The Church was like a second home, Sasha still felt most comfortable among the rock and debris of the undercity. It was his home, it had been his home since coming to Moscow. And before that in the ruins of the CEZ, he felt like he belonged in those worlds -- old and broken and lost to civilization.
Sasha was still reeling from the woman who had attacked him. The way his hand lit up with fire, and her clothes ignited under his touch. It was the power of the shard. The world was clear and bright but now as he sat in the corner of the safe haven clutching the grotesque glass in his hand breathing deeply the world faded to the ugliness that Sasha knew it to be.
His heart raced in his chest, beating like a drum keeping time in a parade marching to war. He felt tired and broken. But Sasha closed his eyes and focused on his breathe and his heart trying to slow it to a normal pace, the shard in his hand clutched to his chest muttering softly to himself. "I'm okay. I'm okay."
1 minute. 10 minutes. An hour later, Sasha's body came to rest. His pulse returned to normal and he was chilled from the sweat covering his body. The cold tile of the floor and the stone walls did not offer any heat. Sasha went in search of something to warm himself by -- a fire that would burn into his soul. Something to warm him and calm the rest of his anxieties. He was feeling better, but he desired the heat and burn of the fire.
Zeke’s church was a community Oriena had no real interest in, but it was a place that asked very few questions. Inside was always bustling, warm, and unless you looked a certain type, it was usually welcoming. Zeke was judge, jury and executioner in that regard. These people loved him for no real reason Ori could fathom, but he revelled in it, and it seemed to bring out the best side of him. Evenings usually saw him surrounded by penitents, music, laughter. He called himself an angel, but he was more like a gypsy king.
But Ori didn’t want warmth. She didn’t feel like going to Kallisti, or to her empty house, and certainly not to see her mother. The refugees usually spilled onto the church grounds, even in the cold winter weather, and that was where she had gone. It was solitude without really being alone, and better than a bar where she’d only get hit on by some unfortunate soul who’d inevitably end up feeling the sharp side of her claws. She’d lit a fire, and she watched its curl and flicker without really feeling its heat. A bottle rested in the hollow of her lap, half empty.
She drowned it in alcohol, and she drowned it in drugs, but the tide always rose again; the battle was constant. The nosebleeds had become more frequent. She hadn’t confided in any one about that – what was the point? – but while she was hardly curling up ready to die, she had been putting things in place. Nadezhda played on her mind in quiet times, like now. Her mother would be provided for, but she’d suffer the loss – if she even understood that Ori had not simply abandoned her for good. It bothered her more than Ori would ever admit. Even Nox didn’t know about her crazy mother, and he was the closest thing she had to a confidant. Which wasn’t saying much.
The club was the only other thing she cared about. But that was an easy contingency; she’d practically handed over Kallisti’s reins to Nox when she told Carmen to let him handle the security. Ori spent hardly any time there now, not least since the place became a fucking creche during the day. But it all amounted to the same thing. She’d wanted to create a haven, and it was. But not for her.
She pressed the bottle to her lips, let it fall back into her lap. The vodka might as well be water, honestly. But she didn’t feel like leaving her fire to go find something stronger.
There were always little fires somewhere to find, everyone used them warm themselves. He could start one himself, but he was still a little rattled from the attack. Sasha wandered through the refugees, watching and listening and skirting past them looking for a fire or someplace that wasn't too crowded with others around it. He didn't want to be around too many.
Out on the grounds there were fewer people, more chances of fire. He recognized a face. He saw lots of faces doing what he did. But he didn't know names, only what they liked. And she had a fire. She wasn't friendly, he remembered that. She wasn't the flirty type trying to get free stuff. She barely even smiled.
Sasha shuffled over to her, his shard clutched in his hand. He hadn't taken any time to look at it. He didn't want to see the break. He didn't want to see the shattered mess. "Hi." Sasha muttered as he held out his free hand towards the flame and tried to get as close as he could to the flickering flame. His hand hovered close, he could feel the heat licking his skin, but not close enough to burn. "You look a little empty." He wondered if she remembered him, sometimes they did, most of the time they didn't. Depends on how often they found him.
She was aware of the intrusion, but her eyes didn’t flick up until he spoke. Had it been to ask to join her he would have received a blunt fuck off in response. But Ori rarely contested when others simply took the things they wanted – well, not unless she was in a particularly contrary mood. Tonight she only watched him press one hand close to the flames, so close she wondered if he was courting the pain. She’d used to do that as a kid; light a flame under her hand, see how long she could hold it there before the agony of it grew too much.
Nadezhda never noticed the burns, or if she did, she only gripped her rosary tighter and muttered about demons.
Oriena knew who he was; she didn’t forget names or faces. Her lips twitched in a hard smirk. “The opposite, actually.” She half laughed, a little bitter. The pressure in her head rarely let up its demand – the ijiraq’s constant reminder of her oath, and her utter failure to keep it. Oblivion had about run its course by now. Ori was good at distracting herself, in risk or in anger, fighting or fucking. But pin her in a corner and she was never going to go quietly.
She drank from the bottle. A few more pills weren’t likely to hurt, if that’s what he was offering. Something to fill the soul. But Ori didn’t have one of those. She looked him up and down, saw he clutched something in the hand not cradling the flames. After a moment she offered out the vodka. “You, however, do look empty.”
Sasha gave her a small smile. "I meant the bottle. I have other demons to chase. For the fire I'll share." He wouldn't partake, but he meant he'd cover a hit. It was a currency to trade. He had money but sometimes it was easier to trade. People wanted things he had.
He wasn't sure how she meant he looked empty. He was cold. Alone. Tired of these attacks. Tired of being sick. He didn't want to look at the shard. He pulled his hand from the fire and looked at the rosy glow to his skin before taking the shard in the hand. the cool glass and metal soothed the heat. Sasha put his other hand towards the flame. "Empty would be better than hunted." That's what he felt like -- like he was being hunted.
