The cold was a bear hug from an old friend you didn't particularly like. Just how I remembered it, chocking me out each step I took closer towards its rotten heart. Yakutsk, my hometown. Just how long ago was it?
I had a shitty childhood, anecdotally, that much I remember. That's all that is left I suppose, faint memories. I wonder, forget at times, why am I here?
Oh right, investments. Big state projects. Whatever.
My boots splashed in the roadside slush. I looked around aimlessly. All seemed to be in order for my homecoming. Druggies on the sidewalks, tired-eye whores at the corner of every block and few cheap thugs shaking down the cops - marionettes after a show. What a wonderful time I'll have here. Actually, now that I mention déjà vu. The underclass, like rats, swarming in numbers in every nook. No man nor child spared. This was familiar, nearly re-lived for me. I just knew, I knew where this place was headed. Divination not required.
A few blocks down the rabbit hole, I stumbled upon a market, grey market by the looks of things. Ah yes, the goods of the night. Time seemed to have stopped in its tracks, like through most of the country. Place was completely run-down. Nevertheless, curiosity piqued, I picked a couple of items and moved on. It was getting dark when I arrived at the strip club, not better regulated than mine. Vasiliy was likely already inside. That man... booze, women, gambling. Like moth to a flame. But he had his moments, moments where he could delve deeper, he was a good listener, I exploited that. He reminded me of someone I once knew. I think.
Like I said, long time ago.
The queue wasn't long but the bouncer was greedy. Four thousand rubbles was the entry fee. A bargain, if you asked him. Pche!
I walked past and found myself in the lobby. Halls were dim - hey, electricity costs something - reeking of bargain-bin perfume and yesterday's regrets. Some poor fool lay on the ground, sobbing. A poster child for bad decisions. He had been beaten up pretty badly, bruises on his face, bloodied nose. His shirt was ripped, as were his pants. Security was busy subduing his newfound friends. Too drunk to put up a fair fight. I ignored them, and kept on, following the scent of booze. I wanted a stronger script. Should've been careful for what I wished for.
The main lounge was a circus of debauchery, full of scantily clad women, some not clad at all, entertaining ogling men. The speakers were blasting aggressive trance, not my cup of tea, but it set the mood right. A few people looked at me, surprised brows and convincing sneers. Most were drooling on the couches to braindances or suffering drugged up fun times, or both. I stuck out like a sore thumb. My attire, my demeanor, my sobriety - seemingly the only one normal looking, made me feel out of place. But I didn't care what the denizen thought of me. I was there for a purpose, part of that purpose was waiting for me at the bar.
I ordered a bottle of poison - I mean vodka, because I am stereotypical and a hypocrite by nature. The bartender, a wiry guy sporting a chrome-plated face and arms, eyed me suspiciously. His words soaked in judgment. "Don't look like you belong here, pal." I just smiled, raised the bottle in a silent toast to him, and the night ahead.
"You have no idea," I replied, pouring myself another round. No time for idle chat—I paid for the bottle and made my way to the booth where we were supposed to meet. I say 'supposed' because Vasiliy was probably off enjoying himself. Fill in the blanks. Just as I was about to sit down, something brushed against my leg. I almost lost my grip on the vodka as I turned to identify the source. It was a child, a boy, couldn't have been older than ten, wearing nothing but underwear and a collar, which had a leash attached to it. I couldn't appear stunned, or concerned. A sour feeling of sick roiled in my stomach, but I had to keep my composure. I hated that I was right once again. He was walking, with a strange limp, disappearing into the crowd.
Just as I claimed my spot in our booth, Vasiliy emerged from the throng. He squinted at me with amusement. "You look constipated."
"Yeah," I grumbled, picking up my vodka and indulging in a generous gulp. "Ever been to Leningradsky? Moscow?"
"Once or twice," Vasiliy answered, sliding into the seat opposite me. His sight veered to the side, catching sight of a man in an erotic, eccentric getup jostling through the dancing patrons. His trajectory obvious. "Why... do you ask?"
"Well," I began, feeling queasy, "a few uncanny resemblances between here and there."
Vasiliy's brows furrowed, a clear sign he was missing my point. I gestured vaguely towards the crowd, hoping to elucidate my cryptic statement. "We're stuck in loops, cycles. The clock ticks forward, yet everything stays the same." As if to punctuate my point, the gimp and a young boy ambled past us, disappearing into the back. Vasiliy's face contorted briefly. "This has happened before."
