Run

01 - Sweet Home

A tall man sat back in a rocking chair, his large hands resting on the wood. His skin was mostly red, and he wore an eye patch with a familiar symbol, the symbol of communism. This man was none other than the massive USSR or the Soviet Union. He softly rocked back and forth, gazing out over where his home sat. He tapped a pencil against a piece of paper, writing lining every inch of the paper. Soviet was conducting a study no other would dare try. The study of werewolves.

The taller grass, deeper in The Valley, rustled. The tall man smiled and called out, "Russia!"

A small head popped out of the grass, their wide eyes looked towards the man, a small voice answered, "Coming, Papa!"

Very soon the boy, called Russia, arrived in front of Soviet. "Yes?" He asked the tall man.

"You're going to get stickers in your fur."

"Yeah, yeah, I can brush it out. I wasn't even in my fur." The boy answered.

Soviet smiled warmly, ruffling Russia's hair, "Be careful when you're running around in your fur. I don't need anyone thinking you're to be hunted."

On that note, Russia quickly transformed, from a normal human-looking boy, a beast most humans fear, a werewolf. His ears twitched, "I'm fast, Papa, I can outrun any hunter!"

"But can you outrun their dogs?"

"Dogs are sad, compared to wolves."

Soviet let out a hearty laugh, "You are one cocky kid!"

Russia grinned, swaying his tail, "Can I try and catch something big for once?"

"How big are we talking?"

"I want to catch a deer!"

"Russia, you may be tall but are you sure you can handle a deer?"

The boy nodded, "I can catch one! I promise I can!"

Soviet sighed, sitting back in his chair. "If you think you can handle a buck, you better get started before the sun sets."

The werewolf scampered off, back into the tall, green grass. Soviet went back to writing on his filled paper. 'The werewolves may appear hostile and fierce, but through my studies, I have proven them capable of understanding human emotions, and exhibiting such behaviors.'

The tall man got lost in his writings, and before he knew it, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting magnificent shades of red and purple across the sky. Clouds spotting the tree lines. The forest was growing dark, and still no sign of Russia.

Soviet stood up and the chair creaked softly in response. His eyes wandered the field, searching it for any clue that Russia was back. The grass swayed in a calm breeze. Russia was nowhere to be found. Soviet moved towards his home's door, he opened it and stored it inside. He set his notebook down on the bar. With fluid movements he returned outside, ready to call out for Russia, yet he was met with the boy standing at the door, coated in crimson blood.

"Russia?! What happened, are you hurt?!" Soviet quickly squared down and examined the young boy,

"Papa, I'm fine, it's not mine." The werewolf's tail wagged with happiness, "I caught a little buck!"

The tall man blinked a few times before processing what he heard, "You caught a deer?"

The boy nodded with a huge smile that spread across his face. "I did, but I need help moving it."

Soviet's body relaxed, "You worried me, Russia." He said softly, he stood back up and awaited for the young boy to lead him into the darkening woods in search of the freshly hunted buck.

Russia scampered out of the doorway and down the slightly tilted hill. The tall man on his tail. The younger's night vision was much more impressive than that of the man's. Soviet trusted Russia to lead the way back and forth. The pair traveled deeper and deeper into the woods. Soviet was able to see the small glimmer of the sun reflecting off still wet blood. The man could practically hear the younger's nose drawing in air, searching for the prey.

Soon Russia spoke up, pointing down at the carcass, "There it is!"

"Wow, you did catch one." Soviet congratulated. He bent down to examine the deer, killed by several strikes to the neck. He found Werewolves to be so magnificent yet so brutal. Soviet lifted the young buck with ease. He nodded for Russia to lead him back home, the boy smiled in return and began their trek home. Soviet dragging the deer behind them.

_______________________________

Soviet stretched deeply, letting out a groan when his back popped. He backed away from his work desk and sighed, finishing another paper in one sitting.

The final line of his paper read, 'As I have taken one of these so-called 'beasts' as my son.'

He read the line over and over, Russia, his adopted son, a creature of his studies, strong, brave, kind, and very tall for his age.

As Soviet thought of his son, right on queue, Russia bounced into the room,

"Papa! I need help."

"With?"

"Changing the disk in the record player."

Soviet gave the boy a patient smile, following him into the living room. The pair moved into the living room and Soviet glanced at the music machine, it's colors were dull and the disk was still spinning, no music was playing. Soviet lifted the record off the tracks and set it away in its casing. Russia was busy pulling another disk off the shelf.

Russia's fingers wrapped around the case gently, "Can we listen to this one?"

"Of course, give it here and I'll play it."

Russia gave the disk to his father, watching Soviet's movement carefully. The music soon started, Russia's ears flicking out of amusement. "Russia, I bought a new disk if you want to listen to it."

"A new one?" He asked curiously,

"Yes, yes, let me fetch it."

Soviet moved into his bedroom and returned a few moments later holding a brand new record, the paper covering was clean compared to the older ones.

The tall man swapped out the disks and looked to Russia, awaiting his reaction. The boy's eyes widened, "What's this called?"

"It's the American's Jazz."

"I can't understand the words."

"Do not worry, you'll get better at understanding it when I teach you."

"I can learn English?"

"Of course." Soviet smiled, patting his son's head softly. He earned a nice wag from Russia's tail.

The younger sank to the ground and took up a few crayons he had found. He was busying himself with drawing whatever an eighth-year-old can draw. His drawing consisted of images of the woods, or lakes, and wildlife. Sometimes he drew his father and himself, those drawings earned a place on the fridge.

"I like this jazz." Russia said after a while,

"I do too." Soviet added.

"It's very different from classical, but in a good way."

"Glad you like it."

It was dark outside, the sun had set hours ago, crickets played their songs through the night, and frogs croaked loudly.

Russia soon found himself hanging off the sofa, upside down.

His legs kicked in the air. Soviet was on the verge of falling asleep on the couch. The music was still humming softly, it filled the room with the melodic voices of people speaking an unfamiliar language.

Russia rolled off the couch and back onto the floor, he glanced back at his father, studying the tall man. A smile crept onto the boy's face. He quietly moved around the house and into a bedroom, he fumbled around with a large blanket and dragged it into the living room. He spent a good ten minutes figuring out how to pull the blanket onto Soviet without waking the man.

The little Republic huddled against Soviet, and curled his tail around his body. The pair soon found themselves in lands of happy dreams.