Day 7 – Wind
He was getting closer, he knew. Diverting east just a bit, Sabretooth stalked through the dense forest, his boots quiet on the leaf-covered earth. A shift in the wind, his amber eyes tracked left and Sabretooth took off running, smooth and predatory. The closer he got, the thicker the scent. If he focused, he could separate them out; sweat, gun powder, wool, whisky, cedar, blood, Dior.
He lunged at last, vaulting himself over a fallen pine and landed hard, his claws swiping at the red and black flannel on the ground. He jerked the man up and sneered at him. His threat fell silent looking at the fresh corpse. Sabretooth tossed the man aside and turned, surveying. Three more men face down in the rotting forest all riddled with bullet holes.
Slouched against a tree, an automatic rifle silent next to her and smoke trailing from the barrel, was Birdy. Creed crouched low in front of her. There was a serenity to her face he was unaccustomed to but he ignored it, instead he methodically examined her for injury. Bruising at the temples, petechiae around the eyes, red pinpricks along the side of her neck, injection sites no doubt. As his eyes appraised, his hands felt for other injuries and found adhesive residue around her swollen wrists, duct tape most likely.
A strange laceration was hiding underneath her hair, just along the hairline, red and angry against the blonde, and Sabretooth hoped that whatever Mickey Mouse surgery they'd done to tamp down her psi-powers could be reversed. Hefting Birdy's unconscious body, Sabretooth headed back down the mountain. He made a promise to himself, and a passing comment to the sleeping woman in his arms, that no one would ever lay and hand on his girl again.
