A manilla folder arrived freshly on her desk the moment she planted herself into her overly luxurious leather arm chair, her dour expression folding into visible anger at the droplets of hot coffee that spilt over the edge of her mug from its impact. The Premier had half a mind to shoot her secretary right then, she had told him time and again no matter how urgent the information she wouldn’t be bothered until she’d had her coffee. Boris insisted, though, remaining at attention in front of the fine mahogany edge of her work area until he was addressed. Mak’s patience, still thinning, remained intact a little while longer as she reached for a tissue to wipe away the dark coffee dollops before they stained.

A palm ghosted calmly over the wood in the area of her spill after it had been cleaned. She sipped from her mug, the heat of her beverage laxing her shoulders while at the same time renewing her energy reserves. It was far too early in the morning for her liking, but reports had to be read and responded to. Finally her attention fell on the folder, dragging it near and peeling it open. A debriefing? Her eyes fell past the paragraphs of information to the most damning piece of text; “The war in Sinai has been deemed, at least militarily, as a failure.” A failure?

“Boris, what is this?” Mak glared towards the Yordle, expecting his eyes to meet her own.

The secretary fell out of attention, “It’s the debriefing on the conflict in Sinai. All Spetsgruppa have been pulled out successfully and are reorganizing for Operation Upbringing as per your request.” A knot arose in his throat as he made eye contact with the Premier, fearing he truly pushed it this time.

“While pertinent this is nothing so important as to interrupt my morning.” Mak flipped through the stapled papers with increasing attitude, licking her thumb to better grip each page.

The debrief reported minor casualties, an encirclement of Spetsgruppa Bheka and an overall stalemate in territorial gains. Her earlier concerns were correct. Committing some of their best soldiers to petty Proxy wars was a waste of valuable assets, Aleksandr’s council was incorrect - however. He had proven useful in the past, but his usefulness was beginning to run thin. And Mak got rid of things she had no use for. A hand gripped her mug, bringing the porcelain to her lips.

“My apologies, Madam, if I may?” He raised a hand, pushing aside the first folder to reveal a document underneath.

The page came with a photograph clipped to its edge of a badly beaten Yordle, his mustache broad across his upper lip, eyes bold and dark, hair slicked back across his scalp with a corner of his left ear missing. His tattered vacation button up and his subtle facial features beyond the fur suggested he was American. Her eyes scrolled the page, finding a name; “George Gordon Liddy,” not someone of any repute or worth in her mind. Her magenta eyes rose expectantly, too tired to continue reading any further.

Boris cleared his throat as her countenance suggested he begin explaining. “George Gordon Liddy, Madam. We had our agents in the states do some digging and his name came up as an ex-militant in the Korean War, as well as an American Federal Bureau field agent. He’s currently working closely with Richard Nickelson on his re-election committee. Bheka found him in a luxury coastal resort south of the conflict zone in Sinai with several women he claimed to be “concubines.”

Mak’s eyes widened at the revelation. A potential double agent. Her mind ran with the possibilities. In the past year President Nickelson had spoken on her behalf after a meeting in Moscow. She remembered the banquet in the Kremlin vividly, all the effort her staff poured into making their precious crown jewel into a comfortable home away from home for that capitalist dog. In truth he was a charming gentleman with a storied past, maybe in another life or if his ideals had been different they could be allies - friends even. Mak’s interest only lay in furthering the Soviet state by whatever means necessary, and if that meant rubbing elbows with peace-loving Americans? So be it.

Their relationship had built in the past few months from distant rulers of opposed nations to neutral parties working towards a coexisting peace. All this was a lie, though. A one-sided facade for the world to smile at. Her operatives had been working overtime to figure out a viable way to turn this blossoming relationship into a door for Russia to stick its boot through, and until now that effort had come up empty handed. Nickelson was on the verge of an election and his opponents, by American journalist reports at least, were formidable. The implications of a member of Nickelson’s security detail vacationing with women in the middle-east was enough dirt to open up a dialogue at the very least.

“I want to incorporate this Gordon Liddy into Operation Upbringing. Our lives just got a whole lot easier, Boris.” Mak grinned.

“Shall I inform the Director?” Boris nodded with a likewise smile.

“Yes, and secure a meeting with Nickelson - use the hotline if you have to.”

