Chapter Text
“when i decided to wage holy war, it looked very much like staring down at my bedroom floor…”
you never know what you have until it’s gone.
fyodor dostoevsky knew this as well, simply adjacent to the fact presented on one’s doorstep as a dying bird.
none know how cold winter is after the loss of the sun. it shall never rise above the horizon,
her lovely form of a woman pulling herself out of the bath, the horizon a rose tint.
he had just lain in sight his trap, that which he sprung forth to catch a sinner in his grasp.
a greedy man.
an arrogant man,
father to many, friend to none.
the children stand before him singing their praises in holy white to the devil.
his long, slender fingers, dig deeper into the plush hat he holds in his grasp, as so the wind generated by cars speeding by the road does not knock it off.
his eyes furrow when a an unidentified no one brushes past him.
one of his hands is bare, hidden in a long white sleeve, the other holds his hat, covered in lambskin gloves.
the other is still moving, fast past him, a fish following the river’s current. he knows they brushed hands, can swear he still feels their pinky tracing a shaky line across the back of his hand, yet as he turns to follow them,
no blood bursts forth, painting the street in garb of a macramé devil. he turns on his heel,
clicking sounds as he now, follows this unknown variable. their hair sways with the motion of back and forth walking, unaware of a predator that follows them in snow and in grey filth.
the other stops to push a rusting iron key into an equally unused lock, in a piss yellow building, the color chipping off with age to reveal white bones. he slides quietly into an alleyway before the filthy building, grey and brown molding creeping up cracks in the wall.
the shuffling sound of him producing forth a cigarette to light, puffing circular clouds of tobaco smoke to the heavens above, a mirage of an offering to his lord above.
he pockets the packet of cigarettes to replace with a flip phone, which he flicks open with a smooth, practiced twist of his wrist.
“sigma.” his voice vibrates through the phone.
“yes? fyodor?” the other’s voice is quiet, soft against a backdrop of quiet mutterings and glass clinking against poker chips. the casino no doubt, is busy again this time of year.
“i need you to do some reasearch for me. 1826 and karamazov street.” he puffs another cloud of grey cigarette smoke while waiting for a response he knows all too well will follow like a wolf to deer.
“yes fyodor.” sigma sighs, breathy and the syllables drawn out.
he flicks the flip phone closed when the line chimes dead, with the same practiced technical ease. he pushes the butt of his cigarette into the wall and drops its burnt out corpse to squash under his heel.