VROOOOOOM!!!!!!!
The V-twin engine of a harley echoed through the trees around the road, a single figure driving a motorcycle through the empty dirt covered roads. The speedometer on the tank of the Harley-Davidson rattled, the needle trembling just past 98 mph.
The wind rushed against his figure, strong, large, but well built. The wheels flattened against the road slightly, due to how much I felt. Heavier than I ever had been in my previous life—solid, dense, like a tank made of meat and metal.
I banked hard, the tires screeching against the the stones beneath the tyres as I drifted to slow down and onto the gravel-strewn lot of a roadside pit stop. It was one of those relics from the 1980s that time had forgotten—faded paint, a flickering neon sign buzzing with the sound of dying electricity, and a single gas pump that looked like it had seen better days.
I killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, ringing in my ears. I kicked the stand down, swung a leg over, and dusted off my leather jacket.
I pushed through the glass doors. A brass bell jangled overhead—ding-a-ling—announcing my arrival to the scent of stale coffee and floor wax.
I walked straight for the wire rack near the window. My boots thudded heavily against the linoleum. I grabbed the top newspaper, snapping it open. My eyes went straight to the date in the corner.
October 14, 1991.
Great, I thought. Just great.
I scanned the headlines. There it was, below the fold: "UNEXPLAINED EXPLOSION AT BAYVILLE HIGH: GAS LEAK OR STUDENT NEGLIGENCE?"
Bayville. That sounded like X-Men: Evolution. But the date felt closer to the Animated Series era. It was a mess.
"You gonna buy that paper, mister?"
I looked up. The clerk was a skinny kid with acne and a nametag that read 'Earl'. He was looking at me warily, probably because I looked like I'd just rolled out of a bar fight.
I folded the paper and tucked it under my arm. "That's why I'm lookin' at it, Bub."
I walked to the counter, my stride eating up the distance. Earl flinched a little as I approached. I tried to soften my expression. Being this guy—being him—came with an automatic scowl that I had to consciously relax.
"And give me a bottle of water," I added, pointing to the cooler behind him. "Something ice cold."
"Uh, sure. Sure thing." Earl stammered, turning around to grab a glass bottle of amber ale. He set it on the counter, his hand shaking slightly. "Crazy weather out there, huh? Heard on the radio there's a storm front coming down from Canada."
I dug into my pocket, pulling out a crumpled wad of cash. "Storms follow me around, kid. You get used to the rain."
I dropped the cash on the counter. It was more than the water and the paper cost, but I didn't care about the change. I grabbed the bottle by the neck.
"Need a... need an opener for that?" Earl asked, reaching for a church-key under the counter.
I paused. I looked at the bottle, then at Earl. A small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.
"Nah."
I brought my right hand up. I focused on the sensation in my forearm, that unique, burning itch I was still getting used to.
SNIKT.
It was a sharp, metallic sound, clean and precise. Just the tip of the middle claw shot out—no more than an inch—slicing through the aluminum cap and the glass neck with surgical precision. The cap spun into the air, landing on the counter with a metallic clatter.
SNIKT.
Just as fast, the claw retracted.
Earl's jaw hit the floor. His eyes were wide, staring at my hand, then at the clean-cut bottle.
I took a long swig of the beer, the cold liquid sliding down by throat pleasantly cooling me down from the inside. I set the open bottle back on the counter with a soft thud.
"Keep the change, Earl," I said.
I turned and walked out, the bell jingling cheerfully behind me, leaving the poor kid wondering if he was hallucinating.
As soon as the glass door shut behind me, the cool air hit my face. I let out a long, frustrated sigh, leaning back against the seat of the Harley.
"1991," I muttered to myself, rubbing my temples. "Bayville High explosion. But no public mutants yet. No Sentinels in the sky."
I hated this. I hated not knowing the specific timeline.
If this was the comics, I was in for decades of misery. If this was the Animated Series, I needed to find a mall and wait for a Sentinel attack. If this was Evolution, I was probably going to end up babysitting teenagers.
