Feb 24 14:30:49 107 PA - A Confrontation in Little Russia

From Chronicles

Here, the urban sprawl of Kingsdale comes to an abrupt end. Between the buildings to the east, you can see the wall surrounding the city, and then fields and the occasional cluster of farm buildings. To the west and south, on the other hand, the city is less picturesque; containing the heavy industries of Steel Street and the urban decay of Dregtown. This corner of the city, through two generations of immigrants, has become known as 'Little Russia'. Many of the small shops lining the streets have signs in Cyrillic letters, with only about half having the Russian translated to American. Grocers and butchers display wares in small front windows, everything from cabbages to skinned rabbits, while mechanics and others advertise by placing examples of their work in front of the shop. The people in this part of the city are well-scrubbed for the Dregs. Generally clean, their clothes have often worn through in places and been repeatedly patched. The style of clothing here is wholly utilitarian, protection from the weather a foremost concern and style far to the bottom of a list of needs.

Weather at Fri Feb 24 14:30:49 107 PA (-1.02C, 30.16F): A dense pea soup fog is everywhere as demanded by the unfathomably strong wind. The wind may seem constant, but is prone to change directions without warning. The combination is quite disorienting, and may most to lose their bearing without aid. The first quarter moon hangs overhead.

Sofiya is trudging through the fog, her arms deep in her pockets, no coat and a cap pulled down over her hair. Her clothes are different, hand sewn, neat, modest and in blander shades. She has a place to go and is heading directly there, towards the area of the Dregs known as Little Russia. Mid afternoon, but the light isn't great, and the wind doesn't make for a warm trip.

Up ahead, a figure stands alone in the fog. Tall, broad, breath steaming in the cold. A large unadorned white jacket mostly covers him, falling all the way to mid-calf, below which sturdy boots rest in the slushy street. His broad-brimmed black hat tilts to eye the street, and then the figure -- Sebastien, she's seen the jacket before -- begins limping back down the street. He approaches an older man, pausing there, and he asks a few short questions. One hand rises to his shoulder height, and as she gets closer the words 'girl' and 'Sofiya' might be overheard.

Sofiya hesitates, stepping back to a street store doorway, her hand rising to tug the cap down over her hair and her face. Her caution is rewarded when she hears the words and she hesitates before slipping from the doorway, hedging the buildings as she aims to slip past them, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched. She keeps her face turned away, as if looking in the windows, the majority of her hair neatly tucked into the cap.

It was a just of wind. Well, if feels nothing like one. There's no howl, no breeze at her face, her shirt. but her cap suddenly peels back and flutters behind Sofiya, drifting almost lazily before landing on the street. As she looks up, four eyes stare back from across the street, and the Russian asks the question first. Sebastien shakes his head as a negative, but a little smirk touches his broken features. Thanking the man, Sebastien shoves his hands in his pockets and walks off, down the street, in the direction Sofiya had been heading.

Sofiya's hand chases the cap, a soft Russian curse escaping her before she returns the look steadily. The Russian certainly knows her, and he gets a quick nod from her before she follows Sebastien. For a short time, she follows him quietly, not hiding her presence, not drawing attention to it, and then she picks up the pace, jogging to catch him up. "What do you want her for?" Her accent is thicker than at the gym, but the bravado is there.

Keeping up with Sebastien is as hard as ever. He's limping, but he's not letting it slow him down. Probably getting crotchety in his old age. As he hears her pace quicken, Sebastien asks, "Did you decide your life was getting easier, mademoiselle? That you genuinely had no use for knowing how to defend yourself?" His head turns, and those flinty eyes size Sofiya up in a few moments before he decides, "Non, I think that is not it. Your sprout is still green."

Sofiya keeps pace, a half jogging step and she turns her head to return the look. "No. You are mistaken. We haven't met." Her words are flat, spoken for the sake of having said them rather than having had them believed. "And if you plan to tell anyone otherwise, you might find you get blown up too." Bravado indeed, and she stops jogging, stopping, staring at him hard. "I'm not your business. You remember that."

