Igor Tretyak ☼ Disaster boy

“Could you be a little gentler?” Igor jolted in his seat as Stacey took a sharp turn that nearly introduced the hood of the car to a street lamp. “My ass, for the record, is very sensitive. You can’t just go abusing it like that.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, eyes glued to the road. She rolled her eyes the way she always did when something annoyed her. And Igor, naturally, was very, very good at being annoying.

Wolfgang didn’t flinch from the back seat. Didn’t even react. Just closed his eyes, like the road was gently rocking him to sleep instead of threatening to turn them inside out.

But Igor? He didn’t do silence.

“Honestly, I never thought I’d live to see the day you both turned against me like this. You—” he jabbed a finger in the air, “—aren’t you the one always whining, ‘Take it easy, Igor, don’t drive like a maniac, Igor’?” He threw his hands up, barely grabbing the door handle as Stacey jerked the wheel again. “But she drives like a demon and suddenly it’s fine?”

“She drives better than you,” Wolf muttered without opening his eyes.

Liar. Or maybe he meant it. Hard to say. Harder to figure out why Wolf even stuck around with them. The guy was quiet, intense, barely spoke — and when he did speak, it was to Stacey. Always Stacey. Always in that soft, loyal-dog voice that made Igor want to barf. He’d called Wolf a whipped once. Or a lapdog. Something like that. Hoping to bruise the guy’s ego. Wolf had just shrugged and gone right back to tailing Stacey like some kind of murder puppy.

Stacey—“Stacey”, in quotes, because no one actually knew if that was her real name or just the one the headlines gave her—was Igor’s best friend, by the way. She’d found this lunatic - Wolf - after he fell off a radio tower. And keep him for... something? Igor didn’t ask. He’s easily made his peace with their weird little trio. At least now Wolf catches all the bullets.

Igor huffed, pulled out a pack of gum, and offered it to the car. Stacey ignored him. Wolf, too. Igor shrugged and stuffed two pieces in his own mouth, snapping them obnoxiously.

The radio buzzed back to life — some kind of talk show — and Igor’s face twisted at the sound of the voice coming through the static. Recognizable. Too recognizable.

“Oh, my dear old man,” he drawled. “I could pick that tone out of a coma. Wake me up, whisper it in the dark, and I’d say: yep, that’s my son-of-a-bitch father. Giving an interview about being a living legend while his bastard son rides in a stolen car with a gun in his coat and two maniacs on either side. Tragic embarrassment, I know.”

“Want me to turn it off?” Stacey asked, glancing at him sideways.

He squirmed in his seat. “No, no, let it play. Divine punishment. God’s wrath. I deserve this, right? Total disgrace — shaming daddy, shaming mommy. Didn’t grow up great, talented, and successful.” He turned to Wolfgang like he expected backup. “Tarnishing their glorious legacies with my terrible, beautiful face.”

Wolf cracked one eye open.

“You shoot pretty well.”

Igor paused. Then beamed.

“There! You hear that? He respects me.”

Stacey rolled her eyes again — but snorted a laugh.

Igor stretched out, pulled a cigarette from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers.

“So, I’ve been thinking. About the paper. We looked awful in those mugshots, babe. Except for blondie here, of course. But what if we broke into the reporter’s office and staged better photos? I’m sure they’d sell their grandma for the scoop. We could be in and out before anyone even called the cops.”

“Can’t stand that you’re not the most handsome one on the wanted list?” Stacey asked, raising a brow. Her own photo annoyed her too — which was exactly why Igor knew she’d consider it.

“You think I’ll let that slide? Babe, you looked even worse than me. Blurry, smeared — like someone did your makeup in an alley with a brick and a can of cola. I’m thinking of you, obviously.”

She gasped, mock-offended, and smacked at him. “Shut up, Igor.”

“Yes, my love! Anything if you back your pretty eyes on the road, sweetheart!” They swerved again, barely missing another lamp post as dust kicked up behind them.

Wolf smirked. Barely. Just a small, crooked twitch of the lips — the kind of expression that made most people think, yep, time to change my name and flee to Mexico. But not Igor. He just grinned wider.

“I love you, Wolfie. Really. Even if you are prettier - sometimes on photo - than me.”

“I don’t love you,” Wolf said flatly.

“That’s because I’m too hot for you.”

Stacey laughed.

They pulled up to a gas station that looked like it hadn't seen a repairman since Elvis left the building. The neon sign buzzed in sickly green, blinking like Morse code for the insomniacs and lost. The air reeked of gasoline, fried bacon from the diner across the road, and a whisper of quiet despair.

Igor was the first one out. He stretched, cracked his neck, and winked at his reflection in the grimy window.

“Still breathing. Gas station didn’t blow up — I call that a win.”

Stacey killed the engine with the same expression you’d have pulling into your own funeral.

“Go get me a Pepsi, Rambo. I need sugar to put up with your shit.”

Wolf stayed in the car. He didn’t step out unless it was absolutely necessary. Guy probably took a piss with the same look he wore before a kill.

Igor kicked an empty soda can; dust puffed up around his boots. He waved lazily at Stacey — yeah, yeah, he got it. The station wasn’t empty: a couple of folks loitered around, some teenage clerk behind the counter. And one bearded creep was trying way too hard to chat up a girl near the gum machine.

She had a beat-up cassette player clutched in one hand, headphones dangling around her neck like a badge of rebellion. A backpack slung over one shoulder. Her music leaked out even after she pulled the plugs — some local punk band, raw and pissed-off. She answered the guy’s questions without really answering, her discomfort practically radioactive.

Igor grabbed a couple of chip bags, a beer, gum, smokes, and a Pepsi for Stacey. As he piled them onto the counter, he spotted the day’s paper hanging beside the register — and there they were. Their faces, grainy and black-and-white, under a headline about fugitives and carjackings. He smirked. Damn lucky the pic didn’t capture his natural charm. That’d be dangerous.

The girl had slipped in behind him, like she was looking for safe ground — or hoping the beard would finally back off. She picked up the same paper, scanned the headline.

Igor leaned back a little, half-turning, and gave her that sly little grin.

“That’s me, by the way,” he whispered, tapping the photo, then pointing at himself. “Doesn’t look like me, huh? I’m way prettier in person. Photo’s trash.”