127

A quick update, to get myself back into the swing of writing this story. I apologize for the month off. This moves 127 forward a quarter step, of course the rest of the story appears in the tags.

He concentrated, trying to force his eyes to understand the image in front of him. There was the Haerl Al Keen, floating solemnly in the water, with a scattering of four winged circles with streaks jetting from them, portraying speed. The water seemed a calm blue floor, his vessel cemented in place. What his memory regarded as a solid blue rectangle was actually much more complex, he gasped as his eyes convinced his memory of this new truth. Beneath the boat there were swirling shapes and dark purples and even darker greens, a dizzying pattern. He marveled at them, his eyes sparkling. They were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, filling a space the size of a postcard on the bottom half of one of the only books on The Haerl Al Keen. He looked, feeling like he could see past the swirls, like he could see a face... then he felt like he was falling...

Siberia - Intersections

This is part two of Siberia, called "Intersections." This was also written two years ago and also may not be good. But I've been working on it a little lately, so here it is.

Intersections 

David Down

Vlad and the Bear

It was mid-day, and Vlad was working. The cross-street was crowded with people on their way to work in the factories, paying remarkably little attention to their pocketbooks. It was a good day, Vlad decided as he swiped the wallet from a passing businessman. Though he started the day with nothing but a few kopecks, things were looking up.

When he had learned to steal from an old beggar, the first lesson was to dress as your targets dress. He followed this advice, wearing a greatcoat over his rags, an ushanka pulled down tight over his filthy hair. The watch he wore he had stolen yesterday. He looked like every other man in the crowd, and it served him well.

Vlad took a break then, working his way through the crowd to a side street. He sifted through each wallet, pocketing all of the cash he found. He left the wallets in a pile at his feet, and, taking a deep breath, pushed back into the crowd.

He reached into the first coat he came into contact with. No wallet. As he withdrew and started to step away, a hand clamped down on his wrist. As he panicked and tried to pull away he was lifted into the air, brought face to face with a giant of a man with scars crossing his face. The man stared for a moment, then grinned.

“You and I, we will talk,” without waiting for a response the man carried Vlad effortlessly into the side alley he had just walked out of.

“I'm sorry sir, I am a bit clumsy. I tripped and reached-” Vlad said, desperately trying to come up with an excuse.

The man waved at him dismissively. “I know what you were trying to do. No use lying,” he said as he removed his coat. Underneath he wore only a sleeveless undershirt, stretched to the point of tearing across his bulky frame. The man clasped his hands above his head, flexing his muscles.

“What are you going to do with me?” Vlad asked, backing against the wall.

“I am Bear. I was born in a small village not far from here. Now I work here, in the steel refinery. You are...?” the man continued to stretch.

“Vlad,” he answered, an edge of despair in his voice.

“You are Vlad. You are a thief and a liar. I am going to hurt you. Then I am going to turn you over to the authorities,” as he said this the man turned on Vlad, throwing a swift jab into the wall next to Vlad's head. Then he grinned.

Vlad saw what he had to do. He always did in these situations. He dropped to a crouch and rolled between the tall man's legs. He bounded to his feet and punched Bear in the small of the back. Bear roared in anger and fell forward against the wall. Vlad struck at the back of Bear's knee next.

Bear's leg collapsed and he had to put his hands on the wall to support himself. He spun around, faster than he should have been able to, and grabbed Vlad's ankle. He pulled Vlad from his feet, putting him flat on his back.

Vlad attempted to roll away, but Bear's fist came down, square on the middle of his chest. He tried to gasp, but the wind was gone from him. He couldn't understand why his visions had failed him and he didn't have much time to ponder it as he lost consciousness.

Vlad was roused from painful dreams by the quiet click of a door knob. He was in an unfamiliar building, in a bed that wasn't his. He sat up, noticing that his chest was tightly wrapped. “Where?” he said groggily.

“Don't worry, I didn't move you far.” Bear said, walking into the room, “Looks like we broke a couple of ribs there, didn't we, friend?”

“Friend? You attacked me...” Vlad said, slowly waking up.

“You fought well, friend,” Bear said, ignoring him, “Haven't taken a hit like that in..." Bear looked up, thinking back, "years. Good placement, good timing. Where'd you learn to beat on a man?”

“Nowhere specific. What happened to turning me in?”

“You're a warrior, and I respect that. Cigarette?” Bear said, pulling a pack from his breast-pocket. Vlad nodded.

“I like warriors. I like to hire them, specifically. I run an... establishment on the east side of town. Are you terribly attached to pick-pocketing? Or might an honest, paying job suit you better?” Bear grinned as the weight of his words hit Vlad.

“But... but you beat me. You broke my ribs,” Vlad said.

“My friend, do not worry. I beat everyone,” Bear said, walking out of the room. He ducked under the door frame as he passed.

~

At the sight of Bear's 'establishment,' Vlad allowed himself his first smile in days.

"I thought... I thought you worked in a steel mill," Vlad said slowly, trying to understand how what he saw was possible.
"What? A man cannot work a shift in the steel mill during the day, and run a mercenary army at night?" Bear said.
They stood at the top of a creaking metal staircase and looked down into the warehouse where Bear ran his business. It was divided by a dizzying array of makeshift walls and low barriers, making an impossibly complicated obstacle course. At least a hundred men scrambled and scurried like mice through a maze, performing tactical maneuvers of stirring efficiency.

Vlad watched as six men were trapped behind a low barrier wall by a crossfire coming from two high platforms. Four of them, in unison, disappeared amongst the barriers that lined the room, while the remaining two popped up, fired, then changed positions quickly, making themselves look, to their enemies, like six men. As they did this their comrades quickly fell upon the men in the tower with knives, silencing them. They then exchanged coats with the fallen soldiers, who faked death very well. They were ready to play their part in the next stage of the war game.
"Their amazing," Vlad said.
"Their breathtaking, I know. I often wonder where their trainer learned the things they teach," Bear said.
"Trainer?" Vlad said.
"Oh yes. I didn't train these men to work as a team. That bit of knife work on the tower was my doing, but not all that running and hiding that got them there. I brought in a specialist to teach them that," Bear said with a satisfied grin.
"Let me meet this man," Vlad said.
"Man?" Bear grinned even wider.

The Fox, the Bear, and the Man

"Move, you slow bastards. I need Beta-9 to take tower one. Someone shoot that idiot who decided to take a smoke break. Over the wall, or are you 'men' too weak to pull your asses out of incoming fire?" The young woman barked orders as she walked amongst the barriers, giving advice and scorn. One man walked by very slowly, exhausted. As Vlad approached he saw the young woman strike the man across the back with a baton sending him sprawling.
"You just died!" she yelled in disgust at his prone form. She noticed Bear and Vlad approaching then.
Before Bear could say anything she spoke, "I'm sorry Bear. I know you've asked me not to beat on your men while I'm here. But that specific lazy bastard deserved it."
"I understand that you are working hard, 521, but maybe you work the men too hard? That man was not lazy, he was tired. Look at him- he hasn't bothered to stand up yet," Bear said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She quickly shrugged it off.

