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The days feel muggy now, the sun’s heat doubly smothering for a man dressed for Russian winters. Vasily has stripped what he can from himself, replacing his thicker clothing with thinner, lighter gear purchased from a nearby store. He’s ditched his hat in favor of tying back his flyaway hair. Still, the sun beats down and effortlessly pulls sweat from his nape. Vasily is a cold-natured man, and the farther south they travel, the less the weather agrees with his tendencies.
It’s noon when they call it quits for the moment, everyone sweating through their garb. Asirpa collapses in a heap and Sugimoto slowly lowers himself into a sit against the broad trunk of a tree. They pass the water around; Vasily refuses with a shake of his head and then turns, facing outward instead.
When he shows Sugimoto a small drawing of a deer, Sugimoto wipes the water dripping from his mouth and says, “Oh, yeah. We are running low on meat, aren’t we?”
Vasily comprehends enough that when Sugimoto starts to stand, he knows it’s an attempt to join him on the hunt; quickly, Vasily drops to a crouch and holds up a single finger, pokes himself in the chest, and then crosses both index fingers at Sugimoto in an x for no.
Sugimoto narrows his eyes at him in bemusement, so Vasily hastily sketches himself, and a deer, and Sugimoto’s distinct face. Sugimoto says, “Hey, that’s me,” and then says, much less piqued, “Oh,” when Vasily scribbles through him.
Leaving Sugimoto and the rest to their naps in the sun, Vasily wanders.
Despite his unfamiliar environment, he’s far from directionless. He’s tracked men through woods more dense than these, in the harshest days and over the coldest nights. Keeping his attention sharp so he is able to double back to their little camp without becoming lost is nothing.
With his rifle over his shoulder, Vasily checks the ground for signs of prey. He steps quietly. He takes care. If he scares one, he scares them all, and while the girl might be content enough with squirrel meat, Vasily enjoys the challenge of aiming higher.
The sun shines a little brighter through the leaves and brush. Vasily slows his already slow pace, recognizing that there must be a clearing ahead. He catches sight of a small meadow between breaks in the trees, and a flash of brown – a single deer. There’s little birdsong to accompany the sight. Vasily corrects himself: there’s no birdsong at all. The heat should not have driven the game away, not yet.
His nape prickling, Vasily takes his position. He readies his rifle. He braces for the shot.
Bang!
The deer drops, but Vasily doesn’t even have his finger on the trigger yet.
Vasily calculates the location of the other sniper, sliding behind a tree to stay hidden. Whoever has stolen his kill is an expert marksman. The bullet punctured the animal’s face, rather than ruining its pelt or organs, so they must know what they’re doing. The sniper must be located on high ground to his right as well, giving them better line of sight over the meadow…and what surrounds it. Something feels too familiar about the shot, but Vasily is more concerned with survival than sleuthing for the moment.
With the distance traveled, Vasily believes he’s too far away for Sugimoto and the others to have heard the shot. No one will track him down. No one will seek him out. This is between himself and the other hunter.
The air is heavy and still. Sweat drips down his nape. Vasily peeks around the tree; no one has dared tread out to claim their kill.
A good sniper knows when they’re alone. A better sniper knows when they’re not.
Vasily’s only advantage is that he heard the direction of the shot fired; every other advantage belongs to whoever else is here. He’s had worse odds before, but he’s unwilling to engage in a fight that will put him at such steep risk. There are things he hasn’t yet finished here.
Finally, he hears the crunch of leaves beneath boots, the measured step of someone too aware of their surroundings. Vasily doesn’t dare peek until he hears the steps pass by his tree, and then the absence of leaves crunching altogether. The other sniper has crossed into the meadow.
Vasily spares a look, then spots the glare of a rifle pointed his way.
He ducks right back behind the tree, the other sniper’s shot snapping a generous chunk of bark off of the trunk as it strikes. Vasily silently swears a long string of curses, wielding his rifle once more.
Now he has no advantages at all, and if he’s right about what he saw, it’s Ogata standing there in the meadow.
