Instructor Usoro looked on from his dais, viewing an ugly mixed martial arts cage. His eyes studied the bloody canvas printed with the Soviet’s pride and joy; The Sickle and the Hammer. His pupils, washed of morality and freethinking, stood around it at attention - their blackened combat uniforms marking them out as Spetsnaz elite. Spetsgruppa Alpha, Vympel, Kaskad, Zenyth and Bheka collectively awaited his order. In a way he was proud, like Father is proud of his children, or like a Coach is proud of his players. But fondness was the beginning of comfort, and comfort bred laziness. He would not allow his precious Spetsgruppa to become idle. Not now at such a momentous turning point in global history.

Instructor Usoro was a grizzled yordle, with half his face mangled by ugly scars and burns that shorn his features and his grey-black fur. His subordinates often referred to him as ‘Dva Litsa’, Two Face. Not only was it reflective of his physicality, but doubly his personality. Like any competent instructor he knew that imperfection must be hammered away. It was a difficult process that he abhorred, but his experience in the Great War fighting the many enemies of Mother Russia gave him qualifications for such things. His work was brutal but necessary. The faces of many in his presence resonated with him on a deeper, darker level. Their screams were as intimately known as their skill sets. Even beyond their uniforms he could mark out the scars of punishment he himself inflicted.

“What is broken can be rebuilt,” Usoro always said. A mantra that was scribbled on every other wall in the Rebirth center. A mantra his soldiers lived by. His eyes fell to one half of the room in particular, gesturing to one of his six groups - each comprising three squads.

“Bheka,” His voice was thin and weary but with an aura of authority still, “A demonstration from your close quarters combat specialists.”

The officers of Bheka saluted him, speaking amongst themselves. Two volunteers made themselves apparent, ushered towards the cage by their superior. The cage door was swung open to allow them in, shutting behind them. A chain was threaded through the links and secured with a padlock. Usoro appraised them from his perch, recognizing them after only a few short seconds of seeing them. The woman to the left, built with all the brawn of a man but still possessing the feminine appeal of a woman, stood at attention. Her emerald green eyes contrasted her dark skin. Lieutenant Byk from Black Bheka squadron with a background in Crimea, if he recalled correctly. She was fiercely loyal to her country, almost fanatically so and she rivaled most males in raw strength. She had all the strategy of a Spetsnaz soldier combined with brutish strength to crush lesser creatures.

His eyes fell on the grey-skinned yordle beside her. Not at all surprised that she would be among Bheka’s best fighters. Contrastingly she was smaller and more lithe than her counterpart. Usoro knew her to be more agile, too. More violent. He saw apprehension in her gorgeous purple eyes, an emotion not often displayed by Lieutenant Krovo. She was one of the Spetsnaz most gifted operators, bred for conflict and lacking any sort of virtue, making her more weapon than living being. This was partly because of her background in the Kazakh. Her reputation for bloodshed made her reluctance all the more intriguing.

He looked about the room now, lifting his voice. “To know yourself is to know death, comrades. Because that is what you embody. The Schutzstaffel parade their skulls on their uniforms because they believe they are death- But they are not. You are. To become death you must accept death, not just your own, but your families, your friends… And your comrades. Today is not an exercise in killing, no. Today is an exercise in acceptance. Gather around the cage.” At his behest the rest of Spetsgruppa crowded around the cage.

His attention turned to the women again. “Rank, alias and affiliation.”

“Lieutenant Byk, Black Bheka!”

“Lieutenant Krovo, Black Bheka!”

“Lieutenant Byk, Lieutenant Krovo. You are no longer allies, the Committee has deemed it so. One of you is an American infiltrator. To guarantee your life you must kill your opponent.” At the conclusion of his last sentence he unholstered his loaded Makarov and pitched it into the ring. “Begin.”

The rest of Black Bheka listened to Usoro’s claim. Haunted memories of slaughtering other candidates for a right to belong found them again. So desperately did they want to believe this was merely a scenario for training, but the past told them there was no guarantee of that fact. All of them knew better than to wear their emotion openly in the Rebirth Center, though, merely exchanging glances as the pistol fell into the ring. Meduza clutched the edges of the cage platform tightly, whiting her knuckles at the thought of losing one of her most valuable members. They were as much a family as they were a unit, now.

