Chapter Text
BANG!
I wake up from a loud bang somewhere outside my window. Grab my phone (an android with a chipped screen if you care), checking for notifications. "BALI" says one of them. Bali-my-ass. The word does not denote a tropical destination, not anymore. Bali is short for "ballistic missile", which to spare you the technical details, means death and destruction. That's life in Ukraine for you - even under fire, we still crack jokes to stay sane.
The notification came from one of the war-monitors chats, run informally by volunteers to alert the population of the incoming dangers. This missile, by the sound of it, has been successfully downed by our Air Defence (may their pillows be soft ), so I lock my screen and cover my head with my duvet. I've been sleeping in my hoosie on top of a beanie hat, but it's still too cold like that. They say sleeping in a cold bedroom is good for your cardiovascular health; they can go fuck themselves. Яussia timed it perfectly, of course. Waited for when it's subzero temperatures in both Celsius and Fahrenheit outside and started methodically bombing heat station after heat station, leaving us stranded in cold concrete boxes.
Unable to fall back to sleep, I stumble out of my blankets, walk past my door with a boys-band poster on it, and head to the kitchen, hoping for a cup of hot tea and knowing I will not find it there. Everything in our building runs on electricity, and since it's gone - there will be no hot tea to drink, hot water to wash my hair (chestnut brown and hidden in a bun under my beanie for the reason of being dirty) , any water to brush my teeth (that are naturally white and even), and no stove to make me an omelette (I'm past that youthful point where one can survive on snacks and drinks).
"Oh, you're up. Get your things." My mom. Always so blunt.
"Wha-? We're not going to the shelter, are we?"
You would assume that during air raids, civilians go to the predefined locations known as bomb shelters, where they will be safe. But this isn't WW2 anymore. The bombs have grown bigger, and so did the houses. Our has 20 floors and by the time it takes us to safely descend, any self-respecting bomb will already be at our door. Or roof. Or window. They both also are more electrical now. Bombs use chips to navigate directly to residential buildings, and buildings use electricity for... literally everything these days. Heating to keep the building at livable temp and the pipes from exploding (if you ever put a bottled drink in the freezer, you know what happens); the energy to power the stove or kettle (no gas stove allowed this high, I'm afraid) and electricity to charge the laptop and do some work or at least your phone to be able to check for safety updates from local authorities. That being said, I should explain why am I still living with my mom at the ripe age of 25? Good question. After the full-scale invasion that Яussia launched a couple of years ago, the prices skyrocketed. We're lucky we still have a functioning economy, but, boy, is life hard these days. I rented a cheap room in the central area of Kyiv, the capital, and worked as a barista in one of them cool coffee places, but at some point just couldn't afford that anymore. So there I am, in my childhood room, with all my teenage hobbies still proudly displayed on the walls and shelves.
Realistically, our only option would be to just chill at the first floor knowing that should your building get hit, we'll be buried under 10-15 floors of apartments above.
"No-" Before she finishes her sentence, there's a knock at our door.
"Who might that be" I grumble, moving to the door. The electricity is out, and our doorbell doesn't work. Maybe our neighbor needs something? This old lady doesn't have the knees to walk the stairs up-and down 20 floors with our lift not working either.
I open the door, and standing there is... not the neighbor.
I blink. "And you are?.."
"Horry Stoyles."