The afternoon sun hung low and heavy over the suburbs of Bayville, casting long, shadows across the neatly trimmed lawn of the Daniels' backyard. It was the kind of neighborhood that felt warm and peaceful—white picket fences, the distant hum of a lawnmower, and the smell of blooming jasmine. But in the center of it all, the air was dominated by a much more meaty, much more tantalizing scent: smokey charcoal, hickory smoke, and premium ribeyes.
Logan stood over the black smoaky grill, a pair of long tongs in one hand and a sweating bottle of local lager in the other. He had discared the leather jacket placing it on the chair in the lawn, now left to his white tank top, which showed off the muscle that defined his frame. Beside him, David was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, acting as the ultimate "grill wingman."
"I'm telling you, Logan, it's all about the sear," David said, gesturing with his own beer bottle toward the sizzling steaks. "You lock in those juices at five hundred degrees, then you move 'em to the indirect heat. It's a science, man. A beautiful, delicious science."
Logan flipped a three-pound slab of beef with practiced ease, the fat dripping onto the coals and sending a whif of fragrant smoke into the air. "Science is fine, Dave, but it's mostly about the meat. You buy cheap, you eat tough.These are winners. You treat it with care, like a lady."
David laughed, a boisterous, genuine sound. He leaned against the brick base of the BBQ, looking at Logan with a grin that suggested he'd found a long-lost brother. "You know, when Ororo said she was bringing a 'colleague,' to Evans game I expected some stiff in a suit or a science nerd. But you? You're alright, Logan. You're a man's man. Tell me again what you said about the Knicks' fourth-quarter rotation?"
Logan took a long pull of his beer, the cold liquid a sharp contrast to the heat of the grill. "I said they're playing like they've got lead in their sneakers. They need more speed on the perimeter, or they're gonna get eaten alive by the Heat next week."
"Exactly! Thank you!" David barked, pointing a finger at Logan. "I've been saying that for months! Vivian just rolls her eyes, but you get it. Man, it's good to have someone around here who actually talks sense."
Logan smirked. It was strange, almost jarring, how easily he slid into this role. For a few hours, he wasn't the Wolverine. He wasn't Liam or a mentor or a man with a ticking clock in his brain. He was just a guy at a BBQ, talking sports and cooking steaks. It was a slice of life he hadn't tasted in a long, long time, not since waking up in this world and he found himself leaning into it, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to dissipate.
A few yards away, under the canopy of an oak tree, the atmosphere was considerably more weighted. Ororo sat on a wooden bench, her posture regal even in her casual linens, while Evan sat on the grass, picking at a loose blade of turf.
"Evan, I am not asking you to leave your life behind," Ororo said softly, her ice-blue eyes fixed on her nephew. "I am asking you to consider a place where you can be yourself without fear. At the Institute, we don't just teach you how to use your gifts; we teach you how to live with them."
Evan scoffed, looking away toward the fence. "Yeah, I heard the pitch, Auntie 'Ro. 'A world that accepts us.' 'Charles Xavier's dream.' It sounds great on a brochure, but look at the world out there. They don't want us. They want us in cages or on display. And I'm not interested in being either."
"It is not about display, Evan. It is about control," she reminded him.
"I have control!" Evan snapped, though he immediately looked guilty. "I've been doing fine. The skating, the basketball... I'm careful."
Ororo leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you? Because what happened in that locker room today... that was not control, Evan. That was a miracle that nobody was looking."
Evan's jaw tightened. He tried to maintain his "cool teen" facade, but the memory was already bubbling up, and in the theater of his mind, it didn't play out like a dramatic movie. It played out like a chaotic, low-budget slapstick reel.
[FLASHBACK - FIVE HOURS AGO]
The locker room is
The afternoon sun hung low and heavy over the suburbs of Bayville, casting long, honey-colored shadows across the neatly manicured lawn of the Daniels' backyard. It was the kind of neighborhood that felt aggressively peaceful—white picket fences, the distant hum of a lawnmower, and the smell of blooming jasmine. But in the center of it all, the air was dominated by a much more primal, much more tantalizing scent: charring fat, hickory smoke, and premium ribeyes.
Logan stood over the massive industrial-sized grill, a pair of long tongs in one hand and a sweating bottle of local lager in the other. He had shed the leather jacket, down to just his white tank top, which showed off the intricate landscape of scars and corded muscle that defined his frame. Beside him, David was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, acting as the ultimate "grill wingman."
"I'm telling you, Logan, it's all about the sear," David said, gesturing with his own beer bottle toward the sizzling steaks. "You lock in those juices at five hundred degrees, then you move 'em to the indirect heat. It's a science, man. A beautiful, delicious science."
Logan flipped a three-pound slab of beef with practiced ease, the fat dripping onto the coals and sending a plume of fragrant smoke into the air. "Science is fine, Dave, but it's mostly about the meat. You buy cheap, you eat tough. These? These are winners."
David laughed, a boisterous, genuine sound. He leaned against the brick base of the BBQ, looking at Logan with a grin that suggested he'd found a long-lost brother. "You know, when Ororo said she was bringing a 'colleague,' I expected some stiff in a suit or a science nerd. But you? You're alright, Logan. You're a man's man. Tell me again what you said about the Knicks' fourth-quarter rotation?"
Logan took a long pull of his beer, the cold liquid a sharp contrast to the heat of the grill. "I said they're playing like they've got lead in their sneakers. They need more speed on the perimeter, or they're gonna get eaten alive by the Heat next week."
"Exactly! Thank you!" David barked, pointing a finger at Logan. "I've been saying that for months! Vivian just rolls her eyes, but you get it. Man, it's good to have someone around here who actually talks sense."
Logan smirked. It was strange, almost jarring, how easily he slid into this role. For a few hours, he wasn't the Wolverine. He wasn't a weapon or a mentor or a man with a ticking clock in his brain. He was just a guy at a BBQ, talking sports and cooking steaks. It was a slice of life he hadn't tasted in a long, long time, and he found himself leaning into it, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to dissipate.
A few yards away, under the sprawling canopy of an ancient oak tree, the atmosphere was considerably more weighted. Ororo sat on a wooden bench, her posture regal even in her casual linens, while Evan sat on the grass, picking at a loose blade of turf.
"Evan, I am not asking you to leave your life behind," Ororo said softly, her ice-blue eyes fixed on her nephew. "I am asking you to consider a place where you can be yourself without fear. At the Institute, we don't just teach you how to use your gifts; we teach you how to live with them."
Evan scoffed, looking away toward the fence. "Yeah, I heard the pitch, Auntie 'Ro. 'A world that accepts us.' 'Charles Xavier's dream.' It sounds great on a brochure, but look at the world out there. They don't want us. They want us in cages or on display. And I'm not interested in being either."
"It is not about display, Evan. It is about control," she reminded him.
"I have control!" Evan snapped, though he immediately looked guilty. "I've been doing fine. The skating, the basketball... I'm careful."
Ororo leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you? Because what happened in that locker room today... that was not control, Evan. It was only by fates gracious hand no one saw you."
Evan's jaw tightened. He tried to maintain his "cool teen" facade, but the memory was already bubbling up, and in the theater of his mind, it didn't play out like a dramatic movie. It played out like a chaotic, low-budget slapstick reel.
[FLASHBACK - FIVE HOURS AGO]
The locker room is steaming. The sound of showers running and the smell of Axe body spray was everywhere. Evan is sitting on a bench, feeling like the King of the World after that half-court shot. He's got his jersey half-off, ready to celebrate.
Suddenly, his nose twitches. A tickle. A deep, unavoidable, soul-crushing tickle.
"Oh no," Evan thinks. "Not now. Not with the captain sitting three feet away."
He tries to suppress it. He pinches his nose. He thinks about boring stuff. Grandma's knitting. Math homework. The history of the stapler.
It's no use.
"AH-AH-AH-CHOO!"
The sneeze doesn't just produce a spray of water; it produces a spray of lethal projectiles. SCHLICK-SCHLICK-SCHLICK!
Jagged bone spikes erupt from his shoulders and elbows like a frantic porcupine. They tear through his $60 basketball jersey like it's tissue paper. One spike shoots out and skewers a Gatorade bottle on the opposite bench. Another shreds his gym bag. A third pokes a hole in the ceiling tile.
