Psyche Profile #451: 'Suslik'
The first thing most would notice about the orphanage was the smell. Like dust and boiled cabbage. It was a stink that clung to the threadbare blankets, the chipped porcelain bowls, the very air itself. For Dimitri, it was the smell of home. He didn't remember a time before the peeling paint of St. Ilya's Home for Children, before the echoing hymns and the rough, comforting hands of Sister Anya.
He was different, of course. The other children whispered, pointed. “Dirt-boy,” they’d murmur, their noses wrinkling. But Sister Anya would hush them, her voice firm but gentle, and Dimitri, or ‘Mitya’ as she called him, learned to ignore the stares. To bury himself in the worn pages of donated books, to sculpt castles from the loose earth in the small, dusty courtyard.
It was in that courtyard that he found them - a small family of ground squirrels had made their home beneath the roots of an ancient oak. He'd spend hours watching them, mimicking their chattering calls, leaving out scraps of bread and seeds. They were skittish at first, but slowly, cautiously, they began to trust him. They would take food from his hand, their tiny claws tickling his earthen skin. In their quick, darting movements, in their quiet resilience, he saw a reflection of himself. They became his friends, in a way the other orphans never quite could.
Sister Anya called them 'Susliks'.
He spent every day he could with them. He'd play with them in the springs and summers, sneak scraps from his dinner for them in autumn. And every moment of Winter would be spent patiently waiting for them to wake up and see him once again.
Unlike the Susliks, the dirt was a constant companion. It shifted and flowed at his will, a silent extension of himself. He could make it dance, build towers that scraped the low orphanage roof, craft crude sculptures of his Susliks and Sister Anya. It was a lonely talent, a strange quirk in a world that often prized the spectacular and the weaponized. Here, in the quiet solitude of the orphanage, it was his alone.
He liked the quiet. The rhythmic chanting during morning prayers, the hushed rustle of pages in the library, the soft padding of Sister Anya’s slippers on the wooden floors. It was a predictable rhythm, a comforting lull against the chaotic symphony of the city outside. The city, he knew, was harsh. He saw glimpses of it on rare trips beyond the orphanage walls – the grime, the hurried faces, the sharp edges of buildings against a bruised sky. Here, within St. Ilya’s, there was a fragile peace.
That peace shattered on a Tuesday. Dimitri remembered because it was fish day – a rare treat that usually lifted the spirits of even the most sullen child. But the smell of frying fish was drowned out by something else that day, something sharp and piercing.
Gunfire.
Not the familiar distant pops, but a brutal, tearing sound that ripped through the hymns, through the quiet, through the air of safety and warmth than the Orphanage had shielded Dimitri in for years. Screams followed the sound, sharp and panicked, replacing the familiar chants. The heavy wooden doors of the orphanage splintered inwards, showering the hallway with shards.
Armed men filed in. They were everywhere, filling the orphanage with their shadows and their harsh voices. Black leather, glinting steel, faces like carved stone. They moved with a terrifying purpose, their boots heavy on the floorboards, their eyes cold and assessing.
Sister Anya tried to shield them, her small frame a fragile barrier against the tide. Dimitri saw the fear in her eyes, a raw, animal terror that mirrored his own emotions. He could feel her heart thumping in her chest - and for a brief instant, a surge of envy.
He wanted to know what it felt like to have a heart.
Dimitri huddled with the other children, crammed into a corner of the library, the scent of old paper suddenly suffocating.
Then one of the men saw him.
His eyes, dark and devoid of warmth, lingered on Dimitri. A slow, predatory smile stretched across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp. He spoke, a guttural Russian that Dimitri barely understood, but the tone… the tone was unmistakable. It was the sound of ownership, of cold calculation.
"Mudman," the man rasped, the word spitting from his tongue like something foul. “Useful.”
Hands, rough and unforgiving, dragged Dimitri from the huddled mass of children. He cried out, reaching for Sister Anya. She didn't return the movement, didn't come to his rescue. She had the others to care for - yes, that was why she didn't resist when he was taken. That was it. Yes. Yes.
