2013-03-02 Running Interference

It's fairly early in the morning, the wind blowing last night's used playbills through the alleyway by the Rouge Theater's stage door. Loitering at the entrance to that alleyway is a nondescript man in an equally nondescript and decidedly rumpled suit. The only thing he really needs is a cigarette - but he is not smoking one. Instead, he has a different "poison," a styrofoam cup from a nearby coffee house, from which occasional sips are taken. (He looks like he's been up all night).
It turns out, the Action Center has access to a good variety of 'gently-used' second-hand clothes. Thus, despite the fact she's loathe to abandon the swank look the new clothes she had bought for her, Olena has access to clothing more suited to a morning workout. Consequently, her current garb includes loose athletic trousers, a pair of decent cross trainers, and good windbreaker suitable for a winter run. A wool hat, cotton scarf, and knit gloves round out the exercise ensemble. She jogs along the early morning sidewalks, dodging the occasional pedestrian and actually leaping or sliding over the occasional obstacle. She's not bothering to adjust her path any more than is courteously necessary to avoid colliding with others on the sidewalk. Her footsteps are sure and their soles are actually pretty sure on the salt-dried concrete.
Morning workout, with mild parkour. That attracts the man's attention, causing him to drift out of the alleyway not QUITE into the girl's path. He studies her with a bit of an intensity to his gaze, taking in everything about her in a manner that might be disconcerting...especially to a young woman with an agenda to hide.
Not to mention the fact that Olena can't help but notice just about everything that happens around her in fine detail... and the fact she's so recently been on the run from some very bad elements in the city. The gaze that settles on her can't help but attract her attention. Her steps slow. She is several yards away when she stops, ostensibly to do some stretches by bringing her foot up to the back of her thigh, several obstacles between her and the man that scrutinizes her. She returns the gaze, focusing her attention on him so as to determine just what sort of threat he may be -- and whether or not she needs to high tail it back toward the Center and safety.
His face adjusts into a smile as he catches her eyes. If he's a threat, he's at least a polite threat. He's so nondescript he has to be either a completely normal guy...or the exact opposite. Still, he's not making any move towards her, a silhouette in the alleyway. Stance completely relaxed.
Olena isn't much given to smiles, herself, though she at least manages a courteous, if cautious, nod in response. Her automatic assumption, having come from a former Soviet country (for all that Ukraine has been 'free' for most -- if not all -- of her life), is that any entirely normal looking guy is entirely the opposite. Of course, to be fair, he is standing in an alley mouth. That doesn't help. 
She does note, however, that he doesn't have the same look secret police agents would back in her homeland -- that is, he doesn't have the really nice shoes combined with the really crappy suit. He looks rumpled all over. 
Nevertheless, she's still not sure whether or not she should trust him. Thus, as she starts to move forward again, she does so at a walk, her attention never quite leaving him, even though she does now start searching the surrounding environs for anyone that looks like they might be in cahoots with the fellow.
Perhaps they're in cahoots with him, perhaps not. In either case, Olena's sudden attack of caution prevents her from running around the corner right into the group of casually dressed, tattooed youths who wait on the far side. Catching this with his senses, John frowns and starts to move to follow, almost by accident and without increasing his pace to faster than a stroll.
Olena doesn't at all correlate the youths, whose cigarette smoke and crude conversation is enough to alert her to their presence -- particularly as she nears the corner. They don't seem the type to associate kindly with anyone in a rumpled suit. That doesn't make her dismiss them as not dangerous, however. (She assumes most things are dangerous until proven otherwise. That's why she's still alive.) 
Add to it the fact the man is on the move and the young Ukrainian mutant can't help but feel just a little spooked. Her walk increases to a measured jog. She draws in her focus, beginning to track bodies and movement potentials, plotting course probabilities and alternatives, just in case she needs to pick up the pace further still. 
"Hey lady." One of the youths, stepping quite deliberately into Olena's path, the others moving to flank her. Yeah, the man's on the move, frowning now...can she look after herself, or is John going to have to step in? He can't do anything too obvious: He'd risk blowing his cover. Their intent, though, is read. Lowlifes. Scums. The frown deepens as he approaches, now in a measured pace.
Olena reacts almost in advance of the youth's move to block her path. Indeed, observant as he is, the alien that follows her will very likely notice how very nearly prescient her anticipation of the young man's step is. She adjusts her course, first to the side and then by back peddling out of the way of his companions, too. They never quite manage to surround her. She does, however, glance back to realize the man is following her. This, spooks her still further. She glances about swiftly. Her eyes lock on half a dozen different objects that could serve as projectiles... just as soon as she can maneuver close enough to scoop them up.
They're trying to do that...well, except for the two advancing on John. "You. We'll just take your wallet." The switchblades come out...and the man's stance shifts, clearly revealing to Olena's trained perceptions that he is, indeed, not an ordinary guy. The thugs, though, seem oblivious to both this and her near-precognition. Fortunately, none of them have pulled guns. Yet.
