Chapter 39 – First Blood, First Bruises
The training wing smelled of steel and polish, floor mats stretched wall to wall like a battlefield disguised as a gymnasium. The room was tall and echoing, the ceiling lined with retractable scaffolds and observation balconies. It wasn't the Danger Room with its holograms and deathtraps — not today. Today it was just wood, mat, sweat, and bone.
Their suits were stripped-down combat gear: black fabric reinforced at the joints, padded to take a hit, sleeveless or short-sleeved to give arms freedom. Boots thick enough to grip the mat but light enough to move fast. No helmets, no gadgets. Just them.
Scott stood on the platform above, arms crossed, visor gleaming crimson under the lights. He looked every inch the drill sergeant. "Remember," he called down, "no powers. No exceptions. This is about reflex, awareness, control."
Logan cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders. His own suit looked half-worn already, sleeves cut ragged at the biceps. "Alright. Who's first?"
Colossus stepped forward, towering, fists clenched. He looked almost embarrassed to not be steel-skinned. "I volunteer. Let us begin."
Logan smirked. "Brave of you, tin man. C'mon."
Colossus charged like a freight train. In Logan's eyes the world slowed — each heavy footfall a drumbeat, shoulders telegraphing the coming grab. Logan let him come, let that mountain of muscle close the distance… then pivoted sharp, slipped under the arms, and caught Colossus' momentum. With a grunt, Logan shoulder-threw him clean over. The big man slammed onto the mat hard enough to rattle teeth.
The team winced. Kurt clapped anyway. "Bravissimo, Piotr! You made a beautiful crash."
Colossus sat up, rubbing his back with a sheepish grin. "Da… he is very quick."
"Next," Logan growled.
Storm flowed forward, movements poised. She circled Logan lightly, eyes sharp, waiting for her moment. She feinted left, spun right, leg whipping toward his head — a dancer's strike. Logan ducked clean under, caught her ankle in mid-air, and gently — almost politely — set her back on her feet.
"You fight graceful," he muttered. "But grace don't win against a brawler."
Storm narrowed her eyes but gave a small nod, stepping back with quiet dignity.
Sunfire was already stomping forward. "Enough play. Try me, beast."
"Suit yourself."
Shiro came in hot, fists swinging with raw aggression. Logan blocked each strike with minimal motion, letting his hearing sphere read every breath, every muscle twitch. Then he stepped inside the guard, tapped Shiro's chest with two sharp jabs, and shoved him back onto the mat. Not a knockout, not even a wound — but humiliatingly clean.
"Your pride makes more noise than your fists," Logan said flatly.
Shiro seethed, scrambling up. "I was not ready!"
"Outta excuses, bub. Next."
Nightcrawler popped up with his trademark grin. "Finally! Let's see if you can catch a devil."
He darted in, weaving, acrobat's footwork dazzling. For a few seconds he made Logan move, dodging swipes, ducking rolls. But Logan's ears caught the subtle scrape of Kurt's boot before a lunge. Logan pivoted, hooked Kurt's ankle, and swept him down flat on his back.
Kurt groaned dramatically. "Ach! I am slain." Then he winked up at Logan. "Uncle, you are cruel."
Banshee replaced him, fists raised like an old pub fighter. "Alright then, Canada. Let's see if yer bite's worse than yer bark."
They traded blows — Sean swinging wild, Logan ducking, weaving, tagging his ribs with quick jabs. Within seconds Logan slipped inside his guard, hooked his arm, and twisted him into a lock. Sean cursed, tried to wriggle free, then hissed through clenched teeth, "Fine, fine, I yield, ya devil."
Logan released him, letting him stumble back red-faced.
And then the mat shook under heavy boots. Thunderbird. Arms folded, chest bare of hesitation.
"My turn."
Logan gave a low chuckle. "Been waiting for this one."
John came at him like a storm — fists, shoulders, raw power in every strike. Logan blocked, sidestepped, tripped him once — but Thunderbird hit the ground and sprang right back up. Again. And again.
"Stay down, kid," Logan grunted, after planting him face-first into the mat for the third time.
Thunderbird spat blood, eyes burning. "Not till I break you."
"Yer pride's doin' the breaking." Logan swept his legs, dropped him again.
From the sidelines, Storm called out, "John, stop! This is sparring, not war."
Banshee muttered, "He's gonna tear himself apart."
Thunderbird barely heard them. He kept lunging, swinging, teeth bared. Logan met him with patient brutality — each strike countered, each rush punished. But even as sweat poured and bruises darkened, John roared back up, eyes blazing defiance.
Finally, Logan caught him mid-charge, twisted, and slammed him flat on his back with bone-rattling force. Logan knelt, pinning him with a forearm. "You done?"
Thunderbird snarled, panting, chest heaving. His hands twitched, like he wanted one more swing. Then, finally, his body gave out. His head lolled back, breath ragged.
The room fell silent.
Logan stood, shaking his head. "Stubborn damn kid."
Scott's voice echoed from above, clipped and cool: "That's enough for today."
Thunderbird lay sprawled, still breathing like a war drum, eyes burning even through exhaustion. He wasn't broken. Not yet.
But the lesson had begun.