1 Arc 1 - Ch 1: Laughlin City

The eighteen-wheeler barreled down the solitary road, its ominous headlights piercing through the curtain of darkness. It pulled up alongside a lone standing building; its only company was the parking lot filled with trucks and the surrounding alpine forest. The truck parked with an echoing groan, settling into a spot among its kind. The driver's door creaked open, and a pair of burly men climbed down from the cab.

From the other side, a young man clambered out. He squinted into the weak light of the truck stop as if emerging from a long slumber. His face was too lean and etched with lines of exhaustion. His hooded coat swallowed his thin frame, concealing the layers of mismatched clothing he wore underneath. He held the hallmark air of a runaway.

"Where are we?" His voice was hoarse, grating against the chilling wind.

One of the truckers, a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard, sneered at him, "This here's Laughlin City, kid. I told ya that's as far as we were goin'. You're on your own now."

He laughed. It was a deep, throaty sound that echoed into the twilight. His companion joined in, and without another glance, they ambled toward the building. The flickering neon sign indicated it was a bar. As they entered, their laughter was swallowed by the thrum of commotion inside. The doors swung shut behind them leaving the young man alone in the cold.

Tyson, the young man, stood rooted in place. Snowflakes danced around him, landing on his hair, and eye lashes. He stared at the bar, the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses made him feel even more alone. He squinted at the surroundings beyond the truck stop. Nothing. No other buildings, just an endless expanse of wilderness.

"Some city," he muttered, his breath visible against the biting cold. His eyes lingered on the bar for a moment longer before he squared his shoulders and trudged towards the doors.

Inside the bar, Tyson found himself swept up in a maelstrom of noise and tightly-packed bodies. The place was packed, primarily with men who had the hardened look of blue-collar locals. Their faces were like the landscape outside, worn and rugged. They gulped down beer and whiskey with abandon. Laughter roared from the back of the place, causing Tyson to crane his neck to see what was drawing the attention of the patrons. A rhythmic slap-thud resonated through the din, followed by a wave of cheering.

Tyson's curiosity was piqued. He shouldered his way through the swarm of bodies, following the strange sounds toward its source. Finally finding a break in the crowd, he maneuvered into a position with a clear view. A makeshift boxing ring stood in the back of the bar. It was crudely cordoned off by ropes and a freestanding cage. The area was illuminated by a single, dangling bulb, which lit the center of the ring but left the edges shadowed. Tyson watched as a man fell to the ground with a loud thud. His collapse was punctuated by the metallic clamor of a bell signaling the end of the fight. The crowd roared its approval as the victor retreated into the shadowy corner of the cage. The fallen fighter tried to pick himself up but fell flat.

Tyson was distracted from his thoughts by a gruff voice next to him, "Hey, ain't you going in? He's gotta be tired by now." He glanced towards the speaker, a burly man with scars across his face who was trying to goad his friend into fighting next. Tyson then turned back to the ring where the downed fighter was being hauled away by a couple of his friends. The winner, who was still shrouded in the shadows, sat nonchalantly on a stool; his only distinguishable feature was the beer bottle in his hand.

Just then, a figure emerged from the sidelines. The man held a microphone loosely in his calloused hands. "Gentlemen," his voice boomed over the commotion. "In all my years, I've never seen anything like this." The crowd erupted into cheers. Unfazed, the man continued, "Eight men have been dragged from this ring tonight." He gestured towards the enigmatic figure in the shadows. "Don't tell me you're going to let this man walk out of here with your money."

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

All eyes swiveled to the source of the challenge. A hulking man in a lumberjack jacket rose from his seat. The crowd cheered in unison as approval washed over the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our savior," the announcer mocked, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Unfazed by the attention of the crowd, the challenger shrugged off his jacket, and the fabric fell to the ground as he stepped into the ring.

The crowd around Tyson exploded into a frenzy as the man on the winning streak finally broke free from his dark corner, stepping into the slivers of light cast by the flickering bulb. He wasn't particularly big, especially when compared to his opponent. But his stature did nothing to diminish his presence. His arms rippled with a wiry strength, his knuckles were scarred and raw. He wore a simple, fitted white tank top and a pair of worn denim jeans. Hanging around his neck was a solitary silver dog tag, its surface was scratched and weathered. A shock of unkempt hair framed his face, leading into muttonchops. A pair of worn, leather boots completed his ensemble.

Tyson sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes widened in disbelief. He knew that face knew that hair. There was no mistaking it. It was Wolverine. But how was that even possible?

Confusion ran through his thoughts. This was no ordinary bar, no ordinary town, and certainly, that was no ordinary man. His heart pounded like a drum, each beat a question echoing in his mind. How? Why?

Recognition flashed in Tyson's eyes as pieces of the puzzle began to align themselves. He had seen this before, an echo of a superhero movie he'd watched long ago. The bar, the fights, Wolverine. It was all part of a script that had already been written. But there was a key character missing, someone integral to this narrative.

Rogue.

In the movie he remembered, the teenage mutant had run away from home after her powers first activated, ultimately finding her way to Canada. Yet scanning the crowd, he couldn't spot many women, and none were teenagers that resembled Rogue.

