Babushka: Echoes of Immortality (Book 1) - Prologue - Marzanna
A marine biologist, relying on a volatile compound to stay ahead of time, races through a war-torn metro, battling for survival in a crumbling dystopia while risking her own destruction.
Another explosion rocked the metro. Marzanna whimpered, “I’ll never get used to 77.”
Klara shot back, “Countin’ years or spills, Marz? Move, or there won’t be another birthday.” Klara yanked her up, and Marzanna’s knees cracked like dry twigs under the sudden strain.
Marzanna winced. “Easy. These legs are new.” I’m too old for this, she thought.
There had been a time when she wasn’t running for her life but studying the migration patterns of deep-sea creatures. A marine biologist at a renowned scientific academy, she’d once lived in worlds far removed from this nightmare. That all ended in the Derge, when hunger gnawed at her, nearly snuffing her out before the Coven gave her a second shot.
Just enough powder to stop her from aging out, barely enough to keep her from shriveling up and being tossed aside like trash. If Dad hadn’t taught me to shoot rats behind the Air Facility in Adak, Klara never would’ve noticed me, she thought. And I’d be long dead by now.
She brushed back a strand of silver-white hair as they dashed forward. The damp air clung to her skin, and the smell of decay and old metal filled her lungs. Sprinting through the graffiti-scarred corridors, every step sent a jolt through her aching joints. “Was it always this terrifying?” she gasped between breaths.
Klara snorted. “Used to run for trains.”
The explosions grew nearer, each one rattling the bones in Marzanna’s body, the tremors making the walls groan. Dust and debris rained down, stinging her face. Klara shoved her forward with a grunt. “Go!” she roared. “Safe zone, close!”
The pair broke free into the night, and the sudden brilliance of searchlights stabbed at Marzanna’s eyes, making her vision swim. The sharp crackle of gunfire cut through the air, while the heavy thud of distant explosions echoed in her chest, each one a jarring reminder that they were still being hunted.
And then the station erupted into life. Its doors groaned open behind them, releasing a torrent of shpichkis into the plaza. They streamed forth, young women with hair like tongues of fire or frost-laden strands. Bodies detonated in the crowd, igniting like stars against the night.
The surrounding buildings, a mix of crumbling old structures and sleek, glass-fronted edifices, echoed back the strife. Their reflections seized the bursts of light—quick flares that painted the snow before darkening once more.
With the next explosion, Marzanna’s breath caught. The infantry, Syndicate soldiers in their dark ceremonial armor, held their ground. They’re laying down their lives, she thought, staring at the old women—sacrifices to an old cause. But why? The Syndicate’s obsession with senescence, their holy crusade to decide when and how people should die, had twisted everything. These girls don’t even know what they’re fighting for.
“Follow me!” Klara ordered, her voice cutting through the crowd as she pulled Marzanna into the swell of oncoming shpichkis. They surged toward the sanctuary of the nearest structure, sprinting through the chaos.
Suddenly, a squad of enemy soldiers emerged from the smoke and debris, their armor gleaming like an emerald bulwark under the blaring searchlights. Heavy machine guns slung over their shoulders—Battalion tech, Marzanna recognized them by the distinct cylindrical barrels—hummed to life. The soldiers advanced, their boots pounding in unison with the distant thuds of artillery, and the first wave of bullets screamed past her head.
Fragments tore through the air with a metallic scream, slamming into the wall beside her. Shards of concrete exploded outward, and a sharp, concussive crack echoed in her skull. The echo sent a deafening ring through her ears.
“This way!” Klara shouted, her voice barely cutting through the high-pitched whine. Marzanna blinked, disoriented, catching only the faintest glimpse of Klara’s hand before it latched onto her arm, dragging her into a narrow alley. Another burst of gunfire peppered the ground where they had stood moments before, the ricocheted rounds snapping like whip cracks against the alley’s walls.
Marzanna’s breath came in ragged bursts. It would take another hour before the powder kicked in, she reminded herself, before she felt young again. Right now, her muscles burned, her joints screamed, and the next rush of adrenaline felt like it might be the last.
