9Dear You, Dedushka
A/N: Took me a long time. I'm sorry for taking this long. I remember promising back in 2016 that I would update and hopefully conclude this. Now it's 2020, nine years since I started this story. A lot has changed since I started. I witnessed the rise and fall of Call of Duty and with it the fanfiction. Many authors have eventually left the site to move on with their lives, leaving their unfinished fics to gather dust, or in some cases have died. Some of these, my first friends on this site, have set me up on this amatuer writing hobby which I feel passionate about, have long since gone silent. In a sense I failed because I could not get my chapters fast enough for you guys. I don't blame you if you moved on from this. But if you do stick around or come back to this, thank you.
If you wondered why I'm still writing, I don't exactly know. Maybe I just don't know when to give up.
Dedicated to Elred Bluegreen, Solarius Scorch, Rpgingmaster, Hwikek, Spyash2, Miz-KTakase, superstarultra, and Watanagashi-hen. Their guidance and friendship helped me on this path.
Disclaimer: Higurashi no Naku Koro ni is property of 07th Expansion. No copyright infringement intended. Call of Duty: Black Ops is property of Treyarch published by Activision. A fan work, no copywrite infringement intended.
Dear You, Dedushka
Reznov uneasily put on his clothes. He wasn't uneasy because of his lack of motor power to his legs. He had enough practice changing clothes on his own, with the help of a nurse who taught him how to overcome with that impediment. He was grateful for her assistance but was embarrassed, only wives, he believed, are the only women husbands ask for help from for wearing their clothes. Sadly, his own wife had passed away, believing her husband dead and tried to get their daughter to safety, away from the claws of Dragovich.
No, he was uneasy because he had no idea how to break the news to Rena, the revelation that he was her grandfather and how she would react. A thousand things ran through his mind as he agonized over what to say. His thoughts were filled with everything about his life until this point. He wondered if nearing a destination was the hardest, most excited part of a journey. Will one be ready to accept the end? What if it's not? More importantly, how will she react to the truth?
As he adjusted his tie his mind wandered to could have been: he was performing the same ritual, only standing tall on both feet and in better health, his wife telling him to hurry and he replying that he only needing a moment to finish. The occasion was a play being performed at the Bolshoi, penned by an award-winning playwright, they have booth tickets to which was awarded to him for beating the deadline in the factory he worked in. He wouldn't be alone. Dmitri and his own wife will meet them. The children are either asleep or putting to sleep... and his daughter - a proper woman raised - bidding them good bye as they walked through the cold yet wonderfully refreshing winter night, snow falling sedately over them like petals which added to the warmth and magic of the moment. He could smell the scent of fresh hot bread from a bakery. The street lights glow brilliantly. The militsiya making their beats on the street in a jovial manner. No one wandering the streets clumsily after a drink too many for their own good. They would talk pleasant things, things that most people would care about, like workplace gossip, town gossip and the like. Then they would enter the theater, checking their coats, taking their sits, await the play in anticipation. Then they be greeted with a once-in-a-lifetime performance with star actors, making the evening pass magically into midnight, and the many autographs to be had after the show from the actors and crew. And everyone retires for the night, walking home as if in a dream basking in the snow.
Such an evening for friends. How it would have been for him and everyone, dear friends and dear loves. Such would be magical scene to remember, something to tell his children and grandchildren. What should have been.
A knock on the door took him out of his revelry. "Reznov, are you ready?" asked Mason through the door.
"Almost, tovarisch," he replied, "it may take a few seconds." Reznov hurried up with his dressing. "I just need to straighten my tie."
"Do you need any help?" the former Marine asked thoughtfully.
"No, Mason, I'm fine." He finally finished. "I still have my hands, you know." He deftly spun on his wheelchair and reached for the door, opening it. Alex Mason stood in at the ready.
"Ready to go, Reznov?"
"I've been ready for many things, Alex. I should face my granddaughter now. The fact is I'm only ready for the journey and not for where it will end." Reznov was anxious, his heart fluttering, a strong heart that beats into his body and soul, sustaining him through the darkest periods of his life, the Great Patriotic War, his incarceration in that hellhole Vorkuta, his wandering in the wilderness in the forgotten, dark and remote corners of the world, the world of shadows they inhabit.
