Chapter 3: Post-Soviet

Íosif frowned, looking at the bottle of wine in his gift bag. It was some cheap, supermarket brand but it would hopefully be enough. It was all he could afford at the moment. He stared up at the Khrushchyovka in all its ugly, depressing glory.

As horrible as its appearance was, Íosif couldn't help but feel pangs of envy for Alex. He would've loved to have his own place - even if it was in this dreary place - rather than live at home or with roommates like his other friends did, but alas it would cost far too much.

He had been here a few time before and not once had he felt at all safe. But that was more to do with how derelict and empty the housing blocks looked rather than who lived in them. As a university was nearby, there was a fairly large community of students who lived here. What made this Khrushchyovka so attractive to them was that it costed half the price for rent than it did at the university.

Íosif decided he'd had enough gawking at the housing block, checking his watch. There was five minutes left until the little get together started, by the time he got to Alex's apartment he would be right on time. He, and a couple of friends, had been invited over to celebrate finishing up university for the summer. To be honest, Íosif was glad it was over for now. He had always been one to get worked up over exams, always striving to achieve the highest mark possible.

Making his way to the front door, he pressed on the buzzer that correlated with Alex's apartment number, seventy five, and waited for a few second before the speaker buzzed. "(Hello?)" a feminine voice spoke.

He constantly forgot how bad the speaker's quality was. It was so grainy that the voice on the other end was barely coherent. "(Hi, Alex. It's Íosif.)" he greeted.

Just then, the door to the apartment complex unlocked and Iosif was able to enter. He opted to take the stairs and the click of his heels echoed throughout the empty stairwell. It was a bit of a trek but he didn't trust the rickety old elevator. He recalled how Alex got stuck in it one time. Iosif didn't plan on being next. Eventually, he got to Alex's floor and there she was, standing outside her front door in the dimly-lit hallway. She gave a smile when she noticed him, "(Íosif!)"

He gave a small smile and held up the gift bag. "(I brought you something.)"

"(Oh, you shouldn't have!)" she replied with a polite tone.

Íosif gave a slight smile. "(No, I insist! It's yours.)"

"(Thank you. Now, come inside.)"

He opened the door for the hostess, entering after her. The door itself was worn down, with its red paint chipping and flaking and its rusty handle. Standing on the doormat, he took of his chelsea boots and hung up his coat. Íosif gave Alex a smile of gratitude as he accepted a pair of slippers from her. From the hallway, he entered the living room.

Just before he did, he took a second to check in the mirror that he was presentable. Taking a moment, he ran his fingers through his light blond hair and adjusted the collar of his shirt. Though Íosif was having second thoughts about his facial hair. It was just stubble, most of the hair being on his lip and chin. That would have been fine - had his hair not been so light in colour. To him, it looked as patchy as preteen's. Perhaps he should have shaved it all off, then grown it in again at a later date. It just looked scruffy and it didn't compliment his angular features too well either.

"(You look fine.)" Alex reassured him.

He answered hesitantly, "(if you say so.)" Before walking into the living room.

It was sparsely decorated, with two cheap sofas, a lamp, and a coffee table on which a small television sat. The walls were covered with a cheap, sickly green wallpaper. There were no windows in the living room. The most expensive thing in the room was the rug, which he recalled was a family heirloom of Alex's. On the sofas sat people he knew and someone he didn't.

A long time friend of his, Boris, stood up and offered him a friendly grin which he returned. They embraced one another in a tight hug, patting each other on the back "(Borya! How are you?)" Greeted Íosif.

"(I'm good. Have you been taking care of yourself, big man?)"

"(Now that my exams are over, yeah!)"

The two of them shared a laugh before he moved to greet the rest of the group. For those he knew well, he gave them a warm hug which was gladly accepted. Then he approached the man he didn't know, giving him a firm handshake. "(Hi, it's nice to meet you. I'm Íosif Sergeevich.)" Íosif greeted.

