Mae govannen everyone!
I'm back yet again with another fanfiction that just came from nowhere. And yet again, I have nothing to do save to write it and hope it's not too strange :)
I am planning no more than three chapters, but we all know that sometimes the fanfics decide to do their own thing... so we will have to see.
Namarïe
Before...
Alone in a sea of fire and smoke, the little boy looks to the sky.
Up at where the pale blue should be, where he often lay on his back amongst his friends and laughed as they watched the clouds dancing on by, twisting and turning until they were all different shapes and sizes- calling out look! A dragon! or I see a sheep! and now it's a castle!
Where, on a clear summer day, birds could be seen wheeling through the depths of that blue pane. Another world overlaid atop theirs. Where magical things could happen, if you looked closely enough.
And the little boy often did. He saw the things most people missed. How, in the silky hours of dawn, a flash of green would herald a falling star. Or an owl, gliding like some faded ghost through a portrait of inky night, wings beating noiselessly, eyes large in the gloom. How the moon rose white some nights, and on the very rare occasion, if one was lucky, it would come up into the sky painted a glorious carmine, craters like deep pools of crimson and scarlet.
The little boy loved the sky. It was the first thing he saw when he awoke in the morning, leaping from the bed to draw his curtains open with a whoosh; and the last thing he saw in the evening before he fell asleep, the stars glimmering like faraway secrets.
Then the strange birds came, made of steel and cold iron.
The little boy knew what they were. And he knew that he didn't want them in the sky, with their whirring and clattering, and their balls of fire.
Fire that came down to earth in silver capsules, erupting into an inferno of flame with a growl that shook the paving.
Then came the strange people, in their strange dress, uniforms he had never seen before. they tried to help, they really did, but none of them lasted very long. Not against the violence that seeded itself onto the days as they steadily grew darker and darker.
The little boy promised himself that he would always have the sky. No matter what he would have to do to keep it.
The minds of children sometimes cannot comprehend the cruelty of the world.
On the evening of his tenth birthday, the little boy closed his eyes tight, wrinkled his nose and made a wish. As he blew the light from his candle, he wished to one day become a great stargazer. That and so much more. He didn't just want to watch the stars. He wanted to see it all.
It was a big wish.
He would never get the chance. Fire and smoke invaded his home, sending him and his mother stumbling out onto the streets. Somewhere along the line, she had lost her grip on his father's hand, and she was screaming for him, calling at the top of her broken voice- trying to be heard over the roaring of tumbling bricks and tearing wood.
The little boy tries to cover his ears with his free hand, dusted face streaked with tears that he doesn't remember shedding.
It is far from long before his mother is ripped from him too, his little bloodied hand grasping for the touch of her skin. The absence worse than the sounds pummeling his world to pieces right in front of him.
And he can no longer see the sky.
It has become a churning maelstrom of grey smoke, the color of an old bullet, and it smells like tar. The stars have been replaced by floating embers, ash settling like a cloying dust on his pale hair. Sticky with death and destruction.
...
The man finds the little boy after, sitting on a heap of the city's broken bones.
His bony knees are ragged and bleeding, his trousers torn and caked in dirt. His hair is so thick with dust and sweat that it stands up in places like stubborn wheat, or a rooster's comb.
The little boy seems all out of tears. There is a hard, bleak light in his eyes, one of a boy who has seen things he would never have believed in before. The boundaries of his world have been shattered, shards of safety and love now ground to sand beneath the wheel of the world. It rolls on, helped by the people of the darkness.
The people who the man hunts.
He comes with safety, a possible refuge for the child.
But he also carries a choice.
An opportunity to never feel helpless again.
...
And perhaps the little boy understands now that he will never live his life among charts of stars and a view of the sky. That his chance is gone, like a puff of wind that draws the petals from a wilting flower and scatters them to dust.
So, he takes the man's calloused hand.
And follows him.
When the young man finally loses his father, he is surprised to find that he feels nothing at all.
One would think, after a childhood of beatings and bruises blooming like spilled ink on a pale desktop, that he would be glad. Glad that the shadow looming over him had finally met its end.
And so had he. But now he simply stands by the mound of earth, ragged weeds brushing his boots, the flyaway words of the drunk minister passing like a breeze on either side of him without being heard.
