DISCLAIMER!!! X-Men belongs to Marvel and X-Men Evolution to the WB. I own only Dan and Fiona, and I ask you kindly not to steal them. x_X;;; A warning. This fic is RATED R for a reason. Contained within (in no particular order) are language, violence, and drugs. You shouldn't be reading this if you're under 13. You probably shouldn't be reading this if you /are/ 13. Let's just say you've been dually warned.
He liked London almost as much as St. Petersburg, though he still had a fierce loyalty to the city of his birth. To be sure, the city on the swamp had its own problems, but it had a grandeur and a beauty completely unique to anywhere else in the world. He had not liked France at all, and Vanya Nikitin was fairly sure that the French had not liked him either. He'd certainly had poor luck before he'd caught the ship across the Pas de Calais.
Also, there had not been a Gemma in St. Petersburg, and there was one in London. Surprising what a difference she made. Vanya rolled over onto his side, propping his head on his hand in order to examine her better. She had a fascinating face, to be sure, a face that belonged to all ethnicities and belonged to none. Her eyes were closed, dark eyelashes pooled on dusky features. She smiled in her sleep.
Vanya pulled the blanket away from him and slid out of bed, padding lightly into the annex that served him as a kitchen. He rented what was technically a one-room utility, but there was a small alcove off of the main room. It had a sink, electric oven, and a miniature refrigerator he'd installed himself. He took a dingy cup from the top of the fridge, filled it with lukewarm coffee from the pot, and went back into the main room.
He curled in a chair, completely un-self conscious of his nudity, and flipped on the telly, changing channels until he found the news program. The lights were off and the TV cast a yellow-green glare on the room. "Vanya?" a sleepy voice murmured from the bed.
He glanced at the corner, furthest from the door, where the blankets pooled over her. "Still here, love," he said, faint accent and the false endearment easy on his lips. Although Gemma was intelligent enough, her company for more than necessary grated on the nerves. She was... self-absorbed to the point of narcissism, with some good reason, at least - and enough so that Vanya had no qualms about using her. It actually amused him to think of her reaction when he moved on, probably nothing like that had ever happened to her before.
He finished the rest of his coffee, and listened to the dry BBC announcer talking about some disappearances of teenagers from the slums, homeless kids who were never seen again. Probably some sick fuck pedophile taking them away. He was quite glad that he'd never lived on the streets like that, when he was younger - Egor Nikitovich Nikitin was affluent enough to support a wife and several - seven - children besides. The rest of the Nikitin clan, for all he knew, was still in St. Petersburg.
"Vanya..."
"Coming, Gems." Family problems could wait, Vanya thought to himself, as he crossed the room to the bed. At the moment there were more important things to occupy his attention, such as the interesting way that the light caught in Gemma's hair and on her body as she pulled the cover away.
X
Later, when Vanya woke up, Gemma had let herself out. This did not bother him, for when she stayed she expected cosseting. Breakfast in bed, and Vanya didn't go in for any sort of romantic shit. She had left him a note, which she also did sometimes, and he resolved to read it later, when he wasn't so tired. Vanya stretched his arms out and yawned, feeling quite satisfied with himself and the world in general. Still naked, he stood and walked into the alcove for breakfast - he was suddenly very, very hungry.
The Wheatabix without milk was dry but he was used to simpler fair than that, when he'd hitchhiked over the continent on his bizarre pilgrimage to the birthplace of punk, he'd often eaten only Saltine crackers, the entire day. Munching thoughtfully, Ivan Egorovich Nikitin pondered what he was going to accomplish that day. That afternoon, really - the clock on top of the refrigerator said 12:37.
As he finished the last of his breakfast Vanya stood and went to search for his pants amid the array of dirty clothing tumbled on the floor. As he dressed, Vanya fished in the pants pockets, looking for his wallet. Inside were two hundred pounds, and that was all the money he owned. Perhaps - perhaps, after perusing London, he'd plan another job... It didn't do any good to be low on money, even when he was planning to cut the expense of Gemma.
Smiling absently to himself, he went to the window and threw the blinds open, letting the afternoon sun stream in on him, warming his skin. Vanya looked over the busy tableau of London on Saturday, the tiny people walking on the street below him. As he watched he wondered how many of them had a gift, how many of them even realized it, or viewed what they had as such.
He could see how with a lack of control such a thing could be seen as a curse, something harmful or even evil. Vanya had always controlled his own life, as he controlled the gift. It wasn't difficult, and if he sometimes had headaches after using it for too long, well, that was a necessary side effect.
Vanya went down the stairs and into the streets, as always, amused by the interplay of light and sounds. The newspaper vendor was in front of the flats, as usual, desperately hawking his wares. Vanya paused as a title caught his eyes, "DOCUMENTED CASE OF HUMAN COMBUSTION." It was not a disreputable title, either - the Times of London was quite reliable. Vanya paid the man his price and walked off, absorbed in the strange story.
Christine MacReedy, 25, had been at a pub when suddenly, according to witnesses, she had screamed and burst into hot flames. She had burnt to ashes before their eyes, before they were able to help her. The flames were hot and oddly enough half of her legs and her boots were still intact, and the paper showed a black and white photo of MacReedy's shoes, with a tiny peep of flesh above them, scarred and cauterized. She had been a nonsmoker and neither she nor the man she'd been with had carried matches.
Vanya read all of this with a sense of strong bemusement, and the unshakable feeling that he knew what had happened to Christine MacReedy. It tied in, shockingly enough, with what he'd been thinking of only moments before, and cemented his resolve to wrestle the gift under control. Who knew? Maybe one day Vanya would be the one who disappeared.
One of the red double-decker buses drove by, pausing long enough for him to snag a hold of the end, and climb on. He was headed for the better neighborhoods today, his intentions would have no use in the streets on which he lived. He smiled as the street grew less and less crowded, leaving silent alleys and houses full of prospects. No money today, not yet. Vanya hopped off of the bus and used his gift, going up to one of the homes, better kept than its compatriots. Inside his pockets were the lock picks, which slipped easily into the lock with a click.
Vanya stepped into the home's foyer, closing the door behind him and examining it carefully. The foyer opened into a spacious den, decorated in matching whites and modern chrome. He wasn't after TV's today, though the unit these people had was sleek, black, and probably expensive. No, Vanya needed something small to carry, something in his pockets that he could fence easily, unrecognizable. Any jewelry would be quite welcome.
He went up the stairs and into the hallway, looking for the master bedroom. It, too, was decorated in antiseptic tones of white, with a silver dresser with a mirrored surface. On top of it were a woman's vanities, including a delicate glass jewelry box. Bingo. Vanya smiled and stepped towards it, flipping open the top and examining the contents inside. Diamond earrings - very nice. The necklace of white gold would also fetch a decent sum. He slid them into his pockets--
"Hello, son," a voice said. Startled, Vanya whirled to confront the speaker. It was a middle-aged, thickset man with a buzz cut, though his blond hair was thinning fast, with a small camera-like goggle over one eye, which was attached to a headset. He wore a dark suit and a white tie, and had slick black leather shoes.
