Arc 1 - Ch 1: Laughlin City

Chapter 1

Arc 1 - Ch 1: Laughlin City

Date: Wednesday, June 2, 2010.

Location: Laughlin City, Alberta, Canada

The eighteen-wheeler thundered down the lonely stretch of asphalt, its headlights carving twin paths through the inky darkness. The behemoth of steel and rubber pulled up alongside a solitary building, its parking lot filled with fellow long-haulers. A looming alpine forest pressed in from all sides. The truck settled into a spot among its brethren, the engine ticking as it cooled in the frigid evening air.

The driver's door creaked open and two burly men climbed from the cab. From the passenger side, a third figure emerged. He was younger, leaner, with a wide-eyed wariness.

Tyson squinted into the meager light cast by the truck stop, his eyes adjusting as if he'd just woken from a long and uneasy slumber. His face was too gaunt for his age. The oversized hoodie he wore seemed to swallow his thin frame, concealing layers of mismatched clothing underneath.

"Where are we?" Tyson's voice was hoarse, grating against the wind that bit at his exposed skin.

The broader of the two truckers, a man with a grizzled beard turned to sneer 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."

Without so much as a backward glance, he and his companion ambled toward the building, drawn by the promise of cold beer and hot food. As they entered, their laughter was swallowed by the thrum of commotion inside, leaving Tyson alone in the biting cold.

For a long moment, Tyson stood rooted in place, as if his worn sneakers had frozen to the asphalt. Snowflakes danced around him, alighting on his hair and eyelashes. He stared at the bar, the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses serving only to amplify his isolation. His gaze swept across the surroundings beyond the truck stop, searching for any sign of civilization. There was nothing but an endless expanse of wilderness as if the world had decided to end right here at this lonely outpost.

And Tyson had no idea how he'd arrived here.

"Some city," he muttered, his breath visible in the frigid air. His eyes lingered on the bar for a moment longer, weighing his options. With a sigh, Tyson squared his shoulders and trudged towards the doors.

The moment Tyson crossed the threshold, his senses were assaulted. The noise of cheers, the press of bodies, and the acrid scent of smoke that curled lazily from smoldering cigars and cigarettes. The place was packed, filled primarily with men who had the hardened look of blue-collar locals. Their faces were like the landscape outside; worn, rugged, and unforgiving. They gulped down beer and whiskey with the abandon of men trying to forget their troubles.

A particularly raucous burst of laughter roared from the back of the establishment, causing Tyson to crane his neck. What could possibly be drawing such attention in a place like this? A rhythmic slap-thud resonated through the bar, followed by a wave of cheering.

Tyson began to shoulder his way through the swarm of bodies, following the strange sounds toward their source. It was like trying to swim upstream in a river of flannel and denim. Finally finding a break in the crowd, he maneuvered into a position with a clear view of the spectacle. What he saw made his jaw drop.

A makeshift boxing ring stood proudly in the back of the bar, crudely cordoned off by ropes and a freestanding cage that looked like it had seen better days. The area was illuminated by a single, dangling bulb that cast its sickly light on the center of the ring, leaving the edges shrouded in shadow. As Tyson watched, a man fell to the ground with a loud thud. The man's collapse was punctuated by the metallic clamor of a bell, signaling the end of the fight. The crowd roared its approval.

The victor retreated into the shadowy corner of the cage. The fallen fighter, meanwhile, tried to pick himself up but fell flat.

A gruff voice next to Tyson asked the man at his side, "Hey, ain't you going in? He's gotta be tired by now." Glancing towards the speaker, Tyson found himself face-to-face with a burly man goading his friend into being the next sacrificial lamb for the ring.

Inside the makeshift arena, the downed fighter was hauled away by a pair of his friends. The winner, still shrouded in shadows, sat nonchalantly on a stool. The only distinguishable feature was the beer bottle in his hand, which he sipped from with the casual air of someone relaxing, not a man who'd just won a brutal fistfight.

Just then, a figure emerged from the sidelines with all the dramatic flair of a ringmaster at a circus. The man held a microphone loosely in his calloused hands and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

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

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

All eyes swiveled to the source of the declaration. A hulking man in a lumberjack jacket rose from his seat, his muscles straining against the fabric. The crowd cheered in unison, their approval washing over the room in a tidal wave of testosterone and beer-fueled bravado.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our savior," the announcer mocked. Unfazed by the attention of the crowd, the challenger shrugged off his jacket with casual confidence. The fabric fell to the ground as he stepped into the ring, his every movement radiating the kind of self-assurance that comes from either supreme skill or profound stupidity.

