Harry’s Hideaway
Years Ago

“This round’s on me, Elf.”

As Harry twisted the lids off the bottles of beer, Logan rested his elbows on the bar, changing position only to draw the bottle to his mouth and back to the bar again.

“I know you buy your fair share, Logan, but offering?” replied Kurt Wagner, the blue-furred X-Man known as Nightcrawler. “Something is bothering you.”

Logan grunted. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“Then humor me,” Kurt said, flashing his infamous grin.

“Just same old, same old. I see the people I love, and I can’t be with ‘em because o’ the fact that I have enemies who kill everyone I know just to get at me. That’s no way for them to live, but alone’s not a way for me to live either,” Logan said, shrugging. “You’d think I could actually get drunk, me babbling on like that.”

“No, it is fine, mein freund,” Kurt replied. “We all get lonely, but it is a heavy burden you bear. If they choose to love you, they know the dangers they face.”

Logan laughed. “You don’t think that makes it my fault? They’re my enemies. And what happens if I settle down, have some kids, an’ then someone else shows up outta my past that I don’t even remember? Are they going to kill me, or are they going to kill the people I love?”

“I know,” Kurt replied. “I think about it every day. If I find someone some day, what would stop the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants from finding my wife and killing her? And yet I cannot let fear hold me back, because fear is love’s greatest enemy.”

Logan grunted, but it was followed by a smile. “It was hopeless talking to you about it, Kurt. My fears are tangible. My fears hate me. If I ever have loved ones, God help what happens to them because o’ me…”

WOLVERINE	MASTER IZO	MATSUO TSURAYABA	LADY DEATHSTRIKE	AGENT ZERO	BRENT JACKSON	SILVER FOX

Japan

Twelve men sat at a round marble table, discussing decisions that many thought the Prime Minister of Japan handled. Their decisions had rippled throughout the nation’s history for 800 years, deciding what to handle and what to delegate. Anything considered a threat to their cause had been dealt with swiftly. They were the Hand. They were the true rulers of the island nation of Japan, because nothing happened within its borders that they were not aware of. This day was no different.

Akatora, the massive member among their ranks, entered the room, gaining a quick look from each of the assembled as he passed, making his way to one man, Matsuo Tsurayaba.

“Matsuo,” he uttered. “Our connection within Department H has informed us of a particular interest that has just landed in Narita.”

“What is this package?” He asked with interlocking hands on top of the table.

Akatora paused, looking at the others around the table, and then continued to whisper. “It is not a what, but a who.”

“Stop playing childish games with me, Akatora. Tell me your business here,” Matsuo snapped.

“The son of Wolverine has arrived within our borders.”

“Logan-san had no kin,” Matsuo replied adamantly.

“The message was clear. The son of Wolverine is here.”

Matsuo’s eyes enlarged from the excitement of the news as he stood up from his chair, gaining the attention of the other men at the table. Matsuo had felt cheated when he heard of the death of Wolverine. He wished he could have struck the fatal blow on the man which inflicted so much of his own justice upon his body. If Wolverine truly had a son, then his prayers were answered.

“Matsuo,” one man barked. “Why do you disgrace this assembly with your actions?”

“Something has arisen that requires…my particular attention,” Matsuo replied as his hand of flesh caressed his now cybernetic one.

“Then please share what news requires …your specific attention. If it interests you, then it should interest the Hand.”

“It would interest the Hand. It most definitely would. That is why I will not share this information. I will deal with this situation how I see fit. Not by the Hand’s.”

“What you say is sacrilege.”

“What I say is the truth. We are the Hand, each like an individual finger who bond together to form a weapon much like a fist,” Matsuo said, clenching his metallic hand in the air to the others. “We are united in cause but not in spirit. Your souls, if you still have any, could never live up to the fire which burns in mine. I do this for me and me alone and in the end the Hand will thank me.”

Colored lights flashed randomly in the club as the once-busy gathering witnessed an unusual event. Hordes of women flocked to the side of one man, a non-celebrity who had no business garnering such attention from the woman he had attracted. The man simply smiled as his long day ended and his night began.

“Daken-san, just tell me how you want to be pleased and it is done,” a woman suggested.

“No Daken-san, choose me,” another woman cried.

