Soap Gets In Your Fangs, Too

Chapter Two: Basic Training

New York City, Winter, 1970

I: Rogue

Had you passed by a certain window on a frosty day in January, you wouldn't have thought the two women sitting on the window seat of said window in the stately house on Central Park West even knew each other.

They were young women. The brown haired woman with the white streak in her hair was 18, the redhead, 20.

They were playing chess.

The younger girl wore a long-sleeved grey babydoll jersey, a brown gauzy scarf, brown gloves and a long brown voile brown skirt, with handmade woollen tights and chic brown suede Chelsea boots on, underneath.

She wore a lavender scent, and her freshly washed hair was neatly combed.

The redhead wore had on an OD undershirt, and a worn BDU shirt that identified her as a First Sergeant in the Marines. It had fresh engine grease and old, brownish, faded bloodstains on it. Under the vest she wore a .45 calibre automatic in a shoulder holster, and the undershirt was stained with sweat and motor oil.

Her outfit terminated in a pair of dirty, rumpled Levi's and a pair of thick socks and combat boots.

Under the jeans, she had a buck knife strapped to her thigh and a snub-nosed Bulldog .45 calibre revolver in an ankle holster.

She smelled of sweat, motor oil, blood, and booze, and she didn't look to have taken a bath in a long time, maybe a week.

Her long ponytails looked greasy, there were telltale white streaks on the front of he jeans that her friend wasn't going to mention, and her tattooed hands were filthy, two fingers on one taped together because of a broken knuckle.

The effect was topped off by a fading shiner on one eye, and a smudge of grease on the cheek.

You wouldn't think that the disordered redhead would be anybody's idol, fidgeting with her dog tags as she thought, but the younger girl envied her every tattoo, ever scar, and every grease spot.

"Yeah, my big mission today is to do the shopping." Rogue was complaining.

"That reminds me. I gotta make a side trip to buy s'more beer."

It was ten in the morning, and the redhead was drinking a 16-ounce can of Coors, and she had a six pack with five left sitting under the bench.

"How were the Troubles?"

"Bad."

"So I heard. Is the Buick totalled?"

"Naaah. I fixed 'er, already. It was all superficial body work. The wall I run into, that's what was totalled."

"Liv, don't you think you ought to slow down a little?" Rogue suggested.

Liv just laughed.

"Nope."

"But don't you care if you live or you die?"

"You got it in one."

"But how can you feel that way? You have so much to live for!"

"Yeah. I do. But I also have so much to die for. So I'm gonna wait an' see what happens. Like the song says, I'll eat when I'm hungry and drink when I'm dry and if it don't kill me I'll live till I die."

Liv finished her beer, lit a cigarette, and popped a new one.

Rogue was beginning to think Erik was right, that the reason why Liv was a burned-out, shell-shocked, degenerate alcoholic was a case of too much, too soon.

"Liv, you're a brilliant scientist, an excellent mask, Level 7 Covert with S.H.I.E.L.D, a decorated veteran, you've got friends who love you, and you've got a man counting on your being here when he comes back from Vietnam, not to mention whoever else you have stashed all over the City. You've survived things that would have killed mutants and empowered masks, alike. Why would you want to die?"

Liv shrugged.

"I don't want to. I just don't care if I do, anymore. I hit the streets at 13, hit them in a mask at 16, and the street has hit me back pretty hard. Every night I go out looking for something even I don't know what it is, but I'll know it when I find it. Maybe it's victory, maybe it's death, I just don't know. Like I said, I'm just gonna keep hittin' it harder for every time it hits me, an' I'll find out. Checkmate."

"What?"

"Checkmate, Rogue. Jesus, I been drunk since last night and I ain't slept and I'm more onna ball than you are. Are you alright?"

"Peachy."

"Yeah, you look it. You hung up, again?"

"I am hung up all the time. I may be a lady, but I'm still a woman. Not that I can do a thing about it. Do you have any more of those books you're not using?"

"I brought you a whole new box. The absolute filthiest. Guaranteed to make you go off like a Roman candle, maybe even before you can get your hand down your panties. They're in my car."

Rogue sighed, regretfully.

"What a world. You want to play again?"

"I got four beers left. Why not?"

Rogue, who preferred not to think of or divulge her real name to anyone, had been born into a once grand family in Mississippi, who now lived in a proud sort of genteel poverty 18 years earlier.

Her parents were gone, and there had never been an explanation as to where; they were simply gone, and they were not spoken about. She was raised by an aunt and a series of other relatives who didn't seem to want her around.

She came from what only another Southerner would be able to understand was a very good family, and spent her formative years brought up as genteel Southern belle, a real lady.

Even though she had never been close to any of her family members, she was grateful to them for that upbringing, because it had enabled her to withstand her mutation with grace and quiet dignity.

Rogue always thought it was that grace and quiet dignity that made Mystique take an interest in her.

She had lived, quite happily, in the lavish Manhattan home shared by Mystique and Magneto at Central Park West, in Manhattan, since she was 14.

She had been allowed, in an honorary fashion, to join the Brotherhood at 16, but neither of her surrogate parents took her seriously as a potential mask.

She was too young, she was untrained, her powers were un-manageable.

It was always the same thing.

Wait and see.

Maybe next year.

However, after witnessing the rapid disintegration of what little stability Liv had, since her alleged 14 month tour with the Marines in Germany, doing non-combat work for Operation Wrath of God, she began to see Erik's point.

Come springtime, Liv took off for Canada with an old army buddy of hers, and when she said good-bye to Rogue, it sounded final.

