Prophet

"It's a fitting name for her," Wanda murmured as she surveyed the vandalism. She rested her hands on her hips as the boys worked to clean up the mess. Pietro moved like a whirlwind, scrubbing the dried blood letters off the wall. "Toad, make sure she's not planning on leaving." She glanced slightly down at the young mutant she addressed. He was looking even more green than normal. "I think Father would like a telepath on our team."

Todd didn't answer, but hopped towards the stairs. He bristled in anger; the illustrious Magneto thought of Kylie as nothing more than a set of powers. He liked it better when Wanda had hated her father. Todd paused halfway up the stairs as Freddy asked about the great black mutt's remains. Wanda suggested for him to find a box suitable, and that once Kylie felt up to it, they would hold a proper burial for the loyal dog. Bile, hot and sour, rose in Todd's throat, and he walked up the stairs until he could knock on the door to Kylie's room.

There was no answer. He tried again, knocking a little louder this time. "Ky? Can I come in?" he asked through the thin plywood door, before he tested the handle.

Poking his head into the room, he could see why Kylie wouldn't answer. The room was barren, with the exception of a bed, and a dresser. Kylie had nothing when she came to them, and she professed that she wanted nothing more. A duffel bag full of clothes lay half-stuffed on the floor. Kylie lay on the bed, her head buried in her arms.

"Go away," she cried thickly.

Todd approached slowly, and crouched at the edge of the bed. Kylie didn't move, except for the deep shuddering breaths she continued to gulp. He reached up and rested a hand on her shoulder. She moved quickly, flailing blindly with one arm to dislodge his hand. Todd sat in sullen silence, wringing his hands uselessly together in his lap. He reached over to her duffel bag and casually tucked a sleeve into the space.

"You… you leavin'?" he asked hesitantly.

Kylie answered with a whimper.

"I dun' wantcha t'leave," he continued, feeling increasingly lame. "But, y'know, if you have to…"

"It's safest," she whispered finally, after he trailed off into silence. "It was … Max… today, but tomorrow, it could be you, or Freddy…" She pushed herself up on to her elbows, and focused her dark eyes upon him. Red-rimmed and puffy, Todd knew she wouldn't stop crying for a long time to come. "I lost my lead, Todd… I wanted a place to call home so badly. I thought this could be it."

"It… it can be! Still," Todd fidgeted further, running his fingernails beneath each other. He focused on his hands, because he knew he'd break if he looked at her. "Yanno, cause we, like, can fight and stuff…"

She touched him, and he almost leapt out of his skin. She shivered as she drew a long, deep breath. Todd glanced up and shifted his weight forward. She was shaking her head slowly, her long dark curls tumbling all around. "No," she whispered. "My problem, my fight." She sniffed and removed her hand to wipe her nose with the back of it. "And he won't rest until he has me."

"Who 'he'?" Todd asked, pivoting to track her as she rose from the bed and knelt by her duffel.

"Him… he… the guy that killed my parents when I was five." She brushed her hair out of her eyes as she glanced up at him. "He calls himself, Nathaniel Essex."

Kylie was back on the road, finally. Lance had donated a full tank of gas; Freddy had supplied her with lunches enough to keep her for weeks. Pietro and Wanda gave her well wishes; somehow, she had even merited a hug from the platinum haired sibling. Todd had refused to leave his room, which Kylie was still oddly grateful for, even a hundred miles down the road. She missed her dog, her only source of companionship for the better part of five years.

Todd's questions had stirred up too many old memories to handle. And Kylie had learned early, that the only thing you couldn't outrun in life where your memories. Faces, images, haunted her as she sped down the interstate. She was headed for Vermont, hoping to find some backwoods area where she could lay low for a while.

Kylie drove for two days straight, fighting sleep, avoiding cities. By the time she figured she was well into Vermont, she had already started to hallucinate. Once she believed she had seen a burning man streak across the road, screaming for help. Another time she had glanced to her side to see, a six point buck deer riding a motorcycle pass her by. He had a scarf tied over his eyes, and a naked human male tied to the sissy bar. When Kylie saw signs for a small town, she finally decided to call it a night.

She pulled into the smallest motel she had ever seen about a quarter past midnight. For ten minutes, she let the Jeep idle in the parking lot as she shuffled through her bags, searching for a small metal lockbox. Upon inspection, the metal box contained no more than a hundred dollars in cash, and a small pair of diamond stud earrings. Kylie's heart hit the floor. Barely enough for one night in a hotel, so she'd better make this a good night. Fishing out her fake I.D., Kylie slid out of the Jeep and strolled into the reception desk.

