xp_logs | V=IR: Part Six

While traveling across Russia via rail, Forge and Doug finally come face to face with their adversaries.

Doug was impressed that he and Forge had actually managed to procure a two-berth first class compartment on the Trans-Siberian Railway for the multi-day train ride from Moscow to Irkutsk. It was amazing, the sheer scope of Russia, something it was easy to forget when it wasn't passing by your window kilometer after kilometer. Irkutsk was a little past the halfway point, taking three days from Moscow. You could travel the breadth of the United States by train in the three days it would take to get there, but Vladivostok, the far end of the line, was another three days past Irkutsk. Thankfully, Doug had laid in a large amount of reading material to amuse himself. He checked his watch, making sure he'd corrected for the numerous time zone changes they'd experienced over the first day and a half of the train ride. "Hm. Looks like lunchtime. Dining car?" he asked Forge.

"So long as we don't have to order anything with beets," Forge said, wincing and placing a hand on his stomach. "Whatever I had yesterday decided it was going to stage the Battle of Waterloo in my gut. Bread, Russians like big heavy bread, don't they? Bread sounds safe."

"Black bread for you, sounds like." Doug wasn't much of a fan of the omnipresent borscht himself, but thankfully the dining car's menu was fairly varied and not simply typical peasant fare. The pair made their way down the passageway, having learned to compensate for the swaying movement of the train, and they found a booth and ordered without incident. Doug watched the countryside roll past the window. Being able to see all of it really gave you an appreciation for the subtlety of the Russian language and culture.

"No beets. Beets give me the gas and..." Milan cut himself off as he entered the dining car. He didn't recognize the blond staring out the window, but it was easy to figure out that he was with Forge. And Forge was there. "How lucky for us, for us and for you!" He said, bouncing on the balls of his feet unevenly. "I got another copy of your book!" He said to Forge. "In Polish. I am trying to teach my myself Polish by myself. So I am using your book like the Rosetta Stone!"

"You!" Forge exclaimed, patting his pockets suddenly as if looking for something to club Milan over the head with before settling for pointing in the young Italian's face. "The game's up, Milan. We know you're trying to steal whatever it is that the Folio leads to, and I'm telling you that it's not going to happen."

"Ah, the infamous Francisco Milan." Doug's tone was that of someone who'd stepped in something distasteful. "Wow, it's like you, only even less socialized, Forge." He paused for a moment, trying to decide which was more pathetic, Milan or Quentin Quire.

Next to Milan, a taller man stepped forward, dressed in a stylish suit, his dark red hair impeccably coiffed. "You haven't introduced me to your . . . friends, Milan," Cortez said smoothly, and extended his left hand to shake Forge's prosthesis. "You must be John Forge. How do you do? Fabian Cortez. Milan's, er, consultant."

Surprised, Forge absently shook Cortez's hand automatically. "Wait," he said, waggling a finger at Milan once he'd disengaged, "This is pretty convenient, don't you think? The Trans-Siberian Railway and we happen to run right into two guys who've, let's see, tried to defraud a fraternal scientific organization, possibly committed theft of intellectual property, oh, and did I mention the warrants from the Italian police for stock fraud? And now you're headed in the same direction we find ourselves in, I myself find that to be an amazing coincidence. So, care to explain yourself, Frank?"

Milan clicked his teeth a few times, grimacing. "My name is not Frank! It is not Frank or Frankie or Francis or Frenchie. I told you.. you you that!" He glanced at Cortez, and then shut his eyes, obviously trying to calm himself. "Those... those warrants are not any of you business and my lawyer assures me I will be cleared of the charges. This is the best way to travel to Russia, it is the most efficient and comfortable and I do not like to fly." He finished his explanation and looked up, almost puppy-dogish in his hopeful expression.

"Yeah, well, we're still a ways from - our destination," Forge hastily caught himself as he felt Doug's elbow jab into his ribs. "I suppose there's no need for any kind of... altercation, so long as we're all just... sightseeing, right?"

"Of course not. In fact, we have a proposal to put forward." Cortez smiled pleasantly, but a little too widely to be entirely genuine. "My young colleague and I are very interested in rediscovering Professor Tesla's hidden works, and our search would be more successful with more hands."

Doug blinked. "Excuse me?" He'd noticed Cortez's faux pleasantness. "First, what do you have to offer that we'd want? Second, why would we be interested in helping you?"

Cortez's smile didn't falter. If anything, there was a slightly sinister turn to it. "I can tell that you are a mutant. As am I. So you understand our pathetic situation in this world. Have you ever been harassed? Demeaned? Beaten? How about your friends and family? What did they do to stop it? This world is an awful place, and the only hope we're told we have is empty promises. That you are a member of the Tesla Club, Forge, suggests that you desire to leave your mark on this world and change it. I am offering you the chance."

He unfolded his arms and spread his hands, a gesture of invitation. "Tesla is credited with inventing a directed energy weapon, a machine that could harness tremendous electrical energy and discharge it into a focused beam. Think of what a mutant who can manipulate electromagnetism with just a thought could do with such a device. Mutants would no longer have to hide or pretend they're the same as flatscans. Do you understand?"

Doug waved a hand airily. "Oh please. Death rays are so last month. Magneto already tried his 'shoop da woop, I'ma chargin mah lazors' bit with that Russian satellite, and it didn't work out very well for him then."

That wiped the smile off Cortez's face. He appeared briefly confused, then shook his head and just looked angry and disappointed. "I see. I overestimated you. What a pity."

Milan had spent most of the exchange staring off into space and blinking rapidly, or staring at Doug as if he was speaking an utterly foreign language. "Fabian, be nice. This is in the spirit of .. of... of commerce! " He fumbled around in his jacket for several moments, and finally produced a large packet of what looked to be traveler's checks, and a overly large silver whistle on a chain, which he put around his neck. "If you do not want to work with us, if you want to stay quiet and not have anyone ever recognize you that is also a-okay!" He grinned awkwardly, and gave a cheerful thumbs up. "I know what it is like to not have anyone to help you out at first. Fabian has been so helpful to me, but John, if this Mr. Ramsey here is not helping you like Fabian is helping me, I can help. How much would it take?"

Forge blinked at the stack of checks. "Wait... are you trying to bribe me with traveler's checks? Look, I can understand that you want to help your fellow mutants, Mister Cortez, that's admirable. But the whole 'pretend they're the same as flatscans' creed comes off a bit... well, I don't have Doug's facility with words. You're both fucking wackos. And you," he pointed a finger at Milan. "Get a fucking grip, you spaz-tastic Ritalin junkie. I don't take handouts from twitchy little mental cases, and I certainly don't take American Express. Thank you, but no thanks."

"You.. you... " Milan pointed a finger at Forge, blinking rapidly and shaking his head from side to side. "You are -not- at all decent and you do not deserve my help!" He wiped his nose and watering eyes on his sleeve and then raised the whistle to his mouth. "Maybe you need to meet the other people I know." He laughed, kind of nervously. "They are just your kind of rude jerks. You will like them much better." He blew sharply on the whistle and then turned away, looking over his shoulder at Doug and Forge. "Or perhaps you will not. You can insult them and see if they do not shoot you."

"Oh bollocks." Watching Forge reduce Milan to tears had been kind of funny, even if the exchange did give him a somewhat uncomfortable Quentin Quire-shaped feeling. But the trio of thugs that came into the dining car at the shrill whistle did not seem nearly so funny. "Mafiya," he deduced from the somewhat stereotypical ill-fitting suits and overly muscular builds of the men. As Milan and Cortez slipped behind the toughs and exited the car, Doug weighed his options. Throw Piotr and Illyana's names in their faces and stand his ground? Or try to bluff his way out by playing on his association with Alexei Vazhin and Natalia Romanova? Each had their pros and cons. The likelihood of these particular people knowing of Piotr Nikolay'ch Rasputin was low, especially since the name was something like "John Smith" in Russia. Of course, on the other hand, trying to use Vazhin's name presented its own risks, given the sword he held over X-Force's head in the person of Illyana. He continued to debate the question as he stood and stepped forward, trying to project confidence in his body language.

