Subject: [OTL]: [Elseworlds, Excalibur/New Mutants] Dancing Tempest PG Date: Sat, 11 Mar 2000 03:01:53 -0800 From: Ana Lyssie Cotton Disclaimers: all recognisable characters belong to Marvel comics. No animals were hurt in the making of this. No, the band still remains unnamed. "Spork" is wholly mine. Notes: This is the third Dancing story, though it falls between "Dancing Away With It" and "Dancing Holidays." It's been over a year since it was started. I'd never realised how long it would take. Until it did take this long. O.o Dedicated to Luba, because she never lets the flame die. *g* And because she is exceedingly kind and patient. Dancing Tempest by Ana Lyssie Cotton San Antonio, Texas was excruciatingly hot. Luckily, it was a dry heat, although 110 degrees in the shade was still pretty nasty. Kat Pryde was hoping the AC wouldn't go out on their oh so luxurious tour bus. Dilapidated on the inside--though highly glossy on the outside--the bus had been a 'bargain' find by their Manager. He thought they should keep up appearances of wealth. Or something like that. Kat didn't really care for the idea. Not that she cared for Alvin Summers all that much. Alvin was one of those people you wanted to take out and shoot, even if you didn't end up doing so. Bad enough that it was hot, though. What was worse--they had to perform that evening in an unused ampitheater with no AC and no fans. She shifted in her chair and wondered if it was worth the risk of heat exhaustion or worse to play that night. [Yes.] Her mind said. At least, she was assuming no fans. There hadn't been any at the last two shows. Just people looking bored. Across from her, Rahne Sinclair lay back in her chair, a damp towel draped over much of her face. On the floor at her side, his eyes closed as he leaned lazily against her chair leg, was Doug Ramsey. His blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and had a faint green tinge to it. Doug had a thing about hair colour. Always wanted something different than its real shade. Kat pondered blaming Alvin's incompetence on the heat, then decided not to give him such an easy out. The man was just basically stupid. She'd often wondered why she had such an instant dislike to the man, but the shimmering heat outside the window pulled her away from such thoughts. Next to Rahne lay her violinist extraordinaire, Kurt Wagner. The man played violin like it was going out of style. And he *had* style. She grinned in amusement. Kurt's long blue hair was draped quite artistically across his black-covered pillow. Saying that the whole lot of them were artistic felt vaguely egotistical. But, as 'Yana would point out, they *were*. Illyana Rasputin, demon drumeress or demoness drummer, Kat was never sure which fit better for the blonde fury. Her thoughts turned to the other members of the motley crew they called a band. Or, rather, a very specific member. Pete Wisdom. [Rude, crude, loutish and he smokes. My parents would tar and feather him if they ever met.] Her lips twitched. [Yeah, who would have thought it? The Ivy-league girl and the grungy Brit.] At the moment, said grungy Brit was sprawled unartistically on the van's couch. And snoring. "You can stop trying to wake him up with your gaze." Yana's amused voice drifted over to her. "Hmph." Yana laughed as she got up and walked the few feet to plop down next to Kat. "You've really got it bad." "Yes, haven't I." The statement said it all. Falling for Pete had been so fast and easy that Kat sometimes wondered if she wasn't going too fast. And then she'd look at the happiness in Pete's eyes and know she wasn't. "That's okay, y'know. 'S sort of cute." Yana grinned and waved a hand at the recumbent Brit. "As long as he doesn't try anything onstage again, that is." A blush stole up Kat's cheeks and she looked away from Yana. Unfortunately, her gaze ended back up on Pete and she blushed even harder, remembering. "Um, yeah..." She mumbled. They sat in silence for a time as the bus trundled on to the hotel. Yana chuckled suddenly. "Y'know, I always thought it would be me that fell that hard for a guy." "You have such... luck with men." Kat replied dryly. "Yeah." The blonde looked away, then, her eyes distant. "First boyfriend I was serious about tried to kill me. Second? Beat me. Third? We're not going to even get into the crap he was doing." "It's not your fault." Kat laid a hand on Yana's arm and shook her slightly. "You just have very bad taste. That's all." "And you have superb taste." The drummer grinned, her eyes glassy and blank again. "Find