a wolf is a wolf, a man is a man

Unlike most days, however, Logan was simply walking on the grounds, which were vast and generally unexplored, even by the students. Xavier had decreed it -- and made Logan wonder if the old man hadn't lost his legs because of some kind of Bruce Wayne-style fall -- and his word was law, even more so after his death, where Ororo passed down his teachings like the word of God.

Sometimes, Logan himself didn't know why he was at Westchester. Bloodthirsty, he might be, but he'd never signed up for a war--he'd never signed up for whatever crusade Chuck had thrown them all into, no matter how righteous it was. He could survive on his own -- he wasn't even sure he could be killed -- and this war wasn't his to fight. But yet, here he was.

Frozen in place, Logan's eyes widened. That's not possible. Breathing in slowly, through his nose, he catalogued again what he'd picked up from the wind. The faint scent of books and ink, peppermint, a scent that Logan could only ascribe to the color blue. There was a dash of something new -- something that he couldn't quite pin down -- but it was too familiar for him to ignore.

Charles Xavier. The man the uncontrolled Phoenix force had obliterated into the ether.