine core. Hepzibah hissed, white fur bristling as she manned the guns.
Kitty staggered upright, clutching her chest. "Wha—what just happened?!"
Nightcrawler groaned, his tail thrashing. "I zink… we are no longer in hell."
Storm half-collapsed, her skin still crawling with insectoid ridges. "It feels like one prison exchanged for another…"
Corsair spun toward them, his voice cutting. "Sikorsky! Get down here!"
A tiny buzz filled the air. From the ceiling whirred a machine—small, insect-like but metallic, no bigger than a child's head. Spindly wings flickered as it zipped to hover before Corsair, its eye-lenses glowing blue.
"This crew is half-dead!" Corsair barked. "Priority triage—Cyclops, Nightcrawler, Storm, Kitty. Move it!"
The drone—Sikorsky—flashed its eyes and darted to work, spraying each X-Man with shimmering nano-mist. Their twitching eased, the ridges along their skin softening back to flesh.
Cyclops ripped off what was left of his visor, still cracked from the hive. His chest heaved as he sucked in a breath not laced with Brood rot. He blinked up at Corsair, confusion cutting through the haze of pain.
"…Dad?"
Corsair's jaw tightened, but his smirk was already in place. He holstered his blaster with a flourish, glancing left, then right. "What can I say? I couldn't resist crashing the party."
Scott's eyes narrowed. "How did you even find us?"
Corsair's grin turned wolfish. "Simple. I planted a locator on that visor of yours." He tapped two fingers to his temple. "You never take it off. Old habits make fine anchors."
Scott froze. His voice cracked. "…You tracked me?"
Corsair's smile faltered for the first time, but he covered it with a shrug. "Couldn't trust my son walking into a Shi'ar banquet blind. Not when the Shi'ar murdered his mother."
The words hit like a blast. Silence rippled across the group.
Kitty's mouth opened, then closed. Kurt's ears flicked down. Storm's eyes went cold, watching the space between father and son like it might ignite.
Logan leaned on the wall, claws still out, dazed at the whip-fast turn of events. His nose caught clean steel, ion burn, human sweat—not brood. His headache was gone, replaced with raw exhaustion.
Corsair finally turned to him. "And you, stranger with the shiny cutlery—do you need triage?"
Logan shook his head, voice gravel. "Nah. Save the magic bug-spray for them. I just need a room. Somewhere quiet."
Corsair raised a brow but didn't argue. "Fine. Hepzibah—get him quarters.And Sikorsky, take the other X-Men to help them dispose of the bugs."
The cat-woman tilted her head, but motioned for Logan to follow.
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The shower steamed, hot water hammering against Logan's shoulders. He stood still, head bowed, claws extended under the spray.
Droplets hissed down the adamantium, streaking crimson before vanishing into the drain.
He stared at the blades. At the hands that had been ready to cut down his family.
"Why," he rasped under the roar of water, "why is it always me?"
He pressed the claws to his forehead until they bit skin, red mingling with the stream.
"Why do I have to be the one to do it? To end them? To put 'em down like dogs. Why ain't it ever anyone else?"
Images flickered—Storm's pleading eyes, Scott's defiance, Kitty's trembling hand. Their screams. Their faith in him.
And his claws, always his claws.
The water pounded harder, but it couldn't drown the voices in his skull.
"Why's it always me."
The ship hummed around him, indifferent. Outside, the Starjammers bantered, engines roaring, heroes healed. Life moved on.
But Logan stood there in the water, bleeding grief into steel.
Alone.
And his claws, gleaming under the spray like silent executioners.
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