It had been a while since Meduza felt the strangling grip of a dress uniform collar around her neck. Her officers' barracks room paled in comparison to the fine white interior of those vacation rentals, but its simplicity was unreasonably comfortable. She wasn’t a complex creature, or at least she believed she wasn’t. Baran’s death made her question that once again. So shortly after Duuga did she lose another she cared about, perhaps not as deeply but in a different way. Her overcoat hung lonely on its rack in her mostly empty closet. She turned to it fully and paused a moment - glancing at the framed picture in the far corner of Black Bheka when it was whole.

Her attention was split and eventually she decided on the latter, meandering over to take the picture into her hand. A finger undid the back of the frame, allowing her access to the photograph inside. She flipped it around again to spy the date. Three sixty-five, had it really been that long? A lifetime for the average civilian Yordle three hundred years prior could easily stretch beyond their hundreds - but due to the increase and seemingly never ending on-again off-again state of war Affra had been embroiled in, the world started keeping time in century long eras at the conclusion of what historians referred to as the Thousand Years of Discovery.

Only recently had that number started to trend back upwards in first world countries. In most parts of the world, especially in Nazi sattelite states like Austria, Hungary, Romania and Czechoslovakia - the average life expectancy was just shy of fifty to sixty years purely due to civilian casualties during war and mistreatment, a third of the normal length. It was a wonder Meduza had maintained a full squad for nearly a decade. The inevitability of Baran’s death didn’t lessen the burden, though, it only made her more determined to defy the statistics.

The picture brought back memories of south-west Germany, inserting behind enemy lines - their unmarked uniforms still fresh after their landing outside Haigerloch. The urge to shed more tears snuck up on her, forcing her to set the photo face-down on the table. A dreary sigh deflated her lungs as she moved to adorn her long coat. Her digits ghosted the fur collar, pulling it off the hanger to sweep it over her shoulders and over her uniform. The last piece of her ensemble to be adorned was her gray ushanka to match her gray fur collar. Just like before she explored the fur and the gold-crimson Soviet star. It was pristine in comparison to the black variant she wore during operations, but neither had seen use recently.

She pressed it onto her head and turned to the door, inhaling deep before stepping out into the hall. The Rebirth Center was eerily quiet, her dress shoes clapping audibly against the tile - dim lights illuminating her path like a lonely runway strip. The empty halls gave way to the hub foyer, which still had hardly a soul roaming its premises - save a day guard or two. The Spetsgruppa who had come to call it home made comparisons to gulags and budget office buildings. Their assessments were unnervingly accurate.

Autumn greeted her the moment she left the claustrophobic, dead halls of the facility. Usoro claimed its lack of decorum or any sort of liveliness was to instill uniformity, furthering them towards the unachievable goal of perfection. But all it served to do was make it that much more refreshing when they escaped the Rebirth Center’s depressing confines. As if on queue an open-top Ulyanovsk painted army-brown pulled up, Drel at the wheel and the rest of her squad in the backseat. It was the new, year old modern model, sleeker and more durable than last generation’s wheels. She rounded the back and slipped into the passenger's seat. Her squad was dressed similarly, navy blue-black ceremony long coats, Soviet-Union armbands and gray ushankas, each and every one of them.

“Major,” Byk said in greeting, “Usoro wants us back by seventeen-hundred after the ceremony - he’s already got our next operation lined up.”

Drel eased on the gas, getting them going. A ragged exhale left her just as the engine groaned and the wheels screeched forward. “It hasn’t even been a month.”

“Mother Russia’s enemies are numerous and ever-present.” Byk responded plainly from the far right end of the backseat.

“Anything to get me away from that place,” Myslitel added, opposite her on the far left, “Why can’t they make it nice like that Roanoak resort?” Her left arm rested on the door, chin in her palm as she watched the Rebirth Center fade into obscurity beyond the orange-red autumn trees.

Krovo spun a throwing knife on her finger via the ringed handle between both Myslitel and Byk. She was proficient in nearly every close quarters melee weapon - but discipline in throwing knives was a void in her expertise. She had bought a set with the valuables gathered from the slain Americans she had plundered in Vietnam. Gold watches, silver rings, bracelets, gold teeth - anything that could be exchanged for rubles. “Because then you’d never want to leave.” Krovo remarked, eyes still focused on the blade revolving around her finger.

