Disclaimer: The X-Men are not mine, nor do I make any profit from the telling of my stories. In my dreams, however, they are ALL mine! MINE, I tell you! *Evil laugh*

*Cough!* Hello, everyone! Welcome to Captive Rage, my new story showcasing the talents of Wolverine and Jubilee! Despite the many Rogans I have dabbled in over the past few months, my loyal readers will know that my heart truly lies with the feral and his firecracker and, thanks to recent developments within the pages of the latest X-men offerings from Marvel, I have been inspired to go back to my roots and pen a new romance! This story has been rattling around in my head for some time now and I just couldn't ignore it any longer, so I hope you all enjoy!

Before we start, here's a little info on the backstory that you may find helpful ... Wolverine never escaped from the original Weapon X project and has been held there for the past fifteen years. Jubilee joined the X-Men at the age of fourteen, after following Storm, Dazzler and Psylocke through the portal that led to their base in Australia, and became part of the team after being discovered hiding in the generator room! M-Day never happened, so all mutants still have their powers - however, the mutant population explosion never happened either, so mutants are still relatively rare and sought after by those who would use their powers for their own gain. Jubilee is now twenty years old ...

So there you go! Hope you all enjoy the first chapter and if you feel so inclined, I would love to read your reviews!

ooXoo

Captive Rage

Chapter 1. Ground Zero

By the time the local police realised they were outmatched, two hostages were dead and the undercover cop sent in to negotiate their release was bleeding his lifeblood into the snow that covered Senator MacMillan's front lawn. All attempts to secure his rescue were met by a blizzard of opposing fire from the semi-automatic wielding thugs stationed in several of the mansion's upper windows. Forced into cover behind their own bullet-ridden vehicles, they were tortured by the pained cries of their injured comrade and reminded that sometimes good intentions and a smart blue uniform just weren't enough to get the job done.

Frantic messages filled the airwaves. Reinforcements were sought and subsequently promised by the calm-voiced radio operatives who were safe in the warmth and security of the main precinct. By the time the SWAT team arrived, the hostage-takers had made their demands public - $50.000.000 and Senator MacMillan, his family and staff would be allowed to go free. Sergeant Powell, officer commanding, and Captain Hawkins of the SWAT team didn't believe this for one second. However, in an attempt to buy time, the SWAT Captain agreed to the demands on the provision they could retrieve their injured man. The boon was duly granted.

The casualty was pulled to safety by two nervous but determined volunteers and loaded quickly aboard a waiting ambulance. Its departure was watched by every one of the fifty strong police presence and ten SWAT team members, each one wondering just how many of them would be joining that first casualty before the night was over. Because they all knew that the hostage-takers could not be allowed to prevail. They had to be stopped at all costs, even if it meant that the lives of more innocent civilians and police officers alike could be ended. The message had to be sent, loud and clear, for all those who thought to target those weaker than themselves for their own personal gain – terrorism would not be tolerated.

Captain Hawkins began to position his men, sending them out to surround the Senator's mansion under cover of the snowstorm which was beginning to sweep in from the north. Police marksmen, watching the house through the laser sights of their high-powered assault rifles, reported activity behind the curtained windows. The hostage-takers were preparing to fight back.

Concern for the safety of the Senator and his family made Hawkins hold off on the order to attack just long enough for a call to come through on a secure channel from his superiors. Turning away from the chill wind in order to focus on the tinny voice coming through his field radio, Hawkins felt his face pale as white as the snow that was falling around him as the dread news was conveyed. Noting the detached way in which he terminated the call and stared through the swirling snow at the mansion, Sergeant Powell ducked along the line of haphazardly parked police cruisers to Hawkins' side, silently conveying his concern with a raised eyebrow. Their new orders, voiced in flat tones by the SWAT Captain, brought a spike of fear to his heart.

They were to stand down and place command of the situation into other hands.

The Weapon X Operatives were on their way …..

oooOOOooo

The modified Black Hawk helicopter came in to land on the roadway beyond the mansion's outer perimeter, touching down expertly in the center of the cordon set up by the police and whirling snow into the faces of the two men waiting to meet it. As the side door slid open, they exchanged uneasy glances, fearful of what waited within the helicopter's dark interior. Neither of them had had dealings with the Weapon X Operatives before, but the team's reputation preceded it and spoke of men determined to get the job done by whatever means necessary. Their motto was 'The Best There Is' and they did their utmost to live up to it.

Expecting the helicopter to spew forth a full team of heavily armed army types, Hawkins and Powell were surprised by the single khaki-clad soldier who hopped down to the ground and trotted towards them with his semi-automatic repeater rifle slung casually over his shoulder. He shook hands with the two men, introduced himself as Peters – no rank, no number, Powell noted – and then gestured towards the mansion with a nod of his head.

"So, what have we got?"

