Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Naomi, Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

6. Ashes to Ashes

The night was dark, as a new moon can't possible give much light. They were in Bismarck, North Dakota; hiding in a typically dark back alley. They were waiting for the right time to enter the building to their right. It was a cremation house.

While he waited, Sabretooth kept his attention on the girl. He couldn't help wondering just how old she really was. Or where she really was from, or what her name really was. Basically, he wanted to know who she really was. Because something about her just didn't add up: she looked like an underdevelopped teen; acted like a mature, self-assured woman; and had a gaze cold enough to make a serial killer envious.

Then, of course, there was her posture. Even now, staring relaxedly at the shallow light coming from a lamp post, she didn't slump. She kept her head level as if there was no one in the world her superior, but never had she given the slightest innuendo of being superior to anyone else. On the other hand, every time Sabretooth had stopped to get some gas or food, on his one-night-one-day drive to Bismarck, she had lowered her head and become the poster girl for a self-deprecating ugly-duckling teen with no self-esteem. And yet, she had managed to give him the sense that she wasn't faking; that she was naturally bipolar in her behaviour.

So was it any wonder that he was curious about her?

"Whatchja thinkin'?" He spoke in a hushed tone that betrayed only bored curiosity. "Gettin' scared at the idea o' gettin' killed?"

She startled slightly, as if she had just awakened, and looked at him, blinking a "could you please repeat that?"

"Gettin' afraid o' dying?"

She shook her head a bit and added in an even more hushed tone.

"No." She looked at the lamp post again before adding. "Exist a bat."

"What?"

"Exist a bat. Ali. It fly round and around." She paused slightly and continued in an even lower voice. "Existeed many bats next my house. Was a long, long time ago. Quer dizer, was not long time but is like if was…"

She looked at him with a casually serious face.

"Is now de time? I'm very tired…"

"Thought ya'd be a bit scared. Most people are."

He consciously let some honesty slip into his conversation for a little while, deciding that a mix of curious-indifference might be the key to get her talking. She didn't buy it immediately – if she bought it at all – and it was obvious her eyes were trying to read his intentions, but he was more experient at these games than she could ever hope to be.

"No," she said, her eyes still cold. "I'm not scared. I sink…"

She looked at the lamp post again, a bit abruptly, though.

"I'm not..." she hesitated, "want to die. But I don't have scared."

Sabretooth tried to find an indication of a lie, but he couldn't find one. She shrugged slightly and her voice gained a tinge of hardened resentment.

"I not have nosing and I can't have nosing." She looked at him, and there was clearly some fire burning under the coldness of her gaze. "I not have no reason to have scared."

"Fer as long as ya're alive, ya'll always have a reason t'be scared o' dyin'."

There was rebellion in her eyes. He thought she would have grown into one of those simple-minded women who show her feelings in her eyes all the time – adoration, anger, pleasure, pain, despair… and plenty of stubbornness. But then she sighed and looked away.

"I'm not alive," she explained sternly. "I'm not dead, but I'm not alive."

With a disgusted chuckle she turned away again. "I'm a zombie. And I'm very, very tired. Deas…"

"Death," Creed corrected unconsciously.

"Hun? Ah, sim. Deaf. Is like a... a... I'm sorry, how is de word in English?"

"What word ya talkin' 'bout?"

"What you say when… when a… a… de man dat work in de shursh?"

"Church? What, a priest?"

"Priest… What he do… to de people dat marry… and babies… assim."

She raised her hand in a blessing sign.

"Ya mean… like a blessin'? Priests bless people? That's what ya gettin' at?"

"Blessing?" She repeated, a bit unsure.

"Yeah, blessin'… like…" He raised his big hand over her head in a mock imitation of a priest. "I bless ya in the name o' the yadda-yadda and so on. Blessin'."

"Sim, sim; é isso. Tank you. Blessing. Deas... não, deaf is a blessing."

"No shit. So… death is a blessin', huh?"

She shrugged and looked away, her voice lowering to a cold, deadly tone that further aroused his curiosity. "In some situations."

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again, her tone still cold.

"When is time?"

"Huh? Oh… Well, I guess now's as good as any other time."

He got up, went to the rear of the car and picked up a cocoon of blankets. He had bought a couple more and wrapped the dead bodies to prevent any smell from pestering the jeep. He placed the cocoon over his shoulder and led the way. He had already picked the back door's lock, some time ago, and he had checked the inside of the crematory and its workings.

"Ready?"

He was standing at the door, and when she shook her head affirmatively, he opened the door and let her in. He closed the door and told her to go to the right, but she turned left instead.

"I said right!"

"Desculpe! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Her voice was a whisper and she hurried to the right side.

"OK. Now we just wait a bit fer the oven ta pick up some heat 'fore puttin' the bodies in."

The girl looked at the big chamber curiously and held her arms. He could tell she wasn't nervous, because he could hear her heart beating as calmly as if she were sleeping.

They waited silently for a while, until the girl turned and stood in his way, looking at him expectantly.

"So…" She casually glanced at the chamber's door before setting her gaze straight on his eyes. "Is now, den…"

"How old are ya? I know ya ain't 16." She lowered her head and he knew he got her. "What's yer real age?"

She kept her eyes on the ground for a short while, before looking up determinedly.

"I have twenty years. Dat is my true age. Can I ask your name?"

"Ya can call me Creed."

"Mister Creed. Do you go kill me, now? Please."

Her eyes weren't pleading; they were simply serious. Deadly serious, he joked to himself. He pushed her aside and opened the door to the chamber. He slid the dead bodies, wrapped in blankets, off his shoulder and threw them into the hot flames in one single fluid movement. He closed the door and locked it carefully. He then looked at the temporizer and set it for five hours.

"After that," he told the temporizer, "there ain't even gonna be no ashes left."

He looked at her. She was still leaning on the wall, to where he had pushed her; she had a slight frown, as if he had just done something quite unexpected. Yeah, well, he told himself, he wasn't exactly known as unpredictable for no reason, was he?

"Come on, girl. We ain't got all night." He moved swiftly towards the back street door, but she didn't move. "Ain't ya heard me just now? Get movin' an' get yerself back in the car. We still have a long way ta go an' I ain't feelin' in no good mood."

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Excerpt from chapter 7:

He hadn't been here for at least two years. Which meant the house hadn't been cleaned for over two years. Usually, he stopped by once or twice a year and that was long enough to force him to rent a room in a hotel for a day while a cleaning agency made the place inhabitable. Having been two years away, it would probably require two days of cleaning. Nevertheless he smiled. Finally, he didn't need to keep away anymore. He'd just brought home his own "cleaning agency". He knew she'd be useful the very first time he'd set eyes on her. Sometimes, he just loved his gut instincts.