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

8. Victor 'Frankenstein' Creed

Sabretooth closed the car's door and sped back to the house, a freshly bought first-aid kit in his hand. He had left the girl knocked out on his own bed, laying on the stripped mattress and covered by a musty sheet. Since she had been completely oblivious to everything going on around her, he had decided on knocking her out and waiting for her to be more talkative when she came to. In the meantime, he had taken the time to buy something to clean the cuts on her neck and face. He had hardly parked the car and he was already speeding up to his room. He wanted to be there when she woke up.

He needn't have hurried; she was still peacefully out. Not that there was much of a difference from her previous state, but at least she wasn't such a disturbing image anymore. The way she had looked at the ceiling in her blank dead-like expression unnerved him. He could swear she looked like a dead body. A living dead body. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, and tried to plan his actions. The goal was simple: get her to enjoy being alive. Right. How? First, he had to convince her not to want to die. His mind raced through several arguments, but none sounded convincing. He couldn't picture her reacting to any of the traditional reasons not to commit suicide. This was stupid. He was a god-damned killer and here he was playing the anti-suicide squad! He'd be doomed if anyone knew about this. He actually shuddered imagining the X-assholes going about "Oh, Sabretooth saved a young girl from killing herself! There's still hope to save him from his killing urges!" Yeah, right!

He could just kill her. That'd be the end of all trouble. He could. But he'd be damned if he was going to! He had already decided she'd clean the place first, and he'd find a way to have his will done. One way or the other. As soon as she stopped threatening to kill herself… Dammit! He should be the one passing death threats around, not his victims! Now he had to think over a new method to… to somehow threaten her into obeying. Right. Back to scratch: How to convince her to want to live?

The idea of a shrink crossed his mind. He sure could use one right about now! OK, so what would a shrink do? He'd tell her that suicide is stupid. He doubted that argument could convince anyone, though. What else would a shrink do? Ask her stupid questions about mummy and daddy. Nope, shrinks wouldn't do this girl any good. They probably couldn't do anyone any good either!

Sabretooth got up and walked around. This was no good. He'd better think up something fast; she'd be waking any minute now and he needed to know how to play her into his game. But what could he say? He could understand a guy that wants to die because he's being tortured and is going to get killed in the end anyway. He could even understand if a guy wanted to die because he was too much of a coward to face whatever problem was driving him over the edge. But this girl? She was no coward: cowards don't stand up and kill the guy who's going to rape them. Plus, she wasn't afraid of pain, nor of death, she was even willing to hurt herself if only she'd get to die afterwards. That was insane. Worse, it was unnatural! She wasn't in pain, there was no one trying to kill her, the project goons should be thinking her dead like all the others so there wasn't anyone on her trail… What was her problem then? And then it hit him; it hit him even as he noticed a slight movement on the bed and heard the lowest whimper. He quickly resumed his post, sitting on the floor. The moment she opened her eyes, she'd see him… and he knew exactly how to turn her head around.

The blackness was complete. It was so very peaceful! However, the moment I grasped that notion, the blackness started to fade away. It resembled a dark mist lifting away, leaving in its place a vague distorted image. I blink a few times, and the image becomes clearer: a blonde person and a white wall. Strange. I narrow my eyes and make an effort to make sense of the vision. Yes, there is a blonde man sitting against a wall. Where am I? I try to turn my head around to have a better look and feel a sharp pain in my sore neck. Oh, yes. I think I remember it now. I close my eyes and let out the air in my lungs with violence. The entire memory seems so far away!

"Feelin' more reasonable?"

I refuse to look at him. I want to will myself back into the numbing darkness and forget all about the Blond Rambo and… everything! I can feel how a part of me wants to give in to despair; how it wants to cry and scream… but another part of me, as cold and as numb as death, keeps me restrained; and I'm thankful. My breath and heartbeat, though, are unsure of which party to listen to, so they decide on acting just slightly altered; and I feel so confused!

"I'm gonna take that as a yes. Ya got yar clothes and a first-aid kit over there…"

"Hun?"

