[GK]Skin

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...)

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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.

This incredible process, however, involved a great deal of taiga and very little food. It was more likely owing to a miracle that I made it to the next spring, unlike a significant number of my fellow inmates who had frozen into corpses. I'd seen Death's face on the darkest nights, and he'd chosen to wear the brightest aurora as a disguise. I knew I wouldn't survive another one.

One day, my partner and I were scouting for ideal sawing locations. We got lost. It seemed as good a time as any to grab such a chance. Although, our new venture led us across a boundary that was apparently inadvisable to cross in the hindsight. The local proprietor was an old man in the woods—grumpy, allegedly insane, and damn good at shotting. He demonstrated this by shooting my partner in the head and me in the leg.

I fled my way back to the camp, just barely. The doctor, patching my leg, confirmed the local folklore. Yes, there was talk of an old hunter. A Shtrafbat soldier who had come back from the Great Wars, she said, it was a way to get out of the Gulag where he was serving his sentence. Her advice was simple, that a man who survives both isn't a man I should cross path with. She finished stitching by hinting that my chances of survival were statistically better inside than out in the wild.

Yet, I figured a way to justify my return trip. I had to retrieve my late companion's remains. He'd mentioned that his wedding ring should be sent to his wife. Very sentimental, but not where my heart lay on. I was more touched by the fact the ring was made of gold.

A week later, I wandered back to the same location. Although I found no decaying body or fresh grave, just a trail of unnatural flourishing where blood had soaked the soil. It led me to a small log cabin.

My pulse quickened. That must be the old hermit's lair.

The camp's stories resurfaced. Someone said his face was a horror, as if a cannon had gone off in it. They whispered that a nurse's child once saw him washing hands in the river, caked with redness so thick it wouldn't rinse. When he came to town to trade furs, the procurement officers, men of legendary greed, never dared to ask him for a "brokerage" fee.

The fur trade, I reasoned, was a money-spinning business. And what does a lone man in the woods spend all his rubles on? Vodka. And more vodka. I knew the gold ring alone wouldn't buy my way home, but with the old man's fortune, it might just reinvent the odds.

I didn't charge the cabin right away. If the old hunter was inside, he'd simply add me to his collection of woodland pests. So, for the next few days, I conducted reconnaissance around the woods.

Finally, I found a pattern. The old man hunted early in the week, went to town on Wednesday, and barricaded himself in his cabin for the remaining days. What he did in there, no one knew. I didn't care. I just needed him out.

Although time was running out, as our work was nearly finished here. Once the forestry was cleared, we'd be moved. Rumors said we could be sent to railway construction site, where conditions were worse, and guards were tighter. My window was closing.

The following week, just as I was about to slip into the tree line after my shift, a voice called my name. It was the kind doctor. She had procured a penicillin shot for my leg. I was astonished. Such medicine was never wasted on someone at my station. She explained it was no great favor in the Soviet Union, as the society they were building would be abundant and inclusive for all. I could smell the ideological conditioning, but I thanked her. Internally, I cursed the missed opportunity.

Departure was imminent. I could not afford another week.

Two windows of opportunity presented themselves. Tuesday afternoon, before the old hunter returned from the woods. Or Wednesday, though that was market day, and my functional Russian skill made me a prime candidate for town errands. I decided I could afford two attempts.

That Tuesday, I worked with uncharacteristic speed. My leg, it seemed, had finally decided to heal. By my shift's end, the sun remained obstinately above the horizon. I realized, in the hindsight, I wasn't earlier. The days were simply longer as spring had quietly melted into an early summer.

I returned my tools and informed the guard of my customary "small walk." He offered a half-hearted nod. They had all silently agreed that a disabled prisoner of war poses no flight risk.

I went to my hiding spot, retrieved the broken axe head I had filed into a primitive but handy tool, and started toward the house.

Excellent. No one home.

A heavy lock sat on the main door. I could likely hack through it with my half-axe, but the resulting noise would be… attracting attention. There was a smaller door nearby, presumably for a home pet, but still too small for an underweight grown human.

I circled the structure. The window was another promising entry point. The lock itself was a simple latch and bolt, and a piece of metal wire solved the problem with minimal trouble. I then performed the undignified act of climbing through the lattice.

From the outside, the hunter's cabin had all the charm of a rotten stump. Inside, however, was a different story.

I landed on a solid dining table, disturbing a clay vase of dried flowers. Along the windowsill stood a small menagerie of carved wooden animals—horses, dogs, birds. It was… tidy. This did not align with my image of the old man, whom I pictured steaming in his own filth and alcohol.

Then I remembered why I got here.

The cabin was small, divided into a living area and a bedroom. My eyes began their search.

In rural Russia, if anyone was looking for valuables, they should look for an altar. But the Soviets tend to frown on both religion and personal wealth, so just as I expected, I didn't find gilded cross or silver candlesticks. I did note, however, the distinct absence of any portrait of the Great Soviet Fathers like every facility I had been to. It seemed the old man didn't believe in anything. This might actually be good news for me. It suggested his faith was in cash.

The living area housed a large cabinet, secured by another formidable lock. I tested it, but it held. My logic told that most people don't leave their life's savings here—not that this old man was expecting any company. I decided the bedroom was more promising.

The bedroom was a cramped, windowless box. I had to fumble for a match and light an oil lamp to see. In the corner sat a small, handmade chest. It looked delicate, but it only took a single blow from my axe to get rid of its lock.

The contents were a bit disappointing. I thought there might be valuable items, judging from the intricate patterns on the chest.

I found a few tarnished medals dating all the way back from the Imperial days. White Army's, even. Possessing them seemed like an excellent way to earn his way back to the re-education camp. Beneath them were a stack of yellowed photographs. I glanced at the strangers' faces before tossing them back. They looked they're having fun, but fun always had little to do with me.

Frustration set in, but I had to encourage myself to keep looking. I looked under the bed, and I saw a long case. Inside, there's a rifle. Even better, a box of bullets.

I knew for a fact I'm a competent shooter. While I've had regrettably few opportunities to use that skill, both before and after the war ended, the prospect of carrying it on my escape was rather promising.

Although upon closer inspection, I wasn't just surprised at the fact it wasn't a Russian model but an Arisaka, but also the well-preserved status it was in. We still use the type, but this was an earlier model without the hood designed for the cold climate. I wondered where the old man got it. Given his age, it could have been way dated back to the Russo-Japanese War. Though, was the Type 38 even in service then?

So far, I'd found nothing of actual value. I could, of course, sell the rifle. The thought was physically painful. Besides, trying to sell it in any Soviet-controlled shop would be a succinct way to get myself in trouble. And its value as currency was likely less than its value in acquiring currency—robbery, for example, or hunting, if I decided to be more careful. The idea of wasting days traipsing through the woods was off-putting, but it did spark a more efficient thought.

I turned to the old man's closet. Another inmate once swore he saw him in the woods wearing his furs, and nearly fainted, mistaking him for a bear. This meant I could simply acquire the furs from his closet, skipping the entire tedious hunting process.

The lock gave way without much protest. Inside, I spotted the bear skin right away. My fellow inmate hadn't been hallucinating. It was thick, black, and unnervingly warm to the touch, as if the bear's body heat had yet to dissipate.

I tossed the pelt on the bed. Its weight was concerning for a long journey, but if I could only take one, this was the one.

A search of the other clothes proved the old man had a casual relationship with his money as I soon found a few coins in the pockets. Then again, those clothes were old. Not just old, but ancient, the kind of relics an old person accumulates because they can't bear to part with anything, even a military coat that clearly predated the Great War.

I held one up. The color was ambiguous in the dim light, somewhere between grey and dirt. The texture, however, was good, solid wool. Not the synthetic rubbish we have now. The old man must have worn it everywhere, through every patch of mud and field of grass. The fine hairs of the wool were all worn away, polished down by a lifetime of use. And there were stains that would never come out.

On second thought, that probably wasn't mud at all.

I almost reached for another coat when I noticed another whole set of uniform underneath. Except the color quite looked out of place.

I pushed the heavy Russian coat aside. And there it was. Navy blue on the cotton, and Kanji on the lapels.

Well. That was unexpected. A full set of Meiji-era Japanese uniform, tucked inside an Imperial Russian military coat.

I was speechless. The set was complete—jacket, trousers, gaiters, shoes, everything. It was almost kept in a mint condition, aside from a few holes that had been stitched back together. The old man's own handy work, no doubt, because the sewing was terrible. There were old stains, too. On the jacket, they just looked dark. On the gaiter, the blood stain was clearer, leaving a yellowed ring around a bullet hole.

I checked the pockets. Empty, save for a small pouch of dried herbs. It smelled faintly pleasant, probably to keep the moths out. He'd put considerable effort into maintaining this. It looked like it was still ready to be worn again. Not by him, though. The uniform was far too small for his frame. It would have fit me perfectly, back before the labor camp shaved me down to bone and skin.

Against my better judgment, I started putting on the shirt and jacket. The fabric was light and comfortable. I reasoned that my current uniform was not only threadbare but also conspicuous in an open field. But then I reconsidered a full picture of a man with Asian face in a Meiji uniform carrying an Arisaka rifle, and looked around to find a folded cloth. I tied it around my shoulders like a poncho, so at least it would provide a bit cover.

I counted the money I had collected so far. Not nearly enough for tickets and bribery. If I could find one of the indigenous hunters, I might trade the bear skin. Perhaps for a horse. With a horse, I could reach the railway. Then I could get to Vladivostok, sneak onto a ferry—

And then I would be home.

The thought almost made me smile. A dry, hollow sound, however.

In theory, the route is simple. In practice, I have no papers to get me past a single guard or secret policeman. Even citizens can't travel freely, and what chance does a prisoner of war have?

Why I even wanted to go home was another question. I didn't have any relatives alive, or any method to make a living in the bomb wrecked homeland.

Before I was drafted, our farm was already gone. Grandfather claimed he was too old to work the land, but we both knew the sale was what paid for my school. Then the house was sold, and he moved to a small cottage, telling me how it suited his love for hunting and fishing in the wild.

Then a man from the village brought the money from his auction. He hadn't left much, so I left school and joined the army.

