Hello and welcome back to Of Ferity! I hate how life gets in the way of the things we want to do most. It also kinda sucks that it takes quite a bit of heartbreak to get me to write much of anything anymore, but at least I am here. I have more to come- hopefully quick, but how often have I said that. LOL Thanks to Leonaria Dragonbane as usual- I haven't spoken to her in a long time but she has helped me work on this story over the years, and I appreciate it very much! :)
Anyway, read, enjoy, and review! THNX!
Disclaimer: I didn't kidnap him... I lack the motivation right now to hold onto anyone- least of all Victor. I mean, really: do you know how hard it would be to contain that manbeast? Not that it wouldn't be worth it, but.. yeah.
FERITY: (fehr-ih-tee) - (noun) - 1.) The state of being wild or untamed. 2.) Savagery; Ferocity.
"I'm truly sorry, professeur." After a brief explanation from Ororo on the use of the Danger Room, Zoe managed to catch up with the wheelchair-bound headmaster as he reached the elevator up to the ground floors. She pushed the button for the first floor, then waited for the door to slide shut before finally turning to face her new, agitated leader with a chastised expression.
"Sorry or not, this behavior is disruptive and unnecessary." he returned cooly.
The feral only nodded, still cuddling her nursing cub to her chest. In the blink of an eye, she was crouched beside his chair, the vision of humble subdued servant. "Si vous plait, professeur." she murmured softly, her temple against his knee. "I mean no harm- unprovoked."
Charles sighed, seemingly resigned. "You let him get to you." he spoke softly, his voice losing its icy edge. "That is something you must work on. This temper of your's is going to get you into a heap of trouble one day."
Zoe nodded once, "I still believe my anger will subside. Motherhood has changed my personality in more ways than one. Victor told me this was normal." She paused. ".. Instinct, he says. The more anger, the harder one fights for their cub in times of danger perhaps? I do not know, but it has only been a week." Her head lifted, curls parting away from her face as she turned to look up at him. "You didn't know me before any of this. I was just dropped on your doorstep because Sari and I are too weak to go with Victor this time."
"I understand his leaving you here for safety," Charles began, giving her a pat on the head. "But I daresay you aren't weak."
It had been a long week, driving up through New York, crossing into Canada, and making his way up to LaSalle. He'd met with a few of his old . . 'contacts' here and there, picking up a few easy hits, leaving a number he could be reached at for more. Afterwards, he'd ditched the shitty, old beater truck for a nice, roomy Ford F-150- one with a working radio. It had then been time to get the hell out of dodge- and out of dodge he went. The sooner he got to one of his old hides, the better.
The simple cabin had stood the test of time for the last sixty plus years it had sat here in the wilderness, and with another layer of paint, maybe some new shingles on the roof, and a new front door with a little curtain in the window, the place should be just as livable as it ever was. It was relatively tiny compared to the majority of the places he considered his hideouts, but this had been the first piece of property he had ever owned, and he still called it home. Maybe it was the particular patch of woodland with its animals for hunting, maybe it was the little stream just down the pathway with its clear water and good fishing. Maybe it was just that the cozy-but-wild little shack sat in a way that endeared it to him.
This was the middle of nowhere- at least a good ninety minutes drive from anywhere even remotely populated. Unless you happened to notice the little overgrown road turning off to go down the ridge, no one would know his cabin existed. No light or electricity, save for a gasoline generator, no running water, and most importantly- no paper trail. His cabin was invisible to the world.
Victor Creed dropped his maroon duffel bag into the snow beside the porch. The three steps up to the little covered porch still looked fairly sound- at least through the layer of white fluff coating them- but nearly half of the boards that made the floor of the porch were warped, twisted, or bowing. The whole thing would most likely need replacing. The front door had once been painted bright red, but now was faded to a dulled amber, and hung pitifully from one rusted hinge. What was once a comfortable, over-sized wooden rocking chair was now a pile of intricately carved firewood beside the front door. The feral scowled lightly.
