2013-02-25 Welcome to America

Olena's had a harrowing few days. Evasion, escape, the constant low terror of being in a strange city and the fear of constant pursuit. Strangers looking at her too long, unfamiliar faces turning to follow her path across the street.

And now- an alley. Unfamiliar. Not just dark, but filled with the cross-hatched shadows of dull lights throwing sharp, dark angles behind dumpsters. And then... the sound of muted boots, quick and purposeful, seeming to come from all directions.

The footsteps are familiar. Olena's powers of perception are... impressive, to say the least. Even when she's not concentrating. As always, the moment she catches the familiar tattoo of those boots -- no matter how quietly the Russian vyrodok tries to be -- she's on the move. Up until now, the darkness of this alley worked to her advantage. It's possible it still will. It has before. Perhaps not this specific alley, but others...

Her eyes narrow slightly and her ears rise as she draws in her focus, seeking to discover just which direction he's coming from *this* time. Heightened senses reach out, seeking, pinpointing, locating. "Syn suka," she hisses to herself. He's a whole lot closer than she realized. The days of running on little sleep and less food are taking their toll. She starts moving further into the alley, seeking the nearest fire escape ladder.

Hunger. Exhaustion. Fear. Powerful allies for a predator- and predators, make no mistake, are hunting Olena. Not just one- though their alpha is closing on her with grim anticipation. There are others, too, added to her perception as heightened breaths, shuffling bootheels. Three. No- six. Eight, then, with pair blocking off the far end of the alleyway. Fast movers, heavy bruisers- an arsenal to recapture a wayward mutant, armed with crackling tazers and stun guns and brass knuckles.

"Nyet, my little caviar," the big Rooski croons. Sweat glistens on his chins and the short fat around his neck. "You slipped the net. As they say here, shame on you." Gold glimmers around his neck and on his fingers, his clothing dated and too flamboyant for a street hood. "Come back home, little one, before I turn you over my knee and spank you." Ugly laughs come from the loose circle of hunters, closing in around their prey.

Olena's response, spoken in Russian because her command of English isn't nearly as strong and she wants to make sure he gets the point, is as eloquent as it is concise... not to mention impolite (and thus *censored*). As the number of his goons becomes apparent, however, she cuts any further imprecations short, in favour of the fire escape. Still speaking in Russian: "You have to catch me, first, a******." And her one advantage is that she's not easy to catch. If they lay hands on her, she's dead. But, until they do?

Taking a run at the wall beneath the ladder, she uses her momentum to drive her several feet up the vertical surface, from where she spring to grab the ladder and start hauling herself upward.

"After her!" he roars. And like greased lightning, four of the men- who move with meta-human grace- leap into motion, charging up the walls of the buildings. One of them eschews the ladders entirely and simply climbs up the wall as if he has suction cups on his fingers. The others leap to dumpsters, then start bounding along wall ledges, clambering up pipes and flying along window ledges.

"Hurry, you fools!" he shouts, as Olena scampers higher, using the easily-accessed ladder. He jumps up, reaching for the ladder, but falls short by several feet.

Mutants... He sent other mutants after her. "Traitors," she growls, returning to her native Ukrainian. The patterns of their movements become clear, however, so even as they move in to attack, she's ducking, weaving, and shifting course -- sometimes only milliseconds ahead of them, but it's enough to keep her out of their reach... even if only barely. The trick is to keep just ahead of them so that they don't block her access to the roof.

Prysosku (i.e. Suction Cup) is probably the biggest threat in that regard, since he's not as hindered by the architecture. But, Olena's not idling to find out. As she passes by one window ledge, she grabs a clay pot filled with frozen soil and a desiccated stick. Awkward as it is, it's still a projectile and projectiles are deadly in her hands. Spinning just out of reach of one pursuer, she flings it at another -- one more likely to block her way -- with unerring accuracy before springing up another half-dozen steps.

The pursuer takes the hit to the face with a scream and falls backwards- agility and skill are nothing compared to gravity and a blunt impact, and the chaser falls a good twenty feet, landing badly. His screams echo through the alleyway, the resounding crack of broken bones sounding like a bundle of sticks being crushed.

The other three slow in their charge, but at the roars of encouragement from below, resume their chase. One leaps and bounces from a ledge to the ladder escape, suddenly on the same level as Olena. "Get over here!" he snarls, reaching for the girl's shirt.

