Good Morning Chernobyl Chapter 2 and a Half

Office Oppression —

One Month Ago; London, the U.K. August, 2016

"Akh vremya ckatinoi... why can I not sleep?"

Natasha opened her eyes, wide awake in the silent dark of her flat. No alarm, no noise, no disturbance. Just her and her thoughts in a sleepless city.

She knew it was no use to try and go back to sleep. She'd learned that well. So she swung herself off her bed and trudged to the bathroom to wash her face of eye crust, and her illegal dreams with it.

It didn't seem to be doing much good. The cold water couldn't make her much more alert than she already was, and the soap could not wash away her contempt. This too, did not surprise her. After she had dried her face off, by habit she sat down at her journal, started in the vain hope that recording her dread thoughts might weaken their hold over her.

Maybe it was because she still recorded it in Russian, and her father's red spirit still cursed her never to lie in her mother's tongue.

She struggled to write; continuing in her vain hope, she sought inspiration in the past journals.

July's last journal, Monday the 29th:

Another office party, night club called Swanky's. What an unimaginative name. There was beer. Whisky. Wine. Cognac and brandy. No vodka.

Pussies.

Dave from Human Resources hit on me again, then vomited down my blouse.

Britantsi can't hold their liquor.

Three weeks ago, Tuesday the 7th:

Nothing exciting happened. Trump said something stupid again, Mark ordered us to cover it. Wrote something meaningless about Muslim-hate. If only they could see what Syria looks like now. Xaxaxa.

Went out with Dave. He has a chode.

Pointless.

Two weeks ago, Friday the Tryhard Day:

Sucked off Mark to get dibs on a story investigating the Pakistani neighborhoods, under the pretext that I wanted to report on the 'abhorrent negligence of the British government in their care and maintenance.'

Bought an illegal pistol from Borya in Tottenham. Liked the weight. Wished I could shoot it. (Makarov, PMM, 50 rounds 9x18mm +P+. Shame there's no shooting ranges.)

Got drunk at an office party. Finally.

Found out Alex is freaky. Don't think I'll record how. I'd like to forget.

Last week's journal, Wednesday of Fuck Me:

Went to…. I don't care. Why bother? Whether from fallout or from friends, I'll die, either of cancer or reruns. My addictions consume me.

She turned to a new page, and forced herself to put her pen to the paper.

Today, I Don't Know When

Life's a Macy's day parade, full of flash and bother

Days of smiling charades, nights without mothers

The facade goes on, death still marching home

Must I await the dawn, or will it find my bones

She paused. The Makarov was right there, right in front of her. It whispered, "Fight it. Fight the darkness. It will kill you, but you can take its minions down with you. Two magazines, 16 possibilities. Put it in your purse and get in your car. Yes..."

The faded red star on the handle did not speak though. It glared sullenly, expecting her to give voice to its heart and mind.

Motherland calls, and all she hears is my dial-up

The New World offers me a deal I cannot deny;

Money and comfort if I'll just sell my soul under mark-up

Motherland sighs, and remembers days when men died

For her sake and her sake alone, fearlessly and boldly

When their hearts were slave to flags, and not to gold

From Motherland I was raised, and To Motherland I shall Return

There was Ukraine. There was the War. And there was the Zone.

And there, there was hope. Dirty, radioactive, 4chan r/stalker/ board hope, but hope nonetheless.

They'd been looking for volunteers for a documentary long enough. Why not supply them an anchor?

She would pack the Makarov. It'd take some finagling, but she'd bring it home.