The Warrior with No Name
By The Odd Little Turtle Named Froggie
(Marvel owns the characters. I'm just writing a story about them.
Much passing of apologies all around. Some idiot at the cable department decided that it would be a good idea to disconnect the cable from the pole to my house instead of the neighbors who are moving. Grrrr. Boo. Hsss.
Input greatly appreciated, though not required.)
#
"Pun'kin, slow down," Logan said. He turned away from Breakstone Lake, walking a distance then turning sharply to the left and then back again to find a clearer signal. The reception was starting to bother him. He briefly entertained the idea of skipping the phone on the lake's surface like a stone and calling her from the mansion. Better reception all around. Whose idea was it to get a cell phone anyway? He never used it.
It was good to hear her voice. She didn't sound hurt or anything. He wondered where she was and why Ororo hadn't contacted him if she had finally found his pun'kin. He and Kitty hadn't talked since before the girl lit out the X-men's lives full of hurt and anger. He wasn't sure if it was really because of Nova's little mind fuck or Wisdom's death or what Ogun had forced her to do under his control. It might have been all three. In fact, it probably was. A body could only take so much hurt before it started to shut down.
When Kitty mentioned Illyana Rasputin though, he forced himself out of his reverie and listened intently. How in the hell--? "O' course I know Yana," he said, switching the phone to a different ear and heading back towards the mansion, "I promised her brother I'd look after—A fire!? Is she—"
"Fine, Wolvie," Kitty assured him, the line suddenly crystal-clear perfect. He stopped midstride lest he drop the call again. "She's fine. So's Peter. They're staying with me a while."
Well, how about that?
New York. God, she was in New York. How long she'd been there? Why was she there and not in her home town? After they had found the final diary of the future-seeing mutant Destiny, two of the students—two girls, one who called herself Blindfold, the other who called herself Armor—had gotten a hold of it. It mentioned a 'cat of the shadows' several times along with someone called the Darkchilde and someone called the Lightchilde. They didn't think it was very good, so the girls had conspired to find the cat of the shadows and ended up freeing several demons from the portal beyond the lake. That hadn't gone over well. After that little debacle was sorted out and cleaned up, Ororo had taken Armor, Blindfold and a few others in a small team to go and search for Kitty just before M-Day. Unfortunately, Blindfold lost her abilities after M-Day, and they were stuck trying to pinpoint Kitty's last location. The mission thus far had been slow going.
"The fire was on the news," Kitty continued when Logan hadn't been quick enough to pose a question. "Sixteen people lost their lives. All for the thrill of that damn arsonist."
"I didn't think the Bronx fire I saw on the news had to do with Pete or Yana," he said, itching to move from his precarious position as he was standing on one foot, the other poised to take a step. He reigned in his training and stood there perfectly balanced. "So it was the Bronx Serial Arsonist? How many'd that make fer that guy?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I haven't really been keeping up."
There was a pregnant pause, and Logan, not one to beat around the bush any more than necessary, took the initiative and posed a question.
"You gonna tell me why yer callin', darlin'?"
"I was getting to that," she said, her voice a whisper. "I'd prefer to—oh my God!" Kitty shrieked and the line went dead.
"Kitty?" Logan looked at the phone to verify that the connection was indeed lost. With a something very close to being panic entwining about his heart, squeezing the air from his lungs, freezing his brain, he rushed back to the mansion as fast as his legs would carry him.
Just before he barreled in through the back door, a thought struck him, and he dialed Peter's number continuing on his way to the lower chambers of the mansion. Hell, if Ruskie was staying with her, it couldn't hurt.
#
"Shouldn't you be taking it easy on her, Katya?" Piotr questioned, offered a broad hand to help his sister up off Kitty's living room floor. Kitty cocked her head to the side questioningly. "She's only fifteen."
"Peter," Kitty said, explaining things slowly as though she were talking to someone really slow on the uptake or a small child, "When I was fifteen, I was gallivanting across the time stream, struggling to find my teammates and our way back to earth. Before then as an X-man, with Lockheed's help we took out the Brood Queen's nest and before that when I was thirteen, I single-handedly defended the mansion from an N'garai demon. Oh, and I got possessed by Wolverine's old martial masters when I was fourteen and managed to almost kill Logan—" She frowned deeply—"At fifteen, Illyana should at least know how to block a leg sweep. Don't be so overprotective, Bear King. The only way to learn is to fall on your butt a few times. God knows I did."
Illyana stood without taking her brother's proffered hand and put both small hands on his chest, shoved. Hard. The big doofus didn't budge, only grinned down at her. She glowered at him in return. "I'm fine, Piotr." He sighed and returned to his spot on the floor near the television set. Though he had pushed the couch and end tables to the far side of the room along with several boxes of comic books and Playstation players' guides, he left the small entertainment center alone. It would have been too much trouble to disconnect Kitty's sound system, DVD player, television and five different gaming consoles. Let alone move her collection of science fiction and fantasy films. Her small desk and chair he'd simply picked up and placed on top of the couch.
He sighed and grabbed up his sketchpad and pencils. If he couldn't protect his sister or the beautiful woman tossing her around like a rag doll, at least he could draw them. He resigned himself to observe and draw. Although he detested his sister all but getting beaten up, the big Russian mutant watched with artist eyes, detailing their struggle with only the proficiency of twenty years of experience could give.
