Crash
Chapter Two:
Crash
| August 20th, 2004. Dalmatia, Pennsylvania |
Little girls giggling, rolling through the tall grass of the valley. Copper curls flowing wildly, freely in the wind. Braided gold hair shines in the afternoon light. Toothy grins that blind strangers passing by. Little girls giggling, sticking their toes in the murky water, bubbles coming to the surface of the discolored water. They run frantically, jumping over branches, making their way to a swing on the tree, hovering over the calm river.
The golden-haired girl tugs on the copper-haired girl's neon green dress. She pointed her chubby finger to the house on the hill, just over the creek. Alla's house. Her mother was waving frantically, a smile gracing her young face. The golden-haired girl pulled her friend up the hill, stumbling and giggling up.
The house was colored a deep blue, with dream catchers and wind chimes dangling from the back porch. Birdhouses poorly painted made the porch light up colorfully. The two girls bound up the porch, their muddy feet tripping up the wooden stairs.
The mother set up three plates of food. One for herself, and two for the young girls. It was mashed potatoes, peas, and mac n cheese. The only meal that the copper-haired girl would eat without a fight. She dug in, giggling happily as she cleaned her plate to reveal Dora The Explorer on her plate. The mother stroked her daughter's unruly copper curls, wondering how she had gotten such eye-catching hair—and eyes. The copper-haired girl had heterochromia, having one sea green eye, and the other a piercing sky blue eye. Her mother lovingly kissed the crown of her head, before turning her around in the chair to talk to her.
"It's time to..." The copper-haired child squinted her eyes, focusing on her mother's lips. Her copper eyebrows furrowed. She tapped on her mother's hand, silently asking for her to repeat what she said. "Time to...goodbye..." The copper-haired girl sprang up, her eyes wide as she registered her mother's words.
"No!" The copper-haired girl jumped out of the chair, running over to the chair where her friend was sitting. "No bye-bye. Stay." She shook her head definitely, pulling her friend closer to her and out of the chair.
For being a four-year-old, the copper-haired girl had some strength. "Alla—" Her mother tried, her blonde eyebrows furrowing, her plump lips frowning. Alla watched her mother's lips move, but she couldn't make out a word. She shook her head, closing her eyes. Not wanting to see her mother's words.
'Would not leave, she would not leave.' Alla repeated in her head, hugging her friend. The golden-haired girl clung to Alla, not wanting to leave either. Her hands were shaking, covered in blues and purples. When she left, there were new colors all over the golden-haired girl's body. Sometimes, she would not come out to play for days. Alla didn't want that. She had seen her friend's father be mean to her before. He always looked angry. So angry, Alla didn't know why. But she knew she didn't want her friend to go back there.
"No, mommy," Alla said, her eyes closed. She would not look at her mother. She does not want to see her mother tell her yes, to tell her that her friend will be fine, even when she knows that is a lie.
Her mother gently took the girl's arms into her hands, separating the two. She laid a gentle kiss on her daughter's head, picking up Alla's friend. She said something to Alla, but she wasn't looking. Alla crossed her arms defiantly, her lips puckered. Her mother sighed, walking down the steps to their back porch. She walked across the grassy land, making her way to her daughter's friend's house to safely drop her off.
Alla begrudgingly turned around to watch the two blonde girls retreat into the blinding light. She sighed, picking up a barbie off the floor, and playing with its hands. She smoothed out her pink hair and her extravagant clothes. She waited patiently, moving to sit in front of the railing, sticking her bare legs in between the bars, swaying in the wind.
Her chubby cheeks were covered in ketchup, and her sea blue and emerald green eyes watering up. Little did she know, this would be the last normal night for her.
| August, 2001. Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan |
Natalia had thought her child died giving birth.
Madame B and Derykov had told her that her newborn child was dead—stillbirth.
Her little angel.
Dead.
How unfortunate. Of course, a child of her own died. How could it not? Everything she touched, she destroyed. What makes this different? The thing she loved most is her child, which she destroyed.
