Thud… Thud… CRACK.
The sound of fists slamming into padded mats echoed through the underground gym.
Dimly lit, the space was filled with the rhythmic beat of controlled violence—Logan's growled instructions cutting through the heavy silence as Raven flipped backward, trying to avoid his sweeping leg.
"Better," he muttered before straightening up from his low stance. "But you're still slow."
Raven landed lightly, her chest rising and falling with exertion. "I thought you said I was improving."
"You are," Logan said, "But not enough."
Her eyes narrowed, and with a low growl, she lunged at him—throwing a rapid combo of three jabs and a spin-kick. Logan leaned back just enough, evading the blows with almost lazy precision, his feet sliding smoothly over the mat.
He caught her final kick under his arm, twisted, and sent her sprawling to the floor with a soft thud.
"Damn it," she hissed while rolling to her feet.
Logan didn't even look winded. His sweatpants and sleeveless shirt hung loose on his frame.
"Your problem isn't your technique," he said calmly, "It's your mind."
Raven scowled. "What does that mean?"
"You're splitting your focus," Logan replied. "You're concentrating on maintaining that form of yours—this… pretty face and smooth skin. Every punch you throw, you're also telling your body to keep looking like someone you're not. That slows your reactions. Drains your awareness."
He took a step toward her, voice low but firm. "If you're not fighting as yourself, you're already losing."
Raven's fists clenched. "I'm just more comfortable like this."
Logan tilted his head. "Comfort's an illusion. The real world doesn't give a damn about comfort. You want power? You want control? Accept who you are first."
She hesitated. Her breath caught in her throat.
Logan continued, quieter now. "If you can't accept yourself... how the hell do you expect the world to?"
The words lingered.
Raven blinked slowly—and then, almost reluctantly, her skin began to shift. Scales shimmered into existence. Blonde hair turned crimson. Her eyes turned golden and feline, and the elegant, symmetrical human face gave way to her true form—the sleek, fierce beauty of Mystique.
She stood there and took a deep breath.
Logan smiled faintly and nodded.
"Now," he said before stepping back onto the mat. "Again. And this time... don't hold back."
Their bodies collided in motion.
Raven lunged first—her movement smoother, sharper now that she wasn't suppressing herself. She feinted a right hook, dropped low with a spinning heel-kick. Logan blocked it with his forearm and responded with a low sweep toward her left leg.
She jumped over it, twisting in midair—her foot swinging down like an axe. Logan pivoted, deflecting it with his shoulder and using her own momentum to grab her arm and throw her over his hip.
She hit the mat and rolled smoothly, flipping to her feet.
"Much better," Logan said while grinning.
They circled each other, both crouched low, arms loose.
Raven dashed forward with a burst of speed—three precise jabs, followed by a sudden elbow aimed at his temple. Logan ducked under and answered with a shoulder ram that drove her back two steps, but she recovered fast and countered with a jumping roundhouse.
He caught her ankle mid-air—and in a blink, twisted and used her momentum to drop her again.
But this time, before she could recover, Logan slid behind her and locked his arms around her from behind, pinning her in a hold that immobilized both arms and upper body.
"Gotcha," he whispered in her ear.
Raven growled and struggled, but he held firm—not with brute force, but perfect leverage.
And then, gently, Logan spoke again.
"You're beautiful like this... now," he said, voice quiet but sincere. "This is the real you. Don't hide under false beauty. The world's full of masks. Yours doesn't need to be one of them."
Raven's breathing hitched. She stopped resisting. "You think this… is beautiful?" she asked quietly.
Logan loosened his grip and stepped back. "I know it is."
For a moment, the room was still.
Raven turned slowly, her expression unreadable. Her golden eyes shimmered, not with tears, but something deeper.
She raised her fists again.
"Well then," she smirked. "One more round before we call it off?"
Logan chuckled before rolling his shoulders. "Now you're talking."
They clashed again.
Raven now moved with complete fluidity, her confidence no longer fragmented. She dodged and weaved, every strike having real intention—raw but refined. Logan still had the edge—his centuries of combat experience, endless sparring, and brutal field lessons giving him the upper hand—but Raven no longer fought like someone hiding.
She fought like herself.
And for Logan, that made some difference.
-------------
From a darkened hallway near the gym entrance, Hank stood silently, a small white box cradled in his hands. He'd come looking for Raven to give her something—something he'd worked on all week, modifying a stabilizer module to help her when she transformed.
But when he saw them—Logan's honest smile… Raven's laughter echoing through the gym… her real form shining through—he didn't interrupt.
The light from the hallway didn't touch him, but his eyes held sadness… and something heavier. Acceptance.
With a breath, Hank turned quietly and walked down the corridor, not disturbing them.
He reached Raven's room moments later and stood outside for a long time.
Then, without knocking, he placed the box gently on her nightstand through the open door—a note tucked underneath it.
> "For when you're ready to be yourself—fully.
—Hank"
He looked back once… then walked away in silence, the shadows swallowing his footsteps.
-------------
Two days later.
The silence of morning was replaced by the low thrum of boots hitting the metal floor as everyone made their way toward the underground lab.
They were ready. Today was the day—the D-Day. The moment everything would change.
