To disguise one’s race of origin was a time consuming and meticulous process that required a complete behavioral overhaul of the Yordle in question. No trivial feat. Differences in race was an intrinsic part of one’s being, not easily masked with clothes and simple acting. But it was possible. Possible to construct a potent enough falsehood that could be believed at the very least on a surface-level. Bheka had been given a short time frame, six months was only half of what was needed to build an authentic second-life, and even then that was stretching things. So rather than have them conform wholly into something else, the Director thought it better to ease their transformation by making their alter-egos something closer to home. The less effort they had to invest in these personalities, the better.

Byk read all this over in her documents to the din of clamoring Englishmen and blaring sea horns. Coming to grips with being something she wasn’t at first was difficult. She couldn’t imagine herself as anything but Russia’s finest. To be anything less than that was blasphemy. But in service of the Motherland she would do anything asked of her, rebelliousness was not in her nature. She was a soldier, through and through. So from this point forward she was Dayaana Osin, a Siberyaki Roma Gypsy, or Siberian Gypsy. The revelation of their second selves arose disgust immediately, though she could at least admit it was quite believable. Entering a country as a foreign spy attempting to assimilate into a system often required a cover country or convincing backstory that was solid and could be corroborated by others.

They were Ruska Roma sister wives, recently widowed by their late husband Osaya Osin. This Osaya Osin was a real Siberian Gypsy with a real polygamous family within a clan of other affiliated Roma families. A clan that was documented by the Committee as having been a nomadic nuisance from the Northern Caucasus all the way to Western Siberia. It hadn’t been long since the decree laid out by Comrade Molotok and her cabinet demanded that nomadic Roma clans settle and contribute to society. Most heeded this decree, integrating themselves - but a rebellious few traveled eastward in hopes of extending beyond the grasp of Moscow and her government. Osaya and his clan were successful, at least for a time. The harsh winters were a problem, however, bringing them back west and then south to avoid the brunt of the winter storms.

It was ironic the way the Director had Black Bheka study this Roma tribe of misfits before ambushing and executing them in cold blood. They were crafting their very own cover story for their alter-egos. After systematically laying waste to the tribe of nomads their clothes were taken and refitted, smelling authentically of wild Siberia and Russian-Romani filth. It was no secret Gypsies were a persecuted minority all across Europe, seen as a lowly, unwanted and no-good race of people that brought and contributed nothing of value to society. Ironically in a lot of ways Europe and America weren’t so different. And now Bheka was portraying one of the most hated groups in all of Europe. What a compelling narrative the KGB had crafted for them.

So it went: Russian Gypsy widows forced to flee after their clan was massacred by Russian police-soldiers seek refuge in America after having traveled south across the border and into Turkey where they lived for some months, finding work where they could to save for a boat that would take from the Aegean Coast to Gibraltar and from Gibraltar to Bristol. Then eventually Bristol to Manhattan.

The Committee was nothing if not thorough, escorting them along the fabricated route to photograph fake pictures. A whole month after their formal training was spent making the journey to America as real as possible. They had momentos from Spain and Turkey, the names of people they’d met along the way - stories about the things they had to subject themselves to in the pursuit of freedom. It was a whole drama that was soon to reach its rising point, its crowning act.

Byk, or Dayaana Osin, known by her Roma nickname as Taur - was joined by Krovo’s alter-ego; Khatyyna Osin, or Roshu. Meduza’s alter-ego; Umsuura Osin, or Medusa. Drel’s alter-ego; Maariya Osin, or Douah. And Myslitel’s alter-ego; Saysary Osin, or Gahndi. Khatyyna and Umsuura were biological sisters, forcing Krovo to adopt amber colored contacts to better sell their siblinghood. But the most difficult addition to their facade was the introduction of two babes. Osaya’s “legacy”. Umsuura was Mother to one child and Saysary a Mother to the other, but as sister wives the children were all their responsibilities. Never in her life did Meduza think she would be burping a baby on her way to a boat that would take her across the Atlantic and to the home of her greatest enemy.

The Gypsy family stood on an early morning Bristol street flanked by Terraced houses that funneled a crowd of people towards the harbors just off the Avon River. Small ferries awaited them, ready to float the hopeful passengers to the Bristol Channel proper where their moored ocean liner waited to travel them across the Atlantic. They had come in on a boat from Gibraltar a few weeks ago, having stayed in a squalid hostel simply because it was cheap and didn’t dip into their travel funds too deeply. All five sister wives shuffled along with their baby boys in hand, eyes low to the ground so as not to collect any more negative attention than they were already receiving. The Osin family were proud of their heritage, at least to a point - wearing their Gypsy and Siberian background openly in the form of big fur cuff hats that might’ve made them appear like the concubines of ancient Mongols.

