Sabretooth: A Good Day in the Life of 'Tooth
        -------------------------------------------------------------

        (By: Marko Lindman. Original idea by: Marko Lindman)
        (Betareading by: Sigil, to whom I owe many thanks)
        (Warning: the text contains graphic violence)

    **************
  Disclaimer (of sorts):
    Sabretooth belong to Marvel Comics.
    I'm not planning to get any profit out of this
    so please don't try to get profit out of me by
    suing (I wouldn't have the money for that matter either).

  Continuity:
    Well there are two answers to that, it started out as my response
    to the 'Creed in Hound-project' - storyline (haven't confirmed
    it's existence, just heard rumors about it) so I was originally
    thinking of it as a after-Onslaught story. But as Sigil pointed
    to me it would work even better if the continuity would be set
    to in the sixties after Creed had been in the Black Ops
    (and mayhap after the Weapon X - project, they haven't given
    the dates of that thing, have they?).

  Archiving:
    Please do, just drop me a note beforehands so I'll know where
    my stories are being read.

  Feedback:
    Yes, lots of that, thank you (to mlindman@ratol.fi or to the list/ACFF
     if you prefer... I do like public feedback, doesn't everyone, but not
     all want to get their inboxes full of feedback that isn't directed to them).

    And now on with the show...

    **************
   This wasn't the weather Creed liked: the clouds were low and winds
  wheeled back and forth.
   He snorted. "What good does the world's best sense of smell do
  when the wind blows all the scents around so you can't pinpoint any
  of them," Creed   thought sullenly.
   If it would just start to rain and get it over with... to tell the truth,
  he'd like to feel rain on his face for a change. He'd been in the city too

  long and longed for the feel of the wilderness again. But whether
  he liked it or not, he had a job to do and that job couldn't wait.
   It had been five weeks since he had been contacted by
  an agent from Mossad. The Israelis had a lead on a Nazi war
  criminal that had previously escaped them.
   "Why don't you do the job yourself?" he had asked, only to be told  that
  it was none of his business. He shrugged, and was about to leave, when
  they hastily stopped him and explained that they had little proof against
  the man, no proof that would hold in any court.
   He had had no trouble with that, their money was good and that
  was all that mattered.
   It had taken him five weeks to trace the man through Brazil
  and French Guyana, but the trail ended in Germany. The old bastard
  had returned to the scene of the crime after the attention of the world
  had shifted.
   He had retired to an old castle that looked over a valley near Bonn.
  The castle was perched on the top of the hill, with only one narrow road
  leading to it. On the other side was a precipice.
   "An easy place to defend... yeah, against anyone else, maybe," Creed
  thought with a slight grin, and set forth.
   It took him about an hour to climb up the precipice, which would have
  been a hard climb even for an experienced mountaineer with climbing gear.
   After that, it was easy to get in. Oh, there were a couple of
  dobermans - their master would find them tomorrow gutted and
  stashed up a tree - and armed guards, some of whom even got
  a glimpse of him before he tore their throats out.
   Then he was in.

    **************
   It had been a long shift. Markus and I had been on for almost four
  hours. At this hour, it was a living hell. Our systems cried out for
  sleep, but there was nothing they could do about it. The one who was
  caught sleeping on guard duty got a big cut on his next paycheck.
   The first time had taught both of us. Still, the fatigue was there,
  slowing our movements and making our vision slightly blurry in the
  darkness. No flashlights were allowed, not while on duty.
   We had been going through the second floor for the third time this shift
  when Markus suddenly stiffened.
   "Hear that?" he said, holding a hand behind his ear. I shrugged but
  followed behind him when he started towards the door where he
  thought he had heard the sound.
   When he threw open the door, we could only stare in amazement.
  Helmut Mücher, our boss, the man we were supposed to protect, was
  hung from the ceiling by a thin rope around his ankles. He was naked
  and had two huge gashes along his sides.
  He was bleeding to death in front of our eyes.
   Markus was the first to react.
   "We have to get him to a hospital at once! Give me your knife and
  I'll cut him loose!" Markus yelled. I gave him the knife while still
  looking at Herr Mücher, dumbfounded.
   A slight growl was the last thing I heard. Someone was behind me,
  and he thrust his hand and its massive, brutal claws, straight through
  my neck. Blood sprayed everywhere. Horrible pain kicked in, and
  I dropped silently to the floor, wrapped in the shock of impending death.
   Markus was next, I saw from my new and oddly calm position on the floor.
  The man that had killed me was dressed in an orange leotard with a mane
  attached to it. It made him look like a lion. He moved so fast it was hard
  to even see him. Markus was still preoccupied with trying to get our boss
  down from the rope and never saw the attack coming.
   He slashed at Markus, this time not going for the neck but
  instead for his abdomen.  Markus was gutted from the groin to the throat.
  As he opened his mouth to cry out, the lionman shoved some piece of cloth
  in it, and Markus fell into his own spilled guts on the floor.
   Then the lionman just left, not even bothering to look twice at the
  carnage he had left behind.

    **************
   Every obstacle had been removed. He was now alone on the second floor
  with his target. Nothing left to do but to put this to an end. He sighed
  quietly. Despite all his complaining, he had enjoyed this.
  Maybe even too much. He knew that this had been an easy catch,
  not like some of the work he had done with the runt, but the hunt had
  exhilarated him anyway.
   It had been so long since he had been able to let this part of himself
  loose. He'd been in the hands of the government, kept away from his
  prey... oh, he hadn't liked that at all. He had left as soon as he had had
the
  opportunity. You'd think they had learned their lesson by now.
  They could never keep him under their control. He would never be
  a good little soldier for the government.
  Not. Ever. Again.

    **************
   The old man was on the floor. He already had several cuts and
  bruises, but worse was yet to come.
   "No! Why are you doing this?" the man cried between sobs.
   "I was hired to do this. Nothing personal. I actually admire the
  straight-forwardness that your society had," Creed said softly,
  towering over the whimpering man.
   "Society?... It was the Israelis, wasn't it? Those Jew bastards!
  L-look, I can pay   you more than they are paying, I'll do anything,
  just don't kill me..." His voice was weakening as his blood loss
  increased. He had received a carelessly deep cut while Creed had
  been playing with him like a cat with its prey. Creed was not happy
  with this.
   "Am I getting old? Didn't plan for him getting any bigger injuries...yet"
  he thought.
   "No can do, sorry. You see, I'm a merc, gun-for-hire. Assassin, if you
  prefer. If a man wants to make his living in this market, he has to stick
  to his assignments. If you lose your cred, you lose your job. Simple as
  that," Creed  said in a nonchalant voice, and slashed open the old man's
  thigh, going for the femoral artery.
   "Aaargh! No! Please! I've done nothing wrong. I just followed orders. I
  didn't do anything! I was just a petty officer at the camp, others made
  the decisions. I wasn't even one of the people who put them into
  practice!" he howled.
   "A camp, eh? Well, I don't care if you were an innocent little soldier or
  some perverted sicko. I came here to do a job and that's just what I'm
  going to do. Let's  get this over with," he said nonchalantly, and started
  towards the man.
   "No!" he cried, and tried to crawl away from Sabretooth, leaving a thick
  trail of blood behind him.

    **************
   Afterwards, Creed was busy licking his claws clean from the blood when he
  felt a sunbeam on his cheek. He opened the curtains fully and looked out.
  It was dawn, and the sky was clear.
   "Maybe this will be a good day after all," Creed muttered and grinned as
  he walked away.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+   "Professional assassination is the highest form of public
+
+    service."
+
+                                   - Chiun, from _Remo Williams_
+
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++