It was all rather confusing for Rogue.

She wanted to get into the mask game, and she knew that there were plenty of masks of both sides of the cape that were far less troubled than Trivelino.

But even so…

Rogue decided that she would wait for an appropriate mentor to come along, someone who would shield her from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that had so pierced Liv, until she was able to hold her own.

Until then?

Well, someone had to buy the groceries.


Westchester, County, New York. Thruway Tavern, Fall 1970

II: Victor

Jimmy gave him that look, that usual look of barely disguised loathing.

And, Victor grinned back at it, the way he always did.

Yeah, yeah, you're the Big Bad Wolverine. You'll always be my little brother Jimmy, to me.

"What?" the runt immediately asked, when Victor said down.

"How's Red? I hear it was bad."

Red was Sabretooth's nickname for the Harlequin.

"Is that what this is about? Listen, Vic, Eddie was serious about that shit. You'd better stay away from her. And she did kill you. Twice."

"Bullshit. Red knew it wouldn't kill me either time. Not permanently. And I ain't makin' no play for her. But I gotta right to know. I'm walkin' because of Red. I owe her. I'll always owe her. So, I think I gotta right to know."

"I guess you thought it was bad when you woke up in a pool of your own blood with Alfred sewin' your legs back on an' Liv lyin' unconscious in the corner, with the Bat getting' ready ta rush her to the hospital, huh?"

"It got worse?"

"Yeah. But she's better, now. We're all keepin' an eye on her."

"How long you think that's gonna work?"

"As long as it has to. You got a funny look on your face. Like you're about to do something crazy. What is it?"

"Stripe."

"Stripe?"

"Rogue. She hasn't got a name. She's been brought up by Erik and Raven. Mutant. Wants in the business. But she's got problems. Red-sized problems. I don't think I wanna see her go that way. She won't survive it. But she's 18, by now. Thinks she knows it all. If she hits the street and the street hits back…I just don't wanna see Stripe go that way. She's a good kid. She's a real lady. Like women used to be, when you and me were young."

"Victor, do I have to remind you that it's not good for a woman, unless she's damn near indestructible, for me, and especially not you, to get involved in her life?"

"She could be. If Stripe touches a normal human, that's it. They're toast. If she touches a mutant, she absorbs some of their memories and their powers. Then they're toast. Now I already know she couldn't toast me. But if she was a feral, too, well she'd be damn near indestructible. And the kid needs somebody to train her. You know what I mean, Jimmy."

"I know exactly what you mean, Vic. I can't believe I'm hearin' it from you, but, I know what you mean. What about the girl? How does she feel about it?"

"She knows me. Trusts me."

"Likes you? Even though I know this has nothin' to do with you findin' some pretty young girl who has a crush on you and doesn't know it yet, but that you're the only man in the world who can ever touch her without her killin' you?"

"Jimmy, do the words 'Mel Reinhardt' mean anything to you? I talked to Pa. He told me you let an untrained Nymph at you, and when he found you, you were naked and raving in the woods, craving pieces outa yourself with your claws."

Wolverine chuckled.

"Yeah. And then when she was drunk, Liv threatened to cut my head off with her adamantium machete and throw it far enough that my body would die before it could find it."

"These frails, nowadays, huh, Jimmy?"

"I never thought I'd live to see crazy shit like the past twenty years, that's for sure. Be careful, Vic. Or you'll be the next one in the woods takin' yourself apart. Don't forget Matsuko."

A shadow of pain drifted across Sabretooth's face.

"Not fuckin' likely, runt. Matsuko, she was sweet and helpless. Even now, that ain't Stripe. But, by the time I get done with her, I won't be able to kill her. You'll see."

They had one more drink, together, and Sabretooth took his leave.

Wolverine questioned his brother's logic in creating a weapon that was his equal, or better, but, then again, he wasn't sure if that was possible.

And if it was, maybe that would be for the best.

He had another drink.


New York City. Fall, 1970

II: Rogue

"Hello! I'm home! I'm carrying six bags of groceries! A little help might be nice! Hello!"

Rogue saw a battered duffel bag sitting in the foyer.

And she heard a familiar laugh coming from the kitchen.

That could only mean one thing.

He was back.

"He", of course, was Victor Creed.

Also known as Sabretooth, and occasionally, Major Victor Creed, USMC, Special Forces, or even Special Agent Victor Creed, Weapon X.

Rogue liked to tell herself it was little schoolgirl crush she had on him, but as Mr. Creed made regular appearances in her erotic fantasies, and her erotic dreams, it was a little more than that.

Oh well.

Nothing would ever come of it.

That was a hard thing to accept with grace and quiet dignity, and privately, Rogue sometimes threw tantrums, but, there wasn't anything she could do about it.

Victor was nominally a member of the Brotherhood, but he didn't really owe allegiance to the goodguys or the badguys; he went with whoever was offering the best deal for his services at the time.

Apparently, Uncle Sam wasn't offering him much.

Rogue came into the kitchen with the groceries.

"…lousy motherfuckers. I mean, that was one hell of a piece of shit fucking war, Erik. I spent two goddam years manning that black ops boot camp in a Third World toilet of a jungle in South America, and then 14 gorgeous fuckin' months under heavy fire with goddam Operation Wrath of God for fuck's sake, and they still won't gimme my promotion? I'll tell you what. If Eddie hadn't been on his ass when I was demobbed, they wouldn't have fucked me like this. I'll bet somebody paid that broad to cut his face open with a dirty bottle. Jee-ziz Christ!"

