Chapter 1

  Arc 1 - Ch 1: Laughlin City

  Date: Wednesday, June 2, 2010.

  Location: Laughlin City, Alberta, ada

  The eighteen-wheeler thundered down the lonely stretch of asphalt, its headlights carving twin paths through the inky darkness. The behemoth of steel and rubber pulled up alongside a solitary building, its parking lot filled with fellow long-haulers. A looming alpine forest pressed in from all sides. The truck settled into a spot among its brethren, the eig as it cooled in the frigid evening air.

  The driver's door creaked open and two burly men climbed from the cab. From the passenger side, a third figure emerged. He was younger, leaner, with a wide-eyed wariness.

  Tyson squinted into the meager light cast by the truck stop, his eyes adjusting as if he'd just woken from a long and uneasy slumber. His face was too gaunt for his age. The oversized hoodie he wore seemed to swallow his thin frame, cealing yers of mismatched clothing underh.

  "Where are we?" Tyson's voice was hoarse, grating against the wind that bit at his exposed skin.

  The broader of the two truckers, a man with a grizzled beard turo s him. "This here's Laughlin City, kid. I told ya that's as far as we were goin'. You're on your own now."

  Without so much as a backward gnce, he and his panion ambled toward the building, drawn by the promise of cold beer and hot food. As they eheir ughter was swallowed by the thrum of otion inside, leaving Tyson alone iing cold.

  For a long moment, Tyson stood rooted in pce, as if his worn sneakers had frozen to the asphalt. Snowfkes danced around him, alighting on his hair and eyeshes. He stared at the bar, the muffled sounds of ughter and king gsses serving only to amplify his isotion. His gaze swept across the surroundings beyond the truck stop, searg for any sign of civilization. There was nothing but an endless expanse of wilderness as if the world had decided to end right here at this lonely outpost.

  And Tyson had no idea how he'd arrived here.

  "Some city," he muttered, his breath visible in the frigid air. His eyes lingered on the bar for a moment longer, weighing his options. With a sigh, Tyson squared his shoulders and trudged towards the doors.

  The moment Tyson crossed the threshold, his senses were assaulted. The noise of cheers, the press of bodies, and the acrid st of smoke that curled zily from sm cigars and cigarettes. The pce acked, filled primarily with men who had the hardened look of blue-colr locals. Their faces were like the ndscape outside; worn, rugged, and unfiving. They gulped down beer and whiskey with the abandon of men trying tet their troubles.

  A particurly raucous burst of ughter roared from the back of the establishment, causing Tyson to e his neck. What could possibly be drawing such attention in a pce like this? A rhythmic sp-thud resohrough the bar, followed by a wave of cheering.

  Tyson began to shoulder his way through the swarm of bodies, following the strange sounds toward their source. It was like trying to swim upstream in a river of fnnel and denim. Finally finding a break in the crowd, he maneuvered into a position with a clear view of the spectacle. What he saw made his jaw drop.

  A makeshift boxing ring stood proudly in the back of the bar, crudely cordoned off by ropes and a freestanding cage that looked like it had seeer days. The area was illuminated by a single, dangling bulb that cast its sickly light on the ter of the ring, leaving the edges shrouded in shadow. As Tyson watched, a mao the ground with a loud thud. The man's colpse unctuated by the metallic cmor of a bell, signaling the end of the fight. The crowd roared its approval.

  The victor retreated into the shadowy er of the cage. The fallen fighter, meanwhile, tried to pick himself up but fell ft.

  A gruff voiext to Tyson asked the man at his side, "Hey, ain't you going in? He's gotta be tired by now." Gng towards the speaker, Tyson found himself face-to-face with a burly man goading his friend into being the sacrificial mb for the ring.

  Ihe makeshift arena, the downed fighter was hauled away by a pair of his friends. The winner, still shrouded in shadows, sat nontly on a stool. The only distinguishable feature was the beer bottle in his hand, which he sipped from with the casual air of someone rexing, not a man who'd just won a brutal fistfight.