The former Marine had a thin smile. "Trust me, Reznov. You'll know what to do when you meet here. We never thought our prison riot would succeed back in '62. Should be easy."
"I've spent living my life dangerously since 1942. Living through German shell and bullet, of the cold and disease, of rotting in that hole in Vorkuta, hiding in the shadows throughout the world like rats." His eyes stared away into a world, another world, where his memories parade in front of him. "Any memories I have of any moment of peace I had are far-flung places, ghosts in my mind. How can she see a nomad as her grandfather?"
Mason understood what he meant. He never saw his own son since the last time they met at Barrow, Alaska. "Just like in Vorkuta, the plan never would have took off without a leap of faith. And one good friend behind my back." He paused. "I've got your back in this one, just as you got mine, and I have faith in you that can do this right."
The grizzled old Russian closed his eyes in comfort, nodding in acknowledging Mason's support. "Thank you, my friend." He had to trust in his friend, just he trusted him twenty-one years ago. With that they both left the room. Reznov would have wanted to linger on about what could've been, the terrors of war or State Security will not be allowed to mar his hopeful daydream but reality still ensued. It had to be faced.
The trip to Hinamizawa was a pleasant drive from the town of Okonomiya. The Japanese countryside in the summer was a scenic vista, the greenery of the rice paddies, meadows, and the trees made the land a shimmering emerald carpet under the bright azure sky. Japan never failed to amaze, starting out from Tokyo to Osaka to Gifu, the country didn't cease to astound them in spite of the tension of their sojourn. The road to Hinamizawa was nothing like they've been through so far, almost like some dream. On their drive out of Gifu the city simply disappeared the farther they went. Okonomiya was a gateway to another world, like Chiang Mai, the northern Thai city that led to strife-torn northern Burma or Peshawar, the first step into Soviet-occupied Afghanistan. A few tips from the locals helped narrow down the route to Hinamizawa.
The ride through the less crowded mountain road was simply magical. There was no tension, no danger, no threat. It could all be because as all of the men have officially made their peace with Washington D.C. yet it couldn't account for the halcyon-like calm they felt, the tranquility as they were surrounded by trees made verdant under the summer sky. The chirping of the cicadas in the air proclaimed that life bloomed and the car's engine simply thrummed peaceably as they rolled on the pavement, as if acknowledging the serenity of this land. All that was missing was turning down the windows to feel the summer breeze which swayed the trees. That was not allowed. The dark-tinted glass windows were what shielded them from observation and possible ambush, just as they shielded them from the sun's harsh glare. The car's air conditioning was what kept them comfortably cool in spite of the mercury spiking during this time of day.
"Reminds you of the Central Highlands, doesn't it?" asked Mason, eyes longingly out on his side of the car.
"Yeah, it does," replied Woods. "And freakin' Laos too."
"Does this sight bother you, Woods?" Reznov asked.
"A little too close for comfort for me." Woods looked out, starting to feel the tinge of humidity in an otherwise cool mountain summer. The former SOG operative had eyes on the greenery, the reflex acquired from Vietnam, together with accompanying tension as he felt eyes from the brush.
Reznov knew better than to ask. The Central Highlands of Vietnam was one area of operations Woods participated in. He had been left to his own hell after the war, trapped by the communists, who have tried - and failed - wring information out of him. Tried to break him but failed.
The peaceful ride was coming to an end, they knew, as the village drew closer with every recognizable landmark along the way marking their progress. The intoxicating calm was steadily giving way to reality, like waves breaking against the shore. Reznov felt the moment of truth was coming, yet he wasn't ready.
The sedan's gentle purring as it rolled through the dirt road seemed tame. Upon seeing the village it felt like a sepia-toned photo capturing a family's last summer vacation. Hudson slowed down, pulling to a curb and adjusted for parking. It felt like they've just made landfall.
The car's arrival had drawn the club's attention. They all gathered quickly on the Overlook.
