Work Text:
Two Years Ago
It had been two weeks since Vorona had returned to Moscow.
She hadn’t seen Sloan since the day they had landed at the airport, where he’d been taken away by his assigned handlers right away. She didn’t expect to see him any time soon. Apparently the sins of a lower-level operative in the company were deemed far more severe in comparison to the ones committed by the owner’s daughter. No matter how useful he may have been when he was active, he had been condemned the moment Vorona had chosen him as her getaway partner.
She didn’t think he would be eliminated. If that had been the plan, the Yakuza in Japan had been more than ready to take care of that business for his father. He’d probably spend a long time being reconditioned and then put to work eventually. To fix some messy deal for her father’s numerous business ventures. But he was going to pay the price for all the missteps he took. Even the ones he’d taken in tandem with her.
Vorona realized she couldn’t bring herself to be bothered too much. She hoped Sloan would be all right, but she knew him to be resilient. She had far too much on her own plate to worry about anything else.
It had been two weeks since she had returned from Ikebukuro.
The months she’d lived in that city had been unlike anything she’d experienced before in her life.
She’d always believed that her sense of self-worth was intricately bound with her fighting capabilities and combat-readiness. She had this belief, long ingrained since childhood, that her ability to overpower and destroy her opponents in battle was her only measure of strength.
But in Ikebukuro, she had found new forms of strength. Like the power of forgiveness and second chances. She had not even been aware that she’d been on the receiving end of such things, quietly, without her knowledge. That the one she’d wanted to defeat, the one who had been undefeatable himself, had been the one to give her all the chances.
Vorona had gotten into an argument she knew she had coming when she sat down to hash things out with her father, with Colonel Lingerin sitting to the side. She knew the Colonel expected to play part of mediator, as he often had in the past. She had made it clear to both of them that while she was willing to do most things necessary to fix the wrongs she’d committed, she did not wish to be involved in any physical cleaning up of the business.
She was not interested in killing people anymore.
Drakon had looked at her sharply as she’d said this. Though, there was little emotion shown on his face at this moment, he seemed at the same time relieved at her answer but somehow annoyed too. “I never wanted you to be a killer, Vorona,” he said. “You were the one who seemed to enjoy that part of the business in the past.”
“I am no longer interested in that.” It felt strange saying this, knowing that she actually meant it. This feeling was new, recently awakened in her heart, but she felt strongly about it. She was not willing to budge on this sentiment even a bit.
Maybe there was something in her stance because while her father looked suspicious, he still conceded. “Very well.”
“I do not know what else I can do for you.” Vorona asked, “How am I to make up for my mistakes?”
“There’s plenty I can find for you to do. I heard that in Japan, you had mostly been a pawn of other people’s machinations.” There it was, the familiar chiding tone that crept into her father’s voice every time he was upset at her. “It’s time you learnt other aspects of our business. Such as the art of negotiation and delegating authority to those who report to you.”
She was determined not to be intimidated by that tone. “How long will that take?”
“It takes years to hone your skills. You’re a child, Vorona.” Drakon looked at her, a hard glint in his eyes. “You have cost me greatly by making stupid mistakes on foreign soil. You will need to spend a long time learning better ways to...”
She interrupted him. “How long?”
He was clearly displeased at being cut short. So she wasn’t surprised by the ridiculous words that came next. “It will take you at least five years.”
She huffed incredulously. “One year,” she stated. “And then you must let me go.”
Drakon’s eyes widened with disbelief. “You are joking. You think this is joke.”
The Colonel laughed. “The girl is being funny but so are you, Drakon.”
Vorona breathed out evenly. “I am not spending the next five years of my life learning negotiation skills of your business venture because you’ve decided I am not mature enough to live my life as I see fit.”
Drakon’s eyes glinted with barely suppressed anger. “If you will treat me like this, I will lock you up and throw away the keys and then you will know the truth.”
“Now now, Drakon,” the Colonel said, his tone conciliatory. “You must calm down.”
Vorona knew her voice was rising in volume but she couldn’t help herself. “I am here of my own volition and you treat me like this.”
“It is how you treat me, girl,” her father said sharply.
“You cannot keep me here for five years.” She snapped. “I will burn the whole place down and you will not be able to find me ever again.”
The Colonel watched them both with disbelief, saw Drakon’s face darken, and quickly cut in: “Maybe five years is too long.”
Drakon scowled at his partner in annoyance, then back at Vorona, his mouth moving but unable to form words.
“Four years?” The Colonel offered. “That sounds reasonable.” He looked at Vorona. “With the promise she won’t burn anything.”
There was no way Vorona was going to take this. Nothing ever changed with her father. He was still the same, impossible, unbearable man.
“I already told you. One year. That’s all I can do.”
“Four years and not a moment less,” Drakon said with gritted teeth, surprising her.
