01-12-2023, 08:13 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-13-2023, 11:59 AM by Natalie Grey.)
Usually Moscow’s subway stations were almost palatial, with sweeping gold arches and gleaming tiled floors. Their underground hallways were full of beautiful mosaics, statues – even chandeliers – so that it was almost like travelling through various museums; each one unique. But this one verged on decrepit. Shadows clung to the boxy ceiling and it was all grey concrete and strip lighting in a way that reminded her more of London. Spray-painted in blacks and greys at the end of the tunnel loomed the giant, melancholic face of a bearded Russian man. It took her a moment to realise it was of the writer Dostoevsky.
More blunt grey murals followed on pillars and sections of wall. They passed a morbid scene from Crime and Punishment; Raskolnikov featured in eerie black silhouette with the axe raised above a woman’s head, and a corpse of another below. It was undeniably creepy.
Natalie followed him to a service door that opened into a small, darkened office. The key was a swipecard he tucked back into his pocket. Inside it appeared to have long fallen into disuse, the furniture neglected and grimy, the technology on the shelves and small desk at least a decade outdated. “We’re offgrid,” he said. “At least for a little while.” A more thorough explanation followed, more technical than Natalie cared to follow, but she surmised that despite his slightly shabby appearance he was very well connected. Fortunate, since it was connections she had taken this risk for.
He lit another cigarette almost immediately, the scent of it acidic and cloying in the enclosed space. Then he shuffled for a bag he had clearly deposited before her arrival, broke the seal on a box, and produced a scarlet bottle of redbreast.
“Older than you are,” he said with a grin as he unscrewed the lid. “Never risk your life if you can’t toast to it first.”
One of those was at least a few hundred Custody dollars, probably closer to four with that kind of vintage, which didn’t even account for its rarity. Definitely well connected, and probably moneyed too then. Natalie didn’t argue against the glass he pressed into her hand. It was cold in here anyway, bone-numbingly so. The room rattled when a train sped past outside, casting all sorts of strange light on the peeling walls and abandoned filing cabinets.
It transpired that Kristof DeGarmo was a former employee of Orion Pharmaceuticals, and a whistleblower surviving (and apparently thriving) incognito. He explained it all in rote form, like the words had long been rehearsed in his head. His employment predated Orion’s latest ventures, of course, but it seemed the company had a long list of unethical and exploitative measures in its history -- and the unerring ability to make those charges, and those who levied them, disappear. Her memory skirted around what she had seen at the school; all the silent, empty faces of those children. But she reared back completely before she could replay the sharp cracks of the endless gunshots. Instead she shot the whiskey back; the entire dram. It slid down smooth, no burn.
“You said you knew my father. He got you out, then?”
She could feel him watching her. He leaned against the desk by now, cigarette in one hand, whiskey in the other, the glass balanced on his thigh. “Not quite,” he said. Then, after a moment in which she only watched him silently in return, he added, “Ah, you really don’t know. It wasn’t your father who saved me, it was your mother. They wanted to extradite me. She arranged the lawyers pro bono. Handled everything.”
“Then why are you still hiding?” she asked, gesturing at their dire surroundings with a dismissive sweep of her palm.
But Kristof only laughed. “Easier to beat the system in a place like this, Natalie.” He gestured around them too, but it seemed more like a toast, the amber liquid swirling in his glass. He propped the spectacles back up his nose with a grin. Amusement crimped his expression, though he quickly grew more serious. “What I can offer is an escape. From Moscow, from the Custody itself, should you ever need it. That’s what I owe your father.” He drew on the cigarette, tapped ash carelessly by his feet. Another train clattered past, vibrating everything inside with a low hum.
“In case of fire, break glass,” she murmured. She considered that quietly for a while. Her father had never been one for overbearing protection, which meant even he considered this dangerous – else her mother exerted an influence Natalie had largely been unaware of. Given her peripheral involvement here, Natalie considered it for the first time. She thought of the FBI agents then, and something cold tightened in her stomach. She had assumed how and why they were there at the time, of course she had, but now she paused to consider it they were really not Alistair Grey’s style at all. After all, who had been the parent to marshal the Legionnaires in an extravagant extraction when Sierra Leone fell to civil unrest? The implications made her feel sick. Her skin prickled with the sensation.
