Marvelous Meditations #61

Ust-Ordynsky Collective, near Lake Baikal, Siberia

The wind howled over the frozen plains, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and pine. The fields stretched wide, untouched save for patches of brittle grass poking through the frostbitten soil.

In the distance, beyond the modest wooden houses of the collective, the vast Lake Baikal lay still, its surface shimmering beneath the pale light of the overcast sky. The air was crisp, the kind that stung the lungs with every breath, and the landscape felt as remote as any place on Earth—silent, isolated, forgotten.

A young girl, no older than nine, skipped through the field near the road, her small boots crunching against the frosted dirt. Her scarf flapped behind her as she hummed to herself, twirling in the cold air. She was used to the quiet, used to the rhythm of the seasons and the distant rumble of tractors or the occasional truck that passed through the settlement.

But today, something was different.

The low growl of engines rumbled in the distance, faint at first, but growing steadily louder. She stopped in her tracks, tilting her head as the sound became clearer—several vehicles, moving fast. She turned toward the road, eyes widening as a convoy of dark, military-style cars appeared at the far end of the street, kicking up dust and frost as they tore up the narrow dirt path.

She had never seen anything like this before. Not here.

The vehicles came to a sharp halt, their engines idling like great metal beasts before the largest of them, a black SUV, pulled up directly in front of her family’s house. The little girl barely dared to breathe as the doors opened.

Two men stepped out.

The first was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in simple, casual clothing—black jacket, dark jeans, gloved hands tucked into his pockets.

His short black hair was ruffled by the wind, and his sharp, unreadable gaze flicked across the surroundings before settling on the second man beside him.

The second man was different. He wore a dark military suit, every inch of the fabric adorned with medals and insignias, polished to perfection. The girl had seen men like him on television before—officers, generals, important men who made decisions about war and peace.

Her breath caught as they began speaking in Russian, their voices low but firm.

“As always,” the officer said, his voice smooth and practiced, “it is a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Cross.”

The girl blinked. Mr. Cross?

The man in the jacket—Nathan—smirked slightly, shaking the officer’s hand with an easy confidence.

“The intel you provided will help our nation greatly,” the officer continued. “And, of course, you will be generously compensated.”

Nathan exhaled, a small, humorless chuckle escaping him. He took a slow step back, glancing up at the cold, gray sky before returning his gaze to the officer.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, voice laced with something unreadable. “It’s just business.”

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, “As for compensation, we already discussed what I want.” His tone grew sharper. “I want Omega Red buried. That situation? It never sees the light of day.”

The officer nodded, his expression composed, but there was something in his eyes—something calculating.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “As agreed.”

The little girl had no idea what the men were talking about, but she listened as if her life depended on it. There was something about the way they spoke—calm, but heavy with meaning—that made her pulse quicken. She didn’t understand the words, not entirely, but she felt their importance, the weight of whatever had just been decided.

She was so engrossed in their conversation that she didn’t even notice the other vehicles' doors swinging open, nor did she hear the footsteps crunching against the frost-covered ground as more figures emerged.

A tall figure, broad-shouldered and powerful, slipped away from the others, his movements light for a man of his size. He was young, maybe in his twenties, with a scruffy beard and kind, familiar eyes. A wide, mischievous grin stretched across his face as he carefully inched toward the little girl from behind, his boots making barely a sound against the frozen earth.

Closer.

And closer.

Before Ilyana knew what was happening, two large hands suddenly covered her eyes from behind.

“Guess who, snowflake?” a deep, familiar voice rumbled.

She froze for a split second, her heart leaping into her throat. And then—

“Piotr!!” she squealed, spinning around so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

The second she saw his face, her small arms flung around his waist, hugging him as tightly as her tiny frame would allow. Piotr let out a hearty laugh, his chest shaking with warmth as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

For a moment, the cold, the strangers, and the mysterious men speaking in hushed voices all faded away.

After a long moment, Piotr pulled back just enough to look at her, his grin never faltering. Then, in one smooth motion, he grasped her by the waist and lifted her high into the air, spinning her slightly as she let out a delighted giggle.

“And how has moya sestra been?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

Ilyana beamed down at him, swinging her legs slightly in the air. “I’ve been waiting forever for you to visit!” she pouted. “Mama said you were busy, but I knew you’d come back!”

Piotr chuckled, lowering her slightly so they were at eye level.

“Of course, I came back,” he said gently, tapping a finger to her nose. “A little snowflake like you can’t melt without her big brother watching over her, da?”

Ilyana giggled, squeezing his shoulders tighter.

For her, nothing else mattered in that moment.

But Piotr?

His eyes flicked briefly toward the men in conversation—Nathan, the military officer, and the convoy of black vehicles stationed like silent sentinels.

And just for a second, his smile turned troubled. This was not what he had in mind when he asked to visit his parents.

Noticing Piotr’s lingering gaze, Nathan followed it, his expression unreadable as his sharp eyes met the troubled look in the young man’s face. He could tell Piotr wasn’t just happy to be home—there was unease there, a quiet tension that he tried to mask for Illyana’s sake.

Nathan sighed and let his gaze sweep across the village. The commotion had drawn attention. Doors had creaked open, and cautious eyes peered out from behind curtains and cracked doorways. More and more people emerged, their expressions a mixture of confusion, concern, and the kind of wary suspicion that came from years of living in a place where outsiders rarely ventured—especially not in military convoys.

They weren’t panicked, not yet, but if the soldiers lingered too long, that could change.

Nathan turned back to the officer, his tone casual but firm. “Time for you and your boys to pack it up. You’re starting to spook the locals.”