“Come on girl,” Lingerin said to her. “Listen to your father.”
“Colonel!” She frowned at him.
“Be reasonable, child.” The Colonel looked at her beseechingly.
Vorona stared between the two men, doing mental calculations. It was impossible, the time his father was demanding was too long. She frowned, as the numbers ran through her head, an unsolvable, incomprehensible formula. No. She couldn’t be here for four years. She pursed his lips and then: “Eighteen months,” she offered. “And you will let me travel within Russia.” She breathed out. “I do not wish to be stuck here with you for all that time.”
The expression on Drakon’s face was a mixture of exasperated and incensed. “She mocks me.”
“She’s an adult, Drakon.” Lingerin looked at him. “She came here by her own decision.”
“Three years.” Drakon stared at her hard. “Anything less is an insult.”
So the number was negotiable.
“I could’ve stayed back in Japan. I had every reason to stay back in Japan.” Vorona felt her fingers curl into fists by her sides. “I came back because I realized I’d wronged you and needed to make amends. And you treat me like a prisoner.”
She stood up and stared at her father, watched his eyes boring into hers. “Do you know why I ran away in the first place?” she asked. “Because I couldn’t breathe here. And you’re doing the same thing again.”
For a second she thought she saw something shift in his eyes. Then his eyes glinted with frustration. “This is the daughter I raised. Do you see that, Lingerin?” But his voice had lost its steel edge.
Lingerin chuckled. “Yes, she is a marvel, isn’t she?”
Vorona sighed. “Two years,” she offered. “That’s what I will give you. And then I will return to Ikebukuro.”
Drakon frowned at her. “Japan. You wish to go back to Japan.”
“The girl was telling the truth,” Lingerin drawled. “She really did want to stay in Japan.”
“Why Japan?” Drakon asked.
“Two years,” she responded, without answering his question. “That’s all you need to know. I will stay here and I will work for you. And then I will be free to go wherever I want.”
“Japan.” Drakon stared at her.
“Two years,” she repeated.
Drakon watched her closely for a few moments, as she waited with baited breath. Then, he conceded: “Two years.”
She slowly let out the breath.
Lingerin smiled. “Seems like Vorona is already learning the art of negotiation.”
She’d been relegated to a desk job. Poring over old ledgers and collating records from the sixteen different shell companies the organization operated around the world.
This was the price she would pay for not wanting to kill.
Her father had announced this had always been the job he’d wanted her to do. Her book knowledge was apparently most suitable for this type of work in his eyes.
She realized this was mind-numbing work but she had no intentions of leaving any evidence of slip-shod workmanship behind. She didn’t want her father to accuse her of not doing her best. So no matter how dry and boring this might be, she was going to do a good job. No, she was going to be impeccable at her job.
Still, it felt soul-sucking. Day in and day out, it was the same routine. Going through records kept in old ledgers, collating them with the ones in the personal computer directories, verifying sources, confirming shipments, finding errors, starting again, doing it over and over until the mistake was found and corrected and eliminated. There were times she wanted to pull her hair out in frustration.
She had a calendar hanging in her room keeping track of the passing days, weeks and months. It was a way to keep her sane, even if she already felt like she was dying of boredom.
One afternoon, just over five months into her return, a truckload of boxes filled with ledgers arrived and when she opened the first one, she paused at seeing Japanese writing on the cover sheet. This shipment was from the Tokyo group.
Next day, more boxes were brought inside from the truck.
She started going through the boxes slowly and found one filled with books. She picked up one. It appeared to be a technical manual. She leafed through it. It was Japanese translation of the Russian tech manual on the anti-material armament.
It appeared the Yakuza really liked everything thoroughly researched. She should probably read through these, as they would likely help with her Japanese reading.
Curiosity made her go through the rest of the boxes. Most of the books were tech manuals, a few even scientific in nature. But some were just general knowledge. There was a series of books on Japanese swordsmithing and forging of katanas. What these books were doing with the other tech manuals, she had no idea. They had no connection whatsoever, except they were all related to different types of warfare. Vorona picked up one book after another, her curiosity piqued, as she went over the titles.
Then out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the title of a book at the bottom of the box and nearly dropped the one in her hand.
The History of Olympics Gold Medals.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
She picked up the book and opened it. This was the same book she had read in Russian years ago. The same book she had been quoting facts from when she’d sat down on the steps of that temple and told Shizuo and Tom about the gold medals. She remembered how genuinely curious Shizuo had been, how he’d asked questions, how both him and Tom had stared at her in amazement. As if throwing out trivia from a general knowledge book was something spectacular.
She went through the pages slowly. Yes, this was the exact same book. Only this was a Japanese translation.
What could be the odds of her finding the same book?