Evan sits there, frozen, looking like a human pincushion, while the locker room goes silent for a heartbeat. Luckily, everyone is too busy arguing about the referee to notice the 'mutant hedgehog' in the corner. He retracts the spikes frantically, his face turning a shade of purple usually reserved for eggplants.
"I'm fine!" he squeaks to nobody. "Just... really sharp allergies!"
[END OF FLASHBACK]
Back under the tree, Evan rubbed his shoulder where a spike had nearly taken out his own ear. "Okay, so maybe I've got a few bugs to work out. But that's just... it was the adrenaline! It won't happen again."
"Evan—" Ororo started, but she was interrupted by a voice from the back porch.
"Ororo! Stop badgering that boy and come help me with this potato salad!" Vivian called out, wiping her hands on an apron. "The steaks are almost done, and I am not letting David serve his 'experimental' dressing without a second opinion!"
Ororo sighed, but a small smile touched her lips. She stood up, smoothing her dress. She looked back at Evan, her expression serious. "Just think about it, Evan. You have a gift, but without guidance, it can become a burden. I love you, and I want you to be able to sneeze without fearing you might bring the house down."
She left him there to ponder that, her steps light as she crossed the lawn. As she walked toward the house, her eyes drifted to the grill.
Logan was laughing. It was a sound she rarely heard—a deep, rumbly, honest sound. He was leaning in, listening to David tell a story, his eyes bright and clear. The way the golden light hit the side of his face, the way his muscles shifted as he reached for a plate... Ororo felt a sudden, sharp tug in her chest.
It was more than just attraction. She saw a man who had been a weapon his whole life finally finding a moment of humanity. And she realized, with a start that left her slightly breathless, that she wanted to be the one he shared those moments with. She wanted to know the man behind the claws, the one who liked his coffee with two sugars and his steaks medium-rare.
She felt a flush creep up her neck—not from the heat of the sun, but from the intensity of the feeling. She tried to shake it off, to remind herself of who she was and what her life demanded, but the image of Logan's smile remained burned into her mind like a flashbulb pop.
Inside the kitchen, the air was cooler, filled with the sharp scent of vinegar and onions. Vivian was at the counter, a mountain of boiled potatoes before her.
"About time," Vivian teased as Ororo stepped inside. "I thought you were going to stay under that tree until the leaves turned."
"Evan is stubborn," Ororo replied, picking up a knife to help slice the red onions. "He reminds me of someone we both know."
"Oh, please. He's exactly like you were at sixteen," Vivian laughed. "Full of yourself and convinced you could rule the world. Which, to be fair, you kind of did."
They worked in silence for a few minutes, a comfortable rhythm established over decades of sisterhood. They talked about the family in Kenya, about Vivian's job at the gallery, and about the small, mundane things that made up a life. It was a bridge back to a time where Ororo wasn't a goddess or an X-Man; she was just a sister.
"So," Vivian said, her tone shifting into that dangerous, knowing territory that only siblings can navigate. "Let's talk about the elephant in the room. Or rather, that friend of yours cooking steaks with my husband."
Ororo didn't look up from her onions. "I assume you mean Logan."
"I do. And don't give me that 'colleague' line again, Ororo. I've seen the way you look at him. And more importantly, I've seen the way he looks at you. When you walked into the gym today, he wasn't looking at the court. He was looking at the back of your head like you were the only girl in the world. "
"He is a complicated man, Vivian," Ororo said carefully. "He has had a very difficult life. We have a... mutual respect."
"Mutual respect doesn't make a woman glow like that," Vivian countered, nudging Ororo with her elbow. "You're different, 'Ro. You're present. You're not floating two inches off the ground like you usually are. He grounds you. I like that for you. David likes him, too. He's already planning a fishing trip."
Ororo stopped slicing. She looked out the kitchen window. Through the glass, she could see Logan handing a finished steak to David, the two of them clinking beer bottles in a silent toast.
"It doesn't matter, Viv," Ororo said, her voice suddenly heavy.
"Why not? Because of the school? Because of the X-Men?"
