Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/254198.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Wolverine_(2009), X-Men_(Movieverse)
  Relationship:
      Victor_Creed/Remy_LeBeau
  Character:
      Victor_Creed, Remy_LeBeau, William_Stryker_(Movieverse)
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Violence, Underage_Character, Prison, Medical_Experiments, Medical
      Experimentation, Dehumanization, Anal_Sex, Masturbation, Stockholm
      Syndrome, Mutation, Sexual_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-09-17 Updated: 2013-05-30 Chapters: 3/? Words: 13724
****** Die Cast ******
by hjbender
Summary
     Victor Creed, working as part of Colonel Stryker's mutant roundup
     program, captures and brutalizes a teenage mutant in New Orleans one
     night, unwittingly altering both of their lives forever.
***** First Bite *****
die casting – (noun) a process by which molten matter is forced under high
pressure into a mold
casting the die – (idiom) to commit an irrevocable decision; leave to fate
 
                                     * * *
It might have been impossible if not for Victor Creed. The Project would have
taken decades to complete, perhaps even left unfinished by the power-starved,
results-driven military, aborted by ethics treaties or a lack of financial
backing or God knows what else the U.S. government could pull out of its
filthy, corrupted asshole. But Creed, unlike Wraith or Dukes, had no conscience
to contaminate with guilt; he was easily bought, asked for little, seldom
complained, and genuinely seemed to enjoy his job. The hallmarks of a true
soldier.
But soldier was only a title. Victor was foremost an animal, a predator, and he
preyed upon the young and unsuspecting, hunting them down with an instinct only
a rare few of his kind possessed.
Zero would have been Stryker’s first choice for the task, being that he was
more loyal and obedient than his violent, unpredictable associate, but he
lacked the one thing that made Victor so special: the ability to track mutants,
to sniff them out like a feral cat and catch them, no matter how well they hid
or how far they ran. Victor was all instinct and gut-reaction; Zero was
calculated skill and self-discipline, and he didn’t have Creed’s gift.
After Logan had walked out on Team X in favor of the simple life, Stryker
appointed Creed as the head of the “collections department” for his new
enterprise. Victor was allowed to indulge his natural hunting instincts and
promised a handsome bonus in the future, making the arrangement satisfactory
for both parties. Of course, being prohibited from killing his catches often
left Victor with a gnawing, consuming frustration and enough rage to level a
city block. But he found other ways to appease his hunger without completely
annihilating his prey. Stryker either didn’t know or didn’t care—all that
mattered to him was adding to his little zoo, and the condition in which his
test subjects arrived didn’t concern him in the least. So Victor got his pound
of flesh, Stryker got his syringe of DNA, and everyone except the lab rats
lived happily ever after.
But, like all great romances and genocides, there was always The One That Got
Away.
 
                                     * * *
They were two years and ten-something “volunteers” into the Project when
Victor’s continental scavenger hunt brought him to the humid, murky bowels of
Louisiana, sniffing through kudzu, stalking the banks of the Mississippi,
prowling the heavily-wooded highways and seedy truckstop bars in search of
mutant flesh. Zero, never more than an hour’s flight away, operated out of the
major cities and was always ready to swoop in and pick up the cargo. Mostly,
though, he just sat back and let Creed do his thing. Pounding the pavement was
for grunts.
It was in a steamy, cluttered alley on the shittier end of Bourbon Street that
Victor finally picked up the scent. It was thin and subtle, floating on top of
the odors of grease and garbage and car exhaust; most likely a young mutant
with budding new powers. Victor paused, nose high and nostrils quivering, the
hair on the back of his neck standing up in excitement. He inhaled deeply,
filling his lungs, letting the aroma find its way into his primal core, adding
to the collection he had been carrying for nearly two centuries. Once committed
to memory, a scent was never forgotten.
With a predatory grin curling his lips, Victor bounded into the shadows and
vanished to human eyes, following the trail that would lead him to his prize.
 
                                     * * *
It was indeed a young mutant: male, brunette, 5’8”, about 140 pounds, barely
sixteen years old. He reeked with the musk of testosterone and sweat and raw
sexuality. He also smoked Gauloises, drank Jack Daniel’s, and had recently
eaten sweet and sour shrimp, but Victor didn’t need to see him to know that.
Not that he didn’t mind looking—the kid was easy on the eyes, at least a seven
or eight, though more pretty than handsome at this particular stage of
development. The silk shirt, black jeans and snakeskin boots complemented his
slim frame nicely. Maybe in a few years he’d fill out into a ten, becoming a
sturdier, more chiseled version of the rangy adolescent Victor saw before him.
Of course, Victor wasn’t particular about the age or sex of his prey; meat was
meat, and as long as it was served fresh, nothing else mattered.
He did, however, savor the tender stuff.
He stalked the boy through the drizzly dregs of the French Quarter, past the
gleaming neon signs of adult movie theaters and crowded bars and gambling
houses blasting blues and rockabilly out into the streets. Victor’s hunger grew
deeper the longer he shadowed this kid, his anticipation and arousal sharpening
with each passing minute until he didn’t know whether he should fuck this
pretty little morsel or eat him. Both ideas sounded great at this point, but
Stryker would probably be annoyed if he was brought a mangled, masticated
corpse instead of a living, breathing specimen. But Stryker didn’t have to
know, and what Stryker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Victor decided to wait,
see how things went. If the kid cooperated, maybe he’d be worth keeping around.
His patience was soon rewarded; the boy turned down a narrow, empty avenue and
began making his way toward the row of dilapidated apartments crouched at the
opposite end. Victor lowered himself onto all fours, his pupils dilating as he
homed in on his prey, then he leaped out of the shadows as silently as a
panther.
He expected an easy take-down—pounce, pin, drag away—but discovered too late
that he had underestimated his quarry.
He was stretched out in mid-air, claws extended, when the kid whipped around
with a half-dollar coin glowing between his burning red fingertips. His eyes
widened when Victor’s shadow fell over him, and he cried, “Sacredieu!” before
hurling the coin at his attacker.
The blazing projectile, more missile than money, hit Victor squarely in the
chest and erupted like a fire bomb, sending him careening up into a fire escape
and crashing down into a cluster of garbage cans. As the pain receded to a dull
ache, he bared his teeth and snarled angrily, hauling himself from the pile of
trash and launching down the alley in pursuit of his fleeing target. In two
bounds he had caught up and leaped into the air again, only this time he was
prepared for the counterstrike.
The kid turned at the last second and tossed another ballistic coin toward his
assailant. A look of horror crossed his attractive young face when the
makeshift bullet streaked over Victor’s shoulder and exploded harmlessly
against the side of a building. Then two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle
and malevolence slammed him onto the wet pavement like a fist hammering an
insect. The back of his head struck the asphalt and half a mil in Mardi Gras
fireworks blossomed through his darkening mind. His eyes fluttered shut, his
muscles went limp, and he was out like a light.
Victor raised himself into a crouch and took a few moments to study the
teenager sprawled beneath him. He looked dead—maybe a broken spine or a smashed
skull. Victor reached out and wrapped his hand around the slender throat,
feeling the faint pulse throb against his claws. Still alive. Unconscious,
possibly crippled, but still alive. Excellent. This had worked out better than
expected.
With a neutral expression, Victor hauled the boy onto his shoulder like a
carcass and rose to his feet. That storehouse over there seemed like a good
place. Dark, secluded, relatively quiet; he’d be able to take his time and
enjoy the spoils of his hunt.
Like a jaguar dragging a fresh kill to the safety of the trees, Victor strode
toward the building with his senseless victim.
 
                                     * * *
Dim orange streetlight slanted through the filmy window panes and onto the
concrete floor in uneven rectangles. Victor dumped the boy half-in and half-out
of the shadows and squatted down, studying him at a more intimate range. The
smell of blood entered his nostrils and he leaned down, sniffing until he found
the source: a small abrasion on the back of the kid’s head, probably from that
little tap on the tarmac. Nothing serious.
Victor didn’t jump in immediately, as was his usual method of operation; this
time he had the rare luxury of unconscious prey and no deadline, and he planned
to use both to his advantage. Moving from toe to temple, he slowly partook of
each scent offered to him by his quarry, not so much sniffing as reading the
events of the boy’s day: homemade soap from that morning’s shower; bacon and
orange and cigarette breakfast odors in his hair; old wallpaper and termite-
eaten wood of a shabby home; lavender shampoo that didn’t overpower the sweet
natural oils of his scalp; no cologne, thank Christ, Victor hated the stuff;
week-old jeans, days-old shirt; lingering perfume from a female admirer;
buttery sidewalk popcorn and coffee with vanilla cream; 24-hour New Orleans
street sweat; coins and cards on his fingertips; and something else, perhaps
his mutant power—electric and acrid, overheated atoms and ozone, salt and skin.
