"This are nice, comrade, very nice," Dimitri said, smiling at the air steward. His name was Stuart. Did that make him an air Stuart? Ha. "Last times I in air was in Antonov AN-124. Not so comfys like this!"
The steward was clearly uninterested, but he said anyway, "Oh, really?"
"Da, is like fly on bus with wings. Eighty-eights passenger, drunken pilot, drunkener co-pilot and Jeep in cargo holds. Smooth ride, pitys in big circles," he said, demonstrating the circular motion with his hands, almost battering the sleeping Rasta-looking man to his right in the side of the head.
"I see."
"Nothings like this at alls. How longs to Californias, comrade?" Dimitri asked the bored man, who looked at his watch.
"We land at three-fifteen, so about an hour, sir," Stuart drawled.
"Wow, reallys? This faster thans AN-124! You nots carrying Jeeps in hold, nyet?"
"Uh, no sir, no we aren't..."
"Alrights then, this are probably whys. Can you gets me a vodka?" he asks with a grin.
The steward looked at the one he'd just brought. "But, uh, you still have this one."
"By time you walks away I will have finishes. Do you having bottles, comrade? Save times for us all."
"We sell miniatures at four dollars apiece, sir."
"Apiece! How much for all of one?"
The steward laughed. Dimitri did not. "No, seriouslys."
"Oh, uh, apiece means 'each.'"
"Oh. Whys you not say that?"
"I thought you knew that."
"It clear I did not, mutak*. Are tryings to make fool of me, eh? Fucking racist capitalist pig bastard! I fucking kill you!"
(*Russian: "asshole")
The few other passengers look over, disturbed by the racket while Stuart tries to keep the peace and avoid a scene. "Look, sir, it was an honest mistake. I'm not trying to offend you. I promise. I just assumed you'd know what I meant by 'apiece.'"
"Is dirty capitalist word, I stab to death with own spectacles if you says again. Understandings?" Dimitri growled.
"I understand and apologise, sir."
"Apolo-whats?"
"Apologise. It means--"
"I KNOW WHAT FUCKING APOLOGY IS! You thinking I not know this? I just not hearings you! Get out of face before I learning you how to fly without the plane, da?"
"Da, uh, yes sir," Stuart stammered as he backed away slowly. After turning round and walking away up the aisle, he sighed a sigh of relief.
The man who was sleeping opened an eye and looked at Dimitri. He sat upright and pushed his hoodie off himself, tucking it down beside himself in the chair. "What you have do thats for, Dimitri? You gettings us into troubles!"
"Gah, bullshits! I not get us troubles Aleksandr, just having funs," Dimitri protested. "Is probably most interestingly thing is happen to kid in months. Give him somethings to talks about!"
The dreadlocked man barked a laugh, then hiccupped. "Da, somethings to talk to therapist about after you makings him terrify for life!"
"Spoilsport, Aleks! You needs drink more, becoming miserable in old ages."
"Miserable nothings, Dimitri! You threaten to kill him, he just a kid!" argued Aleks. "Oh, what the fuck am I sayings, who cares? Hey, will he brings you that vodka? I harass hims too when he get back. Uh oh."
The man's head flopped down and his eyes closed. Dimitri blinked. It was as if he was asleep. "Aleks?"
No response.
Dimitri looked to his other side. There was a man there, he startled the Russian. "Agh! Where dids you comes from?"
The man looked to be in his mid-thirties and extremely unhappy with his life. He frowned at Dimitri and showed him his ID. "Stan Temple, US Air Marshal. Any problems I should know about, sir?"
"Me? No comrade, minding own businesses," Dimitri chuckled innocently.
"I heard the contrary, sir. Now, if you'll just like to continue the rest of the flight in a peaceful manner you won't have to do it in cuffs. Y'hear me?"
"I am hearings you."
"Good. Don't let me catch you causin' trouble again."
"Oh, you won't!"
The Marshal turned away.
"For longs," muttered Aleksandr. "So whys do we have to goes to Californias?"
