Subject: [OTL]: [Maverick, Kai] [R] From Russia, With . . . 9/Not that many Date: Tue, 09 May 2000 10:29:24 -0700 From: Jaya Mitai (see previous posts for disclaimers. I'm sick of threatening you people, if you can't get that through your skull beating you with a tree probably isn't that likely to do much good. =) * * * * * * * Kai heard the techs come in and out of the plane, depositing things here and there, laughing, speaking rapid-fire Russian. Twice they checked the fasteners on the missiles. Twice Kai was nearly caught. Both times, she wedged herself so firmly and so far back that she was nearly invisible - and neatly stuck - and in the bad lighting, they never spotted her. She studied the marking on the nukes as she was pressed this close to them, and imagined she could feel the tingle of radiation on her skin. No matter; she assumed the symbiont could heal radiation damage as well as any other, and the thought wasn't entirely comforting, not with nuclear war shadowing the world. This was ridiculous! It was well past the days of the Cuban Missile Crisis. This sort of thing was supposed to be unlikely, even impossible. Nuclear war. Yet here were the tools of such a disaster, literally in her face. Her op. Yeah, Kai. Look at it that way. Maybe you'll forget to feel guilty. Oh, shut _up._ It took her almost twenty minutes to unwedge herself the second time, carefully as several of the techs dragged something soft-sounding into the bay and secured it to the far wall. They laughed and she heard them spit, then toast, and she smelled the sharp tang of vodka - And Logan. Oh shit. The cargo bay door slowly elevated, closed, and she dimly heard someone get into the cockpit. Pilot. The engines started almost immediately. Kai scooted herself swiftly to the sides of the stacked missiles and peered around the pile, her eyes already accustomed to the darkness. Logan lay not ten feet from the cockpit door, in a strait jacket, unconscious. She caught a wiff of that sweet gas, and her stomach turned. That gas wouldn't keep him out long. And that strait jacket would only take him two minutes, if that, to shred. What kind of game were the Ruskies playing? * * * * * * * Maverick hissed as he poured the vodka on the worst of his wounds, the gash across his abdomen from a studded boot, and took another swig of the alcohol to keep the pain at bay. Getting drunk was not going to help him out of the situation, but it was certainly making it more comfortable. Almost reluctantly he capped the bottle and tossed it into the copilot's seat, closing his eyes and leaning back. A little nap sounded so good - A little nap with a concussion was probably about the most unintelligent thing he could do. He forced his eyes open, to look around the cockpit. The plane wasn't a new model, but a tried and true C-141 Starlifter, American made, early eighties. While he familiar with most of the things he saw, the Russian symbols scattered over the board were less than enlightening. And there was an extra fuel gauge. Apparently they meant him to complete the whole flight without pause. He'd already heard the prerecorded messages play as he went over one border into the next country, and he was being waved through first as an export plane, then as an import plane. Flawlessly. Planned by the best. Probably that bastard Dima's brother. Glad he'd gotten him. Besides the controls, the seats were comfortable. There was a first aid kit off to the side with the world's oldest gauze in it, but he'd used it anyway. The antibiotic wipes had dried up, leaving him to use the vodka. Trust the Russians to recycle everything. The door to the cargo hold had been sautered shut. He assumed that was to make sure the pilot couldn't tamper with the missiles, probably something the Croatians demanded. Still, if they had been tied down badly - he didn't like the idea of a bunch of nuclear missiles rolling around freely in the back of the plane he was merely a passenger of. Had to do something about that. On the floor, there was an access hatch, allowing him to crawl through the underbelly. He could remove the boards and thus the computer's power source, but that could send the plane into a nose-dive until he managed to get back to the cockpit, and he really didn't like the idea of the missiles throwing the plane's balance off any more, if they hadn't been secured correctly. And he wasn't in the mood to risk accidentally crashing a plane with twenty nukes aboard. If they weren't armed, it was no big deal. If they were, and set for impact rather than a timer - not something he wanted to be responsible for. Didn't want to be responsible for any of them, dammit! This wasn't his fight! He'd lost his fight. Maverick wiped the tear furiously from his eye. Damn, was he that drunk? Hadn't even seen Logan. Hadn't even gotten a glimpse. To tell him he was there. To tell him they had a shot. Speaking of shots, he uncapped the screw-on top and had a double. Bitch. At least she got as fucked over as he was. She didn't have her missiles. She'd lost, too. Somehow, the thought wasn't as comforting as he would have liked. Why had they had Logan in the first place? Why bother? What could he have possibly - he killed those people. And hell, I guess seeing your kid ripped up