The air inside the bar was thick with smoke, the scent of burning wood mixing with stale beer and sweat. Logan sat alone at a scarred wooden table, leaning back in his chair, his weathered leather jacket draped over his shoulders like a second skin. His grizzled face was shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, only the red ember of his cigar glowing in the dim light.
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, listening to the faint crackle of the fires and the low hum of conversation around him. The weight of his missing memories gnawed at the back of his mind—a constant ache he couldn't shake. Faces, names, places... all blurred fragments that refused to take shape, slipping through his thoughts like smoke.
Where do you even begin searching for something when you don't know what you're looking for? Logan thought bitterly, taking another sip of whiskey. He only knew bits and pieces: he was dangerous, he was different, and the claws in his hands weren't just nightmares—they were real. The cage fights had given him a way to survive, but they hadn't brought him any closer to figuring out who—or what—he truly was.
The door to the bar creaked open, letting in a gust of icy wind that made everyone shiver. Logan glanced up from his drink, his sharp instincts kicking in. A figure slipped inside—a young girl, no older than seventeen or eighteen.
She wore a black cloak, the hood pulled low over her face, but Logan caught the glint of bright green eyes beneath it. Pale, delicate features marked her as someone out of place, not the kind of person you'd find in a rundown dive in the middle of nowhere.
She spotted Logan almost immediately, and for some reason, her gaze lingered on him. He stared back for a moment, his expression unreadable, before dismissing her with a grunt and turning back to his drink.
The old television in the corner flickered, struggling to hold its signal. On the screen, a newscaster droned on.
"Ellis Island, once the gateway for immigrants entering the United States, will soon become the focus of international attention again."
The bar quieted as a few patrons turned to listen.
"In six days, the United Nations Summit will be held there, with over two hundred world leaders attending. Their primary agenda: international agreements on mutant regulation."
Logan exhaled a slow stream of smoke, eyes narrowing slightly as the word mutant echoed in the room. He knew all too well what people thought of mutants—how they looked at you like you were a freak, a threat, a mistake. And if anyone here knew what he really was, the entire bar would probably turn against him in a heartbeat.
The newscast continued.
"Several U.S. senators have called for stricter policies on mutant activity. Their goal: controlling what they call the 'mutant threat' before it becomes unmanageable."
Logan's hand tightened around his glass, the whiskey sloshing slightly from the force. The knot in his gut twisted a little tighter.
Just then, the bar's door swung open again, and heavy boots thudded across the wooden floor. Logan didn't need to turn around to know who it was—his opponent from the underground cage fights.
The big man loomed behind him, breathing heavily, his breath smelling of alcohol and anger.
"That prize money belongs to me."
The man growled.
Logan didn't respond, didn't even look at him. He just kept sipping his whiskey, uninterested in another fight—especially one that wouldn't give him any answers about himself.
But the man wasn't backing down.
"Nobody fights like that without a scratch unless they're hiding somethin'."
His voice dropped to a low, ugly whisper.
"I think I know what you are. A freak. A mutant."
Logan closed his eyes for a moment, irritation simmering under the surface. He didn't care about being exposed—he didn't care about much these days. But the man's words grated on him like nails on glass.
"I'm givin' you one chance, bub."
Logan muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
"Walk away."
The man sneered, pulling a knife from his belt.
"Nah. I think I'll take my money—and maybe I'll let the locals know who you really are, too."
Before the man could make another move, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"Watch out!"
It was the girl in the cloak.
Logan's reflexes kicked in instantly. In one swift motion, he spun from his seat and grabbed the man by the throat, slamming him against the wall with bone-cracking force. The knife clattered to the floor, forgotten.
A metallic 'snikt' echoed through the bar as three gleaming claws shot from Logan's knuckles. He held them inches from the man's throat, his expression cold and deadly.
The bar fell into a heavy silence, all eyes locked on Logan. The bartender reached under the counter and pulled out a shotgun, aiming it squarely at Logan's head.
"Freak."
The bartender spat.
"Get the hell out of my bar."
Logan's claws twitched, his instincts screaming to fight, to survive. For a brief second, his eyes flashed with a murderous glint—red, primal, dangerous.
But he stopped himself. With a growl of frustration, he retracted his claws and let the man slump to the floor, gasping for breath. Logan grabbed his backpack and turned toward the door, throwing a final glance at the girl who had warned him.
Without a word, Logan stepped out into the freezing night, the cold biting through his clothes. The snow crunched under his boots as he headed for his RV parked a few yards away, his breath rising in clouds of steam.
Behind him, the door to the bar creaked open again. The girl followed him outside, her cloak billowing in the icy wind.
Logan stopped beside the RV, glaring at her.
"What do you want, kid?"
She hesitated, her green eyes wide with uncertainty.
"You... you're like me, aren't you?"
Logan sighed, already regretting his decision to stop.
"Go home, kid."
"I don't have a home."
She whispered, her voice barely audible above the wind.
"I don't have anywhere to go."
She fidgeted with the strap of her backpack, shifting from foot to foot.
"So... Can I come with you or not?"
Logan's first instinct was to tell her to beat it. He didn't want any attachments, especially not to a kid. But something about the lost look in her eyes—it reminded him of himself. Of someone drifting, with no place to go.
"Come on, then."
