Stasia paced back and forth in front of the wall-length window that spilled light into her far-too-large living room. The cell phone was plastered to her ear, her attention divided between the other Russian on the line and the New Yorker she had left alone in the garage, examining her car.

"I told you, I don't want you calling me. How did you even get this number?"

"Easy, kotenok. You're acting like it's not a part of my job."

"Look, I don't care what you do for a living or how you make your filthy money, just leave me out of it. And don't call me that!"

"What, "kitten?"" The man on the other end laughed. "You used to love it when I called you that, especially when we'd—"

"Don't." Her voice was filled with warning.

"Oh, getting defensive now, are we" What, sleeping with another man in our bed?"

"It's not your bed. It's mine. I bought it first thing when I got here. I left the other one back home. It can be used as firewood for all I care."

"Oh now kotenok, is that any way to talk about our marri—"

"And da, I am sleeping with another man." She was lying through her teeth. Peeking outside, she looked down at the garage, watching the single shadow moving through its brilliant cascade of light. "He's handsome and tough, good in a fight and worth a damn. And a hell of a better drinker than you!" Because that, to a Russian man, was worse than saying he had a small prick.

"Chyoz'mort vi, Stasia." Within the snap of an instant, his voice went from light with playful chiding to thick with promised threat. "If I ever see you with another man, if I so much as smell him on you, I'll—"

*Click*. The cell phone snapped shut.

Stasia stared at it for a long set of moments, giving it a look that could crumble stone.

"Oh yeah?" she snorted, starting for the door. "Come and find me first.?

Stasia was walking through the main gate and down the walkway toward her house, cell phone held to an ear while her left arm rested in a sling that hugged it snug against her middle. With skills she swore she wouldn't use once she got here, she had managed to wiggle her way out of spending a second night at the hospital. It had been noisy and uncomfortable and, what was worse of it all, brought such a restless night's sleep filled with nightmares and memories that she doubted she would have slept a wink if it wasn't for the painkillers. She couldn't help but wonder if she wouldn't have been better off without them.

"Da" Da, I'm okay' Nyet, it didn't do any permanent damage, I just can't use it for a couple of days" Nyet, none of them survived" Da, da, I know it's not a good thing but it wouldn't be much better if they had either. And really, he had no other choice" My friend" Da, the man."

As she approached the front door, she squeezed the phone against her shoulder and dug into the pocket of her borrowed scrubs (she figured that taking a cab home in her nightie was not the most appropriate thing to do) to fumble for her keys, but realized in a moment that she hadn't taken them, and also that the entire lock had been blown off the door. Sighing, she grabbed the phone again.

"Look, Boris, I've got to go' Da" Da, I'll call you? Don't worry, I'll be fine. Dasvidania."

Snapping the phone shut, she stuffed it into her pocket so she could have a free hand to push open the door.

It was a horrendous sight, even with the bodies and blood removed. Bullet holes lined the walls like black splatters of paint and more than one piece of furniture that had still been sitting in the main foyer, waiting to be put into their proper rooms, were either marred, shot or completely ruined. The carpets were clean but she could see where some spots were still damp from when the cleaners had scrubbed away the blood. She avoided stepping on them as she entered further into the house.

The door to her bedroom was ruined, shot through more than a dozen times and sitting half-c ocked, one of its hinges missing. Her dresser bore a handful of bullet holes as well, some of her clothing having shared its fate. Her bed, however, had managed to remain unscathed. Moving to it, she took a tentative seat at its edge.

It was the next hour, maybe two, that she spent just sitting there, staring down at the floor. She didn't know what it was - maybe a car driving by or a piece of wall crumbling out in the hall - but something finally made her look over to the bedside table, at the photograph that had somehow escaped being blasted to bits. Looking at each of the stoic faces, she gave them a faint smile.

"At least you didn't get shot again." A poor joke, but it wasn't meant to make anyone laugh.

She wished it did. She wished that there was someone around, someone who would smile at her and could hear her laugh. Her eyes fell away from the picture, the feeling of emptiness and the childish sense of abandonment blooming within her chest. The wound on her upper arm hurt. Her right hand came across, gently wrapping around the thick white bandages that bound it. It made her think, reminded her of someone who's soft, warm voice had kept her calm at the end of last night's havoc. Before she could tell herself better, her phone was at her ear.

