Chapter 8

He was alone in a dark room. A metal collar bit into his skin, its weight crushing. His small fingers tugged at its chain, but it would not give. Breathing hurt; he ached from where he had been kicked. He could no longer vanish. He was trapped, and he was afraid. He heard voices outside, a woman begging: please, he's just a little boy. Light blinded him from the doorway as someone rushed in. Suddenly, soft arms enveloped him, holding him tightly. Her hot tears dripped onto his face and shoulders.

In spite of all his fear and pain, the feeling of her arms around him made him so happy. He hugged her back, just before she was ripped away.


Azazel knew they were gone before he opened his eyes. He could sense a stillness in the apartment, one that told him he was the only living thing there. He was disappointed, but given his and Raven's history, he wasn't surprised.

He lay on the pull out for a long time, trying to recapture his dream. Azazel had very few memories of his childhood before the soldiers took him. Most of his early life was shrouded in darkness, and the only light he could remember was his mother. He remembered her like one recalls a dream: in fleeting feelings, colors, and images woven together from half-forgotten memories. He could remember her dark hair and bright eyes, and her vibrant, patchwork skirt. He could remember her singing, but he couldn't hear the tune or words. He remembered the comfort of her arms, but he couldn't quite picture her face. He could remember a whisper of a name - Ivarr - that had been part of his life from long ago. He never forgot the last time she held him; even in his darkest moments, he remembered that someone loved him once, enough that he survived. He hadn't thought about his mother in a long time - not really since his fever dreams when Clarice was small - but his interactions last night seemed to call these memories back to the forefront of his consciousness.

Eventually, Azazel forced himself to get up.

A quick walk though the apartment revealed that the bed was made, the clothing he had shed last night had been neatly folded, and the French press was hot with coffee. His search also revealed that his wallet had been carefully cleared of all money and Kurt's new clothing was gone. He eyed the coffee press warily. A mug, the sugar pot, and a spoon were laid out as well. A folded napkin sat halfway under the press, and he cocked his head when he noticed writing on it:

You really think I would poison you? - XOXO - R

Before he could help it, Azazel smirked; Raven moved through his life with the grace of a hurricane.

He took his time in the shower, washing away the stains of his emotions from last night. As he left the bedroom after dressing, his hand skimmed lightly across the bed, lost in thought when his fingertips hit something hard. Peeling back the covers, he found Kurt's rosary tucked meticulously under the sheet. Azazel picked up the sacred necklace, slipping the beads between his fingers as one might do in prayer. He had no use for religion, but he knew the significance of the rosary being left behind. The red mutant slipped it over his neck, concealing it beneath his shirt.

Azazel walked into the living room and focused on the bookshelf. He stroked his beard as he scanned the titles, rummaging around until finding An Atlas of the United States of America. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen counter. Putting on reading glasses, he flipped through the atlas. Slowly, he traced the roads and rivers with his finger until he found it:

Westchester, New York, United States of America

She had a brother there, one that ran a school for their kind, or so Raven had once claimed he planned to do. She made a mistake last night, mentioning her brother as the person she wanted to take Kurt to back in '74. While Azazel memorized the map, he wondered what time the People's Library of Leningrad closed in the evenings; it would be a good idea to borrow some language cassettes and practice his English first. He smiled and sipped his coffee, drumming his fingers lightly on the atlas. It was somewhere to start, at least.

Azazel lost Raven once; she wasn't going to get away so easily this time.


Moscow, Russia (U.S.S.R.) - The Zaytsevr

"Hey Big Brother," a sultry voice sang in Russian as a ring dropped on the bar in front of Azazel. It bounced once before clinking to a stop against his glass. He glanced up. A smirking Asian girl stood with one hand on her hip and the other bracing her weight as she leaned causally against the bar. A faded scar ran up the inside of her left forearm.

"You owe me a coke."

"What did you do this time, Clarice?" The red mutant sighed and finished his drink. Giggling, Clarice flopped into the chair next to him, waving over the bartender. As a KGB operated bar, The Zaytsevr was one of the few public places Azazel could show his face without causing a riot. His kind were respected here, even feared.

"Oh nothing." She twisted mischievously in her chair. She never did learn to sit still. "Just finished that job of yours. You know, grey suit, East Berlin?" She pointed at Azazel. "He's buying," she said to the bartender, ordering a full bottle. She poured two shots and toasted their glasses, downing her drink before he even touched his. Clarice was always competitive with him, and almost as good. Almost.

"You also owe me a pack of smokes," she arched her eyebrow, "and an explanation as to why you crashed my place in Riga when you were supposed to be in East Berlin."

"It's a long story." Azazel threw back his drink, making a face. For the life of him, he had no idea why she would choose Irish whiskey over Ukrainian vodka. He was sure it just to get under his skin.

"Do tell, comrade." She batted her eyelashes sweetly. Clarice was beautiful, and she knew it. Tall and slender, she had long dark hair naturally accented with unnatural violet tones. Crescent markings crossed her cheeks and forehead and offset her large emerald eyes, giving her an exotic, otherworldly appearance. She was also as deadly as she was beautiful; Azazel knew this firsthand, since he had trained her himself. She playfully nicknamed him Big Brother, and after Raven left, Clarice was the closest thing to family he had.


Ironically, it was Raven's departure that catapulted Clarice into Azazel's life.

After saving Raven during the raid, Azazel returned to a scene of blood and chaos, fighting until the cause was lost. He used the last of his strength to teleport away. He was too weak to find Raven, but he knew she would be fine; they had been separated before and they'd always find each other soon enough. Upon materializing, Azazel felt something grabbing his tail. Drawing his dagger, he spun around only to find the child - the one Raven saved - clinging to him. How she had found him in the madness of the raid Azazel never knew, but he did know something wasn't right. He seized the girl, twisting her arms over until he spied a pale light blinking beneath her left forearm.

