Chapter 11

3 years ago

Bobby

"Fuck you," Petor spat out a tooth. He wiped the blood from the side of his face. "I didn't betray you." Why was Gregory always going the hard route? Petor looked up at the boss from the pitted concrete floor and shook in fear. The factory Gregory had dragged him to stunk of mould and rotten meat. Most of the lights were broken, and they hadn't processed hogs here in five years, but there were still hooks in the ceiling they used to hang the pigs on and let the blood drain out of the carcasses. Gregory had washed it down, but bits of pig were left in the corner and stains from where the drains had overflowed.

Petor struggled to stand. Ivan had smacked him hard earlier, back at the loft, and his ears were still ringing. Even after working out three hours a day, Petor was no match for the giant. He needed to get home and check on Vlad. When Ivan had burst into the room, Vlad had tried to tackle him, but the mute had smashed Vlad's head into a sink, shattering the porcelain. Vlad was an asshole, but he was his only family. Hopefully, the American had gotten him out of there. Petor reached for the transponder in his shoe and breathed a sigh of relief. The heel was still intact.

If Gregory found out Petor had betrayed him, nothing was getting him out of there. He needed to stall for time.

"What the hell is this? I don't remember this," Bobby thought, floating in darkness.

Gregory shook his head. He sat at a small table and tapped his nose. The scar running down his cheek flashed red in the dark light, then faded as the shadows covered his face. A badge of honour, it added to the charm of the handsome man and made him seem less like the first James Bond and more like the fourth. "I wish I could believe you, Petor. God knows I've let you get away with less, but this time you need to be punished. You had to talk to someone outside our little family. I know you're hiding something. A little initiative is good, but you've pushed it too far." Gregory put a bullet into the chamber and spun it. He placed the loaded revolver on the table alongside a serrated knife on a towel. It was a standard loyalty test.

"What are you talking about?" Petor shouted, trying to stand again. Ivan kicked his legs, sending him back to the cold concrete. Sweating, Petor stared up at Gregory. There was no way the American squealed. He wanted the code destroyed too badly. Gregory usually stayed hands-off, but if he got a hold of it, they'd be fucked. The American had been paid to provide the credentials, get Petor and Vlad out of Russia, and set them up somewhere in the US off the grid. Petor's plans were falling apart faster than Vlad's love life.

"We tracked you down to a hobby shop in St. Petersburg," Gregory sneered. "What were you doing going into that comic book store that sells international goods anyway?" He adjusted his brown Hermes jacket and crossed his legs. His glare never moved. The man could stare down a concrete gargoyle and still win.

Petor let out a sigh of relief. They'd followed him to the VR idol Hatsune Miku store. He'd gone there to track down some rare singles of Motley Crue. They had the best bootlegs in the country. Crue had recorded some choice songs that never made it to their official releases. Rumour had it they could transport you to another reality. After finding the first one, he needed the rest, even with all the trouble they caused. Petor felt around with his tongue and spat out another tooth. They hadn't discovered the code yet. He still had a chance.

If only I'd never found that first single. I loved it, though.

"You got it all wrong, Gregory," Petor said, easing himself up from the floor. "They had some information on the target. I went there to meet a contact. He stood me up."

"I don't believe you, Petor," Gregory pointed to the table. "You've been lying to me, playing with something far more interesting. It's partly my fault. I was too lenient. So, choose. The gun or the knife." He smiled.

Petor hated Gregory's smile. It promised pain and the occasional ice pick to the brain.

"Shit!" Petor sat down at the table and stared at the weapons. If he chose the gun, he'd have to point it at his head and squeeze four times. If a bullet were in the chamber, he'd be dead instantly. The knife was the better option. All he had to do was cut off the first digit of his pinky without uttering a sound. Gregory was a big believer in manliness and courage. Just his execution was twisted. He stared at the rafters above Gregory. What was taking the American so long?

I'm remembering this now. That fucking hurt. Is this a dream or my memories? I was in the police station, wasn't I? That light. I remember a light.

"Well. What will it be?" Gregory crossed his arms and glared. Petor stared back at the Russian boss. A cold wind brought the smell of rotting meat and old manure. Whenever he had to feed a mark to the hogs, the smell of the pigs stayed with him, no matter how many showers he took. He refused to see Sasha until he was clean, but she was gone now. He hated this job, but Gregory had taken him in. Gave him a home.