They watched the sedan pullover into the entrance of the village, which later disgorged its occupants. They were astounded to see the men: Westerners. The driver had a close-cropped blond hair and wore shades. He strangely looked old-fashion with his tie and short-sleeved white buttoned shirt. Was he a missionary or something? The man from the passenger seat was much more colorful with his dark, trimmed beard and his leather pirate eyepatch. He looked hard as hell and dressed in what looked like a field jacket. The two men in the rear were a case study in similarities and contrasts: both have stubble in their faces, more of a fashion choice, a poor one at that, rather than neglect of appearance, dark-haired but the man from the right-hand rear seat was more bland, friendly even with his blue shirt on khaki outdoorsman vest in contrast to his companion on the left, whose looks, body language, and bomber jacket said "hardass".
"Mion, does your grandma owe anyone money?" Keiichi asked. It sounded facetious but it's not.
"I have no idea," Mion replied, curious, if wary about what these men were for. The biggest surprise came after Khaki Vest opened the trunk and picked a wheelchair. He and Bomber Jacket helped the fifth occupant of the car. He was an old man, hair and beard graying, face wrinkled with age. He wore a black suit, they noticed as the two men assisted him into his wheelchair. They thought them dressed little too formal. They've never seen such an odd collection of individuals arrive in such an innocuous manner. It's rather unsettling, as traces of barely-remembered bad memories threatened to surface like whales in their mind. "What's their business here?"
"Whatever business they have, they better keep it out of here," muttered Shion, her glances unfriendly at the intentions of the strange party.
"What do they want?" All eyes turned to the speaker, Rena. Her eyes focused on the men from the car with a longing and intensity she seldom displayed. Rika was the first to notice and she felt something gnawing out of the pit of her stomach. She was worried all those buried memories would come out to the fore. Rika herself felt like her body was made of lead as she watched the men take stock of their surroundings. Who are these strangers? Why have they come to Hinamizawa? Has everything they worked for have come to naught? Was their happiness just dust in the wind?
"Hey, Rika." That voice. Satoko was calling to her. "Why don't we all go to your place?" The shrine maiden was grateful for her friend's disturbance for she felt like sinking in mud with her mind filling with dark speculations, thoughts of self-rebuke over her breaking of cycles.
"Think we should just leave," Satoshi suggested. "It might all be nothing we should worry about." Everyone turned to Satoshi with doubtful eyes.
"Are you sure?" Mion asked.
"Yes, I believe it best that your grandmother handle this matter." The boy's suggestion made a hell a lot of sense. There's no affair too small for the Sonozakis to know about.
It was strange to hear from the first victim among their clique to be advocating his persecutor's wisdom. But that rift was literally eons ago.
"So Reznov, what now?" Mason asked as he marveled at the Japanese village. Around him, the first thing he noticed were the roofs. They had thatched straw instead of ceramic tiles prevalent across the rest of the country. The village had both a sense of age and timelessness, Hinamizawa was more or less locked in time. This was far away from the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, or even Gifu City. It was nothing like the town. It was nestled in the forests, surrounded by mountains. A retreat at the edge of civilization, offering refuge to those jaded by it.
"Think we need to brush up our introductions," Woods suggested. "I think a surprise would be pretty heavy for... what's-her-name."
"Rena! It's Rena!" Reznov snapped.
Woods, one of the most brawny sonofabitches Mason has ever known, nearly jumped at the Stalingrad veteran's retort. A man who boisterous as he was trigger-happy, someone who started his fair share of bar brawls, some for the mission, and others just for fun, had been put in his place by a man who survived the slaughterhouse known as the Eastern Front. The former Marine captain suppressed a chuckle.
"Okay, Rena," Woods placated. "Take it easy, old geezer."
"You do well to remember that." Reznov sat in his chair and proceeded to wheel himself around forward. Together with Mason and Woods they broke off into one group while Hudson and Weaver went by another direction, towards the Sonozaki Mansion.
Rika had a vantage point from the trees as she watched the men split apart. She can't be in two places at once, she thought. She watched them diverge, the old man on the wheelchair accompanied by the bestubbled men, while Shirt-and-Tie and Eyepatch took the path that led them to the Sonazaki mansion. They can handle those two coming their way. She went off to shadow the trio, confident that the most powerful house of the village can deal with the other two men. She was curious as to the intentions of the group, especially as she believed to revolve around the man on the wheelchair. She had no way of gauging whether this would bode well for the world she fought so hard to build.