"Hank" It's Stasia. I was wondering if I could see you? Nyet, I'm out of the hospital. Can I come to your place?" Da, I'll be there soon."

It took a couple of minutes for her to get changed, longer only because she had to be careful with that sling-bound arm of hers. But soon enough she was sporting fresh jeans and a tank top and was scooping up her keys, making her way out the back door. A few minutes later, after her car roared to life in the garage, she was off, making her way to the shadier part of town; the notorious West End.

She didn't see anything from when she stepped out Hank's door to the time she got down to the road. Her hands had been tucked into her jacket pockets and her head bowed, allowing for her wild mane to act as some sort of blind, barricading her from the outside world.

What had she let happen" One minute she was fine, acting normal as could be. She had been smiling, talking, just enjoying the time. Then the next moment she was realizing" there was something else there. There was more to those smiles, more to the talk who's sustenance was more than just those cheesy pick-up lines and flirtatious hints. Granted those weren't totally absent, but instead of just fuel for a quick-to-burn flame each one was like a barb, one that stuck to her and slowly melted, adding to whatever this feeling was she had finally, suddenly, come face-to-face with.

She had been draped, so casually, over the back and shoulders of the New Yorker, talking about the baby Emarie in the desperate attempt just to see him smile. There was nothing special there, nothing worth a second look or that would make any woman swoon. But for some reason it was enough to cause a shift in her brain. It was one that made her cheeks warm, and that was definitely not her.

This wasn't like her. This wasn't like her at all. Usually it was all careless delights and one-night stands, taking a wild ride while hanging onto some stranger's waist and never calling him in the morning. But this" this was all sorts of different. This was all sorts of wrong.

Now that the blinders were off, she was reluctant to face the fact that even on the very first night of meeting the New Yorker, her sights had been set different. But why' Hank was no saint, he'd be the first to yell that loud and clear. From what she knew about him, his track record was as bad as hers, or worse. But he hadn't chased after her either. He had barely made even a hint. Was that why they had yet to share a bed" Or was there something more to it than just that"

Coming up on her bike, there was a smile at her mouth before she could check it. Stuffed into the belly of her helmet was a Jordanian scarf. Hank had given it to her as a gift, without so many words, just after having asked permission to hug her. A hug, that was all. Nothing grimy or sexy or reeking of sleaze. Just a hug. Touching the scarf, she could already smell the scent of him wafting up from its worn threads. She rubbed the fabric between her fingertips.

Snapping to her senses, she shook her head. Frustrated, she pulled on her helmet and mounted Layla, ignoring all of the whistles and cat-calls that sweet bump of her leather-clad backside lured. Roaring the bike to life and starting off down the road in the same handful of seconds, it was obvious she was going to give herself one hell of a ride. After all, if she was going to think about things, she might as well do it right, and the best place for her to do that was while riding recklessly through the streets of the city - which was to say, she wasn't going to think at all.

With the whip of the wind came the lack of coherent thought and with the speed of the bike came the high she was looking for. Even though her helmet encased her head entirely, she could hear the married whistle and roar, the two formulating the perfect toxin to blind herself and drown in.

It could have been hours, it could have been minutes. When Stasia was riding any one of her bikes, time had no grasp on her and less meaning. But with the mindless focus it took for her to zip in and out of traffic and nearly scrape her knees on the speed-hungry curves, it wasn't long before she realized that there were two other motorcycles riding not far behind her. And they were keeping up.

Swearing under her breath in Russian, the first thing she thought of was that she couldn't call Hank because he was probably already off, doing his job. Quickly afterward came another string of curses. She wasn't used to having a man be the first thing her mind went to, especially not one that wasn't paid to be there. When not surrounded by body guards or hired guns, which was occasional back in Russia and a stubborn constant now that she was here in Rhydin, her own abilities had been her only savior. The fact that her mind, unbidden, had gone elsewhere for that was both a bitter and sweet needle jamming itself repeatedly into her brain.

Sweeping herself low as she took a near-backward-turning curve, she used it to take a look over her shoulder at the two other bikes following her. They were men - she could tell by their body types alone - and more than likely Russian ones. Looking back to the road, she took another turn that brought the pavement close enough to brush her knee before twisting her wrist, giving the bike a big gulp of gas.