Their predominantly sage and forest green dresses were worn rather loose across their forms, embroidered with a plethora of different designs, mostly simplistic shapes like diamonds and curling lines. The variety might’ve been lost in their collective wear and dullness, though. Most of their clothes had lost their luster since their escape from Russia and they could hardly afford new things since most of their funds were spent on their children. A worthy investment, they reckoned. Children should always be cared for no matter the cost. That was a Mother’s job. Eventually the procession progressed, allowing them to take their place in the river ferry. The overstuffed boat left little room for them, compounded by the fact no seats were shared for the beleaguered Mothers. So Saysary and Umsuura were forced into Maariya and Dayaana’s laps respectively. Neither minded, of course.

The somber state of their clothing only served to remind them of their rich past. As a nomadic tribe of Yakuts from eastern Siberia they once had festivals where all the girls young and old would bring out their finest traditional garments, studded with a complex and multi-colored array of beads that ran in fantastical patterns along their dresses. The authentic fur used to decorate the flared shoulders and cuffs of their ensembles were taken from the Reindeer they bred and the animals they hunted. A nomadic life in Siberia was more possible than anywhere else thanks to the lively land and the network of trade between settlements. It was a sparsely populated but beautiful side of Russia.

The boat pulled up stream, proceeding through a pair of swing gates. Bristol itself was a far cry from any part of Russia, relatively cool at the moment but likely to warm as the day continued and the fog peeled away. There was something to be said about the sense of civilization, though. It was bustling, urban and there was so much noise. The beep of commuters trying to get to work, the ringing of far off harbor bells, town criers and so much talking. The British were most certainly a vocal people, or maybe that was just a product of western society as a whole and their less authoritarian approach on speech in general. Whatever the case it was exhausting. The Osin’s hadn’t enjoyed privacy in what felt like months.

The crowded boat was offloaded at the harbor. There they saw it, the ‘SS Queen Elizabeth II’, docked in Bristol taking on passengers and cargo for the trip west across the Atlantic. It’s mind-warping size dwarfed them in the extreme, all the way from its crimson belly to its porcelain white decks. It was amazing to think this thing floated with how heavy it was. Comprehending the logistics and math that made it sea-worthy wasn’t even worth attempting. The Osin’s found themselves heading up the ramp faster than they had imagined, the blaring horns suggesting they arrived just before departure. Despite what popular writings and media portray at the time, not everyone was afforded luxury rooms and access to lavish dining halls. They all had steerage class tickets that were remarkably expensive still, just getting to America had cost them near all their funds.

Standing aboard the ocean-liner gave them an unprecedented view of Bristol. The little English city on the edge of the waters felt even smaller from this point of view. Umsuura retrace their steps from the hostel further in-town all the way down the river and to the harbor as attendants ushered them along the walkways shadowed by hanging lifeboats. On the way beneath decks they passed the higher up and graciously spaced first-class cabins. The wealthy folk were already unpacking their fine lounge wear for the trip ahead. Usually when Steerage class passengers boarded they were sent in through an entryway that led more directly into the lesser-class decking for this very reason, but that ramp had been closed as the ship was preparing to depart. Dayanna couldn’t help but scowl at the first aristocrat who met her eyes, their fortunate position was enough to put her at odds with them for more than a couple reasons.

The procession of the less fortunate continued down into the less spectacular bowels of the ship. They weren’t unclean nor unaccommodating, in recent years steerage class passengers weren’t forced into shared rooms - everyone had their own quarters, but admittedly larger families had less space, less amenities and less beds. The fifth deck is where the Osin’s would sleep for the duration of the voyage. The thin hallways had lower ceilings, producing a slight feeling of claustrophobia as they filled to capacity. Eventually they would depress as passengers finished hefting their baggage into their dorms, but the body heat and shoulder-to-shoulder shuffling left some Yordles struggling to cope.

Their room, numbered ‘578’, was cramped, meant at most for three passengers comfortably. They at least were high enough in the decks to be graced with a sliding ocean-view glass door and balcony with access to fresh air at any time. Anton, the eldest of their two children, had woken from his nap just in time to see the city of Bristol through the tall glass. Saysary noticed his big eyes glaring intensely beyond the panes and so opened them, stepping out onto the balcony with a half-smile. The rest of them plied the room for extra blankets and bedding.

