Sins of the Father

Sins of the Father.

This story is based on a premise invented by Mary Grayson's Little Robin, and used with permission. The premise is from "Secrets of a Father", and I've almost stolen the title as well. Other than that, the plot (such as it is) is my own.

This should be fun.

Oh, and the crossover I will be using will be movie-based, as opposed to comics.


Chapter One: Retold Origins.

It had been a good life, all things considered.

Ever since the bloody, confused and tragic mess that had been the Alcatraz Incident, a lot of what was left of the old gang had gone their separate ways. They didn't keep in touch much, but he saw them now and again. Ororo had stayed at the school, surprise surprise. Bobby and Anna had left for good; the southern girl had finally found her happy ending. They wrote, sometimes. Henry had stayed in politics, of course, and had assumed the role of an elder statesman. Piotr had stayed on with Munroe.

And him?

He'd become a scientist. Seven years in college. A biologist, to be exact. He'd always had an affinity with animals; at least, as long as he could remember. He'd married, and had a kid. No one had seen that coming, least of all him.

Yeah, it had been a good life alright.

Of course, every family has its trials, and he'd always known any child of his was never going to be completely normal. Even before the disease, he'd seen it in the way the kid's ears would twitch at the slightest noise, and his nose would wrinkle whenever there was an unfamiliar scent.

He'd been his father's son, alright.

Then, there had been that incident. It was something every parent dreads- his son was dying, and there was no cure for the disease. At least, no known cure. Until Marie and he had found one. That's the Logans: 1, Forces of Nature: Nil. Of course, the cure had some side effects. He hadn't been too worried by the odd skin colour and pointy ears, he'd seen odder.

Like Henry, or Kurt. Shapeshifting was new, though.

So, his little family had prospered, and they'd adapted well to the jungle, making friends with many of the villagers, in spite of his sullen attitude. He'd loved his wife and son dearly, even though she'd made him quit smoking and the kid kept laughing at his sideburns. It had been a good life.

And you know what they say about all good things?


He sat on a rock, some way downstream from the waterfall, his eyes stinging as he surveyed the wreckage. Damnit, it had been too often that people he'd loved had died. He had rarely felt so utterly dejected as he did at that point. Only at Alcatraz had he felt a comparable sense of loss.

With a sudden howl of anger, he picked up a large rock and hurled it into the water. When this did nothing to ease his pain, he unleashed his claws, for the first time in over ten years, and gave himself over totally to his primal side.


When he came to, as it were, several hours later, he was in the middle in the jungle, with no visible landmarks in sight.

Damnit, he needed a smoke.

He looked up at the sky, trying to gauge the time by the position of the sun, and hoped to hell his kid was alright.


It had been some weeks later that he had walked out of the jungle. His body had quickly remembered the strength it had once had, and he had enjoyed the trek. It had forced him to concentrate on survival, which meant that his mind hadn't been free to wander.

It was wandering now. Specifically, he was wondering where the hell he was.

After accosting the first person he met, he found he was at least thirty miles from his village. Damnit.


One long walk later, he made his way back home. Things were not as he had left them.

Tawaba was dead, and his son had disappeared into the jungle. His first impulse had been to charge after him, and so that was exactly what he had done.

It was a bad idea.

After wandering blindly through the jungle, shouting his son's name until he could barely breathe, he conceded that he might have benefited from having a plan.

Getting back took a lot longer than he'd liked, and when he returned, he learned something that made him sure that he had been elected Fate's Personal Chew Toy.

It turned out that a couple of men, claiming to be from the social services, had arrived while he was blundering about in the undergrowth, had actually found his kid, and taken him away.



Nine years later…

He sat at the bar, chugging on a beer. Idly, he wondered why the hell he'd ever come to this city. He'd never felt at home in the warm.

Oh yeah, that was right. This was the place the guy he'd hitched with was going. So it wasn't like he had much choice in the matter.

The last nine years hadn't exactly been fun. But they had been familiar. Roving around, doing whatever he could to get money, which usually meant fighting something, finding a bar, drinking himself into a stupor, falling asleep wherever, waking up, wash, rinse, repeat.

Although, before, he'd had a van. Now it was just him, and the clothes he stood up in.

One thing he was grateful for, though, was the changed attitudes. People were a hell of a lot more accepting of mutants nowadays, or "metahumans", as was the politically correct term.

"Hey! Who're you?" A man slurred at him.

He looked over at the drunk, and raised an eyebrow. "Wolverine."

"What kind of name is that? Where you from, I aint seen you before."

"None of your business." He waved down the bartender and raised his empty bottle.

"Hey! I'm talkin' to you, tough guy."

He turned in his seat, and stared at the drunk. He looked about twenty five. Young, dumb, and ugly. Great.

In the before-time, he might have gone so far as to fight the man for intruding on his privacy. But times were different now.

So, when the barman returned with his refilled drink, he kept eye contact with the belligerent alcoholic, and slowly extended a single claw, and used it to open the bottle.

He was left alone after that.