Summary:Russians abound in Mutant town apparently. Hidden sniper Klavdiya 'the Hunter' observes as Laynia returns with a gift of food for one of the shelters and encounters Mikhail Rasuptin. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Mutant Town remains a quietly active hub of activity. Its citizens go on about their lives, largely ignored by the rest of New York City, either willfully or just because the Powers That Be choose not to broadly disseminate news or intelligence about this community. The people here don't complain about that; they prefer it that way. Police patrols are rare, here, and beat cops almost utterly unheard-of. And yet violent organized crime is almost equally unheard-of here. The last attempt at importing such was rooted out and - quite literally - burned to the ground two months ago. It's not that no one knows who was responsible. But no one who knows would ever consider telling anyone who didn't.
With the weather becoming more pleasant, Mikhail's more willing to spend time outside, especially during the evening hours. High 70s are much more acceptable than high 80s or in the 90s. He's leaning against the wall just outside the door to the Eight Ball and drinking from a bottle of beer that he probably bought inside. There's a certain fascination for this mutant community, a ghetto in the true sense of the word, and he watches the people go on about their lives as if everything was perfectly normal even when some of them were strange colors or sported unusual features.
Having recently completed her first foray into Mutant Town, Laynia is back. Today she's actually heading for one of the shelters - driving up in front, she's in a rental van, and will park it right out front and drives right past the Eight Ball, before she stops. Hopping out, she is dressed in jeans and a sturdy t-shirt. A few light steps to the back, and then she opens up the van, and takes out first a small flatbed cart, and starts offloading what looks to be canned goods in flat boxes. Fancy? Nope! Plentiful, however, that's a thing. The van isn't overly full, but it will take her a few trips to unload what's there.
When the staff of the shelter - which includes a food kitchen, apparently - catch sight of someone trying to unload food, he calls inside. Less than a minute later, a good half-dozen folks come pouring out of the shelter and offer the nice blonde lady a hand. Two women, four men of varying ages from teens to sixties, they are all homeless, but reasonably clean. They don't try to steal anything; they just offer help, and climb inside the van to hand down flats of cans.
When Laynia arrives in the kitchen with her cart of cans, the staff member who saw her arrive steps up, nodding. "We appreciate the contribution. You give me a few minutes to get a count, I can get you a tax receipt for this stuff." The homeless helpers arrive soon after, brushing past Laynia as they carry in the cases they are unloading.
One of them surreptitiously slips something into the woman's jean's pocket as she slips by. If Laynia checks this out, she will find a small dark grey stone arrowhead in her pocket. Etched into its surface is that simple, stylized lion head shape she has spotted on some of the alley walls in the area.
Mikhail doesn't pay much attention tot he van as it drives past but when it comes to a stop not far away, he does look over to watch it and make sure it doesn't contain guys with ski masks and guns. Or some variation thereof. When it becomes clear it contains donations for the shelter, he walks over to help unload it, merely nodding a greeting to the others.
Laynia is certainly not going to turn down help offloading the flats of tins! She's a little surprised at how many folks get involved, smiling to each and every one, eyes of cinnamon friendly, nose crinkling up a bit. "Spasiba…thank you." To each person - the six from the shelter, and the seventh from out front the bar.
She doesn't even blink at the appearance of the young woman covered with green-golden scales, nor the older man with porcupine style quills in lieu of hair. Her smile is just as warm, her thanks just as sincere.
She's certainly going to notice the stone, but she's not going to look at it where others can see, instead she'll wait until the staffer who offers a receipt is working on that count to check surreptitiously, and then smiles faintly as she sees the symbol. Her hand closes over it, and then she tucks it away once more for safe keeping.
Many - indeed most - of those at the shelter are obvious mutants of one variety or another. What might stand out to someone not expecting it is that they seem to work together easily, almost naturally. They have a lot of experience doing these things together.
The staffer gets the count of the cans once they are all unloaded, and he takes the time to thank the seventh stranger for his help. "Appreciate it, Sir. Thank you." Then he takes that count and heads to a tiny office space to type up the receipt; he'll be back in a few minutes.
