Chapter 242: The Beast Beneath the Bells
The snow had started falling at Xavier's, soft and lazy, the kind of flakes that looked like they'd rather drift than land. The halls smelled like pine and cocoa and faint traces of burnt cookies — Kitty's doing, no doubt. Tinsel hung like tired smiles along the bannisters.
But the hall itself was empty. Logan sat there, in the flickering glow of the Christmas lights, cigar butt between two calloused fingers, staring at the fire as though it owed him money.
He grunted.
"Whole school smells like joy and sugar. Figures."
Everyone was gone. The elf — Kurt — had teleported off with Amanda Sefton to God-knows-where, leaving behind a puff of brimstone and cheap cologne. Colossus had gone ice skating with Kitty. Rogue was probably tearing up some Southern town dance floor. Rachel was off with Jean's folks, trying to make up for futures that didn't happen.
And Ororo… she'd taken her new mohawk and her wind and gone east — back to Kenya.
Logan snorted softly. "Even Mariko returned to visit her family."
He looked down at the whiskey bottle resting by his boot. A fancy Christmas label, a gift from Scott. From one leader to another, the tag had read.
Logan had tossed the tag into the fire and kept the drink.
After a moment, he rose, the floorboards creaking like old bones, and wandered to the dusty corner of the hall where the school's one landline phone still hung — a relic from simpler days.
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the numbers, then sighed. "What the hell, it's Christmas."
He dialed Alaska.
The line clicked, crackled, then came her voice.
"...Hello?"
"Maddie. It's me." His voice softened, just a fraction.
"Logan?" She laughed, that husky kind that made snow sound warm. "Lord, it's been a while. Merry Christmas, stranger."
"Yeah, Merry Christmas, darlin'." He scratched the back of his neck, feeling uncharacteristically awkward. "Didn't mean to bother ya."
"Bother?" she said. "You think hearing your voice again is a bother? The only one bothering me's this wind — it's colder than a banker's heart out here."
He chuckled. "You always had a way with words."
"And you always had a way with trouble," she teased. "Where are you this time, Logan?"
He leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed. "Just here. School's quiet. Everyone's out kissin' under mistletoe. Figured I'd check on you."
"Well, I'm fine, sugar. Still flying charters, still missing sleep, still watching the snow pile higher than my porch rail. How about you? Still smoking, still healing, still brooding like some moody mountain?"
"Pretty much the same old song," he said with a grin. "You know me. Don't change much. Just gets rustier."
There was a pause, soft and warm.
"I miss talkin' like this," she said finally.
"Yeah," Logan murmured. "Me too."
They talked for another hour — about little things. About the smell of jet fuel, and the way the aurora danced over her cabin. About how Logan had once wrestled a Christmas tree into place at Xavier's and lost. She laughed at that, really laughed, the sound lighting a spark somewhere in his chest he thought had long gone cold.
"Logan," she said gently, "you ever think about slowing down?"
He exhaled smoke and memory. "Ain't built for that, Maddie. Every time I slow down, the ghosts catch up."
"Well," she said, "then I hope when they do, you teach 'em how to dance."
He smiled, low and wistful. "You always were better at seein' the good in a lost cause."
"And you always were better at survivin' than you thought."
The line went quiet for a beat. Then she said softly,
"Merry Christmas, Logan."
He swallowed. "Merry Christmas, Maddie."
Click.
An hour later, Logan was at a bar in Salem Center. The kind of joint that smelled like cheap beer, fried onions, and desperation — the good kind of smell. He sat near the end of the counter, nursing a bottle of bourbon that could strip paint.
The jukebox played a half-hearted country tune, and the neon lights blinked like they were giving up the ghost. It was peaceful, in that lonely, Logan way.
Then the door opened.
A man walked in. Hooded. Wrong scent.
Logan didn't even turn his head — his nose twitched once. The scent was off — chemical, electric, dangerous. His gut tightened.
Soul stinks like gunpowder, he thought. Merry Christmas, bub.
The man slid onto the stool beside him. Didn't order a drink.
Logan took a swig, muttered, "What's your deal with me, chump?"
The man's voice was cold, flat.
"Your life."
Logan's hand twitched — too late.
The man's coat flashed with a glow — a static bomb. The world became light, heat, and silence.
Logan's last thought before blacking out was, At least I got my last sip.