"Okay, Kiddo, let's try again," Kitty dropped into hachiji dachi—a figure eight yoi position, her arms forward, fists closed, elbows bent slightly preparatory to blocking her face and chest, her feet shoulder-width apart, toes facing forward. Illyana also relaxed into hachiji dachi. Kitty bit back a laugh. She looked at Illyana with a critical eye. Either Piotr's sister wasn't taking Logan's training seriously or Logan wasn't taking her training seriously, and Kitty seriously doubted it was the latter.
Woof. That would never do.
"No, not like that." She strode forward, gripped Illyana's forearms and adjusted her upper body into Naihanchi-dachi so that the girl was protecting herself and not leaving herself wide open. Nudging Illyana's feet into a much wider position, she nodded. "Much better." She demonstrated a punch, slowly inching her way towards Illyana's chest with her fist. "Now block." The new defensive pose allowed Illyana to grab Kitty by the wrist and swing her around in a slow but uncompleted throw maneuver. "Good. Again."
Kitty took up hachiji dachi again and Illyana dropped into Naihanchi-dachi. They began to circle each other. Kitty allowed the younger girl to strike first, an open-palm strike, but Kitty countered, pivoted and had her on the ground in an Aikido throw before Illyana could so much as blink.
As they went about in several displays of shotokan karate—though Kitty used several other kinds of martial arts, very much impressing Piotr—all of which had Illyana landing in varying positions on the cream-carpeted floor, Piotr took in Kitty's womanly curves, enjoying the way she filled her jeans, the embroidered back pockets accentuating the roundness of her bottom, the bottoms flaring out accentuating the feminine strength of her legs. Piotr no longer viewed her with an artist's perception, but of a man's, and he found himself marveling at the way her breasts jiggled ever so slightly when she moved.
He found himself wanting to be in Illyana's place, a hot longing curling deep in his gut at the thought of being thrown and pulling Kitty down on him, their hips joined perfectly, his mouth hot on hers. He shook his head to clear it, assessed his drawing and felt his face grow warm. On the paper was not the scene before him, but the scene from the bathroom earlier. Kitty, in her naked glory, stretched on her belly on the tile of her tiny bathroom, one leg straight, the other skewed, bent at the knee, her heart-shaped face looking up, surprised etched in the features. Her curly, dark hair was splayed over her back, her shoulders, and the tops of her breasts. He'd captured the scene perfectly. Piotr swallowed, his pulse quickening. He'd drawn her butt.
White Wolf. She's Logan's. He couldn't be drawing Logan's woman naked in his sketchbook, but he loathed to tear out the page and wad it up. For one thing, he didn't want either of the two sparring women to find it. That would be beyond mortification for him. He did not think Kitty would appreciate being drawn so—exposed. Kitty did not wear her emotions for all to see. And he had subjected his sister to enough naked women in this lifetime.
For another, he was an artist. This drawing was of a quality that he hadn't been able to do in years. When Zilya died, his muse had mysteriously vanished. Though he owned his own gallery that he kept stocked with paintings and drawings, the sales had been slowly shrinking over the years.
He sighed. I finally found my muse and she belongs to someone else. Irritation flared along with something black and vicious and altogether mean and wound itself tightly around his heart. In a heartbeat the beast was slinking away and in another breath had withdrawn completely.
He found it distressing that had he been a few years younger, he would have acted on his jealousy, his honor be damned. He shook his head to clear it. This was Kitty he was thinking about. His friend. Someone he got on with famously and he wasn't about to screw it up by causing a bigger rift between her and her lover, even if it appeared they were having a tiff. Getting challenged by Logan--or even fighting Logan—for her affections was not on his to-do list.
He concentrated on the sparring sessions between Katya and Snowflake, determined to draw them properly.
"Okay," Kitty said after several bouts, clicked her tongue. She stepped back and assessed Piotr's baby sister with her searching odd-colored eyes. Gold, brown and green reflected in the living room's overhead light. From her position on the floor—flat on her back and breathing heavily—Illyana felt like running and hiding. This was way beyond embarrassing. The pink staining her face was no longer due to being out of breath. "Whatever the hell Logan's been teaching you, it ain't workin. That was the worst punch I've ever seen. Ever. Do you even practice any kata?"
"Logan and I practice every chance we get," Illyana said defensively, grabbing Kitty's proffered hand.
"Listen, Padawan, kata and kumite are two separate things." She used Illyana's inertia as she hauled her up, pivoted and flipped her back onto her back. Illyana scowled from her new position on the floor, sitting up on her elbows. "And you should've seen that coming from a mile away." Illyana flipped herself up again.
But Kitty shook her head when Illyana positioned herself in a yoi stance. "Haven't had enough of landing on your ass?"
"I can handle it." She frowned.
"Right." Kitty was suddenly on her ass as Piotr swept her feet out from under her using a sweep that Cyclops had taught him long ago.
"Hey! What's the big idea?" Kitty demanded. She looked up him as smile played across his face.
"My turn."
#
(Next chapter forthcoming. BTW-Me no karate. I R a whimp. Hope it was accurate. Wikipedia and few other martial arts sites came into play.)