Rogue put the groceries on the table.

"Hi, Mr. Creed." She said.

When Rogue had first come to live with Erik and Raven, Mr. Creed had been with the Brotherhood, and he had left only because the G made him some very interesting offers to help them with their Vietnam quagmire.

Offers they had apparently gone back on.

"There she is!"

Rogue looked one way and then the other to figure out who Mr. Creed was grinning at, and then she realised it was her.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. You're 18 now, right?"

Rogue just nodded.

"Good. Because I've got plans for you."

Victor had given her the only nickname she ever had, he called her Stripe because of her lock of white hair.

Before he left for Vietnam, when he was temporarily living with Erik and Raven, he was always awake at night when she was; they used to watch TV together, and, sometimes, he'd take her to Grossmann's at three in the morning to eat.

That wasn't exactly the basis of him having plans for her, but Rogue was so eager for something to happen in her life, she didn't care.

"What kind of plans, Victor?"

Trust Mama to interrupt.

"Take it easy, Raven. What I mean is, I think Stripe's a lot more like her buddy Liv Napier than either of you wanna admit. An' when I say that, I mean her potential to be a real serious fuckin' mask, in addition to her potential to get roughed up, bad, trying. I mean, Christ, Erik, you got morons like that ugly Toad asshole and that fuckin' half-wit Cain Marko out there bein' operatives in the field, an' you got Stripe buyin' the groceries! She's gonna get into alla the trouble you don't want her to if you keep treatin' her like she's a dumb kid."

"I see you've been thinking about this, Victor."

"Damn straight I have. You know why Liv's so fucked up? Because Jack hadda give her up when she was a kid, an' he couldn't train her. And what the fuck would the Bat know? Now, if Eddie had been trainin' her right from the start, that woulda saved both of them a lotta years of abuse, misery an' bullshit. She barely came back alive from her sojourn in the Great White North, and she wouldn't be here, right now, under the vigilant eyes of the Bat and Eddie and so on if it wasn't for the runt going out of his way to reel her in. Now, I want you to let me train Stripe. Take her upstate, to the compound. Give me a year, a fuckin' year, an' I'll give you a mask who can take on the X-Men, the Avengers, an' S.H.I.E.L.D, or join' em, or both. Because, let's face it. Pretty soon she's gonna hit that street to prove to you and everybody else she can, whether you like it or not. But Stripe isn't Napalm. She's not from the street. She's a lady, a real lady, like what a lady was when I was a boy. She won't be able to take what Napalm took. Hell, she shouldn't have had to take it. Neither should Stripe."

If it wouldn't have half-killed him, Rogue could have kissed Mr. Creed.

"Can I do it? Can I?" she asked

"Victor, you don't give a shit about anybody, except maybe your father and your brother, and that hasn't done your brother much good. Why the sudden interest in my stepdaughter?" Mystique asked.

"I saw some shit over in 'Nam even I never saw, before. I almost died, and the soldier who saved my life was a woman. Not a frail. A woman. It made me think." He replied.

Everyone was waiting for him to say something else, but he didn't.

Rogue was sure that her stepmother was going to lodge another complaint, but she just sighed.

"I want her back here every weekend. And that's Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. And if she even hints to me that you've touched her in any way she doesn't like, I will kill you, Victor. I will find a way."

"Not for the first 13 weeks."

"13 weeks!"

"Boot camp for the Marines is 13 weeks, Raven. And Stripe here has a lot more to learn than your average grunt."

"Victor, you're a son-of-a-bitch!"

"So's the world. Bigger'n me."

"I think it should be left up to Rogue. She's 18, now." Erik interrupted.

"Well, Rogue, you're always telling me you're an adult. Time for you to make your first adult descion. Major Creed wants to make an operative out of you. That was his job in the last war, and grown men older than you died in the process. I don't doubt it will be a season in Hell. And, it goes without saying you can quit whenever you like. But, when you're through, you will certainly be able to take on the X-Men. Or join them. Or any other superhero or villain team, or intelligence organisation. If that is what you really want."

Rogue looked at Erik like he had two heads.

All her life she had been told to wait, told to sit down and be nice and act like a lady, but it was never what she wanted.

This was what she wanted, more than anything, and she couldn't figure out how Victor Creed had known that.

"I'll do it." Rogue decided.


Brotherhood Compound, Upstate New York


Rogue lay in the narrow, uncomfortable bed, feeling nervous and just a little frightened.

Alright, a lot frightened.

She had been permitted to pack nothing, but a small bag with underwear and personal feminine items and her journal, and Victor-

No.

Not Victor.

Major Creed.

Major Creed, sir!

- hadn't said two words to her as he drove her to this remote compound in the wilds of upstate

New York.

That made her nervous.

Then he led her to this tiny, spare little room that was like a jail cell.

It had a sink, and a toilet in one corner, and this narrow bed in the other, and there was an empty bookshelf in the third corner, a rack with several black fatigue uniforms in the fourth.

There was a table with one chair in the middle.

He said nothing to her, just walked her into the room and shut the door.

Rogue hadn't got a wink of sleep when that door flew open, and the room was filled with hostile, barking Major Creed, shining a flashlight in her face.

"Good morning, dogface! It's 3 AM and it's a beeeau-tiful day, what are you doing still in bed? Out of bed, right now, move it, move it! Put those fatigues on, soldier, what the fuck do you think is is, a goddamn vacation?"

"But Major Creed, sir…"

He got right in her face and screamed at her.

"But? Did you say "but" to me, dogface? That is the first word of an insubordinate statement, and I do not want to hear any insubordinate statements out of you! You've got two minutes to get those fatigues on, and your regulation sidearm and rifle, and be in that hallway or when you come back tonight, that bed isn't going to be there! Do I make myself clear, grunt?"

"Yes."

"YES, WHAT?"

"Yes, sir, Major Creed, sir!"

"That sounded like steam escaping! I CAN'T HEAR YOU, GRUNT!"

"YES SIR, MAJOR CREED, SIR!"

"That's better. Two minutes."

Two minutes?

Well, this was Boot Camp, Sabretooth style.

And she had asked for it.

When Rogue came out the door, Major Creed, who was in imposing black fatigues decorated with patches and insignia that made him look even more menacing, thrust a heavy black canvas backpack at her.

"Put that on, dogface! Now! Move it! Move it! Move it!"

It was "dogaface" and "grunt" and, occasionally, "frail" as he marched her through the dark, in fatigues and combat boots, uphill, into the woods with the heavy pack on her back and an M-16 carbine in her hands, wearing a Colt Navy. 45 automatic.

Meanwhile, Rogue greatly disliked slacks, she considered them work-clothes. She always wore a skirt of some kind, midi, mini, and maxi, and only in summertime did she not wear tights or stockings.

Nor were combat boots her style.

Also, she had never fired a gun in her life.

One of her little tasks was to clean, oil, break down, and reassemble what guns the Brotherhood used, but she had never been allowed to shoot.

Rogue was thinking that was, at least, progress, when she stumbled in the dark over her own combat boots, and fell.

"Oh, you like it on the ground, huh, dogface? Well, you can stay there, for awhile. Fifty push- ups.! Let's go!"

Rogue didn't ask questions, she struggled through fifty push ups, got up and kept going.

"Halt!"

They were somewhere, and at that somewhere, Major Creed had set up a firing range.

He showed her how to aim both weapons, and how to fire them, and then stepped back.

Quite a bit.

Rogue managed to hit one of the targets, once, with the .45, but when she fired the M16, the shots went wild, and she stumbled back a few steps, and the butt of the gun thwacked painfully into her body.

Rogue, however, already knew better than to double over in pain.

That would probably equal more push-ups.

"That was pathetic, grunt! But, don't worry. You're going to have plenty of time to practise."

He marched her further through the woods to a full military-style obstacle course.

Rogue didn't get past climbing the rope.

"Alright, frail, the most important thing you're going to learn this morning is about setting and reaching goals. In thirty days time, you will be able to run that obstacle course! You will be able to break down, assemble and load both of those weapons within two minutes time! And you will be accurate to the yellow range on those targets! If you fail to reach those goals, then I will be forced to conclude I have been too lenient with you, and you'll be restricted to one meal a day, and two hours of sleep in a much less opulent room than what you have now! Do you understand me, dogface!"

"YES, SIR, MAJOR CREED, SIR!"

Rogue returned to her room by seven, where there was a hard boiled egg, two pieces of toast, two pieces of bacon and black coffee waiting for her.

She wolfed the food, and it was a good thing, because by eight she was off to target practise.

At ten, she learned how to do one-handed pushups.

She would be expected to do them from now on.

Lunch, at noon, was a turkey sandwich, chicken soup, and a glass of apple juice.

After lunch, she had to run three laps around the compound, or, a total of about tem miles.

Every time she started lagging, it was fifty one handed push-ups, or as many as she could physically manage.

By the time that was over, Rogue was in an exhausted heap on the ground.

"Alright, grunt. Time for combat training. But first, you're going to need a little boost. On your feet!"

Rogue stood up.

"Take off one of those gloves! Now!"

Rogue took off one of her gloves.

Major Creed unbuttoned two of the buttons on his BDU shirt, and before she could protest, he grabbed her hand, put it directly in the middle of his broad, muscular, hairy chest, and held it there.

Rogue hadn't touched another human being with her bare hands for years, and the unaccustomed sensation was electrifying in and of itself, and that was before she began absorbing the feral mutant's powers.

His powers, but nothing of his memories, nothing of him at all.

His mind was like a steel trap.

Suddenly, Rogue wasn't sore, or tired, anymore.

In fact, she felt great.

No, let's scratch that and make it fucking unbelievable.

Strength surged through her limbs, and all of the sudden, the world was completely different.

Familiar sounds and smells assailed her, but they were so much keener, more pressing.

Her heart was beating much too fast; she could hear her own blood surging through her veins.

Major Creed let her hand go, but, an instant later, he attacked her.

Rogue felt a strange twinge in her hands, and, as if on instinct, she returned the lunge, striking out with savage bony claws, only to be met with even more savage claws at her throat.

Her claws were different than his; they came out of her hands, like Wolverine's.

Major Creed didn't seem surprised.

"That was pretty good, grunt. But, as you can see, it ain't all instinct. There's technique to it. That's the next thing you're going to learn. Starting right now. In two weeks, I'm going to attack you, again. This time, I won't be pulling any punches."

Rogue was wondering how it was she hadn't so much as inconvenienced Sabretooth with her touch; she was embarrassed at how exciting it had been to touch someone, let alone a man, let alone this man, and she had to suppress the urge to bear her brand new fangs and snarl at him.

By dinnertime, which was a ham steak and a baked potato, and a glass of milk, Rogue was so physically and mentally exhausted, she fell onto the bed.