He knows he is supposed to grieve. To be angry. But there is simply nothing. He merely watches the old spade flash, watches the dirt hit the ragged coffin with a detached curiosity. He darts a pale hand from the depths of his coat to run a hand through his short black curls, making sure they remain slicked back the way he prefers them. They hesitate on the streak of pure white that runs along his ear, like a vein of silver through granite. Yet another thing wrong with him...
His father had never liked him. Not for his devastating looks, nor his sky-blue eyes.
Nor his intelligence for that matter.
It was always dangerous to say something too smart. Even if it were suggesting that perhaps the window needed to be replaced before winter came, or that the doorframe needed work if it were to withstand an attempted break-in.
Always, things such as those had been met by a hard, vicious blow, and always they were aimed at his face.
The young man knows he is handsome, with his chiseled face, crooked smile, his (mostly) black hair and pale flesh. But in a city like this, good looks will paint a grisly red target on your back. It's a calling card to the people out there who like that sort of thing. Past times that are never pleasant for the other party involved.
He has had his fair share of it. Of the taunts and the jeers.
The blows.
And... other, less pleasant things...
The young man scrubs a hand over his face, angry with himself for thinking about it. The mottled purple and yellow stains of his fading black eye give a twinge of pain as he lowers his hand to find it shaking. Gritting his teeth, he curls it into a fist.
He knows it's normal to have this reaction after what has happened to him, but sometimes he still hates it. Hates this city he has to call home.
These people.
This world.
During the bombing, he had been so young... but he can still recall the ash and the smoke. The wailing of dying people, and the roar of the devouring flames.
His mother, Miranda, had been part of one of the armed forces sent out to try and save the people from the rage and the monsters. She had come home in a wooden box, missing half her face.
The beatings had started after he had made the mistake of asking, Daddy, when will mummy be getting better?
Well, daddy had not liked that at all.
The young man bends over, licking his split lip to try and stave off the taste of thirst. A street gang has been running rampant again for the past two weeks, and they have managed to burst the pipeline in his street. Again. He has grown used to it by now.
The soil crunches with frost as he scoops it into his hand, cold and damp, like a moldering corpse.
How fitting.
He stands a moment, coat flaring about his ankles like a shroud, chin tucked against his chest. He is finally free, he supposes. Able to follow his own calling. Whatever that might be.
Well, he can promise himself one thing. Never again will he live in such misery and squalor again. And neither will his children, if he ever has any. Though with his...condition... it is highly unlikely that he will.
His voice, when he speaks at last, is smooth and cold as the rain that begins to hammer down on the decrepit cherry trees swaying in tandem about the graveyard.
"Thanks for nothing, dad. Hope you found what you were looking for down there."
He flings the dirt down into the hole, and then takes his leave to the hollow thunk as it strikes his father's remains.
Part I
"This plan will not work."
The man behind the desk says nothing, watching the younger man pacing before his desk, hands clasped before him over a manilla folder speared by a tarnished paperclip.
"It will be same as last plan. It will fail. You do not learn. O' bozhe, none of you do!"
Illya turns on Oleg, incensed to the point of bewilderment. He knows his accent is getting thicker thanks to his frustration. But it is with good reason.
Three years.
Three years they have been trying, and failing, to bring enough fear to the streets to ensure a decrease in crime and murder. No one seems to care what they say or do. And then there is the incredibly blatant issue of not knowing where all the vermin hide. Where the lairs are, where they gather to plot their black designs, where the torture happens. It is driving Oleg and Waverly insane. Sometimes, one can see the muscle jumping in Waverly's eye, the Englishman's mouth a rictus of irritation.
Illya had even gone into deep cover within one of these septic groups of miscreants. He still has nightmares about the young American man they had made him beat to within an inch of his life to prove his loyalty. He had been ready to break cover and run, but nothing came in the way of the mission. Luckily, he had remembered that.
Still, he can see those blue eyes so clearly in his mind- like twin chips of sky molded into these windows to a soul that was struggling with secrets. That dark hair, mattered and clumped with blood and sweat. The handsome face: the mouth that he knew would have had a charming smile under different circumstances.
That had been ten years ago.
Illya shudders. Now is not the time for past regrets.
"What makes you sure this time is different?" he demands.
