"Wolverine is fighting a clone of himself, and thanks to the intervention of a local farmer, the clone has been gravely wounded," Nathan muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing with a glint of calculation. He leaned back in the creaky motel chair, one hand gripping his phone as he scanned the sparse details on a hacker-forum post.
"This is my opportunity," he said to himself, his voice calm but brimming with resolve. "The clone is at its weakest. If I move quickly, I might be able to capture him."
He clenched his fist. "If I can secure the clone, I can extract the regenerative factor from his system. If I study it carefully and replicate it, then my dream of a perfected healing ability—without the drawbacks—might just be within reach."
Nathan's plan was clear. No Adamantium injections, no reckless body modifications, and certainly no tampering with genetically modified junk. He wanted the pure, stable version of that miraculous healing factor—refined and optimized.
"Survival is the key," he reminded himself. "As long as I'm alive, there's potential. Infinite potential."
Without wasting time, Nathan hit the road, speeding his motorcycle toward Oklahoma City. The hum of the engine was the only sound cutting through the silence of the night. The cold wind pressed against his face as the skyline loomed into view.
Once in the city, he scoped out the area. He chose a strategic location near a central intersection, bordered by several prominent casinos and entertainment hubs. His reasoning was simple—casinos meant people, and people meant information.
He found a seat at a coffee stall just beside the largest casino complex. His phone in hand, he browsed the local news, looking for anything that might hint at Wolverine's whereabouts or unusual occurrences nearby.
Then it hit.
A sudden, deafening hum surged through the air—like a sonic wave but deeper, more primal, more terrifying.
Nathan's entire body seized. His limbs locked, his breath caught mid-exhale, and his phone slipped from his fingers, clattering silently onto the pavement.
"Professor X... he's lost control!"
The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. His surroundings blurred, colors dimming as invisible energy swept through the area like a storm. Nathan's body refused to obey him, and for a terrifying moment, he was paralyzed—trapped in his own skin.
And yet...
He could move. Just barely.
A finger twitched. Then another.
While the average person—hell, even most mutants—would be completely immobilized under Charles Xavier's uncontrolled psychic blast, Nathan was still partially functional.
"Wait—why am I still able to move?"
His thoughts churned through the pain and confusion. Wolverine had famously resisted psychic assaults, possibly due to the Adamantium shielding his skull, or perhaps the regenerative factor itself. But Nathan had none of that. So why?
And then it clicked.
"The Super Soldier Serum..."
"That's it! It didn't just enhance my muscles and reflexes—it strengthened my mind. My willpower."
Nathan had survived excruciating pain during the transformation. The kind of pain that broke lesser men. It had shattered him mentally, then rebuilt him into something stronger.
"My will... has been tempered like steel."
That mental resilience was what gave him a degree of natural resistance to psychic influence. It wasn't on Wolverine's level, but it was there. Tangible. Useful.
This wasn't something he had planned for—but it was an invaluable discovery.
Before he could reflect any further, the psychic pressure abruptly vanished. Nathan gasped as control of his limbs returned in a rush, and his thoughts cleared.
"That must mean Wolverine sedated Professor X..." he whispered, breathing hard.
He stood slowly and glanced over the casino's outer wall. Just beyond it lay a modest housing block—the only nearby location suitable for hiding people. That's where Wolverine and Professor X had to be.
Nathan wasted no time. He jumped on his bike and sped toward the compound.
But when he got there... they were already gone.
The street was silent except for the humming of distant neon signs. He parked his bike and observed from the shadows. Moments later, a convoy of black vehicles arrived.
"Essex Group mercenaries..."
He recognized the logo on their vehicles immediately. The Essex Corporation had long been involved in shady mutant experiments and was known for using cybernetically enhanced agents.
From one of the vans stepped Donald, the group's chief enforcer—a brute of a man with a cybernetic arm and a reputation for brutality. Nathan watched as Donald pounded on a van door and shouted something unintelligible.
"They missed Wolverine. They're angry—and probably chasing him."
Nathan's eyes narrowed. He didn't need to catch Wolverine himself. All he had to do was follow Donald's team. They had a bloodhound—Caliban, a mutant with the ability to track other mutants within a twenty-mile radius.
"They'll lead me straight to Wolverine... and more importantly, to X-24."
Nathan kept his profile low. He leaned against a nearby wall, pretending to browse his phone like an idle passerby. But his eyes never left the Essex convoy.
After some tense minutes, the engines started again.
The vehicles pulled out of the parking lot and headed north. Nathan mounted his bike, waiting until the last van had turned the corner before tailing them at a cautious distance.
For hours, he followed them across back roads and deserted highways. The darkness of night swallowed everything around him, save for the distant glow of the convoy's brake lights.
Then, without warning, one car peeled off from the group, accelerating down a side road.
Nathan slowed down, observing. "Why the sudden separation? What's their objective?"
Still, he made a quick decision. Donald's van remained in the main convoy, and so did Caliban. The key players were still together.
"Stick to the plan," he muttered, increasing speed slightly to keep pace without closing the gap.
After about ten more minutes, the convoy rolled to a halt near a quiet, isolated farmhouse, hidden behind a tree line and barely lit from the inside.
Nathan pulled over well before the final turn. He switched off his bike, crouched low, and moved silently through the brush. The air was cool and still, filled only with the chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of wind-blown leaves.
And then... he heard it.
"CHARLES!"
The voice tore through the night. Raw. Grieving. Wolverine.
Nathan froze in place, jaw clenched.
"No..."
That tone—so full of pain—could mean only one thing.
Professor X was dead.
"It's already happened. The clone must've struck," Nathan whispered, his stomach tightening with dread.
He crouched behind a fallen log, trying to absorb the gravity of the moment.
"That was fast... too fast." He thought they had more time. Thought there'd be more warning.
But reality didn't wait. Not in this world.
From his hidden vantage point, he watched as the mercenaries began sweeping the farmhouse. Searchlights cut through the darkness, and mechanical arms clicked and reloaded.
The Essex team was preparing for something big.
Nathan took a slow, measured breath.
"No turning back now."
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