"Because of my life," Ororo turned to her sister, her eyes reflecting a sudden, deep sadness. "You know the responsibilities I carry. Not just to Charles, but to our people. To our heritage. Our parents didn't just raise us to be citizens of the world, Vivian. They raised us to be leaders."
Vivian's expression softened, the teasing light dying in her eyes. "Ororo..."
"The engagement," Ororo whispered, the word feeling like a stone in her mouth. "The arrangements made long ago. My path is set. In a few years, I will have to return. I have a duty to a throne, to a man I have known since I was a child, and to a nation that expects me to be their Queen. I cannot simply... choose a man from a mansion in New York because he makes me smile."
The kitchen went quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock over the stove. The weight of the crown Ororo hadn't even donned yet seemed to fill the room, pressing down on the simple joy of the afternoon.
Vivian reached out, taking Ororo's hand in hers. Her fingers were damp from the potatoes, but her grip was fierce. "Is that what you want, Ororo? Truly? To be a Queen in a golden cage? To marry a man because of a contract signed before you could even walk?"
"It is not about what I want," Ororo said, her voice trembling slightly. "It is about what is right. For my people. For the legacy of the Munroe line."
"And what about your heart?" Vivian asked. "Does your 'people' want a Queen who is miserable? Does your 'legacy' include being a martyr for a tradition that doesn't care if you're happy?"
Ororo pulled her hand away, picking up the bowl of finished potato salad. "The salad is done. We should go out before the meat gets cold."
Vivian watched her sister's back as Ororo walked toward the screen door. Ororo's spine was perfectly straight, her head held high, the 'Goddess' mask firmly back in place. But Vivian could see the slight tremor in her hands.
Ororo pushed open the screen door and stepped out into the evening air.
Vivian stayed at the counter, leaning against the tile. She looked out the window. She saw Logan look up as Ororo approached the table. She saw the way his entire demeanor softened, the way he stepped aside to make room for her, his eyes following her every movement with a quiet, fierce devotion.
Vivian's heart ached. She had seen that look before, but never directed at her sister. Ororo had spent her whole life carrying the weight of the sky, the weight of the storm, and the weight of a kingdom. She was always the one people looked to for strength, for guidance, for salvation.
But who looked out for Ororo?
Vivian looked at Logan. He was a rough man, a man of scars and shadows, but there was a strength in him that wasn't regal. But it made him seem above it all, like the lions back home, strong and brave, willing to do anything for their pride.
Maybe, Vivian thought, a small, desperate hope flickering in her chest. Maybe he's the one who can help her. Not as a Queen. But as Ororo.
She watched as Logan said something that made Ororo laugh—a soft, hesitant sound—and for a split second, the Goddess disappeared, leaving only a woman in the sun.
Vivian wiped a stray tear from her cheek and grabbed the extra plates. "Come on, Logan," she whispered to the empty kitchen. "Don't let her go back to that throne. Show her there's something better."
She stepped out onto the porch, the screen door clicking shut behind her, as the family gathered around the table to enjoy the fleeting, precious light of a summer evening.
The dinner was a blur of laughter and good food. David and Logan dominated the conversation with more basketball talk, while Evan eventually joined them, seemingly having made peace with his "sharp allergies" for the time being.
As the night wound down and the stars began to poke through the purple haze of the sky, Logan found himself standing by the car, waiting for Ororo.
She came down the steps, having said her goodbyes. She looked tired, but there was a lingering softness in her eyes.
"You okay, 'Ro?" Logan asked, opening the passenger door for her.
She looked at him, really looked at him, searching for something in those dark, guarded eyes. "I am... well, Logan. Thank you for coming today. David really enjoyed your company."
"He's a good guy," Logan grunted. "Reminds me of someone I used to know."
He closed the door and walked around to the driver's side. As he pulled the car out of the driveway, he glanced in the rearview mirror. He saw Vivian standing on the porch, watching them go. She didn't wave; she just watched, her expression unreadable in the shadows.
He didn't know about thrones or engagements or the weight of a Kenyan destiny. But he knew the scent of sadness, and he had smelled it on Ororo all the way home.
He reached out, placing his hand over hers on the center console. He didn't say anything. He just squeezed.
Ororo didn't pull away. She turned her hand over, interlacing her fingers with his, and for the first time that night, she let the weight of the world go, if only for the duration of the drive.