As the challenger took his place in the ring, Tyson found himself holding his breath. The announcer's voice cut through the tension once more, "Alright, folks, place your bets! Who thinks our brave volunteer can dethrone the champ?" A chorus of shouts and the rustling of money filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clinking of glasses.

Tyson's gaze darted between the challenger, standing tall and proud in the center of the ring, and the shadowy corner where the previous winner still drank his beer.

The crowd around Tyson erupted in a volcano of noise and excitement as the undefeated fighter finally emerged from his shadowy corner. He stepped into the sickly light cast by the flickering bulb, revealing a figure that was more presence than size. He wasn't particularly large, especially when compared to his hulking opponent, but there was something about him that made Tyson's breath catch in his throat.

The fighter's arms rippled with wiry strength. He wore a simple white tank top that had seen better days and a pair of jeans that looked like they'd been through a war. Around his neck hung a solitary silver dog tag, its surface scratched and weathered. A shock of unkempt hair framed his face, leading into impressive mutton chops that would make even the most seasoned lumberjack nod in approval. A pair of worn leather boots completed his ensemble.

Tyson's eyes widened in disbelief and his jaw dropped. He knew that face, knew that hair. There was no mistaking it.

It was Wolverine.

But how was that even possible?

Confusion raced through Tyson's mind. This was no ordinary bar, no ordinary town, and that was certainly no ordinary man. His heart pounded, 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, in a superhero movie he'd watched long ago. The bar, the fights, Wolverine… it was all part of the script.

But there was a key character missing. Someone integral to the 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 that resembled Rogue's distinct appearance.

Then, a cold realization crashed over him.

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, feeling for any sign that he'd suddenly transformed into a Southern belle. He felt light stubble. The masculine sign caused relief to wash over him. To 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? Were the gloves he'd been wearing all this while just to protect him from the cold? Or were they protecting from more than just the weather?

Hesitantly, Tyson removed one glove, exposing his bare hand. After a moment of trepidation, he reached out and brushed his fingers against the arm of the nearest person; a man who was engrossed in the upcoming fight.

The reaction was immediate and almost visceral. The man's arm went rigid under his touch, his face contorting in a silent scream. His eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible, and his skin paled. The veins in his forehead bulged as though under immense pressure, looking ready to burst like overinflated balloons.

Tyson's world spun. A flood of information rushed into his mind, threatening to overwhelm him like a tsunami of consciousness. The man was named Hank, a rugged blue-collar worker from the sprawling plains of Alberta, Canada. Suddenly, Tyson knew the world from Hank's perspective, as if he'd just downloaded an entire life's worth of memories and experiences.

He didn't have much growing up, besides the love of his parents. School was challenging, but he worked diligently and graduated. Shortly afterward he married his high-school sweetheart. His kind-hearted wife had a smile that could melt the winter snow. They had two energetic children together. They purchased an old rustic log cabin for a home that he worked tirelessly to maintain. His days were spent working labor in the oil sands. He understood the intricacies of hydraulics and the mechanics of heavy drilling equipment. He knew the right way to handle hazardous materials, and how to drive a tractor, weld metal, and even repair a diesel engine. The hard, calloused texture of his hands was a worthwhile sacrifice for his family.

With a jolt, Tyson was back in the crowded bar.

The juxtaposition between the memories, the life, he had just experienced and the raucous, smoky interior of the bar was jarring. 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 slipped further into the crowd, away from his unconscious victim. He shoved his glove back on, not wanting to risk inadvertently triggering his power again. His mind raced as he grappled with the horrifying reality.

If this was truly Rogue's power, then he was a mutant. And 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 touch was deadly.

As the realization sank in, Tyson realized he was alone in a different world. The cheers of the crowd around him faded into a dull roar as he grappled with his new reality.

His thoughts were interrupted as the bell sounded, marking the start of the next round. The challenger wasted no time. He barreled forward, his massive frame closing the distance to Wolverine in two quick strides. His fist slammed into Wolverine's midsection with a sickening thud. The crowd cheered with bloodlust and excitement. Wolverine doubled over with the beer bottle still clutched in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim. But the challenger wasn't done. He followed up with a haymaker that connected squarely with Wolverine's jaw, the impact echoing through the makeshift arena.