When a younger mutant slinks into the kitchen and reaches out to grab one of the cans of food, one of the older men lays his hand - gently, really - atop theirs. "Don't think so, Razor. Pride supports, and does not steal. When we need, we come here. We do not take, we do not hoard." The older African American man releases the boy's hand, and he grumbles and twists away. But he does not take the can when he does.
"Pozhaluista." Mikhail replies in perfect Russian. His accent would place him from Siberia or somewhere in the Urals though it's been diluted a bit by that of Moscow. "It is a good thing you are doing." he tells her approvingly, still speaking Russian. The shelter's staffer gets a nod for his thanks. "You're welcome." This in English though the Russian accent is strong.
When addressed in her mother tongue, Laynia's smile only brightens. "These are good people." She replies, and yes—definitely a strong possibility she was a Muscovite, virtually a certainty she was at least educated thereabouts. "I am Laynia Petrovna." She introduces herself, ann then switches back to English. "Thank you for receipt, sir. I will likely make another visit in week or two, could possibly draw up a list of things you could use here?"
She is quiet as the young Razor is chided, gently but firmly. She looks to the older man. "Hello again, Weather. Is good to see you again." She watches as the very much disgruntled young man makes his way out, and then nods. "Can be very angry." She observes sadly.
The older gentleman nods amiably towards Laynia, approaching closely before he says softly, "Welcome back to Mutant Town, Ms. Darkstar. The Pride sees you, here, helping. We thank you." That she has kept to her word, sought to help as recommended, proves at a minimum she is willing to work at keeping her cover. It cannot prove the truth of all she has said; only a telepath could do that. But to the Pride, actions speak louder, and hers now back up her earlier words. Weather nods. "Yes. Razor is new, still learning our ways. Trust can be hard to re-learn."
Yet the old man looks past Laynia then, as that itch builds in the Russian blonde's back, right between her shoulderblades. The old man's eyes widen, and his hands shake a bit as adrenalin surges within him.
For Mikhail, there is a palpable sense of danger that seems to well up, raising hackles, causing baseborn instincts for survival to scream. A predator is on the hunt.
"Mikhail Nikolaievitch Rasputin." he replies, nodding to Laynia. He too watches the interaction between the older and younger men, taking particular note of the latter. Anger can lead one to many bad decisions. And in a similar vein, seeing the reaction of the older one, he turns to look to see what has caught his attention and provoked such a reaction.
"Ah, forgive…I am Laynia Sergeievna Petrovna." She answers Mikhail's fuller naming.
To Weather, she smiles. "I try to keep my word, friend Weather. Da, usually I do more than try. You will be seeing more of me around here, and I remind you not to forget that I am not without other aid I can offer." She doesn't speak on, but he did just call her Darkstar, and that name might be familiar to Misha, maybe not, but might.
She hunches her shoulders a little when she feels that malefic sense of danger, straightening but not turning. "I take it we are being observed once more." Statement, not a question. "Weather, are we in danger?"
Weather drags his gaze from whatever has captured his attention to Laynia's eyes. "I … I hope not, Ms. Darkstar." For once, his tone of voice is uncertain. He wasn't expecting this, and he's not sure what to do. He is concerned, and yet something is keeping him rooted to this spot, unmoving and unspeaking.
Mickhail spots only one thing when he turns. It's not like he knows what it means, but he can see a single red streamer dangling from an aerial across the street on a rooftop. It is, probably, a red sock, or possibly a short red scarf or tie. There's no way to know that's what set Weather off, except that he was looking up at that rooftop … and Mikhail would not remember that streamer being there ten minutes ago. Or even five.
Weather's shaky hands reach out, clutching Laynia's tightly. "We must go, Ms. Darkstar. The Hunter prowls. Something is wrong." That name seems like a moniker, not unlike Weather's own. But it is spoken with a reverence that is beyond merely a name, as if it were more of a title.