Still unsure of the area and what roads lead where, she didn't quite know where she was or where she was going. Unfortunately, this wasn't something that was going to work to her advantage. Swearing yet again, she realized that she had no idea where she was.

That was when the gunshot went off. Simply out of instinct and reaction, Stasia brought herself low and tight against the body of her bike. The shooter wasn't very good at handling two things at once and missed completely, but still just the fact that they had guns and she didn't brought the scales tipping even further in their favor. Stasia was determined to not let it tip any further.

Taking another sharp curve, she quickly found herself amidst three moving cars. One was heading toward her, the other two moving forward in her lane. Without thinking, she swept her bike - left, right, left, right - between the jigsaw maze of metal and engines. She made it through but the sudden screech and crashing sounds behind her told that at least one of the followers hadn't. Turning herself down a one-way street, she took another glance over her shoulder. She was right - one of the men hadn't made it - but the other was still following her, and with more zeal than he was before.

The road was dirty, strewn with trash and broken bottles, and lined on both sides with dumpsters who's insides hadn't been emptied in what looked, and smelled, like weeks. She didn't care, nor could she afford to. Zipping down the narrow alleyway, she could hear the larger engine of the other bike coming up behind her. Another gunshot rang out, this one ricocheting off of a dumpster before burying itself deep into a crumbling brick wall. A second came right after, and this one hit closer to home.

One of her rear break lights burst, plastic and glass scattering in a wild plume. It was less than a second before she felt the tight leather around a thigh split and a wicked burn exploded like a lick of fire. She didn't risk looking down - she couldn't - but she would have been glad to see that it was a tear rather than a proper hole, a skim rather than a direct hit. Still, she wasn't happy about it.

They were riding up the long part of a "T?, the end of the direction they were coming from resulting in a solid wall with only three directions to go from there; left, right and back. This was where Stasia's years of life-risking and uncanny ability to ride took hold, bleeding through every other thought and feeling before thrusting them away to leave only sinuous action coupled with fluid grace, all surrounded by a fictitious slowing of time.

As she came to the end of the road, she slammed hard on the breaks, hands and feet working in perfect timing to shift gears and twist the front tire, all the while the rest of her body using its weight and entire strength of toned muscle to spin the rest of the motorcycle around.

It was pretty but it wasn't perfect - not everything could be like it was in the movies. The force of forward momentum kept her moving toward that intimidating face of wall, the turning causing her to drift too close to one side so that her knee clipped the very edge of a dumpster, bringing sprigs of pain blooming through the joint. On the other side, she was driving herself too low, the jut of an elbow slamming full-on onto the jagged and filthy floor of the pavement, shards of glass biting through the protective leather to ram themselves deep into her skin.

It was all a price worth paying. The man had no chance to follow her lead, his lack of skill and blind faith robbing from him any hope he may have had. He tried to swing the gun around, firing a harmless shot toward the sky, but that was all he was able to do as his feeble attempt at copying her failed.

Stasia didn't look behind her to see what fate had befallen the other Russian, but she knew it wasn't a pretty sight. If she had, she would have seen his motorcycle destroyed, crushed to bits against the alley wall, while the man himself was slumped nearby. His helmet was cracked, blood seeping out from its bottom seam, and every limb twisted in the wrong direction. He felt no pain though - his spinal cord had been snapped.

It was a sight that many thought they would see her in someday, that her endless mockery of and tempting for Death to come and claim her would result in her being nothing more than a bloodstain. But not today. Today, for a change, she was determined to stay out of Death's grasp. And that was a change she couldn't deny.

((Disclaimer: +18. Mature and possibly disturbing content.)) ((And a special thank you to the player of Hank for writing this with me.))

They were out riding the Ducati again. Seemed an appropriate thing to do, stretching the newborn's legs. Helmet had, once again, been forsaken, entrusting the New Yorker whom her arms were wrapped around to not get her brains bashed in. She trusted him with many things, the very first being her life, and this was no different. It was amazing that above the roar of the bike she had noticed the cell phone ringing. In fact it was only the vibration that caught her attention, too far up her thigh to be a part of the bike's motor. Flipping it open and pressing it to her ear, she was yelling in Russian so that she could be heard. After a few minutes, the phone was put back into its pocket. Wrapping her arm back around him and leaning forward, her mouth near to his ear, she spoke carefully as to not damage its innards but loud enough to be heard. "Rebenok, mind if we go visit the guards" They just got here a day ago and Boris wants us to check in. I'll tell you the way." And she would, keeping close to his ear and motioning with a hand where needed. It wasn't far from where they were, maybe fifteen minutes. Until they got there, she was going to enjoy the ride.

