The dull sun grimaced out from the sky on that cold winter Tuesday. Its light tenebrous to the citizens of the cracked streets of Kazan, the dawning solar seemed residual with the great depression in the hearts and minds of her subjects below.

Setting up at his usual location, the aging Yakob, known to his fellow slum marketers as Mr Petrov, pushed such dark sentiments aside. Life was tough enough for a homeless merchant without worries of the mind and soul.

It was the usual market day affair. An early riser, Yakob had retired from his quite sleeping spot to pick up his sacks and personal items from a disused garage nearby. Cars were a strange and seldom seen phenomena in Kazan, usually the sign of a local government dignitary spying out his subject-citizens from the safety of blacked out, bullet proof windows.

Politicians were either local Vors, or paid up by them. Thieves in Law indeed, such criminals could use their influence to make the most out of the town's people, charging both tax and protection money, all under a 'legitimate' guise.

After collecting his belongings, Yakob had proceeded straight to the ghetto area just outside of the town centre, meeting with local farmers and producers to buy up their goods. The profit margins were low, but if he could make it to his spot in the main square, Yakob was guaranteed to make enough money to keep his livelihood going.

It was now about mid-morning as he set up his paltry 'stall'. According to the city hall's clock face, it was quarter to ten. Such measurements served no purpose to Mr Petrov, only the hard iron of his scale weights, the soft clink of coin and the rustle of almost worthless notes. Once all of his goods were arranged into their respective squares, the elderly merchant rested his weary body against the wall of the redundant Secret Police headquarters.

To his left, Yakob shared the centre square with his fellow merchants; to the right he shared space with more local homeless, mostly soldiers who had gone unpaid for many years. At least he had wares to sell to feed himself and pay for a shower once a week at a local landlord's, unlike those penniless servicemen, bereft of hope and honour.

Yakob himself was once a soldier for the motherland. That was many years ago, and he had little desire to relive that time. Looking over the square, his hazel eyes observed the local citizens moving towards the stalls. Despite the poverty that existed in Kazan, people still needed to eat and clothe themselves, and in as corrupt a society as the modern Russia, there was always a way to make money to pay for such items.

"Mrs Letviski!" Yakob called out, a hollow smile pushing up the wrinkles on his face. The sentiment was cordially returned as a hobbled lady approached him. "Ah, Mr Petrov, it is a pleasure to speak with you once again."

Covered in a large, black overcoat, Mrs Letviski was one of many widows of the town. Her husband had been killed in the Afghanistan war, an old Serzhánt close to retirement before being gunned down by the Mujahadeen. Her face was worn with age before its time, a 60-something looking more like 80. Her back had been bent over double by the tiring labour work in the old factories as a means to pay her way to retirement, but with the factories closed and her health in decline, Mrs Letviski was forced to live off of the pitiful sums of money the State provided for her after years of loyal service to the economy.

"I believe that the young Sergei will be joining the Militsiya, Mr Petrov, he is such a wayward child" she gossiped, the disdain at the though of a relative joining such a disreputable state organisation evident in her cracked voice. "Relax, Mrs Letviski, allow me to offer you some of my tea leaves to help you relax. Sergei is young man, free to pursue career where he desire."

With a quick exchange of coins and a closely scrutinised measurement on the market scales, the transaction was complete. "Such a fine woman sunk so low. Still, her pride is strong" Yakob mused, watching his regular customer walking off in search of cheaper products.

Soon, another one of the town's well-known inhabitants came to Yakob, looking for goods to sell. "Is your bread fresh, Yakob? I won't buy stale bread" Dmitri quizzed, his sharp, blue eyes searching over the loaves in the sack. Dmitri was one of the more infamous members of Kazan, a self-professed 'Vor'. In reality, he was nothing more than a common errand-boy for the real criminals, a man who would never be inducted into the sacred ranks of the Vor z Zakone.

"They are as fresh as any other's bread, now will you buy Mr Vor?" Yakob replied, the quip visibly stinging Dmitri's sense of pride. Growling, he scared some coins at the feet of the merchant, grabbing the nearest loaf. "A jackal may make itself look like a wolf, but even wolves bend to the farmer for food in winter!" Yakob warned Dmitri, watching as the young man hurried away.

This was a typical market day, gossip and stories passed around. But underneath, not even Yakob could escape the underlying sorrow of the town, the Nation. Russia's broken soul.

: This is the story so far for my MWC9 entry, story inspired by the following picture: