Hunting Creed

[logan]

Crossing the border into Canada is a simple matter when you do it at the thickest part of the wilderness. Further, reaching Canada from Xavier's could be done in record time when you had a regeneration factor to essentially give you endless stamina, and a driving will pulling the beast out in you.

After a while, Logan was almost running while he tracked his prey through the wild, and he still was finding the mark – almost as if guided by some subconscious divination, his instincts alone assuring him without pretense that he was directly on Creed's trail.

A part of his mind knew that it was insane, that there was no sense in the pursuit... that he should never have left Rayen or the school... but it was quickly smothered over by the programming.

He'd find himself lost in the hunt to such a degree that he'd snap out of it, look around, and realize that the sun had gone down and he'd never noticed. Fleeting moments of sanity, of civilization, would flutter through the filter of his mind... and then they'd be smothered.

Now it was difficult to tell him from a beast, flying through the underbrush as natural as any deer would. Following the man that haunted him preternaturally, seeking a warm home for the adamantium claws that remained sheathed within his flesh.

[Sabretooth]

Creed travelled through the Canadian wilderness as fast as his body would let him. The damage done at the Xavier Institute was more than he had suffered in a long while, and it was the only time he could ever remember that such damage was inflicted on him and he wasn't the only one standing in the end.

At least I killed that fucking slug-throwing boy, he thought. He stopped suddenly and glared around, baring his newly formed teeth. His lips still swooped below his gumline, creating a perpetual frown. The eye Wolverine had pierced was malformed in its socket, and bulged slightly to the side. The fingers the slug had eaten were coming back, the bones poking out from the slowing growing stubs. The hand that the runt had taken from him was the worst part - it had barely come back at all in the days since his escape. But Creed knew that even these grevious wounds would heal just like all the others.

He began moving again, his deerskin coat dragging in the snow and leaving a large track that spread out around his deep footprints. Sabretooth cared little about someone following him - he'd simply gut anyone who found him out here. Yes, he might be hearing noises every few minutes, and yes, he might not have slept even a full hour in over a week, but he was very obviously leaving a large trail in his wake, and thought nothing of it.

Creed sniffed the air as he moved further away from civilization. He smelled nothing alive but animals out here. Good.

Sabretooth needed time to heal. He needed time to rest.

He needed to get to the other side of the world.