Hank heard her and gave the signifying thumbs up as she yelled in his ears. He leaned further forward and bowed his head a little, amping up the speed as they zipped throughout town. Hank had experience, probably from his younger years of mischief and crime. The man had a need for speed before his world was gone, and that never changed about him. Hank followed her directions play by play, and the man finally slowed the beast of steel at his hands so they he gave a slow turn to the side and turned off the bike. Hank lowered a foot to lopsided prop the bike, and dismounted with ease. He wore black colored polo shirt with jeans, mirror aviator sunglasses over his eyes with that haunting mirror finish. His steel toed boots pushed the steel foot lever to rest on the ground and hoist the weight of the bike. He quickly lit a cigarette and upnodded toward her. "Dhis dhe place?"

"Da, it is," she said, dismounting the bike after him and shaking out her new mess of hair and running both hands through it. It was a helpless cause but, thankfully, she could pull it off. She wore torn jeans that hugged her legs and bottom delightfully and a plain black tank top that did the same. Her own pair of sunglasses were removed and hung on the shirt between the cleft of her breasts before she, too, was moving to light a cigarette. Born miles apart and worlds different, yet so alike in so many ways. It was enough to make her grin when she thought about it.

"Come on," she said, motioning him with a hand as she moved up to the sidewalk to the walkway that approached the moderate apartment building. "They're on the first floor. Number 9." It took a few minutes after a turn to the left, then she was standing in front of a door with a gleaming golden '9' sitting above a peep hole. Ignoring the knocker below it, she used a rounded fist (smartly not the bruised one), then waited. When more than a minute passed and without a sound from within, the Russian frowned. She tried again. Nothing. Now she was beginning to worry. "They were here not an hour ago," she told Hank, knocking one more time.

Hank didn't just stand anywhere while he waited for her to give them purchase inside to her Russian brand of muscle. His back was to the wall, and his skull turned from one side to the other. The lack of an answer had his eyes narrow, though one couldn't see because of his glasses. He kept his on, he might need a confusion device just in case. Hank wore the clown among the just-in-case community. It came with living in a world that was eating itself alive. His blues looked at the door, and kept his back against the wall. His hand was at his belt, hooked by a thumb.

He had it there for more than just habit. Hank's moves from the bike onward were not coincidences. "Stasia." He said it grimly, with a grin of irritation on his face. "Give 'em a cawll. Might have fallen asleep or somethin'," Or so he hoped. Stasia's spur of the moment side trip was turning into something else. He could feel it. And he didn't come armed, damn the Russian gem of a woman for not giving him notice. Had he known...In a world that is chaotic, 'If I had known is not a good excuse anymore'. His eyes winced, punishing himself. His good friend, Denim, told him that. It was what saved his life in that incident on the rolling bus of fiends on the highway. He had forgotten that lesson, and suddenly felt sadness. But, no time for that. His frown stayed on his face.

Her face taking on what would pass as a frown, she whipped out her cell phone and punched in a few numbers before putting it to her ear. That irrational racial temper had her walking away, one arm tucking tight against her concave belly while the other crushed an elbow against its wrist. She was pacing, albeit slowly, head angled down and eyes narrowed at the pavement in front of her. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she started spitting Russian into the phone. First to appear on her face was frustration, which eventually lead into confusion and, finally, annoyance. Snapping the phone shut, she made back toward the door. "You're right. He says they're problem sleeping. The world change can do that to you." She reached for the knob. "Igor! Yuri! Nikoli!" Calling their names, she simply opened the door without a second thought.

"Chto ty delayesh' so snom' Razve vy ne znayete, chto ya prishel—" She stopped cold, dead in her tracks, only a few steps through the door and into the tiny receiving hall, her hand still half hanging off of the doorknob. It was probably nearly impossible to see past her, but the sight was one that not many would even want to see. Where the walls were originally white, they were now splattered with sharp stains of red. Somewhere past the kitchen to the left and further into the living room, the bottom half of a pair of legs showed through the archway. Otherwise, all she could see was blood.