The big man shook his hand, wincing as if he'd just punched a brick wall.

But the pain wasn't enough to stop him. He pressed his advantage, landing two swift kicks to Wolverine's midsection. Then, with a cruel glint in his eye, he aimed lower. The crowd collectively winced as his boot connected with Wolverine's groin, eliciting a chorus of sympathetic "oohs" from the spectators.

For a moment, the bar held its breath. Wolverine was down, curled into himself, looking for all the world like a beaten man. But then, a low growl rumbled from his throat, a sound more animal than human. He rose to his feet, his eyes blazing with a feral intensity that made even the hardened crowd take a step back.

The challenger, emboldened by his early success, threw another punch. This time, Wolverine was ready. He met the incoming fist with his own, adamantium-laced bones colliding with human calcium. The resulting crack was like a gunshot in the confined space of the bar.

The big man's hand crumpled like paper, wrist twisting at an unnatural angle. He staggered back, a scream of agony tearing from his throat. But Wolverine wasn't done. Another punch to the gut drove the air from the challenger's lungs, and before he could recover, Wolverine's forehead smashed into his face with devastating force. The challenger hit the floor like a felled tree, unconscious before he even landed. The bar exploded into cheers, the crowd loving every second of the brutal display.

The announcer stepped forward, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Anyone else up for the challenge?" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the din. "Anyone brave enough to take on the Wolverine?"

In the crowd, Tyson felt his heart hammering against his ribs. Every instinct screamed at him to stay quiet, to blend into the background. But something else, something reckless and wild, pushed words past his lips before he could stop them.

"I'll fight," he heard himself say.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, all eyes turning to the young man who dared to challenge the undefeated champion. Tyson made his way to the ring, shedding his jacket and shirt as he went. He ducked under the rope and entered through the cage's door.

Standing next to the man, he became acutely aware of the stark contrast between himself and Wolverine.

Where Wolverine was compact and pale, Tyson was lean and dark. His rich brown skin highlighted a frame that spoke of hard times and missed meals. At 5'10", he towered over Wolverine's 5'3", but lacked the mutant's raw presence. Tyson's handsome features were marred by the hardships of life on the run, a goatee framing a strong jaw, and intense brown eyes that held a hint of fear despite his bravado.

The announcer's voice boomed out once more. "Once again, the unstoppable Wolverine!" He paused, milking the moment for all it was worth before turning to Tyson. "And introducing, the dashing Rogue!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd at the grandiose title, but Tyson barely noticed. He was too focused on the man across from him.

Wolverine looked him over, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was gruff, barely audible over the crowd's excitement. "Okay, kid," he growled, "I'll give you the first shot, but it's the only freebie you're gonna get."

This was his chance.

His one opportunity to get the upper hand. But how? A regular punch would be worse than punching a brick wall.

Then, an idea struck him. Instead of throwing a punch, Tyson charged forward, wrapping his arms around Wolverine in a bear hug. The crowd's cheers turned to confused murmurs. This wasn't how bar fights were supposed to go.

But Tyson didn't care.

He felt a rush of energy flowing into him, bringing with it memories and sensations.

Wolverine's eyes widened in shock, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as he felt his strength being sapped away. For the first time in the evening, real fear flickered across his face. The unbeatable Wolverine had finally met his match, and it came in the most unexpected form imaginable.

For Tyson, it was like being hit by a freight train of memories, knowledge, and experiences. A floodgate of over 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 brought feelings of rage and rivalry. With every fight he had ever fought, every wound he had ever endured, came his phenomenal healing factor, closing wounds as quickly 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 than just battles and suffering. He was a master in various forms of combat and possessed agility and stealth. He was an expert martial artist, a formidable hand-to-hand combatant, and a skilled swordsman. He wielded a sword in a Japanese dojo. Every smell, sound, and movement in the world around him was always pronounced with crystal clarity.

Wolverine's memories flooded Tyson's mind in a chaotic torrent. Decades of violence, loss, and pain washed over him, threatening to drown him in their intensity. But with them came something else. Power, raw and primal, filling every cell of Tyson's body. The crowd's raucous cheering faded to a dull roar as Tyson focused on maintaining his grip. He had no idea how long he could hold on, but he knew this was his only shot.

