MFU Fic: Homeland, Heartland
To continue my posting of WIPs...
This is another fic that was supposed to be rather epic in scale. It was supposed to be written for a zine, and I had the general premise plotted out and started on the story, but due to RL I had to drop it and I just never got back to it. So I'm posting the opening excerpt here, and hoping that it is good enough as a standalone...
PAIRING: Illya/Napoleon
RATING: Soft R for language
WORD COUNT: 2200
CHARACTERS: Illya Kuryakin, OFC, OMC
WARNINGS: Some coarse language.
DISCLAIMER: The boys and MFU do not belong to me...
SUMMARY: Two children, a mysterious stranger from the sky, and a country in turmoil...
This is the story of how a young orphan from a country torn apart by its internal struggles came to live in America. It is a tale of coincidence, betrayal and redemption, and is dedicated to the memory of a man who has long since passed away, but without whom none that I have written could’ve come to pass.
***
I was born in the dawn of a new era in my country’s history. The world had just emerged shaken and more than a little bruised by the World War that had ravaged whole continents and left millions of corpses rotting in barren wheat fields and scorched orchards. Few nations were untouched by Mars’ fury, and the soils of my homeland stained darker than others. Not only did we have to fend off our own neighbours who invaded our land, burnt our houses, raped our women and children and murdered innocent civilians like they would snuff out the life of an insect, but we also had to deal with the echoes of a revolution and a civil war before Hitler and Hirohito decided that the world was better off under their dominion.
But the War was won and the enemy was sent back to their land with their tails between their legs. And everyone breathed a sigh of relief, because surely things will now go back to normal and our lives will improve? That’s what we all believed, and it was with an extreme sense of patriotic pride that we watched our hero, General Mao Zhedong, proclaim the beginning of the People’s Republic of China.
I suppose we should’ve known from past experience that heroes seldom live up to the image the adoring public prescribe upon them. Many of the best generals in history, when given the power over a nation, became ruthless dictators. Napoleon. Genghis Khan. Caesar. Hannibal. Without checks and balances against their authority, they became convinced of their superiority, intellect and self-importance. And so events began to unfold rapidly after the 1st of October 1949, the pages of our nation’s history being transcribed like a journal or notebook by some omnipresent deity. The Great Leap Forward, the Five-Year Plan, the Cultural Revolution. Spring 1967: the commencement of my story.
***
I watched from the shadows behind the empty, mildewed wooden crates as the rat shuffled curiously to the piece of stale bread lying innocently on the dusty floor. It approached the chalked circle cautiously, whiskers twitching as it sensed the dank atmosphere for any foreign smell that may indicate the presence of strangers, intruders, or a trap. Behind me, I felt my little brother tense and I reached back to place a comforting hand upon his knee even though I myself was trembling with apprehension. Just a little closer, I urged the rat silently. It was within inches of being directly below the little metal cage we had constructed and hung just below the table with a string leading from it to my hand. Almost there now. My fingers loosed their grip around the string ever so slightly as I readied myself to drop the cage. One more step…
A loud thump permeated the still air of the warehouse and the earth reverberated in its stead. I dropped the cage with a curse as the rat did a good impression of the Monkey King and scurried into the darkness. Fuming, I left our cover and removed the cage, noting how the chains hanging from the ceiling were still rattling and several items had been displaced from the table.
“Fuck,” said a voice behind me. I turned and found my brother, Xun Ren, emerging from beneath a shattered crate. His eyes glinted angrily in the darkness. “What the hell was that?”
I shrugged and was wondering whether it was worth a few bruises to comment on the hardness of his head when a muffled groan emanated from the other office. I placed a hand over Xun Ren’s mouth to stopper the flow of curses and placed a finger to my lips.
“Outer office,” I whispered to him as I removed my hand.
“The sound?”
“Yes.” I ignored his gesture for me to follow him and made my way carefully to the door. He’s only twelve, for heaven’s sake, and already insisting on protecting his big sister as if she couldn’t take care of herself. Bending down to avoid creating a pretty silhouette for any would-be gunmen, I peaked into the office.
There was a dark figure lying onto of the desk amongst shards of shattered glass that must have come from the skylight where he’d obviously fallen in. Or jumped. It was hard to tell. He, for it was definitely the skeletal structure and musculature of a man, was dressed in black clothes: turtleneck, pants and jacket. He was of average height and darkish hair flowed out from underneath his woollen hat. Also black. Dark spatters on the ground indicated blood, and quite a lot of it.
“Is he dead?”
