Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

13. The Hunt

Creed was napping on a bench at the Greyhound stop. He had overcome the bus shortly after its stop in Cincinnati and had decided it made no sense to board it while moving. It would have been too much work for nothing – forcing the coach off the road with nothing more than his bike and his claws – as Irbis was probably not in that one and he wouldn't risk his wheels when he might still have much road to burn; so he had sped on to Columbus. He had arrived very early and parked his bike. Fortunately, the mercs hadn't thought of checking what wheels he had near his flat.

He had ridden the bike for over 16 hours to get to Columbus, and it was actually with some relief that he lay down for the nap. He was very much aware he wasn't in the best condition: his mind was groggy, his senses lulled, his reactions sleepy. The only thing still very much alive in him was his anger. Fortunately, his body wasn't in the mood to follow it, otherwise he might really have ditched the bike to leap onto the bus, then punch a window pane open and kill everyone inside. Irbis or no Irbis. And the natural outcome would have been trashing his bike and having to hitch a new ride. No. This option was much better. Not only his Harley was still in notch condition, he had had over an hour respite to nap some of the drugs off the system.

When the coach did arrive, a few minutes after 8.30am, Creed had got up and moved out of sight. He studied each person coming out of the bus and was pleased that he'd been right: the girl had been afraid to wait until 7.40 and had left on the first coach heading to the New Jersey and New York area. He didn't have any time to waste, though, and he was quickly back on his bike and heading to New York.

Her watch signalled 10.03 when Irbis got off the bus. A cool breeze was blowing lightly, but the sky was clear and blue and the air temperature was most pleasant. Slightly dazed, she walked gingerly about, trying to get her bearings. She had just spent over 24 hours in a bus, outside the several breaks, and every muscle in her body felt cramped. For the millionth time, she promised herself that never again would she do a long journey by bus. She walked around, trying to get rid of the rigidity, and searching for the blond giant she had expected to meet at the end of trail, waiting angrily for her. He had told her to 'go nowhere', his words, and she could do nothing but expect some kind of punishment for her disobedience. Unless, of course, he had understood her reasoning. Still, he'd punish her just as a matter of principle, she was certain.

After half an hour and no sight of the man, though, Irbis felt insecure. What if he hadn't been able to defeat the mercenaries? What if he had been too hurt to come after her? What if he had been in need of her help? Shaking her head, she reminded herself he needed – and wanted – no one's help. Finally, she made up her mind. She had no idea what the man was really going to do, so she had better not worry too much about it. She walked decidedly on to the public toilets.

There weren't many people inside, but Irbis hesitated nonetheless before taking off the pullover she'd worn in the coldly air-conditioned coach and entering an individual booth. She searched her bag for the pair of scissors she'd bought in transit and took a deep breath, then blindly hacked away at her long hair. When she peeked out, a woman was just leaving with her young daughter. She approached the mirrors and took a good look at herself.

The hair reached unevenly below her ears, giving her a quite different look. She just hoped it was different enough. She once more considered going to a hairdresser's and having it dyed, but she had neither the money nor the time for that; and dying it herself in a public toilet was definitely not going to happen. Sighing, she bent her head down to the basin and patiently soaked the hair, hissing at the splashes of cold water on her scalp and neck. Then she rubbed it with a towel and combed it down carefully, to try and even the cut. Finally satisfied, although not pleased with the end result, she took off her shirt, using it as a sponge to wash up the torso. Finally done, she put on a clean T-shirt bought a few stops before and left, hair still soaking wet despite the rubbing. It was only twenty-five to eleven.

It was barely past one when Creed left the diner hurriedly. Behind him, there were at least four bodies for the count. He wasn't sure if it was only four, as he'd been a bit blind while hacking; he was certain there were no beating hearts as he left, though. Shaking his head as he started off, he scolded himself. He had been able to keep himself in control, but the drugs were slowly slipping past his control and pushing him over the edge. If only he had been able to sleep it off for a few hours, but no! Irbis had to go and mess it all up. Again!