Her whole body hurt, and suddenly becoming a feral mutant was at the least a little unsettling and at the most completely unnerving.

On the other hand, it was also empowering and exhilarating.

So was the indisputable fact that her touch was not harmful to Major Creed, in the least.

The best thing about it was the healing factor, which quieted her pain enough that she could get out of bed when Major Creed pounded on her door and told her it was time for her shower, and she had 15 minutes.

After her shower, Rogue fell into bed, and went to sleep.

The next day, Major Creed woke her up at nine, but kept her awake on night manoeuvres until midnight.

The day after that, he woke her at three.


***

The first two weeks of torture passed slowly.

The promised attack came shortly after two weeks, while Rogue was on her morning march.

She heard the low snarl, and whirled around, claws out, to face an actual Sabretooth attack.

She ducked the first swipe, ignored the pain from the second, and let him bite her, just so she could get her claws in a swipe at his belly, but Victor beat her to the punch.

Rogue wrapped one arm around her belly, and spitefully, clawed at Major Creed's face, tearing out an eye and leaving three, long, bloody furrows.

He swore, and threw his hands up in front of his face as Rogue collapsed on the ground in a pool of blood, trying to pack her erupting intestines back into her belly.

"Fuck! Leave it to a woman to take the cheap shot!"

Rogue wanted to reply, but she lapsed into unconsciousness from loss of blood.

When she came to she was back at the compound, in her room, lying in bed in her underwear.

Major Creed must have taken off her destroyed fatigues, cleaned her up, and put her to bed.

Rogue put on a tee shirt she had stolen from him that came down low enough on her to serve as nightgown and bathrobe to wait for shower time.

That night, it didn't come.

***

"…I'll get you for this, Victor Creed! If it's the last thing, the very last thing ah ever do! I'll put out your eyes until they don't grow back, I'll slice off your fingers and cut your fangs right out of your gums! I'll get you, I'll get you!"

Rogue screamed until she was hoarse, but it did her no good.

Two seconds.

She had been all of two seconds over time in weapons detail.

Never mind that she had hit the target, right at the bulls-eye.

No, she had been two seconds over with breaking down and assembly of her weapons.

And for those two seconds, she had been shut up, naked in a tiny, windowless cell the size of a closet, with no furniture but a toilet.

Twice a day there was water.

Once a day there was bread.

Fall in upstate New York is a lot like winter in other places, and after five days and nights of starving, freezing and shivering, Rogue stopped threatening Major Creed with violence.

Aunt Carrie always said, you'll get more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.

When the slot in the door opened and Victor shoved her water through, she grabbed his hand in both of hers.

"Victor, ah know you're only doing this to me to make me stronger. Ah know you're not bein' cruel to me because you enjoy it. And ah don't hate you for it. Ah couldn't hate you, Victor. You do know how ah feel about you, don't you, sugah? I'm not just sayin' it to get outa this terrible place. Ah may be a lady, but I'm still a woman, you know. Ah would say that you can take me, I'm yours, you can do what you want with me, but trust me, sugah, ah want it, too. There are no words to say how much. Please, Victor. Ah think ah might die in here. Feel how cold mah hands are."

Rogue could hear his breath as it quickened and deepened, and she could smell his arousal.

For a minute, she was frightened.

She hadn't meant to provoke him into, into taking her, there, on the cold floor, but she trusted him not to hurt her, and told herself, honey, you asked for it, and you ought to be happy to take what you can get.

"Victor?"

"I'm coming in." He snarled.

Rogue was unused to the light, and she scuttled back against the wall, holding her arm in front of her eyes.

She was suddenly very scared, and she felt frightened and helpless.

Snikt!

Her claws had extended on their own, and blindly, she held them in front of her.

"Major Creed, sir, I cain't see you. I cain't see a thing." she said.

"Put those claws away, soldier. You're gonna hit the showers, then you'll be back in your room. Staring tomorrow, manouvers as usual."

There was food waiting in her room, real food, and the fatigues and the little cell of a room had never looked so good to her.

Rogue was up half the night, waiting, but no one came.

So, she just got dressed and waited for the morning march.

***

Rogue made it through the obstacle course with minutes to spare, because she was afraid not to.

It wasn't that things weren't so bad, it was just that she got used to it.

The next two months, with their attendant goals, whizzed by in a maelstrom of night raids, bad mornings, one-handed pushups, gunfire, pain, suffering and misery.

The 13 week mark came and went.

Rogue was not permitted to go home.

She didn't protest.

She didn't dare.

Rogue leaped out of bed in the morning, and she marched without complaint, she ran however many times she had to around the compound; she did what she was told when she was told to do it, unquestioningly.

She wanted to know why his claws were an extension of his fingertips, and hers came out of the spaces between her knuckles, but she never asked.

She was afraid to.

If Major Creed told her to rip her own guts out, she would have done it.

If he told her to do ten thousand one-handed push ups she would have done push ups until she expired and when she came to again, continued.

Hell, if he unzipped his pants and told her to get on her knees, she would have done that, too, but that was not part of the litany of horrors; and Rogue had to wonder if she was thinking in such crude and impersonal terms that boot camp hadn't done something unpleasant to her mind.

Then again, she knew it had.

If it had been Major Creed's goal to break her; he had achieved that goal.

For fear of solitary, and of worse punishments that haunted Rogue's nightmares, she was Sabretooth's frightened, cringing, willing slave.

Another torturous week rolled by, maybe two.

Rogue had lost all perspective on time.

