Wisdom of Ages

by Paradoqz

A somewhat disconcerted Pete Wisdom finds out that life and its demands don't stop just because you're dead.

5. We are one blood, you and I.

lko Disclaimer: Most of recognizable characters belong to Marvel. No profit is
being made. As always - many thanks go to my betareader. Sincere apologies
for the delay with this chapter, and I genuinely appreciate that some of you
decided to stick with the story nonetheless. Thank you.
Feedback and flames are welcome.

***

The polished surface of the table shone blackly under the lamps' light. The
table was great in its length, taking up most of the room. Sometimes the
light would hit one of the glasses standing on the table, transforming it
into a living gem for a briefest of seconds. And sometimes it would hit the
men sitting around the table. The men. They were a strange collection.
Dressed in the same expensive clothes, at first glance they seemed to be
enough alike as to be relatives. The same soft, slightly bored features, the
same receding hair, the same slight corpulence. And a bit of fear and hunger
in their eyes, belying their appearance. None in this room were harmless, no
matter their look. If they were, they'd have never made it to the table.

Fear.
Of other men, that were sitting by their sides, talking in shushed tones and
mildly sipping water or alcohol. Fear of slipping and giving an opening for
a dagger. Fear of growing complacent and soft, losing the skill to play the
Game.

Hunger.
For more. To move one chair closer to the apex of the table. To get closer
to the ear of the Man. To fatten the bank accounts in Zurich and Pretoria.
To have their advice listened to. To stay in this room, at this table as
long as they were able. Whatever the cost.

The first impression was deceiving however. Upon closer inspection even the
most amateur observer would have to agree that three men stood out from the
backdrop of their colleagues. Two sat at the table, the secrets of their
climb to win the privilege theirs and theirs alone. The third stood apart.

One, a fortyish looking man with accurately cut pale blond hair and watery
impenetrable eyes. No, one would be hard pressed to say that he cut an
imposing figure. Of average build and slouching slightly it wasn't his
physicality that set him apart. Perhaps it was a calm calculating look,
slightly amused as he watched the others as if he knew some secret forever
out of their reach. Perhaps it was his 'presence', the air of someone
utterly sure of his position. Or perhaps it was the position itself - the
one that most men in this room coveted at one time or another. If only for
scant seconds. They were the smartest of the breed, after all. And the only
thing that would be more dangerous than not being at the table, would to sit
at its head.

The simple truth known only too well to Vladimir Dorogov. As the relatively
new president of Russia looked on his 'shadow cabinet' his face, as always,
remained impassive, his feelings hidden safely behind a mask that served him
well in his climb to power.

His glance slid easily from face to face, as he glided over the shards of
conversations, hearing everything and filing important things away for later
perusal. With perhaps just a little more frequency his eyes would single out
the figure to the right of him. One could hardly blame him; after all,
General Maxim Golub cut an imposing figure. A perfect picture of a dashing,
aging soldier, he was the only person in the room in the green of the
uniform. Even seated he towered a head above the rest of the collective. He
spoke rarely and drank less, seemingly content to observe. And if sometimes
the steely blue eyes seemed to carry a faint air of scorn, none were unwise
enough to make an issue of it. Not to his face, at least.

With the peculiar arrogance of someone who feels in total control, the
general seemed to be above the hushed backdrop of voices and whispers. In
fact the only person in the room who seemed to be drawing his attention was
not even at the table. And when his basso rolled commandingly across the
room, he was still looking at the man standing by the door, whose single
working eye seemed to be taking everything in, despite the lines on his face
and the almost imperceptible slouch of the shoulders betraying his supreme
tiredness.

Alexei Vazhin was tired. Which was dangerous in itself, when being in this
room with these people. What was worse, Alexei Vazhin was pissed. And his
control was slipping.

And if he didn't hold on to it, Alexei Vazhin was not going to survive the
day, much less finally achieve his goal and win a sit at the table. For a
briefest of moments he regretted initiating the gambit that brought him back
to this room.

As the silence fell and he once again became the center of the room's
attention, Vazhin suddenly and desperately wished for a hand grenade.

***
"I'm very disappointed in you, Nick, I must say. Really disappointed.
Heartbreakingly disappoint-"

"I get the point, Thom. Get to the punchline already."

"Punchline? Moi?" Peregrine raised his eyebrow, himself a visage of offended
innocence. Seeing that his younger colleague refused to take the bait he
sighed theatrically and relaxed back into his seat, gesturing languidly, "I
simply cannot believe that you don't have a plane. My world no longer makes
sense. All illusions - gone."

The head of the d'Arfoix enterprises narrowed his eyes at his tormentor; "Do
_you_ have a plane?" he inquired a bit testily.

Thomas stippled his fingers and raised his eyes heavenward, seemingly deep
in thought. For an absurd moment he looked like a bigger, African American
caricature of Xavier and Pete swallowed a highly undignified giggle. Sam's
amused glance at him and Tabitha's soft snicker proved that perhaps he was
not the only one whose brain that mental picture invaded. Throwing the pair
of X-Forcers an askance look, Peregrine shrugged and turned back to his
prey, smiling at Nick fondly, "Well... not as such. But you see, I don't
have to. You - do."

Nick visibly gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a second.

Thom batted his eyes innocently. "Would you like me to explain?"

"Oh, yes! Please do!"

Opening one eye Nick looked at Bedlam with an indescribable expression of
scorn and disgust. "Traitor." Jesse shrugged and ignored him majestically.

Thom smiled beatifically and raised his right hand, straightening his index
finger. "See, there is a system to all things, m'dear boy. Quartet included.
Everyone has a role to play. Mickey here - she's the Girl. Ow! I mean she is
the highly qualified explosives expert. Yes. And our mutual pale friend in
the corner yonder, Joakim - he's just the guy you want to slit somebody's
throat in the dead of night. And you... well you are the Rich Guy. And
dammit, you have to have a plane! I'm so very disappointed. All
preconceptions shattered. Great Nicholas d'Arfoix is on the edge of poverty.
Will lose house tomorrow. Maybe sooner."

Nick dragged a hand over his face, keeping a hold on his temper. "Look, I'm
not a freaking Bill Gates. Or Tony Stark. All right?! Do you have any clue
how much a plane costs? And the maintenance?! I LOOKED at the projections,
man! Nearly game me a damn coronary! I am not made of money, you... you...
you big... thing!"

Peregrine raised his hand again, imperiously turning away from Nick.
"Please. Your pitiful excuses bore me."

"Sonuva--!"

While Nick appeared to struggle with a sudden onset of violent aphasia and
was turning an interesting shade of purple, Bedlam frowned thoughtfully.
"Wait... Wait-wait-wait. So you covered Mick, Joak and Nick - somebody get
him a water, I think he's choking, but... What do _you_ do?"

"Oh sure, set him up with a perfect line, why don't you."

Shooting Joakim a quick dirty look, Thom smiled benignly at Bedlam, "Why,
isn't it obvious? I am the pretty one!"

Nick grinned slightly and reclined back into his chair, closing his eyes,
halfheartedly following as the conversation veered on its course toward the
opposite end of the aircraft. The exchange had an impeccable timing, as the
silence was definitely taking on depressing overtones. Couldn't have that,
before a mission. He stretched surreptitiously, wishing, with just a bit of
petulance, for a pillow. This was going to be a long trip. He shook his
head, an imperceptible motion, gone unnoticed by the rest of his comrades.
Moscow.

It was somewhat ironic, Nick thought suddenly that just seconds after he'd
helped to raise the overall mood, he seemed to be determinedly heading into
the angst pit himself. His lips curved slightly in a humorless smile. Life
was full of interesting surprises like that. And they were going back to
Moscow. Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed.

Thom seemed to be taking it well. Considering.

He was the only one that survived from the Omega team after all. He saw the
whole thing go down. When they bugged out, he was the one with Lev's brains
splattered all over his clothes. Nick's grin twisted by an iota, into a fair
imitation of a snarl.

Lev Teretz, the dashing, witty and all around perfect chief of the Greenhorn
Brigade. Hard to believe it's been seven years already. Damn. Time doth fly
when you're not looking. Nick sunk yet deeper into his chair and behind his
eyelids the memories came. He was barely out of his twenties then, no longer
than a year with Black Air. Deathly tired of the constant training and tests
and exams and checks and evaluations and training and pig-headed superiors
and training. Absolutely convinced that he was more than ready for Field
Ops. And then, just as he seriously started to think that he wasn't good
enough and was destined to become one of the 'drones' they approved him.
Finally. He was going to actually leave the facility for the first time in
eight months. He chuckled softly. And then of course he met the rest of the
graduating class. That was a... unique experience. Ridiculous of course. Ten
very different people barely out of their training and they were expected to
function as a ready-made unit. Of course he had his doubts about the whole
thing from the beginning. It was an open secret that BA was stretched pretty
thin back then. Needed every warm body they could get their hands on. Still
it made no sense to him... standard teams' size never exceeded five members.
And that's at the most. Ten? Unheard of.

Cumbersome. Unwieldy. Noticeable. Unworkable.

Stupid.

But that was swiftly cleared up in the commencement speech, by none other
than great Threadgold himself. Just a mere department head then. Still a
good couple of years before he dislodged and 'retired' Tremaine. Not that it
made a whole hell of a lot of difference. To them about anyone higher than a
tech was God. And Threadgold was legendary to boot. And he was going to come
and talk to them and wish them luck and tell them he was proud.

Riiiight.

A half an hour of standing rigidly at attention, listening to that egomaniac
ranting about their complete lack of aptitude for the business. That was
fun. Especially the part where he didn't expect them to survive the year's
end. Cue the majestic exit. And Lev's rather impolite gesture toward the
retreating back. "Bloody wanker. Probably hasn't been laid in years. Doubt
he has the equipment, even."

