Illyana; Illyana and Pietro

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Illyana meets Pietro, while trying to solve a difficult problem.


August, 2006

“What do you mean, a leader?” she asked, hoping that her eyes were flashing as dangerously as she felt.

The demon seemed to swallow; a mimickry of human behaviour, meant to show that he didn’t appreciate the sun-bright sword she held at its throat. It was the only light in the dark night in Limbo, but she didn’t need much light. Not here. Not when she felt everything and knew everything about it. Or almost everything: “The other ones. They have a leader. He was here before.”

“Before when?” She pressed harder. This was taking longer - much longer - than she’d attended. If it went on too long, she was going to need excuses, and what did you say to someone who wanted to know what you were doing instead of your homework? Summer wasn’t so bad, but the entire situation was problematic. “Before when?” she repeated, turning her attention back outward.

“B-b-before you came,” it whispered, fright showing clear in its flat, inhuman eyes. “He came back.”

“How did he come back?” Frustration welled up in her from some unknown reserve, and her fingers clenched the hilt hard. She’d done this before. She’d finished this.

“It is not - impossible - if one knows the way to break through dimensions - “ The demon was cringing away from her, and she realized that she was close to killing her only source of information. Reluctantly, she withdrew.

“What does he want?”

“We do not know. We only know of his name, and his power.”

“And?”

“He is called N’Astirh. And his power is - great.”

She rubbed at her eyes, willing the headache currently situated right behind them to just - dissipate. It didn't, of course. She was resigned to a pretty much permanent headache, after her nightmarish week. Month.

Year.

Whatever.

It had been a long day - long, and so frustrating that she felt despair creeping in past her normally-robust defenses. Making her tired, and no a little hopeless.

More like exhausted. She wasn't exactly the poster child for keeping regular hours, so it felt almost normal to be making tea in the kitchen at a time when most people had gone to bed; but it also reminded her that she was making tea in the kitchen at a time when everything was spinning irrevocably out of control.

Her head jerked up, just a little, when she heard a sound from the door.

Pietro had come down in search of a snack; the kitchen was usually deserted this time of night, so he could have his pick of the leftovers without interference. Of course, a houseful of teenagers meant that it wasn't unheard of for him to run into someone else making a midnight snack run, but he didn't think he'd ever seen the blonde hovering over the teapot before. "We haven't met, have we?" he asked curiously as he opened the refrigerator.

She blinked at him, trying to place his face in the mass of new people she had mostly ignored, and came up blank. "No, I don't think we have," she said. "I'm Illyana Rasputin. I'm usually, um. Studying somewhere." At least the new guy couldn't call her on that. She felt obligated to add, a trifle suspiciously, "Are you a new teacher or something?"

"Not for all the money in the world," Pietro replied wryly. "I have enough problems without being forced to play herd-dog to a lot of unruly children. Pietro Maximoff, Brotherhood defector." He cocked his head. "Rasputin . . . oh, you'd be the sister of the only man more useless against my father than Logan, then?"

She snorted softly. "Bite your tongue. We're disowned. Although you have the good taste to call him useless, so that's a point in your favour." She paused. "Who's your father, then?"

Pietro favored her with the look he normally reserved for particularly dim hamsters or journal comments by Kyle Gibney. "That's 'Brotherhood' as in 'Magneto and the.'Though may I congratulate you on apparently having found a particularly sturdy rock to live under?"

Her eyes flashed up in annoyance, meeting his look head-on. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. Were you under the impression that everyone here spent hours memorizing every detail of every moment of your undoubtedly sad life? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I've had better things to do."

"Oh, I would have been tolerably impressed if you'd heard of me on my own merit." Pietro smiled briefly as he took the remains of a chicken-and-rice dish out of the refrigerator. "I've never been much for life in the public eye. My father, on the other hand, is a bit of a grandstander. Besides, especially at this school, you don't want to be the one standing around looking clueless if he should ever decid to come rip the roof off. What better things?"

"Studying," she said, shrugging, trying to brush off her annoyance. Though her sheer force of will was pretty strong, it sure didn't seem to be making the water boil any faster, and she tapped her fingers on the counter, waiting. "Plus, I'm the girl who grew up in a hell dimension, so I tend to prioritize the mansion drama as somewhere below watching the Discovery Channel and waiting in line at Starbucks. No matter who might be tearing off the roof."

"Oh, you're why everyone's favorite new-student hazing ritual involves airily referring to demon attacks? I'd wondered." Pietro slipped his chicken into the microwave. "However you came by it, I do applaud your attitude toward mansion drama. There are days when I wonder if this is a school or soap-opera actors' camp."

"Definitely the camp," Illyana said. Okay, so she'd missed the arrival of Magneto's son. Big deal. So what. "I can't believe they're still using that old story, though. We haven't had a demon invasion in . . . " She trailed off - not to count the years, but because that tightening feeling in her chest reminded her that she shouldn't really set the "no demon invasions" bar too high, at the moment. "Well, it's been a while. Anyway, the soap opera thing, that's definitely true. Even Dr. Phil wouldn't know what to do with them."

"Apparently you and they made a certain impression. I'm not sure if you should be flattered or I should offer my condolences, but your reputation seems to have stuck." He quirked an amused eyebrow. "Even Dr. Phil? I've generally been of the opinion that the man's a pompous ass."

"I've always maintained that if anyone needs a good firm shouting-at, it's these people," Illyana said with sincere feeling. "As I am no longer the person doing the shouting - that would probably be the reputation you mentioned - he's the next best thing."