like that would probably scare the hell outta you. But why go to all the trouble? What did Sinclair gain? And what about the other Logan Kai had mentioned? He tossed the bottle hard on the co-pilot's seat, and it rolled onto the floor. Out of reach. Fuck it. He eyed the hatch, knowing he was way too drunk to be able to actually get to the cockpit in time to handle the controls. So he stared idly out the window, waiting to sober up. The clouds looked serene enough, fluffy and white - "*bzttz* Identify yourself." He blinked at the radio, waiting for one of the automatic messages to pick up. He hadn't even tried answering them. Supposed he could, in case they asked something only the pilot could answer. Then again, he didn't think he'd ever heard a voice that deep since Star Wars. And Darth Vador was someone he was not in the mood to speak with at the moment. "Identify yourself." He blinked. No automatic message? He checked the frequency. Not a normal broadcast one. Mildy curious, he picked up the headset. "Who the hell is this?" There was silence, and Maverick tossed the headset back on his head, letting it fall about his neck. There, bastard. See how annoying that is. There was no response, and after a while, he returned his gaze to the white expanse before him. And waited to sober. Wondering if he could be any more sober than he was at the moment. "Sorry, ol' pal," he told the sky. And ignored the damp that itched his scruffy cheeks. He noted a faint noise come from the back of the plane. It stopped almost immediately. "Fucking wonderful." * * * * * * * Kai didn't have to wait long. Logan began to rumble well before he was awake. Sounded like an angry mob, far away. Steadily getting louder. Over the smell of drugs and blood, she detected fear, and gradually, adrenaline, as he fought the gas and woke more completely. He wasn't collared - it didn't take him long at all. Kai remained where she sat, in a meditative position, as he began to move, sensing that he was confined well before his eyes sluggishly opened. He snarled, and she heard his claws pop. Heard strong fabric being shredded and torn. Heard the metal buckles tinkle pleasantly as the jacket hit the floor. Logan was mad. She could smell it. She listened to him roar, a loud sound even over the roar of the powerful engines, more to hear himself than to frighten her, she hoped. She kept her emotions tightly checked. To hell with the pilot - none of them were going to live through this if she didn't establish some kind of communication with him. And she highly doubted that was likely in the next six or so hours. He sniffed her from head to toe, as he had done the last time. He obviously recognized her. Still, she didn't open her eyes, or move, or make any other motion that she noticed him. And this time, it didn't exactly work like she had thought it would. Logan roared directly into her face, and her eyes opened despite themselves. Once he was certain he had her attention, his hand whipped out. On instinct she caught it, before realizing he never had any intention of hitting her. He didn't like that too much. Kai cursed mentally as his quiet, almost concerned rumble became an almost indignant snarl, and she dropped her hand immediately and studied his feet, instead. Nice instep, fellah. Kai hushed the voice firmly. Besides a nice instep, he was wearing a new pair of khakis, and that's all. His hair was unkempt but clean, and he smelled faintly of soap and that gas. Residue on his skin. She wondered how long the scent would stay, or if his healing factor would deem them unhealthy and neutralize them. Once he was certain she was behaving, he ceased the snarling and again his hand flew out. Though she didn't raise a hand, her eyes blinked a bit, flinching. He didn't seem to notice, as he made a broad gesture, and made a curious sound. Was he asking her? Big guy, you aren't gonna let me talk. How the hell do you expect me to tell you what's going on? I have no fucking idea. * * * * * * * Maverick crawled laboriously under the floor of the plane, searching in the dark for the damn computers. Eventually found them, but there wasn't enough light to tell what he was doing. It would help if he wasn't drunk off his ass. He tucked the bottle into his flight shirt. He knew what it was. The alcohol was making the withdrawal a little less painful. In the end, he was only making it worse. But he didn't have time to curl into a feverish ball for a week. He had to get this shit done and get out of here. See if he could find what happened to Logan. And then, he was going to track that bitch Kai down, and tell her just what he thought of her. If her people weren't already doing that with him. He kicked the panel to the cargo hold out, the faint light in there giving him something to see by. He started removing the boards. Something covered up that light, and he felt a slight wind. Looked over. Narrow black eyes stared right back. Maverick's breath caught, and he wondered if he was hallucinating. "Logan?" Whatever it was, it snarled like a vicious, caged animal. And that, he suddenly reflected, was exactly what it was. Logan didn't attack him, thought, so he removed all the boards but one. Then he slowly approached. Logan gave ground willingly, still growling, and Maverick cautiously crawled out of the hole. Actually, he drunkenly stumbled out like a lush. And a small part of him knew it. "Logan. Hey. 