Anything for Russia
''Понял?''The ominous question came from a menacing man, whose malevolent emerald gaze pierced Sasha's very soul, as he towered over Sasha at a dangerous 6'3 and whose ebony coat was adorned with bright silver and gold medals that were pinned neatly upon his chest. Each of them glittered beneath the humming office lights, the intricate work on each worthy of the highly ranked officer whose very title was legend all throughout Russia: the генера́л-майо́р. And although the graying haired man had posed it much like a question, there was no answer other than yes: after all, it's what Sasha had signed up for. ''Пора, мы закончили эту войну. И мы не будет принимать меньше, чем победы.''
''Да сэр. Я вернусь в ближайшее время с победы в стороны.''
But even victory takes time.
For three unrelenting winter weeks, Sasha played his part to a tee. Along the war-torn fence line where the borders met and families dared to dream of a better life where bloodshed was only a distant memory, Sasha would spread out in the dense foot of snow that had gathered on the ground, looking beaten and battered, ready to be saved by the leak that he had been hearing of...but such a time never came. Various men and women in a uniform, that he could only assume were American, would pass by him, unfazed by the dying Russian soldier that was pleading for help in the brisk winter's flurry, a few even venturing so far as to give him a swift kick in the ribs as their token of ''appreciation'' for what the Russian army had done. He would groan, making a show of his wounds in hopes of drawing some more pity from those nearby but there was nothing but his heartbeat in his ears and the throbbing pain of his wounds.
Sasha could only mark it as a failure on his part and try again the next day.
The frigid morning of his success was a perilous one, with temperatures dipping well below zero and a wind chill that froze Sasha down to his bare bones. The air was thick, dense with snow so frosty and white that even Sasha, equipped for the assignment in all of his gear, stumbled to find his way to the border. Numerous times throughout the short but dangerous trek, he could feel his legs give out beneath him and his ankles twist under the pitfall of the concentrated snow heaps that had formed on the ground overnight. Despite the face full of powder and the gnawing numbness in his frozen digits, Sasha wouldn't give up; it wasn't an option now. And although it took him double the original time he had quoted to his commanders, Sasha made it and against the sharp, silver snow-caked barricade, he laid. Time became a test of torture, each blistering second in the blustery gusts feeling like a blunt knife being driven through his body as his lungs bit at his chest wall in protest.
Sasha was pale, fading rapidly as his vision, now blurring to the point that he could no longer distinguish a mass of snow for a human form, was darkening by the second. Voices, faces and even figures began to appear in front of him, hallucinations, no doubt, from his weakening mind and poor condition his body was in at the bitter winter's hands. Sasha hadn't even realized the destructive toll that this mission was taking on his body until now, an ignorant mistake that could very well cost him his life. Even after all of his excruciating training, torture that plagued the body and mind, wounds that would only turn to scars, this is what he had amounted to: nothing. But without warning, he heard the crunching of crisp snow beneath boots and a figure appeared before him that he could only pray was the leak he was looking for. A few seconds passed and no bullets had pierced his skull; a promising sign.
''Are you American or Russian?'' It was the voice a woman though her age was hard to differentiate from just a mere sentence. Her tone was muffled beneath fabric, most likely to shield her from the cold but her voice was warm, kind in nature.
Sasha groaned, mouthing words while trying to force air into his lungs to make a sound but he just couldn't get them out. They were nothing more than a soft whisper on his lips. In front of him, where the figure stood, he could hear the solder load ammunition into her gun and position it only inches from Sasha's face.
''I won't ask you again. Are you American or Russian?''
This time, Sasha tried to speak a little louder but the brutal roar of the polar winds ripped the words away just as he began to fade into near unconsciousness. The figure let out a deep sigh and lowered her gun and from that moment, all other things were dim. The few things he did remember were total nonsense - the feeling of something wet and warm on his face, his body being thrown on a filthy, rancid rug that he was dragged upon and the overwhelming smell of something putrid mixing with a comforting smell that he could recognize from his childhood.
