The Warrior with No Name
By The Odd Little Turtle Named Froggie
(Here's wishing they were mine… some of them are, others – not so much
Much love to the commentators, much love to the readers without the commentary too…
Input needed, wanted, loved and et cetera.
Quick question: What the heck's Illyana's middle name? If I've messed up, let me know… for this story I'm using Nikolievna, since her father's name was Nicholai, and women are essentially owned by the men in Russia—or used to be—and I saw it spelled that way somewhere… and that version is likely misspelled...
and chapter 4 has been fixed to describe Sal's new appearance...)
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Maybe Peter will call in the morning? Or should I call him? God, I feel like a teenager or something.
I cannot believe I listened to Sal—Sal!
Of all people.
Don't get me wrong, I love her to death, but she's fun for going to get tattoos and talking about love interests. Not actual set ups. Her taste in men is completely different from mine. I guess I should thank her for setting me up with Wally the Worm. Hey, after all, I met someone nice for a change. In New York.
Too bad he's just on boy time instead of girl time. Damn him.
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"Piotr Nikolievitch Rasputin!" Illyana Rasputin glared at her brother, her kohl-ringed baby blue eyes spitting fire at him.
Halting his chopping, looking across the kitchen island at the fiery girl, Piotr said in his native Russian, "But, Snowflake, you will like Katya. She is very sweet."
"Like Tiffani?" his sister asked, sickly sweet. He made a snorting noise and went back to chopping. He regretted introducing Illyana to that control freak. "Or Rebecca? Or Helga? Or Mika? Or Charlene? Or –"
"That is enough, Illyana Nikolievna." Oh, yes, he seriously regretted introducing her all those women—conquests—was the only word he could think of. They had been nothing but bedmates picked at random times, sometimes when he'd been drinking heavily, others because he had simply wanted to draw them, all times to relieve his needs. Being an artist meant he could have as many women convinced to strip for him as he wanted. It continued to amaze him that many women he met jumped at the chance to pose for his sketchbook. Helga, he remembered, had beautiful hands. He had drawn her hands and a few nude poses of her. Her images were in one of his many sketch books. He thought he remembered Rebecca having excellent toes for drawing and had also added her toes and nudity to a sketchbook. He didn't even remember a Mika or Charlene. Over the years, he had forgotten many. It was a good thing. Women were trouble. Using his knife, he began sliding the vegetables into the pot of boiling water on the stove. "Katya is different."
His Gothic sister only arched a delicate brow at him. "How?"
With a shrug, he said simply, "She is my friend."
"Not good in the sack, huh?"
Piotr nearly dropped the chopping block into the stock pot. "Illyana Nikolievna! Watch your mouth!" He put the block in the sink, and added quietly, "Katya and I are not romantically involved. She and I are friends, comrades. Nothing more."
Illyana only sighed dramatically rolling her eyes heavenward as her brother washed up. She regarded his muscled back, watching the annoying way the blue fabric stretched across his broad shoulders. Didn't he know that shirt was too small for him? she wondered, but banished the stray thought almost as soon as it started. Of course he did. Her brother was gorgeous, and he knew it and let everyone else know it too. It was the way he carried himself, the way he dressed, the way he would talk to any woman that attracted him. That's why he got to go home with so many women. At least he hadn't gone home with anyone this weekend. Now that she thought about it, he hadn't done it in a good while. Not that he told her about every one of his conquests, but in the weekends that she visited him in the last three or four months, he hadn't said anything about his latest "date."
"What does this Katya look like?" she asked wondering if her brother had already convinced the woman to pose nude for him. He pointed to a sketch pad on the bar. She opened it to the first page and there in the center of the page stood a sad woman looking as if she were—wet? Illyana made note that it appeared to be raining, and woman's clothes appeared to cling to her. And the hair, though curly, looked matted and stringy. The pained look on the woman's face was heart wrenching. A large hand in the foreground reached out to her. Piotr's hand? It seemed to have his likeness. Her brother's distinct handwriting in the corner said "Distressed Kitten" in Cyrillic letters. The pose was—odd. All his other models had looked happy or at the very least contented to be sketched by him.
Illyana looked questioningly at Piotr, but her brother still had his back turned as he stirred the boiling vegetables. He'd begun to hum softly, ignoring her. She narrowed her eyes, zeroing in on the back of his head.
Catching her reflection in the microwave door, he chuckled. "Your face is going to freeze that way, Snowflake."
She huffed, turned the page and saw a profile of a woman with an aura of curls about her head, her nose upturned, and her chin elfin-like. Assuming it was the same woman, this pose was odd, too. The woman's lips were quirked, and she held a fork in one hand, the other was gesturing, like she was about
to say something. A bowl of salad rested on the surface in front of her. Illyana had never seen her brother draw such a sketch. It was as though he'd merely caught a moment of the woman's time. The image was labeled "Kitten's lunch" in English.
Another page, another odd pose. This time the woman was asleep on what appeared to be Piotr's couch. She looked peaceful curled under Mama's quilt, her corkscrewed locks spilling out over her delicately drawn hand, over the pillow on which her head rested. Katya was fully clothed. Illyana recognized the letters scrolled across the tee-shirt the image wore as one of Piotr's large shirts. This drawing's label was also in English: "Napping Kitten."
