The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like angry wasps as I follow Professor Xavier through the maze of metal corridors beneath the mansion. Every footstep echoes against the clinical walls, creating a rhythm that matches my racing pulse. My muscles still burn pleasantly from the training session, but it's the anticipation that's really got my nerves firing.
"You handled yourself well today," Xavier says without turning her wheelchair around. "Scotty was impressed."
"Thanks," I mutter, trying not to sound too pleased. Praise still feels like foreign territory, something that might be yanked away the moment I get comfortable with it.
We reach a heavy steel door at the end of the hallway. Xavier punches a code into a keypad, and it slides open with a soft pneumatic hiss. The room beyond looks like someone's attempt to create a dive bar in a bomb shelter, all exposed metal and harsh lighting, with a few worn leather couches clustered around a scratched coffee table.
And there she is. The Wolverine. Lounging on one of the couches with her boots propped up on the table, nursing a beer like it's personally offended her. She's smaller than I expected, compact and coiled like a spring about to snap. Her wild black hair frames a face that seems permanently locked in a scowl, blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
She takes a long swig from her bottle, then belches loudly without so much as an "excuse me."
"Jack," Xavier says with practiced patience, "this is a woman of many names. Jamie Howlett, more commonly known as Wolverine."
The legendary mutant gives me a once-over that makes me feel like I'm being appraised for parts. "Just call me Morgan, kid," she grunts, her voice rough as sandpaper.
"Alright," I reply, stepping forward and extending my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Morgan. I'm Jack."
She eyes my outstretched hand for a moment like it might be booby-trapped before giving it a firm shake. Her grip is like iron wrapped in callused skin.
"Nice to meet you, bub," she says, releasing my hand and immediately reaching for her beer again.
"Have a seat next to Morgan," Xavier instructs, gesturing to the empty space on the couch.
I lower myself onto the worn leather, keeping a respectful distance from the woman who could probably skewer me before I could blink. The couch smells faintly of cigars and something metallic that might be blood.
"I brought Morgan here to help us get a better understanding of your healing factor," Xavier explains, wheeling around to face us both. "Given her own remarkable regenerative abilities, she can provide valuable insights."
"Oh, cool," I say, genuinely interested. Having someone who knows what it's like to heal from just about anything sounds pretty useful right about now.
Xavier's blue eyes lock with mine. "And perhaps more importantly, to explore the wound transfer ability you possess."
"Oh, nice." I nod, still not entirely sure what that even means.
Without warning, there's a metallic rip and Morgan's hand blurs. Before I can process what's happening, one of her adamantium claws is slicing down my forearm, opening a clean line through my flesh. I instinctively grab her wrist in surprise, my fingers tightening around her as blood wells up from the wound.
The strangest part? I barely felt it. Her claw is so sharp that the pain only registers after I see the blood.
"Morgan!" Xavier exclaims, her voice sharp with disapproval.
I stare down at my arm. The cut isn't terrible, but it's deep enough that blood obscures everything.
Morgan doesn't apologize. Instead, she leans forward, eyes fixed on my arm with predatory intensity. We both watch as the edges of the wound start to pull together, the bleeding slowing then stopping completely. The skin knits itself back together in slow motion, leaving a thin pink line that fades even as I watch.
A satisfied smile creeps across Morgan's face. "That's good," she says, her gruff voice carrying something like approval. "And you didn't even make a sound. Most people would've screamed."
I shrug, wiping the remaining blood off my now-healed skin. "I'm really used to pain."
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and something passes between us, a recognition, maybe. The look of someone who understands exactly what I mean.
"That's good for someone with a healing factor," she says, retracting her claw with another snikt. "Pain's just information. Useful sometimes, but mostly just noise."
Xavier's face darkens like a storm cloud. "Morgan, you're usually better with the students than this," she says, her voice tight with disapproval.
Morgan just shrugs and takes a long pull from her beer bottle. "He's a healer. I figured trial by fire was the best approach." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, completely unbothered.
"It's fine, Professor Xavier," I say quickly, not wanting to cause trouble.
