The Last Romanov (Under Editing)

Yekaterinburg

Sasha had seen plenty of Russian cities in his lifetime: Moscow, St. Petersburg, Novosibirsk, but he'd never been to Yekaterinburg, before. Even so, he'd thought he'd had a good idea of what the city was like. Yekaterinburg was probably like every other city in Russia: smelly, dirty and filled with people beyond what was safe. And sane.

And had he been right? Yes. More right than he'd wanted.

Yekaterinburg had hundreds of thousands of people packed into its borders, enough that it was hard to go anywhere without stepping on somebody's toes. Everything in that part of the city - didn't know what the neighborhood was called, but it was definitely the poor part - smelled of sweat. Sweat and refuse. The air was thick and heavy from all of the factories, every person he walked past had dirt so ground underneath their fingernails that no amount of soap and water would be able to get it out.

None of it was exactly shocking to Sasha, of course: he'd spend more than a few years of his life in very similar surroundings. So, rather than look around too much, an action that had gotten more than a few people killed in a place like that, he headed straight to a bar. Great Catherine's Courage, to be exact.

He wasn't going to get a drink. Not exactly, anyway: he was certain he'd have more than a few while he was there. Arttüri had given him the name of that bar because they took lodgers. And they were home to two communists, ones that would be all too happy to turn a blind eye to what Sasha was there to do.

The place was warm when he arrived, thanks to the fire burning in the hearth. It wasn't a very nice place, but he didn't care much about that: he'd prefer a dive to a palace, any time. Understandably, he was the only person in, other than the barkeep, an older man with graying hair and wrinkles from frowning. And squinting in suspicion, which was what he was doing right then at him.

"Never seen you 'round here, before," he gruffed. "Who the hell are you?"

"Arttüri sent me," Sasha said, leaning against the bar. The too sticky for comfort bar. "Don't suppose he sent advanced word about me, did he."

The man squinted even more. Sasha began to wonder if the man needed glasses.

Then, he sighed, and turned to what Sasha assumed was the kitchen door. "Lyubova!"

"What?" An older babushka walked out, scowling. "What the hell could you possibly want from me, you two bit-"

She stopped the second she saw Sasha. Suddenly, she began to smile. Warmly, almost as if she meant it. The transformation was impressive, and, quite frankly, just a little bit terrifying.

"Hello, young man," the babushka - Lyubova, Sasha guessed - said. He half expected her to start pinching his cheeks, commenting on how much he'd grown. "Are you here for a room?"

"He's Arttüri's friend," the man said.

She turned to look at him, and went right back to scowling. "I don't remember asking you!"

It was at that moment that Sasha knew that the two of them were married: only people who were married for years talked to each other like that.

"Yeah, a room would be nice," Sasha said before the elderly couple could continue to bicker with one another. "How much is beer and a bowl of food with a room?"

"Oh, don't worry about paying us, sweetheart," Lyubova said. "Arttüri worked it out before you came." She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. "Come on: I've got it all nice and set up for you."

Sasha followed her through a kitchen and into a tiny room, one that looked like it hadn't changed in the past hundred years. Worn, wooden furniture, a creepy icon, a cross, some crochet and embroidery around the room. And... it sounded like cat piss. Quite a bit like cat piss.