"What, like mobsters?" Forge smirked. "These guys look like Neanderthals. Watch this."

Puffing his chest up, Forge stepped in front of Doug, directly in front of a stocky Russian, the shortest of the three who only had perhaps an inch on Forge, but easily twice the mass. "How's it said in your country?" he said in an atrocious attempt at a Russian accent. "In Soviet Russia... something something oh the hell with it."

In one quick move, Forge lashed forward with his head, smashing his forehead into the Russian's with a sound like two billiard balls colliding. Everyone stood still for a moment, then Forge took two awkward shuffling steps backwards before collapsing in a heap, moaning.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Doug muttered. "So much for negotiation," he said as the trio moved forward more purposefully. "Get up!" he yelled at Forge, toeing him rather sharply in the ribs.

"...fuuuuuuck..." Forge moaned, holding his head in both hands. "Ow... why does that always work for Logan and Garrison...?"

The largest gangster didn't seem to intend to give Forge any chance to do so, as he produced a metal pipe from under his suit coat, swinging it against Forge's left leg.

The sound of metal on metal rang through the train car, and the mobster gasped, dropping the pipe from suddenly numbed fingers.

"Because Logan and Garrison, unlike you, know what the hell they're doing when they do that sort of thing, genius." Doug's tone was exasperated and had more than a touch of vitriol in it. "Are you planning on getting up any time this century, or are you just going to lay there while our special friends get personal with our fleshy bits?" he asked as he got a toe under the dropped pipe and bounced it up into his hand just in time to parry an overhand blow from one of the other men.

"My bag," Forge groaned, using a table to haul himself to an unsteady footing, only to be shoved bodily back by the third gangster, who laughed around a glowing cigar stub as he advanced on the downed inventor. Forge crab-walked backwards until one hand found the familiar strap of his duffle bag. One hand shot inside, feeling around the stitched pockets and compartments for one specific thing, fingertips brushing quickly over the Braille labels.

The mobster leaned in to grab Forge by the collar. "You smart mouth," he growled around the cigar. "Where is your smart mouth now, American boy? Where is your funny jokes? Tell me funny jokes, boy."

Forge's fingers closed over the container he was searching for, popping the lid off with a thumb. "Magnesium filings," he grunted, closing his eyes tightly. "Ha ha ha."

Sweeping his arm forward, he threw the cloud of tiny metal shavings into the Russian's face, letting the smoldering end of the cigar ignite them into a sudden white-hot fireball.

The flames were just the distraction needed, and as the two other thugs tried to douse the fire wreathing their flailing companion's head, Doug grabbed Forge around the waist and yanked him to a standing position. "Come on," he said urgently, dragging him toward the rear of the car.

Wincing, Forge held a deathgrip on the strap of his duffle as Doug dragged him through the corridor between the two cars. He glanced backwards to see two of the Russians chasing after them, hands inside their suit coats.

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a silver cylinder with a strange-looking nozzle in the middle and a red button on one end. He pressed it into Doug's hand and jerked his head towards the corridor, grimacing with the motion. "Carbon dioxide laser," he explained. "Control box on the upper right side of the connecting linkage. Fry it, the connectors will disengage. Hurry hurry hurry."

Shouldering Forge through into the car, Doug took a moment to steady himself against the swaying of the train, then braced one arm over the other and depressed the button on the laser. At least Forge came prepared for practically any eventuality, he mused as the control box sparked wildly. Several loud clunks signaled the release of the linkage, and without the locomotive pulling it, a gap began and grew between the end of the dining car and the car Doug and Forge were in. By the time the mobsters reached the corridor, the distance was too far to jump, and Doug extended his middle finger. "Dasvidanya, shit-for-brains!" he called.

Rolling solely on momentum, Forge and Doug's train car slowed as the rest of the Trans-Siberian Railway train sped on towards its destination. Minutes passed as the cold air flooded the car and the rest of the train became a speck in the distance. Gingerly feeling the lump on his forehead, Forge finally sat up and glanced at Doug.

"What now?"