"How did you--" Vanya began.
"Find you?" That wasn't what Vanya had meant, but the man kept talking anyway. "We've been tracking you for quite some time now, Ivan Egorovich. This little gadget lets me--"
As he spoke, Vanya was easing the switchblade from his sleeve, ready to attack the man and run off. "Oh, no, it's not like that," the suit laughed, apparently unperturbed by the knife in Vanya's hand, "I'm not here to arrest you. I have a business proposition to make."
Vanya eyed him suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. "A business proposition," he repeated.
The man smiled expansively. "Exactly... I think you'll be interested. Do you want to be a small-time thief all your life? But here, and now, is neither the time nor place. Follow me?"
Although he was uneasy about everything in this deal, curiosity got the better of him. He just hoped he'd have better luck than the cat.
X
St. John Allerdyce wished he were anywhere but here. "Here" was the office of the senior editor of the Sydney Courier. Specifically, in front of the desk in the office of the senior editor of the Sydney Courier. Even more specifically, in front of the desk in the office of the senior editor of the Sydney Courier, while the editor, a dark-haired man named Saunders, stared at him over the top of the paper, face a brilliant, enraged purple. "Mr. Allerdyce," the editor said slowly, "Mr. Allerdyce, would you care to explain this?"
"Explain what?" Johnny asked innocently.
"/This/! This... /drivel/." The editor stood up from the chair and walked around the edge of the desk, stood motionless in front of Johnny, jaw quivering with rage. He rolled up the newspaper and brandished it like a sword, snapping it against his hand. "Explain to me /what/ you were thinking when you /wrote/ this?" He waved the newspaper sword in Johnny's face, stopping an inch before his nose.
"Well, sir," Johnny said cheerfully, "It needed to be said."
"Needed to--" Johnny thought the man was going to explode, for one precarious second; he swelled up like a puffer fish without spines. "Needed to--" the editor attempted again, apoplectic with rage.
"Yes, sir," Johnny supplied helpfully, "I did cover the opening of the new theatre, just like you asked."
"You were supposed to write about the details of the building! Write about who was going to the opening night gala!"
"I did, sir. Nothing was factually wrong with my story."
"Factu-- that's not what I wanted! You've written about a corrupt deal between the zoner and the builders! You've written about the shoddy construction and embezzlement!"
"And I did the society list, also. Besides, people have a right to know the truth."
"The paper goes to press in an hour and the junior editor didn't see fit to show me this story until now! Where have you been? What am I going to do?"
"You could give me a more interesting story."
"You little bastard," Saunders hissed, eyes narrowing, "I should fire you right now."
"But you won't."
"And why shouldn't I?"
"First of all, you're understaffed. Second... Well, you're understaffed."
"You have /one/ more chance, Allerdyce, and then I will not hesitate to get rid of you, understaffed or not."
"Yessir. Are you finished now?"
"Get out!"
Johnny grinned, bowed lightly, and sauntered out of the room. In the hallway, one of the college interns smiled shyly at him as she went by. Steven Parsons, sports editor, leaned indolently against the wall outside of Saunders' office and leered appreciatively at her hindquarters as she walked by. Johnny rolled his eyes; the man was an incurable womanizer.
"'Nother row?" Parsons wanted to know.
"Yes," Johnny said, with a deep sense of personal satisfaction.
"This is what - sixth time this week?"
"Seventh," he said happily.
"I hate to say it, Allerdyce, but don't quit your day job."
"Parsons?"
"Yeah?"
"This /is/ my day job."
"Then you, my friend, are royally fucked."
"Thanks for you overwhelming confidence..."
"Enjoy your stay while it lasts, that's my advice to you."
"Thanks."
The junior writers had their own room, the size of one senior writer's office. Six of them were crammed into a space meant for one. Five other men and women, all about his age (twenty years old) lounged on ratty looking sofas and tottering card chairs. The cushions, even ones as manky as those on the green sofa, were hotly contested, and, indeed, were used as signs of prestige. A petunia plant expired quietly in the corner, a failed attempt to liven up the room with some green and purple.
"I'm on probation again," Johnny announced, "So fork it over, Rachel." She had bet him last month that the threat that Saunders was constantly hanging over his head would not happen more than once a week. It had been a stupid bet on her part, so Johnny didn't feel particularly guilty about taking her money, which she forked across the table. "Thanks, Rach." He smiled over her grumbles.
"And I bet you're already planning your next way to annoy the poor man, aren't you? Are you purposely trying to get fired?"
"Hey, hey," Johnny said defensively, "I', just trying to make things more interesting for you."
"I'm sure Saunders appreciates that."
The rest of the writers snickered. One of them signed reproachfully at the rest. "I don't know about you," he said, "But I've a story to finish by tomorrow." There was a surfeit of sheepish glances and noises of agreement among the crowd, followed by an exodus from the sofas and tapping fingers on computer keys. The mood of bonhomie was over, Johnny sighed and logged onto his user name to work on a pending article.
Eventually it was time for lunch, and Johnny levered himself from the seat, lanky frame hopping easily over the arm of the chair. "Anyone want me to bring in some lunch?" he asked, "I'm going to the Chinese place down the street."
"Not today..."
"Nah."
"No thanks."
"Suit yourselves, but I really think you're missing out on something wonderful here--"
"Good/bye/, Johnny..."
He ambled outside, down the street, fishing in his pockets for the lighter and cigarettes. He flicked open the top of the Bic, lit it carefully, and held one of the cigarettes into the flame. Replacing the pack of cigarettes and putting the lit one into his mouth deftly enough, Johnny kept the lighter out, subconsciously playing with the fire. He made it twist around into little loops until someone accidentally bumped into him from behind.
The flame shrank to its usual size and shape, the intricate loops vanishing instantly. "Bugger," Johnny said, jerking the lighter away from his hand to avoid a burn. After that he wove more carefully through the throng. Sydney in the afternoon must surely have equaled the bustle of New York or any other major city, mustn't it?
Johnny had no particular love for the cities, he enjoyed the many different options for diversions or entertainment, but couldn't find in his heart the fanatical devotion to tall buildings that so many people had. Johnny felt at home anywhere he was, whether it was Sydney, the suburbs, or even the ocean, where he'd gone scuba diving once with all the American tourists.
Thinking about this, wrapped up with his thoughts, he almost bumped into a woman laden with groceries as he went towards the restaurant. She made a noise of disgust and St. John Allerdyce smiled cheerfully, if somewhat absently, at her. He went inside, the place wasn't crowded, they did a quick turnover with the counter in the back, and the cooks were fast and efficient. He knew one of them, a slim girl with a brazen smile.
"Hi, Xin Qian," he greeted her cheerfully. "How's business?"
She rolled her eyes expressively. "Tourists," Xin Qian said, mouth twisting, "Rude ones." She seemed oddly distracted.
"Ouch," Johnny said sympathetically.
"Ex/actly/," she said, "So... will it be the usual today?"
"Yes please."