Clothes? Did he just mention… my clothes! I sit up in a second but I'm fully dressed; however, the movement cleared my mind and things start to make sense. I can't help sighing and I'm forced to admit that I may just have to actually talk to the man.

"Yer new clothes. Ya remember? The ones I got ya 'cause ya were gonna clean my house? 'Course that was 'fore ya went suicidal an' all, but they're still yer clothes, anyways."

I avoid his amber eyes. I can barely understand what he's talking about, and I keep wondering if I understand his intentions correctly. Oh, God! I can feel the exhaustion taking over: it shuts up those mumbling consciences, one trying to bring me over to despair, the other trying to numb me to the world. Their voices are dying away. Dying… I close my eyes. Why am I here? Why am I still alive? Why? Why? Why?

"Look, girl, in case ya haven't noticed yet, I got this really short fuse an' I go over the edge an' start killin' people around real easy. However, I do need someone ta keep this place up… an' I got this bad habit of acing nervous scaredy-cats. So, I could use someone who won't go all "oh-please-don't-hurt-me" every time I'm in a bad mood. An' ya kind o' look like what I've been lookin' for."

He pauses for a very short moment and I finally look at him, hoping he'll see in my eyes I can't follow what he's saying and… what? Start speaking in Portuguese?

His eyes feel like ice on me. Frozen amber.

"I think ya noticed I'd love ta have simply killed ya down there. But I'd really rather keep ya alive. 'Course, if ya really up ta slittin' yer own throat like that… just try an' do it outside so ya don't mess the house even more than it already is."

He gets up. I don't feel like following his face, so I just keep staring at the place where his eyes used to be… which means I'm looking at his thighs. There's a hidden part of me that wants to chuckle, but my face can't follow the feeling and just frowns. I can feel his irritation. It's the only thing I can understand from everything he says. I feel so utterly, completely, absolutely…

"Look, just clean yerself up, put on the new clothes an' come down, OK? If ya really wanna die… Hey, what can I do? Ya just go ahead an' do it – there's plenty o' room in the backyard fer ya ta do it. But if ya'd rather live fer a little longer, I'll offer ya a contract. Ya don't have ta worry 'bout no "slavin'" fer me: I'll offer ya a fair deal."

Another pause. I wonder what he's waiting for, with the big speech and all the pauses. Does he expect me to say something? I can't frown harder, although I'm sure I'd be able to put things together if I could. Oh, God! I wish I could just go to sleep and forget about everything. I'm so, so tired!

"So… I'm going out fer a bit. An' ya just… do whatever ya wanna do! If ya're interested in my proposition, I'll give ya the details when I get back. If ya don't like it, ya can always ace yerself afterwards. An' if ya ain't even interested in listenin' ta what I got ta say… like I said, there's a big backyard out there. Just don't make the mess in the house, right? OK. See ya around. Or not. Whatever."

He leaves. I can hear his steps down the staircase. I can hear the door open and close. Now the car is being started… and it goes away. Away… Why did he leave? What does he want? Kill me, not kill me, keep me as his housemaid, his slave, his… What?

Think! He was trying to be nice, but that's only because he doesn't want me to kill myself. He wants me alive. Damn! Why does he have to speak so fast and so… so weird like. I couldn't understand almost anything. Think, think, think.

Preposition. There must be another meaning for the word, because he mustn't have been talking about grammar, for sure. Or maybe he was saying I had to learn English? Hmm… That would make sense. OK, I suppose I'll agree with him on that one. Maybe that was what he was saying about the contract? I clean the house and he teaches me English? No, no. He saved me so I could clean the house. That's what he said before. It doesn't make any sense, but nothing has made any sense since I… since they… kidnapped me.

Focus! He mentioned a contract. I think. A contract. Clean the house. Killing and dying. And… was it living he said, or leaving?

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Excerpt from chapter 9:

"I don't sleep wid you."

His eyes widened in a sudden good-humoured surprise.

"Most women says they don't wanna do the windows…"

Her eyes rolled around and she frowned slightly, and ended up restating her position. "I do not do sex wid my chef. Não, boss. "