#mischasima

Mischa wandered the halls of the compound, smoking a cigarette.  He used to have to barter with the guards for them.  Now he merely need ask.  He occasionally tried to quit smoking, but with nothing to do, he always failed.  His longest success had been the four years he’d been in Valentina’s life.  Mischa had been enjoying a decent day, the food wasn’t over cooked in the commissary, one of the guards had gotten good enough at sambo to offer Mischa a challenge, and weather was warm, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the clicking of heels around the corner.

“Where is he?” Solange put on a posh lit to her voice, trying to make herself sound more cultured than she was.  The act was in vain; neither Mischa nor Yuri spent enough time with a diverse enough British population to learn what the “rich accent” sounded like.  To each other, Mischa had a rural drawl and Yuri spoke with a Muscovite dialect – when Yuri was putting his words together properly, but the guards and Solange, they simply sounded Russian.

“Did you try his room?  Where you keep him?” Mischa turned to face her.  He didn’t flinch at the sight of Nishi laid over her shoulders.  He looked terrible with her slinky red dress and heels.  Solange had gotten another nose job, making her look pinched and distorted.  Her nose was too narrow, her lips were too fat, and she’d plucked her eyebrows to nothing.  Mischa did not know how decided on that face, but he wouldn’t have chosen it.

“Yes, I looked there.  He’s asleep on the bed and I can’t wake him up.  Where is he?” She swayed as she walked, shaking pair of fake breasts in his face.  Mischa rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know where he is. I’m not telepathic.  And even if I was, I wouldn’t just pop in on him, thanks to what you’ve done to him.  I don’t want to die.”  He blew smoke in her face.  As a younger man, Mischa had always prided himself of his chivalrous attitude toward women.  But Solange Marchand wasn’t a woman.  She was the devil in a woman’s skin. “What can you even want from us anyway?”

“Phillip is asking about his father again.  He wants to see him.  And I’ve been considering giving Phillip a brother.” She said after a pause, as if considering if Mischa even deserved an answer.

“I don’t think either of those choices is wise.” He warned, taking another drag off his cigarette.

“I didn’t come down here for your wise counsel, Mischa.” She sniped back.  As hideous as he found Solange’s alterations to her looks, they were made worse when she got mad.

“And I didn’t come here for the food.  Let us free and I won’t tell the Prizrak Rytsarya where I was.” Mischa always made the same offer, hoping she would take it.  She never did.

“Why would I do that?  You can’t break out and you have no place to go.” Solange sneered at him.  She tried to look down her increasingly shrinking nose at him, but he was a full foot taller than her.

“Why keep us? You have to feed and guard us.  You pay doctors to keep us well.  You pay for electricity to keep this place lit.  And for what?  What do you gain by keeping us here?” Mischa always asked that too.  He never understood his capture; he didn’t consider himself that valuable of a bargaining chip.  He definitely wasn’t worth dying over, but just the same, four people were dead.

Solange met his eyes.  Her eyes were cold, blue and dead, with no emotion behind them.  She never gave Mischa an answer.  He was beginning to think she did have one.  That his imprisonment was one big temper tantrum gone out of control.  The worst Mischa had ever done to her was suggesting that Abraham Horowitz break off his engagement to her.  That was hardly worth commanding Yuri to kill Mischa’s wife.

“What would you even do if I let you free?” She said, as if Mischa would be at a loss.

“Wear a real pair of pants?” He shrugged. “I’d go home.  Tell my government that I’m not dead.  I’d visit Malena’s grave.  Find my daughter.  Try to put my life back together.  Help Yuri put himself back together.”

“You think Yuri’s allowed to go too? You’ll rush to your daughter’s arms, and take my son’s father away?” Solange sneered.

“Seems fitting, doesn’t it?  You took me away from Valentina when she was Phillip’s age.” Mischa kept his face stony.  Ultimately, if he and Yuri ever did get free, Yuri wouldn’t think twice of leaving Phillip.  He was too broken to even realize he had a son.  Or at least Mischa though that much.  Yuri never spoke of Phillip, or asked to see him.

“Phillip is the only thing I have.  And you would break his little heart?” Solange dared vilify Mischa.

“A fear of breaking hearts? It didn’t stop you from taking me from Malena and Valentina.  It didn’t stop you from taking Yuri from his brother.  It certainly didn’t stop you from killing the Petyr and Ivan Pajari, or Alexei Makismov, or Malena Sima.  If you have any heart left in that silicone filled chest, you’d open those doors and let Yuri and I walk free.”  Mischa was ready to take another beating.  They barely hurt any more, and it did nothing to him mentally.  He was beginning to hope for the day a guard would go too far and kill him, but they guards all either respected or feared him too much for that.

Solange rolled her eyes at him. “Russians and your drama.  You are giving me a headache.  All I hear is buzz buzz buzz.”  She turned on her heels and slipped away.  She walked right past Yuri’s door, completely forgetting what she came down the hall for.

In a small compound, word traveled quickly.  Mischa didn’t usually care much for gossip, but with Yuri asleep for the third week straight, he was bored.  He was leaving the gym passed two guards, and overheard part of their conversation.

“What did Miss Marchand need so urgently?  No one’s ever called up into the house.” The first guard asked.  He was a young man, they all were.  Mischa didn’t think there was a single guard over thirty.  This one was a blonde with freckles.

“She said we have a guest, and wanted to set up reorientation.  I don’t know why she suddenly needed me to retrain everyone.  There are only two of them.” The second guard said.  He had a shaved head and no eyebrows.

“Maybe it’s a nanny for PJ?  Someone to take care of her little burden?  You know she doesn’t let that kid’s feet touch the ground.  So what, was she just hiring some poor little French lady, so PJ could cry next to his father on someone else’s shoulder?” Freckles asked.

“No, PJ wasn’t with her, and I didn’t see any nanny.  It was a man.  Some friend of hers.  I tried to ask questions but she dismissed me.  She said she had a headache, and she was hearing buzzing in her ears.” Cueball told him.  Neither seemed aware Mischa was following them.

Mischa’s eyebrows came together in concern.  He started back toward the medical bay.  He pushed his way inside the medical bay, surprising a medic.  The medic dropped some glassware on the floor, shouting in anger.

Yuri lay in a bed, hooked up to an IV, just as they knew Elijah had been half a year ago.  He was pale, but Yuri was always pale.  His eyes moved rapidly under his closed lids.  Mischa ignored the medic and the broken glass as he went to Yuri’s side.  Suddenly, Yuri sat up and ripped the IV from his arm, his eye wide and wild. 

Mischa leaned in, about to calm Yuri when he heard the clicking of Solange’s heels across the floor.  She slunk into the room, with a smirk on her face.  It was a twisted thing across her lips.

“Oh good, you’re both here.  That saves me a time and wasted words.” Solange spit out at them.  This time she was wearing white dress that made her over tanned skin look like leather.  “We have another member of our family.”

The click of men’s shoes on the linoleum tiles of the hall outside of the medical bay echoed far ahead of him.  When the door opened, Mischa’s eyes met with the dull green eyes of an old friend.  Former friend.  Abraham Horowitz stood in front of them in a dark sweater over a white collared shirt and khakis.

Mischa woke up and found he was not alone in his bed.  Yuri often found his way into Mischa’s bed when he was worried.  Surprisingly, it was not a nightly occurrence.  As broken as Yuri was, he was usually so disconnected from everyday life, that it took something Solange did to actually shake him.

“Yuri,” Mischa groaned, trying to get out of bed without kicking the younger man.  “What’s wrong?”

Yuri was sitting up, his eyes following Mischa in the dark.  It was a little unsettling. “Pomoshch.  Pomoshch.”

“Help?  Tell me what’s wrong and how can I help?”  Mischa found a clean pair of pants and pulled them on.