The two women hesitated towards the pistol as they made intimate eye contact, a shared few seconds of sadness and realization before they lurched for the firearm. Krovo got a hand on it first, much faster than Byk initially. She continued to the far side of the cage, sliding down on one knee and spiraling around with effortless grace, her back against the chainlink. But Byk was on her, cutting left and back right in a lightning stutter step to secure the muzzle. Krovo’s apprehension gave Byk just enough pause to wrap her left hand around the gun.

Krovo squeezed a second too late, sending a round into the rafters and a casing onto the canvas. Their eyes widened for half a second as they realized the gun was indeed loaded with live ammo. Byk peeled the weapon back, coming across with a right that connected to the chin before following up with a knee to the stomach. Krovo grunted, the wind dispelled from her lungs in an instant. Byk twisted on her weapon arm but Krovo moved with the tension, rolling over her shoulder to straighten her limb back out. Byk, still with a hand on the barrel, transferred her control to the grip, pushing the gun into the air just before another shot meant for her stomach burst out of the pistol - ringing her ears.

Krovo’s own ears stood back as her struggling grimace transformed into a look of knowing. She abandoned the weapon, crouching and spinning to sweep the legs. Byk was taken off her feet, collapsing onto her back with a husky grunt. She hastefully flipped the gun round and aimed it only for it to be met by a heel kicking it out of her grasp. Krovo leapt over her ally turned enemy, scrambling for the gun. Byk persistently followed, driving her into the cage the moment she got a hand on it, slamming the weapon into the cage to pin it there.

Krovo fought Byk’s much stronger influence, finding she wasn’t as strong as her bully counterpart. Her skull snapped forward, cracking Byk in the nose with a vicious headbutt that left her bleeding and reeling. Byk still had half a mind to keep the gun out of play, though, clenching against her opponent to make shooting awkward. Krovo growled as Byk’s superior strength began lifting her off her feet. She tangled her free hand into the chainlink but it wasn’t enough to keep her from being suplexed, belly to belly. Krovo thumped against the canvas with a yelp of pain that made all of Bheka cringe.

Byk moved for control once more but the pair of them were expertly trained in Jiu-jitsu. Krovo kept a hand down near her hips to keep Byk from advancing high onto Krovo’s torso while Byk sprawled against her opposition, using her weight to prevent Krovo from maneuvering, hammering her with infrequent elbows in attempts to draw her focus away. On the fourth elbow Byk cut Krovo open across the temple, leaving them both badly beaten. The complex battle of positioning remained a stalemate for almost a minute before Krovo slipped a leg out, pushing off. They rolled across the bloody canvas several times over.

Half of Bheka gasped when a shot was fired during the scuffle, though lucky no one appeared wounded. Krovo finally emerged on top only to have lost control of the gun in the exchange. Both her hands wrapped around it as Byk swung the pistol across with the intention of firing directly through the side of her head. She bent the barrel away from her a few seconds before another bullet was loosed. Tension flared as the life or death battle boiled down to a contest of strength. A contest Byk was winning. With both hands wrapped around the Makarov, Byk pushed against Krovo’s might, a few mere inches from aligning the gun with her head. They panted and growled like wild animals.

Another inch…

Another inch…

Krovo’s panic became apparent as she whined, her muscles failing her. Byk’s finger was a hairline away from caressing the trigger when Krovo abandoned the fight for the weapon, running along the side of the pistol with one hand to push against the magazine release while the other ran across the top, unchambering the round inside. Her hand gripped the half empty magazine that lay on Byk’s chest, striking the woman across the temple with the bottom of it once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

Byk was thoroughly dazed from the exchange, unable to make out Krovo’s features beyond the blood that filtered down her beaten visage. Krovo pried the gun from her grip, slipped the magazine in through the bottom, chambered a round and pressed it down against Byk’s forehead, tears beginning to mingle with the ichor painting her face.

