Datashka was a small town, fifty miles south of Kiev; within the town, Seyrei Russo walked along a street. Even though it was spring, piles of snow sat heaped around green grass patches, and puddles of icy slush obstructed his path. He simply walked through the puddles, heedless of the mud that clung to the soles of his boots.
He soon saw his destination: A small two storey house with plain white walls and a black tar shingled roof. Thin but healthy shrubs decorated the area before a small porch. Next to the front door was bolted a mail box; a small metal tile read Delia Lentshkin.
He rapped on the blue painted door with one knuckle several times and then settled back on his heels and waited.
He heard the door click, and then it swung open, revealing a short, old woman. She was a full foot shorter than him, with a long, thin wrinkled face and ear-length white hair. Large, calloused hands rested on the brass door handle. Her powder blue blouse and black skirt hung loosely on her wiry frame, and her eyes were an icy gray. They seemed to hold equal amounts of scathing frugality and warm maternal kindness.
It was those eyes that turned upwards to study the stranger that had arrived at her door. Her thin pale pink lips turned downwards at the corners suspiciously. "Yes? What do you want?" Ah, so she didn't recognize him. The revelation saddened him and he thought how to continue.
His voice's tone changed to a tenderness that he hardly remembered he had, and when it came out, it was quiet and tinged with hurt that he had forgotten he could feel. "Is it so soon these days that a woman forgets the faces of her children?" He slowly removed his hat, fully exposing his face to her.
Shock flashed in the old woman's eyes and her mouth began to quiver. She looked again at his features and her arms shook weakly; her countenance had changed to one of a person who could not distinguish reality from the depths of a dream. He could see recognition forming in those gray eyes and he took a small tentative step towards her.
Suddenly and without warning, the old woman's arms shot into the air above her head and a shrill cry of joy tore from her lips and launched herself at Seyrei, who was too startled to react, and latched her thin arms around his midsection in a powerful embrace. Seyrei wobbled on his feet and fought to keep balance while the old woman squeezed his rib cage with strength that belied her small stature. Her thin face was pressed against his travel coat, sobbing; tears ran down into the cloth, splotching and mingling in the filthy material. Through her incoherent speech, he was able to make out some words. "Oh, Seyrei; child, my dear, dear, Seyrei!"
He felt a steam of elation in his gut and he stooped and flung his arms around her as well; "Babba!" he cried; he craned his neck and kissed the top of her head. A profound sense of happiness filled him and he laughed, and found it was deep and rich, not the hideous scarred sound that he was used to; the observation disturbed him, how different he was when with her.
Before he could ponder it further, he saw that she had regained control of herself and was looking up at him, watery eyes shining with mirth; she clasped one of his gloved hands, "So long it has been, since I've last seen you," she paused, more tears welling in her eyes, "Oh, my boy; how could I ever forget you!"
He hugged her tighter, "Two years past, three weeks ago grandmother. How I have missed you." He said softly.
"As have I;" She pulled away from the embrace, and straightened her disheveled hair. She pulled out a kerchief and wiped her eyes with it. "But now you are here again, and the Lord has blessed us with that little thing."
She turned on her heel and beckoned for him to follow her inside. His heavy boots thumped on the polished hardwood floor as he walked into the house. It was just as he remembered it; frugally decorated, but warm and inviting. She passed through a door and out of sight. From years of honing skills of observation, he noticed several pieces of furniture were missing; the empty spots where they had formerly sat were painfully distinct against his memory.
He suddenly frowned worriedly; he had placed money in her account before he had left, but there was the economic situation; she hadn't seemed in a bad way, but if something had happened…
"Babba, has everything been alright?" he called out, concerned.
He heard the shuffling of unseen items and the clack of feet on wood. Delia's head poked out of the doorway, a freshly lit cigarette in between her lips "What?" She asked; white eyebrows knitted together.
