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Endeavours on his life were nothing new. As such a high profile energy scientist working for the Fatui on one of their top secret, super-important projects, Mitya was more than used to assassination attempts. His current record stood at four separate attempts in one week, each by different people (as he was told; once he was whisked away to safety, he personally neglected all further information). He was not emotionally impacted by any of them. Physically, his injuries had ranged from grazed bullet wounds to large, bloody gashes that trapped him in the infirmary for days. Not even an uncomfortable bed or the constant attention from varying doctors and nurses could keep him pinned there, however, as he took every single opportunity to sneak away. He even managed to gather himself into Korolevskiy Theatre, though he was turned away at the door by Alyosha, who took one look at Mitya’s pale complexion and insisted he needed bedrest more than opera.
Thanks to his personal attendant, Mitya had not been fatally injured. Glued to his side, Major Valeriy intercepted each attempt with impeccable ease. He cursed and fussed incessantly each time he had been a little too late and Mitya sustained injuries. His worry would have been touching if Mitya was not aware of their professional arrangement. It was his job to save him, so he did. And there was nothing beyond that.
Still, Mitya found himself anticipating being in the care of a stronger, more capable man. It felt nice, having such an attendant, as if he were truly that important. How many scientists could attest that they had a personal, terrifying bodyguard who was also surprisingly considerate—sometimes edging beyond a strictly servile relationship? Not many, Mitya assumed—mainly because it warmed his heart to feel special.
There was nothing remarkable about this day. Mitya was in the lab, hovering over a nervous intern. Interns were always nervous around him. At first he thought it was because of his rank, but he quickly discovered that it was his personality instead. Mitya could jump through a thousand topics in a minute, and students found it hard to follow his process. He frequently got overexcited and nudged smaller interns out of the way so he could get in on the action himself. His interns often could not even find him when he went on his ‘inspiration-fueled escapades.’ They had yet to learn his typical spots, nor was there any room in their brains to slot that information inside as they still had to process everything Mitya had ‘taught’ them that day. Not like he minded; the less people who knew his whereabouts, the better.
A faint creaking sound rumbled out in the silence between them. “Adjust that valve,” Mitya instructed. “You’re applying too much pressure.”
The intern mumbled an apology and scrambled to fix his mistake. He seemed distracted. Mitya did not dare mention it. Not only did he have no leg to stand on in that area, but he also despised getting involved in his fellow scientists’ personal affairs. Being nosy often led to more diversions. Every problem Mitya was privy to, he became obsessed with fixing, even if he did not necessarily want to. It was one of the several irritating things about his brain that other people often expressed distaste for as well. He had to spare himself of intimate conversations like that in order to get any work done, which, infamously, was already difficult enough.
The intern—Mitya was not even sure of his name, he realized—went back to organizing the colorful vials on their stands. He did the busywork slowly with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was not even consciously commanding his body, just performing tasks in an automated state. Mitya wondered if his earlier rants about ticket costs and his preferred seating at the opera had spurred the kid to stop listening to him, deciding he had nothing of value to say. The scientist felt annoyed at this thought. His interns were meant to learn from him, not tune him out completely like he was a boring professor.
“So,” Mitya started, masking his frustration with a friendly smile, “what academy did you come from? I’m quite friendly with a few local professors. Perhaps I know your mentor?” The intern glanced at him without turning his head. Mitya suddenly felt like he was being scrutinized.
“You wouldn’t know him,” the intern said plainly. Mitya waited. He offered nothing further.
The scientist could not help but sigh. His higher ups always sent him the most boring people. It was as if they were trying to balance out his own chaos by placing someone so utterly dreary beside him that their disinterest would kill any desire for excitement in Mitya’s system. Unfortunately for them, he was undeterred. A boring intern was often more fun to crack than one who meekly bended to his whims. They put up more of a challenge.
“Not local, then? That’s all right. I’m sure wherever you’re from was splendid.”
The statement seemed to draw a sort of ire from them. Mitya was not sure why. Perhaps he was already briefed on the head scientist’s eccentricity and preemptively hated him for it. He could not blame him for it, truthfully, but it stung nevertheless. His lab partners could not even let him make his own impressions? Did they really have to tear it to shreds before it even reached Mitya’s desk, rendering his argument pointless? He forced his smile a bit further, but the young man’s eyes were still full of contempt. He did not tear away until Mitya laughed awkwardly, desperately trying to clear the air of whatever tension he was emanating. He did not look at Mitya for the rest of the day.