Daken remained silent as numerous hands stroked his chest and legs as he tried to show each of the women attention.

“What brings you here, Daken-san?” a woman asked.

“I am looking for Izo,” Daken responded. “Do you know where I can find it?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Gaijin,” a man hollered. “You are not welcome here.”

“And who determines that piece of information?” Daken replied in Japanese.

“You do not belong here. Some of these women serve the Yakuza themselves and yet they fawn over you like a love sick puppy. It is not natural. They would foolish to challenge the Yakuza.”

“Then they are fools,” Daken smirked. “They are my fools though. I care not of the Yakuza or any such force in Japan. I have been to hell and back and lived to tell about it. And more importantly, I care not for you or your flock of men that try to use these scare tactics against me. Take your ugly ass and pout in the corner before you get hurt.”

“Gaijin!” the man hollered in a frenzy, leaping toward Daken only to be greeted by a sharp downward blow from Daken’s elbow. A smirk could be seen even in the pulsing lights of the club as the man remained motionless at Daken’s feet. Two more men followed and were each struck down with a single blow to their heads. As the crowd around them began to empty out of the club, a fourth attacker revealed himself, missing with his attack and quickly joining his friends as Daken connected with a shot to his chin.

Daken smiled at the fallen men on the floor. They were not even worthy to be considered a warm-up. Disenchanted at the now empty dance floor, Daken grabbed his belongings, gulping down a drink before he departed. The feeling of three sharp objects impaling his skin revealed something else, he was still not alone.

A strange feeling overcame Daken as the view of the room began to distort. He cackled loudly at the obvious poisoning he had just endured. He almost endured a rush from the sensation, cracking his neck with a twist of his head like an addict to a drug.

The source of the poison slowly revealed itself as numerous figures appeared from the shadows, standing ready and silent each with a sword drawn in their crimson attire.

Daken laughed more, wanting to decapitate each and every one of them. The sound of two sliding claws of bone from each fist was heard momentarily. The next sound was that of which only true warriors know, the sound of true battle.

The ninja-clad warriors of the Hand remained silent. Whether getting speared by Daken’s claws or landing a strike from their own blade onto the son of Wolverine, their silence remained resolute as Daken wailed like a banshee in his glory. More men appeared to take the place of their fallen. They were like a machine yet Daken could not care. He wanted to continue. He could taste more of the poison tipped on their blades as he began to breathe heavily by the poison’s effects. His vision began to blur, crediting his assailants for knowing what they were doing. Two ninjas looked like four and then eight, only to be highlighted by the spinning of the room. They were slowing him down and in the end he knew he would fall.

Was this the ultimate peace his father predicted?

No. He needed to gather himself. With heavy arms, Daken hacked his way through ninjas until he got to a wall with a window, only to shatter it as he leapt through it. The fall was anything but easy as a fire landing clipped his body in the descent while landing awkwardly on a car below.

The swarm of ninjas followed in a wave of red cloth through the night sky. Their attacks continued, groups of chains wrapping around flailing body parts as other attacks pierced the slowed Daken until he had fallen to his knees. Knowing this was defeat, he smiled as he fell heavily looking into the rainy night sky. He wanted to feel their blade through his skull. He wanted it all to end. All the pain and suffering. It was then he noticed the men withdraw slowly.

A lone man with white hair draped in black appeared in the alley. He stood unafraid with his arms crossed behind his back as he began to say something. Daken was too far lost to understand yet he could see the ninjas move swiftly against the man only to fall just as fast by his blows. More ninjas swarmed on the old man and more fell, his fist seemingly penetrating body and soul as each fell swiftly with the simplest of attack.

In a matter of a minute, the battle was over and the old man was the victor. He approached the humored Daken, withdrawing the blade which had lodged itself into his chest. Daken could not keep his own weight up any longer as he simply fell to the ground as he peered at the old man which stood above him.

“Who are you?” Daken mumbled.

“I am Izo.”

Daken chuckled in pain. “My father said peace is in Izo.”

“Then your father listened after all.”

Fear.

