DISCLAIMERS: Everyone belongs to Marvel, and no money has been made. 'Nuff said.


     There's something in Sabretooth's expression when he means you harm that reminds you of all those old cartoons where you saw the starving man salivating at a piece of food. I've never been big on being someone's dinner, least of all someone like Victor Creed, but somedays nothing works out like you planned.

     He stood no more than eight feet away from me, which, if I read the files right is within a single leap for him. I hadn't slept well in a little over a week and I felt my exhaustion creeping up on, making my legs seeming rather rooted, which they really ought to rethink. I had to get him about 70 yards behind me, and sleepiness would not do just now.

     "You limey trash, I'm gonna enjoy tearing you into little bits. Then I'm gonna finish what I started with little Miss Pryde." So says the drooling fool. Perhaps this was all a bad idea. But then, I oftentimes wonder when the last time I had a good idea was. Still, this toerag had hurt Kit, and for that he was going to be erased. But all this really goes back a ways...

     I'm sure Kit can tell you how I stormed off of Muir Island in an overemotional snit because she and some S.H.I.E.L.D. techie named Fallon made goo-goo eyes at one another. I'm sure she'll tell you what an idiot I was, and how she never meant to hurt me and how I took it all wrong how I was a boor and never took the time to listen to an explanation.

     Well, she's right. Not that she'll ever hear me say it because that git can gloat like few others. I was an idiot, I did take it wrong, and I walked out on something I barely understood. My life had run from a family that could've made the Windsors look like the portrait of stability to that paragon of madness, Black Air, and I cannot recall someone who found me any more enticing than perhaps some manner of science experiment. Sari was forever interested in what she could get out of me, and a handspan of useless wastes made up the shade I carried around that I referred to occasionally as my personal life. I shall never believe in destiny, star-crossings, or Cupid's arrows, but we were good together, and that's saying more than I can for anyone else I've run across.

     So I left, and I ended up back in Genosha toiling away for the betterment of man like a regular idiot hero-type. If I had known that Kit's father had gone missing I wouldn't have used his bloody name, but the best laid plans of mice and men... Even ran across some of the other X-types that Old Bald Charlie's dream has spawned. Like the deep end of an Olympic Swimming Pool, I was so drenched in memories I couldn't see the surface. But Magneto would have enough trouble without me stirring the pot anymore, so I decided to see what else lay about to keep my interest, anything to try and keep my mind on where I was rather than where I'd been. Naturally, like an idiot, I headed for the U.S.

     Just some observations for the colonialists in the audience. Noise is not always a good thing, neither is more, neither is bigger. The States have always seemed to have a sort of desperate chaos quality that reminds me of...well, me. But an entire nation that patterns itself after Wisdom needs to have its collective head examined, so don't think that was a compliment. I might have drowned before finding a single professional, and then I ran across her again. She and some of her compatriots were taking the town and trying to avoid attracting too much attention to themselves (not that you could tell from their choice in wardrobe). Then I found out why they had decided to get out for a bit, they didn't have a choice. Turned out that Professor X had called the whole X-thing off. My first reaction was to call him a quitter and her first response was to slap me. Say what you want about Kit, but you know when she slaps you, bloody Ninja training.

     She was floating around Nightcrawler, whom I already knew, and who already thought I was less than acceptable company, and some Southern tart with a Skunk Stripe through her hair, who refused to go by anything but Rogue. I have always been leery of codenames, and especially leery of those who refuse to go by anything else. I am not, however, about to tell that to a girl who can bench press my car. I'm an evil git, not a stupid one. The two of them were intent on convincing Kit that I should be left to my own devices, seeing as how I wasn't bleeding and that was the only kind of Pete Wisdom they were interested in witnessing. Then Kit turns around and mutters something to them out of my earshot. I don't know what she said, but she poked Skunk-Stripe in the chest and since I later saw her take bullets and giggle, I wasn't going to pry into that one.

     Suddenly Kurt gets the idea that I might be useful. He turns to me and explains that they were trying to help Mystique, or Raven Darkholme, or whatever name she was taking that week. Raven I knew: She had been a part of the U.S.'s original Freedom Force, and an involuntary member of X-Factor for a bit. She also wandered in some of the same circles I did. Someone was trying to run her down and was using some big name talent to do it. Not having anything better to do, I decided to stick around. Skunk-stripe muttered about my being a "magnet for trouble." Pity she is right.

     I hung around the apartment for maybe an hour before I managed to irritate everyone and vice versa. Darkholme certainly didn't want British Intelligence in her apartment, Rogue seemed to be looking at me the way a prize fighter views a punching bag. Kurt was silent, which can be bad enough, and Kit was quiet too, which smarted a lot more than I was going to let on. So I rattled off something about going to pick up a bottle of something toxic and took my leave. Timing, as has been pointed out on many an occasion, is everything.