  Just then, a figure emerged from the sidelines with all the dramatic fir of a ringmaster at a circus. The man held a microphone loosely in his calloused hands and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  "Gentlemen," his voied over the otion like thunder across a valley. "In all my years, I've never seen anything like this." The crowd erupted into cheers. Uhe announcer tinued, "Eight men have been dragged from this ring tonight." He gestured towards the figure in the shadows with a flourish. "Don't tell me yoing to let this man walk out of here with your money."

  A voice rose from the crowd, clear and challenging, "I'll fight him."

  All eyes swiveled to the source of the decration. A hulking man in a lumberjack jacket rose from his seat, his muscles straining against the fabric. The crowd cheered in unison, their approval washing over the room in a tidal wave of testosterone and beer-fueled bravado.

  "Ladies alemen, our savior," the announcer mocked. Unfazed by the attention of the crowd, the challenger shrugged off his jacket with casual fidehe fabric fell to the ground as he stepped into the ring, his every movement radiating the kind of self-assurahat es from either supreme skill or profound stupidity.

  As the challeook his p the ring, Tyson found himself holding his breath. The announcer's voice cut through the tension once more, "Alright, folks, pce your bets! Who thinks our brave volunteer dethrohe champ?" A chorus of shouts and the rustling of money filled the air, punctuated by the occasional king of gsses.

  Tyson's gaze darted between the challenger, standing tall and proud in the ter of the ring, and the shadowy er where the previous wiill drank his beer.

  The crowd around Tysoed in a volo of noise aement as the ued fighter finally emerged from his shadowy er. He stepped into the sickly light cast by the flickering bulb, revealing a figure that was more presehan size. He wasn't particurly rge, especially when pared to his hulking oppo, but there was something about him that made Tyson's breath cat his throat.

  The fighter's arms rippled with wiry strength. He wore a simple white tank top that had seeer days and a pair of jeans that looked like they'd been through a war. Around his neck hung a solitary silver dog tag, its surface scratched ahered. A shock of u hair framed his face, leading into impressive mutton chops that would make even the most seasoned lumberjaod in approval. A pair of worher boots pleted his ensemble.

  Tyson's eyes widened in disbelief and his jaw dropped. He khat face, khat hair. There was no mistaking it.

  It was Wolverine.

  But how was that even possible?

  fusion raced through Tyson's mind. This was no ordinary bar, no ordinary town, and that was certainly no ordinary man. His heart pounded, each beat a question eg in his mind. How? Why?

  Reition fshed in Tyson's eyes as pieces of the puzzle began to align themselves. He had seen this before, in a superhero movie he'd watched long ago. The bar, the fights, Wolveri art of the script.

  But there was a key character missing. Someoegral to the narrative.

  Rogue.

  In the movie he remembered, the teeant had run away from home after her powers first activated, ultimately finding her way to ada. Yet sing the crowd, he couldn't spot many women, and hat resembled Rogue's distinct appearance.

  Then, a cold realization crashed over him.

  The eighteen-wheeler, his worn-out clothes, the arrival at this particur bar in ada. Was he... was he, Rogue?

  Frantically, Tyson touched his face, feeling for any sign that he'd suddenly transformed into a Southern belle. He felt light stubble. The mase sign caused relief to wash over him. To firm, he discreetly grasped himself. Thankfully, he still had all the w bits down below. He was still undoubtedly male. But what about the powers? Were the gloves he'd been wearing all this while just to protect him from the cold? Or were they proteg from more than just the weather?

  Hesitantly, Tyson removed one glove, exposing his bare hand. After a moment of trepidation, he reached out and brushed his fingers against the arm of the person; a man who was engrossed in the uping fight.