An involuntary jolt through his body roused Sasha from his comatose-like slumber, flinging him from the dream of a small home that wasn't a dream at all, apparently; it was real. The first thing to hit him was the smell, dirty cabbage that had been overcooked flirted with a more savory, luscious smell: chicken broth, which would explain why there was a bowl of make-do cabbage stew sitting on the table in front of him. The area was meager, a small living room and kitchen crammed into one narrow space while a half-wall separated the sleeping area and bathroom from the rest of the home. A strange sound of water droplets hitting against plastic drew Sasha's eye to the left corner of the kitchen, where, as Sasha had guessed, a gray bucket sat, catching the leaky roof water that was dropping from a damaged ceiling. Next to the lumpy couch where he had been sprawled, Sasha noticed the miniature space heater pumping out warmth with all of its little might, the reddish yellow furnace pumping out a warm heat, which was pleasing to Sasha's throbbing joints. All of his wounds had been dressed, even the broken bones had been reset [to which Sasha was thankful he had been unconscious when it was done] and blankets were piled high on him; someone was taking good care of him. The creak of a floor board beneath someone's shoe made Sasha shoot up from the couch like prey that was trapped by a hunter but all the fear seemed to fade upon realizing that it was only a woman, an unarmed one at that.
'''You're awake.'' Her voice was as soft as a first kiss, the same kind voice that he had heard before he passed out. ''Do you...speak English?'' 'Yes, I do speak English.' He wanted to say but Sasha held back the words. Instead, he looked the woman up and down curiously, trying to determine if she was the one they were looking for. Short, messy blonde tomboy hair that hung in her chocolate colored eyes, a strong looking face with a deep-set frown and poor, tattered clothes, brown and covered with clumps of snow and a thin layer of dirt - it certainly seemed to be her. All that was left was...
A low, deep growl followed after her words, a white massive beast stepping out from behind her legs and coming within inches of Sasha's face, where her hot, humid breath licked his nose. It was the same musty scent as before: the dirty rug that he had remembered being carried on was no rug, it was a dog! And the same type of dog that the leak owned.
She was the one.
''Вы...говорите...по-английски?'' She asked again with caution, this time in hesitant Russian.
''Я не говорят на английском языке. Я бежал Россия на безопасную жизнь.'' Sasha replied weakly, trying to exploit his injuries for all of the sympathy that he can manage from the ignorant woman in front of him. ''Вы спасти меня от снега?''
It took her a few moments to process the words, the gears in her mind moving right behind her darting eyes, which were looking meticulously looking Sasha up and down. Finally, after she had translated the words and allowed them to process, she spoke again. '' Я не могу говорить по-русски. Извините, что я вас не в состоянии понять меня. Да, я это делал.''
''Спасибо. Я высоко ценю'' was all Sasha could think to say. He had exchanged words with many Americans but the circumstances were much different; that was training. Those Americans were prisoners of war, tortured and pumped for information by the government officials prying for information that would be beneficial to winning the battle, once and for all. But Sasha, who had only heard what he was told about the United States and its people, wasn't sure what he could say. What would set her off? What would she reveal to him so easily? ''Могу ли я остаться здесь? Только на несколько дней, поэтому я могу отдохнуть.''
It was glaringly evident by the look on her face that those weren't the words she was expecting to hear. The expression on her face could only be described as appalled, at the very thought of having a Russian man in her home any longer than he had already been allowed. Thinking quickly, Sasha attempted to steer the conversation back to where it was before: a pity party for the poor, pitiful Russian refugee. ''Извините. Я не хочу больше добра от вас. Вы сохранили моей жизни. Я не мог больше. Я не буду утомлять вас с мое присутствие. - до свидания.''
Sasha forced his nagging body off of the moth eaten couch, letting his sore, muscular legs give out underneath him in a final attempt at sympathy from the aggravated woman. Resting on the small wooden table, his hand shook underneath his weight as he picked himself back up and in doing so, caught a glimpse of her face. He tried to hide the growing smirk on his face at her worried and even pained expression and her hands, which had been sitting peacefully in her lap, were now hovering just underneath his arms, as if trying to catch him if he were to fall again.
‘’Подождите. Вы .... вы можете оставаться.’’ The woman spoke, her voice deflated as if letting out a deep sigh.
Sasha’s gaze met her chocolate colored eyes, allowing himself to melt into her for a split second of weakness. “Вы уверены?’’
She hesitated, biting her lip nervously before nodding, forcing a smile on her face. At that moment, Sasha knew he had her.
‘’Как Вас зовут?’’
‘’Harley. You can call me Harley.’’ She answered quietly, speaking in English this time.
‘’Har..ley…’’ Sasha repeated back slowly in English, trying to make the name he had spoken so many times in the last several months while seeking this leak, sound foreign on his tongue.