'Sme." Logan's growl continued, and in the dim light, Mav got a better look at the guy. He was wearing pants - looked brand new. No shoes. No shirt. He was even more muscular than he had been the last time Maverick had seen him. Everything else looked just the same. Except his eyes. His face and his eyes looked like Creed. "Damn, you've seen better days." Logan roared, but still didn't attack. As a matter of fact, he seemed more preoccupied with sniffing than anything else. Of course. The vodka. "Yer damn friend Pete madeyah like this stuff," he half-slurred as he pulled it out. He ignored the sudden intensity and volume of the snarl that ensued, and uncapped the bottle and took a swig. Then he offered the bottle. "Come on, Logan. Quit pissing around. Yer about to scare the hell outta me." Logan regarded the bottle, almost curious. He sniffed it, then jumped back, snorting. Maverick laughed loud and long. "Real thing. Swear." He noted that Logan's growl had gone down considerably. Maybe he did recognize him. Maybe he was coming around. Or maybe, he was too curious to be angry. That thought sobered him up quick. Curious wouldn't last long. Finally Logan mimicked his hand, and took the bottle quickly. He watched Maverick closely. North used the opportunity to study the way the nukes were attached to the plane. Nice and secure. So if the plane did take a nose-dive, the only thing that was going to be thrown around was Logan. He also noticed the shredded restraints. That must have been what the radio men had meant. He turned back. Logan had guzzled the rest of the bottle - almost half a pint of vodka, _guzzled_ and looked very curious indeed. A loud, large belch escaped him. North started chuckling again at Logan's wide -eyed look. "That, m'friend, is why we need a chaser." He heard a chuckle, from the very back of the plane, and his eyes searched the darkness there. And he saw her. "Well, goddamn." * * * * * * * Kai watched Maverick interact with Logan, and decided that a slight chuckle might be the best way to warn the drunken North of her presence. She was right. "Well, goddamn." He looked at her owlishly, his eyes barely focusing. "Just the person I wanted to see." He got to his feet unsteadily, and she followed suit. He was mad, and he was drunk. And Logan wasn't going to like this one little bit. Best take him down quickly and as cleanly as possible. And with injuries like that, it wasn't going to be hard. He tried to swagger, most likely, tried very hard. Instead, he kind of wove toward her. Logan watched them both with a curious look on his face, between anger and wonder - his healing factor would take care of the vodka soon enough. "North, let me explain -" He waved dramatically. "Shut up," he snarled. "Y'left usht'die." She frowned. He was faking. She wondered how much. "I thought you were dead." "Wished you were," he muttered. Upon hearing so much spoken English, Logan began to snarl, tensing. Maverick waved a hand in irritation. "Shut up." Kai watched Logan do so. Was it a trick of the light, or did his eyes . . .? She continued quietly. "North, don't order him around. Your friend did -" "So? I'm not Sinclair." Kai almost popped him right there for saying the name she had so carefully avoided. And Logan snarled. North again waved a hand, and again Logan grew quiet. It didn't have the sullen quality that it had when Sinclair had done much the same, but still . . . "You're in deep trouble, Kai," he told her suddenly, without a trace of a slur. "You tell me what else you know about this drop, right now." She studied North's eyes. Despite the dim lighting, she knew he wasn't sober - was faking the other way, now, and doing a damn good job. She didn't mistake the menace for bluff, though; he was pissed, and he meant it. She idly wondered if he was armed. "I don't know any more than you. Although I'm beginning to think that this is some kind of setup - the missiles look genuine, but with Logan back here -" Logan snarled at his name. North nodded agreement. "That's right, pal." Kai bit back a curse. "Don't encourage him," she said as evenly as possible. "You don't know what happened -" "I know enough," he told her. Turning his head to the side, he called, "So, what should we do with her?" All Kai saw was a blur, like a rattlesnake striking. * * * * * * * Logan opened his eyes with a snap as something ice-cold slipped down the back of his neck. Remy was preparing another ball of snow as he shook his head, holding up a hand. "They're in a plane, Remy. With Mav. And the woman." Remy charged the snow and tossed it, watching it explode magnificently against a tree. Then he swung around, heading back to the car. "All right, mon ami, y'got an' idea where dey are?" He sighed, closing his eyes. "I don't . . . I remember . . . something on the walls . . . missiles?" Remy tensed. Logan opened his eyes, looking at him sharply. Remy merely slid into the car, tucked his duster out of reach of the door, closed it, and started the engine. "I got an idea, mon ami. Y'willin' t'trust de Cajun 'ere?" Logan raised an eyebrow. Throughout this entire thing, Remy had been doing everything unquestioningly. Following Logan's hunches. All in an effort to get the real Logan, surely. Or was it? Logan only shrugged eloquently, though. "Lead on." The car slid a moment on the ice before shooting down the old road. Toward the border. * * * * * * * North went down without a sound, only managing to half-turn before Logan got to him. The claws must have warned him, the telltale *snikt!