Xin Qian widened her eyes innocently at him, although they looked tired and dark. "How did I know?"
"My, you're quite the mind reader."
"Hmm," Xin Qian said, though the grin was gone, and she looked as though she'd been abruptly reminded of something unpleasant.
Johnny wondered what he'd done wrong. "Xin Qian?" he said, questioning.
"It's... It's nothing," she said abruptly, and went to prepare his General Tso's chicken and fried rice. He knew something was wrong, because she usually made fun of his choices - she called him an uneducated white boy. Which, in many ways, was true. Today, however, she seemed preoccupied, and it had only been after his comment... When she returned with the food, Johnny frowned at her, and lowered his voice.
"Xin Qian?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she said shortly, "It isn't safe to talk about that, Johnny, and you should know better."
"Xin Qian?"
"Yes?"
"I didn't say anything."
Her eyes widened slightly, and she raised her hand to cover her mouth. "Oh, no," the girl moaned, "I've been trying not to... Take your food and go, Johnny, I... I'll be okay." She put the other hand to her head, and turned away from him.
"No, Xin Qian, I know what you're going--"
"No!" she said, flipping her hair angrily over one shoulder, "You think you know. But you don't. What you are, what you do, it's all a joke to you, isn't it? You're not afraid of the consequences." She spoke quietly but intensely, her feeling conveyed with the force of her words.
"It's not that I'm not afraid, but you've got to learn to enjoy it. Like you have to enjoy life. We've always agreed on the last one, haven't we?" Johnny asked, shooting an appealing smile at her. It bothered him to see her so upset, even though she wasn't a /very/ close friend; he still had some experience with the shock that she was feeling, and he felt almost responsible for her.
"Johnny, you /don't/ know. I /can't turn it off/. It's voices, all the time, in my head. It's driving me crazy. I forget, sometimes, drown them out, but something always brings it forward, and I can't get away from it. I'm cursed, Johnny, and my parents will kill me if they find out! Take your food and /go/. I'll deal with it by myself."
He left then, with some misgiving. Xin Qian's suicide, three days later, made the front page of the papers. Saunders, smiling nastily, had assigned Johnny to the story. "You knew her, didn't you, Allerdyce?" he asked with a smirk, "This should be interesting enough for you."
Johnny took the abuse without expression, for the first time in his life feeling guilty. Had he pushed her over the edge? Was it possible that he could have helped Xin Qian by staying and talking to her? The questions roiled in his mind uncomfortably as he walked down the street, trench coat drawn up around his neck, very uncomfortably.
Eventually he came to the conclusion that there was no way he could have helped her, but he still felt vaguely guilty about what had happened. Poor Xin Qian. He could never go back there again, he would feel too strange facing Xin Qian's parents and knowing what he did about their daughter...
It was in this mindset that he sat on the park bench, watching a small blaze on the ground. Someone had dropped a cigar and lit the leaves on fire. Johnny channeled his anger into the fire, making it leap up and dance, hot rage at Xin Qian's supposed lack of options. To a bystander, he would have looked quite odd, a fairly tall, lanky youth, eyes shining oddly in the eerie light from the fire; that now consumed a small bush and the surrounding grass.
"St. John Allerdyce?" someone asked.
"What?" Johnny yelped, losing control of the flames. They shrunk abruptly to a less menacing level. He looked up, and saw a heavyset man with thinning blond hair, wearing a dark suit and a white tie. Johnny was not a fashion maven, but the combination looked rather odd on the man - too dignified for someone who looked as though he should be in either an Army dress uniform or fatigues.
"We've been watching you for quite some time now," the man said smoothly, "And we're very interested in what you have to offer us."
"Who are you?" Johnny asked. He was a reporter, first and foremost, and questions always came first.
"I work for a private company," the man said blandly, and it was impossible to tell if he was lying.
"/What/ private company?" Johnny repeated.
"Details will come later," the man in the suit said, raising an eyebrow and smiling a shark-like grin, "But first, I'd like to know if you'd like to hear more..."
"I'm listening," Johnny said guardedly.
"Good, good," the man smiled, "/Perfect/."
X
Hatori Yuki sat in the small room of the apartment, and shivered. It was fairly drafty, uncomfortable and damp. The desk of the computer, rusty metal, and her arms were cold where they rested there; Yuki pondered getting a sweater, and shrugged. At any moment, she might crack through the system, and she didn't want to miss the initial seconds of elation that she always felt on getting through successfully. "Come on, come on," she muttered to herself, fingers jittering on the desk.
She was a small girl, as well, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, with a young face. She had round features and soft cheeks, still with lingering traces of baby fat, and a pert mouth that was chapped and rough looking. Yuki's hair, naturally black, was interspersed with bright red streaks, cut short and somewhat spiky in the back. Her frame, rather delicate, lacked both grace and muscle, and she was swathed in a huge coat that was far too large for her, as well a pair of rimless glasses.
Black eyes reflected the light from the computer screen as the program she'd created suddenly beeped and flashed, indicating that it had finally worked. "Yes!" Yuki said, completely unembarrassed to be caught speaking to herself. There was no one else there to hear her, anyway, and probably they wouldn't have cared if they did.
"Let's see what you've got here..." the girl whispered as she surveyed the data that she'd cracked into. It was a professor's files, on his personal computer. She looked for something, anything incriminating... She'd always suspected that there was something wrong about him, and his email accounts proved it. On at least three occasions shown here, he'd slept with his students (male students, at that) in exchange for higher grades.
"Ohhh, I've got you now," Yuki crowed. And he'd refused to listen to her complaints about unfair grading on the most recent paper they'd written, and looked down on her because she was a girl, in a computer course... She snickered to herself, completely not guilty about the fact that she was about to ruin a man's career. He'd lied, in at least one case, slept with a minor, and generally caused his own imminent downfall.
It served him right, to say the very least.
Yuki attached the copies of the email to another mail, from a safely anonymous address that she'd encrypted herself. Even if the college employed crackers of their own, she doubted they'd be good enough to get past her own security systems. She attached the professor's doom to the email, and sent it to at the college president, the dean, and several wealthy patrons, as well as the head of the professor's department. And, for good measure, a carbon copy to the New York Times.
Even if the college tried to hush up the scandal, /some/one would know. With a vindictive smile, Yuki pressed the button that sent the email, and leaned back with a very satisfied whistle. She ignored, of course, the fact that she'd broken innumerable laws just seconds ago. Although, if you think about it, she thought to herself, I'm acting like... Like a super hero.
The thought amused Yuki, and she snickered again. If I were a super hero, I'd probably be Enid from Ghost World. And that doesn't count.
The recent work and the adrenaline rush were making her hungry, so she grabbed her boots and wriggled her feet into them. She was already wearing the coat, and no one in this part of New York would mind if she walked around in her pajamas. They'd probably seen stranger things already that day, or in their lifetimes. One small Japanese girl in a coat and fuzzy shirt wouldn't be one of the odder events of the week.
