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Miles feels out of place for having bright white fur in a world of darkness. Different. Unknown. Alone. He hears nothing. He sees nothing. He feels nothing out of his body. Is he nothing? Certainly not. Or so he hopes. Not like his father though. Their fur alone distinguishes them. And in his father's black fur casts a long shadow that he will always find himself enshrouded under.

That's where Miles is. He paces around first, unsure why he is, and then runs. His heart beating fast out of worry. To disappoint? To amount to nothing? Possibly. He has no powers, the whispers say. He is weak, a bully told him in his younger years.

Miles is nothing, he says to himself. Tears flow down from his eyes as he stops in his tracks. The white wolf shudders in this cold truth. Proof where his hands do not wield any ounce of power as a son of one well known.

The realization, however, makes the shadows vanish. Gone. He is no longer in his father's shadow and the cold sensation lingers still. Miles looks around frantically, weary and fearful. Something is there. And whatever it is brings an unspoken message– a reckoning.

A manifesting darkness in the shape of a winged beast flies over him. Miles ascertains that the cold comes from it. And like the winds that blow through autumn, a howl follows it too. Unlike a wolf's, untamed, and unnatural. There is no resolve within the wolf to face it. Reckoning, however, does not care about one's resolve.

The winged beast lands, bringing with it a strong gust and tumultuous shrieks. Miles can see its scales shine in this empty plane, and can smell the ash despite the emanating frost. His own fur begins to stand, veins feeling this shock that was not here until it approaches him.

"What are you?!" Miles steps back as he brings his fists up. His tail tucks itself between his legs, looking around in desperation for anyone who can help him. Because the beast only grows larger with every step until it is thrice his height.

The beast prowls like a feral beast, growling with its snout only inches away from the smaller wolf. It has done nothing but his prey froze in fear of its presence, "I am tomorrow." It spreads its wings, twice its own size, and from them comes forth the wind and its howl.

Miles brings his arms closer to himself as he tries to fight the cold. He closes against it, but he catches a glimpse of his fur prickling and frosting. He tries to think of his father and when he raises his head to yell for help, no voice escapes him.

This world is now engulfed in the beast's darkness instead, where the laws of physics are made to obey it. This wolf looks around, afraid as he tries to run nowhere. And he stops when he no longer can, his posture staggering and unable to keep himself upright.

Miles is short of breath, bringing his arms up against the unknown face of this enemy. That jolt of power gnaws at his legs once again, rising through his body. His veins are ablaze, hot enough that in the cold exterior he may have mistook it for frostbite. This stinging sensation clouds his fatigue, and this pain induces adrenaline. The beating of his chest is rapid, chest rising and sinking at second intervals. And that's when it clicks, with his eyes darting up above him, eye-to-eye with the beast's face.

The young wolf catches this creature off guard, surprises it even with his sudden glare. But he does not expect it to lunge at him at breakneck speeds. Instinct tells him to lift up his arms, so he does. Two pronged blades emerge from his knuckles, and he reels his right arm before thrusting it with a forward hook.

Next Generation

"Miles!" Dexter's momentum breaks through the bedroom door as he immediately turns on the lights beside him.

His son is stuck to the bed; prongs of claws on each hand have sunk into the mattress. The young wolf cries out to him as he struggles side to side with tears flowing well down his cheeks.

"You have your claws, son!" Dexter rushes to help him settle. A gentle hand on his chest, and another on the back of his head, it's enough to stop the young wolf from howling in dismay. He lifts him up, his son coughing out from his intense crying. "You're okay, son. Dad's here." And pecks his forehead while sitting down after moving the pillows aside.

Miles leans back against him still whimpering, his eyes darting at the bloodless protrusions emerging from his knuckles. Between his index and middle fingers, and his pinky and ring fingers are growths of sharpened bone.

"Easy now," Dexter embraces him, holding onto his left arm to help slide his first set claws out of the bedding. His son is tensed up as if he's being vaccinated, except here it's the needle going out instead. "Keep it raised first," he switches to the other and helps slide that out too. Much easier since his son is fixated on his newfound abilities. And after he sees the perfection of his other claw, immense pride courses through his body, and he hugs his son so tightly while he inspects his other set of claws. "I'm proud of you," but he says it with a somber tone. Something has scared him to unleash it.

Miles mistakes it for sympathy for his nightmare and wants to hug his father too. Both claws raised, how is he going to retract them? "Dad, how do I…"

"Ah, right, here," Dexter grips his outer palm and presses inward while lifting his fingers just above the claw's parallel. He does so in order for his son to familiarize with the muscle memory. "Now you do it with your other hand."

Miles catches on quickly and sighs in relief. Now he assesses the damage, his ears drooping seeing how he's punctured the bed sheet and mattress. "Sorry, dad."

"That's alright son," he pats his back. "When I was your age, I blew your grandfather's transmission and we had to ride home being towed by a truck." And he chuckles it off, the ensuing fee to fix it is not as funny though. The mattress is easy to replace at least.

"Dad?" Miles turns to his father to hug him tightly while keeping his fingers and palms open.

"Yes, my son?" Dexter caresses his back and hugs him in return. He feels his tension from his nightmare and from this new potential. His long worry of being absent from his son's evolution wanes because he's here when it has happened. And it will be an added responsibility to overlook his growth with his powers. For tonight, he'll be a father.

"Can I sleep in your room, please?" Miles asks with a quivering voice.

"Of course son, come on." He leads him off the bed and leads him by the hand out of his bedroom and into his own. There's a king sized bed for him and his late wife, may she rest in peace, a shelf full of books that he'll introduce to his son tomorrow, and an encased glass of his old silly uniform that never fails to cheer his son up.

Miles looks at it with wonder, a smile along the dried tears of his cheeks. He's still half the height needed to wear it, "Do I get to wear that in the future?"

"God I hope not," Dexter humors him and cringes at his old outfit. Yellow with blue accents, and an inefficient mask that doesn't even cover his muzzle. What were they thinking back then? He always looks at it with disgust because it doesn't blend in with any environment, even when his missions are loud. It just makes him a bullet magnet. Sure, he can regenerate his health quite easily but that doesn't discount the fact that it still hurts! No way he'll have his son wear something as idiotic as this, he hopes. "I have one that I proposed before that I wasn't able to wear then. Maybe you could though."

"And it'll fit me?"

