August, 2023
The Mask of the Honor Guard:
Aleksandrya sat herself down at her usual workstation facing the back wall of the tailor shop. Her office chair with the stiff rolling wheels had conformed to someone else's more abundant backside long ago, so it was always just a little uncomfortable. Still, it was considered a luxurious piece of furniture in the greater scale of the Metro, scrapped out of some hotel building by a daring stalker, she was told. The industrial sewing machine set into the rectangular table in front of her was in remarkably good condition, a newer model of the other electric machines in the shop. The other women who worked with her to mend and tailor uniforms preferred their ancient editions, so she had been matched up with the appliance that designated her youth.
She let out a short huff and brushed her long auburn hair behind her shoulder, hunkering down over her current assignment. Her mother's insistently irritated tone of voice was still ringing in her mind. It wasn't even the words she said that mattered but the intent behind them. 'He's more important than you, don't ruin this for me,' she took it to mean. Not that she was eager to spend any time at all with the boorish man that her mother had begun courting more seriously. Their ambiguous few words implied that they wanted some time alone for an altogether revolting purpose. He wasn't even that good-looking, 'Average at best,' she thought. Average height and build, average hair and facial structure, and definitely average intelligence. But he was influential, he had power and status and that was what her mother was actually attracted to, if anything. The domineering officer had been climbing the ranks of the station security forces, which basically served as the civilian police force as opposed to the infamous Iron Legion which dealt with military conflicts and defenses outside the home territory.
Her mother had transformed into this despairing shameless damsel not all at once but slowly over time, over the ten years that had passed since the end of the world. Nuclear fire and ionizing radiation rained down over their beloved and beautiful Moscow, destroying everything new and old in one blinding instant. Every world power had pressed their launch buttons at exactly the same time, and there was nothing left but ash and ruin. Aleksandrya had been almost nine years old when the elongated blue carriages pulled up at the nearest station and a flood of terrified people came pouring down the escalator; pushing and shoving, running and falling, crying and screaming. Her mother held her hand tightly, pulling her into the front corner of the train and trying to call her husband on an unresponsive cell phone. Her father was at work that day as usual; he was a brilliant scientist, an inventive chemist who taught advanced placement classes at Moscow University. They were never able to speak to him again after breakfast that morning and had not been capable of travelling through the unstable Metro tunnels to locate him. Many stations, especially the shallow depth and outlying stops on the branch lines had flooded or collapsed, bridges burned and fell into the rivers, phone and electric lines were severed along with all hope of contacting anyone ever again.
If her father had been with them that fateful day, then maybe her mother wouldn't have crumbled to pieces just like the stations. The initial shock wave had left her mother in a state of reserved inward focus, though she tried her best to put on a brave face for her daughter. For the first whole year she continued to watch over Aleksandrya lovingly, securing living quarters beneath the station they had been trapped in and reciting poems and bedtime stories in the dark before quietly crying herself to sleep. But then she started to drink whatever inhuman concoctions now served as spirits to dull the pain of their harsh reality, and she worked at some kind of stressful job that she never gave the details of. Every adult had to find a job to do, fitting themselves into the machine called society to keep these underground cell blocks inhabitable and as close to a normal life as possible. So many things that people relied on in the modern world had been outsourced to faraway factories, cavernous mines, bustling seaports, and to other countries. The fifty-thousand estimated survivors that were left in the Moscow Metro scrambled to organize themselves well enough to produce the most basic necessities for everyone: filtering clean water, growing or raising food, producing electricity, and building ramshackle shelters to raise their sad little families.
And then came government. Bloody conflicts ensued between the general population and the police and military members who had already been prepared for this inevitable outcome that they had been warned about just in time. Thick iron doors had been built at nearly every station vestibule, and only six minutes made the difference between a life underground and certain death on the surface. At the beginning, people respected and obeyed the intimidating men in uniforms who tried to continue their practice of keeping law and order – and they had the guns. But before long, once it became apparent that no one was coming to liberate any of them from this marble-tiled dungeon, people began to rebel. They segregated themselves and formed their own ideological groups and mob squads of tough men ready to fight to the death for whatever their object of desire was. This sequence of evolutionary events had led to the current state of affairs at this conglomerate of three inter-connected stations: a fascist totalitarian state built by men of the National Socialist Party – Nazis of a brand new species.