He was pulled away, out of the library, out of the orphanage. Out into the harsh, unforgiving city.
The smell of dust and cabbage was replaced by exhaust fumes and the acrid tang of fear. The quiet hymns were drowned out by the roar of an engine, the slam of a car door, the chilling laughter of men who saw him not as Dimitri, not as Mitya, but as their newest tool.
The fragile peace was gone, shattered beyond repair.
The mixer was waiting.
They called him Suslik. Not Dimitri, not Mitya. Suslik. Ground squirrel. A scurrying, insignificant thing. He’d liked ground squirrels. Watched them dart and chatter in the orphanage courtyard, burying nuts, their tiny claws scratching at the earth. He remembered their warmth in his hands, their trusting chirps, the soft brush of their fur against his earthen skin. When the men saw him caring for one as they camped, they cackled.
When it continued the next night, they shot the creature dead. Cleaned it and made a stew.
Suslik stopped caring for the creatures that night. But the name followed him.
The Bratva compound was a world away from St. Ilya’s. Concrete and steel replaced peeling paint and worn wood. The air here was thick with the smell of diesel, stale cigarettes, and something metallic.
His training began immediately. Brutal, relentless, designed to break him, to mold him into something useful. They discovered the extent of his quirk quickly enough. Mudman, they called it. Control over earth.
Versatile. Potent.
But not obedient enough. Suslik didn't jump when they yelled. Didn't crawl on the ground for his scraps.
That was where the cement mixer came in.
He’d never forget the first time they shoved him inside. The cold, echoing clang of metal, the dizzying spin, the suffocating weight of wet cement as it poured in, burying him alive. The world became a churning grey, a grinding pressure that stole his breath, stole his senses. Stole everything but the raw, screaming instinct to survive.
He was dirt, they’d told him. Over and over, between the beatings, between the spins. Just dirt. Worthless. Unless he obeyed. Unless he became useful.
The cement mixer was his teacher. It taught him fear, a cold, gnawing dread that settled deep in his bones. It taught him obedience, a desperate, reflexive compliance that became his second nature. It taught him pain, a crushing, suffocating agony that made him whimper and beg.
It helped him forget his past. The smell of dust and cabbage. The warm embrace of a holy woman. The scurrying of little ground squirrels. His real name.
Everything but the mixer.
He learned to control his quirk within the mixer, a desperate flailing for survival. He could push back against the cement, create pockets of air, fight for precious inches of space. But resistance was always met with punishment, with more cement, with faster spins, with the cold, mocking laughter of the men watching him through the small, grimy window.
Years blurred into a cycle of training, beatings, missions, and the mixer. More children came and went, few lasting long enough to join the Bratva before they died or were sold. Suslik endured. He became muscle, a weapon. Intimidating. Hard to kill. Easy to control. He learned to wield heavy weapons, to fight hand-to-hand, to bury men alive in tons of earth on command.
He became Suslik. The Bratva’s enforcer.
He hated it.
He hated the gun in his hand, the cold steel a constant reminder of the violence he was forced to enact. He hated the fear in his targets’ eyes, the way they crumpled and begged, a mirror of his own terror in the cement mixer. He hated the weight of the bodies he buried, the silent screams trapped beneath tons of earth.
Most of all, he hated the mixer. The thought of it, the memory of it, was enough to make him flinch. As long as it was there at the back of his mind, it would make him obey any order. No matter how brutal. How morally repugnant.
“SUSLIK! WE RUN TIGHT SHIP! SHIPSHAPE, SHIPSHAPE!”
The Boss’s voice, booming and impatient, snapped him back to the present. Another mission. Another target. Another chance to stain his hands with blood and dirt.
He nodded, a jerky, automatic movement. “D-Da… R-Right on it, boss…”
He pulled the blank mask over his face, hiding the dull ache in the holes where his eyes should be. The weariness that settled deeper with each passing year. Trench coat, blank mask, minigun hidden beneath the dirt. The uniform of his servitude.
He was Suslik.
Ground squirrel.
Just dirt.
Nothing but dirt.
