(no subject)
Title: #24 Enemies
Prompt set: Alpha
Character: Sabretooth, Wolverine
'Verse: 616 comic, no actual timeline
Words: 300 (Can never get myself to stop at 100, I guess)
"So, how do you figure you’re going to die?" It was one of those moments ages ago when there wasn’t anything to do but kill time in between mission briefings. Victor shrugged and took a pull from his beer.
"Dunno. Probably guns blazing, giving hell until the end. You?"
"More than likely the same way. Probably after some hell of a fight."
"Yeah, that’d be the way to go."
Many years later, the two of them sat some ways apart from the other. Logan’s eye was slowly growing back from where Victor had gouged it out. Victor sat slumped over, trying to breathe through sliced lungs.
"We ever have that hell of a fight?" Logan’s voice sounded odd as his throat knitted back together.
Victor snorted, tossing his head back to get blood-matted hair out of his eyes. "Not really."
"You think we ever will?"
He shrugged. "Probably not. You want to be the guy that finishes me off?" Victor wasn’t expecting an answer, but he got one anyway.
Logan's reply was harsh, angry even after all these years. "No. Me killing you is too good of a way for you to die. You deserve worse." Victor absently thought that the runt probably didn’t even remember the original reason he’s angry, just that he should be.
It made him laugh, which sounded more like a gasping wheeze. "Funny, I could say the same about you."
"So, what’s it gonna be? We keep at this until somebody else does the job for us?"
In all honesty, Victor never really knew why he and Logan fought any more. It just happened and after a while it became as natural a thing to do as breathing. It made him feel old. No, worse than old, it made him feel tired. "Yeah, guess so."
***
Title: #41 forgotten
Character: Victor, Logan
Theme set: Alpha
Weekly challenge: Memory
'Verse: Comics
Rating: PG for language
Words: 293
They used to play pool together. Some nights they’d take on everybody from the old locals to the kids barely old enough to drink. They were good and they were liked - Logan usually insisted that he buy a round for the losers so that there wouldn’t be any sore feelings.
They used to drink together. Whiskey, straight up. Sometimes Victor would slip out of his chair before Logan, but more often than not Logan would end up with his ass on the floor first, laughing like a fool. One time they made some bartender in Alberta stinking rich just off the bets other patrons placed on them alone.
They used to bullshit together. One bedroom conquest after another was swapped over beer and cigarettes, each more than likely blown wildly out of proportion. It was always some redhead for Logan, always some blonde for Victor. Sometimes they thought about keeping a tally, but they never got around to it.
They used to back each other up. Logan tended to hold back and let Victor take care of whoever they were ordered to take out, offering backup whenever he felt Creed was in over his head. Ammo clips were tossed to one another when they needed reloading, and a simple look paired with a nod of the head was enough of a battle strategy for them.
Now all they do is fight each other. Fight after fight, one leaves the other for dead, never quite finishing the other off for good. Hatred is almost a tangible thing between them. Sometimes Victor remembers how they used to be friends. Logan never does, mostly because those memories have been wiped from his mind, forgotten forever.
Sometimes Victor hates him even more for that reason alone.
***
Title: #33 Stupidity
Character: Victor Creed
Theme set: Alpha
'Verse: Comics
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 705
Stupid. It was just plain stupid that he, Mister Assassin for Hire, had to stand in line of some damn mini-bank just to cash in a check. It was all some asshole’s idea of a joke, making him cash in a twenty dollar check just so he could get the rest of his twenty-thousand reward wired directly to his bank account. The sheer stupidity of it all was enough for Victor to go back to Utah and gut his employer, but he needed the cash.
It was hot. It was late. His stomach complained since he had neglected to eat for what was going on the second day straight. Too busy tracking down his mark to stop anywhere. He was going to use the twenty and buy the biggest goddamn steak he could find. With potatoes. Mmm, steak and potatoes. His stomach growled again, this time louder.