"This is your fault!" he growled at her. Azazel cursed himself for not ever being able to say no to Raven. This girl had been chipped, and it had lead their enemies to slaughter them. He lunged at her but stumbled, dropping his dagger as he gasped and grabbed his side. His hand came away soaked in blood. He was wounded badly. He couldn't risk seeking a doctor; he wasn't even sure this hideout was safe, but he had to stop the bleeding before he could teleport. Ignoring the girl, Azazel grabbed a first aid kit to clean and stitch his wounds. After a while, he noticed her watching him, holding his dagger and cradling left her arm. Blood dripped down to her fingers and tears marred her face, but she hadn't uttered a sound. He would find out much later that she had cut the chip out herself. Shortly after sewing his last stitch, Azazel passed out.

It wasn't the wound that almost killed him; it was the infection that set in afterwards. Azazel became delirious as he burned with fever. Days and nights blurred. Between bouts of darkness, he saw visions: fanged mountains cutting into cerulean skies; the twirl of his mother's skirt as he chased after her; rainbows in Raven's hair as she laid smiling on a beach. He was vaguely aware at times of something wet and cool against his forehead. One day in a moment of lucidness, the girl appeared in front of him holding a large bag, clearly stolen from a pharmacy. She held up medicine bottles for him to read until he recognized one that contained antibiotics. He swallowed half the bottle before passing out again. When he woke next, the fever had finally broken, and the girl was curled tightly in a ball, asleep next to him.

It took Azazel weeks to fully recover. In spite of his initial blame and anger, the girl had risked her life to save his; Azazel vowed to keep her safe until he found a place for her. They laid low, moving to a new hideout every few days. When it was safe again to seek out surviving KGB comrades, Azazel started actively looking for Raven. It was only then when one of his bosses threw a file at him marked CIA with Raven's photo plastered across the front that the implication hit him. Azazel remembered feeling panic as he read the file, which heavily implied that Raven was a double agent for the American government, and she had knowingly caused the raid, using the girl as bait. Azazel was admonished for being swindled by the shapeshifter, and it was made extremely clear that if Raven ever appeared in the Bloc again, it would mean death.

When Azazel returned to his hideout, he broke everything he could get his hands on. Eventually he slid down to the floor, and sitting against a wall, he covered his face and cried. He felt ashamed; he hadn't cried since he was a child, but the pain of losing Raven was just too much. As he cried, something touched him. Through his tears, he saw the girl sitting quietly next to him, her small hand on his arm as if to comfort him.

"I'm going to call you Clarice," Azazel sniffled, putting his hand over hers. "That was my mother's name." The girl merely nodded, her eyes soulful beyond her years. From that day on, Azazel threw all his anger at Raven into training Clarice as his apprentice.

It spoke volumes that Clarice's talents eventually rivaled his own.


When Azazel first learned of Raven's betrayal, part of him refused to believe it. From his years of living with her, it just didn't seem possible that Raven could have been a double agent, or willingly acted against him or the KGB. But as the weeks turned into months and years with no message or sign from her, he started to believe that the file he read spoke the truth.

As of three nights ago, Azazel didn't know what he believed anymore.

"I did you a favor," Azazel let go of these memories and faced Clarice. "Smoking is not good for you."

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, causing Azazel to sigh.

"Sometimes I really miss the days when you were little and couldn't talk."

"Pffff, I could always talk," Clarice laughed. "It just more fun listening to you talk to yourself like a crazy person. Hey," she added excitedly, "know what I heard from my contact at Caliban's? The Hero was spotted in the Bloc!"

"Keep your voice down," Azazel quickly switched from Russian to Chechen. Clarice looked momentarily surprised, but followed suit. Azazel only spoke in his native language when he was being deadly serious.

"Apparently she grabbed some mutant kid and was looking to smuggle him West," she confided.

"Where in the West?"

"What do you care?" Clarice snorted, pouring them both another drink. She shot hers, but Azazel didn't move. She narrowed her eyes. "You know something you're not telling me." Azazel turned away. He tapped his fingers on the bar. He could feel Clarice's eyes boring into him, waiting.

"Azazel?"

"I knew Raven was in the Bloc." If there was one person he could trust, it was Clarice.

"You knew?" She sat up straight, regarding him. "How?"

"I knew because I took her to Riga," Azazel locked eyes with Clarice.

"You...?" She dropped her voice. Even in Chechen, she danced cautiously around this topic. "Have you lost your damn mind?"

"It's complicated."

"How complicated can wanting to not die be?" Clarice shook her head. "If our bosses ever find out, they'll..."

"The boy she sought passage for is my son."

"You never mentioned...wait, a son?" Her emerald eyes grew wide.

"I just found out I had one, three days ago." Azazel told Clarice an abbreviated version of the night he intercepted Raven and discovered Kurt. The two sat in silence for a long time after he finished his story.

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to the West, and I am going to find them. But, I need your help." Azazel laid his hand over hers. "I need you to cover for me, so the bosses don't know I'm gone."

"Done." Clarice nodded, squeezing his hand in solidarity.

"And, before I go, I want to find the men who set-up the fighting ring, the one my son was forced into."

"And?" She raised an eyebrow. Azazel threw back his drink.

"I want to make them pay." Clarice drew her own short sword, twirling it sportively in her hand. Her smile reflected on the blade.

"Now you're speaking my language."


A/N: Clarice sounds…nice (?). Fun fact: Vasily Grigoryevich Zaytsev was a Soviet sniper and a Hero of the Soviet Union during World War II. I named the bar after him because history is my favorite!