tagnone
|
2 |
2 |
All black holes spin.
Still, look at one then witness another, none would notice the other brother.
The movement of a void gives much to see, a past and a present and what makes them glee.
But the future remains an extinguished fire, for the core of the empty disregards the whims of a liar.
- Highlighted excerpt of a rugged book in GD-EAST’s “High-Priority” cabinet. Original author and publishing date unknown.
The unrepeated flora of cracks and lumps identifying the concrete of the Soviet Brezhnevska captured Roksana's attention. Usually an invisible necessity, it is seen only by those in need of a null, a blankness capable of little but reflection.
The family sat in a cramped apartment, over hot stroganoff and hard bread in both the kitchen and living room. In between the father's hungry bites, he catches a small glimpse of the daughter, idly staring at the concrete on the wall, oblivious to the meal.
The father's sunken eyes only briefly rest on the daughter, before returning to the food. The wrinkles around his mouth warp and vary as he chews. "Roksana, eat."
With that command, Roksana's game of ball with the wall is interrupted, and the blandness overtaking her mind ceases its dominance. As such, space is freed for the strong smell of the spices in the stew to trickle in her awareness.
"Uh, sorry."
The response is enough for him to consider this ordeal finished, but the mother notices something deeper. She stares at the man, kicks his shin from under the table, and throws a glance in the daughter's direction when he groans.
"What are you thinking?" The father says with masterful coherence, establishing itself despite obvious fatigue.
"Why did mama make this?"
"What?"
The parents strain their eyebrows into confused waves. They try to understand by locking their gazes upon each other, but to no avail.
"Don't you like it? I had to save on the butter, lest we're out come morning."
"No I do, it's good."
Irritation reveals itself as wrinkles upon the father's face. "Have some respect, your mother works hard to keep us fed."
"Why?"
"Would you rather she didn't?" He snaps, slamming the fork into the wooden table and glaring at the idle yet unruly child.
"I… I don't…" The daughter looks down and grips her utensils tightly.
“All those sad poems have gotten you all confuse-”
"Fedot!" The mother cuts.
Fedot grunts, mumbles "Dunya…", and rapidly returns to eating.
"Roksana, could you tell me why you're thinking this?"
Freedom of speech is a fickle thing.
"I-if it was so hard to make, why make for me and papa too?"
Dunya smiles, a comfortable union of palm and cheek.
"Because I love you. Both of you."
"You made it for me because you love me?"
"Ya!"
"Why?"
She stays silent, confused as to where they failed in teaching her to read the room. Dunya opens her mouth but Fedot takes over.
"Roksana, look here."
She glances at the father before facing down. "Now." She hesitatingly confronts the sharp glare.
"The world is a cruel place. Every man and every woman can be betrayed by everyone and everything they trust, believe me, I should know." He swallows. "To truly live in peace, you need to love. And the most important, vital bond to strengthen, is between the family. Do you understand me?"
She nods.
"Then eat."
After dinner the little lady received one last task: to dispose of the day's filth. Roksana grabs the edges of the trash bucket and lifts it, then while holding it as close to an arms length from her person as she could manage, she waddles away. The yellow light interacts faintly with the grey-brown tiled walls and patterned carpet of the breshnevka's halls. A peaceful yet possibly maddening combo of color broken by the protrusion of dimmed blue mailboxes, their rectangular shape familiar. She continues her journey down the hallway and passes the staircase, the hottest hangout spot of teenagers and other students. The gravy smoke of their cigarettes invades her nose and she hears the accompanying raspy voices, speaking of things a child should not be able to understand.
"Revolution has always been the only way." A young, blond man in a black denim jacket and dark pants sitting on the stairs had the stage.
"Not when the people are against it. You sacrifice the long-term by killing the current resistors." A man, roughly the same age but taller, wearing a checkered suit and standing cross-armed, refutes.
"These aren't good people, Grigori. Their tongue is filthy, and their faith bloody."
"Stop believing everything you read, Lev. Have you met them?"
Grigori shakes his head and swats an invisible fly. "I have not, but I don't need to. Not even the Americans speak well of them."
"Hm. Don't matter, a Saur Revolution will birth nothing but needless violence. Most likely involving the Red Army, détente will have been for nothing."
"It'll be on them if they resist. A foolish decision by a foolish people, they're stupid to fight against righteousness. And since when did we care much for the decaying west?"
The bucket-bearer continues her own personal bucket war, the enemy a formidable one, gravity. Is her attempt at keeping the state of affairs as it is, clean, a futile, even idiotic effort? It would be easier to pull it along. When did the eye of the beholder tip the scales in the favor of any faction, anyway? But she can not bring herself to drag the bucket, for in a world of chaos, the satisfied are those who defy the selfish pandemonium, apparently. It is probably why Fedot chose to become a doctor. She settles the bucket, pulls open the trash chute, and empties the vessel of garbage. After returning to the apartment, her next destination is her tiny room, only fit for someone of her size. She contemplates reading from the Complete Works of Sergei Yesenin before going to bed, but is too tired. Still a couple of days before the return date, after all.
As she tries to relax, she imagines herself melting into the fibrous blanket. But she is disturbed by sounds of life not yet ready to rest, steps and speech, which pierce the functionally thin walls. Roksana can hear a knock on the door, a neighbor, perhaps. No, definitely, actually.
"Good evening, Pietr."
"Hello Fedot."
"How can I help you?"
"Could you please lend us some butter? We're out and the ki-"
"Yes, you can have some. Dunya! Bring our butter!"
"Oh, oh thank you. You’ll be paid back-"
Fedot deploys his arm on Pietr's chest, as if walling him off. "No, you will not. It's butter. Nothing worth keeping tabs on."
"Here you go." She extends the fractured block forward past her husband's figure.
"Now take it."
"I… Thank you."
The sound of day surrenders to the stillness of the night. At this moment, there is nothing left to distract Roksana from the breshnevka’s walls. As vision relapsed on the concrete, Roksana's mind gets filled empty once again. Her father is quite the rebellious figure, is he not? Fighting formidable corruption with claims of virtue. Swimming up from the depths of solipsism, valiantly kicking all the terrible tentacles laboring towards their devourment of all. In a world of efforts based on varying vortexes all of whom spiral in the same direction, the abyss, he swims against the tide. This is the black hole Fedot fights, no matter the inevitability of its greed. Love, he said. Love is the currency above the ruble, above the dollar, and the butter.
It is late, and the eyes need rest. With all space taken up by the void, Roksana would normally check out for the day. But she can't sleep, for she thinks of love, and what she can get in exchange for it.
Roksana stands together with Fedot awaiting the opening of the milk store. Together with the rising sun, they observe a greater and greater amount of people amassing outside the enterprise. During jet of entry, they manage to reach the clerk, a young dark-haired woman in a small hat and blue uniform, who supplies milk, cheese and butter. Next come the less urgent groceries, such as fresh bread and gifts of the sea in trucks carrying big tanks. Fedot approaches the fisherman.
"Lucky you, we only have one left."
"Can you kill it for me?"
The fisherman grabs the slithering thing and spreads it down on a table. After bringing the hammer high, he whacks its head much like a judge serving the final judgement. The lifeless beast is then packed in layers of paper and has its value deemed by creatures unknowing of its adventures.
"Thanks. Roksana, hold it."
"Ok."
As tiny wealth is counted, a woman younger than she looks runs up to the site of exchange. "Please, please, is there any more?" She pants, looking pleadingly at the fishmonger.
"Unfortunately not ma'am, just sold the last beast."