The people in front of him in line bothered him. There was a kid clinging onto his mother’s pant leg and staring up at him. Victor looked down and gave him a toothy smile which the boy smiled back at, still too young to know it was considered rude to stare at strangers. Some old guy at the counter was having trouble taking money out of his account, insisting to the teller that there was money in there to take out. Victor shifted on his feet and stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to block out the crappy music that was being piped from speakers overhead.
That’s when all hell broke loose. Three men ran in, shouting for the teller to give them all the money. People screamed when one of them shot the security cameras, then screamed louder when another shot the security guard as he tried to get his gun out of his holster. Victor grinned and rubbed his hands together, thinking that the day had finally started to look up. There were too many witnesses for Victor to actually kill the would-be robbers, but he decided that maiming was half the fun anyway.
It was over in about ten seconds. The guy closest to Victor’s right was trying to get everyone into some sort semblance of order. He made the mistake of waving his gun in front of Victor’s face. Creed grabbed the guy’s arm, twisted until he heard the bones break, then slammed him against the wall. The sound of skull hitting marble was like music to his ears. Guy number two tried to come to his friend’s rescue, but wound up with a broken jaw and dislocated knee for his efforts. The third man had turned around from hassling the bank teller long enough for him to take aim at Victor and fire. The bullets made it hard to breathe - probably punctured a lung - but didn’t slow him down. Guy number three screamed like a girl before Victor knocked him out, his body sliding down onto the floor with a thump.
Victor coughed, grimacing as he wiped blood off his mouth with the back of his hand. More blood was slowly seeping out from his chest and back, making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his body. Damn, and he had liked the shirt he was wearing. It was so hard for him to find clothes that he actually liked. He kicked guy number three in the ribs out of principle, wincing when the movement made his healing muscles stretch painfully. He leaned on the counter and stared at the cashier. She was speechless and shaking.
“You okay?” he asked. His voice was slightly garbled, seeing that one of the bullets had nicked his throat before he had time to dodge it.
The teller nodded as she shook herself out of her stupor. She finally gave him a good look and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Oh my God, you need a doctor.” Victor didn’t know what the hell she thought she would do with the handful of Kleenex she grabbed from her desk, but he waved her hands away.
“No,” Victor said, patience nearly gone. He’d been in the bank long enough. “What I really need is for you to cash this damn check. It’s been nothing but trouble.”
***
Title: #2 Dream
Character: Victor Creed
Theme set: Alpha
'Verse: Comics
Rating: G
Words: 168
Victor keeps a picture of a girl and her father playing catch in his wallet. He lifted it off a person he had been hired to kill, and though he doesn’t know why he should keep it, he can’t make himself throw it out. All you can see of the man is his back and part of his right side, but his build is somewhat similar to Victor’s own. The girl has to be about ten or so, her light blonde hair in a ponytail and a grass stain on her left knee. The entire photo is warped and curved from where he keeps his billfold in the back pocket of his jeans.
Some nights when the nightmares come and leave him wanting to crawl out of his skin, he can take the picture out and pretend that somewhere he has a normal family with a two car garage instead of a cold, empty apartment. Other nights, no amount of staring at the girl’s smile can help him.
***
Title: #47 Metal
Character: Victor Creed
Theme set: Alpha
'Verse: 616 Comicverse
Rating: PG-type bloody bits
Words: 189
Victor hates messes. That’s why when they put the metal over his bones, he slices his arm open over the sink. He doesn’t do it out of pleasure or because he particularly enjoys doing so, but just to make sure that it’s really there like they promised. He makes certain that no one can see him; that nobody is there to witness how pale his face gets or how he’s drenched in cold sweat every time he uses his claws to make an incision and then again to pull muscle and tissue out of the way. Seeing that would be a weakness, and Sabretooth does not consider himself a weak man. Sometimes he puts his forearm under the tap and watches as the blood washes away long enough to show adamantium. In that moment, he forgets the white-hot pain. All he feels is invincible. He stares at the metal until it becomes blocked by skin rapidly knitting itself back together and his arm is as unblemished as it had been only minutes before.
