Rivalry Wolverine

Once upon a time, there were two X-Men who disagreed about almost everything — and that turned out to be exactly what both of them needed.

Logan arrived at the Xavier School on a Tuesday in November, in a borrowed truck, with a single bag and no appointment. He was shorter than most people expected and wider at the shoulders than seemed quite right, with wild dark hair and heavy sideburns and eyes that had seen considerably more than eyes usually see, because Logan had been alive for a very long time. He had a skeleton made of adamantium — an unbreakable metal bonded to every bone — and three retractable claws on each hand that slid out with a sound like the world whispering: SNIKT.

He operated entirely on instinct. He trusted his gut the way some people trust a compass. He believed that the fastest plan was the one you made while running, not before.

Scott Summers shook his hand and introduced himself.

Logan said, "Summers," with a particular tone that communicated several opinions at once.

Scott said, "Logan," with no particular tone at all.

They disagreed on everything tactical.

Scott believed that before any mission, you learned the terrain — every room, every corridor, every emergency exit. You thought through the sequence. You anticipated what could go wrong and planned the contingency. Then you briefed the team. Thoroughly.

Logan believed that plans were fine in theory and the moment you stepped into the field everything changed anyway, so why spend all that time? Move fast. React faster. Trust your instincts.

Scott thought Logan's approach would eventually get someone hurt. Logan thought Scott's briefings were too long.

They argued about this in training rooms, in hallways, in the briefing chamber, and once memorably in the kitchen at two in the morning when Logan was eating leftovers and Scott had come down for a glass of water. The other X-Men had learned to find somewhere else to be when this happened.

But underneath all the friction — underneath the arguing and the eye-rolls — there was something both of them would have been embarrassed to say out loud and both of them knew perfectly well: they respected each other enormously.

The proof came on a cold afternoon in Alberta, Canada.

The X-Men had come to the Weapon X facility to extract three young mutants held there without their consent. For the first phase, everything went exactly right. But on the way out, the building's automated defense system activated ahead of schedule. Great hydraulic doors began slamming shut. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

Scott and Logan were in the deepest corridor with two of the young mutants, and the final exit door was sliding closed. Thirty seconds. The corridor was filling with steam from a burst coolant pipe.

Logan looked at the door.

He looked at the locking mechanism — a ten-centimeter metal pin mounted in a bracket, sixty meters away, half-hidden in steam.

He looked at Scott.

"Tell me you can hit that," Logan said.

There was no doubt in his voice. Just the direct request of someone who had made a quick, correct assessment and knew exactly what was needed.

Scott narrowed his visor slider to minimum aperture. A pencil-thin beam. Maximum precision. He tracked the steam, found the steady angles, felt the distance — sixty meters, ten centimeters, moving bracket — and took one slow breath.

CRACK.

The pin sheared clean. The door stopped. It held.

Logan grabbed both young mutants — one tucked under each arm — and ran. Scott fired twice more behind them at the automated sentinels that emerged from side corridors. Both shots landed exactly where he intended.

They burst through the open door into the cold Alberta air. Four seconds.

Logan set the two young mutants gently down on the frozen ground and straightened up. He stood there for a moment.

Then he looked at Scott.

"Good shot," he said.

Two words. From most people, a polite acknowledgment. From Wolverine — from a man who did not soften things and did not spend words he wasn't prepared to mean — two words were a great deal.

Scott said, "Good run."

Logan made a sound that was not quite a laugh, and he walked toward the X-jet.

That was the end of the conversation. But it was also the beginning of something that had no proper name — not friendship yet, and too warm to be called just respect. Something that would grow, mission by mission and argument by argument, into a partnership as strong as two very different people working toward the same good thing.

Sleep well. Sometimes the best partnerships are the ones where you disagree the most — because it means both people care enough to say so.