     Victor Creed is ugly, relatively uneducated, and overall an honorless bastard who needs to be fixed lest he spawn again. He is also, however, a very good murderer, which makes us even I suppose. He came into Mystique's "secure" apartment complex without so much as disturbing the dust on the stairs. When he struck it was without warning and without me. I returned to find the place a shambles. Rogue had just come in the window, and was cradling Mystique. Something cold and hard formed in the pit of my stomach and I ransacked the house. I found Kit lying beside the bed.

     Kitty's a clever girl, and certainly handier in a fight than I am (I am more the cheap shot artist and assassin type -- hit them where they can't see, hit them in a tender spot, watch them gurgle and expire). But Shadowcat is one thing, and Sabretooth is another. Her wounds weren't as bad as they first appeared, they were worse, and apparently she had phased through his adamantium skeleton (Not for the first time I would discover) and that had left Creed to have his way with her. So he did, but only with his fists and feet. Bruises covered about 80% of her body and her face was a mess. I must have lost track of time, because the next thing I recall is a gun being leveled at me and a New York City policeman telling me to step away from the lady slowly. He'd picked the wrong bloody day...

     "Bugger off, bobby, or you'll be a side of roast with slag for a gun." I've always been good at the menacing one-liner and apparently there was something in my tone of voice that made him hesitate. But he did not put the gun away, sad to say. The first set of hot knives turned his gun to liquid and his scream touched something dark inside of me as the burning metal ran over his hand. My other hand rose and engulfed him in a shower of hot knives. It was hard to say specifically where they hit against his black uniform, but the smoke gave it away. The rest of the police fell back, reporting they had a situation with a mutant and required back-up. But I wasn't in the mood to wait and see which costumed buffoon showed to set me on the road to righteousness. A few windows across, a little sneaking, and one near miss, and by the time the local S.H.I.E.L.D. boys arrived, I was halfway across town. I sat in a dingy hotel room I'd paid for in cash and burned through about 2 and 1/2 cartons before I even thought clearly again. I called Mercy Hospital and asked about Kit. I'd been using her father's name for so long it came easy and it turned out she was stable, but wouldn't be good for anything but spoon-feeding for a while. I quietly made arrangements for someplace for her to recover and began to pace. She'd be out of the hospital in 3 weeks or so. That left me with time to work.

     For those of you who don't know, I used to kill people for a living. Moreover, I'm not one of those sappy plonkers who suddenly found that it was weathering away my soul. I just woke up one day and found I had no soul left, so I figured whatever remained where it used to be was mine and not for anyone else's use. Now, as I paced a hotel room smaller than a regulation prison cell, my mind rolled over the problem like a machine that is getting into gear for the first time in a few years...slowly, but with increasing ease as it continued to churn. I had to tell the manager to bugger off twice because people across the street kept calling insisting that my room was on fire, but in the end, 4 days and more cartons of cigarettes than Phillip Morris puts out in a month later, I knew what needed to be done.

     The Xavier Institute was built by the British. How do I know this? Simple, it's too big, too ostentatious, and has far more embellishment in its architecture than it requires. The place was essentially empty and the handspan of people who still called it home were out saving the universe on some remote corner of the globe, so I had the place to myself. I made myself comfortable and set to work.

     First I had to place an order with two people: The first was an old friend of mine who had apparently killed enough brain cells through alcohol and cigarettes to work for Military Intelligence. We talked for about 4 hours because even with half his brain cells working, he still had a jump on your army regular. Eventually he agreed to my request in exchange for a crate of Bacardi and any pictures I could roust of Jean Grey. Luckily there were several in the house so I was liberal with the payment. The second call was to Brian Braddock...

     "'ello?"

     "Braddock?....Wisdom."

     "Good-bye."

     "Wait one second. I need your help." Dear old Britannic could not help but to listen to a Brit in trouble, a holdover from the Captain Britain days.

     "Why the hell should I help you?"

     "It's not for me, it's for Kit...sort of."

     "........" I can only assume the silence was waiting for an explanation, and so he got one. I told him everything that had happened (except that part about my leaving them alone), and what I intended to do (mostly). Once again I was rewarded with silence.

     "When do you need it." It was times like this that I wondered if Brian had ever really learned to say no to someone in need...but then again who was I to talk?

     "As soon as you can get it here."

     "Right." That was that. Now all that remained was to build the better tiger trap...

     Some things in life are guaranteed. If you know what those things are you can take advantage of them from time to time. If you can face west at dawn, then your enemy gets blinded by the sunrise. If can cause your foe to anger a postal worker, he may get gunned down by semiautomatic fire. Mercenaries have, since time immemorial, watched the China Mail for job offers and encoded news in the world of murder for hire, and it was there I placed the ad...