Swearing, he braked and headed back to the diner. It had just occurred to him that, if he or his bike had been caught on camera, sooner or later he'd be swarmed by cops and, while he had nothing against chopping a bunch of blue uniforms, he'd be particularly pissed if such a swarm kept him from reaching New York before Irbis. He would not be missing her arrival. Not in a million years!

The thoughtful insight proved correct. There were a couple of cameras at the lonely, roadside place, one inside and another outside, and he felt slightly less aggravated when he'd made sure all their recording was useless. As a plus, he got to slash a group of young yahoos who had arrived in the mean time, sporting hoods and an attitude. It was always a pleasure, acing smart-asses.

Irbis was hungry but adrenaline blocked that realisation from reaching her mind. Feeling cold in the air-conditioned waiting room, she waited, not sure what was going to happen next. She had played her hand, now it was their turn. Still, her stomach contracted nervously. She'd rather not die before helping Mister Creed fix the problem she had created, and before getting her guitar and, in the very least, playing a couple of pieces. However, it was too early to think about that. The guitar wouldn't be picked up any time soon, and Mister Creed... she had no idea where he was or what he intended to do.

The room where the men were was sound proof, and, in the middle of the oppressive silence, a moment of doubt seized her. Had they believed her? That she had fled from Europe, hunted by a group of mutants using telepaths to make people become pro-mutant? That she wouldn't tell them her name and origin for fear her enemies might find her? That she had been directed to them by an anonymous New Yorker who'd saved her life from a gigantic, blond, claw-and-fang-sporting hitman hired by the European group of telepaths? It sounded like a bad James Bond flick. Doubt sank into her heart and she was certain they wouldn't believe her. They probably had contacts in Europe and would soon know there were no telepaths working underground anywhere.

She looked up at the door, metal covered with a thin sheet of wood, and then around the closed, windowless waiting room. The walls were white, the lights strong and bright, the paintings were colourful, but it felt like a gas camera. What could she do to make them believe her? A small coffee table with a few magazines waited in front of her, the linoleum floor pretending to be more expensive than it really was, and the chairs breathed contemporariness over comfort. Irbis felt something click inside her and the doubts departed. There was one thing that would convince them she spoke truth.

Recalling the anguish and despair she had painted her story with, Irbis grabbed the cheap plastic bag she'd bought while travelling, to hold the T-shirt, the scissors and some packages of food. They had taken the scissors when she'd been brought inside the building, but she had kept a small plastic knife from a previous meal and which she had secured within a nearly empty package of cookies.

She looked at her watch. It was exactly 4.11pm. Then she picked up the plastic knife and weighed it in her hand. It was a flimsy little thing and she wondered if it would fit her purpose; on the other hand, it was the only thing she had which was appropriate. The neck was automatically off the option list: she didn't know how long the men would still be inside, and while she intended to be as realistic as possible, the jugular was much too risky. It left the wrists. She laid the little plastic teeth over the blue vein and applied pressure. She felt its bite against the skin, which didn't turn any particular shade of red or yellowish-white. It was uncomfortable, but not quite painful. Not yet. With grim determination, she pulled the knife. It was a quick movement, and there was a sense of burning, from the friction, just before the real pain settled in.