It is a word that the Hand has mastered to instill in their adversaries for centuries. However, it is a word few have experienced within their secret halls. Elevator doors hush open, a lone man, husky in size steps on the plush carpeting of one of their many facilities. His pace quickened with news of an uneasy matter as he uneasily alters his Dolce and Gabbana tie while waiting for the two armed guards to allow him entrance.

“Akatora,” Matsuo called out from the moonlight glow which washed over him in the darkened room. “How goes the news with Wolverine’s son?”

“We have a problem,” Akatora replied with a shutter in his voice.

Matsuo turned, a near demonic glare piercing his friend. With a slight twist of his neck, the crack of his vertebrate resonated in the empty room. The Hand rarely had problems but Akatora’s voice suggested otherwise. Pouring a glass of bourbon, Matsuo continued. “How so?”

“Izo.”

Matsuo’s face soured even before his lips tasted the whiskey, following the nasty taste which had suddenly appeared with a quick pull of his drink. Matsuo and Akatora had been in the Hand for years, and the name Izo had been almost forbidden long before they were even born. The name had become a myth; a legend stricken from the memory of Japan itself and yet it revealed itself to Matsuo in his attempts for revenge.

“How is it that even in death, Logan’s spirit haunts us to this day by guiding Izo to his son?” Matsuo pondered loudly. “HOW!” Matsuo shouted as he threw the glass against the wall, shattering the glass onto the floor as the guards ran in.

Akatora waved the guards away only to listen when Matsuo agreed. “What course of action should we take?” Akatora asked. “Kuroyama maybe?”

“Bring in Oyama.”

“Lady Deathstrike? “ Akatora questioned. “She cannot be trusted.””

“Yes, I know,” Matsuo replied. “Izo is skilled enough to take on Mikaboshi herself. It is Deathstrike’s passion that we need. Her fire burns with almost as much hatred as my own. She is one of the few who can understand what drives me. What consumes me. Whatever happens to her happens. Just bring the son of Logan to me.”

Canada

“The new reports disturb me.”

“Explain,” said a man covered from head to toe in clothing. A knit mask covered his face, and his eyes were obscured by thick wraparound glasses. The rest of his clothing was thick and armored, lined with pockets full of bullets and knives. He was a one-man killing machine. He was Agent Zero.

“Do you remember, Zero, when you were decommissioned?” said the man at the desk, his fingers laced in front of his body. Brent Jackson, head of the local splinter of the Weapon X program, was not happy. His scowl trailed down the corners of his face.

Agent Zero nodded. “You decommissioned me because my purpose for existence no longer mattered. The Wolverine is dead.”

Jackson stood up and began pacing the dark office, making a pathway from his desk to the door and back. “One,” he said. “One Wolverine is dead. There is another.”

“What are we talking about? Alternate realities?” Zero asked.

“No,” Jackson said. “No we are not. We don’t mess with alternate realities. That’s not our kind of thing. You know that. Don’t waste my time with stupid questions!” Jackson breathed heavily for a moment, and then continued. “No, I’m talking about something that we didn’t know about before. I’m talking about Wolverine’s son.”

“Wolverine has a son?”

“No, of course not. I brought you back for nothing. Have a good day—of course he has a son!” Jackson shouted, slamming his fists on his desk. “And you know what you’re going to do? You are going to kill him! You are going to destroy him and everything he loves! Got it?”

Zero nodded. “Got it, sir. Consider it done.”

It was a simpler time. The age of heroes had not begun.

Brent Jackson lay on his back in the race car-shaped bed, holding a toy plane over his head. His arm swayed from side to side as he lay there, waiting. Tonight was the night that Dad came home from work. Mom said he worked up at the Weapon X project, whatever that was. He was a guard there, working two weeks constantly on duty, two weeks off. It paid well. That was all that mattered to Mom, at least, the way she talked.

The thing was, Dad was late. He never showed up late. It was so late that it was already the next day, and Brent didn’t like that. Something had held dad up. He hoped that it didn’t involve a double shift again. Double shifts were the worst, because they backed into the next shift and before he knew it, Dad was gone for six weeks instead of two at a time.

But no, there was a feeling in Brent’s gut, even as he played with his model plane, that something horrible had happened.

A knock came at the door. Brent sat up and crawled to the door of his bedroom, knowing that it wasn’t Dad. Dad just walked in the house. Why would he knock?