"Yes, I've made one beforehand so you don't have to wear any dumb outfit proposals in the future." Dexter beams on, "I made it in a manner that is comfy like this thing but without the flashy colors. You'll blend in with the public but keep yourself warm enough against the elements."

"Can I wear this one for Halloween at some point?" Miles snickers.

"Sure." Dexter holds his son's shoulder who's eased up. "Alright kiddo, get to bed and we'll talk about this more over poutine and pancakes." That cheers him up more. Once his son has clambered up and settled down under the sheets, he dims the light and goes over to the other side.

It's dark now and Miles clings onto his father's fur. He doesn't mind it, so he hugs him, "Dad?"

Dexter is only about to close his eyes but he turns around, staring into his son's red gaze. "Yes, son?"

"You're not going to leave me, right?"

He immediately embraces him, rubbing the top of his head, "Of course not, Miles. No, no, no, no, no… I will never leave you."

"But what if there's a monster, and you're not here?" His voice quivers again. But his father kisses his forehead, soothing his worries for tonight.

"You have claws now, son." Dexter trembles with confidence in his hug, adding power to Miles' recent discovery. "It's already hard enough to break them, but they'll always grow back."

"Always?" Miles is astonished.

"Mhm, you'll learn more about it tomorrow. But I need you to know tonight: You're now capable of defending yourself, son." And Dexter tries to paraphrase his father, "And you have enough power to defend the people you love– not just me. Your friends too, normal citizens who don't have our power."

"What if I fail?"

"You will never fail if you strive to improve. I've had my faults but it's far worse if you don't do anything. I will teach you how to hone your strength and make use of your skills. Better than who I was." And he needs to sleep to have the energy for his lessons in the afternoon. Too bad he's all too excited for his son's newfound powers. "But I will tell you more tomorrow, okay?" So he'll have to feign it.

"Thanks dad," Miles kisses his cheek. His red eyes disappear into the nightly shadows, and he is soon sound asleep.

Dexter chuckles and sighs out, glad that his son is at ease. For now. He gets his shut-eye an hour later, wondering before then what his son saw in his nightmares. He still remembers his own; a being capable of bending metal. In all his years, he's faced several who have bended other elements, defeated them with growing ease. The fear he once had is gone because his father trained him. He whispers a promise to his son, "I will make you the best of us."

[i]That following morning…[/i]

After their morning shower, dressup, and their breakfast, Dexter leads his son to a room connected to the foyer that was once off limits to him. It has the makings of a gym but now doubles as his armory too. A few walled mirrors, a set of lockers that contain his old useful uniforms, and typical gym equipment such as weights and a treadmill all put to the side. There's also a small aid station in the corner that has polished medical apparatus.

Miles looks at himself in the mirror. He's slated to become the next Wolverine but his father reminds him that he's years away from earning that prestigious title. "So what will I be called then?"

Dexter crouches down to level with him, gesturing at his son to show him his arm. His son does so and helps him clench his fist while tilting it inward. In doing so, his claws come out between his white fur, and under the daylight peeking through the shutters, its bone is as white too. "You will be designated 'X-23'," he says to him. "As I was once 'X-22'."

Miles copies his father's motion on his other hand, unveiling the other pair of claws by himself. His father's impressed, making him smile with a wagging tail. These claws are quite sharp from looks alone and he's not keen on replacing anything inside this room. He lifts them in front of him, trying to feel it with his fingers, and crossing their blades after. Feels like smooth bone, like cleaned up ribs without the smell of barbecue. In fact, they don't smell like blood or muscle either. He points it out to Dexter.

He says to him, "It's a part of our healing factor; our body automatically preserves itself so that our internals don't seep out at all. Even its scent. But it's an evolution that has been passed down since 'X-7'."

"Evolution?" Miles wonders, still fixated on his claws wondering what his 'evolution' is. Maybe it's his two pronged claws? But his father already has three. Or his feet have claws. He jerks his heels while staring at it to see if bone will rip through his indoor sandals. No additional damage has been incurred.

"What're you doing?" Dexter crosses his arms trying to hold his laughter. His son is putting some great thought in his words after all, but little does he know that evolution comes from experience, and that there are gaps in what one learns. It will make for a great lesson to teach him later.

"Trying to evolve," Miles shudders, trying to force his own nature to come out. But Dexter holds his shoulders to calm him down.

"You don't try it, son." He sternly tells him to get his attention. They meet eye to eye through their reflections. "Evolution comes to you. Like how we, as wolves, evolve to walk on two legs and make use of tools to build houses. I will teach you about our physiology later. For now, it's to understand yourself and our history."

And so the lesson starts.

Miles is instructed to retract and unveil his claws by himself now. And he is slowly getting accustomed to it, retracting them one by one, and then unleashing them at a time too. The next set of instructions is for him to do them together. And he does. He has been cautious about it, revealing them slowly. While it does intimidate combatants as Dexter has lamented before, Miles needs to start learning about unleashing them on a whim.

The next half-hour is spent to make sure Miles releases his claws within the second. When Dexter is nearly satisfied with his son's attempts, he presses the mirror to reveal a hidden compartment. There are two things he sets out besides the young Wolverine-to-be; a scratched up metal pole, and a clear mannequin composed of a gelatinous substance that makes its insides.

Dexter pats the mannequin's shoulder, "Son, meet Stab-astian. He will test the depth of your claws when it comes to impaling them."

"Hi Stab-astian," Miles waves at him with his clawed hands. "How about the metal pole? What's its name?"

"Just a metal pole. It's to sharpen your claws." Dexter figures that now's the best time for a presentation. Last time Miles has seen his claws in person is during his sixth birthday about a decade ago. While his son is familiar with his appearances in talk shows, news outlets, and the rare combat footage that circulates online, here is the real deal; there's no subtle flexing with his fingers, three-pronged bone claws emerge from his knuckles within moments, and his son is set aback.

Miles is more intimidated this time around. Even though he himself has this power, and has spent most of his life revering his father for his abilities. The nightmare, the overshadow, the newfound responsibility, and the uncertain future now clouds his blind optimism. Stab-astian is a funny name for a mannequin but he realizes here that he's about to stab him, and to be tested by how harmful he can be.

Dexter sees it in his face, the wonder of necessitating harm. "Son, you're still wondering why we do this, right?"

Miles nods.

"I did say last night that we're here to protect those we love, and innocence in general." He adds, "But we also have to harm those who explicitly wish to harm. And this happens only if we fail to talk with them. X-1 to X-6 have only ever used their claws because they lived at a time when people only talked their way out of trouble. X-7 came from a time of unreasonable circumstances, hence why he has to repeatedly use them." Perhaps in the future, theory should go first before practice because explaining the history now hampers his inner flowchart. But he digresses, and Miles nods in agreement to what he's said.

The young wolf looks back at his claws again, ending up with more questions regarding his father's involvement with the government. Regarding his past missions that he's often labeled 'top secret'. His mind races with his involvement in world history, and his father knows well enough to leave him in peace to divulge these thoughts. Given that his nightmare starts to feel more like a prophecy given all the pressure that is building up in him. Perhaps his father's idea of having to fight Stab-astian is to also quell whatever's causing him trouble, and assumes a ready stance like he did in his dream last night.

Dexter steps aside and fetches a measuring tape from the cabinet too. Waiting for Miles to strike. He takes note of his technique and he has to stop watching tv shows for references.

Miles puts his left foot forward, while reeling in his right hand. He tries to remember the dream but he hesitates upon seeing the beast. Stopping himself afraid that he can't make a difference. His father watches him with a neutral expression that he interprets as disappointment. Or that his own hesitation may hamper his chances of becoming the next Wolverine.

Dexter has to stay his hand to teach him about his nightmares. All the advice in the world won't stop it at all. It can only inspire his confused son, and it's his course of action after all. He hopes though. Not shown so his son understands the consequence that not everyone will be forgiving for his mistakes nor pleased with his performance. How he's not seen the real Wolverine is divine intervention but all the skeletons in his closet will start to smell soon enough.

Stabastian stands there waiting, willing to live up to his name yet again. He sees another young wolf hesitating, wondering where he needs to be stabbed. The wolf's father gives him time to make the decision that marks the start of his training. One minute, three, and fifteen more. Yet to himself it is but a moment, and to the young one, a lifetime. When that has passed, a loud yell aids to seal Miles' fate, and two prongs of sharpened bone ruptures where one's stomach lies.

As the silence follows, Miles stares at the mark he's left. Seeming like an innocent punch on a mannequin, if not the visible white protrusions buried inside it. The worry dies down, followed by the calm caused by his father's initial applause while he chuckles.

"Don't shout next time son," Dexter says amused, holding out the measuring tape. He extends it from the edge of his knuckle all the way towards the middle of his target. He reminds him, "We don't announce our attacks when we fight bad guys, okay?"

"Okay," Miles says abashed, laughing it off too. He watches his father study his impact and tries to decipher if he's done good or not.

"Good thing we don't have to sharpen your claws anymore," Dexter remarks. "You really stabbed Stabastian– five inches for your first claws."

"First claws?" He looks back at his own with wonder now. Does he get another claw on each hand? Do they grow even more? Maybe change elements other than bone?

"They grow, and you'll get a third prong on each. You can also cut Stabastian some slack now, son."

"Oh, sorry," he retracts his claws from the mannequin, and then hides them in his hands again. Now that it's settled down, he asks, "Was it the same for you when you also stabbed Stabastian, dad?"

Dexter returns the sharpening pike and the measuring tape first, before giving Stabastian a wistful look. He admits, "Yeah, I did. Which is something I want to discuss with you later in the living room. Clouded thoughts, nightmares? Yeah. Which is why," he returns Stabastian first into the cabinet and hides it behind the mirror again. And a quick stride over to the lockers with Miles close behind, "I want to talk with you about it in your new outfit instead."

"I already get an outfit?" Miles' focus on the idea of dressing himself up as a guardian of peace. His tail wags as he peeks around his father's shoulder trying to see what the locker unveils.

"Normally, no. But like I said, I don't want you to be caught dead wearing my first uniform when I took that responsibility." Dexter turns the dial several times, his code is Miles' birthday. And when it unlocks, it shows a suit quite similar to the make and design of Dexter's. Except this is darker, and covers the whole body. It's part latex but also has the artisan make that incorporates enhanced kevlar for protection, woven in with cotton so it's gentle on his fur.

Miles notices the slits between his knuckles, where his middle and ring finger is. Given his father's complaints before, and how white his fur is, this will truly benefit him in the long run. And the helmet has a nice touch to it, fitting for a wolf's head with red eye-visors. Plus decent insulation given its pants are made of leather too. "Woah," he says as his father presents it to him. "I get to wear this now?"

Dexter nods once before Miles swipes it off his hands. He allows it of course, and turns the lights on before closing the shutters fully. "I also want to commemorate this moment if you don't mind," he stands at the door, smiling.

"What do you mean?" His son is too fixated on the outfit, appreciating its detail and make. Very sturdy yet light, almost like Vibranium.

"You'll see," he leaves with a wagging tail too. It's something his father was not fond of, but times have changed. Tech, social norms– the first thing that Dexter finds in his bedroom is a camera and its stand. He sets them on the bed before finding his current uniform. To keep things simple, they all have the same design. Except that he varies their colors, and he's given Miles the best pair of black and red. His own reflects more of the infiltration mantra, especially during day time; black and brown to reflect the trees and its shadows. But what he has over Miles' is that his outfit has slotted carapace armor that hides between the fabric. It's not currently installed for a simple home photo-op though. He puts it on and brings his camera downstairs.

Miles is standing in front of the mirror, showing himself off by doing heroic poses that he's seen in his father's newspaper clips. But he truly loves it, and the visors hide where his eyes truly look. To him, it makes it look ominous, but for his father who's living his childhood dream, it means he can assess situations without giving hints to their foe.

"Dad never wanted me to wear them outside of official business, y'know?" Dexter sets up the tripod on his side of the room, with nothing on the background other than the camera he's put on top of. "But I feel like it helps ease your tension, makes you feel more safe."

Miles nods, "It does." And he further proves it by slipping his claws out, which seamlessly exits out of their tiny slits. But the hollow middle slot irks him though. So he asks Dexter, "When do I get my third prong?"

"Your early 20s," Dexter sets the camera's settings on a timer. The framing, making sure the zoom is also appropriate to capture himself and his son doing those immature poses that the public has him do.

"So five more years?" Miles retracts them and stands in front of the camera. In typical costume fashion, he makes sure that the seams are snug, and that there's no fur being shown here. For the first time in his life, it's weird to see his own pelt be truly hidden behind anything he's worn.

"Yep," once Dexter is done, he notices his son staring at him. It's the same gaze he's seen several times. Raising one fist up, he reveals his claws in the blink of an eye; three refined blade-honed bones that Miles has never not been impressed by.

"You look so cool, dad," his instincts make him want to hug him except his father has been very stern about remaining two arms length away from each other with his claws out. And he too must adhere to that as well.

"Right back at you, son." He readjusts the zoom to compensate for their poses with their distance from one another. The camera's moved closer to the wall which captures both of them enough being apart in the latter sets of their photos. "But first, hide your claws," as Dexter does too.

Their first set of photos are simple; standing beside each other, to Miles being embraced from behind. They lean opposite sides of each other while exchanging finger guns because they think it looks cool. And the last one of the first is Dexter, kneeling down and holding his son's shoulder. Though the camera's flashes and it captures their moment, Dexter tells him, "This is all fun and games but outside of here– outside of our home? It's going to be serious stuff when you wear that uniform, son. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, dad," Miles answers. Their visors may hide their eyes but they see each other on this. Aside from all the finesse and the fun of running around as a superhero, he is slowly ingrained with real life consequences to himself and the people he affects. Perhaps not in great depth, he's too young for that. But his father's tone hints at something far more insidious. And finding that will lead to the disappointment he fears so much. But he composes himself well, the suit helping to hide that intimidation. For now, at least. Surely his father has gone through this t oo, and that gives him comfort that he can do this.

Dexter returns to his camera and directs Miles to stand farther left of where he is now, enough for him to remain in the frame. He gives him a thumbs up before standing opposite of him, but having visualized where he is within said frame. "I guess this is the part where we do poses?"

"Yep. I'll do the one you did for my birthday," Miles strikes himself with regaining confidence, his left foot forward with a large gap from his right foot, his legs arching. He unveils his claws at lightning speed, impressing his father, and lifts his elbows to the level of his armpits while having a straight body.

Dexter, not wanting to be outdone by his son, squats in a sumo-like display. He lifts his leg slightly enough, but stomping with it unleashes his claws that almost threw his son off with how terrifying it truly looked. Little does he know that it's a motion he's done as a last resort before he'd gone berserk. He even feels his fur standing up behind his outfit, but nonetheless he keeps himself composed. The sharper side of his claws are on show with his outward shoulders yet inward-bent elbows, all while squatting to assert his force.

Their next pose is derived from the martial art 'Judo', where they stand firm, their left clawed arm held back while their right is raised forward. Bones pointing towards the camera. Dexter can't help but think of this as sacrilege given that the art is supposed to be 'unarmed'.

And lastly, Dexter stands still and forms an X with their arms held up to himself. Miles copies him too, unfamiliar with this position and what it means. The way his father does it is with filled composure and drilling– this is far from the first time he's done it.

Once their photo op finishes and their claws retracted, Dexter reviews the photos of his camera, pleased with them. He instructs Miles to, "Alright, return to your normal clothes and meet me in the living room. I'll teach you about our history." He packs up the camera and its tripod.

"Got it," Miles removes his mask first. Dexter leaves to change back to his civilian clothes too. Three minutes later, the young wolf is in the living room about to turn on the tv while waiting except his father's already down just moments after. With him are several books, one thick enough to resemble a binder.

Dexter notices his curiosity, "Here are some books made by X-10 and X-12, and a photo album that's been passed down since X-14."

"Oooh," Miles meets his father half way and asks for the first book. It's a brown tome, quite weighted at first hold. It's no different from the encyclopedia. On the cover there is only an 'X'.

He explains with an added chuckle, "It's supposed to be the Roman Numeral 'Ten' because he's the tenth Wolverine. That was his original intention as written in the author's note behind the title. It just coincided."

"I see." The young wolf brings the book over to their coffee table and sits down on the sofa. He opens it without a trace of dust, and behind the bounded leather is a laminated cover. Well-preserved, and the paper is not withering. There's no way it's that old for so long. "Did you print these yourself?"

"I hired someone to do it for me. It's a part of the rite of passage because it means you too are committed to the preservation of knowledge."

That's really cool, Miles thinks. He doesn't ask the question on when his turn will be. For now, he turns past the first page. Straight into the Wolverine ancestry. The very first Wolverine used to be a wolverine mercenary who fought in countless wars throughout lands now known as Africa, Europe, and Central Asia. He established a warrior philosophy of endurance and unbroken will, symbolized by their unbreakable claws. During the Crusades, this bloodline moved to felines, and then canines. As did their philosophy; the influence of religion urges the mantra of protection and vigilance. X-7 was the first to retract his claws at will. He also stood for the protection of innocence on both sides of the conflict.

It's until this point that X-10 started transcribing all he's known from his predecessor. And so do his successors. The history of the Wolverine past becomes a debate on what is righteous in an ever-changing society. How the Wolverine adapts to new philosophies and schools of thought, innovating tech, as well as new mutations that aid in the first two. Though not as pronounced as other mutations, they're always the guardians in the dark. But in recent times, during the first and second world war, they acted as espionage to shift the balance of the conflict to the side least evil.

It's followed by lengthy discussions between generations on who's right in this modern world. In an age of possible destruction and limitless information, Miles' grandfather's father has stagnated their cause as he was unable to keep up with all the lies and control. X-21 vows to keep their duties simple and not meddle with global politics, reducing it to regions instead. It's followed by newspaper clippings of small-town heroics, which then transitions to Dexter's performances in different countries. It still does not shift global policy as his task is to only keep the peace in chaotic regions. Some of which, to his father's dismay, involve terminating targets responsible for the chaos.

All of that is just the history of their philosophy. Quite plenty for the young wolf to take in. Dexter is quite relieved that his son shares his same eye-rolling views over the absurdist philosophies of their ancestors. But he notices his interest wane when the next chapter goes over the biographies of the Wolverines before.

"Will you look at that," Dexter interrupts to his son's relief. He eyes the clock and it's just about lunch. "Chow time. How about some burgers?" It's a suggestion because the talk after is going to be the topic of the second book. Their nightmares.

Lunch lasts for 30 minutes, and Dexter makes sure they talk about anything else but their heritage. The rest of their lives will be full of that enough that they have to cherish the times they don't talk about it.

And they're back in the living room but Dexter has swapped the books for something smaller yet thicker. It's a hard-bound book enclosed by a ribbon and a slot for a lock that wasn't there. "A journal?" He guesses.

"Mhm." Dexter replies solemnly, setting the tone.

The aftermath of their lunch keeps Miles as calm as he can be. Enough to take deep breaths as he opens the journal that started all the way back to X-8, the first to theorize about their nightmares. The journal itself is called 'Prelude to Change' as these nightmares serve to test the Wolverine. All that's confirmed so far, by their successors, are the fact that a Wolverine will have their nightmares before becoming one, and that it is a prescience of a guaranteed scenario. The 'whys' are still being argued as notes from old are overlapped by the new. Dexter's father wonders if it is divine, or propagated by an unknown group of people who are meticulous with their methods. While Dexter himself has little input because he hasn't fought his nightmare yet– his theory is if the cycle's been broken.

When Miles looks up to his father, curious as to what the theory had meant or if anything's changed, his father immediately replies, "My nightmare is about fighting endless swords, and men in suits of armor not of our time. Rather of an age before. I don't know if I'm reliving the nightmare of X-1 or X-2, but everyone I've fought has used guns or knives. Or elements other than metal." He sits beside his son and reads his page scribbled with his footnotes and thoughts rather than having it be properly printed. "What's yours?" He pulls out a pen from his pocket and flips over to the next blank page and adds Miles' name to it before putting the book on his own lap.

"Well," Miles begins and pauses soon. Just like his physical training earlier, he finds himself mulling over it. The words are there: winged beast, bending the elements, being alone. But he won't say it even though he already knows it's enough for his father. Dexter looks to him with concern this time, the tip of his pen still resting on the paper. But the first thing he asks instead, "Did you have a hard time telling grandpa?"

Dexter nods back. "Told him about all the swords I go against, and how they are endless. I also assumed it could've been a metaphor but the book says it's closer to literal. Its outcome depends on our actions at that very moment."

"Does that mean I have to fight this winged beast?" The young wolf says without a second thought. His father starts writing it, and in doing so has made him feel comfortable to divulge more about it. "I don't want to hurt this scaled guy. I don't want to hurt anyone though."

"We only have to hurt them if they will end up hurting more." Dexter reassures him, his son's ledger almost has as much content as his. This is good, he thinks. But he can tell there's more to it. And he feels that having sounded off a reminder for his son would hesitate him from sharing further.

"I know," Miles tries to hammer that point down and lets out a long sigh. "Why do bad people have to exist? Why must it resort to killing them?" He cries out, unknowing that tears are flowing down his eyes. He stutters trying to repeat the same thing.

Dexter finishes writing down his son's innate and philosophical issue, and he puts the book down and hugs him tightly. He brings his head closer to his chest, stroking his back and cradling him. "It's okay son," he says to his wailing child. But his question does find him asking it too, in the same way that every Wolverine and their successor have hugged each other in despair, wondering why they are subjected to this.

And like their ancestors before, he hopes to be the generation that realizes a permanent peace. That way they can lead normal lives, and their claws can be used for more fun means like climbing, or cooking up kebabs. He humors his son with such thoughts to help ease him. Their discussion about nightmares comes to a pause, and he lets his son off the hook to relax for the rest of the day.

Hours later, right after dinner and Miles having retired to his room to play some video games, Dexter receives a call from his phone specifically in his bedroom. He drops the dishes and closes the sink, wiping his hands as he dashes up the stairs. Picks up on the fourth ring, "New assignment, sir?"

The person on the other end of the call speaks with a deep and modulated voice. "Yes, I do." He's quick with the way he speaks but the tone allows him to speak clearly. "We have just received information on a deviant mutant about to hit the Langley Bank in three hours. The mutant is known to be able to manipulate metal."

That sends a pang to his heart but he maintains his composure. "Verification of this info?"

"It's clean. Our recent hit on a Phoenix info hub provided us with an exchange between them and this mutant. The bank job will be their initiation."

Dexter tenses up as he hears the word 'Phoenix'. The side of his head aches at the thought of a time long past, paired with the chances of his nightmare coming true too. Luckily his uniform does not have any compromising material, but it means he can't call for back-up. "Phoenix again? Am I going to be reconstituted?"

"When the time is right, Wolverine. All we know is the hit on the bank, and this mutant will be our actionable intel. Capture him alive, something you'd enjoy."

"Thank you, sir. I accept."

"We'll have Chase on overwatch of your home like usual."

"Like usual. Okay, I'll get right on it." Dexter sets the phone down, the click of his receiver resting on the phone itself reveals how loud his heart is thumping this whole time. This whole unease with the theory of fate tempting them. This is not the work of any shadowy force but that of the divines. He tries to look back on his early years, and that his father's nightmare had come to pass long before his own too. Maybe a coincidence?

Dexter suits up with uncertainty in his chest. This uniform feels more like a curse than a responsibility for tonight. All those moments he's spent building himself up will now be put to the test tonight. He takes deep breaths to control and console himself. What he has now is his signature berserker mode that no one has bested yet. Given that this is just a rite of passage, hitting a small-town bank at night? This may come off as easy but he knows better than to underestimate his opponents.

Two hours left until the hit, he leaves through the back door. Tonight is serene with a full moon in the empty space of a clear sky. "Dexter looks up to it for guidance knowing the task he's about to overcome. And to quote, 'There is a beast deep inside him. It will not die. It will fight back.'"

"Hi, Chase." Dexter turns to the panther in his red and black spandex suit, using reflectors to moon-bathe himself while resting on a recliner that he surely does not own. "You're here early."

"Well, I was shoe-horned in by the commissioner at the last moment. So I'm right where I need to be. His mask has white eyes that look up onto the skies, trying to find the author's gaze. And he points to himself," Deadpool narrates everything he says and does. "Call me Deadpool. And because Miles is not going to be here until the very end of the story, call him Wolverine for now." He points to Dexter. No, sorry, Wolverine.

"Just make sure Miles doesn't get hurt." He walks towards the backyard's exit.

"He won't. Writer's too much of a coward to write about your underaged son getting hurt. Plus it goes against FurAffinity's TOS." Chase concludes, waving him off.

Wolverine often does not understand what his friend is constantly on about. He may be a nutjob but he's the best guardian he and Miles could ask for. Second only to himself that is. His worry dies down for now, but it's not truly gone as he ventures on.

