Subject: [OTL]: [Maverick, Kai] [R] From Russia, With . . . 8/Many
Date: Mon, 08 May 2000 19:13:27 -0700
From: Jaya Mitai <jaya_gm@hotmail.com>

(See disclaimers in previous posts.  If you don't, I will beat you with this
tree! ::waves tree threateningly::)

* * * * * * *

        Maverick barely bothered to open his eyes as the door was opened and
angry strides approached him.  It really had been only a matter of time before
they figured out that there wasn't a terrorist organization on the planet
that would hold China hostage for the demands he had quoted.  Even if China
did happen to be the second most densely populated place on the planet.

        He wondered vaguely if they'd punished the woman secretary for believing
the wild story he'd spun.  He found it amusing that they'd called Aleksandr
away and left him in a room, unbound, with the most combat - phobic woman
he'd ever seen.  And that they had expected her to interrogate him.

        "What is this bullshit," and angry male voice demanded, amid the shakings
of paper.

        "What . . . she told me . . ." he managed weakly.

        The bed was upset, and he was throw to the ground.  He felt a twinge,
really, but nothing worse, as they had removed the collar some time ago,
realizing it had been inhibiting his ability to breathe, along with his
mutant ability.  He had no doubt the man probably had another in his hand.

        "You're good.  Too good to be so stupid.  You're fucked, Nord. Nowhere to
go.  No friends.  No hope.  Tell us and end it.  I'll be swift, at least."

        Guy must be Aleksandr, then.

        "All . . . I know . . ."

        "Perhaps we should allow him to see his friend.  Perhaps that might coerce
something more useful from him," another voice spoke.  Dima.

        "If . . . you hadn't . . . killed her . . . you might not . . . have
to keep me . . . around . . ."  He swallowed around the words, his throat caked
with thick mucus.  Probably from the drugs.  He also felt feverish and was
trembling, either from being beaten - or the first signs of withdrawal.

        And it was undoubtedly going to be a nasty one.

        "Leave him for a few more hours.  Should have really kicked in by then,"
Dima said in disgust, booting him in the ribs for good measure.  The blow
didn't even hurt.

        And they left.

        He waited a good ten minutes before he tried to rise.  Nothing.  He
tried again, managing this time to get partially on his hands and knees.  His 
legs were shaking badly, and it took him nearly ten minutes to get them under
him.  Even then they barely supported his weight.

        With a hand on the wall of the cell, he started walking.

        Had to walk off the drug.

* * * * * * *

        Logan stared at the landscape as Remy drove. They were in Germany, now, 
on the Autobahn, and Remy was making fantastic time.

        Not surprising.

        He watched the trees and the other cars fly past.  It was almost on the 
tip of his tongue, the why.

        He knew he knew it.  But try as he might, he couldn't summon himself.  
The man behind Logan.  The man he had chased away.  That man had the answers.

        There was a reason they were torturing Logan.  Why he had become Logan.  
A reason that would answer all their questions. Something the real Logan
didn't know.  And, by the time they got there, the real Logan might be too
far gone to even save.

        And could he kill . . . himself?  Could he?  He had wanted to evict
that part of him more times than he could count.  And yet, he had counted on it.
It had saved his life, those animal instincts.  Without that part of him, he
could never again be Wolverine.

        Without that part, he'd know fear.  Yet with it, would he retain all that
Sinclair had done?

        He blinked.  Sinclair?  Where had that name come fro . . .

        "Please, Logan, I really don't want to have to give you this, but if you
don't start behaving, you'll leave me no choice."

        And of course he hadn't, and of course the boy used the rabies pole with
all the skill of a seasoned veterinarian, and given him the injection that
had caused so much pain.  He would never forget the feeling of sulfuric acid
in his body cavity, in his muscles.  And he remembered recovering, and
curling up in the corner, growling, nursing his wounds, and waiting.
Waiting for them to do it again.

        He hadn't realized he'd snarled till Remy nearly took them off the road.

        "You drift off?"

        He shook his head.  "Know who the bastard is.  Got the name. SonofaBITCH!"
His claws came out and slammed into the dash, shredding the passenger airbag.

        Remy seemed calmer.  "Who?"

        "Old friend from Weapon X."

        Remy whistled.  "Dat explain a lot."

        "Oh yeah."

        Logan blinked a moment, then was silent almost a half hour, calming himself
with effort.  After some time, he looked at Remy, trying to moderate his tone.

        "Why'd yah ask if I fell asleep?"

        Remy blinked, then shrugged, kept his hands on the wheel.  "Haven't heard
y'growl 'cept in y'sleep since we rescued y'."

        Logan sat back, and watched the scenery go by.

* * * * * * *

        Kai awoke slowly, the sweet scent still tinging all that she smelled.

        That damn gas.

        Hadn't used much.  Enough to knock Logan down, and then they'd entered and
shot him.  He hadn't moved much after that.

        And he hadn't been collared, either.

        As it was, she had detected it and held her breath, and only inhaled once
or twice, but already, as she was being dragged down the hall, she knew that
it had been too much.

        Two breaths, and she'd been unconscious.

        What was that stuff?  Why did it have so great an effect?

        At least it wasn't just on her.  It wasn't something designed with her
symbiont in mind.  In fact, it looked like it had affected Logan more than she.

        She didn't know whether that thought should comfort her - or terrify
her.

        She was hauled to yet another room, this one plush and carpeted with
thick pile, and dropped in a spacious leather chair.  After a moment, Sinclair
walked in, and took a seat behind the desk - this one of oak, and plain,
simple, yet elegant.

        "You see, I have a fondness for making each of my . . . opponents . . .
surmise different things about me," he told her, obviously following her
gaze.  "One can tell much of a man by the company and luxury with which he
chooses to surround himself."

        Kai regarded him dully, too weak to even speak.  Almost too weak to
breathe.

        "I see that my gas has quite the effect on you.  I cannot express how
pleased that makes me, despite not yet understanding why your healing is at
the advanced level it is without mutation.  If fact, you have a genetic
fault, not advantage."

        Kai somehow marshaled the energy to look as sarcastically disappointed as
possible.

        Oh, if you can't mouth off, you're just gonna make faces, instead?

        Oh, shut _up_, she thought to the voice.  Okay, so it was childish.

        He didn't seem to notice.  "You must realize by now that we found Nord 
to be basically useless, and he's been disposed of.  You have no way to contact
your outside people.  I want information, Kai, and I want it now."

        She watched his eyes, debating.  North had been involved in the same
program as Logan.  Surely they would have used Maverick to test Logan to see
if Logan would respond to someone he knew . . .

        Zivon's words came back unbidden.  "No, there was a man."

        She closed her eyes.

        Sinclair moved slightly in his upright straighbacked velvet Victorian
chair.

        "You have no hope, KI-5."

        She _did_ find the energy then to speak.  "That isn't my name," she
hissed.  Realized that had been stupid.  Didn't care.

        His slight smile spoke volumes.  "Your small victory with Logan is
inconsequential.  It did not help him.  You have accomplished nothing here."

        Her eyes burned into his.  His slight smile grew.

        "Shall I prove it?  This should be something you should appreciate,
considering what I've discovered about your . . . background."

        He moved slightly - probably pressing a button on the underside of
the desk.  Shortly, Logan was brought in, still unmoving.  Sinclair rose from
his chair, waving away the guards that regarded him with something akin to
incredulous surprise.  He knelt beside the still figure, grabbed a muscled
arm tightly, found a vein, and injected the clear contents of a syringe into
him.

        Then he stepped back.

        Almost immediately Logan showed signs of coming around.  His eyelids
flickered as his eyes moved behind them, and his fingers twitched slightly.

        And then his eyes flew open.

        And Sinclair took a single step back.