"Mmm," Vasiliy groaned, leaning back into the leather of the booth. "Spare me your cryptic monologues, please. I'm aware of the fucked up stuff that happens behind closed doors. Question is why bring us here?"
"Puzzles," I answered, tipping the vodka bottle back and letting the liquid fire slide down my throat. "I have a hunch this club holds the answers," I motioned towards a group of strippers with a nod. "We're just missing a few pieces of said puzzle."
"Fantastic!" Vasiliy complained, casting a disgruntled glance around the room. "I trust you've got plans to torch this cesspool once we're done."
"I was under the impression you were having a blast," I teased, a snicker escaping me. Vasiliy shot back a searing glare, causing me to momentarily second-guess my jibe.
"Enough games," he retorted, the frustration palpable in his voice. "What do you need me to do?"
"I need you to turn on that irresistible charm of yours," I replied, the corners of my mouth curling into a sly grin. "We need to get close to the entertainers."
He threw me an incredulous look. "And why, pray tell, would we want to do that?"
"Well, Vasiliy," I began, leaning back and folding my arms across my chest. "I'm betting my target is hidden somewhere in the back rooms. And who better to provide us access than the club's main attractions? Plus," I added, giving him a playful wink, "I thought you might enjoy a little more socializing."
His eyes narrowed at me. "Don't confuse your perverse interests with mine."
"Just go get me a stripper." I chuckled, downing the last of my vodka like a light soda - ah, wonders of genetically enhanced livers. Like a well-oiled machine, Vasiliy sprang into action, making for a group of ladies at the bar. They were engaged in casual conversation, nursing their drinks, smoking cigarettes, and nibbling on pizza. A couple of desperate men, tired of their wives were already there, chatting then up, but they seemed more interested in killing time than anything else. At first, the women paid little attention to Vasiliy. I mean, come on, look at him. A hyper-virile heterosexual that he is, swaging along... with war stories to woo you with and scars to impress. Sure enough, the group started to warm up to him, their initial indifference turning into giggles and playful banter. Vasiliy, I had to admit, was a natural at working the crowd, especially when the crowd were low effort floozies with miles of cock on record and whatever pills they stuffed their gob with. And other holes.
A prickling sensation clung to me like static in the air, a nagging suspicion of being watched. I cast a wary eye over the scene, yet all I observed was the standard club tableau. Lost souls indulging in self-deception, trying to fill the cavernous void within. It was the same old charade, the same desperate bid to escape reality, no matter what lingo I slapped onto it.
A hard-boiled dame slinked out from the crowd, making a beeline towards me through the laser-lit fog. She was one of the peacocks, strutting about in crimson threads that screamed trouble. Beneath the smooth surface was a tangle of barbed wire dreams. Her eyes were painted with the desperate hope of a street rat looking up at the stars, a dream she knew she could never touch. It was a cruel world. But everyone is the architect of their own fortune, as they say.
"Cat got your tounge, Mr...?" she asked, draping herself over the table. Her dress was a couple of sizes too small in all the right places, and her perfume was a potent cocktail. It messed with my head, but not in the way she was hoping.
"Dmitry," I gave her a smirk. "Ivanovich. And you're...?"
"Veronika," she offered a hand, her eyes locked onto mine.
Playing her game, I fired back, "But I can call you whatever I want?"
I saw the smirk, tugged at the corner of her lip. "I hear you're all alone for the night, Dmitry," she batted her eyelashes at me, each one studded with a thousand tiny glimmers.
"You're not wrong," I admitted, acting the part of the shy guy. "Been too long since I've shared the company of a good woman."
Coyly shifting her weight onto one hip, she hooked a finger at me, "Follow me, then." Admittedly, her act was a turn on. Don't tell Vasiliy, but she had that pin-up girl look I found to fetishize.
No worry, I was lucid enough to not get drunk on lust that night.
We navigated the dingy labyrinth of a back corridors, where behind every door, sins were traded for dirty money. I tried not to listen too hard, or peak for that matter. The thumping rhythm of the club was getting swallowed up by the grungy aesthetic of the corridor. We passed a few guards, organic and synthetic. Thanks to the escort, nobody paid attention to me.
Eventually, we came to a halt before a door marked with a worn-out '12'. Veronika slipped inside, beckoning me with a glance, "Come on in, Dmitry."