"Aleks, is obvious! Prestige! Golds! Moneys! I don't really knows! All The Rick is tells me that I have to go because guy booked to fight not able to go."
"Oh, why nots?"
Dimitri shook his head. "Ah, he are deads. You remembers other month when VWF get fan letter about dead superstar?"
"Dimitri, I not remember why we having conversations. But go on," the dreadlocked man said.
"Well it letters about for Dreaded Dusky or somethings. This shit all his fault, if he nots dead then maybes we sits at home in Chicago drinkings fine vodka, eats pizza and reminisce abouts glory days of Motherland," moaned Dimitri, throwing back the glass of vodka.
"Like whats we are do every other weeks, Dimitri."
"Yeah wells..." Dimitri literally throws the vodka glass back over his shoulder, prompting a surprised cry from a passenger a few rows behind them. "Nothing goings to brings him back from beings deaded now, comrade. Inconsiderate bastard could at leasts have nominate someone else to do wrestle match insteads of me. What a motherfuckers, eh?"
"Bastard," agreed Aleks. "So what are plan? Who is to face in first match in place of lazy mutak who too deads to fight, huh?"
"Some guy called Stevie--" Dimitri began, interrupted by a noise beside him.
"I said, 'hey asshole!'" the big man that was standing there shouted.
Dimitri looked up at the large, bearded man that stood at his side, stooping down under the low ceiling. "Oh, helloes asshole, what cans I do for you?"
"You threw your fucking glass at my wife!"
"I assures you, comrade, that this are not truth."
"What the fuck!?" the man screamed in disbelief. "I fucking watched you! I fucking sat there and watched you throw that shit. Now you'd better fucking apologise or you'll be wearing your ass for a hat!"
The Air Marshal appeared behind the angry gentleman. "What's goin' on here? You again! Didn't I tell you to behave?"
"Some sense at last! Officer, this fucking Commie threw his drink at my wife!"
Dimitri and Aleksandr both turned around in their seats and saw the woman in question angrily scowling at them from a few rows back. Dimitri turned back to the husband.
"Hmm, I have something else I like to throw at wife of yours," he said.
"Ah yes, definitely the six outs of tens. I would hit it," added Aleks.
The raging husband moved in for the kill but the Marshal grabbed him. "Hey! I'll fucking kill you, fucking God-damn Eurotrash!"
"Alright, alright, seven outs of tens!" Aleks amended. "Does this qualifys for 'would plough like there are no tomorrows,' Dimitri?"
"Now that's enough!" the Marshal shouted.
Dimitri ignored him. "Nyet, that are eight. Nine is 'would hit like iron fist of Stalin' and ten is 'would needs Chinook to pull me out of that!' She are definitelys not tens."
"Ah, how coulds I forget! But what are sevens?"
"I'm warning you," the Marshal, uh, warned.
"Hmm... I think is 'would happily get into fight on plane for,' Aleks."
"Ah, I gets you comrade," replied his friend, nodding slowly. Aleksandr's fist launched past Dimitri and thumped into the angry husband's stomach, doubling him over. Dimitri smashed his knee into the man's face as he stood up, throwing a punch at the Air Marshal. The Marshal took a glancing blow to the jaw, knocking him off balance while the husband staggered and fell.
"Now whats?" Aleks shouted.
Dimitri pushed the off-balance officer over. "Run!"
The pair darted towards the front of the plane, their audience of horrified passengers simply watched them pass. Dimitri slid past an air hostess, narrowly avoiding knocking her over.
"That's an eight!"
They reached the cockpit but didn't stop running. Dimitri slams into the door... and bounces right off, landing in a heap on the floor. Aleks jumped over him to avoid standing on him and hit the door himself. He turned around and helped Dimitri to his feet.
"Fuck and hells Aleks, do doors usually nots open when you slams into them?"
"Only on TV it seem, or with ram of batterings."
"Bastard, if only we haves the ram of batterings." They looked up the aisles. The Marshal was coming. "We need plan quick!"