If I returned, I wouldn't even have the army salary, however meagre it was.

In the labor camp, rarely anyone could be allowed to write or call home, except once for one man who had brought his way. When he came back from his call, everyone crowded around, asking how it was.

He looked grim.

"My father said it was an embarrassment that I didn't have the honor to die a war hero," he said, his voice flat. "Or the shame to know better than to keep on living. I should never have called."

He died that winter.

At least I wouldn't have anyone to disappoint. What a relief.

I used to know a few people in high ranks, however impossible as it might sound for a foot soldier. But one day when we were still in the Kwantung Army camp, I was called to present myself before a high-ranking officer. A general.

Of course I was sweating, but I managed to hold my pose.

The general didn't speak. He just examined me, the way a man might look at the most peculiar creation. He said something to his deputy in a thick dialect I couldn't understand.

The deputy, an older, calmer man, still had that look of clinical amazement. "We've heard about your marksmanship. Show us, Private."

I never knew if they liked the performance. When it was over, every shot had found its mark. But they never spoke to me again. Even if they had plans to promote a talented soldier, the war's end neatly aborted them.

Here in the labor camp, our Soviet teachers have been very thorough. Russian language, for starters. Science, even. But the most important lessons were in the thought correction classes. One day they brought in a small box that played moving pictures. Most of the class fell into a grim silence during the trial footage for our esteemed top-ranking generals. It was a long, tedious tape, and after a full day of labor, I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

Then I caught a familiar face. I actually gasped.

"Sorry, sir," I apologized to the teacher. "That's our 7th divisional commander."

So much for my high-ranking connections. I supposed he was lucky not to be important enough to hang. Though I imagined him doing time in an American camp wasn't going to provide me a job however much he appreciated my shooting skills.

I stood before the closet with the Arisaka in my hands, and sighed. I hate to admit it, but at least here I have a roof. It's no mystery why the camp is more… generous to young, unmarried soldiers. They knew there's a fair chance we'd just stay.

The early summer must have gotten into my head. I'd forgotten how cold the winter was.

I tied the bear fur into a bundle and looked for some string. I slammed the closet door shut, and the sound confused me. Like a door being opened just in time to hide within the sound of my own.

Then I heard the distinct metallic click of a safety catch being disengaged behind my back.

I swallowed. And waited for the instruction.

Maybe he'd let me live. Maybe he wouldn't. Either way, it would cause him no more trouble than swatting a fly. Just the way he'd dealt with my partner.

But no instruction came. I knew I hadn't misheard. The presence behind me was a solid, silent weight. I let my rifle clatter to the floor and raised my hands. The axe, still hanging on my back, remained hidden. I began to turn, very slowly.

The old man was a professional. He didn't flinch as I turned. He just stood there, his hunting rifle's muzzle hovering an inch from my face. I looked past it, refraining from stepping back, and got my first good look at him.

I had my expectations. I was braced for a face barely held together by scar tissues, even exposing bones. But the first thing I noticed, however, were the eyes. They were sharp and unnervingly intense, the kind you only see in an animal turning away from domestication or a man from sanity. Then my gaze traveled downward, taking in the rest of the ruin.

He moved then, only to pull the mask attached to his hat down over his distorted features. He stared at me, and for a fleeting moment, there was a flicker of confusion in his eyes. It vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a slow, resigned shake of his head, as if he was reminding himself of a simple, impossible truth.

He gestured with the rifle, not at me, but at the uniform I was wearing. Of course. He wouldn't want his carefully preserved relics stained with fresh blood. He wanted me to take it off. A request I had no intention of obliging at the moment.

"You're home earlier," I said, slowly, enunciating each word in Russian, just in case my pronunciation was off.

The old man grunted, a low sound of impatience. I gestured toward the fur. "That's all I took."

He didn't even glance at it. It appeared the expensive bear skin meant nothing to him, not compared to the uniform. He jabbed the rifle muzzle against my chest, eager to have his precious uniform back.

And that the precise reason I wouldn't give it back.

I took a few steps back, until my back found the wall, and I began to edge sideways, the rifle tracking my every move. "Why do you want it?"

His mask revealed nothing.

"A trophy?"

I did the math in my head. He must have been very young when he first laid hands on it. Could be his first blood, that's why he wanted to preserve it.

My boot heel touched another object. The Arisaka. Another one of his cherished artifacts.

I looked the old man in the eye, allowed a faint, cold smile to touch my lips, and in one fluid motion, I reached behind my back for the axe, and brought it down hard on the rifle's stock.

A raw, choked sound ripped from his throat. He hunched over, his hands frantically scrambling for the broken pieces, completely forgetting the functional rifle he still held.

I didn't. I scooped his Mosin from the floor. It was an old model, but still functional, more importantly, very much loaded, ready to shoot at any moment. I smiled, leveling it at the old man crumpled on the ground.

I could pull the trigger. It would be easy, but that felt like a waste of a perfectly good bargaining position.

"Where's your money?" I said, words quick and sharp. He could understand. People always understand when the barrel is pointed at them.

The old man just nodded.

He reached slowly into his jacket. Before I could adjust the rifle, he pulled out a small, grimy notebook and a stub of pencil.

No money, he wrote.