Victor couldn’t decide if he liked it or not, but it was certainly an
interesting smell.
Now that his nose was satisfied, other parts of his body required similar
attention. Using the claw of his index finger, Victor reached out and drew a
line down the length of the boy’s shirt, popping off buttons and quietly
shredding through the silk fabric. The torn shirt slid open, revealing a
smooth, hairless chest and lean stomach that Victor took in with the carnal
appreciation of an experienced rapist. He set to work on the jeans next,
fumbling with the button and zipper, neither of which were designed for ease of
use by men with three-inch claws. He jerked the denim down around the kid’s
thighs—good enough for now—and leaned down to inhale the warm, musky scent
rising from his exposed genitals.
Living meat.
Victor began to salivate uncontrollably, his cock hardening at the same time.
He unbuttoned his trousers with one hand and allowed his erection to spring
out, already flushed red and beading at the tip. He moved up to the boy’s face
and grasped it with one large hand, prying his jaws open. His claws dug into
the tender cheek as he ducked his head, licking the soft, full lips before
thrusting his tongue into the pliant mouth.
It wasn’t a kiss. Victor Creed had no concept of romantic love and was
incapable of expressing anything remotely resembling care or affection. This
was a vulgar imitation of a kiss, a ruthless, penetrative act of lust and
violence, and he did it purely out of sadistic pleasure.
He moved to the kid’s neck, leaving a trail of saliva from ear to throat,
dragging his teeth across the pulsing jugular—so much blood just waiting to be
spilled—and sucked at the warm, salty skin. He could almost taste the blood,
thick and hot and coppery, filling his entire mouth. His cock gave an excited
twitch at the thought, and he gently clamped his fangs onto the throbbing
flesh, almost daring himself to bite down. But there was still so much more to
be enjoyed; it would be a shame to waste it because he couldn’t control
himself.
Lifting away from the temptation, Victor sat up and straddled the boy’s legs,
scraping his claws down the bare chest like a cat stretching after a long nap.
Red streaks appeared on the once-flawless white skin, jagged trails that ended
just below the boy’s navel. Victor leaned down and dragged his tongue over the
marks he’d just made, lapping his way up the lambskin-soft flesh of the kid’s
chest, latching onto a warm, pebbly nipple and biting it lightly.
The taste of this kid was amazing. Victor had never had anything like it
before.
He wanted more.
Slipping his deadly hands beneath the boy’s limp upper body, Victor dragged him
up off the cold concrete and into a sitting position. Then he grasped a fistful
of that fine brunette hair, pulled it back, and sank his teeth into the kid’s
trapezius.
There was a dull pop as Victor’s fangs punctured the flesh, then the warm,
metallic flavor of blood rushed into his mouth. The taste and the feeling and
the satisfaction of the first bite was almost enough to push him over the edge.
He clutched the boy tightly, his claws piercing the delicate skin, and bit down
harder, squeezing more blood into his mouth. How he would love to lift his
head, just tear out the side of this little gutter rat’s neck, tendons snapping
and blood gushing—
The muscle under Victor’s mouth suddenly moved. The heartbeat on his tongue
quickened. The legs beneath him shifted, waking up. Coming to.
A soft, wordless moan escaped the boy’s lips.
Victor pulled back just as the kid raised his head, and he was suddenly staring
into a pair of very confused, very pretty green eyes.
A second passed before the teen’s senses finally caught up with him, and when
they did, those pretty green eyes flared ruby-red like all the flames and fury
in Hell.
Not a problem.
Victor nonchalantly grasped his victim’s throat and shoved him down onto the
concrete, pinning him with practically no effort. The boy reached up with
glowing fingertips to scrabble at the iron-like hand wrapped around his neck.
“Be still,” Victor muttered in a low, threatening growl, “or I’ll crush the
life right outta you.” He tightened his grip to show that he was willing and
capable of such a feat, and the kid let out a strangled cough.
“M’syuh, p-please,” he grunted, squirming and writhing as his wounded shoulder
began to seep blood onto the floor. “Don’ do dis. Listen, I, I fix whatevah I
done. I give it all back, I swear, jus’ le’ me—”
Though Victor was less than happy about the interruption, he was intrigued to
hear the attractive drawl in the kid’s scratchy, pubescent voice. “Well, well,”
he rumbled, giving a half-smile and showing off his bloodstained teeth. “Cajun,
huh? Never had that before . . . I hear it tastes great.”
The red light in the kid’s eyes went out, replaced with utter horror. Victor
chuckled. That was more like it.
“Let me tell you how this is gonna go, kiddo,” he explained patiently. “You’ve
got somethin’ I want. I’m gonna take it from you. I don’t need your
cooperation, but it would probably be in your best interest to do what I say.”
Tears of desperate, helpless rage welled in the young man’s eyes as Victor
tauntingly pressed his claws into his skin.
“But if you wanna fight me, give it your best shot. You won’t win. Get me angry
enough and I might even rip your guts out and eat ‘em. And believe me,
sweetheart, you will be alive to see it.
“Now, was any of that unclear? Do I need to repeat myself?”
Lips trembling and tears rolling from the corners of his eyes, the boy gave a
faint shake of his head. Victor loosened his grip by slow degrees until he
finally lifted his hand from the kid’s throat. The boy stayed where he was,
obediently frozen in place, sprawled out on the concrete half-naked and
bleeding and disheveled—truly a gorgeous sight, but Victor had never been one
to appreciate beauty, at least in its natural state. He appreciated the smell
of fear, though, and his victim was positively saturated with it.
“That’s better,” he murmured, leaning down and laying his large, rough hand on
the kid’s chest, feeling the marrow-deep shivers of adrenaline and shock
coursing through his body, muscles all tight and tense, like a frightened
rabbit trapped under the paw of a cougar, paralyzed by its own terror.
Victor couldn’t help but smile as he slid his hand downward, over the boy’s
jumpy, nervous abdomen and into the wiry patch of hair between his legs. The
kid closed his eyes tightly and turned his head, clenching his fists as claws
scraped down the length of his flaccid penis.
“Please, m’syuh,” he hissed between his teeth, “I m-make a deal wit’ you.
Anyt’ing. I have friends—”
“No deals,” Victor muttered, placing his other hand on the boy’s throat again.
“Now quiet.”
“Non, wait, please-!”
The kid’s voice cracked as he realized the futility of his bargaining and the
imminence of his fate. Though Victor was beginning to miss the silence and was
sorely tempted to do something about it, the experience would be far more
enjoyable if he kept the boy conscious; nothing felt quite so good as a little
resistance.
So he grabbed the runt by the jaw and looked him in the eye, feral hazel to
domesticated green. “You wanna spend the last moments of your life in agony? It
can be arranged,” he said in a deep, menacing growl.
The boy shook his head as best as he could in Victor’s grasp.
“Then shut up. Relax. It’ll only hurt for a little while.”
It was a lie, of course, but honesty had never mattered much to Victor. It
still did the trick. The kid complied from then on, though he cried out and
struggled briefly when Victor first penetrated him with his clawed fingers.
After that he remained surprisingly composed, sobbing only once or twice as he
lay pinned beneath his attacker, enduring the escalating savagery of the brutal
assault. And Victor was brutal, holding nothing back as he relentlessly thrust
and bit and left violent welts all over that smooth young body. Kid could take
a beating, that was for sure. Victor was faintly impressed.
“Good boy,” he purred, sitting back and watching his cock, blood-streaked and
spit-slick, glide into the kid’s clean, pretty little ass. It must have been
painful, given Victor’s impressive size, but the kid just bit his lip and
endured, his brow creased in silent agony and his eyelashes wet with tears.
Kind of cute, really. He probably thought he was denying his rapist some sort
of pleasure by holding back all his reactions and playing it tough, stifling
the screams and the wails and the begging when it was obvious they were all
there on the inside.
Teenagers. They think they’re so goddamn cool. Victor put a little more power
into his thrusts, just to add to the hurt. He was a bastard like that, and he
liked to test his victims.
But the kid took everything Victor could give him, even when Victor climaxed
with a wild snarl and slammed in balls-deep, clutching the slim thighs and
spilling his thick, vile seed into his shuddering prey. Sure, there were tears
pouring from the kid’s eyes and he looked as if more than his body had been
violated, but he didn’t fight and he didn’t scream—just stared at Victor’s
swinging dog tags and held his bottom lip between his teeth. Probably in shock,
catatonic trauma, some psychological bullshit thing like that. It happened to a
lot of Victor’s conquests. Not everyone can get ravaged by a feral mutant and
come out whistling Dixie in the end.