Mikhail moves over to the other two, scanning the roof tops and streets. "I am told snipers use such things to gauge the wind." he comments. "Is that what this is? Is someone targeting you?" Which of the two doesn't matter and he doesn't specify who he's asking. Either. Both.
Laynia holds the older man's hands, and then looks back to what Misha speaks of. "Da, is way a sniper gauges wind speed and direction for long range shots. With good rifle and proper vantage point, can shoot from a very long ways off. Would not even hear shot, just see impact of bullet." Her features are tight with worry, and…remembrance.
Her eyes then take on a black quality, darkness almost dripping from them and smoky tendrils rising from the sides. Her body is limned by a dark halo of the same stuff. "Do not worry, I am not sure if I am the target, I would think not, and I know it is not Weather, so that leaves only you, Mikhail Nikoleievich Rasputin."
Weather grips Laynia with concern. "I —- I don't understand. Neither of you … have done anything. The Hunter … the Hunter only prowls when there is danger, a threat." Weather is not terrified, but he is scared, and confused. He is managing to pull himself back from the brink of panic, but only just. Laynia will notice that the air around her is crackling with tension … or is that static electricity?
"Nyet. No one wants me dead." Mikhail answers. Mainly because those who might don't know he's alive. Glancing over at the others, he takes a closer look at Laynia. Black energy. Ms. Darkstar. "You are dead." he comments off-handedly. "Many, many years ago." Seems there's a lot of that going around.
"Do not worry, Friend Weather, I will protect you if you need it. For now, step back, deeper into building…stay away from windows." Laynia releases his hands then, and moves towards the man as he recognizes her. "Nyet, only…mostly dead, I spent much time in Darkforce dimension healing, Mikhail Nikoleievich Rasputin." She nods. "Forty years is long time, yes." She looks to the man, concerned that he knows who she is from that long ago time.
"Do you intend any harm here? This area has a guardian, Hunter. I have not met, but felt much the same - do you intend harm to any here?"
Released, encouraged, Weather nods jerkily and backs up, heading deeper into the shelter, rejoining his friends and allies. He clearly feels out of his depth, and gains reassurance from Laynia's confidence, and from the presence of his friends.
The tension in the air has definitely grown stronger, but the static electricity seems to have dropped significantly.
Suddenly, startlingly, a boy comes careening around the corner of the building and skids to a stop near the doorway to the alleyway and the presence of the van. He is definitely another of the mutants who cannot pass; he has a monkey's tail and ears, and his feet have no shoes, showing a monkey's opposable feet as well.
"Dark lady!" he hisses, a projecting whisper. "Dark lady got to run! Hunter says to run, says the black armor is coming!"
The kid doesn't wait around for debates or discussions, but sprints off into the building, shouting for Weather.
Yet another dimension. That explains it and he accepts it unquestioningly. "A very long time." Mikhail agrees. "You are a history lesson." Albeit one usually only taught to other mutants and special agents. "I mean no harm here and have been here an hour. Feeling would have started bef…" Before now. Triling off as the young mutant appears just long enough to give his message, he asks "Black armor?"
"A cautionary tale, I am sure. No doubt the Kremlin held me up as example of what not to do, as traitor who would have defected but was brought to justice by patriot with Dragunov." Ouch. It is a miracle she's alive if she was shot with one of those.
And then the boy comes running in. "Black…armor…?" A moment to parse what she heard, and then her eyes widen. "Bozhe Moi, Black Razors are still in service?" The woman doesn't hesitate, her form shimmers, a costume forming over her, she's fully the Darkstar now. With a gesture she blacks out every window in the building. "Back inside, Mikhail…these are professional soldiers, with advanced combat armor and weaponry, even in my day. Four decades later who knows what they are able to do."
She's prepared for a real dustup right here.
The homeless in the shelter start filtering out of the shelter rapidly, heading out through various back exits. Not one of them sticks around, except Weather, who grabs hold of the shelter staff member and 'encourages' him to leave. "Bad things are coming, friend. The Pride looks out for our own, and you need to come and be safe."