I remembered the nasty gash hidden under his mask. Maybe the man couldn't speak at all.

This was getting annoying. It's much harder to tell if someone's lying in writing.

"Don't lie. We saw you trade in the town." I frowned at the way his eyes were fixed on me, absorbing every word with an unnerving intensity. It was uncomfortable, being stared at with that kind of focus. "Where is that money?"

The man nodded and began to push himself to his feet. I noticed the slight tremor in his knees and wondered how old he truly was. He lived alone, but that didn't mean he was without ties. He might have been sending rubles to a grandson studying in the city, if he had one.

But he kept writing. Hobby.

My eyebrow twitched. It would have to be quite a hobby for a man to sink all his money into it, especially with most vices being prohibited in this reign. I hadn't seen any bottles lying around. I hadn't found anything of value around the house, except maybe his collection of military antiques from both sides of a forgotten war, but they felt too personal to be from any market. I wouldn't doubt if he had peeled them from a body by hand, the way a hunter skins a deer.

The hunter shifted as if to walk, and I immediately adjusted the muzzle. He just waved a dismissive hand and started moving, out of the bedroom and towards the massive cabinet in the living area.

I had no choice but to follow.

The old man fumbled at his belt and produced a chain of keys. He selected a dull, insignificant one and began to work on the lock of the cabinet.

I stood. Expecting. But all I saw was… rolls of paper.

A profound disappointment settled over me. These weren't the compact, promising shapes of banknotes or land deeds. They were large, cumbersome canvases.

And he didn't stop there. He unrolled one with a flourish, ensuring I saw the pencil doodles scrawled across it. They were not, I noted with a dry internal sigh, the kind of western style of oil paintings I had seen from magazines, the kind I understood that could be converted into currency.

He held the edges of the paper with undue care and turned to me, expecting my judgement.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Very..." I let my gaze drift over the smudged landscape. A wobbly mountain, a lake, some sickly trees, and a train hidden between the trees. In a way, they had their charm. "...refreshing."

The old man peeked at me several times, clearly waiting for a sonnet of praise to fall from my lips. I didn't offer him anything more than silence.

Then he wrote on a scrap of paper. "1000 rubles."

I looked at the number, then at his earnest face. He didn't look like he was joking. He began to roll the sketch up then handed it to me, as if using his own artwork like some form of banknotes.

I took a step back, as if the paper roll was a loaded weapon.

"How exactly am I to sell this?" I nearly shouted. "Do you think some art-loving philanthropist is just waiting in the street to buy it?"

The old man looked momentarily chastised, as if he'd forgotten this minor logistical detail. He moved to the dinner table, pulled out a chair with unsettling calm, and began to write, utterly unfazed by the rifle trained on his back.

"Dear Boris: I have reconsidered your offer since last month. I cannot part with my most precious child. This one, however, you professed to admire. Give the Japanese boy 1200 rubles, and we may renegotiate. V. V. Pavlichenko."

I didn't care for the "Japanese boy" designation, but my objections were cut short as Mr. Pavlichenko produced a small envelope and began putting an address on it.

"I suppose," I said coldly, "I could ask for an errand fee."

The old man just shrugged, produced a small coin, and nudged the envelope toward me. Then he looked up, his expression full of plain, hopeful expectation.

And in that moment, I saw his eyes for what they truly were. They might have once belonged to a cold murderer, but the man before me was now… weak. Pathetically, profoundly lonely. He would cooperate, not merely because of the gun in my hands, but because he had long since lost the thrill that came when his finger curled around a trigger and the sights settled on something fresh and living.

"That could wait. I'm spending the night here," I declared, gesturing at him with the rifle. "Go cook me dinner."

While he worked, I didn't relax. I listened for patrols, for any sound out of place. The old man himself was no longer a concern, I'd decided that. He methodically skinned a grouse, throwing it into a pot with potatoes and onions.

The resulting stew was a bland, overcooked mush. Old Pavlichenko then proceeded to mash it further, mixing in sour cream until it reached a consistency he could scoop and maneuver into his ruined mouth.

"What happened to that?" I asked, not expecting a coherent answer while he was occupied with the laborious chewing.

He lifted a hand, pinched at nothing in the air, and brought it slowly toward his scarred cheek, making a soft, whistling "pew" sound with his lips. Then his hand snapped to the other side of his face, fingers splaying open with a final "bam."

Very humorous. So, just a bullet, a common thing that could be expected from an old veteran.

He seemed to think his little performance was a grand success, judging by my faint smile. So he smiled back, and it was a horrifying sight: the holes in his cheeks stretched, and the wrinkles fissured across the terrain of his face. I hadn't really noticed them before—I'd been distracted by his eyes, still a disconcertingly clear blue, peering out from between the grey hair and the mask. I wondered, idly, how it used to be when it hadn't been rendered dull throughout all these decades.

After the unsatisfying dinner, the old man produced a porcelain jug and opened it before me. I reached in and found myself a handful of ring-shaped bread.

He made a series of odd gestures, then, with an impatient humph, he grabbed my wrist and threaded bread rings directly onto my fingers, demonstrating that I was meant to eat them right off my hand.

"Thanks... I suppose," I mumbled as he drizzled honey onto a small plate and turned to boil water.

The whole situation felt absurd. I still clutched the Mosin, but the gesture was now purely perfunctory. This man was practically my grandfather's age, and it wasn't entirely out of left field for him to treat me like a child. He even poured my tea, set it on the table, and then just left the room.

I found him outside, crouched in the dim light, methodically plucking feathers from more birds. Two rabbits and a scrawny fox lay beside him. Not a great haul for two days. I suppose that's how aging works, that everything you were once good at just slowly fades. There's persistent tremor in his hands as he worked.

I gave a dry snicker. "Do you need help with that?"

Pavlichenko had known I was there the whole time. He simply handed me a small skinning knife from his belt, one I'd completely overlooked. Slowly, I set the Mosin on the ground. He didn't even glance at it. His eyes were fixed on my hands as I opened the rabbit. Not a drop of blood was wasted before the fur came away in one piece.

He gave an approving nod.

Feeling a need to explain myself, I said, "My grandfather taught me. He was a hunter, too."

The words were a mistake. One does not bond with a hostage. One does not complicate a straightforward dynamic by involving elderly relatives. They get the wrong idea.

I finished skinning the rest in silence.

When night fell, I decided the old man should take the bedroom. His ancient back was a liability on the floor, but more importantly, strategically, I needed to be by the door to make sure I could have the chance to flee at the first sight of any guard.

He fussed about the precious bear fur, insisting I use it. I finally let him drape the thing over my shoulders as I sat in the chair. "That's enough," I said, pushing him away. "It's not that cold."

Turned out that the night was, in fact, bitterly cold.

My teeth were chattering when I walked back from the loo. I dove for the bear fur, wrapping myself into a cocoon with only my face exposed to the frigid air. I rested my eyes for a bit, feeling the instant coziness.

The next thing I knew, I was on the floor.

The impact made a dull thud. Old Pavlichenko hurried out. Even at his bedtime, he's still in a stupid pointy sleep hat. He took in the sight of me, struggling like an insect trapped in the web, and he laughed. There was a deep, rumbling sound that rolled out of his throat, then leaked out from the holes, creating an annoying flapping noise.

"Help me!" I barked. Pavlichenko complied. He worked the clasps on the hide, and I uncurled myself right away. Then I felt his hand on my head. I flinched, but he was just smoothing my hair back, which had been tossed into a mess during the struggle. Like petting a fucking cat.

The whole thing was becoming intolerable.

The day arrived without incident. I woke up, still rolled tight in the bear fur like a shrimp in a tempura. The old man was packing his things. He noticed me, got up, and ladled dumpling soup from a pot. In the morning light, I saw the tremor in his hand again, only in the left one. Either his arm had been damaged, or he's very close to a stroke.

"When are we going to the town?" I asked.

The town was a few miles from the camp. Not far from the next town over, the one with the coal mine and a proper railway transportation. Our logs were mostly hauled there by tractor for construction. On market days, some camp guards would drive those same tractors into the down.

I might look suspicious on a horse in the open field, but nobody looks twice at a tractor with Soviet flags on it.

I trailed old Pavlichenko out of the woods.

The whole way, my nerves were frayed, expecting guards at every turn. Pavlichenko, however, was not taking my usual route. He walked with a maddening lack of urgency.

We reached the procurement office close to noon. I waited between two houses, scanning the street. After a while, the old man emerged, then he turned and shuffled off to find the art collector.

The art collector didn't operate a real shop. His transactions were discreetly handled from his house.

"My, my! To whom do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Pavlichenko!" A short, bald man whose name was Boris approached, already rubbing his hands together. He eyed the old man like a vulture spotting a fresh carcass. "Have you... decided?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes. Mr. Pavlichenko has decided to sell you a sketch."

Boris finally noticed me, seeming genuinely startled to find another person in the room. He looked at Pavlichenko, as if my words required a direct confirmation. Only after the old man nodded did Boris begin rubbing his hands together with renewed vigor.

"Oh, holy Maria... It's happening! Let's see it, let's see it."

But when I helped spread the sketch on the desk, Boris's face fell. "Where is the little cat, huh? I was certain we were discussing the cat."

I replied coldly, though I had no idea what he was talking about. "Mr. Pavlichenko has decided that the piece is not for sale. This is what you get."

The short man stared at me. "What do you know about it?" He then turned to his most admired artist, his voice trembling. "Dear Vasily, please reconsider. Eighty thousand! Imagine it. A small apartment in the city. Electricity. Heating. You could paint through the night, and your watercolors would never freeze. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

Eighty thousand. Now I was curious what that drawing actually was. I glanced at the old man in his shabby coat and filthy boots—he looked nothing like someone whose art could reach that price.

He just gave a slight, silent shake of his head.

I crossed my arms. "Mr. Pavlichenko feels it's poor business to part with his best work so casually. You must build up to it." I pointed at the landscape sketch. "Start with this. 1500 rubles, and it will be yours."

Both men turned to look at me. Boris nearly jumped out of his skin. And Vasily Pavlichenko looked at me as if he's very proud of me.