That night, as he finished up in his own office, he loudly complained about the whole interaction to his bodyguard.
“I think my new intern wants me dead,” he sighed dramatically, stuffing a few loose notes into a worn folder. Several similar sets of notes littered his entire desk. Valeriy had offered to help him tidy, but Mitya insisted on organizing them himself. He liked knowing for a fact where everything was, even if he forgot promptly after.
Valeriy raised an eyebrow at this sentiment, likely taking it for sole theatrics. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, he seemed really annoyed the whole time. He would barely even look at or talk to me… Even if I asked what I did to offend him, he would ignore it like I never said it!” Mitya had not realized how much the event bothered him until he put it into a rant. At the time, it seemed a minor inconvenience, one he would have to tough out for about a month and then file away forever. Why would Mitya get worked up about an intern, anyway? They were rarely permanent. Something about this particular one made it difficult for him to move on from, like there was something deeper to his resentment.
His attendant did not seem to share this opinion. “You were likely just too much for him to handle. He’s not the first one to behave this way, is he?”
He was not, truthfully. Interns placed with the head scientist often opted for total silence because it was easier than getting wrapped up in the storm that was Mitya. He stopped taking it personally a while ago. Still, he occasionally would feel something heavier than anxiety coming from his interns. Sometimes it was just anger. Other times it was thinly-veiled murderous intent. Though frightening, it often amounted to nothing, but that would not stop it from worming its way into Mitya’s head and making him fret over it.
Mitya frowned. “You’re not taking a potential threat to my life seriously?” He meant it to be teasing, but a taste of sincerity fell off his tongue. What if this truly was someone seeking to hurt him and nobody believed him before it was too late? If not even his personal bodyguard could see it, what did that mean for Mitya’s wellbeing?
Ever so slightly, Valeriy softened his gaze. He tried to keep changes in his expressions minimal, but frequent exposure made Mitya a pro at spotting and deciphering them. The major was considering it, even if only for Mitya’s sense of ease. “If you truly think that’s what it is,” Valeriy assured, “I will look into it.”
Mitya turned to his desk. He spotted a hefty stack of half-filed reports in the corner. He was not looking forward to sorting through that on his own. Weighing his options, what was an only potential threat compared to an obviously grating yet miniscule task? There was an obvious winner.
“No,” Mitya decided. “You’re right. It’s probably nothing… I could use your help in here, though?”
Valeriy followed the scientist’s gaze, coming upon the paperwork. He exhaled deeply.
“Fine. Let us make haste.”
Nearly a week had passed since Slava’s introduction. Mitya discovered his name only in passing, listening to a conversation between some of the other interns of the same batch. They described him as intense, secretive, and a little obsessive. Mitya just observed one. Slava would either downright ignore or vaguely answer any personal questions the energy scientist fired at him. “Are your parents good people?” was combatted with, “They are just like anyone else’s.” “What’s your go-to vacation spot?” was met with a deadpan, “I don’t have vacations.” An exasperated, “Are you even a real person?” was expectedly met with complete silence.
His complaints to Valeriy persisted. Each day seemed to bring him something new to be irritated by. The major listened—likely because he was required to. But Mitya began to notice that he payed a little more attention to his words as he went on. He seemed to sort through each scrap of information as Mitya told it to him, scrutinizing it for something. If he was, he stayed quiet about it.
It was nearly nine p.m., and Mitya was alone in the lab with Slava. The rest of the researchers were sent home hours ago. Mitya had attempted to dismiss Slava along with them, but the intern insisted he had something he needed to take care of first. It was disquieting, to say the least, to be completely alone with this kid. Hearing descriptions of him made Mitya’s skin prickle a little bit. Not necessarily with fear—just unease. He was so reserved that Mitya often had zero clue what he was feeling or what was going on inside his head, and that was terrifying to someone so obsessed with answers.
He was performing the standard lockup procedures while Slava did whatever he needed to do. He found himself hurrying, wanting to be rid of this uncomfortable situation as soon as possible. Plus, he wanted to be ready to leave by the time Valeriy arrived to escort him. The soldier was full of lectures on puncutality, and this night in particular was one Mitya did not need further tarnished. He was so close to home that he could practically smell the yellowed paper of old science notes sprawled across his desk. So close he could feel the warmth of his comfy quarters already.