When the Darkforce rises over the windows and door, the palpable threat Laynia and Mikhail have been feeling drops off nearly to nothing at all. Something about the forcefield seems to interrupt whatever is transmitting that feeling of impending doom.
Interestingly enough, nothing happens. No rocket packs. No missiles. No laser blasts. No grenades. Just … nothing. But outside the shelter, in the course of just a couple of minutes an entire three block radius has been seemingly entirely evacuated. There's not a single soul anywhere visible.
"I am professional soldier." Mikhail counters. Okay, cosmonaut. Better than soldier. And he points out, gesturing at the windows, "Advertising your presence here. Not good strategy. Make target." He's not bothering to think about proper usage of English grammar right now. "Put back to normal, you are not here, no reason to pick out building over any other. Take to rooftop. We hit hard from above." But then the imminent feeling of threat starts to fade. Not that he relaxes.
"I thought the threat was imminent, tovarisch. I wanted to provide maximum safety for the innocent." Laynia counters, but she does indeed banish the Darkforce obscuring the windows, however. "I…do not feel the danger, do you?" She looks to Weather. "Go, we are good, friend." And then back to Misha. "Come…I take us to roof." A hand is extended to the other Russian, and once he accepts, she creates a portal from where they are to the rooftop. The transition lasts but a moment, but it travels through a void of inky, smoky darkness and horrid chill. Shapes move in the darkness, and there's a lurking sense of dread…and then they're through. And even if it is deepest night the contrast is STILL night and day.
Passing through another dimension is an experience Mikhail is guaranteed to remember. Literally. Not that he's likely to want to go back to it. "Unpleasant." is his comment once they get through it. Moving over to the edge, he kneels down to make himself less conspicuous and scans the area. "I see no one."
"You think so? Is very homey for me, but I am psychically bound to it…is literally second home." Laynia smiles then. "But da, I am aware. Is place of madness for unshielded minds…my touch, that protected you somewhat, though long time exposure could be bad." She takes to the air, a quick scan about, before she settles to the rooftop once more. "I see nothing as well." A sigh. "Perhaps was false alarm, or mistake." A shrug. "So…perhaps we meet again, have good tea, I have found place with help of co-workers that serves /good/ Russian tea." Whatever his answer, she smiles. "If you wish lift, I can jump us back down, or if not..I will take me leave, must get truck back to rental agency or is significant late fee."
Mikhail keeps scanning the street and the skies in case they're just taking longer to get here than anticipated. "Good Russian vodka would be better. Or kvass. I have not had good kvass in years and haven't seen it for sale either. I will need to make it." Which fortunately is easy enough.
"It has been long time since I drink kvass." Laynia comments with a far away look. "There was guard at camp I trained at, he would make with sourdough rye, Polish I think, but he adapted. Was quite unique with polski chleb as base." A hand brushes a lock of hair back from her brow. "So…did you wish lift anywhere? I can at least save you walk down the stairs if you do not mind another Darkforce jaunt."
Mikhail Rasputin reaches out to take Laynia's shoulder and then the fabric of space tears open where they are and deposits them on the sidewalk next to her van. It closes a fraction of a second later, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air that disappears a moment later. "No need to return there." he comments with a straight face as if nothing unexpected just happened. "But some tea wouldn't be unwelcome."
A brow quirks when Mikhail grips her shoulder, and then…bam…they're elsewhere. Her method is slower, the portal takes more time time form after all. A bark of laughter at the transit. "So…not only a professional soldier, but a metahuman as well…mutant, mm?" She figures that makes sense considering where he was haning out to drink his beer. "Is about forty-minutes to drive, if you wish, we ride together and talk, can get tea after." Assuming he'll ride along she unlocks the passenger door, and then will circle around to the driver side and climbs in. "Is very good tea." Laynia promises.
"Cosmonaut." Mikhail informs Laynia. "And yes, a mutant. It is why they chose me. Chose, lied to, and betrayed. Which is why we are here in the land of the enemy, da?" He gets into the passenger seat and buckles up. "It is good to be officially dead."