        Logan blinked once, slowly, then a rumbling from his lower chest began,
quietly.  Full of venom, acid on gravel.

        Sinclair watched him, not moving.  The guards had their weapons trained on
him.

        Logan was still woozy, he lumbered to all fours with some difficulty,
glaring at Sinclair, snarling.  Teeth bared, eyes narrow and almost red.
The cords of his neck stood out, over tense muscles and a tense frame.

        Yet he never attacked.

        Sinclair smiled and turned to look at Kai.  "You see?  He is my pet now, 
my slave.  He will not attack me.  Fear is a powerful thing."

        Her nose was telling her just how powerful Logan's fear of Sinclair had
become.  It was choking her, like the stench of a week old dead body.

        Sinclair turned his attention to Logan.  "Of course, he isn't the most
willing of servants.  He doesn't need to be.  Logan."

        The snarling increased dramatically.

        "Stop that noise at once."  His voice rang with authority, and something
underlying it.  Confidence.  More.

        Logan continued to bare his teeth, but the growl became nothing more
than a whispered rumble, not dying completely, but almost inaudible.

        Kai's heart sank.

        "Good, good."  Sinclair's smile was pleased, and the growling abruptly
stopped.  Kai strained to hear even one rumble - and not a sound.  "Yes, that's 
a good Logan."  As though he were a dog.

        "You see," he said gently to Kai as he reached out to put a hand through
Logan's hair, not even looking at him, "Your victory means nothing.  He is
still an animal.  For all your troubles, you achieved nothing.  I have the
missiles.  I have the buyers.  I have cut off your contact with your people.
I have this - Logan - completely.  I own his soul.  You see how he reacts
to even the smallest of kindness from me."

        Logan looked like he wanted to take that hand off at the shoulder, but 
he didn't move.  In fact, he seemed to relax slightly, and the growling that
she had assumed he would have kept constant was simply gone.

        "What does he mean to you?  Is he a symbol of what you fought?"  He
softened his tone to an almost wheedling.  "Please, I am only curious.  My
files on you are not nearly as complete as I would wish.  Tell me, was it
this sort of technique used to bring about your days as KI-5?"

        She closed her eyes, and he laughed gently.  She could still hear him
stroking Logan's hair.

* * * * * * *

        Maverick's voice cracked.  "Please."

        "Please _what._"

        He swallowed, slowly.  "Please . . . sir . . ."

        Dima pulled Aleksandr back towards him, and spoke in hushed Russian.
"I would say we have broken him."

        Aleksandr shook his head slowly.  "Our employer says no, he is impossible
to break.  We must use the drugs.  We must further his addiction."

        Dima's eyes twisted in fury.  "And end the torment withdrawal has
become for him, even temporarily?  Have you forgotten what he did? To my brother?
To our friends?  He is a murderer, and he will suffer all the tortures of
Earth before I release him to Hell's mercy."

        Aleksandr shrugged helplessly.  "He is of no use.  We have permission to
kill him.  This is what we should do.  He is a waste of time."

        Dima sneered.  "No, I shall keep him as my plaything.  Until tomorrow, when
we make the delivery.  I shall kill him when we abandon this base."

        Aleksandr watched Dima approach the laboring man, a yellow collar in his
hand.  In English, the enraged Russian spoke to the mercenary.

        "You talk, or we repeat the procedure - starting with step one."

        "More . . . please . . . need . . .  more . . ."

        Dima's smile would have frightened a Yeti.  "More drugs?  That what you
want?"

        The mercenary's nod was barely perceptible.

        "Oh, more of this?"  He dangled a small vial before the man.  A hand
feebly reached up, and was swatted away with enough force to break it.  If not for
North's mutant ability to absorb the blow.

        "Talk."

        Nord's mouth opened again.  "Told . . . everything . . . please -"

        Aleksandr left, slamming the door behind him in disgust.

