My name is Logan Barrakus, and somehow, I've ended up in the Marvel Universe.
How do I know? Because right now, I am James Howlett. You recognize that name, right? Yeah - Wolverine.
As crazy as it sounds, I completely freaked out when I first woke up in the body of a young James. Based on what I've heard, the year is 1848. I'm standing at the dawn of a life that will span centuries, and honestly, it's terrifying.
Allow me to open the book of my past and share the story of my previous life with you. I ask for your patience, for we are about to embark on a journey through a path that no soul has ever tread before. It is a path uniquely mine, a voyage into the unknown that I am finally ready to reveal, heheh.
I can still vividly recall my past life as a typical human being on the blue marble we called Earth. Back then, my existence was defined by the ordinary, a normal day, a quiet life, and a routine job. But beneath that veneer of normalcy, something was deeply wrong. I carried a burden that set me apart, an incurable disease so rare and mysterious that even the world's most brilliant scientists couldn't begin to fathom its existence.
When they looked at me, they saw a puzzle with no solution. They couldn't offer a diagnosis that made sense, nor could they find the vocabulary to describe what was happening to my body. They were lost in a void of their own ignorance; they didn't know where to begin their search for a cure, and they certainly had no idea where the journey of my illness would eventually end.
In those quiet, heavy moments, I looked at my mother and father and told them that it was okay. I told them I had lived a good life, blessed by the love of wonderful parents who had been my anchors from the very beginning. I found myself wondering: how could I be anything but grateful for them?
It was in that moment, for the first time in my life, that I saw the mask of the 'strong, reliable father' slip. I watched as a single tear escaped his eye and fell in front of me. In his gaze, I didn't see pity; I saw a profound pride and a look of immense relief. In that silent exchange, I realized he felt he had succeeded—he had raised a child capable of such deep understanding and grace, even while facing the end of a journey they had all traveled together.
We were never a family of great wealth or sweeping power; we were simply a family of three, bound together by the quiet beauty of an ordinary life. Our bank account wasn't overflowing, but we always had enough, enough to keep us warm, enough to keep us fed, and enough to sprinkle our years with a little bit of magic.
We lived for those small adventures and the modest vacations we took here and there, moments of escape that felt like grand journeys to us. We didn't need the world to know our names, we only needed each other. Looking back, it wasn't the money we lacked that defined us, but the abundance of contentment we found in the simple rhythm of being a family.
Then, there was my mother. Even now, I struggle to find the right words or even the simplest syllables to truly describe her essence. As a young boy, I looked at her and saw my first love, the blueprint for everything good in the world. As I grew older, she became the standard by which I measured the world. I found myself searching for someone whose bearing and spirit might resemble hers, even a small glimpse of her kindness in another would have been enough for me.
But she was wise, and she often reminded me that such a search was in vain. 'Not all humans are made from the same mold', she would say. She taught me that every person carries a set of personalities and traits that are entirely unique to them. She didn't want me to find a copy of her, she wanted me to appreciate the singular, unrepeatable beauty in every soul I encountered, just as I appreciated the singular beauty in hers.
Throughout my life, I was constantly reminded that the world is not an inherently dark place. My mother was the architect of that perspective, always guiding me with her gentle philosophy. 'Son,' she would say, her voice filled with a quiet earnestness, 'never be quick to judge another soul. Instead, seek to know them. Strive to understand the layers of who they are. Walk beside them and observe how they navigate the world in your presence.'
She taught me a grace that is rare to find. She told me that if, after seeing and hearing the truth of a person, I found their way of being to be something I could not embrace, I should still hold my tongue. 'If you cannot find the words to guide them,' she whispered, 'then at least do not find the words to condemn them. Do not judge, for no two lives are forged in the same fire.' She wanted me to realize that everyone carries a hidden history, and that mercy is often more powerful than being right.
My mother's lessons were never about naive optimism, they were rooted in a deep, practical compassion. 'Be good to people, my son', she would tell me, 'not because the world is perfect, but because life is unpredictable. We never know when we might stumble upon a problem so vast that we cannot solve it alone. In those moments, it may be a friend, or even a stranger, who holds the key we've been searching for.'
