Small Favors

Pobeda Cinema - Screen Room

Piles of hastily ripped velvet lie in thick, dusty wine-red puddles of cloth on the floor beyond the stage. Where they came from is obvious if one looks up — someone's taken a knife to the curtain swags on the left side of the large screen. While Taktarov's gone off backstage to look for supplies, Maschenko is here for the time being, sitting on the floor and attempting to cut more manageable pieces out of the fabric. This is an irritating chore, the doctor's right side being fairly useless from last night.

Sokolof is off sentry duty and has ventured here in search of Maschenko. Who he finds. Dark eyes flick about at the puddles of cloth from behind his glasses, curious. "Are you quite sure you should be up and about, Luka?" he asks, not bothering to conceal his concern.

"No." Maschenko doesn't have to look up to know the voice and besides, he's trying to saw a knife through a cut in this velvet. "But I hurt too much to sleep, and staring at walls like an invalid doesn't help anyone. Night's coming. The girls will need blankets."

Sokolof heads over to kneel by Maschenko and his mass of cloth. "I was wondering if there might be proper scissors left lying about backstage. And perhaps a sewing kit as well. Well, I can help with this as it is at least."

"If there were scissors," Maschenko mutters blackly, "I'd be surprised if they weren't embedded in someone by now." He rips through about an inch of cloth before stopping, lips thinned with frustration. "You know how to sew?"

"I do, come to it," Sokolof replies, looking about for another cutting implement he can use on the curtains. "It is a useful skill. The textiles at the department stores rarely hold up as well as they should. There is no craftsmanship to them." The derision in his tone is unmistakable. "My parents were tailors, back in Pyatigorsk. I used to assist them with small tasks."

"No worker at a textile factory is a 'tailor'," Maschenko agrees. Rather than deriding, he sounds a wistfully amused. "Sometimes I wonder if tailoring is bound to die out in another generation." Taking a minute for his aching arms, he holds the handle of the knife out towards Sokolof. "Here, take this. Comrade Taktarov has the other, but he's off searching behind the stage."

"It is nearly dead in this one, in many places," Sokolof replies to Maschenko, taking the knife and taking it to the fabric like a saw. He does his best to cut in a straight line, which is about as pretty as he can manage with that particular tool. "My father's shop died with him. There is no living in the trades now. Progress, I suppose." Does he sound a little sad? Perhaps.

"Perhaps it's best," Maschenko says quietly. "More people will get clothing if they can do it quicker, no? None of that old backstabbing over prices and materials…" His tone is a mixture of duty and pensiveness, the way one's is when something is the truth but one doesn't have to like it. "I hope this will be warm enough for blankets."

"Perhaps," Sokolof says softly, voicing agreement without any real feeling behind it. He does not pursue the subject, continuing his hack job on the curtain. "Perhaps there is no need for such things in this day and age. We are sons of the new Russia, after all. What was it your parents did for a livelihood, Luka? I do not recall if we have spoken of such things."

Maschenko lets his back rest against the section of tumbled bench seats, his left hand settled protectively over the bandaging wrapped just under his his collarbone where the bullet passed through. "Mine? My father was a painter. The village painter, really. He made his own paints with all the…dyes and whatnot, you know. Imagine all that with nine children running around. My mother had her hands too full with that for much else. She bartered some, I think. She died when I was young; my oldest sister cared for most of us."

"There was only my sister and myself in our house. My mother was a seamstress of some talent. The ladies preferred seeing her rather than my father for some of their work," Sokolof says. "It brought us in some extra living. They managed to provide for us, though things got hard in those last years. My mother outlived my father, though not by many years. Both are gone now. The shop is long gone."

Maschenko nods a few times, watching the fabric as Sokolof works on it. "Our family is gone too. All of them but me. I don't even know if the house is there anymore." He turns his head, scratching at a healing cut on the side of his neck. "Such a strange thing, isn't it? Things disappearing…it feels like they never did before, you know? The place you lived…your father and his father and his father lived there before you. Not anymore."

"Progress," Sokolof repeats in that same carefully neutral tone. "My father said we lived in a better world, had made a better world. The things that were lost…well, they are gone now. There is no point in mourning for them."

