Jonathan: Those Internal Revenue Service Bastards Again! Right?! (Please Follow)

The night wind swept across the wheat fields, carrying the damp scent of earth. The rain-soaked wheat heads hung heavily, gleaming silver-gray beneath the moonlight.

The barn's remains looked like the skeleton of something mauled by a giant beast. Charred beams jutted diagonally from the mud, thin wisps of smoke still rising from their broken ends. Puddles reflected the fractured night sky, while a few remaining sheets of roofing metal creaked in the wind.

Locke braced himself on his knees and slowly rose, muddy water dripping from work pants whose original color was no longer recognizable.

He narrowed his eyes and studied the man who had suddenly appeared before him in the moonlight—

The man jumped down from a beam and leaned against the barn's last half-standing wall, a nearly spent cigarette hanging from his lips.

The orange-red ember cast uneven shadows across his weathered face. He wore a battered leather jacket, its collar hanging open to reveal a muscular chest.

He took a deep drag. The night wind lifted the tips of his gray-white hair, yet the smoke he exhaled lingered beneath the moonlight.

He simply stood there in silence, radiating a loneliness detached from the world, like an old wolf that had wandered alone for years.

Logan

Logan.

Wolverine.

[Note: They haven't merged! The two worlds are still separate, independent worlds!]

Locke wiped the mud and rainwater from his face, then suddenly smiled.

"Looks like tonight's surprises just keep coming."

The man did not answer right away.

He pinched out the cigarette with his bare fingers and casually tossed it to the ground.

His eyes gleamed with complicated emotions in the moonlight, as though he were both examining Locke and looking through him toward a far more distant past.

"I followed the feeling inside me here."

"Obviously."

"You seem to know me?" he finally said hoarsely. "Are you... not from this world either?"

Locke shook his head, muddy water dripping from the ends of his hair.

"I'm just a corn farmer, sir."

Logan narrowed his eyes and examined the mud-covered farmer before him.

From the work boots caked in dirt to those unnaturally calm eyes beneath the moonlight.

Other than your clothes, what part of you looks like a farmer?

What kind of farmer casually threw dynamite and blasted a monster made of imitation Adamantium to pieces?

A subtle silence filled the air, broken only by the rustling of wind slipping through distant wheat stalks.

"Hmph."

"Call yourself whatever you want, kid."

With a snort, Logan pulled another cigarette from his leather jacket's inner pocket, then frowned and dug out an old Zippo lighter.

He flipped it open and fiercely rolled the wheel with his thumb—

"Click, click."

Only a few sparks flickered in the damp air.

"F**k!"

He cursed under his breath and pressed harder. A flame sprang up, but—

It only gave off a wisp of smoke before dying out.

After an awkward cough, Logan shoved the lighter back into his pocket.

".This goddamn weather."

He glanced sideways at Locke and asked in a low voice, "Got a light, farmer?"

Locke spread his mud-covered hands. A box of matches lay there.

He had used them to light the dynamite earlier, but now—

The matchbox had clearly been soaked through by the rain.

"Tch."

The man resentfully stuffed the cigarette back into its crumpled pack. "What era is this? How do you not even have a decent lighter—"

His complaint abruptly stopped as his eyes snapped toward the distant wheat field.

The night wind carried the faint sound of a diesel engine—

Someone was driving a tractor this way.

"Looks like your companions are here."

"Listen." He looked toward the pool of silver liquid turning into smoke, his voice lowered as his expression turned serious. "That organization is more dangerous than you think. They're like a pack of jackals that have smelled blood."

"If anyone comes to investigate what happened tonight—"

"Shing!"

A pair of alloy claws sprang from the man's hands, glinting coldly beneath the moonlight.

"Tell them some freak calling himself 'Wolf' saved you."

He turned and walked toward the barn's open doorway, the hem of his leather jacket flapping in the night wind.

"Don't ever get involved with those lunatics, kid."

"They're more trouble than all the wheat on your farm combined."

He was leaving just like that?

Watching Wolverine prepare to depart, Locke suddenly raised his voice.

"Wait!"

"What did you mean when you said 'not from this world'?"

Logan stopped.

The moonlight stretched his shadow across the muddy ground, making him look like a lonely silhouette.

He was silent for a few seconds before answering without looking back.

"Ever seen a talking rock man, kid? Or... a purple-skinned sweet-potato man?"

The night wind passed through the open space between them, carrying the fresh scent of wheat after rain.

"I'm looking for a bastard."

"He threw us into the wrong world and left me unable to find my way home."

Logan's voice suddenly became exceptionally weary, then—

"And he got me locked up for another four or five years of research, all so they could recreate that goddamn Adamantium. I'm so ***ing—!"

"Anyway, I'm gonna F*K that guy's ***, then ****!"

"***, I ***, that goddamn curly-haired ***!"

"."

As though he had been holding it in for far too long, the wolf kept roaring out a stream of censored words unfit for children.

After venting for a while, Logan took a deep breath and looked much more comfortable. He turned back to Locke and shrugged. "Satisfied with that answer now, Mr. Farmer?"

"Dad!"

"Locke!"

Before Locke could answer, Dio and Jonathan's family shouted from the distance. The pickup's headlights swayed through the wheat field.

After giving Locke one last look, Logan turned and vanished into the darkness.

"Remember what I said."

His voice drifted from the night. "It's important."

A few wheat heads swept up by the wind slowly drifted down. The weathered man was already gone, leaving only several deep footprints in the mud and half a still-smoking cigar on the ground.

Shaking his head, Locke withdrew his gaze and shouted in the direction of the lights.

"Dio!"

"Jonathan! Martha!"

"I'm here!"

"Screech—!"

The pickup stopped beside the ruins, its headlights making the metal fragments scattered across the ground sparkle.

Dio was the first to jump from the truck. He practically flew over and crashed into Locke's arms.

The boy's arms clamped tightly around his father's waist. His mud-smeared face buried itself in Locke's chest, his shoulders trembling slightly.

"I'm fine, you brat."

Locke ruffled Dio's wet hair, several wheat stalks tangled between his fingers. "You drove that tractor pretty well today!"

"Locke!" Martha hurried forward, flour still clinging to her apron. She had clearly rushed here in a panic. Her hands trembled as she checked Locke for injuries. "Oh God, do you know how scared we were? Dio drove the weak Clark straight up to the house in the tractor, and he even rolled into the pond! Dio told us not to go outside, but he wouldn't tell us what happened."

"Locke, where are those people?!"

Jonathan followed close behind, an old hunting rifle in hand.

His gaze swept over the shattered barn before falling on the metal fragments scattered across the ground. His brows twisted into a tight knot.

"Were those Internal Revenue Service people here again?!"

"."

Locke could not help laughing.

My brother Jonathan, does your grudge against the Internal Revenue Service run even deeper than mine?