Title:

Title: Ultimately Uncanny

Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: My original character, Helena Draven, gets the Ultimate X-Men treatment. Alternate version of how she ended up joining Prof X's team.

Rating: R for violence

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Marvel. Helena Draven is mine.

Genre: Action/adventure. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: You all know I've written Helena Draven (Raven) as a movie-verse character, but does she work as an Ultimate character??? Let me know… She's meaner & less moral than movie-verse Raven – and she wears cooler stuff… which is beside the point, really. Oh! Should she get together with Ultimate Wolverine?? Text in italics indicates thoughts, text in apostrophed 'italics' indicates telepathic communication.

*

Ultimate 'Raven' Profile

Real Name: Helena Draven
Occupation: Adventurer, former operative for a British Government Black Ops unit (unconfirmed), former assassin.

Identity: Secret

Legal Status: Unknown

Place Of Birth: Liverpool, England
Group Affiliation: X-Men
Base Of Operations: Xavier Institute for Gifted Children, Salem Center, Westchester County, New York

Height: 5'11"
Weight: 125 lbs. 170lbs with adamantium.
Eye Colour: Hazel green
Hair Colour: Dark brown.
Powers: Raven possesses extensive telekinetic and telepathic abilities. She can move any object within her line of sight & create 'shields'. She can also alter memories & perceptions, read thoughts & emit mental stun bolts. The exact extent of her psionic abilities is unknown. She also possesses hyper keen senses, a healing factor and claws similar to the Canadian mutant Wolverine.

Weapons: Raven possesses adamantium-laced, retractable claws housed in her forearms. At will, she can release them through her skin between the knuckles on each hand.
History: Much of Helena's history is unknown due to a ten year gap in her memory. What she recalls from before that time is fragmented. She recalls her recruitment & training by a shadowy Intelligence agency in her native England, as well as subsequent undercover assignments. She volunteered for a high-risk assignment in eastern Europe, but recalls nothing after the mission's deployment for a further decade. She joined the X-Men when Professor Charles Xavier offered to help her recover her memories. She had previously turned down a recruitment offer from Magneto.

*

Jean Grey was quite simply bored out of her mind. Lounging on a padded sofa in the library, she propped her chin on her folded hands and tried not to eavesdrop on Hank and Ororo, who were giggling over an antique copy of the Kama Sutra in the next aisle. Henry McCoy had a way with women that had not diminished with his acquisition of blue fur. Storm giggled again, unconsciously projecting her exact thought process. Sighing, Marvel Girl twisted over onto her back and gazed at the ceiling, tightening her psychic shields. She did not need that particular mental image popping up next morning when she saw them at breakfast. Glancing at the discarded book on the arm of the plush sofa, she narrowed her eyes and sent it flapping back to the shelf. It slotted itself neatly into a gap, though not the correct alphabetical place.

"Y'know, that's 'P' shelf – that should go in 'L'," Scott Summers said with mild reproach, lifting an eyebrow above his ruby quartz Oakley glasses.

"Bite me," Jean sighed, failing to inject the utterance with any real venom.

Scott grinned and plopped down on the arm of the sofa, immaculate as always in beige cargo pants and a crisp white t-shirt.

"That bad, huh?" he asked sympathetically.

The redhead nodded and scowled, raking a hand through her short, fiery hair. Cyclops regarded the toes of his sneakers thoughtfully and rubbed a thumb across his chin.

"W-ell," he said at length. "We could always.. uh… catch a movie…" he trailed off, then nonchalantly added, "If you want to, I mean."

Jean suppressed a smile, never ceasing to be amused by how awkward the usually confidant young man became around her. It rarely showed in his expression or voice, but his thoughts were clear enough. It was quite endearing. She sat up and wiggled the small kink from her back, stretching in such a way that her blue baby doll t-shirt rode up, exposing a silver ring in her navel.

"Sure beats picking up on their projections," she announced in a stage whisper, nodding towards the next aisle. A tiny shriek, followed by Beast's baritone guffaw floated above the bookshelves. "Anything good showing?"

Shrugging undecidedly, Scott blew out his cheeks and tried not to appear like he was looking at Jean's slender, toned midriff. Not quite as oblivious as she appeared, she leaned back a little and watched the reflections on his glasses move as he turned his head a few milimetres.

"Dunno… there's a chick flick, a horror movie, and some actioner Bobby's been yammering about all week."