He pointed at the wall with several empty spaces; "There is furniture missing. You haven't run out the money I left have you?" Or perhaps she had been robbed? The thought made his fists reflexively clench in rage. "Did a thief break in?"
Delia looked at him incredulously for a moment and then laughed, "Eh? No, no, I gave those chairs away; they were becoming moth-eaten and damn dusty." She exhaled a cloud of whitish smoke." No, my boy; with the amounts that you leave every time you go off somewhere, I couldn't spend it all if I tried. And you know there isn't a burglar in the country that would be foolish enough to try stealing from us."
He knew this was true; the sums that he deposited as a safety for her were exorbitant. Few people had actually met Delia Lentshkin's mysterious "grandson" and none actually knew what he did for a living; but it was plain enough that he was not the kind of person to steal from.
"I know, but I cannot help but worry for you." He replied.
"Ah, I can't say I don't appreciate the care though." She took a thick draw from the cigarette, exhaled, and crushed it out in an ashtray lying on a small table near the door. She walked over to Seyrei and patted him lovingly on the arm. "And God bless you for that as well."
He reached a hand into a coat pocket and brought out the gold cigarette case he had taken from the Interpol Agent that had hired him. "Here Babba, I brought you this from Italy." He held it out for her to see. The shiny surface glinted wonderfully as the old woman took it.
She smiled with delight as she admired the case, and then set it on the table next to the ashtray. She hugged him tightly again.
Suddenly she pulled back, her nose wrinkled petulantly; "Agh, you're filthy; and you smell like a pigsty." She looked behind him and saw the muddy boot prints on the wood floor and clucked disapprovingly. "Off with that coat. Hang it on the hook, the hook! Mercy, when was the last time you bathed?" She shook her head and pointed up the stairs with a thin finger. "This won't do; get your arse up there and take a shower; there's no way you're eating in my kitchen like this. And check the upstairs closet, there are some old outfits of yours. Put them on."
He complied and began trudging up the stairs to the bathroom, where he stripped out of his clothing and stepped into the shower. He was fairly surprised at how much dirt could cling to a person's body; and when he finally stepped out, he could have sworn he actually felt lighter.
Dressed in a red corduroy shirt and brown pants, Seyrei trotted down the steps. He could smell the odor of food on the air and followed it into the kitchen. He found Delia sitting at the room's small table, which was set with a kettle of soup, a loaf of sourdough, and two sets of bowls and silverware.
He settled down into the chair and Delia reached out a veined hand across the table; "Would you say grace?" He nodded and took her hand in his own; without his gloves, his hands were rough and pale, and marked with multitudes of scars and nicks. Bowing his head, he thanked God for their food and health and for allowing them to have a meal together.
"And thank you, oh lord; for gifting me as you have, and allowing me to service the world of your creation, may I never disappoint thee. Amen." He finished, and ladled a bowlful of soup into Delia's bowl before pouring himself a serving. In front of him sat a glass of plain water; normally he would eat dinner with a few gulps of Vodka, but he had left the silver drinking flask in his coat upstairs. Despite Delia's guiltless chain smoking, she utterly condemned his drinking habits, and he knew better than to risk a tirade from the old woman.
He picked up a knife and began sawing off a chunk from the loaf. "So what kind of scum have you been bringing in these two years?" the old woman asked after taking a bite "I heard a news report about you offing that hotshot kidnapping group and their leader a few months back. What was his name? Wasn't it Brundy the Beastly or something like that?"
He looked up from his soup, scowling with distaste, "Bradley the Brutal, at least, that's what he called himself; a cowardly little shit who enjoyed the pain of others but couldn't take any himself. Definitely did a service to the world when I shot his brains out against a wall; I swear I felt the average intelligence of the world rise a bit after it." He shrugged almost nonchalantly, "It has been the same; petty thugs that get too confident for their own good and pettier Government officials who hire me to catch or kill them. The only thing that seems to have changed is how many more of them pop up every year."