"It was 1000 the last time!" Boris yelped, clutching at the last few fine hairs on his head. "This is outrageous! I won't accept it!"

I continued, "Artists are a bit too difficult to find these days, aren't they? I heard that Kuznetsov fellow, who used to draw other things than propaganda pamphlets, was sent to a Gulag last month. Doubt he'll be sketching for you anytime soon."

As I spoke, I began fiddling with a small miniature car on the counter, as if I was getting bored by this conversation.

Boris pointed a trembling finger at me. "Watch it, you little shit!" He then turned his glare to Pavlichenko. "You could end up in a Gulag, too, you know. If someone were to turn you in."

The old man didn't even flinch. He simply walked away from the desk and settled comfortably into a plush sofa, his rustic clothes looked stark contrast against the clean, fine upholstery. He then poured himself a cup of tea as if he hadn't the littlest care.

I almost laughed at the way all the air went out of Boris. "Come on," I said, my voice low. "That man isn't afraid of a Gulag. He's already seen the inside of one. Remember?"

Boris shook his head, while a thread of sweat appeared on his scalp. "I've heard the stories. But who knows? All I know is he appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly the art started flowing..." He wiped his bald head. "Some higher-ups are quite fond of it. They say it's not polished, not bourgeois. Just simple. Powerful. Raw. It represents the new Soviet spirit, or so they tell me. Do you understand how important this is, hum? Them, wanting it?"

I examined my fingernails and replied unhurriedly. "Yes, I do understand. Here's a proposition. The old man trusts me, so I could tell him I sold it to you for 1200 rubles. You, however, will pay a brokerage fee. I was thinking… two hundred." I watched his mouth begin to form a protest. "No, let's make friends. I'll give you a discount. One-fifty."

On the walk back, Pavlichenko kept glancing at me. I suppose he had some thoughts about the full envelope of cash in my possession. I glared at him, so he decided to be wiser and keep his opinions to himself. He had, technically, only implied to give me 1200 rubles, but I'd certainly increased the value all by myself. Besides, if he was that needy for money, he could always part with his precious little cat.

"We should split up here." Before we reached the tractor park, I turned to him. "You keep watch. If anyone comes, make a noise. Or just pretend you're having a stroke. Whatever that works."

Pavlichenko gave me a strange look. Then he stepped forward and started straightening my clothes.

Then I realized that if I managed to steal the tractor, I'd be leaving this town, and the old man would be very alone again.

I flinched away from his touch, "That's alright. Go on, then," then slipped into the yard.

I'd accompanied guards here many times, usually to translate grocery lists when they couldn't read Japanese. I knew they hid the key under the hydraulic cylinder. They thought I didn't notice.

Sneaking my way near the tractor, my hand swept over the panel. Then my blood went cold.

Nothing.

Had they changed their routine, or had they gotten cautious after discovering a missing inmate?

I tried the other cylinder, the wheel, even fumbled inside the cab.

Then I heard a loud, rattling cough. I soon figured that's Pavlichenko's signal, dropped from the tractor right away and slid behind a short wall.

Two soldiers from the camp approached. "You see that old weirdo around here?" the blond buzzcut asked his companion. "Bet he knows about the escaped prisoner."

His comrade just shrugged. "Didn't he blow his own leg off last time?"

The blond one nodded. "Yeah. That generation holds a grudge. I heard his face got wrecked in that disgraceful war by a Japanese soldier. Now he'd take all of them out if we didn't keep an eye on him."

The other soldier poked her head around the yard. "So... are we going to question him?"

"Not sure that's going to work," he waved a dismissive hand. "The man can't talk even if he wanted to. Which he never does. Not today, anyway. Come on, don't waste our time. There's a Hungarian film tonight…"

The tractor drove away. I could have sworn I saw they reach inside the hydraulic cylinder for the key.

The old man wandered into the yard. I could read the plain happiness in his eyes, and I threw a stone at him.

A normal person would at least have the decency to hide their satisfaction when the other party was suffering. But not Vasily Pavlichenko. He'd even gone and bought eggs and dairy with my money. Now he even wanted me to enjoy it, while I was still sulking in a chair in his pathetic backyard.

"You don't get it," I gestured at him sharply. "I knew the key was there. I saw her take it from there. But I couldn't find it in that one minute!"

Pavlichenko nodded, processing my words while completely absorbed in the task of cutting the hot pie open. I watched the sour cream ooze out and frowned at the tart smell.

"And you know what? The coal mine station only has a train on Mondays and Wednesdays. And now I'm stuck here! And they have suspicion on you!"

The old man didn't seem to hear a word. He just picked a piece of pie and even extended the fork towards me.

What was he expecting? For me to open my mouth like a baby bird?

I pushed his hand away, a little too hard. The ruined pie tumbled into his lap, splattering across his clothes. I just glared at the mess before turning and running out into the woods.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I kept running. I'd fucked up my chance, and I didn't know if I'd ever get another. They would be organizing proper searches soon. Security would tighten, like it always did when an inmate went missing. They wouldn't stop until they found a body, or what was left of it.

The woods were being harvested, but we'd still stumbled upon beasts before. Wolves. Bears. Wild boars. The big cats. When night fell, they'd all be on the move.

