Disclaimer:  I just want to play for a bit.  I'll put them back in their boxes afterwards, honest.  Only a little soiled, all n' all…

A/N:  Dedicated, with love and pixies, to those who reviewed asking for more Vic/Ro.  And to Brendon, who pointed out a few things about the Vic/Ro interactions in the earlier chapters.  Hope this is an improvement…

A/N(2):  Re: Feedback.  Although I enjoy an ego boost as much as the next gal (or guy), I'd like to thank those who take the time to point out stuff I've done wrong, or just make random demands on what they want to see more off. g.  Comments, criticisms and even flames are all welcomed.  ;).  I'm a big girl, I can take it.  Besides, it gives me more ideas.  After all, in 'The Way' (shameless plug for my movieverse story), which was going to be a Ro/Lo/Remy triangle thingy, someone suggested I should do Kurt/Rogue, and that storyline has gradually hijacked the entire bloody thing.  I'm very susceptible to suggestions. :P

Alright, I'll shut up now and write the damn story.

-------

"And where have you been?"

Victor Creed grinned at the half-dressed figure before him.  Then again, for 'Ro, that was fully dressed.  Not that he was complaining, or anything.  He stopped to appreciate the view for a second or two.  What was the question again?  Oh, right.

"Here and there.  Ran into the runt in London, had a little fun."

One slim finger came up and waggled in front of his nose; her scent had changed, it was stronger, more powerful, but not unpleasant, and her eyes were pure white, although she didn't seem angry.  Victor frowned, almost missing what she said next.

"Bad Kitten.  That wasn't part of the plan.  It's not time to play yet."

"Oh yeah?" He bit at the finger in front of him.  Taste of Ororo and something else, someone else.  Taste of blood.  "I think you've been playing already, frail."

Her eyes slid half shut, her head turning slightly towards a small cave to the side of them, a wicked smile playing across her face.

"Maybe." she replied.

He leaped then, managing to surprise her, pinning her down for a second.  She was stronger than before, obviously so, and he wondered what she'd been up to.  But she was unused to her new strength, and couldn't throw him off.

"Naughty, naughty, frail." he whispered in her ear.  Flicked his tongue along her neck.  Taste of his Storm, here, purer than before and the subtle change in her scent made him grin.

Preoccupied with the feel of her under him, and the gentle curve of her neck, he didn't notice she was building a charge up until the electricity ripped through his body.  Cursing, he released his grip for a second, which was all she needed.  He went flying; tasted blood in his mouth, his own, and swore again.

Definitely stronger.  She'd thrown him further than he'd thought possible, and using strength alone, unaided by a bolt.  He could tell the difference – this way there was no smell of burning flesh. 

"You been working out, 'Ro?" he asked, grinning.  Whatever this change in her meant, it looked like fun to him.

"Things change." was all she said, and the next second the earth beneath him moved, wrapping itself around his feet.  As she walked towards him, the rock around her moved too, until they were enclosed within four walls.  No ceiling.  Storm didn't like ceilings.  The electricity sparked between her hands and she looked up at him and smiled, the wind outside howling and the thunder beating out an old rhythm.  The rain started.

Yep.  Definitely fun.

------

Betsey walked along in the cold.  They were stuck out in some god-forsaken freezing middle-of-nowhere place with a name she couldn't even pronounce, trying to track down Magnetos brat of a son, which, given that said boy could be half-way across the world before any of them could blink, seemed rather a waste of time to her.  Not that anyone was listening to her point of view.

She wrapped her woollen coat closer around her.  Five layers and she was still freezing.  Elizabeth Braddock had long since come to the conclusion that she hated Russia.  She hated the people.  She hated the food.  She hated the scenery.  She especially hated staying near the rest of her… what was she meant to call them?  With the addition of Magneto they were no longer the Sisterhood.  Raven seemed content to let Magneto lead them, that hussy Rogue relishing her position in his arms, and Wanda more interested in helping Rogue snipe at Betsey than anything else. 

