When Gavrill Vorobyev, a single father of three, is offered a chance to reunite with his children after ten years of being wrongly imprisoned, he takes it. The catch? He must now live a double life as Agent HROTHGAR, a mercenary for the secret organisation Helvetia that's dedicated to tracking down cosmic horrors beyond this world.
Through betrayal and deceit, heartbreak and loss, Gavrill must be the best father he can be to 19-year-old Hrodwyn, 16-year-old Merethel, and 12-year-old Hygd. But the more he learns about Helvetia's secrets, the more the line between family and work blurs. And when his past, present, and future begin to haunt his children, it may take more than his life and sanity to keep them safe.
SPARROW FLIGHT is a fusion of short stories, comics, and ilustrated stories that are based on a Delta Green TTRPG campaign. It updates every week and has:
Character-driven arcs in an overarching mystery
Wholesome and silly slice-of-life family moments
Hurt/comfort and tragedy
Historical war fiction and romance
Dark themes and psychological horror
Mental health themes across generations
Experimenntal and unconventional writing + comic formats
Start reading here!
Content Warnings | Timeline | Characters
Official Website and Newsletter
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Main: @pawseds
If you feel a sensitive topic was mishandled or if an additional content warning is needed, do not hesitate to contact me. I aim to write from a place of empathy and respect, not of ignorance and glamour; and my limited experience and knowledge only gives me more room to learn and grow.
It is the third Wednesday morning and Gavrill Vorobyev is holding a paper bag. In it is a small stack of chepalgash and a small container of yoghurt as a dip. Itâs what he made with Hygd four days ago for Leynaâs birthday. He wonders if Dr Faucher would like it as a gift.
He brought the homemade food at a whim. He wanted to repay her kindness somehow. She has treated him to two meals now, and a third may be in order â he swears heâs only going off what Dr Faucher said last week and nothing more. And if they may eat lunch together again, he should comb his hair and dress more neatly for once, especially with how Dr Faucher always looks so elegant.
Gavrill arrives at the hotel at the same time he did last week, but waiting for Dr Faucher feels longer than before. He checks his phone and reads the last messages she sent him.
DR FAUCHER: Same time, same place?
GAVRILL: Okay.
DR FAUCHER: Iâll see you tomorrow!
Thatâs when Dr Faucher arrives. She makes the same smile and the same wave but this time, she also looks him up and down.
DR FAUCHER: Oh, look at you â did you just come here after a date?
Gavrill regrets everything. He awkwardly raises his wedding band and mumbles a no. Before Dr Faucher can press further, he shoves the paper bag in her direction and mumbles some more about treating her for a change, about how he cooked with his daughter, about how there were a lot of leftovers and that he hopes she doesnât mind leftovers. He only realises that his eyes have been slowly drifting to the ground when Dr Faucherâs laugh makes him look up.
DR FAUCHER: Thank you, Hrothgar. You didnât have to⊠you really are a kind man.
Gavrill mumbles some more, shakes his head, and feels a small smile growing on his lips. Fine. Heâll let it happen, just this once. He did just give a gift, after all.
Dr Faucher leads Gavrill to the hotelâs meeting room. They take their seats across each other. Dr Faucher begins the session by asking Gavrill how his week has been.
GAVRILL: The same. Are you bored of Winnipeg yet?
DR FAUCHER: No. My friend lives here, after all!
GAVRILL: You have a friend here?
DR FAUCHER: Hehe, could I call you my friend in that case?
GAVRILL: I⊠guess.
DR FAUCHER: In which case, yes: my friend does live in Winnipeg.
GAVRILL: Weâve barely talked. Why would you call me that?
DR FAUCHER: Because I want to befriend you, even outside of work.
GAVRILL: âŠDo you do that with other Helvetia agents, too?
DR FAUCHER: The others in your unit? No. I have with other agents, but none really stuck. Henri doesnât count because I was already friends with him before either of us joined Helvetia. There is Agent Ognyena⊠but sheâs a special case.
GAVRILL: Then donât count on this to stick.
DR FAUCHER: Why not? Youâre special!
GAVRILL: Why?
DR FAUCHER: I just have a feeling this timeâŠ
She continues with small talk. Has Gavrill started working outside of Helvetia? What workplace does he have in mind? Does he think his previous workplace will take him back? With each question, Gavrillâs shoulders relax more. He talks about his eldest working where he used to work and wanting to work there again, but he doesnât want to miss sending his kids to school every day. He hasnât done that enough times in his life. He only has so much time left to do so.
DR FAUCHER: So why not coast off of Helvetiaâs paychecks? Once you get the clear from me, youâll be able to live very comfortably.
GAVRILL: Iâll believe it when I see it with my own eyes.
DR FAUCHER: If you say so⊠but I donât live such a comfortable life on pennies.
GAVRILL: Hm. You seem like the type who grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth.
DR FAUCHER: And I use that upbringing to bring others up, no?
GAVRILL: Never said you didnât.
DR FAUCHER: Hehe, I get the accusation that I donât do enough with the money I was born with.
GAVRILL: That can be true. From who?
DR FAUCHER: Just a stranger who looks at me for too long, or someone who doesnât understand me well enough.
GAVRILL: What strangers say doesnât matter. What matters is what people we care about say. Weâre too old to worry about what strangers think. Thatâs what I try to tell myself every time I drop the kids off at school⊠Some teachers and parents probably still think Iâm a serial killer.
DR FAUCHER: Thatâs a good philosophy to live by! Hehe, what do you think of me, then?
GAVRILL: You talk a lot. Youâre too welcoming for this kind of job.
DR FAUCHER: What do you mean, too welcoming?
Gavrill rests his elbows on the table and leans on them towards Dr Faucher. His face darkens. He thinks about his past self, about the people his past self were friends with.
GAVRILL: You know I could be a murderer. You invited me to lunch on our first meeting. Thatâs dangerous.
DR FAUCHER: Would a murderer care so much about his children to risk going to jail again?
GAVRILL: Some murderers have loved ones. Some believe theyâre fighting the right fight.
DR FAUCHER: And Iâm a good judge of character. I know when to step away from a lost cause. You are far from one.
Gavrill pauses. He makes a short, ironic laugh. Sure, he says, heâs not a lost cause. Heâs just a father who abandoned his kids for ten years and will never truly connect with them. He knows itâs not his fault but, like Dr Faucher said last week, taking responsibility for his absence still falls on his shoulders. In response, Dr Faucher tells him he has very little to blame himself for. More self-flagellation is only going to make fixing things harder.
GAVRILL: Self-flagellation..? My Russian is not that goodâŠ
DR FAUCHER: Self-blame, dear.
What did she just call him?
GAVRILL: âŠOh. Mm. How do you stop doing that? Itâs hard not to when everything reminds me of what I couldâve or shouldâve done. I know itâs in the past and I canât change it, but itâs⊠always there. In the back of my mind
DR FAUCHER: It sounds like itâs time for a little mental reframing. What usually reminds you of those thoughts?
GAVRILL: Er⊠my eldest doesnât want to stop working. They donât trust me to support the family. Thatâs one.
DR FAUCHER: Why do you think they continue to work? Why do you think they donât trust you for support?
GAVRILL: I was gone for ten years of their life. Theyâve been working since they were 13 for when theyâll have to move out of the orphanage, and for their siblingsâ tuition for university or college. I was never there in their life, not as much as I shouldâve been, so of course they donât trust me. I can also die on the job anytime. Thatâs even more reason to not trust me. I wouldnât, either.
DR FAUCHER: How about thinking of it this way? Both of you are working hard to support a family you both love. The more you work and the more you come home, the more your eldest will be able to slowly but surely trust you.
GAVRILL: That is what Iâm hoping for, yes.
DR FAUCHER: Things take a long time. Your freedom took just as long. It will turn out all right.
Gavrill goes quiet. Being free from bars to live and eat and sleep with his children is still surreal, as surreal as the woman only some centimetres away from him. He gazes at the room around him and gazes at Dr Faucher to make sure that this indeed is all real.
GAVRILL: I guess. I hope itâll turn out all right.
DR FAUCHER: Can you repeat that two more times for me?
GAVRILL: âŠWhat?
Gavrill gazes at Dr Faucher and watches her smile.
DR FAUCHER: It will turn out all right. Repeat that?
He reminds himself that heâs only here to get paid. And if this is what it takesâŠ
GAVRILL: âŠIt will turn out all right. It will turn out all right.
Dr Faucher smiles even brighter, like a gentle beacon. He doesnât want to, but he canât help but feel warmed.
She gives him his next task: repeat the sentence every day to himself. Sheâll text him if he needs a reminder. Gavrill grimaces at the corniness, but Dr Faucher argues that itâs necessary if he canât actively remember that himself. Gavrill canât argue against that. He wonât argue against reminders from Dr Faucher herself, either.
Dr Faucher moves on to ask Gavrill about the effects of his medication. Gavrill notes its strength: it works, but it leaves him drowsy to the point of constant brain fog, sluggishness, and confusion. He doesnât like it. He doesnât want to fully turn off his senses from danger, especially when operations are unpredictable. Dr Faucher suggests him to taper off his medication and offers milder anti-psychotics thatâll help with calmness. Theyâll still make him drowsy, but heâll be able to take them as needed. Gavrill prefers that, so Dr Faucher prescribes him with risperidone. Like before, he should avoid alcohol and he should inform her of any side effects. She tells him that he can keep his remaining Valium or give it to her next week. She finishes writing her prescription slip and hands it to Gavrill. He thanks her.
DR FAUCHER: Now! How about we have lunch again?
GAVRILL: Thatâs all for today?
DR FAUCHER: Hehe, what? Wanted to spend more time in the office with me?
GAVRILL: No, I was just⊠wondering. Erm. Lunch now is fine. Anythingâs fine.
Gavrill feels his cheeks warm. Why is he anticipating these lunches? Itâs not like they go well⊠though he does wonder what restaurant sheâll take him to for today. Dr Faucher reads his mind and lists off restaurants she was recommended by Agata â aka Agent Imperator, whom he hasnât met â and asks Gavrill which heâs interested in. There is only one seafood restaurant and it isnât the one Hrodwyn works at. He makes his choice quickly.
DR FAUCHER: Hehe, so seafood must be your favourite cuisine!
He concedes with a nod and a smile.
Dr Faucher is the one who drives the two of them in an expensive car to the seafood restaurant in Chinatown. Between Dr Faucher taking wrong turns and Gavrill gripping onto his seat, the two fill the whole ride with conversation. The line between work and life remains as stark as ever in Gavrillâs mind, but that doesnât mean he canât share simple things like what time he needs to be home by to pick his children up from school. Or what his childrenâs distinct and unique personalities are like. Or what Leyna was like, and how he sees her in each of his children. He talks about Leynaâs linguistic studies and her imaginative world filled with rich stories sheâd tell the children during bedtime. And then heâs talking about how he likes painting and drawing because Dr Faucher encouraged him to continue Leynaâs stories. Heâs not good enough to adapt them into a picture book yet, but he would like to one day. He promises Dr Faucher to tell her if he does.
The car comes to a dizzying halt in a parking lot. Gavrill leaves the car feeling dazed and light on his feet. The seafood restaurant is just ahead across the road. Behind him, Dr Faucher locks the car. She begins walking to the restaurant and the back of her orange hair comes into sight, fluttering in the wind like a field at sunset.
She looks over her shoulder at Gavrill, smiles, and waits for him. He hesitates. Then he smiles, small and bashful.
GAVRILL: âŠThanks for taking me here. Itâs been over a decade since I had a meal with someone who wasn't my kid or a criminal.
He thinks to himself: is this okay?
DR FAUCHER: Oh? Hehe, Iâm glad to be your first in a while, then!
Maybe it is. Itâs hard to stamp out his spark when the person who sets his heart alight is almost here.
Gavrill squeezes his left hand, feeling his wedding band wrapped around his ring finger. He catches up to Dr Faucher to walk beside her and, by instinct, almost takes her hand. Instead, he stuffs both his hands into his pockets, but he lets his smile remain. Heâs happy enough like this, he realises. Heâs happy.
She reminds me of you, Gavrill thinks. Thatâs all. Itâs nothing more than that.
GAVRILL: Mmhm. Me too. Iâm glad itâs you, too.
â
[DOWNTIME ACTIVITY - GO TO THERAPY]
[CRITICAL SUCCESS - +6 SAN, NEW BOND WITH MARIE-ANN FAUCHER AT 4/7 POINTS]
---
Note: A therapist should not be open to giving you medication in the way Dr Faucher did. Please do not use anything from this story as a reference for proper psychiatric care.
Marieâs (Dr Faucher) characterisation is my adaptation and edit of what was originally written by @mintrhine. View full character credits here.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
It is another Wednesday morning and Gavrill Vorobyev is back at the hotel. Dr Faucher greets him with the same smile and the same wave. Sheâs a liar, Gavrill thinks. Sheâs a liar, Gavrill reminds himself. He holds on to this belief as he follows behind her to the meeting room. He holds on to what happened last week as he watches her long, soft orange hair sway as she walks, smells the sweet scent of strawberries and watermelon trailing behind her, and stares at her blue-green eyes when she looks over her shoulder to check on him. Sheâs a liar, Gavrill thinks with a frown. Sheâs a liar.
Dr Faucher takes her seat in the meeting room. Gavrill inspects the entire room again â the windows, the blinds, the undersides of tables and chairs â and finishes by standing a distance away from Dr Faucher with his arms crossed against his chest. She asks if he will take a seat.
He tells himself to shake his head. Instead, his eyes search for a chair not too close to her, but still within a professional distance to talk to each other. Because this is part of the job, he rationalises. Because he needs to put food on the table for his children, and because he wants his eldest child to stop sacrificing themselves for the family, he realises with a reluctant bitterness.
After finding a chair, Gavrill looks at Dr Faucher. He does not look away from her as he pulls the chair out and slinks into it. Dr Faucher smiles.
DR FAUCHER: Has anything new happened in the past week, Hrothgar?
Gavrill says nothing. He shakes his head.
DR FAUCHER: Then⊠how are your children doing?
GAVRILL: âŠFine.
DR FAUCHER: You donât want to talk about them?
GAVRILL: Why are you so curious about them?
DR FAUCHER: I want you to open up about your life and yourself. I wonât share details of you with anyone else.
Gavrill narrows his eyes. Dr Faucher sighs. She questions if he is cautious because he does not want to share information about himself with Helvetia, or because he does not trust her. Gavrill says it is for both reasons. He is suspicious, even after Dr Faucher assures him that no information about his children will go on record.
GAVRILL: Why is it so important for you to know about my life? What are you even helping me with? I donât need help with anything. My life is fine.
DR FAUCHER: Right⊠Well, you display very clear signs of paranoia, above average levels of it. Helvetia wants to ensure that you are psychologically sound before you take on any serious operations.
GAVRILL: So what? Everyone gets paranoid. Itâs good for operations. Itâs how you survive.
DR FAUCHER: Not when it bleeds into your day-to-day life.
GAVRILL: One mistake can kill my children.
DR FAUCHER: And you constantly being vigilant around them will only hurt your relationship with them. Have you ever noticed tension in your interactions with them?
GAVRILL: How do you know?
DR FAUCHER: Itâs just an assumption! I didnât spend a decade of my life training in psychiatry for no reason, you know.
Gavrill looks away. He stays quiet for some time before looking back at Dr Faucher. When he speaks, his voice loses all aggression.
GAVRILL: âŠWhat else do you think will happen to my children because of me?
DR FAUCHER: Should you keep going down this path, your children may end up distancing themselves from you. They may lie to you, put up walls and argue with you, or hide any problems from you.
Gavrill pauses. His chest clenches. His gaze towards Dr Faucher softens. He wonders if he can find guidance in her gentle eyes.
GAVRILL: Why? Iâm always there for them. I try to be.
DR FAUCHER: But in the eyes of children who only saw a father that was gone for most of their lives, they may not be able to see the same.
GAVRILL: But they know itâs not my fault. They know Iâm innocent.
DR FAUCHER: They know that, yes. But it doesnât erase the fact that you werenât there for so long. Itâs not your fault, but itâs still your responsibility.
Itâs like heâs talking to Her again. There she is, sat across him at the dining table in their small flat, beneath the bulb as yellow as the apartment lights glowing through the window. It is silent after she speaks â a rare silence accompanied only by the faint buzzing of the fridge. He weighs her words as he always does, contemplating them from all angles as he carefully turns them in his mind. She has always been so clever with her words â she always said the right things at the right time. As he thinks, his eyes drift past her towards the door to their sleeping childrenâs bedroom. They only return to her once he finds the right words to say.
GAVRILL: âŠMm. Youâre right.
Gavrill takes a deep breath and sighs. The memory melts into the plain, textured wallpaper of the meeting room, leaving only Dr Faucherâs orange hair and blue-green eyes behind. Gavrill stares at her. He wants to hold on to all of it. He wants to hold on to her compassion and remember what it is like to trust again.
He decides to ask Dr Faucher if it really was Agent Eve who killed Leyna. Dr Faucher says that it was what Agent Eve told her. Gavrill mentions the distrust in Dr Faucherâs words. Indeed, Dr Faucher does not trust Agent Eve as she caused the deaths of innocents. Though her job is to ease the minds of disturbed people such as Agent Eve, she cannot forgive Agent Eve for what she has done. Gavrill asks if Agent Eve works with the Russian Federation. Dr Faucherâs personal opinion is that she would not be surprised if she did as her alliances have always been shaky. However, Dr Faucher does not know the nature of Agent Eveâs tasks, and she has stopped treating Agent Eve ever since she stopped seeing Dr Faucher, so she cannot be sure.
In his mind, Gavrill concludes that either Helvetia killed Leyna by accident, or Agent Eve was recruited by the Russian Federation to kill Leyna. Whatever it is, Eve is the only real immediate threat, and she is nowhere to be seen or found. Perhaps this is for the better. Perhaps he can take Dr Faucher for her word, for now.
He does not notice how his crossed arms are beginning to relax.
Dr Faucher asks Gavrill how he feels about this information. He shrugs. She asks if he has something to vent out instead. Gavrill shakes his head as self-pity does nothing. However, Dr Faucher reminds him there is a difference between self-pity and talking about his past experiences. The latter is much better than other coping mechanisms such as smoking, drinking, or self-harm. Gavrill thinks back to him sitting atop his bed with a bottle in his hand. His brows twitch.
GAVRILL: âŠI donât have anything to vent about. What else can I tell you to get better? Iâm only doing this for my children.
Dr Faucher asks Gavrill what it feels like to care for his children. Gavrill thinks this is a strange question, but he answers regardless. He carefully picks his words to avoid revealing more than he needs to. Yet, unbeknownst to him, his joys and his worries bloom from the tone of his voice and the corners of his lips. He is grateful to be able to be fully present with his children and never takes it for granted. However, he can only be confident in his youngest child feeling the same way. His eldest child is very inexpressive â he cannot tell what they feel or want. On the other hand, his middle child is a very moody teenager. It is as if he always wants to fight, despite how Gavrill tries to talk calmly to him.
Dr Faucher listens, as patient and understanding as She always is. She asks if Gavrill wants to fix things between his eldest and middle child.
GAVRILL: Of course.
DR FAUCHER: Then that change has to start with you. Itâs easier to change yourself than it is to change others, and your children will have no incentive to change themselves if you donât.
A memory of Gavrill wading through his sea of guilt surfaces. He was young. So was She. He told her that his hands were stained with blood and he did not deserve to have them washed. Yet, she still reached out to him. She acknowledged his resolve to right his wrongs, but in the storm of war the two of them had known since birth, she refused to let the weight of death drown him. She was the beacon who pulled him out of the water. She was the fire who burned away his hate and warmed the cold left behind. She melted him so that he could smelt himself into something new and when the storm raged again, it was him who sheltered her from the rain.
GAVRILL: âŠOkay. So what do I do to change?
DR FAUCHER: For one, practise being more open with the people in your life, whether itâs by talking about your experiences, your feelings, and even your fears. Why donât we practise now?
Dr Faucher moves to sit directly across Gavrill. His heart skips a beat. His eyes flit around for an escape, but they are continually drawn to Dr Faucher and her blue-green eyes.
DR FAUCHER: Name what youâre feeling right now.
GAVRILL: âŠI donât know.
DR FAUCHER: Hmm⊠okay. Close your eyes for me?
GAVRILL: What are you going to do?
DR FAUCHER: I want you to recognise tension and discomfort in your body. More often than not, physical symptoms manifest as a result of unaddressed emotions.
GAVRILL: Everything is sore and tense. Iâm old.
Why is he joking with Dr Faucher? He shuts his mouth tight.
DR FAUCHER: Then lean back against the seat, or even lie down on the sofa. You arenât any older than I am, yet I donât feel the tension as badly.
GAVRILL: How old are you?
DR FAUCHER: Forty-one, forty-two this year.
Gavrill knows he does not have to respond. He does not need to follow-up. He should not, if anything, if he wants to keep Helvetia far away from his personal life.
GAVRILL: Oh. Iâm jealous. When?
DR FAUCHER: Haha! May. The eighteenth. Your turn: I was only given your birth year.
GAVRILL: âŠAugust twenty-five.
Gavrill cannot stop words from spilling out of his mouth in front of this woman whom he now knows is a few months older than he is, just like She was. His childrenâs ages fall out of his mouth next â nineteen, sixteen, and twelve â and he learns that Dr Faucher does not have any children, though she would like to someday.
DR FAUCHER: Maybe with the right man? Someone whoâd make a loving and doting fatherâŠ
Gavrill wonders if Dr Faucher is looking straight into his eyes, or if it is him who is looking at her too closely. Nevertheless, he cannot find the urge to look away. Dr Faucher does not break eye contact, either.
He asks if Dr Faucher is unmarried. Heâs surprised she might be, thatâs all. She confirms that she is: she was engaged once, but she called it off. Her fiance did something stupid. But there is someone Dr Faucher raised like her own daughter: Agent Ogneya â the poor girl, Dr Faucher calls her. During an operation fourteen years ago, Dr Faucher and her team learned that Ogneyaâs parents were casualties of something unnatural. Ogneya was sixteen at the time. Dr Faucher decided to pick her up instead of permanently relieving her of her memory. Ever since, she made sure to take very good care of her. Sheâs proud of her â proud enough to take out her phone and show Gavrill pictures of the two of them travelling through Europe together.
Gavrill looks over. Ogneya is awkward and stiff in the photos, but maybe sheâs just camera shy or isnât used to such lavish tourism. She smiles regardless, and so does Dr Faucher. Soon, Gavrill realises he too is smiling. He swallows it away and asks Dr Faucher what it is heâs supposed to be doing.
She reminds him to close his eyes and relax. He doesnât. He canât. Not in this hotel meeting room where itâs just him and her and the blinded windows. He can only relax at home.
DR FAUCHER: Would you rather bring me to your home then?
Thatâs worse. The image of Dr Faucher sitting next to him on the family couch with that smile and the looming possibility of his children walking in makes him quick to respond: he wants to keep work as far away from home as possible. He swears this to himself. Itâs a line heâll never cross.
DR FAUCHER: You worry about your children, yes? Enough so that they might call you out on it?