I extended my hand to stop Xun Ren from going towards the stranger.
“What are you doing? Let me look!”
“Stop it!” I hissed and pushed him out of the room. “No, he is not dead and do you really want to get yourself killed? He could be a government agent, you stupid clot, and they would love to get their hands on us.”
“But we can’t just leave him there! Father asked us to stay here and wait for him. ‘Don’t leave under any circumstances,’ he said.”
“Don’t repeat to me what I told you in the first place. You did not talk to father.”
“No I did not. But we can’t leave that man there. It would be inhumane. We’ll just be like one of them.” He gestured to the door leading to the street.
I sighed and conceded defeat. For a twelve year old, Xun Ren is annoyingly perceptive. “Very well. Fetch me some water and some of grandmother’s herbal ointment. Quickly!”
I watched his retreating back until I was sure he’d gone to the area where we hid our cache of valuables, then walked gingerly into the room and turned on the light.
The stranger had turned to his side while we were having our argument and now that I could see his features more clearly, I gasped in shock. The man was not Chinese, not even Asian. His face was more angular, his jawbones more prominent and his nose definitely extended beyond normal Chinese lengths. And, now that I had the benefit of artificial light, I could tell that his hair was not the black I’d imagined but a really dirty blonde. Obviously he’d made an effort of dyeing it so that it could withstand scrutiny from a distance, but up close anyone could tell that it was shoddy, rushed work at best.
“And what brings you here, I wonder.” I muttered as I circled to inspect his back. There was what looked like a bullet wound on his left shoulder, which explained much of the blood. I reached out to check it a hand grabbed my wrist in a visor like clench and I found myself hurtled to the wall. Dizzily, I felt my back slam against a couple of filing cabinets and an arm pressed against my throat. Icy blue eyes glared at me and I found myself trembling with fear and not a bit of exhilaration. Whoever this man was, he was definitely dangerous but there was no way he could be a government spy, and that made escape all the more easier.
Not that I was going to escape anytime soon. Those cool eyes were still staring balefully into my own, scrutinizing me, assessing me. Whatever he looked for, he seemed to have found, for he released the pressure on my throat somewhat, allowing me to catch my breath. I coughed, trying to avoid those eyes.
“What is your name?” He spoke in lightly accented textbook Mandarin, with a slight northern twang. I shook my head and tried to clear my airways again. He repeated his question.
“Zhao Cheng,” I replied.
“Zhao Cheng.” The syllables slid awkwardly in his foreign mouth.
“I can also speak English,” I said, switching to a language I’d been learning daily since I was five, before all this craziness started.
He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised that a good communist could speak any other language other than Mandarin. I smirked.
“I took classes. My teacher was American.”
He nodded and let go of me, obviously not thinking me much of a threat. As he moved back, I noticed how he favoured his right leg slightly and then realised that he must’ve been shot in his left leg too. I also noticed that he had a gun in his right hand - a gun that was pointed at me.
He noticed the direction my eyes drifted and smiled reassuringly. “It’s just a precaution, you understand. I cannot be too careful.”
I didn’t know what ‘precaution’ meant but the message was clear. And I’d seen plenty of horrid things lately that his gun didn’t frighten me as much as it should. I told him that and he grimaced.
“And how old are you, Zhao Chen?”
“Older than you think. And more than capable of taking care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt that.” His eyes flickered to the door and I saw Xun Ren standing there with father’s pistol in his trembling hands. To my surprise, the stranger barely flinched. He smiled mysteriously and leaned back against the wall.
“And what’s your brother’s name?”
“Zhao Xun Ren.”
He nodded. “And does he speak English?”
Xun Ren spat. “Enough, you foreign pig. Now let go of my sister.”
The stranger shrugged and gestured at me. “Does it look as if I’m holding her?”
“Hey, brother,” I called to Xun Ren in FuJianHua, a dialect I’m sure the stranger wouldn’t understand. “It’s okay. Come here. Give me the gun.” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that the stranger wouldn’t shoot us later to cover up his tracks, but my gut was telling me that I could trust him and I figured that I’d better start listening before someone else died.
Xun Ren glared at the stranger but did as I asked. The foreigner stared at us for a second before lowering his gun.
“Well, Xun Ren,” he said. “I’m glad you remembered to release the safety lock first. Not many people know to do that.”
My brother shrugged, gave me everything I’d requested and stomped out without a backward glance.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized and gave the foreigner some water, which he took and drank with murmured thanks. “He’s got a bit of a temper and all this-“ I spread my hands “-hasn’t helped.”
