My stomach's solid and burning hot. Always happens 'round blood, but this is worse'n usual. Whoever's bleeding, it must be one helluva mess. Suddenly I realize my head's spinning somethin' fierce, and when I try to lift my skull off the ground, it feels like lead. Right. I remember now. It's my blood. When I peel back my eyelids, my pupils are met with all the glare of a midday sun. So it took me, what, seven, maybe eight hours to recover? Just confirms what my gut is already tellin' me—I bled out.

The kid actually shot me. I can't help but be impressed. I should probably be pissed, but it ain't anger that makes me chuckle. Well, for now the rest of the family is dead. They're sure to be missed, and once Wolverine hears Jean is MIA, he'll track her scent here within a few days. That'll do the job I wanted all along. And I think I'll use the girl to make an even better game with the runt.

Slowly, I roll to my side, get to my knees, stand on my feet. I look down. Those boots feel very far away. Back inside Cyclops' trailer, I find everything I need: a duffle bag crammed with the girl's clothes, some sort of portable video game system, and a pre-packed lunch in the little frig. I write a short note.

"She's almost as beautiful as her mother. Going to enjoy myself. Been way too long. If you want to make things more interesting, we'll be at The Mesa."

I follow the line of tiny footprints 'round Cyke's mangled body over the hillside, into the desert wasteland.

Something's touching me. I slip one eye open just slightly, and I see a thick metal pole, the crotch of a pair of jeans, and a huge steel-toed boot, which is nudging me in the ribs. I jerk awake. When I bolt upright into a sitting position, I find that I'm in some sort of restaurant, sitting at a table with the monster. Sabretooth, I remember. His name is Sabretooth. He barely gives me any notice. He's digging into a bloody steak like he's a dog, and he points his fork at a plate in front of me. "Eat."

There's a cheeseburger and fries before me, along with both a giant glass of water and another glass filled with soda. Where are we? The last thing I remember is walking in the desert. Walking for hours. I think I must've passed out. I look around. We're sitting next to a window, and outside are a ton of semi-trucks. A truck stop. I remember one just like this from one of Logan's memories. Every pair of eyes in the place is staring at us with—what? Confusion? Concern? Distrust, I decide. For a moment, I consider screaming for help. I could just get up and run for the door.

Like he's reading my mind, Sabretooth says, "You wouldn't get far. For one thing, you're completely dehydrated. That right there is protein, salt, sugar and water. Everythin' you need to get your blood sugar back up."

My stomach growls and then it hurts. God, now that I'm thinking about it, everything hurts, and my right hand is shaking. I grab the hamburger and take a huge bite. Forget it. I'll think about escape in a few minutes, after I've eaten. I shove a couple of fries in with the burger. I swallow, take several huge gulps of water, then wash it all down with a swig of soda.

Chewing the last of my cheeseburger, I look down. With a jolt of shock, I realize that I'm in the tank top and jeans that I wore on the road trip out to the desert. What happened to my PJ's?! I glance up at Sabretooth, and he's sporting new clothes, too. We're no longer covered in blood, but both of us are wearing a layer of dust. The thought of him changing me makes me feel sick.

He looks up from his steak and his eyes squint at me questioningly. "I have to use the bathroom," I tell him. He smirks, but I don't see what's so funny. He points behind me at a "RESTROOM" sign, and I finish off the soda before getting up.

But it isn't a big restroom with stalls. It's just a one-person bathroom that locks behind you. Dangit! I wanted to wait for the first woman to walk in and ask her for help. I go potty and wash my hands as fast as I can. Now what? Looking up, I spot a small window. I fly up with my TK, open it, and drop to the ground outside. I'm in the parking lot behind the truck stop. Peering around the dumpster, I spot three truckers laughing loudly beside a tan Mack truck, with their radio blaring country music. I run straight for them, and the oldest one, with a white beard and mustache, elbows his friend to shut up when he sees me.