"Twelve terrorists, possibly more. Roughly the same number of hostages." Captain Hawkins was all calm professionalism, unwilling to let the fact that the newcomer was at least ten years his junior put him off his stride. There was a job to be done – innocents to rescue – and did it really matter who accomplished the deed as long as the results were the same? "We believe four of the suspects have the hostages pinned down in the dining room. The rest are covering the grounds from the upstairs windows."

"Good. That's more or less what we expected." Peters nodded and unslung his rifle. "I take it we have the full co-operation of your people?"

"Of course!"

"Excellent. Then I want you to pull your people back, well away from the house. Our man needs full anonymity."

"Your ….. your man?" Powell shook his head, confused. "You're sending one man in there?"

"That's the idea." Peters grinned, an action totally at odds with the severity of the situation.

"But ….."

"Look, you don't have to understand this, just let us do our job. All we need is to be left alone and we'll get your Senator out for you. We don't need any police back-up, no medical assist and, above all, no police spotters. Our man works alone. You understand me?"

The words were spoken without malice, yet behind them was the threat of retribution if they were questioned. Hawkins considered this for a split second before nodding. "I'll go and pull the men back."

"Do it real quite-like. We don't want to let the terrorists know we're coming."

Hawkins moved away to carry out his words and Peters gestured towards the house. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" He flipped down the small two-way radio attached to his ear-piece, turning to face the helicopter, which was still standing silently in the middle of the road with its rotors slowly winding down. "Alright, everything's set here. Bring him out."

"Copy that. On our way."

There was a moment's pause before a second khaki-clad soldier stepped from the helicopter, holding on to the end of a metal leash which trailed back into the darkened interior. As the chain tightened, he gave it a tug, forcing another man out into the open.

Powell felt his blood run cold ….

The newcomer was dressed in khaki's like his companions, but here the similarities ended. Where the soldiers held themselves with the calm assurance of men trained to fight, this man looked as though he had been born to fight. His gait, although light for a man of his size, gave the impression that he was poised on the edge, ready to spring into action at any moment, and his eyes flicked back and forth constantly, checking everything out and missing nothing.

It was like watching the reactions of an animal trapped in a man's body …..

The soldier led his charge over, tugging on the leash to get him moving. The closer he came, the more Powell felt as though he was in the presence of a merciless predator who would not hesitate to tear his throat out if he so much as moved wrong. The eyes that checked him out so suspiciously were dark and devoid of emotion and he swallowed nervously, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an approaching car – knowing danger was bearing down on him and unable to do anything about it.

He would never admit it, but he felt extremely relieved to see Hawkins returning. The SWAT Captain slipped in the snow as he approached and the man on the leash startled, growling warningly and dropping into a slight crouch as though intending to spring. His handler gave the chain a sharp tug.

Hawkins eyed the chained man warily and Peters grinned. "Don't mind him, he's just tetchy at being out in the snow. He hates being wet." He clasped his hands and rubbed them together. "He's definitely got a point though – it's cold out here. Maybe if you lead me an' Hanley to the house we could get this over with and return to our warm beds?"

Confused by the Operatives' intentions, but determined not to show it, Hawkins led the way through the police cordon towards the house, trying to ignore the sound of growling coming from behind him. It was an unearthly and eerie sound, and it unnerved him, being reminiscent of a rabid dog …..

As they ran across the snow-covered driveway and ducked into the protecting cover of a police cruiser, the storm intensified, swirling icy cold flakes of snow into their faces and partially obscuring their view of the house.

Maybe this was the reason they missed noticing the sleek black jet that hovered stealthily above them in the night sky …..?

oooOOOooo

There's blood in the snow – I can smell it. It draws me like a magnet an' I try to move towards it only to be pulled up short by my leash. I growl my disapproval, but allow myself to be led towards a row o' vehicles parked just beyond the driveway. A sharp tug on my leash brings me to my knees when I would have remained standing.

My handlers begin discussing hostage placement, but the words are meaningless to me. I know why I was brought here an' my heart is poundin' with the anticipation o' doing what I was born to do. Somewhere in that building are men I am expected to kill and, whether they deserve it or not, I will carry out my duty without question. To do any less would be to invite pain an' severe punishment. I am no stranger to the kind o' punishment my handlers are capable o' dishing out. I've resisted their orders a time or two – sometimes still do, when the boredom takes me – but these days I can hardly be bothered any more. What's the point?

I move slowly towards the back end o' the vehicle at a crouch, peerin' around the bumper at the dark shape o' the house. Already my analytical mind is assessing the best way to approach unseen, takin' note of every stretch o' open space between me an' the house. A curtain twitches in one o' the upstairs windows, drawin' my attention immediately. I doubt anyone but me coulda seen it at this distance without some form of optical aid. The hostage-takers are obviously on the look-out for trouble – an' they're gonna get it in spades.

They won't know what's hit 'em …

A surprisingly gentle tug on my leash turns my attention back to my handlers. Hanley is smiling at me indulgently, makin' me feel like a beloved pet who's just learned a new trick. I'd like to show him a trick or two just for his attitude an' I know he won't like 'em, but I settle for baring my teeth at him as I crawl back to his side.