As cold as it was, the local peasants were out working, doing whatever it was they did.  A group of them were huddled up ahead by the dark craggy side of a mountain, near a large fire.  Someone was singing, a tuneless cry that sent shivers up her spine.  She headed for them anyway, the fire holding more attraction than she could ever have fear for a few flat-scans.  One grabbed her arm as she came near, dragging her forward, and she noted that some among the crowd were quite obviously mutants.

The centre of attention was what looked like a small cave, it's entrance covered in a metallic mesh, decorated by dolls, tokens and talismans around it's edge.  In the centre was an emblem, a bird rising from flame.  The peasant holding her arm said something unintelligible. 

"What?" she said, annoyed.  "What the hell is this."

There was a ripple in the crowd, and one of the more obvious mutants stepped forward, tall and broad shouldered, his entire body seemingly made out of steel. 

"Phoenix."  he said, indicating the cave.  "Illyana said you would come.  Watch."

The song-chant continued, rising higher.  Betsey looked at the gate, which seemed to shimmer in the firelight, the phoenix emblem on the front moving before her eyes.  She couldn't look away.  Unaware of the cold or the time passing, until the quality of the light changed, and she realised the sun was dawning, shining directly on the small cave, it seemed.  She reached out and touched the gate, the fine metalwork cool beneath her fingers.

And the Phoenix awoke.

---------

In the Med-Lab, the two mutants they'd rescued were still asleep.  They'd thrashed and fought, even in slumber, when it Hank had attempted to separate them, so they lay beneath one blanket.  The good doctor, having managed to rid his work area of (in order), Jubilee, Kitty and Scott, Bobby, Jean and Remy, Jubilee and Bobby (again), and the Professor, was running a few tests in his hard-won peace and quiet. 

The genetic sequencer did its work with a low hum.  He examined the results as they emerged, growing steadily more confused with each bit of data that he saw.  Switching to another machine, he fed the data into that and let it chew on it.  Slowly an image began to build up on the screen; suddenly it was clear.  Unbelievable, incredible, but yes, the evidence was there.  Switching to a computer, he quickly ran a simulation.  He looked at the results.  He looked at them again.

"Oh my."  he whispered.  "I think the Professor will have to hear about this."

He turned, only to gasp when he saw what was happening.

The Twain glowed with a faint light, pulsing.

"Perhaps my original estimations of the rate of progress of the transformation process were a bit on the lean side…" he said, somewhat apologetically to no-one in particular.  Then the faint light turned into a glow, and expanded, and his entire world became pain, before the blessed blackness overcame him.

----------

Scott sat in his side of the room; you could tell which side was his, because it was the side where you could see the floor.  Used to living in darkness, he liked to have things where he knew where they were without looking.  Y'know, just in case.  Something about the mutants Kitty had insisted they go see had been wrong.  Felt wrong.  So he'd retreated up into his and Kurt's room, to think.  Brooding, Kitty called it.

Suddenly Kitty phased through the wall, making him jump.  "You see Kurt?"

Scott had to think.  "Not since the meeting."

She frowned.  "He asked me to find this girl, I hacked into some hospital records for him, and he took the file and said he was going to go see the Professor.  But Xavier hasn't seen him and neither has anyone else."

Scott tiptoed through the mess of books and clothing that was Kurt's half of the room to find the one thing that Kurt took good care of; his holo-watch, usually left in its charger when it wasn't needed.  It was gone.

"Uh, Kitty?"

"Shit!"  The unexpected profanity took him aback; Kitty never swore.  She took one look at the shock on his face and blushed.  "Sorry.  I think he's gone after her himself, the nutter.  We should go tell the Professor."

Scott was about to agree, but there was a sudden change in the air.  The red in his vision became redder, if that was even possible, and then Kitty was kissing him.  Kissing him like they did in movies, like they did in those books Jubilee thought nobody knew she read, like she would die if they stopped and air was an optional thing. 