"I spent the past three days," Sebastien growls, "in a recovery room." He stops then, turns, and begins unbuttoning his jacket. "I was clawed, bitten, shot, and fell burning from the sky, but when we were done an adult dragon lay in smoking ruin in the snow." Sebastien whips off that jacket, a soft baggy sweater and sweat pants underneath, and he draws up the sweater to reveal part of a large purple angry-looking burn that runs up his side and disappears under the hem of that sweater, while he eyes Sofiya. Letting the sweater fall back into place, he shrugs back into the jacket and leaves it loose. "But please," he speaks with more sarcasm than humor, "Tell me what has you on the run. I'm sure it will terrify me."

Sofiya stares at him, folding her arms across her chest slowly as he speaks. "So you deliberately went out to kill an animal, and it fought back. Sounds stupid to me." A spark of her own temper shows and she steps forward, returning that eyeing. "Someone set me up so that I look to blame for blowing up Clash's headquarters, and they think I am dead, and it stays that way. I don't care about your approval, or fighting, or if it scares you." She is shivering, but staring up at him fiercely.

Sebastien grins at that, and laughs. "Sounded dumb at the time, but it won't eat anyone else. That is what is important, non?" The young man meets that step forward with one of his own, invading Sofiya's space, staring down at her with his broad chest nearly touching her. He smells faintly of cinnamon, with an undercurrent of something antiseptic. "They'll find you," he speaks quietly. "Maybe not today, but probably soon. People don't forget their loved ones dying. You need to figure out who set you up, and you need to survive long enough to get the word out. Do you care about that?" He shrugs from his coat, breath still steaming, and catches it in his right hand, before trying to swing it around the young girl's shoulders.

Sofiya takes a half step back, giving him a hard stare as he steps into her space. "I know who set me up." Her voice is low, intense, but he gets widened eyes at the act of kindness and she hesitates before reaching up to hug it around her, giving him a suspicious look. "I'm not stupid enough to think anyone would believe me. I walked into their offices, dropped off the bomb and ran out. I paid for the bomb, I arranged it." Sofiya shakes her head, moving to slide her arms into the sleeves of his coat.

It's big on her. Very big. Mud-dragging, works-as-a-blanket big. Sebastien nods once, smirking. "Well," he decides, "then you are just smart enough to die alone, aren't you? Tell you what." He pats his sides and laughs, before reaching towards Sofiya and shoving his hand into one of the pockets of the her jacket, drawing free a pad of paper and a pencil. Stepping back, he begins writing. "If you decide you want to live, pack a bag and come here." He shoves the note pad back into the pocket, but keeps the pencil. "Just don't think it would be a free ride. You'd work for your stay, but you'd live."

"What the hell do you want? What makes it your business?" Sofiya's words are harsh, and she is defensive, rolling up the sleeves of his coat so she can find her hands. "I've moved, I've got a job, what difference would it make to tell people?" She reaches into the pocket, tugging the pad out, looking down at the address. "What, I walk up to them and say hey guys, it wasn't me, and it was this man who set me up...and get killed. Straight away." The petite teenager is stepping up, into his spare this time, her temper and underlying fear showing in her face.

Sebastien just smiles at that. "Chalk it up to being an old man." He doesn't budge as Sofiya steps up, instead reaching to plant a hand on her shoulder. Those blue eyes stare down, waiting for Sofiya to put it together. "Honor," he finally fills in. "You can live hiding, in disgrace, or stand up and reclaim your name. Neither way is a sure bet. Keep the note and think about it." He drops his hand and raises it to wave at the little sprout. "And when you give up," he speaks more loudly, stepping away, "pack exercise clothes!"

Sofiya does put it together and her cheeks flush, a hint of embarrassment showing before she lifts her chin. She returns the stare with widened grey eyes, the suspicion in them deep enough to drown Sebastien's offer. "Exercise won't change this." She is certain about that, and she shrugs her shoulders, taking off his coat, pride winning out over common sense. "I've a job at the deli. It should be safe there." A tiny crack in the wall of pride and she watches him closely as she holds his coat out to him.

Sebastien reaches for the jacket, accepting it back before frowning disapproval down at the young woman. "Then keep your head down," he finally speaks. "It's going to get worse before it gets better." He eyes her, falling silent, then decides to say it, "If it ever does, you know, get better. With you not doing anything." The young knight shakes out his coat and swings it up around his shoulders, slipping arms through before shrugging into the shoulders. "Good luck, green Sprout," Sebastien speaks in passing, before turning to keep wandering on his way.