"Weak pig. The others are quickly getting into shape, yet he lags behind. I think it is time we toss him aside," 521 said.

Bear fumed visibly at the suggestion, "No. No! He will be fine. He'll be a good soldier soon enough."

"Fine. It is, of course, your decision to make," she kicked him, for good measure. The soldier rolled one more time, then staggered to his feet, running with renewed energy.

"See? My way works fine," she said, smugly.

"There are better ways," Bear said, the 

Siberia - Lines

This is the first part of a story I've been working on for years. I did a little tweaking on it today, and according to my mission statement, I am posting it. Forgive me if it isn't good - I wrote it two years ago. The longer work is tenatively titled "Siberia"

Lines

David Down

Vlad

The dull thump of artillery shook plaster from the yellowed ceiling onto Vlad’s head, disturbing him from his fitful sleep. He woke with a start, all at once remembering where he was and what was happening. He scanned the room for his family, and, with relief, he saw them huddled in the corner of the blast torn apartment.

He scrambled from beneath the desk, running to them.

“Vlad! There you are. We were worried about y-” the rest of his fathers statement was cut off by the roar of artillery.

“I snuck off to take a nap. I just cou-” THUMP! “I just couldn’t take it anymore!”

“Well, say som-“ ROAR! “something next time!” his mother scolded.

“Your mother is right!” THUMP! “This city isn’t safe. Our home is under siege, our very lives threatened, and you sneak off to take a-” ROAR! He stopped, disenchanted with the concept of speaking at all.

Vlad leaned forward, making sure to catch his father’s next words.

“You know what I was-” THUMP! “Bah!”

Staring out his last intact window, Vlad could hear the constant cackle of assault weapons, only occasionally drowned out by the thump and roar of the artillery pounding the city.

How strange his life had become. His early childhood had been happy enough. He was poor, but poor was all that he had ever known, so he was content with it. But as he grew into his early teenage years, he heard more and more about a group called the “Nazis.” He found the very word repulsive, and the people drew an even worse reaction from him. He was told they were allies, friends even, but he knew better. And as he came into these years of turmoil and strife, his seemingly unjustified hatred of these people awoke something inside him. If he reached back, far into his memory, he could see glimpses of major events in his future, shadows of what will come to pass. Thankfully, these visions were infrequent, as they caused the most extreme headaches as they passed. He would spend days in bed after each one, recovering slowly from his invisible affliction. Most of these visions centered on the situation his fair city now found itself embroiled in. Through these painful visions, he knew the problems the Nazis would cause.

And when the Nazi attacks against Stalingrad began, these visions crystalized, saving his life once already, but he knew that he could save them then, he saw that he would save them then. This time was different. This time, he saw his own failure.

He saw himself, sleeping under the desk. He saw his family, huddled together for warmth. He saw the siege, and he saw his embattled apartment. He looked further, reaching farther back into his memory.

This was the part of the future he dreaded. He had seen short bursts of it before in dreams, and he knew this moment would change his life forever. This part wasn’t like a book in his memory; it was like a movie. In it he saw the long shells being placed within the clip in Germany. He saw this piece of ammunition’s journey to Stalingrad. He saw it being placed into the Nazi submachine gun as they began an assault into the Soviet sniper position in the adjacent apartment. Finally, he saw his own activities. He saw himself ask his father if he could hold his grandfathers pocket watch.

Vlad saw no reason not to, so he complied, following his memories.

Then, with clarity, he saw himself turn away from his family toward the frosted glass window. As he did this, his mind snapped back to the reality of the moment. ‘No!’ he screamed at himself, ‘warn them!’ but he said nothing, his subconscious making the decision to follow his memories.

As the shots blazed through the wall, spraying wood and plaster fragments in all directions, he stared out the broken window. The firefight continued as he watched snowflakes begin to drift lazily to the floor of the musty apartment. These flakes were central to his thoughts. He concentrated on each individual flake, trying anything to keep from turning towards the bodies of his parents as the headache overtook him, his vision blurring as his head hit the floor.

~

Consciousness returned to Vlad in a red haze. The pain flaring in his temples was nothing in comparison to the pain knowledge had brought him. He knew as his eyes began to focus exactly what he would see. So instead he rolled over, closing his eyes tight to the world outside. He just wanted it all to go away. He wanted to return to the time when his family was together, but he knew that the past was one path that would be closed to him forever. So he lay there, hoping that someone, anyone, would come to save him from this inescapable panic. He tried to see his future, clinging to the hope that if he saw anything in his future, that would be proof of his escape. But, as he tried feebly to think back, the headache overwhelmed him, quickly shutting down his consciousness. And then, he dreamed.

He found All other paths remained open, and he was determined to find the one that led to happiness, so he dove his thoughts inward, searching his memory for what happened next. All he saw was the past, and all was in a red haze. He moaned in desperation, frantically searching for anything to latch on to, anything to prove this wasn’t his end, but nothing would come.

Desperation became determination in his mind. He knew he had to survive, for within him throbbed the knowledge of his own great purpose. Only this certainty brought him from his stupor, spurring him finally to action. The weakness of desperately had changed whole-heartedly to the invincibility of youth in this moment, and he opened his eyes.

At first he saw only the hazy swirling of shadows, but his eyes soon adjusted to the darkness of the Russian night. He rose to his feet, being careful to avoid breaking the large shards of glass that laid beneath him. He strode quietly toward the door of the apartment, only glancing at the bodies of his parents as he walked away. He continued down the creaking stairwell and out the door into the snow covered alley, and only one thing was on his mind: to kill a Nazi.

~

He had wandered for nearly half an hour before he heard the sound of a gunfight and rushed towards it. He came to the park where the sounds of gunfire had come from just as it stopped. He saw only one man, a Nazi, in the entirety of the park. The man stumbled about, pulling the trigger as if the weapon continued to fire. He was obviously drunk, and this made him a perfect target for Vlad’s rage.

Vlad knew that the Nazi’s weapon was empty so he stepped straight into the park, walking right up to him. The Nazi turned as he approached, turning the weapon towards him and pulling the trigger frantically. The soldier noticed the click of missing ammunition for the first time as Vlad closed the small distance between them.

“You want to die?” the man spat in broken Russian. Now that he was closer Vlad realized that the man was drunk, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed a state of sleep deprivation. This man had obviously deserted, but Vlad was too angry to care. He rushed in, throwing a clumsy punch at his hated adversary.

But the Nazi was a bear of a man and quickly overpowered the young boy. Throwing him to the ground, the soldier muttered something in German and spat. Vlad struggled to his feet as the Nazi began to stumble away. He wanted desperately to fight this man, to break him, but how? He was too young, too weak.