She sighs heavily and looks at the ground. "Oh no." Her arms extend outward toward the men. "Sorry for disturbing you misters."
Before turning around and hopelessly searching in empty shelves for the day's protein, she is stopped by Fedot.
"Lady, excuse me."
She barely glances. "I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry."
"No, no. You can have this one. I haven't paid yet."
Halfway turned back, she stares at the father. Then at the child, and at the father again. She puts her hands together and shakes them, as if mixing some invisible drink.
"Oh thank you, thank you."
As she extends her arms to accept the gift, Roksana won't budge.
"Roksana."
"But… you said we would eat fish today. "
She protests with a tightening grip.
"And now I'm saying to give her the bag."
"But-but…"
"It's fine, I'll find something else." Says the lady with a slow nod.
"No, no. Wait. Roksana, don't make me say it again."
…
The child loosens her hold on the dead flesh, and gives it to the woman.
"Thank you again."
"Mhm."
The father and daughter enter a worn hunk of metal, recognized by some to be a variant of the Fiat 124. With rusted paint and a bit of cracked glass, the family car conducts warfare with each trip. Good thing it's quite the soldier. After a grueling ignition, Fedot rolls it out the parking lot with Roksana a secure package in the back seat.
"When I tell you to do something, you do it."
…
"Answer me."
"Yes."
They drive past shops and pedestrians, some finished with the morning of their Sunday, and others pushing themselves further into crowds within establishments that would in another place enjoy the demand.
"I understand that you're upset about not having fish today, but we will someday."
"It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
…
"Speak."
Roksana swallows and readies herself.
"You say that we need to help people and that we need to love to have a meaning in life and that the most important thing is our family but I couldn't have butter on my bread today and we're not gonna have fish." She reorganizes. "Why do you love everyone else but not me!?"
Speechless, he lets her simmer in silence for a bit.
"Roksana, the best way to show love isn't by giving butter or fish."
"Yes it is! Everyone wants things! I want things!"
"Not everyone sees it like me or your mother. Some believe that living like that is right, because they haven't been shown that it isn't." He opens his hand and smacks the thin side against the wheel. "Roksana, if we act like this, other people will also. That's why I don't do it to you as much, I thought you'd already learned."
…
"Really?"
"Would I lie to you?"
…
"You need to understand, I'm strict with you because I lo-"
Swerving to the right was the only option available to avoid the child of whatever idiot who let him jump out. The car bumped on the pavement and went over it, managing to descend on another segment of the crossroad, having taken the shortest of shortcuts for turning right. That maneuver was not enough however, at least not according to the police van that came battering down the wrong side of that road and crashing into the front of the Fiat like how a particularly excited lightning bolt might batter a copper rod.
Some details of history will be forever unrecorded, betrayed by the conscious mind. Roksana will never be able to tell the intricacies of how she got out, while Fedot didn't. What exactly she was thinking while circling the car to the left side and seeing her father wedged between the seat and the crushed anterior, none will know. She could see his top half, but the spaghetti of tissue once called legs was hidden from view by the door. One could call it mercy, when the failing mechanism disallowed her from witnessing that mangled flesh.
"H-h-help…"
Her father let out a faint effort for survival. But it did not matter, for she lacked what was needed to do much good here. All she could muster was a resonance with the fading voice.
"Help! Help me! He's stuck!"
People around were watching, too shocked to move an inch, some would argue. But the truth of the matter is that the individual driving the van saying Militsiya on the side had come stumbling out, waving his way through the air towards the child while hindering intervention from the currently super-positioned samaritans.
Roksana could barely understand his jumbled words, tripping over themselves worse than this mess of a man.
"Dosh this ichyot kno howt driv?"
"Help! He's stuck!"
"Yo turnet and crash me! Letme see paper!"
"Please! Help him!"
"Hey! Mmm takin to you!"
"He can't answer!"
"You be quiets kid!"
Fedot turned his head slightly towards the commotion interrupting the greatest, most terrible peace he'd ever felt, and saw Roksana barely poking her head up the rim of the window, with eyes teary enough to water the Great Gardens of Babylon.
"So-sor…"
"If yo not gif papers, you will arrested."
Forcing his last remaining muscular power, Fedot managed to bring his arm up through the window before releasing, letting it fall limply over the edge.
"Dad!"
Roksana grabbed the hand and fell to her knees. She turned her head and collapsed the wave-function as she saw people, some watching, others hurrying past, none daring to approach while the officer mumbled loudly and called whoever. Then she looked at the hand again, clutched it and brought it to her face, as if it were a tissue to wipe her tears. She wept and she wept, and when she stopped the hand had become a new type of concrete, which she stared at for an eternity.
She stands straight in her uniform. Her hair emitting a sunken psalm with its black color, blending with the dark uniform as it stretches down and risks being cut by the chin. Her face is one pleasant to view, but only for a moment, lest one notices the aberrantly blank and stiff irises displayed upon the eyes.
Monotone walls and glaring red flags encircling them, Roksana Apollinariya and Ivan Durak await the Colonel to seat himself in the chair of a grandiose wooden desk. Behind it are two elongated-house shaped windows, and their elegant, wine curtains.
"Apollinariya, Durak, you may sit."
"Yes, sir."
The Colonel crashes on the chair before reaching for the visor on his dark olive green cap and placing it on the desk. Blinded by the reflection of light from the newly unveiled great white dome, Roksana and Ivan fail to notice how the Colonel opens a drawer and pulls out a folder from which he extracts two documents and hands one to each agent.
Ivan leads his vision across the first page. "Homeland surveillance." He says tonelessly.
"Yes Durak, we've received reports of foreign players operating within the Motherland."
"Do we know who they are?"
"No," the Colonel extends two fingers. "Your job to figure that out."
The digit separates Roksana from the background. "I'm assuming you only send us to not alarm the enemy before we can gain any information of their goal?"
The Colonel's left eyebrow rises. "Clever, Apollinariya. You and Durak have shown to be the best when it comes to covert work and damage control." The chair creaks as the man leans back. "I expect good cooperation."
Ivan smiles faintly. "Of course. Roksana and I will handle this elegantly." He says as he turns toward the other agent.
Roksana tempers the apathy with promises of beauty. "Our labor makes us fellow working men. And camaraderie is how the proletariat stays strong."
The Colonel produces a visceral sound which only those who've worked under him recognize as a laugh. "Well said, Apollinariya."
"I agree." Utters Ivan. He spreads open the vacant hand. "Anything else, sir?"
"When you gain something useful, you will report back immediately. You are now dismissed."
"Yes, Colonel."
A downpour falls on the landscape, which races itself under the rain like the waves of the ocean surpassing each other. The raindrops massaged the train and filled the occasional silence of the KGB agebts' trip across the trans-Siberian.
"How do you think we should go about this?" Ivan inquires, looking up from his hardback of The Communist Manifesto. He'd attempted to pass the time with it, bu Roksana's perfect quiet pokes him more infuriatingly than any whine. She'd find it funny, how this blonde, young and able-bodied man couldn't stand what she though to be but a brief solitude.
She continued to stare out the window. "No need to divert from the winning formula."
"They'll be suspicious of us."
"Didn't you read the brief?"
"I did. But reading about culture won't gain me the trust of such a far-away people."
"Let me handle the talking, then."
She did not deem Ivan capable of any act. For him, it would be the glory of the nation above all. A true comrade. Honest to the world, a liar to himself. Roksana manages both fronts. The world will never pay back its debt, for such is the shape of self-sacrifice. And she knows this ugly form well.
He crosses his arms. "You think they won't shun you?"
