STORM FRONT

Written by BattleProud.
Based on characters created by SFwriter

A Devil's Homecoming
What If? 

 

Some introductory notes.  Feel free to skip them if you are really impatient (and confident in your knowledge of Russia).

 

This is a What If? and therefore nothing that happens here actually has anything to do with the real Storm Front, and nothing here is ‘true’ in any sense.  However, I did try to write the characters as realistically as possible and have cleared everything with the man himself.  I did, however, take some liberties, like with Marcel’s extended family, which brings me to my next point.

This story is full of references to Russian culture, traditions and some (but don’t worry, not much) politics.  Most of it isn’t very complicated, but just ask me if you have any questions.  The only thing that is not self-explanatory and might be confusing is the use of diminutives or ‘pet names’.  All Russian names also have a pet name that is used by people close to the individual.  The only ones you need to know for this story are Kolja, a short form of Nikolay, Misha, a short form of Michail and Volodya, a short form of Vladimir, only used here to refer to Vladimir Putin, the president of the Federation from 2000 until 2008 and currently the Prime Minister.

Patronymic names are also mentioned.  This is every Russian person’s middle names, formed by his / hers father’s name with a suffix (-ovich / -evich for men, -ovna / -evna for women).

Finally, the phrase ‘На здаровие (na zdaroviye)’ is used.  It’s the Russian equivalent of ‘cheers’, but literally means ‘to health’, a point that might be useful to note.  Many of you might know, or think you know, what happens in this story…regardless, I hope you enjoy it.  Just remember, I am no writer and really just did this for a laugh, so don’t hold me to the same standards we judge Ty by :P

-BattleProud

 

X  X  X  X  X

 

Storm Front What If? Devil’s Homecoming

By BattleProud

 

 

‘Where do bad folks go when they die?

They don’t go to Heaven where the angels fly.

They go to a lake of fire and fry,

Don’t see them again ‘til the Fourth of July.’

The Meatpuppets, Lake of Fire

 

Marty Lee Miller was hot.  In the physical sense, that is, though many, himself perhaps more than anyone else, would consider him extremely attractive.  Wearing nothing but a white towel, a sheen of sweat glistening on his tanned skin, Marty Lee sat and waited.  Soon he might be surrounded by similarly scantily glad men.  If not, at least he would get to see what kind of body had lain hidden under Misha’s sharp suit all day.

            Marty Lee had met Misha that morning.  He, like Marty Lee, had been dragged along by his father on business, and had offered to show Marty Lee around, having joined his father many times and even stayed several times at the same hotel.  In his company, Marty Lee had enjoyed everything the massive hotel had to offer, as well as explored the city.  The two had decided to hit the clubs after dinner, ensuring an enjoyable end to what was bound to be a sickeningly formal and intensely boring affair.  First, however, Marty Lee was intent on catching a glimpse of what Misha had to offer under his trendy clothes, a sneak preview of what he was fully expecting to see more of later, after loosening up the younger boy in the clubs.  He knew Russians knew how to party, and Misha could probably hold his drink well, but Marty Lee was still hoping he would reach a point of what he liked to call ‘heightened suggestibility’, after which Marty Lee was certain he could make any guy question his sexualit, if only for one night.

            Marty Lee physically licked his lips in anticipation, only frown as his tongue tasted the salt of his accumulated sweat.

            ‘Damn’, he thought, ‘It’s hot as Hell in here…’

 

x  x  x

 

Lucas Sheridan was drinking.  That in and of itself was not anything out of the ordinary, but it had been a long time since he had been drinking like this.  Marty Lee’s presence in his house had had some positive effects on Lucas’ life, most notably in helping rebuild his self-esteem, and thereby curbing, at least partially, his alcohol problem.  Lucas had attributed this improvement to the passage of time and, after seeing him at the Nationals, the anticipation of getting Storm back into his life.  If there was one thing Storm would be put off by, aside from the obvious, it would be Lucas’ relationship to the bottle, so Lucas was determined show him that he was stronger than the countless others who had eventually drowned themselves in it.

