Chapter 20
The garden was bathed in early morning light, grass still jeweled with dew. The whole gang was there—the old guard and the new blood—lined up in their training suits. Black and gold, sleek and snug, designed to move with the body but also scream uniformity. Not that it could hide personality: Nightcrawler perched on a stone wall with his tail curled like a question mark, while Colossus stood with arms crossed like a monolith.
Xavier gestured from his wheelchair, voice calm as scripture. "Today, you will demonstrate your powers. You've seen glimpses in the field, yes, but true teamwork requires trust. Trust requires understanding."
Cyclops stepped forward first. His visor gleamed red as a sun about to rise. He didn't say much—he never did—but he tapped the side of his visor and a thin crimson beam lanced out, slicing a stone slab in half like butter.
Iceman whistled. "Clean cut, Slim. Bet the barber hates you."
Cyclops didn't dignify it with a response.
Jean followed, aura of pink energy wrapping her like a second skin. With a flick of her wrist, she levitated three benches into the air, spun them lazily, and lowered them back without breaking eye contact.
Storm murmured, "Elegant."
Logan, arms crossed and half-bored, leaned toward her. "Elegant, yeah. But I'm bettin' it'd look less cute if she decided to spin me like that."
Storm smirked. "She wouldn't. You'd be too heavy."
"Watch it, darlin'. Steel pride under this leather."
The line-up moved on. Colossus transformed in a flash of organic steel, sunlight gleaming off him until half the group squinted.
"Remind me to bring sunglasses next time," Havok muttered.
Then his turn came. The concentric rings on his chestplate glowed with energy, then exploded outward in a controlled blast that scorched the grass.
"Nice firework," Iceman said, forming an ice slide beneath his feet. He zipped around Havok, circling him before coming to a stop. "But you still can't cool down the ladies like me."
"Cool?" Havok snapped. "Jeannie doesn't think so."
The tension between them rippled through the team like static. Logan caught it, chewed on it silently. Rivalries… always useful if you knew how to play them.
Nightcrawler appeared next, bamfing in puffs of brimstone, vanishing and reappearing across the garden like a demonic jack-in-the-box. "Tada!" he announced with a bow.
"Smells like rotten eggs," Thunderbird grunted.
"Don't be jealous," Kurt shot back. "You'd smell worse if you teleported."
Storm finally took her place in the circle. She raised her hands and the morning sky dimmed, clouds coiling unnaturally. A crack of thunder rolled across the mansion grounds, followed by a flash of lightning that struck harmlessly at her feet.
The group stepped back instinctively.
Logan let out a low whistle. "Subtle as a brick to the skull."
Storm tilted her chin, amused. "You sound impressed."
"Impressed? Nah." He smirked. "Terrified? Maybe."
The laughter broke the tension, and with each new display—from Iceman's ice constructs to Banshee's skull-shattering scream—the team slowly learned each other's strengths… and weaknesses.
When the session wrapped, the group scattered toward the mansion. That's when Logan saw it: Scott and Jean, walking close, their hands intertwined.
It hit him like a gut punch. Not anger—something sharper, meaner. A sting.
He didn't linger. He just shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away.
---
Logan stripped out of the uniform in his room, tossed it over the chair like it had wronged him. He lit a cigar, took two drags, then killed it halfway through. Restlessness crawled under his skin.
So he walked. Out of the mansion, down into town, boots clicking against pavement. He didn't need a destination; he just needed to move.
The hours slipped past. The light dimmed. Evening set in, and neon flickered on across shopfronts.
That's when it happened.
He passed an ordinary man. A face you'd forget the second you turned away. But Logan froze. His body knew before his mind did. The shiver tore through him like lightning under the skin, hot and cold at the same time.
It was better than booze. Better than bloodlust. Hell—it was better than sex.
The man kept walking, oblivious. But Logan… Logan saw. The night unfolded like it was noon. Streetlamps became unnecessary, shadows useless. His vision had shifted, sharpened, predatory.
A smirk carved itself onto his face. "Well, ain't that somethin'. Got myself a new toy."
---
The next days blurred. Training. Missions. Nights filled with wandering.
Logan discovered something vital: the shiver came only when powers overlapped, when something in him resonated with something in them and not limited only for ferals. But that wasn't the point.
The point was forgetting.
That first night—when the night vision flared to life—he realized he hadn't thought of the chains of his past, the memories that gnawed him raw. For once, they'd gone quiet.
So he kept walking. Nights bled into weeks. He'd wander with a cigar dangling from his lips, hoping for another shiver, sometimes finding it, sometimes not. But even when it didn't come, the act itself gave him peace.
Because when he wandered, his past came to him differently—no longer first-person POV, tearing his heart open. Instead, he saw it like a bystander. A story. Someone else's scars.
And that, bub, was enough.
One evening, he found himself back at the very same spot where it had started. His boots stopped without asking permission. The night vision clicked alive, and he chuckled low.
He pulled the cigar from his lips, lit it, and let the smoke curl upward. He exhaled deliberately, the smoke shaping itself into an "X" against the dark sky speckled with stars.
His smile was crooked, bitter, but real.
"I gained one hella naughty hobby there," he muttered.
And for the first time in a long time… he didn't mind smiling at the night.