From Russia, With . . .
Jaya Mitai

Disclaimer - The X-Men, Maverick, Logan and the WeaponX concept belong to
Marvel Comics, and are used without permission, for no monetary personal
gain.  But I DID make KayJay write another story, and that was certainly
gain, so I suppose they could sue me if they REALLY WANTED TO.  However, I
don't think they care.  Kai is the property of Kaylee (and her Logan) and
used with permission.  James Earl Jones’ voice belongs to James Earl Jones.
Rated R for not-quite-explicit m/f questionably consenting sex and lotsa bad
language and violence.  Whaaaaat . . . Kai and Maverick are it in.  Think
about that a minute. =)

BTW, Kaylee also wrote some scenes!  YAY!  Everyone feedback her for her
lovely scenes!

This is the sequel to Balloons, and though the story is VERY GOOD and you
should go read it immediately, you don't have to, because I'm wonderful and
I'm going to summarize it for you. =)  Logan was kidnapped by one of the
last living WeaponX scientists, at the time a very young tech by the name
Sinclair.  Sinclair has been happily driving Logan insane, and using him as
an assassin to pressure and messily kill the family and loved ones of an
ex-KGB agent, that happens to know the location of some lost nuclear
missiles that have been missing since the fall of the Soviet Union.  Kai, on
a quest for those missiles and to stop the murders, ran across Logan, and
gave him all the research he needed to know what he was up against (because
she’s a mook.  Awww . . . ).  He returned to kill Sinclair, and was
recaptured.

And of course, we have Control.  Control is a mutant with a double set of
DNA, allowing his own to fall dormant as he takes on the DNA pattern of
another person.  He has established a psychic link with Wolverine, was
implanted with steel claws alone, and has progressed to the point that he no
longer copies Logan, he thinks he _is_ Logan.  Only, since the real Logan is
completely animalistic, Control/Logan is what Logan always wanted to be -
completely man.  They can see what the other does when they are asleep, so
of course that's driving both of them a little crazy . . . and
unfortunately, the X-Men's rescue mission went awry, and instead of Logan,
they ended up rescuing Control.

Wow, a twenty page story into two paragraphs.  Who woulda thought I could
_do_ that?!?!!? =)  Enjoy.  If you like Kai, read her series!!  The Maverick
and Kai background story is written, and probably should be read as a
more-equal-than-companion piece, so go look for it!  And if you liked this
one . . . why, just let me know!  jaya_gm@hotmail.com  I'm really very nice,
I think . . .

* * * * * * *

        The flight attendant asked her three times if she'd like a refreshment. 
The third time she finally looked away from the thick window that distorted the
world beyond and met the woman's eyes. "You have American beer?"

        "Of course."

        "I'd like a Coors, then."

        "Certainly."

        A moment later the woman moved on to the next row, leaving her holding 
a plastic cup filled to the brim. She took a lengthy swallow and returned her
gaze to the window broodingly. Beer. There was something so wonderfully,
mundanely _normal_ about drinking beer. It was something that any average
Joe around the world might do... something that could be enjoyed or could be
abused... something that reminded her with every sip that she was free to
choose her poison in this way.

        Free.

        The plane was beginning a gradual descent, and she could see the
city lights below winking to life through the clouds. Bickering, quarrelsome
lives flickered just like those lights; burning for a brief night, then...
gone.

        So many people. And they had no idea of the ugly, shadowy games that
were played one step outside of their sane little worlds. No idea that right 
this moment, someone out there had his hands on missiles that should never have
been so easily 'misplaced.' No idea just how quickly those lives could wink
into darkness at the whim of whatever son of a bitch was holding on to those
weapons.

        She took another swallow, savoring the bitter taste. Disgusting, that's
what it was. Foul-tasting, senseless...

        But she took another swallow, because she could.

        The bastard had looked like the man she'd tried to help. Had sounded like
him. Had almost _smelled_ like him.