        This wasn't how it was supposed to be.  They were fighting for mother
Russia!  They were fighting to rejoin the lands lost by the United States
and European influences!  They were not here to gain pleasure from another's
torture.  They weren't here to die.

        He stormed down the hall, ignoring Tomas's confused look as he brushed by
without word.

        When had their cause become something as fearsome, as loathsome, as those
they were so trying to punish, to surpass?

        When had Russia - when had they - become the monster the Western world made
them to be?

* * * * * * *

        Kai screamed again as her body was wracked by another set of
muscle-wrenching convulsions, and she felt hands on her, trying to hold her
body down, probably trying to give her something to end them.  Again and
again she seized, her breathing coming in ragged gasps, her eyes open and
unseeing.

        And as abruptly as the attack had come, it ended.

        There was no motion in the room.

        She hadn't sucked another breath in, which meant she could only truly 
keep from inhaling for a minute, considering the strength she had expended to
make it look convincing.  She needn't have worried.  The moment they saw she
had stopped breathing, they injected something into her heart, and she
instantly began to cough violently.

        The symbiont seemed to get rid of that fast enough, despite the fact
she could still barely move, and she kept her eyes open and unblinking, staring
at nothing.  The three guards watched her for a moment, then began to go
back and forth in rapid-fire Russian. After a moment, Zivon gently picked
her up, and carried her from the cell.

        She waited until they were mostly down the hall before she struck.
She miscalculated, though, and he turned his head slightly to look down a hall
they were passing as her fist struck, so she ended up hitting him in the
chin more than the throat.

        The blow was substantial enough to cause him to drop her and reel back, 
and she sprang almost clumsily to her feet with a curse.  Judging on the speed
of his movements before, there was no way she could fight him in this condition.

        To her surprise, he pawed at his throat, going down on one knee.
Had she hit him . . .?

        Hastily she dealt him a blow to the temple, and just as his hazel eyes
closed, she caught a faint gleam of something -

        Hope.

        She quickly disarmed him of his automatic, tucked him into a storage
room, and started running. She had to get out and get word to Evan pronto.  
If they tried a full assault, the missiles would vanish if they were even
there.  Sinclair was far too intelligent to think so few soldiers could hold
the complex.

        Though he'd had more than enough time to find some replacements.

        Something tugged - she was leaving Maverick here, if he was alive.
She remembered the look on Zivon's face, the guilt as he had admitted that Logan
had killed someone else, a man.  Sinclair was far too understaffed to be
sacrificing his men like that.

        And she didn't have the time to try with Logan, now.  Whatever happened, he
was on his own.

        Sick to her stomach, not sure if it was due to the effects of the gas or
her own actions, she continued to sprint down the hall. To the west.

        Toward the hangars.

        And wonder of wonders, she didn't encounter a single man.

        The hangar was sickening large, the vastness of it made her nauseous.
Boxes and boxes.  A plane.  A few technicians.  And an open cargo bay.

        When what to her wondering eyes should appear -

        Fuck me.

        Kai watched the techs, waiting until all three of them were gathered
about a shorter, stockier mechanic, and dashed into the back, wedging herself
firmly between the missiles and the hull of the plane.  And waiting.

* * * * * * * *

        They were getting close, now.  He knew it.  Knew it when he slept.
They were about to move Logan.  Prepping him to slaughter.  To kill.  They were
about to send him off to his mission.

        And geographically, they weren't far.  Something had pulled him to
Russia, and they had gotten over the border.  Now he instructed Remy along the
southern border.  Something had to give.  He could feel Logan.  Feel him.

        "Not plannin' on runnin' into Omega, are y'?  Don' suppose dat's what dey
workin' Logan up t'doin'?"

        Logan frowned.  "Insane, I couldn't take Arkady.  Hell, have enough trouble
. . . had enough trouble before."

        Remy sobered.  "What else would dey be conditionin' Logan for?"

        Logan shook his head.  "I dunno.  But I know I ain't gonna like it one
little bit."