'Okay, I take it back. Test of time, my fuckin' ass.' With a roll of his dark eyes, he gingerly made his way up the three little steps, and across the rotting porch. He eyed the door in front of him, reaching out with one sharp claw to tap it. The ancient hinge gave way with a little groan, and the door fell back into the cabin with a loud crash. Inside, somewhere, something glass cracked, and he growled to himself.
Maybe he should call it a day and go rent a motel room for a couple of weeks. It wasn't as though he didn't have the money for it, but damnit, he was stubborn. This was his home! His!
Inside, the little shanty's layout was very simple. The front door led into a long livingroom. Rocks from the river three miles down the hiking trail had decorated the short wall at the far end with a giant rock fireplace. An old couch- one that a person now would need a tetanus shot before daring to sit on- was in front of the great fireplace. The ruined remains of a coffee table lay on the ground between them, and a small bookshelf sat against the far wall to keep the moths fed.
Ahead was the kitchen with its wood-burning stove. He walked into its doorway, minding the creaky floorboards, and took in the mess before him.
'Fucking badgers.'
The table still stood strong, hand carved chairs to match, and the wood stove still stood up under its pipe in the corner. His old coffee kettle was faithfully hanging from its nail beside the little window over the washbasin sink. His white claw-foot bathtub was sitting against the far wall, but its drainage pipe would need checking later for sure. Jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, what had been jars of dried meats from his hunting and dried herbs from his garden, had once been in the little wooden hutch by the back door. Now, most lay broken just before it, their innards eaten by no doubt the same scavenging animals that had broken in through the badger-sized hole in the backdoor.
Again, his scowl deepened as he turned to the back bedroom. What had once been a lovely hunter green duvet with matching Egyptian cotton sheets on the king-sized bed was now nothing more than a giant rat's nest. The frame, as he tested it with his boot, was still plenty sound, but no way in hell was he sleeping on that nasty mattress. He'd camp on the floor first! His dresser that held a few changes of clothes from long ago had been pilfered by mice as well. All the cloth in the room was useless.
He almost groaned at the workload ahead of him, ticking off everything that had to be done, from the most important to the least. 'Shit…new roof, new planks for the porch, new doors - preferably metal this time, new mattress, gotta check the chimney…Only a good seven hours of daylight left.' With a swift, but fluid, motion, he pulled his satellite phone from the pocket of his coat, and flipped it open. He hit the seventh number on speed dial, and waited for it to be picked up while he walked back to the kitchen.
"…yeah, this is Creed." he said when someone finally answered. "I'm going to be on a little bit of a sabbatical. I'll be out of reach for an undisclosed amount of time." He paused, listening to the other voice. "Yeah, yeah. Transfer the amounts onta the card- I'll retrieve them soon enough. . . On second thought, put three quarters on this card, and the rest on the other one. . . That should do it." He reached out, twisting the old cans around on the shelf above where the glass jars had been. "Don't call me- I'll call you." he finally growled, cutting the snippy voice off mid-sentence. The phone was tucked away, and he lifted a can of chipped beef from the top shelf.
1983.
'Goddamn, it's been a long, fucking time since I've been here.'
"Look out!"
The feral ducked her head at the last second as a red laser beam streaked across the space of air she'd just occupied. It circled across the building, destroying the line of ovens and display cases, and cutting the roof clear off its walls. With a muttered curse, the feral skittered on all fours to the side window she'd crawled into the building through as the ceiling began to cave in behind her. Jumping through, she tucked and rolled across the little alley into the opened door of the shop next to the destroyed bakery.
"You won't get away this time!"
Zosia growled, glancing around her for a source of escape. Movement to her left caught her eye, and she immediately snapped into a defensive crouch.
"Caught you now." Mystique slunk down from the corner of the ceiling she had been braced in, her movements as fluid as ever. She slid down into the same crouch as the feral, ready to launch herself.