Nick could have sworn he saw Threadgold stumble a bit. Hey... the man did
have a VERY keen hearing. One never knows. Anyway if he did hear, he
declined to pursue it. And so Lev scratched his chin, grinned at them and
winked. "Hey, unclench. We just graduated."

And they were off.

The Chief pointed them. GrimBo, ChinChin and Nick planned. Lev led. The rest
followed and tried not to shoot any allies. Success varied and generally the
other units looked upon being partnered with them in a... less than ecstatic
light. They also drew straws whenever possible. For the loser obviously.

"Well what did you expect exactly?" Lev inquired curiously, when Nick found
him in the hangar tinkering with the Flying Crapper.

"I dunno... It's just not fair. Y'know?"

"No actually, I don't. Why don't you... No! No! I am telling you, Chin, it's
not going to work, we're... Aw, shit. All right, all right, but remember - I
warned you." Muttering under his breath and brushing the unruly lock of
dirty-blond hair out of his eyes Lev clambered up from under the aircraft
and hooked a dishrag with his foot, propelling it up into his hands. Wiping
off the oil he squinted at the half-hidden silhouette hunched over in the
cockpit and shook his head, "Crazy. Gonna blow all of us to kingdom come.
Let's go, before she hits it."

Looking over his shoulder periodically with a hint of genuine nervousness in
his eyes, Lev herded Nick out of the hangar and fished out a pack of
cigarettes as they stopped, hiding behind the corner of the structure from
the biting Kent wind. Shielding the timid flame of the match with his palm,
Lev lighted up; throwing a faintly amused glance at Nick, "Where were we
then?"

"It's not fair!"

"Oh. I remember now. As I was saying, first of all you're exaggerating just
a bit. They are not drawing lots. This is a serious organization after all,
you know. They flip coins."

When Nick proved to be less than appreciative to his sense of humor, Lev
sighed heavily. "Oi. All right. What exactly is buggin' you?"

"What do you mean, 'what exactly'?"

"Oh fer cripes sakes.. Lemme guess. You little inner schmuck is feeling all
wounded. Pride is hurtin'. Nicky be wanting some respect! Izzat it?"

"Well... yeah. Except for the... you know... schmuck part. 'cos that'd be
detrimental to my self-esteem."

Lev took another deep drag on the cigarette and held it in for a moment.
Exhaling with a loud sigh he cast his eyes heavenward, squinting in an
expression of slight exasperation. "Christ, I'm beat... My kingdom for
twelve hours of glorious, uninterrupted, junk-food induced sleep." He sighed
again and scratched his nose absently, glancing at Nick briefly. "Okie.
lemme see if I can break it out for you. How do I put it gently now... "

"They're all jealous?"

"Well... Yes, sure that's one way of saying it. Personally I was thinking
more in terms of 'we suck ass'... but you know. It's all in the
perspective."

"Huh?" Nick contributed intelligently.

"You know. Perspective. As in I have the right one, and you're dumb as the
proverbial post."

"Hey!"

Lev glanced at Nick again, a little puzzled frown pulling his eyebrows
together, "You're a Monosyllable Man now? Going for the 'strong and silent'
image? Chicks dig that. But I gotta say, I'd start with the 'strong' part,
'cos that thing with the suitcase in Prague? That was pitiful. Plus if you
go 'silent' who am I going to argue St. Augustine's precepts, as inherent in
The Simpsons Halloween eps, with?"

Nick blanched visibly as the name of the Roman theologian was mentioned but
recovered quickly, steering the conversation back onto the original track
with the mastery of someone long used to Lev's rambling and frighteningly
aimless non-sequitors. "I shall ignore that 'post' remark. 'cos I am that
nice. But I still don't get... I mean, how are we worse than any of the
Strikers?"

A loud banging noise carried from the hangar and Lev winced, pausing to look
towards the closed door for a second. "Oi. Oi-oi. Well, at least it's
insured."

Nick cleared his throat tactfully and Teretz raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh,
all right. How do you define 'quality' exactly? What makes you think Striker
teams and we are on a par?"

"Umm... well... Mostly the fact that we are alive, I guess? We do our
missions, we don't lose anyone - ergo we are good. Right?"

"Wrong. That doesn't mean we're good. It only means one thing."

"What's that?"

"We are lucky in the damndest unholiest way I've ever seen."

"Oh, bull! C'mon now! Over seven months in the field on luck? No way."

"Oh. Well if you say so. I will have to bow your supreme voice of
experience. Hey, Bo."

The diminutive Cambodian nodded shortly and unceremoniously dropped to the
ground cross-legged, leaning against the wall. "Bo greets you, pale-faced
products of imperialistic and morally bankrupt culture. What's going on?"

"Not much. Nico here was just explaining to me that we are the best team to
hit BA since the Iggy Michaels."

"Well, that's not what I sai..."

"Was he really? Bo wants to hear that."

"Well, ses.."

"Bo likes Westerners making idiots out of themselves."

"Hey now..."

"Please continue. You have Bo's undivided attention."

Pinching the bridge of his nose in what was starting to become a habit, Nick
glared at the duo. "All right! Fine. Let Bo tell me why we are so
successful. Keeping that HIGHLY annoying third person crap to the minimum.
C'mon, Confucius."

"Yo, don't be dissing Confucius, yo. Bo don't stand for that kind of shit."

Lev let another stream of nicotine into his bloodstream and nodded
understandingly. "Messed with the array again to watch the Shaft marathon on
TBS, huh?"

Ignoring Teretz magnificently, Bo looked up, to fix Nick with small black
eyes. "Palden Lhamo the Dharampala the Bodhisattva is watching over us,
bless her heart. No doubt about it."

"Jesus Christ! I'm telling you, we're good!"

Bo looked at him with a slightly puzzled expression on his face, before
glancing at Lev. Who shrugged fatalistically. "I dunno. Thom put
amphetamines into his coffee again?"

"Enough." Bo fell silent, seeing that Nick was genuinely aggravated. "We're
not bad. I know. I... just know. Right?"

Exchanging a quick glance with GrimBo, Lev flicked the cigarette butt away
with an almost inaudible grunt, and gripped Nick's shoulder gently. "Hey.
Calm down. It's just a fact. We have a slight edge over most of the new
wave, but the Strikers are real professionals. Bo and I we work with their
analysts a lot, sharing data and such. And I am telling you, those guys are
sharp. They pick up stuff, I skim over ten times as inconsequential. And
have you ever compared their ops reports to ours? We are fumbling amateurs.
Remember Prague? What if the taxi wouldn't have crashed? Chin and Mike would
be decomposing in some Czech village right now. And I don't even want to
think about the Helsinki extraction. We're not good. And we won't be for a
while yet. But we ARE lucky. Extraordinarily so, in my opinion. Maybe it
will even last us."

The needles slowly disappeared from Nick's eyes and he sighed shortly,
shivering a little, "I don't believe in luck."

Bo's mouth opened in a nearly perfect 'O' of shock. "Foolishness! Bo don't
play that!"

Making a sign of the horns the short man glared fiercely at d'Arfoix, the
tinkle of the amulets he fingered protectively carrying faintly with the
wind. "Fool boy. He thinks he knows it all. Bamboo head. Probably still need
help tying his shoelaces. Idiot Westerner. Still think the world is flat."
Spitting over the shoulder and still muttering under his breath Grim
disappeared into the hangar.

"Well. Nice going, Nicky."

"He'll survive." Nick retorted a bit testily. Mostly to shut up the quiet
and nasty voice inside that took up where Lev left off. About some idiots
who run off at the mouth constantly. Everyone knew about Bo and his
unshakable belief that Lady Luck ruled the world. The voice sounded
uncannily like Thom and that too worsened Nick's mood. He hated when Thom
was right.

Lev squinted understandingly. "Uh-huh."

"Shut up."

Lev chuckled and a second later Nick felt the warmth of his hand ruffling
his hair. "You're ok, aristo. And don't worry too much about it. We'll
survive probably. Not like it's the first time. They did the same thing
before, to plug the manpower holes. Give the Basic spottily and out into the
field. Hell, some of the best came out that way. May we will be the next
Iggy Crew." He grinned, a brief flash of white, "If you stop insulting Lady
Fortuna. And more importantly The Grim Shorty."

Nick sniffed. " All right, already... I'll catch him tonight, talk and
stuff."

"Catch whom?"

Nick frowned at the familiar, larger than life figure. "None of yours,
Peregrine."

"Ooooh. Touchy, touchy. Well, than.. and here I was rushing to forewarn you
of imminent danger. No thanks at all. No respect for life and limb..."

The bad feeling was already making its way along Nick's spine. "Danger? What
kind of danger?"

Thom grinned widely and winked at Lev. "You know what kind, Nico. You Don
Juan, you."

"Oh, God. No. Not again."

"Look at that white boy run..." Thom whistled a bit admiringly.

Lev raised an eyebrow, appraising Peregrine. "You're a bad, bad man."

"I know." The big man agreed easily. "You should try it sometime. Very
therapeutic. Plus. I didn't even have to lie this time. Here cometh..."

Coming was a very interesting representative of Humanity.

Inez Da Silva towered over most people at an impressive height of 6'5. The
black-haired Brazilian and her temper were infamous throughout the whole
facility by now. Probably as much as her relentless and somewhat
frighteningly obvious pursuit of Nick. Inez first saw him at the
'graduation' and had taken a definite liking to the serious and
delicate-looking youth. Never hesitant, she made her feelings very known
very quickly. The denials of reciprocation from Nick were brushed aside as
insignificant details eventually provoking d'Arfoix into the very inglorious
'run-and-hide' maneuver. Which had continued ever since, much to the delight
of the rest of the team. And especially Thom.

Who hid a snicker and took on the most innocent of expressions as Inez
strode determinedly by, throwing him and Lev a disinterested look.

