The night wind swept across the wheat field, carrying the damp scent of wet earth.
Heavy, rain-soaked ears of wheat drooped low, gleaming silver-gray in the moonlight.
The ruins of the barn looked like a skeleton chewed on by a giant beast.
Charred wooden beams stuck diagonally into the mud, their splintered ends still wisping faint trails of dark smoke.
Shattered reflections of the night sky flickered in muddy puddles, while a few remaining sheets of corrugated iron on the roof creaked softly in the wind.
Rock pushed against his knees and slowly pulled himself up, mud dripping from his faded work pants.
He narrowed his eyes, studying the man who had suddenly appeared in the moonlight.
The man had dropped down from a high rafter and was now leaning against the half-destroyed wall of the barn, a nearly burnt-out cigarette dangling from his lips.
The orange glow cast deep shadows across his weathered face.
He wore a battered leather jacket, open at the collar to reveal a broad, muscular chest.
Taking a deep drag, the night wind stirred the graying tips of his hair, but the smoke he exhaled lingered slowly in the moonlit air.
He stood there in quiet silence, radiating an aura of total isolation—like an old wolf that had roamed alone for far too many years.
Logan.
Wolverine.
Rock wiped the muddy water from his face and suddenly smiled.
“Looks like tonight is full of non-stop surprises.”
The man didn’t answer right away.
He simply snuffed out the cigarette stub between his bare fingers and casually tossed it to the ground.
His eyes glinted with complex emotions under the moonlight, as if he were scrutinizing Rock while simultaneously looking past him into a far distant past.
“I followed a tug inside me to get here.”
“Clearly…”
“You seem to know who I am?” he finally spoke, his voice raspy.
“Are you…
not from this The World either?”
Rock shook his head, mud dripping from the tips of his hair.
“I’m just a corn farmer, mister.”
Logan narrowed his eyes, taking in the mud-caked farmer in front of him.
From his mud-covered work boots to his unnaturally calm eyes in the moonlight…
*Aside from your clothes, how do you look anything like a farmer?
What kind of farmer throws sticks of dynamite around and blows a monster made of faux-Adamantium into pieces?*
A subtle silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft rustle of wheat stalks in the breeze.
“Hmph.”
“Whatever you say, kid.”
With a scoff, Logan fished another cigarette out from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, then pulled out a vintage Zippo lighter with a slight scowl.
He flicked open the cap and struck the wheel hard with his thumb—
*Click, click…*
Only a few weak sparks flickered in the damp air.
“Fuck!”
He swore under his breath, pressing down harder.
A tiny flame sprouted, only to vanish instantly in a puff of gray smoke.
Coughing awkwardly, Logan shoved the lighter back into his pocket.
“…Damned weather.”
“Got a light, farmer?”
Rock spread his mud-caked hands, revealing a soggy box of matches.
That was what he had used to light the dynamite earlier, but now…
the box was thoroughly soaked.
“Tch.”
Shoving the cigarette back into its crumpled pack, Logan muttered irritably, “What year is it anyway?
How do you not even have a decent lighter—”
His complaining cut off abruptly.
His eyes snapped toward the distant wheat field.
The night wind carried the faint, rhythmic chug of a diesel engine.
Someone was driving a tractor over.
“Looks like your friends are here.”
Logan looked down at the puddle of silver liquid dissolving into smoke, his voice dropping low and serious.
“This organization is far more dangerous than you think.
They’re like a pack of jackals that caught the scent of blood…”
“If anyone comes investigating tonight…”
*Snikt!*
A pair of alloy claws popped out from his knuckles, gleaming with a cold metallic sheen in the moonlight.
“Tell them a weirdo calling himself ‘Wolverine’ saved you.”
He turned and strode toward the open barn doorway, the hem of his leather jacket flapping in the night wind.
“Stay away from those lunatics, kid.”
“They’re more trouble than all the wheat on your farm combined.”
*He’s leaving just like that?*
Watching Wolverine’s retreating back, Rock raised his voice.
“Wait!”
“What did you mean earlier by ‘not from this The World’?”
Logan paused.
The moonlight stretched his shadow long across the muddy ground, casting a lonely silhouette.
He fell silent for a few seconds before speaking without turning around:
“You ever seen a talking rock monster, kid?
Or…
a purple-skinned yam man?”
The night wind blew across the open space between them, carrying the fresh scent of post-rain wheat.
“I’m looking for an asshole.”
“He dumped us in the wrong The World, and now I can’t find my way home.”
Logan’s voice suddenly sounded bone-weary, but then…
“And he got me locked up in a lab for another four or five years just to recreate that damned Adamantium!
I swear to fucking God…!”
“Anyway, I’m gonna fuck up his…
and then…!”
“Motherfucker…
that curly-haired piece of shit…!”
As if suppressing his rage for far too long, Logan growled out a string of furious, censors-worthy expletives.
After venting his frustration, Logan took a deep breath, looking much more relieved.
He looked back at Rock and shrugged.
“Satisfied with that answer now, Mr.
Farmer?”
“Dad!”
“Rock!”
Before Rock could reply, the frantic shouts of Dio and Jonathan’s family drifted over from the distance, accompanied by the sweeping beams of pickup truck headlights bouncing through the wheat field.
Giving Rock one final glance, Logan turned and melted into the darkness.
“Remember my words.”
His voice drifted through the night air.
“It’s important.”
A few stray ears of wheat drifted down in the wind.
The weary man was gone, leaving behind only deep footprints in the mud and a half-smoked cigar stub that was still faintly glowing.
Shaking his head, Rock withdrew his gaze and shouted back toward the light beams:
“Dio!”
“Jonathan!
Martha!”
“I’m over here!”
*Screech—!*
The pickup slammed to a stop beside the ruins, its headlights illuminating the shiny metal fragments scattered across the ground.
Dio was the first to jump out.
He practically threw himself forward, crashing into Rock’s arms.
The boy wrapped his arms tightly around his father’s waist, his mud-splattered face buried in Rock’s chest, his shoulders trembling slightly.
“I’m fine, you brat.”
Rock rubbed Dio’s wet hair, his fingers tangling through a few stray wheat stalks.
“You drove that tractor pretty well today!”
“Rock!” Martha rushed forward, her apron still dusted with flour—she had clearly run out in a hurry.
Her hands trembled as she checked him over for injuries.
“God, do you know how terrified we were?
Dio brought a weak, sickly Clark over, drove the tractor straight up to our front porch, and even flipped it into the pond!
Dio told us not to go outside, but he wouldn’t tell us what happened!”
“Rock, where are those bastards?!”
Jonathan followed right behind her, wielding an old hunting shotgun.
His gaze swept across the shattered barn and landed on the metal debris scattered all over the ground, his brows furrowing into a tight knot.
“Is it those bastards from the IRS again?!”
“…”
Rock couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
*My brother Jonathan…
is your grudge against the IRS even deeper than mine?*