"Stasia" What we got?" Hank drew a knife, back to the door way and into the hall before closing the door behind him. His nose gave a sniff. Curdled blood. It was an awful stench, it was a miracle they couldn't smell it from outside. Hank's feet felt a sticky floor. The blood was more like a pulpose mush now with time, or crusty red dust from his boot heels. Hank's arm reached for Stasia, his hand finding hers and pulling her. "Stasia" Baby, listen to me...Come on...Come wit me.." He could tell from her posture that she was shocked.

Hank didn't deal with civilians and their reaction to pure carnage, but he could sense she was in distress. He pulled her carefully back out the door way and pulled her to an embrace. "Stasia, say somethin'. Please?" Was she going into shock" He had no clue how she would handle it. Back in the world of his when the hell first fell down on them, he mostly dealt with it much more savagely, telling them to shut up or to walk away. "You's don't need to see dhat, I'll go check, okay?" He held her and closed the door behind him. "Say somethin'."

She let herself be drawn away from him and, eventually, into his arms. She was shocked, sure, but only because this wasn't a daily occurrence before. She had seen blood, had watched her family die. Many guards in the past ha been injured, or even killed, while protecting her. Still, it didn't make the effect any more easier to deal with, especially when she was to blame. "He killed them." It was almost a whisper, it was so faint, more a puff of air against his neck than a proper speaking of words. "Boch chyoz'mort, he killed them."

It wasn't hard to imagine who was she talking about. There was only one psychotic murderer chasing her, after all, or so she thought. Blinking ferociously, it wasn't due to tears but simply the image of the blood-splashed walls and crimson floor she was trying to absorb. Eventually she pulled far enough away to look up at him. "They might still be alive. Hank, what if he didn't kill them." It was probably more useless hope than logic that was making her say it, but this was, after all, the princess who got out alive from a brutal mass-execution. Sometimes something had to be on her side, right"

Looking away from him and back down the hall, she slipped a hand to the small of her back. Where she pulled it from, no one might know, but out came a little derringer. Don't ask her why she had it or where she had gotten it from. Just go with it. Pursing her lips, she suddenly seemed much more in control of herself. "I'm not going to let them die, not if they're only on their way."

Hank watched her carefully, studying her. And when he saw the gun, relief washed over his face. There was that strength she coyly underplayed. And he grinned sinister pride and gave her a nod. "Alright, covuh me. I'm gonna check on 'em." Oh thank god she had a piece. He produced a Bowie knife. 12 inches long, 2 inches wide, and .25 inches thick. Unimpressive only because he'd have to get up close and personal. He walked into the room, wading through the blood at his boots. He held the knife readily and walked to the living room first. The room was just...red. Two men were there...gone. But he had to be sure.

Even if it was pointless to help, even if they had drops of life left dripping from them, he knew he had to. He walked to the table where they limply sat. Their bodies were mangled, placed there like wicked dolls to be put on rigor mortis display. He walked to the body, and used the knife to turn the skull. He lowered his skull for his ear to rest at his mouth. He stayed there for several moments, and not a single breath was heard. Or felt. He stood up, and saw the state of the other's throat. His head was thrown back, being thrown on the chair half-assedly and left to be unposed on the table. His neck was broken, his head back and the sharpened snapped tip of his spine pushing at his muscle and flesh like a poll pocking through the top of a tent. It was a miracle the flesh didn't tear to show the broken tip of the spine.

He walked to the kitchen, where the third and final man's legs dangled from the ceiling. Blood and other forms of bodily fluid were in a pulpous pile beneath the hanging legs, and he walked further under the arch to the other side. He stepped up on a chair he had dragged beside the body. He stepped up and reached one of his mits to the body's mouth. He held it there for over a minute, and gave an inspecting kick to the body. It swung and swung, with no movement or breath. "Dhey gone, Stas...Very gone."

She followed him just enough so that he wasn't anywhere that she couldn't see. When she first saw the arrangement of the two bodies in the living room, she sucked in a breath via her nose and flinched, but didn't look away. It was a bad idea though, that breathing through her nose gig, and right after she was gagging on the taste of bile rising to burn the back of her throat.

She didn't spew, bless her fortitude, but he lips pursed all the more tightly. Moving just enough so that Hank could get past her and into the kitchen, it was small enough not to warrant her attention. Besides, there was much more in the living room for her to see. Stepping further into the moderate sized room, she didn't seem to notice the blood squishing beneath the thick soles of her boots. Her head was twisted, cut at an angle, pistol brought up by her shoulder as she neared herself to the furthest wall.