By now well into the flow of things, and thus at the height of her power, Olena spares no more breath for retorts. Nor does she react to the sound of the other mutant's injuries. Indeed, she'd rather he doesn't get back up again... ever. Tracking the movement of the other three, however, she's already stepping to the side when the one lands beside her and lunges for her. He catches an inch of cold air between his fingers, the fabric of her shirt just out of reach, her body already in recoil.

Another leap and she's swinging to the outside of the ladder, scaling its side for a foot or two before she twists and makes a wild leap to catch the fire escape belonging to the building across the alleyway. It's a whole lot less crowded over there, after all -- and the roof's lower and thus a whole lot nearer. In less than a hearbeat, she's swarming up the empty stairs and making a leap for the top of that building instead.

"She's on the roof! Get to the ladders!"

From far below, the sound of men unrolling ladders echoes upwards, and it sounds like more pursuers are joining the chase. Hot on her heels are the three meta humans, moving fast, like jungle cats. They leap chimneys and smokestacks with ease, closing fast on the young mutant escapee. They're healthy, well rested, well fed. She is none of those three, and they are slowly closing the gap on her position.

Olena knows the odds are against her. She also knows if she's caught, she's dead. Running full out, now, she slides under a raised a/c unit, avoiding the pincer a pair of them had set up, and rolls to her feet to set off perpendicular to them. The corner of the roof sports a crumbling raised lip -- not a structural hazard, exactly, but it does include a handful of sharp-edged stones that were once part of the concrete half-wall. In her world, sharp-edged stones are awesome.

Still moving as she scoops them up, she's up on the narrow ledge and pelting along its length, doubling back the way she came. It's possible someone down at street level, or at a window in a building across the street might notice the crazy hooded figure running along the precarious edge, but just as likely they won't.

No one ever looks up.

Olena spins around on her pursuers, now, firing the stones in quick succession from lithe fingers, almost like a human machine gun... except with a precision most machine guns sacrifice in favour of quantity of lead. She's aiming for soft and vulnerable spots, too. It's not like they'd do any less.

There are, of course, other trackers within this city. Some of them do professional work hunting other people down. Others dabble in it when they're bored. One thing about the Ukranian woman, she's quick. The cluster of Russians trying to hunt her down are quickly scattered, split up. Disorganized. Anything they could possibly attempt to try and catch her by surprise.

Unfortunately for them, it's also sloppy. It's not such a bad thing when it's eight against one, but one of the city's resident mutants that occasionally dabbles in tracking also happens to be on the tail end of this chase. And, while those eight guys are split up and focused in the chase more than their buddies, it would be a fairly simple exchange if one of them were to simply ..disappear. Removed from the picture. It's probably best not to think about what became of the man during the three-odd seconds that he disappears from the playing field, only to jump right back into action to try and join in the pursuit anew.

It's a curious thing, really. How quickly people can get misplaced. With the bricks flying through the air, he knows exactly where to run. Ahead, cutting a perpendicular approach. He stands a chance to cut the lone woman off, as do some of the other thugs still on the scene. It's anyone's guess who will catch up to her first.

"And I think that's quite enough of that," comes a rather patrician voice. A man- dressed, in all things, a three piece suit- simply appears around one of the corners. He holds an elegant ebony walking stick across his shoulders, surprisingly straight of back for a fellow clearly well into his later years. His white hair hangs past his shoulders in a straight sheet, and the look he affixes the pursuers with would stop a charging Rhino. It certainly stops the pursuers in their tracks. The struggling second party, clambering up ladders, is slow to join them.

"Young miss, if you'd permit me-?" he invites, gesturing for her to join him. His tone is warm and grandfatherly, and the utterly benevolent gesture seems absolutely sincere. "I think it'd be best if we got you off this cold rooftop and settled in front of a hot meal," he informs her, with raised eyebrows.

Olena rounds the corner of her concrete balance beam. Curling over the edge, a few yards away, can be seen the iron rails of another fire escape ladder -- this one leading down into a different alley. A few more steps bring her close enough to make a leap for it... but the appearance of the older gentleman brings her skidding to a stop. Her poor tennis shoes, by this point, are soaked, their worn rubber soles slippery. She topples off the concrete ledge, twisting her body so that she falls and rolls across the rooftop rather than plummeting the other direction.