Pietro contemplated the vision, and snorted. "It would be entertaining to watch, at least. Though I'm not sure how much good it would do. Why'd you stop? Fed up with the futility?"

"It wouldn't do any good, but it might make the rest of us feel better." She paused, apparently thoughtful. "And I just - lost interest, I guess." She shrugged, smiled a little - more ironic than anything. "I figured there had to be something more valuable to spend my time on than fighting. Although that was kind of fun."

"Heh. I sympathize." Pietro took his chicken back out of the microwave; his hand blurred over the food, and a moment later he was wiping juice from the corners of his mouth while he stacked the plate in the dishwasher. "Of course, I went almost directly from the Brotherhood to the X-Men, so what does that say about me?" He shot Illyana a dry grin. "Other than the insanity, I mean. The insanity is self-evident."

"Well, it either means you really like leather pants, or you've discovered an innate desire to spend as much time inside the medlab as out of it, in my experience." Her water finally boiled, so she busied her hands with the tea-bag and the pouring, glad for something to do. She was so unpracticed at this, and she felt raw and tired, stripped of her defences. She added, thoughtfully, "I guess it could also mean you're big on saving the world and all that mumbo jumbo, but usually it comes down to the pants or the medlab."

"I don't wear the standard uniform and I'm almost always too fast to get hurt." Pietro chuckled. "I don't think of it so much as savin the world as doing my bit to reduce the number of free-roaming idiots in it, though."

She snorted quietly, fiddling with her mug. "Well, that's a better reason than usual, then. Not that the free-roaming idiots don't tend to self-perpetuate; you're looking at a fairly Sisyphean task. But at least you got out of wearing the dumb-looking outfit."

"And clearly, since we have reality TV and Fox News, I haven't been doing nearly enough." Pietro shook his head. "As it happens I brought my very own dumb-looking outfit from my previous job--it may not be leather, but it doesn't shred above the sound barrier and it helps me avoid pesky things like radar."

She raised her eyebrows. "What, is your secret power the superhuman ability to cling to the top of the jet or something?"

"Super-speed," Pietro said in an elaborately patient tone. "I'm faster than the jet, in fact, but I don't get the chance to demonstrate my upper limits very often, ground-level sonic booms being somewhat distressing."

"Faster than the jet? No wonder you need a dumb outfit," she said, deliberately ignoring the tone in favour putting things away, more or less in the places she'd found them. "Probably helps a lot if the idiots are too busy mocking you to try to kill you," she added, finding that ignoring the tone was more annoying than just giving in.

"It does, rather. I've had competent people try to kill me, it's remarkably annoying." Pietro flicked her a quick considering look. "And you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm just your average teleporter. Or, well, less 'average' and more 'the product of bizarre events', in the specifics, but it comes down to going places and getting back, so, you know. Average." Illyana was babbling, talking too fast, and she needed to stop. She was just tired, that was all. "It's not so useful for fighting crime, but it saves a bundle on transportation." She blew on her tea, making the surface ripple, just to get her mouth to stop making sounds.

"I can imagine." Pietro propped his chin on one hand. "It's harder to imagine surviving in any dimension that could reasonably be described with the word 'hell' and coming out of it a babbly blonde, though. Or, in fact, average. I'm also fairly sure they don't assign so much homework here that you've been buried under it all the time I've been here--all the other brats seem to get theirs done quickly enough to remain annoyingly underfoot."

Okay. She narrowed her eyes at him; while Illyana could deal with 'not average', 'babbly blonde' was really pushing it. No matter how true. She'd had a bad week. And she didn't like how quickly his mind went to push at the cracks in her story. "Well, maybe if the other brats had missed eight years of their education, they wouldn't be so quick to distract themselves with the old and deluded," she said pointedly. "Me, I just happen to have other interests."

"And what incredibly engrossing interests they must be, to monopolize your time so." Pietro raised his eyebrows invitingly. "I'm always on the lookout for a new hobby. I'm afraid I tend to burn through them rather quickly."

"I - " Damn, damn, damn. Like it wasn't bad enough that there was no nice, polite, extremely unexceptional way of getting out of this conversation. She had to make up a new hobby. She blurted out the first thing she thought, defensively: "I knit. I'm crazy for knitting. You'd look a bit stupid doing it, though." She frowned, not quite managing to hide her horror at herself for this admission. "You'd better not tell anyone."

"Of course not. I couldn't bear bringing shame to another guest. And knitting, well, it sounds simply fascinating. Still, if its attraction should ever pall, and you find yourself in need of a new hobby, might I recommend lying? It's quite startling how good one can get at it with only a little practice." Pietro shook his head, smiling, and started for the door." Keep your secrets if you like, I won't wrestle you for them. But if I may, as one obsessive to another--if you insist on doing everything yourself, you may very easily find yourself out of your depth. Sometimes allies, however objectionable, are the only way to survive." He nodded to her as he pushed the door open. "Very nice to meet you, Miss Rasputin. I hope we may speak again."

Illyana didn't. She stared after him, half outraged, half worried. At this point, did she really have to remind herself of the dangers of conversing with the crazy people here? Resentment welled up in the place of anger; who was he to talk to her about allies and secrets? Some former lackey.

Someone who didn't know. And, if things went the way she meant for them to go, he'd probably go on thinking that she was the crazy girl who lied about knitting.

And if things didn't go that way, he'd have other things to occupy him.