Illyana flipped through the rest of the drawings, dismay growing. Piotr had filled his sketchbook of this woman. Some of the images featured this Katya with self portraits of her brother, of herself, of Mrs. Brogan. The last page caught her completely off guard. Her niece stared back at her, her smiling, cherub face just as the teenager remembered her, Zilya Piotrova Rasputin's large eyes big and bright. Breath catching, heart clenching, Illyana muttered a curse. Katya was holding Piotr's late daughter, both smiling looking straight ahead. An unfinished male head looked over both head's, a partial hand resting on Katya's shoulder. It was drawn in the style of a family portrait.
Disgusted, the young Russian looked up, right into her brother's deep blue eyes. He took the book from her, gazed at the image, his long fingers tracing Zilya's chubby face fondly. "I haven't completed this one yet." Rubbing his eyes with his finger and thumb, he closed the sketchpad one-handedly and sat on a stool facing his sister. "I'm not going to," he told her. She could only glare at him. She knew the meaning of the picture even he refused to acknowledge it.
Perched on his stool, Piotr reached over to the bar and grabbed another sketchpad, slid it across the island to her. When she opened it, she wasn't surprised to find Katya looking back at her, a warm smile on the woman's face. This book only held six drawings, one of which was Illyana in her full Goth attire. She looked ready to take on the world.
"You filled up your sketch book," Illyana said, breaking the silence as she leaned her elbows on the cold steel top of the island.
Piotr only nodded, gave a small shrug. "I told you. She is different."
"And you aren't 'romantically involved?'"
He chuckled mirthlessly, got up and went to the fridge. "No."
"Why not?"
"I like her, Snowflake." He set the raw chicken on the kitchen island.
Illyana watched him as he prepared the chicken to cook. Her brother had had many women, and she was sure it wasn't just for poses. She'd seen some of the more naughty poses he'd done. "Didn't you like the others?"
"They were different." He added cooking oil to his skillet.
"Piotr, that doesn't make any sense."
He only grinned as he added the chicken.
"Why so many, Piotr Nikolievitch?"
The large Russian man didn't know if she were referring to his drawings or to his women. "What do you mean?"
"Katya," she indicated the closed book in front of her with her small hand. "Your sketchbook. Why so many?"
"Katya is temperamental."
Illyana cast a worried look in her brother's direction. "I thought you said she's sweet."
"She is. She has an inner beauty that I cannot capture in my art. It's very illusive. I could probably draw her every day for the rest of my life and never do her justice." Throwing his hands up, he sighed at his loss for words to describe her.
Illyana flipped through the first book, studying the images again. Inner beauty? Must be an artist thing, she thought, and then stated, "You don't have any nude pictures."
Piotr felt himself blush. He bent his head, studied his hands. "I haven't asked her, and I don't plan on asking her."
"Why not?" she inquired, tilting her strangely streaked blonde hair to one side, "You're an artist. You're entitled."
"I'm afraid to ask, Illyana Nikolievna."
She gave an unladylike snort, met his gaze, challenging him. "Chicken."
"Da. I don't want to lose her friendship."
"She's really important to you, da?"
"I've known her less than three days, Illyana," he said, added the cooked chicken to his vegetable broth, added seasoning and a package of egg noodles.
"Usually you've moved on by now." Illyana flounced into the living room, picked up Mikhail who all but wailed her displeasure from being awoken from her nap.
"Would you prefer I went out and found a girlfriend?" he questioned angrily, looking over the bar at her, disliking the way she was holding Mikhail. Mikhail flailed in his sister's arms, meowing loudly. "You're going to get scratched."
Illyana only tightened her grip on her captive. "Why doesn't your damn cat like me?"
"You've stepped on her too many times."
"Would Katya like it?"
"Like what?" Getting stepped on? He tilted his black haired head to the side, his blue eyes searching his sisters' matching ones.
"Finding you a girlfriend," she stated, dropped the cat and bounced onto the couch.
Piotr almost told her that Goths weren't supposed to bounce or flounce or anything of the sort. They were supposed to be depressed and mope around. Instead he told her, "Katya and I are only friends. She has a friend that says she's lonely and sets her up on dates."
"You're lonely, too, Piotr Nikolievitch."
"I am not lonely." He pointed to Mikhail who looked as though she were plotting his sister's demise as they spoke. "I have a cat."
"Piotr!" She looked scandalized. "That's not the same!"
"It is for now." He clicked his tongue and Mikhail sauntered over to him purring, winding her lithe little body and tail around his leg. The big Russian man stroked the cat's back, and she rose to meet him mewling and purring simultaneously.
Illyana harrumphed, crossing her arms, pouting. "I haven't stepped on her that much."
He chuckled. "Sometimes she likes to be held, others not so much."
#
Peter Parker, AKA the Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, swung down to street level searching for the street sign that would tell him where in the Bronx he was. A car alarm was sounding in the distance, but he ignored it for now. Police sirens could be heard just south of him. Or was it north? He'd never actually had to pay attention to where he was going and had already stopped three hoods from burglarizing a home just east of his position—or west, he thought grimly.
