9. Death

Characters: Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine, Snowy (at the end)
Pairings: None, though mentions friendship!Bianca/Sakhy
Warnings: Character death (well, yeah), blood

9. Death

The oddest part about the day was how ordinary it was. A simple Tuesday, with the autumn breeze kicking up fallen leaves and the sun’s rays unable to completely subdue the chill in the air. A Tuesday in which Ivan Sakharine found himself in a bit of a tough spot. Though it was hardly past noon, Bianca would arrive around six that night and Sakharine wanted everything to be prepared beforehand. Not because he particularly liked Bianca Castafiore, but because it was much easier just to finish preparations in advance than it was to listen to her complain about dinner not being ready. He knew her very well, just as well as he knew the complications that came with her.

That isn’t to say, however, that Sakharine hated the woman. He was actually quite fond of her. She was headstrong. She was talented and she knew it. She would not let anyone stand in her way of following her dreams. She knew what she wanted and she would strive for that. And Sakharine respected that, perhaps because he was the same way. The only difference was she was successful in achieving her goals and he was not.

Sakharine pulled his red coat closer to him as he walked to the store to pick up the last items he needed for dinner. Some more pasta (This time without the unnecessary addition of thousands of tiny bugs, he decided), some fresh tomatoes because the others had gone bad, sugar (which gave him a good chuckle, a man called Sakharine needed to purchase sugar), and a few more odds and ends that brought the whole dish together.

He smiled slightly as he walked. It had been quite some time since he last had company- since before his release from jail a few months before, even. He would never admit it, but he had become just the tiniest bit lonely. Tom and Allan were off doing Tom and Allan things, his neighbors were all insane, save for that one friendly man, Jonathon, was it?, and no one else would even think about visiting him. To be frank, he wasn’t even sure if Tom, Allan, or Jonathon were out of jail at the moment. Hadn’t one of the three been put in for something petty? He gave this some thought as he walked before the story came back to him. No, no. Jonathon was arrested for the stop sign he stole. Not that thing with the guy. Or was it a girl? He thought some more. No, it was definitely the guy this time.

Despite his lack of company, Sakharine was grateful that he had heard nothing from Tintin or that blasted Captain. He had seen them out and about before, usually with that little rat of a dog, but they never seemed to notice him. Sometimes they were in a rush. Sometimes they were laid back, as though they were not mere feet away from a hated enemy. They may not have noticed Sakharine, but Sakharine noticed them. He noticed nearly everything. Almost nothing could get by him.

Almost nothing. Despite the ordinariness of this day, the day was anything but ordinary.

A man walked behind Sakharine, just far enough not to raise alarm. The crowd thickened the closer Sakharine got to the store and the man was soon lost in the herd of faces. The man took a sudden turn and entered a nearby hotel. It was a rather modest hotel; the front room was nothing more than that- a front room. There was a chair next to a fireplace and a small sofa next to that with a table in between that had a lamp on it. In front of the fireplace was an old throw rug faded with age. The clerk at the front desk greeted the man. The man simply ignored him and went on his way.

The hallways were decorated with lights on the wall that offered a meager, dim glow and the floors were covered in the same carpeting as the rug in the front. There was no elevator, though there were three stories to the hotel.

The man had a room on the top story. He walked up the stairs in a sort of quiet hurry. He knew what he needed to accomplish and he was going to accomplish it as efficiently as he could. He entered his room, which was just as dusty and mediocre as the rest of the hotel and even more dimly lit.

He did not take off his jacket as he shut the door. Instead, he made his way to the lone window of the room and pulled the curtains to let sunlight flood in. The man lingered at the window a moment, observing a man in a red coat, a woman in pink, a small huddle of men all in dark coats, and a young couple holding hands. He turned away from the window and walked to the small desk the room offered.

In the drawer of the desk was a single, simple, loaded pistol.

When the first shots rang out, Sakharine saw a young blonde woman in a pink dress drop in front of him. Then, burning agony pierced the very base of his neck, right where back and neck became ambiguous. He hardly heard his own scream of pain. His entire head filled with pressure and his thoughts became mushed.

Sakharine dropped... He let out a pained groan as white spots clouded his vision. He weakly pressed a hand to the wound, feebly trying to stop the bleeding, to postpone the inevitable. He groaned again and dragged himself into a nearby alley. He positioned himself so he could look into the streets, but went as deep into the alley as his wounded body allowed him.