me one like him, okay?" "Done." They smiled at each other. Silence fell again. Kat Pryde had met Illyana Rasputin at a second-hand clothing shop in Greenwhich Village. Or, as most New Yorkers called it, The Village. They'd been reaching for the same mint green and silver blouse. With a modicum of silly anger about it, they'd compromised with Yana buying Kat lunch. On the way to the lunch, they ran into Rahne, who was an acquaintance of Yana's. During lunch, they'd quickly found a common interest in music. It wasn't long before they'd begun playing together, for fun. And the rest, as they say, is history. Or, another story. The bus trundled to a halt. The driver's head poked into their section. "We're here, everyone out. Grab your bags." "Yessir." Kat saluted him sardonically as she stood. "C'mon guys. Let's see how bad it can be." Bad was relative, of course. The Palomino Motel at least had running water. Not that it mattered, the dilapidated shutters, windows and walls were liberally covered in a centuries-old patina of dirt and dried mud. And other things. Kat shuddered and decided not to brush against any surfaces if she could help it. Their rooms weren't much nicer on the inside. Dingy grey wallpaper, one queen size bed covered in a faded psychadelic print, a throw rug that had holes in it on top of cracked wood flooring, and a small bathroom nook. The water came out orange with rust for five minutes. Kat had seen worse. The motel before last had had... bugs. And NO running water. She grimaced at the horrid feelings that had resulted from playing with no means of cleaning afterwards. They'd done three shows that weekend. Kat hissed at the tiny shower. It spewed out lukewarm water instead of cold. She sighed and shrugged. "Rahne, you can go first." "Thanks." The redhead smiled tiredly and grabbed her toiletries before disappearing into the tiny room and shutting the door. One room for the women, one for the men, and one for their agent. Not that he stayed in the same motel. She grimaced. Alvin Summers was continually crossing her thoughts as, too put it in wonderfully cliche and naive terms, a bad man. None of them truly liked him. And his promises of instant fame and fortune were NOT coming true. There had been a time, not too long ago, when they'd seemed to be wonderful, on top. Really grooving. And then it all crashed to the ground. The money they thought they'd had disappeared, and they were forced back into obscurity. And Kat had her suspicions, but no proof, and no time to find any. It was play and keep food on the table, or snoop and starve. And she wouldn't see her friends have that happen. If it had been her alone, yes. All of them? No. So they were stuck playing tiny clubs and living in dives. And driving every day to more dives and tiny clubs and no fans and no money. And... It was a never-ending cycle that slowly ate at them, pulling them apart. There'd been fights the last few clubs. Over little things, really. Tiny, nitpicky things that slowly turned them from the friends they had been to almost bitter enemies. Kat swore softly and vehemently and then did something she rarely did. She prayed. --- Peter Wisdom was not normally a crying man. The state of the band's current finances, however, were enough to drive even the sanest man to tears. He scowled into the mirror as he shaved. At least as an out-of-work guitarist, he'd had an apartment in New York. Now, though? Now, he was stuck on backroads and now in some stinky motel in San Antonio. Playing with a bunch of... Well, actually, the band was quite good. And he really enjoyed the simplicity of covers, not having to worry about anything but the arrangements. He swished the razor in the sink and carefully went to the next cheek. Of course, writing their own material would be good, too. And busting the sodding manager. He growled. Alvin Summers was an asshole. Not that Alvin was his problem right now. Currently, his problem was residing in the other motel room. One Kat Pryde, who'd torn him a new asshole the other night. So far, she hadn't accepted his apology. Nor had she given any indication that she would. He winced and then yelped as he nicked himself just under the chin. "Bloody damned razor..." A knock sounded at the door, one of his roommates. He grimaced. They weren't getting along well, either. "Wisdom, are you done yet?" Douglas Ramsey, bass guitar and all-around babe magnet. Too bad he was gay. "Just a bloody second. 