"Hanyuu, I need you to follow Misters Suit Tie and Eyepatch to the mansion." Most people would have dismissed a child talking to thin air as simply having an imaginary friend. But Rika clearly had company who was neither imaginary nor simply friend, merely family only she can see. "I need you to observe whatever business they have over there."
"Alright," her spiritual companion said promptly. Hanyuu looked at Rika, eyes brimming with concern. "Be careful, Rika. If things take a wrong turn..."
Rika simply closed her eyes and smiled. "When have I not been careful?" A million lives lived and died had given her a wry sense of humor.
It was a quite moment Hudson had with the old matriarch of the village, Oryo Sonozaki. He researched all there was to know about her. The current head of one of the "Three Great Houses" of Hinamizawa, its actual head wielding true power compared to the figurehead, Kimiyoshi. The Sonozaki Family ran a profitable numbers racket, laundering their cash behind respectable businesses owned in both the town and Gifu City. They weren't into extortion, narcotics, loansharking, gunrunning, prostitution, fencing, and union and political corruption. This kept them out of the limelight. Oryo was made head at the age of sixteen, inheriting the house after striking gold during the black market trade in food and medicine during and after the war. While continuing with the black market deals, she moved on to the postwar construction boom, siphoning contracts from competitors in the business, receiving protection money in return for not sabotaging construction equipment or harassing employees - or getting paid by others to do so on their competitors - writing creative fiction in their construction contracts and income tax returns. In the 60s, she sold off her construction company, then established her lucrative gambling business and keeping them that way with her army of enforcers. Now they're engaging in cassette-tape piracy of movies and music.
"You have arrived, I was not expecting you to come at least for a day," she greeted.
"Likewise, today has been a favorable one for me. Which is why I make haste this afternoon. I hope I don't bother you."
"Ah, not at all, eh..."
"My name is Jason Hudson." There was no sense using their aliases anymore for they have come to terms with the CIA and Washington. He would have used the alias Virgil.
"And my name's Grigori Weaver," procaimed Weaver.
"It's actually a rare opportunity to receive a visit from Westerners. Would like to sit down, Misters Hudson and Weaver?"
They agreed and were lead inside, following the elder Sonozaki into the manor's salon. They all sat down and await tea service.
"So, what is your interest, Mr. Hudson?" the aged woman asked, a woman who lived through seven decades of her country's 20th century history.
"About our arrangement," replied the CIA agent.
"Ah, yes, you said you have a man looking for relations here in this village. I might help as I know most of the families in this area."
"I do appreciate the assistance. Thank you, Sonozaki-sama," Hudson intoned graciously.
"I also recall your side interest on the phone," she added. "You are researching into folklore, I believe."
"Yes, it is," Hudson admitted. His cover for entering the village was a literature professor researching local and regional Japanese would only spring their true intent to her after laying some rappourt and that was before they and CIA made amends. Still, this village, which narrowly avoided genocide at the hands of a central government that they despised and whose bureaucrats and cronies behind it despise them in turn, had lore that set them apart from the rest of the country. "Where can I start?"
Reznov was out looking at the river, marveling at the beauty before him. Clear waters thawed from the mountains by the summer heat bubbled down mirroring the early afternoon sun's rays. Set against this was the dark, shining greenery of the forest undergrowth beneath emerald canopy that stood proudly in the summer sun. The bed of the river was floored with stones worn smooth for millennia by the waxing, waning, and raging of the waters.
This scene would have charmed and inspired painters, lovers, seekers of solitude, and hikers. It both calmed and stirred his soul as a swirl of images of better, happier moments from his life danced - his father's sweet music regaling the air of their apartment, nights at the pub with dear friends and future sweetheart -the woman destined to be his wife, his friendship with Dmitri throughout the duration of the Great Patriotic War since Stalingrad, their marriage, the news of his wife with child and that of her birth, spending the end of the war with Dmitri as he rested in the field hospital, his recovery which brought so much joy. And then there was the hope of returning home as demobilization drawn near after occupation duty.
Those beautiful memories, none of the sorrow and bitterness was allowed to intrude. Yet they came, threatening to flood his mind with despair and pain. But something came to him as his eyes looked on in the forest.
