X-Men
Wolverine
Logan’s Disease
By
Michael Mills
With Grok
1.
The wind howled outside, rattling the frost-crusted windows of the mountain cabin. Logan stood in the shadows of the main room, his keen eyes scanning for signs of his quarry. The place reeked of pine, stale smoke, and something metallic, blood maybe, or machinery. He’d tracked the rogue Hydra mercenaries here, a splinter group armed with tech swiped from Stark Industries. They’d torn through a logging town two nights back, leaving bodies and chaos. The X-Men were off dealing with some cosmic mess in New York, so this was his hunt. Solo. Just the way he liked it.
His boots creaked on the weathered floorboards as he moved toward the back, claws itching at his knuckles. The air felt wrong, too still, too heavy. A faint metallic click sounded beneath him. Sloppy, he thought, but before he could react, the floor gave way. Not rotted wood. A trapdoor, rigged and precise. He dropped fast, hitting concrete hard, and a cage slammed shut around him. Six feet by six feet by six feet, bars thick as his forearm, humming with a faint, unearthly energy. His claws slashed out with a snikt, raking the metal. Sparks flew, but the bars didn’t budge.
He was in a basement, the dim flicker of bulbs casting long shadows across rough-hewn walls. The musty scent of damp wood and old blood hung thick, the weight of the mountain pressing down through the cabin above. Logan paced the tight space, mind racing. He closed his eyes, focusing hard. Jean, darlin’, you there? Silence. Not even a whisper of her voice. Just a cold, empty void. The cage wasn’t just tough; it was wrong, like it choked off everything beyond its bars.
Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate. A figure stepped from the gloom tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a sleek, dark exosuit that pulsed with quiet power. The man’s face was hidden by a helmet, but his stance screamed hate. Logan’s nostrils flared; the scent clawed at his fractured memory, a phantom he couldn’t place.
“Who the hell are you, bub?” Logan growled, slamming a fist against the cage. The bars didn’t flinch. “What’s this about?”
The man stood there, staring through the bars, silent as the grave. Logan’s eyes narrowed, his voice a low snarl. “You gonna talk, or just stand there gawkin’?”
No answer. The figure turned, vanishing back into the shadows, leaving Logan alone in the cage. He flexed his claws, testing the bars again. Nothing. Then it sank in, the cage wasn’t just holding him in. It was cutting him off from Jean, from the X-Men, from everything. For the first time in a long while, he was truly alone.
2.
The basement door clicked shut behind Marcus Harrington as he climbed the creaking stairs, his exosuit’s faint hum blending with the wind battering the cabin’s walls. Upstairs, the main room was a mess, overturned chairs, a cracked table, and the trapdoor still gaping where Logan had fallen through. Four figures waited near the fireplace, their black tactical gear streaked with snow and grime. The rogue Hydra mercenaries. Their leader, a wiry man with a scarred jaw, shifted impatiently, his rifle slung low.
“Job’s done,” the leader grunted, eyeing Marcus. “He’s in the cage. Now where’s our pay?”
Marcus stopped, his helmeted head tilting slightly. He reached into a compartment on his suit, pulling out a sleek tablet. “You’ve done well,” he said, voice flat and mechanical through the modulator. “Lured him here, right into the trap. Couldn’t have asked for better bait.” His gloved fingers tapped the screen, and a soft chime confirmed the transfer. “Ten million, wired to your offshore accounts. Check it.”
The leader smirked, pulling out his own device to confirm. His crew exchanged nods as the numbers lit up. “Pleasure doing business,” he said, holstering the gadget. “Heard stories about that freak. Didn’t think anything could hold him.”
“It will,” Marcus replied, turning toward the window. The snow swirled outside, a white veil over the black pines. “You don’t need to know how. Just keep your mouths shut. You were never here.”
The leader chuckled, low and rough. “We’re ghosts, Harrington. Always have been. Enjoy your little vendetta.” He jerked his head, and the mercenaries filed out, boots thudding against the floorboards. The door slammed behind them, swallowed by the storm.
Marcus stood motionless, listening as the roar of their snowmobiles faded into the night. He didn’t doubt their silence. Hydra trained its dogs well, and ten million bought loyalty from men like that. Besides, they didn’t know enough to betray him. Just a job. Just a cage. He turned back to the trapdoor, staring down into the dark. The faint clink of claws against Uru drifted up, a sound that fueled the fire in his chest. Twenty years of planning, and now the animal was his. They’d talk soon enough—but on his terms.
