Was macht ein Mann
was macht ein Mann
der zwischen Mensch und Tier
nicht unterscheiden kann
was
'Tier' - Rammstein
"Yo, Jubes, got some mail for you."
Jubilee looked up from the math homework she'd been tediously working her way through. She'd never really been one for homework but now the sheer concentration it sometimes took would help her calm her thoughts to a level that she could deal with.
"Who'd be mailing me anything?"
"Don't know, but it's heavy and from Canada."
'Wolverine?' Jubilee wondered painfully.
Jubilee had almost driven all memory of Wolverine from her mind, locking it up tight in places she wouldn't go. She didn't want to think about him, or about Sabertooth. She didn't want to think about anything at all and yet the memories kept pushing at her mind, demanding to be let out. She wondered if it wasn't driving her slowly insane. She still couldn't stand to be touched and it had been getting worse. Even a small brush against her in the most innocent of circumstances could send her into a fighting stance, ready for the pain to come.
Skin dropped the box in front of her, raising an eyebrow. "Never seen anyone so unenthused to get mail."
"You would be too when that mail tends to be things like the heads of your friends," Jubilee quipped absently as she opened the box.
Jubilee looked at the contents for a moment, her hair blocking Skin's view of the contents. She then quickly closed the box, slowly pushed back her chair and walked out of the room. Skin watched her go, perplexed. The old Jubilee would have been bouncing all over the room to have received a package from Canada. Not only that but it would then be followed by days of "When Wolvie and I were traveling together" stories.
Looking again at the door Jubilee had left by, he glanced down at the box. Finally, his curiosity way too much to contain; he opened the box.
Inside, the head of Wolverine stared up at him with one unblinking eye, the other had the eyelid pulled down in a grotesque parody of a wink. Taped to the centre of his head was a scrap of paper with the scrawled words: "I'm coming for you bitch."
***
Wolverine stared out at the falling snow, stirring the pot of soup slowly. He'd tracked Creed up into Canada, but had then lost the scent near a small cabin. He'd decided to spend the night and try to pick the trail back again in the morning. There were other signs than scent that would let him track Creed in the light.
He blinked as he noticed a whiff of scent on the breeze from the open window to his right, as if summoned by his thoughts. Sabertooth was nearby. Surely, he hadn't been stupid enough. The door caved in, kicked to the ground by a heavy, booted foot and Sabertooth stood leaning in the now-empty doorframe.
Wolverine growled low in his throat and slowly put down the spoon, turning off the flame on the stove.
Apart from the door now lying on the floor of the cabin, the scene looked almost tranquil; neither were moving very fast, nor did they seem to be measuring each other for a coming battle. If it hadn't been for the malice that is - that curled slowly through the air between them, a palpable scent to their heightened senses.
"You know, that girlie of yours has quite the voice. I've been missing it lately, thought I might go back and have another go at her. What do you think?"
Wolverine popped his claws and took measured steps toward Sabertooth, watching him constantly, trying to gauge which way he'd move.
Sabertooth nodded, as if understanding that this time speech was unnecessary. For all the years he and Wolverine had nurtured their hate for each other, now was the time it would finally end. Here, in this place, there would be no holding back, no mercy. Sabertooth grinned. Just like he'd always wanted it.
Claws flashed, bit into flesh and retracted. Two men moved together, a dance macabre. If anyone with skill had watched they might be amazed at the mixture of styles. But these men had been alive for a very long time, and the martial knowledge they'd amassed over that time was vast.
One moved and the other moved in concert; a dance, its choreography of violence well learnt over the years. Like Yin and Yang, balanced and equal they fought. Wounds were dealt and slowly healed. The silence of the place given over to the bestial grunts of the two fighters, a miasma of violence hung thickly in the air and blood's thick, liquid susurration pattered around them.
Claws flicked out and ground into muscle, sliding slickly into the meat of a thigh. Teeth tore at the neck, rending and tearing.
Wolverine pulled away; falling back for a short, much needed break. He watched Sabertooth wearily, who crouched a few metres away, slowly cleaning a claw wound that had severed the artery in his arm.
Sabertooth tasted the coppery flavour that was his own blood and smiled grimly at his opponent. One of them wouldn't survive this - Sabertooth had already decided that one wouldn't be him. Crouching, he sprang at Logan again, claws spread, blood lust clear in his eyes.
***
Jean paused for a moment, looking into the distance. Scott placed a hand on his wife's shoulder, looking up at the control booth. Rogue nodded, turning off the simulation.
"What is it, Jean?"
"Scott, we have to go."