"Oh, a cosmonaut? Much better than soldier." Laynia says with a grin. "I was orphan, my brother and I raised by the state to be part of Soviet Super Soldier program. Later I get trained by KGB, so not such a noble hero of the people as cosmonaut, but still loyal." She starts the van then, and is a very cautious driver, never going more than five miles over, always signalling, hands always at ten and two on the wheel. Very very proper driver. "And then got dissilusioned about time I was with ACT-F taskforce as Soviet Liason, was about to defect when got shot." Fingers press to her chest a moment, just over the heart. "Spent forty years in Darkforce dimension healing."
"Spent eight years in unnamed dimension dying." Mikhail states, nodding at what Laynia says. "Four days for me. Then I was found and ended up here. Dimensions seem to do that." Very annoying. But they do seem to have much in common, which probably explains why he's talking to her about it.
"In my case I learn very important thing about my powers - I have a second me, only is native to Darkforce, we are…bound." Laynia doesn't seem so sure how that works exactly, but having a part of her 'soul' always in the Darkforce dimension would probably explain how well she seems able to manipulate it. "Other me spent time healing present me, not sure why time do strange things, also not sure if other me can do so again. On whole…I recommend not being snipered."
"I would recommend that to anyone." Mikhail agrees then muses "I do not have a duplicate. Neither do my brother or sister. I would not want one, I think." He shrugs then looks over at Laynia. "So. Black armor. What is this coming after you?"
"Black Razors, but they had no reason to be after me, back in seventies they were just getting started, very new group. Advanced weaponry, advanced armor and training…but I had no contact with them save as information I read about, never encounter them during my career. So am not sure they were after me, can you think of any reason they would be after you?"
Mikhail shakes his head. "Eight years have passed. They would believe me to be dead and no reason to think otherwise. I have done nothing to bring attention to myself here that might get back to Russia. They would not recognize me anyway, not having aged at all."
"And I was dead five times as long…of course did make news the other day, but I do not think they would think me same woman. Is most puzzling." Laynia pulls the van into a gas station, and clambers out. Leaning to the window. "In contract I read they list gas fees at more than double retail, is typical American greed." She says with a grin, and then shifts around to get to the pump and starts filling up the tank with gas.
Mikhail hasn't rented any cars so just takes her word for it. "Wear a mask." he suggests. "Or dye your hair." Or both. "What is the 'Pride' the man was talking about?" he asks. "Sounded like a gang of mutants?"
"I could cheat, I suppose." A moment's concentration then her hair is threaded through with strands of darkness, darkening to a lustrous black. "Of course…will be cold to touch." She grins at the other mutant, the other Russian-mutant who also had dimensional time foo to provide an exit strategy. "Is not quite gang." She says, and then finishes gassing up the van, and climbs back in behind the wheel, and yes, she fastens her belt and did before as well. Once underway she nods. "Is like…protection group, or, no…neighborhood watch? Yes, like neighborhood watch only mutants. They have strict rules…they do not steal, they do not attack those that do no harm, they take care of each other. Is strong community. Good defense. And they have powerful protector, called Hunter, but I have not met."
"They are wise to band together for defense." Mikhail notes. "There are many who hate us I have seen. And many who fear us. The very first time I was there, they were attacked by cyborgs who wanted to kill them. It is not good. But little different than home."
"I agree. I had to win their trust, however. Go to town, help people, keep helping, if they come to trust then treat you as one of them when you earn a place there." They arrive at the rental office shortly after that, and she drops off the keys and goes through the check in process. It takes about fifteen minutes, after which she leads the way to her car, a Mini Cooper, black of course with twin yellow stripes on the hood and a yellow roof. "So…tea, da?"
"Tea." Mikhail agrees once they're on the move again. "Is it the Russian Tea Room? I have been there when I learned of the name. They are very expensive." Very, very expensive. "I don't care how good they are, it is not worth the price." Assuming they're good; he didn't order anything.