The kid shut down after that, either passing out or slipping into a deathlike
sleep. He didn’t respond to any of Victor’s skin-piercing nudges, so he wasn’t
playing possum. Confident that the little swamp rat wasn’t going anywhere,
Victor ducked out for a few minutes and put in the call to Zero. He returned to
the storehouse a short while later to find his prey lying in the lone square of
streetlight, curled up on his side on the cold concrete like an aborted fetus,
slimy with blood and sweat and leaking semen from his abused hole. He was still
unresponsive, but Victor didn’t trust him to stay that way for much longer. He
sat nearby and kept vigil over his trophy and waited for Zero to arrive.
The kid woke up about thirty minutes later, shivering and pale and folded in
pain, mumbling an incoherent mixture of Southern English and Cajun French.
Victor told him in very coherent English to shut up and get dressed—they were
going to take a ride. The kid numbly obeyed, pulling his jeans up over his
scratched-to-hell thighs with shaking hands and doing his best with his
shredded shirt; he folded one side over the other and wrapped his arms around
himself, looking sick and miserable.
Victor took him by the elbow and dragged him up several flights of rickety
metal stairs to the rooftop, where they waited in the mild, humid night.
Everything was normal down on the streets—music playing and dice rolling and
people getting drunk, having a good time. They had no idea. They never do.
After about twenty-five minutes, the thumping of copter blades cut through the
swampy air and a matte-black UH-60 touched down on the rooftop. The side door
slid open and the kid was bundled into the helicopter by two members of
Stryker’s research team. They immediately set to work cuffing, sedating and
restraining the valuable—if battered—test subject.
Turned around in the co-pilot seat, Zero studied the wounds on Victor’s latest
catch, then gave his associate a cold, irritated glare. “Do you always have to
do this to them?”
“Just weeding out the weak and worthless,” Victor replied cattily, sliding into
the rear seat.
“You could alter his mutation at that age, did you know that?” Zero snapped.
“Put enough DNA from a mature mutant into one who’s just developing and you can
affect him for life.”
Victor grinned smugly. “I’d say I’ve definitely affected him for life.”
Zero, realizing that it was pointless trying to reason with a dumb animal,
shook his head and ordered the pilot to take off. The helicopter slowly lifted
into the air, banked eastward, and left the glittering golden lights of New
Orleans behind, taking with it a young Cajun whose name no longer mattered.
***** Subject 19 *****
John Wraith and Fred Dukes were just leaving the facility when the Team X
copter touched down on the helipad. The two mutants exchanged glances that said
the same thing: Victor’s back. They watched grimly as the doors opened and a
young man—no, more of a boy—was pulled out of the aircraft by the waiting
guards. He looked like a crash victim, a poster child for abuse recovery: his
clothes were torn, his hair a ratty tangle, his skin cut and bloodied, his face
blank with shock. It was painfully obvious that his injuries were no accident;
the laceration patterns were too familiar.
One more notch for Creed.
The research team began briefing the guards on this most recent addition to the
project as they hustled the boy, bound and limping, toward the receiving bay.
Behind them, Victor swung out of the aircraft and strode toward his less
insensitive cohorts, giving them a cold-blooded smile as he approached.
Wraith, being one of the few men on earth not intimidated by Victor’s feral
swagger, shot his associate a venomous glare. “The fuck is wrong with you,
Creed?” he snapped. “That one’s just a kid. How could you do that to a kid,
man?”
Victor brushed past his appalled comrades with an unconcerned shrug. “He was
askin’ for it.”
John, pissed but not stupid, shut his mouth and tightened his fists, holding in
all the unpleasant things he wanted to say until Creed was safely out of range.
Not that fighting about it would make a goddamn difference; the bastard was a
bastard and would forever be a bastard. Nothing and no one could change that.
He sighed and massaged his eyes. “I need a drink.”
“I need a cheeseburger,” Fred mumbled.
John reached out and patted the big man’s shoulder. Definitely more padding on
it than two years ago. “Alright. Let’s go.”
“I hate this place,” Fred blurted. “I hate doin’ this, John.”
“I know, man. I know. Just . . .” But for the life of him, John couldn’t find
words to make reality any less ugly—or their consciences any less guilty.
“C’mon. Outta sight, outta mind.”
                                     * * *
The name of the young mutant from Louisiana was Remy LeBeau. Or it had been.
They gave him a number the moment he arrived on the island, and that number was
nineteen. Subject 19, they called him. He only dimly registered the new title.
He was in shock. He hadn’t slept at all during the flight, he was cold, sick to
his stomach, and his body hurt inside and out—some places more than others. He
just wanted to take a scalding hot shower and go to sleep in a warm, dark,
quiet place for a long time. Maybe he’d wake up and find that it had all been a
nightmare, the man with the claws, the black helicopter, this cold, horrible,
evil-looking place . . .
As he was stripped naked by men in gray coveralls and made to stand under a
freezing spray of water, he imagined waking up in his little room above the
Deuce and Dice Casino Parlor, all warm and whole and clean, the smell of stale
booze and Ma Ollie’s greasy bacon breakfast hanging in the air. He’d shuffle
downstairs half-dressed and go to the little kitchen in the back, where the
motley group of aging hustlers, runaways, pole dancers, sidewalk musicians and
other New Orleans riff-raff would gather around the table in a shouting,
laughing, swearing congregation. He would light up a cigarette and chew a cup
of Marvin’s coffee, listen to Cherice squawk about how his new habit was going
to land him in an early grave, steal an omelet off of Tub Thomas’ overloaded
plate, and show Marlene’s little boy a few card tricks. A typical morning.
But this wasn’t a dream, Remy realized, watching the blood circle the drain
between his bare feet. This was real. He had been raped by a monster, cut up
and come in and thrown away like a five-dollar hooker, and now some nurse was
buffing him dry with a towel that felt like sandpaper, and then he was being
brought to a room where three doctors chattered like a wall of radios, reading
from a clipboard and drawing blood and looking at his hands and eyes for a long
time, talking a continuous stream of incomprehensible medical jargon. A metal
bracelet was snapped onto his wrist—19, it read—and he was wrestled into a pair
of ugly cotton pants and a tissue-thin t-shirt. Then two armed men took him
away, dragged him down a labyrinth of dark corridors, and shoved him into a
padded room. The door slammed behind them like a dungeon gate, its heavy lock
clanging into place.
And then silence. White, empty, oppressive silence.
Remy drew in a slow, shuddering breath and brushed back his wet hair, sitting
up from where he had fallen. The room was bright, bare, illuminated by recessed
lights high above. No windows. Some kind of holding cell, he imagined. There
was a black box attached to a pivoting mount in the center of the ceiling—a
camera, no doubt. The door was flush with the wall, no hinges or handles to be
grasped. No small parts.
They must know, Remy thought faintly, his head throbbing with a brutal
headache. They knew about his powers, how he could charge objects in his hand
and make them explode, so they had put him in a place where there was nothing
he could use to escape. Not that he was even capable of summoning the energy
right now. He was exhausted, freezing, hungry, thirsty, and . . .
Remy looked down at his white shirt. Specks and spots of blood had seeped
through from some of his deeper scratches. Why hadn’t those doctors treated
him? Why wasn’t he given food and water? Did they want him to die? Was he being
punished for some unrealized crime?
It was too much to cope with at this point. His mind couldn’t take it. He
needed to sleep. It was the only thing he could do. He didn’t want to think
about what had happened to him. He didn’t want to think about what was going to
happen to him. He just wanted to sleep, get away from everything for a little
while.
He crawled over to the corner and lay down with his back against the wall and
his knees tucked up to his chest. He folded his arm under his head and stared
at the door listlessly, his eyes a thousand miles away. He wondered if it would
ever open again, if he had been left to die, if this padded room was going to
be his coffin. He didn’t want to know. He wanted to forget—everything. This
place, these people, that . . . thing.
Teeth and claws flashed through Remy’s mind, and he flinched. He could still
hear the grunts, feel the thrusts, see the dog tags swinging in front of his
eyes. Tags with numbers on them, and one word: CREED.
Remy shut his eyes tightly and focused on making himself forget, painting over
the last 24 hours in solid black and pretending that none of this was
happening, that he was some other person, that someone would snap him out of it
soon and he’d magically be back in New Orleans like Dorothy waking up in
Kansas.