It was in this very room that the mantle of initiation was manufactured and fitted to perfection for each able-bodied man. Hundreds, no, thousands of uniforms had passed through these halls, surplus that was dug up from some half-forgotten storage room full of bygone antiquities. Although Aleksandrya had chosen this trade for herself, she despised every fiber of the black wool fabric that enabled its wearer to oppress and slaughter in the name of righteousness. She would take all other projects first, mending everyday linens and civilian clothing before she would dare sully her hands with the material that would inevitably be drenched in blood. Unfortunately, the arrogant average officer that her mother was currently entangled with was about to be honored with an elaborate promotion ceremony and his uniform needed alterations to reflect his new rank and purpose. Her hands clenched tightly on the garment for a moment, physically displaying her abhorrence for its owner.
Suddenly there was a disturbance outside the door behind her. Frantic footsteps in heavy steel-soled boots advanced and stopped, then she could faintly hear a man talking to himself.
"Of course, this had to happen right before the parade, goddamnit… please be unlocked," he muttered angrily, jiggling the doorknob until it yielded.
Aleksandrya turned around in her chair and steeled herself for whoever might enter, knowing she would have to welcome this person who had interrupted her thoughts with a graceful reception. It was never taught to her specifically, but all the working women knew well enough to be cordial with their high-ranking clientele. She drew in a breath for the imminent greeting and tried to build up some fortitude for the interaction. Likely, it was another ill-mannered security officer in need of an urgent repair.
The heavy wooden door swung open with a squeak of its rusty hinges and the dark maw of the hallway gave birth to an unexpectedly handsome young man. He wore a well-fitted black dress uniform with gold trim as well as a pair of tall, polished leather boots. This specialized attire denoted a member of the Honor Guard, an elite subdivision of the station security forces. The soldier's platinum blonde hair was neatly combed, side-parted and voluminously quiffed, and his angular clean-shaven face was pale and pristine in every aspect. She watched with interest as he gently closed the door behind him, peeking out at the last second as if to ensure that nobody had followed him. When he turned around and finally realized that someone else was present in the room he instantly froze in mid-step and began to turn red in the face.
"I-I didn't... think anybody would... be here. S-sorry." He stuttered in a low voice and didn't look her in the eye.
"Is everything okay? Obergefreiter...?" Aleksandrya solicited his name in a falsetto, reading his rank patches to decipher his individual importance and title of address. At least he didn't begin the interaction with an insensitive demand for service like everyone else did.
"Vorobyov. M-Mikhail Zakharovich," he stated his given name uneasily as if he was a brand-new recruit who was terrified of a superior officer.
"Obergefreiter Vorobyov. Won't you come in? What can I do for you?" She tried to speak softly as a subtle cue to help him calm down, still using a small degree of her customer-service voice.
"I-I uh, need a... I tore a seam, here, and I was going to, um," he gestured vaguely to his left leg but Aleksandrya couldn't immediately see anything wrong with his uniform trousers.
Her facial expression of inquisitive concern took a few moments to sink into him before he turned around, revealing a large hole that stretched from the seat of his pants and halfway down the left inseam. He swiftly pivoted to face forwards again, hanging his hand on the back of his neck and staring intensely at the floor, completely embarrassed.
"Oh, that's an easy one," she smiled warmly but tried not to break into a laugh at his discomfort. "Here, I just finished this pair. You can borrow them while I fix yours."
She pulled the loathsome black fabric out from under the foot of her machine and clipped the last thread away with a tiny silver pair of scissors. Her enchanting steel blue eyes were lively and comforting and she was holding the garment out to him and gesturing to a narrow curtain in the corner which served as a fitting room.