“I’m so sorry…” Krovo whispered, her ears laying flat against the sides of her head. The Makarov exploded several times over as Krovo dumped the remainder of the magazine into Byk’s skull. Each shot reverberated off the empty training room walls, every operative looking on in absolute horror…

Horror that was short lived. Casings clinked against the canvas after every trigger pull but Byk remained unharmed, eyes closed as a persistent muzzle flash illuminated her features. Krovo blinked, looking down at the gun and back at Byk. Her attention shifted to the casings. Blanks, all of them. Her chest heaved with the lingering stress of it all, still straddling Byk, their eye contact persisting long after the fight had finished. The Makarov in her palm shook out of her limp hand, fighting to contain her bottled emotions.

“To do what must be done one has to accept death, comrades. Let this moment remain an example in your heads. No price is too great to pay for Soviet Russia...” Instructor Usoro said. “You’re all dismissed.” Everyone began filtering out of the training room, leaving Byk and Krovo alone in the cage. Even Bheka knew better than to wait up in the face of a direct order from Instructor Usoro.

At the first sign of solitude Byk pulled Krovo into a hug. A sorely needed one as the woman began to sob violently. A comforting hand stroked the back of her neck. They remained this way for five long, uninterrupted minutes. Byk hushed her like an infant child, comforting her for what seemed like an eternity. “Shhh, Dima… You did what you had to do…” Byk whispered.

Krovo’s broken voice scratched against her throat gutturally as she fought to find her words.“I-... I would have killed you, Vechyia… You would be dead right now…”

“And that’s okay… You did what you were ordered to do, that’s what soldiers are meant to do. I would have died happy and proud.” Byk explained, her voice supple and loving like a Mother’s consolation.

“Vechyia…” Dima wiped her eyes of the blood, the sweat and the tears, staining her naked wrist. Then she leaned back to view Byk’s bruised visage, her heart overflowing with guilt. “I couldn’t live knowing--”

A strong and dominant hand clenched her jaw, shutting her up. Vechyia rose to meet Dima’s lips with her own, prompting a deep kiss between the two that lasted nearly as long as their skirmish. The kiss was headed off by Byk, leaning back to stare past her partner’s amethyst eyes and into her very soul.

“My love for you will last long after I’ve left this place. Know and understand that, Dima… Okay?”

Dima sniffled, her hands resting on Vechyia’s shoulders while Vechyia’s palms cradled her hips. “O- Okay… Okay…” She exhaled.

Vietnamese-Cambodian Border, Krong Svay Rieng.

1200 Hours, January 29th, Third Era.

It had been nearly a decade since the Vietnam War began, spurred on by shifting political ideologies. China’s hand in the creation of several Communist parties throughout all of Indochina hadn’t gone unnoticed by other superpowers. The Soviet Union, seeing yet another potential ally just the same as China, conservatively committed soldiers to the conflict under the guise of specialists. Non-combatants that supplied local forces with modern weaponry and the knowledge to use it. The truth was much further from that fact. America’s intervention in the war was inevitable, their devotion to stamping out Communism wherever it lied was bound to drag them into the affair. And Russia had planned around this potential swing of influence.

The campaign was a grinding ordeal between two sides with equal and opposite strengths and weaknesses. Guerrilla fighting was the bane of modern military tactics. The most recent conflicts left America and its allies unprepared for this breed of warfare. It was an unprecedented time of weakness for the United States, and though their leaders and representatives wouldn’t admit it - they were scared. All their martial prowess couldn’t best a downtrodden country of rice farmers? That question sent rippling waves of unease through their democratic infrastructure. Their soldiers, too stressed to perform and not at all comfortable with target descrimination - often killed civilians. The liberal and freethinking American masses cried out for a stop to the violence.

Mak Molotok and the rest of her advisors were keenly aware of the disarray and sought to take advantage of it. Like bloodhounds they could sense the crippling of Democracy. Their soldiers were in foreign lands with inferior allies and intelligent opposition. They had acute rules of engagement that limited their potential effectiveness. They were one push away from a political disaster and Bheka had arrived to give them that push.

Reports of Soviet soldiers operating in Cambodian territory alongside Viet Cong and Northern army forces were lost amidst an influx of information about amassing troops at the Vietnamese-Cambodian border. America was a stubborn country, prone to mistakes because of their first-world ego and crippling nihilism. Local generals had discerned this over years of fighting, molding their plans for an offensive at the beginning of the lunar new year around this very same idea. A coordinated effort between all available communist forces, including North Korean and Chinese assets, were to push on the border and into Vietnamese territory with the objective of capturing and holding key locations in cities all along the peninsula until reinforcements could arrive.