She left the apartment, a one room, prison-like box, and went out onto the streets, seeking sustenance. Yuki went to the one local Burger King, carrying with her own copy of Ender's Shadow, and went up to the counter to order. Carrying her tray with its chicken sandwich and fries, and chocolate milkshake, Yuki took up a seat by the window, reading, eating when it occurred to her to do so, and people watching. They were amusing, all of them, whether they knew it or not.
Yuki's parents were first-generation immigrants, who lived in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Both of them were intelligent, but extremely absent-minded folk. Both of them were the same sort; they could fill in the New York Times crossword in ink, but couldn't for the life of them manage to find a loaf of bread in the refrigerator.
Both of them had been, of course, extremely proud when Yuki had been accepted into New York University, on scholarship, nonetheless. Yuki's chosen field was computer study, a broad enough career that could be narrowed accordingly. She'd always liked computers, but had never let her parents find out about her more clandestine activities, such as the hacking.
Yuki sincerely would have liked to make her parents proud, but they knew that if they ever found out the truth about her, everything would be ruined.
For Hatori Yuki, honors student and loving daughter, was a mutant.
She had been thirteen when the powers manifested themselves, thirteen and confused, going through a difficult period in her life. Yuki had come home from school one day, angry at life and the world in general, angry with her parents and God, and had attempted to turn on the radio. To her shock and immediate fear, a current of searing electrical energy had fried the circuits completely and rendered it a useless hunk of metal.
Yuki had told her parents there'd been an electrical surge through the wire, and neither of them noticed that the radio hadn't been plugged in.
Gradually, though, she'd found out more about what she could do, and harnessed it. Yuki had even managed to use her natural electricity to help cracking particularly difficult files. An extra burst of energy helped, sometimes.
Yuki was a fairly rational person, and so, when the man in the black suit and white tie approached her and offered her a job, she considered it carefully before accepting.
It just seemed, to the girl, that there was very little to lose and quite a bit to gain. "I'm in," she told the man, who smiled like a shark.
X
The man in the suit had explained to Vanya what he was. It was, he had to admit, rather intriguing. He'd known always that he'd a gift, but if anyone had asked him to put a name to it, it would have been quite impossible. Everything made a bit more sense, now, and though Vanya still didn't trust the man in the suit, well… He rarely trusted an employer. Nothing new here.
The man had also explained that the nature of this work would take him to America, the general area of New York in particular. He would be working with two others, both mutants, on a not-quite-legal job. He had false citizenship papers and birth certificate, as well as a driver's license and a passport that showed he'd been visiting England. His faint Russian accent was impossible to disguise. The man had also stipulated no questions asked, details would be provided as needed, and the pay excellent.
And so Vanya Nikitin packed up his meager bag of belongings in the apartment. There wasn't much besides clothes and the refrigerator, which he sold to the family across the hallway, and then shoved the bag underneath the bed, and waited for Gemma to come for the last time. He kissed her goodbye early in the morning, and she had no idea it would be the last time she'd see him.
At seven a.m. Vanya caught a cab to the airport. He ate breakfast at the café near the gates, sipping a cup of black coffee and shoveling down a water mess of eggs and lukewarm sausage and soggy toast. At the table nearby a family was also eating, although the little girl spilled a cup of orange juice on herself and burst into loud sobs, more for the attention than anything else. The mother took her by the hand to buy another shirt. Finished with his own breakfast, Vanya returned the tray to the counter, and went to wait out the arrival of his flight.
The lines were so long and complicated that he was almost tempted to sneak past, but no, that wouldn't do, the man in the suit had demanded low profile. Vanya assumed that low profile included his usual manner of dress - he did not change /that/ for anyone. Instead he waited in the line, absently people watching as he listened to his headphones, which fit comfortably into a distended pocket.
Coach class on American Airlines was crowded, but Vanya got the aisle seat, and was able to stretch out his legs comfortably enough. The in flight movie was called Happy Gilmore. He had never seen it before and, after, concluded that he hadn't been missing much. He ate the tasteless lunch, later, and waited for the flight to land.
The woman sitting next t him was middle-aged, fair haired, and looked, at first, rather frightened. Whether it was of his appearance or his accent, Vanya couldn't tell, but after a while, she asked him tentatively where he was from.
"St. Petersburg," he told the woman.
"Oh, my," she fluttered, "This is my first time leaving the country. I'm visiting my brother. Can I ask why you're going to New York, young man?"
Vanya, feeling mischievous, told her a long, convoluted sob story, tragedy upon tragedy, with a look of noble stoicism on his face. Within half an hour, after he finished telling her about his half sister's cancer, the woman was gaping at him in complete disbelief. "Oh, you poor boy!" she murmured, lower lip quivering. It had never occurred to her that he might be lying. Vanya had to excuse himself so that he could go to the bathroom and laugh.
And so Ivan Egorovich Nikitin amused himself on that long flight. Finally the plane was landing, and he could see JFK airport beneath the plane's wings, approaching quickly. From there it was a simple matter of following instructions and catching the cab - he was to meet his future partners at the spacious apartment that had been rented for them.
X
Johnny Allerdyce eyed the two mutants, who were sitting on the chairs in the living space, also examining him and each other. The first one, the man, was... Colorful. His face might be considered handsome to a certain type of woman, but wasn't remarkably so. He had light blue eyes and black hair, and a thin mouth quirked in a pleasant, if somewhat cynical, smile. Perhaps the strangest thing about him was clothes and piercings.
His ears were pierced in numerous places with silver hoops and studs, all over the cartilage and lobe, and both eyebrows sported other rings and small balls of silver. The nose was punctured three times, and there was a stud centered below his lip, and another one in his tongue. It was possibly the most metal on anyone's face that Johnny had seen close up.
The clothes were also eccentric, to say the least. He wore a long sleeved shirt in a black and white checkered pattern, over that a shirt advertising a band called 'The Moldy Peaches,' and over /that/ was a green and purple plaid button down, left open. His pants bagged around his legs, obscuring them, and his shoes, red Chucks, had song lyrics scribbled in black pen all over them.
The girl was Japanese, and wore a huge trench coat that was far too large for her. Her face seemed young, to Johnny, though he thought that he wasn't much older than she. She smiled cheerfully at the two of them, and waved a hand in greeting. "Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"I'm Yuki. Codenamed," and here, she snickered, "Current."
"I wasn't too pleased about those, either," Johnny agreed, "But at least we get to pick them ourselves."
"True," Yuki agreed. "And you are...?"
"St. John Allerdyce, Johnny, or Pyro. Whichever appeals most to you."
"Pyro," she said, "Fire?"
"Yes... What're your powers, then?"
She held up her hand, sparking with electricity, and he understood. "Ah. You're our hacker, then?"
"Yep," Yuki said, and then glanced at the other man. "Mind introducing yourself?"
"Not at all," the faintly accented voice replied. "Vanya Nikitin at your service. Codename Puck," he said, with distaste, making a face, "It's so... juvenile."
"Puck?"
"A sprite, in Shakespearean plays... I've got useful powers," Vanya said smugly, "Now you see me," and abruptly, he was not there, "Now you don't."