It had been three weeks since Sasha had inflitrated Harley's home but despite this, he had less information to offer than he had imagined. For someone who was so ridiculously naive to allow a foreigner in their home during wartime, Harley was not the stupid, senseless bimbo that the officials had made her out to be. The short amount of time that she did spend in her home was wasted, passed out on the couch with six to seven beers and an unusually large mutt piled on top of her, snoring. But the time she spent out, controlling the borders, Sasha had been hard at work scraping up the scant intel he could manage.
The third day of his stay, he had rummaged through Harley's things and save for a worn, sun-bleached picture that he had noticed sitting on top of her dresser [which was nothing more than a small bookcase with some cardboard pull-outs for shelves], there was nothing beneficial for his superiors.
On the sixth day, Sasha ventured outside to see what others knew of the bases, officials or even military strategy but he could see that as a stranger in their neighborhood, they weren't willing to share anything that wasn't already common knowledge from just listening on the street.
Sasha returned to Harley's menial home just in time for her return, shortly before sunset. As she walked in with her platinum hair covered with a layer of powdery snow and a frown on her face, Sasha attempted to greet her politely as he did upon her return each evening; most were met with silence though one afternoon, he managed to get an appreciative nod.
''Good evening, Harley.'' Sasha acknowledged her with a warm and inviting smile. Harley continued on as she normally did, throwing her stained scarf over the back of the living room chair before kicking her snow caked black boots off near the door. It appeared as if it were just another day until...
''Hey, Russia.'' She replied, neither smiling nor frowning though Sasha frowned enough for the both of them. Russia? His name wasn't Russia, it was Sasha. Had...he ever told her that?
''Sasha.'' He corrected her but she continued on without amending her greeting.
''You doin' okay? Feelin' any better?'' Harley pulled up a chair and flopped down in front of him, slouching even worse than he typically did. Sasha raised an eyebrow at her but pulled it back, knowing that such judgment wouldn't make him any friends.
Sasha instead nodded. ''Yes, I'm...doing good. How....are you?'' He threw in some pauses to make it appear convincing and Harley seemed to buy it.
''Doin' good, Russia. Long day.''
He cocked his head to the side, confused. ''What happened?''
''...Oh? Oh! Nothing. Just...been a long day, ya know?''
''Tell me about it.'' Sasha urged but Harley stood up, pushing the chair away as though not to tempt herself to sit back down.
''Nah, it's okay.'' She ended the conversation by disappearing behind the half-wall, leaving Sasha to swear underneath his breath.
The two avoided each other for the rest of the night, save for dinner [another round of dirty cabbage stew! Mmm!] when silence fell at the table. Shortly after their meal, Harley parked herself in front of the tiny television that sat in her living room, the ever faithful white mass of fur flopping beside her. It wasn't ten minutes later when he heard the angry swears of the American woman sound throughout the home.
''What's wrong?'' Sasha asked, peeking his head just in time to see an strange message pop up on the screen stating that there was an 'error' and to 'try again later'.
''Oh nothing, fucking outages again.'' Harley groaned.
''Do...these happen...often?'' Sasha asked, stepping closer to the unsuspecting Harley.
''Yeah...we don't get good reception up here in the first place and with this war, it's been a bitch trying to get anything. Electricity, water, tv!''
''Why do you not just move some place else?''
''I would but...I mean, I did live somewhere else before this. I got re-stationed here after the attempted takeover.''
Sasha questioned her with his eyes and she continued.
''I used to live a little further south with my family. My mom, my dad, my brother - the immediate family. But...I guess Russia found a weakness in one of the borders or something and they just came...bursting through. They came in the night and no one was prepared and...they died, ya know?'' Even from a distance, Sasha could see the tears sparkling in Harley's chestnut eyes, falling down her cheeks in a show of emotion that he had never seen from her before. ''The government was supposed to protect them while I was away...and I don't think they meant to or anything...they just didn't protect that area well enough, I guess...''
Sasha allowed the words to process, wondering if he could take advantage of the sadness she was feeling. ''We...could go visit them....could we not? See their grave site?''
But Harley shook her head. ''It's still a war-zone really. I think the Russians know it's still weak from the initial attack but Lt. Hayes thinks it's a good idea to use it as storage I guess...I don't know. He's a fucking idiot. If the Russians ever get through there...''
Sasha's ears perked up at the mention. Storage? Weak? These were words that Sasha liked but he tried to hide his elation. ''Why...not protect such place? Use...uh...tanks.''