She slept like the dead, and ate little of her food; food made her sick.

She quit answering the call to shower; smelling how bad she smelled sometimes that kept her awake enough to do what she had to do.

Despite her healing factor, Rogue became worn down, and listless.

Somewhere in the mix she contracted a virus, not just an ordinary cold, but some kind of insidious Martian Death Flu that left her unable to eat for the roiling of her stomach, burning with fever and aching all over.

Her throat alone hurt so badly she could hardly drink water.

It took all the effort she had left in her body to make it from the bed to the toilet and back.

Major Creed gave her two days to get better, but Rogue was so emotionally devastated that her healing factor could not keep up with the illness.

When he came, with his orders and his flashlight, she couldn't even get out of bed; she was so weak.

Time seemed to stop.

She wasn't in the cell anymore, she was in a larger bed in a warmer room, in a safe place where there were no morning raids or night raids and no fear.

She knew she was delirious; because she remembered being seen by a doctor in a white coat with a kind voice and wire-rimmed glasses, but the doctor was covered in blue fur, even on his hands.

Days went by.

She wasn't sure if she was alone or not; someone was taking care of her.

And then, she was back in her cell.

On one morning, he returned.

Major Creed.

Of course, he had no mercy; she had not expected him to have mercy, and Rogue hardly felt the cold floor on her raw bones when he knocked her out of bed.

It seemed a good enough place to die, here on the floor.

Major Creed was shouting something at her, but Rogue was far away, a very long way far away, where she could no longer hear him.

Then, something happened.

Rogue felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her ribs.

It wasn't any worse than the rest of the pain she was in; it was the insult more than the injury.

He had kicked her in the ribs.

It wasn't bad enough he brought her to this place, wrecked her health and broke her spirit, it wasn't bad enough that she was literally dying at his jackbooted feet, no, the dirty motherfucker had to kick her in the ribs.

And laugh.

He was actually fucking laughing at her.

Deep in Rogue's guts that Victor had perforated with his claws many times, a tiny knot of anger sparked.

Very soon, it spread through her belly like a fire.

And, as the rage rushed into Rogue's arms, and her legs, and finally hit her head like a 20 pound sledgehammer, it brought with it complete relief from her pain, and from her sickness, and all of her fear.

Rogue let the anger build and burn and rage through her body until she was so tightly coiled in a ball on the floor that she thought she might explode.

Then, she did.

With a mighty roar, Rogue leapt to her feet, claws out, and buried them in the middle of her torturer's chest, at the same time as she closed her deadly fangs around his carotid artery and tore, worrying his neck like a rag doll, feeling her claws sink into his heart.

Rogue jumped away, blood and gore on her claws as she spat out a mouthful of flesh and blood.

Lying at her feet, his great heart stopped by her claws and his throat torn out, she watched the light go out of Victor Creed's eyes.

She actually put her foot on his neck and beat her chest and roared in triumph.

Then, she realised he was dead.

Unfortunately, the agony of defeat was coming hard on the heels of victory.

His eyes were wide open, and unseeing, and Sabretooth was dead as he was ever going to be.

Rogue panicked.

"Oh mah God, I've killed him!"

She put her blanket over him, and her pillow under his head, and ran through the compound until she found Victor's rooms.

She was surprised at how neat and orderly they were, and right on the desk was the phone number of a Dr. Mc Coy.

Rogue dialled it.

It was the same doctor, she recognised his voice when he answered the phone.

"Doctor McCoy, you just came here, and treated me, and there's been a terrible accident, and I think he's really dead. Major Creed. I think I've killed him. Can you come right away?"

"Calm down, calm down, Miss Rogue. I know all about Victor Creed, and his physiology. Unless you cut off his head, and threw it far enough away that his body would die before it could find it, he's not really dead. Was this part of your training?"

"Ah think so."

"Then you're in no danger. And neither is he. You go back to where you think he's lying dead, and by now, I'm sure he's alive and well."

"Thank you, Dr. McCoy. May ah ask you an impertinent question?"

"Go ahead."

"Are you blue and furry, or was I really sick?"

He laughed.

"I am blue, and furry, and I do look a little bit like a giant pussycat. But you were sick. I want you to take it easy for another week. Training or no."

"I will, Doctor. Thank you. Good bye."

"Good bye, Miss Rogue."

Rogue returned to her cell, only to find Victor leaving it and locking the door, with the bag she had brought with her slung over his shoulder.

"What the hell was that?" Rogue insisted.

"That was you passing with flyin' colors. Congratulations, Stripe. You're outa boot camp. Let's get the fuck outa here and go home."

"What? How? By killing you?"

"Yep. That's how my grunts showed me they had what it took. And you killed me real good."

"Wait. No more push ups, no more night raids, no more of any of that? No more grunt and dogface, no more marching uphill in the rain, no more fording rivers with my gun over my head, no more fatigues and combat boots?"

"Nope. Your usual clothes suit you a lot better, Stripe. You're not a fatigues an' combat boots kinda woman. I got some of your clothes, here. Hit the showers, go change and go out to the car. Leave the Jeep. I'll be there as soon as I get myself cleaned up an' dressed. And you don't need a gun, do you? Like I said, boot camp's over. You and I are goin' home."

***

Rogue was glad to see the Brotherhood compound fading into the distance.

"When you say home, do you mean, to Central Park West?" Rogue asked Victor.

"On the weekends. During the week, you and me are gonna be living at my place over on the Lower East Side. It's in a rough neighbourhood, but I got a real big place, I got it set out nice, an' nobody ever fucks with me. Nobody. Ever. And no more sir, yes, sir and no more Mr. Creed, either."