Ever since that day in early August, Natalia has felt as if she had died along with her child. She had died on that hospital bed, with the pale white walls confining her in one room, the opened up blue curtains hanging from the ceiling around her bed. The many monitors beeping—more like blaring—in her ears. Telling her that she is alive.
The child in her arms had pale yellow skin and was the size of a stuffed teddy. Natalia has always felt a protectiveness over the younger widows in the Black Widow Operation, but when she first laid eyes on her child, she fell in love with the thought of motherhood. Watching this bundle in her arms, in awe of how this little thing could become a person. Could become someone greater than she could ever be.
Once she found out she was pregnant, she decided that she would leave the place she was forced to stay. With its old Victorian wall paneling, and the intricate engravings in each doorway. How your footsteps would echo in the foyer no matter how quiet you were. How Maddam B would watch "her girls" like a hawk, ready to step in once one of them misbehaves.
Natalia could not trust anyone.
She learned that at a young age when she was taken back to the Red Room. Because of one person.
Alexi.
"Her Father."
God. What a joke. He would never be her father.
Once Alexi and Melina had escaped an American populated organization, with young Natalia, and a very young Yelena, Alexi had traded 'his girls' to be all buddy-buddy with Dreykov.
Yelena and Natalia had been sent to the Red Room, somewhere in Kazakhstan. Somewhere no one will be able to find them. Somewhere, where they are completely isolated, learning exactly where to put their fingers on someone's throat just right to knock them unconscious, or better yet, to cut off their airways and kill them.
This is exactly what Natalia didn't want.
She wanted to stay in Ohio, with her little family. 'Pretending' to be a normal child with Yelena. But as she grew up, Natalia knew she couldn't live in that fantasy anymore. She knew it would come to an end one day.
Just not as soon as she thought.
It was like a big slap in the face when Madame B. took the child out of its bassinet beside Natalia's bed.
"She needs to be looked over by the doctors." Madame B. declared, holding the limp child in her arms. There were tiny tufts of copper hair on the baby's head. Just like Natalia's.
That was the last day Natalia saw her child.
Her daughter.
And god, she fought like hell to see her.
A memory, and a thought. That's all this is. A memory. A feeling of something that has happened before, replaying forever and ever in your head. That's all Yasha remembers. Fiery auburn hair. Heated love. Bold confidence. And those emerald eyes. Oh, those eyes.
What helps Yasha through his days are the hidden memories of the fiery girl. Someone he once knew. In another life maybe. Or maybe in this one. It's all too hard to remember. All Yasha knows is that this girl is something special. And he had loved her for it.
He hopes, when he dies, he'll be able to see her again and tell her how great their daughter is. How they share the same fiery auburn hair. Except the daughter has wild and unruly locks of hair. Oh, how he loves his daughter's red windy hair, and how it bounces when she jumps, how he loves when her hair sways when she recites the alphabet. He loves everything about his daughter and loves her more every day. Every day, Yasha's daughter reminds him more and more about his love, and how she is so stubborn when she wants to try to break an apple in half like her Papa, with his metal arm.
Yasha's daughter loves his metal arm. She loves how cool and heavy it feels at night when they share the twin-sized mattress that has been provided for them.
To her, Yasha's metal arm was a comfort, a way to recognize that this meant this man in front of her was her father. Her protector. Yes, she is still little and does not know of the dangers that her father has done, but she understands one thing.
Her father will always protect her. No matter how afraid he is of his metal arm. No matter how angry he is at himself he let HYDRA take control over him for so long. If anything, he is angry that he can't remember who he was before HYDRA. HYDRA is all that Yasha knows.
HYDRA is all Alla. And Yasha is all Alla knows. HYDRA, and Yasha are all Alla knows. But she knows he is her father.
Even when he comes back, after a long time. When he comes back to the dreary cell, distant and angered easily. She knows.