“I can imagine,” he said. I glanced up from where I was examining his leg wound to catch his gaze. There was something indescribable and sad lurking within those dreamy blue depths, and all of a sudden I wanted to reach out and embrace him. Stupid, I know. I ducked my head to hide a blush I’m sure was spreading across my face and busied myself by cleaning and bandaging his wound. The bullet had gone clean through. I rose, washed my hands and walked around him to stare at his shoulder, all the time feeling his eyes cooling scrutinizing me.
“Can you please-” I indicated his clothes with my hands
“Sure,” he shrugged out of his jacket and I used my knife to cut through the turtleneck.
“I’m sorry-“
“Don’t worry, I understand,” he grinned. “My Waverley will have an apoplexy when he finds out though. It’s usually Napoleon with the large expense accounts.”
I had no idea what he was talking about but I didn’t bother to ask. For one, my attention was squarely on the rugged bullet hole embedded in his scapula. The bullet was still inside and I needed to get it out. I was also rather entranced by this man’s impressive, tanned, muscular body.
“I need to remove the bullet,” I said.
He studied me with a frown. “Do you know how?”
I nodded. “I’ve done it quite a couple of times these past years. Bullet holes, broken bones…”
“Good. Glad to know I have another veteran with me.”
I looked up confused. “Only with humans, though.”
The man chuckled. “Oh I understand. I quite understand.”
I regarded the curious blonde man and wondered if he was making a joke at my expense. Then I realised I barely knew anything about him. Where he came from. What kind of man he was. What he was doing here in the midst of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, the worst time to be in China - not that there wasn’t any good time to be here. Why he was dressed as he was…
“I don’t even know your name.”
He hesitated for a moment and raked his uninjured hand through that dirty mop of hair of his. “Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin, at your service.”
“Russian?”
He nods, almost imperceptibly, and my fingers tighten around his shoulders. Of all the nationalities he could’ve been…
“Well, Illya, let me remove that bullet in your shoulder and you can tell me why on earth you fell through the skylight into this warehouse, and what you are doing in China.”
+++++++++++++++++++++
And that's where I left it!
Yours truly denies any knowledge of where the inspiration for Zhao Chen and Zhao Xun Ren came from. If they bear any resemblance to myself or my brother, it is nothing but coincidence. All Chinese people are alike, after all...
This is another fic that was supposed to be rather epic in scale. It was supposed to be written for a zine, and I had the general premise plotted out and started on the story, but due to RL I had to drop it and I just never got back to it. So I'm posting the opening excerpt here, and hoping that it is good enough as a standalone...
PAIRING: Illya/Napoleon
RATING: Soft R for language
WORD COUNT: 2200
CHARACTERS: Illya Kuryakin, OFC, OMC
WARNINGS: Some coarse language.
DISCLAIMER: The boys and MFU do not belong to me...
SUMMARY: Two children, a mysterious stranger from the sky, and a country in turmoil...
This is the story of how a young orphan from a country torn apart by its internal struggles came to live in America. It is a tale of coincidence, betrayal and redemption, and is dedicated to the memory of a man who has long since passed away, but without whom none that I have written could’ve come to pass.
***
I was born in the dawn of a new era in my country’s history. The world had just emerged shaken and more than a little bruised by the World War that had ravaged whole continents and left millions of corpses rotting in barren wheat fields and scorched orchards. Few nations were untouched by Mars’ fury, and the soils of my homeland stained darker than others. Not only did we have to fend off our own neighbours who invaded our land, burnt our houses, raped our women and children and murdered innocent civilians like they would snuff out the life of an insect, but we also had to deal with the echoes of a revolution and a civil war before Hitler and Hirohito decided that the world was better off under their dominion.
But the War was won and the enemy was sent back to their land with their tails between their legs. And everyone breathed a sigh of relief, because surely things will now go back to normal and our lives will improve? That’s what we all believed, and it was with an extreme sense of patriotic pride that we watched our hero, General Mao Zhedong, proclaim the beginning of the People’s Republic of China.
I suppose we should’ve known from past experience that heroes seldom live up to the image the adoring public prescribe upon them. Many of the best generals in history, when given the power over a nation, became ruthless dictators. Napoleon. Genghis Khan. Caesar. Hannibal. Without checks and balances against their authority, they became convinced of their superiority, intellect and self-importance. And so events began to unfold rapidly after the 1st of October 1949, the pages of our nation’s history being transcribed like a journal or notebook by some omnipresent deity. The Great Leap Forward, the Five-Year Plan, the Cultural Revolution. Spring 1967: the commencement of my story.