The door creaked open to the section of the lab Mitya was closing up. It opened slowly, hesitantly, as if it were trying not to be heard. However, Mitya could not hear much else in the stark, empty laboratory, save for the soft hum of automated machinery. “Slava?” he spoke into the space. His voice carried the faintest echo with it. “I’m finishing up in here. You can go ahead.”
Eventually, the door opened fully. Slava did not seem to hear him. At least, if he did, he didn’t care. He stalked into the room anyway. He almost looked as if he were hiding something behind his back, but the angle he carried himself at mostly suggested it was just his posture. If Mitya did not know any better, that’s what he would have assumed.
Unease quickly shifted into full-blown anxiety. Slava met him in a few, long strides, professionally closing the distance. “Mister Mitya,” he said. He spat Mister with a sort of venom that would have scalded Mitya were he any closer. The head scientist’s feet did not move despite the warning signs. Where would he go, anyway? Slava was in the way of the exit. He would have to maneuver around him to escape, and he was confident that would not be a simple feat.
Mitya forced his heartbeat to steady. He fixed the ‘intern’ with one of his best disarming smiles. Perhaps indifference would deter him in place of force. Not like Mitya was known for his force.
“It won’t be wise to kill me now, you know,” he said simply. “Major Valeriy will arrive at any moment.”
Slava sneered, the arm behind his back tensing instead of relaxing. “Your knight in shining armour?”
“Yes. You’ll promptly be caught, likely executed. Is my life worth all that trouble?”
Truly, he knew that for some people, it absolutely was. There were plenty of people who wanted him dead; Mitya had been exposed to practically every gripe under the sun. Just about anything could drive someone desperate to murder. He would never understand them, he knew, and so he stopped trying. None of it would impact his life meaningfully unless they were successful. And if they were successful… Well, Mitya would not be around anymore to care.
Slava would not look directly at him, but his resolve did not shake. Instead of focusing on the scientist’s playful gaze, he seemed to prioritize his method of execution, scrutinizing points of Mitya’s mortal body to find a way to cause the most damage. He did not want to wait for him to find it.
“You need to atone,” Slava stated gravely. “Do you ever think about the impact of these projects on regular people? Does it even cross your mind at all?!”
Mitya sighed, exasperated. “Would any of my answers deter you?”
“No.”
“Then why waste any more time? Honestly, I’d think you want to be caught and tried.”
Rage further consumed Slava’s dark, piercing eyes. He was trembling now, getting himself worked up all on his own. Mitya was preparing another taunt when he finally revealed the object behind his back: a long, curved dagger so sharp it cut against the air when he swung it into view. It was thin enough that he could easily conceal it upon entry, but still dangerous enough to get the job done. Mitya did not have time to admire it.
Slava was upon him in a flash. Instead of going straight ahead with his weapon, he swung with his open hand, connecting brutally with the energy scientist’s jaw. He stumbled back, blood already filling his mouth. The impact forced him to bite down hard enough on his tongue to draw blood. Mitya instinctively slapped a hand over his mouth to cradle the wound. This movement only further exposed him, as Slava stabbed forward with the knife towards his open chest.
Mitya gasped as the blade entered his chest. Immediately, he felt all strength leave him, especially as Slava ruthlessly tore the blade out of his chest just as quick as it had entered. The scientist collapsed onto his knees in front of his assassin. It was not the first time Mitya had been stabbed, but that never made it any easier. He could never get accustomed to the heavy ache that seemed to take over every inch of his body, the lightheadedness that quickly followed the immense blood loss, or the desperate spasms of his limbs as his body fought against him for survival. Blood soaked past the hand he covered the wound with, rendering it ineffective. Mitya’s vision began to blur, but he could distantly hear the sound of Slava spitting on the ground beside him and his quick, frantic footsteps as he made his escape, leaving Mitya to become a corpse in the cold, empty lab.
Mitya shifted backwards, propping his increasingly limp body against the closest wall. He did not remember the time, nor did he keep track of how much time passed. His eyelids became heavy. Every small movement was incredibly laborious and painful. He began to consider: how bad would it truly be to die? If he just perished here, the cleanup crew would likely dispose of his body without any apprehension. He would be replaced, gradually forgotten, as all dead scientists were. What was the point of struggle when the outcome was the same?
