Nine Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 17 Years Old

My knees ache from crouchin' an' for a second I get a flash of déjà vu. Nothing concrete comes; no details like time or location. But I remember crouching in some hole in the ground—literally—waitin' out an enemy in foreign lands, sittin' back-to-back with Victor, huddled in the dark together, tryin' to keep warm and watchin' each other's backs. Every now an' then, I get these images of the two of us actin' like best buds, and it makes me wonder. Did I use to be more like Creed, or did he used to be more like me? Or both…

The trap is set. Mystique helped me set up this lil' mission. She chose the location, one of only a dozen countries that Creed has never had any reason to visit. She called in the job on his encrypted phone. For kicks, we asked Forge to trace the call, but neither of us was a bit surprised when he gave the "no go" look. She even called in a few favors to set up the scenery, employ the minions, and make everythin' look exactly right. I'm gonna owe her big for this. And owin' Mystique is never good. But it'll be worth it if I can get Rachel home safe in the end.

I hear quick, small footsteps from 'bout a mile off. A second later, I catch her scent, confirmin' what my ears have already told me. I would know that scent in an instant anywhere, even if I hadn't been strainin' for it for over an hour. When Rachel was born, when I got my first good smell of her, I was put flat on my backside. Her scent is the exact same as Jean's. Not a similar scent, the exact same. Even among brothers, among mother and daughter, among twins, there is usually some difference in the scent. A person's scent is as individualized and unique as a thumbprint. This is why I've always had a sneaky suspicion that Rachel is actually a clone of Jean, not just her daughter. And I can't help but notice she didn't get anything from Scott. Not a single physical characteristic, facial feature, not any of his powers, not even a personality trait. I can't help thinkin' that if Phoenix can manipulate matter at the molecular level, she might be able to "create" life in Jean's womb. Maybe it's no coincidence that Jean Grey got pregnant when she desperately wanted a child, when she and Scott had been tryin' for one for a year, without success.

Rachel's fast. Not quick, not swift, not the speed of someone who's been trained in running. No, this is not human fast; we're talkin' mutant fast. In the time it takes me to mull this over, she's already here, in the clearing, 'bout to race past me 'fore I even have the chance to think what to do. But I'm lucky. One of our guys, dressed in classic Hellion garb, is waitin' for her, and I hear the cock of his gun. I peer from 'round the stone column I'm hidin' behind. Even though I know 'xactly what I'm lookin' for, I'm absolutely stunned. My breath catches in my throat.

She is beautiful, strong, practic'ly glowing. She is perfection. Her legs are golden-brown, covered in lean muscles, and they're standin' slightly more than shoulder-length apart, facin' her opponent square, not angled in a fightin' stance. She's not standin' like someone that's ready for fight or flight. She's preparin' to absorb a blow. She's not even a lil' afraid of the gun; she plans to take the hit. Why?

My eyes move from her thick boots, up her legs, which seem to go on forever, to her skin-tight mini shorts and tank top. I don't like seein' her in black patent leather. For one thing, she's dressed more like a villain than an X-Man. For another, the glossy leather catches every glimmer of light, enahncin' each curve of her body. Try as I might, it's impossible not to notice the perfectly round halos shinin' off her ass and her tits. Her arms are the same bikini model tan, with the same taut muscles flexed for a fight. Her round cheeks and pointed jaw make her face heart-shaped. A set of dazzlin' white teeth are bared in a fierce smirk. Her lips are so soft that a quick thought of stroking them with my thumb flashes through my head and I have to shake it away. Waves of hair fall down her back, almost to her waist. They're big, thick, curls of deep red, scarlet, or crimson or somethin'. One o' those romantic-soundin' colors, that're only used in storybooks 'bout magical lands, 'cause they're too rich for the real world. Two curls are danglin' from her forehead, hangin' over a perfectly manicured eyebrow and into her left eye.

I steel myself a second 'fore I look at the eyes. Her eyes are literally sparklin', light bouncin' off the lil' flecks of gold, set against a backdrop of bright emerald green. The last thing I take in is a huge breath o' her scent.

Yes, that intoxicatin' scent cloudin' my head, and those big, bright green eyes, almost make me forget that it's Rachel, and not Jean, I'm lookin' at. My gaze shifts up to the long, thin scar on her forehead. I'm positive Creed caused it. And I vow to myself that he will never lay another hand on her again.

The gun fires, wakin' me from my daydreams. And I learn it's not just a gun; it's a grenade launcher. The grenade hits Rachel square in the chest and explodes on impact. The explosion is massive! It shakes the ground and lights her on fire. Then a sonic boom sends a second wave of vibration beneath my feet. I'm about to scream, about to run to Rachel, about to find out just how badly her body is burned, and if she's survived at all, when the smoke around her disperses, leavin' her standin' straight up. Her body is on fire but she's still smilin'. The fire seeps into her limbs. She's absorbin' it. Her eyes are down-right mischevious, and she starts circlin' the gunman. She looks like a cat, playin' with its prey.