* He half turned, then fell to that side, Logan already drawing back his other arm for another swing - Kai acted on instinct, kicking his knee out, sending him crashing to the floor, off balance. On a hunch, she threw herself between the enraged Logan and Maverick, hoping she was right. And Logan snarled, and approached - but he didn't attack. In fact, he looked confused. She allowed herself no time for relief, not turning her back to him as she inspected the wound. Eleven inch incision, at least an inch deep, three running parallel to another. Bleeding profusely. Any deeper, and Maverick would have been eviscerated. Hell, maybe this counted. She slowly pulled off the shirt they'd given her, so not to startle the still-angry Logan that had backed off several yards, appearing more curious than angry. Can't figure out what I'm doing, can yah, big guy. She bound it around North as tightly as possible, and he finally did make a sound, a pain-filled moan. Logan snarled, and nearly attacked again. Kai just froze, and waited, watching Logan in her peripheral vision as he paced back and forth, finally slamming his fists to the ground, still snarling. He didn't attack then, either. Blood soaked through the shirt, and she scanned the walls of the cargo bay for a medkit. Didn't see one. That left the cockpit. She glanced at the door, wondering why Maverick hadn't chose to come through it to get to the controls, rather than climbing around in the skin of the plane - And finally, finally noticed that it was welded shut. Oh. She glanced at the open access hatch. But leaving them in here, together, alone, was about the stupidest thing she could do. Great. If I don't go and get the damn kit, he's going to bleed to death. If I do, he's going to be killed. Brilliant. She glanced around, looking for something, anything - and spotted the ripped strait jacket. She could use the straps to put more pressure, maybe keep him alive until Three Eyes could pick them up - If she ever made it to the damn cockpit and radioed them, that is. Which brought up the question - why hadn't Maverick changed course? And what had he been doing in the access duct? She stood, slowly, so not to startle Logan. He snarled. She turned slowly, watched him. He studied her as well, snarling more emphatically. A slight twitch of his lip revealed strong, white teeth. Well, Kai, I guess that means you're on his shit list. Logan was quite a sight now, a slight sweat from his excitement and likely his body's way of ridding itself of the leftovers of the alcohol. The pants were rumpled, now, and spotted with blood, and his dark eyes were bright. He wanted to attack her. He really did. Or he wanted to attack what was behind her. Kai thought about it hard. So he followed orders from men, then. He obviously didn't recognize North, he wouldn't have attacked him - or would he? Maybe his sanity was passing, and he simply forgot for the moment. But if that were true, then why had he stopped his attack when she'd stepped in front of him? Kai looked into those eyes, watched something staring back at her. That something had fears, and hopes, and feelings. That something wasn't quite human - but it was trying to be. And she couldn't bring herself to say it. Two fucking words, and she couldn't bring herself to say them. I am _not_ Sinclair, she told herself savagely. I am _not_ Kincaid, goddamnit, and I will _not_ use him like that! Even if it was her best option. Instead, she kept his gaze, and started for the straitjacket. He didn't move, just watched her. Didn't go after North. Didn't go after her. Just watched. And then, almost puppylike, he flopped down on the floor hind-end first and picked up the empty vodka bottle with two hands, inspecting it critically. * * * * * * * Remy returned from the cybercafe with a very curious deadpan on his face, bearing a cup of expresso so loaded with cream and sugar the scent almost made Logan vomit. "Got an interestin' email," he remarked conversationally as he handed Logan the straight, black coffee he had requested. Logan snorted. Remy nodded, reclining the seat, expresso in hand. "Seems de Russians have de missiles. Only, now dey tol' de government dat dey have 'em, which means dey don', no more." Logan raised an eyebrow. "Who has the nukes?" He grinned. "Y'woman friend, probably. Got a fix on Logan yet?" Logan watched the coffee swirl, before taking a huge draught. "He's farther. She'd take them home. She lives in America." He didn't know why he was so sure. Remy leaned the seat up, the expresso mysteriously vanished. "Back home we go. Scott be thrilled." Logan grunted, downed the rest of the coffee. Still no X-Men to come get him. Still didn't know if Maverick was dead. If he'd killed him. If Logan had killed him. What he was going to do when they found him. What Remy was going to do when they found him. * * * * * * *