        Almost.

        So they had a dupe. A damn near identical one. And the truth of that
matter had exploded in her face when she'd accepted a meet with an unsecured
contact.

        Literally exploded.

        Her eyes narrowed, not seeing the wisping clouds that rose steadily
to caress the plane. *Stupid. Fucking stupid.* Stupid to go there. Stupid to
have no backup. Stupid to let herself get caught by those half-assed
terrorist wannabes...

        And now she'd be heading back to inform the Man in Charge that not only 
had she let herself be snagged, but she'd failed to find the missiles, also.

        *Shouldn't go back at all,* her pride growled to the part of her
that'd been shaken up by the events. *Should get out there and _find_ the damn
things before someone gets an itchy finger and decides to use them.*

        A thumb traced absently over her breastbone, feeling the ever-so-faint 
scar that had recently been an ugly incision. They didn't mess around, those
people. They played for keeps, and were willing to use whatever weapon came
to hand. Probably would've used _her_ the same way they used that Logan guy
if she hadn't gotten away.

        Had he gotten away?

        *I got him out. He should've run.*

        But did he? Or did he get as curious about those missiles as _she_ was...?

        *If he did, he's an idiot,* she thought bitterly. After her own first-
hand experience with those people, she didn't want to think about anyone falling
back into their hands. And what they did to _her_ was minor next to what they 
did to him, from what she'd been able to gather.

        She swore under her breath, glad that she didn't have a seatmate to
receive odd looks from. She could just see the debriefing now-- "What happened?" 
"I penetrated the Russian base, but there weren't any answers there. Busted out
a murderer, though." "A murderer?" "He couldn't help it." "Ah. What about
the missiles?" "Missiles?" "The missiles you were after." "Oh, _them._"
"Yes...?" "Well, uh, I managed to get myself taken by the bad guys... no,
don't worry, I didn't tell them anything important... and so I got a bit
distracted about that whole 'missile' thing... You understand." "No. I
don't. You're telling me that you're giving up the op?"

        Giving up. She scowled at the window, then took another long swallow
of beer. She _hated_ giving up. She particularly hated it when there were so
many unanswered questions hanging over her head.

        And she hated it even more when she'd had her hind end handed to her
on a plate in such a painful and pointed manner.

        Where were the missiles? Why was Logan picked as the assassin, when it
would've been easier to hire someone? Less expensive, too, than the training
and -- she shuddered faintly at the word -- the _conditioning_ that he would
have been put through. What was the connection between a Canadian ex-government 
toy and the Russian Mafia?

        The pilot's voice came over the speakers, scratchy and distorted.
She didn't bother listening to the landing procedure he outlined: She'd flown
more than enough to have it memorized, along with just about every kind of
emergency landing situation and various "early-departure-from-in-flight"
methods. By the time the flight attendant arrived to take her cup, the beer
was long gone and she was brooding even more than before.

        When the passengers disembarked, she waited with forced patience for
the line to thin before grabbing her duffel and striding down the aisle. 
The pilot stood up by the cabin, nodding a polite farewell to leaving
passengers. She didn't even glance at him, more focused on the decision
she'd just made. She hit the terminal, grimacing impatiently at the lines
heading into Customs, and barely held her temper all the way through the
procedural crap her (fake) US-citizen identification made her go through.

        Finally free, she went directly to a ticket booth, elbowing aside a
few overzealous travelers who weren't watching where they were going.

        So many unanswered questions. More than a little pain to pay some
people back for. Debriefing could just fucking wait.

        She wasn't finished with this one yet.

* * * * * * *

        He snarled as he came awake, more from habit than anything he sensed
around him.  His senses had been dulled, with time, and he would not have detected
a threat had one been there.

        But of course there was a threat, or else he wouldn't have been
permitted to awaken.