Less then seven months would pass when Inez da Silva, bleeding from three
wounds, would topple onto a grenade, saving Nick's life.

In ten there would be Moscow.

***

The warehouse stunk. Literally. The effluvium of rotten fish and excrement
filled his nostrils, almost making him gag as he stepped through the hole,
decorated with the remnants of the gate and the sickly warm curtain of
noisome air, into the cool interior of the building. His steps echoed,
reverberating and changing slightly as the glass teeth of the windows
trembled with the sound. The resulting note set Logan's teeth on edge.
Nothing around him seemed to dispel the nagging premonition of BAD, the
unsettling whispering in his bones.

"Allah the All Merciful the Lovingkind - this is just like home. Now I
remember why I ran away. Ai-ai-ai. Aiii-ai."

Logan could smell the same unease on the little Georgian, clambering up the
unintentional barricades of broken boxes and refuse in front of him, but
that was his only clue. Was he to judge by the voice or the appearance
alone, nothing would betray that his guide was anything else but cheerfully
annoyed at the surroundings he currently found himself in.

"Armen, you old thieving buggerer of innocent children and small animals.
Are you insulting my place?"

Logan heard Armen's heartbeat quicken at the sudden boom of the second
voice. He kept silent, less startled than his friend. Although they both
expected this, Armen did not have the singularly useful advantage of his
heightened senses. And the sharp, noxious smell of several sweating men cut
even through the less than aromatic atmosphere of the abandoned building.
Absently he noted the shallowness of their breaths.

"Who me? No, kazo. Wouldn't think of it. Just nostalgic, is all. Ugh....
Also, a bit of advice - invest heavily into air conditioning, eh?"

"I should have shot you long ago, short stuff."

"You tried. Remember? Tsk-tsk. Did not turn out too well. Tsk-tsk."

"Heh. You're like my rats. Always coming back."

The loud voices, amplified by the layout of the warehouse, spooked the flock
of crows into sudden and almost vertical flight. As the small black cloud of
feathers, beaks and darkly sparkling beady eyes passed the opening of the
warehouse, Logan could've sworn that he saw one of the ravens wink at him.

"Guess I could've used a bit more sleep. Nerves are starting to go."

Armen's shoulders moved in a slight, annoyed gesture at Logan's subvocalised
musings and he shut up, slowly looking around him instead as they came to a
stop.

The inside of the building seemed like a Caravaggio's paining gone mad. The
general gloom of the building clashed with the brilliant sunlight pouring
through the broken door and fading just a few meters in. And, as if by the
design of the master of chiaroscuro, the streams of light storming brazenly
through the narrow, rectangular windows up near the ceiling, took over from
there, never actually dispelling the gloom, but also preventing any real
darkness. The microcosm of the eternal war between night and day, in the
most incongruous of places.

They were standing in a small clearing and Logan could feel the familiar
itch of an instinct between his shoulder blades as he realized the mounds of
trash turned this place in a valley of sorts. With the second speaker and
the rest of the people he smelt still invisible and standing in the open in
an unfamiliar territory like that, Logan couldn't help but feel like a
sitting duck. The uneasy feeling within grew.

Armen looked around and yawned briefly. "Aiiii. It's been a long night.
So... you gonna play hide-n-seek all day? Come on, we have business to
discuss and..."

"And?"

Dumbadze grinned, "Tell your boys not to get jumpy, I'm reaching inside my
jacket..."

After a second or so of ostentatiously unhurried rooting, Armen produced a
fat bottle of mauve liquid and waved it, making the wine sparkle brilliantly
as the golden specks of dust disturbed by the commotion danced feverishly in
the sun-speared air. "C'mon out."

"Tempting. Very tempting. But you know me. I'm ever so shy. Who's your
friend?"

"This? That's a customer. He's interested in one of the items I've acquired
recently. Wants to buy in bulk, see."

"Ah. And you so thoughtfully decided to introduce us."

"Well, you know me. Always looking out for my friends. So. Can we get on
with this? My feet are starting to hurt."

"Well. We can't have that." A shrill whistle cut through the air and
suddenly a portion of seemingly random mound of garbage moved sideways,
creating a gap through which a tall and very corpulent man appeared, moving
leisurely. Logan blinked. For a moment he thought that it was Shadow King
himself. "Really need more sleep."

"Shut. Up. I'm working here."

Logan could feel his eyebrow arching and forcefully arrested it. Apparently
his first impression was correct, he could not remember the last time Armen
was so wound and concentrated. 'He's actually afraid of this guy' Logan
suddenly realized with somewhat of a start. Filing this uncomfortable tidbit
of information away he fell silent and once again concentrated on the large
figure, clad all in white. Vitali Ruchenko. One of the very select and small
group who could be said to control the Moscow black market in some measure.
It was remarkable that Armen knew him personally. It was nothing short of a
miracle that they were on relatively good terms. It was almost unbelievable
that the man consented to a personal meeting after only a miniscule delay.
All because more than a decade ago Armen saved his life. Contrary to the
myths inspired by the cynematographic exploits of Corleones and Robin Hoods,
honor among thieves was a largely nebulous proposition. Acknowledgement of
debts such as these... sheer luck. Luck.

Ruchenko stopped, several feet away, sweating profusely and fanning himself
with a white fedora. "I hate the city in the summer."

"You look good, Vitali. Lost a few pounds?"

"Flatterer. Do go on."

"I see you are still on your 30's fixation? I mean really. A fedora?"

"I'll have you know that this is one thing that will never go out of
fashion, my short and fashion-challenged friend. They're eternal, timeless.
Mmm... I was born too late and in the wrong country. 1930s... Those were the
times. When men were men."

"Yeah. And so were the women. What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Unfortunately we simply don't have that kind of time. To the point,
gentlemen, if you will. How may I serve you?"

Armen raised his hands and grinned easily. "I'm here strictly in a middleman
capacity this time. My friend here is a collector of sorts, you see. He's
interested in an item I acquired sometime ago. He's interested in bulk
purchases."

A spark of interest glinted in Ruchenko's eyes, quick and fleeting but
bright nonetheless. "Indeed? And what item, might we be speaking of, Mr...?"

"Patch."

Nothing in Armen's bearing betrayed what he was thinking about Logan's use
of alias. The Georgian maintained his polite smile stepping back
imperceptibly, subtly reinforcing the impression that he was wholly
subordinate to Logan. Who at this point was trying to figure out why he
suddenly fell back on his old alterego. He pushed the thought back. Later.
For now he'd just go with his instincts.

"Mr. Patch. Interesting name... " Something flickered across the man's face.
A recognition? Logan stilled his face into a motionless, impassive mask and
waited.

"Now..." Ruchenko's right arm moved slightly and something softly fell into
his palm. "What item did you say, interested you?"

"I didn't."

Ruchenko raised an eyebrow, his face assuming a look of slight boredom and
his finger pausing over his palm pilot. "Shall we dispense with bullshit,
Mr. Patch?"

"I will if you will, bub."

"Marvelous. Well?"

Logan glared at the big man for a moment, his irritation, misgivings and the
persona of Patch coalescing perfectly into foul mood. Stifling a snarl he
dropped the bag he was carrying on the floor and kicked it toward Ruchenko.

"There. I'm betting that'll jog your memory."

The black marketeer looked at the black bag at his feet disinterestedly and
snapped his fingers in an imperiously offhanded gesture.

Logan snorted under his breath. As a square-jawed man in a cheap suit and a
crew cut that made his ears seem twice their size bent over to open the bag,
Ruchenko smiled with a distinctly chilly look in his eyes. "I say, Armen,
you really should try and raise the level of your clientele."

"Shove it, fatboy."

"What was that, Mr. Patch?" Ruchenko's head snapped up abruptly, focusing
Logan's unease at something tangible. 'Bet my ass he's not all fat. Just how
much of _that_ is muscle...'

Armen chuckled nervously and very carefully stomped on Logan's foot.
"Nothing at all, Vitali. He's been a little under the weather. Cough, you
see."

"Really?" The big man's voice dropped the temperature several degrees.

As Logan inhaled to answer, Armen widened his smile a little desperately and
ground his heel into Logan's foot again. "Really. Unused to Russian windy
nights, I guess. You know how it is."

"My sincere condolences."

Logan frowned, as he caught the subtle change in Ruchenko's inflection. The
Russian turned his back to them, apparently deep in examination of the
spacesuit's part that his gofer fished out of the bag.

"Yes. I _am_ sorry, Armen. I really wish... Well... No matter. Now, Vanya."

"Sonuvabitch. He _still_ hasn't changed his tone!" The vague and fleeting
thought evaporated as Logan's headlong dive culminated in the pile of wooden
rabble. And as the blast shutters on the windows and the door slammed shut,
he couldn't help but agree when Armen breathed with quiet and sad
conviction, lunging for the opposite corner, "Oh, we are sooo fucked."

The darkness that descended onto them was complete and coupled with the fact
that the shutters came down with mechanical precision had an unsettling
effect by itself. He had been half-anticipating trouble, but even so, the
sudden attack disoriented him for precious seconds. Fortunately his reflexes
proved more reliable and while his mind was still throwing off the last
clinging threads of the shock and his eyes were adjusting to the change in
the light, his body was already moving, rolling away, the training taking
over.

The blurring shades of Ruchenko's mercs danced in the corner of his eye and
Logan dove again. As their form suddenly loomed large above the pile in
front of him and the impossibly large gun-barrel seemed to be staring him in
the face he suddenly heard a vile curse and then the two men jumped
themselves, moments before the top of their barricades exploded under the
barrage of pistol fire.

By the time he looked over he was only in time to catch Armen already
moving, sliding away and to the left, only the darker than dark patch
confirming the presence of the gun at the end of the arm, rigidly clutched
at a steep angle to the body.

