Vic Creed and Wipeout are Marvel's. No money. Don't sue.

Jack is mine. Mentioned character Zach is also mine. I’m violent. Don’t touch them without permission.

If you’ve been following, you know what mean ol’ Vic did to Kai a while back in "Kai and Sabretooth: In the Woods." That was the first major story in the "Sabretooth: Angels Fall, Devils Climb" arc. You met Jack in "Muir Island." Now I’m throwing the King of Mean out in snowy wilderness with the Prince of Naïveté…or so Jack seems. <heh heh> Little hint -- keep in mind just what sweet li'l Jack was on Muir Island for. ;-)

Little note: Yep, the Wipeout in the Marvel Universe is dead. The one in the Jayaverse is alive. Simple 'nough?

Special thanks to Kael Whitworth, a good friend who was with me through all the planning for this, and who herself wrote the story that this is the intro for, despite the fact that she previously had no interest whatsoever in homicidal mutants and their trials and tribulations. She’s the only person I know to whom I can say, "Are you pondering what I’m pondering?" and she answers with, "I think so…but how do we get the psychopathic clawed mutant out of the snow?" And the funny part is that she’s right…that’s exactly what I was pondering.

This story is not for kids. It features violent implications, nasty thoughts, and bad language.

Enjoy!

By Kaylee

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He opened his eyes to a dull, numb ache throughout his body and a pounding in his head. Cold. Why was it so fucking cold? With a groan, he started to sit up.

Then dropped when the searing pain in his back exploded stars across his vision. His lips curled and a sound -- half-moan, half-cry -- hissed out between clenched teeth. The pain didn’t stop, didn’t even ease. He forced himself to lie still, awash with agony.

When the fire in his back receded just a bit, he kept his eyes closed and felt around his situation with his other senses. Smoke, somewhere far away. Crackling of flames. Blank cold of snow. There were blankets wrapped around him, and beneath them he was completely naked.

Except, of course, for the cloak of pain.

Something was wrong. He couldn’t place it right away…was only aware of a certain lack to the world around him. More slowly this time, he opened his eyes. Rolled his head very carefully to the side, towards the distant fire.

The fire was burning a few feet from him.

He blinked dumbly at it for a moment, trying to comprehend what this meant. This was wrong. The fire was far away, he heard it. He smelled it. Faint. Distant.

But there it was beside him, warming his exposed skin against the frozen chill of the snowscape around him.

"Gotta…think," he told himself aloud, just to hear his voice. Somehow, it was too soft. Too empty. It didn’t vibrate through his nerves. Didn’t thrum against his eardrums in that deliciously savage way. Damage to his hearing? He’d had it before…it would heal quickly.

His back, whatever was wrong with it, wasn’t healing quickly.

"Awake already?"

The voice came out of nowhere, without anything warning him of its owner’s approach. Instincts kicked in before awareness of his injury. He rolled sharply and started to put a hand down to swing his feet under himself in order to face and destroy this new threat. Muscles twisted savagely at the injury on his back, and before he could stop himself he blurted a scream and jerked away from the pain…which only made it worse. Vision spun wildly out of focus. A strange roaring sounded in his ears. He struggled to make his muscles obey; to rise, to run, to find a way out of white-hot agony. Every motion, every breath, jarred him worse.

"No, please! Lie still! You’ll only hurt yourself more!" That voice again, then hands on his shoulders, above the center of hurt. Mindlessly, he tried to lurch around again and bring his claws to bear on the danger. The effort brought another scream burbling from his throat, but he flailed desperately, senselessly.

Finally, the mercy of blackness rose once again to claim his mind.

***

This time he managed to hold himself still as he woke. The burning poker still rested against his back, but he ground teeth together and hung on to consciousness. His eyes opened. He blinked sharply to chase away the graininess that clouded them.

"Don’t try to move." From across the fire…a vague form kissed by licks of orange flame. "You’re wounded pretty bad."

He held carefully still, trying to make out the face behind the words. "Who…are you?" he asked thickly.

The form stood. Came around the fire and knelt at his side, not touching. A young man, probably not much more than eighteen or so, with longish dark hair, a slender build, and eyes a startling bright green even in the twilight dimness.

"My name is Jack," the kid told him. "Do you have a name?"

He ignored the question. "What happened…to me?"

A slight frown crossed the handsome face. "I’m not really sure. I found you washed up on the shore this morning. You’ve got a really ugly wound on your back up towards your shoulder blade, and a knot on the back of your head. A bunch of other cuts and bruises, too, but those are the worst. And you were so cold I thought I’d never get you warmed up again."

He tried to lift his head a little. Sank it back down with a hiss when his back protested. The kid started to reach a hand towards him and he flinched away without thought, then gave a smothered cry of pain and forced himself to freeze. Yellow-green eyes closed tightly for a moment as he struggled for control.

"I’m sorry," Jack said, sounding contrite. "I was just trying to help."

He opened eyes again and met that bright emerald gaze. Something clawed at his throat. He barely recognized it as helplessness. With an effort, he chased the feeling down somewhere into his gut. "Since…morning, ya said?"

"Yeah. Looked like the wound was a bit older than that, though. I’m afraid it might be getting infected."

He swallowed hard as the feeling tried to rise again. "It’s not…healing?"