Dr Faucher suddenly stands. Gavrill jerks. She gets a tearable form, writes in it, and hands Gavrill a slip. She has prescribed him six months worth of Valium: a short-term, fast-acting drug. Under normal circumstances, she wouldnât prescribe medication this strong. However, she assures him that he can take Valium whenever he feels hopelessly worried about his children as it alleviates anxiety.
Gavrill is impressed. He never knew there is an easy solution for a problem he has had for over a decade. He asks how he should take Valium. Dr Faucher says he is to take one five-milligram tablet three times a day, or whenever he feels his anxiety is worsening, at a maximum of six tablets a day.
Gavrill takes out a small notepad with a pen from his pocket. He writes down what Dr Faucher says. She watches him and smiles.
DR FAUCHER: Donât worry. Iâll text you every day in case you forget.
Gavrill holds up a hand. He says she doesnât have to. He wonders if he imagined the flash of a frown on her face. But the moment passes in a blink and she tells him that Helvetia will subsidise the medicationâs cost.
GAVRILL: Helvetia hasnât paid me yet. How should I trust them to subsidise my medicine?
DR FAUCHER: You wonât have to pay a dime. And it will be on my account if they deny the claim.
Gavrill pauses. Thatâs generous of her. Almost suspiciously so. But she has been nothing but patient, kind, and generous â no. Gavrill purses his lips. Theyâve only spoken three times. Itâs probably the protocol for denied claims. Surely Helvetia will subsidise their own therapist.
Gavrill thanks Dr Faucher and stands to leave. She raises her hand. Is her smile warmer? Maybe Gavrill is imagining things again.
DR FAUCHER: How about we go out for lunch again? Surely the food I got you last time was good, no?
GAVRILL: I donât like eggs. And I donât want you to always buy me lunch.
DR FAUCHER: While Helvetia is withholding your pay, this is the least I can do, no? And I could always take you somewhere without eggs.
Gavrill goes silent. It is a free meal, he thinks.
And it is with a pleasant lady.
GAVRILL: âŠFine.
Dr Faucher beams. Eager, she leads him to the elevator. She asks about his preferences, his favourites. Gavrill doesnât want to say âseafoodâ and risk ending up at either one of Hrodwynâs fish-oriented workplaces â Greenwell Wet Market or The Sushi Place. He tells Dr Faucher no eggs and leaves it at that.
DR FAUCHER: Okay⊠let me think then. This is my first time in Winnipeg, but I have some suggestions for places.
GAVRILL: First time? So youâve been staying in Winnipeg for a week? Why?
DR FAUCHER: For you. I want to be well-prepared to get to know you better, and to bring you around to nicer places as well.
Dr Faucherâs smile grows. She calls the elevator. Gavrill furrows his brows and stares at her in disbelief. But heâs quick to glance away before the heat in his cheeks engulfs his face.
GAVRILL: Thereâs no need for that.
DR FAUCHER: Iâm only doing you a kindness!
GAVRILL: Why do you want to so much?
DR FAUCHER: Because you sound like someone who needs that kindness. Youâve lived a hard life.
GAVRILL: âŠOh.
Gavrill frowns and fully faces away from Dr Faucher, flushed red in the face. He hears Dr Faucher laugh lightly.
DR FAUCHER: You donât have to be so shy around me.
GAVRILL: If you havenât chosen a place, Iâm going home.
DR FAUCHER: Okay, okay! Just follow me then.
The elevator arrives. Dr Faucher and Gavrill enter it side-by-side.
---
Note: A therapist should not be open to giving you medication in the way Dr Faucher did. Please do not use anything from this story as a reference for proper psychiatric care.
Marieâs (Dr Faucher) characterisation is my adaptation and edit of what was originally written by @mintrhine. View full character credits here.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
It is a quiet Tuesday morning and Gavrill Vorobyev is not getting paid. He did not notice this until today as he did not think he needed to worry about it. He knows Helvetia can afford him. He knows as much from the expensive bail Henri and Fisher paid to get Gavrill out of prison, and the big down payment Gavrill received upon being hired immediately afterwards. Gavrill has never seen so much money added to his bank account so quickly. He thinks that if what Henri told him is true, if each operation pays significantly more than his down payment, and if there will be an operation every two or three months, maybe he will not have to worry so much about money.
Today, a phone call tells Gavrill he has to worry. This call is from Helvetia. He knows this because the unknown voice of the unknown number on his work phone calls him Agent Hrothgar and then calls herself Doctor Marie-Ann Faucher. His shoulders go stiff at her voice.
Dr Faucher speaks English. Her accent is French. She tells Gavrill that based on his record, she regrets to inform him that he needs to undergo psychological monitoring. Gavrill does not know what record Dr Faucher is talking about. He does not know what this English âpsychological monitoringâ is and now Dr Faucher is asking if he has time to meet next week at a nearby hotel. It is merely company policy. He must not hinder the performance of the rest of his team. His payment is suspended for now but if he attends Dr Faucherâs sessions, he will receive it.
Gavrill does not know what this English âsuspendedâ is. The call is silent for a long time. His shoulders are still stiff.
Dr Faucher asks if there is another language he prefers communicating in. Gavrill says Russian. She starts speaking Russian and his grip on his phone tightens because if she knows his number and his callsign and his language then she MUST be a spy.
GAVRILL: Why do you know Russian?
DR FAUCHER: âŠI was just told to study it. Itâs good for business or⊠whatever I was taught. Why? Are you concerned that Iâm a spy? I suppose asking doesnât helpâŠ
GAVRILL: I donât know you. I donât know if you actually work for Helvetia. Stay away from me.
DR FAUCHER: Ah, wait, Hrothgar â Iâm sorry, I donât know how else to prove that Iâm not a spy, but really, if I was, I wouldnât be making this call to you directly through Helvetiaâs phone network, no?
Gavrill thinks. His work phone is supposed to be secure. He does not say anything but he does not hang up. He peers out of his shuttered windows and inspects the empty street.
Dr Faucher reexplains what she said in Russian. Before Gavrill can react to not getting paid, she asks again if he has time to meet next week. Gavrill asks to meet now. The sooner he can get paid, or the sooner he can eliminate a threat, the better. He can meet her at the Fairmont hotel but he does not want to meet her at six oâclock at night when it is dinnertime with his children. But Dr Faucher canât make it before three oâclock when his children are dismissed from school. They compromise to meet tomorrow at ten oâclock in the morning instead. Gavrill tells her that he does not need her to pick him up. He hangs up.
It is a cold Wednesday morning and Gavrill Vorobyev is late. After dropping his children off at school, he walks to the nearest bus stop and just misses the bus. Standing at the bus stop shelter that doesnât block the wind but still somehow reeks of marijuana, he tells Dr Faucher he will be late via text. She says she will be waiting.
It is not until thirty minutes pass that Gavrill, with his gobsmacked hair and red cheeks and cracked knuckles, finally arrives at the luxurious hotel lobby. He sends another text to Dr Faucher to tell her he has arrived. She says she will be downstairs soon so Gavrill waits. He goes towards the cluster of chairs near the entrance but does not sit. He thinks it is too vulnerable of a state. He thinks he needs to be able to run away quickly. And he thinks about what else he can do to prepare for this woman who knows his number and his callsign and his language until he sees Herâ
DR FAUCHER: Hrothgar..? Are you okay?
Time stops, then falls backwards â back to when he first fell for Her. Her hair is still the same orange like the bright fire inside her that warmed their days, and her eyes are still the same turquoise like the cool pebbles from the rivers of their mountain home. The years have graced her gently, softening the edges around her cheeks and her hips, and blessing her with twin dimples that sink like dough into her soft skin whenever she smiles. He doesnât hear her voice but he hears her words â the same words she once said as she leaned against him in their bed â and he watches her lips move with her smile like honey â he never liked sweets but itâs all he can smell and taste right nowâ
Gavrill has gone pale. He turns and walks out into the cold.
He hears Dr Faucher panic and run after him. He keeps walking. His chest clenches with every heartbeat. His head throbs. He thinks if the wind blows hard enough, it can easily make him slip on ice and he would not even know what has happened until he is lying on the ground.
Dr Faucher suddenly touches his shoulder. It makes Gavrill flinch and turn and seize her wrist hard. His heart is a frenzied bird rapidly thrumming against his ribcage, and his scowl is not of hatred but of a cornered animalâs confused fear. Yet his face is that of a killer, and he can see it in Dr Faucherâs eyes.
HROTHGAR: Is this a joke?
DR FAUCHER: Hroth⊠Hrothgar, that hurtsâ
He does not know if he should scream or run or look at Dr Faucher longer to bridge the differences between her and Her. People are staring at them. Gavrill is staring her down. Yet when Dr Faucherâs free hand reaches for Gavrillâs vice grip, her trembling touch is gentle against his hand.
DR FAUCHER: I⊠I only want to help you. Letâs go back inside, hmm?
The wind stings their faces. It dries Gavrillâs eyes. He thinks about how he never saw Her body but reminds himself that She is dead, that Rovin had buried Her withâ
He throws Dr Faucherâs hand down and steps back.
GAVRILL: Why do you look like that?
Gavrill knows the answer is obvious. Dr Faucher was born like that. He still does not like the answer.
Dr Faucher replies with words Gavrill does not process. She ushers him inside, away from the cold, asking if heâs hungry or thirsty even though he canât stomach her standing next to him. Dr Faucher sees this on his face, especially when the elevator arrives and Gavrill presses his back against the wall as far away from Dr Faucher as possible. She sighs and also steps back.
DR FAUCHER: Hrothgar? Can you please name five things in the elevator for me?
Gavrill thinks this is suspicious. Dr Faucher still insists on him to do so. For example: the buttons, the doors, and Gavrill himself.
GAVRILL: The only things left are you, the railings, the mirror, and the advertisements.
DR FAUCHER: Thatâs good. Now⊠what are four things you can hear?
The elevator stops moving. The doors open. Dr Faucher holds them open and looks at Gavrill expectantly.
GAVRILL: My hearing is fine.
DR FAUCHER: I trust that your hearing is okay, but please still list four things you hear.
GAVRILL: âŠYou, me, heaters, people.
DR FAUCHER: Good, good. Letâs get out of the elevator, unless you wish to conduct our session out here.
Gavrill waits for her to leave first. He refuses to have his back to her.
Gavrillâs therapy session takes place in the hotelâs private office space. The warm lights are slightly dimmed, the chairs are lined with cushions, a sofa is against the wall, and the blinds are drawn shut around them. Dr Faucher gestures Gavrill to take a seat. He does not. Arms crossed tight to his chest, his vision scurries to all corners of the room, under every cushion and table and seat. He checks the view behind the blinds before sealing them shut again and remains standing, still with his arms crossed, while staring at Dr Faucher.
Dr Faucher takes a seat on the other side of the table and leans back on her chair. She picks up a file and opens it to a document.
DR FAUCHER: All right, Hrothgar⊠would you please tell me about your experience prior to joining Helvetia?
Gavrill thinks doing that is stupid and dangerous. He asks her why. It is to get a good basis on his experience so that she can help him. But if he tells her, his children can die. Fuck he told her he has children. Once again, Dr Faucher reads his mind and says she will not harm his children. Gavrill thinks otherwise. He does not know why Dr Faucher would want to kill his children right now but if he thinks for long enough, he will find a reason, and that is reason enough to not trust her.
Before Dr Faucher can read Gavrillâs mind again, he asks her what she already knows about him. She writes into her document.
DR FAUCHER: Itâs only what your prison record contains: your criminal record, the botched trial, and your uncertain verdict. Thereâs nothing about what comes before.
GAVRILL: What did you just write?
She shows him her writing, neat and tidy: Keeps children safe.
Gavrill is certain that if this is all she knows about him, it is enough to do something bad to him. What is Dr Faucher even treating him for? He tells her that he is fine. She doubts him but quickly asks for him to cooperate to make the session easier for the both of them. Gavrill does not want to, not until he gets more answers, because why is a woman as gentle and as confusing and as soft as her in Helvetia?
Gavrill asks Dr Faucher why she is in Helvetia. She says she was recruited personally by the current director, Henri Arquette, whom she happened to be friends with. They worked in the same hospital in France until Henri suddenly stopped appearing one day. A few years later, he returned to offer her a job that was far more lucrative than her psychiatric position. She accepted. She was not aware of the true nature of Helvetia until after her first patient.
GAVRILL: Why did you accept? Now youâre treating killers instead of innocent civilians.
DR FAUCHER: Youâre calling yourself a killer? Seems reductive, especially since the first impression I have of you is a protective father. Every person has a different facet of themselves. You may not be fully innocent, but you are not fully a killer either.
GAVRILL: Youâre avoiding my question.
DR FAUCHER: I merely want to address something I noticed of you. But I agreed because I believed I could help more people this way, by protecting the minds of those who protect the innocent.
GAVRILL: Hm.
DR FAUCHER: Donât like that answer?
GAVRILL: I didnât say anything. Are we done here?
DR FAUCHER: Weâve barely just started⊠If you wish to finish here, how about we grab an early lunch?
GAVRILL: No. What do I need to do to get my pay?
DR FAUCHER: Hm, if I said you have to get lunch with me, would you?
Gavrill stares at her. His heart quickens again.
DR FAUCHER: Too fast? Never mind. How about this then? We can pick up some food together, and Iâll let you go home for the week.
Gavrill is silent. He thinks that if it means spending less time with her, that is a smaller chance of her learning too much about him and him learning too much about her.
GAVRILL: âŠFine.
Dr Faucher takes him to an upscale French cafe: one that doubles as a patisserie and a restaurant. She waits for Gavrill by the door to make sure he does not run away. The two are seated and are handed a menu each. For a second, the price makes him forget about Dr Faucher. He decides he is definitely not getting anythingâ
DR FAUCHER: Ah, you know what? My treat!
GAVRILL: âŠDo you do this with all your patients?
DR FAUCHER: I do, especially with cases that are more difficult to persuade. Or would you be more comfortable if I said I didnât?
Gavrill does not want to say no to a free meal. He also does not want to trust Dr Faucher enough to let her give him a free meal. He compromises by ordering the same three-course meal as her. It would be harder to poison him that way. It was worth the free meal being made of nearly nothing but a detestable ingredient: eggs.
The two wait for their orders. Dr Faucher looks at Gavrillâs wedding band on his finger.
DR FAUCHER: So⊠I know you definitely arenât from here. Where did you come from? Do you have a partner?
Gavrill stiffens and hides his wedding band. Dr Faucher repeats that her questions are only for the sake of getting to know him better. It would help her treat him better and it may alleviate any worries Gavrill has moving forward. But Gavrill knows that what Dr Faucher knows is what Helvetia knows. Neither of them need to know more about him; anything he tells her can be used against his children and himself.
DR FAUCHER: I promise you, if I end up using anything against you, you can burn me at the stake.
How does Dr Faucher keep reading his mind? Gavrill scowls at her.
Dr Faucher adds that Helvetia has no reason to betray Gavrill: they went through the trouble of getting him out of prison and the trouble of hiring a therapist like herself. This makes sense to Gavrill. He does not like that. So he asks her about the Helvetia agent who was the reason he went to prison for ten years.
GAVRILL: Agent Eve. Thatâs what Henri called her. Female. Brown skin. Long black hair. She had this⊠mask of a ram with a lot of eyes and horns. She used that to turn into me. Thatâs how she framed me. Do you know her?
Dr Faucher knows Agent Eve. She shares how Agent Eve was acting out of her own accord, and how she rarely appears in any of Helvetiaâs headquarters. Gavrill does not wish to catch her, so he is fine with this. He only wants her far away from his family.
Dr Faucher has also treated Agent Eve before. She says that Agent Eve feels guilty about everything. But sometimes, patients lie. That was why treatment with Agent Eve was not effective: Dr Faucher knew she was not telling the full truth, yet Agent Eve kept insisting it was all a mistake. Helvetia wanted to fire her but Arquette did not want to. He believes in using a lesser evil to fight a greater one. Dr Faucher does not. She believes that justice will be dealt with time.
DR FAUCHER: Though⊠I do want to ask, when did this happen?
GAVRILL: You donât know?
DR FAUCHER: Let me rephrase. I know about her shooting your wife, but about your imprisonment. What caused it?
Time stops again. Gavrill stares at Dr Faucher. He barely pulls his voice out.
GAVRILL: She also shot my wife?
Dr Faucher covers her mouth.
DR FAUCHER: I thought you knew. What⊠what else did she do?
GAVRILL: Why? Why did she kill her?! So you do know more about me! You already know I had a partner. You already know she was killed by Eve. You know where that happened so you already know where Iâm from!!
Dr Faucher swears left and right that she did not want to assume, that she only wanted to hear it all from him, and that she will tell him anything he wants to know, but Gavrill thinks this is bullshit and stands to leave. She tries to stop him, saying that a document of past records does not give her a full picture of him. Gavrill remembers the document she wrote in and demands her to tell him everything she knows about him, now.
She knows he is an Ingush refugee. He has three children and his wife was a casualty of a sabotaged operation â she assures him that Helvetia was sabotaged and that Agent Eve was the one solely responsible for her death. Helvetia continued to monitor him as he was a civilian casualty of the operation. She knows he went to prison and was bailed out by Henri, but does not know the circumstances that imprisoned him.
The more Dr Faucher speaks, the more Gavrillâs mind spins. It keeps spinning until it funnels into a drop of realisation.
GAVRILL: If Helvetia killed my wife, then what about myâ
Gavrillâs voice sharpens and breaks. He presses his lips together. His face morphs. Suddenly thereâs a sadness in his eyes that cannot bear to pull out the truth from the guilt and grief in his gut to his lips. Dr Faucher watches his expression shift. She exhales and places her hands on his shoulders. He flinches away.
DR FAUCHER: Hrothgar⊠Iâm sorry for hiding things from you. I thought youâd feel better if you thought I only knew things you told me.
GAVRILL: I donât trust you.
Yet he stares at her with betrayal, as if he once did.
He looks around him. Heâs trapped by this stupid, fancy restaurant bullshit, trapped by the same company that killed his family and ruined his life and put him in a stupid, fancy suit. He turns and pushes the door open. Cold wind cuts into his cheeks and wet eyes. He welcomes it. He stands outside the store, pinching his nose bridge and covering his face with his hand. He takes in a sharp breath of crisp, cool air and closes his eyes.
A few seconds pass. Gavrill hears the door open.
DR FAUCHER: Iâm really sorry. Iâm sorry, okay? Just⊠one moment, please? Turn around?
He takes a breath. He pulls his hand away from his face, turns around, and glares sadly at Dr Faucher. She holds out a takeout bag of warm food to him.
DR FAUCHER: I wonât lie to you about what I know about you anymore, okay? I only wanted to make things better for you, and it looks like Iâve only hurt you moreâŠ
Gavrill looks at the bag, then looks back at her.
GAVRILL: Do you know what my wife looked like?
DR FAUCHER: Not at all⊠All I heard was that she was innocent, and that she had a family who wouldnât be able to see her come home.
He presses his lips together again. He snatches the bag from her hands.
GAVRILL: Look in the mirror.
Gavrill turns around and goes home.
After his children come home, they have dinner. He calls it an early night. He retreats to his own bedroom, staring at a dark wall with a bottle in his hand, sitting atop his bed that hides suitcases of headscarves and baby clothes he never unpacked.
---
Note: A therapist should not be open to giving you medication in the way Dr Faucher did. Please do not use anything from this story as a reference for proper psychiatric care.
Marieâs (Dr Faucher) characterisation is my adaptation and edit of what was originally written by @mintrhine. View full character credits here.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
It is a quiet Tuesday morning and Gavrill Vorobyev is not getting paid. He did not notice this until today as he did not think he needed to worry about it. He knows Helvetia can afford him. He knows as much from the expensive bail Henri and Fisher paid to get Gavrill out of prison, and the big down payment Gavrill received upon being hired immediately afterwards. Gavrill has never seen so much money added to his bank account so quickly. He thinks that if what Henri told him is true, if each operation pays significantly more than his down payment, and if there will be an operation every two or three months, maybe he will not have to worry so much about money.
Today, a phone call tells Gavrill he has to worry. This call is from Helvetia. He knows this because the unknown voice of the unknown number on his work phone calls him Agent Hrothgar and then calls herself Doctor Marie-Ann Faucher. His shoulders go stiff at her voice.
Dr Faucher speaks English. Her accent is French. She tells Gavrill that based on his record, she regrets to inform him that he needs to undergo psychological monitoring. Gavrill does not know what record Dr Faucher is talking about. He does not know what this English âpsychological monitoringâ is and now Dr Faucher is asking if he has time to meet next week at a nearby hotel. It is merely company policy. He must not hinder the performance of the rest of his team. His payment is suspended for now but if he attends Dr Faucherâs sessions, he will receive it.
Gavrill does not know what this English âsuspendedâ is. The call is silent for a long time. His shoulders are still stiff.
Dr Faucher asks if there is another language he prefers communicating in. Gavrill says Russian. She starts speaking Russian and his grip on his phone tightens because if she knows his number and his callsign and his language then she MUST be a spy.
GAVRILL: Why do you know Russian?
DR FAUCHER: âŠI was just told to study it. Itâs good for business or⊠whatever I was taught. Why? Are you concerned that Iâm a spy? I suppose asking doesnât helpâŠ
GAVRILL: I donât know you. I donât know if you actually work for Helvetia. Stay away from me.
DR FAUCHER: Ah, wait, Hrothgar â Iâm sorry, I donât know how else to prove that Iâm not a spy, but really, if I was, I wouldnât be making this call to you directly through Helvetiaâs phone network, no?
Gavrill thinks. His work phone is supposed to be secure. He does not say anything but he does not hang up. He peers out of his shuttered windows and inspects the empty street.
Dr Faucher reexplains what she said in Russian. Before Gavrill can react to not getting paid, she asks again if he has time to meet next week. Gavrill asks to meet now. The sooner he can get paid, or the sooner he can eliminate a threat, the better. He can meet her at the Fairmont hotel but he does not want to meet her at six oâclock at night when it is dinnertime with his children. But Dr Faucher canât make it before three oâclock when his children are dismissed from school. They compromise to meet tomorrow at ten oâclock in the morning instead. Gavrill tells her that he does not need her to pick him up. He hangs up.
It is a cold Wednesday morning and Gavrill Vorobyev is late. After dropping his children off at school, he walks to the nearest bus stop and just misses the bus. Standing at the bus stop shelter that doesnât block the wind but still somehow reeks of marijuana, he tells Dr Faucher he will be late via text. She says she will be waiting.
It is not until thirty minutes pass that Gavrill, with his gobsmacked hair and red cheeks and cracked knuckles, finally arrives at the luxurious hotel lobby. He sends another text to Dr Faucher to tell her he has arrived. She says she will be downstairs soon so Gavrill waits. He goes towards the cluster of chairs near the entrance but does not sit. He thinks it is too vulnerable of a state. He thinks he needs to be able to run away quickly. And he thinks about what else he can do to prepare for this woman who knows his number and his callsign and his language until he sees Herâ
DR FAUCHER: Hrothgar..? Are you okay?
