Sabretooth and all other Marvel characters belong to Marvel. All others are of my own creation and belong to me.

This story is of an alternate reality Age of Apocalypse.

Errol was a stout man whom Mother Nature had not been kind to when creating his face. The whole left side seemed to droop slightly beginning at the malformed eyelid and ending with a down-turned scar that cut from his bottom lip to his jaw line. He was unusually fidgety and secretive but when he was drunk he became loud, and he was drunk quite often these days.

Already deep into his cups by early evening, Errol caught sight of the familiar blond feral he had most recently began drinking with as the other bowed his head to make it through the low door frame. The lounge was only beginning to draw in customers for the night but the blond had been coming earlier and earlier in the past few months.

"Sabretooth! Saved you a seat, chap!" He slapped the fake leather covering of the stool beside him and made an uninterpretable motion to the bartender to bring his friend a drink.

Creed suppressed a growl but did not bother to hide his glare as he took up the seat offered to him. The squat man was not his friend, but he tolerated the familiarity if only to distract himself from the day's events.

"What's your poison tonight, Sabretooth?" Bartending had been his profession before the rise of Apocalypse, and while Adrian had since lost his taste for serving, it had kept him out of the pens up until this point, so he tried to hide as much disdain as possible from his clients.

"Whiskey neat." Creed grunted sitting heavily on the stool. He was wearing a fresh uniform if only to demonstrate his rank among the other alphas and Prelates that drank in the dark room around him, waiting for the shows to start on the stages positioned at various places throughout.

"No whiskey tonight, sir. Deliveries are being made tomorrow."

"Deliveries?" Errol hiccuped while slamming down his vodka tonic in excitement.

"Gimme a rum n' coke then, dark rum." The other let out a long grumble and hunched over the bar. His right leg was still shooting pain as it was mending a femur fracture and he rubbed it absently with his clawed hand.

"All we have is white."

"Kid, I'm gonna jump over this bar and stomp yer face in if you don't gimme a damn drink." The threat was empty but it expressed enough anger and irritation to make Creed's point. The drink made with white rum was handed to him as the bartender smirked.

"Tell you what, you can have first crack tomorrow." Adrian replied trying to make amends.

Everyone who frequented this particular lounge deep within the heart of Apocalypse's reign would kill for a chance to have 'first crack', in fact there were murders on record over the issue as recently as that year.

Hades Lounge, while not an especially classy joint, with little to recommend itself other than seedy company and close proximity to the barracks, was infamous for a very specific bi-annual shipment. A handful of selected meat from the pens, all young and beautiful in their own ways, were sent over to Hades to supply the seemingly endless demand for nubile skin. First crack was exactly as it implied.

"You always get first dibs, healwaysgetsfirstdibs - when's a guy like me gonna get a break, huh?" Errol complained and took another deep sip of his drink.

"If you got money t'pay for your drinks, you've got money to pay for a girl, Scarface." Sabretooth had not come all the way down from his rooms in the citadel to listen to a grown man whine. He finished his drink in one mouthful and slammed the glass down at the bar. "Be seenin' ya tomorrow, Adrian."

"Wait now, come n' have another drink with me!" His answer was the silent sail of the door's curtains reach out and try to keep Sabretooth within their grasp as he walked out.

Appropriately enough, the Hades lounge resided in the bowels of Apocalypse's citadel on the lowest level open to all Prelates before the levels that ran much lower which were off limits by varying degrees the deeper you went.

Creed waited by the bank of elevators at the end of the hall, the golden glow of the lights overhead providing shelter from the otherwise grimy hallway that resembled more of a back alley than the inside of a building.

At the far right a carriage arrived and the doors whispered open. Dr. Henry McCoy stepped out and for a moment the pair eyed each other aggressively. Finally The Beast stepped around him, his expression turning perversely jovial.

"Tell me, my hairy friend, I've heard rumour that we're expecting new play things in the next few days - is it true?"

"I wouldn't know McCoy. Good night." Sabretooth stepped inside the elevator and engaged the panel to take him up to the top floor, letting the doors slide shut against the doctor's frown.

oooo

The differences between Heaven and Hades were many, but while Heaven catered to those of more refined taste and always seemed to have his drink in stock, Creed preferred Hades for the privacy and the women. But here he was, drinking among the bright lights and flouncy dresses. Strangely enough the crowds tonight provided him more privacy than he expected, until an unwanted shadow crept over his shoulder and Candra's tinkling laughter caught his ear.

As one of Apocalypse's horsemen, she held more power than most of the alphas dining and drinking in the room put together. As Apocalypse's hound, he outranked her and she despised him for it.

Candra had been the cause of his broken femur earlier that day when, in her obstinace, she disobeyed one of his more vital orders and the deserted shell of a building had fallen on him. She was on his last nerve standing over him like she was, pretending to ignore him and boring a hole into his back with her stare.

Her elbows slowly met the marble bar his drink was sitting on, and she leaned back, laughing again at some remark made by an admirer. She feigned surprise when she looked over at him but Candra's scent belied her actions.

"Oh, Sabretooth. It's you." Disgust dripped from her voice while she sized him up. Creed continued to stare into the mirrored wall of the bar at his own reflection. "I didn't realise you showed your face in the light. The girls all out of screams for you downstairs?"

"It would be a cryin' shame if somethin' were t'happen to that pretty face of yours, Candy." Resigned to the fact that he would not be getting any peace and quiet that evening, for the second time that night, Creed paid up his bill and stalked out. She made an impertinent noise as he brushed past her, spilling the drink in her hand.