Deep down, her father will always be her's.
And yet, she loves how she can feel the vibrations when she puts her small hand on his arm. She has only been on this planet called Earth for two years, yet she has never felt more adoration for anyone other than her Papa.
Her mother was never able to see her child, so she never knew everyone needed a mother and a father to be born into this world. She only knew of her Papa. So when Yasha was given a one-year-old child from his handler, covered in dried blood, barely breathing, and severely malnourished, he vowed to protect this child with all of his being. To never let his handler send her away, never to let the child go, to keep the child within arm's distance and care for her.
Yasha had decided on the name Alla Yakovavna. Alla means scarlet like her and her mother's hair. He loves to teach her how to throw a good punch, and how to speak, even though she can not hear. Yasha found out when Allushka was one and a half when he was trying to get her attention, that she was not able to hear at all. He had snapped and clapped by both of her ears, and she had not reacted, only giving him a look of confusion. Since then, he has worked hard to make sure they can communicate.
Ever since Alla can remember, it's always been her and her papa, and their handler. Yasha fears for Allushka when she is older because that is when his handler said he would step in. Yasha's handler said that Yasha and "Project Glory" would only have until "Project Glory" is about four years old, until their handler steps in.
And this year, Allochka turns three years old. Yasha only has a year to get out of Siberia.
Before Allochka turns four.
Before Allochka is sent to the Red Room.
Before...before they wipe him of his memories.
Before he can forget Alla.
Before he can forget her.
| June 15th, 2008. NYC, America & Siberia |
Alla was left alone. One thing that Yasha hated. But what can he do? Protest to their handler, that he wants a good daycare, a nice bed for his daughter, and some good food—oh, and while they're at it, some windows would be good to have in their cell.
Who was he kidding? He couldn't ask for anything. He can't ask for the decency of privacy from the guards, which makes him think he could get anything more than a "no" from his handler.
Yet, here he is, on his way to a mission, thinking of his beloved and vulnerable daughter.
What has his life come to?
Oh, that's right. Fatherhood. Something he didn't know he needed.
Something he didn't know he was so deserving of, and here the father is, holding a Soviet rifle in his hands, on his way to go murder someone. For his daughter. For her. For himself.
He has to kill someone—more like kill three someones—to keep a special someone alive. What a lovely analogy. To kill a life, to keep a life. Something so dark and brutal, but this is his life. All he knows. Since, well, he can't remember.
His mind has been too foggy, and yet he does not have the effort to try and sort through useless thoughts and memories that don't mean anything. The only thing that has been on his mind, is his daughter, and how he is going to kill this family to save his Alla.
To save himself.
Well, who is he kidding? Saving himself? He is the monster in this story. The monster with a heart.
He is the monster that would kill anyone just for his daughter.
God, what he wouldn't do for his daughter.
The monster with weakness, as his handler would say.
The Soldat flies down the not so busy side street on the New York Streets. It felt like he was grounded, like he was there in the moment. A fleeting moment. He shook his head, trying not to let the feeling stay. The motorcycle revved as he blew a yellow light going straight, trees and colorful houses passing by. Leaning to the right, the motorcycle veered down the rocky road through a shortcut.
The sun was starting to set on the horizon. The Soldat sped up. He was cutting it close. His targets were on the way to the JFK Airport—but they were still taking their time.
Flicking on the headlights, the Soldat listened for any signs of other cars. He passed by a street sign, reading Baldwin Rd. The greenery on either side of the road, the cracked cement beneath the tires of the motorcycle. The fading yellow line on the tar was barely visible in the setting sun. Between the trees up ahead, he could see a stop sign, and a yellow sign that had an arrow pointing left and right up ahead. Slowing to a stop, the Soldat could see the black SUV up ahead taking a slow left.
