Disclaimer: I do not own Anthony Horowitz's Alex Rider or the Scorpions' Wind of Change. Both are great, but alas, not mine.
He'd never thought he'd be back. Back to those familiar streets, each corner filled with memories, some good, others bad, happy or sad… most of them illegal.
As he exited the train, his eyes flew around Kazansky station and his mind drifted back to the first time he'd been there. Back then he was a scared fourteen-year-old boy, still grieving his family, his friends, his lost life. It'd been right after the destruction of his village, Estrov.
I follow the Moskva
Down to Gorky Park
Listening to the wind of change
The only thing on his mind during the first train ride to Moscow had been a name. Misha Dementyev. A person he'd thought would save him. A person who betrayed him. Possibly the first betrayal he'd experienced in his life, but certainly not the last. No… no, he wouldn't think about that, again. John Rider is none of my business. Now he was soon to have another name on his mind. He didn't know who as of yet. He'd find out tomorrow night. He had a day and a half to kill.
An August summer night
Soldiers passing by
Listening to the wind of change
He didn't see Dima at the usual place he remembered him being. He didn't waste time to worry about him. The man would be either in jail… or dead. Both were equally probable. What about Roman and Grigory, then? Well, he supposed they'd have followed suit. He wondered whether they'd kept working together after Yassen's disappearance. Or if they'd tried to find out what had happened to him. But even if they did, Yassen knew, they couldn't have found anything out. Nobody would have cared about the disappearance and possible death of a homeless teen. Nobody would have listened to them.
The world is closing in
Did you ever think
That we could be so close, like brothers?
He didn't know what made him visit that particular place. It was somewhere he never wanted to be. Though at the time it had felt like heaven – somewhere relatively safe, compared to the streets – when he'd thought about it later in his life, he'd felt sorry for himself. It had been awful. He didn't want to remember the nights there had been nothing to drink. He couldn't make himself sleep. He couldn't keep himself from thinking what could be crawling inside his mattress, or in the room. He didn't want to think what could be happening in the other rooms at that moment. People fucking like rabbits, sniffing cocaine, or shooting heroin. Sometimes pulling a gun or a knife to each other. Wouldn't be the first time.
The future's in the air
I can feel it everywhere
Blowing with the wind of change
He'd never even searched what had happened to it. He certainly hadn't expected this. The rich, luxurious hotel, obviously only meant for the high society – nobody else could have possibly afforded a night there. The faces he saw in the entrance, the reception… everyone young, pretty, kind. Nothing like the building's previous occupants. Was this the future? Were things turning into something better, at last?
Walking down the street
Distant memories
Are buried in the past forever
Images and feelings flooded his mind and soul. He thought he'd left all this in the past. But the anger rose in him. Anger for the life he'd lived as a teenager, betrayed not only by Dementyev, abused not only by Sharkovsky, but from his country, his government. Why did his parents, his grandmother, his best friend have to be so brutally dealt with? Why had the world decided to screw up his life? Why… why did he have to survive?
I follow the Moskva
Down to Gorky Park
Listening to the wind of change
Now he was fighting back tears.
Was it all worth it? Was his parents' sacrifice to save him worth it? He'd taken lives. Someone had measured out the thread of people's lives and then paid him to cut it. His parents had fought to save him, he'd been the only survivor from Estrov – though he never let anybody know – and he'd chosen to do this.
But then again, had it really been a choice? It had been his only way out.
People always have a choice. Well then his had been a shitty one. He was only human!
Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow share their dreams
With you and me
He'd often considered that a suitable fate for someone that life had brought to his state, orphaned, homeless, hunted, would have been to help people. Maybe out his story, somewhere across the globe. Or maybe doing good deeds in secret. He'd never helped anyone, he was sure. Oh, God, how many children had he brought to the same state he'd been at fourteen?
Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow dream away
In the wind of change
He'd been just another link in the chain. He hadn't fought for change, when he should have. He should have known that no one deserved a fate like his, just like he hadn't deserved it in the first place. Why should people be condemned from the beginning? Why shouldn't they have a chance at living before they die?
He'd done unforgivable things. The most terrible atrocities sparked into his mind. Killing that gangster's pregnant secretary. Shooting a banker who had been holding a ten-year-old from a bridge. He stared at his hands. How had he done these things?
The tears were flowing freely now and he'd ducked out of sight to avoid becoming a spectacle.
The wind of change blows straight into the face of time
Like a storm wind that will ring the freedom bell for peace of mind
Let your balalaika sing what my guitar wants to say
When he'd finally managed to calm himself down, he started walking again. This time he passed the hotel without looking at it. He turned at the corner to head for his own place. Then his eyes came across a view that broke his heart.
The boy couldn't have been younger than fifteen. He had blond hair and piercing blue eyes that he managed to see before the boy turned his back. His clothes were ripped. He must have been freakishly cold. He put his hand in the pocket and pulled out several coins. He placed the coins in the palm of the older man, one with red hair and a long, braided beard. He was wearing sunglasses.
The money was given. The older man punched the teen in the face twice. He left him unconscious and with a broken nose.
"Kids shouldn't play with drugs," the red-haired man muttered before leaving.
Yassen felt his breath caught in his throat. This was change? He felt as if he was personally responsible for this teen's fate. He ran a hand through his hair and put a hand in his pocket. He drew out several bills and a pen. He approached the boy.
The kid was knocked out cold and probably wouldn't be waking up anytime soon. Yassen doubted he could understand English, so he wrote in Russian in the boy's palm.
God, how he hoped the kid would heed his advice.
Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow share their dreams
With you and me
Yassen sighed. Tomorrow he'd leave Moscow and he was split. On the one hand, he never wanted to witness something like this again in his life. On the other, Russia had, in many ways, been the place that shaped his character. He wasn't just the emotionless bastard his acquaintances saw on the outside. He was a mix of feelings and thoughts, some of which prevailed over others. That didn't mean things like sympathy, kindness, or even love, didn't exist within him. No matter how much he tried to smother them.
For it would have been way too easy to just wipe these things from existence in his life. Then he wouldn't have to question his sanity after every hit. He wouldn't empty his stomach every night from nightmares caused by his self-repulsion. But, much like that kid in the alley, he was addicted. Unlike that kid in the alley, there weren't exactly rehabilitation centers for paid killers, or shrinks who would sit down and listen to him instead of calling the police.
What could he really do to change his life? How could he turn things that way so that when he died he wouldn't feel this petty disappointment from his life? How could Yassen return to the innocence of Yasha? He needed to find the way.
Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow dream away
In the wind of change
He didn't know how that tune he was whistling had come to his mind.
A/N: This has been on my computer since... well, since I first read Russian Roulette, which would be a couple of years ago. Wind of Change has been associated with Yassen's story ever since. I hope you all like it. Please, leave a review, if you want to make a certain rookie happy. Constructive criticism is more than welcome.