The path he takes is along a river that crests north of the city. It's old, unsafe, and often empty. His reflexes allow him to run through uneven and slippery ground. By the time he's reached the town, he still has an hour left to find a good vantage point. The Langley bank is a two-storied building where the ground floor is the bank itself, whereas the second floor is its support office. The only higher building beside it is a bricked structure that's been turned to an office.

Wolverine makes sure to use the shadows, that the brown and black makes him a silhouette under the full moon's shine. He stays away from anything metallic though. Avoids lamp posts, rooftop exhausts and alleyway garbage cans. The spot he settles with is in an alleyway that is opposite of the bank's alleyway where a security van delivers its money. His wolf-eyes see in the dark, spotting the cameras swinging side to side. There's another just outside the main entrance, and another on top of the building that overlooks its intersection.

Now he waits for his prey. He stills himself in the darkness, focusing to expand the reach of his hearing. Cars move along the town's highway, lamplights buzzing, a group of drunkards stumbling across the streets two blocks down from where he is. He thinks about taking down the target, and learning about how he manipulates metal. If he relies on his hands, that's going to be easy because he has zip ties with him. If otherwise, he'll just knock him out.

It's midnight by the time this mutant is supposed to attack. Wolverine can hear the lone footstep of what looks like a hooded figure with his big raccoon tail sticking out. He watches him approach the alleyway as the camera that swivels side to side is forcibly turned in one direction, away from the corner he passes by and into the alleyway. Both his paws are inside his hoodie but he sees him moving them. This mutant doesn't require line of sight which is a powerful multiplier of its own. That means that security within can be compromised by now. The other cameras aren't forced to look in other directions though. And it seems he's taking his time with the big metal dropdown gate in the back. The kind that is secured by at least four locks. Perhaps he can't alter everything at once, or hasn't learned how to do it yet.

Wolverine doesn't want to wait long enough for him to do so, making his silent approach the moment he's deconstructed the gate's locks. This mutant lifts it up small enough for him to enter before setting it back down and locking it again, and the camera continues swiveling overhead. He crosses the street and turns the corner underneath it and stays within the shadows of the alleyway.

He weighs his options on how to go about this. His actions aren't condoned by the X-Men right now, but tripping the alarm by simply breaking down the other back door can alert authorities to their position, giving this wannabe criminal a difficult getaway. Though he can control metal which is an issue of its own. But that's the aspect of his nightmare, and if he can take him down now before his abilities flourish, he doesn't have to spend the rest of his life worrying about it.

Wolverine walks to the employee backdoor and punches its knob, bending it with sheer strength alone before he sinks his claws through it. The bank interior lights up as its inner alarms start wailing but are being silenced as the mutant inside is presumably panicking and disassembling them one at a time. Little does he know it sets off the silent alarms that have alerted the police regardless. He kicks the door down and makes an immediate right that leads to the locked inner gates just before the opened vault.

He watches a raccoon, only identifiable because of his big brown tail, who's turned the metal table's legs as tendrils to shove money into his duffel bag. Rushing, panicked indeed, his body twitches while he's still focused on gathering the dosh. The Wolverine's been watching him for a good thirty seconds before he finally notices him.

The Wolverine is vindicated for making his move now, on the verge of laughing at this poor guy who hesitates to do anything upon seeing him. If this thug wants to get into Phoenix, he thinks, he would've heard of him. And how much he himself is a thorn on their side. "Something tells me you're new to this. How about we talk this through, mutant to mutant. You don't have to do this."

The raccoon stops in what he does but doesn't glance his way. He looks at the money he's shoved down his bag, "I do, Wolverine. It's the only way out."

He starts to see the details of his apparel; tattered clothing and clumped metal that covers his face. His hands are wrapped in shreds of unclean bandages, one of which is reaching out towards him.

"And you got the authority's attention on me. This really is my only way out," his fingers twitch in his direction, causing the metal gate to bend outward, and one of its bars morphs into a sharp tip and thrusts itself at the Wolverine.

Their brief glance at each other shows that this mutant regrets having done this at all, while being angry that it's only worsened for him. The Wolverine feels the metal pierce through him, but it's an accustomed feeling. No different from an injection, and he cuts it off with his exposed claws, and pulls it out with his other hand.

Both of them are persistent, Wolverine asking, "I can help you." He retracts his claws, "What's your name?" And he reaches out to the mutant.

"Since we're using our made-up names, you can call me: Magneto." He uses another bar to coil Wolverine's arms, his other hand works on using the tendrils to stash more money into the almost-full bag.

"Okay, Magneto," he continues to chop the approaching metallic rope, but each cut now connects the pieces he's chopped off, making him retreat. "You know me, and you know I have sway. I can take you under my wing and we can sort this out."

All this pity rhetoric is fouling Magneto's mood further. His grunts are harsher as the metal mask covering his face pulsates to his emotions. With one hand alone he can now manipulate to sources of metal, and from coils he turns them to snake-like batons that he swings at the Wolverine. "This is just repeated discussion. I've heard old accounts," his swings become harsher. "Of mutants being invited, only for that same system to betray them."

The Wolverine now has his work cut out for him, parrying and blocking his swings. Not only is he controlling more of them, he's compressed metal sturdy enough for him to not cut through. All the while gathering money. Given this exchange, it's impossible now to try and reason, so he'll have to be smart with his play now. He starts retreating.

"Your cowardice only shows your brags as fluff!" Magneto proclaims.

Wolverine makes his way the same way he went in, except the light fixtures, the walls, and the outlets rumble as their metal inside them start detonating in the hopes of hitting him. The hallway gets darker but he sees the faint moonlight peering through the doorway and runs out as the knob he destroyed earlier bursts into shrapnel but with not enough force to pierce him or his uniform.

But Magneto senses the disturbance of that trajectory and forces the camera outside to face his direction, and forces it to fire its metal components at him.

Wolverine dodges it at the last moment, grazing just past his face, right above the bridge of his nose. He continues to dodge though as the components zip backwards, and then around. But he's moved far enough out of the alleyway for Magneto to give up trying to find him.

Sirens are closing in on them, turning from street to street as it centers towards the bank. Magneto bursts the front shutter gates outward and he dashes towards him, claws still within his hands. He sees him reaching out.