And then oh! because her hands were wandering, and that was new, and not unpleasant, no.  Nice.  More than nice.  Words came to mind that he'd only heard second-hand, sniggers and jokes in back-alleys.  And then his instincts kicked in on overdrive.  The part of him that could tell which people were truly sympathetic and which would joke around with him, tease the blind kid but not hurt him, not really, and which were to be avoided at all costs, that part of him was saying this was wrong.  This was not Kitty.  No, and he didn't realise he was saying it out loud till he pulled far enough away from her that the sound wasn't being swallowed up against her lips.  "No, Kitty."

She knew it too, because she nodded, stopped what she was doing.  There were tears in her eyes; she bit her lower lip, absentmindedly.  Looked at him.  "Something's happening."  Halfway between a question and a statement, that.  He nodded.

"What do we do?"

He didn't know what to say, for a second.  Wasn't good at making decisions.  Wasn't good at protecting people, at making things better.  Thought of Alex, face upturned.  Trusting.  He'd failed Alex.

He didn't want to fail again.

"We should inform the Professor." he said, and if Kitty was as surprised as he was at the strength in his voice, she didn't show it.

-------

The knock on the door was heavy.  Mystique had her hand on a gun, but Magneto just laid relaxed as Rogue opened the door.  The creature behind ambled through, nodded at them.  "I have come for Elizabeth's things."

Rogue and Mystique exchanged Looks.  "Ah see." said Rogue.  "And you would be?" added Raven, peering curiously at the newcomer, a tall Russian fellow.  'Mutant?' she flicked to Magneto in sign language, and he nodded.

"Piotr Rasputin."  He proffered one large hand, but didn't seem offended when nobody shook it.

"What do you want with Betsey's shit, anyway?" asked Wanda, wandering in from the shower.

"Elizabeth has been chosen.  She will stay with us now."

"That's nice."  Wanda looked at Magneto, a query in her eyes, and he shrugged.

Rogue rolled her eyes, and swung one high-powered fist at Piotr.  Only to have it caught easily, and encased in that large hand, a hand made of steel.

"Her room?" he asked.  Raven, grinning, indicated the appropriate door.  A warning look from Magneto held back Rogue, who was obviously considering going at Piotr bare-handed.  He disappeared into what had been Betsey's room, now made flesh again.

"Let him go, Rogue.  Elizabeth Braddock has not proved herself useful as of yet.  But if there is some kind of mutant organisation within Russia, I think we'd like to know more about it, would we not?"  Rogue nodded, sulkily.  "And throwing our Piotr through a wall, as amusing as it may be at the time, will not help us in that task."

Piotr returned, shouldering Betsey's large bag with ease.  He gave a sort of half bow.  "Aw, just get out already." said Rogue.  "Before Ah decide to kick ya out, Sugah."

"Illyana told me the Americans had no manners." he said quietly.  "I see she was correct."

Rogue growled.

--------------

Logan stalked through the doors of the mansion, on general principle.  He stopped suddenly.  Let his bag drop to the ground.  There was something in the air, thick, like honey… or blood.  Maybe both.  The scents of the mansion drifted towards him.  Red… LeBeau's girl, his mind reminded him.  But the honey-blood in the air was like velvet across his senses, and it whispered.  It said: Listen to your nose.  LeBeau isn't here right now.

It seemed as if she was waiting for him.  Her hair was loose, the smell of strawberries… overwhelming.  Tempting.  Honey-blood, honey-blood, a red haze over his mind.

"There's something." she said.  "Something happening.  This isn't real.  This isn't us.  This isn't me."

But by that time he had his mouth at her neck, licking over the fluttering pulse, and the beast tasted her.  First she didn't fight, just stood there, like a statue.  The honey-blood thing, whatever it was, rose like a crescendo.  He dipped his tongue against her skin, bit down, a little.  Marked her.

When she finally moved, it was to pull both of them down onto the ground, and after that, there was just want.

------------

Betsey woke up.  And then winced, because why was the room so bright?  The sky seemed to be on fire.. ugh, had she gotten drunk on vodka again?  Wanda better not have spiked her drinks again, or Magneto's daughter or not, she'd rip her a new..

What the hell was she wearing?

