The remains of Almagordo; New Mexico

"Geez... nothing could've survived this."

The voice comes from Jack Marin. He stands over the ruins of Almagordo which was, until recently, the base of operations of the Shadow King. He is dressed from head to toe in a yellow, radiation suit.

"Yeah, it may look that way, but the top brass wanna be positive," says his partner, Robert McClure. "You know how these villain types have a way of coming back from the dead."

Marin points at the device he holds in his hand.

"Radiation levels are still high, McClure—even after all this time," he says. "I don't even wanna know about what that blast would have done to someone. No, no doubt about it. This place is a bonafide graveyard."

"Graveyard? What was that?"

"Logan..."

"You..."

He sees a woman standing before him—a woman in red with long, black hair. Mediterrenean features. Greek or Italian, he thinks. She seems familiar to him, but he cannot place her face.

"You... who are you?"

"It is time..."

"Time? Time for what?"

"To be at peace."

"There's traces of adamantium over here. Must be where he died."

"There... there it was again. Did you hear...?"

"It doesn't matter, my love. We are together now."

"No... somethin's not right here..."

"This is such a bullshit assignment. No way anything could've survived. Almagordo is gone."

"Almagordo... that name..."

"Yeah, you're right. Let's report back to the base."

"Did you hear that?"

"Logan... leave it be. It's in the past now."

"No... no it's not... this ain't right, this is..."

Rubble moves.

"You hear something, Marin?" asks McClure.

"No... you feeling okay?" asks Marin.

McClure turns around and walks towards the source of the sound.

"McClure?"

"Shhh!"

McClure takes small, careful steps, observing all. His eyes scan across the rubble, searching out the point of origin for his paranoia. He hears another sound and snaps his attention to it. He watches as the rubble moves just a bit more and he can see severely burnt flesh.

"Over here!" he shouts. McClure runs over and tries to push the rubble aside. Marin comes up beside him and beneath the rubble, they find a man. Naked and hairless, so badly burnt that it is hard to determine if he is actually human at all.

"How could anyone survive this?" asks Marin.

"Dunno, but let's get him up," replies McClure. He crouches down and tries to move the man. The man's eyes snap open and what sounds like a low growl comes forth from his vocal chords. The man's hand shoots out with lightning fast speed, and in the blink of an eye, Marin sees his partner lying on the ground, with blood seeping from his head. He looks up and sees that the man is now standing upright. Three metal claws are attached to his right hand, his partner's blood dripping from them. Although the man is not very tall, his presence is intimidating.

"Holy shit..." mutters Marin. He starts to slowly back away, but this man takes stock of this. He lunges forward and brings his left hand up. Three metal claws extend from the spots between his knuckles, and slice into Marin's flesh.

Marin pulls away and reaches by his side for a gun strapped to his leg. He draws it and starts firing. The bullets strike the man's burnt flesh, but he seems to take no notice of them. He continues to walk towards Marin. Marin drops the gun and runs in the opposite direction.

"Marin to base, Marin to base!" he exclaims. "Someone respond, dammit! ARGH!!"

The nerves in his back scream in agony as the claws of this animal tear into it. Marin feels himself fall, but pulls himself back up and still tries to run.

"Target remains!" he exclaims. "Repeat, target remains! Do you hear me?! Wolverine is alive!"

His body falls forward and suddenly, Jack Marin finds that he cannot feel his legs anymore. He looks back and sees blood. He also sees the glare of the sunlight shining off adamantium claws as the Wolverine approaches him.

"Oh god... oh god, I'm gonna die..."

"Logan!"

Blue eyes snap open. They scan the area, although they see nothing. The man they belong to is getting on in years. His hair is gray, his skin lined with wrinkles. Using a staff he holds in his hand, he pulls himself up to his feet.

He walks towards the edge of the rooftop. If he could see, he would be looking out over the skyline of New York City. He rests his hands on the edge and breathes deeply into his lungs the crisp, night air.

"I'm guessing you've figured out what my superiors already know."

The man leaning against the rooftop entrance is tall, with dark skin and a beard. He wears a cowboy hat on his head and steps towards the older blind man.

"You must be Stick," he says as he approaches the older man. "I'm John Wraith, the Expeditor for Landau, Luckman, and La—"

"I know who you are," says Stick. "What are you doing here?"

"He's back, y'know," says Wraith. "Everyone thought he was dead, but I'm guessing they thought wrong. Should've known better, really. We all should have. A man like Logan's been cheating death for so many years that it would take a helluva lot more than a little nuclear explosion to kill him."

"Get to the point already," says Stick. "If what you say is true, we don't have any time to waste."

"You already know it's true, otherwise you would've told me to fuck off," says Wraith. "He may've been out of the game for a bit, but he's not lying down anymore. Farouk was a tough one, probably one of the toughest we've ever gone up against. But if there's one thing I've learned in this business it's that no matter how big the threat, there's always one bigger standing right around the corner."

Wraith sits on the edge of the rooftop, and Stick follows him with his eyes.

"Y'know it creeps me out how you're able to do that," says Wraith.

"Do what?" asks Stick.

"Nevermind," replies Wraith. "Point is, he's back. And we're not the only ones who know about this, either. Logan's spent a lifetime racking up an impressive list of enemies, and none of them are gonna want him walking around for too long."

"You're right," says Stick. He turns away from Wraith and walks towards the rooftop entrance. When he reaches the door, he stops and says, "what are you waiting for, kid? We don't have time to sit around chatting. We have arrangements to make."

New Mexico

Somethin's not right, I can feel it in my bones.