Words had been splattered haphazardly in Russian against a background that was more akin to pink than white. They were in Russian, the foreign language looking more like scribble than actual words. "Lest they tried to touch you", that's what the words said. Stasia felt pin prickles dancing down the back of her neck. Hearing Hank, she turned back toward the hallway and the kitchen. She had been about to say something when something clang. It came from down the other hallway, further into the apartment. There were three doors, two for bedrooms, one for a bathroom. The latter was the guessed cause.

Hank's skull strictly turned to the side toward the noise. The knife was upside down, the blade below his balled fist instead of above, and he slowly walked toward the spot. Hank gave a pointed look at Stasia. He pointed at the bathroom, and looked back at her. He hoped she'd understand to aim the gun at the door of the bathroom while he neared it. He went to the wall next to the bathroom door, ears peeled deeply as he had the knife at the door knob. He was going to shove the door open. But he waited to look at Stasia, her eyes. They had to speak, words couldn't. But he trusted her. And he pushed the door open and drew back his knife.

Oh, she listened. If there was one thing she had learned in all her years of hiding and running it was how to listen to the eyes of her protectors, of what they told her to do and where to go. Thankfully and thanklessly, it wasn't a lesson she had forgotten. Nodding her understanding, she moved just enough so that the bathroom door was in sight without Hank in her sights. The gun was lowered, aimed at the door, and whoosh, the door was opened.

Have you ever seen the movie "Silence of the Lambs?" Sure you have. And of course you remember the ultimate scene, where Hannibal Lector had rigged up one of the guards to look like a peeled and bloodied angel, the "blood eagle". Well this" This was very much the same.

The tiny inside of the bathroom was littered all over with red with a body hung up in the center by way of the shower rod and a few other quick-made contraptions, all so that both arms and what appeared to be the back were drawn out to the sides in a macabre mimic of a hung-up marionette doll. The head was bowed and dark stained hair falling forward, concealing whatever facial features there may have been. The haunting factor was, this was indeed a woman.

Hank saw the horror on her face. He knew that expression all too well. Sad to say, it reminded him of home. And not the warm and better kind. Hank frowned deep, and could tell by her loosened posture that there was no intruder. It was written on her face like an essay. And he turned to the inside of the bathroom and scowled with disgust. "Motherf*ck.." He hissed and could barely look it in the face before he did. It was like looking at a blinding light, but looking over and over against until the eyes adjusted. And his head was shaking slowly. "He plays doity."

"Alda..." The murdered woman had a name, and Stasia knew it. Before she could think otherwise, she was walking toward the bathroom, once again ignoring the slosh of blood swelling beneath her feet. The pistol was hung down at her side at the end of a limp arm while the rest of her lost all of its stubborn determination. This woman wasn't just a random person. No, not at all. Stasia stepped past Hank and into the room that more resembled a horror house than a place to relax and doll up. A hand lifted, brushing back the blood-drenched hair from one side of her face. It was bruised and slashed, baring a dozen tiny abrasions and two lines forming an 'X' on her cheek.

But somewhere, beneath all the gruesome gore, was a resemblance that was difficult to pardon. Even in such a state, she was almost a spitting image of Stasia. "She was my double," the Russian managed out, fingertips risking out to touch at the flesh that was void of all warmth and color. Then, as if to match her, a spot of blood appeared on Stasia's own cheek. Looking up, her own hair making a mockery of the brutality of the scene by rippling so beautifully down her back, her lips parted. "Lest you try to replace me" were the Russian words dripping from the ceiling above.

"Oh sh*t...It's a god damn message. Like a poem'a death." He said so with disgust. But understanding didn't mean approval now did it' He looked up at her and looked at Stasia. And then he got sick. He bent over the tub that was already filled with human fat and guts and puked his own contribution in loud animalistic heaves. He saw Stasia there after a few takes, and he got sick. He finally stopped and nearly dropped the knife into the tub but didn't. Lucky for him, he spat his mouth clean and stood up again. "Let's get outta here. We sittin' ducks. Dhey know we're here." He wanted out of there.