“Stay here. I’ll come back for you.” Klara gave Marzanna’s hand a reassuring squeeze, but something in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation?—made Marzanna’s stomach twist, even as Klara charged back into the fray.
She flattened herself against the cold wall, her breath catching as she watched Klara, rifle blasting in rapid, controlled bursts. Relentless, moving with the precision of someone who had survived too many wars to count, Klara was a force to behold. She had once said she’d been a medic in a past life, Marzanna recalled, but she’d seen enough to know Klara was more like a butcher. Even so, in moments like this, Marzanna was glad she was on her side.
The echo of gunfire ebbed into the distance, each crack growing softer, drawn away like a receding tide. It reminded her of Karena brevis, the red tide she’d once seen spreading death in its wake. The bloom had painted the water crimson, beautiful and lethal, much like the violence she was now wading through. Her pulse pounded in her ears as images of her father and brothers, long lost to a longer war, flickered in her mind’s eye. Had they, too, felt this numbing void in their final moments? She shook her head, dislodging the past from her thoughts and forcing her eyes to refocus on the present.
The alley ended abruptly, a jagged tear in the city’s broken landscape, dropping off into a dangerous precipice. From her hiding spot, Marzanna peered down at the streets below, where enforcers moved with a cold, predatory precision. Hunters, not guardians, she thought, as they picked off the city’s most vulnerable, lurking in the shadows like wolves circling prey. Her chest tightened with a surge of anger, helplessness gnawing at the edges of her resolve. She wanted to act, to fight—but the weight of exhaustion pressed against her.
For a fleeting moment, she felt the pull to oblivion, the promise of escape. The cold ground beneath swallowed her whole, cradling her like a womb, and the edges of the world softened...
Marzanna was born at the turn of the century, older than anyone knew. She’d always managed to slip through the cracks, outlasting war and disaster, beating death’s cold embrace time and again. Alaska felt like a distant dream now, when she thought she might follow her mother’s path as a scientist, studying the quiet mysteries of life. But she had become something else—a warrior, a thrill-seeker. She crossed the Bering after Armageddon, discovering that humanity, against all odds, still clung to life. But now, after all these years, she just felt a little mad. The world was finally slipping from her grasp, and that left her with little but her memories and that insistent fire in her bones.
…The crack of a rifle jolted Marzanna awake. Heart pounding, she took a keen-eyed survey of the narrow passage.
The searchlights had moved on, and the alley was swallowed again by the night, every shape melting into a blur. The gunfire, which in her roused state felt like it had thundered through the air moments ago, receded to a distant rumble.
Marzanna’s gaze was drawn to a shifting shadow at the alley’s entrance. Three figures materialized, standing side by side, their outlines framed by the faint light.
In the center was Klara’s unmistakable silhouette, tall and defiant, flanked by Lucija and Svetlana, both of whom Marzanna recognized from the underground.
“Service entrance by the boardroom, two blocks down, hard left. You good for it?” Klara’s words were more of an order than a question.
Marzanna flexed her stiff fingers, pushing herself off the ground as her breath slowly steadied. “I am.”
“You sure you’re focused?”
Her body was drained, still shaking off the numbness from the unexpected nap, but her mind was sharp. “As I’ll ever be.”
I’m tired of being strong. It’s not a choice, it’s survival, Marzanna thought, the familiar weight settling over her. Strong is what’s left when there’s nothing else.
She squared her shoulders, her calves still aching from the run. She couldn’t afford to slow down now, not when they were so close—close to dismantling the forces that had kept three million souls locked in this city’s endless cycle, neither truly living nor dying.
“Ladies, the moment’s come. Are we ready?” Klara said, her voice firm.
Lucija and Svetlana, the formidable sisters, exchanged a determined look and nodded. Scars crisscrossed their cheeks and noses, each one a silent testament to the torture they’d endured under the Syndicate’s cruelty.
Lucija regarded her sister. “This all feels a bit familiar, doesn’t it? Like our little getaway at Govna’s pleasure palace.”
Svetlana smirked. “Those thugs thought they’d crush us. All they did was give us a proper workout.”