“Finally.” Drel groaned, still tortured by the din of other passengers settling in whilst she sprawled on the narrow bed. “It’s only been a month and I already want to go back to the frontlines.”

“Keep your voice down,” Meduza scolded, taking her pig-tailed braids apart. She hated the hairstyle but it was apparently more authentic to their Yakut portrayal.

“Why? No one can hear us or understand us.”

“You don’t know who’s listening.” The Major shot back, opening her suitcase to bring a wooden comb through her messy hair. Her eyes fell to Alyuusha, the second of their two adopted babies. Thankfully he was asleep. She was meant to be his biological Mother. The Director had chosen Meduza and Myslitel for the role of official parents because they were the most stable and willing in the entire squad - but she hated the responsibility in all honesty.

Drel was about to open her mouth when she bit her tongue, the lessons learned in the Sinai still fresh on her mind. She wanted to be away from here badly, but couldn’t. To cope she dug into her dress for a carton of cigarettes, joining Myslitel on the balcony with Anton. Her zippo plinked open and she sparked a cherry on the end of her piece, bringing it to her lips. She was at least courteous enough to blow her smoke away from the baby. Where a mindful Mother might’ve taken her child away from the toxic vapors, Myslitel remained.

“You sure it’s a good idea to be smoking beside an infant?” Myslitel inquired half-heartedly.

Drel glanced and then shrugged, dragging again. And that’s all that was said about it. “How old is he anyways?”

“A year old.” Myslitel had done her research on her “child” thoroughly. She knew more about little Anton than she knew about some of her squad members’ childhoods, and that wasn’t a bad thing.

Anton still glared ahead into the populated cityscape only for his gazing to be interrupted by the deafening blare of Queen Elizabeth’s horns. Tears arose in his eyes and in Alyuusha’s, leaving them both fussing at the loud noise. “D’awwwh, did that hurt your little ears? I’m sorry,” Myslitel bounced the toddler in her arms as she turned, “Here, let me close the door for you.” She left Drel on the balcony, shutting the sliding glass door behind her and the baby.

Byk, who had spent the majority of her time since arriving getting out of her dress, now sat half-naked on the bed. She was glad to be out of that loose-fitting mess. She longed for something that hugged her the way a uniform did, wanting desperately to feel the weight of a plate carrier across her shoulders. Her attention rose at Myslitel’s baby talk. “You’re way too good at that.”

“I always wanted to be a Mother,” She confessed, grabbing a bottle to hush the upset child.

“Well now your dreams come true,” Meduza interjected with a passive-aggressive sarcasm, struggling more than Myslitel with Alyuusha, “Stop being a brat and take the bottle!” Meduza stuffed the nipple into Alyuusha’s crying maw to no avail.

“Here, trade me.” Myslitel chuckled.

The pair rotated children and Myslitel began to work her motherly magic at once. There was a simple science to quieting an upset child. A soothing rocking, a caressing hand, a gentle hushing. Meduza was taken aback by her adeptness, glancing at Byk who looked back with low eyes. Within minutes Alyuusha was peaceful and sipping on his bottle. The Major was almost jealous were it not for the fact she was a soldier and not a wetnurse.

Silence persisted for quite a while until what sounded like a tapping on glass caught Byk’s attention. She at first turned to the balcony, expecting to see Drel pressed against the window, but that wasn’t the case. Instead the sound came from the bathroom where Krovo had vanished some minutes ago. She squinted and reluctantly stood with a grunt, shuffling over to the bathroom. Tap, tap… Silence… Tap, tap, tap… Silence… Tap, tap… Silence…

Byk peeked her head in to find Krovo tapping her index finger nail against the mirror. She’d stop and turn her head as if listening for something before doing it again… And again… Byk calmly approached, reaching out to arrest her arm and hug around the Yordle. Krovo blinked shortly after as if rejoined with reality or separated from intense hypnosis. Ironically the first thing out of her mouth was, “You okay?”

“Yeah…” Byk sighed, holding her a little tighter. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Nice bathroom, huh?” Byk rested her chin atop Krovo’s skull.

“Yeah. Nicer than the Rebirth Center’s, anyway.”

“How about…” Byk’s left hand felt along her side and then waist beyond her loose fitting dress, pulling the fabric tighter against her form. “You run us a bath and I’ll go grab some cheap drinks from the bar?”