Smooth brow creasing, Jean considered the options, reasoning that a mindless chick flick would do little do alleviate her boredom and a horror film would make Scott assume she would cling to his arm and squeal. Despite the numerous real life horrors they had seen and endured, the notion still seemed firmly entrenched in the minds of the resident males. Her pert nose wrinkled.

"What's the actioner?" she asked, mentally crossing out the other two choices.

"'Death Commandos Five'!" Bobby Drake yelled happily as he skidded into the library, skate sneakers squeaking on the tiles.

Light brown hair hidden by a dark red bandana, the teenager came to an abrupt halt as he tripped over his own feet. Landing in an ungainly pile of gangly limbs at Scott's feet, he looked up and grinned.

"Oopsy," he said brightly. "Are you guys gonna go see it?"

Cyclops cocked a questioning eyebrow at Marvel Girl, who inwardly sighed, seeing the eager, almost yearning look on the Ice Man's face.

"Yes, but –" She got no further as Bobby leapt up, galloped to the door and stuck his head out into the corridor.

"Hey! Piotr! We're gonna see 'Death Commandos Five'! Wanna come?" he bellowed with a cheerful disregard for the traditional silence observed in a library.

A slight, but discernible tremour began in the floorboards as Colossus approached, his gargantuan frame filling the double doorway. Piotr Rasputin angled his dark head, blue eyes tracking back and forth between Cyclops and Jean. Seeing the small indent in Summer's brow that indicated a glare, he clapped the considerably shorter boy on the back.

"Maybe some other time," he said kindly, not noticing Bobby's involuntary wince at the friendly shoulder clasp. "I think Scott and Jean were planning a smaller outing."

Bobby stared up at the huge Russian, a puzzled frown puckering his forehead. Slowly, his expression cleared with dawning comprehension.

"Oh," he said, then shoved his hands into his pockets with teenaged knowing. "R-iii-ght."

Grinning, he sauntered out of the library under the guidance of Piotr's large hand on his shoulder. Jean smiled warmly and sent a mental thank you flitting after the departing Russian. For such a huge collection of superhumanly strong muscles, he was uncommonly sensitive. Catching another projection from Storm and Beast, she rolled her green eyes.

"Oh, get a room," she muttered.

"Shall we?" Scott asked chivalrously, indicating the door with a wave of his car keys.

Suddenly cheered up, the red-haired telekinetic favoured him with a small, mysterious smile and jumped to her feet.

"Yeah," she beamed. "I'm young, free and attractive, it's a Friday night, so why not!"

"Ditto," Summers rejoined with a laugh.

Jean's smile faded as Logan passed by the library door, shouldering on his black leather jacket. He paused, black eyes moving between her and the self-appointed leader of the X-Men. Something undefinable flickered in his gaze, something almost sad, almost regretful, but mostly angry. Abruptly, he looked away, lip curling, and stalked off towards the garage.

"That guy is a grade A psychotic," Cyclops remarked. "Why the Prof ever let him stay is beyond me. And he can look into his mind! You certainly wouldn't want him in your head."

Or your bed, Jean thought, feeling the familiar mix of fury and wistfulness. I don't think I can ever forgive him…

Giving herself an inward shake, reminding herself she had decided not to brood over Wolverine or allow what had happened between them to make her bitter, she slipped her arm through Scott's.

"Are we gonna see that movie or what?"

*

Downing the latest of many beers, Logan clunked down the empty tankard and reached for a brimming whisky chaser. He sat alone in a corner booth opposite the bar, watching the customers come and go. He had had no company all night, which was as he wished it. The anger radiating from him in spiked static lines dissuaded casual conversation from the average friendly drunk. As bars came, his chosen venue for the evening ranked among the worst. The tiled floor was beer-sticky underfoot, the toilets were putrid and the drinks list amounted to little more than beer, whisky or vodka in any combination. Nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of skunkweed from the next booth, he debated whether or not to acquire some to lace his hand-rolled cigarette. To his disgust, the joint did not even sell cigars, the slot in the machine jammed.

Discontented and itching for a fight, he perused the bar room, black eyes taking in likely candidates. A group of street creatures in leathers hunched over the wobble-legged pool table, bulges at the shoulders indicating concealed holsters. From their accents, their locale was probably New Jersey rather than Salem. Wolverine grinned thinly; this made it less likely anyone would miss them. A huge, barrel-chested, balding man stood at the bar, steadily downing straight vodka. Estimating his height topped his by at least a foot, Logan briefly wondered if he was a mutant. Six fingered hands confirmed his suspicions as the man reached for his glass.