"Mason...," he whispered. The American who kept him sinking into the all-consuming blackness of Vorkuta. The one companion who helped him overcome the loss of Dmitri in that Arctic hellhole. The man who made freedom possible - for both of them.
"Yes, Viktor?" Mason hunched over to his side.
"This place... is beautiful." He was almost breathless.
Woods threw another rock, which skipped the surface. Reznov recalled skipping rocks across the Volga's surface. When was that? Sixty years ago? The past was so far back that it was another country. That lineage of those memories of his had been cut at the Arctic Circle, which had him live through the purgatory that is Vorkuta.
"You're right, this a swell gig," Woods said. "No one coming out of the bush to whack you."
"You gotta have it to Japan to have a place like this," Mason added.
"Yeah... shit..." A thought lit in Woods's mind. "You think the Japs will come after us here?" He knew that their little escapade of destroying their covert, illegal biological weapons program, wouldn't go unnoticed.
"I don't think they'll touch us, unless they want their dirty little secret in the New York Times." Mason sounded confident.
"You think their government will allow for that?" Reznov asked.
"That information is far devastating to them than a thousand nukes, they have so much to loose," the ex-Marine captain added. "It's like a game of chicken: the loser is the first off the road."
"I remember you told me about this 'game' of chicken, Mason," Reznov grunted. "What possesses your youth to do something so reckless, for all the material prosperity and sacrifice in blood their parents gave in stamping fascism?" Looks like he didn't get Rebel Without A Cause.
"Sometimes, some of us needed to find our way in the world on our own." Those words were spoken softly, like Mason was recalling memories of his own. "The paths maybe set but it's up to us to walk them or blaze a new path."
Those words struck a chord in Reznov. After the tragedy in the Arctic, his world came crashing down on him. Russia, the Red Army, Communism, almost everything that mattered betrayed him. Before Mason, the hope of seeing his wife and daughter were the only guiding lights that began an odyssey that he unknowingly embarked, a path that was only set when Mason entered his life.
He nodded. "Yes, indeed it's true."
It was then a girl appeared from the upper bank. Reznov turned his head and caught sight of her blue eyes and red hair. Those were features peculiar to him. It's her! he thought. How should I tell her the truth?
"Good afternoon," she chirped in a sunny voice. "What brings you all here?"
Woods and Mason were almost startled by this. They turned to her, as she lilted slightly back and forth eagerly awaiting their answer.
"Good afternoon," the two veterans said in awkward unison.
They shared a thought: Could this be her? Her features are unmistakable. What suprised them was her carefree bearing. Her demeanor was rather forward and welcoming than was the norm in the country. Looks like our job here is cut out for us.
Rena was slightly rocking at the balls of her feet, wanting to meet these strangers. Hinamizawa may draw crowds during the festival but it was days away.
"I saw all of you coming in to our village," she added. "Rena would like to know." Her eyes full of wonder and unafraid.
The two men looked rather uncomfortable, no one, it seemed from what she could see, was ever so forward in their welcome towards them.
The friendly-looking man cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, miss. We came here for a visit." Rena simply stared at him.
Mason knew that look said that she knew he's lying and not convinced. But that was the only response he can make up from the top of his head. He needed to resolve this soon before it gets anymore awkward.
"What for, I wonder?" she she asked with the cutesy tone of voice.
"Nothing, really," Mason replied. "We were told this place is out of the way of the tourist track."
"Hinamizawa doesn't get a lot of visitors except during the Watanagashi Festival," she spoke at length. "Are you here for it?"
Mason's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Woods would have thought it almost rehearsed, kinda like Big Bird. "I was never told of that."
"That's too bad. It's days away."
"Looks like we came early," he admitted.
Woods would have thought that Mason was doing a decent Mr. Rodgers impression right there. For someone who got skullfucked by the Commies, he's handling it pretty well.
Rena was going to ask him again when she caught sight of an old man on a wheelchair. She noted how he stared at the woods across the river. Now she had her question. "Who is that man with you? Is he your father?"
Mason was taken aback by that question. He had not spoken to his father ever since his mother died. That was a gap he had never bridged. "No. He's one of my best friends." The words came out soft, almost a pained whisper.
Her question was not unheard as the old man wheeled around to see who asked. At that moment the two got a good look at each other's faces. Rena could see the man seemed older than his appearance would reveal. She can also the sadness in his eyes. A distant longing and what looked like a twinkle of relief.