"Impressive," Yuki said. "So, judging from what each of us can do... We're going to be stealing something."
"Yes," Johnny said, "The question is: what?"
He liked London almost as much as St. Petersburg, though he still had a fierce loyalty to the city of his birth. To be sure, the city on the swamp had its own problems, but it had a grandeur and a beauty completely unique to anywhere else in the world. He had not liked France at all, and Vanya Nikitin was fairly sure that the French had not liked him either. He'd certainly had poor luck before he'd caught the ship across the Pas de Calais.
Also, there had not been a Gemma in St. Petersburg, and there was one in London. Surprising what a difference she made. Vanya rolled over onto his side, propping his head on his hand in order to examine her better. She had a fascinating face, to be sure, a face that belonged to all ethnicities and belonged to none. Her eyes were closed, dark eyelashes pooled on dusky features. She smiled in her sleep.
Vanya pulled the blanket away from him and slid out of bed, padding lightly into the annex that served him as a kitchen. He rented what was technically a one-room utility, but there was a small alcove off of the main room. It had a sink, electric oven, and a miniature refrigerator he'd installed himself. He took a dingy cup from the top of the fridge, filled it with lukewarm coffee from the pot, and went back into the main room.
He curled in a chair, completely un-self conscious of his nudity, and flipped on the telly, changing channels until he found the news program. The lights were off and the TV cast a yellow-green glare on the room. "Vanya?" a sleepy voice murmured from the bed.
He glanced at the corner, furthest from the door, where the blankets pooled over her. "Still here, love," he said, faint accent and the false endearment easy on his lips. Although Gemma was intelligent enough, her company for more than necessary grated on the nerves. She was... self-absorbed to the point of narcissism, with some good reason, at least - and enough so that Vanya had no qualms about using her. It actually amused him to think of her reaction when he moved on, probably nothing like that had ever happened to her before.
He finished the rest of his coffee, and listened to the dry BBC announcer talking about some disappearances of teenagers from the slums, homeless kids who were never seen again. Probably some sick fuck pedophile taking them away. He was quite glad that he'd never lived on the streets like that, when he was younger - Egor Nikitovich Nikitin was affluent enough to support a wife and several - seven - children besides. The rest of the Nikitin clan, for all he knew, was still in St. Petersburg.
"Vanya..."
"Coming, Gems." Family problems could wait, Vanya thought to himself, as he crossed the room to the bed. At the moment there were more important things to occupy his attention, such as the interesting way that the light caught in Gemma's hair and on her body as she pulled the cover away.
X
Later, when Vanya woke up, Gemma had let herself out. This did not bother him, for when she stayed she expected cosseting. Breakfast in bed, and Vanya didn't go in for any sort of romantic shit. She had left him a note, which she also did sometimes, and he resolved to read it later, when he wasn't so tired. Vanya stretched his arms out and yawned, feeling quite satisfied with himself and the world in general. Still naked, he stood and walked into the alcove for breakfast - he was suddenly very, very hungry.
The Wheatabix without milk was dry but he was used to simpler fair than that, when he'd hitchhiked over the continent on his bizarre pilgrimage to the birthplace of punk, he'd often eaten only Saltine crackers, the entire day. Munching thoughtfully, Ivan Egorovich Nikitin pondered what he was going to accomplish that day. That afternoon, really - the clock on top of the refrigerator said 12:37.
As he finished the last of his breakfast Vanya stood and went to search for his pants amid the array of dirty clothing tumbled on the floor. As he dressed, Vanya fished in the pants pockets, looking for his wallet. Inside were two hundred pounds, and that was all the money he owned. Perhaps - perhaps, after perusing London, he'd plan another job... It didn't do any good to be low on money, even when he was planning to cut the expense of Gemma.
Smiling absently to himself, he went to the window and threw the blinds open, letting the afternoon sun stream in on him, warming his skin. Vanya looked over the busy tableau of London on Saturday, the tiny people walking on the street below him. As he watched he wondered how many of them had a gift, how many of them even realized it, or viewed what they had as such.
He could see how with a lack of control such a thing could be seen as a curse, something harmful or even evil. Vanya had always controlled his own life, as he controlled the gift. It wasn't difficult, and if he sometimes had headaches after using it for too long, well, that was a necessary side effect.
Vanya went down the stairs and into the streets, as always, amused by the interplay of light and sounds. The newspaper vendor was in front of the flats, as usual, desperately hawking his wares. Vanya paused as a title caught his eyes, "DOCUMENTED CASE OF HUMAN COMBUSTION." It was not a disreputable title, either - the Times of London was quite reliable. Vanya paid the man his price and walked off, absorbed in the strange story.
Christine MacReedy, 25, had been at a pub when suddenly, according to witnesses, she had screamed and burst into hot flames. She had burnt to ashes before their eyes, before they were able to help her. The flames were hot and oddly enough half of her legs and her boots were still intact, and the paper showed a black and white photo of MacReedy's shoes, with a tiny peep of flesh above them, scarred and cauterized. She had been a nonsmoker and neither she nor the man she'd been with had carried matches.
Vanya read all of this with a sense of strong bemusement, and the unshakable feeling that he knew what had happened to Christine MacReedy. It tied in, shockingly enough, with what he'd been thinking of only moments before, and cemented his resolve to wrestle the gift under control. Who knew? Maybe one day Vanya would be the one who disappeared.
One of the red double-decker buses drove by, pausing long enough for him to snag a hold of the end, and climb on. He was headed for the better neighborhoods today, his intentions would have no use in the streets on which he lived. He smiled as the street grew less and less crowded, leaving silent alleys and houses full of prospects. No money today, not yet. Vanya hopped off of the bus and used his gift, going up to one of the homes, better kept than its compatriots. Inside his pockets were the lock picks, which slipped easily into the lock with a click.
Vanya stepped into the home's foyer, closing the door behind him and examining it carefully. The foyer opened into a spacious den, decorated in matching whites and modern chrome. He wasn't after TV's today, though the unit these people had was sleek, black, and probably expensive. No, Vanya needed something small to carry, something in his pockets that he could fence easily, unrecognizable. Any jewelry would be quite welcome.
He went up the stairs and into the hallway, looking for the master bedroom. It, too, was decorated in antiseptic tones of white, with a silver dresser with a mirrored surface. On top of it were a woman's vanities, including a delicate glass jewelry box. Bingo. Vanya smiled and stepped towards it, flipping open the top and examining the contents inside. Diamond earrings - very nice. The necklace of white gold would also fetch a decent sum. He slid them into his pockets--
"Hello, son," a voice said. Startled, Vanya whirled to confront the speaker. It was a middle-aged, thickset man with a buzz cut, though his blond hair was thinning fast, with a small camera-like goggle over one eye, which was attached to a headset. He wore a dark suit and a white tie, and had slick black leather shoes.
"How did you--" Vanya began.
