"Always watch your back, 'cause there's always someone waitin' to chew on it."--The Runaway

" Well, this is it."

The train stopped in Manhattan, right across from a Texaco station and an Italian Pizzaria. It had quit raining, and the sky wasn't cloudy anymore; the quiet after the storm, the smell of the wet, oily roads, spraying anything from mists to monsoons as cars passed by. She recognized the urban symphony of New York, the Big Apple, it's colorful song consisting of car horns and squealing tires. A hot-dog vender, fat and clad in apron, was selling his wares on the side of the station where visitors came, and for an instant, she was reminded of Moscow, when she was a child, buying fresh strawberries during the summer time, barefoot, with hands and fingers stained red from the juice.

This was going to be one loooonnnngggg walk.

She was the last to step off the boxcar. Ice had frozen slick on the railing, and she got off carefully, checking herself to see that she didn't slip.

Yes, this would be a good day, a better day. The sun was shining, the air was cool and crisp, and despite the noise that came with the big city, she felt cheerful and optimistic, for she had slept long on the ride and eaten well.

And so, renewed and hopeful for a better future, Rachel Tyler crossed street and headed northward bound. *********************************************************************

She had strolled no farther than five blocks when she began hearing bizarre noises; strange, shuffllings of the feet, and her third eye warned her that she was being watched... Maybe even followed. The sun had already gone down,as it always does, and a few stars, many still cloaked behind the ever present veil of city light, had just begun to appear and greet the moon.

Rachel only stopped to get a slice of pizza. The waitress had been perfectly friendly, and even told her of a few hotels nearby, ones with good rates.

"Oh yeah, hon... They accept ova'night stays n' everything!"

Her accent was thick and rich New Yorker all the way. She had heavily painted, fuschia lips and permed, orange hair that clashed with her ruddy complexion, fixed in place with what was most likely an entire bottle of hairspray. A large mole, the color of the crayon burnt umber, stuck out from the side of her chin like a sore thumb. Despite her garish appearance, she somehow seemed friendly and congenial, with warm, green eyes framed by artificial eyelashes; on most people, it would have made them look startled and tawdry, but on her, it only gave the impression that she was a woman with eccentric tastes and a very tight budget.

"Oh, thank you, Ma'am... But I've got to keep walking... I have an, erm, important meeting to attend to." Rachel said, not wanting to stay for long.

The waitress only smiled at her, flashing a set of perfectly straight, oversized front teeth that gave way her Norwegian descent . She was older, and regarded the little woman she was serving, barely over five feet tall, with genuine, motherly concern. If you were to put her thoughts into words, they would have been,"Oh my goodness, what a sickly, scarecrow of a girl, and so pale, too... I wonder what ever happened to such a pretty thing to make her look as though she had seen a ghost!"

"Ya know, honey, I support six kids on minimum wage, and I know a young person when I see one." She arched a thickly penciled eyebrow . "How old are ya, sweetheart? 'Bout sixteen... Seventeen, maybe?"

"Twenty- one."

Giving Rachel a look of genuine surprise, she benevolently refilled her soda.

"This one's on me, sweetheart."

"Thanks...B-but you didn't have to do that..."muttered the weary girl, rubbing her eyes with both fists, a curiously child-like gesture.

The carrot-haired woman put a hand on her hip, real angry housewife style. This had to be a high-class society type gal...

"You're not from around here, are ya, hon?"

"No, not really..." said Rachel, the smaller of the two, twiddling her thumbs. She desparately hoped this woman didn't want to jump her, make her pay for coming to her side of the 'hood.

"Tell ya what," the waitress dug deep within her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, "take my card... Its the Holiday Inn. I stayed here once, and its probably the nicest place you'll find 'round this ol' dump. Just tell 'em that Marge sent ya, and you'll be taken care of."

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, sending little creases that spread up her forehead, heavily coated with foundation.

thought Rachel, breathing an inaudible sigh of relief. Paranoia can be a really convincing emotion.