I shivered. The woods here were dense with young birch and larch. It was getting darker. Colder. Maybe they would find a remain after all.

The twilight was sinking in. I was hiding in a thicket, and as the temperature dropped, I had nothing for warmth but to curl myself around the rifle I'd carried off. I hadn't really parted with it since I got it. When I heard footsteps nearby, I gripped it and sat up. I didn't hear any dogs. There should have been dogs if the search had begun.

It was just my old man. He spotted me in the undergrowth almost immediately and let out a vague huff. For some reason, he had the bear skin wrapped around his shoulders and was carrying a giant bundle as if he was setting out on a long trip. His back, which shouldn't have borne the weight, was bent forward under it, like a tired beast in its last glory days. I scrambled to my feet.

"Where are you going—where are we going?" I asked. I noticed he was leaning on another rifle, using it as a walking stick. The sight was too sore for the eyes, so I took the heavy hunting bag from his back and shouldered it myself. Yes, it was heavy.

Pavlichenko straightened up, and I could have sworn I heard his bones crack. He didn't elaborate, just pointed a gnarled finger deeper into the woods. I failed to catch his meaning before he was already moving.

I figured he must have another hut, a place even deeper in the taiga, somewhere to lie low between hunts. The plan was actually not that bad. He could hide me there until the camp administration wrote me off as dead and even forgot I'd ever existed. All I had to do was wait. I supposed I could manage being a source of entertainment for a lonely hermit.

The reason was just that simple—he wanted a pet. I'd seen the small door but never found a cat in the house. It's not hard to imagine that a domesticated animal's life is too short for a man's, and he'd been left alone again after only a decade. I knew some old people would stop getting new pets because they knew someday they would leave them unattended. I wondered why he'd decided to try again.

I was expecting a smaller hut, but when we stopped, we were before a low mound and he began dragging away the weeds, revealing a large slate set into the earth. A cellar? My face twisted as he lit a match to test the air below. The flame dipped and jumped, but held.

We pulled the slate closed after us, sealing ourselves in the small, earthen cavity. He lit an oil lamp.

This place wasn't really a cellar, since I didn't find a pickle jar here. It reminded me of the winter houses we'd seen in the far north, places where people would live underground through the cruelest months, although the space was too narrow for a comfortable residence. It looked abandoned for a very long time. A fine dust covered everything. Pavlichenko clearly didn't bother with tidiness. Now, he was awkwardly sweeping the packed earth floor with his hand before laying down the bear pelt to make a bunk.

I crawled onto it immediately, soaking up the residual warmth from the fur. But before I could properly settle, I opened my eyes to a shuffling sound. I didn't budge to make room when he moved to join me in the warmth.

"Ugh," I grunted, shifting slightly as he wedged an arm behind my neck so the small space could accommodate us both. "There's only enough room for one person. What is this place, anyway?"

He just shrugged. He kept shaking his head as I suggested cellar, hut, shelter. My annoyance grew. The only reason I was enduring this was the sheer cruelty it would take to kick him out and leave his old bones to the cold.

"Look," I began, staring into his eyes, which were fixed on me in the dim light. "It's not that I don't appreciate the hospitality, but I do need to get moving soon. How many days of supplies do you have in that bag? Three?" I watched him stretch out his fingers. "For one man? Two?" Then I rejected firmly, "No. You're not coming with me."

A subtle disappointment flickered in his gaze. He shifted away and sat up, and my head lolled off his makeshift pillow, the cold ground immediately seeping into my neck.

I was on the verge of swallowing my pride and shuffling back toward his warmth when Pavlichenko turned around with something in his hand. It appeared that there was a small hole in the ground to hide things in it.

My eyes immediately lit up. It was a small, locked case, the kind bankers use for storing big piles of money. Maybe the old man had finally decided to show me his true wealth, having no one else for an inheritance. He looked at me, offered that ruined smile, and began to work the lock.

When he showed me the contents, I couldn't say I wasn't disappointed. But at least one mystery was solved.

"So this is the cat?" I asked, looking at the small sketch carefully tucked inside. "You have to hide it here?"

He gave a slight nod.

"Crazy." My finger hovered over the drawing, acutely aware that my clumsy hand could smudge the fine lines. "Would Boris go far as digging up your grave for this?"

Hearing my own voice say it, the nature of this place became crystal clear.

So, he'd already made plans for his future. When the time came, he would simply crawl into this tomb he'd dug for himself, probably curl up with a faint, smug little smile, and drift off into a sweet dream. Along with this paint of a wildcat. That pretty much said enough about the fact he would never sell it. He didn't want to share it with the world. He wanted to keep it all for himself.

I watched the old man, studying the way he looked at his favorite creation, as if he had been missing it since the day it was born to the world and departed from the secluded space in his mind. Then, with a definitive click, he closed the case. He screwed the lock shut—and then passed the small suitcase to me.

I could only stare at his outstretched hand, amazed. "W-what," I couldn't believe he just handed over to me that easily. "What do you want me to do with it?"

I asked, but of course I knew. He wanted me to keep it. Sell it, if I must.

"You are completely insane," I muttered. But I couldn't fight the quiet resolve in his eyes, or the weight of the obligation now it had passed down to me. I sat up and took the case. My hands, traitors that they were, opened the lid again.

