lost_russian (lost_russian) wrote in humanity_lost, @ 2008-04-09 01:05:00 |
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Current mood: | hopeful |
Who: Ivan. Open.
When: Week 1. Wednesday, sometime.
Where: Joe Louis Arena. Detroit, MI, USA.
What: Trying to figure out what he'll do now.
The rink had it's own generator. He was glad for that much, though there wasn't much else to be glad for. There wasn't much else period. No fans to watch the games, but then again, no teams to play, no teammates to play with. But the rink had power for the time being. There was ice, as badly rutted as it was. He supposed he could try the Zamboni, but he'd never had to use one before and he wasn't sure if he could figure it out on the fly. Maybe if it came down to it, he would try. The ice wasn't so bad that he couldn't skate on it.
He didn't have to skate anymore. There were no more games to train for, no coaches to set up drills, no goalies to shoot at. But that didn't stop him. He didn't have to skate, but he had to skate. It was written in his programming, he had to be on ice everyday or he'd feel completely thrown off. There was no such thing as a day off, that wasn't how he was raised. Coach had threated to bar him from the rink if he didn't take one day every month at least, but instead he just found somewhere else to skate. His coach from back home would have been proud. Would have, if he was still alive, which chances are, he wasn't.
The chances were pretty good that his whole family was dead, too. His parents. His little brother that had joined the Red Army team and had such a promising career as a winger. His little brother that he had hoped he could play with in Detroit someday. His little brother that had just turned eighteen two months ago. His little brother that was more than certainly dead now. He'd never find out for sure, though. He couldn't get back home now, and he couldn't find anything on the Internet when it did work. He'd tried calling on his brother's birthday, but he hadn't gotten through. He wished he'd tried before that, but he had been so busy with games and practice. He would always regret that.
He had skated his laps, he'd done his drills, he was hot and sweaty and tired. That meant he could get off the ice with a clear conscious. He had done his workout for the day. He covered his blades before stepping off the ice, since running the sharpening machine used more power and he was trying to ration it. He made his way down to the generator room, just past the stick room and before the equipment manager's station. He'd discovered it because he didn't have much more to do with his day than look around to find things that could be useful to him. Power was useful because it allowed him to skate. Skating was useful because it helped him keep his sanity.
He powered down the generator, leaving on only the dim red emergency lights so he could see enough to get back to the locker room. Not that he really needed to see. Three doors to his left, step over the bump in the rug, half a step to the right once you're inside because you can't step on the logo, four more steps and there was his stall. He sat and unlaced his skates, taking time to wipe down the blade and replace the soaker cover. He didn't have an equipment manager to do that for him, and his skates had to last, rust or dullness could ruin them so easily. Every bit of his gear was carefully wiped down, carefully put in it's place on the rack. His jersey was hung up, logo facing out, his name and number against the wall.
He took a very quick shower, just enough to wash the sweat away, but since he never used hot water, he never took too long. Somewhere since he'd come over to this country, he'd gotten the habit of taking warm showers, a habit he was regretting now that he had to break it. He walked back into the locker room, not bothering with modesty, since there was no one to see him anyway. His clothes were where he left them, folded on the bench beside his stall, what would have been in the way of the defenceman with the stall next to him if he wasn't already gone. He took his time getting dressed, jeans that probably could have used a wash, a t-shirt he'd borrowed from one of the ProShops on the concourse emblazoned with the name and number of another dead teammate, sneakers tied as tightly as he liked his skates. He ran his hand through his hair to comb it, or at least so it would lay flat. And that was it, he was ready to go.
But go where?
There was nowhere to go anymore. Even before, Detroit wasn't the best city in the world to walk down the streets. Not that he didn't like it there, but he was told early where he shouldn't go. But now, it was different. It was empty and haunted. The air still held all the city sounds it used to make, but they were only ghosts. He rarely left the arena, because he remembered the stories his mother told him when he was very young about all the wicked things ghosts could do. And even though he didn't believe in them, he remembered them still. And once he figured out how to unlock the chain-link grates that covered the food stands, he had enough to sustain himself. Some power could be spared when he needed to cook something. Hot dogs or chicken fingers, but they wouldn't last forever. He kept one freezer running at all times, shoving it full of everything he could find, but he knew it wasn't enough.
Today was going to be a leave-the-arena day. Not because he needed food, but because he hoped there was someone out there, someone in the whole city, in the whole world. There had to be someone else around, didn't there? He couldn't be the only person left in the world. And to that end, he left the arena every so often, hoping he could find someone, or that someone would find him. He practiced his English out loud to the empty halls, so that when he did find someone, he would be able to talk with them. He knew if he didn't keep up his practice, he'd forget everything he'd learned over the years. Russian was so much easier, so he forced himself to work on his English. "I skate. You skate. He skates. We skate. They skate." He tried to pick words out of the signs and the old programs that he found. He called plays like an announcer on TV while he practiced. Anything to keep his English flowing. But on the bad days, when he talked to himself, it was always in Russian.
He squinted at the sun the moment he stepped outside. He had been inside for too long, he chastised himself, if the brightness of the sun was so painful. He blinked a few times, then a few more, trying to get used to the natural light. It was cooler than he expected, but he knew if he went back inside for a sweatshirt, he'd stay there. The arena was much safer than the outside. He liked it so much better in there, where it wasn't so bright and he knew his surroundings by touch. But he knew he had to stay outside a little while longer. Not too long, but two minutes wasn't long enough. Maybe today would be the day, he tried to reason with himself. Maybe today he would find someone.
Maybe today he wouldn't feel like the last person on the planet....