She nods. Ivan would need to dismiss his doubt for the time being, they had no better option, after all.
"What'll I do then? Nobody will believe our cover if I just quietly follow you around."
"Right."
…
She turns to view the partner. "If anyone cares, you're my husband."
"Husband?" Ivan doesn't bother to manage his tone this time. "None of us have ever been married."
"As I said, I'll handle most of the talking."
Again, the tumbling and rumbling of the clash between train and track combined with the tapping of drops on the roof remained the sole defender against absolute quiet. Soon enough, that was joined by a light screeching which Roksana recognizes as the signal to retrieve the briefcase stashed above their unit. The doors of the metal spear open and they quickly step under the station's overhang and round the building, stopping only when Ivan discovers a black GAZ-2424 awaiting their arrival despite nature's assault. "Double" he says and points toward it. The keys are extracted from the briefcase and handed to Ivan who rushes towards the car, followed by Roksana taking long and fast steps with the briefcase shielding her head.
They drive it out and towards the southern direction. The case is opened again, and inside are pairs of many things, as well as a marked map, binoculars, cartridges, a notebook and a Kiev-30 camera with its accompanying rolls of film. She retrieves two sandwiches and hands one to the driver, who eats slowly. As the edible becomes smaller and smaller, the roads follow suit, successively tightening and becoming lite more than semi-formed desire-lines. The radio's signal weakens to a murmur, and even the rain leaves them alone in their quiet metal box, the only speech being whatever instructions the navigator gives every once in a blue moon. Just as the solitude became unbearable, Roksana turns around and switches on a long-range transceiver resting on the back seats. She wears the headphones and pulls close the transmitter as she carefully turns the knobs to a hidden frequency.
"Tovarka requesting Steklo."
…
"Rat. Turk. Sun."
…
"Hello Colonel."
…
"We will reach it soon."
…
"Yes, sir."
…
"Thank you, sir."
Roksana sheds herself of the tools, scrambles the knobs and terminates the circuit, before telling Ivan to take one final right. However, rescued from the depth, Ivan refuses to be plunged in stillness again.
"Who do you think he'll choose?"
"Hm?"
"You know what I mean."
"I don't think I do."
He quickly glances over to her direction. "Be honest. You're disappointed by this distant task at such a critical moment."
He's not wrong, but some truths are less useful than lies.
"Any mission ensuring our security can be as seemingly nugatory as it wants."
"I never said anything about utility." Ivan turns and looks at her with a smile. She stares back, but only with her eyes.
"He'll choose whoever he wants. Focus on the road." Indeed, talking about who will replace the Colonel is a risky ice-breaker. Mildly surprised, Roksana contemplates what gave Ivan the courage to start such a conversation. She is a woman of the Motherland, after all. At least, that’s what her skin says, and Ivan has never seemed like the type to dig deeper. Then again, solitude can bore any man to death.
Ivan scuffs and decides to beeline through a field toward the village which had just revealed its dinky wooden houses and muddied slithering roads, made solely for practicality among the maze of hills forming the drab landscape. In the distance are irregular holes of varying sizes, and along some paths lay carts carrying stone and ore. Animals rest in their pens, looking for their feeders, but among the traces of activity is no man visible.
They park the car a little ways away, and enter the ghost town. Ghouls sit in the windows watching them trek through the houses. Children point at them and their parents fail to answer whatever questions that must arise.
"This isn't normal." Ivan says.
"Yeah. Nothing about social seclusion in anything I've read." She looks at the windows, and sees people staring back with a worried expression.
"There hasn't been much outside communication with this particular village." His eyes are narrow as he surveys the bizarre customs. "That ought to change, this isolated culture suffocates brotherhood."
"You can submit a recommendation later."
As they wander slightly aimlessly through the streets, a voice calls "Great Erlik! Come here!" They dart their focus towards the source, an old woman barely peeking her head out from behind a rotten wooden door. "Come! Come!" They look at each other, before slowly trudging toward the lady.
"Is your leg broken? Faster!" She waves them in."
"Hello, we-"
When they're close enough, the lady reaches for Roksana's sleeve and pulls her inside. Ivan follows.
"Excuse me-"
She quickly closes the door behind them.
"Are you stupid?" The old lady stands glaring. Looking up to meet their eyes. She wears a fibrous brown dress with a hint of red around the collar. The neck is adorned with small woven beads with yellow tops, fluttering among each other as she frantically looks out the windows stained with dirt and mist.
"Huh? What?" Ivan asks.
"Stupid, stupid?" She knocks her head each time it's said.
Roksana intervenes. "I'm sorry ma'am, he is not a smart man."
The old woman directs her attention to Roksana. "Hmph. Who are you?"
"We are journalists. Here to document your culture and life for a magazine."
"Magazine?"
"To teach the USSR about the diverse ethnicities within our grand borders."
"You will teach them about us? About Erlik and Ulgen?"
"Yes, we will have a segment about religion."
"Good! Good!" She smiles and waves them towards a seating on the floor. They enter as she goes to a different room.
While they wait, the woman comes back with portions of stew with meat and vegetables. They eat, and Roksana asks questions whose answers are written down by Ivan in the notebook. She tells them of the village's festivals, their mines, their faith and their buildings.
Roksana asks "The roads around here are worked."
The lady explains "We mine a lot. Our men push very heavy things over the mud to reach the caves."
When they reach a level of conversation that could be toppled without arousing too much suspicion, Roksana asks the most important question.
"Why is everybody inside the houses?"
"Hiding from the soldiers of Ulgen."
"What? Why do you think they're coming?"
"The Shaman saw it. He said that they'll come and take our souls. He said they'll take our blood and make us dry inside." She gestured a motion from her mouth outward.
"What do you mean?"
The lady reaches for a bit of bread. "Ulgen made things and bodies." She taps the stale thing on the wooden floor. "But he is dry." She then dips it into the hot stew and squeezes it between her fingers, the moisture giving way to flexibilitet. "Erlik, made it wet. Not it will not only keep you body alive, but also your spirit." She eats the bread. "The Shaman is Erlik's arm."
"Who is the Shaman?"
"Wise man. Been everywhere. Came to us and showed us the home of Erlik." She collects the empty bowls. "Sometimes he lives in the mining house."
"I see. Excuse us, we want to talk to some of your neighbors."
"What!?" The old lady waves her hands in front. "No, Ulgen's soldiers will get you!"
"No no, we are strong. We can fight them if we need."
"Really? Are you Erlik's soldiers?"
"Yes, yes, of course. We're here to teach the world about the good of Erlik and the evil of Ulgen."
"Good! Good!"
"Can we leave our things here? Just for a little?"
"Yes, yes, of course!"
"Thank you, thank you."
Roksana leaves the briefcase on a table in the middle of the room, and then they both abandon the woman to her delusions. Once she shuts the door behind them, it is Ivan's turn to be curious.
"Why'd you leave the case?!"
"I don't think we'll need it. Everyone is stuck inside anyway. I took the camera, so we'll still be able to collect evidence. Besides, if she trusts us, we can use her place to rest."
"I don't like them. They believe in the foolish superstition of a secluded, thoughtless people."
"All the more reason for you to stay quiet. Go check out the 'mining house' she mentioned. See if there's anything to this Shaman."
"And you?"
"I'll see about the soldiers of Ulgen."