''Everyone has told Hayes what he should do but the dumbass won't listen to anyone. He knows the line there is weak and it's so far away from everything that Russia would have it in a matter of minutes. Why anyone even put him in charge of munitions, I'll never fucking know.''
Sometime during her rant about the Army, Sasha had managed to sneak into the kitchen and return with an ice-cold beer with Harley none the wiser. He passed to her with a weak smile, placing a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it empathetically as she chugged it as quickly as she could. Soon, one beer had turned to six and by a stroke of pure luck, Sasha was getting what he needed.
''I k-KNOW R-russia to...to-ok my buddy for HOStagE and he...'' She sniffed. ''He's PROBably alive r-Right now, being tortured. Forced to listen to that crazy music and speak th-the..their weird language...n-no offense.'' She said through slurred speech.
''Do...Does America have hostages?'' Sasha probed.
''OHYEAH. YEAH THEY DO! I-I went to a b-BASE where they were...like...Harringson...or s-something.''
''Harrington?'' Sasha repeated the name of a base he had learned during training. ''There are no such hostages there, there can not be! America would not do such t-''
Harley's beer soaked finger was pressed against Sasha's lips. ''D...D-don't tell a-ANYONE b...but they do.'' She leaned in closer, her disgustingly intoxicated breath wafting in his face. ''T-they're underground.''
Sasha had heard all that he needed. Somewhere beyond her theories about Russia and her feelings about all men being 'douchebags' [whatever that meant], Sasha had slipped away to the bedroom where messages were already being relayed to his superiors. With each message he sent, Sasha felt a sense of pride wash over him and his confidence slowly being regained; he had accomplished his mission. And with this information, America would fall to its knees at Russia's hands.
Perfect.
By sunrise, Sasha was awakened by the lull in Harley's sleep. His eyes opened just as she walked by him, Sasha closing them as hastily as he could before she saw him. He listened intently as she grabbed all that she needed, grumbled about her hangover and walked right out the door not even ten minutes later. Sasha couldn't imagine how long he must have laid there, wondering if she would return, before he got up and promptly began packing. He grabbed all of his notes, his machines, his electronics and even a few things from Harley's home that he had looked over before. A couple of American dollars that he could trade for a few rubles, if he was crafty, as well as the remaining food in her refrigerator. Before he knew it, the house was cleaned out and Sasha was ready to go. He wouldn't leave a single thing behind. But before he could head out the door, approaching footsteps alerted him to a presence that was unfamiliar at this time of day. It could be anyone: American officials, Russian sympathizers or even Harley returning home early. Sasha tried his best not to panic, throwing his backpack underneath the bed before thrusting himself into a nearby chair just in time for the door to open.
''Good afternoon, Harley.'' He said, as always, trying not to act surprised that she was home early, even though she was. ''Work stopped early today?''
She nodded, back to the cold shoulder routine that she had since the first day Sasha had showed up on her doorstep [or rather, her border] and disappeared into the bedroom where his things were hiding. Sasha considered attacking her from behind, taking his things and making a run for it but that would cause unwelcome suspicion from American officials and it would no doubt cause quite a scene. He shook his head, knowing it wasn't worth the danger his life would be put in, especially after he had already completed his mission and all that awaited him now was his homecoming back at the main base in Russia. He heard Harley leave the room with no reaction whatsoever, a cocky smile growing on Sasha's face at his own cunning. All of a sudden, a hard, blunt object struck him in the back of his head and all Sasha could remember before going dark was the feeling of his body hitting the floor and a red pool of blood forming right before his eyes.
When Sasha awoke, everything, especially the pain, hit him all at once. There was something wrapped so tightly around his robust wrists, digging into his skin with every pull, that he was certain it was cutting off his blood flow to the area. Wrapped around his body was a rope, crushing his bones beneath his iron grip while he struggled to escape. A long trail of crimson cascaded down his face, past his nose and onto his lips where the iron taste of blood filled his mouth with an unmistakable flavor. He tried to spit it out, jerking his head all around to shake the blood off only to realize the mind-numbing pain in his head when he did. What the hell had happened here? Before Sasha could ask it aloud, his question was answered for him by the barrel of an assault rifle pointed directly at his forehead. On the other end of it was the boyish haired bitch, a look on her face that could kill if he weren't already about to die.
''Har-ley.'' Sasha said in a low growl, his Russian accent more prominent than ever.
''Welcome to America, Russia.''
Credits: Profile by: [user=Ringo]