"Find you?" That wasn't what Vanya had meant, but the man kept talking anyway. "We've been tracking you for quite some time now, Ivan Egorovich. This little gadget lets me--"
As he spoke, Vanya was easing the switchblade from his sleeve, ready to attack the man and run off. "Oh, no, it's not like that," the suit laughed, apparently unperturbed by the knife in Vanya's hand, "I'm not here to arrest you. I have a business proposition to make."
Vanya eyed him suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. "A business proposition," he repeated.
The man smiled expansively. "Exactly... I think you'll be interested. Do you want to be a small-time thief all your life? But here, and now, is neither the time nor place. Follow me?"
Although he was uneasy about everything in this deal, curiosity got the better of him. He just hoped he'd have better luck than the cat.
X
St. John Allerdyce wished he were anywhere but here. "Here" was the office of the senior editor of the Sydney Courier. Specifically, in front of the desk in the office of the senior editor of the Sydney Courier. Even more specifically, in front of the desk in the office of the senior editor of the Sydney Courier, while the editor, a dark-haired man named Saunders, stared at him over the top of the paper, face a brilliant, enraged purple. "Mr. Allerdyce," the editor said slowly, "Mr. Allerdyce, would you care to explain this?"
"Explain what?" Johnny asked innocently.
"/This/! This... /drivel/." The editor stood up from the chair and walked around the edge of the desk, stood motionless in front of Johnny, jaw quivering with rage. He rolled up the newspaper and brandished it like a sword, snapping it against his hand. "Explain to me /what/ you were thinking when you /wrote/ this?" He waved the newspaper sword in Johnny's face, stopping an inch before his nose.
"Well, sir," Johnny said cheerfully, "It needed to be said."
"Needed to--" Johnny thought the man was going to explode, for one precarious second; he swelled up like a puffer fish without spines. "Needed to--" the editor attempted again, apoplectic with rage.
"Yes, sir," Johnny supplied helpfully, "I did cover the opening of the new theatre, just like you asked."
"You were supposed to write about the details of the building! Write about who was going to the opening night gala!"
"I did, sir. Nothing was factually wrong with my story."
"Factu-- that's not what I wanted! You've written about a corrupt deal between the zoner and the builders! You've written about the shoddy construction and embezzlement!"
"And I did the society list, also. Besides, people have a right to know the truth."
"The paper goes to press in an hour and the junior editor didn't see fit to show me this story until now! Where have you been? What am I going to do?"
"You could give me a more interesting story."
"You little bastard," Saunders hissed, eyes narrowing, "I should fire you right now."
"But you won't."
"And why shouldn't I?"
"First of all, you're understaffed. Second... Well, you're understaffed."
"You have /one/ more chance, Allerdyce, and then I will not hesitate to get rid of you, understaffed or not."
"Yessir. Are you finished now?"
"Get out!"
Johnny grinned, bowed lightly, and sauntered out of the room. In the hallway, one of the college interns smiled shyly at him as she went by. Steven Parsons, sports editor, leaned indolently against the wall outside of Saunders' office and leered appreciatively at her hindquarters as she walked by. Johnny rolled his eyes; the man was an incurable womanizer.
"'Nother row?" Parsons wanted to know.
"Yes," Johnny said, with a deep sense of personal satisfaction.
"This is what - sixth time this week?"
"Seventh," he said happily.
"I hate to say it, Allerdyce, but don't quit your day job."
"Parsons?"
"Yeah?"
"This /is/ my day job."
"Then you, my friend, are royally fucked."
"Thanks for you overwhelming confidence..."
"Enjoy your stay while it lasts, that's my advice to you."
"Thanks."
The junior writers had their own room, the size of one senior writer's office. Six of them were crammed into a space meant for one. Five other men and women, all about his age (twenty years old) lounged on ratty looking sofas and tottering card chairs. The cushions, even ones as manky as those on the green sofa, were hotly contested, and, indeed, were used as signs of prestige. A petunia plant expired quietly in the corner, a failed attempt to liven up the room with some green and purple.
"I'm on probation again," Johnny announced, "So fork it over, Rachel." She had bet him last month that the threat that Saunders was constantly hanging over his head would not happen more than once a week. It had been a stupid bet on her part, so Johnny didn't feel particularly guilty about taking her money, which she forked across the table. "Thanks, Rach." He smiled over her grumbles.
"And I bet you're already planning your next way to annoy the poor man, aren't you? Are you purposely trying to get fired?"
"Hey, hey," Johnny said defensively, "I', just trying to make things more interesting for you."
"I'm sure Saunders appreciates that."
The rest of the writers snickered. One of them signed reproachfully at the rest. "I don't know about you," he said, "But I've a story to finish by tomorrow." There was a surfeit of sheepish glances and noises of agreement among the crowd, followed by an exodus from the sofas and tapping fingers on computer keys. The mood of bonhomie was over, Johnny sighed and logged onto his user name to work on a pending article.
Eventually it was time for lunch, and Johnny levered himself from the seat, lanky frame hopping easily over the arm of the chair. "Anyone want me to bring in some lunch?" he asked, "I'm going to the Chinese place down the street."
"Not today..."
"Nah."
"No thanks."
"Suit yourselves, but I really think you're missing out on something wonderful here--"
"Good/bye/, Johnny..."
He ambled outside, down the street, fishing in his pockets for the lighter and cigarettes. He flicked open the top of the Bic, lit it carefully, and held one of the cigarettes into the flame. Replacing the pack of cigarettes and putting the lit one into his mouth deftly enough, Johnny kept the lighter out, subconsciously playing with the fire. He made it twist around into little loops until someone accidentally bumped into him from behind.
The flame shrank to its usual size and shape, the intricate loops vanishing instantly. "Bugger," Johnny said, jerking the lighter away from his hand to avoid a burn. After that he wove more carefully through the throng. Sydney in the afternoon must surely have equaled the bustle of New York or any other major city, mustn't it?
Johnny had no particular love for the cities, he enjoyed the many different options for diversions or entertainment, but couldn't find in his heart the fanatical devotion to tall buildings that so many people had. Johnny felt at home anywhere he was, whether it was Sydney, the suburbs, or even the ocean, where he'd gone scuba diving once with all the American tourists.
Thinking about this, wrapped up with his thoughts, he almost bumped into a woman laden with groceries as he went towards the restaurant. She made a noise of disgust and St. John Allerdyce smiled cheerfully, if somewhat absently, at her. He went inside, the place wasn't crowded, they did a quick turnover with the counter in the back, and the cooks were fast and efficient. He knew one of them, a slim girl with a brazen smile.
"Hi, Xin Qian," he greeted her cheerfully. "How's business?"
She rolled her eyes expressively. "Tourists," Xin Qian said, mouth twisting, "Rude ones." She seemed oddly distracted.
"Ouch," Johnny said sympathetically.
"Ex/actly/," she said, "So... will it be the usual today?"
"Yes please."
Xin Qian widened her eyes innocently at him, although they looked tired and dark. "How did I know?"
"My, you're quite the mind reader."
"Hmm," Xin Qian said, though the grin was gone, and she looked as though she'd been abruptly reminded of something unpleasant.