Krovo immediately blushed, eyes focusing forward into the mirror where they met Byk’s by reflection. “O-Oh… Oh, okay… Sure…” She was caught off guard and trying but failing to hide her enthusiasm.

“Alright, be right back.” Byk pressed a kiss to Krovo’s cheek, turning with a warm smile that faded the moment she curled the corner back into the cabin. She gathered some more casual garments from her suitcase, something appropriate for a Yakut Gypsy but not as deplorable as her earlier dress. She arrived at bell-bottoms with a nice tunic-top they’d bought from the local shops, that would suffice.

“Maariya,” She called to her Captain through the glass, “Wanna’ go get some drinks?”

“Anything to get my mind off wanting to blow this liner up.” Drel said, shutting the balcony pane behind her. She received a sharp look from Meduza that told her not to push it any further. “My baaad.”

The Queen Elizabeth was set up so each class was relatively confined to a certain series of decks. Those in steerage had a designated restaurant to eat from, bars to drink at and cafes to loiter in separate from the first class high rollers and the second class working men and women. The quality obviously decreased with each respective bar, restaurant and cafe, but a few decades prior they would’ve been forced into communal bathrooms and bunk-rooms, so complain they did not.

The hallways had filtered most of the passengers into their rooms, allowing traffic to flow from stern to bow. The art-deco style was nauseating. They clearly borrowed certain design aspects from their American cousins. It was likely all of this had been recently refitted, it certainly smelled new. It had that fresh furniture scent that was unmistakable. The carpeted floors had art-deco inspiration, too. All of it was so gaudy, things could be nice and simple. That’s how Byk preferred it, anyways.

The bar and restaurant room had a name, a name she didn’t care to read. Just an aid to help separate the classes even more, herding them like cattle to their assigned troughs. She hated everything about this place but had become adept at hiding her emotions behind a disinterested mask. Drel, or Maariya as she was known for the duration of their vacation, was meant to be close to Dayanna in their written “backstory”. All of this wasn’t important now, but Byk figured she might as well get some practice in before the American mainstage was upon them. The Yakuts had a slightly different accent when speaking Russian and English- that was a large part of their training; sounding believable. Less military and more civilian.

She arrived at the bar to find a young Yordle serving drinks. His dark and thick facial fur, lupine ears and blue eyes curled in greeting. “What can I get for ya’, ma’am?” His accent suggested he was Irish.

“Wine.” Byk said plainly.

“Uhh- What kind would that be?” His smile remained, though faded somewhat.

“Uhhm, doesn’t really matter, something cheap. You pick.” She replied in English.

“Sure, whole bottle or--”

“Yes. Whole bottle.” Her hand extended expectantly.

He turned, reaching high with a plastic arm utensil he’d grabbed from under the counter to secure a bottle by the neck and lower it into his hands. “If ya’ don’t mind me askin’, where ya’ from?”

Byk hated those kinds of questions, not just because she was playing a character but just in general. “Siberia. And you?”

“Dublin, Ireland. Wild place, Siberia is. How’d you manage to find your way to Bristol?” He placed the bottle on the counter with a look of intrigue.

“With great difficulty.” Keeping it vague was better than being overly detailed, or so she was told.

The bartender laughed at that, clearly interested in further conversation. “And who’s your friend?” He glanced to Drel as he gripped a cloth and wiped the bar down. Business wasn’t booming so early in the morning so the Yordle had plenty of time to talk, much to Byk’s dismay.

Drel, who had been trying to keep herself preoccupied with spotting the brands of Vodka she knew on the rack, was suddenly drawn into the conversation. “We are sisters.”

“Sisters? Really? You look hardly alike.”

“We are sister-wives, is different. Same husband.” Byk explained. It was degrading having to simplify her English to sound more “foreign” to the foreigners. She could speak it fluently.

“Aah. And here I was about to ask you out on a date.” He laughed again.

“Me?” Byk returned a chuckle.

“Yeah,” The Irish bartender nodded, “I love the exotic types and I personally can’t say I’ve met a Siberian woman as gorgeous as yourself in my time on the Queen Elizabeth… Oh, goodness- Where are my manners?! The name’s Patrick, pleasure to meetcha’.” He extended his hand in greeting.

Byk took his palm cautiously. “Dayanna.”

“Lovely name. I know you got a husband and all but if you’re ever around and thirsty I close up around eleven at night, come visit. We’ll have a drink, eh?”

“Hmmnn, maybe… I will think.” Byk smiled, turning slowly away to feign interest herself. She hoped it was convincing enough. A free drink for a few hours of small talk was well worth it.

