Logan: You Really Are My Good Friend, Locke!

"That'll do."

Logan scratched at his messy hair and turned toward the door.

"If you run into trouble, mail a letter to 114-51-4 Brooklyn Street, Metropolis. Someone will forward it to me."

His steel boots thudded dully against the wooden floor. Logan opened the door, still muttering, "But it's almost the twenty-first century, Locke. You ought to get yourself a button phone. Are you waiting for the age of smartphones?"

"Heh."

Locke leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded.

"You're a primitive man who can't even use an induction cooker. If I bought a phone, would you even be able to receive my messages?"

Logan, now out on the porch, shrugged. Moonlight outlined his back in silver.

"Who knows?"

He reached out and pushed open the door, and the night breeze swept over him carrying the scent of wheat.

"I'm leaving, Locke."

With that, Logan melted into the night as he had last time, disappearing like a lone wolf.

Locke sighed.

Last time, since they had not known each other well, he had been able to watch him leave without much feeling.

But.

This time, he was a future friend.

Silently mocking himself for becoming as softhearted as Martha, Locke called out.

"Stop."

Logan halted.

"Tomorrow is Dio and Clark's birthday party."

He could hear the helplessness in Locke's voice.

"Stay until after you attend it."

Under the moonlight, Logan's mouth curved into an exaggerated grin, but he quickly forced it back down.

He turned around and walked back into the living room, throwing himself heavily onto the sofa and casually propping his combat boots on the coffee table.

"Good night, farmer."

The moment he finished speaking, thunderous snoring filled the room.

"..."

A vein throbbed on Locke's temple.

"How is this guy so familiar already?"

He muttered under his breath, "Can I have the aloof Logan from before back, damn it?"

Shaking his head helplessly, Locke switched off the living room lights and headed upstairs.

The wooden stairs creaked faintly, and the receding footsteps eventually vanished at the end of the hallway.

A moment later.

In the darkness, Logan, who should have been asleep, suddenly opened his eyes.

His steel claws slid out soundlessly, glinting coldly beneath the moonlight.

"Logan, Logan..."

He muttered to the ceiling. "How could you fall this far?"

The wolf felt like he was done for.

Because a strange warmth kept lingering in his heart—

This shabby farmhouse living room made him feel safer than any of his safehouses ever had.

Wolverine irritably turned over and buried his face in a cushion that smelled of sunshine.

"It must be the remnants of that future me's consciousness."

He grumbled into the cushion. "Damn it, now I'm even getting the warmth of home."

Outside the window, an owl hooted, accompanied by the occasional moo of cattle.

Logan drew in a deep breath and clenched his fists as though making up his mind.

"One last night."

He declared to the empty living room, "I'll leave after the party tomorrow. I absolutely won't cause my friend any trouble."

But as soon as he said that, Logan froze.

Because the word "friend" had slipped out so naturally, as though they had known one another for years.

Irritably ruffling his hair, Wolverine chose to bury his entire face in the sofa cushion.

What he failed to notice was—

In the shadows of the second-floor hallway, Locke silently curled his lips into a smile.

Labor force +1.

The next morning, Logan was awakened by a burst of blinding sunlight.

He groggily opened his eyes to find Locke standing before the sofa, holding a steaming cup of coffee.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty." The farmer grinned teasingly. "The sun's already shining on your ass."

"Shit—"

Logan shot upright, his steel claws reflexively extending three inches—

But he immediately realized he was in Locke's living room.

He scratched his hair in annoyance. "I actually slept that deeply."

Looking around the cozy living room filled with sunlight, Wolverine did not immediately go on alert for once.

Fine.

I'll indulge myself for just one day.

He stretched, his steel joints cracking.

"Come on, Locke." Logan yawned. "Let me sing the birthday kids a song, yeah."

"I'll leave a good impression on the emperor so he won't torture me later."

"Too late."

Locke handed him the coffee. "They went to school at eight. It's already nine in the morning."

Logan took the coffee and awkwardly rubbed his nose.