"Ya look awful pale... I think you could use some sleep, sweety."

She gave the young woman a wink. Rachel tried to ignore the flaking mascera that swirled around in her glass.

"I'm a mom, honey... I know these things."

A few minutes passed and Rachel payed for her lunch, bidding her good byes to the oddly garbed waitress that had been so kind to her, even bought her lunch.

People like that just don't seem to be around anymore, you know?

"Take care, hon!" Marge flapped her hand back and forth, shaking her finger at the little woman with the cherub features. "And don't ya come back il you've gotten a little fatter, ya hear!"

But she would never get to use Marge's Holiday Inn card and order caloric dinners, for the moment she stepped gingerly out the door, she swore she saw something dart out of the corner of her eye. A head, or an arm, maybe.

Something was wrong... She sensed it... Felt it in her very bones.

She crossed the intersection, just to be safe. There was an alleyway up ahead, and she headed for it, certain that whatever she sensed that had been following her hadn't made it across the street.

Too many cars...

She leaned up against the brick wall, watching her breath melt away every time she exhaled, trying to occupy her thoughts.

A gust of wind caught her off guard, tangling her fair, curly hair up and whipping her long trench coat against her legs. It was all that separated her thin clothes from the elements. Clutching her body, quivering like a mold of watery jello, Rachel sank to her knees and rubbed her hands together, trying to keep what little heat she had left from escaping her through her thin guaze of skin.

"Oh...How did it ever come to this..."

She remembered when being a girl hadn't been so hard, when she wasn't a full-grown lady, when she had a family, when she wasn't a freak... And oh, what she would she would give for someone to lean on, somewhere to call home. Her entire life, since her seventh year, had been completely devoid of stability, love, home, and family. It was just so hard, so unfair...And she had tried to block that out, too, those memories from not so long ago, just as she tried to obstruct everyone else from her world, her subsitence that had at one time hung by a meager thread. She had let too many people inside her plastic bubble, and she had let them pop it one too many times...

There was just no room for any more mistakes. No more pain, no more grief, no more loss. She had promised herself that a long time ago when she lost the one person she could count on. And there was no doubt in her mind that it was her fault. Had she been born the normal way, the right way, it would have never happened...And now, when she had lived a life of wanting to be wanted, she was indeed hankered after, but by the wrong type of person. If she wanted to remain in control of her own body, escape was her only option.

"But I feel like such a burden... The Professor's only aking me in 'cause he feels entiled to."

She felt on the verge of tears... Was there no end to this sorrow?

"Ohhhhh..."

She curled up in a fetal position, and no matter how hard she tried to stop them, sobs bubbled forth from her thin, pallid lips. They were products of excess pressure and exasperation.

Just as she felt the nothingness of it all, of the anguish that ate away at her like a cancer, there issued a...

SLAM!

A garbage can tipped over and rolled to her feet. She sat up with a start, eyes wide with fright and runny with tears, watching a motley colored alley cat hiss and dart back to the refuge of the shadows.

"Only a cat... Only a cat..."

She placed a hand over her chest in some futile attempt to slow her heartbeat, now thumping so loudly that she could feel the blood pumping through ears. Coming to the conclusion that this wasn't the best place to take a breather, she got up and kept walking, feeling as though her feet just couldn't cover enough ground. Some animal instict urged her to run, to get out of there, but she resisted.

Just as she rounded the corner, she noticed that her dainty shadow had grown more feet, more hands. It was then she realized the chilling reality: they didn't belong to her.

They were owned by a hefty, powerful man. There was a pause, then a numb silence; for every time she stopped moving, whatever projected this sillouhette before her kept coming closer, the outline of it's limbs enlarging like some alley way boogie-man that just kept growing.

A gust of wind, the hissing intake of air--

"Oh, but that's where your wrong, girly... I'm a hell of a lot bigger than a cat."