***
I watched from the shadows behind the empty, mildewed wooden crates as the rat shuffled curiously to the piece of stale bread lying innocently on the dusty floor. It approached the chalked circle cautiously, whiskers twitching as it sensed the dank atmosphere for any foreign smell that may indicate the presence of strangers, intruders, or a trap. Behind me, I felt my little brother tense and I reached back to place a comforting hand upon his knee even though I myself was trembling with apprehension. Just a little closer, I urged the rat silently. It was within inches of being directly below the little metal cage we had constructed and hung just below the table with a string leading from it to my hand. Almost there now. My fingers loosed their grip around the string ever so slightly as I readied myself to drop the cage. One more step…
A loud thump permeated the still air of the warehouse and the earth reverberated in its stead. I dropped the cage with a curse as the rat did a good impression of the Monkey King and scurried into the darkness. Fuming, I left our cover and removed the cage, noting how the chains hanging from the ceiling were still rattling and several items had been displaced from the table.
“Fuck,” said a voice behind me. I turned and found my brother, Xun Ren, emerging from beneath a shattered crate. His eyes glinted angrily in the darkness. “What the hell was that?”
I shrugged and was wondering whether it was worth a few bruises to comment on the hardness of his head when a muffled groan emanated from the other office. I placed a hand over Xun Ren’s mouth to stopper the flow of curses and placed a finger to my lips.
“Outer office,” I whispered to him as I removed my hand.
“The sound?”
“Yes.” I ignored his gesture for me to follow him and made my way carefully to the door. He’s only twelve, for heaven’s sake, and already insisting on protecting his big sister as if she couldn’t take care of herself. Bending down to avoid creating a pretty silhouette for any would-be gunmen, I peaked into the office.
There was a dark figure lying onto of the desk amongst shards of shattered glass that must have come from the skylight where he’d obviously fallen in. Or jumped. It was hard to tell. He, for it was definitely the skeletal structure and musculature of a man, was dressed in black clothes: turtleneck, pants and jacket. He was of average height and darkish hair flowed out from underneath his woollen hat. Also black. Dark spatters on the ground indicated blood, and quite a lot of it.
“Is he dead?”
I extended my hand to stop Xun Ren from going towards the stranger.
“What are you doing? Let me look!”
“Stop it!” I hissed and pushed him out of the room. “No, he is not dead and do you really want to get yourself killed? He could be a government agent, you stupid clot, and they would love to get their hands on us.”
“But we can’t just leave him there! Father asked us to stay here and wait for him. ‘Don’t leave under any circumstances,’ he said.”
“Don’t repeat to me what I told you in the first place. You did not talk to father.”
“No I did not. But we can’t leave that man there. It would be inhumane. We’ll just be like one of them.” He gestured to the door leading to the street.
I sighed and conceded defeat. For a twelve year old, Xun Ren is annoyingly perceptive. “Very well. Fetch me some water and some of grandmother’s herbal ointment. Quickly!”
I watched his retreating back until I was sure he’d gone to the area where we hid our cache of valuables, then walked gingerly into the room and turned on the light.
The stranger had turned to his side while we were having our argument and now that I could see his features more clearly, I gasped in shock. The man was not Chinese, not even Asian. His face was more angular, his jawbones more prominent and his nose definitely extended beyond normal Chinese lengths. And, now that I had the benefit of artificial light, I could tell that his hair was not the black I’d imagined but a really dirty blonde. Obviously he’d made an effort of dyeing it so that it could withstand scrutiny from a distance, but up close anyone could tell that it was shoddy, rushed work at best.
“And what brings you here, I wonder.” I muttered as I circled to inspect his back. There was what looked like a bullet wound on his left shoulder, which explained much of the blood. I reached out to check it a hand grabbed my wrist in a visor like clench and I found myself hurtled to the wall. Dizzily, I felt my back slam against a couple of filing cabinets and an arm pressed against my throat. Icy blue eyes glared at me and I found myself trembling with fear and not a bit of exhilaration. Whoever this man was, he was definitely dangerous but there was no way he could be a government spy, and that made escape all the more easier.
Not that I was going to escape anytime soon. Those cool eyes were still staring balefully into my own, scrutinizing me, assessing me. Whatever he looked for, he seemed to have found, for he released the pressure on my throat somewhat, allowing me to catch my breath. I coughed, trying to avoid those eyes.
“What is your name?” He spoke in lightly accented textbook Mandarin, with a slight northern twang. I shook my head and tried to clear my airways again. He repeated his question.