Gun metal has a distinctive smell, Olena's learned to recognize. More than that, the bulk of even the slimmest weapon leaves tell-tale signs in the fall and drape of clothing. If they're packing heat, the chances are very, very high she knows it. The way they're ranging across the path, however, she knows she'll have to be quick to get buy them. She's good. She's very, very good at dodging. But she's lousy at actual hand-to-hand. That, she's not trained in at all. And they do have those knives. So, guns aren't really her first concern.
The man, however, does strike her as someone that knows hand to hand. Indeed, she's fairly certain of it, just by how he moves. She's also starting to wonder if he's pursuing her or running interference -- again, based on how he moves. 
She settles her attention on the youth nearest to her, drawing herself up short. "No money," she tells him in her heavily accented English. "No wallet."
"Then we'll just take it..." The threat tails off. He's looking past Olena, at John and his companions. One of whom just threw a punch at the detective and missed in full Keystone Cops style. He looks completely puzzled. John? He hasn't changed his stance at all. What he's doing is pretty subtle...where they think he is? That isn't where he is. Not quite. By about a foot. Short of enhanced perception or psi-resistance, though... "Stop playing with your food, Mal," the leader grumbles. "Get the girl..."
"Pishov na khuy," Olena swears in her native tongue. A telepath, if they're at all familiar with Ukrainian, could probably translate the phrase as a very, very impolite way of telling someone to go away. But, even a non-teep would no doubt get the point. She doesn't even have to gesture; her tone is clear. 
Of course, the youths probably don't appreciate that much. And they likely don't appreciate exactly how difficult it will be to lay hands on the half-starved-looking waif of a woman. She looks a lot easier to break than she is, simply because everyone underestimates a small woman.
As the nearest one lunges for her, she dances lightly out of the way and spins to scoop up a handful of shattered bottle glass from the gutter. With a sharp, unerring gesture, she flings it at the next one that nears, retreating swiftly. 
His hands go up to protect his face. The two trying for John still don't seem able to hit him, and the man's able to step back at the right moment...and watch them crash into each other. Some of them are losing interest at this point, mostly because of the glass, and starting to fade into the nearby alleyways. By definitions of fade that include running at full speed.
It's funny, really, how the mutant and the alien essentially use different techniques to accomplish the same effect: To not be in the way of an actual strike. And it's predictable how the humans scatter when they realize their opponents are tougher to take down than expected. 
As they flee, Olena makes no move to follow. Indeed, she's perfectly happy to watch them run away. She, doesn't, however, run away, herself, too concerned about whether or not the man means to follow her further -- and whether or not he's a mutant. Certainly, he's no mundane human. She can see that much. 
Left alone on the street, the two of them together, she regards him bluntly. "What do you want with me?" She's really hoping the answer is 'nothing', but not really optimistic (which is simply a reflection of her nature) she'll hear it.
"I thought you would have more trouble with them than you did," the man explains in a quiet voice. Midwestern accent, if Olena has enough savvy on American accents to identify it. It really doesn't look like she needed anyone to run interference. He too shows no interest in chasing the spooked boys.
Olena can hear the accent is different than the average New Yorker's, but isn't really well-versed enough to catch the real nuances of accent. They're all broad and nasal sounding to her. She blinks a little at his mild response, however. A slight smile touches her lips. "Ah," she says, canting her head slightly. "I see. Spasybi." (Thank you.) 
John Jones inclines his head. "I don't speak Russian, or whichever Slavic language that is, but I think I catch the sentiment." She looks like a lost waif, but appearances can be so deceptive. Besides, Martians don't judge by something so in flux, so capable of being changed.
"Ukraine," Olena responds quickly. "I am from Ukraine. Not Russia." Yes, by God, she'll make sure she clears that up. Neither a Russian nor a Ukrainian will ever stand for being confused with the other for long. Too much blood in the water under the bridge to make that an easy truce. But, the girl has learned that Americans are woefully ignorant of that fact -- particularly in these modern, post-Cold War times. So, perhaps she's not as sharp as she might otherwise be. So, after a moment, she concedes, "But, in both languages, spasybi is 'thank you'." She studies him closely for another moment. Ultimately, she relaxes. He is, she strongly suspects, a mutant. And he helped her. This puts him in the 'safe enough' category. So, she can perhaps unwind just a little.
John Jones winces. "I apologize." He actually does seem a little sheepish for a moment. Then he offers a hand. "John Jones." An ordinary name. He notices the relaxing, relieved that she seems to have decided he's at least neutral if not on her side. Ukraine. He'll remember, of course.
She accepts the apology with a formal nod of her head. As he offers his hand, her head cants to one side and a small smile touches her lips. She accepts his hand lightly. "Olena Kovalenko," she replies evenly. 
"Unfortunately, I have to go." He offers her a smile again, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. He knows what conclusion she jumped to - an unfortunate one, given he prefers to keep this identity "normal," but she doesn't strike him as the type to out anyone. For now, though, he really does have...well. A job to finish.
Olena is likely one of the last people on Earth to out a fellow mutant, particularly given her experiences. So, his secret's pretty safe with her. (Even if it's not the right secret.) As he takes his leave, she gives another formal nod and, after a moment's more study, she turns and resumes her run.
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