But why? he thought into the flames squeezing gently until it bit into the still warm skin.
A sly smile twitched, the tease a dare: it was why she offered, knowing his reputation for abstinence despite what he peddled. Oriena was always more pleasant as a co-conspirator, but she did like a reason to be riled. By the wicked glint in her eye, she was moments from tipping the vodka right in the flames he so coveted. The bottle swung menacingly by the neck, but ultimately she decided she could tolerate the company, and she tipped a permissive shoulder instead. If all he wanted for his goods was to share the fire it was hardly an imposition. “What do you have?” she asked. Though by her bored tone she was not entirely interested.
She watched him palm the object in his hand, study it, offer the other one to the flames.
“Sweetheart, the easiest way to avoid being hunted is to become the hunter.” She sounded scathing, dismissive. But for all her apparent apathy, she was watching him.
When she asked about his offerings he smile softly putting the shard in his coat pocket before unzipping the front and reaching inside to grab what he had on hand. He had a little bit of everything. His display wasn't what he sold in its entirety. There were other favors he had that he didn't show anyone but his regulars, or those who knew he might be selling. The illegal stuff could land him in jail and neither he nor Zeke would like that outcome. Not that Sasha was a rat -- he'd never rat.
Sasha dumped the small display bag into the palm of his hand. Several different colored pills, and a few slips of paper to slip under your tongue offered some legal options. But he knew what she liked and he pulled a second bag out of his pocket. "And I got this." She might be bored of the other options, but Sasha knew his customers -- most of the time.
She watched him and she always seemed bored or bitchy he didn't take it personally. "Do I look like a hunter to you?" He wanted to bite back the term of endearment but he didn't. Pissing off the scary lady was not something he wanted to do.
Ori watched him retrieve his goods, but there was a glint to her eye that suggested it wasn’t a look of anticipation. Sasha knew his clients. He was good and discrete and all the things a decent dealer should be. But she realised she wasn’t interested in service – someone who just knew what she wanted and would accommodate it, which by the second bag he clearly remembered exactly what she liked. Tonight it made her feel known in a way that felt depressingly banal – just another junkie. The brief attempt to reach out faded quietly. His troubles were his own, and that was fine by her.
She shifted to lay back, hands on her stomach, the bottle propped against her hip. There weren’t really any stars up there; there never were in the city.
“Don’t take the advice then, Sasha,” she said. “But if we’re talking about the same thing, they’re just scared people, and you’re a fucking god.” She didn’t look to see if that hit a mark or just elicited a look of confusion. He haunted the undercity like she had once, and there were plenty of things in Moscow’s underbelly to be scared of, even with Zeke’s protection. She might be wrong. She didn’t care either way.
“How about you just surprise me,” she said. Her eyes were half closed, arm cushioned behind her head. She was just far enough from her fire that half of her was bathed in its scalding glow, and the other felt the bite of winter. She didn’t think about what she’d already taken tonight, or the alcohol she’d washed it down with. Ori was perfectly aware she was taking risks, like maybe she thought if the ijiraq were going to destroy her body with their unnatural connection anyway, she’d just beat them to it.
As if on cue, blood choked the back of her throat. She rolled, half pushed herself up as it began to pour from her nose, pressing the back of her hand up against it. “Fucksake,” she muttered.
Sasha blinked at her response. A god? How could he be a god? He didn't know how to be a hunter, much less who he was hunting? He didn't even know why he was being hunted only that they'd come after him twice now. If they were even the same people. How did she know what he was talking about?
But her trust in his judgement made him smile a little brighter. He put the other of his stash away. She lounged across the ground, bathed in the glow. He might almost find it alluring if he wasn't afraid of her. But the thought quickly vanished as her nose started to bleed. It wasn't uncommon for his clients to find themselves in need of medical attention. Sometimes they fell ill right in front of him.
He didn't rush to help, but he did move towards here, carefully so as not to spook her. Sasha pulled a mostly clean rag from his pocket. He kept it for various reasons, this was one of them. He handed her the rag. "It's a good thing you prefer to swallow your demons and not sniff them."
Sasha quickly moved toward the edge of the fire light in the shadows of the day where snow still held its shape and he tucked his hands into the cold wet snow. He shivered as he returned to her and placed his cold hands against the back of her neck. It wasn't the first time he'd dealt with a nosebleed, and it wouldn't be the last. Many clients came. Sasha had learned a lot of simple tricks to survive various ailments. "Whatever is filling your head is taking a toll."
Ori wasn’t expecting intervention. She didn’t see any reason he would. But when the offer of the rag entered her peripheral she took it anyway. The glance she gave him as she did was dark and unreadable, but the deadpan comment pierced whatever wariness prowled at his witness of her vulnerability. Instead she choked a laugh, then winced as it only made the blood bubble and burn a little painfully. “I guess I do prefer to swallow my demons,” she said, tasting the drench of her own blood on her lips as she spoke. By the purringly amused way she said it, they were talking about different things again.
The rag was quickly soaking through. She heard him flee, unsurprised, and didn’t give it another thought. Instead she watched the flames, knowing she ought to be tilting her head up to wait it out. But she was thinking about her own advice; about hunting rather than being hunted.
The cold hands suddenly ringing the back of her neck made her gasp. The icy shock; the audacity of another’s uninvited touch from behind. She wasn’t sure if it annoyed her or turned her on, not that it was his intention – he was as afraid of her as they all were. Her eyes glanced into her peripheral, but she didn’t jerk away, nor lifted her head. “You have no idea,” she said into the rag.
“So what did you do? For them to be chasing you?”