1963-08-25 - Birds on a Wire
Summary: Piotr needs some help from Scarlett piecing through data.
Related: Elusive Illusions Part II
Theme Song: None
piotr rogue 


Harry's Hideaway has finally reopened after a recent incident prompted some much-needed repairs. It probably has something to do with why the bar appears to be brand new. Even after such a to-do, the regular customers loyal to the establishment have already trickled back in and reclaimed their usual spots.

One such person is Piotr Rasputin, though he's chosen a different seat today. He's tucked away in a corner booth with a small stack of manila file folders next to him, head propped up in one hand while he reads and scribbles notes in his sketchbook.

He's drinking coffee. In Harry's.

*

Harry's Hideaway never much counts as the sort of place where one finds a redhead of a certain bohemian persuasion. She dwells among the idle dives of Greenwich, when she bothers at all. They're not her scene and besides, until recently she might have been logistically too young to go inside. The fact she is here owes entirely to the Russian painter, for whom a t-shirt is a major extravaganza, and clothes shopping means Greco-Roman gods fall from the sky. Her black and white sunhat has the turning circle of a Dodge, covering her face as she saunters in with easy, carefree grace.

"Peekaboo." He might hear Scarlett's lilting voice before seeing her, detect a shimmer of motion rather than the actual figure circling around a supportive pillar. "Looks like a lovely evening promising to come down, doesn't it?"

*

The voice is familiar and entirely unexpected, but judging by the expression on Piotr's face when he looks up, not at all unwelcome. Ever the gentleman, he immediately sets his pencil down and scoots out of the booth to stand and greet her - it's simply What Is Done.

"Scarlett. I will take your word for it," Piotr muses, casting a quick look to the nearest window for a peek. "I have been neglecting the view. Would you like to sit?" He gestures towards his booth, apparently unbothered by the notion of her seeing whatever he's so distracted by.

*

The young woman appreciates what is done, for manners so much belong to her canon of existence. Treat others as you wish to be treated, after all. Her gloved hands curl around the bag she carries, a small paper thing filled by a scent worthy of the gods themselves.

"Have I interrupted you at rest, and escaping from your studies? Feel free to demand I shoo, you would cause me no discomfort." Not in the least, her voice leaving a polite escape for him without giving any hint of wrath or a trap in the making. Nonetheless, she glances towards the both and offers a sunny smile. "It would be good. The company of late has been rather smothering in a way, and I don't mind being among people my own age."

*

"No, no. Please." Piotr again gestures to the booth with a smile. He only retakes his seat after Scarlett has claimed a spot for herself. He may have been raised on a farm — in Siberia, no less — but apparently, that would be no excuse for poor manners.

"The company I have had lately has been…" Piotr's words trail off as he thinks, his brow creasing. How, precisely, to describe it all? He settles for a very tired sigh and waves at the files. "…troubling. I would welcome the… what is word…" He makes a face and, with a tinge of hopefulness in his voice, simply uses the Russian: "<Normalcy?>"

*

Let no babushkaSiberian or otherwiseappear to beat the pair of them with a heavy handbag, and curse the youngest generation for failing to live up to one's social obligations. The slim steepling of her long fingers around the handles of the bag gives silent thanks for the invitation and she puts down the baked goods wrapped in paper, their temptation surely enough to coax a smile or a grumble of the stomach from an erstwhile guardian of the city. It could be construed unkindly that Scarlett is fully able, willing, and prepared to bribe her way into someone's good graces by way of apple crumble, berries in a fine square, and tarts. So many delicious tarts.

"Truly? I do not envy the cares it has worn into your brow, friend," the bohemian answers, her lips pressed together in a rueful smile. When he ventures into Russian, she replies off handedly, "Da," upon settling into the seat. A dark, brooding look thrown over her shoulder to take in the myriad entrances and exits, hidey holes, and every dim niche constitutes a thorough inspection worthy of someone who expects to be shot. Shot and quartered, perhaps. "The summer may last another month, but classes begin in a fortnight or less for me. Not at the school, Columbia." A mild clarification proves terribly important, when talking in veiled terms. "Whom has given you so much pause for thought, and what burdens have you taken on?"

*

As distracting as the wonderful scents wafting out of Scarlett's paper bag might be, Piotr is nothing if not observant. He watches her as she takes stock of the room, sees where her gaze flits to, and allows himself a very small smile tinged with concern. It's a familiar routine, albeit with entirely different origins.