Sofiya returns the look, curling her arms around her waist, biting her lower lip. For once, she does look her age, and a level of uncertainty creeps into her face. The last statement draws her eyebrows together, and she releases her lower lip as he turns away. "Sebastien!" His name is a call, and she steps after him, reaching out almost to tug at his sleeve. "What is there to do? I stand up and tell people, he'll have a dozen people to deny it."

Sebastien stills, and glances over his shoulder. "'People?'" he wonders, peering down. "'People' is not your audience. Who do you need to convince? Clash? Your old gang? The police? Who will take you in, Sofiya? First you must decide your audience, and then we may set the stage." He smiles down, mouth a hard smirk, though he looks up some moments later and decides, "though we should get out of the cold."

Sofiya returns the look, her face lacking the cockiness and bravado from their fights, looking entirely her age. "None of them would listen before I got through the first line. I'd be dead the first time they saw my face." She returns her arms around her, rubbing her upper arms lightly, without thought. "There is the deli, or I guess there is the apartment. We moved." The we is unconsciously used, thoughtlessly spoken.

"We'll get to that," Sebastien dismisses, and he tilts his head. "You need to have an end game here. Not everyone will believe you, and whomever it is set you up will still want you dead. So you need protection. For that, you need to find a group who could do so. Only then do we work out the logistics." Sebastien reaches for Sofiya's shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, turning away from her to peer down the street before asking with a smile rich in his voice. "We?"

Sofiya listens to his words, her face serious as she considers them. "My family can." Her confidence in her family, in that community against the KDPD and the gangs is obvious and very young. She rubs her hand up her arm once more, not pulling away from that touch, her eyes narrowed on his face. "We?" She echoes the word, not making the leap for a moment. "I moved in with someone." The caution there shows on her face, in her eyes, faint wariness obvious.

"Your family?" Sebastien wonders, and nods readily, "Ah, bien sur, you come from a long line of arms dealers. How many plasma rifles and pulse lasers do they have?" He waits patiently, a little smirk on his face as he peers down at little Sofiya for a reply.

Sofiya's chin lifts, a jerk that brings the pride back into her face immediately. "You have better ideas, you let me know. They have some weapons." An immediate defense of them shows at least a loyalty that she isn't going to break and she jerks her head towards the direction she was heading. "Out of the cold, you said. Deli or home."

"Home," Sebastien decides immediately. "I'd like to meet this girlfriend of yours. Perhaps she has a glitterboy? Something big and mean that you can hide behind? Perhaps something more convincing than your mother clutching a vibro-knife as an armored juicer decides whether to make an example of her or just get rid of her as she stands in his way?"

"Her?" Sofiya echoes the word, her forehead creasing before she shakes her head, a quick glower thrown at him at the comments about her mother. "Don't talk about my mother like that." A flare of her temper raises its head as she steps forward, into his space, her hands dropping to her sides to clench. "And I don't have a girlfriend. I have a boyfriend, alright? And I'm not hiding! I'm trying not to die."

Sebastien was expecting that. He pauses then, hands up before him, and he says reasonably, "Then don't get your mother killed. She will protect you to her death. This is what mothers are for. Don't let her." He reaches for her shoulders to steer Sofiya back in the direction she was walking, and then sets out in that way again before laughing, "Oh my, a boyfriend. The little Sprout is blossoming." Sebastien peers aside at Sofiya, grinning down as he baits her. "In all seriousness, you need to find a crew who can protect you. Perhaps even Clash. They will hate whomever really hurt them. If you can deliver that person and make it stick, that may save you."

Sofiya is easily baited, her temper flaring and showing in the reddening cheeks. She returns the peer with a solid glare, "I'm not a child." She points out, giving him a glower before his comments sink in. "Deliver him..." She stops and stares at Sebastien, her forehead clearing, her teeth catching at her lower lip. "If I could get that bastard to show up and admit it, some place they could hear..."

Sofiya glances at the street sign and shrugs, "I was walking to my ma's." She comments softly, giving him a look sidelong. "Were we going somewhere else? What evidence? He never touched the bomb except to move it from my pack to the box to deliver, and to set it." The idea of a box does touch the corners of her lips with amusement and she gives him a thoughtful look, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why are you doing this?"