“Have a good one, ladies!” Patrick waved.

The moment they rounded the corner Drel was laughing, transitioning back into Russian at a whisper. “What the hell was that?” She had the urge to crumple up on the floor then and there.

“I’m--... I’m trying to be convincing, what do you mean?” Byk whispered back, shoving Drel across the hall only for her to stumble back close again.

“It’s just- I’ve never seen you hold a conversation like that, it’s funny!”

“No it’s not! I’m just playing a character, fuck off!”

“For a second there I thought you were really going to go through with it!” Drel laughed again, struggling to keep her volume down.

There was a tense silence in the air that made Drel pause. “Wait… Wait- You are, aren’t you?!”

“It’s free drinks I can bring back to the room, of course I’m going to go - I need all the alcohol I can get to make it through this trip!” Byk reasoned, sorting a few fingers through her bowl cut hair.

“I’m telling Khatyyna!” Drel, without warning, started sprinting down the hall towards their cabin - looping from the fourth deck down to the fifth by way of a looping stairwell.

“Dr-- Maariya, I swear to god!” Byk gave chase, stomping down the stairs after her. She grabbed hold of the banister, using it to swing her momentum around and slingshot herself after the Captain.

The two thumped audibly against the thin carpeted floors between decks, passing Yordles by as they went. On several occasions Drel bumped shoulders with a random attendee who yelled for them to stop running in the halls as if they were children being scolded by their parents, but neither stopped - leaping over a pile of suitcases and spilt clothes a frightened Yordle dropped after seeing them coming before making a sharp turn through another junction. Drel was close, the five hundred seventies were starting to appear. Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five…

Byk had gained on Drel nearly within arms reach when a baggage boy came strolling into an intersection just after Drel had passed, a cart full of suitcases ahead of him. “Shit!” Byk tumbled through its center, knocking the suitcases across the floor. She collected herself with a, “Sorry, sorry” and continued on - seeing Drel gallop to a stop and swing the door open ahead.

She entered the room shortly after, hearing Drel calling aloud for “Khatyyna”. The moment she spotted her Captain she slammed her up against the bathroom door, pinning her there with serious force.

“B-Byk… I was just joking-- Jeez…” She whined, words struggling past the choking hand around her throat.

Byk’s grave look neutralized slowly, the stranglehold she had loosening bit by bit until it fell completely. Her head turned as she heard the crying of a baby start to one side of her, the rest of the room at once materializing before her.

“What the fuck! I Just put him to sleep!!” Meduza raged, her screaming provoking a chain reaction that woke the sleeping Anton, too. Myslitel emerged from the balcony with a weary countenance a heartbeat later. “I’m going to fucking execu--... Either shut the fuck up, or get the fuck out!”

Mak had been taking so much needed time to herself as of recent. She had just enjoyed a fine evening at the Bolshoi Theater viewing ‘Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk’, an Opera of the highest quality constructed by the Dmitri Shostakovich, a composer of renown and perhaps one of the most important composers of the Third Era within the Soviet Union. Dmitri had died of a critical heart failure only last year. This Opera was a sort of obituary and celebration of his works. Mak knew Dmitri personally, he was her all time favorite composer, so it was only natural that plenty of tears were shed during the performance.

Now she soberly reflected on the many times they’d met and the inspiration they’d shared. Mak was a pianist herself and a lover of fine arts. She often said if she wasn’t trying to conquer the world she’d be playing in symphonies or orchestras. Her talent was next to very few, however hidden it might be. With access to all the most brilliant minds in the Union she figured she’d ought to refine her passions. In the final act of the play she descended from her booth to conclude the Opera with a song Dimitri and Mak had written together almost a decade ago. Simpler times.

The Kremlin’s great towers arose in the distance, coming closer every second, hardly seen past the tint of her windows and the darkness beyond them. Here chauffeur pulled up to the state building where she was awaited by a mass of soldiers ready to escort her to safety. Her secretary was the first to greet her, always with some sort of new information to lay at her feet. Rather than ask her to read it herself he updated her by word of mouth instead.

“The coup we’ve set up in Afghanistan has begun as planned, Madam Molotok. Nur Muhammad Taraki and his troops seem to have the situation well in hand, expect sweeping changes to begin within the following months.”

“That’s good, Boris… Very good.” She hadn’t the attitude to deny his status report, nor the energy to read it herself - so she settled for this middle ground. All the salutes given to her weren’t returned. She instead ascended to her office where she sat for some hours, refusing any and all information sent her way. Her door remained locked.