The last place Dmitri Sudayev wanted to be was in the city covered with his wanted posters, but seeing as he had spent his whole life there he wasn't expecting anything else. After all, he had escaped conscription for a civil war, abandoned and spoken out against the Bolshevik movement, saved a count from a firing squad, evaded arrest on multiple occasions, dedicated the rest of his life to cons and plans to leave the country and caused a whole lot of grief for the Cheka and Bolsheviks, but that was all in a day's work of a Sudayev. At least Dmitri thought so. He was, after all, the only Sudayev left, so he had no clue.

What he did have a clue about was how fast the borders were shutting. "Curse Stalin and his stupid 'communist utopia'," he muttered as he surveyed the wriggling crowds below him. He was practically impossible to see, camouflaged by the brown chimney and smog that coated the air. "'A brighter day is dawning', they said. 'It's almost at hand,' they said. What a load of garbage. If anything, they've somehow done the impossible and made everything worse." He crouched down on his heels, watching two men strolling down the streets. Though their coats were just as bland in colour to the sea of faded brown and grey, the crisp cut and lack of holes and patches indicated their status as Bolshevik officials. Also the glaring red star on their hats. That was pretty obvious. They were probably members of the Cheka, the dumb secret police that plastered his face on every wall. 

Dmitri watched as they rounded the corner before scaling down the building, blending in with the starved crowd. Several eyes, flashed with recognition, but no one said anything. Just as long as he didn't steal from them. He wove through people and buildings making his way to the impossibly busier Nevksy Prospekt. Beside the long stretch of abandoned shops and battered houses lay the Neva River, frozen in an inky black sleep. The Prospekt, however, was flowing quickly. Dmitri let himself be carried by the current, carefully hiding himself in plain sight. He blended in with every Russian and the dull, drab city. Even his hair and eyes were brown, the colour of dirty walls and old leather. Not like the startling blue and blonde of half of the population. Dmitri's luck was so bad he didn't even win the genetics lottery. Lanky, thin and disproportionately long. The universe was rude. Just plain rude.

He finally snuck away from the crowds, slipping into an alleyway. there he came across a door with a crude carving of two characters.

ЧР

The two letters for Black Market. At least that's what he'd been told. He couldn't read. Not very well.

"Another wonderful thing the Tsar failed to give us," he muttered bitterly as he knocked against the old wood.

"Who's there?"

"Only Russia's finest and best conman."

"Lose the ego or lose your head."

"Alright Boris, calm down. I'm trying to find Vlad."

"Please remove him, he's being a nuiscance."

"You're telling that to the guy who lives with him."

The door swung open a crack and Boris beckoned him in. "I don't know why you saved his life," he said.

"Neither do I."

The Black market was really just another market in a guarded courtyard. Literally all of St Petersburg knew about it, except for any Bolsheviks. Which was practically no one. If the Nevsky had been crowded, this was even more so. People haggled over simple, useless things, hanging their wares from the balconies above. Coins rattled in pockets as people exchanged precious kopeks for measly portions of stale bread. Somewhere, in the maze, was Dmitri's... well, roommate. They were not friends. At all.

The conman scaled the wall, hanging from the railing. He scanned every inch of the market but there was no sign of the man.

"Ey! Dmitri!"

Dmitri yelped and half fell, gripping the handrail tightly in his hands. "You nearly made me fall," he hissed to the vendor nearby. 

She grinned, revealing missing teeth. "Your fault for hanging like a madman. Vlad's in the theatre nect door if you want him."

"Thanks." Dmitri swung himself over the railing and began to walk past, ignoring as other vendors tried to sell Count Yusopov's pyjamas.

"I've also heard a rumour," the lady called. 

Dmitri froze. He swivelled around, eyes fixed on hers. "Oh? What rumour?"

She held out her hand. Dmitri sighed and pulled out a brass coin.

"A Kopek? Really?"

"I'll give you three. Or I can pay you back later?"

She narrowed her eyes, away of his tricks. "Oh well, I suppose you don't want ten million rubles then."

Dmitri's jaw hit the floor. "Did-did I hear you correctly?"

"If you heard ten million rubles, then yes."

Ten million. That was more than he had ever had- no, seen- in his entire lifetime. Put together. He was lucky if he managed to sneak ten measly bills. Dmitri hastily pulled out a ruble and held it over her head. Her eyes widened and she grabbed for it, but he moved it out of reach. "Tell me and you get the ruble."

The vendor was not impressed, but she agreed to the deal. "The Dowager Empress-"

"Ugh, not that old hag-"

"- is convinced in her delusional mind that the Grand Duchess Anastasia is alive. Anyone who can find her gets their weight in rubles!"

"I see. And where do we deliver this Anastasia?"

"To the Dowager, in Paris."

"Hmmm." Dmitri gave her a sly smirk and sighed. "Well, if I am to find an Anastasia and take her all the way to Paris then I'm going to need to start saving all the money I can, aren't I? So I guess that means this ruble-" he waved it above her head tauntingly, "- is mine." He shoved it back in his pocket without an ounce of guilt for lying. It was his job, after all.