Then, a cold realization crashed over him like an icy wave, sending chills down his spine. The eighteen-wheeler, his worn-out clothes, the arrival at this particular bar in Canada. Was he... was he, Rogue?

Frantically, Tyson touched his face. He felt light stubble. Some relief washed over him at the sign he was still a man. To further confirm, he discreetly grasped himself. Thankfully, he still had all the working bits down below. He was still undoubtedly male. But what about the powers? He wondered if the winter gloves he'd been wearing all this while seemed to be more than appropriate winter wear.

Tyson removed one glove, exposing his bare hand. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and brushed his fingers against the arm of the nearest person; a man engrossed in the ongoing fight. The reaction was immediate, almost visceral. The man's muscular arm went rigid under his touch, and his face contorted in a silent scream. His eyes rolled back and his skin paled. The veins in his forehead bulged as though under immense pressure.

Tyson's world spun as the flood of information rushed into his mind. The man was named Hank, a rugged blue-collar worker from the sprawling plains of Alberta, Canada. Tyson suddenly knew the world from Hank's perspective.

He could smell the fresh, open air and feel the wide expanse of the prairie surrounding him. He saw a rustic log cabin, his home. The faces of a warm, loving family. His kind-hearted wife and two energetic children. He spent days working labor in the oil sands. He understood the intricacies of hydraulics and the mechanics of heavy drilling equipment. The hard, calloused textures of his hands were a familiar roughness. He knew the right way to handle hazardous materials, and could now drive a tractor, weld metal, and even repair a diesel engine.

His mind was filled with new sensations and knowledge. Suddenly, Tyson was back in the crowded bar, a jarring juxtaposition to the oil fields and open prairies he had just experienced. He glanced over at Hank, who was now on the ground, having fainted from Tyson's touch. Feeling an odd connection to the man he'd never truly met, Tyson quickly withdrew his hand and slipped further into the crowd, away from his unconscious victim. He shoved his glove back on, not wanting to risk inadvertently triggering his power. His mind raced as he grappled with the horrifying reality. If this was truly Rogue's power, then he was a mutant. If he remembered right, in this world, mutants weren't a secret subspecies that hid in the shadows. They were known by the public and considered by most to be a walking danger to those around them. In Tyson's case, the stereotype was true.

His thoughts were interrupted as the bell sounded, marking the start of the next round. The challenger wasted no time; his fist slammed into Wolverine's stomach while he still had the beer in his hand. The crowd erupted in cheers as the short mutant doubled over, only for the larger man to land a second punch squarely on his face. The challenger shook his hand, grimacing, as if he'd just hit a wall instead of flesh and bone. But, he continued fighting, landing two swift kicks to Wolverine's midsection. A third kick was aimed lower. It earned a collective "oooh" from the spectators as it landed right between Wolverine's legs.

With a low growl, Wolverine rose to his feet. As the challenger threw another punch, Wolverine met it with his fist. The impact sounded with a sickening crunch. The crowd gasped as the challenger's hand and wrist visibly contorted, snapping under the force. The big man staggered back, a low scream tearing from his lips. Wolverine wasted no time. He lunged forward, landing another solid punch to the gut before his head smashed into the challenger's face in a vicious headbutt. The challenger's body hit the floor like a ragdoll, his eyes rolling back as he passed out.

The bar erupted into cheers. The announcer stepped forward once more; his eyes held a glint that seemed to feed off the crowd's anticipation. "Anyone else up for the challenge?" he bellowed, "Anyone brave enough to take on the Wolverine?"

Before Tyson could think too much about it, before his logical side could wrestle control back, he heard his voice echoing through the bar. "I'll fight."

The cheers around him swelled louder as the crowd parted to let him through. He made his way toward the ring and stripped off his jacket, then his shirt; leaving him standing in just his worn jeans and battered Nike shoes. He was a stark contrast to Wolverine. The mutant stood only 5'3" with pale skin.

Tyson was darker, with a rich, brown skin tone. He was taller at 5'10" but his physique was emaciated. Toned and chiseled, but gaunt, evidence of his runaway status. Tyson's face was reasonably handsome but rugged from the road. His face was framed by an unkempt goatee that accentuated his strong jawline and a pair of intense brown eyes. His hair, once a neat fade, was edging closer to afro at this point.

The crowd roared in approval as he climbed into the ring, each cheer igniting a thrill of exhilaration in him. Challenging Wolverine was insanity, he knew that. But maybe he could leverage his new power to his advantage.

The announcer seemed energized by the audience's fevered anticipation. He wasted no time in hyping up the fight. "Once again, the unstoppable Wolverine!" He paused for dramatic effect, his gaze turning towards Tyson. "And introducing, the dashing Rogue!"

A mix of cheers and laughter swept through the crowd at the audacious title, but Tyson paid little mind to the comments or the ironic moniker. With a deep breath, he settled into his best mimicry of a boxer's stance.

Across the ring, Wolverine looked him over, a trace of amusement danced in his eyes. "Okay, kid," he said, his voice barely audible above the clamor. "I'll give you the first shot, but it's the only freebie you're going to get."