Roksana drifts through the village like a tumbleweed. Knocking on whatever house she could, playing jeopardy with whoever would answer her plea for conversation. From the herds of fearful expressions and magnanimous statements of grandeur one would think the soldiers of Ulgen would at the very least pose a contemporary threat. She tries grasping every straw, but none within that bar-less prison yielded anything concrete. However, from a hodge-pot, toxic cauldron of lies, ignorance and terror she concocts a miracle, the cut-end of a thread of truth worth following. Just then, Ivan comes back from his own conquest against ambiguity.
"Find him?"
"No. It's just a 'mining house,' a bit of gunpowder and ore. You?"
"Maybe. We'll go east."
"Why?"
"Let's go."
"Tell me why!" Ivan grabs her shoulder, and she freezes before looking back.
"Do you want to waste our time?"
"How do you know this isn't another idiotic fairy-tale?"
"I'd rot if I tried explaining it to you. Let's go."
She releases herself from his grip and he clenches his fists watching her journey ahead, not looking back. He's forced to jog to her side. They walk on one of the beaten paths. The ground is full of deformities which must have been branded by men. In between the caves in the hills and holes spurred about, little greenery is left that hasn't been crushed under the unyielding force of industry. The specific hollows they saw were, however, quite dead. No equipment and infrastructure to support mining, and any cart trails in the mud have long been overridden. But they continue walking, Ivan vocalizing his frustrations first as grunts after every conquered hill, then as relentless whining regarding the ramblings of the villagers, joining their ranks in futile preaching.
It got to her as well, of course. The irony of her desperation for a promotion resulting in retiring to a traveling monk was not lost, after all. She marks the rock on the apex of the hill as the final stretch of this journey. They round a hole in the ground and when they reach it, Ivan finally stops drilling into her head.
"Holy shit!"
They crouch down behind the rock, and Ivan equips the binoculars from his belt. Far in front of them is a camp with a few people, a great deal of them looking towards a large cave to the northeast.
"What do you see?"
"Some kind of squadron. They have weapons and trucks. Photograph this."
She pulls out the camera and zooms in as far as it would allow. The poor thing is stretched thin as the image's resolution manages only a blurry mess.
"Too far." For the next attempt, she instead deploys the notebook and lays it against the rock. "Be detailed."
"I see… six people. They're in black combat gear. Helmets, gloves and boots are red with a yellow stripe. The truck carries crates, one is open, there is food there. It looks like they have AK-47s. Some sidearms as well. One of them is looking at a big cave through binoculars. I see red patches on them… 'State Commitee of Foreign Influences? Iron Initiative?' Who are these people?"
"Probably a rebel group."
"There are tents and-"
Too busy with their task, the pair fail to notice two men emerging from the hole behind them and whacking their head with clubs of bone. Roksana falls to the ground, and sees Ivan rapidly turning around before being hit again in the face, not even having time to say good-night. Soon, the exhaustion from the trip conquers her wakefulness as well.
She first feels the dampness of the ground, followed by panicked sounds being blabbered out like water from floodgates all in different directions, of which she can decipher but a tiny fraction. She opens her eyes and is met with a new shade of black. With her limbs immobilized by a roped embrace of partners, she fails to stand up. An inner volcano started rupturing, and her primal instincts of screams and cries are muffled by the cloths covering her face, then replaced by a wet, salty taste. At this point she registers the heinous stench assaulting her olfactories. An acidic, burning sensation whose existence is only justified by being a reality anchor for Roksana.
She starts listening more closely. "Why?" "Who?" "How?!" "Behind rock." "Up … kill?" "Idiot … ask." A rapid sequence of steps approaches. She soon feels the disgusting breath of someone in front of her, who removes her blinders. The ravines of wrinkles on her liberator's face take a backseat in regards to first impressions, as she prioritizes being startled by the grotesque image of the man's slit mouth extending one half the distance to the masseter. The cheek flaps are folded to the side of the nose and lower jaw and stitched to the skin, turning the fleshy interior outwards. His yellow teeth rest exposed to the air while he stares at her with the large, open and almost protruding eyes of a madman.
"Who are you?! Why are you here?!" With every half-pronounced word he shot an array of spit.
"Shit! Fuck- W-where am I!?" She quickly explores her surroundings, partly to get a feel for where she is, and partly to escape the intrusion of personal space. She sees Ivan to her side in a similar condition, however with a broken nose and a free mouth. She almost envies the nasal blockade.
He grabs the top of her head and forces it straight. "Answer me!"
"M-mmmy name is R-Roksana Apollinariya! I'm here on behalf of the KGB to investigate rumors regarding national security!" At this moment, she surprised herself. Sure, the horrific assault on all her senses put her off her game, but such a clear answer should still not have escaped her mouth so easily.
"Hmm!" He stares at her, his uni-brow's W-shape being the only expressive feature. Most likely a result of the torn facial musculature. "What threat do we pose to 'national security?'"
Slowly, she adapts to the barrage of stimuli that has been relentlessly harassing her. "I don't know. That's what we're here to figure out."
"What!? Where's Vladimir then!? What happened to him!?"
"Who?"
"The boy who went to your outpost!"
She starts to connect a couple of dots. "We're not with those people! We came here on our own!"
"What?! How did you find this place then?!"
"The villagers, I got a couple of clues after talking to them." Such honesty is not her traditional modus operandi. However, each time she tries to withhold or slightly warp a confession, some invisible force makes her puke the truth.
The man's eyes widen even more, and his brow seems like it'd hop off from the strain. He stands up and turns, looking at the other people around. "Who did it?! Who told them?!" The man starts going to every other individual in the cave one-by-one, asking the same question: "Was it you?!" He does it with a blunt confidence, not even considering the possibility of a lie.
Roksana's field of view is finally freed of the man's face. With a bit of distance between them, she notices his cursed apparel. He wears old flesh with the outer skin turned inwards. It is tied to the torso as well as the back. Furrier hide follows the same trend along his legs, and he walks bare-footed. He holds a long staff, with a grey-pink human skull situated at its top. From the ocular and nasal holes is more flesh being pushed out from a great density inside. The jaw hangs open, attached with rope to the rest of the mangled anatomy. Roksana can not help but realize a less-than-subtle motif of inverted anatomy.
She notices her placement within a cave. It's filled with constructions of wood with attached leather and hide making small tents and curtains, giving the illusion of separate rooms while in reality being a labyrinth of false walls. From the ceiling hang upside-down skulls of animals giving of a faint green light. On the walls are the rotting corpses of animals. On the rock segment is a small patch free of the meat curtains, showing a painting illustrating a line of people colored red. The middle one has what looks to be a green liquid being poured on it. The people to its left are standing stiffly, while the ones to its right are dancing, singing and killing each other.
In between her and the painting is the primary source of the cave’s illumination: A large pit in the ground excreting fumes and greenish light. The space above it and a small circumference around are, with the space of the painting, the only volumes lacking the suffocating curtains. It is covered with a chaotic array of wooden beams and planks fastened together with nails and rope, most likely supposed to form walkways and platforms. The planks look sturdy but molding, and the cracks in between the construction make Roksana fear ever stepping on it. In the middle is a particularly large circular platform with a hollow center.
"Sorry, pleas-"
A young dark-haired bloke answered the question differently from the others, and was rewarded with the pinkish skull of the staff to the head. "Ah!" He falls backwards and the Shaman kneels above him, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his face close.
"Idiot! Idiot!" With every insult the young bloke's head makes a forceful impact with the stone under them. "What is the rule?! What?!" The Shaman screams at him.
"N-n-never tell…" He spits blood from a mouth only a little less deformed than the Shaman's .
"Huh?!"
"Nnnnever t-t-t-tell where-"
"Hey! Hey! Where am I?! What is this?! Hey!" Ivan yells while violently twisting and shaking.