"Are you sure? I can do it myself," Mikhail hesitated, looking at the changing room and then back at her indecisively. Undress right here and put on another man's pants, in front of this cute girl? The purpose for his desperate intrusion was humiliating enough already.
"Can you?" She raised her eyebrows playfully. "Maybe we can trade jobs for a bit, then? I'll take your place in the parade tomorrow, that might be fun."
"Fun..." he tried to chuckle at the absurd and likely disingenuous proposition but was still feeling the lingering effects of the adrenaline that had carried him down here so his voice sounded hollow. She pushed her offering out a bit further to get his attention back and he breathed out a sigh of surrender. "Okay."
He accepted the borrowed garment with respect, bowing his head a bit as a wordless concession, and ducked behind the discolored cotton curtain.
Aleksandrya began to hum a quiet tune as she readjusted the thread and machinery settings for the new project, maybe some music would help to lighten the strange tension. She could hear the poor man struggling a little, his belt buckle jingled, his boots flopped over onto the concrete floor, and the cloth rustled energetically. Finally, the blonde soldier tentatively emerged from the dark corner with his own trousers in hand. He walked over silently, his other hand holding the bunched-up waistband of the borrowed pants that were too big for him. He was in a petrified stance again, clenching his own garment as if he felt bad about handing it off to her.
She displayed a sweet smile as she took the item, trying to reassure him that this was a normal transaction and she had handled many pairs of men's trousers before. The black fabric smelled of an equal mix of laundry soap, gunpowder, and light sweat, still warm to the touch from his body heat.
"S-sorry, they're…" He started to apologize again but she cut him off.
"I've seen worse," Aleksandrya shrugged and then frowned, "much worse."
She turned the garment inside out and laid it flat on the table, examining the damaged seam up close under the oil lamp. Her right hand grasped out for some sort of implement of her trade but he couldn't identify it. He glanced around for somewhere to sit, not knowing how long the stitching would take and disinclined to stand there awkwardly holding the oversized costume the whole time. Whose pants were these, anyway? Dragging over a chair from the adjacent workstation, he positioned it to her left side so he could watch what she was doing.
"I thought people could only bring in clean clothes?" He thought back to the list of guidelines for patrons hanging on the outside of the door.
"Ha! I wish people paid attention to that sign," Aleksandrya tossed her head and laughed condescendingly, "Especially Sturmbannführer Kozlov!"
The handsome soldier declined to respond to her mockery as he likely didn't know the officer to whom she was referring, but she took it as a criticism.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—!" She covered her mouth with one hand and looked at him in horror.
"I'm not going to write you up or anything," Mikhail finally softened and held up his hand reassuringly. He picked up the smile she had dropped, realizing she was fearful of his position of service. "Don't worry."
Aleksandrya let out a breath of relief, deciding to turn her attention towards her work so as not to foul up the conversation again. Even if he was deciding to be merciful, she didn't want to take any liberties in conversing with someone from the Honor Guard. She'd already interjected enough brutally honest opinions at the wrong times with the wrong people, creating somewhat of a brazen reputation for herself. That was mostly fine with her, though, she didn't ever want to give anyone the idea that she was compliant with the horrendous policies of her location. Still, this particular corporal didn't seem like he ought to for someone in the role he was inhabiting, not like any of the pretentious bureaucrats she had encountered before.
Mikhail watched her for a while but his gaze began to wander around the shop, taking in the equipment and layout of this miniature world of feminine trade work. There were several metal racks of clothing and uniforms around the outskirts of the room, one labelled as 'complete' and the rest labelled as 'incoming' items that needed work. Six other workstations with electric or old-fashioned sewing machines were laid out in neat rows, but this girl sat in a position which was set apart from the others. There was another long table with tall legs that seemed to be for cleaning and pressing; two irons sat upright and ready with long hoses attached to large plastic water jugs strung up on the wall. Buckets of different sizes and colors were piled underneath and bottles of unknown substances were lined up on a high shelf. Near the door was a large wooden pegboard with little boxes and more various instruments hanging. A similar pegboard was on the opposite wall but it had an assortment of different thread spools.