Sebastien wonders, "And are we getting close, mademoiselle?" The elder Sebastien looks around the neighborhood again and frowns faintly, before peering back down at Sofiya. "How about we get inside and you start at the beginning. Tell me your story. Who is this man, what has he done, how has he gained from what he has done? Then what we must do will become much more obvious."

"The deli then. Inside, warm and private enough." Sofiya makes a decision, returning that peer with a stare, trying to regain some of her bravado, even though she is shivering cold. She turns, heading directly for the little cafe, and pushes open the door. There, she is greeted with warmth, affection and she returns the hugs, speaking in rapid fluent Russian to the lady behind the counter. Sebastien gets a look of mild disapproval before she waves at a seat, and Sofiya obeys. "There. We've got food coming."

Rasputin's Deli is a lively place, normally a short man is behind the counter serving up orders of beef, brisket, chicken, pork, sausage, fish and just about every other type of meat product you can imagine. Rasputin's is a well known secret to low, medium and high class people of all type. Rasputin has all sorts of customer's coming and going at all times of day or night. He isn't open 24-hrs, but he might as well be. As you walk into the Deli, next to the door is a small lunch counter which faces out into the street. Opposite to the deli counter are four small booths. Both of these locations serve as eating space for those that choose to grab a quick bite of food or one of Yakov's and Rasputin's famous five meat monster deli sandwiches. Most people don't use these booths, but the lunch counter is constantly being used, as it provides a great people watching vantage.

The young knight gives the disapproving matron a bemused look, greeting her with a simple "Salut!" and a wave of his hand. He plants two hands on the sandwich counter stool and leapfrogs on to it, wincing faintly as he manages his landing. Tilting his head to the right, he stretches his left arm up over his head, rubbing under his arm with his right. "So," he utters. "The story." There's a tightness in his voice, but by the time he looks back at Sofiya his face is clear.

Sofiya watches him, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Hurting? It might teach you to show off, old man." A brief flash of her bravado, and she leans forward to speak, her hands reaching for a salt shaker, fiddling with it as she speaks. Her gaze dips down to her hands, avoiding looking at him. "I was just a runner. I picked up parcels, letters, whatever, and took them across to whereever they had to go." Her voice is steady, this part easily told. She licks her lips, the gesture nervous as she moves to the meat of the matter.

"So he has been really uptight recently, and really got pissy with me over someone taking time to decide about his offer. He wanted to buy a bomb from him. I took him the supplies and half the payment. Took the bomb back to my boss, and got the second part of the payment." She is fiddling so much with the salt shaker now, her voice low, her face tense. "Then there is an urgent run. I go, pick it up. He gives it to me, and my friend gave me a lift to drop it off. Saved me a few minutes."

Sebastien sniffs at the air, eyes in motion. He looks right down the lunch counter, then back over Sofiya's shoulder, then around towards the door, those blue eyes seeming to focus on faces. Staring just long enough to get odd looks back from people. "He?" Sebastien asks. "He from him? Be specific or this will get very muddy. Who is it that you had worked for? Who is it that did not accept the offer? What was the offer? Where did you purchase this device?"

Sofiya is oddly comfortable about the people there, ignoring them, even to the point of speaking as the woman puts two bowls of stew in front of them, and a plate full of hard, black bread. "He, my boss. He runs part of the Vigilantes. My friend accepted the offer but he was slow, and my boss got angry." A telling, brief movement lifts her fingers to her cheek before she reaches for a hunk of the break. "The offer was to make the bomb. It is what he does, and ...anyway, my friend made it and I took it into the junkyard." She lifts her gaze to him, questioning, uncertain if she has made it clearer. Automatically, she dips the bread in the stew, eating quickly.

"Names," Sebastien prods, dipping his head as he stares at her. "You are Sofiya. I am Sebastien. Your boss I am sure also has a name. As does your friend. It is time to be specific. So your boss in the vigilantees has ordered the making of a bomb. Your friend makes it, you pay for it, and then your next delivery includes this bomb. Your boss is denying this. Why did he want the war?"

