Disclaimer: See first chapter.

Alone

"What have you found?" Magneto asks. Mystique has been working on the computer all day, frowning at the screen in concentration. He doesn't mind, in a way he's quite pleased as it gives him more control over the design of the Base. The cave is starting to look quite impressive now, all gleaming metal and dark stone.

"Hmm?" She looked up. "Oh, I was just looking at Weapon X."

"Weapon X?" He frowned for a moment, before remembering, "Ah yes. Stryker's little … project. We have tried with that one, it's out of our hands now."

That had been a bad blow for both of them, him and Charles. Neither of them had any idea what was happening with Stryker's project, or exactly what in involved, except that somewhere along the line, mutation came into it.

"Charles is still pursuing various diplomatic channels, I believe." Magneto continued, "I wouldn't worry about it too much if I were you. We have other plans."

"Then I suppose it wouldn't interest you to know that two of them have escaped?"

"Escaped?" He looked dubious, "From Stryker? Are you sure?"

"Certain. Well … certain of one escapee at least. X5, codename: Sabretooth. There are rumours that another one got out too, X2, the Wolverine, but I can't find enough to back that up." She smiled at him, faintly mockingly, "Do they sound like angry-adults to you?"

He gave a short laugh, she'd won this time, "Very well. I suppose our business with Stryker is not over after all."

"I don't know about Stryker, but I have a feeling we should probably be interested in his missing projects." She pulled up the details she'd managed to find about Sabretooth, "They strengthened his muscles, especially around the shoulders, I can't find out how, but they bulked him up substantially. Sharpened the teeth, added some kind of claws, nothing particularly impressive, but a definite improvement as far as fighting goes."

He gave her a swift look, "You sound almost as though you … approve."

"For most of it he had no anaesthetic." Her voice was hard, "That would have interfered with something in the process. They turned a mutant into a machine, a machine for fighting, for their wars."

"Raven…" he put a hand on her shoulder by way of apology. She shrugged it off and turned back to the computer.

"I'll try and see if we can find him. It shouldn't be terribly difficult, I haven't found a proper picture yet, but I imagine he'll stand out."

"It might be wiser to find someone else to find him." He said, "He is a fighter after all, could be dangerous, and I've no desire to spend the next few months running around in the snow looking for a Sabretooth."

"Yes." Her hands flew like lightening over the keyboard, "I was planning on that."

Toad stared at the pigeon. The pigeon stared right back at him.

"Move." Toad croaked, flapping a hand at it.

The pigeon gave a small waddle to the left.

"Go on, move, get off the grating." He flapped another hand. The pigeon lazily watched his hand fly by then settled down over the grating, sitting down with the look of a bird that isn't going to move for a while.

Toad scowled at it. There were at least three fish-heads under that grating (courtesy of the late-night sushi restaurant across the road) and he was hungry. Pigeons in London, he'd begun to realise, had a very firm idea of who was in charge of the city. They had also lost almost all their fear of things on two legs, a fear which at this time would have been quite useful.

He was hungry. Living on the streets was a lot harder than he had ever imagined. Sleeping on the streets was probably the hardest, paving never really looked uncomfortable until you were curled upon it, when it suddenly metamorphosised into a rough unfriendly terrain with huge cracks and bumps that moved into all the least comfortable places. It was cold as well; his jacket was hardly adequate protection.

Begging was, he suspected, hard enough when you weren't green, and he was supposed to be keeping a low profile. He could eat insects, his growling stomach had decided that for him within the first week, and leftovers from bins, in fact he seemed to be able to eat almost anything without getting ill. He certainly hadn't got ill yet, and he was fairly sure at least some of the scraps he'd been eating had been well past the sell-by date.

He gave the pigeon a baleful stare. It ignored him. He was going to have to try and pick it up, he knew that, and then it would peck and scratch at him, and cause more damage than a terminally obese bundle of feathers had a right to cause.

They were only old fish heads! But they were starting to make his mouth water. And he could eat them, he knew, he could eat anything, no matter what state it was in, hang on…

He looked at the pigeon again, with a slightly more calculating eye. The pigeon shuffled nervously, feeling, in its little pigeon brain, that something was wrong when people looked at you like that. Centuries of pampered living in the city peeled back, reminding it of a time when things that looked at you like that had a special name, and that name was predator.

Toad bit his lip. If this worked, he would solve pretty much all of his food problems. Pigeons were practically endemic in London, and noone would miss them.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and then shot his tongue out, trying not to think about what he was doing. The pigeon gave a desperate 'squark!' and tried to take off but by then it was too late.

It tasted crunchy. And faintly like chicken.

He stopped the first car he found by the simple method of getting into the road and standing in front of it. The man at the driver's seat swerved desperately to avoid him, knocking the wing mirror off against a tree, and narrowly avoiding smashing the car. Sabretooth waited until it stopped, amidst muffled cursing about insurance, then pulled the man out, dropped him protesting by the side of the road, and sped off in the car.

He had no idea where he was going, a prospect which worried him. In the army there had always been instructions, in Weapon X there had been even stricter confined rules, and he suspected that even before that, back in the days where his memory could no longer reach, there had been orders and rules to dictate what to do. Here, out in the snow on his own, he had no idea.

The car ran out of petrol eventually, so he dumped it by the side of the road as he had its owner. He continued down the road until it hit a town, a small mess of roadside houses sprawled messily over the snow.

He headed for the bar, on the basis that it's better to be lost and alone with alcohol that without. The only money he had was some spare change from the glove compartment, so he stumped in, pushed it onto the counter and mumbled something under his breath.

The barman nodded, recognising a man who just wants strong alcohol, and passed him a dirty bottle. He sat in the corner, trying to look inconspicuous and attempting to work out what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life.

Get away, that was the first thing. To get as far as possible from Stryker's base. They'd be looking for him by now, and if they'd found the man in the snow, they'd know he had a car. That would pull the search radius open, until they found the car of course. Mentally, he cursed himself for not trying to hide it. Once they found the car, that would be it, they'd narrow it down to here.

So, drink. That was first. Drink the drink, then grab another car just as someone's about to set off in it. Head for a big city, he can get lost in a big city, anyone can get lost in a big city, the trick was to be lost and still alive.

Would that work? He had no idea. But it was a plan, and at the moment, all he needed was a plan.

And alcohol, naturally.

A/N: Meh, short chapter. But thankfully in this one I don't feel like dropping any of the characters into a vat of hot acid. Mystique is a bit off in this, but I do like the pigeon. And Sabretooth oddly enough, I'm beginning to feel very glad that I decided to put Sabretooth in this. They will all meet up soon, don't worry.

Reviews of any kind are much appreciated.