Once he'd absorbed every detail of the enclosure, his eyes and interest fell back to the beautiful girl who was huddled over intently and sticking fine pins into the layers of fabric at the torn seam. Her long red hair cascaded in waves down her back and spilled over her shoulders. Her simple blue floral-patterned dress clung to a thin hourglass figure. Pale bare legs draped over her chair and terminated in a pair of beaten-up leather combat boots. Her face had been delicately sculpted by a classical arts master, he imagined, and flushed just a little bit when she seemed to sense his gaze on her.
"I didn't ask for your name," he suddenly remembered their brief clumsy introduction and didn't want her to think that his entire personality consisted of nervous chaos. In fact, he was normally quite charming and not just because it was part of his job.
"Sasha," she turned her head a bit to indicate that she was still open to conversing despite being focused on her task. She seemed to be in thought for a moment before making an addendum, "Aleksandrya."
"How long have you been in this profession, Sasha? Most of the working women are," Mikhail thought about how to put it delicately, after all she could potentially be related to any of the homely women he had seen in the various workrooms underneath Chekhovskaya and he didn't want to offend the attractive seamstress who was kindly undertaking his emergency repair. He tried to think back to when he was initially measured for his service uniform by a grumbling babushka with a hunchback, certain that he would remember such a striking appearance if Aleksandrya had been present that day.
"Old? Ugly? Mean?" She listed off readily. Combined with her earlier comment about an exceptionally malodorous officer, it seemed she wasn't shy to share her thoughts out loud. That was a rarity, as most of the girls his age simply batted their eyelashes and shyly waited to be approached. And once he did, they never had much to talk about, either. Interactions with these insipid paper dolls had grown extremely monotonous, as he desired more than just subservient femininity.
"Yeah, pretty much," Mikhail let out a restrained laugh and looked over at the closed door, hoping nobody else could hear them down here.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she glanced over at him momentarily with a sideways smirk. "I learned to sew when I was young. My mom knew a little, the basics, but I liked creating new things and not just fixing old stuff."
"Oh, I'm sorry then," he realized that her duties here consisted mostly of the latter and that he was adding to that burden.
"Don't be. At least I can be useful, and that's what matters. Plus, I have somewhere to be when I'm not wanted at home," she sighed mournfully.
Mikhail nodded his head to agree to the idea of usefulness but she didn't look at him. His voice had switched to an internal one, starting up a string of questions, wondering about the details of her unveiled grievance and trying to work out what she meant by 'not wanted.' She was cast out of her living space? By her own family?
"So, you're going to be in the ceremony tomorrow? For Obersturmführer Smirnov?" Aleksandrya positioned the pinned seam beneath the needle and began to guide the fabric through the machine, pressing on a foot pedal that was built into the table.
"Y-yeah, how did you know about—?" He wouldn't have thought that a simple seamstress would know much about military or political developments, especially not those within his own exclusive division of staff.
"My mother is presently involved with that jerk. He's been boasting nonstop about his promotion. I even heard they hired that polka band to come from Teatralnaya to play at the reception." She spoke a little louder to be understood over the modest humming of the electric motor.
"Are you going, too?" Mikhail didn't really know why he was asking, he just wanted to continue the conversation with her. Obviously, she knew more about the planned event than he did, and she was so pleasant and easy to talk to. So, if she affirmed the inquiry then he'd actually have something to look forward to instead of dreading another ostentatious ceremony where he would be on full display, expected to be flawless and stoically obedient. Security was in fact the least important part of his job. The Honor Guard had been created to promote the ideal image of 'perfect' genetics, to inspire and intimidate people all in one neat package. Citizens gave way, stopped their idle chatter, and turned their noses into their occupations when a member of the Honor Guard was doing his rounds.