He growled, jerking his head toward the passenger seat.
"But if you cause any trouble, you're out."
The girl smiled, the first genuine one he'd seen from her, and scrambled into the RV before he changed his mind. She settled in, pulling her hood tighter against the cold, as Logan put the RV back into gear and drove off into the snowy wilderness.
"You got a name?"
He asked, his voice gruff.
The girl hesitated before answering.
"Rogue."
"Rogue, huh?"
Logan scoffed, more to himself than to her.
"Figures."
As the engine rumbled to life, Logan glanced at the girl—Rogue, she'd called herself—and something stirred deep within him. He still didn't know who he was or where he came from. But for now, maybe having someone else along for the ride wasn't the worst thing in the world.
With a grim smile, he shifted the RV into gear and drove off into the snowy wilderness, the night closing in around them like a thick blanket.
For a while, they rode in silence, the hum of the engine and the crunch of snow beneath the tires the only sounds. Eventually, Logan reached for the radio, fiddling with the dial until he found a half-decent rock station. The familiar, grizzled chords of an old song filled the cabin, blending with the stillness of the night outside.
Rogue stared out the window, lost in her thoughts. Finally, she spoke up, her voice soft.
"So... where are we headed?"
Logan gave a humorless chuckle.
"Hell if I know."
She leaned back, seemingly content with the non-answer. After all, she didn't have anywhere better to be, either.
As the miles passed, the two unlikely companions settled into a strange, comfortable silence. Logan didn't know where the road was taking him—maybe somewhere, maybe nowhere—but for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel completely alone.
And for Rogue, the RV felt warmer than any place she'd known in a long time.
Neither of them said it aloud, but maybe, just maybe, they were exactly what the other needed—two misfits trying to find their way in a world that didn't want them.
The snow outside grew heavier as the night deepened, but inside, the faint hum of life stirred between them. And for now, that was enough.
As the headlights carved a path through the darkness, Logan muttered to himself.
"Guess we'll figure it out along the way."
Rogue smiled from the passenger seat.
"Yeah. Guess we will."
From a distant ridge, the Anbu Black Ops team crouched in the shadows, perfectly camouflaged against the snow. Their masks gleamed faintly under the moonlight, each painted with eerie designs. They were ghosts in the night, silent and deadly, observing Logan and Rogue as the RV pushed through the snow-covered road below.
One of the operatives tapped a communication device embedded in his mask.
"This is Team Raven. Target is on the move. Awaiting further orders, Commander Uzumaki."
There was a brief crackle on the other end before a calm, measured voice responded.
"Maintain visual. Do not engage unless the Brotherhood makes their move."
Leon Uzumaki instructed. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of precision and intent.
"The target will be crucial. We need them all alive. The time to intervene will come soon."
The team leader nodded, even though Leon couldn't see it.
"Understood. And if the Brotherhood makes contact first?"
A long pause followed. When Leon finally spoke, his voice was colder than the wind whipping through the mountains.
"Neutralize them."
As the Anbu agents refocused their gaze on the camper van, the leader's eyes narrowed behind his mask. They had trained their entire lives for missions like this, operating in the shadows where few could follow. The mutant factions—whether it was the Brotherhood or the X-Men—meant little to them. Their mission was simple: monitor, intervene if necessary, and keep both Logan and Rogue under control until the right moment.
Down below, oblivious to the eyes watching from above, Logan flicked his cigar into the snow through the driver's side window and tightened his grip on the wheel.
"What's next, Logan?"
Rogue asked quietly, as if trying to glimpse his thoughts.
He grunted, tapping the wheel with his thumb.
"Wherever the road takes us, kid."
Rogue gave a small, satisfied smile.
"Sounds good to me."
The RV rumbled along, tires crunching over the thickening snow. Neither of them knew the tangled web they were driving into—a web woven by forces far beyond their understanding. Brotherhood agents prowled nearby, hunting them with their own twisted motives, and the X-Men were always a few steps behind. And now, hidden in the dark, the Anbu Black Ops tracked their every move.
The snowstorm thickened, swallowing the world around them. But for Logan and Rogue, it didn't matter. For once, the road was theirs—and for now, that was enough.
High above, a figure in an Anbu mask spoke quietly into the communicator.
"The storm is picking up. We'll follow from the ridge and intercept if needed, sir."
Leon's reply was curt but laced with finality over the radio.
"Good. Stay out of sight. Everything's falling into place."
The agents melted back into the shadows, unseen and undetected, leaving only the faintest trace in the snow as they vanished into the night—silent predators waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Name: Leon Uzumaki/Leon Petrov
Kekkei Genkai: Uzumaki, Wood Release, Dust Release, Lava Release
Elemental Affinity: Wind, Fire, Earth, Water, Lighting, Yang
Chakra level: Sage of Six Paths
Chakra Control: Rank EX
Taijutsu: Power Rank S, Technique Rank S
Shurikenjutsu: Rank A
Kenjutsu: Rank A
Fuinjutsu: Rank S
Genjutsu: Rank C
Ninjutsu: Rank S
Templates:
+Naruto Ashura mode, Sage of Six Paths, Rank A
+Yamato, Jonin, Rank A
+Onoki, Kage, Rank S Ninja
+Harold Finch, Rank S Mechanical Engineering and Rank S Computer Science
Divinity: 18%