've scraped m'self." He mumbled at the door. Pete leant down and rinsed the last of the soap off his face, wincing as water got into the cut. Hopefully, it wouldn't bleed too long. Doug knocked impatiently on the door again. Pete grimaced and grabbed a piece of toilet paper to stick on the cut. "Right, I'm done." Doug glared at him. "Finally. Damned Brit taking too fucking long in there." He shoved past Pete and continued mumbling about his hair taking forever. Rolling his eyes at the prima donna behavior, Pete stepped up to the bed and grimaced. The three of them were NOT going to all fit on there. A wistful thought slipped through his mind of him and Kat curled up on it. He sighed. Sod it. Time for the leathers. -- The last hour before a concert was always hectic, Rahne Sinclair reflected as she made her way across the stage, guitar in hand. Not that it was a long journey by any means. She scowled absently. The deserted amphitheatre was smaller than a barn and the stage was about as large as a bathtub. Heat shimmered around the stage, the temperature not anywhere near something comfortable. Soon, the sun would set. And it would still be sweltering. She frowned. Heat stroke was a very real possibility. "Water. We ought to have water nearby." Kat had nearly collapsed at one of the recent concerts. And God knew how long this one would be. Or whether they'd get anyone at it. She sighed. Currently, the band were wearing silk and leather. The silk was for comfort. The leather demanded by their manager. She grimaced. Damp leather chafed something bad. "Get those lights working properly!" "We need sound checks, where the hell is everyone?" "My GOD it's hot out here." Voices filtered into her conscious thoughts and she frowned. The techs were apparently not enjoying their work. Rahne didn't blame them. "You sodding FOOL! Move those bloody cables! I am NOT tripping and falling for your puerile amusement!" Pete Wisdom finished harranguing Peter Rasputin and stalked towards Rahne. "Pete." "And there are more, here!" He glared at the techs furiously. "You fools don't apparently know the first thing about travelling and staging shows." He lunged for the roll of gaffer's tape that was sitting neglected on a nearby amp. "Rahne, come help me tape these down." "Yessir." She rolled her eyes and leaned in to whisper, "Relax, Pete." "Bloody fools." He mumbled, kicking a cable out. "Here, hold this flat." She knelt and did so. He taped it down and they moved on to others. In short order the entire stage was crisscrossed with guitar cables, amp cables, speaker cables, mic cables and piano cables. All neatly taped down in an order only the band members would understand. The roadies looked at the mess and shrugged philosophically. "Sound checks!" "I said ROSIN, not ROSES, you fool!" "Where the hell is my pick!" "Rahne, get to B mic, Kat's not here yet and we need a voice check that it's running." The lithe redhead moved through the chaos of Kurt arguing amicably with Pete and Doug strumming his guitar silently. Kat and Illyana were both late for the sound checks, she noted. Feedback blared out as Pete sang a few bars into his mic on request. "My ears! You toerag, turn that bloody level down!" "Sorry, sir." The tech muttered as he fiddled with some knobs. "My turn?" Rahne's voice rang out through the theatre's stillness. "No, we need Wisdom to sing a bit more." "Right then." Pete took a breath and then proceeded to sing some of the Cure's "Why Can't I Be You?" "Rahne's so gorgeous, they'll do anything. Kiss her from her feet to where the green leather begins..." "That's good sir, thanks." The tech cut in. He looked over at Rahne who was giggling. "Ma'am?" "Just a moment." She straightened, smoothing down the front of the kelly green shirt, and cleared her throat. "Testing, one, two, three. Mary had a little lamb, its fleeece was white as snow--that enough?" "For now, yeah. Could you get your instrument and check your own mics?" "Sure." Rahne walked over to her guitar stand and picked up the black and gold piece of equipment. "Anything particular, guitar first?" "Something from the set list, and guitar first." "Right." She strummed the opening chords to "Send Me An Angel." "Ahh. That's good. Voice now. Singing." "'K." She cleared her throat. "In my dreams, I have a plan, if I got me a wealthy man, I wouldn't have to work at all, I'd fool around and have a ball." "Okay. Got it, thanks." The tech looked up as Kat and Illyana stepped onto the stage. "Excuse me, ladies. Could you give me sound checks, please?" As Rahne and Pete stepped off the stage, Rahne in green silk and leather, Pete in the black leather