Face the Blood: Jean and Leo

[x-penance.livejournal.com]

The search for a kidney donor yields results - a man on death row in a military prison. Jean and Leo go to talk to him.



The prematurely greying, stooped-shouldered man sat quietly in the quiet corner of a busy exercise yard. There seemed to be a perimeter of silence, of a quiet imbued with menace or fearful respect surrounding him. It seemed strange that this rake-thin bookish man with the Bible in his hands would be able to evoke such reaction in a military prison. And yet.

Ivan Marinkov didn't raise his head, even as his visitors approached close enough to loom over him and cast their shadows over his reading.

The guard accompanying the X-Men coughed diffidently. "Sir?"

The Serb sighed and stopped, one finger keeping his place on the page. Raising his head he absently brushed the matted hair out of his eyes. "Yes, Lesko? What is it?"

"Ivan Marinkov," Jean said, her pronunciation of his name actually fairly good, "my name is Dr. Jean Grey-Summers, and this is my colleague, Dr. Leonard Samson. We're here on behalf of a patient and student of ours, who was injured by a landmine. We're hoping you can help us help her."

Ivan's pale blue eyes glinted with mild curiosity and he pulled down his glasses, squinting at Jean and then then Leo. "Americans?" He queried interestedly and gestured vaguely at the guard, clearly dismissing the man. Lesko seemed torn for a moment glancing at the rich and probably very important foreigners before making up his mind and beating a rather hasty retreat back inside the guardhouse.

Marinkov was still examining his visitors, a soft ironic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What would you have of me, Dr. Jean Grey-Summers and Dr. Leonard Samson?"

"We would have you help your daughter, Mr. Marinkov," Leo replied quietly. He watched Marinkov carefully for a response, but the man remained politely interested, only raising an eyebrow slightly at this revelation.

Leo waited for more of a response, but when none was forthcoming, he continued, pulling Yvette's picture out of his briefcase. It was a candid he'd printed from his phone, one Forge had snapped yesterday of Yvette and Angel, Angel chatting with Yvette as she worked on planing a pile of boards. Forge had caught Yvette in the midst of a laugh, with a mischievous look in her eyes. "Her name is Yvette, and she and her classmates came to Bosnia to help rebuild a village with Médecins Sans Frontières. A group of children were playing in the fields and one stepped on a landmine."

He paused for a moment, and handed the picture to Marinkov, who studied the image carefully, his expression unreadable. "She and her classmates were able to rescue the child, but in the process, she landed on another mine. Due to her mutation, she received no external injuries, but her internal injuries were...serious. In particular, both of her kidneys were damaged beyond repair. She requires a transplant for both."

Marinkov responded to this statement with a calm nod of understanding, and then waited. Leo waited as well, searching the man's face for any sign of the emotions he would have expected from any other person--sadness? Worry? Concern? Marinkov remained silent, and Leo sighed to himself, debating. In a therapy session, he would have out-waited the man, letting the silence draw a response from him. But here, power was important, and by forcing Leo to speak first, Marinkov gained power.

Fine, Leo thought to himself, You're in control, we are the supplicants. "Mr. Marinkov, your daughter will die without this transplant."

Another moment of silence. Leo ran through the options in his mind: tell him about Yvette, and try to engage his sympathy--if he had any? Emphasize the familial connection, and engage a desire for preservation of genes? It was impossible to know what, if any strategy would work. Marinkov's motivations were inscrutable, and it was doubtful that simple human compassion would work for a war criminal of his reputation. "I realize you do not know Yvette," Leo said quietly--Not that you really knew her mother either, merciless bastard, he thought to himself--"But she is a bright and vibrant young woman, and you have the power to save her life."

"We're hoping you'll be willing to help, Mr. Marinkov." Looking at the man it was hard to believe he was on death row, but the energy rolling off of him, the flavor of his thoughts for all that she couldn't understand his native tongue, made it hard for Jean to believe that he would help. But they had to try.

"My daughter..." Ivan brushed the photo with surprising tenderness, staring at the picture of the girl laughing back at him. He looked for a long, silent moment before carefully slipping the picture between the pages of the Bible.

"You came for nothing. I won't help you."

Jean frowned, unwilling to leave it at just that. "Please, Mr. Marinkov, may I ask why? You're on death row, you know there's no chance of appeal. You could do some good..."

Ivan looked back her, the pale blue eyes clear and innocent as those of a child. "It would be a waste of time, my dear. You wouldn't understand."

"Try us," Leo's suggestion held a definite edge but Marinkov simply smiled and shook his head.

"You Americans. You come from the land without history, from the life with no past." His whipcord form unfolded with startling speed and suddenly his face was close enough to Jean's that she could feel his breath. He inhaled deeply, his long, surprisingly graceful fingers rising to touch her hair.

"You stink of it, you know. Or wealth, of freedom, of choices, of clean beginnings and tidy endings." He laughed softly, a predator's sound. "There's none of it here. We are a sick people. Cursed. Diseased. A blight, a twisted wrong that has arisen in the accidents of history. We are a poison and we twist whatever we touch. We need to end."

Ivan stepped past the two mutants. "I will die and my daughter will follow me. And perhaps in the next world we shall meet anew."

He nodded to the Americans. "Good bye."

As Marinkov disappeared into the prison's building, the Bible and the photo were still gripped tightly in his hands. Long graceful hands of a pianist. Or a strangler.