Sasha? I remember that name. Oh God my blocks are gone!

One choice. The gun or the knife, which would it be? Petor waved his hand over the two weapons. Where is the American? I should never have trusted them. He thought.

Petor picked up the knife and placed it against the last part of the smallest finger on his right hand. He didn't want to do this and turned to Gregory, hoping he would show mercy. He just gave a small grunt, nodded and gestured to continue. Gregory never gave any quarter. Clenching his teeth, Petor thrust the knife down, severing his pinky in one swift move. Blood squirted from the exposed wound as the tip bounced onto the floor. He grabbed his hand and wrapped the towel around it.

"There. Was that so hard?" Gregory asked, standing up. He was smiling and had his arms open to receive Petor's embrace. He'd proven his loyalty and his courage. In Gregory's eyes, that was enough. He didn't care about blood on his coat now. They were brothers again.

"Now, tell me all about this code of yours. How did you develop it?" Gregory asked. Shadows fell across his face, drowning out all pretense at friendliness.

Stiffening, a realization settled in that Petor was never going to escape this man.

An explosion shook the room, throwing everyone to the floor. Ivan staggered back, bracing himself against a pillar. Gregory knocked over the table. Black smoke and white powder flooded in from a smoke grenade, covering everything. Coughing and covering his face with his arm, Petor took his chance and snatched the gun from the floor. He dropped the towel, turned, pushed off the side of the table, spun around in the air and kicked Ivan in the face, crushing his nose. Ivan fell and clenched his face. He opened his mouth, revealing the stub of a tongue. Ivan had cut it out years ago to cement his position as Gregory's bodyguard. He'd begged the man to run away, but Ivan wouldn't. Letting him do that was the worst mistake Petor ever made.

"Get him! I need him alive," Gregory shouted from where he crouched. His face was red in fury, his scar a deeper crimson. Petor raced to the door and freedom, pointing the gun behind him and clicking the trigger as he went.

Bursting into the sunlight, he hacked the smoke out and rubbed his eyes. He turned left and sprinted toward a blue blur, just where the American promised it would be. He dripped blood over the handle and yanked the door open. Jumped in, he banged his knee on a toolbox.

"Fuck!" He rubbed his knee. "Move!" Petor yelled.

"No, thank you for saving your ass?" The fat American quipped from the driver's seat. He was wearing a Metallica T-shirt. Gaging, Petor almost dove back out. Metallica was the trash of the music world, and he didn't need their contamination. Ivan kicked through the steel door, bending it in half and sending it flying into the field beyond, where it landed with a thud.

Petor grunted, survival overriding pride. "Thanks for saving my pretty ass. All it cost me was my fucking pinky." He waved his hand at the American, spraying blood over everything. "Now move!" He fired the gun at Ivan, clicking the chamber two more times.

When did I start screaming?

Ivan wiped the blood from his nose and raced toward the van. Usually, he acted like a robot with as much emotion as a block of wood. Now, with blood streaming down his nose, Ivan looked like the reaper he pretended to be when they were children. Petor shied back and fired once more. The bullet hit Ivan in the shoulder, but didn't slow him down.

He shut the door and flopped down in the back of the cargo van. "Drive faster!"

"The customer is always right," The American said, handing him a package, a new towel and his computer. "It's all in there. You're now Bob Miladev, engineer. You've decided to move to America and start a new life after the death of your brother."

That's right. This was how I learned of his death.

"Call me Bobby. I like that name better," Petor said, smiling. His head shot up. "Wait. You said after the death of his brother. What happened to Vlad?"

The American was silent. "Sorry, dude. When I went to your loft, Vlad was gone. There was nothing I could do."

The now Bobby, formerly Petor, stared at the laptop, stunned. "Vlad..." He trailed off.

"Fuck!" Bobby said. A tear slid down his face. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, wrapped his hand in the towel and pulled open his computer. Cradling his right hand under his arm, he popped in the Crue single. Music burst over the speakers as he pulled up the computer code. "This is all your fault, Vlad," he said, typing. "You had to fucking try and use it one last time, but it didn't work, did it? You couldn't just enjoy the music. You fucking deserved getting your head shoved through the sink. I just wish it had been the toilet bowl." Tears fell onto the keyboard.