She was honest with me, too. She didn't hide the fact that there are those in this world who lack goodness. 'Everyone is shaped by their circumstances,' she explained. 'Some people face their trials head-on with courage, while others are blinded by their pain and choose to avoid their problems altogether. Just remember, son, that not everyone has the same strength or the same map to follow.' She taught me that being kind wasn't just a moral choice, but a way to stay connected to the humanity in everyone, regardless of the path they were on.
While my mother nurtured my soul, my father dedicated himself to teaching me how to navigate the physical world. He was a man of action, and he spent my childhood equipping me with the skills of a survivor. He taught me the patient art of fishing, the quiet discipline of camping, and the vital instinct of how to find my way out of a dense forest should I ever lose the path. I can still feel the warmth of the first fire he taught me to spark and the shaky adrenaline of learning to ride a bike under his steady gaze.
He even taught me how to captain a boat, it was only a small vessel, but in my eyes, it felt like a grand ship. At home, he was a different kind of teacher. He showed me how to work with my hands, how to repair a sagging cabinet, fix a creaking floorboard, or set a tile perfectly into place. He would always wink and tell me that these skills were the secret to saving a fortune. 'I only learned to do all this so I could take care of your mother,' he'd say, letting out a boisterous laugh as he remembered the early days of their marriage. He wasn't just teaching me chores, he was teaching me how to be a provider and a protector, just as he was.
Have I mentioned my age yet? I apologize, I've been so lost in the slipstream of these memories that I forgot to tell you. I was only twenty-six, an age where life is supposed to be just beginning. And in that life, there was someone else, my girlfriend. I realize now why I hesitated to speak of her. My mind is beginning to drift, and my consciousness is slipping away... you know that feeling, don't you? The edges of the world are getting soft.
The truth is, I tried to forget because I was the one who ended it. As much as it shattered my heart to let her go, I couldn't bear the thought of her tethered to a ghost. I didn't want her final memories of me to be defined by a hospital bed, with my body tangled in wires and tubes just to steal a few more fleeting moments of breath. I loved her enough to become a memory before I was even gone, choosing to break my own heart so that she wouldn't have to watch mine slowly stop beating.
Her name was Stacy - Stacy Gillen. She was a vision of beauty, at least in my eyes. I don't know how the rest of the world saw her, but to me, she was the apple of my eye... and a strawberry too, if I'm being honest. She was sweet, lovely, and incredibly understanding. I know I've used the word 'kind' many times now, but I have a good reason for that, her kindness was her most defining feature. It was the gravity that kept me grounded.
While she was the heart of my world, my mind was always racing. You see, I was a bit of a genius in my own right. I wasn't the billionaire-superhero type like Tony Stark, but I had a gift for tinkering. If it was electronic, I was obsessed with it. Phones, laptops, circuit boards - it didn't matter. I lived to take things apart and put them back together, finding the logic in the wires and the magic in the machines. I was a man who could fix almost anything... until I encountered the one thing my genius couldn't repair, myself.
I eventually landed a position at an electrical company called Algebra. It's a bit of a funny story - they chose the name because 'Alphabet' had already been claimed by a certain giant corporation that I probably don't need to name! When I submitted my resume, I didn't know what to expect, but to my absolute joy, I was called in for an interview.
When the news came that I had been accepted, I was happy beyond words. I remember telling everyone, 'This is it - this is my dream job.' For a tinkerer like me, it felt like I had finally found the place where I belonged. I was ready to dive into the world of circuits and systems, thinking that this was the beginning of a long, successful career on that beautiful blue planet. I was twenty-six, I had Stacy, and I had Algebra... for a moment, it felt like I finally had everything.
I started my career in the circuit board design division. For that first week, I could barely contain the joy in my heart, every day felt like a playground. I was obsessed with a singular, ambitious goal: I wanted to design a motherboard so compact and efficient that it could run a supercomputer-grade processor within the slim frame of a laptop. It sounds crazy, right? I know, but that was the kind of puzzle I lived for. As the months slipped by, I fully embraced my identity as a 'circuit board nerd,' losing myself in the intricate logic of silicon and solder.