        The woman did nothing more offensive than brush some sort of organic
poison on his face.  Fists shackled down gripped the sides of the gurney as 
the tingling became pain, like cockroaches eating through flesh.  And he
screamed, though it made little difference as the substance exposed the
metal on his jawbone and traveled up his face, toward his eye –

        And he awoke.  Of course he awoke.  He never died.  They wouldn't let 
him. He was too 'valuable,' they said.  He sometimes found a part of his mind
wondering in what exactly they placed value.  And other times it didn't matter.

        Value had a new meaning to him, riches were no longer monetary.
Wealth now consisted of more than three minutes without intense agony, with 
quiet instead of that rhythm they piped into his cell, a constant, loud,
electrical thumping that drove him crazy.

        Did it?  He didn't really care, actually.  Not anymore.  His struggle 
had gone from fighting the animal, to fighting the man, to fighting.  The why
meant nothing to him.  He wasn't sure he'd recognize the X-Men, now, should
they come to rescue him, and the thought terrified him.  It was supposed to,
no doubt.

        But his sleep was the worst torture of all.  Filled with the dreams of 
a man, thousands of miles away, on another continent.  A man that talked with
his friends, lived in his room, owned his things.  The impostor.  The fake.

        The carbon copy, Control.

        Sometimes, when the pain was at its worst, he would imagine doing the 
same thing to that mutant.  And he would smile, and make Sinclair wonder if
perhaps he really was broken.  He didn't care.  He just fought.

        The pain finally took him out.

        Logan was groggily aware as he was wheeled into a room, his wrists
cuffed to the armrests of the modified wheelchair.  He had been allowed to 
heal, for the first time in a long time, though he now wore the mutant inhibitor
collar again.  His senses were once again on par with a very perceptive
human.  There was no scent to the antiseptic room, as it was with the other
rooms.  There was a faint motion sound in front of him, then, silence.
Several seconds after the door clicked firmly shut the cuffs on the
wheelchair released.  He ripped off the blindfold and leapt from the
wheelchair, expecting spikes to come from the back, or a bomb to go off, or
to be shot, or something else to make the painful point that there was no
escape.

        He found himself staring at a calico kitten.  Above it, on the wall,
he was faced with his own reflection.

        Nothing else was in the room, just a live, mewling little calico kitten 
in a wicker basket, with its own powder blue baby blanket.  No note attached.
He walked around it, inspecting it for bombs, looking for the sheen of a
contact poison.

        While he was mindlessly wandering around in circles, the kitten took
full charge of the situation.  She immediately crawled out of the basket and
pounced on his bare foot.  Toes that furry had to be rodent-related.

        Logan plucked up the kitten suspiciously and stared at it.  It had a
heartbeat, and was warm to the touch; it was a real kitten.  It mewed again
and reached out a paw tentatively for his nose.

        Kitten.  Kitty.

        Of course.  To remind him of Kitty Pryde.  A warning?  A threat?  He
contemplated the kitten, and it started to struggle, obviously wanting to be
resting against his chest.  He cooperated willingly, proving that he wasn't
a human of the stupidest order.  It mewled contentedly, and he found himself
automatically reacting to the first open affection he'd received in ages,
stroking the kitten till it purred.

        Of course.  They were going to make him attached, and then they were
going to kill it.

        He regarded the kitten.  It stared back with round green eyes, wondering
why the stupid human had stopped the massage.  How would they do it?  Would
they souse it with gasoline and set it afire?  Perhaps put it in the microwave?  
Either way, he'd be allowed to watch.

        The kitten batted at him again, intent on having its face rubbed.

        They wanted a cold-blooded killer?  He twisted his face into the semblance
of a smile, facing the mirror that adorned the wall.  He stroked the kitten.  He 
smiled.  And then he then snapped the kitten's neck with one hand.  It died 
instantly.

        He gently tossed the body back into the basket, and flexed his arms.

        And then he growled.