Delia nodded happily at him. "That's what I like to hear Seyrei; you have done much for the world."
"Just like you taught me." He replied. Her eyebrows rose inquisitively.
"Ha, me? I'm just a senile old woman who takes in mysterious assassins as children." She put on an exaggerated expression of age and bobbed her head.
Seyrei frowned, "But with age comes wisdom Babba." He protested.
Delia laughed, "Right, and you actually believe that? If we go by that reasoning, you should be off debating in some prestigious university, not tracking down thieves. From what you've told me, you're old enough to be my father." She lightly tapped the table with a palm. "But enough of that which we do not know; will you be staying for Church tomorrow?"
He nodded, "Of course." He wouldn't miss an opportunity like this; finding a church in many of the places he hunted was difficult. Finding time to attend one was even harder. "But I'll have to leave the next day; I've just been hired by Interpol itself. It's a very high profile bounty; the one called Sly Cooper and his pack of mongrels. I've been waiting years to be given 'legal' permission to get rid of him; too bad they want him alive."
Light, blinding light spears into his eyes, turning the night darkness into noon brightness.
The roars of detonating explosives punctuated by the ping and squeal of ammunition cooking off and heat like the fires of hell assault his senses.
A wave of overpressure flattens him, sending him toppling on his back. As he struggles his feet, another wave sends him stumbling and fighting to retain balance.
A third, thudding boom and he was engulfed in a storm of shrapnel. A hail of wood splinters and shattered fragments of brick and ceramic needle at his skin; a bullet sings from the blaze red-hot, flying across the skin of his back, carving a scratch. Dazed with pain and noise, he staggers drunkenly, trying to find a way from the inferno.
He feels a curious sensation from his ribs and looks down. A spike of wood, charred and smoldering, protruded from his chest at an angle. Blood ran from the laceration glinting madly in the light of the blaze and staining the steaming wood. Weak at the knees, he reached with trembling fingers at the projectile, impaled where his heart was.
One last, earth shattering detonation; loud as the thunder of God, and he was swallowed by flames.
Seyrei Russo screamed, and the sound was lost over the sound of his death.
"GAAAHHHH!" he shouted, bolting upright. Seyrei's chest heaved and his skin and bed sheets were drenched in sweat. He looked around in the cool night air and gazed out the room's window at the moon as he calmed his breathing.
No scorched flesh adorned his bones, replaced with tough tanned skin; and no open wounds leaked his life's blood onto burning soil, they had become scars, faded from age. The dream, vivid as it was, was but a phantom vision; a ghost of another lifetime. But the pain was still as clear as though it had happened a week ago.
He turned his head towards the door; he was certain Delia had heard his cry, but she was well acquainted with his night terrors and flashbacks, and he knew she would not inquire about it.
He sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled slowly, letting the air hiss past his teeth. When on a hunt abroad, the dreams were of little issue; usually he would be exhausted from chasing criminals that he would sleep to deeply for dreams. But when he would come here, and be able to sleep lightly; nightmares of a past he couldn't even remember would haunt him mercilessly.
He glanced at a clock; the glowing LED display told him it was a long time till morning and he settled back onto the bed, hoping to fall back into a fitful at best few hours of sleep.
He closed his eyes and one hand found its way to the metal plate that shined lightly in the glow of the moon that covered the entirety of his left breast. Through his finger he could feel the perfectly rhythmic beating of the mystical iron heart below that plate that had kept him alive for entire lifetimes compared to other people.
Absentmindedly his finger found and traced the design engraved upon it: the spread wings and curving talons of the black silhouette of an Owl.
Alright, an end of the week update; any guesses which Owl we're referencing here? Don't get the wrong idea about Russo; he's just a good guy who loves his grandma…Who he's actually older than. When he meets the Cooper gang, he is going to be a hardass jerk. Note, he isnt actually related to her; but that will be explained later on.
And so the story continues! Read and review, I'd love to hear your thoughts.