Or at least that’s what she read from the briefing document.

“Drel! Where’s the vodka?” Baran asked.

“Somewhere you can’t find it.” She replied. Her peaceful scanning abruptly ended when a hand gripped the manilla folder her document rested in, fingers splaying across the text. She looked up and ripped the folder away from Baran’s grasp. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

He leaned in close, a grave and deprived look on his face. “I would have something better to do if I knew where the damned vodka was.”

“Meduza says no drinking before an op, you know this.” She sighed, opening the folder once more to read.

“I’m in the middle of a fucking jungle town swarming with mosquitos in ninety degree heat. What right does she have to tell me I can’t drink?!” He exclaimed, turning in frustration to pace about the room.

“She’s your superior, just like I’m your superior. And I order you to fuck off and let me read!”

Baran dismissed her with a wave of his hand. If she wouldn’t help he’d have to just find it himself. He ventured through the vietnamese townhouse, scuffing his boots on the dirty clay tiling. The house had been a gift from one Văn Tiến Dũng, a name Baran was only familiar with because Drel had forced him to pour over the briefing document earlier. He rounded his way up the stairs, once again noting the high step just before the landing so he wouldn’t trip like on his first pass. He entered the upstairs lounge, already scanning for clever nooks where vodka could be hiding.

Not under the pool table, not on the bookshelf nor around the jukebox. He hissed with growing disdain, turning to the open balcony. There he discovered Myslitel tampering with rolls of tape recorder footage. He allowed himself a moment to be distracted by the bustle of native soldiers marching southward in preparation for the offensive. Normally he would’ve been curious to know what she was doing, but like a true operative he was laser focused on his objective again.

“Hey, Meril…” He broke the ice with an innocent greeting.

“Hey…” She replied, her tone somewhat distracted.

“Know where the vodka got off to?”

“Uhh--... I think Meduza took it into her room…” Myslitel replied with half a glance.

“Motherfucker.” He grunted, thinking out loud. The thought of an ass kicking from his superior crossed his mind for a whole fraction of a second. That was longer than most times he procrastinated about something stupid. And he almost changed his mind this time. But the bitter-sweet relief of vodka drew on his senses too heavily. The darker, more addicted half of his brain steered him towards the master bedroom where Meduza laired.

A hand gripped the knob, twisting the door open without hesitation. He was prepared to receive a shitstorm but only silence greeted him. The blinds were low, streaming narrow seams of light across the occupied bed. He found the vodka resting on the bedside table beside a… Coffee mug of all things. It was nearly empty. He looked towards the headboard to see a pair of foreboding amber eyes staring back at him past the fold of the plain Irish green sheets. He felt as if he were about to be jumpscared like in those terrible American horror flicks.

“C-Comrade Major? Have you been drinking?”

She groaned, both annoyed and discomforted. “Ughhn- Close the door… Leave me alone…”

“You know that’s eighty proof, right?” Baran added, pulling the door closer to shut before taking a step inside. He received no reply as Meduza tucked her head beneath the covers.

Meduza was near enough a prohibitionist. Baran had only ever seen her drink in social circumstances, at bars and celebrations, never alone. He shut the door behind him, inching his way closer to the foot of the bed where he sat. He waited in contemplative silence, wondering if giving her space may have been better than irking her further.

“...What’s wrong, Major?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” She snapped back, her voice muffled by the sheets. “Go away.”

“You’re lying, Major. You’ve never drank like this before, if something upsets you… Tell me. This is what family is for.” Baran glanced over one shoulder to see his superior once again staring at him.

“You can not breathe a word of this to anyone, understand?” A shaky exhale fell from her lips as she clasped the sheets tightly.

This must’ve been something she really wanted to get off her chest. “I’ll take it as an order.” Baran assured her.