“Ubivat, ne umer.  Novoye Koshchei.” Yuri told him, as Mischa turned on a lamp.  He blinked, but didn’t seem particularly blinded.  His eyes were wide and wild.  The Russian worlds rolled off his tongue quickly.  He was catching glimpses of the old Yuri Utkin in small pieces.

“Yuri, slow down.  Who isn’t dead?  Who was killed?  What do you need help with?” Mischa took out his journal, ready to sort through Yuri’s jumbled mind.  He sat on his bed and slipped a pen from its place tucked against his journal’s spine.  Yuri grabbed both from Mischa’s hand and flipped to a blank page.  His pen worked over the pages, Yuri’s eyes looked everywhere on the page, following the ink.  Mischa watched him, scribbling away.

“Izvinite, Mischa.” Yuri started to apologize again.  But this was different.  “Ne spit.  Volnovalsya.”  He didn’t look up, still focused on what he was writing in the journal.

“What were you worried over?”  Mischa decided to pull a shirt on.  It didn’t seem like he’d be going back to sleep any time soon.

“Novoye Koshchei.  Tikhaya geroya.” Yuri insisted.  Mischa was confused.  He usually was able to figure out what was going on in Yuri’s mind.  This time he was lost.  Finally Yuri held up the journal triumphantly.  He had drawn a figure in profile, a man with a strong nose and chin.  He had light eyes beneath his heavy dark brows.  His dark hair was combed back neatly, and though Yuri hadn’t drawn his whole body he’d put the young man in a crisp shirt and suspenders. “Ya sdalal!”

Mischa took the journal and stared.  Who was this man?  Had Yuri seen him a dream?  Had Yuri entered his mind?  And he was still trying to figure out who wasn’t dead, and what Yuri had been apologizing for, and why he needed help.

“Mischa?” Yuri got his friend’s attention, “Kak ya mogu pomoch bolshoi?”  He was earnest, his eyes still wide but somehow more calm.

Mischa closed the book slowly, and looked at Yuri.  “He needs our help?  Why?  What’s wrong?”

“Da.  Bezdeystvovat. Solange prikazal ubit.  Ya spas yego.  Teper ispravit.”  Yuri said, his Russian getting better, words actually strung together and not just thrown at Mischa’s ears.

Most jailors would put their prisoners in a solid room with thick walls and no windows.  There would be no way for the imprisoned to know how long he’d been there.  Mischa Sima’s captor was not like most jailors.  He had not only a window and a calendar, but encouraged him to keep track of the time.  They celebrated his and Yuri’s birthdays every year.  They celebrated Christmas, and Easter too.  The most perverse of these celebrations was August 27th, the anniversary of their capture.  This year would make fifteen years.

For a prison, Mischa had a remarkable amount of freedom.  There were no bars on his window.  He was free to travel to most any part of the compound where he was being kept.  He was not allowed to have weapons – they took his knife and gun, but Mischa did not need those to kill, but he was allowed most anything else.  He had access to a medical bay as well stocked and trained as any hospital he’d been in, and a dining hall served by culinary masters.  The compound’s gymnasium may have once trained Olympian athletes, and their bedrooms had all the finest of amenities.  He simply couldn’t leave, or contact the world beyond the compound walls.

Why didn’t he ever try to escape?  Their most powerful, deadly weapon against were beyond those walls.  And Mischa needed only to have made two mistakes to learn his place.

His first mistake was fighting the doctors when he first woke up in this new prison.  He broke free of the leather restraints.  Ripped them from the bed he’d been tethered to the bed with.  The first doctor to respond was throttled to death by Mischa’s hands.  He didn’t need a weapon to kill.  He was weapon himself, a master of the Russian martial art of sambo.  Some of his guards had later even asked to spar, or for lessons.  But they weren’t friends yet, and a team of guards and doctors took Mischa down with tranquilizers formulated for a bull grizzly bear.  Mischa found that strangely fitting.