Mystique was wrong about one thing when she warned me two months ago. I do have an idea 'bout the kind of young woman my goddaughter has become. From the moment I realized she was alive, I began to desperately search for her. With the help of Beast, and a new SHIELD agent Nick Fury assigned me, I located a lot of footage of her mercenary jobs with Creed. I watched for days. Video of her maskin' herself and then appearin' out of thin air; of her applyin' her telekinesis at the molecular level, like her mom used to, makin' it so that she can do basic'ly anything she wants; of her runnin' through squadrons of well-trained men like they're fuckin' children; of her slaughterin' people with joy, not just endurin' the blood but enjoyin' it, savorin' it. I think I know what kind of damage Creed has done to her mind. It's none o' her fault, of course. But she's dangerous, nonetheless, and I know she'll probably never be the same lil' girl I knew so many years ago. Before she murders the poor bastard across the meadow, I jump out from my hidin' place.

"Rachel!" I shout.

She spots me, and instead of softenin', she tightens her stance and her muscles flex just a lil' more. I walk slowly forward toward my goddaughter and nod to the decoy, signalin' him to get the hell outta dodge. He doesn't have to be told twice. He bolts in the opposite direction. I turn back to Rachel. She's squintin' at me, unmistakable suspicion in her eyes. What is it? I ask myself. Does she think I'm not really me, or does she think I am myself, and I'm here to trap her?

"Rachel, I can't believe it's you," I say. I walk closer, tryin' to close the gap between us. But for every few steps I take forward, she takes a step back.

I'm no psychic, but somethin' just don't feel right.

I don't know what it is, but it's drivin' me crazy. From the second I accepted the job and told Rachel the assignment detail, I've had a strange feelin' in my gut. At first, I thought maybe it was jus' because I've never been in this area 'fore. It's been a long time since I've had a job in a country that I don't know like the back of my hand, where I don't have any contacts to keep me informed of the local politics, to tip me off on any weird activity in the villages, to call in a favor if somethin' should go wrong durin' the mission. I told myself I was bein' suspicious, and tried to ignore my instincts.

But now that we're here, it's gotten much, much worse. The second our plane landed, my belly twisted and turned. Then, when we came under heavy fire power, and Rachel insisted we split up, I almost panicked. But what was I gonna say? "No, don't leave my side? Some intuition tells me things ain't right here, and the idea of you getting' hurt makes me sick?" Not only would I sound like a pussy, this really wouldn't do right now. Not after the fight we just had.

Damn, it feels like all we ever do anymore is fuck and fight. Things ain't been the same since I hit her several months ago. It's no surprise, of course. It's my own damn fault. And part of me wonders why the hell I even care. Ten years ago, that would've been the description of my perfect relationship. But I know that's not enough for me now. I'm hopelessly whipped for this girl. Hell, let's face it, I'm head-over-heels, lay-my-life-down, droolin'-like-a-puppy, let's-run-away-and-leave-it-all-behind, in love with her.

And the second the thought hits me, I'm wonderin' why I didn't do just that. I should'a packed my bags and taken Rachel far, far away, where no one could ever hurt her again, where me and her could've just disappeared for a lifetime or two.

That's it! I crouch behind a boulder to buy myself time to think. Maybe that's exactly what we've needed all this time. We just gotta get away. Away from the jobs. Away from Mystique and her poisonous words. Away from all the enemies. Away from all the distractions. Go somewhere warm with white sands and palm trees. Forget this life. Lose track of days in bed, screwin' and laughin' and tellin' each other sweet nothings like two people that ain't never had a care in the world.

In less than a minute, I've made up my mind. Fuck the mission. I don't need the money and I don't give a damn what the client thinks. I'm gonna find my Frail, hold her in my arms, tell her that I love her and that I'll never hurt her again, take her by the hand, and run until we both can't walk no more.

I stand and turn to re-trace my steps. But suddenly, I'm reelin'. I drop to my knee, try to shake my head clear. What the hell was that?

Those eyes. His deep, sapphire eyes are staring at me, wide, piercing through me. My godfather is just ten paces away, and he's holding his hand out to me. He's finally come to take me away. He's going to save me. From the house. From this life. From HIM.

So why can't I reach back?

I'm standing here, dumb-founded, wanting nothing more than to grab his hand and fly far, far away. But I can't even raise my arm. I'm screaming inside, but I can't make a single sound. He's holding his hand out to me. But I'm trapped inside my own body, silent and frozen and numb.

There's this rushin' sound in my ears. It's somehow super-loud but empty-dead-quiet at the same time. It's not screamin'. It's not wind. It's nothing. But then why am I grabbin' my skull like somebody's shoutin' in my ear? It's coming from inside me.

Then my line of sight goes soarin', even though I haven't moved a muscle, down the rock formation, over the jungle, and into a clearing. I see Wolverine, holdin' his hand out to Rachel. Somewhere deep inside me, I just know I'm 'bout to lose her. Feelin' desperate, half-choking, stumbling, I take off runnin' as fast as my four limbs can carry me.