Rogue was quiet, for awhile.

"What's the next phase of my training?"

"Well, first you're going to use your new skills to make sure nobody in the street fucks with you, either. Nobody. Ever. Then, after that, I'll be taking you with me on missions. You do what I tell you and don't grow a big brain. So, Stripe, ya wanna go have a beer?"

"I most certainly do not, Victor! I do not drink beer, although I do enjoy an occasional cocktail or a glass of wine. And, furthermore, if it's part of my training I'll have to go into those awful dives with you, but, otherwise, I only go to reputable establishments. You may have tried to make me forget it, but I am a lady."

"I know that, Stripe. That's one of the reasons I picked you."

"I would, however, after I've had a chance to go home, and take a real bath, get a few hours of sleep in my own bed, change my clothes and spend some time with Erik and Raven, be willing to go to dinner with you."

"Oh yeah? Do I need to have one of my suits pressed?"

"It doesn't have to be a fancy place, Victor. Just the kind of place where neither of us has to throw somebody out a window."

"Okay, Stripe. Sure thing." Sabretooth chuckled.

"Victor, did you put me through what you just put me through because you had to, or because you didn't care, either way?"

"Stripe, if you strip the bullshit, an' the costumes an' the hero an' villain jazz offa the whole deal, what it comes down to is, we all work in black ops. Some people, mutant or otherwise, hell, most people, don't have what it takes. I only had one way to find out if you did."

"But what about when ah got sick?"

"You really don't know, do you?"

"No."

"I was takin' care of you. I had to. You were pretty fuckin' sick, kid. I hadda have a doctor come in to look at you. You were in bed for about a week, outa your head with fever. It was pretty bad. But you got better. An' I figured that was my chance to see if you were really ready. And you showed me you were."

"Don't tell my mother. She won't let me continue my training."

"Okay, Stripe. I won't."

It started to snow, a little, and as Rogue counted the months in her mind, she realised it must be close to December.

She looked over at Sabretooth.

"Why me, Victor?"

"Because you remind me of somebody who never got a chance, kid. She deserved one, too. I couldn't do anything for her but stand by and watch her make bad choices that eventually killed her. Not this time."

Rogue was surprised.

Her stepmother had told her that Victor Creed was a brutal, heartless, ruthless man, except for when he wasn't, and having him give a damn about you was a lot worse for you than him being brutal, heartless and ruthless.

"Was it a girl you loved?" she asked.

"Yeah. My mother. Victoria MacPherson Logan Creed. But when buried her, I put Pa's name on her tombstone, not that bastard Zebediah Creed's."

Rogue was shocked.

She had never thought of Victor as being a child, as having a mother, or a father, but that was silly, of course he had.

A long time ago.

"I do? Did…did she love you, too."

"More than anything. She usedta tell me that I was the most important person in to her in the whole world. She left my Pa, and they had been together for almost thirty years, because she wanted to find me a father who could give me a better life."

"Did she pass on recently?"

"No, I was just a kid about 13 when she died. My stepfather killed her. He had me tied down in the basement, and he had torn out most of my claws with pliers, and Ma attacked him. He cut her head off with an axe, and finished the job on me."

"Oh mah Gawd, Victor!"

"He wasn't there, Stripe. I had to see to it justice was done. I hid out until my fangs and my claws grew back, and I killed that son of a bitch like no man before him ever died. Then I looked for her body. He had Ma a barrel like she was so much trash, and I got some of his money to buy her a plot and a headstone. Then I took off on old Zebediah's best horse and went back to my Pa, for awahile. Up in the Rockies."

"Is he still living? Your real father?"

"My Pa? Old Black Tom? He was born in 1760, and he's not even all grey, yet. You know what's gonna kill Pop? The next asteroid. Crazy drunken Irish son of a bitch." Victor replied, fondly.

Rogue snorted, bitterly

"At least you know your mother loved you. And your father. I never met my parents. And no one I was related to ever gave a damn if I lived or died. When Raven found me, I was living in a shack with a shotgun and a sleeping bag, like a God damn animal. It must be nice, Victor. Knowing that, at the very least, the people who gave you life weren't ashamed that you existed. I can't explain how much it hurts, knowing that your family, your own family, reviles you."

"I know, Stripe. I got one living relative besides Pa. My little brother. We got different mothers, but that never meant shit to me. When I first got to Pa's homestead, my little brother, he was two or three years old. He looked just like a tiny little Pa. I only stayed with Pa a year or two before I went down off the mountain. That was a long time ago, when there was nothin' Old about the West, an' I wanted to get in on it while the getting was good. But Jimmy was already pretty attached to me. He cried when I left, tried to hang onto my leg. Ten years later, our Pa had some trouble with Jimmy's mother, they tried to hang her killin' on him, when he wasn't responsible, and Pa had to go on the run. Jimmy was only 12, and Pa got word to me he was all alone, up on the mountain, so I gave up a damn good job and an easy life in a boomtown to go back up on the mountain. I spent ten years raising my little brother, and some of that time was hard times, goddamn hard times, harder than I was used to; I was no mountain man. But I didn't complain, and I didn't really mind, I mean, it was my brother right? Well, Pa came back, an' he had a mining claim in the Yukon. This was during the Gold Rush. 1905, 1906, something like that. Thing were just starting to get better for our family, and then, they wet bad. Real bad."

