Our Hell: The Pride / The Fall
Apr. 9th, 2007 09:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsThe culmination of it all comes in the form of a very bad plan.
The old Soviet archives at Chita were famed for both their size and their range of strange collections. Documents and books looted from Afghanistan, China, and the Middle East sat there, relics of wars that even predate the revolution. Despite their size, they had ended up largely dorment over the last ten years. The Russian Federation had much of their western military documentation at Chita, which earned it a military guard not much unchanged from the Soviet era. Still, large parts of the archive remained mostly closed, still carefully secured but dorment.
A bright flare of light accompanied the clumsy arrival of an expected visitor – a blonde teenager dressed in jeans and a polo-necked jumper, someone visibly out of place within the tall aisles and spare, severe decor. Illyana had to catch herself on one of the shelves, dangerously close to falling noisily, but managed to bring herself upright before doing anything anyone would notice. Still, she thought, who would care about some musty old records, especially if they pertained to what she thought they did? People never thought anything important was actually important.
With caution, and a brief glance around to make sure she was alone, she got her bearings, and started making her way past filing cabinets filled with what she imagined to be extremely boring remnants of the Soviet Union. IRAN, one was labelled: DISAPPEARANCES, 1976 - 1985. A few more steps took her into an entire section of BEIJING, OFFICIAL POLICE RECORDS, 1949 - 1950. What, like police records were really that fascinating? Probably a bunch of old Russian professors came here every weekend and had a real party. Her fingers brushed the surface of one cabinet, and came away dusty. Maybe not so much with the party. Thinking of the weekend made her look up momentarily and wonder if she'd forgotten the time difference – she hadn't expected it to be nearly daytime, but she had left in a hurry.
It wasn't something to worry about, though. She didn't have to look long before she came to a group of cabinets that looked promising. What year had the book said? She pulled a sheet of looseleaf out of her back pocket and peered at the notes, written in cramped, hurried handwriting. Someone in Kabul, a young soldier, and the diary excerpt included by a clueless historian detailing something he couldn't have seen without seeing Limbo. In 1984. That brought her to AFGHANISTAN, MILITARY, 1979 – 1988. Hoping the cabinet wasn't locked, she pulled on the handle, and it opened easily, revealing a mundane set of folders and documents.
She flipped through them, pulling out anything that looked like it might have some significance. She closed the filing cabinet – quietly, out of habit – and put the files on top of it, turning to the first page of the first one. One young man, Ivan Lebedev, eighteen. That sounded right, but, reading further, it seemed more like a medical report than anything. "November 14, 1984. Patient did not respond favourably to the improved serum; became agitated, aggressive. No measured increase in strength or agility." Illyana frowned, skipping to further down the page. "December 3, 1984. Experiment was a partial success. Patient responded positively to the new prototype. Strength and speed increased dramatically. However, side-effects included short temper, anger, aggression. Patient may not be appropriate for the experiment; may be advisable to seek a more stable candidate. Several indicated below." Every folder thereafter had similar files with similar contents, all in the same neat, orderly handwriting.
This wasn't helping, and she wondered briefly why the Russian military cared enough about a bunch of stupid experiments to keep them in an archive like this. Sighing, she reached for the last file, without much hope.
There was no warning, only the sudden pressure on the back of her neck, and a blinding impact face first into the metal cabinet in front of her. Dazed, she was pulled back, and put face first into the cabinet again. The blackness reached up and swallowed her whole.
***
Sometimes, a very bad plan has very bad consequences.
Coming to consciousness was a slow and exquisitely painful affair, with the throbbing hot pain in her face matched over by the frigid cold of the cerment floor she was laying on. Trying to move, her arms were restricted by steel mancles, joined by a chain running through an iron ring set in the floor. She instinctively attempted to teleport out, but her mind wasn't able to concrentrate well enough to activate her power.