His punishment came when he woke up.  His warden was standing over him, wearing a fox stole.    Instead of a young fox with a rich red coloring, the animal was older, with patchy grey fur.  Mischa recognized it instantly.  It was his pet fox, Nishi.  She’d even left Nishi’s leather collar around his neck.  It was made of scraps broken belt.  He’d made it at camp.  Mischa’s dark eyes went wide.  His warden watched his heart break with a smile twisting across her thin lips.  She still wore Nishi every day.

She was a twisted woman with a twisted heart.  In some ways he was reminded of a terrible version of Ekaterina.  But even on her worst day, Ekaterina couldn’t hold a candle to this harpy.  Mischa often laughed at himself for his first impression of this woman.  Twenty years ago he took her for a sweet, innocent, and a little empty in the head.  Once, in another life time he had trusted her.  But Solange Marchand proved Mischa wrong.  She made it clear that she was not to be crossed.  Once, Mischa had thought Solange was merely a little obsessive with things she loved.  Now he was convinced she was truly a psychopath, and delusional.  She thought of herself as a great beauty and quick of wit.

Twenty years ago she might have been right, at least about the beauty.  She was beautiful once, with long white-blonde hair and bright blue eyes.  Solange had a lithe figure and often wore a tan well into the winter.  She enjoyed being able to wear any style and looking good in it.  But now her hair was thinning – Mischa was convinced she’d taken to wearing a wig to hide it, her tresses thickened so quickly.  Solange’s skin was wrinkled and spotting.  Her eyes, once sparkling with energy and effervescence were now lit only with a lust for revenge.  It was as if she’d started wearing her true nature on the outside.

Mischa committed his next mistake ten years into his stay at the compound.  Solange had decided that she wanted a baby, and only Mischa would do for a father.  Naturally, he did not agree to the polite invitation.  Her propositions continued for two weeks, each more forceful and demanding.  After his fourteenth refusal, Solange smiled and left his room.

After so long, and through the broken Yuri, Solange knew Mischa’s habits.  He sought refuge and solace in his gift.  Mischa was able to track anyone he’d ever met.  With extensive self-training, Mischa had found a way to weed out the important people from those he’d passed in the streets or met in passing.  He had assigned each person he knew a colored blip: Malena and Valentina were pink, the mother darker than the daughter, Murroh was blue, Anton was white, Yuri a sickly yellow.  Solange was given a violent red.  Mischa’s mind looked like the radar screen of a submarine or air traffic control tower.

Every night or whenever he was particularly worried he’d close his eyes and count the blips.  This time it was one of the latter situations.  Hundreds of miles away to the south east, the two pink spots were on top of each other, mother and daughter together.  Murroh was thousands of miles away, to the west.  America, Mischa presumed.  Murroh had gone home.  Anton was in the east, home as well in their native Russia.  Yuri’s blip was close, just down the hall and Solange was with him.  Mischa’s mind was in a dull ache, but it was steady and growing.  The pain doubled and tripled suddenly, exploding into a sharp pain.  Invisible needles had pierced his mind.  He had to focus harder to keep tracking.  The dark pink spot went out.  He focused more, using a growing anger to fuel his gift.  Mischa could not find Malena.  She was gone from him.  Dead.

Mischa was in a rage.  He actually ripped his door off its hinges.  The moment he stepped into the hall, four darts were fired into his back.  Mischa was at Yuri’s door when the tranquilizers started to work on his body.  He hit the floor at Solange’s feet.

He woke two weeks later in the medical bay, hooked up to an IV and several machines.  After Malena’s death, Mischa’s behavior was far more controlled.  He couldn’t afford to act out.  He knew Valentina would be next.  The past five years had gone by slowly, and on edge.  Solange never did bother Mischa about a baby after that.  All that pain and rage and anger.  Mischa felt like he’d gotten her killed over nothing.  He knew it wasn’t his fault but he carried the guilt just the same.

Solange did get her baby.  She hadn’t given up on motherhood.  She merely had found a different father.  Something to make Mischa’s heart break again, but in a new way.  Her son was now four, and decently smart, if the guards’ gossip was true.  Phillip James Marchand-Utkin distracted his mother in a way that worried Mischa for the child’s well-being.