The room was small, the walls plain white.  The only decoration was the large wooden cross over the head of the (her?) bed.  How rustic.  How charming.

She was going to throw up.

There was a little sink in the corner, and she splashed some water on her face, examined herself in the mirror. 

The girl in the mirror shone.  She looked tired, but radiant.  A description more usually applied only to new mothers, but Betsey's tired mind refused to come up with anything better.

~Of course not.  Mere words cannot describe us now.~

The robes she was wearing felt like silk, and were attractive enough, despite being a vivid yellow.  Across the chest, an emblem was embroidered in metallic thread – a bird rising from flame.

Phoenix, she thought, and wasn't altogether surprised to hear her mind answer ~Yes.~ Or maybe ~Yes?~, a kind of sardonic question, as if her waking mind was the only part of her that Didn't Get This Yet.

When that Piotr fellow came back, she was going to beat him into pieces, into as many pieces as it would take to get some damn answers.  Take him apart and put him back together inside out – and at that thought, there was a tingling in her fingers, as if it was possible, and not some idle threat.

A breeze wafted across her neck. 

"Whatchadoing?"

"Who the fuck are you!"  That was it.  She'd had about enough of strange people turning up, messing with her head, messing with her life.

"Pietro.Don'tconfusemewithPietr,it'sreallyannoying.YoumustbePhoenix"

"I'm Betsey.  Go away."  She paused.  "Wait a minute.  Pietro?  You're Magneto's brat?  You're the reason I'm stuck in this god-forsaken country?"

"Iammanythings.Magneto'sson,yes,notthemostimportantthough.AndyouarePhoenix."

There was that breeze again, and he was suddenly beside her, pulling the bright yellow robe down off her shoulder.  Down far enough to show what lay beneath.

It was as if the embroidery from the robes had bled through onto her chest.  Only not, because what was on the robes was just a picture, and this… This was real.  The colours were too bright for a tattoo, too intense.

"Pietrgonetogetyourthings.Youstayherenow.IgogetridofDaddy.Can'thavehimspoilingourplansnow?MineorPietr'sorIllyana's"

He laughed, rapid-fire, a machine-gun rat-a-tat.

"What do you mean, gone to get my things?  Who the heck is Illyana?"

"Pietr'sdeadsister.Livesinhishead.Madasafishbuthe'sagoodlad.You'rebetteroffstayinghere.Wegiveyouwhattheywillnot."

"Like what?"

It took a visible effort for the silver-haired scion of Magneto to slow down his speech and mannerisms.

"Have you even looked out the window?  Like an army, for a start.  Like a people.  Like a crown and a throne.  Lady Phoenix." The last was tossed out as almost an insult.  "Took us so long to find someone suitable.  Powerful enough to contain her.  Do you know how many have tried?  How many lie dead by her?  How many driven mad and now dead by their own hands?  And what do you do?  Whine and complain.  Now sit still – I'll be back in a bit."

Betsey moved over to the window slowly, once he'd left.  Outside, a few people were moving around, most of them obviously mutants, many carrying weapons.  The rest probably were weapons.  When they looked up and saw her, they bowed. 

This place was practically a fucking castle!  She smiled, nodded graciously at those outside.  Like a queen.

~Yes, a queen.  We have been, since the beginning.  Before ice, there was fire, and we burned in the void for a thousand years.  Eldest of all.  All of it ours.~

Strange thoughts, spinning through her head.  Maybe she should stay here, just for a bit.  Explore.  Get to know the place.

Yes.

---------

Victor grinned at someone walking past, just for effect.  As expected, they cowered, then ran.  Some people were so predictable.  Yet, he never got bored of doing that.  Funny.

Ororo was in conference with Head Guy, who was no more insane or morally repugnant than anyone else Victor had ever worked for, which wasn't saying much.  Hey, as long as he got to kill something.  Preferably the Runt, or one of the X-Men.  Or perhaps one of the people currently scuttling round, trying not to catch his eye.  He considered some of them.  Wondering who would fight back, who would beg, who would scream.

Usually, of course, they did all three by the time he was through.