The old man rolled forward, his arms showing surprising vigor as he moved the wheels. In those few seconds the gentle breeze and the creaking of the wheels on the gravel shore seemed louder than anything else.
"Dobry den," he greeted, now that they were closer. Reznov had not expected this too happen almost at once. Seeing her, she knew she had his beloved Zoya's face! "I must have been a strange day for you to have such strangers as us to come to visit here."
"It is so," she admitted in clear English. The previous zest and pep in her voice was slowly giving way to sobriety which she never expected. "What brings you all here? And what does 'dovoriy den' mean?"
He was a bit surprised but it meant that no language barrier separated them as he can speak the language too. "It means good afternoon in my native tongue."
"Oh, I see. From what country are you from?" Her inquiry sounded very innocent.
"Russia." The name came out from Reznov almost like an exhale. His motherland still meant a lot to him.
"That's next to us, right?"
He nodded. "Yes, up west and north."
"I don't believe Russians are allowed to go outside of Russia," she admitted honestly. "Their government said it's not good for them."
"That much is true. Very few people from the Soviet Union are ever allowed out. But that's changing. Some have actually moved to America." He could remember his surprise learning that emigre communities coming from the Union were founded and thriving in America including in New York of all places.
"That means you can come visit us, right?" The previous zest as returned like sunlight in her voice.
"Yes, that's true." He looked at her deeply. "But here, it's more than a visit. I've come at my journey's end."
Rena felt apprehensive as to the purpose of the visit. "Are you going to die!?"
Woods and Mason looked ready to jump to the sky at that.
Reznov was astounded, he almost felt like laughing at Rena's outburst as much as it surprised his companions. A thing smile formed on his face as he chuckled. "No, my child. I am not dying. I have fought a great bitter war and I still live, as you can see. It would take a lot more to put me down." The smile faded. "These... tired old bones of mine can finally rest now."
The big Russian sighed deeply. The memories returned vividly. "This is a beautiful place, is it not? My odyssey began twenty years ago. Making my way out the country from a more dangerous time, I learned that love of my life had come to these shores and died. My grief... was too much for me bear. Then I learned her child, my daughter, had survived. But I did not have the chance to visit her then. I was a fugitive and I dare not bring danger to her from my old nemesis."
"Who would they try hurt your wife and daughter?" she asked. She looked closely at the old man and felt a sort of kinship she couldn't explain.
"I've made enemies of powerful men during the war. Merciless, ambitious, low scum. They have betrayed me and murdered my best friend, a hero many times over. The death of children to them does not disturb them. I would not return until my vengeance with them is settled." Vengeance was indeed, settled and by Mason's hand, whom he freed and guided by memory.
"How awful..." Rena remembered from last year they've won a war of their own against similarly powerful and ruthless men with similar goals. "They are gone now?"
"Indeed they are, the world is safer without them, their blood recompensed for the blood they took."
"Why didn't you stay to find her?"
"My quest would not have been accomplished without these two men with me." He motioned to the Americans. "Mason and Woods. Two of the finest men I've ever known have bled in the same mud as I. I am in their debt and for that I became their companion in the wilderness. Just as I have been hunted, so have they by their own government for certain... matters they disagreed, marked men until recently." Reznov could not exactly say to Rena what forced Mason and his team into the international wilderness.
"Good afternoon, Rena," Mason greeted.
"Ah, good to meet ya," Woods managed, bit like awkward grunts.
"Their president has pardoned them and wish to make amends," he added.
"He can do that?" It was the first she heard it.
"Yes, he can, one of the powers granted to a head of state."
She looked at his companions. "Does that mean they can go home now?"
"Yes, they can. They can finally return home. As have I..." He took a deep breath, practically gulping air. "If only my daughter had been better person..."
"Wait, you met her already?" She was confused and concerned. "It didn't go so well?" In her mind a tantalizing thought emerge, hazy and blurred as last night loomed.
He shook his head in confirmation, telegraphing his intent not to speak of it. "Tell me... did your mother left something behind for you?"
"Huh?" The question took her aback. Her throat caught a proverbial lump her mind told her this was no chance meeting.