Then the answer flashed in his mind, as so many things had before. A kick to the back of the knee, a strong grip of the trachea, and its over. He followed this internal instruction, and the Nazi was down.

He stood over the fallen soldier, kicking the unconscious form over and over again. He saw red, and his only desire was the death of the man who lay before him.

“It’s over son,” a voice said from behind him. Vlad turned with hope in his heart, but the voice came, not from his father, but from an old man he did not know.

A crowd had gathered, circling the young Russian. How sad his people appeared... He turned, knowing exactly what he must say. “Don’t you see? We can fight them. We can fight them...” he didn’t finish. He knew that the crowd had already started to disperse.

The old man spoke again, “No son, we can’t...” The men of the crowd shook their heads sadly and started to walk away. Vlad fell to his knees in the center of the courtyard, noticing for the first time that the snow had stopped. The last few flakes drifted slowly to the ground, crystalizing as they touched the cement.

He started to sob as a young woman from the crowd wrapped a slate grey shawl around his shoulders, whispering comfort in his ear.

~

Miles away an ancient clock began to tick once again, its dusty gears and cogs creaking into motion for the first time in many years. Though old, the clock ran seamlessly, its minute hand ticking into the first minute of the day, 12:01 am. Events had been set into motion from which there was no return. The Clock had started.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

Bear

Bear awoke from the dream slowly opening his eyes and letting the light leaking in from between the shades fill his vision. He laid there for a length of time before realizing that the next day had come; that the dream was over. That the epic figures had departed and that we was alone. Bear’s father knocked on Bear’s door on his way to the bathroom, “Get up, boy. There’s work to be done.”

Bear grunted in the affirmative, rolling over and sitting up. He shook his head slowly, trying to clear the strange vision from his head. He stood, raising his arms above his head and stretching backwards, allowing all his muscles to extend in preparation for the coming work. He dressed himself and left his room, heading down to the kitchen for breakfast. His mother greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, having to stand on her toes to do so. She looked at the hair on his face with disapproval. “When are you going to shave that beard? No reason for it. What it does is makes you look like a madman, a savage. It doesn’t need shaving. Taming is what it needs...”

He rolled his eyes and picked up a plate, retreating to the dining room. She pursued him. “...father doesn’t need you around here anymore. We’re okay by ourselves. Go into the city and get a job. Staying here isn’t doing you any good.” She stopped as he sat down at the table and started to eat. He looked up, waiting for her to continue. When it was clear she had finished and was awaiting a response, he finished chewing his first bite and cleared his throat.

“First of all, mother, I like my beard like this. And secondly, all my friends are here, and the living is free.” She tapped her foot as she thought of a response.

“The only reason the living is free is because your father has you working so hard at the factory. And half your friends have already moved into the city. And you liking your beard has nothing...” they continued to argue lightheartedly as his father clomped down the stairs, stopping at each step to mutter a curse at its incessant creaking.

When he reached the bottom he walked into the doorway of the dining room, standing and waiting for his family to stop talking and acknowledge him. As soon as they noticed him standing there they stopped.

“Finish eating, boy. Work to do.” Bear grunted in response, walking from the table, putting on his boots and coat.

“Real words, son. Use words.” his mother reminded him as she stood up from the table, taking his plate into the kitchen. He grunted in the affirmative. Her disgusted sigh could be heard two rooms away. She spoke again as they dressed for the cold, "I just thank God every day that you and your father were able to keep your jobs at the factory, even if you are stuck making those terrible weapons." They continued to prepare in silence, exchanging knowing glances.

“Ready?” his father said.

Bear raised his head, going down his mental checklist, then nodded. They walked out the door, a swirl of snow taking their place. As they did, Bear’s mother started to do the dishes, sobbing quietly to herself about their unspoken agreement.

She wouldn't ask, they'd provide food. "From the factory," she said bitterly to herself, her tears dripping into the sink.

~~~~

Bear and his father stalked silently through the forest and knee-high snow that surrounded their home, slowly weaving through the hardy trees that jutted from the snow. The only sound to be heard was the crunching of their boots as they moved steadily south. As they neared their destination, Bear grew nervous. The axe he carried in his hand grew heavier as sweat coated the inside of his gloves. He once again began to doubt the nature of their work. And, once again, he considered the job offer he had received in Stalingrad. He steadied himself, knowing that to abandon his father now would be a disgusting offense against his family. He continued, knowing that this would be the last time he could do the work his father demanded.

By the time they had reached their neighbor’s land, his father had readied his bayonet, preparing for the worst. They could hear wood being chopped as they made their way towards their neighbors barn. Bear stood next to the door, keeping watch as his father slunk quietly inside. Bear knew what came next: The attack on the drowsing animal, the quiet scuffle, the sickening sound of blood pouring onto the ground as it let loose it's last, silent scream. Bear winced at the thought. He would do this no longer, he thought. And then, quietly, he spoke the promise, "I will lose no more sleep over the look in these animals eyes. I refuse to."

At that very moment he heard the terrified bray of a wounded sheep. He pressed himself against the barn, holding his breath. He heard what he hoped he would never hear: the yell of surprise coming from their neighbor at the other end of the barn. The man had an axe. There was no way his father could defend himself alone. Bear made his decision then.

For the family. "Father!" Bear yelled as he ran through the doors, axe high above his head.

~

In a log cabin, far, far from anywhere on a map, she sat. The shawl wrapped around her shoulders was as ancient as she was: Deep, irrevocable creases lined the shawl, as well as her face, betraying the length of her stay in this place. She was small, her feet swinging back and forth inches above the floor as she rocked with her eyes closed, humming some tune long forgotten by man. The knitting she held in her hand was new, it's first designs just starting to take shape. Small shadows lined the room, staring intently as she knitted. They whispered amongst themselves, commenting on every stitch. One, larger than the others, sat near her shoulder. Whenever she stopped to look upon her work so far, it whispered advice and criticism in her ear. Sometimes she would nod sagely, adding a new thread or changing the direction of another wildly. Other times she clicked her tongue, letting her adviser know that she knew what she was doing. As she worked, she glanced nervously at the mantle above her old fireplace every few seconds.

On the mantle sat an old clock, far older than the woman herself. It ticked away, each second that went by distressing the woman. She jumped in place as the clock struck one, a scream of sick anticipation emanating from it as it did so. By the time she had gone back to her work, she was visibly shaking. Some words from the shadow perched at her shoulder calmed her, and she continued her work.

And so it went. She arranged her players as it arranged it's own. Though the board was just now being set, with the pieces selected and placed, she feared the coming of the game, for all depended on it.

Fox

"We go forward today in the name of our country. I know that some of you find the work you are doing... distasteful. Do not hang your heads in shame, brothers. We all feel compassion. But this must be done. It must be done for the future of the Soviet Union. Go forth, brothers, and bring in our future," the colonel stepped off the back of the jeep and motioned for the advance. The village of four hundred that lay below them sat in stark contrast to the force of a thousand soldiers that fell upon it.

"They look like wolves..." the colonel's aide said in awe, "Wicked, sneaking, wolves."

The colonel glanced in his direction, raising an eyebrow, but saying nothing. 'No need to rebuke him,' the colonel thought, 'Let him work hard for the rest of the day, before I smash his confidence.'

At the thought of this the colonel grinned as the aide sighed, sure he was off the hook.

'Yes, they are wolves, aren't they? I've done well, haven't I?' he thought as his soldiers began to enter into each and every home in the village.

~~~~

The man and woman that slept in the house at the outskirts of town were of no real signifigance. They farmed potatoes, wherever they could breach the frozen soil on their property. They led a simple life, their only pleasure coming from their joyful newborn girl. They had nothing of worth except their child, nothing to steal. And everyone knew it.

So it was a suprise indeed when the sound of breaking glass woke the couple in the early hours of the morning. More suprises came when this first sound was followed by the sound of a dozen boot-clad feet marching into their living room.

A soldier called to them, in their native tongue, "Wake up! Wake up now, or you never will!" Even in the darkness of the building he could see that the man had risen from his bed.

"I come on the official order of the premier. You will remain in your bedroom while your house is searched. You will speak when spoken to. Understood?"

"Yes, of course. Did you have to come through the window?" The farmer said as he scratched his beard.

"Do you have any children sir?" Boris, the sargeant, had trouble forcing the words out, as if it made him retch to do so.

"Yes, a baby girl. Why do-"

"Where is she, sir?" Boris' face contorted into an expression of true sympathy.

Even from his place in the living room, he could tell that realization was dawning on the man. "Sir, please stay calm. No one needs to get hurt here," said Boris. From his vantage point he could see the man's silouete reach under his pillow and grab a gardening spade. He did nothing to stop him. He deserved every hit he took during this raid.

"You can't have her!" the man ran from the room, swinging the spade at Boris. Boris turned his head, hoping that the blow would end his torment. Instead gunfire filled the room.

He knelt next to the bleeding man and whispered in his ear, "I'll take care of her for you. She'll have a good life. I'll make sure she does," the dying man's eyes forced him to continue, "I promise."

The man died with a look of grim satisfaction on his face as the soldiers walked from the house with his child.

Boris carried the child back to their base himself. He came upon the scene along with the nine other babies that had been found among the villagers, whose town was chosen because of it's obscurity.

He handed the child to the waiting nurses. 'Promise fulfilled. A good life. A life without poverty or starvation. She's taken care of,' he repeated to himself, though in his heart he knew it was a lie. He knew that a baby who witnessed a death like that would be marked by it their whole life.

The next day he led his troops on a early morning run and never returned. They sought shelter in the small town three days later, begging forgiveness. None was given.

~~~~

She opened her eyes slowly, knowing what she would see: the man in the white coat with the tape recorder. She sat up and placed her hands in her lap. He smiled.

"Im glad to see that you know the routine. Ready?" she nodded.

The tape recorder came to life with a hiss as he began.

"Subject designation: Fox 4. Confirm."

"Designation: Fox 4," she replied in monotone.

"Subject age: 10. Confirm."

"Age: 10"

"Subject height: 4 feet, six inches. Confirm."

"Height: 4 feet, six inches."

"Lets start the interview. How do you feel today Fox 4?"

"That's not a real name. Why don't I have a real name?" she said, her voice level.

"Answer the question, Fox 4."

"Fine. I mean, your name is Boris, right? And the nurse that pokes me with the needles is Karina. Why am I Fox? That's an animal, not a name."

"I see that you have been studying, Fox 4. Let me explain. You are an experiment. Experiments have designations, not names. Someday, you can hope to become a weapon. Then you will have a number."

"I see. The other kids, do they have names, or do they have designations?" At this the doctor looked sharply from his notes.

"Your hands are shaking," she said as his knuckles turned white, "And your face is red."

"How...observant. Why don't you explain to me how a clever girl like yourself noticed the other children?"

"I see the nurse come in with the needles. She has ten, all the same size. When she comes in, three are already empty. More needles, more children."

The doctor calmed visibly. "I see," he said, scribbling 'subject displays increased mental acuity and perception, deduction skills. Consider for project 00143,' on his notes.

"Interview terminated," he said as he switched off the tape recorder. He smiled again. "Come with me, Fox 4. There is a man I'd like you to meet."

~~~~

"Why this one?" asked the large shadow, pointing at the bold, black line being knit into the work.

"For contrast." replied the woman as she continued to work.

"Contrast? To contrast what? No other line is so bold."

In response to this comment she reached into her basket and showed him the most brilliant white line he had ever seen.

"It lights the room..."

"No, my old friend. This one will light the world."

Nikolai

Nikolai was already sitting at the table when his parents came down to breakfast. He had finished his toast and was just sitting, waiting for them to wake up.

“I made you coffee,” he said, and poured it for them.

“... thanks, son. Where to today?” his mother asked.

“Job hunting,” he said, while his parents exchanged furtive glances.

“Nikolai, your twelve. You can't have a job.”

“The man at the distribution center at the corner said he would hire me.”

“But your not old enough.” she said, trying to be firm.

“Yes I am. He said he would have hired me last year, but it was 'against government policy.' This year, though, I'm legal.” He said as he walked towards the door, putting on his boots. “I'll be back at twelve, unless he wants me to start today. If so, it'll be six. Love you mother, father.”

“But you can't. I won't le-” a swirl of snow marked his passage.

Nikolai's father shook his head sadly, “You're wrong, you know. That boy is older than both of us.”

“But he is a child.” she said, starting to tear up.

“Honey, honey, shh. You cannot force childhood on the boy. He has grown beyond the joys of naivety, the joys of youth. He has already had to harden his heart, because of this place.” the father gestured to the two story shack in which they lived. To the dilapidated floorboards and the missing cupboard doors. To the civilization beyond.

“What a stern boy he has become. When did it happen?” she wondered, searching her memory.

“He became stern when he lost his pride. His happiness. His love, my dear.”

“Little Anastasia...”

“I would be just as stern if I lost you, my dear.”

“I should hope not. But he was just a child. Love?”

“He's never been a child, that boy. He grew so quickly. God has a purpose for that one, preparing him so early...”

~

“Anastasia!”

“Nikolai! There you are. You had me waiting.” he ran up to her, catching her in the middle of the street.

“Sorry. I had to clean up breakfast.” he said, looking into her eyes.

She turned her head slightly, breaking his gaze, “Why do you do that? Clean up? I never have to.” He turned with her, looking her right in the eyes again.

“I make the mess. It just feels right.”