            However, maybe Marty Lee was the deciding factor after all, Lucas thought wryly.  Not that it really mattered at this point, at least not to Lucas who was so far down the whisky bottle he could barely think.  All that mattered was that Marty was gone.

 

x  x  x

 

Marty Lee hated his father, and rarely attempted to hide the fact.  He did not have a great relationship with his mother either, but at least they could hold a conversation without it degenerating into sarcastic jabs or outright animosity.  Right now, though, he thought that maybe he hated her even more than he did his father, because this had been her idea.

            Marty Lee was sitting on a plane, first class of course, with his father, joining him on one of his business trips.  His mother had suggested that the two attempt to rebuild some bridges by spending some quality father-son time together.  In the Miller family, camping or fishing would be out of the question.  Charles Miller would not even consider taking time out of his busy schedule to spend time only with a son he loved and respected, much less one he could hardly stand the sight of and who fully returned the feelings.  Therefore, he had agreed to take Marty with him to meet with some business associates.  Marty Lee had only agreed to go along because, as much as he hated to admit it, he had become accustomed to his family’s wealth and could not imagine living life to any lower standard, so he had reluctantly joined his father in hopes of learning some tricks of the trade, become familiar with some of his father’s acquaintances and possibly do a little networking of his own.  Money takes hard work, and nothing is harder than schmoozing, he thought with a slight smile.  But the smile soon disappeared as he remembered where he was and what he was doing.  His mother knew he depended on them and that he could not say no to her suggestion.  That made him angrier than both the stupid idea and his own dependency.  That was what made him really hate her as he nipped his complimentary glass of champagne.

 

x  x  x

 

‘So, cousin, you happy now or what?’ asked Kolja with a grin.

 

‘What do you mean?’ Marcel frowned as Nikolay Andreyevich Kadyrov dumped himself down in the seat across from him.  The two were not actually cousins, but still distantly related on Marcel’s mother’s side.  Her father had broken the traditions of his Russian diasporah family and married an American woman.  Marcel’s mother had given Marcel her father’s patronymic as a middle name, albeit completely ignorant to both its significance and its spelling.  Marcel had little contact with his extended family, but Kolja went to his school so he had to put up with him from time to time.

 

‘Don’t you read the news, or what?’ Kolja replied, not looking at Marcel but methodically checking out a girl standing a few meters away, ‘Your boy Marty Miller is dead.’

 

Marcel’s eyes left the pages of the book he was reading, but quickly looked back down.  ‘And, what does that have to do with me?’ he replied casually, though his ears were trained on his tall kinsman, eagerly awaiting more information.

 

‘Wasn’t that queer fucking around with one of your friends?  Raping him?  Fucking scum if you ask me’, Kolja had lost interest in the girl and was now fiddling with his phone.

 

‘Water under the bridge’, said Marcel, sarcastically adding, ‘though I don’t expect you to understand that.’

 

‘Ah, little American cousin, you disgrace your family’, Kolja mocked, ‘first ungrateful and then disrespectful…tsk tsk.’

 

‘Ungrateful?’ Marcel asked, no longer able to feign disinterest.  ‘How did he die?’ he nervously asked.

 

‘Newspapers say accident’, chuckled the Russian as he lethargically rose to his feet, ‘and in this country, you seem to believe your media.’  Nikolay walked off, his attention once again caught by a member of the fairer sex, leaving Marcel steeped in thought.

 

I really can’t stand my family, he thought as he packed up his books and headed off to his next class.

 

x  x  x

 

Things just got a whole lot better, thought Marty Lee as he saw the blond boy in the hotel’s breakfast restaurant.  He had dropped a Danish on the floor and Marty Lee was thoroughly enjoying the view as he bent down to pick it up.  As the boy straightened up and turned around a rosy blush came to his fair cheeks as he noticed Marty Lee eyeing him.  Marty Lee flashed him a cocky smile but froze when he met the boy’s icy blue eyes, and felt his own cheeks beginning to heat up, a very unusual sensation.  He quickly joined his father at the table, hoping his tan would hide the boy’s effect on him.