In a little while he had fallen asleep in a cold, damp little ball, the camera
in the ceiling looming over him like a gargoyle and glaring with its lone,
watchful eye.
                                     * * *
They didn’t leave him to die, as Remy discovered several hours later when the
door was unlocked and a man in a gray suit entered, shadowed by two bulky
guards carrying Kalashnikovs. The suited man smiled like a politician and
crouched down to peer at Remy, who pressed himself into the corner as tightly
as his body would allow.
“I hope you’ll forgive the rough welcome,” the man said in a deceptively
easygoing  voice. “My name is Colonel William Stryker, and I understand that
you have a very unique gift . . .”
That was how Remy learned that there was a word for what he was—mutant—and that
there were thousands, perhaps millions, of people just like him all over the
world, individuals with “certain genetic defects” that set them apart from the
rest of the human race. Freaks. Evolutionary hiccups. Biological anomalies. And
Remy, through unfortunate consequence, was one of them.
“But mutants are more than capable of being rehabilitated,” Stryker reassured
him. “The more we learn about your abnormalities, the better we can treat them,
and soon you’ll be fit to rejoin society again.”
Remy knew immediately that he was being lied to. He’d practically been raised
in a casino, and he was playing poker with the big boys before he’d lost all of
his baby teeth. He could read a man’s face like a book, smell a cheat from a
mile away, and he knew what a bluff looked like. This man was not to be
trusted.
Stryker rambled on, spinning a sleazy yarn about “the bad seeds of mutant
society” using their special abilities and heightened senses to harm innocent
lives, and how they all needed to be “saved from themselves” and “treated for
their conditions”, especially the at-risk youngsters, and generally making it
seem as though abducting a minor and taking away his rights and freedom was
perfectly justifiable if done for the greater good (and in the name of
scientific progress).
Remy might not have been that book-smart, but he was streetwise and worldly for
his sixteen years, and he wasn’t buying any of this philanthropic, needs-of-
the-many mumbo jumbo. What translated in his mind was that he was now a
prisoner, a living science experiment at the mercy of his captors, and his full
cooperation was strongly encouraged. 
It all sounded too familiar. Last night he’d been raped by a monster. Today he
was being raped by scientists.
So he spat on Stryker’s face, called him some very ugly things in French, and
turned to the side, all deals off. Stryker sighed, wiped his face with a
handkerchief, and left the room.
Later—Remy had no idea how much later, being stuck in this padded, silent
void—the door opened again and two orderlies came to collect him. He struggled,
they subdued him with a few CCs of mild sedative, then they strapped him into a
wheelchair and rolled him down to the lab.
Dizzy and disoriented from the drugs, the medical staff were able to work on
him without too much interference. His wounds were slathered in antiseptic and
he was given water, half a dozen vitamin tablets, then spoon-fed a tasteless
gray sludge that he eventually refused to swallow. The nurse patiently wiped
the spit-up from his chin, pronounced him finished, and he was wheeled to
another cell in another wing of the facility, though it wasn’t much different
from his first room. Oblong in shape, it measured about ten feet by eighteen,
with high walls of seamless gray concrete. There was a thin cotton pallet in
one corner, a toilet in the other, and nothing else. The door, like the one in
the padded cell, was completely flat and featureless from the inside. No
window, no knobs—just bare metal.
Remy didn’t know it yet, but this was to be his home for the next two years and
three months.
The orderlies unstrapped him and deposited him onto the pallet, and locked the
door behind them when they left. Remy, feeling even weaker and sicker than when
he had arrived, curled up and stared at the dull gray wall in front of him. Why
was this happening? How did these people know so much about mutants? How had
they heard of him? Remy was an orphan. He’d never known his parents, never left
Louisiana, and he’d only started getting his powers two years ago. God, did
they sic that monster, that CREED thing, on him? Was CREED working for them?
And what made Remy’s abilities so special? They were parlor tricks, typical
street magician stuff. Houdini was more impressive. Remy was just a kid with
fast hands and sharp eyes, and aside from petty thievery, he hadn’t done
anything wrong. These people were breaking the law. They had no right to lock
him up like an animal, treat him like an inmate, take his blood and inject him
with drugs and experiment on him. Somebody had to know what was going on here.
Somebody had to blow the whistle . . .
But Remy was far too practical to allow himself the comfort of hope. He had to
assume the worst, that no one knew about this place, that no one was coming to
rescue him, that busting out was something he was going to have to do on his
own. He had to make a plan. It was going to take a long time, he knew. Weeks,
months. He’d have to stay cool, play his cards right, study his opponents and
learn their habits. He’d have to cooperate if he wanted to deceive his captors.
He just hoped he had enough time. God only knew what they planned to do to him
once he’d outlived his usefulness; maybe slice him up, remove his brain, sew
parts onto him that didn’t belong until he looked like Frankenstein’s monster—
Stop it, he told himself, feeling a wave of nausea roll through his stomach. He
couldn’t afford to be frightened right now. He had to be rational. He had to
rest. He was so tired, so sick . . .
Before he allowed himself to succumb to sleep, he reached up and dug at the
scabs forming from the bite wound on his neck. He collected a spot of blood on
his fingertip and pressed it against the wall, leaving a reddish-brown dot.
Day One.
Ignorance may be bliss, but knowledge is power. And Remy was going to need all
the power he could get.
                                     * * *
Two weeks. Fourteen days locked away from the sight of sun and moon. But there
was a rhythm with which to count the passage of time: the three meals fed to
him by nurses because he wasn’t allowed to hold a fork; the regimen of vitamins
that were probably drugs because they made him feel all loopy and jittery; the
30 minutes they made him run on a treadmill and the bone-chillingly cold shower
afterward; the hour-long session in the observation chamber where he was given
assorted objects to play with—a tennis ball, a scarf, a feather, a coin, an
apple, things like that. If it was edible, it was usually gone in a flash, but
he was required to use his powers to destroy all the items before he was
allowed to leave.
Some were easier than others. Like the baseball. He charged it up, hurled it
against the reinforced wall, and boom. Didn’t hurt the wall, but it sure left a
hell of a scorch mark. Things like feathers and scarves were less impressive,
drifting to the floor and sputtering to death in a reddish-purple glow. Metal
objects worked the best. Liquids were the worst. Remy had no idea his powers
worked differently on different types of matter. The researchers behind the
thick Plexiglas window overlooking the room took notes accordingly.
He kept track of the days using this steady routine and his own internal clock.
Before he lay down to sleep, he’d pick at one of his many healing scabs and
leave a blood spot on the wall, marking the end of another 24 hours. He kept
the dots organized in neat little rows of seven. It was soothing. Sanity in
numbers. Remy had always liked numbers. Cards, dice, roulette, all the good
things that reminded him of home. He dreamt of it sometimes, his warm bed and
his loud friends, the chatter of dice and the jingling of dog tags. Then the
dream would go dark and he’d be back in that warehouse, pinned beneath CREED,
watching the monster bury his blood-smeared face into the red cavern of his
gutted torso and come up grinning with a coil of intestine clenched in his
fangs, and Remy could fucking feel it in his sleep, his organs being pulled out
and unwound like a cassette tape, completely eviscerated—
He’d wake up in a cold sweat and his hands would immediately go to his belly,
frantically checking to see if there was a ragged hole eaten out of him. No, he
was okay. D’accord. Just a bad dream. Un cauchemar. Go back to sleep. Think of
home.
It was becoming difficult to sleep on account of the dreams. The images were
incredibly vivid, full of color and scent and texture. Remy had never been much
of a dreamer to begin with, but ever since he’d been brought to this place,
they had taken on a disturbingly realistic edge. The clarity and detail with
which he could recall them was remarkable, and sometimes he confused his dreams
with real-life memories. His mind was in a constant state of activity, unable
to rest, and it was beginning to take its toll on him. He hadn’t had a good
night’s sleep in weeks. He figured it was all the pills he was being fed,
probably a cocktail of psychoactive drugs and kids’ vitamins. Or maybe this
place was just wearing on him, making him insane. Anything was possible—seemed
to get more possible every day.
And then there came a night, twenty blood-dots into his imprisonment, that the
demon of Remy’s nightmares followed him into waking reality. He awoke with the
feeling of his stomach being gorged upon and the smell of CREED thick in his
nostrils. A shriek of mortal horror wrenched itself from his throat and left
him gasping for air. He bolted upright and began to madly grab at his shirt,
scooping up his invisible entrails and pushing them back into the gaping wound
they had fallen out of.
It took a few moments for him to fully emerge from the hysterical fog of his
nightmare. When he realized that he was once more in the real world, he let out
a solitary sob and wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering and clammy with
sweat.