Blood emerged almost immediately, hiding the uneven cut in the skin. Nevertheless, it escaped lazily, the red fluid. Irbis laid the red plastic teeth over the shallow wound. There was a light pain, a mix of soreness and burning, which became a sharp sting when she applied pressure. She saw the little teeth disappear into the superficial cut and decided it was not enough. Supporting the hand on her leg, she added the weight of her body to the knife before pulling it again. It ripped more than it slashed, and the pain was terribly real this time. It throbbed and shrieked into her spine, mind and stomach; tears flowed to her eyes and blurred her vision. Terribly real it might be, but it wasn't terrifyingly real. It wasn't even near terrifying. Blinking to clear her vision, Irbis saw the cut was uneven and ugly, nothing to do to with a carelessly clean gash while slicing bread or peeling carrots. The blood had thickened and picked up a nice pace and Irbis wondered if she should further deepen or enlarge it. Maybe not. Who knew how much longer the men would remain locked up in their secret office... She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The wrist had become heavy and stiff, the tenderness of the wound spreading to the neighbouring flesh, the pain burning agonizingly up her arm. Her eyes had lost some moist when she had blinked, but she now led her mind towards the right thoughts and memories that would reawaken the tears.

The dark blood oozed leisurely but surely, encircling her wrist while searching for the southern most point from where to drop. Every now and then a tear would drop alongside, sometimes landing on the bleeding wrist, more often reaching the bloody linoleum. Irbis kept her eyes on the mesmerising wound and the pain that kept throbbing, and lost track of time. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there when someone came in, whether from the office or the corridor she couldn't say, and rushed to her side. She didn't know how many people had hurried into the dark waiting room, but she was slightly aware they had made a bothersome commotion around her. Someone had forced her to lie down on the floor while her wrist was bandaged, but she couldn't recall who – not even if it had been a man or a woman. She did remember the light slaps she'd been given – as irritating as the unending buzzing of a mosquito you can't see – and the blueness of a pair of eyes when her own eyes had focused on the question.

"Why?" Actually, it had been a longer question but the only relevant thing had been that word, "why?"

"You don't believe me," she heard her voice say as she struggled to remain distant and apathic, defeated. "You don't believe me."

During the eight hour trip into New York City, Creed's eyes had been kept open through pure, hot-burning rage. Once he did arrive at the crowded Greyhound Bus Station, he could thank the extreme weariness weighing him down as the anchor that had kept his rage from getting active too early. It occurred to him he hadn't lay down for a proper sleep in over 65 hours, and the couple of naps he'd taken, between one and three hours, hadn't done much in the way of a respite. Following his Columbus's movements, he parked the bike and found himself a nice out-of-the-way bench to lie down for the next hour or so. He was so drained he would have fallen into a deep slumber if not for the crowd.

Time blew by him swiftly, though, and less than five minutes had seemed to have gone by when the loudspeakers warned of the imminent arrival of the bus. He got up and looked at the watch. The bus was a few minutes late. Feeling a big groggy and definitely edgy, he remained where he was, glaring at the bus. When it finally stopped and opened its doors, Creed got up and stalked his way to it, though careful to keep out of the field of vision of those coming out. But when the last passengers had finished getting off and Irbis had given no sign of being amidst them, he started to loose what little cool his exhaustion had provided him with.

Pushing away anyone in his way, he entered the bus and sniffed the air, trying to ascertain how old Irbis's scent was. He still couldn't believe she had left before getting to New York, especially because the last stop had been more than four hours before, in Maryland. On the other hand, it just proved the girl was no brainless dummy and had tried to cover her tracks. However, he couldn't find her scent anywhere in the bus. For a moment he couldn't understand why, and sniffed around the bus a second time. No. Nothing. She had never entered that bus. But how? Had she left when they had exchanged buses? And where had that been?

When the bus driver got in, telling him to leave the bus immediately, he lost it. Seeing red of pure frustration at having been cheated, he lashed out. Then, blood still boiling in a berserker rage, he got out and ripped a new face on anyone standing in front of him.

It was half past six in the evening when Irbis looked at her watch. Two men acted like bodyguards around her, waiting for a special car that would take her to a secure location. First, they had told her once she had recovered from her suicide attempt, she had to stay hidden long enough to loose any pursuer, then she would be moved to a 'half-way house' where she would be prepared to start a new life. But for now she'd be taken to a safe house, while preparations for her disappearance were being conducted. Miles, one of the men at her side, would stay with her to make sure she wouldn't despair and try something stupid. She had promised them she wouldn't try to kill herself again; that she had just given up hope when she figured they didn't believe her and wouldn't help her.