"Would you like to see the stars from the roof tonight, Logan?" she asked quietly.
Logan steered the car toward the mansion, the countdown in his head silent for the first time in weeks. "I'd like that, Ororo. I'd like that a lot."
Logan parked the car in the underground garage, the engine's final purr echoing off the smooth concrete walls. He didn't say a word as he walked around to open Ororo's door—a habit that was becoming second nature, much to the amusement of the man inside him. They walked together toward the elevator, their footsteps synchronized.
Inside the mansion, the air was cool and smelled of beeswax, old books, and the faint, ozone tang of the sub-basement's supercomputer. The hallways were dimly lit by recessed amber lights, giving the grand architecture a soft, cathedral-like quality. Most of the students were already in bed, or at least in their rooms, the usual chaos of the day replaced by the low hum of the building's life-support systems.
They moved past the portrait gallery of former headmasters and through the sprawling library, their shadows stretching long across the floor. They climbed the grand staircase to the third floor, then continued up a smaller, narrower flight of stairs used primarily by staff to reach the attic and the access points for the roof.
"Here," Ororo whispered, her voice a gentle caress in the quiet hallway.
She stopped at a large, circular window at the very end of the corridor. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she unlatched the heavy mahogany frame and pushed it outward. The night air rushed in, smelling of pine and the coming autumn chill.
Ororo stepped through the window with the grace of a gazelle, her feet finding purchase on the slate tiles of the sloping roof. Logan followed, his movement more deliberate, his boots crunching softly on the stone. He reached back to pull the window shut behind them.
They climbed the final few feet to the highest point of the mansion—a flat, lead-lined section of the roof near the massive chimneys. From here, the world looked different. The lights of Salem Center twinkled in the distance like a fallen constellation, and the forest surrounding the estate was a vast, impenetrable sea of black.
Ororo sat down, tucking her legs beneath her linen skirt. Logan sat beside her, leaning his back against the cool brick of a chimney stack. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, looked at it, and then put it back. Somehow, it didn't feel like the right time for smoke.
Inside his mind, the System interface flickered to life for a split second, a ghostly overlay across his vision.
[Countdown to Synchronization: 2 days, 14 hours, 22 minutes]
The numbers felt heavier than they had that morning. Every minute that ticked by felt like a grain of sand sliding through an hourglass he couldn't turn over. He thought about what Charles had said—about the "Merge." He felt Liam's consciousness, the modern man with the memories of a show and a life that shouldn't exist, blending more seamlessly with the Wolverine's ancient, jagged instincts. He was becoming something new, something... more. But was it something better?
He looked at Ororo. In the starlight, her white hair looked like spun silver, her skin like dark velvet. He could smell the lingering scent of her sister's house on her—vanilla and home—but beneath it, he smelled the sadness. It was a sharp, metallic tang, like the air before a lightning strike. But no matter what he wanted to say to her, it wouldn't help if he didn't know what was wrong. Hell how could he help her when he spent most of his time worrying about the future.
Magneto was out there. He could feel it in his bones. The Master of Magnetism who would tear the world apart if it meant protecting mutant kind, well the mutants the followed his ideology anyway. And then there was Sinister—a name that brought a chill to Logan's blood that even the night air couldn't account for. The geneticist, the puppet master.
"When I was a young girl," Ororo began, her voice breaking the silence like a soft bell. She didn't look at him; her eyes were fixed on the horizon. "In the foothills of Mount Kenya, there was a drought that lasted for three years. The earth had cracked open, like a parched throat crying for water. The elders of my village said the gods were angry, that we had forgotten our place in the world."
Logan shifted, his eyes tracking a hawk circling high above in the moonlight. He remained silent, giving her the space to speak.
"I remember walking miles every day with my mother to find a well that hadn't run dry," she continued. "One evening, I wandered away from the group. I found a small acacia tree that was dying. Its leaves were yellow, its branches brittle. I sat beneath it and I cried. I didn't cry for myself, or for the thirst in my throat. I cried for the tree. I felt its pain as if it were my own."