Stepping across the threshold, I was swallowed up by the room's dim-lit intimacy. It was a carbon copy of every seedy pleasure den I'd ever stepped foot in - the same cheap glitz, barely-there lighting, satin sheets that had seen too much, heart-shaped pillows and the obligatory collection of adult novelties... sex toys. The last word in romance. Veronika had already claimed a spot on the bed, perched on the edge with her legs crossed, her gaze appraising me with a predatory shine.
"So," she drawled, opening her arms and legs wide in an inviting gesture. "What's your pleasure?"
My response knocked her for a loop. "Cuddle duty's all I can offer. Today I feel asexual." I placed my hands in my pockets, walked around the room at least once.
Her eyes flung open in surprise, her lips parting and closing like a short-circuiting neon sign, before her features crumpled into a letdown frown. "Oh," she sighed. "You sure about that?"
I felt as though I almost unintentionally offended her with my response. "Yep, must be a real creep in your books, huh?" I awkwardly chuckled. "Actually, I'm here for a chat with your boss. Is she around?"
Veronika's sultry guise crumbled as she processed my words. Her brain gears clicked audibly. "Why didn't you just waltz in and ask for her?"
"Because she," I jerked a thumb over my shoulder towards the door, "and I have a history."
She gave me a once-over, an unreadable look crossing her face. "You don't look old enough to have 'history'."
"Kha, it's not that kind of history," I shook my head. "I'm actually here to track down some girls who used to work here."
"Why?" Her curiosity was piqued.
"Why not?" I shot back, the corners of my mouth twitching upwards.
I slid onto the bed beside her, close enough to shake her practiced confidence. It amused me, watching the cracks form in the façade of this seasoned femme fatale posturer, possibly feeling out of her depth for the first time in a while. To really twist the knife, I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in for a side-hug. "Easy, I don't bite. Unlike your usual customers."
Her shoulders stiffened under my arm before slowly deflating into a resigned slump. "You're a strange one," she murmured.
"Hey, at least I'm an easy pay check. How much is Vasiliy charging for my company?"
She chuckled, a light, tinkling sound. "Uh, 90,000 rubbles for the day."
I gave a low whistle. "The priciest cuddle session in my memory."
"You can't say you're not enjoying it," she smirked, craning her neck to catch my eye.
"You've got your charms," I conceded.
Her smile widened as she looked back at me. "How would you know? You haven't seen nothing yet."
"Exactly. Don't spoil the moment, or I'll be demanding a refund."
A quiet minute stretched between us, eventually broken by Veronika's stiffening posture. "Dmitry?" she ventured, her eyes full of concern.
I shook my head, snapping out of a reverie. One too raunchy to share. My blank musing probably looked a little too close to some of the unsavoury types she'd encountered in her line of work. "Just lost in thought," I attempted to reassure her. "Now, how about showing me to your boss?"
"Alright," she agreed, gently extricating herself from my arm. She rose to her feet and gestured towards the door. "This way."
"Anat-Anatoly?" The surprise in her voice was palpable as we walked in, her eyes locking onto me. Almost swallowing her tounge.
"Olga! Long time no see," I greeted, reaching out for a handshake. "How's the world treating you?"
Veronika looked confused as she left the room, but it was Olga's reaction that really caught my attention. She froze, hands tightly clutching her cane. "I thought you were dead."
It was a recurring theme. I had to admit, it was satisfying to see Olga, usually so unflappable, so thrown off. I was scoring all the hits today. "How can you be so sure you're not the one who's dead and in heaven?"
"Well, for one, I'd expect to meet you in hell..." she shot back.
"Ouch, harsh, I'm hurt" I replied, feigning hurt, "but you're not wrong. Think I'd prefer it anyway."
Her eyes studied me, visibly wrestling with the reality of my presence. "Why are you here?"
"What, can't a man check in on old comrades? I've got some inquiries, and you're on my very short list." I began playing with a coin that had lay on her table; flipping its sides rapidly around my knuckles.
She scrutinized me, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her cane. "None of which I'll answer. You're not welcome here."
"Don't be too hasty, dear. I might have some sway." I dragged a chair over and planted myself at her desk, feet propped up on the surface. "Remember, I've got my bag, or rather coat of tricks." I gave my chest a light tap over my heart, winking for emphasis.
Olga rolled her eyes, the picture of exasperation. "Sure, you've got rabbits up your ass. I'll ask again. Why are you here?"