Before the blue woman could move forward, a bright red light filled the room as Scott stepped inside beside Zosia, and blasted Mystique in the chest. The metamorph was forced back through the wall behind her with a scream of pain. Without a pause to think, the redhead had Scott on his stomach on the dirty floor, and her claws sliced into his neck, just pausing before snapping his spine as the reality of the situation came to her.
"Turn it off!" Zoe yelled, scrambling off the dying XMan in front of her, flicking the blood from her fingertips, backing against the wall. "Turn it OFF!" Alerted to her location by her screams, she could hear the running footsteps of her hunters in the alleyway outside the door. "I can't do this! Ro, SHUT IT OFF!"
"She's in there! Get her!" The unmistakable voice of Mortimer, with his rich cockney accent, yelled from outside. There was a lion's growl, a short roar that made her spine tingle and the hair on her arms raise up, and then there he was. 'Victor.' Standing in the doorway, his face was mean and dirty.
"RO!" she yelled again. "GOD DAMNIT, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!" Victor sneered at her, then his expression turned into a deep, satisfied smirk. He took two steps into the room towards her. "Fuck . . . "
"Well, what do we have here?" he asked, flaring his nostrils to draw in her scent. "A little, lost kitten?"
"Victor Thomas William Creed, I swear to fucking God-" She growled. He took another step. "ORORO!" Another step. She struggled to remember the pass-phrase Ororo had told her to stop the exercise. "Stop program!" Another step. "End program 1-2 . . End program 3-2-1!"
There was a loud whirring sound from above them. Victor and Warts froze in their steps, then disintegrated into the floor. The walls of the bakery dropped, leaving Zoe alone on a white floor in a sea of white nothingness. And then she blinked and was back in the silver Danger Room again.
In a flash, she was on her feet, out the silver door, and up the stairs to the observation deck above the Danger Room. "Ro?" The room was empty. The feral scowled, perking her ears. She could hear Sari fussing down the hallway, so down the hallway she went until she came to an open office with Jean's name on the door. Inside, Ororo bounced Sari on her shoulder while Scott held a paper for her to read in front of her.
"You left." Zoe accused playfully, one eyebrow arched as she leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her midriff. "Next time I'll write that pass-phrase on my arm if you're not going to hang around."
Scott glanced at her. "Sorry, kiddo. I didn't realize you needed babysitting."
"Kiddo? Babysitting?" Blue eyes narrowed darkly, but Zoe only smirked. "Eh, perhaps now and again." She shrugged, taking her weight off the door's framework to come collect her daughter. "Trust me: I don't mind not having much of an aging process."
"I'm sorry, Zee." Ororo said, handing the infant back to its mother. "One of the kids had an accident and I had to find the right paper to be filled out for the insurance." She cocked a smile. "Jean keeps her office a bit of a mess."
"Where is Jean?" asked the feral, cuddling her cub.
"Resetting Wanda's arm." answered Scott. "Jean sent me for that paper, and I have no idea where to begin to look in here for it." He turned his attention to a half-hazardly stacked pile of papers on top of the desk, sliding it back farther before it could slip off. "I don't know how Storm has any idea of where to look for it in here, either."
"Practice." was Ororo's answer. "Lots of practice." She gave Zoe a glance over. "Did you have a problem with the session?"
"I.. I.. You could say that."
"How'd you kill me this time?" Scott asked dryly, trying to keep a sense of humor.
".. Exsanguination." The feral absently flicked inexistent blood off her free hand. "But I left your spine intact."
Scott snorted.
"So long as it is in there and not out here." Jean whizzed into the room, peeling a paper apron off as she came. She opened the top drawer of the desk, pulled out a hot pink folder, then pulled the needed insurance form from the back of its stack of papers. "Here we are." she mumbled, grabbing a pen before breezing back out of the room.
"Good thing you guys don't have a cleaning lady." Zoe spoke amusedly. "Two minutes into this room and Jean would never find a thing ever again."
Ororo snorted with a nod. "True. Very true."
Short but sweet! Review please!
LadyMage