American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 119 Past Events (Part Two)
John gently nudged Beta toward Carolina, the woman revered throughout the theater as "the director," who alone allowed Beta to call her by the affectionate name "Carolina."

“I have too many enemies.” John stroked the silver cross. “To have him with me is like throwing a lamb into a pack of wolves.”

The stage lights cast varying shades of shadow on his sharply defined profile: "I can't think of a safer place than here. My starting point, and the only place I truly accept as my final resting place."

Carolina's cigarette hovered in mid-air, the ash coalescing into a fragile column. She watched as the boy's small hand gripped John's clothes tightly, then bent down and stubbed out the cigarette, the ruby ​​holder tapping against the velvet tablecloth.

“You know the rules, Jonathan.” She reached out and stroked Beta’s fluffy hair, her touch unexpectedly gentle. “A child who enters this theater must learn to dance on the edge of a knife.”

The ripples of memory spread once again.

At the Tarkovsky Ballet Theatre, little Beta became the most special person. He could move freely throughout the theatre, enter and leave the dressing room at will, and even dared to secretly disrupt Carolina's reprimands.

Everyone knows that behind this little blue-eyed devil stands the "female director" who strikes fear into the hearts of the entire theater.

One snowy afternoon, Beta discovered a figure hiding behind a timpani in the instrument storage room. It was a girl unlike any of the white faces in the theater; her chocolate-colored skin gleamed in the dim light.

“Hey.” Beta crouched down and asked softly in English, “Do you speak English?”

The girl was startled and looked up abruptly. Beta then noticed the wariness filling her amber eyes.

The girl's knuckles were slightly white as she gripped the half-eaten doll's arm. Toys discarded by other children were scattered around her. Clearly, she was alone in this forgotten corner, trying to piece together her own playtime.

The distant sounds of laughter from the ballet troupe only amplified the quiet of this corner.

Beta sat cross-legged on the dusty wooden floor and extended his hand to her: "My name is Beta. Carolina gave me this name, saying it's the pronunciation of the Latin alphabet, although I still don't understand what it means."

The girl didn't respond, but simply hugged the pieced-together doll in her arms even tighter. It was a Frankenstein doll with limbs and body that were completely mismatched; the left leg was from a blonde princess, while the right arm came from a soldier doll.

Beta looked around at the scattered, broken toys.

In this special theater, children under the age of 12 lead seemingly ordinary lives. Girls practice ballet and physical fitness, while boys learn combat and close-quarters tactics.

The children can earn points based on their performance and redeem them for prizes from their teachers. None of the children here have money; Beta is the only exception. The other children are abandoned orphans, and their entire world revolves around this theater with its velvet curtains.

The threshold of a twelfth birthday is a turning point in the fate of all the children in this theater.

Those children who pass the rigorous selection process and demonstrate extraordinary talent will be trained to become top assassins and inherit the true mantle of this theater.

The boys who didn't make the cut were shoved into various gangs to become low-level thugs. The girls faced an even more brutal elimination process; only the most outstanding dancers could stay on stage and continue performing, while the rest were kicked out of the theater.

Where can the girls driven from the theater go? The streets of Moscow in winter are never kind to homeless children. They either freeze to death in some dark alleyway or become the cheapest commodities in the red-light district.

The back door of this magnificent theater holds the remains of countless souls who never got to finish their first solo dance.

Beta tilted his head and looked her over: "They don't play with you because your skin color is different from theirs?"

The little girl lowered her eyelashes, her fingers twisting the toy's mutilated arm.

“I think you’re special.” Beta’s voice was light and cheerful: “They are all just white swans, but you are a unique black swan.”

He leaned forward slightly. "Want to be my friend? I can give you brand new toys, not these things other people threw away." The little girl looked down at the broken doll in her arms, and after a long while, she cautiously nodded. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting dappled iridescent light on her eyelashes.

Beta extended his hand again, palm up: "My name is Beta. What's yours? I'll protect you at the theater from now on."

He grinned, revealing two fangs: "If anyone dares to bully you again, I'll have Carolina spank their asses until they're bruised and battered."

A small, chocolate-colored hand hesitated before reaching out and gently placing itself in Beta's palm.

The girl's voice was so soft it was almost inaudible: "Kataria."
-
"Hey!"

Katalia's voice pierced through his dream, and Beta sat bolt upright, his right hand already gripping the pistol under his pillow.

The metallic feel of the pistol brought him to his senses. Only after recognizing Katalia standing in front of the sofa did Beta's tense muscles slowly relax, and he slumped heavily back into the cushions.

"Damn it." Katalia crossed her arms, a mocking smile on her lips. "When did you become so sound asleep? I opened the door, tidied up, and prepared dinner, and all that noise didn't wake you."

She bent down closer, the scent of oranges from her hair mingling with the aroma of cream wafting from the kitchen: "Do I have to shout at the top of my lungs to get it to work?"

Beta rubbed his temples with the heel of his hand, where the warmth of the dream still lingered: "I had a dream. It's been so long since I've dreamed, so long that I've forgotten what it feels like."

As night fell over New York City outside the window, the lights cast Katalia's shadow onto Beta. The faint sound of sirens drifted from afar, while the dream of a Moscow winter had vanished into the air of reality.

Beta grasped Katalia's outstretched hand and used it to sit up from the sofa.

Katalia sat down on the edge of the coffee table: "What were you dreaming about? You seemed so engrossed."

“The Moscow Ballet Theatre.” Beta brushed the wrinkles off her shirt, her tone calm: “A little girl with chocolate skin who was isolated by the other children, and the knight who met her.”

“Oh.” Katalia’s response was as light as a feather.

A simple dinner was laid out on the table: a perfectly cooked steak, bread from the supermarket, and a few plump oranges.

Beta tore off a piece of bread, the rich aroma of butter melting on his tongue: "How's the situation on floor 87?"

no respond.

Beta turned her head and found Katalia still sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Neon lights from outside the window cast dappled shadows on her profile through the blinds.

"Katalia."

Beta's voice abruptly pulled her thoughts back to reality.

The slender, sharp-eyed woman before me is a completely different person from the timid girl who huddled in the corner of the music room 23 years ago.

"How's the situation on the 87th floor?" Beta repeated, his voice gentle.

Catalia took a deep breath, the hustle and bustle of the New York night filling her ears again. She walked to the table: “Everything is going exactly as you planned. The construction crew has left, and the entire 87th floor is empty.”

(End of this chapter)