Chapter 243 — The Screaming Silence
The TV was screaming again.
Not in sound — not yet — but in tone. The anchors' smiles had that brittle, venom-laced calm that always came right before a fresh storm. Words like mutant menace and public threat slithered off their tongues like oil down marble.
Logan sat on the couch, one boot crossed over the other, a cigar between his fingers that he hadn't lit. He was staring at the screen, jaw set so tight it could've cracked his own teeth.
Across from him, Storm's reflection shimmered faintly against the glass window — all white hair, gold eyes, and the kind of still fury that could quiet a god. Her mohawk framed her like a lightning bolt carved into skin.
"They talk," she said quietly, "as if they speak for all humankind."
"Yeah," Logan grunted. "Funny how the loudest ones are always the ones who never met one of us up close." He flicked the unlit cigar at the coffee table, where it rolled and stopped dead next to a mug of cold tea.
Nightcrawler, perched on the ceiling corner like a cobalt gargoyle, dropped down soundlessly and landed behind the couch. "They do not want to understand, mein freund. Fear is easier than thought."
Kitty's voice came soft from the armchair. "But it's… it's so unfair. The Mutants just want to live. They don't even hurt anybody. Why does everyone have to hate someone?"
Colossus turned from the TV, his massive frame somehow gentle when he looked at her. "Because, Katya," he said, "hate is lazy. Love takes work."
Rogue, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and that white streak in her hair catching the light, snorted. "Ain't that poetic, sugar. You sound like a Hallmark card wrapped in a tank."
Colossus almost smiled. "Better than sounding like trouble wrapped in leather."
"Flirtin' with me, big guy?" she teased.
"Merely surviving the conversation," he said with a small shrug.
Logan half-smirked, half-growled. "Keep it down, lovebirds. The world's ending again."
And as if summoned by his cynicism, the Xavier School's emergency alarm blared through the room — sharp, red, and pulsing like a heartbeat.
Storm turned instantly toward the holographic console that bloomed midair, a glowing map of Manhattan spreading across the space. Red lights flickered underground, pulsing in the web of tunnels beneath the city.
"Morlock territory," she breathed.
Kitty was already on her feet. "Oh God, what happened—"
"Danger level: Omega," the system intoned.
The words dropped like a hammer.
Storm's jaw tightened. "To the Blackbird. Now."
---
Ten minutes later.
The tunnels smelled like rust, rot, and regret.
They'd gone quiet the moment the team entered, the sound of their boots echoing down concrete halls painted with decades of grime and sorrow. The air was heavy — too heavy — and Logan's nostrils flared like a hound catching the first whiff of hell.
"Somethin's wrong," he muttered.
Storm walked ahead, "Keep sharp. No powers if you can help it — the tunnels can't handle stray blasts."
Kitty phased through a collapsed pipe, scanning with trembling eyes. "This alert came from a Morlock signal. That means someone had to—"
She stopped.
Then she saw.
Bodies.
Dozens of them. Twisted, bloodied, torn apart. The mutants who lived in these tunnels — malformed, gentle souls who'd only wanted peace — lay scattered like broken dolls.
Storm froze mid-step.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Nightcrawler clutched his crucifix so tight his knuckles went white under the fur. "Gott im Himmel…"
Kitty fell to her knees and vomited.
Colossus dropped beside her instantly, one massive arm steadying her trembling shoulders. But his own face looked carved from anguish. He was trying to be strong, to be the wall everyone leaned on — and failing, quietly, heartbreakingly.
Rogue whispered, "Who could've done this?"
Logan didn't answer. He crouched down beside two small shapes — twin Morlock girls, barely teenagers, deformed but unmistakably human in the way they clung to each other even in death. Their faces were pale from fright, eyes open in eternal terror.
Logan gently closed their eyes with his fingers.
"...Goddamn," he muttered, low, rough, breaking in ways he'd never admit.
Then he sniffed. Once. Twice.
And the world exploded in color and scent inside his skull.
Copper. Iron. Gunpowder. Adrenaline. The distinct tang of bloodlust. He smelled cruelty like perfume — the stink of killers who enjoyed their work.
And under that: seven unique signatures. Seven murderers.
He rose slowly, the faintest tremor running down his arms.
Storm turned toward him. "Logan—"
"Stay," he said, already moving.
"Logan, wait! We need to plan—"
He didn't even glance back. "Plans are for when there's time, 'Ro. Ain't no time left for the dead."
Then, with a snarl like something ancient breaking loose, Wolverine pounced into the dark, claws unsheathed and gleaming.