The woman gasped. "You little-" the stream of words that fell from her mouth were so foul even Dmitri wouldn't repeat them. "I'll report you, I will!"

"Do that and you'll have to reveal Petersburg's precious refuge here, and I can guarantee you the whole city will hate your guts for that." He leant in, his smirk hardly an inch from her greasy face. "And then those guts will be spilled in a back alley somewhere."

She shrieked with rage as he ran off, shaking his fist in the air. It was no use; he was gone from the chaos of the courtyard and into the neighbouring theatre.

It was a graveyard, in a way. No one had touched the place in years. Dust lay in a think blanket around the room, replacing the velvet that had warmed the now-barren seats for decades. Dmitri strolled along the catwalks where stagehands once walked, the old wood creaking under his feet. The only other sound echoing through the auditorium was the soft humming of a man as he waltz around the stage. Dmitri fought back a smile as he watched the older man dancing with his imaginary partner. He grabbed a nearby rope, tested the strength, then jumped off, swinging through the air. His feet landed softly on the stage with a cloud of dust. The dancing man still hasn't noticed him, so when he turned around he was caught off-guard. He yelped, almost tripping over his feet.

"How- why- don't creep up on my like that!" He puffed, straightening his jacket.

"I couldn't helping, Vlad. You were too busy dancing away."

Even to a stranger, the pair were strikingly different. A lifetime of hunger, labour and famine had carved away at Dmitri, leaving hollow cheekbones, protruding ribs and bones that stuck out in unusual places. Vladimir was the polar opposite, with a round belly and cheeks that filled when he smiled, speaking of a long time of comfort and wealth before the revolution. He was shorter as well, with stubby fingers and legs that seemed almost disproportionate to the rest of his body. Wrinkles lined his forehead, replacing the greying hair that was creeping from his hairline. Two different appearances, two different lives. One always in poverty, the other always in wealth.

They sat down at the edge of the stage like they always did when they needed to discuss their plans. Vlad handed Dmitri a measly piece of stake bread, who began picking the green spots off the crust.

"It's a disaster, Dmitri," Vlad sighed.

"What is?"

"Russia. But more specifically the borders. They've closed the Finland border, which leaves the Polish border. If that suits then we're stuck here forever."

Dmitri furrowed his eyebrows, picking mindlessly at the bread. "I have a plan."

"If it involves us risking our lives then I refuse."

"Vlad, we're in Russia. We have no choice but to risk our lives."

Vlad grumbled but said nothing. Dmitri continued.

"I've been thinking about the princess Anastasia-"

"Oh not you too!" Vlad groaned. "All of Leningrad is speaking about her. They're dead, Dmitri! It's been ten years; if she was spotted at any point she would have been shot immediately. And besides, there's no way for her to have survi-"

"Vlad! Let me speak and I'll explain." Vlad quietened down, clearly unimpressed. "The Dowager Empress is getting on in years and is convinced that her granddaughter is alive. The reward for her return is ten millions rubles."

Vlad's eyes went wide. Even in his life of comfort he had never had that much.

"All we have to do is find a girl who looks like Anastasia, teach her how to be the girl, take her to Paris and then we're rich AND out of Russia!" Excitement practically radiated off Dmitri, but Vlad was quiet.

"But wouldn't she know if it's not Anastasia?"

"Shea old. She's probably nearly dead. As long as there's a girl who looks and acts like her, she'll be fooled and we'll be rich."

"I supposed."

"What is it, Vlad?"

Vlad sighed. "You never knew the Dowager like I knew her. She adored the little girl, and Anastasia adored her. Every time she visited, they were practically inseparable. She knows all of Anastasia's mannerisms, her personality, her likes and dislikes, everything. It's not enough to use her old age against her."

Dmitri was stumped. He hadn't thought of that. Now his wonderful plan of getting rich and out of Russia was falling down the drain, faster than he could rea- wait. "Vlad."

"Yes?"

"You knew Anastasia, right?"

"I suppose."

"You were a count. You would have seen her at everything."

"Where are you going with this?"

"You can train our Anastasia. You teach her the mannerisms, the likes and dislikes. Teach her how to act. We won't show her to the Dowager until she's absolutely perfect."

Vlad pondered the words. "Well... that could work..."

"And either way," Dmitri continued, "we'll still be in Paris, so it's a win-win either way. Please Vlad, do this for me?"

Vlad looked at Dmitri's pleading face and sighed. "Alright. We'll find an Anastasia and go to Paris!"

Dmitri whooped and jumped up, absolutely ecstatic. "We're going to Paris! We'll be rich and we'll be out! I'm going to go find tickets. I'll meet you back at the palace!" Dmitri ran off, still celebrating. He didn't notice Vlad still sitting quietly on the stage, or his words whispering through the room.

"If only you were out there, Anastasia. If only you were alive."

The words echoed through the theatre like the wind, into the cold, brisk air. They tumbled through the sky, dodging the crowds and buildings to chase a young woman as she ran through the snow, her dark auburn hair flying from underneath her cap.

"Anastasia."