It was the year 2004.

He had woken up decades ago, in what he could only describe as a battle-ridden field. With no recollection of who he used to be or the life he had lived, he walked through the thick winters of Canada with the only thing he had left.

“Logan,” and “Wolverine,” were the two names embedded in the dogtags left beside him when he woke up. He took those names as his own, blind to the meaning of them. He tried to make the best with what he had, which wasn’t much.

Now, Logan leans against the side of his van, the white snowflakes of winter raining down around him slowly. His van is the only thing he can remotely call a home.

Logan tries to flick his lighter on, the thick cigar in between his lips waited to be ignited. He wondered if he smoked before he had lost his memory, and he found that he wouldn’t doubt it.

Logan had noticed things about himself over the decades. While he may not have his memories, he knew that people aged. Yet he didn’t. Every time he had gotten nicked, his injuries would heal before his eyes in seconds. It was weird, but Logan never paid much attention to it. If it helped him earn some money, good. Otherwise, why bother?

“Fuckin’ hell…” Logan grunted in annoyance. His lighter ran out of fluid. He’d have to rack up some money so he could buy another. Perhaps he should participate in another cage fight. He never seemed to break any bones doing those.