        Several armed guards stormed the room.  He didn't get any, this time.
Soldiers - 82, Logan - 1.  Or was it, Soldiers - 2, Logan - 27?  Or maybe-

        They left the body in the cell with him, a reminder of the afternoon's
'lesson.'  They wanted to show him that he'd killed an innocent.  To save
it, he reminded himself, pacing.  So is that what he'd do to Kitty if she
showed up to help him?  If it looked like she was going to be caught?  Kill
her to save her the pain of what they would do to her?

        No; Kitty could escape, whereas the kitten didn't know any better-

        But could Kitty escape, when he couldn't?  Did she know any better?
Did any of them?  He couldn't walk through walls, but they knew she could.
They'd be prepared.  They were always prepared.

        After all, he hadn't managed it, had he.  He hadn't yet escaped even as 
far as the hall.  He hadn't convinced them that he would never break.  He hadn't
broken free, struck them, he –

        He hadn't convinced them that they'd won.

        Logan sat on the floor, where he usually took up residence now, instead 
of the bed.  Once, they'd put some powder on the bedsheet, and his skin had
died within hours and sloughed off.  He wasn't eager to make the same
mistake again.  It was all conditioning to make him more animal-like.  They
didn't speak to him, anymore.  He hadn't heard a human word in . . . weeks.
Months.  Maybe years.  Hadn't spoken in nearly as long.  They hadn't given
him silverware, or even plates, anymore.  He ate with his fingers, and when
his hands were bound behind him, he didn't use anything but his mouth.

        It wasn't such a stretch to believe that he could possibly have slipped.
Completely.  Once they thought him incapable of all but the most animalistic
of thoughts, surely they'd slip up, surely they'd make a mistake.  It only
made sense.

        His stomach growled noisily.  They hadn't given him food for nearly
three days, and despite being allowed to heal, he still needed sustenance.  
He lumbered up onto three's, using one arm to walk, almost like an ape, and
grabbed the dead kitten from her place on the floor.  He felt their eyes on
him through the mirror as he raised the kit - the meat to his mouth.

        The kitten was small.  She seemed to do nothing more than whet his
appetite.  And he knew it, and trembled.

* * * * * * *

        Eggos were getting way too damn expensive.

        Still, at least eight boxes went into the practically unsteerable
metal cage on wheels, and it trundled rather noisily, and jerkingly, down the
aisle, only to turn and go back up another.

        In all honesty, he'd gotten a pretty good cart.  It actually rolled.

        He passed the ice cream and the Hot Pockets all with disinterest,
stopping and picking up some strawberry yogurt.  He hadn't had any in quite some
time, and if these damn Russians kept coming to kill him, he probably could
use the calcium.  He was a bit too old to be having his bones broken.

        Not that he intended to let that happen.

        Next stop - soup.

        He continued his rather noisy journey about the grocery store, heading 
from soup to the produce section, where he picked up a bag of pre-made salad, and
some fruit.

        Probably forgetting something.

        He checked the items in the cart once more.  And then he noticed her.

        She was quite casual as she approached him, seeming on her way for
cabbage, or some other item.  He quickly checked his options.  There were people 
all around, space was limited between the large refrigeration machines that
cooled the vegetables, and though she was close enough to step in and disarm
him, for the moment she was out of striking distance.  He kept her on his
right side and in his peripheral vision until she finally spoke.

        "David North?"

        And he turned.

        And it was *her.*

* * * * * * *

        "C'mon . . . trust me, everyone knows he's not going to win.  All you 
have to do is stand around and look casual.  I'll even put you in the crowd.  
You can mingle and drink the punch."

        Tasha laughed, a sound like crystal tinkling.

        "Lot of faith you have in your friend, there."

        David shrugged, kicking back and looking around.  The apartment was
sparsely furnished, really just the essentials, and a futon.  He hadn't
realized that she had really been that badly off since Ruben had died.
"Just being honest.  You know I wouldn't ask you back out if I thought there
was going to be a problem."