“Zhao Cheng,” I replied.
“Zhao Cheng.” The syllables slid awkwardly in his foreign mouth.
“I can also speak English,” I said, switching to a language I’d been learning daily since I was five, before all this craziness started.
He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised that a good communist could speak any other language other than Mandarin. I smirked.
“I took classes. My teacher was American.”
He nodded and let go of me, obviously not thinking me much of a threat. As he moved back, I noticed how he favoured his right leg slightly and then realised that he must’ve been shot in his left leg too. I also noticed that he had a gun in his right hand - a gun that was pointed at me.
He noticed the direction my eyes drifted and smiled reassuringly. “It’s just a precaution, you understand. I cannot be too careful.”
I didn’t know what ‘precaution’ meant but the message was clear. And I’d seen plenty of horrid things lately that his gun didn’t frighten me as much as it should. I told him that and he grimaced.
“And how old are you, Zhao Chen?”
“Older than you think. And more than capable of taking care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt that.” His eyes flickered to the door and I saw Xun Ren standing there with father’s pistol in his trembling hands. To my surprise, the stranger barely flinched. He smiled mysteriously and leaned back against the wall.
“And what’s your brother’s name?”
“Zhao Xun Ren.”
He nodded. “And does he speak English?”
Xun Ren spat. “Enough, you foreign pig. Now let go of my sister.”
The stranger shrugged and gestured at me. “Does it look as if I’m holding her?”
“Hey, brother,” I called to Xun Ren in FuJianHua, a dialect I’m sure the stranger wouldn’t understand. “It’s okay. Come here. Give me the gun.” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that the stranger wouldn’t shoot us later to cover up his tracks, but my gut was telling me that I could trust him and I figured that I’d better start listening before someone else died.
Xun Ren glared at the stranger but did as I asked. The foreigner stared at us for a second before lowering his gun.
“Well, Xun Ren,” he said. “I’m glad you remembered to release the safety lock first. Not many people know to do that.”
My brother shrugged, gave me everything I’d requested and stomped out without a backward glance.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized and gave the foreigner some water, which he took and drank with murmured thanks. “He’s got a bit of a temper and all this-“ I spread my hands “-hasn’t helped.”
“I can imagine,” he said. I glanced up from where I was examining his leg wound to catch his gaze. There was something indescribable and sad lurking within those dreamy blue depths, and all of a sudden I wanted to reach out and embrace him. Stupid, I know. I ducked my head to hide a blush I’m sure was spreading across my face and busied myself by cleaning and bandaging his wound. The bullet had gone clean through. I rose, washed my hands and walked around him to stare at his shoulder, all the time feeling his eyes cooling scrutinizing me.
“Can you please-” I indicated his clothes with my hands
“Sure,” he shrugged out of his jacket and I used my knife to cut through the turtleneck.
“I’m sorry-“
“Don’t worry, I understand,” he grinned. “My Waverley will have an apoplexy when he finds out though. It’s usually Napoleon with the large expense accounts.”
I had no idea what he was talking about but I didn’t bother to ask. For one, my attention was squarely on the rugged bullet hole embedded in his scapula. The bullet was still inside and I needed to get it out. I was also rather entranced by this man’s impressive, tanned, muscular body.
“I need to remove the bullet,” I said.
He studied me with a frown. “Do you know how?”
I nodded. “I’ve done it quite a couple of times these past years. Bullet holes, broken bones…”
“Good. Glad to know I have another veteran with me.”
I looked up confused. “Only with humans, though.”
The man chuckled. “Oh I understand. I quite understand.”
I regarded the curious blonde man and wondered if he was making a joke at my expense. Then I realised I barely knew anything about him. Where he came from. What kind of man he was. What he was doing here in the midst of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, the worst time to be in China - not that there wasn’t any good time to be here. Why he was dressed as he was…
“I don’t even know your name.”
He hesitated for a moment and raked his uninjured hand through that dirty mop of hair of his. “Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin, at your service.”
“Russian?”
He nods, almost imperceptibly, and my fingers tighten around his shoulders. Of all the nationalities he could’ve been…
“Well, Illya, let me remove that bullet in your shoulder and you can tell me why on earth you fell through the skylight into this warehouse, and what you are doing in China.”
+++++++++++++++++++++
And that's where I left it!
Yours truly denies any knowledge of where the inspiration for Zhao Chen and Zhao Xun Ren came from. If they bear any resemblance to myself or my brother, it is nothing but coincidence. All Chinese people are alike, after all...