He reaches out to ruffle my hair fondly an' I force myself not to recoil. "You wanna get going, don't you, boy? You wanna teach those bastards a lesson? Well, we'll just get this leash off …"

I try not to appear too eager as the metal chain is unclipped from my collar, resistin' the sudden urge to take off into the night. The darkness an' the drivin' snow would no doubt cover my escape, an' Peters an' Hanley can't track worth a damn – it'd be easy to evade their clumsy attempts to reacquire me. I can't, however, evade the collar I am still wearin'. It ain't there just for show – it's my handlers' guarantee that I'll come back after I've completed my mission. If I don't – or if I take off – all they have to do is activate it an' the homin' signal will lead 'em right to my smokin' body.

I can't outrun it an' I can't get it off. Believe me, I've tried. So until another option comes along, looks like I'm in this for the duration.

Hanley pockets my leash an' gives me the signal to 'go'. "Go get 'em, boy," he tells me, uselessly.

"Wait a minute, are you just going to send him in there unarmed?" One o' the uniforms speaks up an' I swivel on the ball o' my foot to bare my teeth at him. He does his best not to notice, but his companion reeks o' fear now an' it's startin' to put me on edge. "He'll be torn to pieces! At least give him the god-damn rifle!"

"He doesn't need it. He's trained to fight one-on-one, and we'd rather that little nugget didn't get out, for security reasons." Peters notices me still hangin' around an' gives me the signal again. "Go, god-dammit! What're you waiting for? An invitation?"

I go before I have to be told again, duckin' into the cover provided by the next vehicle along an' then sprintin' across a stretch o' lawn to a snow-laden lilac bush. From there, it's an easy path to the back door, where I flatten myself against the wall an' take stock o' my surroundings. There are residual traces o' several scents here – most probably belong to the servants an' tradesmen, but several are mixed with gun oil an' I know for a fact that your common-or-garden delivery man don't carry firearms along with the daily bread. So this is where the hostage-takers gained entry to the house. Figures. Once inside, it would be an easy matter to spread throughout the house, takin' their hostages as they went. It's what I woulda done.

The snow is comin' thick an' fast now an' I tilt my face to the sky an' let it fall on my face. For a moment, it seems as though I am being anointed with its virgin innocence an' then it melts, driven away by the rage that is lurkin' within me. Nothin' remains untouched by me for long – I taint everything with the evil in my soul.

Not surprisingly, the door is locked, but this succumbs quickly when a single claw is introduced to its inner workings. I slip through into a silent an' darkened kitchen, filled with the stench o' overdone meat an' burnt pans – it seems the servants were taken by surprise while preparing the evening meal. I take a moment to filter through the pungent smell, snortin' as it catches at the back o' my throat. The scent o' gun oil leads across the room to another door, along with several others which must belong to the captured staff. I dismiss those immediately as unimportant, although I tag them for future recognition. If it comes to a fight – an' it will, I have no doubts on that score – I need to know I'm not about to plunge my claws into a helpless hostage.

I move silently to the opposite door, the boots I am wearin' makin' scarcely a sound on the tiled floor despite their clumsy weight. I would prefer to hunt barefoot, but my handlers insist on certain priorities being met an' wearin' normal human clothin' while on a take-down is one of 'em. I loathe the restrictions these garments impose on me – every move feels clumsy in comparison to how nature intended, an' I resist the impulse to rip the hateful evidence o' my captivity away an' hunt my prey unencumbered – the way my nature demands. But I am not a fool. To do so would only invite the pain o' the collar.

The hallway beyond the door is dark an' silent an' empty of anyone to vent my frustrations on. The scents split here – four of the prey an' the staff go to the right, the rest to the left. I immediately turn left. The men watchin' over the hostages are not important at this time. My priority is to take down their back-up before I engage the final assault.

Divide an' conquer – jus' the way I like it.

The hallways turns a corner further on an' I flatten myself to the wall an' peer around it cautiously. Prey is standin' only a few feet away, armed to the teeth an' guardin' the bottom of a sweepin' staircase. His fancy weapons do him no good at all as I leap from the shadows an' bear him down to the ground, a single claw slittin' his throat before he can even scream. I stand over him as his lifeblood gushes out to soak the expensive carpet an' the carnal scent of it reaches deep inside, releasin' the essence o' the beast, who snarls at the fresh kill an' demands more.

I don't try to hold it back - I welcome it. I welcome the edge the beast's strength gives me an' I gladly put my soul in its hands for the chance to kill an' main as my true nature demands of me. I only wish it were the hearts o' my handlers that could feel my blades' caress, but I'll make do with whoever crosses my path this night. The snarl on my lips passes judgement on them before I even know their names.

By the time I take the stairs two at a time, I am fully feral an' eager for blood …..

NEXT: Jubilee!