Staring into the foamy dregs of his glass, Logan made an addition to the ever-growing list in his head of Things I Hate About Scooter. The younger man was law-abiding and upstanding way beyond anything Logan considered natural. It was altogether too suspicious to the taciturn Canadian's mind.

The anally retentive fuck-wit, he thought sourly. Jeannie got too much fire fer a kid like him… Why the hell do I stay in that happy horse shit nut house they call Mutant High?

Ignoring the small but persistent inner voice that told him he stayed because it was the only place he felt he partially belonged, and that what the Professor believed actually made some sense, he loped to the bar for a refill. An exclamation of furious disgust caught his attention and he glanced over to the card game in the far left corner of the room. Features lost in shadow, the lone female player reached forward and swept in a substantial pile of cash. Expertly stacking the crumpled green bills, her hand disappeared beneath the table, reappearing empty seconds later.

"I dunno how you did it, but you cheated!" the loser snarled, scowling out from beneath a ratty, greasy black fringe. "Ain't nobody that good, girl!"

Leaning forward on her elbows, features suddenly bathed in the sickly overhead light, the woman's eyes narrowed.

"You fancy repeating that?" she said coldly. "'Cos from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you called me a cheat."

Delving in his back pocket for his wallet to pay the barkeeper, Logan watched the rapidly unfolding incident. Reasoning he could play the chivalry card and step in if the other players became violent, thus getting the sought after fight, he settled back against the chipped wooden bartop.

"Got it in one, girlie girl," another player hissed. "I think you best give me and the boys our money back."

Taking a swallow of his beer, Wolverine looked the woman over. She was English, judging by her accent, with singularly celtic colouring of dark hair and fair skin. Oval-faced, with a small, straight nose, her mouth was crimped with irritation. She wore her long curling hair loose, and it fell about her shoulders like a cloak, almost to her waist. Dressed in tight black combat pants trimmed in silver and an even tighter purple rubber vest, she sat tall in her rickety chair, the overhead light dancing from the buckles on her chunky knee boots. To the casual observer, she seemed like a Cyber Gothic street demon who had wandered in by mistake, eyes made up charcoal black, purple streaks in her hair. Taking a sniff of the air, Logan paused. He did not detect a trace of fear in her scent. She was outnumbered four to one, and he doubted there were any weapons concealed beneath her eye-wateringly tight outfit, but she was completely unafraid.

"And if I tell you to go fuck yourself with a broom handle?" she enquired sweetly, trailing a fingernail across the table top.

Stiffling a bark of laughter, Logan cradled his beer and waited for the other players to react. Suddenly, her stormy hazel green eyes snapped up and moved across the crowded bar to pin him like a hunting trophey. As close to taken aback as he came, Wolverine held her gaze, knowing anyone that fearless must have a very good reason for being so. Evidently realising he was not going to back down, the woman's lips twitched slightly in a quarter smile, and she returned her attention to the growling card players.

"Then we gotta take back what's ours. One way or another."

Logan shook his head slightly, amused, and downed the last of his beer, feeling it settle in his stomach.

There's one guy who won't be walkin' fer a week, if I'm readin' that chick right, he thought. C'mon, darlin' – show us what yer made of. I've a feelin' I'll be addin' yer ta that list of Dangerous Women I got goin'. Yer smell like hundred percent proof waitin' fer a naked flame…

Givng an exaggerated sigh, the Englishwoman pushed back her chair and rose, flicking the heavy curtain of her hair over her shoulders. Veiled aggression in her planted feet and straight back, shoulders squared a few inches past normal, she smiled icily. Her long slender limbs had the firm, compact musculature of an all-round athlete. Thinking of Jean Grey, whose taut abdomen and tiny waist was the product of youth and vanity more than a need for physical fitness, Wolverine found his interest piqued. Jean attended aerobics and ju-jitsu classes several times a week, and was a lot fitter than most women her age, but relied on her telekinesis in battle. The card player looked like a born fighter. It was in the way she moved, an economical, feral grace that spoke of controlled power. The studied card sharp slouch of previous minutes had gone, her eyes making tiny tracking jumps, waiting for someone to strike.

"Y'know sommat," she declared. "I'm really fed up of this shitty town."