“Nothing’s worse than that cell,” Marzanna muttered.
Klara extended a sleek black pistol toward her. Marzanna hesitated for just a moment, her hand twitching—not from fear, but from the pulse of energy coursing through her now. She let out a steadying breath and closed her fingers around the cold metal. Just like back then, she thought, memories of her father teaching her to shoot flickering in her mind. Whether it’s rats or wolves, it’s all the same now.
The notorious Yarygina Pistolet. Its reputation preceded it—an instrument of death, renowned in the hands of those who knew its language. The unique etching of a stiletto, wreathed in flames on its grip, screamed its birthplace—the clandestine anvils of a Coven black market forge.
Klara’s voice cut through her focus. “Still need training, or does your new powder cover that too?”
“Powder’s just a tool,” Marzanna shot back, a quiet defiance rising within her. Let’s find out. She wasn’t just proving herself to Klara—she needed to quiet her own doubts.
Klara led the way, Marzanna close behind, while the others guarded their rear. Beneath their boots lay the scars of a city that had once thrived, now broken by endless conflict.
They followed the road into the churchyard forest, where their world ended and the Board’s dominion began. Slender white trees loomed watchful, their ghostly trunks pale under the moonlight. Marzanna’s coat, a faded echo of Alaskan greens and grays, seemed to glow faintly as she glanced at the trees, recalling the tales of others who had tried this path and failed. The tension in her companions’ cautious steps spoke louder than words.
As they emerged from the birch grove, the Grand Mariner’s Cathedral loomed into view, towering above the surrounding skyscrapers. Hundreds of clerestories blazed with candlelight, the glow hitting Marzanna like a punch, forcing her gaze upward. A shiver ran down her spine—a mix of reverence and trepidation.
They ruled this space—three factions governed by the city’s nine eldest matrons, forever at odds beneath a strained veneer of order: the Battalion, the University, and the Hive, each a nested piece of the towering matryoshka that was the United Babushka Syndicate. Marzanna had tasted the wrath of the University in particular, when she was waylaid and exiled for her research, left to rot in a garbage heap. Even now, the memory burned, and the very stones of the cathedral seemed to vibrate with the oppressive authority of those who preyed within, masking their cruelty as devotion.
Snaking along the cathedral’s flank, Klara whispered, “Back door’s hidden by the garden. Covered path up north. Stay sharp—might have new guards on our tail soon.” Then Klara raised her hand, signaling the group to halt, her gaze locking onto the squad of soldiers ahead, armored in obsidian carbon-fiber. Red and blue silk scarves, marked with sharp teeth and feral patterns, decorated their imposing gear.
“Black Wolves,” Klara hissed, her tone dripping with contempt. “They’re blocking our entrance. We’re goin’ through ‘em.”
Marzanna tightened her grip on the pistol. “No time like the present,” she said.
“Time to show them what we’re made of,” Svetlana said, unsheathing her gunblade. Moonlight danced on its intricate designs—Perine, goddess of thunder and war, etched into the weapon’s deadly elegance. The leather-wrapped hilt and precision barrel gleamed like a warrior’s promise. “I had two goals: spoil my grandkids and kick ass. No grandkids left, and I’m still breathing. Guess we know what’s next.”
“Ha, looks like we’re both stuck with the fun part,” Lucija said, her dye-red hair catching the light like embers in the dark. Her robust figure, clad in custom-fitted armor built for speed, belied her years. The sniper rifle slung across her back was the subject of her endless boasts. “Time to add a few more notches to my retirement belt,” she said with a smirk. “Lost count ages ago.”
Weapons inspected, helmets secured, the women drew deep, steady breaths, bracing themselves to storm the fortress.
Marzanna’s fingers stiffened as they dug into the worn depths of her coat pockets. She gripped the small blue pouch she’d guarded for years—a relic meant for this moment. The chalk-scrawled letters “EXO” on its faded surface still held their cryptic promise, whispering of power just beyond reach.
Twice my morning dose. Let’s see what this does, Marzanna thought, pinching the pouch open. She turned to her crew, her tone brisk: “Let’s fire it up.”