Myslitel felt increasingly uncomfortable sitting beside the knife-twirling killer, especially given the information Byk revealed to her back in the Sinai. How far had her mask already slipped? What exactly did the Committee do to make things worse between the Korean War and now? The responsibility bestowed upon her by Byk was one she didn’t know she could follow through with, not only because Krovo was her friend, but because Krovo was a hard Yordle to kill.

“Not everyone is as excited as you to kill people, Krovo.” Myslitel laughed, making an effort to neutralize the anxiety she alone felt with a morbid but lighthearted joke.

Krovo’s knife circled around her finger once more before she killed its momentum with her other three. Her neck craned slowly, head shifting to settle her eyes on Myslitel - expression so neutral the techie had a hard time predicting her next move - which only unsettled her more. “Why not?” She droned.

“Why not?” Myslitel echoed, unsure of her meaning.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Uhh-- I-I don’t know… That’s just how it is, I guess?” Myslitel struggled aloud.

Krovo smiled, looking as if she were about to laugh - though no laugh came. She turned back to her blade, spinning as she did before conversation distracted her. “Relax, ‘Litel. I was only messin’.”

“Uh-huuh,” Is all Myslitel could muster in response.

Meduza shook her head and rolled her eyes, reaching into her long coat pocket to secure a carton of Prima cigarettes, bright red and eye-catching with white calligraphy across its front. The moment her zippo plinked opened it began a chain reaction. From front to back cartons were coming out and lighters were flaring. It was a common phenomenon in Black Bheka, spreading like an infectious yawn. Once one did it, everyone else couldn’t help but follow. Byk produced her Belomorkanal. Drel and Myslitel unveiled their Laika brand cigarettes, in honor of the first dog in space. Krovo preferred Kosmos, trending towards the smooth and spicy taste - though one never would’ve guessed with the simplistic rocket and red star on a navy blue background. A near collective inhale puffed their chests, exhaling all the same to leave a hazy screen of smoke gone with the rushing wind.

Drel fed the engine a sudden dosage of gas, using the little bit of free road they had left to work up some speed and temper her nerves. The Rebirth Center, situated in the Serebryany Bor, was known to the locals simply as a military base. In the autumn the entire artificial island was glazed with fallen leaves - making it eternally satisfying to send them scattering off the road. She’d wandered these forests before, getting lost to clear her head when leave was permitted. They were just shy of Moscow on its western most edge, the golden Kremlin domes just barely visible as the forest receded. The exterior blocks and suburbs would meet them sooner, but before that she had something to get off her chest.

“I--... I- Uhhm. I wanted to say sorry… For what happened in Egypt…” She gave a pause to discern the mood. Meduza’s eyes turned towards her - and in the rear view she had gained the rest of Bheka’s attention, too. It was safe to continue. “What I did was stupid, so stupid we lost a good soldier because of it. It’s been weighing on me ever since I saw him lying… Lifeless in the suite… I can’t get his face out of my head no matter how hard I try. Baran didn’t deserve to die.”

Drel had cried enough about her folly, she had no more tears to shed. “I know most of you hate me for it - there’s nothing I can do to make things right. All I can promise is to be better, stay focused on the mission and not let my petty emotions get in the way. You guys are my family, so no matter how you feel about me I’d still lay down my life for you.”

The Captain reached inside her jacket pocket to retrieve a cassette tape with the name ‘Molchat Doma’ written on the text strip, a Belarussian band that emerged a decade ago, making waves on the VIA with hit after consecutive hit. Baran caught onto them shortly after he joined Bheka. Drel remembered vividly how Meduza cursed at him for playing it too loud a few years back.

“Shut that fucking shit off right now or you’re running laps for a week!” She bitched and moaned. Baran always offered her a dance, which only served to piss the Major off even more to the point she nearly shot him - a threat she dealt frequently - but never followed through with. So Baran ran laps every day for a whole week, listening to Molchat Doma on his cassette player while he did. His antics brought a lightheartedness Black Bheka had been missing until then. They were perfect soldiers, they were meant to be stoic - battle hardened and gritty. Baran defied the mold, and in so doing showed them a virtue few knew before his arrival.