She smiled as the clerk passed her the key to Room 4B. The I.D., made by a kid in Sarasota, was still good. Kylie silently thanked him as she parked her Jeep closer to the room, and unloaded quickly. The motel room was small and cheesy, but at least it didn't reek of porn décor. She threw one of her duffel's into the small chair by the equally small table, and tossed the other onto the bed. After triple checking to make sure all the locks were in place, she hung the Do Not Disturb sign in the window, and crawled into bed.

Sleep claimed her almost immediately.

He was amazed he hadn't been spotted yet. All accounts pointed towards her being a highly skilled telepath and a precognitive to boot. He had been beginning to wonder if the damned girl was a robot, driving for two days, only stopping for gas and restroom breaks, had nearly broken him. And he was by no means, a sissy.

His hands were cold, just about frozen stiff. The March night was nippy, and damp. Not at all a good night to be riding a motorcycle through the Vermont highlands. As he flexed his hands, joints popped and cracked. The sounds continued as he rolled his shoulders and neck. He wasn't used to the inactivity. His main job was assassination; he served as a hired hand for Erik Lensherr and his other cronies. This… this protection gig wasn't at all familiar. But he figured the best way to protect the kid, was to be with the kid. He only needed a few hours of sleep; then he could wake her up without being too intimidating.

The man known as Victor Creed stretched languidly, arching his back like a feline until his vertebrae popped and realigned. He yawned and ran his tongue over his fanglike canines. Tomorrow morning would be a good day, he thought as he stretched out on the cold ground beside his motorcycle. Maybe he would get to kill something.

Creed awoke to the typical cheer of the chipper morning birds who knew too little about the reality of life to be affected. The Vermont sky was a shade of blue that Creed had seldom ever seen in his life, the kind of blue that brought a smile to his thin lips. The sun had not yet risen over the mountains, giving the great monoliths of stone an icy gold shine. He shook the dew from his jacket and stretched some warmth back into his cold muscles.

The motorcycle started smoothly. Purring like a giant black and chrome cat, the motorcycle eased quietly out of the brush, and onto the road again. Creed shook his damp hair back from his face, and sped down the road to the tiny motel the kid had shacked up in for the night. Her Jeep was still there. A twisted little grin curled his thin lips up. Parking his bike outside, he fished around in his jacket for his mock-badge.

"Miss?" he asked, as he shouldered his wide frame into the office. The poor girl behind the counter jolted awake; her eyes wide with fear. Creed filled the door frame; nearly seven feet tall, and wide as two people, the clerk had every right to be afraid of him. Infact, he relished in her fear, drinking it down like an elixir. She trembled. He stretched out the badge, flashing it quickly. "I need to know what room the driver of that Jeep Wrangler is staying in."

The clerk fumbled with papers, until she found the register she was looking for. "F-four B," she stuttered. "Angela D-dane."

Creed grinned at the use of a pseudonym, the girl he was hunting had obviously been running for a long time. He grinned, the feral expression letting his canines peek out at the clerk. "Thank you," he purred, his low voice rumbling. He narrowed his eyes, and lowered his chin slightly before he left, giving the girl a seductive wink. The heavy musk of attraction blossomed beneath the addictive scent of fear. Creed's heart began to race.

He forced himself to remember the task at hand. The girl. Kylie. She was his priority. He could always come back to rape and slaughter the poor little clerk later. Bits of him tingled in anticipation. He closed the door resolutely behind him, making sure it clicked in finality. He then strode slowly down the sidewalk, ticking off the room numbers silently. By the time he stood before Room 4B, he was calm again. He raised his fist and knocked sharply, three times.

Bap-Bap-Bap.

Kylie had nearly returned to sleep; a few more silent moments and she would have fallen into that deep and dreamless slumber of exhaustion. Irritated, she hauled herself out of the bed, tucking her pistol at the small of her back. Keeping one hand on the butt of the gun, she stood on tiptoes to peer out the peephole.

There was nothing there; nothing but darkness that is. Whoever was there was blocking the lens. Cold terror crept under her skin. There was definitely a mind there; so it wasn't one of his followers. Kylie was afraid to probe further; her tenuous grasp of reality was slowly fading as it was. Her hand trembled as she gripped the door handle. It was cold, clammy and slimy, like grabbing something's tongue.

Hastily, she let go, staring at her dry palm in disbelief.

Bap-Bap-Bap.