"Somebody hold him down!" The Shaman says while still holding the snitch. One person tries to push Ivan down by the shoulders, but gets headbutted out cold.
"Get this fucking blindfold off me!"
"Hey! Who the hell do you think you are?! You, you, you and you, grab both of them and hold them over Erlik's mouth."
They drag Roksana and Ivan to the edge of the pit. It is about two stories deep, and filled with a vile yellow-green bubbling substance. It's consistency is thick and there are a few solid parts floating in it, giving it the appearance of poisoned jam. It glows brightly, almost blinding in contrast to the darkness of the cave.
The Shaman drags the snitch close to the center of the wooden platforms, and with the other hand that hold the staff he invites the other inhabitants of the hot-pot, who all stand upon the shabby suspension. The snitch is left slouching over the hollow and the Shaman starts circling it while reciting a rhyme to the gathered people.
"Ulgen made space, Erlik filled its place.
Ulgen made man, but failed the race.We have seen it clear as day!
The other who made us more than clay!His spit and slime with soul and fire,
Erlik blessed us with his mire!The faded envied the moisture,
All he could make was a dry pasture.Ulgen hid the grime within,
And said the mud made them his kin.Erlik was thrown to burn in the furnace,
Quite the failed deterrence.His spit escaped the depth,
And is now here for our breath!It reveals what has been forced inside,
Erlik only wears true hide!"
"What the fuck-" Whispers Ivan before being whacked on the side of the head by their captors.
The Shaman dances, his figure shaded by the green light from below. He waves the staff and commands the audience to repeat the inflections of the rhythm. The fleshy garb flails about and his words come out messy as his unique anatomy prohibits precise articulation. He grabs the snitch and showcases the abused, then resummons focus upon himself by tapping the staff on the wood.
"This boy has failed! His actions have damaged us! It is because of him we find ourselves trapped in Temir Han's residence, our only refuge being proximity to Erlik's essence! This boy is weak, and his self led the soldiers of Ulgen to this holy place!"
The crowd starts booing, some even throwing stones and sticks.
"What should we do with him?!"
A chaotic symphony begins, everyone shouting separate but equally cruel punishments for the young man.
"No! No! His weakness is a sign! He strayed from Erlik's path and Erlik stripped him of his gifts! This boy is but a pathetic, writhing animal! One sick with convictions for Ulgen! The cure- the cure is for him to return to Erlik!"
This time the crowd has synchronized, chanting "Give him to Erlik!" over and over.
The Shaman puts down the staff and lifts the man with both hands and hovers him above the hole in the middle of the circular platform. Their faces as far apart as the index from the thumb. The Shaman whispers something, and the boy starts wriggling one last time, tapping the Shaman's arms and letting out a faint cry before being dropped. The crowd cheers. The Shaman turns towards Ivan. "Do you see what happens to those who threaten Erlik?"
Roksana and Ivan look down through cracks in the platforms. They see the young man covered in the viscous liquid, waving his arms and legs. His skin starts to contract, it gets so tight it tears open, and his screams release as gurgles. Segments of skin and fat slip between the muscle, tendons and cartilage and exit from sight, followed by the eyes and nails. From the same places organs and bones start to squeeze out. He stops screaming. The tissue of something once internal begins to stretch and shred as if in a meat grounder, then it covers the body as new skin. Afterward, the amalgamation sinks beneath.
"O-o-h oh god, oh f-f-uck, shit…" Ivan releases his own insides, but through a single pore. Roksana on the other hand, cannot help but stare in horror at the show of mutilation. And she begins to think: “Erlik only wears true hide.” Inversion. “It reveals what has been hidden inside.” She thinks about the liquid, and it's gaseous form that escapes the pit and enters their noses. She then thinks about the things she has failed to “hide inside.” Herself from a couple of minutes ago would shun the idea of a truth smoke, but the spectacle she stands witness to changed not only the boy. Ivan is however still in uncontrollable shock.
The Shaman approaches and crouches in front of him.
"What do you know of the people outside?"
"I-I don't fucking know anything! Jesus, why'd you do that to him?"
"Damn it." The Shaman retreats to a tent different from the others. It is larger, and topped with fur and decorative blood-drawings, on the opposite side of the pit from them. "They serve no use for us. Throw them in."
"What?! No no no n-" they are dragged closer to the edge. "Get off me! Get off!" Ivan starts twisting again, but for every arm he manages to knock off, another takes its place. Roksana hangs now over the edge, almost suffocated by the vicious stink of the bubbling slime's gas.
"We'll help you!" She manages to say despite her frozen body.
"Hm?" His voice emerges from the tent. "And you?"
"Y-y-yes! God, yes!"
"What good can you do for Erlik? Men of your mettle know little of hi-"
"I know of Erlik and Ulgen! I know!"
The Shaman scoffs."Really? Tell me then."
"Ulgen, h-h-he made umm, he made our bodies as dolls of clay, right?
The Shaman stays quiet in his abode, which Roksana stares at before concluding the silence to be permission.
"O-ok, his brother, Erlik, he spat on them. Smudged them in saliva. The dolls became human, they gained a soul. B-but Ulgen didn't like the spit, but wanted to keep the soul because he can't make it himself. H-he then turned the dolls inside out and made Erlik the ruler of hell, though he wanted to banish him first."
Ivan stares astonishingly at Roksana. His mouth is almost more exposed than the Shaman’s.
"Mhm. And what do you think of that?"
"M-many people worship Ulgen, but y-you have seen that he is a liar, and that Erlik is the true creator of mankind."
"I asked what you, think."
"I agree, truth is invaluable."
Hidden behind his curtains, the extended silence makes the Shaman even more invisible.
"If we release you, do you intend to harm those of Erlik?"
"No."
"No-no never."
"Take off their bindings."
They taste freedom for the first time. But the euphoria is short lived, as a familiar sequence of clanks between metal and rock make them reflexively close their eyes, open their mouths, cover their ears and look at the nearest wall. They manage to prevent most of the disorientation of the flash-bang and therefore witness the influx of soldiers pouring in. They are dressed in the same black and red uniform as those who they first saw outside the mouth of the cave. Men with weapons divide the inhabitants in five collectives, each sub-group cornered by an invader around the large central pit. One of them is looking around, and finds what he's looking for inside the grand tent, which he trains his gun on.
"Ai-mökö Selivanov! Come out with your hands in the air!"
Ai-mökö slowly raises his arms, still holding the staff despite being dazed, and emerges from his house within a house.
"Grigori, don't shot!"
Grigori laughs deeply. "Finally stopping this chase? Huh?!"
"You're not giving me a choice you idiot. Tell the grunts to put the fucking guns down, this is between you and me."
"How touching. Our little cat-and-mouse may be a bit sentimental, but everything you touch is still our business. Put the staff on the ground."
Ai-mökö looks around at the horrified faces of his followers, who look at him in search of hope.
"Don't pretend to care now." Grigori snorts.
"Will you kill them?"
Grigori visibly struggles with something internal. "N-n- Yes." He is startled by his own words. "Fuck! Damn this shit-hole!"
Roksana and Ivan lock gazes, and they both understand what they've become in the effort for survival. Ivan charges the soldier in front of him and wrestles for control of the AK. Meanwhile Roksana sneaks behind and in one swift motion draws the distracted soldiers Makarov and neutralizes two other combatants, one of whom was holding down the Shaman's group. Chaos erupts inside the cave. Ivan wins his duel and charges the opposition into the pit, after which the pair take cover behind a large wooden pillar. The commotion distracts Grigori, giving Ai-mökö the opportunity to raise his staff high and chant "Otrygivat!”. The skull of the staff glows a green light before launching a stream of the pit's bile from the jaw. The telegraph gives Grigori time to evade, and during the dive Ai-mökö sprints to hide behind his personal residence.
