Chapter 24
The choice facing Erik was a difficult one. But he made it anyway. And he chose the Sorbonne. Well, France it is.
We didn't sell the small house in Switzerland. We rented it out to the neighbors. They promised to set up a small family hotel there—it was a resort town, after all. According to the contract, the rent money was to be sent to an impersonal account in one of the local banks.
To that same bank, Erik and I hauled a couple of tons of gold he had mined and just as much silver, now under his name.
He replenished my account too, throwing in half a ton of precious metal.
With that, we finished our business and said goodbye to the hospitable country.
And in Paris, I bought back my own little house, where I had lived during my studies. Nostalgia, what can you do?
The house next door, where Nicole grew up, stood empty. No one lived there. Only a hired worker came once a week to clean it and repair whatever was starting to need fixing.
This suited me, although it evoked a certain barely noticeable sadness. Like I kind of wanted this meeting, but kind of didn't need it. It promised too much trouble.
In general, it was reckless of me to settle here just four years after my "death" in Poland. But it's not in my nature to run and hide from my own shadow. If they find me, they find me. We will deal with it when it happens.
It would be better, of course, if they didn't find me.
I invested some money and bought the plot and house from another neighbor. I tore it down and rebuilt it into a nice sports gym. I gathered a group of kids aged five to seven and started teaching them Karate. Isn't that a proper occupation?
Through the international exchange, Erik and I invested another ton of money into Stark Industries, which was having some difficulties with the end of the war.
Erik enrolled in the physics department. I enrolled in the arts department. Life dragged on in its usual course.
* * *
The first time it happened was in the Alps.
I was sitting on a mountain plateau meditating. I finished my meditation and looked down, estimating how much time the trip home would take. I closed my eyes, sighed, imagining the warm pastries sold by the baker next door, which I wanted to eat upon my return in my favorite wicker rocking chair on the veranda.
And I opened my eyes exactly in it.
It was a real shock for me. After all, Sabretooth didn't have anywhere near such abilities. Kurt Wagner aka Nightcrawler had those. But he is the son of a demon!
And I am Victor, motherfucking, Creed!
This didn't happen! It can't be, because it can never be! That's what I decided at that moment. Big deal? I just forgot how I got home. It happens. True, with my almost perfect memory that couldn't happen, but it was easier to believe in that than in teleportation.
The second time it happened was a year later. And in a much more extreme scenario: the frame of my hang glider snapped in mid-air.
A chaotic freefall began. The ground was rushing closer. And the next moment I was already rolling across the backyard of my house. Without the hang glider.
I had to believe it. That Sabretooth turned out to be the Hound of Helstad (those who read Bushkov will understand).
And then it dawned on me: the Tesseract! It is, Zen take it, the vessel for the Infinity Stone responsible for Space! And Johann, that nasty bastard, irradiated me with it to activate the serum. Had he known what kind of monster he was creating, he wouldn't have pulled me out of the crematorium at all. He would have just burned me right there without a second thought.
But he didn't know. And he didn't burn me. And now he never will.
And I finally believed that I could do this. And since I can do something, I need to learn to control it. And I learned. For a long time. In secret, even from Erik.
Only high in the mountains, where no one would see or interfere.
* * *
Three years passed unnoticed. It was the year 1950. The world was feverish. The States bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki in forty-five. The Soviet Union tested its bomb in forty-nine. The Cold War and the Arms Race had begun.
The Union barely scrambled out of the post-war pit and now thinks with horror that the Great Helmsman is mortal.
I am teaching kids. Learning myself. Erik is studying. We have peace and quiet. But I am reading the newspapers, and a crazy idea is ripening in my head. Am I a transmigrator or not a transmigrator?!
And what is a transmigrator to the past obliged to do? That's right: warn Comrade Stalin. And I already failed that point. Maybe I should at least save him? To the fear and sorrow of all the bourgeoisie, we will fan a world fire...
I thought for a long time. I acted quickly. Especially considering the new ability. Everything went smoothly. And my laboratory, which I secretly set up in the suburbs of Paris, in one of the spots where a local petty baron manufactured drugs, I later burned down along with the baron and the dope. No traces remained.
* * *
In '51, the Union shuddered from unprecedented purges that swept through the state apparatus. Thousands of functionaries went under the knife. And first of all, the entire top leadership and the inner circle of the Leader. And life, surprisingly, became better for ordinary people. Faith in the Great Helmsman was unbending. Prices steadily decreased. The workday was shortened to seven and a half hours. Evening schools for working youth and correspondence Higher Education gained mass popularity.
And for some reason, they stopped expecting His death. Bulletins about the state of His health, which had been appearing like reports from the front, stopped.
The West grew quiet. Asia glorified its Leader. Japan writhed in attempts to give birth to an Economic Miracle, but something wasn't working out yet.
* * *
I was leading a class with the younger group in my gym when she appeared on the threshold.
In a light white dress, high-heeled shoes, with a small handbag, and her hair down, hiding the left half of her face.
Nicole. Nicole Fury.
My heart skipped a beat. A warm feeling of joy spread inside. But along with it simultaneously came apprehension. A certain tension. After all, she was no longer that cheerful, stubborn girl who was almost a daughter to me. Almost—because she called me uncle, not dad. And I never called her my daughter once. But otherwise... pride in her successes, disappointment from her failures, fear and worry for her. All of that was there.
I didn't show that I noticed her. I continued working with the kids. I corrected their movements. Showed them the proper ones, counted the rhythm.
She stood and watched me in my white kimono surrounded by toddlers. She just stood there. Then she took off her shoes and, bowing, stepped onto the tatami. She quietly sat in seiza by the wall and smiled, watching the progress of the class.
Twenty minutes later, the training ended. The children flew out of the gym into the locker room with squeals, shouts, and noise. And she and I were left alone.
She stood up and approached me. And upon approaching, she hugged me.
"Victor... I'm glad you're alive," she sniffled.
"I'm hard to kill," I answered and stroked her back.
A minute later she pulled away, wiped a tear from her only visible eye, and smiled.
"Will you train me?" she asked enthusiastically.
"March to the locker room and change!" I commanded.
"Hai, Sensei!" she stood at attention, mugging playfully, and ran off.
I walked to the house and placed a pot of red azaleas, which usually sat on the nightstand in the same room, onto the windowsill facing outside.
Seeing this pre-arranged sign, Erik should understand that our cover is blown and act according to the circumstances. He shouldn't be meeting a person like Fury just yet.
* * *