From The Ashes Chapter 8: 8: I Have Become the Nightmare, a sakura wars fanfic

Rating: PG-13, Language, Significant Violence

"FROM THE ASHES" – I Have Become The Nightmare

Volgograd, Russia. April 11, 1913.

"Ten, Major Valentinov. I was ten when my father died in exile. I was ten."

Maria laid her father's rifle on his gravestone. It was snowing. She was alone.

For as long as she could remember, her father had spoken out against Czar Nicholas II. Russia was so busy with its war against Japan that it forgot frequently to worry about its own people and economy. Maria's father was Russian, her mother Japanese. And this, during the time of the Russo-Japanese War, made life extremely difficult for them. Korea and Manchuria were in debate – whether they were to be owned by Russia or Japan was to be decided by the war. Neither country owned either Korea or Manchuria, and in the end of the war, very few lessons were learned. Maria was only two years old when the war ended, but hostilities took years to wane, especially in the Central Asia part of Russia where Maria and her family lived. In Volga, the Bundofschieks' vigilantism was not restricted to the Germans and Jews. And in 1912, Maria's Japanese mother was killed.

"I was nine years old, Major."

It was February 10, 1904 when Japan declared war on Russia. Japan… a tiny island country… declared war on Russia… one of the largest countries in the world. And Japan proceeded to win every single naval and land battle with Russia until Theodore Roosevelt of the United States stepped in to stop the absolute massacre. Japan won the war, but fairness in spoils was overseen by the United States. Russia was left demoralized, bankrupt, and thoroughly defeated. Over the next ten years, prices of necessary goods to common people increased by SIX HUNDRED percent. Russia's common people spiraled into poverty, destitution and angry desperation.

Starting in 1910, people began to strike out as last resort in effort to get their point across to Nicholas II, Emperor of All Russias, Czar of Poland, Grand Duke of Finland, et cetera. Russia was still reeling from the Russo-Japanese War, and the United States' intervention parlayed the entire altercation into World War I, coinciding with the Russian people's protest against their current government only three years earlier.

The Russian common people cried out for help, including Maria Tachibana's father, a diplomat exiled to Siberia. And a man named Lenin answered the cries. Penniless and forgotten in the icy wastelands, Maria's mother and father succumbed to the cold and died in 1912 and 1913. Maria did not give in to the cold - she became it.

She could hear the tune of a lullaby her father sang to her as she stood in the snow before his grave.

On a night the stars fell, you were born.

In your mother's arms, you weakly wept

Without knowing happiness,

Without knowing sadness,

With eyes as innocent as the night the stars fell.

You are a small version of me,

A tiny, precious life.

Red Katyusha who does not know yet

The meaning of Hell.

Tears do not fall on frozen soil.

Your mother will wrap you only in warmth.

Anyone can survive in grief and sorrow,

But you cannot walk the earth with a frozen heart.

If the whole earth were frozen and there was no milk,

I would give you my very blood.

If, in the depths of despair, you discover love,

You will know it is Red Katyusha.

The song was entirely new to her now – the words, formerly meaningless recollections of a Russian folk story, suddenly struck her to the core.

"Your father was a man of great fortitude and honour."

Maria gasped in surprise and turned to see a young man standing beside her. She recognized him. Her father had served beside him. After many battles, Yuri-Mikhail Nikolayevich had been promoted to Captain of the Volga Third Regiment.

Who were you fighting, Father? she would often wonder. The Czar? The Bundofshieks? The Bolsheviks? Who will save us? Who will we defend? And when you die… who will honour you?

No one. That had been Maria's answer. No one would honour her father with her, and she would stand alone at his grave. Until Captain Nikolayevich appeared. He stood beside her with his fur hat in his hands, his head bowed, his eyes closed behind his darkly tinted glasses. Sorrow had drawn his face solemnly, but his eyes were dry. Maria's own eyelashes were spiked with tears, and she glanced away, feeling somehow lesser for standing beside such a strong young man. He could be no older than sixteen. But to the ten year old Maria Tachibana, he felt instantly like a protector, like an older brother.

Captain Nikolayevich replaced his hat and turned to go. He stopped only a few paces away. "If you wish to learn to face life with the same courage as your father did, come and find me someday."

"Ten, Major. I was ten when I went to Yuri. I was ten."

"Attention!" Captain Yuri-Mikhail Nikolayevich called to his regiment, and they stood from their various activities, polishing boots, securing tent posts, coaxing fires into existence in the snow. Yuri's face hinted at the ghost of a smile. "Czar Nicholas II has abdicated!"

A roar of cheers and shouts rose up from the men, leaping and embracing each other. This was a tremendous step in the Revolution.

"Second Lieutenant!" Yuri turned to look at her. Maria snapped to attention and saluted when she was called, her face grave and serious, barely held over the elated smile. "See that the men get a drink tonight, in celebration!"

"Yes, captain!"

And later, he embraced her, almost laughing with relief. Heroes! They would be the heroes of the toiling and exploited Russian people! He held her away from him by the shoulders and braced her, proudly. "You do a great honour to your father's memory, Maria."