3.
The snow kept falling outside, blanketing the mountain in a hush broken only by the wind’s low moan. Upstairs, Marcus Harrington moved through the cabin like a man on holiday, his routine unshaken by the beast trapped beneath his feet. Seven days passed, each one a deliberate echo of the last.
Morning started with the fire. He’d haul logs from the lean-to out back, the crunch of his boots on fresh powder mingling with the rhythmic thud of the axe as he split extras for the stockpile. The wood pile grew, neat and orderly, stacked against the cabin’s north wall. Inside, he’d kneel by the hearth, feeding the flames with practiced care, the crackle of pine filling the room as smoke curled up the chimney.
Midday brought food. He cooked with a craftsman’s focus—searing venison in a cast-iron skillet, the rich, gamey aroma wafting through the cabin, or simmering a stew of root vegetables and herbs that hung heavy in the air. Evenings, he’d uncork a bottle of deep red wine, its sharp tang cutting through the woodsmoke, or pop the cap on a dark porter, the bitter malt lingering on his breath. He ate alone at the scarred oak table, savoring each bite, the clink of his fork against the plate the only sound beyond the fire’s snap.
Between meals, he read. Old books, mostly. Tattered military histories, survival manuals, a dog-eared copy of Moby-Dick he’d thumb through by lamplight. He’d sit in a leather armchair, legs crossed, the pages rustling as he turned them, lost in the words while the wind battered the windows. Once, he paused to sharpen a hunting knife, the whetstone’s rasp a quiet counterpoint to the storm outside. Another time, he cleaned his exosuit, polishing the dark plating with a rag, the faint hum of its power core a steady drone.
Downstairs, the faint scrape of claws on Uru drifted up now and then, a reminder of his prisoner. Marcus never flinched. He’d glance at the trapdoor, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, then go back to his routine. Feeding the fire. Cooking. Drinking. Reading. Seven days, each one a brick in the wall of his patience, his triumph. Logan wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.
4.
Darkness swallowed the basement, a void unbroken by time or light. Logan slumped against the bars, his breath shallow, rasping through a throat turned to sandpaper. Thirst burned in him, a fire hotter than any he’d known, clawing at his guts and stoking the animal rage that simmered beneath his skin. Hunger gnawed too, sure, but the lack of water… It was a torment he couldn’t shake. He’d been in a hole once, back in a Japanese prison camp during the war, knee-deep in muck with worms and rats for company. There’d been water then, foul as it was. Grubs. Something to choke down. Not here. Not now.
Seven days, he figured, maybe more, maybe less. No sun, no rhythm to mark the hours, just the endless scrape of his own claws against the cage and the faint sounds filtering down from above: wood splitting, fire crackling, the maddening aroma of meat and wine. His healing factor kept him alive, stitching him together as his body ate itself. The weight had melted off him, ribs jutting like blades under taut, pale skin, collarbones sharp enough to cut glass. His lips peeled back in a permanent snarl, baring canines that gleamed in the dim flicker of the basement bulbs. The adamantium skeleton showed through, a ghostly outline beneath flesh stretched too thin.
Footsteps thudded overhead, then descended. The door creaked open, and Marcus Harrington stepped in, dragging a wooden chair with him. He set it down a few feet from the cage—just out of reach, deliberate as hell, and sat, legs crossed, helmet off for the first time. His face was hard, weathered, with eyes like cold steel and a jaw clenched tight. He stared at Logan, silent for a beat, letting the moment hang.
“My father died when I was eight,” Marcus said finally, voice steady, low. “Sergeant Daniel Harrington. Canadian Special Forces. Good man, patriot. Followed orders. Didn’t know what Weapon X really was until you tore through him, tore through all of them. I found out the truth six years into my own military career. Twenty-four years old, digging through classified files, piecing it together. You made me an orphan, Wolverine.”
Logan’s snarl deepened, a guttural rumble, but his voice was a cracked whisper. “Don’t remember him, bub. Don’t remember a lotta things.”
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve spent the years since studying you. Got my hands on the Weapon X data, your anatomy, your healing factor, every dirty little secret they carved into you. Tracked your exploits too. Japan. Madripoor. The X-Men. You’re damn near impossible to kill. Bullets, blades, bombs, nothing sticks. But I’ve been wondering…” He paused, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Can you starve to death?”