"Then let me help prepare the birthday party? I can make a Canadian maple syrup cake."

"Martha and Jonathan are preparing it."

Locke cut him off mercilessly.

Logan's expression became a spectacular sight.

He irritably raked his hair into a mess, his steel claws leaving several fresh marks on the sofa armrest.

"Not this, not that, Locke, do you even think of me as—"

A friend.

The words caught in his throat, and Logan simply could not bring himself to say them.

But seeing this mutant warrior who had once commanded the winds and clouds curl up on the sofa like a wronged large dog, Locke finally burst out laughing.

"My friend."

Locke suddenly turned serious. "We do have a great mission today."

Logan's eyes lit up.

"You called me a friend, so what are we waiting for?"

"I was waiting for you to say that!"

Pulling out a sharp sickle from behind his back, Locke accurately tossed it to Logan.

"Come on, friend! Today is harvest day. Let's go work 'happily' in the fields!"

Sunlight shone through the window onto the sickle's gleaming blade, reflecting a blinding flare.

Logan's expression froze.

He looked down at the sickle, then up at Locke's utterly innocent smile. His steel claws extended on their own.

"F*********!" Wolverine gritted his teeth. "You really are my good friend, Locke!"

"Likewise."

Locke had changed into work pants and was pouring iced lemonade into a water jug. "Didn't someone say last night that he was going to keep an eye on me?"

Cursing under his breath, Logan stood up and viciously dragged his steel claws across the sofa.

Then he stopped.

With his back to Locke, he silently stared at the dense claw marks on the armrest for two seconds.

Did I sleep too comfortably last night?

Glancing at the busy man behind him, Logan quietly pulled several crumpled American bills from his pocket and pressed them onto the coffee table.

Ahem.

We're friends now. He probably won't care about a few claw marks, right?

Besides, I paid for them.

"Let's go, Locke."

Logan hoisted the sickle over his shoulder and strode toward the door. "Let me show you what the 'Canadian Harvesting Legend' is."

Locke followed with a smile.

He casually had Star Platinum slip Logan's money back into the pocket of his leather jacket.

I wonder what Dio and Clark are doing.

He remembered that Dio and Clark had asked him for two lemons today, saying their school needed them for an experiment.

An experiment.

Forget it. I'll just wish the kids luck first.

And since it was their birthday, perhaps he could pick them up with Jonathan later?—

Smallville's only elementary school.

"Students, today we'll try extracting lemon juice and separating slices of lemon pulp for observation."

The chemistry teacher in thick glasses tapped the blackboard. "Please follow the experimental manual carefully and use the tools with caution!"

Below the podium.

Dio was elegantly adjusting the test tube rack, a hint of amusement flashing in his red eyes.

Because his deskmate—

The newly transferred rich kid, Neil Worthington, was stealing glances at his movements from the corner of his eye, wearing a malicious smile.

Even without opening his mouth, Dio could smell the stench coming from him.

Even his silence reeked of the foul odor of refrigerated pork chop corpse wax.

Sure enough.

"Hey, Dio."

Worthington lowered his voice and deliberately knocked over Dio's beaker.

"I heard your dad's a farmer?"

"No wonder you always smell like... manure."

As soon as he spoke, two or three lackeys beside him snickered.

Dio slowly set the beaker upright, lightly tapping the tabletop with his fingertips.

"Worthington, your father owns the town pharmacy, right? Or is he a doctor?"

"You should have him take a good look at you. Your hand was shaking so badly while cutting those lemon slices, I thought Joanie had arrived."

Worthington blanked.

Was there someone named Joanie in the class?

He turned to look at the lackeys beside him.

But they shook their heads as well.

"Who's Joanie?" he asked in confusion.

"Oh, she's an eighty-year-old grandmother who lives by the roadside in town. Her lemonade is awful."

"I heard it's because of Alzheimer's disease."

Alzheimer's disease? What was that?

Is he insulting me?

Worthington was utterly confused, but his face still flushed red at once.

Because.

Behind Dio, more than half the class had burst into laughter.

They were all Dio's lackeys.