SAFEHOUSE

Does anyone want a sample of Mody Bick as if it was published in Daicing as is happening in the story

When Vasily first came to Japan he thought this would be like the exact dream any white boy who likes anime too much would have. But he didn't realize he'd have to frequent places like this when he finally got here.

The restaurant is budget, or maybe below budget. The fluorescent lights buzz, the menu is sticky, and the only thing that's cheap enough is the discount hour udon. He picks up another piece, believing he's starting to get better at chopsticks, but this one slips and falls back into the bowl with a loud splash. He looks around just to make sure no one notices.

That's when he sees them. Two tables away, a small bald guy is waving his hands around. "Can you believe it? They rejected me!"

Another man with spiky hair is busy with his beef bowl. Rice jumps out of his mouth when he laughs. "Surprised? Not exactly, Shiraishi. You're not even 165."

"That's so unfair! I have other qualities! I have—" The smaller man stops, thinks. "Very flexible muscles! That's got to count for something!"

"In a sperm donation?"

Vasily's chopsticks stop moving at the words.

"I don't know! Maybe? It's good genetics!" The bald one explains, "Boutarou said they even paid more when they saw his medals—"

"How much?" The spiky one suddenly sounds very interested.

"Forty thousand!" The bald one slumps. "That guy's not even going there for the money. And I can't even get through the door..."

Then his eye wanders, and somehow, lands on Vasily. He lowers his voice, a bit futile because Vasily still catches every word.

"And I heard they pay more for someone like him..."

Vasily doesn't move. These people are not rude, they probably just assume he doesn't understand. He doesn't even know what is so special about him. But that's forty thousand yen, and that means thirty-three hours of dish scrubbing.

He could do that. Or he could accept hard labor like any poor but stubborn man would.

He finishes his udon in silence. The broth is a bit too salty, but he drinks it anyway.

A fly circled the dim room, bumping against the walls again and again, yet could find no way out.

The walls had been built thick to keep out the winter cold and to shelter the faithful at prayer. But on summer days, they admitted so little light that by twilight the room was nearly swallowed by darkness. Through a narrow slit of a window, a single shaft of sunlight slipped in, cutting across the dusty air that was scented with burnt incense and sweet chrism, then and came to rest on the opposite wall, where rested the face of a half-finished saint.

The saint's eyes were still blank.

Vasily sat on the floor, watching the buzzing insect. The little thing had been lured into the bright spot, finding its comfort resting there and beginning to rub its wings.

It would come for him soon, once it caught the bloody odor.

His face was caked with crust, his head still pounding from the beating, and his hands were bound tightly behind his back. A jagged piece of wood on the post had torn his nails and gouged his skin, letting a trail of blood run down his wrist.

He needed just a split, just a weak spot. Then he could rip through. Then he could be free.

Through the wall came voices, his name repeated among them, and the priest's voice quieter than the others. They were still discussing his punishment. Judgment was on its way, and what awaited him was too gruesome to imagine. He was all alone in this, no one else to bear his blame.

22 August

I received this journal as a gift from dear Mariya. She said I should write things down, so I don't lose myself out here. But there isn't much to record. No decent man comes here unless he's after the goldmine. And that is what I am here for, watching for sticky fingers, in case someone gets to feeling for what isn't theirs. I didn't take it seriously until old Oleg really did take a man down.

I thought this would be a job away from killing. I was wrong.

10 September

I miss the farm. I miss Mariya. She is going to marry a cousin of mine. I don't blame her. I was never good enough for her. Maybe one day I'll return with money and things will change. Just seeing her again is good enough.

16 October

The river froze early this year. My shift has doubled because many miners are leaving for the season and they might try to take things away with them. Some will stay through the winter because they have nowhere else to go. Like me.

20 December

It's nearly Christmas, and I feel empty inside. Haven't heard from Mariya since the last mail. I suppose that means it's over.

Old Oleg said something and I told him to shut up. And I punched him. Later he gave me moonshine, said it was confiscated from an escapee. It was strong. Good things that I didn't need to think anymore.

27 December

Two days ago, I went out while drunk. I should not have done that. I lost my way. I nearly died in this cold. But instead, in that deepest hopelessness, I stumbled into something new.

A new vein. I think.

The stone there is black, and the mineral within is nothing like river gold. It's purer, heavier, as if it has bled out of the rock's core and clotted on the surface. It felt warm in my hand, even through my glove. I've never seen anything like this before.

Ogata is just taking a nap during his lunch break. A quick nap, that’s all. But his alarm doesn’t go off. So he is more or less terrified when a loud crack against the storage room door jerks him awake.

In the doorway stand an overzealous Usami and a very disappointed Tsukishima. The latter pulls out his walkie-talkie, switches it on, and says, “We’ve found him.”

“What…?” Ogata rubs his eyes, trying to crawl out of the little den he’s made from fleece jackets in the damaged inventory.

“Try answering the call, Hyakunosuke.” Usami has his hands on his hips, clearly triumphant. “We almost called the cops. We don’t have your other contacts, you know.”

“My phone’s dead,” Ogata answers flatly. He glances up at the shelf where it is supposed to be charging. Somehow, the cable came loose, and the video that had lulled him to sleep finally ran it out of juice.

Usami tsks. “You’d have time to check your phone on the morning shift if you weren’t, you know, touching something else.”

It’s a blatant accuse, meant for not just Ogata but everyone behind them to hear. Apparently, almost all the guys from the shift joined the search party. Now they’re gathered outside the door, peering in as if they’ve caught him with his pants down. Damn it.

I arrived in Manchuria just in time. Too late for the warfare, but just enough to catch the consequences.