"I do not wish to trouble you with it unless you are certain," Piotr tells her, beginning to reach for his pencil. After a moment's thought, however, he bypasses it and instead makes a silent, questioning grabby gesture towards the baked goods. "It is… I have not slept well since we began looking into it. You have classes upcoming."

*

Rubbing her gloved hands together, Scarlett sets them primly in her lap. Wearing hats may be unacceptable for gentlemen indoors, though she is fully in her element, though her sunglasses are absent given the foolishness of attempting to wear them inside. Aside from looking foolish, she simply refuses to fall subject to the notion sunglasses inside are cool for anyone but Ray Charles.

"I am offering you the chance to unburden yourself. This is what friends do. I have no desire to tell anyone else, and if you are struggling with the weight, let me carry the load well." The bag is pushed towards him. "Try a fern cake, if you like. They provide an especially nice flavour and go well with every kind of slumber-interrupting scenario. Do not think me so dependent on sleep to get through classes. I am already going to be pushed to the limits as a young woman in Columbia, and one of my professors has it out for me. Proceed. Let's be glad of victory together. "

*

That is all the invitation Piotr needs to pluck, yes, a fern cake from the bunch. "Spasiba. If you are certain," he says slowly, and his blue eyes cast a brief look across the Hideaway. It is not the most private place to discuss such matters, but they have no one's attention, and eavesdropping on the pair of them would prove difficult. Good enough.

Piotr leans forward and lowers his voice, lightly resting his palm atop the small stack of manila folders next to his coffee. "The short version is, someone is kidnapping mutants. We do not know who. Performing experiments on them. We do not know why. But it is not only happening in New York," he says in a low rumble, trying very hard not to scowl as he drops his eyes to the notes covering his sketchbook. "There was hospital in New Orleans, too."

*

They would be fools to get near, those who mean badly. Not because the mutations within these particular two make them uncannily durable to setting the record straight, but because it violates the laws of good bar behaviour. Don't lurk behind the booths. Clean up your mess. Never touch the taps. It's all part of an unspoken code where outsiders who violate the rules get thoroughly and unequivocally thumped by the senior regulars.

"Experiments. Yes, the sanatorium." A dangerous, low note to the girl's voice falls through the cracks. "Had I to guess, they might be performing the experiments said to be common in Germany during the War. Worse. I have not seen these things firsthand — the German issues, of course — but I need not, to comprehend what sort of violations of the deepest sort happen against people. It makes me rather sick to think of it." She looks as healthy as a horse. "What is being done? Do you have any idea of the motive?"

*

"Only speculation. I am still trying to get through all of this," Piotr grumbles, gesturing at the stack with a very tired expression. "But it had been… difficult. Every time we investigate a lead, they are there to fight us off." His lips draw back into a very thin, grim line, and he drops his chin into his hand. "Some of their soldiers are… I do not think they volunteered. I worry that may be part of what they were trying to do to… to these people."

*

"Speculation is usually all we have during such investigations. We do not work for Scotland Yard, under the auspices of a man in a deerstalker hat." Scarlett trails her fingernails over the back of her nape, shielded by a layer of cotton that helps not at all. "Soldiers. Wait." Her eyes widen at that fact and look back towards Piotr, settling upon his face with an unearthly directness. "Explain more about that, please? I do remember the crew we discovered in New Orleans was disturbingly organized, and moved in a very precise formation. Have you confirmed soldiers for whom or what?" No, there's no edge there: she simply possesses the sudden magnetic gravity of a small star that popped into being in the middle of the sky.

*

"No. If it is in here, it is well-hidden," Piotr replies, a note of frustration in his voice. Little wonder — he begins flipping back a few pages in his sketchbook and reveals not drawings, but notes. Pages upon pages of notes. "But they have access to resources. Guns, vans, multiple facilities. Willingness and ability to control how the media reports about them." His eyes come up to meet Scarlett's, steady and intense. "I know what my instincts tell me. That it is government sponsored in some way. But I do not wish to consider it fact without verification."

*

"A well-funded operation with multiple locations known. New York, New Orleans, and perhaps other places with New in them." This, a level attempt at a joke, are entirely as a foil to the burning radiance present in her luminous eyes, a dangerous balefire hue. "If the government sponsors this, they are experimenting upon their own citizens. As yet the powers that be have not called anyone subhuman or stripped us of our rights if we are born or brought here legally. Much less our rights as living creatures. You would be wise not to act on it, though that requires infiltration to locate proof. Have you spoken to anyone else? Do they reach the same conclusions?"

*

"Outside of Institute?" Piotr shakes his head, settling back into his seat and folding his arms across his chest. "Nyet. I have not. I do not know if the Professor or Katya have sought extra help, but I… who would I ask?" he says with a wry twist of his lips. "Cannot exactly go to police."

*

"You cannot. Most of us cannot. There might be sympathetic members, though we are putting ourselves at risk by even saying it. Have you found other sites, or are we still working with the two we know of? Is the sanatorium connected, or am I assuming a false connection?" The redhead is thinking, this much is clear, though she's not as brilliant as Darwin or a certain Mr. Banner. At least the connections are firing as she reaches out for them.

*

"It is connected. It is where we took these," Piotr says, patting the stack of files. He thinks a moment before he plucks one from the stack and offers it across the table with a questioning tilt of his head. "If you would like..? Katya has been going over these with me, but she…" He purses his lips. "…we need more help."

*

Look at all the ugly pieces of paper, and all the data that begs to be sorted through. The redhead leans forward over the table. "You are very lucky, you know. I had to go through so many pieces at Barnard College, and Columbia reading lists are no better. I should show you how arcane my syllabi are." Piotr surely has no idea. Half the writing she does isn't even in a human language nowadays, it feels like. Her arms cross lightly and she nods to the fern cakes. "Eat a tart, and let's get started on this. Finally something I can be a bit of help with! That it should mean anything, I care less than seeing the strain from your shoulders eased and your expression warm with hope again. What sort of information have you already put together?"

*

That actually gets Piotr to smile. Additional help is clearly a great relief. "Spasiba. It all still seems.. out-of-order. Scattered." He makes a bit of a face and settles back in his seat, but he does (let the record show) finally begin to actually eat the fern cake he had taken from the bunch, being careful to keep any crumbs from falling onto the documents or his notes.

With his free hand, Piotr digs one of the folders out of the stack and moves it up to the top for easier viewing. "This has… maps. Routes. Schedules. It is how we found trouble on Coney Island the other day," he explains slowly. "We did not find facility, but they were there. Armed men. The girl with the claws." As he mentions her, his hand absentmindedly drifts to his right shoulder. "And there were… five other girls. Telepaths, I think. The Professor has them."

*

The fern cake is a treasure, a tart of Scottish variety filled by almond cake and a layer of strawberry jam, topped off by icing and a dash of vanilla on chocolate drawn into a fern. Because who can possibly resist the delicious notion of what these are, a balance of heavy and light, fine and harsh? There are lemon tarts in there, a variety of different pastries of a European variety to satisfy even an American's sugar-coated soul. Eat up, help himself.

"We can make more of it together than we do apart. I have a bit of a sense of pattern recognition, enough I might actually be somewhat useful. How did you find trouble on Coney Island? Was it marked down here?" Yes, she is behind the times; just saving another realm from itself and stealing a sovereign princess of one of the fiery hells. "Five telepaths, and all this. How strange."

*

"Da. Katya and I went out for a look, since so many of the routes seemed to converge there," Piotr explains, and judging by his expression, hindsight has given him a very strong opinion of their decision to go investigate alone: they had been incredibly reckless. "We were lucky Keith and the Professor were there. I do not know if you and I would be having tarts now otherwise," he notes tiredly, already reaching for a second. Lemon, this time.

*

The young woman's understanding of that is instantaneous. "Ah. We draw enough lines together, we see convergence points. A good idea. Repeats in the schedules, deviations that match up at specific points make sense. I hope you two are taking precautions to be safe." The latter point falls in a gentler voice from the bohemian who starts shuffling through the pages, giving them a look over for a rough idea of their identity before she starts to delve in. "That you are pursuing this is important, but a tragedy added atop those already incurred would leave us all with heavy hearts right up to the point we rescued you. And assuredly we would. Don't doubt it; I will have my partner in tarts."

*

That brings a quiet rumbling chuckle from the Russian's chest. "I have no doubt. You might just be the most formidable person I know," Piotr notes and, although his eyes are twinkling, there is more than a little truth behind the sentiment. "We have been… cautious. But not cautious enough, I fear," he adds, his lips twisting into a pensive frown. "It is difficult not to rush in, knowing that people are being hurt. But it is as you say. We will only get ourselves captured -" Or, in Kitty's case, re-captured "- if we do not slow down."