"You finished destroying the code?" the American asked, putting on some Metallica. Their screech filled the van.

I can believe I blocked the memory. The Metallica must have screwed up my coding.

"Almost," Bobby said, gritting his teeth. "I'm in hell," he mumbled. "You'd better park. The next part's dangerous." Bobby finished typing the last line and hit enter. A light flashed from the screen, filling the back of the van. Bobby closed his eyes against the glare and rocked to the right as the van swerved.

"Careful there. I almost hit a pole," the American said.

Rocking back, he kicked the computer. "The code's gone from the hard drive, the cloud, everything. That was the easy part. Reality itself seemed to help me there. I've set it up to erase my ability to code as well. I don't want this getting out again, but I left a warning in case it comes back." He took a hammer to the computer and ripped open the circuit board, smashing the chips and CD inside to make sure no one could recreate anything. He leaned back and cushioned his injured hand. The pain radiated out from his finger stub as blood turned the towel a deep crimson.

"Good. We'll take care of everything else. When we get to the airport, I'll have a doctor do something for your hand. Sorry about that."

Bobby just sighed and shook his head. He'd believe the American was sorry when Ivan cracked a smile.

"When you land, our agent will meet you."

"What's his name?" Bobby asked.

"Ryan. He's got a good job for you lined up in Canada."

Petor, now known as Bobby, closed his eyes and said a prayer to Vlad. "I'll make those bastards pay someday. I promise."

Fuck. I had to leave Gregory, but not like this. I still wanted to save Ivan.

Bobby

The Past.

Bobby shot up with a jolt and winced at the pain in his neck. His throat twinged and spread down through his back. "What the hell was that light? It knocked me out." He rubbed the back of his neck, memories flooding back to him. "What Gregory did to me wasn't a dream, was it?" He stared to the side. "That was three years ago. When I left Russia." He rubbed his hand through his hair. "Fuck! I was right! The blocks in my memory are gone."

Blinking the spots out of his eyes, he realized the room light was softer than the precinct's. It smelled different, too. "Where am I? Is this the future?" He looked around. There was a bed and a dresser with a lamp on top. The design was retro. "No, it's the past, maybe. Whose place is this? Reporter's? It looks too old and clean to be Detective's. It smells sweet, as well. She must love the classics. His place would smell like stale dog." Bobby looked down at the bed and looked at his right hand. It was thinner than before, and the pinky was back.

"How the hell?" He stared at his hand. The fingers were long, clean, and the nails tapered to a point. He'd never really taken care of them beyond trimming them. This wasn't his hand. "Fuck me! Not again!" He swung his legs off the bed and ran towards the black toilet. Slapping the wall, he hunted around for the light switch. The old light bulb flickered on, clicking and spritzing. On the floor was a girl with long curly blond hair. He bent down and touched her shoulder. She groaned and turned over. Blood covered the front of her blouse, which had been ripped open, exposing her breasts. There was a slash wound in her shoulder, but it was closing up as he watched.

"This is nanite work," he said. It was a common add-on in the code. Pulled from the future, they only lasted about a day before they were flushed from the body.

"Are you okay?" Ignoring the churning in his stomach, Bobby grabbed a towel from the sink counter and ran some water. The taps matched the bedroom. Old silver spoke types that squeaked when he turned them. Wetting the towel, he turned back to the girl and dabbed the blood, cleaning the wound.

"I think so. Barbie, is that you?" the girl asked. "Why can't I see anything?"

Bobby drew back. "No. My name's Bobby. Who are you?" He stared at the girl. She couldn't be older than seventeen. His stomach started rebelling against him.

"It's me, Ming Na Liu, Bobby." She groaned and rubbed her head. "The last thing I remember is that light." She turned to face Bobby and squinted. "Everything is still blurry, but why do you look like an older Barbie?"

Shaking, Bobby stood up and faced the mirror. In it was a woman's face. It looked like the younger one on the floor, but older, covered in heavy makeup that had smeared and run down his cheeks with poofy hair. There were wrinkles around the eyes and a handprint around the neck. It was fading slowly, disappearing back into the skin. Bobby sagged and collapsed. He stared at the ceiling, opened his mouth and swore.

"FUCK!"