Subject: [OTL]: [Maverick, Kai] [R] From Russia, With . . . 2/Many Date: Mon, 01 May 2000 20:26:42 -0700 From: Jaya Mitai (See previous chapters for disclaimers, and expect a chapter every night from now until the end of time . . . Just kidding. But at least a week. Got more than six parts. =) Logan awoke, shuddering. He was drenched in sweat, slick with the scent of fear, and of pain. The bedsheets were twisted around him like a serpent, and he relaxed slightly. No hands holding him down. No soldiers and drugs and pain. He was safe. He was home. Or as close to a home as he had, and was probably ever going to have. He got up, grabbed a towel. Showered. Threw on a pair of jeans - not that cursed uniform they'd made him wear - and a shirt. Walked downstairs, barefoot. It was early, as usual, the predawn light coming in the windows more than ample enough for him to see everything by in perfect clarity. He took deep breaths as he headed from the men's dorms to the kitchen. The smells of the house. Flowers in the main hall - Ororo's orchids. Old coffee in the kitchen. He paused. Not that old. As a matter of fact, only a few hours old. Suddenly curious, he headed towards the War Room. Stood right outside the door, listening. Heard tired, tired voices. "Hank, what does this mean?" "It means, the man currently in the house isn't Logan. It's a copy of Logan, but not a clone. The best hypothesis points to a mutant that can mimic others, more than shape-shift. Two sets of DNA. One is dominant. The DNA of the mutant himself or herself. The other is dormant, malleable. When it is activated, the other falls dormant, and this one comes to the fore. This is why he had the healing ability and appearance." "What about the claws?" "Steel, the tests say. And you saw his shoulder. It had been broken. Logan's shoulders are laced with adamantium. That sort of break was impossible." "So you're saying he was sent out to throw us off track?" "No, he isn't." Logan's throat tightened as he recognized the hurt in Jean's voice. "I scanned him as he fell unconscious. The turmoil, the fear - those are Logan's thoughts." "You are correct. The graph shows two separate thought patterns - and one of them matches Logan's almost 90%. The other is completely foreign." "So what you're saying is -" "He's an impostor that actually thinks he is Logan." Logan turned, slowly, and went back the way he came. An impostor. A fake. His fists tightened, his claws popping reflexively. Maybe he wasn't home, after all. * * * * * * * Taking her to the house was a calculated risk. Yes, there could have been others waiting there. They'd struck him at his home on three separate occasions. Then he'd put up 'No Trespassing' signs. And various, rather nasty, often extremely painful traps immediately after the signs. Hopefully, none of the locals would be stupid enough to try to get to his house through the woods. The car she drove was an obvious rental, and just as obviously dependable; a nondescript Volvo, four door. Good choice if you wanted to suddenly vanish. She got out without a word to him, simply waited for him to gather his bags. Her stance indicated that she'd be willing to help him, and he rather liked the idea of her hands being full, but that time in the cell had taught him something. If she'd learned anything over the course of those years, it was honor. If she meant to kill him, she would wait until his hands were empty. She probably felt she owed it to him, in her twisted sense of tithe to him for the past. He carried the paper sacks into the house and put them on the counter, listening to her enter after and close the door. And lock it. He unpacked the bags, placing the spoilable groceries in the icebox before finally turning to stare at her. She was standing quietly in the center of the large sitting room, well away of any furniture that could inhibit her ability to dodge, should he attack. She was also far enough away that he could react before she could shoot him, or use a throwing weapon. "Tell me about Logan." Her eyebrow raised. "Which one?" He didn't move. "Get out." She lowered it, and cocked a head to the side. "There were some murders going on. You must have read about them. One in Paris, a little girl, and before that, a family here in Germany. I was sent to investigate, since it was obvious the kills were related to the missing nukes. I rescued the person I believe to be the real Logan from an old biowaste facility. Got him on a train, and out of Russia. He worked through the drugs quickly - I knew from the files he had a healing factor. Didn't trust me, didn't believe me. Generally a pretty pissed off guy." Her mouth quirked. "Kinda rough-looking . . ." Maverick didn't respond, and the light look left her face. "Then I went to Paris, after the other Logan was sent out to kill Nikoli Galikov's daughter. I thought it was Logan that flashbombed me and took me down. I got out on my own, though Wolverine was behind me." Maverick instinctively stiffened at the name. Wolverine. As if she knew him past his files. He found it surprising that he didn't mind her calling him Logan, but did mind that she referred to him by his codename. As if his codename was more personal than his given name. She noticed, but didn't stop. "We met in the woods, and it wasn't him. Damned good look-alike, but the smell was wrong. Close, but wrong. By sight, you can't tell the two apart. Both have claws, and healing factors." She studied him. Maverick thought hard. Wasn't there a villain, Mr. Sinister, that dealt in clones? But what would his interest be in nuclear weapons? And a morpher surely wouldn't take on the mutant characteristics of another . . . though the X-Men's Morph had been able to replicate their voices. Mystique could, as well, but not powers. "Why should I believe any of this bullshit?" Kai finally raised her voice. "He sent you a damn _letter_ with the files! You already told me as much. Surely what I just told you correlates, and how else would I know?" Maverick studied her harder. This was true. And it clicked together in his head. "The other Logan . . . would you know if a telepath was in your head?" She looked uncertain. "It wasn't a projection. He carried me. If he was a telepath, he was just as short and built as Logan. The smells were almost identical. Almost." David leaned on the counter, his arms crossed. Okay, she'd earned a word or two. "Yeah, he sent a letter. Said you were looking for nukes. He didn't see 'em anywhere. Doesn't know where they are." Kai just shook her head. "They might not be there, actually. I have about half a dozen places to check, now. That's where you come in." He simply watched her. "Get Logan. See missiles along the way, lemme know. That's all. I'm not asking you to stick your neck out for me, or my targets. Just . . . get your friend out, and return the favor." He continued to leaned against the counter. "And why in the world do you care about Logan?" Her eyes narrowed. "Look, I know a bit about what he's gone through. I want to see him get out of this. He didn't trust me on the train; he sure as hell isn't going to now. I know he's affiliated with the X-Men these days. No offense, this isn't a lily-white mission. He hates Victor Creed. I have no idea who his real friends are in Japan. And that's all the info I've got. You're the only one that I'm almost sure he won't kill on sight. And I'm not about to let him start slaughtering my people." Maverick leaned his head back. "Your people. You forget, I've seen your people." Her eyes stayed locked with his. "You don't need my help. You have the resources to check all those places simultaneously. Why come to me?" Her jaw tightened. "I told you. Logan --" "So? Shoot him. He has a healing factor." "You don't want to help him?" Her challenge was hard and flat. "He can take care of himself." She shook her head in amazement. "You must know from what he sent that that isn't true." North shrugged. "And maybe it is. Nice talking to you, KI-5. Now get out." He didn't put any special emphasis on the designation. He didn't have to. He watched her eyes widen in shock, then harden into flint. And then they both plainly heard glass break in the back room. * * * * * * * Logan paced back and forth, in tune to his heartbeat. It was unconscious, unnoticed. Without thought. Automatic. A part of him screamed in horror at what he had done, what he did now. It was better to tune that scream away, make it go away, why don't they ever go away? They kept coming after him, hurting him. Why wouldn't they believe? Why wouldn't they stop? He knew he was waiting for something, waiting for them to do something, waiting for them to make a mistake, that's what it was, a mistake, so he could kill them, and run free, hunt free- He shook his head rapidly, trying to clear the mass of thoughts, some not quite. He was playing an animal, not becoming one, dammit! He clung to this shred of anger as though his life depended on it. It did. He knew it. They must, as well. They must have guessed that he was just playing, yet so dangerously close. Was the ploy an excuse to give up? To let them win? Why fight? If anyone were going to come for you, they would have. They would have saved you, they wouldn't take that fake's word for it what happened, they should run the damn tests! Look in his head, Jeannie, see that it isn't me! Jubi, how