He woke to cold.
Not just winter cold — metal cold.
The kind that bit deeper than flesh.
His arms were spread wide, shackled in an "X" against a wall, chains digging into his wrists. The room was dark except for a low hum and the buzz of flickering lights. He was stripped bare except for a pair of torn shorts. The air smelled of antiseptic, oil, and blood — his own.
He groaned, pulling against the chains.
Didn't budge.
Then a voice came from the speakers.
"Ah… the wolf stirs."
Female. Metallic echo. Familiar.
He growled low. Couldn't form words yet.
The voice laughed. "Don't strain yourself, Wolverine. That animal part of you I've coaxed to the surface — I rather like it this way. You're easier to manage when you don't think."
.
"Yuriko…" he rasped, throat dry as sand.
She smiled, cruel. "Lady Deathstrike, if you please. And yes — I caught you. Took some planning, a few expendable men, and one well-placed static charge. Worth every penny."
"What d'you want?"
"My father's dream," she said. "You stole his legacy. I'll perfect it."
He tugged the chains, eyes flashing red. "You don't know what you're playin' with."
"I know enough."
Her voice turned mocking. "Too bad I can't watch the pain twist your face… since you won't be able to understand me."
Then she pressed a button.
Pain exploded behind his eyes. Not pain — fury. A heat so deep it burned thought itself. His world narrowed to scent, sound, heartbeat, chain.
His muscles swelled, claws burst forth — and extended. Far beyond their normal reach. Five meters of glinting death tore free, slicing through the steel hinges holding him up.
He fell, landing hard on the concrete. The chains around his legs snapped under a single pull.
From the speaker, Deathstrike's voice crackled — disbelief.
"Impossible… how can they extend that far—?"
Her words vanished under the echoing roar that filled the chamber. A roar born of rage, of cages, of every nightmare that ever thought it could hold the Wolverine.
He pounced on the first guard who entered.
Two seconds later, the guard was down.
Then another.
And another.
Logan moved like a shadow stitched from hunger and hate, tearing through corridors, blood-mist in the air, following the trail of every scent that wasn't his. He didn't think — he hunted.
He smelled oil — cyborgs. Metal and heat and human panic.
He stormed into a vast hall lined with machines and mercenaries. In the center stood Deathstrike, claws out, gleaming like icicles under fluorescent lights.
"Welcome home, Wolverine," she said. "I underwent the same operation. Adamantium claws — superior to yours."
Logan didn't answer. He growled — low and primal — then charged.
Bullets tore the air, sparks flying off his hide as his claws carved arcs of light. He didn't dodge; he wove — faster than bullets, faster than thought. The smell of ozone and blood filled the air. One cyborg fell, then another. Deathstrike slashed — he parried, the clang echoing like a bell toll.
"Look at you!" she shouted. "All your talk of humanity — and you're nothing but a beast!"
He didn't respond. Just roared and struck again. Sparks. Screams. Metal screamed back.
Minutes passed — or hours. Time was meaningless in the red haze. Then, at last, silence.
The hall was wrecked. Smoke. Sparks. Bodies — human and not — scattered. Deathstrike stumbled backward, blood on her face, armor cracked.
Logan advanced, slow and steady.
Her smirk trembled.
"You won't stop me. I'll rebuild. I'll—"
His claws shot out — an inch from her throat.
Then stopped.
For the first time, Logan breathed. Really breathed. The red in his eyes faded, replaced by something harder to name — sorrow.
He stared at her for a long time. "You remind me of what I keep runnin' from."
She blinked. "Then kill me. End it."
He shook his head. "No. You don't get that release."
"What?"
"You live," he said, stepping back. "You live with what you've done. Just like I do. You'll stay trapped in your daddy's dream — while I walk free."
Her voice cracked. "Coward! Don't you walk away from me!"
He turned, limping toward the exit, each step leaving faint streaks of blood that glistened like rust under the light. She screamed behind him — fury, grief, despair — but he didn't look back.
He stepped out into the snow. The night air hit his skin like forgiveness. The flakes melted against his heat, little whispers of white vanishing into steam.
He looked up at the sky — quiet, black, endless.
"Merry Christmas, bub," he muttered to himself, lighting what was left of his cigar.
And as the smoke curled upward, mixing with snow, the wolf smiled — just barely — because for one night, the beast had won…
but the man had come back.