---
The tunnels twisted like veins. Logan tore through them on all fours at times, half-man, half-beast, guided by the symphony of his senses. Every drip of water, every shifting echo painted a map in his head. The smells sharpened — oil, sweat, and fear.
He could feel them now. The Marauders. Laughing, gloating, dragging blood on their boots.
He heard one of them — Riptide — chuckle. "Sinister's gonna love this haul."
"Haul?" another voice, Scalphunter maybe, said. "You mean massacre."
"Semantics," Riptide purred. "Dead's dead."
Logan's claws slid out with that famous metallic whisper. "Not yet."
---
He burst around the bend like a thunderclap — just a blur of muscle and metal.
Seven Marauders turned at once.
"Ah, look who the rats dragged in," Scalphunter sneered, lifting his rifle. "The runt."
"Name's Logan," came the growl. "And you just made a mess in my house."
Riptide spun, hurling a storm of razor-sharp bone shards. The air turned into a meat grinder — shrieking white flashes, death screaming through the dark.
But Logan heard them before they hit.
His hearing sphere flared, bullet-time kicking in — the world slowed to syrup. He moved between the spikes, each motion a deliberate slash of instinct and rage. His claws sang through the air, deflecting, shattering, slicing.
Then, in a single blur of movement, he charged through the storm — and his claws met Riptide's neck.
SNIKT!
The head hit the ground before the body realized it was dead.
"RIP-tide," Logan muttered. "More like drip."
Vertigo screamed, throwing her power at him — the world buckled, spinning like a drunk carousel. Logan staggered, vision warping, blood pounding in his ears.
But his healing factor burned through it like acid.
"Bad move, sweetheart."
He lunged, burying his claws deep into her chest and yanking her heart free.
She crumpled without a word.
Then the rest of them opened fire — Arclight's shockwaves, Harpoon's glowing spears, Scalphunter's endless ammo. The tunnel filled with fire and thunder.
Logan was fast — but not untouchable. The hits came hard, slamming him into the wall, blood spraying across the concrete.
For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Scalphunter smirked. "Sinister's gonna skin us alive for losing two, but hell, we'll make it up with Wolverine's corpse."
"Don't count on it."
The voice came from the smoke.
And before any of them could blink, three five-meter claws erupted from the haze — slicing through Scalphunter's skull.
The corpse hit the ground still standing.
"Guess you got scalped," Logan said coldly.
But then, from the smoke behind him, Scrambler lunged — fast and desperate — clamping a hand on Logan's shoulder. A pulse of null energy shot through him, snuffing out his healing, his senses, everything. His body screamed as the pain hit raw and real.
Scrambler sneered. "What's wrong, tough guy? Feelin' human again?"
Logan's lips peeled back into a grin — wide, feral, teeth glinting through blood.
"Funny thing, pal…" he rasped, voice gravel and venom. "My claws ain't tied to my powers."
Then he drove them backward through Scrambler's neck with a wet, metallic crack.
The man's words gurgled into silence.
Logan twisted once, just to make the point. "Outta the equation, chump."
---
The remaining Marauders tensed — and then the tunnel shook again, this time from the other end.
"Logan!"
Rogue's voice — fierce, Southern, full of fire — echoed down the hall. She came barreling in like a bullet train, fists first, slamming into Arclight. The two women collided, shockwave against shockwave, the tunnel cracking around them.
"You like hittin' women?" Rogue snarled, slamming Arclight's head into the wall hard enough to turn it to dust. "How's it feel when one hits back?"
Meanwhile, Colossus charged straight through Harpoon's attacks, glowing spears bouncing off his armored skin.
"You think human life is nothing," he roared, "but I am a farmer! Farmers plant life!" He lifted Harpoon by the throat. "And sometimes… we harvest."
He split him in two like a tree trunk.
---
When the dust finally settled, silence returned — thick and suffocating.
Logan stood there, covered in blood, claws dripping, eyes still feral. Rogue and Colossus approached carefully.
"Logan," Rogue said softly, "you alright?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at the dead, at his hands, then at the darkness beyond.
Storm and the others arrived moments later — too late to stop the slaughter.
Storm's eyes widened at the sight. "By the Goddess…"
"Don't," Logan said hoarsely. "They earned it."
The silence stretched, uneasy, heavy with everything none of them could say.
Then, slow and deliberate, came the sound of clapping.
From the shadows, a tall figure stepped forward — fur-lined coat, yellow eyes glinting like gold coins in hellfire.
Sabretooth.
He grinned. "Bravo, bub. You really are like me."
Logan's claws slid out again, the sound slicing through the dark.