“Bad dream?”
All sense of relief abruptly drained out of Remy’s body, taking his warmth and
sanity with it. His first instinct was not to look. If he looked, he would see,
and he didn’t want to see. But the urge was irresistible, the mind compelled by
a desire to know for certain, even at the risk of being destroyed by what it
would find. So he slowly turned his head toward the shadowy corner from where
the voice had come, and he saw what he knew in his heart would already be
there.
A dark form was crouched against the wall, arms resting on his knees and his
long black cloak pooled around his boots, staring at Remy with hungry eyes. It
was him. It was CREED.
Every muscle in Remy’s body locked up like a steel trap. He froze, riveted with
terror. Go ‘way, he pleaded silently, his heart galloping like a wild horse.
Mon dieu, go ‘way, just go ‘way—
But CREED didn’t go away. He remained where he was, staring at the young mutant
like a lion watching its prey from across the grassy savannah. Planning.
Calculating its strike.
Remy slowly inched backward until he was pressed against the cold concrete
wall, his fists and his teeth clenched, his knuckles as bloodless as his face.
He swallowed the dry lump of fear that had risen in his throat and wondered how
the monster had gotten in. Or who had let him in.
“Miss me?” Creed taunted, his voice low and deep. It resonated in Remy’s bones
like a shock wave, familiar and terrifying; he spared a glance toward the door.
Shut. Sealed.
Trapped.
“What’s the matter, kid? Cat got your tongue?”
He had to force the air past his vocal cords; his chest was almost too tight to
breathe. “H-how . . .” he stammered. “Who . . . ?”
Creed feigned surprise. “You mean you don’t remember?” He rose from his
haunches with feline grace and began to saunter forward.
Remy pressed himself harder against the wall, wishing he could sink into it and
disappear. The monster saw this and paused, grinning sharply. “So you do
remember.” He tilted his head to one side. “How’re those scars, kiddo? Not
infected, I hope.”
The sound of his chuckle replaced some of Remy’s fear with useless, feeble
anger. The bastard was relishing the terror he was inflicting, playing with his
victim like cat batting about a wounded bird. How diabolical. How sickening and
grotesque—
“Here, let Dr Creed take a look at ‘em. See if they’re alright.”
He lunged. Remy scrambled off of his pallet and managed to drag it up between
himself and his attacker just before the collision. It didn’t do much
good—bought a few seconds, maybe. Creed’s claws slashed into the thin mattress
and Remy bolted out from under it. He didn’t make it halfway across the cell
when the beast tripped him and sent him slapping down onto the concrete. Then
Creed was on top of him, pinning him down, thrashing and struggling. Hot breath
washed over the back of Remy’s neck, sharp claws pricking into his shoulder.
“Don’t be scared, little bunny,” Creed sneered, his voice rumbling with
cruelty. “Kitty just wants to play with you for a while.”
“Non, le’ go, stop! Don’—ah! La-laissez-moi—”
The back of Remy’s shirt was torn open by a single claw, and suddenly he was in
that dark warehouse again, just waking up with a terrible pain in his shoulder
and this vicious psycho holding him down, waiting to shove his cock inside
Remy’s body, and, and—
And now it was happening all over again. There was no God. Only CREED.
Remy shut his eyes tightly and tried not to scream when he felt claws rake down
his back. A rough tongue laved over the new lacerations, lapping up his oozing
blood. It was like being taken apart an ounce at a time, slowly eaten alive,
only Remy knew that his attacker was too cruel to kill him. Living was the
punishment—and apparently the crime. No reason, no sense. Just because. Just
for living.
He tried to be strong, to hold in his tears, but the pain was too great, the
shame too unbearable. He broke. He sobbed. He begged. He wept. But Creed was
remorseless and relentless; for the second time he took sixteen-year-old Remy
LeBeau, bruising and mauling without mercy, crushing his victim under his
heavy, hulking mass.
It hurt even worse than the first time. No concussion to steal consciousness or
numb the pain; Remy felt every claw, every tooth, every thrust, the burn and
ache of his body as it was penetrated over and over again—a  new set of
nightmares being forged, more memories that could never be erased.
The assault seemed to go on for hours, though it only lasted a few short,
violent minutes. Creed grunted like an animal as he climaxed, rutting savagely
into the bleeding, abused body beneath him. He didn’t pull out until after he
had gone soft, wiping himself clean on Remy’s torn shirt.
“You go down too easy, kid,” he muttered. “You should try fighting back once in
a while.”
As if injury wasn’t enough—he had to finish with an insult.
Remy lay with his cheek against the cold floor in a shivering, bleeding heap,
his eyes closed tightly, his arms folded against his sides. “What’s d’ point?”
he mumbled weakly, barely able to think through the pain he was feeling.
“It’s not about the point,” said Creed, standing up and buttoning his trousers.
“It’s about the principle. Never surrender. Never make it that easy.”
The pale, naked back, now ravaged by bite-marks, punctures and lacerations,
slowly turned over, and Remy looked up at his monster with red-rimmed, tear-
swollen eyes. They glowed with implacable hatred.
Creed smiled down at him condescendingly. “Gettin’ there.” He turned and rapped
on the door twice. It opened with a clang. “Sleep tight, Nineteen.”
Remy pulled himself upright just as the door banged shut and locked. His eyes
returned to their normal green color and he blinked, sending two tears skidding
down his cheeks. A throaty, quivering groan escaped his lips and he sank back
onto the floor, burying his face into the crook of his arm.
The nightmares stopped after that. Nothing could be worse than reality.
***** Taking the Blade *****
The medical staff didn’t seem too concerned about Subject 19’s unexplained
injuries. They treated his wounds with antiseptic, applied a few bandages where
they were needed, and sent him off on another day’s gauntlet. No questions, no
concerns, no change in routine, even though Remy’s condition was bad enough to
render him practically useless for the next several days. He was still expected
to do his time on the treadmill and complete his tasks in the observation room.
He did, but not without suffering considerable weakness and discomfort. He
distantly wondered if Stryker had given Creed permission to rough him up, if
the monster had been dispatched with explicit orders to do his worst so that
the science team could see how their little lab rat functioned under extreme
duress. Remy was convinced by now that his rapist was in league with the good
colonel, and the idea of an arranged attack was too plausible to discount,
especially in this godforsaken pit of hell where nightmares came true and the
worst could always get worse. After all, what doesn’t kill a man only makes him
stronger, right?
The next few days were agony, but Remy recovered and gradually began to adapt
to life as a prisoner. The lacerations on his back scabbed over, healed, and
faded. He got used to the freezing showers and the awful food, the long
stretches of absolute silence and the lack of natural light. He discovered
during one of his sessions that he could channel his powers through rod-like
objects and deliver an impressive blow of kinetic energy wherever the rod was
struck. That was the last time Subject 19 was given anything narrow and oblong,
for while his feat was certainly fascinating, it had permanently wrecked the
floor of the observation chamber and made more than a few of the scientists
uneasy. Remy, on the other hand, was rather pleased with himself.
The spots on the wall at Château LeBeau multiplied, becoming a macabre brown
calendar. Around the forty-second day of his imprisonment, end of July by
Remy’s reckoning, there was a change. For the most part it was good: the food
improved to a semi-palatable state, comparable to typical institutional
standards, and he was allowed to feed himself under close surveillance; he was
permitted to brush his teeth and groom himself on his own, also while under
surveillance; he was given socks and underwear, and a distressingly ugly pair
of red coveralls and slip-on shoes that made him look even more like an inmate,
especially with his identification number sewn onto the left breast; and his
schedule was adjusted to include an hour of free time in “the play room”, a
heavily-monitored area of the facility that was set up rather like a gymnasium,
with basketball hoops, a climbing rope, balance beams, and various other
recreational equipment. Remy spent most of his time anxiously bouncing a
basketball around the court while a team of six armed guards followed his every
move with blank, stony eyes.
These new privileges made life a little more bearable, but the greatest of them
all came in the form of a simple blanket. It was standard military-issue, made
of wool and rough as steel wool, but Remy didn’t care one way or another. After
six weeks of sleeping on a bare mattress in a concrete room, even a filthy old
newspaper would have been a welcome cover. The facility’s perpetually cold,
drafty air was one characteristic to which he had never been able to acclimate.
It wasn’t Remy’s fault that he was so thin-skinned; he was a child of the Deep
South, bred to withstand the humid, mosquito-infested bayous and crowded
riverboat casinos equipped with only lazy, half-broken ceiling fans. His blood
was half Tabasco sauce. He’d never seen a snowflake in his life, and just the
thought of a blizzard was enough to make him shiver.