"Little Illyana. Snowflake, I believe Piotr Alexiovich used to call you." The voice, in dry Russian, with a hint of an Odessian accent greeted her, seeming too loud in the small space.
"What the hell," she managed, in English, but moving her jaw was agonizing, all but blinding her against the intimidating figure standing above her. She had to breathe carefully, if raggedly, for a few moments before she could speak, and then another few before she could speak in Russian. "How do you know my brother?" She couldn't think - if she could have, she might have stalled for time a little less obviously – but it was all she could do not to panic outright.
"I know many things about your brother, Illyana, and you." The figure moved and sat down on the single chair. His movements were without any sort of rush. It was a man willing to take his time. "The state always has a vested interest in tracking our citizens, especially ones with the unique abilities you possess, and the interesting connection that your brother has made."
"Oh, really." She had to work through a thick haze of pain to reply, and she still couldn't work up the focus to try to teleport. She could barely control her breathing, but she realized dizzily that it didn't matter: Who cared if you were breathing funny when you were chained to a wall? She had to choke back inappropriate hysteria, and did so by looking up and around, watching the blurry man on the chair carefully. Finally, she gritted out: "Well, I'm sure that tracking my idiot brother across the globe has been a productive use of government money. But I'm the boring sibling. Really."
"Little Illyana. Born in 1997 in the former Selo-Cheyseksye commune farm. I must say, considering that you look at least ten years older than you should, there is some interest there. But that pales next to the fact that you were caught attempting to steal military secrets of the Russian state." He made a tsking noise with his tongue. "In that, you have mightily surpassed your brother in our immediate interests."
"Stealing what?" Trying to look up at him had made the worst migraine look like a scraped elbow, but Illyana jerked up, regretting it the second she did. The clanking of the chains rang in her ears for far too long. She had to say something, but she had a sinking feeling that there wasn't going to be an easy solution to all this. "I don't know any military secrets, okay. I was just . . . " She trailed off, realizing with what remained of her clarity that "looking for information on my personal dimension" was going to sound crazy. And not only crazy, but like a stupid lie. Self-pity stopped her from picking the sentence up where she'd left it, leaving them in silence.
"Prehaps Xavier did not tell you specifically what he wished you to steal? Never the less, little 'yana, you have committed a crime of espionage against the Russian state. As a citizen, you must know the punishment for such a crime is capital." He leaned forward, where she could finally see his face; a hard, scarred visage with one of his eyeglass lens blacked out. "We at the GRU have experience with such procedures, as you must well know."
Illyana swallowed, hard, against the fear and the helplessness. Tried to remind herself that she'd been helpless before, and hadn't died, but that wasn't exactly comforting. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of her mind, it struck her hard that she'd probably brought something down on the school that she'd never have intended. She blinked, hard, to clear her mind of the images that it conjured up. "Xavier? As in, the old guy in the wheelchair?" Even her voice was scratchy, harsh against her dry throat and the indiscriminate pain radiating from her face.
"He – the school – they don't know I'm here, okay. And they'd be having a cow if they knew." 'Having a cow' didn't really translate all that well into Russian. She took a deep, shaking breath and pulled up any remnants of calm she'd ever had. And tried to look the huge, frightening man in the face. "So you might as well know - " Here she had to stop and swallow again, bile rising in her throat. She began again. "You may as well know that I came by myself. Not for any stupid military secrets," she felt obligated to add, but didn't have the strength – or any left-over courage – to go on.
"That seems very unlikely, Illyana. There is little here to interest someone who wasn't looking for information on the last hundred years of paranormal and mutant based military research. Xavier could have any number of reasons for it. Even if he didn't, his ties to the American government could prove a danger to us, should the US decide to utilize his students against Russian resources." Vazhin gave a shrug. "It really doesn't matter though. You provide us an excellent way to destroy his credibility if we choose to. More so, your abilities would make a useful addition to our own fledgling national program, even if you are unwilling. The decision between government service and hanging is rarely a difficult one."