required by their manager, Kat and Yana stepped up to their respective mics. Kat's purple silk gleamed in the fading sunlight while Yana's floated. All of the guys were in black. Tension radiated from Yana as she sat in her drum chair and picked up the sticks. On cue she smacked out a four count, then laid into the various drums going from one end to the other and back, rythmically creating music. When she finished, there was a gleam of almost-satisfaction in her eyes and bearing. The tech gestured to Kat and she began. "And it's telling me, go forward and walk, under a brighter sky." She sang sweetly. The tech nodded and she moved on to play a few sequential bars on the keyboard. "Ms. Pryde? Could you play the keyboard in--" the tech glanced at a set of notes in front of him, "chorus mode?" "Sure." She flipped a few switches and began playing the opening bars of the Danse Macabre. "Gee, Pryde, just because I can't stand that song is no reason to play it." Yana's voice rang out scornfully in the stillness after the tech waved Kat to a halt. "Oh, poor baby. Still upset about the shower, are we?" Kat turned to look at Yana. "Now, why--no, wait. Pryde, it's not like I could give a crap. You just, y'know, used all the fucking hot water." Yana tossed her sticks down and stalked over to Kat. "I mean, really, this Prima Donna shit is getting SO over-done. Drop it, y'know?" "Funny you should mention--Ahem--screwing. Considering I'd imagine that's why you needed hot water in this over-whelming heat. The need to boil away anything you might've picked up from your last lay." Kat snapped back, her body tense, eyes flashing. "Oh, shit." Rahne ran back onstage and stepped between the two women. Yana's face was a pale white and her hand half-raised. "Stop it, you two! Just, stop it!" She grabbed a handful of shirt on each side and dragged their heads closer. "Look over there, y'see Summers? He is just eating this up. You two've given him a real happy performance to crow about." "We have, haven't we?" Kat asked calmly. Her back was to Summers, so he couldn't see the sudden smirk on her face. Rahne looked at Yana, who was still looking horrid. Except that there was a spark of mischief in her eyes. "Yes." Rahne blinked. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" "Duh." Kat looked at Yana and winced. "Sorry about that." "No prob. Rahne. Keep chastising us--it'll look better." "Oh. Right." She straightened slightly and turned to Kat, snarling. "And if I *EVER* here you saying crap like that to Yana again, so help me God, I will thrash you within an inch of your life!" "Whatever." Kat shrugged Rahne's hand off and turned away, her back still stiff and tense. "Yeah." Yana tossed an ugly look at Kat's back. "Prima Donna bitch." "I heard that, you skanky ho." Before Yana could respond in kind, Rahne stepped between them and yelled. "LADIES! Stop it this bloody instant!" "Yes, ma'am." Kat snapped a salute and stalked off the side of the stage. The side NOT holding Pete and Kurt as they finished getting prepped. Rahne stood in the middle of the stage for a moment more, then shrugged and stalked over to Doug who'd finally appeared. "And where the hell have you been?" "None of your bloody business." The leather-clad man flipped his (currently) pink hair over a shoulder and slid her a wink. "Just be ready." He added in a whisper. "Whatever." She muttered. --- The first set began and immediately there were problems. Kat struck a wrong note during "Why Can't I Be You?"; Rahne snarled a bit during "Possession"; and then Doug totally started playing a different song as they went into "Strangelove." Halfway into the fourth song, they weren't even playing in synch and the audience--all forty of them--were boredly beginning to wander away. Kat ran through the second verse, then just stopped, shoulders slumped. The band ground to a screeching halt around her. In the silence, she reached for the mic. "I'm sorry." Kat moved out from behind her keyboard and stepped to the edge of the stage to stare down at the people there. "I'm not sure what you were all expecting, I know what I was expecting, and... this isn't it." The people stopped moving towards the doors and looked at her sort of curiously. "If... This is horribly embarrassing. If someone could just tell me what you all paid for tickets, I'll have Alvin Summers, our manager, refund you." Down at the edge of the stage, Summers looked a bit alarmed. "Pryde, I don't think you need to do that. You and the band just finish this set." "I'm afraid we can't do that, Alvin. Pay