Oleg smiles with his thin lips. Sometimes they make Illya think of a staple- hard and cold. "We have someone who could impart the knowledge we need about the underworld and it's workings. He's rather a famous character too... a thief. One you might have heard of, actually. V Soroka?"
The Magpie. Of course, Illya has heard about him. No one has ever managed to catch this man, nor manage a glimpse of his face. He is a ghost. It is said he has claret eyes like that of the bird he is named after. That he can blend into any shadow. No job is too hard for him. Only the most vicious Criminal leaders have the means at hand to hire him, but Illya has heard it said that he is supposedly worth every penny spent.
The only defining characteristic of the master thief known to the public is the white streak that runs through his hair just above his left ear. Some claim it is paint, some that it is a fluke of his birth.
Illya has never seen him. Though Waverly has come close once before- only missing the miscreant by a few seconds.
"How did you manage to bring him in?" Illya asks warily, relaxing minutely. There is something that feels far too lucky about all this. Like someone is holding all the strings and they do not know yet that they are the puppets.
"Waverly's strike team." Oleg rifles his files, looking, if Illya dare say it, smug. "Luckily for us, v durak was already wounded. It took one shot to bring him down."
Illya grunts noncommittally. Luck... a fool's weapon indeed. He is just not quite sure yet whether the thief or they themselves are the fools.
"Where is he?"
...
Illya is not sure what he is expecting to find as they wind down long, cold tunnels, flashlights in hand. After all, this man is quite the urban myth. For all Illya knows, he might truly have red eyes and feathers. Stranger things have happened over the last five years. The bloody city is a cauldron of foul magic, it would seem. Every time they think that the worst is over, something even stranger gets spat out.
He says nothing on the way down. Though when they reach the Interrogation Hall, Waverly is waiting for them outside, shadows like bruises under his pale blue eyes.
As usual, the Englishman is smartly dressed in a grey suit, but Illya can see from the popped top three buttons and the way his sunglasses are pushed up atop his hair (which is ruffled like a field of wheat in a breeze), that he has not been back long.
"Well?" says Oleg as they reach him. "Surely you must have something out of him by now?"
Waverly lets out a sigh, lifting a hand as though he intends to run it through his short, dark hair, then seems to think better of it and lets it fall. Oleg and Illya wait in silence as he unbuttons his jacket the rest of the way, before shrugging it off. He then pinches the bridge of his nose as though he might have the beginnings of a headache. "One of my snipers took him down with a shot to the leg. What more information do you want?"
"You mean to say they have gotten nothing out of him yet?" demands Oleg, face darkening into a mask of impatience. "Alright, let Illya in, it should not take long."
"I never said that we hadn't gotten anything," says Waverly quietly, voice still calm. Illya sometimes wonders at how this man can stay so reserved when constantly faced by the cold anger that is Oleg. "But by all means, tovarishch." He holds the heavy steel door open for them.
The air is warmer than Illya would have thought. Clammy and heady with the scent of fear and blood. The walls are brick, a small, needle-like draft knifing its way through the mortar from God-knows where to stab into the back of Illya's neck.
The man known to the world as The Magpie sits slumped in a cold steel chair in the center of the room, a man on either side of him. His head is hanging on his chest, chest heaving shallowly, as though he cannot draw air fast enough. One of his sleeves has been torn like paper, and Illya can see a dark spiderweb of lines tattooed on the pale skin of his bicep. It looks like a wing, but he cannot see the rest.
Nikolaj is the one standing over the bound man, his knuckles dusted with a sticky mess of blood. The Russian is even taller than Illya, with a thuggish face and hardly any hair. Illya has often wanted to make a comment about the way light shines off Nikolaj's bald pate.
His sense of self-preservation keeps him from doing it.
Sometimes he still misses his stars, among this world of pain and fear. This city is a tapestry of broken people and desperate vermin. And above it all, chaos reigns.
What the fuck can he do about it?
Well, maybe Oleg is right for once. Maybe things are about to change.
"Well?" demands Nikolaj, striking the thief across the face with a broad hand. Illya has always thought that Nikolaj's hands look like hams. He really should stop doing it... "Vyskazyvat'sya!"
Illya cannot see the bound man's face, but he hears him cough and then spit, beore he grates out a reply in perfect Russian. "O, idi na khuy. Vy ne mozhete derzhat'," he rasps, sounding slightly... annoyed, "menya zdes', u vas net na menya nichego."