     Dearest Victor,
     Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me
     Kitty Kat

     I'd already moved Kit, who was no doubt terribly miffed and planning her escape since the nurses I'd put on duty had no idea who was paying for all of this. I'd also left a false trail for Creed to follow that led right back up to Westchester. Somedays the obvious can work, especially on the feeble-minded.

     It took him precisely two weeks to show up at the Mansion, two weeks I'd spent getting dreadful little sleep for fear he'd show while I was napping, or that whoever lived here would show themselves. He came in around 2 a.m. and heat sensors across the lawn showed his approach. I saw him pause, no doubt because he couldn't smell his prey. Kit has a distinct scent even if you don't have a terribly keen nose, bit of lavender and jasmine, but all Creed smelled was cigarettes, whiskey, and the evil git who'd had him.

     I waited for him on the back porch. When he came around back, I stood up, partially because my senses were already a little wobbly from lack of sleep and I needed to move. I walked casually towards the woods behind the mansion, ignoring him effectively until he growled at me from behind. I had to suppress a smirk at mistake number 1 (not getting between me and an escape route) before turning to look at him.

     "What the hell is this, Wisdom?" was the first snarl I got. You've already read the second. So there we were, standing there and facing each other, him waiting to pounce, me trying to figure out how to bring this whole great bloody mess to an end. He took a step forward and I did the first thing that came into my head.

     I ran like an Oxford track star. Creed hesitated only a moment, I think because he didn't know whether or not he should burst out laughing. But it was only a moment and he was sprinting, thereby launching into mistake number 2 (as Kipling put it, never follow a snake into its hole). Cigarettes and desk work do not a fine athlete make and I was winded and he was gaining ground all too quickly. His growl tickled something on the back of my neck and I found a new adrenaline shot for a few extra seconds. He would've had me in another handful of moments, but I hopped over a patch of leaves by a tree with three branches on its left side. Sabretooth made mistake number 3 (beware sneaky gits) and plowed right through them and found the land mine I'd left there for him.

     My gift from Military Intelligence blew out my right ear drum and tossed me to the ground. It tore Creed's right leg clear off and hurtled his body forward and he landed chest first right where I had predicted...on the second land mine which shredded his chest, shoulders, and arms, as well as blackening his face. When what was left of him hit the ground, his previously ferocious snarl had become something of a gurgling whimper, kind of sad really. Pity I wasn't feeling generous as I lit my cigarette. I was covered in dirt, my ears were ringing, and I had no doubt taken shrapnel wounds, but at that moment, I didn't care.

     "You know, you're rather pathetic when you think about it. How long have you been like this? How long have you been this 'bestial savage' uncaring about anything but your bloody hunt. Want to know the truth, Sunshine? I checked, your body count doesn't hold a candle to mine. You're always calling yourself some title of supremacy, King of the World and such, but the truth is, when it comes to cold-blooded murder, you're amateur night." This got me a growl and I noticed that his face looked a little better so it was time to stop gloating. I walked over to the black bag that contained Braddock's contribution to the cause.

     "Do you know how hard adamantium is to come by? It takes forever to get a bloody ounce, so you can imagine what one might have to go through to get enough for a chainsaw blade, but lucky for you I know people who have whole walls of the stuff..." I held the monstrosity aloft, its chain gleaming in the moonlight. I was rewarded by what must have been the first look of fear on Victor Creed's face in...well, who knows? I regretted for a moment not having a camera, it was a Polaroid moment.

     I smiled, I have a most unpleasant smile. "Only the best for you, King of the World..." The roar of the blade was muted in my busted up ears, but it was enough to drown out anything else I was feeling.

     When I had finished, I gave my actual contribution to the cause and used an entire can of lighter fluid to coat the parts of him. A kiss and a hot knife to set it off, and that was the end of Victor Creed. Most of the blood was soaked into the ground, so the flesh burned efficiently enough. I dropped the skull and the left hand, all the fingers curled in, save the center one, into a box and left it sitting on the dining room table at that little mansion. I'd probably pay good money to see Logan's face when he catches this, but I've always had a good imagination.

     I arrived at the safehouse just in time to catch her trying to escape, apparently for the sixth time. She wasn't better yet, and that's the only reason she'd been caught. We argued like a bloody married couple, called each other names, and were generally unpleasant. Then I did the unthinkable... I apologized. I don't recall seeing her quite that shocked before, save when MacTaggert got completely knackered at that mainland pub, but her next response was quite agreeable.

     Kit's doing better and is resting comfortably. No, she's not in the hospital, and no I'm not going to bloody tell you where we are. Just take my word for it that she's in good hands, and that even evil gits learn not to make the same mistake twice. Cheers.