Time stops, then falls backwards â back to when he first fell for Her. Her hair is still the same orange like the bright fire inside her that warmed their days, and her eyes are still the same turquoise like the cool pebbles from the rivers of their mountain home. The years have graced her gently, softening the edges around her cheeks and her hips, and blessing her with twin dimples that sink like dough into her soft skin whenever she smiles. He doesnât hear her voice but he hears her words â the same words she once said as she leaned against him in their bed â and he watches her lips move with her smile like honey â he never liked sweets but itâs all he can smell and taste right nowâ
Gavrill has gone pale. He turns and walks out into the cold.
He hears Dr Faucher panic and run after him. He keeps walking. His chest clenches with every heartbeat. His head throbs. He thinks if the wind blows hard enough, it can easily make him slip on ice and he would not even know what has happened until he is lying on the ground.
Dr Faucher suddenly touches his shoulder. It makes Gavrill flinch and turn and seize her wrist hard. His heart is a frenzied bird rapidly thrumming against his ribcage, and his scowl is not of hatred but of a cornered animalâs confused fear. Yet his face is that of a killer, and he can see it in Dr Faucherâs eyes.
HROTHGAR: Is this a joke?
DR FAUCHER: Hroth⊠Hrothgar, that hurtsâ
He does not know if he should scream or run or look at Dr Faucher longer to bridge the differences between her and Her. People are staring at them. Gavrill is staring her down. Yet when Dr Faucherâs free hand reaches for Gavrillâs vice grip, her trembling touch is gentle against his hand.
DR FAUCHER: I⊠I only want to help you. Letâs go back inside, hmm?
The wind stings their faces. It dries Gavrillâs eyes. He thinks about how he never saw Her body but reminds himself that She is dead, that Rovin had buried Her withâ
He throws Dr Faucherâs hand down and steps back.
GAVRILL: Why do you look like that?
Gavrill knows the answer is obvious. Dr Faucher was born like that. He still does not like the answer.
Dr Faucher replies with words Gavrill does not process. She ushers him inside, away from the cold, asking if heâs hungry or thirsty even though he canât stomach her standing next to him. Dr Faucher sees this on his face, especially when the elevator arrives and Gavrill presses his back against the wall as far away from Dr Faucher as possible. She sighs and also steps back.
DR FAUCHER: Hrothgar? Can you please name five things in the elevator for me?
Gavrill thinks this is suspicious. Dr Faucher still insists on him to do so. For example: the buttons, the doors, and Gavrill himself.
GAVRILL: The only things left are you, the railings, the mirror, and the advertisements.
DR FAUCHER: Thatâs good. Now⊠what are four things you can hear?
The elevator stops moving. The doors open. Dr Faucher holds them open and looks at Gavrill expectantly.
GAVRILL: My hearing is fine.
DR FAUCHER: I trust that your hearing is okay, but please still list four things you hear.
GAVRILL: âŠYou, me, heaters, people.
DR FAUCHER: Good, good. Letâs get out of the elevator, unless you wish to conduct our session out here.
Gavrill waits for her to leave first. He refuses to have his back to her.
Gavrillâs therapy session takes place in the hotelâs private office space. The warm lights are slightly dimmed, the chairs are lined with cushions, a sofa is against the wall, and the blinds are drawn shut around them. Dr Faucher gestures Gavrill to take a seat. He does not. Arms crossed tight to his chest, his vision scurries to all corners of the room, under every cushion and table and seat. He checks the view behind the blinds before sealing them shut again and remains standing, still with his arms crossed, while staring at Dr Faucher.
Dr Faucher takes a seat on the other side of the table and leans back on her chair. She picks up a file and opens it to a document.
DR FAUCHER: All right, Hrothgar⊠would you please tell me about your experience prior to joining Helvetia?
Gavrill thinks doing that is stupid and dangerous. He asks her why. It is to get a good basis on his experience so that she can help him. But if he tells her, his children can die. Fuck he told her he has children. Once again, Dr Faucher reads his mind and says she will not harm his children. Gavrill thinks otherwise. He does not know why Dr Faucher would want to kill his children right now but if he thinks for long enough, he will find a reason, and that is reason enough to not trust her.
Before Dr Faucher can read Gavrillâs mind again, he asks her what she already knows about him. She writes into her document.
DR FAUCHER: Itâs only what your prison record contains: your criminal record, the botched trial, and your uncertain verdict. Thereâs nothing about what comes before.
GAVRILL: What did you just write?
She shows him her writing, neat and tidy: Keeps children safe.
Gavrill is certain that if this is all she knows about him, it is enough to do something bad to him. What is Dr Faucher even treating him for? He tells her that he is fine. She doubts him but quickly asks for him to cooperate to make the session easier for the both of them. Gavrill does not want to, not until he gets more answers, because why is a woman as gentle and as confusing and as soft as her in Helvetia?
Gavrill asks Dr Faucher why she is in Helvetia. She says she was recruited personally by the current director, Henri Arquette, whom she happened to be friends with. They worked in the same hospital in France until Henri suddenly stopped appearing one day. A few years later, he returned to offer her a job that was far more lucrative than her psychiatric position. She accepted. She was not aware of the true nature of Helvetia until after her first patient.
GAVRILL: Why did you accept? Now youâre treating killers instead of innocent civilians.
DR FAUCHER: Youâre calling yourself a killer? Seems reductive, especially since the first impression I have of you is a protective father. Every person has a different facet of themselves. You may not be fully innocent, but you are not fully a killer either.
GAVRILL: Youâre avoiding my question.
DR FAUCHER: I merely want to address something I noticed of you. But I agreed because I believed I could help more people this way, by protecting the minds of those who protect the innocent.
GAVRILL: Hm.
DR FAUCHER: Donât like that answer?
GAVRILL: I didnât say anything. Are we done here?
DR FAUCHER: Weâve barely just started⊠If you wish to finish here, how about we grab an early lunch?
GAVRILL: No. What do I need to do to get my pay?
DR FAUCHER: Hm, if I said you have to get lunch with me, would you?
Gavrill stares at her. His heart quickens again.
DR FAUCHER: Too fast? Never mind. How about this then? We can pick up some food together, and Iâll let you go home for the week.
Gavrill is silent. He thinks that if it means spending less time with her, that is a smaller chance of her learning too much about him and him learning too much about her.
GAVRILL: âŠFine.
Dr Faucher takes him to an upscale French cafe: one that doubles as a patisserie and a restaurant. She waits for Gavrill by the door to make sure he does not run away. The two are seated and are handed a menu each. For a second, the price makes him forget about Dr Faucher. He decides he is definitely not getting anythingâ
DR FAUCHER: Ah, you know what? My treat!
GAVRILL: âŠDo you do this with all your patients?
DR FAUCHER: I do, especially with cases that are more difficult to persuade. Or would you be more comfortable if I said I didnât?
Gavrill does not want to say no to a free meal. He also does not want to trust Dr Faucher enough to let her give him a free meal. He compromises by ordering the same three-course meal as her. It would be harder to poison him that way. It was worth the free meal being made of nearly nothing but a detestable ingredient: eggs.
The two wait for their orders. Dr Faucher looks at Gavrillâs wedding band on his finger.
DR FAUCHER: So⊠I know you definitely arenât from here. Where did you come from? Do you have a partner?
Gavrill stiffens and hides his wedding band. Dr Faucher repeats that her questions are only for the sake of getting to know him better. It would help her treat him better and it may alleviate any worries Gavrill has moving forward. But Gavrill knows that what Dr Faucher knows is what Helvetia knows. Neither of them need to know more about him; anything he tells her can be used against his children and himself.
DR FAUCHER: I promise you, if I end up using anything against you, you can burn me at the stake.
How does Dr Faucher keep reading his mind? Gavrill scowls at her.
Dr Faucher adds that Helvetia has no reason to betray Gavrill: they went through the trouble of getting him out of prison and the trouble of hiring a therapist like herself. This makes sense to Gavrill. He does not like that. So he asks her about the Helvetia agent who was the reason he went to prison for ten years.
GAVRILL: Agent Eve. Thatâs what Henri called her. Female. Brown skin. Long black hair. She had this⊠mask of a ram with a lot of eyes and horns. She used that to turn into me. Thatâs how she framed me. Do you know her?
Dr Faucher knows Agent Eve. She shares how Agent Eve was acting out of her own accord, and how she rarely appears in any of Helvetiaâs headquarters. Gavrill does not wish to catch her, so he is fine with this. He only wants her far away from his family.
Dr Faucher has also treated Agent Eve before. She says that Agent Eve feels guilty about everything. But sometimes, patients lie. That was why treatment with Agent Eve was not effective: Dr Faucher knew she was not telling the full truth, yet Agent Eve kept insisting it was all a mistake. Helvetia wanted to fire her but Arquette did not want to. He believes in using a lesser evil to fight a greater one. Dr Faucher does not. She believes that justice will be dealt with time.
DR FAUCHER: Though⊠I do want to ask, when did this happen?
GAVRILL: You donât know?
DR FAUCHER: Let me rephrase. I know about her shooting your wife, but about your imprisonment. What caused it?
Time stops again. Gavrill stares at Dr Faucher. He barely pulls his voice out.
GAVRILL: She also shot my wife?
Dr Faucher covers her mouth.
DR FAUCHER: I thought you knew. What⊠what else did she do?
GAVRILL: Why? Why did she kill her?! So you do know more about me! You already know I had a partner. You already know she was killed by Eve. You know where that happened so you already know where Iâm from!!
Dr Faucher swears left and right that she did not want to assume, that she only wanted to hear it all from him, and that she will tell him anything he wants to know, but Gavrill thinks this is bullshit and stands to leave. She tries to stop him, saying that a document of past records does not give her a full picture of him. Gavrill remembers the document she wrote in and demands her to tell him everything she knows about him, now.
She knows he is an Ingush refugee. He has three children and his wife was a casualty of a sabotaged operation â she assures him that Helvetia was sabotaged and that Agent Eve was the one solely responsible for her death. Helvetia continued to monitor him as he was a civilian casualty of the operation. She knows he went to prison and was bailed out by Henri, but does not know the circumstances that imprisoned him.
The more Dr Faucher speaks, the more Gavrillâs mind spins. It keeps spinning until it funnels into a drop of realisation.
GAVRILL: If Helvetia killed my wife, then what about myâ
Gavrillâs voice sharpens and breaks. He presses his lips together. His face morphs. Suddenly thereâs a sadness in his eyes that cannot bear to pull out the truth from the guilt and grief in his gut to his lips. Dr Faucher watches his expression shift. She exhales and places her hands on his shoulders. He flinches away.
DR FAUCHER: Hrothgar⊠Iâm sorry for hiding things from you. I thought youâd feel better if you thought I only knew things you told me.
GAVRILL: I donât trust you.
Yet he stares at her with betrayal, as if he once did.
He looks around him. Heâs trapped by this stupid, fancy restaurant bullshit, trapped by the same company that killed his family and ruined his life and put him in a stupid, fancy suit. He turns and pushes the door open. Cold wind cuts into his cheeks and wet eyes. He welcomes it. He stands outside the store, pinching his nose bridge and covering his face with his hand. He takes in a sharp breath of crisp, cool air and closes his eyes.
A few seconds pass. Gavrill hears the door open.
DR FAUCHER: Iâm really sorry. Iâm sorry, okay? Just⊠one moment, please? Turn around?
He takes a breath. He pulls his hand away from his face, turns around, and glares sadly at Dr Faucher. She holds out a takeout bag of warm food to him.
DR FAUCHER: I wonât lie to you about what I know about you anymore, okay? I only wanted to make things better for you, and it looks like Iâve only hurt you moreâŠ
Gavrill looks at the bag, then looks back at her.
GAVRILL: Do you know what my wife looked like?
DR FAUCHER: Not at all⊠All I heard was that she was innocent, and that she had a family who wouldnât be able to see her come home.
He presses his lips together again. He snatches the bag from her hands.
GAVRILL: Look in the mirror.
Gavrill turns around and goes home.
After his children come home, they have dinner. He calls it an early night. He retreats to his own bedroom, staring at a dark wall with a bottle in his hand, sitting atop his bed that hides suitcases of headscarves and baby clothes he never unpacked.
---
Note: A therapist should not be open to giving you medication in the way Dr Faucher did. Please do not use anything from this story as a reference for proper psychiatric care.
Marieâs (Dr Faucher) characterisation is my adaptation and edit of what was originally written by @mintrhine. View full character credits here.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
With heavy feet and a heavier heart, Leyna Morozov dragged herself and her crushed dreams home. Gavrill Vorobyev was nowhere to be seen. He couldâve walked down any of the many streets that the alleyway opened up to. It wasnât worth trying to look for him now â the sky was darkening overhead, and she didnât even know where he was going. The only street Leyna could search was the one that led her back home.
If only Abrek hadnât held her back with his incessant yapping! Leyna took in a sharp breath to calm herself. It was fine. Heâll make up for it by inviting her to something he dragged Gavrill out for. Right? He had to. Leyna had already prepared a hypothetical space in her plans for Gavrill. She had also begun reviewing her mental checklist of requirements for her ideal boyfriend. Husband? Was she thinking too far? Either way, she has to see him again. Just in case.
But that wouldnât happen until⊠who knew how long? Leyna sighed. She looked down at the sidewalk and kept walking. At least now she had something else to be sad about.
A few minutes passed. The restaurants down this street had begun to turn on their lights. Leyna lifted her head towards their neon signs, their window panes, and the people sitting on the other side. Itâll be a long, long time before she could eat at one of these places without worrying about making a dent in her savings. She sighed. As she watched the people eat with their family and friends, she also realised that itâll be a long, long time before she could eat with company like that again. If ever. A bucket of memories in her head tipped and suddenly, the faces and laughter and smiles over warm food with friends she may never see again and family she definitely will never see again rained down on her, soaking her in a cold more bitter than the autumn night, washing over her eyes until the neon signs overhead and the people eating beneath fluorescent lights blurred together like a distant memory.
Fuck. She squeezed her eyes close, breathed in, and walked away quickly down the street until she found a small, empty restaurant. When she did, she kept her head down, walked in, and took a seat. A piece of laminated paper with hard white creases slid into her field of vision. It was the menu. Her eyes landed on a familiar photograph. Fuck it, sheâll get the chepalgash. Any nutritional value it had was negated by its copious amount of butter that could give someone a stroke, but it had homemade cheese and that made her happy. In fact, it was one of three things that could make her happy right here, right now. The second thing would be an entire wheel of cheese. The third thing would beâ
The restaurant door opened. Leyna looked up. Her eyes widened.
Ya Allah.
âGavrill?â she blurted out, loud enough for the man to hear.
Startled, his head snapped to her. But recognition settled in and softened his eyes. âOh. Itâs you.â
Leyna pressed her lips together in a rosy smile. She raised a hand. âHey.â
He nodded and walked over to her. He was walking over to her!! What were the odds? Wait. Did he live in the same refugee camp as Leyna after all? Was he in this restaurant because it was on the way home for him too?
Without smiling, Gavrill nodded in greeting. The red in his cheeks had yet to fade, but the red in Leynaâs were just beginning. He tilted his head. âHow do you know my name?â
Whoops. There went her script of getting his name out of him. Oh well. She was too happy to care. âAbrek told me.â Resting her elbows on the table, Leyna interlaced her fingers and rested her chin on top of them. âI didnât think Iâd run into you here.â
âDo you come here often?â
Leynaâs smile grew at the cliche. She shook her head. âNo. Itâs my first time.â
âMm. Thought so.â
âI take it that you come here often, then?â
Gavrill nodded. âItâs cheap. Itâs good. And itâs usually empty.â
âI hope you donât mind me being here, then.â
âOf course not. I donât own the restaurant.â
Leyna made a soft chuckle until she realised Gavrill was dead serious.
He looked her up and down and continued. âI donât get to eat with other people often.â
Leyna made a cheeky smile. âAre you saying you want to eat dinner with me?â
Gavrill raised a brow. He tugged the chair across Leyna a bit. âAre you saying you donât mind me sitting here?â
She paused in thought to calculate. She and Gavrill werenât married and dating practically didnât exist in their culture, as much as she loved the idea of it. Theyâd be scorned for being this physically close to each other in public, even if it was to have a casual dinner together. Clearly Gavrill didnât care about such traditions, with what he did in the alleyway and with what Abrek claimed he had done. Plus, it wasnât like the waitress knew about their situation, and it wasnât like anyone else was here to judge them. So what was he trying to do? Was he being friendly or was he hitting on her? Wait, wouldnât the waitress recognise him and knowâ
âIf you do, Iâll sit over there,â Gavrill stated plainly, pointing at a table in the far corner.
Whoops. Leyna mustâve paused for longer than she thought. But he did just pass her first requirement. Time will tell, of course, but for now, she smiled again.
âThereâs no need to be a stranger,â she patted his side of the table, inviting him to sit. He did so and finally, he smiled, quick and small and warm. Leynaâs heart skipped a beat. She risked following her impulse. âItâs lonely in the corner of the room, isnât it?â
Gavrill shrugged. âThatâs my usual seat. If I eat here, I eat and then I leave.â
âYou donât eat with Abrek?â Leyna asked.
âNo. Heâs in the army and I work at the airport. We donât see each other as much as we did when we were younger.â He slid the menu to her. âWhat do you want to eat?â
Leyna pointed at the picture of her beloved cheese flatbread. âChepalgash.â
Gavrill tilted his head and leaned forward to see what she was pointing at. âYou mean, chapilg?â
âOh, right. Chapilg,â she mimicked Gavrillâs pronunciation. âChepalgash is what itâs called in Chechen. I got too excited.â
âSo itâs your favourite food.â It was a statement, not a question. Leyna still responded to it with a smile and an eager nod. Gavrill smiled again in return â wider, this time. Leyna too felt her smile grow. She wondered if he noticed that.
Gavrill raised his hand to call the waitress and place the order for one portion. After the waitress left, Leyna giggled.
âWho said I wanted to share?â
Gavrill stared at her bug-eyed. âThe chapilg here is huge. I canât finish one myself.â
By his eyes alone, he went from cool to comical in a second â Leyna couldnât help but snort and laugh. âIâm joking! Iâm joking. I know theyâre for sharing. Itâs cheaper that way, too.â
Gavrillâs eyes went back to normal. âDo you have a job?â
âNot yet. Hopefully I will have one at the Ingush State University.â
He blinked. âYouâre a professor?â
Leyna chuckled at the almost-naive awe in his voice. âI would like to be one, one day! For now, Iâm a student. I applied for an English teaching assistant position.â
âEnglish?â he raised his brows and nodded. âSo you speak three languages? English, Russian, and⊠youâre speaking Chechen right now, yes? Your, erm⊠sounds sound different.â
She smiled, confused. Havenât they had this conversation two weeks ago? âYes, you are right. And I am speaking Chechen right now⊠thatâs why I called it chepalgash,â she tapped the menu. âI learned English from my parents. Knowing the language supplemented their jobs â my mom was a medical researcher and my dad was a journalist. They hoped that one day, I could flee west as a student by being fluent in English.â
âWow. Smart family,â Gavrill nodded. Then, more softly, âIâm sorry for your lossââ
âItâs fine! It happens,â Leyna waved her hand and smiled wider. âSo what do you do?â
âUhâŠâ he stared at her, furrowing his brows, then shrugged. â...I only fix planes.â
Leyna tutted. âYou say that as if anyone can fix a plane! Knowing languages and being well read arenât the only ways to be smart, you know.â
Gavrill chuckled. âI didnât finish high school, so youâre definitely smarter than me. I learn better on the job, but I donât even fix or maintain planes a lot. I work with cars and trucks and buses a lot more. There arenât a lot of flights, and most of the planes sitting there are old Soviet things left behind after the airport stopped being an airbase.â
âAre those planes still being used?â
âNo. But no oneâs come to scrap them and we donât have the tools for that. I might as well keep maintaining and flying them to keep them working.â
âYouâre a pilot?â Leynaâs eyes sparkled.
Gavrill raised his hands and grinned. âLetâs just say I know how to not crash a plane. Donât ask me to fly you.â
Leyna laughed. âAnd is that how you learned English, through working at the airport? Or did you get that job because you know English?â
Gavrillâs blank, bug-eyed stare returned. âWhat are you talking about?â
Leynaâs smile faded. She stared back in confusion. â...You were singing in English just now.â
âOh. That. Nah,â he made a sheepish smile â and boy, Leyna liked that cute look on him. âI just copy the sounds I hear. I donât know what Iâm saying at all. I canât even read the lyrics in the CD case.â
Leyna laughed and smiled sweetly. âThen would you like me to teach you English?â
âDepends. Are you going to charge me?â
Take the chance, Leyna. Take the chance!! âOnly with your time and company.â
âHm,â he leaned forward, rested his chin on his hand, and smiled. âI can do better than that. I can also get you dinner.â
Leyna beamed. YES!!! Her face remained composed and playful. âOh? But I havenât taught you anything.â
âYou can teach me something right now. How do you say⊠âCan I walk you home after dinnerâ in English?â
Leyna never knew she could smile this wide. She had always thought that smooth men who werenât afraid to smile or flirt openly with a woman only existed in her books, or⊠anywhere that was not in North Caucasus, really. It was frankly a miracle she found someone like him in the region that was somehow more traditional and conservative than her birthplace.
From the inside of her coat, she pulled out a pen from a pocket. She took a napkin from the restaurant table, clicked her pen, and wrote the sentence in English. When she was done, she turned the napkin to face Gavrill. She pointed at the English words with her pen as she recited them slowly.
âCan I walk you home after dinner?â
Their eyes met. Gavrill smiled. Unlike when he sang, his words carried his Ingush accent. âCan I walk you home after dinner?â
Leynaâs smile grew. So did Gavrillâs.
She chuckled and tapped her pen on the napkin. âGood, but you should look at the words as youâre saying them. You need to know what letters make what sounds.â
Gavrill groaned and laughed. âI canât read any of this. What are these letters? Canât you use the normal ones?â
Leyna shook her head and joined his laughter. âNo. It looks like weâll need more lessons together, hm?â
âTell me when youâre free next, professor.â
Leyna laughed again, her cheeks warm. She clicked her pen and returned it to her coat. âYou know, Abrek said you werenât much of a talker, yet talking with you has been nothing short of pleasant.â
âAh, thanks,â Gavrill grinned and averted his bashful eyes. âAbrek and his friends talk a lot, so I listen. I like listening. Itâs nicer that way.â
âThatâs good,â Leyna smiled and nodded. âI was worried about you, you know, that night when all the rebels were talking and drinking, and you were sitting by yourself in a corner. I wanted to talk to you all night, but everyone else kept dragging me into conversations.â
Gavrill froze. His bug-eyed stare returned.
âHow do you know this?â
Leyna blinked, still holding her smile. âYou⊠really donât remember me?â
Gavrill kept staring at her. He lowered his voice. âDid we⊠hook up before?â
Leyna laughed. Abrek was right about one thing, at least â Gavrill had no idea âLeynaâ and âMorozovâ were one in the same! She shook her head. âDoes the name âMorozovâ ring any bells for you?â
Gavrill tilted his head. â...It sounds familiar.â
âŠShit. She shouldnât have brought âMorozovâ up. Leyna felt her heart sink. Things were going so well! But it was better to nip her hopes in the bud â if telling him will change the way he acts around her like Abrek did, then he wasnât worth it! If he found it all weird, she will just leave! Itâd be a sign that her plans would work better without him after all!