Twenty years of experience. That’s what they offered. Twenty years of skills, grafted directly into twenty fresh recruits. Marksmanship, Martial Arts, Language, Chemistry. Anything they wanted.
And all they had to give up was Suslik. One year of servitude in exchange for 400 years of training. A bargain, the Boss had cackled, rubbing his hands together.
Twenty years… Suslik tried to imagine it. Twenty years free from the mixer. Twenty years without the gun in his hand. Without the Boss’s bellowed commands. Without the constant, crushing weight of guilt.
A lifetime.
The man they were selling him to… “Mr. Therapy,” the Boss had called him. A new player, some kind of ‘quirk doctor’ making waves in Japan. Rumors whispered of erased memories, of grafted skills, of a power that could reshape minds.
“He pays well,” the Boss had said, “and he wants… specialized talent.” He winked, a greasy, knowing gesture. If he had one, Suslik’s stomach would have churned. “Says he can fix our little Mudman right up. Make him… happy. Hope you're excited, Suslik!”
Happy. The word tasted like ash in Suslik’s mouth. Happiness was a ghost, a half-forgotten dream from before the orphanage doors splintered inwards.
Still… twenty years.
That was a lot of time.
The journey to Japan was a blur of container ships and cramped cargo holds. He traveled in a reinforced crate, packed with enough dirt to sustain him. The darkness was familiar, almost comforting after years spent in shadows. But beneath the surface, a flicker of something new stirred within him.
Hope? Or just curiosity?
At this point he couldn't really remember.
He met Mr. Therapy in a sterile white room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and something... sweet. Like ozone and cotton candy. The man himself was unexpected.
Young. Almost childlike, with a shock of white hair and eyes that seemed to gleam with an unnatural brightness. He wore a pristine lab coat, incongruous against the backdrop of the Bratva compound. He smiled constantly, a wide, guileless expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was a far cry from the Bratva and their dingy lives.
But that expression was disturbingly familiar.
“Suslik!” Mr. Therapy had chirped, his Russian perfect, bouncing on the balls of his feet with an unsettling energy. “So pleased to finally meet you! I’ve heard wonderful things!”
Suslik grunted, shifting his weight. Wonderful? About him? The Boss must have spun quite the tale to justify the price tag.
Mr. Therapy didn’t seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm. He gestured around the room, his smile widening. “I'm gonna be keeping you very busy! I've been pretty lonely ever since... We can... Oh! We can erase some unpleasant memories, if you'd like! Enhance desirable skills. The possibilities are endless!”
Erase unpleasant memories… The words echoed in Suslik’s mind. The cement mixer. The screams. The guilt. Could it be that simple? Could this unsettling man truly offer him an escape?
“The Boss says you… fix people? That right, Mr. Therapy...?” Suslik rasped, his voice rough from disuse.
The man paused before he clapped his hands together, his eyes shining. “Whoops! Mr. Therapist - not Therapy! Don't worry, you won't be forgetting that anytime soon! And fix? Oh no, no, no! I improve people! I help them reach their full potential! And you, Suslik, have so much potential!”
He stepped closer, his smile fixed, his gaze intense. “Tell me, Suslik… what is it you desire most?”
Suslik hesitated. What did he desire? Freedom? Peace? Forgetfulness? The mixer spun in his mind. A cold, grey dread.
“To… not hurt people,” he mumbled, the words barely audible.
Mr. Therapist tilted his head, his smile unwavering as he stepped closer. “Not hurt people… an admirable goal! But you're being a bit limiting, huh? Surely there is more you desire? Maybe you want to have been someone powerful? I can make it so you had some kind of purpose, if you'd like? Don't you want to find Happiness?”
Happiness. There it was again. That impossible ghost.
Suslik looked down at his dirt-caked hands, clenching and unclenching them. “Just… to not be afraid,” he whispered, the truth finally surfacing. “Not of the mixer, not of the boss... I just...”
Mr. Therapy’s smile softened, just a fraction, a flicker of understanding behind his dull eyes. “Ah,” he said softly. “Fear. A most unpleasant sensation. Yes, Suslik, I believe I can help you with that.”
