Somewhere wayyyyyyyyyy farther into future, there *was* two mutants from almost the first traces of mutant gene, Victor Creed, and Logan Howlette, emphasis on was.
It had been a year since Wolverine— *Logan* had, well, died, somehow. Something about a mutation dampening collar, or damn well canceling collar, and a lot of anti-mutant fuckers with guns, but aside from that, it also happened to be October 12th, which for all you normal-ish Marvel fans, is Logans birthday.
And how did Victor usually ''celebrate'' that? By mauling and just over-all attempting to kill Logan, but he couldn't really do that now, could he? No, the answers no, not without some magic contiunity error or the pure rage of Victor just magically resurrecting Logan like a weird backwards version of the "my love and devotion to my lover was enough to bring them back to life" trope.
*But* getting to the actually fanfic....
Victor almost broke the front door to his cabin again by how hard he had slammed it shut, grumbling to himself about stupid runts and other shiit that regarded to his dear ol' bub, taking his coat off and just kind of dropping it by the door as he walked over to his kitchen, even if he was already ''drunk'' he still got himself a beer, trying to figure out two things: One, how stupid he was for going out and almost ransacking the X-Mansion looking for Logan, knowing he was dead, and two, what the fuck did he do now?? Like, yeah, sure he could go chase down and maim Deadpool, or some Wolverine clone, but a clone wouldn't feel the same knowing that it wasn't *THE* Wolverine, and Deadpool would probably like the attention.... probably got off on it... eugh.
He chugged down one beer, just haphazardly setting it on his kitchen counter as he got another; struggling to open it and just smashing the top off of the neck on his own forearm, watching the three cuts from the glass just.. vanish, closing in under a second, he almost laughed at himself for wishing it was him who had his healing factor taken away last year. If he had gotten it taken away, no more people he was sadistically burdening, maybe a few less paranoid and more happy birthdays for Logan, but then he caught himself *actually* caring and acting like some squishy human and then snapped himself out of it, drinking down the second beer, his— albeit already poor —decision making clouding as he just bashed the empty bottle against his forearm. Again, all the wounds closed almost before they could bleed, the glass getting pushed out in mere moments, except for a bigger chunk, he just pushed it in farther with a lazy claw and zero wince.
Now, he was on what? His fifth? Still just brewing over the fact that *someone else* got Logan, and not him, it's not that he cared, duh, he was glad that that tiny ass runt was dead, but he was still mad he couldn't get his claws on him, see his fial breath and the fear in his eyes as he realized that "This was it, I won't be the best at what I do anymore, and I won't be doing it".. It was a weird thing to be almost *jealous* about, but it wasn't jealousy! Victor swore! He was just mad about the fact that he couldn't torture the damn guy anymore, or feel his blood spill out for almost a second then stop, hear the little exceleration of his heartbeat at the mere *sight* of Victor, or the way his breath hitch a little—
Sixth beer now, and he almost wanted to do something to distract himself, but it was midnight, nothing was open, and hunting any animals would be like hunting a duck sleeping in *tar*.. maybe a hitchiker, but he was too lazy to go out and find one.
The mutant looked down at his arm, he had still been smashing bottles against his arm if they wouldn't open or he just couldn't control the impulse, some bigger chunks of glass were stuck out of his arm, slowly inching out. He took two clawed fingers and plaed with one of them, wondering which god or deity or whatever the fuck had decided that him and Logan of all people were the best canidates for a healing factor and pair of claws, because they had chosen pretty badly. Victor was a sadistic, almost sociopathic murderer who hated practically anyone and wanted most humans dead, and Logan was, well.. he used to be a decent guy, I guess.. But, still, a healing factor— a *curse*, then the ugliest hand of cards from birth along with it. Victor doesn't remember what happened to Logan, probably some tragic classic orphan shit, but *himself?* That was a fucking nightmare dressed up as ''childhood'', a brother he killed, a father who ended up hating and torturing him, and a weak mother who was too scared to either help him or help his father, instead just lying about her love for him.
Another two beers down the hatch, another streak of seething anger for just everything including himself, a normal night.
It wasn't even Victors fault!! That's what he told everyone when they mentioned his past, not that they would believe *him*. Yet it *really* wasn't for once. How was he supposed to know the itch under his fingers were *claws* digging their way through his skin? The tooth aches his mother tried to soothe were ''devil's teeth'' waiting to extend and sink into the first thing he saw? That the want to go out and claim a place as his or hunt something was a feral *need* and instinct bubbling up rather than puberty making him weird? That he didn't *really* suddenly hate his brother, and that he just saw him as someone trying to take his food? He couldn't!
Nine beers now, and he started to see the kitchen light blur as he started to feel something.
He could still taste the iron-y blood of his first kill— *Luther* —whenever he bit into someone else, hear him fucking yelp at the sudden mauling, feel his father reach into his mouth and yank his teeth out the following night; it was almost sickening..... the pie wasn't even that good in hindsight, just soggy crust after he was done..
*Ten*, why did he feel bad? He shouldn't care about either of those good for nothing runts, yet here he was, bordering drunk and actually *reflecting* on his actions; he could hear the snickering any mind readers must be doing, envision the judgement, and it served to piss him off, all of it just pissed him off, just like the image of the blurry, barely actually pieced together memories of his families faces; he could barely put together who he got his blond hair from, or his amber eyes. His subconsious just gave both the traits to both of his parents, and he just assumed he came out as a wrong, cruel, joke because some higher power was bored.
Victor downed half of his eleventh beer and felt his eyes drift shut and get heavy, and with a thud he fell forward, face smashed in with alcohol and broken glass everywhere, and passed out asleep, a rare feat considering his healing factor and all.
It was embarrasing that his last thought was "happy birthday, Logan", but he was fucking *out* so he wasn't conscious enough to care.