She dropped the cassette tape into the receiver and fast-forwarded just shy of the sixteen minute mark to find his favorite song; Toska. The reverbed plucking of an electric guitar followed shortly after an up-beat one-two, one-two, one-two-two back and forth of snare and kick drum. The whine of the electric keyboard flowed melodically, filling the background with the assistance of a second bassier guitar and its constant up and down strumming. Drel tapped her hand against the wheel, steering with her knee whilst dragging on her cigarette.

She exhaled just in time to recite the beginnings of the lyrics, finding her voice joined by all of Bheka around her. It was a song they’d heard a million times over but made no effort to listen to in the past. Or so she thought. Her surprise left her so stunned she fumbled the first and second line, picking up at the third.

“Я знаю тебе нужна моя любовь,

Уходи и не возвращайся вновь,

Я найду чем себя занять,

Убегай, убегай от меня, тоска…”

Their arrival at Vvedenskoye Cemetery was almost surreal. The last of the album was still playing as soldiers gathered past the red-brick cemetery home, framed in white stone. Meduza was almost reluctant to kill the music, hovering over the eject button for more than a minute. When her finger finally did hit the button the sudden stoppage felt like a final goodbye - the stilling of a once beating heart. She took the cassette tape in her hand, looking over Baran’s laughably bad handwriting - a last tear springing loose onto the cracked paper and text. She glanced up to meet Drel’s eyes, handing off the cassette tape as a silent way of accepting the Captain’s earlier apology.

The funeral ceremony for their fallen was to be led by Colonel Khaski. More comrades than Baran had died in the engagements. Black Bheka was to be a part of the gun salute presiding over their fallen sixth soldier. It was only fitting his squad saw him out. Meduza steeled herself, not willing to break apart or show a hint of weakness - remaining at attention - spine straight, heels tucked, eyes forward. The cobblestone path quaked beneath their dress boots as they faced right, marched ahead, halted and turned to view Baran’s closed casket.

Their pristine, factory new and freshly polished Mosins were risen - taking aim beyond the low trees. Colonel Khaski provided the order to fire and Meduza snapped on the trigger, all five of their bolt actions barely bucking from the non-existent recoil. Again, and a third time after that. Each shot reminded her more and more of the round that struck Baran - the sounds of combat replaying on a static loop in her head. By the time the Colonel ordered them away her hands were shaking. It wasn’t until after the ceremony had come and gone did she manage to steady them.

“It’s different, isn’t it?” A familiar voice reached out to Meduza as she sat on the hood of the UAZ.

She turned back to see the Colonel with a solemn expression addressing her. She couldn’t muster a response.

“Losing one well-trained comrade feels like losing twenty average soldiers. In Molotgrad I lost a whole half a company in under six hours of fighting. Every life weighs on you, of course. But I didn’t shed a tear for the soldiers under my command - knew some of them on a first name basis- But still no tears. Some two decades later I lose my Medic; Spasitel, in a god-forsaken desert to a machine gun and my whole world comes crashing down. I knew him for nearly a decade myself, I watched him get cut in half. Best Medic I ever knew - he came in, did his job, made a joke or two and then he shut the fuck up. Perfect soldier.” Khaski shook his head, bringing a light to the cigarette in his mouth.

“How do you… Move on?” Meduza asked, eyes averting as she contemplated his meanings.

“You never do. Spasitel, Baran, they’re the kind that stick with us. You’ll see his face everywhere and you’ll sure as hell miss him. But remembering isn’t a curse, Major - or at least it doesn’t have to be. Let Baran be a beacon of strength for you.”

Her eyes closed tightly, flashbacks of Baran’s counsel when her lover died now sounding eerily similar to Khaski’s advice. Coming to terms with death was hard, she hadn’t properly finished mourning Duuga when she lost Baran. Now she was supposed to wipe away the sadness their memories brought and transform it into a boon for her to move forward? Khaski framed it so logically, he made it sound so easy. It was anything but.

“He said something similar to me once,” Meduza confessed, “At the time I didn’t really believe him.”

“The goofy ones are always smarter than they look,” Khaski chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, “I hear you’re due a meeting with Usoro.” The Colonel inhaled harshly against his cigarette, flicking it to the pavement and crushing it underfoot.

“And you’re not?” Meduza turned now.

“No, he said it came straight from the top - someone in the Committee really likes you.”