As his eyes adjusted, the darkness proved to be an illusion, the shapes
becoming more focused, the deadly strings of laser sights splitting the
oily, smoky murkiness of the warehouse air, combing the building and
betraying the positions of the shooters in turn. Still, in an unfamiliar
building, outnumbered and almost caught by surprise the perverted game of
cat and mouse could have only one end. It didn't take long, two short and
ugly unexpected meetings in the dark left Logan unharmed but the two corpses
didn't go down quietly and before long the X-Man found himself being
corralled with mechanic, inescapable precision. The intermittent sound of
sporadic gunfire from somewhere to his right was the only sign that Armen
was still alive.

Logan never explained, even to himself, his reluctance towards firearms. In
course of his lifelong career as a soldier and an adventurer he didn't have
a choice but to become proficient in the use of the tools of his trade. His
memory might not always be reliable but the reflexes remained the drilled in
expertise always there to call upon. And he never let it dissipate, never
let it rust away, training constantly, devoting as much time to fire
practice as he did to kata. But... When missions came along, more often than
not he'd pause, the holster with Desert Eagle and the clips carefully oiled
and ready to be packed - never actually making it to the travel bag.
Arrogance? Fear to introduce a variant, not as reliable as his own claws,
into life and death equation? The 'animal' inside of him growling its
instinctual distrust and fear of the powder-smelling instrument of death?
The Bushido values scorning a treacherous, cowardly way to victory?

Hard to say. He never followed the thought to its logical conclusions.
Always falling back on the grimly smug satisfaction that he didn't need any
crutches to be dangerous. Of course now and again the doubts came back and
his logic did not seem quite as rock solid. Like for example when he was in
the crosshairs of what looked to be...

"Holy shit..."

RAD 13 Cold Coil barked, barely missing Logan and leaving a smoking crater
behind. Wolverine tucked and rolled, once again barely escaping incineration
as the second beam slammed down just inches behind him, the ionized air
assaulting his nostrils and the heat drumming sweat out of his skin.

"Fucking energy weapons. Fucking Genosha. Fucking black market. Every
fucking idiot is sporting a fucking tank. I miss the fucking Cold War. Oh
shit, here comes another one..."

Gritting his teeth, Logan's upper lip rose in a feral snarl as he realized
the only possible course of action and quite deliberately stepped out from
the third beam. Into the AK47 line of fire.

The accidental hot air pocket exploded magnificently throwing him across the
floor, inadvertently letting him escape the worst. But even that push
couldn't prevent the scalding bite of the bullets slamming into his left leg
and the agonizing pain of a wooden shard puncturing the same leg right under
the knee.

Ignoring the pain of the torn off skin and the reknitting flesh of the exit
wounds Logan used the remaining momentum and his arms' leverage to throw
himself over the nearest pile of garbage, biting through his lip when the
throw slammed his bad leg into the ground. The crimson line of the laser
followed him shortly, slowly but surely feeling its way toward him,
occasionally blinking away as the sniper fired. Spitting out the blood
pooling in his mouth Logan grunted and tore out the wooden dagger out of his
leg in one swift movement. He grunted again as the pain hit him with its
usual secondary delay and with it the realization that not all of the AK
bullets had punched through cleanly.

The red dot disappeared again and the bullet sheared the old can, barely a
meter away from his head. Wolverine snarled again but coldly pushed down the
impulse to try and move. Even his healing factor wasn't that fast. And as
dangerous as the sniper was, he was only a spotter for the guy with the
Coil. Energy weapons. Immediately cauterizing any wound. One of the few sure
things to stop him dead in his tracks... did they know he was coming? Was
this an ambush from the very start?

The rifle spoke again, but immediately the change was obvious and the
confirmation wasn't long in coming as the metal plate across from him
shuddered, the rust flying as the whiteness of punctured steel flowered.
Another shot; another miniature crater bloomed, sending tremors through the
plate, uncomfortably closer to where Logan lay, swearing under shallow
breath.

"Armor piercing. I don't believe this shit."

Logan scowled, worrying the cut on his lip open again, his eyes darting,
looking for options. Even as the shots drew closer, there still was time...
time come up with _something_. Nothing presented itself, when suddenly a
faint noise drew his attention. As another bullet tore its way through the
surrounding junk a small shape almost invisible in the darkness darted from
below and zigzagged between Logan's feet. The rat was obviously maddened
with fear and perhaps pain, its run erratic as the rodent careened into a
half-shattered glass jar, sending the vessel rolling.

Logan's eyes widened a bit in an unbelieving expression and his head moved
faintly in an aborted shake. "Fuckin' typical. X-Men luck - always bad."

The faint hum and click of the Coil's charging mechanism reminded him that
his options just got drastically reduced. Throwing one last glance into the
direction of the rat that effectively killed him, he spat and moved, as
always wasting no time once the decision had been made. As he jumped he
thought a little sourly that it was a good thing Summers was dead, or he'd
have an apoplexy just from seeing him. LeBeau used to drive Cyke absolutely
nuts with this move, seemingly all show and completely and utterly
inapplicable in any rational fight scenario. His leap was nowhere near as
pretty he thought irritably as he landed hard and rolled away, checking the
instinctual protective movement toward the hurt ankle. But then Cajun never
did have to try it with a bum leg and half his face on the floor. He snorted
faintly and froze, listening intently and scanning the darkness. 'Pretty or
not, I get the job done. My turn now.'

He straightened slowly, the muscles in forearms taut, eager for that little
brain impulse that would release the claws. Feral satisfaction glinted in
the darkness as he grinned, finally hearing a small noise and wheeling
around.

"Shit."

"Got that right, runt. I'm gonna sheeeeshkebab your ass, you silly bugger.
MmmM! Open wide, motherfucker."

Logan tensed carefully, his height made even less impressive by the crouch
into which he eased almost subconsciously as soon as he turned to find
himself facing the Coil gunner and being flanked by two others. Probably the
Kalashnikov guy and the armor-piercing, the thought didn't linger as he
observed carefully the man in front of him, letting his face assume the all
too familiar expression. He had realized the effect of the snarl on his
opponents long ago; truth to be told sometimes he wondered what was more
effective, it or the claws. "Boy, what do you think the chances are that
you'll light me before I get to you and open you up like a can of peas?"

-Snikt-

The ridiculously oversized semblance of an elephant rifle that was the Coil
trembled slightly as the man holding it let out a short laugh. 'Guess my
Russian is still up to snuff, after all.'

"Fair, old man. What do you think, Boris? Something along those lines?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking fair to average. But that trick with the knives from the
hand was impressive, I gotta admit. Oleg?"

"Just fry the fucker already, will you? We still got his friend to deal
with. Fuckin' comedians."

The Coil trembled again and Logan tensed, ready to make one last desperate
attempt.

"Say good night, shorty."

"Why? Are you leaving somewhere? Without my good bye kiss? That's it. I
don't think we should see each other anymore." Armen was barely visible, the
slim Georgian safely hidden by the huge bulk of Ruchenko. From what Logan
could make out in the first shocked seconds following his friend's
appearance, Armen was sporting an impressive black eye and looked to be
heavily favoring his right side. Ruchenko was working on a shiner of his own
and was glaring balefully, dripping blood from his split lip and mangled
nose onto the white of his suit. He limited himself to glaring however;
apparently judging himself not fast enough to beat the two guns Armen was
currently brandishing. Brandishing with obvious skill, but what was much
scarier with obvious relish and hope of using them given half a chance or
reason.

His tone lost the acidic quality and went gunmetal flat as he looked atthe
Coil gunner, keeping himself firmly behind Ruchenko, "Put it down." His eyes
darted for a second to the duo flanking Logan and he gestured with the gun
in his right hand, "You too. Cannons down. Hands up. Now."

Logan raised an eyebrow at the dirty-blond man in front of him and let the
snarl melt slowly into a nasty smile. "Funny how these things turn
sometimes, eh, bub?"

The pause stretched as the trio exchanged glances, visibly weighing the
situation. Finally, cursing unintelligibly under his breath, Armen poked
Ruchenko in the head, the gun-barrel making an audible thud as it came in
contact with the skull. "Explain the situation to them. Put it in the
perspective."

The big man snarled something and threw a venomous look over his shoulder,
barking at his man without even looking if his order would be followed, "Do
it, Ivan. Do it, I said!"

Logan felt more than saw the eyes of the other two anchor on the guy. Ivan
was sweating visibly, the oversized butt of the Coil tightly gripped under
his arm in a standard position, his lower lip whitening as he gritted his
teeth. He looked back at Logan, and X-Man was certain he noted a little
desperation in his eyes. "Tell your buddy to drop the guns. Or I'll fry you,
I swear I will."

Almost detachedly Logan felt his lips part in a grin. Armen was less
reserved, his snort clearly audible and reverberating through the space.
"Genius? What exactly were you going to do BEFORE? By the Prophet's beard -
you're one dumb.... Drop the Coil!"

Ivan's tongue licked out, swiping the drop of sweat off his upper lip and
his hand moved hesitantly, his lack of composure resulting in telegraphing a
myriad of signals, betraying his intentions.

"Don't even think about it, kid. You ain't that good. And if you singe your
boss by accident, I don't think you'll get that Christmas bonus."

Ruchenko's eyes almost disappeared in a calculating squint but his voice was
calm and even as he added his support to Logan, "Do it, Vanya. There's no
choice."

The kid hesitated for another second... and Logan almost let out an
explosive breath of relief when he finally kneeled, putting the Coil on the
floor and stapling his hands behind his head. The Canadian mutant finally
abandoned his crouch, sheathing his claws and backing up to put the other
two shooters in his line of vision. It was a lost op on their part and from
what he'd seen up to this point he felt sure that they were professional
enough to recognize the fact. But. There is always a but. So he backed up
slowly, making sure not to interfere with Armen's line of fire.