She managed to push herself up, just a little, with one hand on the cold cement floor; pulling her legs in took more energy than she'd anticipated, too, and the buzzing in her head just wouldn't stop. The small, dark room spun in her vision for a moment. When it stopped, she spoke again, trying to move as little as possible. "The point is, I don't know any military secrets, and even if I did, the death threats are a pretty good reason to keep my mouth shut." She felt obligated to add, in complete seriousness, "Also, I would be a really bad government - person." It came out pathetic, and there was a minor pleading note in her voice that made her stomach turn.
"That is a shame. Apparently, if you are of no use to us, then our safest course would be to hand you over to the proper authorities for trial. If it helps, the process is mercifully short." Vazhin leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, as if he was conducting a regular interview, as opposed to informing a young girl that the state was going to have her hanged.
Illyana closed her eyes, feeling the hard wall against her back. If there was any time for her to get it together enough to teleport, now would be it, but she just – couldn't. Her head was swimming; as soon as she had a thought, it was gone, and she was left to grasp at what she could. Had he drugged her? That would explain why she wasn't waking up properly. "Listen," she said, finally. "Listen. There has to be something that – we can agree on. Because I would really like to not die." She had to swallow down ten years' worth of self-reliant pride, and the last of her dignity, to add: "Please."
"Sadly, I don't see many options for you right now, Illyana. Actions do have consequences." Vazhin got up, a pleasent smile on his face as he crossed the room, walking away from her. "I'm sure they will be bringing food to you soon. Isn't that the custom in America? The last meal? I hope you haven't last your taste for kasha." He said, before opening the door and closing it with a sharp, echoing bang.
The sound of the door seemed to drive straight through her skull, and she pressed her lips together, wishing for renewed unconsciousness, the possibility that she was having a bizarre nightmare. However disoriented she was, though, respite came from no quarter; so she was forced to wait in a cold, dim cell, and to come to terms with the fact that the girl who had brought down hell had been conquered by her own pride.
The old Soviet archives at Chita were famed for both their size and their range of strange collections. Documents and books looted from Afghanistan, China, and the Middle East sat there, relics of wars that even predate the revolution. Despite their size, they had ended up largely dorment over the last ten years. The Russian Federation had much of their western military documentation at Chita, which earned it a military guard not much unchanged from the Soviet era. Still, large parts of the archive remained mostly closed, still carefully secured but dorment.
A bright flare of light accompanied the clumsy arrival of an expected visitor – a blonde teenager dressed in jeans and a polo-necked jumper, someone visibly out of place within the tall aisles and spare, severe decor. Illyana had to catch herself on one of the shelves, dangerously close to falling noisily, but managed to bring herself upright before doing anything anyone would notice. Still, she thought, who would care about some musty old records, especially if they pertained to what she thought they did? People never thought anything important was actually important.
With caution, and a brief glance around to make sure she was alone, she got her bearings, and started making her way past filing cabinets filled with what she imagined to be extremely boring remnants of the Soviet Union. IRAN, one was labelled: DISAPPEARANCES, 1976 - 1985. A few more steps took her into an entire section of BEIJING, OFFICIAL POLICE RECORDS, 1949 - 1950. What, like police records were really that fascinating? Probably a bunch of old Russian professors came here every weekend and had a real party. Her fingers brushed the surface of one cabinet, and came away dusty. Maybe not so much with the party. Thinking of the weekend made her look up momentarily and wonder if she'd forgotten the time difference – she hadn't expected it to be nearly daytime, but she had left in a hurry.
It wasn't something to worry about, though. She didn't have to look long before she came to a group of cabinets that looked promising. What year had the book said? She pulled a sheet of looseleaf out of her back pocket and peered at the notes, written in cramped, hurried handwriting. Someone in Kabul, a young soldier, and the diary excerpt included by a clueless historian detailing something he couldn't have seen without seeing Limbo. In 1984. That brought her to AFGHANISTAN, MILITARY, 1979 – 1988. Hoping the cabinet wasn't locked, she pulled on the handle, and it opened easily, revealing a mundane set of folders and documents.