        That wasn't his only fear.  There was another one, worse now.  He had been
hired to do this, probably.  It wouldn't have been an accident.  What if all
this was just to lead him back to his employer? What did that mean?  What
would happen to him?

        The same things happening to Logan? Why torture him?  Why not just look for
him, and bring him back?  Who were these people?

        He knew he didn't like the idea of them holding nuclear weapons.
Didn't like that idea at all.  And he knew he knew what part he played, and what
part Logan played.  But he had chased that part of himself away, and feared
it was gone permanently.

        "Keep on this road.  Gotta go somewhere."

        "Yes, Cap'in.  Maintainin' course, one half impulse."

        "Yer not Bobby."

        Remy winced.  "Yeah, dat was a Bobby-ism.  But it true.  On de ice, in 
dis piece o'crap, if we slide, at least I die.  Pity y'can't share dat healin'
factor wid de ol' Gumbo."

        "Rogue'd like that."

        Remy tried to hide his sudden grin.  "Hey!  When did anyone tell y't'grow a
sense o'humor, Logan?"

        It would have bitten, except for the easy, sincere Logan.  Remy, at least,
partially understood.  Though his phone calls to the X-Men showed they were
only getting more and more suspicious.

        "Had one fer a while.  You just talk too much t'notice."

        "I talk too much?  Y'never listen t'de way Jubes prattles on?"

        Logan had to swallow his emotions quickly.  "Nope.  Let her chatter to her
heart's content.  You do the same."

        There was a slight catch in Remy's easy laugh.

* * * * * * *

        Maverick gave one last, shuddering breath, and was still.

        He strained his ears over the roar of his own pulse.  Shouldn't have let 
it go so far.  Hunger for the drugs was tearing him apart from the inside, and
he'd wracked up a few more injuries letting the irate Russian beat on him
some more.  If not for the medical attention he'd received when he'd
'broken,' he knew he'd be dead.

        And it had helped that about ten minutes ago, the collar had abruptly run
out of juice, and the last, worst of the torture had been blissfully absorbed.  
He would be unable to move otherwise.

        Dima moved closer to him, and Maverick fairly screamed.  If he checked,
found a pulse -

        The door burst open, and frantic Russian was almost shouted.  There
was a terse silence.  After spitting on him, Dima hit the lights and rushed out
with another set of booted feet.

        And, just like he hoped, the man hadn't bothered to lock the door.

        Now, the question was, could he even get up?

        Maverick sucked in a breath and attempted.  Bruised muscles and cracked
bones almost refused to obey him.  He shook badly with the lack of the drug,
whatever it was, and his balance and sight were shot.  He swallowed around a
mucus-laced throat and managed to find the wall before he lost his feet
completely.

        He knew if he did, he'd never regain them.

        He rocked out the door, bouncing off the opposite wall and nearly losing 
it again, his feet following the fall of his body awkwardly, as though they
didn't belong.  The hall swirled maddeningly around in strange patterns,
almost like a kaleidoscope.  He blinked furiously, trying to fight off a
wave of nausea, trying to keep his feet under him.

        Halls were empty.  No sound.  Silent as a tomb.

        What could make them all leave to-

        Kai.

        Or her people.

        No, he'd hear explosions if it had been her people, even if he was in the
middle of the complex.  There was no sound at all.

        Which meant that she'd escaped.  Or they'd gotten word that her people were
moving in.

        He grasped at the thin thread of anger, letting it grow.  Letting it
motivate him.  Using it for strength.

        She'd left him behind - probably Logan, as well - to be killed.  Just to
get her goddamned missiles.

        A sneer cracked his dry lips.  Leaving on a plane sounded like a good 
idea to him.  He started to work his way back towards the right.  Towards what
they had supposed must be the hangar.  He followed the wall slowly, blinking
quite frequently in an attempt to clear his vision.  No good.  He had to get
out of sight till his condition either got better or worse.  He found a door
with a knob.  Turned it.