“You are so strange.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

They started their walk to school when Anastasia stopped and turned around. “I forgot something...” she said, running back into her house.

He stood waiting on the street when a military truck pulled up and a group of soldiers rushed from the back, entering Anastasia's house, yelling and waving their guns around. He ran to the window and risked a look inside. The soldiers had Anastasia and her family lined, facing the wall. He strained to hear the commissars voice over the racket outside.

“You, sir, owe the premier a great deal of produce.” the oily man said.

“I mean to pay. But I need to feed my family. And in the winter, there is no way to grow it. We starve as it is.” Anastasia's father spoke bravely.

“Let me explain communism to you, sir. All things go to the government first. Then the great and noble union distributes the amount of food you need to you. It all falls apart, sir, if you do not deliver.” the oily commissar sounded like he was teaching class, but the malice in his voice suggested a different intention. He paced as he spoke.

“But, of course, you know this. But to drive the lesson home, we will make an example of you. Your family can deliver the supplies with the proper... care, I'm sure.”

Nikolai didn't understand what was happening, not exactly. But he knew what to do. He picked the brick from the window sill and approached the open door. He knew he couldn't help, but he knew also that he couldn't live with himself if he didn't toss the brick in his hands. There was no question.

The commissar drew his pistol and took aim, putting the barrel up against the back of Anastasia's father's neck. Then his world went dark.

Nikolai stood in the doorway and let the soldiers come to him. He would not take this trouble to his family.

One of the soldiers grabbed him by the hair, yelling, “Your name, boy!”

He spat. “I will give you nothing.”

The soldier was taken aback by this boy of ten's audacity. Instead of shooting him, the soldier threw him to the ground, striking him with his rifle.

Nikolai awoke in the yard of Anastasia's house, his head throbbing. He rushed to his feet, forcing himself back into unconsciousness. The second time he was more careful, crawling instead of running. He crawled into the house, calling to his friend. He received no reply. He continued to search, crawling from one end of the house to the other.

His parents found him the next day, curled up in her bed, holding his love's twisted and broken body close to his chest.

~

“Why do that?” said the shadow, an edge of horror in his voice. It had physically hurt to watch the old woman dip the end of the shining white thread into the deep red ink.

“Our adversary is devious, old friend. He would destroy a line that shone as brightly as this, if he could see it.”

“He never tried before. He couldn't touch your white lines before. And none of them were as bright as the one you've ruined here.”

“He never wanted to before. He let me have my heroes. He, with great success, has made me old and complacent. Stuck in my ways. My first line in this work barely survived, because of the old ways. I have wizened since then. No line can be perfect. All the lines must be hidden, twisted, full of conflict instead of uniformity of purpose.” She said as she carefully took the white line between her fingers and spread the influence of the ink along the length of the line, making it a ruddy rust color.

She could hear the shadow begin to sob behind her. She turned and drew him close. “Do not despair for this one. It is a shining light, despite it's appearance. At least it will survive. The light will shine through.”

Her shadow was not comforted. He cried on. She continued.

“You have seen the clock on the mantle. You have seen it shake dust from it's cogs and begin to turn. This line is needed, old friend. To stop the clock and the thing that built it. And it is of no use as a short, frayed string, bright as it may be. You know that.”

He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “I do.”

She wiped the tears from her eyes as well.

Yuri

“They say that you learn all of your prejudices, every single one, when you are a child.” the prisoner said to the voice on the other side of the wall, his tone overbearing and weasel-like, even in his current situation.

“Who says?” said the voice.

“Plato, firstly. And then Sigmund Freud, after that. Most everyone says it, outside of this rathole.”

“No one talks much in this prison, anyway. I don't imagine the guards think of their prejudices.”

“This prison isn't the rathole. This country is. This propaganda machine they call the Soviet Union.”

“Ah, so the truth comes out. You hate the motherland. That's why you let me kill the Minister of Defense.”

“I didn't let you kill anyone. I honestly tried to stop you. Maybe you don't realize it, but you are very, very fast. That gun I used didn't have the... effect I hoped for. And I really believed in the cause. The motherland. The Soviet Union was my love.”

“You love the propaganda machine?”

“I didn't think about it that way then. Remember what I said about prejudices? I had plenty...”

~

Yuri bounded down the steps, taking two at a time. He rounded the corner, skidding to a stop in the dining room. His parents sat at the kitchen table, talking quietly and eating breakfast. They looked up at their son, the amused expressions on their faces matching his. He stood, waiting for them to ask.

“Ok. Who's birthday is it today?” his mother spoke first, feigning disinterest. This had become their routine, their game, for the last few years. He rolled his eyes and sat down on the table.

“Come on, mom... How about Karl Marx? Does his name ring a bell?”

“I might have heard his name once or twice. Sit down and have breakfast,” she handed him a roll. He snatched it from her hand and ran back upstairs. As he neared the top he called back down.

“Sorry. Busy. No time.”

After he had gone, the parents exchanged worried glances.

“You see what their teaching him at school? Their propaganda is dissolving his brain like sugar in coffee,” the father said. His wife snorted at the notion.

“I know. You see how he takes to it? Takes to patriotism and hate at the expense of rational thought.” she smiled a little in the direction of their sons room.

“Like a good little Soviet... I'm not sure about this. Are you sure?” he looked ready to crack.

She held his hand and spoke softly. “I'm sure. And so are you! We agreed long ago that the only way he would survive around here is if he put himself completely into this culture. He is a good little Soviet. And he'll be a great big Soviet, dear. He'll be great and this society will love him for it.”

Her husband was comforted little by the notion. “But he'll be... fake. This whole thing is fake. We are teaching our son to hold to an ideal we could never support.”

“That's why we started so young. So he had ample chance to take it all in.”

“We couldn't hold the ideal because it's not right. It doesn't work. No amount of time can change that.”

“Says you.”

“And you want our child to be the experiment? To test out whether your right?”

“I know I'm right. No test needed. Yuri will be great. He will fix the system. What was it that we always said?”

“Communism would certainly function better than democracy, if only the leadership was inspired,” he had spoken the phrase, if only to comfort himself, many times in the past few years.

“Our boy is that leader. He is the inspired leader that this country needs. If not, then he will be the inspiration. There is no other outcome.”

“Of course, honey. He will be great. Of course.” he always submitted once she was sure. It was always clear that the conversation was over. He continued to sit for just a moment before standing. “I'm going to work. Goodbye, wife.”

“Goodbye, husband.” he kissed her on the forehead and walked out the door into the swirling snow.

“Premier Yuri...” she smiled to herself as she cleaned up breakfast.

~

It is often said that nobody chooses to be conscripted. It is often said that no one volunteers. No one wants that job, mothers would say to fathers, praying that their son would not receive the dreaded message. It was no surprise, however, to two particular parents when Yuri left on the morning of his eighteenth birthday, submitting himself to duty.

The man at the desk in front of him hardly looked up to consider Yuri.

