This is how the world ends
Written for gameofcards.
Dmitri had nightmares for months after he got back. Got out. He still wasn't sure what to call it. He was having trouble finding words to describe the entire experience. To describe his entire life as it was now.
The trip to the coast was Henry's idea. ("I'm not your handler or your professor anymore," he said. "Just call me Henry." It felt odd, like going to meet a general at headquarters wearing a field uniform, but it was hardly the oddest aspect of this new life.) Dmitri thought Henry meant the beach house to be a sort of reward for successfully enduring the weeks of debriefing he'd undergone, question after question, as if Dmitri had been in a position to tell the Americans anything they didn't already know about the Russian military or political scenes. It wasn't like they'd shared secrets with him in the prison; the words his guards had whispered to him had been about other things entirely.
If Dmitri had known something, he would have shared it with his American interrogators. (Gentler than the Russian variety, yes, but still definitely interrogators.) He no longer cared either about betraying his country or helping the Americans--those months in prison and knowing who had put him there had wiped out any loyalty he might have had to either side--but he'd been drained and in pain and it was easier to cooperate than not. Besides, there was still Talia to think about, and he thought his cooperation would give her a better chance at a good life here.
Maybe the trip had also been about getting him away from the Elizabeth, now that his hours were no longer occupied. He'd seen the way Henry and Elizabeth watched him the few times he'd been around her, like he was a feral cat, ready to strike without warning, or perhaps a roadside IED, primed to explode. As if he might turn on her at any moment, raining down on her the kind of pain that she had left him to.
Dmitri found he didn't care what had brought him here. Whatever the cause, the change of scenery was a relief. He spent long hours walking along the beach, trying to cast his pain and anger and nightmares out to the sea, or bury them in the hot sand. Sometimes he sat and watched the tide turn, thinking about things bigger and longer-lasting than any one life. The things worth trading--betraying--someone for. Intellectually, he understood why they did it. He understood that they were sorry for it.
Emotionally, he struggled with it, perhaps because he knew that, given the same situation, they'd do it again.
("He had nightmares for weeks after you were taken," Elizabeth told him. "It nearly destroyed him. I know that doesn't change what happened to you and that it's no reason for you to forgive any of us, but I thought you should know that.)
Every day, Talia tracked him down on the beach as the sun started to touch the edge of the water, sky alight with pink and gold. "Mitya," she cajoled, sometimes in English and sometimes in Russian, "come back and eat."
And because he could never resist her--what else did he have to live for now?--he came and ate whatever she or Henry or Stevie or Alison had prepared, and then forced himself to stay for whatever evening activities they had planned: books or movies or board games or conversation that was mostly innocent questions from the three McCord children about his and Talia's lives in Russia or mildly embarrassing stories from them about their parents.
He should care more, he knew. Care about what his life would be now. Care about what was going to happen next. But every time he tried, he felt like he was wrapped in wool. The only thing that seemed to cut through it was anger and he didn't want to feel that, didn't want to say or do something he might later regret. So he pushed it back and let the wool muffle it.
Then the attack came, and suddenly the world snapped back into focus.
They watched it on the television in the rented house: spaceships over DC, over Moscow, over all of the world's major cities. Hovering. Waiting.
Henry had his phone out less than a minute into the broadcast, but the cell networks were sagging under the weight of a country's worth of panicked calls and he couldn't get through.
"I'm sure Mom's okay," he said to his children after the third failed attempt. "She'll be with the president in a bunker."
Stevie and Alison quickly agreed with him, trying to protect their brother. Or maybe trying to convince themselves; Dmitri wasn't sure. As the McCords pulled together, he shifted closer to Talia and touched her arm gently, letting her know that he was there--really there now, sharing in the fear and awe of the moment.
That was when the ships started firing. They watched together in a kind of disbelieving horror, all of them frozen and staring as the cities of Earth began to fall. And then another wave of horror struck as the broadcast abruptly cut off, to be replaced a moment later with an unblinking emergency message.