The man looked breathless, like he was struggling at what to say next. "I was told... by a woman that she left something behind. Something of sentimental value."
"What do you mean? What are you talking about?" she demanded, slightly rising in pitch.
"A trunk, a chest." Those words came out as halting whispers. "Memories I have inside it. Memories of days dark and light. Memories of a good man I fought side-by-side with. Memories of the man I used to be and of the woman I loved."
"Why have you come here?" Her voice quivered she remembered the chest from last night. "Who are you?" Is the he man in the pictures?
"My name is Viktor Reznov. My wife risked her life to take our child across the sea, to save her from my enemies. And she died for it. She died to keep your mother safe, Rena Ryuugu."
Rena shook her head. This was too much for her. "No, no, no. I was born here in Hinamizawa. My mother can't- can't be-" Her eyes looked distraught. No, she thought. Looking at him, she realized his eyes were her eyes. There's no way I could be...
"She's your grandmother, and she had not given up on me. She gathered all that she could to keep my memory alive, to tell my story. Hopefully to her, but now to you."
Then Rena was seized with familiarity as the floodgates of her mind opened, provoked by those words. That footlocker with its contents, those pictures. All that history she inherited. All memories of her life. Then she thought of that photo album and those books they read all morning before their luncheon. She can't deny it. She can't deny the connection now. All of it made sense!
"You are my granddaughter..." his voice quaked with emotion. "Rena, you are my flesh and blood. Your dedushka - you grandfather." His eyes quivered as the tears began to emerge. Those were tears for something he thought he had lost, now found at last. Years of sorrow from his lose let loose the torrent of emotions he held. "I should have been with you in those years..."
"You're my... grandpa?" Rena asked. She let loose a tear.
"Da, my dear Rena." Reznov's tears slid down a face wrought with sadness and relief. "I am. And I am here now."
The truth was out now. Only the sounds of nature filled an otherwise silent void between them. Neither knew what to do save for the tears that came from their eyes. Woods and Mason only looked on, looking at the scene, transfixed as they were as they didn't hear the trudging of gravel.
No one was prepared for what came next.
Rena suddenly leaped up, arms open. The old man caught her. She embraced. And he embraced back. For both the tears now stream freely, for nothing can hold back the overwhelming tide of joy and relief they both felt.
The gang had alighted from the upper banks, looking for Rena.
"Rena, Rena," Keiichi called out as they approached. "What's going on..." He and the rest of the gang halted as they saw the scene.
"Wait, what's going on?" Satoko asked. "What's the meaning of this?" It was the same question that filled the mind of Games Club, save for Rika.
"I think it's the man from the pictures we were reading," the little shrine maiden said innocently, thought up to dispel any confusion. "He looks a lot older."
"They're both crying," Mion noted. "This man and Rena are..."
"Rena Ryuugu is reunited with her grandfather, Miss Mion," a stranger said.
They all turned to him. "What?" They all turned to see the speaker, the man with glasses and his companion Mr. Eyepatch.
"I think we weren't properly introduced," he continued. He offered his hand. "My name is Jason Hudson. The old man, Viktor Reznov, is a friend of ours, a defector who searched for his wife and daughter after learning they escaped the Soviet Union."
Mion shook his hand. "I hear about how bad the Soviet Union was inside. What happened to him?"
"He was arrested by Soviet authorities over false charges." Hudson can only manage that story. The real thing would obviously be too much for their minds to handle. "They escaped to avoid the authorities. She took an eastward course and ended up here. The wife didn't make it, the child did. Been to an orphanage before being adopted by her foster family. Grew up and married her father."
"His daughter is her mother?" Mion asked rhetorically. "I never thought that would be the case. I knew there was something to her but couldn't put my finger on it."
"Is it really that bad if you stay?" Shion asked.
"Yeah, if it's false why arrest him?" Satoko's questioned.
"Believe me," said Eyepatch. "You wouldn't want to be there when the hammer falls in the Iron Curtain. They take you and your family. Doesn't matter if what you're charged with is BS or not. And my name's Grigori Weaver, by the way." He shook hands with Mion and Keiichi. "My own mother was a defector like Reznov, right after they took my dad."
After the hug Rena and Reznov began to talk. For all this was the happiest - and saddest - they've ever seen of either of them.