Maria was overcome. An indescribable ache and longing combined with the uncontainable joy in her heart. For just the briefest moment, she admitted to herself that she loved this man, more than anyone in the world.

"And you do a great honour to me, and to our regiment."

The world around them seemed to melt away. "And to my memory…" and Yuri flickered and faded, like a ghost.

"Captain!"

The sound of the explosion of riflefire made her cry out in surprise…

…and she sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat.

The apartment was dark and a little cold. And very silent, very empty. A late snow silenced even the perpetual sounds of the New York streets just before dawn sought to reveal them for their true shortcomings in the late March chill.

Maria choked back a sob and rubbed the heel of her palm across her cheeks to dry the tears she'd shed in her sleep.

She stumbled from her bed and stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, leaning on the counter and staring at her bleary, red-eyed face.

She had a job to do, as was usual. Her two months were almost over. She had been following Silvio for six and a half weeks. She knew nearly every aspect of his routine. She knew when he was alone, when he was surrounded by people, which people were his most trusted and which were likely to leave him to bleed to death in the street. She knew when he was with Lupo – which was nearly all the time – and the precious slices of time when he was not near him and was alone and vulnerable. She knew the patrols of the police, which shifts were assigned to which officers, and where their beats began and ended, when they overlapped. Which cops were more astute and which were inept, she knew what buildings were open around the clock and which had daily hours and which were closed down, which were abandoned and which were in noise-pits where sound either could not escape or would be drowned out. She knew what Silvio's preferences were, which strangers could approach him without arousing suspicion and which ones put him on his guard immediately. She knew with which merchants and shop owners he interacted, what food he regularly ordered. She had a half dozen feasable plans for killing him. But she would execute none of them until her full eight weeks were up.

She sat on the stool in front of the vanity and opened a box of makeup. Maria was young and tall, and her hair was short, her demeanour the stiff, severe physicality of a soldier. This leant itself perfectly to the deception she had been running.

Within an hour, Maria stood and regarded a sly, dour young man reflecting back at her from her bathroom mirror. Long strips of light cotton bound her chest. Her hair was tousled beneath her cabbie hat, her shirtsleeve cuffs undone. Her hands were not gloved, but the length of the oversized shirtsleeves covered her hands just past her knuckles. She'd penciled her eyebrows darker, shadowed her jawline and cheekbones. Her vest covered the dip of her waistline and her pants hung straight to the tops of her shoes. Her voice was low enough to pass for a boy in his mid teens.

There was nothing she could do about looking Russian. So she took on the name Petyev. She looked like perhaps it was her job to sell newspapers or run bookings or take tickets.

One of Silvio's favourite hangouts was her destination this morning. He had lunch almost without fail in a tavern in Greenwich Village.

It was half past noon. Maria leaned heavily on the pool table, examining the balls left on the table. Her fist was tightly around the cue and she was careful to lean with equal weight between her feet to avoid jutting a hip. She kept her arms and elbows away from her sides, kept her head slightly ducked – she was just slightly too pretty to pass for a boy without at least a second glance. She'd been managing for a month, though, and her confidence had increased.

Maria was excellent at billiards. She had her shot already, but was using this moment to give careful scrutiny to Silvio's table. He was with Lupo, of course.

"Hey, kid. Call it." The man across the pool table from Maria blew a lungful of smoke over his shoulder. He was heavy, his face pock-marked by years of shaving, his hair thinning. His tie didn't quite touch his belt.

"Nine," Maria whispered, her voice dropped a couple of notches in pitch and volume to avoid curiosity and detection. "Corner." She jutted her chin at the pocket to which she was referring and stepped back from the table, lowering her cue across the pads.

It was like a rifle. It was even as long as a bayonetted rifle. Exactly as long as the rifle she'd weilded in the Revolution. Aim was only partially geometric. Angles, trajectory, speed, obstacles… billiards was a marksman's game. The cue ball was the hammer, and the nine ball was the bullet. The corner pocket was the target.

CRACK!

The nine sank cleanly, and the cue bounced off a bumper pad and rolled lazily across the green felt toward another striped ball. Maria followed it in non-chalant confidence. The banker on his lunch hour clucked his tongue, rolled his eyes and sighed. "Ya killin' me, kid."

No, Maria thought as she lined up her next shot, if I were killing you, you'd already be dead. I am killing the man in the booth behind you. "Eleven, side."

"You rebounding that?" the banker asked, a little surprised. It was a difficult shot.

Maria stood up straight, looking over the banker's shoulder. Lupo had just left! Silvio was still at the booth, alone! This was unprecedented... Silvio never left this bar without Lupo, never let Lupo leave all on his own.

"Da…" she nodded in absentminded response to the banker, laying her cue down again to line up the shot, glancing frequently at the booth now occupied by only her target. And in the shift of focus, she missed. The eleven ball bounced off the bumper pad at the side pocket and rolled away. The cue ball dropped into the side pocket.

"Ha! Scratch. Tough luck, kid," the banker whapped Maria on the back, right between the shoulderblades. She huffed and staggered, then regained her balance. "Geez, my first turn an' you got ONE ball left on the table. Nex' time, I break, awright?"