Victor quit talking for a few moments, but Rogue didn't say a word; she had the feeling he wasn't done yet.

"Anyway, me an' Jimmy got in a mess over some fuckin' woman, an' he turned his back on me. Me. His own fuckin' brother. To this day, he fuckin' hates me over it, over her and some other minor shit. She was nothing but a goddamn whore, anyway, and Jimmy'd rather hate me for killing her than admit that's what she was. Meanwhile, since I was twenty-three years old, an, I'm 97, this year, every time I turn around I hafta pull his runty little ass outa the fire. An' ya know what? The little fucker still hates me. He blames every lousy thing that ever happened to him on me. But he's still my brother, the little fuck. I won't give up on him, till the day he kills me, or I kill him. So, yeah, Stripe, I know just how you feel."

Rogue was thinking that she and Victor had more in common than met the eye.

Then, and idea came into her mind.

An unpleasant one.

"Victor, if I absorbed your powers, them why are my claws different from yours?"

"I'm not sure. But I got an idea. The thing about ferals is, we're all different. Each of us are feral in a different way. Me, both my parents were ferals, and my Ma, she had claws an' fangs like I do. But my Pa, he has claws like the ones you got, an' shorter fangs. But nobody in my family has retractable fangs, like yours. That's just you, Stripe. That's how you're a feral."

"Am I going to be like this, forever?"

"You tell me."

"Well, I've absorbed other people's powers. But they usually wear off me, in a few weeks. But I only absorbed your powers, a few times, and I haven't changed. So, I guess it's permanent. Ah don't know. Maybe the unconscious part of mah mind has some control over this, and it's decided that feral is the way to be."

They both fell silent and Rogue was still thinking about who his brother was.

Then, she thought about her claws, and with stupid belatedness, it hit her.

They looked nothing alike, but he said they had different mothers.

And she could only think of one feral mutant who mixed it up with Victor Creed on a regular basis, who had claws like hers.

Claws like their father's.

His sworn enemy.

"Oh mah Gawd, Victor! Wolverine's your brother?"

"His name is James John Logan Howlett. But yeah, he's my brother. Jimmy, we always called him."

"Why does he go by Logan?"

"Because it's the only part of his name he can remember. He's all fucked up. When they put the metal on him, it fucked his mind. Or they fucked his mind. He remembers enough that he still hates me, though."

Rogue could scarecely believe it.

The whole family story was such a tragedy.

"I'm so sorry, Victor. Ah…ah just don't know what else to say. Words fail me, in thae face of such a terrible family tragedy."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too, Stripe. And you're right. It was a goddamn tragedy right from the start. Yeah, I'm sorry, alright. Sorry that Jimmy's such a fuckin' malcontent an' a pain in the ass. Pa says his mother was high strung. Which is a nice way of saying she was a pain in the ass, too. But I met her. She was a decent woman, a little picky, but she was an aristocrat. But nothin' like Jimmy! Not the pain in the ass he is! My fuckin' brother. The goddamn Wolverine. The world's smallest giant. Jesus wept."

Rogue couldn't help it, that world's smallest giant comment made her laugh.

Victor laughed, too.

"I'm sorry, Victor, ah shouldn't be laughing."

"It's alright, Stripe. I'm laughin' too. Whaddya know, we're back in the city, already. You too good for Grossmann's?"

"Of course not. Victor, can we park here?"

"Sure we can. The Sarge is parked here. If he can park here, so can I."

"The Sarge?"

"My once and future boss. Eddie Blake."

***

It was the dinner hour, and Grossmann's was packed.

Only Sabretooth would have the balls to frequent a restaurant frequented by superheroes.

Of course, only the Comedian would have the balls to be friendly and say hello.

"Hey, look, kid, it's Vic." He observed to Liv Napier.

"I see that, Eddie."

"Where the fuck did you go? C'mon, siddown. Both of youse. Steve, don't gimme that look. You want him back on our side, dontcha?"

Rogue noticed that Liv was looking a whole lot better; not having seen her for six months, the change for the better was obvious.

Whatever they were doing for her, it was working.

"I had Stripe in boot camp. She passed."

"Oh yeah? You startin' her on the other side of the cape?"

"Well, yeah, Sarge."

"Good. Then when you come back in an' bring her with youse, we'll have another operative who knows the enemy from the inside."

"You're that sure I'm comin' in from the cold, Sarge?"

"Hey, you might be a lot of things, Vic, but you ain't stupid. When you cool off enough to realise that you can't beat Uncle Sam, you'll be back. Speakin' of which. I been lookin' for you. There's a problem."

"What about Jimmy?"

"We need backup. Hey, ah, kid, why don't you and Rogue go sit at the next table for a little while?"

"What, I'm not in on this?"

"You might be. But your friend isn't."

"Oh. Right."

Victor gave Rogue some money to buy her dinner, and she and Liv sat two tables over.

"So, how was it?" Liv asked.

"Horrible. You couldn't imagine." Rogue told her.

"Sure I could. I went to Vic's boot camp from hell. It wasn't so bad." Liv shrugged.

"Not for you, maybe."

"Well, you're always sayin' how you're a lady. Like the princess and the pea. So, any developments?"

"I can touch Victor without harming him. And I think I've permanently absorbed being a feral mutant."

"Man, I wish I could do that."

"Liv, you're already feral."

Liv laughed.

"Can you hear them, Rogue?"

"Of course. But ah don't speak Russian. They got us."

"Fuck they do! I speak Russian. Tell me what they're sayin', and I'll tell you what it means."