She stopped in her tracks. His voice was very deep, very guttural, even primitive. It sent a numbing frost down her spine and adrenaline all the way to the very tips of her fingers, turning her flesh cold, freezing her feet in place.

"You know me, don't you?" "I don't..."

She kept walking, forcing herself not to look back. Oh, how trouble always loved to follow her...

"Yes, you do."

She could hear the man-beast advance on her now, the sound of his familiarly strident, lumbering gait bouncing off the alley fortifications. She wanted to run, but found that she could not. They had come for her many times before.

And she was tired, just too tired of it.

In the flash of an eye, her attacker had her pinned to the ground, his oversized hands grimy and rough against her skin.

She recognized that musky stench from anywhere...The leonine mane, the bushy brows, the wily eyes that scrutinized her every movement...

Sabretooth.

"You should know better than to hide from us. I've been tracking you down for five years, and this will be the last time you EVER get away..."

He slung her over his thick, hairy shoulder.

A burst of new courage bit her, startled her, kindled her flame... She had come too far to be taken away, to be used, to become the instrument of a sick and ailing mind. She would NOT be captured by some crony sent to collect her.

"You can't take me!" she bawled, beating her fists, flailing her legs in vain. "YOU CAN'T EVER TAKE ME! NEVER, EVER!!!"

The hired abductor smirked, gradually revealing a fierce grin that snaked up the length of his face like flame, and a set of feral canines, undoubtedly lethal weapons used solely for the purpose to butcher and maim. His eyes radiated a cold, unwavering cunning, and a fury, too...They glowed with a light that gave no light.

"You wanna bet, bitch?"

Muffling her screams with a mighty paw, he pulled her hair taut, relishing the tears that spilled from his hostage's eyes. If he could have preserved them in glass jars, he would have, or perhaps frozen them to chill his drinks, just like Hannibal Lecter .

And you, the reader, asks: It can't end like this, right? Then there would be no story!

Of course not.

Before he could make another move, a beam of light shot out from behind him, an otherworldly flash that zapped the back of his thick skull. It was something hot, something that burned all the way through the flesh.

Another gust of wind caught them by surprise. Stronger this time. Fiercer.

"Let her go." A strange voice, a new voice. Masculine. American.

Sabretooth stood his ground, his back turned to the mysterious interlopers... He issued a low grunt, inching foward, trying to remain unnoticed.

"Look behind you, old friend." Another voice. Feminine. Exotic.

Rachel sensed a great busyness around her, a vast gathering of wind and energies that crackled and popped, making her ears sore and her mouth bone dry. She suddenly felt her captor's feet go beneath him, felt electricity rush from his legs and connect with her feet, her stomach, her arms, her scalp... Cold concrete made contact with her head as she crashed to the ground, hugging it so that the great tunnel of air roiling about did not sweep her up in all it's magnificent fury. Black spots danced across her line of vision, dabbling in and out of sight, then not discernible at all.

"Already the second time that we've stopped you from picking on helpless girls," the male stranger said, authority, and strangely, a hint of sarcasm ringing in his intonation. Whomever he was, he was definitely in charge...

"Don't get in our way again, hairball, or we'll send you gift-wrapped right back to your master's doorstep," spoke the female, voice solemn, yet completely powerful, " Maybe we'll even throw in a decent flea-collar as a going away present..."

But the feral man gave no response. He lay eagle spread, out cold beside a brick that had apparently collided with his face.

Rachel felt the sensation of being scooped up by a pair of strong arms.

"Let's get out of here."

The man set her down, steadied her, and displayed a hand. In the dim light, Rachel could discern that he was wearing...Could it be... Sunglasses?

"My name's Scott Summers. This," he gestured to the white-haired woman next to him, "is Ororo Monroe. She brewed up that little hurricane for us..."

Rachel squinted... The suits, the badges...X...

"You're from the institute, aren't you?"

The lady, the X-woman, snapped her fingers.

"Bingo."