        Tasha shrugged in her loose ivory sweater, seeming more relaxed around 
him, for some reason.  Her leg was folded beneath her, and he was glad to see 
it.  There had been a time she couldn't move it at all.  She'd fought back,
regained 89% of her mobility.  It had been a painful, long battle full of
physical therapy and bills, but it was all worth it to see the glow on her
face.

        "How much are we talking?"  One slim eyebrow raised as the figure was
quoted.  "That ought to pay for a few months' rent.  What's he afraid of?"

        David shrugged.  "I think he's just kidding himself."

        Her smile still somehow made the room a little brighter.

        "Fall back!"

        David barely missed the woman as she melted back towards the shadows.
Dammit!  He could hear Thearide screaming hysterically in the other room.
Which means they hadn't succeeded.

        Again she called out, from farther down the hall, crouching to check
the pulse of one of her people.  She didn't look in the least distressed 
about the death of the man, merely calculating what effect it would have on
whatever her next move would be.  He fired about half the clip, covering
himself as he raced across the hall to cover behind a doorframe, and was
pleased to see the woman flinch.  Hadn't been a killing shot, though.

        Why go after Thearide?

        "How many?"

        He didn't turn, but threw himself back as bullets lodged into the wood 
not an inch from his face.

        "Two.  One injured."

        Tasha nodded, crouching beside him as she changed to a fresh clip.
"I've got the other side, cover me."

        "How's the leg holding up," he hissed, changing clips himself.

        Her eyes were tight with pain, but her voice was loose as she answered.
"Hurts like hell, but I'll manage.  It won't give out."  He couldn't tell
through the baggy camelhair pants suit she wore whether or not it was
swollen, but the excess material near her ankle was trembling badly.

        "Sure?"

        "Yeah.  On three."

        Her fingers dropped between her knees and silently counted.  Three,
two, one.

        He rolled out into the hall, firing as she raced across and took cover
behind a outcropping of the hotel wall, partially obscured by a potted tree.

        The man came out of his hiding place firing, and David rolled away,
cursing in a hushed whisper as his arm burned.  In the corner of his eye he 
caught the two figures dashing across the hall.  There was another sound, a light
explosion.

        They were blowing the lock off the utility door to the roof.

        He stood, checked Tasha's position, and then began quietly jogging down 
the hall, out in the open but to the right.  Eight feet.  Ten.  Twenty.  He saw
a blur of movement, fired.  The assassin ducked back behind the wall as he
heard the other dash up the stairs.

        "Oh no you don't," he muttered.  Trying to assassinate a politician, that
was all well and fine.

        Trying to kill the politician's wife, now that was something entirely
different.

        "David, what are you doing," he heard Tasha hiss.

        And then the assassin rolled out and fired.

        Maverick returned three of them before dodging into another doorframe,
dimly hearing an echo.  The woman was telling him to pull back.

        He didn't.

        Maverick waited, longer still, counting to five as the bullets continued.
He heard the slight break, leaned out, and fired only once.

        The assassin fell back, a neat hole in his smooth forehead, his eyes wide.

        Then he turned back to Tasha, nodding toward the utility door.

        Tasha stared at him, momentarily surprised.  She was leaning on the wall 
at a strange angle, her leg bent oddly beneath her, and David started towards
her.  She watched him come for a moment, then took a hand from her chest.
Her fingers came away wet with blood.

        "David . . ?"

        And then she fell.  He caught her, whirling with her and slamming his 
back against a door as hard as he could.  The lock gave, the door banging open 
to reveal one of the luxurious rooms of the rather posh convention hotel.  He
kicked the door shut and carried her as quickly as possible to the bed, laid
her down.

        Her eyes were already glazed, her silk blouse soaked.  He reached for 
the phone and dialed the operator, listening for any sound in the hallway.  He
heard none.

        "David . . . it's bad . . . isn't . . ?"

        He growled out a request for medical assistance and simply dropped the
receiver, ignoring the buttons that popped off as he pulled open her blouse.