Logan lunged, claws slashing air, stopping inches short of Marcus. The Uru hummed, unyielding. “You’re a dead man,” he rasped, eyes blazing despite the hollows beneath them. “When I get outta here—”
“You won’t,” Marcus cut in, standing. “Not this time.” He turned to leave, then paused, a single dry cough breaking the silence as he reached the stairs. He didn’t look back.
5.
The eighth morning broke cold and gray, the wind still gnashing at the cabin’s walls. Marcus woke with a shudder, his body heavy, a wet cough rattling in his chest. It wasn’t just the chill. His throat burned; his joints ached like he’d been thrown down a cliff. The flu, he figured, damn inconvenient timing. He dragged himself out of bed, the exosuit left in its corner, and shuffled to the kitchen. The kettle hissed as he brewed tea, hands trembling faintly as he gripped the mug. He tossed a log on the fire, the flames spitting as they caught, then stumbled back to bed, the room tilting around him. Sleep took him fast, but it wasn’t rest.
Fever dreams clawed at his mind. Flashes of his father’s face, blood pooling on a lab floor, Logan’s claws glinting in the dark. He’d wake coughing, chest tight, then drift again, the hours bleeding together. A day passed, maybe more. He lurched to the bathroom twice, retching bile into the toilet, the taste sour and sharp. The second time, he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror. Something wet streaked his cheek. He wiped it, red. Blood. His eyes were a mess, veins burst, sclera drowned in crimson. Not the flu. Something worse. His gut twisted, not just from nausea but dread.
He collapsed in the hallway, the wood cold against his cheek, and lay there for hours, breath shallow, coughs hacking through him. When he came to, the world was a blur, but he forced himself up, staggering to the basement door. He had to know. The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended, legs shaking, a bloody smear trailing on the wall where he braced himself.
Logan was a shadow in the cage, barely human anymore. Eight days without water had hollowed him to a snarling husk, skin clinging to adamantium, eyes wild and yellow, lips cracked and peeled back over fangs. He paced on all fours, claws scraping Uru, a low growl rumbling from his chest. Feral. Gone.
Marcus fell to his knees a few feet from the cage, clutching his chest as another cough tore through him, blood flecking his lips. “What… what are you doing to me?” he rasped, voice weak, accusing.
Logan’s head snapped up, but there was no recognition, no answer, just a guttural snarl, primal and uncomprehending. He lunged, claws slashing air, stopping short of the bars. Marcus stared, trembling, realization dawning too late. Whatever this was, it wasn’t Logan’s doing. It was his own body betraying him. He tried to stand, but his strength gave out. He crumpled to the concrete, out of reach, blood pooling beneath his face. His last breath rattled free, a wet, broken sound, and then he was still.
In the cage, Logan growled, pacing, oblivious, the animal all that remained.
6.
Nine days in the cage, and Logan was a ghost of himself, a snarling skeleton wrapped in skin and rage. The basement stank of death now. Marcus’s corpse sprawled a few feet away, blood crusted black on the concrete, flies starting to buzz despite the cold. Logan’s world had shrunk to thirst, hunger, and the endless scrape of his claws on Uru. His healing factor was a curse now, dragging him through starvation when any normal man would’ve died days ago.
Then, a stroke of dumb luck. A rat, small, scrawny, drawn by the rot, skittered too close to the cage. Logan’s senses, dulled but not dead, snapped to it. He lunged, arm shooting through the bars, claws pinning the creature mid-squeak. It was over in a heartbeat. He tore into it, teeth sinking through fur and bone, blood smearing his cracked lips. A few measly bites, barely a handful of calories, gristle, sinew, a bitter tang, but it hit his system like a jolt. His stomach clenched, greedy for more, and his eyes sharpened just a fraction, the feral haze lifting enough to let a thought break through: Keep goin’.
He licked the last drops from his fingers, growling low, and slumped back against the bars. The rat wasn’t much, wouldn’t last long, but it was something. A spark. Upstairs, the cabin creaked, abandoned. Down here, he was still alive. Barely.
7.
Five days later, the X-Mansion stood quiet under a late winter sky, its halls warm but shadowed by unease. Scott Summers jolted awake in his quarters, a dry cough barking from his chest. He sat up, rubbing his sternum, the sound sharp in the pre-dawn stillness. Jean stirred beside him, murmuring, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “Just a tickle.” He swung his legs out of bed, the cough lingering as he padded to the window. Outside, snow dusted the grounds, pristine and unbroken. Logan had been gone over two weeks, off chasing Hydra, no word since. Not unusual for him, but Scott’s gut had been tight lately, a nagging itch he couldn’t place.