Meduza blinked. What could be so important? Her eyes wandered as the rest of her squad emerged from beyond the iron gate leading into the cemetery - final goodbyes given. She gave a look that inquired after their status. All eyes returned a “ready” glare. She nodded with certainty and got behind the wheel.

“Khaski…” Meduza called as he made room for Black Bheka to pile in. “Thank you.”

He smiled, producing a fold of rubbles from his pocket. “Here, get yourselves some food on me.”

She took it with about as much eagerness as her heavy heart could muster, returning the smile with a smirk of her own. The engine turned over, Molchat Doma continued where it left off and they were back on the road, jamming through Moscow to their favorite eatery: Jukava’s Cafe back west of the city center.

“I don’t need to beat you anymore, do I?” Inga’s knuckles cracked audibly, bloodied and bruised from striking against bone consistently.

George was halfway impressed with her English, surprised she could so fluently carry a one-sided conversation while beating his face to a bloody pulp. He had been well trained not to crack under this kind of pressure, but admittedly his resolve was waning. He took his vacation to Roanoak despite a trip to the Bahamas or even France being on the table. It was a state of the art facility, funded by American industry with the idea of eventually expanding into a fully fledged resort. The novelty was too intriguing. George regretted his decision more and more everyday, his rotten luck having brought him face-to-face with Soviet operatives. He thought himself unimportant, no longer of any strategic value - he was a washed out FBI agent working for the president on his security detail, what use was he?

“I--... I already told you everything there is to know…” The American confessed, his vision doubled and so blurry he could hardly make out the ugly slate gray walls of the torture chamber anymore.

“I know you did.” Inga smiled, raising his chin with a few fingers with all the delicacy of a lover only to come around with her opposite fist, striking him again.

His ears rung, blood spilling from his broken nose as the chains suspending him rattled. “W-What more do you want from me then?!” George whined.

“I want you to be our friend, Gordon. We have a job for you, but it requires a little bit of teaching.” Inga’s sadistic smile became a grin.

The door on the far end of the black room opened, flooding light through. A figure waved Inga on and she moved to Gordon, undoing his shackles. The agent crumpled to the concrete floor - so weak he could hardly break his own fall. He faded in and out of consciousness as he was dragged through tiled hallways lit by eerie crimson lights. He felt his ankles clipping against stairs, he was descending? He was surely underground now, somewhere beneath where he was being held.

Clarity took hold when his arm was jammed with a syringe, the blur fading somewhat to give him perspective. He attempted to rub the sweat and blood from his brow but found his arms bound to a chair. He struggled against the tough leather straps, head turning to view a single screen sat on a roller a few feet from the end of his chair. Static scrolled across the screen in a foreboding fashion, providing the only light in the room. Gordon shifted to see the sterile, almost gas-chamber like floors - making him question if he was truly in Soviet captivity or a Nazi concentration camp.

A voice, filtered heavily to sound nearly inhuman, spoke to him from a pair of speakers built directly into the headrest of his seat. “Who are you?”

George bypassed the question with a shaky, “Where am I? What do you want, I’ve told you everything - please!”

“This is not the correct answer.” The voice seemed displeased.

At about the same time a tiny red light shone ahead of him and up towards the unseen ceiling, the static shifting to form a picture. A colored one-to-one of a black room with a lonely Yordle sitting in a restraining chair was broadcast to him. George glanced at the beaming red light and in his periphery the Yordle’s head turned the same. It was him. Following this revelation he heard the unmistakable click of a revolver actioning directly behind his skull. His attempts at turning to view it were futile - so he used the television instead.

There it was, a Soviet Nagant suspended by a metal arm hanging down from the ceiling, the barrel pointed at the back of the leather headrest. His breathing hitched, heart dropping into his stomach. “Listen! Whatever you think I know, I don’t! I haven’t been with the Bureau for years! I work for Nickelson, that’s all! I’m his security detail!”

“Are you familiar with the game Russian Roulette, agent?” The demonic voice replied.

Gordon swallowed hard, holding his tongue.

“The game Russian Roulette is a potentially lethal game of chance in which two players acquire a revolver and place a single live round into one of six chambers, after which they point the muzzle of the revolver at their head, spin the chamber and fire - taking turns one after the other. The first player to meet an unlucky demise is deemed the loser…” A foreboding inhale followed a long pause.

“Shall we play?”