Behind them, the door opens and a pilot sticks his head out. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
Aleks grinned and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, pulling him out of the cockpit and throwing him onto the floor. "Quick Dimitri, get ins!"
They hurried into the cockpit and slammed the door behind them. The co-pilot turned around. "You shouldn't be back here!"
"We know!" they yelled.
* * *
"In other sports news, the brackets for the Extreme Tournament, hosted by The Experts, were announced yesterday; the competition promises to be the most violent yet. Spike Johnson, the man behind the brutal wrestling tournament..."
Draeden stopped listening to the TV and returned his attention to the large glass in front of him.
"You jus' gonna stare at that? You're meant t' drink it, so you are, not examine it," the barman complained.
Draeden had travelled further north-east to Cork since his encounter with Scorpio and Jason Blade. A blessing, as here in one of Ireland's major cities he could actually understand what the locals were saying. "I'll get there," was his eventual response.
"When? Christmas? Ha ha!"
The young man looked up to the barman and smiled. Something he had not done in some time. He took a long drink of the black stout and almost spat it back into the glass, were it not bad etiquette. It was free, after all.
"Well?"
"Nice," Draeden managed, "very nice. What is it?"
"Me own make. Called Shadowbrew," the barman proudly announced. "Cool, eh?"
"Very cool. What's in it? Is that... chocolate?"
"Agh, you guessed my secret ingredient! Don't tell no-one, alright?" The man grinned. "Not even that lassie o' yours, eh?"
"Er, no. Don't worry about it."
The two men fell silent; the barman returned to the sports pages of his newspaper and Draeden’s eyes fell upon the chocolatey Shadowbrew, his thoughts wandering to whether dying of thirst would be preferable to chocolate beer. It was likely.
His ears pricked up at the sound of his name being mentioned. He looked up to the television.
"…in a controversial mistake that has received a lot of bad press in the short time since the match was announced. Spike Johnson made the following statement to address the blunder."
The screen then showed a static image of a skinhead with a goatee and pierced ears with another voice, presumably Spike’s since it sounded like a dog eating gravel, piped in. "It has been brought to my attention that there has been an administrative error between my team at The Experts and The VWF. Draeden Darksky was booked in advance to participate in the Extreme Tournament and had not been removed from our list of participants upon his death, causing him to appear on the card for the Extreme Tournament that was published on the 12th July 2009. The card has since been amended and The VWF are sending Dimitri Sergeyevich who will fight in his place. I offer sincerest apologies to Draeden’s friends and family for any offense or upset this mistake has caused."
* * *
The trap door slammed shut behind the two Russians and they crawled along the access duct underneath the passengers’ seating area, parachutes in hand.
"Was nice of pilot mans to give us parachutes," Aleks commented. "Remember Kosovo?"
"Da, that were good times! But pilot gived us parachute because he frightened when you says you would 'wring his scrawny capitalist scum neck.' That was probablys what changed his minds for him," Dimitri said with a grin as he crawled towards the rear of the plane.
"Whats are he said to do with wheels again?"
"Override landings controls. It wills make wheels of plane drop and give us space to gets out."
"Ah yes. Times to fly again, da?"
"Indeed comrade! We should find cases too."
"Da, can’t waste all of vodkas!"
* * *
"Don't you have a key?" the Air Marshal growled at the pilot as the man banged on the cockpit door.
The lanky pilot stopped and produced a key card from under his shirt. "Oh yeah!"
The Marshal facepalmed.
* * *
The news report continued while Draeden looked on in sheer amazement. The newsreader, tidily dressed in a pinstripe suit, spoke the words Draeden had never expected to hear in the flat, matter-of-fact tone that newsreaders used in situations like this – describing deaths, accidents, tragedies. The usual.
"Draeden Darksky died in what could only be described as a 'ritual suicide' conducted in Foshan, China. He was discovered on the 4th of May this year with another man who has not yet been identified," the woman revealed.