"(Roman Mikhailovich.)" he introduced himself, "(I'm Alex's boyfriend.)"

In a social gathering, full of people Íosif called by their first name, he made a mental note to address Roman with both his first name and middle name. Patronymics, and addressing acquaintances, colleagues, and professors by them were important. He wanted to make a good impression.

"(You can leave that in the kitchen, Íosif, and I'll get it in a minute.)" Alex told him, pointing to his gift. He nodded in return, entering the kitchen. On the cheaply-laminated countertop, there was four one litre bottles of vodka and next to them was a platter of snacks; kholodets, pelmeni, black bread, and the like. Next to them were shot glasses, enough for everyone present.

(I'm going to be here for a long while, it looks.) Íosif mused. The night was never over until each bottle was completely finished. However, he had doubts that he would stay for the full party. The last time Íosif drank that much, it resulted in a nasty, nasty fall down two flights of stairs and smacking his head off of metal railing.

By some divine intervention, Íosif was completely fine. He just had a bit of a sore head.

...As well as a killer hangover the next day.

After sitting down the wine, Íosif left the kitchen and joined everyone in the living room and socialised. Soon afterwards, Alex began pouring shots of straight vodka for them. After a short toast, Íosif knocked the shot back and savoured the warm sensation that was left in both his throat and belly. It was nice to see old friends again, especially considering they had gone their seperate ways after high school. It was always a pleasant surprise to find that, occasionally, those seperate paths converged once again.

"(So, Borya, how's Nikolai been keeping?)" Íosif inquired.

At the mention of Nicholas, Alex perked up. (Oh, yeah, I remember Nikolai Ivanovich! He was a sweetheart.)" She commented.

Boris answered, "(Koyla? He dropped out of university last month. Wasn't enjoying it, he said.)"

Íosif's eyes widened in surprise. "(He did? That was stupid of him.)"

"(University isn't the end-all, be-all, Íosif.)" His friend responded. Alex nodded in agreement.

"(I know, but what's he going to do with himself? Surely it's better to stick it out than just drop out. He only had a year left of his course, no?)" he responded.

"(He got an engineering apprenticeship.)"

Alex interjected, "(good for him.)"

Íosif nodded in agreement, "(my parents would kill me if I dropped out.)" He commented. Suddenly, he noticed music was playing from the kitchen. It was unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was enchanting, grabbing his attention in a vice grip. The vocals, he noticed, were in english.

He decided to investigate, walking into the kitchen to find Roman. He was standing next to a CD player and pouring himself a drink.

"(Hey, Roman Mikhailovich,)" Íosif called from the doorway.

He looked up at him.

"(What muisc is that? I've never heard it before.)"

"(Oh, this?)" Roman replied, "(it's Surfer Rosa by Pixies.)"

Íosif began pouring himself a drink and took a sip. "(How the hell did you manage to get a hold of that?)"

"(Payed customs and all that, costed me a fucking ton.)" He grimaced. "(Well worth it, though.)"

Íosif wasn't surprised in the least. After all, Russia was still recovering from the financial crash of 1998, dubbed the Russian Flu by some, where the Russian ruble has been greatly devalued. Though, even in 2005, the fallout of the crisis still lingered. An example would be the price of commodities, which had initially shot up though had gradually decreased over the course of years. Still, things could get expensive.

With all of that in mind, Íosif concluded that either Roman was fairly wealthy or he was just that big of a fan of western music. He, himself, wasn't that interested in music. Sure, he wouldn't complain so long as he didn't find the muisc too abrasive but he really preferred reading; true crime, sci-fi, politics, anything would do. Íosif had made so much use of his university's library that he was on a first name basis with the librarian.

"(It is some interesting music,)" he commented, "(do you speak any English? Or do the lyrics not matter to you? Like, you only care about the instrumentals. )"

Roman nodded, "(I think both play a pretty big part. I mean, having either bad instruments or bad vocals can ruin a song if you asked me. I had a friend introduce me to this EP by some band called Backsliders from France, their actual music was good but vocals weren't my thing. Too raw-sounding.)" There was a look in his eye, like suddenly remembered something. "Oh! I speak some pretty good English, too." he replied with a smirk.