Kristof didn’t stop her swiping the bottle from beside him. Half of her wanted to swig it straight, to dampen thought and memory before either had the chance to clutch her too tightly in its vise. But the bathroom floor of the casino was not so very far away from her thoughts, and she only poured herself another measure. Afterwards she paced, found herself facing the tinted window onto the tracks outside. It was thick with grime, not even the distortion of a reflection glimmering back. She pressed the glass into her chest, pensive.
“And if I don’t want to escape. If I want information. How do I go about that?”
“Depends what kind of information,” he replied carefully. “And what you have to offer in exchange.”
She wasn’t sure she’d ever forget the scalding, breath-stealing heat of the flames when they had taken her dad’s office. Strangely there hadn’t been fear at the time, just a desperate resolution to protect alongside a euphoria she now realised had been her first touch of the power. Her fear of fires hadn’t come until much later. The hospital. The school. The motel room. Yet she’d never forgotten what was on those papers as they blackened and burned beneath her fingertips. She’d never spoken of it either, and she was not about to start now with a stranger.
He seemed to guess something of her thoughts anyway.
“You should know there is no proof to be found. Just data and a long list of casualties, one of which is your own father. No one can win against a regime like this. Against a man like that. You’d be stupid to try.”
“‘A hundred suspicions don't make a proof’,” she agreed. A Dostoevky quote, actually. She smirked, glanced over her shoulder. “But do you suppose he even has a conscience?”
Kristof frowned. If he recognised the literary reference, he gave no sign.
“Dig too deep and all you’ll discover is a grave,” he assured. “But more to the point, you father is fucking vicious when he’s pissed, so please grant me the great favour of steering clear of that particular venture. You know as well as he did that your suspicions are correct. That has to be enough for you. It has to be enough for all of us.”
She took a sip from her glass. The flavour lingered this time, decadently fruity, and with the easiest finish. Natalie savoured it for a moment in silence. She wasn’t looking for proof; Kristof had mistaken her there. Neither did she care for punishment. But there was a yawning chasm in her chest, and the jagged edge of rebellion was the quickest thing to shove inside it. When she examined herself otherwise, all she felt were sharp edges. Dissatisfaction. Anger. She’d run to the ends of the earth, run from the Custody itself, and still ended up back where she started. The peace never lasted. If she found somewhere to belong, it slipped inevitably through her fingers soon after. If she trusted, she learned to regret it.
In the Kremlin Brandon had almost offered her something she could believe in, but he’d yanked it away just as quickly, and burned her fingers on the loyalty she might have otherwise given. Forgiveness was not a virtue Natalie had in great supply.
The school would be part of it. Evelyn taught her the benefits of being well-loved, and she knew the woman would approve of the virtuous venture when she told her about it. Not that Natalie’s intentions weren’t well meant with its founding. In fact it made her think of Cayli every time she pictured it. But those were privacies that would never make it to the public sphere, and there were only two people who'd ever even know what it meant. As far as the world was concerned the school would be an epithet of Evelyn’s presence within the Custody. As would Natalie herself, in the other woman’s absence. A thorn to bury in Brandon’s side, if necessary. For as Jay had told her at the height of her drunken stupor, she would be what she needed to be. The advice steeled her cold now, though. What she needed to be and what she wanted to be were not necessarily the same thing.
She’d always detested the binds of having a public life; always protected her privacy fiercely, else rebelled against the way the paparazzi painted every intimacy of her life in shades of rumour and drama. Not that she’d warned Adrian, but the worst dregs of the media delighted over Custody royalty like they were actual royalty. Fighting it tore her own reputation to shreds in the process, while her family tried desperately to protect her – and themselves – from the cut of her recklessness. That was years past though. Deciding to embrace it now felt more like a chain around her throat than the heft of a reluctant weapon in her grip. Sacrifice or weapon, she ultimately wasn’t sure it made much difference though. This time she’d use it either way.