The faint click of the released clip was all that warned him and he winced
in advance, still almost missing Armen's left arm twitching and the suddenly
deafening sound of the shot. The AK clattered down first; its owner toppled
over slowly, a faintly surprised look on his face; his right hand still
clutching the clip. His eyes, already losing life, met Logan's and for a
second time froze... exploding back in reality as the dead man's head hit
the floor.

As if to compensate for that pause, everything seemed to speed up, as Armen
went flying, the elbow of Ruchenko sending him sprawling, Ivan going for the
Coil and the red dot suddenly blinking back into existence streaking toward
Armen. Ruchenko's face opened in a scream of command, but for some reason no
sound reached Logan's ears as the red haze filled his eyes and the thumping
roar of pounding blood thundered in his ears.

As the fog of battle rage cleared, Oleg was lying in a fetal position at his
feet, clutching his arm, his mouth in a shocked 'o'. His glassy stare seemed
to be fixed in an unbelieving stare, his eyes unable to leave the sight of
his palm cleaved in half and bleeding profusely. His rifle in Logan's hands,
the metal of the trigger feeling cool against his finger and Ivan frozen,
one hand inches from the Coil... the red dot unnaturally still in the middle
of his forehead.

Armen wiped the blood from his mouth, spat and almost absently kicked
Ruchenko behind the ear. "Vitali... I think we need to talk."

***

"Are you willing to stake your life on this?"

Vazhin fought the impulse to rub his temples, resigned instead to accept the
swiftly coming migraine. Concentrating on the latest in the barrage of
questions, he smiled humorlessly.

"No. I wouldn't stake my much overdue and meager salary on the outcome of
American elections, much less my life. But I am fairly confident that Kelly
will lose. Florida is never democratic and, after San Francisco's debacle,
California is in no mood for moderates. Steel Mill Corridor and some of the
South will support Kelly because his policies on unfair advantage of mutants
in the industrial marketplace are exactly what they want to hear, but
without California the Democrats won't carry the College."

"Forget the Americans! We can live with either. What I want to know is what
do you intend to do about the gang war that's tearing the City apart. Hm?"
The short balding man with sharp features cut in unceremoniously and wagged
the fat finger self-importantly toward Alexei.

Vazhin bit down on irritation, only a little amused by the look of contempt
that flashed in General Golub's eyes as he threw a brief glance toward the
new speaker.

"Me? I'm afraid you're confused. Oh, I wouldn't dream of interfering in
what is clearly the jurisdiction of my colleagues from MVD (Ministry of
Internal Security - equivalent to the FBI). As I remember it was you, Mr.
Reikov who explained very carefully to me that it was agencies such as
mine... how did you put it.... ah, yes, 'getting uppity' that contributed
greatly to downfall of our great country. I love my country, Mr. Reikov. And
you explained it all very thoroughly. Just before you cut our budget. I
fully intend to take your advice to heart and 'keep my behind in my own
backyard'."

"Fine! MVD will be more than enough to take care of that scum. They would
have put them down weeks ago, if you hadn't screwed up the Neo operation.
Those are their weapons floating out there! Do you know how many men lost
their lives due to your incompetence?" The fat little man was seething, a
bit of spittle shining in the corner of his mouth.

13. 13 men dead. And three in critical, you fat pig.

"I beg your pardon. But I quite vividly remember 6 memos I sent to you.
Explaining in minute detail that due to the second round of cut backs and
reshuffling of large parts of my personnel to other agencies I have
insufficient resources to conclusively solve the Neo problem. If I remember
correctly you mentioned something along the lines of not having the time to
hold my hand and after refusing to grant my request for MVD and OMON
(Russian equivalent of SWAT) support instructed your secretary to stop
taking my calls."

Something ugly reared in Reikov's eyes, disappearing swiftly, and Vazhin
smiled coldly, careful not to let his true feeling show.

'You didn't really think I was just going to stand here and let you buttfuck
me, did you?'

"And I was right! You've been coddled enough. Spending money like water.
When I pressed you and refused to listen to your whining you somehow managed
even without all the extra support." Reikov's hands, that were widely
gesticulating a moment ago, had now disappeared under the table. A futile
attempt in this room, where the wish to hide what they or perhaps their
faint tremble might betray was a sign in itself. Neither was it lost on most
that the MVD head was effectively cornered into admitting the expertise and
efficiency of Vazhin.

"I have an advantage of being in service longer than most people. Over that
time I developed a number of useful contacts. It was these contacts that
enabled me to bring in... outside resources to deal with the Neo."

Vazhin shrugged and spread his arms slightly in a typically Slavic gesture.

"But due to lack of cooperation from other agencies and severe manpower
shortage in my own, we were unable to process the confiscated evidence -
including large stocks of advanced armaments - immediately. Before I could
arrange for suitable solution, it was insisted that the handling of these
goods was to be taken over by several other organizations. I can provide
documented evidence which accounts for the full inventory of the confiscated
material while in my custody. I am afraid that our struggle with corruption
in the ranks of local law enforcement still continues."

"With varying success." Marenko, the former governor of Novgorod, put in
sotto voce, clearly enjoying the situation to the extreme, smiling
angelically into Reikov's glare.

Vazhin kept his silence diplomatically.

Golub spoke again, his basso extinguishing the whispering conversations
among the others. "You're suggesting that the present situation is not
brought about by Neo themselves but only their tech. In the wrong hands."

The general's words not being formed as a question but rather as a statement
of fact, Vazhin settled for simply inclining his head in confirmation.

Golub's fingers drummed out a brief march on the table. "A bunch of
cutthroats, even with Neo weaponry, should not prove a match for MVD."
He looked at Alexei squarely.

"Not ordinarily, no. I'm afraid there are several complicating factors in
this situation, general." Vazhin tensed inside. This was it. If he managed
this right... He formed his answer carefully, wary not to excuse MVD's
failure. "The man leading these 'cutthroats' has been identified as Vasiliy
Andreyevich Parkov, former major of our Armed Forces in the branch of State
Security. A very talented individual with supreme understanding of the
measures the State will take to apprehend him. His organization is staffed
with some of the people that he brought with him out of service. He also
recruited others." Vazhin paused for a second but decided that elaboration
was unnecessary. The financial and political troubles of the early nineties
saw many spetsnaz veterans leave for much more lucrative careers in the
private sector. The majority chose legal careers, their talents and
expertise invaluable in bodyguard and security services.

Others brought their deadly craft into less lawful ventures. The pool of
such men was further swelled by the veterans of Afghanistan, or 'afgantsi'
as they were more commonly known. Changed by the conflict, ill fitting into
peaceful society. At the same time as the government lost those men, the
criminal world suddenly acquired a sharp edge of hard and experienced
professionals. Only now, almost a decade later, a balance was starting to
shift slowly into State's favor.

All these facts were hardly unknown to the men facing him now, Vazhin
thought grimly. "It has also come to my attention that while Mr. Parkov is a
relative newcomer to the arena of organized crime, he is fortunate enough to
enjoy significant financial and political support."

"Who?" Suddenly Golub abandoned all pretence of disinterest, leaning in
sharply, the direct gaze cold and demanding. A number of other faces around
the table too lost all veneer of boredom, focusing sharply on Vazhin. A
chill of apprehension flared briefly through the colonel as, for the
briefest of moments, these immaculately dressed and behaved men revealed
themselves, suddenly and forcibly reminding him of nothing less than a pack
of velociraptors. Hungry velociraptors.

The image scalding his mind, it was perhaps the hardest thing for him to
stand straight, meet their eyes directly and say without a hint of doubt or
hesitation in his voice. "I have failed to discover that as of yet."

The tension held for another palpable moment before finally easing off.
Reikov sneered and opened his mouth, only to clamp it shut as the man at the
head of the table cleared his throat faintly.

Vladimir Dorogov smiled gently and stood up, pushing his chair back with an
audible floor-scraping sound. Leaning forward he placed his hands firmly on
the table and nodded, catching most of the eyes in the room. "Very well.
Gentlemen, I want to thank you all for convening on such short notice, I
believe this has proved to be a highly informative afternoon. And I wouldn't
dream of wasting any more of your valuable time. Good day."

Marenko commented again, too soft for Alexei to overhear, but apparently not
for Dorogov who flashed the latter a quick grin. Vazhin's eyes narrowed a
fraction, as the lamplight caught the president's, freezing one specific
moment in time. It was perhaps the third time Vazhin had seen him smile.
Genuinely, letting an expression reach the eyes, and having no subtle
undertones of mocking light or malice. He nodded himself, committing the
instance to memory. Just another brushstroke in an intricate, complex and
elusive process of discovering the true face of the man who sat at the head
of the table.

The gathering broke up swiftly after that, people filing out of the room in
pairs and small clumps, talking animatedly or whispering. "General. A moment
of your time?" Golub paused, nothing in the bronze mask of his face
betraying whatever surprise or apprehension he might have felt. Approaching
him, Dorogov clasped his shoulder and whispered something, pausing only to
turn around and fix his eyes on Vazhin as the latter moved toward the door.
"You, too, Colonel. I would like to ask you a couple of questions."

"Yes, sir."

Prudently moving back, so that both of the conversationalists could be
absolutely sure that he wasn't in a position to eavesdrop, Vazhin bit the
inside of his cheek, fighting the sudden itch in his dead eye. It would not
do to take off the patch and scratch it right now, not at all.

The hushed conversation continued for several minutes, the general towering
over Dorogov like a sycamore over an oak sapling. And yet nothing in the
overall effect suggested to an outside observer that the smaller man was or
even looked intimidated. Looking down at the president and even dwarfing
him, Golub still looked only slightly bigger than his part, a subordinate.
No question as to who held the power in this room.