She steeled herself and began untying her checkered headscarf. When she wore it, her bangs swooped out from beneath and brushed the top of her eyebrows. The illusion it projected played to how women here were expected to have long hair â perhaps the rest of Leynaâs womanly hair was neatly tied into a braid or a bun that hid beneath the drape of her headscarf. But when she removed it, her silhouette changed. The rest of her hair was cropped short, similarly to Gavrillâs and Abrekâs hair. Without her headscarf gently framing the sides of her head, her jaw and cheeks now looked more sharply accentuated. It was also now more obvious how her heavy coat broadened her shoulders and hid her chest well even though, fortunately, there wasnât much to hide in the first place. For her final touch, Leyna relaxed her throat to deepen her voice and slowed her speech, like she had practised for most of her life.
âHowâs this?â he looked up at Gavril with a rosy, yet careful smile. âDo you recognise me now?â
Gavrill stared. His eyes widened. âYouâre that refugee. The Morozov kid who kept talking.â
âThatâs me,â Leyna said with a cool shrug. The simple gesture dropped his femininity immediately. Before Gavrill could ask, he explained himself. âMy late fatherâs sister was kidnapped when I was small. No one knew where she went, but it was easy to imagine what happened to her. He was paranoid over losing me ever since, so I was a girl at home and a boy outside. It never bothered me. Itâs actually natural to me. I never feel like Iâm swapping between being a girl and a boy even though thatâs what it looks like on the outside. Being both makes me whole because both are a part of me.â
A moment of silence passed. Gavrill kept staring. It bothered Leyna. He clutched his headscarf beneath the table and was ready to tie it over her head again.
Until he realised how intently Gavrill was listening to him. Gavrillâs eyes were the same as that night at the border â alert and focused. Leyna could see how Gavrill was internalising everything, weighing each word Leyna articulated, and taking his time to fully understand what he heard like a student.
âSo if your father never raised you as a boy,â Gavrill finally started, speaking slowly and curiously, âwould you still be like this?â
Leynaâs brain blanked. He wasnât used to not being brushed off.
âUm⊠yes, I think so,â his slow nod grew more certain. âYes. Had I been raised differently, it may have taken me longer to figure⊠this out, but I think Iâll still be the same.â
Gavrill smiled. âNo wonder you looked familiar. Guess thatâs why I took your hand while I was singing.â
Leynaâs smile warmed, but his heart kept racing. Was Gavrill just being polite right now? Was his smile more reserved than before? Leyna really, really wanted Gavrill to like him, but would Gavrill be able to tolerate all this? Would he be able to tolerate it when he demanded a simple, clear-cut, black-and-white answer for the mush Leyna simply was? She couldnât even explain why she was this way, nor did she ever choose to be this way. If it was up to her, sheâd choose either girl or boy and avoid all this complicated bullshit and be happy. Why did she have to be this way? This was stupid. Why did she even tryâ
âIs Morozov your first name or your last name?â Gavrill asked.
âAhââ Leyna stammered, âLast name. Sometimes I go by âMorozovâ because itâs, uh, easier, but itâs my surname.â A pause. âMy first name is Leyna. Iâm Leyna Morozov.â
âLeyna Morozov,â Gavrill nodded. âYou talk a lot.â
Leyna clutched his headscarf tighter and shrunk in his seat. â...Sorry.â
Gavrill shook his head. âYou talk a lot, but theyâre all about interesting things. Things Iâve never heard of before. I like it.â
Leyna looked up at Gavrillâs earnest eyes. I like you echoed in his head. Hope calmed his heart and loosened his grip on his headscarf. âWell, thank you. I guess.â
âDonât be shy. Itâs nice to listen to a different perspective. I think youâll get the teaching assistant job because you really are a teacher.â
âWhat makes you say that?â
Gavrill tilted his head and smiled. âI want to learn more from you. I want to learn more about you. So, Leyna MorozovâŠâ
He made a show out of taking the napkin Leyna wrote on and read from it.
âCan I walk you home after dinner?â
Leynaâs eyes widened. She blushed. âPeople will stare at us.â
Still smiling, Gavrill crossed his arms and leaned against the table. âWhatâs wrong with two men walking home together?â
Leynaâs face lit up. Whether Gavrill invited him out of friendship or out of something more didnât matter. Leyna nodded, warm with a joy she never never knew could exist, and the waitress served the two their chepalgash.
â
DECEMBER 1994. 3 MONTHS LATER.
GROZNY, CHECHENYA IS INVADED BY RUSSIAN FORCES. INFANTRY UNITS ORGANISED AT CHECHEN BORDERS ARE MOBILISED TO ADVANCE TOWARDS THE CAPITAL CITY. SHELLINGS AND BOMBINGS THIS MONTH LEFT SEVERAL THOUSAND DEAD. IN A MONTH, AN ESTIMATE OF 18,000 WILL BE KILLED. IN TWO MONTHS, THE RUSSIAN ARMY WILL CAPTURE GROZNY
THE FIRST BATTLE OF GROZNY SPARKED THE FIRST CHECHEN WAR. INGUSH REBELS LENT THEIR AID TO THE CHECHENS IN THEIR FIGHT FOR INDEPENDENCE AGAINST THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION. AMONG THE REBELS WERE ABREK BALABANOV AND GAVRILL VOROBYEV.
LEYNA MOROZOV CONTINUED HER DUTIES AS A STUDENT AT THE INGUSH STATE UNIVERSITY. SHE ALSO CONTINUED WORKED AS AN ENGLISH TEACHING ASSISTANT AND AS GAVRILL VOROBYEVâS ENGLISH TUTOR.
---
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
ĐĐ°Đ·ŃĐ°ĐœŃ, Đ Đ”ŃĐżŃблОĐșĐ° ĐĐœĐłŃŃĐ”ŃĐžŃ
Nazran, Republic of Ingushetia
Leyna Morozov had settled into one of the many refugee tents south of Nazran. Some refugees here were Ingush. Leyna figured they were those who were displaced from the Prigorodny District in North Ossetia-Alania a few years ago, or those who have returned to Ingushetia after the mass deportation of their ancestors, only to find no home to return to. However, the growing majority of refugees were Chechen. They told her so themselves on her first day of settling in, over bread and small pieces of cheese they could afford to spare â an act of the hallmark North Caucasian hospitality Leyna was grateful for.
Some of the Chechen refugees who welcomed her felt that war was looming on the horizon, so it was wiser to move during the calm before the storm. They then talked about how similar the Ingushâs tongue and culture was to theirs, how she can look for jobs, and how sheâd have no problem blending in at all. âA young man like you can work at so-and-so and find a wife,â some said at one time. âA young lady like you is old enough to start looking for a husband,â others said at another time.
Leyna was grateful for their advice, but she was set on ignoring them. Ever since she was a child, she had always anticipated something drastic to happen in her life. So she had long made plans for times like these on the slow days she daydreamed under the sun, and had revised them over and over with each sunset she watched. As soon as she caught wind of the Ingush State University opening its doors this month, she knew that it was the perfect place for her plans. Sheâd take a bus farther south with her documents, enroll herself in their program, and continue her studies. They were a new university â surely theyâd accept anyone. As she studied, sheâd apply to be a teaching assistant â an English one, to be exact. She was confident in her English skills, and she was confident that very few would be as good as her. If she could, sheâd become an official translator. She could translate legal documents and maybe learn from visa applications sheâd come across. And after she has earned enough money, sheâd get the hell out of this country and flee west to the United States, or to Canada.
So far, everything that has happened roughly fitted the shape of her plans. There was only one variable she did not take into account. Even as she rushed to follow her plans and to find her footing in this new life, she could not forget the azure blue eyes of that rebel who saved her. Nor his strong hands, his gruff voice, or his reserved smile. And when she found herself still thinking of him two weeks later, she knew that he simply must now be part of her plans.
It was a cool September evening when Leyna Morozov strolled down the streets of her new home. She wore a checkered red-and-white headscarf and the same heavy long coat she fled Grozny in. Today was her first day of rest â a quiet Sunday she saved just for herself to stroll around town alone, to take in the sights of the city. It was rare for her to make time to slow her movements and thoughts, even before fleeing Grozny. Her path through downtown Nazran was aimless as she let her melancholic thoughts guide her. And when her thoughts became too much, there were markets to look at, people to watch, and music to listen toâŠ
She lifted her head. It wasnât just music. It was someone singing, and it sounded like it was coming from an alleyway up ahead.
She followed it, walking past laughing children into a growing crowd of people. They were all around her age â âThe youth these days,â her grandmother would call them while shaking her head. Unlike what most of the very traditional people around here would think, it wasnât like this kind of crowd would cause trouble just because they wore bright synthetics with bizarre patterns, or black leather with blue jeans. If anything, the women in pants were the ones whoâd have unwarranted trouble pushed upon them. Why couldnât people see it was the late 90s? The Berlin wall was gone. So was the USSR and its barriers to the outside world. Why revert back to the time when women her age were taken out of university for marriage? And who wouldnât be curious about all the new fashion and music that flooded in from the west, like the swinging beat of the song she now recognized as jazz?
Leyna drew closer to the crowd. They swayed to the singerâs voice, smiling and laughing and chatting among themselves with drinks in hand â alcoholic drinks, she determined with a sniff. Out here in public? The locals definitely wouldnât like that. Maybe this crowd was trouble after all. But with the darkening sky, the tight alleyway, and the crowd snapping to the music, the atmosphere felt like one of those hole-in-a-wall jazz clubs from a dogeared noir novel where the suave detective meets his femme fatale client â and God, it was exactly the kind of escape Leyna needed.
âLeyna! Hey!â
Leyna looked over to the voice that called her. It was Abrek Balabanov, the second rebel who was in the car with her. The last time she saw him was two days after she arrived in Ingushetia. He had offered her a tour of the small region on the night of Leynaâs rescue and came to follow up on his promise.
She waved and squeezed past people towards him. âHey, Abrek! Nice seeing you here.â
âItâs been a while,â he grinned. âYou settling in okay?â
She huffed a sigh but kept her smile. âAs well as one could under these circumstances. I am back in university, though!â
âThatâs good,â he nodded. âHow are your supplies holding up? Do you have enough water, food, and wood? Hey, I can get you a gas stove. I can even get you a big gas tank so you wonât have to keep carrying wood to your tent.â
A polite chuckle. âI will tell you if I ever need one. Thank you, Abrek.â
âIâm just doing what a man should do for a charming young lady like you,â he flashed a smile. âHey, you should let me know if you need more wood. Iâll cut and carry them for you. I donât want you to ruin your precious hands.â
The day Abrek met Leyna for the tour was when he found out that she was not just âMorozovâ but was also, in fact, âLeynaâ. It seemed like he was only going to hold on to âLeynaâ now. Shame, but it was bound to happen. He wouldnât be the only one, too. At least she could still be âMorozovâ on campus. The thought helped her keep her playful twinkle in her eye.
âI will, Abrek,â she said in a sing-song lilt. âYouâre quite the gentleman, arenât you?â
âYouâre quite the bold woman yourself. Thatâs rare around here. I like that,â he raised his plastic cup of vodka to her. âDrink?â
She declined with a giggle. âCanât have too much of that with you around. Someone has to keep you in check.â
Abrek laughed. âCanât blame you. The rest of the boys are here. One of us brought the radio, the rest of us brought drinks, and now weâve got a crowd. Someone has to keep us in line before the cops show up!â
Leyna paused. âThe other rebels are here?â
âYep. Just my crew, though. The guys who got you and the others across the border.â
Her eyes widened. âSo is he..?â
Suddenly, she stopped and listened.
Is that... English?
Leynaâs ears were tugged by the singerâs perfectly mimicked radio-American accent that draped over a familiar voice. She brushed past Abrek, slipped deeper into the crowd, and floated to the front where she could see the show. There was the radio on the floor, the familiar faces of the tipsy rebels, and the singer at the centre of it all.
She gasped. Music was the singerâs trap, and she was ensnared in his melody.
It was him. Her rebel.
âWait till your charms are right for these arms to surround!
You think youâve flown before, but baby, you ainât left the ground!â
The crowd faded away to the peripherals of her vision, parting like curtains for the refugee and the rebel at centre stage.
âA-Wait till youâre locked in my embrace, wait till I draw you near!â
Leyna was tantalised by his performance: the way he swayed as he sang, the empty vodka bottle he held like a microphone, the growl in his croon that matched the radioâs trumpets. His face glowed red as if there was a spotlight on him, and when he opened his eyes, his azure eyes met hers.
âA-Wait till you see that sunshine placeââ
The rebel extended a hand to her with a cheeky smile, as if inviting her to dance.
âAinât nothinâ like it here!â
Trumpets crackled through the small, dingy radio like tires crunching on gravel. Still, Leyna found her hand drifting towards the rebel â but he spun away to sing the next line.
âThe best is yet to come and babe, wonât it be fine?â
Still grinning, he joined the crowdâs snapping and walked in a circle. Leyna felt her cheeks go warm. She tucked her hand back to her chest. But when the next line came, the rebel returned to her with an apologetic yet playful smile on his face.
âThe best is yet to come, come the day youâre mine!â
He extended his hand to her again and nodded, assuring her. She took it.
âCome the day youâre mineâŠâ
He led her to the centre as the two swayed to the music. The crowd hollered and cheered.
â...And youâre gonna be mine.â
He twirled Leyna slowly and moved his hand to her back. She followed his cue and leaned backwards into his arm, letting him dip her. The music faded away. The crowd erupted with applause and cheers as the rebel gently leaned Leyna back upright. She could only stare at him, breathless. With a smile and a pat on her back, he sent her back to the crowd and raised a hand.
âOkay. Iâm tired. Goodbye.â
The crowd groaned. He ignored them. He removed the CD from the radio, took its case from his denim jacketâs inner pocket, and placed the CD inside.
Abrek pushed his way towards the rebel and grabbed his shoulder. âOh come on, Gavrill! You practically just got here! You, what, had a few shots, sung a few songs, and now youâre going back already?â
The rebel passed the empty vodka bottle to Abrek. âYes.â
Abrek frowned. âWe finally pulled you out after two weeks and now youâre just leaving? At least have dinner with us!â
âNo. Goodbye, Abrek. Goodbye, everyone.â
He turned around and walked away. Leyna stared as he went.
So his name is GavrillâŠ
Leyna chuckled, the warmth in her cheeks now lighting up her entire face. âWhat a strange man.â
âCouldnât have said it any better,â Abrek patted her shoulder. Leyna flinched. A man touching a woman who wasnât his wife was frowned upon, but no one in this alleyway would likely care. Gavrill did just hold her hand, too. So Abrek left his hand on her shoulder. âWell! The party still goes on with or without him, and heâs almost never here. You should join us for dinner, Leyna. I know the others would love to have you there.â
Leynaâs eyes didnât move. âYeah, sure...â
Abrekâs smile faded. He followed her gaze towards Gavrill. He scoffed.
âHeâs not worth your time, Ley. He has a reputation with women, and itâs not a good one.â He lowered his voice. âOr should I say, multiple women. Heâd sleep with anyone because he has nothing else to do. Heâs not giving the Ingush refugees a good rep.â
Leyna finally looked at Abrek. âHeâs also a refugee?â
âYeah. One of the refugees from the Prigorodny District, from two years ago. You know what happened. Right?â
She looked back down the alley. Gavrill had already left. âYes, I do. Does he live in the refugee camp in the south, perchance?â
Abrek groaned and laughed. He shook his head. âOh Leyna, Leyna⊠heâs not just a refugee, you know. Heâs an orphan, too. So he has no family, no clan, no house, no land, no money â nothing. Heâs always alone so he doesnât know how to talk to people normally, and you canât get anything more than a one-night-stand behind a shop from him.â
Leyna laughed. âCalm down, Abrek. Iâm not trying to get in his pants. Or in anyoneâs pants.â
âIâm just warning you, Ley. Iâve known Gavrill since he was seventeen. He hasnât changed much since then, and you deserve better!â
âSeventeen? How old are the two of you now?â
âGavrill just turned nineteen last month. Iâm twenty. You?â
âNineteenâŠâ she smiled softly.
Abrek raised his eyebrow. âLeyna, you canât be serious. I like a woman who knows what she wants, and I like Gavrill â heâs like a brother to me â but come on. Heâs not mature enough for a woman like you. He doesnât talk. He doesnât do anything. He might not want to even hook up with you because he still thinks youâre a man.â
Her smile grew. âReally?â
âYeah, probably,â he grimaced. âHeâs not very bright. You can do better. I can introduce you to some good men. Or you can finally grow your hair out and meet some yourself!â
She looked at him and raised a brow. âWhat do you mean, finally?â
He stared at her as if the answer was obvious. âYouâre not in danger anymore, so you can stop pretending to be a boy. Me and the boys, weâll protect you!â he nodded to his friends before winking at Leyna. âPlus, I think long hair will fit you, too.â
Leyna made a short laugh. âWell. Thank you, but I like my hair short. Who says Iâm looking for a man, anyway?â Leyna patted his hand and gently nudged it off her shoulder. âI just want his name, Abrek. Thatâs all.â
Abrekâs hand dropped. He smiled at her with teeth. âI just told you his name. Gavrill. Gavrill Vorobyev.â
Leyna looked up at Abrek. Her smile turned politely taut. âI want to hear it from him. Whatâs so wrong about that? Shouldnât you be rooting for your âbrotherâ?â
Abrekâs smile turned sardonic. He downed the vodka in his cup. âIâm just worried youâre expecting too much out of him. Donât say I didnât warn you, Leyna.â
âIâll come to my own conclusions, thank you,â she smiled sweetly and patted his chest twice. She nodded at the crowd. âWell, donât keep your fans waiting. A gentleman wouldnât do that, would he?â
Abrek looked back. Some women stood around with drinks in hand, eyeing the young rebel who had recently made waves of news. When Abrekâs eyes met theirs, they waved.
âNo. He would not,â he grinned, staring at the women.
Leyna patted his back. âHave fun, Abrek.â
She waved farewell to the other rebels, turned around, and ran after Gavrill with a smile on her face.
---
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
The night the student returned home to his front door left open, everything he had been preparing for his whole life struck him at once. He knew exactly what had happened, and he knew exactly what he must now do.
The student grabbed his familyâs worn duffle bag. He searched his motherâs and grandmotherâs bedrooms for all their jewellery, their silvers, and their golds. He tossed the heap of it with his familyâs emergency cash into the bag then stuffed it beneath his clothes, his toiletries, and his legal documents. Itâs what his parents had taught him. Itâs what his parents had prepared him for throughout his life. And he was ready.
What they didnât teach him was to trade a set of clothes for a blanket â he has heard stories of people getting stranded â and to bring his school materials. Being a university student was now the only reason he had for living instead of just surviving â he needed room for his future in the duffle bag. Then he rearranged the whole thing so that he wouldnât leave any room for regret.
The student took his familyâs photo album. The only proof of his familyâs existence weighed heavily in his narrow hands. He collected all the photo frames in the house, unfastened them, and slipped their photographs into the album. He forced himself to not look through the pages, forced the album into the bag, forced the bag to zip up, and made a call.
The person on the other end of the line called him lucky. The student hung up. He sat on the floor, hugged his bag to his chest, and waited.
The time came. The student joined seven other passengers and waited by rubble to leave Grozny, the capital of Chechnya â the place all of them will call home for the last time. When the car came, only a few words were exchanged between the driver and the passengers: names and confirmations, with the latter punctuated by a wad of cash shoved into the driverâs hand. But the studentâs last-minute call meant he needed to convince the driver even more â he did so with a thicker wad of cash. Satisfied, the driver stepped aside to let the student cram himself into the car with the rest.
It has now been two hours of being driven blindly down dark, uneven roads. Pressed against the window, the student sometimes squinted out whenever a lone street light passed them by, as the carâs headlights were never turned on. He needed to assure himself that they were headed in the right direction, despite having never left Grozny until today.
For the rest of the drive, he relied mostly on sound and touch to make out most of the other passengers. Cradled next to him was a sniffling girl in between a woman and a man. The woman cooed, doing her best to console the girl. The man, in turn, consoled the woman with a strong hand on her shoulder. The four of them sat in the back row of the car. He wasnât able to make out as much for the passengers in the middle row, but as street lamps illuminated the top of their heads, he guessed it was an entire row of women. All eight of their lives were being steered by the two men at the front. The student knew they were men because he could hear them speak freely â or rather, because no one else dared to speak when the pointed end of a rifle held by the driverâs partner was visible for all to see.
It was not just the rifle that made the student nervous. This situation could turn out to be a trap from the Russians. Or worse, a trap from the Nokhchiy â the Chechens, his own people.
He couldnât help but scoff at the irony if the latter were true. It was why he was in this car in the first place, after all, and it was why his family had prepared him for this moment. His fatherâs sister disappeared when he was just a child, and now his mother and grandmother have disappeared just today. The only reason his father escaped this family curse was because he was a man and because he died in a bombing. The only reason the student himself had escaped was because he was studying through the night on campus.
Unless a bomb fell on him right now. Or unless this was a trap. The almost all-female passengers made him nervous. At least he wouldnât live to see the consequences his aunt, mother, and grandmother faced â if his disguise held to the bitter end.
What would his death be like? He entertained the thought as the carâs engine hummed like the adrenaline in his blood. He needed to stay sharp, and he needed to distract himself.
Finally, the car slowed to a stop. It did nothing to slow his racing heart. And just like how his rushing blood continued to warm his limbs for any burst of action, the carâs engine continued running.
âOut,â the driver barked in Chechen. âWeâre here.â
The driverâs partner left the car with his rifle. He cracked the passenger door open. Cool night wind bursted through. The partner stepped aside, waiting for the passengers to leave. But no one moved. They looked at each other with a question on their tongues they were too scared to ask. The woman shielded the little girl. The man next to them put his arm around the woman and looked at the student.
The student understood. This was his duty now.
âWhere are we?â he mustered. He glanced ahead at the squat buildings divided by roads. âThis is not the border.â
âThis is the border,â the driver spat back. âItâs up ahead. You make the rest of the journey on foot.â
âYou said you will drive us all the way there.â
âI said I will drive you as far as I can, and this is it,â he pointed towards the buildings. âKeep following the road and youâll reach the border. Youâll know youâre there when you see the Russian patrols.â
The passengers gasped. One woman choked in fear. The driver shushed her.
The studentâs throat tightened. âYou didnât say anything about patrols.â
The driver shrugged. âI just found out about them. Now get out of my car before I change my mind and make you pay for the ride back to Grozny.â
The passengers shuffled out of the car and stood alone at the fringe of this rural town. A woman began sobbing. The girl quietly cried. Everyone else looked at each other, confused and still too scared to speak. The driver called his partner to get back in the car. He didnât. Despite the rifle slung over his shoulder, he walked to the student gracefully and his voice was soft.