She flipped through them, pulling out anything that looked like it might have some significance. She closed the filing cabinet – quietly, out of habit – and put the files on top of it, turning to the first page of the first one. One young man, Ivan Lebedev, eighteen. That sounded right, but, reading further, it seemed more like a medical report than anything. "November 14, 1984. Patient did not respond favourably to the improved serum; became agitated, aggressive. No measured increase in strength or agility." Illyana frowned, skipping to further down the page. "December 3, 1984. Experiment was a partial success. Patient responded positively to the new prototype. Strength and speed increased dramatically. However, side-effects included short temper, anger, aggression. Patient may not be appropriate for the experiment; may be advisable to seek a more stable candidate. Several indicated below." Every folder thereafter had similar files with similar contents, all in the same neat, orderly handwriting.
This wasn't helping, and she wondered briefly why the Russian military cared enough about a bunch of stupid experiments to keep them in an archive like this. Sighing, she reached for the last file, without much hope.
There was no warning, only the sudden pressure on the back of her neck, and a blinding impact face first into the metal cabinet in front of her. Dazed, she was pulled back, and put face first into the cabinet again. The blackness reached up and swallowed her whole.
***
Sometimes, a very bad plan has very bad consequences.
Coming to consciousness was a slow and exquisitely painful affair, with the throbbing hot pain in her face matched over by the frigid cold of the cerment floor she was laying on. Trying to move, her arms were restricted by steel mancles, joined by a chain running through an iron ring set in the floor. She instinctively attempted to teleport out, but her mind wasn't able to concrentrate well enough to activate her power.
"Little Illyana. Snowflake, I believe Piotr Alexiovich used to call you." The voice, in dry Russian, with a hint of an Odessian accent greeted her, seeming too loud in the small space.
"What the hell," she managed, in English, but moving her jaw was agonizing, all but blinding her against the intimidating figure standing above her. She had to breathe carefully, if raggedly, for a few moments before she could speak, and then another few before she could speak in Russian. "How do you know my brother?" She couldn't think - if she could have, she might have stalled for time a little less obviously – but it was all she could do not to panic outright.
"I know many things about your brother, Illyana, and you." The figure moved and sat down on the single chair. His movements were without any sort of rush. It was a man willing to take his time. "The state always has a vested interest in tracking our citizens, especially ones with the unique abilities you possess, and the interesting connection that your brother has made."
"Oh, really." She had to work through a thick haze of pain to reply, and she still couldn't work up the focus to try to teleport. She could barely control her breathing, but she realized dizzily that it didn't matter: Who cared if you were breathing funny when you were chained to a wall? She had to choke back inappropriate hysteria, and did so by looking up and around, watching the blurry man on the chair carefully. Finally, she gritted out: "Well, I'm sure that tracking my idiot brother across the globe has been a productive use of government money. But I'm the boring sibling. Really."
"Little Illyana. Born in 1997 in the former Selo-Cheyseksye commune farm. I must say, considering that you look at least ten years older than you should, there is some interest there. But that pales next to the fact that you were caught attempting to steal military secrets of the Russian state." He made a tsking noise with his tongue. "In that, you have mightily surpassed your brother in our immediate interests."
"Stealing what?" Trying to look up at him had made the worst migraine look like a scraped elbow, but Illyana jerked up, regretting it the second she did. The clanking of the chains rang in her ears for far too long. She had to say something, but she had a sinking feeling that there wasn't going to be an easy solution to all this. "I don't know any military secrets, okay. I was just . . . " She trailed off, realizing with what remained of her clarity that "looking for information on my personal dimension" was going to sound crazy. And not only crazy, but like a stupid lie. Self-pity stopped her from picking the sentence up where she'd left it, leaving them in silence.
"Prehaps Xavier did not tell you specifically what he wished you to steal? Never the less, little 'yana, you have committed a crime of espionage against the Russian state. As a citizen, you must know the punishment for such a crime is capital." He leaned forward, where she could finally see his face; a hard, scarred visage with one of his eyeglass lens blacked out. "We at the GRU have experience with such procedures, as you must well know."
Illyana swallowed, hard, against the fear and the helplessness. Tried to remind herself that she'd been helpless before, and hadn't died, but that wasn't exactly comforting. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of her mind, it struck her hard that she'd probably brought something down on the school that she'd never have intended. She blinked, hard, to clear her mind of the images that it conjured up. "Xavier? As in, the old guy in the wheelchair?" Even her voice was scratchy, harsh against her dry throat and the indiscriminate pain radiating from her face.
"He – the school – they don't know I'm here, okay. And they'd be having a cow if they knew." 'Having a cow' didn't really translate all that well into Russian. She took a deep, shaking breath and pulled up any remnants of calm she'd ever had. And tried to look the huge, frightening man in the face. "So you might as well know - " Here she had to stop and swallow again, bile rising in her throat. She began again. "You may as well know that I came by myself. Not for any stupid military secrets," she felt obligated to add, but didn't have the strength – or any left-over courage – to go on.
"That seems very unlikely, Illyana. There is little here to interest someone who wasn't looking for information on the last hundred years of paranormal and mutant based military research. Xavier could have any number of reasons for it. Even if he didn't, his ties to the American government could prove a danger to us, should the US decide to utilize his students against Russian resources." Vazhin gave a shrug. "It really doesn't matter though. You provide us an excellent way to destroy his credibility if we choose to. More so, your abilities would make a useful addition to our own fledgling national program, even if you are unwilling. The decision between government service and hanging is rarely a difficult one."
She managed to push herself up, just a little, with one hand on the cold cement floor; pulling her legs in took more energy than she'd anticipated, too, and the buzzing in her head just wouldn't stop. The small, dark room spun in her vision for a moment. When it stopped, she spoke again, trying to move as little as possible. "The point is, I don't know any military secrets, and even if I did, the death threats are a pretty good reason to keep my mouth shut." She felt obligated to add, in complete seriousness, "Also, I would be a really bad government - person." It came out pathetic, and there was a minor pleading note in her voice that made her stomach turn.
"That is a shame. Apparently, if you are of no use to us, then our safest course would be to hand you over to the proper authorities for trial. If it helps, the process is mercifully short." Vazhin leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, as if he was conducting a regular interview, as opposed to informing a young girl that the state was going to have her hanged.
Illyana closed her eyes, feeling the hard wall against her back. If there was any time for her to get it together enough to teleport, now would be it, but she just – couldn't. Her head was swimming; as soon as she had a thought, it was gone, and she was left to grasp at what she could. Had he drugged her? That would explain why she wasn't waking up properly. "Listen," she said, finally. "Listen. There has to be something that – we can agree on. Because I would really like to not die." She had to swallow down ten years' worth of self-reliant pride, and the last of her dignity, to add: "Please."
"Sadly, I don't see many options for you right now, Illyana. Actions do have consequences." Vazhin got up, a pleasent smile on his face as he crossed the room, walking away from her. "I'm sure they will be bringing food to you soon. Isn't that the custom in America? The last meal? I hope you haven't last your taste for kasha." He said, before opening the door and closing it with a sharp, echoing bang.
The sound of the door seemed to drive straight through her skull, and she pressed her lips together, wishing for renewed unconsciousness, the possibility that she was having a bizarre nightmare. However disoriented she was, though, respite came from no quarter; so she was forced to wait in a cold, dim cell, and to come to terms with the fact that the girl who had brought down hell had been conquered by her own pride.
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