Chapter 234: The Leader Without Lightning
The airport smelled like jet fuel, sweat, and goodbyes. Logan hated airports. Too many partings, too many ghosts. He stood with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, watching Maddie Pryor balance her luggage cart like she was balancing her whole damn life on it.
He cleared his throat. "So… what'd you talk about with Mari?"
Maddie didn't look at him, just adjusted the strap of her bag. "Why do you want to know?"
Logan frowned. "Even you don't want to say… Mari too." His voice cracked around the name.
Maddie finally looked up at him, green eyes steady but softer than he deserved. "Logan, some things aren't for you to know. Some things are between women."
That stung worse than a blade in the ribs. He almost reached for a cigar just to give his hands something to do. Instead, he asked the question that had been gnawing at him since he smelled her ticket stubs and saw her luggage tags. "Will I see you again?"
Maddie gave him a small smile, the kind that cut deep because it wasn't Jean's smile, not at all. "Of course. You've got my number. My address in Alaska. You could come visit—if you dare."
He let out a grunt that was half a laugh, half a sigh. "Yeah… Alaska. Bet it smells clean up there."
She waved once, then turned with her suitcase wheels rattling behind her. Logan watched until she disappeared into the mouth of the terminal, the crowd swallowing her like the past always did.
One hour later, Logan shoved open the double doors of the mansion and stomped into the hall. He was looking for a cold beer or at least a warm fight, but what he found instead was silence heavy as a coffin lid.
Kurt, Peter, Kitty, Rogue, and Lockheed sat scattered like mourners after a burial. Their eyes lifted when Logan came in, and he immediately felt the weight.
"Why the long faces, kids?" Logan asked, scratching the back of his neck. "Feels like a graveyard in here. Who died?"
Kurt tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing. "Logan… where were you this past week?" His accent was sharper than usual, slicing judgment into the air.
"Busy," Logan said flatly, like that was enough.
Colossus leaned forward, his hands clenched on his knees. "Storm lost her powers during a mission," he said, voice heavy like an iron bell.
Logan blinked, stunned. "What?" He took a step closer, searching their faces. "What the hell happened?"
Kitty's eyes shimmered with tears she was trying to hide. "She was shot with some… some kind of neutralizer gun. It stripped her powers. Permanently."
Logan's face hardened, and a growl rumbled low in his throat. "Neutralizer gun… Bastards." His claws itched to come out.
Rogue, sitting off to the side with her arms wrapped around herself, whispered, "It's because of me. She took the hit instead of me."
Logan crossed the room in three long strides, crouched down beside her, and ruffled her hair with a surprisingly gentle hand. "Kid, listen. It's not guilt Storm needs from you. If you don't want her to regret takin' that hit, you look her in the eye and you say thanks. That's what she needs. Not your self-pity."
Rogue looked up at him, eyes wet, and nodded slowly. "Ah… ah'll try, Logan."
"Good girl," he muttered, giving her head one last pat before standing. His nose twitched. Storm's scent was faint, higher up in the mansion, mixed with leather and smoke. Different. Harder.
He followed it.
The attic door creaked open, and Logan stepped inside. His gut clenched.
"Ro…" His voice cracked out of him. "What the hell happened to you?"
Storm—Ororo Munroe, goddess, weather-bringer—stood before him in a leather jacket ripped with spikes, heavy boots, and a sharp mohawk slicing the air like a blade. Her long white locks were gone, shorn down to a rooster comb of rebellion. The attic was bare, stripped of its lush greenery, the plants gone. The air smelled of dust and stubbornness.
Logan gaped. "What's with the rooster hair? And that jacket—what, you join some motorcycle gang? Where the hell are your plants?"
Storm turned, her eyes hard but not unkind. "I suppose you've heard. I no longer have my powers. So I changed. Style, demeanor—everything. If I am to lead the X-Men, I must look… tougher. Otherwise, what is a powerless woman compared to gods and titans?"
Logan pulled a cigar from his jacket, bit it, and lit it with a snap of flame. Smoke curled around his face as he studied her. His expression was serious, deadly serious. "So that's the road you picked."
She tilted her head. "What road?"
Logan exhaled smoke slow, like the words hurt to say. "There's two paths. One—you step away. You go back to bein' a goddess, like you once were. Live the life of peace you earned. Or two—you keep this weight on your shoulders. Leader of killers and heroes. Responsibility for every life you save… and every life you end."
Storm folded her arms. "You don't sound pleased, Logan. You wanted me to choose differently?"
"Yeah," Logan admitted, voice gravelly. "I thought losin' your powers meant you'd take the goddess path. But here you are, wearin' leather and spikes, choosin' the burden instead." He flicked ash onto the bare floor. "I respect it. Doesn't mean I gotta be happy about it."
Storm studied him in silence, then changed the subject. "And where were you this past week, Logan?"
Logan smirked, taking a long drag. "Fightin' two enemies who wanted to destroy the whole universe."
Her eyebrows rose. "The universe?"
"My universe," he said flatly.
Storm gave a small huff. "You speak in riddles."
Logan ground his cigar out on the empty floorboard, pulled another, and tried to light it. The lighter flickered, coughed, then died. He cursed under his breath.
Then a glint caught his eye—light bouncing off Storm's scalp. He squinted, then smirked. "Hey, Ro. Could I light my cigar on your head?"
Storm's eyes widened, then narrowed like a storm cloud about to break. "Logan!" She shoved him hard, out the attic door, slamming it behind him. "Don't ever come back here again!"
Logan chuckled as he straightened his jacket, cigar still dangling from his lips. "At least this time I walked out through the door."
He muttered under his breath as he lit his cigar off the hallway lamp. "Leader without lightning. Guess we'll see if leather and steel can hold a team together."
Smoke curled above him as he walked away, a little proud, a little sad, but knowing one thing for damn sure: Ororo Munroe wasn't done fighting. And neither was he.