the people their cash." She turned away from him impatiently and hopped off the stage. "Excuse me." She grabbed the first person she saw. The man was about her age, in his early twenties. "How much did you pay for this concert?" "I paid thirty bucks fer this lousy stinkin' show." "Really?" Kat looked intrigued. "See, we were told by our manager, Mr. Alvin Summers over there." She pointed towards the stage where Summers was sort of sneaking away. Pete and Doug suddenly appeared next to him. And smiled. "We were told that all of you got into this concert for five." The audience around her rustled in shock. "Well, now, ma'am. I got in here for twenty. But that still don't mean nothin'." "Actually," Kat replied to the tall man who'd made the observation. "It does. You see, we haven't been paid for over two months. According to Mr. Summers, all of our funds are being used to pay for things like food, gas, room. Essentials, that, really, we shouldn't have to cover." She grinned as someone in the back laughed. "Yeah, that sounds really pretentious, doesn't it. Except, you see, three months ago, we weren't paying for the essentials out of our own pockets." In the silence that followed, Kat calmly made her way back onstage. "After the show, if any of you would like to lodge complaints against our manager, we'd appreciate it. We're planning to contact the local law enforcement and do so in the morning." "No need to, ma'am." The tall man in the cowboy hat smiled. "Ah reckon we can jus' take alla your statements after the concert." "Good. And you are?" "Tremont. FBI." The accent dropped. "We've been tracking Mr. 'Summers' for the last three years. Apparently, he's been running this racket for a while." "D'you think you guys can hang onto him so he doesn't run off?" Kat asked as more officers suddenly appeared out of their audience. "Certainly ma'am. But why?" "Because we have a show to put on. A real show, this time." She flashed a smile at the crowd. "Trust me, people. We're a lot better than you've heard so far." "Well, then, if my officers could receive the man, there. And you're not to leave town tonight, either." "Wouldn't dream of it." Kat turned her back on the audience and stepped up to her keyboard. The band looked at her, waiting. "Hrm.. Rahne, Yana, c'mon." She trotted to the back of the stage and the three disappeared behind the slight rise of the drums. There was the sound of movement and cloth, and a minute later the three returned. Not much had changed, except their shirts. Kat was now in red and purple, Rahne in green and purple and Yana resplendent in green and red. They stepped back into their places. Kat winked again. "'We Built This City' on three, people. Yana?" The blonde drummer grinned evilly and smacked out a three count. On cue they tore into the song. Not quite perfectly, and a bit raggedly, but nowhere near as unprofessional as they'd been sounding. They fell out of the song and into a wave of sound that concluded in the opening chords to the Pet Shop Boys' "I Wouldn't Normally Do (This Kind Of Thing)." The sounds they played were a collection of two-second melody lines from almost twenty different songs. It sounded wholly original, even if it was borrowed. As Kat turned the lead over to Pete she reflected that one of the reasons she'd disliked Alvin most was his insistence on covers over original material. Not that they had a lot of original stuff, but... Syncopated boings filtered into the ending of "I Wouldn't..." and Kat laughed and called out, "Pop goes the world!" With a slight jar they all hopped into the next song. Pete took the vocals. Kat smiled as they played. Slowly, they were coming back. Slowly, the anger and mutual distrust was receding. Thank the gods it had receded enough for the little sting operation. She shivered. It was a damned good thing Doug had recognised Tremont. His exact words had been, "Kat, I've seen that guy. I think he's following us." And so the three of them had hatched a fast and ridiculous plan. That had worked. She grinned maniacally and joined in on the chorus. "POP goes the world!" Of course, she reflected as Pete took the second verse, as songs go, "Pop..." is a bit repetative. She shot a glance to Yana and raised an eyebrow then mouthed "Precious Things?" when the blonde had raised an eyebrow. A nod. "Good." Rahne grinned and nodded in response. Doug was oblivious to her, but he was close enough for Rahne to poke. He grinned, too. Which left Pete. Kat stared at him, boring holes in his head with her gaze. Finally, about thirty seconds