For a moment, Tyson considered his words. An open invitation to strike first? It was a golden opportunity. Instead of aiming a punch at Wolverine's face as he'd expected, Tyson decided to use his newly discovered power to his advantage. He charged and wrapped his arms around the smaller man in a bear hug.

It was like being hit by a freight train of memories, knowledge, experiences, and most of all, pain. A floodgate of a century'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 comrades. He endured the excruciating Adamantium procedure that transformed him into a virtually indestructible weapon. He was in a covert operation, infiltrating enemy lines and facing 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, Victor Creed, who brought feelings of rage and rivalry. Every fight, every wound he had ever endured, he felt them all. He experienced the phenomenal healing factor, the wounds closing up as swiftly as they appeared. He could feel the strength provided by the unyielding Adamantium within his bones, the repetitive sting of claws springing forth from his knuckles. But there was more; mastery in various forms of combat, his agility, and his uncanny stealth. He was an expert martial artist, a formidable hand-to-hand combatant, and a skilled swordsman. He saw himself wielding a sword in a Japanese dojo, moving with a fluidity and precision he'd never known. He could feel his senses amplified to a superhuman level, every smell, sound, and movement in the world around him pronounced with crystal clarity.

Tyson clung on through the onslaught of memories. His arms squeezed around Wolverine, desperate to maintain the skin-on-skin contact that was crucial to his new power. Tyson could feel the energy transferring from Wolverine to himself. He had no idea how long he could maintain his grip or the consequences, but he was betting on the element of surprise. This was his best chance, perhaps his only chance, to hold his ground.

In an explosive movement, Wolverine forced Tyson back. Laying on his back, he used his powerful legs, propelling Tyson away and breaking the intimate contact. But the damage was already done. His brief struggle to escape Tyson's grasp had taken more out of him than any of the previous fighter's attacks. He staggered a bit, momentarily off-balance. As for Tyson, the energy coursing through his veins felt like an electric shock, jumpstarting his every cell. The hollow feeling of malnourishment, and the lingering lethargy from a presumed life on the road, was replaced by a wave of rejuvenation. More importantly, his mind was flooded with a surge of new memories, experiences, and skills. Wolverine's memories. He knew more about fighting now that he'd absorbed the man's technique. The knowledge felt as natural to him as if he'd spent his entire life training. Stepping forward once more, Tyson adopted an improved stance, one that showcased his newly acquired fighting skills. His eyes locked onto Wolverine's, and with a smirk, he made a 'come hither' gesture, taunting the wild man into attacking him.

Wolverine responded with a speed and ferocity that made Tyson instantly regret his decision. His punch connected with the force of a runaway vehicle. Tyson was sent sprawling with stars exploding behind his eyelids. He could hear the crowd cheering, their collective voices added to the ringing in his ears.

Tyson clambered to his feet, tasting blood in his mouth. He may have absorbed Wolverine's powers and skills, but he did not have the man's adamantium skeleton. Every punch from Wolverine was a crushing blow, evidence of the man's heavy metal frame. Tyson spat out blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Round one may have gone to Wolverine, but the fight was far from over.

The ring became a stage for a brutal battle. Every punch landed brought the crowd to their feet. The harsh, guttural sounds of the fight echoed through the dimly lit bar. Sweat and blood splattered across the ring, as the battle unfolded. Both men seemed to shrug off the damage inflicted by their opponent almost as soon as it occurred. Each blow was quickly followed by the knitting of skin, the mending of muscle tissue, and the dulling of pain.

The stalemate persisted, neither gaining a distinct advantage. But as minutes stretched on, Tyson's guard slipped, just for a moment, but that was all Wolverine needed. Like a predator pouncing on a weak spot, he struck. The blow landed heavily on Tyson's temple.

Tyson's eyes rolled back and his body went limp as he crumpled to the ground.

The crowd erupted in cheers. This was the longest fight yet. They had hoped that the newcomer would finally put down the Wolverine. But instead of being disappointed they were hyped from the nearly even battle.

The fight was over. Wolverine had won. But even as Tyson lay unconscious in the ring, his body already began to heal. Before anyone could drag him out of the ring, Tyson regained consciousness. He stood and moved to regain his clothes before anyone accidentally touched his skin.

Tyson had given everything he had to the fight. It hadn't been enough to beat Wolverine, but he'd gained something more valuable than a fleeting victory in the makeshift boxing ring. He'd learned more about his powers, about his capabilities, about his resilience. Stolen healing powers were still coursing through his veins, making him whole again, knitting together his wounds, and healing his bruises as he staggered back onto his feet. He swayed slightly, disoriented from the heavy blow, but his body felt surprisingly good. The aches and pains were gone, replaced with an energy he hadn't felt before. He ran a hand along his face and through his hair, feeling the absence of the injuries. Every welt and cut had disappeared. It was as if he'd not fought at all.

The crowd cheered, and several men clapped him on the back as he exited the ring. Tyson was glad for the full coverage of his jacket and gloves which prevented his power from being exposed.

Now that he knew what and where he was. The question remained. What would he do next?