There it was. The sleeping cat in its dimly lit chamber. The light shifted on its spotted fur, and for a dizzying moment, it looked like it might just open its eyes, yawn, and give its stub of a tail a flick.

Maybe it's not a slumber at all. Maybe it had already gone. The artist just painted it this way, because he wished it could wake up from death as easily as from a nap. Wake up, and return to him.

A warmth pressed against my back. Pavlichenko had shuffled closer, leaning his weight into me. I turned and found his eyes fixed on my face, not the art. He was holding onto me, and his grip was tight, practically binding me in the spot.

I supposed it was fair enough. After giving me his one and only valuable thing, it was only fair for him to ask for something in return. So I finally reclined back into the furs, a silent invitation for him to wrap himself around me, then reached up and cradled his head against my shoulder.

The satisfaction on his face was the worrying kind, the kind that suggested his last wish had been fulfilled, and I'd wake up to find myself pinned beneath a corpse the next morning. I feared his rigid limbs would lock me in this tomb, and then I would have no way to get out, being dragged all the way into his afterlife.

The shadows flicked in this dying chamber, and I had a vision that we had already been buried here together for centuries. Our flesh was gone, just two skeletons clinging beside each other. No one had ever found us. We would remain here, unbothered by anyone, until the taiga turned into a desert, and the desert a sea, until the planet itself had found its way into the Armageddon.

In the consuming dark, I spoke.

"Do you want me to stay here with you?"

His eyes flicked up, fixed on me in the gloom. He almost chuckled.

"Or would you ever let me go?"

Of course, he didn't answer. His hand wandered from my back to the back of my head, fingers tracing the short bristles of my crew cut. Then they slid up into the longer hair on top and gripped. Tightly.

I got the message. He wanted to keep me, but he also knew his own days were running out, while I could still have a good half-century ahead of me. If surviving was the point, then our paths would have to be parted.

The other way around, though, was to keep someone forever by making a specimen of them. Peel off the skin, stuff it with the cardboard. Then it can look back at you, forever looking almost the same.

I decided a demonstration was in order, so I began to remove the uniform.

Pavlichenko was stunned into stillness when I tossed the blue fabric aside. Good. He should see a stranger now. Perhaps I had been exploiting his affection, letting him feed on a misinformed fantasy while I wore this skin. But he should never have been misled into thinking he was seeing a ghost from the past.

I emerged from the shredded skin and met his gaze. It was still searching my face, as if he wanted to find the evidence that it was still connected to a distant past. Then it shifted lower, to take the full picture in.

When he reached out to touch my stomach, I had to force myself not to shiver.

"That's a… birthmark." I twisted away from his hand. "Don't touch it."

I expected him to lose all interest once he saw the real person under the costume. Not this. He was examining the dark red mark I've had since birth. The midwife called it a stain from my sins in a past life, said I must have to cut myself to be rid of it. The intensity of Pavlichenko's stare almost felt like he'd found his proof. Like he'd seen it before.

Suddenly, he pushed me down onto my back. I felt a fool for tumbling so easily under a weak old man, but he'd already gripped my leg. He gasped when he found the fresh wound on my shin, almost kneeling over just to take a better inspection of it.

"That was all you, damn it." I kicked my legs, and my foot landed on his face, digging into the old scar. He settled back on his heels, rubbed his face, but still peeking at my foot until I buried myself in the bear pelt just to escape his stare.

This was, of course, the exact opposite of what I'd hoped to achieve. My patience was thinning. It felt like a ton of destiny had just been dumped on my lap, as if my own life wasn't already heavy enough. I didn't know why I had to bear the weight of someone else's delusion or desire, falsely projected in me. I couldn't tell he was satisfied with any closeness, or there's a certainty in it, that it had to be me, here and in this place.

Finally, a muffled voice came from under the fur. I asked the only question that mattered. "Who was he?"

I had to know who had imprisoned Pavlichenko here for a life sentence. I needed to know if the man was worth it. Or if I was worthy of taking his place.

The light went out. Soon, Pavlichenko settled beside me. His breath behind my ear, and his arms wrapped around my torso. Then his hand found mine, pried my fist open. A single, nimble finger began scribbling Cyrillic letters into my palm. My stomach clenched.

"Okay," I said, recognizing the shape. "That's a name. Then what…?"

Then I learned a story, unspooled from his perspective, from a long time ago, of all he had lost and found and lost again. These were simple, honest words, and I supposed he had never told another soul. The faintest movement of his writing left a faint imprint, as if he were engraving the letters into my skin. By the end, I could no longer tell where his story ended and where my dream began.

In the dream, the him before me was undamaged. Or rather, he was healed, from the hurt I had inflicted or the decay that time had rubbed into him. Yet it was not the same as undamaged, now he carried the quiet delight of having found me again, of cherishing a moment that could only exist because we had both walked on a scorched earth.

And when he reached for me, I stepped forward, as if I had just shed a torn cocoon, a shell where I had slumbered, waited, melted, and remerged as a different being. But this time, I could make a difference. I reached for him, and I clasped our hands together.

 

 

-end-