That was not fully true, Mitya realized. Valeriy was coming. How long had he been bleeding out there now? Surely, his bodyguard would arrive soon. He would save him. Mitya did not have to die here, unceremoniously, on a dirty laboratory floor. No, his death would be more spectacular than that—Valeriy would make sure of it.
Minutes or hours passed; Mitya could not tell anymore. The only sound that filled the space was his own unstable breathing, and it grew more and more shallow every second. How much longer would he have to wait until it ceased entirely? What would it even feel like to be completely rid of oxygen? Would he stay conscious long enough to analyze the sensation and write it down for later? Likely not, but the thought was amusing enough to shine a sliver of light on his grim situation.
Eventually, he heard the door open. His savior had arrived.
“Mitya, are you in here?” Valeriy asked the seemingly empty space. It was not unlike Mitya to hide from him in his own lab, anyway. This time, the scientist’s intentions were not solely selfish.
“Over here.”
His voice sounded worse than he hoped it would. It was raspy and heavy as he forced it past his need for air. The blood that had gathered inside his mouth was slowly dripping out of the sides, and it made it sound like he was speaking with a mouth full of syrup. Valeriy must have heard the change in demeanor, as his strides quickened to find Mitya in the abandoned room.
When he came upon him, he heard Valeriy suck in a breath. “Archons…”
Mitya pushed himself to sit up straight. It was a difficult motion, and every bone in his body ached in protest, but he forced his face into a smile rather than a grimace, aimed directly at his bodyguard. He was sure he looked ridiculous—blood smeared all over his lips, his body twitching in pain involuntarily—but for some odd reason, picking on Valeriy seemed to take priority over his own dignity.
“I’ve… certainly looked better, haven’t I, Sarge?”
Mitya could not directly see Valeriy’s expression behind his blurred vision, yet he could still guess it was anything but approving. “Who did this?”
“My intern, Slava. Probably not his real name.”
“Where did he go?”
Mitya tried to shrug. His entire body screamed at him for it, starting at his wound, and he could not stop the pained whimper before it left his lips. “Ran off. I don’t know where.”
The soldier was kneeling beside him. Mitya had not caught the movement, but it was impossible not to feel those stern, violet eyes on him, assessing him, processing his condition way faster than Mitya could ever explain it to him. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary. It made Mitya nervous. Valeriy had an annoying habit of seeing something noteworthy and deciding it was actually not worth mentioning.
“It’s just a stab wound, Sarge,” Mitya said playfully. “No need to look so worried. I feel just fine.”
“You feel fine?”
“Perfect. Splendid, even. I’ve never felt better.”
“Mitya.”
The humor faded out of Mitya’s body just as quickly as it had arrived. He was no stranger to Valeriy’s sterner voices, but this one was filled with something heavier than annoyance: genuine concern. It slipped out sometimes, but the major was usually better at concealing it behind something more obvious, like frustration. Even if he did not hide it, Mitya often wrote it off as emotions created by his sense of duty rather than something as unbefitting as affection. Valeriy’s duty required him to care, and it was only that.
Mitya could not muster the strength to fight him any longer. The smile faded off his face as quickly as his skin had paled due to blood loss. The hand covering his most vital wound was nothing more than a thin barrier at this point, as all the pressure he was putting into it progressively disappeared, too. His other hand was already limp in his lap. He used it to vaguely reach in the soldier’s direction, but his intentions were clear nonetheless.
“Just… take me to a doctor.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Mitya felt strong hands wrap around his shoulders and underneath his knees. Valeriy lifted him off the ground, bridal style, with very little effort. Mitya did not struggle. Not that he wanted to. His body was almost entirely limp in Valeriy’s grasp. He couldn’t help but smile again. He thought about how pleasant it would be to just die like that, in someone else’s protective arms. On the ground, it was lonely. Cold. There were no tender arms around him, no firm chest to lay his head against. It was an unfit resting place. Here, Mitya was content enough to cross over just like that. If his last memories of life were being cradled against someone who cared enough to hold him—even if that care was tied to duty—then he would say he had a pretty great life.
Valeriy noticed his giddy expression. His eyebrows knit together in concern. Then, as if trying to convince himself, he softly stated, “You’ll be fine, kotik.”
If Mitya were not so disoriented, he’d have teased him relentlessly for the endearment.