Dmitri Vanchekov's Story

At the end of the alley, two big, greying man were stationed, their necks nearly invisible underneath round shoulders, both sporting thick mustaches on their upper lips that were painstakingly groomed and tidied, attacked with clippers at every and any opportunity. Cigarettes flared in their mouths as they took long drags, letting out a wheezing cough as one of them couldn't handle his smoke.

"Ivan, you must are being able to hold your smoke, da?" The dark-haired one said, chortling through a thick Russian accent. The one called Ivan flipped the second man a middle finger, suddenly pausing as he pressed a clear wire to his ear, the voice that carried through it alerting him to an exclamation.

Across the street, three men unloaded a truck, of varying shapes and sizes, their dark blue uniforms marking them members of

Dmitri's Moving Company.

Two of them grunted and strained under the weight of a refrigerator, while the third one barked commands.

"You are beginning to get on my nerves, comrade," the man croaked in a hoarse Russian dialect. "I am paying you to work, not to be dropping my stuff on the floor. Keep it together."

Further down the street, and on top of a rooftop, a man lay with a long tube, fingers pushing a small, feathered dart into it. When it was loaded, he flipped open a small panel on the side of the tube, revealing a long-distance telescope with an infra-red sensor. Lying prone, the man squinted through the panel, finally seeing his target emerge from Gambit's Bar.

"Action stations." The man whispered, in flawless American english. Then he sighted the girl's neck, where a small amulet lay against her exposed skin, aimed for just underneath her jaw, put the tube to his mouth, and blew.

The tranquilizer dart sailed out from the tube, on a collision course with Fedelia.

"Go, Go, Go!"

Suddenly, the two men in the alleyway were around and behind her, the amulet around her neck ripped off and tossed further down the alleyway. The three men in the mover's van dropped the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out a small black pistol and two billy clubs, before racing across the street, their faces grim.

The two men on either side of her gripped her arms, hauling her backwards and deeper into the alley, as the first mover approached her, his club slashing through the air, aiming for her jaw.

"Go, Go, Go!"

Suddenly, the two men in the alleyway were around and behind her, the bracelet around her wrist ripped off and tossed further down the alleyway. The three men in the mover's van dropped the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out a small black pistol and two billy clubs, before racing across the street, their faces grim.

The two men on either side of her gripped her arms, hauling her backwards and deeper into the alley, as the first mover approached her, his club slashing through the air, aiming for her jaw.

" Uspokoĭtesʹ , tovarishch ". one of the men holding her arm said, sounding worried. The harsh language flowed from his mouth as if common, natural. These men were not from these parts.

The man who struck her glared up at the insolent one, raising his club menacingly. "My na zemlyu yee v bolʹnitsu. Razve vy ne slyshite Dmitriĭ ?"

Ivan, holding the girl's other arm, nodded tightly, pulling her so that she was stretched between the two men. The man with the pistol stalked forward, cocking it and placing it centered against the girl's head. "You are wanting to die, woman?" He snarled through the accent, the fifth man taking a position at the alley, glancing around for authorities.

It took her a few moments, but she managed to open her eyes, barely focusing on the man and the gun before her. She swayed to the side, letting out a small gurgle.

"No," she all but whispered, barely shaking her head, "What...did I do to you?" she spoke again, "Why...the hell...I don't have...any money with me...I...don't..." She leaned forward, spitting blood out of her mouth. The inside f her cheek had cut on her teeth with the blow.

"Fuck you."

The man slapped her across the face, on the same side the club had landed. At the same time, Ivan grabbed a fistful of that long, white hair, and yanked on it, exposing the woman's throat.

"You are not wanting this, eh.... fucking, I think." The man said. "Is a Wing City expression. If we are taking the expression literally, the woman... eh... would not like. Ya?"

The men around her chortled darkly, their grips tightening. The man with the gun moved it down, tapping it against her lips.

"It is not what you are dooink to us that we are now beating you. No, no. It is what you have dooink to a... a friend of ours."

The man with the club swung at Fedelia's knee, punctuating his comrade's sentence.

"We are here for the... how you say, vengance?"

Fedelia hissed when her head was pulled back, eyes squeezing tight. Well, shit. Of all the things she expected, of all the trouble she knew she could get into...and this time she did not even know what she'd done. Beat up by a bunch of ordinary earthen men in an alley. In Wing CIty.

Well, this was fucking hysterical.

"What the hell have I been doing to any o- AIIGH!"

Another cry, this time as the club came down onto her knee. She became dead weight, not even attempting to stand anymore. She bit her tongue, but still, she kept trying to speak. If she wasn't killed here...

"...for...for...for...who...?" she asked weakly, through the pain, through the agony of it all. Oh, spirits. Oh, damn. What the hell was going to happen? Were they going to kill her? Toss her in the back of the alley for some fortunate vampire or demon or...who knows what...in Wing City.