        Took her right through her sternum.

        She closed her eyes as she saw his expression, her breathing coming
short and unsteadily.  He hastily stripped a pillow and pressed the material
hard to the wound, turning her on her side.  She'd have one clear lung, if 
he could help it.  Surely someone called an ambulance when they heard the
gunshots.  Surely one was already on the way.

        "Tasha, breath shallowly.  Try to stay calm."

        She shook her head, opened her mouth.  Blood came out.

        "Breathe, woman."

        She was trying to talk.  He shushed her, a cocked ear picking up the
elevator ding.

        "In here!" he bellowed, turning to look into her eyes.  Tears poured
from them.  She was a tough cookie, going through all that therapy, surely the
worst of the pain was over ... but her fear was plain to read.

        "Tiki, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.  Take it easy-"  He used her 
pet name without thought.

        The door burst open and he whipped around, but it was indeed the
paramedics.  They shouldered him aside as they set to work.  Her eyes stayed
locked with his, pleading, and she tried so hard to tell him-

        She died on the bed, after the paramedics worked nearly twenty minutes 
to save her life.

        Two days later the coroner told him what she'd been unable to.

        She'd been three months pregnant.

* * * * * * *

        "You better have a really good reason for being here, and you've got
about a minute to tell me," he told her conversationally as he maneuvered the 
cart towards the checkout lane.  Her eyes were guarded, as they had been the 
last time he'd seen her.

        KI-5.  Later, Kai the reformed assassin.  No past, no family.  Nothing.
He'd tried to track her down all those years ago, failed.  Then, five years
after Tasha died, while in the holding cell of third-rate terrorists,
waiting for a prisoner to be shipped in, she had shown up.

        Locked together in a cell for nearly two weeks with the woman, certain
things had slipped.  She'd been through some kind of conditioning, answered
to a designation rather than a name.  Had no identity.  He could understand
that.  He'd seen it happen before.  It didn't excuse what she did, thought
it made a pretty story.

        Which is what is was, a damn story.  Killers didn't reform.  They just 
went up the social ladder.

        He should know.

        "According to some mailing records, Logan sent you a parcel a few days
ago."

        He didn't stop, or respond, so she continued, doggedly following him
into the checkout line.  "He got most of the files from me.  Who the hell do you
think got him out?"

        "He mentioned a woman," North said, just as casually as before, removing
the items from the cart and watching them travel down the belt toward the cashier.

        "Look, I need to see what he sent you."

        "Tough."

        He pulled out a credit card as the cashier finished tallying up the items.

        "North, you know I wouldn't come to you if it wasn't important."

        "I'm out of that business."

        "I know where Logan is."

        He didn't hesitate as he took back the credit card and tucked it into 
his wallet, thanked the woman, and picked up the bags.  It wasn't until they
were out in the parking lot that he finally spoke with the venom he felt.

        "You have thirty seconds to get out of my sight."

        "North, they have the missing nukes."

        He unlocked the trunk, and dropped the bags in.  "What missing nukes?" 
he finally prompted, almost growling.

        "The ones that Russia said they had when the USSR broke up.  And if
they don't have them yet, they will soon.  They're using your friend to pressure
an ex KGB agent for the locations of the missiles."

        He finally did turn around, meet her eyes. Tower over her, in fact.

        She didn't look impressed.

        "You wanna help your friend.  I wanna stop a nuclear war. Whaddaya say?"

        He glanced towards the top of the grocery store, really just out of
habit.  If she'd had friends, he would have been dead by now.  Then again, this
could just be an elaborate plan on their part.  Getting the info and him at
the same time.

        "You have a car?"

        "No, I flew."  Her sarcasm was heavy.  He couldn't help but wonder what 
it was hiding.

        He glared at her. She glared right back.  He turned his back to her yet
again, watching her in the rear view mirror as he got into the car.

        "Follow me."

* * * * * * *