Then he rinses off, rolls his sleeve down over his arm, and goes about his business
Prompt set: Alpha
Character: Sabretooth, Wolverine
'Verse: 616 comic, no actual timeline
Words: 300 (Can never get myself to stop at 100, I guess)
"So, how do you figure you’re going to die?" It was one of those moments ages ago when there wasn’t anything to do but kill time in between mission briefings. Victor shrugged and took a pull from his beer.
"Dunno. Probably guns blazing, giving hell until the end. You?"
"More than likely the same way. Probably after some hell of a fight."
"Yeah, that’d be the way to go."
Many years later, the two of them sat some ways apart from the other. Logan’s eye was slowly growing back from where Victor had gouged it out. Victor sat slumped over, trying to breathe through sliced lungs.
"We ever have that hell of a fight?" Logan’s voice sounded odd as his throat knitted back together.
Victor snorted, tossing his head back to get blood-matted hair out of his eyes. "Not really."
"You think we ever will?"
He shrugged. "Probably not. You want to be the guy that finishes me off?" Victor wasn’t expecting an answer, but he got one anyway.
Logan's reply was harsh, angry even after all these years. "No. Me killing you is too good of a way for you to die. You deserve worse." Victor absently thought that the runt probably didn’t even remember the original reason he’s angry, just that he should be.
It made him laugh, which sounded more like a gasping wheeze. "Funny, I could say the same about you."
"So, what’s it gonna be? We keep at this until somebody else does the job for us?"
In all honesty, Victor never really knew why he and Logan fought any more. It just happened and after a while it became as natural a thing to do as breathing. It made him feel old. No, worse than old, it made him feel tired. "Yeah, guess so."
***
Title: #41 forgotten
Character: Victor, Logan
Theme set: Alpha
Weekly challenge: Memory
'Verse: Comics
Rating: PG for language
Words: 293
They used to play pool together. Some nights they’d take on everybody from the old locals to the kids barely old enough to drink. They were good and they were liked - Logan usually insisted that he buy a round for the losers so that there wouldn’t be any sore feelings.
They used to drink together. Whiskey, straight up. Sometimes Victor would slip out of his chair before Logan, but more often than not Logan would end up with his ass on the floor first, laughing like a fool. One time they made some bartender in Alberta stinking rich just off the bets other patrons placed on them alone.
They used to bullshit together. One bedroom conquest after another was swapped over beer and cigarettes, each more than likely blown wildly out of proportion. It was always some redhead for Logan, always some blonde for Victor. Sometimes they thought about keeping a tally, but they never got around to it.
They used to back each other up. Logan tended to hold back and let Victor take care of whoever they were ordered to take out, offering backup whenever he felt Creed was in over his head. Ammo clips were tossed to one another when they needed reloading, and a simple look paired with a nod of the head was enough of a battle strategy for them.
Now all they do is fight each other. Fight after fight, one leaves the other for dead, never quite finishing the other off for good. Hatred is almost a tangible thing between them. Sometimes Victor remembers how they used to be friends. Logan never does, mostly because those memories have been wiped from his mind, forgotten forever.
Sometimes Victor hates him even more for that reason alone.
***
Title: #33 Stupidity
Character: Victor Creed
Theme set: Alpha
'Verse: Comics
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 705
Stupid. It was just plain stupid that he, Mister Assassin for Hire, had to stand in line of some damn mini-bank just to cash in a check. It was all some asshole’s idea of a joke, making him cash in a twenty dollar check just so he could get the rest of his twenty-thousand reward wired directly to his bank account. The sheer stupidity of it all was enough for Victor to go back to Utah and gut his employer, but he needed the cash.
It was hot. It was late. His stomach complained since he had neglected to eat for what was going on the second day straight. Too busy tracking down his mark to stop anywhere. He was going to use the twenty and buy the biggest goddamn steak he could find. With potatoes. Mmm, steak and potatoes. His stomach growled again, this time louder.