could you cry on his shoulder, and tell him the things you only tell me! How could you? How dare you! Logan growled quietly, pacing more quickly now that his system beat with the adrenaline of anger. They should have seen through it. They should have. They were his friends, right? They couldn't even recognize him! Couldn't even see a fake two feet in front of them. They just stared at him sympathetically and took his word on everything. Everything! He'd made up an entire life and fed it to them like baby food! His growling grew quickly to snarling as his pacing increased. Shown their true colors, they had. He lost everything. He lost his love, now he'd lost his family. He'd lost his freedom, lost his right to dream his own dreams. And now they would take away the man that was him. And replace it with whatever they wished. They couldn't! He wouldn't break for them, be their pet! Dammit, I can't! He glanced at the mirror, saw his reflection. Unkept hair, tattered rags on a dirty, muscular frame. Eyes that reflected no intelligence. He snarled and turned his back to the mirror, nauseous. Sickened by what he saw. What he had become. What they wanted him to be. What was to gain, by turning him into an animal as likely to bite the hand that fed him as kill enemies? What would they do with him? Let him loose in a small town, to slaughter everyone? Perhaps a crowded mall? Why? Maybe she'd known, 'the woman,' but she wasn't going to tell him. He hoped that she had escaped, or died, that she didn't have to suffer at their hands. Like he did? That brought a growl, his only equivalent of a wry chuckle. Had he fallen so far? He curled up in the corner, growling to himself, trying to rouse his mind from the downward spiral it had become. * * * * * * * Maverick spared her one murderous glance before he reached into the knife drawer for a gun. He was not surprised to see her also pull a weapon from her person. It had been cleverly hidden. She also had a backup strapped to her back. He hadn't spotted any others. A bullet came whining through the kitchen window, dangerously close to him. He leapt behind the kitchen island, hearing the kitchen window shatter again. Crouched, he turned his head to look at Kai -- But she was nowhere to be seen. The front door swung gently shut. Hadn't even heard her unlock it. There was a loud *pop!* from the back room and Maverick swore. Holding his breath, he ducked through the sitting room, and shoulded open the bedroom door. It wasn't nerve gas, he knew it wouldn't be. His eyes stung and watered heavily, and he picked up the canister, stopping the flow of the gas with his thumb. Then he waiting, coughing heavily, carefully measuring the held air he expelled with every fake 'cough'. The killer did leap through the window then, dislodging the tiny shards of glass that still clung stubbornly to the frame, too fast to get a bead on and covered by the dresser. Maverick tossed the gas grenade into the air, pulled out the gun, and shot the grenade as it neared the floor next to the chest of drawers, diving behind the bed. He expected it to pop. Compressed air did that. The ensuing explosion was much more powerful than he'd anticipated, and to his surprise the room was suddenly full of flying shards of metal and a literal fireball. * * * * * * * Kai left the female sniper where she lay, alive. The woman would probably be a quadriplegic. Woman had moved forward, instead of turning around. Hit had been at the wrong damn angle, snapped her spine right below the neck. And in any other situation, Kai would have killed her. Should have killed her. But dammit! If anyone was going to finish her off, it was going to be North. Unless he would suspect that she hadn't killed the woman because she was working _with_ them? Kai cursed under her breath. Damn stupid stubborn sonuvabitch! Why the hell did he think I'd be so damned stupid and come to him for help? Of all people? He's being a bastard because he feels like it - ! She took a deep breath, listening to the woods, the animals in them. He has the _right_, dammit. He has the right to distrust me. To hate me. Images of their last little mission together came gamboling up from the depths of her memories, and she chased them away with the venom of a cobra that's found her nest destroyed by a mongoose. Now was not the time to dwell -- There was a very loud explosion, and she saw a burst of smoke waft up from behind the house. * * * * * * * North climbed slowly up from behind the ruined mattress, glancing around. Luckily, only the gas had caught fire, and the room was a bit singed but not aflame. What kind of stupid does it take to bring flammable gas into a place where guns