Hello, X-Men fans! My name is... well you can just call me 'Chuck' and I am joining your ranks! Or I soon will be. I have been a big X-Men fan-admittedly mostly a Wolverine one-for a while now and have been plotting and scheming... wait... somehow those don't seem like the right words... Eh! Who cares? Anyway I've been playing with a fanfiction idea for Wolverine & the X-Men for a while now and I've finally settled on a story and a character. So, I'm breaking this in by giving you guys just a little preview of this story and what's to come. The only thing I will tell you about this story is that it is not going to be a romantic one. There may be some small tidbits of romance way, way, way, way, way later on, but that's then not now. And it won't be between my OC and Wolverine. In general this is going to be a friendship/father-daughter type of tale because I love those stories and relationships best.

Another note, this preview is rated 'T' for strong language mostly but the story itself will be rated 'M' for violence, gore, language, and sexual tones. So if you like this and want to read the story (whenever it comes out) be looking for it in the 'Mature' section.

We ready? Okay. Onward!

Logan was gradually pulled out of his slumber by the sound of something rattling across wood. At first he wasn't sure what it was—not quite completely awake yet—but when he realized it was his phone vibrating across the top of the nightstand. Cracking a blue eye open, he looked over at the stand and up to the clock there. The red digital numbers declared the time: 3:30. The Canadian growled in annoyance. It was bad enough he'd arrived this motel so late he almost hadn't gotten a room for the night, and then he'd been up most of the night with those damned nightmares that never seemed to leave him alone, but now he had a friggin' phone call?! Who the hell would be calling him at three in the morning? Who the hell would have the nerve?!

Grumbling under his breath, Logan reached over and snagged up his phone. Not even bothering to check the caller ID he took the call and pressed it to his ear. "Whoever the fuck this is," he rumbled into the speaker and he huddled down under the covers of his bed again, "ya better have a fuckin' good reason for wakin' me up in the middle of the goddamn night."

For a moment there was no sound over the line, then there was what sounded like the swish of liquid in a bottle and a deep swallow. "I should've lis'en'd t'you," a female voice finally replied, voice slurring. She was obviously drunk and evidently still drinking.

Logan sat up, suddenly alert and intent on the call now. For some reason the voice sounded hauntingly familiar, but for the life of him the man couldn't put his finger on where he'd heard it before and who it belonged to. "Who is this?" he asked, voice a little softer and less irritable than it had been before. Something told him that whoever this was and wherever they were they needed help and had called him for a specific reason.

There was more swishing and swallowing as the girl undoubtedly took another swig of her drink. "I should've gone with you t' the Institute when you off'rd," she went on, offering little clue as to who she was.

"What are ya talkin' about?"

"But it's too late for me now." The girl's tone was suddenly sad and filled with tangible pain. "'M too far gone—'ve done too much bad shit." There was a heart wrenching sob. "'Ve hurt so many people, Logan. So many people…."

"Kid, I can't help ya if ya don't tell me who ya are or where ya are."

"It doesn't matter. Nothin' matters anymore."

She was getting ready to hang up, Logan could tell. He wasn't any closer to putting this all together and he was about ready to lose her! "Come on, kid," he urged. "Talk to me, just keep talkin'."

"I jus' wanted t' let ya know you were right."

"Kid, stay with me, please. Just stay with me. Who are ya? Where are ya?"

"'M sorry, Logan."

"Wait. Wait don't hang…" but it was too late. Whoever she was, she was gone. For a long time Logan sat there in the darkness of his motel room, staring at his phone in complete disbelief over what had just taken place. What exactly had taken place? He honestly had no idea.

She slowly hung up the payphone, not really wanting to but knowing at the same time that she had to. It was no use. Logan could have been standing right there next to her and he wouldn't have been able to help her. No one could help her. She was all alone on this dark path she was going down. And why shouldn't she have been? With everything she'd done—all the blood on her hands—she didn't deserve help: She didn't deserve anything except pain and heartache and hardship and… well, basically the exact life she was living now. For everything she'd done, she deserved this. But even the acceptance of this fact didn't make it feel okay.

Biting her lip, she slowly stepped back from the phone and pressed her back to the door of the phone booth before slowly sliding down it to sit on the floor. She hung her head, long dark brown hair falling around her face. Yes this was her life. Her lonely, cold, solitary, bloody, murderous life that refused to do anything but drag her into the darkest, hottest corners of Hell.

Her golden-brown eyes shifted down to stare at the nearly empty whiskey bottle in her hand. This was the only friend she had in this life, and more often than not it was her enemy too. Tears bit at her eyes, blurring her already hazy vision further. Painful sobs built up within her chest, making it feel as though she would explode. She wished she would. Pressing her free hand to her eyes, she began to let the tears fall, ignoring the discomfort as they burned their way down her cheeks and chin to fall between her legs on the floor. Then the sobs started in. She didn't know what hurt worse: crying, her memories, of the fact that no one was there for her and no one would ever be again. She didn't want this life—she'd never wanted it. But it wasn't her choice. It had never been her choice. That didn't mean it wasn't her fault. "'M sorry," she whimpered through her sobs. She didn't know who she was apologizing to but she knew it didn't matter; she could never be forgiven for all that she'd done. "'M sorry…."