The people in front of him in line bothered him. There was a kid clinging onto his mother’s pant leg and staring up at him. Victor looked down and gave him a toothy smile which the boy smiled back at, still too young to know it was considered rude to stare at strangers. Some old guy at the counter was having trouble taking money out of his account, insisting to the teller that there was money in there to take out. Victor shifted on his feet and stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to block out the crappy music that was being piped from speakers overhead.
That’s when all hell broke loose. Three men ran in, shouting for the teller to give them all the money. People screamed when one of them shot the security cameras, then screamed louder when another shot the security guard as he tried to get his gun out of his holster. Victor grinned and rubbed his hands together, thinking that the day had finally started to look up. There were too many witnesses for Victor to actually kill the would-be robbers, but he decided that maiming was half the fun anyway.
It was over in about ten seconds. The guy closest to Victor’s right was trying to get everyone into some sort semblance of order. He made the mistake of waving his gun in front of Victor’s face. Creed grabbed the guy’s arm, twisted until he heard the bones break, then slammed him against the wall. The sound of skull hitting marble was like music to his ears. Guy number two tried to come to his friend’s rescue, but wound up with a broken jaw and dislocated knee for his efforts. The third man had turned around from hassling the bank teller long enough for him to take aim at Victor and fire. The bullets made it hard to breathe - probably punctured a lung - but didn’t slow him down. Guy number three screamed like a girl before Victor knocked him out, his body sliding down onto the floor with a thump.
Victor coughed, grimacing as he wiped blood off his mouth with the back of his hand. More blood was slowly seeping out from his chest and back, making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his body. Damn, and he had liked the shirt he was wearing. It was so hard for him to find clothes that he actually liked. He kicked guy number three in the ribs out of principle, wincing when the movement made his healing muscles stretch painfully. He leaned on the counter and stared at the cashier. She was speechless and shaking.
“You okay?” he asked. His voice was slightly garbled, seeing that one of the bullets had nicked his throat before he had time to dodge it.
The teller nodded as she shook herself out of her stupor. She finally gave him a good look and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Oh my God, you need a doctor.” Victor didn’t know what the hell she thought she would do with the handful of Kleenex she grabbed from her desk, but he waved her hands away.
“No,” Victor said, patience nearly gone. He’d been in the bank long enough. “What I really need is for you to cash this damn check. It’s been nothing but trouble.”
***
Title: #2 Dream
Character: Victor Creed
Theme set: Alpha
'Verse: Comics
Rating: G
Words: 168
Victor keeps a picture of a girl and her father playing catch in his wallet. He lifted it off a person he had been hired to kill, and though he doesn’t know why he should keep it, he can’t make himself throw it out. All you can see of the man is his back and part of his right side, but his build is somewhat similar to Victor’s own. The girl has to be about ten or so, her light blonde hair in a ponytail and a grass stain on her left knee. The entire photo is warped and curved from where he keeps his billfold in the back pocket of his jeans.
Some nights when the nightmares come and leave him wanting to crawl out of his skin, he can take the picture out and pretend that somewhere he has a normal family with a two car garage instead of a cold, empty apartment. Other nights, no amount of staring at the girl’s smile can help him.
***
Title: #47 Metal
Character: Victor Creed
Theme set: Alpha
'Verse: 616 Comicverse
Rating: PG-type bloody bits
Words: 189
Victor hates messes. That’s why when they put the metal over his bones, he slices his arm open over the sink. He doesn’t do it out of pleasure or because he particularly enjoys doing so, but just to make sure that it’s really there like they promised. He makes certain that no one can see him; that nobody is there to witness how pale his face gets or how he’s drenched in cold sweat every time he uses his claws to make an incision and then again to pull muscle and tissue out of the way. Seeing that would be a weakness, and Sabretooth does not consider himself a weak man. Sometimes he puts his forearm under the tap and watches as the blood washes away long enough to show adamantium. In that moment, he forgets the white-hot pain. All he feels is invincible. He stares at the metal until it becomes blocked by skin rapidly knitting itself back together and his arm is as unblemished as it had been only minutes before.
Then he rinses off, rolls his sleeve down over his arm, and goes about his business