Her hand blurred out and the player on her left folded like a collapsing card pyramid, his face turning purple. Without breaking her stride, she backhanded the next across the face, sending a glittering spray of blood and tooth fragments into the air. Her booted foot buried itself squarely in the crotch of the third, and he toppled over, eyes crossing. Deciding he wanted to participate rather than simply spectate, Wolverine waded in, breaking a chair over the nearest back. Within moments, the entire bar errupted into an all-out brawl. The pool table overturned with a thunderous crash, fists flew, glass smashed and voices bellowed. Looking around with disgust, the twelve-fingered mutant man looked upwards for divine intervention and promptly left.

The remaining card player produced a bowie knife from his jacket and brandished it. Spinning the blade in a tight circle, slashing up and down, he lunged at the Englishwoman. Upper body snapping from the hips, she leaned left to right, avoiding each strike. Logan realised she was laughing, a harsh, humourless sound. There was a slapping sound, and the knife flew from the wielder's hand to clatter noisily against the far wall. Her fist drew back and pistoned into his face, his nose breaking with a muffled wet crunch as he fell back, unconscious. Breathing hard, unsatisfied by the brief altercation, Wolverine found he was facing her, fists balled, stance screaming aggression. She said nothing, merely holding his fierce gaze, a trace of amusement in her expression.

At some point, the blade had made contact. A long, dripping slash marred the pale skin of her right shoulder. She touched a fingertip to the wound, then to her tongue, mouth curling upwards at the corners. Like a machined seam, the knife slash sealed up and vanished. Suddenly feeling the urge to pop his claws, Wolverine rolled his shoulders, a strange feeling of moving pressure behind his eyes. She had the same semi-psychotic look he sometimes saw when he looked in the mirror, two steps away from feral, more dangerous for the human intelligence driving it.

"Have a go, if you think you're good enough," she challenged, her regional accent more pronounced, eyes sharp as cut emerald.

"Oh, I'm good enough, darlin'," Wolverine retorted with a smirk. "I'm the best at what I do."

She sniffed the air, nose twitching enquiringly, and her kohled eyes narrowed. A shade of cynical humour lit her features, hands hanging loosely at her sides.

"And what you do isn't nice," she observed. "Feral type mutants are all the same – growl, fight, shag, kill…"

Somewhere behind her, a chair collapsed, dumping its unconscious human occupant onto the floor. Her head turned infinitesimally towards the sound, fingers curling slightly towards her palms. The neon Budweiser sign on the wall flickered, fizzed and plinked out. Wolverine took two steps forward, broken glass crunching beneath his boot soles.

"That what yer do? 'Cos yer sure smell 'feral type' ta me," he said, allowing his gaze to rake her up and down. "Ain't seen a woman who can take out a whole barful of guys with her bare hands in a while."

She actually smiled at that, a slow upward turn of her lips that faded before it reached fruition. Her gaze flicked to the bar tender, who was reaching for the phone.

"No," she ordered firmly, wagging a finger. "Bad boy."

The barkeeper's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, giving a brief, pained moan. As if nothing had happened, she returned her attention to the tall Canadian.

"What can I say, it's a talent," she shrugged. "Places I go tend to fall down and go boom."

Wolverine, whose stance had remained in combat readiness, knees slightly bent, back braced, found himself grinning. Throughout the short, strange conversation, neither mutant had let down their guard, staying out of lunging range. The air was tight as a drum skin with tension, aggressive pheromones and intrigue.

I'd like ta make yer go 'boom', darlin', he thought lasciviously, tracing each contour and curve with his eyes. Damn, is it hot in here?

As if sensing his thoughts, which for all Logan knew could well be the case, she smirked and shifted her weight, left hip cocked. Her entire posture altered with alarming speed, shoulders back, a hint of a pout bowing her lips. Arms languidly swinging to outline her hips as she sashayed over, she favoured Wolverine with a dark smile.

"Though a girl could use some help to explode, every now and then," she purred, sliding her hands across his collar and chest. "Know what I mean, sweetheart?"

Goddamn get yer coat, bub, yer've scored! he crowed inwardly.

Framing her waist in his hands, the clawed mutant could not keep the grin off his face. He leaned forward to press his nose into the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair. She was lithe and muscular beneath his hands, smelling in equal parts of vodka, jasmine and intangible wildness. He wondered if he could just haul her up against a wall, wondered if she would bite his shoulder and drag sharp nails down his back. He hoped so.

