Originally published under a different username but FF.N locked me out of my account.

This fic occupies some weird movieverse AU. Let's just pretend that the Sabretooth that showed up in the first X-Men movie was actually played by Liev Schreiber (I'm sure we'd all prefer it that way, anyway), and as loathsome as X-Men Origins: Wolverine was, I really thought Liev did an excellent job as Victor Creed. Origins will be canon up to Logan leaving the team; from there this fic diverges.

This is not a fic that makes Creed into a good, decent person. He is an unrepentant killer.

Valdrós is a word in Old Norse meaning "of the slaughter-woman" or "lady of the slain" and was also a word that was used in place of Valkyrie, the female warriors who bore the battle-slain to Valhalla.

PB for Rook is Claudia Black circa Farscape.

Usually I don't take a job unless it means at least a little blood and screaming, but I guess the shitty economy was making people more nervous than normal. I'm known in the blacker parts of the world for my ability to get any job done, no matter the physical cost, so long as the price is right. I prefer the ones that involve pain and death, not just because I'm fucking fantastic at it, but because I love it. It appeals to the part of me that's more wild animal than human, and it's what I was born for: I'm a mutant, homo sapiens superior, with particular talents that - while not entirely unique - make me valuable.

So while it wasn't what I usually choose, it was a job that paid well and it meant that I got to hunt.

I'd started tracking her three states back, crossing the border into Canada just last night. What was supposed to be an easy paycheck was turning into more of a challenge than I'd expected but it made me excited instead of angry. At first I thought she'd slipped by me a couple times, managed to find a bit of dumb luck, but by the fourth time it was plain that something else was at work. I knew she wasn't entirely human, either, but I hadn't been told what her mutation was, and at any rate she was wearing a power inhibitor.

Her scent wasn't reliable, either, it didn't linger long enough for me to stay consistently on her trail. She seemed to stick to places where it blended in, too, and what I'd originally thought was just the environment - cedar and pine - became easier to separate when I found that she also carried the scent of death on her. Not rot or blood but things that reminded me of graveyards, of wet earth and damp stone, salty tears and grief.

She was more than competent and she knew she was being stalked. She wasn't like most women who'd crane their head around in an obvious show of alertness; that kind of behavior only made everyone notice them, defeating the purpose of staying under the radar. No, this one had an awareness, a sort of sixth sense and a subtlety of body language that so few know how to read anymore: tense shoulders, a cocked head, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet for a quick escape. She kept her duffel at her feet or on her shoulder and it didn't seem to contain much, likely just clothes and essentials. She traveled like I do, unburdened by unnecessary crap.

On the sixth day I eased back some, now sure I wasn't going to lose her as she moved steadily NNE. I had a copy of her file and knew that she had friends in Alaska, ones who'd take her in. That same file gave her basic stats but no given name, just her codename: Rook was 5'9", 160 lbs with grey eyes and black hair. Her photo showed an expressionless face unobscured by her bound back hair, clean of makeup or other feminine affectations.

It was on the eighth day that she made a mistake. She'd been hitching rides with truckers before disappearing for a while but this time, after thanking her latest ride, she made a beeline for the payphone across the lot. She punched in numbers from a phonecard, and whoever she was calling must have picked up because she erupted in a rush of words in a flat, measured language that sounded Native American before she switched to angry Russian.

Even from across the parking lot I could hear her despair, smell her tears of frustration as she begged for help. The combination was potent enough that I had to reach down and adjust the front of my jeans.

The contract said nothing about fucking her. Of course, it said nothing about not fucking her, either, though I'd have to curb my usual appetites. They wanted her back whole and conscious and relatively mentally stable.

She stayed on the phone a few minutes longer, quieting some while still speaking Russian. After a pause she switched, this time to accented English.

"There is nothing to be done, then." Her voice was rough, a little deeper than normal for most women, a dark contralto that made me think of mid-1900s movie stars with voices gone husky from smoking. "I don't think I will make it there, Ben. Every town their man gets closer and I have not yet made it halfway through the Northwest Territory."

I stalked closer, letting her inattentiveness distract her. Within 10 feet, out of her line of vision, I could hear the man on the other end of the line.

