Babushka: Shadows of Betrayal (Book 2) - Chapter 5 - Roman
Roman navigates the crumbling streets of the Derge, uncovering truths about betrayal and loss. As alliances form and scars resurface, he finds himself drawn into a fight for justice.
The wind sang a mournful tune as it wove through the craggy streets of the Derge. Sunlight rarely touched this forsaken part of the world, and the buildings, hewn from stone and metal, bore the brunt of time and neglect. The air was thick with the scent of oil, burning wood, and the indefinable musk of a city that had forgotten its glory days.
Roman navigated the narrow alleyways, his boots crunching on gravel and discarded tech trash. Children played with old circuit boards, their fingers stained with soot and grease. To his left, a woman haggled over the price of a rusted solar panel, her voice sharp as she called after her kids to follow her home. Everywhere he looked, the Derge was a mosaic of survival, grit, and the will to keep moving forward.
The distant heartland of Gred emerged through the fog on the horizon, its towers gleaming faintly. To him, these structures were like distant stars, their neon lights a blur in the night sky. He imagined the elite there, their lives marked by the buzz of drones delivering luxuries. The Derge, in its shadow, was a forgotten child, bearing the weight of progress on its frail shoulders. But it was home to Roman. And he loved it with a fierceness that sometimes surprised even him.
“Roman!” A voice called out, pulling him from his thoughts. It was Miran, a friend who had stood by his side ever since Roman had made his move from free Esso to the bleak confines of this ruin. Miran’s greeting was followed by his usual, twinkling question about the day’s gossip, his arms awkwardly balancing a load of scrap beneath them. “Heard some whisper-tales syodnya?” Heard any good rumours today?
Adjusting to the Russian-English creole spoken by the youth in the Derge had been a challenge for Roman since leaving Esso. He found some comfort in the memory that this hybrid language mirrored the complexity of his own identity, torn between the city that had rejected him and the language of his grandmother, a beacon of academia.
“Eh, Roman, you with me, or your head stuck in clouds syodnya?” Miran’s question anchored him back to the immediacy of their crumbling city.
Roman grinned, clapping Miran on the back. Miran almost fell. “Same old noise-talk, da?” He leaned in, ensuring that only Miran would hear. “Talk goes, Yelena naming herself Director. Now Gred only under her rule.”
“Yelena? From Board? I thinking she just play, like others, in their big game,” Miran said.
“She play, da, but not their play. She trick all, whole Board gone, every step is hers. So my inside man in Vory says,” Roman said.
“Vory, da?” Miran said.
Roman watched Miran closely, his old friend’s face tightening as he seemed to digest the full weight of the situation.
“Then for Gred, the game not finish. Just start, yes? She wanting Derge next, no?”
“True-said. She not stop with just Gred. Wanting all places. And not peace she bring, but chains,” Roman said.
Miran leaned in closer. “What we doing?”
Roman looked around, his gaze lingering on the faces of his people. Their struggles, their dreams, the weight of their histories—all of it rested on his shoulders now. “We ready up,” he whispered.
∆∆∆
As the day ebbed into the gentle close of twilight, the streets of the Derge began to shimmer with the warm glow of lanterns, and the air filled with the comforting murmur of voices exchanging stories and weaving hopes. From his rooftop vantage, Roman’s gaze swept across the city below, life pulsating with raw energy in the soft embrace of the evening’s first shadows.
As night settled, a light breeze brushed Roman’s face, a soothing contrast to the day’s razor-sharp winds. A combination of scents wafted up to him— smoky tendrils from cooking fires, the tang of woodsmoke and resin, and the deep, earthy smell inherent to a city that was always awake. Always on edge, waiting for the next punishment meted out by their superiors—the matrons in Gred.
And yet, life persisted. It clung stubbornly to the cracks, finding moments of joy and defiance in even the harshest conditions. Sounds of life reached his ears from the streets below: the distant hum of communal conversations, the carefree laughter of children chasing the moons, and the mournful notes of a balalaika completing a private symphony.
Roman knew this place like the back of his hand—the maze of narrow alleyways, the makeshift homes pieced together from whatever materials were at hand, the bustling marketplaces that kept their community alive. From the rumors and secondhand tales of Gred’s opulent halls, he imagined only boardrooms and ballrooms, steeped in intrigue, splendor, and violence. Yet the golden light of countless lanterns flickered here too—not as a display of wealth, but as a testament to their spirit of endurance.
Descending from the rooftop, Roman made his way through the winding streets toward The Hopping Lark, an inn as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. It was the hub of the neighborhood, a place where the clink of glasses and hearty laughter provided a nightly escape from the day’s toil.
The inn’s wooden door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit interior brimming with life, a mosaic of faces—some weathered, some wide-eyed, all immersed in the ebb and flow of conversation that filled the space. Soft melodies from a corner guitarist wove through the chatter, reminiscent of evenings Roman spent with close friends, where tales flowed as freely as the beer. Greeted by the innkeeper, a stout woman with a broad smile and a no-nonsense demeanor, Roman nodded in familiar recognition, comfortable in the lively bustle of his second home.
“Evening, Roman,” she said, pouring him a drink without waiting for his order. “You have look, like many thinks heavy you carry.”
Roman took the drink gratefully, savoring the burn of the local brew. “Just walking step with times, Lysa,” he said, then his expression sobered as he glanced around the room. “Seems like wind of change, she blow.”
Lysa leaned in, and she whispered, “Listen to traders chatter earlier. Whisper-tale goes Yelena has big plans. Derge might not escape touch.”
Roman’s grip tightened around his drink. “Whisper-tales speak, where once three tyrants stand, now one alone. Just time question before she gaze our side.”
A shadow passed over Lysa’s face. “People hold hope, Roman. They think maybe she brings betterment, richness. But as my baba say, she lived long, she know change not always come kind.”
He nodded, deep in thought. “Derge my dom, Lysa.” The Derge is my home, Lysa... “I not stand silent watch it fall wrong hands. I been gather force, make plan. We need ready up.”
Lysa looked at him, admiration in her eyes. “Always guard, da? Just remember, big fight not always with sword and gun, but with word and friends.”
Roman nodded, his focus drawn away as Ervin, a man whose rugged, weathered face bore the deep lines of wisdom and reticence, signaled him from a nearby table.
Ervin was the leader of the Silver Tacticians, and a Grand Councilman. His eyes, still alight with a spark of defiance despite his advanced age, had seen their share of battles, both physical and political, in the Tarasov Quarter where he was revered as an elder.
Throughout their years of acquaintance, Roman had come to understand Ervin’s economy of words; a master locksmith, capable of deciphering the most complex mechanisms with mere whispers and turns, he now applied the same precision and deliberation to his speech.
“My old friend,” Ervin said. “There’s something you should know.”
“I’m listening,” Roman said. Roman always appreciated speaking with Ervin and the other elders; their less harsh accents and clear articulation reminded him of the way his grandmother spoke—a welcome echo of the old world that felt increasingly rare.
Ervin leaned in closer. “You remember when they promised our men freedom, a chance to fight for a better future?”
Roman nodded, recalling the passionate speeches and the hope that had been kindled in the hearts of many.
“It was all a ruse,” Ervin’s voice dropped low, the words sharp with the sting of betrayal.
Roman’s memory of the emissary’s proclamations was vivid, but even as the others had been swept up in the fervor of the Coven’s promises, he had stood apart. He recalled how, on that same day, fate had pulled him in a different direction. Just as the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, painting the Derge in fiery hues, a cry for help had echoed through the streets. An orphanage, a refuge for Gred’s few castaway children left in the Derge to die, many grappling with mutations or disabilities, had tragically caught fire.
His decision had been instinctive, the pull to aid the innocent overpowering any draw to the promises of this mysterious cult. As he had fought his way through smoke and flame to carry out the children, one fragile life at a time, the Coven’s gathering had become a distant murmur.
Now, as Ervin’s revelation hung between them, a chilling thought crept into Roman’s mind. Had the fire been an accident, or a diversion? Was it possible that the same hands that promised freedom had lit the match to ensure not all would follow?
He kept his face neutral, giving nothing away as he turned inward, pondering the connections. Could it be that his act of heroism was not just a matter of being in the right place at the right time, but rather, that it had saved him from a more sinister fate?