  The rea was immediate and almost visceral. The man's arm went rigid under his touch, his face t in a silent scream. His eyes rolled batil only the whites were visible, and his skin paled. The veins in his forehead bulged as though under immense pressure, looking ready to burst like overinfted balloons.

  Tyson's world spun. A flood of information rushed into his mind, threatening to overwhelm him like a tsunami of sciousness. The man was named Hank, a rugged blue-colr worker from the sprawling pins of Alberta, ada. Suddenly, Tysohe world from Hank's perspective, as if he'd just downloaded aire life's worth of memories and experiences.

  He didn't have much growing up, besides the love of his parents. School was challenging, but he worked diligently and graduated. Shortly afterward he married his high-school sweetheart. His kied wife had a smile that could melt the winter snow. They had two eic children together. They purchased an old rustic log for a home that he worked tirelessly to maintain. His days were spent w bor in the oil sands. He uood the intricacies of hydraulid the meics of heavy drilling equipment. He khe right way to handle hazardous materials, and how to drive a tractor, weld metal, and even repair a diesel ehe hard, calloused texture of his hands was a worthwhile sacrifice for his family.

  With a jolt, Tyson was ba the crowded bar.

  The juxtapositioween the memories, the life, he had just experienced and the raucous, smoky interior of the bar was jarring. He gnced over at Hank, who was now on the ground, having fainted from Tyson's touch.

  Feeling an odd e to the man he'd ruly met, Tyson quickly slipped further into the crowd, away from his unscious victim. He shoved his glove ba, not wanting to risk iently triggering his pain. His mind raced as he grappled with the horrifyiy.

  If this was truly Rogue's power, then he was a mutant. And if he remembered right, in this world, mutants weren't a secret subspecies that hid in the shadows. They were known by the publid sidered by most to be a walking dao those around them.

  In Tyson's case, the stereotype was true. His touch was deadly.

  As the realization sank in, Tyson realized he was alone in a different world. The cheers of the crowd around him faded into a dull roar as he grappled with his new reality.

  His thoughts were interrupted as the bell sounded, marking the start of the round. The challenger wasted no time. He barreled forward, his massive frame closing the distao Wolverine in two quick strides. His fist smmed into Wolverine's midse with a siing thud. The crowd cheered with bloodlust aement. Wolverine doubled over with the beer bottle still clutched in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim. But the challenger wasn't done. He followed up with a haymaker that ected squarely with Wolverine's jaw, the impact eg through the makeshift arena.

  The big man shook his hand, wing as if he'd just punched a brick wall.

  But the pain wasn't enough to stop him. He pressed his advantage, nding two swift kicks to Wolverine's midse. Then, with a cruel glint in his eye, he aimed lower. The crowd collectively winced as his boot ected with Wolverine's groin, elig a chorus of sympathetic "oohs" from the spectators.

  For a moment, the bar held its breath. Wolverine was down, curled into himself, looking for all the world like a beaten man. But then, a low growl rumbled from his throat, a sound more animal than human. He rose to his feet, his eyes bzing with a feral iy that made even the hardened crowd take a step back.

  The challenger, emboldened by his early success, threw another punch. This time, Wolverine was ready. He met the ining fist with his own, adamantium-ced bones colliding with human calcium. The resulting crack was like a gunshot in the fined space of the bar.

  The big man's hand crumpled like paper, wrist twisting at an unnatural angle. He staggered back, a scream of agony tearing from his throat. But Wolverine wasn't done. Another punch to the gut drove the air from the challenger's lungs, and before he could recover, Wolverine's forehead smashed into his face with devastating force. The challenger hit the floor like a felled tree, unscious before he evehe bar exploded into cheers, the crowd loving every sed of the brutal dispy.

  The annouepped forward, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Anyone else up for the challenge?" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the din. "Anyone brave enough to take on the Wolverine?"

  In the crowd, Tyso his heart hammering against his ribs. Every instinct screamed at him to stay quiet, to blend into the background. But something else, something reckless and wild, pushed words past his lips before he could stop them.

