The Hunt Begins

The room was dimly lit, shadows stretching along the cracked walls and wooden floor, the scent of stale alcohol and cigar smoke hanging in the air. Victor Creed—Sabretooth—stood near the window, arms crossed over his broad chest, the dim glow from the outside streetlights illuminating the sharp grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Across the room, the Marauders stood gathered, a collection of muscle, brute force, and mutation, but as Sabretooth's golden eyes scanned the group, he couldn't help but let out a scoff of amusement.

"Well, ain't this just a damn embarrassment," he drawled, his voice thick with condescension. "All of you, grouped together like this…just to take down one mutant?" He let the words linger, the smirk on his face widening as his gaze flickered between them. He made sure to emphasise "one" as he spoke, a jab aimed directly at Blockbuster, Prism, Rhino, and Tombstone.

Blockbuster and Rhino shifted at the insult, their massive forms tensing. Blockbuster cracked his knuckles while Rhino's thick fingers curled into tight fists.

Sabretooth merely chuckled, unimpressed. "Aw, don't get all worked up now," he sneered. "You boys had your shot, and you blew it. That kid handed you your asses, and you still got the nerve to be mad at me?" He tilted his head toward the two newest additions to the team—Scrambler and Harpoon. "Hell, these two weren't even there, and I bet they're already thinkin' y'all are a bunch of jokes."

Scrambler and Harpoon remained silent but exchanged brief glances. Neither had faced Scott Summers before, nor did they entirely buy into Sabretooth's hype surrounding him. From what they had been told, Summers was strong, but this strong? To the point that a team of six needed to be assembled just to bring him down? It was hard to believe.

Blockbuster growled. "We don't need a damn lecture from you, Creed."

Rhino grunted in agreement, his heavy frame shifting forward slightly, nostrils flaring. "That little punk just got lucky. We'll squash him like a damn bug this time."

Sabretooth chuckled, running a clawed finger along the side of his jaw as he eyed them with open amusement. "Yeah? Well, lucky or not, you got another shot at 'im. Let's see if you can actually do better this time." His voice turned sharp, his grin losing any trace of humor. "'Cause you boys need to."

He uncrossed his arms, stepping forward as the room quieted. "Here's the deal. I'll keep Logan occupied—same as I did in Dunfee. But this ain't just 'bout takin' down Summers. He ain't alone anymore." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "The kid's got himself some playmates now. Fellow students. Warren Worthington III, Hank McCoy, Robert Drake, and some red headed chick."

Prism snorted. "So what?"

Sabretooth turned his head slightly, gaze narrowing. "So they're the weakness we exploit. Summers is damn good, I ain't denying that. He knows how to fight, how to plan, and how to make you boys look like amateurs. But his new little friends?" He let out a low chuckle. "They ain't him."

He began listing them off, one by one, analyzing what he knew. "The winged pretty boy, Worthington? Flight, obviously. Probably fast, but nothing we can't deal with." His gaze flickered toward Rhino. "Drake? Ice powers, from what I hear. Could be annoying, but his control ain't great yet. McCoy? From what I gathered, better-than-average physical strength and agility, but no clue how it stacks up to the likes of you," he sneered at Tombstone, before smirking. "Though, considering you barely got a brain to work with, who knows?"

Tombstone's blank stare remained unchanged, his lack of response only making Sabretooth's amusement grow.

"And then there's the redhead," Sabretooth continued, his tone shifting slightly. "Don't know what she's got yet, but if she's with Summers, she's gotta be somethin' more than just a tagalong." He let the thought linger before shaking his head. "Either way, the point is—none of 'em are Summers. They're weaker, they're less experienced, and they'll hold him back."

Blockbuster crossed his thick arms. "Then we take 'em out first."

Sabretooth grinned. "Now you're gettin' it."

A sudden shift in the air made Sabretooth pause, his sharp senses picking up a scent, faint but familiar. He inhaled deeply, his grin widening into something more feral, more dangerous. He turned toward the window, his golden eyes locking onto a figure standing across the street, still as stone.

Logan.

Even from this distance, Sabretooth could feel the tension rolling off him. A silent challenge. A dance they had done far too many times before. His claws flexed at his sides, the anticipation of the fight making his blood hum with excitement.

"Looks like the runt's here," he muttered, still staring through the glass. "Which means our boy Scott's on the move."

Blockbuster cracked his knuckles again. "Then let's go."

Sabretooth turned, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Nah. Not after Summers. Not yet."