More people dropped in the streets. Surely someone would call the cops? Surely someone would help him! The cops would come and so would the ambulances and Sakharine would not die. People panicked. The crowd rushed for cover in all directions. Sakharine remained alone.

Oh god, oh god, he thought, What do I do? Do I yell for help? Can I yell for help? What did the bullet pierce, I’m bleeding a lot, what all did it hit? Sakharine racked his brain, desperately trying to find a way to save himself. He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to die. Please, please, please, he didn’t want to die! Not like this! Not now! He couldn’t, there was too much to do. He had a falcon. He had guests coming over. He had too much to do to die now!

He slid from his sitting position and sprawled out on the cold dirt. He watched as the blood spilled from his wound onto the ground beneath him. The terror he had tried to hold back seized his heart with a mighty snare. He gasped once and tried to struggle to his feet. The white hot pain intensified, sucking his breath away and pushing him back.

“Help! Help me, I’ve been shot!” he tried to shout. He sounded like his throat had been filled with gravel.

He collapsed to the ground again, groaning. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, though he knew it couldn’t have been very long, he was still alive. Still feeling. Still breathing. Still thinking. Still hurting. He gave another cry of “Help me!”

He had nearly resigned to his fate when he heard voices approaching. They were down the street, just barely in earshot. A glimmer of hope shone through the fear and pain.

“The old woman said she saw someone run over here! C’mon, Captain, she said they dove into one of these alleys! They could’ve been hurt, we need to get to them!” That voice! It was Tintin! Had Sakharine been in a better situation, he would’ve laughed. Saved by the very boy he had tried to kill, imagine that!

Snowy sniffed the ground, sniffing through the layers of panic and gunpowder and, oh dear, blood. He searched for scents of humans. Any scent. He had to find this person his master was searching for, the person’s life could be at stake. His ears perked up as another familiar scent reached his nose. Who was it? Who was it? Snowy wasted no time deciphering who, he barked for Tintin and bolted, following the scent trail.

He slid to a halt, staring into the alley the trail led to. There was a heap in the shape of a man towards the back of the alley. Snowy tilted his head. That scent… Could it be? he wondered.

“Yip!” he barked. There was no response.

Snowy’s ears went flat against his head as he got closer. The man should have heard that.

Closer inspection confirmed Snowy’s suspicions. Sakharine! It’s Sakharine! By golly, how funny! Looks like they got you good, Sakharine! Karma! Snowy barked again and wagged his tail. He stopped. Why hadn’t the man snapped or thrown something at him?

He slunk down and pawed at Sakharine. Hey. Wake up.

He noticed Sakharine’s broken glasses lying on the ground nearby. He walked over to look the man in the eye. Maybe he’s in shock, Snowy thought. One glance at Sakharine’s wound told him otherwise. That’s a lot of blood, Sakharine. Maybe you should get that checked out.

Sakharine’s eyes were half-lidded. Snowy jumped back in surprise. He certainly hadn’t expected Sakharine to be looking right at him!

Snowy barked at the man indignantly. Scare a dog like that! Hmph!

… Oh no. Realization dawned like the new morning sun. Sakharine’s eyes weren’t looking at anything. Sakharine was dead. That scent of fear had been Sakharine’s. The man had been murdered. But why? What did that gunman get out of killing Sakharine? Sakharine had ben very calm recently. In fact, so calm they had heard nothing out of him.

Red hot anger flooded Snowy. Of course it had nothing to do with Sakharine! The man killed him just to kill! I don’t care what Sakharine’s done, he didn’t deserve to be slaughtered like a pig! Curse that gunman! Snowy didn’t fully understand his displeasure with Sakharine’s death. Perhaps it was because Sakharine was just a random victim.

Perhaps it was because of the look frozen on Sakharine’s face. Pain. Fear. Sorrow. Sakharine had been terrified. That did not sit well with Snowy.

Finding out what became of the gunman angered the dog more. The gunman had slipped out easily in the chaos he had caused. He had given the hotel clerk false information and no one knew where he had gone. He had killed Sakharine and the couple and the young woman and he had wounded several others. And then he left, without a care or a glance back.