Maschenko finally looks up from the velvet folds and his lips twitch, though not with humor. "You really believe that, Efim?" He asks almost under his breath.

Sokolof doesn't answer right away, pouring his concentration into running his knife along the curtain, grimacing as he does so. The task takes far more exertion than cutting it with a proper pair of scissors. "My father believed we were creating a new age. An age of true equality. In his last years…well, he did not say such things so much anymore."

Maschenko is silent for a while, looking back down at the knife making its jagged cuts. The ripping is the only sound for a good five seconds. "If something happens to you," he says, very quietly. "Is there anything you want me to do?"

Sokolof stops cutting himself at that. Though he does not immediately answer. He sighs. "Keep in touch with my sister. I shall leave you her letters. She and her husband should be able to care for Raisa and Isak but if something happens to her…see that they are cared for. I would trust you with them if all my family were gone."

"I will." Maschenko doesn't let the topic simmer; he brought it up but he seems just as eager to get away from it now that it's hanging in the air. "Ever played with any of this cinema machinery? Comrade Taktarov is keeping his eye out for any of those old fashioned projectors with the hand crank. Wishful thinking probably, but…" He half-smiles, just a little.

That question is something of a surprise to Sokolof. Abrupt change from the previous topic as it is. He's more than happy to move on, however. A chuckle. "You want me to fix the movie screen?" A half-smile himself. And then he just starts laughing. Low chuckles. He's not one for belly laughs. But it is real humor. He can't answer right away. He just laughs.

Maschenko is quite caught off-guard by the laughter, looking at Sokolof blankly until the half-smile evolved into a crooked, lopsided grin that shows a good number of his teeth. First time he's smiled like that since the shrouded incident in the factory office. "Well…why not! We're in a fucking cinema."

"This is what you ask of me? I nearly die at the wrong end of a Fascist gun, my comrades are wounded, we cut curtains with knives so we shall not freeze. And you ask me to tinker with a projector?" Sokolof shakes his head, but he's still laughing. "Madness. All madness. Well. I can give it a try. Do you have a particular request for a picture show if we get it working?"

"What do you want me to ask you for? A kidney?" Maschenko snorts, still grinning. It lingers on his face quite readily for a while. "I have no request, my friend. It's…a small favor for Yulia and Zoyenka, mostly. I had mentioned the projector and the way they smiled just broke my heart."

"For Comrade Nurse?" Sokolof softens. A little. Though he quickly adds, "And Zoyenka as well? Well, as I said, I can try. No promises but…I will take a look at it. It has been took long since I saw a film, in any case."

"It'll depend if Comrade Taktarov can find one of those cranked projectors, anyway," Maschenko muses. "The one upstairs isn't going to be of any use without the power on. Many variables, we'll see if they all come together with enough time to wring anything from them. But it would be nice…they deserve it."

Elise has arrived.
Elise arrives from the South.

"It would be nice, and they do at that," Sokolof agrees softly. "Deserve it. Well. Everyone deserve some small pleasure. I am off sentry duty for a time yet now. I shall take a look at it. Do you suppose there are any tools left in this place?" he wonders. Pondering aloud more than a question to Maschenko, really. "These places are usually staffed by technical crews. Some of their items might have been left behind."

Taktarov has arrived.
Taktarov arrives from the North.

Maschenko smiles again, though a smaller expression than the grinning of before. "Thanks." He looks down at the velvet pile, drawing a breath and exhaling it gently through his nose. "First film I ever saw was Zvenigora. Dovzhenko's first film…I remember seeing it in Kiev in '29. On my birthday. I thought it the most amazing thing, you know…whoa shit, pictures. On a screen. And they moved." He imitates his own naive wonderment with a theatrical whisper and a little flick of his hand towards the big screen up front. Sokolof's question makes him hmm under his breath. "Perhaps upstairs? I should think they'd keep some in storage."

From the direction of the tattered screen toward which Maschenko gestures, comes a triumphant crowing: "Ha-HAAA!" followed by a laugh.