"Help!" I yell. "Please, please help me! This madman kidnapped me! He killed my whole family! I think he's going to kill me! I—"

The fat one cuts me off. "Whoa, there. Slow down. We can help you, miss. Now start over. Who is this madman? What does he look like?"

"His name is Sabretooth," I gasp. "He's really, really tall. Like, REALLY tall. And he has long, blonde hair, and yellow eyes. He's inside." I point. "But he's a mutant. He can heal super-fast, and guns just slow him down."

"A mutie, huh?" The white-haired man rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Jim, you better call this one in. Davey, go get your boys. We're gonna need all the muscle we can get." The youngest runs off to the other side of the parking lot, where a group of four others are packing up for the road. The fat one jumps up into the Mack truck, slaps off the music, and starts speaking really fast into his radio. Meanwhile, the older man kneels down and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Don't you worry, little lady. We'll take care of things. You see, there's no law in this part of the desert, not really. We enforce the law around here, and this is not the first mutant we've had to deal with. Now I want you to sit in the back of this here truck. You stay still and quiet, and don't touch anything, until we come back, you got it?"

I nod, and he hoists me up into the cab of the truck. I duck down behind the passenger seat, and all the men walk into the truck stop, each one carrying a shotgun. It isn't long before the yelling starts. Next, a woman screams. Several guns are shooting all at once, and then a man flies out through one of the big side windows and lands on the asphalt. He's mangled and his insides are hanging out beside him. I hear more crashing and shooting and a lot more screaming. Then it goes quiet.

For a second, everything is still. But then a huge looming figure comes around the corner, and I almost shriek in fear. Sabretooth is stalking toward me, carrying my duffel bag and a big, blue ice cooler, covered in so much blood that he looks like a redhead. I duck to the ground, my chest heaving. There are a ton of big rigs in this lot. If I can just stay hidden while he looks in the first one, maybe I can drive off. Uncle Alex let me learn to drive from his memories a few months ago.

I peak up. I can't find Sabretooth anywhere. Super fast, I jump into the driver's seat. But then I learn that a semi truck is not the same as any other truck. There are two gear sticks and a ton of buttons and knobs in front of me that I don't have any idea how to work. Oh, no. I stretch my mind out and scan the truck stop, but there's not a living soul inside. No mind to learn from. Looking around again, I notice a motorcycle parked just twenty feet away. Could I reach it without being heard? I hesitate. But if I sit here, he'll find me eventually. Before I can change my mind, I open the driver door.

And find Sabretooth smirking at me. I scream despite myself. I try to turn and run, but he yanks me by the hair and throws me down in the other seat. I grasp for the passenger door, but he reaches right over my head, presses the lock down firmly, then bends the metal into the door frame so that it can never come up again.

"No!" I scream. "Please, don't—" But before I can finish, the radio is crackling.

"Come in, Big Jimbo. This is Hellraiser. Did you say you got a mutie at the old 84 that killed someone? Roger?"

Sabretooth climbs into the driver's seat, slams his door closed, throws both the cooler and the duffle into the cab, and turns the radio off before I can even think of trying to respond. He turns in his seat toward me, his eyes gleaming with sick pleasure. Oh, I don't like those eyes.

"A word of advice, kid. The ol' 'I've gotta go to the bathroom' trick has been used so many times, that most kidnappers will just let you wet yourself these days. Next time you'll wanna be more creative." He reaches into his coat and pulls out a cigar. Lighting it, he continues, "And I don't mind you tryin' to escape, I really don't. But you should know that every single time you do, I'm gonna kill every fuckin' person that you come into contact with along the way." He leans closer so that our faces are inches apart. My back digs into the door behind me. "Frankly, this's all a game to me. And killin's my favorite part of the game. But you've got enough blood on your hands as it is. Your entire family is dead because of you. You just added thirty-two more lives to your toll. You really wanna keep going?"

I shake my head, and he chuckles. "Good. You're a fast learner." He starts the ignition and we drive out onto the highway.