"Why are they after you?" he asked.

"You know why. Will you-"

"I'll tell her."

With her arm braced on top of the payphone, she bent and pressed her forehead against her sleeve. "I love you, little one." She hung up without a reply.

I watched her jerk to awareness when I let my boot scuff across the asphalt.

"Ain't that sweet," I drawled.

Up close, even in the dark, I could see that her file photo didn't do justice to her eyes. They were palest grey, silver as the moon with a ring of smoke around the irises. She narrowed them at me, her full lips drawing back in a snarl worthy of any feral and making her even more attractive by giving her face emotion.

"Should I thank you for allowing that?" she asked, tipping her head towards the phone. "No matter," she continued, "if all you intend to do is kill me."

I smirked. "Oh, sweetheart, this ain't a kill order." Comprehension dawned on her face and I watched as her eyes went entirely white like one blind, her pupils now just a faint spot I could barely see in the dimly-lit lot.

She took advantage of my split second of distraction by hitting me, the heel of her open hand taking me in the chin so that my head snapped back, but if I expected her to pull back a broken hand, I got another surprise. Stryker may not have been willing to give me adamantium but I'd run into others of similar persuasions, interested in creating weapons of a sort, and now even my talons are coated in the unbreakable metal. The blow she dealt me should have hurt her, should have gotten more than a grunt of pain from her in response.

I narrowed my eyes and snarled at her, reaching out to intercept the second punch she tried to get in; I used her momentum to pull her off balance, making her stumble when she didn't connect and bringing her arm up behind her in a lock that held it at an awkward, painful angle. If she moved or tried to pull away, she'd break her own arm, and I heard her breathe out, hard, shifting to keep pressure off the fragile elbow joint.

Something like electricity sparked from her bare hand in mine, I felt it shoot up through my arm straight to my heart, making it stutter, but the sensation stopped quickly and just left me a little short of breath. She went limp and I heard her breath come a little faster and heavier.

"C'mon, it's gonna be a long drive b-"

The crack of a gunshot whipped my head around, eyes tracking its starting point even as I automatically pulled her close to shield her with my body, the bullet smacking into the plastic housing of the payphone. The second one jerked my head forward, hitting my adamantium-coated skull from the back; I felt it hit and flatten out, stars bursting in my vision for a moment while my ears rang from the impact. I had to shake my head, a sudden, sharp movement that made my vision swim.

Rook tried to pull away but I snatched her back, reflexively extended my claws until they bit into her shoulder and I smelled blood, I couldn't not notice it. I didn't have time to think about that because now there was a second shooter working with the first, firing in tandem. Handguns of some kind, 9mms from the sound they made.

"I take it they aren't with you?" she asked sarcastically.

I ignored that. "You wanna die here?"

"I'd rather take my chances with them than live like a chained animal," she shot back fiercely. "If it's all the same to you."

Fuck. In all my years, in all the contracts I've taken, there'd never been a hitch like this and it pissed me off. Even more it pissed me off that I had no clue who these fuckheads were, nor did I know if they were after me or her. I hadn't gone over the deadline on the contract and the ones who'd called me weren't known for double booking.

Well, I didn't get paid if we both bought the farm.

The gunmen had stopped shooting but it took me a moment to adjust to the sudden silence so I could hear again.

"They're reloading," I told her, my voice pitched low. "We can get around back, my truck's there."

She opened her mouth to snap at me again. I gripped her jaw with one big hand, applying enough pressure to make her blink but not enough to crush.

"I could kill you, sweetheart, just as easily, but it wouldn't be quick." I let my talons lengthen to press against her cheek, dimpling her skin without piercing. "I'd do just enough damage to put you down so I could waste those two assholes, but then I'd come back and finish things with you. Lady's choice."

The expected fear was in her eyes, now gone back to their original color, but I saw anger and defiance as well. This one was no shrinking violet, not the type to remain idle when her life was on the line. Only one or two women I'd met in my long life have been anything but weak, a waste of space and, contrary to what most who know me might think, I can appreciate a strong woman. They last longer.