And then Illya's heart does a strange leap into his throat as one of the men seizes the thief by the hair and drags his head back, revealing his face.
Illya would recognize those handsome features anywhere, with the crooked grin and the eyes like a deep summer's sky. The streak of white hair that runs along on his left side is mattered with blood, stained a faded pink, and Illya is suddenly taken back to that evening in that awful bunker- standing over a helpless young man, fist upraised and doubt in his heart.
The Magpie laughs, coughs, hacks up a mouthful of blood and then flashes a lopsided grin at Illya. It might be coy, but there is brittle ice in those eyes.
"Hello, Agent Kuryakin," he says, in a voice like sandpaper. "Fancy meeting you again."
Part II
Oleg turns on him with the speed of a harried snake. "You know this man?" His face hardens into stone, and Illya evaluates his choices as he takes a step back. "What is the meaning of this, Kuryakin?"
"Don't be so hard on him," says The Magpie in his American drawl. And that is when Illya spots it- the fear in his eyes. It is hidden again so fast that he doubts himself, but now he knows. This bravado is a front. "It was a situation a lot like this, only Kuryakin was the one beating me up."
Oleg looks to Illya who gives him a sharp nod of confirmation. What he wouldn't give to be transferred to Waverly's team... Illya has had his fill of all this blood and violence, all in the name of clearing the city. Sometimes he considers packing his small collection of worldly goods and leaving this soil forever. He has already given these ungrateful citizens so much of himself... need they take it all?
He would like to see the streets of his homeland once more before he dies.
"You realize, Mr. Magpie," says Waverly, coming to take a seat in the chair that faces their captive, "that it's not you we want?"
The Magpie winces as the man holding his hair tightens his grip. "No, you just want the people who hire me. Well, I rather value my life and if they find out who ratted them out to you, you'll be burying what's left of me in a cardboard shoebox." He shrugs as best he can. "Surely, you can see why I don't find that appealing?"
"Your options are either aid us, or die," says Oleg flatly. "One way or another, we will purge this city."
The Magpie bursts into ragged laughter. "The only way to purge this city, you Russian oaf, is with rifles and fire. You might as well burn it to the ground for all the good this latest escapade will do. And even then... I've heard that things grow rather well from the ashes."
Oleg goes to draw a knife from his belt, but Waverly catches his wrist, halting him.
"Sometimes violence is not always the answer," says the Englishman softly. And Illya is not sure whether he is speaking to Oleg or the thief.
"Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?" The Magpie cocks his head, rather like a curious bird. "Both you and my erstwhile employers have blood on your hands." His voice is sharper now, harder, and a cold light flashes in his eyes. "I remember when I was younger, my mother told me of a force for good in this city. One that would finally clear the mess from the streets. She died believing that." His face has darkened, brows casting his eyes into shadow. "Seems she was wrong."
Illya feels a great hole in his heart yawn open once again. This man looks to be about his age. Near thirty or thereabouts. Which means he was here in the city during the bombing that stole Illya's parents from him.
Waverly seems to come to the same conclusion, and suddenly fixes a look of intensity on the bound man. "Your mother..." he says slowly. "She was part of the Peace-keeping force?"
The Magpie says nothing, but Illya sees the tightening of his jaw. It is good enough as a yes. And Illya's whole world is suddenly the memory of screaming for his mother, turning this way and that in the smoke and drifting dust, his heart thundering like a racehorse. And of the tall, dark-haired woman who had come out of the driving wind and destruction, beside another man- both clad in black with weapons hanging from their belts and golden crests emblazoned over their hearts. The woman had scooped him up without a word, holding him close as Illya had hidden his face in her chest.
It had taken them all of fifteen minutes to be separated again. With a mob of raging figures tugging her this way and that, she had dropped him, and Illya had done the only thing he could- ran.
He had turned back, hoping to see her doing the same, but by then the people were gone.
And she lay there, with a bloodied mask to replace the side of her once-beautiful face.
Illya grits his teeth, fisting his shaking hands. It would not do to have an episode now of all times. The last thing he needs right now, is to have Oleg strap him to a table and pump him full of sedatives.
"I'm sorry for your loss," says Waverly, sounding as though he truly means it. "I used to work alongside them... their bravery was second to none."