If you filter out the pandemonium of panicking, sprinting and screaming followers, the confrontation has now reached a stalemate. All parties had retreated into the labyrinth of hanging flesh. Roksana and Ivan behind their pillar. One third of the pit to their left was Ai-mökö, and another third Grigori and two soldiers prone behind an uneven outcrop.
"Fuck… fuck."
"Ivan, Shh! Come on."
"Ok, alright."
The battle had turned into one of stealth. Roksana and Ivan begin moving carefully through the curtains, listening to the soldiers despite the ruckus. Slowly, the cave begins to empty. Stillness lays on them like a soaked cotton blanket, and their moves become heavy with fear. Roksana hadn't picked up a second magazine. Darkness overcomes them the further they travel from the pit, and the little green illumination there is becomes only nauseating.
They hear a step that's neither too loud nor too quiet beyond the curtain in front of them, and they freeze. Another one, then a third. Ivan slowly reaches for the hide, then decides to punch through it instead. A grunt emerges from the other side, and Roksana responds with a gunshot. He falls limply on the skin and then rests below it.
"Otrygivat! Otrygivat! Otrygivat!"
They rush towards the source of the spell and see Ai-mökö wrestling the staff with Grigori, behind them laying the last soldier, covered in the green snot and in himself. In their rush to end the nightmare, they fail to notice the second stun grenade with its delayed deployment. The lightning bolt burns their eyes and drills their ears due to the proximity. The shock-wave pushes Roksana back and she knocks her head on a rock, falling asleep far from peacefully for the second time.
She comes too inside the cave. It has repopulated again, and many are trying to rehang the curtains that've fallen from the previous frenzy. Others tended to their injured fellows. To her right sat Ivan eating the youngest meat she'd seen in hours.
"Here, eat."
She grabs a bite. "How long?"
"A couple hours."
"What happened?"
"He got the magic stick and ran away."
The food comes to a stand-still inside. "How? It was two against one!"
"Hey! Be grateful I didn't leave you alone with the insane cultists!"
"God damn it! Come on, let's go!"
"What?! Where?"
"Do you want to join these people? To the fucking car, dumb-ass."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I- hhm… Come on."
"How the hell do we even get out?"
Looking for that answer, they make their way through the flesh flaps to the Shaman's shack. They see him sitting with his face in his palms on colored fur, looking grim under the green light from the skull lantern above.
"Where's the way out?"
He looks up and stares at the duo interrupting his sorrow through small windows made by his fingers. "Big tunnel to your left."
As they turn towards a better smell, Ai-mökö run up and grabs Roksana's shoulder. She quickly retaliates and whacks the arm off.
"What?"
"Kill him for me."
She had previously seen the brow of the face bearing that grotesque maw strained in anger or glory, but it is tired in pleading.
Ivan interrupts. "Fuck off."
"No."
Ai-mökö grabs Ivan by the collar.
"What is there left of me!?"
Ivan stares in shock at the madman's open face. He responds to the absurdity with a rapid exhale.
"You are under arrest by the Committee of State Security."
"What?!"
Ivan's arms embrace Ai-mökö, and his knee digs itself deep into the inverted flesh covering the torso. As the Shaman falters and spits a viscous blob of bloody saliva, his fave is slammed to the ground. The jacket previously covering Ivan becomes rudimentary restraints tying the surprisingly ample, however infected arms. Ai-mökö plays the part of the caterpillar, shaking and wriggling under Ivan's jurisdiction.
The entire process was starkly efficient, and Roksana feels oddly left out. "Why?"
"Gift for the Colonel. And then myself."
In this cave of dishonorable honesty, even Ivan has become true to himself. Roksana realizes the stupidity of her own question. For what other reason? Than to impress those installing the steps for his ascendance on the stairs to heaven? Well, as close to heaven on earth, at least. She wonders what Ivan might investigate once he figures out the nature of speech in this hole. What unavoidable questions may he ask? Just as her mind fades back to that of the unrepeated, identical concrete of the hand in her head, she is brought back by the disturbed and mellow chuckle of a lunatic.
Each spike of the laugh is shaved by the absence of moldable lips. It emerges as a rhythmic grumble instead.
"Shut up."
"Don't you see?"
…
"You came- you came like this. Now who is?"
Snot hangs from Ai-mökö's nose. He attempts snorting it back up, but the thin string holding it snaps and it further taints his cursed garb.
"Now I am. Now I am. Now our true hide has been shown. It is Erlik's wise irony. His punishment. Soldiers of Ulgen wanted to dry me up, and they did. I need to wetten." He slouches forward, and Ivan reaches to pull the Shaman's head back up.
"Something we agree on. Might skip interrogation for a shower, with you-"
Despite the lack of his staff, Ai-mökö conjures a surprising vigor. He stiffens rapidly and slams Ivan's head with the back of his own. A wet squish emerges from the already broken nose. Ivan steps back and holds his face, muffling the expletives. Ai-mökö stumbles in a fashion one might call a run back to the mouth of Erlik, and with a final chuckle, is swallowed.
"What the-! Fucking damn it." Ivan is torn between grieving the loss of his nasal bones or his trophy.
Roksana suffocates the bubbling relief with a contorted expression of disgust. "Let's go."
They travel through the tunnel. Some passages are tight, and others are wide enough to warrant more wooden archways. The path isn't unlike a tree's branches and faint, but frequent angles. However, paint and people marked the correct way.
Eventually, their vision is freed from the green tint. The sun shines brightly over the horizon as it sets and they see every detail in each other's bloody and scarred faces.
"Where now?"
"I don't know."
With their inner orientation discombobulated, they tried invoking their first memory of the cave entrance they're standing in now. Just what was the angle and height of that original perspective?
"Could you ask them?"
"My nose has already adapted to the lack of shit and rot."
"Right. Lets go to their camp then."
The pair approach the abandoned camp. It is as expected, still stocked. There is a small grave-like form on a patch of ground. From it emerges naked limbs.
From briefcase resting on top of one of the crates peaks the white corner of some documents. State Comittee of Anomalous Affairs it says. She pulls out the documents, but is unable to open the case. PoI-0710 'Ai-mökö Selivanov' and anomalous assets retreival. Dual operation with 'Devil's Advocate'. The more she reads, the more obvious it is that these people aren't but a simple rebel group. There are layers of truth still hidden above her, maybe even still above the Colonel. Why else would this mission be double booked? She dismisses the document before Ivan notices how it piqued her intrigue.
To their surprise, one of the trucks is missing and in its wake it left a gift of tread marks.
"Where do you think?"
"A road, at least. Some place he's resting, if we're lucky. Can you hot-wire?"
"Fortunately."
They grab one of the trucks that were left behind and some food from the crates, then start following in the steps of Grigori. The return, while shorter than the arrival, reminded Roksana of a certain trip from a hospital. She thought of the hand, letting it reveal itself from the corners of her consciousness, never having left. She thought of how it fooled itself into thinking there's more to the world than what there is, just to be left slowly withering away in painful irony. Then Ivan comments on recognizing their direction, and Roksana's mind is rejuvenated with new-born conviction to catch this particular mouse, as the current critical moment in time has her starving for accomplishment.
They dawn on the village just as it reaches dusk. They park the truck a bit from the village and walk the rest of the way. Unexpectedly, there are a few people out and about, finishing their day.
