The year was 2029. But to Logan it didn't matter anymore. It just mattered that it was too long and he was too old and his body was starting to fail him.

His life had gone downhill since the accident with Charles' decaying mental stability, the telephatic mutant now demential and a danger to everyone. The day that strange psychotic sceisure with Charles' powers killed half of the Xteam he knew it was done for.

,,

Now he spent his days rotting away. Living inside an abandoned smelting plant with Charles, Caliban and you.

He was an old man. He had been alive for 200 years now, two whole centuries. He had seen everything, fought in every war during and after the nineteenth century and was now a bittered down veteran with an adamantium skeleton.

Speaking of which, was starting to become a living nightmare for him, the admantium slowly poisoning him —making him heavier—. His body was getting old. His, now salt and pepper coloured, beard a bit uncared for.

,,

Today was one of those days. One of those days in which he woke up with the feeling of being heavier than normal, as if every movement costed 10 times more than usual to make.

His whole back hurting, muscles traut and strained —coiled— screaming at him as if pins and needles were in his skin.

And, in days like this, there was only one kind of medicine available for his aging body. Your mutation. Your warmth.

You were always running hotter than a furnace due to your fire mutation, and warmth always eased up aching muscles.

,,

He managed to drag himself out of his bed, walking over to the living room where he knew you were watching whatever cartoons were on the miserable four-channel old TV you had.

"hey, bub" he groaned, the 500 lbs weighted man dropping on the sofa next to you with a sigh. His voice was rough and rumbly, coming deep from his chest. "mind helping your old man out a lil' with that mutation of yours?" he asked you, voice deep and tired.