The Magpie scoffs, voice like the crack of a whip when he snaps, "And yet, they're all gone, and you're still alive. That looks a lot like cowardice to me, sir."
"Enough!" Oleg jerks his hand free from Waverly's grip and turns on the guards. "Cut him lose," he barks. "Now!"
Illya watches in growing discomfort as the coarse ropes are sliced apart, and the men haul the mouthy thief to his feet. Waverly remains where he is, looking like he would love to interfere, but he doesn't. Illya knows that he and Oleg have found a balance, but even still... personally, he would prefer to leave the room right this moment.
And Oleg says nothing, merely walks right up to The Magpie and sinks his fist into the man's gut. The thief curls in on himself, or tries to, but he is held too fast. A soft grunt of pain leaves him, blood seeping from his mouth- over trails of older, darker claret. Oleg takes hold of the man's jaw, his face black with hardly suppressed rage. "Now listen well, mal'chik. If you do not start talking in the next ten minutes, I am going to have Nikolaj here begin to clip your wings."
"What-"
"He will break your fingers, one by one," says Oleg, and Illya watches the growing fear taking root deep in The Magpie's eyes. He tries to pull away, but Oleg's grip is firm. "Until they are beyond the hope of saving. Until" -And here he leans into The Magpie's face, breath ghosting over the thief's skin, and his voice drops to a whisper of cold promise- "you will have no choice but to become one of those waifs out on the street, begging for death amongst the feet of the cruel and the wealthy. Perhaps you might be able to sell yourself for some kind of salvation... but I think it will sooner be taken from you whether you want it or not. Young men with pretty faces like yours so often are... You certainly will not have your name to keep you safe."
Illya feels sick as he watches the thief's face drain of color until it looks like panes of bone. There is a slight tremor running through The Magpie's body, a current of horror at the choice before him. And Illya knows in that moment which option he will take. And he can hardly blame the man.
It takes the thief nearly five minutes before his voice seems to come back. And even then, it shakes like a bridge in high winds. "A-alright." The Magpie swallows thickly. "Alright, I'll help you."
Oleg smiles flatly, and the men release the thief whose legs appear to be devoid of strength, because he falls to his knees with a gasp of what might just be relief. He hides his face in shaking hands, and the dim light flashes off the silver ring on one finger- a bird with its wings spread, tiny embers of ruby set into its eyes.
Illya, unable to stand it any longer, moves to crouch beside The Magpie, hesitantly sliding an arm around his trembling shoulders. The shorter man stiffens but then his hands fall away to knot in the fabric of Illya's black turtleneck. His face seems to fit naturally into the crook of Illya's neck. His breath is warm, like a faint memory of summer breeze back when the city was still pristine.
The Magpie chokes a cough, muffled by Illya's shoulder.
"Shhhh..." soothes the Russian. "They will not hurt you now, Soroka." He darts a glance at Waverly, seeking confirmation.
The Englishman gives Illya a small smile before he nods. "We will have to fit him with a tracer, but I'll make sure it's removable."
"Thank you." Illya rests his chin atop the thief's head, running his free hand through that peculiar white streak of hair that has given The Magpie his name. "Thank you, Waverly."
The Englishman waits until Oleg and the others are gone before he leans forwards in the chair, hands clasped on his knees. "You're welcome. But I hope you both realize that this is barely beginning. Illya, has Oleg even told you who we're going after?"
"Nyet," says Illya, discomforted. He doesn't like the look on Waverly's face. "Who?"
"I've heard people call him Spider." Waverly stands, dusting his trousers off. "Others know him as Alexander Vinciguerra."
The crime lord of the city. Long thought untouchable, by any and everyone. He practically runs this diseased city, keeps it ticking like a well-oiled clock in the shadows. Even Illya understands the magnitude of the outcome if they can somehow get this right.
Especially now that they have a master thief to help them.
A groan leaves said thief, his face still hidden in Illya's neck. "... Ah, fuck."
RUSSIAN to ENGLISH:
O' bozhe- Dear God
V Soroka- The Magpie
v durak - the fool
tovarishch- Comrade
Vyskazyvat'sya- Speak up!
O, idi na khuy. Vy ne mozhete derzhat menya zdes', u vas net na menya nichego- Oh, go fuck yourself. You can't keep me here; you have nothing on me