âWeâre already outside Sernovodskoe, the closest we can get to the border without being seen,â he pointed at the road ahead that meandered out of the town. âThe walk should take less than an hour. When you reach the patrol, stand still and stay silent. Hide until our friends on the other side find you. They will help you cross the border into Ingushetia.â
The small reassurance seemed to calm the passengers a bit, but their nerves remained in the air like static. The student clutched the strap of his duffel bag. âWhat do they look like?â
The partner shook his head. âI donât know. But theyâre Ingush rebels. They know how to fight if anything happens. But right now, we only have their word that theyâll be there on time.â He patted the studentâs back and nodded at the road ahead. âGo. Be fast and lead the others. Weâre on time but I donât know how long the rebels will wait for.â
The student nodded. âThank you.â
He began to walk ahead, looking over his shoulder at the other passengers to tell them to follow. They did. The car door shut behind them, followed by the rev of its engine.
He did not look behind to see the car disappear into the dark. He pressed on down the dirt road that led out of the Chechen Republic.
â
From the flat terrain, dots of Russian soldiers and military vehicles emerged. It was easy for the passengers to see the soldiers â there were no trees nor tall buildings to provide cover. That meant it was also easy for the soldiers to see the passengers, too. It was only a question of when.
A spotlight shone in the passengersâ direction. They froze.
âDown, down!â the student whispered.
The group dropped to the ground. The spotlight passed over, but the group remained still. They looked at one another, confused and terrified of their possible deaths a few paces away.
âWhat now?â one hissed. âHow are we supposed to go through that? Where are the rebels?â
âThey donât even know if weâre here right now, do they?â another said.
A third cursed. âI shouldâve stayed in Grozny.â
The little girl, hidden under the womanâs scarf, tried not to whimper. Next to them, the man began wrapping the girl in the scarf, kneeling to sling her over his shoulder onto his back. The female passengers watched him expectantly. But once again, he looked at the student. Everyone else followed. The studentâs mouth opened, dry. He swallowed and steeled his blue-green eyes. This wasnât the time to sit around. He had made it this far. He was not going to die like this. And he was going to prove that he was man enough, even if the only person who cared was himself.
âIâll try to find the rebels to let them know weâre here,â he crept up from his crouch. âIf you want to follow me, make sure youâre not too close.â
The other passengers nodded. The woman who tended to the child reached forward with trembling hands to hold his.
âMay Allah bless you.â
He smiled to accept the wish and to hide his disdain. Then, staying low to the ground, he slunk into the enemyâs territory.
â
The student hid behind the cover of a truck. He could hear the idyllic Russian chatter of the soldiers and the slow crunches of boots on gravel. The soldiers seemed relaxed, unaware, and unprepared for any fight. Why would Russia station soldiers here, away from the tensions between North Ossetia-Alania and Ingushetia?
A sudden yell in Russian snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked at the source: soldiers playing cards on the ground in front of a barrack tent. He sighed in relief, then squinted. By the glowing lamps that lit up the perimeter, he saw the faint shadows of beds and of soldiers lounging around. That must be the sleeping quarters.
He shifted across the truck towards the opposite direction of the soldiers. He dared himself a peek, spotting a makeshift wooden shack away from the tents. Perhaps he could hide there? But what if soldiers were inside? Could he play dumb? He knew his Russian was passable and that he could hide his North Caucasian accent well enough, but there was no one who looked like an Ingush rebel in sight. Was the risk worth it?
He gritted his teeth. His legs grew antsy. God, if only this was better planned out.
He held his breath, ducked, and bolted to the shack. Panting, he pressed himself against its wall that faced away from the soldiers, and looked back at where he came from. He could make out the heads of the other passengers watching him. Or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him.
Onwards. Step after step, he moved down the length of the shack to its edge, his ears primed for noises other than his light breaths or his footsteps. When there was no more length to traverse, he swallowed and peered around the corner of the shack.
He looked straight at a group of soldiers sitting in a circle a few paces away. One stared right into his eyes.
The soldier didnât react. His eyes calmly passed over the student onto his comrade sitting opposite of him. The student jerked back to the cover of the shack. He couldnât hear the soldiersâ words, but he could hear a laugh before one of them stood and picked up his rifle. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. The student clenched his teeth and began moving quickly in the other direction. Whereâs the shackâs door? Maybe he could hide. He could at least barricade himself? He broke into a run. He dipped around another corner, found the shackâs door, and opened it.
The shack was empty and small. He didnât hear anyone coming after him. He slipped in and closed the door. It only had a desk, a chair, a radio, some drawers and some chests for supplies â an office of sorts. The studentâs eyes darted around. He needed something to barricade the door with. Something light enough for him to move. The chair? He scrambled towards it, grabbed it, and was about to jam it at the door when it opened up to the soldier that spotted him. The student cursed. He held the chair up like a shield, thought for a moment, then dropped it to raise his hands.
âIâm-Iâm sorry!â he spoke in fluent Russian. âI know Iâm not supposed to be here. I just got curious. I wanted to see what it was like, so I followed you guys. Iâm sorry! Please donât hurt me. Iâll go home now.â
The soldier narrowed his eyes. Shit. Was the studentâs accent not good enough? The soldier closed the door behind him and flicked a light switch on. The student filched at the sudden brightness and covered his face. He peered through his fingers at the soldierâs rifle slung across his shoulder, then at his eyes â a cold, deep, unforgiving blue.
The soldier spoke in Russian. âName?â
âM-Morozov. Please let me go home.â
âMorozov?â the soldier tilted his head. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and read from it. âMorozov,â he repeated, folding the paper and slipping it back into his pocket. âYouâre coming with me.â
âW-what? Wait, I havenât done anything! Why?â
The soldier grabbed both of Morozovâs wrists to pin behind his back.
âStop-let go of me-the list! What was that list? Did-did my parents report I was missing? I can go home by myself. Pleaseââ
âStop talking,â the soldier growled.
Morozov stopped. That language. Fear broke into relief. That language the soldier just spoke â his pronunciation was strange in all the right ways that differentiated Chechen from Ingush. The student saw it now: the Russian militaryâs coat was easy to find anywhere, and the soldier â the rebel â looked Russian enough.
The student let himself catch his breath. âYouâre one of the rebels.â
The rebel nodded. Still pinning Morozovâs hands behind his back, he shoved him forward, leading him out of the shack like a guard would do to a prisoner. His stride was confident, as if he belonged.
âThe other refugees,â Morozov whispered in Chechen. âTheyâre still farther away.â
The rebel paused, confused. Morozov could see him mentally replace Chechenâs foreign pronunciation with one more familiar to him.
âThe other refugees are still farther away?â he slowly repeated in Ingush.
Morozov nodded. He was lucky he was from the city â any closer to the countryside and the rebel wouldnât be able to understand him. Hell, Morozov wouldnât be able to understand himself.
The rebel nodded again and continued marching. He plucked out a walkie-talkie from his uniform, spoke in it, listened, and hooked it back onto his uniform. âThe other rebels on patrol just found them. Theyâll go their way. Weâll go ours. We have a truck ahead. Weâll smuggle you and the rest in and drive you to Nazran, the capital.â
âNazran? Isnât that next to North Ossetia? Wonât soldiers be there, too?â
âThere are soldiers everywhere. But those arenât the ones whoâll hunt you down if weâre caught.â
âIf weâre caught...â
Morozov looked behind at the sleeping quarters, then tried to look behind farther to where the other passengers wereâ
âHey, whoâs that?â
Morozov tensed up at the new voice. But the rebelâs grip remained steady as he walked the two of them on. âThis kid ran away from home to follow us here,â he said in Russian, nodding at Morozov. âIâm sending him back.â
The other soldier laughed. âIngush boy?â
The rebel shrugged and walked past the soldier.
âShouldnât we report that?â the soldier followed the rebel, who waved his hand dismissively.
âHeâs just a kid. Itâs no big deal.â
The soldier laughed again. âLet him walk himself back. Teach him a lesson.â
âHeâs just a kid,â the rebel shook his head. He nodded at the soldier. âWeâll be on our way.â
The soldier waved him off and the two continued their march onwards. Morozov felt lightheaded, then giddy. Maybe it was the heat of adrenaline, maybe it was the need to relieve his nerves, or maybe it was the rugged soldier holding his hands behind his back â Morozov couldnât help but chuckle. âVery smooth, soldier boy.â
The rebel raised a brow. He stuck to Russian. âKeep moving, kid.â
They walked a few more paces ahead. The soldier from before called out. âHey, when were you stationed here? I donât recognise you.â
The rebel waved his hand dismissively again, continuing his march onwards. But he kept listening. A few seconds passed. He looked over his shoulder. The soldier was gone.
He switched to Ingush. âRun.â
The rebel released Morozov and the two ran. Morozov was ahead. The rebel guarded their rear. When he glanced over his shoulder, one hand tugged his rifleâs sling. The other grabbed his walkie-talkie.
âThe other Chechens. Did you get them?â
âYep. Weâre with them,â a deep, brassy voice responded. âThey said a redhead went ahead. Do you have him?â
âYes. We may have been caught. All the focus will be on us, so you should be clear.â
âWhy are you the first to always get in trouble? Weâll see you at the truck.â
The rebel cracked a smile. âThatâs not how you say âyouâre welcomeâ.â
âIf you live, drinks are on me.â
The rebel pocketed the walkie-talkie and dropped the smile. âGo, Morozov, go.â
Morosov grinned. âIf we live, can I get a drink with you guys?â
âGoââ
The rebelâs head snapped to the left. He suddenly grabbed Morozov and pulled him towards another shack.
Morozov sputtered. âWhatââ
The rebel clamped his hand over Morozovâs mouth. He dragged him to the back of the shack, behind the cover of a truck, and slammed Morozov against the wall. Morozov gasped in shock. The rebelâs body came after. He leaned close on top of Morozov, almost pressing their bodies together. The thin veil of space between them was supported only by the rebelâs hand planted next to Morozovâs head. His azure eyes, illuminated by moonlight, stared into Morozovâs.
He leaned forward. Morozov held his breath. He felt the rebelâs whisper graze his ear.
âQuiet.â
At first, there was only the sound of their breaths against each other. Then fast footsteps kicking gravel about came, louder and louder, followed by Russian orders. The shackâs door on the other side slammed open. Soldiers stormed in. Their search was only for a few seconds. They broke out soon after, slammed the door shut, and continued their search elsewhere.
The rebel kept still. His hand over Morozovâs mouth remained there. He waited a few seconds more, staring at where soldiers could sneak up on them. Meanwhile, Morozovâs eyes had nowhere to go but to the rebel. His senses were sharpened by adrenaline, which stretched the seconds studying the details of the rebelâs face into minutes. His eyes drifted from the rebelâs peach fuzz that traced his jawline, to his cheekbones that shaped his youthful face, to his soft hair that was handsomely cropped, and to his long lashes that sat atop beautiful eyes. From the trapped heat of Morosovâs breaths against the rebelâs palm, he smelled metal and gunpowder. And in the cold, quiet night, he felt the rebelâs warmth against his own skin and heard the rebelâs calm and quiet breaths. He swore he could also feel the rebelâs heart beating against his. Morozov wouldnât mind staying like this for longer to make sure. He wouldnât mind staying like this forever.
The rebel eventually lowered his hand from Morozovâs mouth. But he still held him against the shackâs wall: the rebelâs hand had drifted downwards to firmly press against Morosovâs chest. Morozov gasped lightly. He reddened. The rebel didnât notice. He also didnât notice the softness beneath his hand, the quickening heart against his touch, or how, despite looking away to search for soldiers, his face was drawing closer and closer to Morozovâs. All Morozov had to do was lean forward andâŠ
âWeâre clear,â the rebel mumbled. âLetâs go.â
The rebel pulled back. Morozov remained stunned against the wall, heat rising up the collar of his coat. He never noticed how gentle, yet how rough the rebelâs voice was, especially when he spoke like that. He sounded exactly like the protagonists from the trashy romance novels Morozov secretly indulged inâŠ
âMorozov?â the rebel looked back. âMorozov. Letâs go!â
âI-right, sorry,â Morozov stammered.
The two sprinted away from the camp towards a hidden truck waiting for them. The rebel got into the driverâs seat. Morozov sat behind him. A minute later, the other rebels and passengers arrived. They squeezed in and the truck drove away, fast. The group of rebels relayed information to others through their walkie-talkies and gave orders. The passengers, Morozov included, kept glancing back at the patrol camp shrinking into the distance.
After a few minutes, the truck entered an airport. There were no soldiers here. The truck parked among a row of other identical Russian military trucks. Two civilian cars quickly pulled up next to them. The rebels dispersed the passengers between the two cars, with Morozov following the rebel that rescued her.
The cars quickly drove away under the cover of the night, leaving the truck behind as if it had never left the airport. The rebel that rescued Morozov was at the wheel again. Sat next to him was a second rebel. All was silent until the cars left the airport. That was when the second rebel placed his hand over the driverâs seat, and looked behind at where Morozov and the other passengers sat.
ĐŃŃĐŸĐżĐŸŃŃ ĐагаŃ, ĐĐœĐłŃŃĐ”ŃĐžŃ
Magas Airport, Ingushetia
He grinned. His voice was the same deep, brassy voice Morozov heard through the walkie-talkie.
âYou made it. Welcome to Ingushetia!â
The tension in the car broke. The passengers sighed and cried in relief, sinking into the seats. The second rebel laughed, reached for Morozovâs rescuer, and tousled his hair. He loudly rattled on about Ingush rebellion efforts, Nazranâs points of interest, and getting drinks, all while Morozovâs rescuer remained silent and focused on driving. But occasionally, he would look at the rear view mirror to check how the passengers were doing. And every time, without fail, Morozovâs eyes perked up to meet his.
Morozov did not need to see his mouth to know that every time their eyes met, he smiled. It made Morozovâs heart flutter.
After the rebels dropped off their passengers at a refugee camp site, the rebels talked about whose house they were going to take over to celebrate. As they did, Morozov found a tent and dropped off his bag as quickly as possible to join the rebels. Everyone piled back into the car to drive and knock on the door of an older rebel who had his own house and a wife, and who was all right with alcohol. He greeted them at the door with a shake of his head. He never thought their plan was a good idea and had never approved it, but he was glad enough for his âdumb youthsâ to make it back safely and successfully.
Everyone raised a glass and cheered for the dayâs successful operation. They urged Morozov to join them in their toast, and he eagerly did so. He partook in their smiles and chatter, but his eyes never failed to flicker to his rescuer. He sat cross-legged on one corner of a rug, quietly nursing a drink as he watched the commotion from afar. Morozov tried moving towards him but every time he did, someone would step in the way and ask him a question that can only be answered with things Morozov would rather not think about right now. He danced around those questions and once he finally slipped out of conversation, his eyes darted to the corner where his rescuer sat.
It was empty.
Morozov swallowed his disappointment with a drink. He convinced himself that they were bound to meet again. They had to. This group seemed like fun company worth sticking around with, and if he was part of the group, surely they would meet again. Right?
His eyes trailed to the front door.
...I never even got his name.
---
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
For every apple that falls down from a tree, the branch from which it falls from flicks upwards, away from the apple. When the apple, guided by gravity, lands, it imposes a downwards force onto the ground beneath.
The ground, in return, imposes an upwards force onto the apple. Sometimes, the upwards force stops the apple and lets it rest on the ground. Other times, the upwards force stops the apple by crushing it. It depends on the height from which the apple falls; it depends on the gravity of the situation.
When an apple falls from a tree, it never falls far. An apple is unable to move and canât deny it fell from a sickly tree, even if it doesnât want to admit it. A tree is unable to lie and canât deny its height crushed its own apple, even if it doesnât want to admit it.
For every tree, its apples will have equal and opposite reactions towards it. This is factually true, as true as the ground that awaits beneath.
â
13 February 2017
High School: Study Period
An apple sits at the usual library desk he shares with her. He goes through the usual motions of what he does at this desk during this time â he turns on his iPod shuffle, plugs in his earphones, takes out his textbook, his notebook, his laptop, and sets it all on the desk. What isnât part of his usual motions is how he stares at the work sitting in front of him and does nothing. His foggy brain isnât able to do much else â not until the fog clears at the sight of her.
She drifts into the room where she knows her beloved will be, and glides straight towards his desk. Seeing that his earphones are plugged in, she approaches him instead from the front where she knows sheâll be easily visible, and quietly perches atop his laptop screen with that patented smile of hers.
âHello Steora,â Merethel removes his earphones and smiles. His voice is missing its characteristic playful lilt, but his eyes still shine like stars at her. He pulls the chair next to him out for Steora and says nothing more.
She notices, of course.
She does slide into the seat she was offered, but she doesnât immediately unpack her books to settle and study. Instead, she fixes him with a look that saysâ
âWhatâs wrong, Merethel?â
âUm...â his eyes drift to his books. He scoffs. âWould you believe it? My dadâs gone again.â He pushes a textbook aside for room to open it. âSome things really never do change.â
The hurt in his words swim in her eyes, and she nuzzles him like a cat.
âIâm sorry.â she says, sympathy coloring her tone. âDid he tell you where to? Oh, um. Sorry, I probably should have asked if you wanted to talk about it first...â
âOh no, donât apologise,â Merethel smiles. âI appreciate you asking. Thank you. I do know where heâs going. Rio, of all places. He went there earlier this month for some work meeting. Last night, he was suddenly called to fly back there.â He sighs as gently as he flips through his textbookâs pages. âAnd thereâs not-a-word on when heâs coming back.â
Steora listens to him as he weaves his worries, and she wraps an arm around him in response. Merethel leans against her.
âBut anyway,â he starts, âHow have classes been so far for you? Howâs the school?â
âSchool is as school always is~â Her favorite phrase. One sheâs always fallen back on when thereâs nothing remarkable.
(Or when she isnât particularly willing to divulge details, but today is not that day.)
Merethel tucks her hair behind her ear. âLook at you. It hasnât been a year since youâve moved here, and youâve already settled in well! Iâm glad.â A chuckle. âI hope you donât miss France too much.â
âItâs hard to miss France when youâre right here with me,â she quips, a smile playing at her lips, mirth and adoration dancing in her eyes, blink-and-youâll-miss it as her expression knits into one of pondering. âAbout your dad â I guess thatâs just how his new job might be?â she suggests. She is trying to tread lightly, like one would when they are trying to avoid the one creaky staircase, like one would when they are trying to avoid the wrath of a guardian.
âI guess so. Well, it is how his new job will be. He told us heâll leave once every few months with no word of return,â another scoff. âAnd heâs still trying to pretend that all is fine and dandy and normal. I can get used to him disappearing for long periods of time. Ten years is quite the count, after all. But getting used to him acting like that? Ugh. Isnât it easier to just... not act? God, itâs tiring.â
Steora closes her eyes as Merethel combs through her hair, and a pleasant sigh escapes her lips. When he stops to rest his head on the desk, it is her turn to smooth his bangs, careful and gentle as she brushes her fingers against his forehead.
âYou think heâs putting up some kind of act?â her question is genuine, tone curious rather than sharpened like an attack.
âOh god, I hope so,â he laughs and closes his eyes at Steoraâs gentle fingers. âIf he genuinely thinks that everything will be normal and all right, he is truly delusional.â He opens his eyes. âHm. Maybe ten years did do a number to his head. Who knows. I wouldnât be surprised.â
âOr maybe he wants it to be true, Merethel,â she says, softly. âTen years without you, Hrodwyn, or Hygd. Thatâs a lot of years,â she murmurs, pulling away to actually dig at her books, this time.
Merethel stays silent. Only the flipping of pages respond to Steora. Then, a sigh.
âUgh, I hate that youâre right. Not you-I donât hate you-but I justââ he sighs. âI donât want this to be normal. I donât want any of it. We were all doing well without him, and then he suddenly drops by and everythingâs thrown off balance. Itâs soââ
Merethel resorts to a grumble and opens his notebook. There are calculus questions to be solved. Steora watches him glare at his equations.
âI know,â she says softly.
In the storm of his anger she knows that she can always hold on to one certain thing: that he loves her. This she knows as an unwavering truth, and it lets Merethelâs vitriol-laden words slide off her back like water off of a duckâs.
âEven if he didnât mean to be that way, thatâs still how it is,â she says as she frowns at their calculus homework.
âUgh, I guess...â Merethel grumbles.
A moment passes. Steora turns to look at him, eyes pleading this time.
âMeretheeel. Iâm a theater kid. I donât need to know thiiiis.â
Merethel canât help but break into a smile. He pats her head. âI know, I know. Just this semester left, and youâll fulfil all the math credits youâll ever need to graduate. Here, let me help you.â
âWhy are the numbers together with the worms noooow. When I was a kid the numbers stayed numbers!â she whines as she watches him untangle the problem. âThen they got with the letters and that was bad, and now they have squiggly lines and my brainâs going all squiggly tooo.â
Merethel grins. He scoots his chair closer to Steora. He knows they should be quiet in the library, but to hell with that. Heâll help squiggle calculus out of her head onto scrap paper. âOh! Speaking of the semester, howâs the musical production going? Iâve only ever passed by the hall, but itâs sounding pretty good so far â especially you.â
Steoraâs face takes on the colour of roses.
âEhh-that-how would you know that!â she punches him lightly. âDumbass,â she says without a bite to the word.
Merethel makes a mock-gasp and dramatically clutches his chest. âAh! Well, I guess Iâll have to let the cat out of the bagââ he pauses, then clarifies the idiom, ââIâll have to spill my secret.â
âIf youâre going to be that dramatic maybe you should be part of production, too,â Steora mumbles as she buries her face in Merethelâs shoulder.
Merethel laughs, one hand hugging her while the other pats her head. âI could use some extra-curricular credits. I donât have enough of those, and universities sure are fond of them.â
Steora mumbles again, burying her face even deeper. âWell? So whatâs your secret?â
Merethel beams from ear to ear. âI recognise your singing voice, you know. Itâs hard not to when you sing to yourself at random. Itâs good!â
âYou do listen!â she says, half accusingly, half jokingly. âCould have told me earlier.â She leans on him with a smile, then laughs a little. âThatâs so embarrassing. Iâm just singing without really paying attention to it, you know!â Ahh, all the times my voice cracked because I wasnât ready...
âWell, donât stop! Itâs wonderful. Singing while helping us with chores back home makes you look like a princess.â
âFineee. I woonât. Iâll sing more when I help out at yours,â she boops his nose.
âYes, do sing more,â Merethel takes the boop with a closed-eye grin. âBecause one day, maybe Iâll be your prince on the stage.â
Steora looks at him with a grin. âSo youâll work on the production with me? We can always use more hands~â
âAh, hm!â Merethel makes a show of looking up to think. âThatâs quite the commitment. But as long as youâre there, Iâll consider it.â
âOnly consider? Iâm not enough to make you say a yes?â she says teasingly.
âHa-ha. I donât know if I have the voice for it. Granted, I can always join the stage crew instead. Itâs way too late to join the cast right now, anyway.â
âStage crew is an option,â she giggles. âWhatever youâre more comfortable with. Youâll get to hear more of me singing!â she says, as if to sweeten the whole prospect for him.
âYou can always visit us more often too, seeing I donât know when my dad will be back.â
Her smile softens. âEven if he were back, Iâd come if Iâm free and you asked me to.â
Merethel tilts his head curiously. âYou would? Really?â
âI would,â she hums as she continues to cosy up with him. She adds with a cheeky grin, âSo long as youâre there.â
â...Weâll see,â Merethel sighs, content with his girlfriend sinking into his side. But it doesnât last long â Steora feels him straighten and hears him clear his throat. âAll right now, we have calculus to do. Which other questions did you need help with?â
Steora grumbles, but acquiesces as she points out the question she has trouble with.