"The hell happened to…"
To investigate further, they reach their only contact, the old woman. She opens the door.
"What?"
"Hello, we're back."
"What? Who are you?"
Roksana composes herself after a brief bewilderment.
"N-no we're the, journalists."
"What are you talking about? Was I supposed to expect you?"
Ivan snaps. "Don't you remember? We asked you about your people, about the village! You told us about many things! Like the mining house!"
"Don't raise your voice at me, stupid! The mining house? We don't use that shack anymore!"
"Yes you do, it's where you store ore and shit! Nevermind, what about the soldiers of Ulgen? Why is everyone outside now?"
"Ulgen! Soldiers? Did the Shaman tell you this?"
"No! You told us this before we met Ai-mökö!"
"You know his name?! Just who are you?!"
"Wh-" He is interrupted by Roksana.
"Ok, I think there has been a misunderstanding. We'll take our briefcase and go."
"I don't have anything to give you!"
"What is that then?" She points beyond the hag towards the case laying where it had been left.
"I-I don't know."
"It's ours. Give it back."
"Take it, take it and leave me alone!"
They receive the container and check its contents before stepping back from the house. It starts raining.
"What the fuck? I don- shit…"
"Calm down. What did you see at the mining house?"
"A fucking shit-hole filled with ore and gunpowder! And this fucking rain!"
"We'll go check it out."
"…Yeah, I have a hunch as well."
They settle into the GAZ and drive towards the house. It is isolated from the rest of the village behind a hill, but the paths to it are well-traveled. This time, Roksana pays more attention to Ivan's driving. It is decided, however simultaneously smooth. Almost like the weaves of a ballerina. She begins to fear there are other subtleties to this man. The mention of the promotion when they approached the village, the opportunistic arrest of Ai-mökö. She thought him simply a man in red. She now deliberates whether he treats this life the way she does, with keeping the true face always looking in. Why did he mention the promotion? Is he truly aware of the business all men run? She dismisses the thought, for she feels the concrete hand clawing her skull once again. Besides, the destination is reached.
It is a two story thing with a rock foundation. The stones making up its base hold on dearly, and many of them have already given up and spread pitifully over the slippery, crying ground. Some of the wooden beams bracing the weight of what's stored inside have cracked and collapsed in on themselves. The lanterns hanging on the archway in front of the door are wet with the rain, and might never light again. Around there are empty and full carts, some broken and sinking into the mud. To the side are two vehicles parked, one a truck with the red logo and the other a black Moskvitch.
"Shit."
They slowly creep up towards the front, and start to hear flurries of impacts from inside. With every thump comes a grunt, and with every slap, a squeak. The sounds disguise the creaks of the floorboards crying under their approach. They hear in between some peaks of the beat a lyric.
"-nny, isn't it?" A particularly loud crash. "I expect some people to do as they're told. Right?" A hit and a moan. "You understand, we do similar things. So you get how unfortunate it is when some idiot decides it's time to make a fucking name for himself!"
Ivan points to the briefcase Roksana's holding and whispers "American…" She crouches down and starts searching through it. Suddenly, the door is hit and buckles outward generating cracks, allowing them to see the occurrence inside. They see someone’s back, held up against the door.
"Patience. All you needed to have was some fucking patience." He is dropped, and in front of them now stands a hulking man eating all the vision the creak allows. "You're lucky we cleaned up the mess left with the civilians. Gonna pay us back for the ‘neztics?"
Luckily, the giant man does not notice the deer on the porch.
"Damn…" Ivan whispers. "You're gonna kill'im, Jingo." Jingo moves away from the door and approaches a table, revealing two other individuals sitting in front of numerous firearms. They're in black combat gear with an olive colored secondary nuance. There is a patch on the right shoulders featuring what looks like a peasant chess piece.
Ivan is tapped on the back and startles before turning and facing Roksana, who's holding out his PSS. He slowly grabs it and turns back towards the house, seeing the giant stepping quickly towards him. He breathes heavily and grips the pistol, almost pulling the trigger. Jingo reaches the door and extends his arm, Ivan's heart feels like it's beating itself open. The arm descends more than it should and latches onto the beaten body sitting under the door, before lifting it and throwing it against the staircase at the other side of the room. It is Grigori.
The back of Jingo’s head barely moves. "The staff. Where is it."
Grigori struggles to speak. "Yyyour money doesn't pay for their l-lives." Any word he manages to articulate barely emerges in between his gurgled, labored breathing.
"And you're not getting it!" Jingo rushes over and grabs Grigori's face. "Where is the fucking stick?!"
Roksana and Ivan face one another, then nod in unison. Ivan shakes his jaw. "O-ok, shit… fuck." Before kicking the door down.
"Hands up!"
Something finally plucks Jingo’s attention from his sand-bag. "What? Who the hell are you?"
"Stand against the wall and don't fucking move!"
One of the two soldiers sitting on the table tries to reach for a rifle, but is shot in the hand by Roksana. "Listen to him."
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Ivan stares down Jingo, who is unfazed.
"Are you KGB?"
"Answer me!"
Jingo lowers his gaze to the chosen intimidation tool. "PSS… started production in 1980. Your favorite ever since. Piece of shit."
Ivan feels the sweat dripping from and off his forehead, then starts to fear Jingo being able to smell it. He notices himself and in an effort to remove the pathetic sensation, steps forwards towards the trio of enemies.
"Don't fuck with me… on the f-"
"O-otrygivat!"
Grigori had displaced a plank, where the staff with the pinkish skull laid in wait. He attempts to shower Jingo. His stutter had however given enough time for evasion, followed by a counter of knee to the skull, implanting the head into the stairs behind. The liquid had landed partly on one of the agents, as well as a black powder barrel beside them. It crushes itself and spews out the insides as it is inverted by the liquid. The powder spreads around the room like the rapid spreading smoke of a live fire. An amount of it, just a tiny bit, lands in Roksana's eyes. The surviving agent notices and reaches for the rifle again. Roksana fires at the motion through the dust. One spark was all it took.
The stuff ignites and instantly cooks the opportunistic agent, who was standing close to the barrel and the vast majority of the powder. The explosion pushes everyone back and injures the already damaged walls and pillars of the building. Under the already immense weight, the house finally gives in and parts of the second floor start a heavy downpour. Grigori is submerged under flaming debris, and Jingo gets partly covered in it. A table leg, which had previously supported the pile of weapons, launches and impales Ivan in the thigh. In the brief downtime filled with screams and cries, Roksana revels in processing her newly attained station as sole bearer of usable limbs.
"Oh fu-fuck-shi-godammit!" Ivan grabs the splinter but stops himself just before dragging it out.
"Rrrsana! Help!" He blurts with gritted teeth. She looks at him for a moment, then notices Jingo reaching for the staff poking out from Grigori's flaming grave. She rushes over and thieves it away. "Ass-wipe…" Jingo says with but a hint of chagrin.
"The fire's gro-uagggh!" Ivan eyes water. It is not enough to extinguish the present’s fire.
She studies the staff in her hands.
"Please!"
It is a bit longer than half her height.
"Please…"
There's leather around its girth, forming a once wet handle. She studies the grey-pink skull and feels the softness of the outermost lamina, realizing it looks similar to ground beef. She ponders how the muscle and skin inside doesn't pour out of the nasal and ocular cavities.
"Argh!" Ivan had tried to drag himself towards the exit, but only managed to shove the table leg deeper into his own.
Roksana lifts the staff up to look at the jaw, somehow still attached with flimsy rope. She tries to explore where the stream emerges, but discovers nothing.