But my life wasn't just made of wires and code. This is where Stacy's kindness truly becomes the heart of the story. We started dating when we were just nineteen, back when I first got to know her in college. She had been by my side long before the dream job at Algebra, back when I was just a student with big ideas and a cluttered desk. For seven years, she was the steady rhythm to my frantic pulse, proving that while I could design complex motherboards, she was the one who truly understood how my heart worked.
Stacy was a nerd in her own right, though our passions lived in different worlds. While I was lost in silicon and circuits, she was a 'novel nerd.' She didn't just read books; she lived in them, often falling asleep with a paperback resting on her chest as if the stories could seep into her dreams. She told me once that her greatest ambition was to create a world of her own between the pages of a book.
I didn't know it then, but after I was gone, that dream became her lifeline. My departure left her in a deep shadow of depression for months, but she wasn't alone. Her parents and mine, the family of three I loved so much—came together to support her. Slowly, she began to emerge from her cocoon, evolving through her grief.
She started writing an adventure novel, and in a final act of love, she made me the protagonist. She used the 'tech-talk' she had absorbed from years of listening to me ramble about machines to create a hero who explored outer worlds using his wits and gadgets. The book became a sensation, and she found fame as an author. She didn't just write a story; she gave me the adventure I never got to have on Earth, ensuring that while my body failed, the 'tech-savvy guy' she loved would live forever in the hearts of her readers.
She was my constant, the steady pulse beneath the frantic pace of my career. Every day, she would show up at Algebra, bringing lunch so we could eat together amidst the hum of the office. Afterward, we would walk home, our fingers interlaced - a simple connection that meant the world to me.
Of course, I wasn't always the perfect partner. I had a habit of getting so absorbed in my circuitry and projects that the concept of time would simply vanish. I would blink and realize I had missed a date or forgotten an anniversary. She would get frustrated, sometimes rightfully ignoring me for days until I found myself standing outside her bedroom door, trying every trick in the book to coax her into forgiving me. Looking back, even those small arguments feel precious. Hahahaha... those truly were the good times.
This is exactly why I call her kind. She never blamed me for my obsession with my work; she understood that it wasn't just a job, it was my dream. She listened to all my technical ramblings and embraced every part of the 'nerd' I was. How could I not love her for that? How could I not want to protect a soul that gave me so much freedom to be myself?
That deep love is exactly what made the breakup so agonizing. When I finally told her it was over, it shattered me. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I was haunted by the choice I had made, but I knew I couldn't let her see what was coming next. By that point, the disease had stolen my strength. I could no longer walk or experience the world like a normal person. My universe had shrunk to the four walls of a hospital room, where I lay trapped in a bed, my body a map of wires and tubes - a machine kept running by other machines just to steal a few more moments of breath.
They say the truth always finds a way to the surface, and for us, that day finally arrived. All my efforts to shield her, to push her away and keep her at a distance, crumbled in an instant.
There she was, my sunshine, the girl who usually radiated warmth and life standing right in front of me. But the light I loved so much had vanished. She looked utterly gloomy, her face clouded with the heavy realization of what I had been hiding. In that moment, the secret of my illness was no longer mine alone to carry. I looked at her, seeing the pain I had tried so hard to prevent, and realized that even the best intentions can't stop the truth from coming out when two hearts are as connected as ours were.
Logan: "Baby, please understand... I couldn't bring myself to keep you tied to me when I'm like this. I saw what was coming, and I didn't want to hold you down. I didn't want my end to be the thing that stopped your beginning."
Stacy: "How could you say that to me? It's not fair, Logan. You promised me we would go through thick and thin together. We were a team. And now you're making this decision for both of us? How dare you try to shut me out of your life when I'm the one who belongs by your side."
I sat there, utterly silent. I was 'mum,' as they say—completely unable to refute her words. Every syllable she spoke was heavy with a truth I had tried to ignore.