She may have continued speaking but Draeden stopped listening. His picture was on the screen. He heard movement behind him and looked over his shoulder. Jennifer Archer stood watching the screen, a look of horror on her face. Her eyes broke away from the screen and met Draeden’s own. The barman saw this and looked to the screen, then back at Draeden.
"Fuckin' hell," he mumbled.
But Draeden and the doctor said nothing. Archer could not look away from Draeden’s face. The harsh, unbreakable expression that had covered his face over the past few weeks had faded away, all that remained was the sorrowful, hollow gaze of a man who had just learnt of his own mortality. To Draeden, it was one thing to die on your own terms and another entirely to find out that you have been killed. Slain, now, by false media coverage fed out by whatever government agency is pulling the strings in the operation he and Jessica had been part of, Draeden knew not what to do next. He could slip back into the shadows and live the rest of his life in peace... or he could clamber into the light and expose the government that condemned him to death for the sake of research.
But what would that achieve?
He saw Jessica's lips moving but heard no voice. He could hear nothing, in fact.
"Now there's something you don't hear every day," came Jack's voice, a whisper in Draeden's mind. "What do you suppose we do now? If we show our face now we'll be killed, surely. But if we don't... then we will have nothing. All that work, the fighting, the pain. For nothing. Can you live with that? I know I can. Jason Blade and Scorpio won't hold their silence forever. Sooner or later they'll talk, and they'll all find out we're alive. And then our problems will begin anew. Will you deal with that? How can you?"
Draeden ignored Jack and shook himself out of the trance he'd entered, regaining eye contact with Archer. "Wh-what?"
"I just asked if you were okay, that's all," she said, her face was the very picture of Draeden's own thoughts. "You must be... God, I don't know how you must feel right now."
"I'll live," he replied, allowing himself a humourless chuckle at the irony of that statement. "But I need to get to Chicago. Quickly."
A voice from behind Draeden made him turn slowly. "I might be able to help you out there, fella..."
Draeden's eyes narrowed on the barman.
* * *
So the two Russians made it to the cargo bay and back; they had dragged a suitcase full of vodka along with them. The two men checked each others parachutes with the military precision by which they were trained so many years ago, tugging on loose straps to secure the packs. Dimitri unzipped the case and pulled a bottle of vodka out. He unscrewed the cap and dropped it onto the landing gear hatch.
"Ready comrade?" he asked.
Aleksandr nodded.
"Then we go. Open hatch!"
"Uh, Dimitri," Aleks began carefully, "I not knowings how to do this."
"WHAT?!"
"I thoughts you were goings to do this bit."
"Shits and piss! I has not any idea! So what does we does now, Aleks? Dids you bring C4? We can blow hole in bottom of plane!"
"Uh, that nots probably good idea Dimitri. You know, make plane crash... Americans do not likes terrorisms these days."
"Fine, you thinks of somethings better!"
"Well, uh, whys don't we maybe break little doors for wheel to go outs of, then climbs out? That not makes plane crash, right?
Dimitri sighed. "You'd betters hopes not, Aleksandr!"
"Don't worry, will be fines! You just see!" Aleks promised, climbing down onto the landing gear hatch. Holding onto the wheel itself, Aleks jumped up and down, slamming his weight down on the doors. The doors began to buckle.
"Is working, Aleks!"
"Great! How are much more does you thinks it need?"
Dimitri looked at the bent doors.
"Maybe a few more time!"
"Okay!" the man said before leaping up and smashing his feet onto the doors again. "Just say whens I ..."
"Aleks!" Dimitri shouted as the small trap door burst open, Aleksandr disappearing from sight. Dimitri ran over and looked out through the hole. He could see nothing, just a small black shape slowly getting smaller. The remaining Russian crossed his arms and dropped head-first out through the hole and into the great blue sky.
* * *
Maybe this wasn't it. Maybe China was the start of a new beginning, the opening paragraph of an entirely new story.
Maybe this one will have a happier ending.