Raven walked at the front, proudly in her natural blue form, her yellow eyes focused and sharp. Behind her came Darwin, Sean, Alex, Erik, Charles, and Moira. Logan brought up the rear, hands in his jacket pockets.
As they arrived outside the lab, they noticed a hastily pinned note on the door in Hank's handwriting:
> "I'll be at the dock. Blackbird is ready. Suit up and get down here."
–Hank
Charles frowned and tore it open. He pushed into the lab—and stopped.
The room was wrecked.
Tables were overturned, glass shattered, cables hanging like vines from the ceiling. A panel sparked in the back, the air still thick with ozone and chemical residue.
Alex stepped in after. "What the hell happened here?"
Erik scanned the room, "This place became a mess."
Sean blinked in disbelief. "What the hell... did a tornado come through?"
Logan was the last to enter. He didn't look surprised. In fact, he looked almost... expectant.
He was ready. After a full week of relentless training, his claws had been put through hell and back. Under Charles and Hank's supervision, he had tested them against every material imaginable—slicing through reinforced steel, iron, tempered alloys, and experimental compounds. They had been burned in fire, dipped in acid, even shattered and regrown time and time again. Each cycle pushed the limits of his claws, but with every regeneration, his claws came back tougher, sharper, and more resilient than before.
Now, as he knew one thing with certainty, He could cut through most of the metals on Earth, except Vibranium, Adamantium etc.
Charles made his way to the back and opened a steel crate with an X-mark on the lid. Inside were rows of yellow and black suits, neatly folded.
Sean raised an eyebrow. "We're supposed to wear those?"
Charles smiled slightly. "Better these than being riddled with bullets."
Logan peeked over his shoulder. "Yeah... hard pass. I heal, remember? I'm good with holes. Let the bullets fly."
Those suits look cooler in the comics. In real life? Not so much.
Nobody argued.
One by one, the others took the suits and went to change, except Logan, who remained in his own clothes.
-----------------
A few minutes later, they stepped out onto the upper deck near the launch hangar, where the sleek, jet-black prototype Blackbird stood parked—an angular beast of steel and stealth.
Raven glanced around, "Where's Hank?"
A voice echoed from the hangar's shadows. "Right here."
They turned as Hank emerged—his appearance transformed. No longer the timid scientist. His body was now covered in thick blue fur, yet agile, powerful, almost feline in grace.
Everyone stared, stunned.
Darwin muttered, "Holy crap…"
Sean took a step back. "Hank?"
Hank stepped forward calmly. "The serum didn't suppress the gene," he said. "It enhanced it."
Charles looked both awed and concerned. "So... you're saying—?"
"I was trying to make a serum that would help control the mutation," Hank said. "But instead... it amplified it. Unlocked everything I'd been holding back."
Logan eyed him curiously. "You got any left?"
Hank raised an eyebrow. "You want to take it?"
"Sure. Why not?" Logan shrugged. "I need every edge I can get."
Darwin looked at him like he'd gone mad. "You want to inject something that might blow you up from the inside?"
Logan just grinned. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Hank eyed Raven and shook his head. "No more left. And honestly, I wouldn't recommend it for you. With your healing factor, the effects could multiply uncontrollably. If it triggers cellular overdrive… well, it could be permanent. Or worse."
Logan paused, then sighed. "Alright. Worth asking."
Hank added, "From now on, I'll be focusing on stability. Not enhancement."
Alex chuckled. "Dude… you look like a freakin' beast."
He smirked. "That's it. That's your name now—Beast."
Before more could be said, Moira walked up, flanked by someone new.
"Everyone," Moira said firmly, "meet our newest ally."
All heads turned.
Walking beside her, calm and poised, was Emma Frost—white coat, confident expression, and diamond-hard gaze.
There was a brief silence... then the sound of metal bending.
Erik took a threatening step forward, hand raised as the deck around Emma vibrated faintly.
"I should end you where you stand," he growled.
"Erik, stop!" Charles stepped between them, his tone commanding.
"You brought her?" Erik hissed. "She's with Shaw."
Charles turned to Moira. "What is this? Why is she here?"
Moira remained calm. "It wasn't my decision. Orders from higher up. She's cooperating now."
Emma stepped forward, unflinching. "You can read my mind if you want. I'm here to help stop Shaw."
Charles narrowed his eyes, scanning her thoughts. There was no deception, no trickery.
"She's telling the truth," Charles finally said. "Her loyalty is... complicated. But right now, it aligns with ours."
Emma folded her arms. "Shaw's plan is more dangerous than you know."
The group listened as she continued. "Right now, U.S. and Soviet fleets are converging near Cuba. One shot—just one—and it's war. Both sides believe the other will fire first. Shaw is hiding in a nuclear-powered submarine, ready to attack and push the world into chaos. He's manipulating Russian command to cross the red line."
"And once they do," she added, "missiles will fly. There'll be no turning back."
The silence was heavy.
Emma's voice softened. "You don't have to trust me. But you can't do this alone. You need every weapon you can get."
Charles exhaled. "You can come. But I'll be watching you closely."
Emma nodded. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
As the group prepared to board the Blackbird, Logan stood at the edge of the deck, arms crossed.
He muttered under his breath, "Fucking hell... the plot's gone to hell."
But still, he stepped forward with them—ready to face whatever came next.