Fallout || Stranger Things [2]

ten || spirits and spit

The cold was bitter.

It chewed through deep iron support beams nestled in the earth, humming underneath concrete floors with a threatening layer of frost. It moved its way up, merciless as it crept up legs and into beds, weeding through layer after layer until it struck skin.

That was where it loved to be.

The cold craved a warm companion, desperate to burrow deep where it felt safe.

Dr. Zharkov paid no notice to the chill biting at his heels, nestled under dense layers as his feet thundered down a frost-bitten hall. He twirled a pen with one hand and carried a clipboard with the other, cheeks still rosy from the space heater that kept his office above freezing.

Although the guard following behind him was not quite as warm, his wool socks and fluffy hat were more than the men and women in cages could claim.

Since the turn of October in their long-forgotten part of the world, the experiments had been given crude layers to beat the cold but torn long johns and potato sack blankets were hardly a step up.

After the death of 019, not from power exertion but from the cold, Zharkov had called for more blankets.

Just enough to keep them alive, but not enough to get their hopes up.

At this point, Zharkov believed having a guard with him to be unnecessary. No one had tried to fight their way out for over a month. Their energy and hope had died long ago.

Zharkov rapped a fist three times on a heavy door marked 015, taking a large step back to allow the guard to tap into the secure lock panel.

A young man no older than twenty-five sat quietly on his small bed, the blanket around his shoulders doing little for the perpetual goosebumps that lined his skin. His eyes were green, but they had dimmed since his arrival to Kamchatka in early August.

His reason for imprisonment?

Forgetting to pay for an apple in the market outside his home in Kiev, one of which he knew he'd paid for.

But he had been watched carefully by the government for weeks. At his small home with his fiancée. At his job at the children's sports club. Days in, nights out.

If it hadn't been an apple, it would have been for something else.

The government always got what it wanted, and they wanted him. He was promising.

To the rest of the world, Orlo Kovalenko died on July 28th in a single car collision on his way home from coaching a soccer match.

He wished he had died.

He wished for it every day, but the threats of his fiancée's life were enough to keep him from finding a way to end it.

"Good afternoon, fifteen," Zharkov greeted flatly, lifting the clipboard to his chest as he stood in the doorway of the tiny cell.

"My name is still Orlo," he told the war doctor as he always did. Twice a week, every week.

Zharkov hummed in reply, beady eyes staring from behind large glasses. He waved a finger in Orlo's direction, a lifted brow getting the message across. "Begin."

Orlo sighed softly, moving once close-cropped dark hair from his eyes as he sat up straighter and shed the blanket.

Zharkov noted the experiment's temperament as 015 closed their eyes, the improvement welcome.