Ah, Ororo seemed to be done.  Victor had excused himself from the meeting.  Head Guy had gone on a lot about 'Elites', and 'Cleansing', which to Victor meant 'Us', and 'Killing people who we don't like'.  Which was fine by him, but dressing it up with a lot of fancy garbage meant nothing. 

She smiled at him, and he wondered if her eyes would always be like that now, the pure white without a hint of colour.  He'd rather miss the blue, although he'd never admit it.

"All done plotting, 'Ro?"

"Planning." she corrected.  Something in the tone of her voice made his body ache where the cuts inflicted from before had already healed.  Wanting them back.  Was it pain that enhanced pleasure or pleasure that enhanced pain?  He couldn't remember.  Maybe he'd never known.

"Hmm."  That little crook at the base of her neck – that needed licking.  Her wrist too – pulse points, flickering, racing at his touch.  "Any plans I might be interested in?"

They were almost back to the rooms that had been designated as theirs.  She smiled; sphinx-smile, mysterious, like that picture he'd seen once, by some Italian guy.  Famous, that smile.

Ororo's was better.

"Some.  They mostly involve killing, maiming, or destroying in some way.  All your favourites."

"You forgot licking." he pointed out, herding her towards the door.  Door open, carry Ororo through, door shut.

Her blue eyes would have widened at that sort of remark, pupils dilating.  The eyelashes might have fluttered; she might have winked.  These new, colder, eyes of hers did nothing of the sort.

"What did he do to ya, 'Ro?" he asked.

"Bettered me.  I am a Goddess now, my Victor.  Fit to be worshipped.  Ready to make the world bleed."

"Well in that case," he replied, pushing her onto the edge of the bed and dropping down to kiss her foot – then nip at the ankle.  "I think I better worship you – till you scream."

Much later, he got up to grab a drink – water, the next person he saw with alcohol was as good as dead unless they handed it over.  Frowned to see what was on the table.  Abandoned drawings, done in crayon.  War scenes.  Flames.  In one he could see clearly the form of Head Guy at the top of a mountain.  Below him sat Ororo, on a white throne.  The hairy figure to the left of her was obviously Victor himself.  To the right was another figure, wearing all black, with red eyes.  Above circled four figures, demon-like.  Below lay piles of dead bodies, carnage for miles.

Other than the piles of dead bodies – which looked like a fun days work – the picture was creepy.  He didn't get creeped out.  He didn't do creepy. 

"What's this then?" he asked 'Ro, despite the fact that asking 'Ro too many questions was terminally unwise.

"Planning." she said sleepily. 

Victor shrugged, and curled around her, breathing in the scent.  Ororo would do whatever the hell she wanted to do.  As long as he got to play… what the hell did he care.  He soon drifted off to sleep, pleasant dreams involving gutting Wolverine with a pitch-fork floating through his head.

--------

Kurt looked up at the hospital.  He hoped they wouldn't mind he'd borrowed the car.  He hoped even more that nobody found out he'd bamfed into a plane and gotten a free ride.  And he really, really, hoped that nobody found out about _this_.

The weight of his sword was comforting, somehow.  He paused before the doors of the hospital.  "Mein Gott," he whispered.  "For what I am about to do, forgive me."

He thought of Logan, of what he was doing now (Kurt wasn't stupid, he knew where Logan got his money from), and wondered if killing ran in the family.  Wondered if it would be easy. 

Wondered if he'd enjoy it.  Hoped he wouldn't.

But this wasn't about revenge, as Xavier would probably think.

This was about family.

A/N:  Gee whiz, I finally updated.  And it's got Vic/Ro goodness in it and all.  Unfortunately I have a short attention span and can't devote an entire chapter to just one pairing… ah well.  Incidentally, someone left me this review on another story:

'well at least I know there are still sick people in the world'  Hmmm.  Still trying to decide whether that is an insult or a compliment.  I think I'll take it as the latter.  g  Besides, my psychiatrist said I was 'mostly capable of functioning in normal society'.  So there.  *sulks*