        A very startled Russian started at him, in the midst of pulling on his
flight trousers.  Flight trousers.

        About goddamn time I get something right, he thought bitterly as he
tackled the man, his thumb finding an eye.  He dug in hard, ignoring the cry of 
pain beneath him, other hand reaching for the man's throat.  When the pilot was
dead, he ever so slowly began to strip him.

        The small radio crackling surprised him, and he was even more surprised to
hear the words in English.

        "Took care of the animal.  Won't be any more trouble.  Over."

        He stared at the small, innocent looking hand-held radio in the locker.
Taken care of.  Destroyed.  He tore the broken collar from his own neck
violently, so much so that he nearly fell over.  God _damn_ it!

        Maybe that wasn't what it meant -

        "Good riddance.  Over."

        Maverick stared hard at the radio.  And then he slowly, slowly pulled the
shirt over his head.

        He stepped out cautiously only five minutes later, covered from neck
to toe in flight uniform.  Good thing about Russians - they didn't believe in
skin-tight khakis.  These were baggy enough that it hid his swollen joints.
And if he walked really carefully, it looked like he was only slightly
drunk.  He didn't know how in the world he was going to hide it.  Maybe they
wouldn't notice him.

        Then again, the pilot wouldn't have been getting dressed if they hadn't
intended to get the plane out now.

        Which only made sense.  Kai would call her people - if they didn't
manage to gun the bitch down - and they'd have a lot of worry on their hands.
Better to just get the missiles there ahead of schedule instead of losing
them.  Besides, after he had come through, the place was badly understaffed.
They had no hope of holding the building for long.

        Thankfully, a good part of the flight was apparently going to be into 
the sun, because the half-helmet was almost opaque from the outside, hiding 
his face.  Only his jaw was visible, and the Russian he had killed and hidden
had a prominent jaw, much like his own.  Maybe they wouldn't notice the
swelling.

        He continued towards the right, trying as much as possibly to walk
steadily.  It was quite a chore, really, taking entirely too much of his
concentration, so that he was in the hangar well before he realized it.

        Someone clapped him on the back, and he froze, and almost yelled with 
the pain. The man laughed companionably, and he heard more laughing as the man
commented in Russian.  He smiled thinly, and a ice cold bottle of vodka was
thrust into his hands, tied with a red bow.  Several technician looking
people grinned and saluted him, and several leaned in to comment to much
laughter.

        He realized belatedly that they were not only not surprised to find him
stumbling, but they in fact expected it, and thought it was very funny indeed.

        He got a boost up the ladder into the cockpit, and the door was 
secured from the outside by a technician that winked  He nodded and saluted
solemnly, much to the hilarity of the man outside the window.

        And then, the engines started all by themselves.

        Maverick tossed the bottle of vodka aside, looking at the controls 
dimmed by the helmet.  Everything was starting all by itself.  He flipped a few
toggles, to no effect.

        Autopilot for take-off?  Surely not.  He flipped the control that should
have taken him to manual.

        Nothing.

        The plane taxied out of the suddenly open hangar, straight into the
blindingly bright snow, and as he tried one thing after another, nothing
happened.  The runaway was straight before him, pointed south.

        South, towards Croatia.

        He pulled on the stick furiously as he heard the flaps settling, and
the throttle moved of its own accord.  The plane picked up speed with
frightening little time and he stilled himself.  No sense crashing until
after he took off.

        The takeoff itself was flawless.  Japan didn't have technology like
this. He wondered idly where they had developed it - or stolen it, as he heard the
flaps adjusting, and the landing gear vanishing into the lowbellied cargo plane.

        Once in the air, he heard a sign-off from the Russian that had handed him
the vodka, and the only Russian he understood.

        "Good luck.  Don't die."

        He knew how to respond.  "Won't fail the Mother."

        And then the radio fell silent, and Maverick pulled off the helmet,
studying the controls before him with a frown.  And trying to stay conscious.

        He had the goddam missiles.

* * * * * * *