Chaos inside, chaos outside; Sasha doesn’t understand it. Though, he finds a certain solace in it, as he’s tossed about like a raft in the ocean. Once again, he’s invisible. No one cares about him, the blond boy who looks ready to murder somebody. If he’s not rich, if his face isn’t instantly recognizable, then he doesn’t matter. It allows him to stumble about the grounds in a sort of fugue, the drugs numbing him to everything that’s happening. He talks to a few people, he thinks, but he doesn’t quite remember. He knows, though, that he pushes people out of his way, that he shrugs off hands that are trying to offer him help.
As he stands in the yard, his hands digging through pockets he already knows to be empty, lucidity crashes down upon him—an ice cold bucket of reality. He can’t figure out where it comes from, just knows that there is only one thought that’s going through his mind: Katya. Where is she? What if she’s still inside? His hands still in their futile search, eyes wide and almost terrified. But Sasha doesn’t get scared. Unless— one of the two people he truly loves is in danger. His breathing hitches, bright gaze roaming over countless faces, seeking the one that’s most familiar.
The cry comes not from the young man with a chip on his shoulder, but from a little boy; he holds a bag of all his earthly belongings—a book, a toy car, three shirts, and two pairs of pants. Around him are giants, circling about the airport. Their bags knock into him, wheels running over his foot. He’d slipped away from his sister, distracted by something trivially colorful; a book, perhaps. But now he can’t find his sister. No one speaks his language. They all look at him like he’s some sort of alien—like a crying child is a creature that none of them have faced before.
“Sestra ?” he shouts, forcing his way through the crowd. “Gde ty ?”
He’s seventeen now; three feet taller, eleven years angrier. The crowd doesn’t part easily before him, but he’s strong, he’s determined; they’re pushed aside like tall, drunken grass. Katya; over and over, her name flies from his lips, disappearing into the air without doing a lick of good. Some look up, but none have that familiar head of blonde hair, nor possess that gentle blue gaze, so similar to his own. No, they look up at out of curiosity, not out of recognition. But that doesn’t stop him—he needs to find her; he needs to know that she’s alright. His mind shies away from the real fear that maybe she’s not; that perhaps she couldn’t make it out, that the flames reached her before she reached the outdoors.
But then—he sees her. He ignores as the bodies around him become agitated, their actions becoming frenzied. They’re tertiary, not something that he worries about. He doesn’t even notice as they become violent, hands grabbing him, fists trying desperately to collide with his face. All he sees is his sister, the one person who’s been there for him always. But as he stands in front of her, hands clutching her shoulders, he sees that something’s wrong. The way her hands clutch her cheek are reminiscent of him, of the days when getting punched there still surprised him.
“Razve kto-to vas obidel ?” he asks, his grip tightening on her shoulders. “Katya sdelal kto-to sdelat’ eto dlya vas ?”
She says nothing, but her eyes flick towards something behind him. His head whips around, eyes landing on a smug-looking (or is that what his brain says?) man, flexing his hand. Like he’s just hit something. Everything goes white, a sun exploding in his vision. He lets go of her, shakes off her hands as they plead with him. She’s always disapproved of his violent ways. But this—this is why he does it. To protect her.
The entire weight of his body is behind his fist as he throws it at the man. The sound it makes rings loud and clear—though that might be his mind filling in for what he knows is there—as it collides with his jaw. Before he even has time to react, Sasha’s already lashing out, his fist coming up one two three times in his gut. Viper fast, beast strong. The man falls, clutching his stomach.
“Vy kusok der'ma !” he screams; it tears out of him, visceral, the sound of a wild dog, not a boy. “Chto ona sdelala, dlya vas vy otvratitel'ny yebat’ ?” Sasha’s foot makes contact with his face. “Poshel na khuy.” He repeats it with every kick he lands in the man’s gut. “Poshel na khuy.” He’s so lost in it, in the chant, in his actions, that he doesn’t notice the emptiness that surrounds him as onlookers move back, giving him his horrible space.
