Clara Newhall's Guide to Saving an Unperson

Informality

Months passed before she saw him again. In the meantime she hatched dozens of plans to free him, each less likely than the last. Truthfully, though, there would be no way to help him until she saw him again, and that wouldn't happen until the next time he got hurt. Her patience was rewarded on a sweltering August afternoon.

Janice was at the reception desk. Clara stationed herself there as often as possible, but after months without news of Akim she lost a bit of her fervor. So Clara was working on the payroll. The fact that she only had two employees and didn't have to worry about taxes helped this task significantly. She heard the welcome bell ring and entered the lobby, pulling on her mask.

Delighted, she saw that Janice was speaking to Kruschev. Janice was half listening to the handler and half reading through Akim's file. Apparently she didn't realize that this was the day Clara had been waiting for, but then again, it had been a long time since she last saw Akim. Maybe she didn't recognize him.

Clara scanned Akim. No gaping wounds this time, and no stern guards holding him up, though maybe he could have used them; he looked dizzy and feverish. He did manage to spare a glance in her direction, and shot her a shaky smile. She was glad her mask covered the huge grin spreading across her face.

Janice beckoned Newhall over to the reception desk. She nodded at Kruschev, who simply stated, "Malaria."

"He'll be fine," Janice stated calmly. "But he'll have to stay here for treatment while it works its way out of his system."

Of course, Janice didn't know that that was the best news Clara had heard in her life. They listened silently as Kruschev gave instructions and contact information. He nodded a goodbye and Janice went to set up the examination room. As he left, he gave some final words to Akim. They sounded threatening, but maybe everything Russian sounded a bit threatening to Americans.

Akim answered with a final "Da, Gospodin," and Kruschev left.

Janice was back, beckoning them into the exam room. Akim sat down and she took his temperature.

"102 degrees... these super soldiers don't do anything halfway, do they?" She turned away to write on his chart. "His handler said he contracted it last week on an assignment in the Congo. You'd think they'd take precautions, but no, everyone thinks their assassin is invincible." Janice was the perfect archetype of an ordinary ER nurse, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. Clara was in such a good mood she almost laughed. "Anyway, we'll keep him here for a week or two. His body will have fought off the parasites by then."

Akim looked green at the word "parasites." Clara remembered how he'd panicked at the thought of having a bullet in his shoulder. The poor guy is squeamish, she thought fondly.

"It's alright, they're tiny. They'll be gone in no time," she said kindly. Janice turned back around slowly, her eyes narrowed.

"Oh. I see what's going on here."

Clara grinned again from behind the mask. "Dr. Shepherd, this is Akim." Akim inclined his head bashfully at being addressed this way, or maybe he was nauseous. "I believe I've mentioned him?"

"Mentioned that you've broken all the rules of the business. Are you trying to ruin our reputation?"

"You're being a little rude. He's sitting right there."

"He's not even listening, look."

Akim now had his face in his hands, breathing heavily. Nausea, then. The doctors stopped their feud quickly and moved him to a ward. It was going to be a difficult several days.

-

Akim woke up but kept his eyes shut. He could see light through his eyelids and it was making him feel sick. This wasn't his room, he could tell. He tried to remember where he was and why, but his memory was too hazy at the moment. Why had he woken up? Someone near him was humming. A woman.

"Mat' Rossiya?"

The humming stopped. "No, Akim, it's me. Doctor Newhall."

Of course, he was in the hospital. Had she understood him? It sounded like she had. Akim felt stupid, asking for Mother Russia. He knew she didn't exist. But in his fever, the line between dreams and reality felt blurred. 

He tried to answer the doctor in English, but the words wouldn't come. It was several seconds before he could string together a full thought. But no, that wasn't English, it couldn't have been. Another pause, and he realized that he was speaking Mandarin, and the words didn't make sense even then. He huffed in frustration and forced open his eyes.

Bad idea. Another wave of nausea came over him. He snapped his eyes shut with a grunt. Again, he tried to articulate how he was feeling, but he could hardly remember any English. He managed a weak "I..." and a noise of confusion and distress.

He realized the doctor was shushing him gently. "Shh... Shh, it's okay. The fever comes in waves. You'll feel better soon."

That made sense, mostly. What were "waves" again? Sometimes Akim wished he didn't have so many languages to sort through.

He felt something cold on his face. Surprised, he reached up to touch it, but his hands wouldn't move. They were tied to the bedframe. "Mff," he said. Luckily, Doctor Newhall understood the language of feverish mumbling.

"I'm sorry, Akim. We always restrain our inpatients. I wanted to make an exception for you, I know you're not dangerous, but Dr. Shepherd insisted. I'm sorry."

Back at home, Akim was often restrained for one reason or another, whether for experimental procedures, training simulations, or, most often, as a punishment. His mind flashed back to a memorable event when one of Kruschev's superiors had declared Akim's nail-biting habit unacceptable, and Akim had been handcuffed like this every night for a month. Akim accepted this aspect of his reality, but it didn't mean he had to like it. He sighed. 

The cold thing on his face was a wet cloth, he realized. He briefly thought of waterboarding, but that was stupid; the rag was on his forehead. Either way, it felt good on his burning skin. But then, that was probably why it was there.

Water was running into his eyes. Blinking it away probably wasn't worth the headache. But the light was off now, he noticed. He maneuvered the water out of his eyes. It ran over his cheeks and felt good.

Where had the doctor gone? The minute Akim was able to open his eyes to look for her was the minute he stopped wanting to. That conversation had been tiring.

He heard humming again. But maybe that was just a dream...

-----

AN: Gratuitous foreign language is my jam. Yeah, it's a cliche of bad fanfic authors, but it's not like I made Akim Russian to make the book more exotic. Like I said, this used to be set in the Marvel universe, where Russia is pretty much just full of assassins. Anyway, Akim has been a product of my imagination for a long time now. He's the oldest of the characters that have showed up in this book so far, though later I add a few characters I've had for years, including one I invented when I was three.

You can meet them if the solar eclipse doesn't kill us all.