He coughed again, harder this time, and frowned. Probably nothing. Just the cold. But as he turned back to the bed, a faint smear caught his eye on the pillow—barely a speck, easy to miss. He wiped his mouth, fingers coming away clean, and shook it off. Imagination. Had to be.
Downstairs, the day would start soon—briefings, training, the usual. Up north, in a cabin buried under snow, a feral shadow paced a cage, clinging to a scrap of hope, while a body rotted on a basement floor. Whatever connected them waited, silent, patient.
A couple of hours later, the X-Mansion hummed with its usual rhythm. Scott moved through the day on autopilot—briefing the team in the War Room, running drills in the Danger Room, nursing that damn cough with a mug of black coffee. It rattled in his chest now, persistent, but he waved off the sidelong glances from the younger X-Men. “Just a bug,” he muttered, adjusting his visor. If anyone could have seen behind the ruby quartz, they would have noticed his bloodshot eyes immediately. Routine kept him grounded, even as his throat scratched and his head throbbed.
He was crossing the hall toward the kitchen when Jean caught up with him, her steps quick, purposeful. “Scott, hold up.” She grabbed his arm, turning him to face her. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of telepathic unease brushing his mind. “Your eyes—”
“What?” He frowned, tapping the visor. “You can’t even see—”
“I don’t need to,” she cut in, voice sharp. “I can feel it. Something’s off. We’re going to Beast. Now.”
Scott grumbled but didn’t fight her, she had that tone, the one that brooked no argument. Minutes later, he was perched on a bio-bed in the med lab, arms crossed, while Hank McCoy—Beast—hovered over him, blue fur bristling with focus. “A cough, you say?” Hank murmured, handing Scott a small vial. “Drink this, should ease the symptoms while I take a look.” Scott downed it, the bitter liquid soothing his throat as Hank fired up the scanners, screens flickering to life.
The room went quiet, save for the hum of machinery. Hank’s claws tapped the console, his eyes narrowing as data scrolled. “Hmm. Curious.” He adjusted the settings, zooming in on a sample from Scott’s blood. “This isn’t a standard virus. It’s… elusive. Hold on—” His voice dropped, urgent. The scanner locked onto something tiny, aggressive, multiplying fast. Hank froze, recognition dawning. “Good lord. These are T-cells. Logan’s T-cells. Mutated. Rabid. They’ve gone beyond healing, they’re attacking.”
Scott sat up, gripping the bed’s edge. “What the hell does that mean?”
Hank didn’t answer right away. He grabbed a handheld scanner, sweeping it over Jean, then himself. The readings blinked red. “We’re all carrying it,” he said, voice grim. “Airborne transmission. Jean and I are just carriers. But you, Scott, you’re infected. It’s tearing through you. Without treatment, you’ll…” He trailed off, but the weight hung heavy.
“Die?” Scott finished, jaw tight.
Jean’s eyes flashed, her mind brushing his with a mix of fear and resolve. “Not if we can help it. Hank, can you synthesize a vaccine?”
Beast nodded, already moving to a workstation. “I’ll need time. Hours, maybe days to isolate and counter this… Logan’s Disease. These cells are feral, adaptive, like the man himself. But I can do it. I have to.” He glanced at Scott. “Rest. You’ll need your strength.”
Jean stepped closer, her hand on Scott’s shoulder, but her gaze was distant, reaching out. “This started with Logan. Those T-cells—they’re his. He’s in trouble, Hank. We need to find him. Now.”
Hank looked up from his screen, grim. “If he’s the source, he’s either Patient Zero… or a walking biohazard. Either way, we’re on the clock.”
8.
Jean left the med lab, her steps quick and purposeful, Scott’s ragged cough echoing in her mind. She couldn’t wait for Beast to crack Logan’s Disease. She had to find Logan, fast. The halls of the X-Mansion blurred past as she made for the Professor’s study, her telepathy already reaching out. Charles, we need to talk. Now.
Minutes later, she stood in the study, the air thick with tension. Professor Xavier sat behind his desk, his expression calm but eyes sharp with concern. Nightcrawler—Kurt Wagner—perched on a windowsill, tail flicking, his yellow eyes glinting in the dim light. Storm—Ororo Munroe—stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, the faint crackle of static in the air around her. Colossus—Piotr Rasputin—loomed near the door, his massive frame still flesh for now, though his presence alone felt like steel.