He slowed down, keeping his speed to about twenty behind the SUV. the car was in no hurry it seemed, the car merged onto I-684, the three lanes completely empty. According to plan. The Soldat took a moment to look around at the yield sign, his foot planted on the ground, his weight shifted to his right, the motorcycle leaning to the right too. Giving enough space between himself and the SUV—plus some more extra space—he revved his engine, speeding up behind the black SUV in the middle lane.
The Soldat followed them for miles down I-684. He checked his watch, it read 7:08. He still had time. But he was pushing it.
Shaking his head, the Soldat merged into the left lane. There still was no one on the roads, so he took his shot.
Pulling out his pistol, he shot out the back tire. The sound was loud, a piercing screech from the car's break, and the lingering noise of the pistol's shot. He revved his engine as the SUV swerved, trying to gain control. He shot once, twice, taking out the last back tire, and the driver's side tire.
Using the momentum of the motorcycle, he revved the engine one last time before he rolled off it, letting the motorcycle crash into the car. The SUV swerved before losing complete control and slamming into a tree on the side of the road. It rolled down the slope into the grass beside the highway.
The Soldat stood swiftly, watching as the hood of the SUV caught alight. Making his way towards the car, the horn was blaring loudly. He got close enough to see a man in the front seat—more like halfway out the windshield—pulling his pistol in his medal hand. He fired once, putting a bullet in the back of the man's head. His gray peppered hair was splattered with blood.
He could hear grasping in the backseat, so he knew someone was still alive. In anger, the Soldat moved from the driver's side door to the back seat door beside him. He pulled quickly on the door. It clanged to the ground, letting out a screeching noise as he did so.
There was a young girl in the back seat. She looked a little younger than twenty, with dyed blonde hair and pink tips. A look of horror was on her face, her brown eyes wide with tears in them. Reaching out with his gloved hand he tried to ignore the thoughts that flowed through his head.
Ignoring her cries of, "Don't touch me!"He used his metal hand to choke the young girl, waiting until she became unconscious. It was almost done. He just had to make sure that the mother was dead, too.
He let the girl's unconscious body fall limp in the backseat of the car, landing in a small puddle of her own throw up. The Soldat rounded the car to the passenger's side door. He ripped the metal door off its hinges, reaching in to check the older woman's pulse. After confirming that she was either dead or alive, he put a bullet between her eyes.
It was handled.
The Soldat's mission was finished. It was done. They were dead. His handler was not wrong. Yasha wishes he was wrong. Monsters and assassins are not supposed to have weaknesses. And yet, here he was. With bloody hands, and blue eyes. Returning from a mission after killing a family of three.
Withdrawn eyes, and thoughts.
Alla, babbling to herself, playing with his metal fingers.
That's right. This is who he was protecting. His daughter.
Not himself.
Never himself.
Always Alla.
"Um, papa... ya goloden?" Allushka stumbles over her words as she is sitting on the floor using a metal rod to write on the cement floor of Yasha and her room—or cell you could call it. She looks up at her papa unsurely, with her watery one sapphire eye and sea green eye, scrunching up her nose as her messy hair falls in her eyes. Yasha chuckles at his daughter, pushes back her hair for her and nods in approval. I'm hungry .
"Da. Eto pravil'no. molodets moya Allushka. Otlichnaya rabota. Davayte snova." Yasha picks up his daughter from the floor and sits her on his lap. Alla giggles and nods her head, getting all serious as she waits patiently for her father to give her another sentence to practice. That is correct. well done my Allushka. Well done. Let's go again.
Yasha looks up at the ceiling of their shared cell, looking around. The mattress they are sitting on has been through years and years of distress and is more of a rag with some cotton inside than anything. The only window in their cell is the one by the metal fortress of a door. The overhead light flickers on and off, constantly. Never stopping. After a moment, Yasha thinks of a sentence.
"Ladno, 'ya lyublyu svoyego papu'. Ty mozhesh' eto skazat'?" Yasha looks directly at Alla and gently guides her hand to his throat to feel the vibrations of the words. Alla watches how Yasha's lips move, and studies them until she feels that she has the words. Okay, 'I love my dad'. Can you say it?