Piotr drags a hand down over his face and lets out a very tired sigh. "I would say that Katya will not be going anywhere for a few days, but I do not think a concussion will stop her from trying."

*

How many formidable people does he know, including a bohemian pacifist refusing to fight when another angle can be taken? Alas, so often people go fists and claws first. Scarlett smiles. "Caution is so often in short supply. You earn points for that. I wonder if they were using the telepaths in order to detect anyone coming in? Do you think they are fueling their defenses by the captives they have? The first of these incidents seemed to be along those lines, but I could be wildly off-base. It is, however, important that we hinder them enough to weaken them and see what we can learn. Others in this predicament makes me deeply uncomfortable. There is a wrongness here."

She taps the tabletop for good measure, and then reaches for a small scone washed in dark chocolate, a light drizzling. This she brings to her mouth for a bite.

*

"I think it is possible," Piotr murmurs, his eyes sliding to regard the file folders askance. He does not pick anything off of the stack, but there is something in that gaze that suggests he's looking at something specific. "The experiments… they may be trying to weaponize us. Control would be a part of that, I would think."

Slowly, Piotr shakes his head and forces himself to reach for his coffee. He needs to wash the tarts down and chase away the dryness that comes to his mouth when he thinks too much about all of this. "None of this is right," he says quietly, staring down at the table. "This is not supposed to happen here."

*

"Of course they are." Scarlett's smile is crystal, her eyes glass panes overlooking the vibrant fire of a nasty revelation. "Find a way to make the perfect soldier, someone without questions of loyalty. Have them young, indoctrinate them early, and then reap the rewards. I am fairly certain that someone would say it's better we have a programme now than discover our enemies did later. After all, is there any issue with having the best options, and a fall back, if it turns out the Soviets or the West Germans or the Venezuelans have a super soldier up their sleeve? It has always been a justification to supplant human rights in the name of security and the good of the nation. You know there are mutants and metahumans out there? You must take advantage of them. Make the element of surprise one that explodes or punches claws through your face."

Her pastry has been forgotten. "No. It is not supposed to happen, and it does. I know how wrong it feels, and how the warning rings in my head louder than you can imagine. For someone like me? Falling into their hands gives them access to something they should never possess, and worse than that, a very threat against mankind itself."

*

Piotr's eyes abandon their study of the table to watch Scarlett as she speaks, instead. He'd like to try and argue with her points, but he finds himself unable to. He just draws in a breath and nods, carefully setting his mug aside. "Whoever they are — we will not allow them to have you," he says firmly. "You, or anyone else. Whatever we need to do to ensure that, we will do."

*

"I'd sooner annihilate myself than be turned into something that harms people again." She shrugs her shoulders, a simple measure. "Though I have one blessing perhaps they are unprepared for, and that might be the only thing that keeps me from hiding in the closet praying the world goes away. So, let me see. You have several points already figured out, where they might be operating and talk about girls with claws. Telepaths. Kitty." Her mouth flattens somewhat, and Scarlett rubs her hand over her face. "Akihiro has not been seen either. Was he involved in any of these matters? For that matter, Jubilation hasn't either."

*

That gets Piotr sitting up straighter, his eyebrows leaping towards his hairline. "He was not with us on Coney Island, but he did encounter the girl with the claws before, in Central Park," he says slowly, a tightness coming to his jaw. It is not precisely uncommon for Howletts to go on walkabout, but… "He is missing?"

*

"He's one of those very conspicuous people with a mouth the size of Pennsylvania or Colorado. I have hardly noticed a time without him, but when I went back to the Institute to return a book, one of the students said she hadn't seen Jubilation in a while. Or him." Scarlett crosses her forearms again, sitting forward to look over the folio. She is rather quick about ascertaining the contents of a file, though not necessarily what to do with it. "Odd, given he was very active in other matters. Trouble in Chinatown, the business with the giant buried in the forest? All in all, I am concerned about any student not around much." Then that should be her; she's barely seen at all these days, at least at the Institute. The girl does attend University in the city though, and classes resume in less than a fortnight.

