2005: Freedom City, 4:10 a.m.
"I miss him, you know?" For a rare moment, Nikolai's face looks a little less guarded, a little more open. "There's no reason for it... Ivan was a pretty lousy father, it's just – I'm used to having this resistance there, this person who was everything I didn't like." The city streets below are quiet, not unusual that early in the morning. It's cold on top of the building, exposed to the night wind and fog, but Nikolai doesn't seem to notice. Russian blood has its advantages.
"It wasn't like I was doing everything I did just to spite him... well, maybe a little, but now he's gone and there's this empty space with no resistance. So I push, like usual, but everything just collapses... I've been at war with him for so long, I don't know any other way to be."
He pauses for a drag off the cigarette – a clove, bummed earlier from Yvette. He probably owes her a pack of them by now. It's not the kind of thing he likes to admit, that he enjoys them somewhat more than the harsh Sobranie Blacks he usually smokes, but Yvette either doesn't notice or care. Or lecture.
"So now I'm alone, how I've always liked it best, no one around to interrupt or expect anything, but it just feels... hollow." Almost on cue, the city's fog horn lows out a mournful bass note, muffled by distance and the mist. Unguarded, he doesn't notice as a smile flickers across his face.
"I hated him, too. I still hate him. He was my father, but only in name. I was a... a convenience for him. No, that's not the word... a show piece... trophy, that's it. Something to be shown off whenever being a Good Family Man was important."
Abruptly he stands, paces, blowing smoke into the air before bringing the clove back for another drag. "Do you know, he used to pay me to go to his political events and make him look good? $20 an hour just to show up and be the dutiful son. $50 if I had to dance with anyone. It was easy money, just smile instead of smirking and never tell them what you really think. No one saw through it, even when they knew better. They'd heard the stories, but nyet, this polite young man couldn't possibly be the same one who was in detention all last month, there must have been some mistake."
Exhale, gesture, drag, pace, repeat.
"And I'd go back to school the next week, money in my pocket, and do something else to get myself in trouble all over again. So he'd pay to cover it up, whatever it was, and then pay again to get me to behave at the next reception. To smile and play nice."
He's agitated, but reflexively hiding it. The cigarette gives it away, crushed tightly between his fingers.
"Fuck 'em. I don't trust anyone when they're smiling. There's always something they're not saying, something they want from you or don't want you to know. Get them angry, get them off-balance, that's when it all comes out."
Exhale, drag, pace, repeat, until the cigarette finally is dead.
"I screwed myself over too, though. If my mom was going to be at an event, Ivan would jump the price to $100 to not cause a scene and be his son and not hers. I didn't mind – I mean, if she'd given a damn she wouldn't have left, right? But now he's gone and technically I'm her son, but she'd rather have me stay in a boarding school than have anything to do with me. I haven't even talked to her directly, just her lawyer. My trustee. Sounds like a prison camp warden, doesn't it?" His voice hardens bitterly. "Can't you just hear the motherly love?"
Blocks away, there's the muffled sound of breaking glass, and then a car alarm begins to honk stridently. Nikolai stretches, interested at last – something to do. "Of course, the way things stand, maybe she's not really my mother. Wouldn't that be a kick in the teeth?"
Absentmindedly, he opens the mint tin that serves as a makeshift ashtray, crushes the butt inside, closes it. His fingers reach reflexively for his pack, to find another one, but he catches himself, stops.
"I know, I know, smoking's gonna kill me." From another pocket, a strip of mouthwash, to cover the smell in case he has to talk to anyone. "Hell, something's got to, anyway."
A press of a button, and the silver motorcycle whirs quietly to life. "It's been good 'talking' to you, even if it's all in my imagination. Helps me clear my head." Nikolai straddles the bike, turns on his suit and fades into the fog. "Who knows? One of these days maybe I'll actually call your number and talk to you instead of the walls."
Then he is gone. Left behind, the empty rooftop betrays no secrets, the faint smell of smoke quickly dissipating in the breeze.
A minute later, once Nikolai is long away, a green cloaked figure coalesces out of the concrete, looking intently after the youth. Then it, too, is gone.