"I was planning on finding an excuse, but I'm expected to be present and enthusiastic." She swirled her hand through the air and rolled her eyes to accentuate her cynicism.
"I understand. It can be tiring to play pretend," Mikhail was studying the little tracks of powdery dirt on the floor, thinking of his own rehearsed charades, and coveting her secluded escape here in the workshop. "It's like I put on an invisible mask when I get dressed in the morning."
There was painful ringing silence after that confession. Although Aleksandrya had shown fear of his authority, he was now the one who was feeling apprehensive about her response to such a forbidden contemplation. Everyone always assumed that an Honor Guard had only achieved his position by displaying unwavering support and belief in the values of the party, that they were the most passionate about the crusade against 'inferior' races. Yet, many of the soldiers he served with were ambivalent at best when it came to politics. In reality, young men were chosen for this elite company based mostly on looks and personality, of which he had in abundance and had seen as an advantage while growing up through his teenage years and into the confident adult he was trying to portray. Was this the way she saw him? Just another thoughtless and mechanical poster boy who broke into her solitary haven to demand a chore to restore his vanity? He didn't want that to be the case.
"I don't know how you do it every day," Aleksandrya finally sat up and swiveled in her chair to face him, holding the finished garment in her lap while she clipped away the last hanging threads. "I can't even play nice for one single night at dinner. So, if you need anything, I'm always here late."
She presented the mended trousers to him with both hands but didn't look him in the eye. He wasn't sure if she was referring to her skilled services or if she was implying that she was receptive to more social exchanges in the future. Her soft tone of voice conveyed a deep sense of mutual understanding and sympathy. He might have sworn that she had been reading his thoughts just then, and somehow she had recognized that he wasn't at all like the villainous men who gave the orders. Suddenly, he was eager to take her up on the offer of her availability, whichever type it was, if only to have a chance at a more profound dialogue where he could wholly prove to her that there were still gentlemen who utilized their hearts and minds.
"Thank you, Sasha. I'll keep that in mind." Mikhail collected his pair of pants in a slow exchange, his hands encasing hers momentarily before he gathered up the garment.
She nodded slightly and made a soft noise, seeming to be caught up in thought about something quite distant. Had he upset her somehow? Or dislodged some forgotten painful memory? He tried to shake away the concern, wondering why he was so interested in her inner workings. The borrowed pair of too-big trousers fell to the floor behind the curtain as he redressed himself in the set she had stitched back together. He stepped back out into the open to return the other man's pants, admiring the solid handiwork that she had churned out so quickly.
"They're perfect," he said just to break the solemn quiet. "Thank you, again."
"I stitched both inseams twice, so that shouldn't happen to you anymore," she turned and displayed a forced smile. He could tell the difference already.
"Great, 'cause I can't imagine what would happen if I ripped something at the party. I'll see you there?" The query slipped out of his mouth without any preceding thought and he almost wanted to take it back. She had implied that she was planning to evade the event entirely, but when they had talked about it, he had only imagined and anticipated her certain presence.
"Can I borrow your mask?" Her expression lit up again, her consciousness returned to her silver eyes and her smile widened. Was that reference already like an inside joke between them? Did she feel the same way about her family as he did about his job?
"Sure, I owe you a favor now anyway," he grinned, slipping on his boots one at a time.
Then the idea struck him quite literally, and he placed his hand in his front pocket, moving it around a bit inside before bringing it back out again in a stiff position. He closed the distance between them in two steps and then extended this strange pose out to her, feeling completely silly and expecting that she would misunderstand or ridicule him. However, she didn't falter at all, reaching out both hands in a similar fashion and drawing the invisible object towards herself. She held her hands together loosely and raised them, smoothing them over her pale pink face and then pretending to tie an imaginary ribbon behind her head.
"Now nobody can see how I really feel," she stated confidently, looking up at him and rapidly changing her face into several exaggerated emotions; overstretched joy, scrunched up irritation, sagging sorrow, open-mouthed surprise, sticking out her tongue comically and trying to cross her eyes.