Mischa left his room in the compound, dressed in a white tee shirt and black scrub pants – his and Yuri’s uniform.  He walked down the hall to Yuri’s room, finding his friend sitting on the floor.  His tee shirt was stained, and Yuri seemed to be bleeding from his finger.

Yuri Utkin was a broken man.  He’d once been described as boyishly handsome, with ruddy auburn curls and grey eyes the color of the sky before a snow.  Now his grey eyes were wide with panic.  His hair was unruly and matted.  When Mischa hired Yuri, he had spoken three languages, Russian, English and French fluently.  Now he barely spoke Russian.  Their time at the compound had taken its toll on them all.  Mischa should have considered himself lucky his dark brown hair only started greying at his temples, but his heart knew the emotional scars far exceeded the physical failings.

“Privet, Yuri.  How are you doing today?” Mischa asked, walking in.

“Privet, Mischa,” he paused to scratch his head, “I bit…” He held up his bleeding finger helplessly.

“Come, Yuri.  Let me help you.  You don’t want those lice to come back, right?  Remember when we had to cut off all your hair?”  Mischa helped Yuri to his feet.  His friend did nearly anything he asked, but Mischa would never use it to his advantage.  Yuri was a member of his team, practically his brother.  It was because of Mischa that Yuri had been captured, so Mischa would do anything he had to help Yuri get better.  Or at least keep him from getting worse.

They walked to the bathroom, and Mischa ran a bath and help Yuri get out of his dirty clothes.  It was like bathing a child.  A forty year old child with a habit of biting his finger until in bled.  Mischa sat on the edge of the tub, scrubbing the dirt from his shoulders, back and arms, over the tattoo he wore on each arm.  One was a falcon in silhouette over the Russian tricolor, the other was a gold egg over a black shield.  Mischa had a matching pair, though one of his was a bear instead of the falcon.  He lathered Yuri’s hair up and rinsed it out.  After an hour, Yuri emerged sheared, bandaged and clean wearing fresh clothing.

“Mischa… prosti,” Yuri apologized, his wide eye welling with tears.

“Nyet, Yuri.  Nyet.  Ne izvinyat'sya.” Mischa put his arms around Yuri’s frail shoulders, “You didn’t do anything wrong.  What she makes you do… It’s beyond your control.”

Mischa walked Yuri down to the library.  Mischa held Yuri gently by the wrist, and Yuri held Mischa’s wrist, and then Mischa would hold Yuri’s wrist again.  It looked awkward, their arms braided together, and was very difficult to walk like that, but it made Yuri feel better.  In the library, the younger man would look around at all the books and pick one for Mischa to read.  Some time he called Mischa by Yuri’s brother’s name.  Mischa was sympathetic.  Yuri’s mind was folding in on itself.  The trauma and torture Solange had put him through pushed him over an edge.  It had broken a barrier.  For the second time in his life, Mischa had met telepath that went psionic.

That change helped Mischa in ways that made him ashamed of himself.  Without his team or his freedom, the only things around to study were himself and Yuri.  He’d been using the unwitting Yuri as a guinea pig for a few experiments.  Of course, Mischa had asked Yuri’s permission, but Yuri said yes to practically anything.  Mischa hadn’t hurt Yuri in any of his four experiments yet, and he thanked God for that, but the guilt was weighing down his heart.  He couldn’t continue them.  Not at least until Yuri improved.

“Eta, Mischa.” Yuri slid a copy of Little Women from the bookshelf.

“Ah, ochen khorosho, Yuri,” Mischa praised him, finding a place near a window.  They sat on the floor as Mischa began to read.  Yuri was usually content to listen to Mischa read, no matter what the language he read in.  Mischa wasn’t sure if Yuri really liked to listen to the stories, or if he really just enjoyed hearing Mischa’s calm and familiar voice.  Three chapters in, Mischa stopped reading disturbed by Yuri’s muttering.  He was about to ask him to quiet when he realized what Yuri was saying.