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Description
A stale wind blew across the street, the only noise other than the hiss of arisol cans. A teenager, about 17, was spray painting the wall of an abandoned building. She had covered it with withered flowers, which all surrounded a singular small but beautiful bud, full of potential. She was singing a Russian lullaby, something her mother sang to her long ago. She still remembered it, even now, when all hope was almost gone. When she was hated because of her voice and blood, though she was as American as all the others who had trapped themselves in their own homes and cowered in her presence.

Walking along the street, a lone man ducked behind cover & reloaded his pistol as he watched a female figure paint the side of the building. He didn't want any more trouble with other survivors, especially after what had happened last time. Sighing, he raised a hand almost unconciously to his injured eye, the one that had been gouged out by another man's knife only a few days earlier. Taking a deep breath & crossing himself, he moved quickly but carefully towards the figure, gun raised.

Misha's hair whipped around as she turned her head to the stranger that approached her. The hiss of her cans stopped, and her eyes filled with panic. He had a gun. And he was pointing it at her. So, she did what was natural. Fight or flight, as they say. And she was always a coward. She threw her can back it its basket, grabbing her bike and riding off. Perhaps, hopefully, he wouldn't bother with her. Perhaps he would just see her as prey too weak for him, and just continue on his way. She didn't care what he did afterwards as long as he left her alone.

Cocking his head curiously as she took off, he shrugged & lowered his gun, placing it in his shoulder holster. Glancing to a nearby trashcan, he grinned boradly, pulling out a pair of shotgun shells. Pulling a double-barreled shotgun from his back, he thumbed the catch, breaking the gun in two as he slipped the shells in. Placing the weapon back onto his back, he pulled his baseball cap lower, shielding his eyes from the sun & continued down the lonely road.

After what felt like hours of pedaling, the girl stopped in an alleyway, panting. She had exhausted herself completely, to the point where she had all but forgotten about the boy. She sat down, catching her breath, eyes closed as she leaned her head against the wall. Her hair was wet with sweat, causing it to glisten in the dying sun. She smirked at how an American might find this a quite beautiful painting. She only saw beauty in her own work.

The man stopped walking & pulled out a yellowed, folded picture. Tracing the soft lines of the face of a woman in the photo, he smiled sadly & stuffed it back into his pocket, remembering his long-lost love, infected long ago by the bio-war. She was probably still out there somewhere, wandering around aimlessly. As a shiny glare caught his attention, he grinned as his eyes locked on the object causing the shine.

Eventually Misha fell into a light doze, breathing softly. She didn't hear whenever the wind blew, no matter how loud it became, no matter how much it tried to warn her of the coming danger. A group of boys, very muscular from having to survive on their own. A fishbone like her would be easy prey, as they had guns, and she was asleep. Their guns weren't loaded, of course, and didn't work, but they were great for bluffs. The leader stepped forward as the wind howled wildly, pushing some of the weaker boys a few inches, causing them to stumble.

As the man tore through the streets on the motorcycle he had found just hours earlier, he stopped the bike as he watched a group of tough-looking teenagers approaching the girl from earlier. Hopping off the motorcyle, he drew his pistol & shouted, "Leave her alone!" As the leader snickered & raised his gun, the man fired, planting a bullet in his skull & sending him flying backwards.

The Russian's eyes snapped open at the sound of a gunshot. She turned her eyes toward the sound to see the boy from before, holding a gun. In front of him was another boy, rather muscular, though the image of his strength deteriorated greatly at the sight of a bloody hole in his head. Misha wasn't moving, and had even stopped breathing, though the fact that her eyes were open would easily give away the fact that she was now wide awake.
As the rest of the crew raised their guns towards the man, he turned his gun towards their dead comrade & snarled, "You want to end up like him?" As they nervously shook their heads, he said, "I don't think so. Now leave this poor girl alone & get the hell out of here." As the thugs took off, he knelt beside the body of the leader & closed his eyes, murmuring a quick prayer.

Misha had allowed herself to breathe again, though it was quiet. Despite her efforts, her breathing was shaky, and she made many mental notes about where and when to sleep. And to remember to listen to the wind. And to ask this guy who the hell he was."You all right?" he asked, helping her to her feet. "I'm not a killer, despite what you just saw. I only kill in self-defense. What's your name?"

With a shaking hand she pushed her hair out of her face so she could better see the actions of the stranger. She wasn't about to give up her name. Not yet, not until she trusted him enough. And she probably wouldn't. "Vy pervyy...you first...." Her accent was thick, and it caused her to flinch when she spoke English. The boy was obviously fully American. She could only guess how he would react, and it wasn't pretty..."Russian, huh?" he said. "I actually speak Russian quite well. I visited Moscow numerous times before the Flash." She looked at the boy in mute surprise. She was obviously not expecting that reaction. Though, he coud be lying. One way to tell could be a bit risky, expecially if they were being listened to. But she would still give it a shot. "Togda vy skazhite mne vashe imya pervogo.."