Whoever was there was getting impatient. Kylie drew the pistol and let it hang at her side, just incase. Testing again, she wrapped her hand around the knob, before easing the door open. It cracked as far as the chain would allow it. Peering out the sliver of door, Kylie looked out, and up. And up.

Blue eyes. Blond mane. He flashed a toothy grin. Kylie's breath stopped short in her throat, and she let out a small, strangled cry. The pistol clattered to the floor, freed of numb fingers. Kylie collapsed into blessed darkness.

Creed tilted his head curiously. That was a first. She hadn't fainted of fear; he could smell no fear on her. No, she had just passed out it seems. Damn lucky the gun didn't go off, he figured, as he hooked a long talon through the crack in the door. With a flick, he busted the chain, and eased the door the rest of the way open. Stepping inside, he heeled the door closed behind him, examining the prone girl.

"Well, I'm here t'keep you safe," he muttered as he knelt down beside her. His fingers threaded through her hair, making sure she hadn't cracked her head open when she fell. "So, safety lesson number one, get some sleep, frail."

He tucked his arm under her knees, and picked her up. Light as a feather, and just as slight, the nickname certainly fit her. Her cheeks glittered as he laid her down in the disheveled bed. She was crying? She whimpered in her unconsciousness, and she reached out… for him.

"Woah, kiddo, I'm a killer, not a friggin teddy bear," Creed groused as her hand curled around one of his fingers. "Dammit." He growled to himself, but stared as her tense features curiously relaxed. He muttered a few curses to his various employers, before hooking his foot around the chair, and dragging it closer. Might as well get comfortable, he figured, it would probably be a long night.

As he settled in, he sighed softly. She was kind of cute, like a china doll, but he couldn't get over the nagging suspicion that he'd seen her somewhere before. She squeezed his finger, and drew her knees up further, curling fetal under the blankets. Her hands shook, and her muscles twitched. Now Creed could smell fear, but she wasn't afraid of him. Hesitantly, he reached out with his free hand, and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. Mags wasn't kiddin', he thought. Kids' got more issues than a friggin' comic strip.

Even more amazed, he saw her relax beneath his touch. Experimenting again, he smoothed his fingers through her hair. The girl sighed, a long deep slow sound that forced him to watch her lips quiver, and rose a knot of agony deep in his gut. Creed swallowed hard, and closed his eyes, drawing back his free hand. His fingers, still trapped in her small hand, tingled, not unpleasantly. Creed sighed. Without knowing how long she was going to be out, he figured to take a small catnap.

Someone was watching him. Creed feigned sleep professionally, his chest rising and falling evenly. His hand was free; she was moving around quietly in the room. Or perhaps she was just moving on the bed. His gut tightened painfully again, but perhaps it was only in response to the x-rated thoughts that flitted through his mind. Determined then, he would definitely come back to this backwoods town, to murder and rape the mousy clerk.

On his next breath, Creed could scent... charcoal? Paper? What was she planning on doing? Escape by paper airplane? He couldn't resist, and cracked one azure eye. He watched her, kneeling on the bed, with a large pad of paper balanced before her. Her eyes were ringed with darkness, and trained so intensely on Creed's body he suddenly felt self-conscious. He waited a few more moments, until she glanced back at the page she worked upon, to open his eyes fully. As soon as she looked up, her gaze met his and every muscle in her body froze.

"See somethin' ya like?" he asked gruffly, pushing himself up straight in the chair, and stretching.

She moved like lightning then, snapping the cover of the sketchpad closed, and bolting off the bed. She pointed then, her wide, doe-like eyes staring. "You... you're... r-r-real!"

"Last time I checked I was," Creed rose to his full height, towering almost a full two feet over the young girl. "Erik Lensherr sent me to protect ya. He wants ya t'go back to the boardin' house." As if the house were just around the corner, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You 'n me, frail, we can make it back t'night."

Frail. The word seemed to have a profound effect on the girl. Fear cast a heady undercurrent to her delicate scent; her breath rasped quickly in her throat. "You..." she whispered. "I don't even know your name."

"Victor Creed." He extended his hand, a huge appendage ending in savage claws. "I know who you are... Kylie. Live outta your Jeep. Precog. Artist." He wanted to get this over with. Introductions were always the hardest to deal with, awkward and slow. She didn't accept his hand; she only continued to stare at him.

"I can't go back," she stated, softly, plainly. "He always finds me. I can't fight him."

