Dec. 8th, 2007 05:35 pm
zabytsya: (Shadowed)
David realized he had come to rely on the kindness of strangers.

That was a quote, he thought, vaguely, but couldn’t place it now.

He lay in the stiff infirmary bed and tried not to look out the window.

Outside, the planet spun on its axis. Night turned to day, and day turned to night. Snow fell, and then dissolved on the ground. Time passed.

He wondered how to count the measure of the rest of his life. Would it be hours, before they came for him, or would it be days? Or would all of the questions that he imagined were being asked by those in charge simply fall by the wayside, and no one would worry much about one unfortunate amnesiac soldier.

Maybe. Maybe his thinnest of alibis would be enough to go overlooked. Maybe Lieutenant Rakitin’s continuing benevolence would be enough to deflect attention. Or maybe the woman that David under any other circumstances would treat as his enemy would make good on her promise to help him.

That was a lot of maybes.

David owned a car, back in America.

1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air convertible. Two-tone, Imperial Ivory, and Dusk Pearl.

The man he’d bought it from told him that only 500 were made in that color. David didn’t know if that was true or not, but he told his buddies that anyway when they gave him shit about it. Kowalski had sneered. “What, are you a sissy? Your fucking car is pink.”

It wasn’t pink, David had told him, patiently. It was Dusk Pearl. Then he had punched Kowalski in the shoulder, though not as hard as he could.

But hard enough.

He thought about the car now.

It was a strange thing to realize he missed, out of everything he could be missing out here in the middle of nowheregrad, Russia. His home, his parents, his friends, his brother. Baseball and television. A really good burger. Good Golly Miss Molly, Born too Late, It’s Just a Matter of Time, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. My Heart is an Open Book.

Sunday morning, driving with the top down, hair ruffled by the breeze, slate grey eyes shielded behind sunglasses. Leather jacket and white t-shirt and jeans. He’d stopped for gas, and a pretty redhead in a bright blue MG and catseye glasses had complimented his car. “What a beautiful color,” she’d said, then flashed a smile over her shoulder as she’d driven away.

Having sex in the back seat of that car had been the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.

His chest panged.

David closed his eyes, and sank back in the bed, but he felt restless.

Too much up in the air. Too many people to rely on, when he was used to relying only on himself. Not enough he could do to solve anything.

He opened his eyes again.

David had the feeling he had miles to go before he slept.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket


Oct. 13th, 2007 03:30 pm
zabytsya: (Default)
I know I was right, to hold things back, even from the soft-spoken man with the kind face and the warm brown eyes of a Labrador.

I just didn’t hold enough back.

Intuitively, I sensed that he meant me no harm.

In fact, he only wanted to help.

But there was too much I didn’t know, about the man, about the situation, about myself.

In all honesty, though, I’m more confused than lost.

I woke to a miasma punctuated by half-formed images, impulses, instinctive assumptions, embryonic thoughts.

I shouldn’t be here. Something horrific had happened. I needed to do something, go somewhere, find someone.

Then slowly, everything had sharpened, like a movie brought into focus.

I still can’t remember the past few hours – days? – but I no longer feel like I want to. Better it stay lost. The horror of that revelation still lingers, lurking like a shadow in my peripheral vision.

I can’t think about that. Not now. And not stay sane. I feel like something more fundamental than my identity has been stripped away, taken from me.

Something I’ll never get back.

Somehow it feels like I’ve been diminished, and I’m less than what I was.

But at the same time…

I have a mission.

I have to remember that.

It came back to me because I needed it to return, I needed something to focus on, to drive the shadows back.

I have a mission, and a name, and a home I left behind.

The thing is, I’ve already said too much. I let it slip like water through my fingers, back when I was struggling, grasping for purchase.

The KGB pathologist knows two things about me that could easily get me killed.

When I woke up, I was speaking English.

Later, when he questioned me as to why I was here, I told him the exact reason:

I’m looking for someone.

Smooth. Some spy I am. Nice way to botch my first deep insertion stealth mission.

What he’ll do with the information, I have no idea. He could be reporting it to his superiors at this very moment, and they’ll burst in here and haul me off for interrogation.

Top secret Soviet military bases don’t take well to the intrusion of CIA agents, after all.

When I was sent on this mission, I remember they told me again and again that it was to be a purely stealth mission. To be seen by no one, to leave no traces of my passage. To let no one know that I was here.

Get in, find out what happened to Snake, get out.

They told me that so many times, I almost laughed.

Not deaf. Not stupid, either. I know what a stealth mission is.

Guess I’m sure as hell not laughing now.

Now that I’ve failed that six ways to Sunday, I need to figure out what to do.

Disappear? Cut out, run home with my tail between my legs, and tell them I failed, send someone else? That something happened to me out here that –


That’s not an option, is it.

I’m not in good enough physical condition to go sneaking around base right now, hiding from the guards, looking for Snake.

Poison, the KGB pathologist said.

I’ve been wounded as well. Deep wound on the chest, another on the back.

And then there’s the…the other thing that happened to me.

And if I’m caught sneaking around out there, I’ll really look like a spy then.

Time for Plan B.

There’s hiding, and there’s hiding in plain sight.

I think I can milk the memory thing for a while, since I honestly do have gaps, entire reels that are still out of focus. Not such a stretch to say I can’t remember anything at all, even though I’m starting to remember everything.

I guess that ultimately, though, what happens right now is out of my hands.

It all depends on what the KGB man, this Rakitin, decides to do.

Was I wrong about him?

Or does it even matter if I’m right?

One of my instructors back at Langley told me once that there’s no such thing as luck, and that the only thing that matters is skill.

At the time, I believed it, but now I’m hoping he was wrong.

I could use a little luck right now.

December 2007

234567 8


RSS Atom

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 17th, 2017 07:26 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios