The Beginning

I've never agreed with the human need to be scared of what's different. Even within themselves - the need to gratify one race whilst dooming another. Praising one breed of pet over another, despite being the same animal. Preferring a colour of fruit, even. Even so, it's such a cornerstone piece of daily norms in society, so I at least understand.

What I don't understand is the human fear of what's different when they are the cause of the difference.

-|:|-

I suppose the whole thing began when my father came up with "an idea smarter than all of the world's combined". He always was overdramatic.

The idea was actually smuggling - smuggling contraband items into Sokovian territory, that is. During - and after - the civil war, it was always a hit or miss to decide which new political power to obey. Mostly the new regimes would rise and fall within a week - new rules disregarded or followed, it didn't matter. So the less fortunate compiled a list of all contraband - from all parties - and decided to avoid them all just to settle the matter. That way we never did anything illegal.

Oleg, however, ignored Iryna by selling old American shows, modern toys, CDs and albums of foreign music. This was an amazing plan to begin with, actually, and we soon found ourselves creeping out of poverty. We had to hide the contraband behind an antique rug hiding a hole in the wall, but we didn't mind. Until the government - all of the parties - found out that the 'peasants' (everyone, really) had been dealing contraband, it sparked even more violence.

Whether or not it was aimed, one of the shells released hit our building, and we fell through the floor. My brother and I were relatively unscathed, besides our eardrums or a few scrapes from loose debris, but our parents were crushed by the main ceiling. For two days, we were stuck down there, watching our parents slowly bleed out from beneath a broken slab of concrete until they had nothing left to bleed.

We were eventually found after we screamed at a firing squad rolling past, and after they reassured that we weren't a threat, they let us go do as we pleased. We had no way of removing our parents bodies, or even knowing what to do - we were 10. So we had to let the bodies be slowly collected by a national funeral service where they were thrown into a mass grave. There was no funeral.

My brother and I adjusted to life on the streets relatively well. We found shelter in the old ruins of a church along with a few other orphans - we had originally been placed in an orphanage, but ran away after a few weeks. We couldn't stand it.

I suppose I should introduce us now - my name is Wanda. Maximoff to some, witch to others, Wands to friends, but to me, I am just Wanda. My brother's name is Pietro - he's a prankster, constantly coming up with sassy 'quotes of the day' to annoy the hell out of our little colony. We're 14 now - twins, about to turn 15 in a month.

The main 'ringleader' of our little squad is Dominik. He couldn't care less about any one of us, but I don't think he wants to be alone. He has an apprenticeship with an ex-soldier, which is the only reason any of us are still alive. Katya is the psychopath - I swear she will murder one of us someday. But she does keep away unwanted attention with her self-administered tattoos (yes, she is 16, and yes, the tattoos did fail a bit, but they still look good). Yulia is just… Yulia. She sits in the corner and reads, mostly. Whatever she can get her hands on, she doesn't mind. For her last birthday, Dominik managed to snag The Art of War, by Sun Tzu, for her, and she has followed him like a puppy ever since.

The rest aren't permanent residents of our little cathedral, coming and going. You have Morozova, who grew up and started a family, Adrik, who flits between orphan colonies, Kiril, who may or may not have been arrested for starting a queer rally (as in, we really have no idea), Rurik and Semyon, the other twins, and that's all that I can really remember. Some others come occasionally, but not enough for us to really get to know them. But we still offer anyone shelter when they need it.

Yulia saw to decorating the church - with the help of Dominik, she propped up makeshift bunk beds made out of pews, and spent some of the little money her parents left her on pillows. Katya finds food for us on the days where Dominik can't afford it - how she does, I have no clue. Morozova still visits occasionally and brings us presents, including another ring for me to add to my mothers collection and Pietro a pair of sneakers.

Either way, that long recap brings us to the here and now. I'm thinking all this next to our firepit with Pietro, Yulia, Katya and Adrik. Rurik and Semyon are coming soon though, and I heard they're bringing some paprikash from the street markets. We don't get to have properly cooked dishes unless it's the odd day that Dom can afford more than bread and soup, so we're all more chatty than normal.

"Вы слышали о том металлическом человеке в Афганистане?" Yulia brings up.

"English, Yulia, we agreed you need to practise." Pietro chastises, shaking his head in mock disappointment as Yulia groans.

"I no understood last word you speak! Why I need speak English?!" Yulia's accent is extremely thick and heavy, but she gets the job done easily enough.

"She's right, Pietro, and either way she's learning faster than we did. It took us 10 years of learning since birth before we were deemed fluent." I remind him, "It's been less than 2 years since she started learning."

"Я не понимаю, что ты говоришь," Adrik butts in, "Я никогда не удосужился выучить этот уродливый язык." I don't understand what you're saying, I never bothered to learn that ugly language.

"Shut up."

"По крайней мере, я понимаю 'shut up'." I at least understand 'shut up'.

"Quiet down, girls , or we won't feed you your paprikash." Semyon bursts through the doors flexing his fluent English. Ah, the benefits of an Australian foster.

"PAPRIKASH!"

The rest of the dinner is spent stuffing our faces with the limited supply Semyon brought. We laugh and cheer and sing out-of-tune Sokovian songs around an already dimming fire. It's not exactly the best home, but it's still home.

That was one of the last nights we had together before all hell broke loose.