“Logan’s in trouble,” Jean started, voice steady but urgent. “Scott’s sick, something called Logan’s Disease, tied to Logan’s T-cells. They’ve mutated, gone airborne. Hank’s working on a vaccine, but Scott’s running out of time. We need to find Logan. He’s the key.”
Xavier leaned forward, fingers steepled. “You’ve tried reaching him telepathically?”
“Every day,” she said, frustration creeping in. “There’s nothing, just a wall. He’s either too far gone or blocked somehow. Last we knew, he was tracking Hydra up in Canada. That’s where we start.”
Kurt tilted his head, voice soft but firm. “If he’s caged or hurt, teleporting in could be tricky. I’ll need a clear target. Canada’s a big place, Jean.”
Storm nodded, her white hair catching the firelight. “I can narrow it down. Fly us north, scan the wilderness for signs. Storms, smoke, anything out of place. If Logan’s there, he won’t stay quiet long.”
Colossus cracked his knuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “And if he’s trapped, I break him out. Whatever holds him, it won’t hold against me.”
Xavier’s gaze shifted, probing. “This disease, Logan’s cells turning weaponized, it’s no accident. Hydra’s involved, and they don’t play small. Be ready for more than just a rescue.”
Jean met his eyes, resolute. “We don’t have a choice. Scott’s dying, and Logan’s the source. We bring him back, or we lose them both.”
“Agreed,” Xavier said. “Take the Blackbird. Move fast. I’ll coordinate with Hank and monitor from here.” He paused, a faint crease in his brow. “And Jean, be careful. Whatever’s out there, it’s not just Logan we’re facing.”
She nodded, turning to the team. “Gear up. We leave in an hour.”
9.
The X-Mansion’s front gates loomed under a slate-gray sky, the air biting with late winter chill. Rogue leaned against the security console, arms crossed, her green eyes scanning the horizon. Kitty Pryde stood nearby, phasing absently through a gatepost, her brown hair whipping in the wind. “Quiet day,” she said, voice light but eyes sharp. “Logan’s been gone too long, huh?”
“He always comes back,” Rogue drawled, though her tone carried an edge. She’d felt the unease rippling through the mansion, Scott’s cough, Jean’s urgency. Something was off.
A low rumble cut the silence, gravel crunching under tires. A massive four-door pickup truck rolled up to the gate, towing a fifth-wheel horse trailer that sagged heavy, its axles groaning. The truck looked beat to hell, dents, rust, streaks of what might’ve been blood. Rogue straightened, hand hovering near her glove. “Company.”
Kitty phased solid, frowning. “Who’s that?”
The driver’s window creaked down, revealing Victor Creed—Sabretooth—slumped over the wheel. His blond mane was matted, his skin sallow, a wet cough hacking from his chest. He looked half-dead, eyes sunken, claws twitching on the dash. “Open the damn gate,” he snarled, voice raw.
Rogue stepped forward, unflinching. “Creed. What the hell you doin’ here?”
In the passenger seat, Wild Child—Kyle Gibney—slouched unconscious, his wiry frame limp, blood streaming from his eyes in dark, sticky trails, matting his feral hair. In the back, Daken—Akihiro, Logan’s son—sprawled across one side, awake but barely, his dark eyes glazed, claws half-extended, blood crusting his lips. Beside him, Cyber—Silas Burr—sat rigid, his massive bulk straining the seat, skin gray and sweating, adamantium-laced hands clenched. All three looked like they’d been dragged through hell.
“We ain’t here to fight,” Creed rasped, spitting blood onto the floorboard. “Somethin’s killin’ us. Fast. Figured you geeks might know why.”
Kitty’s eyes widened, flicking to the trailer, riding low like it was packed tight. “What’s in there?”
Creed’s lip curled, but another cough cut him off, wet and ragged. “Somethin’ you’ll wanna see. Get your boss. Now.”
Rogue tapped her comm, voice steady. “Jean, Professor—trouble at the gate. Creed’s here with Wild Child, Daken, and Cyber. They’re half-dead, and they brought a trailer. You’re gonna wanna see this.”
The gate buzzed, but Rogue didn’t open it yet, eyes locked on Creed. “You move wrong, sugar, and I’ll drop you myself. Sick or not.”
He grinned, teeth bloody. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.”
The X-Mansion’s front gates buzzed with tension, the pickup truck idling as Rogue and Kitty held their ground. Victor Creed’s bloody grin faltered as the mansion doors swung open, Jean striding out with Professor X rolling beside her, Nightcrawler, Storm, and Colossus flanking them. The air crackled—Storm’s eyes narrowing, Kurt’s tail lashing, Piotr’s fists tightening. Jean’s gaze swept the truck, then the trailer, her telepathy brushing the edges of the scene.