Xavier sighs, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. "It's not fine, but let's continue." The way she says it makes me feel like this isn't the first time Morgan's done something like this.
Morgan sets her beer down with a clink against the metal table. "So, wound transfer," she says, leaning forward. "Any idea how it works, kid?"
"Not really," I admit, studying my healed arm. "I didn't even know I could do it until the Professor mentioned it."
"I think I've seen something like this before," Morgan says, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She extends one claw again with that metallic snikt sound. "Let's try something. I'll make a small cut on my arm, then you put your hand on me and try to... I dunno, suck it up like you're using a straw."
Before Xavier can protest, Morgan drags her claw across her forearm, opening a shallow cut. Blood beads along the line immediately.
"Quick, quick!" she barks, thrusting her arm toward me.
I panic and reach out, my hand somehow landing right on her breast instead of her arm. The moment my palm makes contact, I freeze, mortified.
"I'm so sorry!" I stammer, face burning hot enough to melt steel.
Morgan doesn't even blink. "What are you doing? Suck it in, kid," she says impatiently, as if I haven't just accidentally groped her.
Neither woman seems to care about the breast touch, which only makes it more surreal. Pushing past my embarrassment, I focus on the cut on her arm, imagining pulling the wound into myself like she suggested.
Suddenly, I feel a strange tugging sensation, like something's flowing through my palm. The cut on Morgan's arm vanishes, and a matching slice appears on my forearm, stinging sharply.
"Oh fuck," I hiss as blood wells up from my fresh wound.
Morgan nods, a glint of approval in her eyes. "Yeah, that's cool."
I watch my own healing factor kick in, the wound slowly closing.
"Wait, hold on a second." My mind races as a new idea forms. If I can pull wounds into myself, maybe I can...
I focus on the freshly healed cut on my arm, concentrating on the sensation I just felt but in reverse. Like pushing instead of pulling. I grip Morgan's breast more firmly without thinking, my brain entirely focused on the transfer, nothing else.
"I think I can…" I start to explain, but then I feel it, the strange tingling sensation traveling back through my palm.
The wound reopens on Morgan's arm, exactly where it had been before, as my own skin completely heals.
"Oh!" Xavier exclaims, her eyes widening as she leans forward in her wheelchair. "Fascinating. You're not just absorbing injuries, you're redirecting them."
Morgan looks down at her arm, then at my hand still gripping her breast, her expression unreadable. She doesn't push me away or seem bothered by the contact at all. Instead, she raises an eyebrow and watches as her own healing factor kicks in, sealing the wound in seconds.
"So you can play hot potato with injuries," she says, nodding appreciatively. "That's actually pretty fucking useful in a fight."
I snatch my hand away, my face burning with embarrassment.
"Sorry about that," I mutter, gesturing vaguely at her chest.
Morgan just shrugs in confusion. "For what?"
A grin spreads across my face as the possibilities of my power sink in. "So maybe I'll get to be an X-Woman soon, huh? Join the big leagues?"
Morgan snorts, taking another swig of her beer. "If you're willing to stab yourself mid-battle and transfer that onto people, you'd be one hell of a fighter," she says, eyeing me with newfound respect. "Could be a game-changer in the field."
My mind races with tactical possibilities. "I probably could do that. Like, I could carry a small knife and…"
"Morgan!" Xavier interrupts sharply, her voice cutting through my enthusiasm like a blade. "Baby steps."
The professor's stern gaze shifts to me, her expression softening slightly but still serious. "I'm not sending you into a battlefield just to stab yourself, Jack. That's not how we operate." She pauses, considering me with those piercing blue eyes. "But your healing ability may be... extremely useful on the field."
My heart skips a beat. "Really?" I can't keep the eagerness from my voice. After years of being nothing but a punching bag, the idea of being valuable, of having a purpose, feels intoxicating.
Xavier's lips curve into a small, enigmatic smile as she begins to turn her wheelchair toward the door. "We shall see, Jack," she says, her voice carrying both promise and warning. "We shall see."