Free Hack:Moscow by W. Len

Pravda —the Truth—steeped in a puddle. What would Luka’s wife read about this world when she comes out? Front page: will she feel pride at new Russia: more oil, more power, more everything? International News: American drones were dropping bombs in yet another Middle-Eastern country to threaten everyone who disagreed with their cowboy peace. Sports: Would she be able to figure out which oligarch owned which soccer club? Local: A polar bear at Moscow zoo was wounded with a Dragunov sniper rifle. It’s the second time someone has tried to kill it in five years. Our soldiers may be mad, everyone online joked, but you can’t doubt their tenacity. Politics: Protestors were marching at the Red Square again. Last month, I saw them, a small elderly group waving Soviet flags. A wiry old man passed me a leaflet. His one cataracted eye was cloudy and turned inwards, pining for the past. Mine is fixed on the future. When will Luka introduce his wife to me? Those were her scribbles in the books he lent me, I was certain. Her handwriting felt cozy, like a campfire. It’s a fantasy, maybe—but why shouldn’t it come true?
    On the far end of the car park, I noticed a silver-haired man kneeling beside a patchwork dog. When Anton saw me, he flung a rock that bounced down a corridor of containers and the mutt streaked after it. Anton stood up and dusted his hands when I approached. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
     
    I wasn’t expecting this.
    “He won’t find us here,” Anton said. We had walked from the car park until we were halfway across the Novospassky Bridge. “Andrei, tell me something: why are you doing this?”
    “Doing what?” I asked, trying to keep my mood from souring. His stern manner, the inquisition in his voice, dismissed everything I’d done.
    His eyes narrowed. “Working for Luka. Why?”
    “I don’t want to hear this,” I said, straining to keep my anger from my voice. What right did he have to ask me? “What’s it to you?” My voice wobbled as something ugly inside squirmed. It feasted on doubt, and I didn’t need Anton to feed it. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going.”
    He grabbed my hand and jerked me back. “I’m serious.”
    “So am I.” I snatched my hand back. “Let go.”
    “This isn’t a normal life.”
    Normal? An aged couple strolled by us as his question struck me. A normal life? The scab on my neck had crusted over. The scar, white and ugly, remained. Normal? What is normal? Family? Friends? The questions multiplied, asking more questions. Below the shadow of the bridge, I noticed a man paddling a boat, his girlfriend seated near the prow. I blinked and they disappeared. Was that normal? Did they really exist or had I imagined them? Maybe the river swallowed them. The Moskva’s edges curved around the banks like a mother’s embrace. Mother? Father? What do I have? Only whatever I can get, working alongside Luka and Anton. And now, the latter was poking holes into my life. Why?
    “Andrei, think for yourself. You have to…”
    “I don’t have to do anything. Leave me alone.”
    Anton looked away. “My brother used to say that too. Shut up, Anton, shut up! He was your age when...” Pain cracked the sentence, made him fragile. For a moment, I saw through my fog of anger, as if his pain, mingled with mine, burned, lighting up parts of his shaded past. That story he told me before: the boy killed in the football attack—it was his brother, it had to be. “…when he…” he tried again. I didn’t feel pity. Instead, I felt my anger double, and double again. Not for myself; for his sake. Moscow—this city takes something precious from everyone. And the damn river kept flowing, on and on, nonchalantly. Are we cursed here? “This isn’t about me, Andrei,” Anton said. “Luka cannot be trusted.”
    “He told me that too,” I stifled my anger, to convince Anton. “He’s not like you think. He told me not to trust anyone, including him. He’s