before "Pop" ended, he glanced at her. "Tori." she mouthed. He nodded and grinned. And, as one the band tore out of the repetetive confines of "Pop Goes the World" and into Tori Amos' "Precious Things." It wasn't that much of an original rendition, Kat still played the piano and sang, Pete still hung guitar underneath it. But it was their song. It was also one which had once caused them to play their hearts out. Kat wondered if they could do that again. It occurred to her suddenly, that they were free to do as they pleased. A heady feeling rushed through her--happiness. And something else. Glee. She smiled. They were going to be able to play it as they wished. Set list? She scrapped it. Not even bothering to try to rewrite it, she flashed a maniacal grin at the crowd. "Precious Things" ended, and for a second, they didn't know where to go. Yana saved them by slamming out a four-count and yelling, "People Are Strange!" And they made it through that and into the next song, and the next, and then it stopped being hard and they all jumped into a rather techno version of "Bedbugs and Ballyhoo" Ian McCulloch would probably have gone pale and run. Kat smirked and grabbed the mic as they came out of it. "Okay, folks, tonight, for the first time," she blinked, realising that there were apparently more people in the audience, now. "Tonight, we're going to play an original song. Written by all of us, it's called. Well, you'll figure it out." Pete popped out a chord that Rahne echoed. Doug popped a descant in deep tones from his bass, then Kurt's fiddle jumped in. Kat laid in with her keyboard set to echo, and then she grabbed the mic and sang the vocals as Yana tapped her drum sticks. ~/"Born of a fork and a spoon as the lowly cow jumped over the moon the dish it was left bereft "The cat and the fiddle lost something from the middle while the little dog laughed (my translation, it coughed)"/~ Kat whirled from the mic and cued Yana. Drums slammed in as everyone else sang the chorus. ~/"I've got a spork I'm not afraid to use it someone stole the fork I guess they can abuse it"/~ As they ran into a melange of electronic noise, the audience began laughing, having caught on. Pete grabbed the vocals for the second verse as Kat switched the keyboard to straight piano. ~/"the concavity of the half-tines leads me to remember all the good times from Taco Bell to Mickey D's you find them--no shelf life"/~ Everyone sang the chorus out again, throats open, eyes laughing. Lips twitching as they remembered the song's creation. ~/"I've got a spork I'm not afraid to use it the fork, it's blase how come you haven't lost it"/~ Everything suddenly slowed and Kat sang softly. ~/"I can use a spork for oatmeal Or green bean salad It's better than a fork 'cause the tines inspired this ballad"/~ They'd tried to come up with something different to do, and ended up joking about singing of sporks. Kat snickered as she and Pete took the last bit of bridge together. Around them, the music swelled. ~/"Spork tines so concave Spork white, plastic best friend"/~ On "friend" the sound reached a peak and then came crashing to a halt. For an instant, there was silence and the six of them sort of stood there, gasping in breath. The song was exhausting with all the silly changes of tone, tune and chord they'd put into it. It had only been played in part once or twice. The audience looked at them. They looked back. And then someone began clapping. It started a tidal wave around the stage of shrieks and cheers. Kat laughed and ran out from behind her keyboards. Pete set his guitar down and turned to catch her as she jumped at him. Sheer exuberance made her laugh madly as he twirled her around, then soundly kissed her. "WE DID IT!!!!" Yana danced madly around the stage with Kurt and Rahne. "Yes, we did." Kat kissed Pete again, then stepped away from him to the mic. "If you'll excuse us, we need to take a short break." --- The concert was almost considered a success. After the break, they'd come out and played several personal favorites including "The Safety Dance" and "Dirty Little Secrets." Kat was shocked to realise how much she'd missed making a crowd happy. Not that previous ones hadn't been. Except that the last two months had been spent playing dingy little bars where the patrons liked Country/Western. And not them. "Spork" had been the only high point in the last two weeks. Pete had started it by asking why she and Rahne tended to use them. It degenerated when Kurt had suggested they write a song about it. Much laughter had followed