Lucija raised an eyebrow, her caution evident. “Just don’t burn me, okay?”
“Keep up,” Marzanna shot back with a wink.
The powder’s bitter tang clung to Marzanna’s tongue as a cold pressure bloomed behind her eyes. Her muscles coiled, her skin prickled, and the ache in her joints dissolved. In its place surged a raw strength, rippling through her limbs, leaving her weightless, untethered.
With a sharp nod to Klara, Marzanna launched from cover like a coiled spring released. Her legs drove her forward, powerful and relentless, slicing through the quadrangle with a speed she hadn’t known in years. Klara’s rifle erupted in a thunderous rhythm, syncing with Marzanna’s pistol shots. The air crackled with gunfire, drowning out the guards’ panicked cries as they were consumed by the relentless echo of the barrage.
With each squeeze of the trigger, Marzanna could see the momentary widening of her foes’ eyes, the dawning realization of an immortal death before they fell to the ground. No sooner had a group of reinforcements emerged from the door than Svetlana stepped forward, her broad gunblade sweeping through the air with lethal grace. With a few deft movements and a couple of precise shots as they fell, she cleared the threat.
Their bodies lay scattered now. Marzanna stepped over the fallen, deliberate, and steady, as she pushed her way into the cathedral’s heart. The echoing emptiness of hallowed halls weighed heavily on her, yet the purpose that propelled her burned fiercer than any fear.
Suddenly, more gunfire echoed, the sound springing from the shadows that clung to the cathedral’s grand columns. Instinctively, Marzanna threw herself behind a pillar for cover. Her hands were steady as she peered out, pinpointing the flash of gun muzzles. She returned fire.
Too many shadows, too much risk, Marzanna assessed quickly. In her gut, she knew that bullets might not reach them all—that her next move could turn the tide.
“Cover me!” Marzanna shouted to Klara. Adrenaline lent her speed as she gritted her teeth and lunged from her hiding spot.
Punches turned to kicks—each blow delivered the raw power that surged within her. One guard’s face contorted in shock as Marzanna’s fist connected with her stomach, sending her falling to the cold marble floor. Another assailant raised her rifle too slowly; Marzanna’s hand, edged with fire, struck with blinding speed, leaving a seared imprint across the old woman’s cheek.
The dull thuds of her impacts were punctuated by the harsher notes of snapping bone. One by one, the matriarchs faltered, fell, or fled.
Those last hastened footsteps echoed off the marble walls and floors of the Syndicate’s bastion, and Marzanna could almost taste their panic.
The battlefield fell into an eerie silence, the air dense with an uncanny stillness that seemed to seep into Marzanna’s bones. Staying sharp, she took point into the cathedral, her pistol firm in her grasp, each sense finely tuned. The faint glow from her palms cast trembling light into the thick, oppressive shadows ahead.
Klara signaled towards the looming iconostasis at the far end of the nave. To Marzanna, the overturned pews and aisles littered with sandbags and barbed wire felt like a desecration.
“Seems we missed the funeral,” said Marzanna.
Then, a solitary gunshot echoed from above, followed by two more. Klara’s voice rang out, sharp and clear, “Board’s up there. Move!”
Their sprint gave way to a grueling ascent as they confronted the stairwell of the towering cathedral, a vertical challenge stretching high into the sanctuary’s heart. Marzanna’s legs burned with each flight, her lungs demanding air as they pushed upward relentlessly. She kept a mental tally of the floors—one, two...ten—expecting swarms of guards to emerge at any turn.
When a pair of guards finally appeared, Marzanna moved before they had the chance to react. A quick shot from her pistol dropped the first, and a strike to the second’s throat silenced her before she could call for backup.
At last, they reached the top, where it felt as though the stairwell had scraped the edge of the sky. The staircase ended at a set of towering double doors, dark wood looming before them like silent sentinels.
Marzanna took in the engraving: “Mudrost, Vremya, Resheniya”—wisdom, time, and decisions. These were the principles that had long governed the space they were about to breach. Ironic, she thought bitterly. The Syndicate, for all its power, stood for everything opposite of this—clinging to life, defying time, and stripping others of the ability to choose their fate.