  "I'll fight," he heard himself say.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea, all eyes turning to the young man who dared to challehe ued champion. Tyson made his way to the ring, shedding his jacket and shirt as he went. He ducked uhe rope aered through the cage's door.

  Standio the man, he became acutely aware of the stark trast between himself and Wolverine.

  Where Wolverine was pad pale, Tyson was lean and dark. His rich brown skin highlighted a frame that spoke of hard times and missed meals. At 5'10", he towered over Wolverine's 5'3", but cked the mutant's raw preseyson's handsome features were marred by the hardships of life on the run, a goatee framing a strong jaw, and intense browhat held a hint of fear despite his bravado.

  The announcer's voied out once more. "Once again, the unstoppable Wolverine!" He paused, milking the moment for all it was worth before turning to Tyson. "And introdug, the dashing Rogue!"

  Laughter rippled through the crowd at the grandiose title, but Tyson barely noticed. He was too focused on the man across from him.

  Wolverine looked him over, a hint of amusement dang in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was gruff, barely audible over the crowd's excitement. "Okay, kid," he growled, "I'll give you the first shot, but it's the only freebie yon."

  This was his ce.

  His one opportunity to get the upper hand. But how? A regur punch would be worse than pung a brick wall.

  Then, aruck him. Instead of throwing a punch, Tyson charged forward, ing his arms around Wolverine in a bear hug. The crowd's cheers turo fused murmurs. This wasn't how bar fights were supposed to go.

  But Tyson didn't care.

  He felt a rush of energy flowing into him, bringing with it memories aions.

  Wolverine's eyes widened in shock, a strangled gasp esg his lips as he felt his strength being sapped away. For the first time in the evening, real fear flickered across his face. The uable Wolverine had finally met his match, and it came in the most ued form imaginable.

  For Tyson, it was like being hit by a freight train of memories, knowledge, and experiences. A floodgate of over a tury's worth of living was suddenly unleashed within his mind. Tyson's vision blurred as images washed over him like an unstoppable tide.

  He was in World War II, grappling with the raw brutality of war and the loss of rades. He ehe excruciating adamantium procedure that transformed him into a virtually iructible on. He was in a covert operation, infiltrating enemy lines and fag off against dangerous foes. There was a woman named Mariko, whose face filled him with a profound sense of love and loss. A relentless figure brought feelings e and rivalry. With every fight he had ever fought, every wound he had ever endured, came his phenomenal healing factor, closing wounds as quickly as they appeared. He could feel the strength provided by the unyielding adamantium within his bohe repetitive sting of cws springing forth from his knuckles. But there was more than just battles and suffering. He was a master in various forms of bat and possessed agility and stealth. He was an expert martial artist, a formidable hand-to-hand batant, and a skilled swordsman. He wielded a sword in a Japanese dojo. Every smell, sound, and movement in the world around him was alronounced with crystal crity.

  Wolverine's memories flooded Tyson's mind in a chaotic torrent. Decades of violence, loss, and pain washed over him, threatening to drown him in their iy. But with them came something else. Power, rarimal, filling every cell of Tyson's body. The crowd's raucous cheering faded to a dull roar as Tyson focused on maintaining his grip. He had no idea how long he could hold on, but he khis was his only shot.

  The makeshift ring creaked uhe weight of the two batants as Tyson g to Wolverih desperate iy. His lean arms, corded with newfound strength, squeezed around the mutant's stocky frame. The skin-on-skin tact allowed Tyson's power to absorb Wolverihrough the e.

  Wolverine's gravelly voice cut through the haze of transferred memories. "What the fmin' hell are you doin', bub?" he growled, his tone a mix of fusion and growing anger.

  Before Tyson could respond, Wolverine exploded into a. The mutant pnted his feet against Tyson's chest and pushed. The force of the thrust sent Tyson flying backward, breaking their e.

