Eight Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 16 Years Old

These days, I only really feel alive when I'm on a job. It's like the longer I live with Victor, the more I become like him. I've adopted his sick sense of humor and his brooding, self-destructive behavior. I've also inherited his animalistic instincts and his bloodlust. As I tear through an entire fleet of security, the echo of a tiny voice reminds me that these men are husbands and fathers, that with each life I destroy, I'm ripping apart families, the way my family was ripped apart, the way my life was destroyed. A part of me hates myself for it. Yet another part of me longs for the thrill of danger, for the adrenaline of narrow survival, and for the blood of…well, for blood.

Better pay attention, I remind myself, before you get your head blown off.

Please, a much louder voice answers. I could pull this off in my sleep!

I'm on the fifth floor of the Norwegian Embassy in New York. My target is some sniveling bureaucrat who sold his entire nation for a buck. Or a billion bucks. I got through the lobby security with ease. But with the amount of bodies on the first floor, there was no way to do it without sounding the alarm. The Norwegian bureaucrat is now locked tight in a panic room, flanked by about three dozen bodyguards. Piece of cake.

I round the corner and stride down the hallway, masking my image from their minds so that I might as well be invisible. As I pass the first guard, I put one hand on either side of his skull and twist, snapping his spinal cord. His co-workers, recognizing the sound instantly, turn on their heels to face me before his body even slumps to the ground. I lower my guise, appearing out of thin air to their eyes, and shoot a TK bolt at each of the seven men. My aim is true. The first eight are dead in less than ten seconds.

Three soldiers shoot handguns at me, protected, they believe, by the door jam they're crouched behind. The bullets dematerialize into dust just a few inches from my forehead. I grab hold of their minds and effectively shut them down, leaving their vegetable bodies twitching on the floor behind me. When I turn into the office, I'm met by twenty or so footmen. Now the real fun.

For the first guard, I deliver a strong front kick, laced with telekinesis, sending him flying back into two of his buddies, and all three of them are dead on impact. The next two come rushing at me. I block their attacks and gather the static from my entire body into my hands, electrocuting them. Then the next round advances, and everything's a blur of kicks and punches, but I duck two simultaneous attacks, and crouch into a low roundhouse, sending a TK blade out from my toes, which severs all their feet from their ankles. They fall to the ground screaming. Apparently inspired by their comrades' failed attempts at hand-to-hand combat, the remaining men pull out automatic weapons. A thin shield holds the hundreds of bullets at bay. For a little extra fun, I telekinetically manipulate the molecules of a few shells to form a long knife, larger than a machete. Mercilessly, I slash my last four victims into pieces. Stepping over the body parts, I face the safe room's five-inch thick steel. This is the best protection money can buy. Hah!

I combine the oxygen atoms in the air with the elements of iron, carbon, and sulfur in the steel. The resulting fire melts the steel spontaneously, leaving a gaping hole for me to walk through. Sniveling Mr. Bureaucrat is hiding his face from me, curled into the fetal position, with his hands over his head, crying in fear. I roll my eyes. At least he didn't piss himself. Grabbing him by his fancy shirt collar, I drag him out into the mayhem of the adjourning room; then I drop him in the middle of his slaughtered minions.

Victor walks through the doorway, covered from shoulders to boots in blood, and surveys the massacre approvingly. It appears his mission was also a success. He crouches in front of the Norwegian with a sinister smile.

"Do we need to interrogate him?" he asks me without looking up.

I shrug. "If you're in the mood, I guess. But I've already got the information we need."

He places one huge hand around the man's thin neck and squeezes until we both hear that familiar crack of bone.

"Ugh, I hate that sound."

My head snaps up at the source of a female voice. Standing in the doorway, naked as a jaybird, covered in midnight blue scales, is Raven Darkholme, call sign Mystique, Victor's ex. She puts one dainty hand on her voluptuous hip and cocks her head at me with a smirk. "So, you're Creed's latest play thing?"

It takes a lot of effort not to glare at her. Or kill her. But I manage to ignore the comment, and turn instead to Victor. "We done here?"

He rises with a short nod. "Let's go."

We each shimmy past her in the doorway and head down the hallway. She calls after us, "Think about what I said, Creed."

I wait until we're in the stairwell to ask the inevitable question. "What did she say?"

The next instant, I feel like I just got hit by a truck. Without any warning, Victor grabs me by both shoulders and slams me hard against the wall, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

"Why didn't you tell me 'bout the Pavlenko mission?" he screams, his fangs inches from face.