He immediately noticed his accent in English. It had a strong American element to it, though Íosif could hear a little bit of Russian in there - just enough to tell you that English was his second language. "You're not the only one." he responded, "your accent is very American though, did you live over there?"

"Yes, I did. I took a gap year in 2001 and went over to America," explained Roman, "what about you? You have great English."

"Thank you," Íosif replied, "I was just really good at English throughout school and kept at it, I picked up books in English in my free time, and my father knew English. It helped me a lot."

Their conversation didn't get to continue as more people poured into the kitchen until it was nearly packed. "(Hiding away in the kitchen, eh?)" Boris asked playfully.

"(The kitchen is the one place you can say whatever you want, Borya!)" Íosif responded with a smile, arms outstretched. During the communist party's rule, the kitchen was considered the least likely place to be bugged. Naturally, it became the safe haven where anyone could speak their mind uncensored and without fear of being labelled a dissenter. Íosif found that his most cherished memories had been spent in a kitchen, surrounded by family or friends.

The night continued on, full of drinking, laughing until it hurt, singing, and hugging his dear friends so hard he thought he might crack their bones. There was a scent of smoke in the air as Alex and Roman had a cigarette. All of this, set to music from the west, made Íosif think he would never have a night like this again. Something about it was special. He felt it in his bones.

Íosif leaned back against the countertop, a large smile spread across his face.

"(What're you smiling for?)" Boris asked, his speech slurred.

He looked at him, saying nothing is response. Instead, he flicked his finger underneath his chin.

His friend giggled, copying his action. "(Me too, buddy.)"

Íosif poured himself one last shot of vodka. He was planning to go home after this, knowing he had work early tomorrow morning. Hopefully, he wouldn't be too rough in the morning. Though, it seemed Boris had sensed his intentions.

"(Going soon?)" he asked.

He replied with a sigh, "(yeah, I've got work tomorrow.)"

Like his friend, his speech was slurred. Though, not as heavily as Boris'.

"(Man, fuck your work. Stay a little bit longer!)"

"(It's already midnight, Borya! I gotta go.)"

Boris huffed in response, almost pouting like a child.

"(Don't be a baby!)" Íosif muttered. He stopped leaning on the countertop, standing at his full height of 186 centimeters. The tallest in the room. He called over to Alex, "(do you mind if I make a quick toast? I'm leaving soon.)"

She responded enthusiastically, "(go for it!)"

Without hesitation, he raised his shot glass into the air. "(To our friendship!)" He cheered, a drunken grin on his face.

"(To our friendship!)" They responded, raising their own glasses.

Íosif knocked back his shot in response, again feeling it burn his throat and belly. Before he left, he said goodbye to everyone present, giving everyone a bear hug - with the exception of Roman. He gave him a firm handshake and a dumb smile, telling him it was nice to see him. At the doorway of the house, he gave back his slippers to Alex before putting back on his boots and his coat and thanked her for her hospitality.

"(You should phone for a taxi, Íosif. It's pretty late out.)" She said.

He replied with a wave of his hand. "(Nah, it's a waste of money when I have my bus ticket. The next one comes soon.)"

Alex frowned. "(You know what the buses are like, though. You should just get a taxi.)"

Again, he dismissed her. "(I'll be fine!)"

"(Well, okay,)" she sighed. Alex leaned forward, embracing him and giving him a friendly kiss on the cheek. "(Take care, you.)"

"(You too.)" he responded before suddenly realised they were at a threshold. Íosif pulled away, "(we shouldn't have done that, we're at a doorway,)" he pointed out, "(we've got bad luck now.)"

The hostess laughed. "(That's just an old superstition!)"

"(Not if something bad happens to me on the way home.)" he smirked, walking away.