She turned her head slightly, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "That was the first time I felt the atmosphere answer me. I didn't know what I was doing, Logan. I only knew that the sky felt heavy, and I wanted to lighten it. I reached up, and for the first time, I felt the moisture in the air. I pulled it together, droplet by droplet, until a single, perfect cloud formed over that tree. It rained for only a minute. Just enough to soak the roots."
She looked back at the stars. "That night, the drought broke. A great storm swept across the plains. My people called it a miracle. They called me a goddess. But I was just a girl who wanted to save a tree. I realized then that my life was no longer my own. I belonged to the wind, to the rain... to the people who needed me."
She fell silent, the weight of that memory hanging in the air. Logan felt the unspoken connection—the realization that she was still that girl, still carrying the needs of everyone else on her shoulders, unable to breathe for herself.
"You're not just a goddess, Ororo," Logan said, his voice gravelly and low. "You're a woman. You're allowed to want things that don't involve saving the world."
Ororo turned fully toward him now. She reached out, her hand hovering just inches from his arm before she settled it on the roof between them.
"And you, Logan?" she asked softly. "What do you want?"
Logan looked away. The question was a spear through his chest. What did he want? He wanted the countdown to stop. He wanted the memories of both lives to stop clashing.
"I see you, Logan," Ororo said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I see the struggle in your eyes. Charles tells me of your past—the parts he can find—but he only knows the shadows. I see the look you have when you think no one is watching. It is the look of a man who is carrying a mountain and pretending it is a pebble."
She moved her hand, covering his. Her touch was warm, a startling contrast to the cool night. "You do not have to carry it alone. You spend so much time protecting the children, protecting Rogue, protecting Jean... but who protects you? You can confide in me, Logan. Whatever it is—the things you remember, the things you fear—I am here. I will always be here to listen."
Logan's heart hammered against his ribs. The human part of him—the Liam part—wanted to spill it all. He wanted to tell her about the show, about the future he knew was coming, about the system in his head and the fact that in less than three days, something he could happen to him andhe didn't know what.
But the Wolverine... the animal... the soldier... that part of him recoiled. That part was built on secrets and survival. It was a fortress with no gate. To speak the truth was to show weakness, and in his world, weakness was a death sentence.
The words climbed up his throat, hot and heavy, but they died behind his teeth. He felt his jaw tighten, his muscles coiling. He wanted to speak, he longed to speak, but the growl of the beast in his mind drowned out the human voice.
He squeezed her hand, his grip slightly too tight, a silent apology for the silence he couldn't break.
"I'm just a guy with a long memory and a short fuse, 'Ro," he finally managed to say, the lie tasting like ash. "Don't go making me into some tragic hero. I'm just getting by."
Ororo didn't pull away. She saw through the lie, her eyes filled with a heartbreaking compassion. She knew he wasn't ready. Maybe he'd never be. But she didn't let go.
"Very well, Logan," she whispered. "But the offer remains. Always."
They sat there for a long time, the silence of the night wrapping around them. Eventually, Ororo shifted closer, leaning her head against his shoulder. Logan felt the weight of her, the trust she was placing in him, and he leaned his head against hers.
They looked up at the stars together. Ororo pointed out the constellations—the ones she had learned in Kenya, the ones with names that Logan had never heard. She talked about the myths of her people, of the Great Spirit and the dance of the heavens.
But Logan's eyes kept wandering.
He didn't look at the stars. He didn't look at the twinkling lights of the town or the dark expanse of the forest.
He looked at the moon.
It was a pale, silver orb hanging in the void. It was beautiful, but it was cold. It was surrounded by a thousand stars, yet it felt utterly, profoundly alone. It was trapped in an endless cycle, orbiting a world it could never touch, pulling at tides it could never join..
Two days, fourteen hours, he thought, the moonlight reflecting in his yellow-flecked eyes. Tick. Tock.
"Logan?" Ororo murmured, her eyes closing as sleep began to tug at her.
"Yeah, 'Ro?"
"Thank you for being my friend."
Logan closed his eyes, the scent of her hair filling his senses, a brief sanctuary from the storm inside. "I'm the lucky one, darlin'. Believe me."
They stayed like that until the moon dipped low in the sky, two souls clinging to a rooftop in the middle of a world that was about to change forever.