They were only inches apart now, the Therapist's eyes boring into the holes where Suslik's should have been. He raised a hand to Suslik's cheek. “With your permission, of course.” His touch was surprisingly gentle, light as a feather against Suslik’s rough, earthen skin.
“May I ease your burdens?”
Suslik looked into those bright, unsettling eyes, at that unwavering, almost hypnotic smile. Twenty years… happiness… freedom from fear…
He nodded. A slow, hesitant movement. “Da… Please.”
He couldn't feel it when Mr. Therapist’s quirk washed over him.
Couldn't feel as years of torture were wiped from his mind, like stains from a countertop.
Couldn't feel that shadow looming over him anymore.
2 months later
He woke to a cacophony of chirps and whistles. Not the sterile quiet of the clinic, but a flurry of birdsong, a rustling of wings, a frantic energy that made the air vibrate. He blinked, earthen eyes focusing slowly, and saw them – dozens of small birds flitting around him, perched on the clinic’s equipment, fluttering near his cot. Their bright eyes sharp and concerned.
They weren't in the clinic anymore. Not since it was raided. Not safe anymore. Everything was moved, and apparently the Therapist decided to bring it to some abandoned warehouse on the other side of the city. Less than sterile, but for someone who couldn't get sick, that didn't really matter.
Mr. Therapist was there too, his usual smile absent, replaced by a furrowed brow and a set mouth. He hovered over Suslik, his white lab coat stained with dirt and blood. He stank of dirt, and sweat, and metal.
“Suslik,” Mr. Therapist said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “You are... damaged. More than I thought you'd be...” Suslik managed to look down at his body. Or rather, the lack thereof. Large chunks of his earth were missing, dissolved, leaving gaping holes and ragged edges in their place. He felt weak. Fragile. Less whole.
“Akkoro-san is thorough,” Mr. Therapist murmured, more to himself than Suslik. “The water... disrupting the connective tissue between your cells. The mimicry might be destabilized by...” He paused as he stared, before reaching out a hand, hovering it over Suslik’s injuries. Not quite touching. “Monsieur Black and Tenko-san are assisting.”
De Jais. Suslik shifted his gaze, and saw the French villain standing stiffly in the corner of the clinic, his usual composed demeanor replaced by a tight-lipped grimness. One arm was bandaged, hung in a sling awkwardly at his side. Even he was injured? He was a tough man to pin down, and the tentacled woman didn't seem to have anything to stop him from running...
She was a lot tougher than he thought she'd be. He'd grown soft. Should have used his gun, but...
A smaller figure bustled around Suslik’s cot, a greasy-haired woman with dark eyes and an anxious air. Chiami Tenko. Mr. Therapist’s latest patient. She moved with brisk efficiency, tending to Suslik’s injuries with a practiced hand. Unearned experience. Grafted knowledge. Bandages, salves, bags of earth, she flitted about the room as she searched for things to apply to his wounds.
“H-he needs rest,” Chiami declared, her voice unusually firm. No room for argument. She shot a pointed look at Mr. Therapist. “And quiet. And m-maybe less excitement for a while, Sir.”
Mr. Therapist nodded quickly, his usual cheerful energy replaced by a subdued compliance. “Yes, yes, of course. Tenko-san is right. Rest, Suslik. Heal.” He retreated slightly, his smile returning - albeit softer than usual. “We'll fix you up nicely. And when you're better, it's back on the grind! New tactics, new defenses! You'll be even stronger than before!”
Stronger. The word echoed, hollow and distant. Strength… what did it even mean anymore? He was dirt. He was broken. He was… damaged.
"I won't let you get hurt again."
The last thing Suslik saw as he slowly lost consciousness was Mr. Therapists eyes and smile, barely visible in the dark corridor he retreated to.
He didn't remember his real name. Not anymore. Dimitri, Mitya... those names were ghosts, echoes of a life he could no longer grasp.
He was Suslik now. Just Suslik.
Just dirt.
And in Mr. Therapist's clinic, surrounded by chirping birds and the scent of antiseptic and cotton candy, that was...
That was enough for him.