Author Note: This is a (eventual) multi-chapter prequel to EXE focused mainly on Laika's past. Because I plan to show a gradual character development, it may read like an OC-fic at times, but I promise to keep Laika as un-OOC as possible. It will also feature a more serious portrayal of the Sharo government and military system, and a little bit of gratuitious Russian naming; resemblances to real-world events and history will not be at ALL exact, but will definitely exist. As you may be able to tell, I'm using anime-canon, since it's the only place Laika's history has ever been mentioned in.
I'm writing this fic as a personal project, sort of as my own headcanon of EXE - as such, I'd really appreciate constructive criticism on characterization, plotting, or just any discussion you'd like to have in general. I certainly don't know these characters well enough to be "right" in their portrayal, and I'd be very happy to discuss them with others. Suggestions are welcome.
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The boy showed up that afternoon on Andrei Sergeyevich Milenkov's doorstep, hastily bundled in his father's careworn brown overcoat and a ragged scarf. Milenkov, a military man with no reputation for sentimentality among his soldiers, simply bent down and hugged his nephew for a long time. Neither of them cried. Milenkov hadn't done so in weeks, and the boy formerly known as Alexei Milenkov simply stared into space.
Sharo's age-old silver mines were gone. The collapse had come unexpectedly, but at the worst possible time, while the mines' safety systems were downed by an attack from a still-unknown terrorist group. Andrei Milenkov's brother and his wife – young Alexei's parents, both miners, had been within. Years afterwards, Milenkov remembered three distinct events from that day. The call he received; his soldiers stumbling under bodies borne from the ruins; and Alexei, standing in front of the former mine entrance, clutching a pickaxe and crying too hard to swing it.
It had taken a week for Milenkov to set his brother's affairs in order. It had taken another for him to successfully plead for custody of his nephew from Sharo's military-run orphanage system, which famously turned its wards into either celebrated soldiers or unmarked graves in the snow. Milenkov's own rank was a great help to him in this latter effort. However, his eventual success was marred by one law, issued in revolutionary days past, that even his colonel's stripes couldn't countermand. Alexei Milenkov the orphan could no longer be known by his given name. He would have to take on a new, single name granted by the state, his new guardian in spirit if not in actuality, as a mark of its glory and generosity in taking him in.
Even in spirit, Andrei Milenkov thought, it was still a load of crock unworthy of Sharo. But he kept such thoughts to himself for Alexei's sake.
Two days after Alexei's arrival at his door, Milenkov went to the Records Department to receive his nephew's new name. The official sitting behind the dirty glass window had pointed, small eyes and a nose like a rat's, and riffed through his papers with unnecessary irritation when Milenkov made his inquiry.
"…here." He said, finally handing Milenkov a sheaf of documents. "And sign here, and here, and-"
"There must be some mistake." Milenkov said quietly. "This is a dog's name."
The man stared at him.
"This is the name of one of the most distinguished citizens of Sharo, man or animal, colonel. You should be pleased that your ward was able to receive such an honorable name! If you are not, I suggest you take it up with your superior officer. Have you any further questions?"
Milenkov silently signed the papers and strode out of the office.
Sharo, long ago when the internet had not yet become commonplace, had placed greater emphasis on a space program that was the envy of the world. A stray dog had been the first and most iconic creature sent into orbit, and still served as a symbol of national pride even as the program, and Sharo's fortunes, slowly faded. Andrei Milenkov knew all this. Yet he felt a sense of foreboding, unrelated to his suppressed desire to punch the rat-nosed man, as he reached his car.
Alexei, waiting inside, moved over as his uncle got into the backseat. He was silent as the driver slowly guided the car along deserted streets, but either curiosity or anxiety finally overcame his muteness. He asked, softly, "Uncle, what's my name now?"
Milenkov met his nephew's eyes for a moment, then smiled sadly. There was nothing else to say.
"Laika."
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Sharo had frozen. The worst winter in recent memory kept hospitals busy and morgues busier, and not only with the dead. The living poor had begun to erect shacks next to the crematorium, seeking whatever small source of heat they could find.
After several complaints from an increasingly apoplectic morgue director about "a blatant lack of respect", Andrei Milenkov finally sent several soldiers to maintain order. They returned, innocently speculating on the director's mental health; they certainly hadn't seen any disrespectful poor people. Milenkov simply smiled. Driving home that night, he paused by the crematorium-shantytown to deliver a few boxes of dried food and old clothing that his men had gathered. Laika went with him to help.
Later, Milenkov would be unable to say what exactly he had seen that night, watching his nephew carry boxes of assorted goods among the crowd. But he was sure of one thing; in less than a year, the boy had changed. Alexei had once been quiet and dutiful, an avid reader but a fairly unfocused student. Laika had risen to first in his class within a month of changing schools. He was still reserved, but now his reticence hid something harder, sharper, which only disappeared when he was left alone with animals. And, Milenkov realized, when he stood in the falling snow and looked into pleading faces, and handed out boxes of biscuits to outstretched hands.
It was this final observation that left Andrei Milenkov entirely unsurprised when, one February night several weeks later, he looked up from his readings to find Laika standing in his study. The boy stared resolutely back at him.
"I want to become a soldier, Uncl – Sir."
Milenkov looked down for a moment to mark his place, then set the book aside. Meeting his nephew's eyes again, he asked, calmly, "Why?"
Laika didn't blink. "I want to help people, Sir."
"Help, you say? And stop calling me Sir." The colonel ran a hand through his graying hair. He suddenly felt old.
"Then be a doctor. That's what they're for. Make good money, too-"
"That's different, Uncle." Laika pressed on. "Doctors only help people who've already been hurt. I want to make sure people don't get hurt to begin with, to stop bad things before they happen. I want to protect them, because people shouldn't have to be afraid and poor, and live next to morgues, and -"
That's not what soldiers do in Sharo, lad. Milenkov wanted to say. You're too inexperienced. I didn't take you out of that place to see you turned into someone like me. Wouldn't you rather live a normal life? You don't know what you're missing out on…
Instead, he waited.
"- have to lose people they care about." Laika finished, his voice shaking only slightly. His gaze remained firm.
Milenkov said simply, "You won't become a good soldier by wishing and being caring. You become a good soldier by following orders, enduring pain, and eliminating enemies. If you want to help those you love, go into government. If you want to help all humanity, join the priesthood. But don't treat soldiering as a game of idealism, Laika."
Laika was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, "I know. But I don't want to rely on other people or on God, Uncle. I want to become strong enough to protect people myself. Whether or not it's hard, it's the only thing I can do."
What if I said no? Andrei Milenkov thought. But he knew that he wouldn't. The naïvete of Laika's words belied something cold, determined, and old, something which told Milenkov in no uncertain terms that he would lose, that he had already lost from the day he took Alexei in and tried to save a childhood already gone. The only thing his answer determined would be what exactly he had lost.
This battle? Or his nephew?
The next day, he went to the youth training camp and held a cordial discussion with the major in charge. A week later, Laika had gone, leaving on the mantelpiece a note that said only, Thank you.