            His father was sitting across from a portly man in his fifties who was slowly eating and sipping water from a small glass as he listened to Mr Miller speak.  Marty Lee quickly seated himself next to his father in what he hoped was an inconspicuous manner.  Intending to combat the dryness in his mouth that those eyes had induced, he reached for the glass of water in front of him and took a large gulp only to choke and sputter violently.  The vodka scorched his nose like liquid fire and made his eyes water as it seared through his sinuses.

            The man opposite his father burst out in a bellowing laughter and Mr Miller laughed nervously along.  Marty Lee’s cheeks burned, now not only from the sudden assault on his mouth, but also intense embarrassment, something that was made even worse as the blond boy, smiling widely in one of the most pleasing laughs Marty Lee had ever heard, sat down across from him.

            The large man, wiping tears from his eyes, finally extended his hand to Marty Lee and introduced himself. ‘I am Sergei Petrovich Kadyrov, I been doing business with your papa.  He is, how you say, tough nut,’ the man chuckled, his words heavily accented, ‘He does business like in glasnost.  But now we smarter, we not like Yeltsin, and I am certain I can crack him.’  Sergei guffawed as he broke open a crab claw in time with his last words and proceeded to suck out the meat inside.

            The blond boy was introduced as his son, Michail Sergeyevich Kadyrov, and throughout the short meal he kept giving Marty Lee a devilish grin each time he sipped at his vodka, a mischievous glint in his Siberian eyes.  Marty Lee had regained his composure and treated Misha, as his father called him, like he did most other people, dispassionately analysing him while maintaining an appearance of moderate interest.

            At the same time, Marty Lee was observing the interaction between Kadyrov and his father, and was almost pleasantly surprised.  Used to seeing his father in full control, Marty Lee noticed that his father seemed nervous conversing with the other man, and much more respectful than Marty Lee had ever seen him.  He began to smile as the idea that his father only succeeded in business by being a total bitch entered his mind, but quickly discarded the thought.  His dad was tough, Kadyrov had even said it himself.  No, something about the Russian definitely unsettled Mr Miller, making Marty Lee’s curiosity burn.

            Marty Lee was brought out of his thoughts of the morning by sweat stinging his eyes.  He wiped his brow and proceeded to sit with his head bowed, looking at his feet, to stop the relentless flow from his forehead.  That is why he never saw anyone approach.  He just heard the click.

 

x  x  x

 

Charles Miller was tense.  His negotiations with Kadyrov were getting nowhere, and despite having spent the entire day in meetings, the two could not seem to come to an agreement.  The elder Miller was depending on this dinner to reach a compromise so that the next day could be used to go through all the formalities and details.  That said, he was not simply going to give in to the Russian’s demands.  That was not how the Millers did business, and Charles was no exception, despite the pressure coming from the other side of the table.

            At the same time, he knew he could not push Kadyrov to hard.  He was not like other business men, and the last time the two had done business things had ended sourly.  There had arisen certain ‘misunderstandings’, as Kadyrov had called them, which had led to both arguments and threats.  Charles had vowed never to involve himself with that lot again, but his unquenchable thirst for not just money, but the adrenaline kick of making bigger and more risky investments had him crawling back to the Russians.

            However, as the dinner wore on and the bottle of Гжелька (Gzhelka), the vodka Kadyrov had specifically ordered from Moscow, grew empty, Mr Miller was getting nowhere.

 

‘After the fall of the Wall’, explained Sergei, his heavy accent drawing out the words and sentences, ‘no one in the Russian Federation knew anything about capitalist system being in use by the West except what the Party had fed us, and so we were all being tricked an cheated by Yeltsin and his government, who was being ripped off by the few opportunistic oligarchs, who were in turn being taken advantage of by Western capitalists.  The West abused our economic and political situation and raped Mother Russia for all it was worth, and you still think it is that easy’.  Kadyrov finished with a sneer, ‘But it is not no longer.  For all the curses I would lay on Putin, he put both the oligarchs and the West in their place, throwing them all out and taking back what was rightfully ours.  The sly bastard has grown to powerful and comfortable in his position, and has used that to get rid of anyone he does not like, myself included, but he has taught us the value of action instead of complacency.  We no longer don’t sit by and watch you skin us alive.  We fight back.  Volodya turns off gas, I turn up heat.  There is more at stake here than you realize, Mr Miller.’