Elise wanders into the screen room, looking around curiously. Her left arm is in a makeshift sling now to take pressure off her injured shoulder, her right hand still bandaged. The injuries have left her in a glum mood, but it lightens a bit on entering the old movie theater. She startles for a moment when she sees other people, tensing for a moment until she recognizes them. "Comrades - sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in…" She trails off mid-sentence, eyes snapping to the screen. The WTF-was-that is evident on her face, though she doesn't say anything.

Sokolof nods to Maschenko. "Upstairs is probably the place to start. In the projection room, which should make it simple as the equipment shall be there as well." A look up at Elise, and he's about to greet her in some manner when the "Ha-HAAA" hits him. He turns in that direction. That sounded good, at least.

"What would you need?" Maschenko asks Sokolof, with a glance up at the hanging screen. He's no electrician, or even vaguely competent with machines. "I can-…" He's distracted first by Elise, but then by the 'Ha-HAAA' before he can say anything. His blue eyes slowly blink, a dark brow raising. "Ahem. Comrade Taktarov?" He calls. Hopefully. Because if it isn't, someone's about to get shot. He's of course got his rifle down here, even if he could barely use it in the state he's in.

"Yes!" comes the call back from behind the ruined silver screen. "Coming, comrades, coming!" Exuberance in a warzone. Maschenko's guess is apt as to the source. Shortly after this call, Taktarov can be spotted picking his way out of the ruined northern storage room, carrying something bulky by a handle in his right hand, and dragging a fresh length of musty theatre curtain over his right shoulder.

Elise's hand is also reaching for the pistol at her belt. The laughter is not as threatening as other Random Sounds might be, but still.. better safe. She relaxes on hearing Taktarov's voice, and starts walking further down where the right aisle would've been.

"Anything in a standard tool kit would do the trick just fine. Pliers, a screwdriver, preferably a small one made for fine work," Sokolof replies. He has his rifle with him, but he's not reached for it. Taktarov is eyed, however. "You have found something to the good, I hope, Comrade?" he asks dryly.

Maschenko does not get up to follow the sounds. His right side is still on dull fire from cleaning up injuries and cutting fabric, sitting at least sparing him some straight-backed dignity. "I will look," he promises Sokolof. His attention's towards the stage, trying to make out what's there. "Well come on then, comrade. Out with it."

"I think so!" Taktarov grins broadly, huffing for air after the exertion of dragging another length of velvet curtains, frayed from the inelegant trim they've had from a standard soviet bayonet. In the other hand, however, is an oddly shaped tin case, clamped onto on a stout wooden platform, to protect whatever is inside. "It's a projector! I think… it *might* be a projector? It looks like one!" calls the young man who had needed to ask what a projector looked like, earlier.

Elise peers curiously at the pile of cut up curtains, about to ask a question before she's distracted by Taktarov's announcement. "A projector, really?" She moves closer to see.

"We are attempting to go to the movies, Comrade," Sokolof deadpans to Elise. Tone dry, but not entirely dour. This idea kind of fires his enthusiasm. In spite of himself. He stands and approaches Taktarov, to get a look at this maybe-projector.

Maschenko smiles, watching Sokolof and Elise head for the prize. Just a tiny bit — unless someone is quite close to him it could be missed altogether. He shifts his back against the wall, squinting slightly. "Has it got a crank at the back, comrade? A handle, there?"

Taktarov lets curtains fall from his shoulder to drop on the ground with a thwump that scatters a bit of the dust from the theatre floor. The bulky case carried in his healthy hand is set down delicately, and he unclamps the cover, drawing it off. "Yes! *Two* handles.." he claims proudly, mistaking one of the arms which lever up to support a reel for a second handle.

"Oh? Zoya will be really excited," Elise says. Elise, though - excited is an overstatement. Interested would probably be a better word. She leans against the back of an overturned seat and just watches for now. Glancing over at Maschenko, she asks, "Making bandages?"

Sokolof grins at Taktarov. The same thin grin he wears often, but at least this time it's genuine. The young man amuses him. He can't help it. "I…think there's just the one, Comrade," he says gently, placing a hand on the actual handle. "But it shall do if it still works, and we can power it."

"Even better," Maschenko replies to Taktarov. Indulgently amused. "Blankets, Comrade Elise. These nights are getting too cold for coats alone. We can take more strips for bandages once that's all done."