"Is good place, not far from where I live actually, little family owned shop, Called the Nesting Doll. Owned by good honest Russian folks, Ivan and Irenka Rustikov." The drive is a short one, and in fact Laynia drives just as cautiously, is belted and focused. "Definitely not overpriced place with boring name." The place when they arrive proves to be small, dimly lit, and full of the smells of home. The woman at the counter smiles when she sees Laynia, and ooks. "Black hair! I like very much, makes you look mysterious." A smile for Mikhial too and the woman sees them seated. "Tea for you, Laynia…and for you, sir?"
Content with silence on the drive there, Mikhail looks out the window as Laynia drives. Once inside, he looks around and inhales deeply, smiling at the aromas. "Mikhail. Tea will be fine. Strong." Pause. "Do you have kvass?"
"Mikhail, and I am Irenka, and in the kitchen is my husband Ivan." She smiles quite warmly. "As a matter of fact, we do have Kvass, fresh as of yesterday. Do you wish that instead?" Laynia smiles. "I will have some, actually. I have not had in long time." Once the woman has your orders she bustles off, a cat wanders in from the back, looks a bit dubious about Mikhail, tolerates a quick pat from Laynia, but only because she's somewhat known, and the Russian Blue slinks off to a nest made for it under the display case by the register, blue eyes peering out to watch the room.
"If the kvass is good, I will have to come here often." Mikhail remarks, soaking in the atmosphere. "It is like being home without the danger of being recognized. I like it. What is the cat's name?"
"The cat? Is Dzhoker, because he is brat. A real joker, da?" Laynia grins. "Well, I have never had the kvass, so I cannot say, Mikhail, we will discover if kvass is as good as the Tea. They have food too, but is simple fare, I like it very much the Plov is very good indeed, as is the kourdak." Irenka soon returns with two glasses and a small pitcher full of kvass with just a bit of foam on top. She sets down the glasses, fills them, and then smiles. "Would you like something else, or just the kvass for now?" It is probably a bit late in the day.
Mikhail's smile grows when he sees the pitcher. "Do you have blini?" he asks hopefully. "If not, then whatever Laynia says is good. But nothing that needs a lot of cooking." Taking a glass, he takes a testing sip which is follow by a much larger one. "Ah, it is good. It has been too long."
Irenka looks offended. "Not have blini? Is impossible…da, we have. I will bring you some." No, she doesn't ask what toppings are wanted, harrumph! Laynia can't help but giggle a bit. "Well, I think we are either in dog's house, or about to be treated." She takes her own glass, and sips, and then settles back with a smile. "Da, is good." Laynia sighs very softly, tension flowing out of her. "So…you are teleporter then?" She asks while cooking sounds come from the kitchen, it is late enough that there is only one other person in the room, and older man in clothing about fifty years out of date, who is playing chess - his oppening appears to be using video chat to play from the old man's smartphone, an interesting dichotomy.
Mikhail seems satisfied to let the hostess choose the toppings and just settles back in his chair. "Nyet. Energy is mine to command. This includes energy woven through space-time fabric." He considers Laynia a moment then asks "Is dark force energy?"
"In part, but Darkforce is also substance…is both and neither. Is…what it is. I can bridge space, but is very challenging, very hard to navigate. I can make constructs, or blast with cold and impact energy, since forty year nap I have grown much stronger too. Can rupture armor of modern battle tank now. If you wish we can see if you can manipulate it after we eat, yes?"
Still looking at Laynia, Mikhail shrugs once then takes another sip of his kvass. "Do not need to wait. I cannot remove the black from your hair so it is not energy. Or is too much matter. Is difficult to feel." But still possible so maybe with more exposure or experimenting. "Or maybe it does not exist in this dimension by itself so is not something I can use."
"Perhaps is multiple things, my blasts are pure force and cold…we will test. Find if you can, there are others who can wield the Darkforce. It could be important detail." It is about this time when Irenka returns with a small platter full of blini. The small flatcakes are about two-inch wide rounds with a dollop of smetana (soured dairy cream) and there's an assortment of toppings including blackberries, wild honey and smoked salmon. The place is not upscale enough to have caviar. She also has another pitcher of kvass. "Enjoy, mm? If you need anything I will be around." And then she bustles off.