 

‘What are you getting at?’ asked Mr Miller, nervousness present in his voice.

 

‘Let’s just say that this deal will not simply fade away.  It will proceed to my liking, or burn out.  How you say?  A blaze of glory?’ Kadyroc smiled menacingly as he raised his glass.  ‘На здаровие (na zdaroviye)!’ he said, unable to contain a snigger.

Mr Miller responded by finishing his vodka with the Russian, the fiery liquid rushing down his throat.  As his senses cleared, he thought he could smell what he was sure was their dinner burning in the kitchen, which made him realise that both Marty Lee and Kadyrov’s son Michail had yet to show up for the meal.

 

x  x  x

 

Marty Lee looked up into those beautiful eyes and a chill went down his spine despite the thermometer on the wall reading over eighty degrees.  The sauna seemed to be German-made so Marty Lee had no way of knowing how much that was in Farenheit.  The irony of that thought never crossed his mind.

            No, he was too captivated by the eyes staring into his own, looking like those of a white Siberian tiger that has finally cornered his prey and is toying with the idea of playing with its food before devouring it.  Marty Lee could see Misha through the narrow window in the sauna door.  He was fully clothed, a fact by which Marty Lee could not help but be disappointed even as he got a sneaking suspicion that more than his ‘sneak preview’ was at risk at this point.  In his hand, just below the devilish grin Marty Lee recognised from that morning, Misha held a key that Marty Lee assumed with quite a bit of certainty was for the sauna door…the door Misha had just locked.

            ‘До свидания (dasvidania)’, he said has he turned and left, not giving Marty Lee a second look.  Of course, Marty Lee heard nothing through the banya’s thick walls.

 

x  x  x

 

‘Are you alright?’ Claire asked as she approached Dade from behind, his silhouette clear against the moonlight reflecting off the glassy surface of Lake Herren.

 

‘Yeah, I suppose’, he replied, attempting to compose himself for the beautiful woman standing behind him, now with her hands on his shoulder.  Dade began to relax into her, but then abruptly straightened up and turned around.  ‘You shouldn’t be out here.  They say moonlight will make the baby crazy.  A lunatic’, he chuckled, smiling at Claire and rubbing her stomach.

Claire smiled at his attempt at humour, but noticed some of the silver rays dancing in the moisture of his eyes.

 

‘Well, maybe you should take me home then’, she said, hoping to spur him to action.  Ever since he had learned of Marty Lee’s death, Dade had lost the energy and determination that had been brought on by his impending fatherhood.  Claire was of course as shocked by Marty Lee’s death as anyone else, but had never realised that his and Dade’s relationship had been as close as it now seemed.

 

‘He wasn’t so bad’, Dade suddenly said, surprising Claire, ‘I know you think he was a dick, and he was, I know that better than anyone else…’ he drifted off as Claire gave him a perplexed look, ‘But he was getting better’, Dade finished pointedly, ‘he deserved another chance.’

 

‘Well, there’s nothing more you can do Dade.  You did more than anyone else.  You gave him that second chance.’

 

‘I know.  It just seems like everyone I let in, get close to, fall off the load somewhere, get hurt…leave me…’ he drifted off again.

 

‘Well, I’m still here’, Claire said, trying to cheer him up.

 

‘Yeah, and you shouldn’t’, came the sulking reply, ‘and that’s my fault too.’

 

x  x  x

 

            After only a few moments of shock, Marty Lee’s instincts and training kicked in.  A glance at the lock showed him that the lever that was supposed to be on his side of the lock was missing, but a quick scan of the floor immediately rectified that situation.  However, it was broken off and, try as he might, Marty Lee could not make it fit back on.  He then tried to turn the pin sticking out of the lock with his fingers, but found no grip with his sweaty hands.  Seeing no other option, Marty Lee sent his left fist thundering toward the slender window.

