Vladimir does not remember falling asleep thus upon waking up, he experiences a moment of confusion once again. The memories of the last twenty four hours come back to him and he snorts at the irony of his own fucking life. He lost his brother, the only thing that mattered in this damned world, and now he's on a couch of a man he thought to be responsible for this loss just some hours ago. He is nobody now, thought to be dead most probably, his organisation in shreds if not non-existent, and he's lying on a very uncomfortable couch in a vigilante's flat.
He tries to sit up, slowly and with some grunts of pain. That couch is a pain in the ass. Literally.
Only now Vladimir notices there's food on the coffee table. A plate of simple sandwiches, a bottle of water, and some painkillers. They must be there since the man left in the morning as the cheese on the sandwiches is already dried on the corners. Vladimir must have been too engrossed with the whole situation and the Marks to take note of it before.
Yes, the Marks. The brand new one, the scarred blind eye, catches his gaze again as he reaches for the water. What the fuck is that Mark supposed to mean?! It's vexing whenever he looks at it but Vladimir was never one to muse too much about the Marks so he leaves the topic for now. If he is to learn the reason for it, it will come clear without him worrying about it constantly.
He sighs deeply, then regrets it immediately as this kind of movement of his chest brings a new wave of pain. Then he drinks the water, eats the sandwiches, and thankfully takes the painkillers before he gets up to explore the flat. He also has a plan of fleeing it after gathering some useful data on the vigilante. But as he becomes aware how incapable of moving aroud he is, the idea of escape is abandoned.
The flat is quite boring. It bares no personal touch, no photographs or even a shelf of DVDs. There's no TV at all, actually. What kind of person does not own a TV set nowadays? This might be even more concerning than the mask thing.
After a brief and disappointing tour of the flat, Vladimir feels the need to lay down again. He takes another portion of the painkillers, probably overdosing a bit but he's far from caring. This time he walks by the couch, enters the adjoining room and impudently takes the bed. The idea this may be overstepping some boundaries does not even cross his mind when he sighs with relief and relaxes on the extremely comfortable bed.
ж
He wakes up to a loud crash, as if some furniture was thrown against the wall.
It's dark already and there are people in the other part of the flat. He lifts himself slightly off the bedding, the pain throbbing in his side, and tries to determine what's going on just from his hearing.
Two people. Men. Fighting.
"You can't even tag an old man!" one of them says. The fight continues and Vladimir's still groggy mind is having hard time keeping up. Then one of them falls hard on the ground. Part of Vladimir hopes it's not the vigilante. Part of him wonders why should he care.
"Get up. Get up!" one of the man shouts. It's not the familiar pleasant voice of the Masked Man, Vladimir does not recognize it. It must mean it's the vigilante that's on the ground. "Get up!"
It's the Vladimir that's getting up now, slowly sitting up on the bed. He's not sure what he plans to do, considering he was not feeling well enough to escape the flat, let alone fight with someone who has just beaten the Masked Man but he feels like he should do something. Then the sounds of the fight resume and the Russian freezes in place. Exclamations of extortion mix with groans of pain and fill the air before another loud thudof a body being slammed onto the floor reverberates through the flat. Then some more punches and-
"Get out of my city."
It's the vigilante's voice. It must mean he's got the upper hand now.
Vladimir lays back on the bed with a sigh of relief. His aching body seems thankful to be back in this position.
The other man says something more about some sticks and "catching up" and then slams the door. The vigilante must have known his opponent then.
A few almost silent minutes follow. Vladimir hears some shuffling in the other part of the flat but it's hard to tell what exactly is happening. Then the vigilante appears in the entrance to the bedroom, his whole regalia in place, including the mask covering the upper half of his face. But the line of his lips is enough to see the man is suffering. He seems to be aching all over, keeping his body slightly hunched, but there seems to be more to it.
The man huffs at the sight of Vladimir in his bed, shakes his head but says nothing, and collapses onto the bed next to the Russian. He lays down without a word, his back to Vladimir, and falls asleep.
Vladimir feels too awake in this very moment. He just spent the whole day sleeping and he might not have been a part of the fight in the next room, but he still felt his adrenaline spiking. He does not feel like leaving the bed though. He continues to just lie there, listening to the sounds of the city at night, the sirens and screams and loud laughs of drunk people. But Vladimir swiftly gets bored and moves his gaze around the room, trying to pierce the darkness, until is stops on the figure of the sleeping vigilante. It's quite light in the flat considering there are no lights on. There must be some strong source of light outside, dispersing the darkness, as it seeps through the huge windows.
At first glance there's nothing extraordinary in the vigilante's silhouette. He wears plain black clothes, the mask is tied securely at the back of his head. But there's something interesting in that simple sight of vigilante's back. There's a Mark on the back of his neck.
It must be brand new and the man must not be aware of it yet. Uncovered Marks must be a liability when you try to keep your identity secret. At least, that's what Vladimir thinks. But in such a place as the back of the neck, well, the man must have simply overlooked it. There are some who check for new Marks every morning but there are some who simply do not care enough to regularly look for the new ones. Vladimir belongs to the latter group and it may seem now that the vigilante shares that trait with him.
The Mark is quite interesting itself and Vladimir finds himself fascinated by all its intricacies. It's a mask, but not like the one the vigilante wears. This one brings association to theatre in the Vladimir's mind. The mask is divided into two parts, one dark and one light. The left, dark part, depicts more of a cruel frown in terms of the mien, and there's a devil-like horn growing from its lobe. The right, lighter part, is different, kinder but also sadder, with a single tear in the corner of the eye - or rather the blank space where the eye would be if the mask was worn. Is it a symbol of the man becoming the vigilante? Having two faces?
Vladimir catches himself halfway when reaching with his hand to touch it. He recoils his hand with an annoyed huff and closes his eyes. He must leave tomorrow. This situation is getting ridiculous.
Thank you all who left reviews and generally liked the story so far! I hope you'll enjoy the rest of it as well :)