Anger does absolutely nothing to help a sniper. Anger is for the hot-headed. Anger does not make shots more accurate. Anger does not make the trigger pull any more smooth. Anger does not make the visuals through the sights any cleaner. Anger does the opposite of all of these things, and it’s lucky then that Vasily is not angry.
Vasily is vengeful. And revenge is terribly, blissfully cold.
When Vasily pokes his head outwards again, this time on the other side of his tree so as to not be shot instantly, he comes face to face with Ogata himself.
Vasily hadn’t even heard the brush of a branch against clothes, or the slightest crack of a stick beneath his boots. The sheer quiet of it is unsettling alone, but the way Ogata stares at him, one eye unblinking, his rifle not even ready – though it’s there, Vasily sees it, cradled in his arm –
And that’s worse.
Ogata stays where he is, seeming almost pensive if not for the careless way he runs his hand through his hair. “This is troublesome,” he says, as if Vasily is a minor inconvenience he’s stumbled upon and not someone who fully intends to make an attempt on his life.
Vasily raises his rifle, but they’re within bayonet distance from one another. This isn’t what he wants. He sees his frustration mirrored when Ogata still does not bother raising his weapon at all. Ogata knows he won’t fire on him. Not like this.
That, too, feels like an insult. Vasily exhales sharply, the breath captured beneath his mask.
Neither so much as blink at each other.
“You know,” Ogata says, “you really shouldn’t be alive.”
Vasily nods. In fact, if the roles were reversed, he is certain that he would share Ogata’s thoughts. But from the other side, Vasily thinks the opposite. It is Ogata’s responsibility that he is alive. He should have aimed higher if he intended to kill him, or shot him twice to be entirely sure. Leaving Vasily crippled, but still with the faculties to hunt him? That was Ogata’s first mistake. Even so, Vasily does not expect he’ll make another.
Ogata’s eye flickers with a hint of life. “But I left you with the memory. Your mask…that shot shattered your jaw, didn’t it?” He points his index finger out as well as his thumb, then traces the line of his own chin upwards with his fingertip, only hovering briefly over his suture scars.
Vasily’s gaze lingers on those scars. He’s had Ogata’s features embossed into his mind since the first moment he’d seen him through his sights, and since then, he’s drawn a hundred thousand images until he was confident he’d gotten him right. He only made one mistake: the bandages around his other eye…
Shame that Vasily isn’t the reason for them.
Ogata, if he notices Vasily’s intense attention, gives no sign. He drops his hand, but not before tilting his head at him.
“So my bullet shattered your jaw, and then what?” Ogata asks, intent.
He steps closer; Vasily does not move.
“Did you nearly choke on your own blood? Did you swallow your teeth?”
Another step – within arms’ reach now. Vasily stares at him.
“Who dragged you back to a doctor, with all your allies dead? How did you admit to your inferiority?”
Vasily’s hand tightens on his rifle. Ogata leans in, nearly closing the space; he must be uncomfortable, Vasily thinks. Any sniper would be. Distance is key. Isolation is as natural as life itself. This is all wrong.
Ogata presses forward, all the way into Vasily’s space. Unafraid but certainly unsure, Vasily stays completely still. He sees nothing reflected in Ogata’s half-lidded, disinterested expression. He looks, for all the world, as if he is completely lax with his actions. Vasily cannot say the same for himself; he’s never been so alert outside of aiming.
“Can I see it?” Ogata asks.
He really is an excellent sniper, Vasily thinks.
As still and as quiet as the world around them, all creatures seeking reprieve from the heat of the day, Vasily watches Ogata remove one glove. Ogata releases a long sigh, flexing his fingers as if the feeling has been lost in the tips of them. Vasily looks from his mouth to his eye, but his apathetic gaze is dark despite the upward hook of his mouth. His smile doesn’t reach.
With his still-gloved fingers, Ogata pinches the corner of Vasily’s mask and draws it to the side, tugging it away from its hold. Vasily doesn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching.
“Mm. I see.” Ogata does not sound pleased, nor does he sound displeased.
