Things go AU in this chapter, because I refuse to accept the Duffers killing off such a great character. Please read and review!

Chapter 9

"It doesn't get any more American than this, my friend," Murray said. "Fatty foods, ugly decadence, rigged games-"

Most of it sounded all right to Alexei. He could always pick the fat out of the meat if it was too much, but he'd yet to find a cut he couldn't force down. Ugliness was all a matter of viewpoint. He looked around at the people playing games. They didn't appear unhappy, like they'd been cheated. "They are rigged, these games?" he asked.

"Yes," Murray said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Alexei frowned and looked at the people clapping at one of the booths. "They do not look rigged."

"That's just it, my dear Alexei," Murray said. "They have been designed to present the illusion of fairness! But it's all a scam, a trick, to put your money in the rich man's pocket. That, my dear friend, is … America." Was Murray allowed to say this? He'd heard such criticisms of capitalism, but never from an American. It was a bit of a disappointment to hear the country he would adopt was so corrupt, but it would be bearable, if at least he was allowed to complain about it. "But hey," Murray held up a string of tickets, "knock yourself out." He laughed as he walked away, probably at the naïve Russian.

"Where are you going?" Alexei asked. He wasn't sure if it was safe for him to wander alone. Murray couldn't protect him from Grigori – no one could – but what if the Americans realized he was a foreigner? The Russians were their enemies, and they might attack. But Murray didn't seem worried about it. He was going to find food, or something like it, whatever that meant.

Alexei took a deep breath and looked at the tickets. If Murray thought it was safe, he would be fine. Perhaps he could find something to do that didn't require any talking.

He walked around and looked at the fair. There were booths selling snacks, but he would wait to see what Murray found before buying anything there. And if the quality was as poor as Murray said, he didn't want to risk choosing something tainted that would make him sick. He examined the rides, but decided not to try them. Joyce and Hopper could be back at any time, and they wouldn't be happy if he was on top of the Ferris wheel. That left the games.

He checked the options, but kept gravitating back to the darts. It was the perfect test case. He'd been very good at darts in his student days. A group of aspiring physicists had hustled bar games to get their beer paid for, and he was the finisher on darts. He wasn't much of a drinker, so the hustle didn't mean much to him, but it was pleasant to be valued for his contributions. He hadn't played in some years, but surely he would know if the man running the game was cheating. He watched a few others play until he was sure he needed to hit balloons of the same color, then held up five fingers and handed over his tickets.

He checked the first dart. It was straight, and certainly sharp enough to pierce a balloon. So the trick wasn't in the dart. He aimed for a green balloon and hit it with no trouble. Then he hit a second, and a third. He glanced at the wall of prizes. The toys for up to three balloons were quite small. Perhaps the next dart would be flawed. That would present an illusion of fairness, as Murray had said. He thought about checking it, but some children had gathered around, and he didn't want to hold up the line. It didn't matter – the dart flew just as straight as the others.

The kids cheered. Alexei wasn't quite sure why they were so interested, but maybe Americans weren't very good at darts. One little boy shouted something when the man handed him the fifth dart, and while he didn't understand the words, it sounded encouraging. Even if the game turned out to be rigged, it was pleasant to be around such nice people. He waited a second, for someone to jostle his arm or sneeze excessively loudly, but no one did. He threw, and the satisfying pop was almost immediately drowned out by a bell ringing. He'd won? He'd won! He smacked hands with the children around him, especially the little one who'd been encouraging him.

The man pointed to the top level of toys. The prize was an afterthought. Perhaps he should give it to Joyce, since she had a child? He'd just wanted to know if the game was rigged. But he spotted the cartoon bird and smiled. He pointed to that one. "Dank you," he said, and the man either didn't notice his accent or didn't mind it. And that was all. No one stopped him to insist he hadn't won the toy, that there was some rule he had broken without knowing it, or that this game was for Americans only. He smiled, and his smile only got wider as he wandered off to find the others.

Murray was buying what looked like bread on a stick. Alexei waved. "Murray! Look!" He pointed to the toy. "It's not rigged!" Murray smiled and laughed like the cartoon bird. "It's not rigged," Alexei repeated, and he couldn't quite convey how much that relieved him. It wouldn't have mattered so much if the game was rigged – he was accustomed to navigating a world not set up with fairness in mind. But since it wasn't rigged, what else might be possible? Anything might be.

Murray had started a little celebratory dance when a shadow moved across Alexei's field of vision. Grigori. With a gun in his hand. Alexei froze. He willed his legs to run. But where? No time. Grigori was right in front of him. He lifted the gun and fired it through the toy and into Alexei, and just kept walking. "Traitor," he said.

At first, Alexei didn't feel anything. Had the gun misfired? He looked down at his torso. A red stain was spreading across his shirt, in the middle, just below where his chest muscles met. He touched the spot and stared at the blood that came off on his hand. He still felt no pain. Where was the blood coming from? And then everything slowed down, and the world went fuzzy. It was like being almost drunk enough to pass out, or vomit. Maybe he should lie down, until whatever it was passed?

Then Murray was beside him, holding him up. Murray touched Alexei's chest and his hand came away stained red. Somehow, it looked more real on his friend's hand than his own. He touched the spot again, and suddenly the pain arrived. He bent nearly double as Murray led him between two of the booths and gently helped him lower to the ground.

Murray pulled off his overshirt, balled it up and handed it to Alexei. "Keep pressure on it," he said. "I'll get you help. I'll get help."

Alexei wanted to ask Murray to stay, but he didn't. There was nothing Murray could do, and anyone with him would be in danger if Grigori returned to check he'd finished the job. He tried to calm his breathing and think of anything he'd heard about gunshot wounds. It was important to keep the wound above the heart, to avoid bleeding to death, but his was impossible to elevate. Nor could he put a tourniquet on an abdominal wound, even if he could figure out how to make one with his belt. There was nothing for him to do but wait and hope that someone would come before he ran out of time.

If this was the end, his father wouldn't be surprised it had come just after he'd won a toy in a children's game. Of course Alyosha would die that way. Of course he had been weak and gone to the Americans as soon as they treated him nicely. And of course he'd been executed, like a traitor deserved. His brother would agree. On the other side of the world, was Andryusha feeling any ghost of this pain? He could feel it, when his brother was hurt, no matter how much people insisted he was making it up. And his mother – what would she think? She'd never know the truth. She might not even know he'd died, or if they did tell her, it would be explained as an accident. So sad. Not even a body left to bury. He checked Murray's shirt. It was getting soaked with blood. He didn't have much longer.

"Alexei!" Joyce knelt beside him. He tried to smile at her, but it was more of a grimace. She said something to Murray, who lifted him up and started to walk with him while she ran ahead. He was so tired. The car might as well be at the far end of Siberia. He needed to rest. Then he would feel better. He tried to explain to Murray, but the man kept half-pushing, half-dragging him along. He loaded Alexei into the backseat and sat beside him, while Joyce drove.

"What's your full name?" Murray asked.

"What?"

"Full name. Patronymic and family name. Come on. Tell me."

"Alexei Vladimirovich Medvedev."

"Where are you from? Hometown."

"Obninsk."

"Is that where your family is now?"

"No, in Pripyat." He groaned. Why was Murray asking him all these questions? "Please let me rest."

"Nope, no rest until we get to the hospital. How many siblings do you have?"

They stopped only long enough for Hopper to jump in the car. He was carrying a radio playing communications in Russian. He handed it back to Murray to translate, who ordered Alexei to help him, even though he didn't need help. It sounded like they were talking about children in the mall, and Alexei wondered just how far gone he might be, to hear that.

Then the Americans started arguing again. Alexei didn't understand the words, but he guessed. They were deciding whether to lose the time taking him to a hospital, or to go to their children and let him bleed out. He didn't say anything. They would choose their children. Anyone would. At least his last day hadn't been spent underground.

He laid his head back on the side of the car and closed his eyes. The night air was pleasant on his face. It was time to rest.