Stacy: "I know why you did it. I know you think you're protecting me, and I know you know I would never leave you to fight this alone. But don't you see how unfair this is to me? To be pushed away by the person I've stood by all these years? Do I really look that fragile to you, Logan? Am I so easy to discard?"
Logan: "No, honey... I never meant it that way. I'm so sorry. I truly am. I thought I was sparing you from the pain. I thought that if I broke your heart now, it wouldn't hurt as much when I was finally gone."
Stacy: "How could you even say that? After everything we've been through, did you really think it would be that easy to cast me out of your life? Not a chance, mister. You're stuck with me until the very end."
A small, weak laugh escaped my chest. "Heheheh..."
Stacy: "You're laughing? How dare you!" she teased, lightly and lovingly hitting my arm, her eyes shining with that fierce kindness I knew so well.
Logan: "I'm sorry, baby... I'm just happy. I'm happy you're here. And my father... my mother... your parents... and even my brother from another mother, Jack."
Stacy paused, her expression shifting to one of confusion. "What are you talking about, Logan? Jack isn't here. It's just us."
I didn't argue. I simply smiled, because right there, standing at the edge of my vision, I saw my brother smiling back at me. I know you're wondering why I haven't mentioned Jack until now, aren't you? Well, his story is for another time. Right now, I was already stepping onto a different path.
The sounds of the room began to fade into a blur of sobbing and the desperate calling of my name. But I was already drifting. In the year 2027, Logan Barrakus passed away in his bed, surrounded by every soul he loved, both in this world and the next.
...
NORTHERN ALBERTA,CANADA 1848
The room was cold, swallowed by shadows and lit only by the pale, silver glow of the moonlight filtering through the window. A young boy, no older than ten or twelve, suddenly bolted upright.
Logan: "Arrgh! Huh... huh... huh... Where am I? What is this place?"
I woke up with a head that felt like it had been split open. The throbbing was rhythmic and agonizing. "God damn it!" I hissed, rubbing my temples as I tried to force my senses to align. For a fleeting second, the fog cleared, but as reality settled in, it brought something far more terrifying than the pain.
As I scanned the unfamiliar room, a tidal wave of foreign memories crashed into my mind, overlapping with my own. Ugh... urggh... my head! I clutched my skull as images that weren't mine flickered behind my eyes: a life of privilege, a sickly constitution, and a name that carried a heavy weight—James Howlett.
A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the Alberta winter ran down my spine. I was paralyzed with a sudden, bone-chilling realization. Had I really just been reincarnated? And of all the souls in history, had I truly just woken up in the body of the child who would become Wolverine?
"Oh God, no. Not him. Please, anyone but him.
I know his story, it's full of adventure, yes, but it's an adventure paved with endless suffering. I know what's coming,the moment he kills his biological father without even knowing who he is, and the agony of watching his adoptive father die in the crossfire. That is only the beginning of a century of pain. Damn it... I can't even bring myself to say the rest out loud. You'll just have to watch this story unfold as I step into this journey. Capiche?
My 'parents' in this life are John Howlett and Elizabeth Howlett. To the world, I am their son, James. But as I sat there, desperately trying to sort through these fractured memories and the terrifying truth of my new identity, the silence of the room was shattered.
Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the door, and the story I dreaded was officially beginning.
The door creaked open, the hinges groaning in the quiet night. "James? Are you asleep, son?" my father asked, his voice low as he peered into the room.
"Not yet, Father," I replied, trying to steady my breathing. "I... I had a bit of a nightmare." I looked at him, the worry evident in my young voice.
John Howlett stepped fully into the room, his presence supposed to be a comfort. "It's all just a dream, James. Nothing more. You're going to be alright," he said softly, trying to soothe a son he thought was merely fragile.
But as he spoke, a silhouette appeared in the doorway behind him—a dark, brooding figure waiting in the shadows. Beyond the room, the peace of the house was shattered by a sudden, violent commotion downstairs.
"Victor," John said, looking toward the boy in the doorway, "your father is drunk again."
Victor's eyes were cold, his voice even colder. "It's not my name he's calling, sir."