Suddenly the general's expressionless face cracked slightly and the blue
eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly toward Vazhin. A second later he
nodded, saluted stiffly and left.

Living, Alexei and Dorogov alone.

Dorogov, stood with his back to Vazhin for another moment, scribbling
something in his pad. Eventually he sighed and, shaking his hand, apparently
slightly cramped now, he turned around, smiling ruefully. "You'd think that
by now I'd get a hang of paperwork. God knows, I get enough practice."

"Yes, sir."

The blond man's grin weakened and for a moment Alexei could have sworn he
saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes. Even if that was true, it passed
quickly enough as Dorogov turned away from him again and walked back to his
chair. "I was impressed with your report, Colonel. With severely limited
resources you have managed to achieve a result almost as satisfactory as
either FSB or GRU. Not a perfect job, but as I've said... I recognize the
external constraints that you're subject to."

"Thank you, sir."

"Yes. You're an exceptionably able man, Alexei Mikhailovitch. But that's
hardly news. You've proven as much, again and again."

Dorogov paused before his chair, clasping his hands behind his back. Still
not facing Vazhin, he whistled softly and shook his head. "I know what
you're doing, of course. It's painfully obvious. And.. well, I don't blame
you. Reikov is corrupt. Worse, he's an imbecile." The president of the
Russian Federation finally turned around, fixing Alexei with cold blue eyes.
"He also doesn't take me seriously. Do you?"

Hell yes.

"Hell yes, sir."

"That's good. That's very wise." Vladimir Dorogov smiled thinly and went
back to pacing the room again, the rolled up piece of paper drumming against
his leg. "Now. You might wonder why I allow Reikov and his breed into my
Cabinet. But I doubt that. Prove me right, Colonel. Impress me. Tell me the
reason."

Welcome to Big Time.

"Oligarchs, sir. You don't have a choice."

Dorogov's pacing slowed for a second, as he stumbled, but resumed almost
immediately. "Do continue, Colonel."

Vazhin moistened his suddenly dry lips, thinking furiously. The situation
was hardly secret. The sudden, almost overnight shift from the march along a
socialist highway toward communistic paradise to a market economy resulted
in predictable economic chaos. With most of the country coming up snake
eyes. But in every game there has to be a winner. Or several. Those in
position or with brains or guts enough to make a grab for a piece of the pie
as the State owned industries, which basically encompassed 99 percent of
everything, suddenly went private. Not all of them of course. But enough. Up
for grabs.

When the dust cleared there they were. Former ministers, or factory
directors or bank managers or Nouveau Riche or mafiosos. With enough brains
and hunger to see the golden opportunity. The Robber Barons of new Russia.
Made rich beyond their wildest dreams and in control of entire chunks of the
country's lifelines like energy or media.
Men who would be kings.

The Oligarchs.

Gorbachev didn't see them coming until it was too late. They backed
Yeltsin's reelection. And he left them alone for a while. He was busy
holding the country together as it bled in stupefied shock. And when he did
become aware of them growing and carving out huge empires it was too late.
Besides their aims never directly contradicted his and in many ways they
were as one. So a truce became a status quo. They bided their time and
waited. And when the time was right they threw their weight behind Dorogov.
Most of them anyway. Some protested. They wanted to back Chernomyrdin, a
former energy minister who himself did quite well as capitalism settled in.
But their faction lost and a former KGB man backed by Yeltsin and bankrolled
by most of the oligarchs became the president. And they never let him forget
who gave him the Kremlin.

No more than 20 men, rich on a scale beyond most people's imaginations,
aspiring to control the country from the shadows. To be the power behind the
throne. From the fortress-like offices, protected by private security
details, size of small armies, and the bought status of Duma delegates that
made them exempt from criminal prosecution, they played their political
connections and ordered the music. And so far Dorogov nodded, jumped as high
as he was told and danced their dance.

But Vazhin had seen the signs. This was not a man who liked to be a puppet.
Something was in the works.

Alexei suddenly became aware of Dorogov's stare and realized that he had let
the pause stretch too long. Embarrassed slightly he coughed and decided to
cut straight to it, forgetting the consequences. "Do you think you're strong
enough to finally take them on, then?"

Dorogov grinned. "Ah. There is that infamous Vazhin candor. And to answer
your question - no. Not yet. That's why Reikov is where he is. Although they
could have saddled me with someone who has at least a semblance of a
braincell... Ah, well. Their time will come. And that's why your job is so
important, Colonel." The grin disappeared gradually and Vazhin felt his
blood run cold. Dorogov decided to let the mask slip and let him see his
true face. The tiredness, the stubborn determination and, if one looked
deeper something ugly and dangerous, the IT that every politician has in a
far corner of his soul. The beast. The moment passed and Dorogov chained the
beast again, letting the mask fall back in place.

This is a good leader. Perhaps a great one, Vazhin surprised himself with a
sudden realization. Perhaps, if anyone can, he'll be able to play both the
army and the oligarchs and come out on top.

"I need time, Colonel." Dorogov rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Time to push the
tax reform through. Time to reorganize the army and clean up the bloody mess
of our jurisprudence. And I need to muzzle the oligarchs, to give the
Kremlin some real power back. But I need time most of all. I can't start
anything if I am in danger of losing people's support. It's the only
leverage I have. I am their golden boy. And I can't attack the oligarchs
directly because any talk of complete deprivatization will spook the Western
moneymen. We need those investors. So as you can understand, I don't relish
the prospect of my capital city descending into fiery chaos, just now. Mmm?"

"Yes, sir."

Stopping at a seemingly unremarkable spot on the wall Dorogov pushed a
hidden button and the camouflaged section disappeared, revealing a window
overlooking Moscow. "It's there, you know. Peter's and Catherine's Russia.
It's there - great and waiting to gleam brilliantly once again. It's there.
We just have to clear away all this dross and crap... all the shit that
hides it. Wash it off. We dreamt a great dream once, Alexei. And our dream
changed the world for one shining moment. It withered, turned into a
nightmare and died. But it was a great dream once. We forgot how it feels.
And so we sink into this gray existence, subsisting on gray and tasteless
fare of borrowed culture and values. We can be great again, Colonel. We can
amaze the world once more. We just have to remember how to dream again."

Vazhin swallowed almost painfully, trying to break the spell and fighting to
find something to say.

His attempts were interrupted as Dorogov suddenly turned around smiling, and
shaking of the sudden atmosphere, "But. Back to you, Colonel. I will give
you what you want. I will give you the opportunity to speed Reikov's
downfall. And I will give you the chance to prove that your agency should be
resurrected. I shall instruct FSB and others to cooperate with you fully.
They'll ignore me and stab you in the back as soon as you let them, of
course, but you should be able to get something out of this. You have an
impressive intelligence network still, of your own, so I've instructed
General Golub to help you where you need it most." Dorogov raised his right
hand waving the rolled up piece of paper. "This authorizes a detachment of
Omega Brigade to function under your direct command for the duration of this
operation."

He chuckled suddenly, as apparently Vazhin's wary suspicion became obvious.
"Ah. Well. It's good to know that even you do not know everything. Not
familiar with Omega Brigade yet? I assure you, that will change. You know
General Golub's reputation and I assume you researched his career, ne?"

Vazhin frowned, looking for the hidden point of the question. "A capable
soldier. Recommended by his officers early and recruited into spetsnaz.
Served through Afghanistan with distinction, from the very beginning.
Participated in the drop on Kabul and taking of the palace." A legendary
operation that, when Alfa commandos and KGB spetsnaz were dropped in advance
of the invasion and in a matter of hours secured the palace, eliminated the
current ruler and most of his security detail, took the airport and held
their positions until the reinforcements arrived. Suffering only a single
casualty. Vazhin shook the stray ruminations off and furrowed his brow;
"During the Kabul drop he caught the eye of the then Alfa commander -
Colonel Karpuknin. Who groomed him through the rest of the war."

Dorogov nodded "And after. In fact they're still on very good terms."

Alexei's eyes narrowed slightly. Karpuknin, a not so minor legend in his own
right, was a 52-year old General now with solid contacts in the community of
Russo-Afghan veterans, for whom he served as spokesperson frequently.

Dorogov smiled and cast his eyes ceilingward. "Yes. Very capable man, our
general. He even impressed Major Boyarinov in his time. Do you remember the
Major?"

Vazhin's suspicion hardened into something much more tangible. Major
Boyarinov had led the detachment of KGB's Section 8 during the self-same
Kabul operation. Section 8 - Department Eight - Vosmerka, the infamous part
of the bureau that supplied the personnel for 'active response'. I. E.
special ops.

Dorogov's smile widened slightly, showing fangs. "See, the good major and I
had a talk some time ago. It was high time, I decided to finally start that
military reform. And what better way to start than with our sadly neglected
'elite forces.' General Golub agreed wholeheartedly."

Vazhin swallowed weakly.

"Yes. Modern Alfa and Vympel and Vytiaz and the rest of our Special Forces
are not what they once were. For many reasons. Thus the Omega Brigade was
born. And the good general's clout and contacts helped immensely. To find
those who would train, recruit, reinstill the old traditions and esprit de
corps. And we spared no expense in this at least. It's hardly up to the
numerical standards of old. Only 1500 at the moment. But these are the
absolute best of old and new. Those we were able to lure back or recruit
outright. And we continue still. From what I'm given to understand the size
is expected to swell to 5000 by the end of the year."

Dorogov's hand suddenly moved with a speed hardly believable of this
seemingly harmless man, sliding the piece of paper across the table's length
toward Vazhin. "You are not getting money. Well..." Dorogov chuckled
humorlessly, "Not more than necessary. Wouldn't do for you to go under right
in the middle of this. But the bare minimum - to keep you above red line, no
more. And you're not getting the best of the best - I need them myself. You
get the 'prospects.' The ones currently retraining. And you're not getting a
lot of them."