"Him? Who him?" Creed plopped down on the motel bed, the springs crying out in protest. Casually, he reached for her sketchpad, easily slipping it from her numb fingers. "You can fight anything... I'll kill it for you." A toothy grin spread across his craggy face. "Nice drawings," he observed, paging through the sketchbook.

"Hey!" Kylie seemed to snap out of her stupor. She lunged for the sketchpad, but Creed twisted, avoiding her grasp. He turned another page, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She blushed, brilliant red apples rising on her cheeks. "Give that back!"

"Hoo boy!" Creed turned the page, so he could get the full view. "Hey, that's me!" He squinted slightly, peering at the face attached to the Adonis body. "And that too!" He flipped a few more pages, only to find more renditions of his face and form. Slyly, he looked over to the girl that was blushing a few feet away.

Sullenly, she held her hand out for her sketchbook. "You've been in my visions for three months now," she informed him. "Can I please have my book back?"

"On one condition," Creed responded, closing the cover and glancing up. "Let me come with you, while you think about coming back to the boarding house." He held out the sketchbook. When her hand closed on it, she sighed deeply and nodded.

"Alright, you win," she frowned, pulling the sketchbook towards herself and hugging it. "But understand, Mr. Creed, I don't want anyone to get hurt."

Creed only grinned. "Call me Victor, frail. That Mister bull is for old fogies and pompous asses."

Kylie nodded. Silence settled around them, uncomfortable and thick. Kylie looked slowly towards the door, her brow furrowing. Creed followed her glance in time to see a shadow move across the curtained window. He moved faster than Kylie did, and silently as well. Rising from his chair and crouching before her, he planned to make good on his promise.

Her hand touched his shoulder. "They're here," she whispered, her voice barely audible even to his superior senses. She slipped the pistol off the bed stand, and flicked the safety with her thumb. Creed sniffed the air, but only could pick up must, and week old hamburger.

"Attackin' in broad daylight?" Creed muttered, watching another shadow move across the door. "Kinda gutsy, aren't they?"

He felt Kylie's answering nod, even though she was hiding behind him. Creed snarled softly and flexed his fingers, glaring at the door. No. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of surprising them. Instead, he sprung into action, leaping into the door with his fists balled tight.

The door cracked and quickly snapped beneath his weight, crashing atop of one of the automatons. They were the ones that smelled of week-old meat! As Creed straightened, five more humanoids turned to face him. A slow come-hither grin spread across Creed's lips. Yes, today was a good day; he would get to slaughter something. The automatons were all dressed as police officers, and they all wore identical faces. The creatures moved as one being toward him, smoothly and easily.

As he tensed to spring and attack, the sharp crack and echo of a pistol reverberated twice. Two of the automatons staggered, pitching backward as each bore a bloodless, gaping hole between their eyes. Creed whistled softly, impressed by the pressure performance of the little mouse emerging from her hole. Behind him, she moved out of the doorway, her bag slung secure over one shoulder.

The fake police all turned toward her. The there remaining gave a grunt of dissatisfaction as Kylie ran for her Jeep. She threw her duffel inside and spun in time to squeeze off another shot. The bullet went wide and tore a chunk of plaster out of the wall.

Creed had meanwhile grabbed two from behind. His huge hands wrapped nearly all the way around their skulls. He began to squeeze until he felt the first hints of breaking bone beneath his fingers. He then slammed both skulls together, and dropped the lifeless bodies to the ground. That left the one advancing on Kylie, but Creed paused. The girl was full of surprises. Like the unflinching accuracy that she unloaded a full clip into the face of her assailant. The thing crumpled, it's hooked fingertips just barely catching the front of her shirt.

"They're dead," Creed muttered kicking one of them slightly. "They've been dead for… weeks." He looked up to watch Kylie round the front of her Jeep, and climb into the drivers seat. She turned to him before she touched the ignition.

"You coming? Cause there'll be another bunch of them here in a few minutes."

Creed stepped over a carcass and unlatched the passenger door. With a forlorn glance at his motorcycle, Creed conceded and sat down in the Jeep. It smelled vaguely of dog. Glancing in the back seat, Creed saw short black fur scattered all over the seat. He wondered what had happened to it.

"So," Creed began as Kylie guided the Jeep out of the parking lot. "Where are you plannin' on runnin' to?"

The girl shrugged. "North. Canada maybe, if I can get across the border. Maybe I'll head to Michigan. I'm not sure."

She sounds like she hates this running, Creed thought. He stretched out as she hit the highway, resting one hand on the headrest of her seat. "Well, frail, wherever you go, I'll be with you. Least till you can figure out what you want to do."