“What’s this about, Creed?” Jean demanded, voice cutting through the wind.
Before he could answer, the trailer shuddered. A low groan echoed, metal creaking as the back door burst open. The Hulk stumbled out, green skin dulled to a sickly olive, muscles slack, eyes bloodshot and leaking. He was thinner than anyone had ever seen him, ribs faintly visible under taut flesh. With a grunt, he sank to the ground, leaning against the trailer, each breath a labored wheeze. A sneeze ripped through him, green blood spraying the snow, the sound like a cannon shot, rattling the gate. Rogue flinched; Kitty phased halfway through the ground.
“Holy—” Kitty breathed, popping back up.
Creed coughed, wiping his mouth. “That’s why we’re here. Me, Kyle, Daken, Cyber, we all got sick, same time. Started diggin’ into it. What’s the common thread? Wolverine. Every damn time. We were haulin’ ass here to find him when we spotted that—” he jerked a thumb at the Hulk—“staggerin’ down the road, sneezin’ artillery and lookin’ like death. Figured he’d fit the puzzle.”
The Hulk’s head lolled, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Wolverine… make Hulk sick.” Another sneeze—green splatter hit the trailer, denting it. He slumped, too weak to move.
Jean’s eyes widened, her mind reaching for Xavier’s. Charles, he’s right. Logan’s the link. Out loud, she said, “You’re all infected. Same as Scott. Logan’s T-cells, mutated, airborne. We call it Logan’s Disease.” She paused, staring at Hulk, her voice softening. “I don’t know how he knows that, Banner’s still in there somewhere, buried deep.”
Storm stepped forward, wind swirling around her. “Where’d you last see Logan?”
Creed shrugged, hacking again. “We came here to find him.”
Colossus eyed the Hulk, then the trailer. “He was inside that? Sick as he is?”
“Barely fit,” Daken rasped from the back seat, voice weak but venomous. “Kept sneezin’. Nearly flipped us.”
Xavier’s voice cut through, calm but firm. “This changes things. Logan’s not just missing, he’s a vector. We need to contain this, find him, and stop it.” He looked to Jean. “Take them inside. Quarantine. Hank needs samples. Then we move.”
Nightcrawler frowned, tail curling. “And the big guy?”
Hulk pushed to his feet, the trailer creaking in defiance.
Jean nodded, resolute. “We’ll handle it. Rogue, Kitty—help get them to the med lab. Storm, Colossus, Kurt, prep the Blackbird. We’re finding Logan. Now.”
10.
The X-Mansion’s hangar buzzed with urgency, the Blackbird’s engines humming as the team loaded up. Storm stood at the controls, running pre-flight checks, her fingers deft on the console. Colossus hauled gear into the cargo hold, his steel form clanking with each step, while Nightcrawler bamfed between stations, double-checking flight readiness. Jean strapped into the co-pilot seat, her mind still reeling from the gate. Creed, Hulk, Scott, all tied to Logan’s Disease. They needed a break, and fast.
The comms crackled, Xavier’s voice cutting through. “Storm, Jean—new intelligence just came in. Four known Hydra mercenaries were found dead in northern Canada, a remote outpost near Lake Athabasca. Cause of death: an unidentified outbreak. Bodies were hemorrhagic with blood from the eyes, nose, mouth. Local authorities are stumped, but it matches what we’re seeing.”
Jean’s head snapped up, locking eyes with Storm. “Logan’s Disease. That’s where he was, tracking Hydra.”
Storm nodded, adjusting the nav system. “Lake Athabasca’s a big area, but an outpost narrows it. If those mercs crossed him, he’s close, dead or alive.”
Colossus ducked into the cockpit, voice rumbling. “Hydra does not die quietly. If they are gone, Logan left a mark.”
“Or somethin’ worse did,” Nightcrawler added, materializing beside Jean, his tail flicking. “This sickness is spreading fast. We may find more than just him.”
Jean’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a fix, 51 degrees north, 111 west, give or take. That’s our target. Hydra’s mess, Logan’s trail. We go now.”
Storm punched in the coordinates, the Blackbird’s engines roaring to life. “Strap in. We’re wheels-up in five. Whatever’s out there, we end it.”
The jet’s ramp sealed shut, and the hangar doors groaned open, revealing a slate sky. Canada loomed ahead, answers, or a nightmare, waiting in the snow.