Johnny wondered what he'd done wrong. "Xin Qian?" he said, questioning.
"It's... It's nothing," she said abruptly, and went to prepare his General Tso's chicken and fried rice. He knew something was wrong, because she usually made fun of his choices - she called him an uneducated white boy. Which, in many ways, was true. Today, however, she seemed preoccupied, and it had only been after his comment... When she returned with the food, Johnny frowned at her, and lowered his voice.
"Xin Qian?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she said shortly, "It isn't safe to talk about that, Johnny, and you should know better."
"Xin Qian?"
"Yes?"
"I didn't say anything."
Her eyes widened slightly, and she raised her hand to cover her mouth. "Oh, no," the girl moaned, "I've been trying not to... Take your food and go, Johnny, I... I'll be okay." She put the other hand to her head, and turned away from him.
"No, Xin Qian, I know what you're going--"
"No!" she said, flipping her hair angrily over one shoulder, "You think you know. But you don't. What you are, what you do, it's all a joke to you, isn't it? You're not afraid of the consequences." She spoke quietly but intensely, her feeling conveyed with the force of her words.
"It's not that I'm not afraid, but you've got to learn to enjoy it. Like you have to enjoy life. We've always agreed on the last one, haven't we?" Johnny asked, shooting an appealing smile at her. It bothered him to see her so upset, even though she wasn't a /very/ close friend; he still had some experience with the shock that she was feeling, and he felt almost responsible for her.
"Johnny, you /don't/ know. I /can't turn it off/. It's voices, all the time, in my head. It's driving me crazy. I forget, sometimes, drown them out, but something always brings it forward, and I can't get away from it. I'm cursed, Johnny, and my parents will kill me if they find out! Take your food and /go/. I'll deal with it by myself."
He left then, with some misgiving. Xin Qian's suicide, three days later, made the front page of the papers. Saunders, smiling nastily, had assigned Johnny to the story. "You knew her, didn't you, Allerdyce?" he asked with a smirk, "This should be interesting enough for you."
Johnny took the abuse without expression, for the first time in his life feeling guilty. Had he pushed her over the edge? Was it possible that he could have helped Xin Qian by staying and talking to her? The questions roiled in his mind uncomfortably as he walked down the street, trench coat drawn up around his neck, very uncomfortably.
Eventually he came to the conclusion that there was no way he could have helped her, but he still felt vaguely guilty about what had happened. Poor Xin Qian. He could never go back there again, he would feel too strange facing Xin Qian's parents and knowing what he did about their daughter...
It was in this mindset that he sat on the park bench, watching a small blaze on the ground. Someone had dropped a cigar and lit the leaves on fire. Johnny channeled his anger into the fire, making it leap up and dance, hot rage at Xin Qian's supposed lack of options. To a bystander, he would have looked quite odd, a fairly tall, lanky youth, eyes shining oddly in the eerie light from the fire; that now consumed a small bush and the surrounding grass.
"St. John Allerdyce?" someone asked.
"What?" Johnny yelped, losing control of the flames. They shrunk abruptly to a less menacing level. He looked up, and saw a heavyset man with thinning blond hair, wearing a dark suit and a white tie. Johnny was not a fashion maven, but the combination looked rather odd on the man - too dignified for someone who looked as though he should be in either an Army dress uniform or fatigues.
"We've been watching you for quite some time now," the man said smoothly, "And we're very interested in what you have to offer us."
"Who are you?" Johnny asked. He was a reporter, first and foremost, and questions always came first.
"I work for a private company," the man said blandly, and it was impossible to tell if he was lying.
"/What/ private company?" Johnny repeated.
"Details will come later," the man in the suit said, raising an eyebrow and smiling a shark-like grin, "But first, I'd like to know if you'd like to hear more..."
"I'm listening," Johnny said guardedly.
"Good, good," the man smiled, "/Perfect/."
X
Hatori Yuki sat in the small room of the apartment, and shivered. It was fairly drafty, uncomfortable and damp. The desk of the computer, rusty metal, and her arms were cold where they rested there; Yuki pondered getting a sweater, and shrugged. At any moment, she might crack through the system, and she didn't want to miss the initial seconds of elation that she always felt on getting through successfully. "Come on, come on," she muttered to herself, fingers jittering on the desk.
She was a small girl, as well, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, with a young face. She had round features and soft cheeks, still with lingering traces of baby fat, and a pert mouth that was chapped and rough looking. Yuki's hair, naturally black, was interspersed with bright red streaks, cut short and somewhat spiky in the back. Her frame, rather delicate, lacked both grace and muscle, and she was swathed in a huge coat that was far too large for her, as well a pair of rimless glasses.
Black eyes reflected the light from the computer screen as the program she'd created suddenly beeped and flashed, indicating that it had finally worked. "Yes!" Yuki said, completely unembarrassed to be caught speaking to herself. There was no one else there to hear her, anyway, and probably they wouldn't have cared if they did.
"Let's see what you've got here..." the girl whispered as she surveyed the data that she'd cracked into. It was a professor's files, on his personal computer. She looked for something, anything incriminating... She'd always suspected that there was something wrong about him, and his email accounts proved it. On at least three occasions shown here, he'd slept with his students (male students, at that) in exchange for higher grades.
"Ohhh, I've got you now," Yuki crowed. And he'd refused to listen to her complaints about unfair grading on the most recent paper they'd written, and looked down on her because she was a girl, in a computer course... She snickered to herself, completely not guilty about the fact that she was about to ruin a man's career. He'd lied, in at least one case, slept with a minor, and generally caused his own imminent downfall.
It served him right, to say the very least.
Yuki attached the copies of the email to another mail, from a safely anonymous address that she'd encrypted herself. Even if the college employed crackers of their own, she doubted they'd be good enough to get past her own security systems. She attached the professor's doom to the email, and sent it to at the college president, the dean, and several wealthy patrons, as well as the head of the professor's department. And, for good measure, a carbon copy to the New York Times.
Even if the college tried to hush up the scandal, /some/one would know. With a vindictive smile, Yuki pressed the button that sent the email, and leaned back with a very satisfied whistle. She ignored, of course, the fact that she'd broken innumerable laws just seconds ago. Although, if you think about it, she thought to herself, I'm acting like... Like a super hero.
The thought amused Yuki, and she snickered again. If I were a super hero, I'd probably be Enid from Ghost World. And that doesn't count.
The recent work and the adrenaline rush were making her hungry, so she grabbed her boots and wriggled her feet into them. She was already wearing the coat, and no one in this part of New York would mind if she walked around in her pajamas. They'd probably seen stranger things already that day, or in their lifetimes. One small Japanese girl in a coat and fuzzy shirt wouldn't be one of the odder events of the week.
She left the apartment, a one room, prison-like box, and went out onto the streets, seeking sustenance. Yuki went to the one local Burger King, carrying with her own copy of Ender's Shadow, and went up to the counter to order. Carrying her tray with its chicken sandwich and fries, and chocolate milkshake, Yuki took up a seat by the window, reading, eating when it occurred to her to do so, and people watching. They were amusing, all of them, whether they knew it or not.