Mom answered the door, and Brent crept forward into the hallway. He couldn’t hear what was said by the man at the door, but whatever it was, it made Mom cry. That was when Brent knew. He knew that Dad was gone. He crept further forward, inching his way so that Mom wouldn’t catch him.

“How did it happen?” Mom asked between sobs.

The man, trying his best to comfort her, clenched his teeth. Anger lit up his eyes. “It was the Wolverine.

“The Wolverine did it.”

Paris, France

The black-haired woman with skin the color of mocha took a sip of her coffee as she read the morning paper. She had only been in France for a few days, but this was already part of her ritual. Reading the paper meant exercising some old muscles. French was a language she hadn’t used often since first learning it, but it came to back to her quickly.

Still, something was different about her new ritual today. This time, she was not alone.

“You are shirking your duties, Silver Fox,” said a woman with lips that seemed to be permanently pursed and short, closely cropped auburn hair. She pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing her arms over her chest. Her business attire said it all. This was not meant to be a fun chat.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t answer to that name,” said the young woman, turning the page of the paper. She never met the other woman’s eyes.

The other woman nodded. “That is the name we gave you. When your duty is complete, you can answer to any name you want. For now, though, you are Silver Fox.”

“I have no duty,” Silver Fox spat. “The time has come and gone for that.”

“Changes happen,” the other woman replied. “The situation has changed. The package you have been safeguarding, moving around the planet one country at a time, never in the same place longer than six weeks? I am the handler telling you that you have a new recipient for that package. Do you understand?”

Silver Fox looked the woman in the eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” the woman replied. “Since you were given the keyword and sequence of phrases, there have been several changeovers in the way we do business. All you know is that you have a steady stipend that allows you to live the way you do, and that all you have to do is make sure the package is safe. The package will be safest with its recipient. Do as I say, or we will find another way. You know the things that we are capable of, or you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.”

Folding her newspaper, Silver Fox glared at the woman. “Fine. I need a name. An address. Surely your changeover let you know that.”

The woman stood up. “They told me you already know the answer. Do make sure you figure that part out.” Then she left.

Silver Fox stared at her hands, clenching them in anger. How could they expect her to carry out her duty?

After all, Weapon X was dead…

Japan

Daken awoke with a startle, quickly rising from his slumber from the woven mattress his back rested upon. The scent of melting wax from lit candles lingered throughout the room as it also presented an uneven radiance, certain aspects of the room brighter than the others. The chill of the air instantly struck his shirtless body as he noticed the change of altitude making one thing for certain – this was not Tokyo.

His last memory of the Hand was still very alive like it just happened. One hand caressed the parts of his body which he remembered the feel of cold steel piercing his flesh, while the other reached for the shirt which was neatly folded next to where he had slept. While getting acquainted to the surroundings, Daken finally recognized the giant sumo sized man which sat in the corner of the room, legs crossed with each of his palms resting on his knees.

“Hello,” he said innocently with a wide smile. “Master Izo will see you now.

Master Izo. The name instantly registered in his head. It was the man he came half way across the world to find. Was Izo the old man he vaguely remembered from the alley?

Daken slipped on the shirt while the giant messenger quickly sprung to his feet in the short seconds it took for the cloth to briefly cover Daken’s vision. Daken paused, figuring the man to be near 350 pounds yet he moved like a cheetah and as silent as an assassin. The humble giant just smiled again, sliding the panel door open as he gestured Daken to follow.

The room led to an enclosed courtyard with buildings much like the one he just exited surrounding the stone floored courtyard. The center of the yard was filled with men no older then he was, most of them in formation, training random fighting techniques. Others walked around freely, happy with their surroundings and purpose. The gentle breeze which flowed softly through the courtyard was very much like the mood which lingered from its occupants.

Daken felt uneasy, as if everyone else gathered had discovered the true meaning of their happiness. It was something he wanted to experience. Something he knew he wanted. As the sun set in the horizon, the soft orange and pink tones washed over the cherry blossoms that encompassed the open courtyard. The view was so innocent and unassuming.

Was this what peace looked like?

The massive guide stopped at the beginning of some steps which led to a massive building, doors open with a man kneeling by himself in the open room. The guide signaled for Daken to proceed without him as he smiled, then bowed and left with no worry.