Maria nodded dumbly, her attention elsewhere completely. She stepped to the far side of the table, placing the table between herself and Silvio's booth, where she could keep an eye on Silvio and seem like she was watching the pool table.

The banker blew a shot and it was Maria's turn. If she took too long, Silvio could walk out while she was shooting. So she blew her shot.

"Whassamatta kid, ya beginner's luck runnin' out?"

"Must be, heh…" Maria chuckled and shrugged, sheepishly, glancing sideward at Silvio's booth.

"Yeah, well, good t'ing we ain't got no money on dis game, huh?"

And during this turn of the banker's Silvio stood. Maria's heart lurched. It was broad daylight outside. Only one of her plans would work in daylight, and that would require her being in a considerably more flattering outfit. It galled her, but she was going to have to let this perfect opportunity slip away.

At least she could follow him and find out what made him let Lupo leave alone. The banker was bent over his next shot, a bank shot that would require significant concentration, his back was to her.

She slipped out the door after Silvio before the banker could even notice she was leaving.

Maria skillfully kept at least a half a street block behind Silvio, following him uptown. He was in no hurry, strolling along. He never glanced over his shoulder, but regardless, Maria made certain there were several people between them obscuring her at all times.

After about six blocks, he turned up an avenue and then down a less busy street. Maria knew this neighbourhood. He slipped into an alley with no outlet. Confused, she watched the outlet from about four buildings away for a few long moments, then crept slowly closer. She ducked into a doorway about ten feet from the corner that lead into the alley. Silvio had still not emerged. She strained to listen for voices. Nothing.

What in the world could he be doing standing alone in an alley with no outlets and no doors? Was there an escape Maria did not know about? She slipped out of the doorway and pressed her back to the brick wall just around the corner of the alley, crossing her ankles and folding her arms as if just lounging there, pulling the brim of her cabbie hat down to obscure her gaze. She sharpened her ears to any noise that could be coming from the alley. Nothing.

Damn it, she'd lost him. She exhaled and straightened up just as a fist grabbed the throat of her button-down shirt and hauled her around the corner.

Silvio. A gust of adrenaline rocketed through her, making her limbs tingle in battle readiness. Silvio's fist whistled toward her face and she blocked. His punch broke right through her block, bruising her arm and her temple and throwing her to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and Silvio strode after her. He snagged her by the back of the collar and hauled her backward.

"You followin' me, kid?" Silvio's voice was a dry, raspy whisper, the voice of someone who's smoked most of his life. He slammed Maria's back against the brick wall and held her there by the shoulders. A bright pain in the back of her skull spread through her ears and eyes. The wind was knocked out of her. Her eyes were squeezed closed and her teeth gritted. "Eh? You followin' me?" He pulled her away from the wall and slammed her back again to emphasize the seriousness of his question, eliciting a nondescript grunt of pain. "Who sent you to follow me, huh? Who?"

He gave her a slight shake against the wall instead of another impact, fearing to knock his captive out before he could get answers from what appeared to be someone's messenger boy.

"N-no one…" she managed, demanding that her eyes regain focus, and landing her glare solidly on Silvio's own glare. Silvio stepped back and hauled her away from the wall, slinging her across the narrow alley and releasing her to strike the far alley wall and sink to the ground on her hands and knees with a groan of pain. Her right cheek bore scrapes from the brick, thin red lines with tiny beads of blood. The world seemed to melt beneath her, giving her the feeling that she was on a boat, or sliding off the side of a mountain.

"Dangerous work, kid. You sure you wanna get into this? Who sentcha ta follow me around, huh?"

Maria put a hand to her head. Her hat had fallen off. Her head was spinning. She lifted a hand to attempt to stand up from her hands and knees. Her palms were scraped. Her knees ached. Her shoulder throbbed.

Silvio delivered a solid kick to her ribcage and she collapsed to the pavement, choking. "Answer, kid, or the morning paper finds your corpse in this dumpster." Silvio's questions were terrifying in their placidity. He was not outraged. His voice was not angry at all. It was simply as if he was stating fact after fact, going through required motions, emotionless. That was more terrifying than the icy rage Maria displayed to her enemies. He was… clinical.

He twisted a handful of shirt fabric at Maria's shoulder and hauled her to her feet with his left hand, setting her back against the wall again, and spinning a knife open in his right hand. He lay the blade of the knife against her throat and stepped close, pressing her hard against the wall. The white of her shirt was beginning to bloom rusty red stains at the elbows and right shoulder. A tiny trickle of blood ran from the edge of the knife down the hollow of her throat, disappearing under the collar of her shirt.

Silvio blinked in surprise, staring at his knife. The throat against which he held it was smooth. No adam's apple. He lowered the knife, stunned. "You ain't a boy…"

Maria's head was reeling, but she knew this was her only chance. She brought up a knee and it connected hard with Silvio's groin. Silvio nearly gagged and stepped back. Maria shoved away from the wall and ran out of the alley, her legs struggling to keep her upright as she barrelled down the street and away.

Silvio did not even try to pursue her. He could not have, because with how poorly Maria's legs were working, he would easily have caught her.