"You're a quick study. Figure it out." I smirked, lacing my fingers together and resting my chin atop them. "I've got some brass upstairs, antsy with boredom, looking to satisfy some rather specific desires... Tsk, never had you pegged as a trafficker, Olga."
"And the sex trade was where you drew the line?"
"No, you crossed that line way back. Your bottom line's always been profit. But kids?" I shrugged.
Her lips thinned into a tight line, her gaze hardening as it bore into me. "You think they'd fare better out there? You've no idea what they've been through—"
I held up a finger, cutting her off. "Save it. I've seen enough to last a lifetime."
"They're fed and kept clean here."
"I know that, and I'm not here to argue child prostitution. Not today." I adjusted in my seat for more comfort, crossing one leg over the other. "I'm interested in the girls you sent to whatever military base is playing Wonderland."
Her eyebrow arched. "What do you want with them?"
"Nothing. It's their location that's key."
She leaned back in her chair, arms folded. "Of course. And you assume they'd tell me where they were going?"
Exhaling heavily, I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Olga, everyone in this game keeps records for insurance, blackmail, what have you. I know how it works. Give me a copy of the records. I'll handle the rest."
I expected resistance, some back and forth, a stalling dance. Instead, her gaze fixed on me, eyes narrowed. For a fleeting moment, I glimpsed the old Olga, the cold strategist, a chess player studying the board, readying her counterattacks. But then her shoulders sagged, and her expression softened. The sharpness in her eyes was replaced by something almost gentle. "You're still a bastard," she muttered.
She pawed at a drawer, popped it open to reveal a nest of credsticks and loose cash. But what she extracted wasn't currency - it was a data shard. She drew it out, looked vintage just like her. Old tech for an old soldier, that was Olga's style. And she knew there were no circuits under my flesh and bone. She nudged it across the desk. "It's been copied already, so it should be good," she said, her tone as cold and impersonal as the dead silicon she called her skin. "Just don't show yourself here again."
"Appreciate it, Olga," I drawled, palming the shard into the breast pocket of my coat. A small piece of truth tucked away safely. "One more thing: you ever think about... you know."
A flinty stare was her first response, her gaze colder than a Siberian winter. "History is consigned, and dead men should stay buried, Shults."
Olga and I, we'd shared trenches once upon a time, back when we were both cogs in the machine called GRU. Me, the hotshot rookie, the youngest agent they'd ever fielded. Olga, the seasoned operator, old enough to be my mother. She'd once called me wise beyond my years, an old soul in a young body. She got more right then wrong.
But then, I was starring down at a criminal, trying to justify not killing her on the spot. My sigh echoed in the sterile office, a sigh of past choices and their lingering consequences. Who was I kidding, Olga was beyond my recognition, I barely knew this woman. I moved towards the door, my thoughts already on the next move in this unforgiving city. My exit was less a suave farewell and more a quiet retreat, halted abruptly by Veronika, the make-up soaked girl with too much curiosity. "Did you find what you came for?" she asked, a knowing look in her eyes.
"Something like that," I replied, patting the shard drive through my coat. Her eyes held a question I had no wish to answer. I dodged past her, my mind elsewhere.
"Why'd you lie to me about your name?"
But quickly I came to a standstill, locked gazes with her. I was tired, but not enough to let this slide. "For your own safety. Better you remember me as a no-name Dmitry."
Her eyes flashed with indignation. "Don't be condescending."
I gestured to our surroundings, her little den of sins. "Hard not to, given the scenery." I pushed past her, leaving her behind in my wake. I had no time for distractions. I had to find Vasiliy and extract myself from this high-tech Gomorrah.
Luck, decided to favour me. Vasiliy was right where I'd expected, sandwiched between two such voluptuous distractions on a lavish couch, bottle in hand. I swiftly yanked him up by the collar, disrupting his cosy tableau. His astonished gaze met mine, and I offered him a nonchalant explanation. "We're leaving," The look on his face was worth it.
He furrowed his brows, taking a moment to process. "Already?"
"Sooner the better." I let go, and he staggered to his feet. A final swig from the bottle, a wistful glance at the ladies he left behind, and he followed me out. "Thanks for the evening anyway."
I was walking through my nightmarish dystopian memory lane and it hadn't bothered to spruce itself up for my return. Not that I'd expected any red carpets.