Vazhin slowly reached for the paper and, without lifting it off the table,
straightened the rolled up sheet and read the words.

Thirty?! That's it?

Cold and furious realization for letting himself be deceived started to
uncoil in the pit of his stomach. He's trying to end me.

"And I'm not setting you up for a fall. Thirty of these men should be
enough. They're quality." Dorogov sounded faintly amused. "All of them
blooded veterans. Retrained. The only drawback is that they are keshmesh.
Drawn from a bunch of places and units. Haven's seen action together yet.
You'll shake them down for me."

Great. Just fucking wonderful.

But the morose thought didn't come naturally. The first reaction was fierce
content. And Vazhin wasn't at all sure that he hid it adequately from his
president. Whose amusement deepened.

"They should be enough if used right. Trust me." Dorogov finally sunk into
his chair steeppling his hands and narrowing those hard, cold brilliant
eyes. "I know that Reikov's idiocy is not really responsible for this Parkov
person's possession of Neo weapons. I saw the records. Not enough was stolen
to account for... " Dorogov didn't finish, eyes growing colder still. And
Vazhin found the sight strangely satisfying. This one actually cared about
causalities.

"In any case - he is getting the ammo somewhere. The theft of confiscated
arms is a cover. No more. There are Neo in my city, colonel. I would like
you to find them for me."

"Yes, sir."

The cold stare did not abate. "And do it right. I don't want this getting
monumentally ugly. Don't go on your own private crusade against Mafia.
Parkov, Neo... and their 'hand' in the Kremlin. That's it for now."

Vazhin nodded and let a bit of hesitation show on his face. "Sir..."

"Speak."

"I see that you're putting much faith into General Golub. And I respect the
man myself but..."

The President let escape another chuckle, "... but what if he's the 'hand'?"

"Yes, sir."

Dorogov's chuckle died. "Hear me well, Colonel. I appreciate that you did
not attempt to frame Reikov's in connection with this mess, without having
facts. Did not attempt to play in the muddied waters and roil them further
in order to ruin a competitor. And I realize that you're not casting
suspicion on the general, out of selfish reasons. I realize these things and
they speak well for you. I also realize that I am asking in large part for
you to make bricks without straw." He chuckled again, a little bitterly.
"The Russian way, ne? Among the other things however I'll ask of you this -
trust me."

Yeah. Right. Pull another one, that one's got bells on it.

Dorogov smiled, a small and somewhat sad expression. "Trust me on this at
least, Alexei. Golub isn't the man. He wants power, of course. But he knows
his duty and for now I'm his only way to rebuild the army. He's faithful for
now and when he stops he'll come for me in the open."

...and I will stomp him into the ground bloody and broken, went unspoken but
tacitly understood.

"Get me Neo, Colonel. And do it fast."

Vazhin nodded curtly and saluted automatically before leaving the room.

As he slid along the corridors toward the exit, his president continued
sitting motionless for several moments before sighing deeply and speaking
softly, "We came up together, you know. Vazhin and me. Though the Agency.
Just went different ways after a bit. He got unlucky and I didn't. But he
keeps coming back. And will continue until they put him down. They don't
call him Mongoose for nothing."

If Vazhin had been able to see the room he'd exited shortly before, he would
have cursed long and bitterly, condemning himself for a fool and amateur.
Even so, eventually Alexei would wonder about the fact the Dorogov was alone
in the room. He would wonder and nourish the suspicion. He would scornfully
throw away the stray supposition of trust. And eventually he would guess the
truth. Cool and rational by that time he would take it calmly. And these
suspicions would start to grow even as he approached the elevator, some ways
from the room, even now. They would be interrupted however as he passed
Reikov on his way. Passed him and continued on his way, until driven by an
impulse of sheer childishness he paused and turning around very deliberately
winked at the startled bureaucrat. And smiled. As a recently sated leopard
would smile at a fat hyena who's laughing, absolutely sure of its safety in
the middle of its pack. Safe - for now. Potential for future?

Vazhin entered the elevator and pressed the ground floor button. His smile
held as the door closed and his own reflection looked back at him.

As a leopard might look at its own reflection in a river's water, listening
to hyenas laugh at a distance. Safe for now. The hunter is fed.

Potential for future?

Lunch.

And Vazhin grinned coldly again. Content.

But if on that day he had been able to see inside the room as the shadows
along one of the corners seemed to part and a slim, dark man emerged he
would damn himself for a simpleton.

President's bodyguard looked at the door and raised an inquisitive eyebrow
"You think he'll take 'em?"

Dorogov grinned, a wolfish and remorseless expression. "Vazhin? Understaffed
and underfinanced? Against the most powerful Mafia baron in the city armed
by and supported by Neo and some as of yet invisible political powermonger?"

The smile thinned. "Oh, those sorry bastards are fucked."

***

"Shuddap! And getcher ass down, fool!" The gunman winced and sunk his nose
into the floor, eyes tightly shut, hands firmly on his head. Logan didn't
blame him a bit. Armen was pacing the warehouse, in what appeared to be a
frothing fury, swearing in Farsi -the possibilities of Russian and Arabic
exhausted by now. In addition to which the little Georgian was still toting
both guns. And still looked more than eager and willing to send someone to
Paradise or the nearest equivalent.

The Canadian X-Man shook his head and returned to examining the confiscated
weapons, while carefully rolling up his pants' leg. He was wrong, the
Kalashnikovs the laid at his feet were not 47s. He whistled softly. "Damn.
101s. They didn't even finish getting this to the army yet. And I'm not even
talking about the Coil." He glanced at Ruchenko, who was sitting sullenly in
the corner, holding his head.

"Nice deal you got going for yourself here, bub. Pity if you'll have to die
here in this stinking hole, and not get to enjoy the fruits of your labor. "

Ruchenko's eyes narrowed into hostile slits and he spat, missing Logan just
by inches. "If I talk I'm dead anyway."

Armen growled something completely unintelligible from the sidelines and one
of the gunmen appeared to have fainted. Logan smiled grimly. "There are ways
and ways of dying, Mr. Ruchenko." He finally finished fiddling with his
pants and slowly carefully straightened his leg. Still splattered with blood
and mud, the wounds have already healed. He sighed deeply and let his claws
out. Ignoring a small gasp from one of the goons he sighed again and
gritted his teeth.

"Oh! Oh, God!"

"Bozhemoi..." Ivan forgot about Armen standing behind him and crisscrossed
himself, his eyes wide and unbelieving fixed on Logan as the latter,
snarling silently, forced the claw deeper into his ankle. The soft,
plopping, ugly sounds of flesh being cut and blood pumping filled the small
cleared area amidst the rubble for seconds until Logan grunted and
carefully, tantalizingly, torturously slowly removed the claw with a crimson
dripping object on the end.

He grunted again, this time in satisfaction and with a negligent flick of
the hand sent the small object flying. The remnant of an AK bullet hit the
floor with a soft clang and continued to roll for seconds until stopping in
front of Ruchenko. The latter's eyes seemed to be glued to the bullet, but
eventually he swallowed sharply and raised a suddenly pale face to meet
Logan's impassive stare. "Well? Do we talk?"

And inevitably they did. Ruchenko eventually shrugged off the shock, and
proved to be a gold mine of information. Apparently the big man realized
that at this point his best bet was on Armen and Logan taking out his boss,
before the latter found out about the betrayal. "So you see, he gave me the
suit. I got 15 percent. I'm just a middle man."

Logan rubbed the day old stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "All right. What
about the Coil? Why'd you have heavy artillery here, for a regular buy?"

Ruchenko sighed and squinted tiredly. "I got jumped a couple of weeks ago.
Muti.. I mean mutants. One was like you - had a healing factor going. So I
invested in some better hardware."

Logan narrowed his eyes. Something seemed off in the black marketeer's eyes
and stance. "What else? Don't hold out on me now, Vitali."

Ruchenko sighed again, "All right, all right. The client? The one that put
the suit up for sale? He's got a partner. A couple of days after I sold the
suit, his people came looking for me. Wanted to pull the item off the
market. Got REALLY upset when I told them it was too late. Wanted to know
who bought it and all." Ruchenko's voice rose an octave in honest
indignation, "As if I'd betray my client's confidentiality! That's not the
way Vitali Ruchenko does business!"

Armen's face assumed a slightly pained expression and he coughed, a soft and
embarrassed sound. Ruchenko didn't notice, having gotten into the spirit of
the story.

"So they offer me a deal. If I want to continue operating in the city -
gotta flag the item. Told me if anyone came looking and asking about it or
where it came from... You know." Ruchenko gestured around the torn up
warehouse. "So when Armen here called me... I got my boys. But since those
guys that came seemed serious, I figured so would be the people they want to
put on ice. Hence the Coil." He sniffed. "Much good it did."

Logan chuckled softly and got up, his leg still a little stiff but holding
his weight. "All right. Now all you gotta do is give me their names and
whereabouts and I'm outta your life."

Ruchenko squinted, his eyes again almost disappearing behind his eyebrows.
"See. That's going to be a problem, friend."

Logan's face lost all humor and he regarded the large man with a stony
hawk-like patience. The latter shrugged, raising his hands, "Hey! Hey. No
need for all that. "I am not disclosing the name of the client and that's
final. You can castrate me if you want. Do it. I ain't giving you the name."
He sniffed again. "Can't. Against my ethics."

Logan's face darkened. And he made another step forward, but Armen stopped
him. "Never mind, kazo. I know who the client is." Ruchenko raised his
eyebrow, and Dumbadze shrugged smiling. "Yeah. Took me long enough, but you
dropped enough hints."

Ruchenko nodded and massaged his head again. "Are we done then?"