That night he’d burrowed under his new blanket and fallen asleep almost
immediately. It was incredible how basic necessities like food and clothing
were so easily taken for granted on the outside. Remy felt immensely grateful
to his captors . . . for three whole seconds, until he remembered that they
were the ones who had stolen his freedom and taken away his dignity for no
reason at all. Stryker and his cronies could go hang themselves; they owed Remy
a hell of a lot more than just a scratchy old blanket.
He made a mental note to never allow himself to forget who the bad guys were in
this situation, no matter how many favors and treats they gave him. He was an
innocent captive. They were the ones who ought to be locked up in a cell,
especially that murderous beast called Creed.
Remy realized after the second attack that there was no guarantee of his safety
in this place. His suspicions had proven correct: Creed did work for these
people, and since no one seemed to care what happened to Subject 19—or 18, or
20, or however many other mutants were being held here—the bastard was free to
do as he pleased.
It was the worst possible situation. There was a fox in the henhouse, and he
seemed to be the farmer’s favorite pet. There must have been a special
arrangement between Stryker and Creed, some reason why the feral mutant was not
a part of the colonel’s little science project . . .
Remy spent a lot of time thinking. There wasn’t much else to do during the long
hours of the sunless day. He thought while he paced the length of his cell. He
thought while he made marbles and ballpoint pens explode against the walls of
the observation chamber. He thought while he shot hoops in the gym and tried
his luck on the balance beams—with surprisingly good results. He thought about
the facility, the guards, the doctors, and his escape plan. He thought about
home, Bourbon Street, cornbread and spicy Cajun gumbo, cigarettes and French
coffee, all of the things that reminded him of happiness and kept the claws of
insanity from sinking into him. He was a terrible singer, but he sang
nonetheless: CCR, Fats Domino, Johnny Cash, B.B. King, lots of Golden Oldies.
The staff probably thought he’d lost his mind by now. Remy didn’t care. As long
as they kept believing he was just a harmless, ignorant bumpkin from down on
the bayou, they could think whatever they liked.
Of course, all the thinking in the world wouldn’t help the situation with
Creed, whose conjugal visits soon developed a regular pattern of occurrence.
The third incident, which took place around the middle of August, served to
cement the futility of there being any escape from these monthly attacks. It
happened in the showers; one minute Remy was shivering under the frigid patter
of water, the next he was seized by the arm and shoved against the slippery
tile wall. He knew who it was immediately, even before Creed’s hot, familiar
breath ghosted over the shell of his ear.
“You should really be more aware of your surroundings,” came the low, scornful
murmur. “Bad things happen when you let your guard down.”
Remy hissed as his arm was twisted behind his back, effectively immobilizing
him. If not for the bolts of pain shooting into his shoulder, he might have
been able to throw an elbow into Creed’s stomach and squirm free, being as wet
and slippery as he was. But the monster’s grip was too tight, his body a cage
of solid muscle that held Remy trapped against the wall, naked and helpless as
a newborn.
“You’re shaking, Nineteen,” Creed rumbled, sounding pleased.
Remy could feel the vibrations against his back—the purr of a man-eater.
“Is it cold in here, or am I just that intimidating?” There was a pause as he
waited for an answer, but all he got was a few vain, struggling grunts. “Here.
I think I can help . . .”
Arms like iron beams closed around Remy’s slim body in a perverted impression
of an embrace. He could feel Creed’s bristly cheek scratch against the back of
his neck as he was nuzzled almost affectionately, but Remy knew it was just a
precursor to the pain. Sure enough, the nuzzling gave way to the scrape of
teeth, and then Creed bit down, his sharp fangs piercing through the skin of
Remy’s shoulder and driving deep into the muscle beneath.
There was nothing he could do. Kicking and struggling was pointless. Screaming
was a waste of breath. He couldn’t even turn his head to try and butt Creed’s
skull. He was absolutely impotent, squirming in the beast’s clutches like a
rodent, spitting profanities in a colorful mixture of French and English. But
soon there was more than terror and fury rushing through Remy’s veins—there was
comfort, relief, even pleasure. And it came in the form of one of man’s basest,
most primal desires: the need for warmth.
The water had been so cold—achingly bone-chilling, enough to make Remy’s teeth
chatter —and suddenly there was another living body pressing into him, biting
him with a hot mouth, groping and clawing at his stomach and thighs with large,
warm hands, causing his body to flush with anger and humiliation, bringing out
the heat that willpower alone could not summon. It was a terrible reaction, but
a more terrible attraction. Creed wanted to dominate, destroy, control; Remy
wanted to get warm, and the monster’s flesh was heating his cold, nude body
more effectively than any blanket.
He hated it more than anything. He hated himself, how he pressed back against
Creed as if trying to vampirize his body heat, how he almost moaned when he
felt Creed’s raw dick, hot and huge and hard, stab up into him from behind, how
he clenched the edges of his attacker’s coat and tried to pull it around him.
The pain was excruciating, every thrust ripping through Remy’s lower body and
wringing hoarse sobs from his throat. But there was also heat, precious heat,
so rare and desirable in this prison of rock and metal, and Remy, to his
unbearable shame and horror, found himself melting against Creed’s broad chest,
panting and clutching like he actually wanted it, anticipating the finishing
stroke with closed eyes and trembling muscles.
Creed snarled like a tiger as he came, slamming in hard and fast before going
still, his cock sunk deep in the sixteen-year-old’s cold, wet body. Heat poured
into Remy like liquid sunshine, causing him to shudder and prickle with goose
bumps. It felt good. God, so good. He suddenly dreaded the inevitable moment of
separation, when Creed would pull out and pull away—like he was doing
now—taking his warmth with him, leaving his victim to be gnawed on by the
relentless cold until their next meeting.
Guilt and self-loathing crashed into Remy like a tidal wave, drowning him in a
fathomless disgust and visceral hatred toward himself and his rapist. It wasn’t
the pain that made him cry this time. No, he was used to that by now. This was
the worst kind of hurt and shame, the kind that went right to the core of one’s
soul and never seemed to heal.
But the gut-wrenching sense of personal devastation still wasn’t enough for
Remy to loosen his grip on Creed’s coat, or pull himself away from the warm
body that had just horrifically abused him.
Creed finally managed to pry the boy off and toss him to the floor, giving a
short, harsh laugh of contempt. “That good, huh?” he taunted, standing over
Remy with his clothes half-soaked and his claws tinted red with his prey’s
blood. “I suppose you’ll be fallin’ in love with me next.”
Remy raised his head to look at Creed with hollow green eyes, all the fight in
him gone out like a flame in the wind, leaving behind nothing but a devastated
ego and an air of acceptance much too old for someone of his few years.
“No one could evah fall in love wit’ a monstah like you, m’syuh,” he said
levelly, reaching up to press a shaking hand to his torn, bloodied shoulder.
“An’ I would pity you if dey was room in ma heart.”
A sardonic smile came to Creed’s face. “That’s real sweet of you, kid. Naïve,
but sweet.” He cocked his head. “Was your mother a whore, too? Did she teach
you how to moan like that?”
Remy’s eyes sparked red. “Get out.”
Creed chuckled, an ugly, victorious sound deep in his throat, before turning
away, his boots slapping wetly on the concrete and the ends of his coat
dripping water. He disappeared around the corner of the stall, leaving Remy
sitting on the cold floor with his brunette hair plastered to his head and his
body covered with bleeding slashes from throat to thigh. The displaced guard
came in a few moments later and stoically took up his position again, ignoring
the mutilated mess that had once been Subject 19.
Remy carefully crawled to his feet and rinsed his stinging wounds, blood and
semen leaking down his thighs in thick, oozing trickles, and tried not to think
about how much warmer he had been in the arms of his attacker.
The guard called time, the showers were shut off, and Remy was given a towel.
There was a slight deviation in his customarily rigid schedule; the guard,
perhaps suffering a crisis of conscience, escorted his wounded charge to the
infirmary. Remy sat in numb silence while the nurse robotically treated and
bandaged his maimed flesh. He was given a fresh set of clothes and returned to
his room. He almost thanked the guard for his consideration, but he was the one
who had allowed the assault to happen in the first place. Remy kept his mouth
shut and crawled onto his pallet as the door closed and locked behind him. He
burrowed underneath his blanket and a few minutes later the buzzing lights shut
off, leaving only the dim orange glow of an emergency bulb up to cut through
the 8- hour darkness.
His whole body hurt, stinging and aching and ravaged. The mangled flesh beneath
his bandages was sore and fiery, stealing the warmth from the rest of his body.
