Weeks turned into a month. James "Logan" Howlett remained a brooding, volatile presence in the secure apartment Elias had provided. He chafed under the implied confinement, the unfamiliarity of city sounds and smells a constant irritant to his hyper-acute senses. Yet, he hadn't bolted. Elias Thorne's calm, almost detached demeanor, coupled with the inexplicable mirroring of his own powers (especially the claws), kept Logan intrigued, wary, and reluctantly anchored. He sensed a depth, a hidden agenda in the young landlord that went far beyond mere criminal ambition.
Elias maintained a careful distance, providing for Logan's basic needs – food, solitude, an endless supply of cheap cigars and Canadian whiskey – but making few demands. He visited infrequently, his interactions brief, designed more to gauge Logan's mood and acclimatization than to issue orders. He spoke of current events, of the growing unrest in Europe, of the subtle shifts in Montreal's power structure, observing Logan's reactions, looking for any spark of interest beyond his own tormented past.
The mirrored adamantium skeleton felt… different. A profound, unyielding strength that started at his very core. Elias found he could exert far more physical force without strain, that impacts which might have once bruised or even broken bones were now absorbed with barely a tremor. The healing factor was a constant, subtle thrum beneath his skin, eradicating fatigue, mending microscopic wear and tear almost instantaneously. He felt… indefatigable. The psychosomatic claws remained retracted unless he specifically willed them forth, a conscious, if now easier, act of will. The greatest challenge was filtering the sensory overload, learning to normalize the cacophony of a city he now perceived with predator-level intensity.
His Montreal operations continued, overseen by his established agents. Dr. Finch, his cognitive abilities further sharpened by the minute systemic boosts from Elias's own massive power-up (the System seemed to share out tiny ambient gains across linked, loyal units when the Host experienced a significant upgrade), provided increasingly insightful analyses of both local and international affairs. He noted the growing talk of rearmament in Germany, the rising tensions in Asia, seeing patterns that Elias, with his now vastly enhanced processing speed, could also perceive with chilling clarity.
"The world is holding its breath, Mr. Thorne," Finch observed gravely. "A storm is gathering, far larger than our petty urban squabbles."
Anya Petrova, when not discreetly monitoring Logan, continued her invaluable surveillance work. Her Archer-sight, combined with Elias's new strategic understanding, allowed them to map out critical infrastructure and key political players with unprecedented detail. She noted the subtle increase in federal police presence around certain industrial sites, the hushed meetings between government officials and industrialists – signs that Canada, too, was beginning to stir from its interwar slumber.
Mickey O'Halloran, Goblin-quick and ever fearful, remained Elias's ear to the grimiest levels of the street. He brought news that Lou Scarelli's organization was imploding. After the public humiliation of Angie Trapani and the brutal dispatch of Silas and Benny, Scarelli's authority had crumbled. His enforcers were deserting in droves, some to Fitzpatrick, others simply vanishing. Scarelli himself was rarely seen, rumored to be holed up in his heavily fortified mansion, drinking heavily and descending into a paranoid rage.
The System metrics reflected this shift. [Influence (City-Wide): 3.5% (Dominant Shadow Influence in Underworld – Scarelli Org Neutralized; Fitzpatrick Ascendant but Wary)]. Reputation (Global – Nascent): [Unknown Power Broker (Rumors of Unconventional Assets)]. His Host Power remained [CLASSIFIED], but the qualitative difference was immense. The new [System Energy Maximum: Vastly Increased] meant he could theoretically empower dozens, even hundreds, of individuals if he chose, though quality and loyalty remained his primary concerns.
One rainy afternoon, Logan finally broke his usual stoic silence during one of Elias's visits. He was pacing the small apartment, a caged animal.
"This 'world' of yours, kid," he growled, gesturing dismissively at the rain-streaked window overlooking a bleak Montreal alley. "It's just a bigger cage. Different bars. What's your angle? You ain't doing this outta the goodness of your heart."
Elias met his gaze. "My 'angle', Logan, is survival. And shaping the terms of that survival. Power left unchecked, in the wrong hands, creates chaos and suffering. We've both seen enough of that, haven't we?" The empathic bleed from Logan's psyche, though largely controlled by Elias's psionic defenses, still gave him flashes of the centuries of violence and loss Logan had endured. "I intend to build something that can withstand the coming storms. Something that can ensure those with unique… attributes… aren't merely cogs or victims, but active participants in their own destiny."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "You think your healing, your claws, make you a monster. A weapon. I see them as tools. Tools that, in the right hands, guided by the right intellect, can achieve remarkable things."
"And you reckon your hands are the 'right' ones?" Logan scoffed, though there was less bite in it than usual.
"I reckon they're steadier than most I've encountered," Elias replied. "And I'm willing to learn. To adapt." He extended a hand, not in supplication, but in invitation. "I have a problem, Logan. A minor one, perhaps, in the grand scheme, but it requires a certain… finality. Lou Scarelli. He's become a liability. A rabid dog that needs to be put down before his madness infects more of the city. His continued presence is an untidy loose end."
This was a test. A calculated offering of purpose.
Logan stared at Elias's offered hand, then at Elias's face. He saw no fear there, despite the implied violence of the task. He saw… an unnerving certainty. And perhaps, a reflection of his own deeply buried desire for action, for something other than the gnawing emptiness of his isolated existence.
"You want me to be your attack dog?" Logan asked, his voice flat.
"I want you to be a solution, Logan," Elias corrected. "How you achieve that solution is up to your discretion. Consider it… an audition. A chance to stretch your legs. To remind the world, or at least this small corner of it, what a force of nature looks like when it's finally off the leash, but pointed in a specific direction."
A long silence. Logan's yellow eyes bored into Elias. He was weighing the offer, the implications. The rage still simmered within him, but there was also a flicker of something else – a weary resignation, perhaps even a reluctant curiosity.
Finally, a slow, feral grin spread across Logan's face, a terrifying sight. It was the grin of a predator sighting prey after a long hunger.
Snikt.
The six adamantium claws shot forth, gleaming in the dim apartment light.
"Been a while since I had a good reason to get my knuckles dirty," Logan rasped. "Where do I find this Scarelli?"
Elias allowed himself a small, almost invisible smile. The leash was still there, but for the first time, the Wolverine was willingly taking hold of it. The tides in Montreal were about to shift dramatically, washed in by a wave of adamantium and righteous fury. And Elias Thorne, the puppet master, would be watching, learning, and preparing for the much larger storms on the horizon.
His System buzzed almost imperceptibly: [Loyalty Meter (Wolverine): 15% ( grudging Acceptance, Purpose Alignment – Still Volatile). Conduit Integration: Proceeding.]
Progress. Slow, dangerous, but undeniable.