“Sir, I'd like to volunteer myself to duty in the most glorious soviet military,” the man looked up, dry amusement twisting his features into a smirk.

Short and fat for his age, Yuri was hardly fit to walk in a straight line, much less march. And the large glasses on his face complemented the package perfectly.

“You won't be able to march or shoot,” the man said, his voice bored. “what use are you to me?”

“I will be able to do both, sir,” Yuri stammered, sweat beginning to pour onto his face from the top of his head.

“Nope. Why do you want to volunteer here? This is a conscript receiving office. We receive conscripts.”

Yuri was now visibly trembling. He tried hard to remember what he had learned about conscripts. He stumbled through it seconds later.

“The conscript is the most revered warrior in the Union. He gives without receiving. He fights without reward. His life belongs to the community and the community belongs to him. It is the highest honor of the communist ideal.” He spoke without breathing, closing his eyes to help him remember.

“You read?”

“... yes sir. I read often.”

“I thought that was the case. Here, sit down. You copy down these numbers. I'm tired of doing it. I'm going to rest my eyes in the back.” the officer walked away, leaving Yuri at his desk. Yuri stared blankly at the page for a moment. A job. A real military job. He was finally here. As the magnitude of this duty fell upon him, he picked up the pen and began to transfer the numbers from the book to the report next to him. Eventually he had to stop smiling. The muscles in his cheeks had become sore.

~

“What is he good for?” the shadow asked the old woman.

“Who?” she responded.

“That dull one there. What is that? Brown? Gray?”

“It's gray, dear. He has his purpose, as do all the other lines.”

“But the others are all so vibrant, so clear. Even the black there is beautiful.”

“You do not find our gray friend beautiful? The black does.”

“This work is darker than I expected.” the shadow observed, “No straight lines. No clear picture.”

She stopped knitting for a moment and looked at him. “Do you not trust me, old friend? Have my works ever failed you in the past?”

“No... but I'm afraid of where this one will lead. To take creative license in this situation, when all things are at stake is a risk to be sure, if not folly.”

“To leave things to routine, when my opponent has watched me for so long, would be the only folly. Now is not the time for a shining white coat, unsullied by the world. Such a coat has worked in the past, all the lines straight, all the threads bright and true. But such a coat is sure to be ground to dust in this final work. I must play his game, friend. I must weave shadows in the dark. I must take odd angles, cut sharply across the design. He must never know where one line will be when he moves to strike it. He has surely begun to gather scraps to his forge.” with great effort, she returned to the knitting in front of her. The shadow finally noticed the strain this had put on her.

“Maybe a break is in order, friend.” he said, his voice guilty for having even thought it.

“We both know I cannot stop. No breaks this time.” he could hardly bear to hear the strain in her voice. He looked out the window, tearing his eyes from the work for the first time in ages. There he saw a figure in the dark, stumbling through the snow. As he started to speak she stopped him, holding up her hand. “I pulled him here,” was all she said. Their first visitor... ever. And four words marked his coming at the very moment he arrived.

He landed with a thump on their doorstep.

Francis

Francis sat up with a start.

“Why is it so cold? Where is my blanket? And... my... bed?” he thought, then he remembered where he was. “Oh, right. I'm lost in the woods.” he regretted opening his eyes, only to see the forest floor splayed out around him. His plan to climb a tree and find his way back to civilization was unsuccessful, as the forest continued for miles in every direction. No road. So he opened his pack and took out a bag of trail mix. Berries and nuts and granola. “Breakfast of champions,” he muttered to himself. He took stock of his situation. He was lost in the woods. He didn't come here on purpose. He had been here for days.

Francis had taken to talking to himself yesterday afternoon as he wandered between the snowcapped trees. Mostly he thanked the stars above him for the insight of sticking to boy scouts. For packing a bag of food whenever he decided to take this trip. He couldn't remember planning a camping trip... But he said other things too.

“...don't know how I got in the woods anyway. I was in bed, last I knew. Now I'm in the woods. In the freaking woods. From Denver to the middle of the woods. Maybe I'm dreaming. That'd be nice...”

It was the middle of the third day, and he was getting desperate. He had climbed twelve trees, hoping to see some kind of road, or city, or dog, or deer, or bird. But, truth be told, the woods were completely lifeless. Even the trees were dead all around him. He kept thinking that maybe he was dead. Maybe this was some kind of purgatory. He didn't feel dead. He felt cold. He continued to wander in the general direction of the sun, which he knew, somewhere in his subconscious, was a kind of super bad idea. But it became more appealing as he wandered into the night of the fourth day. That morning, as he climbed down from the tree he slept in, the storm hit.

A wall of snow pulled his feet from underneath him and threw him to the ground. It tugged at his clothes and pulled his glasses from his face. He stood, knowing he had to find shelter. He started to struggle against the wind and snow, but he could feel the blackness closing in around him. It gathered at the edges of his periphery and ventured into the center of his vision. He stumbled forward another ten feet, then fell to his knees. Pain shot up his legs as his knees banged into the solid ground.

“Concrete? In the woods?” he thought as the blackness filled him.

“Stone, actually,” an ancient voice thought back.

~

“Put him by the fire. Be careful, please. He has come a long way.” she said, looking up from her work for only a moment. The shadows that filled the room carried him to the hearth, placing him carefully on the finely woven rug. She continued to knit, weaving her lines into complex and deceiving patterns.

“Why bring him here? You never brought any of the others.” the shadow at her shoulder said.

“Have I... offended you, old friend?”

“No... no. It's just unprecedented.”

“But not unheard of. I did the same thing, once before. Long before you came to me.”

“Why? Why does he need to be here?” her Shadow's voice was pleading.

“Sometimes an objective influence is not enough. Once in a while you have to just look at the line before you and say...”

~

“...awake, friend. There is work to be done.” The voice was soft, but without question. He would wake. So he did.

He opened his eyes slowly, taking in the scene before him. The ceiling was covered in a startling array of tapestries. Each was different, each was amazingly clear. One depicted a man on a ship in the middle of the ocean. The ship was fully crewed, but only the one man was truly visible. Everything else was background. He wasmagnetic.

The next depicted a young girl, praying at the foot of a tree. The next showed a young man at the head of an army, his helmet topped with a great white plume. They stood at the bank of a river, ready to charge. The next showed a man nailing a letter to a church. Each one depicted in perfection. Like a photograph but a thousand times more real.

The tapestries continued, but his eyes were drawn to the various articles of clothing adorning the walls. More beautiful than anything he had ever seen, these garments were gloriously complex, each individual thread woven in perfect tandem with those around it. The colors on these seemed to shift, to dance. But by far the most wonderful hung above a tired old clock on the mantle. He sprung to his feet at the sight of it. It was a great coat, glowing from the inside with white hot flame. Tears sprung to his eyes, flowing down his face and to the floor.