The group looked at him in confusion, but Sabretooth continued. "The reason he got away from you morons before was because he chose his battleground. The train? He knew the layout. Dunfee? He had the advantage of knowing your weaknesses." His gaze hardened. "You go after him now, he's in control again. That's how he wins."

Rhino grunted. "So what? We just wait around?"

Sabretooth smirked. "No. We take the fight somewhere he ain't ready for. Somewhere we force him onto the back foot."

Tombstone's gravelly voice finally cut through. "Where?"

Sabretooth's grin turned razor-sharp. "His home."

A beat of silence stretched between them before Scrambler scoffed. "You seriously think that's necessary? You're acting like this kid is some damn war general."

Harpoon nodded in agreement, crossing his arms. "We've handled mutants before, Creed. You're putting too much weight on this one."

Sabretooth's eyes gleamed with something dark and knowing. "Yeah? Tell you what. You do whatever the hell you want. But when Sinister starts lookin' for someone to blame if we fail again, I ain't gonna be the one he carves up first."

That shut them up.

Scrambler and Harpoon exchanged brief glances, the realization of Sabretooth's words sinking in. They had never personally witnessed what happened when Sinister was displeased, but they had heard the stories. Stories of failure being repaid in pain, in experimentation, in permanent… modifications.

Sabretooth stepped back toward the window, rolling his shoulders. He could feel Logan's presence, the tension between them stretching, waiting to snap.

"Do whatever you want," he said again, voice dripping with amusement. "But I'll tell ya right now—if you go chasin' Summers on the battleground of his choosing, you're already dead."

The Marauders didn't respond right away. Eventually, Blockbuster let out a slow breath. "Fine. We hit the mansion."

Sabretooth grinned.

Now this was about to get interesting.

-X-

The crisp evening air settled in, bringing with it a slight chill that Jean hadn't been prepared for. A shiver ran down her spine as she folded her arms, rubbing at the skin of her exposed arms. Dressed in her baggy jumper and dolphin shorts, she suddenly felt completely underdressed, regretting her earlier decision not to change into something warmer before following Scott. The midday sun was now dipping below the horizon, the warmth of the day giving way to the creeping cold of the approaching night.

Her frustration only grew as she realized she had completely lost track of Scott.

'Did he know I was following him?' The thought gnawed at her. Scott was sharp, incredibly so, and it wouldn't surprise her if he had sensed her tailing him from the start. If that was the case, then he had purposefully shaken her off. 'Great.' She sighed heavily, turning her head to scan the area, hoping to catch sight of him.

Nothing.

The streetlights flickered to life, illuminating the pavement with a dim, artificial glow. The suburban streets of Bayville weren't exactly packed with people, most having already returned home or retreated into nearby cafés and restaurants. That only made the fact that she couldn't spot Scott even more annoying. Where the hell did he go?

Jean clenched her jaw, her frustration mounting. 'I swear, if he's running headfirst into something dangerous again—'

"Jean!"

Her head snapped toward the familiar voice, and for a brief moment, hope flickered in her chest—only to be immediately crushed when she saw who it was.

Duncan Matthews.

He was approaching her with a cocky smile, a few of his friends flanking him as they strolled down the sidewalk with the easy confidence of high school jocks who thought they owned the world. Duncan waved as he closed the distance, his gaze trailing over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

Jean resisted the urge to sigh, keeping her expression composed. 'Great. Just what I needed.' Forcing a polite smile, she straightened her posture as Duncan stopped in front of her. His friends lingered just behind him, all of them standing just a little too close for comfort.

Their eyes weren't on her face.

They were on her legs.

Jean felt her muscles tense instinctively, irritation flaring. She cursed herself yet again for not changing into something warmer—and something that didn't leave her feeling so exposed under their lingering stares.

Duncan, ever oblivious, tilted his head with what she assumed was meant to be a charming grin. "Hey, Jean. How's it going?" His voice was smooth, an attempt at casual coolness that she saw right through.

Not in the mood.

"I'm fine," she said shortly, not bothering with small talk. "Have you seen Scott?"

The easygoing expression on Duncan's face immediately darkened, his grin dropping into a scowl. Frustration flashed in his eyes as his posture stiffened. "Why are you asking about Summers?" He asked, voice sharp.

Jean exhaled through her nose, biting back her annoyance. "Because I'm looking for him," she said simply. "Have you seen him or not?"

Duncan folded his arms, his scowl deepening. "What's the deal with you two, huh?" He pressed, ignoring her question entirely. "Are you dating or something?"

Jean blinked at the unexpected question, then arched a brow, unimpressed. "And if we were?" She challenged.

