The night wind carried the damp scent of soil across the wheat fields. Rain-soaked wheat heads drooped heavily, shimmering silver-gray under the moonlight.
The barn's ruins looked like the skeleton of some great beast gnawed apart—charred beams stuck slanted into the mud, faint wisps of smoke still rising from their broken ends. Pools of water mirrored the fractured night sky, while scraps of roofing tin groaned in the breeze.
Locke pushed himself up slowly, bracing against his knee, muddy water dripping from his already unrecognizable work overalls.
He narrowed his eyes, studying the man who had appeared before him in the moonlight—
The stranger jumped down from a beam, leaning against what was left of a wall. A nearly-burnt cigarette hung from his lips.
The ember's orange glow carved shifting shadows into his weathered face. His worn leather jacket hung open at the collar, exposing his powerful chest.
Drawing deeply on the cigarette, he let the wind stir the gray-white tips of his hair, the smoke swirling in the moonlight without dispersing.
He stood there in silence, his whole being radiating the lonely presence of a wolf who had wandered the world alone for years.
Logan.
Wolverine.
[Note: No merging! Each universe exists independently on its own!]
Locke wiped the mud from his face, then suddenly chuckled.
"Looks like tonight's full of surprises, one after another."
The man didn't reply right away.
Instead, he crushed out the cigarette with his bare fingers and flicked it aside.
His eyes glimmered strangely in the moonlight—half as though scrutinizing Locke, half as though peering through him at memories far in the past.
"I followed the pull inside me and it led me here."
"Clearly…"
"You seem to know me?" he finally rasped, his voice gravelly. "You…"
"You're not from this world either, are you?"
Locke shook his head, muddy water dripping from his curls.
"I'm just a farmer who grows corn, sir."
Logan narrowed his eyes, studying the mud-caked farmer before him.
From the filthy work boots, to the calm, steady gaze in the moonlight—
Aside from the clothes, what farmer looked like this?
What kind of farmer tosses blasting caps around and blows an adamantium-like monster to pieces?
A subtle silence filled the air, broken only by the rustling of wheat stalks in the wind.
"Hmph."
"Say whatever you want, kid."
With a dry laugh, Logan pulled another cigarette from his jacket pocket, then dug out a battered old Zippo lighter.
He flipped it open, thumb grinding hard against the wheel—
"Click-click."
Only a few sparks flickered in the damp night air.
"F**k!"
He swore under his breath, pressing harder until a small flame sputtered—
but it puffed out instantly in a curl of smoke.
Coughing awkwardly, Logan shoved the lighter back in his pocket.
"…Damn weather."
He shot Locke a sideways look.
"Got a light, farmer?"
Locke opened his mud-stained hands. Resting there was a box of matches.
That was what he'd used earlier to light the blasting caps. But now…
The matchbox was clearly soaked through.
"Tch."
Stuffing the cigarette back into its crumpled pack, Logan muttered irritably,
"What age is this, and you can't even carry a proper lighter—"
He broke off suddenly, eyes snapping toward the wheat fields.
From the distance, the night wind carried the faint growl of a diesel engine—
Someone was driving a tractor toward them.
"Looks like your friends are here."
"Listen." His gaze flicked to the puddle of silver fluid dissipating into smoke. His tone dropped, heavy and serious:
"This organization is far more dangerous than you think. They're like jackals drawn to the scent of blood…"
"If anyone comes to investigate what happened tonight—"
"Shhhk!"
A pair of alloy claws snapped out from the man's hands, gleaming coldly under the moonlight.
"Just say some weirdo calling himself 'the Wolf' saved you."
Turning, he strode toward the barn's shattered doorway, the hem of his leather jacket whipping in the night wind.
"Don't ever get mixed up with those lunatics, kid."
"They're more trouble than all the wheat on your farm put together."
Leaving already?
Staring at Wolverine's retreating back, Locke suddenly raised his voice:
"Wait!"
"What did you mean just now, about 'not from this world'?"
Logan froze mid-step.
The moon stretched his shadow long across the mud, a lonely silhouette carved into the ground.
He stayed silent a few seconds, then finally spoke without turning:
"You ever seen a talking rock man, kid? Or… a purple-skinned potato freak?"
The night breeze swept between them, carrying the fresh, rain-washed scent of wheat.
"I'm looking for a bastard."
"He dumped us into the wrong world, left me unable to find my way home."
Logan's voice suddenly turned heavy with exhaustion. Then—
"…And he had me locked up for another four, five years of experiments, just to re-do that damned adamantium process. I'm such a *** idiot!"
"In short, I'm gonna F*K that bastard's * and then ***!"
"**, I swear, that curly-haired **!"
"…"
It was as if years of rage had been boiling inside him, spilling out now in a stream of curses not fit for children.
Finally, after venting, Logan drew a deep breath. He seemed lighter, calmer. Looking back at Locke, he shrugged:
"Good enough answer for you, Farmer?"
"Dad!"
"Locke!"
Before Locke could reply, shouts came from the distance—Dio and the Kent family calling his name. The headlights of a pickup truck bobbed through the wheat field.
Logan cast one last glance at Locke, then turned and vanished into the darkness.
"Remember what I said."
His voice drifted back out of the night:
"It's important."
A few windblown wheat stalks settled slowly to the ground. The weary man's figure was gone—only a few deep footprints in the mud, and a half-smoked cigar still trailing smoke.
Shaking his head, Locke turned toward the headlights, cupping his hands to shout:
"Dio!"
"Jonathan! Martha!"
"I'm here!"
"Clunk—!"
The pickup screeched to a halt by the wreckage. Its beams caught the scattered metal debris, glittering like silver shards.
Dio was the first to leap out, almost throwing himself into Locke's arms.
The boy's arms clamped tight around his father's waist, his mud-streaked face buried in Locke's chest, shoulders trembling.
"I'm fine, you little brat."
Locke ruffled Dio's wet hair, a few wheat stalks tangled between his fingers. "You drove that tractor pretty well today!"
"Locke!" Martha hurried up, her apron still dusted with flour—she had clearly rushed straight from the kitchen. Her hands shook as she checked Locke for wounds. "God, do you know how scared we were? Dio drove up with a weak, half-conscious Clark on a tractor, even flipped it into the pond! He told us not to go out, but wouldn't say a word about what happened!"
"Locke, where are those people?!"
Jonathan came striding after her, an old hunting rifle in his hand.
His eyes swept over the shattered barn, then locked on the broken metal fragments scattered across the ground. His brows knitted into a hard knot.
"Don't tell me it's the IRS bastards again?!"
"…"
Locke couldn't help but laugh aloud.
My brother Jonathan… do you really hate the IRS even more than I do?