Daken approached the sturdy steps, not a sound emitting from the wooden planks as his weight shifted upon them. The stream of fish which swam in a still pond under the steps created more noise than his approach. Daken entered, noticing nothing occupying the massive room but its walls and the man which remained silent, his back toward him in meditation.

“This is quite a place you have here,” Daken announced his presence. “Is it a school?”

“It is what the people who live here make it to be,” the old man answered. “Some call it a school. Some a home. I find it to be life.”

“I am assuming you are Master Izo?”

The old man arose to a standing position with little effort, the strength in his feet enough to lift his weight to an erect position. He turned to finally face his visitor, showing the complete whiteness that was his eyes, as he merely smiled with his arms crossed behind his back and nodded in agreement to the question.

“You…you are blind?” Daken asked, amazed that the same man who had aided him in the alley was able to do so without sight.

“When you remove the shroud of lies that cover the truth, only then will you truly be able to see what happens around you, Akihiro.”

“My name is Daken.”

Master Izo released a humored chuckle. “I know who you are, but it isn’t Daken.”

Daken raised an intrigued brow. “Why do you say that?”

“You are Akihiro, son of Logan and Itsu. You have come back to your birth place to find me? A suggestion from your father, I presume.”

”I was told that inner peace would find me here in Japan much like it did him.”

Master Izo paused, reflecting on his memories of the present’s father. “Logan did find peace that so many seek.”

“That is why I came looking for you.”

“And in doing so, have shifted the Hand’s attention toward me once again.”

“I can deal with the Hand,” Daken said emphatically. “Just show me peace.”

“A hand not in motion is harmless. When the five fingers of that hand clench to form a fist, then it is a weapon, something to be feared by every man. No one man can handle the Hand. Remove the shroud which covers your eyes and you will see that Akihiro.”

“I said I can handle the Hand.”

Master Izo laughed, walking to Daken as his empty white eyes seemed to gaze into Daken’s inner being. With no warning to the highly trained Daken, Izo’s open palm could be felt strike his face with a forceful slap. “…Really?”

With his hand covering his now reddened cheek in shock, Daken’s lip curled slightly in anger as he shot Master Izo a stern glare.

“If you weren’t….”

Daken’s sentence is cut short by another slap to his face, causing a stir of emotions deep within him as his leg slightly buckled, causing him to fall onto a knee. Master Izo had sensed the hidden side within the young Daken, and like his father, knew how to unleash it.

SNIKT!

Daken leapt at Master Izo with his boney claws unsheathed with a different outward demeanor then when he arrived. His breathing was heavier while his emotions focused, his eyes filling with rage while a single thought filled his head; death.

“You let the beast within you consume you much more than it did your father. I may be blind but I can still see the savage nature which consumes you,” Master Izo said, grabbing Daken’s oncoming punch, using the momentum of the attack to throw the enraged Daken across the room.

“When you were found as a baby, you were raised by Akihira and Natsumi,” Master Izo continued as his waving hand welcomed Daken to attempt another attack as his body crouched in preparation for an attack. “They cared for you and you murdered them with no remorse.”

“Akihira took you in as his own son. He was what the Hand was meant to be,” Master Izo remembered as his elderly fist unleashed a fury of selected blows across Daken’s body. With his heightened senses, Izo could hear his blows break the bones of Daken’s as they quickly healed, only to be shattered again and again with ease.

Master Izo’s attack switched to that of focused slaps across Daken’s face, disorienting him as Izo continued his eulogy. “He was an honorable samurai.”

“He had honor,” Izo said while descending his attack as it dislodged Daken’s trachea.

“He had a country,” striking quickly at Daken’s sternum, forcing each rib to pierce his lungs, giving no time for his healing factor to allow Daken to taste the scent of air again.

“And he had a family,” Izo finished with a well placed blow to Daken’s frontal lobe causing him to fall in a pool of mixed bodily floods.

“You have none of those three, Daken,” Izo said, standing over the mangled, lifeless body of Daken. “Let the emotions of your inner beast consume you again and I will break you like the dog you present yourself to be. If you want inner peace, come to me as a humbled man, Akihiro.”