Marzanna shot a glance at Klara. “Where are they? Should’ve faced more resistance.”
“They’re here,” Klara said, eyes fixed on the doors. “Waiting.”
Marzanna exhaled, bracing herself. No turning back now.
With a forceful shove, she threw the boardroom doors wide open.
The metallic scent hit her first, mingling with the sharp bite of cold air drifting in from somewhere ahead. As her eyes adjusted, they swept over the space. Broken glass led to a shattered window, its jagged edges streaked with dark smears.
Around the long, oaken boardroom table, hostages sat in a tight cluster. Some were slumped in the high-backed chairs, their gazes vacant, while others remained curled together on the floor.
“Tatyana Romanova,” Klara whispered, her gaze anchored on the formidable figure who had risen from her seat at the head of the table.
Romanova’s weathered tan skin and dyed black hair betrayed her years, but the power she wielded seemed timeless. Her ornate burgundy dress, with intricate lace and beadwork, outlined her stature against the backdrop of the boardroom’s opulence.
Flanking her were two Black Wolf guards, shrouded in dark, elaborate armor, their faces obscured behind visors that hinted at the menace lurking within. Old women with nothing to lose and too much time on their hands, Marzanna thought grimly. Each sported a submachine gun, deadly as they were beautiful, with matte gold finishes that caught the dim light. Even at rest, the weapons promised untold destruction with the simple flick of a switch.
Marzanna could feel the temperature in the room drop as the old matron’s controlled, commanding voice greeted them. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? How dare you interrupt our meeting.”
Her muscles tensed as her team took cover behind the pillars lining the room’s perimeter. From her position, Klara’s voice rang out, sharp and angry. “You call this a meeting, you psycho bitch?”
Her palms tingled with heat, the energy for annihilation buzzing beneath her skin, matching the tension in Klara’s words. Not yet, Marz, she told herself. Just a little longer...
“We’re here to end your reign, Tatyana,” Klara shouted. “This is your final warning. Drop your weapons. The coup is over.”
Romanova sneered at the mention of the word. “Coup? You call this a coup?” Her voice rose to a fevered pitch. “This is a revolution!” She laughed with wild abandon.
She’s enjoying this, Marzanna thought, her stomach turning at the sight.
“And what makes you think that you and your ragtag group of cunts can of stop me?” The matron’s eyes flicked down to Marzanna’s hands, perhaps noticing the faint shimmer of heat that betrayed her growing power. “And you. Aren’t you running out of time?”
Marzanna couldn’t shake the feeling of being appraised and found wanting, all at once. Then, with an ease that felt almost forced, Tatyana’s gaze swept across the room, skimming the weary survivors with a twisted smile. To Marzanna, that gesture read like a taunt.
“Well, come on then. Do what you came here to do,” Romanova said.
Every fiber of Marzanna’s being screamed against unleashing the full force of the biomolecular compound coursing through her now—her neurons burning like an oil refinery, ready to ignite. But as she scanned the room, her eyes landed on something that shattered her restraint—a slate jacket, burned and crisped, barely recognizable but unmistakably belonging to the one she was meant to protect.
The one she had poured her soul into saving had already been ripped away, a victim of this woman’s savage cruelty. Rage bubbled up from the pit of her stomach.
Marzanna’s heart raced as she caught the glint of steel in the guards’ hands. As they drew their weapons, every instinct dared her to act. The world around her seemed to slow. The harsh rattle of automatic fire faded into distant echoes. She darted forward. The ground blurred beneath her boots, until she found herself standing in front of the hostages.
Energy flowed, rising from a place deep inside her. She felt the surge as a tingling sensation that grew into a steady stream of warmth. The air buzzed as a faint glow came off her skin, forming a protective dome between them and the chaos.
The rapid gunfire from the Black Wolves was muffled now, distant. Marzanna felt a strange calm as the bullets neared. They evaporated into smoke against the shield she had somehow conjured. It was all instinct, reaction. She was a live wire, a conduit of power, and for now, that was enough.