are going to be fired? He stepped over the charcoal lump on the floor and cautiously listened beside the ruined doorframe, his breathing rougher and a bit more audible than he would have liked. Gas had done a bit more than he'd thought -- Something cold and roughly the size of an automatic muzzle rested against his forehead. And a woman followed it around the doorframe. And it wasn't Kai. "Well," she cooed throatily, her Russian accent weak but distinguishable, "Look what I found. The files, Nord." She took his gun from unresisting fingers. Nord. She'd called him Nord. "It's North, my dear lady. And I have not the faintest idea what you're -" She struck him hard between the eyes with the gun, and despite his power, such a blow still had effect. He started a bit, still moving forward and managing to knock one of the guns away. All she did was put a hand on his face. The room spun crazily, his heart skipped a beat or two, and he found himself on the floor. His stomach turned and only sheer will kept everything down. His vision began to cloud, his pulse irregular in his ears. He didn't even have the energy to pull away. "A mutant for a mutant," she told him, almost purring, as she knelt beside him. "And don't you know, your life is actually making me younger." Even with his eyesight growing steadily worse, he could see her smile, dimpling. "Such a handsome man you are." He was having trouble breathing, his pulse loud in his ears. She glanced up suddenly, towards the window. With more effort than he would have liked, he managed to grab her hand. She glanced back at him, resisting his attempt to pull her off, and looked again at the window. With his right arm, he reached behind him for a knife. Found one. Used it. She screamed and jerked away, staring at her right shoulder, and the rather formidable blade protruding from it. He made a feeble attempt to move, his face a rictus of pain, before he fell back. His body shuddered slightly, once, his breathing became unsteady, shallow . . . less and less frequent. Until it stopped. The woman cradled her side, falling into shock, but was aware enough to spit on him. "As if you had a heart to kill you," she growled at him, climbing to her feet slowly and grabbing a dishtowel. He clearly heard her hiss as she pulled the blade free. The sink faucet started. He released his breath, almost with a cough, and rolled slowly onto his belly, and from there, wearily to his feet. Dizziness almost took him down, and his left arm, the one that had touched her hand, ached and cramped. He wondered vaguely if he actually had had to fake that heart attack. * * * * * * * Kai very nearly stepped out when he grabbed her hand. She saw the knife flash, his speed surprising her, saw the blade sink deep into her shoulder as the killer pulled away with a scream of pain and shock. She watched him closely, seeing . . . the signs of a heart attack? Damn you, don't you dare die now, she practically screamed at him. But the smell of a heart attack usually included adrenaline, and all she smelled from him was a great weariness . . . Remembering the ribs he'd faked so long ago, she kept her position, watched the terrorist spit on him and grab a towel to stop the bleeding, slowly pulling free the blade. Felt something close to relief as he resumed breathing. He rolled to his side silently and she stepped back into the bedroom. The place reeked with the smell of burnt human flesh, but the room was in amazing shape considering the explosion that had rocked it only minutes ago. The bed had been destroyed, the mattress flayed to ribbons presumable by the casing of whatever had exploded. It might have been some kind of gas, seeing as the room was singed but didn't catch fire. Her eyes flickered from the bed to the dresser, the light blue color itself drawing her eye to it. The files. The impromptu research Three Eyes had done into Sinclair and his involvement with the Russians. The files she'd handed Logan on the train. They sat casually in a pile with junk mail and stock papers, looking for all the world like more stock portfolios themselves. She'd never even think to go through that pile. Bit smarter than I gave you credit for, North. She glanced back through the bedroom door. The water and the woman's pained swearing were still audible. He would have no trouble subduing her. Her hands darted into the pile, withdrew a short, handwritten note in a script so careful and yet so illegible that it looked as though the writer had almost forgotten how to write. Wipe that surprised look off yer mug an' listen to me. One of the Weapon X techs is in Russia. Met him up close an' personal. Old bastard. Some terrorist woman