Ervin’s voice brought Roman sharply back to the present, a harsh whisper that cut through the smoky air of the inn. “But as time passed, the truth emerged in the most gruesome of ways. They weren’t led to training camps or secret councils, Roman. They were herded into the bowels of the earth, where the Coven’s true nature was laid bare. Our brothers, they...they were butchered in rituals, not one vision they were sold bore truth.”
Ervin’s gaze, usually a bastion of steadfastness, now flickered with the struggle to contain his emotions. “There’s something else, Roman, something grievous about the fate of our women,” he paused, his next words seeming to hesitate on the edge of a precipice. “It was Jarek who survived to tell the tale, one of the scant few who slipped through the Coven’s grasp, who spoke of the terror they unleashed.”
Roman steeled himself against the tide of foreboding that Ervin’s demeanor promised. As Ervin let out a ragged breath, his voice betrayed a tremble that Roman had never heard before. “You’ve seen how our women stand tall—pillars of courage in our midst. But the Coven...they took that strength and twisted it. Gave them some vile new concoction that transformed them inside out, turning them into unwilling martyrs, igniting themselves against the Syndicate’s enemies.”
Ervin let out a heavy sigh, and his voice, when he spoke, was full of sorrow. “The land is scarred,” he murmured, “a charred testament to their sacrifice. But it’s the children, Roman—the children whose mothers were turned into pyres. They bear scars we cannot see, wounds deep in their hearts. That is the true nightmare, one that will haunt us for generations.”
“They were taken from us, used in the worst possible way. It wasn’t martyrdom, Ervin. It was a heinous act of betrayal and cruelty. We owe it to their memory to make things right.”
Ervin nodded. “We will, Roman. Together, we’ll ensure that the Derge rises once more.”
Taking a deep breath, Roman clenched his fists. “The Coven will pay for what they’ve done.”
Ervin looked toward the inn’s entrance, his gaze distant. “There’s someone you must meet. Someone who can give you a firsthand account of the Coven’s treachery.” He motioned for Roman to follow and led him outside.
The inn’s door groaned open, and a sharp gust of icy wind cut through, making him shiver. Stepping outside, he cast his gaze over the Tarasov Quarter, its devastation a far cry from its heyday. Among the wreckage of old homes and shops, a glint caught Roman’s eye—an old solar panel, half-buried in snow, its once gleaming surface now scratched and dulled.
Ervin glanced at the panel, a touch of reverence in his tone. “Anatoly really dreamed big for us, didn’t he? Before...everything turned upside down.”
Roman’s response came with a low chuckle, tinged with bitterness. “Yeah, Pra Deda Anatoly... He was the glue holding the Board together. But you know how it is—too much ambition in one room and things are bound to explode.” He kicked at a stone. “They didn’t just push him out; they wiped out his entire line. As if he and his kin were just stains they needed to clean.”
Ervin let out a laugh, though it held little humor. “In a place where a single seed can mean life or death, Anatoly sure had a way of planting hope, didn’t he? Too bad the others couldn’t see past their dry cunts.”
The streets told the tale of that betrayal. Buildings lay in ruins, their structures a dirge to the wrath unleashed upon the Tarasovs. Here and there, remnants of the avatar—a proud lion with an electric mane—could be seen, though most had been defaced or worn away by time.
The chilling wind carried with it the whispers of that once-great family, a mournful lament for glory lost. With each step, Roman felt the echoes of history, the heavy presence of promises broken, and dreams dashed beneath the tide of conflict.
Steering through the maze of narrow alleyways, they moved with purpose, Ervin guiding the way through a labyrinth only he seemed to understand. They halted before a weathered door tucked away from prying eyes. Ervin tapped a series of rhythmic knocks against the wood, a coded signal known only to allies, then pushed the door open.
The delicate scent of burning sage touched Roman’s senses as he stepped into the room. His eyes roamed over shelves laden with the wisdom of old books and the secrets of dried herbs, each object steeped in the quiet history of the place. There, against the far wall, hung a tapestry that had dulled with the passage of time, yet its depiction of Manas, the warrior of Siberian legend, remained vibrant. As Roman’s gaze settled on the image of this hero atop his horse, there was a quiet recognition in his eyes, a moment where past and present seemed to find each other.
