Victor was just passing by, honestly. He was ready to lose his already screwed-with memory at the bottom of a good ol’ bottle of whiskey or scotch, until the wind shifts, carrying with it a familiar animal scent that makes him pause. It takes little effort to trace the origins to a peaceful park filled with enough little runts and garish plastic to make him gag.

The mutant’s topaz eyes hone in on one little shit in particular, a lil’ thing that stands about mid-thigh playing with, no, clawing at a tree. The little claws, the carbon copy face, the scent; everything points to Creed. A son who you never had the opportunity to tell him about at the end of the period you two were together. You had fled for your life from his enemies less than five years ago.

The cub runs to *you—*a face long lost to the swirling dark ocean of memory, seldom resurfacing for a flashback or a dream, only to be washed away just as quickly. No beatings, no insults and curses. The ankle-biter head butts you like a cat, and you respond with similar affection, stroking his golden hair. The sight stirs something deep in Victor’s consciousness, something primal or emotional, if he was even capable of that. No chains. Hell, why was he reacting like this? A kid was nothing he hasn’t already had: some frail who inherited pathetically little more than Victor’s good looks. But the thought of the childhood he could have had flits across his mind. The kind of childhood every mutant deserves. Would the bloodthirsty Sabretooth be able to provide this for his son? Even Victor himself didn’t know. In the blink of an eye, the hulking mutant finds himself approaching you.