Vorona didn’t believe in omens but she had the most uncanny feeling about this.
She looked back at the pile of documents she had on her desk, the records her father was making her annotate and reconcile. She looked at the boxes of tech manuals from the Japanese shipment. Then she looked at the book in her hand.
And she felt she could breathe a little easier.
Over the next few days, every time she got annoyed at some ludicrous request sent by Drakon, or the Colonel, she looked at the book and it somehow calmed her down.
As weeks rolled by, Vorona kept the book by her side on the desk. Brought it home with her after work. Took it back to work the next morning in her bag.
It was a strange feeling. It felt as if a part of Ikebukuro was with her. Having the book with her made her feel not so lost and frustrated.
She’d gotten into the habit of reading through the book every night after she relaxed in her room. Reading the Japanese version was doing wonders for her Japanese grammar and vocabulary.
She knew the locals used to have difficulty with her spoken Japanese when she first went to Tokyo, and while her vocabulary had improved as she’d spent the next many months there, it had still been far from perfect. Tom used to struggle with her language all the time but he always directly stated when she was being legible to him and when she was not. Shizuo, though, had just admitted that he simply got used to her strange way of talking as time went on.
Neither of them had ever given her a hard time about any of it, for which she was grateful – unlike Denis, and shockingly Simon, who both used to tease her relentlessly.
There was a lost shipment manifest from Japan that required reconciliation by an executive in the company. It was for the stolen weapons that had been taken into Japan without the approval of the owners. Since Vorona had been the one responsible for bringing that particular shipment into Tokyo, Drakon and Lingerin had decided she had to be the one to sign off on it, and take ownership. So she sat down and went through every last page of the manifest, verifying every single rouble of loss the company had incurred.
“It was in millions,” Drakon had said. The anti-material guns had been one of their most profitable items, along with the AK-47s.
She had used the anti-material gun on the Black Rider.
She had used the AK-47 on Shizuo.
The Japanese in general were not the most forgiving people, Lingerin had said in one of their meetings. They had long memories and tended to keep grudges, he claimed. Vorona was lucky the Awakusu-kai had come to the agreement they had, after Vorona and Sloan had made the stupid decision to kidnap the granddaughter of the Awakusu family head while working for a rival faction.
Vorona agreed she’d made stupid decisions. She suspected the Awakusu-kai might not be so forgiving, outside of the deal her father had made on her behalf.
Akane Awakusu was a child who did not know Vorona’s true identity, and thus remained unaware of the fact that Vorona had been the one involved in her kidnapping. She likely would not be so forgiving if she knew the truth.
The Black Rider was monster who strangely had never sought her out even after the events of that last night. A monster was unpredictable. Vorona didn’t think a monster would forgive her.
But Shizuo Heiwajima had known all along. Shizuo was human. He knew who she was, what she’d done. Yet for some incomprehensible reason, he had chosen to forgive her.
She’d used the Spetsnaz knife on him the first time she met him, and fired the AK-47 at him soon after. Then, after being soundly dismantled by the Awakusu-kai, she’d been given a second chance, and had spent months working alongside Shizuo. Only to take on the wrong job when he had been taken away – framed and arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. So the next time she’d seen him, she’d pulled a gun on him and threatened him with violence.
And yet, he’d let all of that go.
Shizuo was Japanese. By Lingerin’s assessment, Shizuo should not have forgiven her.
Vorona had a feeling the Colonel had perhaps not been entirely accurate in his generalizations about the Japanese.
But then she too had made assumptions about Shizuo, hadn’t she? And he had smashed through them all by acting in ways she hadn’t quite expected.
Shizuo had not kept grudges. Even when he should have.
She’d finished the book days ago but still enjoyed going though it, leafing through the pages, reading through the sections she liked. Especially these days with her current work bringing back all the baggage about the many mistakes she’d made. Her whole life right now seemed to be about making amends for the mistakes she’d made.
But the book always brought her back to the steps of that temple. And to that guileless conversation.
One night later that week, she was home after work and was relaxing with a cup of soothing tea and the book, when she came to a realization.
It suddenly occurred to her what was happening. She liked reading the book because the book helped her stay in that perfect moment. Helped her stay in that place where she’d learnt the value of peace for the first time in her life. A place where she’d made friends for the very first time, even if she’d lacked the vocabulary to define them, to truly appreciate them. That short period of time when she’d gotten a glimpse into the quiet man that existed underneath the façade of anger and violence that had defined Shizuo.
The book reminded her of the bliss she’d felt in that world, with all those people, with Shizuo.
She liked reading the book because she wanted to stay in that moment. But she also wanted to know if she was the only one who’d felt peace in those times.
She picked up the book and stared at the title. She turned it around, held it in her hand. She closed her eyes.
What if she wasn’t the only one who’d felt the peace?