Duncan faltered for half a second, caught off guard by her response. It was clear he hadn't expected her to answer like that. His mouth opened slightly before snapping shut again, his expression shifting between irritation and something unreadable.

Jean waited, her arms crossing over her chest.

Duncan gritted his teeth, finally scoffing and shaking his head. "Whatever," he muttered.

"That's not an answer," Jean pointed out.

Duncan exhaled sharply, looking away, clearly frustrated. He shrugged carelessly, as if he couldn't care less. "I don't know where he is," he finally said, though there was a slight edge to his tone.

Jean frowned slightly, glancing past him toward his friends, who had been watching the interaction with varying levels of amusement and curiosity. "You guys?" She asked them.

One of Duncan's friends—a tall guy with shaggy brown hair—shrugged. "I think I saw someone that looked like him walking down the street earlier," he said. "He was in all black, wearing a cap and carrying a duffel bag."

Jean's interest piqued. That was Scott.

"Where?" She asked quickly.

The guy gestured vaguely down the street. "Few blocks that way."

Jean didn't waste another second. "Thanks," she said before immediately turning on her heel and breaking into a brisk walk, moving in the direction they had pointed.

Duncan watched her go, his scowl returning full force. His hands clenched into fists at his sides before he let out a grunt of frustration. "Tch," he muttered under his breath, turning back toward his friends.

Jean, however, didn't look back.

Her focus was set on one thing and one thing only—finding Scott Summers.

-X-

Scott exhaled slowly as he unzipped his hoodie, peeling it off and folding it neatly before stuffing it into his duffel bag. His cap followed, tucked securely inside before he zipped it up and slid the bag underneath the car in front of him. It was a precaution, ensuring his belongings were hidden away in case he needed to make a quick escape.

Rolling his shoulders, he rose to his feet, adjusting his black task mask as he caught his reflection in the car's window. It was snug, secure, and impassive—a fitting contrast to the rapid beat of his heart.

Then, the attack came.

Scott barely had time to react as the gleam of metal flashed in his peripheral vision. Instinct took over. He twisted his torso, narrowly dodging the thrust of a knife aimed for his ribs. He backpedaled swiftly, evading the follow-up slash that cut through the air just inches from his throat.

His eyes flashed red.

With a split-second decision, Scott unleashed an optic blast, the crimson energy lancing through the darkness, forcing his assailant to leap back and out of harm's way.

Scott steadied his breathing, lowering his stance as he took in his opponent.

The sight sent a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck.

A white hood draped over the man's shoulders, the fabric barely concealing the eerie, skull-like mask beneath it. Hollow sockets bore into him, dark and unreadable, the visage as cold and emotionless as death itself. The figure's muscular frame was wrapped in a dark blue bodysuit, trimmed with orange accents, and over it sat a reinforced chest plate adorned with golden armor plates. A flowing cape—dark on the outside, white and lined with orange on the inside—billowed slightly as the assassin adjusted his posture.

The utility belt strapped around his waist held a variety of weapons—holstered pistols, pouches likely filled with other deadly tools, and a single sheathed short sword. But what caught Scott's attention most was the emblem on the buckle: a stylized T, sharp and imposing.

Taskmaster.

Scott cursed internally, his grip on the knife tightening.

'Shit.'

The memories weren't entirely clear—fractured as they were—but they carried enough weight to make his stomach knot. Cyclops had encountered Taskmaster before, and that knowledge alone told Scott everything he needed to know.

This was bad.

Taskmaster wasn't just an assassin. He wasn't just another mercenary for hire. He was one of the deadliest men on the planet, a combat prodigy with photographic reflexes—able to copy any fighting style he saw and use it as effortlessly as if he had trained in it for years.

Scott knew how dangerous that ability was.

If Taskmaster had ever seen Wolverine fight, he'd be able to replicate his moves. If he had studied Captain America, he'd be able to mirror his shield techniques. Black Widow? His acrobatics and hand-to-hand combat would be nearly identical.

Now, Taskmaster was watching him, studying him.

Scott drew his knife from his belt, holding it in a modified saber grip, the blade pointed outward in front of him.

Taskmaster chuckled, the sound distorted by his mask.

Then he copied Scott's stance exactly—same grip, same positioning, same weight distribution.

Scott swallowed. 'This fight won't be easy. Hell, I might not even survive.' But this was the bait he had laid. He had set the trap, expecting either the Marauders or the assassin.

Taskmaster had taken it.

Now, he had to fight for his life.