“Go! I’ll hold them off,” Marzanna snarled, and she saw the terrified women hesitate briefly. They scrambled into an adjacent room, the door slamming with a resonant thud.
Through the barrier, she heard metallic clicks, the shuffling of heavy boots, and the low, urgent exchange of commands. They were reloading.
Grief and rage consumed her. Tears blurred her vision. She wanted to kill them all. She couldn’t hold it any longer. A battle cry, raw and full of pain, escaped her lips. Flames erupted from her hands, and she charged.
Time stopped. A brilliant flash devoured her vision, and she felt the shockwave of an explosion blast right through her. For a moment, everything was fire and light. She surrendered to the void that followed. And for a heartbeat, two, she was lost in the roar of silence.
Total silence.
When awareness crept back in, the soft caress of falling ash broke the stillness. Marzanna’s scorched coat fluttered to the ground. No longer green, but the gray of dead birch.
The room was a mess of bodies, both friend and foe. The air carried a smoky scent, thick with the iron of spilled blood. A gnawing sense of foreboding seized her then, and her veins darkened like storm clouds, pulsing with an urgency that begged release. She knew her time was running out. The inferno within could not be contained.
Not like this, Marzanna thought, the fear of her own impending combustion eclipsed by the dread of confinement. Not in here, in the smoke and the death.
Marzanna gasped for breath, her bare chest heaving with heavy sobs. Flames danced around her hands. She had saved some lives, but not the one she had needed the most. As she looked around the room, the weight of her choices—the lives she couldn’t save—bore down on her.
In the ruins, Klara lay motionless, the strength that once filled her eyes now extinguished, her fingers having relinquished their tight hold on her rifle. Not far, Lucija’s still form was propped awkwardly against a wall that failed to protect her, her fiery red hair softened by dust.
Partially concealed under a cascade of rubble, the slender barrel of Svetlana’s sniper rifle jutted out. And there, draped over the debris like a macabre tapestry, lay Tatyana Romanova. Her dress, once a symbol of elegance and power, contrasted tragically against the permanence of her stillness. Beside her, the guards lay motionless, the fierce golden guns now silent in their stiff grasp.
“Damn it,” Marzanna rasped, coughing through the smoke that clung to the air. “Not again.” The words slipped out like a habit, right and wrong blurring together under the weight of it all.
Her thoughts fractured as instinct took over. She sprang into action, the need to survive pushing everything else aside. One more dance in the snow, and after that...who knows.
Bursting into the cool of morning, Marzanna squinted as sunlight blinded her, and she heard roaring flames. Her skin tightened under daylight’s chill. Fresh air filled her lungs, a welcome relief from the harsh confines of the cathedral, though the acrid sting of smoke still coated her tongue. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the cathedral had indeed become the inferno she had hoped to avoid. Flames rose high and fierce, casting an ominous glow against the pale winter sky. Tendrils of smoke twisted and turned after them, like silent carriers of countless hidden omens, and above all the chaos, the moon hung in defiance of both God and women alike.
The frenzied shuffle of feet and rustling fabrics filled her ears as a throng of old crones, a blur of colors and expressions, surged past her. Tattered babushkas whipped in the wind, and fear deepened the lines on worn faces. In this frantic sea of movement, she was an island—still, untouched, standing apart. A beam of morning sunlight slanted across her, carving her out from the crowd. It reflected off a patch of black ice at her feet, and in that cold reflection, she saw her face—smooth, and unmarked, as if from another time. Young.
A sense of the surreal washed over her, familiar panic rising like a tide she couldn’t hold back. The shouts, the pressing urgency — hadn’t she lived this before? Everything blurred; sounds and sights melded into a dull hum. She stared at her hands, where flames had once danced, bright and fierce, but now they sputtered. Her skin, once vibrant with life, had faded, the rich hues draining. A chill crept in. Shadows flickered at the edges of her vision. She blinked hard, trying to focus, to push back the darkness. But every breath felt heavier, stretched out. The world around her hushed. And the weight of a single, endless second bore down on her chest. She couldn’t fight it anymore. Time, cold and unyielding, wrapped its grip around her, and Marzanna gave in.
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