The conversation fades into the tedium of everyday high school life, the worst struggle for the time being whether or not a calculus question is correctly answered in the answer sheet; whether or not Newtonâs Third Law would apply to this particular physics question.
If only it were all this simple.
---
Steora belongs to and was written by Koufukuriron.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
It is a cold winter night, but the heat of the crowd is warming. Hrodwyn, Merethel, and Hygd stand among them in this park downtown, counting down the minutes to midnight. Itâs the familyâs first time celebrating New Yearâs outside of their home. Hygd chatters away with Hrodwyn, both their breaths misting the air as they take in the people, the laughter, and the dreams. But Merethel, nervous, looks down at his phone, then up, then down again.
It takes him a while, but he finally spots her â the transfer student from France, the star of theatre class, his brunette girlfriend. Sheâs looking around â it seems like she's looking for him, too; her eyes scan the crowd for his figure.
She tries calling out. âMerethel?â
âSteora? Steora!â Merethel tiptoes and waves his hand high above.
Hygd gasps. âSTEORAAAA!!!!â
Smiling, Hrodwyn bends down and hoists Hygd up on their shoulders. Hygdâs head of orange hair pokes out of the crowd like a flag. She waves both her hands wildly. âSTEORAAA!!! OVER HERE!!!â
Finally, Steora Rochefort sees her the family, and the brightness of her smile matches her namesake.Â
âHygd!â she says with a wave back, matching the youngest's, and trots over to the three siblings. When she arrives, she immediately greets Merethel with a hug. "Hrodwyn." Her gaze drifts from Hrodwyn's a little as she shuffles slightly closer to Merethel, but she offers the eldest a greeting smile.
Then, of course,Â
âHi, Merethel.â
Her smile and the stars in her eyes takes on a softer quality as she pecks her boyfriend's cheek and wraps him in a hug.
âHiiiii!â Hygd grins.
Hrodwyn smiles politely and nods. âHello.â
Merethel wraps his arms around her, happy to feel her weight against him. He sighs, content. âHello, Steora.â Gently, he returns the peck with one atop her hand, dusting her cheeks with colour. âI hope this is not so busy for you. I was hoping that a random park wouldn't be so crowded, but here we areâŠâ
She responds by lacing her fingers with his. âMm. It's okay. It's not like I don't deal with a lot of people for work, you know that,â she laughs a little.
Despite the dark, Steora can see Merethelâs smile grow. He tightens his hand in hers and asks, âHow are you feeling? How was work?â
âWork is as work always is~â she hums and swings their joined hands a little. âHow have you been?â The question is addressed to all three siblings, this time, as she casts a glance at all of them.
Merethel opens his mouthâ
âI don't wanna go back to schoooool........â Hygd wails.
Merethel glares at Hygd. She ignores him, flopping on top of Hrodwyn's head. Meanwhile, Hrodwyn responds to Steora with a simple nod and a thumbs-up. Steora gives them a little grin and a thumbs-up back with her free hand. It takes her a while still to get used to Hrodwyn, but she's warming up to the eldest now. Her thumb gently runs across Merethel's hand in a soothing gesture.
âAnd why not, Hygd?â she asks the youngest with a lilt of amusement and curiosity in her tone.Â
Hygd giggles, then sighs dramatically. âC'mon. Who wants to go back to school? Two weeks is noooot enooooough........â Hygd straightens and points at her brother. âAlso, vosha doesn't let me play Animal Jam on his laptop.â
âIâwhat!â Merethel gawks.
Hrodwyn sputters. In front of his girlfriend? Foul.
âI do!â Merethel reddens. âIt's just that every time I let you, you always play for two hours. No less! I have homework to do, you know.â
Steora looks at him with her eyebrows knitted. She pokes his cheek gently. âMerethel, you do most of your work with me anyway. Let her play Animal Jam, will you.â
He sighs and rests his hand on the small of her back. âI guessâŠâ
Steora smiles as she leans on Merethel's shoulder. Then to Hygd, in an attempt to soothe ruffled feathers, âWell, if you go to school, then you won't have to fight Merethel for the laptop. If you go early enough the computer lab might even still be open?â
âYeah, exactly!â Hygd nods wildly. âThat's the only thing I'm looking forward to⊠and seeing my other friends there too!â She gestures her hands everywhere with a smile, throwing her weight around to and fro. Hrodwyn sways wide-eyed like a skyscraper during an earthquake. Hygd doesnât notice and continues. âWhat about you, Steora? Do you wanna go back to school?â
âHmm,â she hums, still with that smile on her lips as she tucks herself perfectly into Merethel's arms. âYep. I can't wait to go back, really.â
She looks at Merethel and thinks of coming home. âI get to see him more.â
And less of the woman who birthed me.
âAnd I get to see you more, and you can tell me about Animal Jam!â
She seeks shelter in the brightness of Hygd's smile and counts on it to chase away the shadows of her thoughts.
Merethel chuckles. âI think you just opened Pandora's box.â
âYeah, you just did,â Hygd grins. âBut anyway! So Animal Jam is this gameâŠâ
More people begin to fill in the park. Merriment is in the air: friends bet on New Year resolutions, families take pictures together, kids run amok and squeal with laughter, and couples lovingly hold each other. There are some people who look about Hrodwyn's age but speak in their own familiar tongues â international university students perhaps, those who did not go home to their families this winter break. A lot of them live downtown after all, just like the Canadian students from out of town. Some of them are even neighbours. Hrodwyn watches them and imagines themselves in their shoes, but only for a while.
Someone starts passing out sparklers. People clear out for the small flowers of ember sizzling and burning bright against the temperature in the negatives. Phones are pulled out to capture their temporary, iridescent bloom. When Hygd finishes her yapping, Hrodwyn puts Hygd on the ground, raises a finger, and points to the distribution of sparklers.Â
âAh⊠do you guys want sparklers?â
Steora looks in the direction Hrodwyn is pointing, and her eyes begin to reflect the tiny pinpricks of light dotting the place.
âMay we?â she says, voice dyed with wonder as she turns her glittering eyes to Merethel.
He gazes at her with his blue eye and smiles. âOf course! Hygd? Hrodwyn?â
âYAY! Let's go!!â Hygd takes off running.
"Hygd, wait up!" Hrodwyn runs after her.
A woman hands out the sparklers. Hrodwyn collects three unlit stalks and one lit stalk from her. With the singular lit sparkler, Hrodwyn lights Hygdâs and Steoraâs, and Steora turns to Merethel. He gazes at her by the light of her sparklerâs embers. They cast a soft glow on her face like tiny stars. His smile melts at his girlfriend, and he raises his unlit sparkler to her.
âA toast of stars for the new year?â
The responding giggle that carries through the little space between them is the quality of feather-down as she gently nudges their sparklers together.
âA toast of stars for the new year,â she repeats after him. âFor many more of these, with you.â
His sparkler blooms into life, and his smile is made all the brighter with all the stars wrapped around them â but his eyes remain only on his one star in front of him.
âHave you thought of a New Year's wish?â he asks her.
Stars in the sky, stars in her eyes, and the only star she wants to wish on is
One that lets me stay with you and Hrodwyn and Hygd for the rest of my life because without any of you none of it has meaning.
âSure I have.âÂ
She watches the wick of their sparklers burn down.
Time is ticking down.
She has to go home
back to that house.
Her smile dims by a fraction and she hopes she can hide it under the glow of the sparklers, of first love.
âMaybe I wanna keep it a secret,â she says with a teasing lilt.
âMaybe it's better that way,â Merethel hums. âPeople say that if you say your wish out loud, it wonât come true, you know. I don't think I quite believe it myself, but... better safe than sorry, I suppose?â he chuckles as his eyes drift to the dying light.
âMm. Then I'm not going to,â she leans on him.
Then, softly, so just the two of them can hear, âHey, Merethel?â
âHm? Yes, Steora?â his finger grazes her cheek, and he carefully tucks her brown hair behind her ear.
She chances a glance at Hrodwyn and Hygd, making sure theyâre busy with their own sparklers, becauseâ
âshe's going to lean in, right as their sparklers burn out,
âI'm glad I'm going to start this year with you.â
said into the gossamer-thin space between them.
"I love you, Merethel."
ghosts past his lips before her own closes the distance between them.
New sparks fly, ones that span infinity.
Merethel closes his eyes with the embrace. In this moment, they are untouchable like the stars in the skies, like the mist from their breaths when they part.
âI love you too, Steora,â one of the breaths whisper.
They are sixteen and there are certainly no forces beyond their control that can shatter this moment between them.
They are sixteen on New Year's Eve and there are no such things as father figures that are about to re-enter their lives after ten long years of absence or mother figures that are mothers by virtue of purely blood relation and nothing more.
They are sixteen, and in love, and in that moment even one second can stretch into infinity.
She pulls back after the quick, chaste kiss, and reaches out to put a hand on his cheek, thumb smoothing across the skin.
âWow,â she says, âyou're handsome.â
There are certainly better things that can be said here, but hey, they're teens in love.
âNot as handsome as you are beautiful,â Merethel says without missing a beat.
Teens in love indeed. What more can be said?
It's the last minute of 2016. Crowds merge. Sprinklers are raised in anticipation. Hrodwyn bends down to carry Hygd on their shoulders again, and the eldest walks towards the young couple â not to intrude on their moment, but in preparation for what will happen next. Hrodwynâs eyes meet Merethelâs. The two share a knowing look. Concern creases Hrodwynâs brow. They begin to take another step towards their little brother.
But Merethel looks away from Hrodwyn. So Hrodwyn lets space remain between the two of them. But they never let him out of sight, never let the clear line of distance between them fill.Â
Merethel looks at Steora. He hopes the cover of night hides his face, but the uncharacteristic waver in his voice gives him away.
âHey, Steora?â
âMm?â she responds, acknowledging him.
âI... think I should've told you this sooner.â
Some of the crowd has started counting down the last thirty seconds. Merethel laughs nervously.
âI, ah... this is my first time seeing fireworks. Out in the open, like this.â
There is more meaning in what is left unsaid. Fear. She catches onto his hesitation and holds him closer in response.
âAre you going to be okay?â she asks, hand sliding to fit into his, a lifeline of reassurance. I'm here echoes silently in the way she presses her form against his, side-by-side.
âUmâŠâ he leans into the comforting pressure. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a pair of ear plugs and tries to laugh again. His voice is barely audible.
âI don't know. This is my first time doing this.â
âIt's okay even if it's not.â The echo of the countdown continues behind them. âI'm here regardless, Merethel.â
A smile that she hopes can be the least bit comforting.
âTEN! NINE! EIGHT!â
Merethel presses himself closer to Steora, closer to the sanctuary of her smile.
âSEVEN! SIX!â
âI know. Thank you, Steora.â
âFIVE!â
He puts in his earplugs, pushes them in tight.
âFour,â Steora says, hand holding his tighter.
âThreeâŠâ Merethel tries to not shy away from the sky.
âTwo,â Hrodwyn glances at their brother.
âONE!!â Hygd, oblivious and above it all, looks to the sky.
Light erupts and colours burst from within. Fireworks.
[MERETHEL SANITY CHECK: FAIL]
âHAPPY NEW YEAR!!!â
Red, yellow, green, blue â the dreary winter sky has never been filled with so many rockets of colours. The park of people cheer, shout, and yell, embracing the dawn of a new year, of a new start. The fireworks are banging and cracking and snapping; the people are cheering and shouting and yelling and screaming. Merethel flinches, nearly doubling over to the ground. Steora feels his grip crush her hand for a second. The earplugs are helping, but they did not stand guard against the sudden implosion of sound and the brilliant flashes of light. His mouth opens. No words fall out. He tries to bring his eye to look at the sky, to see and hear the fireworks only for what they are. Frightful awe is frozen on his face.
Steora says nothing in response.
All she does is hold him â her frame belies her strength and ability to hold Merethel up despite their difference in size. She gently tries to maneuver him so that he has his back to the fireworks, away from its harsh lighting as she holds him closer to her.
His lips are dry, but he finally speaks. âY-you don't have to do this, Steora. I'm-I'm sorry,â he gasps. âI-I don't know why... why I'm like... like this.â
She shakes her head.
âHey,â she says loud enough to be heard over the fireworks, âwhy wouldn't I do this? I love you.â She says it as if he doesn't know it. âWhatever I can do for you, I will.â
A soothing hand moves up and down his back. He leans closer to his security and musters up courage to look at the sky again.
âWe... we should enjoy the fireworks while we can,â Merethel trembles in Steora's embrace, but he manages a smile. âAnd-and it's my first time. With you.â He takes deep breaths, steadying himself. âIt'll be a shame to waste it. I don't want to waste this moment.â
âTime spent with you is never time wasted.â
She looks up to the sky with him, the support on his back ever-steady.
âThey're really pretty, aren't they?â she says looking at the fire flowers in the sky.
Merethel remains half-curled in a ball. He squeezes Steora's hand, bracing for cover at every muffled bang of a firework. But still, he watches the fireworks burst in the night sky â he turns to Steora and watches the fire flowers bloom through the reflection in her eyes.
âYes,â he musters, âthey're beautiful.â
She turns to look at her boyfriend in her arms, and smiles at him, mirth twinkling at the corners of her eyes.
âI guess I can't say I think you're more beautiful than the fireworks, huh.â
Merethel manages a soft laugh. He nuzzles his head against Steora's shoulder. âNo, no you cannot.â
He wishes he could close his ears like how he could close his eyes. If he could only focus on the lights, if he could only focus on her, all will be beautiful. All will be right.
Merethel raises Steora's hand grasped in his. Though the movement is stiff and his hand is clammy, he manages to bring her hand to his lips once more.
âHappy New Year, Steora.â
Shaky or not, it is the one gesture that will always bring a smile to her face. Aglow with happiness and joy, she leans in to press her lips against his forehead in return.
âHappy New Year, Merethel.â
She smoothes the hair out of his forehead â careful, of course, not to disturb the part covering his eye.Â
âThanks for being the best thing that's happened to me. I still think you're prettier than the fireworks.â Cheeky grin.
âOh, how am I supposed to top that now? That's unfairâŠâ Merethel scoffs dramatically. Looks like he has regained some of his wits. âNow the best I can do is thank you for giving me the honour of being the best thing that's happened to you. I carry it with great pride and love.â
The brightness of her smile eclipses that of the fading fireworks, and she nuzzles into him gently.
âI carry you in my heart with great pride and love,â she says softly as she pulls him closer to her. Paying attention in English class is paying off.
âAh! Clever now, are we?â Merethel boops her nose. âYou learn fast. I'll have you know that 'it' was referring to 'honour', but I have decided your amendment is far superior.â
âI learn under theââ pauses, she's trying to remember the word, what was it, ââtute-lage? Of the best!â Mispronounced, but ah well. âI can only get better from here.â
âTutelage? You see me as a tutor?â he laughs teasingly. âThat's high praise. But yes â the only way for you is up!â
There are only a few pops and fizzles now. The smoke is already beginning to waft away with a cold draft. Merethel, hesitating for a second, removes his earplugs to pocket them. His hands move to rest at Steora's sides, and his smile grows.
âAnd I carry you, Steora, in my heart with great pride and love.â
She looks at the thinning crowds, dispersing after the display is over, and exhales a misty sigh.
âI think we should get going too?â she says, reluctantly.
Merethel holds Steora tighter. â...I think we should.â
He sighs, looks at his siblings, and back at Steora. "I wish you could stay with us. I certainly know Hygd and jisha-vosha wouldn't mind."
âYou know I want nothing more than that.â
She slots her hand into his.
âI would, if I could.â
The smile she gives him is rueful.
âLet's?â
Her feet don't move.
Merethel doesn't respond. He keeps holding her, anchoring her as the sea of people part to walk around them.Â
Why couldn't a kiss truly last infinity? Why couldn't a moment truly last forever?
It is the beacon of the eldest's voice that finds them. âWe should go. It's late.â They look at Steora, solemn. âWe'll walk you home.â
She averts her gaze. It is her turn to be nervous, unsure. âYou guys don't have to! I can take myself home.â
An attempt at â well.
Whether it is a very good attempt or not... well.
Regardless, it flies over Hrodwyn's head. They continue in their same neutral tone. âIt's dangerous. It wouldn't be responsible of me to let you walk home alone this late at night.â
âI can defend myself.â
It is not said in reticence.
It sounds more desperate than it is combative.
âI-I'm used to it.â
Hrodwyn tilts their head and looks at Merethel. He caresses Steora's hand.
âAh... well, we don't have to walk you all the way, of course. We can drop you off where I usually would.â
âYeah. I mean, yeah. We can do that.â
Relief tugs the corner of her lips upwards.
âWell, um. Let's go, then?â
She tries for what has to be the umpteenth time tonight.
Merethel smiles sadly but plays to her tune. He hooks his arm in hers. âLet's.â
So they go, all four of them. The pitter-patter of their steps break the nightâs silence as they walk down the streets, stopping at the mouth of the one where Steora lives. She looks back at the family. With a hug and a peck on the cheek for Merethel and a wave to Hrodwyn and Hygd, her figure is swallowed by the growing distance between them as she goes down the street and disappears into the areas the lamps do not shine on.
Hrodwyn remains watching until the dark swallows her whole. They then look to their siblings. Hygd is practically asleep â her head bobbed and her eyes fluttered the whole walk through. Merethel remains staring down the street, trying to find the afterglow of his star. He feels a hand on his shoulder.
âLet's go home. It's going to get colder. I don't want us to get sick,â Hrodwyn bends down to piggyback Hygd. She hugs Hrodwynâs back like a baby koala and immediately gives into actual sleep.
Merethel keeps looking down the street. â...Mm, yeah.â
Hrodwyn turns to leave. They look back at Merethel.
âYou can ask her to come over tomorrow. When school starts, you'll be seeing her nearly every day, too.â
â...Yeah. All right. Let's go home.â
â
The first hour of the new year ends at home. Hrodwyn carries Hygd to the upper bunk of their shared bed, tucking her in for the night. Hrodwyn also makes sure Merethel doesn't touch his phone the second he's in bed. Fortunately, all the walking and all the mental exertion from the fireworks made him quick to surrender to sleep. Hrodwyn had half the mind to check on Merethel, but seeing him fall asleep so quickly stopped them. They can always ask tomorrow.
They yawn. They can feel their brain starting to slow down, but they still have work to do. Rent is due. The kitchen needs to be cleaned. There isn't much food left in the fridge. That'll call for a grocery list. They also need to schedule shifts, visits, gigs. Maybe they can clean the kitchen now. And the sink. Start the dishwasher so it's dry by morning.
Hrodwyn could sleep. Or Hrodwyn could maximise the rare days they're fully off work for the house. Itâs all for their siblings. Itâs so when Hrodwyn returns to work, everything will be where things need to be, and the days can pass by like clockwork.
Hrodwyn stretches, makes coffee, and gets to work.
4am
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK
Motherfucking son of a bitchâ!! Hrodwyn freezes, Swifter in hand. Who the fuck is at the door at this time?
They remain still for some time. Don't let them know you're here.
Silence falls. They don't hear movement from beyond the thin plaster walls.
Maybe it's a drunk student. I'll ignore it.
But what if it's not?
Shit, the lights are on. They know someone's here. What if I need to call the cops?
Hrodwyn glides with socked feet on freshly-mopped hardwood towards the windows. Very slowly, very carefully, they tug one of the blinds down to form a peephole.
The Swifter falls.
Hrodwyn runs to the door, unlocks it, opens it.
Their big turquoise eyes stare up at narrow azure eyes.
âDaa?â
---
Steora belongs to and was written by Koufukuriron.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
Sparrow Flight is out of its hiatus! To celebrate that and my birthday, I made my very first animatic. If you're interested in following the tragic yet warm lives of Leyna Morozov, Gavrill Vorobyev, and their children, start reading here!
Story 9 will be posted this Saturday, but you can read it ahead of time on Sparrow Flight's main site. You can catch up to even more stories on my early access Ko-Fi where you can also get early drafts, bonus comics/art, and behind the scenes work -- including a breakdown of this animatic!
Content warning: this story contains a brief visual of gore.
Amaia, Melydice, Tatsu, and Yona belong to and were played by @daruqin, @katastrofish, @mintrhine, and @inkysatell respectively. They also designed their respective characters except for Tatsu, who I designed with Mint's guidance. Fisher belongs to and was played by our game master @theroyalzealot.
Tatsu was written by Mint. This is my adaptation of what was originally written.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
Through the wide windows, Gavrill watches his sun set â a burning pinprick of amber that melts the sky. He does so from an uncomfortably luxurious bed, within the confines of this grossly extravagant hotel room Helvetia paid for.
He cannot describe how he feels, just as he cannot perfectly describe all the colours in the sky. The sky bears few colours with seamless transitions from one to the next; the sky bears an infinite number of indiscernible colours that can't be described with words; the sky bears the colours of a sunset. It is easier to say all is red â red with the sun, red with blood â and all is silent. Too silent, and too big.
Where his sunâs dying light touches, his blurry thoughts follow. Maybe heâs feeling the effects of his restless eleven-hour flight here. Maybe itâs the hollowness left behind by adrenaline, or his brain trying to justify those two otherworldly prisoners as fragments of his imagination.Â
But the dead kid was real. Gavrill has no excuse for denying that.
A dead kid, he knows, is tragic. This, he knows, he empathises with, especially as a parent. And the child was around Merethelâs age, for Godâs sake. That alone should terrify him. And it does, in theory. But in practice, he feels nothing â no, he feels many things. Too many things that create a chromatic blur in his mind that's so spread out, so intermixed, to the point that the blur is distilled, translucent, a hazy afterimage of what was once there. And there was no point in trying to use rationale to see that afterimage, to find those feelings. Itâs painful. Itâs tiring. Itâs like trying to partition a sunset into slices of colours before itâs goneâ
Itâll leave him with nothing.
Yet, his sun continues sinking.
On the nightstand, in the corner of his eye, is his sketchbook. Itâs where he documented the operation his team finished a few hours ago, as if anyone would read it. And on his chest, resting snuggly beneath his hands, is his work phone. He feels a buzz. Itâs from his group chat with his children. He sent a message to it a few minutes ago. Only Hrodwyn responded to it. Merethel and Hygd have not read it yet.
He knows he should feel happy. After a decade of silence, one message from his child should make him happy. But itâs not enough. Is that selfish? Is it selfish to only want clear, bright morning skies for him and his children, even though day has passed and his children have grown without him?
Without thinking, he swipes off the message application to open his photo gallery. Itâs empty. He has already sent the photos of the dead kid to Fisher, to identify the kid and contact his parents. Gavrillâs thoughts remain â his sunset slowly separates into discrete shades of red â and he continues staring at the blank screen. It was once filled with the kidâs serrated chest. He was so young. He couldâve been Merethelâs classmate. He couldâve beenâ
Stop.
Gavrill decides to not imagine how the kidâs parents would feel. He lets his vision blur, and his sunset melts into just red once more.
Iâm tired.
He sighs. He places his phone on top of his sketchbook and turns away from his sunset, lying on his side. He stares at the other side of the bed, at its untouched pillows. What would she do if she were here, laying next to him, her radiant face and her blazing hair only a gentle caress away?