Sofiya's comfort level changes at the demand for names and she shifts in the chair, licking her lips nervously, swallowing before she speaks. "My boss is Richard. My friend's name isn't one I'm going to tell you." She gives him a steady look, judging his response warily. "Probably money. Everything is money. He is trying to impress his boss." She shrugs, dipping the bread into the stew once more, eating it quickly.

Sebastien's mouth sets in a disapproving line, and he reaches for his own bread. Tearing off a hunk, he slowly dips it and lets the stew soak in before taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. When he's ready, he says, "This is a daunting enough task already, mademoiselle, but I will not try to climb your mountain with my hands tied. Full disclosure or I finish this soup and I walk."

Sofiya's hands pause, leaving the bread to the side of the plate for a moment, her face showing the difficult decision she makes. "Why does it matter who my friend is? He just did a job, was paid for it, and had nothing to do with what Richard did with it." She sits back in her seat, her gaze flickering to the woman at the counter, seeking some manner of comfort or confirmation before she speaks softly. "Zero. My boyfriend." The name is given reluctantly, unwillingly, and she gives him a hard stare. "And he isn't part of this."

"Absolutely he is," Sebastien replies with a laugh. "You know he just did a job. I know he just did a job. But if you are single-handedly trying to start a war with a bomb, and your boyfriend is a bomb-maker, and he is not in hiding, then..." Sebastien's chin ducks and he peers at Sofiya, smirking before tearing off another hunk of bread. "So. What exactly was the target? How did this make Dick money?"

His laugh doesn't help settle her and she pushes away the bowl, closing her eyes. "The target was the Clash's offices. I'm in and out of there all the time. I was..." She has to pause, rephrase, "I ran in, dropped it off, left and it went off before I was out of range. If Zee hadn't driven me there, I would have been just walking in with it." The piece of bread in her hands is faring badly, as it gets torn to tiny crumbs. "If the Clash are out of business, then someone has to supply their shit, and take their business."

Sebastien continues eating his soup, taking his time, though he uses his spoon halfway through so that he can sop the last bits of strew off the bottom of the plate with his bread. "And is the Clash out of business?" he wonders. "If you were not successful, Richard will need to make another move. For that matter, your attack may not have been the first."

"It wasn't my attack!" Her voice is slightly raised and the people around them glance over, and Sofiya lowers her voice, her cheeks flushing. "All I know is that a few of their main people are out of the game, one way or another. And it wasn't the first. Not at all. They are always fighting..." She does reach for the bread, dunking it again before she begins to eat slowly.

"Then why is this being pinned solely on you?" Sebastien wonders, leaning back. "They are rivals. They are always fighting. Why is it that all of a sudden an attack happens and you are not given the same support as someone who destroys a business, or kneecaps an enemy soldier? Why is it that your attack was meant to kill you? This does not make sense."

Sofiya has no answers to that, and it shows in the silent shrug as she demolishes the food in front of her. After she has run a piece of bread across the bowl's bottom, she looks up, looking at him directly. "Normally they don't hit headquarters. Normally they don't do anything that hurts kids." The idea is new to her and she is speaking slowly, considering it.

"Right," Sebastien replies, pointing. "And you are a new recruit. You have no great ties. You are disposable. And he steps up." Sebastien shakes his head either way, looking up as he rolls the thought around, and finally gives a little "Hm. I'll need to think about this. Have Monsieur Zero keep an eye out for other other seemingly random attacks, and have him let it be known that he is still looking for work. Perhaps you will get lucky and Richard will have another job for him?" Sebastien stands, and slips a hand in his pocket to plant that slip of paper on the counter, and then a few credits for the meal. "If things get too rough, call me."

Sofiya chews her lower lip as she watches him stand. She nods slowly, "Zee is living with me." The words are blurted out, a last piece of withheld information for him and she too rises, pocketing the note with a quick handed movement. For a moment her hand hesitates over the credits, temptation in that movement before the woman at the counter calls out something in Russian sharply and Sofiya turns to reply in rapid fire, fluent Russian. "I'll call. I'll tell Zee."

"You mentioned that," Sebastien notes with a smirk, though at the yell he looks back, eyes narrowing faintly, and he eyes Sofiya suspiciously a long moment. Still, finally, he turns and strides for the door. Apparently needing some air.