The night breeze carried the damp scent of earth across the wheat fields, where rain-soaked stalks hung heavy, glinting silver-gray under the moonlight.
The barn's remains looked like the skeleton of some beast torn apart, its charred beams jutting into the muddy ground, faint wisps of smoke still curling from the broken edges. Puddles reflected a fractured night sky, and the few surviving scraps of tin roofing creaked in the wind.
Locke pushed himself up, leaning on his knees, mud and water dripping from his once-colorful work pants.
Squinting through the moonlight, he sized up the man who'd just appeared—
The guy leapt down from a beam, leaning casually against the barn's last half-wall, a nearly burned-out cigarette dangling from his lips.
The orange glow of the cigarette cast shifting shadows across his weathered face. He wore a beat-up leather jacket, collar open, revealing a chiseled chest.
Taking a deep drag, the night breeze tousled his graying hair, the exhaled smoke lingering in the moonlight.
He stood there, radiating a kind of isolated loneliness, like a lone wolf who'd been on his own for years.
Logan.
Wolverine.
[Note: No crossover! Both worlds are completely separate!]
Locke wiped the mud from his face and suddenly grinned. "Looks like tonight's full of surprises."
The man didn't answer right away.
He just snuffed out the cigarette with his bare hand and tossed it to the ground.
His eyes gleamed with a complex light under the moon, like he was studying Locke—or maybe looking through him, into some distant past.
"I followed a gut feeling to this place," he said.
"Obviously."
"You know me?" His voice was rough, gravelly. "You… you're not from this world either, are you?"
Locke shook his head, mud and water dripping from his hair. "I'm just a corn farmer, mister."
Logan's eyes narrowed, sizing up the mud-caked farmer in front of him.
From Locke's muddy work boots to the strangely calm eyes glinting in the moonlight.
Aside from the clothes, what part of you screams farmer?
What kind of farmer tosses dynamite and blows a fake-adamantium monster to smithereens?
A subtle silence hung in the air, broken only by the rustle of wind through the distant wheat.
"Hmph."
"Whatever you say, kid."
With a smirk, Logan fished another cigarette from his jacket's inner pocket, then frowned as he pulled out an old Zippo lighter.
He flipped the lid open and gave the wheel a hard flick—
Click, click.
Just a few sparks flickered in the damp air.
"Fk!" he muttered, pressing harder. A flame sparked but quickly fizzled into a wisp of smoke.
Coughing awkwardly, Logan stuffed the lighter back in his pocket. "Damn weather."
He shot Locke a sideways glance, his voice low. "Got a light, farmer?"
Locke spread his muddy hands, revealing a box of matches.
He'd used them to light the dynamite earlier, but now… the matchbox was clearly soaked.
"Tch."
Grumbling, Logan shoved the cigarette back into its crumpled pack. "What is this, the Stone Age? You don't even have a decent lighter—"
His complaint cut off as his eyes snapped toward the wheat field.
The faint rumble of a diesel engine carried on the night breeze—
Someone was coming, driving a tractor.
"Looks like your buddies are here," Logan said, glancing at a puddle of silvery liquid dissolving into smoke. His voice dropped, serious. "This organization's more dangerous than you think. They're like jackals sniffing blood."
"If anyone comes asking about tonight," he added, his tone sharp, "you tell 'em some weirdo calling himself 'Wolf' saved your ass."
Shing!
A pair of adamantium claws slid from his hands, gleaming coldly in the moonlight.
"Don't get mixed up with those lunatics, kid," he said, turning toward the barn's open door, his leather jacket flapping in the wind. "They're more trouble than your whole damn wheat field put together."
He was leaving, just like that?
As Wolverine walked away, Locke called out, "Hold up!"
"What'd you mean by 'not from this world'?"
Logan paused.
The moonlight stretched his shadow long across the muddy ground, like a lonely silhouette.
After a few seconds of silence, he spoke without turning. "You ever seen a talking rock man, kid? Or… a purple-skinned potato guy?"
The night breeze swept between them, carrying the fresh scent of rain-soaked wheat.
"I'm looking for a bastard," Logan continued, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "He dumped us in the wrong world, and now I can't find my way home."
His tone darkened. "And then I got locked up for four or five years while they tried to recreate that damn adamantium. I'm gonna fk that guy's sht up, and then—"
He cut himself off, a string of censored curses spilling out like a growl.
After venting, Logan took a deep breath, looking a bit lighter. He glanced back at Locke and shrugged. "Happy with that answer, farmer?"
"Daddy!"
"Locke!"
Before Locke could respond, shouts came from the distance. The headlights of a pickup truck swayed through the wheat field.
Logan gave Locke one last look before melting into the darkness.
"Remember what I said," his voice drifted from the shadows. "It's important."
A few wheat stalks floated down, caught in the wind. The grizzled man was gone, leaving only deep footprints and a half-smoked cigar still smoldering on the ground.
Shaking his head, Locke turned toward the headlights and shouted, "Dio!"
"Jonathan! Martha!"
"I'm over here!"
Crunch!
The pickup pulled up beside the ruins, its headlights glinting off scattered metal fragments.
Dio was the first to jump out, practically tackling Locke, wrapping his arms tightly around his father's waist. His mud-streaked face pressed into Locke's chest, his shoulders trembling.
"I'm fine, you little punk," Locke said, ruffling Dio's wet hair, a few wheat stalks tangled in his fingers. "You drove that tractor like a champ today!"
"Locke!" Martha hurried over, her apron still dusted with flour, clearly having rushed out. Her hands trembled as she checked Locke for injuries. "God, you have no idea how scared we were! Dio came tearing home with a weak Clark, flipped the tractor right into the pond! He told us to stay put but wouldn't say what happened."
"Locke, where are those guys?!" Jonathan followed, clutching an old hunting rifle.
His eyes scanned the wrecked barn, then landed on the scattered metal bits, his brows knitting together. "Was it those IRS bastards again?!"
Locke couldn't help but laugh.
My brother Jonathan, your grudge against the IRS might just be bigger than mine.