"Shawn. Shawn Hastings." he said. "Now, I believe you owe me your end of the bargain." Shawn continued, smiling. She hesitated before replying. She didn't know if she trusted this person enough, though it didn't matter. A debt was owed to him, whether or not he had ulterior motives. "...Misha Udinov..." "Nice to meet you, Misha," he said, "Do you have some way to get around?" She tilted her head to her bike, her spray paints sitting in the basket attached to the handlebars. It had once just been a piece of scrap that sat rusting in her garage, though it saved her from many problems in the past few months. Grinning, he said, "Nice ride. What's it go, 2 mph?"

Misha scowled, blushing slightly despite herself. She pushed past Shawn, not looking at his face. Yes it was pitiful, but it was all she had. She snatched her paints and stormed off, wheeling her scooter with her. She probably could ride it, though he'd probably just show off with his motorcycle.

Revving the motorcycle to life, Shawn pulled up alongside the bike, barely even needing to keep pace. "Come on," he said, offering her his hand as he slowed to a stop. "I'll give you a ride to wherever you need to go." Misha just kept on walking, ignoring the boy's outstretched hand. She didn't NEED to go anywhere. Where was there TO go?

"Alright," he said, grinning & chuckling to himself, "Suit yourself." Taking off down the street, he quickly ducked behind a building, peeking out from behind the wall to watch for her reaction. The girl's only reaction was to fume even more. She was completely & utterly confused yet intrigued by the actions of this mystery man, Shawn. She kept trying to reason with herself as to why she shouldn't be, but she couldn't really help it.
Smiling, Shawn leaned against the wall, waiting quietly for the girl, Misha, to come searching for him in confusion. Suddenly, he sat up as a large snake slithered out of a hole in the ground, fangs dripping with poison. Drawing his pistol, he fired a shot straight through its head, staining the dry ground with bright red blood. Panting, he holstered his pistol & grinned, taking out a knife & sliding it into the tough skin. "You'll make an excellent new belt, little buddy." he muttered to himself as he slowly cut off the creature's scaly hide.

Misha flinched when she heard a gunshot. Was that boy really still nearby? How uncanny. Perhaps he was following her... That prospect made her stiffen and turn on her heel, hopping onto her bike.

Hopping onto his motorcycle, Shawn sped away, the snakeskin securely tucked inside his bag. Lord knows how many times he had lost a good item because his pack had a hole in it...He remembered how he had found a working iPod once, and traded it for a box of shotgun shells. Those bullets were long gone, but he had swiped the device before he'd left, heading all over Florida & stealing it back from a greedy dealer as soon as the fool's had been turned. Looking back, he sighed as the girl became a dot on the horizon. He would've liked to have known her story, where she had come from. She had a Russian accent, but her behavior was quite American. It was important to know peoples' stories these days, especially with so few left to tell them.

It had been almost 2 hours when Shawn pulled up to the abandoned Coast Guard base where he was staying. The few friends he had left were all inside its walls, fighting every day to survive. Jogging over to the gate from inside the structure, his friend Owen opened the large wrought-iron fence, allowing him to rumble through. As he parked & dismounted, he turned to Owen & said, "Did we lose anyone today?" "One, Abby." he replied solemnly. "She...She volunteered to stay behind in the sewers & hold them off." "What were you thinking going as far as the sewers?!" Shawn shouted. "You know we can't send backup from that far away! Abby was just a kid, and now, because of YOUR mistake, she's dead." Running a hand through his hair, he moved to comfort Owen, but could not find the words as his closest friend took off into the depths of the base.

Misha huddled in a corner of a derelict warehouse, shivering. For some reason, the nights always grew so cold for her. She had no way to keep warm, and her stomach hurt from not eating for a while. The room she was in was blindingly dark. She jumped at every noise, every blow of the wind, so she never got any sleep, either. So she just sat there in the corner, freezing and shivering, waiting for the morning.

Walking inside the freezing-cold structure that was once the office of the Coast Guard base, Shawn walked upstairs to where Owen lay on his patchwork mattress in a makeshift bedroom. Sitting down on his own bed, he pulled off his jacket & hung it on a rung extending from the wall. He winced as the bitter cold first touched his skin & enveloped him, then relaxed. The AC unit had busted long ago, constantly circling freezing air through the base. He had always been at home in cold weather. Before the Flash, his friends in the FBI had called him "Ice Cube." he grinned & stared up at the ceiling, wondering where that girl from earlier, Misha, was. He wondered if she was better off than them, had a warm place to stay, enough food to go around, enough weapons & ammo to make sure no one died too early. He sighed. Such a place seemed like a utopia these days. Rolling over on the bare mattress, he shut his eyes tightly & waited for sleep that wouldn't come.