"I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want you to hurt other people too!" The Wolverine yells out to him. The cops are getting closer, and his helmet has transformed; pointing outward that it tore through his hoodie almost like a spiked crown.

"So they can hurt me in return?" Magneto raises his arm, moving the traffic stop in the same motion. But there's a delay in between. The fast swipe of his arms, followed by the same traffic post that the Wolverine narrowly dodges, sending it crashing into the bank.

"I vow to you that they won't." He moves closer to him as the authorities do too. This is getting nowhere, and he's afraid he'll have to knock him out. "Magneto, trust me!"

Magneto's eye twitches, lifting the manhole cover behind the unsuspecting hero and hurling it as fast as a bullet. He snarls, having no more left to say.

Wolverine sees his hand gestures and immediately jumps and spins mid-air as the metal disc flies past below him. But it circles around with gaining momentum and dodges it, sinking itself into the road, causing it to break apart digging itself out. He unleashes both claws now, growling as his response.

He takes a step back towards the bank while using the metal disc to distract Wolverine. Each clean slice he does only adds more to the projectiles he has to evade, but in this heightened and enraged state he turns the shredded gate into sharpened spears all poised to strike him down.

Once the shredded disks lose their momentum, the Wolverine dodges the first makeshift spear only for the next one to impale him through his stomach, and another through his shoulder blade. Magneto becomes more creative that both sides of his impalement now latch onto him, wincing in pain as a result. He cuts the long protrusion and flings it at him with strength and speed that he's held back until now.

It strikes the side of his helmet, dazing him as he yelps in pain. Pangs against his head, ringing as his vision blurs. His instinct encloses his head further, and any surrounding metal latches onto him like armor. But he can still sense the steel that's clamped itself into the Wolverine, seeing him struggle to remove it. Now he sees the police cars, sirens blaring and echoing down the street with their blue and red light coming over the roads. And the vehicle's rumbling components pervade his senses, overwhelming him with all their shifting and turning metal. The police officers inside check their guns too, the sliding of their receivers as bullets are cocked into the chamber.

The Wolverine can only see the raccoon whose arms are now covered in metal too, clasping onto his head kneeling in a curled position. He slices the other impalement off and sheathes his claws as he goes to him, "Last chance Magneto!" Shouting over the sirens. The first responders see him and hesitate to lift their guns for now. First responders surround them, and quickly disembark from their vehicles, hiding behind them pointing their guns at both mutants. He tries to ease them down to no avail, and their warnings meant nothing to either of them as one can outheal, and the other can simply alter them. Wolverines calls out to him one last time, "No one else wants to get hurt, I'm sorry for having to strike you but you forced my hand."

Those words jolt him instead, the raccoon's inner turmoil fixates on it as it echoes in his thoughts. Magneto cries behind his mask as the sirens have stopped. All the officers look at their cars and at each other dumbfounded. Lights keep flashing the blue and red painting the intersection.

Wolverine hears it, and he feels the stuck lumps of metal buried into him vibrate and pull him away only for him to have been hurled so far and with such force that the lumps force themselves out of his body, leaving two large holes of open flesh slowly regenerating. He hits the side of a building face first, followed by the sound of his breath leaving his body, and the crashing of cars and squelching bodies. It's only then the screams came after that, first the officers, and then Magneto's.

Wolverine rolls to his side, the feeling of his insides reconstructing once strange to him now returns as a reminder of what people can truly do to him. He gasps in full as his other lung has restored itself. But the scope of what Magneto has done only solidifies the nightmare he's been trying to ignore all night. All the underground wires with metal within them have been uprooted, some resembling spikes that impale buildings and, regrettably, first responders alike. Their cars have crashed into the bank, and the other surrounding stores, while the other traffic lights have been tangled outwards, almost like a raised sword. Other sirens, medical, police, and fire department, make their way towards him, and there are passers by who gasp, some still in their sleepwear.

"Good evening everyone," he stands up and waves them off with a downwards motion. "I advise all of you to return to your homes, it's not safe this time of night." Nor for the coming nights, to his dismay.

The next hour is spent doing damage control. This area has been cordoned off for the paramedics and firefighters and, with Dexter's help, they start removing the cars off of buildings, and the uprooted metal bars of its casualties. Ten police officers died that night, and wouldn't have survived regardless as their guns have exploded where they have last stood.

More police are brought in to conduct a massive search on Magneto, and Dexter joins prowling around and trying to sense him to no avail. And to make the night worse, his handler arrives in person.

This handler is a white lion in a black tuxedo. He stands where Magneto was earlier, his agents in other tuxedos are scattered around him trying to find any more evidence than Dexter's eyewitness, and the security footage before it's taken down. He watches the uniformed hero approach him, raising a brow at him to see big holes on his uniform, "Sloppy work." His voice isn't deep at all but light in tone, yet the harshness and disappointment is all the same. "I think it's high time you stop trying to make peace with all the rogue mutants you see, Wolverine."

Given there are ten corpses covered in white cloth-turned-red, he doesn't answer. His handler is not wrong but he shouldn't be right. The way he's tried to reach out to him only makes it worse– wording could've been better. This realization makes him echo the sentiments he's said earlier; 'forced my hand', or 'only way out'.

"Go home for now, Wolverine. I'll expect your paperwork once you've come to a better understanding." At first, Dexter thinks his handler gestured at his wrist to insist on finishing his report, but he's actually tapping his knuckles instead.

"Yes, sir," He leaves for the river, tail between his legs in shame.

His trip along the river gives him time to reflect on the nightmare. Endless swords, men of metal? With Phoenix coming back it's not far off. Something tells him that the latter implies another mutant who can give life to his metallic army. And this Magneto, his power is tied to his emotions from what it looks. Problem now is that Phoenix will use that as a means to manipulate him.

Dexter climbs back up and into his backyard, looking up to the moon, "I promise to save him." He says to himself because it feels like it'll be the only way to end the nightmare.

Chase opens the door for him, still in uniform yet wearing a maid's outfit that belongs to neither of them too. He doesn't have quips for now but he shows him to the staircase before taking his leave and locking the door as he did.

He lies down in bed still in his uniform, closing his eyes to the sound of hooting owls and howling wolves. No more thoughts for tonight, pleads to whoever subjects him to them. No nightmares either. All he wants is a good rest.

Tonight's events repeat themselves in his head, though more skewed than how he's experienced it. The tens that died become ten thousand corpses littered throughout a city he's not familiar with. Planes have crashed onto roads, tanks and helicopters are stuck in buildings. Some tossed into, others inserted instead. The city itself crackles along with the screams of mutants and regulars amidst the death. Yet there is no banner that bears the mark of the Phoenix, or the uniforms from the X-Men. He sees himself kneeling, claws broken as the skies above are covered in black, the horizon behind him burns with a fiery tornado. Before him is Miles with his three pronged claws fighting the scaled beast he mentions earlier, and just beyond them is Magneto observing and unscathed and his attire is more regal, coloured in purple and gold of a suit of armor where his claws splinter off his chest.

Dexter screams too as the bodies surrounding him yell with his own voice, and he himself rises up his bed gasping for air. His claws are out while his palm rests on the bed, tearing his bedsheets. He can see it through the meager light let in by the curtains, which he unfurls to see a bright day that contrasts last night's failure. He turns to his phone, still quiet, but he can't delay his paperwork any longer.

First he gets out of his uniform, sighing as he feels the holes of his uniform drag through his fur. He'll have to have it fixed up later, something he hasn't done in years. After dressing up in house-wear, he checks up on his son who's not in his bedroom but can overhear the news from the downstairs living room. The segment has just started and he met his son, still in his pajamas, halfway into the foyer, probably worried sick and ashamed of his old man for fucking up.

"Dad!" He hugs him tightly, "Are you okay?" His hands press onto his back and sides worried if his wounds or scars are there.

"I am, sonny, I can heal fast remember?" Dexter hugs and pats his head too.

"What happened?" Miles looks up to him, tearful. His ears perk as the news anchorlady provides highlights of last night's battle. Details of a short discussion that has led to a full on battle that even the Wolverine himself can't easily fight.

They both sit down in the living room as this incident includes the reaction of citizens in its area and across the region. Mutant skepticism as well as anti-mutant remarks are on the rise once again. Dexter watches it stone-faced, knowing full well he'll atone for this mistake. And with Miles' safety in jeopardy too, there's only one good place he can stay in.

Miles has so many questions now, and he and his father stare at each other when he's about to ask him. He doesn't, seeing the disappointment in those eyes where he himself is out of concern instead. It tears his emotions in half that his father is alright, but seeing him in such a predicament could've meant his demise, that he wouldn't be here right now.

"Son?"

"Yes, dad?"

"Remember that one time I took you to a mansion where I had to talk to an old friend?" Dexter warms up.

Miles vividly remembers it, "And they gave me all the hot chocolate that I wanted?" He drank about seven cups, the small fancy looking ones, in a span of three hours despite the protest of the butler assigned to him. He chuckles, hoping to ease his father's tension.

"Three years ago, my friend, Charles, turned it into a boarding school for mutants. Orphans, children, and staffers with mutations work there and have been thriving. I'm not allowed to go into details of how it works but I can assure you they will take care of you, like Charles took care of me for a week." Dexter beams a small smile that instills confidence in him.

He contextualizes them along with the news anchor who is speaking with an associate on the scene. The claws on his hands, untamed and bloodless, are not enough for this threat and its consequence, let alone his own nightmare. "What will I do there?"

"Charles and Chase will be your personal tutors while I deal with Magneto. I'll stop by now and then to check up on your progress and personally train you in the prowling ways of the Wolverine. Plus you will be needing allies– this isn't always a one-man job, son."

It leaves Miles with more questions and imagination of how his father has stopped bad guys with his friends. So many things to ask but in such a short amount of time. He'll have to make him promise, in some way, to have all of them answered. Maybe he and his grandfather have done something along those lines too. He nods, "Okay. I'll go. But you have to promise me you will come back." He hugs him again, "Please?"

"Miles," Dexter's heart thumps aloud at that moment, jubilant that his son doesn't see him otherwise in the same fear that his own father nearly thought he's not worthy of the title. He hugs him back, "I promise to always come back to you."

The older wolf turns the tv off and relishes in the last good hug he will have for a while. Professor X will expect him. Not because he can read minds, that helps, but he'll be expecting young mutants flocking to him for their safety. And if anything, a lot of his old coworkers are going to be there to act as wards. He'll have to call up Deadpool to bring him there sooner so that he can get started on that paperwork.

"Ding dong!" Deadpool yells from outside their foyer. "Come on Wolverine, Miles has somewhere to be and this story is almost over!"

"Dad, how does uncle Chase know these things?" Miles asks, leaning back as he looks to him with skepticism. His eyes dart to him and the door.

"No clue, really. But I'm glad he's on our side." Dexter lets the hug last for a moment sooner. He stands up and opens the door to Deadpool in a London Cabbie's attire over his spandex suit. But he has a suitcase with him. He points it out, "I thought you said you're taking Miles."

"I am, he's already packed up." Deadpool explains it. "Listen, we are at about ten thousand nine hundred and thirteen words and counting. And who knows when Magneto shows up in the second iteration of this story. And I bet he added more words in the back because he's editing something beforehand to add context to the next paragraph!" He looks up, staring at I, the writer. Points up saying, "I can see you!"

Miles joins him, surprised that he's already dressed in an atypical boarding school attire, as it did not have the jacket nor slacks. His uniform for the academy is reminiscent of his eventual one, where the slacks are cool and heavy, with an armored top, and is inclusive of gloves with slits between the knuckles. It amazes him that they encourage a more liberal attire befitting of the mutant's needs. He slips the blades from between them, "Woah."

"See, he's ready. And the writer's overplaying the bit so I'll let you guys have your farewell and end it there." The anti-hero panther takes the suitcase with him to the car befitting his exaggerated outfit.

Miles' attire in the next paragraph is something more casual now. Shirt, jeans, sneakers, and his claws now retracting back into his hand. He hugs his father in gratitude because it's a gift from him, as it is an undertaking; the young wolf will have to earn the rest as he progresses his own training. But he's not the only one to undergo such an endeavor either.

Dexter returns a final embrace to him as civilians. He will not let the nightmares put him down despite the omen they bring. Phoenix returning, tensions rising within and beyond the mutant world, his peaceful mantra being tested, and his son's promise, growth and safety. Miles needs to be ready because neither of them can do it alone. Not without each other, not without their friends. The responsibility of safeguarding this world falls to the next generation.

****