The officer, a man clearly accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them, narrowed his eyes slightly. But he knew better than to push.

With a stiff nod, he turned on his heel and started barking commands at his subordinates.

“Move out! Back to the base!”

At once, the soldiers snapped to action. Boots struck the ground in unison, car doors slammed, and engines roared to life. Within moments, the entire convoy was retreating down the road, kicking up dust and slush in their wake.

As the last vehicle disappeared beyond the tree line, a heavy silence settled over the village.

Now, only Nathan, Piotr, Logan, and the five young mutants remained.

Nathan exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. He could feel the weight of many eyes still on them, lingering uncertainty hanging in the cold air.

The silence didn’t last long.

A pair of hurried footsteps crunched against the frosted dirt path, and Nathan turned to see two figures approaching—an older man and woman, both dressed in warm, practical clothing.

Nikolai and Alexandra Rasputin.

Piotr and Illyana’s parents.

Their faces were lined with years of hard work, but despite that, their sharp blue eyes were bright with concern as they approached their son.

“Piotr,” Nikolai said, his deep voice steady but questioning. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Alexandra, her gaze flickering briefly toward Nathan and the others before returning to Piotr, frowned. “And who are these people?”

Piotr gently lowered Illyana back to the ground, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping forward to face his parents.

“Mama, Papa… I’ll explain everything,” he promised. “But first, let’s go inside.”

...

The inside of the Rasputin home was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the harsh Siberian cold outside. The walls were made of sturdy, aged wood, lined with shelves full of old books, family heirlooms, and faded photographs that told the story of a hardworking, close-knit family.

A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the modest but well-kept furnishings—a worn yet comfortable couch, a sturdy wooden table with mismatched chairs, and a thick woven rug covering the floor. The scent of baked bread and herbs lingered in the air, remnants of a meal that had likely been interrupted by the sudden arrival of the military convoy.

Nathan stood near the door, leaning against the frame, his arms loosely crossed as he surveyed the room with quiet observation. Logan, ever the silent presence, had settled into a chair at the far end of the table, arms resting on the sides as he studied the interaction unfolding before him.

The younger X-Men—Rogue, Kitty, Iceman, Nightcrawler, and Jean—stood together, a little unsure, respecting the space but clearly curious.

Nikolai sat at the head of the table, his sharp, calculating gaze shifting between Piotr, Nathan, and the rest of the group.

His heavily accented English was slow and deliberate as he finally spoke. “So... you were here on mission. And you ask for some time to visit. That is why you and everyone are here...?”

His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of scrutiny beneath his words, as if he were weighing the truth against what he knew of his son.

Before Piotr could respond, Alexandra spoke in rapid Russian, her expression a mixture of concern and frustration.

“What mission, Piotr? What did you do? Is this going to bring you trouble?”

Piotr shifted slightly, his jaw tightening as he prepared to answer, but before he could, Nathan cleared his throat and smoothly interjected, his Russian flawless.

“No need to worry,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Not everyone was happy about us doing what we did, but it was the right thing to do. And I made sure none of it will cause any problems.”

Nikolai turned his gaze to Nathan, his eyes narrowing with skepticism.

“How?” he asked bluntly.

Nathan shrugged, his expression unreadable. “I have some connections in the army. I offered them a good deal.”

Nikolai’s frown deepened. He studied Nathan for a long moment before turning back to Piotr, his voice low but firm. “Who is this man and why did you arrive with so many soldiers?”

Before Piotr could answer, Logan let out a short grunt and spoke up, his voice as gruff as ever.

"Nathan’s a consultant for the X-Men," he said, cutting through the tension. "Hired by Charles. He’s been helping us with this mission."

Nathan, still leaning against the doorframe, added smoothly, "As for the soldiers, I do apologize for that… They were the ones I had to cut a deal with to make sure the mission didn’t cause trouble for Piotr or anyone else involved."

Nikolai exhaled heavily, his thick brows furrowing as he mulled over Nathan’s words. His initial skepticism remained, but his rigid posture eased up slightly. He might not know this man or the young mutants that had come with him, but he did know Logan—and he knew Charles Xavier by reputation. If they trusted this stranger, then he supposed he could at least offer the benefit of the doubt.

He turned to Alexandra and began explaining the situation in Russian, his tone calmer now, though still laced with lingering concern. Alexandra listened carefully, nodding slowly but keeping her sharp eyes on their unexpected guest.

Taking this as a sign that his father had relented, Piotr turned to the young mutants, flashing them a small smile.

"Come," he said, his voice warm. "I will show you around."

The young X-Men exchanged glances before eagerly following him. Kitty was the first to step forward, clearly excited to see Piotr’s childhood home, while Nightcrawler teleported a few steps ahead, playfully inspecting the rustic interior before waiting for the others.

Rogue and Bobby trailed behind, whispering among themselves, and Jean followed at a steady pace, keeping a perceptive eye on everything.

But as Piotr reached the door, he realized someone wasn’t moving.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Ilyana still standing in the same spot, staring intently at Nathan, her large blue eyes unblinking.

Piotr tilted his head, his brows knitting together. "Snowflake, are you coming?"

She shook her head silently, never taking her gaze off Nathan.

Piotr frowned but didn’t press her. If she wanted to stay, she could. With a small shrug, he turned and stepped outside, leading the others into the cold Siberian air. The door creaked shut behind them, leaving Ilyana alone in the house with the adults.

Yet, she barely seemed to notice their departure. She remained where she was, standing eerily still, her arms at her sides, watching Nathan with the kind of unflinching intensity usually reserved for something rare and exotic.