Disclaimer: Do not own, etcetera.

Summary:

The events at the Three Mile Facility go a bit differently, and a cancer-ridden Wade Wilson is thrown into a cell next to Emma Frost. Wade just wants to cure his cancer so he can go back to being mercenary hot shit, while Emma is just trying to figure out an escape plan for herself and the other mutants. Somehow, in the midst of both… there's a connection that will change their paths from here on in. AU X-Men: Origins Movie. Emma Frost/Wade Wilson pairing. T rating for now, because of language and innuendo.

A/N:

I'd like to give a nod to vampout and her Wade Wilson/Emma Frost fic, entitled "Raised You Up." This is the fic that got me into the pairing, folks! And I'd like to add another disclaimer of sorts… Anything in my fic that resembles something from vampout's story either could not be helped, or it's just a damn good plot device. So, thanks for reading my secondary disclaimer and please enjoy!

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mutation: The Definition of Adaptation

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 1: In Which Emma Broods in Captivity

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Emma Frost slouched in the corner of her cage, her knees pulled up tightly to her chest. Wrapping her arms loosely around her legs, her forehead drifted down to rest against her left knee. Though the cage itself could not have been much larger than five by eight feet, the empty space within seemed extensive in comparison to her small blonde form, shrinking as far away from the entrance as she could.

Through the many months of her captivity, the girl had long ago learnt that nothing good came through the cage's door. Every now and then, she would be pulled out of the cage to be taken for testing, where Stryker's military lab-coats would poke and prod and assess her body down to every mole, monitoring even her menstrual cycle to discover just how different mutants were from humans.

And maybe – just maybe, Emma thought, William Stryker was searching for a way to manipulate mutant abilities.

She could not prove it. Hell, she could barely even call it a hunch! But still… Lately, she had been able to get a little more insight into the minds around her. Emma wanted to shake off the little whispers that would creep in around the edges of her mind, pretend they did not exist, but she could not. She knew that the thoughts were real – knew that they belonged to other people. And Emma knew that, if she could keep this telepathic potential hidden from Stryker's men, it would be a useful tool for an escape.

The major problem with these new gifts was that they had not developed yet. Her diamond skin had emerged during puberty, and with her half-sister Kayla learning to control her own powers, the two girls had disciplined themselves and explored the uses of their gifts. Yet now, with the suspected telepathy just beginning to become active within her, Emma was at a loss. It took enormous amounts of effort to wield her telepathy, and with secrecy holding firm as the safer option in comparison to practice, the young woman found it easier to just block any incoming thoughts and ignore the mental impressions she would occasionally receive.

Sometimes, though, it was difficult.

The week before, William Stryker himself had sat in on her weekly laboratory examinations – apparently, he made a point to look over each mutant at least once to assess the usefulness of their powers. And that day – as usual, Emma began her weekly policy of obstinacy. The first half-hour was spent in diamond-form, fighting against the musclemen charged with escorting her to the laboratory. Then, the enemy became the restraints intended to keep her limbs locked down on the steel examination table. By the time her diamond skin was keeping the many needles at bay, the doctors and lab technicians began prepping her for anesthesia pumped through an oxygen mask.

All the while, Stryker observed. He did not bother to lend a hand. He just watched unflinchingly – apathetically, one might say. And Emma thoroughly hated him. She hated him for everything that had happened and for everyone locked up in his little mutant collection. She hated him.

When the inhaled drugs began to kick in, the young blonde's diamond exterior faded back into penetrable flesh and her muscles relaxed, her mind already starting to slip into an induced slumber. Yet, in those brief moments between physical transformation and heavy slumber, her mental blocks loosened along with her tense muscles. And through the oncoming haze of drugged unconsciousness, Emma was granted but a glimpse of William Stryker's mind.

The moment, though brief, convinced the girl of whatever vague suspicions she had previously harbored; Stryker wanted to control mutations and bend them to his whim. He wished to play God and create a whole new breed of soldier – perfect, deadly, and utterly obedient.

Her huddled form in the cage's corner shuddered at the thought. Already, Stryker held too much power…

Emma refused to let him gain anymore. In fact, she wanted to strip away every layer of technology, resources, and sanity the man possessed. She wanted to, yes. But would she? Likely not, even if her freedom were miraculously obtained. Restrained by fear and her own moral compass, Emma figured she would not have it in her reduce the man to the same torment he had shown to her and so many other mutants. Instead, were she free, she would probably just live her life on the run – from the threat of future capture and the haunting of past memories.

Still. Emma could not allow Stryker's Project X to continue any further. It was deplorable, and the merest shadow of the man's plans lingered in the girl's mind, the idea nearly bringing her to her knees with the urge to retch.

But first thing was first. Escape. Once she could manage that, then the blonde could worry about foiling Project X. And maybe after, there would be justice.