A perplexed look from the young man. "Not very well, no. Not yet. But I know a little about first aid. I might be able to help it along." He straightened, and the man again flinched reflexively, bringing another hiss of pain to his lips. The kid walked around the fire and came back a moment later with a canteen. "Thirsty?"

He realized suddenly that his throat was very dry, his lips cracked and painful. Against the searing in his back that didn’t stack to much, but every bit of pain eased… "Yeah," he answered, stomach churning as he realized that he couldn’t hold the canteen himself, couldn’t even move enough to grasp it without sending himself sailing back into redness. He kept his narrowed gaze on the kid’s face as the canteen was held to his lips, then slowly tipped back. Fire-warmed water washed down a throat so dry it hurt. He almost choked on the rush of it, spilling liquid over his chin and down his cheek. The kid gave him little swallows, pulling the canteen away every so often as his throat worked to choke it down.

Thirst sated, he again closed his eyes briefly as another surge of that terrible realization of helplessness tried to claim him. Thoughts cleared slowly, allowing him to piece together what all these fragments of situation told him.

Jack was across the fire again, digging into a pack and saying something about food. The man thought of the kid hand-feeding him, and his brain rebelled. No way was he gonna eat like some tame pet with a snotty brat spoon-feeding him. He’d sooner starve.

"I’m not hungry," he said sharply, barely keeping the growl from his voice.

"You should eat something," Jack told him with earnest seriousness. He came around and sat down cross-legged by the man, holding what looked like strips of dried meat. Even imagining the taste of the cold, dead flesh made the man want to retch. He glared coldly, putting just enough of his fury into the gaze to quell the fool.

"I’m. Not. Hungry."

The kid didn’t seem to acknowledge the menace in the stare at all. He frowned with a worried expression, but set the meat aside. "All right. When you are, let me know." He settled back and propped hands behind him, a bit of curiosity glinting in those remarkable eyes. Apparently he had enough sense not to ask what happened…but not quite enough sense to shut up and leave the man alone. "What did you say your name was?"

He hadn’t. The boy knew that. Eyes narrowing again, he answered. "Creed. Victor Creed." Watched carefully for a reaction, a sign of recognition. Saw nothing of the sort.

"Well, Mr. Creed…we’re kinda stuck here for a couple of weeks. See, I came to do some camping and clear out my head a bit. I’m not being picked up any time soon."

Creed’s eyes narrowed more as he flicked eyes around at their steadily darkening surroundings. "Where are we?"

"You don’t know?" That answer being apparent, the kid flushed and gave a quick, apologetic grin. "No, I guess not. This is Greenland. East coast, just north of Denmark Sound. We’re about as far from civilization as we can get."

And as far from law enforcement officials. Good. Creed started to shift just a bit; stopped on another warning nip of pain. "How bad is it?" he asked involuntarily, hating the question but needing the answer.

Jack’s face tightened a bit. "It’s not good," he said unhappily. "It really oughtta be stitched, but…it cuts a little into the muscle, and I don’t have any experience with that sorta thing. If I did it wrong, you could lose some mobility in that arm." If he noticed the abrupt tightening of Creed’s face at that thought, he didn’t comment. "Since it’s stopped bleeding, we can probably get away with just keeping it wrapped tight, so long as you don’t move around too much. But if we’re gonna keep it from getting infected…well, treating it isn’t gonna be very easy on you. In fact, it’ll hurt really bad. But if infection does set in out here, you’ll die."

An’ you got no idea how lucky you’d be if that happened, boy. But aloud he said only, "Ya sure you know about this medical stuff?"

"I’m no expert, not by a long shot. But my friend Zach, he arranged for me to take some courses at this local college." Another of those quickly flashed grins, this one bright. "Zach hangs out with some pretty intense people. I’ve already gotten to do a bit of hands-on first aid."

Creed had a sudden flash of himself as nothing but a practice run for some wanna-be paramedic. The thought brought a curl to his lip, revealing a slightly elongated canine. The kid noticed the look, and had to see the sharp tooth, but he gave no sign of alarm.

"Don’t worry," he assured hastily, seeming more intent on putting the man’s mind at ease than placing himself on safer ground. "Like I said, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure I know how to handle this. I’ll take care of you."

It only served to drive home his absolute dependence on this complete stranger; this kid with the open, expressive eyes and guileless face. He let his eyes blink tiredly, not entirely feigning exhaustion. Jack took the message quickly enough and suggested he try to get some sleep. Creed watched out of half-lidded eyes as the kid went back to the other side of the fire, fed some more wood into it, and curled himself up into a sleeping bag.

I know what you’re gonna do, he snarled mentally. You’re gonna return my senses an’ healing factor. And then, little man, you’re gonna scream so loud you’ll bust your own eardrums an’ beg me to kill ya.

With that consoling thought, Creed let his battered body sink him back into darkness.

Notes from Kaylee: Well, that’s the sitch. Victor Creed is stuck in a frozen wasteland without his healing factor or enhanced senses, with a bad boo-boo on his back, and disgustingly dependent on the help of a mutant psivamp. (See "Muir Island.") Poor, poor Sabes... Kael and I have such nice things in store for our good friend Vic. <evil grin> Ah, revenge is sweet…