The dim lighting of the bar cast long shadows across Logan's weathered face as he took another swig of beer. The scent of alcohol and aged wood filled the air between us, mixing with the faint metallic tang that always seemed to follow him.
"I never thought you'd be so... young, Wraith," Logan grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes—sharp, assessing—flicked over my features.
I smirked, spinning my own glass between my fingers. "I 'look' young. Doesn't mean I am."**
The bar was nearly empty at this hour, just the bartender polishing glasses at the far end and a couple of regulars nursing their drinks. We had chosen a secluded booth in the back, away from prying eyes and ears. Logan wasn't one for public displays, and neither was I—especially not when discussing things that could get people killed.
He'd kept his word about my... episode. Not a whisper to Xavier, not even a hint to the other X-Men. What happened that day stayed a secret between him, me and Michele and to me that loyalty meant something.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Logan jabbed, raising a brow. "You older than you look or something?"
I chuckled. "Yeah, something like that…well. You look mid-30s but are actually pushing 200. Pot calling the kettle old, buddy."
I am not lying, if we combined my age, all in all I am roughly almost 60 years old. And then if we added my High-Elf character age, I am roughly about a few hundred years old. Logan snorted, but there was no real heat in it. Just the easy banter of two men who'd seen too much to bother with pretenses.
I set my glass down with a soft clink. "Alright, Logan. Shoot."
"What?"
"You called me out of the blue. Not just to chat over beers. So, ask. What do you want to know?"
For a moment, silence stretched between us. Then Logan exhaled sharply, his shoulders tensing. When he spoke, his voice was low, rough with something I couldn't quite place—frustration? Longing? Desperation?
"You know things about me. Things no one else does. Not even Charles." His fingers tightened around his glass. "So do me a solid. Tell me about me."
There it was. The real reason for this meeting.
I leaned back, considering. "Your name is James Howlett. Born near Cold Lake, Canada, sometime in the 1800s. Exact year's hard to pin down—records weren't great back then."
Logan's jaw clenched, but he didn't interrupt. I slowly unravel his life history, naturally based on what I know about him, according to the movie.
"You know Sabertooth? Victor Creed?"
That got a reaction. His claws 'snikted' out, piercing the table. The bartender glanced over, but a glare from Logan had him quickly looking away.
"
"What?!" The glass in Logan's hand shattered.
I sighed, waving the bartender off before he could come over. "Calm down. This is why I didn't lead with that."
Methodically, I walked him through what I knew—his childhood, the experiments, the wars. The Howling Commandos. Nagasaki. I left out the messier parts (Weapon X could wait for later), but gave him enough to piece together the fragments of his past, by himself. The guy was good like that, despite his animalistic tendency and emotional swings, he is once a soldier in a special force. Logan listened in silence; his expression unreadable. When I finished, he downed the rest of his beer in one go.
"And you just... know all this."
I shrugged. "I know a lot of things…especially, in those that I wanted to know…and what was matters…Comes with the territory."
For a long moment, he just stared at the scarred table between us. Then, finally:
"I need another drink.".
The hustle and bustle of the bar became a hum, as the amount of beer bottle began to multiply on our table. Logan processed what I'd told him. His beer bottle creaked in his grip, the glass threatening to shatter under the pressure of his enhanced strength.
"SHIELD's got files on you," I continued, keeping my voice low. "Marked as MIA after World War II. HYDRA's records are more... detailed. The Weapon X project logs confirm you're the same Wolverine from history."
Logan's nostrils flared, the scent of his rising anger cutting through the bar's stale air. "And Sabertooth? Why is he always wanted to mess with me?"
"Your half-brother?" I confirmed. "I don't know, he's a pervert I guess? Probably that's why he's been hunting you for decades. Why he kills everyone you get close to. Family drama at its finest, if you asked me..."
Our conversation went on a lot of things, mostly him asking me everything that was related to him and a few Meta-Human, and I also being very careful to not appear so omniscient that I just know everything. The mention of William Stryker made Logan's claws twitch. "That bastard colonel—"
"Goddamnit!!" Logan's fist came down—right into my waiting palm. The impact vibrated up my arm, but the table remained intact.
"Easy," I murmured, nodding toward the bartender who'd glanced our way. "Lots of eyes here."
Logan exhaled sharply, retracting his claws. "Hah... thanks, bub."
For a long moment, he just stared at his hands—the weapons that had both saved and doomed him countless times. Emotions warred across his face: anger, grief, resignation.
"Sometimes I wonder if this is a gift or a curse," he muttered.
I swirled my drink. "It's just biology, Logan. Neither good nor bad. What matters is what you do with it."
The conversation shifted to lighter topics—his work at Xavier's school, his love for vintage motorcycles. He mentioned his fling with Storm, and I wisely didn't comment on its inevitable expiration date.
Then came the SHIELD revelation.
"We work with them sometimes," Logan said, correcting himself mid-sentence. "When Meta-Human problems pop up."
I leaned forward. "Be careful with SHIELD."
His brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because they've known about Meta-Humans for decades. And their 'research' isn't as noble as Fury claims."
As I detailed SHIELD's black sites, their "acquired" test subjects, their anti-meta weapon development, Logan's smile vanished.
"You don't mean—"
"I do. They're just the same as any other, Logan just with a better PR…. all the times they were trying to find a way to deal with us…not to help…but to make us submit to them…".
Logan's bottle hit the table with a hollow thunk. "What a shitty world."
The weight of the revelation hung between us. Finally, Logan raised his drink.
"Now I get why you do what you do."
Our bottles clinked.
"By the way…. I'm building something, Logan," I said, the words heavy with promise. "A nation where our kind can live free."
His amber eyes sharpened. "You serious?"
"Yeah…it will take time…but eventually I had to do it and WILL do it…". I confessed. And Logan just nodded his head, saying he gets it. I know that he might thought that it was my drunkenness talking.
Outside, the city hummed with oblivious life. But in that dim corner, two immortals made silent vows that would change everything.