You try and fight it, but the past has a funny way of gnawing at you, like a toothache you can't reach. Every street corner yells out a memory. There, for example, a tree had stood proud and tall. A lump of vegetation. But, for me, it was the birthplace of scraped knees and casted arms. It wasn't the tree I missed, it was the boy who climbed it. Nostalgia's a cruel mistress, always dancing around in high heels, stabbing your heart with stilettos of yesteryears. But it only shows you the view from the sideline. You don't get to rewind the tape or slap some sense into your younger, foolish self. No, you're stuck there, a captive audience, watching the world through the sepia-tinted glasses of the past.
It's a one-way mirror, I detested its iron grip, the way it coiled around my thoughts, pulling me deeper.
We trudged on, leaving the ghost town of old memories, stepping into the realm of new-growth concrete. Clones of grey and soulless structures mushroomed around, copying the old world with their post-collapse uniformity. Not a step forward, ten back.
Vasiliy led the way, his gait steady, his eyes focused. Our journey had brought us to the doorstep of a military man who had a notorious soft spot for his woman of the night. Life, in its comedic sense, hadn't accorded him the luxury of an upmarket address, instead tossing him into a rundown communal on the town's fringes. Army pay wasn't so great.
We arrived at our destination, a splash of ghastly yellow amidst the gloomy grey. It was as if somebody had vomited a box of crayons, and the building was the ill-fated result. Brick protruding from the peeling façade, vines taking over their territory. It perfectly encapsulated my viewing of this nation.
"This is the place?" Vasiliy asked, his hand wavering over the buzzer, uncertainty creeping into his tone.
"Looks like it," I affirmed. "Our man should be holed up inside."
Vasiliy seemed apprehensive, his hand still suspended over the buzzer. "What's the worst that could happen?" I prodded.
"Catching a bullet for one," he replied, the tone of his voice suggesting it was more than a mere possibility.
"Nonsense," I shrugged off his fears. "Pessimism."
With a deep breath, he pressed the button. "Realism."
The intercom buzzed to life, a gruff male voice rasping out from the speakers, laced with intoxication. "Yeah?"
"Senior lieutenant Teterev?" Vasiliy inquired.
"Who wants to know?" The voice was curt, defensive.
"I'm Ivan... Pavlovich - Bokhan, an investigator with the uh, Oversight Bureau. My associate and I have a few questions for you," Vasiliy explained, his tone as steady as his hangover.
"Alright. Gimme a minute," came the begrudging acceptance.
"Rest assured, we're only here to talk," Vasiliy placated. "To address the allegations aimed at you."
"Great ice-breaker," I muttered under my breath.
The gruff voice on the other side mumbled something akin to consent, followed by the metallic clunk of the door unlocking. We waited, the silence between us shattered by the creak of the heavy door. Emerging from the shadows was a hulk of a man, a tired canvas of middle age, wearing a grubby tank top and faded camouflage pants. First thing I noticed was how his age didn't translate well into his rank. His unkempt beard framed his face like an unwelcome squatter, and dark circles weighed heavy under his bloodshot eyes. He leaned into the door frame, lit a cigarette, and jerked his head in a brusque invitation. "Well, get in," he growled, smoke billowing out as he spoke, "What's the deal?"
Vasiliy made the first move, heading in as I trailed behind, taking in the surroundings. The building's innards reeked of neglect, with a putrid stench of urine hanging in the air. An eerie silence wrapped the communal building, interrupted only by the occasional drip echoing from an unseen water tap. Curiously, the floors were spotless, and a fresh coat of paint tried to mask the decay of the walls.
As we entered the living quarters, the man launched another smoke-filled question our way. "So, what brings the men in black to my humble abode?"
"Just a few questions," I offered, locking eyes with him, ice meeting fire.
He scoffed in response, "Fire away."
"The word on the street is that you're dabbling in human trafficking," Vasiliy put forth. The man's laughter in response was as hollow as it was unexpected.
"Me? Trafficking? Now that's a knee-slapper. Haven't seen a streetwalker in my life," he blurted out, all too quickly, a smirk dancing on his lips.
"It's interesting you should mention that. We haven't brought up prostitution yet," I pointed out, my tone flat, eyes narrow. The surprise on his face was priceless.
"Ah... shit. Well, I, uh..." He rubbed his beard, his laughter replaced by a tense silence. "Yeah, well, I might've procured a few... companions... for the boys in the unit."
