Chapter 19
"I won't!" Storm spat, eyes blazing, energy simmering like a thundercloud ready to break.
Scott stood rigid, arms crossed, gaze fixed—his personality demanded discipline, but restraint here was tested.
Logan stepped in, separating them, hands firm on her shoulders. "Easy, darlin'. Nobody's dying today." He helped her to her feet, guiding her arm over his shoulder.
Thunderbird backed off, fists clenched, still muttering. Cyclops, silent and observing, thought: How can he challenge my leadership? No words left his lips, but tension thrummed in the air.
The training room had emptied hours ago, leaving only the faint hum of sensors in the padded mats. Logan and Storm (Ororo )had settled in a quiet corner, away from the others. Logan slouched against a wall, one booted foot resting on the opposite knee. He produced a cigar from his pocket, lit it with a sharp flick of his lighter. The tip glowed, the faint scent of tobacco curling into the air.
Storm leaned back on the bench, legs crossed, holding a glass of deep amber liquid—whiskey, neat, a single ice cube clinking softly as she swirled it. Her expression was half-smirk, half-curiosity, catching the dim light in her eyes.
"Not bad, darlin'," Logan said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "You held your own today. Almost made Thunderbird regret trying to pin you."
Storm tilted her head, taking a slow sip. "Almost, huh? Don't let him hear that." She smirked, watching him through lashes.
Logan took a long drag, letting the smoke curl lazily around his head. "So… tell me about yourself. Hometown, family, how a girl like you ends up kicking grown men across the mat without powers."
Storm chuckled, tracing the rim of her glass. "Cairo. Born to a photojournalist father and a mother of Kenyan royal blood. My parents… were killed when I was five during a conflict in the region. After that, I survived on the streets, learned early that if you want to live, you rely on yourself first, maybe a few friends second." She paused, swirling the ice, letting the amber liquid catch the light. "I was… stubborn, reckless, stubborn again. You pick up bad habits from surviving, but some of 'em work in your favor."
Logan exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift. Huh… fiery and careful. Dangerous combination. She'd get herself killed if she didn't learn control, but she's already doing better than most.
He flicked the ash, eyes narrowing. "And the nickname? Ororo?"
She smirked, a hint of pride in her voice. "Storm… came later. People tend to call what they fear, or admire, depending on the day. Ororo is just… me being me. Real name, real me."
Logan tilted his head, letting a grin tease his face but not quite touching his eyes. "I like it. Fits you. Makes people think twice before trying to test you."
A beat passed, quiet except for the faint tick of the training room clock and the soft ice shift in her glass.
Storm leaned forward, curious now. "And you? You've been quiet today, Logan. What's your story?"
He drew a deep buff from the cigar, smoke curling around his face. Then he exhaled slowly, letting it drift toward the ceiling. A ghost of a smile teased his lips—half amusement, half something unreadable.
"I… also want to know," he said, voice low, carrying that gravelly edge that could be warm or dangerous depending on his mood.
She cocked an eyebrow, leaning back, glass in hand. "What?"
Logan's eyes met hers, sharp but distant. "I… lost my memory."
Storm blinked, then set her glass down, interest sparking. "Lost it? Like… wiped clean, or pieces missing?"
He shrugged, a small smirk still lingering. "Bits, pieces. Some smells, some faces, some… feelings. Wandered in the dark for a long time. Doesn't matter what I had. Doesn't matter who I was. What matters is what I do now."
Storm studied him, her fingers drumming lightly against the rim of her glass. "And… does it bother you? Not remembering?"
Logan's lips twitched into a shadow of a smile. "Used to. But wandering's… helped. Walking streets, watching people, learning. Feeling… things again. Makes me… almost human again."
She let out a low whistle, a mix of awe and respect. "That's… not an easy road. Sounds lonely."
He shrugged, puffing the cigar again, letting the smoke curl and frame his face. "Lonely's just a word. Used to it. Now it's a hobby."
Storm grinned softly, raising her glass to him. "I'll drink to that… even if I don't fully understand it."
Logan chuckled, the smoke catching in the light. "You'll understand enough soon, darlin'. If you stick around long enough, you'll see what it does to a man… and what it leaves him capable of."
They sat like that for a long while—Storm with her drink, Logan with his cigar—two survivors of past fights, bonding over scars, lost memories, and the quiet thrill of testing themselves in a world they barely controlled. The room was warm with shared silence, punctuated by laughter, smoke, and the occasional clink of ice.