"Do ya always have ta do that," an annoyed voice rang throughout the forest as smoke rose from the ashes.
"It's tradition," he replied back just as loud. He was in a good mood, and why shouldn't he? The information that the frail blurted out last night made life a little more interesting.
Even though her singing aggravated him, he took the one thing away from her that she depended on -- her "Wolvie."
Here suffering made him smile.
He finished his business and let out a relaxed sigh. He zipped up and turned around only to see the frails face right next to his.
"L.A. huh," she gave him a melancholic look, "dontcha need transportation -- walking with ya ain't that fun."
"What ya say Jubilee, I need a sweet ride ta get ta L.A." he falsely pondered the idea. Actually, he became tired of wandering on foot. A Harley would be nice since a certain couple of mutants will look for him.
Also he had a job to do. At least his clients weren't strict. All they told them was to get to L.A. as soon as possible, but not to rush. To make sure he'd be there he got paid a fourth of what is owed to him. Another fourth being paid when he got there and the last half when he got the job done.
Besides, along the way he'd find a way to get rid of the frail. Maybe those "psychic network crap" would help him out. Yet the great assassin calling a hotline...nah not for him! Yet one thing was for certain, staying here wouldn't get him nowhere.
He heard a sigh as he focused back to the frail, "So are we gonna get a ride or what?" she questioned him.
To hear the frail actually wanting to help him out sounded weird, they'd been enemies the majority of her life; yet the frail's help could become something he could get used to.
+ + +
He smelled the taint and desperation steadily pass by him through roads and beat up cars. He knew the way to the city and when he got there he started to hate it.
Passing right in front of him, a little girl starting to get yelled at by an older man. He shrugged that off. He looked over to the frail next to him and saw her cringe a little.
"So what's the plan," she looked around at the various automobiles around.
He looked around with the frail. There wasn't anything good to steal or grab around here. Then he heard it coming -- it sounded like a Harley, a very nice one.
He noticed the frail perk up a little from her thoughts, she must've heard it too, but how could she; she doesn't have his senses.
The hum of the motorcycle started to become closer.
"Nighty night furball," was the last thing he heard before the darkness overtook him once again.
* * *
*The frail better get me a good ride,* he thought to himself as he began to pay attention to another one of the frail's memories.
He looked over at the pen moving at a quick pace. The frail had worse handwriting than a doctor. He read the words in his head as they started to slowly appear:
"...he's dead. In the arms of the priss Monet. I cried but no one paid attention to that. I never get paid any attention these days..."
The pen stopped for a second, "heh I guess the runt ain't that much of a mentor ta her" he thought to himself as he quickly focused back at the pen that moved again:
"...Wolvie...Wolvie...I haven't seen him in a long time, I miss him. Yeah he had to go on another mission. He wouldn't want to hear me whine about Bastion, Ev, or anything of the like, too busy trying to get Red's tail..." suddenly the view came to the cowboy hat resting next to her, then came back to the pen and pad which started to hold drips of waters falling from her face:
"...He wouldn't care how my powers are progressing. They weren't kidding when they said I could be an alpha mutant, but eh who would care bout that right..." A knock on the door made the pen and pad become quickly tucked away under the hat.
"Jubes ya alright," a cheerful voice asked concerned.
"Sure hayseed I'm fine -- c'mon lets go ta the movies," a cheerful voice replied back as she got up and followed her to the light.
* * *
When he awoke he growled a little. He remembered he got at that rat town in the morning, but now it seemed like complete darkness. He awoke in a really comfortable leather seats. Now this was the life, the frail did well. He took a whiff of the air and something made his hair stand on the back of his neck.
"The runt," he yelled out load as he opened the door scanning the area for his rival only to find the frail leaning on the door.
"He ain't here furball so don't get ya panties all in a bunch," she didn't make eye contact as she made that statement. He didn't trust her. He did his own scouting of his own -- the scent of the runt was old, he heard nothing except crickets in the night sky, he saw that he was on a old road -- but no Wolverine.
"I told ya furball he ain't here," she got off from the car, "ya can thank me for the car later."
That statement made him look at the car, a Dodge Viper, she definitely did good.
"Yeah the dealer liked the cash offering that I gave him."
That statement made him check through his pocket, and she was right. He had three hundred thousand dollars stashed in various hideouts in his trench coat -- those pockets were empty.
"Ya shoulda seen Wolvie, when he saw ya -- or rather me -- he gave chase in his Harley. He swore like a sailor from another planet," she explained it to him slowly.
He didn't like it at all -- he would've taken care of the runt once and for all. No matter where the area was.
"He got a piece of the right windshield, but this car ain't meant to be held on ta. It was nice seein' him." she shrugged it off.
"Next time frail, I'll handle the runt," he abruptly demanded out from her, but she shrugged at this.
"Ya see that's where I got a problem furball, I ain't lettin' you get ta Wolvie," he didn't grasp the concept quite well as a slash on the side of his car can testify that.
"Oh furball that's yer money ya know," she teased him.
He snarled at her menacingly, she stole his thrill of killing and now he had no right to face the runt.
He loathed her.