Emma refused to plan too far ahead – could not allow herself to linger on specifics. Could not dare to hope that she would see her big sister again… Would not presume to believe that her college scholarship would be open and waiting for her… Should not dream of moving on one day after achieving freedom, because if escape from Three Mile Island was unlikely, then regaining her former innocence, serenity, and mercy would be impossible.

Captivity was turning Emma hard inside. Hard like the diamonds that could coat her skin. And rapidly, she was learning what it meant to survive.

Sometimes, survival meant no mercy.

Staring out through the bars of her cage, Emma desperately wished for her freedom… Soon, before her well of compassion ran dry.

Yet, before the young woman could brood over the topic further, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the large room, bouncing off of the chill concrete floor. Cocking her head to one side, Emma corrected her initial assessment. It was one pair of expensive shoes striding evenly with purpose and precision, one pair of large, padded footfalls with the steps muffled as if by… fur, and the sound of a figure being dragged towards the mutant cages.

Well, she had already figured out the identities of the two walking men. Zero, Stryker's personal sharp-shooting assassin, always strode with clipped, measured paces, each step as meaningful and exact as every bullet that left one of his guns. Though he did not often frequent the main room of the warehouse in which the captives were held, Zero conducted a visual inspection of the cages once every evening for Stryker, ensuring that all of the mutants were still locked away and the cages in perfect working order.

Strangely enough, the deliberate clip of the marksman's footsteps became Emma's only measurement of the passing hours and the marking of the days.

As for the furred footsteps… it was obviously Victor – or Sabretooth, as the captive mutants fearfully labeled him. Each of his steps were weighted, padding, and nearly silent from his bare feet and the muffled effect of his fur. He frequently prowled up around the cages when he was bored, and nearly as noiseless as a jungle cat on the hunt, he was especially fond of hovering near the mutants' faces as they slept, simply waiting – eyes unblinking – until they awoke. So many of the captives had woken with a scream from the startling and chill image of Sabretooth's feral grin just on the other side of the cage's bars.

Thuswise, the caged mutants learned quickly the particular tread of their least favorite cat.

But, as for the person being dragged by Victor… Emma was drawing a blank. She supposed that it could be yet another mutant for Stryker's caged collection. Well, the blonde would certainly find out, for the next available cell was next to her own.

Its previous occupant had been younger than her, and the spindly adolescent girl was still in the midst of the first onset of her powers, still adjusting and too frightened by the situation to even tell the other girl what her powers could do.

But as near as Emma could tell, Amy – far too small for her age – had always had a weak constitution, had always been in and out of hospitals. The rigorous weekly lab examination combined with the poor living conditions and the nutrient-lacking twice-daily mush had been too much for the girl. Emma had done her best to lift her spirits at times, and offered what comfort she could: holding the girl's hand through the cage bars, soothing away Amy's fright after another of Victor's morning wake-up calls, forcing her only blanket through the bars so that the younger girl might be warmer, and pushing the girl to swallow down not only her own mush but some of Emma's as well. All of this and more, the eighteen-year-old blond did for her young compatriot, but the one thing Amy asked for was stories. So, clasping Amy's lean hand, she would tell tales she once heard, anecdotes of her childhood, or stories she made up on the spot.

For over a month, Emma watched her little neighbor waste away before Amy fell asleep and never woke up. Over a month of nearly non-stop stories. And when it was done, Victor came to watch the "frail's" cold body being dragged away by two lab technicians for more invasive study. Only when Zero's quick march around the warehouse was over that evening did Emma wrap herself up in her own blanket and shed a few silent tears in memory of the girl called Amy.

By now, the three men were in sight, visible through the many layers of cage bars. As they traveled down the central walkway between the two rows of cells, the grubby faces of the captives stared out at the procession, wary and waiting, for it must be someone especially unusual for Victor and Zero to personally drop him off in his cage.

Emma, too, kept her eyes peeled, watching their approach, even as she purposefully avoided looking at either the furball or the assassin's face – eye contact, after all, would just be inviting attention, and the young woman knew from observing her fellow captives that it was never good to get noticed. That sort of thing was a sure way of getting Sabretooth's ugly mug in your face when you woke up. And mouthing off? Well, Emma had seen the consequences of that, too – and it was always bloody.

As the chuckling Victor tugged and then dropped the man into the adjacent cell, Emma tried to get a clearer picture of her latest companion's identity. His body was turned in the opposite direction from her, but she was able to ascertain a few things… He looked older than Emma by maybe ten years. He was tall, suntanned, and clearly very fit, and he had brown hair that was currently mussed from Sabretooth's less-than-stellar transportation method.

Having thus examined her new neighbor to a certain extent, Emma made sure to move her indifferent gaze elsewhere – it would not do to show too much interest, after all. Not with Victor present. But as she stared off into the distance, her brows furrowed slightly… Her new neighbor looked familiar. Something in his build, his height, his… Emma internally shook it off, letting suspicion settle into certainty.

He looked familiar. He looked like Wade Wilson.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Words: 1,900

XXXXXXXXXXXX