Chapter 1
The reservation had already been made for the danger room. No sense wasting it.
Especially not now.
Logan would, as always, never admit Summers was right, but it was obvious where the next strike would occur. The school needed to be ready.
So he stood alone in the middle of a smoky, low-vis danger room setting, waiting for Morph’s attack. They had a long way to go, and they were particularly weak at surprises. Remy could always—
Well. Doesn’t matter what Remy could do. Not anymore.
It was adapt or die. And Logan had seen enough mutants dying.
The air changed. The room was flooded with scents—cats, dogs, Summers’ used gym towel (he hated that he knew that one). Logan swiveled his head, disoriented.
[THWACK!]
Good one, Logan thought, taking the hit—did they fucking kick me?—directly in the back of the head. He rolled out of the forward fall and rebounded off the wall towards Morph, who was in the form of Psylocke.
The smoke cleared as he closed in. Hank was manning the controls for them, and he was always too damn neat about it; always changing up the scenery. Remy would have—
God fucking DAMNIT, Logan thought, snarling out loud. He swung at Psylocke!Morph; it was too wide.
There was something simple about war. Straightforward. It helped focus all your thoughts, all your rage towards one goal: winning.
So why can't I get my head in the game?
The clash and slide of metal-on-metal rang around the room as Psylocke!Morph’s swords met Logan’s claws. But Morph was losing steam, fast, and falling into defensive moves. It only made Logan more frustrated.
“That’s not good enough, Morph!” he roared.
Logan surged forward, swiping brazenly, until Morph had backed up into the wall, changing back into their form when they hit it.
“I yield!” they said, holding their hands up in surrender.
But Logan only saw red. “D’you really think those sentinels are gonna respect that?!” he hissed, teeth bared, and punched point blank at a defenseless Morph. His fist stopped within inches of their neck, the outer claws buried into the wall on either side of it. The middle one was still retracted, or it would’ve stabbed right through them.
They stared at each other for a moment, breathing heavily. Logan’s eyes were wide and wild with fury, but Morph’s…Morph’s were sad. Pleading.
Then they gently, tenderly clasped Logan’s wrist with one of their hands. As if its presence was comforting instead of threatening.
“What is it?” Logan demanded. The one thing they couldn’t afford was to slow down, to slack off, to stop. To mourn.
“Logan,” was all Morph offered weakly in reply, as if that explained it. As if they were helpless to say anything more.
Logan grew exasperated; he knew pain, he knew war, he knew death. But he didn’t know whatever the hell this was.
Morph reached out to him with their other hand then, fingers hovering a hair’s breadth away from Logan’s cheek; holding there, gazing at him. Like he was something precious, something sacred, and they were waiting for him to figure it out too.
“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Morph breathed out, their hand trembling with their voice.
“What?” Logan asked, bewildered. He wanted to snap at them, to say something more. He meant to say something more. But all he did was hold his breath and stare, lost. Transfixed.
“I, I miss him, but…” Morph continued, “I can’t help it...and I don’t feel bad for it.
“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” they finished, voice cracking.
All the fury that Logan relied on…melted, his posture deflating with it. He stepped back and sheathed his claws.
“Oh, Morph,” he said. He was helpless to say anything more.
Logan held out his arms. Morph collapsed into him, burying their head in the crook of his neck. Logan wrapped his arms around their waist. They both stood there, steadying themselves with the weight, the warmth, the life of each other, until both of their breathing evened out.
Logan thought about how war helps him focus on fighting, on winning. But it’s like a reflex. Especially for me.
Tragedy though…that helps you see what you’re fighting for. Helps you see what’s worth losing for, too.
Facing the wall, Logan found his voice. “Me too, Morph,” he said, one hand gently rubbing their back. “Me too.” He felt them squeeze a little tighter.
He didn’t know if they would win this. But he knew here, with them, was where he belonged.
A static-y cough came over the loudspeaker. “Computer, ah, end program,” said Hank McCoy. “I think that’s plenty of pugilism for today.”