11.
The Blackbird sliced through the Canadian sky, engines roaring as it descended toward Lake Athabasca. Snow whipped past the windshield, a white wall broken only by the dark smudge of a mountain ridge. Storm guided the jet low, sensors pinging the Hydra outpost, or what was left of it. Jean sat rigid in the co-pilot seat, eyes closed, her mind stretching out. Then she gasped, gripping the armrests.
“There,” she said, pointing north. “A void, six by six by six. I can’t see inside it. It’s got to be him.”
Storm banked the jet, locking onto the coordinates.
Colossus leaned over her shoulder, peering out. “A cabin. Small. Half-buried in snow.”
Nightcrawler’s tail flicked. “I’ll scout.” A bamf and he was gone, reappearing on the ground below in a puff of brimstone. He waved up, signaling the all-clear. The Blackbird touched down, ramp dropping into the drifts.
The team moved fast, boots crunching through the snow to the cabin’s door. Inside, the air stank of rot and woodsmoke. The trapdoor gaped open, and Jean led the way down, her telekinesis flaring a light ahead. The basement was a tomb, Marcus Harrington’s corpse sprawled on the concrete, flies buzzing over his blood-crusted face. And there, in a 6x6x6 Uru cage, was Logan.
He was a wreck, unconscious, skeletal, skin stretched over adamantium bones, lips cracked and peeled back from fangs. His chest barely moved; a faint rasp the only sign of life. The rat’s calories had bought him time, but not much.
“Alive,” Jean breathed, pressing a hand to the bars. “Barely.”
Storm knelt by Marcus’s body, her fingers brushing his exosuit. “This armor is high-tech. Look.” She pried open a chest panel, revealing a faintly glowing core, pulsing weakly. “This is Uru infused.” A key slotted beside it, etched with runes. “The lock.”
Colossus grabbed it, his steel hands steady as he jammed it into the cage’s mechanism. The bars clicked and slid apart. Jean rushed in, cradling Logan’s head. “He’s dehydrated, starving. Kurt, get water, now!”
Nightcrawler teleported up and back, a canteen in hand. Jean poured it over Logan’s lips, slow at first, then more as he twitched, instincts kicking in. Storm ripped open a med kit, jabbing him with an emergency nutrient shot, calories, saline, adrenaline. His eyes fluttered, yellow and feral, but he didn’t speak.
“We’re not losing him,” Jean said, voice fierce. “Get him to the jet.”
Colossus hoisted Logan over his shoulder, gentle despite his bulk. “What about this?” He nodded at the cage.
“Take it,” Jean ordered. “And him,” she pointed at Marcus’s corpse, “and the armor. Hank needs everything to figure this out.”
Storm and Nightcrawler hauled Marcus’s body, suit and all, while Colossus carried the cage’s frame, its Uru bars clanking. The team retraced their steps, loading the Blackbird with their grim cargo, Logan on a stretcher, the cage secured, Marcus and his gear strapped down. The jet’s engines roared, lifting off from the snow-choked outpost, bound for the mansion.
Jean sat by Logan, her hand on his, whispering, “Hold on, you stubborn bastard. We’ve got you.”
12.
The Blackbird’s ramp hissed open in the X-Mansion hangar, and the medbay became a war zone in minutes. Colossus carried Logan in on a stretcher, Jean and Storm flanking him, while Nightcrawler bamfed ahead with Marcus’s corpse and the Uru cage. Hank McCoy was already there, prepping quarantine zones, his blue fur bristling as he juggled Scott, Creed, and the others. The air stank of antiseptic and rage.
Victor Creed lunged the second he saw Logan, claws scraping the bio-bed’s edge, his voice a guttural roar. “You son of a bitch! I’ll rip your damn spine out for this! Look at me, look at us!” His eyes bled red, his frame shaky, but the venom was pure Sabretooth.
Daken snarled from his cot, half-rising, claws twitching. “You poisoned us, father! I’ll gut you slow!” Cyber, strapped down nearby, slammed a fist into his restraints, the adamantium clanging but too weak to break free. “You’ll pay, runt!” Wild Child just hissed, feral and incoherent, thrashing against his straps.
Even Scott, propped on a bio-bed, visor glinting, glared at Logan with a rare flash of heat. “You brought this back to us,” he rasped, coughing hard, a speck of blood flecking his lips. “Nice work.”
