(no subject)
I.
The team manager held a hand to his head to cup the earpiece, listening for instructions. The dugout provided no shelter from the noise once the audience heard opening riff to a once and still popular rock song.
When the clapping began, and ten thousand voices began singing, he gestured for Mike to go out onto the field to the pitcher's mound for the switch.
Wild Thing, you make my heart sing...oh, you make everything...groovy!
Fans. Mike loved them. They made a great game even better.
II.
Misha poured himself a fourth cup of killer coffee and peeked back into the two story family room through the pass-through from the kitchen. The twelve foot Christmas tree was covered in lights and ornaments from the angel perched on top to the spread of branches at the bottom. The snow falling outside the the windows only added to the holiday atmosphere. The twelve kids inside, ranging from five to seventeen years old, kept everything merry and bright. Grandpa Logan swore up and down they all took after him. Nifty trick when seven were adopted. Grandpa was destined to be the bottom of a dog pile as every kid brave enough to think they had a shot at pinning the old man down tried to do so all at the same time.
It was his and Hana's turn to host the family Christmas. Invitations had gone out to everyone. By nightfall the old three story house would be filled with lights, laughter, and family. It was all he ever really wanted in life.
III.
It was easy, just as the director said it would be. A message to the target drew her out into the open. The rifle stock tucked firmly against his shoulder felt comforting and reliable in a way nothing else ever had. The sight calibrated to give him the optimum view. She filled the viewfinder and a rush of icy rage poured down his back. He didn't move. Only waited. The trigger responded to the gentle pull. The silencer let him hear the sound of her body falling to the ground.
Proof. He had to return with proof to claim the kill. Slowly, he rose from the brush, a dark figure carrying a sniper rifle. He walked toward the figure and looked down at where the face used to be. Nudged the body with his boot. Let out a silent breath in relief. Maybe now the nightmares would stop. The director said the woman was their enemy and had tried to manipulate Mikhail's mind against him. Now it was all over and he could return to his life. The lost memories would follow.
Twelve hours later, Mikhail stood in front of the director and slowly put a tiny data storage card on the desk. Pictures of the scene he'd left in America. He looked at the man. "It is done."
"Very good. Leave them and report to the doctor. Tell him I want a status report on your condition."
"Yes, sir." Mikhail turned to leave and was stopped with a word. "Da?" he asked politely.
"What did I tell you, Mikhail?" The voice was that of an adult gently scolding a forgetful child.
"Yes ... Father." The word was reluctant, though Mikhail couldn't understand why. This was all he knew. Waking up and his ... father being there to tell him of the people that tried to take him away. But the person responsible was now dead. The rest of the unsettling feelings would soon follow. His ... father assured him that they would.
"Go now, bear cub. I will see you at dinner." Alexi Shostakov watched his newest and most promising operative leave his office and couldn't hide a self-satisfied smirk as he put the data card into a special reader and opened the file. It was a sort of cold revenge. Natalia's son would call him Father, and take the place at his right hand. It was a shame that she would never know it, he mused, but the pictures of her were very well framed. Mikhail had a flare for composition.
IV.
Misha removed the bills tucked along his g-string, and the credit card a hopeful fan had tucked inside along with the promise of more. And a hotel room key card. A key to a Porsche and an address on the tag. Notes with phone numbers. Twenties and fifties. With this take, he wouldn't have to worry about his expenses for the rest of the month.
It paid well to be the only straight dancer in a troupe of male strippers.