*

And she is here now. That counts for a great deal. For all of Piotr's talk about being more cautious, he seems to have decided to begin packing things up — his sketchbook is closed crisply, the pencil tucked behind his ear, and he reaches for the stack of files. "He thinks that girl might be family. He may have gone looking for her," he mutters darkly. "If he has not come back, he succeeded."

*

A fool is born everyday, but sadly he and his claws are not easily parted. Were things only so simple. Scarlett passes back the folder, sensing perhaps the man intends to leave. "I can read over these in greater detail, and tell you what comes to mind. I may take a bit digging deeper than before. This is, nonetheless, concerning. I wish it were so straightforward as a family reunion, but not so." Her chin rests upon her closed hand. "Do you have any sense of whether they're strictly going after children or recruits potentially across the spectrum?"

*

Indeed, the massive Russian slides out of the booth and rises to his feet. At Scarlett's question, however, he quickly draws one of the folders from the stack and offers it to her in trade for the one she has returned to him. "This has a list of people they were holding in New Orleans. Ages should be listed, I think. The rest of these, I will have them in the basement." The most secure part of the Institute. Of course.

*

"Let me start with these and then I will work on the rest," Scarlett assures him. "Anything else you want me to focus upon, you need only ask. You're the one with the plan, I am merely giving you good intel." Her smile appears then, a shining golden arrival dawning from over the horizon. Nodding to him, she moves to mirror the Russian's movements, her own concentrated and effortlessly skillful. "Thank you, by the by. For some way that I might contribute, it means a great deal."

*

Piotr actually looks a little taken aback by the thanks, or at least, the reason for it. He recovers quickly enough, however, and instead reaches over to give her arm a warm pat through the safety of her sleeve. "But of course. Your help is always most welcome, Scarlett," he notes, offering her a broad smile. "You are family."

*

For that, she simply stares at him for several seconds. That great, burly Russian renders Scarlett utterly shell-shocked, and it's only good manners beaten in that doesn't stop her from dropping her jaw onto the floor… and that jaw emerging through a magma plume somewhere on the antipodean side of the globe. The best she can do is squeak.

*

That is not a reaction Piotr had anticipated. The broad smile is gradually replaced by a look of genuine concern, his brow creasing. "Oh. Did I misspeak?" he asks quickly, withdrawing his hand and taking a small step backwards. "I apologize. I was not trying to offend."

*

To date, she has encountered exactly three people — two being not exactly people — capable of withstanding what she might be about to do. Piotr is wise to run; a girl in a minidress contemplating actions as volatile as those in Scarlett's pretty little head could well throw the universe off its axis. Thanos could be involved. (Chaos and madness and redness!)

The pause follows, and then she simply launches herself at him full bore. Not enough to set off any immediate registers of impending attack at the force of an ICBM plowing into Washington, D.C., but simply that of someone so utterly surprised. "Thank you." Words are enough, muffled in a suspiciously high-pitched voice, and for her soprano, that's quite pitched indeed. She is mindful not to make skin to skin touch, long sleeves of said dress determinedly helpful, her hands clasped together and extended past him. For the rest of the world, or the regulars of Harry's, aww, they're hugging.

They also probably have no idea she can hit as hard as a fully loaded freight train going at the speed of sound with a gravitational assist from Saturn, but hey.

*

Although Piotr is not wearing his armor, he is still a very durable man. Surely enough to catch a pretty girl in a minidress, no matter how enthusiastically she throws herself at him.

Hopefully, the patrons will not notice the way Piotr's feet are forced to slide several inches across the hardwood from the force of the hug before regaining traction.

Piotr blinks in very genuine surprise, somehow managing to keep ahold of his sketchbook and folders. It takes him a moment, but understanding catches up with him and he very, very carefully winds an arm around her shoulders to return the hug, doing his best to avoid any exposed skin. "You are very welcome," he rumbles quietly, his mouth twitching into an odd smile.

*

Truly, what poetry is there to share? What words are there to share between them, that would ever breach the divide of language in a way that this would not prove sufficient?

Words are lovely. Words hold great power, and they serve their purpose, but they perish in a pale shadow before actions. "Spasiba." A murmured sound, no more, this the anchorage for someone denied any such moors in a world she stands alone within. All else, for the most part, have their families, their origins, even the twisted Mengele aficionados who bred them, but Scarlett in this stands apart. Chains that bind, even in one link, might be enough. Might be more than she has any right to ask.

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