Landing gracefully on the top of the sign post, he knew he was hopelessly lost. Hadn't he just seen this street sign? Where the hell was—
"Spiderman!" a dark-skinned youth yelled from below him. The man in question looked down at the boy. He didn't look much older than ten, his baggy clothes effectively hiding him, a black rag over his cornrows.
"That's me," Parker said, glad he was wearing a mask. After all these years of being a web-slinger and the awe in a kid's voice still had him flushing with glee. Of course, he abhorred what he was about to ask the boy standing beneath the sign. Biting his lip, knowing that it had to be done, he asked, "Say, kid, d'you know where Pelham Parkway South is?"
"Nope."
Naturally. Spiderman sighed and tried to rethink his route last night. I've gotta get a GPS system installed in this thing, he thought to himself, referring to his costume.
"Thanks, kid." With that he sprang into the air, activating his web-shooter and attaching webbing to the nearest building. He arched his back and soared into the air, swinging hand over hand like a monkey.
Although the mask of his costume effectively muted out the odors of the city and dulled his hearing, the specialized goggles inside his mask used everything from infrared to night vision. He'd have to see about modifying his goggles with GPS after this little excursion.
Swinging and shooting webbing onto yet another building, Spidey tapped a built in button on his temple. The led light on the inside of his mask blinked the time into his retina. Eleven after midnight. Some people turned into pumpkins at midnight, he thought grimly, but pumpkins made him think of something else and promptly dropped the conversation he was holding with his mind.
Crawling up the side of a building, he wondered if he would even find anything. This was going to take all night. He only hoped nothing big happened before he got there.
#
Piotr's version of chicken noodle soup was crunchy.
Illyana wondered if her brother had taken lessons from Ms. Rogue. That woman was murder on the tongue, and, if the food actually got to point of being swallowed, it was murder on the stomach, too. Thinking about Ms. Rogue only conjured up images of what had happened earlier that day, so Illyana voiced her opinion yet a third time. And for the third time that evening, Piotr leveled her with a steely blue gaze.
"My cooking has improved, little Snowflake," he told her finally, shoving another spoonful into his mouth and chewing. The crunches only caused his sister's flaxen brow to rise in disbelief.
"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba," she groused, and picked around her half-cooked noodles.
Piotr got up from his stool and bowed eloquently. "Hail to thee, my Queen." Illyana swatted at him, gave a grin that didn't reach her eyes.
"You've lost your mind," she said, then gestured at his sketchbook with a graceful hand and mischievous smile, a look of satisfaction overcoming her expression when he looked away.
He sat down in silence and finished his crunchy soup. Soon afterward they retired to the living room to watch television. After a brief word battle about which movie to watch, Piotr relented and put first Lord of the Rings movie into the DVD player.
When the movie finished, he asked, "What happened at the school today?"
His baby sister's expression immediately closed down. Though he could sense her struggling, she appeared calm. Her trembling hands gave her away. She knotted them in front of her, twisting them pensively.
He forced a calm that he didn't know he had and waited for her answer. Something was wrong. It had taken a few years to draw her out of her self-imposed shell after she had phoned him from Russia when their parents had been killed, their farm destroyed. After child services had taken her away and the professor had intervened, she had come out of that shell, though sporting a new look. Piotr was forced to watch as his beloved sister crawled back into herself.
Illyana hugged her knees to her chest. "The danger room malfunctioned," she replied, but didn't say much else, even after Piotr prodded her. "I'm going to bed," she told him, getting up from the couch. Before he could ask anything further, she was gone, stepping through one of her disks.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he called out after waiting a moment. A thump against her bedroom door told him that she'd thrown her pillow at it. Rolling his azure eyes, he got up and walked down the hall.
He knocked on her door. "Snowflake?"
"I don't want to talk about it," her muffled voice came through the door.
No one wants to talk to me today, he thought, almost banging his head against the door. Aloud he pleaded, "Please?"
He waited, listening. Finally after several full minutes, the door opened a crack. A partial view of his sister's running makeup, her quivering black lips tore at his heart, and the larger Russian moved in an instinctive gesture of comfort, opening the door and enveloping her in a warm hug. Illyana sobbed brokenly into his chest, mumbling incoherently in both Russian and English as tears and black makeup stained her brother's shirt. He comforted her as best he could, not understanding that she had lost someone dear that day.
When most of the mutants had lost their abilities and powers, only weeks before, Illyana's best friend and paramour, Wing, had been one of the students at Xavier's to lose his telekinetic abilities. Wing had been allowed to stay while Dr. McCoy ran the initial tests.
"He committed suicide," she finally choked out, her thoughts jagged and painful. Why had he been so stupid? Dr. McCoy could fix anything given time. Illyana knew that in her heart of hearts, but Wing? Wing hadn't listened.
He suddenly felt ill-equipped to take up the task of comforting his sister. Piotr stroked a hand through his sister's hair. "Who did, Snowflake?"
It was at that point that all Hell broke loose.
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(bwahahahaha… ahem… I mean, stay tuned! My spider sense is tingling, how about yours?)