  Tyson hit the ropes hard, grazing the cage beyond, then rebounding off them and stumbling tain his footing. But even as he struggled to stay upright, he felt... different. The gnawiiness of huhat had been his stant panion was gone, repced by a surge of vitality. His body hummed with energy, muscles taut and ready for a. Across the ring, Wolverine swayed on his feet, momentarily off-bahe brief tact had taken more out of him than all of the previous fighters' attacks bined. His trademark scowl deepened as he shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

  Tyson processed the flood of new information. He shifted his stance, adopting a boxer's pose and made a 'e hither' gesture. "That all you got, old man?" he taunted.

  Wolverine's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You asked for it, kid," he snarled.

  The mutant's attack came with a speed and ferocity that made Tyson instantly regret his bravado. Wolverine's fist ected, sending Tyson sprawling. Stars exploded behind his eyes as the back of his head cracked against the floor.

  The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch, their collective voice adding to the ringing in Tyson's ears. He tasted copper in his mouth as he cmbered to his feet, spitting a glob of blood onto the already-stained vas.

  "Okay," Tyson muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Maybe not my best idea."

  He may have absorbed Wolverine's powers and skills, but ohing he didn't have was the mutant's adamantium-ced skeleton. Every punch from Wolveri like being hit by a wreg ball ed in flesh.

  The ring became a stage for a brutal fight. Tyson's newly acquired skills allowed him to hold his own, dodging and weaving with an agility that surprised even himself. But Wolverine was relentless, each blow carrying the weight of his adamantium-enhanced frame. Harsh, guttural sounds of impact were punctuated by the occasional grunt rowl from the fighters as sweat and blood spattered across the ring.

  What truly amazed the bloodthirsty crowd was the resilience of both men. Cuts sealed almost as quickly as they were opened, only masked from view by the blood left on the skin iermath.

  The stalemate persisted, her gaining a distinct advantage. But in a moment of distra, Tyson's guard slipped. It was only a fra of a sed, but that was all Wolverine needed.

  Wolverine's fist ected with Tyson's temple, the impact resonating through the bar like a thundercp. Tyson's eyes rolled back, his body went limp as he crumpled to the ground.

  The crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers and groans. This had been the lo fight yet.

  As the noise of the crowd washed over him, Tyson's sciousness flickered like a dle in the wind. Through the haze of pain and disorientation, the healing factor he had absorbed from Wolverine surged through his battered body, knitting together torn flesh and mending bruised tissue. Before anyone could drag him from the ring, Tyson's eyes snapped open. He drew in a ragged breath, pushing himself up onto shaky arms. The crowd fell silent, watg surprised as the young fighter rose to his feet.

  Tyson swayed slightly, still disoriented from the heavy blow, but his body felt... good. The aches and pains were gone, repced with a humming energy that coursed through his veins. He ran a hand along his fad through his hair, marveling at the absence of injuries. Every welt and cut had vanished, leaving him as unmarked as if he'd epped into the ring. The only evidence was the blood that flecked off at his touch.

  Wolveriched him with a mix of surprise and grudging respect.

  The announcer's voied through the bar. "Ladies alemen, we have a wihe ued champion... Wolverine!"

  The crowd cheered once more, but there was a new undercurrent to their excitement. They had expected a sughter and had witnessed something far more extraordinary.

  As Tyson made his way out of the ring, several patrons cpped him on the back, their gruff voices words of praise and sotion. He was gd for the full ce of the jacket and gloves he'd redonned, which prevented any actal skin tact.

  Tyson had lost the fight, true, but he'd gained something far more valuable. He had learned about his powers aed what he was capable of. But one question remained.

  What would he do ?

  Behind the Ses

  - The ey of Arc 1 was reedited iember 2024

  - This se is directly inspired by the events of X-Men (2000)

  - Laughlin City is a fial pbsp;

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