Everyone walked to the dump, where all of Reznov's mementos were kept.
"Why did you put all our things at the dump?" the old Russian asked, still nonplussed as he wheeled alongside her.
"I thought it would be safe there, where no one would touch it," Rena replied. "Also, people throw away things that were once precious to them, things that they were done with when it no longer gives them joy." She had that pained, still look to anything that pertained to her mother - his daughter. The sting she left behind was still fresh to the both of them and they needn't need to dwell on that. "You'd be surprised at what you might find."
"I concur," Keiichi said. "So much good stuff that people keep throwing away."
"I hear that you Americans do things differently, something to do with the garage," Mion asked.
"It's called a garage sale," Mason answered, "people clean out their garages, attics, and basements to make some new space all the time, especially during the spring and summer. Old stuff in conditions too good to throw away are sold off to make money on the side as well as giving them a new lease on life. I got my first rifle that way."
"I got a German helmet and bayonet that way too, money from mowing lawns and cutting grass well-spent" Woods added to conversation, "First World War vintage, you should see the some of the wear and tear on that."
"And that makes the Soviets declare you guys as enemies of the people," Weaver said in a faux-serious tone. Everyone chuckled heartily at that.
Reznov remembered during their drive to Berlin of people picking through the debris of the battlefield looking for things they need to survive and rebuilt: wood, masonry, steel, and anything of use left behind by the fallen. Had Rena felt that way when she was abandoned? That compulsive need to find a gem through the detritus, something to care for, the result of this longing?
Reznov and his friends cringed at whole scene as they saw the little shell of the German van sitting atop a mound of scrap. It seemed no one could traverse this landscape so easily without injury. Yet Rena and the two boys moved nimbly through like mountain goats with little effort and climbed into the van.
it wasn't a simple feat to extract the chest from the little Volkswagen van as both Keiichi and Satoshi trudged through the uneven metal terrain. Reznov and his friends cringed at whole scene as they never expected Rena to have such an unorthodox pastime. Woods earned a cane whack to his shin from the Russian for describing Rena a "dumpster diver."
They took it all back to Rena's house. At the front yard, Rena opened the box and the old Russian gasped as he saw the contents.
"These things.. how can they have made it across the ocean?" The question was rhetorical, an answer wasn't needed. He held out one of the items.
It was a photograph. Dimitri, Reznov, the woman who was for all intents and purposes Rena's grandmother, smiling with other soldiers. The black-and-white faded into shades of sepia. It was taken in Stalingrad after the surrender of Paulus's Sixth Army in the 2nd of February 1943. He could still remember that the gutted building at the back was an apartment building where his father's friends used to live. He still tasted the vodka they drank in celebration of survival, hope, and victory, after breaking the myth of Hitler's invincibility. The songs they sang, his first taste of American Spam, coffee, pork and beans, canned fruit, and butter, from America's myriad contributions as part of the Lend-Lease, which came with the plain bread and cabbage soup they had for their first decent dinner since the victory, the first good sleep they had since the battle started, the marriage, all these and more came flooding back to him.
Reznov felt something he never felt in so many years. It was the weight lifting off his shoulders, it was his heart lightening up. It was his hands trembling and his eyes welling. It was the first winter morning after their victory with the sun shining through the grey clouds at last. The warm bittersweetness of this moment was overwhelming, yet he remained still. He wanted to bask in it. He looked around him and he saw everyone gathered: his companions and hers, the friends they meet, the bonds they forged, the time they spent together. Fate, or God, who or what was up there, seemed to have allowed for this things to happen.
He remembered Dmitri... and Chernov. He would want them at his side and moments like this of their own, celebrating life and friendship with people they love. But he also knew that they would've wanted this for him too.
So this was what Mason called closure - finality. He cupped his hand on his mouth and wiped the welling tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer.
The years of wandering gave him this lively scene, this beautiful moment of warmth, comfort, and companionship. In his heart he knew he had returned home. He finally found peace.
A/N: Not much can be said of this other than this fluff, the main meat of my fic. It has quite a journey for me, just as with the characters. I can't quite believe I got this far for so long. I truly hope to conclude this story as it deserved.
Sincerely, Anime Borat.