Taktarov tilts his head at Sokolof's correction, peering at the machine as it it were an alien artifact. "Are you sure?" he wonders, "Because it *looks* like another handle.." He grins broadly, excited at the prospect. "Will it play the same kind of movies?" he wonders. "It doesn't have any wires, so.. will turning the handle make it play?"

"That's where the movie reel sits," Elise points out to Tak mildly, before nodding to Maschenko. "Da, I'll miss our furnace." Curiously, she asks, "How will we power it? There's… oh." She stops when Tak mentions there being no wires, and the handle, her brain slowly catching up.

"Ah, well, that makes things somewhat simpler. We can just try the crank," Sokolof says with a grin. A shrug to Taktarov. "I know little of these types of devices, but I suspect it will if we can find a usable roll of film to put in it. That would be a thing, wouldn't it? A proper film."

Maschenko's eyes flicker to Sokolof as the two younger ones ponder over things working without wires, and his lips twitch. "Hopefully the innards work when it is cranked. I suspect if there's not too much dust in it…" He gently rubs his nose. "Would we even have to use the screen, Efim? If we could clean and fix up the projector tonight, we could just use a wall when it's working, no? Zoyenka and Gregor wouldn't have to move down here to see it."

"Oh," Taktarov voices, excited despite his confusion at Elise's correction. He grins all the more as Sokolof mentions the need for a roll of film to test it with. "I can run to the film room and find one?" he offers, before Maschenko has a better idea. "Oh! Yes, we could take it up stairs?"

Elise is fine with the idea of things running without wires, just not movie projectors. Someone sitting there turning a crank for a full length film seems rather tiring, so it just didn't occur to her. "Yes, if we could. They'd hate to miss it."

"Any piece of blank wall would do, I think, though it might not be good for the look of picture." Sokolof laughs. "Not that we beggars can be choosers about such things. I should see to getting some rations now but we can set this up later, Comrades."

"The look of the picture," Maschenko repeats, with some mild amusement. "The absurdity of being concerned about such a thing right now feels so surreal, Efim." He shifts over on his legs, dragging one foot under him. "We can move this cutting upstairs, too. We've one or two done, that'll at least keep the worst warm until we finish up."

"I can carry one," Elise offers to Maschenko, stopping her leaning for the moment and moving over to where the pile of blankets is. "Zoya could use one, I'm sure. Though she's always going on about that coat of hers."

"She can use her coat and a blanket," Maschenko says. He wraps his fingers around the edge of a broken bench seat, stiffly hauling up to his feet. "I want to get enough cut so everyone can have one in their pack when we leave here. The winter's only going to get colder."

"I'll get the new batch," Taktarov offers brightly, before voicing to Sokolof, "As long as you can take care of the film machine, comrade?" He grins broadly, excited despite the weariness of cutting down and dragging theatre curtains. The skinny young man will offer Maschenko a hand in rising, before bending back down to grab the edge of the heavy pile of velvet.

Elise nods grimly. "It's going to be pretty bad," she surmises. "I remember feeling like an ice cube just going to and from school last year, let alone trying to fight in it with just this." She eyes her by-this-point-rather-patchwork uniform. "Can you get it yourself, Aleks?" Elise wonders, watching him go for the velvet.

Maschenko accepts the hand, albeit briefly. "Dyakuyu." He snags one of the other cut pieces of velvet on the way up, and his rifle and knife. "Make a few trips if you need to, Comrade. Don't break your neck on the stairs." He shifts the blanket in his good arm and steps over a broken bench. "After you, Comrade Elise."

"I think so, Elise," Tak answers with a grin. "As long as no one minds it dragging up the stairs?" He grins aside at Maschenko, "Comrade doctor's orders- I don't think I could manage it all at once.. unless I was feeling *extra* stubborn," he laughs with a shake of his head.

"After all it's already been through, I can't imagine anyone complaining," Elise points out, giving Tak a slight smirk. "I'll grab one or two then." Lighten the load for the second trip, and make herself feel useful, even though the process of getting two of them up and onto her uninjured shoulder is awkward and a bit painful.

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