He stares at the light in his mind and waits for an answer.
â[Â Â Â Â Â ], she would say.
He turns away, rubs his face with both hands.
God, I fucked up, didn't I?
Maybe getting some gifts for his children will help. Maybe. He doesn't fucking know. He decides to choose to believe that it'll work. For now. Maybe. Â
His sun sinks below the horizon. Its final rays in the sky dissolve. Gavrill closes his eyes and gives into the night.
â
Winnipeg, Canada
The childrenâs moon hangs above their lonely city, and tonight, it is split between black and white. One side rejects the sun, casting itself in darkness. The other side reflects it, embracing its light. Beneath this equilibrium, Hrodwyn walks to their home, treading by the light left from where the sun divides.
 Hrodwyn decides to leave their shift at The Sushi Place early. They make a detour to buy a box of cheese pizza, wait at a bus stop in the negative-degree cold, and trudge the length of their street through snow and ice to get home. When they arrive, Merethel wakes Hygd up from her nap. The three children begin microwaving pizza slices by the plateful, and their phones simultaneously buzz with their father's messages.
Gavrill: Hello! I have finished my job here. The company can only fly me tomorrow night, so I will be going home then.
I can't wait to see you all!! I miss you all very much already. â€ïž
Gavrill: I'm sorry Iâll not be there for Valentines Day, but Iâll be there the day after, on the 15th. Iâll get you gifts here. I love you all very much!
Merthel frowns. "Ah shit. I accidentally opened his message."
Meanwhile, Hygd's face lights up at the messages. She texts back quickly and looks at Merethel. "Why's that a bad thing?"
"Ugh, I don't want to talk to him right now,â he turns away from his phoneâs light and puts it down on the bar table.
"Why?"
"Because I just don't want to, okay?!"
"But he's alive! You should say something!"
The microwave beeps. The children take their seats and Merethel sets the plate of pizza. âIt doesn't matter. You've already said something, and jisha-voshaâs saying something,â he nods at Hrodwyn texting away. âWe'll see him when he gets home, anyway."
Hrodwyn looks up from their screen at the mention. They look back down and sigh heavily, leaning their head on their hand.
Gavrill: I'm glad you got off your shift early. Did you talk to the Greenwell folks about hiring positions?
Hrodwyn: no, not yet. openings are very busy so there's usually no time to talk to anyone
Hrodwyn: and once my shift is over, i immediately go to the sushi place
Gavrill: I see. Don't forget to ask them, however!
Hrodwyn: ok
"He's asking about working at Greenwell again," Hrodwyn mumbles.
"Oh, God,â Merethel makes a dry laugh. âI don't get it. Isn't his weird job good enough?"
"YeahâŠâ Hygd looks at Hrodwyn. "But why are you still working there? Paâs job has all the money, right?"
Merethel scoffs. "Don't be stupid. He can drop dead anytime. What then?"
"You don't know that!"
"Come on, Hygd. Grow up! Whether you like it or not, there's going to be a chance of daa dying. He said it himself. It's stupid to think that he'll come back home alive!"
Hrodwyn straightens. "Merethelââ
"You know it, Hrodwyn. And I don't get why you keep pretending otherwise. Why daa keeps pretending and talking like everything's fine, like this is all normal. Like, what does he expect? We're just going to be fine with him leaving once for a few months and potentially never seeing him ever again?"
Hygd frowns. She tries to reflect the hope her father gave her. "That's not fair! Daaâs trying his bestâ"
"Oh, I don't care!" Merethel scoffs. "He doesn't get to waltz in and pretend that everything's fine and dandy when it's not and never will be! He doesn't deserve it. That's right â he doesn't deserve it because it's so annoying to see him act like he didn't fuck off for a decade. He keeps acting like we've known him our whole lives and that's stupid."
"But it's not his fault!" Hygd yells across the bar table.
"I know but ugh, it still gets on my nerves! Don't expect me to play along with his antics. And next time," Merethel points at Hygd, "don't fucking tell dad about Steora. That's none of his business."
Hrodwyn sighs. "Merethel."
"He's literally your dad, doofus,â Hygd throws her hands as she speaks. âWhy canât he know you have a girlfriend? It's-it's also not fair you're not giving him a chance, you know!"
"Guys, stop. Please," Hrodwyn says.
"Oh, you're on his side now?" Merethel snaps his head to Hrodwyn.
Hrodwyn meets his eyes. "There are no sides to this, Merethel! Whether you like it or not, this is the boat we're stuck in, and I'm trying my best to keep it AFLOAT!"
Silence falls at the table. Hrodwyn seldom yells. The nineteen-year-old, barely two years fresh from high school, buries their head in their hands.
"I get why dad wants to work at Greenwell. Extra cash is... always good. But..." they sigh. "If he thinks that's going to make me stop working there..."
Merethel snorts. "Not as long as he can drop dead anytime, eh?"
Hrodwynâs head shoots up with a glare. "You know, it's also annoying that you keep bringing that up as if you won't be devestated if that fucking happened."
"I don't know. Maybe I won't feel anything," Merethel leans away from Hrodwyn, arms crossed in front of him. "He was gone for 10 years. What difference does it make?"
Hygd shrinks in her seat. "I don't want him to die."
The two siblings look at their little sister. She hasn't finished her slice of pizza. Her hands hug her knees as she tries not to cry.
"I don't want anyone to die."
Merethel lowers his arms and mumbles. "Me neither, but it's safer to expect the worst."Â
Hrodwyn's head retreats back to their hands. Theyâre tired of this â tired of agreeing with what they scold Merethel for, tired of letting Hygd down for having dreams they too desire. Itâll be easier to think like they do. Everything will be as clear as black against white, as clear as how their younger siblings look at the two different sides of the same moon.
Only Hrodwyn sees the moon for what it is. Only they see how it spins through its phases in its eternal chase after the sun. But their truth will be hidden in the blur of lies they tell their themselves, the lies forever melting in the line where the sun divides:
It'll be so much easier if daa never came home.
---
[BOND WITH CHILDREN, -6]
[CURRENT BOND WITH CHILDREN, 1/7 POINTS]
Thank you @katastrofish and @mintrhine for beta reading!
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
This letter was written in a sketchbook stored in Agent HROTHGARâs locker. It is written in a blend of Ingush and Russian.
Operation STATIC SHOCK
13 FEB 2017
First operation. Helvetia Branch 4 headquarters in Rio, Brazil. Amaia is late, and Melydice immediately jumps on the opportunity to tell itâs a good habit to be on time. What a great start. I am not looking forward to her talkative presence.
Arquette tells us about the case. A static worm came out of a man. Two people have been bit. No one knows how it happened or what it means, but he has an idea: itâs because of a drug people have been trying to send out. He doesnât know where itâs from. I guess thatâs our job now.
He drops a duffel on the table: 1 pistol for each of us. He empties the bag and leaves as Fisher enters, who mutters about missing the meeting. Again, Melydice scolds him. Even though we flew here on the same plane, he apparently had another meeting before this one.
Arquette immediately starts walking out. Fisher chases after him and we follow. We go outside to see the van weâll be using: a Benz sprinter. The kind Iâll tell the kids to avoid. We use it to go to the crime scene, an apartment. Arquette starts it. Fisher sits in shotgun, opens a laptop, and we go in. God, it was really fucking hot in there. But if I took our uniform jacket off, Arquette will scold me. Or worse, Melydice.
Speaking of Melydice, she mentions logistical issues with another agent to Arquette. I thought it was about Molly, who was supposed to be here. But apparently she wasnât here because of food poisoning (she ate seafood for her birthday). Anyway, Arquette tells Melydice to leave the files on his desk. I donât think the rest of us were supposed to hear that, because he looks back at us after saying that while driving. Fisher takes over the wheel while that happens.
Weâre still on the way to the apartment. Iâll continue writing after we investigate.
---
We arrive. The three junkies and the five cops are there. Arquette parks and tells us to get out. He and Fisher are only here to babysit (they have another task to do). So I go talk to the police and the junkies immediately. I donât want to spend more time here than necessary. I ask them what happened. One of them wonders if theyâre allowed to tell us. I donât know what to do, so I look at our babysitters. Arquette mouths, âLieâ.
This is going terribly already.
Melydice does the talking again. She says weâre back up. Obviously they donât know who we are, who called us in, and know none of us are locals. But I guess theyâre shaken enough to let it slip. He tells us about the call to the apartment. A worm came out of someoneâs chest like the âconjuringâ (I donât know what that is).Â
After that, Melydice takes charge of the group. She suggests searching the apartment and investigating wounds. Yona checks the junkieâs and officerâs wound: swollen, developed new tissue (Metasised? Metastasized? I donât know what that is), and static-like. The junkieâs scar is worse than the officerâs. Melydice then says to split the group: two to talk to junkies (Tatsu, Melydice), three to search the apartment (Amaia, Yona, me).
The three of us see the body the worm tore through. Yona inspects the body. She says its nerve channels are scrambled, repurposed by alien signals. The pineal gland also grew a radar organ that broadcasted signals. I donât understand what any of that means, but it doesnât sound good.
I use the UV light on my gun to look for the drugs. They werenât good at hiding them. Itâs just in the cupboard: small vials of glowing pink liquid. I give it to Yona. She asks me what drug I think it is. I donât know why.
Amaia figures out the drugâs taken with a syringe, so I suggest looking for them. I help Yona with my UV light. She finds one syringe easily with equipment to test drug purity. I continue shining normal light on her. Yona reads the test results and says the drug is nootropic (heightens senses). Fisher was right. She is useful.
Then, I search the bag the needle came from. Itâs filled with university textbooks and notebooks. A studentâs. I take the bag. Amaia checks the body and finds a wallet. His name was Ted, 22. He was just three years older than Hrodwyn. Poor kid.
I check for any signs of other people being here, and then we leave to join Melydice and Tatsu.
Outside, they tell us about their talk with the junkies (Vito, Mike). Vito thinks he needs to go to a hospital. Melydice says he will, after answering her questions. So he does. The flat belonged to Ted. Vito and Mike were there only for a hit. Neither are the suppliers. This was Tedâs third time taking the drug. Itâs the first for Vito and Mike.
Vito said the drug was called âPinkâ, or âFuzzâ. It lets you see everything, like âmega LSDâ. It lets you see everything, and everything sees you. At the crime scene after taking the drug, Ted opened his mouth. Static came out, and then the worm came out and bit Vito.
Melydice asks where Ted got the drug from. He got it at a comic store. He used a sign up sheet for a game room (Magi Nation, Jyhad, some dead game), asked for 30 minutes, and the dealers showed up. Vito and Mike have never gone to the store.
Tatsu gets his turn and asks Vito how he and Mike knew Ted and the drugs (Ted was their university friend). And then he tells him how things arenât so fun with drugs involved. Vito tells him to fuck off. Even then, Tatsu tries to medicate Vitoâs wound, even though he has no idea what to do with it. What a strange man.
Melydice reconfirms if it was Vito and Mikeâs first time. Vito confirms. He says they saw other worlds with the drug and refuse to take it again. He also tells us there are other users besides the three of them. They all know to sign up for the dead game.
By the way, while this was happening, Vito keeps asking Melydice to go to a hospital and to see a doctor. And each time, Melydice tells him sheâll let him only after he answers her questions. Itâs good that sheâs efficient. Thatâll get me home sooner. But I remember heâs just a kid and feel a bit bad for him. In the end, Yona was the one who treated Vito.
Melydice starts questioning the bitten officer. She asks if it was a wild animal report. The officer says yes. And then Melydice insists that it was a wild animal he saw. The officer describes the same thing as the one before and whenever he says monster, Melydice talks over him to say wild animal. I donât know how convincing she thinks she isâŠ
This is when an officer approaches Arquette and Fisher to ask them questions. So I walk between them, tell Arquette weâre done and we can leave. But the officer still tries asking me who we are. I tell him itâs not his business. He says it is. I donât know what to say. But Melydice likes to talk and sheâs good at talking to people. So I point at Melydice. Ask her. Not me.
That worked. He goes to her. As she says weâre private investigators working under an NDA for a private health firm, I see her slip her wallet out, and she makes sure the officer sees it. I shouldnât be surprised sheâs not above that. And I figure I should be there for extra support, unfortunately, if things go dirty.
I donât really follow what she says, but standing there seemed to work. The officer asks us to âshow credentialsâ but instead, brings us aside and opens his hand, expecting money. I am not spending a single cent for the job. So itâs good that Melydice is. The officer takes her money.
At this point, it has been 1 hour and 20 minutes. Cops have been here 15 minutes: theyâve been here for 1h and 45 minutes total. In that time, Vitoâs wound went from the fresh state of the officerâs to the worse state it is in now. We donât have much time.
We agree on a plan: Arquette and Fisher will drive the victims to a hospital and will drop us off at Stoneburner Comics (we got the address from one of the junkies). Fisher also changes into his suit, for some reason. Itâs a 15 minute drive to the comic store. We just arrived, so Iâll continue writing later.
---
The comic store is empty, except for some people. The sign up sheet at the front is easy to find. 20 people have signed up for dead games. 20 people have signed up for death.
Melydice takes a picture of the list and writes down Yonaâs name. Hm. The store owner sees us and reaches for his phone. I thought he was onto us. So I walk over and put his phone down. Just in case. I say weâre only here for a good time. He doesnât say anything.Â
I canât fucking believe what Iâm about to do. You would never let me live this down.Â
I sling my arm over Melydiceâs shoulder to convince him that weâre only here for a good time with friends. That was all for fucking nothing, because he wasnât convinced. So I try to ask who he was calling, but heâs too scared to answer! Why is he so scared? I donât understand. Iâm trying very hard to be nice, especially with my arm around fucking Melydice. Iâm sure youâd agree. Right?
Melydice does calm him down in the end, and the owner says that he was going to call the dealers⊠until I put the phone down. God. What a sick joke. How was I supposed to know?? He couldâve just told me. At least Melydice has talked sense into the owner and I can leave. But Melydice holds the back of my jacket so I canât. Bastard. At least I can write all this down before the dealers get here.
---
20 minutes later, Arquette calls Melydice from the hospital. Heâs posing as a doctor and says the kidsâ wounds are growing. Since Melydice has the information on the wounds and drugs, he asks her for help. Melydice calls Yona outside for her to relay what she knows to Henri. She thinks amputation is not a good idea, but remembers the radar organ in the pineal gland. In the living victims, the radar may be sending or receiving signals. She suggests surgery to remove it. Arquette tells Fisher to find out if there is a basement: if there is, put the victims there. If that doesnât work, trepanation. He speaks French and hangs up.
Then the dealers arrive, and we go into a game room. The dealers are 2 people. First: 7â man, shit posture, bald patch on neck. He doesnât have hair. Instead, itâs⊠long, thin cattails poking out of his head? Second: 5â woman, all muscle, looks very sunburnt except for the glyph on her head. Strangely, I think I recognise it. Maybe from a book Iâve seen. Itâs from another world, so sheâs definitely not from this place. Maybe from this planet, but not of this⊠realm. Maybe youâd known more about it, Lin. Ah, but if you were here, I wouldnât bring you into this mess.
The man is the one who talks. He asks how many we want. Melydice asks how many they have. The man opens his bag, showing 20 vials. Tatsu asks if theyâre the only suppliers, and the man says they are.
I ask how much it is. Itâs 4000 Real. God. Iâm not spending that much for this job, and Iâm especially NOT spending that much for drugs! I say itâs too expensive and leave. The rest follow. The dealers are upset and stare at us, but I donât care. All I need to do is know their car. I see it, write down the licence plate in this sketchbook, and draw the symbol on the womanâs head. Melydice calls Fisher to pick us up.
When Arquette and Fisher arrive, I show them my sketchbook. Fisher goes to his computer and gets the carâs information. It includes the owner's apartment address. We leave immediately.
Fisher drives fast. Very fast. Arquette quickly gives our breaching order. Tatsu goes in first with his sword (why is he using a sword??). Iâm next to throw a flashbang to cover him. Melydice gets the shotgun and goes next. Amaia and Yona are door guards.
We arrive. As Fisher and Arquette wait at separate exits, we don our kevlar vests and scopes and storm up to the fourth floor. Tatsu kicks down the door, and the skull on the table screams like a death whistle.
My gut tightens. Melydice kicks the skull. It shatters and stops screaming. The dealers arenât here but others will hear it. We need to move fast.
Messy room. Takeout boxes everywhere. Thereâs a couch with a broken frame. Something heavy broke it, maybe. A pile of laundry behind it. I smell it before seeing it. Oily. Disgusting. Thereâs also a blue-grey metal gong on the wall. It doesnât have any symbols on it.
Rooms: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Amaia and Yona stand guard. Melydice checks the bedroom. I cover her. Thereâs a wardrobe and closet. The bed⊠is a mess. Medication, handguns, blood and⊠semen samples, candy, and coloured lamps shaped like a round cartoon cat. Very cute. Hygd might like it. Melydice checks under the bed. Thereâs nothing. I open one of the candies. Normal candy. I check the sample labels. Only has names and words âbloodâ or âsemenâ.Â
Melydice checks the closet. I watch her back. No clothes. But thereâs a body. McDonalds cashier. Opened up. Missing organs. Walls smeared with no-scent incense. No wonder thereâs no smell. But I can imagine it. He was just a kid. Really still a kid. He was just Merethelâs age. 17 years old.
Melydice asks Yona to inspect the body while calling her âsweetieâ... Meanwhile, I shine UV light on the corpse, the closet (just smears), and the rest of the room. Thereâs nothing much. Melydice checks the wardrobe. Itâs designed to suspend a person (thereâs a harness dangling from the top).
Melydice checks on Yona and asks if something is wrong, as if thereâs nothing wrong with a teenager being ripped apart. Yona says his chest was crudely opened and it is empty. Heart, lungs, stomach, liver, all gone. Though his pancreas is still there. There are signs of struggle: he was serrated open while alive. Iâve seen all sorts of things before. You know that, Lin. But this⊠now that the jobâs done, my mind keeps going back to Merethel.
Anyway, Melydice thanks her. The kid has no identification on him, so I take a picture of his face and the room. I wonder if his parents know. They should.
Tatsu checks the kitchen: cabinets, oven, a fridge. He opens the fridge. There are sheets and sheets of fatty skin marinating in plastic bags, their colours changing to the light. The oven has wooden boxes. The cabinet has lighters, incense, crystal necklaces. Tatsu goes back to the boxes to open them, and thereâs a shit ton of Pink.
In the bedroom, I check for fingerprints on the items on the bed again with my UV light. I ask Yona to record the fingerprints, and we both gather the rest of the evidence. Yona categorises them to bag them. For the 5 handguns, I turn on the safety, unload them, keep one magazine on me and hand one to Yona. She thanks me. I distribute the other magazines to the other agents. Tatsu joins us to help.
Amaia suddenly locks the door and puts a chair under the handle. We stare at her. She says she hears the dealersâ voices echoing up the stairwell. Theyâre coming. Thereâs no key. The dealers have it on them.Â
I quickly check the bathroom. There are two sets of helmets and âshoulder padsâ (I searched it up later: gorget). On the shower curtains are glyphs. They look like computer writing. I tell the other agents. Melydice and Tatsu checks.
Melydice reads the glyphs:
WHEN THE CURTAIN IS DRAWN FROM ONE SIDE TO THE OTHER, THE GATE OPENS.
Tatsu reads more:
SHOULD YOU OPEN IT, THE AIR WILL FREEZE. IT WILL LEAD TO THE FEATURELESS PLANE AND THE MONITOR WILL CARRY YOU TO THE BORDERWORLD. THE WHIPLASH IS FATAL WITHOUT NECK PROTECTION.
Tatsu also tells us about the Pink in the oven. But thereâs no time to do anything about it now! We put our backs to the wall: Melydice to one side of the door, Tatsu to the other. We hear them coming, talking in a strange language. Amaia hears the woman fiddle with the keys and twist it. The man says something in a low tone. They speak in hushed voices.
And then the man speaks in English. He stutters. âWhat-what-what do-do you-you-you want?â
Surprisingly, he seems⊠genuine. Open to talk. And nervous. Good. I ask if he wants to live. Silence. Then, from the other side of the door, after whispering with the woman, the man says the gong blocks out sound from the room. If we want to negotiate, we open the door.
Melydice removes the chair from the doorknob and opens the door. She tells them to put their hands on their heads and walk in. The outer layer of the womanâs skin looks like itâs made of stone, while the manâs skin is peeling off. Tatsu notices the skin looks like the one in the fridge.
When they see our guns, the man, whoâs 2 feet taller than the woman, tries to hide behind her. Heâs trembling. Melydice says thereâs nothing to be scared of if they follow our instructions. The man grips the womanâs shoulders. She shrugs them off. Tries to. Says sheâll put her hands up because the manâs too much of a bitch to.
We keep the guns on them. Melydice keeps threatening them. The woman says not to do anything funny and threatens us with two stone eggs in her handsâŠ
I notice the man eyes the bathroom. I follow his gaze and look back at him with a raised eyebrow. The woman says to not look at him, to look at her, and to ask her questions.Â
Amaia closes the door. Melydice asks where they get the drugs from. The woman asks why, saying we probably already have some. But we donât care about that. We want to know where theyâre from. The woman says âMechanicsâ.
Melydice asks her to elaborate, but the woman instead comments about how calm we are, as if weâve seen these things before. (No idea what theyâre talking about, but alright.) She explains theyâre not from this world, which is obvious at this point. Then she explains where they get the drug from. Pink is fuel they get from mechanics of their world thatâs used to fix communication devices. They sell it here because itâs cheap back home. They come here, take human materials (the ones on the bed), and sell them back at their home.
I ask about the skin in the fridge. Theyâre disguises to look like humans. Itâs what the man wears, but it doesnât look good on him. Heâs too stressed for it to work. I ask about the kid in the closet. Organ trafficking. Some things still stay the same across worlds, huh?
I also ask what the rock eggs do. She asks if we want to find out. Tatsu and I say no. As Melydice reaches to her pocket, the womanâs hands tighten around the eggs. But all Melydice wants to do is to call Arquette.
Some time later, we hear his voice: âRoom service.â Amaia opens the door. Arquette and Fisher enter. Fisherâs two fists are held in front of him and when the door closes, a flaming sword appears in his hands. You wouldâve loved seeing that. The sword, I mean. It sounds like the story about the sword in the stone you tell me about. The one with Merlin, right?
Arquete gets more information out of the drug dealers. Theyâre from a city called the Borderworld, made by extinct aliens. Itâs filled with refugees from other universes. Traffickers, sorcerers, slavers, awful people. Also slaves. These two go between both worlds through gates like the bathroom, trying to keep low because both worlds hate them. So they do a bad job in both worlds. Moneyâs tight. They have a hard time keeping it. Besides Pink, they also sell machetes (made out of meteoric iron, intricately engraved, very useful for combat), protective equipment, necklaces (good for defence, guns will be useless with them).
And then, instead of killing them or arresting them, Arquette decides to negotiate with them for some goddamn reason. If they stop selling drugs and stop killing people, Helvetia will keep them alive as payment for their goods. He continues to threaten the woman, cornering her, and intimidates her into dropping the stone eggs, the snake. She complies. Nothing happens.
