Writing Contest Entry

Instructions

CW: Mentions of death and war, nothing violent ----- Aleksander Volkov was, in simple terms, dead. In complicated terms, he was floating in a dimension of nothingness, and waiting to enter... something. Be somewhere, be someone. Dying was always an inconvenience, especially for an immortal like him. Eventually, he'd return back to life, and it would be up to some poor chap in the government to try covering up these events as best as they could, retract articles on the fallen war hero, declare the miracle of his continued life- But for now, he was here. Waiting for some higher power to choose where he would go next. Volkov had never died before- he'd come close, but never actually passed into this new state of being. Now.. he didn't know what would happen. Would he simply resurrect? Reawaken into a healed body? In the same place, the same time? He certainly hoped so. His country needed him, needed him to fight, to be strong- the war was already going terribly, and at this rate, Ukraine may as well have a chance of winning- And that couldn't happen. Ukraine was the enemy, the traitors, they always had been- and Volkov needed to be there, in his country- speaking and fighting and doing something, and helping- not here, floating uselessly in this sea of nothingness- he hated it, hated waiting, he wished something would just happen already! And then- something happened. That something was the dark world around him suddenly blurring with streaks of color that grew more defined and tangible as he felt himself plummeting down, down, down- He screeched with alarm, instantly rolling back and covering his face with his hands as he fell with a rough thump, right onto a plot of dry, but thankfully still soft grass. With a small groan, he sat up, a bit shaken, probably bruised, but... alive? "Woah." A familiar voice from behind him said, "That was quite a fall. Where'd you come from?" Volkov scrambled up, icy blue eyes wide as he turned his head- and froze. Because in front of him was a short, somewhat chubby man with fluffy blonde hair and bright blue eyes- wearing a trench coat and scarf and silly smile- in front of him was a man named Gale, looking as he had in 1916- "You look like you've seen a ghost-" Gale said cheerfully, a bit curiously, tilting his head. Volkov blinked slowly, quietly. He had. The man in front of him was a ghost, a ghost of the man he knew in the present, or- the future? The man who would come to represent everyone and everything he hated about Ukraine- But now, here Gale was, in the streets of Borovsk, offering a sweet and lovable smile- Volkov stood up sharply, turned on his heels, and stormed away. "H-hey, wait up! Where are you going?" Gale called, scurrying after Volkov as he walked faster and faster, hatred and anger and helpless feelings flickering through him- This couldn't be happening, he couldn't be here again, not with him- he couldn't be stuck in this stupid religious town with its stupid religious people, he couldn't be stuck in this stupidly chaotic time, with newspapers and bayonets and angry mobs and a sweet, smiling man, nervously walking behind him- He couldn't do this. Not again. "H-hey, come on! Where are you going!" "Home." Was Volkov's flat, angry reply. "And where's home?" Volkov paused, freezing, realizing, with a hint of flared annoyance and a tiny hint of terror- that he had no idea. He turned in a slow circle, finally meeting the eyes of the man behind him, "... I don't know." "Then let me help you!" Gale offered with a bright smile. "... why?" "Because it's the right thing to do?" Gale offered, before grinning, "And anyways, you seem like a cool person! Like someone who could- maybe be my friend...?" He asked hopefully, voice betraying an undertone of loneliness. Wow. He acted like a kindergartener. Volkov sighed, gazing at the familiar streets around him- and the familiar man in front of him. "Fine." He said quietly, "Lead the way."