broke me out, gave me these files. Says the guy's with them to get some missing nukes. Didn't see 'em, but the place is slick. It's possible. I'm goin' back there. I don't get in touch with you in the next few days, it might be worth your time to check the guy out yerself. And North? If you find me, you make the call. * * * * * * * Maverick slowly released the chokehold, though he knew she was dead. He leaned her back against the cabinets as quietly as he could, trying to listen over the white noise in his ears for any other attacker. There might be a third, this dead woman may not have been the sniper. And there was the matter of Kai. The dizziness and hum in his head continued as he almost stumbled over to the back room, his left arm aching more with every passing moment. He picked up his discarded gun and peered around the doorframe, still in a crouch. To see Kai, unhurt, unflustered, not even a hair out of place, reading the note Logan had sent with the files. Her eyes were wide with surprise. "Knew it . . ." Her eyes darted to his, and she at least had the grace to look embarrassed. He trained the gun right between her eyes, surprised he had the strength. "How well . . . do you heal . . from head shots?" She didn't look alarmed, didn't move. She just watched him. "I don't know," she finally said, flatly, quietly. "I took out the sniper in the woods. Another woman. Maybe they thought you were a bit too gentlemanly to take ladies down as easily as men." It was just a suggestion, one without rancor or sarcasm, and it brought back the memory. Of anger. Oh, that's goddamn fair. He glared as they dragged the unconscious woman into the cell, rifles trained on him as they backed out of the cell. She's a woman, so she doesn't get cut up. Guess just the men get carved up like a damn prime rib. She was unconscious this time. Must have smarted off. She'd come close, with him. But she hadn't. He watched her breathing for some time. Punctured lung? She'd die, then. He finally got off the cot, walked over, and gently turned her over, still cautious. He didn't think she knew he was faking the ribs, but he wasn't about to slip up. Although he doubted that steady wheeze could be faked. She was pretty, this time. Maybe they were frustrated with him, and taking it out of her. Jaw was probably broken. Rib floating, punctured her right lung. Didn't sound as bad as he'd originally thought; in fact, she sounded slightly better than she had when they'd brought her in. He knelt beside her, looking at her face. Under all that dirt, it really didn't look that swollen. He licked a finger and wiped some of the filth off her face near her jawline. Not broken. Cracked. And even then, it shoulda been a lot more swollen that that. He wiped a smudge of dirt from under her eye, where yesterday it had been nice and black. Beneath the muck, her skin was a healthy, slightly dark complected pink. Mutant, then? Fast healing? Explained how she'd taken the bullet so well back then. He wiped muck back onto her face, concealing it once again, then carefully placed two fingers below the point of the rib break and shoved. She groaned, but the rib moved resistingly back into place. He checked the rest of her bones, but her arms and legs seemed fine. She was heavy for someone of her height as he hefted her onto the cot, various slashes he'd received pulled open from the effort. Why the hell did he bother? She was a murderer. She was a killer. Killed in cold blood. Went after a helpless _woman,_ for god's sake, and then claims she's 'different,' now. But then why would she have cared for him like she had? He'd be in worse shape without her willingly splitting the food and water, without her tending to the worst of the cuts -- He was going to kill that bastard with the knife before he left, and that was final. But she knew he hated her. He could have killed her that first day - well, in light of a healing factor, maybe not - but he could have easily badly injured her. So why did she bother to help him? Some weird sense of guilt? And why was he returning the favor? Maverick shook it off, concentrated on the present. Kai slowly put down the letter. "I'm not with them, you stubborn -" She swallowed whatever she was going to say, calming herself with visible effort. "I-" "Save it," he spat, head swimming. Surely he wasn't having a heart attack, surely whatever she had done wasn't going to be permanent "Guess . . . you just have . . . shitty timing . . ." He began to fall forward, and he heard the gun go off with something akin to surprise. He wondered if he'd actually hit her. And then it was inconsequential, and his head connected with the opposite wall. * * * * * * *