Chapter 40 – Forged by Bruises
The next morning the mats still smelled like yesterday's sweat. Bruises had bloomed on ribs and jaws, joints still ached, but Xavier's orders didn't bend, and Scott's watchful eye didn't blink.
Day after day, they came back. Day after day, Logan broke them down.
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Day Two
Thunderbird rushed him again. Logan didn't even flinch. He pivoted, let John's fist whistle past his ear, then caught his arm and flipped him hard enough to shake the mat.
"Again," John snarled, scrambling up.
"You're not hearin' me, kid," Logan said, shaking his head. "You're tryin' to win with fire. Fire burns out. Try bones."
John's answer was another swing. Logan dropped him twice more before Scott finally called the match.
On the sidelines, Kurt whispered, "He is going to break himself in two."
Storm answered, low, "Perhaps that is how he learns."
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Day Three
The air reeked of liniment and determination. Logan circled Colossus again, dodged a heavy punch by a hair, and tapped his ribs.
"Don't swing where I was, big guy. Swing where I'm goin'."
Piotr grunted, adjusted, and this time clipped Logan's shoulder. A small victory, but Logan's grunt of approval meant more than applause.
Thunderbird watched, jaw tight. When his turn came, he didn't charge straight in — he feinted. Logan still read it, still countered, but the look in Logan's eyes after—that's it, kid, you're learnin'—stung and soothed all at once.
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Day Four
Banshee dropped to a knee, wind knocked out of him. Logan hauled him up. "Yer fight's in yer lungs, Sean. Without 'em, you gotta dig deeper. Stop thinkin' pub brawl, start thinkin' survival."
Banshee coughed, muttered, "Yer idea of survival's bloody murder."
On the mat later, Thunderbird lasted longer than before. He blocked once, twice, even landed a glancing blow across Logan's jaw. The team erupted in cheers.
Logan licked blood from his lip and grinned wolfishly. "Not bad, kid. Still reckless. But not bad."
Thunderbird's chest swelled with something between rage and pride.
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Day Five
By now, the bruises were badges. They laughed about them over dinner, compared them like trophies.
"Logan hit me here," Kurt said cheerfully, pointing to a welt on his thigh. "And here, and here. I am a modern art piece."
Banshee grumbled, "Aye, but yer tail makes for a good tripwire. He's near broke my ankle on that thing."
Storm's voice was calm but firm. "We are sharpening. The pain is a whetstone. Each cut makes us keener."
Thunderbird sat silent, rubbing at his bruised knuckles, eyes still burning but softer now, more focused.
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Day Six
Scott finally saw it: Logan wasn't just beating them down. He was teaching. Every throw, every counter, every takedown was a lesson hammered into bone.
And Thunderbird—he'd stopped charging headlong. He circled now, tried to read Logan, tried to time his strikes. Logan still dismantled him, but the fire in his eyes was less blind fury, more sharpened steel.
"Kid's finally lettin' his pride work for him, not against him," Logan thought, catching John's fist and twisting him down. "Took ya long enough."
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Day Seven
A week of bruises and sweat.
Scott blew the whistle. "All of you. Together. One target. Let's see what you've learned."
Logan cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, smirked. "Finally. A real fight."
The team formed up, circling him like wolves. Their eyes were different now — sharper, hungrier, unified. Even Thunderbird's. Especially Thunderbird's.
Logan could smell it on them all. Not fear anymore. Resolve.
He grinned to himself, crouching low. Alright then. Let's dance.