The car, black and with tinted panes, looked like something out of a James Bond film and she felt anxious. Surely Mister Creed would have arrived in town and would have tracked her, right? Perhaps he was watching her even now... She looked nervously around, searching the faces of people going by.

"Let's go in, Mary. Watch your head, now."

The captain switched on the speakers to say it was 7pm, the skies were clear and wish them a very nice flight. Grumbling, Creed closed his eyes and did his best to ignore everyone else on the plane. It had been a miracle his berseker rage had been short lived. Well, not really a miracle. He was reaching the bottom of his strength, and even if that meant he couldn't think straight most of the time, it also meant he didn't have the strength to face any heroes who might have been nearby. Fortunately he had had a moment of lucidity near an open manhole and had made his way out while the cops were reaching the station. Although the workers he'd tripped over probably wouldn't call it a 'clean' way out. Not for them, at least.

Creed felt the plane's engines fire and ignored the tension on the fuselage as best he could. He never had liked planes. It wasn't natural, if you thought of it, to travel trough the air in a tin can that weighed tons. Still, he had travelled enough to have got used to it, and once they reached a nice altitude and the pressure levelled out he sighed and relaxed. He was about to have six full hours to sleep like the dead. Hopefully, it would restore some of his strength. Unfortunately, he hadn't had any time to eat before hopping on the plane. Sure, he could have taken a later plane and booked himself a room somewhere, but he wasn't about to press his luck. He had been clearly seen while mangling folks at the bus station, and not only might some heroes see the footage and come after him, the cops might get the brilliant idea of sending his description to the airports. Nope. He was much better off outside New York as soon as possible, and not doing any driving this time around. He'd reward himself with a nice rare steak after arrival. Hell, two or three nice rare steaks. Then he'd fix the situation with the Friends of Humanity – no sense in letting his safe house dangle in danger of being found. After that, he would take a day off to sleep himself to perfect physical condition. Finally, he'd go after Irbis, wherever she might be. He grinned viciously as he imagined himself forcing her head underwater until she was nearly half drowned, just so he could pull her up at the last minute. She would regret having double-crossed him. And, enjoying the thrill of his expectations, he slipped off into sleep.

It was a nice anonymous apartment. Not particularly clean, true; but not outrageously dirty. She had made herself a clean bed and then insisted on doing the same for Miles, who had been checking something or the other. He'd thanked her and then had said they'd get fresh groceries in the morning.

"In the meantime, we'll have to make do with some burgers."

He wasn't particularly friendly or unfriendly, just as he wasn't particularly chatty. Irbis forced herself to eat everything. She hadn't eaten much in the last days, and her stomach was too tense to feel any hunger or even to welcome any food.

"Ya're starvin'; but the adrenaline o' the whole adventure is makin' yer stomach squirmish. It happens t'all amateurs"

Mister Creed knew what he was talking about, and she made sure to ignore her 'squirmish stomach' and feed her body properly this time. It was still very early when she finished cleaning up, after dinner. Of course there hadn't been much to clean up.

"I'm going to bed, Mister Miles," she said quietly, before closing the door behind her.

The man was watching TV in the living room and she lay down on the bed. When would Mister Creed decide to do anything? Or had there been any problems with the mercenaries? She felt frightened for him. She wasn't in danger, after all. If the worse happened, she would simply have to go on living her life under the wing of the Friends of Humanity. No, if the worse happened, the other two – the sheriff and the young man – would see her and recognise her. And she would die. Now, there was something that couldn't happen; at least not before she got her guitar. She frowned. She was supposed to have arrived in Newark the day before. How long would they hold the guitar for her? If Creed didn't show up, she'd have to find a way to elude her 'bodyguards'. She shook her head. She was getting the cart in front of the oxen; there was still plenty of time for Mister Creed to show up.

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