Vorona suddenly had the strangest urge to know the answer to that question.
She got up from the couch with the book held tightly in her hand, walked to the desk and sat down on the chair. She set the book down in front of her and looked at it. Then she opened the drawer and took out the sheet of light brown wrapping paper. She opened the second drawer and took out the scotch tape and a small pair of scissors. She carefully measured out the length and width of the paper and then wrapped the book in it, neatly cutting pieces of scotch tape, and using them to secure the sides of the wrapped package. She picked up a sharp black marker and with a steady, neat hand, wrote down the name on the package.
Shizuo Heiwajima.
She stared at her penmanship for a minute, took a deep breath, let it out.
Then she found another box to slide the wrapped book into and sealed it shut.
And then she picked up the phone.
The next few weeks were nearly torture for Vorona.
She had found other Japanese books in the shipment that she could read and help improve her reading and vocabulary with. But none of them brought back the feeling that she had a piece of Ikebukuro with her. That feeling was gone with that book about gold medals. Which she had sent away herself. On a hunch. With no guarantees that there would ever be an answer.
The Colonel had asked her to visit a company warehouse in Samara. There were several facilities in the area that needed frequent visits and Lingerin had decided it was time she took responsibility for the tedious organizational work.
Vorona had half a mind to decline the request until she heard Drakon didn’t think she would be able to take care of things, so then she knew she had to do it. She suspected both the men were likely playing a game with her but she needed a distraction, so what the heck. She’d do it.
There was an old Soviet-era building that she passed every day on her way to and from work that had a sign promoting Systema classes that she pretended to ignore the existence of. She had no time to waste thinking about her father's favored form of martial arts. Doing his bidding for the sake of his business ventures was bad enough.
Her stay in Samara was meant to be just for a week at first, but then it turned out that there were apparently more warehouses to visit. The stay was extended for several more weeks and for obvious reasons, she didn’t mind. The less time she spent in Moscow under her father’s eyes, the better she felt. So she did her visits every day, came home every night, and repeated the process the next day, the Japanese book on swordsmithing by her side.
The summer days in the city were hot but the nights were clear, cool and cloudless. On one such night, Vorona wrapped herself up in a soft blanket and sat outside on the porch of her small cottage and stared at the starlit sky, a cup of hot tea on the side table next to her, along with a piece of chocolate pastry from the local bakery on a plate.
As she took a sip from the tea, she wondered, as she had many times over the past few weeks, if she’d been a fool to send that book.
Did he even remember that conversation on the temple steps? It had been so long. Maybe he’d forgotten.
She felt a little restless, a little disconsolate and she couldn’t fathom the reason. She hadn’t even put a note inside that package, as a normal person would have. If the book had even made its way to him, what meaning would he make of it? Probably nothing.
She took a bite from the pastry, relished the sweet, flaky texture as she chewed, and unwittingly felt her mood improve. Sweets and desserts always made her feel better. This was something she’d found in common with Shizuo. She wondered what he would think of this particular confection. He’d probably enjoy it.
The next evening when she came back to the cottage from her visits, she found a package on her desk.
It was a plain rectangular cardboard box with no name or address on it but she recognized the marking as being from their internal company courier. It had come from someone who was connected to their network, someone who knew where she could be located.
She felt her heart thudding loudly in her chest as she opened the box and pulled out the item from inside. She knew what it was, even if the only indication that it was what she thought it could be was her name written in bold strokes on the light green wrapping paper. She unwrapped the item and stared in near disbelief at the book that emerged from within.
Tanoshii: the Art of Delicious Japanese Desserts.
Unbelievable.
He’d gotten the book. Not only that, he’d gotten the message. She opened the book, slowly went through the colorful pages, then closed it, turned it around, holding it upside down and shook it. Yep, just the book, no note included.
Shizuo had sent her a book on a topic they both had a shared interest in, in the exact same manner she’d sent the one to him.
She was dead tired from her day but suddenly she felt rejuvenated. All her stress from the waiting, the long work hours, not to mention the anticipation, the not knowing, the despondency, was gone.
She sat down on her bed, holding the book in her hands and felt a lightness fill her. She looked up at the calendar on her wall. She was now in month seven of her two years. The time she had promised her father.
Six months ago, that timeline had seemed impossible. Three weeks ago, when she’d been stressing over the unknowable, that timeline had felt like a prison.
But now? She opened the book Shizuo had sent her to a random page. It opened to the history of the Castella Cake. With pictures and recipe.
She felt a smile break on her face.
Maybe it wasn’t going to be just torture after all. She could make this work.
She had not even needed to use words. He had heard her without them. He’d remembered the temple steps.
Vorona now knew she had not been the only one to have felt the peace.
She suddenly didn’t feel so alone.
A piece of Ikebukuro was with her again.
/End