"...why..."

The two men held her up easily, their arms pulling at her hands until they were over her head, locked behind her. Ivan then took them in both of his hands, locked in an iron grip. The man with the gun chuckled, tapping the gun against her chin, rubbing it under her jaw in small little circles.

"Our friend is losing a testicle to you," he said, viciously. "And since he can have no longer the babies, my dear, we are thinking... we are thinking that maybe we just hurt you. Maybe with any luck, you will not be having the babies anymore. And maybe your pretty boyfriend may not be wanting you anymore."

He stepped back as the two men moved in, wielding their short clubs, grinning at her.

"Hospital, no morgue." The gunman said. "Be paying attention to her ribs, as well."

Fedelia's eyes shot open. Now, that didn't make any sense...she'd dealt in a lot of things that could have gotten someone pissed as all hell with her, but...losing a testicle?

When the hell did that happen?

"...I don't know what you're talking about," she mumbled, trying to raise her voice, "I didn't do nothing like that!" she cried out, shaking her head, trying to rip away. The agony in her knee caused her to wince, to lose her balance again. "I didn't do anything...anything like that!" she said again and again. She looked up at the men with clubs. How could she get out of this?

"...wasn't me."

The man with the gun rolled his eyes. "Why are you two heads of knuckle le waiting?"

The first blow was to her stomach with a club, followed by a savage slap to the face. The second was an assault on her other knee, to ensure that she couldn't walk away. If the men had their way, they'd leave her on the ground with broken teeth, yellow bruising, broken legs... she'd take months to heal.

As another swing at her knee came down, the man at the alleyway jerked his head towards the other four.

"Politsiya!"

The man with the gun cursed. "Stop."

The beating stopped, and Ivan's hand quickly wrapped around Fedelia's mouth, pressing her head against his chest, roughly.

Fedelia had been reduced to a bag of flesh and broken bone. She could barely even scream anymore, and her body, in shock, was beginning to go numb. She could barely see a thing with her fading vision. Lights. She could hear sounds. She could feel the warmth of a body nearby, somewhat knew she was being held up, but past that, she knew nothing but fading misery, which was hardly fading fast enough. One name she was able to mumble and whimper through the man's hand:

"...Rick."

As the four men stood in the alley, breathing rapidly, Ivan took two items from his coat pocket; one was a heavy piece of tape, which he placed over her mouth. The other was a blindfold, which he placed over her eyes and tugged backwards until it was secure. He leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"If your boy comes after us, he will die. We will cut out his tongue, his achilles heel, and his eyelids. We will mail them to you. If I were being you, I would warn him away from any fool notion of revenge.

One of the men came and bound her wrists and feet, and the two of them laid her on the dirty alley floor, one of them finishing with a vicious kick to her stomach, and a gob of spittle on her face.

"We'll come back for you later, zhenshchina." He sneered. Ivan stooped to her face with a black marker, scrawling words on her forehead before the five disappeared into the night.

Она получила то, что она заслуживает.

Ivan's pace was quick as he ditched the car near the graveyard, frowning deep. His marching, pounding pace took him up a winding path of gravestones and cobblestones, twisting and turning as he moved past each row of tombstones, his phone pushed to his ear.

"I am not of seeing this... eh... Grave."

"You aren't seeing it." The impatient voice on speakerphone barked into his ear. "Fuck, Ivan. First you beat the shit out of the wrong bitch, then you can't even find a damn grave in the ground. We need to find this... Maves. John Maves. The records say he's dead, so there's gotta be a stone. We need somethin' to go off of, otherwise we're forced to believe that the motherfucker called a dead man. And Daniel said the voice was pretty lively.

"I am understanding."

"You understand, you stupid fuck. Call me when you have something."

Ivan flipped the phone shut, sighing as he walked. It was dark out; each shadow giving him the creeps as his hand touched the large handgun inside his belt. "This is not good."

Ivan froze, his hand grasping the silver gun, his eyes wide as he stared at the figure of the photograph they had shown him. John Mave.

"G-ghost." He muttered, before beginning to spout off in his hoarse Russian. "Prochʹ , dukh! YA ne nuzhdayusʹ v Vas presleduet menya v etot denʹ! Budʹte net!"

Flinging the pistol at the man (knowing that guns aren't of much use to spirits) the man fled, his fat belly swinging from side to side as he bolted from the spot.

The man's eyes were pure panic as he fell to his knees, begging before the spirit. "Это был не мой заказ, пожалуйста, дух пощади мою душу человека по имени Michael Otuva дал нам заказ, но мы победили ту женщину Это была женщина по имени Лена, что мы должны были отправить сообщение...»."

""Мы не ссорились с вами, и у нас нет конфликта со своим братом. Если это радует дух, я хотел бы оставить в своей жизни."

He bowed his head, clasping his hands in front of him, shaking them as he sobbed.

