The Last Romanov (Under Editing)

Negotiations

The grand majority of people might have been thankful to be out of there. More people would've been grateful to no longer be in prison, to feel the cold air on their cheeks again, to be walking on the streets. Maybe, they'd even be happy that Anastasia had been shot, might even die. Most people would've been happy to get that new lease on life. Things were going to be better, and he should've been overjoyed at that.

But, frankly, Sasha wasn't. And he knew that things probably weren't going to get better. His life had never, ever gotten better, before. His life was one big cycle: he'd get into trouble, get caught, shoot stuff up getting away, get thrown in prison, escape from prison.

Actually... that was just that time. But that change was not welcome. At all. He just kind of wanted to go to some isolated village somewhere, where nobody knew who he was, live in a cabin, and never deal with any of this shit ever again.

But would that ever happen? No. He was going to be doing the same shit over and over again for the rest of his miserable life.

"Welcome back to the free world," Artturi said as they headed towards a car. "How does it feel?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," Nadya said quietly. And she looked like she was going to throw up, too: her face was greener than grass.

"And why the hell are we talking about the 'free world'?" Sasha grumbled. "We're in Mother Russia, idiot: this is basically prison."

"Well, aren't you a Debbie downer," Artturi grumbled. "You plan on hearing our business proposition?"

"I guess," Sasha said as they all piled into the car. "It had best be good, or I'm jumping right out of this car and running off."

"Sounds good," Artturi said as everyone else got into the car. They were packed in like sardines. In fact, sardines were probably a little more comfortable in their cans than they were in that tiny, tiny clown car. That barely had stuffing in the seats and made weird sounds every time someone so much as breathed on something. "Everybody comfortable?"

Everybody responded by grumbling. Nobody was comfortable: nobody was even close to being comfortable. Except for maybe the two bastards lucky enough to be sitting in the front seats.

"Good." Artturi turned the car on, and they drove down the street. Away from the chaos that was Peter and Paul's. Sasha could hear the screaming from there, even with the awful noise the car engine was making: sounded like they'd left the place in a hell of a worse shape than those weirdos had found it. "Where should we start, exactly?"

"With the damned job offer," Sasha grumbled. "Remember what I said about jumping out of this car? I'll do it. I've done dumber things than jumping out of a moving vehicle."

"Good luck with that." Sasha didn't know who the man sitting on top of him was, but he smelled faintly of cigars and odd soap. "I really kind of doubt that you could get me off of you."

"And what are you doing on my lap, exactly?" Sasha snapped. "I don't suppose you've noticed that I'm beyond emaciated: if anything, I should be sitting on your lap: your fat ass is big enough to break the legs of a perfectly healthy person, should you sit on them."

"Oh, boo hoo: you're sick after spending a week in prison," the man said, rubbing his eyes mockingly. "Try ending up in a gulag for a few months, boy: we'll see how bad you're feeling, then."

"We'll see how bad you're feeling after I shove your foot up your ass so far, you'll-"

"The next person that threatens bodily harm to someone is going to get kicked into next week!" Artturi snapped.