Logan's glared at him and his Georgian friend. "What about this mysterious
partner of his?" Armen shrugged and spread his arms.

Logan focused his glare on Ruchenko but the letter simply mirrored Armen's
gesture. "Swear to God, no clue who the guy is. Honest injun." His eyes slid
over the corpse lying not far from where he was sitting and he sighed, the
infinite sadness seemingly permeating the sound. "oh God. Borya... What am I
going to tell Masha..."

Logan stared at him for another moment, before silently turning around and
heading for the doors. Behind him Armen patted Ruchenko's shoulder, "Sorry
about how this turned out, Vitali."

"Ah. Nichevo. That's business, ne?"

Armen nodded, and holstering his guns, made as if to follow Logan.

"Ey." He turned around, giving Ruchenko a quizzical look.

"Give me a call when this is over. I think you were right about that
Kazakhstan venture."

***

The road was empty as far as the eye could see. His shoes hit the asphalt
but the hushed sound would disappear almost immediately, stolen by the warm
wind and carried away along with dust and dry grass. He walked on.

His thoughts danced erratically, jostling each other out of the way, fast
and empty. His mind unfocused, cataloguing the small details around him but
its grasp too slow to concentrate on anything tangible. He walked on.

The trench flapped against his legs, long and heavy, occasionally being
tugged away by the wind only to come back and curl protectively around him
moments later. Strangely, he didn't feel the undue heat. He walked on.

The sun frozen in the middle of the sky, a golden, unmoving disc. Its rays
comfortably warm on his face, slightly irritating stabs to his eyes forcing
him to shield them as he looked ahead, toward the horizon. The arid soil
surrounding the highway. The broken white line painted in the middle,
separating the road. He walked on.

It didn't seem out of the ordinary when the bird appeared. As the black form
approached and grew, he detachedly recognized it as a raven. And it did not
seem at all out of place as it circled him thricely before landing lightly
on his right shoulder. He walked on.

The small, sharp talons, that didn't puncture his trench but still made
themselves felt as the raven shifted on his shoulder. Its beak brushing
slightly against his ear, its wing ruffling his hair. The odd, soft
sensation of feathers on his face. He walked on.

And it did not seem at all unexpected when out of the corner of his eye a
dot appeared, behind him and to the left. As it grew closer, subtly, slowly
morphing into a shape of man, the shoulder length straight black hair and
leather trenchcoat flapping in the wind. His bare feet barely touching the
ground, softly measuringly cutting the distance between them until the man
finally fell into step with him. He walked on.

The quiet not-quiet of the road and the desert enveloped him in an almost
tangible blanket of warmth and security. The road, straight and empty, his
companions at ease with silence. No goal or purpose. Just the wind, the road
and the desert. He walked on.

The first words came softly and intricately wove themselves into the
pattern, stepping just in time between the wind and leaping gracefully out
of the sun's way. The dance continued, tugging them in and making them
welcome. Not a detail out of place, a strange, disturbing kind of peace, of
sleeping wakefulness and weird beauty. His thoughts fast and slippery and
too many. He walked on.

"So you finally made it, brother. I'd almost given up. Almost."

The carefree grin joined the pattern and the longhaired man danced lightly
to the side and back, the easy laugh adorning the pattern. His arms wide,
palms up to the sun. The sparkling almond eyes, the Manchu mustache, the
faintly Oriental features of the face, the bare feet striking the warm
asphalt. The raven shifted yet again and gazed at the barefoot dancer with
faint disapproval. Something caught his attention in the distance, and he
cupped his hand over his eyes, squinting. He walked on.

"You finally made it. I like you, brother. I didn't think I would. But I do.
You got game."

The turn defined the scene, as the road bent lithely and the sound of the
words chased after a stray cloud. The distance and time wavered, losing any
meaning or importance. He cupped his eyes again, as the building suddenly
loomed large by the wayside. The pattern shifted and sung to him and walking
was a wrong note to hit. So he stopped.

"Here we are then. The happy family." The leather coat whispered something
as the long-haired man danced away, leaping easily on the fence and walking
on the rim, still laughing soundlessly, the white teeth gleaming brightly.
The raven shifted yet again, the cold of his beak comforting against Pete's
cheek.

The wind came back stronger suddenly, and the sound of his own name pulsed
in his head like another heart, the pattern changed subtly yet again.

"See. That's my bro. You show 'em how, Pete." The laugh washed over him,
easy, rich and full. The man, his brother, his other half still stood atop
the fence, balancing himself with outstretched arms, his coat and hair
blowing in the wind, behind him and to the left. The woman sitting along the
fence suddenly became important, a detail, a twist in the puzzle -
impossible to overlook. Silent, her eyes hidden behind simple sunglasses.
Leaning against the fence, one leg under the other, red hair flowing in
graceful lines, rising and falling in the wind, brushing her red leathers.
She was important. A part of the pattern. A twist of the design, not to be
overlooked, he suddenly knew.

His brother laughed again and sunk into a crouch, still perched atop the
fence suddenly looking like a giant raven. He leaned forward slightly and
whispered something into Red Lady's ear. She did not react at first.

Time flowed around them. Thick as honey, almost thick enough to taste. He
looked around. Taking in the building itself. A simple wooden church.
White-paint, high steeple. His eye took in the empty yard and the rusted
tractor to the side.

She slowly raised her head, and even through sunglasses he could see her
eyes. Deep and ancient, young and restless, calm and hers. They met each
other's soul somewhere in between.

His brother laughed again. The timbre changing a little, imperceptibly,
unmistakably. The pattern shifted and expanded, contracted, grew and died.
Danced.

They were by the tractor. She sitting cross-legged on the hood, leaning
forward just a bit, her head propped up by one of the hands. The other
absently playing with her companion's hair as he sat by the front wheels.

She seemed sad. And white. Her pants were white; the jacket emblazoned with
a British flag seemed unimportant somehow. Her hair was blonde and careless.
She was looking at him, a discarded cigarette, unlit, lying by her foot. She
was looking at him, a bit sadly and seriously. Her fingers, long and slender
and strong, dancing slowly through the black hair of the man.

A man. In rumpled suit and white shirt with no tie. The wrinkle lines about
the corners of his mouth, a cigarette dangling from his lips. A coat lying
in a forgotten heap. He was looking at him, the black hair almost not quite
in his eyes, ruffled by the pale, long fingers. Serious, silent eyes. A bit
tired.

The raven prodded him slightly reminding him, warning him, prompting him.
The pattern shifted again and was calling. The road waited. The wind came
back and danced around his feet, with dust and dry grass, harrying him. He
nodded slightly to them. Adding something to the pattern, something
unplanned and his. A little twist. A brushstroke to the design that seemed
appropriate.

His brother laughed again. Happily surprised, amused, a rich, warming sound.

He walked on.

His raven on his shoulder.

The road was empty as far as the eye could see. His shoes hit the asphalt
but the hushed sound would disappear almost immediately, stolen by the warm
wind and carried away along with dust and dry grass. He walked on.

The trench flapped against his legs, long and heavy, occasionally being
tugged away by the wind only to come back and curl protectively around him
moments later. He walked on.

They stayed in the churchyard. He did not see them again.

He walked on.

***

The Pacrat banked sharply, eliciting cries of protest from its passengers.
From the cabin Domino's irritated voice echoed, advising the rest where
exactly they could put their complaints and how deep they should push them.

Thom winced. "Damn. That's just unhygenic on so many levels."

"She's right though." Joakim's soft musing firmly put an end to the
grumbling. "We've got to get under the air defense radars. If they spot us
at this point - they might not even bother asking questions."

Tabitha shrugged and sniffed. "We've done this tons of time. And we never
had to do no Immelmans."

She bridled at the silence that greeted her statement, looking at Sam
belligerently, "What? It's true! Tell 'em, Sam!"

Guthrie shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, "yeah, it's true, tab. But.. Well.
This was never exactly designed to go against fighters. Even when it was the
cutting edge of technology. Now it's near obsolete. And, well..."

Tabitha scowled darkly, knowing he was right, but unwilling to admit it.
PacRat WAS getting a bit worn around the edges. Still... She turned to the
window, away from the rest of the group and muttered to herself resentfully
about the injustice of it all.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, not noticing Joakim's smile. The kids were
handling it better than he thought. All of them. Considering how cramped the
'Rat was with a dozen people and 'bare-necessities' equipment piled into it,
he was half-afraid that temper would get the better of them during the long
trip. He cast his eyes around the crowded cabin. Most were napping; odd
seeing such old-soldiers habit as catching the little bit of sleep whenever
you can, is so these kids. So young. He smiled again a little ruefully. He
was not 35 yet himself. But in this company it made him feel as old as the
hills... His eyes stopped on Malchus and a little frown creased his brows.
The hawk-nosed man said very little and slept throughout most of the flight.
Maybe his years were catching up with him, Joakim chuckled silently. The
laugh died quickly as he looked at another sleeping form that worried him
far more. Pete had fall into a coma-like slumber several hours ago and his
had been a fitful sleep.

"What haunts your dreams, Peter?" Marek whispered softly, reaching over and
tugging a blanket over his friend. "What stalks you even as you sleep?"

He gazed at the unmoving form of Wisdom for a minute longer before turning
away and closing his eyes. Himself trying to attempt a little rest. He never
saw his friends move slightly, parting the dry lips. He never heard the
barely audible whisper. And honestly, who could blame him. It was just one
word.

"Brother."

***

Somewhere, deep inside Russia's capital city, on a balcony overlooking a
wide prospect, a tall man stood. Smiling and gazing into the night. His
fingers drumming absently on the rail, his grin widened as he looked into
the darkness and saw the pattern coming together. He laughed easily, a
lilting, soft, a rich, deep sound. "Oh, bother mine. We're going to have
such fun."