Logan was staring contemplatively at something in the distance, far off the isolated patio of the mansion, which he had claimed so that he could sulk in peace. Or, at least, the rest of the X-men said he was sulking. Really, he was listening, clearing his head by getting some distance from the often overwhelming closeness of the people and smells and conversations in the mansion. When left alone, he could listen at his leisure, and take in a lot more. No gossip or telepath in the house knew more than Logan about the emotional and social states of everyone in the mansion. It was instinct; these people had somehow become his pack, and it was important to be aware of their moods, their strengths and weaknesses, their loose threads and snags and triggers. Sulking? Hell, in this house full of mutants, he was taking inventory of the armory and making note of the state of each and every weapon at his disposal.
He was listening to an argument between Jubilee––shrill, that one––and Bobby, the dueling pranksters. One day, they would escalate their competition and the comedic chaos to follow would truly be a sight to behold; that was part of why Logan was careful to listen to the sound of their arguments, if only to know when to put himself out of humiliation’s way. So he was mildly surprised when Scott opened the Patio door, obviously looking for Logan.
“There you are.”
Logan set his cigar down next to the ashtray he’d gotten all too easily used to looking for now; it unsettled him sometimes when he realized he was getting borderline domesticated. Scott was not a healthy reminder of that, and Logan growled at him. “Whaddyou want, Scooter?”
Scott had a stack of newly-arrived letters in his hand, and lifted a particularly thick FedEx envelope, the gesture in tandem with the way his eyebrows raised from behind his ruby shades: illustrating blatant surprise. “Mail for you.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “And it’s not explosive?”
Scott shook his head. “FexEx guy dropped it trying to hand it to me. No explosions.”
Logan sat back in his chair with an incredulous look on his face. “How do you know it’s even mine, then?”
With a small tisk of exasperation, Scott finally marched over and thrust the envelope into Logan’s hands. “You’re the only ‘Wolverine’ around here.”
Logan was staring in open suspicion at the envelope, ignoring the huff Scott strode off in as easily as he ignored the sound of the patio door being tugged shut just a little too sharply. The address was handwritten, but he didn’t recognize the writing. It smelled like a delivery truck: unhelpful. Unsheathing a claw, Logan cut a slit at one end and gently tipped out the contents of the envelope onto the patio table next to the ashtray and his cigar, which seemed to have gone out.
A letter, two CD’s, and...a wedding band: gold, simple, masculine. Logan knew without looking that it would fit him perfectly. He also knew that he had seen it before. He could feel the press of memories, but could not grab them or identify them. Tentatively, he picked up the ring and stared at it. There was an engraving on the inside, an elegantly scripted name: Howlett.
That’s my name, don’t wear it out, Logan thought reflexively, almost absently. Then he stopped and felt his breathing hitch. That...that’s my fuckin’ name. His last name, which he hadn’t known until he’d seen it.
Logan sniffed at the inside of the envelope and caught the faint scent of someone: a woman, leather, exhaust fumes, pine, and mold. He never took his eyes off the ring, even as he set down the envelope and groped for the letter, which smelled a little more strongly like the woman. It was an effort to tear his eyes from the engraved name in order to open and read it.
It was short, and to the point:
Logan,
That is your real name––Logan James Howlett; although the records I’ve found seem to vary, calling you Logan James, or just James. I’m still not quite sure why...
Logan had to stop, just for a moment. With a pang, like a sharp headache, he knew why. “My records were messed up when we moved out of Quebec to Ontario. I didn’t have a birth certificate and there was a mix-up. They thought James was my first name and Logan was my father.” The nostalgia was painful, literally, and blinded Logan for a few moments. Once his vision returned he looked up, lifting his head off of the table, and slowly unclenched his fist, straightening out the letter in his hands. His fingers only trembled a little, but it was more than Logan was comfortable with.
Years of searching for his past, and all it took were a few words, some bizarre honesty, and he can remember, even if it feels like his head is splitting open, maybe Magneto ripping the adamantium apart. Logan kept reading.
I’ve sent you copies of the records, on the disks. They’re encrypted, and you need a username and password to open it. I picked something for a password that I’m quite sure only you’ll guess: numbers you keep close to your heart. The username...well. You saw the ring.
And on the subject of the ring...she’s not alive. You didn’t abandon anyone, and needn’t worry about that. The details, at least the few I’ve found so far, are in the documents on the disk.
From a friend,
Rogue
Logan took a deep breath and re-folded the letter, putting it in his breast pocket. His fingers brushed his dogtag and froze. “Oh. That’s what she meant. Smartass.” Logan glanced at the tag, at the numbers he had pretty well damned memorized.
His head was spinning, but her was calm. The overwhelming sense that the world was crumbling under his feet and hurtling into a violent tailspin, was such a familiar feeling to Logan that he felt most at his element, most clear-headed and capable, within its cold clutches.
He picked up the two disks. Two keys to parts of his past he’d been hunting for nearly three decades, now.
“I need a computer.”
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