She was mesmerized by the sight spelled out before her, by the woman strung up like she was in mid-move of a lovely yet horrific dance, and the blood that had once run through her veins was now dripping down from the ceiling, painting Stasia's cheeks like rouge. While Hank spilled his guts into the already grotesque bath tub, the Russian looked back at the face of her friend. They had grown up together, during her second childhood. She remembered when they used to stay up late telling stories while hidden beneath the sheets or when they would play with dolls. Stasia would always chop the off the hair from hers while Alda always played the princess. Neither would have ever thought that the girl herself would grow up to play exactly that part.

The hand that had touched her clenched, digging feminine nails into the palm of her hand until it hurt and then some. The guards had protected her, had sworn to give up their lives in place of hers. But Alda" She was just a sweet girl that had wanted to help her friend. She had even dyed her beautiful blonde hair, her pride and joy, to those crazy shades of brown to look like her. Stasia was never going to be able to forgive herself. Not for this one. Somehow she had heard Hank and nodded, taking a step back and out of the small room. "He's going to pay for this." It was like watching a sheet of ice form over a stalk-still lake, her face going from slack with disbelief to hardened within seconds. "This time, he's going to end up dead."

Hank was coughing as they left. He was used to it, but that didn't mean it didn't affect him. The haze of death and excrement had his own demons stirred from their dead end sleep. He was feeling like those times were back, and he stood outside and quickly lit a cigarette. He straddled the Ducati, walking straight out with no leisure about him whatsoever. He ushered the door with an iron hand, each of them shoved open as he walked out of them. He got fresh air at last, and he waited for her to join him on the bike. "No doubt about it."

She followed although her eyes moved over everything as if this time around was the real time to see it. The bodies, the blood, the messages on the ceiling and wall. They were all memorized and put into a tiny apartment in her brain, barely beating back the phantoms of her own memories as these new ones were shoved in to join them. For the first time in forever, she wished that she would come face to face with Viktor, that way she could pull the latch on that private little box and let loose all those pent-up demons and let them fly, let them cut him up the way that he had cut up Alda. And she would be their tool. For once ignoring the call of cigarette smoke, she tucked the Dillinger in the back of her pants and pulled the tank over it before straddling the bike behind him. It wasn't until she had started to wrap her arms around him that she felt a warmth start to creep back into her bones. In a sudden show of affection, she gently put a cheek to his shoulder.

Once her head fell on his shoulder, his hand went to her thigh to firmly squeeze. It paused, and caressed her leg once before his hand left her leg and went to the handles of his Ducati. And the two zoomed off and away from that awful place. Hank hoped to hell he wouldn't get the call to clean that place up.

"You's losin" yuhself, Stas."

She stood in front of the wall-length bathroom mirror, fixing up the blonde she saw in place of her own reflection. Her lipstick was red, her eyeshadow gray, the dress hugging her body a few shades richer than crimson. The handbag and heels that matched sat, waiting, on the counter, her makeup bag spilled out beside them.

"You's becomin" somethin" I don't even know. That you's don't even know."

She couldn't tell if what she was hearing was in her head, if it was her mind playing tricks or if it was real. It sounded like Hank but Hank wasn't there. He hadn't been there in weeks. It could have been a memory, a dream, a figment of her imagination, or worse.

At this rate, anything was possible.

"Everybody changes," she muttered, dabbing the pad of a finger across her bottom lip.

This had become an everyday thing, hearing voices when there were no throats to give them. At first she had been kind to them but, after awhile, she realized how ridiculous it was to play manners with only a ghost.

"Stas, please?"

She snapped the makeup bag shut, shaking her head to cause an avalanche of gold to billow forward.

"Anastasia, you're not acting like the princess you are."

That wasn't Hank. It was her father. Her jaw rippled.

"That's because I'm not anymore," she replied through gritted teeth. It was only a figment, she told herself, only her imagination.

"You will always be a princess. You are my daughter."

She pushed, heavily, the heels of both hands against the edge of the counter, bowing her head and closing her eyes, taking in a deep, steadying breath through her nose and letting it back out again.

"Things change, otets. Our lives, ourselves, what we live for."

"But you are meant for so much more," he replied. "You have to fight for what you believe in."

"And look where that got us!" she yelled back, snapping her gaze up to the mirror to see his reflection standing behind her. He was just as she remembered - tall, thin, wearing his clean-pressed royal attire with his facial hair cut just so. "How can you say that I need to fight' You're dead, everyone's dead! You're all rotting in the ground and I'm not even in the same body anymore!"