The makeshift ring creaked under the weight of the two combatants as Tyson clung to Wolverine with desperate intensity. His lean arms, corded with newfound strength, squeezed around the mutant's stocky frame. The skin-on-skin contact allowed Tyson's power to absorb Wolverine's through the connection.

Wolverine's gravelly voice cut through the haze of transferred memories. "What the flamin' hell are you doin', bub?" he growled, his tone a mix of confusion and growing anger.

Before Tyson could respond, Wolverine exploded into action. The mutant planted his feet against Tyson's chest and pushed. The force of the thrust sent Tyson flying backward, breaking their connection.

Tyson hit the ropes hard, grazing the cage beyond, then rebounding off them and stumbling to regain his footing. But even as he struggled to stay upright, he felt... different. The gnawing emptiness of hunger that had been his constant companion was gone, replaced by a surge of vitality. His body hummed with energy, muscles taut and ready for action. Across the ring, Wolverine swayed on his feet, momentarily off-balance. The brief contact had taken more out of him than all of the previous fighters' attacks combined. His trademark scowl deepened as he shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

Tyson processed the flood of new information. He shifted his stance, adopting a boxer's pose and made a 'come hither' gesture. "That all you got, old man?" he taunted.

Wolverine's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You asked for it, kid," he snarled.

The mutant's attack came with a speed and ferocity that made Tyson instantly regret his bravado. Wolverine's fist connected, sending Tyson sprawling. Stars exploded behind his eyes as the back of his head cracked against the floor.

The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch, their collective voice adding to the ringing in Tyson's ears. He tasted copper in his mouth as he clambered to his feet, spitting a glob of blood onto the already-stained canvas.

"Okay," Tyson muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Maybe not my best idea."

He may have absorbed Wolverine's powers and skills, but one thing he didn't have was the mutant's adamantium-laced skeleton. Every punch from Wolverine felt like being hit by a wrecking ball wrapped in flesh.

The ring became a stage for a brutal fight. Tyson's newly acquired skills allowed him to hold his own, dodging and weaving with an agility that surprised even himself. But Wolverine was relentless, each blow carrying the weight of his adamantium-enhanced frame. Harsh, guttural sounds of impact were punctuated by the occasional grunt or growl from the fighters as sweat and blood spattered across the ring.

What truly amazed the bloodthirsty crowd was the resilience of both men. Cuts sealed almost as quickly as they were opened, only masked from view by the blood left on the skin in the aftermath.

The stalemate persisted, neither gaining a distinct advantage. But in a moment of distraction, Tyson's guard slipped. It was only a fraction of a second, but that was all Wolverine needed.

Wolverine's fist connected with Tyson's temple, the impact resonating through the bar like a thunderclap. Tyson's eyes rolled back, his body went limp as he crumpled to the ground.

The crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers and groans. This had been the longest fight yet.

As the noise of the crowd washed over him, Tyson's consciousness flickered like a candle in the wind. Through the haze of pain and disorientation, the healing factor he had absorbed from Wolverine surged through his battered body, knitting together torn flesh and mending bruised tissue. Before anyone could drag him from the ring, Tyson's eyes snapped open. He drew in a ragged breath, pushing himself up onto shaky arms. The crowd fell silent, watching surprised as the young fighter rose to his feet.

Tyson swayed slightly, still disoriented from the heavy blow, but his body felt... good. The aches and pains were gone, replaced with a humming energy that coursed through his veins. He ran a hand along his face and through his hair, marveling at the absence of injuries. Every welt and cut had vanished, leaving him as unmarked as if he'd never stepped into the ring. The only evidence was the blood that flecked off at his touch.

Wolverine watched him with a mix of surprise and grudging respect.

The announcer's voice boomed through the bar. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! The undefeated champion... Wolverine!"

The crowd cheered once more, but there was a new undercurrent to their excitement. They had expected a slaughter and had witnessed something far more extraordinary.

As Tyson made his way out of the ring, several patrons clapped him on the back, their gruff voices offering words of praise and consolation. He was glad for the full coverage of the jacket and gloves he'd redonned, which prevented any accidental skin contact.

Tyson had lost the fight, true, but he'd gained something far more valuable. He had learned about his powers and tested what he was capable of. But one question remained.

What would he do next?