As the Russians and remaining mutants also come to a stop, Olena clambers to her feet and makes a quick assessment of the situation. "You... are not with them," she concludes after a moment, evaluating what minute physical signs she can in an attempt to ascertain the truth of that apparent sincerity. Her English heavily accented, but understandable. Her caution is clear, as well.

Nevertheless, it seems to her that one old man should be infinitely easier to handle than 8 mob thugs. So, she steps toward him, backing carefully away from her pursuers, entirely unwilling to turn her back to them, now.

There's the easy way. The old man helps Olena out of this, the Russians go home empty-handed, everyone calls it a night. Then, there's the the way where these eight men suddenly come down to seven men, then to six men. One of them turns on his nearest buddy, moving with agility and grace that looks downright out of place for the man, mutant or not. Like snapping one's fingers he spins about and slams a boot into the side of the other guy's head, dropping him where he stood.

In the next moment that 'rogue' Russian has a pistol leveled in either hand, aiming each one at another thug. "My voz'mem yego zdes', mal'chiki." //We'll take it from here, boys.// To help emphasize the point the man's eyes suddenly lose all of their original definition, becoming solid yellow orbs that glow with a bioluminescence that hadn't been there but a moment ago. It's accompanied by a grin of pure, unrestrained malice. Go ahead, try something. The evening is still young.

"Thank you, my dear," the elder gentleman thanks the 'rogue' Russian, rather primly. "Please don't dirty yourself on our account." He sets his cane aside- standing straight up in the air, remarkably balanced on the tip- and removes his jacket, offering it to Olena. "Come, my dear. I assure you, I mean you no harm. I daresay you'll find some succor with us that you would not find with these dastardly fellows."

He looks at the two fastest movers- the clear meta humans. "And brothers, shame on you," he scolds, looking at the two of them. "You know full well that we should stand in solidarity, not aid the humans in this campaign of hate." The two men look- well, abashed. They clearly know the older gentleman.

"I do not know who you are, you bourgeoise pig," the big Russian snorts. He takes a heavy step towards Olena. "But I will have-"

His eyes roll up into his head and he drops. Just- drops in place, as if the strings were cut. Erik adjusts one silver cufflink with an aristocratic gesture, then looks to the remaining four humans. "My friend here has a weapon, and I daresay she's complained of boredom of late," he informs them. "Perhaps if you all run at once, one or two of you might get away." He glances obliquely at Mystique, then winks once at her.

The hell...?

Olena pulls back a little in surprise at the bioluminescent, yellow eyes that make it clear the one mutant isn't at all what he... she (?!) first seemed to be. The young Ukrainian glances back to the white haired gentleman and her eyes open a little wider. More mutants. These ones... not traitors, perhaps?

As the big Russian's weight barely begins to shift, she takes three steps back away from him. By the time he's dropped, she's very nearly beside the man whose display of power is at once impressive and... remarkably urbane.

Okay, then. That cinches it. Olena accepts the man's jacket, now, offering a courteous, "Thank you," as she does. The oversized leather jacket she wears is soaked from where she's rolled through the slush. So, she's grateful for the other.

The heavy man's tone is next to morph into something strange and new, softening and layering upon itself as though coming from two sets of chords at once. "You will know us soon."

Patches of cobalt blue start to bleed through the man's clothing like blotches of ink, his very form changing, redefining itself, leaving behind a woman with blue skin, red hair, and those glowing yellow eyes. The simple black attire she's clad in is, perhaps, simply an afterthought. When one can look however they wish, sometimes these things matter little.

"If you are fortunate enough to survive."

No shots have been fired yet, though the way Mystique begins to stalk toward the others it's really only a matter of time before someone loses their head over this failed pursuit of theirs. "Decide quickly, we have other matters to attend to."

"You two- come here." Magneto utterly ignores the humans, gesturing imperiously with a crooked finger at the two mutants, who shuffle towards him like shamed schoolchildren. The promptly receive a vociferous tongue lashing, actually /flinching/ at the cadence and tone of his words, as if receiving a scathing rebuke from a stern teacher. They hang their heads, and, when prompted, apologize profusely to Olena in their own thickly accented English.

"So tomorrow morning, bright and early, you two- at the Action Center," he says, clapping his hands once.

The humans, as if sensing an opening, start to edge away. As Mystique advances, one looses his head entirely. The panic instinct kicks in, and all of her targets flee in different directions.

"You will go buy this young girl a nice set of new clothes, and you-" Magneto points at the other mutant- "will wait on her, hand and foot, for the next week, or until she decides you've sufficiently atoned for your misdeeds." He looks to Olena. "Is that acceptable to you, my dear?" he asks softly, lowering his imperious tones.

Olena watches the now surreal scene unfold before her -- the rebuke of the two mutants that had moments ago been the Russian's greatest threat against her and their meek, profuse apologies. Truthfully, she's not really sure if she wants to accept them and the faint scowl that settles on her dark brow is proof enough of that. But the elder mutant's summary judgment of them and pronouncement of sentence -- not to mention their automatic acceptance of it -- takes her most by surprise.

"Da..." she says slowly in response to his query. She sounds a little uncertain, however, which is most because of just how unexpected this turn of events actually is. She looks between the pair for a moment, the scowl returning for a moment as she draws in a deep breath. For a moment, it seems as if she might say something to them -- something scathing, at that -- but the breath releases and her shoulders fall, not sagging but settling. Instead, she turns to the elder mutant.

"Forgive me?" she says carefully, voice cautious and courteous all at once. "But... who are you?" The question has a tone of awe and confusion and caution all rolled up into one. Who is this man that commands instant respect among mutant kind in New York.

A beat. A thought.

Oh, God. He's not an X-man, is he? 'Cause that'd suck.

Right, that's the local genetrash taken care of.

Mystique tucks her weapons away and strolls on over to Erik's side, a playful sway in her hips as though this had been nothing but a simple, enjoyable game to her. It doesn't take her long to close the distance, automatically looping one of her arms around one of Erik's then doubling up that hold by placing her other hand upon his shoulder, practically leaning against the elder mutant with an amused sneer working its way across her flawless cerulean skin.

"He has such a way with words, doesn't he? This man is the crux of our salvation." He can also introduce himself. He may only have two sides to show to the world but there's much more weight falling upon both of those choices. "We look out for our own."

When they aren't too busy acting like belligerent children toward their own kind.

"Erik Lehnsherr, my dear," Erik says with exquisite courtesy. The older man plucks Olena's hand out of the air with a featherlight motion and, bowing touches it to his forehead. It's a courtly gesture that's almost entirely out of place in America, but one instantly recognizable to the Ukranian as one of gentlemanly comportment. He switches from English to Ukrainian, speaking with a heavy Polish accent. "It's a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintane. I take it you were one of his 'special emigration' projects?" Erik inquires, gesturing at the fast-cooling corpse nearby. "I wish your welcome to America had been a more pleasant one. We'll of course get your visas and immigration papers settled as soon as possible. Our lovely friend here-" he smiles at Mystique, his eyes crinkling- "is rather good at facilitating such red tape. May I invite you to a meal, and offer you a warm and safe place to rest?" he invites the girl. "The Center is patrolled by mutants day and night, and a friendly face is rarely more than an arm's reach away. It is crowded, yes," he admits, "but I daresay, one cannot have too much family."

Olena does recognize the gesture, and it causes her to stand just a little straighter. It's amazing, really, how the accordance of even a small measure of respect can help restore a girl's sense of dignity. And the fact he speaks Ukrainian, even with the accent, is actually a welcome relief.

"My name is Olena," she says now, responding in kind and actually volunteering her real name -- when to every other person she's met she's given various aliases.

She glances toward the big Russian corpse and back to him. It finally begins to register that the particular threat that man represented is finished... even though he was only one cog in the damnable machine. "Yes," she replies, now. "But, I am... *was* not alone. There were over twenty of us in that house. My best friend..." Her face tightens. "She was 'exported' to another city. Gotham." She doesn't say it, but she wants to find her. Her left hand curls and she tugs the sleeve that covers her left arm -- the arm with the hidden tattoo of her concentration camp prisoner number -- down over the fist. "We survived Radcha... and escaped Poznyar together."

Poznyar. She watches the man's face to see if there is recognition there. To see if he's an X-man.

As he offers her immigration papers, however, her expression shifts again, overwhelmed. If his promise is true... that would be... A slight frown returns. "What would these papers... and your shelter cost me?"

Negotiations, always a fun and exciting time. When Erik mentions Mystique's particular skill in circumventing legal hoops she merely inclines her head, the grin upon her face growing even more bold. Trivial. Hunting down a friend in Gotham sounds slightly more interesting Just a hop, skip and jump away from here. She could probably find the other woman in no time at all.

Also, Erik isn't alone in speaking Ukranian. "If your friend is near, she can be found."

Out of the goodness of Mysti's heart. Or because it could be an invaluable bargaining chip and it would amuse her for an hour or two. What would it cost Olena, however? "You seem as though you could benefit from a family which cares about you. And of your gifts. Everyone should have a place which they may call home." Sometimes, it really is as simple as that.

At her question, Erik looks frankly baffled. He glances at Mystique. "...cost?" he shakes his head. "My dear, we don't do this for money," he says, speaking for the both of them. "Mystique could steal the world with her smile," he says, fondly chucking her chin, "and I- well. I simply have everything I need. Aside from, well, a bit of friviolity in a well-kept wardrobe," he admits with a wry chuckle. "A bit of indulgence for an old man," he confesses. He glances sidelong, inviting Olena into the circle of silence between himself and Mystique. "In truth, I was quite poorly heeled as a youth. This is one of my few vices," he admits, straightening his tie and standing upright.

He reaches for his cane- which has still be standing upright, this entire time- and collects it with a snap of his wrist. "Gotham, you say," he says, with tongue in cheek. "And more in the city." He sighs wearily. "I am growing old when the prospect of an evening with two lovely ladies seems daunting. But, if you're of a like mind," he says, adjusting his cravat, "we could attempt to liberate your friends. Or, if you prefer, simply provide me the address and I will tend to it. You must be famished."

No strings? Really? Once upon a time, a time before Radcha, before the scandal, before the 2008 Olympics, back when Olena was a little girl and hadn't had her life laid waste by frightened bureaucrats with more political power than sense, she would have had an easier time believing that. But... a slow searching of their faces and a deep breath brings no sign or scent of deceit from them.

As it begins to occur to her that this too-good-to-be-true offer just might indeed be actually true, it's all she can do not to well up with tears. Tears would be unforgivable. But, she can't quite prevent her eyes from getting just a little glassy. A slow, lopsided half-smile touches her lips. "You are not X-men," she concludes. There's something in her tone that suggests relief at that. Satisfaction, even. Like she doesn't trust X-men for some reason.

She inhales another deep breath, as if truly tasting freedom for the first time. "I will give you the address," she says, a hard sense of satisfaction in her tone, "but I would like to come." A beat. "Perhaps after I have eaten?" A glance to one of the chastised mutants. "And changed." She knows just what she wants.

She looks at Mystique. "Tetyana is somewhere in Gotham. That bastard," she points her chin at the corpse, "sent her there over a month ago. I had hoped to find a way to follow after her and help her escape as I did." But it costs money she doesn't have. "If you go... kill the bastards that keep her there." Another beat. "Or let me come and do so myself."

Speaking of change... When the corpse is pointed out Mystique silently drifts away from Erik's side, putting some extra space between the two before she copies the dead man's appearance, down to every last strand of hair, and his voice, accent and all. "Then this bastard shall find her again."

Switching personas with the same care-free touch of changing stations leaves her with a more down to Earth presentation, just another New York woman out enjoying the evening air. Any weapons are completely hidden away from view, either beneath what now passes for clothing or beneath her very skin. Once more it's Erik that receives her smile, teasing "I'll go easy on you tonight."

Olena's requests are answered with a simple but elegant bow of her head. "We will help you to get settled in properly. You may discuss specifics with us whenever you feel that you are ready, then we will locate your companions."

Already this foreign woman is showing promise, already wishing to get into the thick of things and commit acts of murder? Justified or not, this is a very good sign. Initiative, driven by a sense of justice and revenge, willingness to do whatever is necessary to succeed. Then again, it hadn't been random luck that led these two into Olena's life. A small amount of investigative work can truly go a long way.

"Well then," Erik says, reaching for a handkerchief. He offers it to Olena, and gently places a grandfatherly arm over her shoulders. "Come, come. That's enough talk of foul deeds done in the night. Let's head to the Center, and get you settled. We can make plans with a good night's rest and a full belly- which, if you ask me, is the only way to do anything." He laughs heartily, the sound full and rich of life. "Now, hold on to my cane." He extends the pommel of the cane to Olena, then winks at Mystique. A magic feather for the new girl. "And enjoy the view of the city." With a surge of acceleration, they are skywards, blending into the night sky, and coasting over the city, suspended in a shimmering bubble that smells faintly of ozone, and heading towards Olena's new- and hopefully, future- home.