Logan stirred on the stretcher, eyes snapping open, yellow, wild, still half-feral. He growled low, a guttural “Back off, bub,” ripping from his throat. His voice was cracked, but his healing factor was kicking in fast, muscle knitting, skin filling out, the rat and nutrient shot giving him a foothold. He bared his fangs, claws twitching, ready to lunge despite the IVs.
Out in the hall, Hulk sat slumped against the wall where they’d left him, too big for the medbay. “Hulk SMASH puny kitten!” he bellowed, fist slamming the floor. The thud was weak, a dull echo—no gamma strength left, just green blood dripping from his nose. He sagged, muttering, “Wolverine… bad.”
Hank shouted over the din, shoving a scanner at Logan. “Enough! You’re all too sick to fight, and he’s barely conscious! Sit down or I’ll sedate every last one of you!” Jean’s telekinesis flared, pinning Creed and Daken back, her eyes blazing. “He didn’t do this on purpose. Stand down!”
Storm stepped in, lightning crackling in her hands. “We need answers, not a brawl. Logan’s the key, alive, not dead.”
The room simmered, threats hanging impotent in the air. None of them had the strength to follow through, Creed’s claws trembled, Scott’s cough doubled him over, Hulk’s fist didn’t rise again. Logan glared back, feral edge fading as his mind clawed toward clarity, but he stayed silent, chest heaving.
Hank turned to his screens, Marcus’s armor and the cage already under analysis. “Let’s figure this out before you all kill each other—or it kills you first.”
13.
The medbay settled into an uneasy quiet, the shouting replaced by the hum of Hank’s machines and the occasional cough. Logan lay on a bio-bed, IVs pumping nutrients, his frame filling out as his healing factor stabilized. Creed, Daken, Cyber, and Wild Child were strapped down, sedated but alive, their vitriol spent. Scott rested nearby, breathing steadier, while Hulk slumped in the hall, a green heap of exhaustion.
Hank worked fast, his blue hands a blur over the lab bench. “Logan’s Disease, nasty little beast,” he muttered, synthesizing a vaccine from Logan’s blood and the mutated T-cells. Vials lined up, clear liquid glinting. For the others, he loaded syringes, jabbing Creed, Daken, Cyber, Wild Child, and Scott with practiced precision. Their symptoms eased, bloodshot eyes clearing, coughs fading. For Hulk, he rigged a special inhalant, a pressurized mist no needle could match. “Breathe deep, big guy,” Hank said, holding it to Hulk’s face. A sneeze rattled the walls, green-free this time, and Hulk grunted, color creeping back into his skin.
Hank turned to the Uru cage and Marcus’s armor, scanners whirring. “This contraption did its job,” he announced, tapping the core. “Held Logan tight, blocked Jean’s telepathy—perfectly engineered. But here’s the kicker: Logan’s Disease? Not sabotage. It’s a natural mutation. His healing factor ran out of juice in there, no food, no water, nothing to defend. So, it flipped the script.” He smirked, glancing at Logan. “Guess the best defense is a good offense, eh?”
Jean frowned; arms crossed. “It went on the attack? How?”
“Evolution,” Hank said, pulling up a holo-display of rabid T-cells. “Starved of resources, it mutated, went airborne, aggressive. Started tearing through anyone it could reach.”
Storm raised an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t it kill everyone? Creed, Hulk—they’re still here. And you said we’re all carrying it. Some of us are not even sick.”
Xavier rolled forward, his voice calm but piercing. “I have a theory. Logan’s subconscious may have played a role. Even feral, his mind’s still there, judging friend from foe. It targeted enemies hardest, Marcus, the Hydra mercs, this lot—” he nodded at Creed’s crew—“but spared us, mostly. Jean and I were carriers, not victims. Scott, though…” He trailed off, eyes on Cyclops.
Scott sat up, visor glinting. “What, I’m the exception? Logan tried to murder me?”
Logan growled, voice rough but clearer. “Ain’t like that, Slim. Wasn’t me callin’ shots—I was out cold.”
Xavier steepled his fingers. “Not consciously, no. But subconsciously? Your history with Scott’s… complicated. Rivalry, tension—maybe enough for your T-cells to mark him as a threat. It’s not murder, Scott. It’s instinct gone haywire.”
Hank nodded, adjusting his glasses. “The vaccine’s neutralizing it now. You’re safe. But Logan’s right, he wasn’t in control. This was biology, not intent.”
Scott scowled, unconvinced, but leaned back, too tired to argue. Logan met his glare, then looked away, claws flexing. The room hung heavy; relief laced with questions no one wanted to press.
The End