She breathed out. "Fine." When I let her go she worked her jaw, rubbing at it with one hand. Around her wrist I saw a slim bracelet, as familiar to me as the metal on my bones: the inhibitor they'd fitted her with, one she hadn't managed to remove since she'd gotten away from her handlers. I haven't run into many mutants who can still use even a small portion of their power shackled with one of those things. Either she was very strong or she'd been wearing it so long that her body had adjusted to it.

I knew, because I've worn one. And like any good cat I'd tried to find a way around it. Even the painful shocks they usually deliver as punishment hadn't been enough to discourage me; it wasn't like I can't take it, and I'm twisted enough that pain isn't a wise deterrent. Still, I'd hated it, because it had controlled me.

The sight of it made me growl low in my throat even as I grabbed the wrist it encircled, pulling her along around the side of the building. I could hear the shooters talking to each other in voices that, for them, were quiet, and I wasn't surprised to hear a reply from behind the building where my truck was. For the first time I cursed that the damn thing didn't have automatic locks or we both could have made a run for it, I knew I at least could survive a few bullets.

I pulled the keys from my pocket. "Can you drive a stick?"

"Yeah," she replied, palming the keys so they wouldn't jingle. "What will you be doing?"

"Just run when I tell ya." Using the shadows I leaned out and got a look around back, saw two more gunmen. Who the fuck were these jackasses? They looked paramilitary, garbed in dark colors that blended with the night, body armor a distinct bulk beneath their clothes but I couldn't see any kind of insignia or identifying marks that might tell me who they were or where they came from. The kind of circles I run in means I know pretty much all of the black ops groups, all the independent contractors at least by name.

I didn't hear the two from up front coming any closer, having been told to stay put in case they were needed.

Rustling behind me made me look back to find Rook had pulled the strap of her small bag crosswise over her body so that both hands were free. She was watching me intently even as she still seemed to be just as aware of everything around us as I was.

I took a breath, settled myself, and then said, "Go."

I didn't bother to make sure she was headed towards the truck, her boots scraping on the asphalt as she took off. I used the moment of inaction on the parts of the gunmen to launch myself in their direction, covering the ground in two ground-eating leaps, the third of which took me straight into a diving tackle with one of them. He let loose with a burst of fire from his boxy little sub-machinegun, a P-90, spraying me with bullets in the instant before he went down screaming. With one swipe I took out his throat, barely pausing to shake blood and gore from my hand before turning on the other man.

The second shooter had put distance between us and managed to aim at Rook, too, though I could hear the roar of the old truck's engine being thrown into gear. I took a few more bullets as I closed that distance, my next leap evaded so that I fetched up against the side of the truck, my heavy body making the shocks protest and pushing the vehicle back a few feet; I smelled burnt rubber, gunpowder, and blood.

By the time I was back on my feet the shooter had circled up around towards the driver's side, only to be met with a boot in the face from Rook. Bullets pinged off the pavement and ricocheted wildly where they found purchase, some unfortunately ending up in my hide and adding to the holes already peppering my long coat. There were frangibles mixed in with regular bullets and I could feel them breaking apart inside me, causing damage faster than my healing factor could take care of. I might not be bleeding out, but I was bleeding internally; I'd have to get somewhere safe, and soon.

I must have been losing time because I found myself being dragged into my own truck and propped up in the seat against the passenger side door. Rook shoved her bag in, on top of mine between us, before slamming the door and gunning the engine. I realized I could smell her blood, too, more than before.

"I took a few grazes," she said when I mentioned it. "Less than you, at any rate, and it will not kill me." Still, when she wasn't shifting gears, she was holding her arm against her side. "But you're not dead."

"Heh." The short laugh nearly made me groan at the pain it caused. "What makes ya think I won't be?"

"You took at least one to the head," she replied, tilting her head towards me but keeping her eyes on the road. "If that did not kill you, the rest won't, either. At least not in the next 10 minutes, I assume?"

I meant to ask her what she meant except I blinked and found her hauling me out of the truck again, this time heading for a motel room door. I shook my head, not liking the way things went blurry; I knew I hadn't taken enough damage to feel this fucked up, at least not yet. There wasn't much I could do but let her guide me inside, leaning against the wall before she maneuvered me into the bathroom.