"(Get a taxi, then!)"

"(I'll be fine, I was joking! Anyways, goodnight!)"

"(Goodnight!)"

With that, Alex closed her front door and Íosif walked down the dim hallway and down the stairs. He made sure to hold onto the railing on his way down, having learned his lesson from last time. He exited the Khrushchyovka soon thereafter, walking down the street. It was pitch black, save for the pale yellow of the street lights. There was not a single living soul out, only himself. The only company Íosif had was the soft howl of the wind.

The only signs of life were the odd apartments with their lights on. People having parties, most likely celebrating the end of exams and making toasts to their future endeavours if they were students. There was a light breeze, pleasantly cool, as he walked along the cracked and damaged pavement before reaching the bus stop and sat on the bench. He looked into the darkness of the night, hoping to see headlights peering back at him. Then he checked the timetable attached to a street light. The next bus was in ten minutes.

Though Íosif knew better; the bus would come when it came.

In the meantime, he could only wait.

He looked up into the night sky, admiring the many stars above. It was a beautiful, clear night out. Maybe when he got home, he would sit outside for a little while. If his father was still up, they could have a beer together and talk about life, death, and everything in between. Íosif was sure that the second he mentioned the kitchen, his father would have a story or two to tell from the Soviet-era, either about himself or his grandparents.

Suddenly, there was a thud as something hit the concrete pavement. It sounded like it had been thrown. Thinking quickly, Íosif reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his copy of Roadside Picnic, flicking to a random page and began reading. He may be intoxicated, but he certainly didn't want to deal with any other drunks.

He read for a few minutes, waiting to see if anything else would happen. But nobody approached him or tried to talk to or harass him. Íosif found it strange, considering he was certain someone just tried to throw something at him. If someone was looking for a fight, then why stop at a missed throw?

Íosif looked up from his book, scanning his surroundings. Nobody was there. Nobody was walking off into the darkness. There was no drunkard staring him down from across the street with an angry glare. There was nothing.

Except some rock, sitting a few meters away from him.

Íosif frowned. It looked like someone had thrown something at him. Whoever did it had clearly ran away, so he went back to his book. Until something registered with him.

Rocks weren't shiny. They didn't reflect light.

From his position on the bench, he again looked back at the object. Just as he thought, it was reflecting the pale amber of the street light off its surface. Curiosity swept over him like a wave. Just what was it? Was it a hunk of metal? Íosif got up, walking over to the object, picking it up and inspecting it.

From its weight in his hand and its cold surface, he could tell it was metal. The surface was peculiar, with a soot-like appearance. Íosif wondered what metal it was supposed to be, he had never seen anything like it before. Perhaps he could take it home to get a better look when he was sober. Maybe he could take it into university and show a professor. They might know what it was.

Suddenly, Íosif's hand felt like it had been submerged under icy water and he gasped, dropping the metal to the pavement where it landed with a crash. The sensation intensified in his hand. It grew colder and colder as the initial sensation of icy water crept up his arm.

He cried out for help, afraid and confused. He could see his breath, despite the fact it was summer, as he grew more and more cold. Then pain erupted in his chest, sharp and hot, as something tore through his heart. Íosif's legs gave out and he fell to the ground, clutching his chest. He tried to grab onto the bench, but his hand slipped off.

Íosif was in shock, unable to process what was going on with his mind racing at light speed trying to simply understand but failing; what was that metal? Why did he feel so cold? Was it because of the metal? Was somebody there? Did they shoot him? Why?

Why was the bench covered in frost?

That was his last thought before what remained of his heart stopped beating.

...

"One last one, you can do this."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. I was just talking to myself."

"What are we going to do about the ordium? We can't take it on a flight."

"I have one stashed away back home, it's not a problem. We're going to Seattle, Washington next for the last one."

"Ian."

"Hm?"

"You're not killing them - not really."

"I know, I'm doing something worse."

"Worse?"

"Yeah, I'm taking them away from everything they knew."