Vasily knows what he’s studying so sharply; the line of his jaw is marred beyond recognition. There’s a curl to his lip now that appears to be a scowl but is really his flesh’s attempt at reclaiming its ruined shape. The skin of his cheek is shallow now, more so than before, and he can’t quite open his mouth the same. His tongue was beyond saving.
Ogata discovers this all piece-by-piece. First he cups Vasily’s cheek with his bare palm. Then, he curls his curious fingers around Vasily’s jaw entirely, prying his mouth open as wide as it will go.
“Ah.”
It’s a whisper of a sound from Ogata, barely noticeable, but it is the way someone would react upon unearthing something particularly delightful. Ogata sticks a finger between Vasily’s parted lips. Vasily’s eyes flash; he has enough teeth left to bite, but Ogata withdraws quicker than Vasily can clamp down on the intrusion. There’s a chuckle, and then a sigh. Ogata pats his cheek, digs his thumb into the scar tissue there.
For one moment, Vasily feels as if it is only seconds after that shock of impact, the tear of his flesh beneath the hot metal ripping through his face. Maybe it’s the sun, the blistering heat. Maybe it’s the way Ogata watches him as if he’s seeing him down the sight of a rifle, even though they’re mere inches apart. For that one suspended, singular moment, Vasily knows if he blinks that he will see red.
So he does not blink.
Ogata’s thumbnail presses into his skin and Vasily finally twitches with that insistent reminder of agony. Ogata chases that reaction – he’s set his own rifle against the tree, between some words or another, and uses his free hand to smack Vasily’s arm down when he attempts to raise his gun in defiance. Vasily’s gun remains there, and they wrestle unarmed. It could be Ogata who drags Vasily into the leaf litter, or it could be Vasily who pulls Ogata to the dirt, but they end up on the ground, fighting for purchase, regardless of who got them there. Vasily has bulk, but Ogata keeps his grip on Vasily’s jaw like a man possessed, and when he shoves his thumb harder against the already abused skin of Vasily’s cheek —
It’s too much. Vasily’s vision flashes white and whatever small growl of a noise he makes is lost between them. Ogata keeps his weight over him, pinning him to the ground, one hand holding his hair to pull his head to the right angle, the other with his thumb still against Vasily’s cheek. The pressure so great that Vasily wonders deliriously if his thumb won’t puncture through entirely.
“You really shouldn’t be alive,” Ogata repeats, hushed. His breath washes over Vasily’s uncovered face, soft, plying. Like it is a wondrous and fateful thing to now have the opportunity to see the fruits of his labor, lain out like this in the woods.
A good sniper knows better. A good sniper knows that there is no such thing as wonder, and no such thing as fate. Only stark realities and bloodspill driven home in metal and trigger pulls.
Vasily snaps his hand up and shoves his own thumb against Ogata’s bandaged eye. The bandage gives easily, his thumb sinking right into the wounded hole as if a perfect fit.
Ogata reels back, and this grants Vasily enough of an opening to snatch his rifle up again with the intent to land a hard blow on the side of Ogata’s head. Ogata must have the same idea, and he must impossibly have more composure about him, because Vasily feels a stunning burst of pain before everything goes dark.
Some time later, Vasily comes to. He is not stupid enough to throw himself to his feet immediately, so he looks around without moving. Ogata’s nowhere to be seen. The sun is still high in the sky. Birds chirp nearby now; that’s a good sign pointing towards solitude. And, taking stock of himself, he appears to be completely well, no wounds and no harm, aside from his headache. He would be surprised, if not for the fact that he knows Ogata intimately. There’s precious few ways to get to know somebody so well as to have their bullet pass through your face.
Vasily slowly, shakily stands. His gun remains where it fell before, and he picks up the rifle with a weary grip. Rubbing his head, he realizes too late that his mask has been pinned back in place perfectly correctly, as if it had never been removed at all.
After some consideration, he peeks around the trees and into the clearing. The deer remains, too. Not a thing has touched it.
Vasily has always been more of a dog person.