Yuki's parents were first-generation immigrants, who lived in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Both of them were intelligent, but extremely absent-minded folk. Both of them were the same sort; they could fill in the New York Times crossword in ink, but couldn't for the life of them manage to find a loaf of bread in the refrigerator.
Both of them had been, of course, extremely proud when Yuki had been accepted into New York University, on scholarship, nonetheless. Yuki's chosen field was computer study, a broad enough career that could be narrowed accordingly. She'd always liked computers, but had never let her parents find out about her more clandestine activities, such as the hacking.
Yuki sincerely would have liked to make her parents proud, but they knew that if they ever found out the truth about her, everything would be ruined.
For Hatori Yuki, honors student and loving daughter, was a mutant.
She had been thirteen when the powers manifested themselves, thirteen and confused, going through a difficult period in her life. Yuki had come home from school one day, angry at life and the world in general, angry with her parents and God, and had attempted to turn on the radio. To her shock and immediate fear, a current of searing electrical energy had fried the circuits completely and rendered it a useless hunk of metal.
Yuki had told her parents there'd been an electrical surge through the wire, and neither of them noticed that the radio hadn't been plugged in.
Gradually, though, she'd found out more about what she could do, and harnessed it. Yuki had even managed to use her natural electricity to help cracking particularly difficult files. An extra burst of energy helped, sometimes.
Yuki was a fairly rational person, and so, when the man in the black suit and white tie approached her and offered her a job, she considered it carefully before accepting.
It just seemed, to the girl, that there was very little to lose and quite a bit to gain. "I'm in," she told the man, who smiled like a shark.
X
The man in the suit had explained to Vanya what he was. It was, he had to admit, rather intriguing. He'd known always that he'd a gift, but if anyone had asked him to put a name to it, it would have been quite impossible. Everything made a bit more sense, now, and though Vanya still didn't trust the man in the suit, well… He rarely trusted an employer. Nothing new here.
The man had also explained that the nature of this work would take him to America, the general area of New York in particular. He would be working with two others, both mutants, on a not-quite-legal job. He had false citizenship papers and birth certificate, as well as a driver's license and a passport that showed he'd been visiting England. His faint Russian accent was impossible to disguise. The man had also stipulated no questions asked, details would be provided as needed, and the pay excellent.
And so Vanya Nikitin packed up his meager bag of belongings in the apartment. There wasn't much besides clothes and the refrigerator, which he sold to the family across the hallway, and then shoved the bag underneath the bed, and waited for Gemma to come for the last time. He kissed her goodbye early in the morning, and she had no idea it would be the last time she'd see him.
At seven a.m. Vanya caught a cab to the airport. He ate breakfast at the café near the gates, sipping a cup of black coffee and shoveling down a water mess of eggs and lukewarm sausage and soggy toast. At the table nearby a family was also eating, although the little girl spilled a cup of orange juice on herself and burst into loud sobs, more for the attention than anything else. The mother took her by the hand to buy another shirt. Finished with his own breakfast, Vanya returned the tray to the counter, and went to wait out the arrival of his flight.
The lines were so long and complicated that he was almost tempted to sneak past, but no, that wouldn't do, the man in the suit had demanded low profile. Vanya assumed that low profile included his usual manner of dress - he did not change /that/ for anyone. Instead he waited in the line, absently people watching as he listened to his headphones, which fit comfortably into a distended pocket.
Coach class on American Airlines was crowded, but Vanya got the aisle seat, and was able to stretch out his legs comfortably enough. The in flight movie was called Happy Gilmore. He had never seen it before and, after, concluded that he hadn't been missing much. He ate the tasteless lunch, later, and waited for the flight to land.
The woman sitting next t him was middle-aged, fair haired, and looked, at first, rather frightened. Whether it was of his appearance or his accent, Vanya couldn't tell, but after a while, she asked him tentatively where he was from.
"St. Petersburg," he told the woman.
"Oh, my," she fluttered, "This is my first time leaving the country. I'm visiting my brother. Can I ask why you're going to New York, young man?"
Vanya, feeling mischievous, told her a long, convoluted sob story, tragedy upon tragedy, with a look of noble stoicism on his face. Within half an hour, after he finished telling her about his half sister's cancer, the woman was gaping at him in complete disbelief. "Oh, you poor boy!" she murmured, lower lip quivering. It had never occurred to her that he might be lying. Vanya had to excuse himself so that he could go to the bathroom and laugh.
And so Ivan Egorovich Nikitin amused himself on that long flight. Finally the plane was landing, and he could see JFK airport beneath the plane's wings, approaching quickly. From there it was a simple matter of following instructions and catching the cab - he was to meet his future partners at the spacious apartment that had been rented for them.
X
Johnny Allerdyce eyed the two mutants, who were sitting on the chairs in the living space, also examining him and each other. The first one, the man, was... Colorful. His face might be considered handsome to a certain type of woman, but wasn't remarkably so. He had light blue eyes and black hair, and a thin mouth quirked in a pleasant, if somewhat cynical, smile. Perhaps the strangest thing about him was clothes and piercings.
His ears were pierced in numerous places with silver hoops and studs, all over the cartilage and lobe, and both eyebrows sported other rings and small balls of silver. The nose was punctured three times, and there was a stud centered below his lip, and another one in his tongue. It was possibly the most metal on anyone's face that Johnny had seen close up.
The clothes were also eccentric, to say the least. He wore a long sleeved shirt in a black and white checkered pattern, over that a shirt advertising a band called 'The Moldy Peaches,' and over /that/ was a green and purple plaid button down, left open. His pants bagged around his legs, obscuring them, and his shoes, red Chucks, had song lyrics scribbled in black pen all over them.
The girl was Japanese, and wore a huge trench coat that was far too large for her. Her face seemed young, to Johnny, though he thought that he wasn't much older than she. She smiled cheerfully at the two of them, and waved a hand in greeting. "Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"I'm Yuki. Codenamed," and here, she snickered, "Current."
"I wasn't too pleased about those, either," Johnny agreed, "But at least we get to pick them ourselves."
"True," Yuki agreed. "And you are...?"
"St. John Allerdyce, Johnny, or Pyro. Whichever appeals most to you."
"Pyro," she said, "Fire?"
"Yes... What're your powers, then?"
She held up her hand, sparking with electricity, and he understood. "Ah. You're our hacker, then?"
"Yep," Yuki said, and then glanced at the other man. "Mind introducing yourself?"
"Not at all," the faintly accented voice replied. "Vanya Nikitin at your service. Codename Puck," he said, with distaste, making a face, "It's so... juvenile."
"Puck?"
"A sprite, in Shakespearean plays... I've got useful powers," Vanya said smugly, "Now you see me," and abruptly, he was not there, "Now you don't."
"Impressive," Yuki said. "So, judging from what each of us can do... We're going to be stealing something."
"Yes," Johnny said, "The question is: what?"