Been gone a long time. Too long, I s'pose. Not sure what's what anymore. Not sure where I am, or where I'm goin'. All I know is that someone's been screwin' with me. And once I find out who it is, they're gonna wish they've never been born.

Those guys back there... not sure what they wanted. When I saw 'em, I dunno... instinct just took over an' I lashed out. These... claws. They cut 'em. I killed those men, an' I don't know why. But... for some reason, it felt familiar. Like I've done it before.

I look up at the sun. It's beatin' down hard on me. My skin's pretty damn sensitive right now, an' judgin' by the looks of it, I can see why. Looks like I've been in both the fryin' pan an' the fire. My body feels like hell. With every single move I make, pain shoots through me.

I close my eyes for a second, an' then I see a flash. I open my eyes in shock an' I look around. Then, I get another flash. A woman with long, black hair. She's there. I get another flash, this time of a woman with red hair. What's goin' on is what I wanna know. Who's puttin' me through this crap?

I take another step, but I trip and fall. My blistered, burnt body strikes the pavement of the two-lane road goin' through the desert hard.

More pain.

Just great.

I'm hearin' somethin' comin'. I turn my head an' I see a car driving towards me. It slows down until it comes to a dead stop a few feet from me. The driver gets out and runs to my side. It's a young guy, probably in his 20s. Short, blonde hair. Sunglasses an' an old baseball hat.

"Oh my god..." he mutters. He just stands there for a few moments an' stares at me. "Is it... are you... can you hear me?"

I reach out with my hand an' grab his ankle. He freaks out and jumps back a few feet.

"Jesus!" he exclaims. His mouth is wide open, an' he lifts up his sunglasses to get a better look at me. "Holy mother of god... are you... what happened to you?"

"I fell," I say. "How about givin' me a hand?"

"It... it talks..."

"O' course I talk, now help me up!"

He looks around briefly, then slowly steps forward. He holds his hand out towards me an' I reach up an' grab it. Right away he cries.

"AHH!! LET GO!!"

I let go of his hand an' look at him.

"Your skin...." he says, looking at his hand. He starts shaking it. "Damn... your skin burns."

"Nevermind..." I mutter. "I'll do it myself..."

I slowly sit up an' then I force my body to stand. I can feel my legs begin to give out, so I move forward and brace myself on his car. I stand there for a few seconds, hunched over the hood, an' I look over at him.

"Umm... is there anything I can..."

"How about givin' me a lift?" I ask.

"Sure... sure thing," he replies. "You want me to take you to a hospital?"

"Nah... no hospital," I say. "I hate hospitals."

"Why?"

"...not quite sure," I reply. "Just do."

"Well... then where?" he asks. He walks over to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I move towards it an' he backs away to avoid touchin' me. Can't say I blame him after he burned his hand the last time. I climb into the passenger seat of his SUV an' he runs around to the driver's side. He climbs in an' starts the car up again.

"So... where do you want to go?" he repeats.

"Somewhere I can take a bath an' get some clothes," I say. "An' I could really use a cigar..."

"You could probably light the damn thing off yourself, too..." he mutters. I turn and stare at him. He glances over to me, then turns his attention back to the road.

"Sorry," he says.

We ride for a few moments in silence, an' I keep wonderin' when curiosity is gonna get the best o' him. It takes a total of about two minutes by my count.

"So... there a reason why you're laying out in the middle of the road in a desert looking like you've been to Hell and back?"

"Not sure," I say.

"You don't know how you got there?"

"Nope."

"Oh..." he says. "By the way, I'm Chris. Chris Siger."

"Nice t' meet ya," I say. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," he says.

Another few moments of silence.

Then he looks back at me.

"...you got a name?"

I stare blankly outside the windshield. I open my mouth to form a response, but no words come out. It's on the tip o' my tongue, but I can't seem t' remember it. I'm just completely lost.

"Well?"

"...I... I dunno..."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he asks. "Heh, you telling me you don't know your own name?"

"That's exactly it," I reply, staring right at him. He clears his throat and focuses on the road.

"Well... should I call you something?" he asks.

"Call me whatever you want, kid," I say.

"No preference?"

"Nope."

"None at all?"

"You hard of hearing?" I ask. "No, I don't care."

"Okay..." he says. "How about John? Y'know, like John Doe?"

"Fine, that works," I say.

"Okay..." he says. "So John... do you remember anything?"

"Nope," I say. I stop an' I think for a moment. Then I look over at him. "Actually... forget John."

"You got another name you wanna go by?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply.

"What is it?" he asks.

"...Jacob," I reply. "Call me Jacob."

"Look at this," says a man in uniform. He stands in a monitor room and several men in suits stand behind him. "Play it back."

On the large monitor before them, they see footage from the last moments of the lives of Jack Marin and Robert McClure.

"Target remains! Repeat, target remains! Do you hear me?! Wolverine is alive! Oh god... oh god, I'm gonna die..."

Static fills up the monitor.

"...and that's where the transmission ends," says the uniformed man. "That's where we stand right now, Mr. Montclair. Wolverine is still out there."

"Good," says a man in a suit.

"Good?" asks the uniformed man.

"I didn't have my men in SHIELD fake reports of Wolverine's death for nothing, General Meyer," says Montclair. "The Wolverine is possibly one of the most adept and dangerous super soldiers ever created. A lot of people have spent a lot of money making him the best there is at what he does. And I don't want to see their efforts go to waste."

"Who should we give this assignment to?" asks General Meyer.

"No one in house," replies Montclair. "Too risky. I have a contact in Japan who I think will be very interested in undertaking this task."