"I know exactly what yer mean," he growled, nuzzling her neck.

Lifting a hand to lace his fingers through her hair and pull her in, he saw a dangerous gleam in her hazel green eyes, a cold sliver of something destructive. The barroom tipped, the floor hurtling up to meet him, her boot heel grinding his neck into the glass-studded boards.

"You aren't as good as you think, sunshine," she announced, dropping her knee down into the small of his back as she yanked his arms up in an expert lock. "All I had to do was waggle my arse and you're Play-Dough. Bloody pathetic."

Snarling, cheek mashed into the rough floorboards, Wolverine strained to lift his head. She twisted his arms, raising them against their natural rotation so he yelped, spine arching concave. An unseen force nailed him to the floor, a crushing weight that far exceeded that of the slender woman with her kneecap in his back.

"Whaddaya think?" she breathed, leaning close to his ear, strong fingers prodding a spot low on his spine. "The abdominal aorta? Very messy, but won't kill you if you've a healing factor. You need bringing down a peg or two, and I'm just the girl to do it."

Logan snarled wordlessly in response, belatedly identifying the imprisoning force as telekinesis. Fury and adrenaline zipping through his system, male pride bruised at how easily he had fallen victim to his sex drive, he strove to turn his head. Something bright and metallic dangled just outside his field of vision. He squinted and it coalesced into two dog tags suspended from a ball chain. An indistinct purple fudge behind them told him they hung from the Englishwoman's neck. A single word, acid-etched into the metal, leapt out at him – Raven. It was accompanied by a multi-digit code number, uncannily similar to his own tags.

"Where the hell did yer get those?" he demanded.

"What?!" she seemed surprised, almost caught off guard.

"I said, where the fuckin' hell did yer get those tags!" he roared.

She did not answer him, her weight shifting as she turned towards the door. Silence for long moments.

"Shit," she muttered angrily, unhappily, and seemingly to herself. "Not now."

Before Wolverine could respond, she dropped his wrists, released her telekinetic hold and bolted for the door in a whirl of purple-streaked curls. Up and claw-fisted in a microsecond, Logan sprinted after her, two sniffs of the cool night air pinpointing her location. Leaping over a rusting steel rubbish bin and bulging shiny black refuse sacks, slimy decaying matter slipping beneath his feet, he skidded into the alley behind the bar. Peering through the garlands of white steam rising from the gutters and mouldy-damp brick walls rising either side, he stepped over a comatose tramp, nostrils narrowing at the stench of rancid flesh and stale alcohol. Obscured by shadows and drifting steam, she stood with her back to the dead end, crouching low, expecting attack.

"Get out of here, you stupid bastard!" she hissed. "Or you'll get us both fucked seven ways from Sunday!"

A blur of movement caught Wolverine's attention, head snapping up to track its progress. A black, fast-moving streak dropped from a creaking fire escape and streamed past him like smoke and razors, leaving an impression of scarlet eyes and white teeth. The Englishwoman had not moved, fists clenched, eyes wide and manic. Her whole body trembled with the effort of holding back, honed muscles quivering with tension, denying her instincts. Like a stopped film, the streak snapped into crisp focus as it halted. Clad entirely in black, from duster coat to boots, it was ghastly pale, etiolated beyond anything natural. Ember-eyed, teeth like ivory fishhooks, it pointed a long finger at the mutant woman, white-blue lips parting to speak. She regarded it with naked contempt and loathing, nose wrinkling, features creased. Every fibre of his being told Wolverine to kill it. He obeyed. Roaring as he lunged in, he buried his claws to the knuckle in its neck and twisted. With a muffled pop, the vertebrae parted, adamantium slicing through cold flesh like tissue paper.

Bouncing heavily, a water-filled gourd, the severed head rolled to the woman's feet. Looking down at the fixed stare, the gelatinous balls already beginning to shrivel and disintegrate, white flesh liquefying, she spat a vicious curse.

"You fucking idiot!" she snarled. "I'm dead. I'm more than dead."

Letting out a formless growl, her head tipped back and she rose into the air, gracefully curling into a flip that carried her over the dead end wall. Running feet echoed through the night on the opposite side. Stunned, arms gloved to the elbow in slick, blackish blood he doubted was human or mutant, Wolverine stared blankly at the scummy bricks. The corpse at his feet was now little more than bones strung with shrunken sinew and gobbets of bloodless meat.

"What the fuck?" he asked the empty alleyway.

*