My name is Liam or it used to be. I was a twenty-something and from Chicago I loved reading comics and watching anything I could about Marvel. I was on a bus, watching the newest episode of X-men 97 when that happened. A drunk driver slammed into the drivers side of the bus I was on, knocking out driver out. The bus slid off the road we were on and down into a river. Most of the people on board managed to get out but a little girl didn't, her mother was crying looking around and begging people to help when I noticed a little barbie purse float upwards from the bottom of the water, I could have left her, I could have told anyone else but by then it would have been too late. So I dived back into the water. I found her floating there with her foot tied by a belt strap. I managed to untie her and pulled her out but my foot got trapped between the window. No time to rush out, no time to think I threw the girl through the window while the bus continued to sink and me with it.
I woke up... well, I woke up as a weapon.
I'm a transmigrator. A soul from one world shoved into the adamantium-laced meat suit of the my all time favourite X-man, the X-man. And let me tell you, it wasn't as fun as fanfics make it sound.
My mind drifted back to this morning. The smell of cheap disinfectant and stale cigarettes.
The Flashback.
It was warm, the sunlight coming through the blinds in my room hitting me in the face. I didn't want to get up, I was fine just staying asleep for a while longer.
Then, the smell hit me.
It wasn't the smell of slightly turned milk. It was an assault on the senses. A thick, cloying cocktail of stale tobacco smoke, industrial-strength lemon cleaner that failed to mask the underlying mildew, and the unmistakable, copper tang of dried blood.
My eyes snapped open, expecting my ceiling fan. Instead, I was staring at water-stained acoustic tiles, one of which was hanging precariously by a rusted staple. A neon light from outside pulsed rhythmically through thin, greasy blinds, casting stripes of buzzing pink across a room that definitely wasn't mine. Wood paneling that looked like it was rejected from a 70s basement reno covered the walls.
A motel. A cheap one.
Okay, Liam, I thought, the gears in my brain grinding sluggishly. Did you tie one on last night? Where even are you?
I groaned, trying to sit up. I planted my right hand on the mattress to leverage myself up.
That's when the panic started, a cold spike driving itself right into my chest.
The arm pushing me up wasn't mine.
My arms were... average. Account manager arms. Good for typing and occasionally lifting a carry-on bag. The limb currently supporting my weight was thick and covered in muscle, covered with dark, coarse hair. Veins thick and strong snaked across a forearm that felt dense, like it was packed with wet sand instead of normal flesh.
"What the..."
The voice that came out of my throat wasn't mine, either. It was deeper, rougher, like I'd been gargling gravel and whiskey for three days straight.
I threw the cheap polyester blanket off myself. Looking down at my own body was like looking at a stranger's torso grafted onto where mine should be. My chest was broader, deeper, covered in that same dark hair. Beneath it, I could trace the rigid definition of pectorals and abs that looked carved from oak. I pinched the skin on my side. It was thick, leathery, and tan.
This wasn't a hangover. This was a nightmare.
I scrambled backward on the bed, desperate to get away from this alien body that was somehow me. I swung my legs over the edge and tried to stand.
Big mistake.
I was slightly taller than I used to be. My center of gravity was completely off, way lower to the ground, and I was sickeningly heavy. My feet hit the shag carpet, and my knees buckled under the unexpected tonnage. I went down hard, crashing shoulder-first into a flimsy nightstand. The cheap particle board exploded on impact, sending a rotary phone clattering across the floor.
I didn't even feel it. It felt like walking through cobwebs.
Gaspy breaths tore at my throat. I scrambled on all fours, my heart hammering against ribs that felt like iron bars. There. Across the room, above a scarred dresser, was a rectangular mirror.
I lunged for it, gripping the edges of the dresser so hard the wood groaned under my fingers. I hauled myself up and stared into the glass.
The face looking back at me was the final nail in the coffin of my previous life. It was a rugged landscape of hard angles and heavy stubble. The jaw was square enough to calibrate instruments on. The hair was dark, thick, and winged up on the sides in a style that defied gravity and good taste, yet somehow worked on this face. The eyes were dark, hooded, and looked ancient and tired.
It was Hugh Jackman. But not the shiny, musical-theater Hugh. This was the guy who looked like he'd been sent back in time during days of future past, but got lost between that time and the first X-men movie. Young but built !.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" I bellowed at the reflection. The sound shook the thin walls of the room.