In the far corner of the room, where shadows tangled with the meager light, a figure in a wheelchair emerged from the dimness. As Roman’s eyes grew accustomed to the flickering candles, the contours of a face came into view—one marked by time and a stark scar that sliced through the calm of her expression. He took in her stillness, the ghost of her former vitality, before recognition dawned. “Elara?” The name was but a whisper torn from his throat. The indomitable spirit he had known, a force that once seemed untameable, now sat quiet and subdued before him.
Ervin’s voice lowered, the words coming with a difficulty that Roman could hear and feel. “The serum... It did something to her, gave her a kind of strength that didn’t seem natural.” Roman watched as Ervin hesitated, his throat working as if the next words pained him to speak. “But then...the side effects started to show.”
Ervin’s gait slowed as he neared a curtain that shrouded the corner behind Elara. His reach was deliberate, his hands trembling slightly as they grasped the fabric—thick and drab. With a solemn draw, the material whispered along its rod, revealing the bed beyond. There, against white of the linens—a cruel contrast to the tragedy they veiled—was the still form of a woman, Elara’s legacy.
Its face, frozen in a pockmarked scowl, bore the marks of a life abruptly and violently extinguished. The cruel kiss of flame and ash had ravaged her face, the face Roman remembered delivering flowers across the city, now etched with deep lines of suffering, and rendered hauntingly unrecognizable.
Beside the bed, a cradle stood hauntingly empty. “Here lies the hope Elara bore,” Ervin’s voice cracked, weighted with sorrow. “Her daughter, and within her, a life yet to bloom—both ravaged by the Coven’s vile hand, delivered back to us as a message etched in seared flesh and suffering.”
As Roman surveyed the scene before him, a surge of anger welled up, tightening his chest with an all too familiar pain. It was a feeling that harkened back to a harrowing time in his life when a merciless plague had ravaged his quarter. The indiscriminate shadow of death had then, just as now, swept over the young and old alike, leaving a trail of grief and helplessness in its wake.
He could still feel the dreadful weight of his younger brother’s lifeless form in his arms, snatched away by an ailment with no known remedy. And though just miles away, the denizens of Gred basked in eternal life, untouched and untroubled by the specter of death that haunted the less fortunate. That same sense of injustice, the stinging ache of being powerless to protect the ones he cherished, resurfaced with a searing intensity as he beheld the tragic fate that had befallen Elara’s family.
Elara’s eyes met Roman’s, not just with a flicker of anger but with the searing flame of a mother’s fury, intensified by an unfathomable loss. “The Coven—they sold dreams of power, an illusion of greatness. But their gift was a curse wrapped in treachery,” her words were laced with bitterness, each syllable dripping with the venom of betrayal. “I stood as their champion, their indomitable force. A mere month ago, I could vault from earth to ether, tear through the black steel of those snarling predators like a tempest. And now?” Her hand swept across her lifeless legs, the aftermath of the serum’s vile deceit. “This paralysis is a mere echo of my anguish. They not only crippled my body but slaughtered my family,” she hissed “My daughter, my unborn grandchild—snuffed out, their future stolen. This is a silence more deafening than the roar of any battle I’ve ever faced.”
Roman knelt beside her, his voice a low promise. “They’ve kindled a war, Elara. This fight...it’s ours as much as it is yours. Their shadows will cower under our coming storm.”
Elara’s grip on his arm was a spark that defied her otherwise frail form. “Believe in that fury, Roman. Let it be the wind at your back. The Coven must answer to the thunder of our justice.”
Ervin’s nod was a silent drumbeat. “We carry more than vengeance, Roman. We carry a future where the Derge rises from the ashes, where fear is a distant memory. This is our creed, our souls’ cry for the dawn.”
Roman’s fists tightened, his resolve hardening into iron. “By the blood we’ve spilled and the tears we’ve shed, they’ll rue the day they woke the wrath of the Derge. For every heart they’ve broken, we will shatter their dreams a thousandfold.”
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