Chapter 239: The Ghosts of Tomorrow
Logan tugged his jacket on, cigar already tucked in the corner of his mouth, when the scent hit him. Sadness had a smell — it wasn't just tears or damp skin, it was something deeper, sour in the soul. Heavy as rain on old stone.
He slowed, eyes narrowing, and found her in the hall. Rachel Summers. Red hair hanging loose, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to keep from unraveling.
"What's with the long nose, kid?" Logan asked, gruff but not unkind.
Rachel startled, then forced a little half-smile. "You always say things like that."
"Yeah, well. Beats sayin' nothing." He leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Spit it out."
She hesitated, then words spilled like a dam breaking. "I… I went to see my father. Cyclops. He has a new family now. A wife. She's… she's good, really. She's even pregnant."
Logan's cigar froze halfway to his lips. "Hnh. That's a hell of a thing."
Rachel's eyes glistened. "After that, I went to my mother's grave."
For once, Logan didn't have a quip. Just silence. He dragged on the cigar, blew smoke sideways, trying to buy himself a second.
"I didn't expect you to be that much of a masochist," he said finally. "You tryin' to find suffering on purpose?"
Her voice rose, cracking with pain. "In my future, my father and mother were together. I saw them. They were… they were happy. The happiest. And if not for the war, the racist slaughter, their sacrifice—" Her fists clenched. "I'd still be with them."
Her shoulders shook. "When I came here, I thought maybe… maybe I could see them again. But now? My mother's dead. My father's moved on. How can I even tell him I'm his daughter?"
Logan's chest tightened. He wasn't built for this kind of thing. But hell, the kid needed an anchor.
"What's the problem? You could start fresh. Make somethin' new."
Rachel snapped her head toward him, eyes blazing. "Don't you see? In this timeline, I won't even exist. I'll never be born here. And that future, that nightmare—it could still happen."
Logan struck the match against the wall, lit the cigar slow. The little flame painted his face in shadow and smoke.
"Listen, kid. If you won't be born in this timeline? Means you're one of a kind. That's somethin' worth bein' proud of." He exhaled, the smoke curling like punctuation. "And about that grim future—forget it."
Her laugh was bitter. "How can I forget something like that? Like it never happened?"
"It's not that it never happened." Logan leaned in, eyes hard. "It's that it'll never happen."
He didn't add the rest out loud, but it pounded in his head: Not while I'm still breathin'. Not on my watch.
Rachel blinked at him, dazed, like the words rearranged something inside her. For the first time in weeks, her shoulders eased just a little.
She noticed him turning for the door. "Where are you going?"
Logan grinned sideways, smoke trailing. "Adult stuff, kid."
And with that, he was gone, boots thudding down the hall, leaving her with the faint curl of cigar smoke and a new thought she couldn't quite shake.
The racetrack smelled like hay, leather, and adrenaline. Logan liked it immediately. None of the pretense of cocktail parties or high society events—just dirt, sweat, and muscle. He felt at home.
Across from him, Mariko Yashida sat gracefully atop a white mare. Graceful, but with a sparkle in her eyes that was pure mischief. "Are you ready, Logan-san?"
Logan spat his cigar into the dirt, ground it under his boot, and patted the blond stallion beneath him. "Ready as I'll ever be. Blondie here's got fire in his gut. Ain't that right, boy?"
The stallion tossed its mane and let out a sharp neigh, stamping the ground like it understood every word.
Mariko's laugh was like bells. "Shiro thinks otherwise. Don't embarrass yourself."
Logan smirked. "I'm the best at what I do, darlin'. And sometimes, what I do is horse racin'."
They lined up at the starting rope. The track stretched ahead, a ribbon of packed dirt under a sky washed in pale blue. The moment the rope dropped, both horses surged forward, muscles coiling and releasing like springs.
Blondie thundered under Logan, his hooves pounding a rhythm that echoed in Logan's bones. For a moment, it was like battle—the charge, the blur of motion, the wind roaring in his ears.
Mariko leaned low against Shiro's neck, urging her forward. "Faster, girl! Don't let the Canadian win!"
Logan grinned around the cigar stub he'd relit. "That all you got, Mari?" He slapped Blondie's flank. "C'mon, pal! You want the pretty lady horse, don't ya? Show her what you got!"
Blondie's ears perked up. His nostrils flared. With a wild, almost offended neigh, the stallion surged, overtaking Shiro in a spray of dirt.