"We all paid a price. It was what had to be done."

"K chertu with what had to be done!" she cried. "Everything I ever knew was taken from me and now you're telling me that it all still matters?"

"But you still have the same mind, malenkaya," he countered gently, the family nickname stinging as if she had been slapped. "Forget about the life you have here. Go back to the homeland, claim what is rightfully yours. Stop pretending this life you live is yours. Stop being this person that you aren't."

She opened her mouth to reply but paused. Looking back at her own reflection she saw herself, wide-eyed, staring at a person she didn't even know. Her face was beautiful, her hair pristine, the dress fitting like a glove. But the hair color was wrong, the eyes a completely wrong shade, her waist too thin to be healthy.

Her father took a step closer, put a hand on her shoulder that she couldn't feel.

"Stop forgetting who you really are."

Karina smiled cruelly. Stasia didn't.

It was all a ruse.

"You're right," she finally said. "This isn't me."

And then she did the only logical thing that she could think of.

She grabbed one of her heels and swung.

The tip of the stiletto pierced the smooth sheet of reflective glass and she watched as Karina's sneering face shattered. There was a scream that accompanied the instant burst of cracks, accenting the deafening chime of falling glass perfectly, and she watched as the fa"ade drowned in a downpour of glittering shards of light.

She kept on screaming, every pent up emotion - anger, hate, sadness, loneliness, agony - pulsing through her veins and out of her throat. Her father's image just stood there, a mixed look of approval and pity bleeding through his stoic face as he died for a second time, this one by her hand.

And then she blinked.

Nothing had happened. She still stood in the massive bathroom, hair fixed and face painted. Her heels, instead of smashing through the mirror, were on her feet, and her handbag was already hung from one shoulder.

She stared at herself, mortified. Then her lips went thin.

"It's time to end this," she said, to no one this time. Moving for the door, she paused just long enough to reach for the small handgun that had been waiting, patiently, at the far end of the counter. Tucking it into her purse, she looked, one last time, at the blonde standing in the mirror.

"Goodbye, Karina,? she said. And this time, Stasia was the only one who smiled.

"I'm sorry, Tsarevna....There was nothing that we could do."

"Tell me again," Stasia sighed, "how was he able to do it?"

"He somehow hacked into our system." His voice sounded tired, like he hadn't slept in days. "Everything was exposed but he only went after one thing. He followed your bank accounts, your credit lines. He even managed to intercept our phones."

On her end of the line, the Russian woman's mouth went thin, crushing the butt of the cheap cigarette pinched between two red lips.

"He knew everything," Boris continued, "and we were left knowing nothing. We cut it all but it was too late. I'm so sorry, Stasia." There was more than just sympathy in his voice. It was laced deep with the black of true regret. "We'll get everything back. It will be fine. You will be fine."

"Nyet," she shook her head. "You said he traced the phone lines?" She could picture the invisible nod, the horrified look of apprehension as it shadowed across his face. "Boris, you know what I have to do."

"Stasia, no—"

"You know that I can't put you in danger—"

"Stasia, that's what you're supposed to do—"

"I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you—"

"Anastasia, please—"

"Don't call me that!"

The phone went silent. She only then realized that her hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking. Taking a risky drag from her cigarette, she pressed her forehead to the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry..."

"Nyet, Tsarevna," he said quietly. He wouldn't let her apologize. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have."

"Boris, I—"

"I understand where you're coming from," he was an expert at cutting her off, "but I can't let you do this. It has been my job, my duty, to watch over you since you were a little girl. I'm not about ready to stop that now."

She didn't know what to say. Standing, she walked to the nearest window.

"You know that I would do anything to protect you."

She pushed at the glass, split it from its frame.

"I don't care if Viktor comes after me. I'd give my life to save you."

"I know." She looked out the window, at the miserable gray sky. "And that's why I have to say goodbye. Thank you, Boris. For everything."

"Stasia!—"

Her name bled into an echo as the phone fell. She watched it land, shatter. After a few minutes she closed the window, took a pull from her cigarette and turned away.

The last piece of her history broke apart with that phone. It left her empty, hollow.

The open bottle of vodka was a poor filler for that gaping hope, but she let it try.

Oh, how she let it try.