The start hadn't been too bad so far. Fairly happy, in fact. Apart from Draeden finding out that the world had been informed that he was a dead man. This occurrence had all but killed him in truth. He would've happily forgotten about everything right there and then, but three things made this impossible - Jason Blade, Scorpio and Alexandra Raikkonen. Blade and Scorpio were amazed to see him alive and Draeden now knew why, but Alex had no idea he was here. She had no clue that he was alive; as his only true friend Draeden owed it to her to let her know what was happening, in person. She had to hear the truth from him.
On the first page of this new book Draeden had washed ashore in the safest place he could possibly be. Ireland. The furthest away from any of his troubles as physically possible, given the circumstances. Another stroke of good luck. The woman who'd helped him to escape from his captors in Connecticut had survived too and, for some reason, she had stuck with him despite her better judgement. Anyone in their right mind would have run as fast and as far as possible to escape the nightmare that had followed Draeden all his life. As much as Draeden had been a creature of solitude for the majority of his life, he needed her help now more than ever, at least until he got back on his feet, and that meant going back to America.
With another turn of a page, Draeden had found himself in a peculiar little bar near Cork. He couldn't recall seeing a sign on the outside of the building, but the name of the place was irrelevant. Ciaran O'Donnell was the name of the proprietor, a young man with amazingly good business sense and an adventurous spirit. After recognising Draeden Darksky (only after he was announced dead, but whatever) he offered to sail Draeden and Archer to America on his boat. As much as this was a mighty task, Ciaran didn't seem to mind.
"I'd always wanted to go to the aul U.S. of A., y'know? Somethin' me aul man wanted to do but 'e never managed. Well I got a boat, an' not some scruffy aul fishin' boat neither," were the smiling man's words. The comment about the boat stirred anger in Draeden for some reason, but he ignored it. "Aye, I'll take you guys where you're goin', no bother. 't'll be fun."
And so it was decided. The three would leave in the morning for the States.
The thought of getting on another boat and setting off onto the Atlantic sent a chill down Draeden's spine, but he was not one to shy away from that which scared him to his core, not anymore. He had stared death in the face, felt the icy touch of skeletal hands closing about his own to lead him into the next world, beyond Earth, Ayreon and Kartheon, and whatever else existed on this plane. No, he was going somewhere else, but not yet. Death had been denied this prize, the one it had sought for so long - Draeden Darksky. The unkillable Crusader of Sacrifice. It was a bit early to be saying things like that, too early at 25 years of age. He reminded himself to look back upon this moment if he ever saw 50 to maybe speak that thought out loud. Maybe then he'd get away with it. If he didn't it wouldn't matter so much, then. No need to tempt Fate, that particular demon would please itself regardless of what he said.
Well not this time.
* * *
By now, Jane Rice thought she'd seen everything. As a news photographer she had come into contact with a lot of unusual sights and, naturally, she had taken pictures of them. But this..? Well this just took the biscuit.
A steady flow of dripping clear liquid fell from the suitcase. Jane had allowed some to drop onto her hand. She smelt it.
"Petrol?"
Kennedy Park's visitors had gathered around the bizarre but amusing sight, though none of them seemed inclined to investigate further, excluding Jane. She had thought that the people would have rushed to help the two men, but she herself wasn't sure what to think. They both appeared to be asleep. They certainly weren't dead, as the one with the suitcase kept muttering about 'destroying the capitalist scum' and the other lifted the empty bottle he clutched to his face and tried to drink from it.
Maybe sleep was what they needed.
Whatever. The important question that bounced around in Jane's mind was why these two men were hanging from a tree by their parachutes.
* * *
Standing on the rickety wooden dock, Draeden looked out towards the sea and scratched his stubbly head. He hoped it wouldn't be long before the hair grew back, this look was not him. The waves crashed against the sea wall behind him as the wind accosted him with unending vigour. Draeden ignored the great ocean's threat to him. If this boat were to sink then he'd simply have to walk the rest of the way across the sea bed. Nothing was going to stop him from reaching his goals.
Alexandra Raikkonen.
And the Extreme Tournament.