Meduza finally sat up, her face stained with dry tears. She stunk of vodka and looked half alive. Baran nearly gasped at seeing her in such a state. Never had he known Meduza to be emotional. Especially to the point of crying. He could tell by the way she hid her face behind her hand that she was embarrassed. The Rebirth center told them never to display emotion, because emotion was weakness. A notion Baran hardly agreed with personally.

“My husband… His name is Duuga… I got a call on the satellite phone from one of his friends in Vympel… He’s dead.” Her voice cracked as she reported the death of her beloved.

It was no secret to both their handlers and the rest of the Spetsgruppa that relationships between operators blossomed frequently. They were all soldiers of the highest quality. They had no free time to pursue anything outside of their regimens and they lived far different lives to the average russian civilian or soldier. If they weren’t operating they were training and if they weren’t training they were waiting to be deployed. It was the only way members could find some sort of companionship, even if most of them were exclusively sexual. Baran had his own arrangements with women outside of Bheka. The unspoken rule between them all was that they kept it outside their own groups. He was glad to know she had done that much, at least.

“Husband? You were married?” He asked.

“Unofficially. Our ceremony was done privately a few years ago during our operation in Cuba.” Speaking that truth brought a wave of tears she couldn’t shore.

Cuba. Baran remembered it well. It was more a vacation than a legitimate operation. They had been sent to gather intel on American activity in the Gulf of Mexico and help establish a Russian nuclear presence in Havana after Videl Vago’s revolution and subsequent rise to power. Several squads from Vympel and Bheka hunted down and disposed of American spies as an act of good faith towards Videl and his communists, personally delivering their heads on Mak Molotok’s orders. After that it was just a matter of lazing about on the beach or taking boats out into the gulf to observe the forming blockade of naval ships as the missile crisis began to take shape.

“No better place to get married.” Baran nodded with a solemn smile, his rather boisterous voice now calm and collected.

“Duuga was a good soldier. Someday we wanted to have children… After all this.” Meduza whined, reaching for the bottle of vodka.

Baran crossed the bed, gripping the neck of the bottle just before she could bring it to her mouth. “No, no more.”

“Alcohol is the only thing that reminds me of him… In Havana after the ceremony we got drunk and made love… His breath smelled of Kubanskaya...” She laughed pitfully, looking at the label that read, ‘Kubanskaya, imported from the USSR.”

“He told me he loved me more than his favorite pistol. I told him to prove it…” Her eyes wandered to the vintage Tokarev. It was plated with silver, the trigger was brushed with gold and the grip had a wooden inlay with a soviet star in the middle. A beautiful weapon, well-crafted and well cared for. It was a weapon she only used in dire circumstances, just as Duuga had told her to.

“So he gave it to me…” She paused, choking on her emotions. “And he said, ‘This is your shield, whenever you use it think of it as me by your side.’” She abandoned the bottle, burying her face in her hands.

“Well, then…” Baran poured the bottle of drink out onto the floor beside the bed. “You seem like you’re in good hands.”

Meduza looked up, confused.

“Duuga is by your side, protecting you. He is still your shield. So long as you have that gun he will see to it that you are unharmed. And so will I... You are still our Comrade Major, Mishel. You must guide us, just as Duuga will guide you.”

She wiped away her tears. “Thank you, Enzov.”

He glanced about the room to the other full bottle of vodka. “Aaaaand I’ll be confiscating the rest of your vodka… Operation tomorrow, y’know how it goes.” He slipped out of bed and stole away with the bottle, shouting, “Make sure you put something in your stomach, too!” On his way out the door.

The ball spiraled in her direction, dirty and carried by the warm Cambodian breeze. Krovo came into it chest first, letting it rebound off her person. As gravity took it she met the ball from underneath with a knee, popping it back up a few inches only to let it fall again. On its arc downwards she adjusted her posture, kicking it seconds before it met the ground.

Vechyia followed the highball, skipping backwards and then forwards again when she over compensated. She over-corrected again, but intentionally this time, letting the ball come down behind her to meet it with her heel, sending it back up and over her head. She took two running strides forward, catching the ball with the very tip of her boot, sending it back faster than before. A confident smirk parted her lips, the last times they’d played Dima was notoriously bad with fast balls.