Pure, unadulterated terror flooded my system. My heart rate redlined. I could feel adrenaline surging through this new, massive body like rocket fuel. It was too much energy, too much power contained in too small a space. I needed to vent it. My hands clenched into fists so tight my knuckles turned white.
And then, an agonizing pressure built up in my forearms.
It felt like hot pokers were being driven from the inside out, right between my knuckles. My skin stretched to the breaking point.
SNIKT.RIP. TEAR. SLICE.
"ARGHHHHHH!"
I screamed, a guttural roar of genuine agony as metal—cold, gleaming metal—tore through my flesh. Three six-inch blades erupted from the backs of my hands, slick with my own blood.
I stared at them in horrific fascination. They were beautiful and terrifying. The light caught the edges, impossibly sharp.
Then the pain registered fully. The burning sting of torn skin and muscle.
Panic overtook reason completely. I flailed. I tried to shake them off, to push them back in, I didn't know what I was doing.
I swung my right hand wildly. The claws sheared through the side of the television set sitting on the dresser like it was made of warm butter. Sparks showered the room as the picture tube imploded with a deafening pop.
I jumped back, terrified of my own hands. I threw my left hand up to shield my face and ended up slicing through the drywall, embedding the blades deep into a stud. I yanked my hand back, and the claws didn't just pull out; they tore a chunk of the wall with them.
"Stop! Stop it, dammit!" I yelled at my own hands, backing away until I hit the door.
I held my hands up, shaking, blood dripping onto the shag carpet. I was hyperventilating.
Think, Liam. Think. Hugh Jackman. Metal claws. You're Wolverine!!. You're in a motel room. Which universe? Is this the comics? The cartoons? Is Magneto about to rip my skeleton out? Is Thanos here?
I tried to access my nerd knowledge, the countless hours spent on wikis and forums. Nothing. My brain was a static fuzz of fear and adrenaline. I couldn't remember a single storyline. I didn't know where I was, when I was, or who was about to kick in the door and try to kill me.
I slid down against the door, burying my face in my clawed hands, careful not to stab myself in the eyes.
I'm lost. I'm absolutely totally f—
[DING!]
A sharp, digital chime sounded right inside my skull.
A translucent blue screen flickered into existence, hovering in the air directly in front of my face.
[WELCOME TO THE APEX DEVELOPMENT SYSTEM]
I stared at it, my breath hitching. A system. Like a gamer fic.
The text scrolled, a calm, synthetic voice narrating in my head, cutting through the panic.
[The ADS is designed to facilitate the host's survival and evolution across the multiverse. Your current vessel is: James Howlett / Logan / Wolverine. Classification: Mutant Beta Level.]
[The System allows for the quantification and improvement of host attributes through the allocation of Development Points (DP). Attributes available for upgrade include: STRENGTH, ENDURANCE, DURABILITY, AGILITY, RECOVERY FACTOR, and FERAL SENSES.]
[Specialized upgrade paths for MUTATION SYNERGY and ADAMANTIUM SKELETAL INTEGRITY are currently locked awaiting higher levels.]
The voice was soothing in its robotic detachment. It explained that points were awarded for overcoming challenges, defeating powerful adversaries, and altering the course of fate. The harder the fight, the bigger the payout.
[Furthermore, significant milestones may grant "Multiversal Shards." Collecting these allows the host to access abilities, memories, or physical templates of other iterations of 'Wolverine' across existence, or even other genetically compatible entities.]
I gulped, lowering my hands. The claws were still out, gleaming menacingly. "Okay," I whispered. "Show me my stats."
A new screen appeared. A character sheet. It was depressing.
[HOST: Logan][LEVEL: 1][DEVELOPMENT POINTS AVAILABLE: 0]
Zero. I had nothing. I was a level 1 tank in a world of max-level bosses.
But below the stats, a tab blinked red.
[ACTIVE MISSION: AWAKENING][Objective: You have woken up in a new world in a new body. Determine your identity.][STATUS: COMPLETE]
I looked at the mirror again. "Yeah. I figured that part out."
[REWARDS AVAILABLE:][20 DEVELOPMENT POINTS][MEMORY INTEGRATION: SEQUENTIAL PAST (NON-FRAGMENTED)]
Twenty points sounded good. But the second reward... memory integration.