Before the final curtain fell, a Soviet guard escorted me onto a train. "We're going home," that's what he said. I had to admire his sense of humor. It soon became apparent he meant his home.

It was the end of summer when we began our journey northwards. September winds loosened golden needles from seas of larches, and by October a cold spell stripped them bare. And just like that, I reported to the authorities as a guest of the Siberian Internment. According to the daily broadcasts from the loudspeakers, this was where I would be reborn as a New Man.

This incredible process, however, required a great deal of labor and very little food. I soon learned that food was not the greatest problem once the snow began to fall. Most of us were new recruits, and our superiors had not thought to issue winter coats in advance, nor, it seemed, had the Soviets.

When someone protested the cold, the reply came with a squeak: "Just burn some logs! There are tons of them!"

Indeed, if naming one thing that was not lacking in the nowhere land, that must be the trees. The great taiga had grown free of intervention, its slowest trees taking millennia to grow a girth thicker than a human torso. Every day was a struggle to meet the quota we were assigned, and when it was done, little was left for our own use. The chopping was hardest when axes were light and dull, perhaps to prevent escape.

But some still got the idea. I did notice people vanishing.

Guards would go out to search, but never seemed truly worried when they couldn't find them in nearby villages. Because that only meant the escaped prisoner had chosen the forest. And that, they thought, meant little difference.

I'm sooo not good at torturing so i outsource it to stalin

old man (65+) vasily met a reincarnated ogata (brat) in a penal colony. someone's going to be very disrespectful for their elder.

btw i think i need to do a lot of modification cuz this feels more oc yume than i want??? (i was planning to have a gradual reveal or something...)

I arrived in Manchuria just in time. Missed the entire war, but managed to catch the consequences.

Before the final curtain fell, a Soviet guard escorted me to a train. "We're going home," he said. I had to admire his sense of humor. It soon became apparent he meant his home. The temperature plummeted. The trees thinned out. Shortly after, I reported to the authorities as a guest of the Siberian Internment. According to the daily broadcast from the loudspeakers, this was where I would be reborn as a New Man.

Ogata scanned the street, as if he were being watched.

The town was little more than a clutch of shabby cottages with stooped straw roofs, strung along a single street of hard-packed mud, littered with horse shit and fish bones that emitted a nasty odor in the sun. This was a settler's town, the last refuge for the poorest Russians driven from their homes to scratch a life from this hard ground. Probably the most decent buildings here were those that served the railway, simple and grim establishments that catered to the coal miners. And they wanted only a few things.

A voice cut through the air with impatience. "Ya coming in or not?" The bouncer spread his hands and waited.

Ogata's gaze lifted, fixing on a wart that perched on the man's nose. He willed himself not to track its movement. His hand went to his pocket, fingers closing around a few thin kopecks. The take from the loot he'd fenced at the grocery store was almost gone. But a man's choices get narrow out here.

Ogata gripped the sled handle tightly, losing track of time.

The landscape blurred past, shifting dramatically as the finish line drew near. Ice shards scattered beneath the runners, torn from the snowfield with each swift glide. His trapper hat shielded his ears from the biting cold, but the rushing wind still lashed at his face like a razor.

Then he heard a strange sound, and for a while he mistook it for his own chattering teeth. But soon he found it came from the sled pullers, that their heavy panting made their tusks clack together. Ogata swallowed hard and braced himself, planting his feet more firmly on the sled.

This is so messed up, he thought. Next time they'll need to clarify what to expect when they extend the invitation. Or this's just entirely his own fault, believing he could actually enjoy a well-earned vacation with people like them.

When they came to this ski resort, Ogata had imagined cozy fireplaces, a relaxing sauna, maybe a stroll across the snowfield that ended up watching sports with a beer in whatever bar he happened to wander into.

He hadn't been informed he'd end up as dead weight on a dogsled, while Sugimoto and Asirpa shifted into their canine forms and cheerfully let themselves be harnessed. Normally, they'd have much more pride than pulling someone around like that, but apparently, none of that matters when it's part of fun and game. And judging by the way they nearly yanked him off the sled with every powerful lunge, they were dead set on winning.

Ogata gritted his teeth and held on until the very end, hearing the crowd's cheers greeting them at the finish line. He winced to free his stiffened legs from the sled.

"Why are you so tired, Ogata-chan?" an annoying voice called from behind. He turned to find Shiraishi shoving a hot paper cup into his hand. "You're not the one doing the running!"

Ogata would’ve rolled his eyes, if they weren’t already feeling glued to the sockets. He took a gulp and nearly spat the scalding tea back out.

Vasha sat at a breakfast table outside, sketching, when suddenly a well-coiffed lady stepped into her view.

It wasn’t uncommon for a Japanese woman to wander the streets of Port Arthur these days, most were recent widows who had crossed the sea to collect their husbands' remains, assuming they could even figure out which parts belonged to whom. Many couldn’t bring themselves to enter the morgue. And that was if their husbands had made it there at all, rather than being blasted into a million uncollectable pieces.

She had seen many of these women before—pale, thin, fragile as leaves in the wind, always dressed in humble clothes that mirrored their grief.

But this woman was different. Her attire was simple yet unmistakably expensive, with birds embroidered into the pale violet silk, although subtly, as if her refined taste were a secret meant only for the discerning eye.

But that didn’t escape Vasha’s notice. She lacked the smooth watercolor to capture the vibrancy of the woman’s silks, but her charcoal would suffice for the jet-black hair and void-like eyes. That hair was coiled into an immaculate bun, fastened with a shiny pin. A delicate bird was dangling from it, swaying with her compact steps.