Dima took a single step forward, leaping off the same foot into a spiral that turned her around and upside down. The opposite leg snapped over just as the fastball came within range, firing it up in a long and high arc. She fell down onto her stomach, pushing up in a quick recovery.

“Huh. Where’d you learn that?” Byk smiled, her lax tone betraying her surprise.

“Grishka taught me.” Krovo laughed.

Vechyia let the ball roll down her torso, along her thigh and onto her foot, bending her toes back to cradle it off the ground. “Since when have you and Grishka been friendly?”

“Since you kept beating me in Airball.”

Vechyia swung her foot upwards, scooping the ball into the air, slightly ahead and to one side of herself. “Hmmn. Let’s see what else Grishka taught you.”

Vechyia had always been good with a football, too good by Dima’s standards. She wasn’t a flashy freestyler but her technical ability and power is where she dominated. The game of Airball was simply street football with the aim of never letting the ball touch the ground. The two of them used it to pass the time on extended operations and deployments. Times like this, alone with each other was where their real selves came to the fore - tossing aside their shackles of regimented uniformity to relish in each other’s company.

Byk cut across to the ball a moment before it hit the ground, taking an awkward step out to plant one foot and swing the other around, catching the ball on its underside with the instep of her boot. She followed through cleanly, her momentum carrying her back onto the same foot she’d kicked with. The ball rounded out as if going away from Dima before it curved back on itself. Dima had seen her partner’s curve balls before, always failing to counter them. But Grishka taught her how to combat that, too.

Instead of waiting she intercepted it, once again bouncing it off her chest to kill its momentum. Her first kick sent it up and forward, she took a few skipping strides to catch up with it, kicking it with the opposite foot in the same manner. Byk began to retreat in preparation as Krovo rushed her. With a seamless transition from running to standing she planted one foot and kicked into it, sending it whipping towards Byk.

Byk reversed her heading, coming into the speeding ball with a single accurate kick that sent it back even faster. Krovo stuttered up to the point where the ball was going to land, but rather than kicking it as hard as she could, she bunted it - delivering the ball back in Vechyia’s direction with half the momentum. Vechyia scrambled forward, retorting with a leaping kick directly towards her partner’s head. Dima slipped it, feeling it graze her long ear on the way past. The ball banked off a tree nearby, giving Vechyia the final point she needed to seal the game, two-one.

“Fuck!” Krovo exclaimed.

“Looks like Grishka still has more to teach you.” Vechyia declared proudly, a hand on her hip.

“Why can’t you teach me?”

“I know how fast you learn.” Vechyia began to close the distance between the two.

Dima’s brow furrowed with amusement. “So you’re scared?”

Vechyia opened her arms to receive Dima’s affection. She was almost a head or so taller than her lover, looking down on her with those softened green eyes. Dima fell against Vechyia’s broad chest, returning the gaze with smug adoration.

“Never.” Vechyia grinned.

Dima’s palms ran along Vechyia’s exposed shoulders, slipping beneath the tank top to feel across her back. The striations of old scars ran horizontally down her spine like lines of text. And suddenly Dima was sad, burying her face close to Vechyia’s heart. Those old scars reminded her of the Rebirth center and the trauma Vechyia had endured. Before they were squadmates and before they were involved Vechyia was a prideful woman, unwilling to forsake all of her past life to proceed with the relearning programs. Everyone was broken but Vechyia got it worse.

What Dima found most miraculous was her devotion to her country despite it all. She wanted to apologize, to make amends for something she had no part in. She wanted to tell Vechyia how happy she made her. That without her she wouldn’t be complete. But a part of her knew that Vechyia’s devotion to her country would always put her duties before Dima. It was a compromise Dima struggled with. After holding the gun to Vechyia’s forehead all those years ago Dima couldn’t bear the thought of life without her. The mission could never come before her heart. And that made her worse because of it.

Knowing that their love was conditional killed Dima inside. Their handlers had broken Vechyia so utterly and so thoroughly to the point where a portion of her heart would always remain accessible only to the Soviet Union… And the worst part was Dima couldn’t tell Vechyia that...

“You okay?” Byk asked, pressing a kiss into the top of Dima’s head.

“Mmmhm… I just- Want to hold you for a while...”

“As long as you want...” Vechyia whispered. “As long as you want…”