Dmitri looked automatically to Henry, searching for a cue as to what they should do next. He was a beat ahead of everyone else, and so witnessed what no one else saw: Henry McCord, eyes fixed on the television, looking utterly lost and helpless. As lost and helpless as Dmitri had felt in the moment when he was yanked off the street and into that van, or when Talia had called and told him she was dying.
And then, as if he knew his children were turning to him, the lost expression vanished, replaced by stern resolve. Henry put his phone away and leaned down to turn off the TV. "We need to get ready," he said briskly, rising to his feet. "Jason, Talia, start taking an inventory of what we have in terms of food and other necessities. Stevie and Alison, reach out to our neighbours. We're going to have to cooperate to get through this, and we need to get to them before panic takes over. Dmitri, you're with me."
"What are we doing?" Dmitri asked as they climbed into the car. It was so strange; the world was ending and he felt more alive than he had since...since the first weeks of his imprisonment, he realized. Since those days when he'd spent every waking moment sure that the next moment would bring a bullet.
"We're going to go talk to Ken at the store and make sure that whatever supplies he has are distributed fairly. People tend to think of themselves first in these situations. We're going to make sure they think of others too."
This was the reason he'd agreed to spy in the first place, Dmitri realized as the two of them drove into town. This man beside him, who looked first to others in an emergency and sought to make sure that everyone survived. This man who had once convinced him that the impossible could be made possible, that treason could sometimes be honourable, that safety could be assured. And although Dmitri knew first-hand that even the great Henry McCord was fallible, and that nothing good could ever be guaranteed, he couldn't help but admire the way that Henry walked into the crowd pressing into the general store, calling for order and convincing people not to take more than they needed. To leave some things for the next people to come through. To share what they had. To cooperate. To remember compassion.
If there was a good way to face the end of the world, Dmitri thought that Henry McCord would find it.
And if the world didn't end, maybe Dmitri could use these lessons to find a new way to live.
This entry was originally posted at https://skieswideopen.dreamwidth.org/195002.html, where it has
comments. Comments are equally welcome on either entry.
Dmitri had nightmares for months after he got back. Got out. He still wasn't sure what to call it. He was having trouble finding words to describe the entire experience. To describe his entire life as it was now.
The trip to the coast was Henry's idea. ("I'm not your handler or your professor anymore," he said. "Just call me Henry." It felt odd, like going to meet a general at headquarters wearing a field uniform, but it was hardly the oddest aspect of this new life.) Dmitri thought Henry meant the beach house to be a sort of reward for successfully enduring the weeks of debriefing he'd undergone, question after question, as if Dmitri had been in a position to tell the Americans anything they didn't already know about the Russian military or political scenes. It wasn't like they'd shared secrets with him in the prison; the words his guards had whispered to him had been about other things entirely.
If Dmitri had known something, he would have shared it with his American interrogators. (Gentler than the Russian variety, yes, but still definitely interrogators.) He no longer cared either about betraying his country or helping the Americans--those months in prison and knowing who had put him there had wiped out any loyalty he might have had to either side--but he'd been drained and in pain and it was easier to cooperate than not. Besides, there was still Talia to think about, and he thought his cooperation would give her a better chance at a good life here.
Maybe the trip had also been about getting him away from the Elizabeth, now that his hours were no longer occupied. He'd seen the way Henry and Elizabeth watched him the few times he'd been around her, like he was a feral cat, ready to strike without warning, or perhaps a roadside IED, primed to explode. As if he might turn on her at any moment, raining down on her the kind of pain that she had left him to.
Dmitri found he didn't care what had brought him here. Whatever the cause, the change of scenery was a relief. He spent long hours walking along the beach, trying to cast his pain and anger and nightmares out to the sea, or bury them in the hot sand. Sometimes he sat and watched the tide turn, thinking about things bigger and longer-lasting than any one life. The things worth trading--betraying--someone for. Intellectually, he understood why they did it. He understood that they were sorry for it.
Emotionally, he struggled with it, perhaps because he knew that, given the same situation, they'd do it again.
("He had nightmares for weeks after you were taken," Elizabeth told him. "It nearly destroyed him. I know that doesn't change what happened to you and that it's no reason for you to forgive any of us, but I thought you should know that.)
Every day, Talia tracked him down on the beach as the sun started to touch the edge of the water, sky alight with pink and gold. "Mitya," she cajoled, sometimes in English and sometimes in Russian, "come back and eat."
And because he could never resist her--what else did he have to live for now?--he came and ate whatever she or Henry or Stevie or Alison had prepared, and then forced himself to stay for whatever evening activities they had planned: books or movies or board games or conversation that was mostly innocent questions from the three McCord children about his and Talia's lives in Russia or mildly embarrassing stories from them about their parents.
He should care more, he knew. Care about what his life would be now. Care about what was going to happen next. But every time he tried, he felt like he was wrapped in wool. The only thing that seemed to cut through it was anger and he didn't want to feel that, didn't want to say or do something he might later regret. So he pushed it back and let the wool muffle it.
Then the attack came, and suddenly the world snapped back into focus.
They watched it on the television in the rented house: spaceships over DC, over Moscow, over all of the world's major cities. Hovering. Waiting.
Henry had his phone out less than a minute into the broadcast, but the cell networks were sagging under the weight of a country's worth of panicked calls and he couldn't get through.
"I'm sure Mom's okay," he said to his children after the third failed attempt. "She'll be with the president in a bunker."
Stevie and Alison quickly agreed with him, trying to protect their brother. Or maybe trying to convince themselves; Dmitri wasn't sure. As the McCords pulled together, he shifted closer to Talia and touched her arm gently, letting her know that he was there--really there now, sharing in the fear and awe of the moment.
That was when the ships started firing. They watched together in a kind of disbelieving horror, all of them frozen and staring as the cities of Earth began to fall. And then another wave of horror struck as the broadcast abruptly cut off, to be replaced a moment later with an unblinking emergency message.
Dmitri looked automatically to Henry, searching for a cue as to what they should do next. He was a beat ahead of everyone else, and so witnessed what no one else saw: Henry McCord, eyes fixed on the television, looking utterly lost and helpless. As lost and helpless as Dmitri had felt in the moment when he was yanked off the street and into that van, or when Talia had called and told him she was dying.
And then, as if he knew his children were turning to him, the lost expression vanished, replaced by stern resolve. Henry put his phone away and leaned down to turn off the TV. "We need to get ready," he said briskly, rising to his feet. "Jason, Talia, start taking an inventory of what we have in terms of food and other necessities. Stevie and Alison, reach out to our neighbours. We're going to have to cooperate to get through this, and we need to get to them before panic takes over. Dmitri, you're with me."
"What are we doing?" Dmitri asked as they climbed into the car. It was so strange; the world was ending and he felt more alive than he had since...since the first weeks of his imprisonment, he realized. Since those days when he'd spent every waking moment sure that the next moment would bring a bullet.
"We're going to go talk to Ken at the store and make sure that whatever supplies he has are distributed fairly. People tend to think of themselves first in these situations. We're going to make sure they think of others too."
This was the reason he'd agreed to spy in the first place, Dmitri realized as the two of them drove into town. This man beside him, who looked first to others in an emergency and sought to make sure that everyone survived. This man who had once convinced him that the impossible could be made possible, that treason could sometimes be honourable, that safety could be assured. And although Dmitri knew first-hand that even the great Henry McCord was fallible, and that nothing good could ever be guaranteed, he couldn't help but admire the way that Henry walked into the crowd pressing into the general store, calling for order and convincing people not to take more than they needed. To leave some things for the next people to come through. To share what they had. To cooperate. To remember compassion.
If there was a good way to face the end of the world, Dmitri thought that Henry McCord would find it.
And if the world didn't end, maybe Dmitri could use these lessons to find a new way to live.
This entry was originally posted at https://skieswideopen.dreamwidth.org/195002.html, where it has
comments. Comments are equally welcome on either entry.