“Such beautiful souls, they were.” a voice said to him from everywhere at once. He turned. It was at this point that he noticed the old woman.

She sat in a great wooden rocking chair. It creaked as she slowly rocked, each inch of it's arches complaining as it was rolled from the ground to which it belonged. And the chair did belong in the room. It seemed as if it had grown straight from the wood floor of the cottage. The woman belonged there as well. The room seemed to have grown outward from the spot where she sat. As if she had sat down, and there was a chair, and the room emerged from it's arches. She was old. Beyond old. Her face was lined and creased in a thousand places, with the paper-thin layer of skin below it creased a thousand times more. Her frail arms held knitting needles, the clicking that he expected to hear was barely audible. As he watched her he noticed that there was strength there. It permeated from her through the very air he breathed.

“Hello, Francis. Welcome to my home.” he opened his mouth to speak, to ask ten thousand questions all at once. She held up her hand to silence him.

“There is no need for you to speak. Only listen.”

She told him then what she required. He sat on the brilliantly embroidered rug and listened. She told him things. Wondrous things. She described to him something she had never revealed to the shadows that filled the room.

~

Three years later, he emerged from the cottage onto a busy street in Denver, Colorado. There was no cabin or wood when he looked over his shoulder, though he had been told to expect this. As he walked slowly towards the airport, all he could think about was the clock. The clock and the pure malice that poured from it. The clock and the scream of pleasure it exhibited as he walked out the door. Exultant at the strike of three.

Francis had work to do.

Daydreaming

The story below appears here in its entirety. (Finally, an ending! I know) Enjoy - it is one of my favorites.