"Oh God… Roksana… please… please… help m-"
"Otrygivat."
They stare at each other in silence for the final time. The liquid feels like nothing while she stands witness to his body shredding itself apart. In a fruitless effort of self-determination he suppresses the cries and maintains eye-contact until even the oculars decide to go under.
Jingo chuckles with a grating deepness. "Aren't I glad Grigori’s mouth was bloody?"
Roksana slowly shifts her gaze toward the only other person inside. "You're calm."
"I don't see how panic'd help me now." He struggles, shifting the weight above him to no avail. "But you…"
One of her eyebrows lift. "What makes you think that?"
He nods towards the reversed mesh that was once named Ivan. "Reds in your position tend to be dogs. Loyal."
…
"You're devoted to something else, aren't you?"
…
"I could help you get it."
"Doubt it. Actually… tell me who sent you."
He shakes his head, while looking towards the patch on his right shoulder. "Can't do that. But you haven't heard of us before. That means we're good."
"Or irrelevant. Otrygivat."
This time she aims at the spreading fire. The spit boils and evaporates, spreading its fumes across the room.
"Oh- Oh what the fuck! Shit smells like gorilla stool!"
"Answer fast and you won't feel it for long. Who sent you?"
He commands himself to stay silent, but the harder he beats down the words the stronger they dig up. "T-t-the RPC Authority- what the hell?!"
"And what is their goal?"
"Reaserch, cont-t-tainment of, and protection from the anomalous- what'd you do to me?"
"How powerful are they?"
"Our influence is global, but weak here- fuck!"
"Why haven't I heard of this RPC Authority before?"
"We keep as many as possible veiled, unaware of the anomalous nor us. Usually."
"Tell me, what is anomalous?"
He looks at her, confused. "How the fuck am I supposed to explain that? Anything that breaks normalcy, I guess."
"Aha. Your organization decides what's normal?"
"Don't give me that eye of the beholder garbage. What's normal is normal, and we're good at finding what ain’t. Like that devil’s trident you hold"
"Interesting."
"Hey, are you fucking satisfied?" He says, glancing towards the approaching blaze.
"No. Still haven't told me how you'd be useful."
"Fuck, what do you want?!"
"My way up has been steady but too slow. I'll help you land your organization in the USSR, and then you'll give me high jurisdiction." She catches herself admitting something even she hadn’t convinced herself of yet. "Well, it sure does speed things along."
He stares at her blankly, waiting for himself to strongly refuse. But it never comes. "I… understand."
"So?"
"That… might be possible."
"Will you advocate for it?"
"…Yes…"
"Fantastic."
She strips him of any means to interrupt the deal then moves enough debris away for him to do the rest. He limps out at staff-and-gunpoint. He looks back at Roksana and the burning house, then at the staff.
"I was supposed to retrieve that."
"They'll have it through me, eventually."
"When and where?"
…
"Roksana Apollinariya. Make that enough."
"Hrn."
He enters the Moskvitch and drives off. Unaware of the bud left in his wake, one which is finally reaching its greatly delayed flowering. Its petals are black and indifferent. Still, they steal all attention from the inferno behind, which consumes all its fuel, as it lashes against the black hole of the rain with a dying conviction. Its future is one of wet, cold, ash.
"Colonel, there is a man outside who wishes to see you."
The desk is covered in heaps and piles of papers. Some detailing children’s fairy tales, other siberian mythology or reports of mass hysteria. Only one person can navigate the chaos of documents, tales, histories and stories. The Colonel glances up towards the secretary for but a second, and says a dozen words.
"He claims to have a b-buisness proposal. He has authentic papers but I haven't seen them befo-"
"Eva. Your job isn't to tell me of attempted law-breaks."
…
"He says to tell you: Jingo."
She cuts Eva with the sharp stare. "What?"
"J-Jingo."
"Let him in."
"B-but he doesn't have an app-"
"Let him in."
"…Yes, Colonel."
Eva leaves and the Colonel is left gazing at the door, tapping her fingertips on the wood. She contemplates tidying up the table, but fails to decide before hearing another creak. The port is wide open and the secretary steps aside as the man enters with one half of his body at a time. He stands in silence before her, then releases the deep grating of a recognizable chuckle.
"Since when did colonels start going on everyday missions?" He shuts the door without turning around.
"Since a future one discovered objects and entities beyond all of her world notions. And removed competition, obviously."
"Heh." He attempts to make out the material on the desk, but is hindered by the distance and the closed curtains. "What are you reading?"
"Anything relevant. That term has become broader recently."
"Very committed to it, I see.”
"…Reading saved and improved my life many times. I'm indebted to knowledge, and the truth, which has now greatly changed its appearance. Besides, awareness of the existence of organizations such as yours makes every text with hints of fiction entirely new experiences."
"Tch." He shakes his head slightly. "You'll come to know not enough changes. Death and taxes."
"Yes, of course, some laws are set in things harder than stone. You know… I've always- well… not always, but often admired American philosophies."
"Really? How so?"
She lies back in her chair, crosses her legs and forms a triangle with her fingers. "In this country, you are raised to believe in a lie. A hopeless ideal never reachable, and the people who desire but live a life steered by their own truth are few and far between."
"It is a shame the amount of nations which lack an equivalent to the first amendment. The light in the dark is the fact our freedom placed us in a place to distribute more copies of it."
"How… noble. However, my use of it wouldn't be to enforce any gospel."
He raises his brow. "Then, what?"
A grin emerges on her face. "The reins are easier to grab if you know where they are."
…
And he replicates it. "Lucky you found a truth gas." Jingo approaches the desk and extends his hand. "Alexander Marshall, if our deal here is plentiful enough, future director of Authority operations in the northern Americas."
She places her on her chest. "Roksana Apollinariya, may our interests align."
He curls his hand into a fist and descends on his own seat. "And just what are yours?"
Her face becomes dull, and her eyes a black sea as she stares at him. "I wish to become as rich as can be, in stone and mud."
The banker counts the money in the vault. It is an infinite vault, for it holds any kind of money. Whether a digital or physical number, a nation’s or a cryptographer's currency, the banker’s vault holds any kind of money.
On Monday, a man of capital approached the till. “I am here to collect my cash, liquidate my property, and count my assets.” He issues.
The banker replies: “I hold piles upon mountains of such money in my vault. However, it is not what you are looking for. Come back tomorrow, for it is closing time.”
On Tuesday, the man approaches the till as one of command. “I am here to foster my reputation, expand my network, and exert my influence.” He orders.
The banker replies: “I hold endless conversations and recognitions of such money in my vault. However, it is not what you are working for. Come back tomorrow, for it is closing time.”
On Wednesday, the man approaches the till as one of confidence. “I am here to feel joy, to revel in ecstasy, and to generate my dopamine.” He pleads.
The banker replies: “I hold deep and frequent memories and futures of such money in my vault. However, it is not what you are longing for. Come back tomorrow, for it is closing time.”
On Thursday, the man approaches the till as one of family. “I am here to deepen my relationships, to be sure of my identity, and to become rich with love.” He declares.
The banker replies: “I hold the most intimate, genuine and peaceful of such money in my vault. However, it is not what you are living for. Come back tomorrow, for it is closing time.”
On Friday, the man approaches the till as one of honesty. “I am here to gain money.” He confesses.
The banker replies: “Yes, yes you are. We all, are. For money is why we do what we do. Tomorrow, my vault will not open. You are among the fortunate to realize before then. Honesty with yourself will make you truly rich.”
- Scribbled into the opening page of GD-EAST’s personal notebook.