He stiffly pulled his blanket over his head, shutting out the world so that
only blackness and pain remained. If there was a day in the future worse than
this one, Remy wasn’t sure he wanted to face it. But he would. He refused to
die so easily.
In his mind’s eye he suddenly saw Creed’s smug, scornful grin. Gettin’ there.
Remy clenched his fists, his fingertips glowing to life and casting faint light
across his determined features.
He would get there. And Creed would pay for every drop of blood he had drawn
from Remy LeBeau.
                                     * * *
August passed into September. September faded into October. The leaves turned
orange and the stars shone brighter on crisp, clear nights, but Remy saw none
of it. Halloween came and went, and so did Thanksgiving and Christmas, with no
fanfare or celebration. A week later it was 1976, and Remy felt as if he’d
spent half of his life in prison. It had been seven months. His friends had
probably stopped wondering what had become of him.
He was more self-aware now, sprouting eyes in the back of his head and
developing an acute auditory faculty. His reflexes were astoundingly swift,
bordering on precognitive. His ears had become satellite dishes, picking up the
echoes of doors opening and closing elsewhere in the facility and faint,
protesting voices. Other prisoners, Remy imagined. His eyes, either accustomed
to his shadowy world or enhanced by the “vitamins” he crunched down every
morning, could now see clearly in the dark. Even his sense of smell had become
keen enough to detect the slightest of changes in his environment. Soon he had
a catalogue of familiar scents: Nurse Blondie’s perfume; Guard Hawknose’s
aftershave; Orderly Mole’s fondness for garlic. Maybe it was all a part of his
mutation. Remy simply thought of it as adaptation.
Although these heightened senses lent him a greater understanding and readiness
in his surroundings, they still weren’t fine-tuned enough to save him from
falling victim to Creed’s continued assaults. Every few weeks Remy would wake
to the sound of his cell door creaking open and the swish of the monster’s long
black coat as he slipped inside. There were never many words exchanged, though
Remy would occasionally curse and scream as he tried to fight off his attacker.
While he sometimes succeeded in landing a few lucky punches, his strikes never
seemed to have much of an effect on Creed apart from annoying him or tickling
his twisted sense of amusement. The blows were always repaid, often with
grievous results. Sometimes the floor would be smeared with blood by the time
it was over. Sometimes it ended up on the walls, red rooster tails and
splattered constellations from the more violent, forceful blows. Remy didn’t
understand how his body could take such abuse, internally and externally, and
still keep going.
One morning after a particularly brutal, bloody night, the nurse attending
Subject 19’s various lacerations noticed something quite surprising. Stryker
himself was called in with the rest of his research team to observe this new
development in the specimen’s mutation. Remy didn’t understand much of what was
spoken over his head, but he managed to catch the term “advanced healing
factor”, and by way of context learned that his body was capable of healing
wounds much faster than a normal human.
It was odd, the scientists remarked. Subject 19 had not possessed this
characteristic when he had first been brought to the island.
Things changed again. Several more of those “vitamin” tablets were added to
Remy’s meals, which were now fortified with extra protein, therefore making
them extra unappetizing. He was examined more frequently, and more intimately.
They wanted samples of every state of matter that his body could produce—hair,
tears, stool, blood, all of it. It was humiliating and disgusting, but Remy bit
his tongue and gave up each one without a word. The scientists were at least
diplomatic enough to allow him the opportunity to procure a semen sample on his
own instead of being medically induced, and Remy was shut inside the laboratory
head with an empty plastic cup.
A quick survey of the dim closet with its acrid odor of industrial chemicals
made Remy wonder if volunteering had been a prudent choice. The last time he
had been sexually aroused was before he had known the name CREED, before he had
been raped and imprisoned and deprived of all things that made life worth
living. It suddenly dawned on him that even if he managed to escape this place,
nothing would ever be the same again. He would never be the same again. How
could he return to the Outside and try to pick up where he’d left off? How
could he ignore the dark, ugly shadow that was destined to sit on his shoulder
for the rest of his life, whispering nevermore, nevermorein his ear? He was
ruined, and ruined intimately. He had been a virgin. His only experience with
sex was what Creed had done—was doing—to him. And right now he was wondering if
he even had the ability to make himself climax.
Well, he had to try. If he couldn’t do it himself, the doctors would force him
to give up what no one, not even that monster, had been able to steal from him
yet.
So Remy tried. And tried. And after twenty six minutes of conjuring all the
dusty sexual imagery his disinterested brain could muster, there was a hot,
long-forgotten sizzle of pleasure through his loins, and he let out a surprised
groan. He ejaculated into the waiting cup, heart pounding, nerves fiery and
wonderfully alive. And then—inevitably, predictably—Creed’s leering face came
riding in at the tail-end of the orgasm like the headless horseman, chasing
away what little pleasure had been there in the first place.
Remy went soft, the content look on his face gradually melting into a blank,
empty-eyed stare. So he couldn’t have this, either, it seemed. Not a moment’s
relief, not a second’s escape. The monster had succeeded in placing his mark
all over him—body, mind, and . . .
“Non. You ain’t got ma soul yet, bâtard,” he murmured, closing his eyes and
pushing Creed back into the dark, where he belonged. “An’ you nevah will.”
                                     * * *
It was a grim verdict, but Remy LeBeau accepted it with surprising serenity. He
still had his spirit and his hope, and those were far more permanent than a
mortal body and a weak mind. Besides, things had been looking up: he had gotten
better with the balance beams, and it wasn’t much long thereafter that he
achieved a full cartwheel on them.
Well, almost.
His wrists had failed him just as his legs were going over and he went crashing
down onto the mat below, knocking his shoulder into the beam hard enough to
send him to the infirmary with a dislocation. But the most important part of
that little mishap was the suppressed chuckles that had come from the usually
stoic guards. They may be professionals, but they were still human beings.
And human beings, thought Remy with his cunning gambler’s mind, were easily
manipulated.
Once his shoulder had loosened up, he began doing pushups with a feverish
urgency, both in his cell and in the gym. His upper body transformed and grew
stronger, more toned, better able to hold himself. He started with headstands,
then handstands, and experimented with walking on his hands, tumbling and
crashing like a drunken jester. He landed on his face a lot—maybe that would
explain why his teeth hurt so much these days, and that loose upper incisor he
had. In any case, his acrobatic endeavors received quite a few guffaws from his
heavily-armed spectators. To them he was just a bored, restless teenager
attempting to pass the time. Every now and then he would make a sarcastic crack
to himself—but not really to himself—and gradually the guards learned to relax
whenever it was Remy’s turn on the playground. He was just a simple kid, after
all. Compliant, well- behaved, likeable, no big threat.
But they didn’t see him in the observation chamber, where his abilities
increased in power and accuracy, scarring the walls with what looked like
mortar blasts and grenade pox. Nor did they see what happened after Remy was
locked in his cell for the night, where he would quietly pace the room on his
hands or perform a cartwheel as slowly as possible, as if relishing each shift
of his center of gravity, or teach himself to bend backward until at last he
executed his first graceful backflip. He found it empowering, this balance,
this absolute control of his muscles. He soon began to take running leaps at
the wall, using the protective padding of his mattress as a cushion for his
falls. Finally he mastered both his speed and technique enough that he was able
to run halfway up the wall, flip backward, and land on his feet. He had crowed
with victory that night, raising his clenched fists in the air and gloating
over his defeated opponents: gravity and the wall.
If he could conquer them, he could conquer anything.
                                     * * *
The months bled together and the calendar on the wall of his cell filled out to
a full year. The Steelers won the Superbowl, Paul McCartney sang about silly
love songs, Happy Days was the most popular show on television, and John Wayne
appeared in his last film before dying of cancer three years later. Soon it was
June 1976, the anniversary of his capture, and Remy LeBeau looked much
different than when he had first been dragged into this prison of concrete and
iron. He was taller and broader, less of a boy and more of a man—certainly more
of a man after what he had been through for the past twelve months. The
strength and confidence with which he carried himself had come at a dear price,
but his grip on reality remained firm. He was handsome, ironically; his auburn
hair fell to his shoulders in natural waves, and his skin, though pale from
lack of sunlight, was healthy and unscarred in spite of his numerous recurring
“accidents”. He was charming, polite, and respectful. The medical researchers
enjoyed working with him—such an obedient and accommodating subject—but it was
the bored pair of cafeteria guards who made the mistake of letting Remy in on
their evening poker game.