Daydreaming

David Down

Nikolai was daydreaming again, but it didn't matter. There was no one there to see him with his chin at his chest, and he was sure no one cared. He daydreamed standing, as he couldn't risk falling asleep in the snow. He was prepared for the weather: He wore a gray fur cap, goggles, and a scarf across his mouth, all intended to protect him from the cold. He wore a fur collared jacket, insulated and puffed out in sections. His snow pants were made of the same material, and were wide and straight like tree trunks. He wore large cumbersome boots as well, which were buried almost entirely in snow. His hands were covered in thick gloves, which reduced his finger dexterity considerably. He was prepared for the weather, but he didn't feel like he needed to be: His dreams were warm, in feeling and clime, and he was with Anissa. He still cared for her, after so many years, and he spent much of his time dreaming of her.
His true situation couldn't be further from that memory, and he was reminded of it as a particularly painful blast of wind woke him from his slumber. When he opened his eyes he saw only white, and recognized it immediately as snow blindness. He forced his lids open wider, pulling with all the muscles in his forehead, letting his pupils contract to pinholes. He welcomed the pain he felt at the back of his head as his eyes tried in vain to adjust to the light, letting it wake him. The numbness of sleep left him then, and his whole body felt the pain of the subzero conditions at once. The sudden arrival of the cold brought him slowly to his knees, his joints disagreeing with his decision to stay standing. His body adjusted quickly, as it always had, and he stood up. He turned quickly to see if anyone else was outside of the radar base, hoping that no one had seen him stumble.
His heart started to pound as he turned in a slow circle, unable to see the base with which he was so familiar. It wasn't there. He took a deep breath to calm himself, but doubled over at once, the frigid air stinging his lungs as he coughed uncontrollably. From that position he looked again, and he could not see the base. He noticed now, too, that the landscape surrounding him was alien, and it frightened him. He tried frantically to recall what he had done before he started to daydream but couldn't. All he could think about was Anissa, and he couldn't tell why. He checked his wrist, but his compass was missing. What had happened to him?
He calmed himself down and racked his brain, trying to remember what had happened. He caught a flash of a memory, seeing a rabbit speaking to him, saying something about dancing. Then he remembered going out on patrol that day, after finishing his rations. Tt an emergency klaxon. Then he remembered flying.
"Well, not all of that could have happened," he said aloud, "So: Talking rabbit-definitely a dream. Going on patrol," he looked around him at the snow, "real. Emergency klaxon-hell, I don't know. Maybe," he decided to disregard the flying thing entirely, hoping to have it out of his head as soon as possible. He tried to make sense of his memories, but the cold wasn't helping. Had something happened at the base? He needed to get back there. Just then he noticed a familiar rock formation in the distance, and started quickly towards it.
A slow whisper came to his ears with the wind, saying, "Midnight..." He looked over his shoulder, unsure as to whether he had heard anything at all. He sped up a little as a creepy feeling came over him and drove him forward. He heard it again, "Midnight..." the whisper was more distinct, and the voice- he was sure now that it was a voice- held an accent that he didn't recognize. He went another ten feet before he heard a whistling noise, and dove to the ground. He was sprayed with snow as whatever it was impacted thirty feet behind him. He heard the whistling sound again and pulled himself up and started to sprint. Someone was dropping bombs on him. So far he'd been lucky- the first had seemed to be a dud. The second landed on the spot where he had been laying, spraying snow, but didn't explode either. Then a third and a fourth fell on either side of him, covering his goggles in snow. Still no explosions. The fifth whistled in, and Nikolai's luck ran out. It hit him squarely in the small of his back, sending him sprawling and skidding across the snow. He blacked out.
But only for a moment. The pain in his back was immense, and his eyes were watering. He rolled over onto his side, propping himself up with his elbow. There, lying next to him in the snow was the thing that had hit him. It was a jet black ball, with some kind of sticks poking out of it at odd angles. Then it started to shift, and unroll, and the pain was all that kept him from laughing right in the things face.
Because it had a face. A face, and a button nose, and long ears, and antlers. It looked for all the world like a rabbit with antlers. He had never heard of such a thing. It sat before him, and for the first time it made eye contact. He couldn't help but notice that it seemed to be inspecting him.
"There you are, Nikolai. We've been looking for you for hours," the thing said as it shifted into a sitting position.
Nikolai was stunned, but could understand the things stilted speech clearly. It sounded like a cat would sound, if it was also a cricket.
"Wh-why?" he asked, realizing that the numbness of his lips was making it hard for him to form words.
"We were worried about you. You just sort of wandered off in the middle of our preparation time," it said, shaking snow from it's antlers.
"Preparation time... we've met before?" he asked.
"Of course, just earlier today. My, that arctic camouflage is really quite effective," it commented, leaning in to look at the dizzying whites and grays on Nikolai's uniform.
Something about it's voice triggered Nikolai's memory. He remembered dozens of these creatures, and an old woman. Something about dancing. "Oh my-We have met, haven't we?" he said slowly, shaking his head.
"Of course. We got on rather well, you and I." It said, offering him a hand. Remembering that he had indeed met the strange creature earlier that day, he offered it his hand. Instead of helping Nikolai up, it looked upward and howled. It howled like a cat that was also a cricket might howl. Then it looked at him and winked; Nikolai found the winking unnerving. Then the high pitched whine that he now recognized as a rabbit falling through a winter storm picked back up, and he was blasted by snow from a hundred impacts in a circle around him.
The creatures emerged from their snowy craters all at once, and Nikolai remembered them- each was a different size and color, and each had a unique face. Nikolai thought that it was very strange for rabbits to all have different faces. It was then, as the rabbits encircling him started to stretch as if they were preparing to run a marathon, an act Nikolai found ridiculous, that the old woman appeared, barely visible in the storm. He saw her approaching from across the snow, and suddenly the intelligent rabbits with antlers that surrounded him weren't so interesting. This woman seemed far more out of place.
She was ancient, older than old. Even from this distance Nikolai could tell that her skin was thin, like paper, and heavily wrinkled. Her limbs looked useless, and the shawl that she wore looked older than she. Her shoes were simple black leather, and her pants were too short, showing her ankles. She was hunched over, her back bearing the weight of her many years. She looked to be too frail to be out of bed, except for her stride. She walked toward Nikolai with long, loping steps, covering a great distance in a short amount of time.
Suddenly she was looming over him, and the rabbit that still held his hand gave him a leisurely tug, pulling him roughly to his feet. He remembered that too- strong rabbits. He thanked the rabbit with a nod and turned towards the woman. He made eye contact and forgot the snow.
She had amazing eyes, ageless and beautiful. They held every color and no color, all at once. When Nikolai saw them, he felt a very curious warmness emanating from his center as his mind reeled, and he felt dizzy. He couldn't bring himself to look away, though he desperately wanted to. Soon his entire body was content, and he no longer felt fear. He had felt this way before. He remembered her eyes.
"Hello, Nikolai. I am glad that we have found you," she said, her voice clear and beautiful. Nikolai, slack jawed, could not respond. Seeing this, she blinked and turned away. Nikolai started to collapse in response, but the rabbit steadied him.
"I remember you, and them. I remember feeling like this. Warm in the cold. Why did I run from you?" he asked. She turned in a slow circle as he spoke, watching the rabbits as they lazed about in the snow, waiting to begin.
"You ran because I gave you some disappointing news. It scared you and clouded your judgment," she said, turning back to look him in the eyes once more. This time, Nikolai could control himself. He spoke slowly, deliberately.
"What news would that be?" he said, trying hard to remember what she had said. When he did try, all he could think of was Anissa. The old woman just stared back at him. "Wait... this is about Anissa, isn't it?" he said, still unable to truly recall.
"Once I had made my intentions clear, you demanded to know the fate of your lost love. You wouldn't come along until I told you. So I told you, and you fled," she said, smiling at him, "Surely you will respond better this time."
"Surely," Nikolai repeated, an edge of menace in his voice. He slowly spoke, "So go ahead and tell me. Has she died?"
The old woman laughed. Then she spoke, "If only it was so simple, my dear. No, she lives. She has children. She is happy."
"Oh. Oh, I see," Nikolai said, averting his gaze.
The old woman used her finger under his chin to bring his gaze back to hers, "I know your heart, Nikolai. I have always known it. You would rather her dead, then happy with another, isn't that it? Love is so strange..."
Nikolai panicked then. He needed to find her, convince her to love him again. He'd kill that other man, if he had to. He just had to get out of Siberia first. His mind raced, trying to find a way to her, to Anissa. While he went on like this, the old woman gestured strangely, pointing her middle and index finger down and making a sweeping motion.
"Nikolai. You must know by now that she has forgotten you? That she lives the life that she dreamed of, before you disappeared? I have come here, Nikolai, to make you happy. To help you fulfill you purpose. Let me do that, Nikolai. Let me bring you joy," she said, reaching out for his hand.
Nikolai had to go. Had to find her. Had to convince her... He needed to get out of there. He felt the urge to escape, and then jumped. The jump pushed him so high that he felt the change in air pressure in his temples. Soaring through the air, his arms pinwheeled uncontrollably. The memory of flight returned to him, and he remembered his earlier escape attempt more fully. He remembered how to bend his legs upon landing to avoid the concussion that had stolen his memories. He would make it this time. He felt a change in the wind, and could tell that he had hit the top of his arc. Nikolai bent his legs and prepared for impact. Minutes later, he saw the radar base below him, heard the emergency klaxon. Then that impact came.
He landed amongst his fellow soldiers, throwing snow and ice in the air in a wide circle around him. The men around him pointed their weapons in his direction, then recognized him. The largest of the group lowered his gun immediately and strode forward, saying, "Nikolai, there you are! We need your deactivation code, now. Thank God your back." Then another soldier approached him, "How the hell did you do that? It was like you were flying, comrade. It was amaz-" he was cut short, as a large black streak rocketed downwards and struck him in the chest. This first was followed by many others, black and brown streaks hurling into his friends, coming from all angles, knocking them all to the ground. At least one of them looked badly injured, and the others were surely unconscious. The rabbits that had attacked his friends uncurled themselves, all looking to Nikolai.
The one that had landed first started to speak, "That was a nice landing, Nikolai. Grade A. We were all really impressed. Most of us half expected you to come down like you did last time, hit your head again. Glad to see you're okay, though."
"Wh-Why did you do that?" Nikolai said, shock setting in, "Why did they need my code?" It hopped up to him, and grabbed his hand.
"We need you, Nikolai. There is work to do that we just cannot complete." the rabbit said. Nikolai tried to pull away, tried to jump again, but the unnatural strength of the rabbit kept him rooted firmly to the earth.
"But why did they need my code?" he yelled, trying to pull away.
"There is a bit of a... a calamity about to occur. Now don't look at me like that, we didn't orchestrate said calamity. But we do need it to occur. It needs to happen, Nikolai. There won't be much of a place for you, afterwards," the rabbit said.
"No. I need to enter my deactivation code."
"Nikolai, humanity has had its chance. There is a nameless one, who has been watching your people closely for some time. He watches all people, and when they come by the means to annihilate themselves he presses them forward, ending them. You can't stop it," the rabbit said.
"All those people... I need to save them..." Nikolai let out a choked cry, his heart wrenching.
"Come, Nikolai. Surely you know that this place has nothing left for you?"
He did know it. He had been struggling with the loneliness of the snow for a long time, and his thoughts of Anissa were all that had kept him company. His 'friends' at the radar installation were anything but: Hardened criminals and professional soldiers, they wanted nothing to do with him. He was tired, and he resigned his fate to these magical creatures.
"Fine. I will go with you," he said, the last words he would speak as a human being. He followed them, dutifully, back to the circle where the rabbits had been gathered.
He took his place, three to the left of the rabbit that convinced him to give his life away and let the world end. The old woman spoke, saying simply, "And we dance."
That was the last moment that Nikolai felt lonely. The rest of eternity would be devoted to the dance.
And developing his antlers, of course.