Because Natalie wanted truth. She wanted to one day look Nikolai Brandon in the eye and have him understand she knew. Even as she would never raise a hand against him. Not while Jay was his.
She sighed, closed her eyes.
“I know what I want,” she said. “Tell me what you want in exchange.”
More blunt grey murals followed on pillars and sections of wall. They passed a morbid scene from Crime and Punishment; Raskolnikov featured in eerie black silhouette with the axe raised above a woman’s head, and a corpse of another below. It was undeniably creepy.
Natalie followed him to a service door that opened into a small, darkened office. The key was a swipecard he tucked back into his pocket. Inside it appeared to have long fallen into disuse, the furniture neglected and grimy, the technology on the shelves and small desk at least a decade outdated. “We’re offgrid,” he said. “At least for a little while.” A more thorough explanation followed, more technical than Natalie cared to follow, but she surmised that despite his slightly shabby appearance he was very well connected. Fortunate, since it was connections she had taken this risk for.
He lit another cigarette almost immediately, the scent of it acidic and cloying in the enclosed space. Then he shuffled for a bag he had clearly deposited before her arrival, broke the seal on a box, and produced a scarlet bottle of redbreast.
“Older than you are,” he said with a grin as he unscrewed the lid. “Never risk your life if you can’t toast to it first.”
One of those was at least a few hundred Custody dollars, probably closer to four with that kind of vintage, which didn’t even account for its rarity. Definitely well connected, and probably moneyed too then. Natalie didn’t argue against the glass he pressed into her hand. It was cold in here anyway, bone-numbingly so. The room rattled when a train sped past outside, casting all sorts of strange light on the peeling walls and abandoned filing cabinets.
It transpired that Kristof DeGarmo was a former employee of Orion Pharmaceuticals, and a whistleblower surviving (and apparently thriving) incognito. He explained it all in rote form, like the words had long been rehearsed in his head. His employment predated Orion’s latest ventures, of course, but it seemed the company had a long list of unethical and exploitative measures in its history -- and the unerring ability to make those charges, and those who levied them, disappear. Her memory skirted around what she had seen at the school; all the silent, empty faces of those children. But she reared back completely before she could replay the sharp cracks of the endless gunshots. Instead she shot the whiskey back; the entire dram. It slid down smooth, no burn.
“You said you knew my father. He got you out, then?”
She could feel him watching her. He leaned against the desk by now, cigarette in one hand, whiskey in the other, the glass balanced on his thigh. “Not quite,” he said. Then, after a moment in which she only watched him silently in return, he added, “Ah, you really don’t know. It wasn’t your father who saved me, it was your mother. They wanted to extradite me. She arranged the lawyers pro bono. Handled everything.”
“Then why are you still hiding?” she asked, gesturing at their dire surroundings with a dismissive sweep of her palm.
But Kristof only laughed. “Easier to beat the system in a place like this, Natalie.” He gestured around them too, but it seemed more like a toast, the amber liquid swirling in his glass. He propped the spectacles back up his nose with a grin. Amusement crimped his expression, though he quickly grew more serious. “What I can offer is an escape. From Moscow, from the Custody itself, should you ever need it. That’s what I owe your father.” He drew on the cigarette, tapped ash carelessly by his feet. Another train clattered past, vibrating everything inside with a low hum.
“In case of fire, break glass,” she murmured. She considered that quietly for a while. Her father had never been one for overbearing protection, which meant even he considered this dangerous – else her mother exerted an influence Natalie had largely been unaware of. Given her peripheral involvement here, Natalie considered it for the first time. She thought of the FBI agents then, and something cold tightened in her stomach. She had assumed how and why they were there at the time, of course she had, but now she paused to consider it they were really not Alistair Grey’s style at all. After all, who had been the parent to marshal the Legionnaires in an extravagant extraction when Sierra Leone fell to civil unrest? The implications made her feel sick. Her skin prickled with the sensation.