"Just a few?" Vasiliy echoed, his voice dropping a pitch.
"Yeah, a few," he repeated nonchalantly.
"And why would you do that?" Vasiliy pressed.
"Why not? Have you seen Gynym? It's one hell of a dump."
With that slip, the man had unknowingly handed us a piece of the puzzle. "Gynym," Vasiliy repeated, rolling the unfamiliar name over his tongue, nodding to himself.
It took a moment for our guest to understand why Vasiliy had echoed the name 'Gynym.' His features tightened subtly, realization dawning on him a second too late. "Oh," he finally said, "Oh, fuck." He stuttered, raking his fingers through his tangled hair.
"Quite the predicament you're in," I interjected, hiding a smirk. "How does one step into such a mess?"
His confusion was a refreshing twist. Gynym, the name of a river down south of Yakutsk, was an unexpected breadcrumb. The perfect lead. And it had fallen into our lap thanks to Teterev's loose tongue.
Caught like a deer in the headlights, Teterev fumbled for words. "Well," he stammered, "uh..."
"Spit it out," Vasiliy egged him on.
"Right, right. So, there are no amusements down south, no pubs, no theatres, none of the usual stuff. It's all families and misery. So, I, uh... I brought in a few girls from the southern towns to liven up the place. For the men, you know. And some... other officers."
Vasiliy and I exchanged a look. Wordlessly, I gave a slight nod. Message received.
"Okay," Vasiliy drawled, turning back to Teterev. "Thanks for your cooperation. We won't waste more of your time."
"You're leaving? But...aren't you going to arrest me? Am I not under investigation?" Teterev blurted out, cigarette smoke forming question marks in the air.
"No. Because we're not from the Bureau. Have a good day, lieutenant," Vasiliy replied. He turned on his heel and exited before Teterev could respond.
I gave the man a last look. He looked dazed, perhaps failing to comprehend the full depth of his situation. "See you around," I said casually.
Fools like Teterev weren't uncommon in the force. If they survived, it was usually under the protective wing of a more cunning superior, someone willing to bend the rules, even break them. Teterev, however, seemed blissfully oblivious to that reality.
"Handed it to us on a silver platter," I said to Vasiliy as we descended the steps. "Makes you wonder how we're still standing with the calibre of men we're recruiting."
"The good ones are cherry-picked by SovGen, I bet," Vasiliy replied.
A knowing smile crept onto my face. "Bad memories from the army, Vasiliy?"
A shadow passed over his features, followed by a sardonic smile. "I was in it for the perks," he admitted.
Vasiliy didn't refer to money, oh no... No, he meant the authority, the power. Instances of accountability like ours were rarer than one might hope in our society. Soldiers, cops - they're just gangs in a uniform. It's a common fate for societies on the brink, where order is nothing more than an mirage, a worldwide phenomenon. And yet, that's all we've got - a semblance of order maintained through coercion and violence. A path chosen for us centuries ago, a trajectory we've followed diligently. There's no turning back, and maybe there never was. We find ourselves mirroring the West regardless, but in this case, the situation is grimmer. We allow it so. The only difference is we've grown skilled at hiding it. With each emerging technology, we perfect our formula for misery.
It's worth noting, we've evolved in sync with our systems and leaders. To an outsider, our life may seem a dystopian nightmare, hell on earth. But here's the kicker, we all love to moan about our homelands, don't we? It's the one luxury we can afford, after all.
Some like to call it the 'Russian soul.' It's a concept I don't entirely dismiss. I see it echoes American exceptionalism. Both ideas have ghosted us through the Cold War, lingering notions of cultural superiority meant to elevate their respective nations above the rest. Neither is objective; they were never intended to be. People have an innate desire to stand out, to possess a unique identity. It's an intrinsic part of human nature.
In my personal opinion, differences - such as those - are worth preserving.
But... what do I know?
That there's no place like home.
I dunno.
Sometimes I like to just imagine certain stories in different contexts, or how I would meet some or such characters, small or big (depends if I take a liking to them). Those are fantasies, daydreams basically. This then turns into fanfictions (not SI's, I'm nowhere near vain enough to even attempt one). It scratches that itch when I write it down. Then I keep on going until something barely coherent starts to form. And hell, why not just throw it out here at that point.
Sink or float, I'm not bothered. Which is why I wrote that, nope not bothered at all.
Paired with Not in one's own plate