"I can." His offering hand drifted closer, hesitating, but then brushing her cheek with his fingertips and pretending to grasp the edge of the mask and pry it off.
"Well, then maybe I don't need it after all," she whispered affectionately, she hadn't recoiled from his touch but only pushed his hand back to his chest in order to return the fictional article.
Mikhail copied her performance, holding both hands over his face while putting on an intentional scowl and then tying the imaginary ribbon.
"Thank you, ma'am, for your service to the state," he said in a purposefully deep and strict voice and tried desperately not to smile as he stood at attention and gave a stoic salute. This time the gratitude had more than one meaning for him.
"You're welcome Obergefreiter Vorobyov," She laughed a bit through her nose and even saluted back casually, understanding his little act completely and watched him as he turned on his heel and headed for the door.
He wasn't sure what they had just established in the last twenty minutes, but he swore to replay all of it over again in his mind after the nearing end of his shift. Something profound had taken place and transformed his outlook dramatically, washing away all the negative thoughts and feelings he'd kept pent up before he came down here. He dusted off his epaulettes and straightened his necktie, a mostly unconscious habit, and turned back to wave goodbye before restoring the room to its former solitude.
Aleksandrya continued to stare at the door after it had closed with a soft thud, blinking her eyes a few times and beginning to come down from the strangely exhilarating high of her exchange with the adorable blonde Honor Guard. Here only twenty minutes ago she had been absorbed in her usual dark reflections about the state of what was left of the world and the inhuman subjugators that populated it; cursing herself for making it possible for them to stomp through the station halls and bark orders. She'd been chastising her mother endlessly for the way she so casually entertained the whims of that very same brand of men. But then, in one heart-pounding interaction, she'd found herself caught up in the moment with her own black-clad officer.
It hadn't taken long at all to recognize that the handsome young man did not possess the same egotistical personality that the other soldiers saw as just another part of their attire and occupation. And it wasn't just because she'd seen him in a fleeting moment of panicked disgrace, because once he had calmed down and sat next to her he'd revealed some poignant inner thoughts and telling expressions. On top of that, he exhibited a sense of humor and imagination, showing gentle compassion as he'd readily handed her his invisible mask of duty and then taken it right back off her. She blushed and felt her head heating up, touching that same cheek and remembering his delicate fingertips and slow deliberate movements. The extraordinary Honor Guard declared that he could see through it all, right to her core, no matter how she tried to hide her emotions or pretend that she felt otherwise. His warm light brown eyes could pierce right through the veil of indifference and the hard-hearted armor that she had put on who knows how long ago.
That armor had been a necessary invention, as she'd quickly learned that men were only interested in taking advantage of her, in using women up for their own desires and purposes without a care as to the results of their endeavors. Anatoli Denisovich, the boy she had been tumultuously involved with more than a year ago, had developed the same self-centered spirit as the leaders he was trying to emulate and impress. He had been killed on the warfront with the Red Line, and Aleksandrya had felt more relieved than aggrieved.
But Mikhail was different. Decidedly endowed with several of the traits she would have written down on her wish list to whatever God had created man, even if it was asking for a miracle. If the fairytales her father told her so emphatically had any semblance of truth to them, if it was genuinely factual that everyone had someone that was perfectly matched to them, then he might actually be considered a candidate. He treated her like an equal, not an equal-ranked crusader of the fascist ideology, not as another cog in the machine of human society, but a person. In some ways, he'd lowered himself, she thought, not believing that even her useful trade had much impact on the grand scheme of things. So far, she hadn't known a single man of warring age and ability to have any interest in humbling himself to a simple shop girl, to telling their innermost truth to a complete stranger with sincerity and despondency. But Mikhail was different.
So, she took a deep breath and turned back to her workstation with a smile, taking the next garment on the table into her hands and wondered what she should wear to the parade tomorrow – because she wouldn't need the invisible mask.