The secret to being a card hustler is letting the amateurs win just enough to
keep them coming back for more. Remy gave these clueless yankees a proper Cajun
scorching, all the while feigning that it was just beginner’s luck. Remy took
the pot with four jacks, but he gave it back with the grace of four kings . . .
and returned to his cell with the deck of cards tucked safely inside his
coveralls as a token of gratitude.
It felt like Christmas morning, or at least how Remy imagined Christmas morning
would feel if he’d grown up with parents and a real home. He sat crosslegged on
his little mattress and cradled his new treasure, happier than he had been in
over a year. He hadn’t realized how much he missed them, his 54 closest
friends, his allies, his army of four suits. He cut the deck and riffled them
lovingly, the sound of their flapping like music to his ears. He tried a few of
his favorite flourishes and springs, clumsily at first, but quickly smoothing
out as his fingers remembered how to do their thing. The cards moved
hypnotically from one hand to the other, leaping across wide spaces, spinning,
arching—ah, quelle merveille!
Suddenly the door of his cell clanged open with a howling screech. Remy froze,
his heart bursting with dread. The last dozen cards in his hand missed their
mark and washed across the concrete floor like spilled milk, right at the boots
of Victor Creed.
“Nice contraband,” the beast rumbled flatly. “Who’d ya have to blow to get it?”
Remy couldn’t even put on his usual mask of loathing—he was panicking like he’d
never panicked before. Not for the first time he wondered if he had enough
kinetic power to blast Creed away, but that point was moot; even the biggest,
baddest machine gun in the world was useless without ammunition.
. . . the cards.
Non. Hors de question. He’d only just acquired them. They were precious. He
loved and missed and cherished them as if they were blood relations. God only
knew if or when he’d be able to get another deck, and if so much as one of them
was ruined, he might as well have none. Well . . . with odds like that, why not
just go ahead and use them? Why not win for once instead of succumbing to
another assault?
Bravado always sounds great in theory, but its application is an entirely
different matter. Remy was aware of this, and right now the logical side of his
brain was telling him that even a humiliating defeat wouldn’t stop Creed. He
would be back tomorrow night, probably furious, insane with rage, and
punishment would be dealt with brutal, bone-breaking vengeance.
So there it was. Remy could either lose his cards and possibly his life, or he
could just endure the inevitable abuse of his body and maybe get to keep his
cards. He swallowed hard and tried to think, but his ability was promptly lost
in the hurricane of his mental conflict.
While Remy sat stupefied with fear, Creed crouched down and carefully picked up
one of the fallen cards with his clawed hand. It looked tiny pinned between his
fingers. “So what were you, Nineteen?” he murmured, turning the card lazily.
“Some kinda gambler?”
Remy, trembling slightly, licked his lips and said, “Non. Not really, I was . .
.” He tried to keep it together. Tried, tried, tried. But he couldn’t. The levy
of his pride crumbled and the waters came rushing out. “Please, jus’ let me
keep dem,” he babbled. “I won’ try to—I won’, I won’ fight you. You can do
whatevah you want to me, jus’ . . . please.”
Victor narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the young mutant across from him.
Something like confusion settled into his features, far more ominous than his
familiar toothy sneer. His gaze moved to the card in his hand, then back to
those frightened green eyes . “Why?”
Why? The word sent bolts of dread through Remy’s body. He didn’t think he could
articulate why he needed to keep his cards—he just had to. It had been twelve
months since he’d last touched a set of Bicycles, the longest stretch of time
in his meager seventeen-year life. The thought of giving them up now after he’d
only just got them . . . he couldn’t. They were more than simply cards; they
were a little piece of New Orleans, of home, of his life before he was
swallowed alive by red horror and black violence. That little shard of the past
meant more to him than his body, more than his blood and his tears, more than
his pride. Cards had been in his life before Creed, and they were immune to his
destruction. They were the way home, even if only in dreams. That was why Remy
wanted them. That was why Remy needed them.
He hardened his expression to conceal the desperation he felt. “You wouldn’
undahstand,” he muttered. “You nevah loved nothin’ in your life.”
Victor’s eyebrows lifted with surprise and he pursed his bottom lip,
considering. “You may be right,” he said at last. “Or maybe I just haven’t
found anything worth loving yet.” He tossed the two of hearts into Remy’s lap
and rose to his feet.
Was . . . was he leaving?
No. He had just turned to face the open door and was now standing there
silently, tensely, flexing his claws. How would it begin this time? An angry
whirl, a roar, a ripping slash? Remy grew more terrified the longer the attack
was delayed, sweat misting on his upper lip, his head throbbing and his eyes
jittering in their sockets. Finally the dread became too much; he sprang up and
yelled shrilly, “Jus’ do it now if you’re goin’ to! Get it ovah wit’ or . . .
or get out!”
Creed closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, quietly, then dropped his shoulders
and turned around. Remy tried to get out of the way but Victor was faster,
reaching out and snagging the ugly red collar in his fist, driving his prey
backward until he was pinned to the wall. Remy pried uselessly at the iron
fingers holding him, wondering why he wasn’t being choked or scratched or
having his clothes torn from his body. Usually he’d be bleeding by now. Or
screaming, begging . . . This wasn’t normal.
Claws touched his lips. Not digging in, not drawing blood, but gently nudging.
Remy went still, stone-still, and dared to open his eyes.
Victor was staring down at him, frowning, searching. He pushed the teenager’s
upper lip back to bare his teeth. Remy squealed in pain when he felt a large
finger push against his sore tooth, that right canine he had knocked loose a
few weeks ag—
There was a meaty pop, coinciding with a blinding flash of hot, excruciating
pain. Remy tasted blood in his mouth as it streamed from the hole where his
tooth had been. He snarled out a curse and sprayed blood onto Creed’s neck, but
Creed didn’t bat an eye. He tossed the tooth away indifferently and inclined
Remy’s head for a better view of his work, poking at the tender area with his
claw. Remy shrieked in agony and reached up to clutch the heavy black coat in
his fists, twisting and clenching, his tendons standing out in sinewy cords.
Then, suddenly, a fleeting look of—what was it? Recognition?
Disappointment?—glinted in Creed’s dark eyes and vanished just as quickly as it
had appeared.
“Shit,” he murmured, and dropped Remy as if he were leprous. He stepped back,
scowling, and turned, his boots thudding angrily against the concrete as he
crossed the room. He passed through the door. He slammed it shut. His footsteps
faded down the hallway. And then—
Nothing.
Remy, bloody mouth hanging ajar and eyes fixed to the door, remained where he
was until his mind was finally able to grasp the situation—the miracle—without
slipping:
Creed had come . . . and he had gone. No assault. No climax. No being pinned
beneath that heavy, musky body and raped to the point of unconsciousness. Creed
had barely touched him. He hadn’t taken the cards, hadn’t destroyed them. He
hadn’t even really been interested in them.
A rill of blood rolled down Remy’s chin, shaking him from his trance. He wiped
it away with the cuff of his sleeve and winced. His mouth ached, the taste of
blood nauseating and strong. Merde alors. He slid over to the toilet and spat
thick strings of red into the bowl, gagging once or twice.
Leave it to Creed to sniff out and exploit the one weak spot in an otherwise
strong body, thought Remy bitterly. It was almost as if he had known about that
sore tooth and just wanted to inflict all the pain he could. Still, it didn’t
explain why he’d left so abruptly, or why he looked so—
What. What? What was this?
Remy’s tongue, while gingerly exploring the new gap in his teeth, had found
something. It was hard and pointy, poking up from the bloody bed where his
tooth had been.
Un miroir. Réflexion. He needed a mirror, something shiny. He wanted to see
what was in his mouth but there was nothing in the room, nothing that would . .
. wait, his identification bracelet. It was semi-reflective. That could work.
Remy grasped the steel cuff around his left wrist—so much a part of him now
that he barely noticed it—and rubbed the smears and smudges from its surface
with the shirt he wore beneath his coveralls. When he was finally able to get a
good image from one of the less scuffed-up parts of the band, he held it to his
open mouth, angling his head to try and get the best view.
A sharp white point, blurred and distorted in the metal’s surface, sprouting
from his ragged flesh like the dull tip of a needle.
A tooth. Another tooth? But these were his adult teeth. How could it be another
tooth? Could . . . was this part of that “advanced healing factor” Stryker had
mentioned? Why was he growing a new tooth? Could he regenerate now, like a
starfish? It didn’t look like his other canine. Why was it so sharp? Was it
malformed, mutated?
Remy’s heart slammed blood through his head so hard he felt dizzy.
No, he realized numbly, brushing his tongue over the hard enamel edge. This
wasn’t regeneration. Because this wasn’t a tooth.
It was a fang.
A perfect, little, feral fang.
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