Mariko's eyes went wide. "What did you tell him?"
"Guy talk," Logan said with a shrug.
They tore down the track neck and neck, the horses pouring every ounce of strength into each stride. Logan's keen senses picked up everything: Blondie's heartbeat hammering, Mariko's sharp inhale as she leaned tighter, even the flutter of a hawk circling high overhead.
They crossed the finish line together, so close even Logan's sharp eyes couldn't call it clean. Dust settled around them like smoke after a firefight.
"I won," Logan declared immediately.
Mariko arched an elegant brow. "No, Logan-san. Shiro was first. You must admit it."
"Hell no. Blondie's legs hit the line before yours. I saw it plain."
"Your eyesight may be sharp, but your pride is sharper," she teased.
Blondie and Shiro exchanged a look, ears flicking. If horses could roll their eyes, they would've.
Logan leaned forward in the saddle. "Darlin', you may be the love of my life, but I ain't losin' a horse race."
"Then it seems," she said with a sly smile, "we are both sore losers."
For a beat, silence stretched between them. Then Logan chuckled low in his throat, and Mariko joined in, their laughter mingling with the sound of their steeds pawing the ground.
For a man used to blood and steel, this was rare air. Peace. Banter. Someone who knew him as more than just the claws. He let it linger.
But deep down, a voice gnawed: It won't last. It never does.
Two weeks later, Logan's boots crossed the threshold of Xavier's school. He hadn't been gone long, but the scent that hit his nose froze him mid-step.
Metal. Cold, iron-rich, magnetic. A smell like rust and ozone all at once.
Magneto.
Logan's jaw clenched. His claws itched under his skin, ready to pop. But then he noticed something else—the scents of the others. Calm. Not panicked. Not fighting. That was the real shock.
"What the hell…?" he muttered, stalking toward the hall.
He rounded the corner and saw them. Xavier in his chair. Colossus, arms folded. Kitty with Lockheed curled around her shoulders. Rogue leaning against the wall. Nightcrawler perched on a chair back, tail twitching. And Storm—back at last, mohawk sharp, eyes steady.
And in the middle of them all, like he belonged there, sat Magneto.
Logan's voice was a growl. "What's he doin' here?"
Storm stepped forward, calm but firm. "Professor Xavier believes Magneto is trying to correct himself. He suggested he stay here. Despite our objections."
Logan snorted, cigar smoke curling. "Chuck'd believe a lump of coal could turn diamond if it asked nice enough." His eyes narrowed. "So what's the catch, Magneto? You sittin' here playin' house while your helmet's collectin' dust?"
Magneto's expression was smooth, unreadable. "I am tired, Wolverine. Tired of endless conflict. Xavier and I… we share more than you realize."
"Yeah? You share a taste for speeches that make my ears bleed?"
A flicker of irritation crossed Magneto's face, but he held steady.
Logan's gaze shifted. "Roro. Didn't expect to see you back so soon. Did you find what you were lookin' for?"
Storm straightened, her voice carrying quiet steel. "No. I realized I do not need to search for my 'true self.' I already am who I am. Powers or not, I will lead the X-Men. Nature will take its course, and I will take mine."
There was a ripple through the room. Kitty's eyes softened, pride flashing across her face. Nightcrawler tilted his head, tail curling thoughtfully. Rogue gave a little grin.
Logan let out a slow whistle. "That's some backbone talkin', Roro. Guess losin' your powers didn't cut you down—it just made you sharper."
She met his eyes. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I was always this strong, and I simply forgot."
For once, Logan had no comeback. Just a grunt of approval.
Magneto shifted, eyes sweeping over them all. "This is what Xavier wishes to preserve. Family. Unity. You may doubt me, Wolverine, but I see it now too."
Logan didn't move. Didn't blink. His claws stayed sheathed, but his voice was razor-thin. "You screw this up, old man, and I'll gut you before you can blink. That's a promise."
The air went heavy. Then Xavier stepped forward, his tone calm but firm. "Then let us hope there will be no need for promises fulfilled. We move forward together."
The group, uneasy as it was, settled into a fragile truce.
Logan lit another cigar, drawing slow, eyes scanning the room. Storm, standing taller. Magneto, sitting among them like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Xavier, forever the dreamer.
"Yeah," Logan muttered under his breath, smoke curling to the ceiling. "Together. For now."