Ivan nodded, bending to kiss the ground that the man walked upon. "I am... I am thanking you with... eh, my heart." He said, drawing a circle around the left portion of his chest. Just as he stood to leave, however, clambering to his feet, a dart zipped from nowhere, stabbing into the man's throat as he began to turn, in the process of fleeing.

Clutching at his throat, Ivan teetred before falling over, slamming on the ground with a sickening thud, fingernails tearing at flesh, breaking the skin, drenching in his own blood as he clawed and scratched. As he let out a croak, signalling his own death, he slumped, lying backwards as rivulets of skin and blood bloomed from his throat around the dart.

Then, his jacket pocket began to ring; a shrill noise that split the night. A black cellphone dropped out of the slack jacket, vibrating across the cobblestones.

Under the cover of darkness, in the shadows of the MasterRail's tracks, a thud of fist on flesh sounded, the wet smack drowned out by the rainfall and the click-clack of the cars that shot along the Rail, heading to and from social hubs, malls, parks. People above got on and off, chattering and scraping shoes, car doors opened and slammed closed as people arrived and fled the scene of one of the many stops that the MasterRail catered to. The hustling, bustling masses were blissfully unaware that, mere feet below them, a man was losing his life.

------

Another thud sounded, a wet smack of a gloved fist smashing into a swollen, bloodied, and broken face. Charles felt the pain of it belatedly, almost as if there was a lag delay on his nervous system. His head swung to the side, blood spewing from his nose and mouth on a half-sob, half-spit that wracked his already bruised and twisted ribs. He sagged against the beam that he had been handcuffed to, leaned his head back against it, breathed on ragged, noisy breaths.

In front of him stood a bald man, who shook his gloved hand out after the swing. It was hard to focus through his swollen eye, but he made out the shape of his interrogator - an older man, grey hair, circular glasses that masked beady blue eyes. The third member of this little question-session was crouched by his stripped-off pants and jacket, going through the pockets with blue surgical gloves.

“Mr. Baxter,” the older man said, taking off his glasses to wipe at a small blood spot that had evidently stained them, “clearly you have not hearing me, or I would not ask this twice. My english, as you hear, is… not so good, and so I am willing to be giving you a doubt-benefit, yes?”

Charles inhaled, squeezed his good eye shut, breathed, prayed.

“You are part of this… Scorpio gang?”

Charles said nothing for a moment, backed his naked legs up a bit, cringed for the blow. It came low and fast, slamming into his stomach, sending him as far forward as he could go. His wrists screamed as they were pulled taught by the beam at his back, blood dripping to the gravel floor. He inhaled again, looked up at the bald man-

Another fist, crashing into his lips, sending his head back against the beam with a jarring thud. Stars swam in his vision.

“Ah, he is, as they say, a tough nugget to mine.”

The bald man shook out both hands again, lifting a shoulder. “Always plan B. Daniel?”

“Yup,” said the man going through his personal effects, lifting a picture out of Charles’ wallet. He handed it to the older man, who looked at it and smiled. Nodded.

The bald man took the picture, held it to the light so that Charles could see. His daughter - Elizabeth - sitting on a trike, grinning her set of pearly whites at the camera.

“She is beautiful, Charles,” came the older man’s reedy voice when Charles started forward, straining against his bonds, “and very sweet looking. I would much like to visit this little angel.”

“No,” Charles choked out, gurgling through his filled throat.

“Yes,” the man carried on, sliding his spotted hands into his pockets, “I am thinking this is what should be happening. Daniel and I will pay her a visit, yes? Bring her here to watch? Maybe this little angel will be happy to see you, Charlie. Maybe she will-”

Charles lunged again, and was met with another slamming fist into his head, causing him to slump again. The older man took two steps forwards, leaned towards him, smiled.

“Just answer me, Charlie. If you are being part of this… Scorpio gang, and you can tell us of their hiding place, we can make this easy. We won’t visit the little angel, you can be going home to her, sharing in her life. If not, well…”

He shrugged, stood again. “I am not liking to do this, but it must be necessary.”

Charles hung forward, eyes squeezed shut, focusing on just breathing. Just breathing. He had to do it. For Elizabeth’s sake, he had to do it.

At his silence, the older man sighed. “Get the car, Daniel. We will be visiting Charlie’s house and seeing if this little angel is there. Maybe we can be-”

“The Normans,” Charles blurted, his head tilting upwards as he strained against his bonds. “They’re in the fucking Normans, you sick freak.”

He collapsed again, breath heaving outwards, hands straining against his bonds. He had to get free. Had to warn them. Had to save them.

“Very good, Charlie,” he heard, but it sounded muffled, far away. The feel of a pistol barrel on the back of his sagged head, too, felt alien and surreal.

The sound of a gunshot echoed out, drowned out by rain, the chatter of people, and the MasterRail, doing its nightly rounds.