"What?" The loss of air makes me feel stupid and my brain fails to work for a second.

"Don't make me repeat myself. You know what I'm talkin' about."

I switch gears, trying to by myself time to think. "Let me guess. Mystique planted some idea in your head about—"

"She showed me the order. The job wasn't 'bout nuclear warheads. It wasn't even 'bout Pavlenko. It was 'bout Brezhnev murderin' Maverick."

"What do you care?"

"You obviously thought I'd care, or you wouldn'a lied to me."

"This is exactly why I didn't tell you! Because I knew you'd blow the whole thing out of proportion."

"Out of proportion? You LIED to me, bitch! You intercepted the call, you took the job without consulting me 'bout it, and you lied to me 'bout the mission. How many times have you intercepted calls like that?"

"Never…well, just that once. I didn't—"

"Just that once? Why?"

I hang my head. We can go around in these circles for hours, but we're going to end up in the same spot. I've got to tell him the whole truth. And he's not going to like it.

"Why'd you lie to me, Frail?" he whispers, acid in his voice.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice controlled. "I took the mission to avenge Maverick. I knew it was what Logan would've wanted. I also knew you wouldn't be happy about the idea of me taking any job on account of Logan. Now, I really don't feel that's a punishable offense. The man is my friend. He is my god father. But you—"

"Is? He was your god father."

Now he's gone too far. Despite myself, I feel my tempers flare. "Only because you took me away!"

"Yeah, I took you away. But that was, what? Eight years ago! If the man cares for you so much, then where the fuck is he? Why hasn't he come bustin' down the door to rescue you?"

"I know what you're doing. You're trying to make me angry at him. Trying to make me deflect my frustration with you onto him. Hoping it'll break my trust in him."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Frail."

He starts to turn away from me, and his condescending tone cuts the last straw of my patience. My nostrils flare, and I yell, "You're so insecure!"

He whips back around to face me. "'Xcuse me?" There's something dangerous in his growl, but I'm so angry I just don't care. I push on.

"You heard me. You strut around like your cock's too big for your britches. But when it comes to Logan, you're fucking paralyzed at the thought that he might be better than you at, at anything!" We face off, both of our chests heaving in anger. Then I whisper, "It must fucking kill you that I might love him more than you."

His reaction is so fast, I don't even have time to sense it coming. He backhands me, sending me to the floor. My vision goes black, and all I can see are stars. I feel another blow to my right jaw. Then another to the left temple. Then he kicks me in the gut, so forcefully, I feel my knees leave the floor. I cough blood, gasping for breath. For a moment, I see the blur of his boots. Then I hear him yell, "FUCK!" just before I black out entirely.

Her words bite at me like knives. "It must fucking kill you that I might love him more than you."

I just lose it. I see red, and I don't even realize I'm layin' into her. But then she loses consciousness and her body slumps, and somethin' in me snaps out of it. It takes a second but then what I just did hits me full in the face.

"FUCK!" Both my hands claw at my face. I bend in half and roar into my hands, "FUUUUCK!"

I back away til I'm leanin' 'gainst the wall opposite her body. She's just unconscious. I didn't do anythin' that could kill her. But I just fucked things up in a real big way.

How the fuck did I do this again? No matter how good things start out, I somehow always end up here. I thought things would be diff'rent with Rachel. I love her. I truly love her. Like I've never loved anyone before. But she was right. It does fuckin' kill me that she might love Wolverine more than me. And let's face it, he was her hero long 'fore she was my frail.

I start rackin' my brain. What happens now? Does she leave me? I try to imagine it. Where would she go? To the X-Mansion, of course. Part of me wonders why she hasn't before. I guess that was because of me. Then again, she's no delicate lil' thing. She could always find her own place, find her own work, and live her own life, free of me and my issues, free of the X-Geeks and their drama. Just the thought of that makes somethin' in my belly ache. No. I won't accept that shit.

Fuck it. I know I don't deserve her. And I know that what I just did ain't right. But I've been takin' care of her for the past eight years, when apparently the X-Men abandoned her. I've been the one to hold her at night, to protect her from Sinister, to teach her to defend herself against any evil this world can throw her way. I sure as hell ain't perfect, and I know she's been there for me a helluva lot more than I have for her. But Rachel belongs to me.

I bend down, scoop up her lifeless body, carry her outta the stairwell, lay her in the back seat of my truck, and start the long drive home.