After a few moments of stumbling over her words, she slowly says, "YA-ya lyublyu svoyego papu...?" Alla looks up at her father and takes her hand off her throat. "YA sdelal eto? Papa, ya pravil'no skazal?" I-I love my dad...? I did it? Papa, did I say right?
Yasha beams down at his daughter and nods, smiling ear to ear. "Da. Ty pravil'no skazal. Dumayu, na segodnya vse, Alla." Yes. You said it right. I think that's all for today, Alla.
Alla clumsily climbs out of her father's embrace and wanders around their cell. She spins and skips over the small cracks in the cement floor, making it a little game for herself. Minutes go by, and Yasha watches his daughter play in their cell. Allushka gets an idea and grabs the metal rod she uses to write words in Russian. Going to an empty spot on the wall, by the door, she starts scratching at the surface of the wall.
After a few seconds of trying, she gets frustrated and huffs. Her efforts to draw something, in the end, do not work. Yasha notices her mood and walks beside her.
"V chem delo, Allushka?" Yasha asks his daughter and crouches down to be at eye level with her. What's the matter, Allushka?
"U menya ne khvatayet sil risovat' na stene." Alluschka holds the rod in her hand limply. She lets her unruly hair cover her face, as she lets out some sniffles. I don't have the strength to draw on the wall.
Yasha sighs and gently clasps his daughter's hand drawing her attention. Her eyes filled with unspilled tears and wrapped his flesh arm around her. "Ne volnuysya, kogda-nibud' ty budesh' takoy zhe sil'noy, kak ya, mozhet byt', dazhe sil'neye, moya Allushka." Alla sniffles and nods her head. Don't worry, someday you will be as strong as me, maybe even stronger, my Allushka.
After a moment the father and daughter get up and sit in their little corner where the barred window looks out to pure white snow. Alla looks up at the window in wonder. After a few minutes of struggling to climb over her father to see outside, she huffs in frustration and sulks into her father's embrace.
"Papa, kak vyglyadit... solntse?" Allushka suddenly asks, and whips around in a frenzy, wanting to know more about the outside world. She bounces happily, already imagining a yellow circle in the blue sky. Papa, what does... the sun look like?
With that question, Yasha takes a moment to answer, since it has been days—maybe even a few months since he's been on a mission during the lighter hours of the day. Images of a warm and bright field, blinding light, and quietly hidden laughs flow like a lazy stream of water in Yasha's mind's eye. His eyes cloud over for a moment, as more memories cover his mind like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer. Memories of training outside on a muggy day.
"Solntse teploye i yarkoye. Ono takoye yarkoye, chto pryamo na nego nel'zya smotret', inache glaza bolyat. Solntse takoye teploye, chto ty nachinayesh' moknut', stanovit'sya lipkim i protivnym. No i solntse greyet v kholodnyy zimniy den'. Solntse takoye teploye, chto vesnoy rastaplivayet sneg. Solntse takzhe dayet zhizn' rasteniyam." Alla looks at her father with wonder, images of the sun melting the snow in spring flowing through her mind, and a small and content smile appears on her face. While Yasha explains how the sun looks, he pushes back some of Alla's hair out of her face as she keeps her hand on Yasha's throat, gently feeling the vibrations of her father's words. The sun is warm and bright. It is so bright that you cannot look directly at it, otherwise, your eyes hurt. The sun is so warm that you start getting wet and sticky and nasty. But the sun also warms on a cold winter day. The sun is so warm that in spring it also melts the snow. The sun also gives life to plants.
"Papa, uvizhu li ya kogda-nibud', kak solntse rastaplivayet vesenniy sneg?" Allushka asks her father once he's done explaining the wonders of the sun. Papa, will I ever see the sun melt the snow in spring?
Yasha stiffens and looks down at his daughter. "Alla, da, da budesh'. Odin den." Alla, yes, yes you will. One day.