Through the walls, we could hear the heavy thud of fists banging on the main door of the estate, accompanied by a slurred, angry voice screaming for Elizabeth. My heart hammered against my ribs, the "nightmare" was no longer a dream; it was happening.
"Father..." I started, my voice trembling.
"Stay where you are, James," John commanded. He didn't look back as he turned and hurried toward the noise, his figure receding into the dark hallway to face the man at the door.
BANGG!!!
The sound of the gunshot ripped through the house, shattering the silence and my heart along with it. I couldn't stay in that bed any longer. Forgetting my fear, I threw off the covers and hurried toward the stairs, my footsteps heavy with dread as I raced toward the chaos of Thomas Logan's drunken rage.
When I reached the hallway, the scene that met my eyes horrified me to the core. John Howlett—the man who had just promised me everything would be alright—lay crumpled on the floor. His proud figure was broken, blood blossoming across his chest from a fresh gunshot wound and spilling from his mouth.
"FATHER!" I screamed, throwing myself at his side. I cradled him as his eyes searched for mine one last time.
"James..." he whispered. It was his final breath, a soft utterance that faded into the cold air as his life slipped away.
In that moment, something inside me snapped. Even though I carried the memories of another life, the raw, unfiltered love James felt for his father took hold. I wasn't a twenty-six-year-old man anymore; I was a grieving son consumed by a white-hot, blinding fury.
"RARRRRGGGGHHHH!"
A primal roar tore through my throat, vibrating in my chest. I turned my eyes toward the assailant, my teeth bared in animalistic rage. I didn't even notice the searing, agonizing heat in my hands until the sound of skin tearing reached my ears. For the first time, bone claws slid through my knuckles, slick with blood and fueled by a vengeance that spanned two lifetimes.
At that moment, my heart didn't just break, it shattered. I stopped thinking, I stopped calculating. I let the raw, agonizing tide of emotion take total control. I lunged at the man who had murdered my father, my small body propelled by a strength I shouldn't have possessed.
Behind me, I heard my mother's voice pierce the air, screaming my name. I could see the reflection of my own monstrosity in her wide, terrified eyes as she stared at the bloody bone claws protruding from my hands.
I didn't stop. I slammed into the perpetrator, burying my claws deep into his chest. Tears streamed down my face, hot and bitter. "Why?" I sobbed, the voice of a child and the soul of a man screaming as one. "Why did you kill my father?!"
The man gasped, coughing as the light began to leave his eyes. He looked down at me, not with hatred, but with a twisted kind of pity. "He's not your father... son."
The words hit me harder than any bullet ever could. In that staggering silence, the world seemed to freeze. At that exact second, the consciousness of Logan from 2027 and the primal essence of James Howlett finally snapped together. The "tinkerer" and the "beast" became one. Mind, body, and soul—the transition was complete. I was no longer a visitor in this body; I was the man, the myth, and the survivor. I was Logan.
I stood there, frozen, as my mind frantically processed the weight of the truth. My claws were still buried deep in the chest of the man who claimed to be my blood, the heat of his life fading against my cold skin. With a sickening slide, I withdrew the bone blades. I didn't speak; I didn't acknowledge his dying proclamation. I couldn't.
I turned to my mother, hoping for a shred of the comfort I once knew, but all I found was a mask of pure horror. "What... what are you?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a loathing that cut deeper than any physical wound.
The heavy silence between us was shattered by a frantic banging on the front door. Voices rose from the darkness outside, neighbors or authorities, drawn by the gunshot, calling out for the master of the house.
The sound acted like a trigger. The 'Logan' who had survived twenty-six years in the future and the 'James' who had just lost everything in 1848 finally looked through the same eyes. Clarity settled in. I looked at my mother, terrified of her own flesh and blood, and then at the blood dripping from my knuckles. I realized then that the life of James Howlett had died on that floor along with John. There was no going back to the silk sheets and the warm meals. The forest was calling, and this time, I was the predator.
In the chaos of that moment, my mind, the mind of the tinkerer and the mind of the boy, collapsed into a single, frantic command, RUN. I didn't stop to explain. I didn't look back at the woman who used to be my mother or the man who had died twice in one night. I bolted through the back door, my feet hitting the frozen earth as the shouts of the angry mob faded into the distance. The cold Canadian air bit at my skin, but I hardly felt it; my heart was a hammer, and my blood was on fire.
Then, I heard the heavy thud of boots behind me. I spun around, my instincts on edge, only to see Victor trailing close behind.
"Why are you here, Victor?" I asked, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Even though the memories of 2027 told me exactly who he was and what we were to become, I had to play the part. I couldn't let him see the 'genius' hiding behind my child's eyes.
Victor didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his grip tightening as he threw both hands onto my shoulders, his eyes burning with a dark, primal recognition. 'We're brothers, James,' he proclaimed, his voice thick with a grim sort of pride. "You and me... we're the same. And brothers stay together".
I looked at him, my mind still reeling from the transition. "Then why are you here, Victor?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper in the cold. "Do you want the world to look at you like you're a freak, too?"
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he slowly brought his hand close to my face, his eyes never leaving mine. With a subtle, predatory grace, he showed me exactly why he couldn't leave me behind. In the pale light, I saw the sharpened nails and the raw power in his grip, the unmistakable mark of the same 'glitch' that lived inside me.
"You and me, James... we're brothers, Jimmy. Do you realize that yet?" He leaned in closer, his gaze intense and unyielding. "And brothers protect each other".
He squeezed my shoulders, his voice dropping to a gravelly, commanding tone. "You have to be hard now. You have to be hard enough that nothing in this world can ever touch us again".
I stared into his eyes, seeing the reflection of the man I was destined to become. In my past life, I was a 'genius' who fixed machines. In this life, Victor was telling me that I had to become the machine, one made of iron will and unbreakable bone.
In the stories I remembered from my past life, the boy cried out for the comfort of home. But those words never reached my lips. I knew the truth: 'home' was a ghost, and the life of James Howlett had ended the moment the claws broke through.
Victor continued his monologue, his voice raspy with a new, dark purpose. "We take care of each other", he growled, his eyes fixed on the treeline. "We stick together no matter what, and we take down anyone who gets in our way. Understand?".
I nodded slowly, but my mind was miles away, racing through the decades of history I shouldn't know. I thought of the wars to come, the trenches of the Great War, the beaches of Normandy, the humid jungles, and the endless cycle of violence. I thought of the suffering, the loss of memory, and the metallic weight of the Adamantium that was destined to bond to my bones.
Was I truly trapped in this loop? Was I forced to endure every scar and every heartbeat of agony that the legend of Wolverine demanded? As Victor pulled me deeper into the shadows of the forest, I realized that while I had the power to heal any wound, I had no idea if I had the power to change my fate.
I looked at Victor and made a silent, calculated decision. I would stay by his side, walking the dark path of brotherhood until the day came when I could secure my future, not with the Adamantium I was 'destined' to have, but with the Vibranium enhancement I knew was possible.
"Okay, Victor", I said, my voice firmer than a boy's should be. "We stick together".
A predatory smile spread across Victor's face at my words, a look of grim satisfaction. Without another word, we turned and began to run, our figures disappearing into the dense Alberta wilderness.
In that moment, the fabric of the future began to blur. The lines of history were still there, but they were no longer set in stone. The trajectory of the world was shifting because of one man, a guy who knew the end of the story before the first chapter was even written. I wasn't just James Howlett, and I wasn't just a mutant. I was the glitch in the system, and I was going to rewrite the legend.
--AUTHOR NOTE--
I want to make it clear that I intend to stay true to the core of Wolverine's legendary abilities, but I'll be adding my own twists to fit the vision of this story. I don't claim Logan or the Wolverine mythos as my own; I am simply a fan retelling this epic tale in a new light. All characters and original lore are the property of Disney and Marvel.
And i use AI to make my story look and nice to read, this novel was my draft 3 years ago when AI writing wasn't a thing, and english is my second language, so AI seem nice when you want something presentable.