Arquette tells Melydice to bag the eggs as evidence and to take them away. We can handle the aliens as we please. As we do so, Melydice tells them theyâre lucky we were told not to kill them. The woman also spits out an amulet and her skin turns to normal.
I hold Fisher back. Since heâs the computer guy I thought he could, I donât know, track the kidâs face and find his parents. And I donât need to use English to talk to him. He says heâll take care of it. No parent wouldnât want to know their kid has been torn up like that. Itâll be a closed casket funeral, and heâll find the kidâs parents.
Weâre the last to leave. Fisher tells me that even if it doesnât look like it, this was a job well done. It sure as hell doesnât feel like it. It doesnât feel like anything.
Everyone gets in the van. The woman and man are handcuffed. Arquette fixes the disguise on the man, looks through the evidence bags, and keeps one of the cat lamps. Iâm glad I kept one in my bag. Hygdâs going to love it. I hope she will. He also talks about keeping one of the lighters even though Fisher says Arquette doesnât smoke anymore.
Arquette tells the prisoners that theyâll be kept in a special cell where Melydice can visit them. Melydice interrupts, saying he's making another mistake by keeping them. Arqutte says itâs better to keep them out of othersâ hands, even though there are other ways of doing that. The prisoners also have weapons and defences that are good for Helvetia. Melydice leans back into her seat: âDonât say I didn't warn you, Mr. Arquette.â Arquette trusts her to take care of him when he gets over his head.
Iâm writing part of this as we drive back to headquarters. I also take another cat lamp: something for Mollyâs birthday. Sheâs still young. She might like it. Yona takes two of them. Tatsu and Amaia take incense.
We arrive at headquarters. Fucking Arquette had the same idea as me and gave his cat lamp to Molly! Melydice tells her to throw it away because itâs âtouched by devilsâ. I think itâs more important for her to know they were left next to blood and semen samples. I give my second cat lamp to Molly since I donât know what to do with a spare. I tell her to not listen to Melydice, but that she may want to wash her hands because of the blood and semen samples. I clarify that the samples werenât on the bed. They were in the tubes. So the lamps are at least that clean.
Arquette and Fisher talk to each other in French as we follow them into an office. Arquette says we did good. And the bastard reveals he made us wear the uniforms to make the mission harder for us! He wants us to make sure we have the right clothes with the right situation. Obviously we already know that. A fucking six year old would know that!
He also reveals the police were under his pay. Apparently, when the cops at the apartment called their office, it also went to Helvetia. This wonât always be the case for our operations, though. Then he talks about the other Helvetia branches (weâre in the South American one). The North American branch was killed off. A prisoner from there either escaped or was broken out. The African branch killed themselves. The Asian branch is dying out. Thereâs only Europe, Antarctica, South America, and Australia left. Melydice raises an eyebrow at Arquette. I can hear her say âI told you soâ.
Weâll get a message in late April to get our clearances, whatever that means. Weâre also supposed to get âmandated therapy sessionsâ as well. I also donât understand what that means, but I donât care either. Because of the list of 20 we gathered, we got paid well. Very well. And most importantly, I can finally go home.
My flight home isnât until tomorrow, so Iâm writing this from my hotel room while lying on my bed. To be honest, I donât know why I wrote this. I thought this wouldâve been like those books you like to read. But even if you were here and I was stuck in Helvetia, I would never show this to you. Itâs sick. And Iâll get killed for that, too.
I guess I canât help it. Maybe in another world where all this was just make-believe, you wouldâve liked reading these. And itâs always nice to write to you. Itâs like youâre still here, listening to me. And I would really like you to be here right now.
---
Amaia, Melydice, Tatsu, and Yona belong to and were played by @daruqin, @katastrofish, @mintrhine, and @inkysatell respectively. Arquette and Fisher belong to and were played by our first game master.
This campaign session was based on the scenario "The Signal Smugglers" by mellonbread.
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
Once upon a time, there was a mother duck who lived on a farm. She sat on her eggs in her nest all day long. It was lonely, but she must keep her eggs warm until they hatch.
Many days later, one yellow duckling finally hatched out! Then another yellow duckling, and then another one again. One by one, all the eggs began to crack. Soon, the mother duck was surrounded by fluffy yellow ducklings. She quacked with joy. Finally, all her babies were here!
She counted them before their first swim â one, two, three, four, five, sixâŠ
Oh no! One large egg was still in the nest. It needed more time and care. So the mother duck sat back down in her nest to keep it warm and safe.
8 January 2007
Winnipeg, Canada
A dark night. A loud night. The landline phone rang and Elmira Golubev picked it up.
âHello? How can I help you?â
âĐĐ»ŃĐŒĐžŃĐ°. ĐĐ»ŃĐŒĐžŃĐ°!â
Ingush. She complied with no hesitation. âWhatâs wrong?â
"The children. Please. Please take care of them."
"Slow down. What's wrong?"
"They're coming. I can't explain now. Please, Elmira. My children. Theyâre all I have left in life."
"Okay, okay," Elmira stood. She knew the man was not one to talk, and never one to call. "Address?"
The man gutted it out. Elmira plucked a pen from a cup and scrawled his words onto paper.
âIâm going there now,â she said. âAre youââ
Click
â
The next day, the large egg started to crack. Out stepped a duckling much, much larger than all the other ducklings. He was not yellow, but dark-grey instead. His beak was black and he walked with a funny wobble. The yellow ducklings pointed and quacked at him. What is that? He cannot be one of us! I have never seen such an ugly duckling!
The mother duck scolded the yellow ducklings. Be nice to your brother! So the other ducklings stopped. But when she was gone, they continued pointing and quacking at the Ugly Duckling. You are ugly! You cannot play with us. You walk weird! You cannot keep up with us.
One day, one of the yellow ducklings yelled at the Ugly Duckling. You are hideous to look at! Go away! We donât like you! The yellow ducklings chased the Ugly Duckling, and the Ugly Duckling ran far, far away.
25 February 2010
No one knew if Gavrill Vorobyev was guilty or innocent of âThe Walmart Incident". Not the attorneys with irrefutable evidence that he was in two places at once, not the witnesses called to share their contradictory testimonies, and not the press who fed the public with conspiracies. So, Gavrillâs trial ended inconclusively. The judge ruled that the police were to continue their investigation. And for as long as their investigation was unsolved, Gavrill was to be imprisoned over a thousand kilometers away, in Edmonton Institution.
That was three years ago. Elmira had since kept his children under her care in Childrenâs Hope Foundation, the local orphanage she worked at. Gavrill didnât want his children to be fostered or adopted, so Elmira kept a constant eye on them instead. She could afford it â if she wasnât asleep, she was at the orphanage. Sometimes, she was on the administration team. Sometimes, she was a counsellor for the children. Sometimes, she was a tutor. And sometimes, she was a caretaker, like when five-year-old Hygd Vorobyev refused to touch her workbook.
âI donât want to learn Ingush,â Hygd declared one day, in English.
Hygd and her older siblings, Hrodwyn and Merethel, were in Elmiraâs office. Its size allowed the room to be transformed into a small classroom. They were here for their daily Ingush lesson Elmira promised their father.
âWhy donât you?â Elmira replied in Ingush. âI thought you liked learning Ingush. Look, your siblings are doing the same, too.â
âI donât want to,â Hygd shook her head.
Elmira glanced down at the photocopy of an Ingush textbook. She had modified it to fit her curriculum. Next to it was the Ingush workbook she wrote herself.
She took in a deep breath. âHygd, itâs Ingush class, so youâre learning Ingush.â
âWhy do I needââ
âIf you keep speaking English, that means you need to learn more Ingush!â
Hygd frowns. âI want to learn English instead!â
âBut your English is perfectly fine. You use it all the time in school!â
âI talk to you and my siblings in Ingush more than I talk to my friends in English. Itâs seven days of Ingush and only five days of English. If you donât teach me, Iâll get worse!â
âIf you want to learn English so badly, fine. I can teach it to you. But now, you learn Ingush. Learning Ingush will not make your English worse.â
âNo. I donât want to learn Ingush anymore.â
Elmira furrowed her brows. âIf you stop learning Ingush, how can you talk to your father, hm?â
Hygdâs voice quietened. She looked away. âI donât want to.â
There it was. Elmiraâs face softened. She put a gentle hand on Hygdâs back. âHygd, what happened? Did your friends at school talk about your father again?â
Hygd said nothing at first, but her silence was broken by a quivering lip and a scrunched nose. She nodded, and wet words bubbled out of her mouth. âCassey is having a birthday party, but her mom doesnât want me to go. Cassey said itâs because daaâs not a good person. Auntie Elmira, am I not a good person, too?â
Elmira brushed Hygdâs orange hair back. âOh, Hygd⊠you are a good person. You are the kindest, sweetest little girl. Your father is a good person, as well.â
âThen why wasnât I invited?â
âBecause Casseyâs mom was wrong. Grown-ups make mistakes all the time, Hygd.â
âThen what about daa?â
Elmira pursed her lips. âSometimes, bad things happen to good people, but that doesnât make them bad. Do you believe your father is a good person?â
Hygd nodded.
âDo you believe it with all your heart?â
Hygd sniffled and nodded even harder.
âThen thatâs what really matters. Okay, Hygd?â
Hygd nodded again. âBut I still donât want to learn Ingush. I donât want to be like vosha and jisha-vosha.â
âWhatâs wrong with Merethel and Hrodwyn?â
âNo one wants to talk to vosha because heâs not good at English. Jisha-vosha doesnât want to talk to other people, and now they donât have friends.â
Elmira thought for a moment. She offered a smile. âHygd, do you want to see photos of your father and mother in Ingushetia?â
Hygdâs eyes lit up. âYes, please!â
Elmira smiled. âI will show them after class. You can ask your father about them when we visit him, but you can only do that if you learn Ingush!â
âMm⊠okay. Then I want to learn!â
Elmira taught Hygd the language of her family. After that, she took Gavrillâs photo album from the storage room and showed Hygd the memories of her family.
â
A storm began. The Ugly Duckling tried to look for a warm place. He went to a barn, and he went to a house. But no matter where he went, everyone laughed at him. The Ugly Duckling hid inside a bush, cold and wet and alone.
âHygd? Hygd?! Have you seen Hygd? Do you know where she is?â
It was nighttime. Elmira pushed her way through the sea of children being ushered to sleep. She went from room to room, asking the orphanage staff and the children they tucked into bunk-beds, if they had seen the orange-haired girl. No one had â not her siblings nor her friends. When the orphanage grew quiet with sleep, the orphanage staff joined Elmiraâs search. The other staff fanned out through the building, while Elmira checked every room Hygd visited and was last seen at.
"Hygd? Oh, where did that girl go?"
A streak of light caught Elmiraâs attention. The door to the storage room was cracked open. Elmira frowned. She sighed and pushed the door. Of course Hygd would be here. As expected, a large suitcase was opened. Spilled open beside it was a thick, old photo album. Curled up near it was Hygd, fast asleep.
Elmira opened her mouth to scold the girl, until she noticed Hygd clutching a photograph to her chest. Slowly, Elmira bunched up her skirt and knelt next to Hygd. She reached and gently opened Hygdâs hand, upturning the photograph.
When the storm ended, the Ugly Duckling found an empty lake. He looked in the water and saw a reflection from above. A flock of large birds flew over him gracefully. Their bodies were pure white and slender. They were the most beautiful birds he had ever seen.
He kept watching them until the last white bird disappeared. Oh, how he wished to join them! But he was too young and could not fly. And he was too ugly. The beautiful, white birds would never want to fly with an ugly bird.
Elmira looked at the old photograph. Hrodwyn was at the front, beaming. Next to them, Merethel shyly smiled. Their mother â Elmiraâs best friend â sat in a chair next to the two children. Her bright smile was unrivalled by her blazing hair of fire. The infant she cradled, Hygd, shared her hair. Behind them, Gavrill stood tall and proud. His toothy grin matched Hrodwynâs. In each arm, he carried a child â one boy, one girl, both brunettes and both with the same face.
Elmira looked back at Hygd. She sighed, then tapped Hygdâs shoulder.
â...Mm?â Hygd rolled her head.
"Hygd Vorobyev, you should not be here. Come now. Put the photo back where you found it, give me the room key, and go to bed."
The little girl rubbed her eyes and looked at the photograph. Her head drooped. "Sorry..."
âFor what?â
âFor taking your keys without asking youâŠâ
Elmiraâs expression remained stern, but her voice softened. "If you want to look at the photos again, simply ask me. There is no need to be sneaky, yes? You are old enough to ask questions, and I will always let you see photos of your family."
The little girl nodded, her eyes still heavy with sleep. "Okay..."
â
Winter came. The Ugly Duckling had no home. A farmer found him freezing in the cold. Poor thing! So the farmer carried the Ugly Duckling into his house.
The Ugly Duckling was glad for the warm fire. But the farmer's children were loud and noisy. Look, a duckling! Let's play with it! Let's chase it around! The poor Ugly Duckling was scared. He ran away from the house into the cold.
The Ugly Duckling was alone again. He wobbled on a frozen lake to a cave. It was a place for him to hide, and it would not be as cold inside there.
For the rest of the cold winter, the Ugly Duckling stayed there. Oh, how he missed his mother! He hoped she would find him one day.
13 February 2017. Afternoon.
No one knew where Gavrill Vorobyev went. All his children knew was that he was called to work. He packed his bags, changed into his uniform, and hugged the children farewell. Ten minutes later, he was gone.
That was nineteen hours ago. Silence followed his departure among his children. And silence continues to follow twelve-year-old Hygd into her school day. She didnât talk to her classmates. She didnât sit with her friends during lunch and recess. She stayed in her homeroom to sit in a corner and draw instead. This is what her homeroom teacher tells Hrodwyn, who dropped their work shift to pick up their younger siblings from school.
"Hygd is, you know, a very bright girl,â her homeroom teacher says, clutching her arms against the frigid cold. âShe's very cheerful, she gets along with her classmates very well, and is very talkative. But today⊠I know she has bad days, but it doesnât make her withdrawn for the entire day.â
Despite the effort to keep the conversation out of earshot, Hygd hears it all, even through her earmuffs. She hears Hrodwyn mumble something about adjusting to family matters, then hears her homeroom teacher ask if her father will come to school events and meetings. Hrodwyn says he will, and that theyâll translate for him.
Hygd can hear her homeroom teacher force a smile. âI look forward to seeing him.â
The walk from school to home takes a bit over the usual twenty minutes, thanks to unshovelled snow and frozen pavements. Hrodwyn breaks the silence in Ingush. âHygd, how are you feeling?â
Hygd kicks blue road salt. âIâm fineâŠâ
Hrodwyn takes her gloved hand and squeezes it. âDonât worry about daa. Heâll be fine.â
Merethel, who has been walking with his hands in his pockets, plucks his earphone out of his ear. âYeah, heâll be fine. Itâs not the first time he has done something like this.â
âItâs not?â Hygd looks up.
âMmhm,â Hrodwyn nods. âHe used to be in a rebel army in Ingushetia. I think thatâs why he was hired in the first placeâ
âReally?â
âMmhm,â Hrodwyn nods again. âI donât remember a lot of it, but I remember that when we were still living there, he sometimes left home to fight. Thatâs what naana said, at least. So Iâm sure daa will be safe.â
A dry scoff from Merethel. âI wasnât thinking about that, but okay.â
Hrodwyn tilts their head. âThen what were you thinking of?â
âDaa leaving,â Merethelâs hands slip back into his pockets. âIt used to happen all the time when we first moved to Canada. We barely saw him. Heâd be gone before we went to bed. Heâd tell you to put us into bed.â
âThatâs because he had to work, Merethel. He had two jobs.â
âI know! Iâm just saying,â Merethel smiles, his tone light and innocent.
âOf course you donât,â Merethel says. âYou were, like, three. Thatâs why Iâm telling you now. Heâd leave at night and come back when we were asleep. Then weâd have to wake up super early because he had to wake up super early for his job, too. Heâd drop us off at school, pick us up later, stay for a while, and then disappear at night again.â
Hygd straightens up. âWhatâs wrong with that? Daa was just working really hard.â
âI never said there was anything wrong with that. The real problem isnât him leaving or him dying. The real problem is when he comes home. Donât tell me you forgot what he was like, jisha-vosha,â he looks at Hrodwyn. âIf he came home from a regular job like that, what will he be like when he comes home from this job?â
Hygd furrows her brows. âWhat are you talking about?â
Merethel looks down at her. âDaa was scary, Hygd.â
âNo he wasnât. He was never scary!â
âOh, yeah? What do you remember about him before he came back from prison, huh?â
Hygd presses her lips tight together. She thinks about the photographs in the album. âHe was niceâŠâ
âHa! You donât remember what he was really like! Thatâs fine, obviously. You were too young â lucky for you. Frankly, Iâm surprised that he came back from prison all fine and friendly, but letâs give him a few months on this job and see how he turns out, shall we?â
âMerethel!â Hrodwyn glares at him. âIf youâre as smart as your mouth, you know youâre being unfair to daa right now.â
âIâm not making up anything, am I?â Merethel raises his hands. âIâm just pointing out what has happened before. Itâs for Hygdâs sake, so she wonât be so disappointed.â
Hygdâs nose scrunches. âWell, I donât believe you. Daa is a good person! He even got you eyeliner! Youâre just stupid!â
âNo, youâre stupid! Youâre the one believing things without any facts-OW! What the hell?!â
Hygd punches Merethelâs arm. Before Hrodwyn can say anything, she grabs her backpackâs straps and races down the street, clambering through snow.
â
Spring came, and summer passed. The Ugly Duckling struggled to live. He did not only struggle with surviving the harsh winter, but he also struggled with being alone. Oh, how lonesome loneliness was! How lonesome it was to be ugly and unloved!
When the leaves started to change colours again, the Ugly Duckling heard strong wings flapping. The beautiful, white birds have returned. Seeing them reminded him of how ugly and lonely he was. He could not bear to live with that anymore.
He leaves the cave and throws himself at the beautiful birds, even though he knows they will hate him. It is better to be killed by such beautiful birds than to live a life of ugliness!
By the time Hrodwyn and Merethel arrive home, Hgydâs boots are in the boot tray, her coat is hanging by the front door, and she herself is curled up in her bed, facing the wall, with a small owl plush to her chest â the plush she swears she remembers her father giving to her in Canada.Â
Swathed in her blanket, she listens to Hrodwyn scold Merethel from the living room. Merethel eventually sighs and opens the bedroom door.
âHygd? Iâm sorryâŠâ
Hygd stays still and says nothing.
Another sigh, but not one of frustration. âI mean it, Hygd. Iâm sorry. That was unfair and mean of me to say to you.â
â...Iâm sorry for calling you stupid, too.â
She hears Merethel step closer. âItâs fine. I deserved that. But donât make it a habit.â
A hint of a smile grows on Hygdâs lips. She forces it away. âYou should say sorry to daa, too. He doesnât deserve what you said.â
âWell, he isnât here, is he?â
âThatâs besides the point!â Hygd finally moves. She sits up to frown at Merethel from her upper bunk. âItâs still mean.â
Merethel opens his mouth, then changes his mind. âOkay, whatever. Believe what you want, but donât say I didnât warn you.â
Hygd shrinks beneath her blanket. She curls back up in her bed.Â
â...Jisha-voshaâs going to order pizza for dinner, by the way,â Merethel starts. âWhat do you want? Cheese pizza, as usual?â
âYeah, sure. Thanks,â Hygd mumbles.
Merethel leaves. Hrodwyn enters to check in on Hygd afterwards. They comfort her to the best of their abilities with their strong face and gentle words. But Hygd knows that thereâs only one thing that can comfort her now.
When Hrodwyn leaves the bedroom, when the background noise of TV chatter begins, Hygd slips out to go into the adjacent bedroom â her fatherâs room. Standing by a wall is the same, familiar suitcase. She lowers it, opens it, and sits on the floor across it. The suitcase is mostly empty â most of its possessions have been moved to dressers and shelves. But what she hoped to find remains in the suitcaseâs hollow shell: the family photo album, sitting dejected amid dark and dust.
Album in hand, she returns to her bedroom as silently as she left it. She climbs into her bed, nestles herself into her cove of pillows and blankets, and opens the album.
Hygd has long memorised the order of photographs in this album, but she still finds comfort in its predictability and its familiar faces. First, there are photographs of domed buildings, street markets, and green parks. These backdrops eventually feature people: thereâs daa, thereâs Auntie Elmira, and thereâs Her. Next are photographs of her much-younger father. They are all candid, except for the one of him lying in bed with a thick book in hand. He looks straight at the camera, extremely bored.
Hygd grins. Itâs one of her favourite pictures of her father, and itâs one of her earliest memories of him â his gentle smile when Hygd showed him the photograph, his soft laugh as he told the story behind it. And the warmth he exuded only shone brighter when Hygd showed him photographs from the albumâs next section.
Instead of chasing him, the white birds welcomed and accepted him. What a surprise! How could this be?
Hygdâs eyes always linger on this section. It contains multiple photographs of a figure with Hygdâs orange hair and Hygdâs large eyes. In one photograph, She writes at a desk. In another, Sheâs curled up with a book. Hygdâs favourite is one where She looks straight at Hygd and blows a kiss at her.
The Ugly Duckling looked at his reflection in the water. His reflection looked like one of the beautiful white birds. Why was this white bird so close to him?
He jumped back. The reflection jumped back, too. He stretched his neck, and the reflection of the white bird stretched its long neck, too.
Hygd carefully traces Her face. She wonders if she will sound like Her.
She continues going through the old photo album. There are more photographs of her father, Her, and the life they once lived. Hygd immerses herself in these pockets of time, imagining the sepia-tinted rooms making up the four walls she spent her days in, trying to steal the memories of the smiling faces that existed long before she did.
But the more she tries, the more she claws a hole in herself. There were still so many faces she didnât know, so many names she was never told, even if they once shared her blood. But her older siblings and her father know them all. Jisha-vosha, vosha, daa: they all got to talk to these people and hug them and hold their hands. They know all about little things that made memories of these people come to life. Hygd doesnât. She never will. Not if Hrodwyn keeps saying sheâs too young to know some things about their family. Not if Merethel keeps telling things that she believes, with all her heart, are wrong.
But even if they do tell her everything one day, will she feel the same way as her family did in the photographs?
The beautiful white birds asked why the Ugly Duckling wasn't joining them. Stay with us, they said!
Finally, the Ugly Duckling realised what happened. He was no longer a big, grey duckling who walked strangely. He had become a beautiful white bird. He had become a swan!
The last photograph in the album is the one Hygd looks at most. There are many family pictures in the album, but there is only one with Hygd. She was an infant, and she was sitting in Her lap. After that, nothing.
Hygd lies down. She closes the photo album. She hugs it, wraps her blanket around her tight, and imagines her family embracing her to sleep.
The Once-Ugly Duckling played with the beautiful swans. They swam together and ate together. He had never been so happy!
Soon, the sky became cold and dark. It was time to leave. The flock flew to the sky, and the Once-Ugly Duckling spread his wings to join his new family.
The End
---
First | Prev | Next
About the Flight + Official Newsletter | List of Stories
Exclusive content and early access on Ko-Fi!
Updates ever Saturday/Sunday. Early access is 2-4 stories ahead.