"Fuck," I hissed when the bright lights hit my eyes, which in turn made me lose my balance and nearly crack my head on the edge of the bathtub. "Somethin' isn't right."

"No shit?" she said under her breath, then louder, "You have a healing factor." She eased me down on the floor so I sat with my back against a wall. "Does it usually have this much trouble with bullets?" she continued without letting me answer.

I hissed as her fingers probed along my torso. "Not really. They were usin' frangibles, which take me longer to expel and heal, but this is different." I could barely catch my breath and I realized I was beginning to shiver.

With only minimal cursing on my part we got my coat off, my shirt damaged enough that I didn't stop her when she pulled a knife from her boot and used it to cut up the front of the black cotton. My chest was a mass of bruising and blood beneath dark blond hair, a few puckered bullet holes, something I hadn't seen in longer than I could remember - at least not on my own body.

Her hands were cool against my skin, almost chilled, but they felt good and I wondered if I was feverish. I couldn't remember ever having felt sick, not even as a kid and never like my little brother Jimmy had been; I figured we'd both been born with our mutations intact by it seemed like mine had kicked in earlier. I wondered sometimes if it had been my body's reaction to being beaten, to having my claws and my fangs torn out with pliers because my father couldn't stand looking at his "devil" of a son.

"I think I know what the problem is," she said, pulling me out of the past. She sat back on her heels as she reached into one of her pockets, pulling out a small object: a bullet sat in the palm of her hand, one with an odd shimmery quality, and though it had been spent it was still perfectly shaped. "These were mixed in with the frangibles, they are designed to negate the healing factor."

I picked it up, bringing it close to my nose. "Ugh!" It smelled terrible, almost sickly. "What the fuck is that?"

"Carbonadium." She plucked it from my fingers and put it back in her pocket. "Close kin to the adamantium that coats your skeleton."

I squinted at her, feeling suspicious. "How is it you know so much about healing factors and adamantium?"

She looked at me, those eerie eyes meeting mine steadily and I could easily see that she was deciding how much to tell me. "The people who sent you to retrieve me are not so different from the people who originally made use of adamantium," she said finally, "using mutants as lab rats, testing their powers and looking for ways to make weapons. The Russians wanted their own super-soldier after the fashion of Captains America and Britain, and in the process they synthesized a new element.

"A mutant with a healing factor, one Arkady Rossovich, was chosen to be the recipient of this great honor and given retractable tentacles of carbonadium with which he could use his other mutant ability, that of draining life forces."

It didn't surprise me that other governments had done similar things to the Weapon X project. Humans never tire of playing with us, of subjugating 'lesser' beings, whether it be other humans with different skin colors, different sexual orientations, or different religions; mutants just had the added benefit of being possibly dangerous, I was one of them and I'd worked with others like me, so I couldn't blame humans for wanting to harness that power. It was a numbers game.

Rook shoved her hands in her pockets. "It was discovered that the carbonadium was poisoning Rossovich," she continued. "Of course, more experiments were done, more mutants with healing factors pulled in for testing. The last I had heard, though, the technology for creating the metal was stolen and then lost, nor was it possible to replicate it in the first place. Someone has found it again."

I cleared my throat, the reflex turning into a racking cough that made pain spike through my entire body. With each passing minute I felt more and more like I might actually die, something I hadn't had to worry about in far too long.

"So I've got this shit in me, and it's gonna kill me before I can heal it." It wasn't a question so much as a statement.

"Just so." She held up her knife, a slim, wicked little stiletto. "I can cut them out. Lucky for you the metal is too strong to shatter so I will not be chasing pieces around, it is just a matter of locating the bullets and digging them out."

"Easy as that, huh?" My immediate, animal instinct was to snarl, to lash out and hurt her. What she proposed, what she was offering to do, put me in a life-threatening position; as weak as I was, I wasn't positive I could kill her before she did major damage and finished me off, and she had every reason to want me dead or incapacitated. But without her I might die anyway, bleeding out while fishing around inside my own body to remove the poisonous metal.

I lifted my eyes to her, held hers for a moment. She was back to emotionless, her gaze calm.

"Do it."