as words and lyrics and notes were tossed around. The end result had been played for the first time in its entirety that night. --- "Ma'am?" "Hrm?" Kat looked up from bundling the cords on her keyboard. Agent Tremont was gazing at her soberly. "Yes?" "Please don't any of you leave town until we've got this sorted out." "No problem, sir." She straightened and winced as her back popped. "We need a break from all the running." He nodded and sort of tipped his hat. "Thank you." "Night." --- "--own person!" Illyana Rasputin glared up at her brother. Just because Piotr was three years older than her, he thought he could rule her life. He'd followed her to America, objected to everything she'd done and STILL wouldn't go HOME. "Piotr. This is my band. These are my FRIENDS." "Illyana, Little Snowflake, they are merely peasants. They are not right for you to be near. They are dirty, and grungy--and look at your manager. That so-called 'guide' to the music world is nothing better than a crook and a thief." Her blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "My friends are not peasants." she grated out. "And you will do well to remember that it's the money *I* earn that keeps you alive, healthy and whole." Piotr hastily back tracked a bit, apparently realising he was skating on thin ice. "Little--" "And don't fucking call me 'Little Snowflake'! My name is ILLYANA." She snapped. "And, you know what? This conversation is OVER. Deal." And with that, she turned and stalked away from her brother, the man who should have been her strength and wasn't. Fuck him, her mind savagely decided. He can go back to Mother Russia and complain to our parents about me. I do NOT NEED HIM. The last week had been horrid. The FBI was constantly questioning them about Summers and his activities. And Piotr whittling away at her to leave the band and go home to take her 'rightful place' as some asshole's wife. "I am NOT a baby machine." She muttered as she turned the corner to where her room was. "Hey, Illlly." She froze. "Where the fuck did you spring from, Summers? I thought you were locked away." He smiled and oozed closer to her. She backed up. "Ah, Illy, don't be so cold, sweetheart." The wall of the motel loomed on her right, a post hit her back as she stepped back once more. There was something in his eyes that really worried her. "I said, HOW did you get out of jail, asshole." "Oh, well, Illy, sweetie, they let me go." He leered. "After all, there really wasn't anything they could pin on me." As he spoke, he stepped closer until the last word was spoken into her ear. The scent of alcohol wafted around her. Illyana shivered and slipped around the pole and away from him. "Bugger off, Summers. You're not wanted." "That's too bad." He moved faster than she'd thought he could, and had her arms in his hands. The grip hurt. "Poor little blondie, not paying attention." He leaned in to kiss her, "Never even not--" He howled in pain as he knee slammed into his crotch. She finished the manoeuvre by slamming her bootheel onto his toes. Unfortunately that caused him to lose his balance, and since she was already off-balance herself, they both went down. The fall slammed her head to the pavement and she saw stars. Summers groaned and fell into booze and pain-induced unconsciousness. Yana cursed and wriggled out from under him. "Fucking ass." His dead weight was annoying, but playing the drums took muscle, built it up, too. She shoved him off and rolled up to her knees. "Yana, what the--fuck." Kat shoved a boot-clad toe into Summers' side and cursed. "Damn. He won't even feel that until he wakes up." Yana grinned ferally. Kat's long fingers were curled into fists as if she was trying not to wrap them around Summers' throat. "Don't worry, hon. He will. Now, I think we ought to get Agent Tremont out here." --- ~/"Snow can wait, I forgot my mittens,"/~ Kat was singing in the shower again. Pete smiled to himself from his seat in the room's comfy chair. Two months had passed since they'd finally gotten rid of the stupid git, Summers. In that time he'd improved relations with the brunette woman with his heart in her hands, as well as apologising to various and sundry for any comments he'd been provoked into saying. And Kat was happy again. Hell, they all were. They'd ended up staying in San Antonio for almost a month, practising, writing, honing their songs, THEIR songs, into something that sounded awesome and slightly different, and just right. No recording contracts, but they knew they'd come. It would just take time. --- the End?