Mikhail thanks Irenka and smiles at her back as she heads off. "I must bring Piotr and Illyana here. They will appreciate it." Putting a piece of salmon on a blini, he pops it into his mouth and 'mmms' appreciatively. "Good. Very good. Or maybe I will not tell them and keep it all to myself."
"She will take it as challenge to keep you fed, you know. I like Irenka very much." Laynia grins. "Your siblings I take it? I am sure that Irenka and Ivan would be delighted to see you all fed, unless as you threaten, you wish to keep for self." Laynia likes hers with the honey, having a bit of a sweet tooth.
"A challenge I will be happy to see her take up." Mikhail states. "My parents died while I was away so I have not had proper home cooking in a long time. Unfortunately, I like my siblings so will have to bring them here to share it with me. I do not thinkt hey have had proper home cooking in a long time either."
"Are they also like us?" Mutants. "Either way, I am glad to have brought Nesting Doll to your attention." Her next blini she adds blackberries to, apparently /still/ going for the sweet. A chuckle. "I am going to have to workout extra hard to pay for this dinner." She sighs happily. "Is worth it."
Mikhail's cycling through the different toppings for the blini. "Yes. All three of us. Which makes me wonder about our parents. But it is too late to ask them now. I would not be surprised though to find out my father was a mutant but never spoke of it."
"Is not unusual, my brother was also mutant, he controlled kinetic entergy…I do not know what happened to him, I will see if I can get authorization for looking at work. If not, perhaps my friend Spider-Man will help. He is quite good with computers." At least Mikhail is familiar with computers, they were just barely a thing when Laynia was alive prior to her nap. "I would not doubt your father or mother or both had powers too, or at least latent x-factor." Dzhoker comes over and sits down to -look- at Laynia. She tilts her head back and looks down at the cat a moment, and then laughs. "Oh very well, but you know full well Irenka does not approve." She takes one of the slices of salmon, and cuts a small piece off for the cat, who accepts it with grave dignity, then trots off with tail high and curved to eat.
"My father." Mikhail declares. "I was told by those who trained me that we are descendants of Grigori Rasputin and you know what is said about him. The line comes through my father." Naturally, given his surname. He smiles at the cat as he fixes another blini.
"Well, if anyone were mutant it would be mad monk who was beaten, poisoned, shot, stabbed, shoved in sack and thrown in river and still did not drown…he died, of course, but made it to land and was crawling home, or so the story goes." She looks to Mikhail. "Does family lore include truth of this?" Full enough, she settles back in her seat and nurses her kvass. "So much better than beer. Is good rye too, I think might be they added some clove too."
Mikhail can only shrug. "It is not an uncommon name. We had no reason to think we were of his blood. Until my trainers told me, I never thought about it. There were fields to till and animals to tend. Life was much simpler then and good."
"Is interesting you were descended from such famous man, infamous really." Laynia's smile fades a bit. "I would not know, my whole life until recently was training, and schooling, and work. Simple life I have never known." She smiles then. "I am glad you did, though, Mister Cosmonaut." A faint sigh as she notes the time. "Forgive me, Mikhail, I have 7AM meeting at work tomorrow, I am going to need to call it night. Can forgive I hope?" She takes out a pen, and writes her number down on a napkin. "Give call sometime, yes?"
"If they were telling the truth." Mikhail points out. "I trust nothing they said now." Still, it would make sense. He takes the napkin and puts it in a pocket. "I will text. You call if you need me. Black armor will not have a chance between us."
"Very good, Mikhail. We should test limits of your power and mine as well, see if my blasts are things you can affect, yes?" She rises and then offers her hands to Mikhail. "Was very nice to meet you, is nice to know someone with so much in common." She looks thoughtful a moment, then smiles. "I will see you around, Misha." On the way out, she calls over her shoulder. "I have tab, by the way, you can get dinner next time."