I needed to know. I needed to know which version of this hell I was in. I mentally selected [ACCEPT REWARDS].
The blue screen vanished.
And my world dissolved into white-hot agony.
I convulsed on the floor, my back arching, a silent scream trapped in my throat as a hundred and fifty years of life slammed into my consciousness all at once.
I was a sickly boy in Alberta. James. I saw my father die. I saw the bone claws for the first time, wet and red.
I was running. Decades of running. The Civil War. The trenches of WWI. The mustard gas that burned my lungs, and the healing that knit them back. The howling commmandos, captain America, Bucky, Red skull.
I saw Her. Raven. Mystique. The memory wasn't a fight. It was a bed in a warm room in the 1920s. She wasn't blue; she was blonde, smiling, dangerous. We were two monsters hiding in human skin. We understood each other. There was love there, sharp and jagged, before it turned into a game of spy-vs-spy. A romance of gunpowder and betrayal.
Then, the pain. The real pain.Team X. The Jungle. Victor Creed—Sabretooth—killing for sport while I killed for duty.
The capture. The tank. Weapon X. I felt the phantom sensation of the drills. I felt the molten metal pouring into my bones. The screaming. The smell of my own cooking flesh. The animal rage that allowed me to break out.
Silver Fox. Kayla. The cabin in the Rockies. The only peace I ever knew. The story of the Moon and the Wolverine. Her death. The lie that broke me.
Japan. I saw the snow. I saw the arrows. I saw Mariko Yashida. I felt the pull of her grace, the way she looked at me not as a beast, but as a warrior. I fought for her. I bled for her. I took down the Yakuza and the ninjas. But in the end... the Silver Samurai stood between us. The memory was crisp: Mariko turning away. "My honor is my life, Logan-san. I cannot be with a ronin. I must lead my clan." She chose duty. She chose the armor. And I walked away, heart carved out of my chest, leaving her to her fate.
The wandering. Cage fights. Alcohol. Cigars. Trying to drown the ghosts. And then Charles, meeting him and the rest was history.
The images flashed faster, a strobe light of violence and loss. And then... stillness.
I gasped, snapping back to the present. I was lying flat on the motel carpet, soaked in sweat. The claws had retracted. The pain in my hands was gone, replaced by a dull ache.
But my mind... my mind was different.
Mark wasn't gone. But Logan was there now, too. The memories weren't just a movie I watched; they were mine. I remembered the smell of Raven's perfume. I remembered the cold wind on the mountain with Mariko. I remembered the metallic taste of the Weapon X tank.
I sat up slowly. The clumsiness was gone. My body knew how to move now. I felt the lethal grace in my muscles.
I ran a hand through my hair.
"Okay," I rumbled. The voice felt right now. "Okay."
I took stock of the timeline.
I hadn't met Rogue. I hadn't been to Ellis Island. The X-Men, as a team, were barely a concept, a whisper in the underground.
Jean Grey. Scott Summers. Storm. They were out there, but I hadn't developed the bond the original Logan shared with them.
"This isn't the movies," I realized, standing up and balancing perfectly on the balls of my feet. "And it isn't the comics. It's... Diffrrent".
Mariko was alive, but lost to me. Raven was out there, somewhere, an ex-lover turned mutant terrorist with a bucket wearing mutant leader. And I was...
[DING!]
The system chime broke my introspection. A new window appeared, glowing with a soft, inviting gold light.
[MAIN MISSION UNLOCKED: HOMECOMING][Objective: You are a soldier without a war, a samurai without a master. It is time to find your place.][Task: Travel to Westchester, New York. Locate the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters.][Rewards: +5 STR, +5 AGI, Unlock. Mutation upgrade.]
I looked at the screen, then at the destruction in the room. I reached into my pocket—Logan's pocket—and pulled out a crumpled wad of cash and a set of keys to a Harley.
A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. A real, feral grin.
"Westchester," I said, testing the word. It tasted like hope. Or maybe just another fight. Either way, it was a direction.
I grabbed my leather jacket from the chair, ignoring the slash marks in the drywall.
"Let's go, Bub."