Kristof didn’t stop her swiping the bottle from beside him. Half of her wanted to swig it straight, to dampen thought and memory before either had the chance to clutch her too tightly in its vise. But the bathroom floor of the casino was not so very far away from her thoughts, and she only poured herself another measure. Afterwards she paced, found herself facing the tinted window onto the tracks outside. It was thick with grime, not even the distortion of a reflection glimmering back. She pressed the glass into her chest, pensive.
“And if I don’t want to escape. If I want information. How do I go about that?”
“Depends what kind of information,” he replied carefully. “And what you have to offer in exchange.”
She wasn’t sure she’d ever forget the scalding, breath-stealing heat of the flames when they had taken her dad’s office. Strangely there hadn’t been fear at the time, just a desperate resolution to protect alongside a euphoria she now realised had been her first touch of the power. Her fear of fires hadn’t come until much later. The hospital. The school. The motel room. Yet she’d never forgotten what was on those papers as they blackened and burned beneath her fingertips. She’d never spoken of it either, and she was not about to start now with a stranger.
He seemed to guess something of her thoughts anyway.
“You should know there is no proof to be found. Just data and a long list of casualties, one of which is your own father. No one can win against a regime like this. Against a man like that. You’d be stupid to try.”
“‘A hundred suspicions don't make a proof’,” she agreed. A Dostoevky quote, actually. She smirked, glanced over her shoulder. “But do you suppose he even has a conscience?”
Kristof frowned. If he recognised the literary reference, he gave no sign.
“Dig too deep and all you’ll discover is a grave,” he assured. “But more to the point, you father is fucking vicious when he’s pissed, so please grant me the great favour of steering clear of that particular venture. You know as well as he did that your suspicions are correct. That has to be enough for you. It has to be enough for all of us.”
She took a sip from her glass. The flavour lingered this time, decadently fruity, and with the easiest finish. Natalie savoured it for a moment in silence. She wasn’t looking for proof; Kristof had mistaken her there. Neither did she care for punishment. But there was a yawning chasm in her chest, and the jagged edge of rebellion was the quickest thing to shove inside it. When she examined herself otherwise, all she felt were sharp edges. Dissatisfaction. Anger. She’d run to the ends of the earth, run from the Custody itself, and still ended up back where she started. The peace never lasted. If she found somewhere to belong, it slipped inevitably through her fingers soon after. If she trusted, she learned to regret it.
In the Kremlin Brandon had almost offered her something she could believe in, but he’d yanked it away just as quickly, and burned her fingers on the loyalty she might have otherwise given. Forgiveness was not a virtue Natalie had in great supply.
The school would be part of it. Evelyn taught her the benefits of being well-loved, and she knew the woman would approve of the virtuous venture when she told her about it. Not that Natalie’s intentions weren’t well meant with its founding. In fact it made her think of Cayli every time she pictured it. But those were privacies that would never make it to the public sphere, and there were only two people who'd ever even know what it meant. As far as the world was concerned the school would be an epithet of Evelyn’s presence within the Custody. As would Natalie herself, in the other woman’s absence. A thorn to bury in Brandon’s side, if necessary. For as Jay had told her at the height of her drunken stupor, she would be what she needed to be. The advice steeled her cold now, though. What she needed to be and what she wanted to be were not necessarily the same thing.
She’d always detested the binds of having a public life; always protected her privacy fiercely, else rebelled against the way the paparazzi painted every intimacy of her life in shades of rumour and drama. Not that she’d warned Adrian, but the worst dregs of the media delighted over Custody royalty like they were actual royalty. Fighting it tore her own reputation to shreds in the process, while her family tried desperately to protect her – and themselves – from the cut of her recklessness. That was years past though. Deciding to embrace it now felt more like a chain around her throat than the heft of a reluctant weapon in her grip. Sacrifice or weapon, she ultimately wasn’t sure it made much difference though. This time she’d use it either way.
Because Natalie wanted truth. She wanted to one day look Nikolai Brandon in the eye and have him understand she knew. Even as she would never raise a hand against him. Not while Jay was his.
She sighed, closed her eyes.
“I know what I want,” she said. “Tell me what you want in exchange.”