            Marty Lee Miller is not body builder, but he has derived quite a bit of muscle strength from the combat training he has practiced for years.  Moreover, his extensive practice and experience with the action of punching has led him to perfect the art, his expert technique combining the strength of his core muscles with the basic forces of physics.  However, despite all this, the impact of his fist against the door only sent a jarring pain shooting up his harm.

            He tried again, using his weaker right hand this time to spare the throbbing knuckled on his left, but to no avail.  He then sent an impressive forekick toward the window, only to have his sweaty foot slip on the glass, causing him to lose his balance and fall backward onto the wooden benches.  Desperately he rose to his feet and proceeded to pound on the door with all his might and shouting for help at the top of his lungs.

            Marty Lee collapsed in a heap on the floor.  Normally able to sustain such a violent assault on competition opponents and others unlucky to get in his way, there was no way he could maintain any more than minimal physical exertion is such extreme temperatures.  The thermometer now read eighty-five degrees.

            He visualised those steely blue eyes again, and could still not comprehend the treachery.  Misha was just a boy.  Marty Lee was the one with the ulterior motive, the hidden agenda of getting Misha in his bed.  He was always in control, he had never let a boy have such an effect on him.  He felt gutted.  He had never felt so betrayed, so heart-broken.  How could someone just stab him in the back like that?

            Suddenly Dade sprang into his mind, and with him Storm, and Lucas.  What the fuck did I do to you, Dade, he thought.  What have I destroyed?  His vision started to blur, and Marty did not care if it was due to the sweat, tears or his brain slowly shutting down because of the heat and low oxygen levels.  Images of his past began swimming before him while his head throbbed dully.  His mind’s eye then concentrated on Dade, the moments they had shared, the laughs they had had together, those beautiful dimples when he smiled, his trademark raised eyebrow, his wonderful eyes…

            Then the eyes transformed to Storm’s, so similar to Dade’s, yet so different.  So much sharper, so much more capable of both malice and compassion.  And that was what he saw now, an absurd mix of the two.

 

‘It didn’t have to be this way’, he heard Storm whisper at the same time has he cackled malignantly, ‘See you in Hell Psychonuts!’

Breaking down and trembling and weeping silently, Marty’s mind flitted between the faces of the people in his life.  His parents, with their disappointed eyes and upturned noses, his sister with her haughty dismissal, Bradley Sisto with his look of utter disgust, Lucas with his pouty lips and soft compassionate eyes, Storm with his judging ones and finally Dade... Dade who had given him so much and who had asked nothing back, but received only abuse.  Yeah, like helping him train for the Nationals was even close to making up for what Marty had subjected him to, not to mention his spiteful, jealousy-ridden plot for ruining what Storm had built with Lucas.

His lust now completely forgotten, those blue eyes never once entered his feverish hallucinations.  As the thermometer passed ninety degrees, Marty lay barely conscious on the sauna floor, his only sensations being of his now throbbing headache and his blood, now practically boiling in his veins.

 

‘Dade’, a whisper, barely audible through his now swollen lips, ‘I love you…’

 

 

‘The Son of man shall send forth His angels, and they shall gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity; And shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.’ (Matthew 13:37-43)

 

 

X  X  X  X  X

 

Well, there you have it.  I thought I would add a few notes like Ty does, because I love and respect him enough to emulate everything he does…I know some of you were probably expecting this to be a Marcel story, and I suppose it was meant to originally, but it sort of took its own path away from that direction, for two reasons.  First of all, I wasn’t sure if I could write Marcel very well, and I didn’t want to risk fucking that up and offending all you Blondie-lovers out there.  More importantly though, I didn’t really see Marcel as being the kind of guy to have anything to do with the mob or what they do, so the connection to him was pretty much just to keep the story true to the idea that I’ve been going on about on the forums for ages.  That, and I wanted to connect this story to more of the characters we all know and love than just Marty Lee, hence also the Lucas and Dade bits.  Anyway, hope you enjoyed it.  If I think of any more random thoughts that went through my head while writing, I’ll post them in the forums if I think you would want to hear them, and maybe if you wouldn’t.

-BP